I know nothing about paramedica, pitbulls, ponies, or poultry. Or blogs! But I'd like to know more (about blogs, at least). So this is an adventure. If you don't hear from me it's because I've forgotten how to find this site, or my password, or both. Let's see, how do I send? I'll click save and see what happens...
One of the flaws in poultry husbandry is the necessity
of killing roosters. It must be
done, like weeding a flower garden.
To their credit, the roosters make it easy, as they so often become
vituperative creatures, full of hate and sound. Yet they can be strikingly beautiful, and I do regret their
deaths. On our property, a healthy
percentage appears to be one rooster for every ten hens. That usually means five birds from my
house, and another five from Margaret, ten proud cockerels.
If I were a sensible chicken keeper the hens who have
ceased to lay consistently would join those ten. Most poultry businesses do not provide a retirement
community for non-laying hens. A
hen may live ten to fourteen years, and if only two to four of those years are
egg-laying years, well, that is a lot of grain. Truth is, I love my hens, their chuckling cluck, their
color, their vehement defense of the nest. I love the roosters as well, and some become pets, come when
called, and are my helpmates in keeping the flock safe. Yet a certain number must go, and on
that day, preferably a cool, windless day, Margaret and I get together to
slaughter.
Once
the blood has been drained from their bodies they become pale shadows of their
prior magnificence. Moments
earlier they were strutting and calling; tossing their iridescent hackles in
challenge. Just catching them is a
fight. They puff up and hurl
themselves at the wire, masculinity in a nutshell.
Seized
by the catching hook, all defiance bleeds away and they squawk horribly,
protesting their fate. This is
where the terror comes in. It is
my job, as the killer, to make sure that their terror is brief, and does not proceed
into agony. I hang them upside
down and stroke their beautiful feathers.
There is an element of science in this; carotid massage, or rubbing the
carotid artery produces a sense of calm.
Once they have stopped struggling I call them by name and tell them what
I know about their personality.
This one was a good forager, that one was a little too rough with the
hens. I call upon their spirit to
accept death with clarity and to seek rebirth in a better setting. Just for good measure I whisper several
names of the Buddha into their ears.
If you believe in reincarnation, then roosters need all the help they
can get. While they are listening
I swiftly insert the point of my knife into the carotid artery.
Done
correctly the bird bleeds out in several heartbeats. There is some residual brain activity that causes dramatic
flapping, but it is a gentler death than removing the head entirely. Sometimes the knife fails to hit the
sweet spot and I have to go back in.
These deaths are less than calm; often the rooster will actually pick
his head up and look right at me as if to say, “this is terrible, why are you
letting me suffer like this?” In
those moments of a bad death, terror becomes agony for the rooster, which in
turn becomes more terror. Even a
being a simple as a rooster has the capacity for these primal emotions.
The
real question of how to best ameliorate agony and terror may seem simple. Don’t kill any roosters. Unfortunately in almost all kinds of
livestock rearing, male animals are less than fortunate. I could make excuses about how it is
cruel to keep too many roosters in one pen. Or how it is cruel to the hens, this is true, as overcrowded
roosters will injure the hens in their frenzy to mate.
I could order female chicks from the catalog, but
truth is if you buy 25 pullets, the hatchery always throws in a few cockerels. Sometimes it is a mistake by the chick
sexer, but most of the time, the extra cockerels are there purposefully, as
live heating packs. Five extra
chicks per twenty-five may help to keep the entire group warm. Consider that most chick orders are
sent out while the weather is still quite cold. I rarely order chicks, preferring to order eggs and incubate
them, or allow my own good stock to replenish itself naturally. As a result, there will be
roosters. During the school year
several classes incubate eggs.
Over the years I have noted an unusually high ratio of roosters hatched
in the school environment, for which I have no good explanation. The good news is that these ‘school’
roosters are very tame and often make my best team players.
What it comes down to is that I hate being attacked
when I enter the chicken yard. And
there is that small matter of the incessant crowing. On the side of the roosters, my closest neighbor has told me
that the roosters have saved him several times when he overslept. The neighbor used to leave at six a.m.,
and the roosters crowed in sufficient time for him to eat and get dressed, even
if his alarm clock failed. What is
fascinating is that this same neighbor has changed shifts, and now leaves at
330 a.m., right on cue at least two roosters have begun to crow at 3 a.m.
