One Cat, Two Cat, Three Cat, Four.....

                When I meet new people, I often get asked if I have kids and the response of “no” gets me plenty of odd looks to begin with given my age. Somehow it seems a social imperative that if you are above 35 and don’t have kids, there is something amiss. I am usually met with even more speculation depending on the audience when I say that I have “furry kids” instead. Most people accept this with a smile and ask if I have a dog or a cat. When the full list of the animals is finally shared, some either find it charming or so odd they don’t talk to me again. I accept this..its my life and I choose to live it this way. I wouldn’t trade it.

                Yes, I don’t have kids. I spent most of my younger life proclaiming that I didn’t want them, and then when I found my husband and we decided to share this crazy life, I found that perhaps maybe I did want to give motherhood a try. Alas, some of us are not meant to be mothers in the traditional sense. A good friend told me that she felt my legacy would be left in a different way. I suppose I will never really know, but since this is the life I have and I am not about to waste my time sobbing over things that will never be for me.

                My “furry kids” bring me joy and I treat them with the love and respect they afford me. I have often been asked if I am building an ark given all the creatures that have found their way to our farm. Crow’s Croft Farm is a haven for me and my husband as well as for our menagerie. People stare sometimes when the list gets run off of all that lives there with us, but the cats…that gets the most laughter and comment it seems.

                Somewhere along the way, having more than two cats made you a possible candidate for the term “crazy cat lady”. Back when it was just three cats, I got comments. When I say seven cats…well, you can just imagine.

                How on earth did I end up with seven cats? Well, there’s several stories involved and they all end with a cozy place somewhere in our log house.

                Most exotic of the bunch is Barnaby Jones, Cat Detective. This 18lb ball of fluff and craziness was just a kitten when Phil, my husband, passed him on his walk to work while stationed in Saudi Arabia. The compound up on which Phil lived and worked during his two year assignment there was full of feral cats and Saudi Arabia does not share our love of animals. Roundups and massacre of all ferals caught was a constant practice. In this case, it appeared the mother cat had been caught up leaving her barely weaned kitten behind. I remember Phil sending me an IM before he left his work day (his day ended when mine began back in the United States and we were able to communicate briefly through the company IM System each day). He told me about the kitten and how it had bothered him all day. He had called around, but was told reporting it meant they would catch and kill the kitten and he was sickened by that prospect. He said if he was still there when he went home, he’d find a solution for him that might give him a chance. I knew what that meant. Two hours later, this picture popped into my inbox.

Barnaby as a kitten (Saudi Arabia, 2012)

Barnaby Jones (Gig Harbor, 2014)

                The rest is history. Phil raised Barnaby in his apartment and brought him home when his assignment was over. Barnaby is our Saudi Arabian cat. He’s willful, mouthy, pushy, and despises sharing Phil with anyone, most of all another cat. He’s a bully to the rest of our cats and he will soon be my office cat only. We’ve had to separate him from the others as he is aggressive and outweighs everyone by at least 5 to 6 lbs. Despite all his nonsense and the hassle he creates, we love him and he is our responsibility. We have had moments of discussing whether or not he would be happier in a home where he is the only one, but his personality isn’t his best feature and it would take a very patient and special person to agree to take on what I lovingly refer to as my “monster”. So, he stays with us.

                Barnaby already had trouble adjusting to the company of two other cats when he first arrived. Chuck and Tasha were well established in the household. Chuck is all personality and he’s gorgeous and snuggly. He’s the perfect cat – mild mannered, gets along with others, and puts the dogs in line when they get too close. He can defend himself, he’s an excellent mouser. Tasha was the sweetest cat you’d ever met. Coal black, beautiful, and sweet, she crossed the Rainbow Bridge in February of 2015. Phil had raised her from a kitten. She was diabetic and required insulin shots twice a day. She had her own glucometer and we tested her before each shot to avoid hypoglycemic crashes and seizures. Cancer got her in the end, but she was in no pain and went to sleep peacefully with us holding her. It broke our hearts to lose her, but 18 years is a good long life for a cat, especially one with all her medical complications, and we count ourselves blessed to have been so lucky to have her with us for so long. Both cats accepted Barnaby upon introduction, but he took a little while to adjust to the idea of having to share Phil’s lap with any other feline. He didn’t warm up to me right away either, but now he prefers my office and he has his own chair (so he doesn’t steal mine). 

Chuck

Tasha (crossed the Rainbow Bridge, February 2015)

                 Barnaby Jones has never forgiven us for the other five cats though. I don’t think he ever will either. When he gets to be my only office cat and has his own box, his own kitty tower, toys, and birdfeeder to watch out the big windows in my office, perhaps he will get a little closer to forgiveness.

                How did we end up with five more? Well, remember that neighbor whose ducks ended up with us? Yeah, that guy. Well…the cats are a similar story.

