The New Hens

Oct. 2, 2008– The New Hens

     Yesterday the hens finally walked free.  Their quarantine period up, we were able to move them from the horse stall in which they have been kept.  Their week in the stall was a learning experience for the hens.  They learned what lettuce and tomatoes were, how to scratch the earth, how to eat from feed bowls and drink from a poultry fountain.  They learned how to walk on their own legs and how to make a nest in straw to lay their eggs the way natured intended, not having their eggs roll out of them and down a conveyer belt.

We moved the hens in with my own, who were outside at the time.  They looked around the large coop, ate, enjoyed the light shining in the window and the change of scenery, exploring every nook and cranny.  Our resident hens came in from outdoors, and,  upon seeing the home invaders, started squawking like mad!  They look so healthy compared  to the battery farm hens, their combs standing so bright and red. 

At first the new hens huddled in a corner, all eight of them, terrified.  Once the resident hens decended their ladder they looked around, curiously, and began to eat alongside the come-from-aways.  Eventually, a few squabbles broke out. One of my hens puffed herself up and fought with a newcomer. Now that the new hens have their strength back, they were evenly matched, so another one of my hens jumped into the fight, taking the side of her comrade.  Fortunately, it wasn’t long until night fell, and they all took up roosts, the war over.

Today, the hens remain segregated–the resident hens sticking to the outdoors, and the new hens, remaining inside, so far unable to figure out the ramp and ladder system which takes them outdoors.

Trooper, the sickest of the hens, is looking so much better and her limp is nearly gone.  She hasn’t gained the weight of the other birds but she’s getting there.  Progress is slow, but it does happen.  Hopefully it will only be a matter of days before the hens all get outside to enjoy their first taste of nature.

Updates

Sept. 27, 2008–Updates

          In sad news, our old Tallulah, the most loved Pygmy goat in the world, has her age catching up with her.  When we first brought Tallulah here, we assumed it was to live out her final days.  We had no idea love and care would help her rebound so that she would have another year and a half in the sun.  I guess I was in denial and thinking she would live forever, and yet this past week I have had to mull over euthanasia–one of the hardest decisions a person has to make. 

     As Tallulah has only one good leg, and that poor leg has been supporting her for so many years, it is finally giving out, due to her age.  Tallulah can no longer get up on her own in the morning, she looks a bit confused from time to time, and she is barely getting outside.  I came close to calling our vet on Friday–found myself in tears far too many times to count throughout the day– and in the end, determined it was not yet Tallulah’s time. 

     Despite all of my efforts to perk her up, Tallulah is slowing down considerably. That said, she has managed to get outside and stand in the sun, and nibble grass for a short while each day. She still seems to be getting enjoyment out of life (particularly from her hay and salt block), and does not appear to be in any pain, so I believe she will hold out a little longer.   Tallulah is the wisest animal I’ve ever met, and as I looked into her sweet face today, I realized she will let me know when her time to pass on has arrived.

     In less sad news, the poor hens from a battery farm are already making gains.  They do not tumble to the far side of the stall to hide when I enter, but are already walking towards me (and their feed), clucking happily.  They have learned to scratch the earth, and drink from a poultry fountain, although they still have no idea what to do with fresh produce!  Their combs are already regaining a healthier red colour.

     The saddest chicken, Trooper, is still holding on, and gaining a bit of strength.  Today, along with a wonderful volunteer, named Laura, we managed to completely vet each chicken, and trim each long, deformed toe nail, so that they can walk properly. 

      Rusty, the piglet, is continuing to enjoy visitors immensely.  He simply loves humans!  On Thursday, my intrepid volunteer Abby brought her brother (an animal lover, like her!) out to the farm.  They came laden with feed bags, donated by Abby’s mother.  A bag of livestock feed means more to me than diamonds!   We lounged in the sun, with Rusty rolling on his side, enjoying every tummy scratch he was given.  Rusty runs around and plays ‘tag’ with people.  He will run and chase you and once he catches you, will turn and run away until you catch him.  He grows so over-joyed with this game, he will eventually start leaping into the air, spinning in circles.  He just oozes bliss.

     Updates on all of the wonderful new people who are sponsoring some of the farm residents will soon follow!

