With the weather hitting the high 80s here at the farm, there’s no shortage of critters hogging all the shady spots. The chickens sit around with their beaks gaping open and their wings curved out to the side, generally looking vexed and occasionally emitting an indignant squawk at nothing in particular. Most of them hang out in the shade under the deck, braving the heat only when I come outside to dispense watermelon and other tasty treats. I dislike hot weather for several reasons, the first being it’s not particularly wise to wear shorts around animals. Dimsworth and Hawthorne like to investigate anything that’s a bright color with their beaks, and are particularly drawn to anything blindingly white, such as my legs. So even though jeans don’t play well with hot weather, I’m stuck with them.

I spend the hottest part of every afternoon scampering around outside, making sure everyone has clean, fresh water to drink. Goats are notorious for refusing to drink dirty water; they would prefer to fall over from dehydration rather than lower their standards. Since we have ducks, I have to change the water buckets a couple times a day since no matter how high I hang the bucket, a duck will find a way to dump dirt in it. The ducks love nothing better than playing in a freshly refilled pool, and usually don’t even wait until I’ve taken the hose out of it to pile in. I can’t stay irked at them for long when they’re splashing and cavorting in the clean water, having the time of their lives. A few times I’ve been tempted to climb in there with them, but they have a bad habit of dropping bombs in the pool, and that’s just not okay.

Harvey and Cinnabun don’t mind the heat overly much, mostly because they choose to spend the sweltering afternoons happily munching their way through my garden. My shady and tasty garden. So far they’ve eaten my entire bok choy crop, and are quickly working their way through the chards and celery. They even have the gall to chitter at me when I “accidentally” spray them with the hose as I water the garden. When they’re not being Bunnies of Destruction, they also spend their time in the shade underneath the deck. One of the things I love most about them is that no matter how hot it is outside, they still want to cuddle up together.

Seeing Dimsworth and Hawthorne lurking about in the pasture makes me realize how much I’ve missed not having turkeys. Anyone who says they lack personality has clearly never owned one — Dimsworth and Hawthorne couldn’t be more different from Thanksgiving and Christmas. Dimsworth, particularly, is shaping up to be a bit of a butt. He puffs up his tail feathers, which at his young age resemble a heavily-used, rarely-cleaned Swiffer duster, then flares out his wings and circles the ducks likes he’s got something to prove. He particularly enjoys chasing the poor things, a habit he’d best grow out of quickly unless he wants to meet the business end of a garden hose.

Hawthorne, on the other hand, is much more quiet and contemplative. He sits quietly and watches the world go by. He also learned how to get into the duck enclosure, then taught Dimsworth that delicious kibble can be found there. I have to go out there several times a day and chase them out before they wolf down the ducks’ lunch. Although at this point the ducks are still bigger, they are scared of the turkeys. Not that I blame them, what with their glittering reptilian eyes and all. Pretty soon they won’t be able to fit through the duck door, and they’ll be too fat to chase the ducks, so problem solved.

He knew he was loved; RIP, buddy

As I was washing and packaging the eggs we sell at Valley Feed in Belfair, I couldn’t believe the sell by date I marked on the cartons was already in September! That means in about a month and a half, it will be fall already. Not that I don’t love fall, but it seems like summer just got here. I’ve spent the majority of my time outside, since this is our busy season here on the farm. That’s why I haven’t sat down to write an update in far too long! Quite a few changes have happened in the last few weeks, some of them good, some of them sad. My buddy King Julian, the rooster who would chivalrously knock Sean Paul out of the air in order to protect me, has moved on to the Big Farm in the Sky. I have no doubt he is now protecting the angels from Sean Paul’s signature sneak attacks. KJ passed from old age, I think, since he was probably about 7 years old. The leg he injured during his fight with the eagle a few years back had been bothering him a great deal, and for about the last month or so I’ve had to lift him up onto the roost at night, then escort him down in the morning. We had a strong bond, he and I, so I knew right away when he was about to pass. I had the chance to give him a last cuddle and say goodbye. In the grand scheme of things, that’s a pretty good way to go.

