Category Archives: Ginny’s Ark

First impressions often are misleading. You can know someone for a long time, and you are confident you have them pegged, then something occurs to make you realize they are a totally different sort of person than what you originally believed. Shakes you to discover how wrong you were all along.   

But who’d a thought that would prove the case with chickens too?

Those of you who have been around a long time might remember how badly I coveted a rooster once I decided to try the country lifestyle on for size. I bought a half dozen chicks, hoping one or two might turn out male. As it turned out, only one small bannie turned out male and he had only a teeny crow – hardly satisfying for a girl who wants a boisterous crow for an alarm clock. Therefore, I went out and bought Joe, a big, strapping rooster. You can’t have more than one rooster unless they are free range and you should provide many, many females to keep them happy. Confined together, roosters will fight. It’s nature’s way (thus the basis for illegal cockfights.) However, I was lucky. My pint sized rooster and my big, bossy rooster seemed to get along fine in their pen. I plan to let my chickens out to free range in the spring anyway, so I just need them to remain happy for a few more months.

The other day, we heard crowing. Oddly, it wasn’t as loud as Joe’s usual song or as delicate as little Pot Pie’s. Mark and I started arguing about which bird was making the racket. We crept around the corner to prove which of us was right, and don’t ya know, but it was Phyllis (Ahem, now he’s a Phil, I guess.) Phil is one of the wild afro headed fancy chickens that I bought six months ago. He’s sprouted those red jowls under his chin and the feathers around his neck have grown long, covering his chest like a magnificent mane. I guess puberty’s finally caught up with him, revealing itself the week I was in Boston. 

I was shocked. Delighted. Amazed. It took six months for this maleness to reveal itself. But now that it’s come out of the closet, there is no turning back. Uh Oh.

The new Phil started crowing more than any of the other roosters. I thought he was just flexing his new male muscles, proving his manhood or something. I watched carefully, but the three roosters didn’t seem inclined to fight, so things looked amicable, at least for now.

Then, I discovered why I was hearing that new crowing so much. HE wasn’t the only one testing out his new crow. The other afro-head fancy chicken was crowing too. No physical changes in this one yet. In looks, he still appears to be a chicken, but obviously not.  I stared at this bird, checking time and again to confirm that that sound was really coming from him- surely I must be seeing things. Diller can’t also a rooster! But apparently, he is. Holly Cow.

Now, I have four confirmed boys- only three girls. And I keep staring at my two silkies imagining they are going to bust out in a big cock a doodle doo any time now too. Ee-gad. I am drowning in roosters! Mark keeps saying, “I think the black silkie is a boy too.” I don’t know if he really believes this, or he likes to torture me. He has a devious smile every time he mentions it. Only a shallow man could find my rooster delimma entertaining, and I told him just that.

In a way it all makes sense.  Here I was thinking my chickens are big egg-laying slackers. Umm….. considering boys don’t lay eggs, I guess it’s pretty clear why I haven’t stumbled upon any eggs yet. The question is, will I ever? Ee-gad. What if they are ALL roosters!

Next thing I knew, the two newly mature roosters started fighting – just small squabbles, but I was pretty sure it’d only be a matter of time until things would escalates. I’d have to get rid of a few roosters. Shit. I am now totally attached to these birds, ya know, and when someone around these parts is willing to take a fully grown rooster, it’s usually for the dinner table.

My best friend, Jody, was in town visiting the weekend I got home from my residency. Her son moved up here last year and his girlfriend just had a baby, making Jody a new grandmother. Anyway, when she visits she and her son (Kent’s dearest friend) stay with us.  I always look forward to and enjoy her time up here. We take walks, ride the horses and talk till we are hoarse. Anyway, she was with me when we discovered Diller was another boy.

She said, “I think he’s a cool looking bird. I’d take him home with me if I had a cage I could fit in the car.” Oddly enough, Jody already has a pet chicken at home that hangs out in her yard. And it just so happens I have an extra cage. Mark recently found it under the cabin, and because it was slightly rusty, he told Kent to throw it into the burn pit. I saw it and thought “no way are you gonna toss a perfectly good cage”. I rescued it, thinking with all the animals we have and will have, we can always use another cage, rusty or not. What do ya know? Seems like fate to me.

The next day, we loaded the bird in the rusty cage into the back of Jody’s car for the long drive back to Florida. It was crowing all morning, as if he wanted to assure me he was positively male and I had made the right decision letting him go to the land of sunshine.  He will have a girl all to himself now. Great luck for a slow-to-mature bird, don’t you agree?

So, I have three roosters now, which I admit, makes me a tad nervous. And I suddenly feel sadly chicken deprived. Next month, the first shipment of new spring chicks becomes available. I plan to bite the bullet and pay the big bucks for pre-sexed chicks – that way I KNOW I’m buying egg-layers. Non-sexed birds are about 3.00 each and you take your chances. To assure I get girls I’ll have to shell out a whopping 4.50 a head this year. Ah well, that is the kind of financial sacrifice I must be willing to make to get what I want. You see, other people don’t care what they get. The girls become egg provides and the boys become fryers.  Personally, I love boys too much to be the instrument of their demise. So, I’ll practice what is the equivalent of chicken birth control to keep my poultry morals intact.

Now you may ask, how many girls will I buy? LOTS! I figure with three boys (and who knows what to expect from those sneaky silkies) I need lots of tail to keep everyone crowing. We will be overrun with eggs by the time I’m done, but what’s a girl to do? That is the cost of Rooster over-compensation.

Ya just never know when life is gonna throw you a curve.

Today, I went on a treasure hunt – for my own treasures oddly enough. One of the dogs carried my big rubber muck boot off into the woods, as if it were a chew toy. Damn dog. Dixie lost her halter somewhere in the pasture, and a few weeks ago, Dalai lost his halter too. I think they scratch their faces up against a tree or something and it unbuckles and falls off. This is a drag – unless you’ve ever caught and put a halter onto a head-skittish llama, you can’t appreciate the trouble involved.  I keep my livestock in halters because it makes tyeing them up at feeding time easy. I wouldn’t have to do this if I had a barn, but I don’t.

If I don’t tie the animals when feeding them, they get all greedy and pushy and take advantage of my docile donkey, pushing him aside to swallow his portion. Everyone deserves their share of grain. Fair is fair. I don’t tie the llama, and he often becomes a bully that closes in on donkey and begins spitting. He doesn’t spit at me, but he is always covering my poor donkey with seeded llama regurgitation. It is pitiful. I tend to position myself right by donkey as he eats, stroking his ears, my presence enough to keep the aggressor away. I am, above all else, the grand protector of the underdog – or underdonkey as the case may be. 

Anyway, I broke down and bought a second pair of muck boots, because I really couldnt’ survive without, and I figured even if I found my wayward boot, this would allow me to keep one pair out to be hosed down and still have one reasonably clean pair to wear when needed. I put the backup pair on and began my hunt. I walked every inch of our pastures, sinking into the mud without problem, thanks to the boots. No halters anywhere. Perhaps they are buried in the muck by now, only to be discovered in the spring  . . . rotting. Sigh. I did find my missing boot, however, up on the hill by my deer block (the one that no deer will ever get near, thanks to my protective dogs. Damn dogs.) This was good fortune.

