Rats are not my favorite creatures on this planet. Recently, several large specimens decided to join us here on Rainbow Gate Farm. Ugh!
"I have a great idea. Buy a ferret!" one of our friends suggested. "They hunt rats and kill them, and any remaining ones will leave the farm."
So began our ferret quest, and within a week, we had become the proud owners of not one, but two ferrets, Sophie and Dillon. They came complete with a large cage, and an assurance that they were "house-broken and litter-trained."
It took us all of a few hours to realize that our definition of "house-broken and litter-trained" was slightly different from that of the ferrets' previous owners. Silly me. I didn't know it meant they used the entire house as a litter tray!
Along with their musky odor, the idea of having these two rascals as indoor pets quickly lost its attraction. We moved their cage into the garage, but I felt sorry for them being locked up, so we transferred them to the big aviary cage in the barn.
Now, ferrets chase rats down very tiny holes. This should have been my first clue. The next morning, there was only one ferret, Dillon in the aviary. Sophie was gone. We searched the barn, and the farm, but there was no sign of her. We moved Dillon back to the cage in the garage.
Five days passed, and still no Sophie. The weather is changing quickly here in Iowa, and I worried about her, hoping she had found somewhere warm to curl up, and lots of mice and rats to feast on!
The next night, my son, Joel, heard an odd noise at the back door. It was one in the morning but he got up, and went to check it out. There was Sophie, scratching on the glass door! I can't be certain, but I think Joel said he heard her say, "Let me in, it's cold out here!"
Most people would have learned the first time, but last night, we decided to re-locate the ferrets to the trailer house where we raise all the baby goats when they are born in January. We blocked off all the holes, shut the windows and doors, and let them loose.
"Go! Be free and find mice, rats and other wonderful creatures to eat!" I exclaimed, as we left the trailer to go milk the goats.
Walking across in the dark two hours later, my helper, Renee, said, "I just saw a ferret!"
Sure enough, Dillon was scampering across the yard, toward the horse pasture. We picked him up and searched for Sophie, but she was nowhere to be found.
This morning, I took the flashlight with me when I headed out to milk in the dark, and searched again, but no Sophie. My husband laughed, and said, "She's probably headed back for the house."
Which is exactly where we found her a few hours later, trying to get in the back door.
Now we own two ferrets, who eat expensive ferret food, and couldn't care less about hunting rats. I think I saw a rat doing a victory dance across from the grain bin this morning.
Anyone else have any great ideas?
Showing posts with label farming. Show all posts
Showing posts with label farming. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Friday, October 31, 2008
Freak Out At Rainbow Gate Farm
The sound of barking dogs jarred against the rhythmic sound of automatic milkers and Chris Tomlin singing Jesus Messiah, just after five thirty this morning as I worked alone in our milking parlor. Peering out the open window, I squinted, trying to see past the dim light exuding from the barn into the tar pit of darkness beyond.
I'd already milked over one hundred goats so the area where they wait was half empty. To my surprise, the does were running, flowing in a mass of brown, white and black around the pen."What on earth is the matter with you?" I asked the frantic goats.
It's still dark each morning at five, when Sparky, our Australian Shepherd trots behind me to the barn to help me herd the does into the holding area where they stand beneath the twinkling stars, chewing their cud and waiting their turn to come in and be milked. I sing along to the radio without reservation and I've never had a goat complain. By the time my husband and boys appear to feed hay and water, the sun is budding over the horizon, and I'm hanging the milker units in the milk house to be washed and sanitized.
Except today, in that pre-dawn emptiness, when fear crept in to keep me company. I hollered at the dogs to hush up, and turned away from the window to change a milking unit to a different goat. At that moment, I heard a sound I will never forget. What the heck was that?In the few seconds it took my grey-matter to complete a google search, my circulatory system iced down. Or, if you prefer the old cliché, my blood ran cold. I remembered where I'd heard that sound before and I knew what it was.
