Marcella continues her nightly duties

Last night, Marcella took up her spot with Old Victor, testing his hay, laying with him, and just making sure she was protecting him from wandering bears, coyotes, dinosaurs and out of line Misfits.

Let's sing The Chicken Underpants Song!

{To be sung to the tune of "I've a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts"}

I have a lovely pair of underpants

A lovely pair of underpants have I

They blow in the breeze

They come to my knees

I have a lovely pair of underpants

Marcella the caretaker

So many times I've seen her do this-stay watchful over the needy ones. This time it is Old Victor, as I wrote about in yesterday's post. Last night Victor ate well, but I watched him try to get up and he couldn't make it. I helped him stand and he could walk, but was weak. I feel his expression after one of these episodes is changing, to more of,

I am getting tired.

But this morning I was surprised to see him up, and after hay he decided he wanted to walk–or hop on three legs-around a bit. Marcella immediately came to be near him. Then she would come to me, expressing her thought of

I think he is okay, but you need to know he is needy.

Animals sense so much in other creatures, and humans. I've seen over and over-the time Marcella leaned into me while I stood talking to a very sad but angry woman who was crying-she just wanted to make sure I was safe; or when Pino the donkey positioned himself near a mute woman who had come for a healing visit, but he picked her out of a group of five; the many times my horse has stood still, while I commune in sadness near him; the vigel Marcella kept over her buddy Earnest when he fell sick.

Marcella is not afraid of Victor dying. That is not in her code. She is wary of anything she senses that seems off, or unsafe for her charges, including me.

She is a remarkable creature.

In which I talk like Pooh Bear

Old Victor and Marcella have their routine. In morning and at night feedings, Marcella enters the stall and lays with Victor-I like to think it is to make sure he is okay, or that he is still with us, but I also think she has an innate passion to test the hay for quality! She loves to get right in the hay and eat it.When I put hay out for the group, Marcella always puts herself in the middle, and they eat all around her. This is a very common trait of Maremmas-and I suppose other guard breeds.

The light is so beautiful at these moments in the barn–makes my photography not that good, but sometimes I catch a second that is astounding when I am in it-like the way the honey colored light lays on Victor's white coat, as if Goegres de la Tour had painted it himself.

I am unsure if Victor will make it through the winter. I am watching. I don't want him to suffer and he is getting up less and less. But what I am doing-I am enjoying his company. I always do, but often it is a rushed time if I have to get back to the studio or have an errand. After so many losses this summer of elders that were glue in my heart-Aldo, Stevie, Priscilla, Rudy-and so many others-I am aware of our tenuous lives here. Who knows who will go tomorrow-it might be me. I must drink it up, be fully present, as much is as possible.

I was trying to reach a one word synopsis of what it is like to sit with Victor, while he munches hay, the light on his head, Marcella near by me, and  the other animals in the near distance all grinding and swallowing Earth's feathered grasses, the smells of mud, rams, breath and rain all around.

One word, what would it be?

I decided it had to be...here.

We are nowhere else but here, we are not in yesterday, or next week and we aren't thinking about Sunday because it is Tuesday and Tuesday is just fine, until tomorrow when it will be Wednesday.

I am beginning to talk like Pooh Bear.

"Here, Girls! Come over!"

This morning,calling the flock-(copyright Apifera Farm) #farms #sheep #apiferafarm #foglove

A video posted by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Nov 10, 2015 at 9:44am PST

Many a time someone has said to me,

You need a herding dog.

Nope.

I am not against herding dogs. Although I do get cranky when I see people with a few sheep who have herders, and simply use their sheep as props for the dog. I know of one person who kept her sheep in deplorable shape but had a business training sheep dogs so the sheep were just that-training targets.

If I had a larger flock, with more land, I can certainly see a need for a good herder. But for my needs, my voice has always done the trick. Occasionally, and The Dirt Farmer will shake his head in agreement, my flock does not listen. This usually occurs on a Sunday, most often in the summer when I want to get my barn chores done earlier than normal so I can rest and sip wine by six. Upon arriving here, we rarely sat down before eight pm. Now, we have learned it is best, and appropriate, to sit our bones down earlier. So on some summer days, nearby farms and properties might hear me losing my patience, to put it mildly, as I am calling,

"Here, Girls, here, Girls!"

