Is it Farch yet?

While I'm not exactly whining, I am getting a leeeetle tired of winter.  Ever so.  Leeetle.  The novelty of having to spend twenty minutes putting on layers to walk the dogs in the morning has worn thin.  The chickens, having had spent way too many hours in close contact with their incessantly, chattering African relatives, have a glassy look to their eyes.  Things are breaking down, freezing, sticking.  Everyone's got cabin fever.

The upside of this winter seems to be a lack of rodent activity (not counting the squirrels, who are in a PIA class of their own).  I am hoping that they were all frozen out, died a horrible death, and those that survived went looking for a kinder, gentler place to pillage.  It is gradually getting lighter, the days are longer, so I have unplugged one of my multiple timers.  A little less cha-ching! on the monthly electric bill.  I am finally getting more than four eggs a day.  This means, in a month or three, the chickens will once again be earning most of their keep.

The 2013 Garden Plan has been started.  Slightly.  Ever so slightly.  I got the notebook out and sharpened my pencil.  Which involved finding my pencil sharpener.  Which was buried in the craft/knitting closet.  It's a wonder I can find clean socks.  Actually, I am knitting some clean socks.

Speaking of knitting, I realized this morning that I have six projects in some level of started-ness.  I have one and one-quarter socks knitted.  One quarter (or less) of a cotton cardigan on the needles.  One cotton hand towel cast on.  I've got my 32nd hexi-puff on the needles for my beekeeper quilt.  Only 400 more to go!  I have started yet another cabled ear warmer.  I discovered I did not finish the other iPod sweater I started.  And I have the needles, yarn and pattern all ready for a very lovely lacy cowl that I want very badly to make NOW.  Oy.

Another fun thing to do while you're waiting for Farch, is to go through the Murray McMurray catalog.  And make two lists:  the Wish List, where you list all 500 of the various breeds of chicken, ducks, goose, and turkey youngsters that you wish you could order.  Please notice there was no mention of Guinea fowl.  Then you sigh deeply and forlornly and make out the very much shorter practical list.  Okay.  Maybe practical is not the correct word.  How about 'realistic'?  Unrealistically necessary list?  Whatever.  It's the list that you've talked yourself into believing that you MUST have.  So far, after much stops, starts, erasures and additions, I am looking at four black Silkies, two Aracaunas, two Marans, two Blue Laced Red Wyandottes (how could you NOT order these?), and a partridge.  Kidding on the partridge.  This list also means that there are some of the existing group that will have to go.  I have most of my Barnevelders listed on craigslist, although it is a little early for the seasonal chicken frenzy.

Since the weather forecast for tomorrow involves a range of a few inches of snow to a few feet (I believe this is called "covering your ass bases"), I made a quick trip to the feed mill so I wouldn't be caught without chicken feed.  The mere thought makes my blood run cold - as cold as their glassy little eyes....

How are you all faring on your way to Farch?  Any tips to keep the rest of us sane?

Monday Musings.

Isn't it interesting how one misspelled word - or one missing punctuation mark - can change the entire meaning of something?  As in:  Let's eat Grandma. vs. Let's eat, Grandma.  Or:  Benny's Best fried doe vs. Benny's Best fried dough.  Hmmm.  Maybe Benny MEANT doe on the last one.  There were a lot of pickup trucks with rifle racks in the parking lot.  I wasn't in the mood to hang around and ask, as I was trying to take an 'artful' shot off Hog Back Mountain while keeping one eye on the Lincoln.

One of the joys of cooler weather, is that the stand of pines that is in the front of the house bursts into full pine-y-ness.  They give off the most wonderful, pungent pine scent.  It's so wonderful that almost everyone that walks down the road will stop and sniff the air.  I like to go stand in the middle of it and just inhale.  I wish that I could replicate that exact scent in a candle, or in perfume.  But the only pine scented candles I can find are sort of syrupy piney something.  And what gives with most vanilla candles?  That ain't no vanilla, baby.  That is chem-nilla.  I wonder if I rubbed myself all over with the pine needles I could pass it off as perfume....

