The creatures in the following drama are, from top to bottom:
Policeman
Rambo (foreground) and Hannah (rear)
Winston
Hazel

Heat.

It's the perfect word to describe a pig's ovulation. When a female pig ovulates, she is all raging hormone, all sex...all heat.

Petunia the pig used to follow male staff around, insistently presenting her rear to them. Millie the 100-pound potbelly, meanwhile, insists on mounting Policeman, the old, gentle, 1,000 pound farm pig, who wants nothing more on a sunny day than to plop his pink mass into the shavings pile just outside the barn door and lie motionless, soaking up the warmth of the day. He's years (and a neutering) past thinking about sex. So Millie, unsatisfied, returns to her stall, where she plans her next assault on the next unwitting male.

Now there's little Hazel's first heat.

She's mounting Policeman, then picking a fight through the fence with Piggerty, a female pig, foaming at the mouth and chomping her jaws in that "I'm going to KICK YOUR ASS" way that's SO uniquely porcine. A moment later, in a frenzy, she whips around and is mounting Winston, the black potbelly, and the two of them are a two-pig cha-cha line moving through the barn aisle, Hazel's front legs straddling Winston's rear end and her tiny back legs running to keep up as Winston, completely unfazed, goes about his business--searching for food--that's the only business a pig ever has.

Well, other than this....

Hazel mounts Hannah the sheep, lying in the aisle, who simply stands and walks away, turns to look at Hazel with a "What are you, crazy?" expression in her eyes. Norma Jean the turkey is diagonally across the aisle, pecking at treats on the hayroom floor.

Hazel j-walks--j-TROTS, actually--toward the turkey but out of nowhere Rambo appears, ever the guardian of all our fragile ones, blocking Hazel's best efforts to molest the gentle bird. He, too, is gentle but insistent, and a mere lowering of his head a few times, presenting those massive horns, is enough to convince Hazel to look elsewhere for satisfaction.

We call Mark Rosenberg to schedule Hazel's spay surgery.

...sex is on the mind of every animal on the place.

Mind you, making an exception for the humans, we have but a single set of testicles on the entire place. Those testicles belong to Noah, a 20-year-old stallion whose wonderful progress you can track in my blog. Minimal risks notwithstanding, they will soon be removed. A rescue organization simply cannot have an animal in its midst capable of reproduction.

Yet, despite our nearly "testosterone-free" status, all I see is sex today. It happens every spring.

Buddy the blind horse featured on the jacket of my book, Where the Blind Horse Sings, is a gelding. Yet you'd never have known it today, watching him, stone blind, mounting his female pasturemates Abby and Henny.

Nor would you have guessed that Rudy the steer was a STEER--a neutered bull--and not a cohones-intact bull as he mounted not only his companion Helen, the lovely blind Hereford cow, but also ANDY, the male HORSE.

I walked to the barn laughing, shaking my head, having just witnessed a neutered male cow mounting a neutered male horse. I was stopped in my tracks by Hazel, our 50-pound adolescent female potbelly pig, doing her damndest to "connect," so to speak, with Policeman, our 1,000-pound neutered male farm pig, interested only in sunning himself on a warm spring afternoon.

Aaah, love is in the air....

Animal care director Walt Batycki and I have had our struggles. He rightly claims that I don't listen to him--instead I come armed with my solution to a problem, which may not be feasible for a whole host of reasons. I rightly claim that he gets a little too worked up about things that really aren't such a big deal if one would only approach them with equanimity.

We love each other; we regularly say so. We struggle constantly. But then there are the moments that, in an instant, wash our issues away. There's just been one.

Murphy and I were driving the farm: surveying the land, the fencing, checking in with the outside animals. As I drove past our beautiful duck pond, I spotted what looked like a duck head floating on the water. Oh no. One of our most vulnerable ducks, a Pekin female named Shirley who's routinely harassed by aggressive males, was caught in the fencing that divides the "duck safe" portion of the pond from the "no swim zone." Her leg was caught in wire well below the surface. Literally only her head was visible as she struggled; the rest of her body was completely submerged.

I gunned the accelerator, leapt from the car, pounded on Walt's door.

"WALT WE HAVE AN EMERGENCY!!" I called as I entered, quickly explaining the situation to Walt, who was sound asleep, exhausted from a long week.

"Let me throw some clothes on," he answered.

I gunned the car backward to the tool shed to retrieve wire cutters, then sped to the pond, visualizing myself waist deep in 40-degree water.

