The Tournament of Roses has its Rose Parade. Macy’s has its Thanksgivings Day Parade. The People’s Republic of China has its National Day Parade. However these meager festivities happen but once a year. Here at Rosemary Farm, we have a parade everyday. In fact many times a day. Just about anytime you go somewhere around the farm becomes a parade. With 45 very domesticated animals here it is hard not to look back and see a flock of chickens, a pack of dogs (with a few cats) or a herd of horses keeping in step with you. It’s like being at the front of a conga line at Auntie Hannah’s Purim Pageant.

Walking grain down the hill to the horses is a sure way to start a parade. The chickens love the scraps left by the horses, and seven or eight are bound to follow you, clucking and cackling as they waddle their way down the hill in formation. A dog or two is sure to wag in, bringing up the rear.

Human participation is not always necessary for parades at Rosemary Farm. Letting the dogs out is always a spectacle as the three canines bound across the party field usually followed by a cat or two; and frequently unintentionally led by a squawking chicken or two.

And then there are the times we watch from the window at the surprising sight of a band of horses, who have started their own parade down the middle of Roses Brook Road. Casper has taken to being the Grand Marshall of those parades. In perfect disposition they gallantly trot the road one in front of the other.  Where they are going is not important – it never is in a parade, the joy is in the act of getting there.

Indoor parades are also regularly scheduled in the farm house; person, dog, dog, cat, dog, cat, person – and in the library the bunnies join the fray.  The morning parade goes down the stairs to the backdoor.  The food parade is around the kitchen into cold storage and out again (that one is regularly scheduled twice a day.)  And then the evening parade back up the stairs. Of course, there are several bathroom parades throughout the day but we tend to discourage those.

The festivities NEVER END here at Rosemary Farm.  At least it’s never boring, and you’re never alone!

	As I put up the "Newest Arrivals" page tonight, I felt I needed to add this postscript to my post "In Memory of…".
			Just two months after the death of Tigress, her friend of thirteen years, Nikki, our other beloved cat was diagnosed with feline mammary cancer. She underwent surgery, but it was a very aggressive cancer, and within four weeks, Nikki laid down in my lap and took her final journey over the rainbow bridge to be with Tigress. It has been hard losing two such wonderful creatures and long time companions so close together.
	But the joy they brought us through the years will not be forgotten. Their memories live on in each and every new arrival that’s comes to share in our life and times at Rosemary Farm.

As we go about our daily rituals here at Rosemary Farm, I am reminded of a fabulous episode of the Twilight Zone.  It was about aliens who came to Earth to help man produce more food and relieve human starvation. The Earthlings knew these aliens were benevolent because they found a book belonging to them and translated the title : “To Serve Man.”

To Serve Man

In a typical Twilight Zone twist, the episode ended with a man shouting to a line of people boarding the alien craft: “…To Serve Man – IT’S A COOKBOOK!”

In the Twilight Zone of Rosemary Farm I shall begin this blog by shouting “To Serve Chicken” is NOT a cooking blog!

It seems at times our life here at the farm is in the service of the animals.  At this moment there are 43 of them – and only two of us.  15 of the chickens are only six weeks old (they live in the sun-room down the hall from our bedroom) and they require feeding about five times a day.

More Chicks

We only have nine horses here at the moment (they do not live in the house – thank god). Seven are in the lower field together and two more are in a field across the way. The morning graining ritual is no less than an hour. Each horse has there own bowl and the grain must be put out in order so no one gets insulted. Lead horse first then the mares then the young horses. Careful attention must be paid to the routine as it will change as herd dynamics fluctuate. Putting out the hay is less regimented. We can put out round bales (900 lbs each) with the tractor, but we also feed plenty of small square bales (50 lbs each) which we carry here and there mostly by hand. So how often do we have to haul out all those bales of hay? Turns out, horses require about 40 to 60 Lbs. of hay a day in the winter – each. You do the math.

Molly at the Gate

Then there are the full grown chickens out in the coop. We only need to put out food once in the morning for them. In the summer they are let out so their food is spread around, and they forage for – bugs I guess. But in the winter food must be carefully arranged in the coop so everyone can eat and there are no chicken fights. The term “pecking order” comes to mind here. We recently had a new hen move in (I think we are listed in the Chicken Zagats Guide) and has not been completely accepted by the other hens so she needs to be fed separately.