You may be wondering about my lack of barn. Actually, a barn is not a necessity in this mild climate. Barns are more for the humans than the animals that are housed there. It gives us a place to feed and groom the animals while remaining out of the elements, a secure, dry place to work and store feed and tack. It provides containment for animals you may want to control, such as when you want to keep a horse clean or separated from others, or if you don’t want to trudge out looking for them (mine come when I call – lucky me) It makes it easy to care for them.  It gives you a warm, dry place to house the animals in times of foul weather or particular need, such as when a horse is soon to foal, or if it is injured. Really, the animals are happiest in their natural state, roaming free in a pasture. That is how nature intended them to live, after all. Even if you have a barn, the goal is to allow them as much time as possible getting exercise and grazing peacefully outside.

Nevertheless, I want a barn. Real Bad! I’ve been lusting for one since we got our first horse – for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which is to have space to shelter wayward cats or dogs that need a foster home. When our horse was injured, I pined for a barn so he would heal faster. When it is cold and wet and I sink into the mud knee deep, I also long for a barn. And on those days when my horses are big fat dirty pigs that won’t stop rolling in the red Georgia clay and I’m thinking it sure would be nice to keep them clean before people visit , I covet a barn. When I think of how much more I would ride if I had an easy set up for saddling them, I crave a barn. (We don’t ride much because the tack is stored up at the workshop and it’s a huge ordeal to retrieve and return it, so it deters us from taking a quick ride.  Has to be a big todo to go to the trouble now.&nbsp When I saw Charolette’s Web, I again, wanted a barn. I also wanted a pig, but that is another story. 

Unfortunately, we just haven’t been able to afford a barn – other things have taken greater priority, such as having a house to live in and a workshop so Mark can begin his new career in wood arts. And those other damn luxuries, like food or paying the electric bill. We finally made some arrangements to shuffle some money around and refinance something with sincere plans to erect a barn – but we hit some unexpected financial problems, so again, the project was put on hold. I decided I could live with a simple metal shelter, but we decided even that would cost too much at this time. Next, I decided all I really needed was a small shed for a tack room to store the equipment. Ummm… almost got it, but that had to be put on hold too. Drat. It seems the only barn I’ll see for some time will be those on other people’s land – you know, the ones on the roadsides with a big “see rock city” painted on the roof. (Interesting story – that was an innovative marketing plan by Rock City before the billboard was invented. Fascinating bit of American folklore trivia).

Finally, when they were fixing our roads, Mark said we can at least get an area cleared and leveled for the future barn. I was so excited! We determined we could spend a certain amount on this project, even though it was a stretch, to put up something barn-ish, even if it was just temporary.

The fellows with the huge equipment arrived and began cutting trees out by the pasture near the chicken house. They leveled . . . . and leveled . . . and leveled . . . They were out there for days. Mark started getting worried. He said, “What did you tell them to do? This is going to cost a fortune!”
As if I had demanded some high end barn site or something. I stay out of the construction stuff – I didn’t say anything except to say hello one day when I was feeding the horses. I mentioned that I wouldn’t be putting a barn there right away…. but heck, I didn’t start ordering the men in the big machinery around. Who are you kidding?

I shrugged innocently, swearing that they weren’t working there all week because of me. All I knew was they were leveling a space for a future barn in the place Mark determined it should be. I had recommended a different spot that had less trees – closer to the road. Mark told them where to work so this was, in my opinion, his brainchild. He thought the project would take a day, like when they cleared the area for his workshop. Guess again.

Turns out, the grader assumed we would want a big, flat area for a big barn, and we would want proper drainage and the ability to drive up to the building with a horse trailer and such, so we ended up with a beautiful , professionally cleared area, the kind you would have done to put up a house. The trees were far thicker than anticipated in this spot, and it was a major project to level the rocky red soil. Then, they had to lay seed and straw to hold the earth in place. The time and effort all this required drove up the bill ten times what we expected. In fact, it ate up every cent we allocated for the barn project and then some. Damn. There goes my coveted barn again. And my grocery budget….

What can I say? It’s like the gift of the magi. I can have a barn, but no place to put it, or I can have a place to put it, but no barn. The cost of one prohibits the other. Whatchagonnado? So, I do not have a barn. I do have a barn site, however, which is a step in the right direction. All dreams begin with small efforts which lay the foundation for the future, so I am grateful.  Instead of nagging about my lack of a barn, I remind myself the glass is definitely half full – I have a site. A terrific site. That is more than I had to begin with. Some days, I go out there
and stand in that big flat spot, and because it is empty, like a plain canvas, it is easy to imagine my future barn. It will have a nice view of the pasture and be conveniently close to the chickens and rabbits too.  The sky is blue when I look up, and this flat, peaceful area is surrounded by trees, a space nestled in nature’s camouflage awaiting my someday-maybe- with luck- barn. Perfect.

Till then, I will battle mud and the elements without complaint, glad I have two pairs of muck boots to handle it. I will consider hauling that tack in and out of my car a useful workout. I will give thanks that none of my animals need to be confined because of injury or behavior problems, and I will accept the fact that they have incessant dirty coats as the price of owning horses in times when you don’t have perfect, rolling fields of spring green grass. I will remember that a barn is not a necessity, but a luxury, and remember that I have a bountiful life regardless. It is almost a bit much to dare want for more than I already have. (But I still want the barn. Shoot me.). And I will rejoice that I have a barn site, which isn’t a barn, but is the canvas to paint a dream barn onto. It takes time to erect a new world. I have learned that you must trust fate. If you are meant to have something, in time you will have it. If not, you were never meant to have it at all. Live true.

It is raining today, so I will stand outside, cold and shivering, as I feed my horses. My feet will sink into the mud as I stroke the grossly dirty coats of my bedraggled horse friends. I will sigh, but quietly. But it won’t be forever. It is only for now. 

I trust fate.

 

My final homework packet for this term is due to my professor today, so I don’t have much time to dally, but I embrace a deep sense of peace when I sit at my computer to talk to you before I attend to my real life (and work) so . . . here I am.

Today, I am thinking of birds. (Ha. Don’t be calling me birdbrain cause of it. Cheap shot.)  

Yesterday, while at the computer, I heard a loud thunk against the glass door. A bird had flown into the screened-in porch and rammed into the pane. This is the fourth bird that has hit our cabin this month. It is peculiar. We’ve lived here for almost 1 ½ years, and to our knowledge, no birds have committed suicide by flying into our windows before. But suddenly, it is happening over and over again. I don’t understand why.

The birds fly into the windows and usually die on impact, falling into the bushes. Next, my overgrown, exuberant, puppies come along, find them, and think, “Dead bird. Cool. Let’s take it to Ginny and watch her freak out.” I go outside (barefoot, of course) and just barely miss stepping onto a poor dead creature with a broken neck and puppy slobber dripping from its twisted wings. Sad.

