Tuesday Farm Photo: Goodbye to a Good Ewe

Martha and her twins in the front field on May 5th, 2006

When I moved in with my hunky farmguy Joe 11 years ago, I brought 14 sheep (and a bunch of other critters) with me from my old farm. Martha, who died today, was the last surviving ewe.

She was 14 years old, which, as Joe reminded me, "is probably longer than sheep are supposed to live." (My 15-year-old pet wether Big Chip, the last of the original 14, is still miraculously with us, and still loves to give hugs. His brother, Skinny Chip, died last year. I called them The Chippers.)

Martha, who was sometimes known as the World's Best Pillow, had about the best life a sheep could ask for, though I'm sure she would have liked a few thousand more pounds of grain. A couple of months ago Joe started referring to her as Every Sheep because she demanded a treat whenever any other sheep was being fed—and she could hear the rustle of a grain bucket from half a mile away.

She was the loudest sheep I've ever known—which is saying something—and she was never one to keep her opinions to herself. Basically she never shut up. But in a good way. Mostly.

It's Been a Hell of a Few Weeks (and Not in a Good Way)

"Happy Birthday," said the doctor as he stood next to my hospital bed looking over my chart.

"Thanks."

"Next year you really need to do something a lot better than this for your birthday."

"No shit."

Let me back up a little.

Monday Dose of Cute and Loss

Annette and Her Newborn Twins on 4/7/10

© 2010 FarmgirlFare.com, the mourning foodie farm blog where after a very long, very hot, very exhausting, and very frustrating day spent tending to a very sick ewe (one of your best of course) only to have her die that night (which meant you then had to deal with her very large dead body at 11pm—and happened to be the only person home at the time), it's always a good idea to spend some time looking back at happier and cuter times while you're crying your eyes out. (Cake for breakfast helps, too.) Rest in peace, beautiful Annette. And thank you for giving me Cary.

Thursday Dose of Cute—And Heartbreak:Rest in Peace, Little Donkey

Dolores and Her Baby Girl, About One Hour Old (previously posted photos here)







She's gone.

At first I thought she'd just caught a chill and then had become weak from not nursing for a couple of hours, but there was something else wrong. Something not working right in her complicated and miraculous little newborn system.

We thought Dolores had miscarried last winter because we found a large patch of blood in the snow by the barn and blood on her legs, and we were thrilled when she became so big it was obvious she was pregnant. But she could have been carrying twins and lost one. Twins in equines are almost never a good thing. The remaining fetus would have been weakend, and possibly harmed by residues that weren't flushed out during the miscarriage.

I saw Dolores pawing at her newborn baby, urging her to stand up. I've seen ewes do this before to their lambs. She meant well—and there was nothing I could do to stop her—but Dolores probably weighs 800 pounds. At one point, she put enough weight on the baby's side that I heard an audible expulsion of air. That can't have been good.

Or it could have been something else entirely.

Monday afternoon, in desperation, I tossed a bucket of treats onto the grass to distract Dolores (who is fiercely protective and could easily kill me with a single swift kick), hoisted up the baby, and carried her across the front field and up to the barn.






I then proceeded to do everything I could to save her. We spent the last five hours on the beat up old hardwood floor in the living room, next the the blazing woodstove, with Robin, Mr. Midnight, and Molly Doodlebug rallying nearby. Actually, Mr. Midnight, as cats are wont to do, kept trying to climb onto her soft, toasty body, but he finally settled for curling up on the other half of the pillow tucked under my butt.

When it became clear that nothing I could do was going to keep her from dying, I refused to simply abandon her. I wanted her to know she wasn't alone, and that during her short time here she was loved. I rested her head on my outsretched leg, folded my other leg protectively over her body, and proceeded to rub my hands gently across that oh-so-soft fur until she drifted into sleep and eventually took her last breath.

Her heart continued to beat. And then I felt mine break.

I'm no stranger to death here on the farm, and losing an animal is never easy, but losing this little donkey hurt more than most.

While we were sitting there together on the living room floor, I named her Flitta, because she flitted in and out of our lives. And also because it sounds sort of like an abbrieviation for The Flame Trees of Thika, a beloved book I've read numerous times.

When things are going badly on the farm, I often venture back to Kenya in the early 1900s, through Elspeth Huxley's Thika books about her childhood there, or by watching my all time favorite movie, Out of Africa, yet again. These women lived in a strange and beautiful and sometimes dangerous place, and the tales of their often difficult adventures always put mine into a comforting perspective.

I choose to live on this farm in the middle of nowhere, thousands of miles from where I grew up. I choose to surround myself with dozens of animals who depend on me and often become very close to my heart. The high points soar straight to the heavens. The low ones can reach down to the depths of your soul.

