Twice now, within the last week, the following has happened: I went out to the barn early in the morning, flipped on the lights, and a little black mouse has begun running all up and down the chicken area until it can disappear under cover. I then looked over at the eight (or however many...I can't even keep count of them anymore) barn cats, all of whom are camped out around the old table where Big Little Brother feeds them cheap cat food twice a day. And they look back, bored.
Sheesh, I think. Eight of you guys, and not one can be bothered to nab this mouse?
Seriously, maybe we need to feed them less. Or let Wilbur the dog start sleeping in the barn, so he can give these felines some lessons in mousing.
Showing posts with label dogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dogs. Show all posts
02 December 2011
20 October 2011
Our Dog, the Cat
It's been cold, rainy, windy and generally nasty around here for the last several days, which has given very little to smile about. But who can't smile at a dog who's caught more mice in the last week than our barn cats have?
Wilbur has a great nose, and is a great digger. He unearthed and dispatched several moles this summer, and in the last few days has come up with two field mice. Just like a cat, he walks around with the mouse squirming in his mouth. Then he puts it down, watches it flop and stumble around, and plays with it until I approach. Then he picks the squirming, dog-spit-covered rodent back up, retreats a safe distance, and does the whole thing again. Eventually, he finishes the mouse off.
Now, if we could just get him to do his digging somewhere other than Mrs. Yeoman Farmer's garden...
Now, if we could just get him to do his digging somewhere other than Mrs. Yeoman Farmer's garden...
10 November 2010
Pepper Makes It Better
After Scooter's tragic demise a couple of months ago, we've been left without a traditional herding-breed of dog. I've lost track of the number of times I've wished I had him around to help, and not just with the sheep. Scooter had an uncanny ability to know exactly where I wanted animals of all kinds (including chickens and ducks and geese) to be, and how to position himself to optimize the chances they'd either get there or stay there. Remarkable that a dog who could be so dumb in so many other ways (including trying to cross an unlighted road in the dead of night with a car coming) had such sharp instincts with the livestock.
Wilbur the puppy has continued to settle in, and he's growing like a weed. We like him, boundless energy and chewing tendencies and all, but I doubt he'll ever be more than a guardian and companion.
We'd been waiting for my professional work to slow down, so we could renew our search for a dog with herding genetics. One litter of shepherd puppies came into the local animal shelter, but were snapped up before we could take one. Then, last Friday, the intrepid Mrs. Yeoman Farmer spotted a new listing on the shelter's website: a beautiful-looking, four year old Australian Shepherd mix female. She'd been a stray, but was totally housebroken and even leash trained. and despite being labeled a "mix," she looked almost purebred.
MYF drove to the shelter during Yeoman Farm Baby's next nap, and liked the dog so much she put down a deposit to hold her. The Yeoman Farm Children and I went in on Saturday, and instantly knew this dog was a keeper. She has a wonderful, calm disposition. She was really good with the kids. And she even got along with Wilbur (we took him with us to the shelter, to test their interaction).
We took her home that day, and she's working out extremely well. She really is housebroken. After a couple of days of stand-offish adjustment, she and Wilbur have even begun playing and rough-housing together in my office.
The only problem was a name. The shelter had named her "Carly," but that just wasn't going to work for us. Every time I called her, or even referred to her, I knew I'd think of Carly Simon screaming "You're so vain!" And MYF had similar associations with the name. After considerable deliberation and negotiation, the whole family managed to settle on "Pepper" as an alternative.
We take her on the leash with us all over the farm, particularly when doing things with livestock. But especially since she was a stray in the past, we don't want to let her walk freely until we've had a solid adjustment period and she's positive that this is where she belongs. Back in Illinois, we had one shelter stray wander off and disappear because we let her free too early.
It's unclear so far whether and how well Pepper's herding instincts will eventually kick in; she's mostly intimidated by the livestock, and will not enter the barn unless she's carried through the door. We're hopeful that this will be temporary. But even if she never matches Scooter's abilities, we're none the worse for the deal: she's an absolutely wonderful companion with me in my office. I'll take that.
The only other odd thing about her: she doesn't like cameras. At all. The shelter had the hardest time getting a good picture of her for the website. I tried snapping a few pictures, but she turned and ducked her head every time she saw the camera.
Finally, I had Homeschooled Farm Girl hug Pepper tight and make her face the camera. So...this may be the best photo you get of her for awhile.
Wilbur the puppy has continued to settle in, and he's growing like a weed. We like him, boundless energy and chewing tendencies and all, but I doubt he'll ever be more than a guardian and companion.
We'd been waiting for my professional work to slow down, so we could renew our search for a dog with herding genetics. One litter of shepherd puppies came into the local animal shelter, but were snapped up before we could take one. Then, last Friday, the intrepid Mrs. Yeoman Farmer spotted a new listing on the shelter's website: a beautiful-looking, four year old Australian Shepherd mix female. She'd been a stray, but was totally housebroken and even leash trained. and despite being labeled a "mix," she looked almost purebred.
MYF drove to the shelter during Yeoman Farm Baby's next nap, and liked the dog so much she put down a deposit to hold her. The Yeoman Farm Children and I went in on Saturday, and instantly knew this dog was a keeper. She has a wonderful, calm disposition. She was really good with the kids. And she even got along with Wilbur (we took him with us to the shelter, to test their interaction).
We took her home that day, and she's working out extremely well. She really is housebroken. After a couple of days of stand-offish adjustment, she and Wilbur have even begun playing and rough-housing together in my office.
The only problem was a name. The shelter had named her "Carly," but that just wasn't going to work for us. Every time I called her, or even referred to her, I knew I'd think of Carly Simon screaming "You're so vain!" And MYF had similar associations with the name. After considerable deliberation and negotiation, the whole family managed to settle on "Pepper" as an alternative.
We take her on the leash with us all over the farm, particularly when doing things with livestock. But especially since she was a stray in the past, we don't want to let her walk freely until we've had a solid adjustment period and she's positive that this is where she belongs. Back in Illinois, we had one shelter stray wander off and disappear because we let her free too early.
It's unclear so far whether and how well Pepper's herding instincts will eventually kick in; she's mostly intimidated by the livestock, and will not enter the barn unless she's carried through the door. We're hopeful that this will be temporary. But even if she never matches Scooter's abilities, we're none the worse for the deal: she's an absolutely wonderful companion with me in my office. I'll take that.
The only other odd thing about her: she doesn't like cameras. At all. The shelter had the hardest time getting a good picture of her for the website. I tried snapping a few pictures, but she turned and ducked her head every time she saw the camera.
Finally, I had Homeschooled Farm Girl hug Pepper tight and make her face the camera. So...this may be the best photo you get of her for awhile.
22 September 2010
Just Another Week
The light at the end of the tunnel is beginning to come into sight, as the busiest season for my professional work winds down. I appreciate your forbearance with the slow posting, and I look forward to posting more frequently going forward this fall.
In between the craziness with work, here is a sampling of what it's been like living on a farm for the past week or so:
Dot's lamb is thriving, and managing to keep up with her mother all around the pasture. It's a big pasture, and they occasionally lose sight of each other; we can tell because the lamb begins a piercing high pitched bleat. Dot usually comes and finds her soon thereafter. It's been a real joy watching Dot mother another lamb; it wouldn't surprise me if this is the last time she gets to do it.
That said, Dot's instincts sometimes conflict with our own. The first couple of nights with her lamb, she attempted to bed down in the wooded ridge on the far end of the pasture. I'm sure she was seeking privacy and shelter, but the lamb would've been easy pickings for any number of predators --- from raccoons to owls. When I did my head count at the barn the first evening, Dot was noticeably absent. Having gotten to know her pretty well over these years, I had a good idea as to where she'd be hiding out. I grabbed the spotlight and crossed the pasture to the ridge; sure enough, that's where she'd bedded down. Much to Dot's chagrin, I grabbed the lamb and began jogging across the pasture to the barn. The lamb bleated, and Dot came running. It was actually kind of amusing listening to her continual protest "Meeah" sounds as we jogged.
Dot tried the same trick the next night, and I again didn't catch on until it was pitch dark. The third night, I dispatched the Yeoman Farm Children to the ridge just before dusk, and they did the honors. In the meantime, I spotted an older lamb which had gotten its horns stuck in the pasture fence farther down the ridge. I freed it, and it ran across the pasture to rejoin the rest of the flock. In the days since, Dot has begun coming into the barn on her own with the rest of the flock at dusk.
We've been taking Wilbur the puppy along whenever we do chores or work with the livestock. When we went to retrieve Dot and her lamb, for example, I took Wilbur with me on a leash. He's no help with herding yet, but I want him to experience as many different aspects of farm life as possible. For the more routine tasks, he's beginning to follow me even without a leash. Each morning, he accompanies me as I let the sheep out, fill water tanks, feed chickens, get hay for goats, and feed turkeys. And then he does it again in the evening. Puppies have such boundless energy, it's nice giving him a chance to work some of it off.
Wilbur hangs out in my office with me much of the rest of the day, and he's about 70% of the way toward being housebroken. He hits the paper most of the time, but the biggest frustration is getting him to relieve himself outside. Often after running around the farm with me, he'll wait until he's returned to my office to relieve himself on the paper.
We had a litter of kittens born in the barn over the weekend. They were very much unwanted and unplanned (we didn't get the cat fixed in time), but the cat fortunately only had two of them. Unfortunately, though, the mother cat has been doing a poor job caring for them. I was inclined to let nature take its course, but Cat Girl is having none of it. She and her brothers have taken it upon themselves to bottle feed the things. As of this morning, the prognosis for one kitten wasn't good. But Cat Girl is working hard to save the other one.
Speaking of the Yeoman Farm Children, Yeoman Farm Baby contracted the chicken pox a couple of weeks ago. It wasn't a big deal, and Mrs. Yeoman Farmer treated it effectively with homeopathic remedies. YFB got over it toward the end of last week. Now, you guessed it, the others have begun coming down with it. Homeschooled Farm Boy wasn't feeling well last night, and began breaking out with pox this morning. Little Big Brother began breaking out this afternoon. We figure Homeschooled Farm Girl isn't far behind.
Pears have begin falling off our tree in the front yard, and I've enjoyed tossing the blemished ones over the fence. The sheep see them, and the word spreads quickly through the whole flock. Within minutes, they're all happily munching as many as I can throw. Then the geese come honking in to join the feast. It's better than television. Really.
On a sad note, we lost one of our oldest roosters this afternoon. Sardine had been the Alpha Rooster for a long time, but got deposed in a cockfight earlier this year. He went into exile, sleeping in a far corner of the barn each night for months. For awhile it looked like he was plotting a Rocky-like comeback, and he did roost with the flock for a time, but in the last few days he'd begun sleeping out in the pasture at night. Annoying me to no end, he would begin crowing at 4am near the house. Always the widest-ranging of the flock, he would regularly cross our road during the day to forage in the neighboring fields. This afternoon, he met the same fate that Scooter met a couple of weeks ago; I found his crumpled body along the side of the road. I won't miss his pre-dawn crowing, but Sardine had been "one of the gang" and a fixture on our farm for years. He's one of the few remaining birds that came with us in the "Noah's Ark on Wheels" from Illinois. So...it's sad to lose him, but I'm glad he had a long and happy life.
