It is a new day. A new country. A new world.
Oreo is on top of the world.
We did it!! We did it together.
And the whole world celebrates.
Beginning right here in Irish Grove. Hooray for President Obama!!
Category: Farm Animals (Page 4 of 4)
Well, Election Day has finally arrived! What a relief!!
No more campaigning, no more lies, no more sleeze and smear, no more pandering, and no more ‘gotcha’ journalism. (‘Course, in my opinion, if you get ‘got’ by the journalists who are clearly playing the game you signed up for, then who’s fault is it?)
Election day on the farm is like election day everywhere else. It starts out pretty normal, with a morning stretch, a little breakfast, and a few laps around the barnyard. But then the last minute preparation begins. Time to get in line, go to the polls, and cast our vote.
You may recall that here in Irish Grove we’ve got some pretty civic-minded animals. They were very active in the primaries. And even though some of their candidates didn’t make it through that process, they’ve pretty much thrown their weight behind one side or the other.
Of course, Lucero was always a McCain supporter. As he makes his way to the polls, let’s see what he has to say about this historic election.
“Well, as you know, I’m a (racetrack) veteran, and we veterans stick together. The hard work and sacrifice that comes with defending the (winner’s) flag bonds us in ways unimaginable to you petty civilians. Like John McCain and I say, “Farm first.” Plus, Obama wants to redistribute our wealth. Ain’t no cow gonna eat my hay.”
Chip and Oreo, on the other hoof, support Obama. And they are getting ready to vote as we speak. I wonder what their thoughts are this morning.
“Todaaay is a day for the history books, and we are so proud to be among millions of goats voting for O-baaa-ma today. We want to improve the pastures for all faa-arm animals, not just for ourselves. And once in awhile, you know, you just go-otta eat a few bitter burdock leaves or bite into that thorny raspberry cane. It’s painful, but necessary. We must keep the graaass healthy for everyone. Short term saa-acrifices for long term gains.”
The other animals are getting in line to vote as well. Although your guess is as good as mine as to who they’ll support. 
The chickens had supported Huckabee, but he went the way of the possum. Flat as a pancake in the middle of the election super-highway. Think they’ll support the Republicans anyways?
Of course, the cows wanted Hillary to win. She was going to shatter the glass barnroof that has enslaved the female bovine world and reduced them to little more than calf-makers. 
They’re obviously still a little peeved that she isn’t the Democratic nominee.
But will they switch parties? I mean, could they find something in common with Sarah Palin, who doesn’t want their daughters to know the real reason the bull is being so nice to them? Then again, there is that glass barnroof thing. Hmmn.
Unfortunately, Irish Grove isn’t immune to the election-stealing tactics so common these days.
I’m ashamed to say it, but I noticed some illegal voter registration a few months ago. The goats were hosting a get-out-the-vote rally, and they added every single farm animal to the registration rolls.
Including the chicks,
and the calves.
Um, I’m sorry, but don’t those voters look a little young? Quick, someone call the media!
And then there was the familiar, yet despicable voter intimidation that rears its ugly head every 4 years. Seeing as the farm animals can’t read, some of us took to a more time-honored, old-fashioned way:
“You’re gonna vote McCain or I’ll……”
Shudder. You don’t want to know the rest of that sentence. Trust me.
Oh, and I forgot one thing. Don’t forget the hispanic vote this year. 
That’s right. Our own wonderful farmer, Marcel, is off to vote this year for the first time ever!!
Woohoo!!
Yes, good and bad, Irish Grove is like a little cross-section of America. And off we go to the polls. With pride, dignity and hope. To vote in the new leadership of our great country. May God help us all.
Around the time we had our chicken harvest, our baby calves came down with Pink Eye. We noticed it first in the second youngest calf…the one that was too lazy to search out his mom, if you so recall.
We check on our cattle every day, often times more than once. But, as you well know, cows run in herds. And when you see the herd mullin’ around, nicely chewin’ their cud and swattin’ at flies with their tails, well…..well, they check out just fine.
Mother cows keepin’ up their conditioning? Check.
Grass supply sufficient? Check.
Babes nursing? Check.
Water tank in workin’ order? Check.
General all-around happiness? Check.
I guess what I’m saying is that we don’t literally look them all in the eye, every day of the week. And especially not in each eye, as was needed in this particular case.
When I checked on little lazy calf, he looked just fine. Perfectly fine. Until he turned his head the other way, which provoked me to loudly exclaim, “WOA….What is THAT?”
*Insert violin soundtrack here*
Oh no! His eye! His poor, poor eye. It was all squinty, and runny, and sportin’ a nice crop of flies, those despicable creatures. The worst part was that his eyeball was snow-white. White as could be. The kind of white that you know means one, and only one thing: Blindness.