It's been a rough several days. Our sweet Zelda became ill on Friday and died on Saturday afternoon. Not long after we'd started naming all our new animals alphabetically according to the year they were born or arrived on the farm (last year were the 'E' names, this year are the 'F' names), I pointed to a ewe and said to Joe, "This pre-alphabet sheep needs a name."

"Zelda!"

"Zelda?"

"I doubt we'll make it to the 'Z' names," he said, "and if we do, she'll already be dead by then." It suited her perfectly. Zelda's death was unexpected, but at seven years old it was understandable. Chip and Chip, at 13, are considered pretty ancient by sheep standards.


About 3 Hours Old







Then of course came Flitta. Today is the first time it hasn't been raining or drizzling since Sunday. Joe has been out of town during all this, so I've been dealing with everything on my own.

Before Donkey Doodle Dandy unexpectedly came into our lives several years ago, I'd never had any experience with donkeys—let alone pictured myself owning one. Now we have a herd of six, and I can't imagine not being surrounded by these intelligent, entertaining, and very companionable animals.

My muscles ache, my heart is broken, and my darling little donkey girl is gone. Tears are streaming down my face as I type this, and I still wake up with a heavy thud of sadness. But despite the tragic ending, I'm still very grateful I was there for her beginning. That precious, amazing experience can never be taken away.



Want a bigger farm life experience?
6/3/05: An Unexpected Beginning (my very first blog post)
6/8/05: That Outfit Could Kill You
6/27/05: Chocolate Chip Sheep & Chocolate Chip Cookies
7/31/05: When? Soon (Living on Country Time)
8/10/05: Whoa! Farm Visitors

4/12/06: Hearts and Rocks and Numbers and Thoughts
4/13/06: Shepherd's Nightmare
5/14/06: A Tiny Tail for Mother's Day (the story of baby Cary)
6/15/06: How to Ensure a Happy Haying Crew
7/21/06: And Sheeeeeeee's SAFE!
7/18/06: The Tail of a Donkey and His Ratty Blue Halter
9/1/06: Happy Hour in the Garden

1/19/07: Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Life is but a Stream
1/31/07: Sheep Shearing Early for a Change
2/3/07: Snowstorms and Sheep Shearing
5/13/07: The Tail of Two Mothers—A Mother's Day Story from the Farm
6/7/07: Farewell, New Cat
7/28/07: (It Only Looks Like) A Picture Perfect Walk in the Woods

2/3/08: Handyman Special
3/10/08: Broccoli Soup & Recharging Your Dead Batteries (Because Setting Them on Fire Isn't an Option)
3/13/08: Cary, No Baby
3/19/08: Flood Watch
4/20/08: Chick Days Are Here Again!
4/27/08: A Big Sunday Feast and a Mysterious Little Owl
9/18/08: Putting Up Hay and Losing Electricity
9/24/08: The Higher and Higher Cost of Farming
11/23/08: Heat Cheat

1/1/09: Happy Happy, New New
1/27/09: The Stuff of Farm Life—Losing Lambs and Lottie
5/6/09: Baby Cary is Three Years Old Today!
7/1/09: A Day in the Hay
9/19/09: Bye Bye Sheep Barn! (new barn photos coming soon—no, really!)
10/9/09: A Book, Building, and Bread Bakery Update

Lambing Season 2006 Photos & Reports
Lambing Season 2006 Part 2
Lambing Season 2006 Part 3
Lambing Season 2007 Photos & Reports
Lambing Season 2007 Part 2
Lambing Season 2008 Part 1
Lambing Season 2008 Part 2
Lambing Season 2008 Part 3
Lambing Season 2009
Lambing Season 2009 Part 2

© Copyright 2009 FarmgirlFare.com, the grieving (yet hopeful) foodie farm blog where it takes 12 months to make a baby donkey—and only a second to lose your heart to one.

The Stuff of Farm Life: Losing Lambs and Lottie

Lottie Found the Sheep Halter! (taken 5/1/08)

Sometimes it's hard to know how much to tell you about what happens around here. When you share your life with dozens of animals out in the wilderness (or anywhere for that matter), bad things inevitably happen. I don't like to dwell on the losses and the hardships, but I don't want to completely gloss over them either.

I know many you visit my blog because you're interested in what country life is really like, and while we certainly have more than our fair share of beautiful scenery, adorable animals, and laugh out loud moments (not to mention fabulous food), we by no means lead a perfect storybook existence out here.

Farm life is amazing, but it can also be heartbreaking—and frustrating as hell. I've been meaning to catch you up on some of what's been going on over the past year, and as I was tromping around doing morning chores in the sleet, I decided what better time than during a sleet/ice pellet/snowstorm.

