An Ovine Adventure - Part II

First a quick recap. Dan suspected fly strike in the sheep so Yael and I corralled them in front of the red, red barn and I waited for our sheep expert, John, to come and evaluate them.

And I waited. In fact, I waited all day. I finally called Auckland at twilight to report that John had never called. See, the idea was that John would call when he got near our farm and I would go down to the corral and meet him. No John. At least, so I thought. During my phone call to Dan we agreed that I would go to Dave's place (sheep savvy neighbor) and get him to look at the flock.

Off I went. No Dave. Nobody home at his farm so I was on my own. Now I am not comfortable making major decisions, indeed, life changing decisions, on my own when these are not my sheep. But needs must. Climb the gate, walk very slowly to the corral and observe. Nothing! Only one ewe who twitched slightly. No head buttings, no twitching, no flies, etc. etc. So I follow plan C which is to release the sheep back to paddock #2. The corral is small and they have been there all day. They need space and fresh grass. BUT, there is one ewe that might have fly strike. I will need to keep her in the corral.

Now, how do you let 16 sheep out of a corral, up a rope line and into a paddock while simultaneously keeping one frantic ewe (and a mother no less!) from going with them? I didn't have a clue; I just knew that that was what I had to do. And do alone! I felt pretty much like a Survivor contestant. I am happy to relate that I rose to the challenge.

I had two things going for me. The first, the sheep wanted nothing to do with me. Wherever I was, they weren't. Second, they desperately wanted out of that corral. The gate to the rope line is long, wooden, wet and heavy. I could not swing it from near the hinges, I had to be out in the corral near the open end. But if I did that then the sheep wouldn't come near the gate because I was there. It took a few futile attempts but I managed to run with the gate back and forth, letting just a few sheep out at a time. All this while I am keeping on eye on the possibly infected ewe and trying to hustle her to the back of the queue.

Each time 2 or 3 scooted through, I had to shut the gate and scurry after them to chase them past the rope line and up far into the paddock. Then back to gate swinging duty and isolating of the "sick" ewe. Eventually it was all done. The 16 sheep were huddled around a tree halfway up paddock #2 telling war stories of their escape from Stalag 17. The one remaining ewe was standing huddled in the far corner of the corral too dispirited to even look at me.

I went home and called Auckland to report. "I couldn't find any sign of fly strike." I began. "But there was one ewe that was iffy so I kept her and released the rest back into the paddock." I was nervous. This was a major decision to make on my own. "Good news", Yael reported back. "John dropped by and didn't see any sign of fly strike either."

Yeah it was good news. Better news would have been if John had called me and we had met up at the corral. I could have let all 17 back into the paddock and not frantically worried about getting it wrong. So that poor, pent ewe was trapped in isolation. I thought about her all night. And scampered down to the corral at daybreak to let her out. Her baby was still calling for her and she was so frazzled that she bolted right by me, right through the rope line, and into the wrong paddock.

I tried to move her but the steers were in paddock #1 with her so I couldn't leave the gate between 1 and 2 open. She was totally berserk and I finally gave up. When Dan gets back, he and I can move her together. So for another 48 hours she and baby lamb will be separated. But at least the lamb is weaned and the ewe can move freely around the paddock.

And that it what she did. She hung close to the fence between 1 and 2 and seemed relatively content. That is until Dan and I came to move her. And that will be the third and final episode of my Ovine Adventure. Stay tuned.

An Ovine Adventure - Part I

I can say without fear of contradiction that I am not RAMbo’s favorite person. And yet he was cooperation itself in my latest ovine adventure. Before going down to Auckland, Dan inspected the flock and came back to the kitchen with an ominous concern. He thought he had seen evidence of fly strike in 2 of the ewes and one of the new rams.

What to do? What to do? There is only one thing to do. Gather the flock in the red, red barn’s corral and call in an ovine specialist. Our first line of defense is always Dave, our neighbor and stock specialist. Unfortunately Dave was at work. So then we turn to our sheep  specialists: the John and Paula team of sheep shearers and we rely on both of them for our information. Then if necessary we call in the vet.

So Dan called John who is very busy this time of year with shearing but agreed to drop by and take a look. But (a big but) he didn’t have time to hike paddock #2 and check out 17 sheep. They would have to be corralled for a concentrated viewing.

Since Dan had to work, It was necessary to fall back on the second team – Yael and me! Now I like being needed. I am always half afraid that I’ll do something particularly stupid (Yes even more stupid than those acts recorded in this blog) and I’ll be booted out of paradise.

So I accepted the challenge and Yael and I gathered a rope to make a guide line to usher the sheep through Paddock #1 (which for some reason you have to go through to get to the gate to #2.) Down we go and Yael doesn’t even hesitate at the broken gate but climbs over. I follow suit. Then we decide that I should circle up paddock #1, open the upper gate and drive the sheep down to the rope line where Yael will escort them to the corral.

It looks so nice and neat written that way in my Ariel font. Reality is a lot messier. First it had rained, making climbing steep hills a whole lot of fun. Second, the sheep weren’t too enthusiastic about leaving paddock #2. Actually it was probably more that they weren’t enthusiastic about anything I wanted them to do. But I kept at it. I zigzagged back and forth trying to keep the flock together. No such luck. They insisted on splitting into factions.

One faction would hug the fence line and the other would trot smartly across the entire paddock and hug the other fence line. Then they would swap sides. Finally, they stood waiting for King RAMbo to amble down and lead the way. In this fashion I finally got them down to within sniffing distance of the gate, Yael, and the rope line. At which point they turned and ran back up the paddock.

I waited for a few sour words to leave my mouth, softly so I wouldn’t offend Yael whose biggest curse is “sugar” and that rarely. Back up I went. This time Yael entered the paddock and I gestured her to stand point at the far fence to  prevent flock splitting. Our next concern was that the sheep would bolt down the paddock, through the rope line and mingle with the steers in paddock #1.

I am happy to report that none of that happened. The sheep whirled away from Yael (and me) and followed a determined ewe down the paddock, along the rope line and into the corral as slick as you please. Yael and I scampered down to close gates, push our way through 17 sheep in one small corral, and return to the kitchen to report progress.

Then Yael and Dan packed up the girls and headed down to Auckland and I went back to my room to read and wait for John to call. And that will be my next blog. The adventure continues! Just like an old Pearl White continuing cliff hanger. The only difference is that mine is real. Talk to you soon.

And Yet Another Challenge

Just when I thought it was safe to meander through the pastures, Dan came up with yet another new challenge. It was a doozy; at least to me. The steers are in paddock 1, the sheep are in paddock 2. Switch them!

I spent some sleepless nights (okay 2 sleepless nights) trying to figure out what combination of gates, running up and down Mt. Everest, scare tactics on the steers (RAMbo leads a guerilla trained flock so no scaring them) and blind luck will I need to "switch them".

