What We Did This Weekend

The new coop is underway!  We have walls, and windows, and trusses!

This is the first of three segments that will eventually make a larger chicken coop, a shop, and a larger alpaca shed. 

The coop will house all 37 chickens and 5 ducks, and will have a rain barrel for fresh water, storage for feed, and a multitude of nesting boxes.  My prediction is that no matter how many nesting boxes we make, all 36 hens will try to use 3. 

The shop will be powered by a solar panel, and will have overhead storage for hay and alpaca feed.  This will become Jerry's home away from home, and will house all of his tools.  It will be off-limits to everyone, so that he can go completely OCD and fastidiously organize all of his wrenches, sockets, hammers, nails, hinges, and all of the other things a farm needs to keep going.  I suspect he will install pegboard on the walls, and will draw outlines of the tools hanging on the pegboard.  This way, he will be able to see in an instant if one is missing.  The outline will act like a chalk outline at a homicide scene, and will alert Jerry to pilfered items immediately.  I wouldn't be surprised if he installed an alarm system, too.  You don't want to get between a man and his tools.  It doesn't end well for anyone.

The alpaca shed will be double the size we have right now, and will attach at a right angle to the shop area, so that the entire "complex" will open to a half-courtyard area, which will be covered in gravel, and have a large duck pond in the middle.

The boys are enthusiastic about this new arrangement, because it gets them closer to the fresh pasture.

Mmmm, yummy pasture.

I am enthusiastic about all aspects of this project, but am especially excited about any idea that DOESN'T end with "....and then we'll come in every night and borrow your bathtub...."

I don't recall this being part of Jeff Foxworthy's routine, but he's welcome to borrow it: "You might be a redneck if you have ducklings swimming in your bathtub...."

New Kids on the Block

We have some new residents at Dunwill Farm.  29 new residents in all, to be exact.  27 new chicks, and 2 new alpacas.

The chicks are of several varieties--Americaunas, Welsummers, and Australorps.  They will lay copious eggs, I hope.  It's pretty amazing, you can get just about anything online.  That's where we got the chickens.  Did you know that the US Postal Service delivers live poultry?  I didn't either.  The hatchery ships day-old chicks, and they arrive safe and sound (if somewhat crowded) in a cardboard box with air holes in the lid.  Weird.

The chicks will stay indoors until the new coop is built.  The new coop will be a poultry palace.  We're going to repurpose the lumber from the current alpaca shelter and use it in the new, improved, much larger shelter.  This shelter will adjoin the coop in an L-shape, with a storage room at the angle attaching the two sides.

We have two new alpacas, as well.  I am pleased to introduce Whiteout and Edgefield.

This is Whiteout.  He's approximately three years old.  He's about the same size as Mizzie.

This is Edgefield.  He's about 7 months old, and is just being weaned.  He's by far the smallest of the bunch. 

The boys have integrated into the herd nicely.  It was touch and go for a few minutes, because Mizzie felt very threatened by Whiteout, but everyone is getting along now.  No one has felt threatened by Edgefield, since he's so small. 

We picked up the two new alpacas in Washington, and the ride home was fairly uneventful.  However, it is apparent that Edgefield is missing his mom, because he keeps wandering the pastures, humming and looking for her.  He and Whiteout have attached themselves to Atticus, who, though he is the leader of the herd, isn't sure he wants to be followed THAT closely. 

I've been my usual OCD self, sneaking out to the pasture to spy on the boys, making sure that the new kids are getting enough to eat, and are not being picked on.  So far so good.  Atticus is a calm, confident alpha, and Goldie is a friendly ambassador for the new guys.

Poor Harry and the girls--they have no idea what awaits them in a month or so.  They will be completely outnumbered.  Look at them, obliviously ranging around the pasture:

Poor Harry--he can barely keep track of the flock he has.  He's going to have a fit when he sees how many new hens he'll have to herd around.

Bridgie has informed me that those new girls had better watch their step--SHE rules the coop (unbeknownst to Harry), and she'll whip them into shape!

Bonding with the Boys

I love it when I get bonding time with the boys.  I feel that it enriches all of our lives.  I feel as though they've let me into their secretive, alpaca club when they let me get close to them.  Here's what bonding looks like at Dunwill Farm:

Hello, Atticus!

Hello, Mizzie!

Hello, Solomon!

Hello, Goldie!

