I’m clearly sick.

I’m getting feverish in the most odd situations.

I’ve developed a horrible cough…. hackcoughI’lltaketwohack….

I tend to lose perspective when in the presence of the chick bins at the feed store.

I seem to have the chicken flu.

The twelve original birds, ten pullets and two cockerels, were joined the next day by six more roosters. I needed to have enough to eat, after all.

The little trough I was using as a brooder was getting cramped. It didn’t have a top, and at less than a week old, some of the birds were already trying to stretch their wings.

I looked around for something bigger. A large trough would have been just the ticket, but it would have been an expensive ticket. We thought about dividing up the coop since we don’t have birds in it yet, but I’d have to run a couple of extension cords out for their heat lamp. So I set Junior to the problem, and bought some hardware cloth to cover whatever he came up with.

What he came up with was sort of genius. The old residents here had a peach bin that I think they’d been storing feed in. I had it tipped on its side to keep the dog food out of the rain. Junior cleaned it up, plugged the holes, brought it into the garage, and made a lid for it.

Now the chickens have room to grow. When they outgrow this, out to the coop they go, even if they still need a light. Besides, I hope to need the brooders again soon, as I have ten more eggs coming in the mail, and six after that.

But with all of this space, sending me to the Tractor Supply for epoxy was a bad idea. They only like to sell chicks in sixes, but if you ask nicely and tell them you have eighteen more, they might let you buy only two. So I came home with epoxy and two more interesting-looking chicks. I have no idea what kind they are.

Twenty is a much nicer number than eighteen, don’t you think? And I think I’ll get better any year now. Is there a vaccine for the bird flu? Keep it far away from me, please!

It seems to be a rule in life (or mine anyway) that one doesn’t buy a cat. No, one runs across cats, one is selected by a cat, or one inherits a cat with a farm. I’ve never had to go looking for one. When there is a cat-shaped opening, one will appear.

My first cat as a child was a kitten from my aunt’s barn cat. My sister and I were absolutely floored that our parents let us bring it home. She was always a hair wild and standoffish, but we loved her. Since then, every cat I’ve interacted with on a regular basis was a cat of destiny. There was the cancer-riddled tortoiseshell who lived at the vet’s office I worked at. Her owners had abandoned her and I couldn’t bring her home. The vet was kind enough to let her live her life out there, nominally my cat.

My next cat, the first one that was truly mine, also came from that vet. She was rescued as a tiny kitten full of worms from a local fire. Her eyes weren’t quite open yet. I took her home and bottle fed her (and try explaining that one to your High School English teacher who was so very kind and let me keep her in her classroom to feed during the day) and raised her to be mine. That was the movingest cat I’ve ever had; she went to college with me and several towns after that. She predated and succeeded my first marriage.

There were cats in between. A couple of tuxedos at the animal shelter I worked at, both named Mouse to keep some sense of plausible deniability from the boss.  A big black kitten that showed up at the house, and who I had to leave when I got a divorce. Sorry Elmo. A neighborhood cat in the next house who decided that she would be mine for about six months, until her actual people caught her and locked her back in their crack den.

And Booger, King of all my cats. He was a barely-weaned feral kitten who had the good sense to turn up just outside my office window. He hollered for a couple of days while I slowly baited him with lunches and cat food. Finally, I went after work and lured him into my reach with kibble. Driving home in shorts with a pissed-off feral kitten wasn’t my brightest plan – I’d forgotten a box, but he warmed up to us after hiding behind the toilet for a day or two.

Since Junior doesn’t particularly care for cats, I didn’t plan to welcome any more. But the gophers are driving him nuts, and he surprised me by suggesting that an outside cat or two wouldn’t be amiss around here. So the universe should have sent me a cat, and I thought it did. I’m a big fan of the orange cats, although I’ve never had one, and there was a nice young orange tom hanging around work. He’s not completely feral, as he talks to me as I walk by instead of running away. He lives a few buildings down from us, and they’ve been feeding him and his siblings. So I thought I’d bribe him in and take him to get neutered.