The sheep have their own clock and dusk is usually when they return to the barn.

I spend a lot of time with my flock. They trust me and I can call them down from any hill on any part of the property. This morning I got up and wanted to catch a photo or two in the fog. Wild Otis is so striking against the white and faded Payne's Gray.

Seeing them run across the field when I call them over fills my well for the day. I really love working with sheep, and seeing them in the field. This morning when I got up from bed, I looked out the window and saw Otis looking down into the lavender field where the sheep should have been. He had a confused look on his face, ears erect and forward-I looked down into the filed to make sure there was no strange presence there. But I saw no sheep-it was that foggy. I had to really look to make sure they were all there. I think Otis was having the same problem,

Where have the sheep gone?!

Early days of Apifera and Nature as friend

I took this photo last night of Wild Otis, at dusk. The clouds were so powerful. The morning fogs have returned and I was contemplating this last week at some point-that fog was my blanket when I first moved here. I had moved to Portland from Minneapolis in 2002, single, and two years later, I was married and moving to a rural area where we knew nobody. I only knew one person, my brother, in Portland before I met Martyn.

Arriving here was not only culture shock, it was a physical and emotional uprooting. While I was beginning the dream of owning a farm, I was a fish out of water. Martyn and I had a joke back then, when he'd drive off to his project sites back in Portland each morning, I'd stand at the door and say in my best Mayberry RFD twang,

"Don't leave me here without a gun."

Those were days of hard work and unrest, but each day there was the old barn, the land, the big top sky and the stars at night were our theater. I do remember driving around to try to get to the store thirty minutes away, thinking,

What have I done.

Change is unsettling. Change is powerful. Change brings so many new things into a life that one looks back and thinks,

If I hadn't had the courage to leave Minneapolis, I would not have met Martyn, and Apifera would still be floating, waiting for me somewhere.

So I was thinking about the fog, and how in our early days here, it was my blanket, and it still is. Unlike snow, it has less of a sound. Snow is a wonderful blanket too, but fog engulfed me, wrapping her arms around me on my farm with the raggedy fence protecting me from perceived wolves of my new environment. I have always gone to Nature when I felt the label of Misfit or weirdo being applied to me-either by another person, or by inner chatter. When I was six, we lived in what to me was the perfect place, a 5 acre plot with a carriage house that the main landowner sold us-so we were surrounded by his land, and there were horses all around and trees and forests. I had a grove of sumac and I'd disappear for hours, into my sumac forts-small rooms cleared out by deer-and I'd strip naked and lie under the sumac leaves, with the blue sky above streaming in when leaves blew in the wind. No matter where I am thrust or have to go to in my coming years, I know there will always be some kind of sumac fort for me-if I seek it out. Nature gives us friends all over the world!

Fog is as much a part of Apifera as the dirt or animals. But Apifera first and foremost was birthed from my heart. It can not be contained by land. It goes where I go.

Apifera's most optimistic member turns six: Muddy!

Today and all day we celebrate the birth of Apifera's most optimistic resident, Muddy. Of course, every day is a celebration to this guy. Each morning just before he senses the sun will break, we hear him yawn. Then footsteps tipped with toenail clipping sounds into our bedroom. His tail will hit every obstacle in its way-out of jubilation. he pokes his nose into my sleeping head,

"Hey! It's Monday!!!!!! It's such a great day!"

"Go flat..." I say softly, his command to go to his couch and lay down until we are up.

Minutes later, he returns, this time to poke Martyn.

"Hey, it's Tuesday!!!!! It's going to be such a great day!!!!!!"

And so it goes day in and day out, no matter the weather, Muddy is just happy to be here.

Muddy came to us six years ago, form the same parents as Huck. But the two could not be more different. Where Huck will ask politely, and with little confidence,

Is it okay if I pass the chair you are sitting in so I can get to my cushion?

Muddy will leap over anything to get where he needs to go.

I would also like to officially apologize on this public platform to Muddy-for if anything goes wrong, usually he is blamed. This is due to the fact that as a pup and well into his second year, he ate just about everything-living, dead, or man made. Even my terriers were not as destructive. We have a household joke that Muddy walks away from us when he is scolded, singing the old song about Charlie Brown-

Why's everybody always picking on me?

