James the bunny

Photos:  James being curious, and just relaxing in happier times (Tear-jerker alert:  This one is just me typing and retyping until I work through the emotions of losing yet another pet.  Stream-of-consciousness typing, tweaked when it didn't make much sense, but still pretty sad, in reading back through it.) Sometimes I grieve for a dying or dead pet on a much larger scale than you'd think was appropriate.  The emotions well up, and there's no rhyme or reason to it, just weepy hours and trying to make sense of the "why" and "what did we do wrong" questions.  Once it was a guinea pig, who died the night that we returned home from a Christmas vacation.  Her caretaker had laid the water bottle on the bottom of the cage, and the little guinea pig couldn't get any water.  Once it was Chris' first turtle, and the grief didn't hit right away, but when Chris came to me months later with tears in his 4-year-old's eyes and said in a trembling little voice, "Mom, it's really sad when you lose a pet."  That's all it took for me to break down and cry with him. With all the animals here, and with chickens dying left and right (at least it sometimes seems that way), I thought it wouldn't be quite as big a deal anymore if a pet died. And then, we lost James, Jeremy's last pet bunny.  Once again, I'm wracking my brain to try to fit pieces together.  Why?  What should we have done differently?  What did we miss?  Did he suffer?  Did we take care of him well enough? My sadness seemed past the point of extreme for a good part of yesterday, and it's embarrassing to admit that Jeremy (whose bunny it was) was trying to make ME feel better.  :(   It just hit me really hard. He was the last bunny out of 6 that we've had over the years.  Carrie had 2 twin girl dwarf bunnies, which she got in 1st or 2nd grade and then passed on to Michael and Jeremy.  Those bunnies lived to be 9 or 10 years old, loved first by Carrie and then by Jeremy.  Another was from my cousin Sarah who was moving from her farm in Michigan.  About the same time, the Kindergarten teacher at our school was looking for a home for a mini-rex, and we took him, too, to live with the Michigan bunny.  We brought that last one with us to the farm, and he lived in the barn with the chickens for 2 years before he died of old age.  And then there were James and Peach, special American Chinchilla rabbits for Jeremy, even more special because of the time that my sister Paula and her son Evan spent taming them and loving them for us.  Too many bunnies to say goodbye to! Jeremy was being so good about taking care of him.  He knew that if he took good care of James, we'd search for a girl bunny in the spring, and it would be his.  He had money set aside already, a gift from someone else who lost a dear pet.  It was Jeremy who noticed when the bottom of the cage frame was letting the wire sag under James' weight, and we fixed that.  He brought water out almost every morning before school (he leaves for school by 7 every day, so taking care of a bunny earlier than that is pretty responsible).  When he couldn't check on James, he'd ask me to give him water when I went out by the chickens.  He proudly showed James off to friends who came over and chuckled about the fact that he'd named the bunny after a good friend from Palatine.  James had a good life, I think, but so short. The weather got cold here (REALLY cold!), from 80 degrees hot and sunny one day to 50/40 windy and bone-chilling the next, and it's been COLD for 3 or 4 days now.  That coincided with taking a window out of the barn siding, and having the inside of the barn colder and much draftier for the past 2 days while the wind whistles right through the opening.  That breeze was also sucked right into the barn through a broken window pane next to James' cage, and probably was a constant cold draft for all 3 days of unseasonal cold weather.  James had alfalfa hay to eat and to burrow in, and a little house that we built that all the rabbits have liked hiding in.  (It's probably better for summer ventilation than winter warmth, but 2 dwarf rabbits survived one full winter outside in that little box after they filled it with straw, coming out only once in a great while to be in the other area of the big cage.) It didn't concern me too much that James wasn't hopping out of his little house too much, because I expected he'd want to stay warm.  He has all that rabbit fur, and the hay was there if he needed to make a warmer nest.  His food bowl was empty in the mornings and he was drinking water.  He COULD have been knocking his food bowl over and spilling the feed out of his cage, but also had the hanging feeder which usually had pellets in it, too. Jeremy has been on a 5 day weekend, so he's been checking on and feeding James.  Usually I stop at least once a day to pat the little guy's furry gray head (James', not Jeremy's!).  I was busy, and Jeremy was being responsible as usual, but still, I feel that I missed something in the past few days that would/could have made a life or death difference. I noticed yesterday afternoon that the water had a funny look to it, and it was covered in chicken dust, and so was all the alfalfa in his cage and the top of his little wooden house.  Same with the food.  That's not normal.  We had moved him to a part of the barn where the chicken dust was usually at a minimum.  