ROOSTER CULL.
I came around the corner of our cabin to find the youngest Smith child, sweet Olivia, aged three, chasing Favorite Chick, our hellion rooster. Seeing a potentially dangerous situation developing, I called to Olivia and tried to move in quick, but was too late. As Olivia turned around, Favorite Chick pounced on her, swiping at her legs with his talons and splitting the skin before I could grab him. Though not as bad as we'd feared, it had been what we'd feared—Favorite Chick had attacked a child.A month ago we had to put our beloved rooster Ellen down. Ellen had been sick and was in misery. We did what we could, but he wasn't getting better and we hated the idea of him suffering any longer, so I killed him. It was hard, we still miss him, but we felt it had to be done.Ellen's passing, however, meant we were also out a rooster. Hannah and I enjoy having a rooster as we prefer the taste of fertilized eggs (and the potential to hatch more chicks). But roosters also add a little protection for the hens, which is welcomed in our little woody area where predation is a potentiality from all sides. When Ellen was gone, the oldest Smith child, Ira, gave us one of his roosters, who he called Favorite Chick. Ellen was calm, assertive, but never aggressive towards us, and did his job well. Favorite Chick was Ellen's cocky opposite—high-strung, mean, ornery, and had no problem attacking us from behind. Or our guests. Or, apparently, children—children being where we drew the line.We had considered culling Favorite Chick for weeks. We almost did after he attacked me, almost after he attacked Cher, and many times after he attacked Hannah. But we didn't because we wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. And we eventually regretted it. Watching Olivia cry, we regretted not taking care of him sooner. Because as bad as it was, it could have been much worse. It could have been the face. It could have been the eyes. But that is why I wanted to share this story, because Favorite Chick—who I admit had a truly unfortunate name for a story like this—was the first animal I'd ever killed not because he was sick, or even for food (though he did become chicken soup), but because he was dangerous. I'm not looking to justify what I did—I was preventing future attacks on children which, to me, needs no justification—but I'd like to hear what others have and/or would have done in the same situation. Our dear readers, farmers or not, should feel free to shed some perspective or share a story.- Jesse.
FOR THE LOVE OF DOG.
"I'm a little worried about Wendell," I told Hannah when she woke up, "I'm sure he's fine, but he's not back yet."And that was the first time I ever lied to my wife, because to be honest, I wasn't sure he was fine. I had awoken to the sound of a dog or coyote fight at some late hour, and hadn't heard Wendell since. If he was hurt, he'd probably limped into the woods to hide. If he was dead... well, I didn't want to think about that, even if it was all I could think about.Death is a part of life I've come to terms with and, through farming, even grown to admire. But I was realizing death was not a part of love I was able to process, or even willing to accept. In life, death replenishes. As Baudelaire said, death renders unto nature a hundred times what it takes from it. Death does not do the same for love. Life blossoms from death. Love blossoms from life.For as many times as I've been frustrated with Wendell, annoyed, embarrassed or even hurt by him, I found myself unable, in any fashion, to deal with the idea of his death. I made myself ill thinking about it—thinking about life without my dog, my buddy, my goof. I was not comforted by the fertility his giant body would be lending to the earth, I was haunted by the thought of not seeing him every morning, sleepy-eyed, sleepy bear. I am human and thus blessed and cursed with compassion. Compassion is what made me care for Wendell in the first place, to fall in love with him, but it was also the thing that had me so nervous that morning, pacing around the house with my eyes welling up, a grown man praying his grown puppy was okay."I'm going to go look for him," I finally mumbled, then walked swiftly out of the house and down the driveway, mentally preparing myself for what I might find. But when I got to the road, I looked over and saw a soaking wet Wendell, unharmed, exhausted from his night of work and play, happy and alive as could be, coming home for breakfast.And as he walked by me I could feel my affection for him growing. He'd scared me half to death, and it made me love him twice as much—such is the math of love, I suppose.- Jesse.
WENDELL WEDNESDAY.
We've been letting the baby chicks out on grass during the day, and Wendell has been keeping quite the watchful eye.
LITTLE BY LITTLE.
After nearly every evening move, Eric and I like to take a moment to pause and watch the cattle graze. One such evening, Eric was musing about how relieved he was that he hadn't had the money to buy the livestock he wanted when he first started rotational grazing. He's just now, after over ten years of working with livestock, starting to feel confident in what he's doing. In that time, his instincts for the animals have improved tremendously. He's learned how to handle them, and how to better anticipate their needs. And though he knows he's still got a lot to learn, he said he was glad to have learned what he knows on the motley mix of animals that have always made up his herd.The cows he wanted cost several thousand dollars a piece. And had he started with those animals––shelled out ten or fifteen thousand dollars on a few cows––there would have been a lot more at stake. They easily could have bankrupted him before he knew what he was doing. Luckily, Eric couldn't have afforded animals from good stock when he started. He started with a milk cow named Delilah and her bull calf, purchased from a neighbor for $400. The calf was wormy and died, but Delilah lived, and Eric built from there.Now, he has a Devon bull he likes which he spent good money on, and slowly he's starting to build the herd he wants. "Everything worthwhile takes time," Eric once told me and I'm starting to realize how widely it applies, and how sometimes being low on cash, however frustrating or limiting, can be a gift.Hannah and I have spent the last few months moving in inches. We inched into the forest. We inched into the cabin. We'll inch into the rest of our lives and we'll inch because we have no other choice––we don't have money to move more than an inch at a time. When I think about Eric and his cattle, however, in a way, I feel blessed to have such little mobility. Sure, we want our forest cleared and filled with livestock, pigs, goats and gardens. We want our house set up with running water and a solar system. We want a lot of things, but perhaps, by being forced to only move in inches for the next few years, we'll thoroughly learn every inch of what we're doing. In turn, it will make us better farmers, carpenters and partners, preparing us for the day when we can finally move swiftly in feet––or who knows, maybe even yards––while teaching us to appreciate every step. So right now, moving slowly is quite alright––everything worthwhile takes time-- and we have a lot more time than money, and a lot to learn yet anyway.- Jesse.