Of Mice and Men

Our two dogs, Jasmin and Shiloh were rescued as puppies from the Turks & Caicos Islands, and brought to Ontario in the middle of February a few years ago. To hear their story, they claim dognapping from their warm island home and inhumane and unjust punishment being put out to pee in the subzero arctic tundra of Canada.

They are brother and sister, him and her, and are wonderful dogs, getting into no trouble in house, but finding plenty of fun outside in the fields. Their claim to fame is him acting as sous-chef by jumping on and rolling into the ground any dead, smelly or decaying carcass found within the borders of our farm, and her, as grand gourmand, snarfelling it up as quickly as she can only to have it brought up later on the nicest section of area rug in front of the fire, preferably while we are entertaining guests. The dead of winter gives a bit of reprieve from thawing carcasses, however, and unwanted wildlife that would be compelling to two young dogs, such as skunks and porcupines.

The day Shiloh came home with quills stuck in his nose, Jasmin was right behind him like any annoying little tattle-tale sister pointing a finger and distinct expression as if to say "Look what he's done now mom". I was home with just the kids and was a little panicked at first, but seeing his biggest concern was not being able to stick his nose in his food bowl comfortably because of the quills, my quick mental processes started to kick in. "Jack!", I called from the kitchen to my son sitting in his usual place in front of the computer, "Google how to get porcupine quills out of the dog's nose". Jack, who since turning fourteen, seems generally about 5 heartbeats away from a coma, but instead of getting the normal grunt, "huh?", came through with a great article complete with photos of how to get these things out. "Mom, this is so gross", he replied. I was almost sick at the photo of a poor dog with about 100 quills stuck all over his face and mouth, but thankfully Shiloh only had a measly 7 or 8. I got the scissors and pliers and set to work. Six hours later they were all out but one. After he realized how much the first one hurt being plucked out, the rest of the time was spent distracting him by playing ball and giving treats and taking aim with the pliers to get each one. Tackling him and wrapping him in a blanket didn't work one bit, and the last quill was saved for my husband to pull out when he got home. Why should we get all the fun?!

In spring or fall while driving into town, I'll often see skunks and porcupines dead on the road. Instead of thinking all this time that they were poor unfortunable accident victims, I know the truth now...they were done in by dog owners like me!

All The Single Ladies

No boys are allowed in our henhouse. Not that we don't like them, but things are just so much more peaceful without them. The five ladies are then free to sit quietly on their nests, knitting away like Prissy from Bugs Bunny, or just talking amongst themselves like the girls on The View.

If we are lucky this spring, we will begin to get five different coloured and sized eggs, one from each hen. Last year there were only three different eggs, and I'm still puzzled as to which two are cheating me..I try to peek into the communal nesting box after one is finished, but they don't like to get off of the nest while I'm watching (a bit shy they are). They mysteriously switch users as soon as I leave and head on back to the house. Although they each have their own box, in bright colours and their coop is more a stylish chicken condo than a mere farmyard accommodation, they all prefer to use the same nest. I think I read somewhere that if one chicken uses it, it's considered a safe place for the next one to use, and so on.....giving new meaning to the phrase "which came first...." or "who's on first" or something like that. Kudos to the brave hen who pioneers the first egg each day.

The long cold days of winter are sad for the hens who normally spend their summer days outside foraging for bugs in the sun, and taking long dirt baths in the shade. When I pass by their stall to say goodnight these days, they have begun to stare at me blankly with boredom, or is it perhaps something slightly akin to distain. After all, it was I who made the "no men" rule, and feeling a bit of a hypocrite as I trudge back through the cold darkness to my warm bed and nice husband foot-warmer, maybe what they'd really like is a little excitement in the form of a Brad Pitt chicken equivalent, or perhaps a Tiger Woods type...after all...there are five of them!

Let Them Eat Cake (or Pie)

One delicious part of life in our area is the yearly "Best Pie and Cake Competion". In autumn, the air is fresh, the leaves are in full colour and baking begins...local residents filling their freezers for the long winter. Country people are well known for their baking, using the freshest produce right from their gardens; apples, berries and pumpkins in their creations. Competition is stiff, and long-resident grannies who clean up year after year are now being given a run by their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Husbands and fathers who would seem more at home with John Deere than Viking, have surprisingly spectacular entries of their own. The abundance of local baking talent leaves one unanswered question, "Who is left to judge"?

My reputation as a much-pitied member of the non-baking brigade precedes me and I am asked to help out. The grannies nod knowingly, silently measuring my abilities to judge their work when I myself could not deliver the goods. I may as well have had two heads and been dressed in Scarlet O'Hara draperies by the way they peered at me from above their pushed down bifocals. Little did they know I was more than qualified to judge; I loved all pie and cake equally. Many years of tasting I had under my belt. I played no favourites, shunned no tarts (not even the mincemeat) and gave all cheesecakes the awe and respect they deserved. Bring it on, here come the judge!

Tails From The Manure Pile

When I was a girl, I was horse mad and always dreamed of living on a farm with lots of animals and lots of horses..of course. Although, thinking back, the fantasy was really more something like living on a large rolling estate in England with tons of ponies and gymkhanas every weekend. A constant pre-teen diet of Pullein-Thompson novels bought me by my mother from the local second-hand book shop filled my head with lush meadows, exciting adventure, all things British, and Black Beauty galloping around in there throughout.

Today I live on twenty-five acres with a small barn and pond and the menagerie count is up to two dogs rescued from the Caribbean, two horses (one geriatric, one adolescent), five chickens (the ladies), two children and one husband. Often I refer to this place as Cold Mountain and can channel someone between Renee Zellweger in a headscarf and twenty petticoats and Neil Armstrong in enough layers to make the trek to the barn seem like a slow motion slog on the moon through the snow. After twenty years of working full time, I have ventured to the full-time position of farm manager and resident artist, producing fantastically popular and prolific paintings a la Tricia Romance while training adolescent horse for next Olympics and raising perfect children who will both become neurosurgeons...of course!