Queen for a Day

Feb. 9, 2010– Queen for a Day

     The barn was full of children all weekend, which is as it should be.  Lots of adorable visitors on Saturday, who had a great time collecting eggs, which tends to be every child’s favourite activity.  On Sunday we had a special visitor, a vivacious, personable, resilient girl.  This young woman has not had an easy life.  She lives in the downtown core of a bleak city about an hour and a half’s drive away, in an area which is not necessarily the best place to grow up. In fact, it is probably one of  the worst local places  spend your formative years.  In addition, this wonderful girl has been in foster care and only recently reunited with her mother.

     Yet she was all smiles.  She fed all of the animals, cooing over each one, thrilled to be touching them and shouting, “I just love animals!”  She was enamoured with Hope the horse, and I asked if she’d like to sit on top.  “I don’t want to hurt her,” she murmured and I laughed because she was a waif of a girl, while Hope is as sturdy as a pony gets.  She timidly crawled up on Hope’s back and then beamed, sitting up there proudly.

     Although her feet were frozen, the girl wanted to watch me run around with Rusty in the yard.  Rusty is now comfortably spending his time with the goats and pot-bellies outside and doesn’t need my company any more, but I was happy to oblige the girl.  She had fun and the pig had fun.

     Afterwards I bought her inside to warm up with some tea.  “This is the most fun I have had in my entire life,” she commented, her wide grin growing wider. I don’t think the child had stopped smiling in three hours!  I explained to her how I’d always wanted a farm, and how my dreams came true, and hers would as well.  She nodded.  Picking up her china tea cup she stared at it, as though she had never held china in her hand before.  “I feel like a Queen!” she proclaimed.  I was so moved by this child– so glad we could give her some emotional respite–she certainly deserved to be treated like a queen.

 

War and Peace

Feb. 3, 2010–War and Peace

     In the waning days of winter some of the animals are at war and some are at peace.  I have tried integrating the two pot-bellied pigs into our barrow Rusty’s stall, in the hopes they could keep each other company. The two old pot bellies are set in their ways and will not hear of it.  We introduced them gradually outside, but each day the two small pot bellies chomp their teeth, foam at the mouth and fly at the red pig who is five times their size.  Rusty is young and innocent (and terrified) and runs away from them.  They even steal his food.  He seems to have no concept of his advantage in size, nor do the pot bellies.

    This has left me to play with Rusty outside.  When he was a piglet he loved to run loose with me, alongside the dog, and we would play chase.  He still loves this game, however as I run across the barn yard, looking over my shoulder and find the enormous pig charging gleefully at me, crashing through drifts of snow, I get rather nervous.  I run round and round the maple tree, trying to keep something between us so I’m not trampled (Rusty, like a freight-train isn’t great at stopping) but he thinks this is another game and so round and round the mulberry bush we go, with Rusty on my heel, barking joyfully.

     Our new goat Nigel has settled in.  Nigel managed to escape a slaughterhouse, and was picked up by a city pound, where a wonderful person paid his bail and he gave him freedom.  We soon learned how he made his slaughter-house escape as the small goat can clear stall doors in one leap.  Nigel has not been handled by humans and is terrified. I worried about how I would bring him back inside each day, but he and Macbeth are roomies now, and the two goats are inseparable.  Like a school of fish, when the goats are outdoors, any direction Macbeth turns, Nigel does as well, always staying right alongside the Alpine goat. When Macbeth comes inside, so does Nigel.  All of the goats seem to be getting along together, which is a relief as the new goats, Molly and Kieran were instigating many fights to begin with.   If peace can come to the goats, perhaps it will come to the pig population as well.

    

 

Shelter Pup

Jan. 27, 2010– Shelter Pup

     The loss of my terrier Fossey has been excruciating.  I cannot bear to lose beloved friends, whether they are animals or not.  Apparently bad luck comes in threes, as I ended up losing my two sows as well. I consulted experts far and wide trying to heal my pigs.  A terrific man at a pig sanctuary in the States gave me deeper insight than anyone, and he said that without several acres to roam and a larger herd of pigs they could not be helped and that they would eventually turn on people.  He was right.  While my teenage son and I were working in the pig area, Willow charged him and only myself and a small pitchfork were able to keep her at bay while my son scrambled to safety.  Willow went after me next. I have been tossed around by those pigs for years, but I have never feared them; we have had so many good times together.  This was the first time I felt that I was in jeopardy.  Wilma continued to go downhill as well. She wouldn’t go outside, paced around a lot and began sleeping in spots of her stall she wouldn’t normally sleep in.  Rusty was afraid of both the sows, which he hadn’t been before.