Lots more below. . .

Wild Kingdom: A Big Sunday Feast & A Mysterious Little Owl

Screech Owl in the Farmyard on January 20th

Note: I wrote this back on January 26th. Unfortunately it's only the beginning of the story - and at this point there is no happy ending in sight. There is, however, a small bright spot in all of this sadness and frustration. Two small bright spots, actually, which even qualify for Daily Dose Of Cute status. Stay tuned.

January 2009 Update: You can read the rest of this story here.

There are days when farm life sucks, and last Sunday was one of them. I was here by myself, it was zero degrees, and all the water pipes were frozen. But that was no big deal. That was just January in Missouri in The Shack. But then around 11:00 am, two coyotes killed a sheep in the hayfield. Yes, during broad daylight. Yes, while the donkeys were out there with them.

The time between looking out the kitchen window and realizing what had just happened and getting to the scene of the crime was agonizing. As Bear and I ran the several hundred yards out into the field I switched between sobbing "No! No! NO!" to screaming at the coyotes in a vain attempt to scare them away from the white, unmoving lump I knew was a sheep.

The rest of the flock had fled. I was pretty sure the sheep was dead, but I held onto the slim chance that it might still be alive. Not knowing who it was - that was the most awful part. I figured it would be 12-year-old Skinny Chip, one of my big pet wethers who has bad hooves and trouble walking. I prayed it wasn't Cary.

It wasn't. It was a healthy young wether who probably weighed 100 pounds and would have graced someone's table in a couple of months - and put a couple of hundred dollars in our pocket. Instead it had become this Sunday's dinner. It was a clean kill, and it had just happened. The body was still warm. The blood that covered my hands was still warm.

When I was a little kid I watched "Wild Kingdom" every week on TV with my dad, who loved nature and animals and died when I was just eleven. I want to say that it was on on Sunday nights, maybe at six o'clock, right before the Walt Disney hour. At least that's how I remember it. Mutual of Omaha sponsored the show. I had no idea what Mutual of Omaha was, but to this day I can still remember their 800 number.

We don't have TV reception down here in our little valley. Instead I look out a window and realize I live in Wild Kingdom.

I can't blame the coyotes. They live here, too, and they get just as hungry as I do. It's the dead of winter; food is scarce. I heard there weren't any acorns in the woods this year. Things like fences and property rights and animal ownership mean nothing to them. All they see is a field full of fat and easy targets. A lamb is a lot easier to chase down than a deer.

I do partly blame myself. We've become complacent about the coyotes. We know we're surrounded by them. We hear them at night, their howls and barks echoing through the hills. We know we've been extremely lucky all these years to have sustained so few losses to them. And yet a couple of weeks ago we chose to watch a mating pair of these beautiful creatures (because they are indeed beautiful) cavorting around in the hayfield through a set of binoculars rather than through the scope on a rifle.

We don't shoot 'varmints' for sport or to 'clean up' our property, and for that we have paid a price. This coyote couple had been hanging around, watching, scheming, waiting, wanting. We knew this, and yet we still didn't shoot them. People around here think we're crazy. Some of you reading this will think we're crazy.

On Sunday I watched the coyotes tear into the lamb. My lamb. Later I watched an enormous bald eagle eat his fill of fresh meat while he stood on the wooly body, nervously looking around between bites. I watched a flock of crows move in for their meal. I watched two friends shoot at the coyotes from the second story window of what will soon be our new bedroom and miss. I want them both dead, I said. They know the taste of lamb. They know how to get easy meat. They need to be killed. They need to be dead.

As he was driving the quarter mile from The Shack to the front gate late that afternoon, one friend saw a coyote standing in the front field by the sawdust pile, which isn't far from the barn. He shot and missed. His dad, one of the shooters in the bedroom, had seen a coyote at the top of our driveway that morning.

On Monday reinforcements arrived. A pack of men and a pack of dogs scattered themselves around the valley at dawn and spent the next 10 hours tracking and chasing and shooting. One dog attacked a coyote and had his face torn up.

At four o'clock in the afternoon I looked out into the hayfield and saw both coyotes back at the lamb. Their lamb. And despite my yelling and Bear's barking, not to mention their having been chased all day by a pack of dogs and men with guns, the brazen, hungry coyotes were hesitant to leave their prize.

Loss is inevitable when you're raising animals, whether they're packed into a giant building under horrid conditions or out on the open range. You expect it, and you learn to take it in stride. You do the best you can, and you learn from your mistakes. You worry yourself to sleep. And you tell yourself it's okay to cry.

None of that lamb went to waste. By Tuesday afternoon there was nothing left but the pelt.

