The Saga of the Chicken Snatchers - Part Deaux

WHAT THE HELL, WHY MUST YOU PLAGUE ME AT  IN THREE THIRTY HE GODDAMN MORNING!!!?!??  Of course we couldn’t have early shift raccoons, we’ve got late shift beasties.

This time, as this is not our first rodeo, in fact we’re getting to be experts at waking up in the middle of the night to chase raccoons off, we actually manage to get dressed and we both grab flashlights.

We can’t find the raccoons.  We do find two holes in the fence where they attempted to drag the big girl out of the pen.  I decide that since we can’t know those are the only holes, and we did lose one last time after locking them into the coop, we should put the remaining chickens in the dog crate on the back porch.

Ryan was thrilled.  But he did it anyway ‘cause I wine.  

While he’s installing the remaining chickens into the dog crate I go looking for bird remains.  I do find a carcass - only HOLY CRAP she’s not dead.  Her breathing is very labored, she’s laying on her side, and she’s clearly been mauled.  I ask Ryan to get the hatchet.

This is a big deal for us.  Neither of us has ever killed one of our girls for any reason.  Even when they were extreme pains in the ass.  I’d like to say we’re hardened farm folks and don’t blink at this sort of thing.  But, while the chickens aren’t pets exactly, they are creatures in our care.  It’s hard to end something in your care.

He goes to find her neck and suddenly, she sits up, squawks, and runs off.

IT’S THREE THIRTY IN GODDAMN MORNING and we’re searching the backyard for an errant, injured chicken.

Living the dream folks, living the dream.

We find her (smart girl actually hid pretty well) and we put her on top of the dog crate so she’s separated from the other chickens, but with them at the same time.  We lock up the porch, wash up and go back to bed.

This morning we moved the healthy chickens back out to the pen, but the injured one is in the dog crate with food and water.  She’s not good, and now it seems both her eyes were hurt.  We’re not sure if we’re doing the kind thing by waiting, but we’re doing the best we can moment to moment.

 

Oh, and the trap - it was TOSSED aside which sprung the gate.  We’re dealing with Raccoon Hulk.  

The Tale of the Two Chicken Snatchers

It's been a pretty full week.

We had raccoons bust into Ft. Chicken - at this point the security is antiquated and the hackers have figured out the door codes.  We should consider upgrading to more modern measures, but, Time, Kids, Time, Other Things That Seem Like More Fun Than Digging Trenches And Laying Chicken Wire Again, and Time.  So it probably won't happen.

Imagine this: HOLY GODDAM, IT'S FOUR IN THE MORNING WHAT'S THAT NOISE.  Ryan dons my very short kimono style bathrobe and wanders into the backyard armed only with a flash light.  He goes into the Ft. Chicken, at which point I notice two very large, very frantic animals trying hard to escape the pen.  Before I can say, "Dude, your dangly bits and legs and get out before you get scratched," the two animals scamper up the trees in the pen. 

So it's HOLY GODDAM IT'S FOUR IN THE MORNING.  Ryan is in the chicken pen, only nominally dressed, and he's got two raccoons treed.  Oh, and he's armed with a flash light.

Don't you wish your life was exciting like mine?

I take clothes out to the back porch for Ryan.  He dresses and moves all the chickens into the actual coop and locks it down.  (Stupid birds had decided to sleep out of doors.  Possibly because they had a opossum that was sleeping with them every night and eating their eggs.  Great deal for the opossum, warm snuggly down comforter style bodies to cuddle with and a free continental breakfast to boot!  But I would imagine that he snored, or he was a lousy roommate.  Or they missed him since we fixed that hole a while back and he had to find a new apartment. But they hadn't gone back into the coup since.)  We then open the pen door and go back to bed.

At WHAT THE HELL ITS FIVE FREAKING THIRTY we hear the tell tale squawks of a chicken being murdered.

This time Ryan puts on shorts before grabbing his trusty flashlight and going on out.  There's nothing.  No raccoons, no carcass, nothing.  We assume that one of the birds didn't get put away, or that she managed to wiggle out of the coup and met her untimely end.

Ryan slips back into bed just as Ferris gives his usual, IT'S SIX IN THE MORNING AND I'M AWAKE!!!!!  AND I'M BORED!!!!!  AND I NEED SNACKS!!!! call.


We did catch both of them, and relocated them to a far away land where there's tons of tasty vittles and way less chickens to traumatize.  And we fixed this hole in the fence too.  Oh, and bait your raccoon traps with marshmallows, you'll end up with way fewer pissed off housecats.  Trust us on this one.  Pissed off housecats are way worse to release from the traps then rabid salmonella ridden raccoons.  Oh, did I not mention the conversations with local epidemiologist 'cause Ferris caught salmonella from the baby chickens.  Very nice lady, but kept saying, "The CDC recommends..."  Good times.

Last Friday of School

Today is the last Friday of Zane's first year of preschool.  There are four more school days before summer camp starts.  This seems like it should be some sort of a milestone, but it's not.  He's going to the same place for camp as he did for school.  He might be in a new classroom, and he may have new teachers, but he's cool with that.