He's a goofball. He talks a lot. He has a separate entity attached to his rump called a tail. He obeys. He adores his Frisbee and must be chaperoned with it or he will die of exhaustion. He is happy. He is loved.

A patriarch is gone-we lose Papa Roo to nature

Papa Roo was our very first rooster. In fact, he was the very first rooster I had ever known. He came to Apifera from a local farm, along with our first hens, including some of the sneaky Banties that are such expert nest hiders producing many surprise clutches over the years which brought delight, more hens...and more roosters.

But Papa was always the number one man and I did my best to protect that.

But a couple years ago, he had taken to roosting up high in Old Barn, rather than returning to the hen house at night. This came after a series of encounters with one of the roosters, Chicken Jack, born out of a surprise clutch. I had made a deal with Chicken Jack due to the magical timing of his birth–you might remember the situation–the old donkey, Giacomo had to be put down, a very sad occasion as he had only arrived 19 days earlier. He was a very special donkey, my first elder equine, but it was obvious he was not well, and blood work proved how bad his condition was, and he was suffering. The day after he died, we heard chirping in the hay loft, and there was a brood of chicks. One of them turned out to be a rooster, a lovely fellow and I named him Chicken Jack, in honor of Giacomo.

I made a deal with Chicken Jack,

"Treat our Papa Roo with respect and you stay, otherwise, you leave one way or another."

He abided by that request for about 6 months, but as is often the case with 6 month old roosters, he started feeling too big for his underpants, and I began to find Papa in corners, wounded. Papa was a Bantie rooster, much smaller and less agile than Chicken Jack, an Aracuana mix.


But Papa always pulled through. And he eventually took some hens, and relocated to Old Barn. He spent days and nights there, and if he did venture out, he stayed out of the barnyard where Chicken Jack was.

Well one day, there was another fight, Chicken Jack wanted some of Papa's hens, and those hens had no interest in Chicken Jack. Papa got the worst of it, but he pulled through again. And Chicken Jack got a new home, a nice place with his own little flock. I see him all the time because I ride up there. I call out to him and I swear he runs for cover, thinking I might rehome him again.

After Chicken Jack left, I tried to entice Papa back to the hen house for night time safety. But it was futile. He and some of his girls had high roosts in the barn, and I let go of controlling it. If they made it, they made it. I can't control every incident of nature, nor can you. One morning I found Papa's feathers everywhere, clearly there had been a fight with a raccoon, and I followed the path of destruction to the back woods. I was sure he was dead. But I found him in the barn, a little worse for wear, but he was okay. He had managed to fight off death one more time, defending his girls.

Over time, Papa's hens began to wander back to the coop, because another rooster had come along, in yet another surprise clutch by one of the those rascal Banties! Papa was probably 12 years old at this point, and the hens, although loyal to him, understood who now had the strength. It was sort of sad to watch, but it is survival of the fittest. It took a lot of under cover work on my part but I managed to get all the hens back in the coop, and they were all put in lock down because I couldn't handle one more surprise clutch.

But Papa remained in Old Barn. I felt badly about it, and had planned to put him in a stall with one hen, so I could watch the eggs so as not to have more chicks. But in a few weeks, he had adopted himself to our front porch, where he would show up every morning and crow and crow, and then eat cat food with Little Orange and Plum. He spent time in the front garden dusting and he had an entire little area he roamed, free from the hassle of White Dogs or other roosters. While he had no hens, he seemed happy, and he always returned to Old Barn to sleep. He had the company, if you can call it that, of the World's Grumpiest Pig, Rosie, and the donkeys, and sheep. Sometimes I'd go to feed Rosie and there would be Papa, waiting by her side for some grain to fall.

So when I fed the cats this morning, and he wasn't there, I sensed it. Sometimes he wouldn't show up at the porch in the morning, but this day it just felt wrong. When I entered Old Barn to feed Rosie, I could see his perch area, feathers strewn all over.

"Papa?" I said quietly. But I knew.

