Monday, September 29, 2008

Carolina Cargo

Because one huge white dog isn't enough, we're getting a new dog next week and we've named her C.C., short for Carolina Cargo. She is a Great Pyrenees and will be living with the sheep. For some time now, B.Rube has been researching working dogs. We want to provide the best protection possible to our animals, particularly after losing the geese and poor little Cindy to the coyotes this year.

He decided on a Great Pyrenees and then went about finding a good breeder.

Well, he found one.

In North Carolina.

We've been waiting for months for Daisy and Dreamcatcher to breed and for the litter to be born. Which happened just over 6 weeks ago. And we got first pick of the females.

You may be wondering how the heck we are getting C.C. home here to Canada.
Cargo flight.
The poor thing has one LOOOOONG day ahead of her next week, spent entirely in a crate. She will be flying cargo from Charlotte, North Carolina to Chicago, and will then be boarding a connecting flight to Seattle, where we are picking her up.

Here's my challenge:
Because this sweet fluffball will be living outside with the sheep, it is super important that she start out life that way. Regardless of how young she is and regardless of how fucking cute she is and regardless of how much we want to play with her, snuggle with her and love her, we can't.
She needs to bond with the sheep. They will be her family and her companions. Not us. I'm trying to wrap my head around this. There are so many hard parts to farming, but this may be my biggest hurdle yet. She is going to live with the sheep. Even at 8 weeks old, next week, C.C. will be sleeping with the sheep. We can't pet her through the fence or invite her up to the house, and we certainly can't let her in.
B.Rube told me this morning that by the time she is 8 months old or so, we'll be able to socialize a bit more. Once she knows who her real family is, where her place is and what her job is. Sheep, sheep, sheep.

How the hell am I going to pull this off?????
Look at her!!!!!!!!!

Saturday, September 27, 2008

RIP Paul Newman

A true star has fallen.
You'll live forever in our memories.


On my morning chore route, I discovered that Lisa has a lovely little nest full of bunnies! We had moved her about 10 days ago to her own pad, far away from the others and well-protected and quiet. If you recall, Lisa was the baby-killing mom who previously removed her babies from the nest one night, where they all died. In a proactive move, we segregated her and gave her a lovely spot with a nesting box in anticipation of her next litter of kits.
But nothing happened. She's been pooping in the nesting box. And there were no sign of babies.

This morning, I discovered that Lisa has her babies hidden away in the far corner behind the nesting box and under all of the cedar shavings. And they look like they're already at least a week old - with fur and everything.
I am staying the hell away. You know me and babies in nests = BAD NEWS. I am going to trust Lisa to raise her babies. And you will not be getting pictures for a while.

Lance was the father of these, I believe. Based on the dates, it would appear that a previous attempt to breed Lance and Lisa was, in fact, successful. And that the more recent mating of Lisa and Justin will not produce any offspring.

I gave Betty her own cage and nesting box today too. She should be having her babies in a day or two and was starting to gather hay this morning in preparation. I think that Betty was bred with Barney.

Friday, September 26, 2008

Your Rube Sex for the Day

Today's Rube Sex google count is as follows:

Germany - 3
Italy - 1
Finland - 1
Turkey - 1

It would appear the Germans have taken the lead, at least for the time being.

Meet the Rube Rabbits

We have 9 rabbits - 5 of which are grey, 2 are brown and 2 are white. And, amongst those of the same colour, it is near impossible to tell them apart. Which was proving itself difficult in our extensive Rube Rabbit Breeding Program. The rabbits mostly have their own cages, so we can keep them straight that way. But, when it comes to documenting their sexual activity, it was a fucking mess.

(for example)
Sept.18 - brown male mated with grey female
Sept.18 - white male bred other grey female
Sept.18 - grey male bangs white female
Sept.20 - white male mates with grey female (mom)

You get my point. We have no idea who is boinking who. We have no idea who is pregnant. We have no idea when to help prepare them for the birth and the babies. We have no idea when to breed them again.
We were desperate for a better system!

So, with all the spare time that I have on my hands as a stay-at-home mom, I set out on a creative project one afternoon that I hoped would solve our problem and also serve to beautify the rabbit hutch area.

So, without further ado.....
I introduce The Rube Rabbits...