At the outset I have to tell you that I am exceedingly proud of myself. I did it with no harm to any living animal. Well, unless you count the bump on my forehead and the three puncture wounds in the same area. Don't worry, they quit bleeding within the hour.

Here's how it went. We have gates at the top and bottom of the fence between the 2 paddocks. My 'plan' was dependent on where the two sets of animals were when I shouldered my way through those recalcitrant 3 wooden gates. I was in luck: the steers were at the bottom of 2. So I opened the lower gate and started shooing them through. Very slowly and very gently since steers can be quirky. Four went through easily. Guess which one ambled in the other direction?

But I stuck to my plan. I ignored #104 and slugged my way up to the top gate. My path took me past Mr. Stupid and he moseyed the other way, which happened to be down the hill toward the gate. Notice I did not  say "through the gate". That would be too easy. A part of me hoped that he would still be in 2 when RAMbo showed up. RAMbo could get that steer through that gate at the speed of light. Of course, then RAMbo would go too and I'd have to try to round him up again.

Anyway, the next step in my plan was to find the sheep and herd them through the upper gate. Then I would go down the hill and close the lower gate. This is obviously dependent on #104 having moved his tail into 1 and the other 4 staying in 1. But I didn't have to worry about that yet. A quick glance down the hill showed Mr. Stupid grazing literally in the gateway. The other 4 had wandered farther away from the gate and were munching nicely.

Okay! Where are the sheep? Can't see them. Deep grass and gullies abound on the far side of paddock 1 (also known as Mt. Everest). So I figure out where I think they must be and attempt a flanking manuever to keep them from moving down the hill away from the upper gate. It is almost impossible for one person to execute an effective flanking manuever. I would have succeeded except that I was so elated at spotting the sheep that I forgot to look where I was going and slipped on wet, poo grass and slid down into a tree branch. That is how I got the puncture wounds. The knot on my forehead was (I think) administered when my forward propulsion sent me headfirst into the tree trunk.

This, needless to say, startled the sheep. Startled them sufficiently that they moved to the right in the general direction of paddock 2. All I had to do was keep them on the crest of the hill and moving in the right direction.

Have I told you before that I love my parka? Well, I do and I certainly missed it as I was shepherding sheep. I didn't have a sleeve to swipe away the blood trickling steadily down my face. I used my T-shirt. I'm pretty sure that shirt is doomed now. Funny how blood stains continue to look like blood stains no matter what you do. I don't want to scare anyone to death or get arrested as a female Freddie Kruger so I think the rag bag will get another contribution.

While I was tending my wounds, RAMbo was herded his flock across the line and into 2. No fuss, no hassle and no steers! I was home free. Almost. I shut the upper gate. I hurried down and shut the lower gate. Mission accomplished! I'm getting pretty good at this farming gig. Now if I could just learn not to bang myself up each time I'm faced with a new challenge. The psychologist side of me is shrieking that this is subconscious avoidance manifesting as physical pain. Right! Whatever. I'm feeling pretty darn proud of myself.

Minus Ten

Last week I cleaned out the chicken coops preparatory to finally getting chickens. I have prepared rigorously for this latest acquisition to our livestock. I read “Raising Chickens for Dummies” and watched “The Egg and I” on classic movies. I was so ready.

That night I bragged to Yael that 3 weeks had passed since my trip back to the States and I hadn’t gotten sick. A first!  My herbal immune supplements must be working. I was even able to clean the coops without my allergies acting up.  Less than an hour later, I was in agony.

In rapid fire order my sinuses swelled to the bursting point, my throat was a fiery pathway to hell, my chest was carrying a twelve pound weight, and my eyeballs were popping out. I more or less stayed that way for a week. During the week, I did nothing except go to the eye doctor and then back home.

None of this is noteworthy except that on the trip back up to the farm, I did NOT see the sheep. Correction, I did not see 14 of the sheep. There were 3 in paddock 2. That was Tuesday. Wednesday saw me stagger out to check the stock. The steers were fine. There were 7 sheep in paddock 2. There were no sheep in paddock 3. At least none I could see from the road. That left me with minus 10 sheep.

I wasn’t worried. Paddock 3 is the one with the deep swale and you can lose a cow in there. Actually, I once managed to lose all 5 of ours. So I set off again that afternoon and looped paddock 3 including the swale. No sheep. Now this is not an easy search. The grass is chest high, the footing is very uneven, and it is steeply hilly. And I was feeling rotten. Perhaps not the perfect time to play Sherlock the sheep searcher.

I reassured Dan and Yael that the missing wool bearers were doubtless down in the swale playing hide and seek. Since my eye surgeries I have to wear these deep dark glasses and I probably missed them hidden in the grass.

I skipped the sheep hunt on Thursday since it rained all day. But today, Friday, saw me resume the hunt. I am embarrassed to admit it but I even started looking for sheep scat to see if they had spent any significant time in some gulley. No scat; no surprise since it had poured all yesterday. Also, no sheep.

Back to my room for lunch. I gave an update to Dan and Yael who were noticeably more concerned now that it had been 4 days since a sheep sighting. So I turned off the stove and went back out. Boy, I wish I could make a dramatic story out of this. I could gain great street cred with my kids but the truth is, all 10 were peacefully grazing in the upper portion of paddock 2. There they all were: 17 sheep all presenting me with equally innocent faces along the lines of “Who, me?” But I knew better. All I had to do was look over at RAMbo. His face was turned away from me but his shoulders were shaking. Another deep sheep belly laugh from he who always wins.

NOTE to readers. I was just kidding about not telling Dan that I had broken the gate.(See previous posting)  I use that gate at least twice a day. I need it to work. I am not a duplicitous mother scheming against her hard-working son. I was just kidding! Honest! You can stop with the emails now. Please!

The Day of the Trees

You know how you refer to unusual events as “the day Johnny broke his collarbone”, or “the day my car died on the interstate 15 miles from anywhere”? Well, Wednesday was that kind of day. I call it the day of the trees.

I had decided to update you with all our permaculture efforts and wanted to start with how our orchard was doing in front of the red, red barn. I got out my trusty camera and hoofed it down the road to take a picture of the peach tree we planted last year which is doing marvellously well this year. Good visual on the way we are trying to turn this farm into a haven for trees.

The gate into the orchard has always been difficult. Of all our wooden gates, this one is perhaps the worst. I can’t get it open without hauling it upward to slip the hook out of the socket. Since it is a very heavy wooden gate (made more so when it is wet, which is always), I use my foot as a lever. This, along with my shoulder action usually gets the gate up enough to slip off the hook. And it did so this time. Unfortunately, it also broke the gate which dropped, very heavily, down on my foot.

