I've created this page to help our new readers quickly find some of your favorite blogs. Bit by bit, I'll be adding the essays that you've told me make you laugh, or make you cry, or make you do both.  If I haven't yet added one of your favorites, drop me a line and tell me which ones you think our newer readers would enjoy.

Blood Will Tell  - Click here for the photos of Briar, the Livestock Guardian Dog puppy, meeting the ewe who was mauled in a dog attack.  I'm still moved to tears every time I see these photos.

Farming 101                Life on a farm can be tough, and each chore accomplished is a major victory. This evening I decided to tackle a stall door. The barn has shifted and the door wasn't closing properly. It just needed to have the latch hole drilled a little bigger. So I started to poke around the workroom in the barn. Found a drill! Now I needed drill bits. Poked around some more. Nope. Poked around in the house. Found 'em! I was on a roll! Drilled the hole bigger. Door worked great! Woo hooo! I AM WOMAN! HEAR ME ROAR! I happily patted myself on the back. "Yeah! I'm gonna be just fine. I can do this!" And that's when the rat fell out of the ceiling . . . Suddenly I was no longer Xena Warrior Princess -- Master Of My Domain. I was a screaming woman doing the Rat Dance. This is where you dance in place, point, and scream, "Ah! Ah! Ah! Get it! Get it! Get it!" Now this is like a 911 call to dogs. And ever vigilant, my faithful Belgian Shepherds (and one Bloodhound) raced to my aid. The rat landed on a 2x4 wall brace (near my shoulder!) and ran along the back of the workroom. He climbed jars filled with screws, old tools, and pvc pipes with remarkable speed. (Rats have 4-wheel drive, ya know!) Anyway, I continued to scream and point while the dogs fell over each other in their efforts to snatch the rat off the wall. It finally hid behind some old plastic jugs and there was a lull in the action. Standing on their back legs, the dogs looked to me. I stared back at them. "I'm not gonna pick up those jugs!" They turned to the rat behind the jugs and then back to me. Clearly, I was the tallest one in the room, and I had the thumbs. They elected me to move the jugs. I was outvoted. So jug by jug, I lifted each away from the shelf . . . and the rat fell down. I screamed and commenced the Rat Dance again. The dogs did their very best Three Stooges imitation as they crashed into each other in a wild attempt to snag the suspect. The rat scurried through a hole in the base of the wall and the four of us were left panting and gasping for air. (I'm sure the rat was doing a bit of gasping himself.) The dogs had great fun. They searched for the rat for several minutes while I tried to gain my composure and waited for my heart rate to return to normal. My pack finished up their rat hunt and returned to reassure me that I was safe from rats as long as they were on duty. I was reminded, yet again, that you can't run a farm without a good dog . . . or two or three. We all have different talents that balance out to get the work done. They're not afraid of rats; I'm not afraid of vacuum cleaners, so it all evens out.     Xena Warrior Princess Winter in our neck of the woods tempts us with spring days that stir the heart of any gardener, and I'm no exception. As soon as the warm sun comes out, I'm already planning new beds for flowers and sewing seeds for this year's herb garden. I spent today hauling horse manure to make new beds. I put some serious thought into why I even considered yoga and a work-out program when I have chores like shoveling manure, hauling manure, picking weeds, and trimming trees. If you add the extra exercise benefits of wearing rubber boots while clomping through the mud, actually "paying" for the privilege of working out not only seems a bit asinine, but I'm sure it would have farmers in my family tree rolling in their graves. So I hauled countless loads of old and new manure today. As often happens when one is deep in repetitive labor, my mind began to wander and I left the gate open. And as sure as the sun comes up in the morning, if a gate is left open, a goat will find it . . . three goats to be precise. So as I strained like a mule to pull a load of fresh manure through the mud, I noticed three white goats in my neighbor's front yard. Now my neighbor is unlikely to run off and buy three white goats, so it was a sure bet  they were MY goats. I am rarely, if ever, in the mood to fiddle-fart with loose goats, and today was no exception. Since I have a very willing farm-collie to help me, I pointed out the goats and said, "Kona, fetch 'em up." What happened next was pure poetry. A tawny streak raced across my yard and into the neighbor's. The goats dropped their jaws in open-mouthed shock. Kona (otherwise known as The Enforcer) went wide, circled the goats, and did a beautiful lift. Since this particular dog has no training in herding, I was pretty darned impressed. So were the goats. In fact, the goats were so impressed that they came running straight toward me. Kona was beside himself with glee. He was fetching goats. The goats were beside themselves with hysteria. A large wolf was behind them. The goats were racing toward me at warp speed when they decided that the obvious path to get back into the pasture was to take the long way around my property to the