     I have a gravely ill grandmother and on a day I went to visit her my husband and a helpful neighbour had my dearly loved pigs euthanized.  I guess I always judged people who kept aggressive, dangerous dogs, but I found myself in a similar situation, paralyzed with fear about making the decision that would end their lives.  They may have been emotionally unwell, but physically they were not. I had spent huge sums on Willow when she was ill a couple years ago, even seeking remedies from a homeopath.  There was no cure this time.

     In all this trauma and grief– I have devoted so much time to the pigs in the last month–I have a bright spot. Fenwick.  I knew it would take me ages to find a small terrier-type dog which would be good with all dogs, cats, and small children.  I put feelers out to everyone I knew who did rescue work, explaining what I’d be looking for down the line.   I didn’t expect to hear from a great woman who is a shelter manager at a Humane Society about a stray puppy the very next day.  He sounded great and so my husband and I drove 2 1/2 hours to get this puppy, sight unseen.

     Fenwick appears to have some Scottish terrier or Jack Russell, along with dachshund and who knows what else.  He is a joy!  He is clever and affectionate. He loves trotting around the barn, greeting the barn cats and horses nose to nose.  He plays endless games with our big lab Fearghus, rolling around on the ground tugging toys out of Fearghus’ mouth.  He sleeps on the chesterfield in the evenings, keeping me company just as Fossey had.  I really encourage anyone interested in adopting a dog to visit a shelter or rescue group.  It is unfathomable that a perfect dog like Fenwick was left at a shelter at only three months of age, but he was.Why pay hundreds and hundreds of dollars for a pup that very well could have been bred in a puppy mill, when wonderful pets sit in cages looking for a loving friend?  Despite all the tragedy and sadness of the last two months, Fenwick has been a huge source of joy for me.  He is worth a million dollars in my mind.

 

Time Bomb

Jan. 7, 2010–Time Bomb

     Without fail, bad luck and chaos comes in bunches around here.  On Tuesday afternoon I went into the barn, saw the pigs Wilma and Rusty sleeping nestled in straw as they always do, but the other sow, Willow was sitting on her haunches in a groggy state at the stall door.   She had blood all over her head and down her shoulders and it was smeared up the walls!  I thought there had been an accident but then realized the top portion of her ear was missing and torn!  Wilma had blood on her face and some scratches on her shoulders and it became apparent she had brutalized Willow’s ear!

     In a panic I removed Willow from the stall and called the vet.  He said there was nothing he could do, and no need to come out. I just needed to keep the wound fairly clean, and watch for infection requiring antibiotics.  He said pig bites are a common occurrence; pigs will seem fine for ages, and then out of now where they just “go off,” perhaps prompted by a change in weather or a change in feed (which the pigs have had).  It called to mind a line from a Matthew Good song, “hello time bomb… ready to go off.”  Apparently our placid pig was a time bomb.  I did discover it is not so much an act of aggression as it is a foraging behaviour.  A few studies have shown biting could be a nutrient deficiency, and so the pigs are back on the feed routine which had been working for years until I stupidly tampered with it.  The vet also suggested tossing a large salt block in as that seems to curb the appetite for blood sometimes.

     The three pigs have been fantastic together for over a year, and Wilma and Willow have been together over two and half years without the smallest scuffle.  The big issue now is keeping the pigs apart, so that Wilma’s blood lust doesn’t continue.  I put the pigs outside together today so I could clean their stall, but Wilma immediately began rooting around Willow’s body, they both grew tense and I had to jump in with the two sows to separate them and break up the fight.  They outweigh all boxers (although Wilma must identify with Mike Tyson and his penchant for ears) and getting in the middle of two fighting pigs isn’t something I wish to do regularly.  They will now be kept completely apart until Willow heals. 

     Healing can’t happen soon enough. When the wound was fresh and I was tending to Willow she shook her head rapidly and left me drenched in blood.  I looked like Stephen King’s ”Carrie.”  (My mother always did say I resembled Sissy Spacek.)   With blood spattered on my face and clothes, I began to question my choice of pigs for companions.  I remember in my senior year of high school I always wore a vegetarian propaganda t-shirt with a quote from George Bernard Shaw which read: I don’t eat my friends.   Well apparently Wilma does.

