Category Archives: Ginny’s Ark

Barn Show and Tell

Posted on August 23, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

“You’re pretty excited about this barn, aren’t you?” one of the workers, Josh, said to me today.

I guess I couldn’t be more obvious. Lord knows, I’m down there several times a day, trying but not suceeding at staying out of the way of the construction. I watch the progress, giddy with delight as the structure takes form. Yes, I love my barn. I’ve wanted a barn since the day we bought this land and acquired horses. I waited patiently as other things took precedence, sloshing through mud, my tack stacked haphazardly in a storage building 500 feet away – getting banged up and dirty from transport. I’ve fed the animals in rain, sleet, wind and in the dark. But not anymore. Now, I will have a place for everything, the convenience of a controlled environment and  peace of mind because my beloved creatures will have a safe dry place to keep them out of inclement weather.  And it will keep ME out of inclement weather too. Yippee!


The upstairs of my barn is a huge loft which will store my beekeeping supplies and additional hives and supers. I can keep extra cages and incubators here, and it will be a warm, safe place to house newly hatched chicks or peacocks.  I can start all manner of projects up in that spacious work area. And it’s mine, all mine. Yippee!


The right side of my barn is a hay storage area. Now, we will be able to purchase our winter’s hay early and keep it fresh, and I won’t have to stress because there is no hay to buy anywhere, or the few bails we tucked under a tarp went bad. Yes, my animals will eat properly this winter. Yippee!
The big front door (not yet built) will be on a slider, so I can have it fully opened to let the breeze in. (In the winter, I can slide the door open only as far as I want to keep the insides warm. The back door of equal size is on traditional hinges so I can keep them closed, or swing them open to drive a tractor through or to let in light and air. More yippee’s!

The left side of my barn has been partitioned off as a small corral so if I want to keep the stalls open, the horses can stroll outside for fresh air. When the dutch doors are closed, (so the horse stays inside and has a window, or this can be closed to keep in warmth) these covered areas can be used as two separate open stalls, so donkey and the llamas can be housed there (also to keep out of horrible weather). The inside boards are removable (my idea) so this can be converted into one larger open corral. In June, I can use this area as a temporary pen for the new llama, so I can watch her give birth. Hate to think she’ll go hide among the trees in the pasture, drop that baby and leave it.  I’m hoping that confined to a smaller area, she may accept her baby and feed it (fingers crossed). Anyway, I’ll be able to control that situation one way or another, so we won’t have to go chasing a newborn if we have to bottle feed it. Yippee!


Inside, the two stalls are 12X12, which is roomy and nice for a horse – even a pregnant one. Another yippee! If I was to admit to one impractical indulgence, it was that I talked Mark into approving a small concrete patio in front of the outside door to the feed room. This is because I want to put a nice bench here to sit on while waiting for horses to eat and for guests to rest after a ride.  I just think it will be pretty as an entrance. The feed room can also be entered from inside the barn for convenience and so you feed the stalled horses and stay inside. But on those days when you want to feed everyone outside, and don’t want to open the main doors, the feed room is assessable. The tack room is conveniently located inside so you can saddle a horse with a minimum of effort. Both rooms feature a nice work bench, a peg board for hanging tools etc.. and even a fridge so cold drinks (and carrots) are always at the ready. 


You might think I’m a traditional red barn sort of girl. I thought of going that route. Even did some historic reading so I fully understood the significance of barn colors and how and why they were painted red long ago. But in the end, I decided I liked barns best natural gray and weathered (and this also means avoiding having to re-paint every couple of years), so we plan to let this one turn in time, then we will put a sealer on it. I want a barn that looks timeless and blends in with the surroundings.  

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want a pretty barn. This weekend I am going to the flea market to buy some big black wooden cutouts of horses rearing (had my eye on them for some time) to be erected high on the front on each side of the upper door. Mark is giving me a wagon wheel (he’s been collecting them for furniture making) to put up there in the peak and we will attach the power beam light to the center of it. I am now scouting all manner of horseshoe hooks and other theme paraphernalia to decorate the space. I’m buying a flag that has a llama on it. Yes, I am all for practicality, but I am a big queer-bo theme lover too.  I have every intention of placing pretty benches and planting flowers around the front.  I will have a loud boom box for music (so I can dance around the barn when no one but the horses are looking). I figure this is my home away from home. Might as well make it inviting.

There is still a lot to do. We have to pour concrete in the tack room, feed room, under the stairs and on the porch. We have to finish off the inside stairs and the big front door. I have to rake out a million little rocks, because they built the dang barn on my temporary gravel road and didn’t first bull doze them out. Oops. I need to put bedding in the stalls and mulch in the corral. We need to get the electric company to put a line to the barn, then call an electrician to put in lights and electrical plugs so I can see when the days grow short (which is coming up.) And I need water! Once we get electric, Mark and Ronnie are going to dig a big pit in the creek and put in a pump so I can get fresh creak water on tap. Sounds complicated, but they insist it will work.

Like everything in our life, it is a work in progress.  But I couldn’t be more delighted. This is the very best playhouse the little girl inside me has ever had!  
I’m truly grateful!

And best of all, the next time I see a sad, stray cat that needs a home, I’ll have a dry, soft hayloft to offer. Every barn needs a barn cat to keep the mice away. But I’m not going looking for a cat. I will wait until a desperate cat finds me. If it was meant to be . . . .

 
  

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The Late Early

Posted on August 20, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

I am deeply, morbidly depressed. Melancholy beyond description.


Early died.  Herein, I guess I have to refer to him as “the late Early”.
 
Yesterday, when I went to let him out of the cage to roam freely around the barnyard, he seemed oddly quiet. He remained laying in his nest. I stroked him and picked him up for a bit of tender fawning, wondered why he was being so calm. Then I placed him back down, and watched him settle back into his comfortable position by the food bowl. Humm…. Odd.


Mark and I took his mother out to lunch, and the subject of peacocks came up. I gushed about my affinity for this bird and how he has touched my heart more than all the other animals I’ve been working with. I have no qualms about my favoritism.  Early is representative of many things. He is the first creature I hatched on my own in an incubator. The only surviving egg out of two big batches of peacock eggs, which makes him seem more precious and rare. Unlike the chickens, he is stoic and delicate – exotic as he gracefully struts about in his regal way. His tail is filling out and getting long. He looks otherworldly out there in the midst of everyday chickens. Early seems a tangible symbol that even though I’ve embraced this world of mud and outdoor living, I’ve kept an element of elegance in the package. I simply adored this bird, both because of his personality and the meaning I attach to his existence. 
 

But when we came home from lunch, he was dead, lying peacefully by his bowl. Clearly, he’d been sick and that was why he’d been so quiet that morning. I was grateful he hadn’t died because a dog attacked or he had been eaten by a opossum or fox. I don’t know if I could’ve handled that. Nevertheless, when a pet dies because it’s sick, I wonder if I could have prevented it. Did I feed him too much or the wrong combination of nutrients? Was the water I provided tainted? Was the cage unclean? I go above and beyond to create a clean environment for my animals, so it is unlikely I could have done anything more to keep him healthy.

Nevertheless, I feel so badly when I lose them. I was at least grateful he died peacefully, nestled in the place he considered home. Even though the pen was open and he could have crawled away to a quiet dark place, he felt secure there in that familiar place.


We inspected the bird, just to assure ourselves that there was no foul (fowl?) play, and speculated on what happened.


