Spring Slams into Seven Hills Farm West

                Spring came early this year to Seven Hills Farm West. Really early.

    It actually started on Christmas with the arrival of Tweedy Bird. After a lifetime of owning canaries, one of my girls actually hatched an egg.  This my not sound a big deal –  there are a million canaries out there and they all began as eggs - but it came as a huge, and pleasant, shock to me. A miracle actually.

               

               Apparently a lot of people agreed with me. Ever the proud bird god-mother, I posted near-daily pictures of Tweedy’s progress on Facebook and Instagram, and soon found s/he (I have no idea if Tweedy is a female or a male) had many more followers than I did.  They were also more rabid. If I didn’t post photos for a day or so, well, people complained.

                

             What amazed everyone was just how fast Tweedy went from a horrible bug-like creature to an actual bird. By the time he was four weeks old, Tweedy was hopping around eating real food and had grown actual feathers. Eight weeks later he was back in the flight cage with his parents.  He looks nothing like his mom, but is a carbon copy of his dad. Nature is pretty amazing.  Really astounding.

              

             It’s only gotten better. 

February 28th was monumental. Not only was there a driving rainstorm, which is enough to bring out the happy dance in drought-stricken Los Angeles, but  after an anxious 10 months of waiting, Lucy decided to deliver her foal.

I’d been on baby-watch for a week, since the experts told me she was showing all the signs.  Naturally, I was sleeping literally with my phone on my pillow, since horses tend to deliver between 10 pm and 4am in the morning.  For two weeks there was nothing. Crickets.

Then at 10:30 on Saturday night, the vet office called to tell me to be ready to come out, that Lucy was looking ready. They weren’t kidding. Ten minutes later they called back to say she was in labor.  Naturally I left immediately.  I’m not even sure I locked the door. In fact I’m pretty positive I didn’t. I do know that I broke the speed limit driving to the clinic.

By the time I got there, a half-hour later, after a mere nine minute labor, which has made her the envy of all my friends,  Lucy was standing around, looking dazed. On the ground was a tiny, perfect, filly. The doctor was still drying her off as I walked in the stall.

Lucy had done a stellar job but she was staring at the lump on the ground like it was an alien. Which it probably was to her. Lucy’s a maiden mare and probably had no idea what had just happened.  Eventually she sighed and lay down next to the baby and nuzzled it, which made for some awfully touching photos.  

Not surprisingly, I have put the paparazzi to shame. I have taken roughly a million photos. It isn’t enough.

When Lucy got up, the doctor untangled the baby’s legs, which is pretty much all there was of her, and stood her up. She promptly collapsed, but after about a half hour managed to do it on her own.  Almost immediately she was zooming around the stall. I  believe it’s because she didn’t know what else to do with her legs except run. When she stopped running, she wobbled.

Then it was time to try to nurse. She stuck her nose everywhere except where the milk was. And every time she touched Lucy, Lucy would scream. Eventually the vets milked Lucy’s colostrum and tube fed it to the baby. They fed the baby that way every hour until about 4am, when the filly finally got the hang of eating on her own.  Apparently there is actually a syndrome called ‘dummy foals’ because, well they are. Who knew?

Thankfully it’s been off to the races ever since.  The baby has grown into a beauty, and I say that not just because she’s mine. Well, maybe I’m a little biased, but everyone seems to agree with me.

                

            She has a star in the shape of California on her face, and three white socks. She’s going to be bay, like both Lucy and her father, and is already pretty huge.  At a month, she’s no longer gawky, but is still all legs. She looks like an equine giraffe.

                

            She’s quite shy, but will let me play with her and, like a toddler is into everything.  Like her mama, knows exactly what she wants and more typically, what she doesn’t.  Like her itty bitty halter. She doesn’t appreciate that at all and makes it known. For a while I seriously considered calling her Dontwanna, but that seemed like tempting fate.

Instead, her registered name will be Way Out West.  The “West” comes from her father, Westporte. Her barn name, Faith, comes from Lucy, whose show name is Blind Faith.

Already she’s a little mini-me of Lucy.  If Lucy comes for a mint, so does Faith. Of course Faith doesn’t quite know what to do with them yet but she still wants one. 

Then there’s the fly masks. The flies have also come early this year, so Faith has been outfitted with a tiny fly mask which in a bit of serendipity matches Lucy’s. Together they look like they’re very stylish equine bank robbers.

