country – Page 5 – Angel Wheeler

Freedom

We have a pet chicken.

We call her Freedom. She wants out of the box in the worst way imaginable.

She’s the only one who discovered how to fly to the edge of the box. Since then we taped up the sides. She appears to be a Barred Plymouth Rock with a long stripe down her head. She is only one of 3 that we can differentiate between. They all look the same.

Freedom dreams of wide open spaces. When she lays her little chicken head down and closes her little chicken eyes she dreams of eating grubs in the garden not hanging out in a cardboard box. The brown cardboard walls are closing in and driving her chicken crazy.

She is not content in this box with these other peeps. There’s a whole world out there waiting to be discovered and she knows it deep down in her little chicken heart. She’s destined for greater things.

When you lay your hand palm up in the box, all the other chicks scatter, but not Freedom. She hops in ready for a ride out of that place.

She’s curious, friendly and bold.

But manners? She has none. How does she expect to get far in life with antics like this?

She has so much to learn.

Just In: Chicken Fatality Report

They, whoever they are, say death comes in three’s. Since I last wrote about my chickens, one more has died, which brings the number of fatalities to 3. It was the little chick I was worried about before. The antisocial black one with a little yellow spot on its head who stood in the corner and stared. She didn’t even get a proper burial in the chicken cemetery. I watched J-Dub carry her by her legs and toss her over the barbed wire fence into the pasture. Apparently, we’ve become desensitized to chicken death. It’s just the way it goes. My husband says, “If you’re gonna deal with livestock, you’re gonna deal with death.” He’s right. Nothing lives forever. And what is it that old Augustus McCrae says in Lonesome Dove when young Sean gets bitten all over with water moccasins, “Life’s short. Shorter for some than others.”

But I must admit it’s a bit embarrassing to confess how many I have lost. I feel like it’s my fault. The first thing people say when they see me is not Hi, How are You, but rather,”So how many chicks have died now?” And then they look at me like I have Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy or something. I am hoping the death spree is over. One died on Wednesday, one on Thursday, and one on Friday. I now have 14 surviving chickies, and I’m feeling pretty dern good about the health of these 14. I haven’t seen Ol’ Spaz, the seizure thrower, convulse in a couple of days, and Molasses, the one who got trapped under the water trough seems to be doing just fine. I even think she may not be as bow-legged as she once was. Truthfully, I can’t even recognize her anymore. I’m confident these 14 will survive. At least until I put them outside and a chicken hawk or bull snake gets a hold of them. But for now, they are safe and sound in my spare bedroom. For now.

I get a kick out of them. They are quite enjoyable and provide many laughs for us. When I put fresh straw in their box, if by chance there is a little piece of seed head that even faintly resembles a bug, one of them snags it up and starts running, thinking they’ve really found a treasure that they’re not sharing. As soon as the other chicks catch on that their sister has a jewel, they begin chasing her around trying to nab it. They start grabbing at that little seed head, pecking it from each other’s mouth, even playing a little game of tug o’ war, all the while, peeping loudly.

After watching this sport, I got a little nerve and decided to give them something “real”. Something they would forage for in the yard. A tasty morsel to fight over. I scraped some mud off the bottom of a big flower-pot and found 4 earthworms. Scrumptious, juicy, wiggling earthworms. I took the smallest I could find and tossed it in their box. At first, 2 or 3 chicks circled the worm taking turns pecking at it. They displayed a little curiosity, but not any real gumption. Not until this bold little chick walked right up, pushed her way through the circle, grabbed the worm in her beak with one peck and away she scrambled with the others right on her tail feathers. After a couple of circles around the box, a zig, a zag and a fake-out, she quickly found a spot in the corner, tipped her head back, and swallowed the worm right down her gullet. Thinking she was Hot Stuff, she strutted around, sharpening her beak on the box. In a few minutes, the others laid down for a nap, but not Hot Stuff, she was loaded up with protein and feeling fine and frisky.

