Since I was a little kid, I wanted to grow up to be a farmer’s wife. Well, that’s not quite right. At various points in my life, I have wanted to be just about everything, but the first time I remember being asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, the conversation went something like this.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A farmer’s wife.”

“A farmer’s wife, huh?

“Yep.”

“Why a farmer’s wife?”

“I want to feed the chickens and milk the cows.”

The chickens started as a homeschool project but they awakened in me something that I must have known at least a little bit way back then, before I even started kindergarten. Something that yearned for wide open spaces, fresh air, hard work and food from our own land.

And before we knew it, we were out here. I’ve been surrounded by chickens ever since.

But this weekend, we added on a little something more.

Two little Dexter heifers, Tasha and Candy. These two are too young to be bred just yet, but they are to be our milk cows and I’m reading everything I can about raising cows, breeding cows and milking cows hoping that I will know everything I need to know when the time comes.

But that wasn’t all the additions to our little farm project.

Some time ago, a friend’s husband hit a turkey while out working in his fields. Then he found her nest. Since they knew we had an incubator, they brought us the eggs.

I wasn’t really expecting anything, but thought it would be kind of exciting to se them through until hatching. And it was.

Monday evening, we came home to one little turkey poult resting amidst the eggs. My husband called me in and I screamed. Seriously. Like a little kid at Christmas. I screamed and called for the children.

So now we have a turkey.

I never wanted a turkey. Maybe for a few minutes while looking at them during Chick Days at Orsheln’s, but it is easy to want all manner of things when they are running around in their baby fluff being adorable. But once I got over that, I went back to not wanting turkeys. I still don’t want to raise turkeys.

But now we have a turkey. A turkey I have no clue what to do with since it is technically a wild animal.

And I am so excited.

Timmy has been becoming a bit of a problem. He chases the chickens, chases the steer and rolls small children for their breakfast. Part of it is the puppiness. He is full of all this drive and ambition but lacks a fair bit of self control. But as he follows me around for morning chores, I see a puppy that is eager to please and eager to work at my side.

He knows that bees sting, so if I get closer to the hive than he thinks is safe, he will bravely charge between me and the hive, snapping at bees in my defense until they drive him away with their stings. If I dig a hole in the garden, he digs his own. Never mind that he can dig up bushes as fast as I can plant them. And he just knows that steer belongs in the barn.

So I look at his problem behaviors and I don’t just see puppy. And I don’t just see lack of training. I see the bright student in the back of the class that turns to class clown out of sheer boredom with the task at hand.With this small bit of insight, I decide to stop working on “come” and “no’ and “leave it.” He actually knows those quite well. They are the commands he hears most.

Today, I decide to ask him to work.

We walk down to the garden together and open the gate to the run. He trots in to sniff around and I just stand and watch him for a minute before walking to the henhouse to let the poultry out. He runs to catch up and pays only mild attention to the storm of feathers that erupts from the henhouse door. Then we open up the chicken run and out come the goslings and ducklings, perhaps the most closely guarded livestock on the farm.

Working waterfowl is different than working cattle. When moving our steer, Timmy has to drive in with all his senses. He is young and insecure so he tends to bark more than drive, but he is learning and gaining confidence. He has to be equally ready to charge in for the controlling grip at the heel or jump back to dodge an angry kick.

Not so with poultry. For the last few days, we have been walking the fence outside the run while the waterfowl are grazing. I let him sniff and stare and even chase from the outside of the fence. I didn’t say much, hoping he would learn the way ducks and geese respond to his movements. It didn’t take long and he could put them where he wanted them (back at the gate in the shade by the water dish) even with a fence in the way.

That’s how I knew he was ready.

As the birds file past him, he pays them no attention. He is used to hearing “no” and “leave it” and “come” when he tries to herd poultry. His eyes are on me until the ducklings fall behind and one of the goslings starts to run. His attention shifts, his head lowers.

“Walk up,” I say, anticipating that he will move closer.

“Good walk up,” I say when he does.

He is confused for a moment. He’s never heard the command, but I’m clearly pleased with his intensity. With half a wag of a tail, his full attention is back on the goslings who are starting to run. He backs off a little and moves to flank them, but they are at full waddle to get into the garden run.

They leave the ducklings in their dust.

But when we go back for the ducklings, Timmy knows exactly what needs to be done. Only he doesn’t know about the subtle differences between herding geese and herding ducks. For one, my goslings have been making the trek to the garden much longer and actually will go there on their own without herding. But geese also have more confidence. They aren’t as quick to panic and they can be herded even with the dog’s nose at their side.

