tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72863158376481681262024-03-18T23:50:17.543-04:00Ewe Chicks and a LlamaRambles and stories from a small farm.Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.comBlogger1060125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-34785750493892256602021-08-07T17:49:00.002-04:002021-08-07T17:49:12.671-04:00The Nose Knows<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA7Sh4jeFpmyyg_wThOS7xCum08ejyrkpsH4yz_3Imqm0ByXBRJ70ZALxwHZeuQUisymTcde5euljGw8l1h1bSziCdH8bW3uo4ufJtBeU2fGIjrTHyy49M1sFx9jeCSzkcbG29RRGzZhM/s2048/dewey+in+hay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1359" data-original-width="2048" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA7Sh4jeFpmyyg_wThOS7xCum08ejyrkpsH4yz_3Imqm0ByXBRJ70ZALxwHZeuQUisymTcde5euljGw8l1h1bSziCdH8bW3uo4ufJtBeU2fGIjrTHyy49M1sFx9jeCSzkcbG29RRGzZhM/w400-h265/dewey+in+hay.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />When I pick up Dewey Kitty, I bury my nose in the scruff of his neck.<p></p><p>Today, he smelled of the sun-soaked tomato plants he'd napped under.</p><p>This is a change from the previous few days, when he smelled of alfalfa hay.</p><p>This summer, as Dewey has taken to spending his days outdoors, the sniff of the neck has become a ritual. It tells me where he's been, and is always some delightful summer smell.</p><p>I don't put my nose near the Border collies, though.</p><p>For they are dogs.</p><p>They like to perfume their scruffs with sheep poo, raccoon droppings and decaying rabbits and birds.</p><p><b>Meanwhile on the farm:</b> In early summer, it never seemed to stop raining. However, in the past few weeks, the rains subsided, and I found vegetables in the garden, and caught up with mowing.</p><p>This week, I also said good-bye to Trick, the best barn cat ever. This cat saw the other farm critters as his playthings. You could count on him to do things, like lying in the arena when you were trying to lunge a horse; or pouncing on a Border collie who was running out to gather sheep, or wrapping his legs around lamb necks and licking milk off their mouths.</p><p>Well into his teens, he'd gotten arthritic in the past few years. I'd set up steps to his feeding table and left some stall doors open so he could move about without having to leap four feet or encounter dogs. Last month, he developed a tumor near his eye. But the vet and I agreed he wasn't ready to check out just yet. His weight was good, he was eating and still enjoying life.</p><p>Earlier this week, he ate breakfast as usual and then took a nap on his hay bale. He never woke up. And, I thought, how lucky is he? He lived a life, full of humor and fun, and had a quick death.</p><p>Here's a photo of him a few years back. Jack loved to stare at kitties. Trick said, "Whatever."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNHQ54ptk7IDVE-GkL42MhPpeHfgAemTDJkSvFS0k-0JID6kiCqLnpM0GIbra6To1HGGrmTBAfJiWLIQnr9JnyVh8YxutLe5YvOr3eLxvIocf6N5p9poqnMN-Gb_BDO8rMCY7LlodzqA/s2048/8-14+jack+and+trick.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1419" data-original-width="2048" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNHQ54ptk7IDVE-GkL42MhPpeHfgAemTDJkSvFS0k-0JID6kiCqLnpM0GIbra6To1HGGrmTBAfJiWLIQnr9JnyVh8YxutLe5YvOr3eLxvIocf6N5p9poqnMN-Gb_BDO8rMCY7LlodzqA/w400-h278/8-14+jack+and+trick.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Here's a photo of Dewey Kitty and Trick in the garden several years ago.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIc6D5QXOCzJCw9SEn1YN3Xa370uzlj6LIY4ibAUoJm1SA3art3WeCICiJcELAccUTFtQhujQtoKssHVvCanF4n802Y2nttsQOe7hlN4nsRxgAfIOr-KLc1FKcIGxsoHynIxaRxOafJ8/s792/062214+dewey+andtrick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="689" data-original-width="792" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIc6D5QXOCzJCw9SEn1YN3Xa370uzlj6LIY4ibAUoJm1SA3art3WeCICiJcELAccUTFtQhujQtoKssHVvCanF4n802Y2nttsQOe7hlN4nsRxgAfIOr-KLc1FKcIGxsoHynIxaRxOafJ8/w400-h348/062214+dewey+andtrick.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><p>And, I leave you with the photo of the Big Red Dahlia. My friend gives me tubers in the spring and I plant them on the dog graves. The flowers have been especially impressive this year.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnFRebIXTCjCrSob5_cQTDL-TFLlHPo8nUV9HwaA80WK-Ph9v-5mPW59T7omtKB8QvNx1FvrrR9lJ-sd6CK2VSbH8NKuMzz233WJLZeXJ6XhtC6MOFIpEM6ks50ZhGaVZRI6e8ho8XGIM/s2048/dahlia+atop+Jacks+grave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnFRebIXTCjCrSob5_cQTDL-TFLlHPo8nUV9HwaA80WK-Ph9v-5mPW59T7omtKB8QvNx1FvrrR9lJ-sd6CK2VSbH8NKuMzz233WJLZeXJ6XhtC6MOFIpEM6ks50ZhGaVZRI6e8ho8XGIM/w400-h300/dahlia+atop+Jacks+grave.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-83084893938364080072021-03-10T08:27:00.001-05:002021-03-10T08:27:44.308-05:00An Old Dog Welcomes Spring<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOE6ZtyUpaDGUC0Yce98pL46pPOJy0rgDg5SSF40MxWvsZnZfUwtIEioOOzsnTwOTkjgLxSY7JIrhzKiMFBxYCzhTgWZcjgFsQ3f3oy5_eJoT91wE05RSbArf5B1FNaQSSGRAFnEGVzEU/s478/3-9+caeli2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="478" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOE6ZtyUpaDGUC0Yce98pL46pPOJy0rgDg5SSF40MxWvsZnZfUwtIEioOOzsnTwOTkjgLxSY7JIrhzKiMFBxYCzhTgWZcjgFsQ3f3oy5_eJoT91wE05RSbArf5B1FNaQSSGRAFnEGVzEU/w400-h297/3-9+caeli2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Oh, the joy for the old dog to step outside and welcome another spring.<p></p><p>Caeli is 15 years old now, quite possibly older, and winter is hard on old dogs.</p><p>Through early winter, if temperatures stayed above freezing, she toddled along with the other Border collies on the daily trek around the pastures. The February freeze and snow put an end to that.</p><p>Old dog bodies don't hold their heat like young ones do; and arthritic feet have trouble negotiating the ice and snowdrifts. Caeli's time outdoors in February was measured in minutes.</p><p>She spent much of the month lying on the couch and grouching at Emma, the tri-colored Border collie, for breathing, for looking at her, for existing.</p><p>In the past few weeks, the snow has melted; the temperatures have warmed; and Caeli has looked longingly at the gate that leads down the driveway to the pasture.</p><p>Last week, I told the other Border collies we were doing a shorter walk and invited Caeli to come along.</p><p>She trotted behind me, her tail wagging, as the soft earth squished beneath her arthritic paws and sunlight penetrated her cloudy eyes.</p><p> As the other dogs chased each other, wrestled, hunted mice and dug, she lowered her nose to the earth, taking in the heady smells of death and decay, new growth and hope.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSPsQpkPNVMDrKm6ZTRK5HsR7BrIFHnHVY4mlwkHlnD-qlljzZkCQoHbRlTrdmnFz6ciIozcSkoqq2w4mA7Z3j2aQus8WRMBUI25IB37YH42CSw1eRIy0u_M1yqRkXLVvoaRCN8Jjnl0A/s1777/3-9+caeli1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1777" data-original-width="1340" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSPsQpkPNVMDrKm6ZTRK5HsR7BrIFHnHVY4mlwkHlnD-qlljzZkCQoHbRlTrdmnFz6ciIozcSkoqq2w4mA7Z3j2aQus8WRMBUI25IB37YH42CSw1eRIy0u_M1yqRkXLVvoaRCN8Jjnl0A/w301-h400/3-9+caeli1.jpg" width="301" /></a></div><br />I don't know when Caeli will leave this earth, but my mind goes back to that sunny fall day when my old mare was euthanized. The skies were blue; the sun was warm; the breeze was cool. In short, one of those perfect fall days.<p></p><p>"What a beautiful day for her last day on earth," the vet commented. </p><p>So much better to leave this world in sunshine than rain.</p><p>And, so as I walk with Caeli, I'm grateful she made it through winter and once more felt the warm breezes and sunshine of spring.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-39044851329491713842021-03-01T06:18:00.000-05:002021-03-01T06:19:05.954-05:00Chick Shopping in Late Winter<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYBVqX727cjcPs6lNLdqKO1zduSR-7tN1FGtghorzetrScOeaONecpBw2lG57visf43bOii-ZnQKzsMScnd_UbK4BzBCiTIm1BqZV3yDHd1T2dKGBT5o9nF7gL999JoTPgsBvSxyj2OJA/s816/6-15+young+hens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="611" data-original-width="816" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYBVqX727cjcPs6lNLdqKO1zduSR-7tN1FGtghorzetrScOeaONecpBw2lG57visf43bOii-ZnQKzsMScnd_UbK4BzBCiTIm1BqZV3yDHd1T2dKGBT5o9nF7gL999JoTPgsBvSxyj2OJA/w400-h300/6-15+young+hens.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our last batch of chicks were Buckeyes (reddish-brown), Buff Orpingtons (golden) and Cuckoo Marans (black and white).</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>My favorite shopping event just may be Chick Days at the local feed store.</p><p>In February, the store takes chick orders, and in early April, an employee drives to the hatchery to pick up chicks.</p><p>When we first ordered Buckeye chicks from a preservation center nearly 20 years ago, the chicks arrived by mail. The postal worker called me at 6 in the morning and said my chicks had arrived, and no, I did not have to wait until 8 a.m. when the post office opened to pick them up. After the mail delays I've experienced in the past six months, I wouldn't want to risk mail-order chicks.</p><p>For years, we kept 25-30 Buckeye hens and several roosters and raised our own chicks. Sometimes hens sat on eggs. Usually, we incubated a batch of eggs as in insurance policy. This resulted in a beautifully uniform flock and hens and roosters everywhere.</p><p>And then I got sucked into Chick Days.</p><p>(Okay, keeping a breeding flock is a lot of work and resulted in more roosters, eggs and work than I wanted to deal with. And shopping for chicks is just so much fun.)</p><p><b>Here are the Three Truths about Chick Days</b><br /><br />1. <b>There are so many chicken breeds and so little time. </b>When I walk into the feed store, I tell myself that we are only getting 12 chicks, and Randy said he wanted more Buckeyes. Then, the clerk hands me pages of chicken breeds. The number of Buckeye chicks I'd planned to order dwindles to four.</p><p>At home, we have five hens: one Buckeye, one Cuckoo Maran and three Buff Orpingtons. I like the Cuckoo Maran and her lovely chocolate colored eggs. The Buff Orpingtons have a 100 percent survival rate on the farm. Somehow these golden hens have evaded foxes and hawks. I'd get both breeds again, but there are so many other choices.</p><p>2. <b>Egg envy is real. </b>A few years ago, a friend opened up her carton of eggs collected from her chickens. There, in the carton were chocolate brown, tan, light green, bluish green, white and brown eggs. It was a sight to behold. At home, my carton contained uniformly brown eggs (still quite beautiful, but quite monochrome).</p><p><b>3. A long, gray winter makes me seek color. </b>Our hens free range in the sheep and horse pastures. I wanted hens that stand out against the grasses.</p><p>And, in the end, I went with colorful feathers over colorful eggs. Here's what I selected:</p><p>Four Buckeyes (mahogany feathers and brown eggs)</p><p>Two French Blue Copper Marans (slate gray with copper heads and necks, and dark brown eggs)</p><p>Two Silver Laced Wyandottes (black and white feathers and brown eggs)</p><p>Two Rhode Island Blue (a cross between Rhode Island Reds and the black Astralop and brown eggs)</p><p>Two Oliver Egger (a cross between Black Maran and Americana and green eggs). </p><p>What would you choose? If you want to see the choices, check out the <a href="https://www.mthealthy.com/catalog" target="_blank">Mount Healthy Hatchery catalog.</a></p><p><br /></p>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-81088959788572303152021-02-15T10:26:00.000-05:002021-02-15T10:26:24.726-05:00While I've been Inside...