Category Archives: Ginny’s Ark

I love my chickens. They reside in a cage in our bunkhouse by the TV and all day long, they peep and flutter around. You cannot help but stare at them, the way some people stare at a goldfish bowl. They are simply amusing and different from any other kind of pet (at least to us).  No one can walk into the room without stopping to stare into the cage, then as if some unknown force compels them, they reach in to hold one of the fuzzy balls. It cracks me up. This entire family (and guests) is chicken mesmerized.

These four birds have unique personalities, and yet they are like a click of chicks too traveling in a clump and following the lead of whichever bird dares try something new. The other night we rented a movie. We all gathered in the bunkhouse and put it on the TV. All of a sudden, the chickens got perfectly quiet. We glance over, and they had gathered at the corner of the cage and were staring silently, motionless, at the set. Mark laughed and said to Denver’s boyfriend, “Uh Oh, I think they are trying to tell us something. Ginny must have rented us a chick flick.” Very funny.

Anyway, my chickens are getting bigger and shedding some of their fuzz for feathers now. Everyday, I look for signs of rooster-ness. One day, our builder had come over to pick up some checks. He paused at the cage, stared (as do we all), and asked what sex they were.

“If only we knew,” Mark said. “My wife is hoping for a rooster.”

The builder said, “Well it’s easy enough to tell. Just hand them by their feet. A chicken will just hang there limply, but a rooster will try to right himself.”

This kind of comment is normal in these parts. Everyone has a theory, wives-tale, system, or secret to second-guess the secrets of nature. If people want to know what the weather will be like here, they don’t turn on the news. They look at the bugs or the clouds or their grandmother’s rheumatism or whatever. We laughed a bit about Ronnie’s poultry sex defining advice, and yet in the back of our mind, we wondered about it.

Denver and Steven were sitting in the room staring at the cage and Steven said, “Why don’t we try out the chicken sex theory.”

Until then, none of us wanted to grab one of those cute little guys by the feet to see what would happen. Seemed mean. He reached in and took one of the babies by the feet and let him hang. He flapped and went crazy.

“Rooster.” Steven said.

Denver wasn’t convinced. After all, she thought she would flap and go crazy if someone came along and grabbed her feet and thrust her upside down too.

They tried the next chicken, but that one just hung there, like a sleeping bat.

“Chicken,” they both said, feeling like bird sex specialists now.

The other two chicks hung loosely too.

I walked in and they excitedly described their experiment. Of course, I had them demonstrate it to me. A few moments later, Mark walked in. Again, the poor chickens were thrust upside down. Every time, it seemed we had one rooster and three chickens. This, of course, is perfect luck should it prove true.

We went to the feed store to buy some animal supplies and talked to the owner. We bought our chicks from her – they sell over 60K chicks a season, everything from chickens, turkeys and quail to peacocks and other imported fancy poultry.  We told her about our experiment.

She laughed and said, “Everyone has a theory, but don’t go counting on it.  Some say males grow tale feathers first. Others insist the rooster’s wings stick out when they are upside down (hummm… a few of ours did that too). She gestured to a thick book on how to determine the sex of poultry and said, “I read that entire thing, and I am more confused now than ever, and I’ve worked with chickens for years.”

So, I guess I can’t get too excited about my home poultry demographics yet. Bummer.

She told us that at 9-12 weeks, roosters will grow this spur on the back of their leg. She showed it to us on the shop’s pet rooster. Only males have these. She said the boys will start crowing at that age too – little soft rooster calls even though they are still tiny. Ha. Talk about cute. Can’t wait.

So, I am now learning about chickens. Fun.

Our rabbit had another litter this week. Neva is planning to be a bunny tycoon and start her own business. We are finally landscaping this cabin, planning to get it ready to sell when the house is finished – we’ve decided not to keep it as a rental, because we put too much money into it. It turned out to be too much cabin (and upkeep) for a rental. Anyway  – we took the cages to the land and set them up next to the horses. This is where they were going to land eventually when we move, so we thought now might be a nice time to get them set up. The next day, the smaller cage (holding the male) had been turned over and dragged ten feet. We were shocked. The bunny was fine, but something had tried to get at him. We couldn’t imagine a dog or a coyote having that much power. What could it have been? A bear? It was disturbing to say the least. We righted the cage and set it up in another area. It’s been several days, and everything seems fine, but we watch carefully for signs of danger. Neva would kill us if anything happened to her beloved Thumper. Ah, the perils of living in the wild. Bunny threats around every corner! 

The horses are fine. Baby April is still skitterish, but getting tamer in slow, steady ways. The other day, all the horses came charging in from the lower pasture to eat. She was moody and stayed behind. Then, all of a sudden, she freaked out because she was separate from her mother, and instead of going through the gate that Mark was patiently holding open for her, she tried to jump the fence. Landed smack in the middle with her forelegs on one side and her back legs stuck in between the wire mesh behind her. If she moved, the wire cut into her. Mark yelled. I ran down and grabbed her, but she is about 200 pounds and she goes nuts if you lift her feet, so we couldn’t free her. Mark had to go to the workshop while I kept her calm to retrieve his wire cutters. We had to cut away the fence. (He repaired it after she joined her heard. Poor guy is forever repairing the fence it seems.) Yep – we get plenty of excitement from our pets.   

Donkey is doing well and is still (and will be forevermore) my favorite animal and best friend. He has eyes filled with soul and so much personality. He runs to the car when he sees it, recognizing that it’s us, he honks away in his distinctive voice (which no one in this family can imitate – we’ve all tried) . I can’t express how much I adore this little guy. If something happened with our past business and we ever had to return to Florida, (we’ve played this scenario out a few times) the one thing I know is, Donkey would be coming with us.

As for Dahlia llama – he is still standoffish, but he will eat grain from a cup if you hold it out to him, so he isn’t averse to coming close. We haven’t been very good about catching him for “desensitizing”.  Just been too busy with April. Maybe working on the llama is a good fall project. Nevertheless, I adore him.  He always seems so majestic and stately – and wise.

Other than the domestics (two dogs and two cats), that is it. Oh yea- Mark bought half a cow. Apparently, our builder buys a couple of cows each season to keep his grass down. Later, he will take them to be butchered. We, apparently, will be getting half of one cow for our freezer. ½ of a cow costs 250.00, but it offers you four times that (value) in meat. Mark has also been offered the cowhide to tan as a bonus– he’s been wanting one to recover a bench with.

You might want to know how I feel about all this.

When we first moved here, I would never consider eating something whose existence I was aware of in a first hand way. Felt wrong. Now, I feel differently. I have done some research to learn how animals are handled when raised in meat companies for food. The meat you buy in the store has been literally tortured – animals are born and force-fed, kept in cruelly small cages and in dirty conditions. But free-range animals, while their fate is sealed, still live a fulfilling life. They have a year or so of sunshine and happy grazing. They are patted and stroked and talked to, and they have other happy animals for company. They live lazy, easygoing lives, without fear. Considering the livestock will be eaten in either case, I think it is far more humanitarian to support the free-range animal industry. I can’t bear to think of those animals that are born only to suffer and die, landing on my plate. (This is especially true of chickens. The chicken companies keep those animals in tiny pens – filed with disease – it is awful – at least some cattle you buy are raised on plains and then taken to be slaughtered. But many are kept in stalls, overfed and even slaughtered in cruel ways.) So, I have a different feeling towards those people who raise their own food. It is healthier for them (no steroids or fat from force-feeding) and better for the animals. It is more akin to how nature intended the process to be.

