Set Free: The Broken Legged Hen Saga Continues

We had no release party.

But the sun was shining, the snow was melting, and temperatures were climbing into the 30's. Even our fair-weather Wyandottes chickens ventured outside the hen house.

Now in approximately week six of her confinement, the Broken Legged Hen was tired of her 8 by 8-foot stall, and I was tired of feeding her separately from the others.

"Be free," I said, opening her stall door.

Then I left the barn and took the Border collies on their morning dog walk. When I returned, the stall was empty.

From a distance, the Broken Legged Hen looks no different than the other Buckeye hens. Up close, her now-healed broken leg is thicker--and she walks with a limp.

She settled back into her routine of hanging out with the two Haflinger horses. Either she'd forgotten that a horse hoof broke her leg, or she didn't care.

At night, rather than joining the other hens in the hen house, she settled into the corner of the horse stall.

When the horses were fed, she was there to snatch up loose bits of grain.

I've given up arguing with her.

The horse stall is where she wants to be.

And I will let it be.

A Sunny Day in December

Christmas comes every year, but not so sunny days in December.

When those warm days come on a weekend, I say the Christmas stuff can wait.

The horses' ears perked up when I brought the saddle into the barn; and they watched with interest as I left the barn to retrieve a second saddle with a longer girth.

Roxie, the barn cat, joined in the action. Winters get boring for the barn cats who find great amusement in harassing their humans.

After working the horses, I headed to the sheep pasture where Raven and I continue to work on shedding, or splitting, the flock of sheep. No photos were taken because I have yet to master watching the dog, watching the sheep and taking a photo.

Then it was off to the garden, where I cleaned up the asparagus bed--and marveled at the weeds that never give up. The garden's fall chores aren't quite done, but I still have another week until winter officially begins.

And I studied the radish cover crop that I planted in the garden in late spring. Some of the radishes are rotting--and some may still be growing. I have yet to decide if this was a success or not.

Before the sun sets, I'll take the Border collies on a walk through a few fields that we seldom walk. Then I'll turn my thoughts toward Christmas gifts--and wonder if others consider a sunny day in December a fine gift indeed.

That Sweet Spot

Walking into the barnyard in the morning light, I hear bleating--softer and higher pitched than the demanding ewes.

Lambs! Four of them, scattered around the barnyard.

But that can't be, I argued with myself.

October, September, August, July, June...

Counting the months backwards finally rouses me awake. But it took me a few more minutes to settle from the nightmare.

I love lambing season--but I also am reveling in these carefree November days.

We are in that sweet spot of the year when our livestock numbers are down--and I'm carrying very little hay and water.

The lambs went to market last month, and we sold the two rams earlier this month. No longer do we deliver water to the lamb pasture, the breeding ewe pasture, the ram pen, the dry ewe pasture.

The 15 remaining ewes and the llama all hang out together. With pasture still available and a warmer-than-usual fall, that means I deliver one five-gallon bucket of water to the sheep daily.

The winter flock. No, the one playing the wheelbarrow game is not a ram; she's a ewe. I checked--multiple times.

The horses, too, are able to graze the pasture at night. During the day, they receive only one flake of hay each.

Earlier this fall, we sent the young roosters to the butcher and merged the young chicken flock with the old chicken flock. We're only delivering food and water to one group.

That means chores take 15 minutes, morning and night. And most of that time is spent playing with the barn kitty.

These carefree days will end soon, when freezing temperatures arrive and I become the ice breaker. Eventually pastures will be grazed down and I'll become the hay hauler. And the 15 minutes will become 20, then 25 and 30.

For now, though, I'll enjoy it--and try to avoid those sheep dreams.

The Pony Doesn't Forget

Cobwebs hang from the dust-covered bridle.

It's been months since I've ridden.

But last weekend, the weather was cool, the grass was mowed, the garden weeded, and no sheepdog activities scheduled. So I decided to ride.

While the tack may have gathered dust, Lily, my Haflinger, has not.

For several years, I worked her consistently, and those routines and habits became ingrained.

So even though she's been a pasture pony for the past few years, she knew what to do when I pulled that bridle from its peg. She opened her mouth and accepted the bit (and a treat). When I walked her to the mounting block, she stood while I mounted (and turned her head for a treat); then we ambled toward the five-acre pasture for a short ride.

Those days and weeks and months of not riding disappeared with every step.

For, though we may not be in the riding shape we once were, neither pony nor I forget. The routine comes back.

And, after 10 minutes, when she starts lugging toward the fence, I am reminded that her quirks are still present.

Lily never likes to poo on a potential dinner plate. While riding, she always tried to aim for a corner, a fence row, a muck bucket.

So, for our ride, like so many rides in the past, we must sidle up to the fence row so that she can relieve herself.