The goat who couldn't leave

A bit of recent history, to establish the scene.

February 2 was a bright, cool, sunny day. I did a bunch of weeding, cleaned the barn and finally, months after the ducks are gone, I cleaned and aired out the massively overbuilt shelter they slept in.

Later that same, glorious day, the Seahawks won the Superbowl.

Everyone in the greater Seattle area went crazy.

Until a few years ago, our neighborhood of Boulevard Park was unincorporated, not part of any city. Old habits die hard, and folks in this neighborhood celebrate most big events with huge firework displays. It started midway through the third quarter and went on for hours.

The sky was a spectacle, with huge fountains, rockets, etc., and of course the noise that goes with it. I went out to check on the animals; everyone seemed calm.

The next morning when I went out to feed them, the hens and Meggie came running. And I heard Lightning's voice, but couldn't find her. Until...

How did she even fit in there?

There she was, peeking out of the duck pen. At first I thought she was being shy. Maybe the noise had scared her and she was reluctant to come out.

 

But soon it became clear that she couldn't get out the way she came in.


I tried coaxing her feet out, but her belly was getting squeezed and she was freaking out, in a confined area.


Trying to drag or entice her out seemed like a recipe for her getting injured.

There is a second door out into a little fenced enclosure. It's a bird sized door, about the size of a sheet of paper. But she tried several times to get through it. Sorry, dear, no.

At this point I was dearly regretting the massive size and overbuilding of this structure. It was designed as a portable 'chicken tractor' to be rolled from place to place, so that chickens always have new ground to forage. But like many things, we tried unsuccessfully to combine two incompatible qualities - solidity and portability. The enclosure is raccoon proof. But it is also so heavy, its wheels have buried themselves in the mud and it's going nowhere.

Luckily, there was one more option to try. The back of the pen has a third door, bigger, for cleaning. But it wasn't raccoon-proof, so we moved the water trough in front of it to block it.

 I love our water trough. It provides all the water the animals need for 9 months of the year. It stands under the downspout from the barn, capturing water and keeping the ground around the walls from turning to mud. A spout at the bottom lets us water the plants, or just drain it.

Unfortunately, for all its merit, the trough is a huge obstacle right at the moment. Nothing can get in or out without moving 125 gallons of ice water!

 I opened the spigot at the bottom. Usually I do that, then go do other tasks - sometimes for hours. I didn't like that plan. Then I took the big pump. It can drain about 2 quarts per pump. But that is still a really lot of pumping. Ultimately I bailed the tank out, bucket by bucket and finally flopped it over on its side. It took a lot of 4 gallon bucket fulls to drain that puppy!

And then - the lock was rusted shut.

Finally I was able to pry open the lock, dig the bottom of the door out of the muck and free Lightning!

Here she is, stretching her legs. Her body language is not as exuberant as normal. Her ears are down and her tail is tight against her legs. She was about as unhappy as I've ever seen her.

But I didn't realize until a few minutes later what the big problem was. She had been waiting all night for this.

My potty trained goat wouldn't pee in the coop and she wouldn't pee on the grass or the soil. It had to be in the wood chips. Once she started it was like she was never going to stop. I didn't realize how trained she was.

Now I have the door closed again. I would like to think that Lightning has learned not to do this, but she's a bit of a risk taker and I don't want to go through that process again.

Meanwhile, Lightning has already moved on to her next adventure. (This is an old picture but I had to run after extriacating her).

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New plans for the wet meadow

Last summer, I told the story of our seasonal wet meadow and how I am in the process of turning it into a pollinator garden, full of nectar flowers and small habitats for wildlife. With winter flooding, the soil was partially submerged for several months each year.

Our ducks ripped up the grass, leaving it in very ragged shape for a lawn, but inspiring the idea of creating a seasonal meadow of flowers and grasses that could survive in wet soil.

Then things started to change, and threw my plans into disarray.

We no longer have ducks. 

Our chickens seem to be predator-proof, but the raccoons were much better at getting ducks. At the same time we were realizing we couldn't protect our ducks, we also realized we couldn't clean up after them. We found a more secure and better adapted home for the remaining part of our flock.

The west coast is experiencing a very dry winter. 

So far the seasonal pond has not happened. The ground is not only above water, but the soil is dry enough to work in. And since this winter has been mild as well (sorry, Polar Vortex suffering friends), I have been out working every weekend that I can.

The grass. 

It grew back with a vengeance! A lot of the mulch I used was partially composted hay. Well - hay is grass or alfalfa, and it has seeds. The grass seeds, and a lot of most unwelcome thistle, germinated and grew into huge, coarse leafed clumps.

