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.

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.

When Optimism Feels Like Work...

It was definitely our prettiest snow of spring--and had it happened in winter, it would have been the prettiest winter snow.

For 12 hours, the wind seemed to stop and allow the snow to fall in big, loose flakes. It clung to gates, fences, tree branches.

And, the spring bird song made the event surreal. How can there be so much bird song in the calm after a snowfall?

The best part about it? It was April 2, when the sun is higher in the sky, and the ground is not frozen, and the temperatures would rise above freezing. So, by afternoon, it would be gone.

I try to enjoy it's loveliness, but instead, I find myself scanning blogs from early April in years past. Was the grass green? How green was it? Surely, the daffodils will bloom, the dandelions will come to life, and spring will be here to stay.

November Sunsets

Dusk does not linger at this time of year,

Not like July,
when a sunset walk takes me around the pastures and hay fields,
allows me to linger at the pond,
and listen to the bullfrogs,
and wonder when darkness will ever come,
so I may fall into bed, tired after soaking up so much sunshine.

Tonight I am in the wheat field, just minutes from home,
taking the dogs on their after-work walk,
and pondering work, chores, holidays, life.
When I look up, the dogs are silhouettes.
By the time I return home,
I'll be lucky to spot white-tipped tails.

The Chicken Wars

Getting chickens to accept a new home is easy.
Just move them to the coop at night.
When they awake, they'll know it's their new home,
and they'll return to roost in the evening.

Unless they don't.

For the past few weeks, I've battled the chicken wars.

We have two chicken coops on the farm. With winter approaching, I thought it best to move them to the larger, more weather-tight hen house. On a moonlit night, I carried each hen to her new home. A few murmured as I placed them on their roosts in the coop, but most dozed through the process.

In the morning, I let the chickens of their new coop, and they foraged, wandered and found the horse and sheep barn to their liking.

That night three returned to the hen house.
Two perched on the horse stall doors.
Seven took up residence in the ram pen.
Five huddled in the horse's stall.
Two nested in the sheep stall.

By moonlight, I moved them to their coop.The following morning, I fed them in the hen house and waited until mid-morning to let them out. That evening, I again found the chickens nesting in the sheep/horse barn.

Maybe I need to make the chicken house more inviting.
Maybe they need more time to acclimate to the coop.

After cleaning out the coop. I spread new wood shavings on the floor, and then gave them an extra bag of shavings for good measure. I left the chickens in the coop for three days. Before letting them out, I closed the doors to the ram stall and the sheep stall.

That night, 13 chickens returned to the chicken coop. Five found the open door to the horse stall. My husband and I gathered the five and returned them to the chicken house.

Last evening, before dusk, my husband closed all the doors to the barn, so the sheep, horses and chickens could not enter.

All hens are now sleeping in the hen house. The sheep and horses are sleeping outside, under the stars.

I am certain the chicken wars are not over.

Those Little Moments

Sometimes when I get home from work, I want to kick off my shoes, open a book and read.

But the meows, barks, neighs, clucks, and baas beckon me.

Then today, while sitting in the barn on the mounting block,
listening to the rain fall on the metal roof outside,
and to Simon and Garfunkel croon about Kodachrome inside,
and petting my twin orphan lambs,
who at 60-plus pounds are no longer little,
but still, very much mine,
and while watching the Good Mom and her two lambs eat grain,
and promising her that when this bag is gone,
she goes back to grass like everyone else,
I found the chores didn't seem so bad.

Standing, I opened the gate and let Good Mom and her lambs rejoin the flock,
and steered, pushed and cajoled the bottle lambs back to the pen.
Then I resumed carrying buckets of water, chicken food and hay,
and smiled as the radio played and the rain fell,
and the Border collies raced outside,
oblivious to those little moments.

You Might Be a Farmer if....

The top shelf of your refrigerator looks like this.

Muck boots are your favorite foot apparel. (Thought I'm getting pretty tired of them. Is winter ever going to end?)

You find your hairdryer in the barn. (Now, both of my hair dryers are in the barn. My small one became a permanent barn resident years ago because it was the perfect size for defrosting the horse waterers. The large one came in handy for drying off a shivering lamb this week.)

Chore Time: What Trick Knows

Whip in hand, I carry flakes of hay to the horses in the snow-covered pasture. On my walk back through the stalls, I check waterers to make sure they haven't frozen. For this part of the winter routine, I must remove my gloves. As I do, the whip, clutched under my arm, waves in the air. Trick the Cat climbs the stall wall so that he can reach the whip tassel. Clutching the tassel in his mouth, he grins. After freeing the whip, I go to my next chore: carrying a bale of hay to the sheep. The young ewes eye me through the slats in the stall door. Trick the Cat reaches up and bats each of their noses with his paw. The sheep gather around and bump me as I carry the hay to the feeders in the pasture. With the cold weather and snow-covered pastures, I'm doing this three times a day now. On the way back from the feeders, I stop in the chicken house to pick up the chicken waterer that is now frozen. In the barn, Trick the Cat is running hot laps. He darts from the sheep stall, down the aisle, and then up onto the hay bales. He rolls twice, then repeats the routine. Although I am seeing a cold, snow-covered winter of endless chores, Trick the Cat knows and feels the approaching spring.

