babies everywhere!

Oh, dear. So much to tell, so little blog! I have to tell myself sometimes that blog is not book. Book is understandably long. Blog is something you access on a coffee break.

So since the last post, first came the chicken, then the egg, then the chicken, so to speak. Last saturday was finally the day allotted to butcher the neighbor's chickens. you may skip the next paragraph if you do not eat meat, because it is all about butchering day.

(The big pretty birds on their fateful day. When you buy fryers, chickens bred to eat, you pretty much have to kill them at six or seven weeks old because they become so big and fat and meaty. If you do not butcher them, they will become too heavy for their legs to hold them up, go lame and die.)

I was spared the killing because I am the only person in the bunch who does not eat meat since I do not like to kill it (okay, this is almost always true...I occasionally find being a hypocrite my only option), and the neighbor who raised the chickens couldn't stomach the thought of cutting off their heads, so the job fell to my mom. She emerged from behind the chickenhouse bloody, tearful and shaky, carrying the first five headless birds, which were then driven to my house, dunked in a turkey fryer full of boiling water heated to between 155 and 190 degrees, and plucked. Now, my mom and I have never left the skin on our birds. We think it's a little gross. We undress them in a slick system that takes much less time than plucking, skin loose enough to peel smoothly off of freshly killed birds, leaving clean, glistening pink muscle. But the neighbor wanted hers with skin on. And not just skin on, but enough skin to seal the entire inside of the chicken around a beer can on the grill. This meant we spent three hours cleaning our first five birds. And let's just say, they were not going to seal around a beer can when we were done. We have always cut the skin at the bottom of the crop, which leaves the shoulders bare, but we finally discovered that with some finess, and if they were fresh enough to still be limp, you could almost do surgery to remove the crop from the neck-hole without enlarging it. And then my mom showed us how to cut around the tail, reach in along the chest wall until you felt the hard cone that was the heart, wrap two fingers around it and pull, bringing the insides along. But that method left too big of a hole in the skin at the tail of the chicken, so we had to start doing surgery from that end, too...I finally was the one left to do this job while they plucked, because it was much more clinical and much less stinky and aftermath-y- without feathers, tehy seemd more like lunch and less like headless biddies. Plus, I have the smallest hands. I finally perfected a system in which I cut (sorry if this is really grossing you out, but this IS what happens to the chickens we eat for dinner, just dirtier and more mechanized, metal prongs that tear into internal organs and necesitate having to wash them out with antibacterial cleaners instead of gentle fingers belonging to a person who apologizes to the poor bird for violating her after her death.)...cut around the anus without nicking the colon, reached far up along her back and cut the urethra, which is the only thing keeping the large intestine from sliding out, and then gently worked it all out- large intestine, then small intestine to a specific point- a junction that is very fragile and will break if yanked, leaking partially disolved food and gut bacteria into the meat. Then up to the neck, to free the esophagus and larynx to slide down through the chest cavity. Then more gentle tugging until all the intestines are out, followed by the gizzard, which a snip with the scissors frees to be cleaned out and frozen for those inclined to eat it. Then a hand into the cavity under the organ ball, two fingers digging along the ribs on either side of the sternum, popping the lungs from their connective tissue while trying not to poke into the liver that wraps around the ball of organs like a meaty blanket- the liver contains the bile duct, which, if broken, will ruin the flavor of the entire chicken. And after all the connective tissue has been broken, gently pulling it out, cutting the heart from between the lungs and tossing it into a bag for the freezer, and snipping the bile duct from the liver, putting the liver in another bag. And then just inside the hole are the kidneys, protected by strong tendons and bone, so dig those out, then turn the garden nozzle on full blast inside the cavity to blow out any spare pieces or pooled blood or fecal matter. Then cut off the feet and toss into a tub of ice water. Next!

It traumatized me a bit, and my mom later said it did her, too. She said that evening her head felt spacy, she felt exhausted and achy and wanted to cry for no reason. It never got easier for her. Every chicken gave a loud squawk as the knife touched it's neck, sounding too much like "help!" The neighbor held and hugged the chickens before handing them off to her, telling them they were good girls and boys, it was gonna be okay (liar), and then did not watch, so the entire burden of taking lives fell to my mom. It was a little unfair, but neither me nor the neighbor offered to do it instead. She wouldnt have let us, anyway.

