Farm Fresh Blog

I'm ready for tomorrow. (I think!) The day just tipped the scale from tragedy to almost black comedy. 

Without going into details (read the posts below) I walked all the way out there . . . and . . . the rifle wasn't loaded. Had to go back to the house and get another one.

Spent an hour digging a hole in the mud. Border Collie supervised. Needed frequent breaks to scrape mud off shovel. She tried to entertain me by leaping in air, grinning, and helping me get mud off shovel.

Came back inside to clean needles. Don't like to re-use needles for injections again, but still boil them for other uses. Border Collie and I shared a pop-tart. (Yes, she is lowering her standards.) 

This is what happens when you don't watch a pot of boiling water. No more water . . .

. . . . lots of melted plastic!

Since Life is what you make it, instead of viewing today as a tragedy, perhaps we should look at today as a Black Comedy and move on to tomorrow. 

It is shortly after 9 AM already.  I have killed two of my animals.

Border Collie crawls in bed at 7 AM to announce that the sun is up and we have chores to do. Check the lamb. She doesn't look good. Took a turn for the worse overnight. Concensus seems to be a back injury but without very expensive tests we can't be sure. Although I am tempted to whisk her to the veterinary university, I know better. The farm cannot afford it and I have other animals to consider.

Make the unhappy decision to put her down. Go to feed the rest of the animals. While feeding the mule I hear all hell breaking loose in the back yard. Blue Heeler has a chicken. Somehow one of my own hens managed to get out of the chicken pen, cross a pasture, and climb into my back yard. Big mistake. I descend upon Blue Heeler in a rage. (He has the good sense not to suggest Anger Management Classes this time.) The chicken is not dead. I must wring her neck. This sounds easier than it is. Amazingly, chickens are hardier than they appear. It is ugly work that must be repeated several times. After it is over, I take a moment for myself and cry. Then I go get the rifle to shoot the lamb.

It would appear that the chicken was not the only victim of coyotes last night. I have a lamb who may not make it. The sheep were fine last night. I didn't notice anything unusual this morning when I fed, but later found that this lamb couldn't stay up on her feet. Alert and eating while lying on the ground. I didn't immediately see a problem. Later it became apparent that although she could struggle to her feet, she could not walk. It is like her back legs are partially paralyzed. 

Called the vet. He hasn't had a chance to get back with me. Contacted sheep/goat man who is also a paramedic. He thinks she has a possible pelvic injury, or disc problem, probably caused by the horse . . . probably caused by the coyotes. At the moment, we are still working with her and haven't given up hope, but we may still have to put her down. Grrrr . . . damn coyotes! 

My day began with dead chickens. Well, actually only one dead chicken, with visions of many more to come. A canal runs along the entire south side of my property. This canal is a Predator Superhighway and is the main reason why all livestock smaller than Border Collie MUST be locked up when the sun comes down. (The Zombie Wars begin!)

My bird pen is, unfortunately, on the south side of the property, right along the canal. It is about a 1/4 of an acre, covered in bird netting on the top, field fencing on the sides, and a short sheet of tin along the ground. The chicken coop is a metal/wood building enclosed on three sides. The fourth side has field fencing covering bird netting. There is a wooden door and a piece of heavy welded wire cattle panel across the wooden door (like burglar bars!) so the chickens can put themselves up at night when I have to leave the house before dark. Anyone caught outside the henhouse after dark is in danger. Or dead.

This set-up has worked for a while--until last night. My first clue (even before coffee I could figure this out) was the pile of feathers beside the chicken coop door. In my neighborhood, a pile of feathers is a BAD thing.  Either Blue Heeler has shredded a down-filled jacket, OR there is a dead chicken somewhere.

It would appear that The Boogey Beast managed to get inside the main pen and slip up to the chicken coop. It then grabbed a chicken that was sleeping too close to the wire. Although it wasn't able to pull the whole chicken through the wire, the hen is dead and partially eaten. 

I HATE picking up dead chickens!  I wish I had a $100 bill for every dead chicken I've had to pick up over the years. Needless to say, there were NO eggs today. Also, none of the birds wanted to walk past the scene of the attack to get outside this morning.  Duh! I'm sure it was a bit traumatic to watch their girlfriend get eaten. And like Jurassic Park, the predator WILL be back. I'm not sure where it's getting in, but it will most certainly be back tonight. I've seriously considered getting a couple of Livestock Guardian Dogs for that area, but then, who would protect my chickens from the Livestock Guardian Dogs?

I am reminded of something a friend said to me some time ago. She told me, "I just can't wait to get home at night so I can work on my Virtual Farm!"  I was intrigued. What the hell is a Virtual Farm? She is on Facebook and loves to play FarmTown or Farmville, or Farmsomething. I asked her if there were "virtual coyotes" on her virtual farm.

"Of course not," she said, "It's a VIRTUAL farm!" (Hmpfh!  City Girl!)

I questioned further and determined that there were also no vet bills on her virtual farm. Hmmmmmm . . . exactly how does one farm with "virtual coyotes and virtual vet bills?"

I bet there are also no virtual dead chickens on a virtual farm. 

Update on Otis: He is getting better. The swelling is still down. He is taking his antibiotics, his Red Cell, and molasses.

Update on Dora: Before I get 500 emails asking me if Dora the Explorerer is okay, YES! she is! Dora didn't live this long because she sleeps beside the fence at night. The victim was one of the brown chickens who was not nearly as wise as Dora. 

Otis survived the night! The swelling started going down within the first hour of receiving the injections. I walked out this morning and a happy, hungry, little goat greeted me.