I have since put in a couple more worms, and every time a few of them circle and peck until Hot Stuff struts in, nabs the worm and eats it whole. The funny thing is she’s the smallest of the bunch, but definitely the most fearless. It will be interesting to see if she turns out to be the most dominant chick in the coop.

Well folks, that’s it for today.

Tune in next time for more Tales From the Chicken Ranch for the latest fatality report and our special segment, “What’s on the Menu?”

Until Next Time,

Chicky Mama

Signs of Morning

Morning Time is quickly becoming my favorite time of day.

I can easily say this today, on a Sunday.

More specifically the Sunday after I’ve had 8 days off of work.

Maybe tomorrow morning I won’t feel the same. Tomorrow. The dreaded Monday. More specifically, the first day back to work. The first day back to work after Spring Break. The first day back to work after Spring Break and Daylights Savings Time. The first day back to work where instead of driving 10 seconds to get to work, I must drive 10 miles.

But this Sunday morning was glorious, and I can easily say it was my favorite time of day.

Where I now live, in the mornings, the cows in the neighbor’s pasture lumber their way, softly mooing as they go, to a barbed wire fence to stare down this county road. J-Dub says they’re waiting for the neighbor’s feed truck, but I have yet to see it arrive.

Hoping for breakfast.

But their curiosity of me and my camera gets the better of them.

In the mornings, the birds sing softly. I gaze towards the telephone poles and the fence lines looking for them, but never find them.

As you can see, there aren’t many trees to perch in. They must be hiding in the grasses, raising their song of hope towards the heavens.

In the mornings, the grass is a little wet from the dew and the fresh breezes gently blow, refreshing me.

In the mornings, I set my coffee cup in the pasture so I can operate my camera. And the horse poses for his portrait.

In the mornings, the sun warms the blossoms of the fruit trees, giving hope of new life. And sweet apricots.

Mornings are filled with hope.

Hope of new beginnings.

Hope of fresh starts.

Hope of happy days to come.

Happy Spring!

Slow as Molasses

I have officially declared myself unfit as a chicken mama.

Someone call CPS. No, not Child Protective Services, ring up Chicken Protective Services.

I lost another chicky. I don’t know the cause of death, I contribute it to Mother Nature. Beneath my electrical pole, it is beginning to look something like a chicken cemetery.

Two down, Fifteen to go. And there may be more. I have one who seems to be having seizures. Every so often it begins peeping very loudly, flops over, and twitches its head and feet for about 20 seconds. I don’t know what to do when this happens. I don’t think I can fit a spoon in its beak.

I have another I’m very concerned about. It’s not eating or drinking much. Nor does it socialize, it just stands in the corner and stares at the box.

Frankly, if any of them make it long enough to lay an egg, it’ll be a miracle.

I don’t understand why my chicken flock isn’t stronger. I’ve been taking very excellent care of them. I make sure their temperature is just right, I give them plenty of food, fresh straw, and water.

However, I can pretty much bet that I won’t be winning the “chicken caretaker of the year” award. Let me tell you why. Yesterday I awoke and the chicks were happy, healthy, and rambunctious. They only had tissue paper lining their box for the first day (as per the instructions). Day two suggested giving them some sort of litter; straw, hay, big pine shavings, but not anything too small like sand or wood shavings, as they might eat it and mess up their digestive systems.

I got some hay from a big round hay bale out in the field. I picked each of the little chicks up, counting as I went, and set them in a temporary box to get them out of the way. I laid some fresh hay in their permanent box, then picked them up, once again counting each of them, and placed them back one by one on their new, cozy, straw bedding. Then I gave them a feeder filled with chicken starter feed.

I went into the kitchen, heated their water to a pleasant 98 degrees on the stove (as per instructions), and filled their waterer (pictured below).

I checked on them a few more times throughout the day, then I left to come into town (spoken like a true country girl) to take care of some business. I returned home around four or five in the afternoon and discovered the dead little black chick. I was distraught. My husband pulled in the drive and I met him with the bad news. He buried my little chicky for me.

After the funeral we were just sitting around the box watching the little chicks. I have a couple of little stools that set next to the box and my butt has almost become permanently affixed.

