Hooray for Good Fencing

Finally, the goat bucks are fenced apart from the does again.

We are thrilled to have a new section of fencing in place. Most of this "new" pasture was enclosed with high tensile wire when we first moved here. While we kept the interspersed electric fence wires hot, this made a good enclosure for horses, but not for our ruminant population.

Now that our good friend Jeff and his sidekick Jerry have stretched sheep-and-goat fence in place of the high tensile wires, we have a solid goat enclosure. True, it still has gaps at the bottom that will allow young kids through, but I like to have spaces through which the livestock guardian dogs can move easily.

Indeed, the coyotes have been ringing the farm on three sides of late when they start up their yammering chorus at dusk. I feel safer when the dogs can reach all of our land. Where the dogs roam, the coyotes do not venture. (The coyotes have plenty to eat beyond the perimeter of this farm.)

Since the field fence enclosing the home pasture, our last existing woven wire enclosure, is crumbling with age, the goats have been running together as one herd for some weeks now. This was fine when the does were in season and open for breeding, but Marcie is big enough with kids that she has slowed some of late. And while both of our Nubian does were bred at the same time as Marcie, they both came into season again recently.

Come next breeding season, we will be able to control breeding once again and to choose which buck covers which doe. For now, we are relieved to simply have the goat bucks contained. Now that they are a herd of two (except when the twin kids wriggle in to roam with them), the pair is getting along better. When they were competing for the does' attention, the elder buck, Hank, was stern about keeping young Studebaker in line.

Cock of the Walk

This is the young rooster that has managed to peacefully coexist on our farm.

Last fall we wound up with such an overabundance of roosters that our #1 rooster, PrettyBoy, was quite busy kicking tail feathers all across the farm. In the interest of keeping the peace, we placed just over a dozen of the younger roosters in protective custody and began fattening them up for our table with grain.

This left PrettyBoy and Lawrence (our guinea cock) free-ranging with the hens. When we semi-corralled some hens--enclosing them safely out of canine reach behind a low fence ove which they might migrate with ease--we also placed one of the young roosters with that flock. Although he may have survived at first thanks to that fence, these days none of the hens stay in the enclosure for any length of time and the red rooster roams about with some of the younger hens.

Rarely does he antagonize the kingpin. For that kindness, he appears to be left alone to wander and peck in peace. Although we've seen farms with several roosters free-ranging peacefully, I suspect that each flock has its designated rooster for each hen--reducing rivalry among the ranks.

We're glad that this handsome young'un roams about our farm. He's gentle n the eyes and a treat to behold.

The Beauty of Electric Fencing



The visible wire contains horses with the aid of flimsy plastic posts.

 Recently I purchased some white cord-type electric fence wire from Edwards Feeds. After spending some weeks moving tube panels and cattle panels around the farm, I decided that it was time to simplify. Edwards also had plastic insulators in a two-piece design that we haven't used before, so we brought home a bag of those as well. Then I set about setting T-posts and wiring up a spot for the horses.

After a few days of this, including moving the boundaries by adding T-posts, I switched to step-in posts. The Wilson County Farmers' Co-op had step-in posts on sale when I stopped in, so I snagged a bundle and brought them home. 'Twas a brilliant move, if I do say so myself.

Now, instead of pounding T-posts into rock, then screwing on insulators, then setting wire, I simply set the plastic step-in posts where ever I choose. I can move the posts with the wire attached, changing the grazing area with ease.

True, it's quickest when I take the trouble to turn off the fence down at the bottom of the hill; however, when I'm feeling lazy, I find the fence easy enough to move without getting zapped. Being able to change pasture parameters so simply makes me wonder why I didn't try doing this sooner.

Grazing Patterns

The horses graze in a new enclosure while alpacas wander on as-yet-untouched grasses.

This year our front acreage is getting methodically trimmed as animals move about the space in a random assortment of ever-changing enclosures. Very soon it will all have been mowed at least once.

The horses are rough on pasture. Left too long in any one place, they will turn a pasture into close-trimmed earth, or even into a mud pit--as has happened with our recent rains.

The goats' browsing behavior is easier on a pasture overall, but they like to mow down plantings I want to keep. They have an uncanny ability to zero in on those few plants I would like them not to eat, and make the foliage--or the entire plant--disappear in short order. I need to set up something like those dog runs with overhead wires. This could make it easier to move these bigger goats to specified areas. (In past years we would tie out the little goats, anchoring them to stakes or logs or fence panels. The big goats manage to get into trouble much faster, though.)

The goats are browsing this spot for the third time already.

The alpacas are kindest to the earth. Except for the burned-out spots where they position collective toilets, the grasses and forbs recover most quickly after alpacas have grazed the area.

Ideally, we should rotate the different animals through various pastures, but with the different fencing requirements of each type of animal this can be labor intensive. While horses are easily contained with a few strands of electric fence, the alpacas would not feel a shock through their thick coats of fiber. Both horses are alpacas respond well to the five-foot tube panels, but the goats slip past these quite easily. The goats do best behind tight woven-wire fence or cattle panels reinforced by adequate t-posts. For the most part, time and energy dictate which animals go where when.

Weaning Janet

A dirty, winter-shaggy Janet enjoys spring greens while running loose.

Miss Janet, our nearly-two-year-old paint filly, has been running beside her dam since birth. Separated briefly for farrier visits and such, the two have always become reunited with enthusiasm.

