Gooseridge Farm

Category Archives: farm animals

“Horse Killing” Dog

Posted on by Posted in Calamities, farm animals, Uncategorized .

Our youngest horse, “Dezzie” (short for Desert Rain), is a now 4yr old mare and ready to be broke out. Since she’s close to full Appaloosa, she will not be fully grown until about 6 years of age. Because of her slow growth, breaking her out (teaching her to ride) can not be done at a younger age, or we’ll risk back and leg disorders down the road.

We’ve had Dezzie since she was two, and she came with zero training other than lead rope walks.

Perfect!

All too often, a horse is trained incorrectly, and it’s hard to teach them the CORRECT way to do something. It took me over a year to teach Moisie to lunge correctly (he’s still working on his trot, no where near close to a canter). It took me 3 attempts to teach Dezzie to lunge at a walk, and we are now trying to trot.

Then I made the heart-stopping choice to climb onto her back. . .

And she could care less!

After the first two rides of only five minutes, I knew this horse would be a breeze to train!

I had even walked her down the road (all by herself) to the neighbor’s rodeo, and she could care less. Sure she was cautious and curious, but she didn’t freak out or lose her cool. And it was her FIRST TIME away from the yard!

 

So, just like before, I worked her through her lunging exercises and was just getting ready to hook-on her reins and turn-on the video camera (wish I’d had it on for lunging too!), when who should wander over, but Mia, our young boxer dog.

I was somewhat surprised, but not really since the other young boxer female had just been out a few minutes ago. I  looked over and saw Erik standing by the dog fence, and decided maybe I should leash her myself so I didn’t have to deal with any surprises while riding Dezzie. She had apparently slipped out of the gate when Erik tried to put the other young girl back in .

Just as I was reaching out to string the lead rope around her neck, the dog suddenly lunged at Dezzie!

Dezzie stood still as a statue not sure what to do, but still very curious about her new entertainment. So she reached out to sniff the dog, who promptly tried to bite her face.

Still on her best behavior, Dezzie shot her head back up and looked at me in surprise. That is, until Mia began trying to bite her stomach and legs. Dezzie kicked impatiently at her, but little by little as Mia became more aggressive, she began to panic and dance about in the small arena with Mia nipping right along after her.

Finally Mia gave up and scooted out of the arena, and I managed to coax her close enough to me to loop her.

Erik had finally walked over by this point and hauled her off a bit too roughly and began berating me for not grabbing her sooner (like I wanted to get in the middle of a dog attack).

Dezzie ended up with only a slight scratch on her nose, and a bit shaken up, but over all ok.

She WAS a bit sketchy on the cats who kept wandering into the arena, but no blow outs.

Bottom line is, you just never know what’s going to happen!

From Chopping Block to the Table . . . almost.

Posted on by Posted in farm animals, Triumphs .

Living on a farm, my skills are always increasing, and butchering is no exception!

 

Having processed-out deer for the last five years, and a few rabbits, we decided it was time for chicken.

It started with Mr. Rooster. He lived in the barn since the other two roosters had taken a sudden dislike to him and been attacking him. Turkey Lurkey befriended him and the two were buddies.

However, he scared Erik to death, and the smallest noise had Erik convinced the rooster would jump him when he wasn’t looking. On one unfortunate day, Erik walked into the barn. As it was feeding time, the rooster assumed Erik was bringing food so he ran in after him. Erik assumed he was being chased by the rooster and whopped him over the head with a bar.

I turned the rooster into a very tasty rooster stew. Out of spite, Erik refused to eat it.

Now, having 80, fat, juicy, meat chickens waddling about the barn, Erik has been very excited to try one. He was going to have his chance over the weekend. Our son (4) likes to play with the chickens in their pen. I’m assuming he probably dropped one too hard and the chicken never quite recovered. It couldn’t bear weight on one leg and stopped walking.

We set it aside to butcher out when we had time, but he must have had internal damage since he stopped eating and drinking. By the time I managed to butcher him, he’d lost all weight and there was very little meat left on him.

So we decided to try another one!

 

I grabbed a chicken in the AM yesterday and set him aside. Last night after getting everything done I finally went out to butcher him. I put his head between the nails like they say to do online, and went to chop-off his head.

BUT HE JUMPED-UP AND RAN!

I chased the fat chicken down the driveway, waving a huge cleaver in the air before finally jumping on him.

