Author Archives: Ginny East Shaddock

My two horses are very dear to me. Both need work.

Peppy is a light gray quarter horse (looks white with a hint of shadow on his butt. His tail is supposed to be white, but it’s become permanently stained from the red Georgia clay). He came to me well trained and wonderfully mannered. He is now pushy and lazy. My fault. I seem to have a problem remembering a 1000 pound horse is NOT a 60 pound dog. You could say I treat the horses like the chickens – I enjoy watching them and puttering with them, but I settle for minimum maintenance, always thinking I’ll do fill in the blank tomorrow.  I tend to love on ‘em and give ‘em treats even when undeserved (sort of like my husband) feeling as if they demand a good chunk of time even without the extra effort. I feed them day in and day out, have them shoed and wormed like clockwork, and groom them  when I’m inspired to do so or they become so dirty I’m embarrassed to call them mine. They go months without being ridden or worked and when I do take them out, I let them have their way too often. They are overfed and underworked, as horses go. So, their attitude is not unlike that slight edge of nastiness and spoiled sense of entitlement that teenagers get when they are being raised by over indulgent parents. Doesn’t mean they are bad kids, only that they have forgotten who the boss is.

Joy is my drop dead beautiful saddle bred pinto. Her striking coloring, muscular body and brilliant blue eyes make people stop in their tracks just to admire her equestrian splendor. I discovered her in a herd on a breeding farm. She’d been there for six years, mingling with other forgotten horses, getting lazy and fat. I happened to be there to look at another horse, but when I saw her I became immediately smitten. No other horse would do. Since Joy’s been with me, she’s lost weight, gained muscle, and turned into the beauty I knew was hidden underneath all that slack muscle lumped on top of an over-grazed figure. I feel she is far happier living here where daily action keeps her alert and a pair of warm hands are quick to rub her nose, than she ever could have been abandoned in a field  – even if the grass was greener and more a-plenty there.   

Her lack of training is due to the simple fact that no one has bothered to teach her manners. She happens to be very people-oriented and sweet beyond measure. She wants to be with humans all the time and has a sincere curiosity about the world. She stands at the fence watching Mark on the tractor digging out the creek, or me planting bulbs or feeding the rabbits, fascinated and friendly. She’s extremely smart, can open the gate herself and has a willingness to please. As such, when she does get a small dose of training, she responds very well. This is the sign of a potentially great horse.

I was promised some intense training when I bought her, but it didn’t materialize (lots of excuses). I was quoted a price that included 60 days of daily training, begining on the ground in the ring, as most good training does. Joy would be neck reigned, would stand still, would be bomb proof, side-step at the gate . . . etc… etc…. What I got was a horse that was simply saddle broke and “ridable”, accomplished in a few sessions of power play with a grumbling cowboy wrestling with her from the saddle wearing spurs.  As such, I paid way too much for her, because training is imperative to establishing a horse’s worth. Untrained horses, even pretty ones, are considered useless, except to a meat factory, and sadly, that is where many of them end up.

I didn’t do enough research to really understand the breed. I did do some reading, but somehow I missed that all saddlebreds are high strung and best suited for advanced riders and/or people seeking energetic show horses. I was looking for a calm, bomb proof trail horse that I could put Neva or other beginning riders on. One of the factors that keep me from riding daily is that I must go alone. I’ve been able to handle whatever horses we’ve owned, but when I spend the entire time worrying about whoever is riding with me losing control from my ill mannered, underworked horses, riding becomes more a stress than carefree joy. As such, most of the riding I’ve done has been day long affairs with friends who have their own horses – that’s fun, but not the ideal I had when I set out to keep two horses.

