Luther: Farmstead Guardian

In the wee hours of this morning, I woke to the sound of thundering hoof beats just beyond the wall from my pillows. Although I am used to the sound of Stella and Millie galloping by, racing one another to the driveway gate or just running for the shear pleasure of movement, this sound was different. These gals were running from something, not romping towards a playful goal. I cannot explain how the sound was different; I just knew.

The dogs kicked up a ruckus, of course. Molly and the pups had been kenneled since dinnertime, and Luther was guarding the alpacas in our home pasture. I got up, listening. After some minutes the frenzy had not lessened, nor had the mares passed by heading downhill again. I opened the front door and stepped onto the porch, whereupon I clearly heard the sounds of rustling brush and a thud of an intruder bumping the wood of the big goat girls’ shelter.

Only yesterday afternoon had I come home to view the bigger milk goats exiting from their shelter, slowly as if after a sound nap. The sight had heartened me, for I had not before seen them in the shelter unless I had led them there. So, hearing the animal sounds downhill, I hurried back through the house, slipped my bare feet into a mud-caked pair of tall boots by the side door, and hustled up to the home pasture.

Luther came to my call and met me at the lower pasture gate. He hesitated a moment when I opened the gate for him, since I normally reach out to restrain him before escorting him to another job site, but he understood when I stood wide that he was being sent to work. His massive white form slipped right past me and he checked in with the dogs in the kennel while I refastened the gate.

By the time I turned around, he had vanished downhill into the night. I followed—much more slowly. Between torrential rains and playful hoof beats, the swath of “lawn” heading down past the kennel and house is an uneven sea of boot-sucking mud, guaranteed to have me slipping and sliding. Wearing shirtsleeves and pajama pants, I had no desire to slip down into the muck.

When I had safely navigated the hillside, I approached the wooded patch where the large goat shelter stands. Listening hard because I could see so little in the night’s blackness, I determined that the goats were not in the shelter but I did hear some movement beyond the shelter and then Pamela Chrysanthemum’s neck bell chimed. It sounded as if the goats might be in this lower area after all, so I pressed on.

Ultimately it turned out that a large animal was crashing about along the creek bank, periodically splashing down into the water and then lurching back onto the bank. Unarmed, I headed in that direction only to flush the animal out on the far side of the creek. In the dim light it could have been Goldie Rose, the light colored alpaca mom, but she would not be out of her pasture area. When the animal turned tail and fled over the barbed wire fencing and into the neighbor’s pasture, I saw it was a doe. So deer had found the feed I’d left in the goat shelter. This would present a problem until I get that last little stretch of perimeter fence fully secured. Even then, though, a shoulder-high fence that holds our livestock may exclude a coyote, but a deer will sail over a six-foot fence with ease when motivated. I listened a bit longer, then left Luther on duty and gingerly made my way back to the house and into bed.

Twice more during the night I woke and ventured out without retrieving Luther. One time I saw him wading down the center of the creek in chest-high water. He was still patrolling the property. I did want to secure him again before dawn, lest he take it into his head to go visiting once his night shift was over. Finally at about 5:30 I went out to find him curled up at the base of the hill, lying practically nose-to-nose with the similarly-curled spotted saddle horses. He took his leave from them, and came to me for praise and food.

He was amply rewarded, and again confined to the home pasture. I requested that he not share his kibble with the greedy geese, but I’m sure they’ll have had a chance at it by now. When I left, he was crunching his way through the kibble in his bowl, accepting the reward as his due after an eventful night on watch.

Good dog, Mr. Luther. We thank you for your dedicated service. Keep up the good work.

What Fence?

Yesterday our barefoot farrier, Stronghorse Church, was here with his lovely assistant Danielle. After finishing with our spotted saddle horses, he called to me when he thought he was witnessing something unusual: Millie, our younger SSH mare, passing through a fence. 'Twas nothing unusual around these parts. Millie has loosened some high tensile fence to the point that all she needs to do is move slowly and she will pass right through the supposed barrier.

Stronghorse exclaimed that she'd just walked into and through the fence, only to hang up her last hoof on a strand and stop. Most horses, he told me, would explode in panic, if they got a hoof hung like that.

Not Millie, I told him. She has perfected the art of moving slowly enough that the fences just melt on past her. She can open any grain bin / trash can, too, I told him.

He allowed that she's a smart horse, then gathered his tools and came up the hill to trim the feet of our paint horses. Since the rain has made our hillside into a mudslide, I brought Lucy and Janet out onto the gravel drive for their pedicures. It was their first time out of that pasture since entering it last May shortly after Janet was born.

The little filly--well, she's not so little anymore, for once the throatlatch of the yearling halter could be buckled on without the need for extra loops and knots--she enjoyed exploring her new stomping grounds enough that I left the gate open after Stronghorse had finished. I figured they would come back in at dinnertime, and Lucy did just that.

Little Janet, though, was feeling independent and allowed her dam to wander out of sight. Lucy was munching on hay inside the pasture when a shrill whinny rang out and we saw Janet racing down the driveway toward the main gate. We made noise and the filly saw us and turned our way. I was moving over to mark the open pasture gate for her, carrying a flake of hay, when she charged on a trajectory bound for the fence.

She acknowledged the high tensile wire by lifting herself a bit off the ground. Her body cleared the wire just fine, but her long legs got caught and she flipped tail-over-head before hitting the ground hard. I was mentally kicking myself for not carrying a wirecutter that day, as I hurried over to help untangle her errant foreleg.

She didn't need my help, and sprung up and out of the fence as if she'd not even fallen. I watched her for a bit and she seemed to move without trouble, so I went along with my chores.

This evening the filly is still moving well. She and her dam had free roam of the back acres again today. When I came up to feed, Little Miss Janet was curled up near the driveway gate--hanging out with thye dogs waiting on their supper, too. I did notice that she has a cut by her right eye that she may have earned in her fall, but it looks clean and doesn't seem to bother her--so I left it alone for the evening.

What troubles me, though, is that Janet's first encounter with challenging a fence ended with her successfully surmounting it. I'm hoping this does not send her along the path to Millie's lack of care for human-imposed "boundaries."

Icy Mornings

These two photographs document a phenomenon I've not previously encountered. On a series of sub-freezing mornings, when the air temperature registered in the 20's, I encountered these strange ice formations at the base of some plants located near a wall on the property where the Twin Oaks Cattle Company livestock are pastured. The owner, Mr. John Floyd, was kind enough to hire me to feed his lowline cattle on the few days each week when he has other engagements. I enjoy the opportunity to earn money while also learning about cattle and visiting another farm operation.

Since this has been a learning experience for me, on more days than not John is pestered by calls from me--with questions or observations. He's very good about responding and I benefit because he explains ideas clearly and is also a patient teacher. But, I try to limit my questions to situations pertaining to his cattle, so I haven't asked him (or anyone else) about this strange occurrence with the icy plants.

What appears to happen is that when the air is cold enough to freeze water, the moisture inside or along the plant stalks somehow freezes and expands into an almost fluffy white, icy overcoat. The icing is most certainly related to the plant stalks, and I'm aware that freezing water expands, but I've never seen this effect--it's as if Nature is outfitting these plant stalks with lacy, Elizabethan ice collars.