Now that spring is in full swing here, indeed haying season is practically here, everyone wants to be on greener pastures. Well, Miss Janet got her wish a few days ago.

I brought her out on a lead to graze while beginning her end-of-winter grooming. Our horses are still shaggy from winter, although with the arrival of warm weather coats are thinning. Because I had not had the foresight to grab an actual halter and lead, Miss Janet came along on our usual lead: a couple of strands of baling twine tossed casually behind her ears. When she danced and pranced, I wrapped the twine over her nose and gathered the lot beneath her chin, but she still was under the most casual of controls.

At some point, after having filled much of a bucket with her rapidly-shedding coat, she ducked out of the baling twine restraint and made a break for freedom. I kicked myself (mentally) for having passed up opportunities to trade in the twine for a real, solid halter and lead. For probably an hour the filly enjoyed trotting around out of my reach. She would graze serenely until my chores brought me close, or I intentionally approached her, then she'd dance off a bit and resume grazing.

Miss Janet in her improvised enclosure beside Goldie, an alpaca.

After a while, though, I corralled her in a small enclosure, set in the deepest of grasses, attached to the alpaca enclosure. She stayed there happily for a good while, but not forever. No, when she got tired of that, she popped over the lowest of the fence panels (and it was low, more of a suggested boundary than an actual fence) and roamed free again.

I began thinking of her as a possible hunter/jumper prospect. Before the sun set, though, I settled her into an enclosure behind the garage--with fence panels tall enough the contain her and with her dam just across the driveway. She was somewhat distressed at the separation; however, being contained in a heavily-grassed paddock seemed okay to her, too, and she settled down. Periodically she would look over to her dam and appear anxious to leave the paddock, but the fence was high and she was still fenced-in when we went in for the night.

Miss Janet is being officially weaned. And it's high time, too.

Now, I'm starting to see visions of her sailing over poles and across brush jumps on a hunt course. Hmmm.

Hamilton Explores

Hamilton reaches beneath the fence to graze.

As the alpaca males trim away the fodder in their pasture, they've begun to look out beyond their fence. Although with the tube panels I am able to restructure their enclosure fairly readily, I don't always move fast enough to please "the boys." Hamilton serves as the herd barometer, because he's the first to stretch his neck past the fence line. So far he is the only alpaca to leave the pasture of his own accord. When I come home or look out of the porch and see Hamilton reaching beyond the fence, I know the time is nigh to reconfigure the pasture.

Recently Hamilton sent me word to move the fence, but I did not heed his warning. The next time I looked his way, Hamilton was out front grazing on the lawn. Since the perimeter fencing is good, I left him to graze for the day. I knew he would return at feeding time, if not before.

Hamilton enjoys greener pastures.

By afternoon he had moved from the greenest area and had ventured uphill where he could check out the action. There he could browse at will while looking over at the female alpacas and the goats. I imagined that he enjoyed his time abroad. Before feeding time, I moved fence panels to give the boys a chance to reach some new green patches. Hamilton returned when I opened the gate, wandering in just in time for dinner.

Our Keets are Growing

Roosters watch their guinea keet neighbors.

Now that the keets are safely housed in the dog kennel beside the roosters, they are beginning to resemble their adult selves. No longer little brown fluff-balls, they're showing the lovely spotted plumage of adult lavender guineas. Their necks and beaks are showing greater resemblance to turkeys, too. As beautiful as the multi-colored roosters are, their individual feathers do not compare to the guinea's patterned feathers.

Adolescent guinea keet.

I wish I could tell the males from the females by sight, but alas I cannot. Since being caught and relocated to the kennel, I have not heard any of the keets make the female's "Buckwheat!" call. Before the move, when all eight keets were together, that call could be heard on occasion. After the move into the trailer, one keet got out and I heard one in the trailer call "Buckwheat!" Unfortunately, I simply "mended" the hole through which the keet had escaped, then allowed the cold weather or late hour to convince me to postpone moving them all into the secure kennel. The next day they had reopened the hole and we were down to two keets in the trailer. I moved them to the kennel, and the day after that netted two more.

Now that we only have four keets in captivity--the others have likely succumbed to the hazards posed (and faced) by wildlife--and while we're hoping that at least one of those we have is female, our hope dwindles with each passing day.

Time to Move the Boys

Buckling Loyal meets his daddy--and wants out!

For all of our efforts to keep the male and female goats separated, I was allowing the last of the spring kids to run with the herd for these last few months. Today, though, the newest bucklings demonstrated mounting behavior. Their reward was eviction from the herd, into a pen with all of the 2010 smaller bucks.

Segregated at last, all the bucklings are contained.

Nigerian Dwarf bucklings Graham, Walter, and the late Will matured faster and have been segregated in buck territory since the summer months; however, Jennifer's first 2010 kids--Tony, Todd, and Ted--and the last of the Tennessee Fainter bucklings--Jack and Gene--were allowed to stay with their dams, until today.

Luke looks wistfully back toward the barn and the nurturing life he has left.

This afternoon when I checked into the maternity stall and opened its door to the unseasonably warm air, the newest bucklings--Loyal and Luke--their stubby horns finally showing above their coats were mounting little Kendall. Kendall, the runt, is small enough that they do not mount her as much as simply stand above her; the other kids grew that much while she was recuperating in the house last week. As such, the bucklings were evicted and I spent the afternoon rounding up the rest of the boys (mentioned above) and depositing them beneath the hay storage trailer.