But Seamus and I took a tour of the Animal Control’s new facility last week with the 4-H group, and it came to me that I could pick up a cat there for less than the price of having one vaccinated and neutered on my own. Junior didn’t particularly care if he helped pick it out or not, so the girls and I went, just to look.

It seems there’s no such thing as “just looking” at cats. We found a lively orange and white older kitten with beautiful dark orange eyes that we wanted to look at. I wasn’t aiming for a female cat, and long hair could be a detriment around here with the foxtails. And then down the hall, there was a nice-looking older short-haired buff male tabby. We asked to see them both, and the shelter people were happy to show them to us. I was waffling about which one to pick (which is why we didn’t ask to see fifteen) when the light bulb went on. Junior had said one or two cats, so technically I had an in. The universe agreed with me, as it turned out that cats are almost a two-for-one deal. The second cat is only $15, all neutered and everything.

So here we are, with two more cats. I misheard something one of the girls said about the female cat. I thought she said Cheddar when she was talking about a cat named Shadow (she mumbles) and decided that would be an excellent name for the cat with the cheddary eyes.

The male cat’s name is coming slowly to me. Colby would be the logical choice, but it doesn’t seem to fit him. I like people names for animals, and this dignified gentleman needs a nice mature name. I was considering Chuck and Hank, but I think he’s more of a Pete. Like the cat in The Door Into Summer, he’s slightly obsessed with doors. I have a feeling that he was an inside cat, as he certainly wants to be one now, but Booger won’t be having that. So Mr. Pete is being very good and tolerant of flighty Cheddar, and I hope between the two of them, we can have a good mouser.

This is the first time in my life that I’ve ever paid for cats, but I think I’m OK with it. Taking the both of them home was definitely the universe’s trick on me. You know, it was only a week ago that we only had three animals here. Now we’ve got 25. It’s been a busy week.

So it seems that I screwed up with the eggs in the incubator. I candled them a couple of days ago, at about two weeks of development, and the only ones that showed any shadows at all looked more like one-week eggs. So I did some research, which I totally should have done first. It seems that if you leave the ones that don’t develop, or those that start and then die (quitters) in the incubator, they can start to rot and off-gas. Which kills the rest of them. I should have taken out the two that broke, but they were stuck so firmly to the turner that I was worried that I’d explode them and have to deal with rotten eggs in the house.

So I threw out that batch. I still have another 16 ordered on eBay, so I’ll give it another shot, and probably more during the summer too.

In the meanwhile, the last time I was at the feed store – the good local one, not the Tractor Supply – they had Silver-Laced Wyandotte chicks available. I had Golden-Laced Wyandottes in the incubator, so I thought some of those chicks would go well with my whole slightly exotic dual-purpose chicken flock I was planning to build.

They get chicks in on Thursdays, so at lunchtime, I stopped on the way home. Of course, no Wyandottes. But they did have Ameraucana pullets, which are the ones that lay the colored eggs, and Buff Orpingtons, which are nice and big brown egg layers. I got five of each of those. I also picked up a couple of Rhode Island Red roosters, but I think I’ll go get some more tomorrow. I predict that I’m going to have too much fun with the laying flock to want to kill too many of them, so I’d better have some extra boys around for the soup pots.

I had set up the brooder on Wednesday night. I had most of the stuff from that misguided duck egg project, but I got a better heat lamp. Once I had all of the things in the trough that I use, I decided that it looked a little crowded, so I picked up a smaller feeder and waterer when I bought the chicks. They seem perfectly content in their temporary home, and I plan to finish my part of their big coop this weekend. We’ve got a few weeks before they’re big enough to go out there anyway.

With all of this space out back, keeping the weeds down was a real hassle. Junior’s worked hard on getting the soil leveled so it would be easier to run the mower over but it’s still a big chunk. So while we were putting up fences for the chicken yard, we figured we’d put up one more fence for a little livestock.

