My Bit of Earth

Thirteen Going on a Hundred

Ms. Porter House (pictured here in her puppy days) celebrates her thirteenth birthday today.  By the traditional 1 year=7 dog years formula, that makes her a very respectable 91 years old. 

The Fair

Going to the fair--as we did last week--always gives me about ten thousand ideas.  

Like, would the chickens like it if a giant bunny came to live with them?  Could we find a really small, quiet goat to live in our backyard?  Should I enter some knitting next year?

And will our loofah gourds really get this big?  Our plants are looking gorgeous, which is no small feat given the temperatures these past few weeks, but we don't have any gourds starting yet.  I have my heart set on having homegrown loofahs to give away for Christmas, so I hope they pick up the pace soon.

Egg Watch 2010

As of last Monday, the ducks are 14 weeks old.  A week from next Monday, the chicks will be 20 weeks old.  From my research, those are absolutely the earliest ages at which we can expect them to start laying eggs. 

With the heat the way it has been, I don't actually think they'll be laying for a bit yet still.  I don't think they'll be doing much of anything besides hugging the blocks of ice we leave out for them or (in the ducks' case) floating in the pool.  However, it pays to be prepared, so this weekend Sweet Husband installed three little nest boxes in their coop.

In the next few days, I want to get wooden eggs to put in the nests (supposedly that helps them get the idea), and then...we wait.

A Tough Game of Fetch

"Honey, why is there blood all over the porch?" said Sweet Husband, in greeting this evening.

"Huh?"  I looked up from my book.  "Oh that's not blood that just...wow, that is blood, isn't it?"

I'm working on teaching Moe to play fetch with less activity on my part.  Yes, it's lazy, but--as he gets to play more fetch when I can sit on the porch reading a book with a fan blowing while we do it--he doesn't seem to care.  The rule is that in order for the ball to get re-thrown, Moe must put it in my hand (not on the floor or my lap) with no tugging when I try to take it from him.  When played thusly, I can keep up a rousing game of fetch without looking up from my book.

We were doing just that when Sweet Husband came home and noticed the blood.  An inspection revealed that Moe had torn his pad just a bit in his (removed) dew claw area.  And did he whine or do anything to let me know he was in pain?  Of course not!  That might have ended the fetch game, after all!

He was quite disgruntled as we bandaged him up, but I explained that, tough as he may be about pain, I couldn't allow him to bleed on the house anymore.

 

Moe Speaks: Fierce Chicken Protector

Went outside tonight to do my nightly P&P (that's pee and patrol), when I noticed something wasn't right in the chicken coop.  Although I would very much like to have the chickens for dinner myself, you can bet your last squeaky toy that I'm not going to let anything else eat them.  Mom's awfully fond of them, and, they're sort of becoming family...in the way that creatures can be family when you'd gladly have them poached with gravy...but, anyway, the point is no other critters are going to hurt them--not on my watch!

But just as I was getting into some good, scary barking at the young upstart that was trying to get my chicks, Mom came outside fit to be tied.  Something about "neighbors" and it being late and "damned crazy terrier".  After the third "inside" command, I figured I'd better do as I was told, chicks to protect or not.  I went in, and, without even a word of thanks, Mom roughly wiped off the mud from my paws, scolding me the whole time.

And then, the lightbulb went off in her head.  (Aside: If you're going to successfully train a human you have to always be watching for those lightbulb moments--the times when they all of a sudden "get it".)  Her face screwed up in a funny smile, she grabbed a flashlight, and walked back out to the coop.

Sure enough, she found that this ferocious beastie had already breached the outer run perimeter and was attempting to crawl into the coop with the ladies.  Two seconds alone with him and I could have finished him off forever, but Mom insisted that he was just a baby who didn't know any better.  Because by that time she was loving-me-up-to-the-skies for my heroic deed, I was feeling gracious and let the culprit live.

The Verdict

Although, again, it's not 100% until eggs are laid (or not) every person to comment on my "Is this a rooster?" post on Backyard Chickens agreed....Norah is a rooster.

It's an easy enough mistake to make with chickens, but my family actually has a long history of mistakes in sexing critters.  The most recent and infamous story involves a little grey kitten, who has now had--count 'em--four names.

The kitten arrived at my house when I was in college, via my Nice Roommate's Mom who found him in a grocery store parking lot.  We happened to be all full up on pets, but my Nice Mom had mentioned getting a kitty for Sweet Sister, so the supposedly female cat was taken to their house and named Darla.