only other gate they knew. They hooked a left around the front of my house. I called the dog back to me. He was quite disappointed that he didn't get to complete the fetch. The goats ran around the edge of the property and waited at the gate. Fine. Since goats don't have thumbs, they need help opening gates, and so I put the dog on a down-stay and started to walk toward the goats. In a blind panic, they raced down the fence line. I turned to glare at the dog. Nope, wasn't him. He was still on his down-stay with the intoxicated look of a crazed football fan. I wouldn't have thought they could see that far, but obviously they weren't taking any chances of becoming The Enforcer's dinner. They ran down the fence line and crashed into the hot wire fence. It is a scientific fact (we proved it today) that goats are more afraid of dogs than electricity. With the goats safely back in the pasture, I put The Enforcer in the back yard and went to check the fence to see how much damage they had done to my hotwire. Hmmmm . . . three frenzied goats can bound through a four-strand barbed wire fence that is re-enforced with two strands of hotwire and the only evidence is a tuft of goat hair in the barbed wire. No fence repairs needed. That didn't suck. So I headed back to the barn. And that's when the rooster attacked me. That red bastard ran straight at me with fire in his eyes. I kicked the crap outta him. He ran in two more times and met my boot both times. Then he got crafty and started this circle/feint/attack move. It was getting serious. I screamed for The Enforcer. There was an answering bark. "Shit!" I had locked him in the yard. I had no back-up and the rooster wasn't backing down. I started edging toward a board on the ground. The rooster kept rushing me. The dog was throwing himself against the fence in a rage. Slowly I moved toward the board. Bending over to grab it was a tricky thing because the rooster kept up the attack, but when I finally reached that 2x4, I was Xena Warrior Princess. "Look out, you Red Bastard!" I started swinging. Roosters are amazingly agile when facing off with a woman that is armed with a seven foot long 2x4. I was unable to kill him, (which was indeed, my goal) but at least I got some respect . He finally shook his feathers at me one last time and wandered off. The Enforcer is more than willing to oblige if I really wanted the rooster dead. Not only do farm-collies fetch goats, they will also make short work of crazed roosters. Xena Warrior Princess may not be fast enough with a 2x4 to kill a rooster, but I'm sure Kona The Enforcer is.   Dora The Explorer             Many of my readers have requested that I re-post the original blog that introduced Dora the Explorer. For some reason, this silly chicken has managed to survive each Boogey Beast attack and remains the oldest chicken on the farm. So for all Dora's fans, here it is: I think my life just pegged the meter of ludicrous today. Each morning after I feed the barn animals, it is customary to take a nice long walk in the pasture with the dogs and my iced coffee. I enjoy nature while the critters read their pee-mail. Most of the time 3 or 4 half-grown kittens tag along. After Montoya finishes his breakfast, the horse joins us too. We must be quite the spectacle. Today we had a new float attached to our little parade. With the help of the goats, one of my hens has discovered a hole in the bird pen that is just chicken-sized, so rather than waiting for me to deliver breakfast, she met me in the barn this morning. Now if you are on the bottom of the food chain, this is not a good idea, but Dora The Explorer had other plans. She was coming on the walk with us. That goofy hen clucked and cackled her way down the trail behind me while I snarled at dogs who are very much aware that Dora is on the bottom of the food chain. The kittens stalked and pounced at Dora who cackled and darted which made her even more tempting to dogs who hadn't had breakfast yet. Any attempts to shoo Dora back to the barn would have ended in disaster since the dogs were just looking for a reason to kill her anyway, so I let her come along. From time to time she'd drop behind and then run as fast as her little drumsticks could carry her just to catch up with us. Clearly, Dora's days are numbered if I don't patch that hole quickly because she rather enjoyed her morning walk with predators. For chickens this must be the equivalent of swimming with Great White Sharks on the Barrier Reef. Since I don't have time to do it today, I dearly hope the Boogey Beast is not prowling in my pasture at sunrise tomorrow, for there is no doubt in my mind that Dora will be waiting in the barn with her goggles and scuba tank.   