So, now, the page in our Bunny Boinking Book is easy to deciper:
Sept.18 - Barney bred with Jacquie
Sept.18 - Lance mated with Jewel
Sept.18 - Justin bangs Lisa
Sept.20 - Lance mates with Josie

What I didn't account for was that the rabbits would eat their tags and ribbons within 24 hours of being named. Everyone but Lance and JoAnn actually. At least they appreciated my creative efforts.

I am now currently looking for suitable rabbit-proof alternatives.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

My mom gave me popcorn.

It's one of the things she has passed on to me. Like a nice piece of jewelry, fine china or an appreciation for cooking and the theatre.

After S.Rube was born, I was at a Mommy and Me discussion about food and they asked us what food traditions and customs we wanted to give to our children. When it came my turn to answer, I didn't have one. I didn't consider popcorn. Without ever having had children before, I didn't really consider anything. "Does eating in front of the TV count? I want to be able to still do that."

It is now apparent to me, 4 years later, that the custom of popcorn in my family is inherently being passed down to my children. As my mom passed it down to me.

We eat popcorn. A lot of popcorn. It is probably the one food that I would choose to have on a desert island. With butter and salt, of course. I can assure you that I've survived solely on popcorn at various times in my life; of which university was definitely one. It is my favourite food.

We've always had our own bowls of popcorn. You can't share a bowl of popcorn. And don't you dare put your hand near my bowl. I'm like a dog guarding its bone. And it isn't a small bone.
We have big ass bowls of popcorn. More carbs than any of us need before bed at night. I don't care how much fiber is in there. It's more carbs than any of us should eat in a week.

And we have popcorn pretty much every night. And have been for 30 years. As you can imagine, we have run the gamut in making popcorn through the decades- from stovetop, to hot air blowers, to all different variations of microwave. We have run the gamut in adding exciting things to the popcorn, like caramel, pepper, parmesan and other cheeses, salt and vinegar powder, oregano and garlic powder.
I currently put kernels into a paper bag, fold the top over and put a little piece of tape there to hold it shut. Then I throw it in the microwave for about 1.50 minutes. I melt some butter (okay, a lot of butter) and add some salt (okay, a lot of salt) and voila.... the best popcorn in the world.

Anyone who has experienced it will tell you. It's the best. I've had childhood friends on facebook who comment on remembering my mom's popcorn. It's a legacy.

As I got older and was staying out later, my mom would still make popcorn for me when she made hers each night. And she would leave a bowl on the counter. A big ass bowl. It would be 1:00 am and there'd be nothing better than my book and my popcorn in my bed.

I find that I can't make popcorn for myself anymore. Exactly like my mom must have felt for all those years. How many times did I come back downstairs to get popcorn after I'd already been put to bed ?
S.Rube will come out of bed HOURS AFTER she's gone to bed if she hears or smells the popcorn. She'll be up at 11 pm eating popcorn with me, if I let her.
Which I do.
Cuz I'm a popcorn pushover. (and a pusher, for that matter.) And I'm just passing the good stuff down from generation to generation. I don't care that it's midnight. Or that she's only 4. She has some catching up to do. And a legacy to uphold.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

The Finns are worse than the Turks?

Oh, I meant to tell you that I got a google hit the other day for "rube animal sex". One deep step down from 'rube sex', it appears the Finns are more perverse than even the Turks.
Really, though. They found the right place. I think I talk more about animal sex than I really should. And if they were looking for pictures of a slug's penis, a ram's balls, or the detailed anatomy of a young, miniature donkey...well...they found it.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

No. Really.

If it weren't for the fact that our parents read this blog from time to time, I'd probably rage a bit right now.
I'm fairly certain actually that it is YOU that is PMS'y and not me, but you didn't take too kindly to me suggesting that just now.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

A Little Lesson on Hens, Eggs and Procreation

Apparently, we aren't all up on our chicken biology. I've had a million questions about our recent Embryo Episode. For those of you who don't know, B.Rube cracked an egg for breakfast and found a partially developed embryo - or balut, as we are now newly informed. (which, disgustingly, is an aphrodiasic and popular source of protein amongst some Asian cultures).
I just puked a little in my mouth.

