Farm Fresh Blog

Cowboy the rescue Border Collie is working out just fine.  He has become Other Half's best friend. Even if all he is doing is feeding the cows, I feel more comfortable when Cowboy rides out there with him because: 

1) cows are big

2) cows aren't smart

3) anything that big and that stupid can be dangerous

Therefore, I always ask that Other Half either takes Blue Heeler or Cowboy with him when he does anything with the cows.

There is a bull with this group of cows.  He is a nice bull but he is, nevertheless, a bull, and I don't trust him.

Cowboy makes sure he is a well-behaved bull.

Cowboy insures all the cows are well-behaved.

He supervises everything from his throne.

So everyone is safe.

And when he's done . . .

Such is the life of a ranch dog.

The rains have finally stopped and the sun came out again. Yes, I am certain now that we live in The Everglades. There are mosquitoes as big as fighter jets just waiting to descend upon any warm-blooded creature unfortunate enough to find itself stuck outside.  Despite my "anti-chemical" campaign, tonight we will break down and fog the barn.  I hate to poison every bug in the stable, but the mosquitoes carry diseases and are large enough to carry away a good-sized horse.

Well, maybe not Ona . . . .

          But definitely Ruffy!

So this morning after our chores were done and the dogs and I retreated back into the safety of the house, I told them, (because sometimes you have to point these things out to people who eat off the floor)

"Now Guys, we all need to take a moment to say, "Dear Lord, thank you for providing us with a home that has air conditioning."

As the mosquitoes peeked through the windows, the dogs said their prayers.  In fact, Alice has been in deep meditation for most of the morning.

Other members of the family are not as fortunate . . . .

           "May we come inside the house, please?"

While On Duty, Briar can be a very serious dog.         

When she is Off Duty, she is still a giant puppy who enjoys playing with the other dogs.  Border Collie is her favorite playmate. (Mostly because she is so big that no one else wants to play with her!)  She is quickly outgrowing Border Collie too and because of the size difference, I do not allow them to play by themselves.  Lily is 34 pounds.  Briar is a LOT bigger than that!  Briar has no clue that her rough play could seriously injure her Little Buddy.  Lily is aware of the danger, but feels that since she is a Border Collie, then she is Bullet-Proof and Invisible, and no harm can come to her. 

Because of this, I supervise their play.

  At first the play is fun for both of them.

  Briar likes chasing.

  Lily likes being chased. 

  Up to a point . . .  

There always comes a time in the play when Lily looks up at me and suddenly stops playing as if she switches On Duty.  I'm not sure if she really is On Duty, or if this is the canine equivalent of "I think my Mother is calling me now."

  Briar always ignores the fact that Lily has stopped playing.

  Perhaps if I bite her tail she would play again.

  And here it is . . . The Look.

The Look that says, "Bitch, let go of my tail or I'll tear your ears off your head."  Briar never fails to completely miss The Look. 

  In fact, Briar escalates the problem by hooking a big hairy arm over Lily's back. At this point, I'm sure Lily is well aware that she weighs only 34 pounds.  It is time to drop the camera and rescue Lily from her rambunctious playmate, and rescue Briar from herself.

"Good thing Mom stepped in.  I mighta had to open up a can of Whoop-Ass!"

Heavy storms continue to move through the area.  The livestock take advantage of the lull between the storms and head out to the pasture again.

  Briar supervises as the sheep and goats file out.

                                                             Do you think dogs can count?

  Roanie looks back for her dog.  "Ya comin'?"

     Yea, Briar is comin'.

 The sheep immediately settle down to the serious business of grazing.

 The goats immediately try to climb through the fence.

Everyone looks forward to a break in the rain so chores can be done.

Everyone that is, except Alice The Bloodhound.  Alice has better things to do on rainy days . . .

The rains continue . . .

The barn has flooded and we're juggling livestock. The goats and sheep are back together again. They are free to roam through the mud and muck when I'm home, but when I leave for work, they go back in lockdown with the Livestock Guardian Dog. The sheep really like their dog.  The goats tolerate her now.

When Other Half left for work this morning he turned the stock out and cautioned me, "By 1 o'clock we have 85 % chance of rain. Whatever you want to do outside, get it done before then."

I mumbled something and went back to sleep.

He called at 11 o'clock and informed me that the rain would be here by 12:30 pm.  I puttered around the barn and ignored him. There was still plenty of time. (I did this, despite the fact that it was thundering and the sky was turning ominous. I mean, after all, the Weatherman SAID the rain would come at 12:30 pm!  That was a least an hour away!!!)

