A Golden Reminder

 Counting chickens is easy these days.

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).

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.

"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.

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. 

When I went in the barn yesterday, only four clucked at me.

A Buff Orpington was missing.

So, I did my walkabout, looking for feathers and wondering what got her.

I found no feathers and found no hen.

Could she possibly be laying an egg?

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.

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?

After feeding the dogs, I went back to the chicken house where the hens were roosting for the night, and counted five chickens.

The chicken house has nesting boxes on both sides.

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.

The Buckeye hen in the nesting box.

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.

Merry Christmas all!

 

 

No heat? Blame it on...

 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.

I've since learned that smaller critters can wreak havoc on everyday life.

This fall, tiny creatures have left me cold.

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.

The culprit?

A mud dauber had built a nest on the fan blade. The weight of the nest threw the blade off balance, causing a racket.

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.

Yet, somehow, this innocent mud dauber had caused the heating woes.

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.

After lighting a fire, smoke began seeping out of the stove and stove pipe and filling the house. Something was seriously wrong.

The culprit?

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. 

A new stovepipe cover with sturdy wiring was installed.

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. 

The Unsung Hero of the Sheep Flock

 

The wether, center, is the decision maker when in with the ram lambs.

Imagine your only purpose in life is being a friend.

That's the role of our wether.

The castrated male sheep moves from pasture to pasture, offering friendship and comfort.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

When we get another breeding ram, then the wether will move in with him.

The wether does this without complaint or protest. Maybe, he realizes that being a friend is not such a bad lot in life.

The Radish Hunt

 

I didn't have a ruler, so I used my foot for scale.

When my 10-year-old nephew was bouncing around, I did what good aunts do: I sent him on a radish hunt.

“Go to the field behind the horse pasture and get two radishes,” I said.

As he darted off, I told him they were white and would be several inches long.

An adult standing around the fire muttered something about a snipe hunt.

 “No,” I said. “They’re real.”

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.

Usually about half the tap root grows above ground and half below ground.

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.

Minutes after racing off to the radish field, my nephew and two nieces returned to the campfire with several radishes.

A field of radishes on a snowy morning.

They were unlike your grocery-store radishes. Instead of red orbs the size of golf balls, they were white, cylindrical roots a foot long.

“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.”

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.

I’m harvesting a few more before the freezing weather sets in and the decomposition begins.

As I was looking for a ruler, Niki, the Radish Thief, hauled off the radish.

Pandemic Chainsawing

 "The battery-powered chainsaw may be the best present you've given me," I say to my husband.

"What about the KitchenAid stand mixer?"

"It's nice, but the chainsaw..." 

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.

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.

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.

Last year, a friend introduced me to a battery-powered chainsaw, and I was intrigued. Lightweight and easy to start, I fell in love.

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.

The emerald ash borer killed the ash trees in the woods a few years ago, so dead trees fall frequently.

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.

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.

I marvel at how how quickly some trees grow, curse the honeysuckle and try to avoid getting stuck by black locust thorns.

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.

Usually I'm also a little sweaty and tired. Cutting brush and especially dragging or moving it is physical work. 

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.

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?"

 

Counting Sheep

Ask me how many horses I have and I answer promptly.

Two.

How many chickens?

Five. (It's been a rough chicken year)

How many cats?

Two indoor and two outdoor.

How many dogs?

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.

How many sheep?

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.

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.

In late March and early April, the sheep population explodes during lambing season, and the number usually climbs to 70-75 sheep.

Then, over the course of the next several months, the numbers drop.

The ewe flock grazing on a November day.

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.

The ram lambs will be with us only for a few more weeks.

The white wether will join the ewe flock.

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.

The Two-Fence Rule

 

The ewe lambs with their two house mothers.

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.

For me, it's strict adherence to the two-fence rule; two fences must separate the groups of sheep.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Two fences and 40 feet may separate the rams lambs from the ewes, but they're still drawn to each other.

In other farm happenings: 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.

Muscle Memory

Seeing the world through golden ears.

When the neighbor girl wanted to learn about horses, I said yes.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But, until recently, I hadn't ridden a horse for two years.

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. 

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.

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.

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. 

Sisters: Not Synonymous with Same

 

Frost and Gael wait their turn.

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.

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.

Frost naturally has square flanks and a tendency to run wide; Gael naturally runs tight and has a tendency to slice her flanks.

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.

Frost is a bossy, alpha female. Gael is submissive to other dogs.

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.

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.

This training strategy may also have another benefit: keeping sibling rivalry at bay.

My No-Mow Garden

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.

This year, though, my garden is almost weed-free.

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.

The garden and the dogs seem to be benefitting from it.

While slow to get started, the pepper plants are now thriving and producing enough peppers for every meal, and then some.

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.

 As always, I planted too much zucchini. As always, my chickens are eating the extras, for now.

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.

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.

Cheyenne Spirit Coneflowers--one of my favorites.

The Big Red Dahlia that a friend gave me is just starting to bloom.

Meanwhile on the farm: 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.

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.

When 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.

But they were kittens really. Just a pound each, and probably six weeks old.

They were also in danger.

I was on my morning dog walk around the pond with two cat-chasing Border collies and one loves-all-things-stinky Border collie.

I got the two cat chasers on leash as the kittens saw me for what I was: human.

They came running toward me.

The dogs strained on their leashes to get to the kittens.