<p>After snow blanketed the farm a few weeks ago, my outside time has consisted mainly of hauling hay and fresh water to chickens, sheep and horses, skiing the 17-acre pasture with the dogs and walking the quarter-mile to the mailbox.</p><p>I needed a change of scenery. </p><p>When the winds died down Sunday morning and temperatures hit 17 degrees, I clipped into my skis. I planned o explore other parts of the farm, the crop fields and woods, and possibly see some wildlife.</p><p>My first stop was a farm field planted in a radish cover crop, that apparently doubles as a winter food plot.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The deer unearthed and ate forages. Judging by the number of radishes unearthed, I'm pretty deer don't like radishes. Rabbits, though, love radishes. I found lots of radishes with rabbit tooth marks.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzMU0qUO-XiHqGhkWm1NI1pVFEVP3K1d5iK3HzLi_jeFuT1nLkqVjYILLrgr-X9jFANNs7mgrv9SR0aGz3jvuEKCPu-YSOLdJLBAG3Q4eUKoZfGR9-7LerSY_n3k0wJCm7ro2hvyEOO0/s1494/2-14+rabbit+radish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1083" data-original-width="1494" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzMU0qUO-XiHqGhkWm1NI1pVFEVP3K1d5iK3HzLi_jeFuT1nLkqVjYILLrgr-X9jFANNs7mgrv9SR0aGz3jvuEKCPu-YSOLdJLBAG3Q4eUKoZfGR9-7LerSY_n3k0wJCm7ro2hvyEOO0/w400-h290/2-14+rabbit+radish.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I also found coyote tracks, which didn't surprise me, as I've heard them singing in the pre-dawn hours.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdW0Dh-pNkpgUU1XpJ0HStdfV1IS2VcMs5sGGZOC5dtbOMoToQduTAE2yjSDgLjuMktBWMXm_cG-tzcy_-kIjPMrSt908PJHtip7He4egROPVzR0uVNJjwiNIg6CpgtvTqYUaAXWvpr4k/s2048/2-14+coyote+footprint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1558" data-original-width="2048" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdW0Dh-pNkpgUU1XpJ0HStdfV1IS2VcMs5sGGZOC5dtbOMoToQduTAE2yjSDgLjuMktBWMXm_cG-tzcy_-kIjPMrSt908PJHtip7He4egROPVzR0uVNJjwiNIg6CpgtvTqYUaAXWvpr4k/w400-h304/2-14+coyote+footprint.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>After skiing around a couple of fields, I made my way down the farm lane to the woods, a place I skied the past weekend. I was surprised to see my tracks still there, and so few other tracks.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFRO6fdADm_G1X9xWIaqBHJ5ORjIJMpTyQn4kABSO-hVjvwqDnGzxQMxjJPXtOEjL-Rftbvs-IeizVBEJEmvLZwtHrw4QfkcDIpimcQZN3vWXGDAJiwD3kwrhmpV_-4To1c5TokJJGQ88/s1677/2-14+lane+at+farm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1221" data-original-width="1677" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFRO6fdADm_G1X9xWIaqBHJ5ORjIJMpTyQn4kABSO-hVjvwqDnGzxQMxjJPXtOEjL-Rftbvs-IeizVBEJEmvLZwtHrw4QfkcDIpimcQZN3vWXGDAJiwD3kwrhmpV_-4To1c5TokJJGQ88/w400-h291/2-14+lane+at+farm.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>The woods was proof that wildlife don't spend the winter months binging on Netflix. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikF0LaXDskFy_NFwGGhiFA2w-A6M0Z6kGd_GUAC78OWYGcW3MStqZbRB_CuE2Pj2k5OFeawAnxsjbPY8cBsuuK4z6z8o5ttIeVDWPdPUP9Yfey_HZW_3ETwqCCmkRl93JFJfrk_kKFNUA/s2048/2-14+tracks+in+woods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikF0LaXDskFy_NFwGGhiFA2w-A6M0Z6kGd_GUAC78OWYGcW3MStqZbRB_CuE2Pj2k5OFeawAnxsjbPY8cBsuuK4z6z8o5ttIeVDWPdPUP9Yfey_HZW_3ETwqCCmkRl93JFJfrk_kKFNUA/w300-h400/2-14+tracks+in+woods.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div>As I skied around the corn field, I marveled at the deer's ability to locate corn cobs under the blanket of snow.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj56qZfhBr2ebA34BEFeLNo68IdP-LUFS3piar_5Aj7LUNX862xPOepunzbQVa2Ufedu4WfFDGT2NTv64Z2P4z9IetuTch7ojpO6tm1NzNU0MLhD0pObutS8s9_fDotI3LfsfjsoRH23Vc/s1458/2-14+corn+field+deer+dig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1122" data-original-width="1458" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj56qZfhBr2ebA34BEFeLNo68IdP-LUFS3piar_5Aj7LUNX862xPOepunzbQVa2Ufedu4WfFDGT2NTv64Z2P4z9IetuTch7ojpO6tm1NzNU0MLhD0pObutS8s9_fDotI3LfsfjsoRH23Vc/w400-h308/2-14+corn+field+deer+dig.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>A deer interrupted those thoughts and almost made me lose balance on the skis. She jumped out of the fencerow and into the field about 40 yards from me. Skinny, she was not. Had she been the deer eating corn through the winter?</div><div><br /></div><div>What I found near the pond, though, really made me scratch my head.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWQlAe8Kb7AnOBUFmyZNTClKYjR4_rrISml_wPAXJGWkUl77fPkqwypXrLt6-ppfRC6dQeHfCGSbOLzESb5jZRT4R1XzB_mpB0pSBy2gCz-f947T1ApJmiVt8i7FsNIwhVewwZTXsIsCQ/s1494/2-14+hedge+apples.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1102" data-original-width="1494" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWQlAe8Kb7AnOBUFmyZNTClKYjR4_rrISml_wPAXJGWkUl77fPkqwypXrLt6-ppfRC6dQeHfCGSbOLzESb5jZRT4R1XzB_mpB0pSBy2gCz-f947T1ApJmiVt8i7FsNIwhVewwZTXsIsCQ/w400-h295/2-14+hedge+apples.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Some critter had dug up and broken apart hedge apples. I'm unsure whether the hedge apples were on the picnic table before the dismembering, or if a critter wanted to have a picnic in style. Upon getting home, I did a little research and concluded this was most likely the work of squirrels who love to eat the seeds, and are apparently okay with leaving a mess behind.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZzyBAoHqlJQ1GLMWDbTqZcYJB3-o3K2wuv53xfIdIzupfLzFbXpALWVjOHLP4oq1-mDcb9c4AmEGpWHm_Asle7ojFsZ5GDCQ_17g8bU40ohu_lWbRQH6Zmpjx32WWXRJ1NRZJlyJ6eoM/s1457/2-14+pond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="918" data-original-width="1457" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZzyBAoHqlJQ1GLMWDbTqZcYJB3-o3K2wuv53xfIdIzupfLzFbXpALWVjOHLP4oq1-mDcb9c4AmEGpWHm_Asle7ojFsZ5GDCQ_17g8bU40ohu_lWbRQH6Zmpjx32WWXRJ1NRZJlyJ6eoM/w400-h253/2-14+pond.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Finally, I skied around the pond. Temperatures haven't been above freezing for two weeks, so I'm sure a thick layer of ice covers the pond. While there are animal tracks around the edges, only one set of deer tracks goes across the pond. Possibly a deer in a hurry?</div><div><br /></div><div>As I made my way back home, my coat unzipped and my hat off, I thought of something I'd read earlier in the week. If you wait until the weather is perfect, you're going to spend a big chunk of your life waiting. I'm so glad I turned Sunday into a perfect day.</div><div><br /></div><div><p><br /></p></div>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-26806587130606646352021-02-03T15:26:00.000-05:002021-02-03T15:26:55.322-05:00Does Anyone Follow Plan A?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNDiDK9XAV0qMETEMFl_p2MeGwKEOtNQ6oZkGo3yVdP9_2yrg3bVO55UqXNNrkhO5UZcmiAYSNb_lNaTbeNkJMvWf8Mbsj1sc1L1JAH3jJBilQnopupjOSalm1rrPC_s2jSRUQRYUj6CA/s1638/2-3+sheep1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1229" data-original-width="1638" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNDiDK9XAV0qMETEMFl_p2MeGwKEOtNQ6oZkGo3yVdP9_2yrg3bVO55UqXNNrkhO5UZcmiAYSNb_lNaTbeNkJMvWf8Mbsj1sc1L1JAH3jJBilQnopupjOSalm1rrPC_s2jSRUQRYUj6CA/w400-h300/2-3+sheep1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Did you say alfalfa? The flock in February.</b></div><p></p><p>I'm a list maker.</p><p>I'm a planner.</p><p>I don't know why I have sheep.</p><p><b>On this week's to-do list:</b> separate pregnant and non-pregnant ewes. Move the non-pregnant group to the big barn.</p><p>For much of the fall and winter, the ewes have lived as one big flock. They grazed on the pasture and ate first-cutting hay. A few participated in the daily dog training ritual.</p><p>Now that the ewes are in their third trimester, they get a break from dog training. More importantly, they get a feeding upgrade. Alfalfa hay is added to their rations.</p><p>The non-pregnant ewes do not get alfalfa hay. They don't need the extra calories, and alfalfa hay is expensive.</p><p>When I separate the flock, the pregnant ewes remain in the sheep/horse barn. The non-pregnant group move about, depending on the weather. If it's not raining, snowing or blowing sideways, they hang out in the pasture with the pine trees. When the weather is bad, I move them to the other barn that is big and spacious and has neither electricity nor running water.</p><p><b>Fun facts about sheep:</b> When the weather is cold, they eat a lot more hay. When the pasture is snow-covered, they eat a lot more hay. When sheep eat more hay, they drink a lot more water. In fact they drink gallons of water. Water weighs about 8 lbs. a gallon.</p><p>We received our first ground-covering snow for the year on Sunday. With temperatures staying below freezing, it's stuck around. When looking at the weather report to determine the best day for sheep sorting, I saw this: 9 degrees, 7 degrees, minus 2 degrees.</p><p>Visions of frozen water buckets danced in my head. When temperatures dip to the single digits, buckets of water freeze in less than an hour. Without heated water buckets, it becomes harder to ensure sheep have fresh water.</p><p>And, so I made new plans.</p><p>Because alfalfa hay was readily available this year, I'd bought more than I planned to use. I'd hoped this would be the year I had alfalfa bales left over. Whether that happens is still too early to tell.</p><p>However, I'll be using those extra bales in the coming week to supplement the entire flock with alfalfa hay. The entire flock is staying together until temperatures climb above freezing during the days. They'll stay in the sheep/horse barn that has both electricity and running water. And I'll try not to cringe when I feed the non-pregnant ewes expensive alfalfa hay.</p><p>Living on a farm, I've learned that plans are great, but drought, flood, winds, and cold snaps can change them in an instant. Maybe that's why I have sheep, horses, cats and dogs. They've taught me to adapt and to keep adapting rather than getting set in my ways.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8xEhpT4dhGXb66pf0TwMEmddmVTOWvA8eEbGpaZD0aVONYQ5FRr1T1DiB79uyHk-eCpj8FZUyTcQEwstylCF-pugTaSBRDPXBTWmFMZUMUIEU27iKC57xhn9Plnj7__6RQ3I_8DCXWQ/s1055/2-3+sheep2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1055" data-original-width="685" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD8xEhpT4dhGXb66pf0TwMEmddmVTOWvA8eEbGpaZD0aVONYQ5FRr1T1DiB79uyHk-eCpj8FZUyTcQEwstylCF-pugTaSBRDPXBTWmFMZUMUIEU27iKC57xhn9Plnj7__6RQ3I_8DCXWQ/w260-h400/2-3+sheep2.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">How much do sheep like alfalfa? Enough to run over me while I'm putting it in the feeders. Bubba moves them to another pasture so that I can feed.</span></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-23950223500980312212021-01-25T11:12:00.002-05:002021-01-25T11:12:59.130-05:00Lambing Season<p>What is your view of lambing season?</p><p>This:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYKJOhT3kYhxygRuKBVmmtyGYKLDsufw_NjtZK1KA8oTund5bQ8mt9pWzF4iPTyjvyi6M1gaFJ_UHc2b2l9PtnPfEwjc574Qqfl8xSF_OM5xgNtNv6hvINMZSP2K9vJftL1x7Ci31lhyphenhyphenY/s1200/price2-3-20-twins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYKJOhT3kYhxygRuKBVmmtyGYKLDsufw_NjtZK1KA8oTund5bQ8mt9pWzF4iPTyjvyi6M1gaFJ_UHc2b2l9PtnPfEwjc574Qqfl8xSF_OM5xgNtNv6hvINMZSP2K9vJftL1x7Ci31lhyphenhyphenY/w300-h400/price2-3-20-twins.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p>Or this <a href="https://u.osu.edu/sheep/2021/01/19/lambing-and-kidding-simulators/" target="_blank">(video of lambing simulator and what can go wrong).</a></p><p>When we bought sheep 15 years ago, my lambing knowledge came from oral stories and books.</p><p>The oral stories mostly consisted of freezing nights in barns assisting ewes with births; one friend told of weak newborn lambs falling into water buckets and drowning.