Three Chances for my Furry Friend

Every year in March or April my farmer fellow frost-seeds our pastures and hayfields. He uses a hand-held broadcast seeder, spreading red and white clover over the 7 and 5 and 3 acre sections.

Last year, after a long campaign with the budget committee, my fellow bought a chain harrow to use in the fields. He was eager to see if it would break up the thatch and spread the piles of horse manure, which would help the clover germinate. This meant harnessing the horses and harrowing the fields, which is a good way to get the horses muscled up for heavier garden work.

It also meant that I stepped up to the broadcast seeder, in the interest of having this early spring project actually be accomplished in the early spring.

How hard can it be to walk around circles in a field cranking the seeder? I thought. Well, it isn't that hard, but it sure takes a while. Plus it was somewhat complicated by our farm pooch.

We have seen some nice signs of maturing in our just-turned-two pooch, but he's not all the way there yet. On our first day of frost-seeding, the pooch was glad to join us in the field. He was even gladder to harass the horses by running in front of them and barking. 

The horses do not like this; they buck and kick. Considering they were already feeling their oats from a winter's worth of leisure, I got worried. 

Three times I called the pooch to me. He came, but he didn't stay. Those horses were just too much fun. The fourth time I attached the dog's mid-length leash – twelve feet of clothesline – to his harness on one end and to me on the other end. 

First I tied the leash around my wrist, which interfered with my seeder. Then I tied the leash around my waist, where it kept loosening up. Finally I tied the leash to my belt loop, and that worked. By then the pooch had figured out he was spending the morning having fun with me with me and not with the horses.

It may have been the most boring walk the dog has ever had. There was no barking at horses, no stopping for interesting smells, no side jaunts to explore the woods. It was just me and him around and around and around. After two hours, we were both panting.

But we had half the field seeded and harrowed, and my fellow was jubilant about how well the harrow worked, especially after he tied two old tires on to add weight.

Back at the barn, I released the pooch to help unharness the horses. “Did you see the dog?” I asked my fellow.

“Yes, why?” he answered.

“Did you really look at him? We're going to have to shake him down!” 

My fellow called the pooch. “Wow!” he said. “Our black dog is turning white!”

“I've already rubbed him all over twice, if you can believe that,” I said.

“You're going to grow a whole field of clover, pooch!” My fellow laughed and rubbed the dog some more. Tiny white seeds flew out of his thick curly coat.

The next morning we all started out again: my fellow, the horses, and the harrow; me, the seeder, and the pooch. “You've got three chances,” I said to my furry friend.

He looked askance at me. I don't need three chances, he seemed to say. I'm not the least interested in those horses. I am a very mature dog.

The very mature dog spent the morning with us, sniffing interesting places, taking side jaunts to the woods, and lying down in the middle of the field to observe the action. Not once did he bark or run at the horses. 

“My,” I said in passing. “What a good dog! What a mature dog!” 

He wagged his seed-free tail. He didn't even bother to get up, so mature was he.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, April 29 - May 5, 2026
 

Starting Off With a Bang

Our farming season usually starts out gently, with some pleasant sowing of seeds in flats in the greenhouse. But this year we started off with a bang. 

It was a literal bang, a bang so loud we winced and ducked our heads. Soon enough there was another enormous bang, and we farmers looked nervously at each other. Our propane heater had a few things to say, and they were mighty loud.

The heater has been with us since our very first year of farming, 25 years ago. It has chugged along, heating the greenhouse from March to May, allowing us to start our own seeds and have sturdy early transplants. It's been lightly to moderately banging for a number of years, and we've had various repair people look it over. It keeps banging and working. 

This year, however, the banging was so forceful that it repeatedly blew out the pilot light, which was not conducive to steady heat in the greenhouse. 

At first we thought it was the thermostat, and my fellow fiddled around to get the right temperature: set it at 35 and the heater gave us about 75 degrees. We ordered a new thermostat and had a few blissful hours with it until the pilot light went out again after another bang.

