Playing God

"Playing God" -- I've never been very comfortable with the phrase, let alone the concept.  Yet, it seems we now find ourselves faced with a decision that feels an awful lot like "playing God."

Here's the deal.  The gals in the "meat tractor" are now basically adults.  That means that it's time to move the layers into the laying tractor with our other four layers and slaughter the rest. 

The black and white Dominques were always destined to be layers.  Meanwhile, we'd planned on the yellow Buff Orpingtons being meat birds.  But, over the course of the summer, we lost a few hens from the laying tractor and would like to fill it back up.  That means that besides the five Dominiques, we have room for 3 or 4 Buffs.  Yep.  We're faced with the decision of which yellow hens will live to feed us and which will die to feed us. 

How to choose? 

According to Storey's Guide to Raising Chickens, the best indicators of a good layer are a large, moist vent and wide-spread, flexible pelvic bones.  For those unfamiliar with the term "vent," it is the hole where the egg comes out.  Interestingly (to me, anyway), it's actually the only hole where anything comes out down there.  And, yes, Storey's Guide has illustrations to show us the difference between the vent of a good layer and the vent of a poor layer.  Thanks for that, Storey's Guide.

So, we are either going to have to just go with our guts on this one or do the more responsible, "farmer-y" thing and give the gals a thorough gynocological exam.  Stay tuned!  Something tells me I'll be donning my gloves.

Oh, and don't forget , you have until tomorrow to comment on Sunday's post and be entered to win the Peppermint Shampoo Soap.

Our Prized Goat

Goats run in a herd.  That's just part of their genetic makeup.  Our goats apparently think that WE are part of their herd.  So, though they have a great, big field to enjoy all day long, they often choose to pile up right by the fence, like this, so that they can see us when we come outside and beg for scratches behind the ears!

Yesterday on the phone, I was talking to the farmer we bought our goats from back in April.  She was telling me how fortunate we are to have Razz, our sweet milker.  She hails from Pruittville Farms, which is one of the really big names in the National Dairy Goat Association.  Apparently, a yearling from Razz's bloodlines won some pretty prestigious awards this year in show, and Mr. Pruitt called our breeder and asked to purchase Razz back from her because of her excellent bloodlines.

Luckily for us, she'd already been sold to us, and we have no intentions of letting her go!  As novice goat owners, we're much more interested, though, in her sweet personality than in her bloodlines.  Still, it's kind of cool to own a goat the Mr. Pruitt is a little envious of.  :)

Pondering Chicken

After reading this section of The Accidental Farmers by Tim Young, I felt a little naive because I'd never considered this:
"Most people are quite unaware that for every laying hen, which by definition is female, a male was hatched out.  The male, having the misfortune of belonging to a laying breed, has neither the ability to lay eggs nor the ability to gain weight quickly and efficiently as meat birds do.  Thus, his life concludes on the day it begins as more often than not he is ground up alive."

Surely, I think, he could at least serve as a meat chicken, commonly referred to as a broiler.  But no commercial farmer is interested in filling a chicken house full of a laying breed when they could be growing the genetically engineered hulk of a chicken that reach maturity in half the time:

"His body has been re-programmed by humans to do very unnatural things.  Like for instance to grow so remarkably fast that his legs would fail, by design, before he reached fifty days of age.  Not that he will live that long, as most broilers are bred to grow from that yellow fuzzy cotton ball of a chick to almost five pounds in about thirty-nine days, at which time they are 'harvested' for our chicken sandwiches.  That's if an industrial breed chicken lives to thirty-nine days.  Up to thirty percent of them do not, as heart attacks and respiratory problem from the rate of growth run rampant."

It's feels good to know that the chicken I ate last night was a heritage breed, not altered to grow at an abnormal rate, who lived out its life pecking away at bugs and grass and taking dust baths in my backyard.  He must have been "happy," in so much as chickens are happy.  And, that makes me happy.

Not keen on slaughtering your own chicken in your backyard?  Look for "pastured" and "organic" labels on the chicken you buy at the grocery store.  While other labels are out there, it's the "organic" label that is actually managed by the USDA and means that the processor is held to pretty rigorous standards regarding humane treatment of the chicken, how it's fed, and how it's slaughtered.

