Jellybean,the Spoiled

Pictured here with his beloved ice bottle, is Jellybean. Jelly has tantrums. Why? It's a function of his perceived status. He's been spoiled bythe Grandkids and believes he must eat first.

If he doesn't get his food first, he seizes his dish and throws it around the cage. The sound grates on the nerves like a metal trashcan kicked down the treet.

Hungry as he might be, food from a second, or worse yet, third turn is inedible. He ignores it, turns his back, and sulks. If he doesn't dump the pellets out, he waits until he is alone to eat it. He's a perpetual two year old. If he could speak, his favorite words would be "Mine" and "NO!" shouted at the top of his lungs.

As much as I'd like to blame the "Grands" for Jelly's spoiling, I can't completely. "Ohhhh, such a cute bunny," I'd say as he tossed around a dish nearly as big as himself. You'd think I'd know better, wouldn't you?

Baby Bunnies

Thing 2's litter of bunnies died on the 25th. Nothing seemed wrong; the babies seemed perfectly formed, but sometimes death comes along any way. It was a very small litter of two, and there may have been problems we never saw. Thing 2 has stopped searching for them; such a sad thing to watch the puzzlement on her face. Don't think these animals don't have emotions, be they ever so simple. I realize I may be putting my feelings onto another creature, but I stand by it. So life on the farm goes on, as we wait for the rest of the litters due.

Homeplace Begins - Two Free Ducks

Two ducks trudged across the garden. A battered-looking mother and child needing sanctuary, we thought. They looked to have ended up on the wrong side of a whuppin'; many feathers were missing, and some wounds were evident.We had no concrete plans for acquiring animals yet, but here were two free ducks! I just knew these ducks were a sign of future farm prosperity. “Look!” I caroled “We’ve been here only a week and we have ducks! We need to go to town and buy them a wading pool! “

My husband refers to me as “Mother-of-all-animals”, frequently between gritted teeth. I have ideas about animals and their care; ideas which seem so simple initially.  Oddly, our son and his friends have a similar response.

Off to Bryan to buy a wading pool – round trip just under 100 miles. We chose a medium sized, blue one, decorated with tasteful seahorses and bubbles. The local discount department store doesn’t carry feed, so off to the feed store for duck food. The feed store didn’t have a suitable container for a mere 50 pounds of feed. Next stop -- the Farm and Building supply for a large trash can to hold the “scratch”, besides, we needed some t-poles and fencing to protect the ducks. Son and friend grumbled about starvation after all this shopping; hamburgers, drinks, and fries for four completed the day’s financial damages. Twenty–year-old boys don’t eat cheap! “How do you figure those are free ducks?” Art groused, as he drove back home.

“You can’t expect the ducks to wait until tomorrow for their pool!” I gasped in horror at Art’s suggestion. “Look at them! They’re all dusty and dirty!!!” This shows how much I didn’t know about ducks then. “Mama’ was gleefully throwing water around from a large kitchen pot. “Baby” was close by, but unable to get near the water.

An hour later the pool was installed in a newly leveled spot under a pear tree. Baby duck couldn't get in out out of the pool; she needed a ramp. The fence across the open end of the garden was strung, and I drank in the sight our new ducks, safe in their new home.

The county Ag agent arrived two days later at our invitation. After his tour of the property, we asked about our new residents. I thought he said "Muskogee", but that's a city in Oklahoma. I got on the internet and found we had Muscovy ducks. Fascinating birds!


Female                                                                      

                                                Angry                   

The following week we got six brown Muscovies donated by a friend. We've taken in two goats, rabbits, chickens, and a number of cats. All came without accessories. Each time we set up for a new species, Art and Matthew grumble , "Free animals?"

Helene

Little Raccoon and the Soft-Hearted Man

"Why can't you let it go?" our grandbaby Ali asked the last time we trapped a raccoon.

Art patiently explained how raccoons eat our chickens. She didn't seem convinced and I think something in his heart took notice.

This little racoon was in the trap Monday. You can see Art gave it a water bottle, and he'd placed it in the shade. After feeding the rabbits and chickens he called Matthew and explained we were bringing a small raccoon so he and Ali could release it (far away from us). Art put the cage in the truck and we drove the fifteen miles to Matthew's house.

On the way I discovered he always wanted a racoon as a pet. He told me he didn't feel much pity for the full size growling and snarling raccoons we trapped. The little ones, crouched in a corner, trembling, were a different matter. I knew exactly what he meant. This new fella kept looking at me, pleading to let him out. I was glad Art didn't want to shoot him.