Mark said, “Maybe it’s the heat.”


The fact is, it’s been over 100 degrees outside for about two weeks now, and the animals have been suffering. I shaved my angoras, worried about them getting heat stroke, and I’ve been stress out about the llamas because they are dearly in need of a sheering (the man to do the job right t is out of town for one more week). But the fact is, Early has total freedom during the day and usually spends his time in the barn or under the workmen’s truck in the shade. Besides which, peacocks are tropical by nature. You have more problems keeping them healthy in the winter than the summer.


We decided he was probably just sick.


The peacock eggs in my incubator were due to hatch several days ago, but it looks like they were unsuccessful.  Bummer. If they hatched, I could imagine Early’s little soul winging it over to an egg – then it would be like he was staying with me. But no. I am a peacock-less girl now. The elegance in my world was fleeting. 


Mark said, “Don’t be sad. I’ll buy you some healthy, grown peacocks. No more guessing or dissapointment that way.”

“I don’t want adult peacocks,” I said, (This felt not unlike someone like telling a little kid you will buy them a puppy moments after they discover their dog has been hit by a car. Beloved pets are not so easily replaced when you have formed a relationship with them). “Adult peacocks are aloof because they don’t imprint on you.”


“I’ll get you young birds.”

“How do you expect to do that?”

“I’ll find them,” he said.

i don’t think he can, but I felt the sentiment was sweet.

Later that night, we heard the dogs suddenly barking like crazy. Mark gets up out of bed, gets his riffle and stomps out into the night.


I knew what he was doing. He thought that if something was coming to eat my ducks again, this time he was going to blow it away.


I said, “Don’t accidentally shoot Cheese or Crackers! Or the dogs!”

“Don’t worry.”


Now, I’ve never seen my husband shoot a gun, and I’m not convinced it’s as easy as he says, even though the gun he bought was chosen because it has a powerful aiming scope, and when he tried it, he hit the target every time. He says its user friendly. Nevertheless, the idea of my ballerina boy wielding a gun is too weird to accept. This is beyond the scope of my husband definition. I mean, the guy is multifaceted, true, but blowing little animal’s brains out doesn’t seem to fit his image.  I waited, wrestling with a sick feeling as I listened for the sound of that gun going off. I had pictures rolling around in my head of my husband hopping back into the bedroom because he’d shot off a toe or something.


I imagined he was thinking, “After the peacock, I’ll be damned if anything is going to pick off any more of my wife’s birds. Lord knows, it will send her into the brinks of despair – then who will do the laundry?” 

So, I took his willingness to get up out of bed to go hunt the poultry enemy as an act of love, even though it did feel like I was in an episode of the twilight zone.


It was a false call, thankfully. In the morning, the ducks were well. Out by the barn, something had eaten one of my guineas however. I haven’t mentioned it, but the five babies wandered away and became wildlife dinner days after we got them, but my adult guineas have been loyal, recognizing home and sticking close. Alas, now I am down to two game birds. If they are male and female, (I’ll check it out) I’m going to cage them together so they can have some babies. If not, I’ll wait until spring to try game hens again.


Mark said, “when the barn is finished, we will get the electricity installed and we can put motion sensors and lights out there. That will make a big difference and you won’t have to worry so much about predators.”

I’m sure he is right. But that doesn’t negate the fact that I’m having a bad poultry week now.
 

I am really upset about the peacock. It feels not unlike when a beloved dog dies – I miss him dreadfully. I even cried thinking about him, about his cute little peeping the day he hatched and how he reacted in such an excited, attached way whenever I came near the cage.  I know it is silly, but I formed an attachment to that dang bird – which I’m careful not to do with the farm animals (For practical reasons. After all, they are not like the domesticated pets in the house. Horses are the exception of course. And donkey. And the llamas. Oh, why not admit it; I grow attached to them all.)


I will miss the late Early. I’m not giving up on peacocks, but I will take my time finding new birds to give that touch of elegance to my existence. I will wait until the barn is finished and we have a perfect peacock pen built. And then I will look at young birds and see if they take to me. When I see one with that special look in his eye, I’ll think “bingo.” And I’ll probably name him just that.  


 

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Horse Sense

Posted on August 10, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

Last night, I made the big decision – well, actually I had already made it, but I made the decision “official”.
I bought my new horse.

Now, don’t get judgmental on first sight, because she’s been in a huge pasture for several years, ungroomed and left to run wild. We are going to play EXTREME HORSE MAKEOVER here. A bath, a couple of hours working on her Rasterferarian dreadlocks and she’ll be beautiful beyond compare. She is a saddlebred (breed) pinto, five years old. I don’t know her “given name” because I’ve yet to check her registration papers. I can call her what I want, but I’m hoping she comes with a name I like.

Mark said, “Name her cow. She looks like one.” (Always the sentimental animal guy.)

I said, “Take that back. She’s beautiful,” (although, now that he mentioned it, she really DOES look like a cow, doesn’t she. But I’ll never admit it to him). “I think she is the one.”
He said, “Lord knows, you’ve done your research. It’s your horse. If she’s the one, and it will make you happy, make the deal.”
It’s true – I’ve been looking at horses, talking to people, riding horses as I shop, checking the internet, reading – doing all I can to determine just what I want. I looked at Missouri Fox Trotters and Tennessee Walkers and Arabians and Thoroughbreds.  A saddlebred horse is hearty, sure footed and has a good lineage. This is it.
So, I forgave him the cow comment, even though now I can’t get the name “Moo” out of my head.


She has light blue eyes – very unusual for a horse, although it does happen in pintos.




I saw her sister, who had one blue eye and one brown eye. That was unusual. Her sister just had a baby. Here it is:


I show you this as an example of the baby we will most likely be bringing into the world next June. You see, my new horse was put with a fully blood Pinto stud three weeks ago so she is probably pregnant. I thought Mark would be unhappy about this, however, they sold the last baby for 2,100 and made me a standing offer for the new colt. They said they will make a deal now to buy it back for 1,000 when it is 4 months old and weaned.  Hummm…. that is nice because it makes me feel more comfortable with the horse’s price – but I think I’ll wait before making any deals. I want to see what we are selling first. And who knows what I’ll want to do with a new quality baby in a ten months.
I get to have a new baby. No, I’m gonna get TWO new babies, because we don’t want to forget my pregnant llama – also due in June. How fun is that gonna be! I’ll be running a four legged nursery!

Of course, there are no guarantees the horse is pregnant. It’s possible the mating didn’t take. That happens on occasion. And sometimes, a mare can lose a colt early on. But considering the breeder knows his stuff, the odds are high that she is pregnant. I am getting not only my horses papers, but a copy of the father’s papers too so I can be prepared to register this new colt if/when it is born. 

 Either way, I will be happy with this horse. It was love at first sight.


In a field of dozens of horses, she came directly to me. She’s a “people horse”, very interested in humans and personable. Love that. I tried to give her a peppermint, but she wouldn’t take it. She’s never seen one before and didn’t know what it was. Ha – I’m gonna rock her world. I commented that I felt badly taking her from this green wonderland and her life of leisure with the herd, yet the horse trainers reminded me that a horse like this wants to be ridden and likes the care and interaction of a loving owner. Well, if that will make her happy, she’ll be in bliss, for sure. 

