First fire of the season

Around here, it's obvious that fall has finally arrived. Temperatures are consistently in the 60's, signs advertising straw and fresh pumpkins are popping up all over town, and apple cider has once again appeared in the groceries. The trees on our property are waving golden and red, and scores of huge, beautiful rust-brown beech leaves are starting to appear scattered across the backyard.

Today, the temperatures really took a dive. With a high of only 54 degrees, a steady cold rain, and occasional wind gusts, it's the kind of day that I only want to do one thing: read a book next to a blazing fire.

So, this morning, I fed and watered the animals, then bedded everyone down with fresh straw and shavings. Once they were all set, I retired into the house for a double-helping of farmer's eggs and apple cider, and set to work getting a good fire going.

The leftover logs from last winter are nice and dry this year, and they sure caught fast compared to last year. Within just a few minutes, the fire was busily spreading over the wood. I filled the tetsubin (Japanese tea kettle) over the fire with hot water, whole cloves and cinnamon sticks, and within just a few minutes the whole house was full of Autumn.

Seeing a fire in the fireplace again reminded me that I've only lived here for a year now - almost to the day. Even so, the fireplace already seems so nostalgic. I remember what a wonderful feeling it was to smell woodsmoke and hear the crackle of the fireplace last year - after living in the city with a small gas fireplace, it was absolute heaven (and still is). Byron and I burned wood in the fireplace almost constantly last fall and winter - and the fireplace even got us through a full week without any other source of heat. To say that I have a lot of affection for our hearth would be a severe understatement.

The only thing missing today was a book to read. I'm waiting on a small order of books to arrive in the mail, so the timing was a little off. But there's so much else to work on that it's not such a loss. With any luck, the day will be spent cleaning house, and making homemade pasta to stash and freeze. And if I'm really lucky, I'll have time to take Bandit and Willow out for their first run in over two weeks. I might like the fire and the cozy house, but I like the cold fall weather just as much.

The biggest Collar of Shame ever

Poor little Loki. This is his 3rd collar... the first one was too short, the 2nd one was too flexible so he managed to get around it anyway. So, now he's wearing the biggest Elizabethian collar I've personally ever seen. Poor little thing has such a hard time getting around, but it's much better than allowing him to get at his injury.

He seems to be recovering well and has more energy than he did, so that's a good sign.

Today I'm planning on getting the garden finished, and then working on getting new, chicken-sized entry doors added to the coop. If I'm lucky, I'll get new chicken-wire doors added to the compost bays, too (the chickens have been getting in there and spreading my compost all over the yard).

On top of all that, I really hope I have time to work in the studio today. I finally got things up-and-running last week and I'm anxious to spend time painting again.

Playing catch-up seems to be a way of life around here these days.

When it rains...

...well, you know. It pours.

A couple of posts ago, I mentioned Loki, a foster dog, not doing well after his neuter surgery last weekend. The neuter site was very swollen and very bright red, and he was in obvious pain.

So, he was taken to my vet last Saturday morning, where he received painkiller and antibiotic...then the swelling went down, and appeared to be healing fine since then. In fact, it looked like a normal neuter site until yesterday evening, and he seemed to be recovering well, although he seemed pretty tired.

When I finished my work for the day yesterday, I went out to the kennel to bring him dinner and hang out. To my shock he seemed extremely lethargic and depressed. He was lying flat against the kennel door and refused to get up as I entered. As I walked in he started to whine and cry, didn't want to sit down and was in obvious distress. I managed to get him to lay on his back and I took a look at the neuter site.

I had checked it in the morning and it had looked perfectly fine... but that was not the case now. To say I was horrified would be an understatement. The area behind the incision site appeared to be completely burst open, with a huge hole draining with pus and Lord knows what else (I literally got the shakes and felt like fainting after I saw it, and believe me, I have a very strong stomach). Needless to say he was rushed to the emergency vet immediately.

I couldn't believe it when the vet told me what was happening. He explained that it was a freak accident that happens with neuter surgeries sometimes, about a 1-in-1000 chance... could be either from an allergic reaction to the sutures or scrub used, or a blood vessel that wasn't tied off properly during surgery. Either way, the tissue had started to die off around the sutures, formed an infection, and finally burst to the surface and compromised the skin. The area, as I was told, is completely full of necrotic tissue and infection. The only saving grace is that he has been on an antibiotic since last Saturday, so that kept the infection local, and probably prevented it from becoming systemic.