Just another week of farm life. What's ahead? Our first harvest of honey from the bee hive. About a dozen old laying hens need butchering. Potatoes need to be dug. And who knows what other surprises we may find in the pasture...
In between the craziness with work, here is a sampling of what it's been like living on a farm for the past week or so:
Just another week of farm life. What's ahead? Our first harvest of honey from the bee hive. About a dozen old laying hens need butchering. Potatoes need to be dug. And who knows what other surprises we may find in the pasture...
12 September 2010
Some Puppy!
After our recent loss of Tabasco and Scooter, our farm was left without a canine. Dogs are essential to a working farm, whether for protection of the property or for herding livestock. Scooter’s loss, in particular, hit us hard in both departments. Suddenly, we had no dog watching the property while we were away from home. Suddenly, if the sheep or goats got out, we were on our own in trying to round them back up. Suddenly, there was no deterrent to predators which might visit our property by night.
Replacing a dog like Scooter isn’t easy, and I’m not confident we’ll find his equal. But we learned an important lesson with him: it’s best to start with a young puppy. Scooter was only about eight weeks old when we got him, and he was acclimated from that very early age to the whole environment and expectations of our farm. Ideally, we could find a border collie puppy to take his place…and we will continue looking for one. But, in the meantime, we need a dog of some sort to get to work.
Our solution was to scout the local humane society’s animal shelter. Fortunately, about a week ago, we found a promising prospect: a litter of German Shepherd mix puppies was available. They went fast, and we managed to get the last one. His name is Wilbur, and his is indeed…Some Puppy!
Replacing a dog like Scooter isn’t easy, and I’m not confident we’ll find his equal. But we learned an important lesson with him: it’s best to start with a young puppy. Scooter was only about eight weeks old when we got him, and he was acclimated from that very early age to the whole environment and expectations of our farm. Ideally, we could find a border collie puppy to take his place…and we will continue looking for one. But, in the meantime, we need a dog of some sort to get to work.
I’d almost forgotten how much fun little puppies can be; it’s been nearly four years since we got Scooter. He’s bright, inquisitive, and a quick learner. He enjoys tagging along as I do chores, and is eager to please. Best of all, he’s small enough so the other livestock (even the barn cats) are able to teach him his place and ensure he doesn’t turn predator. He may have some bird or hunting dog in his mongrel mix, but at this early age I think we can break him of any inclination he may have to attack the chickens or ducks.
I’d also forgotten how much trouble little puppies can be, especially before they’re housebroken. And how much they chew on everything. And get into everything. He spends his days in my office with me (and his nights in a crate in my office), and the building is unfortunately starting to smell like it. Hopefully we’ll get him big enough soon to be able to spend his nights in the barn, and by next spring to be patrolling the property at night.
And we’ll make sure we get the front of the property fenced tightly enough so he doesn’t meet the same fate that Scooter did.
01 September 2010
Two in Two
I am going to be sick.
Just two weeks ago, we lost our beloved dog, Tabasco, to lung disease and old age. She was a close companion, which made the loss more difficult, but we were grateful we had a month or so get used to the idea that she was in a fatal decline.
We got no such warning last night. The kids were in bed, and I'd gone out to my office to watch the end of a television program. At about 10:45, I heard Scooter the border collie barking like I'd never heard him bark before. In fact, at first I wasn't even sure it was him. The bark was higher pitched, desperate, and very intense. I grabbed my spotlight and went out to investigate, thinking perhaps he'd gotten in a fight with (or simply cornered) a wild animal. The bark was coming from the direction of the road, and was now so urgent that I broke into a full run down the driveway.
When I reached the road, I found no wild animal. Just Scooter, laying in the middle of the street, struggling --- but failing --- to get up. I ran still faster, to help him, but he'd clearly been injured very badly. He smelled awful, like the stuffing had been knocked out of him. I had to get him out of the road, and I wondered if we could make it to the vet in time.
I'm not sure if my attempt to move him aggravated an internal injury, but he was already going into shock when I tried to pick him up. A passing motorist stopped and carried my light for me as I hauled Scooter to the back porch; I didn't get his name, but his sympathy was greatly appreciated and I wish I could thank him again.
Scooter was limp by the time I laid him on the porch. I ran in to tell Mrs. Yeoman Farmer; she'd heard the yelps, but hadn't known what they were. She was as upset as I was about the whole thing, but we were glad the kids were already asleep.
I returned to Scooter's body, and was surprised I could still feel a heartbeat. His eyes were glazed over, and his body was doing little other than twitching. I didn't know if he could hear me, but I told him over and over what a good boy he was. And kept my hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat. Finally, he made one big sudden twitch...and then I couldn't feel his heart beating anymore.
Not wanting the kids to discover the body in the morning, I hauled Scooter to the pasture where he'd gotten so much joy in giving us so much tremendous service. This morning, I got up early and dug a grave near where we buried Tabasco...but closer to the main path the sheep take to return to their paddock at night. I thought that's where Scooter should rest: right near the place where he did his favorite work.
He was only four years old. He was in the absolute prime and vigor of health. He loved every instant of his life, and the things he got to do here on the farm: bringing sheep in and out from pasture, rounding up the goats when they'd broken through a fence, chasing down errant birds and holding them carefully until I could pick them up, getting big squirts of milk when the Yeoman Farm Children milked the goats, taking romps with me through the woods as I inspected a trap or fence line...I'll never forget the way he'd yelp with joy and practically jump out of his skin when he realized it was time to get to work.
Which is what I need to do right now, actually. Stop typing and get to work, that is. I'm not yelping and jumping out of my skin at the prospect, but these weeks are absolutely jam packed with professional work for me. Which makes it the absolute worst time to have to cope with losing the Best Companion Dog Ever and the Best Farm Dog Ever in rapid succession. I am glad I have lots of work to immerse myself in. I'll try to approach it with the enthusiasm Scooter would have for work on the farm.
But right now, my heart is too heavy and my eyes are too full to do anything but grieve.
Just two weeks ago, we lost our beloved dog, Tabasco, to lung disease and old age. She was a close companion, which made the loss more difficult, but we were grateful we had a month or so get used to the idea that she was in a fatal decline.
We got no such warning last night. The kids were in bed, and I'd gone out to my office to watch the end of a television program. At about 10:45, I heard Scooter the border collie barking like I'd never heard him bark before. In fact, at first I wasn't even sure it was him. The bark was higher pitched, desperate, and very intense. I grabbed my spotlight and went out to investigate, thinking perhaps he'd gotten in a fight with (or simply cornered) a wild animal. The bark was coming from the direction of the road, and was now so urgent that I broke into a full run down the driveway.
When I reached the road, I found no wild animal. Just Scooter, laying in the middle of the street, struggling --- but failing --- to get up. I ran still faster, to help him, but he'd clearly been injured very badly. He smelled awful, like the stuffing had been knocked out of him. I had to get him out of the road, and I wondered if we could make it to the vet in time.
I'm not sure if my attempt to move him aggravated an internal injury, but he was already going into shock when I tried to pick him up. A passing motorist stopped and carried my light for me as I hauled Scooter to the back porch; I didn't get his name, but his sympathy was greatly appreciated and I wish I could thank him again.
Scooter was limp by the time I laid him on the porch. I ran in to tell Mrs. Yeoman Farmer; she'd heard the yelps, but hadn't known what they were. She was as upset as I was about the whole thing, but we were glad the kids were already asleep.
I returned to Scooter's body, and was surprised I could still feel a heartbeat. His eyes were glazed over, and his body was doing little other than twitching. I didn't know if he could hear me, but I told him over and over what a good boy he was. And kept my hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat. Finally, he made one big sudden twitch...and then I couldn't feel his heart beating anymore.
Not wanting the kids to discover the body in the morning, I hauled Scooter to the pasture where he'd gotten so much joy in giving us so much tremendous service. This morning, I got up early and dug a grave near where we buried Tabasco...but closer to the main path the sheep take to return to their paddock at night. I thought that's where Scooter should rest: right near the place where he did his favorite work.
He was only four years old. He was in the absolute prime and vigor of health. He loved every instant of his life, and the things he got to do here on the farm: bringing sheep in and out from pasture, rounding up the goats when they'd broken through a fence, chasing down errant birds and holding them carefully until I could pick them up, getting big squirts of milk when the Yeoman Farm Children milked the goats, taking romps with me through the woods as I inspected a trap or fence line...I'll never forget the way he'd yelp with joy and practically jump out of his skin when he realized it was time to get to work.
Which is what I need to do right now, actually. Stop typing and get to work, that is. I'm not yelping and jumping out of my skin at the prospect, but these weeks are absolutely jam packed with professional work for me. Which makes it the absolute worst time to have to cope with losing the Best Companion Dog Ever and the Best Farm Dog Ever in rapid succession. I am glad I have lots of work to immerse myself in. I'll try to approach it with the enthusiasm Scooter would have for work on the farm.
But right now, my heart is too heavy and my eyes are too full to do anything but grieve.
15 August 2010
Beyond My Limit
Today, I did something I never wanted to do...and was certain I would never bring myself to do: personally put my beloved dog out of her suffering. Over the years, I've had to put down injured or sick cats, goats, lambs, and birds. It was never pleasant, but I'd never hesitated. But all that time, dogs remained for me a line I couldn't cross. Especially a companion like Tabasco.
As regular readers know, we'd had Tabasco for nearly four years. We got her as a stray when we lived in Illinois; she showed up at the local rural animal shelter on the same day our Collie was hit by a car. Our vet happened to run the shelter (it was a really small county), and someone there knew we were looking for a new farm dog. Tabasco, it turned out, was a perfect fit. She was on the older side, and wasn't terribly large, but had plenty of spunk and energy. She had a wonderful temperament, was good with our kids, loved retrieving tennis balls, enjoyed riding around in cars, and made herself a fierce defender of our property (she was a determined enough "alpha" to stand up even to our Great Pyrenees...not to mention any intruders who might show up unannounced). She had long legs and a long narrow muzzle, and loved spending hours digging her way into field mouse dens. (Mrs. Yeoman Farmer didn't like it so much when these digs were in the middle of the lawn.)
As Tabasco got older, she increasingly spent her days with me in my office building. She'd go out to relieve herself, but grew less interested in everything else. She slept on my office couch each night, and was my constant companion by day as I worked. I found it particularly heartening when I'd return to the office after a few hours away...and find her curled up on my desk chair. She'd look up with her big eyes, thump her curly tail, and seem to be assuring me that she'd taken good care of my special place.
The first big turning point was last November, when we were gone for several weeks adopting Yeoman Farm Baby. Tabasco developed a hacking cough, bad enough that the family watching our farm mentioned it regularly over the phone. I took her to the vet once we'd returned, and x-rays confirmed a case of pneumonia. We gave her a course of antibiotics, which took care of the worst symptoms, but Tabasco was never the same. She seldom went out at all, or didn't seem interested in much of anything but eating and sleeping and watching me work. At the time, I chalked this up to the cold winter. But even when the spring thaw came, she never again tried to chase a tennis ball or tag along for chores. The kids would take her to the barn at milking time, but that was more about getting free squirts of milk than anything else.