She will need some serious training, of course. She had 90 days of training and rode well when she was two and with her first owner, but this particular horse seller bought her for breeding.  They kept pointing me to the other horses hoping I’d want one of them instead, but I was continually pulled to this one.
They said, “If you want a pinto, how about this beautiful brown one? He is only two and pretty as all get out.” 
The horse was awfully pretty, but I kept saying, “What about HER?”
Eventually, they realized I had made my choice and was not to be easily distracted. I can be persuasive when I see something I really want. And I just had a feeling about this particular horse. Kent and Neva agreed. She seemed to like us, and obviously, I liked her.

The horse trainer , Sean, will give her 60 days of intense training, so she will be neck reigned and will have all the basic skills – like going backwards, halting and staying put as you mount or dismount, easy transition between gates, etc.. She will lift her feet for you, load in a trailer, and even step aside when you open a gate.  She will be perfect for my uses of trail and pleasure riding and she is of a quality that if I ever decided to show her in Western Pleasure, she can win. (Notice I’m not saying I can win – only her. I don’t kid myself about my horse skills.) I’m not leaning towards competitive riding, but it is nice to know I have that option just in case. After all, I’m planning on this being the last horse I’ll be buying for some time. 

I’ve made a deal for Sean to do the training on our land, in our pen and on our fields and trails. This way I’ll be caring for the horse and we will get to know each other. Most importantly, I can watch and LEARN. I am very interested in the horse training process. I’ve taken a horse training clinic at a big equestrian center near our home, and I want to take more, but it can be pretty costly. Now, I’ll have a 60 day home clinic study course for free. Ye-haw. I can go to their clinics for refinement and to train ME. (I need it more than the horses.) Sean said that during the last 30 days, a great deal of the training will involve me. For the best success, he will work with the horse and I, together as a team. I can’t wait.  

Then, as if an afterthought, I asked Sean if he’s ever tried to train a donkey.
He snorted and said, “Why would I? ……” Then seeing my disappointed face he said, “Oh Hell, why do you ask?”

“I want to teach my donkey to pull a cart so I can take people around the land in a little two seater. Then, I can ride donkey in dinky parades and such. (Big marketing aspirations from the future coffee shop owner) Sean winced as if even the idea of messing with a lowly donkey was painful.

“I love my donkey.” I pointed out. ‘He’s my FAVORITE.”

“I might be able to help you with that…. if you make me.” he said, good-natured. Just goes to show, that  one endeavor often leads you to another, and you never can tell what that might be.

Anyway, today we close on our FLEX building, so in about a week, when finances are in order, I’ll be greeting my new horse – just a week or so before the new barn will be ready to receive her. Gee, it feels like at long last my equestrian pursuits are getting really organized. Lucky me.

As I returned from looking at this horse, Sean and his wife Amanda (who I really like) were talking to a man who was looking for a horse for his kids. He wanted something gentle and smallish, and the trainer looked at me and said, “Actually, I believe this woman here might have just the horse you are looking for. We are talking about a trade, so if she is seri
ous about the horse she is looking at, we might want to look at the one she has at home.” Sure enough, they came to our land to inspect and ride Dixie, and I think she found her new home too.

The man looked nice enough. I said, “I will have to do a background check, ya know. Approved homes only.”
I was kidding, but only kinda.

The man assured me that if he bought her, Dixie would be going to a fine home with a nice pasture and a sweet kids. I will believe that, because it makes this transition bearable for me. For all that she is a simple country horse (too small, without refined training, plus she has no papers or heritage) I do love her. But I love her like a pet that you stroke and adore, not like a trusted mount you want to spend hour after hour exploring the wilderness with – a horse you can count on to keep you safe and securely seated. I do need a better quality horse if I want riding freedom and greater possibilities. 

We live a short ride from a national forest with miles of horse trails. I plan to go on day long horse trail rides. I want to pack a lunch and take off, sometimes alone, and sometimes with a friend. It can’t be Mark, because we’ve discovered he can’t ride with his bad hips, but I can take Neva as she gets older, or other friends. Both of our horses will be solid, well behaved, good natured horses now, perfect for long trips. Anyone can ride them. My kids can saddle up with friends and enjoy an afternoon riding. As I get more and more plugged into the horse culture, I hope to meet friends that would also like to join me in riding adventures on their own horses. Fun.

Anyway, when my new horse arrives and she is all cleaned up and looking spit and polished, I’ll post another picture. You will be impressed. And I’ll share some pictures of her in training. I won’t be the only one learning about horses for the next 60 days, ya know, because like a good blogger, I’ll take you along for the ride. 

 

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Chicken Pranks

Posted on August 7, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

I’ve been scammed! Bamboozled! Made a mockery of! Someone has exploited my innocence!

My mind reals with contemplation of revenge.

This morning I went to do my morning rounds with the animals, and checked the chicken house. There were only two eggs there. I thought, “What the heck. Where’s my windfall?”

Then I went outside and there is Ronnie (who is building our barn with his two sons) grinning at me.  

“I guess Mark didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?” I really didn’t want to know. From that smile, I had a good idea of what was coming.

Apparently, he bought a flat of eggs and HE was the gremlin putting them in my chicken house for the last two days. He said after the day at the flea market, he couldn’t resist. I’ve been so “enthusiastic”. (A nice word for “naive”, I’m thinking.) I have been complaining about my chickens not laying, true, which dangled an irresistible opportunity to toy with a city slicker.  

The story he told me about Guineas making chickens lay more was a set up. 

He laughed and said, “I never dreamed you’d really fall for it. You seem a smart girl most of the time . . . for a city gal. You didn’t really believe a game bird would effect the laying of regular chickens, did ya? That don’t make no sense.”  

“Who me think Guineas inspire laying?  Of course not. I’m a chicken expert. I wouldn’t fall for such malarkey.”

What can I say? I fell for it hook line and sinker. And apparently, this amused Ronnie to no end. And Mark, who was in on it, didn’t bother to tell me last night as I went on and on about the eggs I collected that day, even as Neva and I tried guessing which eggs came from which of our beloved chickens. Well, there you have it -I married a rat fink.

Of course I fell for it. My chickens are six months old and they are SUPPOSED to be laying by now. Beside which, it isn’t often you expect outright poultry deceit from a friend WHO IS A PREACHER!

Now, I didn’t just tell you about my eggs. I told everyone I came in contact with yesterday. I was proud, don’t ya know. It was BIG news in Hendryville.

So, I went to the coffee shop to tell Denver the trick Ronnie played. I had boasted quite a bit to her yesterday, and even brought her a half dozen eggs as a celebratory gift.

She thought this a hoot – practically rolled on the floor laughing and said, “Well, I’m glad to see you have a friend who can a little right back at ya.”

So much for daughterly devotion in the form of empathetic outrage over my loss of innocence. I vowed I wouldn’t give HER any more eggs …. especially since I won’t have any to give.

So, if you come to my house, I won’t make you eat eggs. And those eggs I do get are already spoken for. I’m gonna THROW them at Ronnie. 

He said, “I hope you aren’t mad. I was afraid you might get mad.”
“Me mad? Over eggs? Couldn’t happen. But do be afraid Ronnie.” I looked at him out of the sides of my eyes, “……Payback is a bitch.”
“Uh Oh,” he said with a chuckle.

So, I will have to put away my quiche recipes until another time, now that I have egg on my face rather than in my chicken nests. I guess it is all a part of the learning curve….  Speaking of curve, since an egg isn’t exactly round, does that effect aim? 