When I got there, no more than 60 seconds after knocking on Walt's door, Walt was already waist-deep in the pond, Shirley in hand. An instand later, Walt was pale and shivering, and Shirley was sailing through the air into her warm, dry shelter.

"I love you, Walt," I said to the man running to his hot shower.

"I know," he said.

This entry is for our volunteers -- Crazy Rabbit Man is on the prowl.

A few weeks ago I received a call from an agitated gentleman who, speaking in a fast, slurred monotone, said he "wanted to come get some rabbits."

I explained that my line was for emergencies only and that he should go on line to complete an application. "There's a whole process," I explained. "You can't just come pick up animals."

"Need rabbits, gotta have some rabbits," he continued repetitively, talking over my words.

That same night I was on my way to hear the wonderful "veggie vet" Holly Cheever speak about her 25 years advocating for animal rights. Her talk was preceded by a vegan potluck presented by Mid-Hudson Vegetarian Society. As I headed out to the event, in drove Crazy Rabbit Man.

He's in his 50s; drives a new silver 4-door vehicle. Perhaps a hybrid?

"May I help you?" I asked pointedly as I got out of my car, which I'd angled in front of him so that he couldn't go any further.

"Where are the rabbits? Rabbits gotta I need where are rabbits the rabbits?"

"Sir, we're closed, and you must leave. I told you on the phone that you can't simply come get rabbits. If you don't leave rioght now, I'm going to call the police."

Rabbit man mumbled on about red tape, turned around and left. I stayed at the top of the driveway for 15 minutes, suspecting he would return. He didn't.

About a week ago, Crazy Rabbit Man appeared in the barn, demanding rabbits in his rapid-fire monotone. He was told to leave.

He'll be back. Just a request to all volunteers: if you're the first to see him, don't waste time looking for staff if we're not in the barn. His plan is clearly to grab some rabbits and run. Call the police, and get Crazy Rabbit Man's license plate number.

Thanks to the incredible energy of over forty volunteers (the forecast kept a few people away), our Spring Clean Up, held this past weekend, was an amazing success. The regulars at Catskill Animal Sanctuary are in fact a little humbled by how much got done!!

Three new shelters were stained, the intrepid Judy Gelardi worked on her own to clean up our gigantic perennial garden (not a one of us can distinguish between a weed and a flower), and all our container gardens (large oak barrels) and one large raised bed were transformed by Kathryn (sorry Kathryn if I botched the spelling) Sebastian's green thumb.

The one project I feared might be too daunting was reclaiming a large portion of pasture choked by climbing vines, burdock, sumac and other invasive species. But armed with everything from chain saws and razor-sharp machetes (generously provided by volunteers Vinny and Diann DiBlanda) to garden rakes and pruning shears, two teams charged into the tangle, and in a few hours transformed most of it to its original meadow-like beauty. Take a look:

So, to EJ, Allie, John (Sebastian--yes....as in JOHN SEBASTIAN!!), Kathryn, Mi-Lyn, Sarah, Vinny, Dianna, John, Joanne, Julie, Michelle, Paul, Kelly, Bernie, Anna, Paloma, Mark, Adena and the Bard gang, to all the rest whose names I can't conjure up, and to the dozens of you who come here week after week with open hearts and strong hands:

thanks for sharing the love. Yes, I believe in magic.

What does one do when she has a blind duck, a one-legged duck, and a coupla girl ducks who get mobbed by randy drakes?

If she's at Catskill Animal Sanctuary, she makes a special needs duck pond!!

What does one do when she has a blind duck, a one-legged duck, and a coupla girl ducks who get mobbed by randy drakes?

If she's at Catskill Animal Sanctuary, she makes a special needs duck pond!!

They're so much like us...and here's more evidence. Enjoy...

They're so much like us...and here's more evidence. Enjoy...

We are always so happy during the warmer months, when the pastures are green and lush. It costs a fortune to hay our animals during the winter, so it's a relief to let nature feed most of them the way it was intended to. Lots of hard work went into fencing more acreage this year, and another large barn was built in a new field to ensure that the critters would have healthy graze for much of the the season. In the winter season; we use over 30 bales per day; right now, a mere dozen supplement the grass for our outdoor animals.

You can imagine how disheartening it is, then, to see our pastures turning green, not with grass, but with invasive species! Alien plants—shiny dark leaves and a tiny pink flower—are choking out the grass. Volunteers are now venturing out to tear up the offenders by hand, uprooting them entirely. We should have two months of grazing left, and we are working hard to ensure that grass is available.

If you have the time, energy, and a healthy bit of masochism, why not call us and volunteer to help? Good lord can we use all able-bodied folks to weed the fields!!

