Monday, April 25, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
3 Funerals and a Wedding
Death is a strange visitor during springtime. Various shades of green returning to the grass & trees, flowers blooming, bugs buzzing back into activity. But here on Cardinal Ridge the Reaper has been making his rounds. It all started when April's dad and I were chipping down the big woodpile for the second Saturday in a row. We were making good progress and down to a small pile of sticks when I came across a nest. The spring sun was warm and bright and as I took a closer look at the nest, I saw a single tiny grey mouse whose eyes were still shut tight. For a while I left the nest alone as I worked around the mouse and thought about what to do. I decided to try and relocate the nest out of the sun back into the woods underneath a fallen tree, I hoped the mother mouse would be able to hear or sniff out her baby when she returned. We finished up chipping and then April and I hustled off to return the rented chipper. Later that evening after a tasty Chicago dog and limeade chiller at Sonic, I was admiring the lack of a woodpile behind the chicken shed and decided to see how the little mouse was doing. The nest was empty and two white chicken feathers lay nearby. Since I had seen the girls eating a frog last year, I feared the worst for the little guy. As I hunted around the ground looking for the mouse, I could've sworn I heard a faint squeaking. I thought Clyde was helping me search for the wayward rodent but when I watched him more closely it looked more like he was trying to pick something up in his mouth. Clyde has a pretty gentle maw and when I got over to the mouse, it was a little moist but no worse for the wear. I scooped up Benito Mousolini and brought him inside to show April.
Fast forward the rest of the weekend. An old box with old socks became his home. We fed him condensed milk warmed to room temp from a syringe with a pin hole in the cap. He came with us everywhere, to lunch at Zaxby's, grocery shopping at Sam's Club and April volunteered to take him to work with her during the week. I wondered if that would fly in her office but I was cashiering and I knew customers wouldn't be too happy waiting while I fed a baby mouse 5 times a day. Everything was going pretty well, Mousolini was putting on weight and waking us up only once a night squeeking for milk. Then one night the dogs went crazy when they heard a car pulling up the driveway, we weren't expecting anyone so I went outside to see who it was. April's folks were excited about the impending birth of their granddaughter and had decided to pay us a visit. We talked about cribs, reading Richard Scary books to her and feeding her the fresh fruits and veggies we grow. Then I proudly picked up the mouse box to introduce the little refugee from the woodpile to her parents. I though her Dad would be a little concerned about the threat of bubonic plague or just the fact that I had a rodent baby in the house with his pregnant daughter so I wasn't too surprised when he announced that he would've thrown Benito right back in the field he came from. Saving a orphan baby mouse is not a common undertaking here in Caldwell County, maybe country folks have more sense than I do. After a while, her folks left to go back home and we let the dogs out of the bathroom where they had been jailed during their visit. I got another beer from the fridge and we settled down to watch a little TV before turning in for the night. Something told me to take a peek at Mousolini and see if he needed any milk or to be tucked tighter into his bed of old socks. When I looked into his box, my heart sank. The little mouse lay motionless and cold, his swollen belly still matted with the dried milk he had gorged himself on. I felt sad, sadder than I thought I should be. I had moved his nest and then tried to save him from freezing or starving to death. His fate was the product of a quickly taken decision and our best efforts to save him. We had a mouse funeral and buried Benito Mousolini in the rose garden. It was only the first time death would visit us this spring...
Just a week after we laid the baby mouse to rest, on a warm Sunday evening, we were finishing up preparations for 45 new baby chickens to arrive. We had hosed out 2 steel feed troughs and dragged them inside the second kitchen, laid a deep bedding of pine shavings inside them and washed out the chick feeders and waterers. The brooding lamps were dusted off, reloaded with red bulbs and clipped on to the troughs to keep the babies at a cozy 95 degrees during their first week here. When we finally collapsed onto the couch late Sunday night we had spread wood mulch around the raised beds, mowed the front orchard and completed as many chores as we could handle. We felt physically and mentally beat; but the prospect of picking up a box of chirping chicklets from the post office the next morning had me giddy as a kid before Christmas. The synthetic sound of a ringtone roused me from a deep sleep around 4:30. I fumbled the phone trying to answer before it went to voicemail and had to call the post office back. They told me the chicks had landed and that I should knock on the big brown door. The sky was dark purple and I listened to Alice Cooper on the ride over. My precious cargo got buckled into the passenger seat and I raced back home to see how they had fared on their journey from Iowa. We set the white cardboard box on top of the chest freezer and pried open the stapes carefully. The were 48 chicks, 3 more than I had ordered. One had not survived the trip. We settled 30 birds into the larger feed trough and 17 into the smaller dipping each chick's beak into the water dish so they would know where to get their drank on. A batch of emerald green gro Gel Plus was mixed and offered on an old tupperware lid. A feeding frenzy ensued and the chicks were soon flecked with globs of green goop on their faces and beaks. Reluctantly, I left for work thinking about returning home to hold the chicklets and take pictures.