With the gate drooping disconsolately in the road, I decided to haul it back into position and pretend I was never there. Wood doesn’t take fingerprints very well, does it?

I had barely gotten the broken timbers in place when Dan came barrelling down the road in the quad (which, by the way, I have never yet been allowed to drive, but I’m not bitter!). Swinging himself off the quad, he matter-of-factly said, “So the old gate has finally had it, eh?”

Now you know why I never turned to a life of crime. I’m terrible at it. Here I thought I was hiding the results of my incompetence and Dan was watching the whole thing from the top of the hill.

Dan then informed me that it was time to move the steers from paddock #1 behind the red, red barn up to the paddock in front of the new barn. Great! I always love it when the stock are in that paddock, I can see them from my window and don’t have to get wet hiking a mile to check them.

So we open the gate – very gingerly but it holds together, sort of. And lead out the steers. These steers are more than ready and bolt eagerly for the new grass on the verge of the roadway. All except one; that one being #104. 104 has been cross-grained since we got him. If the herd goes north, he goes south. If I want him in the next paddock, he flicks his tail and refuses to move, no matter what.

So true to his nature, 104 heads straight for one of the newly planted eucalyptus trees and bites off its head. A screech of pure pain comes out of my son’s mouth and he heads up toward the mangled tree swearing oaths of vengeance on #104 and at the same time, vainly trying to save the mangled splinter that was so recently a tree.

The rest of the trip is spent in a sullen silence by 104 (ha, ha, you thought it’d be Dan, didn’t you). Dan is quite peeved but fairly accepting since it’s all part of being a farmer. As we hike up behind the cows, he tells me that he thinks he’s found the entrance route of the rats that converge in my ceiling every evening.

Now this is good news. I have mentioned before that it sounds like a rats’ convention at happy hour up there and I get a creeped-out feeling as I hear the scrabbling, clawing, and other weird noises as I’m tryng to sleep. I keep thinking that all that activity will eventually come through the ceiling and onto my bed – with me in it.

So I keep my enthusiasm level high as Dan informs me that he will need my help with the ropes. “What ropes?” I ask. The ropes that will pull the extremely large branch of the pine tree down off the roof. Pull off a tree branch, how hard can it be?

I am about to find out. It is late afternoon when Dan fires up the old chain saw and sets to work. I go off to do something. Just about anything else. I am nervous around chain saws and even more nervous when someone I love dearly is around them.

It is coming on to nightfall when I go out to see if Dan is finished. I want to remind him that 8:00 is past dinner time (once a mother, always a mother). The tree branch has been partially sawn through and is resting on the roof. Dan is up an extremely precarious ladder trying to hand saw off the minor branches. With keen insight, I immediately notice that the ladder’s feet are slipping on the wet,  pine needled soil, down into the water gulley that surrounds the garage. Now this gully is no slouch, it comes up to my knees and is treacherous.

I point this out. I won’t use the word ‘snarled’ but the response is less than cordial. I go back to the kitchen and eat my dinner. At about 8:30 I return and stand silently as Dan makes a number of fruitless attempts to better anchor the ladder. I say “at the risk of having my head bitten off, I want to point out that it is getting dark.” Dan responds with a gloomy “I know but I can’t leave the tree limb up there. It might slide down and knock off the water pipes leading to our water tanks.”

Yes, folks, this tree limb is jeopardizing the entire household water supply. And just when we have finally gotten rid of the poison that laid me low twice after we had the roof power washed. Now I’m as invested in this project as my son.

“What can I do?”

“Hold this rope while I try to saw off the rest of the limb. When it’s free, pull on your rope to keep the branch from sliding down this side.”

We tried. We really tried. But the limb gets caught up on a spike of its severed self and won’t budge. It is now really, really dark and we are working by light of my bathroom window which is covered with tree branch. Finally, at 10, I call game over and we decide to try again in the morning. This means early since Dan was supposed to go back to Auckland that night for an early business meeting.

At 6:30 the next morning I am ready. I am wearing my trusty parka. Lands End, I miss you terribly. What will I do when this parka finally goes to garment heaven? At least it’s daylight and we can see.

Dan is a very methodical person. Me, not so much. So I get edgy after Dan spends an hour (it seemed that way) trying to figure out the best way to get the limb off the roof, save the water system, not break my bathroom window and not get hurt in the process.

I mutter. He finally turns to me and asks, “what would you do, Mom?” And I tell him. I pull my ropes this way, and as the base of the tree limb is freed, he hauls on the other ropes the other way so that the top  swings away from the water pipes. But first, he needs to climb that shaky ladder yet again and chain saw off that spike holding the limb.

We follow the plan and so does the massive tree branch.Then we cut off the ancillary branches and haul the whole thing out of the gulley into which it had fallen.  It is 8:30 and Dan dashes for the shower and Auckland. I throw the severed branches over into the forest for permaculturing at a future time and follow him into the house. The day of the trees is over.

 

I'm Back

 

I have just gotten back to the farm after a month in the US. I had a great time reconnecting with old friends but I was back and it was time to shoulder the burden and tackle the sheep once again.

The past two days I have spent babysitting my totally adorable younger grandchild, Naavah. So I haven’t been able to hike the paddocks for my up close and personal inspection of the stock. I was only able to get furtive glimpses from the roadway (those darn sheep remember me and run over the hill as soon as they hear me coming). So today I was child free and determined to count heads.

While I was gone, another lamb had been born, bringing our total to 16. Focus on that number, it becomes important later on. From the road I was only able to count 15, no matter how often I tried. So up over the hill I went. By scouring my pathetic short term memory bank, I was able to remember that we had 2 black ewes, 1 ram, and 7 white ewes. Add to that the twins, a white lamb and 2 black lambs for a total of 15. The newest addition looks to be about a week old and another white one was born in the past two days (I think) bringing the total to 16. Still at 16 since one of the ewes is missing.

I was afraid she had drowned in the creek, or was caught on wire. But no! After a long search, through water, thickets, wet grass and all the usual sheep and steer poo, I found that she had gone off by herself to give birth to yet another white lamb. The Stone Tree Farm total is now 18. Not bad. We have had a total of 9 live births, 1 death, so 8 of our 9 ewes are fertile. And so is RAMbo. I congratulated him on my way out to the road. He just lifted a weary head and gazed at me. His work was done and he was plumb tuckered out.

Everything else is going well here. The raised veggie beds are thriving with abundant weeds (my next major task). The house is almost completely painted and the equipment to make a true garden, i.e., posts, netting, etc. has arrived. And then there are the seedlings. Dan planted some of them but I have two flats of tomatoes and no clue as to where they can go. Perhaps pots on the patio with netting over them. I’ll run it by command central and see.

