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Description
Hello love,

This week, a lot has happened. But not really much of anything. We burned a lot of the deadfall. Used some old receipts and documents as kindling along with other worn out boxes. Got a good fire going. Lasted a few hours. Put a hole in my sleeve with an ember that flew. I used a metal tentpole to work the fire. My brother believes me now when I say the elements work funny around me.

See, the fire was going pretty good, and I was going around it, stirring up the ashes below and moving ash off the top. You know, trying to keep it going without having to add fuel constantly. And I'd stand in a place for a moment, and the wind would change and I'd be forced to move because the smoke was in my face. So I'd move to another spot for a moment, and the wind would change and blow smoke in my face.

"It's chasing me," I told him. And he said that that was ridiculous, so I walked a half-circle slowly around the fire and the smoke chased me the entire way. Then I reversed direction and the smoke did too, from the same position. He laughed, so I stood with him between me and the fire. He'd hurt his ankle falling out of a tree the day before, so he wasn't going anywhere. So I went back to tending the fire and being chased after he sputtered for a bit.

The rooster was having none of the fire. He was stalking around, watching it. He'd crow at it and threaten it, but he wouldn't come near. After a little while, whenever he'd crow, I'd crow over him. Which confused him at first, then he took it as a challenge and charged at me once. But I was way too close to the fire. Even if there hadn't been the fire, he'd have flagged before he got to me. As it was, he stopped about halfway from where he'd been pacing and panted a bit before remembering what he'd been doing and crowed again. Which I echoed. He puffed up, but didn't come any closer.

The hens, though, seeing that Cookie hadn't been lit up—That's the rooster's name, mind. Cookie Monster. He came that way, we didn't name him.—seeing that Cookie hadn't been lit up, the hens moved in and started pecking closer to the fire. They're still about fifteen or so feet out, but apparently it's too hot for them, their being female and not liking extreme heat or cold. Or maybe it's that they see their futures in the flames. After all, something like nine million of their brethren die daily in the US to satiate our hunger. But they were too hot so, instead of moving away from the fire, they scratched a hole in the ground and laid down in it and threw dust on their backs and grumbled, as hens do, to each other for a bit. Then they forgot they were hot and started wandering around to look for more to eat while the rooster and I continue to argue like neighbors feuding across a fence.

Eventually, we let the fire die down and spend fifteen minutes drowning the fire pit to make sure it won't pick back up or shoot a spark once we walk away but, sure as water's wet, as soon as we walk away it starts raining just in case.

A couple days later, or maybe a couple before, we had to move the sheep's pasture. And we had to move them across the driveway, so it took some doing. We've got them surrounded by six electric fence sections of various colors, sizes, and heights, and have to move those fences without losing—or loosing—the sheep. So we took a seventh and made a small corral with it and chased them into it. Then we pulled up the other fences and made the pasture on the other side. Easy.

Except the lambs didn't get with the program at all. We'd set up the corral so that it could be opened across the driveway to let the sheep into the new pasture without risking them slipping past us down into the road or up the driveway to the house. This, by necessity, made it so that in order to get the sheep to pass into the corral for temporary holding, they had to pass under an upraised length of fence. One of the girls was in the corral with some grain in a can and a bucket with some too, and when we opened the pasture and tried to lead the sheep into the corral, the ewes and yearlings charged in without hesitation. Fresh grass and grain? No question that's a good idea.

But we had a little roving pack of lambs, and those five were not interested in being herded in with their mothers. The little marauders went right up to the edge of the corral, then turned tail and ran in the opposite direction. So I had to run after them and try to rally them back to the corral. When I got close, they scattered pell-mell and regrouped around their leader somewhere else. Their leader, the dastard, was one of the firstborn males, and larger than the females following him around. Eventually, we got them up near the corral in ones and twos where they could be nabbed and tossed unceremoniously into their pen, where they awaited trial for their mischiefs.

We got the fence down, and put it up so it would open opposite the corral so it was easier to let the sheep into the new pasture, then stretched out alongside the road and down toward the house. But this is the section where the garden is, so we had to find a work-around for that. We don't want the sheep walking over the garden or the compost patch, but we want them clearing the grass around them. So we got some extra posts and put them at corners and made a big U surrounding the garden so there was room for the sheep to eat the grass, but the garden would remain unmolested and accessible to ma or grandma if they wanted to go up and start working on it. And we put the fence gate right there next to the garden so they could get into the pasture in the same area.

