Finding silver linings

The last few days here on the farm have been like a roller coaster - extremely high points and gut wrenching low points. I came home from work yesterday to find a weasel had chewed its way into the bunny mansion and attacked and killed poor Claire. I won't tell you how, because it was horrible. There's so much joy here that sometimes I forget nature has a terrible dark side. I was devasted. Something positive did come of it, though - Abigail, Gene and I have been bottle feeding her eight bunnies. That's right, eight. Apparently Gene can't count either. We moved their nesting box into the bathroom, and three times a day we pull it out, put it on the kitchen counter, and feed them kitten formula with eye droppers.

At first it was really hard, but now they're getting used to be handled and fed, so it's much easier. We've nicknamed them the popcorn bunnies, because they hop all over the place when you reach in the box. Once each one is fed, it goes in a plastic crate until feeding time is over, then everyone goes back in the nesting box. The bunnies range from fist-sized to so tiny they're difficult to hold. One thing remains constant no matter their size though, they contain an insane amount of pee. Once the flow starts, it doesn't stop. I've gone through more shirts, bras and towels in the last two days than in the entire previous month. Once we get them litter box trained, they're going to be great house bunnies for someone. They're totally used to handling, sniffing dogs, and curious cats. It's going to be really hard to part with them, and signing an "I promise not to eat the fluffy bunny" pact will be a must.

In other momentous farm news, we got a pig! He's about 25 pounds, and was originally named Baconator. We got him from a farm up the street and we went to pick him up on Friday. Since every other pig I've ever purchased came wrapped in cellophane and in bacon form, I was totally unprepared for transporting a live one. My cardboard box full of straw clearly wasn't up to the task, so we ran back home for Ceri's dog crate while the seller corralled the piglet. When we got back, he was sitting on a rock in the pasture, smoking a cigar and holding Baconator by his back legs. He then walked the pig to the crate, exactly like a dad playing that "wheelbarrow" game with a child, and swung the pig up into the back of the truck. The pig, while obviously not liking the whole walking on his arms thing, didn't put up too much of a fuss, so I was looking forward to a peaceful day of watching Baconator frolic happily in the pasture.

We got him home, and Gene put his crate in the front yard while I ran to the store for hog food. I got home to find Gene holding a lasso in one hand, and pointing into the bushes with the other. He said I hadn't locked the crate door when I put water and treats in it before going to the feed store. He averted the crisis by lassoing Baconator when I spooked him out of the bushes; I was quite impressed because he got him on the first try. Getting Baconator back in the crate was a bit of a challenge, but eventually Gene won. We went back to putting the finishing touches on the Swine Estate, which consists of a strand of electric fencing encircling a pasture area. When Gene went to get the crate, he realized it was empty. The door was locked, but no Baconator. Apparently he's some sort of Houdini pig. We searched for literally hours, but couldn't find him. Gene suggested that I start calling the neighbors to see if anyone noticed a piglet running down the road, but my mind fast-forwarded to six months from now, when an 800 pound feral hog is terrorizing the neighborhood, ripping up gardens and snatching small children, and I decided perhaps it's best if no one knows who lost the piggy.