So I feed carrots to the ponies. I played with the horses . . .

I checked out the sheep and goats with Briar.

And then . . . a funny thing happened. . . 

                                                       . . .  it started to rain.

                                                                                   It started to pour!

But WAIT!!!  It wasn't 12:30 pm yet!  This wasn't fair!

So I call the goats and the sheep.  This consists of screaming "Baaaaaaaa!!!!! at the top of my lungs.  (There is no telling what my neighbors think of me.) The goats come running.  Goats are smarter than sheep.  We have already established that fact.  In short order, the goats are in their shed, happily munching food that I thoughtfully placed there for them earlier.  (I'm not a total idiot!)  So I grab a bucket and slosh out in the rain to call the sheep. Mud is squishing over my flip flops and my glasses are fogging.  I can barely see the sheep in the back of the pasture under a tree.  I pray they don't get hit by lightning.  I pray "I" don't get hit by lightning.   I call the sheep over the roaring rain.  They answer me, but have absolutely NO intention of leaving their tree. 

"Don't MAKE ME GET THE BORDER COLLIE!!!" I shout at them.  They are unconcerned.

"LILY"  I scream through the rain.

A black & white shadow that has been lurking by the fence slithers to the gate.  I wipe my glasses with my shirt tail and cuss the sheep.  The goats temporarily stop muching to regard me thoughtfully.  We exchange a moment, but then it passes.  I know.  Goats are smarter than sheep.  I know.

So I open the gate and Special Agent Lily slithers into the pasture. She has assessed the situation already and was simply waiting to be deployed.  She salutes and heads out in the rain.

The sheep are not happy to see her.  But a few nips on the heels and they come scampering towards me.  Thirty seconds later and she has them in the pen with the goats.  It has taken Lily approximately 2 minutes.  I'm not sure how long I was standing out in the rain shaking a bucket of feed.  But I'm sure that if I'd screamed "Baaaaaa!" any louder, or any longer, my neighbors would have had me committed.  

So to all the folks who say, "I don't need a dog, my sheep (or goats) come to a bucket of feed!" I ask you, how long have YOU stood out in the rain trying to coax them back inside?

When Other Half came into my life, in addition to cattle, cowponies, police dogs, and a cockatiel named Killer, he also brought two fantastic kids.

 A Horse-loving daughter . . .

 . . .  and a Hunting/Fishing/Firearms-loving son . . .

The kids are very close. That's a good thing.  That's a VERY GOOD THING. Because ya see . . .  ya see that DAWG that Son is holding in his arms.  Meet Drake!  Son rescued Drake.  Everyone in the family loves Drake.  He's a very sweet dog.  What's not to love?

But let me paint this picture for you . . .

Daughter and her Husband have a lovely two-story home. Drake and his Master often stay with her.  Drake isn't keen on confinement, and so sometimes it becomes necessary to lock Drake in the bathroom when he's alone.  Now imagine, if you will, that Drake is locked in the bathroom on the 2nd floor.  Also imagine, that Drake climbs in the tub. Stretch your imagination further to picture Drake turning on the hot water . . . full blast.

No one is home. When help does come, Drake has flooded the house. . . the beautiful house with the hardwood floors  . . . the hardwood floors that had JUST BEEN INSTALLED. 

Drake's adventure tallied up to $17,000 in damage.

Yes, Drake is still alive.  Yes, the kids still love each other and laugh about Drake's adventure.  Thank God for close families.  Thank God for insurance.  

The hurricane missed us, but we still got 13 inches of rain in two days.  The roads were flooded. I had to drive my Monster Truck to work last night.

From time to time I have complained about how tall Monster Truck is, and how it is difficult to manuever in tight spaces.  Well, shut ma mouth!  Last night I learned exactly what that sucker was made to do!  It not only got me TO work yesterday, but it got me BACK HOME last night when other vehicles were stalled beside the roadway. While most folks may not need such a Monster in the driveway, if you are considered "Essential Personnel" by your employer, it is nice to have a vehicle that will climb tall buildings (or at least curbs) to get you where you need to go.  So I will stop complaining about how big Monster is now.

