Through the Garden Gate

I am SO sore this morning.

I can barely lift my arms, and don't EVEN ask me to bend over to pick something up off the floor!

Why, you ask?

Well, yesterday, I tackled my long-neglected veggie garden. 1850 square feet of raised beds brimming with overgrown tomato plants, long-wasted corn stalks, and an unimaginable amount of just-plain-weeds. Heck, we even had four small willow trees starting to grow in the aisles! However, with a lot of grit and determination, I started at the west end gate and began to hack, yank, and rip until I could see bare soil. It was shaping up to be a long and arduous process when, thankfully, my son decided to help his ol' mom out by lending his muscles to the project.

The two of us worked, side by side, most of the day. We were joined by Anabel, the calf, who flitted from one garden bed to another, munching on the tender grasses that had begun to take over. As she was happily exploring one of the beds, it happened--FIRE ANTS! At the time, we didn't have a clue why this docile little cow jumped and then took off as if a rocket had been ignited in her bum. She raced around inside the garden. She ran through the gate and out into the yard. She barrelled, full steam, around and around the garden fence and under the deck, kicking and twisting and mooing. We were at a loss as to what, exactly, we could do to help her, since we couldn't begin to catch her, but, after a bit, she calmed down and rejoined us amongst the raised beds, contentedly munching far away from the site of the "attack".

All the while, Snowman (one of the Great Pyrs) watched from the shade of the silo. Bob, the JRT, busied himself waiting on the golf cart for a ride to the burn pile. Seymour watched from the nursery gate--hoping we'd bring him a few rose petals. Rocky would happen by, occasionally, peeking in to see what we were up to. However, he and the minis in the yard were more entertained by being able to walk through the equipment barn--which usually remains off limits to most critters. The thrum of the tractor, as my husband mowed in the main pasture, provided appropriate background noise.

At the end of the day, we weren't finished. We still have much to haul to the burn pile. We still have the herb garden to tackle. I have to spray the garden beds for weeds and squash bugs, and I'll attempt to start some spinach, beets, and lettuce. But, it was a good start. And today promises to be much cooler for the work. Maybe I can even work out some of this soreness in the process...one can dream.

Mornin' on the Farm

So I woke up this morning at around six o'clock...

...an innocent enough beginning to the day. As I look out the windows, I see a deer nestled in the nursery barn awaiting breakfast; a weanling colt wedged between the '47 Chevy and the wall in the carport, dozing in the quiet beginning of the day; and a cow lying on my front landing, right between the doormat and the Great Pyrenees asleep underneath the bench.

Yep, definitely MY farm.

Seymour has settled back down in the nursery and is, for the most part, business as usual. That is, except when that...that....COW THING comes near the fence! Anabel, though loathed by the deer, has taken to her life in the yard with her brothers Rocky and Gus (a maxi and a mini Paint), Snowman and Gianni, and daddy Bandit (all Great Pyrs). Now that she's mastered the art of ascending and descending the steps to the front landing, Anabel is a nightly fixture on the front doormat. It's a quiet spot with a great view, and she never has to sleep alone. I guess if you're a little gal finding your way in the world, that's a pretty safe spot.

We'll roll with it for now. Can't imagine, though, the scene when she's 500 pounds...

He's BAAAAaaaaaak!

OK, just when I was getting used to the fact that my "deer rearing" days had come to an end, everything changed.

It was Saturday around lunchtime, and I was in the office/studio working on candles for an upcoming show. All of a sudden, both my husband and son burst through the door, and with breathless excitement announced that Seymour was "at the gate!" Since we live in the middle of about 1,000 acres, it could have been ANY deer at the back gate, but Seymour is so easy to identify...most of the hair scraped off in a line down the middle of his back from going UNDER the stall gate for dog food time. I stress the word "under", as it is not in a deer's nature to go "under" things. They always go "over". Not Seymour, our Great Deerenees! He learned the dog way of doing things--and that's UNDER. Period.