Keet on the Lam

A female keet checks out her new digs. The dizzying array of fencing contains her.

Despite my sloppy efforts to surround the new keet enclosure with fencing and such to tighten the openings, the top was not fully enclosed by the time I placed the dog crate and its keets into the trailer t'other day. As such, I was not too surprised to find that one of the keets had found its way out into the wider world. He seemed happy to explore the sunshine and snow, so I watched for a few minutes. His vocalizations revealed his sex--male--which makes him less of a catch than if he were female. After all, we have the Guinea cock, Lawrence, who I imagine will take on this brood when they come of size to wander.

Adolescent keet on the lam.

Although I gave chase for a few minutes, the bird eluded my net and ventured next door, so he's now on his own. He may come back to his flock, but he will have to survive our dogs to join them. As he was scuttling across the driveway to Theresa's, Mr. Luther loped up to check out the unfamiliar bird. The big doggie looked mighty interested in the feathered tasty tidbit.

Strange, I can trust him around the chickens and Lawrence. I wonder what it is that "tells" the dogs which birds are fair game. (My yelling does not seem to do it--especially not where the still-puppy Biscuit is concerned.)

We're pleased to hear the young keets vocalizing with adult patterns because the "Buck-wheat, buck-wheat" calls reveal the presence of female birds. All Guineas are valuable come tick season, for they are notorious bug foragers, but females have the potential to reproduce without engaging in cock fights should Lawrence decide to challenge them.

Harry's Comrades

Little goat bucks under the hay storage trailer (L to R: Walter, Graham, Will, Hugh, Harry)

Chilly nights have the goats fluffy with newly-grown winter coats. We moved three similar-sized Nigerian Dwarf bucklings out of the stinky buck holding pen, placing them under the shelter of the hay storage trailer with Harry and Hugh, the little black-and-white fainter bucks. Although Harry occasionally claims first rights to the space, ramming the newcomers away from fresh hay or petting through the fence--putting his cute little horns to good use--the five usually get on well.

We moved Brad to a separate pen beneath that trailer, so he's beside the little guys but unable to throw his weight around against them. His enclosure is made of chain-link that stretches precariously when he rams against it trying to get to the smaller goats. The power behind his attacks is so much greater than what the little bucks can muster that we'll keep them separate for a time while the group assimilates its newest members.

2010 buckling Will P. struts his stuff while 2009 buck Sting--stinky yellow with "cologne"--looks on. (October 2010)

Walter, Will and Graham, winter and spring 2010 bucklings respectively, have come into their own personalities. All three are gentle and personable--gravitating to the fence for a little goat love (e.g., petting, individual attention) when the opportunity presents itself. Although Will and Walter demonstrate early rutting behaviors, they are generally vastly cleaner than the older Nigerian Dwarf bucks and Brad (who is half Nigerian Dwarf and carries BullyBob's dominant male genes prominently).

Placed with the similarly-gentle Hugh and Harry, this little buck group is good-natured and readily approachable. Now the not-so-newcomer Harry has a little gang of ruffians with whom to rock and roll; he has truly become one of the gang.

Musical Chairs?

"Ol' Ms. Winfield, has a farm, e-i-e-i-o. And on this farm she has a goat whose name is Harry, not Joe."

Harry and Hugh exchange greetings.

Harry  has pals with him tonight. Finally. Hugh Jackman was my first choice for pairing with Harry because the two are well-matched in size and appearance, but Brad Pitt wasn't about to let Hugh go off on an adventure alone, so he got in on the act.

A quick study, Brad saw when I lifted Hugh out of the buck pen that it would not be hard for him to exit the same way. After all, the residue of uneaten hay had accumulated along the lower fence enough that he could reach across its top. One hop and the little dickens was over and out. I left him to wander while I got the smaller goats together.

Harry and Hugh getting acquainted.

Hugh and Harry hit it off immediately. Their similarities make them an attractive pair together, and I would almost swear that their similar size cemented the friendship. Under the trailer, they bumped heads but without the rearing and ramming normally associated with goat play. Even when one of them did rear back and posture, the meeting of heads was always gentle and friendly.

Brad was easy to move because he is taller than Hugh, and his broad horns make super handles. He and I actually traveled nicely together--he with four hooves on the ground and holding my hands around his horns. Once inside the under-the-trailer enclosure, Brad glanced over at the two black-and-white goat boys, then focused on the serious business at hand: eating hay.

Alpacas check out their surroundings.

My evening was not finished, though, as more moves were slated. Romeo and Hamilton, two of our male alpacas, were chosen to move on up to the greener pasture. Although Hamilton was wary of being haltered, both males traveled well on the lead. The three of us ambled together through the fallen leaves, down past the penned-up roosters and the house, and entered their new pasture at its front gate. I made them circle the perimeter with me, and locate the automatic waterer, before letting them loose to enjoy their new digs. Far better than the dry lot where they have been staying, this pasture has a smattering of green grass left, and bountiful quantities of new-fallen leaves.

The equine Welcome Wagon: mares and filly approach to meet their new alpaca neighbors.

The horses were curious about their new neighbors and ambled through the woods to check out the action. Before all of the greetings could take place, I left the four-legged animals to their own devices. I had chickens to gather.