The Grace of God & The Red-Headed Demon The Porch Ponies gave me gray hairs this afternoon! They have three separate paddocks, one of which is the area where I park my truck. I was getting ready to go to work this afternoon and noted that the ponies were in the paddock beside the canal, NOT in the paddock with my truck. "Ah HAH!" I said to the Border Collie (who is always with me). "Now would be the perfect time to move my truck outside the gate." So I did. I opened the gate, got into the truck, and started to back out. That's when everything went to Hell in a Handbasket. Ruffy, hereafter referred to as The Red-Headed Demon, heard the gate opening and said to himself, "Why lookee there, Freedom is just behind that gate. I'm outta here!" His little fat self can move with all the speed and grace of a professional football player. He hustled out of the canal paddock with speed that would make a Derby winner envious. In vain I tried to maneuver the truck to cut him off. Wrong! As soon as he squeezed his little fat ass through that tiny space between my truck and the gate, I swear the little bastard did an End Zone Dance. I wasn't overly alarmed at this point, I just got out of the truck and started the sideways ease towards him. You all know the game -- the "I'm not trying to catch you, I'm just walking kinda in your direction" game. Unfortunately, The Red-Headed Demon has played this game before and knows how it ends. Off he trotted down the street. Now I was getting alarmed. I live on the end of a quiet dead-end street, but The Red-Headed Demon was headed toward a very busy county road at a fast clip. The Border Collie offered to help, but fearing the she'd get kicked, or end up chasing him further down the street, I declined. I was now trotting a parallel line along the street. The Demon was trotting down the street, and I was trotting in the neighbor's yards (in Crocs . . . Note to self: wear running shoes) At this point, I was deep in serious prayer. "Dear Lord, HELP ME!!!!!!!" That's when I turned around and realized that Napolean, The Tiny Emperor, was ALSO running along beside us. I said a few choice cuss words and prayed harder. (I know, it seems a bit contradictory, but God knows I'm weak.) I phoned my neighbor at the end of the street in hopes that she could head them off. Too bad, she was not home. By then, I was in the middle of the street and the minis were already approaching the busy highway. At this point, I was praying out loud, "PLEASE LORD, PLEASE HELP ME!!!" I ran up to the house of some neighbors that I barely know and started ringing the doorbell. The son (a police officer) came to the door with his mother. I frantically pointed at the ponies who were by now crossing the busy highway! Fortunately, the young man understood the language of hysterical women, and with very little explanation, the kid figured out the whole story. We shoved my poor Border Collie into the house with his mother, and he and I took off after the ponies. And I prayed some more. You know those folks who don't have jobs in the middle of the day and you see them just walking down the street? Well . . . at that very moment, a young man in his 20's was walking down that busy road. (His name is John.) The young man saw the ponies cross the highway. He saw the traffic slow down to avoid hitting their little fat asses. (Thank you again, Lord!) The ponies crossed the road to enter a hay field with grass taller than they were. Eric (the police officer) and I crossed the road after the ponies and John came to join us. I easily walked up to Napolean and caught him by the mane. He grinned at me and said, "Look, Ma! Look at this great place Ruffy found!" I hugged Napolean and handed him to Eric. The Red-Headed Demon looked over his shoulder, saw that his companion had been captured, and headed through the hay field toward the canal. At this point, I decided we were safe enough to run back and get halters, so I left John and Eric with Napolean while I ran (jogged) back in Crocs. (I'm never going out of the house without running shoes again!) I drove back with halters. Napolean was knee-deep in ecstasy. The Red-Headed Demon had settled down and was enjoying the bounty of his naughtiness too. We put a halter on Napolean and Eric held him while John and I headed out after Ruffy. John asked, "How fast can he run?" I admitted that to a twenty-something year old man, a little fat pony did NOT look very fast, but I advised him against a foot race with an animal who could give a zebra a run for his money. I walked towards Ruffy as I explained to The Red-Headed Demon that I was late for work and that he could have gotten himself, Napolean, and my Border Collie killed on a busy highway. He stopped walking away from me, turned and grinned. Then he walked right up to me. I hugged him. Halters on both minis, we all started the long trip back. Once at the truck, Eric and I thanked John and bid him farewell. Then Eric climbed in the back of the truck and held the lead ropes while two very happy little fat ponies trotted along behind the truck. We stopped to pick up the very confused Border Collie who was waiting in the house with Eric's mother and then drove home. I thanked God again . . . and again . . . and some more. Then I hugged the Red-Headed Demon and informed him that he would never be allowed the opportunity to slide his little fat self through that gate again. He winked at Napolean and looked angelic. I love my little Red-Headed Demon.   The Paper Boy                                                                                  The Paper Boy People who raise goats share one thing - loose goats. As you get more experience, (and better fences) the episodes are not as frequent, but nevertheless, every goat is a blood relative of Harry Houdini. Not only are they escape artists, they are also psychics.  