Having an active fantasy life is a pretty amazing thing. Now that I’m doing so much armchair travelling, it seems that the weight of the world is getting lighter by the day. That said, I haven’t managed to escape reality entirely, as happened recently upon the death of one of our old sheep. 

Melpomene, or Mel as she soon came to be known, left us quietly a couple of weeks ago having lived a long and happy life. When Sasha returned from the barn chores all too early that day, I read on his face the expression that over time I’ve come to know so well - another of the old animals had died. 

He found Mel kushed in front of the little sheep house where she had fallen quietly into an eternal sleep. Still warm to the touch, a light dusting of snow on her back, she had what we’ve come to think of here as a very good death. Other than a slowing of her gait in recent months, there had been no sign whatsoever that she would be leaving us anytime soon.

I write about this now because it is snowing and Sasha is away getting better so I’m the one who’s just come in from doing the barn chores, handing out pats and peanuts to our motley crew of aging animals along the way. My new Italian fantasy life is definitely a psychic godsend during these dark days of winter and I really am committed to the project I’ve begun. 

Even so, no matter how you slice it, there are still shining moments here on this old farm when there’s nowhere else on earth I’d rather be.

At my age I generally don’t spend a lot of time thinking about raging hormones, so the last couple of days have hit me like so much ice water in the face. It turns out that sometimes wildly raging hormones are a fact of life at our place whether I want to be dealing with them or not. 

Normally, when I do the barn chores, everything transpires according to a well orchestrated plan. Morning is the part of my day that I normally consider quite contemplative, reflecting what I hold to be a silent and mindful relationship between a human being and the denizens of several other nations who somehow interdepend. Each bird and animal is aware of the order of business, and I usually arrive to find them all patiently waiting for their part in our shared routine.

Chicken and turkey habitats are checked first for food and fresh water, then eggs are collected and put in a plastic bucket to be taken afterward to the house. If there’s a broody hen in the process of laying, I come back a little later in the day.

In the barn, our “odd couple,” John and Poncho, are dealt with right away. A ram and a male llama respectively, they constitute, apart from Sasha, the only unaltered males on the premises and have somehow managed to live in harmony for years. John, who is a messy, almost toothless eater, needs to be given a small ration of mash made from pelleted hay soaked in water. Poncho, a large gentle creature when not in close proximity to the females, receives (in addition to his hay) a small handful of grain and a stroke on the silky fibre of his neck. The two of them sometimes jump and tussle while this happens, but are generally more interested in the food than in making trouble for me.

Our three geldings are fed next and constitute no difficulty. Large greedy animals, they normally get straight to the hay. The female herd and the donkey, always eager for a nosh,  jolt and jockey one another for position at the mangers but settle easily once their food has arrived. The three skinny llamas who get extra "groceries" step smartly out of their stalls and into the centre of the barn where bright yellow buckets of grain await. The donkey, the only one here of her species, stands eagerly at the gate assertively looking for the small handful of grain she receives as a special treat. After all these things have been done I can set about the daily task of shoveling manure.

Yesterday, however, did not go according to Hoyle. Of course, if I’d been thinking clearly I might have anticipated this, but sometimes I confess that my head is somewhere else. The Russian steppes, perhaps, or somewhere in Peru. At any rate, while daydreaming about the wonders of springtime, I totally lost sight of the rather serious practical implications this season can also hold for me.

Yesterday, I made my first big mistake of the season by letting both small flocks of our chickens out to range, as opposed to just the rooster and three hens who live in the barn without access to a run. I knew better, of course, but  I fell victim (and not for the first time) to the sort of magical thinking that throws reason and experience to the wind.

For Sasha and me as stewards, there has always been an intellectual conflict between the notion of confinement for purposes of protection and the argument that quality of life is at its utmost only when creatures are allowed to be free.  Yesterday, in my head, these concerns were nowhere to be found as I thought only of the green grass and the dirt baths that the chickens could enjoy along with the brightness of the sunlight and the freshness of the air. The matter of spring hormones never crossed my mind and when they surfaced, my once easy routine spun rapidly out of control.

