Farm Fresh Blog

A freshly bathed, freshly fluffed Briar slept in the house last night. Early this morning I roused Other Half out of bed so we could load her up in my old Toyota 4Runner for her trip to the vet. It took two of us - and Lily.  The air conditioner was already running, so once inside she looked to Border Collie as an example and consequently, settled right down. She rode like she'd been doing it all her life.

To get to the clinic, we must pass through YuppyLand. Briar saw things she'd never seen before - joggers, bicyclists, traffic, convenience stores!  It was a whole new world and she gazed upon it with calm interest.  Lily slept. She's been there, done that, didn't want the t-shirt.

Once at the vet's clinic, Lily escorted Briar inside.

"Who do we have today?" the receptionist asked.

"Briar, and Briar's Courage," I told her as Lily pranced her tiny hiney into the clinic beside her slinking, hulking companion.

The vet came out to welcome Briar to the clinic.  Since she knows him as Uncle Steven, who comes to babysit her, doctor sheep, and milk goats, she wasn't afraid.  She went into the kennel and settled down to observe this new world of stainless steel and disinfectant. As soon as the door was closed, her tiny companion forgot about her. We were at the VET'S!  The Land Of Cookies & Cream Cheese! Forget Briar!  She was on her own!

I signed the form and Lily and I headed home. Several hours later, Briar was ready. Getting her back into the car was another two-person adventure, but once inside, she settled down nicely and watched the world with a placid look on her face.  She's really a pretty calm dog. (but then again, maybe that was the drugs!)  My only experience with surgery showed me that the effects of anethesia could be worse than the surgery itself.  I threw up my toenails.  Mindful that Briar may be feeling the same way, I drove like a little old lady on my way back through YuppyLand. This proved a bit much for drivers used to the hustle and bustle of Life in the Fast Lane. YuppyLand is a world of jack rabbit starts where you zoom as fast as you can to reach the next red light. Turns are to be made sharply and a high speeds so as not to break the flow of traffic.  Briar and I simply don't fit in. Briar threw up. I drove even more slowly. The trip home was an adventure.

Let me first explain that no one died. I am a cop in the 4th largest city in the country. I straddle dead men for a living. I carry a Smith & Wesson. I am NOT likely to be intimidated by a Little League Dad in a Lincoln Navigator. 

Sooooo . . . Forget about the dog. Beware of the owner!

But I will leave you with this thought - before you get in such a hurry that you attempt to bully another driver on the road, be aware that the driver may be carrying a nauseous dog who just had surgery . . . and they may be armed . . .  and they may not be scared of you.

Briar came home . . .

         . . .  and threw up in the den.

(I make no apologies for "Driving Miss Daisy.")

Tomorrow we have an appointment to get Briar spayed. I dread it. Perhaps that is why I've put it off for so long, thus allowing her to grow to the size of a St. Bernard before her first trip to the vet. YES!  I said it!  Her FIRST trip to the vet!  Now before you string me up for being a bad Doggy Mommy, let me point out that our vet lives less than 500 yards from my front gate. He is married to one of my dearest friends. In short, Doc does house calls.  He has seen Baby Briar since she was still wild enough that she had to be "captured" in the sheep stall. Now she is large enough to put muddy pawprints on his shoulders.

And it's time to get her spayed.  In fact, it's well past time to get her spayed.  They charge by the SIZE of the dog, ya know!  You would think that I'd have spayed her when she was the size of a small brick shithouse, but no!  I had to wait until she was the size of a Volkswagon bus. Also keep in mind, that unlike all the other dogs around here, except for the ride over here, Briar has NEVER been on a car ride!  AND . . .  to further complicate things, except for when she was small enough to manhandle onto the kitchen counter and put in the kitchen sinks (yes, it took two sinks to fit her!) she has never had a bath.

