Thursday, March 31, 2011

Let The Farming Begin

On Sunday, Beatrice made her way from Farmer Ron's house to ours. I hope I can keep the goat alive...



Farmer Ron Passes Beatrice Off To Farmer Bill


Honestly, I have much more to write, but the Miniature horses just arrived. That is a strange sentence in itself and no euphemisms were used: I really do mean the Minis and Tonda have arrived from Oklahoma in a huge truck and trailer--I better go greet them!

Saturday, March 26, 2011

My Dog Needs A Doggy Bag aka Gunnar's Happy Meal To Go

Gunnar's stats-
Mice: 4
Tiny Snakes: 2
Moles: 1
Wooly Caterpillars; 2

I promise to always have a camera with me from now on. Not that you would've wanted a picture of every moment of this brunch that I had to witness, but just in general, I promise to try to capture the poignant moments I write about with at least one photograph. Words won't do this one justice.

Gunnar and I had barely strolled down our road towards the dead end--it's very scenic down there, and we love to peer into the creek to check for minnows. (Gunnar is also sniffing deer tracks into the water or up the bank).

Today, Gunnar pounced into the ditch--which is an every day occurrence, so I wasn't worried. He usually pretends to pounce on something that he thinks might be lurking underneath the brown, matted grass from fall. And 80% of the time, he jumps up with nothing...today was not one of those days. Before I could confirm that this wasn't a drill, old blue eyes popped back up with a HUGE black field mouse. Now, I have been through this before: there is no way he is going to give the rodent up unless I dig into his mouth and grab it, which will also make him chomp on it and defeat the purpose. Therefore, when I realized that this mouse was going on the walk with us--at least part way--I just tried to stay upright and not throw up on my neighbor's lawn. I had no coffee or breakfast in my stomach and somehow this rodent brunch was making me nauseous--even though I wasn't the one eating it!

Then, Gunnar just started tormenting me, probably on purpose. He started throwing the mouse up in the air and catching it; or, he'd shake it hard back and forth-- as if it wasn't already unconcious. I continued to question whether I would need to "pull over" and dry heave, between "Oh Gunnar, c'mon's."

And that, my friends, is a Saturday morning walk with the white Husky.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Down Home Electrified

As you know, the Old McHomer's are getting ready to populate their farm with a couple of Miniature horses and a goat. Yes, we are finally bringing Beatrice the Amish goat home with us, as the other goats at ScapeGoat Farm pick on her way too much.

My best gal, Seneca, and I brought Bea home in May while up here on vacation, not knowing Mr. H and I would soon be returning permanently to the Land of Cheese. One of Farmer Ron's Amish friends had this 9-day old goat to give to him, and for the rest of our vacation she got completely smothered with attention. Beatrice is sort of a runt now, considering she is a French Alpine mix but, as you know, my affection for "miniature" animals runs deep. (Let's pretend I still like the Chihuahuas for the sake of this argument...).

Little Bea is a fluffy, half-pint full of energy, and she is as playful as a puppy. The sad thing is that none of the other goats will even play with her: they even block her from eating when they do! Can you believe that?

Anyway, we are anxiously awaiting the arrival of Beatrice and continuing to prepare for Shaq and Assel-- "The Minis."  In order to be ready for The Minis, Bill had to buy a voltage meter of sorts and test the electric fence: it hasn't been turned on since before we lived here, and we needed to check for "jolt factor,"  as well as move some of it around (with it turned off, of course) in order to turn a couple of large horse pastures into several Mini-sized ones.

The Minis belong to my Aunt Tonda (as mentioned before), one of my mom's sisters who fawns all over Mr. H and the Chihuahuas--well, some of the dogs, but definitely Mr. H. I'm getting the distinct impression that both sides of my family are not quite as happy to see me unless accompanied by my spousal unit, Mr. H.  C'mon people. Aren't I charming enough by myself? I guess not as illustrated by the following email exchange from Tonda to Bill and I--incidentally, she rarely calls me by my name: she always calls me "Angel." I know, doesn't quite fit, but it's sweet, eh? Here's the email:

Tonda: "Hi Angel, and Kimi..."
(Seriously, that is what she wrote...but it gets better).

Kimi: "Tonda, I will have Bill check the fencing to make sure that it is working properly. We have never used the electric fence and don't know if it works..."

Tonda (to Bill): "Have Kimi lick the fence to make sure that it has enough juice to keep the Miniature horses in, and predators out."

I'm sorry, did my aunt--by blood--just tell my husband to have me LICK an electric fence?
Try this one on:
A few days ago Mr. H came in and said he'd tested the electric fence. I told him that I already knew he'd checked it because he said so last week. "No," he said, "I just put my hands on it to make sure it was appropriately set."

