Big White Doggie on the Porch

HGD: Human Guardian Dog

Every morning before we step outside, we are confronted by the sight of a big white doggie on the porch. For some reason, the Livestock Guardian Dog (LGD) who stays down by the house at night has decided that we are worthy of his notice. It started this fall or winter. Now he parks himself just outside the front door after he has finished patrolling for the night, preventing anyone from entering or leaving without first consulting him. Of course this raises our self-esteem, that this canine who spends hours each night warning off coyotes and other predators, should see fit to expend energy guarding us--even if he chooses to do this job with his eyes closed.

His presence is far more reassuring than was that of our long-ago scrawny puddycat Sissibelle. True, she guarded us faithfully during our first year here on the farm, and left clumps of black, matted fur about the front doormat as reminders of her dedication; however, she never struck us as an effective of a protector compared to any of the LGDs--whose sheer bulk can be a deterrent to even the most determined of human interlopers. And his voice--a chest-deep, resonant bark gives all of those whom he guards a peace of mind that no cat's meow could ever communicate.

Thanks to our canine protector, I sleep quite soundly at night.

Mother said, "Don't play with your food."

In Barney's world, dinner is more fun when one plays with the food.

This afternoon while I was by the grain bins for the chickens, our barn cat, Barney, trotted past--head held high, with a rodent dangling from his jaws. I gather that he must have had a different upbringing than I did, for I distinctly remember being admonished to not play with my food at dinner. Not that he played immediately, but in the time that it took for me to pull the camera from my back pocket, Barney had set down his catch--turning what had been his dinner into a toy: a fascinating toy worthy of extended play.

Barney casually looks away, giving the rodent in front a chance to "escape."

After a moment of disorientation, where the rodent simply sat, getting its bearings, the creature chose to play Barney's game--and scurried off. He found a mountainous pile of leaves (mountainous from its perspective, that is) into which he darted, likely presuming he would be safe. The poor little rodent had not counted on Barney, though.

Barney hovers over the pile, listening for the smallest rustle in the leaves.

Soon, Mr. Big Barn Cat, Barney, was hovering above the leaf pile, enjoying his cruel little game. I watched him for a minute or two. While he appeared to be having fun, I did not realize just how much fun he was having until a bit later--when he chose to not show up by the milking stand. To the best of my recollection, Barney has never before missed a milking time. According to our good neighbor, Theresa, he rarely misses a feeding time over there, either.

When I came down from the barn, bucket in hand, Barney was still near his leaf pile. He was no longer beside it, though. No, he appeared well satisfied, sated even. At least the "game" was over for the mole; I'm betting that it did not like playing "Cat and Mouse" with Mr. Barney.

The Tails of Two Mice

Once upon a time we had a puddycat to manage rodent control here on the farm. Known by several names--Sydney, Puddycat, Sissibelle, RastaKitty--she soon slipped off her CEO of Rodent Management hat in favor of a paw-loose, fancy-free lifestyle. Rail as I might against her adjusted mission, I could not convince her to take up residence in the barn. By the time she disappeared--on an evening when the coyotes were particularly active--the dynasty of barn rodents was fully established. Next I turned to the strays that feed on a neighbor's porch without success. Finally I invested a few dollars in three good-old-fashioned snapping mousetraps in newfangled plastic enclosures.

Success came quickly. Within two days we had captured 21 dead mice and one live mouse (who died running from that trap into the one we set facing its entrance). Sometimes the traps would snap without catching any mice, and scavengers could enjoy the peanut butter bait without breaking their necks. On the second evening, I found myself rebaiting and resetting traps frequently--probably every 15 minutes. Claiming that the mice were lining up for a turn in the trap, I turned in for the night with a flush of triumph. I was particularly pleased with the occasion when I found two mice together in one trap, quite dead.

The next day activity was slower, and I stopped hovering. When I did check, sometimes I found sprung traps empty of rodents and bait. Sometimes a trap would have yet to be sprung, or would have sprung and caught a mouse. Always I could hear the rodents rustling around in the hay which made me all the more eager to catch them.

Last night ended with another flush of success: one trap found with two lifeless tails hanging out its entrance. The spoonful of peanut butter bait that I stored in the barn is dwindling now. By tomorrow it will likely need to be refreshed.