In happier news, Dimsworth and Hawthorne are ecstatic to finally be outside in the pasture with the rest of the critters. Every time I passed them in their brooding box, they would huff and puff, then jump on their climbing logs and launch themselves at the wire mesh cover. I took that to mean they wanted to be outside, although after I set them loose for the first time I had a brief worry that the wire mesh cover was the only thing preventing them from attacking my head. Luckily for me, they were far more interested in exploring their new environment, and now they follow me around chirping happily whenever I go out there. Although fully feathered, they are in that awkward teenage phase where they disturbingly resemble Skeksis from the Dark Crystal, minus the ceremonial robes.

The five ducklings have also been unleashed upon the greater pasture, and they spend the bulk of their time hosting pool parties. In fact, they rarely ever venture more than five feet from the big pond, and that’s to take a sun nap. Ducks grow up much more quickly than chickens and turkeys; the cute fuzzy duckling stage lasted approximately five minutes. They only spent a month or so in the brooding box, and as soon as they were fully feathered out I relocated them to the duck mansion. It wasn’t because they complained like the turkeys, they were actually quite calm and happy inside the box. They just spent their entire time in the litter box wading pool, excitedly splashing about, which forced me to clean the box two or three times a day. I don’t mind the extra work, but white shavings don’t grow on trees and they were blowing through two packages a week.

Speaking of blowing through two packages a week, that’s about how many boxes of Wheat Thins all the bunnies munch through these days. Since there’s nothing cuter than an itty bitty bunny eating a Wheat Thin, I started giving them one pretty much every time I went into the Bunny Ranch. Now I have seven snack cracker addicts who, in addition to their larger parents, clamor for handouts as soon as I set a foot in the door. I do balance out their diets by adding a never-ending supply of fresh garden greens to the mix, though. I’m not sure if it was the freakishly hot weather so early this year or what, but my carrots and my romanescu failed to produce actual vegetables. The carrots went to seed, and the romanescu is just a big pile of leaves. Bad for my culinary adventures, but good for the bunnies. The plants are about three feet tall, and they can demolish one down to the roots in a few hours.

Not all of my crops are doomed, though — the corn is over seven feet tall with lots of plump ears on it, and the tomato harvest is going to be amazing. All four boxes of potatoes are filled to capacity, which is going to be a LOT of potatoes, considering each box is four feet tall with two foot sides. I’m sure there’s a super easy mathematical formula that would tell me how many square feet of potatoes we have, but I am not friends with math (not even acquainted, really), so I’ll just say we have a lot. I harvested close to 300 shallots, which I hung up to dry in our woodshed. We have already processed two batches of cucumbers into pickles, and I had enough strawberries in the garden to make 19 pints of strawberry jam. This weekend, it’s all about raspberries. My friend Rachel took me to the Graymarsh Berry Farm in Sequim, and I picked around 35 pounds of them. I was the envy of all the other berry pickers with my tactical berry retaining device, which Gene had fashioned by attaching a padded neck strap to a plastic ice cream bucket. Rachel had the foresight to bring a red wagon along, and with the help of her daughter we filled up about ten buckets. I probably had at least a bucket’s worth of my own raspberries in the raised bed Gene built, but I always raid the bushes while I’m watering, and for some reason there’s none left.

Now that I’m lucky enough to be a full-time farmer, I see all kinds of beautiful, sweet, and cute things on a regular basis. (Don’t get me wrong though, I see my fair share of things that make me shudder, too). Perhaps the most endearing one that never fails to make me smile is when King Julian picks a girlfriend. King Julian used to date Little Mama for years, until Little Mama went to the Big Farm in the Sky courtesy of a coyote. He stayed single for a long time, stockpiling his affections until the next Mrs. Right came along. And she did, in the form of Lemoncello, who goes by Lemon for short. I go outside all the time to find him chilling on top of Lemon, who seems content to let him use her as a chair. They snuggle constantly, and he stands guard while she lays her daily egg. It’s absolutely one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen, and he’s definitely the most chivalrous rooster on the planet.