Today he will start receiving doses of Red Cell and molasses to aid his recovery. Otis should REALLY like the molasses! (The gigantic pink ear tags have GOT TO GO!!! Good grief! Those suckers are enormous! Poor little goat! Other Half just infomed me that he'd found some much smaller tags to replace the pepto bismal pinks.) I want to thank everyone who emailed and called through the night to check on little Otis. Your prayers, advice, and well-wishes were greatly appreciated!

OH MY GOSH!!!! Look at Otis!

This is what he is SUPPOSED to look like. Here is his brother, Amos.

I walked out this afternoon to get eggs and found poor Otis looking like The Elephant Man. 

I mean LOOK AT THIS:

Poor Otis! I couldn't immediately get in touch with my vet, so (God bless the internet!) I got on the GoatandSheepRancher yahoo list and the Dairy Goat yahoo list for advice. God bless these people. Within an hour the advice was rolling in.

I was able to reach my vet who, after hours, (Bless him too!) gave me three shots for Otis--banamine, dexamethasone, and nuflor. Other Half wasn't at home, so Border Collie and I were left on our own to separate Otis from the other goats and poke him three times. (Otis was NOT amused.)

Keep little Otis in your prayers. Hopefully we'll figure out what's causing this before it's too late. 

(I swooney! Ain't that just life on a farm? If it ain't one thing, it's something else!)

Because we spent the day tagging and worming goats, there was precious little daylight left for moving cattle out of the rye grass. We do rotational grazing and thus, we need a cow dog. Cattle have to be moved frequently to prevent overgrazing. A 4-wheeler and a sack of cubes doesn't necessarily do it; there are always a few stupid ones, a few stubborn ones, and a few that just want to make you tromp through the mud.  

Although Border Collie is a fine dog for sheep and goats, she's too young, too little, (too precious to me!) to put on cattle. For cattle we use Blue Heeler. It's not that he isn't precious to me too, it's just that he's bred to work cattle. He's built to work cattle. He can take a kick better than Border Collie. And he thinks it's funny when large bovines try to kill him.  (I don't!)

Last night Blue Heeler and Other Half headed out to move cows. I took pictures. (Border Collie stared through the living room window and pouted.)

The smarter ones see the 4-wheeler and start running to the chute.

Some are less cooperative. In fact, that big yellow cow regularly tries to kill Blue Heeler.

Blue Heeler finds this insanely funny.  (I do not.  In fact, this cow is the main reason why Border Collie will NEVER be allowed to work this group of cows!)

Blue Heeler is much like Muhammed Ali. "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!"

Eventually the cows end up in the new pasture, Blue Heeler has a great time, and Yellow Cow runs off to plot more ways to kill him.

Today we wormed and tagged some goats. It was Border Collie's first time to handle Evil Goat, a particularly nasty girl who has been known to attack even The Enforcer. She often carries a tuff of goat hair on the end of her horns because she will not hesitate to hook the other goats either.

Evil Goat

(Look closely . . . she has a tuff of hair on her left horn!)

Because Border Collie is a baby, she has been used only on weanling goats . . . until today.

"Bring 'em in, Pup!"

                 "Hold "em here, Pup!"                                                                        

Sure enough, Evil Goat just had to cause trouble.

I held my breath. Those horns are sharp. That head is hard.

Border Collie said, "You want a piece of me?" 

 "REALLY?"

After a short "Come to Jesus" meeting and one torn ear, Border Collie established herself as She Who Must Be Obeyed and order resumed.

Note the two weanling goats who already KNOW that Border Collie must be obeyed. She ignores them while she watches Evil Goat to make sure nasty Evil Goat behaves. Very wise. I have seen Evil Goat knock The Enforcer on his butt when he took his eyes off her.

She handled herself like a pro. She is almost ready for billy goats . . .

The Mystery of the Disappearing Eggs

I am not a mental giant before I've had my coffee.  I recognize this fact and try to accommodate for my weakness.  But lately, I have had to question my sanity.  Each morning, it is my habit to stumble out of bed, cuss excited dogs, turn out goats, and collect eggs.  I then return with the eggs, place them on a barrel and proceed to feed horses and sheep. 

I always count the eggs.  I am certain when I leave the hen house that I know exactly how many eggs I have in my pocket.  I think.  After I return from feeding the horses, lately I seem to come up with a different number.  It's always LOWER than my original count.  (In my business, we call that A CLUE.)

So today I did a little surveillance . . . and wonder of wonders . . . I found my suspect!

     My Black Belgian!

                                                                          Caught!  Red-handed!  (Red-tongued!)

"Hmmmm . . . that tasted like another."

                                                                                                    And another . . .

And then there were 7 . . .

I put the remaining eggs in the pockets of my gym pants.

A word of caution: Do not, I repeat, DO NOT place 7 eggs in your pockets if you own a very bouncy 9-month old Border Collie . . .

. . . and then there were 6.

The trouble with Currier & Ives paintings is that they show you the romance but they forget the reality. 

Romance is snow . . .

Reality is the mud that comes after the snow . . .                              

Romance is catching snowflakes on your tongue . . . 

Reality is ice in all the puddles . . . 

Apparently no one informed Blue Heeler there were sheets of ice floating in the puddles before he zoomed across them.  He skated and careened like he was trapped in a pinball machine. When he finally reached dry, non-slippery land, he had to take a look back to see what demon had taken hold of him. The look on this dog's face pretty much sums up the romance and reality of a life after snow.