Go ahead--touch it.


Nice. I don't care what he does as long as he makes a speedy and full recovery; or, that life insurance covers his idiocy 100%. Well, he's fine--for now. Then he launches into an explanation of why he feels I should put MY hands on the electric fence: so that I don't "freak out" if I have to chase one of the animals and accidentally bump into the fence. "Accidentally." (P.S. I have more life insurance on myself than he does and I want you all to be witnesses at this moment).

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Spring Cleaning With A Chance For Snow

The weather has been awesome up here. "Awesome" is defined as not requiring quilt-lined overalls or snow boots to walk the white Husky. Rainboots and a light jacket have sufficed for a few days now--at least in the afternoon. What better time to start spring cleaning?

I ran to town today for a few things, of which was an errand to the little lumber yard for a 6-foot 4x4 so that Mr. H could rehome our mailbox. The poor postal lady (and by this point she probably is postal) is afraid to put the mail into our mailbox, as winter weather conditions have turned our road--near the culvert--into an off-roading experience of about 57 degrees, left-sided tires up in the air. She left a bright green note in our mailbox pleading with us to relocate it.

Now, Farmer Ron is a faithful post office employee, when he's not taking care of his goats on ScapeGoat Farm. This guy never complains: he just took a serious plunk (he says "plunk" I say intercranial hemhorrage) to the head yesterday while attempting to cut down trees by himself--which he loves to do. I've seen this guy break ribs while doing barn chores and finish two more hours of tasks before taking himself to the emergency room!

My point is, I wonder how dicey our mailbox situation would have to get before even Farmer Ron wouldn't attempt it? I thought maybe our friendly postal worker was just a bit inconvenienced because she's driving on the wrong side of the vehicle and the coordination is a bit off upon lining up to our mailbox. Well, I came home from work and got the mail last night: ma'am, I brought home the 4x4 today and you now have a new mailbox location. Seriously, a few more weeks of melting snow and hot-cold cycles and one of us will end up "a@s over tea kettle" in the ditch. Lucky for me there's a built-in compass on my dashboard so I could actually see how far upside down I'd be. Joy.

The only problem is that the mailbox is now on the north side of the driveway instead of the south: I don't think I will remember where it's at! I'd bet there will be a few times when I come home and completely forget where Mr. H put it--it's now by the blue fire number sign that boldly displays our address. Dear mail lady, I hope you like your new mailbox configuration. We love you (she delivers packages up our driveway and inside the garage, even)--we must keep you happy!

The other item I picked up was a steam cleaner rental: it's about time I cleaned the carpets. After all, we've been living here for six months! I will probably regret doing this now as muddy foot season is right around the corner, but I couldn't stop her: Lily insisted on having clean carpets. Mr. H insisted she assist me, and this is how I spent two hours of my day today:

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Chocolate Cheese Fudge and Marriage Counseling

I kid you not, there is such a thing as chocolate cheese fudge. Do you know where it comes from? Yup. Right here--Wisconsin; as if that was going to be a hard guess! I've seen this stuff in the local grocery store for months now and was a little scared to purchase it. I'm not a big chocolate fan, but Mr. H is. We are both HUGE cheese fans--but as per usual, we differ on type--so I brought it home for him to try. He said it tastes almost the same as his cream cheese fudge. I asked him if he knew that there was a big difference between cream cheese and processed cheddar cheese (which the chocolate cheese fudge is lovingly made with), and I think he said "yes."

I'm not going to lie to you: this is the stuff marriages crumble over...oooh crumble....feta crumbles would be great on an omelette right now. Man am I hungry.

If my husband doesn't get his cheeses straight--as important as dog breeds, cattle breeds and gun classifications--we are going to need a whole lot of counseling!



Incidentally, for all of you cheese conoisseurs out there, this goat milk Cardona that I have in the photo--you know, for ambience and aesthetics--is out of this world. Walking Gunnar four miles a day is not going to be enough to keep me from busting out of my overalls. Oy! I'm in the grips of a cheese addiction like none other. This is what happens when you move away and come back! The body becomes deconditioned to substances such as pure, unadulterated cheese.

On a more serious note, I'm getting allergy tested next Friday and I'm almost tempted to have the doctor skip over dairy because I'd just go insane without it. That may defeat the purpose of a complete allergy screening. I can just see it now: "Um, ma'am, we've never seen anyone react so violently to our cheese allergen sample before. We're going to have to admit you to the hospital for detoxification." !!!!!

