Odds and Ends

Recently a letter arrived from a long time supporter, asking for the newsletters she missed receiving. She had not heard from the ranch in over a year. To her and all the others who wonder about not hearing from the animals: you were not missed; there were no newsletters.

With little or no help I have been desperately overworked caring for all animals on my own last winter. On the recommendation of a long time friend of the Ranch a woman arrived this spring. She had a farm background and a real knack for handling animals.....when she was not drunk, drinking or hung over. And that was not the worst of it. Without my knowledge she charged over $700 for her own use to a Ranch account, burned over a thousand dollars a month in gas visiting friends and relatives. When confronted with this, she tried to break into my house and threatened my life. Before she was led away in handcuffs by the R.C.M.P., she did as much damage to the property as she could, including trying to injure animals. (No animal was hurt.) Turns out she is a "person known to police" with a long record.

Her two months' stint here cost me over three thousand dollars and I am once again facing the winter alone. Not good. At present, specialists are trying to prevent me from having a heart attack or a stroke, a condition brought on by last winter.

Not only did all this prevent me from writing newsletters, it also prevented me from doing the paperwork required by Revenue Canada for maintaining charitable status for the ranch. It has been suspended. Do I still need money to support the animals? Of course I do. But if a tax receipt is important to you, do NOT send a donation. I cannot write a receipt until the suspension is lifted. No idea when. All those who sent a donation without receiving a receipt will receive a full refund upon request. Enough of the ugly stuff.

The good news: yes, I still have and care for the animals, about 80 of them. Over 40 cattle, 17 equines and 20 dogs. Two white horses arrived earlier this summer. Apache is an Arabian/Percheron (heavy workhorse) cross. He was a friend of a woman who cherished him for 27 years. She could barely stand parting with him, but had to move to the west coast for health reasons and could not take her big boy with her. Enter Annie, now 26 years old, to lift her spirits by being a friend to Apache. The two care for each other to the point where they peacefully share food. Annie had lost some weight and gets a daily ration of oats. Without any jealousy the two big noses alternately dip into the bucket and take a mouthful.

hi there!

No wire fence can hold a bull. He can break the posts, he can break the wire, he can stretch the wire so he can squeeze through, or he can just give the whole thing a disdainful look and jump over it. No wire fence can hold a bull. So it was not surprising that year after year I would find the neighbor's bull in my pasture, and have to return him home. That is every year except the one preceding Blue. Only the existence of Blue testified that one had been there. This character must've jumped the fence, done his dirty deed with Ace, Blue's mother, and jumped right back again

three's company

When I thought I had help, I decide to take the chance on bringing in some calves. Angel, all black, was the first rescued from a feed lot. I do not let little calves grow up alone. Enough that they have to be taken away from mom, when they are mere days alone and should not be sad and alone to boot. So I wanted one more. The feed lot I called had three. Even on the way there I knew what would happen. I simply cannot look at three little creatures, save one and turn my back on the others: too bad for you. There were two bull calves and one heifer: Octavian, Anthony and Cleopatra.

really! I am an angel!

Fat cows in feed lots frequently have difficult births needing the calves to be pulled out, often by people who do not care about the calf at all. (When I picked up angel, there was another calf who had died from being pulled.) Anthony looked healthy enough but had a badly injured leg from being pulled. He would set it down, but it would give way slowly, when he put weight on it, holding him up just long enough to make a step with the sound leg. Watching him closely for two days I noticed some improvement, but not enough to suit me. And clearly, if medical intervention was indicated, this, while he was 80 or 90 pounds, would be the time.

tiptoe through the tulips

I had concluded that his problem would be the knee joint. Shipped to the clinic, an x-ray confirmed my diagnosis: his kneecap had been ripped right off and was uselessly floating around inside his leg. Thus his muscles positioned the leg but, without a kneecap to stabilize it, the joint could not support him.

Turns out, veterinary medicine has it's own orthopedic specialists. One of those was scheduled to come to the clinic to operate on a dog. My vet is a woman not hampered by tradition and habit. She is always looking for a way to help the animal even if that requires an unconventional approach.

"A calf?" was the skeptical response of the specialist.

"Think of him as a big dog," said Connie.

"Yeah, I suppose," he agreed to operate.

lend me your ears!

The treatment was a stunning success. When Anthony came back a day later, he limped a little. No wonder. He had had a serious operation that still needed to heal, but the leg no longer collapsed. Young calves are very active, bounding around, happy to be alive. That kneecap, sewn into place, still had to heal. So he was penned in a separate enclosure in the corner of the room of his friends. He complained bitterly, especially when they went out on their own patch of grass. I was tempted to let him join them, but resisted. What if, while watching him enjoy himself, the leg suddenly sagged? Not worth the chance. When he was allowed to join them a month later: not a trace of a limp. The only reminder of his problem was the bare patch where his coat had been shaved. Healthy for the first time in his life he ran and jumped with reckless abandon. The others stood watching in astonishment, then joined in, bounding around until, all tuckered out, they settled in the shade on lush grass and went to sleep. They are all now four months old and doing well.

here I am!