                We were very friendly with this neighbor at first and I won’t say that I think he is a horrible person. I just don’t like how he treats his animals. He made it clear he didn’t care for cats, but when you live in the woods and have poultry, etc., a cat to keep the rodents down is a good idea. Still, this neighbor truly didn’t care for the cat which was evident by the name he gave her. He named her Get Out of Here which he would yell at her any time he caught her lounging in the back room he’d built on to his deck. She was a small cat, white and grey tabby, and very sweet. I used to volunteer in cat rescue and this neighbor knew all the stories of our own cats, so when we were having a campfire one night and talking he sighed and told me he though his cat might be pregnant. I immediately exclaimed “you didn’t get her fixed!”

                This fool went onto tell me how he figured it would be all right since there weren’t other cats around that he’d seen and “I’m not like you two. I don’t spend that kind of money on my animals.”

                “They’re cats. They will find each other and you have to get them fixed or they will just keep having litters.” I told him.

                Well, I checked her out and sure enough, she was pregnant. He fed her cheap cat food and still wouldn’t let her come inside, even when pregnant. She did have that back room though. When he went away for a two week trip, we agreed to look after his animals (the ducks, chickens, cat, and dog). He wanted us to leave his lab at home and just feed him, but we wouldn’t hear of it. Theo, his sweet black lab who liked our dogs and was kind to cats, enjoyed two weeks of luxury napping in a warm house on a bed and, I was informed later, even spent a few nights snuggled up with my goddaughter on her bed in the basement. If I could have taken him, I would have. While the neighbor didn’t care for his cats, he did love his dog, though I think Theo’s care could have been better.

                While the neighbor was away, the cat had her babies, but she hid them. My goddaughter and I spent hours looking for them, crawling under the deck, through the woods, trying to follow her. We never found them. She brought them out when he returned. Six kittens – three pairs of twins. Two that looked like her (grey and white tabbies), two tuxedos, and two black and whites.

                He had Phil over to visit and showed them to him when I was on business travel and Phil told him he should get the cat fixed and take the kittens to the humane society. He said he was going to find homes for them soon. They were barely four weeks old. He told Phil the mother cat had stopped feeding them already and so he wasn’t worried about it. I came home and we walked over to see the kittens. I had a speech planned. The Humane Society would fix his cat for free if he surrendered the kittens and I was bound and determined to talk him out of them and get her fixed. I was even going to just take her myself and the kittens too to have it all settled.

                But, no…he cut me off as I started saying he’d already given away four of them and there was just the Mama Cat and the two grey and white tabby kittens left. He said I could have one kitten, but he was going to keep the other, so he would have two mousers. I tried to argue with him, but my husband gave me a look. I knew what would happen…I had seen this story too many times before volunteering cat rescue in New York. He wouldn’t get them fixed and there would be more. I was sickened over the other four kittens already being taken away to new homes way too young, but knew there was nothing I could do now, except save one kitten. I picked one of the kittens, the boy, and carried him home on my shoulder that day. He liked to burrow in my hair and he was the snugglier of the two. I named him Mycroft. I tried again in vain to talk him out of the other kitten, but he refused. 

Mycroft as a kitten

Mycroft full grown

                Four weeks later as I was preparing to go on yet another business trip, I happened to look up towards the old shop on our property. This building was nearly falling down and has since been removed. At this time though, it held storage we couldn’t fit in the house or garage quite yet and housed my husband’s Jeep and Blazer. It was June and the days were long. We’d heard that our neighbor was gone for a few days. We had found out when Theo heard us around a campfire one night and came running over. We went to take him home and saw that our neighbor was gone. A quick text to his mother told us that he was gone for a few more days. He had not bothered to ask us to take care of Theo or the cats or the birds. I informed his mother Theo would stay with us.

                When I saw Get Out of Here in our shop, my heart skipped a beat and I admit the devious side of my brain starting plotting. My heart leapt when I saw Mycroft’s twin sister with her. If I could catch them both, I could get them to safety. Get Out of Here was very thin, much thinner than she had been last I had seen her. She was ragged and very skittish of us suddenly. I ran inside and told Phil and we tried to catch the cats, but to no avail. They were too quick, so I put out a dish of dry food instead hoping I could entice them to stay and I could try again before I left. Get Out of Here was ravenous and it boiled my blood to see that Mycroft’s sister was still nursing. Mycroft had taken to suckling on my shirt or thumb when being held, kneading his paws into whoever was holding him looking for milk. Our neighbor had lied. He wasn’t weaned and she hadn’t stopped nursing her babies…he had stopped feeding her so she would mouse and she had given any spare she had in fat to her one remaining kitten. That was my assessment anyway. I was partially right.

                Not an hour later, I saw another kitten. It was black and white and snuggled up with Mycroft’s twin in the blackberries next to our old shop. Then I spotted another black and white kitten by my garage. It was meowing for its siblings and Get Out of Here. Get Out of Here had disappeared. I called for Phil and he confirmed angrily that those were two of the kittens from the litter. He had seen them all, I had not. Our neighbor had lied to us. He hadn’t given all of them away.

                Another hour later, a tuxedo kitten joined the furry pile by the blackberry bushes by the shop and I was enraged at this point. I told Phil we were going to catch them and find them homes. “They’re not our cats, Chris.” Was his answer.

                “They are now,” I said, “He’s not caring for them and he clearly doesn’t give a damn if they live or die out here. Between the highway and predators, they won’t make it.”