Nevertheless,  for all that I am in support of natural farms, I still don’t want to eat my own beloved animals – so I will never want a cow (or a pig – Mark keeps talking about a pig. Ick) I just end up with too intimate a relationship with anything I live with. Doesn’t make sense, but that is how I feel.

Honestly, I am eating less meat than ever – even considering returning to my vegetarian status. The more aware I am of animals as creatures of god now, and I can’t look at meat in the supermarket and not imagine the face and fur of what it was before. At one time, I felt removed from what meat actually represented. I mean, I knew academically that it was a cow or a pig and that it was slaughtered, but still it felt as if those nice pre-packaged cuts were born that way – like it all came off of some cow-tree that grew flank steaks or something. I know it sounds dumb – but I just felt removed.

Not anymore.

It is good to be aware. It is good to be aware of everything in life.  

My new sweet friends. To point out how small they are, let me make it clear  that  Neva’s petite hand is holding the Red one (we are calling her Hellen Red -y).

     Life lesson number six hundred and forty eight (for this week).

Don’t go rooster shopping with family members or you will inevitably start compromising!

     I went to lunch with Mark and Neva today (she had early release from school). Afterwards, I had plans to go to the feed store to buy some bunny food. I said, “What would you say if I wanted to buy a little rooster today?”

     Mark said, “What’s it look like?”

     I described my coveted oriental rooster (which at this stage is only a little blob of a chick).  I said, “He’s cute. You want to go see him?”

     This was met with enthusiasm (but only because my husband didn’t want to go back to work so soon, I’m thinking). We went to the feed store where dozens of chicks are in different cages – all kinds of poultry, from turkeys and geese to a variety of chickens.

We stare at the little gray and white stripped oriental chicks. The males have a purple dot on their head.

    Mark says, “How many did you want to buy?”

    “I was thinking one rooster and three girls to keep him happy.”

     Mark stared at the picture on the card in front of the cage. “Will they all look like this?”

     “Yep. Isn’t that rooster tail magnificent?”

      “Uh hun. But how will you tell your girls apart later?”

     This, of course, was a serious dilemma I hadn’t considered. If you want a lasting, intimate friendship with your chickens, you certainly have to be able to tell them apart so you know whom you’re talking to. Hummmmm

      Mark and Neva were attracted to the bantams in a cage next door. Bantams are small chickens – minis. They are not really good for eating like the big, fattened up Purdue sort of chickens, and their eggs are about the size of large marbles, so they are definitely not layers. They are best as pets. Considering I would never eat my friends, I think pet breeds are a good choice. However, you don’t know what sex you are getting with these low-end $3.00 bantam chicks. However, they come in a variety of colors and designs which is nice for defining character.

    Here is the issue to consider. You won’t know what sex they are until they get older. If you have more than one rooster, they will fight (to the death) so you have to get rid of all but one. That means heartache if you are attached. The feed store lady said we can bring any extra roosters to her and she will give us a bag of feed for them. Many people want the roosters and few want to wait for chicks to grow up taking their chances that they have a male.

    I learned more than that today. You cannot mix chickens – they have a pecking order (thus the saying) so I can’t really buy a few Orientals and put them with my bantams for variety even if I want to. Must strive for a harmonious chicken coup, ya know. But I can put any rooster with any kind of chickens, cause all the males want is to get laid (not to be confused with the egg laying kind of laid). Guess it doesn’t matter what creature you are, the basics of nature is universal.

     I think the smaller chickens are cute. They are personal (the store has a pet bantam rooster that is almost like a parrot, swinging on a peg by the counter – he goes up to everyone to check them out.) and they aren’t nearly as intimidating as the more aggressive larger chickens that grow to the size of a small dog. But alas, size matters when it comes to a cock. (Life lesson number one) The fact is, my bantam rooster won’t crow nearly as loudly as a bigger rooster.

     Mark heard the store rooster crow and said, “This is definitely the rooster for you, honey.” He grinned innocently.

     I didn’t fall for that trick. He wants to sleep past 5 am. But I want a loud, demanding cock to wake me every morning. (And a rooster too – har har) But I can live with a subtle little cock for now. A girl has to settle sometimes. So I said yes to the Bantams.

     I won’t get eggs from these chickens, which changes my ultimate plan a bit,  but I am not exactly sold on the idea of collecting eggs. I mean, of course the idea of gathering farm fresh eggs in my backyard and whipping up a gourmet quiche is romantic, but do I really want one more chore to add to my daily list? I love this farm-like existence, convening with nature and getting back to life basics and all, but I’m not quite ready to turn in my subscription to the New Yorker for a subscription to Mother Earth News. I love our animals in so far as I am learning new things by caring for them. But I don’t want to let them control my world either. I’m getting a kick out of hobby farming. But I don’t want farming to be kicking back, if you know what I mean.

     So, I went with the bantams.

     Neva was invited to pick them out. We have four very different chicks, one yellow with a brown stripe, one gray, one red, and one black and white. They are the size of my cell phone and they chirp in a gentle, soothing way that is endearing (without break hour after hour, ha). I told Neva she could name them, but all names are subject to change if one turns out to be Joe Cocker, my rooster. I am kind of hoping they are all girls – then I can go buy a big, fat, loud, dramatic ornamental rooster to romp with these colorful gals. But it may just be that my Joe is here with me now, chirping softly with his future ladyloves. That is nice to.

     We will keep our new chicks in a closed cage for a few months until they get big enough to be self-sufficient. Then, they will move to a coup that my daughter and her boyfriend will build next week while they are visiting (ha – they don’t know this yet) and this will teach my poultry friends where home is and keep them safe from predators. Then, when they are strapping (miniature) chickens, they will be set free to roam our pasture and forests. They can sit and crow on the fence while I feed the horses and eat the fly larvae in the dung so we don’t have pests swarming around when we are sitting by a campfire.  Fun! I have wanted free-range chickens to decorate the landscape. And I will get such a kick out of knowing they are out there, roaming the land and living naturally.

    These are my practice poultry, ya know. I am planning to buy two peacock chicks in August when they come into the shop, and I am toying with the idea of wild pheasants that I can let go on the Hendry preserve. Sound crazy?  Humor me. And don’t knock it till ya tired it. I’m thinking a gorgeous peacock spreading his tail out among the wildflowers I planted last month (but haven’t shown up) will be inspirational. Argue that, my friend!

    So, I expanded the menagerie today, and I can only hope I didn’t lay an egg doing so.

I’m so happy I could crow – only now I don’t have to. Got baby Joe for that.

This is a picture of my son’s dog at Thanksgiving when we got him, then at Christmas. Talk about a growth spurt!

I have a new running pal. He’s tall and handsome and a far better runner than I. Of course, he would be. He’s younger . . . oh, and he has four legs. I think that gives him an advantage. He’s my son’s dog.

 I used to run with my best ever buddy, Sam. He’s been gone over a month, and I’ve given up hope we will ever be a jogging team again. So, the other day, I thought I might try running with our new, exuberant family member, a six-month-old Austrian shepherd, Teddy. He fit into my palm a few months ago. Now, he barely fits into my car. Always wanted a big dog but he takes some getting used to.

I clocked a new running path out from our mountain, turning left and along a long winding country road. I used to run three flat miles around a large block in Florida. This route is different because it’s a straight shot. No turns to distract you or give you an “O.K. I’m finished with the first quarter” booster.  Man, a mile looks long when you are looking at it in one continuous line. And while this new route is not mountainous, it is full of inclines and gently rolling hills. Yikes. I am notoriously bad at hills. So, I just demand two running miles from myself for now– the third mile is now a steep walk up the mountain. That, I’ve decided, counts.