The ducklings panic.

They trip over their big feet and when he tries to nose them back toward the fence line, they roll and then jump and then dart. They panic and run straight past the safety of their run and into the ditch on the other side. Timmy needs to back off. He doesn’t really know “easy” but I don’t want to command him to “leave it,” either. He is doing well, never showing the slightest impulse to use his teeth.

He’s just working them too close. So I try something else.

“Easy,” I say as I back up.

And in that moment’s hesitation where he tries to decide whether to follow me or stay on the ducks, I say “Good easy.”

And he wags his tail and stays where he is at. I walk to the other side of the ditch. He joins me and three ducklings immediately rush out of the long grasses toward the safety of the run and the goslings they hide behind. We watch the other two for a moment, but they’re playing a game of “I can’t see you so you can’t see me.” Timmy walks calmly toward them and they bolt.

Rather than chase, he just stands next to me and watches them sprint toward the run as only ducklings can.

And as I shut the gate and give him the rambunctious praise he is due, I think about the relationships we build with our dogs. I have almost always had a dog, but before we moved out here, they were all “just” pets. I played with them, trained them and loved them. In return, they barked too much, peed on the carpeting and loved me. Out here, they have jobs to do.

When I clipped that gate shut, Timmy became more than “just” a pet. He became a partner in this little farming endeavor.

And would you believe he didn’t chase the steer once all day?

A package arrives in the mail and I am excited as I fumble with the packaging, trying to tear the envelope free from its glue. I want this to work. I want this to work as well as it did in the training video and in the advertisement. I want it to work as well as it did for strangers in a forum and for yet more strangers with blogs. I want it to work because I want Jake to be a happy part of our family, not a problem to be managed while I wait to see if his instinct to kill grows strong enough to drive him to tear into the chicken house after them.

Because that is when we gave up on Pepper and had her rehomed.

But as I screw on the little metal knobs that actually deliver the shock, I hesitate. Jake is napping peacefully in the corner. He lives to please me. I was already harsh with him and even now, a few days later, he approaches me submissively with his shoulders low, his wagging tail sweeping the ground, and those great big eyes that just say, “Do you still love me, Mommy?”

The first thing I ever read about remote shock collars, or e-collars as their proponents prefer to call them, was about training dogs to leave chickens alone.

“Set the shock high and walk away. You don’t want the dog to know you are delivering the shock. You want her to think it is the chicken. When she goes for the chicken, the shock should knock her off her feet.”

That recommendation from a total stranger soured me on the use of a collar and actually was the first thing that made me seriously consider giving up Pepper. Because a new home away from chickens was surely better than treating her that way just so she could stay here.

But Jake isn’t Pepper. At least not yet.

So I call him over and fit him for his new collar. I read a little more about just exactly how I am supposed to do this and finally take him outside. With the remote in my pocket, I watch him sniff around the front yard and deliver the first shock.

Nothing.

I increase it. Still nothing. I’m looking for that point when he takes notice, but nothing more. I increase it more. And more. And I start to think maybe the shock cannot penetrate his thick coat but then finally he stops sniffing to scratch his neck. He resumes sniffing, as if it were only a bothersome fly. I try once again, in case it was just a fly. Same response.

And now it is time to introduce chickens.

We walk down to the henhouse to release the chickens and start our morning chores. Because right then, when the door is first opened and the chickens come racing out, right then it is the hardest for any dog to remember that they aren’t allowed to chase chickens.

He’s immediately alert as the tension gathers in his shoulders for a possible strike. I tap the remote in my pocket with no effect. I increase it by one and see the reaction in his eyebrows and ears as they make a slight jump. His gaze never leaves the chickens, but I decide to work with him at this level. I tap the remote again, his ears lift and he runs to my side.

“Hey, Jake!”

I rub under his ear and continue chores as if I didn’t notice what just happened. On the way to get water, he notices the pullets, small females still only half the size of the hens. Before ordering the collar, he killed one, lunged at one and caught yet another I rescued from his jaws. These are the ones that get him excited.

And yet it takes only one little tap on the remote in my pocket and he is back at my side, enjoying scritches behind the ear and the sound of my voice as I tell him about my plans for the day. He trots back down to the henhouse with me and lays down when I start to walk toward the garden. I leave him surrounded by chickens.

