I Am the Burro Whisperer

Since a lot of people seemed to enjoy reading about my town’s wild burro, Roscoe, I thought I’d let everyone know what he’s been up to. I went looking for him this weekend. He was hanging out on a street that lies a block off Main. That’s where his favorite mares are penned.

The mares are owned by a guy we call Old Geezer. Roscoe has been spending a lot of time with the mares so he’s put on a few pounds. Old Geezer says if Roscoe keeps eating his mares’ feed, he’s going to haul the burro to the horse auction.

When I drove up beside Roscoe, he began showing off.

Roscoe may have thought I had alfalfa cubes in my car. He’s never shown me any tricks before. Although I’d never approached Roscoe from a vehicle, I think it was key to his near forgiveness of me. It seems he’s held a grudge ever since I chased him on my little cousin’s pony, Cupcake.

He walked toward me so I thought we were on our way to a new beginning.

“I’m sorry I tried to rope you little guy,” I said as I leaned out the window.

I was able to get a picture of him right before he took off running.

My Three New Anomalies

A few weeks ago when we were having bad weather, I noticed one of the pregnant, teenage mothers from the feral cat colony next door had moved under an abandoned car. She appeared healthy, but worn down. I was worried about her being under the old car in her condition so I brought her in the house.

As far as feral cats go, she is well-mannered and gets along well with all of us, even my dog, Little Richard, who loves cats.

The cat had her kittens Friday night in my bedroom. I was up most of the night with her. Everything went fine, but I wanted to be there in case she needed anything.

As soon as I saw her first two kittens, something didn’t seem right. I couldn’t put my finger on it so I pushed that nagging thought out of my head.

After she had her four kittens and fed them, she and I fell asleep.

The next morning I took their first baby pictures. I wanted to get a better photo, but when I move the kittens they begin bawling their heads off. Then the mother gets concerned and comes to count them. Being a mother myself, I can imagine what that would be like every time I went to grab a bite to eat.

I’ll have to try to get better pictures when they’re older.

After I was done listening to all the information on the crazy weather Kansas was having last night, I returned to thinking about the kittens. I wasn’t thinking about the dark one who seems to have some stripes coming through in his fur, but the three white ones because I’ve never seen kittens like them before.

The reason I’m always willing to drag the especially needy feral cats home is because I’ve always been able to find owners for them. With these three kittens, I’m not so sure.

I finally figured out what was different with these kittens. And again I know this can’t be seen in the photos, but it’s obvious.

I have three albino kittens.

Chick Days Are Here

A comment my blogging buddy, Freedom by the way, wrote about sexing chicks reminded me it’s time for Chick Days.

Our local farm and feed supply stores display the banners “Celebrate Chick Days” so we know it’s time to get some chicks.

Everybody gets free t-shirts. There are two to choose from. “I like chicks” in blue and “Chicks rule” in pink.

I decided to load up the kids and scurry to the feed store before the chicks were sold out.

There were hundreds of kinds of baby chickens. This year there were also baby turkeys, guineas and three kinds of baby ducks. 

“It smells in here,” the kids said.

“That, my children, is the smell of money.”

I try to pass the wisdom I learned as a child along to them.

The oldest began his micromanaging bit with the farm boys working at the feed store.

“Sir, sir. You’ve got a Plymouth with a broken leg over here,” he called out. “Did you know your Bantams are out of water? Excuse me. Sir. There’s a dead Cornish and the other Cornishes are walking on it.” 

My kid should run the feed store. If anyone wants to hear a strong opinion about the bill that was passed banning children from working on family farms, they should ask him. I can’t understand where he’s coming from. I wish they would have made it illegal for me to do chores on the farm when I was a kid.

My youngest wanted to pet the chicks so I was busy grabbing each one she wanted to see out of the chick cages.

A sign said, “Please ask for assistance to hold chicks.”

I don’t need any assistance to hold a chick.

While I was leaning into the cages grabbing chicks, I had an idea. If I released all the chicks in the store, that would get the farm boy employees hopping.  I motioned to my son and ran my idea by him.

“No Mom please don’t,” he said.

My oldest makes me tow the line. I can’t even talk him into letting me fib about his age at restaurants so I can get a meal cheaper.

“My mom is mistaken. I’m not eight. I’m ten,” he’ll announce all matter-of-fact like.

Today seems like a perfect day for me to celebrate Chick Days. Before returning to the feed store, I’ll ditch the oldest at his grandmother’s. The youngest will be willing to help me set all the chicks loose in the store.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Arranged

Although I wrote a post with my kitten arrangement photo only a couple of weeks ago, I wanted to enter it in this week’s photo challenge. My assistant did a fair job with the sleeping kitty arranging, I think, given it must be done with a bit of care and speed. The second female nearly ruined it by waking enough to begin pulling herself out of the kitty tower.

If I can make it out to a chicken house at roosting time tonight, I’ll enter a second photo in the arranged category. Sleeping hens are also fun to arrange.

Roscoe – Wild Burro at Large

There’s a wild burro that runs loose in my town. His name is Roscoe and he’s lived here for over five years. I’d love for the police to come put Roscoe in the pokey, but we don’t have a police department.