And that is life. Life is death. Soon enough, the big white birds pecking in the barnyard were food in the freezer. Slightly smaller versions of a Thanksgiving Butterball Turkey. I was glad to see it end, but I did such a masterful job removing the organs in my last bird, I ran excitedly to where my mom and the neighbor were bent over the plucking bin, my hands cupped, holding a perfect model of internal organs in all their intricate, cohesive beauty- heart nestled between lungs, stomach curled below, liver wrapped around like dark butterfly wings. I have to say, I almost enjoyed that part of it- the part that involved seeing where the chicken's life came from- those amazing, miraculous organs we know we have, we feel, but will never see. The way the lungs are pink and spongy, and the aorta comes into the heart and branches to the lungs, and the food starts out bulky and becomes less and less as it works it's way through. I came away from the experience with new awe and respect for life. We are, indeed, fearfully and wonderfully made.




While we were at the neighbor's house before starting with the chicken project, a scrappy, diminuative yellow tabby cat wondered by. A sucker for yellow cats, especially baby yellow cats, I scooped him up and he melted in my arms, licking my cheek, purring loudly. The neighbor raised her eyebrows. "He doesn't like to be held, but he must like you." Long story short, she was looking for homes for the litter, and he came home with me, where he proceeded to systematically destroy everything he could get his claws in, pull down curtains, climb legs, nibble on toes with his needle teeth, and attempt to nurse in our hair. My husband is not fond of him. I, on the other hand, smile just looking at him- his oversized ears, his bottle brush tail, his wildly dilated eyes that are changing from blue to gold, his large, clumsy paws. He makes me laugh. And he is such an absolute lover. I promised my husband that no more pets would come home with me.

The next day, we drove an hour to Garden City to buy groceries for the next week, oil for my husband's truck, all the things you wish you had when a town that has these things in stock and for a decent price is an hour away. There, we met some family for lunch at a Mexican Restaurant on Main Street. After lunch we stood on the corner of Main, soaking up the sun along with the bricks of the coffeeshop at our backs, killing time visiting with each other...and I turned to look down the street just in time to see a small brown dog come running out of the open restaurant door. At least that is what I thought I saw. Actually, the door was open, blocking my view of the entrance, so in hindsight it was just running around the door on it's way up the street. But up the street it came, and when it got to where we were standing it slid to a stop, sniffed my leg, sat down and began licking it. I ignored it because as tickly and delightful at the little tongue on my leg felt, I was annoyed at the owner for having it loose, no leash or collar, and didn't want to reward the dog for running away by giving it attention. But no panicking owner showed up. My husband noticed it and said, "Ahh, what a cute puppy!" and I looked down, realizing it was not a small breed dog, it was a large breed puppy. Judging from the length of it's nose and the wrinkles on its face, between eight and twelve weeks old. And hot. Panting. And just then it flopped down on my feet and looked up at me with the most heart breaking lost puppy expression.

What is an animal lover to do with that? It is a little bit of a case of "tag, you're it" when dealing with a stray dog- after you acknowledge it, it becomes your problem. And as an animal lover, leaving her wasnt an option- not on a hot sidewalk with a busy street a few feet away. I scooped her up (hefty little thing, deep ribcage, loose joints) and walked into the restaurant to see if anyone had lost a dog as she licked my face, sniffed my ear, tugged on my hair. Nobody had lost a dog. I spent the next hour carrying her around a several block radius asking people if they had seen where she had come from before calling the police station, the animal shelter, and the humane society to leave messages in case she was reported lost. We talked about taking her to the shelter, but Garden city is not a big enough town to have a shelter open seven days a week and being Kansas, it is already overrun with the offspring of pets who's owners refuse to neuter. Already, holding her hefty, wiggly butt in my arms, I was becoming very reluctant to trust her well-being to strangers in a crowded animal shelter. My eyes met my husbands. His eyes met mine. "Oh, crap", he said.

