Duck Sex

When we started adding critters to our farm, ducks were not on our radar.

Our zoo started with a pony. 

A pony that our daughter got for her Make-A-Wish in 2011. 

And since a pony shouldn't live alone, we acquired two goats to be her companions. 

The goats arrived before the pony did. 

And when that pony showed up in the barn the goats were terrified of her!

They are all besties now. 

Then we thought about getting some barn cats. 

So we got four kittens who are now cats.

Cats who spend a lot of time in our house. 

Go figure. 

We've always had a dog or two. 

We are down to one dog at the moment.

Chickens just made sense to us. 

We like to eat eggs and chickens lay eggs. 

So, we bought eight chicks from our local farm store.  

We perused the big metal tubs at the back of the farm store, gazing down at all of the chirpy little fluffy baby chickens. 

We chose our chicks and went home with them in a little cardboard box that Zoe held on her lap. 

They lived in our house for a bit until they were old enough to have grown some feathers. 

They now live in our barn in a fabulous chicken coop my dad built for them. 

We have five chickens currently. 

One chicken drowned in our water trough. 

One was eaten by some creature that was hiding in a bush. 

And one turned out to be a mean ol' rooster. 

He lost his head. 

When you get chicks from anywhere, there's never a 100% guarantee on which sex they are. 

We wanted all hens, but none of the chicks were wearing a pink sweater the day we were at the chick store. 

We ended up with seven hens and one rooster. 

Hens who lay lots of eggs. 

Which is what we wanted all along. 

We eat scrambled eggs.

Fried eggs. 

Hard boiled eggs. 

Frittatas. 

I make meringue desserts. 

We love eggs!

We spend a lot of time at the feed store since we have these farm critters.

Buying chicken feed and horse treats. 

Buckets for water and bags of dog food. 

Salt licks and hoof picks. 

And ducks. 

We bought ducks.

Because everytime we were at the feed store they were there. 

Looking all cute in their duckling down and with those big ol' duckie eyes. 

And we didn't need ducks. 

Not like we thought we needed chickens. 

Well, ducks do lay eggs, right?

So, more eggs!

Maybe...

Now I don't have the best track record when it comes to knowing the sex of a mammal. 

Most of you know the story of Gigi. 

We didn't get that sexing story right at all!

And the chickens. 

One boy in the mix. 

We didn't want a boy chicken!

And when you buy ducks you aren't sure what you're getting either. 

I ordered four runner ducks from the farm store. 

They don't ask you to check a box stating "male or female" duck. 

You just get a duck. 

And it seems out of our four runner ducks we have...

are you ready for this?

ready?

...three male ducks. 

WTH!

I think Chad's first words upon hearing my declaration of sex were "well, they're completely useless!"

Sigh. 

Three boys to one girl. 

Ugh. 

Poor Daffy.  

Single white female. 

She has her own male harem. 

You may now be screaming at me "but you'll have lots of ducklings!"

Maybe. 

But probably not. 

From everything I've read about runner ducks, they are not good nesters.

They are not, as we in the poultry world say, broody birds. 

Broody birds will sit on eggs in a nest. 

Runner ducks ain't sitters. 

They are runners. 

It's in their name. 

So, we would probably have to incubate eggs if Daffy were to lay fertilized eggs in her future. 

And that's not gonna happen!

We also have two Khaki Campbell ducks.

 

We have our fingers, toes, and eyes crossed that they are females. 

We currently have no idea if they are.

How can I tell the others are indeed males?

A curly tail feather. 

Huh?

You read that right, male ducks (or drakes as they are referred to in the duck world) have a curly tail feather. 

I have no idea why. 

It's weird. 

But true. 

And we have three ducks who are bigger, have a grovely quack (another sign of manhood in a duck), and who each have developed a curly tail feather. 

Let's hope the sides even out with the brown ducks. 

Time and a curly tail (or not) will tell. 

The Menagerie Grows

Before we got Zoe's pony, I read up on the subject of horsery. 

I learned about the frog in the foot, growing a good pasture, and wood chewing. 

Before we got goats, I borrowed books from the library to tell me everything from how to trim their hooves to what diseases they could get. 

Chickens are coming?

I bought books telling me how to tell what color eggs my chickens would lay and how they would roost when dusk came.