Quality time is a precious thing.  Maybe someday they'll like me even when I don't shamelessly buy their affection with 'Paca Pellets.

Good Night

Good night, girls.

Good night, Harry.

Good night, Goldie.

Good night, Mizzie.

Good night, Atticus.

Good night, Solomon.

Good night, back yard.

Good night, stubborn blackberries.

Good night, pond.

Good night, fish.

See you all tomorrow.

Alpaca Pedicures

We'd put it off long enough.  Those boys needed their toenails cut.  But how would we go about it?  The way I saw it, we had three options:
1. Have the vet make a house call and do it for us ($$$).
2. Hire someone to do it for us ($$).
3. Do it ourselves ($).

Anyone who knows me, or indeed, anyone who's read a few of these posts, knows that I'm a cheapskate, AND, I don't let the fact that I've never done something before get in the way of just diving into it headfirst.  As long as there are YouTube videos and how-to websites available, I'll be game to try pretty much anything but a DIY appendix removal. 

After researching carefully (see the aforementioned YouTube and how-to website references), I knew what I needed.  I needed super-sharp trimmers, a place to restrain the alpacas, and help.  Actually, what I really needed was two Long Island Iced Teas and a nap, until the urge to do this task passed. 

You remember the scene in "Top Gun" when the fighter pilots walked out onto the flight deck in slow motion, with the theme song playing majestically in the background, and you just knew that the best and brightest our country had to offer was headed off to defend freedom and the American Way?  Yeah, well, we didn't look anything like that as we headed for the pasture.

Jerry and I clomped out to the pasture in our rubber boots, I with clippers in hand, and Jerry with lengths of PVC pipe.  It was an awesome display.  The herd was intimidated.  Not.

As an aside: when we fenced in the new pasture, the section of fence between the old and new pastures did not attach perpendicularly to the outside fence.  It veered off oddly to form a little triangular section that could easily be barricaded using two long PVC pipes stuck through the wire.  We really did leave it like this purposely, figuring that at some point, we'd need to corral the boys, and also figuring that they wouldn't fall for the old "wander innocently into the shelter" gag more than once.

We used the lengths of PVC to herd the boys toward the corner.  They move as a pack, so where Atticus went, the others followed.  Once they were all squished into the corner, we let three go and held one hostage. 

Jerry and I had developed our strategy beforehand--he would hold the alpaca, and I would clip the toenails.  Jerry was going to use a "bracelet" hold on the alpaca's neck, which would render said alpaca immobile.  I would then carefully coax the alpaca to lift one leg at a time, and swiftly clip the toenails.

Solomon was our first victim.  Jerry got him held in the bracelet hold, and I bent down to lift Solomon's back leg.  I expected active resistance, but I didn't expect passive resistance--as in, leaning his whole weight on my back as I struggled to get his foot into position.  So, Jerry had Solomon in what could only be termed at this point to be a sleeper hold (the bracelet hold flew out the window immediately) and I clipped the toenails of the alpaca, who was laying ON MY BACK.  The game, "Twister", had nothing on us.

Yes, he was laughing at us the whole time.  Doesn't he look pleased with himself?  We got three of the four feet clipped, with Jerry keeping Solomon in the head lock, and me being crushed with 150 lbs of dead-weight alpaca.  By foot #4, Solomon had turned passive resistance into active resistance, and he broke free.  I tried to coax him back with promises of foot massages (yes, there is a lady on YouTube who gives her alpacas foot massages), but he wasn't buying it.

One down, three to go.  Ashley came wandering out, and we recruited her for our mission.  Sucker.  We did the same thing, guiding (chasing) the herd around the pasture and into the corner again.  We got smart this time, and decided to halter the selected victim (Mizzie) for ease of handling.  But we made the mistake of thinking we'd save time by moving Mizzie to the halter, rather than the halter to Mizzie.  I keep trying to tell Jerry that when the alpaca breaks free, LET GO.  Jerry is a stubborn man.  Now, Jerry is a stubborn man with a Mizzie footprint on his chest.  Yes, he fell down, wouldn't let go of the alpaca, and got stomped for his troubles.  

I was a little concerned about how we were going to clip all of Mizzie's feet, since due to his bionic shoulder, his right front leg (front passenger side leg) is a little shorter than the others, and he lists to that side.  I wasn't sure how much weight he could put on the affected leg if I had one of his back legs up.  I needn't have worried.  Not only could Mizzie lift the back leg, he could KICK with the back leg.  Sorry, Ashley. 