Warning: Graphic Images from Today's Chicken Slaughter

**Warning:  If you'd rather not think about how your chicken made its way to your enchilada, you may not want to scroll on down.**

Today, we processed 4 more birds (and the last of the roosters, thank heavens!).  Though I did make a killing cut last time and assisted in the processing, this was the first time that I did a bird from start to finish on my own. 

Caught him in the pen

Held him upside down by the feet for a minute while taking cleansing breaths (this is calming for me and him)

Put him head-first into the restraining cone

Held his head in one hand while slicing his throat with the other

Pierced his brain through his mouth, ending his consciousness and pain

Cut off his head and let him finish bleeding out and squawking (yes, squawking . . . headless squawking)

Carried his limp body to the table

Plucked his feathers where I make the first cut

Skinned and eviscerated him (much more detailed a process than it sounds like here)

Washed him clean

Plopped him into the pot of salted water

Carried him inside

Rinsed and patted him dry

Sealed him up in the storage bag

Placed him in the refrigerator.

Yep, I did it all!

Our table after we were finished (I forgot to show a pic of this set-up last time).  I took a pic of what was in the trashcan and thought better of posting it.  (You're welcome.)

My blood-stained gloves.  Three things made today's slaughter difficult for me:

1.  My bird bled A LOT.  All over my gloves.  Saturating them so that I could feel it on my skin beneath.  And it was so warm.  I don't know why that surprised me.  Of course, it would be warm.  But, for some reason, I just wasn't prepared for it, and it rattled me a bit.

2.  The squawking.  It's one thing when they squawk with their heads intact.  It is another thing altogether for a headless bird, hanging upside down on the fence to be squawking in just the same way he was earlier that morning in the pen with all his buddies.

3.  I'd swear these chickens knew what they were in for.  They did not "go gently into that good night."  In fact, two of them led us on a wild, um, chicken chase all over the yard after they siezed their small window of opportunity and slid out of the cage just before slaughter. 

We use this water bucket to get the feathers off our gloves and/or hands during processing.

Blood-stained fencepost under the restraining cone

In the kitchen, ready for bagging.

For those of you who are thinking, "Okay, she's gone too far with these pics!  They are just disturbing!", I would posit this --

These chickens were raised in excellent conditions, had an excellent quality of life, were processed in the most humane way we know of and in conditions much cleaner than the average factory. 

I guess the goal of this post has been to bring you a bit closer to the process.    I wanted to show a glimpse of the blood.  You know, we prefer to trace our meal's origins back to the the shrink-wrapped styrofoam plate we select and place into our shopping cart.  But that was not the food's beginning.  It was an animal, that clucked and squawked and scratched at the ground.  If we're going to eat meat, we need to acknowledge that that means we are eating animals -- the animals God created and entrusted to our care.  And we ought to recognize and appreciate that those animals' blood was shed for our own nourishment.

Goat Shed Complete!

Okay, if you have any construction expertise, please avert your eyes.  Our finished goat shed may not be up to par for you.  When John asked Girl 1 what she thought of the finished product, she gave us a long, "Hmmmmm."

He then interrupted her with, "Listen, it's not bad for having been built by two people with degrees in the humanities!"

So, yes.  It took us more than twice the time it would've taken a more experienced builder.  And, yes, we mostly figured it out as we went and spent more time problem solving than pre-planning. 

But . . . it's done!  It was a big problem that was looming over our heads.  And, it's done!

And, we did it ourselves!  I mean, two days ago, there was no building there.  Today, there is.  And, it's because we built it!  We are proof that a husband and wife team can complete a 2-day, labor-intensive project together in 110 degree heat and still like each other at the end of the day.  ;)

I know it's hard to see what's going on here, but I thought the church in the background would lend perspective to each picture.  This one was taken before we began the project.

Mid-way through

Construction complete!

And, painted!

This picture may provide the best look at how the shed actually spans the fence.  To the right of the fence is the new buck pen; they have access to the shed via the open end on the right.  To the left of the fence is the open field.

This pic is taken from inside the buck pen.  You can see how the right end is open to allow them access to the shelter.

We are currently letting the paint dry, then we'll move everybody in to their new digs.  Hopefully, when the goats are hunkered down in there, waiting for a storm to pass, they won't pass the time by scrutinizing our work.  We won't leave the level in there, though, just in case.

 :)

Death: Just the Other Side of Life?