Here's the deal:

Hens lay eggs - every 1-3 days or so - regardless of whether there is a man around or not. The eggs that they lay are unfertilized. When you add a rooster to the henhouse, there is bound to be sex. The eggs that the hen then carries and lays are fertilized eggs. And they have the potential to turn into little chicks, if given the warmth and time that they need.
There is no difference between eating a fertilized or an unfertilized egg. (Provided the egg isn't two weeks old and being kept at 99 degrees.) If the eggs are collected and kept cool in a timely manner, nothing happens in there.

About 2 months ago, B.Rube brought a couple of roosters home from the auction (big surprise there!) and threw them in with the hens. They are pretty young themselves, but have started to show a bit of sexual activity in the last little while.

All of the hens lay their eggs together in one of the 5 laying boxes in their henhouse. Some of these eggs are fertilized and some are not, depending on who has seen some action from our roosters or not.
Most hens don't have a real interest in sitting on eggs, regardless of whether they are their eggs or some other hen's eggs. Laying hens, who have been bred to lay the most eggs possible, rarely ever become 'broody'. Brooding is the term given to hens who have a penchant for sitting on eggs. That hen is referred to as a 'broody hen' or a 'hen who has gone broody'. Different breeds of wild hens become broody quite easily, which is what has happened here on our farm.
We inherited 3 beautiful Ameraucana hens from our friend this summer and 2 of them just want to sit. This is why B.Rube bought the rooster. If we have broody hens, we might as well have chicks.

So, now we have 3 broody hens and boxes of fertilized eggs. (and an incubator of eggs, too, that hatched 2 days ago!)
The two hens have taken over box 1 and box 4. They sit there. They stay there. Occasionally another hen will even come into their box and lay an egg, although the broody hens are highly highly protective of their nest of eggs. They growl and cackle and bite.

So, we've only been collecting eggs from boxes 2,3 and 5. Boxes 1 and 4 are occupied and have old eggs and potential baby chicks.

Except for the other day. S.Rube was collecting eggs on her own and I was filling up water. And Broody Hen #1 got off her nest for a few minutes to eat and drink. She is far more relaxed than Broody Hen #4, who won't leave her nest for anything and who will not permit anyone coming near her.
S.Rube got distracted by a tiny cute white egg and came to show me. I went back in a while later to finish the egg collecting. There were a nestful of eggs in #1 and I made the assumption that S.Rube had not got that far in her collection. But apparently she had. For B.Rube found an embryo.

I immediately called my recent egg customers and warned them. All but one chose to discard the eggs and not risk the horrifying experience of finding a balut. Cari, on the other hand, found some humour and excitement in taking the risk and continued to use the eggs. And, she found 4 more. And is still a valuable egg customer of mine.

This is the long and necessary lesson on poultry procreation.

And then the chicks started hatching!!!! At first, we found two in the incubator and were shocked and excited. Over the next 2 days, 10 more hatched. And then the eggs from Box 4 started hatching, last night and this morning, and there's 3 more. We are going to be up to our eyeballs in chicks.

We have decided to remove the chicks from the hens and raise them all separate from the adult birds. We may leave one or two with 'mom' in the end to see what happens. But, removing them is easy and much safer and produces strong and healthy chicks. They are so cute and fun to watch!

(I have to share that one-day-old chicks are also a very popular delicacy in the Phillipines. The rooster newborns are separated from the hens and sold off, where they are impaled on a stick and barbecued with a hot red sauce. I can't imagine eating these little fluff balls. Can you?)

Friday, September 19, 2008

Deep Thoughts on Bambi

S.Rube has always been drawn to the story of Bambi. We inherited a 1000 books from my mom and there were four different versions of Bambi. Of course, S.Rube is mostly obsessed with the oldest version in the bunch - one of mine from the early 70's, where "Man" and his "long, stick that throws flames and destruction" play the lead role. (Not to mention how his campfire also burned the forest glade home of all of the animals and, dare I mention.... how his gun orphaned the young Bambi). This book doesn't hide the actual events, folks. It is not just about Bambi and Thumper playing with Flower down by the river.

