The Alpacas' Arrival

The alpacas arrived Sunday evening in the pouring rain and heavy darkness. With tornado warnings in the forecast, Malcolm was happy to deliver the animals into a shelter with a barn before he headed back to Thistledown Alpacas. Luckily our houseguests were eager to get soaked and came readily to lend their hands. The girls went up easily: Malcolm off-loaded Vann & Goldie Rose on lead ropes and little Spencer trotted right along with his mama. The four boys were a little trickier. Each of us took one on a lead then headed up the steep, slippery drive toward the barn. After having been cooped up since Virginia, the animals were eager to stretch their legs and capered along as we worked to keep up. Once everyone was settled, we exchanged paperwork, got feed instructions, and sent Malcolm on his way.

Although I had begun to have second thoughts about having purchased these expensive animals (which I had been careful to do while I was teaching and had a regular income), now that they are here I feel great. These soft, gentle creatures are a handsome addition to our pastures. Plus they play with the goats readily—chasing the little animals about the pasture without causing me the alarm that a similar chase by puppy Luther stirs up.

Welcome, camelid companions!

Lucy’s Companions: Stella & Millie

About two weeks ago now I answered a Craigslist advertisement for a Super Smooth Spotted Saddle Horse on the other side of town and made the acquaintance of a delightful horsewoman who moved south for work about ten years ago. Coming from Maine, and before that California, she knew about as much as I do about saddle horses and gaited horses: practically nothing. This worked to my advantage because she understood what I don’t know and was able educate me.

I left there with the conviction that I’d be buying her little black-and-white mare once I’d had the chance to return and introduce our operations manager to the mare. Now named Stella, the horse was everything we’d been looking for: not terribly tall at 14.1 hands, gentle enough for a beginner (she’d been purchased as a school horse), trail savvy (she was for sale because she prefers trails to working in a ring), sweet and easy to manage. As calm as Lucy has become while here, she’s still young and more suited to an intermediate or advanced rider. Stella is 12 years old and her years show in her calm demeanor. And, talk about smooth! That gait is a dream!

I remember the first horse we looked at last fall over in Fairview. Also a spotted saddle horse, she had a sweet smooth trot unlike any I’d ever experienced, but was a tad difficult to manage at a canter for a middle-age woman who’s not been on a horse in 30 years. Over time, I had managed to forget that sweet trot, assuming it was an anomaly; however, I now know that that’s the gait these horses offer. When I was trying her in the ring that first day I learned that her current owned had never asked her to canter because these horses usually just showcase their gait. Upon learning that, all the confidence of my youth returned: I’d not need to be concerned about falling from this horse and we could traverse trails all day without a concern. Or, we might if she weren’t being purchased for my partner in farming.

Last Sunday we made it back to the pretty farm on the far side of town and I watched as Stella sold herself and clinched her spot at P&CW Organic Farm. Watching the joy of an adult who has ridden before but has never had a horse of her own was delightful. The light that came into her face when she realized that this was to be her horse, her first horse, was a pleasure to witness. (Our New England visitors agreed.) We left having put a deposit toward her purchase and with the arrangement that she’d be delivered later in the week (as our trailer needs a tire replaced and I wasn’t likely to get to it soon). For the next three days I told Lucy about the companion we’d chosen for her, and I thought about how life could be if I had a horse like Stella, too.

Lucy and I have not been trail riding together yet because I have the utmost respect for her ability to dump me even unintentionally by starting at something on a trail. With a horse that moves like Stella, and the knowledge that her gait is so easy, I’d go out trail riding tomorrow without a second thought. So that idea bubbled around in the back of my brain all week. Stella arrived Wednesday; our guests left Thursday; and on Friday I found a listing for a 4-year-old spotted saddle horse mare, 14.3 hands high, in just the next town. Owned by a nice young man who actually lives just a few houses from our farm, Millie joined our herd in short order. (Her name may change, but Millie will do for now. Both of our newer horses had their names changed by their last owner, so the switch to Stella was easy and any switch for Millie will be as easy.)

Millie is a pretty horse. Freshly bathed by her former owner, she shines beside our other two. But of our saddle horses, Stella is the looker. She has a slender stripe down her face and a long forelock that sweeps below her eyes. Millie’s face is black, her muzzle is white, and she has a Roman nose that is noticeable when she stands beside Stella.

Lucy in the herd boss, our Alpha mare, but now Stella and Millie have each other for more pleasant companionship. Lucy is a good companion until food is delivered at which time she bares her teeth (laying them alongside another’s neck without actually biting) and clearly says, “Me first.” Now that her udder is beginning to swell indicating that the arrival of her foal may be close, I support her preferential treatment when grain is present; we feed grain in three separate bins to allow each horse a fair chance.

Now we are three. Three is enough; we won’t be buying more horses. These three can work around the farm and take us out to play as well—which is more than I can say for those silly geese or the busily browsing goats.

Bzzz, Bzzz, Sting!

