Benny Butts In

Our property runs from the main road one mile uphill to the farm. We have paddocks on both sides of the private (4 farms use this road) road for half a mile and only one side for the other half. The 2 sided paddocks are on the upper half. Clear so far? Good. It took me several weeks to figure it out.

Right now Benny the Dexter purebred bull is 'visiting' the cows on our neighboring farm down by the main road. We passed him as we drove up on Thursday afternoon. Well, 4 of us drove up, Dan was working in Auckland. We even waved to Benny as we shut the gates to all the other farms, and the main road, on our way up the hill. We Lord ladies had accepted the mission to move our 7 steers from the front paddock down to the dreaded paddock #1. This means shifting them almost a full mile - but hey, it's downhill so how hard can it be?

Well, let me tell you. The steers were in our front paddock which is the one Dan stood in to take the picture of the farm house at the top of your screen. It's a lovely paddock; green, fairly flat, woods on one side. What's not to like? How do I count the ways? The barrier to the house is low and we have had to chase stock off our patio several times - even with the electrified fence. Stock love to rub against the trees and the trees are suffering. The paddock is flat, true, but it holds water as if it were a swimming pool. All in all, not the ideal paddock for 7 strong, young, curious steers.

We arrived at the farm around 4:30 which doesn't mean much to you in the Northern hemisphere but down here it's getting on to winter and sundown hits soon after 5. Not much time to get the steers relocated. So we whirl up to the barn, grab our wellies and hike out to de-electrify the fence. Then we take down the fence slats and Yael strolls confidently into the paddock to shift the steers. I stay by the car. The girls are inside in their carseats - fractious and not at all inclined to wait around while spooked steers regain their equilibrium.

And spooked they are! For some reason, our normally placid steers refuse to have anything to do with the arranged relocation. Perhaps they don't like walking in the rain. Did I mention it was raining? Do I have to? It is always raining! So I'm standing by the car to make sure no errant bovine makes a break for it into our driveway and front garden. The kids are racheting up their vocal displeasure (translation: yelling) and Yael is trotting around the paddock trying to get the steers to gather. One thing we have learned is that you must keep the stock together. If they break into groups, you're done for. Give up and go home.

That is exactly what I want to do. After about half an hour, with darkness beginning to envelop us, the kids screaming, and the rain pelting down, I have had enough. I broach throwing in the (wet) towel but Yael is made of sterner stuff. "We came up here to move the steers and that's what we're going to do." I reply with a surly "all right" and stomp off to grab an armful of hay. I return and scatter the hay out the paddock and to the road. I then join Yael and we gently urge the cattle toward the hay. They figure it out, and bolt past the hay and to the road.

Did I mention it was all downhill? Well, angry, confused cows faced with a sharply downhill path do only one thing. They run! And how. Yael gets in the car, soothes the girls and drives down the hill, past the careening cows and parks on the far side of the gate to paddock #1. I follow the steers, tripping in my wellies, rain soaked and in a foul humor. I zigzag across the road rousting cattle from gullies on either side. One steer refuses to quit eating this nice, fresh grass and I have to get stern with him. I remind him that the home kill guy is coming in two weeks and will take my recommendation as to which 2 steers will contribute their all to our freezer.

Perhaps it's my tone, but he perks up and trots down to the rest of the herd. And we are approaching the car and they need to make a right turn through the first gate, through the second and third gates and into paddock #1. And I think they're going to do it. After all, this is a regular run for them. And they like the paddock. It has lots of trees, a massive hill, and I rarely enter it to chat. Pretty much nirvana.

But Benny butts in. He has been bored. The cows he was there to 'service' have been moved to another paddock and he is all alone. Our rampaging steers is the first excitement Benny has had all day. So he joins in. He begins bellowing at the top of his lungs. Very large, very loud lungs. Our steers stop dead as if hit by a brick. Then they wheel around and bolt off past the car, past the screaming girls, past Yael and down to the main road. There they are stopped by the gate. Thank God we remembered to shut that one even though we didn't figure we'd need it.

