owl, cruising and perusing

It's a soggy but sunny afternoon. We can hear the hollow sound of waves crashing along the island's southern shore, the storm's aftermath. We've been seeing an owl lately, out in broad daylight, cruising the bog -- a barred owl, I think.
It comes up close to the house, closer than you might expect it to.
It spent the afternoon swooping back and forth.
Then it rested and gazed all about with its owlish eyes. Lyndon thinks it's scoping out the hens.

first day of the season

It's a tranquil scene today. The fierce winds have vanished and the island is surrounded by a serene and peaceful sea.
But from within the forest echo the ominous sounds of gun shots.
Today is the first day of deer hunting season.
Danger lurks deep in these dark woods.
The hens confer. Well, three of the hens confer. The topic of today's conference: do hunters shoot chickens?
Their brave commander flies to her battlement, from whence she will keep watch. Though she might do better to look in the direction of the forest. Behind her.

rainy day activities

Earl turned out to be a bit of a blowhard, but it was a good day to be indoors. The kitchen was a peaceful place today, and smelled pretty heavenly. Greg added three cups of blueberries to the first batch of applesauce.
This applesauce maker is a brilliant invention, as you can see.
Jars of blueberry applesauce.Unadorned applesauce, incredibly good. Also, apple butter is in the crockpot ...
...then there's this apple tart with apricot glaze.
The hens thought maybe we would invite them in for applesauce.

hurricane watch

We don't expect much drama from Hurricane Earl when he arrives tomorrow morning. By then he will likely have melted, wicked witch-like, into something that more resembles a gale. He'll either be windy rain or rainy wind. Either way, we're ready. Greg has put away all the signs, chairs, chariots, garbage cans, and boats: anything that could fly or crash.

Today he picked the ripe-enough apples that might blow down, and I picked more beans, since their brittle plants are likely to blow away,
and the basil, since it could get smashed too.
The tomatoes dangling greenly I leave in the hand of God. The kitchen is ready for Greg to turn it into an applesauce and pesto factory tonight. I'm sure it's pesto and applesauce the authorities mean when they talk about storm preparation.
We don't need to worry about losing power. There will be plenty of wind for the turbine.
And -- all on their own initiative, I might add -- the hens have decided to go on hurricane watch. They have taken up a strategic position from which they are staring in three directions for signs of Earl. When the last hen has laid her day's egg, she'll join the guard. Her assigned position will be looking east, so I think she will miss all the excitement.

unreciprocated attention

This lamb is curious about the hen, but the hen is focusing on what there is to eat. Asymmetrical regard makes the world go round.

orchard showdown

We have been bereft of sheep, mostly, since before the lambs were born at the end of May. Either they don't like us personally, or the grazing is good enough down where they prefer to hang out, in the southwest quadrant, where, really, nobody bothers them. They are wild, after all. Anyway, they have only been coming around in small groups, a couple of ewes with their lambs and their last year's lambs, which after a year are called hoggets, maybe half a dozen in all.

They came by once while the goats and chickens were visiting. They didn't seem to mind the goats, though they stared at them for a long time. But when Chevron the rooster defended his flock in his inimitable way, those sheep high-tailed it as fast as they could run, which is pretty fast, down the path toward the fish house. We didn't see them again after that for a long time.

By yesterday, though, they had clearly decided that there would be strength in numbers. They began arriving over the weekend, drawn by the fragrance of early fallen apples or newmown grass or the memory of how much they liked us. Once again they wandered around outside the house most of the night, the lambs losing track of their mommies over and over and bleating for them, and their mommies bleating back or ignoring them entirely. When they weren't looking for each other they nestled down against the stone walls and beneath the apple trees and slept.

By yesterday there were about twenty four sheep ensconced in the lower orchard. I say about since it's hard to count sheep. They keep moving around, and something you thought was a rock turns out to be a sheep, or vice versa, and generally speaking they slip seamlessly between invisibility and visibility whenever they feel like it.

