Archive of Past News of the Farm:
November 30, 2009 A Mouse-trap Moment |
November 30, 2009
A Mouse-trap Moment
Greetings Friends of the Farm,
All through the morning Saturday, I thought about the dilemma of Boss Chick and her/his Babes. Leave them here, in the kitchen for 24 hours, or take them with us? They’d spent a lot of time outside in their little fenced run, soaking up the sun, and being entertained by Saturday’s children, and in contrast, they’d certainly be bored in the house, without even us, the giants, around.
But we had to go to the Gause farm, to check on the greenhouse and feed the fat cats. Larry said he could rig up a little run for Boss Chick and the Babes next to the Hut, in the sandy soil. So he was game. We imagined the Boss, etc., riding in the back of the car, on their first road trip, and laughed at the image. It’d probably be their last trip too, but at least it would be a round-trip, and they’d return to the farm with us and not detour to a “processing facility,” which is what happens to most chicks not much older than they....
In the end, assured by Larry’s saying we’d be home by noon, I left them on the kitchen table, with ample water and feed. They’d have to peep from boredom all alone.
The overnight at the other farm was wonderful. Cool enough, but not too. The kitchen fire place warmed us as we prepared our dinner, which included grilled baby carrots from the first pull-up test. The salad came from the farm stand, harvested at 11 AM, so it was fresh. Of course.
(The coming carrot crop: yellow, orange and "Aggie"--maroon outside/orange inside!)
(Center: broccoli and cauliflower; left: lettuces; right: celeriac, etc. The buckets of water retard fire ants; the yellow square is a "sticky trap." The back wall has "sheets" of burlap which when wet cools the greenhouse.
Two big fans are behind the photographer.)
The cover crop in the lower, big field glows green amidst the brown, red and gold of the surrounding woods, and it is here next year’s tomatoes will grow. The elbon rye cover crop will yield carbon-sequestering, mineral-filled root masses and that’s what the sandy soil needs.
(Left, The curving path leads to the big, lower field....Right, elbon rye cover crop;
Larry says he needs to remove that pesky stump...)
Larry says he needs to remove that pesky stump...)
The next morning, we had more than enough electricity from the solar panels, to fuel NPR on the radio. Without a newspaper, we paced a bit, as breakfast was prepared. But once we were seated on the front porch, the landscape, with its peek of the pond and the crops on the other side, was entertainment enough. We turned off the news which held no interest for us. We were in the country. And that was enough.
(The pond is very low because of the drought. Beyond it is one of our greenhouses and the crops of
Japanese turnips, daikon radishes, beets and cabbage -- looking very green.)
Japanese turnips, daikon radishes, beets and cabbage -- looking very green.)
At home the next day, I moved Boss and the Babes to their yard; they flew and ran with great enthusiasm, while I checked on the matrons and the pullets. All was fine, except I could not find Rusty Roo, the Rooster. After looking all through the run (perhaps he was merely assumed to be in the Hen House when we left), I couldn’t find him nor see any evidence of his removal. A big mystery. Did he “fly the coop”? Or (hard to imagine) had he been stolen? (My mind jumped to the O.Henry story about the boy who was kidnapped and who finally wore out his captors...or something like that. You know, my literary memory fails me at times. But if someone stole Rusty, they’d be sorry too!)
Larry opined that perhaps Rusty’s disappearance was good news. (Men can be a bit judgmental when it comes to roosters.) After all, he reasoned, we have a young rooster, Little Bub, coming on. Little Bub has been found-out by his long, thick legs and locomotive action when he runs. And by his too voracious pecking at the feed in my hand. But Rusty Roo has too many “taliban” tendencies that load him with karmic debt. Just ask the Starlet, who still, after a month, suffers “post-traumatic, stress syndrome” from his previous, furious attack.
(Above, tail-less Little Bub, heir apparent....)
Mystified and worried, but in practical mode, to prepare for the week ahead, we strolled the city farm, assessing what crops would come on next and what beds could be prepared, and which implement was on which tractor, and what would the next two days of rain do to change the plans....
But as we passed on the back side of the run, my eyes were drawn to an impossible splash of color next to the grays and tans of the soil, tree trunks and junk. Rusty Roo!!! He looked dead, but I ran anyway, around the run to the Hen House, delicately side-stepping the young pullets, through three gates (unlatch and re-latch), and to his side, with Larry, trying to calm the maniac, feebly hollering, “Wait for me!”
Rusty was alive, his spur caught in a roll of old chicken wire, his leg twisted awfully. Apparently he’d hopped on top of the standing-up roll, to crow, and his weight tipped it over, and thus he was ensnared. For a long time. Ever since we’d left. For 30 hours at least.
It was a mouse-trap moment for Rusty Roo. A long time ago, 55 years at least, my first rooster, “Chicky,” turned mean, as roosters tend to do -- especially roosters with no hens. Chicky was a blue Easter chick, the only survivor in a trio of dyed rooster chicks. Having free range of our large yard, he grew up to attack us, the cause of his frustrations, as we hung out clothes; he chased my little sister’s friends away from us, but he also climbed our Chief-built wooden see-saw every morning to crow at the top and then ride it down to the ground. As is common with roosters, entertaining us in this way was his main good point.
One day, Chicky came up to me, with a very mild manner for once, and exhibited a mouse trap clamped onto one wattle. It must have been a horror for him and so he allowed me to remove it. In gratitude, the attacks on us stopped for a while. Of course, as he forgot the pain and my kindness, he launched a new wave. But that was finally enough, Chief (my dad) and Little Dove (my mom) decided to donate him to a farm. And so we did. And likely he became dinner, as I’m sure those farmers didn’t need another rooster either. Farmers seldom do.
So Rusty, who normally would not have allowed any close association with his self-appointed saintly body, stayed quiet as I placed my hands around him, turning him slightly, so that Larry could free his spur from the wires. His leg hung down weirdly as I carried him back to the Hen House. Placing him on the ground, I massaged his plump thigh and shank; the leg wasn’t broken. The nursing aides, “altruistic” members of his harem, circled around. One in particular, Rosy Red, paid close attention to his comb, pecking little dots off of it. Or something. I didn’t see anything on it, but a chicken’s eyes, in the daytime, are superior to mine for sure. At one point, she became a bit rough, so Rusty pecked her. Apparently, he still had it in him to discipline hens.
I
offered him feed in my hand and he eagerly ate it, but of course, so
did the nursing aides. At least they were up front about it and not
hiding behind the door with the patient’s tray, as sometimes happens in
human nursing homes....
(A rumpled Rusty Roo, with the very attentive Rosy Red at his side, watches the nursing aides clean up his tray.)
And this morning, his crow seemed sweeter than usual. We heard it before we got out of bed. Larry pronounced it good news for Rusty Roo, but bad news for Little Bub.
Rusty is up, but hobbling painfully, with his formerly glorious tail at half mast. He demonstrates no interest, amorous, corrective or threatening, to the hens, nor (thank you) to us. Perhaps the mouse-trap moment will last a while and he will assume a gentleness that will lead to world peace. Ha! We’ll see.....
Carol Ann Back