In the Good News department, the mallards have returned to the back yard. I thought they were gone for good, but that would have been surprising because they were already hanging around when I got here over ten years ago. Read the rest of this entry
The ducks need a new pond. It was so bright and shiny when it was new that Dobby refused to swim in it. He was thoroughly disgusted by it.
“What the heck is that supposed to be? Because it sure isn’t a swimming pool. Make it go away. Now.”
Because Dobby was a Prince, he received a very fancy new swimming pool. My son and a couple friends were invited to help move the old tin can pool into the aviary. Because it was capybara-sized, it didn’t fit through any of the gates. You can read about that adventure here.
Okay, sure, it was a convenient hole for the hose to go through, but really? That’sa big meatball hole.
But it’s dead, now. The side that was set into the slope totally rusted out. It created a dabbling area that the ducks liked, but the jagged rusty edges were hard to look at.
Reinventing the wheel. A Funny Farm specialty.
This time, we decided to think it through. The new improved but slightly smaller duck pond rolled right through the gate. Of course, last time, it wasn’t destined for the aviary. But this time it was, and so look at us, now! So simple.
I am the Queen of Siphoning. No, I don’t suck at it. Ever. Look at that water– there are fish in there!
Now, to drain the old pond. It’s too big to roll out the gate. It’s full of fish and sludge. Our thinking cap was still on. Cut that sucker into smithereens. But drain it first.
The new blue plastic pond is smaller, but the water will never be rusty. A capybara would eat it up, though.
I know these fish. Eight of them. Four with IQ’s below 100. Four with IQ’s above 100. I have spent hours trying to net them. This time I will wait until there is hardly any water and make them beg to be netted.
You can see the four easy fish, but even those are tough to catch with this much water in there. I’ll wait. I’m smarter than I look.
I can usually get the first four fish without too much trouble. It’s trying to net the ones smarter than I am that is the problem. Can you say “Try to hide in that sludge, sucker?”
Still a couple fish in there. Mind you, these are not special fish: they are $.29 feeder goldfish. I can’t believe I almost took in a 30yr old koi into sanctuary here. Found a better home for him, instead. I know my limitations.
The last four fish cried uncle and swam into the net. They all went to Dr. Pepper Turtle AirBNB for a week.
Dr. Pepper is hibernating. I have until St. Patrick’s Day (first day of spring here) to get the last two out, and he’ll not be the wiser.
Time to bring in my top wrangler, Connor. He’s the one who deftly lifted the tree off the top of my barn and house last summer. You should all be so lucky to have a Connor next door.
Sparky!
I am always surprised when the neighbors don’t look over the fence, or phone, or ask a few days later. “What the hell were you doing over there on Sunday?” After twenty years, they expect this craziness.
Stompy!
Well, actually, Connor is one of those neighbors. He is usually the one over here making a gawdawful racket and having a great time. It was his birthday present to me, getting this old tin can pool outta here. I think he likes doing this stuff.
The pristine bottom of the pool is still there. How annoying.
The Bartender helped, of course. The project was timed to occur prior to his (second) shoulder operation. In case anyone wonders why he needed a shoulder operation. Come to think of it, I have had a shoulder operation, too, but not as serious as his. I guess Connor is next.
Check out Charlie & Hamish back there. They are pretty good sports about all of this. But they are guy sheep, so like Dobby, they love this stuff. Dobby would hear the chainsaw and could scarcely contain himself until he could investigate.
Connor and The Bartender cut and yanked and pried that old pool out of there. We were astonished to discover that the bottom of the pool was still in perfect condition, no sign of rust. Shiny and new. We tried to think of a repurposed use for it, but Connor’s trailer was going to the dump the very next day, and I looked around at all the other junk I never found a use for and the pool bottom was cut up, too.
The wuss poultry hides in the back. Boxcar, Ping, Frieda, Adelita, Windy, Coffee Bean, and white Adelita. Princess was in the living room, watching football and drinking beer.
The hens retreated to the far edge of the aviary and cowered. The ducks were even farther back, out of sight. None of them were terrified, they are used to the Funny Farm shenanigans. It’s much worse in winter.
