Never Say Never…

After 10 years of pestering, brochures, long sighs and longer lists of benefits left in strategic places, Gene finally said yes to getting geese! And for all my readers with extraordinarily good memories, yes – he officially lifted the “divorce decree”. Bringing home adorable goslings would no longer result in the end of our marriage.

In fact, Gene’s the one that went and picked them up when the feed store called this morning to say they’d arrived! (That probably had less to do with excitement on his part, and more to do with the fact that I kept texting him “GEEEEEESSSSSSSEEEEE” over and over until he picked up the car keys.

He also apparently told the people at the store that he only changed his mind because he couldn’t wait for the day they got ornery and started chasing me around the yard. Or Chupi. As long as someone’s getting chased, he’ll be happy.

Of course, thanks to my detailed plans for socialization, that day won’t come. It won’t be like King Midas, who for some reason went from happily clucking over treats to share with his ladies to bouncing off the back of my ankles in a sneak attack that was only thwarted because I was wearing knee high rubber boots. (Which now apparently I’ll be wearing all year round).

It definitely won’t be like baby Mocha, who doesn’t even bother to lure me in by looking cute and cuddly anymore. She just charges.

These geese are going to love me. Right now they’re comfortably installed in the office tank, which Gene reluctantly brought back in after moving the older chicks to a heated brooding space in the pole barn. He wanted to partition off the huge stock tank so the geese had their own area, but I sagely pointed out that they’d never get used to my presence if they were outside when I spend all my time inside working hard on my computer to pay the bills and such. This way I can pick them up and cuddle them whenever I need a break, which is roughly every 10 minutes or so, or whenever something interesting happens outside the window.

Today, for instance, deadlines took a back seat to spa time. I figured since the goslings had been in their tiny little feedstore enclosure for the last week, they would love the chance to play in some warm water. I filled up the sink, being careful to add an underwater platform they could stand on if they needed a break.

Never have you seen happier goslings, or more water splashed around the kitchen. Let’s just say I’m glad I hadn’t prepped the coffee maker yet, because that carafe could use a little decon. Totally worth it though.

He’s baaaaaaaack

skunkI’ve been on a mission since last year’s Mr. Waddles incident. A photo mission. While they may undoubtedly stink, they’re still awfully cute. Fat little noses, fluffy black tails, trendy white stripes. The problem is, every time I’ve managed to spot one was a few seconds after the dogs spotted it. And we all know what happened next – not exactly the best time to grab my camera.

But today the dogs were safely inside, and Gene let me know Mr. Waddles was currently be-bopping down the driveway. I got as close as I dared and stood there until he got used to me. There was one tense moment when he tucked his body into an upside down “U” shape and showed me his Southern end, but thank goodness he didn’t find me any more threatening than that. (I’m rather insulted, actually. I consider myself a force to be reckoned with.)

I also got April’s first swan photos! It was just after dawn last Thursday, and we were driving into Orr to start our postal route. Gene, who was already grumbly about having to get up at the literal crack of dawn, was not amused when I suddenly bellowed “LOOK!!!” and demanded he pull over. (I really do try to remember there’s a rule about no shrieking in the car unless it’s an emergency, but I just get so excited. By so many things.)

But perhaps the most exciting news of all – we got some spring chickens! The feed store in Virginia had two Sicilian Buttercup chicks left, and of course you can’t get just two because they’ll get cold on the long trip home.

So I got six Wyandottes too, as it was a medical necessity. We are going to relocate the chicken coop to the big outbuilding in the front yard, which will just take a little sprucing up. It’s a lot more insulated than where the chickens are now, since people used to live in it. Plus, it’s big enough that I can decorate. I’m already looking at paint chips and window boxes.

Spring Stinks!

march snowFirst, let me start with saying we should not be getting a literal foot of snow in almost April. It’s just plain wrong. And it’s even more wrong to be shoveling it off the deck while wearing only a t-shirt, and feeling perfectly comfortable.

Although I must say, when Gene turned all the Christmas lights back on, it looked quite festive. And before you get all judgy, we’re not the only people who still have their wreaths up. Not by a long shot. (But we are probably the only ones with lights blazing #trendsetters).

It was enough snow that I had to go shovel a snacking path for the deer too. I figure the vast majority of them are pregnant by now, and rely on us to provide vital supplementation to their meager diets. At least that’s what they want me to believe – you wouldn’t believe how big their puppy dog eyes get when they’re lined up staring at the window, silently asking why they don’t have any corn yet.

Even the buck gets in on it, and he manages to look both starving and judgemental.

Despite the snow, the warm temperatures apparently coaxed Mr. Waddles out from underneath the chicken coop. I’m sure he was lured in by tasty tidbits of over-looked corn, because he was exploring the front yard when Gene let the puppies loose for their bedtime potty excursion.

Let’s just say Mr. Waddles did not wake up on the right side of the bed. I daresay he woke up hangry, although as Bess Bess sagely pointed out, you don’t have to be hangry to be hating on tiny yapper dogs with a Napoleon complex. But one things for sure – he did not appreciate being chased under the truck by Chupi. Thankfully, Ceri couldn’t fit under there and Gene was able to haul her back into the house, then go back to retrieve our incredibly stinky yet mightily ferocious skunk hunter.