Then the farming fairy figured it had had enough of a laugh at our expense for one day. (I am sure there will be others.) A huge semi roars past on the main road, just a few feet from the steers. If they were scared before, they are terrified now. Back up the road. They would have run all the way back to the farmhouse if we'd let them. But we had had enough. We got firm. Very firm. Stood right in their faces and dared them to run past. They meekly turned and went through all 3 gates and into paddock #1. Yael shut all the gates behind them. I climbed in the car and tried to calm the girls but they only wanted Mommy. So she came and all was right with the world. For them and for us. But especially for Benny who settled in for a nice evening of laughing at the Lords.

The Animal Kingdom Strikes Back

While I have been busy battling possums, the rest of our animal kingdom has been plotting its revolt. We had put the flock and the herd together in the big paddock in front of the new barn. They always got on well; how well we didn’t have a clue.

Dan strung the electrified wire tape to protect the oak sapling and the hay in the barn and went off back down to Auckland. The next morning I began my morning bed check. The tape was down, the barn had been invaded by the flock and the steers were resolutely refusing to look me in the eye.

Now I’m not the brightest bulb in the pack but even I knew something was amiss. I called Dan and got instructions on how to de-electrify the fence (which was still ‘on’) and restring the tape. I had no problems and the steers were conspicuously uninterested in my endeavour. That in itself was strange. They are usually all over me; watching any unusual event with silent intensity.

Back to my normal routine. Down the road to the mail boxes; back up with a detour to check the lambs. All was going well there. Then I sashayed past the barn paddock again. The tape was down!  I couldn’t figure it out. There was enough voltage surging through to stop even our steers. I was stumped until the next day when I finally glimpsed the ram pushing past the tape and into the rain-free barn. The rest of the sheep followed suit. I guess 30 pounds of wool operate as insulation from the electricity.

I reset the tape. I didn’t see this myself but some time that night, the sheep ran interference on the voltage for the steers and into the barn they went. Our hay supply diminished rapidly. The sheep smirked. Okay score one for the four-legged team.

I didn’t realize that even the wild critters were part of the revolt. I was setting my possum trap every night and coming up empty all of a sudden. From one possum a night to zero night after night is a bit of a puzzle. But I had clues; there were bits of fur around the trap, the apple pieces were gone, and the trap had been dragged a significant distance. Conclusion, Watson? Some fairly strong animal was pulling the trap and extricating the fruit. Some animal with fur. My guess is some sort of weasel or ferret.

At the same time I am invaded by rats yet again. My attic sounded like a rodent convention at happy hour. Since my rooms are under the eaves, the revelry is pretty darn near me. Now rats creep me out and I keep imagining them storming my admittedly flimsy door and swarming over me. Dan has put out more rat killer. I plan on asking for a monthly application (just for peace of mind).

But the last straw in this hostility-filled week was the lambs’ revenge. I went down to the mail box as usual but didn’t see the lambs. Okay, sometimes they were over the hill and out of sight. But they weren’t visible that afternoon either. Into the #2 paddock I went. And there were the lambs – 2 of them – clustered near the fence separating the paddock from the underbrush, creek, and trees that act as a buffer between #2 and #3 paddocks.

Closer examination revealed Starlight caught in the underbrush. I have no idea how long she had been there but she obviously couldn’t get out on her own. Okay, in climbs the 2-legged old lady. The lamb thrashes around and finally we both emerge dishevelled and irritated. Starlight bolts back through the gap in the fence. I clamber through and watch as all 3 lambs start bellowing at me. For once they are not running away; they are standing their ground. This makes me nervous. I do a makeshift repair on the fence.

I gingerly skirt the sheep and make my way back past the surly sheep and steers to the safety of my rooms. No rats! No revolt! I’m safe for another night.

