So.  Aside from swearing at goats and chasing turkeys, I (Erica) am a massage therapist.

In school, they talk about some of the downsides of having a home office:  you have to beware of the phone ringing, or the dog barking.

However, they never mentioned the downside to having a tom turkey totally going off as a possible detraction for clients.

O lord, how is this my life?

>.<

You know what sucks?

Spilling half a bucket of water all over yourself in below-zero weather. While post-holing up to your knees in snow.  While it goes down your already-damp boots.

You know what really sucks?

Having all that happen at the beginning of chores, rather than the end.

>.<

However, it is entirely possible to have too much of a good thing.  I'm just sayin'.

This laundry used to be clean.

Now it's covered with cat hair.

*sigh*

It's a gorgeous day today, bright and sunny, if a bit cold.  It's been overcast and snowy the last couple of days; indeed, our day started off that way.  When I went to take care of the turkeys, I left the coop door open, as I've done several times before.  Once again, the turkeys cautiously crept their way out, peeping and pecking at the snow.

I let them go, figuring they deserved a bit of early afternoon sun.  They weren't shivering or acting cold, so I let them creep around as I turned their bedding.  They started creeping further.  And a bit further.  Still not far, mind you, but further than they've been.

The trouble came when it was time for me to herd them back to their coop and go on to my next chore.

We've gotten quite a bit of snow.  A lot of it has packed down, but a 25-lb turkey weighs a lot less than a 165-lb woman.  I kept breaking through to my knees, and the snowshoes were in the garage.  Grumbling, I thrashed my way over to where Ben has packed down snow along one of his trails. (150-lb dog being a lot closer in weight to me than a turkey.)  I made my way up the hill, figuring that once I got around them, the turkeys would make for the safety and security of their coop.

I was wrong.

Nope, the turkeys were more interested in outpacing me, the tom (Crooked Toe) flapping his massive wings to make way in the snow.  I'd grabbed a lightweight lawn rake to head them off with, hoping they'd head back down the hill.

Nothing doing.

Finally, I resorted to grunting my way up past the turkeys, planting my butt on the snow, and using wide-spread legs to corral the turkeys.  I scooted down, bit by bit, and had to wrap one arm around Crooked Toe (who was emphatically not interested in any of this, and could he please go hang out in the trees) to keep him from bashing me in the face with his wings.  The hen, Lavender, kind of got a little run-over as I held her massive partner with one arm and tried to nudge her along before me.

This worked, albeit smoothly, until I got a few feet from the coop.  At that point, my backside took a sudden dip into the snow--not far, only a few inches--and I was unable to get any real gravity purchase.  Ever tried to gently throw a live turkey somewhere?  It's more difficult than it sounds.

Somehow, I managed to get them back to the little landing of packed snow in front of the coop and herd them in.  I'm glad I do my winter chores in snow pants, that's all I'm gonna say.

The snow has now reached the point where the wether can jump out of the pen, via the top of the trash can used to hold sweet feed.

This does not spell Good Things.  Particularly since Ben sleeps in the hay shed, and the open dutch-door bottom means that while he can get in and out, so can the goats.

*sigh*  I really don't want to be dealing with this right now.

For Nick, who wanted to see an updated photo of Mr. Peabody.  He hasn't seen Peepers in . . . what, seven years?

All the white around his muzzle used to be tan.  And it's encroaching around his eyes.  He has cataracts and a bum-ish right leg.  For nearly 14, though, he's a happy little dog. :)

Tuesday was Greg's first day off in . . . well, I don't know how long, but at least a month.  I'd talked with him about dealing with all the individual water bowls for the rabbits was becoming a horrific chore (frozen solid, and we have no hot water with which to warm them).  We knew that we needed to drastically reduce our livestock inventory, so he took it upon himself to do the killing and butchering.  He managed to get three rabbits done--the hard part, as I knew it would be, was the actual killing.  The first and third, apparently, did not want to go so gentle into that good night.

He skinned them, removed heads and feet, and parted out most of the internal organs.  Greg did ask that I go through the remaining gut bucket and harvest whatever other organs I wanted, but I was too whupped that night to deal with it.  I've been putting it off for the last few days, but even with our garage as cold as it is, leaving organs to sit is not the best of ideas.