On the plus side, an 8-pound Papillon can’t wreck the bathroom to the same extent a 100-pound German Shepherd can and will.

On the down side, I don’t know why I stored my Skunk Kit (complete with enough Dawn, hydrogen peroxide, and baking soda to deal with the aftermath of a skunk the size of Godzilla) under a pile of winter coats, boots, and other household detritus.

Note To Self: if it has a handwritten note that says “open in case of emergency”, don’t bury it in the closet.

At least I didn’t break the shower this time!


I’m a real logger now!!!

Today was a momentous occasion, and it’s not just because it’s the first day of Spring (Yay! Although not that you’d notice…). Vernal Equinox aside, Gene finally let me use the chainsaw.

I think it’s partly because of my incessant whining, partly because he realized I’m actually paying attention to all the logging advice he dispenses. Here’s a sampling:

  • I always carry the ax with my hand up by the ax head, so if I fall I can chuck it and I won’t gut myself.
  • I quit texting while the trees were actually falling, because Gene said that’s a self correcting error in judgment.
  • I won’t ever set the toilet paper down, then wander off to an even better spot to pee again.
  • Throwing the logs at the truck isn’t good enough. They have to actually land in the bed, and he can hear that telltale thunk when they bounce off the side from a mile away.
  • Real loggers don’t shriek “Beast Mode” every time they swing the ax.

Of course I’ve learned a lot more, we’ve been going out almost every day to cut wood. (I’ll use that as a convenient excuse for not posting in almost a month!) At any rate, I was super excited, and not a little terrified, when Gene called me over to cut my first tree down.

Not gonna lie – I thought he’d let me start with a bigger one. It’s actually harder to not cut all the way through a 6″ trunk than it is to just rip right through it and hope for the best.

And apparently I messed up the “hinge cut”, because the tree started falling the wrong direction and Gene had to yank me out of the way by my sweatshirt. He then shouted something about it being my job to notice which way the tree’s falling. At least I assume that’s what he was yelling, I was wearing ear protection because I’m responsible like that.

I’m excited – he’s going down to my parent’s this weekend for a plumbing project, so I think I’ll cut a few down and surprise him with a cord or so.

And speaking of trips to my parents, I met Bess Bess down there last weekend and we made the mistake of going to Costco on a Sunday.

Don’t get me wrong – I love Costco. Anyone with multiple cats loves Costco because it’s hands down the cheapest place to buy cat litter, and I don’t care how many stares and whispered “Oh, my’s” I get from pushing a flat cart loaded down with 12 bags of it. I’m saving money, people.

If you ever want to see me Hulk out… follow me around Costco on a weekend. First you have to get through the parking lot, which is impossible to do without honking and flipping multiple birds, usually simultaneously.

Then you have to get in the door, which is generally blocked by people who forgot they have to flash a membership card and stop right in the entrance to dig it out. But that’s not even the worst of the offences. No, that’s saved for people who park their carts at the end of the aisles, making it impossible for anyone else to get out.

And god help you if your cart (or you, to be honest), gets between me and the cases of beer I’m about to stock up on because they’re $10 cheaper than up North. I’m not generally given to public displays of rudeness, but after an hour of fighting my way through the aisles, surrounded by delicious smelling samples I can’t eat because I’m allergic to all but 5 things on this planet, I found myself shoving someone’s cart out of the middle of the aisle while shrieking “Let me just move this for you!!!” I’d like to say I then gracefully brought my cat litter/beer cart to the register, but it took some pushing.

Sigh. Have I mentioned how much I love living in a place where it never gets crowded???

Bring on the wolves…

Since my freelance writing job is basically full time now, I decided to put notice in at my city job. It was only two afternoons a week, but between the long commute and the inclement weather making it even longer, it just didn’t make financial sense to keep doing it. I do miss the opportunity to talk to people about all the mundane things office folk chitter about, which, to be honest, was the only reason I got a job outside the house to begin with.

So now when I need a break from writing, I wander around the house, starting random conversations with Gene or waxing philosophical to the dogs, both of whom are usually snoring right next to my desk. Did people really darn socks back in the day? Our socks always get holes underneath, so wouldn’t it hurt to stand on the stitches? Where do the turtles go in the winter, and do you think they’re cranky when they wake up? Why are those pesky Asian beetles so attracted to my desk?

These are conversations worth having, and yet Gene keeps finding reasons to disappear outside.

But on the plus side, now I have more time to do things like help him get firewood. Today he brought me to a stand of birch that required 4 wheel drive to access, and I may or may not have had a near panic attack at the overall condition of the “road”. It’s fairly remote, and he said there were wolf tracks all over the place and I should probably bring my gun. I assured him I’d watched that Liam Neeson movie twice, and took notes both times. Since I’m now fully schooled in the art of punching a wolf, I was a little disappointed that we didn’t actually get to see one.