So three days later, Gene is getting ready to go to work and sees Baconator running through the backyard. I was ecstatic, because I figured we'd basically catered a luau for a coyote family. I got home a few hours later, and saw Baconator rooting through my raspberry patch. I waited until he nosed his way into the chicken coop, attracted by the same yummy feed that the goats love, and then I slammed the door. My euphoria quickly changed to thoughts of, "Oh, crap, there's a 25 lb pig in the chicken coop and Gene's at work all night." I did the next best thing, which was call Abigail. She came down, and made the initial mistake of thinking Baconator was just a cute little piglet. She went in the coop, after telling me to shut the door so he couldn't escape. I did, and almost immediately the sounds of a championship pig wrestling match filled the coop. I didn't get to see any of it, since I was too scared to open the door, based on the fact it was all I could do to hold it shut - that 25 lb pig felt like a full grown bull trying to knock the door down, but Abigail said Baconator's first escape attempt involved jumping up (and hitting!) the glass window three feet off the ground. When that didn't work, his tactics changed to charging straight for her. She was able to grab his ears and hold him, but we both figured out that I was pretty much useless for pig wrestling. We called her husband and I dragged Ceri's dog crate outside and put it in front of the door. When her husband got there (after five minutes of Abigail doing all she could to prevent Baconator from taking a chomp out of her legs), they were able to shut him into the crate. Abigail then renamed him Satan, and today Gene, Abigail, and two more friends erected the new and improved Swine Estate, which is two strands of electric fence and chain link fence panels. After testing the perimeter repeatedly, and demonstrating that electrical shocks merely make him hungry, Baconator finally settled down into his new enclosure. He's the first of the critters to actually sleep in the Igloo style dog kennel, and I've been bribing him with apple treats so that he doesn't turn into an 800 pound feral hog. I'm hoping (and praying) that I turn him into a cuddle pig.

Easter bunnies!!! Like, literally!

So Easter morning when I got up and let everyone out of their respective bedrooms, I noticed Claire wasn't hopping around as much as she usually does when I walk in the cage. Usually she charges at me like I'm a walking carrot, but this time I barely rated a second glance. Figuring she was just tired, I wasn't too worried. When I came back in the early evening, she looked remarkably thinner, and when I took a closer look at the front of her nesting box, I saw why. We have baby bunnies!!!!! I initially counted two, but when Gene got back from his trip and took a look today, he counted seven. Seven! When I called him on Easter he was still on his road trip, and he failed to see the humor when I loudly and excitedly announced, "Guess who's going to be a papa???" Apparently "Harvey" wasn't his first guess. Claire's babies, which are actually called kits, are the cutest things ever, aside perhaps from the ducklings. They don't like to be disturbed, and when Gene held one it hopped around like it was spring loaded, even though its eyes aren't open yet. I can't wait till they grow their fluff!

Speaking of growing fluff, the ducklings have morphed from cute bathtub toys into full-fledged gawky adolescence. They're huge, especially the Pekins. They are half downy fluff, half feathers, and have the appetite of a teenage boy. I have to fill their feeder twice a day, at least, and each time I refill it they eat like they've never seen food before. The rescue ducks are the same way - they recognize the pink feed pails, and whenever I walk into their pasture with one, they follow me in a squawking line. As soon as I start walking away from the filled feeder, the quacking shuts off like a switch, and all I hear is gobbling. I am getting between two and four duck eggs a day, which brings the grand total up to almost two dozen so far. I have to admit I haven't tried one yet... I want to find the perfect recipe for making my first duck egg ever. It's a momentous occasion.

Puff Daddy is still recuperating, although I decided it gets too warm in the bathroom for him, so I moved his hospital box into the garage. He seems to like it better out there, and I think he is comforted by the sounds emanating from the brooding complex. Abigail built a playpen area for him outside, and when the weather is nice I'll set him there so he can sit on the grass and eat bugs. He'll spend all day gazing contentedly through the bars, snapping the occasional fly out of the air. I'm beginning to think his leg is fine, and he just enjoys all the pampering and private buffets. The other chickens occasionally wander over to visit him, which is good because they'll remember him when it finally comes time to reintroduce him into the flock. Although at the rate we're going, I think I might just buy him a chicken diaper and pronounce him a house rooster. We all know it's coming.

In perhaps the most surprising news of the entire decade, Gene said I could get a piglet to raise! Of course, he made it a conditional offer, and said he would only let me get one if I agreed to raise it until it's big enough to butcher. I told him I agreed with the first part, but objected to the second, so he told me I need to decide if I love pet pigs as much as I love bacon. I'm still pondering. One of the feed stores near us raises pigs for meat, and they get HUGE. And their stank grows proportionately to their size, so I don't know if I would have a problem with the butchering process. Of course, I said the same thing about the turkeys, and look how that turned out.

I believe I specified the drama should be saved....