Cinnabun has also proved to be an extremely affectionate mama, and never strays far from the Bunny Ranch when I let her out to stretch her legs and eat some delicious grass and weeds. Her babies are so used to me now that they come up and sit on my hands when I put them inside their room. There are three jet black kits, three brown ones, and one steel gray. They run the size gamut from tiny little toy bunny to a big old hulking behemoth, whom I’ve creatively dubbed Hulk. Although they sleep most of the day, they never fail to come tumbling out from the nesting box when I put out the nightly salad and Wheat Thins. It’s never too early to start their love affair with snack crackers, and boy do they gobble them up.

Speaking of things that gobble other things, we had yet another predator invasion this morning, this time by way of raccoon. I got up as usual around 5:30, looking like the walking dead as I shambled outside to do the morning chores and passing Gene at the kitchen table, who was getting ready to go to bed after just getting home from work. As I was coming back into the house after preparing the critters to meet the day, I noticed the ducks were staring at something. It’s never good when ducks stare, which we’ve learned the hard way. Poor Gene got to end his day by running outside and shooting the raccoon who was stalking the herd. Gene’s lucky, he doesn’t even have to stop and put on plaid Nordstrom’s muck boots or a Swamp People t-shirt to look like he means business. He’s developed an aura of quiet menace that scares predators without having to resort to fashion accessories. I’ve tried to practice my menacing look, but people just end up telling me they’ve made great strides in water-soluble fiber products and I should look into it.

Since no one wants to see a picture of a gut pile, here’s another ferocious predator to look at.

This afternoon started out like any other as I made my way across the pasture to muck out the duck pond. The breeze was blowing lightly, and the sun sparkled on the surface of the water, or at least it would have if the surface wasn’t carpeted with an inch of green algae. As I drew closer, I was startled by a flash of brown sliding into the open door of the Duck Mansion. Sure enough, the mink peeked outside and stared at me. A hush fell over the pasture as two predators eyed each other; I could see fear creep into his eyes as he took in my Swamp People t-shirt, the jeans I had rolled up into redneck capris, and my designer red plaid Nordstrom’s muck boots. He knew one of us wasn’t leaving the pond alive, and my boots were made for walking. The silence was shattered by my battle cry of, “Gene, there’s a miiiiiiiiiiink!” and he disappeared under the gap between the pond liner and the ground. Remembering that Gene had already left for work, I ran for my gun with all the grace of a herd of elephants racing for the last peanut. The resulting noise ensured the mink stayed under the pond until I got back. I circled the pond, looking through the scope, and within moments his furry little head poked up and I took the shot, even though my backdrop was the pond liner. I figured the pond could take one for the team, and sure enough, I hit both the mink and the liner. Unfortunately the mink disappeared back underneath the pond, and as I began emptying it out bucket by bucket it jumped up and limped underneath some nearby brambles. I couldn’t find its body, but I’m confident it was a kill shot based on the pile of yuck it left underneath the pond liner. It’s the kind of yuck a mink needs to live, so I didn’t mind cleaning it up a bit.

Of course, killing one mink only means we get a bit of a reprieve from predation since our land used to be a mink farm back in the day. I’m glad we finished reinforcing all the various critter bedrooms, and now Cinnabun and her brood can frolic in peace in the remodeled Bunny Ranch. Gene also had to spend his Father’s Day weekend in the garage, quickly building an addition to what I now refer to as Broodopolis. Originally, Broodopolis was one big box with a removable divider, so the ducks were in one half and the turkeys and new chicks were in the other half. I went outside early Saturday morning to see Dimsworth picking up a chick by the foot and spinning it around in a circle, exactly like a big brother playing airplane with a child. Unfortunately, Dimsworth seemed to delight in letting go just as he had built up speed, sending the poor chick careening across the box. Gene added on another compartment to the brooding box, and I moved the ducks into it, thus freeing up a separate compartment for the turkeys. They seem fairly happy even though it’s just the two of them; I put in lots of logs for vertical climbing space, and they seem content to climb and perch. I think they miss having little chicks to pick on, though, since they seem to chase each other around a lot.

