Farm Fresh Blog

I resist the urge to fling him in disgust as his tiny feet grasp my fingers. That would be rude. I try not to be rude to anyone, even little Volkswagon beetle bugs. It is the time of year when June bugs and crickets descend upon us. The chickens eat them like candy. The Livestock Guardian Pup has been known to fight the barnyard birds for fat bugs. June bugs and cicadas. Cicadas, (katydids, if you live in the south) are a version of K9 Poprocks. Like the chickens Bramble is attracted to their loud buzzing and is quick to snatch them up or steal one from a bird and run through the yard with the wings beating against the inside of her cheeks. Explosive candy. Poprocks. The cicadas are a minor amusement for me. Every one that the dogs or chickens eat during the day won't be here to attract the copperheads when the sun goes down.

Life Lesson: If you're juicy and tasty, don't attract a lot of attention.

Another Life Lesson: When you're drowning don't run from the hand trying to rescue you.

Every morning I spend an unreasonable amount of time scooping june bugs and crickets out of barnyard water troughs.  June bugs are easy. They are floating Volkswagons who helplessly paddle their legs in slow motion, going nowhere. The hardest part of my task is resisting the urge to fling them off my fingers as they gratefully grasp at hope of a rescue. I don't. Because it's rude. I dump them on the ground and bid them farewell. I look first now though. One day I was scooping out and dumping bugs before I realized the dog and chickens were at my feet, snatching them up like popcorn. Now I look before I dump.

The crickets are much more difficult to rescue. They cling to the side of the water trough like rock climbers on a cliff.

These must be rescued or the brutal sun will kill them in a few hours. Some already float in the water, waiting to drown. So each morning I make it my chore to scoop them out of the trough. And they flee from my outstetched hand. Here I am, their Guardian Angel, and the ungrateful little snots run from me. The ones clinging to the tank, leap into the water and dive deeper to avoid my fingers. The floaters become divers. I watch their attempts to flee rescue with patient amusement. They will come up. Eventually. They'll run out of breath and finally gasp their way to the surface. Then, after they've exhausted all other options, I can scoop them up and place them safely on dry ground.

One morning as I was waiting for a particularly stubborn cricket to get exhausted and give up, I had an epiphany. How often are we just like this cricket? Running in vain from a patient outstretched hand there to rescue us. Interesting food for thought. I frequently have little barnyard epiphanies that bring me a wee closer to understanding my relationship with The Creator. Lessons in the barnyard illuminate God's word and put it in terms I can understand. I'm not a Biblical scholar. Far from it. I'm one of those folks who when asked to find a particular passage, still flips through the whole Bible in a furtive race to find the right spot before it becomes apparent that I'm clueless about where to look.  I don't let it embarrass me anymore. And I don't hold it against God. Sometimes His lessons are in the written word, and other times the lessons can be found with a humble cricket.

When the rescuing hand from above comes to save you, don't dive deeper and run from it. Perhaps your Creator sent someone to save you from your current pickle.

 Click to find the Farm Fresh Forensics book!

I once read a little fable about a woman who picked up a snake that was caught out in an early freeze. She tucked him in her shirt and warmed him up. When he warmed up, he bit her. She cried out, "But I saved you from freezing!"
He replied, "You knew I was a snake when you picked me up."

I was reminded of that story a few nights ago. Storms rolled through the area and because the thunder was pretty intense I let the Livestock Guardian Dogs all stay in the barn with the sheep. About 9:30 pm the electricity went out. We were forced to sleep with the windows open. It wasn't that bad because the rain had cooled things off a bit. Through the pitter-patter of rain I kept hearing the guineas give an alarm call but I thought they were griping about the rain so I ignored them. At 10:00 pm a lamb screamed. I bolted upright in bed and ran outside. The lamb had gotten separated from his mother. He was fine. But since I was outside I checked the guineas and the two month old Blue-laced Red Wyandotte chickens. I was unprepared for the image that will haunt me every time I close my eyes.

A rat snake was trying to choke down my favorite guinea. Pearl was too large and he couldn't get past her head. Berserk doesn't begin to describe it. Other Half shot the snake. Saving the pearl guinea was out of the question. She was dead. Her head was partially digested. Because I didn't get out of bed. On the first night there wasn't a dog in there. I was hysterical.

The wounded snake was gonna die but was nevertheless determined to escape the pen. Rage. Rage like you don't know until your animals are threatened coursed through me. I shot him again. As a compassionate person I shouldn't feel any satisfaction but as a rancher, as someone who cared for that bird and raised that bird, and admired that bird, and gave her treats, and loved that bird - it gave me immense satisfaction to stand five feet away from a moving snake and put a .45 long colt bullet through the back of his head. And then that bastard was as dead as the bird at my feet. People more enlightened than myself were appalled and disgusted with me. Frankly Scarlett . . .

The other snake came back the next night. We caught him trying to get into the pen with the adult birds. If the smaller snake could kill a juvenile bird, the larger snake could surely kill an adult bird. The birds are locked up at night but they free range during the day. I'm willing to share my eggs. I'm not willing to share my chickens. The larger snake was shot too. Perhaps I simply haven't climbed that far up the evolutionary ladder yet. Do. Not. Threaten. My. Animals.

I probably should have let the matter die with the snakes, but I can't, and here's why. People make assumptions. Many time those assumptions are wrong. They assume I'm something that I am not. Most people reading this blog assume that I love animals and respect nature. I do. They also assume that because I have a deep, almost spiritual, affinity for nature that I won't kill. Wrong. I will kill something deader than a doornail if it threatens my animals. That offends some people. Perhaps it offends them even more because they never expected that I would do it.

People who want to save every predator are often pretty removed from the predators. They sit in protected homes and tell me that I'm a heathen for shooting a snake because I moved into his home and provided free meals. The meals aren't free. I go to great effort and expense to make sure those meals aren't free. I should also point out that suburbia used to be his home too. Many of these folks also don't have a clear understanding of just how remote our ranch is compared to most farms. People who condemn me visit state parks. I live in the park. When you are trying to raise sheep and chickens in what is, in essence, a large state park, then we'll be on the same page. Let me put it into perspective for you. Would you be so charitable toward the snake if it ate your kitten? Your puppy? It would. This guinea was the size of a young cat or a small Border Collie puppy. A litter of puppies or kittens whelped outside could have been wiped out one by one by a large snake that squeezed through a very small hole. I have always been pretty charitable toward non-venomous snakes but there is a line. Don't cross it.