Sheep are my meat animals of choice right now. I thought they’d be easier to start with than a steer, as the pen’s not all that big. They’re better about grazing grass than a goat, who’ll go for your landscaping if you give it half a chance. And lamb is my very favorite meat.

Growing our own meat (the lambs and the chickens too) goes along well with the big garden. I’ve always wanted to grow more of my own food. If I had a bigger place I’d get even more ambitious, but this is a good start. I like knowing what goes into what goes into me, and I like giving the kids an education in where their food comes from. With all the hunting we do, these kids aren’t under the misconception that meat comes in a plastic package from the grocery store, but this will be even more personal. This is meat that we directly had a hand in growing. We’re taking full responsibility that in order to feed us, we’ll have to kill things. We’ll do it cleanly and with respect, but these are by no means pets, and I’ll be reminding the kids of that every chance I get. They do not get names.

So once we decided to try this, I started asking around for lambs to buy. One lamb would be miserable and lonely, but two are fine. I would have liked three, but two is what I found. I’m not ready to mix lambs from different flocks yet; I want to keep my diseases under control here. I haven’t touched sheep for twenty years, since college, but I still remember some things.

The producer I found was recommended by a local friend. I knew him too, but I didn’t know he had sheep. He’s a rancher and farmer and happens to have a few ewes that he’s accumulated over the years. Only two lambs weren’t spoken for, and he gave me a really good price on them, and lots of good advice. We went and picked them up with the dog crate on Monday, and if I’d waited even another week, I’d have had to take two trips. They’re much bigger than they’d been the week before when I scoped them out.

I was worried that the dogs would run these things to death through the fence. They’re Border Collies, after all. Chasing sheep is what they’re bred to do, and Ringo is a known livestock worrier, which is part of the reason that I have him. Since my training collar was dead and only had one receiver unit anyway, I took the opportunity to buy a pro trainer model, with two collars. I got the set just in time and reminded the dogs what that collar means. They know; they behave perfectly well with the collars on.

Still, I was a little leery when I turned the lambs out in their pen. Ringo was nowhere to be seen; he sulks when the collar’s on even if he hasn’t felt it in days. Angus was intrigued though, paying close attention right at the gate but not getting excited or trying to chase. We stood out there and watched the lambs explore their new surroundings for a while and I was very surprised to see them march right up to the gate. They sniffed noses with Angus and then walked away; all was well. He remains interested and likes to lay near their fence but I haven’t caught him trying to chase one time. Good dog.

So they’ll be an interesting project. There will be challenges along the way, no doubt, but I think it’ll be rewarding. Certainly the end result will be, which we should reach around the end of June. Tasty, tasty lamb in my freezer, mmm!

Junior’s been around shotguns almost all of his life. Me, I used to shoot gophers at my dad’s orchard with an old double-barrel 16-gauge.

I don’t have nearly the experience that he does. He trapshoots on a winter league and loves it. I go with him to each one, sometimes do a little photography, and love that role. He loves it so much that he’s wanted me to try it for years; he’s pretty sure that I’d have as much fun with it as he does and he wants to share his joy.

I resisted. I went to a practice day once a couple of years ago, and it was all right. I hit maybe eight out of 25 targets, which wasn’t horrible for a rank beginner. After all, those gophers were a pretty stationary target all those years ago. Clay pigeons move. I haven’t had a chance to shoot at many moving targets in my life, only a few deer.

I shot a couple of times at fun days too, but I’d find myself getting frustrated pretty easily. There’s a lot to learn. Even though I’ve got a good background in shooting in general, shotguns are different. I’m used to consciously aiming at what I want to hit, but with shotguns, you don’t do that. You point at the target but if you stop to take time to aim, it’s long gone. It’s hard to make the transition from aiming to pointing for a beginner.