If any reader can explain this phenomenon, please do. I am definitely intrigued by it.

Chilly December Days

We've had some very chilly days this month, including a few mornings where the thermometer settled into the teens and twenties. The good part of cold weather is that we always know that it won't last; today, for example, the temperature was in the low sixties. The less desirable aspects of cold weather include that we cannot help but notice when the heat goes out in the house. Also, the hoses freeze and I'm back to lugging buckets of water up to each pasture and stall.

Today the repair technician came to address the heat pump issue and the indoors is toasty warm again this evening. Also the two dogs we had spayed last week concluded their prescribed period of indoor recuperation today, and they're back out in the split kennel for the night. When Molly and Kathleen first came back from the veterinarian, they were distressed at being asked to enter the house; however, over the course of the weekend they got quite comfortable staying in the laundry room and only going out for "chores" with me in tow. Today they spent much of the day outside confined to the orchard by the house. Although Kathleen slipped through the fence once to romp with Biscuit in the front yeard, Miss Molly was--as always--the good dog who stayed within the confines of the fencing.

One of these days I'm going to remember to pick up a chain collar when I'm in town. I've been meaning to do a little obedience training with the dogs almost since they arrived last January. Luther will generally come when called, but when Molly is feeling well she interprets "come" as her cue to elude my outstretched hands. Today it was clear that she feels recovered from her surgery because the one time I needed her to come in, she chose to play "chase me through the mud for a few minutes" before agreeing to follow me inside.

For the most part all of the animals on the farm work well with me: they always show up on time for dinner, regardless of the weather and regardless of what fun activities they may have been engaged in previously.

Mouse Tales

When I was growing up the children of our household belonged to the "Clean Plate Club." One did not get excused from the table until one's plate had been cleaned. We had no pets begging below the table (still don't), so we were responsible for cleaning our own plates ourselves, thank you very much.

I think the goats have their own version of this club, for nary a speck of grain is left behind when they are done. All the other animals have different standards. For example, the goats and chickens clean up behind the horses. (I mean they clean up the horses's feed pans, although the chickens do also clean up behind the horses.) The dogs can return to their feed at any time, as can the cats; self-feeding works fine for them--unless hungry geese stop by to chow down. And the alpacas do finish their feed, but they do not bother to clean their feed bins.

Some time ago when I went in to add feed to Spencer and Greg's feed tub I found two dead mice left there by our recently-acquired cats. I praised the cats lavishly and remembered to thank them again as I served their evening goat milk. Apparently they took note of the extra attention.

If the light is dim by the time I feed in the inside stalls, I'll reach in a hand to explore. In the three boys' stall (Hamilton, Romeo, and Shaun), I clean out any hay that's fallen into the bin. In the mama pacas' s stall, I used to do the same; however, since switching them to a self-feeding regimen (like the dogs and cats enjoy), I simply gauge the level and types of feed left in their bin before mixing an addition. (The mama pacas receive a blend of three grains/pellets, plus some alfalfa shreds to enhance their milk production.) Ever since finding those two mice, I reach into the young boys' feed tub to make sure no more mice are lying there. Tonight I felt a suspiciously corpse-like shape beneath my glove and refrained from adding grain immediately.

Backtracking to the corridor, I flipped on the light switch that enables me too see into the stall corners. A spot in the floor was squishy due to the recent torrential rains, so I checked the condition of the corridor ('twas acceptably dry) before continuing. When I stepped up to the feed bin, I received a surprise. The one or two mouse bodies I expected to see had multiplied eightfold. (The sight was so exceptional that I remembered to pull out the camera.) I had to gather sixteen mouse bodies [count 'em if you wish, photo above] before wiping the grain remnants out of the feed tub. Sixteen! (Think, Dear Reader, of the little presents cats have left for you over the years. Would the cats in your life ever have lavished such a generous gift on you? I doubt it.)

Leaving the stall with a glove-palm-full of little mice, I began singing the cats' praises immediately. "Wow, guys! I've never had anyone gift me with sixteen mice! Thank you so much, Ms. Annabelle and Mr. Barney. You did a fine job. That's right, I've never, ever--in my entire life--ever had someone present me with sixteen mice. You guys are incredible!" (Yes I babble when talking to the animals. They've never asked me to be quiet, so I figure it's okay with them.) Before I reached the trash bag by the barn door, I had two proud felines twining around my ankles.

As we talked I acknowledged that I had failed to milk the night before because of the rain--eventually I'll have the milking area under cover--and told them that the lack of milk was in no way a reflection of my appreciation of them. I promised to begin milking shortly and told them that they did not need to overcompensate by catching sixteen mice just because they'd been deprived of their warm treat the prior evening. I also admitted that I would be milking only every other day now, and that in a couple of weeks we'd stop milking entirely so that Marcie can build her strength for the kid or kids she's carrying.

Needless to say, both Annabelle and Barney were present and accounted for come milking time that evening. They received additional praises with their milk and appeared to be satisfied. These cats are tremendous hunters, and very generous with presents, too! We are so glad they moved here to P&CW Farm, and that my mother never had a chance to teach them about any clean plate club.

Thanks, Barney and Annabelle!

Learning New Skills: Dairy

It would seem that this past year-plus has been filled with daily challenges and opportunities for learning new skills; however, the process does not seem to become any easier with time. Currently I'm working to learn about making ice cream, cheese, and soap. As one who long believed that ice cream comprised a mandatory food group, it's only logical that I began there.

Ice cream = (milk + sweetener + flavor) (churned together and frozen). I am excited that the ice cream churn that I ordered has arrived at the store because this will make the process far simpler that the repetitive blending and freezing process I've been using. Take it from a klutz, one can only carry a flat pan of sweetened milk across the kitchen and place it in the freezer without spilling so many times before one is bound to bumble the process. Although I have yet to experience a spill (and this is likely because I hold ice cream in high enough esteem than nary a drop should be wasted), I believe the automatic churn arrived just in time to save the kitchen floor from yet another milk bath. (Have I mentioned the smooth and silky texture of the laminate tile on that floor?)

Practically as soon as the first batch of maple walnut ice cream was made a few months ago, we on the farm began dreaming of offering goat's milk ice cream in the historic Fiddler's Grove section of the next Wilson County Fair . In my slow round-about way I pursued that dream for a couple of months, going so far as to win an enthusiastic response from one of the fair board members before I was able to unravel the regulations that stymie such dreams. To begin one must milk in a certified Grade A Dairy which would cost thousands of dollars to construct and institute here. Once overcoming the dairy hurdle, one needs to process the milk in a certified ice cream processing plant... and that won't be built on this farm in our lifetimes. So we've abandoned thoughts of becoming the next Ben & Jerry's of the goat world, but it took considerable time for me--an ice cream addict if there ever was one--to actually release that dream. Before fully learning about the processing facility requirements (and I admit I am far from learning much more than we won't be doing it), I began to research making cheese.

Shortly after we knew that we would be moving to this farmstead we became enamored of freshly made cheeses from farmer's markets. (The fresh mozzarella at the weekly farmer's market in Lexington, Massachusetts was at the genesis of these culinary tastes.) We have yet to make it to any cheese-making classes or to shadow any cheese makers (time is a scarce commodity), but we've stumbled along reading books and articles, and researching various websites devoted to cheese making. Last week we even pasteurized our first batch of fresh milk!