A few weeks back I purchased a two-piece already-assembled hen house. Since then I stained it to protect the wood and installed a four-foot fence much of the way around it, finishing the loop with two three-foot pig panels. Now I'm encouraging the hens to settle there at night. Eventually, they will remain in an enclosed yard throughout the days, too--we're none too thrilled to be losing hens to the dogs, especially now that Biscuit has told his pals that freshly-killed chicken is indescribably tasty.

Hens beside the new hen house.

I was able to gather two hens tonight, in addition to the one who stayed of the pair I had "settled" there yesterday. Chickens, even those who know you're after them, are easy prey once the sun goes down. They sat on my lap to have their wings clipped, then traveled together without incident to the new spot. I will be curious to see how many are still in place behind the fence when I come out in the morning. As they frequently roost atop four-foot tall fence panels, the fence is actually there to merely encourage them to stay, and to deter the dogs.

By the time I was done this evening and ready to come in the house, my head was spinning with the game of musical pastures we had just played and a version of "Old MacDonald has a Farm" was formulating itself on my tongue. Luckily for those within earshot, I am easily distracted, and did not pursue the song after I got into the house.

Cooper Works on the Farm

Having help on the farm is truly a blessing, and today was an exceptionally good day for it. This afternoon when a very young farmer-in-training named Cooper did a stint of work at P&CW Farm, he more than earned his keep. First he went out with our Operations Manager to provide hay to the horses and alpacas, and those goats that are penned up. After that brief introduction he was ready to go to work with me when milking time arrived.

Upon exiting the house we recited "Little Miss Muffet" and carried the pail of whey leftover from this morning's cheese making out to the dogs. Cooper appeared interested that both curds and whey are byproducts of milk, then allowed me to carry the pail uphill because it was heavy for his six-year-old arms. Although a tad miffed that I did not allow him to feed the big, bouncing dogs, he quickly recovered. He took over scattering the scratch grain and managed feeding all of the chickens and our two geese. At about that time I noticed the rumpus the goats Mitzi and Walter were kicking up--on the wrong side of the fence--where they were browsing with Theresa and making noise about it.

Cooper quickly exchanged his poultry-manager persona for a goat wrangler gig. We grabbed up a few lengths of baling twine, hopped the fence (he helpfully jumped when I moved to lift him over), and trundled uphill to meet the escapees. Walter trotted out to greet us first, allowed a twine to be fitted over his collar, then submitted to Cooper's skillful goat management skills. Next Mitzi was caught, tethered, and turned over to Cooper's care. When I moved to capture Theresa (who made quite sure that I never did), Walter and Mitzi took off uphill with a force that surprised our young wrangler. He dropped their lines with a yelp, but recovered nicely, with time enough to recoup Walter's stringed leash while Mitzi and Theresa trotted ahead up the hill.

As we reached the tree line, Cooper discovered that goat wrangling can be difficult work. He had to climb through a barb wire fence, encourage Walter to walk with him between the woven fence and the overgrown bushes, and trudge through brambles with his bare legs. We both survived the ordeal well enough, and Cooper quickly took over the gate keeper duties as we all returned to the farm.

Once we were through the gate, the "puppy" Biscuit (who was one year old this June) came to greet us, sniffing Cooper thoroughly and looking him in the eye. Cooper was not put off by this nose-to-nose conversation with a hungry dog, and lead Walter quite competently to "goat jail" where wandering goats become incarcerated until either I fix the fence or forget that they are not allowed to roam free in that area.

Then we fed Biscuit, dove through the mass of hungry goats lined along the fence across which they had witnessed Biscuit being fed, and trekked back up to the milking stand onto which Marcie hopped without hesitation. First the cats got their nightly dish of milk, which was filled with Cooper's help. His little hands aren't quite ready to accomplish the entire milking chore on teats as large as Marcie's, so we teamed up. I blocked off the flow of milk in the teat and Cooper squeezed the milk trapped in the lower portion of the teat into the dish--or at least mostly into the dish. Aiming the milk takes a bit of practice, too.

When I took over and began milking both teats together, Cooper wanted to try that too. I said something about not thinking he would be able to do it and his expression spoke volumes about silly (read "stupid") adults who underestimate wildly-talented kids. I laughed and spoke this aloud, whereupon he reached out and began competently milking both teats simultaneously. He worked until his hands got tired, then he wandered off to race around the barnyard with goats while Marcie and I finished our chores.

When we brought the milk down, Cooper again volunteered to manage the gate--and did so with a surprisingly good understanding of the various factors involved. He managed opening it to get us through without letting any of the goats galloping behind us through, and discouraging Biscuit from following us, too. I was thoroughly impressed by young Cooper's many talents and told him that I would be glad to have him work with me on the farm again anytime. Luckily for me, he expressed interest in returning, too.

Inside the house, plied with sweet potato muffins spread with apple butter, Cooper ordered up a glass of milk. With his parents' blessing, he received a mug of still-warm, just-strained goat's milk. I was surprised to see him gulp down a big swallow at first. But then he stopped and held out the mug saying, "Can you make it taste the way it's supposed to taste?" which garnered a hearty laugh from the adults present.

Once the milk had been chilled with ice cubes, Cooper pronounced it drinkable and finished the lot readily.

Thank you, Cooper, for your hard work this evening. We thoroughly enjoyed having you and your family visit our farm. (If you get to taste the lasagna we sent home with your parents, you might like to know that its made with the ricotta cheese manufactured from Marcie's milk.)