Sorry Puddycat. You've been replaced, and quite effectively.

World's Most Amazing Neighbors

When we left our old neighborhood last fall I shed a few tears. Not only would I miss the people who had been in my life for so many years, but also I didn’t see how we could ever hope to ever have such kind, understanding, and helpful neighbors ever again. Boy was I wrong!

On Tower Road, our last address and the one at which I was born, people knew our idiosyncrasies (and worse) and loved us anyway. Plus, we had pajama-clad neighbor boys who would run down the street mornings when we were away just to make sure that Puddycat got fed promptly. If the boys were away or busy, someone would always provide cat care, package collection, and just general neighborhood watch. Little did I realize I’d be asking for so much more.

In the eight months we’ve lived in Middle Tennessee we’ve grown this farm from just a lovely piece of real estate into an ever-changing farm where no one day is like another because something always happens to change any plans we’ve made for a day. At first when we went away, Puddycat would shift for herself; she discovered that the self-proclaimed Cat Woman next door feeds her strays far finer fare than any dished up here. (I always figured that if the cat wanted a warm or wet meal, she could catch it herself. When I had the opportunity to feed the cats next door recently I understood why our Sissybelle always seemed to appear from the neighbor’s yard when I’d come out or arrive home. She feeds meaty chunks in gravy served from single-serving envelopes, and that’s just for starters.

Now, Puddycat, a.k.a. Sissibelle, a.k.a. RastaCat is gone. She vanished a couple of weeks back one night when the coyotes were particularly active and close. All we have left that require sitters for us to leave them are the geese, chickens, goats, horses, and alpacas. No more simple “Please feed the cat” notes. No. Designing a workable plan for weekend stand-ins was as challenging as writing the first Substitute Plans for a school year.

When I’d mentioned that we wished to go away for Mother’s Day, the World’s Greatest Neighbors said, “We’d love to” mind the farm. And yes, I love what I do here, but it takes hours each day, so I wondered … what neighbor wants to spend that kind of time looking out for the folks next door? But on Friday they agreed to come over twice: once in the morning to review the plans I’d written, and again in the afternoon for a dry run-through of the tasks.

Since Heidi is fiercely protective of Lucy’s new filly, we arranged it so that the neighbors would have no contact with the Livestock Guardians. That cut out the geese, the billygoats, and the big fainter gals. And the chickens are self-sufficient, so they didn’t need watching. That still left the World’s Best Neighbors with nine separate areas of animals needing attention twice daily, including the day-old filly and the six-day-old bucklings—of which the runt is still struggling to survive as neither doe is willing to feed him voluntarily. “No problem,” they said and meant it!

When all was set and I reminded them that we often leave later than originally planned, they urged us to be “on vacation” beginning Saturday morning even if we didn’t actually leave at the crack of dawn as planned. Since we didn’t leave until late afternoon, that allowed me a full day of “staycation” time, and I finally understood the importance of respite care for beleaguered caregivers. What a glorious feeling!

Over the weekend we received one simple question via text message. No emergency calls. No emergencies. For all we could tell life on the farm was running as smoothly as we’d planned.

This morning we pulled in sometime after 2:30 a.m. and when I went to the barn to check on the animals I saw what challenges our fabulous neighbors had faced without a peep. The alpaca boys had stormed the fence and encroached on the females’ territory. The goats’ behavior had warranted the addition of wooden door-jambs to multiple doors. The furious rains had washed gullies into the gravel drive, maintained the water level in the run-off buckets, and left animals huddling together to stay dry. And, oh yes, the dogs had done something to warrant their dinner being taken up during what are usually their free-feeding night hours. (I learned in daylight that the food had been removed because the big fainter girls [left roaming freely for the weekend within the perimeter fence] had challenged the dogs for their food causing a goat to be attacked. Whichever goat that was, I’m glad to report that she’s fine. I see no evidence of damage on any of them.)

So, what makes this couple the World’s Greatest Neighbors? Well, not only did they successfully manage the farm with all its unexpected challenges, but also Theresa reported this morning, “We had fun!”

We are never moving again.

Thank you, Amazing Neighbors!

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.

Snow on the Farm

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A Chilly Friday Morning

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PuddyCat's Existence

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