FOWL PLAY!

Cody, one of the hatchling keets died on Wednesday.  It came as a big shock for all.  He was one of our favorites.  He was our “Ugly Duckling”.  Out of seven keets, there were 6 “pearl grey” type.  This is one of the more common breeds, and they are actually a spotty/stripey brownish bird.  Cody was a Coral Blue.  He looked like another bird entirely.  About 1/2 the size of Cheeko(the biggest), he was downy soft with a pale blue-silver color.  He was a bit more timid and cautious.  Even though 2 of the birds were much weaker when they were born, they quickly grew strong and outsized little Cody.   They would race around like crazy keystone cops, crashing into each other and pig-piling when they were worn out.  He was running around like the little brother, not quite in the same league but trying to keep up.  I don’t even have any good photos of him.  This is the best, and you can barely make him out in the pile.  He’s the soft fluffy fellow, second from the top in the bed (the “bed” is a sock filled with rice.  I warm it for them and they like to snuggle it when they’re sleepy).  We’re not sure what happened.  My Grumpy suspects “fowl play”.  In the rough housing kind of way.  I’m afraid he may be correct.  I don’t think they meant any harm, but those little guys are oblivious when they play.  They routinely run over each other.  It may just have been too much for Cody.  The kids said, in hindsight, that we should have separated him from the others.  I disagree.  These birds are amazingly family oriented.  One bird won’t survive on his own, and certainly not a smaller, frailer bird.  They need to become a family.  I only wish he could have been part of this one.

So now we have 6 little crazy creatures.  They are a little high strung.  We’re trying to get them used to us.  Which is kind of funny since we are the first contact they had with the outside-the-shell world.  You’d think they were teenagers in their hurry to forget who hatched them!  They are already trying to flap their wings and fly.  They are built like weebles, with big pudgy butts and tiny little wings.  In spite of that, they do manage to get a little lift off, even if it’s only for a nanosecond.                                                 We had them out of their box today so we could give it a clean out.  The box needed it, and I think the kids needed to play with the “big bullies” a bit.  It’s time to remember that they are really still babies, not Cody killers.  Those babies were running all over the bathroom.  They were searching the corners and cracks, already instinctively looking for bugs.  One of them lucked out and found a tiny spider.  Either I need to spend more time cleaning or let them spend more time out of their box :-)

It’s been an amazing experience already, and one that I’d gladly do again.  The kids are really into this now.  They are looking forward to a time when they can hatch themselves some Guineas, and chickens as well.  Possibly ducks.  In the meantime,  they’ve learned.  Not just the facts that Avery seems to have at her fingertips about all things guinea related.  They’ve learned about responsibility, the precarious nature of life and that sometimes things occur that “can’t possibly happen”.

Was Chickens, then Border Collies, now MiniMoos

Perhaps it’s the stress that makes me this way.  Life gets crazy, and my mind drifts to thoughts of peaceful farms with chickens roaming under the watchful eye of a rooster or two (they think they’re in charge).  In this little vignette is a pair of Border Collies  (who really are in charge). Then I picture goats. 

I never really thought of goats in my  perfect dream world before.  Lately, though, they seem to belong.  What do you do with goats?  I know you can milk them.  People say that the milk tastes just like cows milk.  No offense, but this kind of reminds me of how people say that frog/snake/rats taste just like chicken (have you also noticed that people say “no offense” just before they say offensive things?).  Goat milk is naturally homogenized.  You don’t get the cream separating, it’s all whole milk all the time.  No cream.  No butter.  No ice cream (could you even eat goat ice cream?).  .

Anyway, this is something to consider before becoming a goat herder.  Then I thought “Maybe we should have a cow”.  I thought this.  Even though, at this time, we are renting a lovely old Victorian home in downtown Mayberry.  I do like to think ahead.  I’d love to have a Jersey cow.  We get Jersey milk now.  The milk is so rich; even after we take off the cream (we make butter with it), the remaining milk tastes like whole milk.  Or maybe 3%.  Which probably is whole. Then I found out that one cow, even by conservative measures, would yield multiple gallons of milk.  Every day.  I’d need multiple acres of pasture for her.  And what if she were lonely? Ugh!  I’d pretty much put the idea of a cow on the back burner. 