 

We're also one week away from the Open House for Ferris' summer camp.  This is HUGE.

It's the same place that Zane is going, so that's a bonus.  But Ferris has been a stay-at-home kid, this will be the first time he spends his entire day with someone who isn't a family member.  We're pushing him straight into the deep end - five days a week, the full day.

I know that ultimately he won't remember how traumatizing the first week was for him.  There will be plenty of other fodder for the therapists later.  But, part of me is sad that he's going to be SO FREAKING UPSET. 

There will be big GIANT tears, and possibly clothing rending.  After about three days, he'll be used to the new routine and it'll be fine.  That first day is going to suck big time, though.

I, however, am looking forward to having my days back with unbridled enthusiasm.  I can schedule client meetings or shoots and not have to worry about negotiating the calendar with Ryan or booking my Mother in Law to spend the afternoon.  I will be able to go to the store, and only buy what's on the list, and not have to argue with the rabid toddler about holding on to that list, and "Dude, it's my pen.  Ok, fine.  Here.  Stop screaming.  No!  Don't write on your face.  Only on paper.  Now what did the list say?  No, I'm not taking it from you.  Please let me see it for just a minute.  Ok, good.  Thank you.  Oh great you colored the list.  Yes, Check.  Good job.  Fuck it, I'll just guess at what was under all this scribbling.  Here you can have it back.  Oh, great.  Now, you don't want it.  Awesome."

And yes, I've said fuck it in the grocery store to my toddler.

Probably more often then most people should.

Sorry, Mom, I know you raised me better.

And no matter what, a two year old saying fuck is pretty funny.

He also walks around saying, "B. S."  It's because those are the first two letters he's learned, not because we actually use that phrase, but it's funny as hell. 

I'm an awesome mom.

  

Embracing the Sun

Last fall we scrapped all the beds, except the strangely successful asparagus bed, on the side of the house. The combination of years of failing to produce much and the beech(?) tree that grows ever larger shading more of the side yard we decided to just scrap them. This area is where we do most of our outside hanging anyway. It's next to the back porch, home of all the tantalizing outdoor toys, it's where we keep the grill, and it is the home of the mostest awesome climbing tree EVAR (Zane's words, not mine) a fig tree that doesn't produce much but provides nice shade in the summer and is one of Zane's most favorite places. This weekend we're seeding the whole zone with clover and embracing it's non-vegetable growing tendencies.

You'd think there'd be something in this mess we could eat.

The trouble is we want to grow veggies, but we have absolutely no spots on the property that are full sun. Well, almost no spots.

There is the “parking lot.”

The parking lot is what we call the zone at the very top of the yard just past the culvert. It's where you park when you come to visit, two tires on the grass two tires off. It's dry and strange and full of weeds. Oh, and I believe that it actually belongs to the county.

Why now? Why didn't we try this years ago when we were struggling with this sun problem and relocating beds all over the property? 'Cause I neurotically thought it would look bad. Does it look bad? No, but it doesn't look awesome.

However at this point I've ceased to care. I know, strangeness. But I worried that it looked like we were crazy people for wanting to grow tomatoes. There's a difference between growing things solely for food purposes and growing pretty things. We're already the family with the 4 year old who rides without training wheels, who's usually accompanied by the DUDE ON THE UNICYCLE, and the toddler who's trying to keep up on his strider. We're always outside pulling weeds and picking at the plants, but without the veggies it appears like it's a leisure activity. It's not actually work if you're not trying to grow food. Now, we're the nutters with the vegetable garden right by the road.

Embracing the sun, and also the crazy.
Oh, and notice that this was taken at 2p and it's $%&*# SHADY!!!!

I swear, if we don't get something out of this one I'm going to think about giving up.

Now Zane is Four

Today Zane is four.

Four freaking years old.

One day he was my lovable pain in the ass child who climbed too much and the next he is a Voltron loving, bike riding, tv demanding, boy, WHO GOES TO PRESCHOOL.

Preschool has been awesome.  Zane loves it, and we like what Zane’s coming home with (usually a nap, a couple hours of physical activity, stories about his friends, and a self satisfaction of mastering whatever lesson was on the board for the day.)

He knows his letters, upper and lower case.

He can write his first and last name, with an example to copy, but still.

He knows what month it is, and has since October.

He can count to 47 before getting bored and changing the subject, and he only skips fifteen every other time.

When he was a baby it seemed like every time you blinked there was a different kid in front of you.  Ferris is still in that holy-crap-how-did-you-grow-two-inches-last-night and where-the-heck-did-your-baby-nose-go phase.  But with Zane the changes are much more subtle.  You don’t really notice them, but one day you realize you’ve got a kid who can put his own clothes away, and helps to empty the dishwasher.  He doesn’t need extra clothes when we go out, and while I’m still checking his work, he wipes his own butt.

He is amazing.  And so BIG.

And a really cool person to hangout with.

I’m glad I get to do it for the rest of my life.