Although I have told the universe several times that I don't need any more proof that things only fall apart when Gene is gone, drama keeps happening. Today was a particularly long day, topped off with an over two-hour commute filled with slow drivers who totally made me break my resolution to not flip off anyone over the age of 65 who drives under the speed limit. (My hand was getting so tired that I had to draw the line somewhere, and I figured respecting my elders was a good place to start, although I stand by my medical opinion that it's a good, practical form of physical therapy for my broken wrists). At any rate, I was looking forward to my gourmet frozen pizza and an adult beverage. The first thing I noticed when I got home and looked out the window was a goat butt swaying in the door of the chicken coop. As I ran out onto the back deck, I realized there were munching goats as far as the eye could see; butts were everywhere since the heads were stuffed into various feed bags. As soon as they realized I was home, they started to romp and frolic as only prison break goats can. I tried to lure them back into the pasture with treats, but as soon as I slammed the gate shut, they ran out the hole in the back fence they'd created while I was at work, diligently earning the money that pays for the eight tons of feed they gorged on this afternoon. I would chase three goats in, and one goat plus a sheep would barrel back out. There was complete disrespect for my authoritay. I'm pretty sure my friend Abigail is tired of racing to my house to deal with all my drama, but she's way too nice to say anything. She helped me mend the fence (and by "helped" I mean she fixed it for me), and now all is well again. The critters are lucky they're so cute. 

Poor Puff Daddy is still in the chicken hospital; he still can't put any weight at all on his right leg. This morning he started crowing, which I took as a positive sign. Of course, he could have just been annoyed that I woke him up so early, since I get up before dawn. Either way, he seems happy enough in his warm comfy box. I read online that leg fractures, if that's what it is, can take about a month to heal, so looks like he'll be inside for awhile. Lucky Gene!

Jack the fuzzy duckling seems fully recovered; I swear they double in size every day. They are starting to enter the gawky adolescent stage where they have feather spines coming in, but no actual feathers yet.  The chicks are also growing at an accelerated rate; poor Gene is going to have to start the coop renovation the minute he gets home, because they're starting to run out of real estate.

I'm getting two eggs a day from the rescue ducks, so I'm pretty excited about that. I still haven't tried one, mostly because I want to make Gene a duck egg omelet when he gets back, and see if he notices the difference. I've never had a duck egg before, so I'm a little afraid to go out on that particular culinary limb alone. Since they're white, maybe I'll hardboil and dye them for Easter.

Speaking of Easter, I'll close with proof that spring is finally on the way -- the hummingbirds are back!

Save the drama for your papa

This week was the first (and the last) time Gene has left the farm for over a week. It didn't take long for things to fall apart, just a few days. It all started on Thursday night. I got home from work to find the biggest duckling, Jack, tipped over on his back in the brooding box. He had been fine when I checked on him in the morning, so I wasn't too concerned, although the frantically waving webbed feet was the definition of pitiful. I flipped him over, in the process learning that ducks have claws. (Who knew?) He didn't seem able to remain upright, though, and immediately fell back over. Since my experience dealing with duck medical emergencies is pretty much limited to recognizing which end should be pointed up, I called my own personal animal 911 - my friend Abigail. She works part time at a vet, so it's basically the same as calling a doctor.

She came over, and together we made the executive decision to check Jack into the hospital, otherwise known as the bathroom tub. We gave him food and water, and lined the tub with towels, since we didn't want him to bonk his head if he fell over again. We also brought in one of the little Indian Runner Ducks, named Daniels. I thought it would be easier if he had a buddy, since they like to cuddle so much. After two days in the hospital, Jack recovered to the extent that I could put him back in the brooding box today. My guess as to what happened is that he got turned on his back, then struggled so much he got tired out and dehydrated. He just needed a little vacation, and now he's back to normal. On a side note, the mess that two ducks can make in one bathtub is unreal. UNREAL. I had to take the 15 towels we used (I really didn't want them to hit their heads, and most falls occur in the bathroom) outside and hose them off, then run them through the sanitation cycle in the washer with tons of bleach. I used our guest towels, since I figured Gene would be vexed that I used towels at all, but at least I didn't use his. Still, if any of you come to visit and decide to make it BYOT, I won't be in the least offended. It took me another hour to disinfect the bathtub.