Upon being taken to the vet for her spay, it became clear that the cat was male.  Nice Brother then started calling the cat Darwin.  (Darla to Darwin--easy to see how you get there, yes?)  Sweet Sister did not like the name Darwin, however, and declared the cat's name would be Frodo.  Nice Mom and I tried to please them both, and called him Frodo-Darwin, which was very awkward indeed.

Frodo-Darwin was not long for my family though.  The other cats in the neighborhood were continually beating on him, and he was not amenable to becoming a completely indoor cat.  For his own safety and peace of mind, Frodo-Darwin was relocated to Nice In-Laws' house in the country, where he was dubbed "Cat", and lives happily still.

Which brings us back to Norah.

I have a lead on a pet home for him, and if that doesn't work out, Nice Farmer/Lawyer guy said I can bring him out for butchering day at his house.  Either way, I want to wait a bit just to be super-duper-extra sure.

And in the meantime, it's been hard to think of what to call him.  I'm thinking "Norbert", although I did toy with "Stewie" for a few hours.  (Yes, it's supposed to be punny.)  Or maybe we'll just keep calling him Norah--"Boy Named Sue" and all that--because it's hard to change it up at this point.

In any event, I'm really grateful that I started with five chickens.  I questioned the wisdom of it when I was ordering them, but now that we're going to be short two, it seems I picked the right number.

Although, as long as the duckies pull their weight we should still be swimming in eggs soon enough!

 

Freeloaders!

We fed them a good holiday meal.  We did not chase them off, even when they started to get a little creepy....

And this is how they repay us!  By shacking up and (we think) getting knocked up in our attic.

 

Based on their behavior as I was watching them this afternoon, Mama Squirrel is hanging out with the wee ones while Papa Squirrel brings her dinner.  They will have to be evicted soon, of course, but we certainly don't want the babies to die, particularly in our attic.  So, no foreclosure for a few weeks at least.

I Bought a Cow--Who Wants To Make Cheese With Me?

Last weekend, Sweet Husband and I bought a cow, a herd of cows in fact.  Three of 'em.  Didn't catch all of their names, but the leader of the pack is named "Black Cherry" and she makes the tastiest milk.

OK--don't freak out Mom--we didn't really buy a herd of cows to bring home, we bought a share in the herd.  Why would we do that?  For milk.  Specifically raw milk.

It's a funny legal issue actually, but in many states farmers are not allowed to sell raw milk.  There are some good reasons behind this--you certainly wouldn't want to buy raw milk from just anyone, as cleanliness is obviously a must--however, during the pasteurization process lots of good bugs and vitamins are killed along with any bad ones that might be present.  Essentially, it's a balancing act between health and safety.  There are risks--and you should definitely do your own research before making a decision--but my conclusion has been that if I could find a farmer I felt I could trust to run a clean ship, the benefits of buying raw milk would outweigh the risks.

In Kansas, you can buy raw milk, but only if you either go to the farm that sells it (possibly inconvenient) or own the animal producing it yourself.

Which is why I now own a share in a herd of dairy cows.

 

We bought our share from the lovely Amy of Amy's Meats.  The initial share cost was $30.  We then pay $16 a month room and board for our cows, and get a half-gallon of milk a week--about the going local price for organic milk.  And it is awesome!  I'm not actually a big milk drinker even, but you really can tell the difference.  It's almost as drastic as homegrown summer tomatoes vs. the mealy winter store-bought version.

So now we've got milk.  And with it I'm going to start a new project--some hardcore cheese-making.

I'm thinking of using Home Cheese Making as a guide and doing, I don't know...two cheeses a month?  Anyone interested in joining me to make it a group project?

A Wee Lady Goes to Rest

 

Fiona the Chick died sometime last night.  Somehow, knowing it was coming didn't make it easier.

As many wise people have said, some little guys just don't make it--that's the way nature goes.  And we probably kept her alive for far longer than she would have been with a hen for a mom.  In fact, I was questioning myself for it at a certain point, wondering if it might not be kinder to end her suffering--wondering if maybe coaxing her to eat and drink was more for me.

But, in the end, I decided she had the right to try to live, and I was going to do my best to help her.  

And in retrospect, I don't know what I would have done differently.  I think she would have done better in a brooder by herself without the bigger chickens, but she didn't want to be alone...and the big girls weren't actively picking on her, it was just that she stayed chick-sized and they've grown-up.  It was actually getting to the point where I was going to have to separate them no matter what--the big girls are getting their feathers and needing less heat--so maybe little Miss Fi picked the right time to make her exit.