As I fill the five gallon waterer for the goslings, he gets up and walks around the barn. He’s out of sight, but through the open door, I can see the chickens coming around the opposite side. They aren’t running, but they are nervous, so I walk slowly to where I can get a view of Jake. He’s just standing there, staring at a chicken perched on the water dish. I’m not sure what to make of his stance. I’m not actually sure whether he wants to go after the chicken or if he just wants a drink of water.

I give him one more tap and that is it. For the rest of the day, I can’t get him to pay any attention to the chickens no matter how hard I try. Whether I sit on the porch or watch through a window inside, he goes about his business as if the chickens aren’t even there.

And I couldn’t be happier with his new little e-collar. Not just because he is learning (and quickly!) but because I was able to relax while doing chores with him. He went after the chickens three times and yet I didn’t have to scold him once. All he heard from me was praise.

And I really think this is going to work.

I lock up the barn at the end of a long day. I’m ready for it to be over. I was ready for it to be over when I woke up. And the whole day was beset with challenge after challenge after challenge, leaving me fighting back tears most of the day.

It was a hard day and then Jake killed a chicken.

Bug saw it and brought me the dead pullet. I was angry, unsure of what to do, so I smothered it in hot sauce with a bit of wasabi intending to feed it to him and knowing it wouldn’t work but feeling like I had to do something. I walked up to him, a chicken walked by and I saw him change from overgrown teddy bear to lightning fast predator in an instant.

And I threw the dead chicken at him as I yelled that I was taking him to the pound.

Though he has killed before, I had never seen him do it. When he is with me, he doesn’t pay that much attention to the chickens.  Sometimes he pricks his ears and sometimes he shows more interest than I like and once, the day before, he charged one but not with that kind of intensity.

And now, after locking up the barn, I look back at the house and the day isn’t over. I still have the dinner dishes. I still have a list of things I know I should do and I know I probably won’t. I think about pushing it all aside and just going to bed because I want the day to be over and I’m just done with it all.

I look up at the stars and think how they once filled me with wonder. That night . . . the night Tiggy died . . . there were stars. The most spectacular shooting star streaked across the sky as we lost sight of the ambulance on Highway 2 on the way to the trauma center at Bryan LGH in Lincoln.

It was beautiful.

My husband saw it as a sign that God was in control. No matter what happened, He was there. I have had difficulty even looking at the stars ever since. They are still beautiful. Out here, the night sky can be breathtaking. But to open myself to that kind of awe, I have to open myself to the fountain of grief that boils alongside it and it is easier not to take notice.

And it is eleven at night and I don’t want to go inside so I sit in the grass by the barn and stare at the sky. I find Orion on the western horizon. Leo is further to the north. I find the Milky Way playing peekaboo behind wispy strands of clouds and part of a song runs through my mind.

“. . . the stars are his handiwork, too . . . “

Jake leaves the porch to come lay down next to me. He puts his big head in my lap and I hold him there, stroking his fur. It is warm and silky in spots and rough in others. He needs brushed out, but I run my fingers through the dirt and bits of grass and hold my big puppy Jake as I watch the stars.

“Oh, Jake, what am I going to do with you?”

We’ve sat like this before, on my front porch looking out at the cedar trees that mark the northern edge of the cemetary where my son is buried. His fur has caught too many tears to simply give up and give him away. And it catches them even now as I hope that I am not forced to choose between him and the poultry that plays such a strong part in our plans for this property.

And Jake has no idea why I am sitting out here in the dark but he knows I need something to hold onto so he chooses to lie here with his head in my lap rather than returning to the pot of left over oatmeal sitting on the porch.

And I’m sorry I got so angry at him, but I know it was partly fear. Fear of the problem getting worse. Fear of losing him. Fear of having to make a choice.

And the day ends more challenging than it began.

Bug sits angrily in the chair, knees up to her chin, arms crossed.

“I hate bees!” she yells.

The tears have stopped but are replaced by anger.

“I’m never going outside again!”

And I’m not sure whether she is really upset about the sting, or the betrayal. Last year, she visited our little apiary almost every day. She sat amongst the bees, petted them and waited patiently at the entrance for one to climb on her finger. She watched for workers carrying pollen and reported to me how hard they were working.

She wanted that again.

But then she got stung right on the nose.

Ouch.

And it hurts me as well, because I want these hives to be a learning experience for my children. I want them to learn about the fascinating life of the honeybee, I want them to learn the flavors of the seasons and experience the “soul of the flower” as honey was once called.

But there are lessons in their sting as well.

Perserverence

There is pain in so many things we want. It hurts to fall off a bike. It hurts to crash on roller blades. It hurts to lose when you’ve worked so hard. It hurts to get stung by a bee when all you wanted to do was watch it fly. And sometimes it seems like all the scrapes and bruises aren’t worth it, but then you learn to ride that bike. Or taste that first drop of honey.