Basic Tools

Temperatures reach 30 degrees, and I grab my light winter gloves for morning chores. I encounter my first obstacle when I attempt to unlatch the pasture gate. The ongoing freezing rain encased it in ice. I pull off my glove and wrap my hand around the latch. Within seconds the ice melts and I'm able to move the latch. As I go the chicken houses, I repeat this process twice more. By the time I finish chores, my right hand is cold. It has nothing to do with the gloves I selected, and everything to do with the choosing body heat over a hair dryer to thaw frozen latches.

Retiring the Gloves

The cold weather reminded me that it’s time to retire the once-white work gloves. The middle finger tip blew out last spring. While I enjoyed the air conditioning this summer, I don’t enjoy it on mornings when temperatures drop into the 30s. But I feel a sadness with letting them go. Those gloves carry the dirt from the garden, the manure from the barns, the sweat from me. Red and green livestock grease pencil marks dot their backsides. When I wear them and see the slits made with the hoof trimmers, I’m reminded of that chore, and the gratitude I felt that I was wearing gloves. Those gloves are bathed in the blood of horses, sheep, dogs, and my own. Their fingers curl just like mine. The new gloves feel stiff, not a part of me. But I wear them on Sunday when I’m moving hay so they can start carrying the story of me and the farm.

Fall Cleaning

When I went to hook the manure spreader to the tractor, I had to wait my turn in the barnyard. The farmer and his helper were moving hay wagons out of the barn for baling later in the day. Another was moving the combine from the just-harvested field. Temperatures hits 70 degrees yesterday, and we were scurrying around to do last-minute tasks before cold weather set in and snow or rain (I'd take either) fell from the sky. I tackled the horse barn and paddock. Before we move hay into the barn, I rake out the old. I also cleaned the aisleways and sheep stall. Then, I headed outside to the paddock. The Haflinger mares are neat. Unless closed in their stalls, they won't poop in them. Instead, they've created four "bathroom areas" on the perimeter of the paddock. I cleaned those up and deposited the deposits into the manure spreader. Once the spreader was filled, my husband spread the old hay and manure onto a harvested field. With daylight and warmth left, I tackled other tasks -- disinfected the horse waterers and sheep tank. Then, clippers in hand, I turned to the horses. Their bridlepaths could use a little tidying before winter set in.

Inspection Day

Today is USDA inspection day.

Because our sheep are enrolled in a voluntary scrapies inspection program, the USDA vet visits our farm annually to check our records and the health of the flock. This means each animal is caught and each ear tag is verified.

This morning, I brought all of the sheep in from pastures and put them into stalls so that the process will go faster.

First, I brought the Five Virgins (the five yearling ewes I've used for dog herding practice) in from the pasture.

Then I had to catch the llama that stays with the the main flock. Because he is a guard animal, he must be removed from the flock before we handle the sheep. I don't want him kicking at or spitting on me when I'm trying to catch sheep.

Llambert the Llama is not fond of being caught. Lucky for me, he is fond of eating and usually eats inside with several lambs. Once confined to a stall, he is easier to catch and halter.

After moving him to a stall, I next worked on the bringing the main flock into the barn. With Caeli, the Border collie, helping, we accomplished that task in a minute or two.

The horses are giving me dirty looks, as they aren't used to having that many sheep in the barn at this time of year.

Pictured are several of the ewes and lambs -- who insist on crowding into one stall instead of spreading out into two stalls.

My Construction Project

I cannot post a photo of my latest project. My husband would be mortified. Significant amounts of baling twine were killed in its construction. Had I been able to find the duct tape, I'm sure I would have used that too. I entered Caeli in a herding trial later this year. Thus, I must practice moving sheep into a pen set up in a field. "I can build a practice pen," I assured the husband. He was concerned that it wouldn't be square, that it wouldn't look nice. I told him it would be in the far pasture, and that the sheep wouldn't critique my construction if there was a dog staring at them.

The Coyotes

The first time I saw a coyote, it was winter. It was hunting in the harvested corn field in the early dawn hours, and at first, I mistook the coyote for Rambles, our Border collie. The coyote hunted like our dog. It pronged and pounced, lithe and graceful. I sometimes go years without seeing the coyotes. Then, sometimes, usually in winter, I'll spot them several times, trotting across the waterway, hunting the hay and corn fields. And, I always marvel at how closely they resemble the Border collie. Not in color, but in size and movement. Maybe that's why I've always had a soft spot for the animals. Or, maybe, I marvel at their ability to adapt to their environment, and to survive. Or, maybe, its that, after all these years, we're still discovering more about this animal that lives among us. Great article in the New York Times about the wiley coyote: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/28/science/28coyotes.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&ref=homepage&src=me

Flying into the Wind

Wind gusts reached 50 mph yesterday and carried dried corn leaves and tree leaves across fields that many farmers were harvesting. Firefighters were busy fighting fires that lapped up acres of dried corn and beans. I, though, was watching the birds trying to take flight. Do birds have "wind days" like people have "snow days?" Do they just decide that traveling isn't worth the bother? At what wind speed do birds just give up and decide not to fly into the wind? And, do adult birds welcome the windy days with glee and take their adolescent offspring out for flying lessons?