And, as is the way with humans when a beloved animal dies, I promise myself that I won't let myself get so attached next time.  But it's a promise I look forward to breaking.

Have I Told You About the Urban Goat Yet?

A co-worker (we shall call him Nice Farmer/Lawyer Guy) came into my office the other day and was talking about getting his Adorable Daughters a few baby goats.  He's in the country where that's totally legal and feasible, and--although I love being in walking distance to all the wonders of town--I have to admit I had a little pang of jealousy.

His girlies are just about the same age I was when I got my first goats.  They were two nanny (a.k.a. girl) pygmy goats, named Rebecca and Lucy because they were my favorite names at the time.  (You know, the way you have "favorite names" when you're seven.)  A few years later, we started breeding them each year to have babies.  Of course, that involved getting a billy (a.k.a. boy) goat, named Billy, because, well, I didn't care about stupid boy names.

Billy was ornery beyond all belief, and had the horns to match.  I always thought he was a bit of a demon in goat form, but I was happy to put up with him if it meant wee goatie babies every year.

And babies we had!  For about a month each Spring I practically lived in the barn.  Nice Mom had to force me to come in for meals.  

'Becca and Lucy had no problem with me helping with their mothering duties, nor did Elizabeth or Noel, the two extra goats that we added to the herd a few years later.  Of course, the babies had to be sold when they were a few months old, but I never remember being fussed about that because, for all I knew at the time, they were usually going to pet homes.  (And, no, we're not talking about the fact that I may have been occasionally misled on that particular fact!)

I would have loved to have seen a few of them as grown-ups--particularly one of our first little boys, who was completely inappropriately named "Bruiser".  (My little brother's idea of a good goat name.)  He was actually sold to a petting zoo, and thanks to the fact that I was his secondary mother, he was probably trying to crawl into children's laps even when he weighed 75 pounds.

But now I've gotten sidetracked....back to the urban goat.

During my junior year of high school, my family moved into town--a small house with a little fenced yard.  By that time, our herd of goats had mostly died or been redistributed, but Rebecca was still around.  No one in the family could stand to part with her after so long, so we decided to try to bring her with us.  It was totally illegal, of course, but it was a small town and we hoped she might be able to avoid notice of the authorities, which she did.  

'Becca lived in town with us for...oh, at least another fix or six years, before she finally died of old age.  And, far from complaining, our in-town neighbors adored her.  She was quieter than everyone else's dogs, kept the lawn mowed, ate extra kitchen scraps, and entertained the neighborhood kids to no end.

Even setting the legalities aside, I wouldn't want an urban goat today (I like my garden, for one, I like my husband for another), however if we ever decide a house in the country beats the amenities of living in town, a few baby goats will be the first new pets on my list.  I may even have to name them Rebecca and Lucy, just for old times' sake.  

And for now, Nice Farmer/Lawyer Guy has promised I can visit.

Dogs, Outtakes

Moe: Throw it, throw it, throw it!!!!!

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Moe: May I help you?

Porter: The grooming is great, but the laying on top of me?  Not so much.

My Dogs Think I'm a Horrible Mother

If my dogs could speak English...well, hell, actually they're getting the message across just fine in Dog-lish--I'm a horrible dog-mommy who tortures them and doesn't let them have any fun.

Exhibit A:  Setting, my back yard.  We're outside, so Moe thinks it's time to throw the ball.  I am often willing to oblige, however, not when I'm doing yard work.  On such occasions, he throws the ball at my feet and then barks (ice-pick-terrier-bark).  I do not like being barked at so I become even more unwilling to throw the ball.  The wheels in his little brain start spinning--"I'll teach her to ignore me!"--and, if possible, even louder barking ensues.  The other night even Porter got sick of it, body-slamming Moe, stealing his toy, and trying to bury it in the corner of the yard just to stop the awful noise.

Exhibit B:  Setting, bedtime.  I stand at the top of the stairs and plead with Porter to try to make it up the stairs on her own.  

"Bella...pretty, pretty princess Bella-bean...Porter-bella...come on sweet pea, let's go to bed...c'mon, c'mon, c'mon...."  

She stands at the bottom of the stairs.  I go downstairs to carry her up, and she retreats to the couch, giving me the dirtiest of looks.  She knows what's coming next--I scoop up all fifty pounds of her, huff and puff up the stairs, and gingerly set her down at the top.  Without so much as a "aww, thanks Mom", she turns tail and heads for her bed.

