Winding down, huh? HA!
So, when last we met, we had found the perfect place to rent. (Yes, rent. We continue saving money to be able to afford to buy in this area. When a small starter-type house costs more than a quarter million, you know you live in Northern Virginia.) Well, that perfect place was for the other applicant who DIDN'T have a dog. (grumble grumble) Fortunately, my original first choice was still available, our application was approved, and we signed the lease yesterday. Funny that even if it was my first choice since the beginning, it feels like a bit of a let-down after finding that other amazing place. Oh well. It is a lovely townhouse, and will put us back in town, and the Boy will be in the same elementary school where he went to kindergarten.
But, yesterday. Completing the lease packet was quite a process. But the farm decided, after weeks of relative calm, to act out, to let us know that it perhaps is not pleased to find that our time here is limited.
So, first, it threw a fox at the chickens. Thank goodness the roosters know what to do...which is scream like a bunch of girls, and make the hens run in terror. I stuck my head out to see what the hell was going on, and saw the beautiful fox that lives on the next property, trotting after the girls. I started screaming, and tore out (in my inside shoes, like a moron) after it. Amy got excited to be running with me as I shouted incoherently. I chased the fox around the building, and I saw it look over its shoulder. I swear it had an "Oh sh*t!" look on its face, and that is when Amy finally understood why I was being such a maniac. She took off like a bat out of hell, and she either tangled with it or it disappeared suddenly. I heard her barking up a storm. Meanwhile, I went inside, changed shoes, and finally saw to the chickens. It didn't take too long to get them back in the yard and shut them up safely--not a missing bird or feather. But good grief!
So, the farm sat back, cracked its knuckles, and threw the next thing at us. The Husband, late in the afternoon, was patrolling around, verifying that the fox was indeed gone. But, who should he happen to see? Clarence, in one of his many bodies. (He is Legion.) Clarence, who has been steadily digging the floor of the corn crib into a terror-pit of soft dirt and hidden holes. The Husband took the shot, and down went Clarence... or this body, anyway. The Husband didn't report the black swarm of evil escaping the body, but then it had also had enough energy to try to hide under a lumber rack. This Clarence was not the size of a small bear, but it is one less Clarence. All this happened just after dinner.
But, that of course wasn't enough. Nope, the farm just chuckled.
After the demise of Clarence, I went into the chicken yard to check on the birds, and I noticed that the same hen was sitting up on her roost. This was too many days in a row, and could no longer be written off as her being anti-social. So, I walked up to her and easily caught her. I tucked her under my arm and went outside to look at her.
She had only one eye.
That is what it looked like, anyway. It was swollen and hidden in deep folds of filthy skin. She also had a huge swelling next to her beak. I noticed around this time that she kinda stunk, too. I had the guys get a towel so I could wrap her up, and we used baby wipes to clean away the crusty yuckiness. This was way beyond our ability to deal with.
So, I got to call the emergency vet (again!) and find out if they dealt with chickens. The receptionist said they do have avian doctors, but they were not in that evening. She had an opening at 8:30 in the morning. Fine, I'll take it. She took my name and found my file. New pet entry... but she wanted a name.
I was flummoxed. The only remaining chicken with a name is Princess Leia, who is one of the first chickens we got. We stopped naming new chickens a long time ago. So, after a moment, I said, "Chicken?"
The receptionist laughed, and as the boys started yelling out names, I blurted out, "One-Eye Jack!"
She laughed some more.
But she called back about half an hour later, saying that one of the vets on duty could do emergency treatment for birds, and he wanted One-Eye Jack in tonight.
So, at 8PM last night, I traveled with her to the vet. I was already famous. And so was One-Eye Jack. But the humor and fame didn't soften the blow. She has mycoplasma gallisepticum. Otherwise known as Chronic Respiratory Disease. The vet thinks she probably caught it from a wild bird, since it can spread that way.
The entire flock is likely infected, even if One-Eye Jack is the only sick one. It can be treated with medicine, but it makes the bird and eggs not safe for human consumption for over a month after the treatment. Frankly, the normal course of action with an infected flock is to "remove" it and disinfect the coop, leaving it bird free for several weeks. There has been a lot of talk and discussion with Country Kitty and the Husband, and then a follow-up discussion with the vet.
But, ultimately, we have decided to sacrifice One-Eye Jack for the good of the rest of the birds. Special food for awhile, and I will have to do more in the coop: replacing the waterer, disinfecting the feeder, scooping out the poo under where she'd been roosting.
So, yeah. One of my favorite musicals is Chess. In one of the songs, a character talks about his father: "When I was ten, my father moved out./ Went with a whimper, not with a shout."
In my case, it is more like: "After a year, we tried to move out./ Farm made no whimper, mostly a shout."
I know I have personified the farm, weather, wildlife, and plants on a regular basis. But, seriously? To have all that drama on the day we sign the lease?
Most suspicious.
Showing posts with label Amy the Dog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Amy the Dog. Show all posts
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Children of the Corn
Summer is here. Yeah, I know. Not technically... but it is here. The AC is on, my skin is baking by 9AM when I am outside, the dog is giving birth to little gray dust bunnies as she hurriedly sheds the last of her winter coat.
Anyway, our game. We are not growing corn, obviously. We are growing healthy weeds and tall grass...but now there are new, winding paths, and you don't know when you will come upon one, or where any of them go, since they are not mown in a straight line in order to avoid the milkweed.
The garden is amazing. I am a little uneasy about how everything I planted has been growing at unnatural rates. Maybe all the chicken sacrifices are pleasing to the Garden God, who apparently manifests as a big fox with a toothy grin, and who was hanging around the chicken coop yesterday. I hope the Garden God forgives me for my response, when I ran outside screaming, "**** you!! I will kill you, *************!!" At the top of my lungs. And my voice carries. I mean really carries. Oops.
I am doing weed control in the gardens for now. Clearing paths and laying down weedblocker before covering them with straw or glass clippings. I hate spending more time weeding than tending to my plants, but if I do it now, I won't have to do it later. Never mind that all the seeds which should have been thinned...haven't. There is this weekend, I guess.
I cleared a bunch of space around the chicken coop, and have planted some posts. The regular fox visits and the discovery that we have a hawk nest on the west side of the house finally convinced me that I have to have a dedicated yard for them. I cannot leave them in the coop all day long when I'm not personally be out there to scream obscenities at the fox. And besides, more space will be required for the extra chickens I need to acquire. The rooster is gonna need a decent harem pretty soon, methinks.
I have become a Lawn Mower Widow most Sundays. The Husband has to spend hours on the tractor. If we can get away with it, he occasionally skips the lawn so that all he has to attend to is the paths, but that is still quite a big job. A big, boring job that involves s-l-o-w-l-y following the paths a few times, all the way around the perimeter of the property.
We read recently that the monarch butterfly is in desperate need of dedicated
habitats with milkweed. The Boy loves monarchs, especially since he got to raise some from the cocoon stage. (He loved visiting the butterfly garden at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History.) This summer, he is planting pretty flowers so the butterflies will have something to eat, he says. But, when we discovered that the two pastures have great pockets of milkweed, we sprang into action.
 |
| milkweed |
Or rather, the Husband began to take great pains to avoid the milkweed. But, since he still wants to clear the pastures, he wound up cutting some interesting paths through the property.
 |
| Which path to take? |
It used to be that the walking paths were pretty much following a fence line. The property is shaped kind of like an L, but still. Boring. If you wanted to chase a madly giggling Boy, once you were on a path, you had no choice but to finish the path (which sucked when the bottom of the lower field had the swamp). Now, there are short cuts, and paths that split, cute little curves and even bits of field left untouched in the middle of a mown area. And yeah, they are filled with milkweed, but it means that we have a new game to play.
Children of the Corn.
For those of you who scorn all things Stephen King, this is a short story from the book Night Shift, that spawned a several films. The plot, long and short, is a bunch of kids decided their parents (and indeed, all adults) were too corrupt and not following religion well enough, so they killed everyone over eighteen, and turned God into a vengeful Corn God (He Who Walks Behind The Rows). And the Shirley Jackson-esque twist is that the kids have to walk into the corn (i.e. sacrifice themselves to the Corn God) upon their nineteenth birthday.
Man, I love Stephen King.
Anyway, our game. We are not growing corn, obviously. We are growing healthy weeds and tall grass...but now there are new, winding paths, and you don't know when you will come upon one, or where any of them go, since they are not mown in a straight line in order to avoid the milkweed.
Maybe a zombie theme would have been better, but it is something to go down a path, and be able to suddenly crouch down and be hidden from ANYONE in the field. When Amy goes tearing down the path (for no good reason other than it is there), I cannot see her at all. The Boy has only to duck his head a little and he is hidden.
I see some epic battles ahead. Water guns might be awesome, too, since summer has arrived with a vengeance.
Monday, May 5, 2014
The Circle of Life
Spring is supposed to be a time of rebirth, of life, of green and happy freaking maypoles, right? We enjoy each new iris pushing out of the ground, savor each new bud on the dogwoods, thrill each time we discover a new bird nest. Heck, we spent one bedtime laughing at the sound of a couple of foxes going at it on Tuesday night...as in fox love.
Life. Yeah. But you cannot have life without the inevitable ending.
Last week, I learned to hate foxes. Never mind that every time it got quiet that evening, every time I began digging into my book again, they'd start giggling like a bunch of hyenas and start it over again. (I mean, really? Just finish already!) And never mind that I giggled too.