I’ve always lived by the “I don’t do dead things” rule. I’ll put a bowl over a dead mole or bird if the cat drags one onto our porch, claiming it is a man’s job to attend to gross or unpleasant things that pertain to animals. Mark then removes the carcass, but he always grumbles (fairly) that it isn’t much fun to come home to that kind of “honey-do”. I guess I’ve grown hearty here in the country, because I have learned to remove dead creatures myself, though as I do so, I make quite a racket scolding the family member I blame for the death. My dogs or cats head for the hills when I come upon something that has been caught, chewed or in any other way, tortured, because I berate them wickedly for their insensitivity. Then, I get sad for at least a half hour and no amount of tail wagging or contrite wining will provoke a tender pat on the head. The barbarians!

But, in the case of the birds dying around our cabin recently, I can’t blame the pet’s playful instincts. These suicidal birds are a puzzle. I’ve looked at our cabin from outside, and the windows are dark. If they were clear, I think it might make the birds blind to the obstruction in their path but frankly, my windows are not all that clean (I’m embarrassed to admit), and they have screens in them. It is not as if the panes in the glass are camouflaged. I’ve drawn the curtains thinking that might help matters, but still, birds keep slamming into the cabin.

I wonder, “Why now?” Are there suddenly more songbirds about – is this is a matter of odds – too many birds in the sky to assure a safe flight path? Or are the birds eating something newly in bloom that makes them loco, like catnip to felines. Perhaps they are flying about hilter skilter, high. (and I don’t mean altitude). What is up with this reckless flying? A sudden case of bird blindness? An effect of wind and air pressure affecting their equilibrium? Have there always been birds flying into cabins in the fall here in the mountains, but somehow I’ve missed it?   

Anyway, yesterday, after the bird hit the cabin door, I saw a flurry of motion, so I leapt from my seat and went to investigate. The bird was not dead. It was lying, stunned, in the corner of the porch. I think it had to be hurting, because I can’t imagine any live creature hitting a wall that hard with his or her head and not feeling a serious sting. I bent down and gently picked him up.

They say a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, and I can tell you now, for a fact, that it is absolutely true. I admire birds as they flit about. I love to hear them sing and watch them zip through the sky or land on the bushes around me. But that doesn’t compare to the thrill of holding one in your hand. That little sparrow weighed nothing, yet felt as soft and warm as a toddler’s hand. It looked up at me and blinked with such resignation, it took my breath away. I guess it was thinking, “Well, this is the end for me.”

I stroked the creature’s feathers a bit, then took it outside and held my palm open. I wasn’t sure it could fly, but I was praying it would skirt off to freedom if it could. If not, I was committed to nursing duties, of course. He sat there a moment, and then abruptly took wing and shot into the sky without looking back. I was happy for him, though I was thinking wistfully that I sure wish the area birds would show up wearing little wire rimmed glasses the rest of the month. I worry about them and their sudden spatial misjudgment.

Holding that bird was endearing, but it wasn’t the first or only time I’ve held a wild bird in my hands. This is actually the second time I’ve held one in my palm in the last three months.

Our big, boisterous dogs outgrew the little doggie door we put in the screened in porch for Sammy, and this summer they took to just tearing through the screens when they wanted in. Grrrrrrr. So, we began keeping the screen door open to protect the porch from further destruction until we move. But this meant bugs could get onto the porch. Whatcha gonna do? We figured we were only going to be here a few more months, so we lived with the bugs. In August, butterflies ekpt getting trapped in the screened area. I tried to save them when I could, but it is a delicate thing. Sometimes, the butterflies would have beaten themselves to the point of exhaustion and destruction against the screen long before I discovered them. And if you touch a butterfly’s wings, they can’t always fly afterwards, which is paramount to death too. I helped them find freedom whenever and however I could.

One day, we were eating dinner and I noticed what I thought was a butterfly, frantically flying against the screen. I excused myself from the table, intending to help the creature find its way out, but when I got closer, I saw it was actually a hummingbird! Well, in my book, a hummingbird is a very special and important symbol of nature, so I was grateful I had the opportunity to save it, especially since my dogs were eyeing it with enthusiasm like it was a Reece’s peanut butter cup floating down from heaven. I shoed the dogs away and cupped my hand around the tiny bird.  He tried so hard to get away he actually got his bitty, pointy beak caught in the web of the screen. I had to pull him off like removing a dart from the bull’s eye of a dartboard. Funny.  I had this minute bird in my hands and I could see him, yet he felt like air, not unlike when you think you have caught a lighting bug. You don’t always know if ti’s there until you open your fist, and then it gets away. If you are smart, you peek inside a crack between your thumb and forefinger to see if your hand is glowing in the cave of your fist, looking for proof you successfully captured the light. My bird was like that. There, but in an unreal way, because he was like a wisp of smoke.

 The hummingbird fluttered a bit, his ultra-delicate wings beating so quickly against my palm it was like an Eskimo kiss (you know, you give an Eskimo kiss when you bat your eyelashes against someone’s skin.) I thought it was so cool to actually hold a hummingbird that I didn’t want to let him go. I wanted to call my family out to stare at him, maybe even keep him a day or two to show him off, but I knew I must set him free before he experienced any more trauma. His freedom was more important than my desire to hold on to something special. Hard as it was to do, I stepped outside and opened my hand and off he flew. Had to do it. I’ve believe you must always be willing to let go of the things you most love if you really want to do right by them.

But even though the bird got away, it left something wonderful behind. Our moment together was a glorious thing (for me) – and it swelled my heart. Such an experience serves to remind me that even when our contact with someone or something we love is too brief for our satisfaction, we must rejoice rather than focus on the loss.  If the contact was truly meaningful, the joy will resonate with you long after the tangible association has discontinued.

I need to believe that.

I live a life now where miracles occur every day. In the middle of dinner, anything can happen. I might even experience holding a hummingbird for a few seconds. How often do things like that happen in the hubbub of suburbia? Not often, at least, it didn’t for me. But the beauty of the world is at my fingertips here. Literally. I celebrate this all the time.

One final bird report. Last week, we were at the new house, cleaning to ready it for moving day, and a worker pointed out that we might want to look at the hole in the tree by our front gate. So, as we left, we looked up at this huge, knarly open knot in an oak. And sitting there, was a beautiful owl, which apparently lives in the hole. He blinked slowly and twisted his head unnaturally far (well, not unnaturally far for an owl, I guess). I took a picture, but the way the sun was setting, it came out as just a shadow. (Ding-it. I so wanted to share this with you.) This owl is beautiful, like a character from Harry Potter with beautifully patterned wings and an expressive face. (Now that we know where he resides, we see him everyday so maybe I’ll get a picture yet.) He isn’t very shy, but then, perhaps he senses that we will respect his health and home. I think of him as our friendly family owl. I get such a kick at the idea that we have a new security guard at our font gate, an inquisitive pair of eyes greeting everyone who drives in.  I think we should name him. I’ll tell the family to give that some thought tonight at dinner.

Anyway, today I am thinking of wild birds instead of the birds that have to do with the homework I am supposed to be doing. I should be writing an annotation for the book “The Song of the Lark” – which isn’t really about a lark. It’s a book about an opera singer in 1915 who reaches fame against all odds. It’s actually a literary exploration of art and how a great artist is developed- how the world reacts to them and foils or encourages their gift. My teacher assigned this book because my project explores into the same questions about art and society. It was a good read considering my interests, but that doesn’t mean writing a literary annotation is any the more fun. Sigh. Well, I must get to it. Birdbrain or not.