For
some time the chief rooster and I had it all worked out. He would attack me and I would strike
him with whatever I happen to be holding.
The extent of both of our injuries depended on how well I was dressed
and or armed. Flip-flops and
shorts are not good rooster clothing.
I tolerated this rooster for a long time because he was very good to his
hens. For the untutored, a ‘good’
rooster does not pick out too many of the hen’s feathers in the throes of
passion, he clucks attentively, locates new food sources, and keeps watch for
hours. When the chickens are
loose, a watchful rooster prevents predation by hawks, in their house; he may
give his life in the act of defending the ladies from a midnight intruder.
For their part, the hens largely ignore the roosters,
unless they make the sound that means, “Come here for I have found something
tasty.” Then they all rush over
and he stands up tall and from my imaginative eye, looks indulgent, like a
parent allowing a child to have a giant hot fudge sundae- and not even asking
for a taste.
Margaret
had a wonderful chief rooster that was just a marshmallow. He did not attack her, and was pleasant
to the hens. “Buffaroo” was a
large golden affair, all poofy buff feathers and crimson trim. My rooster, on the other hand, was
hideous. He was a Turken, which is
a variety developed somewhere in the Russian steppe country. This variety has no feathers on their
neck, under their wings, or over their hips. I have several of these birds, as they are hard-core layers
of dark eggs.
A Turken resembles a turkey on steroids, other days-
particularly when it is raining- a vulture. Either way this rooster was black and grey with this awful
red neck that just cries out for the knife. My research suggests that this unusual feather pattern was
bred for specifically to ease slaughtering and plucking of the carcass. Even as chicks they are particularly
bizarre.
Periodically
the roosters grow too numerous to bear and the aforementioned events take
place. Roosters are the source of
the best brown soup stock. Their
meat is a bit tough; fryers and roasters at the supermarket are capons, or
castrated roosters. Caponizing is
done young, and without anesthesia, the roosters make it easy by carrying their
testicles in their chest. Two
small incisions, a little finger action, and the testicles pop out like
grapes. Our birds are not caponized
as they are not meat birds, but not to let anything go to waste, what doesn’t
make stock can be made into dog food.
(It is also worth noting that an adult rooster has testicles that are as
large as those of a big dog.)
This
weekend was a killing time. The
weather was cooperative, (you laugh, but imagine plucking a bird in a high
wind.) there were only five birds, and it all should have gone smoothly. In fact, four birds died swiftly. The fifth was another story entirely. That bird simply would not die. He brought to mind all the stories
about chickens devoid of their heads, running around terrifying the
neighbors.
I
cannot tell you what went wrong with this killing, only that it was
unnecessarily terrifying for both the bird and me. As the knife went in I could tell there would be a problem. Just as I developed a skill for finding
veins for inserting an intravenous line, so I have a knack for finding an
artery in order to kill. Veins and
arteries have a different feel.
The vein is full of valves, feels meaty. The artery is pulsating yet vibrant. It wiggles away from the offending point
as if aware of its’ fate.
The
calmed bird, hanging, waiting, the sound of my voice calming its spirit, takes
the knife. The artery, on the
other hand, does its level best to get away. Something inside the bird knows it is about to die, and like
all living things, clings to life.
In this case the artery won.
I hit a vein, and then worse yet, punctured the trachea. As the bird struggled to breath,
hideous sounds emanated from the punctured windpipe. Bloody froth accumulated and spit at me.
Knife
at the ready I struck a second time, this time hitting the artery. For reasons not easily explained, this
did not end the bird’s struggle.
Now the bird was flapping and striking me with its wings. Blood and foam were everywhere. It was a moment that called for an axe,
but none was handy, so I retreated.
Back
in the barn I regarded the rooster that had peacefully died only a moment
earlier. Margaret returned from
checking on her father. One look
at me, covered in blood- I never get covered in blood- was enough to prompt an
“Oh dear.” From Margaret this is a multi purpose
statement that covers everything from a woman covered in blood to dropping a
newspaper in a puddle. I love it
the way she makes the phrase carry so many different meanings.
“Oh
dear” is usually accompanied by a
slight shaking of the head.
