The animal farm in spring...

Now that spring has sprung, I'm spending a lot more time milling around the farm by myself. Farm dog's absence weighs on me as, around mid-morning, I wander out to the chicken coop to collect the pair of eggs that wait.

The two brown hens can be relied upon to scamper to my feet in welcome, as if they want to remind me that I'm not alone; they even stoop at my feet so I can pet them, which I sometimes do. But it's not the same. I recognize that they are smart and have personality, but they are chickens and I'm a dog person. A dog person without a dog.

Yet, the absence of farm dog has changed the nature of the landscape. Farm dog did more than trot happily off-leash around the property; he pretty much patrolled the land. He chased away birds and squirrels and ferreted out other four-legged intruders whether they be mice, rabbits or the occassional possum. It was also well-documented that he barely tolerated the visiting sheep. So with the exception of the two hens, this was a one-animal property for more than two years, and farm dog was top dog.

But now spring has sprung and life, and that means wild-life is encroaching on what was once unsafe territory. Last week, two mallards meandered around under the four cedar trees. A few days later, two Canada geese took a break in the backyard. I spied two jack-rabbits playing tag by the granary. Down by the water, I spent a half hour rapt in the sound of an avian symphony rising from the dried reeds and catttails. And, shortly after leaving the shoreline, a ringneck pheasant stepped into my place. And then, just yesterday as I took a book break out back, my concentration was broken by incesant nibbling from this one...

...and so the brown hens are correct. I'm not alone. I'm surrounded by creation, which is a good place for a "creative" type to be. I still miss farm dog...but it would appear, at least among the creatures who inhabit Four Cedars, I'm the only one.

Do you want fries with that burger?

I was reminded that I hadn't updated you on the status of mini horse.

While we vacationed, the mini horse's owner traded in mini for a full size model. Horses, it seems, are more like cars than pets in this regard. So, no mini for me. (Or no "Mini Me," a nod to you Austin Powers fans.)

I was also reminded that horses can be consumed, and indeed are consumed, throughout much of the world. Although there isn't a market for horse meat in the U.S., there are processing plants where meat is prepared for export. These plants are in the crosshairs of the Humane Society of the United States, though, and a bill to outlaw these plants is moving through the halls of Congress. (It's good to see elected officials getting down to the important business of keeping our nation safe from horse meat.)

And speaking of safety as it relates to meat, I was reading an article in Midwest Ag Journal about improving feedlot technologies to improve profitability. The article examined the when, why and how of applying growth-promoting implants in feedlot cattle, a practice underway at 92 percent of all feedlots. I'll spare you the technicalities except for this tidbit ... the implants that are given to cattle between one and three times to accelerate growth (and thereby profitability) are mostly medium-potency estrogen...

Enjoy your hamburger, fellas.

Working toward something...

Last Wednesday, I slipped into skin I thought I had shed forever. (Skin covered in business attire.) I had been asked to direct a discussion on Leadership during Challenging Times for a group that promotes career development for women who work in financial services. Though I don’t work in financial services, I happen to know a thing or two about challenging times, so I accepted the offer to moderate.

The program lasted the better part of an hour and the panelists were generous with their insights and advice, responding in detail to questions I had, for the most part, prepared them to face. When it came time for the audience to chime in with questions, one woman asked each panelist to venture a guess as to when the current downturn would end and we could expect a return to “business as usual,” meaning, I assume, business as she’d become accustomed.

Two of the panelists sidestepped the question with laughter, wisely refusing to be put on the spot predicting the future. The third panelist, however, offered a response that lingers in my thoughts today. “We’re not going back,” she said. “We are going to have to define success in new terms,” she added. The metrics need to change accordingly.

I thought about this woman’s take on redefining success on Thursday, as I once again slipped into different skin. (Skin covered by an old T-shirt and sweatpants.) I spent the latter part of that same week helping Hubby work his way through a lengthy list of springtime lawn “rescues,” a process clearly distinct from his specialty of seasonal lawn upkeep.

And so I pondered the heady days of past when it was common to see double digit gains in retirement plans and home values and business revenues. I thought about this heady past while pulling dead twigs off neglected shrubs, while blowing dry leaves off patches of River Rock and while filling bucket after bucket of decaying plant matter. I thought about how companies have frozen marketing programs and hiring; I thought about how people gripped by fear have forestalled plans to buy new cars or a new home yet, for some reason or another, still value a tidy lawn enough to hire a crew of able-bodied workers who (like it or not) will get plenty dirty giving them a springtime lawn they can be proud to come home to…home, from whatever challenges they happened to face during their work day…however they chose to measure it.

At some point between emptying the last bucket of dead leaves and today, it occurred to me that one metric from the “good old days” still applies: whatever labor you happen to apply yourself to, as long as you put your best effort into it, the end of the day should deliver just enough satisfaction to make you want to get up the next day and tackle yet another mess. That mess could be in financial services or it could be in some stranger’s backyard. And if that metric doesn’t work for you, it’s probably time to redefine something.

A suprising week...

With age comes wisdom. At least, we hope that's the case. Certainly, age gives us the kind of "I recognize this because I've seen it before" kind of insight that sometimes means even the worst of times can be viewed as a temporary hiccup in the otherwise rhythmic pattern of life. Weather and the seasons are just one example. It gets warm, we get excited; cold returns and we get crabby. I've seen this before. It's called March.

But every now and then, like you, I am struck by something I hadn't expected. Like on Tuesday, when I looked at the rippled landscape and saw diamonds glistening where for months, there had been nothing but flat, gray ice. Tuesday was ice-out day on the lake. Its arrival, so early in Spring, was a surprise to be sure and a welcome one I hadn't seen coming.

Also on Tuesday, hubby came home from volunteering for Habitat for Humanity to tell me his buddy wanted to give us his mini-horse. I'll tell you, folks. Here's one I hadn't seen coming. The horse, standing about 36 inches high, would be a great pet, its owner said. He's very lovable and hardly any trouble at all. (I've heard THAT before!)

Now, I admit that while I've been in mourning over Farm Dog, I have been entertaining notions of another pet. The when, what and how haven't formed in my mind yet, but I was sort-of thinking that my next pet (call him Farm Dog II if you want) might be more of an outside, kennel kind of dog and less of a couch potato like the original Farm Dog. I even figured, if I was patient, a stray dog would eventually wander in and I could tempt it to hang out on the property. Or maybe, the next pet wouldn't be a dog at all, but a lower-maintenance cat.

But never ever could I have dreamt or imagined (and I can imagine a lot!) that my next dog might be, well, a horse! And a mini-horse, at that! At least it wouldn't track mud into the house.

Hubby's buddy said the mini-horse is low maintenance and would just quietly eat up the grass in the pasture. Yeah, I've heard that before too. Remember the obstinate sheep?

Hubby has a soft spot for animals, to be sure. Farm Dog used to get a share of his morning toast, bread that now finds its way to the chicken coop. I'm recognizing all the signs; I've been here before. This issue is far from being settled, and I sense that I will need to throw up a lot of objections to mini-horse moving in, because if I don't, this may be chomping grass in the back pasture by May. Maybe if I agree to more baby chicks, this idea will fall by the wayside. Chickens may not be as pettable as mini here, but at least chickens are edible!

Postscript: The mini-horse debate is being shelved until after our vacation, which we are about to embark on. I'll return to minding the blog after Easter. Until then, remember that Resurrection doesn't just happen once a year; it can happen anytime.