The emergency vet told us he would need to surgery to remove the affected skin, scrape out all the affected tissue, then sew the area back up. The vet assured us that it would be fine to perform the surgery the following morning at our regular vet, and sent us home with a sedative, anti-inflammatory, and instructions to cold-pack the area every 6 hours.

So, this morning, off to the vet we went, running on only two hours of sleep. The good news is, my vet strongly opted against surgery, in the belief that a strong antibiotic and a good cleaning in the vet's office will have the site closed up by the weekend.

Fingers crossed... this has been one heck of a week for vet bills. You'll have this with dogs. They have a propensity for getting into trouble. But still... let's try to keep it to once a year if at all possible, alright, dogs?

Square Foot Gardening is for the birds

OK, so not really. I'm actually really excited about my new raised gardens. The problem is, apparently, so are my chickens.

So far, I only have one bed close to being finished. It's 4' x 8', and can support the growth of almost 200 garlic bulbs. I don't have nearly that many cloves to plant since I'm starting small, but it's nice to know that the space is there for other crops come spring. The plan is to create a U-shaped garden on the left side of the barn, closest to the house.

Obviously I'm going to have to protect my new bed from the chickens somehow. I can just see them tearing out all my garlic cloves and having themselves a nice little snack.

That said, though, they sure look cute napping in the soft bed. The contented, soft chirping noises they were making were enough to win anyone over to these sweet little birds.

Recovery

It's been three days since the dog fight, and I've finally calmed down enough to be able to blog about it. That picture is Bandit on Saturday evening, being comforted by Lily, who is probably his best friend in the whole world. She's stayed at his side ever since he got back from the vet.

I have a policy to never turn out dogs together to play when I'm not home and able to keep tabs on things. (The exception is that either Jazz or Bandit can safely be turned out with Willow. Male/female pairs generally get along much more smoothly.) On Friday, I was very glad that I always stick to that policy. After months of playing without any incidents, an empty food bowl that was somehow dragged into the fenceline caused a major fight to erupt between Bandit and Jasper.

It was a bad one, no doubt. Bandit missed having his eye gashed by a few centimeters, and has five staples in his shoulder. The entire right side of Jasper's face is torn up. Both of them have large shaved patches on their faces and shoulders where the wounds had to be examined and cleaned.

To say I was terrified would be an understatement. My thoughts were all over the place as I watched them fighting - I felt so helpless, and it seemed there was nothing I could do to break them apart. The amount of blood was terrifying. After trying everything I could think of to get them apart (yelling, rattling the fence, spraying them with the hose, hitting their rear end with a leash), I had to grab Jasper by the rear legs and wheelbarrow him away from Bandit. This is the technique I learned to break up dog fights, and it's the safest way to do so when all other methods fail. (It's not safe to go for the collar or head - the rear legs are safest.) I pulled him into the catch pen in the yard and slammed the gate between Bandit and Jasper, leashed him and got him into the sunroom. Then I returned for Bandit and got him into the house.

Once again, I have to tell you all what wonderful, exceptional, incredible neighbors I have. I had just gotten Jasper into the catch pen when I saw my neighbor Gregory appear around the corner. A few minutes later, his parents Lois and Don showed up. They had heard the yelling and snarling, and they were afraid that I was being attacked (I don't blame them for thinking so). When they saw what was happening, they offered to take Bandit in their van while my mom and I loaded up Jasper and took him in her car. Lois even stayed with us throughout the vet visit. Their concern and willingness to help meant the world to me and I just can't thank them enough. I baked a loaf of rosemary herb bread for them this morning and I'm taking it over there with a bouquet of flowers and a dozen eggs. You know what, this homestead thing and this dog/wolfdog rescue thing - it takes a village. And I am so thankful to have neighbors who are so caring, unbelievably generous, and kind.

The dogs spent the evening at the emergency vet, then spent the weekend on lockdown in strictly seperate quarters, downing antibiotic and painkillers morning and night. Of course, I always seem to come up one kennel short - so Loki had to spend the weekend bedded down in the sunroom. Willow had run of the fenced yard, Bandit stayed in the house with me, and Jasper had the deck kennel.

This afternoon, Jasper was returned to his usual place in the yard with Willow. I had a lot of trepidation about doing this, but Loki was not doing well in the sunroom (the stress from being in a new place was rough on him), so I decided it was the right time. Jasper's wounds (which were shallow) have already healed over incredibly fast, and they were confined to the right side of his muzzle, so I'm not concerned about re-injury.

When they started to play I just about lost it. Every time they play-growled or jumped, I ran into them ready to break up the pending fight. I don't know how long it'll take to get over this, but it sure is stressful. I never realized how relaxed I had been about their playing before. I think I'll have to be more proactive in supervising their interactions and keeping play to a level I'm comfortable with.