I live up close and personal with coyotes, bobcats, and cougars. I have never shot at one. Coyotes have killed our calves, yet I don't bait them, lure them, or trap them. Coyotes have come right up to my barnyard fence to watch my sheep and test my dogs. I still haven't shot at them. Many sheep ranchers in our area hire shooters in helicopters to clear out the predators. We prefer to use Livestock Guardian Dogs. My dogs must patrol approximately 300 rough acres. Why? Because the sheep graze that area. Do they kill? Yes. Yes, they do. They will also kill every feral hog piglet or raccoon they can catch. Do I like it? No, but I can't have it both ways. I cannot hire a killer to protect my livestock and then gripe because he killed a raccoon forty yards from my chicken coop.

We put a great deal of effort and expense into containing Livestock Guardian Dogs and livestock. The stock is locked up at night and one dog is left out to guard the barnyard area because we have more livestock pens than we have dogs to guard them.  It is probably not a coincidence that a snake killed a guinea on the one night no dog was on duty there.

Despite all our efforts to coexist peacefully with nature, some lines still have to be drawn, and certain people find that offensive. There should be no misunderstanding. I love nature, but when it threatens my animals, I will not hesitate to shoot it.

There are certain ranch rules we live by. He wants to drive the truck so you'll have to get out and open the gate. The quickest ticket to a divorce is working cattle together. And forget date night, the fastest way to bond around here is finding a snake in the henhouse. On the Red Feather Ranch we've been gifted with more than our fair share of copperheads. I'd never seen a copperhead before we bought this place. Our first summer there were 14 around my back door. That has greatly influenced our daily habits and the direction the farm has taken.

A prairie dog mound. That's what I want. Screw having a lawn. I want a moonscape so I can see the little bastards. For that reason I use the barnyard area around the house as a sacrifice area for grazing sheep and goats. They can go out to the pastures but I still lock them in the barnyard to eat every shred of green the pops out of the dirt. And chickens. Free-range chickens are tiny velociraptors. Not only will they kill small snakes, they eat the bugs that attract the snakes - mainly cicadas. We have so many cicadas that the Livestock Guardian Dog steals them when she hears the rat-a-tat sound of a cicada caught by a chicken. Apparently cicadas are tasty and she enjoys the wings fluttering in her mouth. Her version of canine pop rocks.

This is our third summer here and we've greatly reduced the copperhead encounters but still remain vigilant. We've killed only two this year. Since our war on copperheads I've seen a rise in the non-venomous snake sightings. Most of the time these snakes get a free pass and a tip of the hat. Most of the time.

I draw the line at my henhouse. Big, bold line. No snakes allowed. I have three chicken pens, each with its own coop. At night the chickens return to their coops and are locked in for the evening. While the other Livestock Guardian Dogs patrol the barnyard, a pair of Livestock Guardian Dogs is placed in the center coop to discourage raccoons and the like. The drama started with a pile of sheep shit.

Earlier in the day I dumped a wheelbarrow load of sheep poop in the chicken yard where it sat like a Cocoa Puff volcano waiting for chickens to process it. The chickens apparently had better things to do because they left it there. The Great Pyrenees puppy saw it that night and decided it was the most horrid of mountain monsters. I put her in the chicken yard and left, but her barking brought me back. I was, indeed, amazed. My Pyrenees pup barked at a pile of sheep shit while a five foot long rat snake slithered alongside the chicken coop. She gave nary a notice, such was her panic and fury over the pile of shit. The Anatolian Shepherd who was supposed to be her tutor and coach paid no mind to the snake either. He wagged his tail when he saw me, stepped around the snake and came to the gate. I reached for my phone and called the Other Half.

"Bring me the snake catcher pole."

Our household has evolved a rather unique set of customs, most of which were spawned from close encounters with venomous snakes. At dusk I always carry a Judge revolver in my back pocket. It's cumbersome but it shoots .410 shotgun shells and that's handy when you find a copperhead or two lounging underneath your bedroom window. Because shotgun shells cost a dollar each and a running snake can take two shells, we bought snake catcher poles to grab the varmits with metal claws and detain them for decapitation instead. I still prefer shooting them because most snake bites occur when people are handling snakes, which is a big nope for me. Being male, my Other Half likes to tempt that insurance deductible as much as he can, so he prefers to use the pole grabbers.

I don't want to shoot a harmless rat snake, but I also don't want it in my chicken yard. Not only have my hens stopped laying in there (no surprise) but I have half grown chicks in another pen that I don't want to become snake happy meals. So Stanley Slitterin had to go. He sensed my lack of hospitality and slowly eased underneath the hen house before Other Half arrived with the grabbers. I assured him the snake was ginormous. He gave me that look men reserve for wives who pull them out of their recliners for absolutely no good reason. Whatever. I saw it. And it was big.

Saturday evening we were returning from town and I stepped out to open the main gate. Lo and behold, a copperhead by the gate. I pointed out the copperhead to the husband and made the universal hand signal for a handgun. Other Half nodded and reached for my Judge, which should have been in my hand but was in the glovebox instead. A minute later the snake contracted a lead poisoning disease and we were soon driving into the barnyard. I set my purse down while Other Half unloaded the truck. Time to lock the chicken coops. As is my custom, I carry a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other. My flashlight beam illuminated about ten inches of a five foot long snake underneath the henhouse.

I called for Other Half and showed him proof. The snake stared at us and retreated back under the coop.  That's fine. I was happy. He finally saw the snake. And it was big. As I bee-bopped toward the second chicken yard to lock those hens in, Other Half stopped me. "Give me the flashlight!"
"No." I shrugged off his order. There are two things you need in my yard at night - a gun and a flashlight. I wasn't giving up either. He should have come out better prepared. Then he pointed out a large snake in a dog crate that I use as a nesting box. Oh my. That man definitely wasn't getting my flashlight. Other Half left and returned with the snake grabber. A few exciting minutes later and the rat snake was dumped across the fence and slithering toward the pond. That still left us with a snake under the first chicken coop. Other Half insisted it was the same snake as the one we just caught. No. It. Was. Not. Thus began the two day long argument about whether or not there was still a snake under the chicken coop.

