`I feel good. I am pleased that I can sling fifty-pound sacks of feed around, work a full-time and part-time job, and wrangle farm critters. But honestly, I am at the age where one begins to worry about senility. Most of the time, I don't worry much, but occasionally, I become concerned.
Here is an example. Last week, I was trimming my goat's hooves. This is a job that I do every four to six weeks. It does not take me very long, but it can be a little tricky moving goats from their cozy to where I do the work and back again. I have a new hoof trimmer, which is a game-changer. I've used a variety of other trimmers over the years, and they worked okay-ish. I kept hearing about a superior brand, and one day, I ordered them. When I used them the first time, it was as if a choir of angels began to sing, and light broke through the clouds. They are nicely balanced, easy to use, and sharp, making excellent, clean cuts in the hooves. They make hoof trimming much easier and even a bit more fun.
So, on this day, I was happily trimming each goat. I moved one off the milk bench, put her back in the cozy, and brought the next goat in. She hopped up to snack on grain, and I reached for my beloved new trimmer. It had vanished. I had used it mere moments before, but now it was gone. I recently cleaned the milk room where I trim, and it was completely tidy. There was not so much as an errant pine shaving on the floor. There was no clutter. I looked on the ground to see if the trimmers had fallen. They had not. I peeked behind the grain bin in case I had put them on the slanted top, and they had fallen. They had not. I looked on the cute vintage shelf where I store things. No trimmer. There was a slight possibility that I had put them on top of the gate when I was swapping goats, and it had fallen into the shavings in the cozy. I carefully swept the shavings away from the gate. No trimmer. I began to question my mental health.
I finished the job with my old, inferior trimmers. The entire situation made me unhappy and confused.
When Chris got home, I told him my tale of woe. He likes to try to solve problems for me, so together, we headed right out to the goat cozy. He looked on the floor. He looked at my shelf. He gently swept the shavings away from the gate. He looked behind the grain bins. Then he went outside. As he did a cartoon light bulb popped up over my head. There is a good-sized window next to the milk bench. The obvious thing for me to have done was to place the trimmer on the window ledge. The window is covered with wire hardware cloth. Somehow, the trimmer had slid between a gap in the wire and was trapped against the outside wall of the building. I suspect it got pushed there when the goat I was preparing to trim hopped up on the bench. I was so relieved that it was found and that I could not blame its loss on an aging brain. It was just an animal-related accident, and my brilliant husband solved the mystery.
Then... last night, I locked the chickens up. I do this every night. The chickens enter their coop at dusk, and Chris or I tuck them in, fastening the doors so no predators can get in to eat them. When it comes to predators, all of them like chicken. My coop is well-built, and no poultry-eating critter has ever gotten in.
When I went out to lock them up, I did what I call "counting beaks." All twelve of my birds were accounted for. For the past few days, the two white hens that hatched out the one white chick have abandoned the nest box where they have been sleeping since the chick hatched and have resumed their habit of roosting on a perch. I was unsure if the chick could get up on the roost with them. So, last night, I took a hard look. One hen was holding her wings out away from her body. The little chick poked her head out from under one wing when I peeked. I was pleased to know the funny family were all safely cuddled up and shut the doors to the coop. (The picture below is a few weeks old. The chick is bigger now.)
This morning, when I went to release the birds from their home and give them fresh food and water, I heard a sound from under the coop. To my shock, I saw one of the white mother hens poke her head out from under the house, followed by a second one and the tiny chick. Right then, I was ready to sign up for psychological testing. I knew I'd seen the mother hens and chick on the roost before I locked the door, yet here they were, scratching about, while the rest of the flock was locked up.
When Chris got home, I told him the story. He thought about it and asked, "Did they get out a window?" I went right outside. Our coop has two small windows set down low. I usually keep them closed because I am worried a raccoon will break through the screen and get in. But two days ago, it was hot when I cleaned the coop, so I opened the windows while I worked. Then I forgot to close them again. For some reason, the two hens and their chick pushed through the screen this morning and were out running amok when I did chores. I shut and latched the windows tightly and did a little happy dance. My brain is still mostly ok.
Sometimes, I wonder about my brain, but so far, I seem to be firing on all cylinders. It's all the animals' fault! Hah.
