Ram Rampant

I tried to get the ram into the flock's paddock this morning. No dice. As soon as he saw me, he stepped smartly out of the barn and scampered into the potting shed. He stayed there for hours. I know because I kept going out to look for him.

I left the gate to the paddock open in the hopes that when the flock moseyed down to graze, that he would tear up thinking of his poor, abandoned family and reassume his duties as pater familias. Finally, I did something right. On my last check, there he was. regal and on his feet. Always a good sign. He saw me and loathed me with every fibre of his being. He turned and trotted to the top of the far hill and stayed there while his harem gathered around him.

I closed the appropriate gates and left him there - a proud figure of a ram. Healthy and in charge once again. A true Ram Rampant. And I am very grateful for it. I admire him immensely and it thrills me to see him his old self. Needless to add, this admiration is a one way street. Still, I can't have everything. A healthy ram and a happy flock is good enough.

The Vet Cometh

My fellow Americans, it is with a grieving heart that I confess to you that I have let down the side. I was all set to prove to the Kiwis that Americans are tough - Marine tough - but when the ram pawed the ground and lowered his head at me, I dodged behind a tree. My forefathers at Lexington and Concord are rolling over as I write. I have shamed the name of Lord and the United States of America. This is how.

The ram was snuggled in straw at the doorway of the barn all day. He may have shifted position but I never saw him upright. I was very eager for the vet to arrive because I was afraid the poor thing would die any minute now.

Michelle had offered to help with the ram when Ross (the vet) arrived. I was a bit hazy as to my role but I am pretty sure that Michelle and Ross expected more from me than abject terror. Ross arrived and Michelle pulled in the driveway right behind him. We walked toward the barn and the ram, no dummy he, was on his feet and out of the barn on the verge. The same verge from which the crazy cows tried to kill me. Perhaps I can excuse what happened to me by claiming PTSD by cow.

Anyway, Michelle and Ross try to corral the ram and I amble along in the rear - far in the rear. The ram is having none of it. Ross who may have a white beard moves like a 20-yr-old blocking the ram and forcing him into a corner. The ram wheels, spots me (never his favorite person), paws the ground and lowers his head. Now Ross is right next to him, Michelle is in the middle distance and I am all the way by the gates but I just know that ram is aiming for me.  I wheel too - behind a tree. And there I stay while Michelle and Ross grab the ram, wrestle him to the ground, and cut his hooves. I stay behind the tree while they spray something on the hooves. I only approach when Ross whips out a hypodermic and gives the ram an antibiotic for the infection. I get the okay from Ross to let the ram back in with the flock and with a cheery goodbye to Michelle, the vet is gone.

Michelle and I try to get the ram out of the barn driveway and into the flock paddock. The ram runs into the potting shed and refuses to move. He is still there. I'll try to move him tomorrow. As someone once said, "Tomorrow is another day." It better be; I didn't cover myself with glory in this one.

Update

Life has a way of interferring with my plans and that is what has happened for the past two weeks. Some of the inteference was great. Very great was the unplanned trip to Wellington. I had never been there and was enthralled with the diversity of people, thought, and Food. I had a great time riding the ferry, the cable car, eating, and walking. Fabulous city.

Also great was my far north North Island visit to dear friends who have a lovely home perched high above a harbor and the vast Pacific Ocean which stretches in three directions. I am a simple Arizona girl and I get a shiver every time I think of being able to drive 15 minutes to the Pacific Ocean or 15 minutes in the opposite direction to the Indian Ocean. I have to say that the farm is very centrally located.

Not so great is the horrendous cold I got from Alessia who got it from play school. All of us are hacking, sneezing, honking, and croaking around. But at least I am back at the farm and that is always healing for me. Today is the first day I felt up to my saunter through the sheep. Everything was fine with the ewes and lambs - they didn't even run panic-stricken at the sight of me. Most of them didn't even move and the three that did simply ambled away a few feet.

But I have grave concerns about my nemesis the ram. He is huddled under a tree and didn't move when I approached. When I got near enough, he moved his head a few inches but that was all. Dan is calling around for a vet as I write this. If we can find one, the plan is that I stay here through the week to nurse the ram, pay the vet, etc. My concern is fairly obvious. How do you nurse a ram? If he's too sick to resist, my ministrations may kill him and if he improves, he may resent me even more. When I know more, I'll let you know.

