We are bracing for another Arctic blast tonight.
May it be the last one. I think the cheepers should be alright. They have learned to band together in true "we few, we happy few" fashion, emerging victorious from each bout of severe weather with nary a feather out of place. (Well, except for the two molters that have many feathers out of place; we cannot undo the forces of nature.)
To improve their chances, I did what a chicken loving internet writer suggested -- I baked that cornbread and handed over a big chunk of it to them. They were delighted!
Other animals are having a tougher time of it right now. This morning, Ed found a very young cat in the barn. We've seen strays before (remember Cammie? She came, stayed, then disappeared forever), but this kitty seemed different: stuck in the cold weather, probably weakened, somewhat traumatized. Ed took her in and tried to feed her...
...but she really needed a vet. She seemed terribly feeble. He speculated whether Isie boy would mind if she stayed here and again I told him that I thought he would mind. So off the puffy girl went -- the hope being that the vet could help her and that eventually, her seemingly sweet disposition would win her a home somewhere.
[Update: she does not survive. The vet finds shock, infection, significant trauma. Sigh.]
Our breakfast, which comes even before the trip to the vet, is a touch somber. It's tough to have abandoned cats appear at the farmette. Where do they come from? Who let's them go?
The sun comes out, though only for a little while.
In the afternoon, I play for a bit with little Snowdrop. She is one day short of a month today and though of course she seems to us robust and solid compared to the week after birth, still, she is so young! So in need of help!
I could just show you her dimple again -- clearly displayed in a moment of sleepy contentment...
Or her curious gaze in her wakeful hour.
But maybe I should end with her more vulnerable moment. She has those too. We all do.
May it be the last one. I think the cheepers should be alright. They have learned to band together in true "we few, we happy few" fashion, emerging victorious from each bout of severe weather with nary a feather out of place. (Well, except for the two molters that have many feathers out of place; we cannot undo the forces of nature.)
To improve their chances, I did what a chicken loving internet writer suggested -- I baked that cornbread and handed over a big chunk of it to them. They were delighted!
Other animals are having a tougher time of it right now. This morning, Ed found a very young cat in the barn. We've seen strays before (remember Cammie? She came, stayed, then disappeared forever), but this kitty seemed different: stuck in the cold weather, probably weakened, somewhat traumatized. Ed took her in and tried to feed her...
...but she really needed a vet. She seemed terribly feeble. He speculated whether Isie boy would mind if she stayed here and again I told him that I thought he would mind. So off the puffy girl went -- the hope being that the vet could help her and that eventually, her seemingly sweet disposition would win her a home somewhere.
[Update: she does not survive. The vet finds shock, infection, significant trauma. Sigh.]
Our breakfast, which comes even before the trip to the vet, is a touch somber. It's tough to have abandoned cats appear at the farmette. Where do they come from? Who let's them go?
The sun comes out, though only for a little while.
In the afternoon, I play for a bit with little Snowdrop. She is one day short of a month today and though of course she seems to us robust and solid compared to the week after birth, still, she is so young! So in need of help!
I could just show you her dimple again -- clearly displayed in a moment of sleepy contentment...
Or her curious gaze in her wakeful hour.
But maybe I should end with her more vulnerable moment. She has those too. We all do.
