Our New Hired Hand, Maybe

We received a surprise on Thursday - a little addition to our family . . . maybe.

When I pulled into the driveway later Thursday night after work and was making the bend to turn into the garage, I noticed something unfamiliar sitting on the front steps of the house. At first glance, I screamed because I thought it appeared to be a wolf. Now, don’t go laughing at me and everything, imaging I was thinking I was Little Red Riding Hood or something (and “my, what big eyes you have . . . “) but from first glance it did appear to be that. Then as I got up alongside for a more accurate view, I noticed it was just a big dog. What actually, I thought, materialized seemed to be more like a cross between a collie (yes, Lassie) and a . . . wolf.

Now, I know that there have been wolves released out in our parts, so it isn’t my imagination going wild. He had a tan color and a longer-looking snout, so I don’t think I was that far off. Bob, on the other hand, would beg to differ. He thinks he looks like a cross between a collie and a coyote. (We have coyotes out and about around us, too).

Anywho, we thought it was our neighbor’s as they had been down the day before looking for their dog. Upon placing a phone call to them, it wasn’t though. Their dog had been killed, probably run over, and moved about eight miles away. All I can say is, shame on that person. Man up if you hit someone’s dog. If it is in the road and unavoidable, it is unavoidable. But if not . . . man up, and if you have a beef with someone, don’t be so petty and childish as to kill their animals. Man up! That aside, he didn’t know whom this dog belonged to either, but thought he might have seen it wandering around a few days before.

So back to “my” dog. He is kind of shy and we have determined that if no one comes to claim him, then we will (may) keep him as a farm dog. We have been in need of a farm dog. Someone to keep the racoons away from the silage bags and the possums and coons out of our garage. We have a door to the garage that is nailed shut as it is rotting and no good and we haven’t gotten around to replacing it yet (that and the garage door itself). The cats have pried back a corner at the bottom so they can crawl into the garage in the winter time. And we let them. Poor things. The only problem is, we now also have a resident possum that likes to sneak in there, too. And, let me tell you, this thing is not any small little timid possum. This sucker is huge. It is as big as some of the biggest racoons I have seen – and we have some big racoons around our parts. Them damn (pardon my french) raccoons have dug holes in our silage bags, made themselves at home in the silos and they seem impossible to get rid of. And we also have a three-legged racoon that keeps coming into the garage when the door is open. A dog could possibly do the trick.

But we don’t want a dog that is going to chase the cows. They do fine on their own walking out of the freestall barn up to the milking parlor. They don’t need any extra help. But someone to help watch over them would be nice, too. Hence, the problem. We need a trained hired hand. Someone who has been there, done that. Those are sometimes hard to find. But, Wolfie . . . (yes, I have already named him and what a catchy name it is, too! Don’t you agree?!!) . . . Wolfie may just fit the bill.

He seemed quite shy at first and not knowing where he was from or how wild or possibly dangerous he may be, I kept my distance the first night. This also meant that when I let Pongo out so that he could do his duty, I had to go, too, to stand watch. Pongo is a little shy about doing his duty, and rightfully so, and now he is having someone watch, let alone follow him around when he has a job to do. But, alas, he had to put up with his guardian angel doing just that.

Wolfie stepped off the front steps when we came out and he jumped down off to one side or the other, giving us space. I talked to him as I went out, keeping myself between him and Pongo. He shied away.

The next morning, Friday, he was still there. We put out a couple calls and no one seemed to know who he belonged to. Could be the Amish down the road, but they would certainly come looking for him if they had lost their dog. I wasn’t sure what to do about feeding him because, as Bob said, he may hang around if you do, and we weren’t sure just yet if we wanted him to “hang around.”

Later that morning, we picked up our taxes in Mt. Horeb, ran some errands in New Glarus, Monroe and Argyle, went out to lunch and returned home around 3:00. When we returned, Wolfie was still sitting on our front steps. I told Bob that I was a little worried that maybe he was hungry or hadn’t eaten for awhile because I had never seen his tail come up. He always had it tucked under his stomach – he either was scared, hungry or being defensive, or a combo of all three. But I couldn’t stand to see him hungry, so I made the decision then and there that I would feed him. I had to do a little cleaning of my fridge, but I was able to get some scraps together for him. I put them in an ice cream pail and set it out for Wolfie to decide if he liked what was on the menu at the O’Connor farm or if he was going to leave without a tip. I let him be, and a half hour later, I got my tip. I went out to check on him and he was plunked down on the mat in front of the door. When I opened the door, he jumped up but did not go far. I stepped out, talked to him a little and that is when I saw his tail come up and start to wag. I extended my hand out and, with a few nervous baby steps, he came over and licked my hand. Not that my hand wasn’t shaking a little bit anyway, just because I wasn’t sure if he was still hungry (his pail was empty) and I wasn’t really serving up hand for supper. But he licked my hand. How nice. I was pleased, he was pleased.