I received 17 chickens and two have died so I am down to 15. Sitting around the box, I did a quick headcount. I counted 14. I counted again, and again got 14. The little boogers are running all around the box, so they are difficult to count. I announced to J-Dub there were only 14, he counted and said, “No there’s 15.” I mentally counted again. Still 14.

“Jason, I’m only getting 14.” He counted again and this time, he too got 14.

“There’s a chicken missing!” I exclaimed.

“Well it can’t be far,” he answered.

Just like a mama whose lost a kid at The Walmarts, thoughts began racing through my mind.

Maybe it flew somewhere? I looked around the room. No chick, chick here. Maybe I left it in the other box and forgot about it? I checked the box. No chick, chick there.

J-Dub says, “Maybe you miscounted when you first got them.” I knew I hadn’t. And then the dreaded thought occurred to me. What if I squashed her underneath the waterer when I set it in the box? I carefully lifted the waterer and peeked beneath, expecting to find another dead chicken, but instead out wobbled a little black chick, hungrier and thirstier than ever. She had been underneath the waterer all day long. Fortunately, it didn’t set flush to the floor, and there was a tiny little space where she was crouched. But the poor little thing just isn’t the same. It’s easily recognizable by its spraddled legs. I think the poor thing must have been in the “splits” position all day and now her legs are very wide-spread. She also doesn’t have very good balance and wobbles around like a little drunk man. Even when she’s standing still, she’s weaving.

We decided if she wasn’t slow in the head before that incident, she is slow now, possibly even retarded.

So Ashy named her Molasses. Slow as Molasses.

She’s a tough one, that’s for sure.

Me? I feel awful. I’m relieved she survived.

So far.

Junior Chicky Little

The chicks are quite rambunctious today. Soon they will need a much bigger box.

Yesterday, I didn’t tell you my story of death, but today I must tell you that one of them did not make it. Nature has its way of elimintaing the sick and weak and I did have a sick one.

When I first opened the box, there was a little yellow chick who had obviously endured hard trip. She was very weak and lethargic. Once I put her in the box, she seemed to perk around. I later became worried about a little black one who began struggling, then that one perked itself up.

A little while later, about 2 hours, the little yellow chick laid down, closed her eyes, and never opened them.

We buried her next to the new electrical pole where they dirt was real loose and didn’t take much manpower behind the shovel.

Ashlynn did what she does when little critters die, and made a tombstone for JR Chicken Little.

I had only ordered 15 chicks, and the hatchery sent me 17. I think that must be their “insurance” against death.

So if you are the “see the glass as half full” kind of person, even though we’ve had a fatality, I still have one extra chick than I paid for.

The remaining 16 seem very healthy and rowdy, so I hope we avoid future burials.

Oh Happy Day

I received a phone call this morning at 6:40 from the United States Postal Service informing me that I had a package to pick up as soon as possible.

I jumped in the shower, threw on my clothes, and rushed off without a bit of make-up.

Yes, my friends, the day has finally arrived. The day I have longed for, anxiously crossing off calendar dates, to arrive.

Let’s open the box together!

I wish you could’ve heard the dozens of sweet little peeps that were escaping during the transport to my house.

There they are. Sweet little baby chicks. And one with chicken dookie on his back.

Unlike human babies, these little darlings came with instructions!

They shouldn’t be handled for the first 24 hours.

They need a box with water and a heat lamp. The temperature needs to be about 98 degrees.

You must take each bird and dip its beak in the water so they can begin drinking. Also, make sure the water is 98 degrees.

It does them some good to have a little sugar in their water, and to chop up a couple of boiled eggs to give them a strong start. Boy, did they like those boiled eggs!

You just need to sprinkle their feed in the box, so they can practice pecking for the first day, later they’ll learn to eat from the trough.

They’ve already grown so much today, I know they’ve gained at least 2 ounces each!