I hope the day offers you your own sort of private miracle today. They are all about, you know, if you’ve a mind to look for them.

My daughter, Neva, is coming down with a cold. I let her stay home today because there was only a half day of school. It’s the beginning of a four-day “fall break” here, a very nice tradition that affords families a few days of fun just as the leaves are changing and the fall festivals are in progress. The problem is, keeping my under-the-weather daughter home means she must accompany me to my reading lesson with Kathy. She has been dying to meet Kathy in person, so I thought this would be fine, if she promised to be good and remain non-intrusive – no small feat for this overly energetic, curious little girl. She promised to try.

As I taught, Neva sat quietly on the couch of the lounge playing her game-boy – one eye slipping towards Kathy now and again. It was obvious she was dying to sit at the table and watch us more closely, maybe add her two cents into my instruction, but I had threatened her with her life, and liking her life as she does, she kept a safe (respectful) distance. The lesson went well. They are giving Kathy a second assessment test next week to see if she has made any progress. We both know she’ll do well (she has come a long way from the beginning, when she barley recognized the alphabet) but still, as a matter of pride, we are working hard now to assure she scores well.  

After the lesson, I figured I should do something to reward Neva’s self-control and to help cure her cold. The best thing I could think of to chase away the sniffles is  . . . well, to buy a rooster, of course! Animal acquisition is good medicine for anything that ails you, in my opinion, so we went to the feed store to inquire about that tame, gregarious bird they had for sale yesterday.  Neva is my partner in crime for all things relating to wildlife, don’t ya know.

The term “pecking order” comes from raising chickens, because the problem with introducing a new chicken to a flock is that there are bound to be fights, especially if the new bird is male and bigger than everyone else in the pen. After asking questions, Neva and I decided to try it, promising to hang around and watch to be sure a war didn’t ensue. Twenty-five bucks bought us a one year old, gorgeous, sex-link rooster. Sex-link is not a description of his personality (shame), but his breed. Nevertheless, the name seems to describe a bird that will inspire some major egg laying to me. Since I would only consider an inspirational cock for my chicks, he suited me perfectly. He doesn’t peck at people and will let you hug him too, so Neva found him perfect as well.

We set the new rooster lose in our coup, and instantly he began fighting with little Drumstick, our tiny, banie rooster. Eek. The feathers on both bird’s necks poofed out like lion manes and they began flapping and flying into each other, pecking and squawking.  Imagine a little beagle fighting with a huge Saint Bernard and you get the picture. It was not a fair fight, as size goes. This did not bode well for long-term success, but before we began panicking, we put the new rooster in a cage in the pen, thinking he would acclimate to his new digs safely this way. We hoped they would all get acquainted through the bars of this temporary confinement.  The birds circled the cage, staring, curious yet leery, about the newcomer.

Meanwhile, I said, “Neva, it is no secret that Mom has been coveting a big, fat cock for some time (ahem) and therefore, I think it’s my turn to pick a name for a pet. I want to name this one Joe, because of the singer Joe Cocker, whose voice some people consider music and others consider noise.”

She thought about it and agreed Joe was a good name.  

Joe started to crow. His crowing seemed to set off Drumstick, who now began crowing in his little, meek voice too. Neva and I both appreciate the glory of a rooster bellow, so we did the happy dance, then decided we should see how far the noise would travel. We walked towards the house, enjoying the way the bird’s serenade followed us down the path. We even slapped each other five when a particularly loud cock-a-doodle-do rang out a 10^th of a mile from the coup. Unfortunately, loud as Joe is, from the house his crow is only a subtle, distant cry. Bummer. But you can still hear him, as if you’re listening to a bird in a neighbor’s yard a couple blocks away – graceful but not jarring, which Mark will appreciate.

Neva and I inspected the house progress (another story altogether) then, returned to the coup.  Now, the flock seemed more accepting of the new cock, so we let Joe loose. He chased a few of the girls a bit, and squawked at Drumstick, but mostly, it seemed everyone was going to cohabitate in peace. Whew.

Just as we were preparing to go, Neva says, “Um, Mom. Look.”

I turned to see two chickens “doing it.” At least, I think they were “doing it” – unless they were taking up mud wrestling or something. Little Drumstick jumped on Potpie and started doing the funky chicken (and I’m not talking about the dance.)

I guess, the arrival of a new rooster made our little rooster’s male hormones kick in, and since he can’t outfight the other guy, he wants to show that he can out-#%&* him.

Neva said, “Looks like that is how chickens make eggs.”

I explained that chickens make eggs without a male, so what those two are doing is probably fertilizing eggs. Fertilized eggs will hatch if you leave them be.  Fascinating. At that moment, it occurred to me that my daughter and I were learning the true facts of the birds and the bees at the same time.  How many people can profess that kind of naiveté!

Goodness, but life is interesting here.
 

Anyway, my daughter and I now have a big, bold cock to stroke anytime we want now. 
Repeat that without smiling and I’ll give you a nickel.

Today, I got a letter asking for my support for the pig protection campaign. This is not a husband’s rights group. No, this is real, live pigs they are talking about and they need my help.

I am supposed to check the box that says, “Yes! I want to make a commitment today to help FREE pigs from the crate,” and send in a donation of $20-100 dollars.

I opened the solicitation envelope and said to Mark, “Quick, Honey. Get out your checkbook. The pigs of the world need us.”

He thought I was kidding. So, I read the beginning of the letter to him. It said, “If we treated dogs and cats the way we treat pigs, there would be a public outcry- and the abusers would be thrown in jail.”

I looked at him accusingly. “You aren’t going to let this outrage go on, are you?”

“I do like pigs.” He said. “I like them best as bacon. Pork is good too.”

He did not seem to understand the seriousness of this issue. I read the quote on the top of the page, which said, “Dogs look up to you, cats look down on you – give me a pig! He looks you in the eye and treats you as an equal”. . . “Winston Churchill said that!” I pointed out.

Mark sighed as if he was wondering why he got stuck marrying the girl whose name was first on the “Sucker for animals” list. I do send money to Heifer Corp regularly (I have an earnest respect for this organization) and I have sent money to the ASPCA on occasion. But I haven’t done my part to protect pigs. Of that, I am sure.

I decided there were other needy organizations that probably deserved my support more than pigs, so I threw the envelope away, but I put the letter on the coffee table. Later, waiting for dinner to cook, I picked the letter up and read it through. My goodness, the plight of pigs is dire. I started feeling really badly for these pigs that are kept in gestation crates two feet wide. Their movement is severely restricted – they can’t even turn around. They are forced to sleep, eat, and live in these metal crates and produce litters of piglets. When the piglets are three weeks old, they are torn from the mother and the breeding cycle begins again. The pigs live in this misery for several years, and then unmercifully, they are slaughtered. Not much in the way of quality of life.

As you can imagine, this kind of information supports my growing appreciation for local farming. I think it is far kinder to bring up a happy, free-range animal in your backyard even if you plan to eat it for dinner, than go to the grocery store to buy pre-packaged meat.  You may feel less guilty eating bacon when it isn’t a nice pig you have looked into the eyes of – but you are supporting inhumane pig farming practices. Anyway, once again, I found myself thinking the vegetarian life might be for me. I don’t want to be responsible for the sad lot of Winston Churchill’s pig friends, nor do I want to feed my leftovers to Bessie in my backyard to fatten her up for Christmas dinner. If you can’t win, remove yourself from the struggle, I always say.