Amazing Sheep

The view from the Sheep's Paddock

                                              
I have been in Auckland for the past few days and just got back to the farm. The sheep acted as if they didn't know me which was an improvement. They all froze in place as I squelched my way down the drive. Yes, it's still raining. Don't ask. So I get to the gate and start to climb over. Red alert! Red alert! Sheep running everywhere. The brown ewe starts bleating for her lamb. Said lamb scrambles heroically toward Moms. Unfortunately Snowball is not the Einstein of the herd and she can't find her way through the far gate. She wanders desconsolately up and down the fence mere inches away from the gate. Never figures out that gate thing. The brown ewe keeps on bleating forelornly.

Finally the Einstein of the herd who has never before shown the slightest interest in another sheep's lamb, goes to Snowball and gently nudges her through the gate. And then, turns and goes back down the hill. Selfless heroism since you can never tell when I'll show up with knife and fork in hand. That nudging deed brought her perilously close to me (just about a city block away). I am amazed at that random act of kindness. I am turning it over in my mind even now. The sheep had to have done it on purpose or she would have gone through the gate herself. I know it wasn't Snowball's mother because Snowball's mom is our only brown ewe. Was she just tired of hearing the bleating, or was her heart touched by poor Snowball trotting up and down the fence line? Or was she just plain embarrassed by the sheer stupidity of the other sheep? No answers yet.

Speaking of stupidity brings me back to possums. The new favorite feeding ground is where I just planted 50 daffodil bulbs. So Dan has taken to putting the familiar bright yellow trap right there. I mean school bus yellow. You'd think even a possum would notice it. They do. They head right for it. (Sorry, bad pun.) They stick those snouts right in and right down comes the metal thing and thwack, the neck is broken. Dan has collected quite a few in the new hunting fields.

Last night he was due to go to a farmers' meeting so put out the trap before dark. He left for the meeting a bit before 7pm and already had bagged his quota for the night. In a hurry, he released the body, reset the trap and left the possum lying inches from the trap. He was surprised !! in the morning that he hadn't gotten another victim. I figure even possums aren't dumb enough to step over a corpse to stick their heads in the trap.

Remember the Rain

I understand it is hot and sunny back in Prescott. I'll be there soon and can work on my tan. But for now I am under water. In Prescott we get around 20 inches of rain a year. We get that every day here. All right, not every day but definitely every week.

Rain is a factor - in everything. If you need to go out, my suggestion is to go. If you wait for it to stop raining, it won't. Face it. You are going to get wet. Kiwis are pretty pragmatic about rain. I see very few umbrellas and I get puzzled glances as I slosh by covered head to foot in my brown slicker. The baby carriages (prams) have removable plastic shields. I don't bother removing ours; I'll be tugging it in place sooner rather than later. You can always tell native Kiwis. They stroll bareheaded through the chilly rain. Perhaps they have on a jacket but you would starve if you were in the business of selling rain gear. I also see a lot of simple hairstyles - pulled back nape ponytails. That sort of thing.

While the rain is an inconvenience in the city, here in the country it is a factor to be reckoned with. First example: we have a septic system. After Dan bought the farm (no he is still alive) he found out that the septic tank hadn't been drained in years. We don't know how many but obviously enough to cause worry lines and make every flush an adventure into the unknown. We instituted the 'yellow mellow, brown down' system of conservation but the septic system is a constant, nagging doubt.

"Well, drain the thing" I hear you say. This is where the rain comes in. The septic system is in a field. Yes, I know you knew that but it has relevance. In order to get to the drain hole you have to drive over the field. It has rained every day for months. The field is saturated. I can bearly stand upright in that field and I weigh a whole lot less than a drainage truck (Yes, I do too!). The truck would never make it. It would be stuck probably for the rest of the winter. Since they charge by the day, the fees could mount up.

