At Least We're not the Only Ones.

Wednesday February 16th
I worked for CBC in Halifax today, so Dave and I carpooled into the city. It was dusk when we got home, and as we crested the hill and our driveway came into sight, we noticed the oil truck.

The cab of the truck was halfway out of our driveway, so at first we assumed he was leaving. Dave slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the road to give him room. But the truck didn't move.

Me (tentatively): "Do you think he's stuck?"

Dave: "No. He can't be stuck. (pause) Can he?"

Something certainly didn't seem right. The truck was definitely lilting to the left, and it still wasn't moving. We looked more closely and saw snow, lots of it, pressed into the undercarriage of the truck. Yes. The Irving Oil truck was definitely stuck.

Dave got out of the car and approached the driver, who, despite his predicament, was cheerful and friendly. He said he was backing into our driveway about 20 minutes earlier when it happened. He hit the icy hump at the foot of our driveway (a hump created by the plow's middle of the night passes, and our too-busy/lazy-to-shovel lifestyle). When he hit the hump, his liquid load shifted with a lurch, forcing the tires to jump sideways....off the edge of our narrow driveway and into the ditch.

A tow-truck was on its way. We offered the driver a chance to come inside and warm up, but he said he preferred to wait in the truck... besides, the hose on the truck was long enough that he figured he could fill our oil tank from where he was, which he did.

The driver's one big concern was for the two other clients whose tanks he was supposed to fill. One was a private home up the road in Kennetcook. They'd been without oil all day, and the temperature was hovering at something like fifteen below zero. The homeowners called the driver several times to see where he was, and he had to deliver the bad news-- he was delayed.


His other client was a business which repairs large trucks. They too had been without oil all day, and weren't very happy about the situation. Dave and I felt a little sheepish. We had plenty of oil, about a quarter of a tank. We'd just called for a delivery because we figured better safe than sorry. We likely could have gone several more weeks without oil though.

Dusk turned to dark before the tow truck finally arrived. It was a huge truck (about the same size as the oil truck) with a heavy duty winch on the back. At some point, the oil truck driver whispered to Dave that they're supposed to drain the oil from the truck before having it towed. This wasn't done, and I had visions of the truck tipping on its side, spilling thick black diesel onto the bright, white snow. Thankfully, the truck was tugged free from the rutted ditch without incident--well, almost without incident.


With the oil truck out of the ditch and now blocking the entire width of the road, the driver jumped out suddenly and ran to the left side of the truck. I followed. I noticed a four foot long metal box dangling from the bottom of the truck onto the snowy road. It turns out it was a tool box normally attached to a metal frame on the lower left hand side of the truck. But with so much snow shoved up against the bottom of the truck as it was dragged out of the ditch, the frame twisted and the box fell off. Now, the oil truck driver, and the tow truck driver were both sizing it up, trying to figure out how to re-attach it so they could finish work and go home.

Eventually, they decided to use a few bungee cords to wrangle the box into place. The driver shrugged and hoped the box would stay put while he finished his deliveries. Having it bounce off while driving 100 kms/hour on the highway was not an experience he was looking forward to.

At least he can breathe easily knowing that we shouldn't need oil again until next fall.

November Rain Brings Hay Pain

When it comes to the horses, hay is our biggest expense and I spent hours and hours searching the countryside for the best quality bales I could find. It wasn't fun, and I accidentally offended a local Mennonite farmer in the process. Finally though, I found exactly the kind of nutritious, fine, soft hay that Murray needs to keep his weight up and his lungs clear. Only now, I'm watching hundreds of dollars worth of hay morph into moldy, dusty, useless lumps...and there's nothing I can do about it.

Late July
It's a warm Saturday afternoon day when our first load of hay arrives. It's first-cut. It's very good quality, but it's coarse, and it has a fairly low protein content. It's exactly the kind of hay that would cause Murray to turn up his nose. However, it's perfect for Maggie, an overweight mare who eat absolutely anything. Unfortunately, I'm at work, so it's up to Dave to hoist the bales from our bright yellow hay conveyor. When I get home, I assess his work, and I'm impressed. Two hundred and fifty bales are stacked neatly in the back portion of the loft.