I’ve missed running, and I am ready to get back to it. I just can’t drive that 45 minutes to the gym anymore, and now that the weather is fine, I prefer being outdoors while getting my exercise. Running offers so much more than an visit to the gym, (mentally, spiritually, and it fuels the creative juices) at least, for me.  

So, Saturday at 6 am, Teddy and I took off for our first ever run together. Not only has this dog never been on a run, he has never been on a leash. I let him go wild, exploring the mountain until we arrived at the road. Then I figured I had to put him on a leash, just in case. Should he prove a good boy, maybe we can run together without the leash later.

He didn’t fight the leash at all; in fact, he rather enjoyed staying close because he was a bit intimidated by the new surroundings. Twice a car passed us and he tried to chase it. This gave me a great opportunity to begin training him out of this annoying and dangerous habit. We passed a small bird on the road too, which again made me glad of the leash, because Teddy definitely wanted to chew the poor thing like one of my best shoes.  I felt badly for it- even considered picking him up and taking him home – I assumed he had a hurt wing or something and needed a nurse. But I’m not ten anymore (when I did that sort of thing all the time) and I know better than to fool with Mother Nature. So I left the little guy flapping along the hill, even though it was obvious he was unable to get off the ground. This proved the right choice, because on our way back, I not only saw that little bird again, but three others exactly like him. Apparently, Saturday morning a mother bird decided it was time to shove her babies out of the nest. I’m guessing within a few hours they were flying, (God willing) as long as a dog like Teddy didn’t come along and decide they’d make a fun snack.

I loved running along that road, looking at miles of green pastures and lazy cows. I loved watching the sun come up, knowing it was the same sun that I used to watch in Florida, only now it looks so much less encumbered without houses littering the view. And it isn’t nearly as hot.

Teddy had a ball (so did I) and he even helped me up a few hills, pulling at the leash when my feet were dragging pitifully slow. When we got back to the mountain, I let him go. He jumped into the raging creek and drank deeply, like I’d taken him over the desert or worse. Guess it takes time to condition yourself for running. But if Sammy could handle it, (and an old chick like m) he certainly can.

I missed my Old Sam that day, but it was delightful to discover a new running partner who has so much enthusiasm and energy, he’s like the posterdog for the slogan “running is a joy.” It is, you know. I felt better after that run than I’ve felt in a long, long time.

Whole.

There all these weird things on my to-do list now a days. One is “walking April”. Sounds easy, but trust me, it isn’t.  She is wild and skitterish. Kent and I work together to catch her. We chase her (and that is truly a beautiful sight) until she gets tired, and when she nuzzles into her mother for comfort, we approach in a spread out pattern with a rope held between us.  When she goes to run, we hang on for dear life. We are usually pulled along for a while, and if she doesn’t shake us off with her powerful bucking, we rein her in and clip the leadrope onto her halter. We calm her and touch her all over, talking softly and “desensitizing” her to touch and people. Then, we try to walk her. This, you see, is how you halter break a young filly. (We country folk know these things, ya’all.) 

However, April is still stubborn and won’t walk with us. She is worse than the donkey when he is in a belligerent mood.  She digs her feet into the earth and pulls away, mad as all get-out. Therefore, Kent has to shove from the rear and I pull from the front as we drag her around the pasture. Her mother, Dixie, whinnies and snorts, watching us work with her baby. We drag the brat around for about ten minutes, then stop to pet her all over some more. Then, we let her go.  It isn’t fun. It isn’t easy. But it sure is interesting. She is one month old, and we just found out we should have been doing this from day one – then she would be halter trained by now. Oops. So, we’ve done it twice, and have intention to continue as often as possible until she is trained. We figure a month. Lord knows, it would be impossible if we didn’t do this now, because the thought of battling a full-grown horse is more than a wee-bit intimidating.   As it is, she inevitably stomps on us (and even at her measly 250 pounds, that hurts) and she has dragged me a good 40 feet until my fingers just can’t hold on anymore and I end up dumped on my butt on the mud packed earth. But in any battle of wills, the person with the most commitment wins – and I am far more committed to making her a good horse than she is in avoiding becoming one, so she is out of her league if she thinks she is going to win this war. 

I love that my life is filled with these new, novel challenges. I learn so much everyday. It keeps ya young, ya know. Caring for horses doesn’t take a rocket scientist, but raising, breading, teaching, breaking, and making friends with horses is a far cry from teaching dance, and I love how it makes me see the world through new eyes. 

Anyway, I’d advise everyone to go out for a drag with a young horse at least once in their life. In fact, if you want to try it, come visit. Kent and I will sit on the lawn chairs and have a coke while shouting advice. Somebody has to do the dirty job. And if we can get out of it . . . .     

Some people get a baby bunny or a little dyed chick for Easter, but I like to do things in a big way. Guess what I got? A BABY HORSE!

I won’t go into my profound disappointment that I missed the actual delivery. My own fault (but some of the blame certainly can be attributed to Dixie, because she didn’t show any of the warning signs). 

Saturday morning, I was signed up to run a 5K with my son – the first one that was close enough to us to bother to attend. I woke up at 5:00am feeling awful. I’ve had a killer cold all week. So I took some Dristan to feel better and wrote a bit on the computer. By six, I was drowsy, so I lay down. Didn’t get up until 10:00!!!! (long after the race was over). That is so opposed to my normal behavior.

Every morning Mark and I go feed the horses early, often stopping at this dingy diner we love for breakfast. However, since I had set a president for being lazy this morning, I decided to make a big family breakfast. I made German Apple Pancakes, biscuits, bacon and eggs. And we all sat around eating – relaxing – until almost noon. Then Mark and Kent headed out to the land to de-bark some logs and I went to run errands and wash my car. Little did we know that we were missing the excitement out at the land. Dixie isn’t due until May 1^st, so frankly, I’ve not been too obsessive about sticking around. I was planning that next week.

The boys arrived just as Dixie was finishing the delivery. Our neighbor watched the entire thing. He said he thought about calling, but didn’t. Drat. Any other morning, we would have all been there.

Since we don’t have cell phone service out there, it’s difficult for Mark to call me. He has to drive up a hill to get a signal. By the time he reached me, it’d been an hour. He and Kent watched our new filly take her first steps and feed. By the time Neva and I arrived (with suds still on my car, because I left halfway through the wash process when I got the call) the baby horse was already trotting all over the pasture with her mom. So my first sight of her was at 3 hours old. I sure would have like to see the birth, but I did see the icky after birth and the sac the horse came in, and witness the first hours of her life. I guess that is enough to be grateful for, for a city slicker like me.

Our new baby horse is beautiful, an exact replica of her mother. We named her April. With her coloring and long thin legs, her slight and bony body, she looks like a deer with a big head. She was unsteady the first day, stumbling a bit when she was on a slant. She sleeps a lot as all newborns do, but it’s amazing that moments after they are born, horses can walk, trot, and even run. They are alert and start interacting with others in the herd too.  I could watch her forever.     

We handled the baby lots, which is advised, because it helps them bond with humans. Mostly, I wanted to pet Dixie. She kept closing her eyes – she was so tired. She is proving a good mother, attentive and gentle. They are together every moment, Dixie and her new little mini-me.

