Mar. 10, 2003 ~ Beginnings and endings
This morning we have a brand new, squeaky clean, fresh-from-the-factory heifer calf. She's a tiny thing, with spindly legs that go every which way but where she wants them to go, but she seems strong and healthy. She went through the open gate, even walking through deep mud, when her mother called, which is something of a miracle in the world of cows. She qualifies as a genius, at this point. Mud and gates seem to traumatize a lot of grown cows, but baby calves have it even worse. I suppose it's instinct that makes them not want to step in deep mud, and gates, well, who knows. The little ones probably can't see well enough to realize that part of the fence is solid but the gate (when open) is not.
And there was a little sad news this morning, too. Two or three years ago, our neighbor gave us a rooster and a guinea. The birds had been living outdoors, and had survived coyotes, raccoons, dogs, and not being fed. Kenneth had been gone for weeks, while his wife was hospitalized out of town, and the birds had gotten out of the pen and made it on their own. We tried putting these birds in our pen with the chickens and ducks, but they were both so mean that they had to live outdoors here, too. Still, they did fine. We fed them, and they had water and safe places to hide. They roosted on top of the barn at night, or got inside the stalls with the horses.
This morning I found the old rooster dead in Sugar's stall, not far from the water tub. I expect he was ambushed while drinking water or roosting on the fence. He'd probably been killed by raccoons, since a coon had killed another bird last week. I was thinking that we've had a lot of animals killed since Phoebe died. Maybe we need to renew our search for another dog. Phoebe would NOT have allowed anything to kill her birds. Just her presence, and her barking, probably scared off a few would-be killers.
The guinea is still with us, though he is probably very old by bird standards. I think he and the rooster were both two or three years old when we got them, and chickens don't usually live long anyway.
Such is life on the farm. A calf is born; a chicken dies. And flowers bloom. Spring has truly arrived, and we need to start mowing the lawn again. Didn't we just quit that? Wasn't it November or December when we last mowed? Anyway, I need to write Soldier Boy a letter, so I'd best get with it before the mail carrier arrives.
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