No matter how much training Joy gets, she’ll never be a calm, easygoing horse. Again – my fault. I knew darn well what I needed, but bought what I wanted instead- I succumbed to an instinctual connection I felt for the animal. Then, I trusted someone I barely knew to train the horse to be something other than what she obviously was. I wanted to believe they would and could turn her into the horse of my dreams. Everyone knows that when it comes to horses, what you see is what you get – and even so, you take your chances, praying the seller hasn’t found a way to camouflage more serious flaws. It was a very foolish and delusional hope to think that this wild beauty was going to magically turn into a well behaved, highly trained horse in a few months. What ya gonna do? I chalk it up to another one of those Hendry learning experiences of which we’ve had so many since moving to the country. Learning to “live simply” has actually been very complex. This transition has been a minefield of hard lessons and expensive mistakes while we struggle to carve a life of self sufficiency and harmony with nature.  The rat race was something we longed to escape, but it was at least chartered territory.

Even if Joy isn’t the perfect horse for anyone and everyone, she is certainly loved. She makes an impressive and challenging mount for me, and she is my horse, after all, so there is no reason tshe has to be user friendly for the masses. I have Peppy for whomever might want to be my riding companion.

Meanwhile, people say, “Put that Pinto in some shows and she’ll blow the competition out of the water – then she’ll be worth 20 times what you paid.” That is all well and good, but it’s sort of like saying, “Take that little child with no dance training yet good flexibility and throw her on Broadway and she’ll be a star…” The point is, the long hard road between here and there is not only grueling and takes time, energy and investment – it also requires teachers who know what they’re doing. In dance, I do. In horses, I don’t.

I can pay someone to train her, but honestly, it becomes so cost prohibitive that it takes the fun out of owning a horse for me. Horses are not my life passion. They’re simply a recreational joy and once the sacrifices demanded of a hobby outweigh the pleasure you get in return, the pleasure ceases to be pleasurable. I can’t stand situations where you find yourself doing a cost analysis to determine if the investment of your recreational dollars is measuring up. I just want to relax and enjoy those things in life that you can’t put a price on – leisure time being one.

I adore my horses. I love how they neigh and come running whenever they see my car. I love how they rub their noses against my jacket and act jealous of each other when I give either one a bit of attention. I especially love watching them come charging across the pasture when I call. Joy looks like a refined racehorse with her head held high, her chiseled body most striking when in motion. With her long legs and powerful build, she is always a good 50 paces in front of the others. Peppy follows behind, determined to catch up because he’s established his authority as leader in this herd even if he is of common stock. He’s my main man, and he knows it. Dumpy donkey trots in the rear as if to say, “Hey guys, wait for me. . .” (He’s wins the prize for cuteness.)

The weather has turned lovely as spring peeks around the corner. Flowers are in bloom, the sun is high, and a cool breeze makes being outside uplifting. I have a terrific barn now, a 50 foot ring for training, and two well bred horses that sincerely want to please me, despite their innocently adapted ill manners. It’s time to dig in and do something with these resources or sell the farm – literally.

Life has taught me that if you want a job done right, you have to roll up your sleeves and do it yourself. So, pondering my dilemma, I got it into my head to train the horses on my own. Only one small flaw in this plan. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’m an average rider with minimum training, no real horse experience to speak of, and  limited time to invest. Humm…. The odds are stacked against my success. All I have going for me is the fact that I don’t fear animals bigger than me. Of course, this doesn’t deter me in any way. I figure whatever doesn’t kill me is good for building character – and while I might be a big fat failure at the project, I’ll at least learn something in the process. And there’s always the chance I’ll succeed.  Then, I could breed Joy, train her offspring and sell her to some thrilled person like me who lusts for a horse that is both beautiful AND well trained. It would pay for the upkeep of my own horses for a year. I could then enjoy a high end hobby with a balanced budget. How cool would that be?

So, I started purchasing Clinton Anderson horse training DVD’s on e-bay. This man  happens to be a brilliant young cowboy from the outback with a lovely accent and an even lovelier way with horses. He is firm but kind, has a logic to his system and has become world famous due to his well organized training system and the positive results people get when implementing his advice (and he’s famous thanks to some great marketing too, I’m guessing). These tapes aren’t cheap, but they’re much less of an investment than hiring a trainer or enrolling in horse clinics. Best of all, they give me the foundation required for ongoing success. Just as Peppy began a well trained horse and lost it, an understanding of ongoing training practices is important. If the owner doesn’t follow through and reinforce what is learned, horses soon slip back into bad habits – like kids (or husbands). Consistency is key. Logic dictates it’s just as important (maybe MORE important) to train me as it is to train the horse.