                Phil didn’t disagree. We agreed that we would be honest if he came looking for them and I was adamant that he would get a piece of my mind if he did. I boarded a plane for my business trip. Phil was going to keep their food bowl full and try to catch them in my absence. If he didn’t have them when I returned, we would catch them together. Further inspection of the shop that night by Phil revealed two things. The mother cat had built a nest for her babies and they had been living in his Jeep for at least a week by the looks of things and….the last kitten joined the litter that night. A tiny tuxedo kitten, the runt of the litter. I received that text as I landed in Atlanta and muttered expletives under my breath for a good five minutes.

                Phil watched over the kittens that week and said there was no sign of the Mama Cat (Get Out of Here) for most of the week. The kittens played and snuggled up in the carrier we had filled with old towels and placed in the shop and they scarfed down the food he put out for them. In the middle of the week. Mama Cat returned and she took the kittens somewhere else for a day or two. The neighbor returned, picked up his dog, and never mentioned the cats. Mama Cat returned two days later (the night before I came home) with her litter and settled back into the Jeep in the shop. They were all ravenous again and the big bowl of food Phil put out when he saw them distracted them long enough to allow him to catch all of the kittens and put them in the garage. Mama Cat (we refused to call her by the name she had been given at this point) put up more of a fight, but he got her into the carrier and put her in the garage with her babies. He gave them fresh water, a litter box, and food.

                Our veterinarian and his wife are dear friends of ours and when he was informed of the situation by Phil, he offered to adopt two kittens and fix, worm, and give shots to the rest (including Mama Cat). A few days after I arrived home, our vet, his wife, and their daughters came over to pick out their kittens. They chose one of the black and white kittens and Mycroft’s twin. Catching them in our garage was no small feat, but we managed and those kittens went to their new home. We caught them all and took them in for deworming and their first round of shots. The kittens had never been handled, especially the runt, and were very skittish and distrusting. Mama Cat was only five pounds and in desperate need of nourishment. We free fed her dry food and wet food, got her shots, dewormed her, and gave her flea meds. She had a tick too which was removed. I scheduled her spay appointment. Her examination placed her at about one to two years old.

                Mama Cat and I started to bond. I had taken to having my coffee in the garage each morning and talking to the cats in the hopes that they would become a bit more socialized. Mama Cat was the first to respond which I was happy to see. She had been so sweet before and had been so affectionate, it was nice to see parts of that return to her personality. One morning, I was sitting crossed legged on the garage floor sipping my coffee and talking to her. She walked up and asked for a pet which I happily gave her. She quickly climbed into my lap and started purring, asking for more and more affection. I fell in love with her, which Phil immediately saw. I named her Miss Addler and asked if I could keep her. Phil laughed and said of course, but he wanted to keep the tuxedo male kitten with the white dot on his face. He named him Cosmo. Cosmo had taken to Phil rather quickly and had the loudest purr of all the kittens.

                That left the other two – a black and white male and the runt tuxedo female. We would get them fixed and find them good homes, I said. Right….we named them. Domino and Tink. They have never left our home. They are all still very skittish, Tink most of all, and Barnaby’s assaults on Addler were so severe, we put her in our bedroom to protect her until we can finish building my office to secure Barnaby. Addler is the most affectionate cat in the house aside from Chuck. Chuck has recently joined her in the bedroom. Being the old man of the house, he dislikes being pounced on by the other kittens and would rather just nap on our bed or sit in the window and watch birds. He and Addler play occasionally still and I have caught them snuggling together while napping.

                Domino, Cosmo, and Mycroft run around the house each night and early morning playing and tumbling about. Mycroft, having been the first and extremely socialized, has taught his brothers that the humans are not so bad. Cosmo prefers Phil to this day and they have a morning “appointment” every day in Phil’s office – the appointment consists of Cosmo coming in and meowing at Phil, then jumping into his lap and purring loudly while he gets his morning loves and snuggles. Domino has started asking for pets and affection, though he still dislikes being picked up and he is still rather skittish. All of the kittens disappear into hiding when they hear a voice they don’t recognize and I have several friends who are not certain I truly have these cats because they have never seen them.

                Tink is another story. Still very feral and terrified of people, I had to trap her for her spay appointment and then again recently for her booster shots. She yowls in terror when I do this and it breaks my heart. She doesn’t like us and doesn’t trust us, but she has put her total trust in Ilta, our dog, who she rubs on and scent marks to the degree Ilta will tolerate. After her booster shot appointment, I put her in our bedroom hoping she would bond again with Addler and Addler could show her that we aren’t so bad. Also, having her in close quarters with us would force some level of socialization, but there are still plenty of places to hide in our bedroom, so she would feel somewhat safe.

                We have had these kittens for almost two years now. Tink has been in the bedroom for the last two months and Phil informed me just this week (I am on business travel again) that Tink allowed him to pet her. She had stopped running from us when we brought in food before I left, but he said she didn’t run away when he came in the room and found her laying on the bed. She liked the petting, but took off as soon as Addler interjected and demanded his attention. Its slow, but its progress.

