Farm Life From a Farm Wife

Being around animals my whole life, and especially dairy animals, I’ve come to discover they definitely communicate over and above our human awareness.

For example, a mama cow has a definitive moo when she calls for her calf, a different moo when she perceives harm toward her little one, another moo is a feed-me-now-or-I’ll-die-right-here. Unfamiliar territory fuels yet a different kind of stressful moo. Also, when their udder is full — you know it; an urgent moo. They need to get milked.

Pigs have a language all their own, as well and being housed side-by-side to our heifers, interact with them. The other day, it was my job to feed our pigs. We got six 40-pounders back in April, and they’ve grown fat and happy; their snouts maintain perpetual grins. I can’t help but wonder what they’re thinking. Snout-to-nose with the heifers, they intermingle through the fence.

They delight in playing with their water tub, tipping it over even though it’s heavy, chained and full of water. Filling it up one day, I stuck my thumb over half of the spout, creating a waterfall across their backs. Mid-September had been unseasonably warm, and they love a cool shower relieving late afternoon heat. Rolling in the mud made from my sprinkling system, they communicate their pleasure in low-grunt cadences.

The talk coming from these six pigs vary depending on the time or temperature of the day. I’ve heard them snort, grunt and squeal; gurgle and slobber. They fight – oh, they fight – when I sprinkle their feed into their troughs, even biting each other’s floppy ears. The way they compete for food you’d think they were starving. They do not look starved.

Going up to the barn mow, my two rescue cats come running to greet me. When I first got them, they were timid and very skeptical of their new digs. Over time, I eventually gained their trust. It’s such a pleasure to have them purr and intertwine themselves around my ankles, looking up at me with blinking eyes that definitely say, “I’m glad to see you.” How satisfying it is to have them respond to me in this way. Their good morning meows are music to my ears. They also have different languages depending on the situation.

One day, there was an uninvited visitor — a neighboring cat — who thought she could just come on in and nibble on their food. Immediately, the body language of one of my cats changed. The intruder was met with a deep, threatening growl that seemed to vibrate through my cat’s whole body. I quieted myself, watching them interact. Soon, the visitor got the hint and slinked away through a hole in the barn door.

Our dog, Molly, gone now close to three years, was a sweet-tempered lab. Looking at her, I could tell if she needed to go out, wanted a snack, was afraid or just content to faithfully follow me around.

If anyone came to the door, she put up an astounding fuss, growling deep in her throat and letting out a string of startling German shepherd-style barks that would send any would-be ne’er-do-well off running. They wouldn’t have known she’d have killed them with kindness. I was glad to have her by my side.

One night, I was awakened by my husband’s snoring so decided to bunk out on the back room couch, which happened to be right next to Molly’s bed. Blissful silence, I was just about to drift off when, all of a sudden, she started snoring. I couldn’t win.

Out in my raspberry patch, I’m bombarded by buzzing bees. The insect world has their own cornucopia of music. I never swat a bee. I literally tell them, “You leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone; there’s enough fruit out here for everybody.” I don’t mind — the patch is healthier when the bees are active.

Recently, my husband and I got a chance to get away up north for a few days with my siblings and spouses. Renting a lakeside Airbnb, we took a pontoon boat out fishing. Off in the distance, we’d hear an occasional loon. The fish started biting, and we were enjoying time away when all of a sudden, a loon came up and started dive-bombing at the worms on our hooks. Astonished, we quickly snatched up our poles, not wanting the poor loon to get snarled on one of our hooks.

We pulled up anchor and took off for the other side of the lake. Casting our lines out, we found the loon had followed our boat. The stinker dove under the pontoon boat, only to come up unexpectedly on the other side. It quickly dawned on us that this loony loon had learned the how-to after being rewarded for its behavior. In other words, this wasn’t his first rodeo. He was well-versed in snagging fresh food dangling just below the surface.

All animals have their own language, and we are their caretakers. I feel privileged to share the good earth with them.

(“Know well the condition of your flocks, and pay attention to your herds.” Proverbs 27:23)