Everybody but me has connections

I can't get hold of a big-ass Obama yard sign, even though I live right next to a polling place.

But the production crew down in the barn apparently has more juice than I do.

Chelsea A. Arthur promises ...

Free eggs for all the kids in Grosse Pointe Farms, Michigan.

Kids, you know what to do:

Why, We ARE of The Body

Raised By Wolves has been tapped for a Superior Scribbler Award by Janeen over at Smartdogs!

Aw shucks.

I think we're too new at this. Really.

So, since I am such a tyro, I shall utterly sincerely plead ignorance and immediately break the rules of the Award. (I was gonna excuse myself as a maverick, but I'm kinda hoping that self-characterization don't play right now.) I'm meant to nominate five other bloggers who have not already been tapped. But my blog reading is limited, and I believe most, if not all, of the fine writers you see in my blogroll have preceded our infant project in recognition.

Instead, I'd like to put the pressure on to some of the best, most insightful animal writers on the interwebz, who are hiding their lights under a basket. That's right; if Janeen can tap such a new, untested blog for recognition, I'll take it one further and pre-emptively bestow this award on five writers who should be blogging for the masses instead of concealing their talents.

Well, not entirely. They are just limiting their audiences to the subscribers of some of the better discussion lists. I have been guilty of subscribing to certain lists solely for the pleasure of reading one or two writers' posts.

I'm going to email this post to all of them -- I don't know whether any of them read this blog -- and start the arm-twisting forthwith. Any of you who know these individuals will, I'm sure, agree with my choices -- feel free to pile on.

Many of you will know the novels and nonfiction of my friend Donald McCaig. If you don't, go out and buy them. Now. I told him many years ago that he is one of the finest American essayists of our age, in the same league as Wendell Berry. That was not fan fawning, that's how it is. Then I read his Civil War novel Jacob's Ladder, and knew that I had also made the acquaintance of the Great American Novelist. Do I say so lightly? I do not. Believe it.

What you will not know is that The Donald's contributions to canine discussion lists are also lyrically beautiful, insightful, and uncompromising. Not to mention curmudgeonly when it is warranted. I first met him online on the original Canine Genetics list, which was owned by the late Dr. John Armstrong, and hosted on a university server in Calgary. Cangen was a revelation, a graduate seminar in population genetics, a usually gracious and always provocative salon of things Dog. (It was strangled in its sickbed by show-fancy dittoheads after Dr. Armstrong's untimely death in 2001.) Donald McCaig continues to enthrall me with the world of sheepdog trials and work on the closed professional Balanced Trainers' list. It is selfish for us trainers to keep these pleasures for ourselves.

Donald, knock it off with the modesty. There is a ready readership for the art you share on BT, and they need to hear what you have to say. For doG's sake man, Jon Katz has a website!

Some of you will be aware that CARDA SAR dog handler Laura Sanborn is one of the tireless citizens who spearheaded the campaign to defeat the noxious California AB 1634, The California Pet Extinction Act. Save Our Dogs spoke for the working dog in that great coalition to defeat "sounds good" nanny-statism. Those of us who need, use, love and value real working dogs -- and those who would choose their own pets -- have Laura and her husband Douglas Surber to thank for putting their lives on hold for over year to turn back the tide of PeTA's anti-animal agenda in California -- slowing its metastasis to the rest of the world, buying time for reason to prevail.

You may not know that, although Laura owns two English shepherds, she has the tenacity of a terrier when her engineer's mind encounters a puzzle. Her research skills are second to none, her ability to frame an argument and support it with facts a wonder to behold. She's one of the few people I know whose opinions follow the facts, an uncompromising intellect.

Like, for example, this.

Laura's SAR-unit name is "Twenty Questions." No doubt.

Laura is another Cangen alumna, and is active on the English shepherd discussion lists and the Balanced Trainers' list now. She has an encyclopedic knowledge of working dogs of all stripes -- not just SAR and stockdogs, but especially police and Schutzhund dogs, and extending to every beast who earns his kibble. It doesn't stop there -- Laura's interests and expertise range wide across the medical, behavioral, genetic and historical.