We're doing what we can to ensure the safety of the flock. Skinny Chip is in a big pen. The hayfield is off limits to the sheep. We've installed even more spotlights at the barn and turned up the volume on the radio that plays down there all night. I'm learning to shoot the varmint rifle. Because there are two coyotes out there who will no doubt kill again.



Fortunately it isn't all just death and killing in the Wild Kingdom. In the midst of everything that was happening on Sunday, I came across this little owl sitting on a fence post in the farmyard. Armed with only my pistol, I could do nothing except stare in awe and curse myself for being without my camera. I'd never seen anything like it. It held its face toward the sun, eyes closed, its feathers ruffling in the frigid wind.



It popped open its eyes and stared at me as I stared back at it. It turned its head almost completely around like you've always been told that owls can do but have never really believed. It didn't seem bothered by my presence at all. I really wanted to reach out and touch it.

I ran back to The Shack to get my camera in the hopes that it wouldn't fly away. It didn't. I couldn't believe it.



It was neat. It was gorgeous. It was adorable. I snapped photos until my fingers went numb. I was shocked to see that it hadn't flown away when the shots had been fired from a window directly above its head. I proudly showed it to off to the donkey peddling cowboy and his four-year-old son, who had answered my coyote phone call for help.

"That's a screech owl," the cowbody informed me. "Don't touch it!" he said to his son, who had cautiously reached out a finger.

I took more photos. I moved closer and closer to it, until I was standing just inches away. I was mesmerized.



The little owl stayed on the fence post for most of the afternoon. I checked on it every few minutes from the kitchen window. It was starting to seem a little weird. "What's wrong with that owl?" the cowboy had asked as the three of us stared at it and wondered why it was just sitting there in the middle of the farmyard.

Eventually it flew over to another fence a few yards away, where it sat for a couple more photos. Then it disappeared up into a tree.

Like I said, Wild Kingdom.

Note: After a week of thinking about it, I decided I wasn't going to write this. I was simply going to post a neat photo of an owl I saw in the farmyard. No backstory. It isn't easy putting yourself and your actions out there for attack, admitting that you've failed or that you made the wrong choice about something and somebody died because of it. But I know a lot of you don't just want the photos. You want the backstory - even when it's bad. You read my blog because you want to know what life is really like out here on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Unfortunately right now this is what it's like - and the killing hasn't stopped.

© 2008 FarmgirlFare.com, the in awe of nature foodie farm blog where Farmgirl Susan shares the good and the bad of life on 240 remote Missouri acres.

Farm Photo 3/13/08: Cary, No Baby

Cary

The late night visit from the vet felt like a scene straight from a James Herriot book, only with slightly more technology - and antibiotics. Even the vet admitted he'd been thinking about James Herriot while driving out here, as he read over the directions I'd given him and realized just how far out into the country he was headed.

In the 13 years I've been raising sheep, I've never had to have a vet come to the farm. This was the third one I'd tried to get a hold of. I explained the situation and asked if he could drive over.

"You can't bring her down to the clinic?"

"No."

"It's gonna be expensive."

"I know." It's Cary.

Bear and I watched his headlights make their way down the switchbacks on the driveway and listened to the distant sound of his truck. When he got out he smiled and said, "This is the kind of place you move to when you don't want anybody to find you!" Then he looked around the darkness. "You're out here by yourself?"

"Tonight I am." And I led him into the barn.

Cary didn't have twins as I'd thought she might. That swollen belly of hers was full of one enormous baby, and it was very stuck. The normal position for a lamb about to be born is right side up, both hooves headed out, nose between the hooves. This one had one leg back, and its nose was pointed down. I've never had this happen. I talked to a friend who has more lambing experience than I do. She told me what to do. I tried and tried, but I couldn't do it. I needed help. Cary needed help.

The first priority is to save the mother. We lost the baby - a 15-pound (!!) black boy - but we saved Cary. She's expected to make a full recovery, and was up and nibbling on hay not long after the exhausting ordeal was over. I sat with her for a while in the little bonding suite after the vet had driven back out into the night, my forehead resting against her side, my hand stroking her neck. She didn't have anyone else to bond to. I didn't want to leave her.

I'm sure Cary would have been a wonderful mother, and I'm hopeful that one day she will be. But no matter what happens, she'll always be my baby. As the vet was packing up his things, I told him Cary's story. This morning when I came out of the Treat Room holding a little bucket of grain, she bumped her nose into my thigh like she used to do whenever she wanted her bottle of milk. She hasn't done that in over a year.

This is a short version of the story because I'm headed off the farm and won't be back until late tonight. But I knew many of you Cary fans would be anxiously waiting for an update. I'd been really worried that she would go into labor while I was gone today, and now I know that if she had we probably would have lost her. I'm so very grateful that we didn't.