Then came the bloat. As detailed in another post, her bloat got so bad about a month ago that I took her to the vet...who took another x-ray, and delivered the grim diagnosis: tumors all over her lungs. Technically, pulmonary edema, and possibly lung cancer. At her age, there wasn't much of anything we could do. The vet gave some medications to drain her fluid and open her airway, but there was never any question of Tabasco making a recovery. The medication was all about buying time so we could say goodbye.
And I am deeply grateful for that. When we were at the vet last month, he wasn't sure Tabasco would make it through the weekend. The news was such a shock, I broke down right there in the examining room. And then...the medications gave us five more weeks. Tabasco's bloat was dramatically reduced within a matter of days, and for the next three or four more weeks she seemed almost normal. Slow, subdued, uninterested in strenuous activity, urinating all the time --- but stable and able to get around. I treasured every time I walked through my office door and she looked up and thumped her tail. We gave her all the meat scraps and dog treats she would take, and told her over and over what a great great dog she was.
Then came the last week. Suddenly, she had a lot of trouble getting to her feet. Especially on the slick floor of my office. I told her that was okay; I'd help her get up. I wondered if it was a side effect of the steroids, or just her disease running its course. She'd have good days and bad days, but the general trajectory was downward. She went from having trouble getting up, to having trouble walking around. Her joints seemed stiff, and her hind quarters didn't want to follow her front quarters.
Then, a few days ago, she couldn't keep herself in a squatting position long enough to relieve herself. Or a standing position long enough to drink from her bucket. I'd hold her at the bucket so she could drink, but then she'd flop down on the grass. She seemed to like the fresh air, so I'd leave her out. And because she couldn't get to her feet on my office floor, I'd leave her out at night as long as it wasn't raining.
I sensed we'd reached a turning point, and began thinking more seriously about taking her in for the vet to put her down. I was certain I couldn't do it myself. I'm a dog person to the core, and Tabasco was my constant companion. Every fiber of my being revolted at the idea of inflicting harm on her body from my own hand. It'd taken four weeks just to get comfortable with the idea of cradling her in a blanket as I allowed a vet to put her to sleep. Tabasco was a survivor, and a fighter. As long as she was physically able to keep going and seemed to have the spirit to fight, I resolved to let her do it. I prayed she'd die on her own, but knowing her...I knew she wouldn't.
I wondered how I'd know when Tabasco couldn't go on, and I'd have to make The Call. She wasn't well at all yesterday, and I started to think Monday would be It. I began thinking about how I could squeeze a vet visit into my crazily busy schedule. I grilled a big batch of lamb steaks for dinner, and made sure Tabasco got every bone and every scrap. Even though she couldn't move to get anything, she seemed to be having the time of her life as we fed them to her.
Then, this morning when I came to her, I knew it was time. I couldn't make her wait till the vet opened on Monday. As absolutely revolting as it was to think about putting her down myself, a perfectly clear realization came to me: it was even more revolting to think about making her suffer a single additional day like this. And I couldn't make her do it. I cared about her too much. I cared about her so much, I knew in my core that I had to end this. Now.
How did I know? And how did I do it? Some of you may be uncomfortable with the details, but I think they need to be shared. For that reason, the details will be after the jump. Continue reading only if you want to.
(I don't know why the "Jump Break" doesn't work, so I'm inserting the following manual break instead.)
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Tabasco's inability to stand on her feet, or to squat to defecate, was the core of the problem. I didn't mind carrying her around, or holding her as she drank. The issue became hygiene, and it was a lot worse than I'd thought. Bottom line: flies started to love her. By Saturday afternoon, they were all over her rear end. Saturday night, I got a look at what they were doing to her: her orifices were crawling with fly larvae. I hosed her down, and that brought some relief. Her spirits, despite everything, seemed to remain high.
Then, this morning, the larvae were back with a vengeance. And she smelled absolutely horrible. And Tabasco's spirit was gone. I sat her on her tail in my lap, put on a latex glove, and used peroxide to clean her up as best I could. But as much as I cleaned, the larvae kept coming. And, despite the early hour, the adult flies were already swooping in to lay more eggs. I knew there was no way whatsoever we could let her go a full additional day in this condition. Not in this heat. Not in this humidity.
It was time.
I went in the house and advised Mrs. Yeoman Farmer as to the situation. She agreed there was really no other option. It'd be cruel in the extreme to make Tabasco linger for another 26 hours while we waited for the vet to open, and we certainly couldn't call a vet to the farm on a Sunday morning to administer an "emergency" euthanasia.
We broke it to the kids, who took it surprisingly well. I think the five weeks of preparation helped a lot with that. Homeschooled Farm Girl got choked up, brought me a fabric flower that she'd been saving, and asked if I would bury it with Tabasco. Despite the huge lump in my own throat, I assured her I would.
I took a shovel to the pasture, and dug the deepest hole I could. When I came back to retrieve Tabasco, Homeschooled Farm Boy asked if he could go with me. I let him carry my (unloaded) pistol, while I cradled Tabasco in a blanket for the trek.
We set Tabasco in the bottom of the hole, and helped her curl up as comfortably as we could. HFB and I both said our last good-byes, and then I covered her head with an old dish towel before delivering the bullet that would end everything.
I'd actually given a lot of though to the type of round I wanted to use. A shotgun slug or .45 pistol or 7.62x54R rifle would be too big. I didn't want to blow her head off. A .22 or .380 might be too small and not do the job the first time. I settled on a 7.62x25 pistol; it's a relatively small but extremely powerful round that would be effective without overkill.
And it indeed was the perfect choice. One pop (which, I confess, I closed my eyes as I delivered), and it was over. No doubt, but no mess. HFB and I quickly covered Tabasco's body with rocks, and then filled the hole the rest of the way with dirt. We tamped it down, and then made our way back to the house with heavy hearts.
Strangely, my heart didn't remain heavy for long. Yes, I felt a sad pang the first time I entered my office and looked for Tabasco's thumping tail greeting that would never come again. But, at the same time, I felt oddly liberated. It was over. Mrs. Yeoman Farmer agreed: it was a relief to finally have resolution to the situation. Finally, we knew how it was going to end. Finally, we could move on.
I'm still surprised I found it within myself to pull that trigger, and I've sensed an odd change within myself today as I've reflected on it. I'm a stronger person now. I've confronted and overcome a challenge I ever even wanted to confront, let alone overcome. The other big challenges in life seem strangely less insurmountable today.
All that said, I have missed Tabasco today. Especially when I was de-boning the meat for lamb stew, and thinking about how much she would enjoy feasting on the scraps...before remembering.
But it's going to be okay. Scooter loved those scraps. And Tabasco...I'm just glad her suffering is over. And I'm grateful God gave me the strength to render that service.
As regular readers know, we'd had Tabasco for nearly four years. We got her as a stray when we lived in Illinois; she showed up at the local rural animal shelter on the same day our Collie was hit by a car. Our vet happened to run the shelter (it was a really small county), and someone there knew we were looking for a new farm dog. Tabasco, it turned out, was a perfect fit. She was on the older side, and wasn't terribly large, but had plenty of spunk and energy. She had a wonderful temperament, was good with our kids, loved retrieving tennis balls, enjoyed riding around in cars, and made herself a fierce defender of our property (she was a determined enough "alpha" to stand up even to our Great Pyrenees...not to mention any intruders who might show up unannounced). She had long legs and a long narrow muzzle, and loved spending hours digging her way into field mouse dens. (Mrs. Yeoman Farmer didn't like it so much when these digs were in the middle of the lawn.)
As Tabasco got older, she increasingly spent her days with me in my office building. She'd go out to relieve herself, but grew less interested in everything else. She slept on my office couch each night, and was my constant companion by day as I worked. I found it particularly heartening when I'd return to the office after a few hours away...and find her curled up on my desk chair. She'd look up with her big eyes, thump her curly tail, and seem to be assuring me that she'd taken good care of my special place.
The first big turning point was last November, when we were gone for several weeks adopting Yeoman Farm Baby. Tabasco developed a hacking cough, bad enough that the family watching our farm mentioned it regularly over the phone. I took her to the vet once we'd returned, and x-rays confirmed a case of pneumonia. We gave her a course of antibiotics, which took care of the worst symptoms, but Tabasco was never the same. She seldom went out at all, or didn't seem interested in much of anything but eating and sleeping and watching me work. At the time, I chalked this up to the cold winter. But even when the spring thaw came, she never again tried to chase a tennis ball or tag along for chores. The kids would take her to the barn at milking time, but that was more about getting free squirts of milk than anything else.
Then came the bloat. As detailed in another post, her bloat got so bad about a month ago that I took her to the vet...who took another x-ray, and delivered the grim diagnosis: tumors all over her lungs. Technically, pulmonary edema, and possibly lung cancer. At her age, there wasn't much of anything we could do. The vet gave some medications to drain her fluid and open her airway, but there was never any question of Tabasco making a recovery. The medication was all about buying time so we could say goodbye.
And I am deeply grateful for that. When we were at the vet last month, he wasn't sure Tabasco would make it through the weekend. The news was such a shock, I broke down right there in the examining room. And then...the medications gave us five more weeks. Tabasco's bloat was dramatically reduced within a matter of days, and for the next three or four more weeks she seemed almost normal. Slow, subdued, uninterested in strenuous activity, urinating all the time --- but stable and able to get around. I treasured every time I walked through my office door and she looked up and thumped her tail. We gave her all the meat scraps and dog treats she would take, and told her over and over what a great great dog she was.
Then came the last week. Suddenly, she had a lot of trouble getting to her feet. Especially on the slick floor of my office. I told her that was okay; I'd help her get up. I wondered if it was a side effect of the steroids, or just her disease running its course. She'd have good days and bad days, but the general trajectory was downward. She went from having trouble getting up, to having trouble walking around. Her joints seemed stiff, and her hind quarters didn't want to follow her front quarters.
Then, a few days ago, she couldn't keep herself in a squatting position long enough to relieve herself. Or a standing position long enough to drink from her bucket. I'd hold her at the bucket so she could drink, but then she'd flop down on the grass. She seemed to like the fresh air, so I'd leave her out. And because she couldn't get to her feet on my office floor, I'd leave her out at night as long as it wasn't raining.
I sensed we'd reached a turning point, and began thinking more seriously about taking her in for the vet to put her down. I was certain I couldn't do it myself. I'm a dog person to the core, and Tabasco was my constant companion. Every fiber of my being revolted at the idea of inflicting harm on her body from my own hand. It'd taken four weeks just to get comfortable with the idea of cradling her in a blanket as I allowed a vet to put her to sleep. Tabasco was a survivor, and a fighter. As long as she was physically able to keep going and seemed to have the spirit to fight, I resolved to let her do it. I prayed she'd die on her own, but knowing her...I knew she wouldn't.