No, I learned to hate them the next day. A day which shall be called Bloody Wednesday. A day I lost not one, not two, not three, but FOUR chickens. We lost Acid, Mocha, Ginger, and poor Pickles.
Princess Leia and Peaches-n-Cream are all that remain. I've let them out twice since; and both times, they were heavily supervised. As in, locked in the big garden with me as I continued preparing the beds for planting.
There is a fierce debate going...
Sensible: You need to get more chickens.
Dramatic: Why, so they can just feed the foxes?
Sensible: You have this huge coop with more room than many chickens ever see.
Dramatic: But they don't need to be locked up all the time! They'll be miserable.
Sensible: Then put up a fence, so they have a yard that will protect them from the foxes and hawks.
Dramatic: But then they are not free range. One of the reasons I wanted free range was because they keep the bug populations down!
Sensible: Then you have to accept that the foxes will eat some. Get lots more chickens. Maybe a rooster.
Dramatic: I cannot take any more death! How do farmers do this?
Sensible: They have more chickens than you do, and they don't name them.
Dramatic: Well, how will I tell them apart?
Sensible: Don't. Don't tell them apart, and just enjoy your eggs.
And so on. I am trapped by the debate, and so have done nothing. Leia and Peaches spend their day in their huge, rambling, empty chicken coop, eating and scratching and laying, and I get two eggs a day.
We had to buy our first eggs in months this weekend.
But this wasn't all. No, there is more. I could hardly bear it.
On Saturday, the Husband was coming out at 11:30 on the dot to help me get the chickens back in the coop. The girls enjoyed the foray into my garden, eating grubs and seeds...and the earthworms. But, I needed help getting them in. The Husband's alarm sounded, and he came out. Amy had spent all morning with me, so she didn't bother, but Katt wandered out after him. We got the girls in, I dumped another load of weeds down a groundhog hole, and then we ate lunch and went to our afternoon event.
On our way home that evening, we realized that Katt had not come in, and that, in fact, we hadn't even seen her when we came back from the garden. And she usually never stays out of sight of her humans, or at least the dog.
We got home, and Katt was not waiting. In fact, there was no evidence of her. Anywhere. We all spent the next few hours until sundown, wandering the fields, calling her name. She didn't appear.
If the fox had appeared at that moment, I would have beaten it to a bloody pulp with a stick.
Katt didn't show before we went upstairs. And she wasn't waiting for us in the morning. And she never showed up at all, and I had to write a painful email to Country Kitty, letting her know that Katt was gone.
In my heart, I was already grieving her. I couldn't stand looking into the sunroom, because that is her room. The Boy was disconsolate, and I had trouble even smiling. Even Amy seemed unhappy. The Husband slept poorly last night, and I had to hold back tears as I cooked the Boy's breakfast: there was no annoying Katt underfoot. And things were pretty subdued.
And here is where the entry was supposed to end.
But, after I had let Amy out and the Boy was halfway though his eggs, there suddenly came the shout: "Mommy! I see Katt!"
I see Katt. What did that mean? I put down the pitcher of water and went to the door, terrified of what I would see.
Katt came mincing in, her tail up, her gait stronger than I had seen in months. She meowed, and our tears began. She was back, and she was strong, and she DEMANDED her breakfast. The Boy and I crowded around her, unable to credit this strong and happy kitty, and even Amy joined us, sniffing madly.
That dumb Katt.
I still hate the fox.
Monday, April 28, 2014
How Do I Pick?
I've had a lawn before. And I had a 20x20 garden plot for a few years. I know about outdoor work, and what needs to be done.
That is the case here on the farm. I know about outdoor work, and I know what needs to be done. The issue before me is, how do I prioritize the tasks? If I mow the garden paths in the big garden...then I don't have time to spend prepping the beds. If I haul more wood to the burn pile, we could get another evening burn in before the burn ban...but that is time I could spend weeding the flower garden. I could dig dandelions all day...but I would hardly make a dent, so I have to set an timer to make me stop. And I don't even have to worry about mowing the fields, because the Husband does that.
Something I tell my acting students is, "If everything is important, then nothing is important." And I am trying to think in that way here. If I try to do everything, then nothing will get done... including showering, meals, my writing, and looking through all the lovely pictures I've taken of spring on the farm and still haven't shared.
So, my choice today is to quickly summarize the amazing share-worthy stories and pick some awesome photos.
Top Ten Stories
1. We've had two bonfires in two weeks. I'm getting good at building the proper structure.
2. We lost Vader to a fox three days after Elastigirl, but gained a lovely girl named Pickles. She's an escape artist, so she will be uniquely suited to a free-range environment.
3. The kitchen garden is doing beautifully! Lettuce, kale, beets, peas, and Swiss chard are doing well, and I don't know what the onions and carrots are doing.
4. Turtlezilla has been sighted. A lovely duck and her mate lost all the eggs she was guarding on the raft. Sad.
5. While the Husband and I were hauling wood for the last pile, a frog suddenly appeared on his glasses...and just sat there.
6. The entire path around the farm got mowed, because the swamp finally dried out enough to the take the tractor down there. Now we have 4 inches of rain expected this week. Boo!
7. We dug out the fire pit...which had been looking more like a fire mound, and hauled all the muddy-ash mixture down Clarence's holes. Take that, groundhogs! I also dumped all the weeds I pulled while prepping a bed in the big garden down another of his holes... Probably just a snack for him, but it felt good doing it.
8. Katt had another decline. I took her to the vet, and apparently our dear kitty has a pretty bad heart murmur AND high blood pressure. I have my freaking cat on aspirin, and blood pressure medication.
9. Amy has gained about six pounds since her last vet visit. She's more active, she cannot get to Katt's food anymore... so she is now banned from the mudroom at all times so we can prevent her from eating cat poo. The vet said that is pretty high fat content. I think it is pretty gross.
10. I finally had a big party here. It was fun, and I have learned that I must never walk around with a wine glass again. Somehow, it kept filling itself... But, to have so many wonderful friends, both new and old, made for a wonderful evening.
And that is all the news. Now... to run off and weed before the rain starts.
That is the case here on the farm. I know about outdoor work, and I know what needs to be done. The issue before me is, how do I prioritize the tasks? If I mow the garden paths in the big garden...then I don't have time to spend prepping the beds. If I haul more wood to the burn pile, we could get another evening burn in before the burn ban...but that is time I could spend weeding the flower garden. I could dig dandelions all day...but I would hardly make a dent, so I have to set an timer to make me stop. And I don't even have to worry about mowing the fields, because the Husband does that.
Something I tell my acting students is, "If everything is important, then nothing is important." And I am trying to think in that way here. If I try to do everything, then nothing will get done... including showering, meals, my writing, and looking through all the lovely pictures I've taken of spring on the farm and still haven't shared.So, my choice today is to quickly summarize the amazing share-worthy stories and pick some awesome photos.
Top Ten Stories
1. We've had two bonfires in two weeks. I'm getting good at building the proper structure.
2. We lost Vader to a fox three days after Elastigirl, but gained a lovely girl named Pickles. She's an escape artist, so she will be uniquely suited to a free-range environment.
3. The kitchen garden is doing beautifully! Lettuce, kale, beets, peas, and Swiss chard are doing well, and I don't know what the onions and carrots are doing.
4. Turtlezilla has been sighted. A lovely duck and her mate lost all the eggs she was guarding on the raft. Sad.
5. While the Husband and I were hauling wood for the last pile, a frog suddenly appeared on his glasses...and just sat there.6. The entire path around the farm got mowed, because the swamp finally dried out enough to the take the tractor down there. Now we have 4 inches of rain expected this week. Boo!
7. We dug out the fire pit...which had been looking more like a fire mound, and hauled all the muddy-ash mixture down Clarence's holes. Take that, groundhogs! I also dumped all the weeds I pulled while prepping a bed in the big garden down another of his holes... Probably just a snack for him, but it felt good doing it.
8. Katt had another decline. I took her to the vet, and apparently our dear kitty has a pretty bad heart murmur AND high blood pressure. I have my freaking cat on aspirin, and blood pressure medication.
9. Amy has gained about six pounds since her last vet visit. She's more active, she cannot get to Katt's food anymore... so she is now banned from the mudroom at all times so we can prevent her from eating cat poo. The vet said that is pretty high fat content. I think it is pretty gross.
10. I finally had a big party here. It was fun, and I have learned that I must never walk around with a wine glass again. Somehow, it kept filling itself... But, to have so many wonderful friends, both new and old, made for a wonderful evening.
And that is all the news. Now... to run off and weed before the rain starts.
Monday, April 14, 2014
Gardening With Help
Flowers are blooming, and the kitchen garden has been planted. Mostly. I mean, the main beds have been planted. And two side beds have been weeded. I still need to do the cold frame beds, which are currently protecting a glorious tangle of weeds.
But the point is, I have seeds planted and hopefully beginning to do their thing. A lettuce mix, kale, Swiss chard, sweet pea, onion, carrot and beet. I am getting hungry already.
I had a lot of help, truth be told. Gardening really becomes a group project on a farm, I am discovering. So, thanks are in order.
First, I am thankful the Husband helped clear the side beds of a strange weed that has roots that are thick and orange like carrots...but are not carrots. But Country Kitty's rose is able to breathe again, as are the lilies or irises or whatever else is planted in the bed alongside. Also, the beds are ready for me to plant something there. Not sure what, but I am thinking marigolds. Lots and lots of marigolds.