</p><p>The books weren't much more optimistic. They illustrated the many wrong ways a lamb could try and enter this world, and all the ways lambs and sheep can die.</p><p>"It's amazing any lambs live," my husband said.</p><p>Needless to say, I was pretty apprehensive about that first lambing season.</p><p>But during the first lambing season, we didn't experience that. The ewes often gave birth in the night, and we walked into the barn to find a ewe with her newborn lambs. It was a few years before we actually witnessed a birth or had to assist a ewe.</p><p>Over the years, we've had a few bad births. I've pulled a few lambs. We've had stillborn lambs and one or two deformed lambs. This may happen about 5 percent of the time. What usually happens, though, is that the ewe gives birth to twins or triplets, cleans them off and encourages them to nurse.</p><p>But, I'm all for learning more about sheep and lambing season. So last week, we watched the Ohio State University's lambing webinar. Again, we learned of what can go wrong, and how we can assist a ewe. (The video of the lambing simulator is well done).</p><p>I now have a re-stocked lambing first aid kit and have just the right amount of optimism and apprehension to start lambing season.</p><p><br /></p>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-89122941138779981242021-01-18T15:56:00.002-05:002021-01-18T18:12:50.386-05:00When Breakfast becomes the Bed<p>After raking hay from the barn floor, I place it in a tub. It'll be breakfast for Lily, the pony who believes no blade of grass should be wasted.</p><p>The barn cats, though, have another idea.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvh4aw4wh_bVJe1EBSTGgLBw9OZU7HP4iJoRUiiKowpvzJHd9ONwEgNYAyo4AmqzVcD3pPD-XhXznW5LnXMU41A0EDCLiDWZaHauNRpZA_DTRLW31OiuXHD8dRcziMvY8KOnqVfupJ0cA/s2048/1-18+barn+cats+angle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1461" data-original-width="2048" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvh4aw4wh_bVJe1EBSTGgLBw9OZU7HP4iJoRUiiKowpvzJHd9ONwEgNYAyo4AmqzVcD3pPD-XhXznW5LnXMU41A0EDCLiDWZaHauNRpZA_DTRLW31OiuXHD8dRcziMvY8KOnqVfupJ0cA/w400-h285/1-18+barn+cats+angle.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Trick and Roxie snoozing in the tub.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">The tub makes a perfectly warm nest when overnight temperatures drop below freezing.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So, I let sleeping cats lie and feed Lily other hay.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Barn cats find many spots to snooze. They settle on top of the hay stack where they can overlook the horse and sheep stalls. Sometimes, they nestle in a crevice between the bales. But their favorite spot is the tub filled with hay. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As days turn to weeks, their spots in the tub begin to resemble nests. They become deeper and deeper, and now their bodies are level with the hay.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2mUD38s7kFxShvfTHIzsYlBLn2Uz0rer1vuyVAkqqz5tl5cZEE9B2qJ9t3VEa63a15czxBIP9uaolXBdZyVTRY0sztyt37fFvP9lMSl_sokQya3hL7SjV7vWYH0nfgKQYHVUz_SjkBGY/s2048/1-18+barn+cats+side.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="1713" data-original-width="2048" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2mUD38s7kFxShvfTHIzsYlBLn2Uz0rer1vuyVAkqqz5tl5cZEE9B2qJ9t3VEa63a15czxBIP9uaolXBdZyVTRY0sztyt37fFvP9lMSl_sokQya3hL7SjV7vWYH0nfgKQYHVUz_SjkBGY/w400-h335/1-18+barn+cats+side.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div> I no longer consider turning their bed into Lily's breakfast.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the dead of winter, when days are short, and when pandemic and rioting fill the daily news, I take great comfort in seeing the barn cats curled up and warm in their nests, like two yolks in an egg shell.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzrVw_tkIC7riLLUdishAa0WvFprpONhrryeKIl5wXGeOxFq2sYSxgZXYL4aIAUGpHFJnJ8Xsq-2-TjiDBitCkWtz6kKAfIqt6P-oLiDjdJ4y5_ROnKoZ0jvjPoWL4Q7zcn2stjLwRWpk/s1890/1-18+barn+cats+top.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1416" data-original-width="1890" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzrVw_tkIC7riLLUdishAa0WvFprpONhrryeKIl5wXGeOxFq2sYSxgZXYL4aIAUGpHFJnJ8Xsq-2-TjiDBitCkWtz6kKAfIqt6P-oLiDjdJ4y5_ROnKoZ0jvjPoWL4Q7zcn2stjLwRWpk/w400-h300/1-18+barn+cats+top.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>I tell the cats they can nest there until mid-March. That's when I'll need that tub to be both bed and breakfast.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCk_TV1GVlPERiNz3uCkVOxe17ypv38ROA-lNtmfKvW9JNg48tGn3i_IxWMLq97DoInfbvHkSOzBPnJUpq9DsjX6VQXdOkhSAyb2VSWcILNmVfnlb3PUGu6U8GDv-eXIYYbc3YGIwgpvY/s1200/lambs+in+a+tub2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCk_TV1GVlPERiNz3uCkVOxe17ypv38ROA-lNtmfKvW9JNg48tGn3i_IxWMLq97DoInfbvHkSOzBPnJUpq9DsjX6VQXdOkhSAyb2VSWcILNmVfnlb3PUGu6U8GDv-eXIYYbc3YGIwgpvY/w300-h400/lambs+in+a+tub2.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><div><br /></div></div>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-36890097867676581412021-01-11T20:33:00.002-05:002021-01-12T12:06:37.732-05:00The Fragility of a Single Egg<p>When you have five hens, and it is winter, and cloudy days stack up one on top of the other until they reach 10 in a row, eggs are a rarity.</p><p>On some days, I find no eggs. On others, I find one, never two or three or four.</p><p>Protecting that single egg seems so much harder than a clutch of eggs.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPwbBNx3If81Qlo-5gySWOUbn2HecU8aQm48ecPO8kEzDEsEpIQIIIeYHvAHRwSet8ErJXDChrOhE9up59vs73sJZVWESkM-EYAiCMtDa-Xhf31Z9cYJEMaFnJ6rWMTBH3AsLYAFh6pSI/s2048/1-11+coffee+can.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1464" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPwbBNx3If81Qlo-5gySWOUbn2HecU8aQm48ecPO8kEzDEsEpIQIIIeYHvAHRwSet8ErJXDChrOhE9up59vs73sJZVWESkM-EYAiCMtDa-Xhf31Z9cYJEMaFnJ6rWMTBH3AsLYAFh6pSI/w286-h400/1-11+coffee+can.jpg" width="286" /></a></div><br /><p>In the summertime, when eggs are plentiful, I place them in a coffee can that also serves as my vessel for carrying scratch grain, horse feed and sheep minerals.</p><p>But a single egg gets lost in a coffee can. It's easily overlooked and, if lucky, left on the counter in the barn or a fence post. If unlucky, it's knocked over or covered in grain.</p><p>A single egg fits neatly in a winter coat pocket, where it's forgotten until hit with firewood or a flake of hay.</p><p>When I find a single egg, I cup it in my palm and carry it to the barn where I look for a safe spot to place it while I finish evening chores.</p><p>I don't place it on the counter in the barn where a slightly bored and always hungry cat would bat it around, until it fell to the ground and became cat food.</p><p>Instead, I nestle it in a bird's nest that I found in the yard and kept because it was lined with pony hair, and I found it charming.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnfglp_rUqpC-YX_jce19RZ7URWJeEF-TtcE1Dzg2nRD1ynw-eIjhHzZlG2Gj1S4rFG3zFCnVeGuMbfVFb7GcQzgIEl-69fdn4ccEMmGgEmRkNSkmWBAI9Hz5CKT4hDVqEudc9uG_D1uo/s1464/1-11+egg+in+nest.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1206" data-original-width="1464" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnfglp_rUqpC-YX_jce19RZ7URWJeEF-TtcE1Dzg2nRD1ynw-eIjhHzZlG2Gj1S4rFG3zFCnVeGuMbfVFb7GcQzgIEl-69fdn4ccEMmGgEmRkNSkmWBAI9Hz5CKT4hDVqEudc9uG_D1uo/w400-h330/1-11+egg+in+nest.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>A chicken egg looks ridiculous in the tiny nest.</p><p>But I always notice it as I'm turning out the barn lights in the evening. I carry it into the house and place it in the egg carton.</p><p>I have six single eggs now--enough for an omelet.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-9362088528513537282020-12-23T08:58:00.001-05:002020-12-23T08:59:13.241-05:00A Golden Reminder<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZjWPFkiN642YbivP4aCCbrGXfHe7M4gh5mn8hQdcOGMjcgQa4TrnKX-hTQhjIggkKKbAGYqbJhkR6WBSJZAmIe2cVyOMZjLoB93ze4VC-F9XSoUvQq9MDbcyR4IsH_L0W3WmFg_ooyVk/s1224/12-23+hens.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="914" data-original-width="1224" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZjWPFkiN642YbivP4aCCbrGXfHe7M4gh5mn8hQdcOGMjcgQa4TrnKX-hTQhjIggkKKbAGYqbJhkR6WBSJZAmIe2cVyOMZjLoB93ze4VC-F9XSoUvQq9MDbcyR4IsH_L0W3WmFg_ooyVk/w400-h299/12-23+hens.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p> Counting chickens is easy these days.</p><p>We're down to five: three Buff Orpingtons, one Cuckoo Maran and one Buckeye. (Yes, I'm eyeing the chick calendar for more in the spring, but that's a story for another day).</p><p>A month ago I took down the poultry netting around the chicken yard because the area had become a muddy mess and poultry netting sags under the weight of snow. I hoped that whatever was munching on my chickens had been discouraged by the electrified netting and changed her hunting patterns.</p><p>"Go free," I told the hens as I opened the gate to the chicken yard and allowed them access to the sheep pasture. If I lost another hen, I'd close them back up in the chicken yard.</p><p>The hens went about their merry way, pecking and scratching. In the afternoon, they hung out in the barn and clucked at me for scratch grain. </p><p>When I went in the barn yesterday, only four clucked at me.</p><p>A Buff Orpington was missing.</p><p>So, I did my walkabout, looking for feathers and wondering what got her.</p><p>I found no feathers and found no hen.</p><p>Could she possibly be laying an egg?</p><p>At this time of year, with short days, the hens don't lay eggs often. I was averaging an egg a day earlier this month, but hadn't found any eggs for over a week. I lifted the lid to the nesting box, and found no hen nor no egg.</p><p>So, I went about my chores, bummed that I'd lost another hen and that I'd have to confine them to their chicken yard. While walking the dogs in the fading afternoon light, I looked toward the chicken house and saw three Buff Orpingtons. Where had she been hiding out?</p><p>After feeding the dogs, I went back to the chicken house where the hens were roosting for the night, and counted five chickens.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFYScdU9SZOWCuT-8geURFl5ds8Kta_40ja0rJuNf3V6e2SHNoEIUb5ZOO5W_CAcEv8WKZiZAJ2pBD4lxpJPsYpPS1iWHpL0iTj7XxqB34Tw-JcLsqvf7dwUfrp77OXx99mlKDHw6VYgo/s1295/12-23+chicken+house.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1036" data-original-width="1295" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFYScdU9SZOWCuT-8geURFl5ds8Kta_40ja0rJuNf3V6e2SHNoEIUb5ZOO5W_CAcEv8WKZiZAJ2pBD4lxpJPsYpPS1iWHpL0iTj7XxqB34Tw-JcLsqvf7dwUfrp77OXx99mlKDHw6VYgo/w400-h320/12-23+chicken+house.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The chicken house has nesting boxes on both sides.</b></div><p>Then, I walked to the side of the chicken house that houses nesting boxes that the hens haven't used for over a year--and that I haven't checked for weeks. There I found 10 eggs, including one that was clean and still warm. Apparently the hens (wanting a change of scenery?) had walked across the chicken house and chosen a new nesting box, and for the past few weeks had been laying eggs there.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1tzBNWGL3BGNoV7EVhelQz8_Ul8TCWMArXjXGNyh8dgPMPRk9oAb6oE81yZ_vnr5ehOrcHjJeaCZYgTVa0KvlQ973BL-1kJ14bU4bBMYuUe1L5_2W2RgFwgBkOzaFhL4V4x29AgL7YM/s1718/12-23+nesting+box+with+buckeye.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1310" data-original-width="1718" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1tzBNWGL3BGNoV7EVhelQz8_Ul8TCWMArXjXGNyh8dgPMPRk9oAb6oE81yZ_vnr5ehOrcHjJeaCZYgTVa0KvlQ973BL-1kJ14bU4bBMYuUe1L5_2W2RgFwgBkOzaFhL4V4x29AgL7YM/w400-h305/12-23+nesting+box+with+buckeye.