We’re told that within the week, April will get frisky and playful. We’ll be entertained by her jumping and bounding around the pasture, as her behavior gets mischievous and silly. Beats going to another movie any day!

So now, I have one more attraction to pull me away from homework and all the duties I should be attending to. I can’t seem to focus on with spring seducing me as it is. The llama is integrated into the fold now, though still a bit standoffish. I’ve learned a great deal about llamas the last few days –a remarkable animal. They are used as herd protectors, for wool and as pack animals. Up here, they are very popular with hikers. You can pack all your equipment on them and they can handle the roughest terrain. Their silent and steady and don’t shy the way a horse does. They have small feet that don’t put wear and tear on trails, so they are allowed places where horses aren’t. Cool. So, perhaps one day, I’ll consider some grand walkabout adventure with Dali in the Appalachian hills. Can’t imagine better company.

It is spring break for my kids this week. Mark is facing lots of work on the land because the builder is ready for the thirteen-foot logs and he can only complete about three in a day. I am behind in my homework, and really need to attend to it. Yet, we still want to do some fun things with the kids. They deserve some recreation. Mark wants to take them to Dollywood, I want to go Kayaking and to Atlanta to see the Chocolate exhibit at the museum (which sounds boring, but I’m told is interesting). Hopefully, we will do it all.

But not today. Today, I will work. I will go get some hay for the animals and stare with wonder at the April for an hour or two. I will clean my house and cook something even though I have too many leftovers from my gluttonous Easter spread to merit making dinner. I will plug away at the books “Beloved” and “Tell it Slant”, two things I’m reading for school. If I’m good, I will go take a run (actually, that is a walk around the mountain with a one mile run at the road that circles around to the other entrance) but don’t count on that. I haven’t exactly been disciplined lately.

And more than once today, I will stop and take a moment to be grateful. I’m convinced that is the key to happiness. Not just designing a life you love, but taking the time to appreciate it – never taking for granted the good things surrounding you, no matter how subtle. Sure, there are things I could complain about, stresses and annoyances – but frankly, I’d rather not focus there. Staring at April walking gingerly beside her mother, a beautiful sign of fresh life, it’s easier than ever to celebrate the small sweet things that skirt the edges of our harried world. When you take the time to consider it, we all have so many blessings. It is simply a matter of recognizing them.        

I know everyone is waiting anxiously to find out how my birthday was. (My internet was down, so the suspense has been dragged out due to technical difficulties – not as a ploy for effect.)

     It was great.

    And, yes. I’m a llama mamma.

    One black male llama. Five years old. Still has his balls, (helpful should I ever acquire a female llama and want to start a booming llama business.) Name. . .  Well, you don’t want to know what his former name was . . . (“Nigger”, she whispers with shocked indignation). The llama is NOW named Dali. This means, the Dali llama lives at the Hendry homestead. How cute is that?

   He doesn’t spit. You can ride him. And he hasn’t been shaved for five years, so he looks like an Antarctica, prehistoric llama. His hair is long and thick, like dreadlocks. He has beautiful, soulful eyes, a regal carriage, and he thinks he owns the pasture.

    The horses and donkey can’t figure out what kind of creature he is, so they are nervous and stay clear of him. Dali, however, comes from a pasture with twenty horses, so he thinks he is not just with horses – now he is with chickens.

    He keeps circling the pasture, step by step, the horses keeping as far away as they can, staring, snorting, and pawing the ground. Dali is learning his new territory and I’m told he’ll keep to himself for three days, then suddenly adjust and start herding with the others. He’ll come in for food then and start bonding with us. I hope someone bothers to tell the horses this bit of news because I don’t see them anywhere near ready to make friends yet.

    Dali is an odd-looking creature – exotic. He looks almost like a bird, a rare ostrich or something. His long neck, curved ears and thick, feather-looking fur, combined with unusually thin legs and two-toed hooves (that look like bird feet) make him seem otherworldly.

     I adore him!

     For the record, I did give Mark an “out”. About a week ago, he asked for the Ferrier’s number, “Because”, he commented, “One of the horses lost a shoe.”

      The thing is, I’m the one who takes care of the daily animal maintenance stuff (which is why I had the number), so I could only assume he wanted the number to chase down the llama for sale. I had an option. I could play dumb and act as if I didn’t notice this request was out of character (to get what I want) or to use that opportunity to tell my husband not to feel obligated to purchase me this llama to prove his undying love.

    I was quiet.. . . well, for about an hour.

    Then, we went out to breakfast, and when he brought it up again, I felt, in all fairness, he deserved an “out”. I told him I could only assume he wanted the number of the Ferrier because he was thinking of buying me the llama I coveted, but I knew we were not in a position to get one now, so I could wait. I appreciate the thought, – I knows he does what he can to give me my heart’s desire. But I don’t want to be asking for impractical things.

    He actually got angry and said he was in no way considering buying me a damn llama. Don’t get my hopes up. And he went on and on about Goliath’s lost shoe and my presumptuousness to think I deserved a llama.    

    So, I let it go.

    Then, no one mentioned my birthday again. Not a peep. Not a single question about what I wanted or where I wanted to celebrate. Nothing. They acted as if I wasn’t having a birthday at all. Now, some women might fall for the “Gee I forgot,” routine – but not me. My husband has never forgotten an anniversary or a birthday – ever.

     Then – the day before my birthday, Mark said the Ferrier was coming out to shoe the horse on Wednesday – it was the only day he could get the appointment. He also said he would be working on the land the entire day.

     Yea, right. I’ll believe that. It’s my birthday, and you have plans to work the entire day, into the night, and you made appointments for the pets that I have to supervise (so I have assigned tasks too) and we aren’t going to acknowledge the day in any way.  Sure – that makes sense…

     So, I pretty much guessed there would be a surprise at the land and this was a ruse to get me there.

     I drove up to two excited kids and a llama picking his way gingerly through the field. He stopped to stare at my car. It was love at first sight. (For me, at least) but he is playing hard to get.  I would have seduced him with treats, but damn if I don’t know what a llama likes for snacks. He turned his nose up at carrots, apples, and sugar. I was out of weapons. I will do some research and return prepared tomorrow – ready to win him over.

     Dali was from Mark and the kids, and I do love this gift. I was, an am, thrilled. How many people can say their husband will buy them a llama? Reminds me of the movie Phenonoma. A man is sarcastically making fun of John Travolta for buying all these chairs he didn’t need from the woman who made them. He kept acquiring the chairs because he loved her and he wanted to show her support, make her feel sucessful, and it gave him a chance to see her and make her smile.
    The fellow sitting with the guy said, “John was smart. Your wife left you, right? I bet it is because you never bother to buy her chairs.  Did you ever bother to learn what her chairs were so you could buy them to show your love? every woman has chairs, but only good men know enough to buy them.” It was a wonderful description of love. – This llama is a chair for me – a hairy, funky chair. It is nice to know my husband is willing to buy my chairs even now, after 18 years together.
     Mark said that when the fellow delivered it and they set it lose in the field, they watched it for a while, and the guy asked, “So why does your wife want a llama?”

     Mark said, “I have absolutely no idea.”

     Then Mark said, “Why did you have a llama?”

     The fellow smiled and said, “No reason.”

    Well – that is my point exactly.