But . . . singing the praises of Monster Truck was not the point of this blog.  The POINT is that we got 13 inches of rain in 2 days.  Good grief!  I came home last night to find that my 5 stall barn had flooded. The concrete aisle was still wet from where the river of water rushed through the barn, into the stalls, and out the back doors. Unfortunately it left 4 of the 5 stalls under water.  EEGaadssss!  (Actually, that's not what I said.  At 2 AM I used OTHER words, but this is a family-friendly program, so I won't print those.)

Add to that problem the fact that since I had combined some livestock before I left yesterday, I put Briar (gigantic Livestock Guardian Dog Puppy) in the back yard since I didn't want her hurt by a horse.   (and I forgot her)

  That was my first mistake.

I returned home last night to find that Briar has FINALLY figured out how to use the doggy door.  That is a BAD THING!  Briar found herself IN the house, but couldn't figure out how to go back outside.  Thus, there was a large pile of dog poop on my bedroom floor . . . and pawprints tracking the poo down the hallway.  She was very happy to see me. It was 2 AM.  I was not amused.   I was not nearly as happy to see her.

So I threw everyone outside with what was surely every frog in southern Texas. My back yard was a lake.  The pond was no longer visible underneath all the water.  My back yard had become the Florida Everglades.  I am certain there were alligators lurking out there.

Still in my uniform, I pulled on rubber boots and sloshed to the barn.  It was bad.  It was really bad. No sheep or goats had drowned though. They had all managed to find high ground.  The horses were standing in water.  Since it was up to Ruffy's knees, I turned the ponies into the back yard and cautioned them not to fall in the pond.  They would graze up by the house and be fine.

 The stallion was moved in with the goats. Poor Ona and Montoya were left to find the highest ground possible until the sun came up and I could assess the situation a little better.  As I left for bed, while Ona stood on a patch of high ground, poor Montoya insisted on standing in the water by the fence, waiting for me to save him. If I could have bundled him up and brought him into the house, I would have.

When the sun came up, the ponies were happily sloshing around the back yard. Montoya and Ona had found drier ground.  Border Collie moved the sheep into higher ground, with the goats.  The goats are wretched roommates, but in weather like this, beggars can't be choosy. 

It's raining again. They are calling for rain until Monday.  The good news is that since the barn has already flooded, that's one less thing I have to worry about.  This is just the first hurricane of the season.  Oh my . . . it promises to be a looong summer.  

     I took the day off of work.  I was reaching mental breakdown status and so it was in the best interest of everyone around me if Princess took a day off.

Last night I informed my co-workers that:

A) My dog died.
B) Friday I came home from court. Put my dog to sleep. Buried my dog. Took a shower. And then went back to work.
C) My dog died.
D) I had to spend 7 hours of my day off IN COURT!
E) There was a hurricane in the gulf. 
F) If the hurricane doesn't hit us, Other Half will be deployed to take care of the poor souls that did get hit.
G) My dog died.
H) If I don't get some time to myself, someone else is gonna die.

The sergeant signed my request for time off. (You see!  If you just explain things to people . . .)

So I last night I informed Other Half that today I would be going to get a 1 hour massage. He grunted. It is definitely in HIS best interest if Princess gets a massage and goes to her Happy Place.  (Worse case scenario has him in the direct line of fire, and at best case scenario, he could still become collateral damage.)

So with the rain coming down harder than a cow pissin' on a flat rock, I threw my hair under a Stetson, slipped on my brightest pink raincoat, climbed in my Big Ass Monster Truck, and headed for The Spa! It was a trek, and by the time I arrived, water was lapping out of the ditches beside the roadway.  (I didn't care. I had a Monster Truck! Princess was GETTING a massage today!  Damn it!)  I was surprised to see the parking lot full.  Could it be that other women were having the same crappy week as MOI?  My heart went out to them, until I realized that I might not find a place to park.  Suddenly The Evil Queen Behind The Mirror advised me in her sickly sweet voice that I could just roll on top of that BMW with my Monster Truck.  Hey!  She was right!  I could! 

Fortunately, God was with me and provided me with a parking space big enough for my Monster Truck and the blond lady's BMW. All was well with my world. I got soaked getting out of the truck, but Princess had a 1 hour massage coming and come hell or high water, she was getting it!

This spa is an old wooden house on the edge of a creek.  It's been converted to a spa for Yuppies and Homicidal Forensic Farm Girls.  I opened the door and just stood there for a moment.  The incense welcomed me in.  Incense, not dog puke, not dog poop, not dog pee, not even a hairball the cat choked up, but the smell of actual insense greeted my nose.  I was almost giddy.