The Coop

The two bunnies don’t get along either so one is in the house and one has an outdoor hutch. They get the same food, just in two different locations. Once the chickens, horse and bunnies are all taken care of the cats and dogs who live both in and outside the house and have been waiting patiently get there bowls filled. They also have a predetermined ration of both wet and dry food and of course order is important here too. Some of them eat faster than the others so precision timing is a must to assure a peaceful mealtime.

Feeding Time

By time we finish the morning feedings it is all we can do to make ourselves brunch.  Inevitably it is too late to call it breakfast and we have to get everyone else fed first or we just would not be able to enjoy our own meal.  We do allow ourselves the luxury of coffee BEFORE serving our masters animals.

As evening falls, it is a perfect time to sit out on the observation deck and watch the the sun set over our majestic hills – except, of course, it is time for the evening feedings and the ritual of “locking down” the farm for the night.  The sunset will have to wait.

The chickens need fresh water before being closed up in their coop.  The horses need to be brought to their appropriate stall or pasture with sufficient hay and water for the night set out.  The bunnies get some carrots and fresh water because in the winter all still water must be changed often or it freezes. Then it’s time to fix the evening meals for the cats and dogs and replenish the food and water for the baby chicks.

The sun has now long set and a quiet darkness has befallen the farm.

Evening Falls

The sunset did not wait for us. At least we can start to fix our dinner. Tonight it is pasta (or something simple to fix) because after feeding all the creatures large and small it is just too much to trouble to make a fuss for ourselves.

So if you ever want to get the full flavor of country living, drop by the farm anytime; we’re serving chickens morning, noon and night.

At Your Service

Hmmmm…is it possible that I am re-building my childhood breyer connection? My best friend Lisa and I played with them every day. We would ‘race’ them using dice and the parquet floors in the hallway of one apartment or another, depending on which mom could tolerate us. We wrote newsletters about their wins, and the horses themselves had complicated relationships, with love affairs and long tales of adventure. When one of us got a new horse it was sometimes dubbed a foal of one of the mares. I spent hours pouring over the annual Breyer catalog, and watching every horse race that was televised, absorbing anything ‘horse’ available to me.

When Lisa and I got a little older, we would ride real horses, trail horses, at a nearby stables in Wheaton Regional Park. I used my allowance money. I rode Cheetah, an appy gelding, every other week for a year. I adored him. It was the closest to having a horse of my own that I could get, living in an apartment in suburbia.

The Breyer horses were as real as I thought I would get to owning a horse; that is, until we got the farm. Am I re-producing the Breyer herd? There were 52 of those!

Much recent discussion about the effects of closing U.S. equine slaughter plants a few years ago, and whether this has lead to an upsurge in horse neglect and a downsurge in horse prices. Current research released by Equine Welfare Alliance negates this argument, and points to the immediate increase in slaughter in Canada and Mexico to compensate for local closures. (To read yourself please visit: http://www.equinewelfarealliance.org/uploads/Horse_Slaughter_Trends_2006-2009.pdf ).  So all we accomplished by closing the U.S. slaughter plants was to lose american jobs, cause the horses to suffer longer trips in frequently overcrowded trucks, and give up control over how those horses meet their demise. Funny, one might think I was actually for slaughter by reading this diatribe. Duh, I am not.

HOWEVER, at the end of this article it mentions some upcoming changes in horse meat export that I found to be quite the bombshell news.

Let me preface; there are many reasons that I am against slaughtering horses for consumption, and one of those reasons involves the new restrictions. Horses used for activities (racing, showing, trailriding, etc) require vaccinations that are unsafe for human consumption, and yet it is these horses, bought on the cheap, that are the primary source for inexpensive horsemeat currently being served for dinner in France and elsewhere. Finally getting wise to this, and suspicious of those very american equines, the E.U. is instituting a new restriction, that all horses going for slaughter to their tables have six months verifiable health records before getting the proverbial ax. Beginning July 2010. As in, six months from now. This restriction will increase over the next three years, until all horses for consumption must have lifetime records before being hamburgered. The only way to provide this will be raising horses solely for slaughter.

