I’m feeling out of sorts. I’ve got a dozen different writing projects on my desk. None have a deadline. Just ideas and manuscripts and pipe dreams to pursue. I should make an action plan. Have a list of priorities. I confess to a bit of the blues.

Three windows wrap around my desk, and there’s a door to a porch. It’s sunny. Downright hot. But there’s a breeze. I can’t focus.

So I take myself outside and note all of the blues out there.

Let’s not quibble and include purples, too.

And a blue chick.

There, I feel better already.

Anyone who’s ever worked out, or watched Biggest Loser, knows that it’s important to incorporate two things into one’s exercise plan – resistance training and  aerobics to get your heart beat elevated. You could join a gym and hire a personal trainer. Or, you could get goats.

Yesterday I mucked out the goats’ stall. Shoveling and carrying a muck bucket (use your calves, not your back!) are tailor-made to build muscles. For a middle-aged woman like me, I’m sure it also helps to keep my bones dense.

After cleaning out the boys’ quarters I decided to tidy up the HenCam coop. I kicked out broody Coco and latched the pop door. Then, for a treat, I let the hens into the goats’ paddock. That meant that Pip and Caper could come into the chicken run. They like looking about where they’re not normally allowed. I went into the coop and did some more weight training and squats. As I carried a full muck bucket to the door (use those abdominals!) I almost tripped over two goats, who were eating flowers in the pots outside of the pens. I did a double-take. All gates were latched.

Lily Dog was about ten feet away, deciding what to do. She chases coyotes and turkeys that are bigger than these goats. But, the goats are her friends. They might be up for play. Rough housing dog play. Lily does have a “leave it” command. But she’s never been asked to “leave it” for big, live, moving goats. I tried it anyway, louder and more dramatically than ever before. Yelling showed that I was as excited as Lily! She went into play-bow pounce position.

And then I got to the stretching part of my exercise routine. Pip and Caper were still near the door to the chicken pen. But, they’d eaten all the flowers and were about to move on. I had to move quickly. I tried to block the goats from Lily, while opening the door, and shooing chickens away from the door, and keeping both goats within arms’ reach.

Then, I went back to resistance training. I shoved a goat butt towards the open door. If you push a goat, the goat pushes back. The goat never, ever goes in the direction of the push. All gyms should be outfitted with goats. I did a little weight lifting, too. A goat on two legs, theoretically, should be easier to shove than a goat on all fours. Right?

Meanwhile, my heart rate was well elevated. Who needs step training when one is trying to juggle chickens, goats and a dog?

The new trend in workouts it to do short, intense twenty-minute sessions. Accomplished!

Once the goats were put back in their paddock, the chickens shooed back into their run, and Lily rewarded for not turning goats or chickens into shredded toys, I took another look at the fencing. It appears that the goats figured out how to pull the tab that unlatches the chicken run’s door. It’s still a mystery why they closed it after they left.

In any event, I’m sure that my goat trainers are thinking up new exercise routines. They wouldn’t want me to get bored with my workouts.

A friend in Missouri wrote to tell me that he lost a friend in the Joplin tornado. His cousin survived – huddled in the bathroom closet with his wife and toddler- as their house was smashed to bits around them. I asked how I could help. He said that the Humane Society of Missouri is taking in lost and displaced pets and that they will not go into limited-time shelters, but will be cared for indefinitely until owners or new caretakers are found. Also, the HSM has a facility for farm animals.

I’ll be sending in a donation today. It’s easy through the HSM web site.

I’d also like to send a donation to a canine search and rescue group working in Joplin. It takes years to train search and rescue dog and handler partners. Teams are funded by their members. They sacrifice family life and leave work at a moment’s notice to do this dangerous and arduous task. Does anyone know of a S&R group to donate to?