Margaret is quite tall and elegant, and this movement further defines
the “oh dear”. She shook her head once, but enough to
shake loose a lock of hair. We
stood together in silence and watched the bird. When it was still she approached. “Don’t touch it,” I said, but too late. At the touch of her hand it immediately
sprang to life and began to flap and shake. She ran back to me, now we matched, spattered in blood. It took too many minutes for that
animal to die, and driving home with my chilled carcasses, I critiqued the
event.
Returning home, I sought some solace in visiting my
animals. One of my favorite things
to do is tend all my creatures and flowers. This behavior is healing following a slaughtering; it is
both a chore and a daily gift. I
waddle around handing out treats, food and water. Each day there is something new, a giant dahlia flower nodding
in the early frost, new fluffy coats on the rabbits preparing for winter, a
fresh egg.
Today
death had visited my house.
The rabbit hutch was strangely still at my approach. Not a good sign. Usually the occupants would be
squeaking and leaping at my approach, as guinea pigs and rabbits are always
starving. Opening the top I beheld
that another creature with a knack for finding arteries had been hard at
work. An unknown intruder had
visited and bled out two adult rabbits and two guinea pigs. All these animals were scheduled to
return to their usual school setting that very week. All four were classroom pets, well known and loved by
many. It was carnage. One of the guinea pigs was still alive,
I was not sure if that was better or worse than her being dead.
Shawanda,
a guinea pig colored just like a squirrel, lay on her side, rasping
quietly. Both eye globes were
punctured and loosing fluid. She
had one wound on her throat through which I could hear the raspy sounds of
misplaced air. These were wounds
she could not survive; yet I had no killing left in me for that day. The kind thing would have been to kill
her myself, but I chose to be selfish.
I
made her as comfortable as possible in an indoor cage. She lingered in a deep coma for another
12 hours. Every few hours I would
check on her and struggle to kill her.
Each time I would end up adding another little blanket and walking
away. Her fate was not to die at
my hands, for I had done too much killing that day. Perhaps if that last rooster had not died so badly then I
would have had the courage to kill my pet. Without a doubt I was shaken, and worried that I could
possibly cause Shawanda more agony if I did not get it right.
Lost
that day were an Eastern Cottontail rabbit, Cocoa, a ‘lawnmower’ baby, saved
from that fate nine years prior, a year old Rex rabbit that the kids had not
yet named, an elderly tri-color guinea pig, Chocolate Chip, and of course,
Shawanda. None had been eaten,
simply drained of their blood. It
was the beginning of the “Summer of the Fisher,” but I did not yet possess that
knowledge. The entire structure of
the chicken flock would be altered, including the loss of the hideous Turken
rooster. But that is another tale
for another day, the saga of “Frankenfisher.”
Chicago
was on fire today. It started the
minute I went out to fetch him. He
was standing in his paddock with the girls, baking in the sun. All three horses turned to look as I
walked through the gate. I patted
Sassy as I went by, Chicago and Willow were out of my immediate reach. As I went by Chicago came over to
follow me through the paddock. I
walked out into the field, dropping his halter at the edge of the fence. Some of the jumps had blown down, or
been knocked down by other riders.
I wanted to set them back up, and look for Willow’s shoe, which was
still missing.
Chicago
stood patiently next to his halter, waiting for me to come back. He nickered several times loudly, as if
to remind me that I had forgotten something. Rachel was out picking up manure in the paddock. Your boy is waiting for you!” She laughed. “Look at him, he only has eyes for you!” Indeed, there he was, gazing intently
at me, what does he see? I
returned and put his halter on.
Rachel was still laughing because Chicago was examining me closely. He always does, and again, I am not
sure what sort of information he collects. He checks my pockets first, all of them, with his nose and
lips. I am amazed at the dexterity
of the equine mouth. How a horse
can lip a sugar cube out of a jeans back pocket is nothing short of
miraculous. After he has
ascertained exactly what I am carrying, he sniffs me head to toe. Then he arches his neck and looks at
me, often initiating eye contact.
This is unusual among horses.
He always looks slightly amused, perhaps by what he sees? His breath is warm and smells like
grain and dirt. He blows gently on
my face and looks me in the eye again.