After I finished Lysoling the tub (Lysolitizing?), I went outside to feed the chickens. I noticed that poor Puff Daddy couldn't put any weight on his right leg, and the other chickens had knocked him over into the mud. Abigail came back over, and we put him in the kitchen sink and hosed him off. He didn't seem to mind his day at the spa, although seeing his dark blue body shining through his sodden white feathers was a little creepy. So less than an hour after Jack and Daniels were discharged from the hospital, Puff Daddy took up residence. He at least should be a little cleaner, since he's in a cardboard box with straw, food, and water. He seems quite happy - he was chowing down at his buffet for one the last time I checked on him.                            

After getting Puff Daddy situated in the hospital box, I went back outside to feed the chickens and change out the waterers. As King Julian went to hop up into the coop, I noticed he was limping. My first thought was entirely selfish - you can't put two roosters in the same hospital room, so since we only have two bathrooms, that leaves me without a chicken-free shower option. But then I looked more closely at him, and realized he had somehow gotten a string from one of the feed bags wrapped around his feet, like someone had thrown a bolo at him. He actually let me hold him and cut the strings off; I was quite impressed. Once he was roosting contentedly, I resumed my mission to refill everyone's waterer.

I carefully opened the door to the turkey kennel and successfully snatched the near-empty waterer out before Thanksgiving could decide to chomp on me. I don't usually let them outside when it's raining, since their feathers get so muddy, and taking Thanksgiving to the kitchen spa is out of the question. Once I had filled the waterer back up, I was walking up to the kennel when Christmas started furiously flapping. I thought her head was stretched through the gap that rings the door frame so that she could get some spilled food, but no. She was stuck. Like a kid putting his head through a banister. My first thought this time was, OMFG, really? Followed closely by, oh, crap, my wrists are still broken so how am I going to pull the heavy-gauge wire enough for her to get her head back out? Just like Thanksgiving puffs up when he's fussed, Christmas's neck was doing the same thing. No matter how I moved her head, it was too swollen to push it back through. I went and got a wooden stick for leverage, and I was finally able to push her head back through. She seemed no worse for the wear - she immediately went to her food bowl and started gobbling down her dinner.  Thanksgiving, on the other hand, seemed to think it was my fault his wife got stuck in the door, and he took a chunk out of my leg when I put the waterer in the kennel. It scares me to no end that he can draw blood through denim. Thankfully I got through the rest of the farm chores with no more drama, although I did have a slight limp.

In non-hospital related news, before he left Gene completed work on the Maisson De' Duck, which is French for duck hut. It's absolutely palatial in scope, and just what the rescue ducks had hoped for. They opted for a sloped-roof cedar rambler, waterfront, of course, and even commissioned some one-of-a-kind artwork on the front door and porch. It will be more than enough for the four rescue ducks and the five ducklings, as soon as they're old enough to join them. The roof is hinged, and flips open for easy cleaning. The floor is covered with a thick rubber mat, so they can spill all the water they want and the straw doesn't get too damp. They're so happy I even got my first duck egg yesterday! They are in much better spirits, although they don't seem to have gotten back their waterproofing yet; rain doesn't run off their feathers like it would with healthy ducks. They're getting there, though. I think it will just take some time and spoiling.

Since Gene didn't want the goats to think the ducks were getting all the preferential treatment, he built them a three-bucket feeding station, and hung it from the fence. Since I'm still boarding Abigail's goats, Jack and Sam, in the hopes of finding love in the air, feeding time at the zoo gets a bit frenzied. With the new bucket system, I can feed them from the other side of the fence, so they can't knock the scoops out of my hands anymore. Watching them eat reminds me of a raucous game of goat Twister, with heads and legs sticking out of brightly colored circles in every direction.