If I can, within the next year I'm planning to build a new kennel area inside the fenced yard. I'd like to do away with the deck kennel entirely; it's large enough for two dogs which is nice, but it also doesn't allow for separation during emergencies like this. It was never really meant to be permanent, but just got to be so convenient that I'm reluctant to tear it down without a replacement. It's also horribly difficult to keep clean (I spend 30 minutes a day mopping it), and all the dog stuff (toys, food, leashes, and of course, kennel cleaning equipment and poop bags) has a tendency to accumulate in the garage. The new kennels would be smaller, but there would be more partitions so that the dogs can be easily seperated if need be, the flooring would be designed for easy cleaning, and there would be a storage area where I could keep the toys, leashes, and other things. Not to mention a dog waste composter, which is high on my priority list!

Right now, though, all I can do is move on and try to get things back to normal as soon as I can. Bandit and Jasper will no longer be spending time together in the yard, but will be rotated so that they each get time to play and free-run. Perhaps in the far future I might try to reintroduce them, but I don't think they were ever a truly compatible match. It might be best not to push it.

Times like this are difficult and put a dark spot on all the joy I get each day from my pack of sled dogs. But the only thing to do is keep moving forward and take each day as it comes.

One of those weekends

I'm going to make this short because I'm very tired, and still recovering from an awful couple of days, so here is the Readers' Digest version of the last few days:

Thursday afternoon: Loki, a foster dog I am caring for, was neutered
Friday morning: Loki's sutures look terrible and I call the vet, make an appointment for Saturday.
Friday afternoon: The Big Fight. Jasper and Bandit got into a severe fight which resulted in both of them going to the emergency vet. More on that later.
Saturday morning: Loki goes to the vet. By now, 3 of my 4 dogs are downing antibiotic and painkiller cocktails morning and night. Also, none of the eggs in my incubator are hatching.
Saturday night: There are no chicks in the incubator. Instead, all I'm greeted with is a not-so-nice odor... not a good sign. (Although, having chicks hatch right now probably would have been horrible timing.)

A more thorough update to follow in the next couple of days...

Hatch day

I know I mentioned in a previous post that I suspected all my hatching eggs had failed in the incubator. Well, I just couldn't get myself to throw them away. The way I see it, it doesn't do any harm to leave them in the incubator until hatch day tomorrow, and if I get lucky with even just one chick, I'll be very glad I held onto those eggs! They are really very indistinct and I'm admittedly a chicken-hatching newbie, so I'm just going to cross my fingers and see what happens.

Stay tuned...

Sew what?

Yesterday night, I tried my hand at a little sewing project. My first real try at sewing in several years. It resulted (amazingly) in the two throw pillows above, which are destined to be Christmas presents for a fellow wolf and wolfdog rescuer who has been a wonderful friend.

I have to admit, I'm not the type to sew. Sewing is incredibly difficult for me - even something "simple" such as throw pillows. Sewing is so precise. And it feels so final - all the cutting, the stitching, there is no trial-and-error here. I'm more the type that would spend my artistic energy throwing clay on a wheel, or splattering paint onto a canvas.

Still, it's incredibly practical, and a good addition to a well-balanced repertoire of homesteading skills. So, I'm going to continue trying to understand my sewing machine, and see how far I can get with it. That's all anyone can ask, right?

Wolfish jam session, take 2

A couple weeks ago, I was lucky enough to sneak in these shots of Jasper (a.k.a. Jazz Man, Jazz Music, Jazz Master, etc. - all for good reason) singing up a storm on top of the Doggy Duplex.









I was also fortunate enough to capture the Zen-like calm that overcomes him after a good howl session. He just licks his lips and softens his eyes, and basks in the glory of what he's just accomplished. He's usually a nutcase, so it's profoundly odd to see him pretending that he's perfectly calm, cool, and in control of himself.

Things of beauty

Most people who dine at my house with any regularity (I'm talking to you, Alex and Scott) know that I love garlic. And when I say love, I mean LOVE.

I can't say I exactly inherited this, although my late grandfather was, in fact, an accomplished garlic connoissuer and garlic festival attendee. His collection of books on garlic growing is incredible - I know, because they were graciously passed down to me by my grandmother (thank you Grandma!). All I can think is that my Grandpa must have known his way around the garlic world. How else does one snag a Bible-sized garlic-growing tome, signed by the author with a greeting of "Merry Christmas, Slim!" (along with the sincere reminder that a clove a day will keep the vampires away)? Or a quirky yet informative read written by an authentic garlic-farming hippie (yes, complete with overgrown hair and beard, and a wife named Watershine - I'm not kidding)?