A cougar's scream.I slammed the window down and shut the parlor door. That scream echoed in my ears; a screeching harmony of a cat being strangled mixed with a baby-like wail trailing off at the end. Staring through the glass, I could see the goats, now statues all facing the same direction and staring into the dark pasture beyond the barn. The dogs were no longer barking. I prayed they were still alive. Different scenarios played out in my imagination, each one of them equal to the scariest movie you can imagine. Unless the thought of being torn apart by an over sized cat doesn't bother you at all. It bothers me.
If my muse, Lydia, hadn't interrupted, I might still be standing there. She wasn't fazed, of course. There's something to be said for being a figment of a writer's imagination to make you immune to fear and taxes.
Leaning against the wall, Lydia sighed. "Just milk the goats, will you? I want to get some more work done this morning, and we do have to get to the gym."
"But I have to open the door to let more goats in. What if it attacks?"
"Jani, no self-respecting cougar is going to pass over a hundred delicious goats just to eat you. Trust me. You will see him in time to shut the door."
With visions of a yellow furred and whiskered face appearing in the window at any moment, I followed Lydia's advice. After the first group, I cracked the window just a tad, but not big enough for a cougar to crawl through. When the sun cast its first rays through the clouds, I opened the door, which is positively big enough for a cougar to stroll right through, but by this time, Lydia's confidence was rubbing off.
By seven, all the goats were milked and chores were finished. I'm thrilled to report, the goats, the dogs and I survived unscathed.
Heading inside, I jumped on the computer and typed "Cougars in Iowa" in the search box. Sure enough, after being re-introduced into our state, these majestic predators have been working their way east from the initial repopulating area in the northwest of the state.
Several reliable sightings were recorded one county over from ours, two years ago. Dusk and dawn sightings were most prevalent.
So, about tomorrow morning. Any volunteers?
I'd already milked over one hundred goats so the area where they wait was half empty. To my surprise, the does were running, flowing in a mass of brown, white and black around the pen."What on earth is the matter with you?" I asked the frantic goats.
It's still dark each morning at five, when Sparky, our Australian Shepherd trots behind me to the barn to help me herd the does into the holding area where they stand beneath the twinkling stars, chewing their cud and waiting their turn to come in and be milked. I sing along to the radio without reservation and I've never had a goat complain. By the time my husband and boys appear to feed hay and water, the sun is budding over the horizon, and I'm hanging the milker units in the milk house to be washed and sanitized.
Except today, in that pre-dawn emptiness, when fear crept in to keep me company. I hollered at the dogs to hush up, and turned away from the window to change a milking unit to a different goat. At that moment, I heard a sound I will never forget. What the heck was that?In the few seconds it took my grey-matter to complete a google search, my circulatory system iced down. Or, if you prefer the old cliché, my blood ran cold. I remembered where I'd heard that sound before and I knew what it was.
A cougar's scream.I slammed the window down and shut the parlor door. That scream echoed in my ears; a screeching harmony of a cat being strangled mixed with a baby-like wail trailing off at the end. Staring through the glass, I could see the goats, now statues all facing the same direction and staring into the dark pasture beyond the barn. The dogs were no longer barking. I prayed they were still alive. Different scenarios played out in my imagination, each one of them equal to the scariest movie you can imagine. Unless the thought of being torn apart by an over sized cat doesn't bother you at all. It bothers me.
If my muse, Lydia, hadn't interrupted, I might still be standing there. She wasn't fazed, of course. There's something to be said for being a figment of a writer's imagination to make you immune to fear and taxes.
Leaning against the wall, Lydia sighed. "Just milk the goats, will you? I want to get some more work done this morning, and we do have to get to the gym."
"But I have to open the door to let more goats in. What if it attacks?"
"Jani, no self-respecting cougar is going to pass over a hundred delicious goats just to eat you. Trust me. You will see him in time to shut the door."
With visions of a yellow furred and whiskered face appearing in the window at any moment, I followed Lydia's advice. After the first group, I cracked the window just a tad, but not big enough for a cougar to crawl through. When the sun cast its first rays through the clouds, I opened the door, which is positively big enough for a cougar to stroll right through, but by this time, Lydia's confidence was rubbing off.
By seven, all the goats were milked and chores were finished. I'm thrilled to report, the goats, the dogs and I survived unscathed.