I was so excited about the rooster tail of sparks that most of my photos have a fingertip in the corner of the photo. Some of us are slow learners. I should have had fishes number Seven and Eight take the photos.
Yanking is the worst activity, ever, if you are considering the longevity of your physical body. Shoulder, back, it’s never good.
Most of the cutting was finished, but there was still some more pulling and more yanking to be done.
One thing a duck owner learns quickly: Don’t sweat the mud. Trust me, this is clean enough.
Connor tried to leave, but I made him stack up the steps. Some of my elderly ducks have trouble getting in and out of pools. Then I filled the pool.
They love it! Ducks are easy to please, though.
You might think big bright fish would be easy to net out of a little turtle tank but, no. There are still two in there, clearly smarter than I, and I may never be able to net them, unless I drain the tank. Heh heh heh. But six of them are back into the new duck pond. The six dummies, anyway. A couple days later, the bravest ducks were swimming in the new pool. And six of the the fish are in there, tickling their feet.
In nice weather, I open the door next to my desk so that it feels like I am working outside. I had a couple raccoons approach one night, but I sent them scurrying. More worrisome is that I could step away from my desk, forget about the open door, and take Dobby to the front yard. I can only imagine the capybara glee when he finds the inviting open door into his old territory! He was banished from my bedroom/office over seven years ago. Double the glee when he finds MY pristine White Rabbit Rug! He has destroyed his, but he’s not touching mine!
Cookie Monster and Brutus below, Stevie Ray and Squirrel above
Queen Brutus and Cookie Monster are two young guinea pigs who came to live with us recently. We are waiting for Cookie to grow up a bit so that they can be spayed at the same time. After their recuperation they will move upstairs with the dudes.
“The bowl is empty!”
The second photo was taken after “The Great Escape.” See those orange clamps on the side of their cage? Even in this photo Queen B has been messing around with the ground covers, checking for breaches. They didn’t get far when they made their break. The girls had a little picnic way in back there by the baskets full of hay.
The engaging plastic ball is a parrot toy stuffed with hay.
They were “free-range” before they came here, and are surprisingly tidy. They use the big hay box with the pigloo for a litter box, and have a well-used smaller litter box in their cage. I lock them in their cage at night, especially since their Big Adventure. It’s easy to shuffle them in with a big salad.
No guinea pig photo is complete without beans!
The girls like vegetables but frown on strawberries, mango, and kiwi. Queen B is a year older than little Cookie and steals her food, but Cookie is quickly learning that I always have something for her if she waits until Brutus runs off with her prize!
Stevie Ray will be 7 years old this fall.
Stevie Ray was losing weight and has an abdominal mass, but the trip to the vet must have scared him into getting his act back together. He’s friskier and seems to be putting weight back on. This is a guy who likes his strawberries, carrots, and tomatoes. Check out the fur under his chin! Guess he’s due for a shampoo.
Squirrel, Maniac of the Year, in pole position at the food dish
Squirrel has been here almost a year. Not five years old, as advertised, maybe three. He’s a speed demon, very excitable. Clean cage? Popcorning. A lettuce leaf? Standing up oh-so-tall. Cleaning girls’ cage below? Zoomies going on above. I’ll never know why this amazing pig was considered un-adoptable. He’s a hoot!
No, not a goldfish, it’s a Misgurnus anguillicaudatus, Dojo loach.
I have been trying to dip a goldfish out of Dr. Pepper’s turtle tank for two years, and now it’s enormous. It isn’t “gold;” it’s black and fast and smarter than me. Now there’s a smaller one in there, also black and fast and smarter than me. It’s not worth draining the tank to get them out. They have eluded the turtle for a couple years, too. I put them in as fry several years ago, for mosquito abatement, but with the three of them in there, nothing lives long.
Remind me to tell you the Dojo story some other time.
Climbing rose, Rosa ‘Cécile Brünner’
This climbing rose has the most precious little rosebuds you can possibly imagine, thumbnail sized. You have to have a teeny tiny bud vase if you want to bring them inside. It’s easier to bring in a spray of flowers.