In the last week, there’s been many changes here at the farm. After the repeated minkings (that sounds so much more pleasant than “attacks”), I increased Gene’s to do list significantly. To date, the Bunny Ranch has been overhauled with hardware cloth, traps have been baited, burrows have been gassed, and the garage brooding facility was rebuilt. Sadly, what I thought was the one secure location on our property was infiltrated — apparently our super mink broke into the truck, stole the garage opener, then helped himself to two poor little ducklings. Gene and his oldest son built me a brand new brooding box, complete with two snug covers and a divider. Since it was so much bigger than the first box, I felt compelled to go the feed store and fill it with two turkey poults (Dimsworth and Hawthorne, since they are the type of turkeys the Pilgrims ate), two new chicks, and two more large, white Pekin ducks (Stoli and Seagram). I’m headed to the feed store tomorrow to stock up on more chicks, since their new shipment came in tonight and I bought their last two when I picked up the turkeys and ducks. Just in case I don’t get there in time and they sell out fast, I also put 24 eggs in the incubator. Half are to replace what Abby lost during her latest minking, the other half are for me.

In other big news, Sunday was Shearing Day here at the farm! This time, Shy opted for a proper alpaca cut, with his tail left bushy (to hide that disconcerting rear view of his), and a high and tight fade on top. He was much calmer this time around, which was nice. We also discovered he’s gained quite a bit of weight since he’s been with us, and has filled out nicely. Woolimina also got a shear. Catching her turned into quite the rodeo, in the most literal sense. Thirty minutes into the chase, I looked at Elizabeth the shearer, who was watching while politely trying not to laugh, and asked if most people had this part taken care of prior to her arrival. Gene’s son was finally able to snatch her by the wool and wrangle her outside the pen, where she then got her shear on. When we put Shy and Woolimina back in the pen, introductions had to be made all over again when the goats reacted like they’d never seen them before.

I think the shearing festivities were a good distraction for Daisy, who was pretty unhappy because Abigail had taken little Leonidas down to her place where the other boy goats live the night prior. Leo was becoming besotted with grumpy old Ursula, who to everyone’s surprise started to actually welcome his advances. Without Leo there to nurse, Daisy’s udder began rapidly filling up, and I added “milking the goat” to my list of daily chores. Since Daisy had never been milked before, nor was she accustomed to being restrained in the stanchion Gene devised, milking turned into a bit of a battle. Since I’m in no shape to restrain a full-sized, annoyed milking goat, Gene added leg restraints to the stanchion, and I wedged a stick under her horns so she can’t turn her head and pull it through the frame. Now that both she and I have a few milkings under our collective belts, she’s calmed down quite a bit. Gene’s daughter turned out to be an expert milker right off the bat, while I took a few days to catch up to her output. Since I don’t have much dexterity in hands anymore, I have to milk one side with two hands. It looks pretty weird, but it puts milk in the bucket. She gives just less than a quart a day, and I’ve already made my first batch of cheese! It resembles nothing like what you would buy in the store, but I’m thinking that’s because it’s not processed at all. It tastes amazing spread on toasted French bread, and tonight I’m topping a turkey burger with it.

I really enjoy milking Daisy, now that she’s calmed down. She’s really warm, and I basically have to sit right up under her so I listen to her breathe while I milk. Milking her reminds me of bottle feeding all of Claire’s baby bunnies last year, and how grateful I am that Cinnabun and her babies are doing well. Their eyes should open any day, and once we reinforce the floor, Cinnabun and her brood can come down and play in safety during the day. For now I love looking inside the nesting box and seeing how much bigger the moving pile is getting.