"Sorry about the wait," I say to twenty or so guests waiting patiently under the willow tree for the next tour to begin. "We're down a guide today."

At that moment, young Franklin the pig looks up from his spot in the far corner of the pasture that borders our waiting area.

"Kids!!" I summon the group. "I need your help!"

I point to my friend with the pink skin and fuzzy ears, then say, "I'm going to count to three, then I want everyone to shout as loudly as you can, "FRANKLIN!"

As his name leaves our collective lips, Franklin leaps the creek that divides his field in half, and is trotting in our direction. grunting in anticipation. The group hovers around me.

"Whath he doing?" a wide-eyed child of five or six lisps through the hole in his top teeth, uncertain whether to laugh or to flee in terror from the 500-pound body barreling right at him.

I squat so that we are eye to eye. "What's your name, sweetie?" I ask of the little boy, who by now is nothing but breath and bulging brown eyes.

"Malcolm," he whispers, glancing furtively at his mom. Franklin is a foot from us, pushing a soft snout into the wire mesh fence, his requests for company growing louder by the second.

"He's talking to us," I explain. "He's saying "Malcolm, come right here so I can meet you: I bet you'd be a great friend."

"Thath really what he's thaying?" Malcolm aks.

"AbsoLUTEly!"

Malcolm smiles.

"Hi, everbody," I say to the group. "I'm Kathy Stevens, founder of Catskill Animal Sanctuary. "In just a moment you'll learn about the mission of CAS--who we rescue, how we make our choices, why we encourage all our guests not to eat animals like my friend here. But right now, we've got some pig kissing to do." A few chuckles emanate from the group, and one woman says, "I've been looking forward to kissing a pig all summer."

I edge over until I'm right in front of Franklin, and offer my hand to Malcolm. He takes it.

"Pigs are very loud, Malcolm, and that's a scary thing if you're not used to it. But look: Franklin can't come any closer because he's behind this fence," I explain, touching the top rail of Franklin's pasture.

"Sit right here," I encourage him, and little Malcolm folds his legs and sits so that our knees are touching. "Hi, best pig in the world, hi, you good, good pig," I say to my friend as I flatten my hand against the metal mesh so that he can push into it with his muddy snout the way he likes to do. "I love you, Franklin."

I take Malcolm's hand and hold it beneath mine, and watch the child's smile grow as Franklin greets him.

"He's all muddy," Malcolm giggles.

"Yeah," I say. "You might be just a little dirtier when you leave here than you are now." I glance upward at Mom.

"Not a problem," she responds, her smile as big as her son's. "This is worth a little dirt."

The group has gathered around us, and I sense an opportunity.

"Well, everyone," I turn around to address the group, focusing on the children. "I haven't given 'Franklin a kiss yet today, so I'll be right back."

I hoist myself up and over the fence, and step down beside my porcine pal. Franklin rubs his cheek against my thigh and oinks his most emotional hello. When I kneel, I am smothered in pig kisses: wet muddy snout against nose, cheek, mouth, head. I kiss him back then smile to the group. Most are laughing with delight; one woman looks like she wants to grab her child and flee from what must be some kind of demonic pagan cult. ("They actually kiss pigs," I imagine her saying to her husband over their pork chop dinner.)

"Anybody else want to kiss a pig?"

Before she either faints or vomits, the pork chop eater does, indeed, take her child and head toward the parking lot. In the meantime, two young girls are squealing with glee, entreating their parents.

One at a time, Dad passes each of the girls over the fence. Franklin, of course, is beside himself, and the girls are instantly both filthy and in love. "I love you, Franklin," the older one says, "I love you, Franklin," the younger one mimics through delighted giggles as a cool snout greets her.

I pass the human packages back over the fence, already suspecting I'll need my ice pack tonight.

Malcolm, frozen in place on the other side, looks up at me, his eyes saying everything.

"Ok, trooper," I smile as I hold out my hands to help him over. "Ready to have some fun?"

That Hannah the sheep is in love with Rambo the sheep is no secret. Indeed, it’s obvious even to first-time volunteers as Hannah bolts from her stall each morning in search of her Romeo. If she finds him immediately, all is well. But if Rambo is out of sight—either intentionally hiding or simply munching hay in a newly-vacated stall—she is initially disturbed, then worried, finally panic-stricken and uttering a heart-wrenching, baleful “baa-aah” as the time it takes to find her soul mate increases. Once she locates him, all is again right in her world. She settles into her sheepness, content to roam the barnyard, grazing, stealing alfalfa from the hay room, and plotting kitchen break-ins….as long, that is, as Rambo is no more than a foot or two from her. It is a relationship that she needs desperately, and one that Rambo sometimes seems to appreciate, other times only tolerate.