    

Battered But Not Broken

Sept. 25, 2008– Battered But Not Broken

    

    

   Eight hens from a battery farm arrived today.  I’ve long heard about where grocery store eggs come from; I’ve even seen it for myself, yet nothing prepares a human for witnessing the state in which these hens arrived.  They had been in a barn of 23,000.  It was a typical battery farm, those big window-less metal barns you see everywhere.  The hens had been cruelly, crammed into small cages as young pullets, and spent the only year of their life, locked in that cage, day in day out, until their bodies were so battered and spent laying eggs, they are then to be killed.  Today thirty made it out alive.  I gather the man running the place allowed someone to take a few away.

     My friend brought them to me in a large crate.  Their eyes were wild with terror, and probably very unused to the light.  We set them in a clean stall for quarantine.  At first they didn’t want to leave the cage– the only thing they’d ever known.  They had never walked before, and on very shaky legs they took their first steps. 

     I know people assume that animal rights organizations only show the worst of the worst in their campaigns. The truth is, nearly all hens that are factory-farmed are this horribly mistreated.  The new hens have pale white legs, unnlike our own chickens, who have bright yellow legs. As they have never scratched the earth, their claws are dreadfully long and curved.  Their combs do not stand tall and bright red on their heads, but rather flop over, a disgusting pale pink.  They are missing huge amounts of feathers. 

     My son recently attended a school field trip where they learned about the wonderful, natural, world of egg production.  They were shown a clean, healthy chicken.  I hate to turn into Molly Shannon in Year of the Dog, traumatizing innocent children, but I have an urge for the class to come see these egg-laying hens, if only so they can know the truth before they are of the age where they can decide to buy free-range eggs or battery farm eggs. 

     The hens are terrified of humans, and tend to congregate at the back of the horse stall.  They neurotically peck the stone wall, expressionless; they peck each other.  One very sad hen, I’ve started calling Trooper, cannot support herself at all on her weak legs.  She is nearly featherless, with pale dimpled skin showing everywhere, and her fragile body was being shoved around by the other hens, as weak as they are.  I don’t know if she will even make it through the night, but I’m praying she will hold on– she’s made it this far!  I’ve set her in a cage, alongside the others, so she can be with them as she regains strength, but not suffer any further abuse.

     I enter a state of shock each time I go in to feed the poor hens, which was several times today.  Supposedly, the farmer “ran out” of food the day before the hens were to leave.  I’m sure the reality is, he ran out of food, god knows how long ago, but because the chickens were being killed anyhow, saw no point in ordering more.  Hey, that’s just business. 

     The only beauty in this wretched situation, is that today the hens walked free.  They will sleep in warm straw tonight, rather than on a cold, wire cage.  They have eaten to their hearts content.  They have scratched and eaten grass I’d picked fresh for them.  Tonight, for the first night in their lives, I hope they will know peace.

Duck Hunt

Sept 22, 2008– Duck Hunt

     Sundays are alway so busy here, with the majority of the afternoon always spent catching up on large jobs.  This past Sunday I had planned on spending some time with family in the morning, and holding off on barn-related duties until the afternoon, but it was not to be.

      Two ducks tame ducks, who appear to have been dumped at a pond in the city and were in peril, were brought here on Saturday night for safe-keeping until they went to my friend’s sanctuary on Sunday.   I put them in a locked stall, and they were happy and safe at 4:30 pm.  I was told they couldn’t fly, but fly they did!  When I entered the barn at 9:00 pm, they were gone!  Empty stall, an open window looming… disaster.  My sons and I searched the grounds, flashlight in hand, and found the male asleep on the lawn.  I don’t know why the female would have left him behind, but she was no where to be found. 

    On Sunday morning, I disovered that my neighbour Karla had seen the duck fly across the corn field an hour prior.  My son and I headed over to the fields she was headed for, and wandered, carrier in hand, looking for a needle in a haystack.  It became apparent we would never find this brown duck, in a brown field full of dead scrub.  It was at that point that Karla appeared and said the duck was paddling along in her creek.

     Back at the creek, the tame duck, was no longer tame.  She would paddle over to me for bread crumbs and then paddle back when I reached for her.  I would wade into the water and she would retreat.  Tony and Karla were well-versed at helping me chase down my loose llama, two summers ago, but chasing ducks was new to us.  Tony grabbed some nets and into the water we went.  (I’ve no doubt they are ruing the day they ever let me move in next door!)