At its most basic, I believe, cheese = milk (pasteurized) + starter culture + rennet. At least I hope this is correct, for our first batch of soft goat cheese is currently draining in the kitchen following this recipe. My palate is eager for the draining to be complete (but it won't be for another two days) so that I can indulge in soft cheese on crisp bread with a smidge of Barbara & Conchita's home-canned pear jelly. If the result of this first attempt is tasty, we will have achieved another step on the ladder of self-sufficiency. While I do not plan to cook up every type of cheese we may wish to use in the future, I see another layer of food additives vanishing from our diet--and I'm glad. Of course, unfortunately, even should we master the art of home cheese making we won't be able to share the wealth without the aforementioned Grade A dairy and an approved cheese processing plant. So, in our quest to become more self-sufficient we need to pursue another avenue in order to raise the revenue necessary to keep the farm running.

Enter soap. The ingredients (so many oils!) are accumulating around the kitchen, and I'm working to set aside a space in the garage to be dedicated to soap making activities. Soap, just plain soap--for washing, is not a regulated product. (However, soap making any additional claims such as "softening skin" immediately loses its classification as ordinary soap and enters the realm of cosmetic products--all of which are regulated by the Food and Drug Administration. Our soap will be making no such claims; users will need to try it for themselves to determine any additional qualities our soaps might offer.) In addition to being unregulated, soap has the additional benefits of requiring no refrigeration and offering an endless shelf life. Indeed, the longer it sits the better it gets, I've heard, much like wine.

Basic soap = fat + lye. It took me some months to get my head around the concept of soap because of the necessity of caustic ingredients. The thought of using drain cleaner to wash my skin was unacceptable, until I came to accept that this is what I've been using for my whole life. This is part of the reason I clung to the ice cream fantasy for so long. Goat milk offers so many health benefits, I would love to share what I've learned with the eating public. I guess I'll have to restrict my audience to the washing public, which I do hope includes all readers.

Within the next week I expect to have accumulated the necessary ingredients, materials, and molds for making soap. I do enjoy arts and crafts, and now that I've begun to see that making soap falls into this category I find my enthusiasm building. Since any soap product must cure for six weeks before any use (during which time the blended fats and caustics finish the saponifying process that renders them skin-worthy), please check back in February 2010 to discover whether I was indeed educable and able to learn the art of crafting soap, more specifically milk-based soap.

Assaulted!

Our farm became my personal school of hard knocks about two weeks back. Generally I only get hurt when I do something foolish; I guess I’ve just been more foolish than usual of late.


On November 15, when Pamela & Leslie arrived, I settled our larger milk goats in the round pen down in front, then sectioned off a smaller enclosure within that so that I could handle them. Catching them to load into the car had been quite the challenge—well, Pamela was initially caught with food, but when we went to load her sidekick into the car I managed to loosen my grip for just a moment, and that was all it took for her to escape. I’m guessing we pursued her for three-quarters of an hour before the owner suggested that I take Leslie instead of the spotted goat we’d been chasing. He generously offered me a discounted price to accept the exchange and I readily accepted. How could I not? And so, Leslie was wrestled into the back of the car with Pamela. (Of course, at the time they were simply the black goat with white ears and the brown goat with white ears; it took most of the drive home to settle on their names.)

When I cornered them at home, I knew the goats would not be happy with me, but I hoped to win them over in short order. Ha! Nothing doing. Indeed, by crouching down to their level to fasten collars, leads, and bells, I opened myself up for Leslie to treat me like a goat. She ducked her head, stepped forward, and wham! She butted me right between the eyes. I rolled over backwards with a yelp but declined to loosen my grip on the baling twine that held her. The experience was painful for me—I wondered if perhaps my nose had broken—and that was when I decided to let her bell just get knotted onto the dangling lead instead of trying to fix it properly to her collar.

When the next day I awoke to find I did not have two black eyes, I realized that I had been lucky. Leslie had let me off easily, after making sure I learned that she wasn’t to be trifled with. I learned; I learned.

The farm was good to me for about a week and a half, then JoJo the gander beat me over the head with his left wing that might as well have been a yardstick made of solid bone. (See “These Cats Rock!”) That was several days ago now, but the back of my head continues to be tender and sensitive to touch. When my sister-in-law commented that the wing bones of birds are hollow, I found it difficult to believe based upon my experience.

Then yesterday I made the mistake of leaning through a gate to clip a lead on Luther, our papa dog, when the area was roiling in puppies. I was unprepared when he became infected with the youngsters’ excitement and jumped up. He caught my face with a forepaw; that threw me for a loop. I felt his claws rake across my skin from my eye down my cheek and found it hard to believe that the only marks were a single cut above my eye and one scrape down my face. They hurt like the dickens when I cleaned them up later that evening, but they should heal neatly and in short order.

As if being blindsided with Luther’s paw wasn’t enough for one evening, when I went to feed the alpacas and the dwarf goats, BullyBob—our Nigerian Dwarf buck—assaulted me. Ducking his head, he full-on butted me in the knees and nearly knocked me down. Had I not been located where I could catch myself with a wall, I would have been on the ground in a flash. Angry, I knocked his head against the same wall that had saved me. Before I had a chance to feel bad for hitting back I found out that my response only excited him further. I cannot begin to describe how gross it feels to have a pee-brown-faced buck snorting and rushing up to get close to me. (See photo, above.) Ugh! In self defense, I pinned Bully to the wall with my hip while Spencer, the lone young alpaca male, ate in peace. A couple of times Bully slipped free and charged me again, but I was prepared for his foolishness after that first time when he took me unawares.

Finally, when I went to tuck the Tennessee Fainting goats in for the night, they crowded about my ankles, making it nearly impossible to get their feed into the waiting troughs and nearly knocking me down in the process. Luckily they do not take offense easily, for I believe I uttered a few choice epithets when I wanted them to move.

When I got inside last evening it was a relief to be out of harm’s way for a time. Who woulda thunk so many would get their licks in over the course of just one evening?

Ashland City Adventure

On November 20, two of Molly's pups moved to Ashland City: Pistachio and Jethro. They were a purchased as a birthday present for a nice woman named Amanda. Her dad said that she'd been talking of getting goats and that she needed guardians first. When he was at the Ashland City Farmers Co-op , the manager, Benny (the man from whom I'd purchased Leslie & Pamela, the Nubian goat gals) told him that I had Junior Livestock Guardians for sale, so he called P&CW Farm.

That day I was rushing, rushing, trying to get errands done in a timely manner. After loading the pups into a crate in the back of my brand new, dirt-cheap, knock-about farm truck, I headed out to the City Clerk to get tags for it. (The regular truck is unavailable to me too often, so I'd shopped the prior day and found a tattered truck cheap enough that if it broke down there'd be little lost.) Tags attached, I stopped for grain then pushed the poor little old truck to the limit trying to get her to Ashland City to meet the buyer at a specified time.