That also put him by the fresher air (a good thing), but probably put him and his little hide-a-way house right in the cold draft coming through the missing pane of glass.  The cold draft was no doubt swirling the chicken dust all around.  Bad news for bunny lungs. I stooped down to peer into the cage.  Usually he will peek out of his little house even if he doesn't hop around.  I could see his feet, and it looked like he was lying on his side.....  It didn't take too long to see that he wasn't alive and vibrant any more.  I always say something softly like "Oh, I'm sorry, baby" if there's a chick or something else that died.  Just something heartfelt to honor the life that was snuffed out.  I don't remember what I said to James, but the tears started right away. I went to find Jeff, and finally worked up the courage to go and tell Jeremy.  Jeremy was sad, but much more practical.  He got the shovel and chose a spot by where Peach is buried, under the big red-bud tree in the front yard.  I searched out the last 2 bright white quartz stones with black shiny speckles.  Jeff helped to dig through the roots and hard ground.  Jeremy vented his frustrations on an old trash CD that someone had thrown out of their car, and then used the shattered pieces to decorate the freshly dug grave.  Here's the problem-solving that can become somewhat of an obsession:  Now that I think about it, he hadn't been joyfully hopping out to see us for a couple of days, probably not since Wednesday.  But I know he'd hopped up onto the top of his wooden house just a couple of days ago, and sat calmly while I scratched his ears and under his chin, maybe on Thursday, but it could have been Wednesday, before the cold weather set in.  Jeremy had a friend come over on Thursday, and they went out to give James water and a carrot.  Jeremy is trying to remember if James came out of the little house then.  It wouldn't really matter now, but it's part of the mind-games of figuring it all out. It bothers me that we may have missed something that he needed.  There's no concrete explanation, and my mind can't seem to let go of cycling endlessly through "did I do this" and "did James have water that time" and "did we allow too much of a draft" and "did the cold draft kick up too much chicken dust" and "Did we miss it when he needed more food or water" and.....  It just seems senseless unless we can prevent it from happening ever again. Whatever the reason, Jeremy's beautiful bunny James died sometime between Saturday and Sunday afternoons.  Jeremy doesn't want any more rabbits.  He remembers each one that has died as a treasured pet.  If we ever decide to get rabbits again, we'll either build a special bunny-shed for them, or make the garden shed into a bunny barn so that no rabbit ever lives with the chickens in the barn again!  Someplace free from drafts, someplace free from chicken noise and dust, someplace where it can be a relaxing and peaceful hour or two caring for or playing with bunnies.  Bunny heaven on earth, maybe? Goodbye, James.  That cage seems very empty without you hopping cheerfully back and forth to greet us.  :( Laura http://dykstrasfarm.blogspot.com/

History

We found the gravestone for Sarah and Mary Ella Whittier, 2 daughters of Rice Rowell Whittier.  He was the original American land-owner of our property.  Sunday, the weather was gorgeous, and Jeremy needed to do a "save the environment" project, so we walked a mile to the graveyard where several of the Whittier family members were buried, back in the 1840's and 1850's.  Jeremy's project was to pick up the litter along the roadside.  The cemetery itself has been kept in near-pristine condition. Strolling through this old cemetery, some stones were so weathered that they couldn't be read, and many of these were standing next to fairly new grave markers in family plots.  Families whose names I recognize from the early history of the Greenwood area are still burying their family members out here where their ancestors settled over 150 years ago.  Jeff saw one which read "1819", which, if that's the death date, would precede the government sale of all of this land in the 1840's.  The history book of this area states that the earliest grave in the cemetery should be 1839. There were Civil War grave markers, too, for some of the many Greenwood young men who went to fight against slavery. We strolled through one section, reading, trying to be respectful, saying names or dates out loud (sipping a Pepsi--not sure how respectful that is?).  Jeremy was surprised at how many babies and children were buried there. No sign of "Whittier".  I knew that one daughter died after they moved here, and the first wife of Rice Whittier died a few years after they had a big celebration on this property to mark their 25th wedding anniversary.  A little history:  Rice Whittier bought 40 acres from the government in 1840, for $50.  The US was selling off land in 40 acre parcels.  It seems like he either rented out the land or his brother came out to settle here first, and the Whittier family followed in the later 1840's.   Mr. Whittier was a graduate of a Baptist seminary, organized and was the first pastor of the Baptist church in Greenwood.  He was called "Elder Whittier" in many accounts of church activity.  In early days of the Baptist church in Greenwood, the neighbors of Elder Whittier probably met in the house of the Whittiers.  