I wondered how I'd know when Tabasco couldn't go on, and I'd have to make The Call. She wasn't well at all yesterday, and I started to think Monday would be It. I began thinking about how I could squeeze a vet visit into my crazily busy schedule. I grilled a big batch of lamb steaks for dinner, and made sure Tabasco got every bone and every scrap. Even though she couldn't move to get anything, she seemed to be having the time of her life as we fed them to her.
Then, this morning when I came to her, I knew it was time. I couldn't make her wait till the vet opened on Monday. As absolutely revolting as it was to think about putting her down myself, a perfectly clear realization came to me: it was even more revolting to think about making her suffer a single additional day like this. And I couldn't make her do it. I cared about her too much. I cared about her so much, I knew in my core that I had to end this. Now.
How did I know? And how did I do it? Some of you may be uncomfortable with the details, but I think they need to be shared. For that reason, the details will be after the jump. Continue reading only if you want to.
(I don't know why the "Jump Break" doesn't work, so I'm inserting the following manual break instead.)
***********************************************
Tabasco's inability to stand on her feet, or to squat to defecate, was the core of the problem. I didn't mind carrying her around, or holding her as she drank. The issue became hygiene, and it was a lot worse than I'd thought. Bottom line: flies started to love her. By Saturday afternoon, they were all over her rear end. Saturday night, I got a look at what they were doing to her: her orifices were crawling with fly larvae. I hosed her down, and that brought some relief. Her spirits, despite everything, seemed to remain high.
Then, this morning, the larvae were back with a vengeance. And she smelled absolutely horrible. And Tabasco's spirit was gone. I sat her on her tail in my lap, put on a latex glove, and used peroxide to clean her up as best I could. But as much as I cleaned, the larvae kept coming. And, despite the early hour, the adult flies were already swooping in to lay more eggs. I knew there was no way whatsoever we could let her go a full additional day in this condition. Not in this heat. Not in this humidity.
It was time.
I went in the house and advised Mrs. Yeoman Farmer as to the situation. She agreed there was really no other option. It'd be cruel in the extreme to make Tabasco linger for another 26 hours while we waited for the vet to open, and we certainly couldn't call a vet to the farm on a Sunday morning to administer an "emergency" euthanasia.
We broke it to the kids, who took it surprisingly well. I think the five weeks of preparation helped a lot with that. Homeschooled Farm Girl got choked up, brought me a fabric flower that she'd been saving, and asked if I would bury it with Tabasco. Despite the huge lump in my own throat, I assured her I would.
I took a shovel to the pasture, and dug the deepest hole I could. When I came back to retrieve Tabasco, Homeschooled Farm Boy asked if he could go with me. I let him carry my (unloaded) pistol, while I cradled Tabasco in a blanket for the trek.
We set Tabasco in the bottom of the hole, and helped her curl up as comfortably as we could. HFB and I both said our last good-byes, and then I covered her head with an old dish towel before delivering the bullet that would end everything.
I'd actually given a lot of though to the type of round I wanted to use. A shotgun slug or .45 pistol or 7.62x54R rifle would be too big. I didn't want to blow her head off. A .22 or .380 might be too small and not do the job the first time. I settled on a 7.62x25 pistol; it's a relatively small but extremely powerful round that would be effective without overkill.
And it indeed was the perfect choice. One pop (which, I confess, I closed my eyes as I delivered), and it was over. No doubt, but no mess. HFB and I quickly covered Tabasco's body with rocks, and then filled the hole the rest of the way with dirt. We tamped it down, and then made our way back to the house with heavy hearts.
Strangely, my heart didn't remain heavy for long. Yes, I felt a sad pang the first time I entered my office and looked for Tabasco's thumping tail greeting that would never come again. But, at the same time, I felt oddly liberated. It was over. Mrs. Yeoman Farmer agreed: it was a relief to finally have resolution to the situation. Finally, we knew how it was going to end. Finally, we could move on.
I'm still surprised I found it within myself to pull that trigger, and I've sensed an odd change within myself today as I've reflected on it. I'm a stronger person now. I've confronted and overcome a challenge I ever even wanted to confront, let alone overcome. The other big challenges in life seem strangely less insurmountable today.
All that said, I have missed Tabasco today. Especially when I was de-boning the meat for lamb stew, and thinking about how much she would enjoy feasting on the scraps...before remembering.
But it's going to be okay. Scooter loved those scraps. And Tabasco...I'm just glad her suffering is over. And I'm grateful God gave me the strength to render that service.
30 July 2010
Hanging in Here
Sorry for the slow posting of late; we are here, but buried under the summer's work on the farm. Add to it a slew of professional work (my business is opinion research, particularly political, which spikes during the summer and fall months of even-numbered years), and it's been hard to come up for air.
For those who are curious, Tabasco continues to hang in there as well. We got a refill on her medications; I think the vet was a little surprised to hear she stabilized, but gave us a month's worth of pills for her. We've kept on spoiling her rotten, letting her have first crack at the best dinner scraps. She's been acting very old and slow, but content and not in a lot of pain. So...for the time being we're going to keep appreciating every extra day we get to have her in our lives, even as we prepare ourselves for the day when it's clear we won't be able to let her keep going on.
My goal for the weekend is to butcher the six remaining Pekin ducks. Or maybe fewer, if Homeschooled Farm Girl prevails and convinces me to keep a one or two of the females.
"Why do you want us to keep one?" I asked her.
"Because I like them," she replied.
When you're a Daddy's Girl, that's usually enough to prevail.
For those who are curious, Tabasco continues to hang in there as well. We got a refill on her medications; I think the vet was a little surprised to hear she stabilized, but gave us a month's worth of pills for her. We've kept on spoiling her rotten, letting her have first crack at the best dinner scraps. She's been acting very old and slow, but content and not in a lot of pain. So...for the time being we're going to keep appreciating every extra day we get to have her in our lives, even as we prepare ourselves for the day when it's clear we won't be able to let her keep going on.
My goal for the weekend is to butcher the six remaining Pekin ducks. Or maybe fewer, if Homeschooled Farm Girl prevails and convinces me to keep a one or two of the females.
"Why do you want us to keep one?" I asked her.
"Because I like them," she replied.
When you're a Daddy's Girl, that's usually enough to prevail.
13 July 2010
Our Survivor
Thanks to all who have responded with sympathy at the recent news that our dog, Tabasco, is dying. She's been a wonderful companion, and I'm going to miss her terribly.
She's also a scrappy survivor. We don't know how long she survived on the streets as a stray before we got her; she was scrawny and starved when she showed up at the animal shelter four years ago, and the experience probably took a permanent toll on her body. But she held her own against Tessa, the Great Pyrenees we had at the time. Tessa was built like a polar bear, and outweighed Tabasco by orders of magnitude, and considered herself the farm's Alpha. But Tabasco never backed away from a confrontation, and wasn't afraid to snarl back. We ended up having to keep them physically separated.
So, it takes a lot to keep Tabasco down. And, remarkably --- with the help of the medications the vet gave --- she's even been clawing her way back from her most recent medical problems. The diuretic has led to a dramatic reduction of her bloating...to the point where she's now getting thirsty and drinking significantly more. I wasn't crazy about mopping up the big "piddle puddles" she left in my office overnight this weekend, but it was a whole lot better than seeing her about to explode from bloat. The steroid the vet prescribed has helped her breathing a lot; Tabasco is getting around much better. She still doesn't run, but her walking gait is a lot closer to what it had been months ago. She's more perky, more interested in what's going on around her, and no longer looking like she wants the whole thing to be over.
We don't want it to be over, either. As long as she's willing to keep going, we're willing to let her. X-rays don't lie, and I'm not kidding myself about Tabasco's long-term prognosis. But we're deeply grateful the vet has bought us some quality time to get used to the idea of letting her go. And to spoil her rotten with all the good stuff she likes to eat.
She's also a scrappy survivor. We don't know how long she survived on the streets as a stray before we got her; she was scrawny and starved when she showed up at the animal shelter four years ago, and the experience probably took a permanent toll on her body. But she held her own against Tessa, the Great Pyrenees we had at the time. Tessa was built like a polar bear, and outweighed Tabasco by orders of magnitude, and considered herself the farm's Alpha. But Tabasco never backed away from a confrontation, and wasn't afraid to snarl back. We ended up having to keep them physically separated.
So, it takes a lot to keep Tabasco down. And, remarkably --- with the help of the medications the vet gave --- she's even been clawing her way back from her most recent medical problems. The diuretic has led to a dramatic reduction of her bloating...to the point where she's now getting thirsty and drinking significantly more. I wasn't crazy about mopping up the big "piddle puddles" she left in my office overnight this weekend, but it was a whole lot better than seeing her about to explode from bloat. The steroid the vet prescribed has helped her breathing a lot; Tabasco is getting around much better. She still doesn't run, but her walking gait is a lot closer to what it had been months ago. She's more perky, more interested in what's going on around her, and no longer looking like she wants the whole thing to be over.
We don't want it to be over, either. As long as she's willing to keep going, we're willing to let her. X-rays don't lie, and I'm not kidding myself about Tabasco's long-term prognosis. But we're deeply grateful the vet has bought us some quality time to get used to the idea of letting her go. And to spoil her rotten with all the good stuff she likes to eat.
09 July 2010
Saying Goodbye
That recent post about calling the vet, and calculating how much an animal is "worth" in vet bills, has now become highly relevant for us.
We have two farm dogs. Scooter the Border Collie gets most of the coverage here on the blog, because he's such a useful worker. He's young and very healthy, and loves nothing more than running with the livestock.
But there's also Tabasco. She got more posts in the past, but has since gotten old and much less active. She's largely been a companion, and spends her days and nights in my office. It's hard to ask for a better pet than she has been.
The problem is, she's been getting up there in years. Just how far, we don't know. We got her nearly four years ago (seems much longer, though); she showed up at the local animal shelter the exact same day our collie was killed by a car, and we welcomed her as an addition to our Illinois farm. The vet estimated her to be at least six years old, but no one knew for sure. Anyway, late last fall she developed pneumonia. The vet x-rayed her lungs, identified it, and gave me some antibiotics to treat it.
She seemed fine. Then, over the last couple of months, she's been getting increasingly slow and stiff. And then her belly began bloating. At first we thought that was a good thing; her days as a stray had left her very scrawny and bony, and it was nice to see her fill out a bit. But in recent days, the bloat has gotten so bad she's had trouble breathing.
I was finally able to get her in to the vet today, and Tabasco looked so bad they let us cut to the front of the line even without an appointment. The vet x-rayed her lungs again, and put the image next to the one from December. Not only was the pneumonia back, but there was something worse: lots of nasty-looking growths and masses in her lungs. Those had been invisibly microscopic in the December x-rays, but were now sizable. She's got a full-blown case of lung cancer, and it came upon her very fast.