I know that if he is reading this entry from Heaven's internet connection (I'm sure it's speedy), he'd be smiling from ear-to-ear with pride, and he'd also want to tell me stories about how eating too much garlic will make me grow hair on my chest. I wish he was here to tell me in person, but someday I know I will hear it.

Anyway, this love for garlic must have skipped a generation somehow, because I grew up never having seen an actual head of garlic in my life. "Garlic" was synonymous with garlic powder, or in some cases, garlic salt. I was not even vaguely aware that garlic was a bulb. My only clue was pictures I saw at Halloween.

So, my own affair with garlic started soon after I got married in 2004. There I stood over the kitchen countertop, a newbie chef with zero experience and an armful of garage sale cookbooks. I was mulling over my grand plans for Tortellini Carbonara, ingredients spread before me... cheese-filled tortellini, heavy cream, bacon, parsley, Parmesan, and... several heads of garlic.

The recipe in my book called for "two cloves of garlic, peeled and chopped". Never having seen a garlic bulb in my life, and not knowing that it even possessed "cloves", I assumed that each head of garlic was a clove. Dutifully I peeled and chopped over a dozen "Collosal Garlic" cloves. It took a little over an hour; all the while, I was glancing at the recipe's 20-minute preparation time and cursing the innacuracy of my cookbook.

Amazingly, this story doesn't end in disaster. With neither of us none the wiser, Byron and I dug right into the tortellini once it was done. It was absolutely incredible! The flavor of the garlic, sauteed in olive oil and white Balsamic vinegar, was the crown of the dish. Byron isn't even a huge garlic eater, but he loved it too. The truth only came out later when I complained about the ridiculous prep time. Byron looked at the recipe, and we figured it out. We both got a good laugh, but we have never changed the recipe since then. We serve it for company all the time, and they seem to love it, so that little mistake in the kitchen has turned out to be a blessing many times over.

Nowadays, garlic features prominently in a lot of what I cook. Syrian Hummus is a favorite of mine to prepare, as is Crock-Pot 40-Clove Garlic Chicken (with added Yukon Gold potatoes). So, it only makes sense to try growing my own. This year's varieties include Georgian Fire, Georgian Crystal, and Lorz Italian, all from the excellent heirloom seed company Seed Savers Exchange. I'll also be planting a few cloves of my standby "grocery store" garlic from Trader Joe's. All in all, I hope to have roughly 100 - 125 heads of garlic to harvest next summer, plus all the edible greens in the meantime.

I hope that my Grandpa will be proud. I'll be dedicating the garlic plot to him.

The Great Stick Battle of 2009

Not to be confused with the Great Hinckley Prairie Fire of 2009, of course.

Cardinal Rules of Dogdom, number 42: An ordinary stick that has been sitting in the yard for weeks is completely uninteresting, until it has been touched by Mom, at which point it becomes an object worthy of everyone's attention.

Yes, it's true. This large branch sat in the yard for roughly 2 weeks, during which I neglected to pick it up. Bandit, Willow, and Jasper were in the yard playing, when I suddenly got the whim to grab it and try to toss it over the fence. I had only been holding it for a few seconds when the usual growly dog-wrestling noises stopped, leaving the yard eerily quiet. Next thing I knew, I was surrounded by three dogs, all demonstrating a perfect "Sit" in the hopes of earning this coveted stick.

A strategic stick-battle ensued. I tried to break the stick up into 3 pieces and toss it around the yard, but one piece managed to escape the fenceline, and one piece was too small to be noticed ("Are you kidding Mom?"). It all worked out, though. Nobody (ahem, Jasper) threw a tantrum and I was able to snap some fun shots of the group interacting.

Jasper got the stick first, but Willow wasn't going to give up that easily.





The winning move!



She wrestled it away from him, and enjoyed a short chew before Bandit had to come ruin her fun.



She tolerated it for a bit, but in typical Willow fashion, ended up putting her foot down. Bandit is smart, so he listened.



Jasper was the eventual winner, and converted the stick into a pile of wood debris in record time.

Fall sleddog training

I mentioned in my last post that fall sleddog training has begun over here, but I haven't gotten around to posting any pictures yet. So, here I am to remedy that!

A small disclaimer. Willow ran in a muzzle the first several runs because she can get very nervous around strange dogs (she has never started a fight, but I was concerned that the speed and excitement of scootering might push her over her stress threshold and cause an uncharacteristic response if we suddenly met up with a dog on trail). So, hence the basket muzzle in the pics. I have since stopped using it, since I usually pull off the trail anyway if I see a dog approaching.

