The Farmette Report

Spring lambs

The sheep that belong to our across the road neighbors have been busy lambing! The little ones are so light on their feet - just springing and bouncing every which way. However, they are like their stodgy parents in that they are cautious about strangers approaching from the other side of the fence and would have nothing to do with me. Actually, this photo shows them retreating from my approach.

The sheep seem to be a mix of breeds, and even though we love the color of the brown wool on the big guy, we suspect these critters are more for meat than for fiber, poor babies. For instance, some of them have been marked with a colored dye, which doesn't seem like the thing to do if you were primarily interested in harvesting their wool. But, then again, we don't know much about keeping sheep.

It is funny to see the undocked tails of the young'uns, something I'm not used to seeing. The first time I noticed those long tails, I did a double-take as I had forgotten that most sheep don't have naturally stumpy tails. (I'll save the "dock or no-dock" argument for those who know about such things.) The best part about the lamb tails is watching them waggle madly whenever the happy lambs enjoy an opportunity to nurse!

We're not the only ones who enjoy watching the wee lambs. We've seen our donks Molly and Ambrose gazing at them, transfixed, from across the way. Maybe their sheep guarding instincts were kicking in?

Enjoying the day

Thursday was my birthday, and as is my custom, I took the day off from office work. Some folks have told me that they find this a "quaint" custom, and I suppose they mean that a middle-aged woman should be above making such a fuss over a birthday. Apparently most women my age prefer not to dwell on anything that reminds them that they are getting older. I've never been one to resent getting older, especially when you stop to consider the alternative, and neither am I someone who requires being "fussed" over. Rather, the customary day off came about because of my career in human resources management - and the first year when a manager at a company where I worked needed my presence during the termination of an employee who had numerous performance issues. It occurred to me that I had better ways of marking the day than firing someone, and so we settled on another date for our meeting with the soon-to-be former employee - and I have taken my birthday off ever since.

This year, I wanted a quiet day of reflection. I planned to achieve this by taking my knitting and sitting out back with the donkeys nearby while I worked on my current project. What luck - the day promised to be unusually sunny and lovely. The temperature was a mild 65 degrees, with a slight breeze. A beautiful day for idling around the garden and the donkeys.

As you can see, I was not the only one who welcomed the sunny day! With his high-maintenance white coat, you'd think our cat would know better, but he couldn't resist lounging in the sun-warmed earth of the one of the small raised beds next to the kitchen.

I set out towards the donkey's main pasture, passing one of their dust baths on my way to a pretty spot where I could sit and knit. Look what the dust bath revealed, plain as day:

At first I thought these were groundhog prints, because we see those critters the most - and their paws are so well padded, but after consulting one of our wildlife books, I'm not so sure these aren't raccoon prints. Groundhogs have four "toes" in front and raccoons have five. Plus, it looks like the edge of the longer rear paw is visible in the lower left corner of the photo. The tracks couldn't have been there long, either, because the donkeys use their dust bath several times a day, especially when the day is sunny. But then that would mean that we have a raccoon traipsing around in the donkeys' dust bath during the day.

Speaking of donkeys, Molly and Ambrose most obligingly followed me to my knitting spot. They grazed nearby while I knit, an arrangement that seemed to content us all. Every once in a while, one of the donks would come over and visit with me while I scratched behind an ear or offered a treat of carrot or while Ambrose tried to mouth the yarn I was working with.

At one point, when I got up to stretch my legs, Ambrose ambled over to check out my unguarded knitting bag. At least that's what I thought he was up to, until he made it clear that his real interest was in sniffing the rock where I had been sitting. Have I ever mentioned how much the donkeys are like big dogs?!

After knitting for a good while, I took a walk with the donkeys before ending my relaxing afternoon sojourn. I passed under the tall spruce on my way to the house, and there - newly dropped - was the tree's latest gift:

Harbingers

Our crocuses have arrived! I almost missed them because my focus has been on other things, but yesterday was unseasonably warm and sunny - perfect for checking in on going's on in the garden. The daffodils have been shooting up for a few weeks now, and today they obliged us with their first blooms.