Bottom line: at her age (and this vet estimates Tabasco is actually closer to 12-14 years old), there is nothing we can do to treat the cancer. And nothing we could've done, no matter when this had been diagnosed. Declining further treatment, in my mind, is a question of accepting the inevitible and not trying to prolong an animal's suffering. He gave her a shot of steroids (to clear her airway), and a diuretic (to drain the fluid that's been pooling behind her heart), and gave me a ten day supply of pills that'll keep doing the same. The vet totally understood that the whole family needs some time to say goodbye, and to get used to the idea of not having her with us. He cautioned that she may not even survive the weekend. But if she makes the ten days, we should call and decide what to do next.
I never thought I'd break down at a vet's office. After all, we lose animals all the time. I've personally put down any number of animals. But this was completely different. I managed to avoid totally sobbing until Tabasco and I were back at our car. I'm a dog person. And Tabasco is my companion dog. I'm going to miss her a lot.
In the meantime, I've had to let her out about a half dozen times to urinate --- which is good. Hopefully she'll get that fluid drained. And she's already getting around a little better. We're going to spoil her rotten for the next ten days, giving her all the choice stuff from our table. Scooter...he's just going to have to wait.
There's a novel I recently finished reading. It's called The Art of Racing in the Rain
. (Although I enjoyed the story, there are a number of reasons why I can't recommend it.) Anyway, if you happen to have read the book, you'll understand why a certain phrase has been in my mind since beginning the drive home from the vet:
Two barks means faster!
We have two farm dogs. Scooter the Border Collie gets most of the coverage here on the blog, because he's such a useful worker. He's young and very healthy, and loves nothing more than running with the livestock.
But there's also Tabasco. She got more posts in the past, but has since gotten old and much less active. She's largely been a companion, and spends her days and nights in my office. It's hard to ask for a better pet than she has been.
The problem is, she's been getting up there in years. Just how far, we don't know. We got her nearly four years ago (seems much longer, though); she showed up at the local animal shelter the exact same day our collie was killed by a car, and we welcomed her as an addition to our Illinois farm. The vet estimated her to be at least six years old, but no one knew for sure. Anyway, late last fall she developed pneumonia. The vet x-rayed her lungs, identified it, and gave me some antibiotics to treat it.
She seemed fine. Then, over the last couple of months, she's been getting increasingly slow and stiff. And then her belly began bloating. At first we thought that was a good thing; her days as a stray had left her very scrawny and bony, and it was nice to see her fill out a bit. But in recent days, the bloat has gotten so bad she's had trouble breathing.
I was finally able to get her in to the vet today, and Tabasco looked so bad they let us cut to the front of the line even without an appointment. The vet x-rayed her lungs again, and put the image next to the one from December. Not only was the pneumonia back, but there was something worse: lots of nasty-looking growths and masses in her lungs. Those had been invisibly microscopic in the December x-rays, but were now sizable. She's got a full-blown case of lung cancer, and it came upon her very fast.
Bottom line: at her age (and this vet estimates Tabasco is actually closer to 12-14 years old), there is nothing we can do to treat the cancer. And nothing we could've done, no matter when this had been diagnosed. Declining further treatment, in my mind, is a question of accepting the inevitible and not trying to prolong an animal's suffering. He gave her a shot of steroids (to clear her airway), and a diuretic (to drain the fluid that's been pooling behind her heart), and gave me a ten day supply of pills that'll keep doing the same. The vet totally understood that the whole family needs some time to say goodbye, and to get used to the idea of not having her with us. He cautioned that she may not even survive the weekend. But if she makes the ten days, we should call and decide what to do next.
I never thought I'd break down at a vet's office. After all, we lose animals all the time. I've personally put down any number of animals. But this was completely different. I managed to avoid totally sobbing until Tabasco and I were back at our car. I'm a dog person. And Tabasco is my companion dog. I'm going to miss her a lot.
In the meantime, I've had to let her out about a half dozen times to urinate --- which is good. Hopefully she'll get that fluid drained. And she's already getting around a little better. We're going to spoil her rotten for the next ten days, giving her all the choice stuff from our table. Scooter...he's just going to have to wait.
There's a novel I recently finished reading. It's called The Art of Racing in the Rain
. (Although I enjoyed the story, there are a number of reasons why I can't recommend it.) Anyway, if you happen to have read the book, you'll understand why a certain phrase has been in my mind since beginning the drive home from the vet: Two barks means faster!
11 June 2010
When to Call the Vet?
In some recent posts, an issue came up about calling in a veterinarian's help. We've experienced both extremes of veterinary availability: in Illinois, a large animal vet lived literally around the corner from us and could come pretty much any time; here, we can't even find a large animal vet (who does anything but horses). As one commenter pointed out, with livestock it is really necessary to do a cost-benefit analysis before calling a vet. How much is it worth to save a $150 animal?
We've found $50 to be about the limit for young goat kids who've developed pneunomia. We've driven a couple of them to the local "dog and cat" vet clinic, gotten them treated, and had them grow to butchering size. But given the cost of butchering, and of feeding them to get to that size, when you add another $50 you're basically just breaking even on the price of meat. And if the animal doesn't survive, you're out everything.
There's another element, however: we see ourselves as custodians or stewards of these animals, and therefore under an obligation to do what we can to maintain their health. For that reason, we're sometimes willing to spend more than an animal's replacement value, if necessary, and if the treatment promises to yield a good result.
Still, it's quite a different --- more utilitarian --- mentality than the approach many people have to veterinary care for their house pets. For many, a dog or cat is almost literally a member of their family, and they're willing to spend great sums to prolong that pet's life. I confess to a deep attachment to our dogs, and in most cases would spend significantly more on veterinary care than they are "worth". Barn cats are different; we (especially our kids) like them, and we do get them basic veterinary care, but they are expendible when their conditions are too complicated.
This issue has been on my mind the last couple of days, after reading a provocative piece on the NY Times website, which explored the amount people are willing to spend on a sick pet.
I do understand that for some people, a dog can be a beloved companion, especially in cases where a person does not have any children of his or her own, and prolonging the pet's life for several more years is worth more to the person than having some extra pieces of green paper in the bank --- particularly when the pet is relatively young and the prognosis for treatment is good. And when a person agrees to become the custodian of an animal, he is also agreeing to make some financial sacrifices on behalf of that animal.
The question I have to ask myself is, when does the amount cross the line from "responsible" to "disordered"? Where each individual draws that line is a matter for his own conscience, but it's something worth giving thought to.
For myself, I think it's a question of competing obligations. There were all kinds of things I was willing to spend money on before I was married or had kids, that now I would never consider spending so much on. Five grand might be an acceptable price for some people to spend saving a dog's life, given their financial and family circumstances. But if a vet quoted me that amount, in anticipation of treating my dog, as much as I love him and as much help as he is with the livestock on our farm, my thought would be: Five grand will cover all of our family's routine out-of-pocket medical and dental and vision care expenses for the next two years. How can I spend that on Scooter, when I have four kids who are depending on me to spend it on them?
Where do you draw that line for yourself?
We've found $50 to be about the limit for young goat kids who've developed pneunomia. We've driven a couple of them to the local "dog and cat" vet clinic, gotten them treated, and had them grow to butchering size. But given the cost of butchering, and of feeding them to get to that size, when you add another $50 you're basically just breaking even on the price of meat. And if the animal doesn't survive, you're out everything.
There's another element, however: we see ourselves as custodians or stewards of these animals, and therefore under an obligation to do what we can to maintain their health. For that reason, we're sometimes willing to spend more than an animal's replacement value, if necessary, and if the treatment promises to yield a good result.
Still, it's quite a different --- more utilitarian --- mentality than the approach many people have to veterinary care for their house pets. For many, a dog or cat is almost literally a member of their family, and they're willing to spend great sums to prolong that pet's life. I confess to a deep attachment to our dogs, and in most cases would spend significantly more on veterinary care than they are "worth". Barn cats are different; we (especially our kids) like them, and we do get them basic veterinary care, but they are expendible when their conditions are too complicated.
This issue has been on my mind the last couple of days, after reading a provocative piece on the NY Times website, which explored the amount people are willing to spend on a sick pet.
Most pet owners (62 percent) said they would likely pay for pet health care even if the cost reached $500, but that means more than a third of pet owners said that might be too much to spend on an animal.The piece says "only 22%" would pay five grand, but I was frankly surprised it was that large. Even more fascinating than the poll results in the piece itself are the comments people have made, detailing the enormous sums of money they have spent (and consider well-spent), sometimes just to prolong an animal's life by a few months.
What if the bill for veterinary care reached $1,000? Fewer than half of pet owners said they were very likely to spend that much at the vet. Only a third said it was very likely they would pay a $2,000 vet bill.
Once the cost of saving a sick pet reached $5,000, most pet owners said they would stop treatment. Only 22 percent said they were very likely to pick up $5,000 in veterinary costs to treat a sick dog or cat.
I do understand that for some people, a dog can be a beloved companion, especially in cases where a person does not have any children of his or her own, and prolonging the pet's life for several more years is worth more to the person than having some extra pieces of green paper in the bank --- particularly when the pet is relatively young and the prognosis for treatment is good. And when a person agrees to become the custodian of an animal, he is also agreeing to make some financial sacrifices on behalf of that animal.
The question I have to ask myself is, when does the amount cross the line from "responsible" to "disordered"? Where each individual draws that line is a matter for his own conscience, but it's something worth giving thought to.
For myself, I think it's a question of competing obligations. There were all kinds of things I was willing to spend money on before I was married or had kids, that now I would never consider spending so much on. Five grand might be an acceptable price for some people to spend saving a dog's life, given their financial and family circumstances. But if a vet quoted me that amount, in anticipation of treating my dog, as much as I love him and as much help as he is with the livestock on our farm, my thought would be: Five grand will cover all of our family's routine out-of-pocket medical and dental and vision care expenses for the next two years. How can I spend that on Scooter, when I have four kids who are depending on me to spend it on them?
Where do you draw that line for yourself?
22 February 2010
Coda on Mean
My apologies for the slow posting of late; things with work and the farm have kept us preocupied. Some of this has related to the legal process in adopting Yeoman Farm Baby --- which, by the way, is progressing nicely (we appreciate your ongoing prayers for this intention).
About a month ago, I wrote about the passing of a barn cat named Mean. She had a prolapsed rectum, and had to be put down. At the time, we puzzled over the choice the vet gave us: $15 to have her put to sleep on the spot, or $20 for an office visit if we took her home alive and put her down ourselves. After further discussion, Mrs. Yeoman Farmer and I came to a rough consensus about the price discrepancy: the vet's office probably gives the price break to ensure the animals die as humanely as possible. I'm a pretty good shot, but not everybody is. The vet probably heard enough horror stories about people putting three or four bullets into their pets, causing unnecessary trauma for both the animal and the family, to decide an incentive should be offered to get the job done on the spot.
We thought that would close the books on Mean. Then, a few days ago, we got a nice card in the mail from the vet's office. The outside was covered with an illustration of doe-eyed puppies, kittens, bunnies, and the like, and read "In Loving Memory of Your Pet." On the inside was a hand-written inscription reading:
Dear [Mrs Yeoman Farmer], A loyal companion is hard to find, hard to lose, and impossible to forget. May you find comfort in the knowledge that you were truly belssed to have shared your life with such a friend as Mean. Thinking of you in your time of loss.
