I am a co-dependent finch killer. This morning as I was preparing to leave for work, Smidgen announced that she had caught a bird. This may be her first avian kill. I love Smidge so much and was truly proud of her. She has short legs and a big head, bug eyes and a marvelously personable nature, due in part to her sickness as a kitten, and the fact that she was hand-fed and reared by caring volunteers. She spends hours sitting in the window well nearest the bird feeder outside our kitchen window, watching the action, occasionally kneading her paws in the dirt out of pleasure.

So I followed my usual routine--backed the car out of the garage, put it in park so I could shut the garage door, and was about to call for Smidgen to put her in for the day, when I saw her crouched at the corner of the building. I went over to greet her and she let out a long, sustained MEOW, a wild proud sound. There between her front paws was a tiny female finch--grey with yellow feathers--heart still beating. I praised Smidgen, and she began to toss the bird and bat it around. When the bird landed on the grass it tried to move its wings. In these moments I felt some anxiety and conflict (my beloved Smidge having fun and being a cat versus kindness to all creatures.) I settled that and overcame a lifetime of squeamishness by grasping the big stick we use to stir the fire in the burn barrel, and bonking the bird once, breaking its back. Its head immediately began to twitch in a death way, and within seconds it was utterly still. This did not diminish Smidgen's pleasure in playing with it.

I left her outside to enjoy her kill. John will be home early today. He says, "I think the correct way to put it is Smidge caught a bird and you killed it." Aaggghhh...

Monday, May 17th, 2004

I stopped by the barn on my way in this morning, looking for Cruiser. I didn't find him, but found instead SIX baby goats! They are enchanting. Several are bouncing around on springs, and two are weak and shaky. One of the weak ones was curled up in a shady spot, shivering, so I went in, picked it up and laid it on some shavings in the sun next to the other weak one. Very quickly it stopped shaking and in several minutes had stood up and was bleating. It also peed on its sibling, because although it could stand it didn't walk anywhere.

I went out into the yard and petted the ladies, who still look enormous. They were reclining in the sun, munching hay, looking worn out.

The babies are about the size of Papi, some more muscular than others. Their fur is silky soft--all shades of brown, tan and cream. Their ears are floppy like their mothers'. They sound like the lambs but different--more high-pitched and funnier.

Tuesday, May 18th, 2004

Regular barn chores morning. Three of the kids are not nursing from their mama's teats and have to be bottle-fed. One of our senior students volunteered to milk the mama goat. We opened up the gate and the goat pranced out, leapt right up into the milking stall. Rachel slid the bars around the goat's neck, someone else poured some grain in the trough, and the senior settled into milking the contended, munching goat.

He let me help. "It's like toothpaste," he said, meaning that I was supposed to squeeze from the top down in a rolling motion. This came not at all naturally. I think my hands would cramp before I got used to doing this for more than a few squeezes. The goats teats were warm, firm, resilient, and the thin milk came out easily. She ignored me.

Friday of a long week, the end of two long weeks following the board meeting and two events in NYC. I have been tired but am coming back. Today my boss took me out for lunch, very nice. As we were driving back to school we passed a work-site on the side of the road with one of those large mobile electric alert signs. The message on the sign was "GAY MECHANIC WORKING." I burst out laughing and wasn't sure I had really seen what I thought I saw, but my boss had seen it too. Funniest thing! I wonder if that will make it into the paper.

Came back to work and walked Cruiser, who is now staying with us indefinitely. On my walk I found a fallen birds nest made of mostly horsehair. Charlotte the obese 600-pound heritage breed sow is in a paddock by herself lately. She was lying in the sun--I wasn't sure she was breathing. I cooed and clucked and called her name, and she sighed and grunted, so I went in and scratched and petted her for a file. Poor, depressed Charlotte. She has a particular strong odor that I find quite pleasant outdoors, a musk. It doesn't translate well into my office, though.

This evening we are going for a boat ride with Mark and having supper together at his house. I am planning to build a bottle tree and Mark is excited to help me find the perfect driftwood log under the serene waters of Lake Saranac.