Mizzie 2; Dunhams 0.  Jerry has a Mizzie print on his chest, Ashley has one on her stomach.  Have I yet mentioned that sometimes, it's good to be the person doing the clipping, rather than the person doing the alpaca-holding?

Although, I had troubles of my own with MIzzie.  He really is a stubborn little thing.  I solved the troubles completely by accident, though.  I was trying to get him to hold his back foot still.  It just so happened that when I held his foot with the hand closest to his body, the angle forced my elbow into his....."man-bits".  He was suddenly very, very still.  Huh.  Works with all species, I guess.

Once Mizzie was done, we chased the alpacas around the pasture again, and once again cornered them.  Atticus was starting to look a little sheepish--I mean, getting trapped once was bad enough, but three times???

Golden was the next victim.  We had ambitious plans for Goldie.  His toenails were by far the worst of the lot, AND his front teeth needed to be trimmed (more YouTube research had been done).  The most popular method of tooth trimming was using a Dremel tool.  Some people used an OB-wire, but try finding one of THOSE at short notice.  So, we had the Dremel primed and ready.  Feet first, then the teeth.

Goldie was not amenable to either of the processes.  He was the worst of the lot when it came to his feet.  He pulled Solomon's trick of passive lounging, and Mizzie's trick of random kicks.  By then, Jerry, Ashley, and I were tired, sore, and heartily sick of alpacas.  Goldie's toenails were much worse than the others' had been, and I did the best I could, but I'm going to have to work on his gradually, due to how much they'd overgrown.  By the time we were done wrestling him to get his toenails trimmed, we knew his teeth would have to wait for another day. 

Thank goodness Atticus' toenails didn't need trimming.  I think it will take at least two weeks before our bruises fade.  Maybe then we'll try to trim Goldie's teeth.

Did They Miss Us?

It's hard to tell if the boys missed us while we were gone this weekend. 

Do these look like the faces of boys who missed us?

Does this look like the face of someone who missed us?

It's hard to tell....they're not very talkative.  And "hmmmm, hmmmm, hmmmm" can be interpreted in many ways.  I'll let you decide.

Gravity, How I Hate You...Let Me Count the Ways....

It all started with the best of intentions.  I needed to use fly spray on the alpacas, because even though I have obsessively placed fly traps around the pasture, the flies still annoy them.  Atticus is going to give himself brain damage one of these days with all the head tossing he does, and don't even get me started on how weird a winking alpaca looks.

I learned early on that alpacas don't like it when you spray them with random substances.  Even if it's for their own good.  They see me pick up the bottle of fly spray, and they start running. 

Today, I was trying to be sneaky about it.  I was chatting with my mom over the fence, after feeding and watering the boys.  I had the fly spray bottle in my hand.  The boys milled about warily, because they knew I had the fly spray.  I knew they knew I had the fly spray.  My only hope of getting the fly spray from bottle to fleece was to employ the element of surprise.  This would be problematic, because, as we've established, they knew I had the bottle.

What the boys didn't know was the lengths I was willing to go to spray them.  Picture the scene: the boys wandering close to the covered shelter, because that's where the food is,  pretending to graze, but keeping one eye on that spray bottle.  I'm nonchalantly standing at the fence, about 20 feet away, pretending with every ounce of acting ability I possess that I have no intention of trying to spray them with fly repellent.

I was wearing the very latest in barn fashion, of course.  I was wearing my super-special telecommuting attire--a paint-stained, ratty,  hot pink sweatshirt and navy blue sweatpants.  The sweatpants were stylishly tucked into my shiny, black, rubber boots.  Yes, dahlings, Vogue will be featuring my ensemble in their Winter 2011 photo spread. 

This is what I envisioned that the alpacas would see: a hot pink blur, moving faster than the speed of light, spraying them down with fly spray before they could even decide to run away.  The sheer unexpectedness of the attack would render them unable to think, let alone run.

What the alpacas likely saw: a short, round, lumpy, middle-aged, hot pink blob, lurching precariously toward them in rubber boots, dodging mole holes and tree stumps.  

Gravity is a cruel mistress. 

In my mind, I was still the 17-year-old base-stealing fiend, the scourge of complacent catchers everywhere.  Fast as a bullet and as streamlined and muscular as a greyhound in full stride. 