Sluggo
Welcome to the Pacific Northwest! Bring flowers in, Sluggo will crawl over to your dinner plate from the bouquet! Seriously, slugs invite themselves into the house all the time. I guess they do, I rarely find the slugs, but see slime trails all the time.
Norman splashes in Dobby’s clean hot tub. It won’t be clean after Dobby gets in there.
Same roses, hiding the gang valve and four hoses on the wall. It broke (don’t ask) and one of the hoses was frozen into it, the live feed into the aviary, of course. That particular hose is threaded through 50′ of protective tubing. I needed another project like a hole in the head.
The hens are making headway at killing the brand new grass.
Winter rains kill Dobby’s grass in the back yard. After Mother’s Day, the weather is perfect for reseeding it. Every week I broadcast seed and water. The hens love to pick out the seedlings and the ducks dig holes if there are any puddles bigger than your big toe. Still, it’s looking good this year and should be in great shape when the September rain storms massacre every single blade. It’s a testimony to my optimism and sheer stupidity. Anything for Dobby, though. The boy needs pasture.
“Actually, I prefer the mud.”
Dobby stops to indulge in a mud treatment on the way to the front yard every day. It gives the chickens time to scoot past me into the storage area where the baby grass is even more lush and tender. A couple good scratch-and-pecks and they have ripped up an area the size of a bathmat by the time Dobby finishes up at the spa.
Dobby and Jello wait for the front door to open.
Sometimes, Dobby invites a hen to the front yard. This was little more than a week ago, and old Jello looked as perky as ever. A couple days later she suddenly departed for the big dustbath in the sky. This was her 7th spring, and her cohorts preceded her long ago. Hens are both tough and fragile as I have learned in my 30+ years of chicken wrangling.
Practicing to be an alligator.
The mudhole in the front yard has the perfect amount of water, muck, and weedy buffet. Today I watched Dobby grazing and asked him “Go swimming?” He perked right up and we walked over to the mudhole and he scrambled right in! He used to swim in his big pool on command, but he’s not using it any more (even though his diving video has gone viral). We’re not sure he can get out of his swimming pool, though it’s unlikely he can make it up the straw bale stairs that are no longer there.
“All I wanted to do was clean my face off on your pants. Why did you run away?”
He still has trouble walking and going up and down steps, but his weight loss seems to have bottomed out at 110 lbs and he’s back up to 116 lbs. He’s eating like a horse. Literally. The grass in the front yard is, well, it’s BIG. You can see some of the coarse blades in the foreground of the faux-alligator photo. He grazes and I cut him a bucket full and haul it around to the back for him. Prince Dobalob’s trusty servant.
Bored with svelte, and going for the porky look next.
This toolbox holds his milk meds and supplements, all color coded for morning, noon, and bedtime so they don’t conflict with each other. The actual milk powder is in a separate container, and the yogurt is in the refrigerator. Some of the pills have to be ground up with a little mortar and pestle. The Fluid Action HA is the newest concoction to be added. Dobby started receiving K-Laser treatments at about the same time as we added the Fluid Action HA, or “Castrol” as we so fondly refer to it. One of those two treatments could be the reason why he seems to be improving.
Where’s the milk?
Dobby’s book is in final editing and moves next to formatting for publishing! So we are very close to our due date of Late July or August.” I hope we don’t “April the Giraffe” it! When the book is available I will be pretty obnoxious about letting everyone know. Dobby’s smug fans who request postcard announcements can ignore my blithering. I will need your snail mail address. That’s what the form below is for.
That’s all for now! Once Dobby’s book is launched, I’ll be back to my irregular but more frequent blogging.