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The Buckeye hen in the nesting box.</b></div><p>And, so I was reminded on this late December day, when the sun rarely shines bright and always sets too soon, and when a pandemic dampens the holidays, that there are glimmers of hope and joy--even if it comes as finding the "missing" golden hen and eggs.</p><p>Merry Christmas all!</p><p> </p><p> </p>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-8190194890767502192020-12-14T08:29:00.000-05:002020-12-14T08:29:03.974-05:00No heat? Blame it on...<p> When we first moved to the farm, the coyotes kept me up at night. Their yips and howls made me get out of bed, go outside and tell them to quiet down.</p><p>I've since learned that smaller critters can wreak havoc on everyday life.</p><p>This fall, tiny creatures have left me cold.</p><p>When I turned on heat in the workshop a few months ago, the clatter of clanking metal made me hit the off button. Something was seriously wrong with the heater.</p><p>The culprit?</p><p>A mud dauber had built a nest on the fan blade. The weight of the nest threw the blade off balance, causing a racket.</p><p>At a young age, I learned the difference between the friendly and mean wasps. The black ones, or mud daubers, meant no harm. The red wasps, with their honeycomb nests, required a wide berth. Their stings hurt, itched and caused me to swell like Popeye.</p><p>Yet, somehow, this innocent mud dauber had caused the heating woes.</p><p>A few weeks later, as the temperatures hit freezing and the wind blew, I lit a fire in our wood-burning stove. While we have a geo-thermal heating system, there is nothing quite as cozy as a fire on a cold day.</p><p>After lighting a fire, smoke began seeping out of the stove and stove pipe and filling the house. Something was seriously wrong.</p><p>The culprit?</p><p>A bird had built a nest in the stove pipe. We don't know what kind, but it was one small enough to climb over the dislodged wire netting. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaAGRXIXazjci39EYKGbqBqeC7cv3WIJpSPmgTNh_TapFVwJM_9tePZPDrRBto8hZjiCgrztXQQy1vt5LJE7XO0F7Gb1ExSG_ZKwwb2NT2jVi6qg7vu_h3iSBhqua_0RTTzbMxD__Y0Rg/s1733/12-5+bird+nest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1733" data-original-width="1287" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaAGRXIXazjci39EYKGbqBqeC7cv3WIJpSPmgTNh_TapFVwJM_9tePZPDrRBto8hZjiCgrztXQQy1vt5LJE7XO0F7Gb1ExSG_ZKwwb2NT2jVi6qg7vu_h3iSBhqua_0RTTzbMxD__Y0Rg/w298-h400/12-5+bird+nest.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><p>A new stovepipe cover with sturdy wiring was installed.</p><p>We now have fire in the wood-burning stove, and I can sit by it at night, listen to the coyotes sing, and just return to my book. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-82803642126692825742020-12-08T08:58:00.000-05:002020-12-08T08:58:00.862-05:00The Unsung Hero of the Sheep Flock<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxmsr0oiZrTUbLsJlTV6RXMq38kAejH7r2Mnk3tfekfJXoKpgEPUQhlFyHG377hSI7HBiAz4up1a-53fZp8tI0B0lOrCJptgbpaeD_jPyA5yO2wEmbnybfTGVne8quUGsW_MM3ihs6I-g/s1933/7-11+ram+lambs4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1420" data-original-width="1933" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxmsr0oiZrTUbLsJlTV6RXMq38kAejH7r2Mnk3tfekfJXoKpgEPUQhlFyHG377hSI7HBiAz4up1a-53fZp8tI0B0lOrCJptgbpaeD_jPyA5yO2wEmbnybfTGVne8quUGsW_MM3ihs6I-g/w400-h294/7-11+ram+lambs4.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The wether, center, is the decision maker when in with the ram lambs.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>Imagine your only purpose in life is being a friend.<p></p><p>That's the role of our wether.</p><p>The castrated male sheep moves from pasture to pasture, offering friendship and comfort.</p><p>As herd and prey animals, sheep find comfort and safety in numbers. One of the worst things you can do to a sheep is isolate him or her. Yet, sometimes a sheep must be kept from the flock.</p><p>Because Katahdins can breed year-round, and we don't want lambs year-round, the ram must be separated from the ewes for several months of the year. But isolating a ram for months on end is cruel, and leads to an aggressive (or even more aggressive) animal.</p><p>Thus, the wether and ram spend months hanging out together, usually in a pasture far away from the ewes. When with the ram, the wether grazes by his side and ruminates next to him.</p><p>On our farm, the wether's social circle changes several times throughout the year. Now, that it's winter, and we don't have a breeding ram, the wether hangs out with the ewe flock. He bellies up to the hay feeder with the ewes, and says nothing as they have their ewe squabbles.</p><p>In the summer, when we wean the ram lambs, he'll move over to the ram lamb flock. Lambs are horrible decision makers, and having a calm adult sheep helps them negotiate those big decisions in life, like whether to go through the gate opening or try to run through the fence, or whether to run at the sight of a dog or turn and face it. Our current wether is a mellow fellow and brings a calmness to the ram lamb flock.</p><p>When we get another breeding ram, then the wether will move in with him.</p><p>The wether does this without complaint or protest. Maybe, he realizes that being a friend is not such a bad lot in life.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-14269361683796070872020-11-30T11:40:00.000-05:002020-11-30T11:40:16.044-05:00The Radish Hunt<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDxqeGJE2gdW7VkAqW7A8LrY_tWn2zALP-4c4au8StNqoF8rYwldwc4tMuV3CB9D42oKNm_gPXs4I8YpMXhnyhoAmywXubsHtVNR_v7q4cBGmZi3kPovAeKfLD1G3e73NzXbZ0wgWifmA/s1501/11-30+radish+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1168" data-original-width="1501" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDxqeGJE2gdW7VkAqW7A8LrY_tWn2zALP-4c4au8StNqoF8rYwldwc4tMuV3CB9D42oKNm_gPXs4I8YpMXhnyhoAmywXubsHtVNR_v7q4cBGmZi3kPovAeKfLD1G3e73NzXbZ0wgWifmA/w400-h311/11-30+radish+crop.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>I didn't have a ruler, so I used my foot for scale.</b></div></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">When my 10-year-old nephew was bouncing around, I did what
good aunts do: I sent him on a radish hunt.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Go to the field behind the horse pasture and get two
radishes,” I said. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As he darted off, I told him they were white and would be
several inches long.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">An adult standing around the fire muttered something about a
snipe hunt.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No,” I said. “They’re
real.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After the wheat was harvested this summer, a radish cover
crop was planted. Daikon radishes, with white tap roots often a foot long, help
reduce soil erosion and also break up compacted soil. They’ll die this winter
and decompose, leaving a loamier soil that dries out faster in the spring. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgheeTPfFRIu_I5g0ByN3roxfG7mBtI2dBZoNzLh8zwvK2QYs88tvOaUwMP4aYwj6DncsimvKu5kZrYYwyvLJFhPGkM5FXOXR_wxFiqMKDqOymU02hktJ3nZ8DH5mNGg90vUevG4P9hVh4/s2048/11-30+radish+closeup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1346" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgheeTPfFRIu_I5g0ByN3roxfG7mBtI2dBZoNzLh8zwvK2QYs88tvOaUwMP4aYwj6DncsimvKu5kZrYYwyvLJFhPGkM5FXOXR_wxFiqMKDqOymU02hktJ3nZ8DH5mNGg90vUevG4P9hVh4/w263-h400/11-30+radish+closeup.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Usually about half the tap root grows above ground and half below ground.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal">I’ve planted Daikon radishes as a cover crop in my vegetable
garden. They grew over summer, suppressing weeds. Over winter, the garden
smelled like rotting cabbage as the radishes decomposed. In the spring, I didn’t
have to work the soil. It was loamy and ready for planting. This is the first
year, though, that they’ve been planted in our crop fields.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Minutes after racing off to the radish field, my nephew
and two nieces returned to the campfire with several radishes.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSb-FhvFvB_4RKtbVEBmaIrJVZLUB0RJrjokTjNfFnJRjLHT0yTt2-17ubVZweD4ogNc1v3W4iTk3hDcytWC9_P6UZEwlch9yfMOPy5RkdE8ej3kGLdXPGmFCNdKVwRuBQ3U6urPrtQ0/s1302/11-20+radish+field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1302" data-original-width="917" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSb-FhvFvB_4RKtbVEBmaIrJVZLUB0RJrjokTjNfFnJRjLHT0yTt2-17ubVZweD4ogNc1v3W4iTk3hDcytWC9_P6UZEwlch9yfMOPy5RkdE8ej3kGLdXPGmFCNdKVwRuBQ3U6urPrtQ0/w281-h400/11-20+radish+field.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">A field of radishes on a snowy morning.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal">They were unlike your grocery-store radishes. Instead of red
orbs the size of golf balls, they were white, cylindrical roots a foot long.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I wonder how they taste,” my brother said, picking up a
broken one and biting into the crisp, white flesh. “Wow, those are pretty good.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When the Daikon radishes were growing in my garden and in
the fields, I never thought to try one. I assumed they would be woody—and either
too hot or super bland. So, I picked up one and, avoiding the exterior skin, bit
into the flesh. The verdict: mild flavored and pleasantly crunchy.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m harvesting a few more before the freezing weather sets
in and the decomposition begins.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1UqJVHvlE2ZbrzBvqC84NuguekZkcHLlqPzJy1T_akHkf1Twj1icF6zIy6bSNSvV675Ck6ZefW4dR_quP3lSNfLNSVGZuSnV-txwk8WpN0YIZ1M4TsDVpqfSvE2RWQiFTXvNteEdQZjQ/s1753/11-30+niki+radish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1261" data-original-width="1753" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1UqJVHvlE2ZbrzBvqC84NuguekZkcHLlqPzJy1T_akHkf1Twj1icF6zIy6bSNSvV675Ck6ZefW4dR_quP3lSNfLNSVGZuSnV-txwk8WpN0YIZ1M4TsDVpqfSvE2RWQiFTXvNteEdQZjQ/w400-h288/11-30+niki+radish.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;"><b>As I was looking for a ruler, Niki, the Radish Thief, hauled off the radish.</b></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-59743633848071241712020-11-24T10:29:00.001-05:002020-11-24T10:29:51.488-05:00Pandemic Chainsawing<p> "The battery-powered chainsaw may be the best present you've given me," I say to my husband.</p><p>"What about the KitchenAid stand mixer?"</p><p>"It's nice, but the chainsaw..." </p><p>Farm life consists of encouraging some things to grow and discouraging others. I chop thistles from the pasture, and plant clover; I coax young tomato plants along while taking a hoe to morning glory vine; I check on the sheep daily, moving them to the grassiest, most lush pastures, while securing fence to keep the coyotes out. Red-tailed hawks and bald eagles may be admired from afar, but they'd better stay away from the chickens.</p><p>Brush and trees are a constant battle. Brush encroaches on the crop fields; trees grow in the native grass and wildflower areas; trees fall across paths in the woods. Hand-held loppers are not enough for the job.