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."

Good Fences are Essential

If I had known then what I know now with regard to fencing, I would have held out for a place that was fenced and cross-fenced. But, I was just getting a handle on what those terms meant and had no clue the amount of time, labor, and money required for adequate fencing. We bought this farm as “fenced,” meaning that a perimeter fence was in place. It was, kinda-sorta.

Beginning last winter we beefed up that perimeter fence to enclose a bit more than half of the farm with fence adequate to hold dwarf goats. I say “we,” but it was really Jeff of Barns & More who we hired for the task. Seeing how long that job took him, I began to get an inkling of what was involved. By the time the fencing was completed, Jeff was solidly established as a very good friend.

Perimeter fencing contained the animals (mostly), but it did not address the issue of keeping males from females. Indeed, we have two litters of rapidly growing Great Pyrenees pups to attest to that. When the alpacas arrived with two pregnant females, separation became an immediate issue. I’ve tried moving the girls and Spencer down to grassier locations but the gals got nervous at the change and the vinyl-coated fencing on step-in posts didn’t appear up to the task of containing alpacas should any decide to bolt.

Although I can now work more closely with the alpacas, we’re stuck in a rut of alternating males and females in the home pasture. I’m suspecting that Spencer is ready to graduate to the boys’ club, but have no direct evidence (I always look up to Van’s squeals after whatever set her off). While I did try to get Spencer out with the boys one evening, Goldie got mad and I wasn’t sure the “screen door” would hold up for the challenge of an hysterical momma so I returned the boy to his usual abode.

Now we have installed additional perimeter fencing, to enclose the front acres. I can keep the goats and dogs separate by gender, but the alpaca pasture has yet to be adequately divided. We’ve begun moving chain-link panels from two of the kennels I picked up on Craigslist and aim to provide a divided pasture within the week, but I am such a scatter-brain that it slows down any progress we make. To separate kennel panels to move, we had to forfeit both the extra goat enclosure we’d been using for “dates” and the blockade that was keeping the orchard safe from the goats. Before getting panels in place in the home pasture, I somehow managed to lose track of the collection of metal fasteners designed to reconnect the panels. Drat!

Currently dates occur in the last stall in the barn, the orchard is again denuded of greenery, and revisions to the home pasture remain incomplete. We always plan to finish a project today but get distracted from the task repeatedly. Plus, there’s the matter of the dogs. For a time two of them were scooting under and through fences, but we seem to have gotten that under control and they are staying put in whatever area we assign to them.

My dream is to have the farm cross-fenced enough to pasture alpacas, horses, goats, and fowl separately by species and gender, using rotational grazing and fences through which Millie won’t venture. For now we’ll work on separating the alpacas in the home pasture.

Puppy Escapades

Late yesterday afternoon, as I was serving the animals’ evening meals, I handled the pups a little. As working dogs their primary bond is with the livestock, so we don’t catch them up for cuddling or playing as one might another puppy. They do get individualized attention, though, when it’s time for immunizations, monthly flea and tick treatments, or worming. Yesterday was the end of a three-day course of a light-duty wormer. When coming up to the barn, I had left Heidi gathering and feeding five of the pups but expected them to follow along imminently. After catching up and treating the four dogging daddy Luther at the barn, I looked down the driveway but did not see the others swarming up the drive as I had expected, so I went about fetching hay for the ruminants.

On one trip I paused outside the barn to admire the view. Our land rolled out before me displaying alpaca boys capering in the late day sunshine, spotted horses happily munching hay, and the fine new four-board fence Jeff completed last week to keep our animals contained and out of the road. The acreage across the highway was newly hayed, artistically dotted with rolled bales that cast shadows in the late-day light. The tractor and baler that had been prowling those acres for endless hours had been put up; they sat in repose alongside the scenic red barn. Feeling satisfied and thoroughly happy with my situation, I admired the scene for a moment when my eye was caught by a trail of white animals crossing the field—a larger animal followed by a trail of smaller ones. It took probably the space of a heartbeat for my mood to turn from satisfied to aghast: what I was admiring had to be Heidi and a passel of the pups!

Goodness gracious, what was Heidi thinking?! Certainly the puppies slide through fences as if they’re not there and were seen Sunday in the yard next door, but to lead them across the busy roadway—I could not condone such risk-taking. That said, they did look quite beautiful streaming along in the late-day glow—almost picture-worthy, but I had no time for photography. I had to finish up the chores and get after the wayward lot.

In order to grain the alpaca boys without pushy goat boys horning in, I had to first distract the goats with some grain of their own. A smattering of sweet goat chow offered in a tub near the gate would do, so I hustled off to accomplish that task. Perhaps I erred by cutting through the alpaca boys’ stall en route to the goats. I did leave feed for the alpacas, but I did so quietly to escape the notice of the goats. Too quietly, I quickly learned, for when I stopped to pour grain for the goats I had hardly bent over than a full-on tackle by an exuberant alpaca sent me sprawling. Luckily I had dispatched some goat feed before the fall, so I was not trampled by stinky, greedy goat boys. Shawn looked surprised; apparently he had been following closely on my heels and had not expected me to stop short—so I had to forgive him for what was clearly an accident. Still and all, my head was ringing from the impact.