Then they came up toward the back orchard. Usually they take a short cut from the side of the house into the back orchard by climbing over the stone wall. But yesterday two scary tablecloths were flapping on the clothesline. So they were forced to go around the long way, and come in at the proper entrance near the garden, and act like proper sheep for once instead of the hoydens they really are.

The lead ewe stopped at the entrance. Behind her, all the others, expecting to go forward, stacked up, bumping into the ones in front of them until they made a huge mob, all standing completely still, all staring fixedly across the orchard in the same direction. I couldn't imagine what had so arrested them, since they were actually ignoring the dangerous flapping tablecloths. Obviously it was something even stranger than that.

Then I saw the four hens. They were contently clucking about in the same back orchard, which they probably assume by now belongs to them. They didn't seem to notice the sheep, and began to wander across the grass, pecking and talking to each other about inconsequential things.

But now the sheep moved forward, all together, in little clumps of three or four or five, but all quite close together, in the direction of the hens. They moved shoulder to shoulder, the way you sometimes see rams move. I am used to seeing the sheep run away. But this time they were moving toward the object of their interest.

Three of the hens were wiser or perhaps merely conflict-avoidant. They just kept on walking until they went straight over the stone wall and into their favourite place, the compost pile.

But there was one brave or curious or friendly or foolish hen. She advanced toward the sheep. They advanced toward her. Eagerly, I might say. It was hard to interpret their behaviour. Was it aggression or curiosity? They circled around the hen, still in tight clusters, moving quickly, totally focused on her. It made me think of synchronized swimming, and I wondered how the lambs knew to do it.

I think the hen felt a bit threatened. She moved faster and flapped her wings. Finally she jumped up onto the stone wall, higher than the sheep and beyond the enclosure they had been creating around her. She faced them, flapping her wings and squawking, then hopped over the wall to the other side: out of sight out of mind.

After that the sheep controlled the back orchard, except for the clothesline.

The hens re-grouped along the service road where I have dumped a particularly tasty pile of weeds and acted like they hadn't ever been the least bit interested in the orchard anyway.

goodbye chickens and goats

Mary and Leroy d'Entremont have returned from their trip to Ontario, where Leroy was working as staff for several days of sheep dog trials in Kingston.

They came over to pick up the goats and the chickens. I thought I might run away into the woods with the chickens, but in the end I decided to do the right thing.

In no time, everybody was loaded onto the boat, along with all their paraphernalia. From left to right: Molly, several nameless hens, Chevron the rooster, more hens, Gaia, and Molly's kid Heidi.
Anna was glad to see them all again, and they were glad to see her.
Leroy cast off.
The goats --especially Molly -- missed Mary. Often we saw Molly standing quietly, gazing off in the direction of Pubnico with a mournful expression.
I think Mary missed her goats, too.
A floating farm.
But -- what's this? Four hens stayed behind. We think you should keep them for us, Mary and Leroy told us.
So we did. They seemed contented enough, and surprisingly able to manage on their own without Chevron to boss them around. He would be shocked if he knew.

chickens play games, too

When the chickens discovered the windfall apples, they immediately began to play a game. The rules were known only to them. Or maybe they were making them up as they went along. First off, a huddle. Or a scrum. Hard to tell from here.Then the chase after the apple.
Or maybe it's hide and seek.
Soon Chevron realizes this is all beneath his dignity.
Since there's more than one apple on the field the game unravels and anarchy ensues.

the happiness of chickens

Once upon a time in Delaware, far inland from its beautiful beaches and busy summer resort life, I came to a stop behind a huge transport truck filled with chickens. They were on their way to one of the massive poultry factories that rise from that flat landscape like castles lording it over their fiefdom. There were hundreds -- maybe even thousands -- of chickens on that truck. They sat squeezed into cages, unable to stand or move. All they could do was look out.

Being around the sheep has taught me that animals do have emotional lives, no matter what anyone says. But even back then, when I knew nothing, really, about animals, I could see that those chickens were sad. You could actually see a cloud of sadness hanging all over that truck. Probably the driver was sad, and the poultry factory workers. And maybe later on the grocers became sad, and the stock boy replenishing the frozen chicken section in the Safeway, and the people who bought them and took them home and cooked them and ate them were touched by sadness, too, without knowing why.