If he is going to stay, however, I have to make sure things are okay with him and Pongo. Anytime Pongo goes out, he is right there on top of him sniffing at him. Now Wolfie is about 4-5 times bigger than Pongo, so Pongo is not quite sure what to make of this. He sort of looks up at me like “whatcha got me into here, Momma?” I just tell him to do his duty and try to coax Wolfie away from him best I can. There have not been any fights yet, but then again Pongo hasn’t growled at him either. Pongo and Paris (Brady’s dog) haven’t come to a good understanding yet, either. Paris is young and spunky and all over Pongo because she wants to play. Pongo is old and grumpy and not in the mood when Paris is around. So, we have another hurdle to get over here, too, if . . . that is, IF, Wolfie stays.

And, there is also the thing about Bob. He hasn’t gotten close to Bob yet either. So he hasn’t been following him up to the barn or around the farm. He has been doing his exploring all on his own or following the cats around. Oh, yea, there is that, too. The cats are scared of him. Their tails fluff all out when he comes around. The first night there wasn’t a cat to be found anywhere, not even in the garage. I think they didn’t dare come out of their hiding spots to make the trek to the garage. Now they sashay along a little until they spot Wolfie and then they are streaks of fur heading to the nearest high spot of building. If Wolfie sees them, he trots to them. Unfortunately, for him the cats are long gone by the time he gets there. I’m not sure if he means them any harm or is curious. But if he hopes to call this place home, he has to get along with Pongo and the cats. Anything else is intolerable.

So, now, a couple days have gone by and he is still sitting on our front steps. We haven’t seen a possum or a coon in the last few days, so he must be auditioning for a job. He may have gone just a little bit overboard, though, but that is okay as long as you don’t get too close to Wolfie or at least pet him for too long. Yes, he must have chased a skunk away that second night, because Wolfie is not smelling very pretty these days. Bob has noticed more paw prints around the farm, too. It looks like he has ventured down by the freestall barn, but we have not heard any commotion, so maybe he is keeping watch over our flock (herd), too. He has now been getting real dog food and water so he seems content. And, he lets me pet him (when I can get past the smell).

Maybe he is looking for a home. Well, we are kind of a looking for a cheap hired hand; maybe he will do just fine.

Oh, and if you are wondering when I named him Wolfie – it was that second day he was here and he had cleaned up the food, wagged his tail and licked my hand. I thought Wolfie was appropriate because of his looks. Actually, I’m hoping that he is less of a wolf in sheep’s clothing and more of a sheep in wolf’s clothing. Oh, scratch that, I’m beginning to think he is looking less like a wolf and more like a Collie – more like a Lassie – I just need to put a little more meat on his bones.

That is, of course, if he proves that he is a trustworthy asset to our farm crew.

A Little Cow Poop Never Hurt Anyone

I wrote yesterday about the farmer’s plight with milk prices and the current unstable market. That just reminded me more and more about my love of the farm I have had since I was a child.

My siblings and I grew up on a farm that had been in our family for over a century. My younger sisters didn’t get to enjoy the “large” farm life as much as my older brother and I did. Family farm life has sort of gone by the wayside. There isn’t as much of a “whole” family on the farm any more as it used to be. Most farm wives/mothers have to work off the farm in order to supplement either income or health insurance.

Growing up on a farm has many pluses but it also means you learn a strong work ethic from the time you are little. My brother and I had to help hay from a young age and learned how to cut wood. We learned how to help milk, do chores, feed the farm animals and found out about the dangers of the farm, too. Our family was probably more over cautious than some, though. My dad was a Type I diabetic (since age 14) so everyone kept watch over him for diabetic reactions (“lows”). We called them sweats because, as I have now learned from my own experiences in being a Type I diabetic, that he would begin to sweat sometimes in more unusual places (arms, legs). That was a tell-tale sign along with slurring of words when the low got more advanced. My brother, Gary, and I would usually be asked to run and check on Daddy just to be sure everything was okay. That would sometimes mean jumping on our bikes to run out into the field. Safety on the farm is a must because of all the potential hidden dangers but when you add in another factor there becomes more of a heightened awareness.

Things on the farm, though, were not all work and no play. From a young age, Gary and I would ride our tricycles and, later on, bicycles in the barn, more so in the summer when the cows weren’t in the barn all the time. We always had one calf pen that was clean that we would play in. That pen would later be used as a “day care” pen of sorts when my sisters came along. Riding your bike in a barn is fun. You can zip up and down the barn alleyways and the driveway, but you always had to be mindful that there might be manure in the gutter and the trick is to play Evil Knievel and still avoid a tumble into there. Sometimes that doesn’t necessarily always work out.