If I do not stop him here he usually licks my face. I have never known a face-licking horse
and am not entirely comfortable with the idea. When I allow the intimacy he licks my jaw line on both
sides, sometimes gently grazing me with his teeth. He will carry this one step further and lick my eyes, which
is one of the strangest feelings on earth. His tongue is very smooth and strong.
Today
I did not let him lick my face because he looked very devilish. “This will be the day he takes my nose
off,” I thought, fighting him away.
He settled for burying his head against my chest and nickering again. Rachel was making fun of me again, but
that is okay, she has an intense love affair with her horse Reef. However, Reef is a mare, so the dynamic
is different. Horses are very
aware of the sex of their rider, and respond differently. As Chicago and I walked out of the
paddock, his neck under my arm, his head pressed into my chest I laughed. Any man who loves a professional horse
person will always play second string.
How could a mere man compete with this sort of loving?
Once
aboard my devil horse I could see the ride would be interesting. He was vibrating with energy; I could
feel his heart thumping against his ribs.
There was no real excuse for this behavior; unless putting my jumping
saddle on him had raised his hopes.
This little horse loves to jump.
He has absolutely no fear, and so far has jumped every ridiculous object
that I have requested of him. Now,
after the jump is a whole other story.
Then he is just as likely to throw his head between his knees and bounce
around like a mad bull. I believe
this is physical manifestation of jumping joy.
Because
of his mania we went out for a hack before tackling the jumps in the
field. I mistakenly thought it
would take the edge off his excitement.
We walked down to the meadow, loose rein, relaxed. The second his right front foot hit the
grass he was off and running. He
had a mission; there was a log jump at the other edge of the meadow. Luckily for me he wanted for us to go
together, otherwise he could have tossed me off right then. So I went along for the ride, gathering
my reins, staying with him powerful and gathered over three fences. Then we tore up the hill and into the
woods. Somewhere along the way I
persuaded him to walk and we bushwhacked through the trees for a while. He was spooking and dancing at the
wind, and the chipmunks, and the dappled light on the ground, and every other
little thing. It was maddening. I
finally got him out on a larger trail and set off in a gentle canter.
This
is one of my favorite things to do, cantering on a trail with hills. Staying in half seat above the saddle,
weight in my feet, balancing with my abdominal muscles, the horse carries us
like a boat over waves. I could do
this for hours. Fortunately,
Chicago likes it as much as I, and displays great courage and
coordination. Some of the hills
are quite steep and rocky, and a less sure-footed animal would have
fallen. I depend on his ability to
balance both of us while cruising along at fifteen to twenty miles an hour.
A
mile or so later his enthusiasm had not dampened. Usually when he is wound up like this a good mile canter or
gallop loosens the knot. I will
feel him drop into the bridle, and his stride becomes steady. Today he felt like prancing, with a
huge hump in his back. Knowing how
readily that hump becomes a buck I was reluctant to turn for home. I did not want to stay out too late;
there were still the jumps in the field calling us home. As I brought him about he curled up his
spine and leapt forward. The
gallop was manageable, so I let him go.
I did not dare go into a half seat, for fear of that buck. He is so athletic that he can buck and
gallop simultaneously, a terrible combination. So I sat on his back as we pounded along. For such a little horse he has a large
stride at the gallop, and he really eats up the ground. Since receiving his back shoes he has
even more thrust behind, and he was throwing up rocks everywhere.
At
the last hill he decided that he needed to communicate his joy to me and jumped
straight into the sky. Because I
was sitting on his back, and felt the wave rising, I was not jarred in the
least. It was some form of
capriole, and I felt his hind legs kick out in merriment. Again, what is he trying to say, and
why? It feels like an affirmation
that this is the way things should be.
That galloping in the woods is one of the finest things imaginable. It would be easy to misinterpret such a
statement, particularly from this horse, famous for dropping riders left and
right.
We
entered the jumping field on that note.
I had already decided to play it very safe, his attitude could get us
both hurt. He immediately tried to
bolt at the oxer, and slipped on the grass. We had to have a little discussion regarding who was
driving. He wants that oxer so
badly; I do not know why it has such a pull for him. Instead I offered him a little cross rail. He was offended by this and trotted
sideways, as if to say, “no, lets go the other way, over the oxer!” I pushed him over the cross rail and he
let out a grumpy buck. With a
little more discussion we did the cross rail until he stopped sulking. As a reward I headed him to the green
and white, and of course he bolted off again and sailed over as if it were a
brick wall. He is such a drama
queen. We jumped five more fences,
and the last one was perfect. He
knew it too, and stopped dead immediately after the fence. He went from gallop, to soar, to
complete stop. The he turned his
neck around and bit my foot. We
were done, no questions asked.