In reality, it was probably more like watching 40-year-old Jell-o run.  A slow, jiggly, vaguely uncomfortable sight.

After the first step, when I realized what I probably looked like (let alone felt like), my strategy swiftly changed from a surprise attack to something completely different.  If I couldn't baffle them with my speed, maybe I could mesmerize them with my zombie-like shamble. 

Alas, they managed to break the spell that my shock and awe campaign created, and loped off toward the other end of the pasture.  And for some reason, which is STILL not at all clear to me, I kept running after them, flapping and flopping and dodging and tripping, waving the fly spray bottle over my head like Excalibur. 

I cornered them, but everyone except Solomon managed to escape.  The sheer panic in his eyes (you could tell that his one regret would be that this hot pink horror would be the last thing he would see in life) was both gratifying and pitiful.  He was frozen in place.  His options were completely exhausted.  What do I do?  Where do I go?  How did I get into this?  Why are you PICKING ON ME?

I quickly sprayed him and he scampered off, and spent the next few minutes fluffing his fleece, as if to get the Human Cooties off of him once and for all.  One down....three to go. 

As for me, I've decided that after years of holding down the couch, I should probably work my way back up to running gradually.  I'm going to have to be in better shape before I decide to try that again.

OUCH!!

Poor, poor Atticus.  Though he is the Alpha 'Paca, and is demonstrating wise, amiable leadership, he still has his bad days.  Take last Saturday, for example. 

All was quiet in the pasture in the afternoon.  Jerry was in his office, hiding from the rest of the family, who had threatened him with torches and pitchforks because he was being a total tyrant during a brief, scary logging event (more about that another time).  I was in the house, trying to figure out my new "smart" phone.  The girls were hiding, wherever it is that they hide when they think they might be press-ganged into working.  And that's when I heard the scream. 

It was unmistakably an alpaca, and it was also unmistakably Atticus.  He has a warning screech that sounds like Goodyears squealing on the road.  I sighed.  What now?  I'd had it with cranky men for the day.  I didn't need to referee another one of the boys' spats. 

I stomped out to the pasture to see what the ruckus was about, and noticed Atticus and Solomon panting, as if they'd done a few laps around the field.  Great, I thought, that's all we need.  Stupid boys getting heat stressed because of some sort of testosterone overload. 

As I looked closer, I saw that Atticus' right eye was shut.  What was going on??  I walked slowly into the pasture, because the last thing I wanted was for the boys to start running again--it was way too hot for that kind of exercise. 

Of course, Atticus wouldn't let me get close enough to him to see what was going on.  I did notice, however, that there were an inordinate number of wasps in the area, and I put two and two together and realized what had happened.  Atticus got stung in the eye by a wasp.  Poor baby.

My mind raced, as I calmly tried to get close enough to Atticus to see what was going on.  Are alpacas allergic to bee stings?  What happens if he goes into anaphylactic shock?  Benedryl works for the dogs--would it work for alpacas?  What if he stops breathing?  How do you do CPR on an alpaca???

Kayla wandered out to see what was going on.  She stood at the fence, and once Atticus' attention was focused on her, I was able to come up behind him and do a light bracelet hold on his neck.  He stood still and let me examine his eye.  It was swollen, but I couldn't see that there were any foreign objects in the eye.  I think his eyelid was stung.  I patted his neck and spoke softly to him for a few minutes, and he seemed to settle down.  Pretty soon, he laid his head on my chest. 

We stood there for a little while.  The other boys came up behind us, humming in support, as I double-checked Atticus to make sure nothing else was wrong with his eye.  Once I released him, he wandered back into the herd. 

His eye has become less swollen in the last couple of days.  I think he's almost back to normal.  I put up a wasp trap, and was surprised at how many we've caught so far.  We've worked hard to get a handle on the fly population, but until this weekend, we hadn't seen many wasps.  Now, it's war.  I don't ever want that to happen again.

SUCCESS!!!!!

After weeks of plotting and scheming and planning and failing and wondering why an alpaca kept outsmarting us, we finally have Solomon's halter OFF!!!  It was a proud moment, made even better by the fact that it was a team effort.

While someone, who shall remain nameless, is lounging on the lake today, pretending to catch fish, the girls and I took charge of Solomon's destiny and got that ragged halter off his face. 

It took all three of us to corner the beast, using long lengths of PVC pipe (left over from one wretched pond project or another) as "fences" to restrain him in an ever-shrinking web.  We're SO redneck. 