Lambing Season 2008 has officially begun, and considering that we had seven lambs born in the first 24 hours of lambing season last year, I'm sure the next several days are going to be even chaotic than usual around here. You know I'll keep you posted.

© FarmgirlFare.com, the heart wrenching foodie farm blog where Farmgirl Susan shares the ups and downs of life on 240 remote Missouri acres.

Farm Photo: 6/16/07

Heading Out Of The Heat

We're in the middle of a scorching heatwave, also known as summer, and farm cats can be counted on to find the coolest places around. In this case that means under the 100+ year-old half of The Shack. If we had a basement I'd be sleeping in it every night until at least the middle of September.

Heatwave or not, I'm just happy J2 was out and about. Today was the first time I'd seen him leave the cat cabin since his pal New Cat died unexpectedly last week. I was afraid J2 would go off in search of his buddy, but instead he's been staying in the cat cabin so he wouldn't miss New Cat's return.

I miss New Cat something fierce, but my loss is nothing compared to J2's. Those two were the best of friends who spent nearly every waking moment together, then slept curled up side by side each night on their silly pink wool bed. Tell me animals don't have real feelings, and I'll show you a heartbroken cat.

"It's a bad time of year to chuck a kitten in there with him," Joe said the other day when I mentioned how bad I felt for J2. He meant that in the kindest possible way, but sometimes the things that guy says crack me up. He was right, though. Life on a farm is risky enough for a cat, and snake season is especially dangerous if you're an innocent kitten.



J2 is a friendly guy, but because he was so close to New Cat he didn't want much attention from us. Now several times a day he jumps over to his feeding perch in the cat cabin and cries out for affection. This afternoon I was out in the yard hanging laundry on the line and was thrilled to see him heading toward me and loudly meowing hello. I could hear his purr box running on high from several feet away.

As I pet and he purred, I explained to J2 that I understand how lonely he is and assured him that a new feline friend would be bunking with him soon. I have no doubt that another cat in need of a home will find us. They always do.

Farm Photo: 6/14/07

Saying Another Goodbye


The Wild Roses Are In Bloom

"How many cat years are in a human year?" Joe asked me as we lay in bed yesterday morning. He knew I was thinking about Gretel.

"Some people say seven, but there are plenty of cats who live to be at least 20, so some people say five."

"Well even at five years, that would make Gretel, wow, really old."

About an hour later, with a little cry of goodbye, the last of my four transplanted California cats passed away. She was 20 years old. Her death wasn't entirely unexpected, though I didn't think I'd be out in the garden digging another grave less than a week after the sudden loss of New Cat.

Apart from being periodically terrorized by the 4-1/2 pound Doodle Monster during the past decade, I don't think Gretel could have asked for a better cat life.

She spent her last day laying in the shade on the front step, taking in the fresh air and the farm. She waited for me to wake up the next morning and was wrapped in my arms when she took her final breath.

We were gone much of yesterday, and when I opened the front door late last night I caught myself automatically checking Gretel's favorite spots to see where she was, to make sure she was okay. I was surprised her absence hit me so hard. A little while later I realized that I've lived with Gretel longer than I've lived with anyone else in the world--more than half my life.

I'm not sad for Gretel, but a hundred years is a long time to be together. It's no wonder my heart and my home feel so empty. The memories, of course, will live on as long as I do, and for that I will always be grateful.

© 2007 FarmgirlFare.com, the award-winning blog where Farmgirl Susan shares photos & stories of her crazy country life on 240 remote Missouri acres.

Farm Photos 6/12/07: Life and Love

Hold life in your hand. . .



And keep it in your heart.

I bet you are overwhelmed with the number of responses to your post about New Cat, my mother wrote to me the other day. I've been in tears several times reading them.

I know there aren't words to accurately describe just how touched I am by the outpouring of comments regarding my tribute to New Cat, so I'm not going to try to find them.

Nearly 100 of you took the time to write. Twice I sat down to individually reply to each comment, but I simply couldn't do it. Yes, I am indeed overwhelmed. Your kindness is truly amazing.

All I can say is this. If you're looking for a smile, or if, as Joe likes to put it, you could use a good eyeball washing, I urge you to make your way through the comments. They are full of thoughtful words, wonderful quotes, beautiful images, and personal stories about cherished feline friends.

There are many reasons I keep this blog. Here is one of them, left by an anonymous reader:

Farmgirl, your beloved cat is surely safe with my beloved daughter who was an animal lover without equal. Today would have been her 28th birthday, and I am so glad I came to your site today to learn of your loss. I came to your site today because it comforts me to read about the small things which turn into the great things that make up our lives.