Almost from the second the two roosters encountered one another in the sunlight, they poised themselves for battle, and they continued to battle unremittingly  for the largest part of the morning. Neck feathers fanned out, they flew at one another ferociously, easily eluding all my clumsy attempts to restrain them. So vicious and lengthy was the combat that I actually came to understand why people bet on cock fights, although had I been the one making the bets, I’d certainly have lost. The large, handsome barred rock, by far the heavier of the birds, took a sorry beating before I could round him up and return him to the safety of captivity. It was awful and I hated myself for being so dumb.

To add insult to injury, when I entered the barn, John and Poncho were nowhere to be seen. Bad sign. A normal day would have found the ram standing upright against the stall gate, eagerly awaiting his food with Poncho framed patiently in the doorway behind him. Yesterday I found the pair of them outdoors in the adjacent paddock, where they had breached the fencing to graze happily on the fresh green grass growing there. 

Although this behaviour might strike others as "cute" and while the image may seem bucolic and benign, for me it is as loaded as hell. Sasha and I are almost fanatical about never allowing Poncho into any paddock on a contiguous fence line with that of the female herd. The reason? Hormones, of course.

A large male llama in rut, while a stunning thing to behold, snorts and draws himself up like a monarch, commanding the attention of every female on the place. It is for a very good reason that the male of the camelid species is called a "macho" and only a matter of time before he, or one (or more) of the ladies, will draw near enough to jump the fence and embark on what comes naturally. Once in progress, this activity is too hard and sometimes too dangerous to stop. Although there is a drug we can administer should breeding actually occur, it is best to prevent the situation in the first place. We do not need any young.

Because I have seen this happen before, I was able to move quickly to sequester the aggressively flirty females and to shore up the fencing well enough to serve until Sasha returns on the weekend. Which is not to suggest that there weren't a few hairy moments along the way. In the presence of a potential mate, these snorting four hundred pound girls were really raring to go.

Now that the excitement is over and I can reflect on the events of the day, I realize that all of these situations will have to be managed in a better way, insuring that quality of life is not compromised too much. For the chickens I have just ordered some portable netting that will enable them to enjoy the pleasures of the land while keeping the adversarial roosters separate from one another. Whoever invented the stuff was a genius.

As for the glamorous Poncho and his potential harem, there might be no sex in the offing, but there are plenty of green non-contiguous paddocks over whose fence lines they can longingly gaze. It'll have to do.

This past weekend in Halifax marked the opening of the European movie made from Steig Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, a book I thought to be both interesting and well written when I read it a couple of months ago. Although, largely because of the violence, I’d originally decided to defer succumbing to the two remaining volumes in the trilogy, the truth is that I went on to burn through them like wildfire and am now really keen to see how effectively the content translates into film. Since Sasha has just begun another job in the city, our time together will once again be fraught with outdoor practicalities so I imagine we’ll probably pass on our frequent weekend matinees and just rent the DVD at a later, more convenient time. I am no stranger to delayed gratification.

Here in the country, with proximity only to a smallish Blockbuster, anyone with tastes veering beyond the latest box office hit finds the local pickings very lean. We do have a wonderful film society, though and we maintain a membership with Zip.ca, both of which make a broader cinema culture more accessible.              

The other thing that ups the intellectual ante on rural life is the possession of an iPod Touch, a device I  don’t think I could live in the country without. Although for me useage began with music and the convenience of having something to listen to while waiting for car repairs or using the treadmill at the gym, I soon discovered the richness and diversity of podcasts, and after that, the amazing phenomenon known as iTunes U. With the ability to download courses from many universities, it’s possible for a person to think, learn and grow intellectually even down here on the farm. An excellent blog that helps sort through the various options can be viewed by clicking here.

The last component to my cerebral well-being is listening to audio books, a habit to which I often turn when battling insomnia or working out of doors. A lot of offerings are downloadable for free from sites such as LibriVox and Project Guttenburg, but for a great collection of contemporary works or for those still under copyright, I love audible.com, where my inexpensive subscription allows me to download one book every month.