They're here!!!!!!

Finally, finally I have my ducklings! One of the feed stores that was still taking my phone calls agreed to put the last ducklings they had on hold for me; apparently I'm not the only one who was disgruntled with the USPS's utter lack of service, because the ducklings sold in under a day when they finally made their appearance. Gene told me I could get four ducklings, so naturally I came home with five. In my defense, the store had five on hold for me, having heeded my screeching phone request of "OMG hold whatever you have left I'm on my way!!!" The store's policy states that no one's left behind, because there's nothing more depressing than a lone duckling.

Once I got them home, they took a look around at the available housing options, and settled for the new addition to the chick's brooding box. Gene had built it several weeks ago, and it was all ready for them, complete with wading pool. The ducks absolutely love it. They must spend 23 out of 24 hours in the pool, and protest mightily every time I take it out to replace the water. The chicks haven't seemed to notice their new neighbors, which is a good thing, because Gene said there's no way they're getting a pool too. I got two Pekin ducks (which are the white ones with the bright orange beaks and feet), and three Indian Runners, which are the tall thin ones that always look like they're facing into a strong wind. 

My friend Abigail brought Jack and Sam, her boy goats, back to our house while her family is on vacation. Now that the herd is six strong, feeding time is even more of a challenge. It's like a moving obstacle course, with six critters all trying to be the first one to grab the grain scoop away from me. Poor Sam is still obsessed with Princess Fiona - the one goat he doesn't have a chance in hell of getting with. It's pretty funny - every time I look over at him, he's gazing soulfully at Fiona's rear end, which is waving about five feet above him. Although Princess Buttercup is his size (and his intended date), he has set his sights higher, literally and figuratively. Ironically, Princess Fiona and Jack have forged a bond, probably because Jack is fixed and is more into cuddling. Woolimina and Princess Ariel have adjusted nicely to their new surroundings; Princess Buttercup especially loves bounding around the pasture with Ariel. Despite her diminutive size, Ariel is actually the loudest of all the critters. If I come outside around dusk and don't feed them right away, she lets loose with these ear-shattering shrieks that sound like she's being attacked. I'm surprised our neighbors haven't called Goat Protective Services on us... she's that loud. Seriously, the noise is unreal. Not even Sean Paul and Marley can match her in terms of sheer volume.

All the chickens were particularly happy today - although it was cold, it was bright and sunny. The six Golden-Sex Link chickens have finally conquered their agoraphobia, and free range all over the yard. They're actually quite the party chickens, I have to chase them inside the coop every night even though everyone else has gone to bed. They're like little kids; all they want is five more minutes. They have all started to lay eggs, but unfortunately they lay them in random places, like behind the feed bins and between layers of straw in the bales. Collecting eggs has turned into a daily Easter egg hunt. A few days ago I hit the jackpot - I found a hidden cache of 11! I'm not sure how to convince them to use the nesting boxes...I'm hoping they figure it out eventually.

An open letter to the US Postal Service

Dear Sir(s) and/or Madam(s):

I would like to direct your attention to the picture at right; it is a lovingly constructed brooding box. Of particular note is the bright blue swimming pool, complete with basking rock/swim deck. You'll notice a heat lamp, and if you're unusually astute you'll also notice it's not illuminated. Perhaps you are wondering why no life-sustaining heat is pouring forth. Perhaps you are also wondering why I'm sending a letter with a picture of an empty brooding box to the US Postal Service. I'm sending you a picture of a dark and lonely brooding box because IT'S YOUR FAULT IT'S EMPTY!!!! I capitalized those letters on purpose, for I wish to indicate that I am, in fact, shouting at you. I would also include a frowny-face emoticon, but I shall keep this letter professional. Allow me to explain the reason for my ire, and the reason for which said ire is directed at you. For the last three weeks, I have been calling numerous feed stores, asking when their shipment of cute, fuzzy ducklings will arrive. In each case, I was promised a specific date, guaranteed by the hatcheries sending the ducks. And by "sending", I mean utilizing the US Postal Service. Those promised dates, marked in ink on my calendar, have come and gone. Let me re-direct your attention to the photo at right. Notice the lack of ducks happily basking in the glow of the heat lamp, or paddling contentedly in the wading pool. Notice the lack of food and water available, because do you know what nothing eats? That's right - nothing. Let me pose another question:  how is it possible for the USPS to delay four separate hatchery orders to four separate feed stores in a span of three weeks???? Do you think ducklings enjoy being in a cardboard box for extended periods of time? Do you think I enjoy being responsible for the fact that the four feed stores within fifty miles of my house have changed their phone greetings to "___ Feed Store, no the ducks aren't available yet"? Since federal law prohibits me from expressing my dissatisfication with your operating procedures to the extent that I would like to do in this letter, I will close by requesting that you pull your collective heads out and deliver me some ducklings already. Fly like an eagle my a$$.
Respectfully,