     Mark said, “My wife will love him. She’ll change the name of course.”
      The fellow said, “This llama knows his name. Been called ‘Nigger’ for five years. Might be best to keep it.”   
     Mark laughed. “Trust me. She’ll change the name. In fact, I don’t know if I should tell her what it’s name formerly was. Might influence her opinion of this llama.”
     It did. Makes me love him more. I figure it is an act of mercy to adopt this llama and give him a appropriate name. Yes – it was fate that this particular llama, (who clearly wasn’t appreciated considering the derogitive name assigned – nor should a llama be walking around giving people a reason to chuckle over a racism joke name) found a new home with me. Sets things right, ya know. I guess one could question how respectful the name Dali is too – only, considering I am a sorta semi-practicing buddhist, I think it isn’t a slander – more a play on words. 
 
Back to my birthday….

     My sister-in-law gave me the next best present in the world. A big blackberry bush to plant out near my blueberry bush. Yippee. I’ve been talking about wanting blackberries. Now, I’ll have ’em.

   My chair caning class has been wonderful, and I met some delightful people, whom I’ll discuss later. It was a wonderful way to spend my birthday week – productive, creative, easygoing and inspirational – with loads of wonderful conversation to tweak the mind. And I made some fantastic chairs and learned so much. Mark showed up on Wednesday with an apple pound cake to share with the group (and flowers.) It always makes a gal look good to have an attentive spouse – makes her seem like quite the catch to have a fellow hustling to please. He earned brownie points coming and going for that brilliant move. I  complained that I couldn’t eat the cake, however, considering I was on a diet, but he told me it was a “lose a pound-cake”. Well then, I had to eat a big piece! What the heck – it was my birthday. He wouldn’t stay for lunch. Said he had to get back to the land to work. Yea, right.

     When the kids asked me what I wanted for my birthday (after the fact) I sang them a song. I wanted:

Sammy and a pile of hay.

Sammy and a pile of hay.

Sammy and a pile of hay.

And Maxine to be O…..K.   

(You have to imagine a rousing gospel flavor to appreciate the tune.)

Even though there is no hay to be had anywhere in town (due to the heavy rain this year) Mark managed to find a few bales this week. Maxine is worm-free and fine.

But Sammy is still MIA

Almost a perfect birthday . . . but I miss my dog.

I am still holding out hope.

    Finally yet importantly – I talked to some people at the Campbell school who know llamas. I commented that his hair was so long and he looked so hot. They said you should sheer them this time of year – just like sheep. This would get rid of all that matted hair and make him cool for summer, and the hair is valuable. Go figure. Mark and I discussed where we would have to go to find someone willing to come sheer the llama, and I finally said, “Let’s figure out how and do it ourselves. It will be fun, and since we will have him for years, we might as well learn how.” I’m told they are hard to hold down. Well – there are two of us and only one of him. Mark sighed and said, “Why not.” Gee, I’m glad he is willing to embrace the unknown. (I need his muscles, I’m thinking – and he is a good size to hide behind if Dali starts spitting.)

    Ha. This will be an adventure.   I’ve never sheered a llama before – bet it is memorable. So, tonight, I’m going on E-bay to find a llama sheerer (a sheep sheering device, I figure) and perhaps a book or article to explain how to go about the task. Maybe we can get creative and try a few hairstyles in the process – a llama pompadour or a llama mohock.

    See – having a llama will expand our experiences and allow us to learn new things. I knew this was a good gift.

All I have to think about now, is what I will make out of all that llama wool!  

 What I’d like to make, is a litle black sweater for a little black dog – one with a space for a tail to tuck between his legs because he is feeling guilty for running away. Yep – that is what I wish I had a need for now.

P.S. My daughter told her boyfriend about what was going on at home. He said, “First you tell me your mom made a “Negros for sale” chair, then you tell me your dad bought your mom a pet called “Nigger” for her birthday. Do I really want to meet these people?” Very funny. 
Circumstantial evidence – don’t ya hate when that happens.   

Aliens have abducted my dog. It better be aliens, cause if I find out a person took him, I’m gonna kick their arse from here to kingdom-come.

Last Sunday, Mark went to the land to de-bark and sand some huge logs, columns needed to support his loft office, which overlooks a huge great room with 25-foot ceilings (very cool). He took the kids with him so I could attend to some pressing homework. Kent works with him now, turning the logs and learning a bit about woodwork, and Neva likes to play with the animals, so they love joining him out at our house site. Our family dog, Sammy, went with them too.

They couldn’t take Maxine, our new puppy, because she threw up what looked like spaghetti, but it turned out to be worms. We worm all the animals regularly, but she joined our family mid cycle, so somehow we missed this. After grossing us out big time, she was home, sleeping off the medicine we gave her to rectify the problem. Our big, boisterous 6-month-old Shepard puppy stayed home too because he just takes too much room up in the car and he is still a bit wild to pt in the back of the pickup. So, just Sammy joined the family for a day in the fresh outdoors. Sammy  adores the land. Thinks he’s a rough and tough mountain dog now. He barks at the horses, chases squirrels, stomps through the creek, looks for possums and skunks, and best of all, he pigs out on horse maneuver. He likes it best steaming from the oven, if you get my drift.

 At about two Mark called and asked if I would like to meet them at Subway for a lunch break, and I did. We were only out about 30 minutes. Mark put Sammy in the enclosed horse pasture – a fenced area he shouldn’t be able to get out of. The horses and the donkey (who like to stomp little dogs) were grazing outside, so Mark figured Sammy  was safer in than out . When they returned, he was missing. I guess the dog could have gotten out, yet we also thought it might be possible some kids that were four wheeling on our land let him out. They like to come down and pet our animals, so who knows.

Discovering him gone didn’t concern anyone at first. They called and called, but Sammy was nowhere to be found. When they called me, I joined them for the search, but had no luck either. It was getting dark, so we finally had to leave. We assumed Sammy would be there in the morning. He’s been to the area dozens of times and knows it fairly well. He wasn’t.

We talked to all the neighbors, then put up two dozen signs with a sad little picture of Sammy looking lost. We put notices up at the two-area vet’s offices, called animal rescue and the animal search and rescue lady that announces on the local radio. No luck. We got a lead from the neighbor Tuesday. She said she saw a small black dog like the one in the picture running across her field. So we went out there and called and called, but in the end, we only saw crows. I have serious doubts he was ever there.

Now, each day, we drive all around the area, calling up and down the streets and talking to people we see. No one has seen a small black dog. Actually, most dogs up here are big, so a schnauzer would stand out. They say people steal pedigreed dogs around here, and I guess that is a possibility, but our land is tucked away, far removed from others, so I find it hard to believe a dog thief would happen to ramble by at the very moment we were gone. And Sammy is neutered and nine. Who really would want him? He is actually a very badly behaved little bratty dog, and if someone did take him, I wouldn’t be surprised if they threw him back over the fence a week or so later. Only the original family would love this dog. We do, and we want him home where he belongs.

This week on the news, they featured a story about a found dog. A couple lost a small Sitsu – it wandered away from their backyard- and they went through all the motions to find him, but he never turned up. Sadly, life went on. Now, suddenly the dog shows up. They got a call from Animal rescue informing them their dog is in their possession.

The couple said, “We don’t have a dog.”

Animal rescue said, “Don’t you have a sitsu named Mimi? We have it here. It is wearing a collar with your name and address.”

The woman on the phone said, “We lost that dog 5 years ago!!!”

Well. Now, they’ve found it. And it made the news.  No one knows where the dog has been. It’s wearing the same collar it had on five years ago when it wandered off. The dog is healthy. It isn’t dirty or behaving differently. How odd is that? If it found another home, certainly the new owners would change the collar after 5 years. The original owners said the dog doesn’t even look older. Hummm………….