So, when we decided to get some ducks I did my research once again. 

Why would we get ducks, you may be asking?

Why in the hell not, I'll respond.

I think getting farm animals is kind of like having children. 

Once you have a few, what's a few more!

You're already used to the smell and the shoveling involved. 

Kids and farm animals are similar like that. 

Adding to the menagerie has been fun. 

So, we ordered some ducks from the feed store and decided that we would get Indian Runner Ducks. 

Runners are supposed to be good insect eaters. 

I like that. 

Runner ducks are ducks that stand upright when they walk. 

They are sometimes called penguin ducks or wine bottle ducks. 

I just call them cute. 

And soon, I would be calling them dumb.

 

We brought them home from the feed store and, as we did with the chickens when they were newly born, put them in the kitchen in a plastic tub with a heat lamp and food and water. 

These things seemed to grow 3 inches a night!

We had to put a dab of nail polish on their heads to tell them apart. 

Charlie had blue. 

Monty had orange. 

Mandy was pink and Daffy didn't get any polish because she was shorter than the others. 

They quickly outgrew the plastic tub and since they didn't yet have feathers, we couldn't put them in the cold barn yet. 

So, we moved them to our bathtub. 

Our ONLY bathtub. 

Where they continued to grow 3 inches a night. 

And shit enormous amounts of duck poo. 

In the tub. 

On the dining room floor. 

On each other. 

In their water bowl. 

Chad was in the process of making them a duck house. 

A wooden duck house would be placed in the barn right next to the chicken coop. 

With a flip top lid and a window and cute door that looks like it came from a castle. 

And he was instructed to "GET THAT HOUSE DONE STAT!"

I was about to go bonky with the poo everywhere. 

And the bathtub needed to be returned to the people. 

He got it done in lickety-split time and we moved the crazy quacking foursome out to the barn. 

With their heat lamp and mess moved to the building behind the house, I felt my sanity returning. 

But then the runner ducks, who have lived with us since they were two days old, began to run from us as if we were duck killers. 

We would go out to the barn to feed them and they would run, in a straight line and as a group, away from us. 

Falling over each other. 

Running into fences and doors to get away from us. 

As if we were Jason from the Friday the 13th movies. 

Had they seen that movie?

How could they have seen that movie?!

If we took a step to the left, they would run in fear to the right. 

If we stepped to the right, fear running to the left. 

Our feelings were hurt. 

And then I remembered from my duck books that runner ducks are an excitable breed. 

Is this fear running what the text was referring to as easily excitable?

I guess so. 

Duck killer running mode = normal Indian runner duck mentality. 

Good grief. 

What had we gotten ourselves into?

I tried reassuring the husband that instead of being annoyed with the ducks and their fear running, that we should instead look at them in a comical manner.  They are a unit of four and will follow one another off of a cliff. 

Let's keep them away from cliffs. 

A few weeks ago we were at the farm store picking up some vegetable and herb plants for the garden. 

Of course we had to venture to the rear of the store where the chicks and ducklings are kept during the spring buying season. 

The girls and I found the sale bin.

And everyone knows I'm a sucker for a sale. 

I said "oh look, the ducklings in this big tub are only $2 each."

Which was a deal to me, as I had paid a whole $5 each for those dumbo runner ducks. 

"Step away from the tub!" my husband declared. 

So we did. 

Until we had gotten to the lawn seed that was six aisles over. 

And he saw me stopping my cart. 

And he knew I didn't want any lawn seed. 

"No, no, no" he sputtered. 

But the kids and I were peering back into the duck sale bin before he had expelled his third no. 

"But they're on sale!"

I had the girls pick out two Khaki Campbell ducklings. 

They are brown birds with a blueish bill. 

And not as excitable as runner ducks. 

My husband had conceded his fight against more ducklings the minute he saw the girls picking their choices from the bin. 

"What's two more?" I asked. 

"What's two more" he sighed...

The Clockwork Chili Pepper

We have taught our children good table manners. 

We have taught them to say thank you. 

We have taught them to hold doors for strangers. 

We have taught them to give back to those who need help. 

But, I'm afraid we have failed them. 

Failed them miserably. 

I keep trying to teach them. 

Especially the elder child. 

