Breaking free

We managed to dig ourselves out of the farm and restore transportation....to some degree:

30 Inches of Snow...So far

The last 14 hours have been a series of ups and downs.

Last night, the power cut out and returned a heart-clutching 8 times, but ultimately it hung in there. Before we went to bed -- around 1 am -- the dog and tractor fell silent. Martin shed his snow gear in the kitchen and announced that a bolt and screw had fallen off the plow attachment.

What followed was a fruitless half-hour searching for the rusty bolt -- one bolt -- amidst mountains of plowed snow. We gave up around 1:30.

In the morning Martin located replacement parts from another tractor attachment and plowing continued.
I mucked stalls, fed the sheep and cats while the kids took care of themselves. For a long time -- alone in the house. Both children survived...a broom did not. The house is littered with bristles.

Martin plowed a narrow passage all the way to the road. But shortly afterward a sand truck got stuck in the road by our drive. To free himself, the driver pushed a six foot-high wall of packed snow into the entrance of our drive. Shortly afterward, the tractor got stuck behind the barn. Big-time stuck.

Midday, I shoveled a paddock gate free, swam through thigh-high snow with an armful of hay, and led the horses out.


Two hours later, Martin dug out the tractor.


I think we're beaten.

A Strange, Scary Snow

Friday Night: The house has been quiet for a while. Kids are in bed, the TV's off and the dryer finally rumbled to a stop.

But outside is a scene of whirling white and lights and noise. Martin's hunkered over the tractor which rumbles up and down the drive, then loops around the telephone pole in the yard and roars toward the house. With it, there's a constant, ear-splitting litany of barks. Maisie's tractor herding reverberates off the barn and house -- I don't know how the kids sleep through that racket.

I'm out in the blowing snow as well, calling the horses into their stalls and chucking a flake of hay to each one. Around 9 o'clock, I throw a saddle and bridle on Chance, toss a blanket over his back, and force the pasture gate open against a pile of snow. Then I trudge toward the indoor arena, following the remnants of tire tracks that are rapidly vanishing.
Forging through a blizzard at night to ride a horse is absolute madness. But on a day when my father's behavior has landed him in a hospital psyche ward, riding in a snowstorm isn't so off-beat.

Aside from the hum of the arena lights and Chance's muffled footfalls in the dirt, it's peaceful inside. There's no wheelbarrow rattling with feed, or horses clattering down the aisle. No car doors slamming or people yelling. Every so often the wind pulls a ribbon of snow off the roof with a "whump," but otherwise it's silent.

By 10 pm, Chance is back in his stall, bundled up for the night, and a half-hour later Martin and I are in the kitchen, plotting our next move. The snow is piling up at an alarming rate -- there's almost 10 inches already and we're only 6 hours in. It'll be time to plow again around midnight.

And just then we're in the dark. The house powers down and after a few flickers, reluctantly shutters to life again. And off and on again. And again.

Losing power is almost a certainty -- but not yet. It's too damn early to be without heat and water.

So we frantically scurry around, stacking wood, cranking up the thermostat, and packing a cooler with snow, then milk and food from the fridge.

After that, there's nothing else to do but fire up the tractor, wince as the house powers down, and hope that it comes to life again.

The End of the World Cometh

Kind of awesome-looking, isn't it?

But is it really necessary to pummel other shoppers over a loaf of bread? Or pound on the glass door of the empty milk fridge like a deranged lunatic?

An empty beer fridge? Now that's different...

It's about to snow, commence panicking!

More canine capers

It's time for another installment of Hunter's dogs run amok.

Remember Tipi, of pill-popping fame? And Chessie, the ACL patient? 

When we last left our cast of characters in late December, Hunter was pumping Tipi full of peroxide to induce vomiting, while Chessie was scheduled to go under the knife. 

Fast forward to last weekend and Chessie was in the midst of post-op recovery -- restricted to brief, ambling walks while Tip was free to charge ahead.

You only need to glimpse at the picture above to know how this story goes. When Tipi bolted off, Hunter assumed she was pursuing a deer. But then Hunter spied the puffy black creature waddling toward Tipi, its tail in the air. And by then it was too late. The skunk blasted the dog twice.

In a strange way, I like the smell of skunk -- it reminds me of summer camp -- and occasionally I catch of whiff of skunky road kill near the farm. 

But Hunter informs me that I've never smelled it up close and that my road kill skunk is about as potent as a patch of petunias. At close range, latched to a dog's coat, skunk secretion is "gagging bad."

Hunter immediately whipped up a bath for Tipi. It seems that the time-honored tomato juice solution only masks the stunning stench. But with a little help from the internet, Hunter invented her own odor-cutting recipe: first, a 10-minute soak in baking soda, peroxide and dish washing soap, followed by a second round of Dawn. Then, a rinse with antiseptic mouthwash (in this case, citrus flavor).

Apparently, the concoction did the trick and Tipi no longer reeks, except at close range.

So dog owners, clip this recipe for your canine cook book. It's a keeper!

 

 

They look cute enough...

Apparently, the cats read my blog. The very same day that I complained about their lackluster mousing, Martin and I discovered mass carnage in the barn. In this case, the victims were birds and the cats left a bloody trail of wings and bones in the horses' stalls. 

Okay, so you guys aren't so useless. I get the message. 

Hey mice, supper's up!

We rarely spy field mice in the barn, thanks to our crack team of cats. When a rodent creeps out from the shadows to snarf down some spilled grain, that little beady-eyed vermin is toast. We find it's head or entrails proudly displayed on our door step. 

Except when winter's frigid temperatures set in.

Then our ruthless rodent-dispatching A-Team retires to the mudroom to bask in the warmth of the space heater. Mel and Frog meld themselves into an orange-gray orb and doze away the nights. Get up for breakfast? A can of cat food? Ug, that means leaving the God-of-heat all on its lonesome! Might as well stay put. Those stupid humans will dish out more food in the evening. Or the next day.

So, have at it, mice. Hang the disco ball, throw yourselves a kegger in the barn. Dive into the horse treats, gorge yourselves. You'll make a tasty meal when the temperature warms up.