I remember those sad chickens because our visiting chickens are so contented.
All day long they walk where they want to walk, and wriggle about in dusty places, and sit under the shade, and eat bugs and anything else they see that looks good -- and there's a lot that does look good to these chickens.
They find cool shady places to sit.
They drink water when they're thirsty, and they cluck to each other and do whatever Chevron says when they feel like it and ignore him when they want to. They lay eggs every day, and as evening falls they make their way up the steps into the roost and settle down for the night, always under Chevron's watchful eye.

It's plain to see that they demonstrate a certain chickenly happiness. And I can attest that their happiness spreads to anyone who is lucky enough to watch them as they go about their daily rounds.

I suppose it would be too complicated and difficult to change the world so that all chickens could have at least a taste of this sort of life.

adventures in milking

Greg and I are alternating the milking duties so that we each can learn how to do it. So every other day I lie cozily in bed while Greg stumbles out into the misty dawn with his milking pail in hand. And then, vice versa. It's August, the days have been clear so far, it's the best of all possible worlds for milking a goat in the early hours of the day.

So, let's see. The first day I milked, I got nada. Both Molly's owner Mary and Elaine, a reader who has kept goats, told me to nudge her hard with my hand, like a kid bumping up against her stomach and udder. That worked. So then the second day I was doing pretty well until Molly knocked over the pail. I kept milking just to get her milked, but it was strictly a practice session after that. The third day, I got my full complement of 3 and 1/2 cups.

So I approached my duties this morning with some degree of confidence. I was getting better every day. But the learning curve is seldom smooth. I had almost finished when Molly somehow performed a Houdini-like move and escaped from the milking stand. O magical goat! Perhaps tomorrow she will begin to float about in the sky, like one of those goats in a Chagall painting.

But I was able to grab the pail and save the milk. She and I were both having to contend with mosquitoes who were taking advantage of our captive positions. I had decided to just endure them, but Molly was more stubbornly opposed. More goat-like, come to think of it. Next time I will make sure the latch on top of the milking stand is properly fastened before I start. There are several small things to remember when milking a goat, and they are all of equal importance.

chicken dreams come true

I have always wanted to live in a place where chickens could wander about, clucking and pecking. Last evening after they had spent four days getting used to their new living arrangements, we opened the door of the pen and let the flock out. They had a great time. This morning they seemed pleased to go exploring for bugs, fallen apples, and whatnot.
I think Mary told me the chickens are Rhode Island Reds. A beautiful old breed.
They scared away a small flock of ewes and lambs last evening with their clucking. The sheep raced off down the path toward the fish house and safety. And I'm pretty sure the mink won't

stand a chance against Chevron, that best of all possible roosters. This really is a dream come true.

first day with chickens and goats

This morning I heard the first crow of the rooster at about 5:15. What an excellent sound. Chevron is very good at crowing. Unlike some roosters I have known, he did not crow all night long, expecting the sun to come up early as a result. He knows that the world does not spin at his beck and call. Instead, he crowed as the sky was beginning to lighten. He is that rare thing, a modest rooster, but diligent in his responsibilities.

I lay in bed and rehearsed my own new responsibilities. I wished they were as familiar to me as Chevron's are to him. But I told myself I would just have to bumble and stumble my way through them a few times and they would become easier. I got up and got the right amount of feed for Molly out of the shed, then a warm, damp cloth and the milk pail, and I was ready to go with my first ever milking. It is a lovely thing to be on the cusp of a new life experience.

Molly came from the shed willingly not out of any affection for me -- we are barely acquaintances yet -- but because of the feed I put in the trough of her milking stand. After she got herself on the platform I closed the wooden bars that keep her head forward and felt quite proud of myself. I washed her teats and udder with the warm damp cloth and felt that everything was going smoothly.