The thing is, I'd be more than willing to let her sleep downstairs, but then she whines because she's all alone.  The answer--in her mind, at least--is that we all should abandon the second floor of our house and sleep downstairs with her.  Of course, in that scenario, Sweet Husband, Moe, and I would be sleeping on the floor.  We couldn't possibly impose on the princess by sleeping on her couch, now could we?

Exhibit C:  Setting, my bedroom, 4 a.m.  Moe has been sleeping in his basket very well.  So well, in fact, that I've started to notice and wake-up in the middle of the night when he tries to sneak into bed.  This results in a (usually gentle) kick to get him back on the floor.  Only he's started anticipating the kick.  So now, instead of actually trying to get onto the bed, he paces the floor next to the bed and whines.  And whines.  And whines.  

Yes, even half-asleep, this breaks my heart a little.  Yes, I know I'm a horrible dog-mommy.  But, as I'm sure I'll repeat to a kiddo someday, I tell Moe and Porter, "There are starving dogs in Africa.  Compared to them, you guys have it pretty good--regular meals, a warm bed, toys.  Suck it up, guys!"

This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things

Sweet Husband and Best Man Friend lived together for a year in college.  Now that all parties concerned are grown-ups living in lovely, code compliant homes, the college house has become the stuff of legend.

It was, to put it bluntly, a shit hole.  

You could see into the basement through a crack in the shower floor.  And you had to go into the basement to turn on the hot water heater each morning before showering.  The toilet moved a full two inches to one side if you sat on it too rapidly....and that was just the bathroom!

Because the house was so dilapidated, the boys were not necessarily terribly concerned with keeping it in pristine condition.  At one point during the year, someone brought a pellet gun into the house (the kind that shoots little plastic bb's).  One night Sweet Husband took aim at a clock on the wall and shot at it until the plastic front broke.  When Best Man Friend came home and saw the mangled clock, he exclaimed in mock horror, "THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS!"

This story came forcefully to mind for me last Friday evening.  I came home from work and let the dogs outside.  After reading the mail, I stepped out myself to throw the ball for Moe a few times and quickly noticed....

 

....yes, that is a very muddy paw.  And the rest of him?  Not much better.  And his sister?  Basically same condition.

I quickly opened the door to allow only Moe inside.  After all of two seconds trying to clean him up with a dish of hot water and an old towel, I realized the job was way beyond that, bundled Moe up like a baby in the towel, and hauled him upstairs to the shower.

But then Porterhouse, abandoned outside, started barking to be let in.  I threatened Moe, "If you get out of this shower while I'm gone...." and ran downstairs to start on Porter.

Being a little higher off the ground than Moses, Porter's mud was mostly on her paws, and--at any rate--I decided trying to get all fifty pounds of her upstairs to the bathroom would do more harm than good.  I washed her off as well as I could with the aforementioned towel and dish of hot water.  

But then I had to go upstairs to keep Moe from drowning, leaving a damp and still-a-little-dirty Porter to her own devices.  (Important note: Porter's favorite place to lay is our still fairly new couch.)  I threatened Porter, "If you get on that couch while I'm gone...."

Upstairs, meanwhile, Moe was still in the shower.  I turned off the water and got him mostly dried off before he decided he had better things to do and slipped away from me.  I quickly followed him downstairs where--can you guess where this is headed?--both dogs were staring at me placidly from atop the couch.

THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS!

We're Being Watched

 
Remember how I said we like to watch the squirrels that live in our backyard?

Well, the other day as we were making lunch, Sweet Husband looked out the kitchen window and realized that they are watching us too....(insert scary movie theme)....Dun-dun-DUN!

If you don't hear from us in the next 24 hours, send nuts for ransom!

A Birthday Bath

Moe is five today.  Can it be possible that this little punked-out puppy has really been with us that long?

 Life changing, I tell you, life changing! 

For the birthday boy's big day, we took him to the Pawsh Wash for a little spa day.  

Lest you think that sounds like birthday torture, remember, Moe's favorite thing in the world is a garden hose.

I think he could sit and watch the water run for hours on end if we would let him.

And when it's followed by a cookie--well now, that is a birthday treat indeed! 

Because You Can Only Hunker Down Inside for So Long

More snow tonight.  More tucking in on the couch, under the covers.  

Except this afternoon--home from work early because of the roads again, don't hate me--I just couldn't stay inside anymore.  It was too early to make dinner.  I had already knitted a lot.  I didn't want to watch a movie.

Sweet Husband and the dogs agreed.  Snow or no snow, it was time to get outside.