I walk on my treadmill about an hour a day, so I’ve taken to watching my new training tapes during this time. I plod along, huffing and puffing, staring at the TV and thinking it all looks rather easy. Of course, I’m sure in real life it won’t be nearly as smooth going. Clinton only needs to stare into a horse’s eyes and they’re ready to roll over for him. Joy and Peppy will no doubt paw the ground, whinny and give me the evil eye once I attempt the same. But at the same time, horse training looks like something I’d be a natural at. Training horses is sort of like a dance. You stand in the center of the ring doing a series of arm gestures and clicking your tongue, flailing a whip at the horse’s hindquarters to make them run a certain direction. Meanwhile, you circle the pen at the horse’s flank putting in some miles yourself – good workout, and since I’ve become a failure at running in Georgia (and I’m now a treadmill sissy) this may be a nice substitute. Every once in a while, at just the right moment, you must trot backward to cut the horse off at the shoulder without breaking eye contact. This forces the animal to turn into you rather than into the fence and change direction – turning their hindquarters to you is an unacceptable sign of disrespect. There is a grace required and a level of coordination on the part of the trainer. I watched a student lesson and the girl looked very clumsy and uncomfortable, getting tangled in her own whip and tiring out quickly. I may have problems, but that won’t be one. When it comes to spatial awareness and moving on my feet, I’m well versed. I even choreographed a dance with a whip once. I happen to have experience lashing and moving with rhythm and style.  How many adults can claim that?

I’ve watched the series on training on the ground twice already and feel confident I’m ready to do the exercises. I then moved on to Riding with Confidence level 1 ( a four DVD set) and feel this is all within my range as well. It is a simple set of riding exercises anyone who is familiar with a horse can do. I have level 2 and 3 of the riding series to study later, after I successfully get the horses through the paces of level one. I have ordered a DVD series for dressage (which is the exercises and training skills needed for showing horses –something Joy was born to do so I might as well see if it’s possible for the two of us), and a few short subject DVD’s – like training horses with lunging techniques, teaching them to tie calmly, etc. Amazing, the resources available to people now a days thanks to computers and DVD’s etc…

I’m sure I’ll be average at best at training horses, but it will be fun to see what I’m capable of. I might even get my son to video me in the ring bossing those horses around to post on the blog one of these days. Showing off might be a good incentive for me to keep at it. Wouldn’t want to lose face as a cow-girl in training with friends who still insist I lost my mind and went of the deep end when I left dance and moved to the hills.

So, today, I plan to begin the horse training process. I’m committing an hour a day to working with them – five days a week. I assume weather and life will get in the way of anything more. It would be better to give each horse an hour each, but who am I kidding? Failure begins when you set up a plan you’re unlikely to follow.  Better to keep a new project within a time frame you can handle, in my opinion. You can always add more time or effort when you’re on a roll, but first set a minimum you positively can handle so you don’t shrug your shoulders and give up too soon because the follow through is “too much”. At least, that’s the theory I’m leaning on. And honestly, finding an extra 5 hours in my week is going to be tough as is.
 
I have a few hours to myself today before I get swallowed by family and work commitments. The weather is beautiful. I plan to begin by visiting my bees and checking out how they fared the winter. I must set up two more hives so all is ready when my shipment of 6 pounds of bees and two queens arrives at the end of the month. Then, I will spend an hour in the ring cutting away the roots and sticks that are sticking up out of the dirt in my ring. I already did this a few months ago, but the freshly leveled area settled over the winter and it needs a bit more maintenance to make ready for the work to come. I’ll return to the house in about two hours, tired and wanting a nap, but I’ll put in my treadmill time regardless and watch another tape for inspiration. Tomorrow is my birthday, but the next day I’ll begin the actual training with Peppy and hope this whole thing is as simple as it looks.