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2GCdZdIRHEgzmSTYYEL_PqwwYVAnnx21kNcACMJ18tNPXYWdnUatfWZFacmiRIi0NFDkQhHjC_H1pZExgg7dfS5gDQdP-B1WXX8PFwgBW0MWxvO-mK7S97Bhr4v__xnLHZJSA5ZmbmwQ/s1098/11-19+chainsawing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1098" data-original-width="702" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2GCdZdIRHEgzmSTYYEL_PqwwYVAnnx21kNcACMJ18tNPXYWdnUatfWZFacmiRIi0NFDkQhHjC_H1pZExgg7dfS5gDQdP-B1WXX8PFwgBW0MWxvO-mK7S97Bhr4v__xnLHZJSA5ZmbmwQ/s320/11-19+chainsawing.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cathy Essinger snapped this photo when I stopped to cut a few branches at her house. I'm wearing my visiting-my-friends-outdoors clothes, not my brush-clearing gear.</span></div><p>Last year, a friend introduced me to a battery-powered chainsaw, and I was intrigued. Lightweight and easy to start, I fell in love.</p><p>So, while others may be baking their way through the pandemic. I'm clearing brush. This fall and winter, weather-permitting, I try to spend an hour or two each day cutting brush or trees. And, I'm discovering it may be the perfect activity for these pandemic times.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsgqvEQ1aSOGmynABs3bftyeeJstxp4oMfzgfzDLiGtjlWqw1dGzJUnFwDAC8M3QTI_ShVWwvjdH6CT1C7zX999NhqcMHXH4l6g7exD5To2zrMmFobuJWfWB8zFywMczY1ft6tBvSWbXQ/s1434/11-24+log+in+woods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1075" data-original-width="1434" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsgqvEQ1aSOGmynABs3bftyeeJstxp4oMfzgfzDLiGtjlWqw1dGzJUnFwDAC8M3QTI_ShVWwvjdH6CT1C7zX999NhqcMHXH4l6g7exD5To2zrMmFobuJWfWB8zFywMczY1ft6tBvSWbXQ/w400-h300/11-24+log+in+woods.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The emerald ash borer killed the ash trees in the woods a few years ago, so dead trees fall frequently.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;">The coronavirus is, both literally and figuratively, lurking. It's in the news; it's a factor in so many everyday decisions: to wear a mask or not to, to stay home or go out, the risk-level of many activities. But, for two hours everyday, while clearing brush, I don't think about pandemics, politicians or other news.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I delight in the squirrels leaping from tree to tree, the red-headed woodpeckers and blue-feathered Jays, the occasional rabbit and deer. When clearing the wildlife strip, I sometimes talk to the neighboring cows.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlihnnf93pGwpb5x8sEktWehWfujFn-wl69fXsKhaYizbApTKLf87J0aVCwRwNpaP4ldFfLuTuruhY8FueGc2s5cdvFOJU_hY84zC7tekPXGMwSEuC-vL-u05ShLc71jeMKNUn0yjiAT8/s861/11-24+cows+in+the+fence+row.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="861" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlihnnf93pGwpb5x8sEktWehWfujFn-wl69fXsKhaYizbApTKLf87J0aVCwRwNpaP4ldFfLuTuruhY8FueGc2s5cdvFOJU_hY84zC7tekPXGMwSEuC-vL-u05ShLc71jeMKNUn0yjiAT8/w400-h310/11-24+cows+in+the+fence+row.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I marvel at how how quickly some trees grow, curse the honeysuckle and try to avoid getting stuck by black locust thorns.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXWL8dsqWoFoaBwxHT7WMv_aBKEuMLPVHo6SGrx8hUHpLvq06DNOPOt0wUy5qoH_zUAPUMh9z4Cbhzi-lzb75XmHFL4z8t5Jdty3cZY-0xfZCayidbAvcVFAZCLYRPGwRzmKikFoVu460/s1434/11-24+tree+in+wildlife+strip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1434" data-original-width="1075" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXWL8dsqWoFoaBwxHT7WMv_aBKEuMLPVHo6SGrx8hUHpLvq06DNOPOt0wUy5qoH_zUAPUMh9z4Cbhzi-lzb75XmHFL4z8t5Jdty3cZY-0xfZCayidbAvcVFAZCLYRPGwRzmKikFoVu460/w300-h400/11-24+tree+in+wildlife+strip.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div>But, I also have a real sense of accomplishment. After a few hours, I can look at a strip of land that no longer has trees peeking above the grasses, or I have logs that can be split and used to heat the house.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitSq4niYI72e1VTbDR0qd39EmNOjZ0ZyWe5Zcuv7esDx3FfT18T-LIK4JwFjcjHhIsfHDVabENpX-YdrJJFWOOTSedI6N8Ev4gFgdwbr2MDIO3Et21Xqebov0TGFPpVCaoXMidERXAruY/s1434/11-24+wildlife+strip+done.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1075" data-original-width="1434" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitSq4niYI72e1VTbDR0qd39EmNOjZ0ZyWe5Zcuv7esDx3FfT18T-LIK4JwFjcjHhIsfHDVabENpX-YdrJJFWOOTSedI6N8Ev4gFgdwbr2MDIO3Et21Xqebov0TGFPpVCaoXMidERXAruY/w400-h300/11-24+wildlife+strip+done.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2SwxGblXSuBstk-9E3_HUEIrst9dZCfXZ6cIv0p3O2xb2PTOSEOXpeQL-tuATSsM9b4qqUcATmoxb1WD1OVCphfaXzsi3NrSPNHvH3EZSg-zwzQ1KMudD3OzbZSIG15DNKRWZynQfpI/s1434/11-24+gator.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1075" data-original-width="1434" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2SwxGblXSuBstk-9E3_HUEIrst9dZCfXZ6cIv0p3O2xb2PTOSEOXpeQL-tuATSsM9b4qqUcATmoxb1WD1OVCphfaXzsi3NrSPNHvH3EZSg-zwzQ1KMudD3OzbZSIG15DNKRWZynQfpI/w400-h300/11-24+gator.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Usually I'm also a little sweaty and tired. Cutting brush and especially dragging or moving it is physical work. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, as my friend points out, that's one of the advantages of a battery-powered chainsaw: it tells you when it's time to quit. Depending on the project, the battery lasts between 1 and 2 hours.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">When I tell my husband that's another reason the chainsaw is so perfect, he responds, "You know we have a second battery, don't you?"</div><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p></div>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-54096799477723561782020-11-17T10:55:00.000-05:002020-11-17T10:55:56.133-05:00Counting Sheep<p>Ask me how many horses I have and I answer promptly.</p><p>Two.</p><p>How many chickens?</p><p>Five. (It's been a rough chicken year)</p><p>How many cats?</p><p>Two indoor and two outdoor.</p><p>How many dogs?</p><p>I pause on this question, depending on who is doing the asking. If it's a sheepdog friend, I'll say six. If it's someone else, I'll dance around that question as I don't want to sound like a crazy dog lady.</p><p>How many sheep?</p><p>This question gets a quizzical look, and it's not because I don't want to appear like a crazy sheep lady. It's that the number varies with the seasons.</p><p>During the winter, we keep about 35-40 ewes. About half of those are bred; the others, a combination of older cull ewes and ewe lambs, are kept for training the Border collies.</p><p>In late March and early April, the sheep population explodes during lambing season, and the number usually climbs to 70-75 sheep.</p><p>Then, over the course of the next several months, the numbers drop.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjphVbMXc_qX3pCTQBngyd76bIcuaS3qZ4XFkAUT1jBf7966fZ46Bmtk1EVUp74Yk0gvJZMf0UrfOBKvi6su9I_v6JoHqSxGQmOZvZTG9B2jRVdl0SFKxASDKqOcBdRl2dJt0EoA91TxLM/s2048/11-17+ewes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1323" data-original-width="2048" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjphVbMXc_qX3pCTQBngyd76bIcuaS3qZ4XFkAUT1jBf7966fZ46Bmtk1EVUp74Yk0gvJZMf0UrfOBKvi6su9I_v6JoHqSxGQmOZvZTG9B2jRVdl0SFKxASDKqOcBdRl2dJt0EoA91TxLM/w400-h259/11-17+ewes.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The ewe flock grazing on a November day.</span></div><p>I sell most of my yearling ewes that I've used for sheepdog training; I often sell some other ewes, either as culls or breeding stock; a few ram lambs are sold for breeding stock; others are sold for meat. Usually, by November or December, the number drops to about 35-40 ewes.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtAfhEORlN9jGInaa2IMTU72Yp2flR3KDxZUYcZ-MCseNeWSxmeNzTEwrOpDfLnaQfrQNXXg_7NHbJpZzF_PX0MVQBqajK7jxHhEuh2H0_9cmEI3Lq-D1RNGUeW6CvHAWfBpwVl79lqCg/s2048/11-17+ram+lambs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1137" data-original-width="2048" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtAfhEORlN9jGInaa2IMTU72Yp2flR3KDxZUYcZ-MCseNeWSxmeNzTEwrOpDfLnaQfrQNXXg_7NHbJpZzF_PX0MVQBqajK7jxHhEuh2H0_9cmEI3Lq-D1RNGUeW6CvHAWfBpwVl79lqCg/w400-h223/11-17+ram+lambs.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The ram lambs will be with us only for a few more weeks.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The white wether will join the ewe flock.</span></div><p>In the next few weeks, the last group of ram lambs is scheduled to go to the butcher. So, for three months, until lambing season, I'll be able to answer 37.</p><p><br /></p>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-65891369318548390182020-10-25T07:01:00.000-04:002020-10-25T07:01:06.636-04:00The Two-Fence Rule<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJau2K4AaTiphlv4zBoUr4UvLO_4G-O-QWsgwWkJ6e7baEL9CnQ4dlNDWUb5iOdrS2pH1Q6liPU-ejK4y4qORh2Da2DKO05MYIzLiMO8oxwRZqkX66F6fhmWOoyoJ8-eWqxucyOpr32rE/s2048/10-25+ewe+lambs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1410" data-original-width="2048" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJau2K4AaTiphlv4zBoUr4UvLO_4G-O-QWsgwWkJ6e7baEL9CnQ4dlNDWUb5iOdrS2pH1Q6liPU-ejK4y4qORh2Da2DKO05MYIzLiMO8oxwRZqkX66F6fhmWOoyoJ8-eWqxucyOpr32rE/w400-h275/10-25+ewe+lambs.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>The ewe lambs with their two house mothers.</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As the days get shorter and the nights colder, our sheep care not about pumpkin spice, camp fires nor elections. For them, it's breeding season.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For me, it's strict adherence to the two-fence rule; two fences must separate the groups of sheep.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On the farm, unlatched gates happen. They don't happen often, but they do. When ewes or rams discover unlatched gates during breeding season, pregnancy happens, and it happens fast. One year, a ram impregnated three ewes in six hours. In another, an eight-hour party resulted in four pregnancies. The two-fence rule is meant to prevent that.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">During the summer months and early fall, it's easy to adhere to the two-fence rule. We have two groups of sheep: the girls (mature ewes and ewe lambs) and the boys (mature ram, wether and ram lambs). Because we have several pastures, it's fairly easy to ensure that the girls and boys are not in adjacent pastures.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now that it's breeding season, we have three groups of sheep: the ram lambs that will go to the butcher in November, the ewes lambs and house mothers that I'll use for working dogs on through the winter and spring; and the breeding ewes and ram.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sticking to the two-fence rule becomes a three-ring circus. But breeding season is only for three weeks, and then we'll be back to two groups.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHcf59YvtAZF_0HCpZ-qAcfo2bSZhAJiBE8Y-iOyM7Q1UhPYtwBeI3ei51t7i6XrWSRsIq3E5LlgazzWXvHd34ry2m_H9n-Zc7DtvHCburHWky3qKahOt_xHjb_iySqiIe9_QeDjrOx-Q/s2048/10-25+rams+and+ewes+waterway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1481" data-original-width="2048" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHcf59YvtAZF_0HCpZ-qAcfo2bSZhAJiBE8Y-iOyM7Q1UhPYtwBeI3ei51t7i6XrWSRsIq3E5LlgazzWXvHd34ry2m_H9n-Zc7DtvHCburHWky3qKahOt_xHjb_iySqiIe9_QeDjrOx-Q/w400-h289/10-25+rams+and+ewes+waterway.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Two fences and 40 feet may separate the rams lambs from the ewes, but they're still drawn to each other.</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>In other farm happenings: </b>Fall cleaning is beginning. A frost killed everything in the garden except for some chard and snow peas, so I'll be cleaning out the garden this week. And, then my attention turns toward field edges and fence rows.