Rough patch.

Last week our sweet little girl bunny died.
I am pretty even-keeled, but something about her innocence just wrecked me.

We’ve been so busy this summer, that it’s been hard to find the time to really spend with the animals. It’s just maintenance at this point, and even that is a slog. Judging by my research, it was an intestinal issue.

Made me so sad.
And just so overwhelmed.

So we’re trying to hit reset a little. Scale back, help more, etc.

We’ll never do ducks in the summer again, just the fall. We will stick with our two remaining rabbits until we have time to create a real “breeding program.”

And I won’t have 3 gardens in the future, I will focus on scaling down to 1 and buying other delicious things that I cannot grow from the wonderful farmers that dot my town. I want to enjoy my life, not just work through it.

We are harvesting tomatoes though. And strawberries. And peppers.
And I planted some fall plants.
(Which the chickens are enjoying destroying. &@!^%!)

We have some big ideas for the future, and until that time comes I think we’ll stick it out at my little homestead. And if that is the case, then I am going to spend a little time making my existence more enjoyable and less work.



One thought on “Rough patch.

  1. When I had a farm, we bought chickens and ducks from the tractor supply store.

    The chickens were fryers and they were awful. Bred to grow insanely fast, weak, all with defective feet and legs, temperature intolerant… none of them could ever even roost. They went from little yellow chicks to CHICKEN BREAST almost overnight. They’d drop dead if the temperature went up, or if it went down. Some just died for no apparent reason.

    Those factory birds cannot survive real life. All they can do is live on concrete in climate-controlled houses until they’re slaughtered. This is what we’ve bred.

    The ducks eventually found the pond, but late. They got eaten by our dogs, by coyotes, by whatever else. I found one under a tree once, all fucked up. Savaged. A wing missing, feathers missing, raw meat. Alive. I asked my then-husband to go put her out of her misery but he couldn’t find her. I think she lived another whole day. It was fucking awful.

    Every year I got my then-husband to till and I planted a garden. Smaller each year. Every year I busted balls weeding and mulching; every July I left for a week to go see my guru and when I came back the garden was fucked. Five feet deep in Iowa weeds. All I ever got out of that place would fit in two or three bushel baskets: some asparagus before the patch grew over with grass, some rhubarb, a few heads of lettuce, a few tomatoes.

    In short, farming and gardening is hard fucking work. Do not despair that you can’t do everything, that you can’t counteract suffering, that you lose some rather than win. You’re doin’ good. The goal is CONTENTMENT, not misery! xoxo

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