Goats KNOW when you are too busy to fiddle-fart around with them . Nothing in my life is ever simple. Now I'm not a mathematician, but I do see a common denominator among the problems in my life. Most of my headaches stem from the same source - goats Goats. God sent goats to test me. God sent dogs to help me . . . Tonight I found myself running late for church. I had exactly fifteen minutes to make it out the door and into the chapel. It's a ten minute drive. I didn't have time for a shower, so I put on a clean shirt and a spritz of perfume (just in case I smelled like a dog.) I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. That's when the phone rang. There are four words I do not want to hear at any time of day or night. They are fingernails on a blackboard: 1) Your 2) Goats 3) Are 4) Out I glanced at the clock again. "Please, please, please Lord... can you just slow down Time a little so I won't be late for the service?" And with that prayer, I grabbed up The Enforcer and headed for the front door. As soon as I hit the step, I pointed at the loose goats and said, "Fetch 'em up, Boy." A tawny streak raced across the front yard... until he saw the newspaper. I could read the indecision on his face. "The paper. The paper. She always sends me out the front door for the newspaper. Maybe she wants the paper. Goats? Paper? Goats? Paper?" I yelled at him. "Not the paper! Get the f#*kin' goats!" Ah! A language he understood! But to err on the safe side, he grabbed up the newspaper as he raced across the yard toward the goats. By this time, the goats were already in a full-scale panic. The Enforcer, still carrying the newspaper, looped behind them and galloped them back toward me - at break-neck speed. They passed me so fast that I'm surprised there was no sonic boom. With a nimbleness that would make a gymnast pea-green with envy, they vaulted onto a stack of firewood and leaped back into the pasture. The Enforcer screeched to a halt and dropped his newspaper beside the fence. The goats huddled together like innocent choir boys and stared. Then the dog turned to me, picked up the newspaper, and said, "Hey, you still want this?"     Picking Berries . . . Two of my five flooded stalls have dried out enough that I was able to clean them and put in fresh shavings today. So I spent the afternoon cursing the rains that brought the flood while I hauled out the dried mud and dumped it in the pasture. I was already two hours into my task when I dumped a load of muck and happened to notice that my fence was lined with ripe blackberries. Well now . . . it would appear that the blackberries loved all the rain. And it just so happens that I love blackberry cobbler. Hmmm . . . rain can be a good thing! So naturally I grabbed a bucket and started picking . . . and picking . . . Since I'm not a big fan of snakes, I was cautious, but Nature's bounty was too tempting and I soon found myself thick in briars and berries. My bucket was filling fast . . . until I stepped on the cat and dropped the bucket. Cats should not wait until you step on them before they announce their presence. It's a waste of blackberries and not good for the heart. After my blood pressure returned to normal, I started picking berries again. The cat decided that she should supervise the berry picking since I was obviously incompetent, so she accompanied me down the fence line. In time, the stallion decided that perhaps he should join us too. I handed him a berry. Now I've had this animal for 21 years and to my knowledge he has never eaten a blackberry until today. Stallion happily smacked his lips around that blackberry and decided then and there that stallions like blackberries . . . a lot. So I handed him another. This one was obviously even better than the first. So I gave him another. By now his lips were blue. I laughed and pointed this out to him, but he just begged another berry. I gave him one and went back to filling my bucket. It was taking a lot longer this time since I had a tortoise-shell cat and a gray stallion with blue lips following me down the fence line. The berry picking went something like this:  A berry for the bucket. A berry for the horse with the blue lips. A berry for the bucket. A berry for the horse with the blue lips. A berry for the bucket. Trip over the cat. Cuss. Pick up berries. A berry for the horse with the blue lips. Slip through the fence into the mare's pasture. Watch the horse with blue lips pace the fence line and shake his head in frustration. Go give him a berry. Pick a few more berries. See stallion smooching blue lips in my direction. Go give him another berry. Note that berries are disappearing faster than they are filling the bucket. Decide there are enough berries in bucket to make a pie. Leave pasture. Listen as horse with blue lips calls to me. Go back and give him another berry. Wonder how many berries it would take to colic a horse. Decide that perhaps horse with blue lips has had more than enough berries. Leave pasture again as horse with blue lips complains loudly. Wonder how long it will take him to figure out how to pick the berries himself. :)   Some Things Never Change   There is a certain "learning curve" that comes with goats. Raising no other kind of livestock quite prepares one for the trials, tribulations, and comedy that comes with goats. Good fencing is a must, but good humor is even more important. I first started raising goats in the years BBC (Before Border Collie) and BOH (Before Other Half). We've