The Coyotes Call

The yips drifted through the open bedroom room around 3:45 this morning. Apparently the coyotes were gathering near the river. Soon, the barking dogs joined the chorus. I haven't heard the coyotes since spring. Has it been too hot to howl? Or, have they been satisfied with the feast of corn, field mice and rabbits they glean from the fields? Or, I wondered, as I was walking the dogs among the zillions of stars in the clear, still darkness, were the coyotoes just delighting in a perfect fall night?

Discoveries in the Horse Stall

I don't check the automatic waterer in the sheep stall often. It is at horse level, so the Five Virgins don't use it. Apparently some other critters do. When I peer into it, I see little black tadpoles swimming in the water. How did they get there? As I ponder this, I also wonder what to do with them. Surely they can't get out of the metal bowl.

The County Fair: The Poultry Barn

When we walk into the poultry barn, we see the history of poultry production over the past 100 years. On one side are the white chicken and turkey breeds used in today's factory farms. The birds are designed to grow fast (chickens go from hatched chick to dinner plate in seven weeks) and have feathers that are easy to pluck. When I look at them, I see why some people call poultry dirty and disgusting. To grow that fast, they have to eat a lot and not move much. If they eat a lot, they also have a lot of waste. Feathers that are easy to pluck upon butchering also fall out when the birds are alive. Humans' desire for white meat and cheap food has created some messed-up breeds. We walk past these birds to see the heritage or fancy breeds -- the ones that used to populate most family farms. The birds range from the small, but mighty bantam chickens, to the standard size birds like our Buckeyes, to the larger ones, like the black Jersey Giants. Colors range from white to buff to speckled to reds and blacks. These birds are more alert and active than their modern, white brethren. These birds are why so many fall in love with their backyard flocks. As I look at the Speckled Sussex, the Barred Rocks, the feather-footed breeds, and the Buff Orphingtons, I realize that our Buckeyes, with their reddish-brown feathers and tiny combs, seem plain in comparison. But I like their demeanor, and they do great as free-range birds on the farm. From the chickens, we move to the turkeys. The heritage, or old-style breeds, don't have the big heavy breasts of the white factory farm birds. Their colors range from reds to browns to black, and my favorites -- lilacs and blue slates. I toy with the idea of adding turkeys to the farm. Then we move on to the geese, ducks and guineas.

The County Fair: The Sheep Barn

What struck me about the sheep barn was the empty space. It seems fewer and fewer kids are taking market lambs to the fair. But, that coincides with national trends. Sheep production in the United States peaked in the late 1800s with about 51 million sheep. Now, this country produces about 6 million sheep annually. Blame the drop on synthetic fabrics. Blame it on Americans love of chicken, poultry, ham and beef. In our area, sheep production is quite rare. With our wide open fields, farmers would rather plant corn and soybeans. But there are still some folks who keep sheep. Though, no sheep at the county fair looked like ours. Our Katahdins are smaller than the breeds at the fair. While the market lambs there were in the 120-pound range, our market lambs are about 20 pounds lighter. Our sheep also have intact tails. A few people had sheep they were showing in the breeding class division. Most were the larger sized breeds. A few rams were almost waist-high. "I wouldn't want to wrestle that," I say, noting I'm glad we stuck with the Katahdins.

The County Fair: The Goat Barn

When I first fell in love with goats a quarter of a century ago, the dairy breeds -- LaMancha, Nubian, Alpine, Toggenburg, Saanen and Obehasli -- filled the barns at county fairs. The does, or females, were used for milking and the males, or wethers, were castrated and used as market goats. When I visited the fair this year, the Boer goats took up most of the real estate in the goat barn. The Boer goats, originating in South Africa, are a meat goat known for their fast growth and heavy muscling. They are a favorite of the 4-H kids taking market goat projects. However, it seems like the trade-off for fast growth and meat production is less curiosity, friendliness and playfulness. When walking through the barns, it is still the dairy goats demanding attention from the spectators. The Alpines are climbing the sides of the pens, twisting their heads in the air. The Nubians, still my favorites, are standing on the sides giving me the "pet me" look. My husband and I stop to talk to and watch an acquaintance milking an Alpine, one of 11 that he milks. "This is my best milker," he says. "She produces about 15 pounds a day." I calculate the number in my head. That's almost two gallons. When he finishes with her, he brings out another. "Now, the fair is stressing her," he says as the goat climbs onto the milking stand. "She's not producing much this week." Changes in diet -- they had gone from grass to hay, heat and stress can impact milk production. He says if I want to get back into goats to contact him in the spring. I laugh as my husband and I walk to the sheep barn.