He traveled to Wisconsin and other places within horse-riding distance to be pastor to other churches as well, alternating his times between Greenwood and other locations. There may have been a small private school on the property--it shows in one old map from 1872 but not in the next chronological map.  Apparently schoolhouses still in good condition were moved around the county to be used at other locations or as barn buildings, so there's no telling where that little building could have ended up! In 1872, he also served as a missionary in new Orleans, working with freed slaves (and could have been involved in helping many slaves to freedom here in Illinois, as the house one property south from ours still has a hidden chamber from the Underground Railroad.  The original owner of that house was very active in helping slaves move north to freedom). Elder Whittier was part of a very vocal disagreement during a revival at Greenwood Baptist church (later 1870's), and is not shown to be pastor or even an elder after that time, but is referred to as "ex-minister".    Soon after, he returned to New England, and passed away near his birthplace in the 1880's. A fun side note:  The bell that hung above the new building for the Baptist church was shipped to our old home-town of Palatine in 1904.  But that was also the year that the Baptist church in Greenwood closed its doors. Back to the cemetery.  We came across an old, weathered stone where one name seemed to jump out at me:  "Sarah".  Half way down, another name was still legible:  "Mary Ella".  That was the one I was looking for.  The words on this one stone were faint, but could still be read.  Just barely visible at the bottom was "R.R." and a long word.  From Jeff's angle he could make out "Whittier".  Sarah was 2 months old and died in 1846.  Mary Ella was 2 years old when she died in 1849.  I'd guess that, for 2 of his young daughters to have the same gravestone, the remaining marker was added years after the burials took place.  Another daughter named Sarah died when she was 30 years old, in 1878 and should have been buried nearby.  She was born two years after little Sarah the infant passed away at 2 months--maybe named "Sarah" also because the grief of losing the first Sarah was still so raw?  She was described in an 1850 census as an "idiot", which supposedly was a "harsh" term for someone who "never had a chance".    Maybe that explains how she was still single and living with her father and step-mother at age 30.  Mentally challenged?  I wonder what was the cause of being called such a harsh term? There was another grave-marker base nearby with no stone.  That could have been for one of his wives, probably his wife of 25 years who came with him to Illinois from New England, as the base matched the base of the stone that was still standing. In all, based on the Greenwood history book and different census household counts, Rice Whittier possibly lost a son, Samuel (no marker), his young daughters Sarah in 1846 and Mary Ella in 1851 (marker), his wife Abby at 58 years old in 1874 (no marker), his adult daughter Sarah Elma at 30 years old in 1878 (no marker) and his second wife Mary in 1879 (no marker).  That's a lot of family members, and a grief load that must have been hard to bear! It was a strange feeling to be in that cemetery on Sunday.  Over 150 years ago, these people lived on the same land where our house is today.  They broke through the thick sod or drained the bogs or ponds that were here so that they could make the land sustain them.  They had a family, moved here from the place that was familiar to them, lost so much in the years that followed, and Mr. Whittier returned home to New England with what must have been an empty heart.  I hope that he could still see that God was at work in the church-planting and ministering that was done here in Greenwood through his efforts.  In New Hampshire, at a university museum, is Rice Rowell Whittier's hand-written daily diary.  It has half-page entries for each day of the year--the weather, what happened that day, what mail he sent or received, what needed to be done on his farm, who he visited, which church he preached in....many entries are from his years of living here, in Greenwood.  From what the woman I contacted told me, it is barely readable and fading.  It can be viewed for one-hour time lengths in the university library only and only the first hour is free.  It costs money to have someone research it for you.  And yet, if I ever get there, I'd love to pore over some of those old pages, learning more about the man who first brought his family to live on the property that is now called "2917 Greenwood Road".  May we all value, treasure, and thank our God for the families that He has blessed us with! Laura http://dykstrasfarm.blogspot.com/

Elementary school drama on the farm