In the last two weeks, we have lost three broody mamas and eighteen chicks to that evil, horrible mink. The last time he struck, he had the audacity to eat my remaining two mamas and their ten chicks on my birthday. Not how I wanted to start what I consider a national holiday. Just last night, the mink trotted down to Abigail’s farm and ate three chicks and five laying hens. Apparently it’s some kind of levitating super mink, because the day he killed Condi and her brood Gene reinforced everything. He just finished building an ingenious box trap, baited with raw chicken innards, and put it outside where we think it lives. Game on, mink.

My biggest fear is that the mink will find a way inside the Bunny Ranch, where Cinnabun just had her kits. She had ten of them, but two of them didn’t make it from the start. She gave me no warning of the impending births at all, since I checked on her the night before she had them and she hadn’t started making a nest yet. Rabbits pull out their fur to make a comfy, cozy area for the kits, usually 24 hours before they arrive. Cinnabun, however, did it about three hours before. When I checked in her box, I could see the fur and figured I had about a day to prepare. Then I took a closer look, and discovered the nest was moving about enthusiastically. The wee buns are really cute – they’re in that stage where they look like miniature, hairless hippos. I would take a picture of them, but she gets pretty upset when I even think about reaching in there. Harvey, on the other hand, seems much more annoyed at being separated from his girlfriend. He spends most of his time guarding the Ranch, from his strategic spot underneath the wheelbarrow parked outside it.

In other baby critter news, my chicken sitting on duck eggs experiment had a successful conclusion. Four of the duck eggs hatched, although one poor duckling died a bit later. But three of them made it, and have happily adopted Lucky as a surrogate father. Lucky was pretty lonely for the three days he was by himself, but he perked up as soon as I put the three new ducklings in with him. They all cuddled up immediately in a big pile, and then after a few minutes he showed them where the pool was and they got their first swim. Oddly enough, the bunnies and the ducks made their appearance on the same day as the mink massacre, so things continue to balance out here on the farm. As much as I appreciate the inner workings of Mother Nature, I wouldn’t mind the odds being stacked in my favor for once.

In over four years of farming now, we occasionally have what I refer to as “roller coaster weeks”. This week has definitely been one of them – really good things happened, balanced out by really terrible, horrible things that happened. I’ll start with the bad, just to get it out of the way. In less than 48 hours, a mink came in and killed all my baby turkeys, then came back and killed Condi and her eight chicks. Walking in to the shed this morning and discovering the carnage was one of the most horrible things that’s happened here to date. We spent the day reinforcing the brooding area, and now it’s secure enough that we could rent the space out to overcrowded prisons. Nothing’s getting in, and nothing’s getting out. I’m sure the mink planned to come back tonight for the two broody mamas and their ten chicks, which is why Gene’s sitting out there with a gun, a flashlight, and a beer, waiting for what has got to be a really fat mink to come waddling into sight.

But on to the good, which is where I like to dwell. Gene came home from the grocery store the other day to find a tiny baby duckling nestled into some spilled straw in the driveway right by the garage door. Well, actually, Ceri the German Shepherd found the duckling, but Gene was able to get her to spit it out before any actual damage was done. Abigail said word has gone out that I’m this neighborhood’s Duck Whisperer, so naturally the abandoned duckling would find itself drawn to our house. My sister Bess Bess immediately named him Lucky, which I think totally fits.

Bess Bess is here for a weeklong visit, and I have more than taken advantage of the fact that unlike me she has two working hands. Instead of the relaxing, sit on the couch and enjoy a good book type of vacation she was no doubt expecting, poor Bess Bess has found herself gardening in the rain, pulling fence line, and repotting whatever we couldn’t fit in the garden from the greenhouse. She said she was starting to feel like we picked her up at six am in front of Home Depot and put her to work. In my defense, I’ve been bribing her with a steady stream of ice cream cones and Gene’s amazing cooking. With her help, I planted the entire back garden, then demanded Gene build me more raised beds in the front to accommodate the fifty or so plants I couldn’t fit in there. I really couldn’t wait to plant things any longer because the tomatoes and squashes were getting root bound in their tiny little pots. Most of the tomato plants already have blossoms, and I have several zucchinis already.