Again, before you lynch me, let me hasten to point out that Briar is a Livestock Guardian Dog.  She is supposed to be with the sheep 24/7 with little or no contact with humans.  Her parents were fed from a self-feeder. As a puppy, she had to be "kidnapped" and captured with leather gloves.  Apparently many livestock guardian dogs work out quite well with this method. As we have already established however, "I" am a softie.  I like to play with her.  Plus, I need a dog that is a bit safer than a large, white, unsocialized mountain with teeth. My sheep are handled daily and other people are often over here.  I cannot have Briar eating my mother, my friends, or my Border Collie. So Briar is fairly well-socialized as far as Livestock Guardian Dogs go.

As far as the average ranch dog goes, Briar is wilder than a March hare.  All my dogs are obedience trained and happily fight to ride in the truck.  Even Blue Heeler, who is crazier than a Mad Hatter, has logged many miles riding across Texas. A leash is their ticket to adventure. Unfortunately, because of my laziness, Briar doesn't know what a leash is.  (I know!  I'm a bad Doggy Mommy!)

The reason I kept putting off getting Briar spayed was because I really wanted to get Briar used to car rides and leashes BEFORE she went to the vet. But alas, that hasn't happened. And because she spends so much time in the nasty pond, she needed a bath.

 I embarked on that little adventure this afternoon and dearly fear that our experience with the bath is setting the stage for my whole tomorrow . . .

Collect shampoo, leash and water hose.  (Note Bloodhound observes this collection and run to the barn.  The last I saw of her was floppy ears and skin waving goodbye.)

Blue Heeler and Border Collie see waterhose and begin to dance and scream for the much-loved Hose Battle.

Slip lead around Briar's neck.  She is unconcerned. (Perhaps Momma wants to brush her and check for ticks. She LOVES to be checked for ticks!)

Lead White Mountain to water hose. The dust has barely settled from Bloodhound's blazing trip to the barn. Briar is still unconcerned.

Pick up hose.  Briar is unconcerned.  Border Collie and Blue Heeler are poised with anticipation. (I should have sold tickets.) Turn on water. For a moment, nothing happens.  I actually allow myself to undulge in the pleasant surprise, but this little slice of nirvana is jerked away as I suddenly find myself propelled across the porch like a kite on a string. Briar is not quite as fast to process things as Border Collie and thus it took a moment for the experience to sink in.

Decide that perhaps flip-flops were not the best choice in footwear. Drop water hose. Border Collie and Blue Heeler are delighted.  This has exceeded their expectations. They happily chase the water spray across the porch as I struggle to reel in Briar like a marlin on a line. Suddenly Briar drops like a sullen cow. ("Just kill me and get it over with!")

Since this New Briar is much easier to deal with than Marlin Briar, I hurry to grab water hose and start again. She is now completely passive - a giant beached Beluga whale. I soap her up and do the rub-a-dub-dub thing.  She is unimpressed with my singing voice and is waiting to die. Border Collie and Blue Heeler wait patiently.  They are certain that the rodeo will begin again and soon the water hose will be free for another battle. As Briar waits to die, I rinse her.

When I am satisfied that all the soap is out, I stretch my back and drop the leash. She takes the opportunity to dart through doggy door and into house. I follow the unique trail of wet pawprints and the wet leash she is still dragging. Thank God for tile flooring. Trail leads through kitchen into den into bedroom, through bathroom loop and back into den again.  I follow this wet trail for a minute but am completely perplexed. No Briar? Where is Briar?

Follow trail through house again. No Briar? How does something the size of a Greyhound Bus hide in a 3 bedroom house?

Follow trail again. No Briar! German Shepherd is sprawled across my bed though.  (make mental note to move the ottoman so Hairy Old Dog cannot climb onto clean bed.) Check house again.  Still no Briar.  Call her.  (Duh!  In what dream world was THAT gonna happen?) Check under bed. Nope.

Decide to use Crime Scene Investigator Skills and follow water trail through house AGAIN! This time note that on one pass through the den, tracks led into front foyer WHERE THERE IS ANOTHER DOGGY DOOR!  This leads to front yard. Open front door.

Find Briar wallowing in the sand.  Like Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby, she stands up. Sand and shavings are now stuck to her coat. Pick up wet, yucky leash that is now coated in dirt. Pull Straining Heifer back through front door. Briar sees Back Door Doggy Door and lunges for the light.  I drop leash before I am dragged through doggy door with her.  Border Collie and Blue Heeler are delighted with this afternoon matinee showing of "When Good Dogs Go Bad.")