Cats are totally perverse.  I will sit at the computer with Kramer clamoring to be held.  He drapes across my left shoulder, purring loudly and, after a few minutes of a warm, purring body in close proximity, my eyes start to close, I relax and breath deeply.  Then he digs his talons into my shoulder and launches.  And I fall for it every. single. time.

I really enjoy watching the poultry scene from my bedroom window - I can watch them without their being aware of me.  Because, if they catch sight of me, they all lift their fluffy bloomers and come running.  Not all of my chickens have names.  I only name the ones with distinct personalities.  Good thing, too, as sometimes remembering my own name is a challenge.
There is Marie-Claire, a Cuckoo Maran who was rescued from her life in a large plastic tub in someones living room.  She lays an egg every once in a great while, is around 5 y/o, and is my best surrogate mother.  Because of her upbringing, she has a funny kind of skipping, pigeon-toed gait.

And there is Kees "Big Daddy" Roo, my Barnevelder rooster.  We are presently just referring to him as "Daddy" since he lost his major tail feathers to molting.  He pulls his best Elvis routine on the girls who, more often than not, give him the cold shoulder.  This does not dampen his ardor, but he is respectful and not too hard on the girls.

Then there is Rosie's Girl, an Austerlorp with large, lustrous dark eyes.  She is also an oldster by hen standards.  And let's not forget $40 Freddie (aka Freddie the Bearded Lady), who has recovered quite nicely from her bumblefoot with just a trace of a limp.  And Big Sally and Big Betty, the new girls.  When they come running, the ground shakes!  And there is dear E-Claire, surrogate daughter of Marie-Claire, daughter of the old roo, Junior.  And Violet, the Blue Andalusian, who lived through her narrow escape from Bernie.

Now I also get to enjoy watching the posse of Pearlies, a constantly moving speckled clump of burbling prehistoric wonders.  LOUD prehistoric wonders.  So far, only one of the posse has made himself stand out.  Lonesome George.

Who needs television?

Guineas Ain't Chickens and What Price Paradise?

Following all the sage advice I have gleaned from raisers of Guinea hens, I have been keeping the Pearlies in their coop with a screen door for their viewing pleasure.  I have dutifully rattled their feed cup, calling out "Pearlies!  Dinner!" at the same time (more or less) every night to train them to come in for the night when they hear the dinner bell (pebbles).  We are four weeks into the recommended six week re-imprinting time and they were getting a little stir crazy.  So I carefully blocked all avenues of escape (and entrance) with a combination of chicken wire and poultry netting.  Have I told you my idea about using poultry netting as a method to get terrorists to talk?  I'm sure I have.  I love it THAT much.  Saturday morning, I let them out into their little run.  And, from my observations over the weekend, Guineas ain't chickens.

First and foremost, when I appear, my chickens come running IN my direction from all parts of the yard.  You can almost hear them cry, "Food, it's Food!"  Guineas?  When I appear, they run in the opposite direction ("Run away!  Run away!)  When I let the chickens out for the first time, they spread out and look things over.  The Guineas?  They move in a solid, many-footed mass.  They are never more than two inches from each other.  The first night was a disaster, as only four went back into the coop, one managed to escape and went over the fence into the dark and the other disappeared (it spent the night UNDER the coop).  The next morning, I heard Lonesome George crying his LOUD distress call all around the house.  I left the gate open to the back yard, and tried to get him going in the right direction.  Of course, he ran away - in the opposite direction.  He did finally hear his gang and come back over the fence.  And I was able to get him back in with his clan.

Sunday night was even worse, if that is possible.  NONE of them went into the coop and all roosted on top of it.  Another difference in Guinea vs. Chicken?  When it is dark, you can pick up a chicken very calmly and gently and move it inside.  Guineas?  Hysteria at any time of the day or night.  I am not feeling that there is going to be a successful and long term relationship here.  In a couple of weeks, I will be letting them range and will have to resort to finger-crossing.  I hope we ALL live through the experience.