Heading inside, I jumped on the computer and typed "Cougars in Iowa" in the search box. Sure enough, after being re-introduced into our state, these majestic predators have been working their way east from the initial repopulating area in the northwest of the state.
Several reliable sightings were recorded one county over from ours, two years ago. Dusk and dawn sightings were most prevalent.
So, about tomorrow morning. Any volunteers?
Autumn's Wicked Lullaby
Each morning now, my old friend, Jack Frost, nips my cheeks as I step outside just before the sunrise butters the horizon. Hugging my sweatshirt, I hurry to the barn, where the goats greet me with a chorus of bleats and snorts. After filling seven buckets half-way with grain, enough for each group of twenty-one goats, I stop to feed the kittens meowing in the entryway of the parlor.
Next stop, the milk-house, to run hot water into the steel sink where the milking units lie waiting. After pouring in a dose of sanitizer, I flip the switch for the milker pump, and let it run through the pipelines and back into the sink. It needs ten minutes to kill any bacteria in the line, so I leave it running and walk outside to the holding area.
From here, the view is superb. The rolling hills are weeping leaves in the brisk wind, leaving rivers of autumn tones across the pasture. Several of our horses graze the remnants of green grass, so abundant just a few short weeks ago. If you have to shovel manure, you might as well do it with a view, and grabbing the manure scraper, I soon have the cement yard clean of mud and goat droppings.
Once that job is complete, it's time to shut the pump off and drain the sanitizing solution out of the line. I carry each milking unit out to the parlor, and plug it into the pipeline. First the tubing where the milk will flow, and then the air-hose for vacuum.
Sparky, my Australian Shepherd, waits at my feet, eyes sparkling, tongue lolling in an ever-present grin. He loves his job. "Come on, boy," I say. We enter the barn, and slide the door to the holding area open. As I open the gate, Sparky starts barking and the goats run through the door. Sparky dashes to the back of the pen, rounding up any stragglers.
When the last goat is through the door, he sits and waits, daring them to try and come back in the barn. They know better these days, and I slide the door shut without incident. Sparky looks across the barn at the goats who remain on the other side in the "Dry Pen" and whines.
"It's okay, boy," I say. "They aren't milking right now." Of our 250 adult does, half are no longer milking and are what we call "dry". They are pregnant and will be giving birth by late December. As their pregnancy progresses, their body signals a "slow down" on the milk production and they give less and less each day. When this happens, we mark these does with green ink, and milk them once a day for about a week. This gives their bodies another signal to cease making milk. Then we put them in the dry pen so they can focus on growing the new life inside of them and prepare for the next milking season.
Putting the radio on to my favorite station, Life 101.9, I let a group of goats into the parlor, and switch on the pump. It only takes an hour and all the does are milked. I carry all the milking units back into the milk-house and place them in the sink.
After washing off any mud, they are hooked back up to be washed with hot water and a special pipeline detergent. Finally a solution of milk-stone-remover and acid rinse is run through the lines and they are drained until tonight.I hose down the parlor deck where the goats stood, and head upstairs to the top of the barn where we store the sweet-smelling alfalfa hay.
After forking down two huge piles through feeding holes in the floor, I run back downstairs and spread it up and down the mangers in the dairy barn. Soon, every goat is lined up eating hay.
Then it's off to the smaller barns where over one-hundred-and-forty yearling female goats called doelings are waiting for their breakfast of hay and grain. These young does will give birth in early 2009 and join the milking herd, bumping our total number of milking does to almost four hundred next year. Most of our does will give birth to twins, with the occasional set of triplets and some singles.
Math never has been my strongest subject, but I believe this means we are expecting somewhere in the vicinity of seven or eight hundred baby goats this year, all to be born between late December, 2008 and April, 2009. Our weather man warned us this morning to expect snow flurries this Monday.
Last year, snow fell by Thanksgiving and never left until April. We keep our baby goats (kids) in two old trailer houses. They have to be cleaned out and bedded-up with fresh sawdust, which will give our three teenagers something really exciting to do this weekend.