When you are young, there is always a birthday party. For my 6th birthday, I had a party. I was all dressed up and while we were waiting for relatives and my friends to arrive, my brother and I decided to take our bikes for a ride on our “motocross” race track – the barn. We ran over our course a few times gaining speed as we went, zipping here and there. Then all of the sudden off the track I went, plunging into the gutter – and it wasn’t empty! I dove in headfirst and came out head-to-toe covered with manure and in my new birthday clothes, too!! Gary, in between fits of laughter, ran to get my mom. She came out of the house in time to see me waddling toward the house crying my heart out, all the while blaming my brother (whether he was guilty or not, we always blamed each other, just to make ourselves feel better!!).

This was the end of May and, luckily, the weather was nice because my mom saw only one way to handle the situation – the garden hose. She hosed me down and put me in the little shanty we had by the house. The shanty was where we stored our bikes, outside toys, gardening tools, etc., and sometimes it was our hideout and playroom. Today it was my changing room. I undressed in there and, after carefully searching my body for any stray gobs of manure, Mother wrapped me in a towel to take me into the house for a bubble bath and good cleansing. My dad had the duty of going to the barn to rescue my bike which was also covered with a little cow poop. He hosed that down in the milkhouse and it was good as new. By this time friends and relatives had begun to arrive to start my party without me.

After a thorough scrubbing, I was good to go again; to play, rump around the yard and get dirty again. It took awhile before the smell of manure was completely cleared from my smell, but then again, when you live on a farm you are used to that smell all the time.

There was a good lesson to be learned that day -- you need to be careful on the farm. But then again, if you are kid on a farm and you don’t get hurt doing something -- only a little dirty -- sometimes that lesson has to be learned a few times over and over. That would not be my last fall in the gutter, because racing in the barn on our bikes is a fun thing to do. When you are a kid and it is fun and, yes, even if you end up a little dirty, you will keep doing it again and again. You just learn to make sure that if you take that dip again, you keep your mouth shut!

Sad Day on the Farm: I've Lost a Snuggle Friend

We’re farmers. On farms you have cats. These are farm cats. Farm cats come and go; some are born on the farm; others are strays; some are dropped off at the farm. Every cat on our farm gets a name. As long as they are a nice cat, I get attached to them. It’s my nature. I can’t help it. In fact, the boys when they were younger got to a point that when a kitten was born, they wouldn’t give it a name at first until they knew they were going to survive. Otherwise, they thought they were jinxing their life. I lost one of my cats yesterday and it makes me sad.
　
The bottom line is: I love all my cats. Now, don’t get me wrong – I’m not one of those "cat ladies" where you will find 50 cats in their house. The cats stay out of the house. They hang in the barn, hay mow, shed, calf hutches, garage (if they can sneak in) when it is cold and when it is warm they hang around me when I am outside.
　
I have made one exception to the "no cats in the house" rule. Well, actually it was three - Pinky, Gizzy and Bootsy; sorry, correction, it was six – Gizzy had three kittens. Okay, now I’m sounding like a cat lady. Here’s the short version (but by now you know my stories aren’t short!).
　
A couple years ago late one summer, we got a semi-load of hay from Nebraska and after the semi-trailer left, Brady, who was getting ready to leave to play baseball, noticed a small orange ball over by the bales. It was a little kitten who was scared to death. He had the cutest, pinkest nose of which the color stuck out so prominently against the orange fur, that he was named Pinky (or more affectionately known as Pinkers). Brady picked him up and brought him over to the house. I was outside doing some yard work and watched as the other cats surrounded him and let him know that they weren’t the Welcome Wagon. Feeling sorry for him, I took him into the house and fed him some milk. I tried to put him outside and the other cats still were mean to him. Not allowing that kind of behavior to a new member of our family, I thought I would put him in the house for a while. Pongo, our dog, took to him right away; although for a while Pinky was scared of him. House kitten #1.
　
About two weeks later early on a Sunday morning, I was down at the park in town getting ready for a family reunion. It was a nasty, rainy morning. I had unpacked things, had to set up the coffee pot and then was going to run home to get the final things for the reunion. Rick, who oversees the park upkeep was walking around checking the things over when he and I both spotted a little Calico-colored kitten wandering in the rain closer to my picnic tables. The ones that I had just cleaned off and put nice cloth tablecloths on. I was afraid the kitten would climb on everything and leave little muddy paw prints. Rick said he thought the kitten looked lost. No other cats around, no mother crying out its name. Rick said why don’t you take it home; after some coaxing, I caved in. Rick grabbed a box out of my SUV and off the kitten went to find a new, dry home. I thought, great, I can leave her in the house with Pinky but I will be gone all afternoon and was a little afraid of what I would find when I got home. I unpacked the kitty, showed her the litter box (oh yea, I bought a litter box), the food and Pinky. Pongo sniffed and then his fatherly instincts (??!!) took over as they did with Pinky and he gave me the okay that she was okay to stay, too. Bob had his reservations about having Pinky in the house at first and now I was adding another to the mix. I left for the reunion and when we returned all was calm and the kittens were sleeping with Pongo keeping watch over his flock. House kitten #2.
　
Remember, I said that farm cats come and go. We had a momma cat that had kittens. All but one survived. They hung in the barn and ran around the cows feet and got stepped on and didn’t survive. All except Bootsy. Then Bootsy’s momma died. Bootsy would crawl up onto the water heater to snuggle since Momma and his sibs were gone. Bootsy got lots of attention from Bob in the barn and he started to get round and fat and grow out but not up. The cold Fall weather was setting in and Bob informed me Bootsy shouldn’t be hanging in the barn by himself anymore. Yep, you guessed it. House kitten #3.
　
So, now I had a whole array of colored cats in my house – Pinky was orange, Gizzy was Calico, and Bootsy was our farm-standard gray and white. All our farm cats at the moment were either gray/white or black. The kittens and Pongo became the best of friends. They would eat Pongo’s food, and he would eat their food. They would chase each other in circles between the rooms. First, Pongo would chase them all in a row; then, they would stop and turn around and chase Pongo. The kittens were growing fast. The three would snuggle up into one big colorful ball at night on a blanket. It slowly became a house divided – each with their favorites. Gizzy became mine because I had rescued her; Brady’s was Pinky since he had spotted him first; Bootsy, of course, was Bob’s since he was his little buddy in the barn; and, Pongo, the dog was Casey’s. Gizzy got bigger and would crawl up on our bed at night. When Casey wasn’t home, Pongo would slip into his spot under the covers by my legs. Gizzy would sneak up and curl up by my head; Bob got the other side of the bed that wasn’t taken over by the animals. How did we end up like this? We were never a house full of animals? Yes, when the boys were young they had gerbils (boy, that’s a whole other story!!); then Casey got a turtle and then two turtles. Then, we inherited Pongo (still another story). Now, I’ve got Pongo and three kittens slowly developing into cats.