                In these two years since Addler brought her kittens to us, our neighbor has never asked about them. He never looked for them or talked about them when we did see him. He has moved away and we have inherited his ducks as a result.

                So, that is how we came to have seven cats in the house. They have their quirks and we continue to work with them. We love them all and we give them the best care possible. Yes, people think we are crazy and we get some commentary on the subject, but I wouldn’t trade it. They are safe, loved, and in good health. Oh…and it is an added bonus that no self respecting mouse sets foot in our house. Any that have dared, have been brought to us as a gift or been seen in the jaws of the proud cat flaunting his/her accomplishment to us and the other cats. The house is big enough for all of them and while we have to make special concessions for some of them, it’s the price we happily pay for their company, their affection, and the joy they bring us – just like all of our furry babies at Crow’s Croft Farm. 

Top left to right: Tink, Cosmo, Domino and Addler

 

Miss Addler (formerly "Get Out of Here")

Domino and Cosmo

                 

Late night musings, cooking, and the Snow Moon

Those who have known me for quite sometime know that I don't sleep well and never have. My mother has often shared the fun fact that as a baby, I did not sleep through the night until I was a year and a half old and that required a prescribed sedative. This never improved and as a youngster, I was often awake late nights, huddled up with my book light or a small flashlight reading. In college, I was ridiculously proud of my ability to only need one and a half hours of sleep a night and, therefore, I was able to accomplish so much. Of course, there was also that one morning I was informed by my roommate that I had been up walking around the room, doing my Latin homework, and crocheting a blanket all night when I was convinced I had been sleeping.

Well, thankfully, I'm older now and this insomnia seems to have lessened itself considerably. I average about five to six hours a night and lately I have been upping that to seven, so its only taken 36 years to correct this insomnia affliction. I'll count that as a good thing and its better late than never, however there are still days I miss my insomnia for the simple fact that I got a lot done. My father has always said if  there were six more hours in a day, I would find something new to fill those extra hours with and truly would never have any extra time. He may be right.

Occasionally, my old friend insomnia does visit. Usually on nights like tonight when my mind is whirling with things I can't quiet enough to fall asleep, so rather than sit there staring at the ceiling waiting for sleep to claim me, I am up in the kitchen and cooking.

Tonight, I am making a lentil soup that can cook the rest of the night in the crock pot. Its perfect really. I have a friend who has just undergone surgery and is recovering who will enjoy some and this time of year I almost always have a pot of soup Phil, Angela, and I can eat through during the week when things are busy between work, farm duties, and school. Not to mention, with Angela, my 18 year old goddaughter, living with us, there are often her friends visiting too and they are always appreciative for a nice bowl of homemade soup. More than all of these very good reasons though is the preparations of the soup which I find to be very soothing and cathartic. Something about washing, peeling, and chopping vegetables, mixing spices, and mincing garlic just sets my mind at ease.

The soup recipe I'm trying calls for five cloves of garlic. This is not adequate. I am always very liberal with garlic for many reasons and this is not exception. Last summer, at the Poulsbo Farmer's Market where I have a booth for my soap business, I bought a braid of garlic from one of the local farmers. She said they were a variety called Italian Rose and they would last well through June of this year. They were so prettily arranged and braided and the garlic so beautiful, I couldn't resist it. Tonight, about 10 cloves of garlic went into the crockpot and I have no regrets about it. I can see now why the garlic is called Italian Rose, a lovely purple skin covers each clove. I look forward to growing and braiding my own garlic in the years to come. The idea of growing my own food, preserving and storing it in my root cellar and using it to prepare meals for my family and friends is one that has followed me for years and I am excited at the prospect of it coming true.

So, now, as I write this, everything is in the crockpot slowly transforming into a lovely soup (I hope) and there's bread rising in my bread machine. Yes, I admit it freely, this is where I am less of a homesteader at heart. I love fresh baked bread, but I do allow myself to be spoiled by modern technology in this regard. I appreciate very much the freedom my bread machine affords me. I use it regularly these days. Soup and bread go so well together - a very effective pair when it comes to comfort and healing. I think my friend will enjoy them, provided they both turn out tomorrow morning (fingers crossed). I have my two bowls of scraps - one for the pigs (carrot peelings, squash skins and seeds, etc.) and one for my vegetable broth ingredient bag in the freezer (garlic skins, onion skins, celery tips and leaves, etc.).

I have no other reason to be awake now except for the company of my old friend insomnia. Its different having this friend visit now that I'm not studying for a final or writing a paper or completing any assignment. No, there is nothing like that in my life now. I could read and I love to read, but my mind is wandering tonight and it is a particularly beautiful night here at Crow's Croft Farm. The Snow Moon is out in a clear sky with only an occasional cloud passing through. There are rumors of an eclipse tonight and a comet, but I haven't checked the times.

Ilta, my faithful black lab, is curled up at my feet as I write this. She has already followed me around this evening, enjoyed a carrot or two off the cutting board, and sat by me on the back porch and looked at the moon with me. She doesn't mind nights like these it seems and always sticks close to me. She and I were just out a little while ago, listening to the sounds of the creek and looking at this little place we call home under the glow of moonlight. There is less traffic on the road at this hour, so the creek's babble seems louder. We got two inches of rain yesterday alone and the creek is really moving and sounding more like a river.

