Yesterday my coworker told me two dogs broke in to his goat pen and killed his three pet Nigerian dwarf goats. He came home from work and as he pulled up to the barn wondered why all his goats were lying down in the middle of the day. He’d bottle raised these animals from babies and had them many years, pampering them with home-built playgrounds made from cedar he’d milled himself.

This is a tough old Southern farmboy who walks with the swagger of a man used to being able to outmuscle or outsmart anyone he comes across, a sixty-five year old Vietnam vet, and yet his eyes skittered from mine and his hands busied themselves patting papers on his desk when he said, “They were so tame… They’d follow you around just like puppies.”

He left their bodies lying where they fell hoping to entice the dogs—which were feeding on the carcasses and had run as he’d approached—to return. Because the dogs were wearing collars, he got the county sheriff to set live traps. But he’s also got his gun by the door loaded with, “something that’s not going to just sting their asses,” and the sheriff has agreed to look the other way if he’s called to collect empty traps.

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Tucker spent all yesterday evening fussed up over something in the woods. He worried up and down his invisible fence line until it was dark and time to go inside. When I let him out around 11, he ran straight to the woods and barked and barked. After a few minutes of that I called him and he flew in the door, the most keyed up I’ve ever seen him. His tail was sticking straight up and bristly, and he kept nudging aside the kitchen door curtain to look out at the night. When that didn’t get me to open the door, he ran to the front door and stared out the sidelight, running back to bore his eyes into mine with the gravity of this message. He was clearly telling me something was going on Out There that was offending the order of his kingdom.

I know too much about what can happen in the woods in the dark to let him back outside, so I waited until he calmed down and put him to bed.

Then in the middle of the night I awoke to a bark directly under my open bedroom window. As I surfaced to consciousness I heard other canine voices join in chorus, so close to the house that I could follow each distinct animal, and I heard them pacing. These weren’t the neighbor’s dogs, nor the hounds at the hunt club behind my house. The noise and its proximity chilled my spine. It didn’t sound like coyotes, which I frequently hear up on the mountain. These sounded like dogs.

And then as quickly as it began the chorus died and the normal night noises flowed back to fill the space left by the canine sounds.

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No harm came from this late-night visit but I couldn’t fall back asleep. As I was attempting to reenter the stream I remembered a conversation I’d had with Tucker’s breeder as I was debating the merits of neutering a male dog. She told me that where she lives, in Ohio, she’s known packs of coyotes to lure unneutered male dogs out of their yards. Then the whole pack gangs up and kills the dog.

It might be time to get that shotgun.

The five baby bluebirds are still alive and busy outgrowing their nesting box. I have to open the box very slowly so they don’t tumble out. Mr. and Mrs. Bluebird have begun divebombing me as I check the nest—so I do it really fast. I am glad they are upping the security as their babies get closer to fledging.

Sneaking a stretch out the open door.

Look at that cute little tail! Had to tuck this little foot back inside before shutting the box.

Mama bluebird appears to have found the time, while raising this brood, to also lay a single egg in the nest.

In less joyful bird news, I lost a guinea hen today. For the past week she’d been looking off, and had been getting picked on by her coopmates. I set her up in her own crate in the garage with medicated electrolyte water, and she just kind of sat around, crying herself hoarse for her flock. Today I let her loose with her buddies as they free-ranged, thinking the sun and fresh food and companionship would do her good.

Well, in a couple of hours I found her dead right by the coop. I picked her up and chucked her in the woods for the foxes and their kits.

It stinks to lose a charge, but in some ways I am grateful to not have to mess with a sick animal, particularly a guinea as I am on the fence about whether they are earning their keep and I’m devising potential exit strategies for the flock. The only thing that really makes me sad is my mom says she likes the guinea eggs, and now I have only one hen left. The era of the guinea may be coming to an end at Bonafide Farm.

All five eggs hatched and the babies are still around and look healthy. It’s amazing that they can go, in one week, from tiny naked midges to these rather robust beaks with blue feathering bodies attached.

It doesn’t look like their eyes have opened yet, but they should within the next day or two.

Mama Bluebird’s extra vigilance this time around—her third clutch this spring—has paid off. I opened her nest this morning, after she flew off it, to find one remaining egg from a clutch of five and a squirmy mass of newborn chicks. Wish her luck!