These are at the side of the barn, in view of Molly and Ambrose. I wonder if they appreciate the sight as much as we do? Not likely, but that's okay.

While the flowers are a welcome harbinger of Spring, we've also had some unwelcome activity from the local groundhogs and at least one... skunk. The skunk problem started a few weeks ago. At first we thought that maybe a skunk had been hit by a car on the road in front of our house. But the smell kept going away, then returning on different nights. Then we thought that perhaps a skunk had tried to help itself to our cat's food, and there had been a tussle followed by a spraying outside our kitchen door. But the smell outside went away fairly quickly, while inside the house, and especially in the cellar, the smell remained fairly strong. Then, one night around 3 am, we got hit with a renewed blast of skunk that was so strong, it woke me - gagging - from a sound sleep.

What to do?

Keith did a little research and discovered that skunks move from one den to another fairly often. They like to use burrows created by groundhogs, and we definitely have more than one entrance, and maybe even more than one burrow under the 90 feet of porch that wraps around two sides of the house. The Humane Society suggests persuading the tenants of these burrows to vacate by tossing ammonia-soaked rags into the holes, then semi-blockading the entrances so that we can tell if there is any new traffic. If the hole remains unused for a few days, it is safe to close it up without worrying about trapping anything inside.

Keith went looking for burrow entrances this morning, so we could plan our campaign. At the far end of the porch, near the outside entrance to the cellar, is a retaining wall. Last year, a new burrow entrance was dug into the top of the hill on the other side of the retaining wall. This morning, when Keith peeked inside the hole - a groundhog peered back up at him!

"It was cute." Keith said to me later, as he described the incident.

Cute?! The groundhogs are our sworn enemies. Their extensive digging can ruin buildings, create a misstep that can break a donkey's (or a person's) leg, and do untold damage to a garden. We're supposed to be vanquishing the vermin!

Later this afternoon, I went out to snap a quick photo of the groundhog hole for this post. If I stand on tip-toe and lean over the edge of the retaining wall, I can just see inside the hole. I stood. I leaned over. A groundhog - the groundhog - peered back at me, about 18 inches from my face.

Gahhh! What in the world was it still doing there? Shouldn't it have hightailed it the heck out of there this morning? I quickly held the camera above my head, pointed it at the hole and snapped, hoping for a decent shot.

It's not easy to see, but there it is.

Our first thought was to put a Hav-a-Heart trap near the opening, baited with something yummy, but we don't want to risk trapping a skunk instead of the groundhog. After all, how would you go about releasing a skunk? I keep imagining something to do with Marlin Perkins and tranquilizer guns.

And now I can't shake the thought that, if the groundhog had held its...er, ground since this morning, maybe it couldn't readily retreat or move to another burrow. Maybe it was protecting something. Maybe that something was a new batch of baby groundhogs.

Cute.

Getting ready

Anticipation. I think that's what makes Autumn and Spring my favorite seasons. In Spring, so much is happening - seedlings risk the chill of a late season frost and dormant plants reappear with renewed vigor, full of the promise of Summer days. Mild Autumn days are suited to the work of stacking wood, cleaning out gardens, and getting ready for what's to come. You do a lot of "getting ready" in Spring and Autumn.

The leaves have put on their annual display - they tried their best, they really did, but this year's month of no rain followed by a month of heavy rains muted the effect. Still it was a lovely show, leaving us with no short measure of anticipation over the raking to come.

As I've mentioned before, I love to rake leaves, but everyone has their limits. Not that we rake every last leaf, either. We are not that finicky. The leaves among the trees and the leaves in the garden beds - we let those stay to do their Winter's work. It's the lawn and the grassy paddocks that get our attention, and we do a large part of the leaf clean-up with the leaf sweeper attachment on our lawn tractor.

The donkeys are fascinated  by the leaf sweeper. To them it is a movable banquet, full of good earthy smells. They'll eat the leaves right out of the hopper, when they get the chance. After all, doesn't everyone know that a leaf in any kind of container is tastier than a leaf on the ground? (And tastier still, is the leaf offered by hand.)

