The Three Chickens

A few days ago a friend brought over three Bantam's - two hens and a rooster - which I named after my Aunt Sandra and Uncle Charlie, with the third bird named after my Mom, Shirley. Charlie Boy, Sandra, and Shirley quickly settled right in, temporarily making the horse trailer their roost.

On the first morning, the trio ventured out, doing what chickens do, pecking, scratching, and clucking. Hubby decided to go check on the birds as they foraged on the edge of the woods. Three of the dogs joined him for the walk.

I missed the action, but from what I heard, Blondie was tenacious in her quest of the feathered fowl, sending the trio flapping for any tree limb, branch, or perch out of her reach. Charlie Boy took roost on a pencil-thin branch of a scraggly pine tree, Sandra found a sturdier roost on a fallen Oak branch, about two feet above the ground but nestled in the thick underbrush, and Shirley, well Shirley flew the coop so to speak.

The remaining two birds eventually settled down and went back to their chicken ways and the search for Shirley was on. Dozens of forages through the thick Southern brush on the back edge of our property was conducted through out the day. At times, I would stand there quietly hoping to hear the cluck cluck cluck of Shirley, but alas, Shirley was not to be seen or heard. Just like my mother, she was out doing her own thing.

On the second day, more searches for Shirley were done, but hope was getting dim of finding more than scattered feathers of her foray into the wild, wild jungle of southern Mississippi. Meanwhile, the other two feathered foul went on as if Shirley's disappearance was matter of course. Sandra, while scratching for food, absentmindedly wandered into the paddock area where Elliot had taken up post since their arrival, his head hung over the back door of the horse trailer, amusing himself watching the chickens.

So, here struts Sandra, her head down pecking at strands of hay, out between Elliot's front legs, not a clue of what she was getting into. That's when Elliot decided it was time to tap dance around Sandra, his head shaking, his front hooves raising up into the air before coming down around Sandra, who by this time was squawking and flapping, and trying to get away from the dance.

In the meantime, Charlie Boy, sensing the need to rescue his damsel in distress, gets sidetracked by Blondie and Ocho, who have decided chicken for lunch just might do the trick. Charlie Boy makes it to the roof of the trailer, as I scurry to round up Sandra, who is just plain mad now.

I toss the two fowl back into the trailer, shoo off the dogs, and take one more look for Shirley.

On Day Three of Shirley's departure, I hook E & E out front so I clean the barn and paddock area in light of a weather report to expect foul weather. (Yes, I used that word on purpose). As I pushed the wheelbarrow into the stall, lo and behold, in the rafters there perched Shirley, looking a little ragged with one, crooked tail feather left and a flopping crest.

Not to let her AWOL episode go without a climax, I find a long branch to poke her out from her roost, which is abut ten feet off the ground. After a brief chase around the paddock, with Blondie and Ocho back out to help in case I needed it, I manage to catch Shirley.

I carried her back to the horse trailer turned chicken coop, and toss her back in with Charlie Boy and Sandra. Charlie Boy, upon seeing the disheveled Shirley, decides to do the strut, (now I understand where the phrase cocky comes from), and begins pecking at her while doing this one wing dance around her. Not to be outdone or be brought back into submission, Shirley responds by pecking Sandra, and Sandra runs around like, well shall we say, a chicken without its head. Soon, though, the trio settle down and go back to all the pecking, scratching, and clucking chickens do.

I wonder how long it will be before Shirley goes out on the town again?

What a Difference a Week Makes

Often times I have used the phrase "What a difference a week makes," for many of life's little turns. But never has it had so much meaning as it does when it comes to Miss Celeste (who I call Ocho.)

When she came to live with me, she did not leave the doggie pillow I had placed on the closet floor for two days. If I tried to move her out into a room with me, even dragging along her pillow, she would scurry back to the safety of the walk-in closet. From her timid fetal position, she would look up at me with sad brown eyes, her tail barely moving.

Hubby says she has Lab in her, pointing out to me her color, her fur, but most notably, her tail.

She has begun to put on weight so that her hip bones no longer protrude an inch above her body, and her ribs have begun to fade behind a slim covering of fat. She is still lean, but no longer does she have that starving appearance.

By the fourth day she was entering the house without me having to pick her up and carry her in, and by the fifth, she was making attempts to play with Abel, our Border Collie. But even that was slow progress. Hubby was tossing a ball for Abel to fetch and when it would hit the ground, Ocho would bound toward it in a frenzy. Jim pointed out to me that she thought it was food hitting the ground, which makes sense since the majority of what she did get to eat in the past was more than likely scraps or hand outs tossed in her direction.

She now sees the ball as a game and eagerly follows Abel, at times beating him to it. She has yet to figure out how to catch the Frisbee though.

In one of the images, you will see Ocho bounding towards Abel, and in another, she is following behind Grinning Gus. The third image is one I took today. I promised myself I would photograph one thing a day in and around my property.

I will also write everyday. And in a week, I will see what other differences are happening in my life.

The Quirks of Barbed Wire

Tuesday

Barbed wire. A thin string of metal with small twists of sharper wire, some with two-prongs, some three, and others four. It is unforgiving to clothing, skin, and hair. But it keeps a curious horse wherever you want them kept. For over a century, this "Devil's Rope" has divided livestock, land, and people.

Barbed wire was first devised in 1867 when two different men, at different places, tried to construct a fencing other than smooth wire to contain their livestock. Neither were successful as one method was not practical and the other did not have the financial means.