Me

Despite my longing for ducklings being thus far unfulfilled, I actually have acquired four adult ducks. Gene found someone who had ducks she needed to give away, so last weekend my friend Abigail and I went to go pick them up. When we got there, the poor ducks were so mud-covered you couldn't even tell what color they were. They didn't have access to anywhere warm and dry, so they weren't in terribly good shape. Chasing them around proved that I wasn't in terribly good shape either, and by the time I caught the fourth duck, I was as covered in mud as they were. (And on a slightly related note, if some weird avian duck flu hits Washington state, it's probably my fault - I think I swallowed about a gallon of gross duck mud). They seemed to perk up when we got them home, probably because they looked around and saw nothing but spoiled and pampered goats, chickens, turkeys, rabbits, and the world's luckiest sheep. After a week of clean bedding and water, they are doing well, and Gene even went out and bought them some powdered duck vitamins that make their water look like Tang. 

All the other critters are their usual content selves. Princess Ariel and Woolimina are ecstatic with their new surroundings, and Woolimina isn't skittish anymore. She runs right up to me the moment I walk through the gate, and I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I always have Wheat Thins, or at the very least, a few Ritz crackers with me. Speaking of Ritz crackers, I made the mistake of assuming that Harvey and Claire, the now-gigantic bunnies, would happily share a cracker while I prepared their evening meal. Have you ever heard a bunny hiss? It's like hearing a cute fluffy kitten drop an F-bomb -- it just ain't right. Both bunnies take meal times very seriously. Claire, in particular, has graduated from throwing her food bowl at me if I don't make with the lettuce fast enough to charging at my hand. And hissing. Thank god for distracting Wheat Thins.

Sadly, the bunnies aren't the only ones who blatantly disrespect my authority. The two Polish Crested roosters, Sean Paul and Marley, have decided that they rule the backyard. Until about two weeks ago, they would wait until your back was turned, and without warning you'd feel a feathered talon ball bouncing of your butt (they can't jump that high). Lately, though, they don't wait until you can't see them coming. They just attack whenever they feel like it. I tried wearing unbuttoned flannel shirts outside, so that when they squared off with me I could take the ends of it and flap my arms, pretending like I have giant wings. I must have ruined the illusion by yelling, "You want a piece of this?" It seems as if they do, indeed, want a piece of that, because their response is usually to hang off my jeans. Chivalry is not dead on the farm, however, because King Julian routinely comes to my rescue. Just this afternoon Marley was having a go at my shins, and King Julian came flying out of nowhere and knocked him over. I'm officially a part of his flock now.

Herd...or hoard?