I know that my girl has your New Cat in her arms right now. Her birthday gift today just might be your New Cat. I continue to take the most tender care of my daughter's 5 horses, 2 goats, 4 cats, and her remaining and much loved dog. I am comforted to know that your cat is safe in her arms. I am sorry that your heart is so sad.

Thank you for sharing your daughter with us, and for the marvelous thought that New Cat went off to be a warm and fluffy birthday gift for her. Thank you, Bridgett, for the smiling idea that "New Cat was a concept bigger than just a cat." Thank you, Jessica.

Thank you all.

Bean said, "May the love you give come back to you 10-fold." And as you can clearly see it already has--and then some.

The top photo is one of Whitey's new chicks (which I'll write more about soon), taken not long after it hatched. A small miracle that popped out from inside an everyday egg. But that's what all of life is, isn't it? An everyday miracle.

© FarmgirlFare.com, the peeping foodie farm blog where Farmgirl Susan shares photos & stories of her crazy country life on 240 remote Missouri acres.

Farm Life, Farm Love, Farm Loss

New Cat was huddled in a dark corner of the cat cabin crying. Something was very wrong.

My guess is that he was bitten by a snake. The farm is thick with copperheads, and a bite to a small animal is deadly.

"He's not gonna make it, honey," Joe said softly.

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"He had a good run."

"Yes he did."

"He left a place where he obviously wasn't happy and came to live with us. That was what, five years ago?"

New Cat appeared one day out beyond the hayfield, but it was nearly a week before he made his way up to the house, having apparently decided that life here looked pretty good.




He moved into the cat cabin with J2, who had shown up years ago at Windridge Farm in much the same way, and the two quickly became inseparable. I've never known two cats who were better friends.

In the 17 years that Joe has lived on this farm, which is miles from the nearest neighbor, he is the only cat to have simply turned up. New cat.

He wore a gorgeous superfluff suit each winter and shed it for a sleek look in summer. New cat.




He was terrified of Bear and Robin and spent most of his life above dog level. He seldom allowed me to pet him, and I can't remember ever picking him up.

"He may not have been all that friendly," said Joe, "but it sure was nice to look around the farm and see him."

My most recent memory of New Cat is from a week or so ago. It was early evening and he was in the garden, presiding over a large rabbit he had obviously just caught.

My favorite memory of New Cat took place one morning a few years ago. He and J2 were hanging out in the sunshine next to the cat cabin on a little table that Joe had once slapped together from scraps of wood. J2 was grooming himself, and New Cat wanted to play. He kept rolling around on the table, batting at J2 and trying to get his attention, but J2 ignored him. New Cat wouldn't give up, though, and after a couple minutes J2 stopped what he was doing, lifted his two front paws high in the air, and tackled New Cat with a massive hug.

New Cat died very early this morning while I slept fitfully next to him, my hand resting on the side of his curled-up body. I wanted to comfort him. I wanted him to know he wasn't alone. And this cat who rarely liked to be touched would start to cry if I took my hand away.

I buried New Cat in the garden next to Hansel cat and Lindy The Chicken, not far from the spot where he caught that rabbit. In early spring I planted a small clump of spiderwort there, and it has flourished. Today I addded some more.

He was a magnificent creature who was a joy to watch and photograph. He was our New Cat. He left us in his prime, but he had a good run. He is already missed.

More about Whitey and her new brood soon. The circle of farm life always continues.


© 2007 FarmgirlFare.com, the full on, fur loving foodie farm blog where Farmgirl Susan shares recipes, stories, and photos from her crazy country life on 240 remote Missouri acres.

Daily Farm Photo: 12/26/06

Reflecting On The Bigger Picture, Remembering The Little Things

When my brother stayed with us on the farm for a month in February of 2005, he made himself useful whenever he could. He convinced the digital thermometer in the kitchen--which I had somehow inadvertantly switched to celsius--to display the temperature in farenheit again. He replaced the starter in my little SUV. He even set the clock on the VCR.

Each of the three doorways that leads in and out of The Shack is equipped with a storm door as well as a wooden door. These storm doors are inexpensive, metal-framed affairs consisting of two thin glass windows with a screen over the bottom window. If luck is with you--and you are willing to sacrifice the use of your fingertips for several minutes afterward--you can push in some painfully stupid sliding thingies and then lift and secure the lower window up over the second one so fresh air can blow in through the screen. If you are heading outside, you push on a small lever to release a tiny latch that holds the door shut, and then push the door outward. If you are coming inside, you must grab the handle, press on a button with your thumb, and then pull the door open toward you.