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Eggstravaganza!

Posted on August 6, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

Come to my house. Quick. I’ll make you some eggs.
What I really mean is,  I’ll MAKE you eat eggs.


You know how I was complaining that I have bunches of chickens, yet I only get two eggs a day? Then, I got the Guineas and viola, I had seven eggs yesterday. Cool beans! I was pretty excited.

Today, I go to the hen house and find 19 eggs! One chicken was in there laying as I visited. She wouldn’t budge, and had a onery look in her eye, so I left her alone. This doesn’t take into consideration several of my chickens slept outside last night because I got home too late to scoot them into the pen, so all my green egg layers are not included in this quota. They are probably laying under the chicken house with two other chickens who have taken to hiding under there. By the way, none of the eggs collected today are guineas.
 
Um……. I think I’m gonna be getting two dozen  or more eggs a day now until winter when the days get shorter and the hens lay less. And this doesn’t count my Guineas and my six new game chickens and my spastic leghorns who will not be old enough to lay for another six weeks. Then, I’ll be getting 36 eggs a day or so. 

You hungry? 

Quick! I have to run to the mall to get a quiche recipe book. I’m gonna feed the kids Eggs Benedict for dinner tonight, I guess. And a meringue pie for dessert – that uses only the whites, but lots of ’em.
Actually, that won’t use nearly enough to keep up on this windfall.  Humm………..

I think I have to start making lemon curd or some other kind of egg based thing that can be canned and kept as a gourmet treat. Yep, I’m on a quest. Actually, I don’t know if eggs are in lemon curd, I’m only guessing. But I can certainly find something eggish to make.

Of course, there are always alternate uses, like letting them rot and then throwing them at people I don’t like. Better than letting them go to waste, don’t ya know.

All I know is, my dogs are gonna have the dreamiest fur coats, my husband’s cholesterol is going to go through the roof, and I have new kitchen challenges to conquer. And every day now, visiting the henhouse will have an element of thrill.

Gee, chickens are fun.

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Ginny’s Guineas

Posted on August 5, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock



Yesterday, we went with friends to the flea market in Dalton (an hour’s drive). Mark had gone the week before with his good friend, Ronnie, who had let it slip that they had guinea hens for sale for only 4.00 a piece. That is a remarkable price for game hens, so I asked Mark to be sure to buy me some. It rained that day, so very few vendors showed up and alas, no poultry was for sale. Mark came home with 2 1/2 huge flats of strawberries instead, for a grand total of 20.00. This isn’t like Jack in the beanstalk, when the mother sent jack to sell a cow and he brought back beans.  I actually have been wanting a ton of strawberries all summer, if only we could find them for an affordable rate. The strawberry gift eased the disappointment of “no-birds today”. But I was determined to go back later and see for myself if there were birds to be had.
 
I made 4 batches of jam from those strawberries, two different strawberry cordials, and even ended up freezing a few pints for our health smoothies. I already have strawberry wine in the works -(I KNOW that announcement has Boonsfarm quaking in their boots.)  Having exhausted my strawberry exploitation, I was back on the quest for game chickens.

So, we decided to try the flea market again yesterday, and I got lucky. I bought 6 young traditional guineas for a song, and spent a bit more on three additional silver adults (one rooster and two hens – to reproduce).  I took a picture so you know what I’m talking about – above.

Guineas are rather ugly, looking like a vulture in face with a huge round body. They have horns on their head, and what looks like red gills.  They have white faces, like the joker in Batman.  Mark looked over my shoulder as I was downloading my camera and said, “Those pictures don’t do them justice. They are FAR uglier than that.” 

What does he know? I think they are cute. The babies have been pecked so much in their small cages at the market that they are bare on the backside and they look the worse for wear, but what do you expect for 4 bucks? At our feed store, these same birds are $10-20 a pop, and that adds up if you want to buy a half dozen or more. In time, my scraggly babies will feather out and look healthy. I have a way of bringing out the best in animals.

The guineas make a weird sound, like a raspy flute. They are loud- the female makes a two syllabus sound and the males only one.   They lay eggs like a chicken, only the eggs are smaller and pointier and these birds will usually lay in the bushes, so I’ll have to hunt the eggs down if I want to cook them. I’m more interested in the birds reproducing anyway.



Why, you may wonder, do I want ugly birds that make a loud annoying sound? 
Does the fact that I’ve never had a guinea chicken and they are interesting to observe sound reason enough?
I also know that they eat bugs with remarkable efficiency. They say people with guineas don’t ever get lime disease and their dogs come home clean because the birds clear away all the ticks for a mile. Yippee. I already adore my chickens because they spend every day in the pasture eating the fly larvae, and this year I have almost NO flies near the horses. That is amazing! Last year, I couldn’t stand being near the horses in August because the flies were so thick. Fly control alone is reason enough to keep chickens. Guineas will top off the job perfectly.

Guineas also are game birds, so they can stay outside and they will fend for themselves and stay alive despite all the wildlife around hunting my birds as fast as I can raise them. They also make a racket when a dog or other danger comes around, so they are considered “watch birds”. They are hearty, so they can handle the winter well. You can eat the eggs (or the birds, if you are into that kind of thing.) The only problem that I may encounter is if the guineas discover my bee hive, some distance away. Apparently, guineas will park themselves at the entrance of a hive and eat all the bees as they fly home. They can gobble up your entire bee population in a few days if you don’t watch it. I figure winter will soon be here, and my bees will be hibernating. My guineas will not be interested in an inactive hive, and if they ever do wander towards the bees, I can build a fence around the hive or something.  I’ll cross that bridge when (and if) I come to it. 

The point is, I think the guineas are fascinating and as you know, I like learning about new things. I’m set up for a variety of livestock now, why not explore different creatures?

The hardest part about raising guineas is keeping them around after they are let loose. They say it is best to keep them in a pen for a week, then let only one out each day (flock birds want to stay together, and this keeps the loose one close by) Through this process the birds will learn where home is and stay. The way I see it, I spoil animals  so badly with food and treats, few would ever wander far, so I am confident they will hang around when I finally let them go. For now, they are cooped in the chicken pen. I let the chickens out in the day, then put them all back together in the night. They get along famously, although they stare at each other a great deal- it’s fun to watch them interact. 

I also bought 6 game chickens, just because they were available and I was in a chicken buying mood. I didn’t know this, but Ronnie taught me that you can always tell a game chicken because her legs are green. It is odd looking. Sure enough, the top of them looks like a chicken, but down below, it looks like Dr. Seuss had a field day. They are rather ugly as chickens go, sort of lean and wirey and they run fast, but they add diversity to the flock.  I’m all into mixing it up for a lively, interesting show each time I pause to watch them go about the business of chicken living around my barn.

Which reminds me, I promised pictures of the progress – here is the current state of the barn as it is today — the upstairs looks roomy and nice, but I have no stairs to get up there to get all excited about it yet:



   
When we got home from the flea market, Ronnie made arrangements to pick up April, our baby horse. He did decide to buy her and will finish the task of raising and training her. I know she is going to a good home and a great, green pasture (and I can visit her) so I am happy with this arrangement. He anticipted needing some help (and rightly so), because April is young. She was born here and has never been loaded into a trailer. Sure enough, she put up quite a fight. I was heartbroken watching her struggle to remain home with her “herd” – even if that herd is just her mom, Peppy and some reject members, (donkey and two llamas). The fact is, they are a happy group and this is a happy place for an animal to live.   