Home earlier in the afternoon than usual, I went straight to the back kitchen with both dogs close behind. Clyde seemed offended I hadn't given him the welcome home pat and scratch he expected. As I replenished their water and food, I noticed a chick lying in the shavings, unable to stand. Prodding her tail got her up for a few seconds but she soon settled back down and the other chickens were running over her and pecking at her. We decided to set her up in her own space, an old plastic ice cream tub with her own water and food. I checked on her 3 times that evening and again before falling asleep, she was still on her haunches but the food showed signs of pecking and I saw her drinking. April got home from work earlier than I did the next evening and she was dead. We lost 3 more chicks in the next day, they fell within minutes of each other and we buried them with honors in our compost pile. That was the second visit...
I remembered I had left the coop door open in the shower the next morning. I hollered for April and said I needed a favor if she could go check on the chickens for me. While waiting for her to come back and tell me everything was all good in the coop, I secretly wished that if something had gotten into the coop it had not gotten Goldie or Bad Bird. April returned crying and I knew it was not going to be a good day. I walked out soaking wet to find my wife standing over our favorite rooster still sobbing. Bad Bird was hurting. We flipped him over and it looked like he had been scraped clean of feathers and flesh on one side. I knew what I had to do but I wanted so badly to listen to the voice in my head promising he could get better, he could heal. I walked slowly into the house to retrieve the Mossberg and some shells. I was torn up over being responsible for his mauling and heavier responsibility of ending his pain by my hand. I raised the shotgun over him and let it fall three times before I worked up the nerve to pull the trigger. It took three shots and made a mess of his beautiful plumage. We prayed over his ravaged body and I tried to imagine his noble spirit rising towards rooster heaven. We buried him deep within the compost heap. It took me a month to finish writing this post and I still think about him every day.
The best day in April was the sixteenth. April's brother Tyler married his lady Carolyn on a glorious Saturday afternoon at the height of springtime. She wore a flowing white gown and her maids wore purple, my brother looked his best in a tuxedo and silver vest. Family & friends feasted and made merry in a fellowship hall decorated so that it looked like it belonged in a bridal magazine. Love and life and beauty and happiness floated through the atmosphere and for one day everything was right with the world.
Fast forward the rest of the weekend. An old box with old socks became his home. We fed him condensed milk warmed to room temp from a syringe with a pin hole in the cap. He came with us everywhere, to lunch at Zaxby's, grocery shopping at Sam's Club and April volunteered to take him to work with her during the week. I wondered if that would fly in her office but I was cashiering and I knew customers wouldn't be too happy waiting while I fed a baby mouse 5 times a day. Everything was going pretty well, Mousolini was putting on weight and waking us up only once a night squeeking for milk. Then one night the dogs went crazy when they heard a car pulling up the driveway, we weren't expecting anyone so I went outside to see who it was. April's folks were excited about the impending birth of their granddaughter and had decided to pay us a visit. We talked about cribs, reading Richard Scary books to her and feeding her the fresh fruits and veggies we grow. Then I proudly picked up the mouse box to introduce the little refugee from the woodpile to her parents. I though her Dad would be a little concerned about the threat of bubonic plague or just the fact that I had a rodent baby in the house with his pregnant daughter so I wasn't too surprised when he announced that he would've thrown Benito right back in the field he came from. Saving a orphan baby mouse is not a common undertaking here in Caldwell County, maybe country folks have more sense than I do. After a while, her folks left to go back home and we let the dogs out of the bathroom where they had been jailed during their visit. I got another beer from the fridge and we settled down to watch a little TV before turning in for the night. Something told me to take a peek at Mousolini and see if he needed any milk or to be tucked tighter into his bed of old socks. When I looked into his box, my heart sank. The little mouse lay motionless and cold, his swollen belly still matted with the dried milk he had gorged himself on. I felt sad, sadder than I thought I should be. I had moved his nest and then tried to save him from freezing or starving to death. His fate was the product of a quickly taken decision and our best efforts to save him. We had a mouse funeral and buried Benito Mousolini in the rose garden. It was only the first time death would visit us this spring...
