It's pathetic, but I think I get it now. The chicken known affectionately as Lila Bird is scratching in the dirt right behind me, and making happy little cooing and clucking noises. When we put her out the deck, we generally just carry her the ten feet from her 'room' to the doors off of my bedroom and put her on the deck. This reduces the risk of her giving us a special gift by minimizing the distance we are carrying her. Yes, you deduced from the distance correctly; Lila Bird lives in my bedroom. I say hello to her when I get up in the night to use the bathroom, and she clucks polite greetings back.

Anyway, when we put her outside my door, we generally go up to the top of the deck to do whatever we are doing. Earlier, Annie and I were wrapping a birthday present. We barely made it to the table before Lila Bird was running/flying to get up here. She stayed around us the whole time, walking between our legs, and generally showing interest, but really looking for a corn cob, which she did not get (I have one thawing right now, though - spoiled freakin' chicken). After we finished with the present, and got some of Lilo's cat box out for an industrial grade cleaning (the individual responsible for cleaning the cat box has not been terribly thorough), we took Lila Bird up to the chicken coop for what I hoped would be a re-introduction to her domicile, and she could vacate my bedroom. She still has about one square inch of skin showing (she has healed remarkably quickly), and the other two chickens went for it immediately. I stood in the doorway, and Annie stood on the other side of the coop. Lila Bird went under the nest box to hide from them. One of the other survivors decided she was done picking, and went up to roost. The other one was still interested in establishing dominance, and maybe getting some protein in the process.

I knelt down on the step so I could see better, and before I knew it, Lila Bird came out and nestled in between my legs so I would protect her. She cowered there as the chicken came to peck at her, and never even tried to defend herself. She could have easily kicked that bird's butt, but chose not to. Damned pacifist. Annie got made at me when I smacked the chicken for trying to pick at her, preferring to shoo the chicken away. I explained to her that I felt that that would not be much of a deterrent, and she closed her eyes while I swatted the antagonist a couple more times. Well, obviously I was wrong as well. She kept saying, 'that was unpleasant, but let's try one more time... one more time... one more time.' In disgust, I picked up Lila Bird, and we returned to the house... our house, not the hen house. I know it is hard to tell with a chicken, but I think she was giving us one of those smiles that indicated that she knew she had us wrapped around her talon...

Chicken...

I was just talking to a buddy of mine from the East Coast that also has chickens. He informed me of something that further reminds me of how naive I am... When Lila hunkers down and puts her wings out a bit, she is not waiting for me to pick her up. Apparently, she is waiting for me to mount her. I liked my belief a lot better. Now it is just icky...

Ignorance is bliss...

I apparently have a very strange side of me. Lila Bird, as I have taken to call her, talks to me when I talk to her. I took her out on the deck today and as the sun went down, she started looking for me. I was bouncing between working on the computer and doing laundry. I was sitting on the deck, and she came to me with 'that' look in her eyes. She sat at my feet in consternation, and I finally picked her up and put her on the chair arm. She sat there looking at me, and twisting around in an obvious attempt to tell me that sitting next to me was not sufficient. I picked her up and put her on my leg with many reminders that she was not allowed to crap on my leg. I kept on typing and she settled down, practically falling asleep on my leg. Granted, she never pooped on me, but I think we are creating an unhealthy relationship for her to go back to the coop. She talks to me any time I call her name.

She is a good chicken, though.
Dr. Dolittle, at your service...

After tossing back and forth on the bed for a couple of hours, I decided to get up. I made coffee, started laundry, re-made the coffee because I did it wrong (don't ask), straightened up the kitchen, and decided to write a story from yesterday. I sat down at 5:15 am with my coffee and computer. I listened to the coyotes in the distance for a while, and started typing. At that precise moment, the power went out... again. I figure I can type for about ten minutes before my batteries die.

Yesterday morning also found me sitting on the deck pounding on the keyboard, although not quite this early. I was working away, solving minor problems for my employer and doing some paperwork that needed to be completed before I start vacation. I heard a very familiar sound, but there was something different about it. I had to pause to realize why it was different. Then I realized: I was used to the sound coming from much farther away. I turned around to see one of our chickens staring at me from three feet away.