I dropped what I was doing--thankfully remembering to turn the burner off under the melting wax--and rushed out the door. There, pacing at the gate waiting to be let in, was Seymour. So as not to frighten him further, I calmly walked to the gate, talking to him all the while, and opened it. He rushed in and immediately was surrounded by his Pyr brothers and sisters...and dad. It was a joyous reunion with lots of butt sniffing, fur chewing, and whining. I took advantage of the momentary distraction to slip into the house and grab the one thing in the kitchen that I knew he loved: an apple.

When I returned, apple in hand, Seymour dove in, teeth first, like he hadn't eaten a thing since he left. I walked him--and his entire entourage--to the nursery gate, opened it up, and they all followed me in. It was at that point that I noticed Seymour's battered condition. He looked like he'd been on the losing end of a major prize fight. A large, semi-circular cut under his right eye, a small cut across the bridge of his nose, and various scrapes and patches of missing hair all over his body. Did he get beat up by a world-wise buck in the woods, or did he have an encounter with a coyote? We may never know.

Since his return, we've had to move Anabel out of the nursery. Seymour is deathly afraid of her. And, he's been very easily spooked at the least noise or smell. However, I am pleased to report that, as each day passes, he is closer and closer to the old Seymour we know and love. I think with time and understanding, he'll be back in top form--healed from all his wounds and ready to face life again. Until then, doctor's orders are plenty of rest...and dog food. It nourishes the soul, if you're a deer.

Will he leave again? Probably. But we'll enjoy the time he's with us, expecting full well for the call of nature to eventually win. Just not now.

And then...he was gone.

We all knew this day would arrive.

You just can't prepare yourself for it, though. While you know in your bones that it is the way it should be, your heart still gets broken.

What am I talking about, you ask? Seymour, the yearling buck. Today was his day to fly. I've been trying to come to terms with the inevitable for days, now, as I watched him grow more and more restless in the nursery. He was isolating himself from the others--not at all like the Seymour we know and love--and he paced the fenceline, looking into the yard, the pasture, the world beyond his little world. He is a year and three months old, now; a juvenile buckling with features that change every day as he matures into a beautiful and graceful adult. An adult that needs room to run. To fly. To be free.

My last interaction with Seymour was yesterday. As I was leaving the nursery with some very dear friends, Seymour came up to the fence, and with some urgency, stuck his head through the fence and licked me right on the nose--the sweetest of deer kisses. Then he went back to doing what he did best--rest in the nursery with his charges: Abby, Gracie, Mia, and the newly added Anabel. This morning when I went to give Anabel her bottle, I assumed that Seymour was, perhaps, lying in the dog stall waiting for breakfast.

So, I gave the little calf her bottle and went on with my morning ritual of drinking a nice, hot cup of coffee and reading the internet news. Bob, the foundling Jack Russell terrier's barks broke the peaceful morning, and I looked out the window of the office to see what he was up to. About then, I saw a beautiful deer in the front pasture, gracefully leaping along the fenceline toward the back. It headed straight for the mixed herd of horses and donkeys gathered along the cart path, and as it approached, the herd parted like the Red Sea. After hesitating a moment, the deer continued on toward the back gate and the freedom of the back 100 acres of our farm. "Hmmm", I thought to myself. What a pretty deer." I didn't realize until a half an hour later when I went to feed that I'd just witnessed Seymour's flight to freedom. No heartfelt goodbyes, no fanfare--just a quiet exit as his white tail bobbed toward the gate.

And then, he was gone.

I know in my "knower" that this is as it should be. We did a good job raising him. He's fully capable of foraging on his own, making his way in this great world around him. But still, my heart is broken. Such a gift this last year has been! I have learned and experienced things I never thought I'd have the opportunity to, thanks to this precious little gift of a baby deer. And I must say, I am the richer for it. My heart will mend--as I dive into the harried schedule of bottle feeding our new little calf. But, as the days grow shorter, I will spend time reflecting on the precious memories I have of a beautiful deer named Seymour.

Godspeed, my friend.