So we bundled ourselves up--man, woman, and beasts--and trudged down to a nearby park and back.  Surprisingly, I was warmer when we got home than I was when we left.  And we stumbled on about five tiny squirrels looking for dinner and watched them scurry up a tree, so it was a worthwhile walk for the pups as well.

Support Welshies and Win a Quilt

So long ago that even I had to look up when it was, I made a Welsh Terrier quilt square...

...which eventually ended up in this beautiful Welsh Terrier quilt...

...and now the quilt is up for grabs!  

You can buy a raffle ticket here for $5 or 6 for $25.  The winner will be drawn at the Montgomery County Kennel Club Show, which I believe is held in October, so there's plenty of time to get your tickets.

All the proceeds will benefit Welsh Terrier Rescue, an amazing, all-volunteer group that helps Welshies in need across the country.  (Seriously, check out their website--if the "after" stories don't make you tear up a little, nothing will.)  

What are you waiting for?  Go get some tickets!

Bath, Interrupted

So, I come home after work tonight.  It's really cold outside--and, of course, Sweet Husband is working late until the holiday, so I have the house to myself--and I decide to take a hot bath.

I get out the yummy smelling soap and light some candles and am just getting all settled in, when there's a scratch at the door.  And then the scratch turns into a whine.  Not a "let-me-the-hell-in-right-now" whine, but a soft, pleading, "you're-gone-all-day-and-I-miss-you-soooo-much" sad, guilt-trip-y sort of thing.  So I stand up, curse a little at the cold, and let Moe in the bathroom.

And then there was a terrier in my tub.

It Was a Lovely Morning....Until

Sunday morning at Rock Eddy I woke up just as the sky was barely starting to get light.  Sweet Husband and the dogs were awake too, so we decided to walk up to the top of the hill to watch the sunrise.

It was perfect, as you can see....

As I was standing watching the mist over the river--all blissed out by the smell of the leaves and the cool air and the wonderfulness of it all--Sweet Husband said, "Um, I think Moe is gone."

Moe had really been good most of the weekend--and at Rock Eddy there's not much to get into as far as bothering other people or dogs--so we had been letting him run loose.  But sometime during our walk he smelled good smells or a little bunny caught his eye or something.  He was gone.

An hour later we had packed up the cabin and had a little breakfast...still no Moe.  So Sweet Husband walked up to the owner's house where Nice Kathy got out their little all-terrain cart and they set out to ask the neighbors if anyone had seen him.  Meanwhile, I walked through the woods near where we had last seen him, calling out, "Moe-moe...Moe-y...Moe...."

I won't pretend I wasn't just about to flop down in the leaves and cry.  I love that little dog far more than is wise for a creature that's so hard to keep out of trouble, and my mind was racing with all the horrible things that could have happened to him or might happen to him if we didn't find him.  I had visions of him going to ground and getting stuck or getting eaten by coyotes or starving to death....

But then I heard his tags rattle through the trees--oh what a good sound!  He was still off on his little lark, of course, so asking him to "come" was just silliness, but nonetheless I wasn't going to loose sight of him.  I ran through the woods, stumbling over rocks and making my calves ache and my side split going up and down the hills--in terms of gracefulness, think the exact opposite of Daniel Day Lewis in Last of the Mohicans.  

After about fifteen minutes of following him, I got close enough to give the most intimidating "STAY" command I could muster.  Whether he was actually paying attention or just getting tired I'll never know, but he "stayed" right where he was as I walked up, snapped a leash to his collar, and promptly plopped onto the nearest rock to catch my breath.

Sweet Husband and Nice Kathy came along just as I made it up to the road.  Apparently, Nice Kathy said they have a "city dog" run off a few times a year.  One even got away for a whole weekend once.  Its owners had to leave on Sunday night, but on Monday morning the dog showed up.  The poor husband had to make an eight hour drive back to pick up the dog.

It's probably not very nice, but it always does make me feel good to know there are dogs out there more naughty than mine.  As a more charitable thought though, as misbehaved as he is, I'm awfully glad my bad boy made it home with us.

Happy Howl-O-Ween!

Meryl: See, I picked a devil costume this year because Moe is a devil inside and now a devil outside too--get it?

Porter: LMAOROTFL!

Sweet Husband: Moe-Moe, I'm glad your...manly parts...have already been removed....

Moe: If y'all don't throw my squeaky toy for me at least a hundred times after this, I'm going to poop on you in your sleep.....

Porter: Still LMAOROTFL!

Meryl: Oh hush you three!  Happy Howl-O-Ween everybody!