Last month’s root canal is almost complete, it only needs to have a proper filling installed in the middle of my pretty gold onlay. It turned out my roots are tiny, curved with cute little bends at the ends, and one root had two canals (Surprise!) so two sessions of grueling endodontal procedures. A reclining position accentuates the viscous post-nasal drip that I usually ignore, but that pretends it can ooze down to clog my windpipe. With my mouth propped open to effectively prohibit gasping for breath through my mouth, panic increases in tiny increments. I retreat into an infantile version of myself. Like a baby strollered through The Fire Swamp, I trust I will survive. For two of the three appointments I have forgotten to bring my cell phone, leaving home in a hasty fury like a swarm of bees. Fortunately I have loaded my antique iPod with my favorite tunes, next time I’ll leave out the dance numbers. The music has spared me most of the technical discussion “a number 4 please” and if I close my eyes I don’t see the array of tiny drills, miniature brushes and vacuums, the wicked thingies that make everything hot or stinky. Now my jaw is sore, my hands are cramping from holding onto the chair for dear life, and I think my forehead muscles are sprained from frowning and wincing. Sorry, no photos.
A consolation photo of me playing Scrabble while Dobby grazes.
A fanfare for the next topic!
The chandelier installs itself! (Thank you, Connor.)
Six years ago, during major and sudden ceiling repairs, I took out the funky useless fan and made a space for a chandelier. I couldn’t find one I liked, except for one made in England that doesn’t do shipping. So I made my own. My handy-neighbor hung it and my life is now complete!
Check out the reflections! Most of the glass was my grandmother’s, silver spoons were my mother’s, miscellaneous kitchen tools and worthless items are mine, of course.
I managed to convince The Bartender, one more time, to help clean Dobby’s Swimming pool. It’s a couple days of draining, a fish rescue, a couple days of scrubbing, an overnight to refill.
Banished, for the time being
Oh, and two months of looking for the pump drain plug.
It was still in the pocket of my winter jacket.
The weather has been reminiscent of my early California summers, but I suspect that is the reason for the devastating loss of fish this time.
The reflection makes it hard to figure out what you’re seeing, but along the top arc you can almost see my beautiful goldfish. RIP my pretty ones . . .
A half dozen rescues under my belt and I have lost only one fish before, the overlooked victim of a bailing accident. This time I ended up with a stack of magnificent corpses, like carnival sardines or a horrific serving of sushi. You can’t tell me they are only 29 cent goldfish, I am heartbroken. Two lovely beauties remain, joined by several very vulnerable tiny newcomers who just better learn to swim deep, beyond the Mallards who immediately moved back in.
Three hoses to siphon out, three reversed to refill
The water is so clean I can see duck poop on the bottom, maybe it was better when the water was opaque. At least they look healthy. My broken pipe repair is holding, but I fear for it and expect the pool to suddenly empty overnight when it is most inconvenient to re-think my methods. The too-expensive-to-replace-filter has been hosed down, per specifications, but the pores are so clogged with teensy bio-debris that circulation is minimal. A very lazy 3/4HP pump. And so the water is already fuzzy.
Dobby went swimming as soon as I took down the barricade!
A month ago, I took in a pair of young budgies from the Petco “back room.” Like Spike, they had been treated by the veterinarian, were ready to go home, but could not go back out to the main floor for sale. The staff was thankful to have them come here because even after treatment, they are probably weak birds and the store is reluctant to sell them as certifiably healthy pets. Spitfire seems to have completely recovered from her ear infection and is all girl, a biter and a fighter. Poor Tank is still pouffy a month later. I have re-treated him through two more courses of antibiotics, tried a couple herbal remedies, probiotics, minerals and amino acids, special foods, and dandelion greens, fresh-picked twice a day. I got out my old copy of Stroud’s Digest on the Diseases of Birds and marveled at his diligence. I understand why the vet treated him and released him. Even though he has looked pretty rough a few times, I am amazed every morning I find him still alive. He lost a lot of weight, but has now started to eat everything in sight, so we shall see. A hungry bird is usually a bird on the mend. Tank’s a sweet bird so I hope he and Spitty will soon leave the infirmary and join the feisty flock in the kitchen.