Also included in the instructions, way down at the bottom, was the stuff everyone forgets to mention about chicks, like: how to wipe pasty poop that gets stuck on their butt, and what to do when they pull their feathers out and start bleeding, how to prevent the chicks from pecking one another, and as a last resort for pecking how to cut part of their beaks off!! I will not be doing that. These chicks will surely behave.

So dear reader, this is my first chicken post. I say that because I’m sure it will not be my last.

Happy pecking!

A Rare Horse; A Rare Friend

My husband’s horse was born on May 5th. That’s how he received the name Cinco. A horse with a sweeter disposition could not be found. As soon as he saw you, he was lumbering your way to nudge and beg for attention. My husband sometimes got aggravated with him when trying to work. “He’s always right in my hip pocket, ” he occasionally complained.

As fitting as his name, Cinco only lived five years. He got sick with an upper respiratory infection. J-Dub took him to the vet, and they gave him some medicine. He began to pep up. Then two days later, I drove out to our place to find Cinco laying down. Now, I admit I don’t know much about horses, but one thing I know is they rarely lay down. He wasn’t just resting, he was slowly rolling from side to side. I walked closer to look at him, and his eyes had a look of illness to them. I felt very uneasy, but not wanting to be the over-cautious wife who freaks out at a rolling horse, I decided to watch him a while. He got up slowly, took about 5 steps, and then was back on the ground rolling. I decided something truly must be wrong. I called J-Dub immediately. He was far away in another county, so he called his friend Matt to drive out to check on him.

In the meantime, Cinco would rise very slowly onto his knees with his hind legs in the air, attempting to get up. Sometimes he would make it, and sometimes he would lay back down. When he did manage to struggle to his feet, he would walk for a short way, then lay down and begin rolling. My husband said it sounded like he was trying to colic. I didn’t know what that meant. Matt arrived and when he saw him, he ran to him, slapped his butt and pushed on him, forced him to get up. He put a halter on him and began walking him around. Matt explained that when a horse colics, they get a terrible stomach-ache, so they lay down and begin to roll to try to relieve the pain. That causes their intestines to twist, and they die. The best thing to do is make them walk.

As Matt walked Cinco all around the place, I paced inside the house. I felt helpless. Shortly after, the vet arrived. She listened to Cinco’s stomach, then inserted a tube down his throat, and began pumping his stomach. She removed the tube and drained all this liquid onto the ground, and then reinserted it again for another round. This continued for a very long time. The vet then decided to take him into the clinic and keep him overnight. Rabies was suspected, and possibly West Nile Virus.

The next morning Cinco wasn’t any better. They continued observing and treating him throughout that day and the night, but he died there in the vet’s clinic by morning.

Because the only way rabies can be detected is through a post-mortem exam, and the only way to test is to send an animal’s head into a laboratory, my husband had to drive to the vet’s to pick up his dead, headless horse and bury him. It was a sad day. I wish I could have helped him, but there wasn’t any help I could give except my words of sympathy.

The results for rabies came back negative. The cause of death was never known.

My husband has been without a horse since November until yesterday when his friend Shawn gave him a horse, and a dang nice one at that.

Here’s Shawn hamming it up as usual.

This new horse goes by the name Freak because of his rarity. He is a palamino roan.

Palamino is a yellow color, and roan refers to little white speckles.

Right now he is roaned from his middle to the back, but in the summer he roans all over.

He reminds me of a Californian surfer with his bleached blonde mane.

What a horse!

But more importantly, what a friend!

My husband and I are blessed beyond words to have a friend in Shawn who sees a need and fills it.

Thank you Shawn!

A Horse Story

Spring Break has begun for me today. I have 9 days off and 900 things on my ever-growing to-do list to accomplish. Number one being pack, move, and unpack.

My husband is super busy, and I can’t wait for him, so tonight I packed most of my kitchen, my china, my plates, my Tupperware, and my pots and pans, loaded them into my dad’s yellow truck, and unpacked them out at our new place. It was dark when I drove up. “Dark” in the country is a different kind of darkness. It’s like dark, dark. There’s no street lights, or neighbor’s porch lights, or flashing neon signs. I fumbled around with the padlock on the gate using the light from my headlights, constantly looking around for fear of some critter to rub up against my leg or something. Being in the country in the dark can be a little spooky.