come a long way since then, but some things never change. Here is just one of those early days:   No day should start without caffeine: Wake up at 7 AM. Realize that David, (most trusted handyman that I borrow from his wife, Sandy!) will be over at 9 AM to help me put up new goat fencing and I still need to go to Home Depot. Start to go feed the horses. Note chicken is loose in back yard. Chicken trespassing is a capital offense punishable by death on this Homestead, and so I had to put the dogs up so I could get the chicken in. Chicken is not at all cooperative. Finally get Ice (who looks like a black wolf to livestock) Pretty quickly Black Wolf gets Chicken to go where she belongs. Get garbage out. Feed animals. Note that goats are where they should be. My mother lives in a small house on my property. Move goats into Mom's back yard where she can watch them.The only area in that yard not entirely goat-proof is a pipe gate. Plan to tack fencing on top of pipe later today. Mom is in her back yard so she is keeping eye on goats. Fine. Really, really, REALLY need some caffeine. Realize I'm totally out of Starbucks mocha frappuccinos. Will get frapps on way to Home Depot. Get in truck. No gas. Take a deep breath.  Will get gas when I stop for frappuccinos. Go to Exxon. Rush to door to get frappuccino. Door is locked. Sign says "Be back in 5 minutes." Look at handgun in car and wonder how much jail time I would get. Decide to pump gas instead. See clerk return. Go get frappuccinos. Get back in truck and slurp up caffeine like an addict snorting coke. Feel better. Head to Home Depot. Can't find cart. Can't find wire. Finally steal cart from display. Find field fencing. Can't get cart close enough to rolls of fencing because of machinery left in aisle. Have to roll wire to cart. Pay for wire. Try to unload wire into truck. Wire is stuck in cart. Cuss. Look around to see who is watching me have a childish temper tantrum. No one. Cuss some more. Kick the cart. Wire comes free. (hmmm.. violence 'can' be a good thing.) Arrive home at 9:10 AM....Ten minutes late. (spent 10 minutes chasin' freakin' chicken this morning!) David is already there. Inform David that I haven't had enough caffeine, it's been a bad morning, and I'm just a bitch. He seems okay with that. (Sandy has trained him well.) We spend all morning putting up fortress to keep my beasts inside their prison. Break for lunch. Goats are where they should be. Return from lunch to finish up. Goats have gone walk-about. David tacks up fencing on top of pipe gate while I retrieve goats. Since I do not have a bucket of feed, the goats are less than enthusiastic about returning home. Wish for BB gun to shoot goats. Push goats toward opened gate. Watch them by-pass opened gate. Wish for handgun instead of BB gun. After much cussing, get goats back in yard. David finishes their gate. They should be secure. Woo hoo! David and I head for back pasture to tear down an old fence. Mom yells that goats are out again. WHAT!!!!! They got down on their knees and crawled under David's new & improved goat-gate. (Seriously consider shooting goats now.) Decide that goats need to understand that there is a severe penalty for jail breaks. Go get Ice, The Black Wolf. Black Wolf is happy to help herd (read: terrorize) goats. Black Wolf enters pasture. Goats stand at attention like gazelle staring at a cheetah. Black Wolf slowly meanders in their direction. Goats scream "WOLF! WOLF! WOLF!" and run like hell to get back where they belong. Yeeeeesssss.... I pat myself and the Black Wolf on the back. This method has definite possibilities. Decide that goats need to clearly understand that they are not safe from Black Wolf until they are in the barn. So I have Black Wolf move them to the barn. Goats trot to barn quickly. Yep... I was liking this a lot! Too much perhaps. The goats make it to barn porch. Nope, that's not good enough for a grumpy woman who started the day with no caffeine. I wanted them in a stall. (should have stopped while I was ahead.) I ask Black Wolf to move them into the stall. Goats panic and two of them run right over us and take off at a dead run for the north forty. Black Wolf immediately overtakes smaller one and pulls him down. He is certain that he is a dead goat and yells to his companion. His companion runs faster and leaves him. (Companion didn't have to outrun the dog... just his little buddy) I yell at Black Wolf and she drops goat who is now firmly convinced that Satan has him. (Satan has pointy ears and a fluffy tail.) Goat races around corner of pumphouse to follow his companion through goat-proof gate. I hear only a thunk of wire. My mother reported that from her angle, she saw goat slide under the wire. In order to accomplish this feat at that speed, the goat must rival the talent of any professional baseball player who slides into home plate. The goats are now split. Those left in the stall are beside themselves with horror at what has happened to their companions who ran over the dog, so in true goat-like fashion, they decide that they must leave the safety of the barn, to re-join their companions. I shake my head at the utter stupidity of it as they attempt to sneak past Black Wolf to get to their buddies who are huddled against the fence line in terror. Wolf and I back off so the herd can get back together. Then we step toward them. They race through a non-goat-proof fence toward the barn. Ahhh... progress. I put Wolf on a stay and open goats' stall door. They stare at us like gazelles. I motion Wolf forward. Goats bolt toward barn, into stall, and into the goat prison. Hmmmmm . . . The predator/prey relationship at work. Black Wolf watches a lot of Animal Planet on television. The goats apparently need no such tutorial.                                                                                                                   