</div><p></p>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-67575882981376314652020-10-14T06:35:00.002-04:002020-10-14T06:37:23.810-04:00Muscle Memory<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-zK8WW552zuUk17MbjAG3ADgeEC3PyZx1ybEDvwx0bXimTC7UxiREfOFYKHYAgi1HzaDPkmjELNHrvl0UdgR9k3Oc_Xxs_oRMigHyqCFLCJIkMzmUL1pmXo_c_yK8NFNoiMmbeJqHI7M/s1747/10-13+lily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1747" data-original-width="1136" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-zK8WW552zuUk17MbjAG3ADgeEC3PyZx1ybEDvwx0bXimTC7UxiREfOFYKHYAgi1HzaDPkmjELNHrvl0UdgR9k3Oc_Xxs_oRMigHyqCFLCJIkMzmUL1pmXo_c_yK8NFNoiMmbeJqHI7M/w260-h400/10-13+lily.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Seeing the world through golden ears.</b></p>When the neighbor girl wanted to learn about horses, I said yes.<p></p><p>Horses have always been a part of my life. My first pony, Rocky, took 8-year-old me across creeks, on trails, and under branches. Many rides ended with walks home where my pony was waiting at the barn. As a teen, horses meant horse camp, 4-H and freedom.</p><p>During my college years, I loved working from sunrise to sundown in the horse barns at a summer camp. My days were filled with caring for horses, giving lessons and leading trail rides, and on my days were spent riding horses.</p><p>After college, I met a woman who introduced me to competitive and endurance riding. We covered hundreds of miles and went where few people ever walked. During those hours in the saddle, we also became great friends and had so many laughs together.</p><p>After moving to the farm, I still kept horses, took riding lessons and learned about dressage. I love looking out the window and seeing the horses, touching their soft noses and burying my hands under their manes on cold winter days.</p><p>But, until recently, I hadn't ridden a horse for two years.</p><p>As life got busy, and I took up herding with the Border collies, I spent less and less time in the saddle, and then, none at all. </p><p>If I was going to give lessons, I'd have to get on my horse. So, I tacked up Lily, led her to the mounting block and got on. My legs settled into position; my feet found the stirrups; and fingers held the reins. With a little exhale of breath, Lily stepped into a walk. And, thanks to two years of practicing yoga, I felt stronger, more in balance and straighter than I ever had.</p><p>While I haven't ridden much in the past several years, I've spent hundreds of hours in the saddle with Lily, and muscle memory takes over. I use my legs and seat aids as we practice circles and leg yields. And, she responds, as if it's been two days instead of two years since I last rode.</p><p>When I dismount, my hand reaches into my pocket for her treat, which she takes as I rub her blaze and run my fingers over her soft muzzle. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-13285731736872746462020-09-30T18:56:00.000-04:002020-09-30T18:56:17.287-04:00Sisters: Not Synonymous with Same<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvOTreZqAMEmicWUIU2Xe883wDL5gNq3CBTOq7-6xTaiv7aH5VglwrceZ_JfbCceEoXtTIErcwGFr3Xh5_v6adZtD4u5MYMoSOhJubJ9oSMeG9l6vyLr8el-Y3SEJo5C0RQiumNgQxjfE/s2048/9-30+gael+and+frost.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="2048" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvOTreZqAMEmicWUIU2Xe883wDL5gNq3CBTOq7-6xTaiv7aH5VglwrceZ_JfbCceEoXtTIErcwGFr3Xh5_v6adZtD4u5MYMoSOhJubJ9oSMeG9l6vyLr8el-Y3SEJo5C0RQiumNgQxjfE/w400-h265/9-30+gael+and+frost.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Frost and Gael wait their turn.</b></div><p></p><p>When I walk out into the pasture to train my Border collies, I bring a training plan, my hat, a whistle and lead line. I also bring a constant reminder: Gael and Frost may be littermates, but they are not the same.</p><p>I raised Gael from a puppy and bought Frost as a 2-year-old. They share the same parents, are both sensitive and both black and white. That's where the similarities seem to end.</p><p>Frost naturally has square flanks and a tendency to run wide; Gael naturally runs tight and has a tendency to slice her flanks.</p><p>Gael is very keen and focused on the sheep. Frost, too, wants to work the sheep, but is not as keen and more worried about listening to me.</p><p>Frost is a bossy, alpha female. Gael is submissive to other dogs.</p><p>Because of a broken femur and torn ACL, Gael is about a year behind in her training than Frost, and that difference is the hardest for me to remember. While I work with Frost to drive the length of the field and respond to whistle commands, I have to remind myself that Gael isn't solid on whistles, and that we're working on doing short drives correctly.</p><p>To avoid those sibling comparisons, I've started working on different elements. This morning, I worked on shedding, or splitting off a group of sheep, with Frost, while I did outruns and small drives with Gael. At the end of each session, I found myself telling each one that they did a good job.</p><p>This training strategy may also have another benefit: keeping sibling rivalry at bay.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-72764264768350675252020-07-29T18:09:00.000-04:002020-07-29T18:09:22.264-04:00My No-Mow Garden<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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By the end of July, I've usually given up on the garden. I either attack it with the mower, or just bushwhack my way through the weeds to the tomatoes and harvest what I can.<br />
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This year, though, my garden is almost weed-free.<br />
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The amount of time spent at home may correlate with the amount of weeds in the garden. The pandemic meant the cancellation of most of my sheepdog trials. So, I've stayed home and fallen into a routine of training a dog, then, when she is cooling off, weeding the garden.<br />
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The garden and the dogs seem to be benefitting from it.<br />
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While slow to get started, the pepper plants are now thriving and producing enough peppers for every meal, and then some.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nI-QkJBmMv8NCnrFBCoidzOBNoVYWnV6c0DJPEGM_j0QbDTPnUseezEzHWnZp4J-ZZ-2r2uSLShAyftTeEcmzsM3Afg8F0gkNKQnoJESYUoeN4bq-us8S-UtI-TlRET6MNAKnMhzSHE/s1600/7-29+black+icicle+tomato.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1393" data-original-width="1029" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nI-QkJBmMv8NCnrFBCoidzOBNoVYWnV6c0DJPEGM_j0QbDTPnUseezEzHWnZp4J-ZZ-2r2uSLShAyftTeEcmzsM3Afg8F0gkNKQnoJESYUoeN4bq-us8S-UtI-TlRET6MNAKnMhzSHE/s400/7-29+black+icicle+tomato.JPG" width="295" /></a></div>
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The tomatoes are starting to ripen. I'm growing these Black Icicles for the first time, and have declared them a keeper. While I'm enjoying them fresh now, I see canning in my future.<br />
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As always, I planted too much zucchini. As always, my chickens are eating the extras, for now.<br />
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What would a garden be without volunteers? Every year, I have dozens and dozens of dill plants pop up in the garden. This melon plant appeared next to a tomato plant. Since I didn't have any melon planted, I let it grow. It's taking over the garden.<br />
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I never used to plant flowers, but for the first time this year, I planted zinnias. Very easy and very worth it. The bees and butterflies seem to like them too.<br />
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Cheyenne Spirit Coneflowers--one of my favorites.<br />
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The Big Red Dahlia that a friend gave me is just starting to bloom.<br />
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<b>Meanwhile on the farm:</b> It's been a hot July, so I've been doing some dog training, but few other outdoor projects. Thanks to decent rainfall, though, the pastures are doing well. I see mowing in my future.<br />
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During one of the hot spells, we loaded straw and hay into the barn (because that always seems to be a job for the hottest days). But, it's one of those jobs that I'm always glad to have done. Last year at this time, we were facing a hay shortage.<br />
<br />Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-1490326447693885672020-06-15T15:25:00.003-04:002020-06-15T15:25:59.427-04:00When the Morning Walk Turns into a Run"Cats," I said, when I saw two sets of eyes looking at me from the picnic table near the pond.<br />
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But they were kittens really. Just a pound each, and probably six weeks old.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHhoMrnj2bOJ0JCXQO4-Pqp2MvffFEKY-EmWvKNlMB17m8WOOkNgsaOzDFnimQkRFQOKas_ZBRsW4U0UT4niyx-wshCqCBlpPsuUtvIGEN07kCSPBRMi2WjCNdqhWN6RCZKmkWte69zw8/s1600/6-15+kittens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHhoMrnj2bOJ0JCXQO4-Pqp2MvffFEKY-EmWvKNlMB17m8WOOkNgsaOzDFnimQkRFQOKas_ZBRsW4U0UT4niyx-wshCqCBlpPsuUtvIGEN07kCSPBRMi2WjCNdqhWN6RCZKmkWte69zw8/s320/6-15+kittens.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
They were also in danger.<br />
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I was on my morning dog walk around the pond with two cat-chasing Border collies and one loves-all-things-stinky Border collie.<br />
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I got the two cat chasers on leash as the kittens saw me for what I was: human.<br />
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They came running toward me.<br />
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The dogs strained on their leashes to get to the kittens.<br />
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Bad things could happen if they met.<br />
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So, I turned and ran toward home. Dragging two 40-pound Border collies behind me and with two kittens chasing me, I called for the third Border collie, Bubba, the lover of sheep poo, dead turtles and fish goo, who was meandering around the pond.<br />
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How fast and far must one go to outrun two kittens?<br />
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Turns out 100 yards will do it.<br />
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After securing the Border collies safely at home, I returned to the pond and found the owner of the kitties. The kittens are now safely home. They, being kittens, pay no attention to property boundaries and had wandered over to the pond when relatives camped there over the weekend, and did not know how to find their way home.<br />
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<br />Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-8639695054374162592020-06-01T20:49:00.000-04:002020-06-01T20:49:16.870-04:00Good-Bye Tag (2005-2020)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Tag loved his role as ambassador for Buckeye Border Collie Rescue.</b></div>
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We never thought Tag would live into his teens. </div>
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He came into
Buckeye Border Collie Rescue from an animal shelter in Ohio. He was an adolescent pup with a burnt tongue (most likely those Christmas