Now, the 1985 pickup's speedometer only goes to 85, so I should have known to not push the old gal, but the speed limit here is 70 on much of the highway and I was racing against the clock, so we flew. My first hint that we were in trouble came when I took a wrong turn and pulled off at an exit. At the stop sign at the base of the exit ramp, the truck died. She started up again well enough, but I'd been warned. Did I heed the warning? Not a chance; I had puppies to deliver! (With the growing dogs eating a full 150 pounds of kibble each week, these pups needed to be placed sooner rather than later.)

Pulling off in Ashland City the truck stalled again. In the few miles we had to travel to Amanda's farmhouse, the little truck went from stalling every time I touched the brakes, to stalling every time I slowed down. That meant every bend in the road and every turn. Good thing she always started right up again.

Jethro and Pistachio were glad to get out of the dog crate and investigate their new home. I looked around and approved of the surroundings, then left them off. We didn't get far, just down the street, before it became apparrent that this little truck wasn't going to even limp to the closest garage, so we coasted down a winding road on a hill and pulled off at the first opportunity.

It was there, while waiting for AAA that I realized I hadn't even stopped to snap a going-away photo of the pups! So I took a picture of the truck again, to mark the adventure.

(And yes, even with repair bills, I still have a little truck that I can use anytime for farm chores--for cheap. That's good because more would not have fit into the budget!)

Leslie & Pamela Come to Our Farm

When Marcie the milk goat arrived earlier this month, I promised her companionship in short order; however, she had to wait a good two weeks before her new companions arrived. Marcie, a white Saanen/Nubian cross, is our largest goat; she needed companions of similar size. Craigslist Nashville had a listing for Nubian does born in January who had been “running with a buck” and so may be pregnant. Marcie is not shy; she readily speaks what’s on her mind and the girl is always thinking it seems.


When her companions arrived, Pamela Chrysanthemum and Leslie Lupine, Marcie accepted them but became no less needy for several days. Pamela and Leslie were terrified of me when they first arrived and I had all I could do to get a collar on Leslie and a bell on Pamela. (I tried to bell Leslie, but the string failed when I was tying it onto her collar, so I just tied it onto the piece of twine I’d left dangling to make her easier to catch. I needn’t have worried: she managed to lose the bell within a day and I have not made any move to touch either of the new goats since that day.)

Luckily the three does have formed a herd. They travel together. Marcie comes to be milked each day and Pamela and Leslie wait for her return. In the evening I can put a lead rope on Marcie to bring her into the enclosure down front fashioned for these gals, and Pamela and Leslie follow right along. Pamela’s bell rings to let me know where she is, so I need not even turn to look for the Nubian does.

I think Pamela and Leslie are beginning to trust me. I rarely look their way let alone make eye contact. They have discovered that I will provide then step away so that they may eat, or I will provide an open gate then step away so that they may pass through unhindered. If they are pregnant, they shouldn’t kid before March, I’m guessing, by which time they may accept me. I’m reminded of the Tennessee Fainting goats and of how skittish they were when they arrived. Once she kidded, Gwen, the herd queen, learned that I could be useful—for treats, food, neck and back-rubs, whatever. Pamela and Leslie will learn as well.

Until then, I’m glad that Marcie has companionship and that the three get along well. As for the Nubian does’ fancy names, well, just look at their coloring: the complicated patterns on their faces told me that they needed something more than a single name, so I picked flowers for them. (That's Pam in the foreground and Leslie standing behind her.) In time we may have Leslie or Leslie Lu and Pam or Pammy or Chrissy. For now I’m partial to their full names: Pamela Chrysanthemum and Leslie Lupine.

These Cats Rock!

Barney and Annabelle have a new fan club: me. In addition to being social and welcoming any time I enter the barn area, they’ve proven useful. This evening while waiting for me to get to the task of milking, Barney not only presented me with a dead mouse (and received copious praise), but also I saw him take on JoJo. Yes!

I may have mentioned our mean geese before. In fact, I am quite sure that that phrase has crossed these lips before. Although I did save the geese when the puppies recently became too rambunctious for JoJo and LaLa, I usually observe that almost everyone needs saving from the geese now and again. This weekend I can even add myself to that list. How pathetic is that?

These days the geese are enclosed in a pasture with the older male alpacas, the Nigerian Dwarf goats, and Caitlyn a Tennessee Fainting goat who opted to stay put when her herd last moved from that pasture. In general the animals all get along—until grain appears. Yesterday evening I broadcast some grain into the plastic feed bunk outdoors and collected the requisite goats for my trouble. Next the alpacas received grain behind a closed door so that they could eat in peace before the pushy goats stretch to their fullest to reach into the alpacas’ feed tubs.

When I exited through the pasture, the geese were worrying the poor goats (who can generally take care of themselves, thank you very much) without respite, so I reached down and scooped up JoJo under my right arm. As I pulled him to me, he managed to unfold his wings, and then he began beating me with them—hard. I found it difficult to believe that those wings had such power, but after what felt like being hit over the head with a full-size leg bone (human, equine, bovine, whatever—BIG) nearly five times, I let JoJo loose and tried to recover.

Now I was not seeing stars or anything, but my eyes teared and I was a tad disoriented. I considered texting JoJo’s namesake who might have been entertained to know that the little goose had successfully assaulted me, but let the moment pass. Today my head is still quite tender and I am reminded of JoJo’s attack each time I move to brush my hair back or pull up a hood.

So this evening when I saw Barney streak past the hissing JoJo and into the alpaca boys’ stall I felt for the cat; however, not twenty seconds later I heard JoJo squawk and turned in time to see Barney zipping through the fence—having successfully got the drop on that goose. Go Barney!

Between the mouse-present, the goose attack, and the cats’ general friendliness, I am totally thrilled to have them here. Barney & Annabelle rock!

P&CW's Judith TwilightStar

On the bright, sunny Sunday afternoon of November 8, 2009, Vanne’s unusual behavior caught my attention and gave me reason to believe she might be in labor. In addition to her sway-backed posture, then present for weeks at the end of her pregnancy, she was alternately lying down and standing up, often holding her tail up in a flag, and paying more attention to something within than outside of her. When I tried to get Goldie Rose and Lili GrayClouds to head in for the night, Goldie was resolute in her refusal to abandon her pasture mate. When I realized that Goldie must be staying to watch over Vanne, and to provide her some measure of safety during the birthing process, I stopped trying to usher her indoors. Goldie stayed close to Vanne providing alpaca support, and Lili stayed close to her mother.


Along with each wave of contractions came a glimpse of a black nose encased in a slippery sac. The nose appeared and disappeared a few times before the full head emerged, then the spindly long forelegs. When Vanne took to walking around the pasture with the head and legs dangling behind her I sensed that something was amiss. For one, it appeared that the head was below the legs and tilted in such a way as to signify that the cria was emerging upside-down, or spine-down and belly-up. A call to Thistledown Alpacas reached voicemail, so I hurried into the house to find the text on alpaca neonatology housed in my office. The literature was clear: if indeed the cria was turned upside down, well then I was facing one of the rarest birth complications, and one that is exceedingly difficult to correct. So I called Theresa next door.

“Hey there, would either of you like to come over to play midwife in the home pasture with me?” I asked. Practically as soon as I closed the phone, Tony appeared. Thank heavens for Tony: he is calm and steady, practical and gentle, level-headed and experienced. True he likely had no experience in delivering alpacas, but his ability to generalize his youthful experiences with cows would prove invaluable yet again.