Ya never know what you are capable of until you try – and having a few well trained horses is only one of the benefits I’ll get from hanging on, one more time, to the belief that anything’s possible. 
 

Today, my fancy English Angora rabbit, Latte, had a litter. She made a nest in her box out of hay and pulled handfuls of soft angora fur from her body to make ready, so I knew her time was near. In the mornings when I go out to the barn to feed the rabbits, chickens, peacocks, etc… etc… I peer into the box, hoping to see something special. Today I thought I saw the wind rustling the soft angora fuzz a bit, so I stared and stared. Sure enough I saw the straw move, then the fur shifted. There had to be babies in that mass! Ye-haw!

I was certain there weren’t any babies there last night, so these kittens must be only hours old. I figured I better not bother the nest because it was a bit cool so early in the morning and newborn bunnies are fragile. But it was KILLING me not to know how many babies Latte had. I tended the animals, pausing to stare at her nest over and over again. I was rather proud of my restraint until I found my hand reaching into that cage. Shoot me. I couldn’t stand it.

“Forgive me,” I said to Latte as I moved a big clump of angora fur aside to make a head count. Five baby rabbits! Three look as if they’ll be snow white like the father and two may end up a mixture of white and pale tan like Mom. With their eyes sealed shut and no ears as yet, they look like little moles. (Same size too.)

I bred Latte the same night I bred my other female angora, Mocha. That rabbit happens to be a dusty brown with a dark brown mask and extremely striking. I bred her with my grey male hoping this would produce a line of dark colored rabbits. Mocha has also pushed hay into her nesting box but she only pulled a pinch or two of hair from her body. She is either behind schedule biologically, or a nest-making-slacker. There were no babies in that cage. Darn. I went to check her later in the afternoon. Nothing. She was lying there as calm as can be, staring at me as if to say, “What do you want? Go away.” Perhaps she is younger than Latte and so the pregnancy didn’t take. The gestation period for rabbits is pretty reliable. Then again, she may just need a day or two to finish the cycle.  It’s a bit like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I happened to have watched her get ravished over and over, so I’d be shocked if she wasn’t pregnant. Besides which, she did sort of make a nest so she must be hormonal. I will watch for the next few days to see if another litter surfaces. If not, I could breed her again, but I doubt I will. I really don’t need so many angora bunnies (although pedigreed rabbits such as these sell for 50-75 dollars, so I could sell extras if I ended with more rabbits than I wanted to deal with – after I hired a detective to check out the potential buyers to assure they would provide a Ginny-approved home, of course.) I simply wanted to breed both females as an experiment. I wanted to see what my color combination matchmaking would produce. And I planned to keep the prettiest bunnies for myself and give the others to some friends who have expressed an interest in angoras. I’m selfish when it comes to coveting the prettiest pets.

I adore baby bunnies. In a few weeks they’ll venture out of the nest and hop around the cage like playful, shy kittens. I can’t wait for Neva to get home to let her know we have a fistful of new rabbits for her to name. Christening the new animals is a job she takes very seriously.

Doing the animal thing is fun, but most importantly, it keeps us very connected. It’s always nice to have another excuse to walk down to the barn hand in hand, enthusiastic and happy, to marvel at nature’s most innocent gifts. Some women shop at the mall with their daughters. Neva and I spend our bonding time mucking stalls, grooming animals and discussing the remarkable things we learn together about the animal world. We marvel as we watch the peacock spread his tail, look curiously at the different eggs we collect, debate whether or not the pregnant llama is actually showing, give our opinion about what the donkey is trying to say when he brays at us as we walk down the path, and I say “let’s look at the bees” and she shakes her head and says, “No way.” I guess her love for nature has limits.

