Animal News: The Chronicles of Newman and other Stories
The Boyz Club
Years ago, I was walking up the stairs of a very small "penzione" in a fishing town on the south coast of the Isola d'Elba, and the little old Italian man carrying my bag reached up and pinched my bottom. It was not exactly unpleasant - just disconcerting and a tad funny (the man was approximately 1/2 my height and at least 4 times my age). I had completely forgotten about that incident until Herman and Mr. Bill arrived last week.
Herman and Mr. Bill were supposed to be two abused baby turkeys, confiscated by Farm Sanctuary in New York. Somehow, however, between there and here they sped their way to maturity and frightening self-assuredness. The van that brought them to Star Gazing Farm opened a door onto two monstrously large beings with bald, carbuncled heads, raggedy feathers and an Italian strut that would make Marlon Brando proud. They are, in fact, about half my height and spend most of their time now following me everywhere and pinching my derrière with their enormous vulture-like beaks. Well, Farm Sanctuary DID tell me that they were well socialized.
That's the problem with the animals at Star Gazing Farm. They're all so extremely socialized. When people come to visit they are mobbed by crowds of horned, hooved, and beaked beasts all demanding acknowledgement and cookies. And come to think of it, almost all of them are boys. Or should I say Boyz.
It's no secret that I spent 13 years of my youth at an all girls institution. I hadn't thought it a truly life-warping experience, but as I count up I realize that the males at the farm outnumber the females 2 to 1! Can anyone say... overcompensation? In truth, I don't go out of my way to bring male animals to the farm - and in fact it's almost always the males of "food animal" species who are unwanted, culled, or bound for slaughter and hence end up on the rescue route, so I'd wager that a lot of farm sanctuaries have more boys than girls (Hey, I can hear you out there. Quit saying "Yeah. Right."). Well the other aspect of this is that (except for the birds, for whom this is surgically too risky), the farm's rule is that all new male residents at the farm must be castrated prior to arrival. Whew, I guess it's really no wonder that the boyfriend quotient is not all that high.
And speaking of barriers to dating, there are those smells. You know, from a distance, farms smell somehow gemütlich. Quaint. "Oh honey, don't you just LOVE that country smell", one says as one whizzes past in the Lexus on the interstate. Enclosed, intimate spaces are another thing altogether. Last Wednesday night it snowed. Not a lot, but enough for a goat to want to take refuge in a warm and snuggly place - say, the inside of a Ford Ranger? Being that it was a holiday and all, I took the opportunity to sleep in on Thursday morning. Big mistake. Rule number 1: don't talk to single men about the castration thing; Rule number 2: never sleep late on the farm. By the time I got up Mr. Newman Goat had been in the cab of the truck many, many hours. I've tried to teach him how to open the doors from the inside but he claims it's not in his job description.
And that's just the thing about living with men -- I don't care if it's an ornery turkey, a smashingly attractive goat, or the boy next door: their charm, which paradoxically oft runs neck in neck with an unbelievable ability to annoy, is irresistible.
Till next time,
Farmer Anne
Star Gazing Farm
http://www.stargazingfarm.org
© 2005 Star Gazing Farm, All Rights Reserved
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