The other chicks are content to run about in the brooder and perch on the branches in the coop. Not this one. She’s discovered the HenCam mount and very much likes the view. I wonder if she’ll be a “top hen” and lord it over the others when full-grown? So far, pecking order seems to be entirely about size. But, I haven’t sat and watched for any length of time, so there’s probably more going on than I’ve noted. I’ve been concerned about spreading the mycoplasma to the chicks and so do my chores quickly and leave them alone. However, soon they’ll be flapping over the cardboard walls. It’s time to dismantle the brooder and let them have the entire big barn coop to explore. I’ll get to that task this week.

The weather has been dark, damp, rainy and chilly. But, last weekend there was a break and we gave the chicks an outing in their run. I handed the chicks off to my son, who set them down in the reseeded and grassy pen.

They found the edges with dirt and worms. This girl knew exactly what to do without any help from me. See the worm? She does!

A good time was had by all. Even the little blue cochin.

Lily was very interested in the chicks. She’s known that they were in the barn, but hadn’t had a chance to meet them.

I can train Lily not to gallop along the fence, causing the birds to startle (a game she’d love to be allowed to do) and I can even teach her not to toss the chickens about like rag dolls. But, since training is never 100% I won’t ever take the risk and allow them to meet without a fence between them. Not all dogs are as movement-reactive as Lily. I know plenty of dogs that are fine with mature hens; my late, great Nimbus (an Australian Shepherd/Husky and the best dog in the world, ever) used to follow the chickens around and eat their poop (well, she was the best dog, but not perfect.) Lily chases hawks out of the sky. She’s a good dog, too. Even if she thinks that the chicks are squeak toys.

Blackie had been ill for a long time. Like many older animals, she walked stiffly and rested frequently. At the age of six she was well past the end of her productive life, but I’m not a farmer that has to have each animal contribute to the bottom line and so we kept her on. She was part of the fabric of the backyard community.

But, in the last two months, I questioned whether her continued longevity was the right thing. The other chickens knew that she was on the outs. They pecked her back unmercifully until there was raw flesh, unprotected by feathers. I put her in a separate coop. The feathers grew back, but not her strength. She couldn’t stand for more than a few seconds at a time. Still, her poops were normal, she was eating and drinking, and Eleanor sat by the coop, keeping her friend company.

You can’t always “let nature take it’s course.” We’ve already altered nature. A chicken, after all, is a domestic farm animal. It depends on us for food and protection and I like to think it appreciates the home we give it. Leave a chicken to it’s own resources in the wild of my backyard and it would be dead within days. The chickens stay alive because of my good care, and sometimes, they die because I deem it the time to go. I’ve had many sick chickens and watched some die. If you wait for that “they’ve given up all hope” look in their eyes, you’re unlikely to see it. Yesterday it appeared that Blackie had her final stroke. A wing fell limp to her side. And yet she pecked at corn and turned a black, shiny eye to the outside world. She was not going to tell me that she’d had enough. I’ve seen a severely wounded chicken act as if she was not in any pain. Chickens could teach the fire-walking, sleep on a bed of nails swamis a thing or two.

Because I have coddled this hen, she was already alive for far longer than she would have if I’d let “nature take it’s course.” I’d already saved her from being killed by the flock. Her water was laced with antibiotics so the mycoplasma wouldn’t infect her. She had food and water nearby so she didn’t have to stand up. I dusted her with louse powder because she couldn’t dust bathe.

Blackie wasn’t going to look me softly in the eye and plead to go.

Steve took her out of her coop yesterday and sat her on the ground. She pecked at some grass and ate. She tried to stand but couldn’t. She was no longer capable of doing even one behavior that mark a chicken as a chicken. No dust bathing, no roosting, no scratching in the dirt. It was time.

Because you’ll ask, I’ll tell you how Steve did it. He does a quick neck pull near the skull. Blackie was so on automatic pilot that, although dead, her heart kept beating for awhile. It’s brutal to watch, even if you’ve seen it before. He buried her in the meadow next to Lulu.

Blackie was a good big basic black laying hen. She wasn’t a favorite like Lulu, but we were happy to have her in the flock. I knew, when I ordered the chicks this spring, that Blackie would be gone by the time they were laying. Chickens don’t last long, but their leaving is always hard.