Next, Amy also helped...sorta. She kept me company, and showed me where every smell was in the enclosed garden by rolling in it. Dogs are so freaking nasty sometimes. I wound up banning her from the garden enclosure after she walked across a freshly prepared bed--she weighs 70 lbs, and I don't need my soil compacted, ya know? So, she diligently patrolled the area to make sure that no evil squirrels could sneak up and kill me. I feel safer knowing she's there to chase off those naughty wee beasties.
The most unexpected help came from the chickens. They were mighty interested when I was preparing the beds, turning over soil with lots of bugs and interesting plants. But they got serious in their interest when I began harvesting the composted soil.
On Saturday, I planted the second phase of seeds, which were to be in the
Which led to the best help that I got the entire time. The Husband very sweetly came into the garden and helped me catch each chicken so I could toss them over the fence.
And he didn't even laugh at me. Much.
In other news, guess who's back?
...to be continued.
Monday, April 7, 2014
Mud
I could bore you to tears with how bad my allergies got last week, how I contemplated on whether or not I might be turning into a zombie, and how that turned into a discussion about whether I might be more interested (as a zombie) in wine or just the sommelier.
No, I won't tell you about the combination of medications I've been taking, or the fact that I lost two days pretending to be a slug. Or, how I got to attend a birthday party wearing a mask over my nose and mouth.
No, I will direct this entry to what is foremost on my mind. Mud. Because, April showers bring May flowers.
I feel virtuous. I spent an hour today clearing two garden beds for seeds. I'll be planting beets and carrots and lettuce and kale, swiss chard and onions and peas. Tomorrow, I'll add a barrow of lovely compost to mix it all up, and then press seeds into the soil in a semi-organized fashion. But today, I cleared the beds of all remaining vegetation, I turned all the soil thoroughly, and I picked out the usual spring harvest of rocks. Amy wandered around, keeping me company. Even Elasta-girl came by, scratching where I cleared. I hope she found lots of naughty bugs to eat.
But, I did all this in the rain. And it was raining most of the night. Two words: fashion nightmare. From my head to the soles of my boots.
I wore my pretty red raincoat with a ball cap to keep the rain from my eyes. There is mud all over the hood, and a bit on the brim of the cap.
My raincoat itself looks as though I lay down and wallowed in the mud. I am not certain how that happened, since I was always on two feet. But there is mud on the shoulders, up and down the arms, all along the sides, and smears all over the front. The bum is still red.
My pants, of which only the knee to mid thigh were exposed, had mud on the knees, behind the knees, and a smear about where the coat ended.
The muckers... Well, they are no longer a nice dark chocolate. They now look like lumpy milk chocolate.
And the lined leather gloves have fat fingers now. Fat with encrusted mud.
What's that you say? Pics or it didn't happen?
It happened. But there will be no pics. I wouldn't want word to get out about how bad my hair looked.
No, I won't tell you about the combination of medications I've been taking, or the fact that I lost two days pretending to be a slug. Or, how I got to attend a birthday party wearing a mask over my nose and mouth.
No, I will direct this entry to what is foremost on my mind. Mud. Because, April showers bring May flowers.
I feel virtuous. I spent an hour today clearing two garden beds for seeds. I'll be planting beets and carrots and lettuce and kale, swiss chard and onions and peas. Tomorrow, I'll add a barrow of lovely compost to mix it all up, and then press seeds into the soil in a semi-organized fashion. But today, I cleared the beds of all remaining vegetation, I turned all the soil thoroughly, and I picked out the usual spring harvest of rocks. Amy wandered around, keeping me company. Even Elasta-girl came by, scratching where I cleared. I hope she found lots of naughty bugs to eat.
But, I did all this in the rain. And it was raining most of the night. Two words: fashion nightmare. From my head to the soles of my boots.
I wore my pretty red raincoat with a ball cap to keep the rain from my eyes. There is mud all over the hood, and a bit on the brim of the cap.
My raincoat itself looks as though I lay down and wallowed in the mud. I am not certain how that happened, since I was always on two feet. But there is mud on the shoulders, up and down the arms, all along the sides, and smears all over the front. The bum is still red.
My pants, of which only the knee to mid thigh were exposed, had mud on the knees, behind the knees, and a smear about where the coat ended.
The muckers... Well, they are no longer a nice dark chocolate. They now look like lumpy milk chocolate.
And the lined leather gloves have fat fingers now. Fat with encrusted mud.
What's that you say? Pics or it didn't happen?
It happened. But there will be no pics. I wouldn't want word to get out about how bad my hair looked.
Monday, March 10, 2014
Chills, Thrills, and Squirrels
[Warning. First, while this is NOT another chicken story, the chickens are part of the background. Second, those sensitive readers whom I've not already scared off, might want to consider skipping this entry and wait for another spider story.]
Just a day, just an ordinary day. The Husband teleworked today, and I was working at my normal spot in the breakfast nook, lost in my writing. From this seat, I can see the little frog pond, and the pretty garden (that looks like a winter nightmare currently), and in the background, across the drive, the chicken coop. I won't brag on the four foot snowpile to my left, because today was just too darned warm and sunny.
I came to from my writing coma to hear the strident clucking from Leia. I looked up, and she was standing at the top of the stone chicken path, just outside the door. Clucking like a fiend. Now, she is kind of a drama queen, so I figured she was just calling to the other girls to wait up. I watched her walk away, and dove back in.
Some time later, I heard another mad clucking. It was Ginger or Peaches, doing the same thing. Just standing at the door, making an ungodly amount of noise. I finally got up to go to the door to see what was causing such a ruckus. As Ginger (or Peaches!) strutted off, I saw the culprit. A squirrel sat up on the roof of the chicken coop, and as she moved away, it scrambled down the side of the building and THROUGH THE CHICKEN DOOR.
Well, that bugged me like you wouldn't believe. While chicken feed is not grossly expensive, it still costs money. And at least the chickens are offsetting the cost by laying lots of eggs. Little Squirrel, I suspected, would NOT be laying eggs for me. I decided to take action.
I just happen to own a terrifying huntress. She's taken down over a dozen animals in her life, and she doesn't even make a mess doing it. She is a good strong animal, horrifying to all... Her name is Amy the Killer... Black Lab Mix.
Yeah, she's taken down lots of rabbits and chipmunks, even a vole. She's terrified the groundhogs, and even tried to take down the deer. I thought she might just be terrifying to the squirrel.
I got my muckers on, got the dog, and walked up, bold as brass, to that open door. I leaned in, and found that squirrel just munching away at the chicken feeder. He didn't even look up. My crazy side took over.
"Hey, squirrel! I see you!"
He jumped about a foot in the air, sending that feeder spinning. He ran for the door... except I was standing there, grinning at him. Amy was standing next to me, terribly excited. The squirrel changed direction, and then ran for the door again. I was still standing there.
And there we were. I wanted Amy to chase it, teach it a lesson. But Amy could not get through that door. And the squirrel wouldn't go through that door.
And the reality of the situation hit me. This was no cute little incident. This squirrel knew what was there. He could be chased away by me or Amy, but he would come back. And he would eat just as much (if not more) than the chickens.
I decided to let Amy into the coop.
I won't regale you with what ensued for the next five minutes. Amy kept that squirrel running round and round the coop, bouncing from roost to rafter to straw, behind the storage bins, and back. Amy caught it once, and it bit her or clawed her such that she let out an outraged whine.
Eventually, though, he got tired enough that he didn't scramble quite fast enough, and Amy had him. She subdued him, and carried him outside. He wasn't quite dead, because Amy rarely actually kills anything, except by accident. (She's just like Lenny from "Of Mice and Men": I will love him and hold them and call him George... oops, he's not moving anymore.)
He wasn't dead, but he was barely moving, so we had to put the guy out of his misery. I've had to do that on countless occasions.
I have done some reading, and I think I may start mixing chili pepper flakes in the food. After all, one squirrel means Legion.
But, all in all, I am proud of Amy. Even at 10 years old this year, she has still got it. Go Amy! We are proud of you!
Just a day, just an ordinary day. The Husband teleworked today, and I was working at my normal spot in the breakfast nook, lost in my writing. From this seat, I can see the little frog pond, and the pretty garden (that looks like a winter nightmare currently), and in the background, across the drive, the chicken coop. I won't brag on the four foot snowpile to my left, because today was just too darned warm and sunny.
I came to from my writing coma to hear the strident clucking from Leia. I looked up, and she was standing at the top of the stone chicken path, just outside the door. Clucking like a fiend. Now, she is kind of a drama queen, so I figured she was just calling to the other girls to wait up. I watched her walk away, and dove back in.
Some time later, I heard another mad clucking. It was Ginger or Peaches, doing the same thing. Just standing at the door, making an ungodly amount of noise. I finally got up to go to the door to see what was causing such a ruckus. As Ginger (or Peaches!) strutted off, I saw the culprit. A squirrel sat up on the roof of the chicken coop, and as she moved away, it scrambled down the side of the building and THROUGH THE CHICKEN DOOR.
Well, that bugged me like you wouldn't believe. While chicken feed is not grossly expensive, it still costs money. And at least the chickens are offsetting the cost by laying lots of eggs. Little Squirrel, I suspected, would NOT be laying eggs for me. I decided to take action.
I just happen to own a terrifying huntress. She's taken down over a dozen animals in her life, and she doesn't even make a mess doing it. She is a good strong animal, horrifying to all... Her name is Amy the Killer... Black Lab Mix.