Vanne had moved to a patch of bare ground, so I was trying to strew fresh straw about her when Tony entered the pasture. Dusk was gathering rapidly but we had enough light to study Vanne’s situation and, lying down as she was, the cria appeared to be positioned properly—contrary to my earlier assessment. This was a huge relief to me; however, as we watched Vanne experienced more contractions with the cria making no further progress along the birth canal.

Another call, this time to Ruth Fuqua, President of the Tennessee Alpaca Association, owner of Hickory Bluff Farms (which is "just down the road" in Mt. Juliet), and co-owner of the New Era Fiber Mill. She suggested the same thing Tony had, that the cria was likely stuck at the shoulders and the dam could use a bit of assistance. I was concerned with how fragile I understood alpacas to be and Ruth granted that this was not a cow and I need not bring out the tractor and use chains to pull the cria loose. A gentle but firm manual pull during a contraction might be just what Vanne needed. I got off the phone as another contraction started, placed my gloved hands on the slippery cria, and tugged. A dark form slipped free of its dam and slid onto the fresh straw around my knees!

Vanne was tired and allowed Tony and me to peel the birth sac off of her little one. We admired her new cria’s extraordinarily long legs, noted that the hooves were even less well-developed than Lili’s had been—indeed they seemed to be all pad and no hoof, and determined that the new arrival was female. Each time the cria attempted to stand, she wound up tumbling further downhill and I decided that ‘twas time for the mamas to take their young in for the night.

Tony stayed and helped until we got the gals and their crias settled into separate stalls indoors, with Goldie’s Spencer free to roam outside. By this time Vanne was humming with consternation and it took me the better part of a day to realize that she was objecting to being closed in apart from Goldie. By the time I had resolved that trauma for Vanne, her cria was fully in charge of those spidery legs of hers and could romp and skip about without tumbling over at all.

Beginning the new cria’s name was simple: Judith Ann; this dark little alpaca, who appeared to be colored like her dam whose color is best described as maroon, would carry the name of a dear friend of ours, Judy, and make her proud. Although Phyllis said that we ought to name her for Tony, and both Toni and Antonia are pretty names, Judith Ann was the name next in line for important offspring. Then, just as Lili GrayClouds was named for the bleak weather enveloping the earth at the time of her arrival, Judith Ann needed a similar descriptor. Above our heads the sky was blanketed with bright stars, and the evening’s chill had descended around us. For some days I was stuck on Judith of the Twilight Gloaming, a name that even I could recognize was too much. At some point Judith TwilightStar entered my consciousness and sounded right. Thus, P&CW’s Judith TwilightStar was born and named.

Meowing for Milk

Barney and Annabelle have come around since they first arrived. They now understand the significance of milking time and eagerly show up to check out the spoils. In the photo Barney came directly out of the rafters, not stopping to wipe away the cobwebs on his head. Annabelle enjoys the milk until Barney appears, then she allows herself to be pushed aside by her companion. Tonight for some reason Barney enjoyed his fill of milk then wandered away, and when Annabelle investigated she avoided drinking from the feed scoop / milk bowl. Perhaps she did this because the scoop had been thoroughly cleaned by Luther's tongue the prior evening. For some reason these cats are not crazy about our dogs. At least they no longer seem to be bothered by a canine presence, of which I am glad.

It's nice having cats around again. I like being meowed at in the barn and sought out to dispense a bit of kitty love. Plus, both of these cats have richly satisfying, throaty purrs.

Prince Eric and his princess, Kimberly

Prince Eric has been with us since he was hatched out by the broody hen last April. He has grown into a fine young rooster who manages to coexist with Pretty Boy--our original rooster, probably because the young'uns keep pretty much to themselves. For some weeks they liked to hang around in the relative security of the home pasture, but the advent of growing pups being pastured there and the visit by the chicken hawk now finds them moved.

More often they'll be outside the home pasture, sometimes within the vicinity of Pretty Boy and his gals (and Lawrence, our guinea cock) but far enough away to pose no threat. All the chickens like to shadow the horses for what better treat can one want on a chilly day (or in summer on a warm day) than a steaming fresh pile of horse manure? After all horses don't fully digest the grain, so the steaming piles are rather like a bowl of oatmeal might be for a person. Warm, grain-filled, goodness.

Now, we don't tend to name the chickens as a rule because we cannot tell them apart. Pretty Boy came with his name and it fit until the young roo began to look fresher and prettier. We didn't want to have two Pretty Boys but with all that finery what were we to call him? Somehow Prince came to mind and the name stuck. Now that his sole remaining hen has begun to lay eggs, he needed a more complete name. Both Todd and Eric were bandied about (we want Prince to be a compassionate male and he doesn't have any hair, like our friends Todd and Eric); somehow Eric stuck. And there you have the story of Prince Eric.

Prince Eric can be a tad comical now that he's begun to crow. In the photo (above) he has his ruff fluffed up and his neck arched as he prepares to sound off. As pretty as he is, I am still used to Pretty Boy doing the crowing and find Prince Eric's efforts amusing--and fun to watch. The way his young feathers glisten and gleam, why Pretty Boy must be feeling like an old fart around this young cock.

In the last photo is Kimberly, the only survivor of the half-dozen Buff Orpington pullets we purchased at the Farmer's Co-op in April. Her sisters fell prey to dogs, hawks, and possibly coyotes, as did the pullet chicks hatched out with Prince. Kimberly got her name because she is young, pretty, agile, and full of promise--like a former colleague's athletic daughter Kimberly. A few days ago I found her nesting in the hay placed in the hay rack on the wall of Spencer-the-young-alpaca's stall. She held her place even as I gently added more hay to the rack, but after she had disappeared I reached up and found one nicely-shaped medium-sized egg. You go, Kimberly!

I want to get more young'uns to keep this pair company, but I keep putting this off until I can get a chicken tractor built--something I never seem to find time to finish. Hang in there, kids, company's coming.

Annabelle & Barney

Annabelle and Barney came to us sometime last week from a Tullahoma couple planning to move and needing to downsize their cat population of thirteen. Each is short-haired, neutered, good-natured, and reputed to be an excellent mouser. Twas the latter claim that hooked us. Of late the mice have been running the barn come sundown. Those "animal-proof" garbage cans (feed bins) have been chewed through as have the hot-pepper-laden hole patches I applied a few months ago. The evening I stuck around to see Marcie settled in, I saw more mice than I cared to--sampling feed from the trough at my side, scurrying along boards on the way to somewhere, and being entirely brazen in their behavior. I called Sherry in Tullahoma, eager to have the new mousers installed in our barn. She appeared with them only a day or two later.

Barney (who had been known as Dooley until his planned move to P&CW Farm, when he was renamed Barney because--duh--he'll live in the barn) is large and black. Annabelle (whose name was never tampered with as she was a later addition to the moving plan) is similarly large and mostly black with white on her face, throat, legs and belly. They look well and settled in here in short order.