Photos:  Baby Ruby.  ("I don't look mischievous, do I?  Don't believe anything that you read in the story my farmer is sending to you!!!!")  ;) Little Ruby the calf is more than twice the size of the dogs now.  She stands about 4 feet tall, I think.   She's tall enough that she looks very awkward trying to nurse from her mama.  ;) She has developed into a teasing, coy young girl.  I wonder what cow-years translate into in people years?  Maybe the same as dogs, since cows can live to be over 15 if their genetics haven't been messed around with for higher production (and shorter life span).  So, possibly Ruby would be about preschool/Kindergarten, while Rocky would be about 7. Watching Ruby kick up her heels in the pasture is like watching little kids running aimlessly and joyfully on a playground, so the Kindergarten guess at her people-years age seems to fit..... Ruby unsuccessfully tries to play with the chickens, tossing her head, running into their midst, stopping to watch as the chickens squawk and flap and run away from her.  I think she knows what they'll do and decides to go for a reaction.  Classic teasing.  She desperately wants someone or something to play with. Ruby watches with great curiosity when I'm in the pasture with Shadow and Rocky (the dogs).  She will trot along the inside of the electric fence that borders the cow pen, just to get a closer look at what the dogs are doing on the other side of that fence.  (This must be truly fascinating for her:  Rocky actively and almost violently chases an old crumpled Hawaiian Punch plastic jug, Shadow whips a deflated soccer ball back and forth so that it whacks hard against her shoulders, they both dig frantic holes after imaginary chipmunks or stare longingly up into trees at a chattering squirrel....)  Whatever they are doing, Ruby's ears are perked forward and she is watching intently. A week or so ago, the gate to the cow pen was open, and she tentatively made her way out to get a closer look at all the crazy running that the dogs had decided to do.  Shadow had found an old tennis ball and was fetching it, while Rocky tried to head her off and kept body-slamming Shadow and tried to make her angry.  Shadow occasionally gave in and let her fury show as she streaked across the field to pound Rocky into submission.  Little Ruby pricked her ears forward and came closer to watch the show.  Shadow and Rocky gradually became aware that Ruby was in their vicinity, and hesitantly came over to sniff noses with her.  She shied away, but not out of nervousness.  It was pure playfulness, like she wanted to see what they would do.  ("Oh!  that dog just touched my nose!  I need to put on my bashful routine.....")  The dogs shied away, too, but then came back.  She ventured towards them again.  They pulled back.  Rocky licked Ruby's nose.  Ruby gave a little kick and trotted away from him.  Shadow came by me because she didn't know what to do.  Ruby trotted over and had great fun making Shadow dodge behind my legs.  ("Silly black dog.  Why won't you come out and play?") Ruby made the mistake of turning her back on the dogs, tossing her head and trotting away.  ("Well, YOU'RE just no fun!!!  I'll go find something more interesting.")  They saw this as a chance to give chase, and Ruby was caught off guard (Think of a little girl on a playground, flouncing away, while the boys take one look at each other, get a devilish gleam in their eye, and start the chase!).  She tore around the back pasture, with both dogs keeping up, no trouble.  ("Wow, they're faster than I thought!")  Ruby seemed to be enjoying it.  (She tries time and again to get her aunt Lucy to frolic with her, but Lucy is acting much more laid-back and matronly since the "breeding".  No fun there.) Rocky proved yet again that he thinks like a wolf, in the way that he ran just ahead of Ruby, anticipated her next move, turned quickly when her direction veered off course, and how his eyes were focused and intent on watching her every move.  If she hadn't raced full-speed back to the safety of the cow-pen, I was ready to step in.  (Ruby's thoughts at that point must have been "Maaaaamaaaaa!!!") The next time, I kept Rocky on the leash.  Ruby came out again, acting shy but very sure that she wanted to touch noses with the other furry critters and see what fun could be had.  Bessie (mama cow) was out then, too, and Rocky was definitely inviting her to trample him with his insolent snaps at her nose as she positioned herself between innocent little Ruby and the big mean dog. And later, when it was dark, the dogs got one last chance to run the pasture before being crated for the night.  I usually close the cow-pen gate before then, but that particular night, the cows were still waiting on me.  Some nights the routine just doesn't happen the way the cows expect it to.  They all looked up expectantly for me to get their grain and put them in the barn.  No luck. Ruby trotted out like before.  The dogs took notice of her and Rocky galloped over.  I went to close in the chickens on the other end of the barn, and came back to a bit of a commotion between cows and dogs.  Ruby was hiding behind her mama, and Bessie was righteously indignant.  (Ruby:  "Mama!  That big bad dog is trying to GET me!")  Bess kept lowering her head at Rocky, who took that as a challenge.  He knew enough to stop just short of infuriating her, which was fortunate.  That's when I saw what was REALLY happening.  Ruby WAS behind her mom, and Bessie was being such a good mom by fending off the naughty dog.  ("Don't you DARE mess with my baby!  Shoo!") As soon as Bessie determined that the danger was over and let down her guard, naughtiness happened.  Not from Rocky (who I would have expected it from), but from Ruby!  She would peek out, acting shy and scared, Rocky would perk up his ears and start towards her.  Ruby would shrink back behind Bessie and Bessie would fall for it again, and lower her head at Rocky.  Things would calm down.  Ruby would peek out from the other side and bat her eyes.  ("You can't get me back here!  My mom will PROTECT me!" in a sing-songy kind of voice/moo.)  Rocky would respond by trying to play, and would immediately be blocked by a mad mama cow.  Poor Rocky.  He's definitely on Bessie's list of enemies now.  I think that Ruby knew EXACTLY what she was doing.  ("Of COURSE I did!" smirks baby Ruby with a stamp of her dainty hoof!) Laura http://dykstrasfarm.blogspot.com/