A year later an Illinois man, Joseph Glidden found a more practical and less expensive way to manufacture a wire with barbs on it and the fencing of the West began.

But, by 1883 free range ranchers, trail drivers, and settlers became concerned this new fencing would stifle their way of livelihood, impeding passage of livestock and people. So opposed were the sides - those who wanted the fencing and those who did not - violence broke out and a war, the Fence Cutter War ensued. So fierce was the opposition to the "Devil's Rope", that legislation was eventually enacted to make cutting a fence line a felony.

Soon, though, the land ranchers won out, most notably those in Texas, and the fencing in of the West move forward with force.

Today there are over 570 patents of various barbed wire. Here in Carriere, I am using a two-prong heavy gauge barbed wire. To string the fencing, we set a six foot 4 by 4 in the ground after digging the hole with a post hole digger. Getting past the first eight inches of sand is the most difficult part of digging the hole, but once we reach the smooth red clay, tufts of soil are quickly pulled from the hole.

Then we position the Jeep with its winch about 15 feet from the post and walk the barbed wire, which is on a roll, from one post to the other where we hook a fence tightener onto the winch and thread the wire through it. Now, with its barbs, this wire tends to cling, viciously I must add, to everything - dog fur, skin, grass - so it takes a certain finesse, and leather gloves to handle the stuff.

Once everything is fastened, we carefully draw the winch in, one click at a time. We are careful on how tight we pull the wire - not enough tension and the wire will sag, even once fastened to T-posts; too much tension snaps the wire sending it in a free-throw frenzy - and then nail it with a wire nail, a horseshoe shaped metal nail, to the wooden post. Once that is done, the wire is cut to go back and start the next strand.

Since moving here, I have learned how to pass through strands of barbed wire, carefully tightening my body, and slipping through the strands, while also knowing how to stop in mid-slide and move back slightly to release snagged clothing, before slipping through. I have learned how to hold it, how to untangle it, how to roll up loose strands.

But, it still will get me once in a while leaving fingers sore, bloody legs, torn shirts. But, there is nothing like to stop a curious horse from getting out.

Earl is Feeling His Oats

10th November, 2008
Monday

Carriere, Mississippi

What do they mean by the saying "Feeling his oats"? What the saying means is to feel frisky or animated, to display self-importance.

Well, that was Earl yesterday. This is what happened.

I decided to finally put the hackamore on Elliot and get on his back again as he is now 19 months old. It was my second time on his back. Jim held onto his bridle while also giving me a leg up. But once I was on Elliot's back he didn't want to go anywhere. Jim went inside and got a carrot, hoping to entice Elliot into walking forward, but all El kept doing was turning his head back around and nosing my leg.

Deciding that I had been on him long enough and not wanting to push my luck, I dismounted, without Jim holding him, and decided we'd walk the perimeter of the pasture and have an easy training session.

Earl the donkey, watched as I walked out of the yard and into the pasture with Elliot. I figured he might follow, but usually that is the extent of his antics.

So off I go with Elliot and we practice walking, whoaing, and reining. Gus decides to join us and I think nothing of it as Gus does not bother the horse.

As I turn up along the fence line, I am enjoying my quiet time with Elliot, when my calm was interrupting with the barking of excited dogs. I glance up to see two of my neighbors dogs rushing toward the fence. They had gone under the barbed wire in the past, so I was nervous they would again and I would have some issues, if only minor ones, with Elliot.

They became the least of my worries when simultaneously, on the opposite side, I hear a deafening noise, like an mad elephant charging through the underbrush, and look up just in time to see Donkey crashing through the backyard brush in a full gallop, heading directly for the fence. Now remember, this is the same donkey the vet suggested I euthanize just a couple of months ago because his coffin bones had rotated and he was so lame and in so much pain until this farrier down here trimmed his hooves.

Gus, who had been just sniffing along the brush line, started to get frantic and so do I because Earl's new-found non-lameness has him doing more and one of those things is to try and chase down Blondie and Gus. Donkeys are known to be coyote killers, so being a dog killer is not a far toss.

At the same time, Elliot starts to whip around and snort and act a bit ditzy with all the craziness going on, all the while I am hanging onto him while also shouting to Gus to come, to trust in me, so I can protect him from Earl.

In the meantime, Donkey, spotting the neighbor's dogs on their side of the fence, still yapping in full steam, starts galloping up and down the fence line, head down, ears back, front hooves stomping, while also bellowing. I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall watching all this action.

Jim, who had been sitting in the rocking chair on the back porch saw the comotion unfolding, and commanding Blondie and Abel to stay at the house, came out to retrieve Gus, who had gone against all instincts, staying by my side in spite of Elliot twisting and turning and Earl bellowing and galloping, and hooving.

Jim hollered to me that I should start walking Elliot back towards the house once he had Gus protected and the neighbors dogs were on their own.

But even putting Elliot back in their pasture section was not enough to bring Earl back, so I hiked back into the pasture with a lead, but had to head toward the front of the pasture along the roadway, where Donkey had run. That damn donkey watched me as I approached him, making my way through the tall pasture grass, his head alert, ears up, nostrils flaring.

But, when I got within ten feet of him, he started to trot back toward the house. In the meantime, Jim had gone to stand by the pasture where Elliot was as he was running full speed, back and forth, barely stopping before coming into contact with the barbed wire fence.

Once in the yard, Earl let me approach him and walk him back to the pasture with Elliot.

After that chaotic workout, Jim and I sat down and had a drink.