Right now I am sitting back revelling in Spring (it’s a chilly Fall back home) and contemplating setting out flats of cherry tomatoes. Oh well, no need to be hasty. Until the garden is finished there is no place for them anyhow. I think I’ll take a leaf out of RAMbo’s book and just keep on doing nothing.

No Snakes

There are a lot of fine things about New Zealand but the finest is that there are NO snakes. I don't like snakes. I would go so far as to say that I hate, loathe, despise, and fear snakes. Get the idea? So when I ended up flat on my back in the creek today, I was thankful there were no snakes.

I spent some time in Mississippi in my youth and one of my most vivid memories is seeing the cottonmouths' heads bobbing the lake. Lots of heads; no swimming for me altho there were those who went in anyway. Today, as I staggered out of the filthy water (runoff from animal effluent), I was reminded of that cherished childhood scene.

This afternoon started out pretty nice. It was overcast but no rain. In fact, it hasn't rained for several days so I decided to do an 'up close and personal' check of the sheep. They were in paddock #2 and I wanted to go up the hill through paddock #3. For some unknown reason, I decided to explore. Perhaps it was the freedom of not having to wear my down parka, perhaps it was because I hit the big 70 recently and wanted to prove something to myself. Oh, I proved it all right - I'm not as young as I was.

So I decided to jump that itty bitty creek instead of circling around the entire paddock. I took a slight running pace, slipped on the grass, missed my footing and ended up staring at the sky. Note to Dan: that creek is deeper than you think. It was above my knees when I was finally able to stagger up. I am 5'3". You do the math.

I would have been humiliated except that no one saw me except me and I'm used to my pathetic antics. Well, there was an observer. RAMbo had ambled over to watch the fun. He didn't look pleased to see me dripping wet. I got the distinct impression that he was considering whether or not this was the time for a pre-emptive strike. Lucky for him there were no hostilities. I would have wiped the paddock with him. In my mood I might even have caused him serious bodily harm.

Oh, who am I kidding? It was a dumb stunt and I should have known better. I was evaluating this whole thing as I squelched my way home smelling of paddock and animals. In my last blog, I called steer #104 stupid and implied that he had an IQ in the single digits.

I now apologize to Mr. Stupid. Your IQ may be in the single digits but mine IS a single digit. So I offer you a picture of #104 - the smarter of the two of us.

Steering Steers

We have inaugurated a new steer system. Since it is early Spring and there is very little new grass as yet, Dan has decided to feed the steers on the verge.

As you know, our farm stretches finger-like from the house at the top of the mountain down to the main road. I say it is a mile in length, Dan claims it is much less. When I am hiking it back up as I do twice a day, I’d swear it’s 5 miles. Whatever, it’s a hike.  But on either side of the one-lane road that services the 4 farms, is a verge. Since the road was cut through our property, the verge belongs to us. And there is grass on it.

So Dan decided to fence off a part of the verge with the portable electrified fencing and let the steers munch away. This was fine with me since they had been in the quarantine paddock all the way at the base of our finger and I was getting tired of the hike.

The first time Dan moved them by himself since all the steers had to do was amble through the gate and presto! they were in the verge. They stayed placidly there all day. Dan hauled water to them; all our neighbors drove by to congratulate us on finally ‘mowing’ the verge down; and each of us wandered down to admire the grazing.

Then Dan chatted with our resident expert on all farming matters and learned that it was perfectly safe to leave the steers out overnight. I wasn’t so sure. “At least, shut the gate to the main road”, I begged. New Zealand has this imminently sane law that any damage done by your stock is your responsibility. So I envisioned car hitting steer; big bucks going to repair car.

The gate remained open. All of us were very hesitant about not having the steers safely behind our stout wooden fences. And have I mentioned that we have had a crime wave of rustling out here in our wild, wild North? Yep, folks – rustlers! I left Arizona to come to Warkworth, New Zealand and battle rustlers. Go figure!

So I went to bed. I was reading this great mystery set in Greece and didn’t reach over to turn out the light until almost 11. Just as my fingers touched the switch, I heard the baritone tones of my only child waft up the staircase. “Mom, can you come help me move the steers?”

Well, I could of course. Turns out he and Yael had fretted away the evening and Dan finally decided discretion was the better part of valor. Naturally Dan had the quad bike loaded with equipment so I was elected to walk down to the verge to help. Try it some time at 11 at night, no street lights, and cataracts clouding your vision. All I can say is that a benevolent God gave me a full moon or I’d still be out there stumbling away.

The steers were somewhat puzzled to be awakened in the middle of the night. They are early risers and need their beauty sleep. But they eventually got the idea. As usual Sir Single Digit (as in IQ) refused to move. He may be stupid but he wasn’t stupid enough to go anywhere until the path was forged by someone else. Preferably everyone else. I shouted, I urged, I threatened. Finally I took my cow wand and very gently prodded his backside. I don’t think he even felt it. I admit it, he is a very big cow and I am a tad intimidated by him.

So Dan stomped back through the mud and the steer decided he’d rather move than tangle with a wet, irritated Dan in the middle of the night. Also, the moon was covered with clouds and even a dumb animal can’t see in the dark. The moment was now.

Finally they were bedded down and so were we. And the dawn came. And the rains came. And Dan came to tell me we needed to shift the steers onto another tasty bit of verge.

So once again I hiked down while he rode the quad. My task was to go up paddock #1 (see picture of view from halfway up paddock  #1 to get an idea of the heighth). Then I was to steer the steers down the paddock, through the first 2 gates, through the orchard without allowing them to stop and nibble a few fruit trees, through the final gate and onto a pristine verge.

This worked well for the first 4 steers who pretty much knew the drill by now. Not so well for #104 aka Sir Single Digit. So I’m stuck on the top of paddock #1 with dumbo who refuses to move a step. I repeat my antics of the night before. Nothing. Finally I give up and start down to swap places with Dan. Guess who decides to follow? So I have learned another farm fact: the best way to steer steers is from the front.

Busy, Busy, Busy

Well, it’s Spring! And the living is busy, busy, busy. We now have 5 lambs; twin brownies, a tan one, a white one, and a very new black lamb (to replace the deceased Livingston).  So 6 of our 9 ewes gave birth. I can’t help but feel that RAMbo’s indifferent performance could be due to his fly strike earlier this year. He was very sick for a long time.

So watching the lambs, which I do frequently and for long periods of time, has reminded me that it is spring. It is now time to start my garden. But not just our run-of-the-mill raised bed garden. Oh no! Dan and I have decided to convert the front paddock (the one you see in front of the house) into an orchard and veggie garden. Yael, concerned about the character of the property, urges restraint. We have compromised. We will put the garden on the right and the orchard on the left. This will not compromise the fabulous views from the kitchen or dining room. From these rooms we see all the way down to our neighbor’s lake which is complete with ducks, rimmed with stately pine trees, and crystal clear.