The Littlest Angel   I got into another major theological discussion with a friend at work tonight.  We have stood over many dead men and it tends to color one's views.  He firmly believes that Good doesn't prevail while I believe that eventually, Good will prevail.  I respect his views, just as he respects mine. We are all coming from a different place. I have learned over the years however, that my job most certainly makes you think about these things. It makes you ask questions, and sometimes you find the answers in the strangest places. I play Twister over dead men for a living. I'm a crime scene investigator. In my world, I see so much death and despair that my relationship with God was getting pretty unsteady. I had questions about suffering that couldn't be explained. So many things I'd seen and experienced just didn't make sense. I began shaking my fist at God and asking "WHY?" But I would get no answer. This left me angry and disillusioned. I saw only a distant and aloof God. I needed comfort and proof of God's love. Then He sent 4 kittens... and they are Innocence personified. The calico runt was so little that we weren't sure she would survive, so I named her, Hope. I thought of 1 Corinthians 13. It can best be summed up in the Alan Jackson song "Where Were You When The World Stopped Turning." "Now I know Jesus, and I talk to God, And I remember from when I was young, Faith, Hope, and Love are some good things He gave us --- and the greatest is Love." So I named the girls Faith, Hope, and Love. I named the boy, Brother. Since God saw fit to send this rag-tag litter of homeless kittens, they have brought such joy. They are all precious, but tiniest one, Hope, has always been the most delicate. Saturday night I came home from work and opened the door to their room. Three kittens came bouncing out. Where was Hope? I called and called. No Hope. Since she's given me this scare before, I started to search for a sleeping Hope.. And I found her. She was hanging on the back side of a chair. She had hung herself on a chair that the dog had chewed on months earlier. While playing, she had apparently become tangled in the frayed upholstery fabric. I've felt a lot of Death, and as I grabbed little Hope's body, she was already getting stiff. Sick, I began to unravel her. She was still warm; she hadn't been dead long. I worked to untangle the fabric around her neck and prayed for God not to take my little Hope. But as I held her lifeless body, I no longer had hope. I yanked the last of the fabric away and began blowing in her nose and rubbing her back vigorously. I continued my desperate attempt at CPR on a kitten that was small enough to fit in one hand.... and she began to breathe.... and then she opened her eyes and started paddling her little legs. I set her on the floor and without so much as a backward glance, she toddled off to play. Then I sat back in that chair and sobbed as I thanked God for saving my little Hope. When I had first picked her little body up, I had no hope. I've seen Death. I've felt Death. But breathing Life back into something so small was the most remarkable miracle I'd ever seen. I learned an important lesson that night: When hope is gone, keep on trying anyway. God may just send you a miracle. Hope is none the worse for her ordeal. While I watched in amazement, she spent the better part of that evening careening around my office and playing SpiderMan on the curtains. I am so thankful that God left her with me a little while longer. These kittens have been a precious gift. When I told a friend that this experience had brought me closer to God, she said, "That's good, but it's a shame that it took a cat to do it." The comment hurt at first, but after some thought, I realized that she just doesn't understand. I figure God knew what it took for someone like me, and so He sent 4 scrawny kittens. He still hasn't answered my questions about Suffering, Life, and Death, but I'm satisfied now. Something special happened Saturday night, and I won't forget that. "But ask the animals, and they will teach you." Job 12:7 That was two years ago.  See how my blessings have grown . . . .   Faith then . . .   Faith now!     Hope then . .   Hope now!   Love then . . .   Love now!                                        AND   Brother then . . .   Brother now!   