Because we spend entirely too much time on Facebook, we'd seen how people use minnow traps and crab traps to catch snakes, so Other Half bought a minnow trap, stuck an egg in it, and set it beside the coop. Day 1: nothing. Day 2: nothing. He assured me again there was only one snake. I know what I know. I guarded the perimeter. The first snake did not get out from underneath the coop before we saw the second snake. End of discussion. On the night of Day 2 I walked out to lock the chicken coop and froze in my tracks. A rat snake was inside the coop and crawling up the back wall.

The hens were not amused. This is where date nights really take shape in our household.

No matter how annoyed you may be with the other party for whatever their real or imagined transgression, every spat is swept aside when handling snakes. While venomous snakes can be dispatched pretty easily with a pull of the trigger, removing a non-venomous snake that you don't want to harm, but you don't want to touch, can get a little western. I ran. (No, I did not. You do not run in my yard after dark. You walk quickly but not faster than the flashlight beam which hunts for copperheads like a searchlight in a prison yard.) I snatched open the cabin door and interrupted Other Half on his ham radio. Snakes in the henhouse take priority.

    "Get the snake catcher now! He's in the henhouse!" The urgency wasn't because the rat snake would harm the hens, it was because he was confined and we could catch him. My Other Half was sitting at his ham radio desk in his underwear and house shoes. With no boots, no flashlight and no gun, he grabbed a snake pole and made haste out the door. I questioned his judgement. A rat snake in the henhouse does NOT mean there isn't a copperhead in the yard. He ignored me. (When he did these things before we were married, I could simply shrug, now I mentally calculate the Emergency Room bill.)

     Other Half peeked into the henhouse. Then he stood up. There, standing in the dark in his underwear and house shoes, he declared that his pole wasn't long enough. I bit my lip as I tried not to laugh. He left me to watch the snake while he went in search of the longer snake catching pole. Like me, the snake was chuckling.  Moments later Other Half returned with the longer pole. He squeezed the handle a few times to test the grabbers. The spring mechanism popped off. His pole broke. We would have to make do with the shorter pole. Our snake was longer than our catch pole. Things were definitely about to get western.

     The problem with snakes in a henhouse is that you have to bend over to see them. We only had one flashlight and I wasn't turning loose of that sucker. I peeked through the window and held the flashlight beam on the snake while Other Half positioned the pole for the catch. The snake was quite uncooperative and amazingly strong for his size, but the Other Half finally got the snake wrangled and pulled him outside the coop where we could examine him better. He agreed this was a different snake. Much stronger. I whipped out the phone to snap pictures.

"I'm losing him!" Other Half's voice was high pitched, approaching the nine year old girl screech.

I thought this was funny until I pulled the camera aside and looked down. Shit. The snake was getting away. And coming my way.

 (Yes, it's out of focus. Try a snake coming at your ankles and your picture will be out of focus too.)

I grabbed the useless long snake pole and tried to pin him down. Not happening. He slid underneath the pole and came toward my ankles. I screamed like a little girl, grabbed a rocking chair and slammed it down on the poor snake. It is a curious fact of life that two retired police officers can still be reduced to screaming little girls when a snake crawls toward their toes. We finally stopped screaming long enough to re-group, pin down his head, and get a better grip. Then Other Half lifted the head while I used the other pole to support the heavier body. The snake wrapped its tail around my pole and together the three of us walked toward the fence. All was well until we walked away from the security light.

Oh. shit. I forgot the freaking flashlight. Things quickly got dark enough to illuminate this fact. Someone who laughs at millenials left the flashlight sitting on a bistro table when she stopped to take pictures of the snake. Blush. Praying I didn't step on a copperhead, we carried a harmless little rat snake as if he were a giant anaconda. Once at the fence, we dumped the frightened and bewildered snake and bid him good well as he slowly made his way back into the forest. Hopefully the experience will keep him from returning to the chicken coop. It is highly likely that like my Other Half, he slithered his way toward a glass of bourbon.  While he poured, I closed the door on another date night on the Red Feather Ranch.

 Click to find the Farm Fresh Forensics book!

The pastures are parched and cry out for rain.  I am in the field with the sheep when the skies darken and a slow rolling thunder growls across the sky like an angry bear. The sheep gather closer but otherwise ignore the growing storm.  Thunder nears and the heavens spit forth much needed rain.

Not everyone welcomes the rain. Dairy goats opt out and run to the barn.

The sheep are unconcerned.

Puzzled, the dog watches the goats go.

But the sheep still graze.

It finally comes down hard enough for the sheep to mosey in. The dog waits behind the smallest lambs.

They dart and play in the shower, but finally follow like sullen kindergarteners pulled off the playground. It takes us longer to walk to the barn than the rain lasts, but any moisture on pastures is a welcome sight. A nod from the gods. A spit from the heavens. And for that we are thankful.

 Click to find the Farm Fresh Forensics book!

My life should come with a soundtrack. That way I'd be able to decide whether or not to get out of bed. Yesterday I should have just stayed under the covers and whimpered. I swing between being poor and being broke. All money is pretty much spent on livestock and things that make life easier on the ranch. I rarely spend money on new clothes. I never spend money on frivolous clothes. Unfortunately most of my dress clothes are made for cooler weather. Because I'm in the choir at church and it's now too hot to wear choir robes over my jeans, it was time to bite the bullet and invest in some casual summer clothes - like normal people wear. I don't do normal well. It doesn't work for me. I now completely understand the Greek concept of the gods of Olympus playing games with humans for their own amusement. I'm sure I provide rich entertainment.

The day started well. The Other Half was up early. I was on the tractor setting up a new sheep chute arrangement. We managed to exercise the dogs and get everyone settled in pens and I changed for church. Uniform of the day - adorable lavender print top with white capri pants (that had matching lavender embroidery) and freaking adorable white eyelet shoes.

The Other Half took one look at me and said, "Those shoes won't even make it to the truck."

"I know. I'm wearing flip-flops to the truck and I'm bringing my white shoes in my purse. You're opening the gates so I can stay clean."

He grunted. "I don't see why you just can't wear blue jeans."