The solar charger we use to power the fence was taken from the goat's pen and attached to the gate so it could be turned off when they went in, too. Before that, they'd still been attached to the charger by the chicken coop that's attached to the power from the house, as they had been all winter, being kept close to the house so it was easier to feed them with them nearby. But that's too far away, now, and the goat doesn't seem to care whether his pen's electrified or not; he'll jump it or push through a gap if he finds one one way or another. So we've got one of the taller fences around him with a few extra posts holding them up so he can't hop over and pallets at the ends of the fence and he hasn't escaped in a week or so. So that's pretty good.

We had to move the shelter from the old pasture to the new pasture, so it must've been before Luke hurt his ankle, because he helped me move the thing. Which we did after we'd dropped the fences, but before we put them back up, because it's a pain to lift a wooden framed garage-sized tent up to waist height and wander with it for any period of time anyway. No need to add the acrobatics of climbing over a loose mesh wall to the act. Especially since we already had to dodge around the trees that line the driveway. And isn't it just ever so much fun to get a tent stuck up in a tree! That's less of a problem with the apple trees along the driveway, though. It's more trouble down on the other side with the wall of pines. There's a gap that should be large enough, and we've dropped branches enough that we should be able to just go right on through. But those trees are spiteful and are always finding ways to move older branches into the way or to sprout new ones in just the wrong places.

But we got the shelter moved without too much trouble this time, all things considered. Except we almost forgot to put the stakes in to anchor it, and that would've been a mess. The girls got the sheep's minerals and baking soda refilled after we moved them, too. Which was good, because they had run out.

And then we let the sheep out of the corral—which had already been munched down to next to nothing in the hour or so it took us to cycle pastures—and they ran hell for leather into the new pasture, practically trampling each other in the process. You'd think they'd never eaten before, they were so excited. And the marauders took up the rear, hesitant to leave the corral once they'd decided it was safe. Of course, once they got into the new pasture, they were dancing and skipping around, nibbling here and there and playing and exploring their new domain.

The goat. We've had him down in his shed by himself since around when we studded the sheep, a little before we settled them in their winter pasture. He's been the tyrant of that area ever since. When we moved the guineas into the stall next to his, we surrounded their entrance along with his, thinking to keep them inside it, too. But guineas are stupid and small enough to go through the fence and able to fly enough to go over it to get out. Not so much to get back in because, again, they're stupid.

But he—the goat—goes in and out of his shed, and we wintered him down there, locking him in at night and haying him out next to his shelter in the morning. And every once in a while, we had to pull him out of the guinea's gate because he'd stick his head into it and get himself stuck. Though God alone knows why he'd stick his head in there. The stink of bird shit and molted feathers is enough to make some people regret eating meat at all, I'd wager. Not me obviously, but some people. And him being mostly vegetarian, it can't be more appealing to him. But he's a goat, spiteful and curious, and he saw the guineas going in and out there, so he had to do the same.

Now, we've stopped surrounding the guineas' entrance and I really don't think they've noticed the difference. Except they've been going into their shelter more readily at night, now. Where it used to be that four or five of them couldn't figure out how to get back in and would perch on the roof of the shelter instead of inside of it because the fence was in the way—Forget the fact that they were, being on the roof, on the right side of the fence. If they flew back down, the fence would be in the way again. Stupid.—or laying across from the entrance on the other side of the fence, staring at the entrance until we came down and put them away for the night. And they knew they could get through the fence, because they would do it to get at food all the time. So maybe they're also lazy.

And the goat, of course, we've been moving his fence around. Just reshaping it so he's got new grass but can still get to his water in the shed whenever he wants it. We move it while he's locked up so he sees it different when he's let out. And he steps out of the shed, surveys his kingdom, and struts peacock-proud to his new dining area.

We picked up some new guineas and some new chicks either early this week or late last week. The guineas are full-grown, and we've got them in a separate caged area so they'll acclimate to being here and won't run off. One of the old guineas is convinced she should be in with them, though, and runs around and around their cage all day like she's one of them and can't figure out why she can't get to them. They, for their part, just squawk and screech and complain about how horribly put upon they are, being caged and pursued by a crazy bird who's harrying them in their captivity.