We gave in and called a repair person. He shook his head. He said the heater was shot. He said the banging was from rust catching in the manifold. Then the built-up force of the gas would shoot the rust out and extinguish the pilot light. He also said he wouldn't even try to start the heater.

The next day we called a different repair person. He said, “Who put this sticker on it?”

“What sticker?” said my fellow.

“The one that says condemned.”

That person wouldn't try to start it either.

Part of the issue was that we were applying for a grant to replace the heater and the grant wouldn't come through until June. So we really wanted the heater to last for one more season. No, said the heater. No, said the repair people.

My fellow moved a little electric space heater into the greenhouse. We researched supplemental heat sources. We brought our twenty flats of valiant seedlings in and out of our living room morning and evening so they wouldn't freeze overnight but would still get sunlight during the day.

We did mountains of research, from propane to pellet to electric stoves and back again. We talked to the grant person to see if there was any leeway. Maybe, she said, but you have to install a certain type of heater. 

We got quotes from hither and yon. The first one was more than half of our bank account balance. The second, including the heater that would have satisfied the grant requirements, was three-quarters of our bank balance. The partial grant wouldn't cover enough of the cost.

We were nearing desperation when my fellow thought to call a friend who has been doing heating and cooling work for thirty plus years. Our friend said, “I'll be there tomorrow.” 

He and my fellow went to Griffin Greenhouse in Massachusetts and bought the new version of our old heater (only a quarter of our bank balance!). Then they spent nine hours taking out the old heater and installing the new one. They hooked it up. They tried three times to start it, with no luck. 

It was dark by then in the greenhouse. “Maybe we should read the manual a little more?” said our friend, getting out his flashlight. Turns out there was an on/off switch. 

Now we've got heat! We can catch up on our sowing. We can work in the greenhouse without wincing and ducking our heads. But the funniest thing? That very first night my fellow could hardly sleep, worrying whether the heater was working. There wasn't a single bang.


Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, April 1 - April 7, 2026

Wrestling with the Water Trough

Winter on a vegetable farm brings rest, but it also brings new tasks, especially with our draft horses. Summer means pastures and streams; winter means feeding hay and grain and wrestling with the water trough. 

Some winters are mild enough that we don't have to do much. Not this winter! This winter we brought out all the tools: crowbar, digging fork, shovel. Sometimes we just crack the surface of the ice for the horses to drink. The horses will also break the ice with their muzzles and the occasional hoof if necessary.

But as it gets colder and colder, we have to smash up the ice and clear it out of the trough three times a day with our various tools. Of course, we also have to fill the trough with water more frequently, which means dragging the wild and difficult hose out of the cellar through the house, as the hose catches on everything it can.

In any case, if we want to leave for a few days in the cold weather, we need a different method of keeping the horses in water. It's a more expensive method, but it sure is handy: the electric de-icer.

Over the years, we've had several, as they don't seem to last long. We've always gotten the kind that screws into the drainage plug at the bottom of the trough. We've had horses who like to play in water before; Benny, for example, would flip the hose out of the trough and watch the water run down the driveway.

But we're at another level now, thanks to one of our new horses. One spring day, not long after Willow and Fern came to the farm, we heard vigorous splashing and significant thumping from the paddock. When we went to investigate, there was Willow with both front legs in the trough. We thought she had made a little mistake, kind of misjudged things.

We were wrong. 

Turns out jumping in the trough is a regular pastime for Willow. Maybe she has hot front legs. Maybe she likes to jump. Maybe water tastes better when your feet are in it too. It is a mystery, but one that we thought would certainly stop when the water was frigidly cold, with ice forming at the edges.

We were wrong.

One winter day, we found Willow nearly up to her chest in icy water, happily splashing. We sighed. Soon enough, we wanted to go visit family, so we bought our regular type of de-icer. Willow is shy, and we thought maybe she'd be leery enough of the scary metal coil in the bottom of the trough that she would only cautiously sip the water instead of jump in it.

We were wrong.

The brand new de-icer only lasted for two short weekends away. Well, maybe it will warm up, we thought, and we won't need a de-icer. It's already the end of January. 