My heart sunk. My (s)mothering instinct kicked into full gear. And my thoughts started racing: Could he have impaled himself on a piece of wire? Did he get kicked by another? Was there a possible predator attack?
But then I knew. I just knew. I knew the truth when he walked out of the shed for a moment, only to immediately turn around and high-tail it back in.
Oh no.
No.
No, no, no.
Not Pink Eye. Anything but Pink Eye.
But Pink Eye it was. I started looking, really looking this time at each and every calf. In each and every eye. And in all of the calves but one, I saw it. I saw the signs of that blasted disease, and in the blink of an eye (sorry) I knew our lives had become much more complicated.
I called the vet and arranged to pick up an antibiotic spray that would need to be sprayed in the affected eyes, once a day. The exact indications read: 2 squirts directly on the eyeball, every day until the infection clears up.
Did I mention that it could take over a month for the infection to clear up? And that we had to spray the antibiotic directly on the eyeball?!?!? It was going to be one long month. Sigh.
All but one calf had Pink Eye, so we decided to treat them all. The flies were carrying the infection from one calf to another anyway, so it was only a matter of time before the last one would contract it as well.
And hence began the rodeo at Irish Grove. ‘Cause for the next week, once a day, we had to corral the little buggers into a corner pen in the bullshed, handling them one by one, until we had sprayed their infected eyes with the antibiotic.
Marcel came to the scene armed with a lasso, I came with the spray. Marcel would gently slip the lasso over the head of one calf, and then quickly pull it tight. At this point the calf would go nuts, bawlin’ and kickin’ and jumpin’ all over the place. Marcel would hold on tight until the calf was close to a corner of the pen, at which point Marcel’d shove his butt into the corner, and I’d shove his head and neck against the wall.
We’d have about 3 seconds before the calf figured out that if he jumped forward, he could get out of this hold. Umm, 3 seconds is not a lot of time. Especially when you’ve gotta ply open an eyelid and spray 2 squirts of antibiotic onto their bare eyeball. I’m sure you can imagine that the calves just somehow weren’t quite goin’ for the whole scene.
I’d usually get one squirt in before the kickin’ and jumpin’ and bawlin’ started up again. Oh, and did I mention that we’re in a pen with all 8 calves, not just one? Yeah, so while we’re trying to wrestle one calf into a corner, we’re also tripping over and generally trying to avoid gettin’ kicked by the other 7. But it’s easier to control an animal when he’s with his buddies then when he’s alone, so believe it or not, this was the better option.
After a few days of corraling calves, squirting ’em in the eyes, and leaving the barn covered from head to toe in manure, we noticed the calves weren’t getting any better. The spray wasn’t working.
We didn’t want to, but we had to call the vet and have her come out. The vet came the very next day, and we repeated the rodeo scene for the last time. But instead of spraying them in the eyes, she gave them a shot of antibiotics in the neck, and then a shot into the tear duct!
*Cringe. Wince. Shudder.*
The shot into the tear duct bathes the eye with antibiotic every time they blink, as the intra-muscular shot works its way throught the blood stream to the infection. As horrible as it was, I was relieved that it was finally going to help the poor calves.
I have to brag and say that the vet was very impressed with our setup, and especially with how smoothly it went. It’s always nice to be complimented, but especially by the veterinarian!
Pink Eye is a horrible disease to suffer through, and a horrible one to treat. But I’ve gotta be straight with y’all: I enjoyed every last minute of it. Handling those calves was exhilarating!
A little extra swagger in my step? Check.
I’ve got a fun little task for y’all to do for me.
You see, rumor has it that we here in Irish Grove just might be going organic on some of our acres next year. Grassfed beef is our main push with those acres, but we won’t be able to certify our beef until the following year. So, in the meantime, we’re thinking of raising some organic, pastured chickens to sell for meat.
This is where y’all come in. Organic pastured chickens will be a lot of work, for minimal return, especially the first year. Organic pastured chickens mean Marcel and I will be spending many winter hours building moveable chicken pens. Organic pastured chickens mean that yours truly will be spending about 2 hours/day, 7 days a week, for 4 long months next summer, feeding, watering, and moving those same chickens to a fresh paddock. Organic pastured chickens mean we’ll be buying organic grain from someone for extremely high prices. And organic pastured chickens mean I’ll be driving 4 hours south, once every 2-3 weeks, for a long, boring day waiting for the chickens to be processed at an organically certified chicken processing plant.
The extra work doesn’t scare us. We’re farmers; the type of people who like to work. What scares us is the prospect of extra work coupled with few customers and a failed business idea.
So, I need to know the following: Do you think organic chickens is a good idea and worth the effort? And do you or would you pay more than $3.00/lb for organic chicken?
This is not a ploy for customers, even though I’d love to sell you a chicken, but a ploy for opinions. You all are very aware of my opinions on store-bought chicken. Now I’d like to hear yours.