But, she's having none of it. 

She says over and over "I can't do it!!"

It being...

she can't tell the time on a clock without numbers. 

This clock...

My chili pepper clock. 

A gift from my old roommate Bill from years ago. 

It has moved everywhere that I have moved. 

It has hung on various walls in various cities. 

It's been hung on white walls, brown walls, green walls, coffee colored walls. 

And my kids don't know how to read it. 

It's the only clock in our living room. 

The room we spend the most time in. 

My daughter will sit below it in the big comfy brown recliner that used to belong to Uncle Jeff. 

And she'll ask me "Mom, what time is it?"

"Look behind you" I'll reply. 

"There's a clock behind you."

"But I can't read that clock!"

"Try!" I'll plead with her. 

"Nooooooo!"

So she'll push a button on the television remote to see the time on the big screen she's been watching. 

Or she'll get up. 

Get up to leave the room to find a digital clock. 

Or to find her iPad to push the big middle button so that the time pops up in big, bold, digital numbers. 

And I cry. 

Silent tears fall slowly down my face. 

A face that prefers non-digital clocks.

A face that prefers the art of chili pepper clocks that make me think and allow me to make a cognitive decision on my own. 

Sigh. 

Where did we go wrong?

Swimming Into My Last Post

It's the last day of August. 

My kids go to school in 8 days. 

We are going to have a very hot last week of summer. 

We haven't been in our pool lately because the weather has been cooler. 

It's as if Mother Nature has decided that the Pramuk girls need one last hurrah before they start their jobs. 

We have told our kids that school is their job while young. 

And we expect their 100% effort and participation. 

So, as it's the last week of summer here, before the big Labor Day holiday this weekend, we swam today. 

And, as always, mama had her camera out. 

Thanks for reading my month of posts. 

I did miss a few days, but got most of my thoughts covered. 

I have found that when I do a challenge like this, I do write more. 

It's never as hard as it seems. 

Bone Collectors

Since our home is surrounded by the woods, we have an abundance of wildlife existing near us. 

White tailed deer. 

Raccoons. 

Oppossum. 

Mink. 

Fox. 

Coyotes. 

Brown squirrels. 

And with each mammal that traverses through our woodland backyard, death comes. 

And my kids always seem to find the remains. 

Well, sometimes my husband and I find them and yell out "Oh my gosh, I just found an awesome skull!"

And the kids coming running to collect the find. 

We have quite a stockpile. 

Most of the bones are kept outside. 

But a few small ones are in the house. 

Some rodent-like skull resides in my dining room next to a humongous deer antler. 

And something's hips. 

So weird. 

The garage has a wire basket full of bones. 

My friend from high school, Julie, has two boys who are just as in love with bones as my two girls are. 

We have given them specimens from our collection in the past. 

You would have thought we had given them a new iPad from the excitement that came from them when they took their skulls home. 

We have teeth...

The random tibia and femur. 

This one kind of looks human. 

Let's hope it ain't. 

I tell you though, I'll take bones any day over a rotting carcass. 

We had to endure the stench of a dead deer a few years ago. 

It was in the woods to the right of our driveway and we had to pass the smell everyday when we went to get the mail. 

And then the damn dogs decided to bring the rotting head to us one HOT summer day when we were splashing in the pool. 

The stink and the screams are embedded into my senses and brain for an eternity. 

Thanks dogs. 

The Signs

The signs were put up today!

The signs were put up today!

Signs?

What signs?!

These signs...

Let me tell you a story...

Our house is surrounded by conservation land. 

It has been surrounded by conservation lands since the early 1970s. 

Before that, it was private land.

My family's private land. 

The conservation district in our county instituted eminent domain to obtain our private lands. 

And conservation officials haven't always been so fair in their maintenance of the land that is officially theirs. 

I'm not one to be so quiet about things that aren't fair. 

Let's just say that I don't think the current park ranger, who maintains the conservation lands around our home, is my biggest fan. 

I'm a complainer when I feel I'm being walked on. 

There are areas around our home that have never been maintained by conservation workers, but instead we (me, my dad, my dad's dad) have done the maintaining. 

Mowing plots of land that aren't legally ours anymore. 

Yet, they aren't willing to sell the land back to us that we maintain. 