After dusting myself off and settling the alpacas, I grabbed a bucket with the necessary worming tools—medicine, syringes for measuring oral dosages, pen and paper for recording who got what, and most importantly the wand for reading each puppy’s RFID chip. (Now that they’ve grown and the litters have commingled—Heidi’s two with Molly’s seven—I can no longer tell one puppy from another. Certainly they each have distinctive markings, but I have not the brain power to commit the variations to memory and must rely on their chips for positive identification.)

Hopping into the little Trail Wagon, I raced down to the front gate and parked. I would cross the street on foot and see what I could see. Having never actually passed the guardrail and fencing into the neighbor’s field, I was not sure of how exactly to proceed. Standing in the breakdown lane by the guardrail, I admired Heidi and her brood. They had passed all the round bales, crossed a stream, and entered the next field with vegetation so tall that only Heidi was visible. She’s a fine teacher, even if this lesson was not one I wanted for the pups. Cars and trucks breezed by me infrequently as I pondered my next step.

If I were to trespass upon the hayfield, would I have time to cross the field before losing sight of Heidi? And how would the farming neighbors whose acquaintance I have yet to make feel about me traipsing across their land? I don’t know when hunting season begins (or began) but the sounds of gunfire have washed across the land for several days now. Did I want to be wandering on unfamiliar ground where I might be mistaken for game?

My thoughts were interrupted when Theresa pulled up behind me in her new car. When she offered to go put on her sneakers and come back to help me track the dogs (now mere specks appearing and disappearing along a fence line), I decided—no, I would not chase after the dogs further. Heidi would bring them home soon enough. Then I noticed that the pups from the barn had followed me downhill and now spotted me out in the roadway. That sent me packing for home; I had no desire to manage more puppies by the road.

Although I have yet to figure out where the parents are slipping through the fence, I would find those vulnerable places without the dogs on my heels. After crossing back through our gate and greeting the pups, I thought to call back across the way to announce “doggie dinnertime” in hopes that those words might hasten Heidi’s return. It did not.

Finally, after I had given up, finished chores, and gone inside, I heard a car horn honking as if at an animal in the road. Heidi! I raced outside to see her trotting along the breakdown lane with pups in tow, then turning up our drive. Since I had (I thought) escape-proofed the front gate I hustled down to meet the group and to welcome them back in. Oddly, Heidi had only four pups with her; I had expected five. About two minutes later I heard the calls of a pup in distress—the sound seemed to be coming from the hayfield across the way. The crying would start, sound briefly, and then stop by the time I had turned to listen or started back down the drive. Choosing experience over compassion, I set about identifying and worming the four pups Heidi had brought with her. Then I escorted the crew (which had grown in number) back towards the barn to put away the bucket.

At the barn I turned back and thought I saw a white speck in the middle of the hayfield. Staring until I was able to discern movement, I deduced that I was seeing the missing pup—the one whose RFIP tag ends in the number 780, and the most elusive of the lot. The pup was moving steadily towards home, so I went back to grab the medicinal bucket and marched down to meet her. I still was faced with the problems of entering the field across the way, but I face one obstacle at a time so chose to worry about that only after I had reached said fence. Of course I was stopped and distracted by other chores as I went—getting this for the horses and that for the chickens—so by the time I actually reached and passed the house, I saw a pup gamely galloping uphill along the fence line to Stella’s horse pasture. After chasing her down, number 780 was identified, medicated, and released. Only then did I put away my wares for the night (up in the barn) and head back down to the house amid gathering darkness.

Millicent Houdini Slips Through Fences

For about a month now, our most recently acquired spotted saddle horse, Millie, has been disregarding fence boundaries with abandon. I don’t recall when exactly this became a daily affair; these days Millie simply refuses to be contained. If she’s been left pastured with Stella, as usual, one can expect to find her on the lawn, in the orchard, or standing by the gate at any time of day. We have worked out a system for her return, whereby I “lead” her back to the flimsiest portion of the fence—either with a strand of baling twine looped behind her ears, or simply with a hand below her jaw for guidance. When we reach the fence, I dislodge the top wire from its perch atop the highest insulator, pull all the lines down with my foot, and stand (actually wobble) atop them while she crosses into the pasture.

Earlier this week I watched her migrate through the fence. She begins by pressing up alongside an assemblage of three loosely-strung high tensile lines. After easing her head beneath the highest strand, she begins grazing beyond her pasture until—whoops!—one leg at a time casually lifts itself over the intervening wires. Within a couple of minutes, without seeming to move much at all, Millie stands outside the pasture entirely grazing where she pleases.

For a time she kept the grasses well trimmed in the orchard area, but when she took an interest in grape leaves I decided it was time to ban her from there. Now she is “limited” to maybe fifteen acres, although she tends to stay in the front or up near the horses; she avoids roaming the woods by herself. When I feel the need to keep her penned, putting her in with Lucy and Janet (whose fencing is taught and effective); however, I rather like seeing her out front, roaming at will.

Gals on the Lam: Sweet Stella and Millicent Houdini

Stella and Millie didn’t show up for dinner on Friday night. I had seen them enough from my office window while I worked during the day to know that they were getting along well now that they shared the front pasture. And they had been standing at their self-appointed post by the gate—the easiest location for food delivery—in the late afternoon when Whiskey and Joshua were ready to go up to the barn for the night. But after we had shared an early dinner with our neighbor Theresa (who makes wonderful company and is so easy to be with), I went out as the shadows were getting long. By the time everyone else had been corralled, fed and watered, and bedded down for the night it was plain to me that our sweet spotted saddle horses were among the missing.