We have the parameters, Dan has staked off the garden and we are ready to go?  Not yet. Dan is rethinking the garden placement. I am arguing that 9 hours of sun a day is enough and think that shade in the late afternoon is a good thing. After all, the Kiwi sun is hectically hot. Dan is thinking of the shorter days of spring and fall. Who’s vision will prevail? Stay tuned.

In the meantime, Dan has ordered the lumber for the base of the garden and we have picked up the chicken wire for the sides. That was fun; the tiny Alto was filled with my stuff from a 4 day visit to Auckland but we jammed in the chicken wire and I ended up holding miscellaneous items including some seedlings which “I just had to have” right then. The bird netting is in the garage and now we wait for the land to dry out enough to be able to build the sides, cover the ground with cardboard (to kill the grass), layer in the hay, and order the 2+ truckloads of top soil.

I am filling my time with setting out flats of seeds. Dan has bought several heritage packets of tomatoes, beans, and squash. I have some flowers. And the girls and I planted our green beans several weeks ago. They have shot up unbelievably and yesterday I transplanted them into the raised bed and tied them to the chicken wire sides.

While all this is going on, the water is still not back to its pre-poison state. I tried it about a week ago and got sick again. So Dan spends a major part of his time here draining the tanks, cleaning the tanks, refilling the tanks, etc. Now we are going to actually climb down into the tank (well, Dan is anyway) and clean it from the inside. In the meantime, he lugs bottled water up to me each week.

And of course, the house painting goes on. In between rains that it is. Poor Colin and his guys will probably make this their retirement project. They figure it will take a month! So I am busy at the farm but far from lonely. I have the sheep, the steers, and the painting crew. What more could anyone ask for?

Life and Death

Life and death are very real, very close here on the farm. I am still getting used to that. Two weeks ago we had two lambs and were faltering badly in the local lamb marathon. Then we had twins. Our very first twins here on the farm. Adorable doesn’t even begin to describe them. You can see their picture below. And they aren’t afraid of me – yet. I am sure that Dad will teach them caution soon enough but for now they caper gladly toward me while their mum stands stoically and watch.

I am entranced with them. I watch them for hours every day. I love to see them each nursing from a different side of the ewe, tails wagging fiercely and mum continuing to graze. And the older two black lambs grow bigger and more independent every day. They jump, they cavort, they occasionally nurse but more and more their appetites are stimulated by grass.

One afternoon as I was coming back from checking the steers (all present and accounted for) I heard this bleating from our pasture. I watched the white ewe call for her black lamb. She wandered all over the paddock. She repeatedly entered the horse stalls, her plaintive bleats echoing through the rafters.

I thought perhaps the lamb had wandered into the next paddock. The other sheep were slow to move into the forest paddock but I had left the gate open and knew that sooner or later they would become more adventurous and enter. Perhaps the black lamb had led the way and mum didn’t realize it. So I donned my boots (long, long grass in that paddock) and set off to find Livingston. I walked every inch of the forest paddock. No lamb. I then widened my search to the barn paddock where the flock were grazing. No lamb. Finally I entered the horse stalls and found Livingston.

He was lying between two bales of hay and looked asleep but had died. There was a white bubble around his nostrils. From this I surmised that he had been inadvertently smothered, probably by his mother when she rolled over on him during the night.

He had grown so big that I had to drag him out. I couldn’t carry him, or perhaps I didn’t want to. He had been so cute and cuddly and everything a lamb should be. It made me very sad to see him dead. I understand livestock death in the abstract but for some reason it really hurts my heart when I see the reality.

Anyway, I reported to command central for instructions. Dan said that he couldn’t get up to the farm for several days so I would have to bury Livingston. All right but where? It has rained for a month solid and I walk through swamp land with every step. Not ideal for digging. We settle on a spot and I get the wheelbarrow and wrestle the lamb in for his final ride.

The hole digging was as hard as I had imagined but it got done and I did my best for the lamb. But his mother’s cries continued all day and into the night and I couldn’t sleep. I feel as if I am growing more aware of the natural world around me as I grow older rather than cocooning as so many pundits say we do as we approach our “declining” years. The big 70 is approaching and I feel as if I know less rather than more now.

Status Seeking Sheep

For quite a while now our flock has been enthusiastically participating in a rivalry with a neighboring farm’s much larger flock of sheep. Our sheep have preened themselves on being more ‘selective’ in their company. We have only 10 sheep while the other flock has about 35. This translates into much better grazing for our gals and guy. Same basic amount of pasture, far fewer mouths to feed.

You should see our flock stream out to graze, sneering at the jockeying for each blade of grass that the ‘other’ flock engages in. Ours wander gently from hammock to hammock, never butting each other, never wrestling for control of the juicier tufts of grass. “We are above all that,” they seem to say.

But the ultimate in one upsmanship has always been the horse stalls. You can see our sheep peering snootily out the front in the accompanying photo. While the ‘inferior’ sheep hunker down in all the bad weather, ours (superior by nature) sprawl out on a thick bed of hay under a tin roof and solid wood walls. Since we have had an exceptionally bad winter, this has been the ultimate score. We have had raging winds, torrential rains, and low temperatures for all of July and it has carried right through to now.

So our sheep have been secure in their belief that they are the upper class sheep and across the fence is effectively across the railroad tracks. At least until now. Where the barn was the ultimate score, it has been demoted to penultimate. The ‘other’ sheep have outscored us big time.

It is lambing season and our ewes have been really slow out the gate. So far we only have two lambs. The other team has 28 lambs and almost all of them are twins. The gleeful bleating from across the fence echoes around the hills and our sheep have taken to hunkering down in all that vast grass and burying their noses in the dirt. A more succinct and clear signal that they have ceded the field cannot be found. I hope that we get a few more lambs but there is no way to reach 28 and so far not a twin to be found. How the mighty have fallen!

The Tape Measure

When Dan was small, I got interested in sewing. I now sew clothes for my granddaughters, quilts, etc. To do this, I need cloth. So I carry a tape measure. It’s a wee, little thing that lives in the bottom of my purse. I whip it out whenever I come across a cloth fragment on sale to see if it will fit my current quilting project – whichever one that is.

So this round little metal disc housing the tape itself has been my constant companion for many years. Today I decided to use it to measure the grass. Yes, folks, the grass.

Dan had asked me yesterday to go to paddock #2 (where the steers are) and see if the grass was too short and if it was to move the steers to paddock #4. Now I don’t know what ‘too short’ means to Dan, or even to me. So I decided to measure it and report back to Dan for the definitive answer.

I went down into the garage to don my poor, bedraggled purple wellies. Constant farm use has taken its toll and my wellies are cracked, split and no longer waterproof. But they are all I have. I put out a hand to steady myself as I slip into the boot and touch a nice, big metal tape measure. Aha, I thought. Just the thing. I can drop it to the ground to measure and not have to hold my cloth tape in the wet, muddy grass.