"Because it's church and you're supposed to look nice."

He shrugged. Men have no clue. Or maybe they know more than we give them credit for. Nevertheless, I didn't tell him how much I spent on summer casual clothes that I couldn't wear between my front door and my destination. Intoxicated with the splendor of my fresh new clothes that gave the illusion that I was a normal person, I decided a carwash was needed too. We live off a gravel road and so my little Toyota truck is always covered in white dust. Four dollars later my truck wasn't clean but the top few layers of dust was scrubbed off. I walked into church a happy camper. Cool, clean and carefree was the uniform of the day.  Is this how normal people feel? Well darn, this is nice. I should try it more often.

After church we went to lunch where I made a concentrated effort not to get anything on my white pants or new top. I chewed Other Half out for accidentally stepping on my new white eyelet Jellypop shoes. A tiny sand-stained blemish on the toe. Oh, woe is me! A tragedy of epic proportions.

After lunch we drove an hour away to pick up some benches for the kitchen table since my chairs are so old and feeble they should be drawing social security and disability. I sat in the truck lest I get my clothes dirty. Other Half could load them by himself. He's strong.

On the way back home, I was playing on Facebook, basking in the glow of being normal, when he slammed on the brakes and my phone almost landed on the dash. A giant bull was walking down the highway. A lumbering black billboard. Oh my! You can't drive past that. So we turned on our hazard flashers and slow-rolled down the highway with the bull until we could read his brand. Then we called the sheriff's department. The bull was happy enough walking south on the shoulder of the highway. He was not ambling, he was a bull on a mission. Go south. We drove north.

We found a ranch house that somewhat matched the bull's brand and Other Half proceeded to ruin a rancher's Sunday afternoon Father's Day. The guy put on some shorts and leaped into his truck. We all headed south where we caught up with the bull. Here is the spot where my illusion of normal fell apart like shattered glass in a mirror. I took one look at that rancher trying to turn the bull and knew that someone was going to have to get out on foot and help him. I am ashamed to say that my first thought was not, "I hope no car hits that bull." Instead, it was "Well shit. I'm gonna ruin my new shoes."

So I took them off. Other Half slammed on the brakes and leaped out of the truck. "Here, you drive."  Unfortunately he hadn't put the truck in park. Both of us started to get out as the truck tried to roll away. Crap on cracker! There go my new shoes! Other Half jumped back in and put it in park. Barefoot, I ran through the bar ditch and around the back of the truck to get into the driver's seat. There was a point as I ran through the ditch that two thoughts crossed my mind. 1) I hope none of us gets hit by a car. 2) What idiot chooses to run barefoot through a bar ditch in Texas during the summer because she doesn't want to get her shoes dirty?

Safely seated back in the truck, I slowed down vehicular traffic while Other Half and the rancher got the bull turned around and headed back north. Once he was moving north, the bull walked with the same determination he had used to walk south. Bull on a mission. Other Half hopped in the rancher's truck and followed the bull while the rancher jumped on my bumper and rode ahead to open a gate. The bull cooperated and we were soon giving out introductions and handshakes. I was elated. My white pants were still somewhat clean. All was well in the world. Other Half got back in the driver's seat and I picked up my phone to photograph the bull's ass as he walked off. We said our goodbyes and drove away. A few minutes later, the final broken pieces of my illusion mirror fell to the floor.

Lights on the dashboard started coming on and wisps of smoke came from beneath the hood. We limped into a driveway underneath what looked like a cell phone tower. A group of ramshackle campers were clustered at the base of the tower like a gypsy camp. Everything was behind a tall chainlink fence with multiple locks on the gate.

"Do you think they have water in there?"
"I think they have banjos in there," I said. "Turn the truck around in case we have to drive out really fast." For once he didn't argue with me. And this is where I had to accept my fate. Normal people can wear white. I can't. I tempt the gods when I try to dress like a girl. I have adventures on a good day. If I dress like a girl and my adventures can make Lord of the Rings look like a walk in the park.

It was soon apparent that the new shoes would have to come out of my purse and I'd have to get out of the truck. It didn't take long to figure out that we weren't going anywhere. So much for the carwash. Help was on the way though. Dear Friends Leo and Ruby were saddling up to come rescue us. Again. True wealth lies not in your bank account but in your cell phone favorites list. Who are your friends? Who can you call in a pinch? When faced with the choice between a rich bank account and a bank of good friends, choose the friends. Always. Life is not about money. The good things in life can't be bought, but they can be shared. Sharing the good times and the bad times with friends is a far better investment.

Do you have friends who will get out of their pajamas to drive an hour in the heat to rescue you? Do you have friends who will bring ice, water and gatorade?  And this is the bar to strive for: will your friends, upon discovering that your fan belt has shredded AND pieces of it flew off and wrapped around other somewhat important engine parts, AND the owner's manual says your 4 Wheel Drive truck cannot be towed behind another truck, will your friends drive ALL THE WAY BACK TO THEIR RANCH to get a car hauler trailer? Mine will. Find friends like that. Find friends who will gently point out the BBQ sauce on your new lavender print top will come out - eventually.

Find friends who understand the frustration of ruining white clothes because they ruined their own white clothes the day before - when they rescued another stranded motorist, who was a total stranger. Good friends are there for you, even when they can't help. Even when another friend is on the way to your rescue, good friends want to help.  As one dear friend pointed out later, "Even if we don't have the mechanical skills we can still be moral support. Four of us can stare at an engine instead of just two."

So this is what I learned:

Girl clothes are cute and comfortable, but not practical. I knew this when I was six years old. Why do I still have to learn this when I'm 55?

Money is like water. It flows in and out, but never stays. Use it when you have it, but don't get too attached to it. This is my own law of motion called "money inertia." Inertia is the tendency of an object to resist change in its motion. Money inertia is the tendency of my bank account to resist change. If something acts upon it, say, any increase in deposits, there will be a resulting decrease directly proportional to any money earned, thus the account resumes its zero velocity.

One can examine this scientific rule further by using this example. If money is earned through book sales enough to give the author the illusion that splurging for casual summer attire might be an acceptable idea, the universe will simply send an opposing (and hopefully equal) force (i.e. a mechanic's bill) to equalize the state of money inertia. Once the bank account has reached zero velocity again, it is in a resulting state of happiness.

