Edith is a small, rather flighty chicken with well-groomed feathers and a small, bright comb that betray the fact that she probably is not a good layer.
She is also not too bright. She is not home oriented. She is a free spirit, a gadabout, a fifer from the coop. She spends as little time as possible in the hen house. She prefers the company of the calves and pigs in the barnyard.
All winter long, when the air was icy, the snow crunchy and the wind straight out of the Antarctic, we waited hand and foot on the livestock in the barn.
Twice a day we lifted 80-pound bales to fill their mangers with fragrant green hay. Twice a day we hauled grain and mixed grain and carefully measured it out in the dishes in their stalls. The dishes that had to be placed in just the right spot and washed at least once a week. Three times a day we carried water…warm water. Two buckets for each stall. One bucket delivered, one bucket taken out to be thawed.
Boswell may not be much of a name for a pig, but then Boswell isn’t much of a pig. He should be. His parentage is good. His body conformation is normal. His eyes are bright. His tail is tightly curled. He’s a fine looking pig — what there is of him.
my friend asked, expecting to hear about a restful cruise or a sightseeing tour.
I could have told her about my vacation, about the peaceful serenity of a country garden, about the excitement of threshing wheat, about the satisfaction of preparing for winter.
You merely set your clock forward one hour on Saturday night. And presto, you’ve changed from Daylight Saving to Standard Time. That’s all there is to it. It’s all between you and the clock.
But in the country it’s not that simple.
No one in the goat herd disputes the fact that Bono is top banana. As herd sire he has absolute authority over six does, the second string herd sire and a seasonably-flexible number or kids. No doubt about it. Bono is boss.
They recognize no standards of behavior, no rules of animal society, and no niceties of living. They chew with their mouths open, walk in their feed trough and wallow in their drinking water. Bonnie and Clyde are pigs in every sense of the word.
Clinton is home. He is isolated in the west pasture, surrounded by stout fence posts, strong wire and a securely fastened gate. What’s more, he is going to stay there until we get the new fences up in his favorite meadow by the pond.
Clinton is a yearling calf, a lumbering, lovable steer with one horn, a penchant for teasing goats and the most angelic expression in the barnyard.
For more than two years Old Sir has ruled the roost in our chicken house. He has absolute no-back-talk authority over 20 old hens, 30 young hems and two young upstart roosters. He rules his domain, no question about it.
But there was it time when Sir himself was a young upstart. There was it time when he had a squeaky, unsure crow and half-formed spurs. A time when he was fighting to be top rooster.
All you have to say is something like: “Tell me, do they ever eat anything besides tin cans and garbage?”
Especially if I have just paid for another 100 pounds of very expensive grain mixture. Especially if I have just thrown away another 75-cent bale of hay because it just wasn’t quite the kind they prefer.
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