Ronnie asked a horse trainer/breeder friend help pick her up, and this guy commented that she looked like a great young horse (my heart went pang) and when he found out I was selling Dixie ,he said he could find me a buyer or would take her himself and might be willing to trade if I want to look at a few of his better pintos. (I almost couldn’t take anymore of this horse selling stuff- it was so heart rendering a thought to cold heartedly trade up)
. I told him I’d let him know. True, I am shopping now for a higher-end horse to take the place of the three I’m letting go, but still, I want to make this transition graceful and kind to all the animals involved. This is harder for me than you know.

Anyway, it was a day of big changes. 

The flea market was interesting too, with miles of vendors selling everything you could imagine. They had produce by the buckets going for so reasonably I wanted to buy a car full. I was enthralled – touching everything, asking questions. Most of the vendors were Mexican growers -selling things like cactus leaves and aloe and all kinds of fruits I’ve never seen before – things that look like it grew in Jurassic park. I kept pausing to ask what these different plants were and how to cook them, but because of the language barrier, I couldn’t’ grasp the answers. I am planning to do some research, then go back another weekend to shop for all those things I am totally unfamiliar with. A cooking experiment, so to speak. Ronnie kept laughing at me, saying he will be wary if I bring anything down to feed the boys at the barn (he and his sons are building it for us, and I tend to like to feed unsuspecting people – especially when my family has run screeming from the kitchen.) Ha – I just won’t tell them what it is they are eating. 

I also fell in love with some dwarf goats (and I promised Neva she could get one after we sold the buildings… by the way, we sold the second FLEX building this week. Big, relieved sigh.) so now I’m swaying in that direction.

Anyway, that is the update on animals at the Hendry preserve. One less horse. 8 new guineas and 6 game hens. A goat, maybe, on the way. 5 peacocks in the making. No partridge in a pear tree as yet, but then, it isn’t the season for that yet, now is it?

By the way, the ducks I hatched myself have finally fully feathered out and they are a delightful addition to our creek. Here is what they ended up looking like. Pretty, hun? The white one just got whiter.


Three hours later: 
As I was writing this, I saw someone had pulled up to the driveway. It was the very same fellow who transported our horse yesterday and he knows I am shopping for a new steed. Uh oh. 
He brought me a chicken. He heard me complaining that my chickens just don’t lay much, so he wanted to give me a gift of a good laying chicken. Uh oh.  A bribe.
He took me, Neva and Kent to look at some horses. Just happened to show me some PINTOS – one of which was the sweetest mare I’ve ever seen, a fully registered Pinto Saddlebread with light blue eyes. A very arresting face, and the most personal horse I’ve seen in some time. Uh Oh. out of 20 horses in the field, I pick the one that the trainer was going to buy for himself. What can I say? I fell in love. 

Then, they hit me with the fact that she is probably pregnant because they bred her just three weeks ago, and so I’d be getting a two for one. Uh Oh. (Mark would KILL me – this is supposed to be about getting RID of horses not accumulating more.) They did say they’d purchase the baby back, because it’s father is another high end pinto and it is pretty dang certain the baby will be drop dead gorgeous and I can register it too. They then offered to take Dixie in a trade to make this affordable for me. And if I sold the baby, I’d probably be about even with what I got from selling the others. Convienient. Uh Oh. 

I said I have to sleep on it.
Like I can sleep now.


   


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Lots ‘a Lamas

Posted on July 30, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

I got a new llama!!!!!
She is black like Dali, with a white mask. Sort of looks like a negative of the lone ranger.



The other day I saw a llama for sale in the paper. It was female, fully registered and papered. I thought there might be a misprint, because she was going for 400 dollars, and usually a registered female is five to ten times that. I’ve wanted to buy my Dali a girlfriend for ages, but didn’t think I’d ever get one because the girls are simply too expensive for a live pet yard ornament, which is all they are for me. I use the hair for spinning, and I delight in watching them, but I don’t train them to work as pack animals (although that would be fascinating) and I’m not a breeder or anything. I’m an animal hobbyist, with limited resources. Nevertheless, I keep looking at female llamas, just wishing I could afford one. I figure Dali deserves love, ya know.

Anyway, I go see the llama, expecting her to be 100 years old or something, but she is the same age as my male, only 5. And she is beautiful. Regal. Not a mean bone in her body. Doesn’t spit or misbehave. I ask why the fellow is selling her.


He tells me she was purchased as a guard animal for his sheep, but he has sold off the sheep to a local spinner and he has no need for a llama now. He wants to let her go so he can get some horses.

Horses, you say? Well, it just so happens I have horses for sale. Let’s make a deal.


I’ve been wanting to sell three of our four horses (one is my dearest animal soul-mate, and I’ll be keeping him for life) but the others I’m ready to let go. Four horses are too many. The work load and expense far outweighs the benefits, sad to say. I had romantic visions of the family going for an evening ride after dinner, but the fact is, we don’t and never will. Neva and I are the only two who ride, and I alone take care of the horses – more than we need or use. It is becoming such a chore that the romance is starting to fade. Time to scale back to keep my love of horses alive. I would far prefer being able to spoil two horses and have more upscale horses than kill myself trying to meet the needs of four.  Quantity is not a good thing here so much as quality.


We bought Mark a horse, but with Mark’s arthritis, he simply can’t ride. And the animal he picked (which I told him was not a good choice) is high strung, spirited and a bully to the other animals. He is the prettiest dang horse you ever did see, but looks aren’t everything. I can ride him, but it isn’t pleasant because he demands such a firm hand, and he likes boys best anyway. I wouldn’t dare put a guest on him unless they have experience.

Our mare is lovely, but she is rather petite and a simple country horse. Not as well trained as I’d like for our use. Her baby, April, is a year away from being old enough to train, and it will be a costly investment for a simple country horse. So, I’m selling all three, hoping to purchase a higher quality quarter horse with manners and training. I’m hoping to find an eight to ten year old pinto (love the way they look) with some horse showing experience. I feel we need two bomb-proof, well mannered horses that I can put kids or guests on without fear, that way Neva can ride alone with friends, and I can be relaxed when riding with her, focused on her instead of my unsteady mount. Anyway, that is the master equsterian plan.

The hardest thing about selling a horse is the fear that you are sending it to an unhappy home. I took one look at this fellow’s (his name was Rick) pure green pasture (looks like a golf course – ha, won’t look like that for long when he puts horses out there) and found out he is opening the new organic food store for pets, and KNEW I had to sell this guy a horse. The horse will be fed well, taken care of, and loved. You simply can’t be sad about that.

I asked why the llama was so reasonably priced. He wanted to be honest and told me that she had a baby last year, and refused to nurse it. The owner (a breeder) got mad so he sold her cheap. he used her for a guard llama, but Cayotes killed his two baby lambs, so she wasn’t perfect in that capacity either.  He doesn’t know what to do with a llama now that his sheep are gone, so he just wanted to get her out of his pasture. I knew at that moment I happened to be in the right place at the right time. Yippee!

I asked if the baby died, but he said they “tubed her”. If you don’t want to be bothered bottle feeding an orphan, you can stick a tube in their throat and force the food in fast. He said if I have a male and I was looking for a mate, I’d probably not want this particular llama as a mother. It might be inviting work into my animal world.


Are you kidding? Bottle feed a baby llama and make her tame as can be? That is supposed to turn me off?