I followed the trail of feathers about 300 feet to the edge of the fence line and could see where they entered the woods with him. I tried to see if his body was still around, or his wings, but couldn't see through the bramble. I managed to pick up some of the remaining feathers, but non of his beautiful cackles were there. He was well over twelve years old and had had a good run as a rooster. He went out feeding nature and no doubt was killed fast, at least I hope for that-he is gone now.

I returned to Old Barn and leaned into her side and cried. He was one of the original Apiferians. I was crying for a lot more than Papa though. I will share that in weeks to come.

Old Victor cohabitating with Only Duck

I thought how the light hit Victor's head in this photo last night made him seem so other worldly. Perhaps he's already been knighted by goat spirits and his body just needs to catch up. This morning I watched him munch hay, and all the other animals were out and about in other parts of the barn, chomping too. An eating animal is a content animal. I thought of all the animals I had sat with in that same stall–young lambs, dying ewes, broken hearted goats, lonely ducks, hurt roosters and still borns.
So the light on his head...I like to think of it has combined spirit dust saying,

It's okay, when the time comes, it will be okay, for him and you.

I made the decision to move Old Victor from the Lower Misfit Village to the upper barn. While there is dry shelter down there, there is just more opportunity to slip in mud spots. If you don't know Victor he was born with a defect that makes him crippled in the hind end, and now after years of compensating for that, his front end is weakening. He has been losing balance much more now, and landing in cold mud on occasion. I also noticed he is not able to move around as much in general, and getting to the hay breakfast is harder.

He and I had a heck of a time getting him up the barn, as we had to travel though Boone's paddock which in some areas is pretty mucky after the torrential weekend rains. He kept falling. It was sad, he is such a good spirited fellow. It took about 30 minutes to walk 300 feet, as we had to rest a lot because he just doesn't have the strength.

He is now cohabitating with Only Duck in a comfy, warm stall, and I carry his water to him to lesson his chance of tripping. I will be watching him closely in the coming days and weeks.

I sit with him at feedings, usually in silence. He is a personable creature and does enjoy company. His companion, Sophie, has tendered up a lot, and she has the same deformity but is not as crippled and is actually quite the little sassy thing, so she stayed down below. She kind of separated from him after months here–I see this over and over again, a pair comes in dependent on each other for safety and one is often more of a caretaker to the other, but in time the caretaker will often venture out as the surroundings become safe to them.

World's homeliest chicken becomes a pirate

A couple weeks ago, I agreed to help someone out by taking some chickens from her father's property-her father was a nice man and he had died recently. The last thing I needed was more chickens, but as all chicken lovers know, can you really have too many chickens? {The answer is yes, by the way}.

So Martyn and I went over there one day and wrangled up three of the seven chickens, returning later to catch three very rogue roosters and another hen.

When I got a good look at this tiny little thing, I asked her,

"Are you sure you're a chicken?"

"I think I am, yes, as a matter fo fact, I am!" she said.

But as I got to know her this past week, her size does not represent the determination of this fine waif. She may be small and raggedy, but she is the first one in the feed line for breakfast and does not let anyone, even the big girls, scare her off.

I was waiting to find a perfect name for her. I don't name all my chickens anymore, only the ones that really speak to me. Someone suggested Grace O'Malley who was a pirate in the 16th century. I began calling her that, and it fits her like a glove. Not "Grace", but "Grace O'Malley".

"Good morning, Grace O'Malley!" I say each morning.

I think this name of a strong woman role model, who died a noblewoman by the way, will balance out her rather homely appearance. But we all know looks aren't what we leave behind in this life. Such will be the case for Grace O'Malley the chicken.

Midnight at the annual spirit festival

To be honest, I was not looking forward to the annual midnight festival this year. It didn't help that it was pouring rain last night. But I didn't want to break tradition, and I knew that leaving that gang alone in the pumpkin patch graveyard without me could lead to a lot of mischief. While teenagers without manners might go to a cemetery and tip gravestones, my group of hoodlums would do worse–eat too many pumpkins that grow out of the dirt graves of former Misfits–that wouldn't be that bad, but it would lead to overzealous grave digging by Earnest and Marcella which could mean skeletons appearing all over the place the next day. Way to scary for the tenderest of Misfits, such as Paco.