That was a week and a half ago. Nobody has claimed her. We gave her shots and scanned fruitlessly for a microchip. She ate an insane amount of Andy's expensive, all natural dog food and pooped all over the lawn while Andy fastidiously squatted in his chosen location far out in the field in front of the house. I posted about her on the Humane Society's facebook wall, the virtual message board for pet owner's lost babies. I started potty training and crate training her. And more than a week later, she has wiggled her way into our hearts in a way we just can't untangle from. Her soft, intelligent brown eyes search our faces from under puzzled black eyebrowns, her nose a cold, wet button in a silky muzzle. Her tail wags furiously at the sight of us, and in three days time, with Andy demonstrating, she learned the meaning of "go potty", "sit", "lay down", "chase your tail", and "bang" (play dead), as well as not to lunge for her food and to gentle her bite. Her floppy ears are starting to prick up, giving her the German shepherd profile that matches her coat as well as her verbal tendancies and her quick uptake of commands. She waddles less every day, growing like a weed, her legs becoming longer and more muscular by the day as she gallops after Andy, chewing on his tail, nipping at his ears, yipping at him when he ignores her. She is so good for him- his days were getting boring as a farm dog. I think he misses our long, cool bike rides through the pines and sagebrush of Summit County as much as I do. Now he has a new job description- babysitter. Nanny. And he is surprisingly good at it. The first few days, while I was crate training her and she cried for hours, he lay outside her crate, which calmed her down, and when she came out of her crate he stole her rawhide chew, which gave her incentive to want to stay inside. It is taking her days to learn things it took Andy months to learn. It is a different game with her, though- Andy learned to potty outside, then he learned to potty on command. She learned that in a day, popping a squat when I say "go potty". She realized it was a good way to earn praise. But she has not yet learned that some places are not suitiable for popping a squat. Like the living room floor. We have had multiple accidents. And she is not like Andy- he is a habit pee-er, has been from day one. Once he pees somewhere, that is where he will pee in the future. So keeping him away from his danger zones was an effective way to potty train him. We knew when he got that look and started heading for one of them to tell him "outside", open the door, and watch him connect the dots while he watered the grass. He seems to know that prompt obedience is more important now, because gone is his occasional independant streak that keeps him out in the field in front of the house sniffing just a few more sniffs before he comes to my call. Or maybe it's just that he has figured out that now I always have treats in my pockets again. That hasn't happened since he was a puppy himself.

We named the new dog Anouk. "ah-NOOK." It seemed like a good name for a sweet but scrappy German Shepherd. I cooingly call her my Anoushka when we are cuddling, or Anoukerbaby, my sweet puppy Nookernooks. She and the littlest yellow kitty, Moto (short for Motormouth) have a strange relationship in which they are antagonizing each other one moment, and snuggling together to sleep the next. I worry about this, because Moto lets Anouk chew on him. I have seen cats develop huge infected sores on their necks because they are too forgiving of dogs that mean them no harm, so they let them chew on them gently, until the gentle, slobbery chewing dries out and breaks their skin. Moto is a scrapper too, and I hope that when Anouk gets too rough, Moto is smart enough to hook a claw in that little black nose.

I have been turning the eggs in the incubator, only forgetting to turn them twice in three weeks. This Sunday I got out my calendar and tried to remember when I had put them in. I finally had to go on my facebook account and read the date I had posted a picture of my eggs in the incubator, and discovered that they were due to hatch. Oops. I was supposed to stop turning them three days before to allow them several days to get their bearings, assuming they were still alive, letting them figure out which end was up and get into hatching position. I was pretty sure I had killed them again. Last week I finally got out my parent's candler with the cord that some long dead dog probably chewed through as a puppy and nobody has ever bothered to replace, took it into my powder room, the only room without a window, shut off the lights, carefully slid the bare wires into a receptacle until the light buld inside flickered on, and candled them, saving the eggs that the light did not shine through.

(This is my candler. It was probably candling eggs before my parents were born. But it gets the job done. Sort of. )

 I threw out about a dozen that had never developed and sat back to wait. A few days later I opened the incubator to see a pip- a tiny pock in a shell, and faint cheeping coming from inside. I was, of course, instantly ecstatic, and ran inside, dragging my husband away from his coffee and bookwork to come see. He looked inside. "Yep. It's an egg. With a hole in it." It will never cease to amaze me that some of the things I find to be so mind-blowing, others find mundane.

I spent the morning peering into the incubator, my face pressed against the small windows in the top, a flashlight trained on the eggs inside. The first one caught me by surprise, an egg hidden from my flashlight, so when I went out to check on the one I had seen pipped that morning, a dark, soggy shape lurched through my flashlight beam- a real, live chick. That I had not killed! That lived in spite of me doing almost everything I was not supposed to do!

