Things Are Jumpin'

There are some pretty mundane and even unpleasant chores on the farm. Cleaning the chicken coops, or arks is certainly one of them.  But it's actually more pleasant to clean them out with the bedding of straw or pine shavings than to clean the ground.  The plant matter bedding absorbs most of the moisture and limits the amount of contact my hands have to have directly with the feces.

I move the arks around the yard by lifting an end and putting the axle under it, and then picking up the handles and rolling it onto a fresh area of grass and clover.  But after a days worth of scratchin' and poopin'. I've got an area that's rich in fertilizer.  Since we've only been here just over a year, I'm still dealing with a lot of stuff left over from the previous owners.  One being what originally was a circular driveway of granite gravel, or what is known in the building trade in these parts as "crushed run."  But you see, I didn't know it was there  until this spring.  It was laid down years ago when the black walnut I cut down was just a sapling, I would guess.  When I cut down the walnut, which, last year was over a foot in diameter, there was grass and weeds blanketing the entire yard and the chickens had not had months of free-ranging over the area to scratch it all up.

Before chicken ark sat over it . . . . . . . . . . . After chicken ark sat over it

Then the heavy rains came and eroded down the scant soil that had collected at the base of the heartier weeds and subsequently covered over the gravel.  I had previously placed all the blame on the enzymes emitted by the black walnut for why nothing of value could grow in that area.  It was only part of the problem.  Now I have to deal with all that gravel.  So I park the arks over the areas where there are some decent weeds for the chickens to eat and when they have scratched through it all and loosened up the rocks, I move the arks to new spots and then pick through the poop and soil and unedible weeds and get the rocks out and dump them in the driveway.

Eventually, over a couple or three years, I will have eliminated most of the rocks and the soil will slowly have been reconditioned to grow some decent clover and grass and maybe even some grains.  After I've picked out the rocks, I rake up what's left of the organic remains and the blended chicken feces and either dump it in the compost bin or put it directly on certain plants as mulch.  Some plants can handle it, such as tomatoes.  Other plants might be too tender for it.

This morning, I had moved the arks, fed them cracked corn, and filled the water containers and was proceeding to pick rocks.  There I was, squatting down, focused on sifting and picking. I'm squatting because I'm wearing shorts that stop well above my knees and I really don't care to put my bare skinned knees in dirt that has chicken feces in it.  So there I am, balancing on the balls of my feet, even though it can get tiring pretty quick.  Out of the corner of my right eye, I see the mighty hunter, B'wana (a.k.a. "Pickles") trotting toward me with what seems to be a limp chipmunk in his mouth, as if to say, "Daddy, look whut I brung ya!"  Then he drops it in front of me.

A previous kill 

Chipmunk wasn't dead.  Chipmunk figures this is a good time to run for cover.  The only thing that seems like cover is the farmer squatting in the middle of the yard, barely one foot from where he'd been unceremoniously dumped by the cruel feline.  By the time he was coming across my shoe, I was moving to the erect position so fast I think most of the blood in my brain was pulling G's to my abdomen.  I think the chipmunk then realized that moving cover is no cover at all and headed for the nearest maple tree, and the cat thought, "Oh goody, play time isn't quite over!"

It's not that I'm all that scared of rodents of any kind.  But they do have sharp little incisors and their little jaws are powerful enough to open up walnuts.  The idea of that little critter having found his way into the leg opening of my shorts is something that my brain processed in about one tenth of one second at the moment his little paws touched my shoe.

So, that's the fun moment of the day.

Shalom Y'all

Puppy Paradise

That's right!  Time to take a break from the serious stuff and post about feel good moments.  Much irony here, seeing as how I'm suffering from a broken rib and the moment in question resulted in some of the worst pain since the fall.