So I put on lots of rain gear, and a big straw hat to hope my glasses wouldn't get all wet, and headed out to the barnyard, in the dark. I could see a faint light at the pumpkin patch. I'd left a flashlight there covered by a bucket so that I could make my way with some guidance.

The animals were already gathered–except Rosie. As usual the World's Grumpiest Pig did not come to the festivities. But of course that is no surprise-she hates rain, and crowds, and festivals.

Almost the second I got there, The Head Troll appeared out of the dark mass of Misfits, whose only body feature I could see were their eyes if the light caught them right. I could see Marcella and Benedetto pretty well due to their pure white coats. In fact, Marcella came to me, keeping any mischief from me. The candy corn can get some of those guys a bit wound up, combined with the mulled cider. The donkeys stood off to the side of the barnyard, as Paco gets very scared at these things and we have all decided, including Mother Matilda, it is best to let him watch from a distance.

Around the group the Head Troll went, holding a stick over each creature's head as she passed, much like a dowser looking for water. When she came to me, I felt something, kind of electrical. Marcella sensed it and became agitated. The stick began to shake rapidly, up and down, and The Head Troll was hardly able to hold it in her hands, but she did.

And then it stopped, and we all sat in our dark group, occasionally batting an eye, but still as a pool without wind.

It was getting cold, even after only about fifteen minutes. We were all waiting for something, anything to happen. Even with the rain, I had so many Misfits on my mind, the ones we had lost this year.

Maybe Stevie will come. And Aldo, I thought.

But it appeared this year it was not to be. Even the spirit of Old Man Guinnias did not rise for us, nor did I feel Floyd or any of the others buried under our feet and hooves. I suppose I was disappointed, but I was also wet and cold. The Head Troll left the pumpkin patch, and everyone followed. The White Dogs followed me as usual to the barnyard gate and I climbed over it to return to the house. I could see light coming from the living room fire, with Martyn in the rocker–no doubt with Big Tony in his lap.

I was startled then to hear the honk of a goose. It had been months since Old Priscilla disappeared, never to leave a trace for me to know what happened. Of course she was over twenty, but I never found her body, not even a feather. My ankle is pretty good after I turned it a couple weeks ago but still gimpy, and I misstepped on some rocks. I fell to my knees. Marcella barked, and I swore, and I yelled to her,

"Good work, Marcella, I am okay!"

But I couldn't get up. Not because of my ankle, or my body, but because something was holding me down. And the more I tried to get up, the heavier the pressure was that held me, keeping me in this spot. In seconds it was as if a huge oak tree had taken each branch and twig and was applying pressure on me, and in seconds that pressure began to feel like an embrace. I was confused, but not scared.

White orbs beginning as mists grew bigger and lifelike and the embrace I had just received began to pull away from me, but as it did I saw faces, familiar faces, surround me. I was lifted up and carried to the house, and set down gently by the door.

"Wait!" I asked, "stay with me!"

And the white mist creatures formed into one cloud of white the size of a balloon, and I held it in my hands. I felt a peck on my cheek, a gentle kiss. And then the white mist evaporated into my skin.

I went into the house, and took off my rain gear.

At my feet was a white goose feather, a bit of white llama wool, and some deep brown goat hair.

Tonight at midnight

I had to pull out one of my favorite photos of dear Paco, our little worrier, our poet. He used to guard the pumpkins, or so it seemed, perhaps worrying they might hurt when bitten.

But I want you all to know that tonight at midnight we will celebrate as always in the Pumpkin Patch of Old Souls where so many former Misfits are buried. It has become an annual tradition, and always seems to bring out a good story to share, usually one that raises a hair or two. So check back tomorrow for my report of the evening.

And wish me luck, I'm hoping I don't get egged like I did last year as I left the barnyard.

When you give orders to short statured goats

"Come on, line up! In order of height, shortest first!"

I had no reason to make them line up, it just is something we practice now and again, you know, just in case it lends itself to be helpful in an emergency.

They never get it right, but they get an A for effort on keeping it a straight line. And of course, Moose thinks he's bigger than anyone so perhaps in his mind, he did get it right.