A cheeky little chick

He must be a boy.  We have a hen, a wonderful mother, an Ameraucana who hatched a large batch of chicks last summer and was very attentive to them all for longer than usual.  She was a great mom.  Her own Mom looks identical to her, and right now that Mom is tenderly caring for 5 chicks that are about 5 weeks old.  This year we even have 2 more look-a-likes---slate gray feathers, "puffy" cheeks, greenish legs.  Hopefully they'll be good mothers, too. This particular gray hen sat on a batch of 13 eggs, refusing to get up off the nest, even when 2 rotten eggs were stinking up the whole barn.  I thought she'd replay her great mothering from last year IF any of the eggs had survived. I forcibly moved her, scooped out the soggy smelly mess that had been her nest, replaced the nest material with fresh clean straw, and checked the remaining 6 eggs to make sure none were rotten. The next day, one little black chick was peeking out from under her feathers, and boy, was she mad that I dared to look at him! I left her to hatch out any others, but 2 days later, she had abandoned her nest.  She was hunched protectively over little Junior, and if any imagined danger came her way, she was flying at the cat, challenging the nearly full-grown turkey, watching my legs to make sure I wasn't too close. She made the mistake of letting Junior  decide where to explore, letting him lead the way. I was surprised yesterday, when I saw only one hen in the far corner of the pasture.  They usually stay together for safety.  Not this mama hen.  Junior had led her to the very farthest place he could explore.  She had merely followed. Instead of waiting for her to lovingly cluck as she found a choice bit of food for him, he was rummaging in the grass and not paying any attention to her.  When I brought them some water that was shallow enough that he wouldn't drown, he turned his little beak up at it and dashed away, even though mama was clucking urgently for him to come and take a sip. Jeff and I saw them later in the cow pen.  Mama was walking and Junior came tumbling off of her back.  He was taking a ride!  Mama proceeded to follow him all over the place, trying in vain to be the mother that she wanted to be.  He wouldn't have anything to do with being dependent.  Foolish chick! I remarked to Jeff "I'll be surprised if they're in the barn when we close up tonight." Too true.  Mama and Junior were nowhere to be found--in the barn, in the cow pen, in the back acre, under bushes, outside the fence, no-where.  My comment?  "Well, we'll never see THEM again." And sure enough, they were nowhere to be seen this morning.  I had just the tiniest hope that she'd show up with Junior outside the barn door, waiting to be let in.  No sign of them.  Jeff had even gone looking while we waited to get everyone into the car. I'm sorry to say I wasn't sad.  A little curious to know what had happened, but we're way past being sad when one of many chickens is gone with no explanation...... But wait!  I came home this afternoon, and decided to look for the feathers for a clue to what had happened.  I was sure they'd been outside the fence, in the soybean rows last night.  So that's where I searched, walking slowly along the fenceline.  And lo and behold, I came across a tussled gray bundle of feathers, with a tiny black fluffball next to it.  Sunning themselves on a pile of manure, just barely inside the fence.  Like two little statues, with obviously no thought to the danger that they'd avoided the night before. Mama clucked at me and Junior dodged outside the fence again.  Sigh. That wasn't the end of their adventures for the day.  Ruby was curious, and then playful as mama hen ruffled up her feathers and charged at Ruby's nose and legs.  I heard the commotion as I was painting and looked around to watch. Ruby was prancing around, trying to play.  Mama hen was angry, and in full attack mode, protecting her little chick. Well, Ruby has a protective mama, too.  Enter Bessie the milk cow, trotting quickly, ears pricked forward toward the screeching hen, positioning herself between the incredibly dangerous chicken and Bessie's own precious calf.  And there was a stand-off.  Right there.  Between a 5 pound hen fluffed up to look about 10 pounds (maybe), and a 1000 pound black and white angry mama cow.  Junior was paying no attention and hopped in and out of the fence while his mother tried to keep him safe by taking on the huge cow.  Finally, it was too much for her, and she squeezed through the fence to attempt to keep him safe in the big wild soybean field. The soybean field.....and the sun was going down.  An hour later, mama hen was protectively huddled over Junior again.  In the soybean field.  Where coyotes, foxes, coons, possums, hawks, owls, even a big rat could have a wonderful feast if they came across her and her little Junior. Time to intervene and stop letting Junior call all the shots.  Jeremy went out into the soybean field, careful to not step on the dry soybeans waiting to be harvested.  