Racoon delivered, we went on our way. We called the next day and heard about the raccoon release. They'd kept the cage in the house to keep it safe and cool until evening. The afternoon temp that day was 103 degrees, so that was a kindness. After nightfall he drove to an old, abandoned church; the grass and trees around it would be perfect for little raccoons. He explained the "Facts of Raccoon Life" (as he called them) to Ali and they opened the trap. The little guy ambled out into the dark.

Matthew said she mentioned something about Papa Art not shooting that one, and I wondered if I should have told her the soft-hearted man wanted to keep it as a pet.

Helene

Varmints ( not for the squeamish)

Living in the country means living with varmints. Varmints are the wild critters you thought were so cute when you lived in the city. Now you see varmints as the enemy, because they see your place as a 24 hour buffet.

Varmint enemy # 1 is the raccoon, the devil in fur. It eats poultry through the cage wire when hens are in sleep stupor at night. Sometimes they just eat the head, or nibble off the toes sticking through the bottom of the wire. They'll dig under fences, and systematically test for holes or weaknesses, too. Whenever they can get them, 'coons delight in eating eggs. We've caught three since Saturday using peanut butter in a live trap. Kept the one from Saturday, now waiting in the freezer. My philosophy: dine on my chickens, I'll dine on you!

Oppossums rate second place, because of frequency of visits. Last month I saw one amble past the live trap, and approach the animal area while I was standing there. When I shouted and threw a soda can, the thing looked at me, turned slowly and ambled back into the woods. Possums have made themselves fat on our chickens. Waiting and shooting seems to be the only cure; they don't seem to fall for the live trap.

Skunks come right after oppossums, due to shock value. One evening Art pulled back a plywood shade to check for eggs and found a furry black and white chicken. He dropped the shade, tossed the egg basket, and leaped backward into the water bucket. The skunk, nonplussed, continued to crack and slurp the eggs. Too busy to spray, fortunately for Art!

Last of the frequent visitors are snakes, who delight equally in swallowing eggs or small birds. We had kept two quail in a cage in a shed. Poor Mr. Quail had a hard night, when I found him the next morning he was cowering in a corner while a rat snake struggled to escape. A bulge prevented the snake's retreat back through the wire. It was Mrs. Quail. Another snake climbed the power pole to the transformer, shorting out our electricity for several hours. The power company pulled the french fried snake free and gave it to us as a souvenier.

Of course there are coyotes, bobcats, and even a cougar in this area, but the 'coons, possums, skunks, and snakes are the worst. If they'd stay in the woods, we'd leave them alone. But no, they just keep lining up at Burnett's Buffet.

Helene

Erik the Evil

We had just returned from town and found a gorgeous Rhode Island Red rooster in a cage under a tree. We weren't expecting a chicken delivery that spring day, but a phone call from Butch explained. He'd gotten the rooster in a trade and knew we wanted one. None of us had any idea that Erik was EVIL.

Erik was crafty. He appeared cooperative, and as appreciative as a chicken gets when fed and watered. Tall and regal, he possessed classic coloring. An excellent specimin for breeding, I thought. He'd be great at living history events, and school programs. Erik managed to hang onto his good boy persona for nearly a week. Secure in his new home, he let Mr. Hyde out of the dark recesses of his feathery heart.

He was a murderer. We put him in a pen with six hens, but only one survived, an old Buff Orpington. Tough and experienced, she faced down Erik,who became devoted to her. She was the only creature safe around him.

He interfered with egg collecting. He'd pretend to be doing some fascinating chicken business, until Art got the cover off the pen and reached inside. POW! he'd errupt into feathered fury. Beak flashing, spurs slashing, he'd jump for Art's face. Art got really good at slamming the top down just in time to avoid injury. The best time to collect "Evil's" eggs was when he was in a sleep stupor. Actually, that was the safest time to do anything with Erik.

He hated the public. Our friend Hangman still tells a story of Erik's first event at Jones park. A young woman came up and asked to pet a chicken. She noticed Erik, placed off to one side away from the other examples of heritage chickens. Erik spotted her.

"Why does that chicken hate me?" she asked." Look at how he's looking at me!"

"Ma'am," Hangman said, "It's not just you, he doesn't like anybody."

That afternoon, some Civil War re-enactors came by "commandeering" livestock to feed the troops. Art offered them Erik; they took one look at him throwing himself against the wire, spurs extended, and left empty handed.

Erik hated us. A human free zone around his pen became imperative, which complicated feedings. He'd wait until someone showed a lack of attention while pouring feed through a crack in the top of the pen. He'd hit the side of the wire like a charging bull, bury a spur in a workboot, or leave a hole the size of a .22 in an unprotected shin or knee.