Second example: Our compost pile is across what was our lawn before the cows got to it and down a path. It is taking your life into your hands to try to squelch your way to the container. I do it every day or so because rotting garbage is not my favorite aroma. Last time I did it, my wellies were coated to the rim with mud and my pants had a 2 inch band of mud above the wellie line.

We forgot these cautionary tales when we decided that we had had enough of the cows. Yes, folks the cows were going back to their previous owners. All the farmers on our mountain have agreed that 'those cows are crazy'. We made some rookie mistakes. Dan had carefully selected his individual cows from one herd but received other cows that came from various herds. No herd identity. Wild does not begin to describe these cows. Dan accepted them believing them to be easily herded. See previous blogs! Second mistake: we didn't realize the damage they would do to the pastures. These were BIG cows and got bigger and bigger and the pastures are now gullied, rutted messes. Looks like a tank division has been through.

So the cows have eaten free for 2 1'2 months and are now back home. Stone Tree Farm was never home for them and I hope they are happier where they are now.

But we still had to get them there. Sunday was to be the big day. We herded them down the mountain to our pen near the main road. But we forgot to factor in the rain. Sunday dawns misty and rainy. We think nothing of it since it is always raining. But the pen is not ON the main road, it is near it. The truck would have to drive on the field to get to the pen, Just like the sewage truck, it ain't gonna happen,

Merv is the only farmer on the mountain who has holding pens on a road. We start the cows back up the mountain to Merv's place. The truck driver, very politely, declines to be involved in any way. He remembers those selfsame cows attacking him when he transported them here. Steve and Michelle come to help. And then up rides Dave on his quad bike. I definitely have to get myself one of those. Fantastic! Anyway, Dave has this stick thing and his bike and he whips around the herd to keep them from doubling back. They do anyway. Repeat. Repeat again. Hear Dave's language. Roll up the windows to the car so Alessia can't hear.

Dave has these wonderfully well behaved cows. When I walk past to the mailbox, they greet me with refined moos and come to the fence for a chat. I don't think Dave ever saw anything like Old Sour Puss and doesn't want to ever again. By the time the cows have gone bye bye, the whole mountain is exhausted and my tentative question about buying weaners is treated with the scorn it deserves.

Weaners are young (see small) cows who have been recently weaned from their mothers. We have a lot of hay. Some hay - the rest is drenched in polyeurethane (see blog). This hay could feed weaners for the winter. I make the proposal. Dan's "we'll talk about it later", seems pretty definite to me. So, we'll talk about it later.

A Farm Weekend

We got back to the farm from Auckland Friday afternoon. The first thing that greeted us was the very dead carcass of a possum.  Dan had forgotten to spring the trap so the dearly departed had departed sometime between Mon. and Friday. I say 'dearly' because at least some of our homegrown possums had gathered around for a possum wake. A possum wake is fairly easy to recognize; there are half-eaten pieces of fruit scattered around the yard, around the corpse, and on it. Yes, folks, there were several hollowed oranges decorating the remains.

I left Dan to deal with the remains of the feast and the possum and went to check the lambs. All was fine but they were obviously not pleased to see me. They didn't exactly run away but they didn't linger in my vicinity either. Smartly stepping out, they followed the leader and swung left and down the hill to the center of the paddock. So what I report now is what I could see looking down and about a half a block away. I use this as a measurement because not all my loyal fans are adherents of the feet/yard system and I don't understand the kilometer/meter system.

The ram, still recovering from his strained ligament, or whatever leg injury he received running from the cows last week, lay down in a hillock while his ewes scattered to forage. I wonder if they ever get tired of the same old diet? I could always see if they'd be willing to eat thistles and save me a ton of work come Spring. Anyway, here lies the ram and up come the two  lambs. Snowball is in the lead; the ever easily distractable Starlight is here, and there, and then here again but follows meekly as Snowball nudges the ram. And nudges again. My guess is that there wasn't much milk there because fairly soon both lambs began eating grass in a semicircle around the ram's belly. I have now solved the puzzle of the lambs' lineage. Thank goodness I don't have to try to wade through Mendel's theory of genetics again. I didn't understand it when I was in college so there is no chance I'd get it now. The ram is the father of both lambs. You heard it first here. Only a father would put up with the indignity of being mistaken for a mother's teat. I rest my case!