The storm door we use by far the most leads from the kitchen to a small covered porch. On the porch live three enormous chest freezers, the dog houses and dog food bowls, a cat food bowl, and Smudge the cat (who lives on top of the chest freezers, just out of reach of the dogs). During the fall and winter a wheelbarrow full of firewood also takes up residence there, and we probably make at least a dozen trips in and out each day just lugging in firewood alone.

One day I noticed my brother tinkering with the storm door handle.

"There!" he said proudly. "I fixed this broken latch so now the door stays shut like it's supposed to. It was driving me crazy."

"Well, thanks," I said.

Not long after that, Joe walked purposefully through the kitchen and slammed into the storm door.

"What the--"

"Derek fixed the latch on the door so now it locks shut."

"Ohhhh." And without skipping a beat he called out, "Hey, thanks, man!"

Old habits die hard around here, and Joe and I must have banged into that door twenty times each over the next couple of weeks. The day after my brother left, Joe put the latch back the way it had been, and we both laughed out sighs of relief.

Neither of us had had the heart to tell him that because we use that door so much we keep the latch 'broken' on purpose.

May your memories make you smile more than they make you sad.

A year of Daily Photos ago: In Loving Memory Of My Brother

Daily Farm Photo 11/29/06: Goodbye to Lindy the Chicken

Off To That Great Henhouse In The Sky

I am sorry to say that Lindy The Chicken passed away over the holiday weekend, probably from natural causes associated with age. (Though death by too much celebrating with her longtime companion and cohort, Whitey, is not entirely out of the question.) She was a little over five and a half years old.

We are certainly not strangers to death on the farm, and new visitors are no doubt wondering why on earth I am making a big deal about the passing of some poultry on a food blog. But those of you who have been following along here for a while know that Lindy was one of the central characters in our crazy cast of critters. You worried with me when she escaped from the coop during a storm, and you cheered when she was safely returned to her home.

Lindy The Chicken did not come by her name until last year during my Name That Sheep Contest. As I've stated before, I was not her voice in the comments section over the past year. But the person who was that voice imbued her with such a wonderful personality. She was smart, funny, and full of wit, and I always looked forward to reading what she had to say. For many months I have been meaning to write down a story or two about Lindy and Whitey, and one of these days I will. And if I ever do end up creating that line of farm animal stuffed toys (with accompanying storybooks), you can be sure that Lindy The Chicken will be included as one of the gang.

Whitey seems confused and a little sad. The hens are usually all silent once it gets dark outside, as they are settled on their perches and ready for sleep. But that first night alone I heard Whitey making soft, nervous little noises to herself. Whitey & Lindy always perched right next to each other. During the day I see her constantly peering about, and I do believe she is looking for her friend.

Lindy The Chicken lived a long and mostly uneventful life. She was loved and admired and surrounded by friends, and she always ate very, very well. She was happy and healthy until the very end, and her last meal was a feast that included organic purple cabbage, her all time favorite food. She may have been just a chicken, but I, for one, would be quite happy with a life consisting of nothing more than that.

Farewell, my fine feathered friend. You are missed.

A year of Daily Photos ago:
Autumn Artwork

© Copyright FarmgirlFare.com.

Daily Farm Photo 10/18/06: My Little Girl Is Growing Up

Cary gazing across the field at her flock

Don't know who Cary is? Meet her in A Tiny Tail for Mother's Day.

Most mornings Cary is calling out to me long before I reach the barn. I still greet her with a bottle of milk, and once she has sucked it down, and the rest of sheep have been counted and are headed down the gravel drive in search of breakfast, we give Donkey Doodle Dandy his morning treat and tend to any barn chores.

Then we meander out to the front field together to find the sheep. We stand among them while I breathe in the beautiful scenery and slowly look everyone over and Cary nibbles on grass. The sheep are always busily eating in a way that manages to be at once frantic and serene.

This morning, after assuring myself that everything was right, I continued to walk past the flock toward the next field, checking behind me to make sure Cary was following along. She wasn't. She was several yards back, standing among a group of sheep, happily grazing.

I called her name, and she looked up and gave me a small "Maaaa!" bleat in return. Then she went back to eating, her actions clearly saying, "I know you're leaving, but I'm supposed to stay here."

And that is as it should be.



As I continued to walk along without her, I thought about how much less affectionate she has become, how for the most part she has turned away from me and toward her flock. And just as the words and that is as it should be played through my head once again, I looked down and saw a beautiful heart rock unlike any other in my collection. I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket, rubbing my fingers along its smooth surface, grasping its weight in my hand, feeling its physical presence.

Cary isn't rejecting me; she's simply growing up, as all little lambs must do. I had no idea I would be so affected by this. But I do know that I will always be in her heart, and she will of course always have mine.

And that is as it should be.

Want to get to know Cary better? You'll find lots more photos of her here.