The author, however, is back to eating beanie weenies.  With no money, but rich in friends, and therefore, truly wealthy.

 Click to find the Farm Fresh Forensics book!

As I sat in my swing this morning watching dogs and chickens play at my feet while I drank coffee, I gave some thought to how much I don't like cobras.

One wouldn't imagine that a rancher in north Texas would give much thought to cobras and the truth is, I don't. Now. When I was a kid, cobras were a thing. Like many children of my generation, I grew up on a steady diet of The Wonderful World of Disney. It was a Sunday evening staple in our home. Three children and a dog would gather on the floor around the television set. This was before the invention of the remote control and during that time if you wanted a remote control for your television set, you had children. Kids these days have no clue. Their parents had them just so they would never had to get up and change the channel again. Then the remote control was invented and children became obsolete. But I digress.

Disney. Disney was more than a vacation spot. Disney used to be imagination. A one hour show on Sunday evening fueled the imaginations of children for the rest of the week. We could be whatever the magic makers at Disney studios dreamed up. Disney took us to foreign lands. Hand in hand with The Wonderful World of Disney  was Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. This was the Animal Planet and Discovery Channel of its day. Thirty minutes of Marlin Perkins, Jim Fowler, and Stan Brock fired the imagination of every child sitting on the floor in front of a glowing television screen. I wanted that life. I wanted Born Free. I wanted a lion sleeping on the roof of my jeep. I wanted to live with the animals, not in zoos, but in my home. I wanted elephants poking trunks through my kitchen window. I wanted to shoo the monkey away from my blender. I wanted a parrot that answered the phone. But I didn't want cobras. I already had rattlesnakes. No fun at all. Cobras are bigger and kill you faster. Definitely strike cobras off the list. I read Rikki-Tikki-Tavi about a pet mongoose who saves his family from a cobra. This fueled both my desire for a mongoose and my love of Rudyard Kipling, who gave me the ultimate thrill - The Jungle Book. Not the movie, the book. Better story. More animals. Spoiler alert - the snake is the villian. No surprise.

So I sat in my swing, sipping my coffee, and gave some thought as to how Walt Disney, Marlin Perkins, and Stan Brock shaped the woman-child I am today. I did not come from a family of ranchers but it was an easy gravitation. After all, living on a farm is very much like having a elephant at your kitchen window. Our life tilts toward the extreme. We live in the barn with the animals. Sheep, goats, chickens, and dogs wander around the yard together in some lopsided version of a Disney movie. And the villian is still the snake.

A dog the size of a mountain lion scattered chickens as he raced through the barnyard with a piece of dried up watermelon leather in his mouth. Herding dogs hung off his sides like a pack of hyenas on a wildebeast. Chickens scrambled and then regrouped as the dogs played out their own scene of Wild Kingdom. I don't have a parrot answering my phone, or a monkey to chase off the kitchen counter, but as I sipped my morning coffee it was still pretty clear - I do live in the jungle.

 Click to find the Farm Fresh Forensics book!

Just in case it comes up again, a Crime Scene Investigator can always tell the difference between the smell of decomposition and the overwhelming aroma of spring flowers. After all these years I'm not sure why he even bothers to question me, but nevertheless, he did. Seriously dude? Flowers?

Days like this really should come with a soundtrack so you get some warning. I opened up the wooden feed bin to feed the chickens. A mouse ran one direction. I ran the other. Screaming. There was much screaming. I don't do rodents. One would think my training as a Crime Scene Investigator would harden me for anything. Rotting bodies? Check. Rodents running near my fingers? Negative.

The mouse was trapped in the bin. A Rodent Removal Specialist was needed, because I wasn't getting it out. Senior Special Agent Lily heard my call for assistance. The Border Collie leaped into the feed bin and assaulted the mouse. When she peeked over the wall at me to confirm the assassination job was complete, I crept up and peeked over the side. Mangled rodent. My turn. Okay. Okay. Okay. I can do this. I took the feed scoop and slowly scooped the body up. The mouse regained consciousness and started a quick wobble up the scoop toward my wrist. The metal scoop clattered to the concrete along with the rodent. There was more screaming.

The Border Collie did a better job the second time. I sort of felt sorry for the little fellow. (Yes, I note my bipolar behavior too. "Eeek! Kill it!" "Awww... poor thing.") The Labrador raced up to inform everyone the mouse was his. Because Lily has high self-esteem, she was unconcerned by the Dillon's attempts to steal her work. He had his chance. Everyone saw it. He could have leaped into that feed bin too but he didn't. Like the guy at the office who takes credit for your work, he stole her mouse. She didn't give it a second thought. Nor did I. Problem solved. I thought.

Apparently my screams had sent out a 911 call across the sheep pasture too and the Big White Dawgs responded. The Livestock Guardian Dogs arrived in the barnyard to find me calmly filling chicken feeders. Judge noted Dillon had something interesting so he ambled up to the Labrador and said, "Hey Dude, whatcha got?"

The Labrador bit him on the ear.

Judge screamed and the reaction was much like an Avengers movie Hulk snatching up Loki. The giant Anatolian grabbed the Labrador by the head and flipped him over like a rag dog. There was no dog fight. It was like being bitch slapped by a gorilla. Over and done. I think I peed in my pants.  The Hulk glared at me as I took his collar and hauled him off Dillon. I beat him with an empty chicken feed sack. (Okay, I shouted and slapped him a couple of times with the sack to make my point. Thou shalt not eat the House Dogs.) Judge informed me that he was the victim here. The brown dog bit him first. His ear was bleeding. Well, okay. There's that. I locked Judge in a kennel and Dillon, hackles still up from ears to tail, bounced away like Tigger as if nothing happened. God protects drunks and fools.

Coffee. Coffee. Where did I set my coffee?

I located my coffee mug, took a moment to breathe, and reflected on my plans for the day. We were missing a bull. We'd been missing the fence-jumping bastard for months. Last week we located him two ranches away but he opted against coming home and we didn't have enough Border Collies with us to force the issue, so we chose to return when we were better prepared. Not a task I was eager to start. Any more coffee? There was not.