       Now, I am horrid at sports.  As a kid, no one ever wanted me on their team, because if asked, I quite literally cannot hit the broad side of a barn.  I knew I had little chance of nabbing the duck.  I managed to get her over to me, and I stepped deep into the water, my rubber boots filling to the brim.  Lunging through the water, I swung my net down, and naturally, I missed the duck, who fled.  It was a bloody big net too!  Karla, former track star, armed with a net that could only hold a goldfish (well, perhaps a slightly larger net than that), swung her net down and caught the duck!  We both pounced on her.  I grabbed the duck in my arms, and Karla shouted for me to jump on her golfcart, and we sped back to the barn, duck in hand, where the duck was set back in a cage with her mate.  They were so happy to see each other, cooing and rubbing their necks together.  They have now both moved on to their permanent home, where they can do as they please.   I went back up to the house, a bedraggled mess. 

     Although I had truly wanted a quiet Sunday morning, it was worth all of the effort, and water-logged boots and jeans, to reunite the ducks.  I was tired during the barn clean out in the afternoon, but my husband said, “Oh, you’ll be fine getting the work done. After all, you had an easy morning… you got to swim in the creek….”  Very funny.

The Good & The Bad

Sept. 16, 2008–the Good and the Bad

     The remants of Tropical Depression Ike battered the barn– but not much damage, which is good news.   I’d worried about the roof and windows but they are intact and the animals were warm and snug.  That said, the mammoth door that leads from the big duck barn outdoors, fell apart. I had no idea that heavy thing was a piecemeal project from scrap wood!  The whole thing was shredded by wind.  Repairing it will not be an easy feat.

     Because the door won’t close, I didn’t want to leave the ducks and the rooster out in that barn last night, since fox, coyote or raccoons would have easy access to them, so I set up a corner of the main barn with fresh straw, and my son and I herded them all over there for the night.   At 9:00 pm, when I opened the door to check on everyone, I was startled to find Dalton, the rooster, perched just inside the front door, at eye level.  I left him to spend the night in his new locale.

     Upon opening the barn in the morning, I found feathers everywhere!  I frantically searched the barn, calling Dalton’s name, panicked that one of the barn cats had done some Jekyll/Hyde impersonation and decided to kill our resident rooster!  Good news however, and Dalton was safe and sound.  I guess the change had simply induced some kind of overnight molting!

     More bad news– one of my intrepid volunteers was hit while crossing a road by some reckless driver running a red light. The good news?  Abby is just fine, albeit a bit banged up.  In her relentless commitment to animals, from her convalescent bed, she sent her father on a forty minute car ride to deliver a bowling ball for Wilma and Willow to play with.  As soon as I dropped the ball into their yard they began pushing it around with their snouts.  Perhaps now they will play with their ball and leave the large rocks that line the chicken run alone!

PeePee

Sept. 12, 2008–Peepee

     The feral tomcat called Peepee, (so named after he rolled in a carrier he had sprayed with urine), who we have been trying to re-name Peppy, (although my son is calling him Basil), has been a shadow around the barn for three months.  Wild, and afraid of humans, he would dart from the loft as soon as I entered.  I have wondered how I will ever catch him to have him neutered. 

     Over the last month he has started coming down to eat with the other cats.  Watching me from a corner of the barn until I fill the food bowls, and then creeping over after I leave.  More and more, he was leaving a little less distance between us.

    And today I touched him.  For a split second I almost didn’t dare, not wanting to be bitten by a third cat this year.  For some reason, I felt like today was the day progress would be made.  I reached over, and stroked his back for a few minutes, and then, not wanting to push my luck, stepped away.

     I touched Peepee!  Enough said!

Upswing

Sept 11, 2008– Upswing

     Why is it I can never remain Maudlin around this place?  Duckie, the little Muscovy found on a roadside, has discoverd water.  After a heavy rain, and with his yellow down gone and new feathers grown in, he went splashing through the deep wells of water in the broken concrete out back.  He paddled around with the other ducks, and then graduated to leaping into the wading pool with them.  In the evening, I found the little guy still  happily sitting in a puddle of water.  The joy that substance brings to ducks is remarkable.  If only we humans could be so easily made happy.

     I took Rusty for a walk up the road yesterday, cauing more than one person to do a double-take out the window of their car.  The piglet loves looking for novel things and there was much he hadn’t seen or heard before out in the ditches near the road.  Later, he played in the side yard with Fearghus, and also with our terrier, and even the neighbours’ dog.  Our terrier doesn’t like most creatures, but, like everyone else, she couldn’t help but have a soft spot for ole Rusty.