Yeah, she's taken down lots of rabbits and chipmunks, even a vole. She's terrified the groundhogs, and even tried to take down the deer. I thought she might just be terrifying to the squirrel.
I got my muckers on, got the dog, and walked up, bold as brass, to that open door. I leaned in, and found that squirrel just munching away at the chicken feeder. He didn't even look up. My crazy side took over.
"Hey, squirrel! I see you!"
He jumped about a foot in the air, sending that feeder spinning. He ran for the door... except I was standing there, grinning at him. Amy was standing next to me, terribly excited. The squirrel changed direction, and then ran for the door again. I was still standing there.
And there we were. I wanted Amy to chase it, teach it a lesson. But Amy could not get through that door. And the squirrel wouldn't go through that door.
And the reality of the situation hit me. This was no cute little incident. This squirrel knew what was there. He could be chased away by me or Amy, but he would come back. And he would eat just as much (if not more) than the chickens.
I decided to let Amy into the coop.
I won't regale you with what ensued for the next five minutes. Amy kept that squirrel running round and round the coop, bouncing from roost to rafter to straw, behind the storage bins, and back. Amy caught it once, and it bit her or clawed her such that she let out an outraged whine.
Eventually, though, he got tired enough that he didn't scramble quite fast enough, and Amy had him. She subdued him, and carried him outside. He wasn't quite dead, because Amy rarely actually kills anything, except by accident. (She's just like Lenny from "Of Mice and Men": I will love him and hold them and call him George... oops, he's not moving anymore.)
He wasn't dead, but he was barely moving, so we had to put the guy out of his misery. I've had to do that on countless occasions.
I have done some reading, and I think I may start mixing chili pepper flakes in the food. After all, one squirrel means Legion.
But, all in all, I am proud of Amy. Even at 10 years old this year, she has still got it. Go Amy! We are proud of you!
 |
| "Killer" Amy and the Damsels in Distress |
Monday, February 10, 2014
A Fashion Nightmare
Ah, Friday. Friday was supposed to be my day to do my social thing. I was going into Arlington to deliver our guest cat back to Wine Friend, and I'd also checked with a few friends about maybe meeting up for the local First Friday after. And, the boys were going out for an evening without me! I was going to have a fabulous evening!
Ha!
My hair was all adorable and curly. I actually put on a cute top and skinny jeans, and planned to wear hawt high heel boots. Pretty earrings, light makeup... well, except for the eyes. I did dramatic smoky eyes, in purple. Hey, I was getting off the farm!
But, before I could escape the farm, I had to do less glamorous things. I had to pick up the Boy from school. I had to take Katt to the vet to get her nails clipped, and get more of her anti-vomit medicine. And then I needed to pick up two big bags of the water-softener salt. Muck boots were worn for those errands, and I only got two smears of dirt on my jeans. I wiped them off, and thought, in an hour, I'll be heading east.
And then my cell phone rang. I have a cool phone now (sorry, crackberry), and I told it to answer. It was the Husband. A hawk had been at the chickens, and he couldn't find any of them now. It was already 3:30.
I got us safely home, let Katt inside, and the three of us began the search, taking Amy with us. We walked through the woods and fields, searching for the freaked out chickens. Eventually, we found Elasta-Girl and Peaches-and-Cream in a tree. We lifted them out, and they were carried home. Then we found Darth Vader, hiding in another tree. Her tail feathers had been ripped out, and we found more sign of lost feathers there. Had we lost a girl or not?
We continued stalking the trees, but it was getting later, and the boys had movie tickets for 5:30. I told them to go on, that I would keep searching.
And I did. I contacted my chicken friend, and got a few suggestions. In the meantime, I took a break so I could prepare for the evening. Emptying the litterbox, gathering all the cat's toys and the remaining food. And, of course, making sure her cat carrier was ready. And, since the driveway was still icy, I dragged the garden cart to the front of the house, so I could haul all everything up the hill.
I did another chicken search. I let Wine Friend know I was running late, and let the other friends know that my time schedule was shot. Texting while walking through the woods is hazardous, however. I got caught by a low hanging branch and got a pretty good scratch across my forehead. I exchanged the phone for a bowl of chicken feed to shake as I walked, and still managed to run into tree branches. I was grateful it was winter, at least-- no spiderwebs or need for my web-wand.
Leia had shown up by then. Ginger, Acid and Mocha were still missing. But Mocha darted toward me just after the sun went down. I took her home and conceded defeat, hoping that one or both would return in the morning, assuming they survived the night.*
By then, it was almost six! I had to get out of there. I was running so late! I grabbed the kitty and my purse, put on the boots by the door, and wheeled the cart up the ice. It was heavy, and I took off my coat again because I was starting to, ahem, glow.
Let's fast forward, shall we? I delivered the cat, and Wine Friend took me out to dinner, since I was shaking from hunger. (I'd planned to eat something after the guys left and before I needed to leave, but that didn't happen, obviously.) We went to a nice wine bar, and I ate a lovely meal and drank lovely wine. I visited the lady's room.
Oh, and what a sight I beheld. I might have been okay if I had freshened my powder and lipstick, although the smokey eyes were more smudged than anything. And truthfully, the scratch across my forehead would have taken a bit of concealer or something. My cute curls were in a ragged mess. There were bits of twig in them! I had smears of what I hoped was only dirt along my collar bone. Never mind that I had mud on my jeans.
And I'd put on my riding boots, and not the high heels. The boots that had been cute when I got them, but then had become my field boots, not to be confused with the muck boots. These only had mud and a few scratches, and I am almost certain, no chicken bombs. That I cannot say for the muck boots.
But yeah, the best laid plans of the City Kitty were pooped on by the chickens. And I wasn't sure which I was more embarrassed by: being late because of the chickens, or looking awful because of the chickens.
*For those of you who could care less about the fashion nightmare, then rest assured, Ginger was there in the morning. But Acid, the bottom of the pecking order, has gone to the great hawk in the sky.
Ha!
My hair was all adorable and curly. I actually put on a cute top and skinny jeans, and planned to wear hawt high heel boots. Pretty earrings, light makeup... well, except for the eyes. I did dramatic smoky eyes, in purple. Hey, I was getting off the farm!
But, before I could escape the farm, I had to do less glamorous things. I had to pick up the Boy from school. I had to take Katt to the vet to get her nails clipped, and get more of her anti-vomit medicine. And then I needed to pick up two big bags of the water-softener salt. Muck boots were worn for those errands, and I only got two smears of dirt on my jeans. I wiped them off, and thought, in an hour, I'll be heading east.
And then my cell phone rang. I have a cool phone now (sorry, crackberry), and I told it to answer. It was the Husband. A hawk had been at the chickens, and he couldn't find any of them now. It was already 3:30.
I got us safely home, let Katt inside, and the three of us began the search, taking Amy with us. We walked through the woods and fields, searching for the freaked out chickens. Eventually, we found Elasta-Girl and Peaches-and-Cream in a tree. We lifted them out, and they were carried home. Then we found Darth Vader, hiding in another tree. Her tail feathers had been ripped out, and we found more sign of lost feathers there. Had we lost a girl or not?
We continued stalking the trees, but it was getting later, and the boys had movie tickets for 5:30. I told them to go on, that I would keep searching.
And I did. I contacted my chicken friend, and got a few suggestions. In the meantime, I took a break so I could prepare for the evening. Emptying the litterbox, gathering all the cat's toys and the remaining food. And, of course, making sure her cat carrier was ready. And, since the driveway was still icy, I dragged the garden cart to the front of the house, so I could haul all everything up the hill.
I did another chicken search. I let Wine Friend know I was running late, and let the other friends know that my time schedule was shot. Texting while walking through the woods is hazardous, however. I got caught by a low hanging branch and got a pretty good scratch across my forehead. I exchanged the phone for a bowl of chicken feed to shake as I walked, and still managed to run into tree branches. I was grateful it was winter, at least-- no spiderwebs or need for my web-wand.
Leia had shown up by then. Ginger, Acid and Mocha were still missing. But Mocha darted toward me just after the sun went down. I took her home and conceded defeat, hoping that one or both would return in the morning, assuming they survived the night.*
By then, it was almost six! I had to get out of there. I was running so late! I grabbed the kitty and my purse, put on the boots by the door, and wheeled the cart up the ice. It was heavy, and I took off my coat again because I was starting to, ahem, glow.
Let's fast forward, shall we? I delivered the cat, and Wine Friend took me out to dinner, since I was shaking from hunger. (I'd planned to eat something after the guys left and before I needed to leave, but that didn't happen, obviously.) We went to a nice wine bar, and I ate a lovely meal and drank lovely wine. I visited the lady's room.
Oh, and what a sight I beheld. I might have been okay if I had freshened my powder and lipstick, although the smokey eyes were more smudged than anything. And truthfully, the scratch across my forehead would have taken a bit of concealer or something. My cute curls were in a ragged mess. There were bits of twig in them! I had smears of what I hoped was only dirt along my collar bone. Never mind that I had mud on my jeans.
And I'd put on my riding boots, and not the high heels. The boots that had been cute when I got them, but then had become my field boots, not to be confused with the muck boots. These only had mud and a few scratches, and I am almost certain, no chicken bombs. That I cannot say for the muck boots.
But yeah, the best laid plans of the City Kitty were pooped on by the chickens. And I wasn't sure which I was more embarrassed by: being late because of the chickens, or looking awful because of the chickens.
*For those of you who could care less about the fashion nightmare, then rest assured, Ginger was there in the morning. But Acid, the bottom of the pecking order, has gone to the great hawk in the sky.
