Madcap Monday -- Roll call

Animals have always played a central role in our homesteading adventure. We moved to the farm in July and by our first Christmas we were home to a motley crew of creatures including chickens, goats, donkeys, barn cats and a horse. Since then we've added more chickens, ducks, more cats and, most recently, the bees.

While I'm thinking about raising a couple of heritage breed pigs this year and one day I'd love to tend a small flock of wool sheep, for now we share our lives with:

• one horse
• two donkeys
• two colonies of bees (a bear destroyed the third one)
• three indoor cats
• four barn cats
• four goats
• five ducks
• 15 chickens
• And two dogs

Wait a minute... TWO dogs? Yes, Henry finally has a long-awaited companion -- a friend with whom he can chase wild turkeys, bark at the donkeys, roll in dead things and snooze by the fire.


This is Annie.



When we adopted her in October, the pound said she's a black lab/collie cross, approximately six months old, but we think she has a bit of greyhound in her too. The squirrels think so too.


She's ridiculous...

... and a handful...


... and Henry adores her. Even when she hogs his bed and snores like a foghorn.

She farts, too.

Madcap Monday -- duck daycare

The ducklings are getting too big for their brood cage (and my office!) so I put them outside to acclimatize while I figure out where to move them to. No sooner had I turned my back to go into the house to get their water when I heard movement behind me -- it was Henry, the Mother Hen... or is that Mother Duck?

Henry wouldn't even look at me while I tried to take his picture (I used the zoom lens to capture the first photo). I think he's trying to maintain some sense of dignity and decorum after getting caught fraternizing with the ducklings.

I don't think it's working.

Am I supposed to herd these?

New life for old socks

You know when you experience those lightning strikes of sheer brilliance, when you think to yourself, "why didn't I think of that before?" and you've just got to share it? I'm having one of those (rare) awe-inspiring "man do I rock!" moments.

I've discovered a new use for old socks.

I'm all about sewing and darning old socks, but there comes a time when there's just not enough material left to darn. My husband and son wear the heels and toes through sports socks in no time; I even have a basket in the cellar relegated to discarded and mismatched socks.


I've found they're handy for rags and crafting, but I'd never thought of their use as a veterinary aide.

It started this morning as I stepped through the barnyard gate after finishing my chores. I noticed Henry lying nearby licking his foot, but as he's taken to collecting sticky ice chunks between his toes, I thought he was simply removing them. Then I noticed the blood-stained snow. Turns out he'd ripped open the carpal pad (the one on the back of his leg, above the paw). The bleeding had stopped, but being a dog, he wouldn't leave it alone.

I brought him inside, cleaned the wound and wrapped it with some gauze. He sat there, ears pressed against the sides of his head, holding his paw up in front of him like a lady waiting to have her hand kissed. I don't think it was the pain that wounded him -- it was the indignity of being subjected to this kind of swaddling.

I settled in my office to get some work and Henry joined me at his post -- the rug behind my desk. Then I heard it: the slurping, licking, sloppy sound of his massive dog tongue working away at the gauze.


I started thinking of all the ways I could secure the gauze, just long enough for the pad to seal and begin healing: Packing tape? Too crinkly. Duct tape? Too sticky. Surgical tape? Yes, of course... but we're out.

Then it came to me: a doggie sock/leg warmer.

I grabbed one of Jack's old sports socks, cut the leg off and slipped it over the gauze. It worked perfectly. It secured the gauze and stopped him from licking.

Henry was none too impressed. Not only was he now wearing human clothes, but I'd taken away his sloppy yucky pastime.


That's his "you've got to be kidding me" look.

It could be worse: At least the sock doesn't have rainbows or fairies or heaven forbid, cats on it.

Just wait 'til the next time he goes outside and I put the plastic baggie over his paw. I just hope the donkeys don't laugh at him.

Ed. update: Six hours later, Henry needs a bigger sock.

Morning barn madness

Farmers are early risers for a good reason.

There's lots to do, especially when you've got animals.

Thankfully, many hands make light work and the kids have taken to helping me with the barn chores (they actually look forward to the visit -- most mornings.)

So here's a peek at our post-breakfast routine:

1.) Feed equines. Gallagher first, donkeys next.

Yes, Gall is our biggest animal but feeding him first has more to do with managing herd dynamics than his size: If we don't give him his grain first, he gets all snooty and pushes the donkeys out of the run-in (he's the alpha so he has to eat first in the name of "protecting" the donkeys). Hay in the summer? What about grazing, you may ask. We also have a paddock roped off in the larger hayfield but it's so buggy out there right now, the equines stay pretty close to the barn during the day. While we're still trying to get some weight on Gall, the donkeys certainly don't need any help there. But it's either we feed them hay or they eat the barn. No kidding.