I put him back in the nail guillotine and well . . . lets just say it wasn’t a pretty sight and took a few good whacks. I think next time I’ll put a rubber band over the nails to keep his head down, and maybe try that milk jug idea.

Gutting went better this time around, and plucking was so-so. He turned out looking pretty good, but we’ll cook him up tonight and see for sure how he tastes!

Dead as a Doornail.

Posted on by Posted in Calamities, farm animals, Triumphs .

Face it. Part of farm life is critter control, and we’ve been very fortunate not to have had too many issues from wildlife.

Last year, Erik decided to buy a .22. Not just any .22, but a wicked-looking, black-ops styled one! He even put a red dot scope on it so his son could point and shoot with very little skill.

Unfortunately, the poor kid is too afraid of being eaten by coyotes to go out rabbit hunting with it, and Erik never bothered showing me how it works. So . . . .

Yesterday morning I walk out just after 9am like I always do to go feed the chickens and pigeons. Since it had been warming up, I’d left the wooden coop doors open, with the chickens shut inside their chicken-wire room just like I’d done for the last 2 years without issue.

Imagine my horror when I walked-up to find my favorite fat chicken a bloody mess! Her entire back-end was gone and she lay in a collapsed heap on the floor of the coop. No doubt she had died from shock and pain as whatever had gotten her had VERY SLOWLY eaten her, bite by bite.

I have a friend (I love her dearly) who has decided to go vegan to protest the in-humane way animals are kept as food. While I understand her decision is completely her own and I hold no ill will against her for it, I DO get a bit burned with ALL of the exaggerated posts and stories she posts online about how horrible farmers are to animals. To make it worse, she’s a news anchor!

As a farmer, my number one goal is the safety and well-being of my animals. While not all farmers hold these same values, NO ANIMAL does. No animal cares about the well-being of it’s prey/dinner. It doesn’t care if it leaves a family orphaned, nor if it causes excruciating pain. Animals are cold and selfish — they do what they need to survive.

 

As I surveyed the crime scene in my coop, I became aware of a fuzzy body tucked-up in the back under my nesting boxes. Raccoon? Possum? Fox? I saw the small, baseball-sized hole it had made in my chicken wire. Now a vegan would have opened the door, and shooed the critter out, telling it to have a nice day.

But I’m a farmer, and I care about my animals. So I ran to the house to get a gun!

Alas, Erik had been on a gun-buying binge lately, and the .22 was not in the rack. After searching I finally found it, and loaded the clip.

IT TOOK ME 10 MINUTES TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO CHAMBER A ROUND.

Finally happy, I run back outside waving my gun in the air, ready to take-on the critter. But I can’t get the red dot scope to work, and the iron sights are blocked by that dump contraption, so I knew I’d have to point and shoot!

I quietly opened the coop door, and ushered the chickens out to safety (they could care less about the possum OR the dead chicken body).

The fluffy critter still slept. I half wondered if maybe the rooster had attacked and killed it. I could faintly see it breathing, so I guess it was too full of fat chicken to be bothered.

I quietly walked-in, took aim, and fired!

Missed!

The fluffy critter still slept!

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Still missed, but at least now I could see tiny bullet holes in the wall of my coop, so I needed to lower my gun.

Pop! Pop!

A shell casing bonked him and he shuddered slightly.

Man, this guy can sleep through anything!

I lowered the gun again and fired-off four more rounds.

This time I could see it was a possum, he raised his head to hiss at me and wreath slightly.

Pop! Pop!

He lay still.

When I scooped fat chicken out with the shovel, she weighed roughly 20 pounds. I was bummed. I’d hoped to cross her to the Light Brahama rooster and make some meat chickens that grew moderately fast. Oh well.

When I drug the possum out (by his tail) he was a good size fellow! Much lighter than the chicken though.

I dumped their bodies off by the woods, side by side.

Erik later showed me how to turn the red dot on.

I figure some target practice is due with the .22 and my hand gun sometime soon!

Don’t Play with The Cows.

Posted on by Posted in Calamities, farm animals, Triumphs .

This winter, we were happy to see we finally got some new neighbors. However, the other day, I happened to come in from working outside, made some coffee and had just sat down at the table to drink it, when I saw a cow. The slider in front of our dining room looks out at the driveway and the cow pasture. Erik and I always joked that the cows appeared to always be out since the wires on their fence were hard to see from a distance.

