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.

The Things We Do...

For weeks we had our nightly ritual. After dark, I'd step into the horse stall, walk around the two Haflingers, scoop up the hen and carry her to the hen house.

"You are a chicken. You live in the chicken house," I told her.

She ruffled her feathers and returned to the horse stall every morning.

"Fine. Live in the horse stall," I said.

And, then the horse stepped on her and injured her leg.

"A horse stall is no place for an injured chicken," I said, scooping her up and carrying her to the hen house.

She stayed there for two days before she walked one-legged back to the horse stall.

So we compromised.

I put her in a horse stall without a horse, and agreed to bring her food and water every morning and night. She agreed to be waited on and to squawk her disapproval with me daily.

We're week 2 into the agreement and it seems to be working so far.

Sometimes, a Shovel is the Answer

With the dry weather we've had this month, our pastures are browning--but they are thistle free.

For a decade, I've been battling the pants-piercing, skin-stabbing thistle. This is one tough, painful weed, and the horses and sheep want nothing to do with it.

On my drives through the country, I've seen this thistle take over a pasture, and I'm determined not to let it take over ours.

When it first appeared, my first defense was regular mowing. The thistles came back fuller and stronger than ever.

Next, I tried spraying them with a solution of vinegar, water and dish detergent.

Before treatment

After treatment

The thistles returned, and I upped the ante with Round-Up, a chemical I try to avoid using. Again, the thistles wilted, browned, and later returned.

The problem, I realized, was that it was hard to coat the entire plant with the chemicals.

So a few years ago, I changed tactics and got out the shovel.

Every month I walk the 11 acres of pastures and dig up thistles. Last year there were fewer thistles, and this year, the number dwindled again. On my walk this weekend, I only found a dozen thistle plants. Maybe, just maybe, the shovel is the answer.

The Found Horse

While taking our early dawn walk around the farm fields, I saw Tag's white-tipped tail zip away from me.

"Lie down!" I yelled. I didn't want my dog chasing deer.

Then I saw that it wasn't a deer he'd found.

It was a pony, a miniature horse, actually. For the sake of this story, we'll call it a pony.

After rounding up the Border collies, I grabbed a lead rope and went to inspect Tag's find. The pony was naked, so I made a makeshift halter from my lead rope and led the little guy to the extra horse stall in the barn.

Then I called the sheriff's department.

"I found a pony," I told the dispatcher.

"Good for you!" she said.

No one had reported a pony missing. After giving her my name, address and phone number, I went about the morning chores. Surely there would be a message on the answering machine when I finished chores.

There was not.

I took a shower. I ate breakfast.

Still, no phone calls.

The procedure when finding a horse is about the same as when losing a horse -- begin knocking on doors.

Unlike horses, ponies can be tucked into little paddocks and sheds on people's properties and often go unnoticed.

I drove down the road and stopped when I found a place that looked like it could house a pony.

When I knocked on the door, a child answered.

"Do you have a pony?"

"Yes," the child answered.

Looking behind the child, I saw no adult.

"Could you check and see if your pony is here?"

The child returned with news that I expected: his pony was missing.

"Where are your parents?"

"Sleeping."

I told the child to wake one of them and let them know that I had their pony. An hour or so later, they drive up the driveway to retrieve their pony and walk the little guy home.

The Lost Horse

While sitting at the sheepdog trial this past weekend, talk turned to stray chickens.

I was amazed at the number of people who'd had chickens wander onto, or more likely, left on their farms. In my decade-plus of country living, I have neither lost or found a chicken.

Horses, though, are another story. I have both lost one and found one.

Shortly after buying our farm, I bought Scuba. Because we'd just bought the farm, we couldn't afford a horse companion for her. So, a week after she arrived, we bought a goat companion.

Tanner was a fine goat, a Nubian wether, who was quite friendly. His only problem was that he'd been living with billy goats, so he was quite smelly.

Apparently, Scuba didn't find that so endearing.

When I arrived home from work on a chilly Monday evening in early November, there was a note on the back door.

"Your horse was in our bean field and last seen running east."

You would think that a 900-pound grey horse would be easy to find, but it was dusk. Though the crops were harvested, trees, brush and valleys provided hiding spots not visible from the road. A scared horse can cover lots of ground.

After a call to the sheriff's department netted no reports of found horses, the husband and I began our search. We went door-to-door, introducing ourselves to people and asking if they'd seen a big gray horse. They hadn't.

Then he got out his spotlight, drove the country roads, and spotlighted the countryside. That resulted in being stopped by a man in a truck.

"You're not looking for coons, are you?" the stranger asked.

"No," the husband said.

"Looking for a horse?"

Turns out, this stranger had returned home from work and found a grey mare shacked up with his blind Appaloosa gelding. The man lived about two miles from our farm.

Now we had to figure out how to get Scuba home. There was a storm and cold front approaching, and we didn't want to leave her at the stranger's house for the night. Since we'd just bought the farm, we didn't have a trailer or tow vehicle. Because I was young and foolish, I grabbed her saddle and bridle.

So, on that Monday night in November, in the dark, I rode my mare two miles home. The very kind husband (did I mention that he likes football more than horses) drove behind me, hazard lights on.

Where's Trick?

When I pull the wheelbarrow out from under the tarp and find him sleeping there, I wish Trick the Cat was black or white or yellow -- any color other than the browns, tans and blacks of a raccoon or groundhog.

After all these years, you'd think I'd become accustomed to the barn cat showing up almost anywhere. But he still startles me when I find him curled among the feed bags I'm about to move or among the tomato plants I'm about to pick.

By now, I should always assume he'll be in the middle of farm life, wherever that may be.

He often spends the night on the hay and straw bales.

Not only are they soft, warm and dry, but they provide a prime view of the horses and sheep in the barn.

In the dawn's light, he surveys his kingdom.

Telling the chickens and sheep to look at him. And they do because they've been ambushed by him on numerous occasions.

He likes to groom himself atop the fence -- and usually plays a game of chase-my-tail where he wraps himself around the top board.

If I'm working the dogs on sheep, he waits in the tall grass and pounces the Border collie (something I have yet to get on film).

Lunging the horses? No problem, he'll roll near their path. They'll move for him.

Then, he's on to torment the chickens.

A few cockerels notice the intruder, but when Trick doesn't react to them, they go back to eating tomatoes -- which don't challenge them.

 I never know if he likes to torment the chickens or if he is hoping a sparrow will land nearby.

When the sun heats the day, he retreats to the garden where he sleeps among the parsnips....

awaiting a human to torment and rub against.

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.