I asked Laura to join me in a communal blog some time ago; at the time she was neck-deep in the California battle, and both she and Douglas were hard at work establishing the amazing online registry database for the English Shepherd Club. Now Laura, you weren't thinking you'd just return to having a life, did you?

Dr. John Burchard knows more about a thousand disciplines than I will ever master about one.

Sighthounds, horses, hawks, hares. Wolves and eagles and badgers Oh My. Biomechanics. Genetics -- regular and population. Human cultures and how they interface with their animals. Tick-borne disease. Reproduction, selection both natural and artificial. Ecology. Behavior, ethology -- any species. Great Mexican food.

Some of you have seen John occasionally quoted on the fabulous Querencia blog. Not enough.

John used to go online once every couple of weeks, and then the lists to which he was subscribed (Cangen again, and others) would receive an enormous bolus of Burchardian knowledge, insight, and wisdom. I would purely salivate when I saw the first post, for I knew there would be a dozen wonderful ones to digest that day.

I once asked John, as I was working on a magazine project that died aborning, what he would most want ordinary dog owners to know about their animals. This hard scientist thought for a while and said, carefully, "They must understand that there is a mind there."

John Burchard is gracious above all else. John, it is unkind of you not to share yourself more widely.

Alison Lever is a Brit expat academic who thinks on Things Dog and, now, raises sheep and picks olives in rural Spain and continues to think on Things Cultural, like this and this. Alison, am I correct that your specific form of overeducation is as a cultural anthropologist? I miss her posts to Balanced Trainers, followed her journey from urban pet owner in closely-guarded England to Spanish shepherdess in one of the villages where she performed her field work.

Alison, come down out of that olive tree a few times a week and tell the world about it!

Baton Rouge dog trainer Dick Russell welcomed me to the Balanced Trainers' list with a threat to the other members -- If you run this one off, there will be (I forget the specific colorful Cajun consequence). No worries Dick -- I was happy to jump in swinging. Where Donald McCaig is curmudgeonly, Dick Russell is just plain ornery -- and we like it that way.

More to the point, there is no other single dog trainer whose advice to owners I simply send off verbatim (usually as a link) so often. Like this one.

At my first dog trainers' conference, hundreds of dogs, there were three dogs that were never on a leash, and never on an electronic collar, had never been trained on an electronic collar. One was my beloved SAR partner Mel. One was Donald McCaig's June. And the third was Dick's sheepdog Annie.

Dick, I want to hear about your horses and Gulf Coast sheep and sheepdogs and kittens and etouffee and chickens and politics and wimmin again.

The gauntlet has been slapped to the ground. Blogger accounts are free. Gentlemen and ladies, what say you?

Poultry Politics: Part 1

The guineas are in jail.

If no one wants to buy them, they will be moving to permanent quarters in a big white humming box in the basement. Unlike Ted Stevens, they are not getting a vote.

Before I bought the guinea keets, a number of people warned me that they can be territorial and aggressive towards people and dogs. Hah! We tremble in fear at the prospect of a two-pound bird getting cocky. No issues with respecting people or dogs here.

But I was also told "Put 'em in with your chickens. No problem!"

For three months, no problem.

Then, quite suddenly, big problem.

At first, I figured the chooks were just getting more standoffish. Most of them didn't come running when I showed up with scratch or kitchen scraps during daytime free-ranging. The guineas were right there, though.

Then I wondered why a couple of them seemed to be hanging out in the coop most of the day, often up on the roosts at midday.
Bad Flock Owner! Pay attention!

Then one night last week, I heard the commotion in the coop stall as I did chickie bedtime barn chores -- guineas attacking my Orpingtons, who were cowering in the corners. Buff Orps are, in every way, the golden retrievers of the chicken world -- fighting back was not in their repertoire.

I identified two main culprits and employed the Broom of Instruction on them. And, somewhat to my surprise, that settled it. For that night.

The next night, they were back at it, this time targeting my New Hampshire pullets as well. Two of the New Hamps are special pet lap chickens. I came running to the shrieking to see a guinea with a red and black New Hampsire tail feather in his beak. Oh, hell no!