I was probably making a bit too much noise, as I got to chop all the rounds that Gene cut for me after dropping the trees. I discovered I’m excellent at making kindling, but sadly not on purpose. Occasionally I’d miss the log completely and bury the ax blade to the hilt in the ice, other times I’d miss with the blade but take a direct hit on the handle. F-bombs were plentiful, which is why we didn’t see so much as a Jaybird.

But yay for kindling!

Ahhhhh, February

As I look outside at the fresh 10″ of snow, I’ve come to a realization. I tend to go a bit cray cray around this time of the year. Every time I find myself looking out the window, even if it’s at something totally cute like a puffed up Jaybird or a happily munching deer, in my mind I’m seeing butterflies hovering around daisies and fat bumble bees buzzing across the green grass towards bright yellow sunflowers.

Then the snow plow goes by with a tremendous screech and it’s back to winter again. Sigh. I’ve found recharging in the sunbeam that hits the couch helps, although I learned the hard way it’s best done when Gene’s home so a five-minute break doesn’t turn into a 3-hour nap and an almost-missed deadline.

A little retail therapy doesn’t hurt, either, in the form of seeds. For Valentine’s Day Gene let me place my seed order without supervision, so I’m impatiently waiting for orders from no less than 5 of the nation’s finest nurseries to arrive. I’ve also been adding to Gene’s spring to-do list, which is currently topped with “build Monarch habitat for lovely wife who never asks for much”.

Now I’m not one to air drama on the Internet, but I’m mightily displeased at the direction my Save The Monarchs project is taking. My grand plans have been downgraded as follows: Monarch hatching facility → building → structure → large screened in box. And Gene walked past my latest set of sketches muttering something about “no benches in the box.” Marriage is all about compromise, so if he promises to build me a bench inside it, I’ll quit pestering him to make it recline.

In other news, I haven’t been headbutted into the barn wall by the baby goat lately. But before I let my ego get *too* puffed up, it’s largely because I slam the stall door in her face before she can follow Cocoa into the milking area. Milking is pain free, but nowhere near relaxing. It’s hard to be present in the moment when there’s a raging goat on the other side of the wall, making her displeasure known to all who reside within a three-mile radius. Plus, she’s like dolphin-level smart. I have to open the stall door to close the outer barn door, and she gives me this “I’m so cute, don’t you want to pet me?” look and then she’ll just stand there while I close up the gates. Then I turn around, and at the exact moment I realize she’s between me and the other door – she charges. She’s like that kid from The Omen, only pointier. I’ve taken to Googling “Is goat bacon a thing”.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T (is in short supply around here)

I used to really enjoy milking. I’d look forward to it – leaning my head against Cocoa’s soft back, feeling her breathe and the listening to the milk splashing into the jug. She has a very pleasing scent, considering she’s a goat. Kind of like a mix of hay and cinnamon. Plus, now that the milking station is inside and out of the wind, it’s downright toasty in the barn. So milking used to be my favorite chore.

No doubt you’ve picked up on the past tense. Cocoa’s daughter Mocha has decided to declare war. On me. It partly has to do with the configuration of the milking station – Cocoa is up on the platform, so she has access to both the top of the hay feeder (where she can shove her entire head into the flake), and she has her own bucket of grain.

The platform is up against the stall wall, so unfortunately milking Cocoa also means I’m standing between Mocha and the most delicious food any goat has ever had. Despite the fact that she’s got the same exact grain in her own food dish, the whole situation is no bueno as far as Mocha is concerned.

Her horns are pointy, and she likes to aim for my knees – probably because they’re conveniently at her head level. Or worse, she’ll rear up and go for a much bigger target. She’s a fat little thing, and she has some heft. I daresay she’s a force to be reckoned with. She’s even taken to hiding under the milking platform, and suddenly erupting from her cave like one of those creepy moray eels in every underwater nature documentary ever. She thinks it’s grand sport to try and ram me when I’m carrying both milking containers and can’t fight her off without spilling them.

Gene says I should just shut her in the other stall while I milk Cocoa, but that seems like the equivalent of caving in and buying your kid the Snickers bar in the checkout line. It solves the immediate problem, but doesn’t address the underlying issue. My first strategy was reasoning with her, which generally took the form of me braying, “You want some of this? Bring it!” which she, unfortunately, took as an invitation to consider it brung.

Then I decided I had to establish myself as the alpha goat by simply grabbing her by the horns, throwing her to the ground, and pinning her there until she respected my “authoritay”. Great idea in theory. In practice… let’s just say I have to work my way up several Greek letters before reaching Alpha status. Baby steps.

At least the deer like me. I’ve almost got one of the yearlings eating out of scoop, and if I take too long feeding the chickens they’ll practically follow me into the pole barn to remind me they’re starving. Now there’s 11 deer that show up like clockwork, and walking out of the coop to find all of them standing in the driveway staring at me is still a little disconcerting.

I’m really excited for spring, because I happened to look out my office window the other day and see the buck and one of the does getting up to the kind of shenanigans that perpetuate the species, so I’m hoping she’ll feel comfortable enough to bring her fawn to the feeding station. It will no doubt be the most photographed fawn in history.