Reading this blog, you’d think my life was all about animals, but truthfully, they’re a small part of my world, though I must admit, livestock does become newsworthy this time of year. Tomorrow I’ll be opening my beehive after a long winter. – gotta prove interesting.  I could write about other areas of my life. With three active kids, a husband going in a dozen directions, a fledgling writing career, daily activities like working out, cooking, reading, etc…  a new business in the works, dance refusing to let us go (I don’t talk much the opportunities that continue to present themselves in our old careers) and a load of life passage issues tugging at our hearts and minds, elements of my life are juggled like too many balls circling over a clown’s head. I certainly could find other subjects to reflect upon, but really, baby bunnies seem the most pertinent in the moment. 

Life can be a shady place, but it feels lighter when you focus on the soft, sweet things that touch your days. I am just grateful that despite the drudgery and the stressful elements we grapple with daily, I’m a gal with rabbits forcing me to pause for a moment and smile.

Addendum to this blog: Neva and I just took a walk to the barn and she crawled into the cage to have a look-see. She insists there are at least 6 babies, and possibly 7. One is definitely tan and another is actually black. I saw them too. Just goes to show, you can’t trust first impressions.  

Internet shopping is dangerous. Especially when your eleven year old daughter is sitting by you, expressing little gasps of delight every time you add a different baby chick to your spring hatchery order. Neva has been pining for a few silkies, so I had to order some of those when I sat down to order the twelve leghorns I wanted as replacement egg layers for those picked off by the dogs. She’s always wanted some frizzles too, so I thought I might as well get a few of those, and don’t ya know, she would be in heaven if we could get some fancy cochins. Oh yea, and I don’t have any green egg layers anymore so I should probably throw in a few araucanas. And what are those cool things? Sultans? Gotta get a few of those… well, you can see how it happens.

Well, before you knew it, I had ordered 68 baby chickens. And I had buyer’s remorse.
68 chicks fit neatly in one reasonably sized box. Chicks are about the size of a power puff, after all, so when they arrive, it doesn’t look like all that big a deal. But unfortunately, they grow. And they grow fast. You can’t put young chickens in with older chickens or the older chickens will bully them to death. I wasn’t thinking about where I would house 68 chickens in training at the time. I was simply thinking that dogs be damned, I’d get enough chickens to assure I’d not run out of eggs again.

5 chicks were crushed during the mailing cycle, as is often the case. They huddle together for warmth and weaker birds often end up underneath the pile. Once you remove the perky, chirping chicks, you find a baby chick pancake on the floor of the box. Sad. Three more of the smaller chicks (silkies) were crushed after they reached me. Again, this isn’t abnormal. I didn’t step on them or drop a dictionary on their head or anything. It’s just that a few tend to meet an untimely end because they are very fragile and they have a habit of piling up for warmth – even when you have them in a cage with an inferred light set to the correct temperature so they don’t need eachother for warmth . The birds crush each other in their fight to sleep as a collective bunch. This sort of thing happens in nature too, even when they are living under their mom, the big red hen.

So, I now have 60 baby chicks peeping away in my office in two cages by my desk. In a week, they’ll be hearty enough to move into the garage. Two weeks later, they will move to the barn. Then, lord knows, I have no clue what I’m going to do with them. I have lots of cages and runs, but until these young’ins are two months old and/or the cold weather is totally over, I can’t put them outside without a heat lamp and I don’t have electricity anywhere near my chicken runs. I wouldn’t even consider asking Mark to whip up a few huge cages, considering his overworked schedule. Besides which, I may need to save that favor for when my baby bunnies arrive.

I’ve been mulling this dilemma over. Now that I’ve used all my winter hay, I’m thinking I can stretch and staple some chicken wire around the polls of my barn under hang where I normally store hay and put a big doghouse or two out there with heat lamps in it – the barn does have electricity. This could serve as a big makeshift pen until these birds are big enough to join the others in another month or two. Then, it will be time to order more hay, I can remove the chicken wire and the area will be free for it’s true purpose yet again. Creative solutions to animal dilemmas are part of the country bumpkin world I’ve so embraced. I happy to say, I’m a natural. It’s a plan, man.