Monday, January 20, 2014
A Tail of Two Kitties
We've been housesitting Wine Friend's cat for just over a month. She's a long haired black cat of sixteen pounds, perhaps. And she's just lovely.
But she and Katt don't get along.
When Nimue first came, we closed off the upstairs with a pet gate. She hissed at our dog Amy when they met. Expected, I guess: dogs and cats are not necessarily natural compadres. But when Katt crept up the stairs to peer at this new kitty through the pet gate, Nimue hissed and growled. Katt slunk down the stairs. And then came back up to look again. Nimue hissed and growled and batted at the pet gate. Katt slunk off again...and then came back up.
I swear she was giggling as she repeated this several times. I finally moved the pet gate the foot of the stairs.
So, we've had an upstairs kitty and a downstairs kitty for awhile. Nimue gets to cuddle and snuggle with us in bed, and spends mostly quiet days, following the moving sunbeams, sitting in the window watching the chickens down below, and napping wherever the hell she damn pleases. Nimue is happy to play with me or with the Boy, and she doesn't dart away anymore when he chases after her, begging her to let him pet her. In that, she is considerably smarter than Katt, who just lets the Boy lug her around the house. At first, she wasn't wild that Amy comes upstairs at night, but she no longer hisses at her unless Amy comes around a corner she was preparing to round.
I swear Amy just rolls her eyes as she walks around the hissing kitty.
On sunny days, when Katt goes outside to do country cat things, I remove the pet gate and give Nimue full rein of the house. Well, I did that three times, until she discovered Katt's food dish and thought she'd try to take a nibble. I heard the sound, and started yelling at Amy, who was actually curled up asleep on her bed next to me. Nimue was banished to the upstairs that afternoon. Now, if I let her out, the first thing I do is move Katt's dish out of reach.
The two cats have decided to let Amy show herself to be the bigger animal. Nimue has learned that Amy could care less about her, and now watches with bright, interested eyes as Amy passes on her way to bed. And she is fascinated when I get on the floor and pet Amy, with the belly showing and that tail thumping the floor.
Katt has finally accepted that the only danger from Amy is that she'll steal her food. She's stopped chasing the dog around the kitchen, and only occasionally bats at her, and I think she only does that when I am watching. You see, she now SLEEPS with the dog, and Amy doesn't even run away. Katt will walk up, sniff sniff, and Amy will either lift her head and sniff back, or just turn a sleepy eye to watch her. Then Katt will perch on the edge of the dog bed and press her body against Amy's side. And they will sleep.
Now, she still takes over Amy's bed when Amy isn't there, and Amy is smart enough not to push her luck: if Katt is there, she passes up that bed for one in another room, or just does without. To deal with this, I actually bought a small dog bed that was on clearance. Katt loves it, but only if it is placed next to Amy's bed.
Pet beds are taking over the house.
So, there is a species of cat peace, as the cats have adapted to their new lives. And I realized that those kitties are not the only changed creatures.
I realized this as I was driving home one afternoon last week. The road is supposedly dirt, but that means some gravel, a lot of potholes, and several patches of mud interspersed with ice, at the moment. I was weaving left to right, carefully avoiding most of the potholes, because I know exactly where they all are. I even think of it as a driving video game: Pot Hole Dodge.
Anyway, I was driving along, zooming around the road avoiding the potholes, sometimes on the right, but sometimes all the way to the left, hugging the edge. I came over a hill and found a navy-blue Lexus ahead. I thought the car was weird as I approached, and it took me a minute to realize why I thought it looked weird.
The car was clean. Like shiny.
I slowed down as I continued my game of dodge'em. And I watched Mr. Lexus braking almost to a stop, easing into the potholes, and then picking up speed before hitting the next big patch. I smirked as I easily swung all the way to the left to avoid that big patch. I wondered if he thought I was some kind of lunatic.
And then it hit me. I knew the road, and was driving like an insider. He was driving like someone who'd never been on a country road before*. And I didn't identify with him at all at that moment.
The City Kitty has not become a country kitty, but it could be that she's adapting, too.
Survival of the fittest, baby.
*For the record, I am pretty sure Mr. Lexus must have been heading to the nearby meat boutique--local farmer selling great local meats, from animals that you may have seen wandering the farm the week before. I visited them as well before we moved out here. Kudos to Mr. Lexus for supporting local farmers, and I hope his suspension made the drive not too bumpy.
But she and Katt don't get along.
When Nimue first came, we closed off the upstairs with a pet gate. She hissed at our dog Amy when they met. Expected, I guess: dogs and cats are not necessarily natural compadres. But when Katt crept up the stairs to peer at this new kitty through the pet gate, Nimue hissed and growled. Katt slunk down the stairs. And then came back up to look again. Nimue hissed and growled and batted at the pet gate. Katt slunk off again...and then came back up.
I swear she was giggling as she repeated this several times. I finally moved the pet gate the foot of the stairs.
So, we've had an upstairs kitty and a downstairs kitty for awhile. Nimue gets to cuddle and snuggle with us in bed, and spends mostly quiet days, following the moving sunbeams, sitting in the window watching the chickens down below, and napping wherever the hell she damn pleases. Nimue is happy to play with me or with the Boy, and she doesn't dart away anymore when he chases after her, begging her to let him pet her. In that, she is considerably smarter than Katt, who just lets the Boy lug her around the house. At first, she wasn't wild that Amy comes upstairs at night, but she no longer hisses at her unless Amy comes around a corner she was preparing to round.
I swear Amy just rolls her eyes as she walks around the hissing kitty.
On sunny days, when Katt goes outside to do country cat things, I remove the pet gate and give Nimue full rein of the house. Well, I did that three times, until she discovered Katt's food dish and thought she'd try to take a nibble. I heard the sound, and started yelling at Amy, who was actually curled up asleep on her bed next to me. Nimue was banished to the upstairs that afternoon. Now, if I let her out, the first thing I do is move Katt's dish out of reach.
The two cats have decided to let Amy show herself to be the bigger animal. Nimue has learned that Amy could care less about her, and now watches with bright, interested eyes as Amy passes on her way to bed. And she is fascinated when I get on the floor and pet Amy, with the belly showing and that tail thumping the floor.
Katt has finally accepted that the only danger from Amy is that she'll steal her food. She's stopped chasing the dog around the kitchen, and only occasionally bats at her, and I think she only does that when I am watching. You see, she now SLEEPS with the dog, and Amy doesn't even run away. Katt will walk up, sniff sniff, and Amy will either lift her head and sniff back, or just turn a sleepy eye to watch her. Then Katt will perch on the edge of the dog bed and press her body against Amy's side. And they will sleep.
Now, she still takes over Amy's bed when Amy isn't there, and Amy is smart enough not to push her luck: if Katt is there, she passes up that bed for one in another room, or just does without. To deal with this, I actually bought a small dog bed that was on clearance. Katt loves it, but only if it is placed next to Amy's bed.
Pet beds are taking over the house.
So, there is a species of cat peace, as the cats have adapted to their new lives. And I realized that those kitties are not the only changed creatures.
I realized this as I was driving home one afternoon last week. The road is supposedly dirt, but that means some gravel, a lot of potholes, and several patches of mud interspersed with ice, at the moment. I was weaving left to right, carefully avoiding most of the potholes, because I know exactly where they all are. I even think of it as a driving video game: Pot Hole Dodge.
Anyway, I was driving along, zooming around the road avoiding the potholes, sometimes on the right, but sometimes all the way to the left, hugging the edge. I came over a hill and found a navy-blue Lexus ahead. I thought the car was weird as I approached, and it took me a minute to realize why I thought it looked weird.
The car was clean. Like shiny.
I slowed down as I continued my game of dodge'em. And I watched Mr. Lexus braking almost to a stop, easing into the potholes, and then picking up speed before hitting the next big patch. I smirked as I easily swung all the way to the left to avoid that big patch. I wondered if he thought I was some kind of lunatic.
And then it hit me. I knew the road, and was driving like an insider. He was driving like someone who'd never been on a country road before*. And I didn't identify with him at all at that moment.
The City Kitty has not become a country kitty, but it could be that she's adapting, too.
Survival of the fittest, baby.
*For the record, I am pretty sure Mr. Lexus must have been heading to the nearby meat boutique--local farmer selling great local meats, from animals that you may have seen wandering the farm the week before. I visited them as well before we moved out here. Kudos to Mr. Lexus for supporting local farmers, and I hope his suspension made the drive not too bumpy.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Happy New Year!
I hope everyone had a lovely time the last few weeks. I'm surprised at all the inquiries about whether or not Cthulhu had actually driven me insane, since I'd gone silent. Rest assured, Devoted Readers, I was simply taking my own Christmas vacation. (Or, if I may be honest, I had the Boy home for two weeks and there was simply no posting anything other than lame Facebook statuses.) I continued working, however. This blog entry has been simmering for almost a week. So...
College Friend was going to be in town after Christmas through New Year's Day. The last few years, we've been seeing in the New Year with Wine Friend and/or going to the old neighborhood, but this seemed like an opportunity to go into the District and do a grown up party.
I won't go into all the nail biting, the back-and-forth discussions, the endless texts and frequent phone calls, making child-care and animal-care arrangements, the wardrobe anxiety, and transportation issues. Let it suffice to say that we planned, and it all worked out beautifully. The Husband and I got to go stay at a very nice hotel and attend a kick-@ss party in Washington DC with our friends.