In fact, I just listened to a chapter of War and Peace (the whole of which is sixty hours long in audio) while mucking out the barn. Depending on how well a person keeps up with all the names, you really can’t beat an experience like that, and since I am married to a Russian, it hasn't been too awfully hard for me. Think of all the work I'll be able to get done before it ends.

The miserable cold with which I’ve been afflicted has lingered on and on, causing the last week to have become a total blur. Apart from crawling to the barn twice a day to feed the animals, I have spent most of that time in bed, coughing and wheezing and lapsing in and out of sleep. It’s a good thing my professional workload has been light. 

Without a voice with which to talk on the telephone and with a head too stuffed up to read with enjoyment or comprehension, I decided to make a companion of the small television set in the bedroom where I became transfixed by the new DIY channel that has recently hit the air. Watching women with power tools renovate old bathrooms was a particular favourite although my drowsiness never permitted me to catch a single episode in its entirety. 

Just as I would warm to an episode showing someone adapting an antique bureau to accommodate a sink, I’d doze off again and waken to a crew on the following programme that I’d never seen before, ripping the cabinets out of an out-dated kitchen. One show morphed into another and eventually into my dreams.

Still, when the time comes to tackle the bathroom in this old farmhouse, I hope I’ll have osmosed at least some appreciation of what the job requires. At the very least I’ll have a much more enlightened view of the possibilities.

In the meanwhile, having wrapped his film in the city, Sasha came home for the weekend and could mercifully tend to the household routine and to me. Although he still has three more days in which to complete his returns and all the attendant paperwork, the hours are much shorter and we can begin to ease back into normal life. 

Savouring a steaming bowl of his wonderful garlic soup,  I can scarcely contain my relief.

My retreat into solitude deepened yesterday with a storm unlike anything I recall in a very long time. Torrential rains and howling winds came late on Thursday night and continued almost until this morning, disrupting routine and shaking our old post and beam to its foundations. Sometimes I could  even feel small gusts of wind blowing through the house. Accustomed to solitude and unafraid of being here alone, I still had my resources tested by the darkness and drama that a spate of heavy weather brings.

Somehow in the morning the wind disrupted the radio reception in the barn, creating a whole new soundtrack to my labours, in the process making me significantly more aware  of the auditory universe  the animals no doubt prefer to the CBC.

Most dramatic were the loudest sounds - competitive crowing from three roosters backed by the clucking of their hens, the braying of a hungry donkey, wind-driven branches tapping on the windows, and the pounding of heavy rain on the corrugated tin up on the roof. Occasionally the old ram would add his deep throated baa-ing to the mix. More softly came the susurrus of hay being pulled through the slats in the mangers, then contented chomping sounds and the occasional satisfied “hum.”

Unable to allow the animals outdoors, I took advantage of my reprieve from heavy mucking out to do the abbreviated version of the chores while handing out peanut treats, touching velvety noses with my own and enjoying the comfort and safety of this second of my homes.

In the house, later in the afternoon, the power went out entirely and as the day wore on without restoration, I made myself embark on the precautionary manoeuvres that would see me safely through to another day. I assembled candles and flashlights and hauled buckets of water from the well. Luckily we have a propane fireplace as an alternate heating source and a propane stove that makes it possible to be quite comfortable even without electricity. It was the deepening darkness that I minded most and, truth be told, the absence of theoretical contact with the outside world. Like it or not, the dependance on technology runs deep.

Having done all I could, in the candlelight of early evening, I  finally curled up with my iPod touch under a warm throw in front of the fire. The wind still howled and the rain continued to beat mercilessly on the windowpanes. Just as I was warming to the romance of the moment and looking forward to my talking book, Nova Scotia Power ruined the spell and thrust me back into ordinary life.

As the lights first flickered then came back on, my first sheepish move was to make a beeline for my Mac.

These are the facts of life. This morning Ceiara’s body lies wrapped in a black plastic tarp in an outdoor paddock just outside the barn. Since Sasha is away until the weekend and it will take both of us to bury her, the bitterly frozen air will keep her from decay. I can’t bring myself to look in her direction.