I bagged the pelts, tossed three of the feet into Ben's dish with his breakfast, and brought the two covered bowls up into the kitchen to sort.

The first bowl, of course, was the "keeper" bowl.  Three rabbit heads, along with some livers and assorted bits, stared back at me out of the bowl.  One of the heads still had its eyes open and mouth parted slightly, showing the front teeth.  The rich smell of blood hit me, strong and earthy, and I tried to breathe through my mouth.

I grabbed the second bowl, the gut bucket.  Barehanded, I sorted through with kitchen shears and trimmed gall bladders and excess fat (rabbits keep their fat around their internal organs, rather than in the muscle tissue; there is no "marbling" when it comes to rabbits).  Formed pellets in the lower guts were visible.  A snip through the organ wall confirmed the identity of the stomach.  The smell of feces combined with the blood smell as I combed through, removing hearts and/or kidneys.  Even with my strong bio background, I didn't look closely enough to identify either, nor the lungs and trachea.

I thought about taking a picture of the "save" bowl, but figured that most people would be a bit oogy about the heads.  I do find it astounding how much essence is reduced, though, so I took a slightly more obscure photo of the results.  The bag on the left is the heads (feet to be added shortly); the right-hand ziplock is the valuable internal organs.  The discarded guts I didn't figure anyone would want to see.

I need to leave soon to see a client.  Although I've washed up, I can smell the faintest hint of blood on my hands.  I doubt anyone else will notice, but I will know.

Turns out, of the three rabbits left in the double-decker cage, one was a female.

I was greeted this morning by the sight of a bunch of rabbit fur and several dead wee ones.  They were good-sized, but cold and stiff.  Unfortunately, mother rabbits don't sit on their young like hens.

She'd plucked a good-sized bald patch on one of her hindquarters.  I'm temped to keep her, because I know she'll at least be a prolific breeder.

So sorry, mamacita. :(

I have decided that this should be our business motto.

Unfortunately, the goats seem to agree.

I still have three goats awaiting their final home in the freezer, along with two turkeys and seven or so rabbits.  Nary a word has been heard from Uncle Mark. *sigh*

The goats are all in the lower pen, as the heads, feet, entrails, and various other kibbles 'n' bits have been covered by the snow in the upper pen.  Over the last several weeks, the gate has gotten further . . . and further . . . and further away from the linking post.

Yesterday afternoon, it seems that that distance finally reached critical mass.  I came home to find the goats climbing up the hill behind my parked car.  There was much yelling.  There was much clambering around whilst wearing my work uniform from the fancy-schmancy spa.  (*sigh*)  There was, unsurprisingly, a fair amount of swearing. 

Yet!  I managed to get them all corralled back in the pen, closed it and blocked off the opening with an elaborate spider's web of chain, rubber bungee cord, and baling twine (don't laugh!  MacGuyver would wet himself to get this shit when he needed it!).

. . . a spider's web that failed within 30 seconds of being confronted by an inquisitive, cabin-fevered goat.*

*facepalm*

So, yeah.  This morning involved a garden shovel, some yelling, and a small amount of swearing.

Letting the goats run around would be less of an issue if it weren't for Ben.  Ben, although he is an Outdoor Dog, needs a little shelter, especially on those -20 nights.  There were Plans to build him a dog house, but no time or money for supplies. 

A week or so ago, I realized that if I opened the bottom part of the Dutch door to the hay shed, Ben could make his way in there and sleep!  Rather than a small hole dug in the side of the ground, he could have a shed to himself, partially insulated with hay bales and with loose hay for him to make a bed upon.

Yay!  A winning solution for all, right?

Well . . . the goats know where their food comes from.  Free-roaming goats means, in very short order, a hay shed eviscerated and torn to shit.

*sigh*  Cue lots more work with the shovel this morning.  At least the gate shuts now, and that they waited until I had enough Cope to deal with them.

_________________________________________________________________

* Want to know what a cabin-feverish goat looks like?  In this case, literally bouncing off the walls.  Plus, the goat in question would put his front feet up on the wall, stand on his hind legs, and do a sort of backbend until he was looking at you upside down.  He'd eyeball you with one eye, then the other, then both.  And let's just say that rectangular goat pupils are creepy enough without the goat attempting mind control.