My little team of two is doing absolutely fantastic. Byron and I go on training runs at the Allerdale paved bicycle loop 3 - 4 times a week in good weather (below 72 degrees - mostly evenings), alternating between running the dogs together, or solo, while Byron bikes alongside or ahead, encouraging the dogs to run faster. Mushing can be a bit of a wild ride, but I'm addicted. Hopelessly addicted. This is great fun, seriously.

The scooter is so much fun, but soon the snow will be flying, and I'll need to procure a dog sled. (If Cold Antler's wishlist goes "truck, farm, tractor", my dogsled wishlist goes "sled, scooter upgrade, kennel upgrade".) I've considered everything from a super-light Scandinavian or Canadian kicksled, all the way up to a real sprint or recreational sled. I had my eye on a used, bare-bones sprint sled for quite some time, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized I probably want to buy new. I'd have to install the bar brake, snowhook, runners, and sled bridle by myself if I bought a used sled, and I'm not sure I'm up to the task. Plus, I found out that the one I wanted was bolt construction (as opposed to mortise & tenor), which can cause the sled to break more easily if it happens to hit a tree or boulder (both very likely scenarios - it's the blind-leading-the-blind over here).

I'm still considering, but for starters I really love the traditional look of this sled. That's pretty much what I'm hoping to shell out for, come late October or early November when the snow is about to hit.

Until then, it's wheels for me, and Cordura boots for my pups.

**EDITED TO ADD: In the spirit of this post, I absolutely have to recommend a blog I just stumbled upon. Check it out, if you're anything like me you will laugh until your sides hurt.

A Girl and Her Dogs

All the little things

It feels good to post to the blog again! It has been a very slow September so far, with very little to write about. It's been full, however, of all the little things that add up to keep this homestead running smoothly (and keep a homesteader very, very busy!).

Little things like realizing that the second shelf of my fridge is always overrun with at least two dozen eggs, no matter how many I am eating (in homemade pasta, in crepes, in French toast, scrambled, fried on toast, with bacon, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner... OK, so maybe it's not that bad). Little things like receiving the final batch of Fly Predators for the season... and realizing that it felt like yesterday that I was first placing that order. The daily hauling of feed and water to the coop, followed by an eager flock of overly-friendly chickens. The moments of sinking my hands into the thick coarse ruff of my happy sled dogs; the moments of listening to Jazz howling in the morning that give me the shivers. Little things like the daily turning of compost, the package of heirloom garlic cloves that will be planted in just a few weeks, the beauty of the fall leaves starting to turn and the sharp crispness in the morning air that puts a smile on my face.

Then, there are the not-so-little things - the failed incubation of my hatching eggs (they were candled several times and showed no veins, sadly), the start of the fall training season for my sled dogs, the contemplation of major fall purchases such as a new furnace.

All these things make up a typical day, week, and month here at the homestead, but by themselves they don't make for much of a story (most days). But I am still here, still plugging along, and still loving every minute of it. In the coming weeks I hope to update a lot more often. Take that as a promise.

Chickens on The Today Show

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How cool is this!! Only thing I wish they would have covered better is the fact that chickens can't survive on pizza and Thai food... yikes.

Stupid things homesteaders do

Ever had a raw egg crack in your jeans pocket? Neither had I, until this morning.

On some mornings, the hens put in less than their daily quota. This morning, I only found two eggs in the nest box, and I popped one in each pocket and continued to feed the birds. This really wasn't that unusual - I've carried up to four eggs in my jeans pockets, with never a mishap.

But not today. Somehow over the last several weeks of egg collecting and chicken feeding, somewhere along the way, having an egg in each pocket became old hat. Somewhere along the way, it became routine. So routine, in fact, that I forgot the egg was there.

And as I rounded the corner of the compost bin, I smacked my hip squarely right on the post.

At first there was just an awakening; a sudden realization that the pop I'd heard was not my hip, it wa the egg that I put in my pocket. In that second I looked down at my pocket, and it looked oddly deflated; the shape of a cracked eggshell easily visible. The next second was dread. I wondered if the raw egg would drip through my
pocket. The third second was cold. Just cold. The egg was rapidly advancing towards my knee.

By this time I was hopping briskly back to the house holding my jeans away from my leg, sincerely wishing I could lose them right there in the yard.

So, let this be a cautionary tale to all you homesteaders. I hope you are smarter than I am, and never carry an egg in your pocket.