The Snow Moon lives up to its name for certain. The full moon of February, it gets its name merely by being associated with a time of year when snowfall is the most abundant in a majority of places. For me, it means something different. Everyone seems to have that one month out of the calendar that they find to be their least favorite - that one month where everything unpleasant or difficult seems to take place. For me, its February. The shortest calendar in the month, but somehow the longest one in the calendar for me. I despise leap years, because it means February is one day longer. I have struggled for years to turn this idea on its head and focus my attention on the things that are pleasant about February. I have noticed the robins return during this month, the light at dusk is clinging longer so its not quite dark yet at 5pm anymore, and the crocuses are starting to pop their heads up even through the snow (if there is any). This year, we've had quite a bit of snow for the Pacific Northwest and I have enjoyed seeing Crow's Croft farm blanketed it white. Still, February has a dark underbelly for me - I am restless and suffering from cabin fever and I am haunted by memories of unpleasant occurrences of the past.

In the old days, the Snow Moon was also called the Hunger Moon since winter stores were nearly gone and the weather made hunting and gathering extremely difficult. In the modern aspect of things and in a lot of ways figuratively speaking, this makes sense with how I feel about this full moon and the month in which it falls. It always seems like there is a still pause this time of year - time seems to slow, things seem heavier, and everything is captured in this sort of limbo. For me, this month carries hard memories and usually new challenges and this year is no different for me and for the people around me. I begin my battle with it by planning things - planning my garden, planning house projects, etc. - but that only carries me so far and then there I am, waiting again, hungering and pacing...for the weather to change, for things to happen in order to put said plans into action. I feel I am struggling to dig my way out of the darkness, out of the snow, out of all the things that seem to make me feel weighed down and gloomy. I lack motivation, I procrastinate, and I justify reasons for both. In short, I'm in a funk and its damned hard to get out of it.

Eventually though, usually after the Snow Moon in February, I find that I start to turn my mindset intentionally. I wasn't always good at this, but I'm better at it each year. I am still restless and I am still gloomy, but less so and I find myself battling it in little ways that make a difference for me. I'm figuratively shoveling the snow and digging myself out, moving forward to the spring time when I can stop planning and start doing things again. I know I'm not alone in this feeling. Many people I know are dealing with their own struggles be it health, family, friendships, lovers, finances...you name it. I know that this year will be like all the ones before it where after the full moon things start to go into motion. Not fast, not instant, but slightly moving out of a frozen state - the wheels slowly starting to turn again even if only a tiny bit at a time. Like the crocus that bravely peeks its head up through the snow and continues towards growing and blooming despite the threatening cold and burdensome dreariness surrounding it, we all begin to move. Stasis is dangerous and as hard as slogging through the February days feels, there is one indisputable fact that keeps me slogging forward - it will end. March will come, the flowers will bloom like they always do. I try to will them to come sooner by focusing on those things that bring me peace and a sense of calm I struggle to maintain this time of year. Even if it is a silly thing like cooking soup and bread in the middle of the night and blogging my late night, insomnia ridden musings for you all to read.

The Snow Moon is sailing high over Crow's Croft tonight. Its light is creating a dim square of pale light through the skylight in the living room. There are no sounds in the house except the occasional creak of the logs settling, a stir of the chimes on the porch by the wind, the tick of the cuckoo clock, and Ilta's soft snoring drifting up from beneath the table. The house smells like the comforting concoctions I have setup to cook slowly overnight and my friend insomnia is slowly working towards departure after my third cup of chamomile tea. Another February is halfway gone and I am looking forward to Spring.

Once in a Blue Moon...

I wrote this piece recently and submitted a much more edited version to one of my favorite magazines. I don't know if it will get published or not, but I figure its worth posting here as well in its entirety. One of the nice things about a blog is I don't have to hold any piece to a specific word count. This piece is not about Crow's Croft exactly, though my home is referenced. This is about another place near and dear to my heart - my sanctuary outside of Crow's Croft. I hope you enjoy it.

Once in a Blue Moon

I don’t sit down much, at least when I’m not working the job that pays my mortgage, and even less since I bought an old log house on 8.5 acres on the Key Peninsula in Washington State. Between the farm chores, constant home projects, a full time job, and a small soap business you’d think I wouldn’t have time for much else. You’d think, and many people do, that I would have no “me” time or “downtime”.

My farm consists of seven cats, one dog, one goat, one llama, two alpacas, three pigs, five ducks, three horses, and a turtle. That may not make it a farm, perhaps it’s more like a petting zoo, but I love it just the same. My husband and my animals give me all the love and joy I could ask for and my husband and I don’t shy away from difficult cases, like a diabetic cat or a pair of alpacas so mishandled catching them to give shots, shear, and trim toes is likened to a rodeo show. We are animal rescuers.  Add the constant home improvement needed on this house and it would be safe to say that while my home is my sanctuary and where my heart lies, it is not always peaceful for me.

