A Real Farmer

There are certain moments in life in which you find out what you’re really made of. One such moment took place for me just the other day.

Maryanne

It was an average morning. I went out to the yard to open the chicken coop door. Per usual, the girls catapulted themselves from their warm home into the frigid morning air. They dove their beaks into their waiting container of feed. Breakfast.

Chickens out for the morning

My routine continued. Check the water container. Get a scoop of feed from the sealed metal pail in the garage and top off the hens’ snack bin.

Gathering an egg

Peek into the nesting box and gather an egg. And today, I have to clean out out the coop.

Chicken Coop

The coop cleaning always piques the interest of Susie Q, Maryanne and Roz. They suddenly become incredibly curious about what I’m doing and inevitably begin to protest my invasion of their home. I open the side doors of the structure and grab my trusty brush/dust pan combo.

Dust pan and brush

As quickly as possible, I empty the coop of pine shavings and poo, pouring each pan-full into a small garbage can before it’s tossed in with the compost.

Maryanne close up

It’s inevitable that as I shiver and shoo the birds away from my work space, some of the pine shaving/poo cocktail will fall to the ground, missing it’s intended path. And so, my final coop cleaning step is to brush as much of the fallen mess into the dust pan as possible, pour one last batch into the trash can and be on my merry way.

Roz

The whole process usually takes less than ten minutes.

Except for this day.

Chicken through the trees

When, on my last swipe, my brush hit something unexpected.

It was stiff. And snow covered. And gray. And furry. And frozen.

A squirrel.

A dead one.

Ugh.

I gasped. And tumbled backward. And let’s be honest. I suffered a minor panic attack.

I gently pushed the dead little buddy back under the coop. I calculated how long it would be until Jay would be around and able to get rid of him. It would be hours. I shuddered.

And then I bucked up and decided to take control of the situation. I’m not an imposter, I thought. Hell no, I’m not. I’m a REAL farmer!

Susie Q

Granted, actually real farmers probably don’t name their chickens after their mother and generally have more land than a miniscule .13 of an acre, but you get what I mean.

In any case, what does a real farmer do when a dead animal is decomposing on her property? She gets herself a steel shovel and disposes of the darn thing!

So that’s exactly what I did. I wiggled the shovel under the squirrel’s frozen body and put it in an empty chicken feed bag. I rolled up the top and put the bag in the big garbage container behind the garage. And I walked back into the house, feeling ridiculously brave and proud of myself.

How do you think he died? Jay asked after I texted him to tell him what had just happened.

I told him the squirrel likely passed away when his stomach burst after binging on the free buffet of organic chicken feed in the backyard. He laughed. So did I. Real farmers.

The girls

7 thoughts on “A Real Farmer

  1. Your a strong, brave woman. I wouldn’t have been able to get rid of the body. I would have run in the house and stayed there until it was disposed of by Jay.

  2. I had to put on my big girl pants and dispose of a dead squirrel in my backyard, too. The crows were feasting and my dogs were chomping at the bit to get out there as well. I also used the shovel and bag method. Luckily, garbage day was that day, too! One of my dogs brought me in a present a few years ago. He proudly layed down a dead crow on my living room floor. That disposal was also quite harrowing for me. Good job, Elizabeth!

  3. And to think, yesterday I was proud of myself for getting rid of a spider without asking for Cliff’s help. I could never have handled the squirrel. You go girl 🙂

  4. hahahahahah!!! As your mother of 31 years…I can see it all happen before my eyes! Only I would know the courage it took you to retrieve the frozen squirrel…and I am very proud of my farmer daughter….from her city mother….

  5. So proud of you!! I know how it feels, I was a city girl my whole life until 6 years ago, I am 57. I have taken care of sick animals, calves and baby goats and even fed one calf (Lazurus) after my daughter-in-law and husband had stopped as he was sick and dying, the dumb city girl didn’t know, hence the name, he grew stong and tough. I also drilled a hole with a jack hammer into our basement wall so we could bring water to our barn, only on 5 acres but when I tell family and friends they are in complete disbelief. I think we surprise ourselves as we watch ourselves GROW. Go farmer E!!!!

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