The chicks go into the duck's shelter during the day. Which has created the problem that we don't know anymore where the ducks are laying their eggs. But they still come back to their shelter at night after we've removed the chicks. So that, at least, is good. The duck shelter is right next to the chicken coop, so the hens and the rooster are getting used to the chicks as the chicks grow accustomed to being alive. They're past the fluffy, downy stage by now, but they're still small enough that we take them indoors at night to keep them out of the cold. And so the ducks can sleep in their home.

We tried to move the ducks over to be with the sheep today, since they like to eat snails and other things that the sheep don't like to eat, and they enjoy the flies around the sheep's leavings pretty well too, so they liked when we opened the sheep's winter pasture up to them so they could feast there. But they didn't want anything to do with the sheep's new pasture for whatever reason, and scurried through the fence and off down to hide behind and under my car, where we can't get them easily. So we've left them to it.

Other than that, the ducks and chickens now have full run of the property, and have been taking full advantage of this freedom to run around getting fat. Their shelters are still mostly surrounded by the electric fence, and it's turned on and closed at night as added protection. But during the day, they're free to run loose as they see fit, same as the guineas, but not so stupid. And considering how stupid chickens are, it's amazing that guineas are more stupid, yet still able to breed. The ducks are, relatively speaking, geniuses.

Cookie tried to give them hell when they were younger, but after mating season, when the male duck mounted Cookie and tried to rut with him, the rooster's been substantially more cautious. Sure, the chickens have beaks and claws. But the ducks have the brains to be a bit more tactical and gang up guerrilla-style when attacking. And they're willing to go places the chickens just aren't. The guineas are just a swarm with a hive mind. Attacking one alerts them all, and they all descend like the chickens in the Zelda games.

The last thing we did was weigh the lambs yesterday. Just monitoring them to be sure they're getting up to healthy weights. Which they are, now. The problem is that they're not all that trusting of us when we try to catch them. So there's four of us chasing them around—Luke on crutches—and we're running around trying to get one particular lamb or another. And we finally catch one and have to carry it over to where it's getting weighed.

But lo and behold, the triplets and their eternal companion, Seven(Yes, that's a name, Seven. I don't remember who named her.) are in the shelter by the scale, trying to get attention for themselves. They would be more than happy to be weighed or held or fed and are more than happy to bounce off of legs until someone will pick them up and feed them.

The triplets, you'll remember, had to be kept in the house when they were first born because their mother took ill from birthing them. So they've been bottle-fed a few times daily since they were born. This has made them quite affectionate toward humans and more willing to be touched, held, etcetera. Which, of course, makes them easy to weigh, but makes weighing the other lambs more difficult with them under foot.

So we're down to the last lamb needing to be caught. And she's entirely unwilling to be caught or cornered. We finally snagged her mother down in the narrow bit of pasture on the other side of the garden, so dad and ma are holding her still, keeping her calm, and Luke's blocking one section of the egress into the larger pastureland, but the lamb slips out past him, so I have to go chasing after her through the wide area alone. And that lamb did everything she could to keep away from me. Hiding among the other sheep. Slipping under a ewe and out the other side—which I hadn't expected to see. Sheep are supposed to be stupid. Dodging into the shelter and back out behind another lamb when I was out of sight. But eventually, I was able to steer her back into the narrow strip.

And she kept trying to get out, but I got the crook—shepherd's staff with the hook on the top—and used it like a goalie adjusting his hockey stick, switching back and forth and back and forth as the lamb tried to dodge past me. But with the crook, I've got reach enough to catch her if she tries to get past. And I won't try to catch a leg as dad does. The way their legs bend, it doesn't work. The crook's supposed to catch them around the neck and collar them. I can catch them with it like that. Once caught, they stay caught.

She eventually gave up, though, and went over to her mother, and dad was able to catch her up and we took her over and weighed her without much more trouble other than the triplets plus, as I mentioned earlier. And when we put her down after weighing her, that lamb looked up at us indignantly, took a couple scraping steps like she was wiping the dirt off her feet, then hopped back to her mother like she'd forgotten the whole ordeal and acknowledging our presence was beneath her.

All in all, a busy week with not much happening.

I love you and miss you.