I feel it's a give and take.

And they are just starting to realize that this unwritten relationship needs to be upheld on their end. 

We mow a path around our home so that 

we can enjoy the woods. 

We mow paths into the woods, to the pond behind our home. 

And people who decide to enjoy conservation lands to the south of us have started using our paths for their own leisure. 

Walking too close to our home when there are miles and miles of hiking trails that conservation has opened up for the public to use. 

They are strolling on trails that don't go anywhere but into my backyard. 

It's discouraging and as people in the 21st century seem to be less afraid of following rules, we have felt uneasy about these people encroaching on our privacy. 

When my grandfather lived in this house alone (the land that we live on belonged to my grandmother's family...my children are the 6th generation on my dad's maternal side to reside in the same home) conservation gave my family another issue to contend with. 

The gates to the trails (horse riding trails and hiking trails) weren't being closed at sunset as they should be. 

A man was hiding his car in the back of the parking lot and watching my grandfather and the house. 

He ended up robbing the house on two occasions. 

Grandpa's watchdog, Otto, was more of a lover instead of a fighter.  

The robber's capture came when the county sheriff decided to do a stakeout and caught the man trying to enter yet again. 

A car chase and an injured deputy resulted. 

And an arrest. 

All which, in my opinion, could have been avoided if conservation had done their job. 

The gates are now locked at sunset in all seasons. 

With the ranger doing a drive though the circular parking area checking for unattended cars. 

With people being more ballsy in their lack of respect for our privacy, plus this incident in the past, we had asked conservation to put up some signs.

Signs informing people that the trails are the other way. 

Not around our home. 

I started my campaign for signs in the early spring. 

Contacting the individual who was in charge of land operations. 

He's now, in the short time of my correspondence with him, become executive director of conservation in our county. 

Reminding him why we want people to stay on the trails instead of walking around our home. 

It's a matter of respect to our privacy, history, and family. 

Signs went up this morning. 

Installed after many emails from me reminding them that I wasn't giving up.

We have to endure hordes of people around our home at times. 

Because we are on conservation land. 

But, it's not by choice.

Not since eminent domain. 

And we don't want strangers walking around our house. 

Who would like that?

No one wants that. 

Now, I'm no crumudgeon who doesn't want people to enjoy nature. 

I just don't know how walking around my house looking at my AC unit and horse manure pile could in anyway be a pleasurable experience for hikers. 

I'm sure the signs will help eradicate the issue.

And if someone still decides to walk around my yard, stopping to pet my horse or letting their dog crap by my fence, now I can yell out...

"YO, didn't you see the sign?!"

Knowing When Summer Is Over

My kids are craving structure. 

We have 3 more weeks of summer to go before school begins. 

Other schools in our area go back next week. 

But our district is constructing new buildings and *fingers crossed* they should be completed by Labor Day.

So, we start school September 8th.

Which is what happened back in my day. 

School always resumed in early September and let out for summer break in early June. 

But these kids. 

Boy. 

They are getting bored. 

Of me. 

Of each other. 

Of being outside. 

Of the pool. 

Of Minecraft on the iPad. 

They want to go to school.

They want to see their friends.

They want to learn about Native American tribes. 

They want to do book reports. 

They want to eat in the school cafeteria. 

They want out. 

But, we aren't done with summer yet!

I have plans still for them. 

The Sate Fair on Thursday. 

The St. Louis Zoo on a Tuesday. 

Maybe an art museum. 

All when others are at school. 

So it's not crowded.

And they can get their last hurrahs out of the way. 

Before their brains get inundated with common core math and accelerated reading point levels. 

Chad gave them his mini camcorder that we don't use much anymore. 

Because they want to make some movies. 

It's their last summer spark I think. 

And then, it's on to business. 

A Cat

Magic happens

You never see the move

Then all at once 

You know it's over

You've been hit hard

By the love and the kiss

Of a cat whose heart

Is worn in his eyes

The soul escapes

For a slight moment

And enters yours

To steal your light

To heighten his love

That grows everyday

Along with your own

Sherlock Holmes At The Farm

We've lost two chickens since we started on this free egg endeavor. 

One hen turned out to be a rooster. 

Who was a jerk. 

So he lost his head. 