I talked to her a while, and she walked over to me and just kept slowly walking around where I was sitting. I got up and walked up the road a little ways to where I could see the chicken coop. She followed me. We walked back towards the house, and with a little encouragement, she let me pick her up. We walked up to the coop, and found a horrible sight. The only thing I can figure is that the raccoons figured out how to open the gate. Mounds of feathers littered the coop. I put her inside, much to her displeasure, and went inside. One other survivor was huddled in a nest box trying not to make any noise. I looked around, but could find no other survivors.

I fretted all day on how to tell Annie about the loss. She came home mid-afternoon, and settled tiredly into the big black chair, with a big black and white cat. She rested for a while, and I continued working. Finally, I decided it was time to tell her. Her eyes got glossy, but she did ok. After a while, she decided to go see the survivors. It wasn't long before I was being summoned to the coop. I was about to witness one of those miracles of nature that often escape us.

Another chicken had managed to escape the predators. The original two survivors were not really damaged. They had somehow managed to elude the attackers. This one had not been so lucky. She was terrified, but so tired and weak that once we got her out from under the coop, I easily picked her up. I had to. The other chickens were trying to eat her. Damned cannibals. We brought her down to the house, and Annie held here wrapped in a towel while I built a temporary shelter out of a large storage bin. I couldn't believe that this chicken was still alive. Annie talked soothingly to her, calling her Lila. I painfully informed Annie that she might not make it. "Are you going to kill her?" she asked with tears welling up in her eyes. No. We are going to take care of her as best we can, but it might not be enough.

We opened the towel, and I began pulling leaves and feathers out of her wounds. I had already given her a cursory inspection, which is why I wrote that I couldn't believe she was alive. We don't trim our chickens' wings, so I thought maybe she had managed to get out of the partially opened gate and take flight. Further inspection made this doubtful. Her wings were pretty beat up, and one of them didn't have enough feathers to keep her airborne. Her face had some scratches and a little bleeding, so maybe she turned on her assailant and gave it a peck that made it stop long enough for her to bolt. Those wounds were nothing. Her back and sides are what made me what to vomit. She looked like something had taken a carving knife to her, and stopped when they realized she was still alive. Large chunks of meat were neatly sliced open, but not enough to come off. I considered actually taking them off, knowing that they would never graft back to the body, but was afraid to have her bleed any more. With a little luck, new feathers will cover up these three and four inch chunks so that the other chickens won't go after them.

She wasn't happy with the peroxide treatment, but I had to do something to stave off infection. We wrapped her back in the towel, and placed her in the bin located next to Annie's side of the bed to begin her convalescence. She had food and water, and was hunkered by the water, having been without it all day. She was so exhausted she fell asleep immediately, and Annie and I both had to check to make sure that her head had not sunk into the water. I still had little hope that she would make it through the night.

When my insomnia started around two, and my mind drifted around trying in vain to shake the aftereffects of the bad dream that had awoken me, I heard a noise. I heard it again a little later: a scuffling sound. Afraid that Lilo was investigating the smell of a bird in our house, I got up and found Lila standing up in the bin. I just checked on her, and she is up and walking around. It is a freakin' miracle.

I just hope she heals enough that she can go back in the coop. I do not want to have a chicken as a house pet.
Stupified...

I shouldn't write about this, but I have horrible self control when it comes to these sorts of things.

Annie and I have discussed getting another Great Dane many times. My plan was to wait until Tolkien passes. However, a month or so ago I went looking for breeders on the net. I found one that I thought was interesting, and e-mailed them. One of the breeders and I have had quite a few e-mail discussions regarding danes and pedigrees. She has educated me quite a bit, and I realize how lucky I was the first time. If I had been required to go through the current requirements for adopting a dane, I would never have had Soren in my life.