We had more chicken death here in our little backyard farm today.  But, this death wasn't intentional.  Usually, when John moves the chicken tractor, the chickens, who've grown accustomed to the routine, move right along with him, eager to discover their fresh ground.  Today, however, as John moved the tractor in the rain, one of the chickens failed to scurry along with the rest and found herself underneath the weight of the tractor.  Besides crushing her internal organs, it also pulled off a foot, and she had to be put out of her misery quickly.  John and I were both pretty shaken up about it.

The chicken was a Dominique (perhaps the black and white one pictured here).

 

The incident reminded me of a section of The Dirty Life I read recently:
"I had a boyfriend once who liked to gamble, and I'd ride on the back of his motorcycle through the Holland Tunnel and along the Jersey coast to Atlantic City.  Sitting at the table, watching the cards being dealt, I heard a man say that the difference between an amateur and a pro is that the pro doesn't have an emotional reaction to losing anymore. It's just the other side of winning.  I guess I'm a farmer now, because I'm used to loss like this, to death of all kinds, and to rot.  It's just the other side of life.  It is your first big horse and all he meant to you, and it is also his bones and skin breaking down in the compost pile, almost ready to be spread on the fields."

I guess by this definition, I am not a farmer yet.  I'm not accustomed to death of any kind.  When my zucchini vines grew so frail that they were no longer worth the water I was putting on them each morning, I mourned the loss even as I uprooted them and drug them to the compost pile.  And, when I slit the throat of my first meat chicken, I had to take a few cleansing breaths and fight the urge to close my eyes as I made the cut.  

Still, today was somehow different.  Worse still than all of those other deaths.  This chicken wasn't intended to be meat.  She was intended to be a part of our laying flock -- a pet, really.  The way she died was not a part of our plan.  The fact that clouds of "what-could-I-have-done-differently?" and "it-wasn't-supposed-to-happen-like-this" are following us around today is evidence that we haven't yet become accustomed to the death that is inevitable in this new lifestyle of ours. 

Stay-cation Project

This week, John is off work, and we're going to celebrate by having a week-long stay-cation!  While we do intend to have some fun (we'll definitely be visiting our favorite animals in Memphis:), we also have one big project we're hoping to cross off the list this week.

As is the case with any good project, this one is intended to be a solution to a problem. 

The problems are actually two-fold:

Problem #1-  Copper, who I'd like to think is still an adorable little buckling, is growing up on us.  And, he has begun to pester the ladies in some ways that we're not ready for until mating season later in the fall.  So, he and his buddy Dallas have been quarantined.  For now, that means that they are living in the old dog pen with a tarp for shade.  It's fine for a short time, but they need more space and grass and weeds to eat, so it's a temporary solution.  In fact, there will be other times (e.g. birthing and weaning) when we'll need a way to separate the goats, so we need a better space in which to do that.

When we had the back field fenced, we had a 1,000 sq. ft. area sectioned off in one corner to serve this purpose.  But, goats are finicky about getting wet, and they need a way to get some shade on these super hot days.  So . . . we need to build a shelter for the new buck pen area.

Problem #2:  The giant fenced-in field has no shelter for the goats.  We turn them out everyday, but if it starts to rain, we have to run out and let them back into the yard where they can find some shelter.  Also, in the early morning hours, shade is hard to come by in the field.  So . . . we need to build a shelter in the field.

Rather than build 2 separate shelters, we've decided to build just one building that spans the fence separating the buck pen from the rest of the field.  Half of the building will provide shelter for the bucks while the other half provides shelter for the goats in the main field. 

Stay tuned for our progress!

Another Member of the Herd

Which of these things doesn't belong?

Apparently Dexter thinks he's a goat.  Let's not tell him otherwise; it'll be our little secret.  I think he'd be so disappointed.

He's small enough to squeeze under the gate separating our backyard from our goat field, so he spends much of the day grazing and napping with the rest of the herd.

(These pics aren't great because they're taken from the kitchen window.  If I go out, Dexter runs to the door to greet me, ruining the goat/dog combo pic.)

Dexter and Razz are apparently having an ongoing battle for Herd Queen.  They love to head-butt one another.  Because Razz is our milker and has her big udders to contend with, she's our slowest moving goat, so Dexter torments her by ducking and bobbing and circling, driving her absolutely crazy!  They do this every morning when the goats are first turned out to the field.  Eventually, they settle down and are friends for the rest of the day.