And it was signed by every member of the vet's staff.
I want to emphasize that this card was extremely thoughtful, and very much appreciated...but it also sparked a conversation around our dinner table that was perhaps even more so. First off, we thought it was amusing to read the name "Mean" in the same sentence as the tender sentiments of pet friendship. "You know someone at the vet's office was chuckling when they wrote that," MYF commented (see the post linked above for more info about the name's origin). But secondly, and more importantly, we discussed why the vet's office probably sends these cards out: most families get so attached to their pets, and so "personify" their animals, losing one of them becomes as traumatic as losing a human member of the family. We've largely avoided that, by being vigilant in how we refer to the animals and treat them. Yes, it's still hard when one of them dies --- especially a barn cat that the kids enjoyed playing with, or a dog that was a constant companion [see the four "Goodbye to a Great Dog" posts linked in the right margin of the blog for an example]. But it's not the end of the world, and we don't construct memorials to them. By contrast, we have heard of some kids so stricken at a pet's death that their parents allow them to miss school so they can grieve.
Our kids were sad about Mean's death, but they got over it in relatively short order. It turned out to be good preparation, because we ended up going through an identical situation just last week: Mean's last surviving littermate, Hairy (yes, an extremely long-haired cat), also developed a prolapsed rectum. We caught it earlier this time, so thought perhaps the vet might be able to do something. MYF and the kids took Hairy in, but the vet said that once this kind of thing gets going at all there really isn't any treatment. Furthermore (and this was important), it wasn't that we did anything wrong. Cats can have a genetic predisposition to rectal prolapse, and that's clearly what happened here. Both littermates developed it within weeks of each other.
We told the kids that we could get another free kitten or two, the next time we see someone advertising them. Not surprisingly, all three of the older Yeoman Farm Children are urging me to start looking actively. And given the average life expectency we've had with barn cats, we may need to NOT have the new female kitten spayed, so we can produce some litters of our own in the future.
But that's okay. We and our kids understand well that both life and death are all part of the natural order of things. Especially on a farm.
About a month ago, I wrote about the passing of a barn cat named Mean. She had a prolapsed rectum, and had to be put down. At the time, we puzzled over the choice the vet gave us: $15 to have her put to sleep on the spot, or $20 for an office visit if we took her home alive and put her down ourselves. After further discussion, Mrs. Yeoman Farmer and I came to a rough consensus about the price discrepancy: the vet's office probably gives the price break to ensure the animals die as humanely as possible. I'm a pretty good shot, but not everybody is. The vet probably heard enough horror stories about people putting three or four bullets into their pets, causing unnecessary trauma for both the animal and the family, to decide an incentive should be offered to get the job done on the spot.
We thought that would close the books on Mean. Then, a few days ago, we got a nice card in the mail from the vet's office. The outside was covered with an illustration of doe-eyed puppies, kittens, bunnies, and the like, and read "In Loving Memory of Your Pet." On the inside was a hand-written inscription reading:
Dear [Mrs Yeoman Farmer], A loyal companion is hard to find, hard to lose, and impossible to forget. May you find comfort in the knowledge that you were truly belssed to have shared your life with such a friend as Mean. Thinking of you in your time of loss.
And it was signed by every member of the vet's staff.
I want to emphasize that this card was extremely thoughtful, and very much appreciated...but it also sparked a conversation around our dinner table that was perhaps even more so. First off, we thought it was amusing to read the name "Mean" in the same sentence as the tender sentiments of pet friendship. "You know someone at the vet's office was chuckling when they wrote that," MYF commented (see the post linked above for more info about the name's origin). But secondly, and more importantly, we discussed why the vet's office probably sends these cards out: most families get so attached to their pets, and so "personify" their animals, losing one of them becomes as traumatic as losing a human member of the family. We've largely avoided that, by being vigilant in how we refer to the animals and treat them. Yes, it's still hard when one of them dies --- especially a barn cat that the kids enjoyed playing with, or a dog that was a constant companion [see the four "Goodbye to a Great Dog" posts linked in the right margin of the blog for an example]. But it's not the end of the world, and we don't construct memorials to them. By contrast, we have heard of some kids so stricken at a pet's death that their parents allow them to miss school so they can grieve.
Our kids were sad about Mean's death, but they got over it in relatively short order. It turned out to be good preparation, because we ended up going through an identical situation just last week: Mean's last surviving littermate, Hairy (yes, an extremely long-haired cat), also developed a prolapsed rectum. We caught it earlier this time, so thought perhaps the vet might be able to do something. MYF and the kids took Hairy in, but the vet said that once this kind of thing gets going at all there really isn't any treatment. Furthermore (and this was important), it wasn't that we did anything wrong. Cats can have a genetic predisposition to rectal prolapse, and that's clearly what happened here. Both littermates developed it within weeks of each other.
We told the kids that we could get another free kitten or two, the next time we see someone advertising them. Not surprisingly, all three of the older Yeoman Farm Children are urging me to start looking actively. And given the average life expectency we've had with barn cats, we may need to NOT have the new female kitten spayed, so we can produce some litters of our own in the future.
But that's okay. We and our kids understand well that both life and death are all part of the natural order of things. Especially on a farm.
22 May 2009
Dispactched
As I pulled up to the house at about 6:30 this evening, I spotted an animal running erratically along the shoulder of the road about 50 feet or so ahead. It was roughly the size of a large cat, but I'd never seen one of our barn cats that far off our property --- and certainly not running along the side of the road in this manner. Not able to get a better look at the animal's markings, I dismissed it and turned into the driveway.
As Mrs Yeoman Farmer used a hose to water newly-planted bushes in the front yard, I went inside and began cooking dinner. A moment later, she came running into the house with an urgent request: "Get your gun! There is a sick, rabid-looking raccoon wandering around in the street."
So that was it. No wonder I hadn't been able to recognize the animal at first --- raccoons are never out in the daytime, and they certainly never run around like this one was. Unless, of course, they're rapid.
I dashed upstairs, grabbed the 12-gauge pump shotgun we use for home defense, and then hurried out to the road. The raccoon had now crossed to our side of the street, and was looking as disoriented as ever. Two cars were coming, so I stood just off the road. Strange as I must have looked, standing there holding a large shotgun, neither car so much as slowed down to get a better look at me. Once both had passed, I raised the shotgun to my shoulder, lined the coon up, and blasted.
Because rabid animals are known to charge and attack, I hadn't wanted to get too close to my target. As a result, I didn't score a direct hit with enough of my nine pieces of 00 buckshot to kill the coon. He was definitely wounded, but still on his feet.
I racked another shell into the chamber, and took a couple of steps toward him before firing again. This blast took him off his feet. As he rolled around on the shoulder of the road, I knew he'd never survive these wounds --- but I wanted him all the way dead. Now.
Except there was a small problem: another car was coming. I stepped back from the road, sheepishly holding the shotgun in my arms, wondering if the driver was at all curious as to what I was doing. If he was, he didn't indicate it by slowing down. Once he was safely past, I racked a third shell and again approached the coon. As he was now unable to charge me, I got to within about ten feet before letting go with my final shot --- and this one left no doubt.
MYF and I were both concerned about leaving a dead rabid coon on the side of the road, especially with the propensity our dogs and cats have for poking around and exploring. And what would happen if some scavenger cleaned up this carcass? Could the disease spread wider into the local wildlife population? Plus, we weren't sure if the game department needed to be informed about the situation.
I made a quick call to the local Department of Natural Resources, and the woman I spoke with assured me that there was no need for them to catalog the kill. Coons are terrible spreaders of disease, she said, and I shouldn't hesitate to dispatch them any time they come on our property. As for this one, she told me, I could either bury it or carefully dispose of it in the trash. I chose the latter. After donning latex gloves, I dropped the carcass into a large paper feed bag and then secured it in the trash can. And then washed my hands thoroughly.
What I still can't get over is how totally nonplussed the drivers were as they went past me. As one who grew up in a quiet Seattle subdivision, and lived in fairly densely populated neighborhoods for most of my adult life, I can imagine the utter panic (and calls to the police) that would have ensued if I had walked any of those streets with a 12-gauge pump shotgun over my shoulder.
It really is different out here. And I can't imagine living anywhere else.
As Mrs Yeoman Farmer used a hose to water newly-planted bushes in the front yard, I went inside and began cooking dinner. A moment later, she came running into the house with an urgent request: "Get your gun! There is a sick, rabid-looking raccoon wandering around in the street."
So that was it. No wonder I hadn't been able to recognize the animal at first --- raccoons are never out in the daytime, and they certainly never run around like this one was. Unless, of course, they're rapid.
I dashed upstairs, grabbed the 12-gauge pump shotgun we use for home defense, and then hurried out to the road. The raccoon had now crossed to our side of the street, and was looking as disoriented as ever. Two cars were coming, so I stood just off the road. Strange as I must have looked, standing there holding a large shotgun, neither car so much as slowed down to get a better look at me. Once both had passed, I raised the shotgun to my shoulder, lined the coon up, and blasted.
Because rabid animals are known to charge and attack, I hadn't wanted to get too close to my target. As a result, I didn't score a direct hit with enough of my nine pieces of 00 buckshot to kill the coon. He was definitely wounded, but still on his feet.
I racked another shell into the chamber, and took a couple of steps toward him before firing again. This blast took him off his feet. As he rolled around on the shoulder of the road, I knew he'd never survive these wounds --- but I wanted him all the way dead. Now.
Except there was a small problem: another car was coming. I stepped back from the road, sheepishly holding the shotgun in my arms, wondering if the driver was at all curious as to what I was doing. If he was, he didn't indicate it by slowing down. Once he was safely past, I racked a third shell and again approached the coon. As he was now unable to charge me, I got to within about ten feet before letting go with my final shot --- and this one left no doubt.
MYF and I were both concerned about leaving a dead rabid coon on the side of the road, especially with the propensity our dogs and cats have for poking around and exploring. And what would happen if some scavenger cleaned up this carcass? Could the disease spread wider into the local wildlife population? Plus, we weren't sure if the game department needed to be informed about the situation.
I made a quick call to the local Department of Natural Resources, and the woman I spoke with assured me that there was no need for them to catalog the kill. Coons are terrible spreaders of disease, she said, and I shouldn't hesitate to dispatch them any time they come on our property. As for this one, she told me, I could either bury it or carefully dispose of it in the trash. I chose the latter. After donning latex gloves, I dropped the carcass into a large paper feed bag and then secured it in the trash can. And then washed my hands thoroughly.
What I still can't get over is how totally nonplussed the drivers were as they went past me. As one who grew up in a quiet Seattle subdivision, and lived in fairly densely populated neighborhoods for most of my adult life, I can imagine the utter panic (and calls to the police) that would have ensued if I had walked any of those streets with a 12-gauge pump shotgun over my shoulder.
It really is different out here. And I can't imagine living anywhere else.
18 March 2009
Late Night...With Queen Anne's Lace
We have three dairy goat does: Queen Anne's Lace (our original doe, bred and drying up but not currently being milked) and her two daughters, both of whom recently had twin kids. Those two daughters, Button and Marigold, get a ration of supplemental grain in the morning and evening; this helps them keep their milk production up, ensuring their hungry kids get as much as they need.
