| Dear Readers,
Not much has happened since last
month.
On a farm you can’t just do things
whenever you get around to them. If you miss some things– like
planting clover – you miss them for a whole year. So we sat down to
organize and work out an agenda for the spring. Of course, before
you can do anything, you have to do something else
first.
Take planting clover. If you want to
raise cows or horses, you have to have grass. If you want to have
any kind of pasture at all without using colossal and expensive
truckloads of nitrogen fertilizer, you have to plant clover. You
can’t plant clover until you harrow. And it’s no good harrowing if
there’s still long grass standing, so you have to mow before you can
harrow. And you can’t harrow until you hitch up the horses. Besides
all this, if you never put down lime to lower the soil acidity
before you did anything else, the clover won’t come up
anyway.
We sat down and discussed everything
we wanted to do and Susan then spent a long time breaking everything
down into tasks and setting up a schedule.
STARTING OUT
Two weeks ago Monday I said to Justin,
"We need to do some harrowin’ tomorrow."
He flashed me the funniest look, and
said, "You want to do some heroin?"
"Sure," said I, thoroughly puzzled,
"we have to do some harrowin’."
"Heroin?"
"Harrowin’."
We fell into a loop of feedback
disbelief there that we nearly couldn’t escape from. I’d look at him
and say, "Harrowin’!" and he’d look back at me quizzing,
"Heroin??"
Sometimes you just have to spell
things out to people.
PEREGRINATING PIGS
At our meeting Zachariah came up with
a brilliant idea. We wouldn’t have to spend so much time turning up
the garden if we just put a few pigs over there to root it up. That
was a great idea, so one afternoon Susan put up an electric
fence around the garden plot. When it came time to transport the
pigs from their home across the road to the garden, though, we were
stumped. No loading dock, no trailer. Susan had a flash of
inspiration: take a 16-foot welded wire pig panel, bend it into a
bobby pin shape, then set that down inside the rails of our little
six-foot trailer. It made a perfect portable pigpen.
Next problem: entice pig into portable
pen. Pigs have only one word in their vocabulary: no. And
swinish suspicion rises exponentially with your urgency to capture
them.
Remember our rule: lure
animals, never chase. The initial luring naively positioned
the trailer in the open field. That failed, so we lured four
of our eight pigs into an old dog pen in their pasture. (Luring
works best with aged table scraps) Now cast your eye upon the
assembled entourage. There stands our four wheeler, pulling the
trailer with the pig panel on it. There is Justin’s wife, Ellen,
with Elijah (1-1/2), and Liberty, with Tucker (3) and Bedford (1),
and Susan, and Zachariah, and Justin, and Franklin. And eight 150 –
200 pound pigs, and our sow, Princess, vastly pregnant, and Houdini,
our boar, but he’s so lazy he doesn’t count. Biggest threat from him
is that you’ll trip over him. And by now, all the pigs are
stirred up and barking, and Princess is grunting
threateningly.
So we lured four pigs into the 16 X 16
dog pen and backed up the trailer to the gate. (Don’t miss
that": backed the trailer, a skill some of us still have not
perfected.) Justin and Zach, inside the pen, would drive the
pigs into the trailer. The driving created an immediate pig panic,
sending pigs in every direction, like flies in a bottle. One found a
loose place in the wire and actually escaped under the fence. That
dictated guards outside the fence to keep them away. The only place
the pigs would not run was into the trailer. They would
practically climb an eight foot fence, but not that trailer. Finally
the boys drove two into the trailer, but the slacker (who will
remain unnamed) manning the back of the trailer failed to close the
ends of the pig panel together quickly enough, so one escaped. We
delivered the one captive swine to the garden, and returned.
The second came not so hard. We
returned for the third, and most diabolically clever of all the
pigs. This one was a thinker. Justin chased him round and
round the dog pen, but he refused to run up into the trailer.
Finally Justin cornered him at the mouth of the trailer, and to our
astonishment, he just sat smack down, plump! Then (I promise
you) he flashed a look of smug satisfaction, and I thought I heard
him chuckle, "Checkmate." Completely taken off guard, none of us
moved. That gave the pig time to notice that one side of the pig
panel was loose. He reached over with his snout, flipped it back,
and walked out of our trap into the pasture.
Now it was pig round up time again,
and they were in no mood to be lured. Pigs were disappearing, and
they knew it. At last we got four more pigs in the dog pen, and
Justin and Zach, by now wielding large truncheons, forced two pigs
into the trap.
By the time we had driven them over to
the garden, the runt was literally climbing the pig panel out of the
trailer. In the end, we did get four of them into the garden, but
once we did, I noticed the funniest thing. We had eight pigs – two
black and white spotted, two red and white spotted, and four white.
By the time we finished luring, chasing, and transporting, there
were two black-spotted and two red-spotted pigs in the
garden, and four white pigs across the road. So much for
random selection.
