This was a long week and I was grateful to get to the weekend. A thaw and re-freeze turned the driveway into a luge run of glare ice. A later snow dropped two inches of fluffy powder on top, making it even more treacherous. Creeping down to the barn to check for lambs felt like an assignment from Mission: Impossible. Even walking the dogs on the icy lawn was frightening. DH stepped out of his car and took a major fall. Thankfully, he was only bruised.
My ewe Rose lambed Wednesday afternoon with twins. The ewe lamb was up on her feet bawling when I found them; the large ram lamb was still covered with the amniotic sac and barely lifted his head from the hay. I pulled them into the jug, scrubbed both dry with towels, and enticed Rose to join them. In his first hours the ram lamb was too stunned and slow to get the hang of nursing, but after a couple of feeds on a bottle to prime his engine, instinct kicked in and he began searching for his mother’s teat like a champion.
A week ago my black hen began to look droopy. During the day I kept her shut in the bull stall with food and water, so the geese couldn’t harass her. I thought the issue might be worms, so I wormed her. However she ate less and less. When I finally picked her up to tube-feed her, she was hardly more than feathers — and I felt a strange hard growth in her neck. That made the outlook seem hopeless, but it’s hard for me to give up. I tube-fed her three times a day for several days. Yesterday morning she was dead. I don’t know what killed her. It wasn’t “sour crop” (the growth was so hard it felt almost bony). My life in the barn is full of these mysteries. I buried her in the manure pile.
Yesterday a businessman from Vermont drove over and bought one of my two rams. Tag #16 is a pretty boy of Pixie’s, from the first set of twins born last year. He will have a good life in a flock of fifty ewes.
The buyer was friendly and obviously bright but had zero sense with chickens. He was entranced by Ambrose; he focused on him, crowded him, and then reached for him. (Was he thinking of cuddling my rooster?) Frightened, Ambrose raised his hackles and jumped at the buyer. I hurried us down the aisle to the rams. Ambrose followed us and struck at the legs of the buyer’s wife.
The only time I have ever had a rooster strike at anyone was years ago when Lucy at age seven or eight wore her snowsuit into the barn — swish, swish, swish! — terrifying my rooster Russell Crow. Ambrose had clearly decided these interlopers were a similar threat and was doing his best to drive them away.
The wife screamed. She was not hurt: Ambrose is only a teenager and his spurs (which can grow to two inches long) are still only nubs. But she was frightened. Apologizing profusely, I shooed Ambrose and his hens into the heifer stall and locked the gate.
I explained how I was always careful never to alarm my roosters because it is a rooster’s duty to defend his flock. Whenever I have to handle a hen and it is likely she will scream, I lock the rooster outside the barn, deal with the hen (who squawks bloody murder), then put her back on the ground and open the door. By the time the rooster races in to the rescue, the hen will be calmly adjusting her clothes; the rooster will look around in bewilderment for a moment and then forget the episode entirely. In this way I have had friendly roosters since 2002.
“Really?” said the wife. “We have to butcher our roosters every year.”
“Hmm,” I said, thinking to myself: No wonder, when your husband is a fool.
I know this is uncharitable, but it is hard for me to be patient when people blame animals for a situation they themselves have created.
Four ewes have lambed, four ewes to go.