The Dog Who Came to Visit

 

Jan. 3, 2010-The Dog Who Came To Visit

     Tragedy befell the farm over the holidays.  Fossey, our dearly loved Jack Russell Terrier passed away.  For fifteen years the little dog was my side-kick, following me everywhere I went.  She slept on my bed at night, curled on the couch with me each evening, and trotted at my heels throughout the day.  “There’s your Greyfriars Bobby,” my husband would say when I’d emerge from the shower and nearly trip over the terrier sitting outside the bathroom door where she waited for me.  Over the last decade and a half as I moved across the country and back, faced seemingly endless challenges in life, and as death stole many people I’d loved, Fossey was my constant source of support.

     This feisty little dog lived a long, wonderful life. In her final years she had a massive benign tumour (which the vet could not remove) that dominated her body.  In her remaining months she lost huge amounts of weight until she was a  walking skeleton. Despite this she kept going strong, doing all that she’d always done and even happily ate treats on Christmas morning.  On Dec. 28th she walked upstairs one final time in search of me, but by 2:00 her legs gave out and she couldn’t stand.  We lay her on a blanket in front of the fire, and as evening approached it was quite clear Fossey was finishing her final day on earth. 

    Our family kept vigil, taking turns with her to be sure she was never alone.  That night I lay with Fossey on the floor all night, stroking her face, keeping a blanket over her, telling her I loved her and offering her permission to go.  It was agony for me to realize that for the first time in fifteen years we would be permanently separated. It was a long night.  I decided that if  Fossey had not passed on by morning I would call the vet and have him come help her along.

      I was exhausted and Fossey was too.  Oddly enough she hadn’t slept for hours and hours, keeping her eyes focused on me instead.  At 4:30 in the morning we both dozed off, and at 5:00 am I felt a great exhalation of air on my shoulder and my little companion died in my arms.  Fossey had never left my side for fifteen years, and in the last fifteen hours of her life, I never left hers. 

     In the early morning, after feeding the barn animals, with unbearable sorrow Trevor and I buried my beloved pet in a grove of pine trees .  I dragged myself through daily activities with tears running down my face, and my body heavy from lack of sleep.  Worst of all, was the emptiness I felt with no old dog trotting behind me.

     In the afternoon more farm chores beckoned.  Sadness must always be set aside when pigs and goats need to eat.  I reluctantly shuffled out into the cold, bitter and feeling quite sorry for myself.  Behind me appeared the old border collie who roams our neighbourhood.  He lives on a road in behind the farm, and most days he crosses the railway tracks, wanders across the fields and comes to visit.  No matter how often I take him home, he always comes back. At one point, when he had not left for days I had to offer this dog food and shelter and now he knows the farm is a great pit stop to spend the night or the day while making his rounds or whenever the moods strikes him.  He is twelve years old, his eyes dim, but he is a beautiful, gentle soul and a person can’t help but love his presence.  As I walked across the snowy path to the barn, my heart broken, the old border collie followed, trotting merrily at my heels as though Fossey, from some other realm, had instructed him to do so.

The Holidays

Dec. 23, 2009–The Holidays

     We’ve been busy in the barn keeping out the cold.  More plastic stapled over drafty windows, more straw piled high. The pot-bellied pigs, much like the little pigs in the fairytale, now have a house made of straw.  We stacked the straw, put wood over top, and they can now enjoy a relatively snug environment in which to snore their days away.

     Two new goats came this week, a Nigerian Dwarf and her son. They are beyond cute.  Molly is about as dear as a goat can be, smaller than most dogs, with a gentle demeanor and one lone tooth left in front which protrudes above her lip. She loves to be pet and will actually touch you with her hoof to have you begin again if you cease giving her attention.  Her son is a high-spirited little guy, but he stands guard over his tiny mother when she sleeps soundly, nestled in straw.

     As the year draws to a close, I am happy and humbled with the changes here. So many animals found the best homes I ever could have imagined. Cohen, Bowie and Joplin, the Boer goat trio are living in the lap of luxury!  The battery hens recovered and have found incredible homes as well.  Kittens have come and gone into the waiting arms of new owners.  And as mentioned, new animals have arrived.  On Sunday a six month old goat who managed to escape a slaughterhouse (and fortuitously ended up at the city pound) will be calling the farm home. In addition to the changes in animals, there have been a good many repairs and improvements in the barn.  We have had a number of kind souls offer their time and labours to muck stalls and transport chickens. We have had other kind souls donate money to feed the animals, and many did so during this busy holidays season when money is often in short supply.  I am so grateful to all of these new friends of the farm, which are beginning to feel much like an expanded farm family!  From all of the animals here at the farm, Happy Holidays and have a wonderful 2010!!

