The Mind vs. the Tummy

Last year's bad hay crop means adjusting feed for my pregnant ewes.

I've got plenty of first-cutting hay that's just fine for the horses and dry (non-pregnant) ewes. But the pregnant ewes need more calorie-dense food.

In the past, that's been a second-cutting, alfalfa-grass mix. Second-cutting hay was scarce last year, and I only secured about a third of my usual hay supply. Thus, I'm supplementing with corn.

As ruminants, sheep don't do well with sudden changes in feed. So, I'm introducing corn slowly, giving a little more each day so that their guts can adjust over the course of a few weeks.

Their minds didn't take that long.

After the third day, they decided they liked corn and wanted more.

Now, whenever they see me, they baa and baa, demanding more. If I walk into the pasture, they come to me in hopes of getting corn.

"Don't get too used to this," I tell them, eyeing the pastures. When they green up, it'll be bye-bye corn.

Sheep Intelligence

Those who say sheep are stupid have never fed a ewe grain.

For after you offer grain to a ewe once, she remembers you forever.

She will hang back at the paddock after you take hay to the pasture, and she will watch you. She will make her presence known with a demanding bleat or a woeful stare.

Oh, she will never come close enough for you to touch her.

But she will get close enough so you can observe her "bad hair day." Or her sucked in belly.

And you will feed her.

Each day you do, you'll notice more and more ewes and lambs are joining in, and that you're feeding more and more grain.

You will say enough, and after a few weeks, she will stop pestering, but she will always be watching, watching.

The Invader

When I unload the chicken food from my car, I note with irritation that all the bags have rodent chew holes in them.

Next time, I'll have to get out of the car, inspect the bags and load the grain myself.

I'd bought the 50-lb. bags at the local grain drive-thru. Yes, in rural western Ohio, we have a grain drive-thru that operates much like the beer and wine drive-thrus, which we also have. From the comfort of your car or truck, you place your order and watch as an employee loads the grain into your vehicle.

I thought no more of the rodent holes until a few days later when I got into the car and found a chewed Reese's Cup wrapper on the driver's seat. The mouse had also deposited his calling cards.

"Get out the traps. There is a mouse in my car and he likes chocolate!" I emailed my husband who was at work.

When I saw my husband later that evening, I recalled the incident with much hand-shaking and drama.

"I can't believe you'd get upset over a mouse."

In 16 years of living on the farm, I've dealt with a groundhog in the basement, raccoons in the barn, snow in the living room, snow blocking our driveway for days, days without electricity, mice, and, in the early days, rats.

But this mouse is flustering me.

"It's in my car," I say. "It's like finding a mouse in your purse."

I don't carry a purse. I drive a car, stocked with sunscreen, insect repellent, tissues, towels, jackets, rain gear, dog leashes, stock stick, Advil, hand and toe warmers, gloves, tools, water, the occasional snack -- and now, a mouse.

The husband sets a trap. He catches a mouse. He is not convinced there was only one.

Each night, he puts a loaded trap in my car.

Each morning, before opening the car door, I announce my presence. I bang on windows.

I find no more evidence of mouse.

When I get in the car on Saturday morning, snap! I'd forgotten about the mouse trap.

It's going to be some time before I forget about that mouse.