It’s tick season. These nasty insects suck blood and spread disease. They lay in wait on tree trunks, in brush, in tall grass and in dried leaves, which are all of my goats’ preferred places, too. In past years, my goat boys have rubbed themselves raw trying to dislodge ticks burrowed half-under their skin. I’ve groomed them, and picked the ticks off, but they still caused misery.

This year, I put the Tick Patrol to work, and they’ve been doing a brilliant job of reducing the tick load in the pasture!

For reasons unknown, the hawks that nested year after year in woods at the back of the pasture did not return. There’s still a risk that a flying predator will come by, but I’ve been watching, and so far the skies are clear. In the afternoon, after the Ladies lay their eggs, I let them into the goat paddock, where they go to work, cleaning up insects that I can’t see (they help to control parasites that the goats might harbor)

and then they move into the larger pasture. Their dinosaur feet shred leaves and expose bugs.

No creepy crawlies escape their sharp vision.

In the next week I’ll be opening up the overgrown side of the pasture.

The Ladies will have their work cut out for them. So far, though, I’ve found only a couple of ticks on the boys. They are very grateful!

This is my first attempt to use chickens for tick control. I’ve been surprised at how successful it’s been. Guinea hens are supposed to be even better, but they’re very loud and don’t stay put, so I’ve not considered getting them. There will be a lot more ticks in the brush in the overgrown side of the paddock. I’ll let you know if the hens are up to that job.

Something is wrong with The Beast. My peachy-white eleven-year old koi has what looks like red gashes on her sides and head.

Looking closely, I can see that she isn’t wounded, nor has she rubbed herself raw (as fish sometimes do when irritated by parasites.) I Googled a description of her symptoms, and discovered, much to my surprise, that koi get sunburned! Pale-skinned koi, like The Beast, are especially susceptible.

Why was this the first year that I’ve seen such sun damage? I think it’s because The Beast is now enormous. Lily pads that used to shade her, are now like small polka dots overhead.

In the late afternoon, bright sun reaches deep into her cave, but she is now too big to lurk in its dark recesses.

My Google search taught me that pond salt helps to  promote slime on a fish’s scales, which acts as a salve for sunburn. I bought a carton. It’s a big pond. I poured the entire contents around the perimeter.

I bought another waterlily. This one has especially large pads.

It’ll take awhile for the waterlily to grow more leaves that will provide enough shade to prevent sunburn on the koi. In the meanwhile, I’ve moved the umbrella away from my chairs, over to the edge of the pond.

I don’t mind. I can wear a hat. Which is not something that I can see putting on The Beast.

Given the chance, the goats would, in a matter of days, eat up everything within their meadow. So, I have moveable netting inside of their permanent fence. I move it about twice a week. This gives the plants that the goats like the best – the brambles, the tall weeds, and the shrubs – a chance to grow.

The other day I opened up a particularly overgrown section of the meadow. Goats can cram a ridiculous amount of forage into their four stomachs. (Actually, to be precise, it’s four compartments.)

Did you say ridiculous?

Pip is the jealous one. He grazes next to Caper, and every few bites, head butts his brother away from the plants that he wants. Caper moves off, all the while eating. Compare their two bellies.  It’s obvious  that Caper’s philosophy of non-engagement is the most successful.

You’re pointing this out WHY? By the way, the fence needs to be moved again.

I don’t use sand inside of the chicken house. There are better options for coop bedding. So, why was I at the lumber yard, filling my car with bags of all-purpose sand?

It wasn’t just an excuse to admire the resident dog (but don’t you just love seeing dogs at places like this?)

I bought the sand for the chicken run. There are eleven hens in the Big Barn. That means that there are 22 dinosaur feet digging and kicking. Although I do my best to keep their yard raked, that’s eleven hens producing manure and grinding and pounding it into the ground. Eleven hens actively making dust wallows. Twenty-two clawed feet tunneling along the fence line, weakening the defensive boundary we’d installed around their coop to make it safe.

Clearly, it was time to do something. The solution was easy. A few bags of sand would help to loosen things up, improve drainage, and bring the surface of the run up to ground level.

Each bag weighs 70 pounds. I can get them out of the car and into a wheelbarrow, but not out of the wheelbarrow and set down where I need them. This is why I’m grateful that I still have a teenage boy at home. Three hundred and fifty pounds of sand seems like a lot, but it doesn’t go far when you’re filling up pot-holes created by a flock of hens.

The Gems free-ranged while I worked.

Pearl, the fluffy cochin, spied what was going on. Sand, she says, provides for a true spa experience.

Phoebe is very grateful for all of the carrots that were generously sent to her.

Vegetables aren’t supposed to be fattening.

Maybe she looks so round because of the angle of the photo.

Nope.