After weeks of chasing him around the pasture, luring him unsuccessfully with food, and ending up frustrated, dirty, and bitter, the final result was almost anti-climatic.  Once Solomon realized he was caught, he was fairly docile, and we were able to do our task with a minimum of fuss.

Now, he looks like the rest of the 'paca pack.  Except he's brown.  And they're white.  I don't even want to think about the psychological damage he's enduring as an alpaca of color.  The good news is, the other ones don't treat him any differently, just because he's brown.  If they treat him any differently, it's purely because CRAZY transcends color, racial, and gender boundaries.  He may be free of the tyrannical yoke of the halter, but he's still as nuts as he ever was.

He's a little camera-shy, so I don't have a picture of his new makeover sans halter, but I'll find a way to sneak up on him soon.

Golden Update

Our boy, Golden, has had a couple of weeks to settle in.  He's doing well.  He isn't humming as much--in fact, the only time he hums is when he sees me coming with food.  He likes to eat.  A lot.  He and Mizzie prefer a relaxed approach to eating--once the initial hay frenzy is over, they lounge next to the leftovers and nosh the rest of the day. 

Golden also likes to nibble on the fir trees.  Poor tree:

He's making friends, too:

He and Rosie, the Great Dane, have developed a friendship, of sorts.  They sniff at each other through the fence, and they seem to get along.  Except....well, except for when Rosie's dog friends are around. 

Golden is learning the hard facts of life when it comes to friendships--if someone is only your friend when no one else is around, chances are, they're not really your friend.  It's sad, really, kind of like high school.  I think we all had that one friend who was really fun to be around when it was just the two of you, but when their other friends were around, they acted completely different.

I hate to say it, but that's Rosie.  When it's just her and Golden, they're very companionable.  But, the nasty truth comes out when the other dogs come around.  They bark at Golden, and she just has to join in.  Golden says he feels a little betrayed. 

Are you hearing this, Rosie?

I think this is a teachable moment.  Doesn't she look like she feels sad for her inconsistent behavior?

In Which Satan's Alpaca Knocks Jerry Unconscious.....

..............the first time.

Yes, it's true.  This has happened more than once.  Slow learner, or stubborn?  That is the question that haunts me.

The first time it happened, we'd just gotten Atticus and Solomon, and we were trying to get their halters off, because at Dunwill Farm, all creatures deserve to run free and wild.  Within limits.  MY limits.  And people say I'm a control freak...weird.

So anyway, Jerry was trying to be helpful, but recent health issues have interfered with Jerry's formerly cat-like reflexes.  Now, his reflexes are...NOT cat-like.  And that's all I'm going to say on that subject, because he's reading over my shoulder.

Jerry managed to get a hand on Solomon's neck, and found out the hard way that alpacas have very strong necks.  They're not just there for looks, folks.  With one flick of Solomon's head, Jerry went flying--OVER Solomon's back, and onto the ground.  I've never seen someone do a full twist in the air, outside of the Olympics, or an episode of "World's Dumbest..." 

I witnessed the event with a clinical detachment.  I blame the media for my nonchalant attitude toward violence.  Or I blame the sixth grade.  Or something like that.  When I saw Jerry fly over Solomon's back and land on the ground, I didn't have much time to think about it, because with Jerry down, that meant we were one person short in the mob that was going to subdue the alpacas.  And by mob, I mean four people--Jerry, me, and two screaming teenage girls. 

As Solomon and Atticus were thundering around the pasture, I spared a quick glance to confirm that Jerry was showing uncommon sense by staying down and out of the way.  In the back of my mind, it occurred to me that this was unusual for Jerry, to stay out of the fray.  Usually, he's the first one to storm the battlements.  That must come from his Army training in Advanced Party, or, as he likes to call it, Cannon Fodder (no offense to the brave men and women who serve our country selflessly day after day, but in Jerry's case, it was either stay miserable being a mechanic, or be in Advanced Party.  He is the first to admit he's no mechanic, and by that point in his military career, he and his commanding officer had come to a divergence of philosophies, thus making the decision to send Jerry to the front lines that much easier on his commanding officer's conscience and upward career mobility.).  As Jerry tells it, his sergeant's version of their mission in Germany was to: "go forward and find a place for the company to hold off the Russians until the "real" Army can get here from America".  Confidence AND loyalty-inspiring.  And Jerry thought they were just there for the beer....