I made the mistake of rounding up over 30 loads of leaves in the leaf sweeper the other weekend without wearing a dust mask. This set off my allergies pretty badly, and this past weekend, I took to wearing a mask, even though I was only using a regular leaf rake.

While I was raking, I found this poor little goldfinch near our kitchen gate. One minute there was nothing there, and the next time I went through the gate - there she was. I don't know what caused her death. Our old cat is a little too slow for bird-catching, and besides, she appeared whole and intact. I buried her in a hollow of tree roots in the woods.

Next up: the most expensive pumpkin butter in the world and why it is sometimes okay to eat your Thanksgiving meal in a restaurant.

His smile warms me

He was already a mature cat of 10 years when he joined our household by camping out on our suburban front steps nine years ago. Because of my major cat allergies, he's never been allowed in our house - and so he's had to tough out his winters outdoors. He always managed quite well, growing a furry coat as thick as a polar bear's. Still, when we moved to the country from the 'burbs three winters ago, we knew it was time to up the ante on the aging Mr. White's winter quarters.

The first winter, I bought him an orthopedic egg crate "nest" with removable cover. Then I got a wet/dry heating pad and slipped that under the cover. Once it was plugged in and turned on low, you wouldn't believe the blissed out look on the cat's face. You'd have to pry him out of that nest on a cold night if he didn't need to step out for food, water, or the "facilities" (which he seems to think is all of the outdoors where I happen to garden). When the weather turned colder, we could adjust the heat setting accordingly. It was a nifty system that made it hard to feel guilty about keeping the cat outside.

An odd thing happened that first winter. One unseasonably sunny winter day, Mr. White was basking in the sun outside of his nest. He rolled and stretched, revealing a long, thin strip of bare belly. It looked like someone had taken a razor and shaved him smooth with one long stroke from stem to stern on his underside. Closer inspection showed that his skin wasn't cut - it looked healthy and so did the rest of him. He didn't appear traumatized. But there was this completely smooth one and half inch wide patch, completely hairless, in marked contrast to the rest of his healthy-looking fur-covered self. 

All I could think was that someone had taken the poor beast and had subjected him to surreptitious medical experiments. As that prospect seemed highly unlikely, I did my best not to wig out, but to look for some other explanation for the hair loss.

I started to closely monitor Mr. White's belly fur. As the winter progressed, so did the denudification. Now, instead of what looked like a sharply demarcated shaved strip, his belly sported a growing, sprawling patch of hairless pink skin. The cat himself seemed perfectly content. From above, you would never know anything was amiss, but when he laid down and showed a glimpse of belly, he looked like a cat that was recovering from some recent major surgery.

He was already something of a sight. From a distance, he is this lovely, graceful white cat with a slim, rangy build. Get a little closer and you will see that this neutered male was quite the tusker in his day: he is missing one fang, has quite a few notches in his ears, and has a fondness for rolling that white coat of his through the dirt.

Because his looks and disposition seemed otherwise completely normal, as did his weight and appetite, I decided against a trip to the veterinarian's office. Whitey hates car travel, hates vet offices. And I wasn't looking forward to paying a chunk of cash to find out that they were as stumped as I was. Sorry if I offend anyone who believes in running off to the vet at the first sniffle, but ever since I noticed that a vet visit never seems to cost less than $300, I think twice about the need. I don't skimp on care when it is truly needed, and our pets get regular vaccinations, but we try to work things out on our own when we can.

Besides, I had a theory about what was causing Mr. White's depilated belly. All I needed to do to prove my theory was to make one adjustment and wait a few weeks. Sure enough, weeks passed, the days became warmer, and the furless patch began to fill in with snowy new fuzz. Before long, Mr. White was as be-furred as ever; once again, he could show off that furry belly with pride!

The cause of Mr. White's hair loss? An over-heated nest. At some point during the coldest days, we had cranked up his heating pad to the highest setting. He loved it, but his belly fur, which bore the brunt of the heat, couldn't take it. We had baked the fur right off! The "adjustment" that I made was to turn the heating pad to the lowest setting (or off completely, when it was warm enough) and let nature take its course.