I’ve always been a town girl, and the bottom line about country living is I’m going to have to toughen up. Plain and simple.

And perhaps invest in some night vision goggles.

As soon as I pulled up to the house, out of the darkness appeared this silhouette of a horse walking towards me. It’s not unusual for a horse to greet us when we pull up, thinking we’ve got some groceries on us. I squinted trying to make out the color and the size of the horse, trying to recognize it. It was a strange, gray spotted horse that am not familiar with. I later found out, J-Dub and some others got horseback today to get a little cowboy work done, and one of his cowboy friends left his horse at our place with the other horses.

You want to know a little secret? An unknown fact about me?

I’m kinda, sorta scared of horses. I know, I know what you’re thinking. You’re married to a cowboy and you’re scared of horses????? Yes, I am. I have no reason to be afraid. I’ve never been hurt by one, but they’re big and powerful, and they aren’t the least bit afraid of me. They walk around with an air of authority and intimidate me.

I then noticed the other three horses came strutting over in a pack, throwing their gang signs. I began unloading some boxes from the back of the truck, ignoring the horses when suddenly I heard a pounding of horse hooves. Spinning around, trying to allow my eyes to develop night vision, I saw one of the three horses chasing the strange, gray horse around the pasture at a high rate of speed. I yelled and they stopped running, but as I was unloading the truck, on my trips in and out of the house, I kept my eye on the behavior of these horses. The three horses that have been out there and have gotten to know one another, wouldn’t let the new horse around them. They had decided to form a clique, and like a bunch of junior high girls were bullying this strange horse. Even when the new horse was off minding his own business, the 3 bully horses would saunter over to him and suddenly one of them would break away from the others and charge at the gray horse, causing him to take off running with the bully horse right on his heels. It was downright unnerving to me. I could only imagine them running through a fence or running into me carrying a large box. I wanted to do something but felt helpless and a little bit too scared to take on two charging horses. Where’s Mr. Ed and the Horse Whisperer when you need them?

This little cat and mouse chasing bit went on three more times, before they finally settled down somewhere beyond my vision.

I got my kitchen unpacked and headed back to the truck, greeted this time by the putrid smell of a skunk permeating the air. He’s probably nesting under my house.

Darkness, unpredictable horses, odorous skunks……..lawsy mercy, this is going to be quite the adventure, and boy had I better get tough or get night goggles.

A Nest

Spring is coming. It’s just around the corner. As soon as I utter that old cliche’, tomorrow we’ll all probably get snowed thirty feet under. But I am remaining hopeful about the coming spring. The tulips and daffodils are poking their green heads out of the earth and birds are building nests.

Unfortunately the owner of this particular dwelling will have to rebuild. I stole this bird’s nest from a tree out at “our place” for two reasons. 1) I found it fascinating and wanted to show somebody, and 2) I could reach it.

In my nearly 36 years, I’ve never studied a bird’s nest, and in my shallow storybook mind, I thought they were only made from twigs and sticks. But just look at this. (I only wish my photography skills would enable you to see this better, but I take pictures almost as good as I write my name in the snow, if you know what I mean.)

This bird has a heaping helpin’ hodgepodge of nesting materials. Including but not limited to: carpet strands, cotton from a nearby field, weed stems, grass, and sticks.

At a closer study, you’ll see:

Seeds from a cotton plant,

A long strand of something plastic,

A possible wad of toilet paper, but optimistically, a paper towel,

Perhaps pieces from a Clorox wipe,

A hair from a horse’s mane or tail,

and a dadgum lollipop stick!

Unbelievable!

To think the places this bird flew to gather her supplies is beyond my understanding.