He circled far outside of where she was, taking care to direct her back to the fenceline.  When she got there, she was so flustered that she couldn't think of how she had squeezed OUT, and couldn't squeeze back IN, even though Junior was in and out, in and out, time and again and causing her such anxiety.  Finally I scooped him up, and that was what it took to cause her enough panic to squeeze through and face the danger that had her baby up off the ground. Still, Junior dashed here and there near the barn, with mama trying to direct him into the barn.  It took a rake and a bit more chasing to get them both in there.  They're safe, at least for tonight.  Without any siblings, Junior has a 1 in 2 chance of growing up to adulthood (our chicks seem to have a 50% mortality rate, whether from the respiratory illness or from other mishaps).  He could still hop boldly into a water bowl and get in over his head.  He could wander far from safety and get scooped up by a hawk.  Or he could stay healthy and make it through the winter, learning to crow and roost with the big chickens. I feel bad for his mother.  She should have taken the appropriate control from the beginning.  She'll never catch up, now that Junior has discovered that she'll meekly follow him wherever his adventurous little mind decides to go. Laura http://dykstrasfarm.blogspot.com/

Milk victory, and other updates

Bessie stood still and gave almost 2 gallons this morning.  What changed? Bessie wasn't so antsy, for one. I didn't give her time to fill up on clover hay like the past few days, for 2.  (Note to myself here---it's probably more efficient to give them the whole bale in the morning, instead of half-a-bale, but if Bess is filling up on clover hay before coming in for milking, she might be too full to stand still long enough....so we'll go back to half-a-bale to get them out of the barn so that I can set up for milking, then half-a-bale later.) I mixed some concentrated hay "cubes" in with the grain mix, to keep Bessie content to munch a bit longer.  These are actually little cubes of hay, compressed into squares about 1 1/2 inch by 1 1/2 inch.  The hay cubes are a bit awkward for the cows to chew, so it kept her attention longer. I didn't give baby Ruby any grain, but only a bit of "calf-starter", which is pellets, molasses, and some rolled grain as part of that mix.  So Bess didn't smell more of the good stuff over in Ruby's stall and get selfish about wanting it. I started by milking the back quarter that I usually left part-way full for Ruby.  That way, I didn't unintentionally signal Bess that milking was over.  Her "teats" are part of the routine, and she KNOWS which ones I work with first.  Routine, always the routine! I had both buckets uncovered, and in place for easy switching out.  No "lid's been put on the bucket, we must be done milking" signals to over-sensitive Bess.  And I made sure to not even stop the flow of milk between buckets, but sacrificed a few squirts down into the straw bedding to keep her aware that we weren't stopping. Or, it might have been something as simple as this:  certain parts of each hay bale are different quality than the rest of the bale.  Maybe the mower went through a coarse patch of grass or the alfalfa in one section was already flowering when it was cut and left to dry.  The cows pick through any bale for the sections they want.  MAYBE the last 2 days, Bess was given a section of the alfalfa bale that didn't meet her high standards, and she turned her nose up at it. Or this:  The past few days, she had shifted around in the stanchion and I have had to adjust the milk crate that I sit on to be able to reach her.  Usually, the routine is---I sit firmly in place and don't move around unless I'm done.  Routine, again. Today, too, I remembered something from reading about how to get a calf used to being led with halter and "lead".  You pull a bit on the lead, and the calf will pull right back.  You don't give an inch until the calf lets up on the pressure she's using to pull against you.  The calf gets the idea that it's more pleasant to work with the lead, and not to fight against it. So....apply that to milking the big cow:  Bessie was starting to think she could back right out when SHE wanted to be done with the milking.  I knew that she was already done with the grain mix, and that she was starting to get antsy.  It was a hard choice for a Dutch girl, but.....I stopped milking before all the milk was in the bucket, and also before she could decide that SHE was stopping the milking.  Kind of the reverse of the calf-on-a-lead, but I think it still reinforces that I'm the one that gets to make the decisions, thank-you-very-much! Too many things to really pin-point one, but the victory today was that almost 2 gallons of milk are now in the frig.  I had 30 minutes of milking to think all the options through....no wonder it got to be a long list of possibilities. It's a constant problem-solving life, isn't it?  Maybe I'm finally learning that things will keep changing no matter what I had thought was "ideal", and I'm adjusting to that constant change?  For someone who likes to get things in order and have them STAY that way, that's a big adjustment. In other updates: Lucy should have been showing signs of heat this week, and so far, there's no hint that she is going through her cycle again.  So.....maybe the artificial insemination took on the first try?  