STRANGLES
Before the pig peregrination occurred,
two other panics broke out. About a week after they arrived one of
our new Percheron fillies – the wildest one, naturally -- came down
with strangles (shipping fever). That’s a horse upper
respiratory infection, something like the flu, and it’s no fun. The
horse feels ratty, hangs here head down between her knees, drips
green snot out of her nose and coughs up great ropes of brown
phlegm. The lymph nodes under the jaw swell to the size of
baseballs, and often burst and abscess.
The treatment for strangles is 20 cc
(about an eighth of a cup) injections of penicillin daily and plenty
of water. But it doesn’t stop there, because there are other
horses. I knew better but had failed to quarantine the fillies from
Jachin and Boaz for two weeks, and strangles is highly
contagious. Our local vet came out to examine them and begin
treatment.
A friend we met last November at the
draft horse school is a vet in Oklahoma specializing in horses, so I
called him, too. To avoid the disease or lessen its severity, he
recommended vaccinating all the other horses and giving them
prophylactic doses of penicillin for a week. Our vet came back out
and administered the vaccine nasally, but we were left with giving
all those shots. It takes about one or two rounds of penicillin to
make a horse shot shy. Now with a child when he sees the needle and
starts screaming and squirming, you can hold him down for the
shot.
What do you do with a shot-shy 800
pound horse?
You twitch her. That is, you
take a stick with a loop of rope in the end, put the horses upper
lip in the loop, and twist. (I know it makes no sense, but the horse
will hold still for you to grab him by the lip. I sure
wouldn’t.) You tighten down the loop until the horse becomes
reasonable, then you can give them the shot. (Do not try this at
home with your kids except under a veterinarian’s direction.)
The blessing in this strangles was
that we had to handle the fillies quite a bit every day. The wild
one started to calm down considerably, and is no longer wall-eyed
and scary. The drawback is that her frightened temperament has now
lodged in her formerly mild sister. But by now everybody is just
about well.
Last Sunday, though, we had to give
the girls one last dose of antibiotic. By that time we had shifted
to oral antibiotic, since the horses cut such a fit about
shots. Oral administration is easy. First you dissolve eight big
pills in a 35 cc syringe full of water, then pinch off the plastic
nipple with a pair of Visegrips, channel locks, or a neutron bomb.
Next somebody grabs the horse, while the administrator stands at the
horse’s head with the horse to his left. With his left hand he
reaches up and forces his thumb into the gap between the horse’s
front and back teeth. Then gently cram the syringe over your thumb
into the horse’s mouth on top of his tongue. Now begin to press down
the plunger, and discover half way down that, kept too long, i.e.,
more than three nanoseconds, antibiotic pills set like concrete. Go
get more water and re-dissolve. Repeat process until syringe is
empty, then hold horse’s head up with left hand while horse drools
and slobbers spit and antibiotic juice all down your left
sleeve.
After we had finished this with
both fillies, it occurred to me that a year and a half ago
there was no earthly way I would have stood still for horse drool to
run down all over my arm, let alone allow pigs to wipe their noses
on my jeans. Living in the country, I think, changes you.
PIG POPULATION EXPLOSION
When our long-suffering vet came out
that first time, I asked him about Princess as he was climbing in
the truck. "I've been having a difference of opinion with my wife.
That sow looks pregnant to me. What do you think?"
He glanced at her and said, "Well, it
looks like her sacks are filling out."
"What does that mean?" I shot
back, wearing my ignorance like a crown.
"Well, her milk sacks are
filling. She ought to farrow in a week or two."
"WHAT! WHAT! WHAT!" I huffed,
panicking on the spot. It was freezing cold and we had made no
preparations at all to separate Princess or provide her and her new
piglets with protection from the extreme cold we had been having.
Justin and Susan found a picture of a farrowing crate and Justin got
busy on that at once. A farrowing crate looks like two Ls back to
back. The little spaces on either side of the main passage (Great
Hall?) offer the piglets a refuge where the sow can’t roll over on
them.
Unfortunately he built the
farrowing crate outside the old dog pen where we had to
separate her. Now I have one son who uses three times as many nails
as any project needs, and one who uses twice as much wood, but
neither of them builds light. By the time Justin finished, he
had a 300 pound farrowing crate that had to climb over a 5
foot fence. I absented myself for that episode.
THE DEMON COW
In the midst of all this frolic, we
learned that our friends who had been milking the cows in what we
called our "milk co-op" were moving. We would have to take in
another cow (and calf) and learn milking – if we want to keep
on having fresh milk.
Okay, no problem, we’ll just go
learn how to milk a couple of evenings. We can set up our milking
parlor in one of the barn stalls. We’ll let the calf have the
overnight milk, and we’ll separate them in the day. That way we can
milk her every evening. Simple. Neat. Clean.
I reckoned not with The Demon
Cow.
Arnold assured me that even though
they had not been milking Molly for the last three weeks, she would
be no problem. Susan and I first, and then all of us, went for
milking lessons. It was a breeze – stop, pull, squeeze – presto!
Fresh milk.