I will also gloss over are the preparations to leave that day: herding the chickens back into the coop; cleaning out the cab of the truck so that I could cram in our luggage, Amy, and the Boy; and even the dilemma of switching cars so that our wee-little Saturn wasn't spending the night at the commuter lot.
No, the real story is what happens when City Kitty enters a nice hotel after 5 months of living on a farm.
First of all. Mud on my sneakers and the car when I pull up. Oops. I could see the too-polite-to-say anything look on the doorman's face. The Husband had already checked in, so he met me in the lobby, handed me the key, and I got directions for the parking garage, which was full of nice, expensive, big, and CLEAN vehicles. I wondered if there was a car-wash entrance that I'd missed.
Now, it was a cold day, but remember, I layer every day just to stay in the farmhouse, which has the thermostat set at 62, but varies depending on what side of the house you are on. So, I was hauling luggage and had my big sheep-skin duster over my arm. I was a bit warm. I found the elevator and then the room. I walked in and unloaded, smiling as I looked around. Nice room, cool view, and four hours before we had to leave.
And I realized I was hot. As in, is-my-antiperspirant-actually-working? hot. I pulled off my sweater. And then the flannel lined jeans. The top long-sleeved shirt. The silk shirt under that. My socks.
Him: Is this a hint?
Me: I'm burning up!
Him: Ah.
Me: What is the thermostat set at? I'm dying!
By now, I was down to my tank top and leggings. The Husband looks at the thermostat and chokes a little.
Me: So what is it?
Him: Sixty-eight.
Me: Well, set it lower!
We finished unpacking, and I needed to paint my toe-nails. I painted, let it dry, and we got ready to go down to grab a bite to eat. I had to wear my sparkly silver sandals, so that the nail polish wouldn't smear. Except, all I had were the flannel jeans. Not a fashion-do, lemme tell you.
After we got back to the room, it was time to start getting ready. Shower and all. I turned on the hot water all the way up and waited the usual four minutes to make sure the water had time to get hot.
Four minutes.
I was amazed to pull back the curtain and get hit with a blast of hot steam, and step onto an uncomfortably warm shower floor. (shaking head)
I finished with all my primping and dressing. I looked amazing. (I really did, the Husband said so.) But, there was a snag. The original plan was for us to get picked up in a car by our friends. That wasn't happening. So, they were metro-ing in, and the Husband wanted to know if I was up for that.
My first thought was for my new sparkly silver sandals, and how they wouldn't really keep my feet warm. So, I thought, just wear your other shoes until you get to the party, just like you normally do when you leave the farm...
Sneakers, under a fancy evening gown. Beat up sneakers with mud caked in the treads. Sneakers that would not give me the extra three inches required for me not to step on my dress.
We took a cab. Party party party.
We got back to the room at a respectable 1:15 a.m. We got ready for bed. And then we both lay there, wondering why the hell we couldn't get to sleep.
We were hot. The room was set at the extravagant 65 degrees. We usually sleep with the thermostat set at 55 degrees.
We set the thermostat down again.
It was surprisingly nice to get out of that too-warm hotel with its too-clean floors and the hot water that scalds you when you test it to see if its gotten warm, and get back to the farm.
Oh the humanity...what in the world has happened to me?
Happy New Year
or
You Can Take the City Kitty Out of the Country But You Can't Take the Country Out of the City Kitty
College Friend was going to be in town after Christmas through New Year's Day. The last few years, we've been seeing in the New Year with Wine Friend and/or going to the old neighborhood, but this seemed like an opportunity to go into the District and do a grown up party.
I won't go into all the nail biting, the back-and-forth discussions, the endless texts and frequent phone calls, making child-care and animal-care arrangements, the wardrobe anxiety, and transportation issues. Let it suffice to say that we planned, and it all worked out beautifully. The Husband and I got to go stay at a very nice hotel and attend a kick-@ss party in Washington DC with our friends.
I will also gloss over are the preparations to leave that day: herding the chickens back into the coop; cleaning out the cab of the truck so that I could cram in our luggage, Amy, and the Boy; and even the dilemma of switching cars so that our wee-little Saturn wasn't spending the night at the commuter lot.
No, the real story is what happens when City Kitty enters a nice hotel after 5 months of living on a farm.
First of all. Mud on my sneakers and the car when I pull up. Oops. I could see the too-polite-to-say anything look on the doorman's face. The Husband had already checked in, so he met me in the lobby, handed me the key, and I got directions for the parking garage, which was full of nice, expensive, big, and CLEAN vehicles. I wondered if there was a car-wash entrance that I'd missed.
Now, it was a cold day, but remember, I layer every day just to stay in the farmhouse, which has the thermostat set at 62, but varies depending on what side of the house you are on. So, I was hauling luggage and had my big sheep-skin duster over my arm. I was a bit warm. I found the elevator and then the room. I walked in and unloaded, smiling as I looked around. Nice room, cool view, and four hours before we had to leave.
And I realized I was hot. As in, is-my-antiperspirant-actually-working? hot. I pulled off my sweater. And then the flannel lined jeans. The top long-sleeved shirt. The silk shirt under that. My socks.
Him: Is this a hint?
Me: I'm burning up!
Him: Ah.
Me: What is the thermostat set at? I'm dying!
By now, I was down to my tank top and leggings. The Husband looks at the thermostat and chokes a little.
Me: So what is it?
Him: Sixty-eight.
Me: Well, set it lower!
 |
| Sparkly Silver Sandal |
After we got back to the room, it was time to start getting ready. Shower and all. I turned on the hot water all the way up and waited the usual four minutes to make sure the water had time to get hot.
Four minutes.
I was amazed to pull back the curtain and get hit with a blast of hot steam, and step onto an uncomfortably warm shower floor. (shaking head)
I finished with all my primping and dressing. I looked amazing. (I really did, the Husband said so.) But, there was a snag. The original plan was for us to get picked up in a car by our friends. That wasn't happening. So, they were metro-ing in, and the Husband wanted to know if I was up for that.
My first thought was for my new sparkly silver sandals, and how they wouldn't really keep my feet warm. So, I thought, just wear your other shoes until you get to the party, just like you normally do when you leave the farm...
 |
| College Friend! |
Sneakers, under a fancy evening gown. Beat up sneakers with mud caked in the treads. Sneakers that would not give me the extra three inches required for me not to step on my dress.
 |
| The Husband! |
We took a cab. Party party party.
We got back to the room at a respectable 1:15 a.m. We got ready for bed. And then we both lay there, wondering why the hell we couldn't get to sleep.
We were hot. The room was set at the extravagant 65 degrees. We usually sleep with the thermostat set at 55 degrees.
We set the thermostat down again.
It was surprisingly nice to get out of that too-warm hotel with its too-clean floors and the hot water that scalds you when you test it to see if its gotten warm, and get back to the farm.
Oh the humanity...what in the world has happened to me?
Monday, November 18, 2013
Animals on the Farm
"All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others."
-George Orwell, Animal Farm
Amy, on the other hand, is curious and adorable, and a threat to no one but the insane person who walks up to the door. Then she turns into this fierce, slobbering Cerberus. Children flee and huge men quaver in fear...until I open the door, and she suddenly becomes the world's most affectionate puppy, her tail wagging so hard her body contorts. But otherwise? She came into the chicken coop with me once. The chickens backed into a corner, and one took a daring fly at Amy...who just kinda turned her head and went back to sniffing chicken poop. They now ignore her. Even squirrels don't run away much.
Now, Amy and Katt have finally settled on their pecking order. They touch noses until Katt swats at Amy. Katt will approach Amy sleeping on her dog bed and sniff at her until Amy gets up and leaves, at which time Katt settles onto the warm spot left behind. Katt chases Amy around the kitchen island, her tail lifted in delight as Amy tries to escape with her tail tucked between her legs. Oh, and this is the worst: they get fed at the same time, and Katt will eat two bites of her food and then settle just outside the mudroom, watching as Amy finishes scarfing down her own food and then sniffs at Katt's food, at which point Katt saunters in again and forces Amy to slink off.
Ah, good times.
But, it isn't all hissing and scratches and a 70 pound dog scurrying away from a 10 pound cat. Other times, they seem to be able to ignore each other enough to get along. Very cute, right?
In other news, the chickens are pooping and eating and STILL refusing to leave the chicken coop. I'm getting one egg a day from Gandalf. I eat two eggs a day for breakfast. The Boy eats eggs for breakfast, and the Husband likes them as well. Adding in the occasional need for eggs in baking or cooking dinner, we are about five chickens down in terms of production. It might be time to add a few more chickens to the mix. Or, maybe Leia and Vader could find the time between pooping and eating to try laying a little. Snicker.
Prongs came home on Friday. I am very pleased to announce that we had some challenges settling him into his new home. As in, wow, that is a whole lotta packages in the freezer. We came home with over a 100 pounds of venison, and the loin is as big as a pig loin! And I can promise, I am pleased to have the meat. Last night, we ate ground venison in some of the ratatouille I made this summer, when I was swimming in squash and tomatoes. Amazing to think that most of that meal came from within 100 yards of the house!
And now I am planning the menu for Thanksgiving. We will have a house full of people for that meal, and I am so excited. I'll be able to use the butternut squashes from the summer, a local ham, and jars of relishes and sauces that were canned from our own garden.
I am still holding out hope for the Husband to bag Tom. He's a big guy, and he's been all over the farm. Turkey hunting is hard, and this guy seems pretty active. But, he would make a lovely addition to Thanksgiving dinner. (Way better than the back-up turkey taking up space in the other freezer).