Good things are worth working for and the pain of the journey is oft forgotten when the goal is finally achieved.

Perspective

The little bee didn’t know why we were there, why we dumped her out of her home, why we didn’t leave when she buzzed her angry buzz. She didn’t know we had bought a home for her, made to her exact preferences, and put out a feeder of sugar syrup to help her have enough to eat while she got oriented in her new surroundings. She didn’t know that we would only take her extra honey and would always leave her hive with enough to get through winter. She only knew that she was scared and we had something to do with it all.

Wonder

Have you ever really looked at a stinger? It is so small, it doesn’t really seem like it could hurt . . . and hurt . . . . and hurt. But the real pain comes from that little venom sac. Have you ever watched it pulsate as it pumps more and more venom into the sting? Have you ever considered how amazing it is that something so small can defend a hive full of something so incredibly sweet?

Compassion

Bug’s nose still hurt, but that bee gave her life to defend her hive.

It didn’t take Bug long to go back outside. After all, that’s where all her favorite things are. And her curiosity gradually drew her closer to the hives.

Because she really does love the bees.

“Peep peep peep!”

I call as I unlock the henhouse door. The goslings come waddling and peeping as fast as they can.

Right over the bodies of two of the ducklings. My breath catches in my throat as I unlatch the bottom half of the door and step in.

“No,” I whisper softly as I pick up the first limp body. “No.”

“Peep peep peep!” Call the geese excitedly. But I scarcely notice them. Seven ducklings sit huddled under the heat lamp. There should be eleven. I tear apart the henhouse looking for the other two but come up with nothing.

“Why?” I cry out as I sit in the litter amidst my peeping goslings, all jostling for my attention. “WHY?!”

The anger and the hurt and the despair begin to well up in my chest. I want to scream. I want to walk away and give up. I can’t do this again. I can’t keep trying and failing at everything.

I pick up the second body and feel as if I am looking at the death of a dream. Here in my hands lies my vision for what I want our property to someday be and it is dead and I cannot revive it.

I am giving up.

But this duckling looks different than the other. This one is missing its bill and its feet. I spot tiny gnaw marks on what is left of the bill and I realize my ducklings were probably attacked by a rat. A rat that will be back. I need to protect them.

I drag down the rabbit cage from the garage and make my seven survivors a nest in it. Nothing should be able to attack them in the cage. I look at my goslings. I can’t even bear to think how I will react if something happens to them, but there isn’t room in the cage for them. I look at the chicks on the other side of my makeshift nursery. I am not as worried about them. Most of them sleep on the roost now and with the light on in the henhouse, they are pretty active through the night. I think they are fast enough to get away from a rat.

But I’m not so sure about the goslings.

And I know the rat will be back.

It’s spring at Roscommon Acres which means there is work to be done in the garden.

And lots of digging.

The strawberries have already begun to push up through the straw.

And so has the fall planting of garlic.

The chickens are out.

The guinea fowl are out.

And Timmy sits on top of the hill taking it all in.

Our first flowers have made their appearance.

Much to the delight of a little boy.

And at the corner of the garden lies a little cup left lying where Tiggy last used it.

Because there just doesn’t seem to be anywhere else for it to belong.

Updated to add pictures of Jake’s tracks for comparison (he’s our Bernese Mountain Dog and at 95 pounds, the biggest non-livestock animal around that I know of!).

I do see claw marks in his, though they are not nearly as distinct as in the tracks of our other dogs. The other dogs’ tracks look picture perfect, like they were taken directly from the guide book. His are indistinct enough that once the mud dries and the track starts to disintegrate, you might not be able to see them anymore. Other than that, they look like dog tracks to me, but then I KNOW that they are dog tracks. But his tracks are also a lot smaller, by almost an inch.

Back to the original post, with pictures of our mystery tracks:

So we had some excitement over the weekend with the discovery of tracks possibly belonging to a mountain lion. My children actually discovered them a few days before while out looking for our steer, but I figured they were Jake’s and sort of forgot about it until Friday when I finally got around to taking a look.

Now I wish I had gone down sooner. The tracks are deteriorating and none of them are very good. But they do seem to be cat tracks, and that would be one big kitty.

I even forwarded the pictures to the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission who asked me to go back and take more pictures. Unfortunately, the first were the best and clearest, but we did learn a lot about tracks and tracking. Like you know that guy on TV that says things like, “Lion passed by here about 18 hours ago. Male, three years old. Stalking something off to the right . . . ” It’s totally not like that at all.