We managed to subdue the rampaging alpacas, and to remove Solomon's halter.  Atticus was thundering along with Solomon in alpaca solidarity--his halter was already off, and he apparently had nothing better to do.  It was at that point that I saw that Jerry wasn't moving.  I cautioned him in calm (not) tones to JUST STAY DOWN.  A closer look revealed that Jerry was beyond hearing anything.  Solomon had cleaned his clock. 

Jerry would like it noted that when he fell, his head slammed into a wooden fence post.  Solomon did NOT clean his clock, or anything else.  So noted.

I was trying to make Solomon feel sad about his role in Jerry's meeting with the fence post.  I was trying to ascertain whether or not he had a conscience and coud feel remorse.  "See, now you've killed him.   Don't you feel bad now?  Who's a bad alpaca?"  And that's just about when Jerry came to.  He states that it is very disconcerting to hear those words, just as one is trying to regain his senses. 

And you'd think he'd have learned his lesson.....

Satan's Alpaca

That's what Jerry calls Solomon.  Unfortunately, it's true.  He is a wily one. 

You will notice that he still has a halter on.  He is the ONLY one of the boys who still has a halter on his head.  This is because he's a complete and total brat.  You can tell by the set of his ears, and the squint to his eye, that he's plotting hate crimes against all of us. 

Oh, sure, I thought, when he first came to live with us, he's a sweet boy.  He's just misunderstood.  Yeah, he's "misunderstood", in the same way that Ted Bundy was "misunderstood".  Folks, Beelzebub is alive and here on earth, and he is an alpaca. 

At first, I thought I should leave the halters on the boys, so that we could catch them if we needed to trim toenails or give shots.  Then, I learned that alpacas are obligate nasal breathers, which means that they must be able to get air through their nasal passages in order to breathe.  Their noses, like human noses, contain both bone (at the bridge) and cartilage (at the end).  If a halter is placed incorrectly, it can squish down the cartilage, causing the nasal passages to close.

Once I learned this little fact, the halters immediately came off the other boys.  But Solomon's remained on. 

Try as we might, we can't catch Satan's Alpaca.  He hides behind Atticus so that we can't reach him.  He has bat-like hearing, so we can't sneak up on him.  He has more moves and fakes than an NBA basketball player.  Just when you think you've got him cornered, he zigs one way, you zag the other way, and it's GAME ON again.  'Round and 'round the pasture we go.  Through the trees, around the chicken coop, and over (darn it) the poo pile. 

Satan's Alpaca has tossed Jerry around like a rag doll--twice.  He's spit slimy, green goo all over Tabor.  He's screamed every time we corner him, and I'm expecting a visit from the ASCPA any day now, because his screams of rage sound like a massacre.

If he weren't so doggone cute....

Hum's the Word

Poor, poor, Golden.  He is so homesick he can hardly stand to be in his own skin.  He stands at the pasture fence, staring sorrowfully off toward the driveway, and humming. 

Maybe that's his normal facial expression.  Maybe he's just trying to see through his bangs.  Maybe he doesn't think Ginger should be digging a hole in the middle of the yard (yeah, sure, YOU tell her).  It's hard to tell, but the one constant is the humming.  It's omnipresent and ominous, like the "Jaws" theme, only with one note: "Hmmmmm.....hmmmmmm....hmmmmmm....."

He is inconsolable.  He stands.  He hums.  He stands some more.  And then Mizzy comes up and tries to bite his ear off.  And they chase each other for a while, screeching and spitting, but eventually, Golden wanders off.....and hums.

He willingly comes to the fence when a human approaches, but there's always a faint look of disappointment when he realizes that the human is unfamiliar.  And ALWAYS with the sad, sad humming. 

I hope that one day, he will come to terms with his new fate, and try to make some friends.  I think Atticus and Solomon (well, maybe not Solomon) would like to be his friend.  I'm not sure if Mizzy wants to be anyone's friend right now.  He's too busy asserting his dominance over the herd to get too friendly. 

At first, I panicked over Golden's constant humming.  The books tell you that humming sometimes means they're happy, sometimes means they're sad, sometimes means they're sick, and even sometimes means they're mad. 

It's kind of like the first time I took my nephew, Tabor, for the weekend.  He was about a month old at that point, and my parents needed a break.  No problem, I thought.  I'm a rational adult.  I can care for an infant for two measly days.  And everything was fine.