I received an e-mail yesterday from the breeders that they are re-acquiring one of their danes. He is currently about ten months old, and she wanted to let me know that they would soon be looking for a home for him. She had some questions and concerns about Annie's and my living situation, so I went on line to find her phone number. It took me a half hour, but I finally found it. We talked for quite a while, and I still feel like I am in the interview process. I could easily drive four hours to the breeder and be turned down. It took me three hours of constant thought to decide that we could do this, but our lifestyle may be incompatible to the breeders' desires. I don't think the lady that I talked to was pleased that I don't have a wife at home. Maybe I misinterpreted the "oh" and the following pause.

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of looking at his pictures on line: Mystic's Face Shot.

That's when he was three months' old, but it has an expression that I remember all too well.

Annie knows nothing about this, nor can she. We'll see how it goes. I might need to call on some of you as character references...



Sucker...

Two quick things... well, as quick as I am personally able to be...

A stray cat has moved in to the neighborhood. By neighborhood, I mean he spends all of his time between my house and the next door neighbors'. He is a rather handsome cat, but he ticks me off. He beats on the neighbor cats, and has (I suspect it is him) created his own personal litter box in the dirt that I traverse on my way to and from the truck. He likes to dine on Tolkien's over-priced dog food, because Tolkien doesn't like to eat much anymore. I yell and hiss at him, but he doesn't give a crap (except when he is around the truck... then he gives lots of crap). Lilo just walks to the french doors, and he runs off. Granted, Lilo exceeds him by a few inches in height, but Lilo is just begging him to help free the Lilo from a life of confinement... and maybe bring him some good food. I need to load Annie's squirt gun...

Secondly, I just gave Tolkien a bath. I could have planted a garden with the dirt that came off of him. Part of that is my fault because I haven't given him a bath in a while. Part of it is his fault because during the summer he likes to lie in the dust under the deck. In the shower, I could tell that he has lost a lot of weight. I can't seem to get him to eat. The birds and the freakin' stray cat seem to take a lot of his food. His allergies have left him missing a lot of hair because he itches so much, and his paws are magnets for fox tails. The poor dog looks like he is twenty instead of seven. While I was cleaning his ears, he let out a long sustained moan that suddenly brought up images of the movie Jurassic Park. I can't remember what scene, but it was very vivid. The crazy mutt will probably return to his Troll deck lodging tomorrow when I go to work, and I'll have to give him another bath before Annie's slumber party.

Tolkien is a very good dog, and very loving. However, I don't know how he will respond should I act on my current desire to get a Great Dane...

Father of many...

It's funny really, how we build a relationship with our animals. I was just on the phone with my folks, and recounted some experiences with animals that have passed away. I don't mean any disrespect to the animals that I have, but relationships exist between individuals and animals just like they do among people. In my current absence of a relationship with a member of the opposite sex, I've discovered some things. Animals are very expressive. Secondly, they have a pretty good judge of character. I would no longer entertain a relationship with someone that didn't like cats. That has always turned out bad. Strangely, those experiences have involved someone that liked dogs that were just like cats. What the heck is up with that?

Some animals make and accept a bond that is beyond what some people will allow. My Great Dane Soren, did not like my first wife. He had to go through extra training to accept her, and it turns out he was right from the beginning. He would sit with me on the couch, and she would venture to sit down... on the other side of an eight-foot couch. He would give her 'the face.' His jowls would curl, and he would growl subtly deep in his belly in a way that would indicate that she was not welcome. I wish I would have listened to him sooner.

He didn't have the same feeling for my second wife. Ok, we are all allowed our mistakes. However, in both cases when I was broken down over the situation, he stood next to me. He always knew when he was needed. My mom visited us before Annie was born, and decided to take Soren for a walk. She found herself at a point where she didn't know how to get home. Soren brought her home. Even at the end, he looked at me with those big eyes, and told me that he was there for me, and was trying to help. He gave so much more to me than I could ever have given to him.