A service dog changes many things. On the plus side, the human partner feels a sense of freedom and safety heretofore denied. The canine partner gets to experience parts of the human world that most dogs never see. Some service dogs are oblivious to the wonders of the human world; others are more like tourists. For the human, a host of new interactions open up, from the positive greetings, to the hostile: ‘you can’t bring that dog in here.’ The dog becomes both the center of loving attention and the target of hostility.
My string of dogs demonstrated all this and more. Medic was the first. He was a ninety pound black and white pit bull with a head the size of the basketball. He was pro to the core, unflappable, supremely confident. His original training was in obedience and therapy work, which made an easy leap to service dog. Medic was one of those dogs that dog trainers dream of, a dog capable of generalizations based on original training. For example, it is difficult to train a dog to avoid overhead obstacles such as low hanging signs. Most non-hunting dogs do not look up.
Training a service dog includes determining what hazards the human will face and how best to avoid them such as crossing the street. Specialty training involves teaching the dog to activate 911, use elevator buttons, and to pick up small objects such as credit cards or tissues. Generalization indicates that the dogs is able to perceive seizures, pain, or other events that may require assistance. It is difficult to ‘train’ for these events, rather, one finds a sensitive dog that can achieve success in the first two categories and then tests the dog against the scenario. Certain dogs will put it together and alert to their human’s distress, either calling 911 or breaking a fall. Not all dogs are cut out to be service dogs of this caliber.
It is a well-known fact that ducks are the reincarnated souls of rampant alcoholics. My own flock of ducks bears this out. Made up of a strange crew of runners and East Indies, they are either very tall and multi colored, or tiny and so black as to be invisible. The ducks crept in slowly, almost without my notice, an egg there, a purchase there, and before long there was a flock. The chickens don’t seem to mind, except first thing in the morning. At that moment, when the first light of dawn shines on the pool, the ducks are overwhelmed. With avid joy they line up, jostling, politely, but still jostling, for their turn in the tub.
The tub was JP’s idea. He claims to dislike the poultry, but it is always he who comes up with some new invention for their comfort. One day I came home to find a large plastic tub installed in the corner of the poultry yard. Best of all, he had rigged it to be filled from one of the numerous springs that run endlessly about our property. The ducks stood around the large black tub like AA initiates that have blundered into a bar. Previous to this apparition, the closest thing they had come to open water was the tiny opening on the water fount.
Previously published in The American Orchid Society Magazine May 2004: winner of the 2003 Gordon W. Dillon/Richard C. Peterson Memorial Essay Award
I feel like a border collie. Eyes glued on the plants I gently herd them about, twisting a pot, picking off a dead flower, nudging another plant back into place. As I move around the growing tables the plants hum their appreciation. “Honey, you are not listening to me.” The words cut into my reverie, the hum apparently not coming from the plants but rather my beloved spouse JP. I can’t look away from my latest acquisition, a stunning white cattleya from Hawaii. Without turning I respond honestly that no, I was not listening and apologize. Then, before he can draw in a breath I implore him to investigate the aroma of this latest plant, distracting him from what might have been a timely reprimand.
Continue reading "Our Orchids, a tale of a Woman, her Husband and Orchids" »
So there I stood, angel food cake in hand, frozen with shock. How had this come to pass? What evil had visited that I should be standing in the garage, clad in fuzzy slippers and jammies, surveying a wall of putrid flesh? Even as I paused there was ooze seeping across the floor, threatening aforementioned slippers. “The cake, I must save the cake”, flashed through my scattered thoughts, and I fled.
The disaster had slipped in unannounced, possibly as many as three days prior. Perhaps a circuit breaker, or a power outage had precipitated the event. Whatever the cause, I now had a freezer fully defrosted, while still half full. This is no ordinary freezer. It is big enough to hold a cow, I know because I used to put one inside every year. Cut up of course, but nine hundred pounds of meat is no laughing matter. The freezer had come from Lorraine, who felt I needed it to make my life simpler. “Buy in bulk,” she advised, “You will save money.” This has not always proven to be the truth.