Another hen had a bad wing. 

It was droopy and if she fell over she couldn't get back up. 

We found her floating in the horse's water trough one evening. 

She was a sweet girl. 

Jenna the hen. 

Well, we've had more egg laying drama. 

A predator took Red Ruby last night. 

Red Ruby was last seen around 5pm yesterday. 

Chad went out to feed the chickens and check on the barn goings-on. 

He saw her on the path that goes around the barn. 

She's a bird that likes to hang on the outside. 

She lays eggs near the tractor or in her special nest she made near the barn supply cabinet. 

No way in heck was she ever going to lay her eggs in the nesting boxes with the fancy curtains like the other hens do!

When he went back to close the barn up and to lock the hens up in their coop, he only found 5 girls. 

He looked around, but didn't see Ruby. 

He came in to report this news to me. 

I found a flashlight and proceeded to walk around the outside path of the barnyard doing some chicken clucking and yelling for Red Ruby.  

All I saw were a few red feathers by the main barn door. 

Were these hers?

Or did they belong to George Washington?

They are about the same color. 

And they both fly over the fence to forage in the yard. 

No chicken was found. 

Aerial predator. 

I thought a hawk from the sky had snatched her up. 

It was like she had simply vanished. 

Today during the daylight, I did some sleuthing. 

In my best Sherlock Holmes moment, I first went to the feather pile that we found last night. 

And then I looked around and found another feather a bit to the left of this main pile. 

And another to the left of that. 

I followed the feather trail through a mini jungle of overgrown brush that sits between our topless silo and our barn. 

At the end of this jungle sits the fenced-in outdoor run that the chickens use to get from their coop to the barnyard. 

And that's when I found the real evidence. 

That we weren't dealing with an aerial predator at all. 

But a stalking, jumping predator that literally scared the egg out of my chicken. 

I had found a huge scattering of feathers and an egg that didn't have a shell formed around it in a corner. 

A corner where Red Ruby was unable to fly free from. 

Had her killer been hiding in the jungle just waiting?

Watching her as she meandered through, pecking at bugs and worms underfoot?

Our sweet hen Red Ruby was horribly attacked and all that was left of her was a smattering of red feathers and her almost formed egg. 

As I retraced the feather evidence I saw that it went out to the path outside our fenceline and disappeared. 

This is the last feather to be seen. 

It's hard to live on a farm where you become attached to the livestock.

We name everyone here and love everyone unconditionally (except for that rooster, he was a jerk). 

So, we are all sad that she's gone. 

She was a great talker.

Always exclaiming that she had just layed an egg!

Come see it and marvel at what I've done!

But not today. 

You never know what will happen on a farm. 

You start the day with six hens.

And by nightfall you only have five. 

Life on the farm is unpredictable. 

Goodbye Red Ruby. 

You will be missed. 

Thank you for bringing joy to our barnyard. 

...Chad cut down the jungle after I showed him my evidence of a stalking attack on poor Red Ruby. 

And found himself smack dab in the middle of a yellow jacket nest just as he was finishing up. 

He threw down his machete and ran for his life. 

He was stung three times. 

You never know what's next. 

Knowing Where To Be

I read the author Jon Katz's blog Bedlam Farm.

He's an ex-Manhattanite who now lives on a farm in New York state with livestock. 

He wrote a post yesterday on the realness of living on a farm. 

It's not always idyllic. 

It's not always fun. 

And I can attest to that. 

It's hard work. 

But it's a way of life that some of us will endure to live amongst nature. 

How do I know that this is for me?

I don't know. 

For now, it's a good fit. 

Chad and I love the city. 

We spent many years living within the friendly confines of Chicago's north side neighborhoods. 

We love the ease and accessibility of the city. 

The culture and the food. 

But it's gotten too crowded. 

There's always so much traffic. 

Much more than when we left just 10 years ago. 

And the suburbs weren't for us. 

We lived in the south suburbs for one year and were miserable. 

Nosy neighbors and nothing to do that didn't involve a long drive to get to. 

When the country called (or rather my dad) we answered and moved to the woods. 

Having a farm with animals is time consuming. 

No matter what the weather, we are checking on animals, feeding animals, repairing gates, mowing grass, shoveling snow, trimming hooves, collecting fallen tree branches, pulling down hay bales, collecting eggs. 