My “down time” or “me” time is not spent in front of the TV binge watching Netflix, or drinking wine with girlfriends, or visiting a spa. All of those things are fine, but I can never enjoy them fully without thinking or talking about what I need to get done. “You don’t take enough time for yourself,” they say. I find it amusing, because I enjoy “me” time four days a week and three of those days in the wee hours of the morning. What is this mysterious “me” time? I volunteer for Pony Up Rescue for Equines feeding horses and cleaning stables. “That sounds like work!” Sigh.

Three days a week, I get up at 4:45am, don a pair of worn out jeans, an old T-shirt (or long johns if its winter) and a hoodie, pull on my muck boots and head out the door. A twenty minute drive later, I am in my “spa” where the sounds are the soft whicker of horses and the shuffling, soothing sounds of a barn waking up to greet the day. Soft noses brush my face and, in a case or two, grab my hood and tug gently. These quiet, gentle giants, all with their own stories greet me with a kiss or a nuzzle when I open their stable doors to put in their morning hay and deliver their grain. Some mouth the hose when I freshen or refill their water troughs, and one or two playfully flip their grain at me. They all have stories, some of them make my blood boil with rage at the indecency of some people and how they would treat these beautiful creatures.

One of my favorites, though I love them all, is Lucky. A senior gelding who begged a rescue when Pony Up went to the kill pen to claim a small pony who’s ransom had been paid. I wasn’t there for this rescue, but I’ve heard the story so many times. Scrawny, malnourished, and clearly elderly, this old boy followed the rescuers of his friend Lottie the pony and begged to come along. Of course, his ransom was paid and he was loaded up without a fuss. Three weeks later with a careful feeding regime and lots of grooming, his “starvation coat” fell out and revealed a beautiful liver chestnut horse who loves nothing more than to just spend time meandering the farm. Since Lucky takes so long to eat, he gets let out of his stall so he can enjoy his grain at his pace rather than lose it to his paddock mate, Belles.

One particular winter morning, I had finished my volunteer chores and was going to collect Lucky who had finished his grain and was just making his social rounds around the farm saying hello to all the other horses. It was a cold, quiet morning in December. Dawn had just started to touch the sky with the faintest white light and the ground was covered in frost. A pale blue glow clung to everything and the full moon was descending towards the horizon. My fingers were sore and frozen having spent the last fifteen minutes breaking ice off of troughs. Lucky was standing in the middle of the drive, ears pricked forward, watching the sky. I wandered up, patted him lightly, and reached for the front of his horse blanket, knowing I wouldn’t need a lead rope to urge him back towards his paddock. Lucky just looked at me from the corner of his eye and then stretched his neck welcoming the scratch I gave him. A flock of crows flitted across the slowly lightening sky and Lucky and I watched them together for a moment, savoring the cold air and the sight of the moon slowly slipping lower and lower.

This is where I find peace in the crazy, busy bustle of my everyday life. Sore muscles, manure stained boots, and cold, dirty hands aside, nothing fulfills my heart and mends my spirit more than moments spent like this on a quiet, blue, moonlit dawn with a sweet soul who, just like me, is grateful to be here on this farm watching the night turn into day. I could sleep in later, I could miss all these moments and grasp to find them in other ways, but I don’t see any good reason to do so. This is where I am happy. This is where I recharge and find joy that I can carry with me throughout the day.

“Ready, old boy?” I ask Lucky after all the pale blue moonlight has vanished and the pink hues have started to take over the horizon.

Lucky looks at me with his soft, brown eyes and his ears stand straight forward at the sound of Belles’ neighing for him in the paddock. I kiss his velvety nose and tug lightly on the front of his horse coat once saying, “Come on. Time to face the day.”

He comes willingly and happily, prancing into his paddock easily when I open the door for him and glancing back at me as I wish him a good day and lock the gates.

For more information regarding this amazing rescue, please check out their website at www.ponyuprescue.org.

 

Duck, Duck, Duck, Duck....Drake...

Well, here it is, my first blog post for Crow's Croft Farm and all the fun shenanigans that happen here at our humble abode. I have a backlog of stories to share about all the lives that share this 8.6 acre work in progress with us, but the ducks told me (by their actions this morning) that they wanted to be first, so here it goes...

Phil, my husband, and I have five ducks. Four pretty hens and a handsome and attentive drake. Their names are Beatrice, Doris, Roslyn, Mrs. Hudson, and Benedict. How did we come upon such sweet companions, well, that's a story. It starts with just two ducks...Beatrice and Doris.

We had a neighbor who has since moved out. This neighbor is also "responsible" for five of the seven cats we share home with as well, but that's a tale for another time. This neighbor had a small coop and a good sized setup for a small flock of three ducks (all hens) and four or five chickens, one of which was a rooster. At first, Phil and I got along with this neighbor very well, though we quickly learned he was seriously lacking in the animal care department. Now, Phil and I don't expect everyone in the world to do what we do for our animals, but there are some basics that we strongly believe everyone who owns a pet should follow and certain behaviors are simply unacceptable in my mind. We had already witnessed the negligent behavior with the cats, but the ducks were the final straw and this person was very wise to have vacated before I could march over and give him a piece of my mind.