Enter Barbie the hen.

Barbie is a broiler, the term used to describe chickens intended for meat. She’s one of hundreds who’ve arrived from one of New York’s five boroughs, lucky escapees from live poultry markets, slaughterhouses, transport trucks, and the ritual sacrifices of Santeria. We’ve taken chickens from dumpsters, chickens tied to trees in Central Park, chickens stuffed in mailboxes, and chickens who were drowning in crates left in flooding streets. Our latest, Barbie, was found in Brooklyn, hiding under a blue Honda.

Like Hannah, Rambo, and many more of our smaller animals, Barbie free ranges during the day. While she is young, the exercise is good for a body that will quickly grow morbidly obese. There’s also no outdoor home for Barbie, as our ratio of roosters to hens is about 300 bazillion to one. (Few people, unfortunately, want a pet rooster.) So Barbie snuggles into her cozy home in the main barn each night, then each morning is lifted out to explore the barnyard and cozy up to whomever she chooses.

Unfortunately, Barbie has chosen Rambo.

For several weeks, Barbie has been napping right next to Rambo, sometimes so close that surely even through his wool Rambo can probably feel the heat emanating from her big bird body. Sometimes she climbs on top of his back, the patient Rambo motionless, and falls sound asleep, Rambo taking her overtures in good stride.

For a while, Hannah tolerated the new friendship. After all, Barbie was merely a hen; Hannah could still rest side by side with her love, or stalk him relentlessly as he traveled the barnyard ensuring all was in order.

But Rambo, the most exceptional animal I’ve ever known, had other things in mind.
A couple weeks ago, Lorraine and I stood, incredulous, as Rambo walked up to Barbie and pawed the ground. Pawing is Rambo’s signal to humans that he wants a massage—something he receives whenever he asks for it, which is generally, oh, forty or fifty times a day. Clearly he thought that if mere human beings could discern his wishes, then a chicken could, too. We stood there, my hand on Lorraine’s arm, both of us gaping, as our extraordinary friend tried to teach his bird pal to do his bidding. When it didn’t work, Rambo finally took the tip of his horn, and very gently massaged the little bird.

A few days later, Rambo was lying in a pile of hay. Next to him was Barbie, pulling bits of hay from his wooly coat.

The deepening of this relationship was too much for Hannah. One recent afternoon, she was nowhere to be found as I entered the barn to set up feed.

“Where’s Hannah?” I asked Walt.

“She’s in time out.”

“What happened?” I asked, imagining his response.

“She head-butted Barbie halfway across the aisle.”

I never imagined I’d work at a place where a sheep and a hen would vie for the attention of a second sheep’s affection. But then again, I never imagined that a dying cow would lick my face over and over and over again until he took his final breath, or that a former cockfighting rooster would evolve into a being who begged us to share our lunches, took car rides with me, and happily climbed onto my dog Murphy’s bed to share a nap.

These are the things that love allows. These are the things that love elicits. Animals are far more like we are than I’d have ever imagined had I not had the good fortune to be with them every single day.

Walt Batycki’s Post Script:

The soap opera down at the barn continues to play out daily, as full of larger-than-life romantic complexity as any sordid daytime television plot. Just as we were putting the newsletter to bed, a new character strutted onstage to turn Rambo’s love triangle into a square of drama.

Chloe, a rescued hen from Tillson, has been eyeing Rambo since she was allowed to free range. She noticed that Rambo was all alone, catching a snooze in the aisle. Hannah was out grazing, and Barbie was busy trying to figure out a way into the kitchen for some free grub, so Chloe made her move. She strutted over to everyone’s favorite wooly ram and circled him slowly, making sure to not only be seen, but to be noticed. Rambo acknowledged her advances with a tilt of his horns, one of the charming ways he greets newcomers...it strikes me like the way a cowboy tips his hat. Chloe inched closer, making eye contact in the way only a chicken can, and greeted him with a flurry of blinks. Rambo relaxed, lowering his head back the floor. That was Chloe’s cue to start gingerly picking through Rambo’s wool with her beak. Clearly he enjoyed the grooming.

Out of nowhere Barbie came hurtling at Chloe like a fluffy cannonball, knocking her away with a squawk!

The green-eyed monster wears many disguises, some wooly, some feathered, none of them willing to share.