                

            Obviously I’m pretty smitten. People tell me that babies go through a horrible ugly stage when they’re yearlings, but I can’t accept that. Faith is going to always be gorgeous.  No pressure.

                

            It’s a few years down the line before she can be ridden, and thankfully I’m not going to be the first person to do that – which is good for both of our sakes.  But I figure I’ll be on her in about five years.

               

         

 I can’t wait!

Welcome to the World Tweedy Bird!

   

 My only New Year’s Resolution for 2015 is to use the Monty Python song “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” as my motto.  It seems doable: I live a pretty good life. I have great friends and a decent family. Without becoming too sappy, I’m blessed.

     

     But only three weeks into this shiny New Year, it’s becoming harder every day.  The year started with a literal bang with the shootings at Charlie Hebdo. No matter what your opinions of the cartoons, or the taste -or lack thereof- the magazine showed by printing them, nobody should ever die for a cartoon satire. Ever.

     Then, as if not to be left out of the terrorist discussion, Boko Haram stepped up their assaults on innocents in Nigeria. Not to be overly pessimistic, but I’m sure there will be a school shooting  soon. 

     Boy Howdy! What a way to start the year.

     Which is why some of my friends have noticed my recent infatuation, some would say obsession with my canary chick. Staring at a half-ounce of newly-born fluff somehow gives me hope.

     Some background is necessary.  I’ve had canaries since I was a tyke. Usually one at a time, but sometimes more. Only the males sing, and stores always guarantee that the birds are male. Once the bird in question starts laying eggs, it’s a pretty good bet that it’s female. 

     I always wanted a flight cage where the canaries would actually have room to fly, as opposed to the tiny enclosures that pet stores sell, where the best they can do is hop from perch to perch. When I bought a house, I finally had room and I had someone build a five-foot avian habitat which I quickly populated it with canaries. Some turned out to be females, the rest were, as promised, males. 

     Most of the females spent their spare time turning the food dishes into nests.  Once they rip up enough newspaper to line the feeder, they hop in and start laying eggs.

     For the next two weeks the potential mama canary remains in that nest with her butt plastered to the eggs.  After two weeks, she gives up, hops out and I throw out the eggs . In about a week the process starts all over.

     Only once over decades of canary stewardship did a chick hatch, and it didn’t last a day. Apparently that’s not unusual. Canaries are terrible parents.  They are so bad that it astounds me that the species isn’t extinct.

     So when Rusty started sitting on a nest in late December, I had no expectations. Over the years she’s probably laid two dozen useless eggs. And zero chicks.

     On Christmas Day when she hopped off the nest, I reached in to toss out the eggs. But there was something breathing.  It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. It was an orange bug the size of my thumbnail. But it was definitely alive.

 

   A little late in the day I started reading up on how to keep the pair healthy. Rusty needed special food since she was eating for two.

     This meant that I had to cook. I don’t cook. I never turn on the oven except to bake turkey loaf for the dogs or heat frozen pizza.  I can’t tell you the last time I used the range.

     Suddenly I was buying eggs and hard boiling them daily. For the canaries. Even though it’s cannibalistic, the yolks are good for the chick and grown birds love them. They also got a daily ration of cooked oatmeal, broccoli, apples and soaked canary seed. A balanced diet.

     Every day I braced to find the chick dead. Instead, every morning I was awakened to the bird peeping while Rusty dutifully fed it. Except for when it was eating, the chick was completely silent.

Intellectually I know that nature works, but to watch it happen is magic. 

     The baby, now dubbed Tweedy Bird, changed enormously from day to day.  One moment it was bald, the next it had puffs of down and later it sported actual pin feathers. 

     After two weeks I moved Rusty and Tweedy into their own space. I‘d read that males occasionally attack fledglings, and I was WAY too emotionally invested in Tweedy for that.

The move was traumatic for all of us, but everyone survived. Okay, I needed a slug of Makers Mark . But then I was fine.

     The next day Tweedy started jumping out of the nest. Sometimes he landed on his feet. Mostly he was like a toddler – the feet moved but the brain had no control.

     Yesterday Rusty decided Tweedy  was weaned. No matter how much he flapped his stubby wings and screamed, she was done.  I suppose if he’s big enough to sleep on the perch at night, he’s big enough to eat on his own. Besides, she’s nesting again.

     My mare is due to foal in the next month or so, but I sent her away to the home for unwed horses.  I wondered if I was doing the right thing, but after the experience with Tweedy, I know I’m right.  Birthing babies is hard.