It was May 2016 and Phil and I were preparing the property for our wedding. After 7 years of being together, we were finally going to make it official. We were going to get married on this small paradise in progress we call home and had been busily working towards that event when we were informed of very sad news. Phil's grandmother, Maryanna, had passed away at the age of 93. We immediately made plans to travel to Wyoming for the funeral. My good friend Mike, was going to come stay at the farm and look after the cats and dog and our friend Glenda was going to come by and care of the barn babies (two goats, two alpaca, and one llama).

As you can imagine, Phil and I were already a wee bit stressed in the wedding preparations. There had been lots of bickering in the weeks before we received this sad news and starting making arrangements to drive to Wyoming. We had a plan to leave as early as 5am for our very long drive straight through to Sheridan, Wyoming and Mike had settled into the guest bedroom the night before to pick up the morning feedings and duties for us the morning of our departure. I am an early riser and 5am doesn't bother me although coffee is most definitely always needed. Phil is most definitely not a morning person whatsoever. Regardless, he was up and loading the car while I packed up the snacks I had prepared for the road trip and wrote up last minute instructions for Mike.

Phil had designed a beautiful rock garden and had been working with our friend and excavator to get it finished. New grass had been planted to cover the newly dug irrigation line and he had been religious about watering the grass daily so that it would fill in before the wedding. First thing he did, while smoking his morning cigarette and drinking his first cup of coffee, was turn on the sprinkler.

It was a beautiful morning, I remember that. Blue skies and already warm at 5am, the birds were singing and the forest was already thick, so the creek was hard to see from the back porch. Phil had the left the front door open, letting the morning breeze flow through the screen door. I was crabby, I admit it. I was tired and I was flustered, checking everything I had packed to make sure I had everything needed.

"Um, Chris.." I heard Phil say through the screen door.

"What?" I snapped grumpily, slurping my morning coffee.

"Get out here, please..." the tone was apprehensive.

I immediately was annoyed, having only gotten a few sips off my coffee so far, so I sighed, put down the cup and marched over to the door.

Phil was standing in the front yard, eyebrows raised, his gaze directing me to whatever scene had his attention.

"You've got to be f*cking kidding me..." fell right out of my mouth at the sight of them.

I recognized them immediately as the neighbor's and I started seething with the knowledge that he had moved out completely a few days before. Drawn by the sound of the sprinkler and the promise of water, were two ducks.  One was snowy white with a black beak, the other also snowy white with the same black beak and feet, but speckled with spots of black, grey, purple, and brown. They were flapping their wings in the water, bathing, gulping water off the spigot, and preening with relief. They conversed in their happy language, completely ignoring our presence. As we watched for a few minutes more, saying nothing, the white duck started stamping her black feet into the grass and they both started foraging, prying up worms and new grass seedlings with their beaks. They were hungry.

I looked at Phil and he stared back at me, his cigarette dangling between his fingers, shaking his head.

"He left them behind," I said, "Didn't you say he stopped and told you he was out of here the other day? His grandmother told me he was going to get the birds before he left when I talked to her the other day. Did he have any of them with him when you saw him?"

"Nope. He didn't have them with him and he said he was leaving. I wonder where the rest of them are," Phil said.

The look on my face must have said it all. A quick inspection next door revealed the coop was left open, all protection from all predators removed. I was sickened. I would not usually jump to conclusions, but given the situation we had witnessed with the cats, it was a logical step. He had left them with not protection for the coyotes, owls, and eagles, to clean up for him.

"Well, what are we going to do? We can just leave them out here to their own devices. They'll die," I said.

There was no way that was going to happen.

"We don't have a coop, Chris. Where are we going to put them?"

"Well, we can put them in the dog yard and ask Mike to get some feed for them. Since we're taking Ilta with us, she won't need to use it and its fenced at least," I suggested. It was the only place we had that would protect them.

"Good idea," Phil said. He put out his cigarette and we herded the ducks together into the back yard and closed the gate. At our approach, they started chattering and waddling from us. Phil left to gather a bucket of water and I hurried into the house. We were already late to our schedule at this point, but neither of us worried too much about that. There were ducks that needed our help.

Awakened by the commotion of us moving about upstairs, Mike wandered out of the guest bedroom rubbing his eyes. I met him in the hallway with a twenty dollar bill in hand and said, "Hey, here's $20 bucks. Can you maybe go to the feed store and get duck food today?"

Baffled, Mike squinted, took the money, and asked with confusion, "Ok...why?"

At that moment, Doris, the white duck, let out a very loud series of quacks.

Mike has known us for awhile and has grown somewhat accustomed to occurrences like this. At the sight of the two ducks now looking through the back sliding door at us, chattering loudly, he just giggled, shook his head, and said, "Ok...that's why. Sure."

Twenty five minutes later, Phil and I were driving to Wyoming with Ilta, our black lab, in the backseat. I was composing a very terse email to the neighbor's grandmother and owner of the house he had vacated informing her that we had his ducks. All the while, I was venting to my husband.

"Tell her that if he doesn't want them, we'll keep them," Phil interjected.

"Really?" I said, surprised, my rage abated at the idea of being able to keep them. We had always talked about having ducks, but had decided to wait until we had a proper coop and pond build to house them, "But we don't have anything ready yet."