Every human knows by adulthood these certain truths about mourning - that with death there will be emotional pain, that big hot tears will come often and unexpectedly, and that much time must pass before the memories so newly piercing to the heart will be able to evoke (and be transformed into) smiles and even laughter. One day a lovely warm feeling somewhere deep inside will assure us how lucky we were to have loved in the first place the one for whom today we grieve so much. 

That day will not come soon for me but I have responsibilities here and life has to go on. The other animals still need me.

Feeding time in our barn is an extremely hectic experience, every movement carefully choreographed to minimize the chaos of large hungry animals in lively competition for the food. There is a hierarchy in the herd that needs to be respected, there are special diets for the older animals and for anyone who is thin. There are chickens to feed and eggs to be collected. There are buckets of water to haul. All this must happen in the midst of a sort of free-for-all complete with warning sounds and occasional gobs of spit. Be efficient, keep your eyes open, move quickly and be prepared to duck.

Today when I entered the barn at chore time, I discovered there a silence so pervasive that it took my breath away. As I worked my way, strangely unmolested, through the usual routine - small buckets of grain for the oldest or the thinnest animals, fresh water for everyone, and then mangers filled with hay - I saw the entirety of the female llama herd standing absolutely still, oblivious to my presence and utterly disaffected by their food. To a one, they were huddled together, clustered in the doorway, each facing outward to the black tarpaulin lying before them in the snow. Once again, I couldn't stop my tears.

In stillness they remained there until I finally went away. They will eat when they are ready. Humans, it would seem, have no monopoly on the rituals of loss.

Sasha is in the city today working on a film and I am writing through a veil of tears that somehow will not stop. 

This morning our veterinarian arrived at our barn to administer that painless but fatal cocktail that will terminate an animal’s life. The diagnosis for Ceiara was so dire and the rate of her decline so rapid that it became intolerable to endure. 

By yesterday we were unable to keep her sternal, which means that every time I checked on her she had flopped over onto one side, her lovely long neck no longer upright but flat to the ground. The veterinary examination determined that Ceiara’s spinal cord had been, by whatever means, so badly damaged that she could feel no deep pain in any of her limbs. She would never walk again, never graze in the fields with her companions, never be able to leave the confines of the barn. By this morning she had ceased to eat or drink, her neck curled awkwardly behind her, her big beautiful eyes empty and very far away. 

Over time and over buckets of tears, we have come to see this stage of the journey, replete with all the heartache, as an integral part of the responsibility that accompanies our stewardship of all the living creatures in our care. We are family, after all, and our hearts have beaten in unison for more than a decade. To end her time with us was an anguishing choice and not one taken lightly, but we are long past the metaphysics and the guilt some would have us feel for “playing God.”  It never gets any easier.

Before daybreak this morning as we positioned her listless body in the barn, agreement came without any words. We have loved Ceiara far too long and far too much to let her suffer any further. Although my partner needed to be elsewhere, I was there to cradle her neck, her companion until the moment when she crossed the rainbow bridge. I owed her that much. 

In pacem requiescat, my beautiful girl.

Sometimes the life of the mind has to take a back seat to the life of the heart. As I write this, one of our beautiful female llamas is very ill and the odds in favour of recovery are unclear. 

There is an old saying that “a down llama is a dead llama," but we know that this isn’t necessarily so. However, Ceiara has just gone down and seems to have little if any sensation in both her front and hind legs. We found her this morning at feeding time, lying on her side with her limbs spayed out around her.

Ataxia of this nature is the usual result of trauma to the spinal cord caused by parasitic infection. Since all the animals received the appropriate wormers at the appropriate time, we are mystified as to the cause. We are following a treatment protocol developed at Ohio State University and working with our vet to give the necessary care. Just as with human patients, sores can be the uncomfortable byproduct of lengthy periods of recumbency just as limbs tend to atrophy when they are not exercised. So for the next many days we have our work cut out for us. Food, medications and injections, physiotherapy and lots and lots of love.