Description
Hello love,

This week, a lot has happened. But not really much of anything. We burned a lot of the deadfall. Used some old receipts and documents as kindling along with other worn out boxes. Got a good fire going. Lasted a few hours. Put a hole in my sleeve with an ember that flew. I used a metal tentpole to work the fire. My brother believes me now when I say the elements work funny around me.

See, the fire was going pretty good, and I was going around it, stirring up the ashes below and moving ash off the top. You know, trying to keep it going without having to add fuel constantly. And I'd stand in a place for a moment, and the wind would change and I'd be forced to move because the smoke was in my face. So I'd move to another spot for a moment, and the wind would change and blow smoke in my face.

"It's chasing me," I told him. And he said that that was ridiculous, so I walked a half-circle slowly around the fire and the smoke chased me the entire way. Then I reversed direction and the smoke did too, from the same position. He laughed, so I stood with him between me and the fire. He'd hurt his ankle falling out of a tree the day before, so he wasn't going anywhere. So I went back to tending the fire and being chased after he sputtered for a bit.

The rooster was having none of the fire. He was stalking around, watching it. He'd crow at it and threaten it, but he wouldn't come near. After a little while, whenever he'd crow, I'd crow over him. Which confused him at first, then he took it as a challenge and charged at me once. But I was way too close to the fire. Even if there hadn't been the fire, he'd have flagged before he got to me. As it was, he stopped about halfway from where he'd been pacing and panted a bit before remembering what he'd been doing and crowed again. Which I echoed. He puffed up, but didn't come any closer.

The hens, though, seeing that Cookie hadn't been lit up—That's the rooster's name, mind. Cookie Monster. He came that way, we didn't name him.—seeing that Cookie hadn't been lit up, the hens moved in and started pecking closer to the fire. They're still about fifteen or so feet out, but apparently it's too hot for them, their being female and not liking extreme heat or cold. Or maybe it's that they see their futures in the flames. After all, something like nine million of their brethren die daily in the US to satiate our hunger. But they were too hot so, instead of moving away from the fire, they scratched a hole in the ground and laid down in it and threw dust on their backs and grumbled, as hens do, to each other for a bit. Then they forgot they were hot and started wandering around to look for more to eat while the rooster and I continue to argue like neighbors feuding across a fence.

Eventually, we let the fire die down and spend fifteen minutes drowning the fire pit to make sure it won't pick back up or shoot a spark once we walk away but, sure as water's wet, as soon as we walk away it starts raining just in case.

A couple days later, or maybe a couple before, we had to move the sheep's pasture. And we had to move them across the driveway, so it took some doing. We've got them surrounded by six electric fence sections of various colors, sizes, and heights, and have to move those fences without losing—or loosing—the sheep. So we took a seventh and made a small corral with it and chased them into it. Then we pulled up the other fences and made the pasture on the other side. Easy.

Except the lambs didn't get with the program at all. We'd set up the corral so that it could be opened across the driveway to let the sheep into the new pasture without risking them slipping past us down into the road or up the driveway to the house. This, by necessity, made it so that in order to get the sheep to pass into the corral for temporary holding, they had to pass under an upraised length of fence. One of the girls was in the corral with some grain in a can and a bucket with some too, and when we opened the pasture and tried to lead the sheep into the corral, the ewes and yearlings charged in without hesitation. Fresh grass and grain? No question that's a good idea.

But we had a little roving pack of lambs, and those five were not interested in being herded in with their mothers. The little marauders went right up to the edge of the corral, then turned tail and ran in the opposite direction. So I had to run after them and try to rally them back to the corral. When I got close, they scattered pell-mell and regrouped around their leader somewhere else. Their leader, the dastard, was one of the firstborn males, and larger than the females following him around. Eventually, we got them up near the corral in ones and twos where they could be nabbed and tossed unceremoniously into their pen, where they awaited trial for their mischiefs.

We got the fence down, and put it up so it would open opposite the corral so it was easier to let the sheep into the new pasture, then stretched out alongside the road and down toward the house. But this is the section where the garden is, so we had to find a work-around for that. We don't want the sheep walking over the garden or the compost patch, but we want them clearing the grass around them. So we got some extra posts and put them at corners and made a big U surrounding the garden so there was room for the sheep to eat the grass, but the garden would remain unmolested and accessible to ma or grandma if they wanted to go up and start working on it. And we put the fence gate right there next to the garden so they could get into the pasture in the same area.