While I was nursing the last drop of caffeine, Jury, the other Anatolian, shot out from underneath the cattle trailer to chase buzzards in the sky above the barnyard. As he ran, more buzzards exploded from a tree on the other side of the fence. A clue. I grabbed a gun and walked that direction. Jury slid under the fence and flushed up another set of buzzards by the pond. Definitely a clue. As I creeped through the mesquite and thorny black locust brush, I regretted my lack of preparation for this adventure. Blue jeans and snake boots would have been a plus. As it was, shorts and my oversized Justin boots with the cracks at the seams were the uniform of the day. The thorns scratched my legs. Penalty for my poor choice of fashion.

As I made my way to the pond, the whiff of decomposition floated past like a feather in the wind. Where? What? Who? Thus began the questions? Did I count lambs last night? Had we lost a calf? Impossible. Nothing would be bold enough to take a calf this close to the barnyard and the guard dogs. The decomp smell in the air laughed at me.

I couldn't find it. The area near that pond was a thorny jungle. The rising sun, the wind, and the berms around the pond were doing crazy things with the scent. I found an area thick with blowflies and heavy with decomp scent but still couldn't locate the source. A large red cow pushed her way through the brush. Delta the Flying Cow studied and then dismissed me to continue her journey. She bellowed for her calf.

Well, shit.

I walked to a place I could get cell reception and phoned the Other Half. "I smell decomp and Delta is calling for her calf." That's not the wake-up call he wanted. He loaded up the ATV with cattle cubes and I met him in the pasture.  Good news. Delta had found her calf. Bad news. We were still missing a cow. Snickers was due to have a calf. She'd gone walkabout. Perhaps the decomp smell was afterbirth. Fingers crossed. Since Snickers is an experienced mother, an extensive search of the property was not launched. She normally comes up a few days after her calf is born. Another cow bawled in the forest.

Wait! Black cow. Pushing through the brush!

The black thing that stepped out of the forest into the open pasture was not Snickers with a calf. It was a bull. Our bull. Our fence-jumping bastard had leaped four good barbed wire fences to get into this pasture. The cows were delighted to see him. Most of them had calves on the ground and romance on their mind. "Set up your dates now, Ladies, cuz he's going to the sale barn next week." Cattle that jump fences get sold.

That problem solved itself. Now, the smell.

We drove back to the pond. The Other Half couldn't smell it. "All I smell is flowers. Are you sure you smell something dead?"

Seriously? Did he just ask a CSI and 20 buzzards that question?

I walked into the scent cone and made him stand in it. Okay. Maybe it wasn't flowers he smelled.

With a bit more poking around we located the source. Dead raccoon. A poor raccoon had come to drink and was discovered by a Livestock Guardian Dog. I regret that. I really do. I don't like the dogs to kill things. On the other hand, in the years BB (Before Briar) I experienced the results of raccoons in a chicken coop. Night after night. They put me out of business. Poor raccoon, my ass. Nope. Not going through that again. That's why I have these big white dogs.

And thus was a typical Saturday morning. I did the mental tally as I loaded up and drove back to the house. Still missing a cow. Lost a raccoon. Lost a mouse. Almost lost a Labrador. Found a bull. The ebb and flow of mystery and drama on a ranch. And all before noon.

Update: Snickers returned to the herd with a bull calf on Sunday.

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Everything children need to know about life can be learned in the barnyard. The circle of life. The birds and the bees. Good parenting. And how not to be an ass. Some males are naturally romantic. They have charm. Charisma. Some have to be taught with a club. Russell Crowe, is the latter. I find the young rooster's efforts somewhat amusing. He is an adult but much younger than his hens, thus they are less inclined to put up with his shit. Pardon my French.

When they first met Russell Crowe, the two year old hens were beside themselves with delight. Russell basked in the glow of their attentions. Six hens postured and fought over him. A real man! A boy toy! That lasted about two weeks. Russell sensed the change in their affections. Rather than turning on the charm, Russell resorted to other tactics. Running them down until he outruns them or they give up burns a lot a calories, and Russell's really not into that much work. His solution was pure genius. They are not amused.

Russell now pretends he has found the most scrumptious "something" on the ground and calls the hens to show them the delicacy which is surely better than anything they've ever tasted. He calls out "Look! Look! Look what I've found!"

The hens come running. "What?!! What is it?"

Once they are in range, like a flasher in a trench coat, he gives a lecherous shout, "ME!" and leaps atop the closest hen.

If she is a willing participant, then it's no harm, no foul (fowl). If not however, the hen squawks in alarm and her sisters rush in to peck the would-be rapist in the head. Their message is clear. "Learn some charm or we'll peck your eyes out. And while you're at it, cut down on the Ax body spray."  You've gotta love a tribe of sisters.

The Marek's infected hens are still doing well.

In an effort to save their genes and get more blue chickens, once they were all three laying eggs, I put Russell Crowe in the large pen with them. They were delighted. Wow! Their own man! He spent the day in rooster bliss. At dusk however, the bigamist flew the coop to return to his other family, the Golden Girls. He rose every morning and when released with the Golden Girls, he got pecked in the head repeatedly because he's a slow learner. After the Golden Girls wandered off to begin their day, the young rooster lingered around the Blue Girl pen waiting to be let inside. They were usually happy to see him because the bigamist was quite attentive with affections and promises. True to form however, each night, he flew over the six foot fence to return to his other wives. The Blue girls got tired of him within a week. Fortunately by that time I had collected enough fertilized eggs.

Between Russell Crowe paired with the Marek's infected hens, and his brother, Egger Allan Poe,

who stays in a pen with the two blue Marek's vaccinated hens,

we collected 21 eggs and placed them in an incubator. Each egg was labeled as to which pen it was collected and which day. Until we see how many hatch, we no longer need fertilized eggs, so Russell has been tossed back in the yard with the Golden Girls who will continue to school him on the dos and don'ts of barnyard romance.

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Ranchers pray about a lot of things. Rain. Too little. Too much. The mountain of rising bills. And the animals in our care. Yes, despite what PETA tells you, ranchers do care a great deal about the welfare of their animals. It's why we stay up late, why we get up early, and why we traipse through snake-infested, tick-infested forests to find them.