Although I housed them in a dog crate set in the stall with Goldie, Lili, and Marcie at first, I would let them out during the day after closing the outer stall doors to exclude any interested animals and to contain Annabelle and Barney. They took to watching for me and visiting when I came by, and seemed interested in their surroundings. The morning I made the mistake of leaving an alpaca in the stall with them, I saw Annabelle charge straight up the wall and into the rafters. The next day both cats were exploring overhead, so I stopped shutting them up and moved their crate with beds, and food outside the stalls. As of yet they show no interest in the fresh-from-the-goat milk I offer them on occasion. (The first three squirts from each teat are discarded, so I try to offer the goodies to whatever dogs or cats might be handy.) And they don't appear for conversation every night, but will let me hear them moving about the barn, or see them streaking across from the tack room to the shelter of some boxes, so I know that they're okay.

The feed bin where the hen's layer mash is stored still emits scratchy noises, and if I pull off the cover I usually can catch a mouse or two enjoying a feast, but now I have hopes that some of these well fed mice will become kitty snacks (or get smart and move away). It's nice to have help with the rodent population, and I enjoy looking up into the rafters to see a cat face festooned with dusty cobwebs peering down at me. These cats have even prompted me to do a bit of fall cleaning, now that the cobwebs are no longer needed to catch flies.

Denise Down

Yesterday I went to let the goat girls out of their overnight enclosures in the late morning. Most poured out past me and vanished quickly into the woods, but one fainter doe was down. Thinking that I might actually be catching a photo of a fainted fainter I whipped out the camera, only to realize as I was snapping the shutter that her legs weren't rigidly stiff like that of one in a faint and, besides, she wasn't moving. Concerned, I entered the enclosure located beneath the refrigerator trailer we got for hay storage.

I knew to duck to keep my hair out of the thick grease where the tractor and trailer were once joined. Although I had had that spot covered with plastic at one time, the goats have long since pulled it down. Since I seem to be the only one at risk for getting greased, replacing the covering has not been a priority.

The bedding benbeath the trailer was dirty and ready to be renewed. There I found Denise stretched out flat on her side; with her vulva swollen, slick, and open; and lying very still. Since she is one of those goats who always seems to be nervous around me, that she stayed still indicated the severity of her condition. She was lying flat on her left side and her abdomen was distended. While a goat's rumen is located on their left side, when it's distended the right side mustbulge if the left side is flat to the ground.

While I was assessing the situation, two phone calls interrupted. This was good because one resulted in our neighbor Tony coming over to help. He grew up in farm country and worked on farms in his youth, so having the wisdom of his experience can be a very calming and reassuring influence indeed. (Although my conversation had been with Theresa, when she reminded me that she would be of no help if the goat was dying and I recall my saying quite emphatically that she, then, should not come over.)  A call to the veterinarian's office determined that the medical staff had just left for lunch (the office closes 12:00 - 1:30 on Fridays), but then Tony appeared to offer advice and support. Together we were able to spread a sheet of insulation over the ground and under the doe.

With a cleaner surface on which to crawl around, Tony sat with me under the trailer for the better part of an hour. Donning gloves, I performed my first pelvic exam. Although I did not expect that she was pregnant, or at least anywhere near delivery, the swollen vulva concerned me; however, I felt no being inside her womb, just the rest of her organs pressing against my fingers from outside the uterine cavity. Together we were able to get Denise to take baking soda and then water; the baking soda was to aid digestion.  She evacuated and burped; we were encouraged. We tried turning her so that her left side (where the rumen is located) would be up, but she squalled as if in pain and we let her up then allowed her to settle back upon her left side.

Eventually Tony had to leave. I went to the house to fetch a notebook in which to make notes about Denise's condition and progress, then came back to sit with her. After 1:30 I started calling Dr. Kinslow's office but didn't get through until nearly 2:00. I knew that Doc Kinslow would understand when I explained that this goat was not worth the price of a veterinary visit, and that I just wanted some advice over the phone. He is very practical and understands the economics of farming. I appreciate that quality.

He told me to turn her so that her left side was up, to situate her hindquarters uphill, and to "sit her up so that she can belch." I had been on the right track giving her baking soda and water, but he said to dissolve the soda in a bit of warm water and to add a bit of whiskey. Worried that she would not accept this concoction and that I would need to drench her with it, I tried to ask about which side of the throat to aim for--as one side is the windpipe leading into the lungs.

His response was explosive, and while I cannot claim that it's an exact quote, this certainly captures the flavor and gist of his message: "Aw hell, she's going to die anyway! Don't be stupid about it! Don't pour it in like you was tryin' to drown her. Be polite about it!" I was told to pour the liquid into her gently, holding her head at a 45 degree angle, then rub her midsection to encourage her to burp.

Have I mentioned how much I like Doc Kinslow?

By 3:00 p.m. Denise was standing up, alert, calling to her goat gal friends. When I left her she was listing a bit to one side, leaning against the chain link for support, but did not seem to be concerned with any pain.

Today I gave her the last of the whiskey mixture and kept her in again. I was heartened to hear her calling out to her gal pals on occasion. She was interested in their movements, and elicited a visit from Isabel when fresh hay was delivered. I don't think she's going to be dying today.

Welcome Marcie

Marcie came to us yesterday from C&M Valley Farm in Readyville, Tennessee. The owner, Melissa, was so kind and helpful we would have liked to be able to give her more business, but with the station wagon (and a nearly-empty wallet) Marcie was all we could manage that day. What a treat this new Saanen/Nubian cross doe is already! Although her milk production has fallen off because it's autumn and because her previous owner took a milking hiatus for some days, one milking with this statuesque gal produces more than we get in a week from our little Nigerian Dwarf gals. And she has such a sweet personality, we couldn't be happier.

Of course we love our little Nigerian Dwarfs and the Tennessee Fainters, but much of their personality comes through in aggression. Not Marcie. Yes, she was skittish that first night she moved here. The photos show her moving into a box stall that she now shares with alpacas Goldie Rose and Lili. I must have spent two hours that evening just standing in or near that stall while the girls all got used to one another. If I exited, Marcie was quickly up on her hind legs peering down the corridor to see where I had gone. I'm not used to such tall goats. Indeed, fainter Gwen can reach her nose up to the top of the door's wood, but Marcie may as well be human for her stature.

When I first brought her into that stall, having changed my mind at the last minute and decided against putting her in with Nigerian Dwarf Jennifer and alpacas Van and Spencer because Jennifer can be quite pushy with those horns of hers, why Marcie had no idea of how I was sparing her from Jennifer's aggression. Instead, what she saw was not the quiet alpaca I had chosen to pair her with but the BIG, TALL alpaca whose size cowed Marcie immediately. The first hour was spent pretty much with me at one side of the stall and Marcie and Goldie Rose standing diagonally across from one another, as far away as either could get in the restricted space. Marcie was shy but steady whereas Goldie seemed to think that if she did not look at Marcie, perhaps Marcie would not be there.

Leave it to the young to resolve all of our differences. Indeed, Miss Lili Gray Clouds made the first overtures, venturing over to sniff this new goat before skittering back to the safety of her dam's side. Eventually Goldie relaxed enough to lie down with Lili beside her. Marcie did not lie down in all the time that I was there, but she did relax enough to sample the grain and munch on the hay. Even so, she seemed so shy that I debated spending the night in the barn just to give her the familiarity of my presence. I was tired enough that I could have slept right there in the stall with these gals.