The solar charger we use to power the fence was taken from the goat's pen and attached to the gate so it could be turned off when they went in, too. Before that, they'd still been attached to the charger by the chicken coop that's attached to the power from the house, as they had been all winter, being kept close to the house so it was easier to feed them with them nearby. But that's too far away, now, and the goat doesn't seem to care whether his pen's electrified or not; he'll jump it or push through a gap if he finds one one way or another. So we've got one of the taller fences around him with a few extra posts holding them up so he can't hop over and pallets at the ends of the fence and he hasn't escaped in a week or so. So that's pretty good.

We had to move the shelter from the old pasture to the new pasture, so it must've been before Luke hurt his ankle, because he helped me move the thing. Which we did after we'd dropped the fences, but before we put them back up, because it's a pain to lift a wooden framed garage-sized tent up to waist height and wander with it for any period of time anyway. No need to add the acrobatics of climbing over a loose mesh wall to the act. Especially since we already had to dodge around the trees that line the driveway. And isn't it just ever so much fun to get a tent stuck up in a tree! That's less of a problem with the apple trees along the driveway, though. It's more trouble down on the other side with the wall of pines. There's a gap that should be large enough, and we've dropped branches enough that we should be able to just go right on through. But those trees are spiteful and are always finding ways to move older branches into the way or to sprout new ones in just the wrong places.

But we got the shelter moved without too much trouble this time, all things considered. Except we almost forgot to put the stakes in to anchor it, and that would've been a mess. The girls got the sheep's minerals and baking soda refilled after we moved them, too. Which was good, because they had run out.

And then we let the sheep out of the corral—which had already been munched down to next to nothing in the hour or so it took us to cycle pastures—and they ran hell for leather into the new pasture, practically trampling each other in the process. You'd think they'd never eaten before, they were so excited. And the marauders took up the rear, hesitant to leave the corral once they'd decided it was safe. Of course, once they got into the new pasture, they were dancing and skipping around, nibbling here and there and playing and exploring their new domain.

The goat. We've had him down in his shed by himself since around when we studded the sheep, a little before we settled them in their winter pasture. He's been the tyrant of that area ever since. When we moved the guineas into the stall next to his, we surrounded their entrance along with his, thinking to keep them inside it, too. But guineas are stupid and small enough to go through the fence and able to fly enough to go over it to get out. Not so much to get back in because, again, they're stupid.

But he—the goat—goes in and out of his shed, and we wintered him down there, locking him in at night and haying him out next to his shelter in the morning. And every once in a while, we had to pull him out of the guinea's gate because he'd stick his head into it and get himself stuck. Though God alone knows why he'd stick his head in there. The stink of bird shit and molted feathers is enough to make some people regret eating meat at all, I'd wager. Not me obviously, but some people. And him being mostly vegetarian, it can't be more appealing to him. But he's a goat, spiteful and curious, and he saw the guineas going in and out there, so he had to do the same.

Now, we've stopped surrounding the guineas' entrance and I really don't think they've noticed the difference. Except they've been going into their shelter more readily at night, now. Where it used to be that four or five of them couldn't figure out how to get back in and would perch on the roof of the shelter instead of inside of it because the fence was in the way—Forget the fact that they were, being on the roof, on the right side of the fence. If they flew back down, the fence would be in the way again. Stupid.—or laying across from the entrance on the other side of the fence, staring at the entrance until we came down and put them away for the night. And they knew they could get through the fence, because they would do it to get at food all the time. So maybe they're also lazy.

And the goat, of course, we've been moving his fence around. Just reshaping it so he's got new grass but can still get to his water in the shed whenever he wants it. We move it while he's locked up so he sees it different when he's let out. And he steps out of the shed, surveys his kingdom, and struts peacock-proud to his new dining area.

We picked up some new guineas and some new chicks either early this week or late last week. The guineas are full-grown, and we've got them in a separate caged area so they'll acclimate to being here and won't run off. One of the old guineas is convinced she should be in with them, though, and runs around and around their cage all day like she's one of them and can't figure out why she can't get to them. They, for their part, just squawk and screech and complain about how horribly put upon they are, being caged and pursued by a crazy bird who's harrying them in their captivity.