So off I go. Through paddock #4 and into paddock #3. When I approach paddock #2 even I can tell that the grass is pretty well cropped down. But I measure just to make sure. It’s about 13 mm. So I set about opening the gates through which to usher the steers.

But the gate between #4 and #3 won’t stay open. So I get out my trusty old friend, the wee tape measure, and loop it loosely over the gate and the fence to hold the gate open. Then off I trot to open the gate between #2 and #3. Oh, did I remember to tell you that it has rained like crazy for days. Well, it has. And the paddocks are potholed mud pools. My porous wellies squelch through the mud and occasionally I have to bend down and pull my foot and boot up through the mud which seems to have become infatuated with my purple boots and wants them to stay.

I find the steers and try to urge them to come to the nice fresh grass but no dice. I give up and retrace my steps back into paddock #3. At this point 3 of the steers decide to join me and trot obediently into #4. Another one stops dead in the gateway and begins eating. The last bellows mournfully and again can’t figure out how to get through a gate.

I go back to help him but before I can get there, he spies my tape measure. And starts eating it!! Visions of having killed my first cow flash through my head. Then I begin postulating my explanations for the vet and more importantly, for Dan. “Well, you see, it was this way.” Since I can’t come up with a reasonable scenario, I take off after the steer who has playfully clumped his way halfway down paddock #2.

I alternate between slipping in the mud, pulling my boots out of the mud, and trying to get close enough to the steer to pull the tape measure out of his mouth. Luckily for me, the metal disc is the end that is not in the mouth. I get closer and closer. The steer looks up, sees me and scampers off again. Finally, he starts rubbing his head against the fence and the tape gets tangled in the wire. He leaves and I grab the soggy remains of my long time companion.

But I’m not out of the woods yet. The steer in the gateway decides to come see what all the fuss is about and has re-entered paddock #2. Thankfully, the last steer wanders off in the right direction and the explorer follows. I eventually manage to get all 5 into #4 and then retrace my steps to shut all the gates.

Now all I have to do is traverse #4 to the gate to the road, go back to the house, and clean all the mud off my clothes (I am pure mud from knee to boot and beyond). Oops, not yet. The herd has decided to congregate right in my path. I don’t care. I stomp up to them and they run up the hill away from me. Fine by me! But then they follow me, and slipping in the mud, scramble halfway down the hillside and come charging mere inches from me.

I figure I have had it and am just beginning to cover my head and roll in a ball when, with Herculean strength, the steers dig deep into the mud and propel themselves up the hill again. Believe it or not, they repeat this process twice before I manage to escape. That will teach me to tick off cows that outweigh me 10 to 1. Okay, 5 to 1.

Dan Bows to Reality

With the best will in the world, I am not a natural herder. That fact is one that Dan had trouble accepting. He can move the stock anywhere he wants and they placidly follow him, turn on a dime, and obediently trot into the appropriate paddock.

It is not so with me. I think we can best rate me as clueless novice. It’s not that I don’t want to help out. It’s just that every time I try, chaos comes knocking. Remember me running the whole flock into Dan’s face? How about scattering the seven steers all the way to the road and then watching them race a mile back up to the original paddock?

So when Dan called today to say that it was time to move the steers, my heart sank. It perked right back up though when he continued to reassure me that all I need do was open the gate between paddocks #1 and #2. The idea was that eventually the steers would wander over.

So I did. The steers kept well out of range and stood with no expression on their faces. I called them but of course they didn’t come. So I left. I climbed two of the gates and happened to turn around. There were the steers RUNNING toward the gate. One even did a ballet leap in the air. They literally pushed each other in their haste to get into paddock #2.

I waited until they were well inside and busy eating, climbed back over the two gates, shut their gate, went back and climbed the three gates to the road and went home. I can’t wait to tell Dan. I am now a herder! You just have to know how.

The Perils of Power Washing

Last week we had four days of sunshine and we decided to forge ahead with our plan to paint the house. The sun is really intense here and wreaks havoc on painted wood. And our house is old painted wood. So on to the first step which is hiring someone to power wash the house.

Out came this nice man with his powerful jet spray and chemicals and 7 hours later we had a pristine house. So pristine that I briefly thought we could hold off painting for another year but a closer inspection showed that we still needed the paint. But, I thought triumphantly, at least the roof is done.

The metal roof is covered with patches of lichen/mold (?) and a special  chemical spray is used to kill it. After a few months the patches just slide off, washed away by the ever present rains.

All was well for another few days and then I woke up feeling really, really punk. I thought I had some kind of stomach bug. But no! I'll spare you all we went through as Dan also succumbed to the 'bug'. But we finally figured it out. Petrhaps it was the bubbles and chemical scum that tipped us off. There had been a heavy rain, and all that lichen-killing chemical stuff had gotten into our water supply. I have a habit of not sleeping well and often make myself a cup of tea (or 2) in the small hours of the morning. I had done so that night but the water was full of some chemical and in the dark and my drowsy state, I hadn't noticed.

The rest of the family was due to head back to Auckland and I was to stay here on the farm. Great, except that I still need water. And Dan needed to drain our 3 huge water tanks. So here we are with 3 hoses spewing water into the paddock in front of our house in the middle of an all day deluge of heavy rains. That paddock is now one of New Zealand's larger swimming pools.

I am collecting water from the dehumidifiers (makes for a slightly metallic cup of tea) and rationing the bottled water we have on hand. For the first time I realize how lucky we have been. Our water is so clean and good that drinking it has been a positive pleasure. I am also running around every half hour checking to see that the tanks don't drain completely and burn out the pump. And of course, I check the hoses. These tanks are seriously huge and don't drain quickly.

Oh, and did I mention that it is still bucketing rain? Of course it is!

Cold, Cold, Cold

For all you Northern Hemisphere types, let me remind you that it is the dead of winter here. And it has been cold. Yes, cold! Right here in the midst of all this greenery, ferns, and even some flowers, we have had a few hard frosts. Now I grew up in Washington, DC and we had some cold winters. Not Maine cold, or even North Dakota cold but certainly cold enough.

The difference is that we had central heating, weatherproofed houses, and I must confess, appropriate winter clothing. None of which are available to me here. So I walk around wearing my trusty farm parka indoors and out. The farmhouse you see at the top of your screen is lovely but it is old. There is no weatherproofing. We had some kind of vine growing up through the floorboards in the living room when we first moved in. There is no central heating.  There is a wood burning stove and Dan devotes a great deal of his time to keeping it going at night.

In my rooms I have nothing to complain about (although that won't stop me). I have a portable heater and stay comfy inside. Its just going out that is problemmatic. I also worry about the pregnant sheep. They seem fine. They are still bunking in the horse stalls and Dan has carried water in for them at night so they don't have to venture out. And they don't. You should see the poo palace in the mornings after they leave for breakfast.