lights, though he would never say) and then immediately he came down with parvo.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU793RsQy0xAZMycYmpWXqo2llAGc01xLzJi9W7jVPSBDwA4783E2U77V21JdTwHl9dbeT5BVhgciuCkUPoWp6z4R-Jh-_t4iFXYh6kaWyU4ZTM89o8sZyYVoIxsVdWsQtBlgfTveGHNY/s1600/Tag-adoptionday5-1-06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="288" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU793RsQy0xAZMycYmpWXqo2llAGc01xLzJi9W7jVPSBDwA4783E2U77V21JdTwHl9dbeT5BVhgciuCkUPoWp6z4R-Jh-_t4iFXYh6kaWyU4ZTM89o8sZyYVoIxsVdWsQtBlgfTveGHNY/s400/Tag-adoptionday5-1-06.jpg" width="270" /></a></div>
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<b>Eight-month-old Tag on his adoption day.</b></div>
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But he had a great temperament. We adopted him from Buckeye Border Collie Rescue in the spring of
2006, and he quickly became the farm greeter, lap sitter extraordinaire and a
constant companion.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL06UOpSWNH1UYXir1rKidhJqXL5pFjaP1FdIeUwBUd9-IbooDIrOSAuJJHWNLT8IzOd1vsYYhtyzPSk1dq1CcKK2SMjX5DJfVf2OkEWLEETUjuBG_BTTpKjgpS4hZ-hFfDokHCiCGfSc/s1600/dewey+and+tag-2009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1369" data-original-width="1438" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL06UOpSWNH1UYXir1rKidhJqXL5pFjaP1FdIeUwBUd9-IbooDIrOSAuJJHWNLT8IzOd1vsYYhtyzPSk1dq1CcKK2SMjX5DJfVf2OkEWLEETUjuBG_BTTpKjgpS4hZ-hFfDokHCiCGfSc/s400/dewey+and+tag-2009.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Tag and Dewey Kitty (when Dewey was a kitty).</b></div>
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His talent was cuddling, with cats and humans.</div>
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And, he could make the best monkey noises. He’d sit on Randy’s
lap, and they’d howl away.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhibAuqyIkKzu_jyl8x4Ud9THcllfb5KRvX71RzfCUrLSMGdB-43QDNgrgSqzJ2sqxfAkN2zzD3pvCEFz6PfbzlpdcAPnuUAlTMy5SShS-hdgzER0W9p4213f9eOKdCnHTuon4uNtnbSZ8/s1600/tag-randy-leslie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="294" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhibAuqyIkKzu_jyl8x4Ud9THcllfb5KRvX71RzfCUrLSMGdB-43QDNgrgSqzJ2sqxfAkN2zzD3pvCEFz6PfbzlpdcAPnuUAlTMy5SShS-hdgzER0W9p4213f9eOKdCnHTuon4uNtnbSZ8/s400/tag-randy-leslie.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>
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<b>Randy with Tag and Leslie the Cat.</b></div>
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A herding dog, though, he was not.</div>
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When introduced to sheep, he stepped behind me and followed
as I moved the sheep around. He was content to watch the sheep from a distance.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaKmH7C86Rsou09xH0GUtdNsiazQ2gcEac2qREUfHvrqyZYaPP46det5neu5PUSZcJinv-QA6i4c5_rtwZe9FaV9KaXbnWwQEONlSBtc0LyPQBvycv4cQDNS9V7hOXCFbFb0LAaiiLqoU/s1600/tag+at+stillwater2-2016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaKmH7C86Rsou09xH0GUtdNsiazQ2gcEac2qREUfHvrqyZYaPP46det5neu5PUSZcJinv-QA6i4c5_rtwZe9FaV9KaXbnWwQEONlSBtc0LyPQBvycv4cQDNS9V7hOXCFbFb0LAaiiLqoU/s400/tag+at+stillwater2-2016.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Tag by the Stillwater River.</b></div>
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A perfectly named dog, he tagged along with me when I did
chores and trekked around the farm. He never bothered the cats or the chickens
or sheep.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXzmiGjFGyqqAsxg__1h3tO18u5TVawm3-Z0h4QJSa-__04sYrj5OnV_Et82aAqdQRZEiPEdClqe1x3JsBINsKT5ewrHKK-IRyV56AtzLi-fnt0h3tJCiI-gfMl73coxUgu9zuPYYpxzQ/s1600/blines-tagcaeli-sears-2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1322" data-original-width="881" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXzmiGjFGyqqAsxg__1h3tO18u5TVawm3-Z0h4QJSa-__04sYrj5OnV_Et82aAqdQRZEiPEdClqe1x3JsBINsKT5ewrHKK-IRyV56AtzLi-fnt0h3tJCiI-gfMl73coxUgu9zuPYYpxzQ/s400/blines-tagcaeli-sears-2011.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<b>Tag, Caeli and me.</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Ya6pxuthTBjd5iTeLhQazxEK2Aw72_A_XddIwdS9RjazwAack8Ie__OVkCmu0kdl_TBurahHT7hm9DUX3zadqQYJnSiRm6utSV0e09pbzQ0F0Ln9joWPrt859k2-VEzv1iVAY4Zm9oM/s1600/caeli+and+tag+2-21-2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="662" data-original-width="485" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Ya6pxuthTBjd5iTeLhQazxEK2Aw72_A_XddIwdS9RjazwAack8Ie__OVkCmu0kdl_TBurahHT7hm9DUX3zadqQYJnSiRm6utSV0e09pbzQ0F0Ln9joWPrt859k2-VEzv1iVAY4Zm9oM/s400/caeli+and+tag+2-21-2015.jpg" width="292" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimStYhLr8gL7YEklhQxkFo7D7Ydgk5aGqDc9WkZAlnZNGM0VYY1cxDqkaE5Ad4OqwB9VgHlAkFnxT6yCeFN2xhwI-5NNrdEkXo633ZD0cqEv852RIYHBF12C6hgBrP5Iq3jXQ66PgRrUc/s1600/7-20+tag+and+caeli+portrait-+2016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1053" data-original-width="1600" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimStYhLr8gL7YEklhQxkFo7D7Ydgk5aGqDc9WkZAlnZNGM0VYY1cxDqkaE5Ad4OqwB9VgHlAkFnxT6yCeFN2xhwI-5NNrdEkXo633ZD0cqEv852RIYHBF12C6hgBrP5Iq3jXQ66PgRrUc/s400/7-20+tag+and+caeli+portrait-+2016.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Portrait of Caeli and Tag by Mary Jo White.</b></div>
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His best dog buddy was Caeli, who is now in her teens. For
years, they played and wrestled in the yard and cuddled together on the couch.
We called them the old married couple.</div>
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But, as happens, the years caught up with Tag, and he slowed
both mentally and physically. He went from sleeping on the couch to sleeping on
a dog bed on the floor. He gave up the nightly dog walk, and instead wandered
around the yard.</div>
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One tradition he didn’t give up, though, was sitting on
Randy’s lap. After dinner each night, he’d sit on Randy’s lap, smile and stare
at me.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHt8wCpyq6yFZvpVs0HwdDpw-Hzx_1kcVfgdzn2JdJZGmN7YSkjF53k9x6w-erCjtH7YKieh89oLszJlEUlYStMfNN97FZgDznZ9PAU7eHm1OiiC5rO-Srh-rM3BgsCUcxAruia7z4udI/s1600/xmas+tag+at+fair-2007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="779" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHt8wCpyq6yFZvpVs0HwdDpw-Hzx_1kcVfgdzn2JdJZGmN7YSkjF53k9x6w-erCjtH7YKieh89oLszJlEUlYStMfNN97FZgDznZ9PAU7eHm1OiiC5rO-Srh-rM3BgsCUcxAruia7z4udI/s400/xmas+tag+at+fair-2007.jpg" width="307" /></a></div>
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But in the past few days, that too, was too much. And, the
little guy with the big heart said his time here on earth was done.</div>
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<br /></div>
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That’ll do, Tag. That’ll do.</div>
<br />Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-76163522476249261622020-05-27T10:01:00.001-04:002020-05-27T10:01:58.136-04:00The Cycle of Life: Hen EditionI stopped counting at seven.<br />
<br />
Where was number eight?<br />
<br />
I opened the hen house door, hoping to get a better view. Three Buff Orpingtons, three Buckeyes and one Silver Laced Wyandotte lifted their eyelids. The hens had settled onto the roost for the evening and were slumbering. The other Silver Laced Wyandotte was nowhere to be found.<br />
<br />
Could she be sitting on a nest somewhere? If she was, she'd make an appearance at feeding time in the morning.<br />
<br />
She didn't show up in the morning.<br />
<br />
<i>The fox must be back.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Last summer, a fox killed six of our hens. I wanted to post a sign telling the fox to eat bunnies, but leave the chickens alone. But foxes can't read. Instead, we built the chicken enclosure and surrounded it with electric netting.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9-W-cy23wCtQp29tF87KBzwqEUfiK4m3MSnz7JN2B_fj1rYjBbnNXGMCOCAcSo7reYTA8shvoCM35TIRaC8nRLa4U8_gtV9OFlJdV3pOwC219vYyQiK4r476Ugb6vFfT9-gTy29bp5Yg/s1600/9-9+chicken2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="981" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9-W-cy23wCtQp29tF87KBzwqEUfiK4m3MSnz7JN2B_fj1rYjBbnNXGMCOCAcSo7reYTA8shvoCM35TIRaC8nRLa4U8_gtV9OFlJdV3pOwC219vYyQiK4r476Ugb6vFfT9-gTy29bp5Yg/s400/9-9+chicken2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
After several months, hoping the fox had gone elsewhere, we let the hens out to free range again. For months, the hens have delighted in roaming the sheep and horses pastures, plucking dandelions, worms and bugs.<br />
<br />
We had no losses until a few days ago. After a hen went missing, I confined the others to their fenced-in run and pondered how to outfox the fox.<br />
<br />
A few days later, I found black and white chicken feathers in the horse paddock.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nX9B_Ok89PnMFfw1LLgtR43TUf3AV-Bbl1G9wIRmDPYxP-SYKeJzBqZKc-u5v23HQOFzZTmf-6qN8JhHtblWw8LO9hAEBqWndjgpGYHT6fsvT_-aUa1Lu6YXsGoqOrwaX3nDCoINi1M/s1600/5-27+feathers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1354" data-original-width="1600" height="337" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nX9B_Ok89PnMFfw1LLgtR43TUf3AV-Bbl1G9wIRmDPYxP-SYKeJzBqZKc-u5v23HQOFzZTmf-6qN8JhHtblWw8LO9hAEBqWndjgpGYHT6fsvT_-aUa1Lu6YXsGoqOrwaX3nDCoINi1M/s400/5-27+feathers.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
<i>Maybe it wasn't a fox. Maybe it was a hawk.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Last summer, my friend told me how she saw a hawk swoop into the horse paddock and carry off a pigeon.<br />
<br />
<i>I wish the hawk would take all the pigeons, </i>I thought at the time.<br />
<i><br /></i>
A few years ago, some pigeons escaped from a nearby farm, took up residence in our big barn and multiplied rapidly. Our pigeon eradication program--involving a gun and lots of arm flapping, yelling and running around the lofts was unsuccessful. This spring, we resorted to covering all of the hay and equipment with tarps to protect them from pigeon droppings.<br />
<br />
While standing in the horse paddock, examining the chicken feathers, I realized that the pigeons were gone.<br />
<br />
Had the hawk, upon running out of pigeons, swooped into the paddock, picked up the chicken, eaten it and said, "Hmmm, tastes like squab?"<br />
<br />
Sometimes I think we paint our barns red, install four-board fences and plant flowers to distract from the messiness of farm life and nature. Birds and animals have to eat, and sometimes that means eating other birds and animals.<br />
<br />
Try as I may, I cannot tell the wild animals to leave their claws off of the domestic ones. Nature doesn't work that way.<br />
<br />
So,when I let the hens free range and roam free, I accept that one or more may die. When that happens, I confine them for a month or two, hoping the predator moves on and they can roam free again.<br />
<br />
For now, the hens will remain confined to their small chicken run. In a month or two, I'll let them out, and in the evening, I'll count them. When I stop at six, then the confinement begins again.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUApovqZ3lWCsMFfALNeaHToZvX5NQ3_-cFIB82etXSmIlOoKc9Y6ZW3Iz5okobkQjyN1Q6R8P61cpFwPWEpL2HnCr-GSykADkaO5wTL6xCLpffdYPToVND-iV8XjcaUpDMAZtPw_OGS4/s1600/5-27+hens.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="1600" height="341" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUApovqZ3lWCsMFfALNeaHToZvX5NQ3_-cFIB82etXSmIlOoKc9Y6ZW3Iz5okobkQjyN1Q6R8P61cpFwPWEpL2HnCr-GSykADkaO5wTL6xCLpffdYPToVND-iV8XjcaUpDMAZtPw_OGS4/s400/5-27+hens.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-42001496897809080272020-05-19T09:15:00.000-04:002020-05-19T09:17:29.927-04:00Night Sounds I Don't Want to Hear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhysWGVPq-oXe0qjnoMxsF4xST7wzS3hI3oulnDR9mzR26sbZsl3ED5R9tL4RbOy97VUwPEAexRdhUjfh4kM3TH3p8q_HdavA5fAQYxYyAGwdbKVoyoUFl4bmuN1heRixp0avF3dEl4yAg/s1600/5-19+ram+lamb+and+mom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1181" data-original-width="1600" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhysWGVPq-oXe0qjnoMxsF4xST7wzS3hI3oulnDR9mzR26sbZsl3ED5R9tL4RbOy97VUwPEAexRdhUjfh4kM3TH3p8q_HdavA5fAQYxYyAGwdbKVoyoUFl4bmuN1heRixp0avF3dEl4yAg/s400/5-19+ram+lamb+and+mom.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>This was not the lamb bleating in the night. That would require too much energy for this guy.</b></div>