I could not imagine where they might have gone. The fence around their pasture is intact, although flimsy in places, and the lot line along the neighbor’s hayfield is lined with not only old barb wire but also rusty field fence. Had the gate been open into Lucy’s pasture, the missing gals would surely have turned up for dinner. Now it was pitch black out and I was tired which meant I’m prone to stumbling and falling.

We have several very good flashlights around, somewhere. After a search I turned up one with an acceptable beam and headed out into the night. I was not eager to trek down the rocky hillside given the conditions, so I pulled the truck down the driveway and parked it in the far corner of the front acreage, with the high beams shining into the woods where I needed to search.

It didn’t take long to find where the mares had busted out. In a spot where the rusty border fencing had been pulled down long ago by a fallen tree, and where the high tensile fencing had never fully recovered after our winter logging fiasco, was a gap large enough for a horse to pass through. Beyond the lot line the grass was trodden into a path that deer likely use and our horses may have used.

A call to the neighbor who manages the field gained me permission to enter the Knowles property in the morning and provided a verbal description of the terrain where I might look. The conversation was quite reassuring to me, the newbie who knows little of the protocol for entering other’s property let alone for how to search for missing animals at night. Relieved that Jim said that I should wait until morning to look on the unfamiliar acres, I hung up my gear for the night. (Sleep did not come easily although I was weary, for I continued to think about the adventures our mares might be having.)

Come morning, as soon as I entered Lucy and Janet’s pasture to head down to the gate leading to the front pasture (from which the spotted horses had escaped) I saw Stella through the tree line. She was in the neighbor’s hayfield, as expected, and looking for me as well. Why she might be looking for her morning flake of hay eluded me because she was standing chest-deep in soon-to-be-mown fresh hay.

I took my time clearing the downed fence before pursuing the mares. Although they had wandered out over the rusted web of wire, I was not about to try to bring them back in over it. As it was, I was able to clear all but the heaviest top wire. It remained stretched across the path a bit about fetlock-height. Not two days earlier I had noticed the heavy wire-cutters I use for fences, considered that they were in an unusual location, and passed on by without moving them. They chose to refrain from reappearing that morning so the horses would simply have to step over the wire. (Later that day I borrowed a pair of bolt cutters from a neighbor to finish the job.)

Crossing into the hayfield, I located both mares not far along the fence line. Stella passed me, heading for home, but Millie allowed me to tie a halter on her. Together we walked back to the opening in companionable silence, then I removed the halter and crossed over the wire without the horses. Oddly enough, almost as soon as I shook the pans of grain I’d brought, both mares eagerly crossed back into their own pasture and settled to the task of eating.

Mending the break with just a couple of loose wires (that might be electrified if I had bothered to make that portion of fence hot), I smiled at the ease with which horses can be contained. They are much easier to manage than the adventuresome goats. After they had finished their grain, both mares cantered uphill to check for the flakes of hay they were due.

Mystery solved. End of story I thought, although I would be asking Jeff to extend the front perimeter fence all the way back along the old rusted wire now that the mares proved the work necessary.



Two days later, when two of Jeff’s brothers were here to help lay down the tubing for the radiant floor heating system going into the workshop-in-progress, I heard Jeff shout that we had a horse out. He had been leaving to cut hay after having dropped off Steve and Tommy, but when I got down to the gate I met him there—leading Millie using one of the halters I had left out on Saturday morning. Some way she had slipped through my poorly-mended fence; at least she had chosen to stay home this time.

Millie’s reward was a day on the grass within the round pen. She appeared less than wholly thrilled, though, as she paced about in the hot sun. In the late afternoon when I had time to investigate, I found that she had knocked down the lower wire and slipped out under the upper wire in her quest for improved grazing. I tightened up both wires without replacing any of the broken plastic braces designed to hold hot wire off of metal posts. Millie was glad to get back to her space with Stella that evening.

Not four days later, though, when I was finishing feeding the animals I again noticed the mares’ hay sitting untouched beside the fence. Irritated, I grabbed gloves and wire cutters and headed down the hill. Stella nickered at me when I got close. Again, a wire had been knocked down and the gals had slipped out under another wire. This time I simply held up the top wire. I did not even cross into the neighbor’s hayfield. The mares knew what to do and ducked under, came home, and hurried uphill to find their dinner.

I spider-webbed some twine between the top and bottom strands where they crossed the lot line. It is not much, but it may encourage the gals to stay at home until the fence goes up. After all, it’s prime haying season and the field next door will likely be cut and baled soon.

For now I’ll keep an eye out a bit more vigilantly.

Separating Boys from Girls

Space is at a premium until the farm is fully fenced and cross-fenced. The acres of lush grass (potential pasture) extend beyond the perimeter fence erected to date. The land within the perimeter fence has limited cross-fencing on it. Each morning I must perform the mental shuffle: how shall I separate the goats, alpacas, horses, dogs, geese and chickens today?

For the most part, the chickens manage themselves. I provide scratch grain in the morning to the free range birds and keep Mama Hen supplied with layer mash and water. The chicks have outgrown their garaged dog kennel and now have a base in the larger wire kennel near Mama Hen; I only provide chick starter and fresh water. They have begun flowing out through the chain link, maintaining cover under the orchard’s pots, a nearby rock outcropping, or simply the tall grass. Mama Hen has her one chick whom she mothers, and is busily brooding over a new clutch of guinea hen eggs—collected from our hens. Thus, the chickens take practically no thought and little time each day.