There is a mean buck named Ronno, with whom S.Rube seems strangely attracted. Ronno and Bambi have a fight to protect the love interest, Faline. S.Rube's eyes always flutter when we say the name, "Faline." I personally think she'd rather have seen Ronno and Faline get together in the end and make little fawns. Instead, Bambi breaks one of Ronno's antlers in a head-to-head battle and Ronno is never seen again.

Part of S.Rube's freaky attraction to Ronno and the fight scene has more to do with an illustration 'mistake' that she has noticed. And noticed. And noticed. And noticed. The colours that have been used to paint in Bambi and Ronno, on this particular page, are not quite right, I agree. Ronno isn't dark enough - he looks more like Bambi should look. But, Bambi is too dark. And you can see the antler snapping off, so it is evident which deer is which. Except that they are coloured wrong. S.Rube figures we need to contact the publishing company or something.

Last night, I was triumphant as I got to the page after the fight scene and she had, for the first time ever, NOT stopped me to analyze the shoddy illustration and editing process of the 'mistake'. My invisible fist pumped the air and my inside voice said, "YES!" (getting caught up on that fight scene page adds at least 10 minutes to this already-too-long story.)
But, no.
Apparently she had either momentarily fallen asleep or was just teasing me, because two pages later, she stopped. And, with purpose and passion, went back two pages to talk about the 'mistake'.

Up until last night, S.Rube hasn't paid much attention to Bambi's mom's death. She has expressed confusion as to where she went and believed that Bambi's dad, the Great Prince of the Forest, was somehow responsible for her disappearance, as he is the first to arrive to tell Bambi that he "must now walk alone."

Last night, S.Rube learned about hunting.

S: What happened to Bambi's mom?
J: She died, honey.
S: Did Bambi's dad dead her?
J: No, no, babe. He didn't kill her. The man's big sticks did. (okay, I can't help but giggle here a bit. I foresee and dread upcoming sexuality talks.) The sticks they talk about are guns. And the men have the guns. And they're called hunters. And they go out and hunt. And they use their guns to shoot at deer. And they kill the deer. And that's what happened to Bambi's mom. She got shot by the hunters. (let's just tell it like it is, shall we?)
S: Why do they shoot deers? Bambi's mom should've got out of the way faster. Like the deer on that other page. The deers should just get out of the way faster. And then the gun will hit the tree.
J: Yeah, I'm sure they try to get out of the way, but the hunters are sneaky and quiet and fast. Sometimes the deer don't get away. People hunt deer for food and for sport. Just for fun really.
S: Ew. Well, it doesn't sound like much fun to me. Especially for the deers.

You got a point there, little Rube.

Damn it

Life has taken over. September hits and life steps in and takes over.
I have some farm updates for you (warning: cute and fuzzy chick pics to come.....) and a story or two to tell.
I WILL be back, I promise you.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

New Jeans

Oh My God! I couldn't resist. This is beyond funny.
and it comes with a warning - don't open it with the young 'uns nearby...

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Computer Disaster

My computer died a miserable death on Sunday afternoon. I am now back at home and online with my new Mac. I haven't forgotten about you and I WILL be back soon. I promise. I've just unpacked this baby and have a few things to set up and to learn. Thanks for your patience.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Call Me a Patriotic Rube...

..but Canadian Idol makes me proud of our country.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

You know,

far too much of my time is spent chasing sheep around; waving a stick in the air and trying to corral them through the desired gates (and mostly out of my yard). On my own, this is an almost impossible task. With one of the dogs, it is feasible, but a challenge. With one of the dogs and a 4-year-old who really wants to help, we are back to impossible again.

Not so good for egg business....

Perhaps I should issue a recall?

B.Rube just cracked an egg for his omelette this morning and found a formed embryo in there.
"ugh, there's a whole chicken head in there", he said.
Kinda kills your appetite for eggs, non?
Apparently not, as he continues making his breakfast after going out to collect new eggs.

I know exactly when the error happened. I have contacted my recent customers and warned them of the potential of little chicks inside their breakfast burritos.

And I'm kinda excited cuz it means we're going to have babies!!

Monday, September 8, 2008

Back to School....

...and Back to Bento!!