<br />
Funny how a day after reading about the increased use of melatonin among children, a lamb is keeping me awake.<br />
<br />
It is raining, as it has been for hours, and the windows are cracked open to let in a bit of breeze.<br />
<br />
They're also letting in the sound of a bleating lamb.<br />
<br />
It's not the cry of pain or fear or lonesomeness.<br />
<br />
It's the cry of "I'm awake and I want my mommy."<br />
<br />
Lambs, like children, play hard and sleep hard.<br />
<br />
In the hours before sunset, they engage in lamb races, where the lamb pack runs in circles around the field, hen house or their mothers. After about 20 minutes of this, they fall into a heap, exhausted, and sleep through the night.<br />
<br />
But downpours canceled lamb races last night. Instead of racing, the lambs retreated to the barn. And, at 3 a.m., one is not tired.<br />
<br />
Usually when a lamb bleats, its mother responds. No ewe responds to this lamb, though.<br />
<br />
I'm sure they're doing what parents do everywhere--hiding their heads under the pillows and hoping that someone else will take care of it.<br />
<br />
<br />Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-55814550173716449522020-05-11T09:58:00.002-04:002020-05-11T09:58:38.046-04:00Dog Training during a Pandemic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEges6cLahC8BmIN6v5OxcAoeCZxl66u-DEkJa_vP6t_hkkSK5XIS3JLUlwRAJiObtK_6lZr8laoEsxVFd_8TYy6LDvW_LtXfoqPD57SDMnIy0JaCBbU1_iym9X_TTmIgRXT3G84x8SMplY/s1600/5-10+frost+at+pen.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1112" data-original-width="1600" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEges6cLahC8BmIN6v5OxcAoeCZxl66u-DEkJa_vP6t_hkkSK5XIS3JLUlwRAJiObtK_6lZr8laoEsxVFd_8TYy6LDvW_LtXfoqPD57SDMnIy0JaCBbU1_iym9X_TTmIgRXT3G84x8SMplY/s400/5-10+frost+at+pen.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Frost practices penning over the weekend.</b></div>
<br />
When I receive the Outlook calendar notifications, I'm reminded of where I planned to be this spring: at dog trials in Virginia, Tennessee, Wisconsin, Kentucky and Colorado.<br />
<br />
Instead, I'm at home, training dogs and discovering some truths about myself, my dogs and training.<br />
<br />
<b>1. I like training and working dogs. </b>Some love competition above all else. Others prefer to train. Others just love the farm work. The absence of competition made me realize that while I like the competitions, I also like working my dogs. With no competitions in the near future, I could stay inside when the cold wind blows (which it's been doing a lot this spring), but nearly every day I'm working the dogs. Even when moving the sheep to pastures, I find myself throwing in a little drive or flank work with the dogs.<br />
<br />
<b>2. Dog training has become more thoughtful and less stressful. </b>Instead of reacting to a recent trial or preparing for the next one, I focus on what I, or the dog, need to work on. With my older dog Bubba, I've been playing around with shedding and penning, paying attention to where he is and where I am, and how we can impact the sheep. With my young dog Frost, we continue to work on driving, but throw in other exercises. This past weekend, we worked on penning and started some shedding training. If something's not working, I stop, think about what I can change and try again the next day. She's relaxed and eager to work every day.<br />
<br />
<b>3. More time means the young dog gets more practical farm work.</b> If I have to move or sort sheep, and I'm in a hurry, I use an experienced dog. With more time, I can set up the situation where the young dog is likely to be successful. So Frost has helped move ewes and lambs, drive groups into the barn and other tasks.<br />
<br />
But training in pandemic time has its downsides, too.<br />
<br />
<b>1. Staying at home doesn't put the needed miles on the dog.</b> I still need to get Frosty out to new places where the terrain and the sheep are different.<br />
<br />
<b>2. Clinics or observations from experienced handlers are lacking.</b> I tend to a wishful observer and benefit from professional input. While videoing a session helps, it's not the same as in-person observations.<br />
<br />
<b>3. It can be lonely. </b>Sheepdog training has its highs and lows, and it's always more fun to have people to commiserate with and laugh about it.<br />
<br />
Eventually my Outlook calendar will stop reminding me about canceled events, and eventually the dogs and I will get out and about again. I'm hopeful that we have benefited from pandemic time training.<br />
<br />
<br />Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-44545861762291684382020-04-20T15:03:00.000-04:002020-04-20T15:03:44.054-04:00Why Should the Birds have All the Fun?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_mi2Ywcz6IjiqgExxIuN3pDmPq7268NUwyE4Ah1U3Ao2E9K8iYkYG9eZvxbzYKkqBQkONZqKeDhdQodWizP2twf3hR4OuHdGi110EwZ4tOK0k5oKSxCEShOkbScvXij_ZXVk7ifY5o8U/s1600/4-20+shed.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1177" data-original-width="1600" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_mi2Ywcz6IjiqgExxIuN3pDmPq7268NUwyE4Ah1U3Ao2E9K8iYkYG9eZvxbzYKkqBQkONZqKeDhdQodWizP2twf3hR4OuHdGi110EwZ4tOK0k5oKSxCEShOkbScvXij_ZXVk7ifY5o8U/s400/4-20+shed.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
It's that time of year when fields burst into yellow dandelion blooms and balls of fluffy sheep hair. The sheep are in full shed and rubbing against fences.<br />
<br />
Birds are swooping down and gathering bits of white, tan, red and black fiber for their nests.<br />
<br />
This year, I gathered some for myself and used the sheep hair for container gardening.<br />
<br />
I grow herbs in pots near the back porch. While big pots of herbs look impressive, they can be back-breaking to move.<br />
<br />
When foam packing peanuts were used in packaging, my mother reused them at the bottom of pots. They were lighter than soil and allowed for drainage.<br />
<br />
This year, after seeing a posting on Facebook, I decided to give sheep hair fiber a try.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLkVqW_FJ2Aydoc_7a-vV_d2aNCWPK0tJWircSVDSXntgZWACth-wD0inPY1vyjRrFzlwoDNc0JtLBiOzAZfWLLbhX8GCoSGz5u6axP1PRaR6uSn-JI7vI2skFCU_u_s2MHy4JPwDa74o/s1600/4-19+fiber+in+a+pot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLkVqW_FJ2Aydoc_7a-vV_d2aNCWPK0tJWircSVDSXntgZWACth-wD0inPY1vyjRrFzlwoDNc0JtLBiOzAZfWLLbhX8GCoSGz5u6axP1PRaR6uSn-JI7vI2skFCU_u_s2MHy4JPwDa74o/s400/4-19+fiber+in+a+pot.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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I put it in the bottom of the pots and then poured potting soil on top.<br />
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<br />
Last night, frost was predicted. As I was carrying the pots inside, I thought, "Coats! I should have felted the plants some coats."<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8aav3iIUAP5JLPNOxKcYweMnnqxPPr15JP5ALd-iZcSqTaUJPFY3HL8xNRY47dyByCVAG7vmfksdJMBYtptYKiy9Me8fLIAH8VOm_PTqe7WzSblI6VB-pZ0cURDcOIackcFmpHoIGgAM/s1600/4-19+shedding+yearling.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1249" data-original-width="1600" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8aav3iIUAP5JLPNOxKcYweMnnqxPPr15JP5ALd-iZcSqTaUJPFY3HL8xNRY47dyByCVAG7vmfksdJMBYtptYKiy9Me8fLIAH8VOm_PTqe7WzSblI6VB-pZ0cURDcOIackcFmpHoIGgAM/s400/4-19+shedding+yearling.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Photo of hair sheep in various stages of shedding.</div>
<br />Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7286315837648168126.post-54094018726931846962020-04-13T20:10:00.001-04:002020-04-16T18:59:02.159-04:00Celebrating too Early?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgebozIkSKFKkTRHjPDClpLzwPkvMntBh4gonoemYzI9qYqrv3bPRrUzqqsJgPkc_Jo0wyoUhGqMXcdZXF9YqHGl5PD_5X2kDFJOUwGRP9PaVZ2R7X_d6I6hcj68hYqUhR5FPJwVrNqbCg/s1600/4-13+bald+ewe+and+lambs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1175" data-original-width="1600" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgebozIkSKFKkTRHjPDClpLzwPkvMntBh4gonoemYzI9qYqrv3bPRrUzqqsJgPkc_Jo0wyoUhGqMXcdZXF9YqHGl5PD_5X2kDFJOUwGRP9PaVZ2R7X_d6I6hcj68hYqUhR5FPJwVrNqbCg/s400/4-13+bald+ewe+and+lambs.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I was patting myself on the back for a successful lambing season: 34 lambs in 16 days, a nearly 200 percent lambing rate, two gentle assists, no dead lambs and only one undersized lamb who is determined to catch up.<br />
<br />
Then, as I was moving the ewes and lambs to pasture, I saw it: a ewe with a bald patch on her side.<br />
<br />
My flock are mostly Katahdins with a touch of Dorper. Unlike wool sheep, these hair sheep shed their winter coats in the spring and reveal a short, summer coat. But this ewe wasn't revealing a short coat. She had a bald spot.<br />
<br />
I had 3 choices:<br />
<br />
I could ignore it and hope it magically went away.<br />
<br />
I could take a photo and post it to sheep groups on the internet and receive lots of advice on medications and treatments that may or may not work.<br />
<br />
I could isolate the ewe and her twin lambs and call my vet.<br />
<br />
When you own sheep, you do most of the vet work yourself. A vet call for a ewe is usually about half the price of the ewe. However, if you're worried about a flock issue--and visions of bald sheep were running through my head--then a vet call is worth it.<br />
<br />
I called my vet. While his expertise is horses, he grew up with sheep and is familiar with most diseases, parasites, and other problems that affect sheep.<br />
<br />
He ruled out mites and lice and other parasites. She was a big, healthy ewe who wasn't scratching, depressed or worried one bit about going bald. Hormones? This was her first pregnancy. Bedding? He wasn't sure. But he was almost definite it wasn't a flock problem. So, we dosed her with ivermectin and vitamins.<br />
<br />
To be on the safe side, he recommended isolating her and her ewes from the flock for several weeks. And, unlike humans in this age of Covid-19, she doesn't have to wear a mask.<br />
<br />
<b>Update on 4/16/2020</b>: After posting this, three yearling ewes also showed signs of hair loss. So, I contacted Brady Campbell who leads the sheep team at Ohio State University. I provided him with my vet's report, my hay analysis and a detailed description and history.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">He reported that hair and wool loss in ewes post parturition isn't uncommon due the huge nutritional stresses on the ewe. While I was supplementing the ewes with corn due to the bad hay year, their diets were a little light in protein. So, I'm adding protein to their diets until the pastures come on in the next few weeks. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">And, on another note, a huge shout out to state extension services. They've always been a great resource for sheep, farming, gardening, etc. </span><br />
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<br />Beth Searshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13692435154116903671noreply@blogger.com0