Since that first winter with the heating pad, Mr. White must have developed a tolerance for the extra warmth because, while he lost a little belly fur at the beginning of the second winter, he has since maintained his hirsute state throughout the following winter seasons. What a good cat he is!

The turkeys at work

I was going through some photos I took within the last few months and found this one that I meant to post:

How many times have you gone home after a rough day on the job, moaning about  "the turkeys at work"? Well, in late September, we literally had three wild turkey hens hanging around outside one of our offices. Usually, wild turkeys are extremely wary animals (not like their dumbed-down domesticated cousins), but these three gals let me approach them from the parking lot and take photos at close range. If I'd had any cracked corn on me, I bet they would have been glad to let me share it with them, which makes me wonder if someone kept these particular birds as pets or if they are just going the way of some of our resident (and increasingly domesticated) Canadian geese - who seem to know a good thing when they see it.

Now that Thanksgiving Day is drawing nearer, I hope these gals have managed to stay out of trouble.

Our world of insects

Okay, forgive me, but I couldn't resist the cornball title. My five year old digital camera has been giving me grief of late, but as it happens, it rallied 'round when pressed into service in the garden this weekend. Here then, a quick tour. Word of warning for those who dislike creepy crawlies - you may want to skip this post and look at flowers or donkeys. If you like this kind of stuff, click on the pic for an extra close-up.

Ummm.... is this what I think it is? It looks awful. It looks painful. It looks... awfully painful. The poor caterpillar. Ummm, unless it's a Tobacco Hornworm parasitized by Braconid wasp (pupa stage) found in my ter-mater patch in which case I say "go, Braconid parasite, go!"

In less mysterious insect news, this has been a bad year for Japanese beetles. Not a bad year for them, au contraire, but a bad year for gardens being over-run by their insatiable selves.

Sentence commuted

After reading that I'd given our prisoner food and water, you probably guessed that I couldn't go through with killing it. Well, you guessed right. I thought about shooting it, drowning it, electrocuting it, or just leaving it in the cage to meet its fate in the hot sun - but I had already looked this creature in the eye and it had returned my gaze. Such fates all seemed too awful, too cruel. Keith refused to shoot it, saying "It's one thing to take a shot at one from a distance as it walks across the yard, another thing altogether to shoot it once its been caged."

So... I'm afraid we took it away and made it someone else's headache. We took it across the mountain, about 25 minutes away by highway, and found a spot by a highway ramp. As we pulled up, we saw another groundhog run for cover, so it seemed an amenable spot, at least. Keith donned his heavy work gloves and opened the cage. The groundhog scrambled to safety. It was over, for this one, anyway. One down and thirty or fifty, or who knows how many, to go.

You catch more flies with honey...

And groundhogs, too. I really have to give big thanks to Steph for her tip about the fresh fruit drizzled in sweet syrup. She used strawberries and maple syrup, but we didn't want to waste our organic, double-thick maple syrup ($$$) on a pest of an overgrown rodent. So we used honey - cheap honey. And peaches, because that's what the grocery store had. Peaches and honey... a very tasty combo.

Also an irresistible combo, as it turns out. The bait disappeared within the first day - but the trap wasn't set properly and it didn't spring shut when the bait was raided. Yesterday, it sprang shut before trapping a groundhog. Keith reset the and re-baited the trap, but he used plain peaches and we got no takers. This morning he drizzled on some honey, and we came home to find a ticked off groundhog in the trap. After three years of battling groundhogs, we finally caught our first one.

Steph asked what to do with a trapped whistle pig. Good question. The whole point of using a Hav-a-Hart trap is to catch and release, presumably making sure that the release is far enough away to make the critter someone else's headache. But that's just the problem. We have a whole slew of these pests. Multiple burrows under the porch, in the barn, in the garden - and, worst of all, where the donkeys spend their days. The donkeys could break a leg in a groundhog hole. We try to fill in the holes that pose a danger; Keith stepped knee deep in one last year and was lucky to walk away with some bad bruises. There was an article in the local paper today about a girl who's participating in the local Ag Expo, displaying the results of several 4-H projects. She broke her leg recently in a groundhog hole, so yes it happens.

