Hello all ye pretty people! Apologies for the long break on my blog… Wish I could say I’ve been on some exotic trip but the truth of the matter is, I’ve been wrapped up in a new job (same company) with some pretty demanding deadlines (and clients). That being said, I’ve missed blogging with y’all – so I aim to find more time to do what I love most: share my pearls of wisdom with you and the world at large… 🙂
It’s been almost 3 years now since my husband and I moved to the country – Russian River Valley to be exact. It dawned on me this morning that there have been many things we didn’t expect about living in the country. Most of it pleasant, but some of it – not so much. There’s no Country Living for Dummies guide (but maybe there will be – soon?!) Every surprise we encounter has a lesson tied to it – and sometimes that lesson is merely to accept the fact that many things are out of our control. No matter what we do – or don’t do.
I’m what you would consider a kinda-sorta-wanna-be farmer (sounds good in theory but I do have a French manicure to protect). I came into this “farming” thing with the notion that if you provide nourishment, shelter and love, it will thrive. Ah yah – not.
In the country, the first rule farmers learn is “Animals die”. No one told us this. I am a bonafide animal lover and a death hater, so for almost three years, I kept the “animals die” truth in the deep dark recesses of my mind. But I’ve since come to learn this lesson multiple times over – sometimes by design, but most times not.
Bobcats are no dummies. Bob and I are quite familiar with each other by now. He lives in the creek that our property backs up to and often pops up to check out the good eats (i.e., our chickens). Over the course of 18-months of chicken farming, we’ve lost 4 chickens (almost 5) to Bob (and 2 to our Lab, but that’s another story). Last year we finally got smart and built a 100’ x 50’ six-foot high fenced-in pen for the hens to roam during the daytime. One recent morning, I heard squawking. Thinking it was an egg-laying party, I ignored the squawks. But when I went outside, I saw the all-too familiar feather trail and I knew Bob was back. Scouting the area, I counted three very discombobulated hens. Except for a mound of black feathers in the back corner of the hen-pen, Betty was MIA. Walking the perimeter of the pen multiple times, I saw no signs of digging or holes in the fence. Scratching my head, I asked the survivors – how did the hen-napper do it? Something tells me to look up. There on top of the pen fence post is one lone Betty feather, waving (victory? – or is it goodbye?) in the breeze – and just below that Bob’s calling card (his – quite impressive -paw print). Bob had scaled the fence, snagged Betty, hauled her fat chicken butt up and over the fence and down to the creek for another finger-lickin’ dinner. Of course Bob is no dummy and picked the fattest slowest hen of the bunch.
That day my DIY handy dandy husband installed an electric fence (not as easy as you’d think, mind you) around the pen. Knock on wood, Bob has not (dare I say “yet”?) jumped the fence again – but don’t think he hasn’t been strategizing his next move.
Lesson: Animals die. Particularly fat feathery ones. Bob – 4, Humans – 3.
Rats are expensive vermin. I’m not a fan of these beady-eyed vermin and in this case, I wouldn’t shed a tear if they died, especially with the expense they’ve caused us. Earlier this year, we found we had a rat or (as the exterminator put it) “colony” living under our house, in the attic and garage. We’d hear them performing their WWF smackdowns each night – which really didn’t sit so well with either us nor our dogs. But we found if we turned up the fans, music or TV, the sounds didn’t exist (and neither did the rats, right?)
We set a few traps (with local gourmet cheese, no less) and still, no success. (Hey Rats – it’s not Kraft American cheese-stuff, it’s real California cheese!) Once we found out the rats had gnawed through our cars’ (plural) wiper fluid tubes, we called out the big guns – The Hitmen (actual name of the extermination company). We paid an inordinate amount of $$$ for The Hitmen to inspect and seal our house (not to mention to the auto shop to repair our cars). For several months, they came out once a week to set and check traps. One measly rat went buh-bye. One. After months went by and no more signs (or sounds), we figured the rat “colony” had scampered off to greener pastures. We finally had a rat-free house! Sure we did.
This past week, we found our wiper tubes had again been gnawed through but this time Mr. Rat left his calling card – his droppings on the car engine and a paw print trail leading down my windshield. (Is he taunting me?) Back to the Hitmen and the auto repair shop… An expensively vicious cycle I dare say. Operation Extermination is back in full effect and I’m dreaming up Carl Spackler scenarios. All the while, I’m pretty sure Mr. Rat is laughing all the way to our bank.
Lesson: Animals die – this one is going down (hopefully before I invest in the rat-cam).
All hail the gopher snakes. So you think you have gopher problems? Try living in wine country. This is gopher nirvana. Lots of abundant vegetation makes for a pretty sweet place for these persistent little buggers to live. It is almost impossible to stay ahead of them – even Carl would be perplexed. A few months ago, a gopher snake the size of a Boa Constrictor (okay, maybe not quite – but it was very thick and very long – and did I mention, a snake?) appeared in our lower 40. Mr. GoSnake lunged at our gardener and doing what most people would do when a snake lunges, he pummeled said snake with a shovel. Since the snake has passed, our nice green lawn now looks like a pepperoni pizza, only dirt mounds take the place of pepperoni. Clearly that snake was thick for a reason. And now that he’s gone, our property IS Gopher Nirvana. Perhaps we should go out and buy a gopher snake? (Don’t think it hasn’t crossed our minds.)
Lesson: Animals die, but don’t mess with the cycle of life (or death) – RIP Mr. GoSnake.
All of this said, I wouldn’t give up country living for all the Bobs, Rats and Gophers in the world. Upon their lives – and their deaths, they’ve taught this control freak many a valuable lesson:
Animals die. Get over it….So what’s next?
9 Lives of Lulu 