A Night To Remember

You're not going to believe this one. Even I don't and I was there. It started out all right. It was Sunday and the whole family was at the farm. Alessia and Naavah were enjoying the clean country air, Yael was busy about the house, and Dan was polyeuthethaning the barn ceiling. I spent a fair amount of time just watching the lambs. The two have really bonded. They appear together almost all the time. And they are usually hanging out with the brown ewe. Starlight's mother comes around occasionally and provides oversight but mostly its the lambs and the brown Mom.

Having spent a restful day with the sheep, I was pretty much sated with sheep by the evening. I hunkered down for a good read with an Agatha Christie and spent my time in the land of murder and mayhem. At 11:30 I turned out my light and rolled over to count sheep in my sleep. "Baa", I heard. Which would have been nice if I'd been asleep, but I wasn't. I sat up, puzzled, had the sheep moved up the hill, closer to my windows? I waited. Nothing. Back down to the pillows. "Baa". This time very close indeed. When I looked out my window I saw a driveway filled with sheep.

I pull on my parka over my nightgown, go downstairs to the garage and open a bay door. I see the rear end of a white ewe scampering down the driveway. I call Dan, don the wellies, and off we go to round up the sheep. It is very dark in the country at night. No street lights and the moon is obscured by fat clouds. So I am groping my way around and Dan has sped off down the hill to try to head the flock off before they reach the main road.

Yael comes out to see if she can help. While she is standing in the driveway, which is only lit by the lights from my upstairs window, she hears a rustling a few feet away. A mouse appears but before she can react with an appropriate "ugh", some raptor-like creature swoops down in a fiercesome dive and voila, the mouse is something's midnight snack.

Meanwhile, I am positioned at our driveway's decorative gates. We don't know how many sheep are loose, where they are or actually much of anything. So I am there to keep any other sheep from escaping. I hear my own rustling sounds and step down the verge to see if it's a sheep. I slip. I bang into a tree. I wish I could say that it was the tree's fault but it wasn't. Now I hear rustling and my head is bleeding. Turns out there is a sheep in the same paddock the cows escaped from a few days ago. Now I'm torn; do I go get a bandaid (known as a plaster here) and risk letting the sheep bound the fence and follow the herd or do I stay at my post. I opt for remaining on duty.

Yael gets the car and goes to join Dan searching for sheep. I stay within earshot of the kids but where I can thwart any Houdini escape efforts by the sheep. And I wait. And wait. And wait. It gets colder, and darker if possible. Finally here comes Yael running up the road. She is in great shape! Seems they were following the sheep and found them in Dave's yard. Dave is our other great neighbor. Well, the sheep seemed to want to follow the car's headlights (I guess they couldn't see any better than we could) so Dan was backing up Dave's drive, leading the sheep back to our road when he drove off the drive and down into a ditch. One rear wheel was sunk in the mud, the other was spinning free. So Yael was heading for a phone to call Dave for help - with the car and with the sheep.

It is now about 1am and I am positive Dave was awakened from a sound sleep but he sounded as pleasant and matter-of-fact as if it were 4pm. Out he went with his 4 wheel drive, pulled Dan out, helped send the sheep off his property and back he went - either to bed or to write a nasty letter to the New Zealand Times about letting crazy Americans buy property.

Yael calls to me that the sheep are coming so I run down the driveway to open the gate to the correct paddock. I have not run since 11th grade phys ed. That was 51 years ago. I am not good at it but I have a substantial lead on the sheep and have time to swing open the gate and shoo back the errant ewe who has found her way from the wrong paddock to the right one. Then I stand in front of the garage and wait for the sheep. They come. They stop. They stare at me for a while. Then the brown ewe, deciding that her baby has been out late enough, comes from the rear and leads the flock down the drive and through the gate. And they all join forces in the horse stalls.

Now all we have to do is get them out of the stalls so we can count them to make sure they are all there. Dan turns on the barn lights, out they come, obligingly single file - 10 sheep and 2 lambs are all present and accounted for. So at 1:30 in the morning, I end my evening as I started it - counting sheep.