After Slaughter, Then What?

First, slaughter and processing.  Then, packaging and storing. 

On Saturday, after we'd slaughtered, skinned, and eviscerated the chickens, we put them into a covered pot of warm, salty water until the last one was finished.  This just kept the chickens clean while we processed the others.  Once inside, we rinsed then patted them all dry.  We placed each chicken into its own freezer storage bag (specially designed for freezing home-slaughtered chicken and ordered from our hatchery) and tied it up.  The chickens are currently spending the requisite 2-3 days in the refrigerator until rigor subsides.  Once we can easily move the legs around (like you can with ones you buy at the store), we can either cook or freeze them.  I was hoping to be able to throw one into the stock pot today, but, alas, the rigor continues. Maybe tomorrow.  I'll try to be patient.  :)

Chicken Butchering Day!

The day has finally arrived!  These 4 roosters have kept us from sleeping countless hours over the past month, since they've started crowing.  Last night, they kept John from sleeping as he contemplated what we'd be doing come dawn.  This was going to be a big deal to us.  We were going to slaughter animals in our own backyard, and we wanted to be sure to do it right.

(In case you're concerned about scrolling down further, let me say that, out of respect for the birds we raised to feed us, this post does not include any mid-process photos.  It does, however, contain some descriptions that you may find disturbing.)

We moved the 4 biggest roosters out of the chicken tractor and into a temporary holding pen (they'd been without food since yesterday to be sure that their digestive systems were mostly clean).

They said goodbye to their fellow chickens.  (Don't think it was a sentimental goodbye, though.  These 4 have been pecking at and otherwise pestering the others for quite some time.)

John moved their temporary holding pen to the part of the yard where we'd set up our processing stuff (somehow I didn't get a picture of the table and other supplies) then used the wheelbarrow and plastic tub to block their view of the processing table.  :)

This is a restraining cone.  The chicken is placed head-down into the cone.  This stabilizes the bird as you make the killing cut and allows him to bleed out into a bucket below.  We strove to use the most humane killing method possible.  Once the chicken was restrained in the cone, one quick slice of the jugular started the bleeding out process.  Immediately following that cut, we made a quick puncture (through the mouth) directly into the brain.  This puncture essentially ends the consciousness of the bird, so he no longer feels pain.  It was obvious that the puncture worked because, following it, the bird would immediately close his eyes.

BEFORE

AFTER

This post is not intended to be a step-by-step demonstration of how we processed the chicken, so I won't go into great detail.  We did opt to skin them, though, rather than pluck the feathers, so the process was much quicker and required less equipment than other home-processing methods. 

You may have many questions about this backyard chicken processing, but I know enough to anticipate two of them:

1.  "Ashley, did you actually take part in this process?"  Yes, I've told you before that I can do most anything with gloves on.  There's just something about the distance gloves create for me.  Yes, I did make a kill cut myself.  And, yes, it was difficult.  Taking a knife to an animal's throat and ending its life is not an easy thing to do.  I will definitely look differently now at every cut of meat that makes its way to my plate.  That slice to the jugular was definitely the hardest part of the whole thing for me.  Once the chicken was dead, it seemed to me to have morphed from animal to food, and that made it much easier to skin and clean.

2.  "Were the kids around?  What were their thoughts about it all?"  Yes, they were in the backyard with us through a lot of the process.  They were interested to see the chicken head in the trashcan and the feathers.  Surprisingly, they did not seem disgusted by it in the least.  Thankfully, none of them were around, though, when the biggest, wildest chicken kicked himself so strongly that he knocked the slaughter cone down off the fence and proceeded to run wild around the yard . . . headless.

"All of us sooner or later must learn to look our food in the face.  If we're willing to eat an animal, it's probably only responsible to accept the truth of its living provenance rather than pretending it's a 'product' from a frozen-foods shelf with its gizzard in a paper envelope."  -- Barbara Kingsolver

 It seems that today was our day to "look our food in the face."  We've had a bunch of animals living in our care for a while now, but somehow this day seems to mark a turning point.  We now feel "all-in" when it comes to this homesteading stuff.  We'd been unsure about whether or not we'd be able to do this whole meat processing thing.  It seems that, yes, we can do it.  And, it was not nearly as awful as we'd feared. 