Last Friday Molly and calf, Ginny,
arrived. Before this could happen, however, the barn had to be
redecorated. We had to build a paddock out one door to keep them up
(Remember my lapsed quarantine with the horses? I wasn’t going to
make the same mistake twice with cows.) Then we had to build a gate
at the door of the barn. All of this sounds simple, but remember
that before you can do anything you have to do something
else first. In our case, that usually means running down the
tools first. Then nails. Then bolts. Then wood, and so on.
Let us forego recounting all that
pain, and just report that by Saturday morning early cow and calf
had already escaped and run down the road. Let us forbear to repeat
the name of the child that drove by without reporting said escape,
or recapturing said escapees. Let us fast forward to Sunday evening,
when Susan and I went to milk for the first time. Let us rejoice in
the ease with which Susan milked out that first pint into the
stainless steel pan. Let us forget when Zachariah walked through the
stall with a bucket for the horses and incited The Demon Cow to
overturn the pan. Let us only remember the nearly two big cups of
milk we did salvage.
Nor should we dwell too long on
Somebody’s failure to separate cow and calf Monday morning, but pass
ahead to yesterday’s happy milking. Yesterday, long after dark, I
realized that the cow must be milked. I finally assembled all the
necessary personnel and equipment and marched to the barn.
The Demon Cow’s udder was filling out
nicely. She didn’t seem to need the shackles to keep her still, but
we put them on anyway. It was scary, it went so smoothly. First I
milked, then Justin, then Zach. We were up to nearly a quart when
the trouble started. Not able to leave well enough alone, I took off
the shackles and got into a discussion with Justin about the right
way to put them on. The cow promptly walked off.
Now don’t forget what a cow does all
day, every day. The very air was full of it.
So the chase began, Justin and I
trying to push a 700 lb. cow into place, or entice her with feed. In
and out of the stall, in and out of the paddock. Oh, did I forget to
mention that it was raining fire hydrants? There was one point there
when I actually had a vision. I saw red neon letters appear on the
cow’s side, spelling out "H-A-M-B-U-R-G-E-R." I was so mad I was
ready to flip her over on her back and milk her like a fountain with
a plumber’s friend. The quart or two of milk we did get was
thoroughly contaminated with manure, which was flying everywhere, so
in the end the dogs got the milk, and we got the
shaft.
Tonight, I have to go down to New
Albany to get this newsletter printed. Tonight, I don’t have to
milk. Tonight The Demon Cow will just have to torture somebody
else.
I’m getting to where I don’t even like
milk anyway.
JUST A LITTLE BURN
So some of the fields were still
covered with tall broom sage. The choice was either (1) mow (a
lengthy process involving people, schedules, horses, and refractory
machinery) or (2) burn (a quick process involving two people, a
little diesel fuel, and a couple of matches). I’ll admit it: I
was the one who opted for burning.
It was a beautiful day, warm
for February, but sometimes windy. We call our farm The Top because
it’s seated on a high ridge where its open spaces make you feel like
you’re standing on the top of the world. There are very few trees to
break the wind, so it can really blow at times.
The day we picked to burn off the
Sunrise pasture was one of those. One minute Justin and Zach were
nursing a tiny fire, the next minute Susan was calling 911. By the
time I got there smoke was boiling through the woods (not on
our property) and I could see flames leaping 5 feet high and ten
feet wide. I rejected my first response, which was to lay down in
the ditch and die right then, grabbed a big rake, and headed into
it. Thank God, the trees weren’t burning, just the leaves. But the
wind was out of the west at our backs, whipping the fire in a long
line (a quarter mile at least) eastward down the holler and up the
next hill.
There’s nothing like a little forest
fire to add fervency to your prayers and urgency to your efforts. I
can really understand now how people get killed in forest fires. The
smoke can quickly confuse and smother you, not to mention its
bewildering speed. I was fighting buckthorn and raking like an
electric gardener, trying to pull leaves out of the path of the
fire. I walked all the way around to the far horn of the fire, in
the woods, and fought my way all the way down the line,
extinguishing the fire as I went. I thought I had been successful
until, after about thirty yards, I looked back to see that it had
rekindled itself in the very crescent I had just put out. Faster
than I could rake I was praying that the wind would change as the
fire crested the hill. Off where I couldn’t see them, but could
occasionally hear then hollering to each other through the smoke,
were Justin, Susan, and Zach. When the smoke finally parted and
Susan emerged with only half the teeth left on her rake.
At some point the West End Volunteer
Fire Department arrived, some time after we discovered that we don’t
have 911 out here. They had a truck with a tank that went behind us
spraying out the fire – and the wind did change, blowing the
fire back on itself. Finally somebody came out from the forestry
department with a bulldozer to cut a fire lane through the
woods.
When all was said and done, the only
thing that actually burned (other than most of the teeth off
Susan’s rake, some of our pasture, and my eyebrows) was the leaves
in the woods. The forestry fellow, however, was aggrieved because we
didn’t have a "burn permit." Turns out, though, that getting a burn
permit involves nothing more than calling some office and
telling them you’re going to burn.
What good that does I confess I
can’t divine, but I’m not planning on doing much burning in the near
future anyhow.
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