Possum Prey

So the family takes off back down to Auckland and I am left to tackle my job list. First up, bury the possum. Yup, another freeloading rodent has bitten the dust. Problem? Sure. Where to bury it. We’ve got 40 acres; how hard can it be. The operative word is ‘hard’. As in the ground is very, very hard. No rain for several weeks will do that.

I finally solve the problem by burying the possum in our old compost pile. I also note that benign neglect of said pile has resulted in magnificent black gold. A worthy addition to my dreamed-of rose bed.

I dutifully set the possum trap that night literally under my raised bed in the garden (see attached photo). And off I go to sleep. I smile to myself as I hear the welcome sounds of rain. I trot out eagerly the next morning to see if I’ve added another notch to my possum hunter belt. You bet I have. I lug the shovel down the driveway and plunge the spade in for the first  shovelful. Problem? Sure. The first half-inch is diggable; the rest? Not so much. In fact, not at all.

I finally manage to scrape out a meager hole and go back for the possum. That is when I take a really good look at it. Biggest possum I’ve ever seen! Not joking here. This monster had porked up so that it was a massive struggle to get her out of the trap. This is not my favorite occupation of all time. So I grab Dan’s leather gloves and finally manage to wrench the sucker out of the trap.

Problem? Sure. My hole isn’t big enough. I finally resort to jabbing at the concrete (I mean dirt) with a trowel to loosen it and then widen the hole with the shovel. This takes a while and the day is warming up and the flies hover and I am not a happy farmer. But finally she gets covered; barely. But barely is good enough for me.

More rain that night. Another possum the next morning. Correction: part of another possum the next morning. Since there are no predators such as foxes in New Zealand, I have to assume that one of our neighbor’s dogs got loose. They also got fed. I have possum parts scattered all over the driveway. Makes for a fun morning. I don Dan’s leather gloves (I’m not ruining my good gardening gloves!)  once again. I use newspaper to help shift the body parts onto the shovel. But what then? I had forgotten to dig the hole. So I dump my carefully-garnered prizes and go to find some soft ground.

There is none. So its more trowel and shovel work and finally I have the hole. There’s no problem fitting this body in the hole – parts are easier to bury than an intact possum. Words to remember! Just as I am cleaning off my tools (hallmark of the veteran possum catcher), I hear the phone. I am needed to babysit in Auckland. Joyous release! There’ll be no trapping and burying tomorrow. I can use the break. So can the possums.

Personal Space

It finally rained here after more than two weeks of nada. Nothing but sunshine, sunshine, sunshine. It was horrible. I don't know how I survived not having to hike through calf-high mud, pulling wet, stringy hair out of my mouth while clad in my signature look of rain slicker and purple wellies.

But now everything has returned to normal and I stepped out this morning to a sparkling green world where everything smelled fresh. As I rounded the driveway, I did my usual morning head count of the sheep. There they were, all 9 of them, clustered in the horse stalls, warm and dry. Warm? You bet, all 9 were jumbled together like newborn puppies in their mother's basket.

So I started wondering. What about personal space? I know I have an invisible ring around my person and there are very few people I am comfortable with having step inside that ring. That is true with most people although the size of the ring varies depending on personal preference and cultural norms. In a country as crowded as Japan, I understand that personal space is mostly a perception thing. Great if you can do it. I can't. I need physical space. Don't keep touching me while trying to sell me something; I most definitely won't buy whatever you're selling. Even if its on sale.

But sheep seem to be different. There they were; a bunch of woolly bodies all entangled. I couldn't separate them visually into various bodies. They seemed fine with it. It is obviously part of their culture. When in the paddocks, they sprawl some separately, some together. Just a matter of where they land when they decide to snooze.

Is this true of all animals? I know my cats and dog would all sleep together. As low as my husband kept the temperature, it was a matter of body warmth or freezing to death. I used to bribe my pets to sleep with me just to stay warm. I continued my walk with that question on my mind. The steers were still down and gathered near one another but each body was easily distinguishable from the others. So personal space with dignity. Just what I would have expected from them.

