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.