We have rules around here now. Do not. Do not. Do not wake up a sleeping calf. Awww . . . It's so cute. Is it breathing? Yes. Yes, it's breathing. Is it a heifer or a bull calf? And this is where you make that fatal mistake. You take one more step toward the sleeping calf - and that rascal jumps from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye. And it's gone. Bye. Into the forest like a fart in the wind.

This doesn't happen when the mom is standing there. No. The mother will be grazing at some distance and not see that the toddler she left sleeping has bolted to parts unknown. In my case, the calf ran through one fence and into the forest. The dog and I were able to find it quickly and get it pointed back toward its mother. It climbed back through the fence and all was well.

Other Half gave me quite the lecture on why you don't get too close to sleeping calves. I endured the lecture with minimal grace. A few days later, Dear Friend Clyde did the same thing. Unfortunately his calf ran through four fences and crossed a highway. It was days before they were able to recover the calf. This resulted in much worry and heartache for the rancher, the cow and the calf.  Other Half maintained his air of superiority. After all, everyone knows you shouldn't sneak up on a sleeping calf.

Until he did it. Just one more step. That last step was his undoing. The calf bolted like a rocket. Not a rocket launched by NASA which lifts slowly but with lots of power. No. This calf bolted like a cheap Fourth of July rocket that you buy from a roadside fireworks stand. A little sizzle. And we have lift-off. No dizzy array of spectacular fireworks. A buzz. And gone. Just like that.

The calf was on the opposite side of the creek from the mother. The cow left her calf tucked into a thicket and she came when called up for vittles. We realized she'd given birth and so the Other Half followed her to find her calf in the forest. The cow had approximately 150 acres to give birth. Most of it was flat, somewhat open, with wooded pockets. Rather than choosing to give birth in one of the wooded pockets, the cow chose to have her calf on the other side of the creek, in thick forest, in an area where three ranches meet. Nothing about this area would normally interest a cow - unless you were trying to hide a calf.

When the calf bolted she ran along a fence and finally came to rest in a gap where a dry branch of the creek had cut a groove. Stressed from her rude awakening, she chose to lie down in the gap. Wiser now, the Other Half had to climb a cliff by hand (with rattlesnakes) to come up around the calf in such a way that she didn't bolt through the fence and onto another ranch. He was successful. The calf spooked and ran back from whence she came. After a brief marital spat in the forest because the Almighty Cattle Rancher violated the Prime Directive we drove to the house unaware of the ominous music playing in the background.

The next morning our mistake was bawling. Loud mournful bawls that echoed over the trees. The cow couldn't find her calf. The marital fight the day before was a mild disagreement compared to the battle that ensued when the Almighty, All-knowing Great & Powerful Oz of Cattle Ranching proclaimed the cow was stupid because she couldn't find her calf. The explosion was very much like a rocket launching, except this time it was a NASA rocket - slow and with much power. Think atomic bomb.

We found the cow on the opposite side of the creek from where we left her calf the night before. Other Half continued to proclaim the cow stupid because she wouldn't cross the creek. I had more faith in the cow. Most dramas on a ranch begin with these words, "Oh shit."

There was a hole in the fence big enough to drive a school bus through. Or a feral hog. Or a calf. The reason the cow couldn't find her calf was because the calf was on another ranch. And thus began our search. Hundreds of acres. Heavily wooded. Poorly fenced. Good luck. The area was too thickly wooded for a horse and neither of us wanted to put a Border Collie in there either. Besides, using dogs to find and herd a single calf is a dicey situation at best.

And this brings us back to prayer. Ranchers pray for miracles. We set off wearing guns and snakeboots. He went one way. I went the other. I forgot to take the walkie-talkie but then nothing I had to say was fit for public airwaves anyway. The grass was ankle to knee deep. It hid all manner of limbs, downed trees, and I'm sure countless polite snakes. From time to time I stopped to check my bearings and flick ticks off me. And say a quiet prayer.

Moments later my phone chimed a text message. I glanced at it. Not God. I was hoping for a text from God reading. STOP WALKING. CALF IS TO YOUR LEFT. UNDER THE CEDAR TREE. Instead, it was a girlfriend. She's also a cattle rancher and so I sent her a quick text. She sent back a note of sympathy and encouragement. She's been there too. At some point we all violate the Prime Directive. I sent a frowny face and walked out of cell phone range again. And there she was. To my left. Under a cedar tree. Fast asleep. Just like the text God didn't send.

Had I not stopped for the text I would have walked right past her. And thus began the game. The "Don't Wake The Baby" game.  I needed reinforcements. No horse. No dog. Nothing but a cell phone and a gun. I creeped back into cell phone range and phoned the Other Half. It rolled to his voice mail. He had no cell service. And so we began the forest game of Marco Polo.

This is how people violate the Prime Directive. Two people can shout back and forth in the forest and a calf won't wake up. When we were both within 30 feet of the calf, we resorted to stage whispers, as if shouting wouldn't wake her up but normal voices would. It was so tempting to just walk up and toss a rope around her neck. But the Great and Powerful Oz could see the heifer was nestled in brush that would neatly foil any tossed lasso loop. What to do. What to do. We stared at each other and shrugged. So close and so far.

On the other side of the creek the mother continued to call her calf. The wind was blowing the calf's scent right to her but she couldn't cross the creek at that bank and we were fenced on another ranch. All she could do was call and alert every coyote in the county that she was missing a calf. I flicked another tick off my shoulder and considered our options. There were no choices. We had to rope the calf. If the loop tangled in the brush she'd be gone again. Our only hope was to get closer. The Don't Wake The Baby game got even more exciting when the calf raised her head and fixed us with groggy eyes. This time the "Oh shit" was whispered. We stared at each other. We stared at the baby. She stared at us. No one moved. A tick crawled up my leg.

"What's the plan?" Oz whispered.

"Wait her out. Let her go back to sleep."

It was absurd. It was our only hope. So we stood in the forest and waited for her to go back to sleep. And waited. And waited. And instead of going to sleep, she became more alert. She'd just had a nap. And it was hard to sleep because some cow was bellowing in the forest.

Other Half looked at me and shrugged. Change of plan. If she focused on me, perhaps he would be able to walk close enough to loop her. I started a slow march in the place. Feet up and down. No forward motion. I'm here. I'm making noise. I'm no threat. She watched me calmly. Other Half took another step. She watched me. I marched to hide any noise he might make. She watched me. Perplexed. Bi-peds are so odd. Other Half took another step. She stood up. She stretched. She watched me. Stetched some more. Pushed her back legs out and arched her back. (Getting her running shoes on.)