And honestly, I would just love to have another animal in the house.
Monday, November 11, 2013
City Kitty Learns a Lesson
[Warning to other city cats, potentially objectionable content follows. Country cats, feel free to proceed, and please don't laugh too much.]
Perhaps you are wondering why I'm posting later than usual. I had planned another cute little entry about what a big old chicken I am, and how chicken the chickens are. I didn't attempt to push them out into the light of day until Friday, and each day, they have refused to exit. Elvis has still not left the building.
As my morning began, I had my day planned out. Feed the Boy breakfast, drop him off at school, make breakfast for myself and enjoy my coffee, and then skip the morning walk since the Husband was hunting, to finally sit down and type out the new entry.
I made the Boy two pieces of cinnamon toast, and one fried egg (harvested yesterday from Gandalf, who is now using one of the nesting boxes). I fed Amy and Katt. I put a filter (unbleached, of course) in the coffee machine and was pouring the first scoop of fair-trade certified coffee (ground at home!).
BAM!
I jumped. I peered through the window and saw through the bushes beyond the lawn area a blaze orange Yeti walking. The Boy shrugged and said, "Well, that was a surprise." I then looked over my shoulder at Amy, who is ANOTHER chicken, and was relieved to see that she didn't hear the gunshot over the crunching of her hippy dog food. A few minutes passed, and Amy whined to be let out for her morning constitutional. Unsure how to proceed, I texted the Husband.
Me: Didja get one? And can I let Amy out?
Him: Maybe Prongs. Yes, just near house.
I shared the news with the Boy, who said that he was proud of Daddy. I took Amy to the front door and let her out, and thought about it. First thought was that I was pleased for Husband, who hadn't had any luck yet this season, and anticipation of being able to cook with ground venison again, after three months without.
Him: Found him. He's a big son of a gun.
I took the Boy to school and came home, mostly looking forward to my jalepeno (canned from my own garden, naturally) and egg sandwich and my coffee. And then came the request for help. I emptied the truck bed, and then cautiously approached the top of the hill which slopes down to the upper pasture. I saw Husband over a big object that could only be a deer. I hollered down to see if he wanted me to drive the truck down. Even from that distance, I could see the disbelief in his body when he yelled back that I should probably wait awhile.
Fine. I made breakfast and enjoyed it. I went out to the chicken coop to check on the girls. I was considering starting the laundry when I saw him waving me over near the barnyard.
I went and saw Prongs. I couldn't believe that he was just laying on the sled my husband was hauling. He still looked so full of life...until I saw the other side of him. Gulp. He'd been field dressed. I was just staring at him, when my Husband gently suggested that I go put on his car coveralls to protect my clothing (pretty blue lounge pants with matching jacket) from blood.
I am not going into all the gory details, or tell you all the things that disturbed my delicate sensibilities. I simply had a rude awakening. I love eating the local meats: venison, the local sheep, goats, chickens and beef. But I've still been getting it all in little plastic bags. I've been separated from the reality of how that meat gets on my table.
At one point, I grasped Prongs' foreleg near the shoulder as we were attempting to haul him into the back of the truck. It could have been one of Amy's legs: muscular and softly furred. Except it was cold. Prongs was dead, and would never break into the hen house again, or lead a couple of does into the yard to munch on the bushes. I'd never be able to expertly identify which of the three bucks we'd caught on the game cam, because we are down to two.
The Husband asked if I wanted to go to the processor with him. I've been there several times, picking up all those little plastic bags of venison. I'd never taken a deer there. So I went. They weighed Prongs in at 130 pounds. He had a 9 point rack (8 normal ones, and another one inch spike beginning. There were two more tiny spikes, but apparently you don't count those). The processor began to cut off the rack with a saw, and I had to turn my back. There are pretty cows there. I started counting them.
The Husband got my attention, because he needed to know how I wanted the meat. I turned back, and thankfully the worker had moved on to one of the other deer waiting to be processed. I watched as he skillfully began to skin the doe. It was okay to watch, if not fascinating. But I had to walk away when he turned his attention back to Prongs.
I was quiet on the drive home. Husband asked if I was okay. I cracked some jokes: I'm married to Voldemort! Looks like Santa was hauling the deer this year! I'm gonna have to kill off a supporting character on the blog!
It's been an interesting morning. I'm okay. I'm glad my eyes are no longer shut so tightly. But my comfort zone wasn't stretched today. It was totally breached. Here I thought I was getting my hands dirty already. I have my family so accustomed to pure venison that beef tastes weird to us. I completely support the much-needed reduction in the local deer population. But then I finally got to see just how a running, jumping, and fascinating animal winds up in my freezer. I feel like a stupid city girl who might as well go sit out all night with a sack held open, waiting for snipes to crawl in.
Am I happy we'll have venison? You bet. Do I wish that I hadn't known Prongs? Absolutely. Do I think I am going to have the cajones to actually purchase some chickens for meat and then do what needs to be done? I doubt it. Apparently I might be too much of a tender-hearted, overly-sensitive little princess. I always wondered how small farmers and 4-H kids could raise animals for slaughter, but in an abstract way. Now I have a tiny bit of understanding.
So, tonight, I will raise a glass (of a medium body red that would totally work with venison) to Prongs, who was a lovely addition to my country adventure, who provided me with plenty of smiles, who will feed us for several months, and who helped teach me a lesson.
Never name your food.
Perhaps you are wondering why I'm posting later than usual. I had planned another cute little entry about what a big old chicken I am, and how chicken the chickens are. I didn't attempt to push them out into the light of day until Friday, and each day, they have refused to exit. Elvis has still not left the building.
As my morning began, I had my day planned out. Feed the Boy breakfast, drop him off at school, make breakfast for myself and enjoy my coffee, and then skip the morning walk since the Husband was hunting, to finally sit down and type out the new entry.
I made the Boy two pieces of cinnamon toast, and one fried egg (harvested yesterday from Gandalf, who is now using one of the nesting boxes). I fed Amy and Katt. I put a filter (unbleached, of course) in the coffee machine and was pouring the first scoop of fair-trade certified coffee (ground at home!).
BAM!
I jumped. I peered through the window and saw through the bushes beyond the lawn area a blaze orange Yeti walking. The Boy shrugged and said, "Well, that was a surprise." I then looked over my shoulder at Amy, who is ANOTHER chicken, and was relieved to see that she didn't hear the gunshot over the crunching of her hippy dog food. A few minutes passed, and Amy whined to be let out for her morning constitutional. Unsure how to proceed, I texted the Husband.
Me: Didja get one? And can I let Amy out?
Him: Maybe Prongs. Yes, just near house.
I shared the news with the Boy, who said that he was proud of Daddy. I took Amy to the front door and let her out, and thought about it. First thought was that I was pleased for Husband, who hadn't had any luck yet this season, and anticipation of being able to cook with ground venison again, after three months without.
Him: Found him. He's a big son of a gun.
I took the Boy to school and came home, mostly looking forward to my jalepeno (canned from my own garden, naturally) and egg sandwich and my coffee. And then came the request for help. I emptied the truck bed, and then cautiously approached the top of the hill which slopes down to the upper pasture. I saw Husband over a big object that could only be a deer. I hollered down to see if he wanted me to drive the truck down. Even from that distance, I could see the disbelief in his body when he yelled back that I should probably wait awhile.
Fine. I made breakfast and enjoyed it. I went out to the chicken coop to check on the girls. I was considering starting the laundry when I saw him waving me over near the barnyard.
I went and saw Prongs. I couldn't believe that he was just laying on the sled my husband was hauling. He still looked so full of life...until I saw the other side of him. Gulp. He'd been field dressed. I was just staring at him, when my Husband gently suggested that I go put on his car coveralls to protect my clothing (pretty blue lounge pants with matching jacket) from blood.
I am not going into all the gory details, or tell you all the things that disturbed my delicate sensibilities. I simply had a rude awakening. I love eating the local meats: venison, the local sheep, goats, chickens and beef. But I've still been getting it all in little plastic bags. I've been separated from the reality of how that meat gets on my table.
At one point, I grasped Prongs' foreleg near the shoulder as we were attempting to haul him into the back of the truck. It could have been one of Amy's legs: muscular and softly furred. Except it was cold. Prongs was dead, and would never break into the hen house again, or lead a couple of does into the yard to munch on the bushes. I'd never be able to expertly identify which of the three bucks we'd caught on the game cam, because we are down to two.
The Husband asked if I wanted to go to the processor with him. I've been there several times, picking up all those little plastic bags of venison. I'd never taken a deer there. So I went. They weighed Prongs in at 130 pounds. He had a 9 point rack (8 normal ones, and another one inch spike beginning. There were two more tiny spikes, but apparently you don't count those). The processor began to cut off the rack with a saw, and I had to turn my back. There are pretty cows there. I started counting them.
The Husband got my attention, because he needed to know how I wanted the meat. I turned back, and thankfully the worker had moved on to one of the other deer waiting to be processed. I watched as he skillfully began to skin the doe. It was okay to watch, if not fascinating. But I had to walk away when he turned his attention back to Prongs.
I was quiet on the drive home. Husband asked if I was okay. I cracked some jokes: I'm married to Voldemort! Looks like Santa was hauling the deer this year! I'm gonna have to kill off a supporting character on the blog!