So, I’m thinking aliens took that dog. They are done studying it, and have now returned it to Georgia (where aliens would naturally go to find signs of intelligent life.) Upon returning to earth, the dog naturally sought out his family.

So, perhaps Sammy is in outer space, pooping in a big ole spaceship instead of on my bedroom floor for a change. He is barking at space mailmen and making a general nuisance of himself, pawing to be petted when ET just wants to read.

I miss him.  I can’t sleep at night thinking about where he is and what he is doing. Mark says he might be curled up on someone’s couch, but I have visions of him hungry and dirty, alone and lonely. I can’t stand it.

I will keep looking – praying coyotes and cruel people haven’t encountered him and that he will wander home soon. Even if he comes home with antennas and beeping. I want him back.

I love my dog. Flaws and all. In fact, I love him because of his flaws.

Sammy, wherever you are, I’m with you.

I saw my first coyote today, running across the road. It took me a minute to register just what I was seeing. At first, I thought it was a mangy dog, but that didn’t seem altogether right. Its ears were long, the hair shaggy, and the contours of the animal’s frame didn’t seem in proportion. This dog was simply too thin, with oddly muscular thighs and a long snout. In fact, it looked exactly like Whiley Coyote from the roadrunner cartoon. Had he a lit cannon ball of Acme dynamite in hand, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised. I’ve been told we have lots of coyotes around here, but I hadn’t actually seen one yet. I watched it run across the busy highway, tail between its legs as if it was afraid of everything it was encountering – afraid of civilization. Ha. Smart dog.

The Ferrier came to shoe our horses. It took approximately an hour per animal, so with four needing attention, making polite conversation was a given. He liked our donkey; thought he was gentle and cute (which he is.) He actually made an offer for Blackjack but I explained he’s a beloved pet and not for sale. He asked if we rode the donkey yet – and if not, just what we used him for. I explained that Blackjack is still just a baby. We will break him in later for riding and such. Now, he is just a lawn ornament that I spoil and pamper. 

I felt sort of silly, my obvious attachment to this donkey. “I know he doesn’t have much purpose, but I adore him,” I said.

The guy nodded as if that was a given, “Well now, you don’t have to tell me that. Thing is, everyone needs a donkey.”

That is what I love about the country mentality. Not everything here boils down to practical application or fiscal value. Here, if you love something, it counts. And even donkeys get the respect they deserve.

This led the conversation to animals. I told him we recently got rid of our goat because he was so much trouble, and he said, “Now, why’d ya go do that? Goats are good pets. Ya just gotta keep them contained.” He told me he has a goat that runs around the house in diapers. Gee, I hadn’t considered that option.

He told me he had a buffalo for a while.  Had the dang thing shipped all the way from Missouri. I asked what for the buffalo was for, and he said, “Same reason you have a donkey.” OK. I get that.

I asked why he didn’t still have it. He explained that Buffalos are mean as the dickens and the animal charged the fence every time anyone came near. Seemed dangerous, the way his kids run around, so he sold it.

Good decision. Scratch a  buffalo off my wish list.

I asked if he had a llama. He nodded and said, “Of course.”

I must have looked envious, because he said, “You should get one. Everyone needs a llama almost as much as a donkey.”

I have been thinking the same thing for some time now, but it is pretty hard to say so with a straight face to a husband who is buying the feed every month to maintain these new family members.

The Ferrier said his llama hardly ever spits, and, since his other business is training horses, he broke it in so his kids can ride it. Imagine that! I asked how much it set him back and he said he got his llama (black) for $600. That’s a bargain, and I told him so. His assistant looked up from shoeing the horse and said, “Mine was 600 too. If you look around and be patient, you can find one for in that range easily enough.”

There you have it. Everyone but me has a llama. Even the Ferrier’s assistant has one. I am a poor disadvantaged animal lover.          

I said, “If you ever come across another 600 dollar llama, give me a call. One of these days, I’m getting one.”

An hour after they left, they called and said they’d sell their llama for 750. I told them that until we had a barn, my husband really wouldn’t consider one more live creature to care for. Two hours later they called and said, “OK. You can have him for 600 bucks. (Here, they trade, sell, and acquire animals like baseball cards, letting one go when the opportunity arises, then replacing it soon after with something new. Me – I’m more of a “life commitment to animals in the family” sort  of person– that is, unless we’re talking about a totally bothersome goat.)

I must say, I have quite a hanker’in for that llama. (That’s country talk, ya’all) I figure I could “study” a llama if I had one, become more familiar with their habits and mannerisms. Make a new friend. Maybe write a story about him. Gather the shed fur to make some interesting yarn. (Don’t laugh – people do that around here.) But, for all that I can plead a case for getting a llama, I know my husband won’t go for it.

So, I told the fellow I’d get back to him, and looked for the opportune moment to bring it up with the spouse. Such a moment never came. My husband is stressed and distracted of late.

Having to face the fact I’m not going to find my husband in jovial spirits anytime soon, I just told him flat out about the conversation. I ended with this:

“I just thought I’d point out that I’d really, really, adore a llama someday. I know we need to wait until we actually live out at the land to get more entrenched with animal care, so I wouldn’t dare ask now . . .even though…well, my birthday IS coming up. But, I’m not asking you to get it for me, of course, even though, if you and your sister, and the kids and anyone else planning to buy me something wanted to chip in together, this is the only “thing” I could imagine ever wanting……. And well…. You have the guy’s number, in case you’re interested….. but I’m not really asking, cause that wouldn’t be fair…..”

My husband sighed and said, “You suck.”

I don’t ask for “things” much, (experiences, yes – things, no.)so clearly, I’ve put him in a precarious position. I’m guessing, in all fairness, I have to give him an “out”. So, I’ll mention that I’d also love one of the handmade wooden Indian flutes at Just Judy’s Art Gallery and shop. It is more reasonable gift in every way. There’ll be other llama opportunities in our future. Sigh.

The Vet came and gave Dixie a tetanus shot in preparation for the new colt. He gave us a good idea of what behaviors to look for, and what to expect during the actual delivery. I’m ready. I’m going out to the land twice a day now to give her extra feed so she will have a healthy milk supply. Today, I noticed she is starting to develop a milk sack. I’m all atwitter with excitement. Our animal care schedule is all a bit of a nuisance, I admit. I can barely keep up with my homework due to the time eaten up with the drive to our homestead and all, but still, it’s worth the trouble. I know you have to pay a price to gather meaningful life experiences on occasion. I’ve never regretted what was involved to embrace things that touch my heart and make me feel alive. The effort and or discomfort passes, but the memories stick.

I devoted today to car maintenance. (I know this seems like an erratic change of subject, but trust me, it ties in). I cleaned my car, then had an oil change, then tried to register it (needed Mark for that, because the title turns out to be in his name only … Grrrrr…) then I went to get new tires. The roads here, and all the mileage I put on, are killing my beloved vehicle but I’m combating it the best I can.

Anyway, at the tire shop, I read a sign about the upcoming 10^th anniversary trade day at a local farm, April 29th. Apparently, over 400 people show up at this farm with horses, goats, donkeys, mules, chickens and other farm animals, farm equipment and all kinds of unexpected stuff, to buy, sale, trade or barter. They serve boiled peanuts, have local musicians entertaining, and the day is this wild, one of a kind, country event.

The tire man saw me reading the sign, and asked if I had any horses or such. I said, yes. He said, “Then you HAVE to go to this trade day. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever attended. (Well, that won’t exactly be a stretch, coming from Florida, suburbia, and the tunnel vision world of dance).