Body By Border Collie       Since Other Half came into my life, his goal in life seems to be to plump me up. That, coupled with Middle Age, is doing a fine job of making "More Of Me To Love!" Other Half wants Man Food--meat and potatoes and more of it! Unfortunately, Other Half is also a damned fine cook. It's hard to resist a man who pushes steak at you that is so tender you can cut it with a fork. Changing his diet simply isn't gonna happen. But since diet is only half of the equation, I figure that exercise is the key to taking off some of these pounds. Unfortunately, Other Half's idea of exercise is walking out to the back pasture with cubes for the calves--and if there are too many cubes, or if it's too far, he's gonna ride a 4-wheeler. BUT . . . there is someone in my family who would make Dr. Oz proud--Border Collie!!! Lily, the Border Collie, is so health-conscious that she practically poops granola. That little dog is a motion maniac, AND she eats a healthy diet. The dog refuses to eat salt and sugar. (Cross my heart! If I'm lying, I'm dying!!) Give that girl a potato chip and she looks at you like you're trying to poison her. Drop a cupcake on the floor? It'll stay there. Girlfriend doesn't do buttercream frosting! (I know!!! Can you believe this poor dog lives with me?!) Anyway, the dog is shaming me into exercising and eating a little better. After all, if a six-month old Border Collie knows that salt and sugar are bad for you, you'd think I'd have figured it out by now! Her day starts at 7:30 AM regardless of what time I drag in the night before. She slithers across the bed to lick my face and inform me that (in case I missed it) the SUN is up! I don't like being reminded of this little fact when I've only been asleep for four hours anyway, so I end up throwing her outside. The poor Blue Heeler gets thrown out with her. Border Collie entertains herself (and Blue Heeler) by swimming in pond, chasing cats, barking at Porch Ponies, defending the neighborhood from the Trash Truck, chasing the cats some more, staring at the goats, and chasing the cats again. I sleep. When I finally drag my ass out of bed, it is to ice up a Starbuck's Mocha Frappuccino in order to beat back the headache resulting from LCL (Low Caffeine Level). Border Collie peeks through the sliding glass door and begins to bounce up and down in place. By now she has burned approximately 4000 calories. I have burned 4. With a few sips of caffeine in my system, I am ready to face the day--and the farm. So I open the patio door. Three dogs rush out while two dogs try to rush in. WHY!!!! Every freakin' morning!!! WHY PEOPLE??? The three dogs that have NOT been thrown outside at 7:30 AM because they don't CARE that the sun comes up every morning will rush outside to greet the day with wild joy (the Bloodhound will be baying loudly--yes, the neighbors must LOVE me.) Border Collie and Blue Heeler will try to rush inside. This ends up in a wreck--every freakin' morning! I step outside door and there is the mad scrambling of toenails on tile as they turn around and run back outside. All dogs then rush to barn. Border Collie is fast, so she rushes to barn and back six times before I stumble to the feed room. Border Collie has now burned 2000 more calories. I have burned 2 more. We do our chores--feed and water all the livestock. (Dogs and humans eat last--they are not livestock.) After chores are done, it is now time to power walk up and down street. Since there is not enough caffeine in this state to allow me to walk five dogs at the same time, everyone waits in the yard except Border Collie who runs circles around me when she sees her pink leopard print collar! "YES! YES! YES! We are going for a walk!" By now Border Collie has been awake four hours. She has been in motion for three hours, fifty-nine minutes and thirty seconds. I power walk down the street as Border Collie bounces along, playing tug-o-war with her leash. I move forward. For each step I take, Border Collie moves right, left, up, down, zig-zag, tug-tug, and shake-shake. She is often on three legs because one of her front legs will be caught in the leash. She will grin at me from time to time to make sure that I'm watching her. At the end of our workout, Border Collie has burned 6000 calories. I have burned 60. That pretty much explains why she is a lean, mean, runnin' machine, and I . . . I like buttercream frosting. Hey! You gonna eat that cupcake? :) On The Eighth Day   And On The Eighth Day God Created Border Collies . . . Or so Border Collie enthusiasts would have us believe. I've trained sport dogs and working dogs for well over 25 years. Sometime in the 1990s a friend told me, "Sooner or later, you'll break down and get a Border Collie. Anyone who is serious about competition does." The problem was . . . I just wasn't serious enough about any kind of competition to buy a dog just to win at a particular sport. Then I discovered goats. I have said it before, and I'll say it again, goats are like cocaine. They take over your life and turn it upside down. What started out as a way to weed-eat my fence lines has grown into a business. I can buy a goat for $40, keep it for a while, and then re-sell the same goat for $140. On paper that sounds good. But it is a sad fact of life that raising goats could make Mother Teresa cuss like a sailor. I needed help. And On The Eighth Day God Created Border Collies. Those words are golden to anyone who has ever tried to work livestock by themselves. I needed help. I needed a Border Collie. I found Lily in a feedlot in North Texas. Her parents were working cattle dogs. I picked her out, pulled the ticks off her, and proudly drove home with my first Border Collie. That was six months ago, and now I cannot imagine how I ever got along without her. I know she's young and shouldn't be working stock yet, but I also