P&CW’s Sting lived well and appeared to fully enjoy the life he’d been handed. On Saturday, April 18th in the afternoon, Miss Jennifer, our last Nigerian Dwarf doe to kid, was behaving oddly—hanging out in the stall on a glorious afternoon. We put everyone to bed early that afternoon because we had friends coming to visit and plans for a night out on the town. While we ate dinner and enjoyed a show at the Grand Old Opry, Jennifer bore a vivacious, blue-eyed, black-and-white buckling. He was clean, dry, and up and about by the time I found him at around midnight. I spent a little time with the Nigerian Dwarf does and the newest kid. He weighed about four pounds at birth. (The scale I have only weighs in one pound increments; I feel that I ought to get a better one for weighing new arrivals.)

In the morning we all trooped up to the barn to admire Jennifer’s offspring. His angled markings reminded me of a harlequin, while he struck the others as looking like a punk rocker. In addition to the punk rocker persona, his white-tipped tail pointed out behind him like an insect’s stinger when he nursed. Our visitors named him Sting and we all doted upon the little guy.

Jennifer got the hot-oatmeal-with-raisins-and-applesauce treatment as her reward for birthing such a fine little kid. Thumbelina was convinced that the treats were meant for her (as she’d been our most recently pampered mama), but by the third serving delivered to Jennifer, Thumbelina understood that she had to wait in line for leftovers. She then turned up her nose and let Cocoa gobble Jennifer’s leavings; Cocoa was amenable to the arrangement.

With the warm, sunny days I could not confine the new mama and kid to the barn in good conscience, so I penned off a nursery area as I’d done before. Of course Sting immediately scampered under one of the platforms bearing the last of our moving boxes; even April had been drawn to the dark space. I left Jennifer sharing a turnout area with the alpaca gals and went about my day and the final touristy-fun adventure for the week.

Tonight when I got everyone in to feed and bed down, Little Sting failed to make an appearance. I hunted for over an hour, crawling about the barn and peeking under platforms. What I noticed was a panel of my makeshift enclosure having openings wide enough to admit Sting without his slowing down. I left the barn feeling saddened and suspecting that Sting had gone the way of Jessica Lynne by wandering out through the openings I’d left and becoming tasty prey.

Even if he had not yet been picked up, the coyote chorus was particularly close this evening. I heard many an excited yipping emanating from the front of our property by the creek. The coyotes were so close and intense that I even brought the horses back within the perimeter fence. (Lucy has a companion now because Stella arrived this afternoon.) With Lucy getting closer and closer to foaling, I don’t want her to be worried by noisy predators. Getting them back into the fenced area was a trick, though, because the LGD’s had followed me down to the lower gate and were all barking furiously at the coyote noises which caused the horses to hesitate before entering their safe zone. All that and I discovered that the perimeter fence was no longer hot—the electric wires may have broken, but more likely there’s a short up at the home pasture; I’ll find it in the morning.

I went in for the night feeling defeated and inadequate. I was convinced that Sting was most probably dead and that his demise had been the result of my carelessness and the time I’ve spent gallivanting around Middle Tennessee with my New England friends. For all the losses we’ve had to date, I had yet to be moved to tears, but I shed a few for Sting this evening. Why, he’d vanished before I’d even gotten around to notifying the woman from whom I’d bought our original Nigerian Dwarf herd that the little bucking I’d promised to her had arrived. So sad.

Appreciating Every Moment

This afternoon a tornado touched down about eight miles south of here, cutting a swath of destruction a quarter-mile wide. Two people died. Many homes were destroyed.

While this was happening, I was driving to H&R Block (it's that time of year) and listening to the weather reports on the radio. At some point while I was on Central Pike in either Lebanon or Mt. Juliet, I saw a wide, dark funnel descending from the clouds. It was too far away to judge motion--it just appeared to be still--and it never swooped down close to the ground, but it definitely held my respectful attention.

Unlike the treacherous blizzards in New England, the tornadoes down here hit harder and faster, and they play for keeps. By reminding me of my mortality (not to mention my insignificance), Tennessee weather certainly helps me to appreciate each moment as it comes. The rich emerald greens of spring, the profusion of flowers on area redbud trees, and the antics of young animals become all the sweeter for observers.

I'm thinking, if a kid is born tonight (Jennifer is close to delivery) perhaps he or she should be named Storm despite the wonderful suggestions I've received from readers to date.

Tonight I'm thankful for my life, health, home and family; for the roof over our heads and the beautiful countryside surrounding us; for good friends near and far; and for the multitude of natural wonders I get to experience every day now that we're here on the farm.Further, I wish my storm-ravaged neighbors fair passage through the chaos of their present circumstances. And, oh yes, I'm thankful for the presence of the new tax consultant in my life.

Tonight I believe we're all very glad just to be here on Earth, alive and well.

One Weekend on the Farm

This past weekend was simply delightful. Not only did we accomplish much but we had plenty of help and fun in the process. Friday evening set the tone for the weekend when we sat around the living room socializing with relatives and friends. Topics ranged across current events, our personal histories and philosophies, politics, farming, and just life in general. Laughter permeated the air and the atmosphere was friendly and gay.