It's been an interesting morning. I'm okay. I'm glad my eyes are no longer shut so tightly. But my comfort zone wasn't stretched today. It was totally breached. Here I thought I was getting my hands dirty already. I have my family so accustomed to pure venison that beef tastes weird to us. I completely support the much-needed reduction in the local deer population. But then I finally got to see just how a running, jumping, and fascinating animal winds up in my freezer. I feel like a stupid city girl who might as well go sit out all night with a sack held open, waiting for snipes to crawl in.
Am I happy we'll have venison? You bet. Do I wish that I hadn't known Prongs? Absolutely. Do I think I am going to have the cajones to actually purchase some chickens for meat and then do what needs to be done? I doubt it. Apparently I might be too much of a tender-hearted, overly-sensitive little princess. I always wondered how small farmers and 4-H kids could raise animals for slaughter, but in an abstract way. Now I have a tiny bit of understanding.
So, tonight, I will raise a glass (of a medium body red that would totally work with venison) to Prongs, who was a lovely addition to my country adventure, who provided me with plenty of smiles, who will feed us for several months, and who helped teach me a lesson.
Never name your food.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Katt and the Other Kitty
Everyone in the house has been sick except for the dog. The Husband and the Boy have colds. I am suffering from allergies exacerbated by the chicken house construction (why oh why didn't I wear a mask when moving all that dirt?). The Husband is also still suffering from throwing out his back when we were finishing the chicken coop. And Katt is not well from something we don't understand yet. And my girlfriend's dog had to have emergency spleen surgery. Okay, her dog doesn't live here, but it sure seems as though sickness is everywhere.
Lemme tell you about illness in the country. There is no quick five minutes to the doctor's office when you live out in B.F.E. It is more like twenty minutes. Not terrible, but think about last time you were suffering from a cold. You think, yeah, I can manage to get myself to the doctor's office without killing anyone. You don't have that option in the country--you have to be well enough to dodge the suicidal deer and raccoons (Why are there so many raccoons running across the road?!?) and not turn off the side of the road when you sneeze 8 times in a row. Or, think about when you go to the doctor and they give you a prescription for a hard-core nasal spray to combat the allergies that have been making your ears pop for two weeks and leaving you gagging from the amount of mucus dripping down your throat. What do you do when the pharmacy says it'll be an hour? Do you drive twenty minutes home to wait for twenty minutes and then drive the twenty minutes back? No. You spend an hour wandering through the drugstore and packing a shopping cart with all sorts of shit that you never knew you needed because you cannot remember the things you actually might need.
Do I sound a little cranky? That is to be expected. Don't get me started on what happens if the Husband's back pain gets so bad that I wonder about whether or not I can get him to the hospital if need be, and remember that there is a narrow twisty staircase to navigate just to get him to the main level. And wow, if I called an ambulance? What are they gonna do? Cut a hole in the building and lower the stretcher out by crane? The crane that could not possibly get down the gravel driveway without hitting about seventy trees?
And then there is Katt. Katt was a fairly tough country kitty when we got here. In the last two weeks, she has suddenly had a personality switch. She is affectionate, and demanding attention, and always underfoot. And she paces. All.The.Time. She's still eating and drinking. But her foot slides every once in awhile. And, unlike most cats, she keeps being underfoot, actually under our feet. So, I think, I ought to take her to the vet. OOOO! Another twenty minute drive over gravel roads with a displeased cat bouncing around the backseat as I attempt to miss the worst of the potholes. And then the vet thinks that maybe Katt had a stroke, or brain trauma, and that she ought to have blood work and a few other tests done. Poor Katt. At least she can still chase Amy when she want to. But she's no longer the Katt I've grown to enjoy.
I am desperately trying to remember what the City Kitty used to do, other than drive a lot less. I am haunted by the pretty party clothes and gorgeous and impractical footwear that catch my eye in the closet. My new ring will likely collect dust with all the other bright and sparkly baubles that go unworn as I miss art shows, spontaneous dinners out, or even hanging out with friends at my favorite bar.
Going into the bigger town, where I used to live, is about a thirty minute drive with traffic, but mostly on paved roads at least. But going in to teach a lesson or go to an appointment or visit Costco is suddenly like an outing. I dress up as much as I can justify. I add earrings and try new eye makeup. I accessorize with cute scarves and try to remember to change purses so they actually match my outfit. But, I mentioned driving on gravel and dirt roads? Your car gets dirty. Like crazy dirty. And then you brush up against it as you get out of the car and get a white smear on your clean pretty dress. Real cute.
You probably wonder if this rant is going anywhere. It is.
I miss city life. I feel like Katt, whose personality is changing to fit her new physical limitations. She cannot see as well, so she stays at home and cuddles with the warm people. I am throwing myself into making that chicken coop, and baking pizza crust from scratch since no one delivers out here. I spent all day yesterday in the kitchen, making homemade chicken soup for the boys and canning the last of my peppers, before making that pizza crust. But I am raging against the change in me.
I recently went to a party that I overdressed for-- I had to carry my high heels into the car so they wouldn't sink into the gravel and mud. And I bought that crazy town ring. It is bigger than my thumb. And I never wear rings. (Where am I gonna wear it? To open the chicken coop door?) Last night, after all day in the kitchen, I decided to go into town at the last minute, so I could sit at a bar and look pretty, and then watch a movie in a climate controlled, bug-free environment.
I am clearly having some adjustment issues. I ought to learn from Katt's example, but the City Kitty is not as adaptable as Katt is. I get frustrated and should go for a walk, and commune with nature and appreciate what is around me. Instead, I dress up and flee into town.
I'll be in town tomorrow. And I am looking forward to it.
(This clearly isn't over.)
Lemme tell you about illness in the country. There is no quick five minutes to the doctor's office when you live out in B.F.E. It is more like twenty minutes. Not terrible, but think about last time you were suffering from a cold. You think, yeah, I can manage to get myself to the doctor's office without killing anyone. You don't have that option in the country--you have to be well enough to dodge the suicidal deer and raccoons (Why are there so many raccoons running across the road?!?) and not turn off the side of the road when you sneeze 8 times in a row. Or, think about when you go to the doctor and they give you a prescription for a hard-core nasal spray to combat the allergies that have been making your ears pop for two weeks and leaving you gagging from the amount of mucus dripping down your throat. What do you do when the pharmacy says it'll be an hour? Do you drive twenty minutes home to wait for twenty minutes and then drive the twenty minutes back? No. You spend an hour wandering through the drugstore and packing a shopping cart with all sorts of shit that you never knew you needed because you cannot remember the things you actually might need.
Do I sound a little cranky? That is to be expected. Don't get me started on what happens if the Husband's back pain gets so bad that I wonder about whether or not I can get him to the hospital if need be, and remember that there is a narrow twisty staircase to navigate just to get him to the main level. And wow, if I called an ambulance? What are they gonna do? Cut a hole in the building and lower the stretcher out by crane? The crane that could not possibly get down the gravel driveway without hitting about seventy trees?
And then there is Katt. Katt was a fairly tough country kitty when we got here. In the last two weeks, she has suddenly had a personality switch. She is affectionate, and demanding attention, and always underfoot. And she paces. All.The.Time. She's still eating and drinking. But her foot slides every once in awhile. And, unlike most cats, she keeps being underfoot, actually under our feet. So, I think, I ought to take her to the vet. OOOO! Another twenty minute drive over gravel roads with a displeased cat bouncing around the backseat as I attempt to miss the worst of the potholes. And then the vet thinks that maybe Katt had a stroke, or brain trauma, and that she ought to have blood work and a few other tests done. Poor Katt. At least she can still chase Amy when she want to. But she's no longer the Katt I've grown to enjoy.
I am desperately trying to remember what the City Kitty used to do, other than drive a lot less. I am haunted by the pretty party clothes and gorgeous and impractical footwear that catch my eye in the closet. My new ring will likely collect dust with all the other bright and sparkly baubles that go unworn as I miss art shows, spontaneous dinners out, or even hanging out with friends at my favorite bar.
Going into the bigger town, where I used to live, is about a thirty minute drive with traffic, but mostly on paved roads at least. But going in to teach a lesson or go to an appointment or visit Costco is suddenly like an outing. I dress up as much as I can justify. I add earrings and try new eye makeup. I accessorize with cute scarves and try to remember to change purses so they actually match my outfit. But, I mentioned driving on gravel and dirt roads? Your car gets dirty. Like crazy dirty. And then you brush up against it as you get out of the car and get a white smear on your clean pretty dress. Real cute.
You probably wonder if this rant is going anywhere. It is.
I miss city life. I feel like Katt, whose personality is changing to fit her new physical limitations. She cannot see as well, so she stays at home and cuddles with the warm people. I am throwing myself into making that chicken coop, and baking pizza crust from scratch since no one delivers out here. I spent all day yesterday in the kitchen, making homemade chicken soup for the boys and canning the last of my peppers, before making that pizza crust. But I am raging against the change in me.
I recently went to a party that I overdressed for-- I had to carry my high heels into the car so they wouldn't sink into the gravel and mud. And I bought that crazy town ring. It is bigger than my thumb. And I never wear rings. (Where am I gonna wear it? To open the chicken coop door?) Last night, after all day in the kitchen, I decided to go into town at the last minute, so I could sit at a bar and look pretty, and then watch a movie in a climate controlled, bug-free environment.
I am clearly having some adjustment issues. I ought to learn from Katt's example, but the City Kitty is not as adaptable as Katt is. I get frustrated and should go for a walk, and commune with nature and appreciate what is around me. Instead, I dress up and flee into town.
I'll be in town tomorrow. And I am looking forward to it.
(This clearly isn't over.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)