Then I got an email.  From my sister in law Theresa.  I think she’s my favorite relative.  You know what she sent?  A link (***).  To a story about miniature cows.  No kidding.  They come in all sizes.  They even have mini Jerseys.  How cute are they???  So now I’m rethinking my dream home/farm.  I think I need one of these.  They give about 1/2 gallon a day.  They need at least 1/2 an acre of good grazing land.  That’s like a backyard here in Mayberry.  Maybe I should get two.  Or a minimoo plus a goat.  I’m soooo excited!  A goat and a minimoo.  We could have milk, and cream, and butter, and ice cream .  And mozzarella. And feta.  OMG- I think I just named them!  Ella and Feta.  I think this calls for coffee!

***http://www.motherearthnews.com/Sustainable-Farming/Small-Breed-Milk-Cows.aspx

From chickens to Border Collies

My longing for chickens is probably something a psychiatrist would find suspicious.  In my mind, a home with fat chickens roaming freely must be a peaceful happy place.   That was probably imprinted in my DNA, as it’s just always been there.

My love of Border Collies, however began in 1995.  That was when Babe was released. I loved that movie.  Babe, the pig, was adorable, but he wasn’t my favorite.  It was Fly.  That mama dog was so wonderful.  She was kind and gentle with her pups, welcomed Babe when he was sad, tried to buffer the effects of her snarly spouse Rex and worked full time as a herder.  What a beauty too!  She is my canine ideal.  How is it I’ve never had one?  When we went looking for a dog, my son wanted a Lab.  A good dog she was, but she was no Fly.  Now we have mutt boys- those “designer dogs” that are non-shedders crossed to create a hyphenated pseudo breed.  My sister in law has a border collie.  Technically, I should say my brother and his family, but I think Theresa was the Border Collie lover initially.  Now, my distantly-related-through-marriage cousin Hylton has a beautiful Border Collie pup.  She’s so cute it almost hurts to see her picture.  She is not his first, he’s had several.  He also has Bram, and he’s a lovely old boy.  I’ve a border collie sized hole in my life.  It’s somehow tied up in that ideal home image, planted in my DNA and then triggered by Babe.  Time to start looking into the puppy potential.  In the meantime, maybe a DVD and popcorn night, featuring you-know-who!

Chickens

Chickens are the perfect pet.  The first couple of hours they aren’t really all that cute.  Their feathers are wet, they look sort of sparse and homely, scrawny in the same way as a human newborn (except the feathers part). Then they fluff out and manage to look adorable, following you around and eating bugs.  Especially ticks; they eat ticks like nobody’s business!

Then, just when they get to that not-so-cute adolescence, it gets better.  Instead of being cranky, sleepy, emotional teenagers, when puberty hits they start laying eggs!  Okay, that was some really good planning!  They also step up the bug eating thing.

My first experience with chickens was at Jessie’s.  Jessie lived across the street from my Nana.  They had about an acre of land in the Valley.  As in Southern California.  On this acre she had pet chickens.  They roamed freely and laid their eggs all over the yard.  Jessie wasn’t as good at finding eggs as I.  Every few months I’d go to Nana’s for a visit.  Within hours I’d be over at Jessie’s hunting for eggs.  Some of those eggs were really, really  old.  It was a smelly lesson in the benefits of providing a nesting box.

When I was about 14, my best friend and I came up with a terrific idea (given our teenage perspective).  We bought each other a baby chick for Christmas.  Darlene’s father was no dummy.  Soon I had 2 baby chicks.  My father was pretty good about it at first.  He’d go along with most of my antics when it came to pets.   I had chickens, so    he built me a chicken coop.  It wasn’t the worlds fanciest coop.  This might have been part of the problem.  You see, we lived in Orange County.  Not exactly chicken country.  We had to drive out to the boonies to get to an Agway and buy Purina Chicken Chow.  We didn’t know they’d eat bugs. Or grains.  Or kitchen  scraps.   And the chicken chow seemed to agree with them.  Those girls got bigger, and bigger…and before they even laid one egg they were gone.  Dad said that the animal officer had complaints from people who didn’t think chickens belonged in a planned community.  He claims that he drove them out to a farm where they would be happy roaming with cows.  He said the same thing about our pet snakes, mice, lizards…pretty much anything we managed to catch wound up living a better life on this mythical farm.