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

The Early Bird Does Get The Worm

On our evening walk tonight Gunnar stopped abruptly, as we were headed towards our neighbor's creek, and lunged. There's a surprise, seriously. When doesn't the white Husky lunge? I can tell when it's an "And They're Off!" lunge as opposed to a "Hey, I recognize that person," lunge.  This was a "Squirrel!" kind of a lurch forward.

I squinted to try and zero in--quickly--on what I was about to get dragged towards. I saw something squirrel-sized, but peered through my glasses and discovered that it was a robin. A robin already mid-March! Spring is here--almost.



Gunnar and I both stood transfixed for quite a while watching this cute little robin: she was pulling a huge nightcrawler out of the ground. It was the neatest thing to watch. While I was drooling over that fat nightcrawler, wishing I could go fishing, Gunnar was wishing he could stuff all of those feathers into his mouth!

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Statistics

Update as of March 12, 2011:

Mice: 3

(We added to the mice category again--since there are no cats around, I turned the mouser loose in the barn this evening. Grabbed that fat mouse in under 20 seconds! Disclaimer: I don't advocate the eating of raw, wild animals in domestic ones that I kiss on the lips, but the mouse wouldn't jump onto a trap)!

Moles: 1
Snakes: 1
Wooly Caterpillars: 2

This is only the body count that I have witnessed. Who knows what that dog does when I'm not looking? This morning I backed the truck out of the garage to find him watching eight stupid deer that were crossing right in front of his outdoor kennel. How I wished he was still napping in the barn, as I really think Gunnar could fly over the six-foot cage to run with the woodland creatures.

Some days I get the feeling that he knows someone comes out every morning around 5am to walk him: I think he breaks loose and goes prowling at night, only to return before "curfew." I should set up a "Gunnar Cam." Stay tuned.



I worry that Gunnar's Arizona cousin (not by blood), Rescue, will send him a YouTube video on how to climb fences--Rescue clearly has practice:


Thursday, March 10, 2011

The Hotel California

I'm not actually in the Hotel California, but it feels like it. I am going to try to shorthand this for you because even though this update is typed with my two little hands, I am losing my voice. And somehow, it feels as if my sore throat is attached to my hands, and neither wants to move in the mechanical way they are supposed to.

I've been teaching at a client site for two days and have one more day to go. This means I've been talking nonstop from 8:00am to 4:30pm for two days straight--well, we've been laughing a lot too. Actually, my students and I had quite a good time, despite the fact I've had a migraine since one o'clock this morning.

The headache was not due to the almost constant noise coming out of the "posse" in the hotel room next to me, but it sure didn't help. Long story short: knocking on doors all night long; talking loudly in the hallways; and numerous people continually walking through the hall from two feet outside my door to the outer door and back--all night long.

I'm tired. I haven't slept since Monday, and I could no longer handle the environment on the second floor.

Long story shorter: Kimi to the front desk; very patient, but probably mildly frightened young, male receptionist/concierge; Kimi gets a new room on the first floor--far away from the disruptive "guests."

I am now going to switch out of the third person and go back to typing in the first person, as God intended it.

I reside at the moment in what I call the Charlie Sheen Penthouse. This suite--which has a patio door leading to the pool--is BIGGER than our house in Tucson. Not hard to do, but the sheer magnitude of this room causes anxiety. The bathroom itself is larger than half of our house in Tucson--are we getting a visual yet? (Our house in Tucson is 480 square feet!).

The bathtub, complete with swirly jets, is large enough to host a pool party for Mr. H, myself, all four Chihuahuas, the white Husky, and the soon-to-be-at-Homer-Hollow, Miniature horses.

Exhibit A:

The gnomes (sitting on the edge of the tub) are waiting
 for the water to become the perfect temperature.

Again, not that that would EVER happen, but I'm just giving you a spatial image with which you can focus on. In all honesty, Mr. H and I might share a bathtub, and Loki and I share a shower (his white "feathers" get dirty!), but that's it!

Exhibit B:




Though the wall-mounted blow dryer in my new suite already tried to taser me, and there is a women's aerobics class going on right outside my door in the pool area, it is still much, much quieter down here than on the second floor.  As I was holding my 12-inch lettuce wrap in one hand, I peered out through the patio door curtain to indeed confirm that the loud music coming from the pool was an aerobics class.  I made a mental note: yup, still thinner than everyone in the class-- so I continued to finish my sandwich.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Ironing In The Kinks

For those of you who thought me, Gunnar, a sled full of firewood, and an icy downward path was dicey, try this on for size:

I nearly injured myself permanently trying to get the ironing board and iron out of my little hotel room armoire. The firewood retrieval operation was much less risky--and much less painful--than me falling out of the armoire with an iron and board on top of me. Then, to make sure I don't forget who does my ironing (Mr. H), I pinched a middle finger between the underside of the ironing board and the stupid folding legs on it. Now, how am I going to drive tomorrow if that middle finger doesn't work? I'd better find a cab company.