A year of Daily Photos ago:
Look Up, Look Down, Look All Around—Always

© FarmgirlFare.com

Daily Farm Photo: 5/26/06

Cary

Today is my brother's 36th birthday,
but he died from alcoholism last December 24th.

He would have absolutely adored Cary.

Look how much life he's missed already.

I am so grateful to all of you who have helped me through these past painful months. One day, one hour, one minute at a time. He is never far from my thoughts. He is dearly missed.

Shepherd's Nightmare

Mary's Twins On 4/6/06

We have a serious predator. Mary's twin girl (on the left) has disappeared. This was not a helpless newborn; she was over five weeks old. This makes two lambs in two days.

I cannot fault a wild animal for going after my sheep. Given the choice of snatching a lamb from a small fenced in area or chasing down a rabbit or deer in the forest, I, too, would choose the lamb. And if there are more where the first one came from, well, you might as well help yourself to another.

This, of course, does not mean that I am not stricken with grief (and in a bit of a panic). As I said yesterday, I have never before lost a lamb to a predator on this farm (though we are surrounded by coyotes). Mary (who is Doll Face's sister), is one of my very best sheep, and I was thrilled when she had a twin girl. Her baby was my best replacement ewe born so far this year. She held a special place in my heart, too, as I successfully performed minor surgery on her to fix an inverted eyelid.

The sheep have been penned in their 1/4-acre barnyard (connected to the barn) since the first lamb was born two months ago. Now I will lock them in the actual barn at night. It will be difficult to do, and they will not be happy, but at least they might be safe.

Sadness and tragedy are always looming here. This is a farm. These kinds of things happen. And while I never had any intention of sharing every unpleasant detail of my life with you, I felt I should explain what is going on--the continutation of the story, so to speak.

What I had planned to write about today was my new Chocolate Chip Almond Biscotti recipe after making one final test batch. Kitchen (and chocolate) therapy. Who knows. Maybe there is still time. I know I must do something.

Hearts & Rocks & Numbers & Thoughts

Sometimes I think I need a heart of stone to live here.

One advantage to living on a farm in the middle of nowhere is that you can sit on the edge of a bunk feeder in the barnyard at sunrise and cry as loud as you like. Nobody is going to bother you.

I had planned to put this photo and its story up this morning, along with some thoughts that have been randomly connecting in my mind. About Lucky 13, who we lost a week ago today. About my brother, who we lost over 100 days ago and who was here on the farm when the first lambs were born last year. About the fact that Snugglebunny (whose eartag is #13) gave birth to the 13th lamb this year and should I give her a name that includes "Lucky" or "13" or would that feel wrong.

About the usual things—love, loss, life.

More below. . .

A Sweeter Sheep You Will Not Meet

Lucky 13
5/28/04 - 4/5/06

She was never without a hint of a smile,
and she was always first through the gate each morning.

That's what happens on a farm--animals inevitably die. But, at least for this farmgirl, even after 12 years it hasn't gotten any easier. Some people would no doubt say I let myself get too close to my critters, but I don't feel that way. They are my constant companions, my dear friends, my family. The joy that knowing them brings me is immeasurable, and that, unfortunately, means losing one hurts so much more. And while I try not to play favorites, some of them just work their way deeper into your heart than others. Lucky 13 was in there pretty deep.

Yesterday morning I thought Lucky 13 was in the early stages of labor. As the day went on, it became increasingly clear that she was not about to give birth, and that something was very wrong. I poured through my books, comforted her the best I could, and administered to her around the clock. When I went to check on her a little while ago, she was gone. I'll never know for certain what the problem was. But I know without a doubt that it will be quite some time before I stop looking for her smiling face making its way toward the barn gate each morning. The photo above was taken on July 14, 2005 but never posted. Please click here if you'd like to see one of my other favorite photos of Lucky 13.

Farewell, sweet girl. You will be missed.

Daily Farm Photo: 12/26/05

This is my 200th Daily Farm Photo


In Loving Memory Of My Brother Derek
1970-2005


Alcoholism is real. And it kills.
And sometimes there is nothing we can do.

On December 24th, my only sibling drank himself to death.

His all time favorite movie was "The Jungle Book."

For years he had a Cheez-It loving cockatiel named Buddy
that he found nuzzling his ankle while sitting in the stands
at the county fair horse races.

He lived with four cats in a one bedroom condo.

He was in absolute awe last year when he saw me mix Miracle
Whip and Heinz Chili Sauce and make Thousand Island dressing.

He wanted to be a veterinary assistant.

He dreamed of creating an animal sanctuary.

He had a genius level IQ.

He was 35 years old.


When was the last time you said, "I love you?"