Late August
The call comes that the second load of hay is ready for delivery. This is the expensive hay-- Murray's hay. It's second-cut, high in protein, bright-green, sweet-smelling, and very fine and soft. Unfortunately, Dave and I are in Newfoundland. We can't be there to accept the load. So, our horse/house-sitter kindly offers to offload the hay for us... with the help of her friend who's visiting from Germany (some vacation).

I feel for them. Loading hay is hard work in any weather, but this is the hottest week of the summer in Nova Scotia. Daytime temperatures are in the low to mid 30's. Nights are just as warm. Humidity is through the roof.

The hay arrives on a sunny, sticky weekday afternoon. We thought the loft would be able to hold all the hay. At most, we figured the last few bales could be stored in a spare stall next to Murray. But the girls filled the loft and there were still many bales left on the truck. The girls filled the spare stall to the rafters. Still there were more bales to offload. They had no other choice but to put some of the hay in one of the newer stalls-- a stall with cinder block walls. A stall which oozes with mold-inducing moisture anytime it's rainy or humid. The girls did everything right. They stacked the hay neatly and they kept the doors and windows open for ventilation.

By the time I got home though, and by the time hurricane Earl whipped up the winds and brought still more humidity to the air, several of the cinder block-stall bales were starting to turn black and moldy. Dave and I moved a few things around and hoisted as many bales as we could from the stall up to the loft. We lost about two dozen bales, but we weren't overly concerned-- especially when we found out that our hay suppliers had sold us 120 more bales than we'd planned to buy (no wonder they wouldn't all fit in the loft). The rest of the hay looked great. And it continued to look great until about two days ago.

Early November
With the exception of two days last week, It's been raining steadily for the past two weeks. During that time, we've had close to 300mm of rain. On top of that, the temperatures have been unseasonably warm, and even when drops of water aren't falling pounding down from the sky in the form of rain, they're sitting heavily in the air causing everything to become sticky and wet. The high humidity is exaggerated in the barn where moisture oozes through the relatively new cinder block walls, and drips from the corrugated plastic roof over Murray and Maggie's heads. Nothing in the barn seems to stay dry in this weather.

Despite the moisture in the barn, the hayloft above (with its wooden floors and walls) stays much dryer. It also has very good ventilation in the form of spinning roof vents. Even so, I check the hay regularly, for signs of mold. All was fine until two days ago.

Two days ago I went into the loft to throw down some more bales of Maggie's hay. I picked up a bale and noticed tiny white spores on several of the stalks-- mold. I reached for another bale and yanked it to the floor. It fell with a thud and a cloud of white dust rose around it-- mold. I started checking more and more bales and I started finding more and more mold. My stomach sank. I tossed several bad bales down the chute-- destined for the manure pile. But how many more are up there? There's no way to know.

I hoped at first that the problem was confined to Maggie's hay, but as I delved further into the neatly stacked pile, I found a few of the once rich, soft, sweet-smelling, expensive Murray bales also covered in tiny, sour-smelling white spores. My hay is going bad and I don't know what to do. Because we accidentally bought extra hay, we have a cushion. But it's only November, and I don't know whether that cushion will fill Murray and Maggie's bellies until next July.

The Legend of Zorro-- Chapter 1

After my encounter with the bold, and clearly deranged squirrel playing house in my barn, I began the search for a barn cat-- actually, I began the search for two barn cats. What I ended up with was a live-in stray and a foxy, masked-avenger who defends our property (and his food dish) with great gusto.

Sometime in August 2010
Finding a kitten would be easy. There are so many cute, cuddly, barely-weaned fluff-balls up for adoption on Kijiji that it's no wonder some people end up hoarding dozens of them. I, however, am on a mission, and I won't be deterred by cuteness. The cats I'm looking for just have to be proven mousers with an affinity for the outdoors. If they're scrappy looking and un-cute, then all the better.

As I scroll through the pages, I see several adult cats up for adoption (mostly due to "changes of circumstances" beyond their owners' control), but most are Garfield-like indoor cats, many of whom don't even have claws-- definitely not what I'm looking for.

I decide to place my own ad: BARN CATS WANTED Looking for two outdoor, adult cats-- proven mousers who are preferably spayed or neutered.