A bruised, tangled heap of polar bear print pj's, gnome slippers
and one very smart hotel iron. Sure hope the bathtub's not this tricky.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Furry Farm Field Trip!

I found a wonderful farm near Bluebird Hollow (where Homer Hollow is located) called Creachann Gleann that has a small, beautiful, herd of Scottish Highland cattle. If you've never seen these creatures, you're in for a treat. They are not only beautiful to look at, but they're wonderful in disposition. Unfortunately, they're not quite as friendly as my Husky, but if raised from childhood--calf-hood--they will supposedly get that tame.



Luring A Fluffy Friend


"C'mon, I just wanna pet you--and kiss you!"
Our new friends Ben and Mary take impeccable care of their fluffy herd, and are brilliantly responsible with the care and breeding of this cherished bloodline. So, when two amateurs showed up at their door today wanting to see their animals, who knows what could have been going through their mind? They were very welcoming and we got the million-dollar tour. Not only did we get to walk around the property and meet every animal, but I got to snuggle with a calf who was a bit reluctant at first, and then decided I was his bbf (best bovine friend)--he being the bovine one of course.


Asking a lot of questions
I've been corresponding with Ben and Mary for a few months and settling on a day to come visit when we were both available. Now the only decision Mr. H and I have to make is, can we raise a couple of Scottish Highlands? Should we even attempt something like that? Should they live at Farmer Ron's house? (Wouldn't he be surprised? I doubt that would go over well on the goat farm).

He says, "Hey, I'm ready to socialize now!"



"Hey Mr. H: if I move that big box of books in the back,
Red here will fit in my SUV, won't he?"
Speaking of not going over well, I have to come to the realization that some of my new fluffy friends will have to be eaten. We were served a great lunch of Highland dogs today: Scottish Highland Beef Hot Dogs. They were delicious! I can get over pretty much anything if I'm adequately fed.

Excess fluff, one week old!

A Scottish Highland in their natural habitat:
well, not a Scottish Highland, nor a natural habitat--
but he looks like he could belong to their clan.

Friday, March 4, 2011

Old McHomer Had A Farm

Well, not actually a farm yet. Mr. H and I sort of live on what we admit is a "yuppy farm." Let's face it-- there are four chihuahuas on premises and no animals inhabit the barn other than a unique Husky mix dog. In my own mind when I wake up every morning at 5am and put wood in the burner and walk and feed Gunnar the Husky, I am going out to do my "barn chores." It's sad folks, isn't it? But, that is the idea that keeps me going from day to day; one day I will have more than Gunnar in that barn to tend too.  Will I actually have time for more? Can I remember to feed goats alfalfa, horses hay, and dog food to the dog? At this point, no one knows.

When I was growing up I didn't want horses. I wasn't one of those kids that really truly wanted a pony. I didn't play with dolls either, but immensely loved taming the wild kittens in the barn and thought life was complete when my dad finally let us have a dog--turned out she was pregnant too! Oops--more puppies which, in my opinion, topped everything!

Now that I have grown up (just roll with that concept) I've wanted horses for years-- not just any horses though.  I want Miniature horses. And when we moved from Arizona to Wisconsin to a farmette equipped with horse pastures and a beautiful barn, it only seemed natural to actually realize the dream of owning a Mini. (Do we all remember the post in which I detailed meeting a neighbor who found out I loved Minis and proceeded to tell me where one lived down the road from her? Then, Mr. H and I raced down said road to visit this Mini at a farm we've never seen owned by a person we've never met? I've got it bad...you can read about that here.)

The answer has finally come! My Aunt Tonda wants Mr. H and I to "babysit" her Minis for her as boarding prices are exorbitant and we are absolutely set up here. We are going to be caretakers for two tiny, tiny, Minis: Shaq and Assel are both only 32 inches tall!

Assel, age 9

Assel is the spunky one, supposedly, and Shaq is a very docile creature. Shaq is a certified therapy horse and he has visited nursing homes, libraries and schools, to visit both children and adults. Apparently he is housebroken as well. Did you hear that chihuahuas? Though few and far between, those little "mistakes" you make on the little rug next to the door could cause you to get moved to the barn and Shaq will come in and live with mommy and daddy. Think about it...now who wants extra water? (Unfortunately, they know these are empty threats).


Shaq, age 14

My cousin McKenzie a few years ago with Shaq at the library.