Morning ritual of White Dogs

Announcing: Emerging Crone Workshop [Doll Making and Sharing Wisdom}

Been a long time coming-this workshop idea has been in my head and heart for a couple of years, and now it will happen! As we grow old gracefully–or not–emerging out of youthful skin into our middle age and older forms, we have new wrinkles that are ripe with wisdom and story. As we sit together, gathered in the barn, we will use our hands and inner muses to create wisdom doll-perhaps emulating a favorite elder we know or miss, a crone we wish to be, or a spirit animal that acts as crone. It will be lambing season, so new life will be around us, but so will the retired matriarchs of the flock, and other wandering Misfits.

Read all about it here. If this class fills up I hope to add another.

I got lost in the future but the old donkey pulled me back

This morning I was on the tractor and caught this photo on my phone of Mother Matilda, grainy but a dreamy image that captures the essence of that second. And then I had this epiphany–I remembered where I am and that everything is okay.

You see, last week when I hurt my ankle, I sat on a chair in the living room immediately after it happened, and it really hurt. I actually went into a different place, like I went into the future time zone somehow. I got a bit depressed because I shocked myself into a future reality that may or may not happen. I began to question if we should stay here as we age, I imagined all sorts of scary scenarios that could happen if one of use fell ill or broke a leg. I have seen farms fall apart like this. I have seen farmers and animal caretakers grow old and the consequences to them and their charges.

I was very out of sorts for a few days, and I realized it was because of what would have to happen if we were to leave the farm in the near future. It was the animals, the responsibility to the animals-all of them, including my flock, that got me over thinking. Some farms would take a flock to auction if they had to move quickly [assuming they could not find other farms to take them]. I have never been to an auction and will never go to one. My practice and covenant to myself and my animals is nobody goes to auction, even the non working ewes, or ewes that become disabled in some way. Everyone dies here. I have two retired ewes right now, Daisy and Lilly, who are living with The Misfits, and they will be there until they die. There are thirty other sheep behind them. I choose to farm this way, it is not necessarily something that other farms-or most-would or even could do due to economics, space, paddock use and manpower. I get it, I also respect it.

But I went forward to a place and time that did not exist. A time where I had to leave the farm and rehome as many animals as I could, and make hard decisions about elders.

This morning, my ankle, which I injured 6 days ago, is starting to come back to normal. I was able to put my Muck boot on without the Ace Bandage today. It still is limited in quick movements, or certain positioning so I am still being very cautious with it. But as I got on the tractor and witnessed this beautiful autumn morning, on our land that we love, I remembered an important fact-

It's today–

not next week or next year, or twenty years from now. Don't worry about what hasn't happened a wise person once told me. It's a waste of energy.

While I need to be aware-as does anyone of any age that moves to a farm and has a lot of creatures-that there are many responsibilities that are part of this life-physical, financial and emotional. While I don't put the animals above me, I do consider them to be individuals that need my constant attention–when something goes wrong, that becomes the priority, not what I'm having for lunch. That is perhaps the part of doing this that many don't realize-the wear and tear to one's inner head. The responsibility to each animal-what is best for them today, and tomorrow and their entire lives-is always there. You can't shake it.

But today is today, and so far this morning, all is well. And as I took time to stop and visit with Matilda, I found this tiny leaf on her back. Definitely a message for the moment.

Poem for Sugee art for you

Paintings are really just poems without words. I made this poem for Sugee, who we put to sleep a couple weeks ago. Old Mama Sugee was forty the story goes, and one of my vets rehomed her from where she and Wilma were living-due to neglectful conditions-due to dementia issues in the home. Sugee and recently had her ears chewed off by a dog, and was also blind. That is why the vet was called, but upon arriving, she helped the people understand it would be better for the ponies to live elsewhere, so they ended up at Apifera.

It's very different without Sugee. She was a very independent animal, a survivor for sure. She was easy to handle, and I never had to put a halter on her, she simply let me put my hand on her ncek and she followed my lead. Her daughter is another story but is improving as her confidence grows–now that her mother is gone, she has to adjust a bit.

I sat down and made this painting-poem of blue and white for Sugee. She has ears now, and large wings to fly around, or a rug cloud to take here here and there.