It's our life now. 

It's not for everyone. 

People love to come visit and see our menagerie. 

They come to take a dip in our pool and walk in our woods. 

But, I don't think they want this life. 

Really. 

Do I want it forever?

I don't know. 

While my kids are young, I'm certain that this is the place for us. 

Do we ever really know where we want to be?

Don't most of us dream of a life other than our own?

Knowing we CAN dream is essential to our happiness. 

I. Hate. Bugs. (it's that simple)

The flies are bad this year on the farm. 

They swarm on the horse all day long. 

The goats, too. 

Fly strips get covered up within an hour. 

We keep a fan rolling in the barn during the day. 

Flies don't like wind. 

The goats and horse often come to stand in front of this during the hottest part of the day. 

The chickens, I believe, are helping with fly control, though. 

A neighbor told me that her family's horse had a leg that became swollen from fly bites. 

That it looked like it's leg had a black sock on it, but it was just covered in flies. 

Gives me the heebie jeebies just to think of that!

So, I guess our bad fly situation could be worse than it is. 

I'll say it again...the chickens are helping. 

"How do chickens help with fly control" 

you ask?

Simple. 

Horse eats grass. 

Horse poops. 

Flies go right to poop. 

Lay eggs in poop. 

Chicken sees flies on poop. 

Runs to poop very quickly. 

Scratches through poop (remember, it's just grass y'all!). 

Chickens eat flies. 

Eat fly larva. 

Voila!

Chicken fly control. 

But there's another much worse problem this year. 

Worse than those *dirty, poo on their feet, landing in my lunch as I eat on the pool deck, buzzing past my face* flies. 

Mosquitos. 

God damn mosquitos!

I went out today to hose the horse down with the water hose. 

She gets hot and sweaty grazing in the pasture all day and enjoys a hose down. 

It's like washing a Mini Cooper really. 

But, oh my god!

I was attacked by Mosquitos the entire time. 

Biting my legs. 

My arms. 

My stomach through my shirt. 

My face and neck were attacked. 

It was the quickest Mini Cooper wash down ever. 

I ran for my life!

I ran to save my blood from larval poisoning and my skin from instant welts. 

I ran for the safety of the pool and jumped in. 

The mosquitos don't go to the pool. 

Why are there so many mosquitos?

We abide by the 3 laws of a mosquito-free environment. 

1.  No standing water

2.  No standing water 

3.  No standing water

We have a large water trough, but a frog and many fish live in it. 

They have one job. 

To eat mosquito larva in there. 

The mosquitos seem to be in higher concentrations near the barn. 

I'm wondering if the pond behind the house has water in it this year and that's the problem. 

Some years it's bone dry. 

Most years it's that way. 

I'm not going to go back there to find out, though. 

I may come crawling out of the woods with two less pints of blood. 

I can see how malaria is so hard to prevent in certain areas of the world. 

I worry that the bug world is going to take over the planet soon. 

And I'll be sequestered in my house until a deep freeze hits.

Last week I was in Chicago. 

And while I do enjoy the country life, I also enjoy the city. 

One of the biggest reasons being...no mosquitos. 

I. 

Hate. 

Bugs. 

But like warm weather. 

Chad and I have wondered if there's a warm tropical location that we can live in that doesn't have bugs. 

Does the desert have mosquitos?

Could I get used to a dry heat?

So many questions. 

So many bug bites...

A Drooling Pony

Our horse is drooling. 

Like Niagara Falls drooling. 

She's drooling on the gate. 

She's drooling on the goats. 

She whips her head around and anything in her way gets drooled on. 

Like my legs. 

And arms. 

She's creating lakes of slobber in the stall that I had initially thought were lakes of pee. 

And I said to her angrily a few days ago "Buttercup!  This has got to stop!  Go outside to pee!"

But it's not urine. 

It's drool. 

All caused from this...

Our pasture has a lot of clover in it this summer. 

And the clover has gotten a fungus. 

Some fancy name called rhizoctonia. 

Our pastures are ripe for this as we've had a lot of humidity and little rain at the beginning of the growing season. 

We noticed that Buttercup was licking a lot and drooling last month. 