He said he never misses this trade day -he finds the most unusual stuff for fair prices there. And it’s fun. He told me about his indoor riding ring, his animals and how involved he’s become in what was at first, just as hobby. If you’ve got animals, you don’t want to miss this event,” he said. “It isn’t like a festival designed for tourists – it’s all locals – good people.”

Well – I do have animals, and I’m a local now, so I think I’ll go, just to see what 400 people dragging animals around looks like. I will leave my wallet at home, to avoid impulse buying so I don’t bring home a mean buffalo or some other creature the other guy no longer wants, (for a good reason.) Or maybe, I’ll just bring enough cash for a single rooster. Might come across the perfect Joe Cocker at a place like that. Hey, I might bring some bunnies to trade. Ya never know….

I imagine it will be a memorable day, and if nothing else, it’s bound to serve up some good blogging material to play with. The thing is, May 1^st is Dixie’s due day. And that weekend, I plan to be camped out at the land, pacing with anticipation to see if our new horse comes out black or brown, male or female, slimy or clean. It is all such a new adventure for me. But perhaps I can leave Dixie for just a few hours, if I make her promise not to start anything while I’m gone. I know what signs to look for in early labor now. Imagine that. I’m turning into a horsewoman, by default.

I must attend to homework now. I’m behind this month, with a packet due April 3^rd. There will be a few long nights ahead as I write my two book annotations and review my own book submission. I’m never this behind, but there’s been a lot going on this month (hospital visits and such) to distract me. I can’t seem to face that book right now. I wish I were writing something else.

Life is sweet. Tough, and sad on occasion, but sweet.

There is a lot I could write about today.

I got my second response from my mentor this afternoon, and it was highly encouraging. She thinks my book is taking shape and getting strong, and she said I’m a very insightful reader that grasps important conclusions from the books I study. That’s nice. In truth, I’m not feeling like much of a writer these days, but I am getting lots of positive feedback, so I must be improving. I am developing a strong understanding of literary fiction, if that means anything at all.

We saw the movie the Libertine yesterday. My husband didn’t like it, and as we left, he commented that it was a weird “film”. (Any non-commercial movie is a “film” to him, which means it usually isn’t very entertaining.) However, I actually found the film interesting, and I started to comment about how well the story was put together- the author did some interesting things. And then, I caught myself and said, “I think school is affecting me. I am reading so much literary stuff, so much classical and obscure literature, that I am developing a taste for more obtuse material.” It’s true. And, I’m developing an instinct that compels me to analyze the techniques used to relate a story rather than just enjoy the experience.

He laughed and said he’d been noticing that about me too. He just doesn’t view some of this stuff in the same way I do right now. It doesn’t mean anything. We’ll still see artsy “films” and swashbuckling movies and have our independent opinions about both. We’re pretty open about what we go to see. But I’m now just slightly more impressed with those things that are not so obvious. I wonder if that will change when I am finished with school, or if this is a shift that has taken root permanently.

But school and writing is not what I want to write about now.

I could talk about my father in law. We helped my husband’s parents move from Florida to a town about an hour from us a month ago. I thought they should be closer, considering they are skirting 80, but my husband and his sister agreed that one hour away was perfect. The in-laws were content with the area selected because it’s “civilized” with a real live Target and a surburban feel.  They’ve just unpacked the last box, and finally gotten settled.

I keep pointing out that I think my husband’s dad, Bill, seems older. The move might have been harder on him than we realize. But, it turns out to be more than that. This week, he was diagnosed with lung cancer. It may have spread to other areas of his body. We won’t find out the details until this week. It is sad, and the timing is awful. Now, there are all kinds of concerns. And his mother is so worried, about what is happening now, and what will happen if her husband doesn’t survive. She feels alone in a strange place.  

 But I don’t want to write about it now.  I just don’t feel up for it. 

I could write about my feelings about dance. They are rumbling inside like I have an empty stomach. I hunger for it, and yet I don’t regret my decision to retire from that business at all. It is all a matter of what I aim to do with my feelings of loss to feel whole. We also have some serious issues with our business sale – but I can’t talk about that even if I wanted to – which I don’t. It is all rather frustrating and sad. 

In fact, this entire subject of dance and all the things connected to it is too intimate and raw to open at this time. So I just won’t.

I could talk about my kids. They are doing so well. This move has been the best thing in the world for them. My youngest daughter has a piece of her artwork exhibited in the children’s art show at the Blue Ridge Association – she was the only third grader in the county chosen. My son is playing soccer and is in the band. He is on the principals list – a nerdly scholar – don’t ya love it! My oldest daughter called today to gush about being recognized as a power voice at school. She’s in a challenging BFA theater program. The teacher asked her how far she could take her belt voice and gave her a chance to show off. She blew the house down, with great quality and range.

The teacher said, “Did you know you could do that? Do you like singing like this?”
She said, “All I know is my Mommy likes it. She is always encouraging me to belt.”
Ha. I’ve been telling her all along she has an incredible gift – but she keeps trying to work on her singsong head voice. I’m thrilled the teacher will help nudge her in the other direction. I swear, she has an amazing, unique gift. I want her to explore it. She’ll stand out.

But, I don’t want to talk about my kids either. They are big fish in this small country ocean, but I’ll save that subject for another day.

I can’t talk about Kathy or my work with illiteracy, because there isn’t anything to tell. I am planning to hunt her down tomorrow, so more will be said on this front soon enough.

Funny, for someone who doesn’t want to talk about things, I’m writing a long entry!

Anyway, I think I’ll land on my favorite subject – not that it’s profound, but it just doesn’t offend anyone and doesn’t demand much in the way of intelligence or thought. How’s that for being a blog slacker?

And frankly, I can talk about this without being meloncoly or philosophical, which I want to avoid today. It is important when you are on the cusp of being down, that you work to focus in more positive places.I am trying to control my mood – which some would say defines me (to be controlling). ButI rather think it is a matter of my not giving in to meloncoly, which in truth, defines me even more. Believe it or not.
 

So – I will talk about our animals.

Perhaps I should keep a graph of my animal escapades so people can keep up. Only I would need a big piece of paper. Here’s the latest.

Goat is a big pain. He’s into everything, and wanders out of our land to munch on our neighbors new garden. I am not prepared to start animosity between my beloved new neighbors. I may go “country” in many attitudes, but I’ll stop before I take on the personalities of the Hatfields and McCoys and start warring with my neighbors. That four legged goat rotter actually wandered up to our house site and started butting the laborers backsides for fun. Like I said, he’s cute, but a pain.

The other day, while dragging the devil to be tied up so I could feed the horses without him hogging all their grain, I said, “Boy, if I could find anyone to take this damn goat – someone who wouldn’t eat him – I’d give him up in a minute.

My husband is not one to let an opportunity like that pass. He flipped open his phone and said, “Got it handled.” It just so happened Eric, the fellow who sold us Dixie and gave us our puppy had mentioned he’d love the goat for his kids – as a pet. Mark made him promise not to eat our friend, then made arrangements for them to pick the goat up in a few days. It was done as simply as that. I just sort of blinked and thought, “What the hell did I just do?” But, I knew it was right.

I told my daughter that we found a new home for goat, and she wailed all the way to school as if she were Mary, and I’d condemned her little lamb to slaughter.