In the mornings, I scoop that grain into a pan and set it in an empty stall in the barn. At the sound of the grain hitting the pan, Button and Marigold eagerly stand on the gate and look to see what's taking me so long. Scooter the Border Collie also knows the routine, and plants himself just outside their gate. Once I open the gate, Scooter's position blocks the goats from going anywhere but toward the empty stall with the grain. (Not like they need any help from Scooter --- both goats make a beeline for that grain even when he's not with me.)
I then re-latch the gate, and get hay for the sheep while the goats eat their grain. By the time I return from the sheep pen, the two goats are finished and ready to be let back in to the main goat area. Once they're back in, I secure the gate behind them.
Homeschooled Farm Girl takes care of this chore in the evenings, and it usually goes off without a hitch...except when it doesn't. Last night, she apparently didn't get the gate secured all the way. While we were inside eating dinner, and then spending a little time watching something on the History Channel, the goats managed to get their gate open and disperse themselves all over the barn. Queen Anne's Lace (QAL), being the largest, oldest, and smartest doe, knew that a couple of swift head-butts to the grain can would manage to tip it over --- and she wasted no time settling in for a feast.
Homeschooled Farm Boy didn't discover this disaster until he stopped by the barn to turn the lights off for the night. With Scooter's help, he managed to get all the goats back in their pen...but he was concerned about the amount of grain that QAL had ingested. If a goat eats too much grain all at once, they can develop a terrible (even fatal) case of bloat. He had me come out and take a look at her, but not much time had elapsed yet. QAL still looked fine. But as Mrs Yeoman Farmer was concerned she might still develop bloat, I agreed to check back a little later.
Back out in the barn at 11pm, it was unmistakable: we had a terribly bloated goat. Remember those old Alka-Seltzer commercials, where the person blows up like a balloon and moans, "I can't believe I ate the whole thing"? That was the look that QAL was giving me.
MYF swung into action, getting out one of her natural goat care books and reviewing the instructions for dealing with bloat. We put a half cup of olive oil into a jar, got out a new 30cc syringe (with no needle), and together headed to the barn. Somehow, with MYF straddling QAL to hold her in place (and shoo away all the other goats, who were terribly curious and wanting to get in on the action), I managed to drench all of the olive oil down the goat's throat. Then came the really fun part: trying to get QAL to run around outside, and heavily massaging her bloated belly every time she stopped. Given her bloated state, running around seemed the last thing on her mind --- and goats can be very stubborn when they make up their minds about something. Even Scooter wasn't much help in getting her to move.
We managed to get QAL to belch a few times, but weren't making too much progress. MYF sent me in the house for another half cup of olive oil, which we again drenched down the goat's throat. More belly massage. More trying to get her to run.
At least it was a really nice night to be out --- clear sky, huge canopy of stars, and comfortably warm (hey, after the winter we had, 50F feels sweltering). As we worked with the goat, alternating between running and massaging and listening for belching, MYF and I found ourselves having a fun time joking and chatting and getting caught up on what's been going on.
Finally, at midnight, we figured we'd gotten all the gas out of QAL that we were going to get out. We returned her and Scooter to the barn, double-checked that the goat gate was secure, turned out the lights, and called it a night. Back at the house, I fell into bed and went right to sleep.
This morning, before doing anything else, I headed straight to the barn to check on QAL. She looked a bit tired, and still a little on the large side, but no longer bloated. Her udder and teats looked fairly full of milk; that could be an effect of the grain, and I'm hoping it doesn't mean she's about to deliver her kids. But I may have our children put her in the stanchion and see if they can milk her out today.
There's never a dull moment on a farm. Even when you might really, really want one. Like at 11pm on St Patrick's Day.
But we still wouldn't trade this life for anything.
17 February 2009
Kidding Some More
When I got to the barn at 7:30 this morning to do chores, two new little surprises were waiting:
The kids, both males, belong to Marigold --- the twin sister of Button, the goat which kidded exactly two weeks ago. Fortunately, Button's kids have been doing very well in the kidding pen we put together for them. They only needed the heat lamp for a couple of days, and have gone on to be very spry and active.
But back to Marigold. Both of her kids were huddling in the dirt of the main goat stall, sopping wet, with the afterbirth still hanging out of Marigold's rear end. Clearly, they had just dropped out within the last hour. And with the temperature in that drafty part of the barn hovering at roughly 32 degrees, I didn't want them to stay there for long.
With all the other adult goats distracted by the hay I'd just put out for them, I enlisted Scooter's help for the logistics of a "stall swap." Once the gate to Button's kidding pen was opened, she seemed more than ready to push her way out; after two weeks of confinement, I couldn't blame her. With some nudging from Scooter, we easily led her into the main goat area. I then retrieved both of Button's kids and carried them to that same area.
While this was going on, a couple of other goats noticed that the gate to their main area was open --- and they began coming out to explore the rest of the barn. Fortunately, Scooter got in their faces and quickly put an end to that little adventure. (I love Border Collies, and don't know what we'd do without one.) I then scooped up the two shivering and wet newborns, carried them to the kidding pen, and plugged in the heat lamp. Both of them bleated plaintively, and continued shivering, but seemed to appreciate the heat. Finally, with Scooter standing guard at the gate, I grabbed Marigold's collar and led her to the kidding pen. As she worked to finish expelling the afterbirth, I secured all the gates to the various pens.
Before going back to the house, I took a moment to survey the scene. Button's kids were prancing around the main goat area with abandon. Button and the other adults were all chowing down on hay. Marigold's kids were still huddled under the heat lamp, so I made a note to check on them again to make sure Marigold licked them off and got them nursing.
Sure enough, when we returned from Mass (at roughly 9:30), the two newborns were tottering around the kidding pen. They were still quite wet, and splay-legged, but were definitely mobile and definitely nursing. We'll certainly keep close tabs on the whole goat situation throughout the day, but so far it looks like we've had another successful kidding.
And our children will soon enough have another doe to milk. But, as Homeschooled Farm Boy observed, "I'm glad they're both males. We won't have to milk them when they grow up." Then, picking up on my glare and realizing what a bad attitude this was, he quickly added, "And it's good we'll be getting good goat meat from them!"
Yes, indeed. Yum.
03 February 2009
Midwinter Surprise
We've had a foot of snow on the ground for over a month now. I can't remember the last time the temperature climbed above freezing. Mrs Yeoman Farmer's mail-order garden seeds have been arriving nearly ever day, but I'm wondering when we'll ever be able to plant them.
In short: it is really, really, really dreary and depressing here in Michigan. Has been for some time, and will be for the foreseeable future.
And then, today, a surprise greeted me in the barn when I went out to do the afternoon chores:
Yes, a goat kid. In fact, TWIN goat kids:
I hurried back to the house and announced the news. The children cheered and screamed with excitement, and I've never seen them move so quickly to get dressed. Within minutes, all of us were out in the barn to look at our two new beautiful little girls (both do appear to be female).
Unfortunately, the kidding pen was in serious disrepair. Fortunately, I'd patched the fence and installed a new gate a few weeks ago --- but the pen itself was full of junk, and we had no water bucket set up in there. And the gate needed some chain link material fastened to it, to keep little kids from slipping out.
Our whole family went to work, clearing the junk from the kidding pen and getting it ready for our new arrivals. I set up a 250W heat lamp (usually used for brooding chicks), so the kids could get some extra warmth for the next couple of weeks. Mrs Yeoman Farmer found some goat mineral. I brought an armload of clean straw down from the loft. Homeschooled Farm Girl carried both goat kids to the pen, while I made sure their mother ("Button") followed. I then got her some grain, and MYF put some hay in her feeder.
As the kids got accustomed to their new pen, MYF and I went to work fastening chain link material to the gate. Apart from being cold (and freezing our fingers), that went off without a hitch. I went to the house and filled a bucket with warm water, and brought it back out for Button. She slurped it like there was no tomorrow.
The most amusing participant in this whole circus was Scooter, our Border Collie mix. Bottom line: it astounds me the instincts that God has given him. As MYF and I worked on the gate, Scooter hovered protectively over the goat kids. He nudged and herded the barn cats away from them, and then sat down to lick the amniotic fluid off one of the kids. When both kids were near Button, Scooter made sure he approached them in his most "subservient" posture: head down, full crouch, tail between his legs --- as if to communicate to Button that he didn't represent a threat, and was only here to help. Once near the new little goat family, he stood protectively and continued nudging the barn cats away.
At last, everything was set and the chores were finished. Scooter and I returned to my office, and the children excitedly returned to the house to finish their schoolwork. Just another dreary midwinter day at the farm...made much brighter by the addition of two beautiful new lives.
07 September 2008
Now, From the Dog
We spend a lot of time following politics in our family, and spent most nights of both conventions eating dinner in my office as we watched the proceedings. And it's been interesting to see the sorts of things the kids have been absorbing.
To preface this story: long-time readers know we have two farm dogs. Scooter is a mostly-black border collie mix, while Tabasco is an Australian Red Healer mix. Both dogs spend a lot of time in my office while I'm working.
A couple of evenings ago, I was typing away at my computer. Homeschooled Farm Girl (HFG), age 9, was sitting with both dogs on the couch across the room. Holding Tabasco in her lap, and moving Tabasco's muzzle up and down as if the dog was talking, HFG began to extemporize a television commercial:
Everybody should vote for John McCain. Scooter was going to vote for Barack Obama, because he's black. But I convinced him he should vote for John McCain. I'm Tabasco, and I approved this message.
I nearly fell out of my chair laughing, but HFG still doesn't understand what's so funny. And that in itself, I must say, makes it even funnier.
To preface this story: long-time readers know we have two farm dogs. Scooter is a mostly-black border collie mix, while Tabasco is an Australian Red Healer mix. Both dogs spend a lot of time in my office while I'm working.
A couple of evenings ago, I was typing away at my computer. Homeschooled Farm Girl (HFG), age 9, was sitting with both dogs on the couch across the room. Holding Tabasco in her lap, and moving Tabasco's muzzle up and down as if the dog was talking, HFG began to extemporize a television commercial:
Everybody should vote for John McCain. Scooter was going to vote for Barack Obama, because he's black. But I convinced him he should vote for John McCain. I'm Tabasco, and I approved this message.
I nearly fell out of my chair laughing, but HFG still doesn't understand what's so funny. And that in itself, I must say, makes it even funnier.
09 April 2008
Culler Dog
I think tragedy is always most painful when it's most unexpected.
This evening, Homeschooled Farm Boy (HFB) and I were out tending the sheep, and we had Tabasco (the Red Healer / Australian Shepherd mix) with us. Scooter the Amazing Wonderdog was also there. For whatever reason, Tabasco got extremely agitated about the nine lambs running around in the sheep area, and was barking at them like crazy. Scooter, for his part, simply stuck his face through the fence and tried to make sure any adventurous lambs didn't try to slip out of the pen.