Until the crying started.

He cried.  And cried.  And cried.  He wasn't wet.  He wasn't hungry.  He wasn't in pain.  I couldn't figure out why he was STILL CRYING.  After a couple of hours, I was crying, too.  I'd exhausted everything I could think of to get him to stop.  I couldn't understand why he persisted, and I wasn't about to call my parents, because they would get that TONE in their voices.  You know the tone.  The one that says, "See, and you thought it would be EASY.  Not so easy after all, is it, smarty pants?".

So when Golden persisted in humming, I went through a mental checklist.  Food?  Check.  Water?  Check.  No visible bleeding?  Check. 

What it comes down to, I think, is that although he is healthy, well-fed, and uninjured, his soul has been just a little bit squished. 

So I stand, and when he hums, I hum, just so he knows he's not alone.  Someday, I hope he can be a happy and fulfilled alpaca.  Until then, I'll stand by the fence, and wait him out.

In Which No One Likes Anyone

Today has been an adjustment for all four boys.  One minute, they're all hanging out as a herd, and everyone's getting along.  The next minute, someone takes offense at having his tail sniffed, and the clicking and spitting commences.

The loyalties are fairly well-defined--Solomon and Atticus, and Golden and Mizzie.  However, in the heat of the moment, when the spit flies, all bets are off.

Today, Golden and Mizzie were scrapping a bit.  I keep worrying about Mizzie's shoulder, but he doesn't seem to be bothered by it.  He goes after Golden and Solomon, mostly.  I was initially convinced that Solomon would be the alpha-'paca, if for no other reason than his Charles Manson-like craziness, but he seems to be trying to stay out of the fray as much as possible.

Right now, I would say Mizzie is ahead in points.  He's the only one so far who's strutted away from a round with wisps of fleece hanging from his mouth.  Sorry, Golden.  It looks like he caught some of Golden's topknot.  Those two tussle much more aggressively than Atticus and Solomon--they aren't afraid to chomp down wherever they can get a good hold.  Atticus and Solomon play fairly roughly, but they don't bite each other. 

It seems like they only argue when we're out there.  Otherwise, they all coexist peacefully.  They're learning each others' personal boundaries, and as a result, everyone's been sprayed with green, gooey spit.  There haven't been any injuries, and as long as nobody's hurt and nobody's being picked on, I'm going to let them work it out on their own.

Me, You, and Scrappy-Doo

I would like to introduce two new family members, Golden and Mizrahi.  The come to us from Mahart Farms (thank you, Marci!  They're sweet boys!), and are beautiful light colored  Suri boys.  Golden is fawn-colored, and Mizzie is white.  I am interested in experimenting with natural dyes, and we wanted to acquire a couple more lighter-colored fiber males. 

This is Golden:

Golden is about the same size as Atticus.  He is very vocal, and hums a LOT.  I think that will settle down once they all settle in to a routine.  He is a Suri, so his fiber will grow in "dreadlocks", whereas the Huacayas (Solomon and Atticus) will have fiber that makes them look like big puffballs.  We're going to call the vet and have them come out and do some dental work on this little dude.

Here is Mizrahi, or "Mizzie":



Mizzie is the smallest of the group, but he's sure scrappy!  He has a bit of a limp--his right shoulder required surgery early on in life, and so he's got some metal hardware embedded.  He's our bionic alpaca.  Being the smallest and having a limp doesn't slow him down AT ALL.  He kind of reminds me of Jerry in temperament and stature--small but mighty. 

We introduced them slowly to Atticus and Solomon, letting them sniff each other over the fence.  Marci recommended taking Atticus and Solomon out, and letting Golden and Mizzie in, so that they could get the lay of the land without being completely dominated.  We tried that.  I was a little worried that the older boys would pick on the newcomers.  That was not the case. 

Golden decided to take an aggressive stance right off the bat and went after Atticus.  Soon, the herd was thundering around the pasture, like cars zipping around a track.  It wasn't particularly warm outside, but I was afraid everybody would overheat, so we got the hose out.

We'd heard that spraying down chests and bellies would cool them down if they were overheated.  It hasn't been that warm a summer, and there is ample shade in the pasture, so it hadn't been an issue.  But, since the boys were all heated up from their run, and it was a tense situation for everyone anyway, we erred on the side of caution.

