“You take the high road and I’ll take the low road / and I’ll be in Scotland before ye… / But me and my true love will never meet again / on the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond.”
They should have both taken the middle road and everything would have worked out better.
Governing? From the middle it works.
Conversation? Half listening and half speaking.
Solving problems? Don’t expect miracles or great change anytime soon.
An introduction to attaining balance of chicken and rat populations on this farm? You bet.
But first, some information about rats. I’ve been reading Wikipedia, and as usual I have a great respect for them; the rats, I mean.
Some of you are recoiling from even thinking about rats, let alone leaving them alone? But, perhaps I can ease your mind just a little away from alarm and disgust?
Firstly, rodents, which comprise 40 percent of all mammal species, are characterized by “a single pair of continuously growing razor sharp incisors in each of their upper and lower jaws.” Underline “continuously growing.” These small animals must keep gnawing in order to prevent their incisors from reaching and piercing their skulls.
The list of creatures included in this order range from tiny house mice and flying squirrels, to chinchillas and beavers.
They are highly intelligent, adaptive, and exist in every part of our world except Antarctica. They can be and often are desirable pets, ecosystem engineers and health science partners. And, yes, they can carry disease and transmit it to humans. That’s their drawback, but doesn’t everybody have a drawback? We carry diseases, too.
So, I have these rats in the chicken yard. Every once in awhile I put out bait and try to kill them. I absolutely hate this task. I hope that something else will moderate their population — like natural death, cats, dogs, owls, overeating, sleep deprivation or cell phone addiction.
I am not doing very well with this plan. There are three generations of rats living under the chicken house and beneath the sheep house. Both these structures allow easy entry to the chicken yard. Every evening they arrive like little garbage collectors, scurrying and gathering the food left over from the chickens.
The other night I arrived at dusk to close up the chicken coop and I saw half a cantaloupe moving across the yard on tiny brown feet. It travelled until it reached the sheep house, where it disappeared after the owner of the feet came around and shoved it out of sight. I’ve seen grapefruit halves being rolled like truck tires — all being gathered by these workaholic little creatures.
And so they co-exist with the hens, and the problem of their presence continues.
I am not sure where that middle road is, but I search for it continually and appreciate the fact that accompanying me are the rabbits, chipmunks, marmots, rats, et al, in that large order of mammals.
Henny Penny, the pet Araucana hen that lives in the sheep yard and shares her grain with a rat group, was the main character in a feather-raising story last week.
I was doing an afternoon chore after market and my daughter in law, Mindy, said she had, “something to relate that involved the demise of a creature.” It involved their dog, Ash, a wonderful young pet who does like to pounce on birds, however.
I waited to hear how, broken-hearted, Mindy found the remains of Henny Penny on the wrong side of the fence line, where farm dogs patrolled. She assured me that she had given H.P. a proper burial but her girls were crying and it was obvious that Mindy felt terrible.
“You know there was a hen that was escaping the last two days from the chicken yard into the sheep yard,” I asked. “Are you sure the feathers were Henny Penny’s?”
She wasn’t sure. With hopeful hearts, we walked to the back yard. The sheep yard was empty, except for two sheep. Mindy looked downcast.
I suggested that we check the sheep house. “Henny often goes there.”
I walked in to the front room where Patrick resides, then to the back room which is Posey’s place. There in the shadows was our sweet Araucana, probably surprised to see us.
“Mindy — look.”
It was a joyful moment for us both — not for the hen who jumped one too many fence lines, but for us, definitely.
Renee Kiff weeds and writes at her family farm in Alexander Valley.