A young man, who was barely 12 years old, greeted me. Yes, I had an appointment.  Yes, I've been here before. Yes, I'd be happy to wait.  While I waited I poked around their gift shop.  Girly things that I rarely indulge myself in called to me from every corner!  Pink things! Purple things! Leopard-printed things! SPARKLY things!  Bling! Bling!  I glanced at a few price tags and noted that there was plenty of "Cha Ching! Cha Ching!" associated with the "Bling! Bling!"   I have animals to feed.  I couldn't afford to buy frivolous girl toys.  So I sat down and read a magazine.  Without the hat, my hair fell into my eyes.  I needed a haircut.  (Just one more chore that keeps getting shoved behind all the other things vying for my attention.)  My eyes darted to the hair salon in the front room. It smelled expensive.

I did the math. Then I worked out the logistics. I could wait and see my Beautician back home (who only charges half of what this salon charges), OR, I could go ahead and pay more to get the hair cut because I don't know WHEN I'll actually get around to going to the other guy.  I looked like a sheep dog. I peeked through my bangs and decided to bite the bullet and get my hair cut. 

Rain was coming down in sheets outside.  Patrons and staff wondered aloud if they would be able to drive home through the high water.  (I didn't worry.  I had my Monster Truck. I wouldn't even mind driving them home . . . after my massage.) I was already going to my Happy Place. I flipped through a magazine.  Yoga, whole foods, esential oils, organic gardening! Oh yeah!  Princess was headed to the Happy Place.  (For a moment the Evil Queen in the Mirror popped her head out to ask why the people in the organic gardening articles always look so happy and clean.  They're never smeared with goat poop and sheep shit in organic gardening articles. Why is that?)

I pondered it for a minute. Happily, before I could write the magazine and ask them, my Blond Woman With Magic Fingers showed up and escorted me to her room.  I love these rooms - dim lights and New Age music just melts me. An hour later I oozed out of that room.  She stuffed a cup of water in my hand and with a lazy grin on my face, I shuffled toward the hair salon.  Yeeesssss . . . Princess was happy.

With my hair still fluffed from Blond Woman With Magic Fingers, I asked the receptionist if I could get a haircut.  I could. So I oozed on into the hair salon - where I was met by a pixie with purple strands in her hair. Hmmmm . . .  good thing I didn't meet the Purple Pixie before my massage.  As it was, I positively oozed happiness and good will.  I was willing to trust my sheep dog mop to Purple Pixie or anyone else with a pair of scissors.  So I slid into the chair and waited for her to work her Pixie Magic.

The problem was, Pixies aren't mind readers.  My Old Beautician, a delightful gay man in his 60s doesn't really care what I want.  He cuts my hair the same way he has for last 20 years.  There is very little discussion about it.  I sit down.  He cuts.  Sometimes he colors. Same cut. Same color.  IF . . . I actually inform him that I want something different, something DRAMATIC, he will inform me that he will NOT do that because I will hate it in two days.  He is temperamental, but he's always right. 

So I sat in the chair and observed the confused Pixie in the mirror.  What did I want?  Neither of us was sure.  I looked past her purple hair and saw a child.  I have scissors older than this child.  For a fleeting moment I wondered if the Purple Pixie really knew much about cutting hair. She was certainly a contrast to my 60 something year old gay guy. We chatted while she tentatively snipped away.  I watched in the mirror, confident that if she botched it too badly, my beautician would fix it after he got over his snit.  I looked at all the gray in the mirror.  It was probably time to color my hair again.  That was NOT something I was willing to trust with the pixie.  But then again, there was a LOT of gray.  Perhaps, perhaps, just maybe there was enough gray . . .   so I said,

"You know, I may just quit coloring it and let it go gray."

And she said, "Oh yeah, with this much gray, there's really no use in even trying to cover it."

Yes, she is still alive. You see . . .  I'd already had my massage.

So now I'm color-coordinating with my horse!

Last week while we were in search of the Wagon Master, we missed our exit and stumbled across this:

My heart skipped!  I have researched this place all over the internet - and here it was!

The builders take reclaimed materials and fashion the most adorable tiny homes.  I mean TINY (in teeny tiny letters!)