It's been many days since we took the time to lay on the floor in the office and stream a show from Netflix. But I stumbled across the whole series "Firefly," and figured Twyla would like it, given her very discriminating taste in entertainment.  It's a shame the series only lasted for one season, but I can understand why it did.  Die hard Trekkie types wouldn't be able to handle the fact that it's more about plot and character development than about Sci-Fi technogeekiness (did I just make up a word?).  The plots and dialogue are witty and not meant for the American Idol crowd. There's no socialist utopia idiocy. Without you actually going to watch it for yourself, the only quick way I know to describe it is: The Old Western frontier set 500 years in our future. My favorite aspect of the show is the struggle to remain free and being willing to go without a lot of material comfort rather than be a slave to a totalitarian government and society.  Funny, that wasn't the original purpose of this post.

Moxie is quite the energetic dog.  She is as healthy and happy as she can be.  She has the run of quite a few acres up here on our mountain.  Depending on where we need to go and what we are doing, she gets to ride to town about half of the time, and she is a pleasure when it comes to riding.  She sit's quietly; doesn't get anxious about anything.

New "Chicken Little" on the right.

Most of the surprises we get around here are pleasant ones.  This spectacular fall on the back steps was not one of them, but most everything else is.  Like discovering a new chick out of nowhere in the front yard.  About three weeks or so ago, we discovered a new dog hanging around the area.  He's a mutt, but a really nice looking one.  Mostly boxer, and maybe some hound or short hair terrier.  I wish I'd have had a good photo of him by now, but he's still very skittish.  Moxie has really taken to him.  I didn't want another dog, but Twyla convinced me that he belongs here.  He started nesting under the front porch in what was left of one of the straw bales I used for chicken bedding.  Twyla has started feeding him.  He gradually came closer and closer each time Twyla was outside over the past few days, and he finally licked her hand.   I can only suppose that he was treated roughly before somebody either dropped him in this neighborhood or he wandered here from somewhere.  At first, he would run away at the mere sight of me, but he keeps getting closer to the door when I call to him.  Twyla named him "Beau."

Last night, we spread out the blanket and I ever so carefully got down on the floor.  Moxie was nearly beside herself with happiness.  She would get to be laying between master and mistress.  For Moxie, this is Nirvana. Seeing Moxie in that state just reduces Twyla to a fit of giggles, and I thought it would make for a good photo, although I wish I had a remote for the camera, so I could mount it on the tripod, and instead of depending on the timer feature, be able to hit the shutter at the right moment.

Once moxie gets into that position, she goes limp as a wet dish rag.  Everything is perfect in her world. But if I get up, or even act like I'm getting up, she goes straight to a state of alert. I've had several dogs, but never one that was so keen on wanting to be so attentive of my every move when possible.  So getting up to get the camera off of the desk was a major chore for two reasons. Even the tiniest movement that involves bending or twisting my torso can feel like someone is twisting a knife in my back. Secondly, Moxie has a hard time understanding that I'm not really going anywhere, I'm just trying to move a few feet.

Three Amigos in Moxie heaven

After attempting to take seven or eight photos, I got the second one you see here.  Sometime later, Twyla got up for some reason and Moxie followed her.  When they came back, Twyla laid back down and then Moxie, wanting that exclusive spot between us, started over me, but then stepped on my abdomen.  This sent me into breathless gasps, teeth and fist clenching, and tears forming.  Now the poor dog hasn't got any clue as to what she just did, but at this point I just can't stand having the dog leaning in on my left side with a broken rib.

I get enough breath in my lungs to muster up a very forceful command to "MOVE!" and this would be my undoing.  She was laying on her side facing me, and to reposition herself to get up, she pressed her back against Twyla and proceeded to shove her paws straight out against me to make room to stand.  Her lower paw thrusting directly into my rib cage.  I screamed.  Er, actually I SCREAMED!!  Every muscle I had originally strained on the fall felt like they were now tearing anew.  After the reflex of expelling all the air out of my lungs and every muscle in my torso seeming to have locked up as if I had been tasered, I wondered if I would pass out from the pain and actually hoped I would.  I had to concentrate on trying to make enough muscles relax in order to inhale.

Poor Moxie now lay in the doorway looking confused and frightened.