I walked further and came to the lambs. Once again, all bunched together. I could separate each body only because they were 3 different colors but the white, the brown and the cafe au lait were decidedly intertwined. What did that propinquity do to the young ram? Did it bring on an unnaturally early sexual awareness? I know that both ewes are his sisters but does incest matter in the sheep kingdom? Yet another question I am too embarrassed to ask. Yes, I have others. The top of the list is how exactly does a rooster fertilize the eggs? When the eggs are still in the hen? When they are in the nest? Now you see why Dan keeps me secluded here at the farm. Either he doesn't know the answers or he's afraid I'll ask them out loud and some sane person will overhear.

Permaculture

I may have heard the word ‘permaculture’ but if so I don’t think it made an impression on my increasingly sieve-like brain. It is so different now! Dan has been reading up on permaculture. A fairly innocuous statement, you’d think. You don’t know Dan. The world lost a great researcher when he turned to finance.

For Dan to ‘read up’ on something includes following every website link to the bitter end; reading every printed word; and talking to anyone with any knowledge on the subject here, there and everywhere. Skype was designed specifically for him.

So when he informed Yael and me that he was thinking of applying the principles of permaculture to our farm, we sat very still. We didn’t dare look at each other because it would expose our total lack of knowledge on the subject. When Dan explained it – very, very generally – it sounded good but what did it mean? Did it mean more work? More money? Getting rid of RAMbo, et al?

So I started reading. Now my reading range is a dictionary definition, a book list from Amazon from which I read the blurbs, and one or two short books with lots of illustrations. I am presently reading “Sepp Holzer’s Permaculture” and a fascinating read it is too.

Basically I have to throw away everything I know about farming. Not too hard since I don’t know much of anything. Then I have to try to visualize an integrated, interconnected system of elements ranging from weather, topography, soil type, plants, preferences, animals, etc. etc. This is a lot to expect from someone who can’t visualize what her menu will be for the next day.

But I am trying. Yael caught me standing on the road gazing forlornly at paddocks #1 and #2 beyond the red, red barn. Being exceptionally well-mannered, she didn’t ask me what I was doing but I explained anyway. “I am trying to visualize what the paddocks need.” I could tell that this was way more information than she wanted. I’m pretty sure she went back up to the house to look up inherited insanity. She does have my granddaughters to think of, after all.

According to Mr. Holzer, “a permaculture landscape is designed so that all of the plants and animals living there will work in harmony with each other.” (I wonder if that includes RAMbo?)

I haven’t broken this new concept to the stock yet. Let them enjoy these warm, dry Autumn days while they can. Soon the knacker will come ( the person who ‘home kills’ and dresses our meat for our freezer). Then the 3 lambs and 2 of the steers give their all to keep us fed for the next year or so.

And the shearers will be back soon. I can’t wait. Perhaps then I’ll be close enough to see if any of the ewes are pregnant. With RAMbo strutting his stuff on a daily basis, I have high hopes. Alessia asked me if any of the sheep had ‘babies in their bellies?’ I was a bit startled at this bit of knowledge and stammered out a “what?” So she explained that “sheep have babies in their bellies like grandma had Daddy and Mommy had Naavah and me. And I had my baby” (Doggie, her stuffed constant companion). But she only had Doggie in her stomach at night. Why, I don’t know. But it would sure make things easier if we could all only be pregnant while we slept.

I have been researching (in my slipshod way) chickens. I still want them but have resigned myself to another breed other than Buff Orphingtons. This breed doesn’t seem to be available here. So I’ll settle for my second choice which is Rhode Island Reds. These chickens are both good layers and good eating. They also don’t seem to fly away. Did you know that chickens can escape through flight? Neither did I. I assumed they just walked into the road and committed suicide.

I also want us to try a different breed of sheep. There is a Wiltshire breed that is resistant to flystrike, doesn’t need shearing and often has multiple births. Obviously they are meat sheep only but that’s fine with me. I’m out of the wool cleaning business permanently.