Dear City Council

Please consider my pleas.
You have all sorts of bylaws; many of them established in order to protect the rights and comforts of the people living within your township.
You have noise bylaws elaborately designed that dictate when someone can mow the lawn, operate a drill, play loud music or shoot off propane cannons in the fields to scare off the birds. In fact, your bylaws outlining the propane cannons on blueberry farms are very well thought out. Not only do they specify allowed times during the day, but also the power of the shots, the direction the shots are faced, how often they must be rotated, and how much time is needed between each shot.
We have a dozen new blueberry farms in our neighbourhood this year, all of them using propane cannons and many of our neighbours are upset about the noise disturbance, particularly considering they can start the shots at 6:30 in the morning and seem to be popping them off every 15 seconds or so, directly aimed at us.

But, that's not why I writing to you.

What I'm writing about has bothered me far far far more than the propane cannons.
Far more disturbing and disruptive to my peace, stopping us from socializing with friends and even preventing us from having our windows open at times, let alone leave the the fucking farmer two fields over who spreads his entire 10 acres with manure in the late summer every year. God Forbid I plan a wedding or something equally lovely and important. The smell is ATROCIOUS. And I like to consider that I handle my stinky farm smells quite well, for the most part. I'm not bothered by the pigs or the rabbits or the chickens or the sheep. I'm not even bothered by the smell of the dairy barn that I visited with a bunch of 3-year-olds last year. I change T.Rube's diapers mostly without gagging every single day!

This particular manure smell is simply above and beyond what should be acceptable. It is the most highly offensive smell that I have ever experienced. It makes your eyes water and eats away at your nose and burns your lungs with every inhalation. You can feel the toxicity in it. I have no doubt that THIS is the shit that is destroying the ozone layer - and FAST.

We can't go outside, for crying out loud.

Please, I beg you... This issue requires legislation. I know that farmers have been spreading manure for generations. But, surely, you can place some restrictions on it. Maybe the time of year or the amount of space they can spread at one time. Or maybe the type of shit can be better controlled. Or the quality of the shit. Or what goes into the shit to begin with. Evidently some shit smells better than others, and this is the worst of the worst. We can find out what kind of shit my neighbour spreads on his fields and then you can ban it. He can spread a nicer smelling shit, I'm sure. Isn't there shit that smells like roses?

With all of the time and effort put into designing the blueberry cannon bylaws, I trust that you'll find a thorough compromise here also. We simply can't go on like this.

Thanks for your time and honest consideration.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

From Sea Stars

Saturday, September 6, 2008

Google Search Queries

One of the things that I did when I started the blog was connect it with a site that tells me what Google queries are finding A Rural Rube in its results. It is always worth a laugh and I have definitely seen some major trends over the past 6 months.

Here are my top ten hits:

10.Dr.Claire Rawson
9. blowjob swallow
8. sexual position of the week
7. lambing discharge mucous vulva
6. Edaleen Dairy
5. hung like a donkey
4. reverse cowgirl picture
3. rural rube blog
2. Do eggs need to be refrigerated

and, finally...

1. rube sex

That's right. Rube Sex. I get hits from rube sex every fucking day. And, they are almost all exclusively from Turkey. Sometimes Afghanistan and occasionally I'll see a Greece or Italy. I've been slapping myself in the head with the rubber glove trying to think of what the hell these dirty buggers are talking about. It certainly has nothing to do with B.Rube and I. I even googled rube sex myself. It doesn't bring up much. They get me - and it's usually a post called "Sex our Geese". Not quite what they're looking for. But, then again, WHAT ARE THEY LOOKING FOR?

I was telling this story last night.
And Thelma said: Rude sex.
and I said: yeah, Rube sex. What the fuck is that? Rube sex.
and Thelma said: Not rube sex. Rude sex. They are trying to type rude sex, but they don't know the word. They don't know the English.
(leave it to Thelma to have the ability to get into the minds of the Turks and think about rude sex.)

Oh my Lord, though, she's got it. ( I can't believe she's still in second with a brain like that. )
Rude sex. Those dirty Turkish bastards. I knew it.
They better have left the pictures of my poor dead geese alone.

Even funnier than the high number of sexually perverse and scary people on the internet are the random google search queries that I get that allow me to peer unseen into the interesting minds of others. Let me tell you, people google everything.