Eventually I got brave enough to walk away. While I would have liked to be able to ignore Marcie's calls, of course I walked the whole distance to the house replying to her every bleat, telling her that it would be all right, that she should try to settle in, and that she would see me again in the morning.

This morning Marcie was eager to come out into the sunshine. I kept Jennifer handy and milked each gal in turn. After milking, Marcie and I walked around for a bit and then I turned her out with the alpaca gals, Luther, and the geese. Again she objected to being left, but seemed to settle in after a while. I'm looking for another full-sized milk goat to keep with her and hope to have a companion for her within the week.

Millicent the Greedy Gal

Yesterday I was heading indoors when I looked up and noticed our delightful neighbor Theresa conversing over the fence with Miss Millie. 'Twas a pretty sight, but the camera battery was charging so Theresa was spared the intrusiveness of my sloppy photographic skills. With house slippers already on, I shuffled down the leaf-strewn driveway with care--actively avoiding any goose piles and steamy horse buns. The pair didn't need me to wander over--Millie was intent on every piece of carrot Theresa was offering, and was acting quite charming and social.

When I appeared to distract Theresa's attention, somehow Millie managed to knock a carrot piece off of the proffered palm and into the dry oak and hickory leaves underfoot. Mindless of her error, Millie requested more carrot delivered at her height--and Theresa readily obliged. I mused aloud that now I understood why the horses often graze along the fence strip, even though to do so means crossing the slippery driverway. But Theresa stated that this was the first time she had brought food to the fenceline. What do you know, I thought, those clever horses managed to lure an unsuspecting human out of her home laden with treats for them, just by being cute and available.

Once the carrott pieces were gone, Millie nudged Theresa for more only to receive a the admonition that the treats were gone except for "that piece, right there" on the ground. With her index finger Theresa gestured to make her point, but Millie doesn't listen so well and seized the opportunity--and the finger--to close her teeth over the hand that had just fed her. When Theresa squawked in alarm, I looked up to see her forefinger securely clamped between Millie's soft lips, but my neighbor was feeling the acute pressure of strong teeth over the first joint of that digit. I moved to swat at Millie and only made things worse because she started to move away without releasing her fleshy prize.

Soon Millie had moved off down the drive and poor Theresa was clutching her finger with her opposing hand, hesitant to look at the damage. "Oh, she couldn't have broken the skin," said I, only to be told that no, "She most certainly did." Uh oh, the situation was worse than I had first assessed. Allowed to look at the wound, I saw that indeed Theresa was right. Miss Millie, the hog, had ripped a chunk of skin along the side of that knuckle. Theresa was dispatched to her house to clean the wound, and I turned to Millie to tell the horse that she had blown a fine opportunity through her greediness. Theresa called back over her shoulder that no, she would be back and claimed that she had been at fault for Millie's rude behavior.

Such a trooper, that Theresa is resielient when it comes to facing farm-related injuries. Not ten minutes later I received a text saying that Theresa had brought more carrots to the fence and settled her disagreement with Millie. "It's cool," she wrote and meant it.

I'm not sure if I would have been so forgiving.

The Dating Game

When Mitzi showed signs of being ready to breed, I sent her on a date with Brad Pitt, the handsome young tan-and-white pinto fainter. They spent a couple of days and nights in the alpaca girls' side of the home pasture, with Brad being excused on occasion for inviting himself to the alpaca dinner trough. For a little guy, Brad can reach up to, over, and into wall-mounted feed bins with ease. At one time when Brad was excused, Hugh Jackman entered the dating sphere. Unfortunately, neither of these young bucks showed much of an interest in sweet Mitzi. The photo depicts the one moment when Brad was caught expressing an interest in the shaggy gal; however, he'll need to get much closer if he has any desire to be fruitful and multiply. Indeed, after the first night the two were left together, Brad showed so little interest that I trotted Mitzi over to the fence near BullyBob just to see if my original diagnosis of her being ready for breeding was correct. BullyBob said it was so--vociferously, with much grunting and snorting.

A conversation yesterday with another goat breeder who raises both Nigerian Dwarfs and Fainters helped me to understand better. Apparently the Nigerian Dwarfs have a healthy libido and are eager to fulfill any requests for breedings, whereas the Fainters by nature are less driven. I guess that is why people assume a doe has been bred just because she has been "running with" a buck for a number of weeks. I'm tempted to put BullyBob in with Mitzi just to arouse the Fainter fellows, but expect that the result would be a kid or kids by BullyBob--handsome, but less likely to faint. Since Mitzi is already a Nigerian x Fainter cross herself who rarely stiffens (as fainters do just before falling over in a "faint"), I have no wish to mix Bully's genes into her lineage.

Hmm, maybe if I fenced a small area within a larger area, then placed the fainters I hoped to breed within the smaller enclosure and had BullyBob roaming just outside that fence...maybe that would help to focus the Fainter bucks on task. Since the puppies are now climbing over the fence-within-the-pasture I created for them a few weeks ago, perhaps I'll try using that for goats today. Wish me luck!

What Goes Around Comes Around

Geese, geese, geese. We have mean geese here at P&CW Organic Farm. All of the goats and puppies have been bullied by the geese at one time or another. The chickens and guinea hen are used to being chased away from any feed laid out for them so that the geese can guzzle it down. Even those of us who are larger animals have been hissed at quite vehemently. Now, that has changed.

Some weeks back the geese left the home pasture enclosure, I think they were being chased by the dogs and felt unsafe. While I do like coming out of the house to be greeted by honking geese, I very much dislike stepping out onto the mat--or even the boot scraper--to find that some goose has left a fresh, green calling card. And when the upper portion of the driveway began to look like I needed to tend to it with the doggie pooper-scooper, well, I sent the geese back into the pasture.

Shortly thereafter I had the pleasure of watching JoJo being subjected to curious Spencer's all-over inspection. Alpacas are curious creatures, and Spencer likes to check out any goats or dogs or people who enter his territory. Whiskey, the larger, grey-and-white fainting goat, now stands most resignedly for Spencer's inspections. Oddly, though, JoJo and LaLa first chose to flee the young alpaca's attentions--only to find themselves the target of a happily chasing romp. Eventually JoJo thought to sit still and acquiesce. Spencer did not hurt the goose, unless perhaps geese are prideful, and he did ascertain what a goose smells and tastes like from neck to tail.

What goes around comes around. Those mean geese had it coming.

Matched Mowers

Although the goats make for a splendid sight when spread across the front lawn, our matching mowers--Millie and Stella, the black-and-white spotted saddle horses--actually do a much better job overall. Now that they've been on the job together for a few weeks, the grass is pretty evenly mowed all over. They even clean between the planter pots in the orchard, but I suspect they taste the trees-greens and bush-sprouts as well because the orchard has once again been denuded. Certainly most of the blame goes to the goats; they really are very thorough when browsing the orchard and garden areas. Sometimes in the evening when I'm sitting in my office, I am delighted to hear Millie and Stella thundering by, racing up to the gate for no other reason than they can run.

