Animal News: The Chronicles of Newman and other Stories
The Farmer as Referee
They say that parenthood hearkens one back to one's early years. All those cozy nights of being read to sleep, hot chocolate on cold winter days, learning how to conjugate verbs, yadda yadda yadda. I'm not exactly a parent in the strictest sense, but nevertheless, recently I have been reminded rather sharply of my elementary school years.
It may shock too many of you to learn that I went to an all-girls school for thirteen (yes, you read right, 13) years. You know how they say in all those new books about gender that men are competitive and women seek harmony and cooperation -- the first part of that might be right, but the second part is Total Baloney. I am here to tell you that harmony was not a word known even in the glee club at that school. In the elementary years we had this terrifying time called recess: hoardes of plaid-skirted, white-shirted females burst shrieking through the doors and onto the gravel lot of the playground (can anyone say "skinned
knees") and out to the concrete double tennis courts, which just by the way were heavily bordered by large forsythia bushes.
I have no doubt that there were many little daily traumas we all suffered, but for some reason one incident in second grade during recess sticks out in my ragged memory. I was idling on the tennis court wondering when we could go back to class and this third grader whom I will call Ugly Olga to protect her identity (and me from lawsuits) lured me back behind those bushes. I think there were other third graders involved, and there might have been a precocious second grader along for the ride, too. It sure felt like a gangup situation. Anyhow, Olga said she was gonna give me an "Indian sunburn". I hadn't yet learned to appreciate other cultures, so I was not keen on this AT ALL. I vaguely remember whining, "what is that? no, I don't think I want one, please, please don't, I need to go inside...", when she gripped my little second grader forearm tightly with her nasty big third grader hands, and twisted sharply and hard in opposite directions, resulting in a fierce rash of pain and very red skin.
I see such gangups on the farm almost daily. It upsets me, truly. I recall Olga and all the other vicious female bullies I endured on a daily basis, and I try to intervene, but nothing is accomplished because the animals are hell-bent on working these relationships out in the most brutal and physical ways. The worst of it occurs when a new animal arrives, but even after the initial hazing, those on top must still keep reasserting their dominance; it is not uncommon to see skull-cracking head butts on a cheerful, sunny, Sunday afternoon. The truth is, the order MUST be established and maintained. It is an environmental imperative. Order, you said? Hierarchy? But that's a male thing. Apparently not. Apparently it's not only a male thing, but also a pig, cow, goat, not to mention a third grader thing.
Tetsuro the pig, our "shy guy" who has been beaten up, chased, had his food stolen and his bed appropriated by Mr. Newman Goat, and for whom I've always felt a soft spot (gotta love the underpig), has recently "found" himself. No one is pleased. It's not clear how this will play itself out, but he has gored no fewer than 4 animals with his tusks. Well, OK, we don't have definitive forensic evidence that every boo boo we found was in fact caused by his protruding teeth, but I'm inclined to blame him anyhow just based on his bad attitude.
From the first day the baby steers Rocky and Bullwinkle arrived, Tetsuro found ways to bust through the back barn doors and chase these 500 pound animals (with budding horns ... and steer horns are really nothing to joke about, folks) around the pasture, until he was satisfied that he could consume their dinner in peace. It took approximately twice for the boys to learn that Tetsuro was in charge. Little Boy Goat, too, has more than once butted heads with Bullwinkle (talk about skulls cracking! zowie!), and frequently takes a pot shot at Bullwinkle's side when he's not looking. Evidently size does not matter, after all.
I've been disappointed in Mr. Newman Goat. The "King of the Hill" has more than once backed away from the feed trough when the boys have come to snarf some food. It's curious to me how those clearly below Newman in the hierarchy will challenge those of whom Newman appears to be nervous. It's all right though - he's compensated by learning how to fly over the garden fence and steal what little is left of the summer's crop; I suspect he's not actually nervous of the steers, no, not nervous at all, it's just his strategy, yeah, his strategy.
So if you're looking for some of those fond childhood memories to come rushing back at you, don't bother with 9 months gestation and all that pain -- just start a farm.
Till next time,
Farmer Anne
Star Gazing Farm
http://www.stargazingfarm.org
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