Gentle boy


We think Cinder was looking for the self-serve buffet.

Lee too. He's got to work on his stealth skills though (note that donkeys are not allowed in this part of the barn.)

Putting those muscles to work.

Breakfast, finally.

2.) Release ducks.

The ducks are free range during the day but we house them in a converted goat stall at night. Once the donkeys are munching on their hay, there's a clear passage from the barn to the duck/goat yard where they've got their water and paddling pool.

Once (if?) we get our hay cut, they'll be able to access the ponds where they can paddle at will (the Rouens at least. The Muscovies aren't too sold on this whole swimming thing. They prefer flapping, perching and sleeping. And squeaking once in a while (they can't quack, though they do try so hard.))

Peeking duck

Getting ready for the big release


Paddle pool or bust!

Testing out the wings (the Rouens prefer the feet)


Upside-down duck limbo

Like a duck to water

3.) Release chickens.

We've got 30 "babies" (they're three months old now -- I'll get around to posting about their arrival soon) in addition to our nine laying hens (we lost one Red in the spring.) We keep them inside the barn during the night but let them out first thing in the morning. We've got a poultry "yard" made with chicken wire and snow fencing (so classy) but the chickens use that perimeter as a loose guideline. They're usually roaming around the barnyard, scratching in equine poop (of which there is a lot of ), picking at weeds (of which there are also a lot of) or catching bugs (ditto for lots of those).

Chicken run

On their way...

Strike a pose

Henry really needs some sheep or something. The chickens just didn't want to be herded.

We have proper nesting boxes but the chickens have taken to laying in a secret nest among the straw bales.

4.) Feed and water goats.

We've been keeping the goats inside lately because Lucy, who we suspect is pregnant (yes, us greenhorn farmers didn't realize that a buck could be so 'fruitful' at such a young age. We've fixed the problem (okay, we fixed Sammy) but we're left with the prospect of a goat kid (or kids, it's hard to tell) sometime in August) likes staying close to home during the day (who knew goats could get barn sour?). Sammy likes staying close to Lucy (though he also loves tearing around the barnyard terrorizing the sumac.)

Lucy (behind) and Sammy on goat mountain.

Getting in to her work

More muscle power (That look means, "Come ON mum, this water bucket is heavy!")

The nighttime routine is pretty much the same (but in reverse) except we also feed the chickens and ducks and collect eggs. The ducks usually return to their pen on their own around 6:00 pm and the chickens come in for the night at dusk. Of course there's also cleaning, sweeping, fixing, grooming, picking feet, refilling feed bins, stacking hay, etc. (And we're only hobby farmers at this point -- just wait until we get our 'working' animals!)

It's a lot of work but it's worth it, especially when I've got my farm hands to help.

Blogging at GRIT

Just a quick note to let you know that I'm now blogging at GRIT.com. Once a week, I'll be writing about our latest adventures here on the farm.

I'm really excited about it and I'm actually pretty humbled too -- that someone there thinks we've got a story worth sharing.

(I hope I haven't come off like a braggart or anything as I'm quite new at this self-promotion thing. I'm generally terrible at publicizing my work even though it's not a very useful quality when you freelance for a living.)

If you haven't discovered GRIT already, I highly recommend it -- online or in print. You'll find tons of amazing stuff on everything related to rural living and simply celebrating country life.

And as you can see by the above screen shot, the folks there obviously have impeccable taste on what it takes to be a great "cover model."

Yep, that's our Henry!

Goat + dog + donkeys = trouble

There's been a change of plans here at Rowangarth Farm, but we're learning that's just a part of farm life. While some of you may have been expecting Billy's homecoming story, I'm here to tell you about another homecoming: this one's about Oscar, a wether Pygmy goat.

When we finally decided to buy Billy from the lady with the chickens, we thought we'd get him a goat companion -- Oscar, a three-year-old wether (another successful Kijiji find.) A wether, or castrated male, could keep Billy company while he was off-limits to our future girl goats. Being a wether, he wouldn't share any of Billy's less appealing buck-like qualities either.

Right off the bat, I knew Oscar and I would get along. When I first walked over to the gate by his pen, he jumped up on a bale of hay, bleated a goat-like 'hello', waited patiently for a treat and then bowed his head for a behind-the-ears rub. He was like a big puppy. With horns.

The dog crate that I brought to transport him home was laughably small (I didn't factor in the horns... or the round belly -- it's true that pygmy goats resemble a beer keg with legs) so Oscar had the whole back of the pick-up cab to himself. He didn't seem to mind too much: he spent the hour-long drive home alternating between lying down and watching traffic out the back window.