Just a week after we laid the baby mouse to rest, on a warm Sunday evening, we were finishing up preparations for 45 new baby chickens to arrive. We had hosed out 2 steel feed troughs and dragged them inside the second kitchen, laid a deep bedding of pine shavings inside them and washed out the chick feeders and waterers. The brooding lamps were dusted off, reloaded with red bulbs and clipped on to the troughs to keep the babies at a cozy 95 degrees during their first week here. When we finally collapsed onto the couch late Sunday night we had spread wood mulch around the raised beds, mowed the front orchard and completed as many chores as we could handle. We felt physically and mentally beat; but the prospect of picking up a box of chirping chicklets from the post office the next morning had me giddy as a kid before Christmas. The synthetic sound of a ringtone roused me from a deep sleep around 4:30. I fumbled the phone trying to answer before it went to voicemail and had to call the post office back. They told me the chicks had landed and that I should knock on the big brown door. The sky was dark purple and I listened to Alice Cooper on the ride over. My precious cargo got buckled into the passenger seat and I raced back home to see how they had fared on their journey from Iowa. We set the white cardboard box on top of the chest freezer and pried open the stapes carefully. The were 48 chicks, 3 more than I had ordered. One had not survived the trip. We settled 30 birds into the larger feed trough and 17 into the smaller dipping each chick's beak into the water dish so they would know where to get their drank on. A batch of emerald green gro Gel Plus was mixed and offered on an old tupperware lid. A feeding frenzy ensued and the chicks were soon flecked with globs of green goop on their faces and beaks. Reluctantly, I left for work thinking about returning home to hold the chicklets and take pictures.
Home earlier in the afternoon than usual, I went straight to the back kitchen with both dogs close behind. Clyde seemed offended I hadn't given him the welcome home pat and scratch he expected. As I replenished their water and food, I noticed a chick lying in the shavings, unable to stand. Prodding her tail got her up for a few seconds but she soon settled back down and the other chickens were running over her and pecking at her. We decided to set her up in her own space, an old plastic ice cream tub with her own water and food. I checked on her 3 times that evening and again before falling asleep, she was still on her haunches but the food showed signs of pecking and I saw her drinking. April got home from work earlier than I did the next evening and she was dead. We lost 3 more chicks in the next day, they fell within minutes of each other and we buried them with honors in our compost pile. That was the second visit...
I remembered I had left the coop door open in the shower the next morning. I hollered for April and said I needed a favor if she could go check on the chickens for me. While waiting for her to come back and tell me everything was all good in the coop, I secretly wished that if something had gotten into the coop it had not gotten Goldie or Bad Bird. April returned crying and I knew it was not going to be a good day. I walked out soaking wet to find my wife standing over our favorite rooster still sobbing. Bad Bird was hurting. We flipped him over and it looked like he had been scraped clean of feathers and flesh on one side. I knew what I had to do but I wanted so badly to listen to the voice in my head promising he could get better, he could heal. I walked slowly into the house to retrieve the Mossberg and some shells. I was torn up over being responsible for his mauling and heavier responsibility of ending his pain by my hand. I raised the shotgun over him and let it fall three times before I worked up the nerve to pull the trigger. It took three shots and made a mess of his beautiful plumage. We prayed over his ravaged body and I tried to imagine his noble spirit rising towards rooster heaven. We buried him deep within the compost heap. It took me a month to finish writing this post and I still think about him every day.
The best day in April was the sixteenth. April's brother Tyler married his lady Carolyn on a glorious Saturday afternoon at the height of springtime. She wore a flowing white gown and her maids wore purple, my brother looked his best in a tuxedo and silver vest. Family & friends feasted and made merry in a fellowship hall decorated so that it looked like it belonged in a bridal magazine. Love and life and beauty and happiness floated through the atmosphere and for one day everything was right with the world.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
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