Many years later I found myself living at yet another beach town, this time on the east coast.  And you know what?  They don’t allow chickens there either.  What is it with these people?  It’s not like I wanted roosters.  There are a few people living in Hull who have managed to have chickens.  One, a lovely person named Catherine Goldhammer, wrote a book about it.  Her book “Still Life with Chickens: Starting Over in a House By the sea” tells of her struggles to keep her chickens and her sanity while she battled town bylaws and cranky neighbors.  There are still a few people in Hull who are raising outlawed chickens secretly.   They are renegades- I won’t reveal their names (who would?), but I silently applaud.

Now we live in a town that allows all manner of pets. My dad would have been challenged to find a reason to deport pets here.  I am still without my feathered pets.  Maybe someday.  In the meantime, Dad is no longer with us.  He is probably living a better life, in the country on a wonderful farm, roaming with the cows and chickens.  Yes, I probably should have a filter.

Liv, procrastinating, and foraging

Today was one of those days when I really didn’t want to get up.  Last night I was at a Livingston Taylor concert.  He was in town to perform at a fundraiser for the high school.  I’ve never understood the extreme appeal of James Taylor.  Liv, however, is class.  He’s always been my favorite.  Not just within his family; there’s really no one to whom I’d rather listen.  Gifted musician, funny as hell and has that extra something that time doesn’t change.  We splurged for the VIP seats that included a “champagne artists reception…”.  He graciously made his way over to us.  Having advance notice you’d think I might have considered a few deep, meaningful or witty things to fall back on for conversation.  Unless you knew me, of course.  Then you’d just groan and shake your head.  You’d know that we had a private conversation about…the weather.  Yup!  Then I sat in the front and grinned at him for the rest of the night.  The High School Chamber Chorus also performed quite well. They have been asked to perform at the opening for summer Olympics in London, which is why they were fundraising.  Liv introduced one of his students, Matt Cusson, who was also a very gifted artist with a great future.  Sorry kids, I was really just there to see Liv. 

Champagne receptions don’t bring out the more responsible side of me either.  Today found me escaping work earlier than expected.  I drove home mentally cataloging the tasks awaiting me.  So many jobs and so hard to prioritize…so when I got home I grabbed a bucket and went straight to the laundry room…that’s a lie.  I took that bucket straight outside to forage.  I’m so irresponsible.  But a great forager! I found out that those pretty leaves that were popping up last week have become a lush garden of garlic mustard.   I also found more dandelions.  Lots and lots of them.  Oh my. After looking online, I found a great idea for herbal pesto by Susan Weed (great name!) of http://www.susanweed.com. The recipe can be done with a variety of greens.  First I gave them a good cleaning.  Lots of things out in the woods don’t belong in pesto.  Then, I put some olive oil, sea salt and garlic (not too much, the garlic mustard is there too) in my trusty old (very old) food processor.  After whizzing that around a bit I added the greens.  They chopped up very quickly.

I wasn’t sure if it smelled like pesto should at this point, but I’m not planning to cook it tonight so I held off on adding the cheese or nuts yet.  My anonymous child (they’re not sure they like being mentioned by their stalker mom) passed through the kitchen and thought it smelled good.  That’s promising! It says in the recipe that if you top it with a bit of olive oil this stuff stores for ages in the fridge.  I’ll give it a try over the weekend.  Maybe I’ll try that pasta recipe too.  I wish I could forage for eggs.  If only we had chickens…. 

This is why I love my boys…

Here is a conversation with my PJ…

If you could have anything for your birthday what would it be?

I would like another dog.

Do you remember when you got your first dog?

No, I don’t remember ever not having a dog.

You have a schnoodle dog now. What do you like about him?

Well, he’s kind of smart.  And he’s fluffy.  Or he was.  Then you shaved him.  

What don’t you like about him?

Well, you know.  He’s a wuss. 

What would you look for in a dog now?

He’d have to be big.  Really big. I like big dogs.

What would you call him?

Waldo.  That’s a good name for a dog.  Or Fredwardo.

What kind of dog would Fredwardo-Waldo be?

Well, he should be smart.  I like smart dogs. Maybe a border collie.  One that could herd chickens.

What chickens would Waldo herd?

The chickens we want to get. 

To go with the dog.

Oh! Of course, those chickens.  

And that is why I love my boy.