Economically, this seems to me to be a huge deal. The horses that are currently going to slaughter are being purchased at auctions for $10-$300 (for the big ones). They are re-sold as quickly as possible, which saves on any additional food costs. There is a trucking fee, lessened if the truck is full, and I am sure that there are some other tariffs, etc. that the seller must pay. These are the horses that are fueling profits in this business. When these horses can’t be sliced and diced, the profits are gone. The buy-and-sell-on-the-cheap slaughter industry will be wiped out (*technically it still leaves Japan and Mexico as viable export locations but they will probably jump on the new bandwagon soon enough). If the demand for horsemeat continues it will become more expensive, so I imagine we would see a rise in meat-only horse farms. But that doesn’t address the surplus of unwanted horses in the country today.

Like I have said, I don’t support slaughter. It is not humane. (If you want to watch what it looks like, please visit this very very graphic site:  http://s147271628.onlinehome.us/HorseSlaughter.wmv ). There are also many doctors who have written about the horses’ awareness as it is being vivisected. To put any animal through this kind of torture at the end of it’s life speaks very poorly for us as a country, but especially to put animals that we have loved, trained and trusted seems glaringly wrong. Horses occupy the place of pets, partners, trusted companions, intelligent and reasoning. If an animal has shared our world, done what we asked,   and physically carried our very lives, it seems reasonable that animal be given the same care we give our cats and dogs. Add to that the concern for the inherent vaccinations discussed above, it’s a very bad idea to eat our horses, any way you slice it.

What is the solution, then, for the increased number of neglected horses? If I am correct in my assessment above, we will see an upsurge in horses with nowhere to go in the next few years. I am really new to this world and by no means have all the answers. But it seems that first it would help to curtail breeding more horses!

If breeders, both professional and casual, become aware of this, perhaps they will limit breeding more horses that will be backlogged in an overburdened market. And if you can’t sell it, you won’t make more, right? But it may get worse before it gets better.

The racing industry. Another blog entirely. I won’t even go there today.

I know that people like me will continue to take in as many horses as we can handle, and place them in homes. I hope that humans continue to interact with horses because it is a magical encounter, and benefits the human the most. There are new horse sports and games being developed to provide this opportunity. But navigating these next few years, helping to care for these extra horses while we also survive our own foundering economy, is going to take all the ingenuity that we can find.

This is the story of how our percheron mare Molly came to live at the farm. It began at a horse auction last fall.
Nov. 14, 2009, Dawn wrote;
“Went to the horse auction last night; it is such a horrible experience for many of the horses there, and not a great time for those of us paying attention to them. It is also disconcerting that most folks don’t seem to think it’s a big deal; I struggle as much with this as with what is happening. I keep remembering the scene in ‘Planet of the Apes’, where there is a human auction and we are reminded of the horror of treating any animal in such a degrading, abusive way. It is unfortunate that most humans miss the leap to other species when considering respectful behavior, but then again, many humans are just as awful to their own kind.
Before the auction there is time to visit with the horses up for sale, who are in the back aisles, in stalls. Some are saddled and ready to try out, with owners singing their virtues, but most are alone. The most frightened horses are the ones without any people, care, or even halters. There were two groups of horses there that night in such a state. One group of geldings, obviously a family group, was anxious, nervous, clustered together, seeking an explanation which no one could give them. Their owner had died, and when the property was sold, the horses were sent to auction. Without even a halter, no one could try and ride or lead them. So no one was going to bid on them, except the kill buyers.
Another large group of un-haltered horses included three brood mares with foals by their sides. One beautiful black mare caught my eye; she was obviously a percheron, with thick black mane and tail and a beautiful head. But these attributes weren’t what caught my eye, it was the twine wrapped around her neck, trailing onto the ground, getting caught under her front hooves, pulling on her throat. I went to the gate, where there were also two men watching her. ‘Do you have a knife?’, I asked, and one pulled out a pocket knife; we caught onto the twine and cut it short, freeing her. She was suspicious of our contact but she had reason; she had a tall paint colt at her side, as well as another yearling filly, both obviously hers. I pulled an apple out of my bag and she perked right up, taking the apple politely and gratefully. She was also, as everyone agreed, probably pregnant. I petted her as my companion walked up, “Looks like you’ve made a friend”, he smiled. I wondered about their fate and hoped someone would buy them all and keep them together.
The auction was starting, and they usually do the draft horses first. We found a seat on the risers, as people crowded the floor and the auction began.
As I sat there, watching this absolutely massive Belgian draft gelding being auctioned off I was embarrassed for us as a species. Here was this completely huge horse, really the size of a small elephant, with all manner of harness cobbled together and tied around him, huge collar fitted tightly around his thick neck, blinders on this eyes, tight straps around his big knobbly face, and he was being controlled on the reins by a child. He was trying to move and turn in the small ring, being cracked on his flank, with too many people crowding around him, and still he tried to be polite and careful where he stepped. He could hardly see and he could hardly move. He was so huge that really nothing was controlling him but his own will to listen. And the auctioneer, trying to raise his bids, was calling to the boy pulling the reins to back him up, then push him forward, turning him this way and that under the glare of the lights, with the stadium of humans looking down upon him. Spectacle. How many of us would have behaved as graciously? And this breathtakingly huge boy sold for $300, to slaughter.
What is wrong with us?
Soon after, the percheron mare and her family came onto the floor. The mare was first, and bidding was brisk for a few minutes, and I hoped that someone nice would win her. I had no money in my account! But she was a nice girl, she would get a home… Bidding slowed after just $200, and then hit $275, and as I hesitated, she was Sold. To the kill buyer.