Even though we have electric heaters and automatic feeders in the kid trailers, the biggest challenge is collecting the babies before they freeze at birth. Here in the Midwest, United States of America, our temperatures can stay below zero for weeks on end through the winter months. Add mountains of ice and regular snow storms, and I wonder once again why I ever chose to live in Iowa.
It's time to start boarding up windows and hauling the old tarp out of storage to cover up the open end of the barn. Winterizing is essential if we want livestock, not deadstock. While most does are excellent mothers and try to lick their babies dry, some plop their offspring onto the straw and walk away without so much as a backward glance.
On the coldest days, I have about five minutes to reach the soaking-wet newborns and run them back to the milk-house to be dried off and fed their mother's colostrum. If I don't get to them fast enough, their ears freeze and fall off about a week later.
It's simple enough until twenty does all decide to give birth to twins and triplets in the space of one hour. Having licked their babies dry, they walk across to someone else's kids and claim them, too. I will bring one round of babies in and go out to find fifteen more waiting for me.
The boy babies (bucklings) out of the top milk producing does and each female baby goat (doelings) are given a Velcro collar with their date of birth, future identification number and parents' names written on it with a permanent marker. The Velcro collar can be adjusted as they grow.
Once they reach eight weeks, they receive an ear tattoo with the same number.While I'm enjoying the beautiful scenery and the slow-down pace around the farm, Autumn's gentle lullaby is deceptive. Her days are mild and the scenery is superb, but we all know her husband is a foul-tempered beast and I hear his voice howling in the distance.
Let him come. We'll be ready.
Next stop, the milk-house, to run hot water into the steel sink where the milking units lie waiting. After pouring in a dose of sanitizer, I flip the switch for the milker pump, and let it run through the pipelines and back into the sink. It needs ten minutes to kill any bacteria in the line, so I leave it running and walk outside to the holding area.
From here, the view is superb. The rolling hills are weeping leaves in the brisk wind, leaving rivers of autumn tones across the pasture. Several of our horses graze the remnants of green grass, so abundant just a few short weeks ago. If you have to shovel manure, you might as well do it with a view, and grabbing the manure scraper, I soon have the cement yard clean of mud and goat droppings.
Once that job is complete, it's time to shut the pump off and drain the sanitizing solution out of the line. I carry each milking unit out to the parlor, and plug it into the pipeline. First the tubing where the milk will flow, and then the air-hose for vacuum.
Sparky, my Australian Shepherd, waits at my feet, eyes sparkling, tongue lolling in an ever-present grin. He loves his job. "Come on, boy," I say. We enter the barn, and slide the door to the holding area open. As I open the gate, Sparky starts barking and the goats run through the door. Sparky dashes to the back of the pen, rounding up any stragglers.
When the last goat is through the door, he sits and waits, daring them to try and come back in the barn. They know better these days, and I slide the door shut without incident. Sparky looks across the barn at the goats who remain on the other side in the "Dry Pen" and whines.
"It's okay, boy," I say. "They aren't milking right now." Of our 250 adult does, half are no longer milking and are what we call "dry". They are pregnant and will be giving birth by late December. As their pregnancy progresses, their body signals a "slow down" on the milk production and they give less and less each day. When this happens, we mark these does with green ink, and milk them once a day for about a week. This gives their bodies another signal to cease making milk. Then we put them in the dry pen so they can focus on growing the new life inside of them and prepare for the next milking season.
Putting the radio on to my favorite station, Life 101.9, I let a group of goats into the parlor, and switch on the pump. It only takes an hour and all the does are milked. I carry all the milking units back into the milk-house and place them in the sink.
After washing off any mud, they are hooked back up to be washed with hot water and a special pipeline detergent. Finally a solution of milk-stone-remover and acid rinse is run through the lines and they are drained until tonight.I hose down the parlor deck where the goats stood, and head upstairs to the top of the barn where we store the sweet-smelling alfalfa hay.
After forking down two huge piles through feeding holes in the floor, I run back downstairs and spread it up and down the mangers in the dairy barn. Soon, every goat is lined up eating hay.