I then told a blatant lie to alleviate my guilt. I told her I’d read that goats could possibly endanger a baby horse, because they occasionally butt the delicate darlings. I thought it was really best, in the interest of caring for our new horse, that we find Goat a new home. He does go at it pretty heatedly with the dogs, so while I had no facts to support this claim, I thought the threat might be true . . . in a small way.

Unfortunately, she didn’t buy it. She pointed out that goat was sweet – her best friend, in fact – and while he was curious and tussled with the dogs, he never bothered the horses. She said he was the only animal “her size” for her to groom, and she was willing to keep him tied up all the time if we could keep him. I guess a goat in the hand holds more sway than a baby horse in theory. I told her it was already done. Goat is history.

She was inconsolable. Nevertheless, we said our tearful goodbyes on Sat. morning. I did feel guilty. Goat has an endearing, if not annoying, personality. He is comic relief in this land of livestock. But, I’m rather stressed out by his antics and do think that part of being happy with this new lifestyle is avoiding those things that make the work unpleasant. Goat is the king of “unpleasantry”. 

 So, we became a goat-less family.

Afterwards, we went to Merciers Orchards to get a few of the worlds best apple turnovers. (That isn’t the company’s claim. It’s mine. This place makes the most glorious turnovers known to man.) So we pull up for a snack, and don’t ya know, but outside there is a box filled with puppies and a sign imploring people to take one home.

There is a dog crisis going on in our community. I won’t go into it in detail, but in a nutshell our animal rescue is shutting down, they’ve shipped the last twelve dogs to New Jersey to find homes, and for a while now, they’ll be putting down all animals that come in. They refuse to pick up strays as well. It’s a funding issue – really awful – I’ve been reading about it in the paper. Anyway, my husband sees the puppies in this box, pats a cute black one and says, “Let’s do our part. Let’s take it home. We’ll call it Max.”

“It’s a girl,” I point out. (I am the detail person.)

“Then she’ll be Maxine. Neva, you’ve been wanting a dog like your brother’s. This is you’re lucky day.”

And he went inside to get the apple turnovers.

I stood there is shock, thinking he was kidding. But he wasn’t.  Dog number three came home with us that day. She’s a hound-dog mix. Looks like a lab. I was told this kind of dog is bred to hunt bear. Well, that’ll sure come in handy for us.

Neva was instantly cured of her goat mourning. Funny how that works.

We were going home to build a new, bigger bunny cage. That was our Sunday project. We’d agreed that Monday we would have to take our new baby bunnies to the pet store to see if they would take them off our hands. Still, we needed a bigger cage for the rabbits we’re keeping. The cage we have now is close to the ground, so the dogs bother the bunnies all day. A taller cage is nice, but I wanted a bigger one too. I like our animals to live the “good life” which requires space to play and run, endless treats and lots of attention.

Neva successfully campaigned to get her aunt to take two of her babies, so that only leaves one baby. I was thinking, “This is easy. Have a litter, enjoy the experience, and give them away right at Easter. No trouble.  Perfect.”

I picked up our last baby to cuddle a moment, and said, “What is that in the nesting box?” For a moment, I thought a rat had somehow gotten in. Then, I realized what I was looking at. It was clearly, another newborn bunny.

Now, I ask you, how is that possible? I removed the male two hours after this litter was born. I should’ a told Neva to name this rabbit Mary, rather than Bun buns. Apparently, that randy male, Thumper, impregnated the mom within the hour she dropped these three kids. The nerve! There is no other explanation.  The babies are nowhere near sexually mature, besides which a bunny is pregnant for four or five weeks, the entire lifespan of these bunnies. They were little blobs when this litter was conceived.  So, it had to be Thumper – the letch.

We could see at least two new babies, but I’m guessing there are three buried in the nest. Bun Bun’s has had three offspring every litter to date. From what we could see, one of the newborns is black, the other white – an exact replica of the litter we are giving away now. I might point out that this is oddly convenient – makes it less traumatic for my daughter to say good-bye to the current set.

I keep thinking of that MasterCard commercial where the pet shop owner is taking so long to approve the card that the store gets filled with bunnies -which multiply every few minutes. I thought that commerical a silly exaggeration, till now. Ha. That could be us.

But, baby bunnies at Easter are fun, so I will consider us lucky, and I’ll tend to the mother with the same devoted care I gave her with the last liter. Extra cabbage and carrots, warm bedding, and lots of vocal encouragement. I don’t yell at her or doubt her nurturing anymore, either. Attitude is everything when it comes to remaining happy about your life.

So, while the actual family dynamics of our animals has changed, our tally is really the same. One less goat. One more dog. Three less bunnies. Three more bunnies. Same color. Sigh.

May first, we’ll have a new horse. That will demand some blog reflection and description. I have my iodine ready – I must put the umbilical cord in iodine, and do all kinds of other gross nursing. Yehaw! Love a challenge.

Then, of course, by June, our house will be done. I’m planning to get a rooster. This is not negotiable. I figure, if I get to live in the wilderness and go au natural, I should be allowed a rooster for my alarm clock. I am already up by five so the sound won’t bother me, and NOTHING can wake the others dead sleepers in my family, so they’ll be oblivious to any crowing. I love the sound, and I look forward to it. Really.

I’ll insist I get to name it too. My husband named the new dog. He named the stray cat we adopted when we moved here, and with my son, named the first dog we acquired. He and the kids even named the donkey – vetoing all my suggestions. He renamed his horse as well. Now that I think about it, he is a superior animal name hog!

Well, the rooster’s name is gonna be my call.  I’ll name him . . . well . . I haven’t given it much thought, but I will.

As Scarlet says, (another southern gal after my own heart), I’ll think about that tomorrow.

Our horse, Dixie, will be having her baby in about six weeks. I am so excited. This is probably the only time we’ll breed her. She’s had three babies, and I think that’s enough for one mare. And we don’t plan on getting any additional horses (other than this baby) for some time. We have more livestock than we have the energy to care for already. Then, if the baby is a girl, she has to be about seven to safely breed, so all in all, it will be a long time before we ever get an opportunity to experience a horse’s birth or see the delightful antics of a new, frisky colt, again.   

So, I’m serious. I don’t want to miss it.

I’ve been trying to figure out just what we should do when the time comes, checking books and the internet and talking to farmers. Finally, I read that, about a week before a mare gives birth, her udders swell. OK. So, Now, I have a sigh to watch for. Good.

Everyday, I crouch down and stare at Dixie’s underbelly, looking for these udders she is supposed to have. I can only see one thing between her legs, and I’m telling you, it looks more like a clitoris than an udder to me.

Now, I have to admit, I feel pretty stupid spending a half an hour a day, staring at what might turn out to be my horses clit, waiting for it to swell, no less. And it doesn’t help that Dixie blinks slowly, giving me a droll, “You are more an ass than the donkey” stare. I’m thinking, she may have me pegged.

But nevertheless, I squat on my haunches and stare everyday, looking for some sign that the excitement is soon to begin.

Today, I think I spotted two little bumps near the fleshy area between her back legs.

Ah Ha!!!! I think those are the bumps of budding udders! Halleluiah! Now, I can finally stop feeling like some letch, staring at my horse’s private parts like a fool that doesn’t know her ass from her elbow.
 
I don’t need to point out that this means I HAVE been staring at my horses clit. I guess, since it’s just between us girls, it’s OK. Not like I ever claimed to be an experienced cowgirl, ya know.

So now I know in great details just what a horse’s clit looks like, and furthermore, I know it’s different from a tiny, new udder. Amazing what you learn when life demands you figure things out as you go.