Honest to God, I ended up sending $20 to the Pig protection campaign because the pictures of “Sugar Bear” (a rescued pig now at a Farm Sanctuary) tugged at my heartstrings.  But, I’m drawing the line at pigs. I don’t want anyone sending me sob stories about the plight of hamsters.

I made arrangements to buy an angora rabbit next Monday from my spinning teacher, Martha. (I will probably get two, a male and a female, in fact). Every three months when they naturally shed, Neva and I will gently pull the hair from their bodies while we are watching TV (Animal Planet, perhaps?). We will collect this fur and keep it with other fibers so that when I spin, I can add angora to my wool to make super soft yarns. Neva is thrilled, because these rabbits will require lots of handling to keep them tame. That’s the kind of responsibility she can really get into. She will have to brush them regularly to keep the hair from matting too. She gets a pet to fuss with and I get raw angora for spinning. Talk about a win-win situation.

The only bad thing about it is, I was told that you mustn’t over-feed angora rabbits. In fact, the fur is better if you keep them undernourished. Are you kidding me? Like I’m not going to visit that cage with leftover salad and carrots and other goodies? I’m thinking I might be the only woman on the planet that has bulletproof angora. Ah well, I will try not to spoil them, but they have to promise not to look at me with those innocent, pleading eyes, like my dogs at the dinner table. 

Speaking of treats, Dahli Llama has finally learned to like horse cookies. Now, he hangs around after we feed him, hoping for an extra tidbit. He is getting more and more tame, thanks to his sweet tooth. Love that.

Since I am on the subject of animals today, I will tell you I also almost bought a rooster this afternoon. I was at the feed store and saw this huge rooster in a cage out front. I asked about him. The owner said he was a pet, but the previous owners have to get rid of him because he has such a huge, loud crow. He is like the Ethel Merman of roosters. My eyebrow lifted and I said, “He’s that loud, is he? And he’s been a pet, so he is tame?” Humm……… bingo.

I almost bought him on the spot, but he is awfully big, and I was told he might beat up my little chickens at home because they are still rather young. The woman working at the feed store told me I should ask the owner if she believes he will get along with my flock before I take him home. So I will go back tomorrow and hope I get the answer I want. Do I need to point out how badly I covet a huge, loud rooster? Ha. Finding one already grown, with a foghorn like crow, is like Christmas coming early.

Speaking of Christmas, Mark and I decided not to exchange gifts this year, because we are going to buy a flat screen TV for our bedroom. But that hasn’t stopped me from making a wish list for fun. At the top of the list is a Donkey cart. I think any girl with a donkey, deserves a cart, don’t you? How cute would that be, to rig up Donkey and take a spin around the land? This way, non-riders (older people, little kids, and/or big, fat sissies) can join the outdoor Hendry experience when they visit  Donkey can wear a little hat with a hole cut out for his ears and I can even decorate his cart for the holidays.

Mark logically pointed out that the donkey doesn’t know how to pull a cart, and he’d rather our donkey not have to live with ridicule when the other animals see him all gussied up like a queer-bo.

“He doesn’t know how to pull a cart  yet.” I said. “And a dapper donkey is a thing of beauty, hardly something to make fun of. I will only put him in the most stylish sorts of hats.” I promised . . . with my fingers crossed behind my back..

I honestly think I could figure out how to train a donkey to pull a cart. I’ll look it up on the internet. How hard can it be?  So, I am keeping my eyes posted for some kind of donkey cart. They have some pretty strange things in the Georgia trader – I’ll keep my fingers crossed. I would love to find an old beat up cart that needs refurbishing – something cheap. That would be a fantastically fun project.  I could paint it in whimsical ways, maybe even shellac it with old time pictures.   I mentioned to Mark that he could probably build one if we bought the wheels. He could, of course, but he didn’t say anything, so I guess that is a “no” – at least until he has a house and we have some furniture. Bummer.

Last but not least, I thought you might like to know I bought a ticket to the upcoming cow paddy bingo event. I know that makes you jealous. They sell tickets for 5.00. A huge area of downtown Blairsville (next-door town) is sectioned off with numbers and a well-fed cow is led around in a circular pattern. When he drops his “paddy”(the crowd goes wild), the person with that number has bingo and wins 500 bucks! I kid you not. This is our idea of Friday night entertainment here in Blue Ridge. It is a fundraiser, so I couldn’t resist. I’ve never been a cow paddy bingo winner before, and you know how I like adding accomplishments to my résumé. I’m thinking a 500 dollar windfall would buy a pretty cool donkey cart.

I have to get back to my homework. (Big bored sigh.) I must work my brain until I get tired enough to sleep without dreaming. Otherwise, I think a zoo will haunt me tonight. (Rabbits, Donkeys and Pigs, oh my)

Sleep tight.  

Man-o-man. I got in trouble yesterday.

As I mentioned, I hired a guy (Erick) to build a chicken coup for my six beloved chickens. They are too big for the cage on the porch, and I am slowly trying to set up this new farm-ish lifestyle at the new digs because we will be moving there in six weeks (God willing). Mark is so busy with building the house that I didn’t want to bother him with the project. I thought about asking Denver to help me build it, because I am clueless about how to wield tools (a handicap I have every intention of overcoming) but she is working all the time, and preparing to move back to Orlando next month, and I could see that our building a cage together just wasn’t going to happen. Meanwhile, my chickens remain, unhoused. So, rather than whine about it, I took action and found someone to help me get the job done.

I bought a book on farm animal housing , a “hobby farming in your backyard” sort of book, and I started looking at chicken coops other people had. Don’t laugh, up here just about everyone has kept chickens at one time or another. I picked a nifty design that not only offers a shed for the chickens, but has a safe covered area for bunnies too, and I showed it to Mark. He said it looked fine. I was excited!

We met Erick at Subway to give him the plans. Now, I should point out that the picture of this chicken coup is simple, just a little shed with a door and a little chicken going into a small square hole (like a doggy door). I told Erick not to bother with the inside, because I was going to buy ready-made chicken nest boxes. I was trying to make things simple.

That evening, Erick approaches Mark for reimbursement for the chicken coup materials (not labor, mind you, just the wood for the project). IT WAS $1,600.00!  

Mark calls me and says (in this controlled voice that he uses when he is trying hard not to kill me or overreact). “What did you ask him to build, honey. (Honey is the same as saying “Asshole” in this marriage. It is in the tone, ya know.) I reminded him that I showed him the plans. It was just a little shed with a little chicken dancing by the door.

I said, “Certainly that figure includes the materials for the llama windbreak too.” But Mark assured me that this was the cost of just the chicken shed materials. Eek. I was afraid to imagine the end costs, with labor. And we haven’t even begun to discuss the fence that has to be erected around this coup for the chickens too. (Like I said, I am in big trouble over this one.) Mark says dryly, “This is going to be about a 4,000 dollar chicken cage. Hope you want this really badly – like more than that trip to Europe.”

Remind me to torture you next time you make a mistake, Honey.