The Infamous P.P.

 Dec. 13, 2009–The Infamous P.P.

     At midnight last night, after the neighbourhood holiday party, while driving back to our house I spotted our beloved barn cat P.P. lying lifeless on the road.  Trevor pulled over, and I clambered out of the car, picked up the wonderful cat and brought him back to our yard. What a sombre way to end festivities.

      I’m so glad it was a weekend, because this morning Trevor was able to dig through the semi-frozen ground and bury our friend.  I had worried we would have to compost him in the manure pile, like I have had to do with chickens in the past. (Initially I buried hens, but high numbers of rescues equals a fair number of casualties and composting has become something I’ve forced myself to do.)

     P.P. was a favourite around here.  A year and a half ago a friend and I had cleared a barn of feral cats when the owner was making it a habit of shooting them.  We had rescued them, had them vetted and sterilized and adopted out.  P.P. was born a wild tom, never touched by humans.  The pretty orange cat was eating out of a pile of rotting garbage when we trapped him. He peed all over his cage, (hence the original moniker of PeePee) and rolled wildly, desperate to get away.  It took months to gain his trust, even after neutering him.  So often I hear “you can’t tame feral cats,” but I know this to be false.  Granted, it took a lot of patience and I had to build a friendship on P.P.’s terms, but a bond was forged.  The cat who used to flee the barn in a panic if a human stepped over the threshold, became the first cat to greet me at the door each morning, purring and rubbing against my legs and against our lab, Fearghus.  He became everyone’s friend and trusted humans to pick him up and cuddle him.

     As I left the gravesite this morning, dragging a shovel, freezing rain falling on me, I realized what a teacher P.P. has been; rather ironic since his former owner called him “vermin.”  P.P.  proved,  yet again, that feral cats are not a lost cause. That you can earn their trust.  But I realize now, as we move forward with adopting a child into our home, that he has given me insight into this situation as well. Over and over I hear, “love isn’t always enough,” that we may not be able to heal old wounds and build a proper relationship with our new child.  Granted, children are more complex than cats, but the essence of gaining trust is the same.  If love and affection, dependability, and nurturing (was there ever a minute P.P. didn’t have a full bowl of food in front of him, or someone to pet him?), and most importantly, offering time to build a rapport on the other soul’s terms can work with P.P., perhaps we have a chance with our child-to-be.  This cat has demonstrated again, the mantra which is always being proven at this barn, there is always hope.  Thank you P.P.

 

Winter

Dec. 10, 2009–Winter

     I know the official start of winter hasn’t truly arrived, but the storm that has battered the farm for the last two days says otherwise.  The same routine this year, trying to fasten plastic over every drafty window, piling up the straw bales and feed sacks against every leaky door.   I have doubled the amount of straw in each stall so the animals can nestle and hide from the cold.  I’m boiling the kettle twice a day so the hens can have warm water to drink.

     The former battery hens are doing very well at their new homes!  Our friends with a bed and breakfast (who had adopted goats from us before) took some.  A fellow animal rescuer who saves Pot Bellies took four hens.  A wonderful couple with an idyllic retreat in Moonstone took eight other hens, and last weekend a kind-hearted animal-loving lawyer adopted four other hens.  The barn cats took one look at the Mercedes in the driveway and were trying to find ways to sneak inside and leave with him.  Cats can be so fickle.

     Photos have come pouring in, showing the happy hens in their new digs.  Most of the hens are living in heated barns!  They have tons of room to run indoors and out, and have their fellow hens for companions.  Best of all, they have safety and will truly spend their remaining years in peace.  The boys who did the rehab work are thrilled.

     We still have sixteen hens who are slow to heal. They make continual progress, but will be here a bit longer while they regain their feathers.  Homes still await these girls and they will leave sometime in the new year.  We have sixty new hens coming in the spring, so it will be perfect timing.

     Three new residents will be arriving at the farm in just another week– all goats– and the boys are excited to have new animals in need of their care.  Now that all of the stray kittens have been placed in new homes, the boys have a lot of affection they need to lavish on something.  These goats are in for some attention!   I’ll post their stories soon.