Happy Birthday to my Goose.  I love you more and more each day.

Sigh.

Current Projects

The past weekend we crossed a few more things off the ever growing list of to dos.

We turned most of a watermelon into pickles and wine.

Future Pickles

I pulled everything down from all the top shelves and dusted, organized, eliminated, and redistributed around the house.

Ryan sanded the crap out of a couple of banker’s chairs I found at Goodwill ($12 for both!) and put some stain on them.  Later this week he’ll put some varnish/water seal/magic fairy dust on them so they’ll last a bit longer on the front porch.  I figure I can’t get outdoor furniture for that cheap, so even if we only get a couple of years out of them before they disintegrate I’m still ahead.  And they’re sooo pretty!!!

 

Ferris worked on his words.  So far we’ve got:

• Daaadie
• Ma   mae
• App pul
• That
• Kisssssss

He also assisted with the chairs.

It's a good thing I'm cute.

 And Zane worked on his Mario Brother skillz and watched Netflix.

No, it's not even educational.

He also painted a cork board at Home Depot, but that took all of 10 minutes and it wasn’t really on our list of Things that Need Doing.  However, hang a tiny cork board somewhere useful has been added.

Be Careful What You Wish For

The other day I was thinking, “Gee, I’ve got to write something for the Suburban Farm,” ‘cause I’ve made it a loose goal to try to write more often rather than devote my time to more pressing tasks like the laundry, running my business, taking care of my boys.  I’ve categorized this as a Me Time thing, thus making it totally OK to neglect the dirty urchins who are running about the yard unshod and decidedly unbathed.

“No Zane, Mommy can’t help you down from that tree she’s having Me Time.”

Anyway, I couldn’t think of anything to write.  Things were dull, dull, dull.  There are tomatoes that are dying because it’s Thursday and that’s what they do.  There are even more failed garden experiments like the worm chewed cabbages that really need to be pitched into the compost pile.  But none of this is any fun.  Then there’s that old adage about being careful and wishes and stuff.

Friday morning I spotted a dead chicken in the coop from the bedroom window.  Then I spotted another.  Because dead animals are his department, I sent Ryan out to investigate.

At some point in the night a dog broke into the pen and tore every chicken it could get its mouth on apart.  There were only three live chickens left.  

All that remains.

Ryan collected all the chicken parts and reinforced the fence in Ft. Chicken (which is way less secure then we thought it was) and I took photos of the aftermath in the pen.  “No Zane, Mommy can’t feed you breakfast right now, she’s got to take photos of where the chickens died.”

Later in the day I spotted the poor beast.  This dog hasn’t eaten anything other than those chickens in a very long while.  I hope that she’s actually a stray and not someone’s pet that got loose.  She bolted the second she saw me, which I guess is better than the alternative, but now Zane is stuck urchining on the screened in back porch till we know she’s caught.

I’ve called animal control, but they’re not open on weekends.  In the meantime, I'm leaving rice cooked in chicken stock out in the back yard. I hope she’s the one eating it and not the crazy one-eared opossum, the giant raccoon posse who occasionally haunt our back porch and eat cigarette butts and cat food, or the T-Rex sized deer who likes the salad buffet we grow for it.  I want her to get used to coming to our house for food so we can trap her and take her to the shelter where she can get cared for and fed. 

And no, I've no plans on taking in any more strays this month.  I'm already dealing with Crazy Charlie on top of our five cats.

I'm Charlie, I'm CRAZY!

The Great Closet Purge

Every time the boys put on a shirt, or pants, or sock, or whatever, and it simply does not fit anymore I pitch it into a bin in their rooms.  This weekend there was no way I was going to fit one more tiny article of clothing into either of their bins.

Thus began the Great Closet Purge of the Summer of 2012.

I pulled out everything from their drawers, closets, bins and bags of hand-me-downs, and sorted it ALL.  All the tiny diapers that we got for Ferris when he first came home, Zane’s worn out training pants that he no longer wears, all the breastfeeding accoutremonts that I no longer need.  I sorted into bins for the attic, piles for a mythical garage sale that I’ll have some day, and stuff that was simply not worth keeping any longer.  The house was a disaster.

Throughout it all Ryan didn’t so much keep the kids out of my piles, but put his efforts into shooting this:

Yes, this was only one day.  Yes, there were that many Zane wardrobe changes.  No, we didn’t once ask him to put any of it on, well except to yell remind him to, “Put on some damn UNDERPANTS dude.”  Zane is a dedicated nudist.  I have so many adorable pictures that I can’t share on the internet ‘cause he’s in his all together.

Why I spent the whole day trying to find/sort/clear out clothes for him is beyond me.  I’m clearly fighting forces beyond my control .  Also, I seem to have lost an entire season’s worth of Zane’s pants.  I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s hacked my system and hidden them.  I'll find them in a few years when I open up a suspiciously labeled box from the attic.

Well, the jokes on him, ‘cause if I’m desperate he will wear pajamas to school.  On second thought, perhaps I just go buy some more pants.