We were wrong.

In February's below zero weather, we headed back to the horse store. My fellow had an extensive discussion with the friendly knowledgeable owner, and we came home with a new kind of de-icer: a bright blue floating one.

“Of course, “ said the owner, “Some horses like to pull them right out of the trough for the fun of it.”

Fairly warned, we screwed two sturdy boards on the edge of the trough, and threaded the cord through the gap, to keep the de-icer in place.

So far, so good: the trough always has a spot clear of ice, and Willow hasn't broken the de-icer or pulled it out in our brief times away from the farm. Plus winter will surely end, and we won't need de-icers. Soon too we'll fire up the greenhouse, and we won't be leaving the farm at all. We can watch Willow jump in and out of the water trough all day long.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, March 4-10, 2026

Tough Farm Dog

Winter on a vegetable farm is a good time to tackle the mending pile, especially when a few years have passed without tackling the mending pile. This year might have been another non-tackle year except that the farm pooch is having trouble with his paws in the snow. 

He oh-so-sadly holds up one paw after another and periodically lies down to chew the snowballs off his fuzzy feet. I did a little paw and snow research on the computer and found an easy pattern for dog booties.

My fellow and I sorted through the enormous pile of cloth that has collected in our closet over the years: shirts and pants and sheets too holey to mend, fabric from my mother who was a sewer, tiny baby and toddler clothes too worn to pass along from our daughter's childhood. We needed a pretty large piece to sew dog booties, and most of our scraps were too small.

“How about this?” my fellow asked, holding up a swath of bright yellow. 

“I was hoping for something kind of dark, so it'll blend in with his black hair,”  I answered. “So he doesn't look so silly. He's supposed to be a tough farm dog, not a farm dog with booties.”

My fellow laughed. “What about sled dogs?” he said 

“Oh, yeah,” I answered. I had just read a book about sled dogs, and told my fellow about how they need booties to run fast in the snow. Stopping to chew the snow off their paws won't help them win the Iditarod. “Sled dogs are really tough.” 

“Just like you, right?” I added, talking to the farm dog, who was lolling on the rug in front of the wood stove. He yawned and stretched and moved to the couch.

Unfortunately, the fabric pile refused to produce anything suitable for dog booties, since the fabric was supposed to be quick-drying. “Fleece, or merino wool, the pattern said,” I told my fellow.

“Here's some merino wool. Look, it's black!” He held up a pair of long johns, merino wool, black, and almost completely shredded from hard use.

“That would be perfect,” I said, “If there was anything left to it.”

“Why are we keeping it then?”

“It's beautiful wool,” I said. “Organic. I don't want to just throw it away.”

“Maybe we can use it for insulation in the end wall of the greenhouse?”

“Yeah, we're saving it for insulation in the greenhouse,” I agreed happily. “Plus now that we have this fabric all over the place, we can do some mending.” 

Over the course of a few days, we patched seven pairs of work pants, three sheets, one mattress protector, two cloth bags, and three shirts. 

I felt very productive and also a little squrirrelly, as was the farm pooch, who is young enough that lying on the rug and couch for too long translates into a lot of energy, which will either be dispelled by nosing around and chewing on things he shouldn't or by taking a walk.

“Let's take a walk,” I said, as the dog did some shredding of his own in the big pile of cloth.

We suited up, including the dog's neon vest, so hunters don't mistake him for anything but a dog, and so we can see him more easily when he does his young dog job of running fast and far. 

“But where are his booties?”  I said, as the pooch blasted around in the snow, and then abruptly dropped onto the ground to chew on his paws.

“Yes, where are your booties?” my sympathetic fellow asked, kneeling in the snow to help the dog get the tiny snowballs out of his feet. The pooch bounced up and blasted off again. 

“I guess he's not having that much trouble,” I said. “Maybe we shouldn't even bother with booties.”

“Yeah,” agreed my fellow. “Plus it keeps him nice and busy. He loves a good chewing job.”

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Feb 4 - Feb 10, 2025