He spiraled deeper into sociopathic behavior when his hen died of old age. He was alone, and the world would pay. To my horror, he learned to escape his pen. Not as quick as I used to be, I had reason to be wary of that bird. If he got out I stayed in. Art would have to capture him. Erik had topped out at two and a half feet, and every inch was vindictive.

He understood capture nets were to be avoided. He knew folks that brandished nets were up to no good and sped away squawking through the brush. Fast and agile, he bcame impossible to catch. He had to be stopped, and was -- with one shot.

You might disagree with that solution. Someone made Erik evil and passed him off in a trade. Unwittingly given to us, things didn't work out. Some critters just can't be rehabbed; kindness didn't work. A lot of you have Erik stories from your past visits, and know we did the best thing for him and us.

Helene

Callie - in Memorium

Fortune smiled upon us in the form of a free Spanish goat! Nearby college kids kept stealing her from the living history museum to guest at fraternity parties. The last time she was mildly hurt, so the museum folks decided she needed a safer home. Callie was spoiled beyond belief, and posessed bad habits we would discover within a week of her arrival.

Callie loved beer with single-minded fervor. Our animal guru, Butch had a bottle of beer on the ground next to his chair. He reached down for another sip, but the bottle wasn't there! Several feet away, Callie was nudging and licking that brown bottle. He shouted, she pinned back her ears, but kept after the remains of the "barley pop"!

Callie came to know Butch's voice. The sound of his truck as it pulled into our driveway spurred her to run to the house to meet her good friend. She already could identify a six pack or a beer bottle at a distance. She preferred Bud Light or one of the major brands: don't offer her a cheap beer! She had her standards, you know.


Art brought her a bottle of water once. After one sip, she looked at him in horror and curled her lip in a goat sneer. She did NOT think he was as funny as he did.

The next vice? Cigarettes! She wasn't a smoker, but she loved to eat them. In small amounts, tobacco is a natural wormer. Sadly, she leaned toward excessive consumption. Too much nicotine gives a goat the shakes. Callie lost the free run of the property when she picked up and ate most of an untended pack of smokes. Confined (more or less) to the goat pasture, she was allowed out on a cable or a leash.

Confinement was an insult! Her days were spent testing the fence for weaknesses. She found every single hole, and wormed herself under the fence when the holes were repaired. Revenge was sweet. She ate the strawberry bed, all the broccoli, and the brussels sprouts. Hooked to a cable, she learned to pop the clip to her halter and would gallop away, laughing demented goat laughter.

Fortunately, she was a sucker for treats. Cellophane crinkling, chip bags opening, she knew all the sounds. Children with candy found it delicately pulled from their hands. Then she ran. They couldn't catch her, and even if they did, the candy was defiled with goat slobber. Our white feed bucket had special allure. When shaken, the corn chops inside rattled enticingly, and the foolish goat would thrust her head inside. The hand not holding the bucket quickly grabbed her halter. Head still inside the bucket, Callie was pulled back to captivity. Temporarily.

We knew her to be sweet and gentle, but she could surprise guests unused to such a large goat. Maggie wore a beloved old sweater on one of her visits; Callie loved both of them at first sight. Somehow during the petting, Callie rubbed her head against Maggie and got her horns tangled in the sweater. Callie panicked and pulled. Alarmed, Maggie pulled back. We untangled the two before anyone was hurt, but the sweater had a sizeable hole. One of the things I love about our friend is her sense humor. She went home laughing, and in later conversations often asked about "her" goat.

The fireman's wife was terrified when Callie "treed" her in our bulldozer. Her husband was busy putting out a grass fire on our farm and never saw her clinging to the roll cage as Callie stretched toward her. When I found them, I explained that the goat was looking for a treat. "Check your pockets!" I shouted. She pulled out a granola bar. "Unwrap it and throw it,"I called. The granola arced through the air, hit the ground, and the goat pounced on it. The fireman's wife scrambled down from the dozer, ran to her car, and locked herself in. Not such a good sense of humor, I thought, as I dragged Callie and her granola bar back to goat jail.

We kept Callie more than six years, alternately aggravated at her and delighted with her. I think she enjoyed her life with us, or perhaps her time outsmarting us. One spring morning Art went out to check on her, and she didn't get up. We decided on a funeral pyre so the coyotes wouldn't get at her body. I wanted my memories of her life unscorched, so asked Art and our son, Matthew, send her to goat Valhalla. I'm sure she's there, planning her escape .

Helene