I asked Mark what he thought of our having a llama baby if it is possible the mother won’t do her job. He said, “Neva will be thrilled to bottle feed it. I don’t care, if you don’t. It will be interesting.”   

SOLD!


The next day, Rick delivered her. She moseyed into the pasture, her ears back as if she was highly agitated. It usually takes about ten days for a llama to calm down and accept new surroundings. I was curious about how Dali would respond to a new llama in his field. I figured they’d take some time getting to know each other – sniff and stuff, then hopefully they would become friends and eventually, mate.


He saw her come into the pasture, made a loud grunting sound (llamas don’t usually make sound) and came running. We were all like, “Wow, he sure is interested…” Then, he jumped right on her and they began doing the nasty – which really isn’t nasty at all. Sort of sweet, in my opinion. But there was no “hello”. No “nice to meet you.” Just instant carnal animal love. I figured it was love at first sight. An instant soul mate sort of thing.


Actually, I was a bit embarrassed for her. We were all staring. The poor thing didn’t get a chance to even look around at her new digs and this horney guy was all over her. Not that she seemed to mind. She was amiable enough.
 

They mated for about an hour, Dali grunting out loud in the most obnoxious way the entire time. Rick laughed, Neva stared. I made excuses for my sex-crazed boy llama. After a while, the girl laid down, obviously bored with this long ordeal. Llamas don’t go “in season”, and as such, they can get pregnant any time. So in eleven months, I’m quite sure I’ll be watching a baby llama come into the world. How exciting is that!!!!


Meanwhile, Rick looked at our horses, fell instantly in love with Mark’s horse and bought him on the spot. Didn’t even have to ride him. I had a lump in my throat the size of a baseball.


It was sad seeing Goliath get loaded into the same trailer that brought our llama (the name on her papers is is Pualani and we will keep it. It’s a nice name.) but I was relieved too. It is hard to let an animal go, but I know my limits and I’ve assessed our needs and a few less horses (especialy this one) is for the best. I’ll admit, I can’t stop thinking of Goliath though, and I couldn’t sleep the first night, imagining him lonely and missing his herd. He was very attached to his ladies here. Finally, Mark told me to drive by Rick’s pasture so I will feel better. Clearly I have separation issues.


That evening, someone else came to ride Dixie (our mare). They may take her OR our baby horse, April,  and will let us know in a few days. So it looks like horse number two will be going soon.  Pang goes the heart.


I thought Neva might be upset by the changes, but she was accepting of it all. She is mostly worried that if baby goes, donkey will be lonely. They are best buds. But she is excited to get a replacement horse, and the idea that we will have a baby llama seems to sweeten the deal. I seem to be the only one sad over the natural evolution of our hobby farm. Guess I’m not as “country” as I pretend, because I take all this to heart and worry so much about these animals and their happiness.


Other changes have occurred. Joe, our rooster finally got over his dog attack, but it changed his personality drastically. Suddenly he started attacking us – mostly Neva. Um…. That is a quick way to get in a stew pot. It got to where we had to hold up the garbage can lid as a shield whenever we went to feed the chickens. It made us laugh, but it was a drag too, and we were getting gouged badly on the leg when we didn’t see him coming. So I offered him to one of the construction workers building our new barn (more news yet to be revealed) and he took Joe home. He now spends each day crowing on the fellow’s roof. He is still a pet, but for someone else now.

Meanwhile, one of the guaranteed female chicks I bought grew up to be male. There is one chance in 1000 of that happening, I’m told. My luck. It is like the universe sends me chicken boys – ahem –  I mean boy chickens. So one of my Rhode Island Reds, formerly named Lucy, is called Mr. Lucy now.  We have a new rooster, and as yet, he isn’t a mad, attack rooster. Knock on barn wood.


Speaking of which, since we sold the Sarasota building we are finally getting a real live barn. I scaled back  from my origional plan to have a big ol monster barn, to a more modest two stall barn with a tack room and feed room , open area in between and an upstairs area to house my baby chicks and other projects. There is a hay storage area on one side, and a roofed corral on the other (for donkey). I’m so excited. I didn’t want anything too big because there are other things I want in life (like travel) but I sure wanted an indoor area for working with these animals. I figure my peacock can roost there too. It is going to be a really nice barn, perfect for my needs but not overwhelming to maintain.

Here is the skeleton of the barn… I’ll show you it in each level of progress so you can experience a true modern era barn raising….



It sounds funny, but I’ don’t crave a pretty deck or fine furniture for the house like other ladies might. I’ve been longing for a barn above all else ever since we moved here. I’ve been out there taking care of animals in sleet and rain, stumbling around in the dark, wondering why I keep at it without the proper facility. But that commitment earned me a barn in the world of hobby-karma, I guess.  Yippee. I fear there is no limit to my animal experiments now that I have a home base. Uh Oh. I sure like getting dirty out there, and I rather think it will be fun to be able to ask my husband if he wants a roll in the hay and to really mean it!


Early, the peacock, is doing fine. People have asked for an updated picture, so here one is. I let him out each day, and he hangs around with the chickens, but he never goes far from his pen. He will have a new, bigger pen with a little peacock house built along side the chicken pen, as soon as the barn is finished. It’s next on my never-ending list. Hopefully, by then, I’ll know if his future buddies have hatched (the eggs are still in my office in the incubator, cooking). Early is only two months old, and it takes three years for a peacock to fully mature so he is still just a baby. We won’t see if he will have long male tail feathers for a few months. The anticipation of authenticating his sex is killing me. He is sure sweet and easy to care for. I let him roam the barn area, but when I want him to go back into his pen at night, he walks right in. Good bird.


His chicken buddy is never far from his side. She looks like Cruella Deville (thus her name). She is hyper and not so very loveable. Ah well – not all poultry personalities are created equal. 


Anyway, to finish the llama tale. . . I thought perhaps the llamas, having discovered their passion for eachother, might be going at it on and off – like rabbits or something. I imagined them snuggling together in the field, basking in friendship or love or what have you. I took my camera up there a few hours later to see if I could get a picture of them together (I thought mating llamas would make good blog fodder to keep everyone from getting bored.) But alas, they were at two opposite sides of the pasture. Hun? I was flabergasted. Was this a one night stand thing? How mortifying. Not like they can go their seperate ways, stuck together in a field. 

I haven’t seen them acknowledge eachother even a tiny bit since that first moment they met and got it on. In fact, Dali sort of stays far away from Pualani, and when it is dinner time, he will walk all the way around the pasture, as far as he can, to avoid going near her.  She presses her ears back and hisses if he even looks at her, and he lifts his eyes to me as if to say, “What have you saddled me with, Gin?” I guess, the real Pualani is a bitch, but she waited to get what she wanted to let it show. She used him for llama sperm, and she is done with him. Sad.

This is the closest they’ve been to eachother since that first day, and it takes a half hour for Dali to venture this near to her. They sure look like a matched set, don’t you agree? I would have prefered a white mate for my black llama, hoping the babies would be multicolred, but beggers can’t be choosers. And the offspring still may turn out any color. You never know what will come out of past breeding and Paulani does have some white in her coloring. 

I hope time will make them more congenial and better friends. Otherwise, what was the point? But I am a romance writer, so no one knows better than I that the relationships that start off rocky and full of distain (yet with smoldering passion underneath) are the ones that become the fantastic love stories that make you sigh in the end.