Still, it has its upside. I shovel up the poo infested straw and lay it in the garden beds. The strawberries are thriving despite the weather. I have mulched in this powerful straw and surrounded them with large stones (to reflect heat) and the hard frosts haven't stopped them at all. They are even flowering.

We are still trapping possums down by the red, red barn but up here in my garden not so much. I guess the lower paddock possum is a hardier breed. The cold and rain don't bother him and off he goes to the nearest trap. The house possums are a cannier breed and are waiting out the weather somewhere in the bush.

Did I explain that half of Dan's farm is 'bush'? That means unspoiled forest and undergrowth to us. It also means that it is protected and cannot be touched, cut, or cultivated by law! I still wrestle a bit with that concept. You bought a 40 acre farm, 20 acres of which you can't use. You have no control over its usage or in this case non-usage. To me it seems that the country has protected land that Dan gets to pay for and I guess take care of (fire, etc.). I don't quite understand but what do I know? I'm just a doddery old American trying to adjust to life down under (way down under).

Stoic Stock

Winter is strange here. At least it’s a puzzle for me. I can’t get my head around this southern hemisphere stuff and was seriously jangled to hear Xmas music at the peak of summer. Now the 4^th of July is coming up and instead of sun tan lotion and fireworks, I’ve got parkas and freezing temperatures.

But I don’t suffer alone. My stoic stock are out there right now in a vicious rain and serious wind. And I expect them to continue on their high grass diet. At that they are better off than most of the stock around here. Dan is trying to raise the soil level here so we are running very small herds of both the sheep and cattle. This cuts way down on the damage that they can do tromping around the muddy paddocks digging up divots with their hoofs.

This also means that there is more grass for them than there would be in heavier used paddocks. So our stock is still grazing off the good stuff while other farmers have already turned to hay for feed. The down side is that the grass is out in the paddocks not under the sheltering trees or in the horse stalls of the new barn. They have to get out into the weather to eat.

This they do all day long. Right now the steers are in paddock #3 which has the creek and all those willow trees so even denuded trees afford some shelter. The animals seem happy enough but I can’t figure out why they choose to spend their nap times in the gullies at the bottom of the hill. I would assume that these are massively muddy but perhaps they are more sheltered from the wind. Hobson’s Choice – wet and muddy or wind lashed and wet.

The sheep are better off. They can always go into the barn. Of course then they can’t eat but they can be dry. I have been worrying about them since they were recently shorn and all 9 ewes are supposedly pregnant. So I decided to make their shelter a bit more welcoming. After all a birthing center should be attractive.

Yesterday I took my trusty shovel and really great wheelbarrow and went to the barn for a quick clean up. No such thing when 10 sheep have been dossing down there for a week. I wouldn’t want to have to pop out my kid there (play on words alert!). Sheep have very poor personal hygiene and their residence reflects that. I started with the bigger stuff and tossed that into the paddock for the weather to deal with. The pellet poop I carefully gathered in the wheelbarrow (along with straw) and went to my raised beds. I was going to put the poop into the beds and work it in.

Unfortunately the rains came. And how! Its like some movie set for the rains of Ranjipoor or something. Too wet and too cold for me. So right now I am sitting in my snug residence and the poop sits in the garage below me. I am sure the sheep have some terse words about my personal hygiene right now

Bon Appetit

Today we had stew. Not just any stew but stew from our own steers. Which steer I don't know. One of the dead ones anyway. And it was tender and delicious and I enjoyed it way more than the parsnips that were also part of the dish. But  I still had a few pangs. My granddaughter had more than a few.
 "Is this meat beef, Daddy?"
"Yes."
"Is it from our cows?" Solemn blue eyes staring at Daddy.
"Yes."
"I'm not hungry."

And she stuck to it. She had some bread. She even had some carrots. But she didn't have any beef.

I can't claim this is a 3-year-old's hunger strike. She wouldn't even know what the term means but she does know that this was once 'our cow'. One of our neighbors eats meat but not her own meat. Perhaps Alessia has come to that compromise. I don't know but I seem to be more and more accepting of the idea. After all, the meat is good and it is healthy and it is cost effective (translation: cheap)!

It has been a very interesting journey. From the point the meat was hauled off in the refrigerated van until we hauled it back to our oversized "coffin" freezer was 10 days. By the way, "coffin" is what the appliance store called this huge freezer but it fits.We picked the meat up and it took two loads in the station wagon to get it all back. We waited another week before I defrosted some meat for tonight's dinner.

The primary problem I'm having is that I don't recognize any of the cuts. Yes, each package is individually labeled but I don't recognize the names and most meat looks pretty much the same when freeze packaged. I can tell the difference between a roast and a Scotch fillet but what is a Scotch fillet anyway? Is it a rib eye? Or a sirloin? Or what? So now this becomes a journey of discovery not just of the limits of my conscience but of what the meat actually is.

The meat I used in the stew was called BBQ steak. It turns out to be a very thin piece of meat, somewhat the texture of hamburger, and rolled in a ball. Imagine my surprise when  I unwrapped what I thought was a thick piece of meat and got what looked like a Salisbury steak. It was good tho. But I am worried that I might have made stew meat out of what was suppposed to be a prime cut. I think I'll google some of these names and see what I come up with.

Home Kill Day

Today worked out well for us. Well, for some of us. Great for the humans, not so great for 2 steers and the 2 ram lambs. It was home kill day. We had been thinking about this day, planning for this day, and agonizing over this day for literally months.

We came to these conclusions:

We were uneasy (hard to reconcile with our ‘do no harm’ philosophy) carnivores and it was hypocritical to eat other meat and not our own.

We wanted organic meat, mainly to avoid the toxins and hormones and chemicals that we pay for when we buy store meat. This then means that we eat our meat which has ingested pure water and grass. Nothing else.

We would not allow our animals to be frightened or in pain.

So we had moved the chosen animals to the paddock next to the road several days before D (dispatch) day. I had been wondering how we would avoid stressing the animals if they were loaded into a van and taken off to the slaughter house. “Not a problem” I was constantly reassured. I still fretted. But needlessly; a huge refrigerated truck pulled up to the driveway a few feet from where the stock was.

Dan led out the steers and as they approached the truck, the home kill guy shot them in the head and they dropped in their tracks. It was over; no pain, no stress but some conflicted feelings on all our parts. These steers had been a focus of our lives for months now.

So anyway, then the two butchers went to work separating the heads, skinning and quartering the caresses. They had some kind of honing instruments strapped to their thighs and constantly sharpened their knives as they went along. It was amazing to watch the speed and deftness with which they worked. They then carted off all the unusable parts to a special trailer behind the truck and hung the meat in the refrigerated sections of the van.