I hang up, but it keeps bothering me. I mean, I could have bought a ready-made shed at home depot for seven hundred bucks and had Mark cut a hole in it. I thought of that, but considered it too extravagant – I was thinking this chicken thing would be about 400 dollars, which I thought was already indulgent. I start wondering how a person could spend 1600 dollars on a small amount of wood. Something was definitely wrong.

So I called Mark and said, “I gave you the plans because you are the wood guy. I’m just the girl who likes chickens. I assumed that picture was to scale of that chicken in the drawing. Just how big is this chicken coup?”

Mark pauses and says, “I’ll call you back.”

Turns out my plans were for a chicken house that could easily house 200 chickens. I have only six. I was hoping to stretch the envelope and go to ten, tops. Mark says, “Erick, we told you Ginny only has about 8 birds.”

Erick says, “I thought it was big, but hey, who am I to point that out? You gave me the plans.”

At this point, who to blame is debatable. Because Mark did review the plans, and he knows what he is reading, considering he is a builder-guy. But I am at fault for thrusting that book in front of his nose at a time he was obviously going to be distracted.

So, we agreed to make the coup smaller – but still it is going to be big enough for about 50 chickens. The stuff has been purchased, and while we can use some of it for the llama shelter, much of it will remain in the chicken project. There goes my new couch. The good news is, Neva and I can raise just about anything we want to for fun at this new facility. Turkeys, peacocks, rabbits – a damn buffalo might even fit.

But that was not the extent of my folly. Because last night Erick called and told Mark that he needed him to cut a trail into the area where I want this chicken coup, and he also needed Mark to level the spot where he is building it – by this morning. So, while I hired this guy because I didn’t want to put demands on my husband’s time, Mark still had to drop everything, pull out the tractor and start plowing down trees at the end of a hard day working on the house. I gotta hand it to him. He didn’t complain. He just gave me that, “You better damn well appreciate me,” grimace as he made the trail.

Truth is, as guilty as I was over his having to put time into my project, I have been dying to get him to make some trails around the land for riding, so I was thrilled to see this opening in the trees. Kent and I took the four wheelers up and down it to “test” out the trail a few times last night – more to keep Mark company and be supportive than anything else. I saw that 100-foot trail open up in about one hour and thought with glee of the other 50 trails I am hoping he’ll create. But I’m not stupid. I won’t start hinting at that until I paid penance for today’s trouble. 

Anyway, in a few days I will have the biggest, most overpriced chicken house, ever. It is made of treated lumber so it will last 80 years – longer than I will last. (What is that – 160 generations of chickens?) I will probably be paying for this (and I’m not talking cash) for months.   But the way I look at it, if you are going to do something, dive in a do it with conviction. We wanted to experiment with a holistic, natural lifestyle – back to basics – be one with the earth – yada, yada. You need tools for such a lifestyle, and that includes a barn, a chicken coup and some trails. Joy costs, ya know.

I may not make it to Europe for some time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get to have a great adventure. Because I feel as if I am visiting another country now – everything is so alien and different in this world of forest and farm. The attitudes are different here – the culture – even the heavy accent of the natives makes me pause to translate what they are meaning in my mind. People say, “How can you stand living in the country, after all your years in New York and in Sophisticated Sarasota?”

Ha, I think, “How can you stand not living somewhere like this, where everyday is filled with wonder and surprise and challenge, all to the tune of birds singing and the wind in the trees. Here, everyday I experience the greatest sensations, warm fur under my fingers, cold noses that nuzzle your arm, and whinnies of delight when I approach. I see pleasant smiles on everyone’s face – because people are not annoyed by the “inconvenience” of life in a slower-paced, less aggressive community.  Neighbors are friends. Best of all, solitude is easy to find in the wide-open spaces of this nature ridden area. God walks with you when you take the time to appreciate his workmanship and I have never felt as spiritually content as I do here, walking among the trees or along the river. I adore the quiet. Yes, I can stand living in the country. Probably not forever.

Definitely, for now.

But being happy doesn’t mean I don’t get myself into a pickle on occasion. Like now. If I was willing to eat my chickens, this big chicken coup thing wouldn’t be such a folly, it would be an investment, like when you pay extra for installation to save money on energy bills in the long run . But I just can’t go there.  So, how do I justify a gigantic animal shelter that I really don’t need?  Peacocks?

       “Man against nature” has been a significant theme in literature for as long as man has set words to paper. I give you, for example, Moby Dick – a classic.  “Man against nature” is a reoccurring theme in film as well. Like one of my favorite movies, The Edge with Anthony Hopkins. Love it!

     So, it is no surprise that “Man against nature” has found its way into the Blog zone. That is what I am writing about today.

     We have a big cage currently housing a pair of beloved rabbits. It is nestled against the pasture fence by the blueberry bush. Yesterday, when I went to feed my horses and check our bunnies I was shocked at the sight awaiting me. The cage was ripped apart. The door was torn from the hinges and the wire mesh and sturdy supports were bent and broken. The heavy nesting box that our rabbits hide in was lifted up and turned on its side. Worst of all, there were clumps of white fur littering the ground underneath the cage, along with smears of red on the grass. One can conclude that our bunnies did not simply find a way out of confinement to hop merrily into the woods.

     I went to the worksite to describe my discovery to Mark. He turned to the workers and said, “What can do that? Coyotes?” Damn coyotes.

    The workers said, “No way. Coyotes and dogs are not aggressive like that. They wouldn’t destroy a cage.  Might be a  bear.”  Damn bear.

    I had this surge of anger, like Anthony Hopkins in The Edge when he said, “We have to kill the bear,” and he proceeded to whittle a spear to do the deed. I like bears and all, but not if they are going to prey on helpless, fuzzy bunnies and leave me with the task of breaking the news to my daughter. (I might mention here that not only does Neva love her pets, but this is going to be a horrible blow to her enterprise. She has been breeding her bunnies and selling the babies at the flea market all summer. She made a killing as a bunny entrepreneur. I am just thankful that we are on a break in the cycle, because at times, we have had up to eight bunnies in that cage; the mom and a bunch of adorable young rabbits -a perfect hor derve size for a hungry bear – like bunny mcNuggets)  

    The workers said, “Of course, it could be a fox. Them foxes is sneaky and can pull apart any kind of cage when they’s hungry.” Damn foxes.

     So, I don’t know what destroyed our cage and the inhabitants. But it makes me mad enough to spit. Now, not only do I feel I can’t have bunnies without irresponsibly putting them in danger, but what am I going to do with my Chickens? I planned to hire someone this week to build a chicken coop. Was thrilled at the idea of getting my poultry settled in our new home. But I can just see a bear tearing that cage apart to eat little Pot Pie and Drumstick. And what about my new Rooster (still squeaking in his little baby crow voice each morning when the sun rises). I can’t endanger my precious Joe Cocker!  But, I can’t keep these dirty birds in a cage on my porch either. Reality check.

Damn bear. Damn coyotes. Damn foxes. Damn wilderness.