I’ll keep you posted, and I’ll keep my camera on hand . . . just in case something “interesting” occurs.

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Pied Pals

Posted on July 17, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock



This is a Pied peafowl. It is sort of a hybrid of a blue peacock and a white one, and considered a new species. You can see the bird is primarily a traditional blue peacock, but it has slashes of white in the tail and on the body. Sometimes, these birds have glorious white breasts, or they have big streaks of white along the tail giving them an even more mottled look. This particular peacock recently had eggs, which were thrust onto e-bay for a quick one day sale.

Of course, I bought them.

My two pied peafowl eggs should arrive tomorrow, where I will carefully nestle them into my incubator and begin the 31 day watch once again, becoming a slave to turning them four times a day and checking the temperature and humidity. I figure it’s now or never – or at least, it’s now or I have to wait until next spring due to seasonal complications. Early needs a spouse (and a spare) and I can’t expect him to wait a full year for some warm feathered friend to nuzzle with this winter, can I? This time, I will set up the incubator in my office so I can spend more quality time with the eggs. I’ve just started re-writing the first novel I ever wrote . They say the first book is like a pancake, good for seasoning the pan, but really it is best to just toss it in the trash and chalk it up to a learning experience. The problem is, I still like the story and want to give it some attention- perhaps a few peacock embryos in the room will be good luck  – for us both.

While I was at it, I made another bid for four additional “surprise breed” eggs for a different seller. This person keeps blue, white, purple and pied peacocks in one big cage so he can’t determine which eggs come from which birds. It will be a surprise! I like the idea of that- a potential hatch and the anticipation of waiting for the birds to feather to determine just what breed they are. My bidding will go on for a few days, but I am only going at it half heartedly.  When I told Mark that two new eggs would arrive tomorrow, he rolled his eyes and said, “Why don’t you just buy a chick so you know you have something for your investment.”

He doesn’t get it. I’m not buying peacocks. I’m buying the experience of hatching peacock eggs, trying my hand at raising a new pet from seed, and forming a special relationship with the bird due to it. Perhaps this is just a romantic’s view, but that’s how I see it.  Anyway, we are building a big ole’ peacock pen, and it seems a waste to do all that for one young bird (and his chicken buddy).

Early is doing fine, by the way. I moved him out by the chickens to a bigger, makeshift pen. There is a small support beam in the corner, and he perches there as high as he can. Peacocks like to perch far up off the ground, which makes sense considering the length of their tails when fully grown. It will take Early three years to mature completely (it will be a while until I can confirm that he is indeed male). But he still looks wonderful to me, snow white and strutting with pride despite his puny size. (I don’t have the camera today, or I’d post a pix). 

Anyway, I’m diving back into the peacock hatching game, hoping for better luck this time. When at first you don’t suceed……. drive your family crazy until you do.  
  

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Duck, duck, goose?

Posted on June 25, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock

The ducks I hatched from eggs are proof that life throws you little delightful surprises along the way.


They are going through puberty now. I know this, partially because they are feathering out and changing from tan downy balls of fluff, to rich, earth toned adults. Mostly, it is because their voice is changing. I hear peep, peep, peep, QUACK.  It is sort of like listening to Kent talk. His boyish voice prevails, but every once in a while you catch the hint of a man’s deep vibrato slipping through.


I had six eggs in the incubator when they started hatching. Five hatched within a 24 hour period. Very exciting. But the last egg took it’s time. I could hear peeping from inside, so I knew it was only a matter of time, but we didn’t see the shell crack for another day. Then it took a full day for this duckling to break free. It was all I could do not to peal him out of that egg myself, because he seemed so exhausted from the immense effort.


He was different. His beak and feet were not gray like the others, they were pink. His down was lighter too. It was almost as if he had been in the incubator too long – like when you stay in a bathtub for hours, so you come out with bleached light skin and wrinkles. Neva and I were rather delighted because this one stood out as an individual. We could name it and actually keep track of which one he was. We called him “Johnny Come Lately” for a day or two. Then Neva wanted to name him (her) Rose because of the pink beak. Then, when it was obvious he was going to stay a lighter color than the others, he was named Cheese. The other five were named Quackers.  Now, we had Cheese and Quackers, more specifically: Ritz, Nabisco, Melba, Graham, and Trisket.


As their soft down turned slowly to feathers, we moved them from the little incubator cage inside, to the grand freedom of the creek and woods beside our house. Each night, we lock them in a huge dog crate, to protect them from poultry eating creatures.  It was simple training them – the first night, the entire Hendry family chased them squawking and flapping, shouting as we darted in and out of the woods to head them off, until we caught them and shoved them into the crate. Big ordeal. The second night we repeated that craziness. The third night, I went out there, but I couldn’t find them.  I bent down to discover they were are all tucked in, nestled together in the crate as if they knew it was bedtime. They do this every night now, and all I must do is walk down, whisper goodnight, and shut the door. Mark finds this interesting. He said, “Hey, we could turn our house into a bed and breakfast lodge and train the ducks to walk through the living room every night on their way to the crate. We’ll call it the Peabody Cabin.”
Might be fun.


As the ducks grew, the difference between them became ever more evident. The family would stand there, watching them swim in the creek, speculating on why one was so much lighter than the others.




I said, “Maybe that one is the boy and the others are girls. Nature often makes the boys more colorful or pretty, so perhaps it is a sex thing.”
Denver said, “I think it’s a swan. You have the real life version of the ugly duckling story happening here – that duck is not like the others. I think it’s cool.”
Kent said, “Mom probably just overcooked that one.”
Neva said, “Some creatures are just born special.”
Mark said, “I think the person who sold you those eggs pulled a fast one, and threw in a wild card just to meet the dozen egg quota.”


I wondered about that. I bought a dozen eggs (some exploded, you may recall) but they were all supposed to be of a certain wild breed. I wanted ducks that blended in with the environment, for their safety. But one of my ducks turned out snow white. Perhaps the seller gathering the eggs had no clue that she was including one different breed. Or perhaps the mother duck had an affair with a handsome, white, fast quacking male duck just passing through. Maybe this duck was a family member that drew from some distant gene pool, like me being a redhead when everyone else in my family has dark hair.  Or maybe this one is just an albino, a case of God forgetting to throw in a dose of color when he created this particular creature.


Anyway, I have five beautiful ducks with white and grey feathers, brown breasts, tan heads, and white rings like a necklace about their graceful necks. I have one cloud white duck that looks like a negative of Daffy. I adore them all.


Each morning, at around 6:30, I walk down the driveway in my robe and rubber boots (it’s a sexier look than it sounds) to open the door to the crate. The ducks greet me and waddle out to where I feed them. They move as a flock at all times, never venturing anywhere independently. They are people-shy and nervous, and yet at the same time, friendly. I guess this because they are still so young. They spend the day swimming in the creek, nestling together for naps in the woods when the sun is hot, and staying near the crate and running inside whenever they ever feel in danger. We watch them from the porch of the house, or walk down with a cup of coffee to enjoy their antics. It is amazing how much pleasure can be had from watching a few ducks go about the business of living. 


I have a special affinity for these feathered pets, partially because I hatched them myself, and partially because they are nature’s representatives of peace and freedom – the very elements of life I was chasing when I chose to move to the quiet woods of Georgia. 

Sometimes, it only takes a little thing to turn your world upside down.
 