My office is hot, thanks to the two cages set to 95 degrees right beside me. I keep the door closed because my cat keeps looking at the chicks like they are M&M’s and I promised Mark I wouldn’t keep animals in the house if he built me a barn. I’m pushing my luck by breaking the deal – even if it is only for a short, temporary situation.

The way these birds peep incessantly is really cute for about an hour. Then it about as appealing as kids whining “are we there yet” when on a road trip. I’m not about to keep Mark up at night due to chick disturbance. So I’m going to have to suffer a bit to do any writing this week typing with fingers slippery from sweat. Gasp. Gasp. And I must watch my peacock egg carefuly. The warmer room cranked up the temperature in my incubator. Uh oh.

The tulips we planted out front have come up. Every time we’ve gone outside, Kent and I have looked at each other and exchanged a sheepish smile. We’ve been waiting to see if we’re going to get in trouble. Mark is very particular about gardening design, and on the day we planted bulbs, Kent and I were in charge of categorizing the tulips into color piles and putting the correct bulbs in the holes as Mark dug them. But we started fooling around and making jokes and Kent pushed the piles around like the ball under the cup game, and before you knew it, we really were confused and arguing about what color was in what pile. So we guessed.

Sure as shoot, all the tulips that came up on the left side of the porch are pink and red tones, and all the tulips on the right are yellow and white. It’s very out of balance as gardening goes. Dang-it. We got reprimanded or course, and told we are gardening slacker losers to have interfeared with the masterful tulip extravaganza. I suppose we’ll have to dig them up and shift them around after they stop blooming to correct the problem. Nothing we don’t deserve.   I say we should just buy more bulbs and thrust the opposite color into the ground along with what’s there now. Then we’ll just have more tulips of both colors on both sides. It may not be as striking as the color bock system but it’s another plan, man.

I have used up my new self-imposed blog time allottment. New rule. Must go. But I’ll leave you with a thought for the day.

Even the smallerst ideas can take root and change your world – it’s a wonderful time of year to begin new projects and to follow aspirations. The smallest ideas are sometimes the dearest. Nurture them.

Yesterday, I found my first home grown peacock egg. I was delighted!

I’m stuck in my sister-in-laws house for ten hours today, caring for my mother-in-law. I don’t mind being here – but I confess, all the things I’m not getting done are swirling in my head, making me antsy. But knowing I have a peacock egg at home, and perhaps another will be nestled in that hen house when I go feed my flock at dusk, offers a glimmer of the joy life can offer if you consider the tiny gifts hidden throughout even a tedious day. Happiness is often a matter of focus. Little things count. Celebrate them.

  “Obstacles cannot crush me. Every obstacle yields to stern
resolve. He who is fixed to a star does not change his mind.”
— Leonardo da Vinci


 When some girls feel blue and need a pick me up, they buy themselves a new pair of shoes.  Me?  I’m not the shoe type.
I did, however, find something to buy today to lift my spirits.

    Mark and I went to the flea market with Ronnie and Louise; a couple we’ve become good friends with, who also happen to be true flea market aficionados. Denver’s never been too see the massive flea market hidden some 1 ½ hour from where we live, so we dragged her out of bed at 7am to join us. Neva always tags along so she can do her monthly begging for a miniature goat (and yes, I’m weakening as the memory of our first goat and all the trouble he caused fades). Kent – well, Kent is sixteen, so he won’t get out of bed for anything on a Saturday, ESPECIALLY something as mundane as a flea market.
  
    It was overcast and cold, so there weren’t many vendors. Even the produce aisles seemed lacking. I didn’t find a single interesting bottle for the three new liquors I have ready to rack (cranberry, kiwi, and lemon – all in anticipation of having some light flavors to spike summer tea with in a few months). There were no interesting books to buy or huge boxes of produce to drag home for wine making, or odd little knick knacks that can be used to make something interesting. It was just one of those off days when you figure it was a wasted trip.