Sandy, the mutt cat did the same. She hated everyone. When Annie was little, I would ask her what sounds animals made, and she would do a great rendition. If I asked her what sound Sandy made, she would make this angry face, and go "hisssssssss." Unfortunately, that was correct. She could learn to tolerate some people, but she only loved and felt comfortable with one person. No, that's not right, two people. She loved me, and Annie's namesake from whom I inherited her. I am proud to say that I am in good company. When no one was around, she would walk out and talk to me. She loved to snuggle more than any cat I've ever known.

Well, at any rate, to turn the tears from my eyes on these fond memories, I will never understand how people can not bond with animals. Perhaps they have a gift that I do not. Animals communicate with me in a way that people never have. When I was six, maybe seven, I was talking to a squirrel that I was holding in my hand. My sister saw it and screamed out that I shouldn't do that. The squirrel bit me and ran off. We were fine before that.

One time the pigs got out. How old was I? 9? 10? I got them all back. I just talked to them. They got it. There must have been at least twenty sows, but they all went back. When Valentine the cow was born, it was February (hence the name). She was abandoned when I found her. I took care of her, and I talked to her. I would like to believe that is why she hung on until Dad got home, and we re-introduced her to her mother.

I remember these influences, and am sorry about the ones I don't. Some of them I was closer to than others. I guess that is what happens not only with animals, but people. There were others, but I can remember a contact and a relationship that was special with many that I didn't share with the others. Sam, Bandit, Spotty, Cherrokee and then there was a break... Soren, Sandy, and now Lilo. It is a challenge to deal with. How do we allow ourselves to develop a relationship with something that doesn't live as long as we do?

I guess we just accept it, and enjoy the time we have. I wonder, is it any different with people?

Puzzled...

When I woke up this morning for work (yes, I know it is Saturday) the power was off. Fortunately, my internal alarm clock does not require a cord. I got up, fed Tolkien, apologized to Lilo for being out of canned food, and gave the chicks food and water. I couldn't stand the stink. I told them it was time to go to the coop. I shot off to work, but didn't make it very far. The reason the electricity was off was because a tree on one of the lower roads had fallen on the power lines. No worries. Someone had taken the log off the dirt road that bypasses that section. Unfortunately, the kid in the Honda in front of me turned too early, and got high centered. In a wonderful assembly of skills, the Patrolman, the Electrician, and the Engineer got the kid back on the road. There should be a joke that starts out that way... "A Highway Patrolman, an Electrician, and an Engineer were all looking at a high-centered car..." At any rate, I made it to work, and after battling some resistance from my testbed, I had a fairly productive day. I got to a reasonable stopping point (i.e. I have to go back in tomorrow) so that I could go by the feed store and get straw, and still have daylight for cleaning the coop.

The coop was horrible. When the last chickens met their Maker at the hands (paws) of the coyotes, I figured the rats would move out. No way. The absence of the chickens turned the coop into Shangri-La for rats. If there were a market for rat poop, I'd be a freakin' millionare. I found two rats living in the food barrel. I don't know how they jumped out when they needed. It was three feet from the bottom. Maybe they could get in and out when they started, but had eating their way to not being able to escape. Apparently, they didn't care. They had a cozy home, and plenty of food. There was probably ten pounds of chicken scratch left. As I tried to extricate them, the first one jumped off of the tool I was using to get them right in front of Tolkien. He looked at the rat as it scurried away, then looked at me and wagged his tail. A born killer, that one.

Wuss that I am, I couldn't bring myself to kill the last one. I picked it up and finally decided to fling it into the woods. It went about fifteen feet, reached out, and grabbed a tree limb. It was a freakin' ninja rat. I continued cleaning the coop, and had I done that first, I might have been more willing to end the ninja rat's life. I never got all the rat poop out. It seemed to spawn new rat poop every time I swept. Finally, I filled the food hopper, hauled water up, put straw out, and moved the chicks in.