Before Bootsy moved from the barn to the house, we had Pinky fixed and declawed. Gizzy just got declawed. They had to be as long as they were in the house - they were starting to scratch on the furniture. I kept telling myself this was going to be temporary. Yea, right. Then Gizzy started to get the itch!! Yes, boys and girls, we know what the itch means for a female....cat! She was in heat. Whenever she came into heat and if there was some testosterone around (the three men in my life) she would wrap herself around their legs doing the crazy little pole dance. No, it is not nice to see a desperate woman. The boys kept threatening me they were going to throw her outside so she could be entertained a little. Finally, I gave in and awhile later we had three little kittens. From the looks of it, Gizzy might have had fun with more than one of the farm boys because we had Grady who was a puffy soft gray, Sunny who was yellow and white and Midnight who was all black with a little sprinkling of white around the paws and his face. None of them looked alike but they were brothers true to the core. They were snugglers and didn’t want to be separated. They took after momma and loved to chase around with Pongo.
　
Finally, though, they all had to go outside. It was Spring and I had gone through a horrible Winter with Gizzy getting too ambitious. She started jumping up on my kitchen counters and then on top of the cabinets where over the holidays and winter I have my Village collection of houses and statutes. A lot of them ended up on the floor because she thought she could tiptoe through the winter gardens in my Village without disturbing anything. Gizzy made a good mother and the kittens stayed by her side wherever she went. Unfortunately, Grady ended up meeting a tragic death (he got tangled up in a basketball net that was laying on the ground and strangled himself). I found him and tried to quickly cut the net loose but it was too late. I bawled and bawled. That left Sunny and Midnight to snuggle with Gizzy but you could still see they missed Grady.
　
Gizzy had another batch of kittens this last summer or at least one kitten, Simba. Simba has made it so far through the Winter outside making his little nest in the shed on some straw bales. He is not as friendly yet as what Sunny and Midnight are, but he will need to come around now. Yesterday, Gizzy was run over. Bob found her late in the afternoon and thinks she was probably run over by one of the guys who stopped out to give us estimates on our barn and house roofs. Gizzy would sit on some bales of hay by the driveway and then when I (Bob or the boys) drove in, she would run along side the car. I would always stop when she did that because I was afraid I would run over her. I know I didn’t do it, and am glad because it was hard enough to take the news when Bob told me on the phone when I was coming home from work last night. He said do you want the bad news now or when you get home? I didn’t really want to hear it either time. I knew in my heart that this might happen. I never like it when any of our cats have run out of their nine lives; but that is life – it’s the cat life on the farm. I’m sad. I’m going to miss my friend, my snuggler. Simba, Midnight and Sunny are going to miss their momma. You and I both know mommas are hard to replace.

Now all we have is a farm full of boys. They and I both don’t have a snuggler – I have to find me another momma.