No one can get close to the loose burro. Town folklore is Roscoe fell off a truck on his way to the glue factory. That sounds about right to me.

Roscoe is an opportunist. He roams around town grazing our lawns. He finds horses to befriend. He then steals their feed. I found Roscoe hanging out with a couple of mares yesterday.

I’ve tried to make friends with Roscoe. He puts on billy goat airs when I walk toward him by stomping and making other aggressive gestures. When I give him back some billy goat stances of my own, Roscoe takes off running.

Roscoe likes to hang out behind my house. I have shrubs along my back fence that he’s almost chewed down to stumps. The other reason I don’t want him back there is he head-butts down my fence and comes in the backyard. Then I wind up shoveling the mess he leaves.

The last time I saw Roscoe behind my house my little cousin was riding her pony, Cupcake, a few blocks over. I grabbed my lariat and ran over there. I borrowed Cupcake and we galloped back to my house. Roscoe heard us coming because Cupcake has been shoed.

Hearing the sound of Cupcake’s shoes hitting the pavement at a gallop spooked Roscoe. He charged toward downtown.

Cupcake and I caught up with Roscoe in front of the shop of the Man Runs the Town. When I spun my lariat in the air, Roscoe knew that roping sound because he started darting all zig-zag like. Although I’ve won a few team roping contests at the county fair, I’ve never had to rope a calf that zipped around like Roscoe did.

Eventually I think I could have roped Roscoe, but the Man Who Runs the Town ruined it when he came out of his shop.

“Quit worrying that little burro,” he yelled at me. “He aint hurting nothing.”

Mushing the Yukon

After reviewing carefully the Iditarod rules, I learned it won’t be as easy for my mother’s dog CinDee and I to race as I’d originally thought. Before that race, apparently I’ll have to mush the Yukon.

I also learned CinDee can’t run the race alone. She needs a team of 11-16. Given there are about three dogs for every person in my town (we’re allowed to own as many as we can fit under our porch), I have roughly 600 dogs to choose from. 

CinDee and I were training hard most of this week. Yesterday my dog, Richard, insisted on going. Because he measures 9 inches at the withers and weighs just under 5 pounds, he’s the smallest dog in Deadeye. After an hour of running his little heart out, I had to retire him to the wagon.

Before placing him in the wagon I yelled out, “Dog down!”

I’ve been told that’s musher lingo for a dog that needs a ride.

Richard is still worn out.

 

I’ve been rubbing down with horse liniment every night after mush training so I gave Richard some too in case his muscles ached as much as mine do.

I can tell he really wants to mush with us, but I sat down and talked with him about it.

“Richard, CinDee is built for mushing but you aren’t. It’s just how things are. Try to remember how you can go inside badger holes to hunt them down while CinDee can’t. From now on when we train, you have to ride all right?”

He looked at me and wagged his tail so I know he understood.

My favorite storytelling singer, Johnny Horton, sang a song that’s inspiring CinDee and me about mushing the Yukon. I’ll share it in case anyone else is mushing as hard as we are.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JSt0NEESrUA

Training for the Iditarod

“The Iditarod. A thousand mile endurance race through the heart of the Alaskan wilderness. It tests both man and beast.”

That’s all I needed to hear.

I’ve been trying to find something for my mother’s dog CinDee to do. I thought since wild boar hunting was in CinDee’s genes that would be something. We don’t have any wild boars nearby so I decided to train her with some domestic hogs. The problem was the farmers got grumpy over me having CinDee chase their hogs.

“She’ll run the fat off them,” They whined.

I was a little bummed, but the Iditarod deal cheered me up. CinDee is learning to pull a wagon and sometimes I can get the kids to be mushers. I had hopes of Iditarod training today, but I needed to clear the front lawn of an enormous tree that crashed down last week.

So I got busy with my chainsaw and CinDee watched. I had redressed her after my mother left this morning because I needed her to look tough while I ran the chainsaw. Most, who feel they should help the little chainsawing princess (me), will steer clear when CinDee is nearby.

I might only be a buck ten, but trust me. I got this.

Fortunately, my cousin Lil Stevie is staying with me. She’s been working on a screenplay since she left school. Her working title is “Bodacious Ballerina from Baltimore” and what she has so far is flat-out brilliant in my opinion. Lil Stevie is the artist in the family, but she’s also a great help.

Here’s CinDee, Lil Stevie and my dead tree:

Lil Stevie offered to help train CinDee while I sawed. I did have to give some pointers. After all, I have trained many animals to pull. I’ve even team trained wagon goats and, yes that’s on my resume.

Everything came together for me. I got the tree chopped up and stacked out back for my smoker this summer. Lil Stevie didn’t get much done on her screenplay, but CinDee is further along on her way to the Iditarod. I just need to round up some sponsors for us.

When my mother came to pick up CinDee and her little dog with the unfortunate name, she did mention she would need me to go with her to CinDee’s next doctor’s appointment.

“She’s seems so tuckered out every night,” My mother said. “I wonder if the doctor should prescribe some vitamins for her.”