realize that I can't do a lot around here without her, so unfortunately many times I have to ask a first grader to do college work. This isn't about titles. This is about coyotes. On my farm, if the young stock isn't up at night, it's eaten. Torrential rains have returned. Dry pastures are now flooded. Lily and her goats are about the same age. None of them have experienced heavy rains and flooding until tonight. The heavens opened up and in a very short time the pen with the young females was under eight inches of water. Three inches of water filled their barn. The goats were standing on a shelf. I had to move the females into another pen on the far side of the property -- three pastures away. It was getting dark and it was still raining. At first I tried the practical approach. Open the door. Call the goats with some feed. They hollered back but had NO intention of wading through floodwater to get to me and higher ground. "Don't MAKE me get the Border Collie!" I shouted at them. Apparently they didn't believe me. Border Collie was only too happy to oblige. She stalked inside and they hustled their little asses out into the rain. Then we began the laborious trek to the south side of the property, to higher ground. Young Border Collie was forced to push grumpy goats across high water. By now it was so dark that I could only see the goats that were white, and the white of Border Collie's ruff. (Note to self: always have a dog with some white on it!) We were doing well until the little beasts squeezed through the wrong gate and ended up in the stallion paddock. Border Collie could have stopped them, but I called her off because I didn't want her running goats over Stallion. Goats crowded into Stallion's stall. Stallion crowded in behind goats. The stall was flooding. I tried to get goats out of stall by myself. No way, Jose. "Don't MAKE me get the Border Collie!" Again, they were not convinced. I held Stallion while I asked Border Collie to move in. As soon as she slithered her little black and white self along the wall, the goats began to file back out in the rain like school children. Stallion stood in the corner, wondering what just happened. Small creek had become raging current. Border Collie had to convince goats to jump water. By now I hated goats and didn't care if the coyotes did eat them, but Border Collie had much more confidence than I did. In short order, she had all the goats over the creek and back en route to the south pen. Lightning flashed and thunder clapped. It was raining harder and I could barely see the dog. By the time I got there, Border Collie had all the goats by the gate. She held them while I opened the latch. My next problem was making sure that none of the goats inside the pen ran out while Border Collie moved the young females into the pen. I called her over. She glared in the pen at the other goats. They fell over themselves to back away from the gate. Then Border Collie made a quick circle and picked up the females who had already begun to wander off in the rain. (Did I mention how much I hate goats?) Little Black & White Pup (AKA Kung Fu Panda) marched those idiots right back where they belonged and I locked the gate. Then she stood in the rain and shook herself. I got down on my knees and hugged her. We high-fived and had a party in the rain. She was quite pleased with herself. In a perfect world, a dog her age would never have to do what she did this evening, but tonight I was so thankful for the generations of shepherds who bred a dog to go out in the rain, and get the job done. On The Eighth Day God Created Border Collies.     High Noon   He died that same way he lived, like a real cowpony. The call came in yesterday morning. Even though we had expected it, you are never quite prepared. "Skip is down, and I can't get him up," the neighbor said. The old horse was approaching thirty years old now and time is cruel. He'd cheated Death twice this year already, and we didn't expect him to make it through the winter. Other Half and Skip had logged many miles together. Skip had penned many a cow, carried many a child, and was that "go-to horse" that you could count on when you needed the job done right. They shared a lot together, they were co-workers, they were friends. They took care of each other. And so when he put the phone down, Other Half drew a heavy sigh. This horse, who had safely carried him through so much, this horse who had safely carried his children, now needed to be safely carried along his journey. Phone calls were made. The vet was unavailable. His staff would give him the message when he got in, but the earliest appointment would be in five hours. Death was already pulling Skip away. He was a fighter, but it was a losing battle, and Other Half refused to allow Death to toy with Skip for five more hours. Skip laid his great head against Other Half and he cuddled that old horse like a lap dog. He stroked his eyes, smoothed his mane, and kissed his forehead. Then with a heavy heart, Real Cowboy shot Real Cowpony. We held each other as Skip fell. I've seen a lot of Death and have come to learn that there are worse things -- Suffering and Regret. Skip lay in the shade of a beautiful October morning with the blue sky over his head. The weather was good. It was a good day to die. Other Half took a ragged breath and went back to stroking Skip.