  Many folks buy the homes for studios, or offices, or rent rooms.  Some folks buy them to live in.  I was thinking in that direction.  I'm trying to think forward to the time when we leave the shadow of the city and move WAAAAY out in the country.  Living in one of these homes is like living in the horse trailer.  We camp in the horse trailer all the time, so I didn't think it'd be too much of a stretch to convince Other Half to down-size into something like this.  I'm still working on him. . .

  The builders make great use of the space they have available.

They use lots of windows and mirrors so you don't feel you're living in a large closet.

 The houses are tall and the bed is upstairs.  THAT is the biggest hitch for us.  Upstairs bed means 50+ year old knees have to crawl up that freakin' ladder.  And the biggest hurdle, which Other Half was quick to point out - how will Border Collie sleep with us?  (Hmmmm. . . THAT was a problem!)

 They use drapes to separate individual rooms within the house.

 and stained glass!  I LOVE stained glass!

Other Half wanted to know where his big screen television would go.

  Look!  A Woman-Throne! Other Half was not impressed with the Woman-Throne.  He was more concerned with his big-screen television and where his dogs would sleep.

Sooooo . . . although it doesn't look like we'll be able to scale down quite THIS much, it gave us some homebuilding ideas that did allow us to scale back some - while still making allowances for old age and dogs!

Earlier last week I got the bright idea that I needed to string lights across the walkway between the house and the barn to light our path at night. I have a farm, thus, I am poor, so I can't afford fancy outdoor lighting. I must make do with Christmas lights!  Now before you get the idea that Other Half and I are The Griswald's, let me hasten to explain that I purchased four boxes of icicle lights last December and didn't get them up until last week - June.  The Clampetts we are, the Griswalds, we are not.

Why I decided to wait until the dog days of summer had arrived is beyond me.  I have no other explanantion except to admit that I am the Queen of Procrastination.  So Monday morning, with four boxes of lights in one hand and a ragged ladder in the other, I attempted to break every bone in my body at a time when no one was home to dial 911.

The goal was to loop the strings along the walkway so that the icicles hung down to add even more light.  Having done this in the past, I've found that it gives a great deal of cheap light. The problem is that I waited until the grapevines were growing all over the walkway.  (This is why this particular chore should be done in the WINTER!)

Here is how it's done in the summer:

Unroll the first string of lights.  Lots of cussing. Attempt to stand on the ground and fling the string of lights on top of the walkway's wooden beam.  Lots more cussing.  Climb the rickety ladder to adjust the strings amid the grape vines. 

This has Emergency Room trip written all over it.  By now all the dogs have gathered to watch.  Get bright idea to use wooden sheep crook to place string on beam.

This idea has merit, but the string keeps slipping off the wooden crook.  Lots, lots more cussing.  Look around yard for divine intervention. Notice that Briar has a growing pile of stolen items in the middle of the yard - 2 lead ropes, a ball, a flip flop, a dead bird, and a sock.  Hmmmm ... a sock?

Ahhh haaa!  A sock!

  An idea is born!

This works wonderfully until the sock encounters the climbing rose.  Lots more cussing.  The cussing draws the attention of someone who might be able to help.

Have Evan Almighty moment.  Remember the movie about the modern day Noah who cannot get people to help him build an ark so the animals help him instead.  (YES!!! I was sober! Hey!  It was hot!  I was tired.  I was a Bitchy Bear and nothing that day was going right.  Allow me to indulge in a little fantasy induced by the summer heat!)

 Faith plays with string of lights.

  Wish very much for an Evan Almighty moment.  It just looks so easy for her. Pick 'em up with her paw. Move 'em where she wants 'em. Walk down the beam.  It was brilliant.  Except for one little problem . . . .

Faith is a cat - a cat who quickly loses interest in games that don't involve bloodsport.

  Cats can be that way.

If you want help. If you want a true Evan Almighty moment - get a dog.

Unfortunately The Enforcer was no more able to string lights than the cat - but ONLY because he didn't have thumbs! He certainly had the desire to HELP string the lights.  I really believe that if you crossed a monkey with a good farm dog, then you'd have the best ranch hand in the world!

I miss The Enforcer.  As I was typing this, I knocked my pen off the kitchen table.  It clattered to the floor. There was silence. Four dogs were sprawled around the house and not one of them leaped up to grab the pen and bring it to me.  The Enforcer would have done that. Silly woman that I am, I actually waited for a moment to have the pen delivered to my hand.  Then I remembered.  My Evan Almighty dog was gone. And silly woman that I am, I cried again.