Then on to the two rams. The men’s friendly advice was to castrate the rams next time. It made the skinning much easier and lessened the chance of hormones in the meat. Good to know, I guess.

So all that meat is presently hung and will be packaged and ready for us in 10 days. The storage facility is beyond clean, we get to choose our cuts,and it is all very efficient and rather overwhelming.

 I have read that some kids today don’t even know what a cow looks like or that hamburger comes compliments of the mooers. This certainly won’t be the reality for my granddaughters. Dan came in tonight with the livers of the two steers and 1/3 of 1 liver fed all of us very comfortably. He sliced it thicker than you find in the supermarkets and it was excellent. Not really a ‘liver’ taste. I enjoyed it but I  confess I had to drive thoughts of our steers out of my head once or twice. But I ate it and I enjoyed it.

Starlight Dodges a Bullet - Literally

It’s shearing day here at the farm. We’re all ready. The shearers and their dog are here. Dave and his sheep are here. Guess who isn’t here. Right! Our sheep are AWOL. Up the hill go Dan and Yael. The girls and I wait in Dave’s yards while they bring down the flock.

Did I mention that the flock didn’t want to come? They are pretty definite about staying where they are. Finally one of the shearers summons her dog and goes to help. We all hear weird noises up the hill but no sheep. Loud barks and frustrated yells, but no sheep.

At last, down come the sheep with the humans and canine far, far  behind. Yes, folks, the sheep have bolted. The dog is only half trained and can’t hold them by herself. The other shearer and his assistant bolt themselves and throw themselves in the path to block the stampede. After all, it’s a long way down to the next gate and nobody wants to take that hike.

The sheep are startled and mill around. Naavah (age 1 ½) is laughing and wants to go join them. Alessia (age 3 ½), ever the more sober one, wants to get back in the car. “You can put down the window, Grandma. I can see that way.” So in she gets. I hold Naavah and the shearing begins. Finally the shearer and Dan and Yael arrive. None of them are too thrilled with our sheep by this time.

They eventually had to pick up one of the ewes and toss her over the fence. She really, really didn’t want to go through that gate. The rest raced up hill and down leading the humans on a merry chase. At least it was merry for the sheep. I'm thinking that RAMbo didn't want to lose his poodle cut. It had served him well. In the picture below, you can see precisely how thrilled he is to get shorn.

We had left the three lambs out from the shearing because they were slated to become lamb chops in a few days. Why pay for shearing when the wool and life were both going away? But Nature always has a giggle up her sleeve. It turns out that Starlight is going to be a mommy. So no home-kill bullet for her!

We had thought that we had one ram and two ewes but no, we have two rams and one ewe, Starlight. And she is pregnant by one of her two half brothers. This means she is doomed to be sold off from our flock. We only have one ram and he’s her Daddy. No incest on our farm! Rather, no more incest on our farm. In the meantime we can’t kill her and her unborn lamb. We just can’t. So she gets sheared with the rest and goes off to join her own mommy and daddy. The two young rams settle down in their lowly corral to await the home kill guy. And that’s our next blog. Stay tuned.

The Animal Revolt Continues

The family was going to get here at the farm late on Friday so Dan asked me to shift the steers from Paddock #2 to Paddock #3. I said that I would ‘give it a go’. I am trying to learn New Zealand speak; normally I would have said that I would try.

Here’s the setup (American for the picture). The steers and the 3 lambs are in Paddock #2. The flock is in Paddock #4. Paddock #3 between the two is empty. My mission was to move the steers into # 3 so they could fatten up on the good grass even more before the home kill guy shows up to prepare two of them for our freezer. I am trying to avoid saying kill them so we can eat them but that's the reality of it.

The lambs were to stay in #2 because they were to be given to the home kill guy on Tuesday so we didn’t want them mixed with the flock and then have to separate them out again. They are skittish and not easily corralled.

How skittish I didn’t know until I hiked my way through Paddock #4, Paddock #3 and opened the gate between #2 and #3. I never thought the lambs would come anywhere near me. They never do. Correction: they never did. This time they charged the gate – and me – and ran as fast as fast could be to the final fence separating them from their Mommys and dear old Dad, better known as RAMbo.

I was furious. I tried to herd them back into #2 but no dice. They ran with carefree abandon and I finally gave up. It was getting dark and I still had the steers to move. Usually this would be simple but lately they have been rambunctious. Perhaps they recognized the home kill guy when he came out and gave them the once over. I only know that our previously placid animals were definitely jittery.

I went through the gate and called down to them. They stood there looking up at me. I begged them. I threatened them. I coaxed them. They didn't move. Finally I started down the hill to get behind them and push them up. They moved. In the wrong direction and away from the fence and gate. Muttering a promise to myself that next cattle auction I would buy steers with a double digit IQ, I trotted after them.

All the way down the hill we went. And lo and behold, there was the bottom gate which I had forgotten about because we never use it.  I opened it. I do have a double digit IQ, not much more than that but at least I could figure out to open the bottom gate if that is where the steers were. This was all taking a lot of time and I had a dinner to cook. Friday night meals are special in our house and I had planned a doozy. But this would only happen if I could be there.

Okay, finally 4 of the steers wander slowly, slowly through the gate and start munching on the ‘good’ grass. Steer 5 stops dead in the gateway and begins eating. I am trapped behind the gate and if I push the gate, he’ll back out into the wrong paddock. So I’m stuck. But I’m not alone. Steer 6 has his nose plastered against the fence a scant 4 feet from the gate. He is looking piteously at his buddies on the other side who are happily eating away. He never figures out that all he has to do is take one sideways step and he is at the gate. Again – double digits, I don’t think so.

The last steer has wandered off into some alternate universe halfway across the paddock. This can’t be good so I decide to leave the gate and climb the fence and go round up the two brain dead ones and push them toward the gate. Then the one in the gate will have to move and I can get back to the kitchen.

Now remember I never claimed a triple digit IQ and this plan proves it. I was making all sorts of assumptions about bovine behavior. I know I got my PhD in human behavior but cows are different. Not harder; just different. First of all, Nirvana cow scares piteous cow who then bolts up the hill. Dumbo in the gateway turns around and joins him in this headlong race to the top. Nirvana cow follows.

I resignedly shut the bottom gate and follow the errant three to the top. They race back down the hill. This gets old real fast. I repeat the previous sentence one more time and then give up. I stamp my way across the upper paddocks, miss the gate into #4 (in my defense it is pretty darn dark by now) and have to climb yet another fence.

I finally got back to the kitchen. Dinner was late; the lamb was undercooked and I began to campaign for turning 3 steers instead of 2 over to the home kill guy on Tuesday. I leave you to figure out which 3 I nominated to become T-bones.