I remember praying a little bit desperately at the time that it would take.  Her new owners are eager to have her join their own farm-family, and although I'm not eager to see her go, I AM eager to protect the hay-supply and not need to scrape up more money half-way through the winter for more.  She was "bred" 3 weeks ago on Saturday.  My job this morning (like almost every morning!)?  Shovel manure.  But I'll also be keeping a close eye on the interaction between the big cows, to see if there's any sign of Bessie or Lucy exhibiting "heat' behaviors. The cow-shelter:  We've started nailing up the plywood panels on the side of the barn (remember the photos of the rat-damage?!!!) and they have their first coat of paint.  Jeff has done a good job of cutting the wood to fit around weird angles, or to fit up into a space where a bit of siding needed to be replaced above where we're working.  My parents brought some salvaged windows from their house in Wisconsin, and Jeff is adjusting the space in the barn wall to install one of their windows (It was 1 1/2 inches wider than the space between the wall-studs, but Jeff determined that the stud he needed to move wasn't a load-bearing board.  Plus, although it is cedar, it was rotten and gnawed-through by rats, and it made sense to take that one out and replace it.)  The barn is not "square" (no surprise after 100 years and a cracked foundation), so it will take a bit more adjusting to get the window to fit.  After the window---we'll need to mark where we want the support posts and start digging, keeping curious (nosy?) cows out of the way somehow. The turkey:  Has stayed past his welcome.  He is not my favorite, because he has killed 2 young chicks and tried to kill another.  In his defense, these were chicks who were sick enough to probably die on their own.  But it bothered me that he seemed to be taking delight in bloodying them.  (To explain:  He struts around each morning, "courting" the geese.  His neck and head become brilliant blue, with bright red splotches on the bumpy parts, and the little knob above his nose elongates and hangs down a few inches.  His feathers are fluffed and his tail is fanned out.  That must mean "sexy" to turkey hens.  When he killed the chicks, his colors were up and he was acting excited.  The look in his eyes made me think of a vulture.  Anything on the farm that kill something and takes delight in it is NOT going to be my favorite!)  Anyway, we've all started talking about him as "Thanksgiving dinner". And on that happy note, have a good day, everyone! Laura http://dykstrasfarm.blogspot.com/

The milk war goes on.....

Photo:  Mama Bessie and baby Ruby, plotting against me   ;) I thought it was figured out.  Bessie was giving milk with no problem this morning....one gallon....a gallon and a half....it was going smoothly.  So I thought to myself, "The problem yesterday must have been that I was using 2 buckets instead of one big one.  When Bessie heard me change out the first bucket yesterday, she (routine-cow that she is) thought she was done."  Problem solved, or so I thought. Then, she finished the grain mix and started backing out, just like yesterday.  So I thought, "It's just that she is finishing her grain faster than usual.  Maybe the sweet feed mixed in is giving her a quicker snack, and I need to give more grain again instead of the pellets."  Problem solved.....? She backed out ALL the way, looked me straight in the eye, and called to her baby.  I thought, "She knows that Ruby has grain mix left over, and Bessie won't finish milking until she gets them....right now....on demand...."  (Not too hard to imagine a stubborn cow figuring that one out.  "There's food, and I want it NOW or I won't cooperate.") Problem NOT solved. So I tested it, and put Ruby's small handful of leftover grain mix in the stanchion.  Sure enough, Bessie came right back in and swiped up what was left with about one lick of her big purple tongue.  I got a few more squirts of milk out of her before she backed out again.  Very pointedly, she looked at Ruby in the stall, looked at me, and moo'd very loudly in Ruby's direction (the same moo she uses when she is calling Ruby to come in from the pasture).  It was as if she was saying "Hey, lady, you've taken your share.  Let my baby get her breakfast before you selfish people take it all!" Not to be outdone by a stubborn cow, I opened the big sliding door and shooed Bessie out, just to shake things up a bit.  That's when little Ruby perked up.  "Hey, the routine isn't supposed to be this way.  I'm SUPPOSED to get my breakfast milk while Mom is still in the stanchion!".  Baby moo's of protest from Ruby.  I let her out of the stall, and she gave a little impudent kick as she trotted out of the barn and towards her mama.  Like mother, like daughter. They had a happy little reunion at the round metal feeder, while I took the bucket of milk inside.  One and a half gallons.  Not 2 gallons, like I planned.  Bessie won another round. Once in a while I've contemplated tying Bess into the stanchion, like it's supposed to work.  She would stand still until I was done (wishful thinking), she would finish her grain and just STAND there calmly (more wishful thinking), and she would only back out when I decided that we were done.  Remember when we first got the cows?  I tried to use the stanchion like it's designed to be used---cow walks in, cow is "contained" (meaning she is not free to waltz out whenever she pleases), person milks the calm cow---and Bessie objected, backed right out, tearing the whole set-up off of the wall and stepping on my foot in the process. Bessie and I are in another mental tug-of-war, one of many, and I am GOING to win!!! Laura http://dykstrasfarm.blogspot.com/