My recycling bin is right outside Dobby’s kitchen door. Lately, when I toss out the empties, I have to be careful not to bonk the Possum that hangs out in there. He and his buddy come around to annihilate Dobby’s leftover corn cobs. They shred those cobs and leave little piles of cob sawdust. What in the world are they eating? The squirrels efficiently extract every kernel, then the hens perform a quality control check, and when the flock is put to bed, the resident mallards check over the cobs one final time. There can’t be any food left in them.
Mr. P.
The duckling story is increasingly complex, and probably incomplete. I will wait to see if the story has an ending and then I will write it up separately. It’s kind of like the Funny Farm version of the Memphis duck parade through the lobby of the Peabody Hotel.
In this photo, the ducklings are in the pond next door, sitting on a log in the center of the picture.
Dobby has been a good boy lately, and I must face the fact that his kitchen protest statements are weather related. A rainforest animal who doesn’t like rain. Terrific. He is a funny guy, though. We played the Poop Game today, a game he always wins. I clean his pen, flush his Good Boy down his handy outdoor toilet. Returning to put away the scoop tools, I see him proudly indicating a fresh pile. He’s pouffy, nose nearly touching his product. I scoop it, flush it, and return. Pouffy again, there is a second pile, nearly as magnificent as the first! He’s pouffy and this time, he’s wiggling his ears. I praise him (it’s outdoors, at least) scoop and flush. Returning for the third time, he’s pouffy AGAIN! The last one is smallest, like an oversized Hershey kiss, listing to the west like it had too much sun. The “kiss,” I know, is the last, and so it was. Such a fun game, and I want you to know he made it up by himself. I HAD NO PART IN IT. Sheesh. What a guy. Sorry, no photos.
Consolation duckling photo: Ms. Mallard and 5 little ones, a couple steps from my front door.
My Saturday volunteer, Kim, started with a fun job: filling this new guinea pig toy with grass.
Give me that!
It is suspended over their cage from a bird feeder hanger that clamps to the table.
It is a very popular toy!
That took about two minutes and then I hauled her out to the rabbit pen. Wiley Wabbit is STILL sneezing, over a month after the vet checked his lungs. I decided it was time to clean the pen and throw away that old dusty rug.
Bonnie Bunny (black) and Wiley Wabbit (gray) and the dusty rug.
We hauled everything out and Kim swept out the hay and dust bunnies.
Kim and one of the piles of hay she swept out.
For obvious reasons, Dobby was fenced off of the deck. The rabbits were able to come and go, and they high-tailed it for the garden.
“But I want to help!”
The rabbit pen was full of dusty things. Some favorite older boxes had to be thrown out and were replaced with nearly identical boxes, un-chewed and un-dusty.
It’s a big pen with a lot of stuff.
We threw out a couple Giant House Spiders, too. He’s about 1-1/2″ across, wish I had put a penny down for scale.
Bigass Spider
Dobby really wanted to help. Help, in this case, means “mess around with the rabbit stuff.” He’s not allowed in their cage anymore. He used to fit, but he’s so darned big, now. And his feet aren’t always clean. And he . . . I’ll just stop here, okay?
Not for Dobby!
It’s a pretty big pen for two bunnies. They get “garden time” every afternoon, when the ducks and Guard Geese are out.
Kim swept and then vacuumed.
Not yet, Dobby!
Waiting patiently
I even took down the curtains and washed them.
Curtains in the rabbit cage is part of what makes this Farm Funny.
Then I moved all the food and boxes back in, and hung the clean curtains back up.
The door on the right makes a nifty tunnel, helps shade in summer, and blocks the winter weather, too.
I haven’t hear Wiley Wabbit sneezing since. He’s been here seven years since he was picked up downtown- an urban feral rabbit. He’s very friendly, so no doubt an escaped pet. He had been visiting homes in the neighborhood for several months but no one claimed him.
Wiley loves his litter box.
In other news, the Great Blue Heron is back. Dobby’s swimming pool is deep enough to keep the fish safe. The smart ones that remember to dive, that is.
Don’t eat my goldfish!
One more wild visitor: the mole! He pushed up a crazy tunnel in the grass. I’d love to see him in action!
He failed the sobriety test.
Stacy's Funny Farm 