They LOVED the hose.  In fact, Solomon loved it so much, that he came close enough to me that I could practically touch him.  He kushed down and basked in the coolness.  Everyone finally settled down, and were soon calmly grazing. 

Golden and Mizzie were eager to explore their new home, and were soon nose-to-beak with chickens.  The hens were mildly curious, but were too busy avoiding Harry and his insatiable amorous advances to really care one way or the other.

Eventually, all was quiet, and a good nights' sleep was had by everyone.

The Boys--Adventures in Alpacas

Once upon a time, our worldview included such livestock as chickens, goats, and cows. Then, my mother received the fateful phone call from our pastor’s wife, who is very involved in a local animal rescue.

You have to understand that my mother is well-known as a softy when it comes to animals in need. Over the course of my childhood, our property played host to a cow, chickens, rabbits, pheasants, dogs, cats, hamsters, parakeets, and two refugee goats. Many of these animals wandered onto the property, and decided to set up housekeeping. Our first cat, Betty, decided to make her home with us when my sister hand-fed her Oreos. She repaid the kindness by promptly having a litter of kittens in our chimney (in the middle of winter), making it impossible to use the wood stove for heat.

So it was no surprise when Mom told us we were acquiring two alpacas. Once we became reconciled to two new residents, it was time to do frantic internet research. What are alpacas? What do they eat? What kind of environment do they need? How much are the vet bills going to be?

For the next two weeks, all I did was internet research. I refuse to admit that I might possess a smidgen of OCD, but it’s possible that someone who didn’t know me very well might just think I’m a little obsessive. I learned enough about alpacas and their physical, medical, emotional, and spiritual needs to be very trepidatious about our new venture. Emotional and spiritual needs, you ask? Don’t get me started.

The arrival of the boys was looming. We needed to re-home them by the end of June. I quickly let go of the idea that we’d have their shelter completed, and satisfied myself with having the fencing done. The pasture they were going to inhabit came complete with a dense stand of evergreen trees, and the area stays dry, even during the winter in Oregon. This would have to do until we could get the new alpaca Taj Mahal done.

The boys were owned by a very nice woman who, due to medical reasons, had to find them a new home. They are 8 years old, and have lived together since birth. Neither of the boys had been gelded, and I began to have daydreams of founding a great alpaca empire, one which would change the direction of our lives forever. Oh, yes, they’ve changed the direction of our lives, all right. But not in the direction of creating a dominating alpaca empire.

So, at the end of June, Mom and I hopped into the minivan to bring the boys home. Yes, I said minivan. My exhaustive internet research revealed that alpacas can be transported in such a way. Ideally, they “kush”, or kneel on front and back legs, and are content to look out the window at the scenery.

Since it was late June, the boys were due for shearing. Alpacas in this area need to be sheared once a year, and the deal was that the owner would call her shearers and do the deed before we took them home. Ostensibly, the shearers would help us get the boys into the van, as well.

What I didn’t realize was, alpacas don’t LIKE to be sheared. And these boys weren’t very socalized, either, so for those of you who have calm, well-behaved alpacas, you probably wouldn’t understand how truly horrifying it was to hear them SCREAM as they were being sheared. It was like someone was killing them. The shearers, bless their hearts, were very efficient and professional, but the boys didn’t make it easy. That whole myth that alpacas don’t spit on humans? Not true. If you make them mad enough, they’ll spit on anyone.

The shearing massacre finally came to an end, and then it was time for the alpacas to get into the back of the minivan. We’d taken the seats out, and the back was completely open. After a lot of wrestling, screaming (some even from the alpacas), and naughty words, the boys were ensconsced in the minivan. Mom had to finalize the paperwork, so I was left to sit in the van with the boys, and try to calm them down.

“It’s okay, guys, this is the worst of it. It’s all downhill from here,” I crooned, trying to convince myself as well as them. I still had hold of their leads, because my fingers wouldn’t unclench from them. Please don’t spit on me, please don’t spit on me…I kept saying over and over to myself, along with, where is Mom? Why am I stuck here with these angry little beasts?

Eventually we hit the open road. The boys eventually got tired of not being able to stretch their necks and kushed. Atticus kept up a very worried humming for the duration of the trip, and Solomon was clearly plotting revenge.

This is Atticus, with a perpetually worried look in his eyes:






This is Solomon, with his typical, crazed-serial-killer look in his eyes:






We got the boys home, and they have managed acclimate, more or less.






But the story is far from over…..