Changes

Nov. 18, 2009–Changes

     The boys were out at the farm last night. It is so dark and cold at 6:00 now, a switch from the beautiful red evenings we had when the program began two months ago.  The van arrives in utter darkness, but I hope the golden glow from the barn windows is inviting.  They rushed in, as they always do, this time clutching paintings and sculptures they had done at school and wanted to show me.

     We cleaned the coop as usual, fed the animals.  I was able to spend a bit of one-on-one time with a boy who has cared for the rescued kittens.  I have a home for the kitten he was most fond of.  (Just last week, after the sister kitten had been adopted out, this boy had run to me with tears in his eyes and begged me not to let the kitten be sad or lonely because it would miss its sister a lot!  It broke my heart.)  He told me how upset he’d be if this kitten left, but I told him that we had a warm, loving home waiting, and that sometimes we have to let something we love go to a different life in order to keep them safe and happy.  I asked him what he wanted to do, if he would keep the kitten here in the barn when it could be in a warm house with even more attention. He said he wouldn’t do that to his cat.  He did say that he would cry when it left, and I told him we would cry together.  There are learning experiences here every day.

     The grocery store called about another kitten pleading for help at the store door this week, so that kitten is now here  and I’ve enlisted the boys’ help to nurture and heal this thin kitten too.

     We didn’t just work through loss last night, we had some fun too!  We had crayons and paper and the boys scribbled away in the barn aisle, making pictures of hens.  One boy, our little writer, wrote a full-page manifesto on kindness towards chickens.  

     What struck me, is the difference between now and two months ago.  Not just the light outside or the temperature.  One of the boys picked up an ex-battery hen for a model for their sketches. But he didn’t draw.  Instead, he sat with this very plump, fully feathered brown hen in his lap.  It soaked up his warmth, pecked at his arms in a friendly manner. Two months ago this hen was scrawny, bald, terrified and screeching.  It now appeared to be an entirely different bird.  We looked at the hen’s short nails, caked in mud from her afternoon foray outdoors.  The best change of all, is that the boy holding her looked more confident, more calm than the child who showed up here two months ago, not sure of what to expect in this barn.  Changes….

 

The Upward Spiral

Nov. 3, 2009– The Upward Spiral

     While I confess to being irked by a poultry vet stalking me in the presses and sending letters to editors all over the place denying the truth about battery hens, I have let my anger slide.  When I began the battery hen/farm therapy program, I had no intention of being the centre of a debate over the battery cage system, nor did I foresee that happening.  One website dubbed it the “Cobble Hills Controversy.”  When the first article appeared, I don’t think anyone predicted it would spread to other papers and websites across Canada, and even leak down to the Dakotas and the LA Times website.  I am perplexed at how it happened.

     While I’m being painted as anti-egg farmer, I am most definitely not.  I grew up in an agricultural community, and I spent a huge amount of time on farms growing up. My own grandparents farmed.  I am not, and have never been anti-farmer.  They are good people, feeding their families like the rest of us.  I’ve been told by many farmers through the years that they didn’t like certain aspects of raising livestock, but you simply do what you do because it’s considered proper agricultural protocol.  When the standards change, so does the operation.  There are many farmers out there already keeping egg-laying hens a better way.  There are massive scale commercial free-run operations who are capable of stocking President’s Choice with eggs, and smaller local operations like one I just found out about in Regina, where the hens actually run free outdoors. 

     As the backlash continues I don’t think I can back out of the argument now.  If someone wants to ask me about battery hens, I’ll tell them what I know, and point them onwards to others who have a deeper knowledge than I do.  There are piles of scientific literature out there on the subject, in addition to numerous anti-cruelty campaigns.  Since the subject of confining hens wants to take on a life of its own, spiraling outwards like rings in the water, I will ride along with it.  Dian Fossey wouldn’t back down.  Heck, Oprah already proved freedom of speech was alive and well back in the 90’s in Texas.  

       In addition to the spiral of media attention on battery hens, the spiral of the farm therapy program is broadening too.  There is so much goodness happening here at the farm that I refuse to focus on one person trying desperately to promote the whole battery cage system.  Instead, I am very excited about an upcoming meeting this weekend with a great woman who has already done so much for the arts.  We can really dig in and get to work on crafting a program which will rescue more animals and help more children, weaving the arts into the mix so that the children can explore their love of animals through artistic pursuits too.