Saturday began with blueberry walnut pancakes and more visiting, then we all headed outdoors. We had a neighbor and his brother cutting trees up by the barn in preparation for the pool house and its solar heating needs. I mucked about with the goats as always, then spent my time concentrating on readying some two dozen containers for fruit trees and bushes. (I may have mentioned before that our farm rests atop a large rock shelf. Until we have had time to build up the soil to a point where we can plant directly into the ground, we're using containers and raised beds exclusively.) Others worked on organizing boxes, wood, farm implements and garden tools, and building shelves. Lunch provided time for socializing over sandwiches and fruit. Dusk found us again by the barn, surveying our progress and enjoying the sunset. Day's end meant the comfortable sleep that comes from physical labor.

Sunday dawned warm and beautiful. I had high hopes for getting plants in the ground--especially with the forecast of winter weather returning. The others accomplished more, actually completing their tasks. Days end found me simply covering roots with damp compost and leaves with burlap or blankets. Having help around the farm and others with whom to laugh and talk lightens the workload considerably.

Thank you, Friends.

Over Easy, Please

I had to laugh when I looked on our broody hen. She had so many eggs underneath her bulk that they were spilling out all around her body! Although I wondered at how so many additional eggs might have appeared since I'd last looked in on her, I believed the excess eggs were all recent arrivals. Upon looking more closely, I saw that she had moved the nest from the back corner of the dog crate / hen house into the center, and had pulled much of the remaining bedding up around her--effectively padding the nest. Finally I realized that I had caught her in the act of turning the eggs!

When humans place eggs into an incubator, we're instructed to turn the eggs diligently every four hours--or to invest in an automatic egg turning device. At the time I had first decided to allow the hens to keep some eggs, a time when the hens were most often off the nest, I marked the eggs I wanted to leave with a black ballpoint pen and planned to only collect unmarked eggs in the future. Well, discerning which eggs were marked was no easy task because mama hen turned them frequently. I never seemed to have a wax crayon or colored marker on hand when checking the nest. Plus, I had concerns about the ink from a marker penetrating the egg shell. So I finally stopped sifting through the eggs and just left all laid in the crate to the hens.

Watching this hen dedicate her life to hatching these eggs has been humbling. In the pictures, an empty white dish appears turned over in the back of the crate; when I'd realized that this hen was rarely moving even to eat, I started putting laying mash into the dish and setting it close so that she could reach it. The one day I tried to stroke her in empathetic support, she raised her beak to defend her eggs; I have not tried that move again. When the dish moved out of my easy reach and closer into the hens immediate circle, I left it untouched. Some days I just sprinkle the food onto a wedge of wood (because I found one conveniently handy the last time I was in search of a dish). This works because Ms. Broody removes the feed but doesn't relocate the heavier wood.

A final note: Ms. Broody chose to move her eggs away from the corner of the "hen house" just as a cold front was blowing in. After several early-summerlike days, the return of winter seems to have prompted her to keep the eggs as warm as possible.

Sit on, Broody Hen.

Our Broody Hen

Each day our broody hen appears to get wider and wider as in stretching to cover all of the eggs in her nest, she flattens out her body. Rarely does she leave the growing clutch of eggs. Perhaps once a day she'll venture out for a bit of fresh air and sunshine. Once I've even seen two hens sitting together upon the nest, but usually it's just the same black hen.

She appears to have weathered some pecking, too. Perhaps this was done by maurading Guinea Hens; I cannot be sure. The Guinea Hens routinely enter the chicken coop / dog pen and peck away at the laying mash in the galvanized trough. On one occasion I witnessed the broody hen actively chasing one of the Guinea Hens from the coop, but for the most part she just sits and broods, incubating what must be two dozen smooth brown eggs beneath the feathered bulk of her body.

Poor Pitiful Puddycat

Puddycat looks rough these days. Real rough. Most of this is because she won't stand for grooming assistance and she won't groom herself as fastidiously as most cats. Now her winter mats have been coming off of her in clumps--she often comes to me with a tuft of hair handing from her mouth. At first this process created what I facetiously called racing stripes (forgive me if I'm repeating myself). The horizontal bald patch across her sides showed a pale fleshtone line amid her black fur. Now most of the original stripes are growing enough hair to appear sleek and black, with fleshtone patches and knotted tufts of fur appearing around the new hair.

Not only does she look rough, she's also enduring persecution at her food bowl. On Friday I caught the red hen approaching while Puddycat noshed on the food in her bowl. Then a few minutes later when I passed by that door again, I looked out to see both the red hen and Pretty Boy on the porch; the Puddycat was nowhere to be seen. Poor thing.

Perhaps our neighbor's name for her is more fitting: Sissibelle. Our neighbor feeds a number of local cats and when she first encountered Puddycat in her yard, she called her a "sissy cat with a sissy bell." All taunts aside, I prefer to keep the cat belled because this helps me to locate her by sound, and may save the lives of a few birds, too.