Animal News: The Chronicles of Newman and other Stories
"Ma, I feel like to throw up"
Words of dread to a mother, often coming at the end of a long meal at an exceedingly expensive restaurant, or while driving 65 mph on the freeway - in the middle lane. I can remember uttering such words on many occasions just previous to an "incident", and I wager my mother can remember them all. One does get over this childhood nausea (and the need to announce it), but I think there are occasions in adulthood when this is just what one wants to say, even if acting on it is prevented by mature restraint.
Recently I've been counting the battle scars. I could say a hundred times "now THIS is something I never envisioned with farm life"; being battered is included in that grab bag of surprises. I lived for years in large and sometimes violently dangerous cities, but have never felt in danger for my physical health as I do now! Bruises from Mr. Newman Goat's horns randomly applied repeatedly to the thigh and knee areas; welts from poison ivy; nicks and cuts from Kramer the rooster getting frisky with my feet; truly amazing pain from ye olden days when Spenser thought he was still a ram and snuck up behind me to try (again) to break my femur; a cut eyelid from carelessly opening a truck door too fast (OK, OK that could happen even off the farm). Most recently (this sounds like the options from the Monty Python game show "next contestant: would you like a blow to the head or a knife in the gut?") I was shearing my angel sheep WC, gentlest animal on the farm, who kicked me heftily in the eye and the throat.
I know you're wondering where we get to Farmer Anne throwing up. Let's go back to last Friday night. Recent political problems with horses had induced me to have a quiet and serious talk with Callahan. After I distributed those wonderful oat and molasses cookies all around, I put my arms around Cal's big neck to say good night. In an instant I felt a chunk of my back being pulled into midair. Bello, furiously jealous. I can only relate the pain of a horse bite to when a during a soccer match a very large man on the opposing team stepped on, and crushed my right arch. As I gasped from the shock of pain, thinking I might actually faint, Mr. Newman Goat (whom I nursed last weekend, you will recall) came up to me and lent me his body to lean on. (Happily my back still retains its original shape, and no permanent damage is done.)
Just this morning I was watching Harry and Tati, the oldest and most devoted duck couple here on the farm (best friends to George, who died about a month ago), waddling down to their stream and thought how joyful to see them happy together. Tati, such a character, always sang opera and made dramatic gestures with her head and neck. She twice built nests over 2 feet high and last year she secretly hatched a bunch of babies. Harry came here from a place where he was kept in a small cage all by himself. The first time he met other ducks, he hid behind me. He was always gentle, soft, fat, with wonderful chubby cheeks and always had something nice to say.
This afternoon I saw Tetsuro the pig rooting through something white down by the stream and I had a bad feeling. When I saw immobile orange feet I knew it was Harry. Tati was gone. The fox had come again - he must have been carrying off Tati, and Harry fought back, dying in the process. He had always defended her against the other mean boy ducks; the two were inseparable and Harry was always a gentleman. As I buried his torn body, I felt sick and burdened heavily with the nausea of grief. This is the grownup version of feeling like to throw up, but there's no relief from it -- except perhaps to wonder at the enormity of spirit of a duck who gave his life trying to save his mate. Harry the warrior duck.
The constant discovery of the emotional richness of these animals is sometimes the only force that combats the rawness of this natural life.
Till next time,
Farmer Anne
Star Gazing Farm
http://www.stargazingfarm.org
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