You can reply to this post, or vote on my cute little poll that I’ll be adding in the sidebar. It’s as easy as that. We’ll just call today “inform a farmer” day.
Please?
Well, Saturday was a long one. It took us about 10 hours, but we butchered 40 chickens and filled the freezer with some homegrown, healthy food. I’d post pictures, but, yeah, well…..I imagine most of you just don’t wanna know. Let’s just say that by the end of the day it looked like the entire community of Irish Grove had descended upon our farm to partake in huge feather-pillow fight. And we’ll just leave it at that.
Thankfully we had the help of my sister and her family (my lovely sister who brought her famous cinnamon rolls) and yes, the help of my kids. Ana and Madelina dove right in at the plucking station, along with Laura, Rob, Brady, and Jonathan. Wow! 6 pluckers! Armando even helped, doing a great job of taking the fully dressed (which is a definite oxymoron) chickens over to the cold water tank.
Madelina was the funniest, though, as she had decided to take on the role of narrator for the day. She was getting a kick out of the fact that her Aunt Laura was holding back a retch or two as she plucked her first chicken, and that her cousins were a little more than hesitant to get started. You see, according to Madelina, she had tons of experience in the ole chicken-pluckin’ thang, so she pulled out the big guns and started in with her 1st-grader hipster talk. She started struttin’ around saying things such as “It’s not gross! I think it’s really cool.” and “Look at the guts, their like, so cool lookin’.” (She gets her eloquence from her mother.) Finally I had to step in and let her know that she’d already over-impressed everyone and could put a lid on it.
Anyways, the extra help made the job much lighter for Marcel and I, both physically and spiritually. And then, of course you can’t forget our other helper, my cousin Jenny, who gave us more moral support than actual physical help. Jenny did a good job of holding down a lawn chair, if ya know what I mean. For some reason or another she just didn’t feel like plucking feathers. I can’t imagine why!
That’s okay. Jenny might not be the ‘dive-right-in-and-get-dirty’ type o’ gal, but she is one of our biggest supporters. She loves to come out and socialize, which can be a good thing when you’re filled with chicken guts. Someone has to help keep our minds off the yucky task at hand!
Jenny also likes to drive the PUG when she’s here. It can be a little nerve-racking, though, ’cause, shhhhhh! don’t tell anyone, but…….she’s a crazy driver!
Here she is taking a whirlwind tour of our yard. (Marcel is a brave man!)
Here she is, almost taking out the garage:
Here’s Marcel, waving frantically for the kids to run for their lives. 
Whew! That was a close one! The garage was saved, the kids were safe, and Jenny had a blast.
I’m sure Jenny is still wondering how she got roped in to coming out to the farm for the pluckin’ party. In fact, that’s probably what most of our helpers are thinking right now. Hopefully the fresh, wholesome chickens in their freezers made it worth it.
Wait! Jenny didn’t get a chicken! Don’t worry, Jen. We’ve got one with your name on it. As creepy as that sounds.
Sorry, that title is terrible. I couldn’t help myself. But……
Y’all have just GOT to take a gander at the newest members of Irish Grove.
Here’s our first little guy, born the second week of June. He was startlingly silver. But now he’s white, and goofy-lookin’, and definitely thinkin’ he’s a big deal.
Here’s #2, pitch-black at birth. Altho he’ll end up a nice dark brown. If you look hard, you can see the brown peeking through on his neck.
Next up? Numbers 3, 4 and 5. Two of which are females. Heifers, as we call ’em.
The white-faced one is our spunkiest calf. She tends to run circles around the other calves, kickin’ up her hind legs and just generally havin’ a good time. She’s been named Delilah by the kids. We only name the girls, because, well, umm…..just because. (We shouldn’t talk about the facts of cow life when they’re just babies.)
Delilah was our first girl. We’re partial to her because she’s so darned cute with those black circles around her eyes. And because she’s spunky.
Here’s #6, the dark one with his mother. Another boy, and a sweet little guy at that. He only weighed about 60 lbs at birth.
Number 7 is another story. He’s this big bumblin’ bull-calf that has a very annoying tendency to walk off and hide in the tall grass. He’s like a great big oaf that doesn’t have any survival instinct what-so-ever.
I’ve never before seen a calf like this. He will literally sleep in the tall grass all day, all night, and all day next as well. We have to go looking for him in the morning and literally roll him over a few times before he finally finds the gumption to stand up and try to find his mother. The big lazy bum!
Hopefully he livens up a little as he gets older. Here he is after being pushed, prodded and generally rolled around by his human keepers. His mother isn’t too happy with us, seeing as we’re botherin’ her baby. We decided to keep our distance: 
Last but not least is this little cutie. Gosh, is he a doll. White as can be, with a black nose a black eyelashes.
Eight healthy calves, born in the height of summer. Who could ask for more?
Marcel is pretty happy with the new crop of calves. Can you tell?
