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.