So, like we always do, we looked in our Horses For Dummies book. 

Nothing. 

Nothing?

Why aren't drooling horses in the dummy books?

I'm a dummy when it comes to horses and I need this kind of information. 

So, I turned to the internet. 

And found rather quickly the link between clover and drooling. 

So, we took her off the pasture and fed her in the stall. 

And she stopped drooling. 

And we learned there's nothing to do for a drooling clover pony. 

It will pass. 

And the clover fungus will die off. 

Eventually. 

We put her back on the pasture a week later and she did fine. 

Until this week. 

When the overload of slobber started up again. 

She begins to lick obsessively. 

And the slobbering starts. 

And don't you dare pull her lip back. 

Because when you do...out gushes 42 gallons of viscous, grass tinged, sloppy, wet drool. 

Chickens...beware. 

These Days

I haven't written a post in a while that is simply a "what's been going on" post, so here it goes...

My kids got out of school last week. 

And we have three extra weeks added onto our summer in August because new schools are being built in our district. 

They don't go back until September 8th. 

As I write this, they are in the other room pretending they are in music class. 

And they are screech singing. 

And it's raining outside. 

Help me. 

Please. 

We saw the movie Tomorrowland yesterday. 

Very good film with action, explosions, and a message worth thinking about. 

That we, people of this planet earth, need to cut the crap and fix what has happened to our home. 

A few days before that, Chad and I watched the movie Still Alice at home. 

Wow. 

Scary. 

Early Onset Alzheimer's. 

An amazing performance and a film that made us both hope that that won't become our future. 

Because it was so scary. 

Scarier than the message seen in Tomorrowland. 

Even with the kids being out of school already and three extra weeks of summer break, when I look at the calendar on the wall it's so full. 

And I didn't really sign the girls up for anything.

They have a 3 hour camp on Thursdays learning about Lewis and Clark.  

Swim lessons on Monday and Wednesday mornings. 

They have sleepaway camp in July for a week. 

We need to get to Memphis in June. 

We are going to Michigan for a week in August. 

Our friends from Vermont are coming for a few days in July. 

We have a family wedding in August that the girls are in. 

I'm exhausted already. 

But today, I have absolutely nothing to do. 

We had a sick chicken. 

Took her to the vet and she's all better. 

We had a goat with a bloody horn a few weeks before that. 

Took her to the vet and she's all better. 

Here's hoping everyone else in the barn stays healthy. 

Speaking of health, Zoe had a blood draw last week. 

She has horrible veins.

They are deep in her arms and they hide as soon as she enters the hospital. 

It did not go well for her. 

Our nurse friends had to call in Dan. 

I don't know Dan, but we all certainly put the pressure on him to get blood from the girl who doesn't like to give up her blood. 

Dan the phlebotomist. 

He got the job done, but not before suggesting taking it from the big vein in Zoe's hand and her yelling NO!

She had that done once and vowed to never let anyone touch her hand veins EVER again!

Her blood, her veins, her choice I say. 

She (and her sister) raided the toy closet before we left. 

People donate tons of stuff to children's hospitals. 

Sometimes it's the only way people know how to help sick kids. 

Toys. 

After the hospital visit we headed to lunch.

A new place for us. 

Obed and Issac's Microbrewery and Eatery. 

Such a long name. 

A restaurant in a big house right in downtown Springfield, Illinois.  

A block away from Abraham Lincoln's house. 

We had great service and great food and will definitely eat there again. 

Since Abe's house was right across the street, we headed over for tickets to see inside. 

The girls have been inside twice before, but between their young ages and Zoe's chemo brain, they both couldn't remember taking the tour.  

Abraham Lincoln's home and neighborhood are the only National Park within the state of Illinois. 

It's free to get in, but you need a timed ticket and can only get in while on a tour given by a National Park Park Ranger. 

They even wear those cool wide-brimmed hats you see Rangers wearing at Yellowstone and those other parks with lots of trees and wolves and giant waterfalls. 

Each time my kids go into this house, even the times they don't remember, they giggle about the chamber pots under the beds. 

Blood, Pain, Love

Thursday didn't go as I had planned. 

Not that I had had BIG plans for the day. 

It was the first day of Easter break for the kids. 

They were to spend the night with grandma and grandpa Wednesday night. 