     And today Matt at the pinemill showed up with yet another bin of gorgeous, fresh, white pine shavings for stalls.  The barn smells like heaven when shaving arrive.  Yes, no matter how intent I am on wallowing in the doldrums, the way the pigs wallow in their mud, I simply cannot.  It never takes long to feel like we’re on an upswing.

Melancholy

Sept. 10, 2008– Melancholy

     A deep melancholy is affecting me.  It shouldn’t be.  Sun is shining on the corn fields around me, I finally baked an edible loaf of bread yesterday, the animals are flourishing… and yet, some sadness is pressing against my chest, as heavy as any bale of hay I’ve thrown today.  Maybe it’s just that time of year.  I try and put my finger on it… is it the upcoming trip to the battery farm, where we will be allowed to save some egg-laying hens?  Tens of thousands of chickens, (who have spent their only year of life in small cages, never seeing sunlight or scratching the earth), are set to die.  We will be allowed to rescue some of the hens, which is a wonderful thing, but funds are so limited for us, I will only be able to take a few.  I do not look forward to leaving the rest behind, watch them being thrown by their legs and wings into a truck destined for the slaughter house.

     Is it the revelation that Rusty the piglet was castrated without anaesthetic?  What a dunce I am–I should have know that; I knew they lopped off their tails and cut their ears with no freezing or pain killers, but somehow I assumed humans would at least offer the courtesy of some painkillers when neutering an animal.  Yesterday, I was informed otherwise.  I can’t imagine taking my dog into the vet clinic and letting him do what someone has done to my pig. 

      Is it that more and more I feel I need to justify why I have this farm and why I am doing everything that I do.  When you work round the clock caring for animals, finding the strength to constantly stand up for your convictions is draining.  I’ve gotten used to odd looks when I wheel my bins through the grocery store to get the old produce they are throwing out.  It is an enormous blessing to have all kinds of vegetables and fruits for the animals, veggies a little too old for the great produce section at the store. It saves me money on feed bills but is also very healthy for the animals.  Somehow I’ve managed to keep my head held high while dumpster-diving for rotten cantelopes, and actually, some of the young people who work at the store have become very helpful offering up what they are tossing away. 

     Admittedly, the meat jokes people sometimes make about our animals are getting to me.  I tried to be a good sport, the first few times people licked their lips and joked about how good the pigs are looking.  But the joke has gone stale.  It bothers me, like a rock in my shoe, growing more and more irritating each time I notice it, and I swear the next time someone makes a comment like that I will snap, and tell them I think their dog looks tasty and let’s toss her on the table for dinner! 

     I guess all vegetarians must put up with the very odd question, “do you get enough protein?”  I’ve been putting up with that for eighteen years.  It has never crossed my mind to ask a meat-eater (and 99% of my family and friends do eat meat) if they are getting enough vitamin C!  And I guess everyone who rescues animals has to endure the comments people make, about how it is a waste of time, how it will break you financially, how it is plain wrong to have a farm that produces nothing and makes no money. 

     Perhaps it is all of these reasons, combined with the winding down of the good weather, and the difficult winter months that are looming, that are making me feel a bit down.

     My biggest inspiration as a child was Dian Fossey, the woman who studied mountain gorillas in Rwanda.  On days I am feeling particularly fragile, and utterly misunderstood, I imagine she must have felt the same way, probably much more often than I.  No one believed in her, no one seemed to feel the exceptional primates were worth saving.  But she fought to save them anyhow.   You do what you believe is right, and carry on, despite what others think. 

     A kind reader left a wonderful comment on yesterday’s post, and it has had an impact on me–what a legacy her grandmother left her.  I hope I am leaving my own legacy of compassion to my children, and to others who visit the farm and get to know the characters here, like Tallulah and Rusty and Macbeth.  I hope that twenty years after I’m gone, they will treat an animal with kindness because they saw someone else do it, because they realize that all life is valuable, and because they have learned that once you get to know a living creature and recognize its distinct personality, you cannot possibly treat that animal with cruelty and violence.  I hope that, despite everyone finding me a bit eccentric (read: crazy) at the moment, years from now they will understand what it is that I’ve chosen to do with my life. 

An Unusual Friendship

Sept.10, 2008–An Unusual Friendship

     How quickly all routine around the farm has shifted to involve our little piglet, Rusty.  The day begins with him and ends with him.  He grunts ‘hello’ in the morning, and waits at his stall door to be let out.  He trots behind me, up and down the aisle while I feel or turn out animals, mimicking each step or turn I take.  He moves from stall to stall with me as I muck, rooting with such glee in the horse stalls, pointing out any wet spots in the shavings I might have missed.