    But it wouldn’t be a day at the flea market without me checking out the livestock area. This, as you can imagine, is the great attraction for Neva and I, and today, perhaps because spring is around the corner, the market was loaded with fowl. There were cages and cages of chickens, fighting roosters (hate that), geese, ducks, and rabbits. All of these are usually bought for eating, I’ll have you know, so Neva and I shop in this area with the same intensity of a person visiting the pound determined to bring home a puppy to save him from death row.
    While I was admiring a bunch of huge, exotic turkeys, Denver nudged me and said, “Um… mom….. check out the bundle hanging on the truck.”

   At first I thought the seller was displaying just a bunch of feathers, but on second glance I realized it was a peacock. His body was trussed up and hanging by a cord, like a broken arm in a sling, except his tail was hanging free and unencumbered. They often transport peacocks this way because, when put a cage, the birds move around nervously,  and that will destroy their tail as it brushes against the bars of the confinement. Peafowl also happen to have huge talons that can hurt you if you try to handle them when they are feeling frantic. so keeping them immobile makes transportation easy. 

    I asked how much she wanted for the trussed up bird, then said, “I’ll take it.”
I told the woman about my misadventures with trying to raise peacocks.
She said, “It’s always hard to get them through the first year, but if you can make it ‘till they’re one, your good to go.”
I told her how heartbroken I was when my four month old peacock, hatched by hand in my incubator, passed on.
She listened politely, and then said, “I have something special in the back of my truck. I was saving them for a fellow who came by here a few hours ago, but he hasn’t come back yet. Now, I’m thinking you seem like the person meant to take home these special birds . . .  that is,  if you want to take a look.”

Well, no harm in looking.

   She showed me two more trussed up peacocks. They were both three years old, which meant they had just reached full maturity – peacocks don’t even start getting their tails until they are two years old and they don’t lay until they’re three. These two happened to be a mating pair, and man, were they beautiful.  The male had a full, iridescent tail filled with gold and the deepest cobalt blue head. The female’s neck feathers were lime – the rest of her, like all female peacocks, is pretty much gray. They were healthy, strikingly beautiful and she was selling them (to the right person) for half what an adult peafowl usually costs.

     I fell in love instantly and fumbled in my handbag for the “emergency cash” I have hidden deep in a secret compartment – you know that 100 dollar bill you tuck away for that day when your car breaks down in a bad section of town and your charge card is declined and it’s a dark and stormy night, but you will be prepared thanks to that bill you tucked away and forgot for just such a purpose.

I scraped together all the cash I had and it was just enough….

Denver and I carried the birds to the car, making up probable excuses for why I had to purchase these peacocks. We figured it was likely Mark would kill me, but hey, some things are worth the risk.

    When we met up with Mark and Ronnie a few minutes later, Mark said, “I thought I’d find you at the livestock area. I was sure you’d be buying birds.”
    “I did,” I mumbled.
     “Uh Oh. What did you buy? Not those awful geese – I told you I hate geese. They’re mean.”
      “Now, would I buy birds knowing you don’t want them around our home?” I said, blinking innocently.
      “Crap, don’t tell me you bought one of those dumb turkeys.”
     “Of course not. I was fascinated by them, mind you, but I know you’d make me eat them eventually, so I just admired them from afar.”
     “Well, you have 60 baby chickens on order, so I know you aren’t purchasing chickens. What did you buy?”
      I confessed. Not like he wasn’t going to find out soon enough.
      Mark rolled his eyes, groaned and said, “This is the LAST TIME. If this doesn’t work, you have to give it up. Raising peacocks is just too expensive because they don’t make it.”
      I explained that because these peacocks are mature adults, they would be hearty and we could count on them surviving (other than if they get eaten by a bear or something). Furthermore, I got a great deal on them. But I promised that if they didn’t survive, I would forget the entire peacock ordeal. Heck, I don’t want to live with the guilt and disappointment of running a peacock graveyard.
     “As long as we’re agreed,” he said, mumbling about how he was going to buy himself a load of wood if we were just going to indulge ourselves without spousal permission nowadays.
   I guess it is only fair that if this peacock adventure doesn’t work, I give up on the idea of gracing my barnyard with delicate, exotic birds. But honestly, I can’t imagine my ever giving up now that I’ve got my mind set on peafowl, and I’m sure Mark is thinking the same thing. I happen to be someone who rarely throws in the towel. Each time you fail, you learn something from the experience, and that brings you closer to accomplishing your heart’s content. Makes quitting anything rather impossible, because in your heart and head you can’t help but think, “If I can just get one more chance, I’ll get it right.”
 