Flutie Galloping Away
“Look at him, he just doesn’t want to move anymore, I think he’s given up.” These were the words that would seal Flutie’s fate, the end to a long story. Painful words spoken by my friend Sara. Words regarding her horse, true words, but painful nonetheless, the words of someone who has decided to put an animal down. Flutie, oblivious, continued to eat his hay, not the picture of a horse on the edge of a grave.
Putting an animal down is a difficult process. There are so many reasons, both good and bad, and many animals travel that road. It was actually one of the things that put me off becoming a vet. Working as a vet’s assistant I saw animals put down because they were unwanted, because their illness was too much trouble for the owner. Any vet can tell you horror stories about euthanasia.
Even the language is peculiar: ‘put down’ or ‘put to sleep’ as if it were that simple. It is death; the practitioner has to kill the animal, which exacts a personal toll from the vet. I have slaughtered my own animals for their meat; I have killed puppies that suffered from physical defects. These killings were separated by time and space, a luxury that is not enjoyed in a busy vet practice.
As with any highly emotional topic, there are opinions on all sides. For each owner that will put an animal to sleep to be rid of it there is an owner who will pay thousands to keep an aged animal clinging to life. Then there are people use euthanasia to ease an animal’s pain. Lots of people would argue that we have no right to make such a decision, that an animal has the right to die at Nature’s hand.
If you want to confuse the issue further, just bring up the topic of euthanasia in humans. The same people who defend an animal’s right to a natural death may defend the right for people to choose euthanasia. Death with dignity, rather than the ignoble death that one might suffer at the hands of Alzheimers or AIDS. If dignity is what is important about how one dies, than what is the difference for the sufferer, be it human or dog? When a dog dies after a long battle with cancer, a cancer that leaves him weak, unable to walk, incontinent, or even demented, has he died with dignity? If the owner intervenes while the dog still possesses some vestige of normalcy, is that death dignified? It is still death, and each creature must face death in its own way.
Continue reading "Flutie Galloping Away: Tearjerker Warning" »
Are all Porcupines created equal?
We have a new resident on the property. Living as we do, between the Conway State Forest and Protected Watershed land, we get a lot of wild visitors. Most are just passing through. Some are regulars, like the fox Reynard, and the exceptionally large grey coyote. Others are seasonal, including the moose and deer. There is an endless supply of birds, from the tiny hummingbirds all the way up to a Great Grey Owl, who is very far from home.
Over time we have come to know them all. It is hard not to be fascinated by the hummingbirds, as they lay claim to the Monarda plants. We even had a hummingbird sport- totally black and white plumage- for several years. This bird left a genetic footprint on the colors of our local population as he assisted in the production of several clutches. The owls take over the deck at night, using it as a staging area for hunting. Their wild variety of calls keeps me company during my sleepless nights.
The porcupines, like the beavers, largely keep to their own locations, rarely venturing onto our property. We see them down at the pond or on the side of the road. After many years, certain individuals do stand out and become recognizable. This is why the presence of a porcupine in the yard was notable.
It would have been one thing if this were a ‘normal’ porcupine; then it would have moved through the yard, a one-time thing. JP spotted it first, at the bottom of the yard. He told me that we had a ‘retarded’ porcupine. What he meant was the quill pig moved slowly, and reacted strangely to stimuli. We were both worried that the animal was ill, or injured, and so when I cam home we went in search of the pig.
The Summoning
Lamu is one of the most beautiful places on Earth. It is like something out of the past, hidden in a dream. That is not to say that the island is without flaws. There are open sewers, thousands of feral cats, arid saltpans, and tourists. Yet it has a charm of its own, an old and magic charm that radiates from the fourteenth century buildings that still stand. The magic pours from the mosques during the call to prayer. The magic builds each early evening, as the sun touches the ocean in a blinding green flash.
This evening was no different. As the stars came out, a heady scent filled the air. Night blooming Jasmine opened its flowers. The pwani was filled with the sounds of fishermen setting out for the night. There was the creak and slap of wooden ships, the calls of the sailors, punctuated with the occasional donkey bray. All seemed well in Lamu town.
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