Bad things could happen if they met.

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.

How fast and far must one go to outrun two kittens?

Turns out 100 yards will do it.

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.

Good-Bye Tag (2005-2020)

Tag loved his role as ambassador for Buckeye Border Collie Rescue.

  

We never thought Tag would live into his teens. 

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.

Eight-month-old Tag on his adoption day.

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.

Tag and Dewey Kitty (when Dewey was a kitty).

His talent was cuddling, with cats and humans.

And, he could make the best monkey noises. He’d sit on Randy’s lap, and they’d howl away.

Randy with Tag and Leslie the Cat.

A herding dog, though, he was not.

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.

Tag by the Stillwater River.

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.

Tag,  Caeli and me.

Portrait of Caeli and Tag by Mary Jo White.

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.

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.

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.

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.

That’ll do, Tag. That’ll do.

The Cycle of Life: Hen Edition

I stopped counting at seven.

Where was number eight?

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.

Could she be sitting on a nest somewhere? If she was, she'd make an appearance at feeding time in the morning.

She didn't show up in the morning.

The fox must be back.

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.

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.

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.

A few days later, I found black and white chicken feathers in the horse paddock.

Maybe it wasn't a fox. Maybe it was a hawk.

Last summer, my friend told me how she saw a hawk swoop into the horse paddock and carry off a pigeon.

I wish the hawk would take all the pigeons, I thought at the time.

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.

While standing in the horse paddock, examining the chicken feathers, I realized that the pigeons were gone.

Had the hawk, upon running out of pigeons, swooped into the paddock, picked up the chicken, eaten it and said, "Hmmm, tastes like squab?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

Night Sounds I Don't Want to Hear

This was not the lamb bleating in the night. That would require too much energy for this guy.

Funny how a day after reading about the increased use of melatonin among children, a lamb is keeping me awake.

It is raining, as it has been for hours, and the windows are cracked open to let in a bit of breeze.

They're also letting in the sound of a bleating lamb.

It's not the cry of pain or fear or lonesomeness.

It's the cry of "I'm awake and I want my mommy."

Lambs, like children, play hard and sleep hard.

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.

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.

Usually when a lamb bleats, its mother responds. No ewe responds to this lamb, though.

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.

Dog Training during a Pandemic

Frost practices penning over the weekend.

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.

Instead, I'm at home, training dogs and discovering some truths about myself, my dogs and training.

1. I like training and working dogs. 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.

2. Dog training has become more thoughtful and less stressful. 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.

3. More time means the young dog gets more practical farm work. 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.

But training in pandemic time has its downsides, too.

1. Staying at home doesn't put the needed miles on the dog. I still need to get Frosty out to new places where the terrain and the sheep are different.

2. Clinics or observations from experienced handlers are lacking. 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.

3. It can be lonely. Sheepdog training has its highs and lows, and it's always more fun to have people to commiserate with and laugh about it.

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.

Why Should the Birds have All the Fun?

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.

Birds are swooping down and gathering bits of white, tan, red and black fiber for their nests.

This year, I gathered some for myself and used the sheep hair for container gardening.

I grow herbs in pots near the back porch. While big pots of herbs look impressive, they can be back-breaking to move.

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.

This year, after seeing a posting on Facebook, I decided to give sheep hair fiber a try.

I put it in the bottom of the pots and then poured potting soil on top.

Last night, frost was predicted. As I was carrying the pots inside, I thought, "Coats! I should have felted the plants some coats."

Photo of hair sheep in various stages of shedding.

Celebrating too Early?

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.

Then, as I was moving the ewes and lambs to pasture, I saw it: a ewe with a bald patch on her side.

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.

I had 3 choices:

I could ignore it and hope it magically went away.

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.

I could isolate the ewe and her twin lambs and call my vet.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Update on 4/16/2020: 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.

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. 

And, on another note, a huge shout out to state extension services. They've always been a great resource for sheep, farming, gardening, etc. 

Muskrat Love

It's day 22 of staying at home during the coronavirus pandemic, and I'm researching muskrats.

My mother informed me, with a sense of urgency, that she'd found muskrat activity around the farm pond.

The USDA has a technical service bulletin on muskrats, and offers lots of practical information and fun facts.

Fun fact #1: "The muskrat belongs to the Family Cricetidae in the Order Rodentia."

Fun fact #2: "The name 'muskrat' is derived from a musky yellowish secretion males use to mark territories and attract mates during the breeding season."

Fun fact #3: Male muskrats can weigh 2.5 pounds.

After learning more than I ever wanted to know about muskrats, I decided to inspect the pond area and look for recent muskrat activity. When I inform my husband of my plans, he gives me encouragement by singing "Muskrat Love," that 70's song made famous by Captain and Tennille.

With "Muskrat Love" playing over and over in my head, and two Border collies on leash, and raining falling, I trek the half mile to the pond. With the recent rains, I thought I'd find muskrat tracks in the mud.

While I found no tracks, I found lots of clam shells. Freshwater clams are a delicacy of both raccoons and muskrats.

 But they are not so much a delicacy of humans, at least according to my brother, who tried them once.

I could not determine who was digging up clams and eating them (best guess, not my brother). I found evidence of muskrat dens, but no fresh activity. The muskrat situation, I determined, needed on-going monitoring.

 As for Muskrat Love, I can't get that song out of my head.