Later on, and it took a good while for the pain to subside, I thought about how much that dog loves me unconditionally, and could never conceive of trying to hurt me.  She was actually trying to be obedient to me at the very moment she hurt me.  I thought about how sometimes, in our relationships with other humans, we do things that end up hurting each other without even realizing it, because of things we aren't even aware of.

Every one of us walks around with a black box inside, and a special button outside somewhere that nobody sees.  Every once in a while, somebody pushes that button by sheer accident and a reaction takes place where the bystanders and the poor button presser are left in a state of bewilderment,  wondering, "What in the hell was all THAT about!?!?!"

Me love you.  I can has scurd now?

Sometimes it's major and sometimes it's minor.  Most of the time it's because we perceive an offense where none was intended.  What if, when such a painful thing happens to us, instead of lashing out at the "button presser," we instead asked ourselves why we felt like reacting the way we did? What if we could muster up the incredible grace to assume that the "button pusher" was innocent of any malice of forethought?  What if God allowed me that moment of incredible pain in order to prepare me for something similar down the road?

 Just a thought.

Silent but Deadly

I had to post this after reading Twyla's blog.

We were exhausted last night, laying in the bed after a long day driving from visiting family down near Atlanta. We were watching Aladdin and waiting for sleep.  Yes, the food was tremendous and way too much of it.  The dog was stealthily taking advantage of the two young children in attendance during most of the day.

So, there we are laying in bed and I find myself sniffing the air with revulsion.

Me:  "Can you smell that?"

Her: "No."

--- Okay, it's a queen size bed and she keeps a fan blowing from the night stand in my direction.  Something about "white noise" and needing to keep the face cool.   Moxie has to lay down on the floor on the side of the pack leader, me, so everything is well downwind of Twyla.. ---

A while later.

Me: "Can't you smell that?"

Her: "No. What is it?"

Me:  "It's pretty nasty, and I've had enough experience with dogs to know that's a dog fart."

Maybe a half hour later.

Me: "I'm telling you, that is really nasty and it can't be coming from outside, the windows are all closed.  It's gotta be coming from the dog."

So, here it is the following day and Twyla reveals that she did catch the kids several times feeding Moxie all kinds of things from the table.  The joys of being the Alpha dog.  They will bring you dead animals and share their gaseous emissions with you as if they are gifts.

Cat-astrophe

The cat is missing.  He went AWOL.

Here we thought he was trying to get in our good graces and try to stay inside more often, and now we haven't seen a patch of white fur in a while.  Last I saw of Casspurr, he bounded up the mountainside to the road that is about two stories above and behind the house.  That was three days ago.  I've seen neighbor's cats in the backyard, but no Casspurr.

The last night he spent inside, he bothered Twyla all night long.  Sleeping on top of her, chewing on her hair, walking around on the bed.  It was awful.  Then HE decides that he's gonna sleep all day on the quilt at the foot of the bed.  Every time I needed to back to the bedroom and saw him there I would poke him and tell him to wake up.

Maybe he got ticked off about that.  Maybe someone up the road attracted him with kitty treats.  Twyla said she's had cats who "two-timed" her.  That makes sense to me, since nobody really owns a cat.  Dogs have masters, cats have staff.  Then there's the phrase, "Cattin' around."

Dogs I understand.  Dogs are loyal.  I once had a tee shirt that said, "Lord, help me to be the kind of man my dog thinks I am."

Maybe Casspurr just couldn't stand competing for our attention with this new dog Moxie.  Moxie never seemed like a threat to Casspurr, and only seemed to want to play.

Maybe he just wants to run free for a while and will show up after he's grown tired of whatever it is he's into at the moment.  Twyla thinks a predator probably got him.  I hope not.  He is definitely at a disadvantage for two big reasons.  He has no front claws and he's stark white.  And even though he has proven how tough he can be with the local cats, something bigger and meaner is another story.

I hope he surprises me and shows up begging for one of us to pop open a can.