The next afternoon, there's a message on my cell phone from someone saying they have the perfect cat for me. I'm busy at work though and I don't get a chance to call back right away. A few hours later, as I'm driving home, my phone rings again. It's another response to my ad. It's a man named David (and no, it's not my husband). He says his family has the perfect cat for me-- and he has been neutered.

He's supposed to be an indoor, family cat, but is adept at slinking out through open doors or windows. While out, his murderous instincts take hold and he savagely attacks both feathered friends and furry fiends. He presents his bloodied prey as trophies at the front door. This has created tension among the bird-loving neighbours and the family is getting tired of trying to defend their cat's honour.

Me: "Out of curiosity, what colour is he?"

David: "He's black with white paws, and a white nose and belly."

That's all I need to hear. I'm in love. I grew up with a kind, gentle, easy-going black and white cat. Whiskers was my faithful companion through 16 years of childhood triumphs, teenage angst, and adult beginnings, and I miss him to this day. I've had a soft spot for "tuxedo" cats ever since, and came very close to adopting one named "Socks" from the SPCA in Moncton a couple of years ago.

David (somewhat apologetically): "His name is Zorro"

I try unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle, and then I make arrangements to meet David, his family, and their cat the next afternoon after work.

I try not to get my hopes up, but I have a good feeling, so I search through some as-yet unpacked boxes and dig out the oversize cat carrier and toss it into the trunk.

It turns out the family lives in a busy, family-oriented subdivision in Eastern Passage. When I arrive, Zorro doesn't waste anytime in trying to bolt out the front door. We manage to thwart his attempts though, and I am instantly, completely in love.

I sit and chat with the lovely family for a good half hour. Within minutes, Zorro leaps onto my lap and curls up. He purrs contentedly as I stroke his shiny black coat. The parents and the two daughters are extolling Zorro's many virtues-- they seem worried that I might not like him. Little do they know that I'm sitting here worried they won't like me enough to let me take him home.

The youngest daughter (Sophie) declares that Zorro's favourite colour is pink. She promptly produces a pink headband/wig combo and puts it on Zorro. He squirms and wriggles, but is otherwise resigned to what I expect is a common ritual. Sophie pats and plays with Zorro and it's clear that she's probably the person who will miss him the most. I feel bad. I try to reassure her that I'll offer him a great home-- and that they're all welcome to visit anytime.

After a bit more chatting, they ask if I've brought a cat carrier. Feeling relieved and excited, I bring it inside from the car. I put it on the floor so Zorro has a few minutes to get used to it before I have to coax him inside. The small metal door is barely open before he shoves his way inside the big green box, sniffing at all the unfamiliar smells. As I ask for the dates of his last vaccinations, and what kind of food he likes, Zorro curls up and falls asleep in the carrier. Sophie gently slides his pink wig/headband into the carrier and tells me I can keep it so he'll feel at home.

Then, just as I'm heading out the door with him, she rushes to the basement and reappears momentarily with a square fleece blanket with a cat paw print. "This is Zorro's", she says, and so I thank her and add it to my new cat's meagre possessions. After that, I'm speechless.

For the drive home, I position the carrier in the middle of the backseat, facing the dash. I have a bag of cat treats handy, and I can easily reach my hand back to appease him if he seems unhappy-- which he does. The 45 minute drive home is filled with regular yeowls of discontent. He's not interested in the treats, but the guttural sounds ease when I shove my fingers into the cage for him to rub against.

Finally we're home and as soon as the car stops moving, Zorro becomes quiet again. I open the car door and point the cage outside so he has a chance to look around before being released into his new habitat. The dog, always happy to see me, rushes to the car, tail wagging, and barking like crazy. Zorro's not impressed. He hisses a bit, and Muscade glances in his direction, but otherwise ignores him.



I leave Zorro like that for half an hour or so, then I move the carrier into the cool, quiet tack room in the barn. I place some food and water inside, but leave him in the cage for another hour or so.

That evening, I let him out of the cage. His first night proves to be a sleepless one for both of us.

To be continued...

Earl-- Part 3: The aftermath

2:00pm: It's brighter out, the winds have calmed. It must be the eye of the storm. I'm not worried though, I'm pretty sure the worst is over. I load clothes into the dryer, and the lights flicker. They flicker on and off 5 or 6 times. Then, they're off for good.