My first reaction to this bird’s nest was amazement and fascination. Even still, when I gaze upon on, I’m in awe. I want to share it with everyone I know, so I took it to my classroom, naturally thinking that my student’s would feel the same way as I, holding it and examining it with a child-like wonder and disbelief. Instead, to my utter disappointment, most of them were grossed out. Several “eeewwww’s” went up from the crowd, others wouldn’t hold it, and the ones that did squirted their hands with hand sanitizer afterwards. It caused me to pause and reflect, “What is this world coming to?” that the first reaction of 8 year old’s is repulsiveness instead of curiosity.

While being married to a man who sticks his arm inside a cow’s booty,

who organizes a birthday party contest for cow-chip throwing,

who lances bovine abscesses to drain bucketfuls of puss,

I can’t fathom being grossed out by a bird’s nest.

A sweet little bird who used her resourcefulness and hard work to build a nest in which to start her family.

Suddenly as I think of what I’ve done, thieving the home of one of God’s creatures for educational purposes, I feel like a wretch.

I’m going to put it back. I know she won’t accept it, after being touched by so many (germ-sanitized) human hands, but I’m going to put it back anyway.

I’ll be able to sleep better at night.

A Cowboy’s Hat

This morning I stumbled out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen, poured myself a cup of ambition, yawned and stretched and tried to come alive.

Not really. It’s Saturday. I slept later than usual, I awoke refreshed and feeling great, and meandered to the bathroom.

Then I peeked out the window to see if my husband’s truck was outside which meant he hadn’t left for work yet. I didn’t see it, and I couldn’t hear any rustling around the house, so I assumed he wasn’t home.

Until I saw his hat on the kitchen table. Then I knew he was here somewhere.

His dirty, black hat, equipped with a toothpick, only goes where he goes.

It’s pretty crusty, wouldn’t you agree? Some people think he needs a new one. But why? This one is nearing the point of perfection.

He catches some grief from others about this dirty hat. Not long ago, a friend asked him when he was going to clean it. Never, that’s when. It takes a long time, years in fact, to get a hat to fit right and feel right, and cleaning it might mess with the dirt, sweat, and grime that has made it the hat it is today.

My mom has finally resigned the issue. She gave up the cause for a new hat. For years on his birthday or Christmas, she would give him gift cards to a western store in hopes that he would buy a new hat. He bought jeans and socks instead.

She hasn’t complained about this hat, but his last hat she hated. She even let him know she hated his hat.

This is his old hat. It’s pretty bad. To the untrained eye, it might look identical to his present hat, but look closely.

There are no toothpicks , the buckle is badly bent, and the dirt is thicker. Much, much, thicker.

On Christmas morning, we opened the door to find a present, wrapped and sitting on our porch. We assumed it was from my brother and his wife Janene, because that’s their style. Just leave it on the porch. But upon opening it, we discovered a brand new black felt hat. It was from J-Dub’s friend Ol’ Earl, who pitied him for his dirty, black hat.

Of course J-Dub has a going-to-town hat too. That’s what he calls his dress hat.

It’s stocked with toothpicks as well. He wears it with his going-to-town watch and his going-to-town belt.

This is my husband’s hat. It has character, it fits right, and it stays on his head. Except for the day I had to chase it across the prairie in -34 degree wind chill. But the only reason it blew off that day was because he had a scarf on his head.

Not an old lady scarf, but a cowboy scarf, otherwise known as a wild rag. I love this picture. He hates it. He looks like an old lady to me. A babushka, an old Russian grandmother. Generally he doesn’t leave the house looking like this, but the bitterness of the cold that day was unbearable. He needed to protect his ears, and the silkiness of the wild rag caused his hat to blow away. Which didn’t make the day any more enjoyable.

While others look at this hat and see a dirty, black hat in desperate need of the trash can, I see a hard-working husband. I see the sweat from his brow on a summer day, the mud from the pens where he’s sorting cattle, the dust and dirt caking his face. I see him rolling out hay in frigid temperatures, breaking ice on frozen water tanks, doctoring sick calves. I see him branding cattle, building fence, shipping yearlings. I see the his love for the occupation, the land, the lifestyle, and his love for me.

I admire this dirty, black hat.

But much more, I admire the man who wears it.