Princess Ariel

It's been a wondrous week here on the farm. I started out the week as usual, trolling Craig's List to see if anyone was selling a critter I couldn't live with out (specifically a miniature pot-bellied pig, but don't tell Gene.) I found something even better though - someone nearby was moving, and needed to sell their female pygmy goat. The price was too good to pass up, so naturally I emailed the seller, set up a pick up date and time, then asked Gene if it was okay. He said yes, so today he took me to Port Orchard to get Princess Ariel! When we got there, we saw she was standing by a miniature sheep, which the seller said we could buy for an additional fee. He then said if we didn't take her, he would have to take her to the butcher because they were moving soon. He added that he would eat her, for dinner, and possibly again for breakfast the next day if there was any left. Despite that gloomy proclamation, Gene held firm to his "no means no" stance regarding sheep, even doomed ones. When Gene put Princess Ariel in the transport crate, she immediately started crying. It was a heart-wrenching sound, full of despair at the prospect of leaving her companion of two years. The sheep was also despondent; she was running back and forth the length of the fence, bleating and crying as she tried desperately to get to her best friend. Naturally I was beyond heart-broken at this point, so with growing horror I asked Gene if we could please, please take the sheep too. He still said no, and since I didn't want to cry in front of some guy I had just met, I got into the truck and started crying there. Gene got in the driver's seat, and it was only in retrospect that I realized he didn't start it. He sat there for minute, then sighed and told me to go find out if the guy would take a check, and we came home with a sheep too!!!!

Woolinda Woolimina,
the world's luckiest sheep.

We named her Woolinda Woolimina, and she is the happiest sheep on the planet. Catching Woolimina was somewhat challenging, as she is much more skittish than Princess Ariel. Gene and the seller chased her into their pen, which was a somewhat creepy partially walled off area underneath his house. My contribution, since I can't successfully grab a sheep with either of my broken wrists, was to guard the entrance so she couldn't run out again. I got the bad job, since one of Woolimina's horns points straight out, kind of like an ugly unicorn. I didn't feel as though I was in a position to complain though, since I wanted to catch her and get her in the crate before Gene had a chance to change his mind. It was also kind of fun to watch the seller chase her around using his cell phone as the room's only source of illumination. He chased her up onto a ledge, and when she jumped off, Gene literally snatched her out of midair by her wool. It was so cool - like something you would see in a rodeo, if bulls had wool and didn't weigh so much. They got her into the crate with Princess Ariel, and they both immediately stopped crying and started cuddling. Even Gene had to admit we were doing the right thing. At least I assume he thought it, and just didn't choose to voice it. He did ask me what I intended to actually do with a sheep, and I assured him that if the apocalypse came, I would be able to make socks and sweaters for everyone with our new renewable supply of wool.

Once we got them back to the farm, Gene positioned the crate right inside the pasture gate. At first they were both too afraid to come out, but once they did they immediately started exploring all the climbing toys and the wooded area. Since they didn't have any toys and lived on a grass lawn before, they seemed as happy as a sheep and goat could appear to be. They both seem to get along with Princesses Fiona and Buttercup, and my friend immediately came down to view our newest acquisitions and said she would bring back Jack and Sam, since Princess Ariel isn't fixed either. That doubles my odds of getting baby goats!!!! Potentially lots and lots of baby goats.

Party of 12

But these two aren't the only reason this week has been wondrous. I was getting cabin fever being stuck in the house, since I can't drive yet, so Gene took me to one of my favorite places, the local feed store. Naturally I dragged him over to the chick display, and asked him if I could replace the one chick who didn't make it out of the eight we had bought a few days ago. I then pointed out that it seemed strange to have three of one breed, but only one or two of the other breeds. We left with four new chicks! And even better, the feed store bumped up their duck delivery schedule, so now I get ducklings next Friday!

At least they're eating healthy.

In non-animal news, my seeds have sprouted in the new indoor greenhouse! I know I said that in the last update, but now they're even bigger! I planted another two flats of seeds yesterday, and will do several more as soon as we get another set of lights. When I checked in on the seedlings this morning, I noticed that upon closer inspection, some of the leaves appeared somewhat chewed. Then I noticed that my prized bean seedling had been reduced from its once-glorious 12 inches to a two-inch ragged stem. It didn't take me long to realize what had happened - all I had to do was look toward the doorway to see two kitties smashing their faces against the mesh, trying to get in for some more snacking. Apparently I need to make extra-sure the door is zipped all the way shut.