Restarting the Blog Machine!

Getting back into the usual blogging groove has been difficult, what with the new Internet radio show and the past two hectic weeks.

I'll be posting again soon, though!

I would like for you to take a look at the blog that I have started as a companion to the show, American Republic Radio Blog.

I'm thinking there are going to have to be a few vacations taken from the show; as spring approaches, so approaches a lot of time-sensitive work that needs to be done here at NottaLotta Acres.

Everything will be duly blogged. I'm already getting that "springy-planty-moving-goat-pastures-aroundy" feeling.

Even the smallest amounts cold of medicine can do that to you.

On the Goat Front...

With the turn in the weather, it has become necessary to start feeding alfalfa hay to our goats.

This particular kind of hay is full of crumbled up bits of dry alfalfa that like to catch in the early morning breeze and fly into my face! It's not a nice sensation to be digging alfalfa out of my ears all day, so that's one drawback.

We have two pastures that are separated by a single stretch of fence, one being larger than the other. After spending weeks repairing and re-repairing fences, we now have them confined to the smaller pasture... at least for now.

One good thing: they've stopped getting their heads caught in the fences! (Their horns act as catches, keeping them from pulling their heads out of the square mesh fencing.)

They like to stick their heads out to get at the grass just outside of the fence.
(That's one place we don't have to mow.)

Pictures of the little boogers can be found at the link to the right: "NottaLotta Acres".

Rights Not Enumerated III

I stood in line at the Sporting Goods counter at Wal*Mart again, this time for the final scrap of paper that allows me to hunt. The clerk was about twenty years old, probably a college student.

My Dad went too; he needed a Hunting License and HIP Stamp, while I only needed the stamp.

The clerk first asked Dad for his ID, then began the mandatory interrogation:

"How many geese did you shoot last year?"
"None."
"Any ducks?"
"No."
"Rails?"
"No."
"Snipe?"
"No."
"Woodcocks?"
"No."
"Quail?"
"No."
"Doves?"
"No."
"Sandhill Cranes?"
"No."

The clerk then handed him his new papers, and turned to me to ask for my ID.
I gave him my Apprentice License, and he proceeded to ask me the same questions as before, but he stopped himself when he saw my eyes glaze over.

"I'm required to ask you the same questions."
"Well, I didn't shoot anything last year. I did even worse than he did!"
At that he quipped, "So, they shot back at you, huh?"

He finally gave me my little card, so now I'm done with it...until I go for my deer tag in a few weeks, and then my Hunter Education Card either next month or this time next year!

Anyway, Monday begins the great dove hunting season, and I'm sure to drop a few. Many people would say "harvest a few", but I don't have to be PC on my own blog.

I may post a video of my hunting adventures...we'll see.

Belligerent Vermin

Our small farm has been plagued over the past year by filthy scoundrels of all sorts: cats, coons, and coyotes. (Also possums, but I didn’t want to interrupt the alliteration.)
The dirty thieves have been making off with egg and chick alike.

We’ve nabbed a few of the wily intruders, such as a couple of cats and a few possums, rest their souls. But the one critter yet to be whipped is the infamous coyote.

Those rascals have made several appearances over the past several months, with us never even knowing they were there until we looked out the window.

The first time we saw one, it was just standing there outside the window, looking for the weaker prey item.

We chased after it (anyone who‘s ever tried to nab a coyote knows how that usually goes), but to no avail. We may have hit him on the run with our small-arms fire, but if we did, it didn’t show. The next time we saw one, it was making off with a small chicken in the front yard. It too got away.

About a week ago, my Dad was casually going to and fro outside when a commotion of clamoring chickens startled him. Sure enough, running right for him was a hen being chased by a coyote. Not wanting to leave the chicken to be eaten, instead of running inside to get a gun, he rushed towards the coyote. The old song-dog saw him coming towards him and casually trotted away; that’s a bad sign.

That coyote should have darted away instead of trotting.

Oh well, the more brazen they are, the easier it will be to drop them.

The next time such a haughty mongrel appears, he will be met with the resounding clash of arms.

Check back for updates.