A NEW Meaning for "Labor" Day

How is it the old Cat Stevens song goes?

Morning has broken, like the first....newborn-calf-in-the-field...

Well, not exactly. But our morning started out with a bang. Or, rather, a bellow...a continuous strain of bellows, to be exact. Buster Brown, our three-year old son of Buster the Lowline Angus bull, broke the cool of the morning with a continuous string of bellows that would ice over any activity with a thick coating of fear. These bellows were L-O-U-D. And, while we couldn't see him, we KNEW something was wrong.

I sprang into action, throwing down the scoops in the middle of the morning feed and hopping on the golf cart, intent on finding out what was causing such a commotion. As I flew over the wet ground, the bellows got louder and louder, until I could see this hefty boy bouncing on all fours "pogo stick" style, flinging his head and strings of bull slime with it. He whirled and twirled--bellowing all the while. I didn't see anything amiss except for a few flies buzzing him, so I figured he'd happened upon a wasp's nest and got the worse end of it. He calmed a little, so I went back to finish breakfast in the nursery.

The peace didn't last long.

The bellows rose again, louder than before. So, hoping there wasn't a snake chasing him or that some other awful fate hadn't befallen him, I mounted the golf cart and back I went. This time, I saw Scarlett, our Scottish Highland cow. Her udders were filled beyond all capacity, and she was showing obvious signs of labor. So, I looked a little closer.

There, in the taller grass between where Buster Brown was acting up and the perimeter fence, I saw it...a hairy log. Well, not REALLY a hairy log. It was a newborn calf lying motionless in the shadows. My heart sank. NOT AGAIN! Last year, Scarlett's first calf, Rusty, died in my arms. I couldn't bear the thought of that happening again. With the goft cart between me and the unusually upset bull, I peered closer and noticed a breath. Then, another one. And, another. This one was still alive and kickin', and I knew if I didn't get it out of there quickly, Buster Brown was intent on making it a doormat. Obviously, by the smell, he could tell it was his daddy's calf and not his. In his mind, this would not do, and he was doing all he could to keep Scarlett away from the newborn. Buster was actively posting himself between his son and his love--keeping her safe and sound.

Seeing my opportunity and before Buster Brown had time to react, I jumped off the cart, grabbed the baby, and sped away to the gate and the safety of the yard. As I approached, my husband opened the gate and joined me in assessing the little rescuee. SHE was beautiful. The color of chocolate milk and perfect in every way. About 25 pounds and still very weak, she appeared to be unharmed by the fracas going on around her. In the span of about five minutes, I mixed up the only bag of colostrum we had and got two pints down her. Then, she nodded off to sleep as I toweled her off completely.

As the day has progressed, this yet-to-be-named little heifer has napped several times, gained the use of her still-wobbly legs, and mastered the art of the "moo". Her systems seem to be functioning normally, so we're hopeful that she'll be welcomed by mom again this evening when we will attempt to get her into one of our birthing stalls. That remains to be seen. If so, then we'll consider this day a success. If not, well, then we have yet another bottle baby to contend with. After all, three months isn't such a long time, is it?

Weanie, weanie, weechie...

Weaning time has come. That dreaded day when an innocent baby is torn from his mother's flanks--shrieking all the way--to begin life as an independent soul.

Well, that's not how things happen at our farm, anyway.

On Friday, September 4--just two days shy of his 3-month birthday, Rocky waltzed right into the nursery, and as the gate clicked behind him, he didn't even look back. I thought I saw a tear in Falcon's eye and her lip quiver slightly, but that was it. No muss, no fuss. I've since let the little Rock Star into the yard with Gus, the yearling mini colt. And, aside from getting his (Rocky's) backside kicked over a bucket of grain, all is well. Mama's contentedly grazing in the pasture, waiting for her turn in the stud pen for another honeymoon. Rocky is contentedly grazing in the yard, napping here and there, whiling away his time with his new buddy, Gus.

I'm not quite sure what I did to deserve such a smooth time with weaning, but I'll take it. Easy breaks are so far and few between on the farm.