HFB and I finished the chores, and went outside to work on the fence for Mrs Yeoman Farmer's new garden. Scooter came with us, and helped chase chickens away from the newly-plowed beds. Tabasco disappeared from our radar, which is not atypical for her.
Ten minutes or so later, I needed a particular tool. I walked toward the garage, and momentarily got a good line of sight into the sheep area. Tabasco had gotten in (she's like a rat - able to squeeze through impossibly tight holes) and was doing something to one of the lambs. I shouted at her, ran and hurdled the gate, and then discovered...the lamb in question was DEAD. She'd apparently shaken it to death, as it was like a rag doll in my arms. I jostled and jostled it, but there was no response.
Needless to say, I beat the living daylights out of Tabasco as I shook the lamb in her face. She did seem cowed and submissive (by her standards, anyhow) after that, and crept along to my office. What stuns me is how out of character this is for her; I've never seen her kill anything but mice and rats before this. She somehow thought the lambs were predators or intruders --- while Scooter instinctively realized they are livestock to protect and herd.
Obviously, I spent much of the evening in a funk. But as I explained to HFB, if we could've picked one lamb to kill early---this would've been the one. She was a triplet female, and was by far the smallest we had. She was barely gaining weight; definitely the runt of the litter. In a year when all the lambs are inbred (and so we'll be butchering everything), she would've yielded much less meat than any other. And with her eliminated, her two remaining brothers will get a bigger share of the milk. Thank God this didn't happen to a lamb that was the only offspring; the ewe would've simply dried up.
So, we'll be keeping a much tighter leash on Tabasco and keeping her away from the livestock. She's the best companion animal we've ever had, and I love having her around. I just wish she was half as good with animals as she is with people.
This evening, Homeschooled Farm Boy (HFB) and I were out tending the sheep, and we had Tabasco (the Red Healer / Australian Shepherd mix) with us. Scooter the Amazing Wonderdog was also there. For whatever reason, Tabasco got extremely agitated about the nine lambs running around in the sheep area, and was barking at them like crazy. Scooter, for his part, simply stuck his face through the fence and tried to make sure any adventurous lambs didn't try to slip out of the pen.
HFB and I finished the chores, and went outside to work on the fence for Mrs Yeoman Farmer's new garden. Scooter came with us, and helped chase chickens away from the newly-plowed beds. Tabasco disappeared from our radar, which is not atypical for her.
Ten minutes or so later, I needed a particular tool. I walked toward the garage, and momentarily got a good line of sight into the sheep area. Tabasco had gotten in (she's like a rat - able to squeeze through impossibly tight holes) and was doing something to one of the lambs. I shouted at her, ran and hurdled the gate, and then discovered...the lamb in question was DEAD. She'd apparently shaken it to death, as it was like a rag doll in my arms. I jostled and jostled it, but there was no response.
Needless to say, I beat the living daylights out of Tabasco as I shook the lamb in her face. She did seem cowed and submissive (by her standards, anyhow) after that, and crept along to my office. What stuns me is how out of character this is for her; I've never seen her kill anything but mice and rats before this. She somehow thought the lambs were predators or intruders --- while Scooter instinctively realized they are livestock to protect and herd.
Obviously, I spent much of the evening in a funk. But as I explained to HFB, if we could've picked one lamb to kill early---this would've been the one. She was a triplet female, and was by far the smallest we had. She was barely gaining weight; definitely the runt of the litter. In a year when all the lambs are inbred (and so we'll be butchering everything), she would've yielded much less meat than any other. And with her eliminated, her two remaining brothers will get a bigger share of the milk. Thank God this didn't happen to a lamb that was the only offspring; the ewe would've simply dried up.
So, we'll be keeping a much tighter leash on Tabasco and keeping her away from the livestock. She's the best companion animal we've ever had, and I love having her around. I just wish she was half as good with animals as she is with people.
04 March 2008
Snoopy?
Remember those old Peanuts cartoons, where Snoopy perches on top of his dog house like a vulture?
I was just sitting here in my office, when Tabasco (our red healer mix) sudde
nly scrambled onto the back of the couch and assumed the same position, gazing intently out the window. The window in the background screwed up the lighting, but I couldn't resist snapping a photo anyway.
nly scrambled onto the back of the couch and assumed the same position, gazing intently out the window. The window in the background screwed up the lighting, but I couldn't resist snapping a photo anyway.Never did figure out what she was so worked up about. But I love being able to work with dogs in my office.
13 February 2008
Kidding Again!
Our first goat kid of the year dropped this afternoon! It was a single, but a milestone: not only the first animal of any kind born on our new farm, but also the first kid born to a goat that was herself born to us.
I don't have photos, because I haven't actually seen this kid. Naturally, the doe waited until I was safely off the property and driving to Illinois for the night (I'm delivering guest lectures to a couple of political science courses at the U of I tomorrow). Mrs Yeoman Farmer did, well, yeoman's work in tending to the newborn. The delivery had gone smoothly, but with 20 degree weather the newborn kid was shivering badly. And the goat buck (who we still haven't managed to separate into his own stall), who is normally quite compliant and subserviant to the older and larger does, suddenly began acting out badly.
MYF used pasture gates to rig up an enclosure in the barn for the doe and her newborn kid, and also rigged up a heat lamp to provide a bit more warmpth tonight. This was no easy task, as all our poultry brooding lamps had either broken or been left behind in IL. She made a special trip out to Tractor Supply, bought everything we need, and then spent hours getting all the animals situated. At long last (9pm), she was finished and gave me a call to fill me in on everything before eating dinner. Yes, you read that correctly: 9pm and she still hadn't eaten dinner. For those of you contemplating farm life, that's what can happen to your schedule when newborns pick inconvenient times to drop in (or the sheep pick an inconvenient time to break through a gate, or...or...)
Anyway, back to our story. Even separated, the goat buck began sticking his head through the fence and harassing the doe and newborn kid. He even managed to latch on to one of her teats and begin nursing! Sheesh! MYF began yelling at him and hitting at his head, but he persisted.
Suddenly, from stage right, enter...Scooter the Amazing Wonder Dog! Somehow realizing exactly what the problem was, even without being called or asked to help, he tore into the stall and got all over the buck's face. The buck tried to hit back, but Scooter bit at his nose. The buck pulled back, ran down the fence, and tried sticking his head through another area. Scooter shadowed him all the way, and was right in his face again when he came through. Back and forth they went, Scooter's tail wagging crazily in delight, frustrating the buck's every move. MYF is not a dog person, but cheered Scooter on all the way.
The funny thing about Scooter is that he's not really very smart. At one point, MYF commented that we should've named him "Odie," after the brainless dog in the Garfield comic strip. And MYF frequently calls him "Stupid," like it's his own common name --- and Scooter responds to it! ("Come here, Stupid. Sit, Stupid. Good boy, Stupid.") And yet, despite his stupidity, Scooter has an unbelievable talent with herding and managing livestock. It's truly a beautiful thing to behold, and I'm sorry I wasn't there to watch him work. (And, yes, MYF, I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you.)
I've jokingly begun referring to Scooter as the "Sheep Herding Wizard," as in the Who's classic song "Pinball Wizard". Just as the "deaf, dumb and blind kid" in the song can nonetheless "sure play a mean pin ball," Scooter seems to excel despite (and perhaps even because) of his lack of brains. Just a few weeks ago, late at night, all the sheep managed to get out of the barn and way out into one of the fields. That wasn't a problem for Scooter; together, he and I (but mostly he) got them all rounded up and back in the barn almost before MYF could get her coat on and come out to help us. And I was left asking myself, "How do you think he does it? I don't know / What makes him so good..."
I had to laugh when the "best in show" winner of the Westminster Dog Show was announced today, and the newscasters were singing the praises of that prancing beagle. Scooter will never win anything like that, because he's a plain old mixed-breed working dog --- not a show dog. And while he may not be the brightest bulb in the barn, he's certainly the most indispensible.
I don't have photos, because I haven't actually seen this kid. Naturally, the doe waited until I was safely off the property and driving to Illinois for the night (I'm delivering guest lectures to a couple of political science courses at the U of I tomorrow). Mrs Yeoman Farmer did, well, yeoman's work in tending to the newborn. The delivery had gone smoothly, but with 20 degree weather the newborn kid was shivering badly. And the goat buck (who we still haven't managed to separate into his own stall), who is normally quite compliant and subserviant to the older and larger does, suddenly began acting out badly.
MYF used pasture gates to rig up an enclosure in the barn for the doe and her newborn kid, and also rigged up a heat lamp to provide a bit more warmpth tonight. This was no easy task, as all our poultry brooding lamps had either broken or been left behind in IL. She made a special trip out to Tractor Supply, bought everything we need, and then spent hours getting all the animals situated. At long last (9pm), she was finished and gave me a call to fill me in on everything before eating dinner. Yes, you read that correctly: 9pm and she still hadn't eaten dinner. For those of you contemplating farm life, that's what can happen to your schedule when newborns pick inconvenient times to drop in (or the sheep pick an inconvenient time to break through a gate, or...or...)
Anyway, back to our story. Even separated, the goat buck began sticking his head through the fence and harassing the doe and newborn kid. He even managed to latch on to one of her teats and begin nursing! Sheesh! MYF began yelling at him and hitting at his head, but he persisted.
Suddenly, from stage right, enter...Scooter the Amazing Wonder Dog! Somehow realizing exactly what the problem was, even without being called or asked to help, he tore into the stall and got all over the buck's face. The buck tried to hit back, but Scooter bit at his nose. The buck pulled back, ran down the fence, and tried sticking his head through another area. Scooter shadowed him all the way, and was right in his face again when he came through. Back and forth they went, Scooter's tail wagging crazily in delight, frustrating the buck's every move. MYF is not a dog person, but cheered Scooter on all the way.
The funny thing about Scooter is that he's not really very smart. At one point, MYF commented that we should've named him "Odie," after the brainless dog in the Garfield comic strip. And MYF frequently calls him "Stupid," like it's his own common name --- and Scooter responds to it! ("Come here, Stupid. Sit, Stupid. Good boy, Stupid.") And yet, despite his stupidity, Scooter has an unbelievable talent with herding and managing livestock. It's truly a beautiful thing to behold, and I'm sorry I wasn't there to watch him work. (And, yes, MYF, I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you.)
I've jokingly begun referring to Scooter as the "Sheep Herding Wizard," as in the Who's classic song "Pinball Wizard". Just as the "deaf, dumb and blind kid" in the song can nonetheless "sure play a mean pin ball," Scooter seems to excel despite (and perhaps even because) of his lack of brains. Just a few weeks ago, late at night, all the sheep managed to get out of the barn and way out into one of the fields. That wasn't a problem for Scooter; together, he and I (but mostly he) got them all rounded up and back in the barn almost before MYF could get her coat on and come out to help us. And I was left asking myself, "How do you think he does it? I don't know / What makes him so good..."
I had to laugh when the "best in show" winner of the Westminster Dog Show was announced today, and the newscasters were singing the praises of that prancing beagle. Scooter will never win anything like that, because he's a plain old mixed-breed working dog --- not a show dog. And while he may not be the brightest bulb in the barn, he's certainly the most indispensible.
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