Caught the culprit in a net and hung him upside down while discussing moist-heat cooking methods. Invited the pullets up on the roost to peck him for emphasis. Chelsea A. Arthur, my white alpha chickie, got it right away, and took a few shots. And that settled it. For that night.

Next day I was cutting a dog door into a barn stall at midday. With more or less unlimited pasture, the guineas were choosing to chase and torture selected chickens -- the buff, red, and white chickens. Basically, any bird that was not colored or patterned like a guinea.

Moe, who is rapidly becoming indispensable in his roles as Director of Homeland Security and First Farm Hand here, diligently interrupted all attacks. He is gentle, but birds respect him.

That night, the guineas started in as soon as everyone came in to the coop. I closed the door to the outside pen, put a roost pole in one corner, and kicked their speckled butts out for the night. The pullets mobbed me, chucking and purring quietly.

I asked for advice on a guinea message board, which has hundreds of members and hosts a lively discussion on such topics as the best treats for guineas, guinea color genetics, what to name guineas, etc. That was a week ago. I've not received a single answer. Thanks guys, so helpful.

So I posted the same questions to the backyard chicken forum -- was this a teenage thing? Was there a way to correct the bullying? (The birds have plenty of coop space, free-range all day, are the same age and raised together, get plenty of fresh green food and free-choice pellets -- so none of the usual causes of intra-flock aggression seemed to apply.)

Answers -- once they start, there's no stopping it. They'll escalate. They'll kill your hens.

On Wednesday I opened the pop door in the morning, all the guineas ran out, and all the pullets stayed on the roost.

Huh.

Closed the pop door, locking out the monsters, and all the pullets leaped down and attacked the feeder.

That's it!

I left the door closed and built guinea jail in the next stall.

Then the task of catching the beasts. There was an unseasonable snow squall blowing all day. Moe was indisposed, as he often is on the first nasty days of winter. He was upstairs in the warm bed.

So I asked Rosie.

I've never let Rose "work" the poultry. All her training re: poultry thus far has been about leaving them alone, respecting their space, not being too rowdy in their presence.

I asked her to flank me while we gently herded the easily-panicked birds into the small run off the coop. This worked okay; I went in after them with my handy landing net, closed the gate -- and the entire flock exploded upwards, bursting through the bird-netting roof.

Oh damn.

We spent the next half-hour trying to corner the flock while I "controlled" my little dog with obedience commands and body language, trying to keep her back off the birds, keep her quiet.

She had real trouble understanding what it was I wanted. The situation was too fluid, and my reflexes too slow for me to tell her exactly where to be, and how fast to move, and when to stop. What were we doing? Rosie had no idea. Certainly not catching guineas. She whined and groused and pouted, one of her specialties.

Did I mention that it was blowing 30 mph with a wet snow?

After the last of dozens of disheartening failures, I gave up. I just told Rosie to go get 'em and stood back.

Theory? She'd run the little bastards to exhaustion and I'd pick them off with the net. And she'd vent some of her boiling frustration. And I'd deal with the fallout of allowing her to chase poultry later.

She ran them for about five minutes. Chased them around the barn. Repeatedly split the flock and ran down singles until they flew. Treed them, and I'd push them off with a stick. I just kept egging her on.

And then it happened.

Rose had just run them all the way around the barn and was chasing them towards me out in the pasture.

The flock of seven made a 3-4 split.

And the tumbler of some lock in Rosie's brain turned. Sha-shik. Instead of chasing one group or the other, instead of a mad dash to put some of them to flight, Rosie feinted left, circled, and put the flock back together.

Her genetics called her to herself, and she came to them. My petulant little beast became a stock dog. It happens in a second.

She fetched the flock straight to me, and I caught one with the net. Took it in and popped it into guinea jail.

Four more times, she put the flock together, fetched it to me, and I picked one off with the net. Then she'd follow me into the barn and look menacing when I opened up jail to pop each one in.

Once a single bird took flight and landed on top of a 6' fence post. Rose jumped up, bopped him in the ass, and sent him back to the flock, then fetched the flock.