Obviously the horse auction is not a happy place for me to spend time, but I feel compelled to look reality in the eye.

After her colt sold to a nice family, I left distressed. I could not sleep that night, for the face of that kind mare who I didn’t buy. I am not comfortable playing God. When I consider one I almost as quickly ask myself, why not the other one? Why this one? How can you leave the others behind? The kill buyer’s truck filled up last night with noble steeds of the Gods, discarded by a race that has fallen from grace.

Here is the awful question; how do you decide which ones to save?
Do we become complicit when we see them going and do nothing?”

Nov. 17 Dawn wrote;
“I decided to see if it was possible to save the mare. A small check came in that would just cover it. I got the name and number of the “kill buyer” and called the family up. Let me say here and now, I could not do what they do; I could not buy and sell horses for meat. But, these people are legal business people, and they own these horses for a few days. They are middlemen. I cannot defend the separation of ethics and money, but they don’t cause the problem.
So I called them. First they said that they didn’t know if they still had the mare because they had sold several already. I waited two days to hear, but nothing. I called back, and now she says that I should just come and look at the horses because she doesn’t know where her notes are, and there are so many horses, and a bunch are shipping out tomorrow night.
I hope that I have the stomach for this. I am scared to go to their place. I am scared of looking at all the horses about to get killed.”

Nov. 19, Dawn wrote;
“Wow, what a trip. Wrenching many ways. Got lost of course (I get lost a lot), took me five hours to find it….The place is as sad as you imagine, listless, unloved horses gathered together, waiting. Many of the horses were not in good shape. But they all had food and water. The people sort of baffled me, and I think me, them. They were friendly enough, and they took me to the pens to have a look for the mare. They kept telling me that there was nothing good in the pens or it would have been pulled already, certainly no pregnant perchie mare. I didn’t see her, it seemed she was gone.

Shall I describe the holding pens for you? They are made of a standard wood fence, the ground thick with mud from many horses arriving and leaving. There are several water troughs and piles of hay. The horses are sad, standing, waiting. Some have their tongues hanging out, some look suspiciously at us, most just ignore our presence. I’m told to watch out for the one that will kick me. There are all colors and shapes of horse, all age and experience. There are appy’s and drafts and many thoroughbreds, and I would bet money that many had raced. Many had carried people on trails or in shows. Many had once been someone’s friend. Yes, this is sentimental, but it’s also true. All of these horses were about to get into huge trucks to travel to Canada and be slaughtered. But I did not see my mare.

They then took me into the barn to show me ‘their’ horses. The owner used to be a rodeo rider, and his original old horse is there, and beautiful and well cared for. Then there is the younger horse that was to be the riding replacement, but he is now 78 and has largely given up riding. Then there were a few others, some family riding horses, also in good shape. This is not a simple image of a kill buyer, but a family who also owns and loves horses. I am more confused then ever.

There were also three completely emaciated horses on the other side. A beautiful buckskin, a tall thoroughbred and a quarter horse mare. They were ‘rescuing’ them, they said, and trying to get weight on them. I didn’t know that horses could still walk and be that thin. All vertebrae were visible on these thin sad horses. It was because of rescue groups, they said, that they couldn’t keep them outside, because then they get accused of ‘starving’ horses. And when they only own them for a few days it cannot be their fault. It was a painful sight. I couldn’t quite understand why these horses, of all of them, they were “saving”, but I learned later.