"Well, they're here now. If he was willing to leave them behind, he clearly doesn't want them and we've always wanted ducks. They can get along in the back yard until we have something built for them. Besides, then we'll have eggs."

We decided to wait and see what the response would be to the email. It came within an hour of my sending it. His grandmother was horrified and just as angry as we were. She had contacted his mother, her daughter, who had shared in the anger at her son's actions and ask her mother to inform us that if we wanted to give them a home, they were ours.

"Well, we have ducks. I say we name the speckled one Beatrice and the loud one Doris," I said to Phil.

And that's how we ended up with the two. Beatrice and Doris gave us our first eggs the week we returned from Wyoming. We bought a large stock tank and filled it for them. They swam, played, gossiped, preened, and foraged happily. I dove into research and determined they were likely both some kind of Ancona cross, if not pure Anconas - a heirloom breed of ducks very well adapted to the Pacific Northwest and the very breed we had talked about getting eventually. Beatrice proved to be the most mild mannered one. We can pick her up, carry her under our arms, and she even "hugs" laying her head over your shoulder or tucking it under your chin. Doris, is loud and demanding and does not care for cuddles.

Of course, two was just company...not a crowd or even a flock in my mind and so, as the wedding approached, I put out requests to a few poultry groups I had joined on Facebook looking for more Ancona ducks to join our flock and a drake too. I got a response from a lady who had one Magpie female duck, a female Ancona, and a Ancona drake she would sell me for $70.

It was the day before the wedding and my Mom agreed to drive me over to get them. They were "meat birds" the lady said when we arrived, and prime specimens. I didn't tell her I had no intention of turning them into meat and tried to not show my horror when she said she would butcher the drake for me when he was ready for a fair price. I politely declined, quickly paid and helped my Mom load them into the large dog crate I had brought into the back of her SUV. They were distressed and confused. On the way home, every corner we turned my Mom would apologize to them as we heard the scuttling of their feet trying to find balance accompanied by their protests.

My best friend and maid of honor, Stacey, met us in the driveway and volunteered to help me carry the crate to the back yard to turn them into what was now the duck yard. Phil had fenced off a large portion of the dog yard and put in a gate so Ilta, our dog, still had her yard, but the ducks were safe in their half. Carrying the crate, Stacey giggled and said, "If I found myself carrying a crate full of ducks the day before anyone else's wedding, I would be shocked, but not with you."

We laughed as we set them all loose and watched them explode out of the crate in a flurry of feathers, happy to be free. The Magpie hen, I named Roslyn. The Ancona female, I named Mrs. Hudson (to fill out my cast of Sherlock Holmes characters) and the drake, I named Benedict.

Benedict immediately took control of his flock and hens. Within weeks, we had eggs from all the hens save one. Mrs. Hudson, who we are pretty sure is part runner duck, was not laying and actually quite terrified of EVERYTHING. Benedict had taken to chasing her exclusively and, when she would run away, he would latch on and pull feathers out of her back and neck as she ran away. It was horrible. We came home from Phil's Navy reunion cruise to find her feathers completely stripped off her back and I said, "That's it. I can't take it. He has to leave her alone."

I dove into my resources and researched what to do about this and found all kinds of suggestions. Finally, I decided to try separating Benedict from the flock and reintroducing him after awhile. For weeks, Benedict squished himself up against the fenceline to be close to the hens on the other side, clearly depressed and distraught that he couldn't be with them. I felt bad for him, but hoped this would be for the best. Mrs. Hudson's feathers grew back in and she became much more settled and secure with the other hens. Finally, he was reintroduced back into the flock. We have never had a problem since.

Benedict has become a much more polite suitor to the ladies since this forced separation and I always smile seeing him "ask" the girls if he can carry out his drake duties. His "ask" is a cute little head bobbing dance in the pond while swimming with the girls. He has also become very protective of his ladies. On more than one occasion, I have seen him flapping his wings and shooing the girls into safety at the sight or sign of an eagle overhead and during the coldest nights this winter, he has been stationed dutifully outside their nesting house, watching the door while the girls are all settled inside and warm.

This morning, I went out to feed the ducks their morning grain and was pleased to find Beatrice inside the nesting house with a new egg under her. I just changed out their straw bedding in their nesting house this last Saturday. Its been awhile since they were laying regularly, but the weather is starting to warm up just a touch. As I opened the gate, Mrs. Hudson and Roslyn scuttled out from behind the nesting house. Peering around behind the nesting house, what do I find? 9 eggs! A makeshift nest of straw and mud was pulled together in the space between the wall and the nesting house. I filled my pockets with the eggs and fed the grain. Looking across the yard, I saw another egg laying out in the open in the middle of the yard. 10 eggs in three days, I guess its laying season again! The girls want ducklings it appears too, given their reluctance to move off the nest so we can collect eggs. I hope they forgive us for not allowing this just yet. When we have a permanent yard and the proper accommodations, I am sure we'll grant them their wish.

I love my little flock and all the joy they bring us. On rough days or stressful days, just a few minutes of watching them forage, preen, swim, or nap seems to lift my spirits.