There is no better lesson in commitment than the cow.

I'm reading a chick-lit-meets-farming-memoir right now by Kristin Kimball titled The Dirty Life.  It's a good book because it does two things:  it makes me laugh out loud and it rings so true.  Take this section about a cow, for example.  If you sub in "goat" everytime she says "cow," I couldn't agree more!

There is no better lesson in commitment than the cow.  Her udder knows no exceptions or excuses.  She must be milked or she'll suffer from her own fullness and then she'll get sick or dry up.  Morning and evening, on holidays, in good weather and in bad, from the day she gives birth to her calf until the day ten months later when you dry her off, your cow is the frame in which you must fit your days, the twelve-hour tether beyond which you may no longer travel.

And look at this sweet face!  Who wouldn't look forward to seeing it each morning -- even if it is at 5:30AM.  :)

Don't forget to comment on Monday's post by the end of the day today to be entered into the drawing for The Backyard Homestead.  I've had very few comments, so your odds of winning are pretty good!

Sleeping in the Guest Room

I've never been a violent person.  I've even sent my son to timeout recently for holding his fingers like a gun and pointing them at the cat.  But, I admit, when these dad-gum adolescent roosters finally figured out how to properly crow and began doing so at 4:00am every day, I started graphically envisioning their slaughter day.  Because of the heat, John has them positioned in the yard so that they'll get some shade during the hottest part of the day.   Unfortunately, that shade is provided by our house, specifically, our bedroom.  So, that 4:00am crowing is happening right outside our bedroom window.  We've actually started sleeping in the guest room (again).  But, hopefully, this will all come to an end this weekend. We've ordered the last of the supplies we'll need for butchering day, and, if they arrive in time, we'll be butchering our first round of chickens (definitely including those roosters) Saturday!

Don't forget to comment on Monday's post in order to get entered into the drawing for your very own copy of The Backyard Homestead!  You have until Friday to comment.  :)

Araucana: a Stand-out Chicken!

When we first brought home our flock of hens, we had a total of 8, a pair of each of 4 different breeds.  Then, our Araucana's were not my favorites.  Sure, they were pretty enough, but they were very timid.  I much preferred the Australorps that would greet me when I came with treats and let me pet them.  Also, the Araucana's were prone to lay "floor eggs," or eggs laid in places other than the nesting box, which I found annoying. 

Now, that our flock has dwindled to 4, though, the Araucanas have won me over. For one thing, they're both still kickin', which leads me to believe that they are pretty tough and heat-tolerant.  Also, while the other two hens have basically decided to just lay off the laying of eggs during this horrible heat, the Araucanas are still going strong.

It's easy to tell their eggs from the others.  Araucanas are frequently called "Easter-eggers" because of their beautiful blue/green eggs.  Martha Stuart, who really likes this breed herself, even named a paint color after that exquisite shade of blue!

So, if you're in the market for a new chicken breed, this one is definitely worth a look!

Oh, and it's watermelon season around here in the home of the world's sweetest melons!  And, our chickens are loving the opportunity to pick those rinds clean!

Why Didn't I Knock on Some Wood?

Some of you may remember this post about how well-behaved our new dog Dexter has been since his arrival.  I mentioned how he has NOT chewed up our shoes, dug in my garden, or frightened the laying chickens.  Ummmm.  Apparently, he was just on his best behavior as he got settled in.

Check out these shoes!  Yep.  He destroyed two pairs of outdoor shoes, mine and John's.  Now, we have revised our system and keep them just inside the back door rather than just outside the door.  Oh, and he buries things in my garden, namely his bone (apparently dogs really do that!).  And, he's taken to frightening the laying chickens to the extent that there are feathers everywhere, and, between the fear and the heat, the 5 chicken-flock has only produced 2 eggs per day for the past 3 days.  We've had to implement a no-eggs-for-breakfast-two-days-in-a-row rule.