One of my favourites last week was when someone combined two of my recent blog entries and asked Google the question: "Is Michael Phelps hung like a donkey?"
Without even needing to see the proof on this one, I'm betting 'uhhhh,yeahhhh'. Have you seen the fucking length of that dude's arms? I've no doubt he has a donkey-sized fin acting as a rudder for him. Let's spell i-n-b-r-e-e-d-i-n-g one more time, shall we? (although I've no doubt that 'hung like a whale' would be more fitting here.)

About an hour ago, though, I got a google hit that leaves me shaking my head. I'm thrilled to say that my blog comes up in the #1 position for:
"The Mole Sisters sex toys"
The Mole Sisters?
Have you seen The Mole Sisters? There are waaaaay hotter chicks on Treehouse than those rodents.

Life is Good

I had another night out last night with Thelma. You'll recall our night out a month or so ago that resulted in the prize winning ass-shaking contest and a drunk, yet prophetic messenger named Rick. I didn't get in until 3:00 this morning. and, despite feeling a bit dehydrated, I have a bit of a permanent glow on.

Life is good.

I spent a bit of money that I don't have on clothes that I don't need yesterday - bought a couple of new tops from Jacob and a pair of Roxy jeans that are smaller than I've worn in a long time.

Life is good.

A girl at the pub last night asked me if I had gone to a particular high school nearby because she thought she'd gone to school with me. I said no, but asked her what year she'd graduated and she said "1998 - it's my 10 year reunion!" I smiled and said, "I graduated in 1988 - it's my 20 year reunion."

Life is good.

A cute yet stinky dog named Tig humped Thelma's leg instead of mine. Sometimes she just brings out the bestworst in someone that way. (you see, not being the boss' wife has its perks.)

Life is good.

I just went to the grocery store hung over with my glow on, still wearing my two little bun thingies in my hair from last night and a bit of mascara smeared under my eyes with my Roxy jeans tucked into my Roxy gum boots and dragging my 2 sweet and darling girls behind me. It definitely looked like the morning after the night before.

Life is good.

And I just sold the car. They came this morning and took it. The cash is in my hand.
I am buying a new computer, baby!

Life is good.

Monday, September 1, 2008

Dear Animal Rights Activists...

....who released 6000 mink in my town last week.

Nice one. You bunch of friggin' tits.
MINK? That's your cause? Out of all of the unfortunate animals in the world who have no voice of their own, you have chosen the stinky, blood-sucking vampire rat called the mink?

In any case, you fucked up the other night. It was a bad idea to begin with (cuz who really cares about a bunch of slimy black rodents. Frankly, I prefer the mink coat.)
I see a bunch of flaws in your little plan and I've compiled them in a few points here below:


1. You didn't realize that a perimeter fence had been built since you pulled this same fucking stunt a decade ago. So, almost 5000 of those mink were recaptured that next morning by farm staff.

2. You didn't really anticipate that hundreds of the freed mink would get out of the perimeter fence only to get schmucked on the roads surrounding the farm. (Thanks for saving them!)

3. You didn't really think ahead to realize that many of these mink will only die of starvation and exposure in the days to come, being a captive animal for hundreds of years with no great strategy for their own survival.

4. You didn't plan on your mink being viciously attacked by B.Rube, after they've managed to survive by brutalizing henhouse after henhouse, cutting into the throats of the chickens, removing their heads and sucking the blood out of their bodies through their necks.

Is this sounding familiar to you now? Do you recall one of your beloved black rodents killing Uniqua, our pet chicken? Do you recall an angry farmer in blue coveralls chasing down and ultimately pitchforking your beloved black rodent? And that wasn't the first mink killed here either. A bullet between the eyes got the last one. I like the pitchfork better.

Consider this a warning to your little mink friends. We will NOT tolerate anybody fucking with our birds. This includes all hens and roosters, ducks and Guineas.
Stay away from here. Far away from here.
You are as much our enemy as these little vampires are, tits. Back off. Donate a few hours a week with the SPCA or save the elephants. Or the seals. They're cute.
In any case, find something better to do with your time than this. It didn't work. And it looks horrible on you and your friends. Not good for your image and your cause at all.

Here's a reminder of what happened to your little friend.....

Now go back to the city. And don't let us see you around these parts again.
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