 


 


    

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Nothing is as Easy as it looks

Posted on June 14, 2007 by Ginny East Shaddock


I know you are waiting for the other shoe to drop, (poultry-wise) so here’s the end of the peacock adventure.


The day we went to Florida happened also to be the official hatching due date for my peacock egg’s. My one white Peacock, Early, (who was originally carried around in my dogs mouth the day it arrived) was now alive and well and two weeks old. Nothing happened with the other eggs since then, so I had some strong doubt about their potential. Still, it was not as if I wasn’t going to give those eggs a chance. Therefore, on top of feeding all the animals, Denver was left with the task of checking my incubator everyday in my absence. I also set up a cozy little cage with food, shavings and a heat lamp “just in case”. 
Everyday I’d call home and ask how our animals were doing.


The forth day, Denver said, “Bad news.”
I imagined peacocks exploding.
“Something ate your seven baby chicks and killed the mother. Why does this always happen on my watch? You are going to think I am irresponsible. Please, don’t be mad.”


I explained it wasn’t her fault. Something always seems to die when we leave, and it has nothing to do with our being gone or her being in charge. It’s because our DOGS are gone. (We put them in a kennel). When we are home, they scout the land all day and often in the night and chase away all those pesky creatures that dine on chickens and ducks etc… When the dogs are gone, it’s a wilderness free for all.


“Did you check the peacock eggs?”   I asked everyday.
“They are not going to hatch Mom. Accept it.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“It stinks in there, Mom.”
“It’s your imagination.”
“Whatever.”


When we got home eight days later, and the eggs were still lying in the incubator, I admitted defeat. I started wondering what happened and began cataloguing all the things I might have done wrong to kill those potential peacocks. Suddenly, Early took on epic precious standing. He is not just my only pretty peacock, but tangible proof that I am not a complete idiot in the incubation arena.


Neva was devastated by the death of her little, homegrown chicks and cried bitterly at the news. She had named them all, and the mom was her favorite chicken. Now, I had to tell her I was going to throw away the peacock eggs too.


She sighed and agreed it was time.
“We have to open them first,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Oh Honey, I can’t. I don’t want to see half-formed peacocks. What if there are birds inside that were almost ready to hatch? It will be too sad.”
“We HAVE to open them,” she insisted. “That’s what the book said. It’s the only way to determine where a mistake was made so you learn from it. Without knowing, we might do the same wrong thing and we won’t be successful next time either.”
Next time?
I argued that it would be too gross.
Mark pointed out that dead, rotten eggs would stink to high heaven and whatever we did, we better do it far away from the house. (Always a sensitive man regarding the issue of poultry life and death.)
In the end, Neva was so insistent that I caved. We would open the eggs. . . far away from the house. However, I wouldn’t promise to open my eyes.


I can’t tell you how much I was dreading this. Neva was skipping along beside me as if this was a grand adventure. She was totally excited to see what was inside. I was sick at the thought.


We brought a small garden shovel and first dug a grave for a communal bird burial. I thought this would be appropriate in case we found dead baby peacocks, but also, it would cover up the smell.
We crouched beside the hole and I picked up an egg (one of the blue peacocks), still warm from the incubator.
“Are you sure? We could just burry the eggs whole.”
“No way, Mom. Crack it open.”


Therefore, I did. Kind of like when you are cooking, only the egg was firmer.
Out slipped a gooey yoke that looked like any egg you might open from the supermarket.
Relief!
Neva frowned. “It must not have been fertilized.” She bent for a closer look and dug into the goo with a stick. There isn’t even a vein of blood. This egg never had a chance. Try another one.”
Swallowing, I picked up a black shoulder peacock egg and cracked it open. Again, we found nothing but goo.
“Bummer.” Neva said.
I thought so too, but not because we were cheated out of discovering interesting bird embryos inside. I was thinking someone sold me the Brooklyn Bird Bridge, cause these eggs never even started forming. EBay. What do you expect.
We opened the last three eggs. In two of them, the insides were thicker, like a dab of pudding was plopped in the middle, but that might have been just because the yoke was getting so old. There were no signs of those eggs ever beginning to form beyond a day or two. Moreover, no blood, which is your proof of fertilization.


Apparently, I spent 39 days turning those puppies four times a day for nothing. Well, it was for Early, I guess, but still, it was a disappointment to think they never really had a chance.
I was pleased to discover that their failing was not due to my inadequacy. I thanked Neva for making me open the eggs. Knowing is better than not knowing and/or feeling guilty or losing confidence – things which might deter me from trying again.  She gave me a “told ya so” grin.
Anyway, we are now a one-peacock family.
You may ask what a person does with a lone peacock.
Well, you buy them a chicken, of course.
Early was so lonely (they are flock creatures, you know) that I asked the feed storeowner  what to do. She suggested I buy a chicken the same age and size so they could grow up together.
“What will happen when the peacock gets big and magnificent and the chicken is just a little chicken?”
“Wherever the peacock goes, the chicken is sure to follow,” she said. “They will be best friends.”


I kinda liked the idea of a peacock hanging around with a lowly chicken. It would be like the big star, Batman, and lowly Robin, the comic sidekick. Amusing.
So, I bought Early a pal.
But when I put the baby chicken in the cage, it attacked him – kept pecking him and being aggressive. Early clearly has been robbed of a chance to develop relationship skills, I admit, so it may be partly his fault. He cowered in the corner. I felt like a bad peacock parent for sure.
Our housekeeper was there that day and she pointed out how cute the chick was. I said, “Glad you think so,” and made it a part of her tip.
I went back to the feed store and explained what happened. “Don’t you have a nicer chick?” I asked.
Linda suggested another breed, so I brought home another chick pal. This one was a fancy chick with a strange puff on his head. Maybe because he was slightly exotic, they were better matched. This time, the two birds just stared at each other. Bingo. A day later, they were best friends.


So, now I have this graceful young bird, already feathering out with elongated, crystal white feathers and a puffy, scruffy chicken with strange hair. They are inseparable.
Even though they are happy, I still will want a second peacock so I can raise eggs of my own. I’ve already made arrangements with our fence man to come build me a large peacock aerial pen for safety. I will allow the birds roam the land in the day, just as our chickens do, but at night or when we are gone, I want them all tucked in a safe fortress. I must confess, I adore Early. He is delicate and personal and very, very special. His protection is a high priority.


I don’t know if I will try the peacock-hatching thing again. I have to wait until I return from Boston to consider anything that demands ongoing attention. Perhaps I will just buy a baby peacock for 50 bucks when the opportunity presents itself. That would guarantee success and in the end, it would be cheaper than buying five bargain eggs if they turn out to be duds.  But then again, I did hatch one out of six and my self-hatched bird is so special, maybe I should try my luck again.


I can also just buy adult peacocks for a bit more and then know if I’m getting a boy or girl. Whatever Early is, I can buy the other for a matched set. And do I want another white peacock so the offspring are pure, or should I go with a blue peafowl, and see what interesting babies come from a bi-bird-racial union?


E-gad. So much to think about.


But today, all I can think about is my MFA seminar. I am putting it all together and preparing notes for the class. Can’t wait to get this off my plate.
By the way, my master’s cap and gown came. I can’t figure out how that weird cloak thing goes on, because it has this strange square piece sticking to the side, like it is designed for a cone-head to wear or something. This is nothing like my last graduation outfit. So much for feeling smart as I don my higher-learning dress.
Just goes to show, nothing is as easy as you think it should be.


  

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