    We drove home with the peacocks sitting in Neva and Denver’s laps – it was a great ordeal to position them to keep the tail intact. Denver said, “Life is so interesting now. This is the closest I’ve ever been to a peacock. I mean, you see them at Bush Gardens and places like that, but how often do you have one sitting on your lap so you can stroke the feathers and look into their eyes. It’s weird, but cool.”
     I was delighted not only that my kids are exposed to novel experiences, but that they notice and appreciate the opportunities that come from trying new things.

     For those of you who don’t know… peacocks stink. I don’t mean they have that sour, odd smell of chickens cooped in a cage for a bit, or a litter box or something. I mean Peafowl smell so badly that when you’re in the car with them, everyone starts gagging and coughing and their eyes tear up. Obviously, the fact that they were confined inside tight packages with their waste for hours on end didn’t help. Of course, it didn’t bother me because I have no sense of smell. I just sat there smiling at the little fellows, marveling at their beauty and their gentle, graceful mannerisms and planning what I’ll do with the tail feathers as they shed.
    All the way home, I listened to the family members with working noses complaining about the hardships of peacock transport. Mark drove with a hat pulled over his brow and his shirt pulled up over his nose. All the windows had to remain open, despite the freezing cold. Nothing like a little dramatic interpretation to gain sympathy for all the hardships loved ones endure when humoring you.
    Meanwhile, we tossed names out for discussion, considering everything from the names of the characters in my books, to re-issuing past peacock names to honor those  that didn’t survive. We ended up giving these two original names. We are calling the male Prism, partially because of his colors, but also because it was the name of a dance Mark once choreographed that we have very fond memories of, and the female will be called Jewel. 

Can’t wait for my first peacock eggs. Shall I eat them, hatch them, or sell them on e-bay for some crazy schmuck like me who can’t resist a challenge? Heck, if this mating pair lays well, I can do all of the above.

At home, we released the new members of the Hendry flock into my big chicken run. They will have to stay confined for two months until they learn this is home, and then they will have the run of my barn and pastures. They seemed grateful to finally escape their straight jackets, and they just mosied around the perimitor of the run curious to figure out where they were. The chickens and guineas, while a bit leery, didn’t seem all that bothered to share their digs with two oversized birds.

Knowing peacocks like to perch high, I dragged some big, fallen tree limbs into the run and wired them to the posts in the ceiling. The peacocks ignored these new roosts, but my guineas were delighted. (Just two days ago, I spent an hour with leather cleaner working on the coat I wear around the barn. Don’t ya know, it is now covered with mud again. Why do I bother?) As the sun went down, I visited the barn to feed the horses and to check on my new birds. All the other fowl was tucked in bed in the chicken house. The peacocks were still roaming. I guess they won’t be visiting the chicken house for awhile even though they will fit thorugh the door. I’m sure curious about where they’ll sleep this first night. I’ll sneak out there at sunrise to spy.  
     
    The way I look at it, if at first you don’t succeed, approach your goals from a new angle. I tried hatching peacock eggs. Tried raising peacock babies. Now, I’ve been lucky enough to stumble upon the opportunity to bring home less fragile, mature birds. With all I’ve learned and all I’ve experienced, I think I’ve finally figured out how to have coveted peacock buddies to keep me company and to inspire reflection.      

    Wish me luck.