The price of Paradise?  Two days and two nights of agony, and still counting.  Last Thursday evening, I was able to spend a lovely evening with a friend I don't see often.  Her home is set on a rise, surrounded by a pine forest, with a lovely view.  She has created an outdoor room that is just gorgeous - fire pit, table and chairs covered in lovely floral linens, flowers in vases, torches for light.  My ex-cat, Bebe (now Smoky) lives there and always comes racing to drape herself across my shoulder vibrating with a happy purr.  She is a wonderful cook and we sit watching fireflies, catching up, drinking a glass of wine, eating good food.  It is heavenly.

The next day, my legs started to itch.  I figured it was a change in laundry detergent.  By Saturday, from the tops of my feet to behind my knees, I counted over 60 mosquito bites.  ITCHY ones.  By Saturday night I was having visions of cattle, blinded by clouds of gnats, galloping happily off cliffs to their death - and blessed relief.  I could barely concentrate all day Sunday.  Monday, I was finally over the worst.  The next time I visit that Paradise, I am going to dip myself in citronella, wear socks, hip boots, long pants, a turtleneck, gloves, hat and a full body net suit.

It pays to have a name around here.

Somehow, I missed the fact that Freddy the Bearded Lady was gimpy.  That is, until she was really gimpy.  By then I realized that there was something seriously wrong with her foot.  But what?  I headed to my favorite source of how to fix serious things - Leigh's blog.  I ran down the handy resource listing on the right and found what I thought it was -- Bumblefoot.  For crying out loud - who came up with that name?  I read the information thoroughly and came to the conclusion that I had missed the early/easy stages, and that some foot surgery was needed.  And I was NOT going to do it myself.  I do know my limitations.  Most of the time.

What to do.  I picked up the phone this morning and left a message for Doctor Rod.  It went something like this, "Hi, there Doctor Rod.  You may remember me - the one with the huge, fat cat that had both his canines extracted?  The one that could only catch one of her other two cats?  Well, I have another small problem with...with...a chicken.  I am very fond of her and she has injured her foot and could you possibly find it in your heart to do some minor surgery I will be glad to help." (I figured I had more chance of success by running it into one long sentence before the true nature of the call registered.)  I left my cell phone number and hung up.

While I was sitting in a loooong line of non-moving traffic this morning on my way to work (they had, through some amazingly stupid choice, closed four lanes of freeway into one during rush hour), my phone rang.  I looked quickly around to see if anyone would notice I was going to answer my cell phone - ha.  Everyone around me was yakking away.  It was Doctor Rod!  Sure, he would do it.  Did I need to bring her in today?  Was it an emergency?  Have I mentioned lately how much I love my new vet?  We set up an appointment for Monday morning.  I will have to help, as his vet tech is out.  He asked if I would mind if we wrapped her in a towel and I held her during the procedure.  I said that I wouldn't, and didn't feel I needed to mention that, less than a week ago, I had been pulling billions of feathers off her nameless, headless brethern.  TMI!!!

I've said it once, and I'll say it again.

Homesteading ain't for sissies.  And neither is getting old.  So, if you're an old homesteader does that mean you are some kind of hondo-woman?  Hmmm.  Mehbe.  My mornings have been in a rut.  Get up at 4ish (can't help it, honest); let dogs out and (quietly) yell a Bernie to NOT rip down my fence to get at the rat trap.  Iron, knit, wash dishes, or whatever until 6.  Feed dogs/cats.  Walk dogs.  Check rat trap (always full - they are either stupid or in a rut, too).  Feed me.  Let out Chickens One and then Chickens Two (the Fricassees).  Feed and water same.  Feed goaties.  Feed sheepies.  Do a little bonding (iffy) with Camel-girl.  Water things. Pack lunch.  Shower.  Dress for work.  Put loaded rat trap in car and deliver to neighbor for part two of catching rats (don't ask and I won't tell).  Drive to work.  Where, I bet, NO ONE ELSE had to deal with rats before breakfast.