This little painting is available at the shop-as well as lots of art cards, books, journals, postcards, prints, raggedy sewing and more for the upcoming holidays–can it be upon us already?

Poetry in a moment

The beauty in the emotion of fog at dusk; a horse stands by; a white dog runs; sunflowers prepare for winter as they still stand tall over old Misfits lying below in their graves.

Sheep breaks a leg, shepherdess sprains an ankle

Yesterday I noticed Opal, a young ewe, still laying down on the upper hill, unusual because her flock had already come down to the gate to be set free for grazing. As they fled in their protective herd amoeba, Opal came running on three legs, her right front forearm swinging like a rag doll.

I've never had to deal with a broken leg here, so my skills were increased to include splint building. I watched a quick You Tube video and whipped one up. It was not difficult and fortunately I had all the vet wrap and other items to make one. The poor thing though, it was very stressful on both of us getting her to the infirmary ward. It took some time, and effort.

She has been a good patient and I'm grateful it was the forearm as I think it will eventually heal, maybe not totally straight, but she can now become a Misfit if needed. She is on pain meds for awhile but is able to lay down and stand and hop, and while I'm sure it does hurt, the pain med is helping her, and she is eating hay and drinking. I guess it will take 3-6 weeks to heal but I hope to see improvement sooner. Hoping I can put her down with Daisy and Lilly in the Lower Misfit Village with that gang of the most crippled residents.

So its ironic that today I hurt my ankle–badly. I do remember thinking I broke it as I felt the pain, and I also remember thinking,

OK, thanks Universe for making me have a parallel experience to Opal. This must be part of the overall plan for continuing education of a shepherd.

Martyn heard me crying out in pain and came running, not knowing where I was because I was in the ram stall behind a door, on the ground. He found me in my pathetic position writhing in pain, crying. I've never broken anything so do not know what that feels like, so I thought it might be broken. Martyn has had really bad breaks, from a car accident in his twenties that almost killed him and had him in an induced coma for days, so he has some experience with pain and broken bones. He is always my calm voice of reason.

I had wrangled up the rams, as I wanted to do the daily cleaning and a shot for E.B. White's head, which he mysteriously wounded on Thursday, causing me to give penicillin and topical meds. So I had them gathered in a corner, a good way to grab one animal as sheep tend to herd and stay in a group for protection. They are well mannered rams, never giving me trouble, but Walter decided he was getting out of there, and fled, and the two others fled with him in a panic, causing me to trip, fall over my ankle as they swept over me. It didn't help that I had on my 'clown boots'-which are a men's size too big for me. I often buy men's boots but bought them too big by accident, and then they wouldn't take them back because I'd worn them twice. It's been a year of my little fairy feet [I have really small, high arched feet] sloshing around in them but money is always tight when I think,

I have to get a new pair of boots before I kill myself in these.

I guess the Universe was giving me a memo-get the boots already!

In my optimistic way, I figured I'd just walk it off, but Martyn urged me to go sit for awhile and see if it swells up right away. I just got done sitting for about thirty minutes, it is swollen in areas, but more than that, now when I do certain movements, it really hurts. Going down the few stairs is problematic. I will need a cane to go to the barnyard for sure.

I got sort of instantly depressed sitting there, with my sad old foot thumping in slight pain. I just thought how quickly a life can be turned upside down, and this is nothing compared to the injuries that can occur on a farm, or anywhere.

I was going to go try to recover the rest of the day's chores outside but that might not be doable–and I'm really looking forward to red wine by the fire for natural pain management. But maybe until then, I'll hobble up to the kitchen and make cookies. Raw dough always helps [no lectures, please].

It has been written...the costume choices of Misfits

You know the routine by now.

The scurry of hooved feet getting closer to the house. A brisk, deliberate knock, knock is heard at my studio. A piece of paper is slid under the door.

And here it is, the costume choices for some of the barnyard. The Head Troll gathers the costume desires every October for Halloween. In some ways, it is flattering that they all think I am capable of making such things. I had the same optimism in my mother, who loyally made me a witch outfit year after year, and a red devil suit for my brother. No store bought outfits for us...at least for a few years anyway.

I will do my best and report back. I'm thankful the flock is sitting out this go around. Last year they requested outfits so they'd all look like mimes.