WTFelis Catus

This is my first batch of kittens of the year. The mother is the kitten I busted out of the feral cat colony last year. I wasn’t pleased when I found out she was expecting.

We sat down to talk about it. I told her being a teenage mother wouldn’t be easy, but she was going to have to raise these babies herself because I wouldn’t do it for her.

My tough love approach worked because she’s been a great mother. I’ll admit when she bats her babies across the room for merely playing with her tail, I think she’s a little harsh.

For those people who say cats are nicer than people, that’s another example I’d give to support my position. Batting one’s babies across the room, for any reason, is not nice. Therefore, cats are not nicer than people.

In a couple of weeks, these kittens will be ready to leave. Have no fear; there will be no cat clowder in my house. One cat is more than I ever really wanted and if I did decide to collect animals, I’d pick something profoundly unique. Like dung scarabs or yaks.

Starting at the top of the cat pile in the photo is Scratch. Beneath him is Chuck. I found farm homes for them so they will be free to tom around all they want. Because these two little toms tore the backing off my couch, I won’t shed any tears when they leave home. I know. I am one to hold a grudge. Even toward cute little kitties.

Third down is Libby who’s going to live with a little girl down the street and Butter is the runt getting pushed out of the pile. When Toni Jo said she’d like a kitten, I thought Butter would be a perfect match for her.

If it doesn’t tickle Toni Jo’s neighbors when she calls for the cat from her front stoop, “Here Butter Butter Butter,” it sure will me.

Mr. Goat and a Mare Named Delta Dawn

goat photo courtesy of Wikipedia

We had a gang of goats when I was a kid. They weren’t fenced and my parents always discussed what havoc the goats had caused each day, but the goats never got in trouble.

The goats mostly got on my nerves until my brilliant idea came along.

While playing outside one day I had an idea I believe grabs every little girl around the age of four. I needed a horse. I ran to find my dad.

He was working so I waited until he asked me what I needed. Finally he did.

“I need a horse.”

“Tell you what. If you show me you can ride Mr. Goat, I’ll get you a horse.”

I weighed his deal. I’d seen how our goats had an absolute disregard for rules and I’d never seen anyone ride a goat so I wasn’t even sure it was possible.

“Okay. It’s a deal,” I said.

I learned how to ride Mr. Goat, we spent a lot of time together, and later he needed me for a friend. One day while we were on a ride, the other goats got into one of Dad’s sheds and ate the labels off every one of his paint cans.

My dad’s philosophy sometimes was if there were rotten apples in a basket, he needed to get rid of them so they didn’t spoil the other apples. I’m not sure if that’s what Dad thought of the goats, but like rotten apples he did get rid of them by hauling them off to the sale barn.

Mr. Goat didn’t have time to miss his friends. He was busy learning how to race barrels. Trust me, you can’t know how time-consuming this is unless you’ve tried to teach a goat to race barrels. To his credit, Mr. Goat gave everything his all. He wasn’t a horse, but he tried.

Dad kept his end of the bargain and got me a horse. Mr. Goat left and went elsewhere. I named the horse after my favorite song, Delta Dawn, and insisted everyone say her name in eight or nine syllables, just like Tanya Tucker did in about 1972. 

Delta Dawn wasn’t the greatest barrel racer, but her times were way better than Mr.Goat’s. Still, there were times I regretted making the trade. Mr. Goat had a ton of personality Delta Dawn couldn’t match.

My House is a Pitstop for Wayward Dogs

image: wikipaedia

Dogs still roam free where I live. Some people complain, but I’ve never had any trouble from it. The biggest complaint is dog deposits left on lawns. Hearing a fit about that is amusing to a person like me. If it’s in the way, walk around it or get a shovel and get rid of it. That’s one reason the shovel was invented.

Personally, I never let my dogs run around town off lead. I feel I should protect them from the bigger dogs that might mistake them for squirrels. My dogs are so little any deposits they make in my yard are swiftly blown away by the Kansas wind so nobody would complain in that regard. Well, maybe they’re complaining about my dogs’ deposits up there in Nebraska but I know shovels are sold in the North Country so I’m not overly concerned.

A lot of dogs who roam free come to my front door and stand there waiting. I do not know why.

I can always tell there is a dog at the door because my dogs give a special bark. “Attention people of the home! There is a dog at the door who would like to come inside to visit!”

It happened this morning. I’d never even seen this dog so I called the Man Who Knows Everything. I wanted to get the dog back to its owner. I described the dog to the Man Who Knows Everything. He thought for a second.

“Oh. That’s Chevy that belongs to those people down there at the end of the tracks.”

“This dog is a female though,” I said.

“Chevy is a female dog!” The Man Who Knows Everything said and hung up on me.

Silly me. I should have known Chevy was a girl’s name. It isn’t though. Chevy is a boy’s name, I muttered to myself as I walked Chevy to her house all the way across town. Three blocks. 

Chevy’s owners weren’t home so I told Chevy to stay home and walked back to my house.

I began to whistle a little tune and who should appear at my side? Chevy. Had I missed her already? Not especially although she seemed nice enough. I decided to ignore her, go in the house and finish my coffee. I left Chevy a bowl of water to drink while she stood waiting at my front door for nearly an hour.