The chicks go into the duck's shelter during the day. Which has created the problem that we don't know anymore where the ducks are laying their eggs. But they still come back to their shelter at night after we've removed the chicks. So that, at least, is good. The duck shelter is right next to the chicken coop, so the hens and the rooster are getting used to the chicks as the chicks grow accustomed to being alive. They're past the fluffy, downy stage by now, but they're still small enough that we take them indoors at night to keep them out of the cold. And so the ducks can sleep in their home.

We tried to move the ducks over to be with the sheep today, since they like to eat snails and other things that the sheep don't like to eat, and they enjoy the flies around the sheep's leavings pretty well too, so they liked when we opened the sheep's winter pasture up to them so they could feast there. But they didn't want anything to do with the sheep's new pasture for whatever reason, and scurried through the fence and off down to hide behind and under my car, where we can't get them easily. So we've left them to it.

Other than that, the ducks and chickens now have full run of the property, and have been taking full advantage of this freedom to run around getting fat. Their shelters are still mostly surrounded by the electric fence, and it's turned on and closed at night as added protection. But during the day, they're free to run loose as they see fit, same as the guineas, but not so stupid. And considering how stupid chickens are, it's amazing that guineas are more stupid, yet still able to breed. The ducks are, relatively speaking, geniuses.

Cookie tried to give them hell when they were younger, but after mating season, when the male duck mounted Cookie and tried to rut with him, the rooster's been substantially more cautious. Sure, the chickens have beaks and claws. But the ducks have the brains to be a bit more tactical and gang up guerrilla-style when attacking. And they're willing to go places the chickens just aren't. The guineas are just a swarm with a hive mind. Attacking one alerts them all, and they all descend like the chickens in the Zelda games.

The last thing we did was weigh the lambs yesterday. Just monitoring them to be sure they're getting up to healthy weights. Which they are, now. The problem is that they're not all that trusting of us when we try to catch them. So there's four of us chasing them around—Luke on crutches—and we're running around trying to get one particular lamb or another. And we finally catch one and have to carry it over to where it's getting weighed.

But lo and behold, the triplets and their eternal companion, Seven(Yes, that's a name, Seven. I don't remember who named her.) are in the shelter by the scale, trying to get attention for themselves. They would be more than happy to be weighed or held or fed and are more than happy to bounce off of legs until someone will pick them up and feed them.

The triplets, you'll remember, had to be kept in the house when they were first born because their mother took ill from birthing them. So they've been bottle-fed a few times daily since they were born. This has made them quite affectionate toward humans and more willing to be touched, held, etcetera. Which, of course, makes them easy to weigh, but makes weighing the other lambs more difficult with them under foot.

So we're down to the last lamb needing to be caught. And she's entirely unwilling to be caught or cornered. We finally snagged her mother down in the narrow bit of pasture on the other side of the garden, so dad and ma are holding her still, keeping her calm, and Luke's blocking one section of the egress into the larger pastureland, but the lamb slips out past him, so I have to go chasing after her through the wide area alone. And that lamb did everything she could to keep away from me. Hiding among the other sheep. Slipping under a ewe and out the other side—which I hadn't expected to see. Sheep are supposed to be stupid. Dodging into the shelter and back out behind another lamb when I was out of sight. But eventually, I was able to steer her back into the narrow strip.

And she kept trying to get out, but I got the crook—shepherd's staff with the hook on the top—and used it like a goalie adjusting his hockey stick, switching back and forth and back and forth as the lamb tried to dodge past me. But with the crook, I've got reach enough to catch her if she tries to get past. And I won't try to catch a leg as dad does. The way their legs bend, it doesn't work. The crook's supposed to catch them around the neck and collar them. I can catch them with it like that. Once caught, they stay caught.

She eventually gave up, though, and went over to her mother, and dad was able to catch her up and we took her over and weighed her without much more trouble other than the triplets plus, as I mentioned earlier. And when we put her down after weighing her, that lamb looked up at us indignantly, took a couple scraping steps like she was wiping the dirt off her feet, then hopped back to her mother like she'd forgotten the whole ordeal and acknowledging our presence was beneath her.

All in all, a busy week with not much happening.

I love you and miss you.