I can't believe we rode out the worst part of the storm only to have our power go out at the end of it.

3:00pm: It's still windy, but it's nice enough for me to go out and assess the damage. One of our small trees is practically horizontal. Another one has virtually no leaves. Several large evergreen branches are on the ground.

I move onto the apple trees. There are no apples left. None. Then I notice that one of the trees doesn't look right. I move closer and realize that the trunk has cracked about 3 feet above the ground. Everything above that has toppled over onto the ground.

At the barn, all seems well except that the wind apparently blew Murray's outside door open. It tore the chain right out of the wall. Oh well, it's nice enough that I think I can let them out now anyway. I'm sure they'll enjoy a nice roll in the mud.

Elsewhere, the greenhouse is in rough shape. The garden doesn't look too bad other than the corn. The hummingbird feeder is on the ground, but overall, no major damage.

Now, it's just a matter of waiting to get power back. My laptop battery is fully charged so I check the NS Power website. It says we should have power back by 11:30 am-- on MONDAY. It's going to be a long, long 48 hours.

New Tenants?

Sunday April 11, 2010
About 7pm.
Minutes after I managed to get a shocked, bleeding Maggie into her stall, Muscade darted out of the barn barking and growling. Still shaking, I left Maggie briefly and tore after the dog. She was already halfway across the lawn and hot on the heels of a black, furry animal with a puffy tail. My first thought was that it looked like a cat. In fact, it looked very much like our cat, so as Muscade came back with her tail between her legs (I had yelled at her), I rushed to the front door to see if I'd left it open in my earlier panic. The door was closed, and through the window I could see Ruffles sitting sublimely on his "tree", so I knew it wasn't him.

So what was it? A skunk? Doubtful, I didn't see any white, and Muscade had returned without any trace of the eye-burning odour. Perhaps a raccoon? It moved awfully fast for a raccoon though. No, it really looked like a cat. But where would it have come from? I put it out of my head and went back to nursing Maggie.

A bit later, with the calm beginning to return to my brain, my mind flashed back to a scene from 12 hours earlier. Dave let Muscade outside Sunday morning and she streaked off after something. He didn't see what it was, but assumed it was one of the fat crows who bounce around the lawn in the morning hours. Now I started to think that perhaps it wasn't a crow after all.

Sunday night, with Dave back safe from his flying lesson, we got ready to do a final check on Maggie. Dave went out first while I dug the ice packs for Maggie's legs from the freezer. He was back a moment later: "I saw it, it was laying down in front of the sheep barn (no, we don't have sheep). It looked like a cat, but it took off as soon as it saw me. It definitely was NOT a raccoon."

We both wondered where this cat may have come from, but we didn't think about it too much as Maggie was still the priority.

Monday April 12, 7:15 pm
I've just come in from feeding the horses and caring for Maggie's wounds. I plop my tired behind into the living room rocking chair to check my e-mail. Suddenly, Ruffles leaps onto the windowsill to my left and starts "cackling" and meowing. I lean back to look, but don't see anything. Then he jumps down and runs toward the front door. I get up and look out the kitchen window. Our new "tenant" is sleekly gliding up our walkway. For an instant a mostly black, tabby face looks up at me, then it turns tail and runs toward our crab apple trees, spraying every bush in between. Mystery solved. The animal that's been hanging about is indeed a cat-- likely a lookin'-for-love male.

A half hour goes by, then Ruffles stands up in the window and meows invitingly. I look out. This time, I see the tabby in the driveway, and he's not alone. His companion is a mostly white cat with a big black or grey spot on its back. The two cats are crouched, facing each other. They dance around each other like boxers preparing for a punch, then they stop and crouch again. I leave the window for a few minutes and when I come back, they're gone.

There's no sign of the cats as we head outside for the late-night check on the horses. But, shortly after we return to the house, as we're brushing our teeth and getting ready for bed, we hear a string of mournful yeowls coming from the backyard. After a minute or so, it's quiet again.

I hoped I might get a glimpse of our feline friends again today, since Ruffles is an indoor cat, I wouldn't mind having a few mousers around. But so far, the cats haven't come back.