Bess Bess was quite impressed by my collection of citrus trees and tropical plants, including a Casabanana vine, which promises to grow fluorescent pink bananas, several spikey Litchi fruit trees, multiple Luffa gourds, and two huge normal banana trees. She inquired as to where I was planning to keep the full-grown versions during the cold Washington winters, but I told her I don’t cross those particular bridges until I’m forced to by spatial considerations. Tomorrow we plan to find a nice sunny spot for Senor OneTon, the enormous pumpkin plant. It’s already set two fruits, so I’m pretty excited about the prospect of that much pumpkin. It also means Gene’s running out of time to figure out where he’s going to start parking the cars, because the driveway is basically the only gardening space I have left.

I wish Bess Bess could stay until June third, because that’s when both the duck eggs and Cinnabun are due. I have my doubts about the duck eggs, because I candled some of them today and they just don’t seem far enough along to hatch four days from now. This time I can’t blame the incubator, because they’re all nestled underneath a broody chicken. I’m beginning to think the universe just doesn’t want me to have more ducks (or more turkeys), but I have a long history of not listening to the universe so you can bet I’ll be stuffing some more duck eggs under whatever feathered butt is willing to sit on them for 28 days if they don’t hatch. Besides, Lucky needs a friend. He’s set up in the garage brooding box with a private pool, but I’m pretty sure he’s lonely.

I’m seriously considering moving Lucky’s brooding set up to the greenhouse, because then he would be in the company of the 400 baby preying mantises that just hatched today. At first I didn’t notice them, but as I went to grab a Litchi to repot, I noticed that the leaves on the avocado trees looked odd, almost like they were moving. Upon closer inspection, I saw they were covered by cavorting mantises, celebrating their new found freedom from the two eggs sacs I had hung from the avocado trees. Naturally, I ran into the house yelling for Bess Bess and Gene to come see, and bring my camera with them. I can’t wait until they turn bright green and get huge bug eyes.

After discovering the three splintered fruit trees in what used to be our beautiful orchard, I placed several notices in strategic places regarding the sale of a goat. I had a buyer lined up, but when I called to confirm the sale, he informed me that his wife decided that Daisy was “too much goat” and she was worried about her ability to handle her. I was slightly irked, because I hadn’t even described Daisy’s amazing ability to prune roses and cherry trees, or her ability to levitate over five foot fencing. But then I decided in the end it was a good thing, because she has spent the last week looking extra cute and staring at me with accusing eyes. Since she’s eaten everything she can reach in the orchard, at least I don’t have to worry about that any more. But if she gets into my blueberry patch or the garden, we’re having curried goat kabobs for dinner.

Not that there’s much to eat in the garden yet, but I was able to plant a few things. I’m waiting until late May to plant everything in the greenhouse, since I still need to harden off everything inside it by leaving the doors open at night. Gene rototilled the garden plot today, and I planted everything that was in the cold frame: artichokes, cabbage, brussels sprouts, onions, and two tomatillos I set outside a few weeks ago to test their ability to withstand the colder evenings. The chickens are devastated at being denied access to their favorite worm hunting ground, but they’ll have to get used to it.

I discovered a few days ago that one of my young silver-laced cochins has developed into a cross beak. Although I’ve never had one previously, I’ve read quite a few articles about the condition. Basically it’s a genetic disorder that really doesn’t have a cure. It usually shows up around four months, which is how old Cross Mama is. So far she is eating and drinking fine, and growing normally. She’s one of the friendliest chickens we have, and loves to follow me around the yard. For now I put her in the empty garage brooding box for meals so she can eat with no competition, and give her crumbled feed since she can’t really eat the pellets any more. If her beak gets more crossed, then eventually I’ll have to hand feed her mash. Gene thinks I’m nuts, but I don’t mind being her personal chef at all.