The hunters and wildlife people I showed the track to said things like, “It looks like a cat to me. A bit big for a bobcat. Do you have cougars in your area?” and “It looks like a cat, but tracking is really more an art than a science. Can you set up a game cam?”

I think I wanted something more like, “That’s a big dog. You know any big dogs around there?” Because then I could laugh and think of Jake, our Bernese Mountain Dog, as the ferocious beast he is not. And not think of mountain lions prowling about within a mile of my house and right across the path my children took home.

But so long as we had something so exciting down the road, we gathered about the computer to learn a little about track identification and learned a few things. Like the basic differences between cat tracks and dog tracks.

General Points:

1. The dog track is generally oval and longer than it is wide. Cat tracks are generally circular and as wide as they are tall.

2. Dog tracks usually show claw marks. Cat tracks rarely do.

3. The two middle toes of dog tracks are usually even. Cat tracks have a leading middle toe which tells you whether it is the right or left foot. In the above illustration, that would be the cat’s left foot.

4. The dog’s heel pad comes to more of a point and you can draw an imaginary “X” between the outside of the middle toes and the top of the heel pad like this:

Which brings us back to our mystery track.

But you can’t really see the heel pad. Which is why we had to go take more pictures. Unfortunately, these were the best pictures of the best track, but this one did appear to show the heel pad a little more.

And it does appear to be a little broader, with no way to draw imaginary “X’s.”

And something else I found interesting. Most of the tracks were a muddled mess I couldn’t make much of. Like this.

But did you know that mountain lions generally walk by putting their hind foot in the track of their forefoot? And that can make their tracks a little less distinct.

And now I’m happier than ever for my little dog pack even as noisy as it can be.

If you are interested in learning more about tracking, Kim Cabrera has an excellent site we find ourselves on every time we come across an unfamiliar track. And of course she has a whole page devoted to mountain lions.

Who can resist their soft, wriggly cuteness?

Their soft mews, pleading for their mother’s attention?

The first puppy was born just before Mouse woke up. She saw Faithful llicking something and thought she had been sick. The donning of glasses, however, told a different story.

“Mom! Come quick!”

And number two was born.

By then, we had a camera and the rest of the children to spend the morning with Faithfull.

They were all in love, cheering on Faithfull, fawning over each of her pups as their hearts filled with wonder.

My thoughts turned to another, one who also loved puppies.

“Puppy!” he exclaimed at the sight of his first cow.

“Puppy!” at the goats at the fair.

“Puppy!” at the horses in the field.

No amount of correction swayed his opinion, so we stopped trying and just enjoyed his love of puppies while we could.

Mattias would have loved sitting here with us, with the puppies. I allowed myself the moment of sadness, thinking of what would have been. But the laughter of my children and the rapt attention of my little one just discovering the world balanced my grief with joy.

Love holds such beautiful power.

And Faithfull had nine puppies.

And Faithfull and her puppies even have a blog of their own, written by Mouse, where she is asking for help in naming “Number Nine” who came long after we thought she was finished. Anyone interested in a puppy can watch their puppy grow up online and see the work we are putting into helping them have a good start in life.

So, Mouse’s English Shepherd is pregnant.

Oops.

We hadn’t even really decided whether or not we wanted to breed her, but a split heat cycle took us by surprise and we found out she was in heat when I turned around and she and Luke were tied.

Oops.

Mouse of course wanted to breed her dog. What kid doesn’t? I was open to thinking about it, but not much more. Mostly because English Shepherds are excellent farm dogs and they are a little hard to get hold of out here. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to mess with it.

Being a homeschool mom, I turned over the research to my daughter. She did a thorough job, hoping to convince us with her stack of knowledge. Strangely, the one thing that made me start seriously thinking about allowing her to be bred was when all this knowledge made Mouse unsure of whether she wanted to breed her. She was worried about all that could go wrong.

But then Faithfull went into heat and we guarded her and got through it and thought we we were clear for another six months. Two months later, well, oops. I knew about split heat cycles, but just wasn’t even watching for the signs. I’m not even sure if there were any.

And that brings us to now, taking Faithfull’s temperature daily because when it drops to below 100, labor is supposed to begin within 24 hours.

It just dropped.

And my children are bouncing off the walls.

If you are interested in following along with our unintentional adventure, I’m sure there will be posts here about it, but we are also updating my Facebook page through our puppy watch and Mouse started a puppy blog.