I was in the house tonight working at the computer when I heard Tuck start barking outside. Lots of barking. Some growling. Very unusual from him. I looked out the window and he was pointed toward the road at the front of the house. I yelled out the window for him to be quiet, thinking he was after some biker or something on the road, even though I trained him to not bark at bikers and he usually doesn’t.

He ran to the porch to check in after my yell, but then shot back into the field, barking. This definitely warranted checking out. I put on my slippers and stepped outside.

There was a huge black vulture perched at the top of a dead tree right between the road and my property line. Tuck raced up and down through the field, barking but respecting his invisible fence. What a good dog to notice this anomaly, this potential threat from the air. Ever since I asked Tuck, many months ago, to help me get a huge flock of vultures out of the big oak–which he understood and did with a look and shake of my head–he’s been super alert to threats from the sky. Even though this vulture didn’t put anything at risk, I don’t mind Tuck’s generalizing as he also applies this vigilance to hawks and eagles that could carry off a chicken.

I knew this could go on forever, so I figured I’d finish up the job Tuck started. I ran down the road in my slippers clapping and jumping around, yelling at this vulture to get lost. If my neighbors needed final proof that I’ve lost it, they got it tonight! But I got proof that my young farmdog is acting just as I hoped he would, and that we can take care of this place together.

Just went to check on the bluebird box. The pair had a couple of eggs in there—their third attempt this spring at a family. I gave my cursory, customary tap on the box, but there’s never been anyone home each time I open it. My fingers were turning the latch when I saw a glint inside the entry hole. My breath caught, unsuspecting of this connection. Mama bluebird was holding her ground, looking at me with bright eyes. She didn’t seem worried—just aware. I backed away…slowly…and she held fast to her nest. No photos, she’s had shock enough for the day.

Skunked!

At 10:00 p.m. on a Wednesday night, right in the face and all down his chest and front legs. Though scrubbed with dish soap and vinegar for an hour, both of us exhausted, he still smells like burnt balloons. Especially now that it’s raining. The winter woodsmoke smell of my home has been replaced with something just as strong and way less pleasant.

You should have seen his face the morning after when I wouldn’t touch him. Broken hearted. I hold my breath and kiss his head.

On Sunday afternoon I decided to take advantage of the last day of the national parks system’s free entry week. I loaded up the dog and within 20 minutes of leaving the house we were on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains breezing by the ranger station into Shenandoah National Park. Five minutes after that we were in one of the most beautiful forests I’ve seen—and that includes many of the major national parks out West—Glacier, Grand Teton, Olympic, Redwoods—and more.

I think that what made is so beautiful was really lucky timing, though I am sure the park has its beauty in all seasons. On this trip the trees were just barely leafed out, yet the undergrowth was blooming with wildflowers. Tiny streams ran everywhere, including alongside the trail. The scrub hadn’t grown up yet, so I could see straight through the forest all around and it was like being in a magical glade. It was about 65 degrees, and the sun made dappled patterns across the ground. The wide trail was covered in wild grass. It was like hiking on a shag rug.

I am pretty sure this is a wild elderberry. I saw food everywhere I looked, thanks to last year’s herbalism class. Fiddleheads and ramps and nettles. For the first time I understood the appeal of wildcrafting, though I didn’t pick any plants myself, and understood how one could survive on wild foods.

Trilliums

On this short hike I also saw more bear sign than ever in my life, and that includes a few months spent in an Alaskan forest! There were fresh scrapings on trees, and many huge piles of scat in the middle of the trail. I also saw a lot of dead tree stumps that had been torn open as the hungry bears searched for their spring breakfasts.

Needless to say, all the smells were intoxicating to my trail companion!

We ended up hiking basically straight down the mountain and then turned around and slogged back up. Tucker was so cute on the walk up—every time I stopped to rest or take a picture, he’d pause a few steps ahead of me on the trail and turn around and keep an eye on me until I got moving again. With all the bears in the area, I was grateful for his watchful attention. How lovely it would have been to have just kept on walking—in a few more steps we could have picked up the Appalachian Trail and gotten to Maine in time for lobster season!

Sad to report all five bluebird eggs are gone. No sign of shells nor struggle. Suspect snake.

I checked the bluebird box tonight, curious to see if the bluebirds were building a nest. Lo and behold they already had and were incubating five perfect blue eggs!

Here, a bit hard to make out, are Mrs. and Mr. sitting on the fence. I wish them the best of luck with their babies, and a happy Easter to everyone else. I hope there are some Easter eggs in your basket.