Of all the animals sharing my life the swallows are the most intriguing. I interfere with the animals as little as possible: they are not trained to do anything and are not herded except in an emergency. But still, they interact with me in many ways, especially in winter. They depend on me for food. They come to me for food and water. I provide dry straw bedding. The swallows are truly wild, though. Aside from providing a safe dry place to build their nests, they want nothing from me.

One might think that the lives of swallows are fairly cut and dried. They migrate, they build nests, lay and hatch eggs, feed the young and migrate again. And that is true. But in the parameters of that orderly existence, they are remarkable little individuals. In all the years I have known them no two birds or two pairs behaved alike, not in the way they build their nests, spent the nights, reared their young.

This year's pair was no exception. They arrived as a pair (unusual) 13 days early (very unusual) chose one of the three nests in the house, made minor repairs and settled down. They raised four strapping youngsters in the usual way. Only toward the end, when they were close to flying, mom moved to a nest across the room and left the feeding to dad. I had never seen that. Surely she was not sitting on another clutch of eggs? She was. I have seen pairs raise more than one batch, but not while the first lot as still being fed in the nest. And once they flew, they did not leave, only made excursions during the day and returned to crowd around mom. Once I even saw one of the young sitting on mom's eggs, while she anxiously watched.

Perhaps it was this haphazard approach to housekeeping or they were just an unlucky brood: only two eggs hatched. One night I saw one of them on the edge of the nest instead of in it. Should I put him back in? I decided to leave it to the parents. the next morning he was dead in the bathtub underneath. I buried him, but the parents chirped all morning around the bathtub, even sitting on the rim. With the little body gone, I wondered what held them there. Finally I looked behind a bucket under the sink. There, hunkered down sat a live chick. It seemed unhurt and full of fight, pecking at me, when I lifted it back in the nest. The parents took over from there, industriously feeding it. To no avail. These two siblings seemed to be born escape artists. The little one was gone again the next morning and this time I did not find him. Summer was coming to an end. This should be the end of swallows in my house for the year.

Two days later I saw the little mother sitting in the third nest in the house, this one over the back door. Surely not! Yes, she was sitting on eggs again. Instant panic on my part. It was August 12. Departure date for swallows is September 5 and I had never seen them deviate from that. It takes five weeks from eggs being laid to flying under optimum circumstances, that is an unlimited supply of bugs. With 24 days between August 12 and September 5 there was no time to raise them. They would barely be out of the shell. I had just experienced the loss of the last two. Would the parents abandon the young? If they did, there would be nothing I could do but watch them die.

On August 29 I found eggshells on the floor. And just when mom and dad had to find food for their offspring, the weather turned cold. Few flying insects would be flying. Swallows are sensible. When there is no food, they hunker down, not wasting energy, body covering their feet, head drawn in, instead of the sleek elegant birds they became disgruntled, feathered puffballs not going anywhere. My little parents did not have that option. The babies needed food, so out they would go on long searches. I did my part, cursing every cold, cloudy day, dreading the coming of September 5. It came. Checking in the evening, what a relief: mom and dad were still there. And the next day and the next. Much more slowly than usual the babies grew, because food remained scarce, but mom and dad looking tired and worn never gave up.

On the morning of September 18 the nest was empty. They had flown....but not very far. they flew from one place to the next in various rooms in the back of the house until afternoon, when one ventured outside. He came back before dark and spent the night in the nest. he was gone the next morning. That day mom and dad had a long discussion. I do not speak swallow, but can guess by their subsequent actions what transpired:

"The boy is ready to travel, dear. No sense delaying. You take him and I will stay with the baby until she is ready."

so what's the hurry?

Baby happily flew around the house, but steadfastly refused to exit. It was a miserably cold day with me having to keep the door wide open should she want the opportunity. I was touched by how gently mom talked to her baby. As the day wore on, the voice became louder and more insistent. Finally, as baby sat on top of the open door, I saw the exasperated mom divebombing her. No use. Baby calmly flew off into the laundry room. Mom left. In disgust, I take it. She had not returned for hours, while I was biting my nails. Had that been her last try? Had she given up at last and was on her way south? At dusk I heard her voice. What a relief! I closed the door. They slept late on September 20, a dreary, drizzly day. I opened the door when I heard their voices and THEY LEFT! With the door open for the dogs they were back half an hour later. Luck was with us. Mom talked her into leaving again and I slammed the door.

When there is time, parents do a lot of flying with their kids in the yard. I did not see mom and baby again. Sensible mother that she is, I think she is giving her flying lessons on the way. Instead of short practice distances around the Ranch, she is doing practice flights in only one direction: south.

Every year I dread to see my swallows leave, missing the cheerful chatter from the back of the house. Talk about a real empty nest syndrome. How ironic that in the year which I wonder if I will see the swallows again, for their sake, I could not wait for them to leave.