Instead of this

I had this

So I've been going out a little every weekend and pulling grass, thistles and weeds.

 They make a nice, satisfying heap.

The green compost bin in the back - a sort given out by the city of Seattle, is full of grass and roots.

Once I filled it I started piling off to the side, just to get it out of the way.

Ultimately I lashed together some pallets with baling twine and made a nice, big compost bin. It makes me very happy to fill it. 






I can't wait for all the compost I will have this year.

With the moist but not saturated soil and the pleasant weather, gardening has been great. And the very early dusks keep me from working so late I end up aching the next day. I could weed until I keeled over if something didn't stop me. But I can't make valid garden decisions without light.

I try to spot the crowns of all the perennial meadow plants from last summer.

Some of them are surprisingly green and lively in the bare soil.

This is coming up where the brown eyed Susans were growing; I assume that's what it is. There were four or five times as many crowns as I put in plants.

So either I'm wrong, or it's growing like gangbusters.

But other times a plant's crown just nudges up through the soil, hard mounds just above the soil line, with a cluster of dead stems at the top.

Other times a shiny green or pink Vee sticks up between the dead litter, indicating dormant growth below. 

Sometimes I  find plants as I start to dig a root and realize it's not a grass or a buttercup but something more intentional. Once it was a long, red, hairy underground stolon. Stinging nettle. Ooops.

This year, the Seahawks happened. But sometimes while I worked, I'd listen to the neighbors television blaring out a  game and I'd be so caught up in planning this summer's garden, I wouldn't go inside and watch. Anyway, I can get the gist from hearing it. Just pretend it's a radio. 

Other times, the high school students in the house behind would be practicing for a band they play in. I can't hear most of the instruments, just the endless drum machines and sometimes a Mariachi style accordian . Easy to tune in and out of.

I let my brain start planning next year's garden. It's in the shade of a big, sprawling pussy willow next door. I like shade, especially damp shade. I dream of big, dark leafed plants - maybe some giant Solomons seal. Meadow rue. Some trillium. Lots of dainty things to contrast with the vibrant music, the sound of football. 

And then this:

A huge windstorm blew down the willow. It must have happened last Sunday but I was too busy with my own stuff to notice till today. They had already chopped it up.


 It had fallen over the fence onto our bushes too. Luckily I can't say I was very attached to any of them. I did like the shade though.

The soft soil was trampled with huge, deep footprints. It was damp enough to compact, though not wet enough for water to cup in the deep places.

 There was sawdust, broken branches and debris all over the place.

Then I noticed someone looking over the fence at me.

Suddenly I wasn't grousing about the neighbors tree any more. I was hanging out with their little black chihuahua and his new buddy. They are two of the cutest dogs I know!

After a while our neighbor Noe came out and told us about watching the tree fall in the windstorm. He said it was a wake up call to him and his family. They are going to look for other hazards in their home, and make an emergency plan for future disasters. He was sorry about the fence. 

I said not to worry. A fence is just a fence. Suddenly that seemed so minor!

I wish I'd taken a picture of the meadow after I completely degrassed it, to prove that it really happened and show how hard I worked. But I thought I could do it later, and then later a tree fell on it.

Here is a pile of torn up grass in the background and some wood chips from the tree in the near ground.

The story about how I worked on the yard just changed. It's not the story of all the work I did and it's not the story of how it turned out. I will tell them another time.

It's not the story of how I was frustrated at having a tree fall on my fence, and my soil stepped on, because I got over it. It's not about pollinators or biology or plants or anything.



Its just a story about gardens and shade and rain and dogs and trees and neighbors and making plans and unmaking them again, as sometimes happens.





Such is life that you never know when a willow tree will fall onto your work and leave wood chips and ivy fragments all over it. You can't plan for a dry year, though with climate change ahead I should plan on less freezing each year. You can't plan which windstorm will kill a tree, but you can make a shrewd guess which trees are most likely to succumb and you can recognize that it's better to fall on a fence than on a house.

You can enjoy work, and listen to games, and you can remember that distractions, redirections and changes of plan aren't just sidelights -they are life, happening. Live it and enjoy.

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Cosmo the cosmic rooster

 This morning when I went out to feed the animals, the goats came running out to greet me as usual, and the hens were all spread around the yard, scratching for food or seeking water. There was ice on all the buckets and they were more excited to get warm water with a little molasses than they were to eat.

But I couldn't' find Cosmo, our little rooster.

We got Cosmo about eleven years ago. Noah was a baby, and had a terrible stomach bug. I brought him back from the doctor and suddenly I knew I was sick too. We were sick all that day and all night. David got sick too.