Then it's off to the smaller barns where over one-hundred-and-forty yearling female goats called doelings are waiting for their breakfast of hay and grain. These young does will give birth in early 2009 and join the milking herd, bumping our total number of milking does to almost four hundred next year. Most of our does will give birth to twins, with the occasional set of triplets and some singles.
Math never has been my strongest subject, but I believe this means we are expecting somewhere in the vicinity of seven or eight hundred baby goats this year, all to be born between late December, 2008 and April, 2009. Our weather man warned us this morning to expect snow flurries this Monday.
Last year, snow fell by Thanksgiving and never left until April. We keep our baby goats (kids) in two old trailer houses. They have to be cleaned out and bedded-up with fresh sawdust, which will give our three teenagers something really exciting to do this weekend.
Even though we have electric heaters and automatic feeders in the kid trailers, the biggest challenge is collecting the babies before they freeze at birth. Here in the Midwest, United States of America, our temperatures can stay below zero for weeks on end through the winter months. Add mountains of ice and regular snow storms, and I wonder once again why I ever chose to live in Iowa.
It's time to start boarding up windows and hauling the old tarp out of storage to cover up the open end of the barn. Winterizing is essential if we want livestock, not deadstock. While most does are excellent mothers and try to lick their babies dry, some plop their offspring onto the straw and walk away without so much as a backward glance.
On the coldest days, I have about five minutes to reach the soaking-wet newborns and run them back to the milk-house to be dried off and fed their mother's colostrum. If I don't get to them fast enough, their ears freeze and fall off about a week later.
It's simple enough until twenty does all decide to give birth to twins and triplets in the space of one hour. Having licked their babies dry, they walk across to someone else's kids and claim them, too. I will bring one round of babies in and go out to find fifteen more waiting for me.
The boy babies (bucklings) out of the top milk producing does and each female baby goat (doelings) are given a Velcro collar with their date of birth, future identification number and parents' names written on it with a permanent marker. The Velcro collar can be adjusted as they grow.
Once they reach eight weeks, they receive an ear tattoo with the same number.While I'm enjoying the beautiful scenery and the slow-down pace around the farm, Autumn's gentle lullaby is deceptive. Her days are mild and the scenery is superb, but we all know her husband is a foul-tempered beast and I hear his voice howling in the distance.
Let him come. We'll be ready.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Summer Time!
The rivers aren't the only thing flooding here in North East Iowa as summer takes a firm hold on our lives. Reports of exploding mosquito populations are in the paper, as those needle-nosed pests find a million extra breeding grounds in our soaked earth.
I have never been more thankful for our resident Muscovy duck population. Muscovies love mosquito larvae and we rarely hear that dreaded whine thanks to their tastes!
Rainbow Gate Farm is well above the river and although we flooded with rainwater twice this spring, if the river ever reaches us, we'd better have an ark waiting!
Kidding season is over and one-hundred-and-fifty growing baby girl goats will join our milking herd next winter, boosting our numbers to 395 milkers.
I have never been more thankful for our resident Muscovy duck population. Muscovies love mosquito larvae and we rarely hear that dreaded whine thanks to their tastes!
Rainbow Gate Farm is well above the river and although we flooded with rainwater twice this spring, if the river ever reaches us, we'd better have an ark waiting!
Kidding season is over and one-hundred-and-fifty growing baby girl goats will join our milking herd next winter, boosting our numbers to 395 milkers.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Jack Frost made an early appearance this morning to our mid-west farming operation. He greeted me by nipping at my bare hands as I hurried across to the barn to feed hay and check the livestock. Our radio weather man announced we could expect snow flurries this afternoon. Just in time for Thanksgiving.
We are weaning foals this week. Most of them are already five to six months old. One paint filly is heading off to Indiana this weekend, so we need to work with her over the next few days. Right now she is nervous of us but over the next few days she will learn how to lead, and tie up, pick up her feet when asked and stand still to let us brush her. We use a gentle approach to training but firm enough to teach the foal manners also. A newly weaned foal will treat human handlers like another horse from their herd. At some time in their training they act out, perhaps trying to kick or nip at their human. A sharp smack and a loud "No!" is usually all it takes for the foal to think Whew! I don't think I will try that again.