     Mark says we can tie a dog up next to the chicken coup and that will help keep predators away. I looked at him as if he had grown horns. He’s going a little too “country” for me, with a comment like that. Like I’m going to keep a dog tied up all the time? Not to mention that I’d have nightmares of walking up to a leash that isn’t connected to a puppy anymore – like in the movie Jurassic Park when they tied up a goat and a moment later all they saw was a frayed rope and goat parts rained from the sky. Um . . . I wouldn’t expect even a tough ole country hound to tangle with a bear for the rights of a chicken.

This is getting complicated.

     Mark looks at me slyly and says, “I guess you can give up on the animal thing.”

     Not on your life, Bud. I’m having too much fun with my animal escapades to give up because of one obstacle.

I just need to outsmart the varmints. But how?

     I keep thinking about those cartoons I used to watch as a kid. The one with the innocent sheep, the sneaky wolf and the sheep dog that punch a time clock to begin work. They say good morning, the whistle blows to begin the workday, and the dog abruptly grabs the wolf and socks him in the jaw. I used to think those cartoons silly. Now I think they are closer to an educational documentary.

     We hope to build a barn this fall when the house is complete. I desperately want one now, before the rainy cold season begins, but it is hard enough getting the laborers to show up to finish the house, so pulling anyone off the job to build anything else isn’t an option, need based or not. And Mark’s workshop is first on the “After the house is done” list, so the barn is a long way off. I suppose, once I have a solid barn, I’ll be able to set up a bunny cage along that structure and it will be safer. And I can put my chicken coup nearby too. The activity near a barn, people coming and going (me), lights rigged to go off with a motion censor, and a donkey in residence, would make predators think twice.  No guarantees to stop an attack, but a speed bump to slow them down for sure.

    Can you believe this is my idea of trouble now? A year ago, trouble was defined as a costume shipment arriving late or a teacher getting the flu and my having to sub. Then, I was worried about bearish dance mothers.  Now it’s real bears. I guess all that FLEX aggravation was good practice for the real thing of outwitting determined wild creatures.

    Yesterday, while taking a walk around our mountain, I saw a wild pheasant. They are huge, cool looking birds! Looked like a peacock, only different. When I saw Mark that night, I exclaimed my delight and said, “I think I should raise wild pheasants and when they get big enough I’ll let them go on our land. I’ll populate our world with beautiful birds to see as we go about the day.”

He shook his head and said, “They won’t last. You will just be feeding the bears and the coyotes, and if anything, you’ll increase their population, which is not what you want to do. Give it up.”

    I most certainly won’t! For one thing, you can’t tell me that there aren’t areas where nature can balance itself – wild pheasants thrive in wooded areas, so why not mine? Then, there is the idea that if I populate the area with lots of wild birds, perhaps the predators won’t feel so inclined to go after my domestic animals. Insurance, so to speak. And maybe my wild pheasants will repopulate and multiply. They might create an ongoing supply of food for these hungry animals, enough of them so that a few (the smart ones that know to perch in trees) will thrive to awe me with their beauty.  

I’m gonna try it.

     Is it morally wrong to populate the land with wild animals if I know they might be eaten? I have to admit I am not emotionally scared when an animal meets his demise, at least not the way I was when I first moved here. It’s not like these are abused animals, uncared for or harmed by human hands – a different story completely. When an animal meets an untimely end because another animal has been hunting, well, it is all a part of nature and I don’t deny any animal it’s right to live true to nature.  I rather not see it happen to the animals I have named, petted, and cooed to, but I recognize that a part of living deep in the throws of nature is accepting the perils that come with a more natural existence. I think what’s important is that I give everything a fighting chance, supply any animals I mentor with the tools for living authentically.  For example, I won’t handle wild pheasants and make them comfortable with other creatures if they will be indeed wild. They need to be alert and skittish to remain unharmed. I won’t let my chickens be free range if I know my dog will use them as a chew toy. I will just strive to be as responsible as I can, do research so I don’t behave in stupid ways which the innocent animals pay for, then let nature balance itself out.  

   Man has battled nature for as long as time – there is something so base about experiencing this firsthand, not in theory. Makes me feel as if I’m rediscovering my own true nature as a two-legged creature. I feel like a Buddhist, at one with the earth, accepting of the cycle of life while trying to remain passive too. Of course, few Buddhist go around saying “Damn this, and damn that, ” but . . . well, I’m still me, I’m afraid. Wanting (but not getting) everything to go according to my personal agenda.  

    Anyway, yesterday I lost two bunnies but I gained some insight about what other creatures I’ll be living with soon when we move to our dream house .  And it has set my mind aflame with a new challenge. How will I outsmart the coyotebearfoxes? I’m hoping, if I watch more cartoons, I’ll stumble upon the answer. Acme predator spray or something.

    I feel like Rocky in a 50 acre ring, determined to win the fight with nature even though I have nothing but sheer determination as a coach in my corner. I need to have the heart to stay standing despite a few sore punches.

Wish me luck.

I have a rooster!!!!!

This morning I heard a strange sort of squawking, and since I am now always concerned that something is trying to get my chickens (one of our puppies killed two the day I returned home – not in a blood thirsty way, he just thinks they look a lot like one of his fuzzy dog toys. He knocked the cage over and let them escape, but when he saw them running around the porch, he wanted to play – damn dog.  I’ve since fixed that cage too. )  So, this morning when I heard a new sound, I went barreling up to the cage expecting foul play (or is that fowl play…. Ugh). However, the chickens were alone.

I heard it again.

IT WAS CROWING!

I was told that if I get a boy chick, he would start crowing while still small. It was a tiny crow, hardly enough to wake an ant. The sound came from the cage with my smallest chicks – four fuzzy little ones. I think it was from my little black bantam that we named Pot Pie. Maybe it was from the Silky called Drumstick. Couldn’t be sure.  I was so excited. I listened a while, watching the sun come up, marveling at how nature works.

I bought a book on small animal housing and I am hiring someone this week to build me a chicken cage/coup so I can move my chickens to the land. Mark could do this, but he is swamped with the house and my projects have to be put off until later. I worry that later will be too late, considering my other pets think I buy these chickens for afternoon snacks. I could probably build a pen myself, but I am so intimidated by tools. Denver could help me – she learned a great deal about tools in scenery workshops, but she is working all the time. I really should take a course on woodworking next time I go to the Campbell school to overcome my weakness. Then, I could make myself all kinds of fun stuff. I want to buy some peacocks, but I’m told the coyotes will get them and/or they need to be trained to stay on your land (they are rather willful birds), so until I can figure out how to build a pen, I must remain peacock-less. Ah, the sacrifices I make because I am not tool-savvy.

I also want shelter for the llama because winter is coming and the rainy fall. They are simple structures, but I will need to hire someone for that too, because it is larger and will take some muscle. All these animal habitat things are outlined with plans and suggestions in this book I bought, but it is about equal to my reading instructions in Arabic. (And I don’t speak Arabic). Perhaps my desires for Animal housing will be just the ticket I need to make me plunge into the unknown and develop a new skill. I think I might look sexy wielding a hammer and saw.

I am on my way to teach Kathy (just had a few minutes to kill so I decided to check my E-mail. No one wrote, so I thought I’d do a mini blog). So that is all I have to say. I have a rooster. Yippee!

Hair, hair, everywhere. Except on Dahli llama now.  Shearing a llama is no longer on my to-do list. I’ve moved it to my “can you believe I did that” list. Fun!