And then she stepped toward me. Still no clear shot. Other Half watched in helpless frustration. And just like that - she bounded off.

We were back to Square 1.

There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth but we were no longer ready to kill each other. We'd worked together. We tried our best. The calf was in God's hands. The last we saw her she was headed south at a good clip. We headed north. The only thing we could do was get the mother, cut the fence, let the cow find her calf, and hope to pick her up later. The calf would die alone.

And here is where PETA can just kiss my lily white butt. We made the decision to save the calf by taking the chance on losing the mother. She'd probably survive on that ranch by herself but we would have a very difficult time getting her back. If she didn't want to come, our chances were nil. But the baby wouldn't survive without her. I gave another silent prayer and we hiked back to the hole in the fence.

"Oh shit!"

Those words again. Somehow. Some way. The calf had looped around us and crawled back through the hole in the fence! She stood on the other side staring at us. Holyshitholyshitholyshit! Don't scare the baby! We stood there as she walked back through the forest and threaded her way to the exact spot where her mother left her the day before. And she plopped down. New plan. Call all the cattle to this side of the creek. The mother would follow and find her baby.

So I stood on Baby Watch while he drove the ATV across the creek and called the herd. The mother came with them. She was within 40 feet of her calf but couldn't smell it because the calf was downwind in a thicket. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Other Half picked up a feed sack and walked the mother and a few greedy cows toward the thicket.

I'm not sure which of the four of us was more relieved when that mother cow found her calf. While the calf nursed like she hadn't had a meal in twelve hours, I flicked another tick off my pants and pondered the accusations of animal rights activists. They claim we don't care for our animals, that we are cruel because we eat meat. These are often the same folks who proclaim there is no God.  I stood in the forest and watched the calf nurse with a happy tear in my eye. We made the right call to do what was best for the animals and God picked up the rest. Screw their claims. I'll take my steak and my God, thank you very much.

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To loosely quote Robert Burns, "The best-laid schemes of mice and men often go awry."

And so we re-join our continuing saga of the Blue-Laced Red Wyandotte chickens. In the first episode of this drama, I found a breeder in Central Texas with a lovely group of birds and purchased two roosters and six hens. They promptly got sick. One by one all but three of the birds croaked because the breeder failed to vaccinate the chicks for the highly contagious and deadly Marek's Disease Virus. Live and learn. I assumed they were vaccinated because most hatcheries provide vaccinated birds. My mistake. Won't happen again. I had three hens left. Thus began the search for an adult, vaccinated rooster.

In the next episode, I found two adult breeding pairs of Blue-Laced Red Wyandottes which had been purchased as chicks from a local feed store that is known to buy vaccinated chicks.  I put one blue rooster with the two new hens and put the other rooster with my free range flock of Golden-Laced Wyandotte hens where he would remain until the Marek's infected hens began laying eggs. The plan was to acclimate the rooster slowly to the Marek's virus by not placing him in the pen with the infected birds until he was used to the property and his immune system wasn't as stressed. This would be a race against time as it was also possible that the Marek's infected hens could become symptomatic for the disease and die before we placed the rooster in the pen. As it is, with the exception of one hen who has a bit of a limp, they are still clucking along quite well.

And thus begins today's episode.

The two new blue hens started laying eggs. I am still getting only one egg a day from the three infected blue hens. Margaret Thatcher, the Iron Lady, who takes no shit off anyone, is steadily giving one egg each day. I wanted to have another infected hen laying before I placed the rooster in the run with them. The plan was to wait until at least two hens were laying and then birdnap the blue rooster, Russell Crowe, and dump him into the pen with the Marek's infected hens, keeping my fingers crossed that Russell would not contract the disease because he was vaccinated.

This morning I fed all the chickens and released the Golden Girls and Russell. The Marek's hens made coy eyes at Russell and I considered putting him in with them this morning. The thought crossed my mind but like a dragonfly, it flited away before I could act on it. About mid-day I went outside and noted that Russell was missing. There were six golden hens and no rooster. That's a puzzle. Sometimes a group of girls strays outside the barnyard but never Russell. A casual search of the barnyard did not produce the rooster. I filed a Missing Persons report with the Livestock Guardian Dogs.

They took the report and joined the manhunt for the missing bird. I thought I heard him in the sheep pens behind the barn but a search revealed nothing. As the search area extended, it became apparent that this was not a Search & Rescue mission, but a Recovery mission. Despite an intensive search, Russell Crowe vanished like a fart in the wind.

The search party began to break apart. The Livestock Guardian Dog lost interest and plopped down in the shade, the Other Half got bored and headed to town.  I was left with a quiet barnyard and dashed dreams. Nevertheless I was still thankful that I kept one blue rooster under lock and key. He becomes my only hope that the genes of the Marek's infected birds will survive. Still - I was left wondering. How was there no trace of Russell?

I couldn't let the puzzle die, so I headed back to the sheep pens. The Labrador pushed his way through the gate with me and I was too distracted to toss him out so I let him cruise the pens in his olfactory wonderland. Then I heard it again.

The soft sound of a chicken. Where? I looked around. Still nothing.

Trust your dog.  I stopped searching the pens and watched the Labrador. There! Under an overturned bucket!

I carefully lifted the bucket to reveal a very relieved, half-roasted chicken. Apparently he hopped on the lip of a bucket to drink and it tumped over on top of him. Russell was quite happy to see me. He was even happy to see the dog. The Labrador went about exploring the pens in hopes of something more interesting than a chicken under a bucket. Russell was then captured and dumped into the pen with the Marek's birds. Margaret Thatcher was quite happy to see such a fine specimen of manliness and told him so. Russell answered, "Not now. I have a headache."

And so the saga of the Blue-Laced Red Wyandottes continues. Russell will stay in the pen for a while. We'll order a bottle of the Marek's vaccine and when it arrives we'll collect eggs from both pens of blue birds for incubation. Russell and I dodged the bullet today. It's time to start saving these genes. Living on a farm is a game of catastrophic expectations. Sometimes the drama unfolds into tragedy and sometimes it's just a bucket of chicken.