Unfortunately Millie has developed some very bad habits. Not only does she believe that fences are made to be broken through, she has now decided that "animal-proof" feed bins are here to provide her with an entertaining--and tasty-- challenge. Such behavior led to her being sequestered to the lushest, greenest pasture we have on the farm. Poor gal.

Junior Livestock Guardians

We still have several purebred Great Pyrenees pups needing to find farms of their own. Bred from generations of working stock, born in the barn and raised among our livestock, these pups are ready to break free from the pack and settle on a permanent farm. Most are from a registered litter; all are purebred. Wormed; up-to-date on shots; price negotiable: good homes are our primary concern. Call Cynthia to discuss your farm's needs and arrange a time to meet these puppies who will grow into loyal, hardworking livestock guardian dogs. We're located some 40 minutes east of Nashville off of I-40. Call 281-2699.

Farm Sitting

Our newest undertaking--Farm Sitting--began last week with two dogs staying in the kennel here and a farm down the street left in our care. All went smoothly and we enjoyed the change in routine enough that we'll add it to our repertoire. Grace and Cody, the two chocolate labs that stayed with us, were exceptional guests. They barked at intruders, behaved admirably on leash, and refrained from hunting any of our fowl even though they are trained bird dogs. Likewise the little farm down the road had cooperative and friendly animals. The chickens, cats, and goats were eager for feed but never pushy (unlike the animals here!). Visiting another barnyard was good, too, for it got us thinking about ways to improve our own operation.

As for farm sitting, we are now available for gigs in and around Wilson County. As every situation is unique, we will need to discuss each case as it appears to determine charges. For well behaved dogs that require only food, water, and brief potty excursions and can stay on this farm with us, we expect to charge $20 per day for a single dog, or $15 per dog per day for multiple dogs. In order to stay here on the farm, though, visiting dogs will need to be up to date with their vaccinations and disease free. For those animals we will visit in their own environment, charges will be based upon the distance we need to travel, the frequency and duration of visits necessary, and the level of care required.

Readers in and near Wilson County who need to get away--whether it be overnight or for the season--may contact Cynthia at 281-2699 to discuss arrangements. Thank you!

Frisky Spencer

Spencer is a curious fellow and seems to feel obliged to closely inspect other animals. In this photo he is checking out Joshua, a Tennessee Fainter male purchased in Mt. Juliet last spring; Joshua appears to be hustling away. Goats usually stand for Spencer's inspections for a time, but soon tire of his scrutiny.

This weekend, though, I saw something I had not seen before...Spencer standing beside the dog Luther, looking down with his head perched atop his long neck. What was incongruous about the sight, though, was that Luther's back is still higher than Spencer's. There stood a big, fluffy, white dog suffering the furry brown alpaca's inspection. At some point Spencer's Mamma, Goldie Rose, decided that Luther was threatening her little baby and came to Spencer's "rescue."

Now, Luther knows his job is to guard the alpacas and goats. He stood pretty well for Spencer's inspection, but had begun to try to walk away when Goldie charged onto the scene with a screech. Knowing better than to try to stand up to Goldie's wrath, sturdy Luther dropped to the ground, rolled over, and bared his tummy in total submission. He's no fool: the ploy worked. Soon the alpacas had moved on and Luther hustled to the far side of the paddock to watch his flock from a safe distance.

I don't know if it's Spencer's age or the chill in the air, but he has gotten quite frisky of late and can be seen skipping around the paddock in that funny manner of alpacas on any number of occasions. Last night we had a hard frost and the alpacas all gathered outside to cush beneath the stars, grateful for once to be rid of the Southern heat and to be resting in a climate that feels more like home to them.

Roiling Waters

When we first moved here, we understood that the West Fork of Spring Creek, that stream running along the front corner of our property, would run seasonally; however, this year it has held water even through the dry spells. (For readers who remember an earlier entry, we moved here under the misconception that the creek was named Dry Creek. I'm sure I saw that name on some internet map of the property way back when this area was all new to us. When the time came to begin applying for grants to assist with the farm, I learned that we live in the Spring Creek Watershed, on Spring Creek.) Names notwithstanding, this morning's roiling waters quite impressed me. To be able to see the water in the creek from the front porch is unusual indeed.

True, I did hear the deluge of rains pounding atop our metal roof in the wee hours of the morning. (The sound soothes me and I used it as my excuse to discontinue the paperwork with which I was struggling at the time and to return to the refuge offered by a soft pillow and a cozy bed.) The volume and unceasing nature of last night's rains combined with the flooding being experienced in other areas of late should have prepared me for the rushing river of water along our creek bed. Yet I was delightfully surprised to encounter the living entity of that swollen creek this morning.

The plant life that usually lines the creek for a few yards was wholly submerged. Noting the additional width of the stream, I was glad to have had the restricted access fencing placed so far back. (The Natural Resource Conservation Service [NRCS], a division of the USDA, granted some funds to help us install fencing that restricts livestock access to waterways. While the front perimeter fencing falls into that category, we have more restricted access fencing to install at the back of the property [where the creek is most generally dry].) The NRCS guidelines state that such fencing be placed twenty feet from the banks of the creek. Today's swollen creek helps to illustrate why the fence must be set back so far from the actual creek.

At this time the vivaciously rushing water has abated, but the creek is still readily visible from my second story office window. I don't know what it is about moving water that speaks to me so clearly. Rushing creeks, ebbing and flowing oceans, gently moving rivers and streams--all of these are so alive that I feel pulled to stand by, to look closer, to listen longer.

So Long, Sweet Nadege

The first pup of our two litters to be named was Nadege, the only all-white Pyr pup. When I couldn't tell the others apart, already Nadege was easy to identify. Smart, like all Pyrs I've met, she understood that she had a name and it was "Nadege." Before the pups were even walking, she responded to hearing her name.

Her name was an outgrowth of variations of "white" and "snow" beginning in Blanc, Blanca, Bianca,then Neige, and finally Nadege. Some years back I had the pleasure of mentoring a young mother by the name of Nadege. The name appealed to me and stuck in the back of my mind. The little white pup provided the opportunity to finally use that name.

Puppy Nadege moved on a week ago today, leaving P&CW Farm for Angel Acres Alpacas in Manchester, Tennessee. During the time her new family and I chatted on the porch, Miss Nadege formed an attachment. By the time they departed for Angel Acres this gal was smitten, and with good reason--the folks at Angel Acres clearly value the animals in their lives.

We are thrilled to have her going to such a good home, where she'll have her own alpacas from the start.

"Sweets" Moves On

The pup known on P&CW Farm as "Sweets" has moved to a farm in Alexandria, Tennessee. He enjoyed being combed in preparation for his move, but then sensed that something was amiss and vanished just before his new owners arrived. With their help, he was located underneath the storage trailer. Sweets then made a point of lying down and rolling in damp, dirty cedar shavings before allowing himself to be picked up, carried downhill, and introduced to his new family. He now has two clever girls for companionship and care.

From his going away photo taken on our porch, I gather he approves of his new girls. I certainly do; Sweets has found himself a lovely new home. He will have twice the acreage to roam that he had here and a new canine friend about his age for company.

Soon he'll probably have a new name, too. (After all, what kind of a name is Sweets for a boy?)

So long, Sweets! Enjoy your new home!