At least some of my chores will be lighter after Saturday.

Because of the fate of my friend, M's, Red Rangers, I did not put mine out 'on pasture'.  Too many varmints out there with blood in their eye.  So they have been living (cozily) in the smaller coop with a nice, safe fenced-in area.  This worked out well in the beginning but, as these meat-specific birds go, they are now lumbering around like small, feathered Godzilla characters.  I have been trying to train them to go into the coop at night by turning on the interior light to make it look all homey and welcoming.  I must be out of my mind.  Some do stagger up the ramp and go in.  Some go partially in, then think it's just a swell place to turn around and plop down in the doorway to see the sights.  Which completely blocks access for the rest of the ignoramuses.  So, every night for the past 6 weeks, I have been chasing the Stubborn 5 (as I call them) who refuse to go in, and heaving placing them gently in the coop.  Which results in much hoopla and banging around.  Then I turn off the light and all is blissfully quiet.  Well, Saturday is F-Day (as in Fricassee) and all but three are heading off to Kamp Kenmore.  I am keeping a breeding group because I will never EVER raise 15 again.  And, get this, I am participating the processing.  With my neighbor, the Lithuanian Lawnguy, and Kay.   They both have experience in this type of thing.  I do not.  But, not being one to back down from a new experience - no matter how gruesome it may be - I am taking responsibility for what I eat.  I get to do the plucking.  Oooooh.  Gritty details will be forthcoming.  But no pictures.  I may be a sissy, after all.

Ouch!

Normal x-lg egg on left.  Owie on right.

Someone's walking funny today.  I wonder who laid this double-yolker...  I have a couple of chickens - three, actually - who are under the weather.  E-Claire has been hauling around a big sack of something off her chest for quite a while.  Doesn't seem to be her crop, so I am at a loss.  She has her ups and downs, but, for the most part, seems to be holding her own.  I try not to get her excited since, when she works up a head of steam, this 'boosum' starts to swing from left to right and she reminds me of a ship on a very rough sea.  Violet (or Lavender - I'm never sure who is who) went from fine to floppy.  I've checked her over and can't find anything obvious, although I have a feeling it is a stagnant crop.  Ditto for Red, the lone Red Sex Link.  Just to rule out worms, I've mixed some DE into their feed.  I don't know why there is a rash of crop problems, since they have a wide access to lots of grit.  I've got two hens going broody - Marie-Claire, our resident surrogate mother; and one of the Honeys (Buff Orpingtons).  I am not prepared to sacrifice a nesting box yet, so I have to roust them out twice a day.  The first batch of Red Ranger chicks (15) are due to arrive on Friday, so I have cleaned out the little coop, closed off the vent, papered the bottom, put the heat lamp in (along with the non-electric brooder, just in case), and will add waterers and feeders Friday when they arrive.  Once I get them feathered and ready for fresh air, I hope to find either some keets or fertile guinea hen eggs to incubate.  Spring is in the air!  (Well, somewhere.)

Um...thank you?

My dear, generous-to-a-fault sister gifted my chickens on Easter with...

What?  You don't keep your dried meal works with your
Organic Raw Oats?

Urk.  I know they are not alive.  I know they are just dried bits of fowl food.  But, it is just so, so, so, ICKY.  It takes Herculean effort to get my hand in that bag, I'll tell you.  However, the chickens think they are the bee's knees.  I went out with my shaky handful and tossed it in their direction.  They ran up, came to a screeching halt - stuck their necks out and gave them the beady-eye.  Then they descended on them like a herd of feathered piranhas!  I barely got out with my socks on.  I will have to be more careful in spreading the meal-worm-love.  Besides, it will probably take me a few days to get my nerve up enough to stick my hand in that bag again.