Then I started milking. But nothing came out. Not even a first tiny drop. Her teats seemed full but then they deflated like little balloons when I tried to get a stream of milk. I must have been using my fingers all wrong, even though it seemed so easy when we were watching Mary yesterday and trying it ourselves. Now I could tell that Molly knew I was no Mary. After much futile effort I decided to ask for a second opinion. But Greg couldn't get a thing going, either. Meanwhile Molly, who is known for her placid nature, had become a bit annoyed with our awkward attempts. It is a humbling thing to be in the midst of a new life experience.

So we let her off the milking stand and eventually her kid, Heidi, began nursing. Heidi is the designated back-up plan for milking. She's as good at nursing as Chevron is at crowing. And I, a stranger who peers longingly over the farm fence, will try to breach that border again tomorrow.

Next door, in Egg Town, the hens laid six eggs yesterday. They were catching up with their laying, like stacked airplanes finally cleared for landing, all coming down one after the other. But then this morning there were none, at least not at six o'clock. I think they are laid back hens who lay eggs whenever they feel inspired and not according to some task-master's time clock.

The weather will be cool and blustery and rainy all day. The goats seem content to lie about inside their new dwelling and wander into the yard to butt each other and jump about in a subdued sort of way. The hens are milling about in their little pen, going first up the stairs then down again then back up, then back down, while Chevron wards off any possible danger by making his scary fierce sounds.

borrowed goats and chickens

Mary and Leroy d'Entremont, the owners of the island's sheep, are going to Ontario for the sheep dog trials. They'll be away for about two weeks altogether. So, they said, how would you like to keep our chickens and goats for us while we're away? Well, we said, if you think we can do it, we will!

So this morning they pulled up to the dock in their lobster boat, bringing: Mary's three goats, Molly, Heidi and Gia; a crate containing nine hens (nameless) and one rooster, name of Chevron; a milking stand for Molly; meters and meters of electric fence and all the various bits and pieces that go along with that; milking pail, strainer, and cheesecloth; two bales of hay; two bales of wood shavings; feed for the goats; feed for the chickens; two troughs and two water pails for the goats; a chicken feeder and a water system for the chickens; and an old broom. Whew! I think that's all.

Mary and Leroy had to get back to Pubnico for Anna's birthday party, so they set up the electric fence and we got quick lessons in milking and instructions about feeding and watering everybody and keeping their areas clean, what to do in case of various things going wrong, and what to expect generally. Don't worry, they told us. You'll get the hang of it. And Mary said, if you need to get another lesson in milking there's bound to be a video on YouTube.

Neither one of us has ever milked anything before in our lives. We have not been around farm animals at all. I did have the luck to have grandparents who kept chickens in their backyard in downtown Little Rock Arkansas back when that was a normal thing to do. So I at least had the child's view of keeping chickens, cleaning out the hen house and gathering eggs. Greg spent some brief and magical time on a farm in Ohio as a young man. But mostly, anything remotely farm-like was a foreign country to us.

But somehow, even though we've never done it before and it seemed so daunting yesterday, this afternoon it seems almost as if the goats and the chickens have been here all along. Sometimes that's simply the difference between the concept and the practical reality. It's also because of the way Mary and Leroy approached the whole thing. They just think we can do it (and gave us everything we need to succeed) and so we will. They want us to have fun, and I'm pretty sure we will be doing that.

In May Greg set about to build our chicken coop, in case we ever actually did get chickens. Our imaginary chickens, I called them then. Now, though borrowed, they are not imaginary any more.

A view of the coop from beneath an apple tree. Notice the ladder into the roost and laying boxes. This coop is made of locally recycled screens and lumber.
These are real chickens, not imaginary. They settled down quite nicely, right away.
A clever hen walking upstairs to lay an egg. So far today I have gathered five eggs.
For some reason Chevron has decided he needs to guard the laying boxes. He looks fierce but Mary says he is a sweetie.
A view of the coop from the front.
Molly on her milking stand. Leroy made the stand. It's a beautiful rig as they say around here.
Heidi and Gia are checking out their new digs. Greg will be completing their new digs while they are still getting settled.