Even though we have six turkeys sitting in the freezer, we've decided to go out for Thanksgiving lunch tomorrow. It is our first Thanksgiving without my mother-in-law and nobody feels like much of a celebration.
The goats are falling on milk pounds. Their bodies are preparing for the new kids they are carrying, due in January and February of 2008.
Which reminds me, I have a lot of cleaning to do! Both our "kid buildings" need to be cleaned out by hand and restocked with fresh sawdust. Pens must be dismantled for cleaning and then rebuilt. It will be worth it, when those gorgeous babies start to arrive and I can transport them to clean, dry and warm buildings in which to grow and play. We are expecting over 500 goat kids this year, so it's never been so important to be prepared.
We are weaning foals this week. Most of them are already five to six months old. One paint filly is heading off to Indiana this weekend, so we need to work with her over the next few days. Right now she is nervous of us but over the next few days she will learn how to lead, and tie up, pick up her feet when asked and stand still to let us brush her. We use a gentle approach to training but firm enough to teach the foal manners also. A newly weaned foal will treat human handlers like another horse from their herd. At some time in their training they act out, perhaps trying to kick or nip at their human. A sharp smack and a loud "No!" is usually all it takes for the foal to think Whew! I don't think I will try that again.
Even though we have six turkeys sitting in the freezer, we've decided to go out for Thanksgiving lunch tomorrow. It is our first Thanksgiving without my mother-in-law and nobody feels like much of a celebration.
The goats are falling on milk pounds. Their bodies are preparing for the new kids they are carrying, due in January and February of 2008.
Which reminds me, I have a lot of cleaning to do! Both our "kid buildings" need to be cleaned out by hand and restocked with fresh sawdust. Pens must be dismantled for cleaning and then rebuilt. It will be worth it, when those gorgeous babies start to arrive and I can transport them to clean, dry and warm buildings in which to grow and play. We are expecting over 500 goat kids this year, so it's never been so important to be prepared.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Turkey Day Is Coming!
We raise rare-breed Narragansett turkeys. Even though numbers of these birds are limited, we still end up with too many males to females ratio.
My husband, being a practical man, thinks we need to recoup some of our feed costs involved in raising the birds by selling hatching eggs and eating the extra offspring.
So, off to 'Sue's Pin and Feather' we went the other night with six turkeys and four ducks. Sue provides the butchering and preparation of the birds, and this morning when I go back to Fort Atkinson, I will pick up ten snap frozen, bagged birds ready for our freezer.
This time of year is obviously a good time to be loading up with turkeys as Americans prepare to celebrate Thanksgiving, or at least the rest of our extended family seems to think so! Turkey, anyone?
Our turkeys free range through the summer out on pasture eating bugs and insects. They are not fed hormones so their growth rate is slow, but the meat is excellent.
Our ancestors knew what they were doing when they created the Narragansett breed by crossing wild native turkeys with the ones they brought over from Europe. Even Abraham Lincoln was once given a gift of Narragansett turkeys from the people of Rhode Island.
If it was good enough for Abe, whom I have always admired, it's good enough for me.
Pass the cranberry sauce, would you please?
My husband, being a practical man, thinks we need to recoup some of our feed costs involved in raising the birds by selling hatching eggs and eating the extra offspring.
So, off to 'Sue's Pin and Feather' we went the other night with six turkeys and four ducks. Sue provides the butchering and preparation of the birds, and this morning when I go back to Fort Atkinson, I will pick up ten snap frozen, bagged birds ready for our freezer.
This time of year is obviously a good time to be loading up with turkeys as Americans prepare to celebrate Thanksgiving, or at least the rest of our extended family seems to think so! Turkey, anyone?
Our turkeys free range through the summer out on pasture eating bugs and insects. They are not fed hormones so their growth rate is slow, but the meat is excellent.
Our ancestors knew what they were doing when they created the Narragansett breed by crossing wild native turkeys with the ones they brought over from Europe. Even Abraham Lincoln was once given a gift of Narragansett turkeys from the people of Rhode Island.
If it was good enough for Abe, whom I have always admired, it's good enough for me.
Pass the cranberry sauce, would you please?
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