Speaking of personalized cooking, I haven’t stumbled upon the type of treats the three new turkeys like. They’ve turned up their beaks at watermelon and strawberries, and are the only creatures on the farm who disdain Wheat Thins. I don’t know if White Midgets are different from other turkey breeds, but Thanksgiving and Christmas loved all those things. Sam, Rosalie, and Pele also do one other creepy thing that I don’t remember Thanksgiving and Christmas doing – they sleep standing up, and continuously peep while they sleep. (Cheeping and peeping while sleeping – I’m the next Dr. Seuss!) It sounds cute, but it’s actually kinda creepy. They huddle up with their heads in the middle of the circle, quietly peeping their secrets to each other while they snooze. It reminds me of those three witches from that Clash of the Titans movie, the ones that share one eyeball among them. They definitely give off a “we’re plotting against you” vibe. At this point I’m glad they’re a miniature breed.

I’m a firm believer that most things happen in threes, including farm drama. A few days ago, I was on my twice-daily turkey scavenger hunt in the garage, checking every nook and cranny for the frantically cheeping poults. I was making so much racket crashing around in there, hoping to scare King Kamehameha and Pele back into the brooding box that I missed the frantic bleating from the pasture. Thank god Gene heard it, and raced outside to find little Leo being choked out by his Auntie Ariel, whose horn had gotten twisted up in his collar. It was close, but Gene was able to revive Leo by thumping on his chest and massaging his neck while I rubbed his back. The other critters were beyond upset; Shy Shy came up and gave him a head bump while the other goats made a circle around us while I sat next to Leo on the ground. After about thirty minutes of holds and cuddles, Leo was back to his normal happy self.

Since the two little turkeys seemed to hate the garage so much, Gene and I wrapped the turkey chalet in chicken wire and relocated them to it. The very next morning, I came outside to find poor King Kamehameha had been attacked and killed by a mink. Poor Pele was devastated, so I went back to the feed store and brought home two White Midget Turkey poults, since they had run out of Royal Palms. Seeing the two new arrivals, I think Pele is actually a mismarked White Midget, because she looks exactly like her two new siblings, Sam and Rosalie. (Those are the only two hobbit names that seemed fitting for birds). To prevent another mink attack, Gene built a frame covered in hardware cloth that lines the inside of the chalet, and keeps the turkeys back about a foot from the outer edge. Sam, who seems to have a healthy dose of exploration tempered by a mammoth dose of stupid, keeps getting stuck between the two walls. He also figured out how to fly up to the roof braces, where he then gets stuck and howls until I come out and help him back down. At least they settle down once it gets dark out.

The third bad thing to happen this week involved a coyote, although to be fair the bad thing happened to the coyote. Once again Gene, who apparently is far more vigilant than I am, looked outside last night and noticed the ducks all staring at something in the woodline. If there’s one thing we’ve learned in five years of farming, it’s if everyone is staring intently in the same direction, someone needs to grab a gun. Gene raced outside to find a huge coyote studying the ducks intently. Sadly (for the coyote), it didn’t get the chance to enjoy one last meal before being peppered with lead. Since coyotes typically hunt in packs, I kept Harvey and Cinnabun inside the Bunny Ranch today, much to their mutual annoyance. Cinnabun loves to be outside so much she can be a bit of a butt about returning to the Ranch at night. Harvey comes running at the mere shake of the Wheat Thins box, but I usually have to go looking for Cinnabun. Sometimes the lure of tasty snack crackers is enough to get her home, but other times she needs liquid persuasion, in the form of a garden hose aimed in her general direction. I feel bad about spraying her, but figure a sodden bunny is better than a coyote snack.