     When the barn is clean, and everyone is basking in the sun outdoors, I fasten Rusty’s leash and take him out for a romp with one of our dogs.  Fearghus is a young, lab mix, full of energy, and he and Rusty have quickly bonded.  They search for sticks together, and it is comical to see Fearg with a big log hanging out of his mouth, while Rusty proudly carries a twig between his teeth.  They dig side by side under the maple trees, both of them ending up with paws and snouts covered in dirt.  They run up and down the side paddock together.  Rusty loves walks, and runs merrily along behind me on a lead shank, exploring the incredible world before him.  Often, Freedom, the gangly, white barn cat will also follow Rusty and Fearghus around, and it’s not uncommon to see the three of them examining something of interest together, three utterly different noses pressed to the same curiousity, such as a leaf or a toad.

     It’s a warm fall, and sometimes, after a lot of work, Rusty and I reward ourselves with a lie down in the grass.  He will snuggle up to my side and doze off.  I feel very much at peace, seeing him so content with his world. 

     I cannot help but think what a confusing time it must be for my young son.  He attended a field trip with his class the other day, to learn about farm animals.  At some point they saw a baby pig and the man showing off the animal, enthusiastically asked, “who likes pork chops?”  I wonder how my child reconciles what he’s being taught away from the farm, with what he sees when he comes home.  How does he process hearing a piglet called a “pork chop” while at school, and then come home to see your mother and your dog playing with a very similar piglet, a piglet who comes to his name and who finds great joy curling up in the lap of any affectionate human?  Who knows?  Perhaps my son makes better sense of it than I do. 

Juxtaposition

September 3, 2008–Juxtaposition

     Rusty hasn’t yet been here a week at Cobble Hills Farm Sanctuary, but he has certainly made himself at home.  Having an infant of sorts, to contend with, places a great demand on ones time.  Although Wilma and Willow, the large sows, continue to tolerate him and even seem to enjoy his company, (Willow has entirely redeemed herself in my eyes, by being the most gentle  with the little piglet), I have grown worried they will crush him accidently during the night.  People seem to fret over this so much, (hence the modern invention of the medievally barbaric farrowing crate), that I decided not to take any chances.  I’ve moved Rusty into Macbeth’s stall during the nights.  The Alpine goat is so gentle, at worst, he will softly, swing his head at Rusty if the piglet gets into Macbeth’s hay during dinner, yet never ever makes contact.   The duo were a bit nervous of each other at first, so I placed Rusty in a large dog crate during the dark hours, while they got used to the other’s company, without feeling threatened. 

     Rusty is finally eating well.  I water down his hog starter, until it is a paste, which he happily slurps up.  He has also discovered an amazing substance called watermelon, and will squeal loudly for little chunks of it. 

    The piglet is such a joy!   September 1st was non-stop stall cleaning, and gave new meaning to the term, “Labour Day.”  I was so tired, that after finishing up Macbeth’s stall, I lay down in the fresh straw.  Rusty came over, crawled up onto my stomach, and fell asleep.  He looked positively cherubic, snoring away, trusting me implicitly.   All in all, his sweet little face and boisterous enthusiasm are a wonderful contrast to the more aged residents of our sanctuary. 

     I can feel old Tess, the Nubian goat, slowing down, as she ambles ever more awkwardly, and takes longer each day to get up to go outdoors.  It may not be too far down the road when I have to ease her out of this world, as I had to with her companion, Tash.  Tallulah as well, seems older by the minute.  She is such a small goat, that you cannot see her over the stall door. Today I opened the stall and the poor pygmy goat toppled right over. I had no idea she had been propping herself up against the door! 

      I inevitably feel rather sad, seeing these wonderful friends of mine, entering their final years or months.   Watching Rusty trot along the barn aisles, or gleefully rooting through the horse stall,  jumping with delight and enthusiasm, cannot help but bring a smile to my face.  Although bacon-lovers will roll their eyes, I feel truly honoured to be able to provide Rusty with these experiences that make him so happy.  In turn, a refugee piglet such as Rusty, or a homeless duckling, like Duckie, with all of their inquisitiveness and joy, are a wonderful juxtaposition to the old age and death of so many of our animals.