The morning's war over milk

Photo:  The 3 ladies:  Bessie, Lucy (behind the tree), and Ruby (snuggled by her aunt like usual)  ;) Cows must be smarter than they look.  Sometimes I forget, and it's a surprise when they remind me. The last few mornings, the routine has been this:  Bring the cows their bale of clover hay to get both Bess and Lucy out of the barn/milking area.  Close the big sliding door to KEEP them out.  Feed little Ruby (not so little any more) some choice hay in her stall while I set up for the milking (this includes scraping cow-pies and muck out of the stanchion area, spreading clean straw, bringing a "flake" of good quality alfalfa and a bucket of grain mix for Bessie, setting up the milk crate that doubles as my stool, getting the iodine dip and paper towels ready to clean the filthy udder, and spending a little bit of time petting Ruby to keep her accustomed to being handled.)  I give Ruby a small amount of grain-mix right before I call Bessie in.  Usually she's moo-ing urgently and sounding a bit demanding right outside the door.   I wouldn't even have to say it, but I call out "Bessie-girl" in a sing-song sort of voice as I slide the big door open. Bess lumbers right in, with her full attention on the grain and hay in the stanchion.  She would plow right through me if I stood in her way.  She doesn't flinch at all when I clean her udder, unless the iodine dip is a little bit cold.  She munches her grain as if it's the best thing she's ever tasted--head raised, eyes half closed, jaw working quietly.  She gets a bit restless when the grain is gone, and noses the hay all around to make sure she hasn't missed a grain of oats or a bit of corn.  By this point, I'm usually about a gallon into it and wanting to get one gallon more.  This is hand-milking, so it takes about 20 minutes or so, sometimes more. And here's where it was different this morning. She USUALLY settles in to munching the hay.  She is always aware that there are a few stray grains leftover in Ruby's feed bucket, and always lifts her head to check out whether there are any she can smell from across the room, but USUALLY knows that she'll get them once Ruby is set free to nurse.  That's the routine, and cows are big on routine. Today she started backing out, and gave a really loud "Moo" in Ruby's direction.  As far as I could tell, Ruby wasn't saying anything in return.  But she was standing very alert watching her mama.  Bessie Moo'd again, and backed all the way out (as usual, I was watching for the point where I would need to rescue the bucket underneath her, and the milk was saved!) I scolded her, swatted her lightly on the butt, but she nosed at the closed sliding door to see if she could escape.  She discovered that on the very first day here--the sliding door will lift up and out if she throws her full weight against it, and then she's free!  Not good for the door or the metal track, that's for sure...... I set the first milk bucket safely inside the main part of the barn, and went to ruffle up the alfalfa which had been left behind at the stanchion.  It worked.  Bessie came back to investigate, started to munch again, and I settled in with the second bucket.  She was restless, and kept moo-ing to Ruby.  Finally, after only half-a-gallon more, I gave in.  Dancing cow hooves don't pair up with a half full milk-bucket very well.  Ruby was set free from the stall, and I stood back as she got Bessie's milk flowing again.  It's kind of painful to watch.  Ruby gathers all her strength and butts upward into Bessie's udder.  Bess braces herself, but you can almost hear her sighing "Ooooph" as the impact hits.  It's not just once, but over and over as Ruby feels that she's not getting enough milk flow.   It works, though, because when Ruby is done, her entire nose is covered in milk and she is smacking her lips, even if I've just gathered the milk for the morning. I've been taking 2 gallons each morning for about a week now.  Bess comfortably gives up a gallon and a half.  Up to a week ago, soft-hearted girl that I am, I'd leave almost one full quarter for Ruby's breakfast (equals more than half-a-gallon of milk).  By taking 2 gallons this week, because milk is in abundant supply, that empties 3 quarters of Bessie's udder and takes a good amount from that last quarter.  Here's what I think:  Bessie somehow knew that I'd reached the "usual" mark of milking, and decided not to stand still for me to get that last amount.  She seemed to be talking to Ruby, who was waiting expectantly for her turn.  It didn't help that the grain was gone when I needed Bess to remain focused in her food.  I think that somehow, the cow and her baby realized that I was taking more of Ruby's breakfast than they thought I should take, and plotted between themselves to thwart my efforts to gather the rest of the milk!  Maybe not, but it makes for an interesting theory, which I'll test over the next few days by tweaking things until I can keep Bess in place for 2 full buckets'-worth of milk, and not just what she and Ruby decide we can have! Always interesting..... Laura http://dykstrasfarm.blogspot.com/