Yesterday, I finally rallied my kids together to help me with a project I’ve wanted to accomplish for some time now.

We washed the horses!

This is actually a mundane, normal thing to do when you own horses. Like dogs, they get muddy or stinky on occasion, so you need to give them a bath.  However, we’ve avoided it – not because of a lack of interest or horse rearing knowledge. It was a lack of water.

We still don’t have a well drilled on our land, pumps rigged to the creek, or what have you, to make it feasible to hook up a hose. Normally, people with horses (plural) set up a “wash station” – a concrete area with a hose nearby that you use to wash the livestock. With this, you simply tie the animal up and go at them with horse shampoo, a big sponge and a touch of muscle. It’s like washing a car, only the car can step on you if you don’t watch what you are doing.

 Not having a place to wash the horses has created a dilemma, especially because of Peppy, a white horse that loves to roll in the reddest mud he can find. He is actually a sort of pink color now, thanks to his pigpen habits. He is so stained I’m thinking he needs Horse Clorox rather than “Main and Tale” shampoo. His love for mud, combined with sweat stains and dust, has left us looking like livestock slackers – it’s made me increasingly uncomfortable.  We do groom the horses, of course, and that removes a great deal of the grime, but still, they are overdue for a good washing. I don’t want people thinking I ignore the needs of my pets, nor do I want my pets feeling itchy or gross.

In the winter, I didn’t mind their being dirty. They grew thick outdoor coats and it was too cold to wash them anyway. However, every since the weather turned warm, I’ve been trying to convince someone to help me tackle their dusty hides.  Can’t do it alone because of the mechanics of the chore. Can’t be down in the creek and up on the dock washing the horses at the same time when you are alone, no mater how committed you are to the task.

Therefore, catching the kids in a good mood, I convinced them to help me. We dressed in grubby clothes and headed for the land. We decided to wash the animals on the wooden bridge that covers the creek. Kent and Neva stood in the creek filling buckets. Denver and I washed the horses, the runoff water (and non-toxic soap) spilling through the slats and being carried away with the creek tide. Kent and Neva ended up soaked, playing in the water with more energy than they used filling buckets. Denver and I were slapping soap everywhere, squealing when the horses shook and soapsuds when flying. We dumped bucket after bucket of fresh creek water over them to wet them down and later, to rinse them. Washing them this way was harder than using a hose, or course, but still effective. In fact, I was somewhat sorry we waited so long to do this once we got involved, because even though lifting those buckets was a pain, the project was also fun.

Since this was our first horse bath experience, we didn’t know what to expect. We assumed Mark’s horse, Goliath, would be the most difficult, because he’s a big, bossy lug. But in reality, it was Dixie, our mare, which acted most distressed. I suspect, knowing the down home, practical working farm where we bought her for what it is, this horse has never had a bath before. She was gentle, as always, but stomped a bit and whinnied when we dumped water over her neck, proving she was nervous. April stood nearby, as if watching her mother go through this process was both fascinating and confusing. I turned to her and said, “When you’re older, you’ll be doing this too, so pay attention.”

Dahlia Llama lay in the grass, his head as erect as a king, watching from about 20 feet away. I suspect he enjoyed the entertainment, though he was acting sort of snotty and arrogant as if he was above it all – (you see, llamas don’t need baths). But he’ll be taken down a peg when we sheer him later this month! No messy animals will bare the Hendry name no mater what breed! 

Goliath was not trouble as we guessed. In fact, he seemed to love being washed. He kept trying to drink the buckets of water when we held them up to dunk him. He is such a hog – wanting to consume anything and everything. He shook lots and his sheer size and strength make it feel like we were working in a thunderstorm (with suds.) The only problem was pigpen Peppy. We marveled as he turned from dirt pink to white again, and all his light grey freckles reappeared. He is the most personal of our horses, (and the smartest). He can open gates with his mouth, and will push you with his nose for attention. I adore this horse. He has a devilish personality. But despite a good effort, we didn’t get all the stain out of his mane or tail. I will have to buy a stain-remover for him, I guess. Not like he isn’t going to roll an hour after we are gone anyway. That mischievous gelding won’t stay clean for any length of time and to hope for anything different would be madness.

As we were finishing washing the last horse, Mark drove up with a truckload of fresh hay and said, “So, are you going to wash the donkey too?”

Our donkey is like a rug that hasn’t been vacuumed in 40 years. When you pat him, puffs of dust rise into the air. His hair is thick and course (he hasn’t shed his winter coat yet like the others). I was concerned that he would act up – kick or something – because he hasn’t ever had a bath. In fact, I don’t think people around here bother to wash their donkeys. They’re not sleek livestock that get that kind of attention. Blackjack is a gentle and adorable donkey, but he is a donkey after all, and he can be stubborn and willful. The kids seemed to think washing him was a good idea him, so I went along with the plan, although with no small reservations. The last thing I wanted was to ruin our nice day with a problem that would make the concept of washing the horses something to distain in the future. 

We tied the donkey to the post and wet him down. He looked like a drowned rat, all pitiful, but he didn’t shake or pull away or do anything but act sad. Then, we went at him with a curry comb and gallons of soap, brushing handfuls of winter fur off him and removing what must be pounds of dirt. Mark took over my role vigorously, as if his making the donkey clean would prove his worth as a country man of talent. Blackjack was so cute, allowing us to work over him as long as we did. Took a half hour to rinse him – but in the end we had one fine looking, soaked ass to show for our efforts. (And five other, exhausted, soaked asses – all who felt, if nothing else, a sense of accomplishment.)

Since the animals were clean, I could spray them down good with fly repellent, something that had to feel good for them, for they’ve been tormented with flies this last two weeks now that summer is here despite our fly control efforts.

Finally, released from our enthusiastic scrubbing, the horses and donkey went to the fresh mound of hay and ate leisurely. You could tell they were feeling great. They were smiling (or so it seemed to me) and they didn’t fight over the freshly cut grass or nudge each other for the best standing room positions.

All felt right with the Hendry animal world – at least for that moment. I’m sure, today, when we go to feed them, I’ll encounter dusty, dingy horses that rolled in manure and dirt because they were feeling so good. (It’s how they celebrate joy, apparently.)

Owning horses is work. But somehow, it never feels like work to me. I like being outside, and being physical. I like the way they look in my eyes with trust (and anticipation for a snack) when I approach. I love their size and power, especially considering they still behaving with respect for their owners. I love it all – the feeding, washing, even shoveling shit…. all of it.

Sometimes it feels like I’ve been shoveling shit all my life, doing this dance to please others. But when I am out there with the horses, the only person I’m working to please is me. I don’t mind hard work when the results are something pure and earnest. These horses seem to acknowledge my efforts as an act of caring, and comforted by this understanding, we’ve built a bond of friendship and trust as result. (Would that it was only so easy with people) The horses listen to my secrets, whispered inner quiet thoughts I don’t usually share aloud but somehow feel compelled to discuss on a quiet ride or sunset feeding. They blink lazily and nod, never passing judgment or disapproving. Why would they? They are my comrades in nature’s arms and they understand me – accept me – for what and who I am.

We all need (and deserve) friends like that.  

Find them where you will.