Fern Moves to the Dry Lot

After several days of productive labor, Friday dawned cold and wet, and neither Phil nor I was terribly motivated to do much outside. And some days just don't quite roll well ... any time I'd try to get a project underway, an interruption would come quickly. Some days are like that.

Saturday I cleaned and vacuumed and sorted most of the day. Some days are like that.

On Saturday, Phil shot two bullets, dropped two piglets, and skinned and eviscerated them. He even had the energy to butcher one of them, but then his body (and the daylight) were done. We have one pig, Buttercup. We expect she'll eat her 350 pounds of food and then join her friends in the freezer.

Sunday came and went, and today we had visitors in the morning, while Phil butchered the second piglet.

He brought Fern down to the dry lot he'd created. She may be nursing her baby a bit yet, but he is getting supplemental milk from Catherine. And Fern looks emaciated. Way too many ribs showing, much too prominent hip bones. She's the only one, of the twelve, who looks like that. So we wanted to give her some TLC.

Phil walked her over, like a big puppy on a leash. But a bit later, after she had wandered her pen for a time, I heard him say, in an odd voice, "You almost got me that time."

I called, "Did she almost gore you?" It seemed unlikely, but Phil's voice had sounded so odd.

Yes, she had. Not just a head toss, like they do for flies, which he views as part of cow ownership ("If I'm annoying her, it makes sense"), but a toss and press, a dangerous, aggressive motion.

And, yes, Fern was the one who gored me and lifted me off my feet a few months back. That had been an intense situation, and seemed partially justified at the time. (And, as Phil admitted, I am not patient, nor any kind of an animal whisperer, so he wondered if it was just me. And callous as that sounds, it actually makes sense. I'm not as in tune with the animals.) But for Fern to behave like that towards Phil ... well, at some point we'll butcher her.

It stinks, really. We paid a premium price for her genetics and her youth, and we had hoped to enjoy sixteen years with her.

After that, while I shoveled compost and spread minerals on the future garlic patch, glancing at Fern to grieve her eventual departure, Phil headed up to use the backhoe to dig out stumps from the peach orchard. We hope that will make the space more usable.

And on the first hole, the hydraulic line suddenly began to gush fluid.

The number of repairs needed are adding up: car windshield, car understory, bush hog, auger, tractor.

And all I really want to do is plant! It's frustrating. Not intensely discouraging, but more disappointing.

I'm not known for my patience.