No excuses.

If I needed an example of what happens when you a) don't follow your instincts; b) think that, if something happened one way before, it will repeat itself; and c) are just plain lazy, I got it in spades this weekend.


Saturday was the usual whirlwind of activity - all my errands, a haircut, lunch with the folks, my labor-for-vege time with Marianne, etc.  It had been grey and damp in the morning but - thank you, Universe - it cleared up briefly in the afternoon with blue sky and sun.  Just in time for my farm work!  It then went downhill quickly and, by the time I got home, it was raining.  It rained constantly, making any outdoor activity unattractive.   A neighbor had graciously agreed to pick up some books on CD from the library for me, so I squelched over to pick them up and had a glass of wine and some adult person conversation.  It was very nice.  By the time I got home it was pouring, so I had to force the dogs outside (large umbrella held aloft), feed them, feed the sheep/llama, collect eggs, then feed me.  As soon as it is starting to get dark, the chickens are snug in their coop and I close them up.  The ducks, however, are loathe to go in until it's dark.  I decided to wait until the rain eased up to go out and close them in and then promptly fell asleep in my chair.  I did not think about it again until just after I slipped under the covers.  I decided I was too tired, it was still raining and I had left it open before with no ill effects.  After all, the poultry yard is surrounded by a six-foot wood fence with chicken wire around the bottom.  You can see where this is going.


At 2:15A, I heard the ducks - shot out of bed, threw on my robe, got Lovey, slipped into boots and turned the lights on.  Lovey levitated off the deck, snarling with hair raised down her back, towards the fence.  I went out with the headlamp on and my .22 loaded.  A cursory inspection of the duck house showed only one occupant and no sign of the others.  I was too late.  I closed the door, called Lovey off and went inside.  Needless to say, there was no going back to bed.


When it was finally light, I went out to survey the damage.  Only Dolly was left and she was frozen in terror, crammed in the back corner of the nesting box.  I went out of the front gate to survey the outside perimeter of the fence and, lo and behold!, there was Dimples, looking terrorized and missing a lot of pin feathers.  I herded her back into the yard and Dolly ventured out only after hearing Dimples.  There was no sign of Cordelia or Gertie.  Not a feather.  There were only a few tiny drops of blood, so I figured it was a pair of foxes.  This was supported by the method of their entry into the yard.

It's hard to see in the photograph, but they had dug under the fence, next to the duck coop and under the gate and, thanks to me, had waltzed in the open front door and made off with C & G.  If I had been flexible enough, I would have kicked myself from here to Babylon.  Thanks to my pure laziness and arrogance, I had let them down and my dear ducks paid a heavy price.   Needless to say, the survivors were traumatized and spent the entire day huddled together, as far away from their coop as they could be.  It's interesting in that the chickens, having gone through a hawk attack in their coop, then spending who knows how many hours with the assassin perched on their roost, were over it within an hour or so.  The ducks are still not over it.  It took quite a while and some strategically placed boards to herd them back into their coop.  I had gone up to the hardware store (in Vermont) and reinforced both their door and the chicken coop door.  All in the pouring rain.  On top of that, I had gotten a rather last-minute call from my shearer and I had to scramble around to get the sheep corralled and put in lockdown for his visit this morning.

Joe with the fat eel that is Linden.
I no longer refer to him as the 'sweet sheep'. 
He's a pain.

Norman, a Cormo/Pony X, who IS
a pain, is a total bean bag for the shearer.
Go figure.

Dirty but lovely Cormo fleece.

As is always the case on shearing day, it rained, it snowed, it was cold, it was damp.  After spending some hours in cold drafty barns (I help with my neighbor's shearing), my feet felt like blocks of ice.  A hot shower, wool socks and a fourth cup of coffee later, I was on my way to the office, feeling like I was coming in from Mars.  As is also always the case, shearing takes about six times longer than you figure.  When I called my boss to let her know I was running (very) late, she wasn't too bothered.  She had taken the day off to spend with her daughters and nieces for a long weekend of spas, chef-catered dinners and farm-to-table breakfasts.  Yeehaw.