By bedtime, one more had hatched, and one was struggling to get out but stuck, having stuck his beak out of the hole in a way that he could not peck anymore to enlarge it. I waited for hours, knowing I should not help him, but finally gave in to the temptation and picked off a chunk of shell...which tore into the bloody lining, blood that the chick absorbs into it's body as it is struggling to hatch. Obviously it was far from ready to hatch. But the more it struggled, the bigger the hole got...twelve hours later, it flopped out of the egg, exhausted and wet, with a bloody yolk sac stuck to it's bottom, a blood-filled membrane it should have absorbed. I left it alone, thinking that it seemed strong, so maybe the bloody yolk sac would just dry and fall off and it would be fine. Hours later, I returned to check on it. It had lurched all over the incubator, trying to learn how to stand up, smearing blood all over the other eggs trying to hatch, and still attached...and, oh. I peered closer. If I had not just removed the intestines of forty chickens, I might not have been so sure what I was looking at, but now I knew with sickening certainty. A loop of glistening pink intestine was working it's way out of the poor baby's bum. I knew what I had to do. I ran out to the garden for my shears, and lay several layers of paper towel on the bathroom counter, then picked him up as he struggled and more intestine wormed it's way out. I laid it's neck across the blade of the sheers and before I had time to wonder how horrible it was going to be, I snapped it shut. There was almost no resistance, thank God. A millisecond later, his head had fallen onto the paper towel. In a way, I was so relieved it was done and that he wasn't hurting, but it was also the first life I have intentionally taken since the pika Andy mauled but didn't kill three summers ago in Colorado, who's neck I had to break so it would stop screaming in pain. I wanted to vomit a little. Then I told myself this is what happens when you have animals. When you make yourself responsible for the lives of animals who trust you to always provide for them. You sometimes have to make the decision to end those lives when allowing them to go on would only result in needless suffering.  It is not only about being strong enough to deal with the demands of life on a farm where so many non-humans live, it is also about being strong enough to be objective about death. Love is real when you love enough to be able to help those innocent ones you love so much on their last journey. I know it was just a chick, a tiny ball of soaked down and fragile bones, but the same applies to my kitties, my puppies, by big chickens, and whatever other animals should come to live with us in the future. They trust me. And part of earning that trust is easing their suffering using any means necessary.




By this morning, three days after the first pip, I have had: 17 hatches and one partial hatch that died before it got it's head uncurled. One of those was the one I killed, so fifteen babies are now huddled under a heatlamp in a small stock tank in the basement, most having learned to walk yesterday and now learning about pecking, exploring, trying out food and water today. I took two out of the incubator this morning, but one has a severaly deformed neck, it's head almost turned all the way around. When I gently straighten it's neck, it is able to stand and tries to walk, but as soon as I let go, it swivels back around again and the poor baby falls over, rolling onto it's back. So 14 healthy babies. And one more egg trying to hatch. But no more pipped eggs. 11 eggs show no sign of life. I will leave them for another day or two, just to make sure there are not some very late bloomers, but I wonder if the deformity on #15 might be due to too much time inside the egg already.
I run downstairs to check on them every hour or so, just to check the thermometer and make sure nobody has decided to take a nap in a spot that is too cold or too hot. As their instincts mature they will become adept at finding the spot with the perfect temperature in a nice circle around the heat lamp, but some are still just learning to walk, lurching around, falling over, rolling down the hills in the bumpy, deformed bottom of the stock tank to the cold area outside of the warm glow of the heat lamp and then are too exhausted to try to get back up.

I know there is probably another snip through another fragile neck in my future, and this one will be worse, because it is already dried into a ball of fluff. It is a gentle baby, so happy for my help, that it will be very hard to kill it. But if it can't get turned over, it will fade fast, starting as soon as tomorrow night, because the nutrients from his egg yolk will only last him about 48 hours after his hatch.

(Yes, he is still alive, poor thing. Is there any chance this will sort itself out? Because who could snip THAT?!)

















In other news, my cabbages are getting huge. My beats are growing into fluffy green piles of leaves, and my peas are groing like a half inch every day. The killdeer (black and white birds with stilt-like legs who's call sounds a bit like "killl-deer? KILL-deer!" have discovered the water that runs down the rows of my garden, and join me when I am out working, splashing and calling. I really like them there. Except that they have decided they love my carrot tops. So they have prematurely harvested a good portion of my crop. My onions are growing out of control, shoots becoming fatter and longer every day. The tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, kohlrabi, eggplant, chard and lettuce took a beating last week when the temps strayed close to 100 degrees, and the wind blew unmercifully. Many have not survived being transplanted to the garden. I had planted more purple cabbage, spinach, more eggplant, more kohlrabi, and more cucumbers to finish out the rows after I transplanted the ones started in the house, and then it got so unmercifully hot I spent long afternoons out in the garden spraying down the rows with the garden sprayer, only to have to start over once i got them all soaked because the ground was beginning to dry again. I finally ditched my shirt and started turning the nozzle on myself on a regular basis, the hot wind drying me almost immediately. A row of seed potatoes are in the ground, but I don't know if they will grow or not. I just don't trust them. By now, someo of my seeds should have sprouted, but I wonder if they are going to. It just got too hot and dry, I have a feeling. I should probably be out replanting them right now while it is a bit cooler to give them more of a fighting chance.