The geese have come to an agreement with me. During the day they roam free through the back acreage, and in the evening they report to the outside kennel in the woods to receive cracked corn and a safe (locked-in) space for the night.

The dogs have settled well within the perimeter fence. Usually they roam free of the home pasture, but once in a while they prefer it. During long rainy stretches, Molly likes the home pasture for its easy access to shelter in stalls. She seems to like lying in the straw or shavings with little goats around her. Luther prefers to excavate the barn’s inner corridor—especially spots supporting the legs of large furniture items stored there for now. Heidi roams outside, coming into the shelter at the far end of the barn only to eat. She may seek shelter beneath the storage trailer in the heat of the day, but she’s usually close on the heels of her charges and she pays extra close attention to the smallest goats.

The goats were long split between residing in the barn (Nigerian Dwarfs, Little Uns, and new mamas and their kids) and out by (or beneath) the storage trailer. After Mother’s Day weekend, Lucy and Janet have been given the center stall and all goats are now relegated to the more spacious enclosures under the trailer. For pasture the boys generally work down front, tackling the grassy acres to little avail at an ever-increasing (that is to say, they are losing the battle more and more quickly). Big fainter girls roam within the perimeter fence and browse the woods. Smaller goats and those with kids are relegated to the home pasture. Since Nigerian Dwarf goats seem to take pleasure in problem-solving, they have been well-entertained by the sloppy divider fence I slung up when the alpacas arrived.

The alpacas, on the other hand, are willing to be contained by my feeble efforts—usually. At times, after the goats have again demolished my fence by climbing over it until it lies nearly flat, Spencer will hop the “barrier” and go play with the boys. For a time I even let the boys and girls mingle. After all the girls are pregnant, so what could be the harm?

The harm, it turned out, is that Romeo is true to his name. One afternoon when I had the genders mixed together, I thought to stable them all side-by-side in a stall divided by a sturdy goat panel. Romeo refused to be enticed in with the boys. After I had (stupidly) allowed him to enter the girls’ stall, Goldie exploded out of the door with Romeo in hot pursuit. Wholly enamored, he gave serious chase for several minutes, then Hamilton boiled over the goat panel divider in one easy move (for such gentle creatures, they are amazingly athletic). Later, after the boys were settled again two stalls away from the girls and Spencer, Hamilton showed off for me again, leaping easily out into the pasture over the stall door meant to contain him.

For today, the boys have a goat panel grate over the top portion of their stall. Tomorrow, of course, will bring more changes to the pasturing dilemma.

FiFi Mae, Trailer Queen

On Sunday the does and dogs again roamed the back acres—with the caprines browsing the new growth within earshot of the barn and the canines venturing far afield. When I motored the little UTV Trail Wagon into the woods, the does pressed forward in a wave to investigate as I began, and even followed me to my first excavation site—a well-rotted tree stump ready to work in the garden; however, they soon lost interest and returned to the more serious task of foraging. The dogs, on the other hand, romped gaily along—bouncing over fallen trees, chasing through the brush, prancing close for petting when I stopped to collect soil along the wetter lowlands. Molly even stood in the runoff feeding the seasonal West Fork of Spring Creek to supervise my adventures in mud. Heidi appeared frequently, never getting close enough to be touched, but coming closer than her norm.

Back at the barn, where I had spent a chunk of the morning cutting the woven wire affixed to the round pen to allow the pen to be broken apart in sections and moved, the boys munched hay and sniffed eagerly at any does that approached their enclosure. The storage trailer stood wide open, inviting goats to approach to reach the hay stored inside. The fainters could reach the hay by standing on the ramp or even reaching from the ground, but the dwarfs had to make do with hay brought down for them. Thumbelina, Cocoa, and Jennifer, who are somewhat hampered by the enormity of their pregnancies, had to watch from the ground as little FiFi Mae hopped nimbly into the trailer. There she ate happily and lorded it over all those below her perch.

At different times the fainters challenged her reign, but little FiFi Mae was undeterred. She even took on the imperious herd queen, Gwen, who tried to enter the trailer itself, only to be stopped cold by the little upstart who has been here barely a week. I’m pleased that FiFi Mae has acclimated so well. When she first arrived she allowed herself to be bullied and run off, but now she holds her own at the feed trough—and she became Trailer Queen in the blink of an eye, much to Gwen’s dismay!

In the late afternoon the girls were ready to go in for the night, and soon settled into their stalls with hay. Even Luther was hungry after all of his running, and he stayed close when the girls got fed. When he reached into the fainters’ hog pan / trough I understood, and let him into the alcove where the canines’ kibble is harbored safely out of reach of those greedy goats. Then Molly actually came when I called—I have yet to do any formal obedience training with the pups—galloping in from the depths of the woods, eager to please and quick to return to the pasture. With everyone but Heidi tucked in for the night, and Heidi on patrol outside the pups’ pasture that she enters and exits at will through the flimsy soft divider I erected to suggest a fence when I expanded the canine kingdom to include the overhang at the rear of the barn a few days back, I called Jody in Mt. Juliet and headed out to pick up the fainter buckling she had for sale.