I'm a peaceful person, for the most part. A vegetarian. Fond of animals and wildlife. But there's a part of me that wants to nail that groundhog to a board and post it at the opening to its burrow as a warning to other groundhogs. It has shocked me to discover this cruel side, that I could even contemplate taking such an action. It's been so troubling, that I actually had a very strange dream two nights ago about trapping groundhogs. I dreamed that I awoke early in the morning, eager to check the trap to find out if we'd had any success. I looked out the bedroom window to gaze down upon the spot in the garden. Now, in real life, the plants in my garden obscure the view of the trap from the bedroom window, but in my dream, I could see clearly as though zooming the camera in on a dolly for a close-up. It was sprung. There was not one, but TWO groundhogs inside the trap, padding back and forth from one end of the trap to the other, looking for escape. Their plight had attracted the attention of all their little groundhog children and grandchildren. They surrounded the trap, sitting and watching. I looked down upon them, and without even counting, thought "hmmm, there are 31 groundhogs there." The sitting groundhog offspring were part of a larger tableau of creatures who were watching in spellbound observance: miniature ponies from across the way, deer from the woods in back, raccoons, possum, a skunk, our new crop of rabbits, a few cats, a fox, a hawk, some jays. The crowd had actually knocked down most of the split-rail fence that separates our yard from our closest neighbor's. I quickly checked the back fence, worried about Molly and Ambrose, but it was intact and they were watching through the boards. I left the window to go downstairs and get a closer look, wondering to myself what I would do with the trapped pair - and that's all I really remember about the dream. It reminded me of Miyazaki's "Princess Mononoke" in a way, though I don't know why. Maybe I thought the pair were the groundhog gods.

Our prisoner awaits the verdict on his or her fate, a verdict that will come during the daytime. I moved the cage to a spot that will be shady in the morning, and provided the groundhog with water and a bit to eat. It won't eat, or hasn't that I can tell, but the water seemed to bring it some relief. I really don't want to let it live, but I don't want it to suffer in the meantime.

Hello, Cosmo!

Just look at him. Isn't he fabulous? This lovable guy is Cosmo, beloved pooch of bro and sis-in-law Tim and Alex. Cosmo's a mixed breed, rescued from the pound and is only now, after a couple of years of domestic stability, starting to really seem settled in his own skin. And he's so well behaved! He doesn't require a leash, doesn't run off - he just wants to make you happy. Who can complain about that? Everyone loves Cosmo.

Tim, Alex, and Cosmo visited a couple of weeks ago, during our week of Donkey-versary observances, and we had our first donkey meets dog event. Now let me tell you, we were pretty darn nervous about introducing Cosmo to Molly and Ambrose because everyone will tell you, including Ricky (and he should know): dogs and donkeys just don't get along. Worse than that, they typically see each other as sworn blood enemies - donkeys have been known to kick dogs to death. But not, I am happy to report, our donkeys, who were more curious than anything, and not our happy canine visitor, who was likewise curious. We were really encouraged by this, because Keith and I would like a dog or two of our own someday and we worry about breaking bad with the donkeys. Now we're thinking it might work with the right dog.

Maybe things would have taken a turn for the worse without the fence, but we wanted to take precautions in case there was a donkey-dog freak-out. As it was, Cosmo stuck his sniffer through the boards so that dog and donkeys could really check each other out. After the sniffing was done, Cossie got bored more quickly than the donkeys did; in this photo we practically had to command him stay in the shot - he was ready do go off and explore elsewhere.

And explore we did. We clambered to the back of our few acres, where we don't go often enough. In doing so, we startled a little fawn. (Do you see it there?)

As soon as Alex saw the fawn, she instructed Cosmo to turn around and follow her as she walked in the opposite direction. You know what? Cosmo, good boy that he is, did just that. Good boy, Cosmo, good boy!