And, still, despite all of this.  I think I may be falling for him!  I love the way he just follows me around the yard as I do my chores.  He sits with me in the garden pulling weeds.  He waits patiently in the milking shed as I milk Razz then walks with me back to the house.  And, then, just seeing how much joy he brings Girl 2 as they romp around the yard together is enough all on its own to make me love him.  John walked outside last night and stopped, in shock, "Ashley, you have a dog in your lap!"  He caught me.  We were having a bit of a moment.  :)

The Power of Choice

A couple months back, Little Boy and I accompanied Girl 1 on a class field trip to a local museum.  One of my favorite exhibits was on rural southern life during the Great Depression.  The tour guide asked the kids to imagine they lived on a farm during that time period and explained that they'd be responsible for milking the family cow, helping in the garden, and helping mom to make things like bread and soap.  All of this sounds so very familiar.  Interesting. 
The guide asked the kids if they knew what was used to make soap.  Girl 1 proudly raised her hand and said, "Milk!"  The guide didn't like that answer and corrected her with "Animal Fat."  Girl 1 winced.  But, she may have more experience with soap making than the tour guide, and at our house, we make lard-free soap that uses our goat milk.  Anyway, it got me to thinking that Girl 1 knows the answer to questions like that because a lot of what we do around here looks a lot like life then. 

There is, however, one very important difference:  CHOICE.

Ahh.  The power of choice. 

On days when John and I run in the morning, our routine looks like this:
5:15  alarm goes off
5:20  John leaves the house for his run while I milk the goat and process the milk
6:10  John tends to the chickens and goats while I hit the road for my run
7:00  we all sit down to breakfast together

And, even when we don't run, that alarm goes off at 5:15.  And, I don't hate it.  In fact, I really enjoy those quiet, early-morning milkings.  But, then, unlike the farmers "back in the day,"  I've made the choice to live like this.

The museum guide explained to us that, though  much work was involved in living on the farm during the Great Depression, those folks were actually quite fortunate as compared to their city-dwelling neighbors because they had means to support themselves through their farming lifestyles.  They had the skills necessary to "get by" in rough times.  They did have milk.  They did not have choice.  Is it any wonder that as the economy improved and technological advances offered a more leisurely lifestyle, our predecessors grasped the opportunity to, say, purchase sliced bread from the market?

If John and I should decide that 5:20AM milkings are not to our liking, we could quit it.  The goat would quit producing milk, and I could go right back to buying our milk at the grocery store.  If my zucchini plants don't produce or get eaten up by squash bugs, I can still have my stir fry.  It's just a grocery-store trip away.  Should I decide that baking our own bread is just too inconvenient, I can just add it to my shopping list.
And, isn't it true that choice is often closely linked to our enjoyment of an activity?  The kids love to do chores around here, so long as they feel they are the ones choosing to do them rather than being told to do them.  We get that warm, fuzzy feeling when we volunteer for a good cause because we CHOSE to do something good for someone else. 

As I teach myself to do things that my ancestors did as a matter of necessity, I recognize that choice is what separates us.  I am quite thankful for that gift.

Death Visits the Farm

It's H-O-T out there!  Temperatures this week have soared to well above 100 degrees, putting our poor chickens in a state of distress.  In fact, John came home on Monday to discover that we'd lost a laying chicken, bringing our flock down to 5.  I guess it gives us away as "unseasoned" farmers, but we feel this loss greatly.  We know that we have a responsibility to care for our animals, and we appreciate the foods they provide us in return.  So, a loss makes us reflective.  Are we doing all we can to keep our animals comfortable and healthy? 

So, here are the meat chickens, enjoying the breeze created by their new box fan.

And, the fan on the laying hens.  Of course, this doesn't help venitlate the house, where the chickens go to lay their eggs.

The coop is built to allow some venitlation here, but it's still stifling inside.

We're also adding frozen cartons of water to the coops during the hottest parts of the day.  Hopefully, we can make it through this hot season without losing our entire flock.

If anyone has a suggestion for keeping the flock more comfortable during these extreme temperatures, I'd welcome advice!

Help! I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up!

They look so peaceful out in the field, just grazing the day away.  But, don't be fooled! 

Our goats tend to get playful and headbutt one another in the evenings.  The kids know to stay away from them when the goats are playing "king of the rock."  But, because they're such docile animals, I've frequently allowed the kids to visit the goat pen without me.  I'm always within view of the pen, but not always close enough to avert a crisis.  That may have to change.