RAMbo

The ram has been looking pretty spiffy these last few weeks. Compliments of his severe flystrike illness, RAMbo had to have a serious shearing. We had to cut away a lot of his wool to get at the maggots. He now is the proud possessor of a poodle cut. Yes, folks, possibly the only poodle cut ram in the North Island, perhaps even all of New Zealand.

And isn’t he proud of himself! He prances around our paddocks with all his old vim and vigor. Part of it is due to having Snowball, the young ram, in another paddock and part is he is no longer sick, but the majority is that he is now seeing himself as the Don Juan of sheep.

This has translated into, how shall I put this?, increased vitality. He is absolutely certain that he is irresistible to ewes. The ewes? Not so much. Yesterday, RAMbo was making an absolute pest of himself to the rest of the flock. He was everywhere, sniffing butts and making advances. I could almost hear him saying, “where’ve you been all my life, cutie.”  

The ewes were pretty forbearing, all things considered. They just continued grazing. Occasionally they moved a few steps out of the path of the damp nose but were fairly tolerant. Up to a point. That point was reached (pun intended) when the ram got down to business.

At first I couldn’t understand why they weren’t more enthusiastic but I soon saw why. First of all motherhood is not an unmixed blessing if you would be giving birth in a wet paddock in the middle of winter. Second, a girl likes a bit more individual attention than just being the fourth butt sniffed in the last four minutes.

But the third reason was the most compelling of all. RAMbo was definitely a ‘wham bam thank you mam’ ram. Three very rapid thrusts and its over and out. The ewe never even stopped eating. I doubt she had time to swallow. I am beginning to have serious doubts about the viability of this ram increasing our flock to any significant degree. He may have the desire, but his follow through is lousy.

Next time, a recap of what’s happening here on the farm now that Fall has arrived.

Back on the Farm

I just got back from Arizona where I had a great time catching up with old friends and reacquainting myself with myself with my home. But it was winter there and I ran into 27" of snow my first weekend back. Fostered idyllic dreams of New Zealand as I slowly (very slowly) shoveled my way out.

So I get back to Auckland and what do I find? That the warm, dry weather they have been having for the entire time I was gone is over. I brought cool, wet weather with me. Do you think I have a calling as a rain maker? Not the advertising type rain maker but the clouds hear me type of rain maker. If so, I can quit buying those lottery tickets and make my fortune that way.

So, how are things on the farm? They seem pretty much the same. The steers are still valiantly eating the pasture grasses down to an acceptable size. The flock (which consists of the ram and 8 ewes) seems fine. I am concerned about two ewes, tho. One seems to be battling flies and the other is lying around a lot. Luckily they are in the new barn paddock so all I have to do is cross the driveway to keep an eye on them. The ram has rejoined his harem now that we have moved the young ram (Snowball) to another field.

And Snowball is with the other two lambs. Both of these are black ewes. One is Starlight and the other is lamb #3. While I was gone, Starlight got flystrike and Dan had a heroic battle to save her. I think she is all right but she appears to be a bit weak and the poor thing has lost a lot of her coat. Still, its not all bad because we will be calling for the shearers in a month or so anyway

The fig tree has figs which amazes me since possums love figs. I can only figure that our possums are so fat on my raspberries, cherries, tomatoes, etc. that they couldn't climb our admittedly slender fig tree. I, however, simply bend  the branches and have a treat fit for a king. Or, in my case, a Lord.

If, when, it stops raining I need to dismantle my garden for the winter. Dan has thoughtfully filled the wheelbarrow with grass clippings so I first have to empty that. Then pick up the rest of the clippings around the yard and wheel them to the compost heap. I hope I can find it this time. I have a hunch that this is Dan's subtle way of making a statement about my aimless dumping wherever I want instead of actually finding the compost pile. Oh well, I'll worry about it later. Plenty to do. It's good to be back!