But every year at this particular trapshoot weekend the whole group of us bring our trailers to the club and spend the whole weekend. The impetus for this is one, that’s it’s pretty far away, and two, that they have a really nice sporting clays range there. Everyone gets up on Saturday and goes out and shoots sporting clays for fun before the regular league trapshoot on Sunday. Oh, and it’s really close to a casino, so there’s drinking and gambling to be had and if we don’t want to cook, we don’t have to.

Trapshooting involves standing in one place at a particular station with your team and shooting at a clay pigeon that come out of the house at a fixed point. The angle varies but at least you know where it’s going to start.

Sporting clays is more like golf, and also more like bird hunting. You walk a course and at designated stations, there are two targets to shoot at. You get whichever number of pairs that site calls for.  This particular course is for a hundred rounds. I’ve never been on any other course, so I can’t say what they’re like.

Last year I packed the camera and had a great time. The variation makes for interesting photography and I got to be part of the fun.

This year, however, I set the camera down and picked up a shotgun. You don’t know how big of a deal this was for me. I was to be shooting with some incredibly gifted shooters, the best in the league, and no matter how much they reassured me that I was welcome, I was intimidated. It was something I wanted to try though, and this setting sounded less competitive than some others. So to make myself go through with it, I told everyone that I would do it. I figured I’d feel more like a fool if I backed out, and I was right.

So Junior let me use his sporting clays shotgun and brought enough shells for me too. I had a massive case of stage fright on the first station, which was eight rounds, I think. They let me go last so I’d have more time to see what was going on. Instead of calling for both birds at once like normal, they called them one at a time so I wouldn’t have to rush. And when I broke my first target, it suddenly became fun instead of intimidating. I think I broke two on that station. Two out of eight was about the rate that I’d previously shot on the few trap rounds I’d done, but since I’ve shot less than a hundred shells since those gopher days, who knew if that rate was a fluke?

But on the second trap, Senior was calling for the birds for me while Junior was standing behind me coaching. And on one of those, he accidentally called for the second bird like he would one of the regular guys, instead of one at a time like I had been shooting. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t hit that second bird. I don’t think they saw it, but I know I did and that boosted my confidence right up there and I started to have fun. I asked them to just pull for me like the guys, so I wouldn’t have time to over think things, and that worked much better for me. It seems that the more thinking I do, the more chances I have to screw things up.

I even did well on some of the harder stations, and I broke a few more pairs. There was a tree blocking the path of the bird at one station which was giving people fits, but I surprised them all by hitting that target a few times. Of course, I was missing the one that was easier to them, but I was learning. I was getting better at each station.

There’s one called a rabbit instead of a bird; it’s rolled along the ground instead of flung into the air. Rabbits have a tendency to bounce unpredictably. Junior didn’t want me to get frustrated with myself if I missed it, so he told me it was a tough target and not to be too hard on myself if I missed it. By then, I was the first shooter; it rotates through the group and of course I got the hardest one. Man, weren’t those guys surprised when I broke three out of four of those rabbits! Junior had a little pressure on him to beat my score; of course he did, but he also got a little shit from the guys. That about made my day, until the station where I flat-out beat him. That’s the one that hooked me.

I shot the best I’ve ever shot on that station, and that’s when I decided that I wanted to do this some more. I’ll be wanting a gun that fits me, but Senior has one for me to try. Sure, our shotgun shell budget is going to go up, but that’s OK. I think I’ll have fun with this for a few years before I even think about getting on a winter league trap team (I’m not such a fan of the competition.)

And sorry, putting the camera down meant that I’m sorely lacking in illustrations. Maybe someday I’ll be confident enough that I can do both, but for now it’s best to concentrate on one thing at a time. Oh, and my end score was 52 out of 100 possible. Those guys with the eighties and seventies were awfully proud of my 52, as was I. I had no idea I’d do so well on my first try; I still haven’t shot as many as 200 shells through a shotgun. I’ll have to deflate my big head, but no doubt the next time out will do that for me. I had a ball, and that’s what the game is about. I want to do it again.