We got home, unloaded him off the truck and after some creative coaxing (made easier by the removal of the donkeys and the dog who crowded at the gate, resembling a farm animal receiving line) we showed him to his new pen in the barn. He was pretty shook up but as soon as he found his manger full of hay, he made himself right at home.

Day one with the goat, and all is well. Then came day two.

On Tuesday morning, we considered introducing Oscar to the donkeys. Once we saw the look of sheer terror on the goat's face (mind you, it was a fleeting look of terror -- we got a better look at his back-end as he ran away) we decided to keep the two species separate for a while longer. The donkeys went into the back paddock on Sumac Hill and the goat had the run of the barnyard.

As I did my morning farm chores, Oscar was quite happy following me around, bleating loudly and rubbing up to me for head scratching (especially around his horns.) Whenever I left his side, he'd run after me, wagging his tail and ringing his bell. (Yes, the goat wears a cow bell). Just like a puppy, indeed.

Morning of day two with the goat, and all is well. Then we introduced the dog.

Henry is a herding dog in desperate need of a flock of sheep. So desperate, that he's decided to practice on the goat.

While Henry has developed a healthy respect for the donkeys, given that they're three times his size and they can hoof him in the chest and throw him six feet, it seems that Oscar, being of similar size and colouring, is fair game.

We first let Henry into the barn to meet Oscar when he was still in his pen. We thought a good solid four-foot wall between them would facilitate their introduction. They sniffed, they inspected and then Oscar ran away. Henry proceeded to bark at him. Not a good start.

So we shooed the dog out of the barn and let Oscar out of his pen. He came happily trotting out into the barnyard -- until he saw Henry. Being more of a domesticated goat than of the livestock variety, he bolted over to my side, looking for protection. Of course this put Henry's nose out of joint: Oscar was obviously getting too cosy for Henry's liking.

But Henry's a good-natured dog, so instead of growling and getting aggressive, he decided to play a game: let's herd the goat. The more Henry chased, herded and barked, the more Oscar head-butted, reared on his back legs and hid behind me.

At one point, the two of them were chasing each other in a circle with me planted in the middle. Thankfully, I avoided being impaled with a horn or being knocked down by a misguided dog.

We sent Henry back to the house, put Oscar back in his pen and let the donkeys back into the barnyard.

End of day two with the goat, and all is well. Kind of.

Day three arrived. Oscar seemed to have settled in nicely to barnyard life. The donkeys were happily ensconced in the back paddock and Henry was forced to keep a safe distance (most often, in the house.)

While Leeroy spent a better part of the morning watching Oscar over the gate, Cinder seemed pretty blase about the prospect of another barnyard companion.

Oscar didn't shake uncontrollably anymore when he saw the donkeys (in fact, he poked his nose through the gate to see them), so we thought, maybe it was time to bring them all together.

Cinder happily inspected the new addition, in a 'let-me-sniff-you-you're-cute-stay-away-from-my-hay' kinda way.

Leeroy, on the other hand, put on a dominant male, 'I'm-the-boss-let-me-squish-you-like-a-bug' attitude.

In retrospect, we're wondering if it was a wise idea to introduce Leeroy to anybody while Cinder is in heat (that's our explanation, at least, for the two of them doing the double-decker-donkey-salsa across the back paddock all morning.)

Cinder tried to intervene in Leeroy's nonsense -- but he was on a mission: To see how far he could punt the goat off his forehead. He chased him down, bit him on the rump and sent him cartwheeling across the barnyard.

I screamed an obscenity (or two), ran to the barn door and gave Oscar his escape route back to the safety of his pen while Lucas acted as a human barricade. A quick once-over revealed no injuries, save for a bruised ego and a big scare, which was somewhat assuaged by a handful of cracked corn.

My heart raced, my stomach turned and I thought, "What the hell have I gotten us into now?" One of the donkeys that we got for predator protection is beating up the first member of our future goat herd. This can't be good.

When I went outside to berate Leeroy, he was calmly standing in the barnyard, like nothing happened. He nuzzled up for an ear and face rub, a privilege that only I have earned, so far. I draped my arm over his pudgy neck and he relaxed into me, as if to reassure me that he wasn't really nasty.

I had to remind myself that he wasn't used to small animals, particularly ones with horns, and he'd spent years being bullied by a dominant horse at his old farm. At that moment, Lee redeemed himself -- in my eyes, at least.

I'm still optimistic that one day, the donkeys will keep an eye on the other barnyard animals. It just may take a while to convince Oscar of the same.