At ten, I would pick them up. 

The mall would be our destination where I would proceed to spend my birthday money on some new pants and hopefully a black swimsuit top. 

We would then meet cousins at our favorite pizza place for lunch. 

Then head home where I would put some poultry in the crockpot for lime chicken tacos that we would consume for dinner. 

It didn't happen. 

Wednesday.

11:37 pm. 

My lovely deep slumber was obliterated by the overhead light coming on and the shifting of the bed as my husband sat on the edge putting his socks on. 

"Didn't you hear the phone ringing?"

"Umm, why would I hear the phone ringing?  I'm sleeping."

"Well, your mom has been calling. Gigi is throwing up, has an earache, and wants to come home."

Crikey...I wanted to go to the mall tomorrow. 

He left and I rolled back over trying to sleep for two more minutes. 

Because my parents only live two minutes away. 

Before I could snooze off they had returned. 

She seemed fine in the morning, but definitely had the look of a virus about her. 

No mall. 

No lunch with cousins. 

So, I decided to make a banana cake with the overripe fruit that was staring at me from the counter. 

Gigi sat on the couch watching movies while I fetched her stuff. 

Around lunchtime I headed to the barnyard. 

The water trough was getting low and the rain we had been promised by the local weatherman hadn't come. 

So I needed to pull the hose out to it and fill it up. 

The goats were in a very playful mood.

Racing through the stall. 

Head butting one another. 

As I sat and watched the water level rise in the big drinking bowl, I saw the blood. 

Blood on Tulip's head. 

Blood on Yogurt's head. 

Her horn!

What had happened to Tulip's horn?

Our unicorn was broken.

Somehow, in her playful romp with her sister, Tulip had broken off her horn. 

The only horn she had. 

She and her sister were de-horned as babies, but one of hers grew back. 

Our unicorn was now just a goat.  

I called the vet.  

Told them the situation and they said bring her in. 

Part of her horn was still attached so it was dangling from her head. 

And a bloody stump was showing. 

I managed to get the rest of the horn off. 

I had called both my dad and husband to come help with her. 

My dad got ahold of her and I pulled it off. 

It was hollow. 

It was as if I had tore my fingernail off and the bloody underlay was present. 

That's what was happening to Tulip. 

Buttercup was very curious about what was going on. 

At first she was looking into the barn with her entire head over the Dutch door. 

But she soon became nervous. 

And only peered in. 

We had transported the other goat to our vet once when she was younger. 

Usually the vet comes to us. 

Our farm vet is 30 minutes away and we were going to try to get Tulip to them.

In our dog crate. 

That we hoped she would fit into. 

That we hoped she would go into. 

So instead of a leisurely day of shopping and lunch, my husband and I were loading a bloody goat in a dog crate into the back of the minivan.

She was a good goat all the way there.

Upon getting out of the crate in the large animal room of the clinic, she became nervous. 

And the blood began to spurt out of her head. 

And Gigi started to cry.

Zoe walked to the window to look out at the gravel parking lot. 

The vet and her assistant got the bleeding under control. 

Bandaged up her head and gave her two injections. 

One for pain and an antibiotic. 

At this point Tulip was exhausted and done with everything. 

She let out a few horrible loud screams which made Gigi cry again. 

They suggested we separate Tulip from Buttercup and Yogurt for a few days. 

They were afraid they would bother her bandage, try to eat it off. 

Gigi wanted McDonalds.  

So, with a goat in the back of the car we headed to those nasty golden arches. 

There goes my taco dinner. 

When we got Tulip back to the barn, her sister and friend steered clear from her.  

She looked funny. 

She smelled funny. 

No one was going to eat that bandage off. 

Separation wouldn't be necessary. 

Our goats are our pets.

We don't milk them or plan to eat them. 

Their sole purpose has been to be companions for our pony. 

A pony who came to our home because a girl with cancer wished for her. 

So, if one is sick or hurt we treat them with compassion and help with their pain.

And on Thursday that meant forgoing my trip to get new clothes and instead hauling a goat 30 minutes away to get her injured head treated. 

Because this goat means a lot to us. 

She was brought here to help heal our daughter. 

Gigi is feeling better. 

I'll go to the mall tomorrow.