They were comical. At first they were unwilling to move any further from each other than they could in the bin that they previously lived in. One of them exhibited complete human behavior. She was terrified and sought solace by bunching herself in the middle of the others. After a minute, she realized she was ok. Not to appear too much of a coward, she immediately came out and started bossing the others around. I just checked on them, and they seem fine. It is a little cool tonight, and I hope they can stay warm. I closed them in completely. I still have to rebuild the pen because the outside floorboards fell down the last time Annie was adventuring. I hope it will be a temporary fix given that I have already told Annie that we are going to build a new coop. It will be bigger, faster, stronger... We have the technology... Yeah, that will be two years from now...

Cock of the Walk...

Unfortunately, I seem to have joined the ranks of the infamous Paparazzi. Granted my choice of celebrities will not result in my pictures be bought by the tabloids. I just have to realize that not only people come to these mountains to escape the trials of urban life.

After I dropped Annie off this morning, I saw a lone tom turkey on the side of Highway 9. I stopped to admire him, and thought how cool it would be if he moved into our neighborhood. As luck would have it, after I picked Annie up today, he was in our garden. The poor guy was just looking for a quiet place to hang out and have a bite to eat without be harassed. Well, the Hockanson Resort makes no promises for privacy or anonymity.

We rushed into the house. Annie dropped her backpack and I grabbed the camera. Annie made a point to tell me she closed the door quietly so as not to scare Tom. We went to the garden, and tried to sneak in through the only gate. We weren't stealthy enough. Tom took to running. I was trying to snap off pictures, but he was good. He first positioned himself so the gate was between us, then he ducked behind a tall weed that apparently the deer didn't find very appetizing. He jumped down to the middle level of the garden, but not before I got the only shot that even came close to coming out right. Yes, it is blurry, but it was the best one.



By the way, as you can tell my neighbor's old Volvo is still for sale. Please, buy it. It messes up my ability to turn my monstrous truck around.

I started down the middle section of the garden with Annie, and he jumped to the lower part. Blast it. The garden is currently exhibiting a botanical garden display of weeds. The lower section is dominated by freakin' thistle and I wasn't going to jump into that. I didn't have a chance to consider it, though. He lanuched himself in to the air. He clipped the top of the fence, righted himself and headed into the trees. His wings were pounding the air, and Annie confirmed what I had told her: "He sounds like a helicopter."

I hope we didn't scare him off forever, but I make no promises about taking pictures should he return. Especially if he brings a girlfriend or two that could cause a scandal.

Turkey taking a picture of a turkey...

During my many trips between the house and the garage, I take a moment to sit on the deck and look at the valley. Yes, it is a form of procrastination, but I enjoy it, so up yours.

This afternoon found me sitting on the deck with a beer in hand enjoying the view. Soothing tunes were drifting from the house, compliments of satelite radio. I was one with nature. Then I heard a terrible sound. It was like nothing I had ever heard. Well, not exactly like anything I had ever heard. I looked around, and there were three deer about thirty feet from me. They were munching on grass and playing their part in the peaceful part in my nature experience. Suddenly, one of them had a machine gun rupture out of his behind. He paid no attention to it. Even Soren used to look at his derriere when he let one go. This young buck kept firing away with a passion. I kept waiting for the redwood needles on the tree next to me to wither and die. The other deer never even raised their heads to say, "do you mind?" These are the same deer that look up when the decking creaks as I walk over it.

Twenty minutes later he did it again. My grass apparently has issues.

It reminded me of something that happened with Annie the other night. You know where this is going, right? As usual, I woke up around two in the morning. I was drifting in and out of sleep when I heard this horrible sound. It sounded like a piece of wood splitting under stress. Given the work I was doing in the bedroom, I was immediately awake. No sound followed, although Annie rolled over. My mind raced as to the possibilities. Did something just break in my bedroom? Did the dining room finally sink given the beam that spans too far? Did Tolkien just jump on something? Then a horrible stench drifted across my nose. Oh. My. God. Annie had complained before bed that her stomach wasn't feeling well. I then knew what was wrong. I asked her how she was feeling. No answer. I asked several more times, with my voice escalating in case she was just barely asleep and hurting. No answer. I had to get up and go in the other room for a while.

She had no memory of the event, but felt fine in the morning.
It's completely natural. Nothing to be ashamed of...