UPDATE: Turns out that Billy's family has decided to keep him so they can breed him in the spring. That's OK. I think we've got our hands full with the chickens, donkeys, the dog and the goat. And we still have to bring home our rescue horse this weekend. But that's a whole other story.

From puppies to pygmies

Just over a year ago, we were faced with a big family decision: should we, or should we not, get a dog.

We'd been thinking about it for some time but then one day, on an unexpected drop-in at the pet store with my kids, I saw him: a six-week-old red Australian Shepherd with the most soulful blue eyes I'd ever seen. He was the runt and I thought he was gorgeous. I fell for him instantly (and I'm not usually the kind of person to go all weak in the knees over a puppy. Really, I'm not!)

Now I'd never even considered buying a dog from a pet store -- I'd heard too many horror stories about puppy mills and I knew there were many rescue dogs waiting to be adopted -- but when I asked the store owner where the pups came from, she explained she was brokering them for a breeder and this was the last batch. That was good enough for me. A pet store was no place for an Australian Shepherd, I reasoned, and he became the rescue pup I'd always wanted. And I knew just the perfect place for him.



I didn't walk out with him right then and there. A good heaping of common sense (coupled with a hefty price tag) persuaded me to go home and talk it over with my, often more sensible, other half. We had lots to figure out -- was he the 'right' breed, would he be good with the kids, would we be able to afford it, could we provide him with a good life?

We did our research, made our decision and today, we're not only the owner of the above-mentioned puppy (who has a wonderful life here at the farm, thank you very much... except when he's gallivanting after wild turkeys), but two kittens, 10 chickens and a couple of donkeys. (Seems kinda silly now that we were so stressed out over a dog.)

So what does this walk down memory lane have to do with our farm? Well, we're once again faced with an equally perplexing decision over a prospective four-legged addition to our family.

I'm talking about Billy: a six-month old Pygmy goat.

The lady who sold us the chickens emailed me because she's selling her Pygmy goat and she wondered if I'd be interested. She started out with three Pygmy goats -- two females and a male (Billy) as her intention was to breed them. But then she traded the two girls for a pony (that's just how things work out here in the country), effectively firing Billy from his job as a fully-fledged, unaltered boy goat.

Intact males like Billy have a reputation for being aggressive and stinky, especially during breeding season. But apparently, there are exceptions and so far, Billy is neither of these things.

He loves hanging out with the chicken lady's donkey, pony, geese and ducks. He plays with her children, comes running when you call his name and his favourite snacks are apples and sumac, both of which we have in abundance.

But a goat?

Pygmy goats, being one of two breeds of miniature goats (the other is a Nigerian Dwarf), require less space, less food and have smaller housing needs than their full-sized cousins. We thought that if we found ourselves a girl Pygmy goat (a doe), we could make more Pygmy goats and eventually (we're finally getting to the homesteading part here), our own goats milk and cheese.

Minis produce about 600 pounds (or 300 quarts) of sweet-tasting milk a year, about one-third the amount you'd get from a full-sized dairy goat (but enough for homesteaders like us, just trying to figure out this whole farming thing.) While a Pygmy is stockier than a Dwarf, a true dairy breed, they produce about the same amount of milk, so I'm told.

By starting off with Pygmies, we thought we could get some experience before trying to raise a full-sized, more demanding, possibly registered (and therefore pricier) dairy breed. It's kind of like buying a starter home and then buying your way up in size. OK, I did say kind of.

I admit it: I love the idea of mini goats scampering around the barnyard under the watchful eye of the two donkeys. Their presence might even increase our credibility with the neighbours who, upon asking us why we had donkeys ("For small-flock predator protection," we replied) looked on in amusement at our otherwise empty barnyard.

It's easy to get caught up in dreams about the pitter-patter of little hooves, but additional animals mean more money and more daily farm chores. We're not running a petting zoo here and if we got Billy, we'd be taking our first step towards breeding and all its associated responsibilities.

So once again, we're faced with a decision: will we or won't we. And again, we've got lots to figure out -- are we getting in over our heads, is this just a case of farm fever brought on by cute miniature animals, what if Billy gets smelly and/or aggressive, what do we know about raising goats, let alone breeding them or even milking one?

But this farming life is all about uncertainties, isn't it. There are no absolutes to the weather or growing things or tending animals. Keeping dairy goats has always been part of our homestead plan: the opportunity just presented itself sooner, and perhaps smaller, than we originally expected.

We've done our research and asked intelligent questions. And we've clearly made good decisions before. So, maybe it's time to get my nose out of the books and into the barnyard, whether it's stinky or not.