I asked to look one more time in the pen. That was when the head owner showed up; oddly affable and unassuming, mostly deaf, and smiled at me. They explained to him who I was and that I was looking for a black perch mare, and he said ‘Oh, she is down in the chute’;  As in, the chute to get on the truck in an hour. The trucks were parked there, waiting. It is certainly grim. I circled around to the other side, and there she was, my mare. The woman was very impressed with her, saying that they would have pulled her if they had seen her earlier. I was starting to get that I was being fed some bullshit, but whatever. The mare was already tagged with her waybill to ship to Canada, but I was allowed to pull her out. She is magnificent; a deep black coat, calm, happy to see me. What a relief to see her out of the pen.

Also in the chute were four gelding boys from last Friday’s auction, as sweet as ever, most certainly trained riding horses. Not given a chance. I petted them, glad to see them, and it is going to haunt me that I couldn’t take all four of them home as well. There really never is an end, is there?

I helped halter the mare and get her out, and the old man went to bargaining as I held her lead rope;  ”You like ‘im?” He shouted, “Four and a half”. Yikes! He paid $275, and I pointed that out. “She’s worth $450 as meat”, he said simply. So what could I do but agree? Apparently the drafts are the fillet mignon of the horse meat world. You cannot blame this man for the problems of these horses when he has owned them for four days, and further, he did not have to sell her to me at all. He did not have to let me onto his property. So I am indebted.
I just stood with her for a few minutes, outside the pen, before we stored her in the barn for the night (I don’t own a trailer yet, if anyone needs a good birthday present idea!). I breathed a sigh of relief. It’s illogical to think that it makes a difference, or to try and understand what compelled me to get this mare. I told them that I could get her trailered the next day and called a friend nearby.

A few minutes later, I was driving the 20 miles to a friend’s place. There are about 20 there, almost all from kill pens. They keep many and adopt out what they can. I am really amazed, as I go along in the horse world, how many people there are, people trying to make a difference in their small but important way. My friend told me that the kill buyers get very suspicious of strangers, especially anyone who utters the toxic word, ‘rescue’, and that it would be wise of me to keep relations open. Which I hope to do! He also said that the story about rescuing the skinny horses was bullshit, that they were too thin to ship to the kill places, and that they either needed to fatten up or just be shot. Again, a mystery to me, but it would explain why the skinniest and saddest horses were tucked away. Who can one blame? There are clearly many people in the pipeline that is allowing our american horses to be neglected this way, with little repercussion.

I am exhausted and can ill afford to pay $450, but I am very happy to have this mare coming to the farm. Oh, on my way out, they went to get another mare out of the holding pen, to take the place of my mare who was already booked on the truck. How’s that for a sickening and helpless reality? I don’t know if I really saved anyone then.

What a world eh? Most of it doesn’t make sense from my vantage point, maybe from the heavens there are more distinguishable patterns.”

Nov. 19, a note from a friend;
Dawn, I am glad you got your mare. The whole cycle is vicious, and although you may wonder if you really made a difference, please know, to that perch mare, you made all the difference in the world.”
Nov. 19, a note from another friend;
Dawn, I hereby pledge $300 to help with this rescue mare, or another one. You are doing good.”

T’was nearly midnight last Saturday, a balmy -4,
When there came unexpectedly a knock at the door.
We started away from the fireplace hearth,
Expecting the worst from the voice in the dark.
“Your horses are out” came the familiar refrain,
we sprang into action, grabbing coats and some grain.

The clatter of hooves were ringing and fleet,
the horses were running and playing in the street!
Moonlight bounced off the snow making hides glow blue,
manes tossing tails swishing loud whinnying too!

Oh Casper, oh Finny, oh Kiona and Jack,
you look magnificent, but please come back!
They scampered and darted and shot up the hill,
disappearing from sight with exuberant will!
As fast as they came they were gone from view,
leaving hoofprints in snow and a few piles of poo.

Using flashlights and patience they were slowly tracked down,
and with halters and grain persuaded to turn around.
Back down the hill the gang trailed in file,
making their way, but taking awhile!
Escaping is fun for a quick roam,
but with the games now over tired horses came home.