John is administering a worming treatment this week for the 3 goat kids.  Two of the kids are still a bit skiddish.  In fact, Tuesday morning while the kids and I were out of town, it took John a LONG time to catch Dallas and give him his meds.  So, we decided to tackle it together on Wednesday evening after the kids and I arrived home. 

Let me paint the picture for you:  John, Dexter (our new dog), and I are in the pen with 5 goats, trying to corner Dallas.  Oh, so that you can better picture this . . . I'm in a dress.  You'll see why this matters in a minute. 

Before I even know what's happening, one of the adult goats (Razz, probably) goes after Dexter, and I get caught in the crossfire.  The next thing I know, I hit the ground on my back, feet in the air!  To his credit, John does not just keel over laughing as my dress makes its way to my armpits and, instead, rushes to my aid.  It takes me a minute to get my breath back, but then, I'm okay. 

Two days later, I'm still sporting a pretty good-sized knot on my shin, and my dress may never fully recover from the fall in the goat poo.  But, it definitely could've been worse.  And, I'm so glad it was me rather than one of the kids.

All of that to say, the kids will probably not be unaccompanied in the goat pen anymore.  :)

DIY Pet Cooler

Because her cage has open sides, Cocoa Puff gets good enough air circulation to keep her from overheating during the night and early morning.  But, come late morning, she's looking a bit hot and ragged.  I've started filling this old plastic vinegar bottle about 2/3 full with water then freezing it.  I take it out mid-morning (when I'm here to do so) and put it in her cage.  It serves as both cooler and toy, as she enjoys not only sleeping next to it, but also rolling it around her cage.  Then, in the evening, I take it in, clean it off, and pop it back into the freezer until the next day.  You may not have an overheated-rabbit problem, but I'd imagine there are other animals who could benefit from a similar DIY approach to a more comfortable summer.  :)

Slaughter Day Approaching!

It's been about 2 1/2 months since these Buff Orpingtons arrived at our house.

They've definitely grown quite a bit since then.  We are nearing slaughter day.  Yep, in a matter of weeks, we'll know whether or not we can handle actually butchering our own dinner.  I'm really hoping I can because something about this quote from Barbara Kingsolver rings very true with me:

"All of us sooner or later must learn to look our food in the face.  If we're willing to eat an animal, it's probably only responsible to accept the truth of its living provenance rather than pretending it's a 'product' from a frozen-foods shelf with its gizzard in a paper envelope."


We've pretty much decided around here that if we can't bring ourselves to go through the butchering process ourselves, we probably have no business eating meat at all.  So, we are only a couple of weeks away from knowing whether we can continue our current eating habits or will be overhauling our diets.   So . . . to buy that upright freezer while it's on sale or not?  Hmmmm.  I'm betting we'll be able to handle it.  I know that scooping poop, picking up dead mice, and all don't come close to chicken processing, but I have been surprised by what I can handle as long as I have gloves on!

Check back in to see whether or not we'll be able to "stomach" our chicken!

Though they are probably about as tall as they'll get, over the next couple of weeks, their little breasts should fill out quit bit more.

Dexter Update

Dexter, our rescue dog, is settling in nicely.  We took him to the vet this past week and found out that he's probably about 2 years old.  The vet confirmed that he does look like a Jack Russell Terrier and that, based on how scratched up he was on his belly and legs,  he'd probably been through quite a bit before he turned up at PawPaw's house. 

He basically camps out at the backdoor, just waiting for one of us to come out and run with him or give him some loving!  And, yes, I have been caught scratching him behind the ears a time or two.  :)  What can I say?  He's growing on me.

He seems to know how to act like a dog without crossing over the line.  For example, he drags all of our outdoor shoes off the porch and strews them about the yard.  BUT, he does not chew them up.  See?  It's like he knows just how much I'm willing to tolerate.  In this picture above, he's cowering in shame as I scold him about my shoe.

Another example:  I'd rather he didn't sit in the outdoor chairs.  He, however, thinks that so long as he leaves alone my beloved outdoor bed, he should be allowed to sit in the plastic adirondacks.  I'll grant him that, I suppose.  And, one more example:  he loves to terrorize the meat chickens by racing round and round their pen so fast they probably don't even know what's happening.  They work themselves into such a tizzy over this that feathers go everywhere.  I'm able to laugh this off because he leaves the egg laying chickens alone.  I wouldn't tolerate him scaring them because they can be frightened into not laying.