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.

Mourning the Morning Doves

One of the great joys of being here at the farm has been watching our two pairs of morning doves. They are exquisitely beautiful with feathers ranging from the softest beige to snowy white. And while not precisely chums of mine, they did soar at tree heighth over me most mornings as I went on my rounds. The two pairs mostly hung out together hunting for food, chatting about the day, just plain lolling around enjoying life.

I would open my windows in the morning and hear them cooing at each other. Obviously they were the best of friends and well satisfied with their home in the trees bridging our driveway. They would walk away calmly if I approached but never panicked. Since this was a significant departure from the greetings I would get from the rest of the animal kingdom here, I appreciated it.

Yesterday there were no doves. As I walked down the driveway I saw a number of feathers scattered around. I heard no soothing coos. I saw nothing and heard nothing and I was alarmed. Today I was walking across our patio to check the possum trap and a lone dove came up to me. It nearly broke my heart. She walked straight up to me and in the gentlest possible manner, pecked at my pants leg. Then she stood with her head cocked looking at me. Her mate is gone and I am close to tears.

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.