So I sat watching her for a minute, totally convinced I was mistaken. The cow just LOOKED like she was out . . . until I saw her cross the driveway!

I burst out the door yelling at Erik to help me (he was transfixed with his RC car that he was putting together, and only momentarily looked up to watch the chase through the windows).

I could see the other cow was still in their pasture. The brown and white cow, “Ginger” is very attached to her half-sister “Cookie”. She doesn’t roam too far from her. As long as Cookie stayed in the pasture, I could easily convince Ginger to join her, so I left the gate open hoping she’d run back in.

I carefully walked-up to Ginger, gently waving my arms at her to get he to walk. She scampered along the fence line until she came to the corner, but even at a scamper she was well out-pacing me. If I ran, she’d run too, so I scampered along as fast as I could behind her. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get to the corner fast enough and she turned and ran the opposite way along the fence, following Cookie.

Now I booked it, trying to catch up to her and shoo her back the opposite direction. She came to the next corner but Cookie turned and ran back toward the gate. Now I ran as fast as I could. Ginger was following Cookie along the fence back toward the gate, and soon Cookie would be at the gate and out too!

Instead of continuing out the open gate, Cookie paused at a pile of hay inside the pasture, and I took the opportunity to finish rounding Ginger back toward the gate. She willingly obliged, and ran right into the pasture.

I quickly closed the gate behind her and latched it with the chain.

But how the heck did the gate get opened?

I found out a few hours later . . .

I was back inside, at the table again, and noticed a brightly colored jacket crawling under the gate and the cows running across the pasture. Then the jacket stood up, and I realized who it was.

The neighbors had a 4 year old daughter, and our cow pasture sat right next to their house. Their daughter was in the pasture with the cows!

Once again I booked it outside, but she saw me running and quickly squeezed out and ran back to her house.

I talked to her parents (who had warned her several times previously not to go in there), and they told her once again to stay out.

At least I now know how the gate flew open on my cow pasture. . .

 

I now throw the chain around the gate latch several times.

Turkey Lurkey Stays for Dinner

Posted on by Posted in farm animals, Triumphs .

(Turkey Lurkey from last year (40 lbs))

We have a massive, 50 pound (give or take) turkey hen. Erik bought her last year as a chick with hopes (I think) of eating her. He also bought a cornish hen (these are eating birds that grow to size within 8 weeks. Typically left longer they die of heart attacks or broken legs due to their size.) both birds grew to massive proportions, both white, but both thriving along with the other chickens.

Last winter both lived in the barn since chicken had  been pecked to death by someone, and I don’t remember why turkey was in there, but maybe for similar reasons. Once warmer weather hit I moved them back to the chicken coop.

This winter Turkey seemed to be failing. She sat on the floor of the small coop with wings extended, offering only a sad “cluck”. Her eyes were half shut and she was breathing hard. By now she was a year and a half old. I had no idea how old this breed lived. She had spent last winter into spring laying eggs, but had stopped late summer. Turkey had given me a massive, single turkey egg each day. They tasted just like turkey!

I figured it was time to butcher her, so I went into the house a few days before Christmas to fetch the cleaver. Erik saw me go by with the knife, asked my intentioned, then told me I couldn’t butcher her for Christmas dinner.

I argued back that her massive breasts were quite juicy, and every time I felt her all I could think of was how delectable she would taste coming out of the oven. Erik argued back that I should try putting her in the barn like last year.

I begrudgingly walked outside. I knew I couldn’t carry a flopping 50 pound bird 200 feet. So I went to the barn and came back with a sled. I’d put a blanket into it so it’d be warm and soft, then pulled it off to the coop.

Turkey was still flopped on the ground, eyes half open, so I pinned her wings down and carefully scooped her up. I carried her a few feet (praying desperately that I didn’t drop her and break her legs) and set her into the sled.

Then I began the task of pulled her up the small hill to the barn . . . without somehow tipping the sled over. Turkey was nervous as I pulled her slowly up toward the barn, but as it came into view, she calmed down realizing where she was going. She sat nicely in the sled, alert, letting me pull her along. Once in the barn, I pushed her out of the sled and into a pile of loose hay in front of a heater.

 

Turkey never made it to dinner. She perked up having the extra space to move around, and spends her time being groomed by the cats and pestering the roosters who are shut in a horse stall. I go in everyday and give her scratches on her plump turkey thighs. She’s too fat to do it herself, so she gets really happy when I help her out.