Imagine starting a stockdog pup on fast, ill-natured, panicky sheep that can fly. Not a choice one would make if one had the choice.

When we got down to two birds, they didn't flock, per se, and would not be fetched as a pair. I missed them with the net in the pasture several times. Finally, Rosie cornered them by the barn, and I got one with the net. While we were booking him in the barn, the other disappeared. Just gone.

We had to go to Cranberry to let a contractor into the soon-to-be-sold house.

Came back; still squalling. There was the lone bird, in the mint patch. I had my net in the car with me. Thought I had a chance of sneaking up on the bugger and nabbing him.

No way. Did I mention that, for birds with essentially no brain and no ability to learn, these things are awfully wily about avoiding capture?

Let Rosie out of the car. She'd been watching me. Ran the little bugger out from his hide under the forsythia, around the house, around the swimming pool, and trapped him in a blind corner of the house. Stood back, grinning, and held him there until I arrived with the net.

She's shown no propensity to bother the chickens in the past five days. But I have to keep her away from guinea jail. She'd love to repeat her achievement.

The chooks are happy. They once again come running to me without fear whenever I come down to the barn, whether or not I'm carrying scraps for them. All is quiet in the coop at night, and everyone has her tail feathers.

The pocket camera is not great, and I didn't think to get it before we were down to two birds; here's Rose fetching one towards me. I will once again miss it with the net.

So Long To Sprawlburbia

Wait a minute -- didn't we already do that?

Isn't that, like, the whole point?

Sort of. Despite the best efforts of the home warranty contractor and the buyers' lender today, we closed on the Cranberry ranch house where we lived for 12 years today. We finally have nothing at all in common with John & Cindy -- we are the owners of one house, and the payers of one mortgage.

And I am no longer obliged to drive into the hateful wasteland of metastasizing asphalt to maintain a vacant house and perform pagan marketing dances around the real estate sign in the lawn.

The punch line? It was a colossally unwise decision about a dog that finally sold this house -- and its big fenced backyard.

The young couple were living in a rented townhouse. The young lady is pregnant. So, naturally, they bought a Siberian husky puppy -- must've been right around the time they discovered the pregnancy -- then found that the condo association had a 25 pound weight limit for dogs.

The pup will be ten months old when the baby comes.

Good luck with that.

And bury some wire along the fenceline.

Norm MacDonald Notwithstanding ...

Hat tip to Patrick for pointing us to this blog about blood tracking with teckels, aka Dachshunds As God Intended Them.

Blood tracking with dogs is illegal in Pennsylvania. That's the cause of an ongoing tragedy -- the wasted lives of deer that are shot and not recovered. We are one of the premier deer-hunting states, and the ranks of Pennsylvania hunters include what I will guess is a greater-than-average number of weekend warriors -- guys who do not possess the woodcraft to visually track under difficult circumstances.

Vermont and New York have programs to enable handlers with leashed, trained dogs to track big game. Why not Pennsylvania?

There was a bill introduced a few years ago to allow it; I wrote to the sponsor to inquire about it, but never heard back.

When I mention this idea to other hunters, what I hear back is that it is unsportsmanlike to hunt deer with dogs.

I'm inclined to agree. But tracking a wounded animal is not "hunting." It is recovering what has already been hunted, and in some cases, it is a humane imperative. Bambi is not going to go on to become King of the Forest with an arrow in his belly.

I've got an underemployed shoulda-been SAR dog here. We had to withdraw Moe from the work he was born to because there are days when he just can't do it. Chronic Lyme disease has taken it out of his hide. While on his good days he is very good, on a bad day, he's camped out in the closet, or literally does not get out of bed. (Yesterday was a bad day, cold and wet and snotty with squalls, which is a problem for him, and his baby sister had to step up and help me with farm chores that are normally his.) A SAR dog, responsible for human lives, can't be chronically indisposed when the pagers go off.

But blood tracking? Oh yeah -- he could be good for that. Not every day. But often enough to be of service.

Did a Cat Shit in Here?

Science writer, receptor biochemist, and SAR dog handler Ken Chiacchia has launched a new scent-focused blog here.

Ken is a good enough dog handler, I married him.

Check it out.