The next morning I dragged myself out to feed the chickens, and saw that a dog had killed all but one of them.


We were of course very upset. We asked around but no one knew whose dog had done it.

But some kids were eager to help us get back up and running with chickens.

They gave us three hens and a little rooster.

My original plan to get rid of the rooster within twenty-four hours never panned out.

We kept him ever since.

















When you talk to people about roosters there seem to be two main groups of rooster, the Fred Astaire variety and Jack the Ripper. Breed has nothing to do with it, this is a matter of style and manner.

At his best, a rooster is a huge asset to the farm. Roosters can be extremely brave. They walk up to people and animals. If they are raised to be trusting, they will walk up to people without fear but also without malice. They are often more cuddly than hens. When Noah was tiny - maybe three - he followed me out to the yard while I did chores.

When I turned around to check on him, he was holding Cosmo in his lap and slowly plucking his tail feathers out one by one. Cosmo sat so still and calm, I don't think Noah was even aware of hurting him. I had seen Noah with cats, chickens and dogs - all of which, though gentle, would bat him, peck, or at least try to escape. Nope, Cosmo just stayed put. I had to watch them together till Noah learned how to not walk around with him, because if he fell Cosmo wouldn't even try to jump to safety.




A good rooster is chivalrous to the hens. When he finds food, he coos and clucks for the hens.

Cosmo could spend several minutes strutting around with a worm in his beak, making trilling sounds to attract the chickens.

He would pretend to drop it and pick it up, pantomime eating without actually doing it.

Whatever he finds belongs to his flock.

 A rooster must also understand how important the egg laying job is to the hen.

Cosmo would find nesting spots for the hens. Here he is nesting in some hay, wriggling around to mold it into a nice, soft, solid feeling cavity where anyone might feel safe depositing her precious egg.

He would sit with the hens while they worked on their eggs. When they hopped out of the nest, he would cock-a-doodle to the rest of the flock so everyone could get back together.

Sometimes I would see him walking with one of the hens, stretching his tiny legs to keep up with them.











His goal in all of this, of course, is to obtain the hens favor and to help her raise eggs that carry his genes.

To do this, a rooster needs to court the hens. Cosmo would prance in circles around a hen, flashing his wings up and down and holding his head very high.

Some of the hens would crouch down and offer their charms to him. Others would walk away disdainfully. Cosmo always took that kind of snub well. Perhaps having so many hens, he always knew he could try someone else.

Of all the eggs he may have been involved in, only one ever hatched into a chick.








Laura - AKA Lauren - and later the Bantam Menace - was a rooster firmly grounded in the Dark Side of rooster manners.

He would run at Noah, claws out, and scratch his legs and hands. This was even though Noah had by that point learned to be gentle with animals, and anyway never got close enough to The Bantam to be a threat.

He pinned down hens and had his way with them. He was fine with goats unless they made sudden moves. Then he would flash out at them with his spurs and scratch them as if they were other roosters.

And his dad - he persecuted Cosmo day and night. He would chase him out of the barn, out to the fence line, and sometimes over the fence into the neighbor's yard or even the street. We don't have Lauren the Bantam Menace any more. He was my first experience with understanding how people become hardened to butchering their own meat animals.


Along with being good to hens and gentle with people, Cosmo had a fearlessness with anything in the form of a predator. When cats, or the one dog I saw him around, got into the yard he would always walk past them making a special call, half alarm, half shrill wail, and draw them away from the hens. He didn't usually stand his ground and fight them, more diverted them while the others got away.

When the hens went up to the roost, he would stay on the ground till the last lady got up.

But he had an uncommon talent for knowing which animals were safe. Like many birds, he liked to rest on top of goats. I think it keeps their feet warm.

Cosmo outlived a whole generation of goats, and two or three generations of hens. At nearly twelve, when he wan't on the perch this morning I assumed the worst. I looked in the treehouse where the Raccoon brought the duck it killed, but there were no scarlet feathers.

I checked the kidding shed where Jeannette used to hang out, but he wasn't there. I didn't see him on the hay bales in the garage, or in the tall grass by the fence line. After a while I gave up. I had to go to work, and I reasoned, if he is alive, he's ok. If he died, I can't help him. If anything hurt him at night, the cold will have already finished him off. I really can't do much to help him. I resolved to write his obituary if he didn't come home, and dedicate a blog story to him if he did.

When I got home, he was up on his roost. Old, but since roosters don't go grey, he will live however many days are left in all his fiery beauty and all his gentle good nature.

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