Meet Briar on back porch and drag her to hose again. Wonder how to explain back injury at the office. (No really, I was dragged through a doggy door.") Dog decides to become Sullen Cow again but sand is so thick in her coat that I make decision to let it dry and brush it out. Turn off hose. Sullen Cow perks up.  Border Collie and Blue Heeler are disappointed that show is over.

But I am reminded that this is not the show, this is just the preview.  The show is tomorrow when I try to stuff her into a car.  Why, oh why, did I not spay this dog when she was big enough to fit in two kitchen sinks?

   "I hate Border Collies!"

 "They are mean to cows."

 "Border Collies suck!"

But today . . .  I got revenge on the Border Collies!

 "Look at this damn Border Collie! Hiding from cows like a snake in tha water."

 "See tha innocent cow comin'."

 "tha Border Collie, he jump outta da water!"

 "freakin' Border Collie!  I hate 'em!"

 "I jus' snapped!"

 "U gonna DIE Border COLLIE! You cain't git outta this pasture!"

 "Run DOG! RUN!"

 "If I ketch you, you stoopid DOG . . ."

 "You better GIT back on dat damned 4-Wheeler!"

(This broadcast and the substandard photographs brought to you by the Chick-fil-A Cows, coming out in support of abused cattle in ranches everywhere.)

We weaned goats this week.  Briar has been #1 Goat Babysitter. This morning Border Collie (and a bucket of grain) loaded them into the trailer for their journey to the sale barn.  Even though I know they are raised for food, I still hate that part of raising goats. 

 Briar does too.

Border Collie doesn't care.

She is only concerned about getting the goats loaded and unloaded.

Life is much simpler for Border Collie than it is for Briar and me.

Despite the fact that Other Half accuses me of turning every animal on the farm into a pet, there is someone who is a softer touch than me.  (I KNOW!  Can you even believe it?!!)

That someone regularly comes over to bring farm fresh eggs to the dogs . . .

 "Helloooooo, Grandma!!!!"

 Grandma!!!

My mother lives in a small house in my front pasture. There she raises a few chickens and keeps a watch on the farm while I'm at work.  And from there . . . she spoils my critters even worse than I do. (The dogs already expect an egg EVERY day! But hey!  With all those dogs around, she is the safest Grandma in the County!) Today it came to my attention that Ancient Arabian Stallion has the perfect gig worked out.  He goes to the handicapped ramp of her back deck and paws the boards.  She comes out and feeds him an apple.  What a little beast!

Today I witnessed this exchange from my side of the fence.  Stallion came to her back gate and announced that he wished to be allowed access to her back yard. And this is what I saw . . .

  Now I ask you, "Who spoils the farm animals around here?"

"Don't forget ME, Grandma!  Don't forget ME!!!"

(P.S. My mother will never forgive me for posting pictures of her in a nightgown on the internet!)

Kona's death and the subsequent packing away of his things (more tears . . .) had me exploring both his training log and the that of Bloodhound, who is also in poor health.  Alice the Bloodhound has taught me humility.  Before I got Alice I had trained all manner of working dogs, but I had never trained a Hound.  My rationale was "I've trained dogs all my adult life, how hard can it be to train a Bloodhound?"

Oh dear . . . Pride goeth before the fall.

Alice's sole job in life was to be a mantrailing Bloodhound - she hunted people.  She was bred to do that and it came as easy to her as waking up in the morning. But try to train her to do ANYTHING ELSE but mantrailing and you were setting yourself up for a humbling experience.  She is HIGLY INTELLIGENT, but trainablility is another issue entirely.  Simple obedience tasks were beyond her.  I just "thought" I was a dog trainer until I met Alice.  She humbled me, and she has taught me how to train the dogs that aren't "hardwired to please."  So for two years I worked with her. She taught me to trail and I tried to teach her obedience and simple agility skills.  I was astonished with how easily this puppy ran tracks.  At 14 weeks old she was running 24 hour old 1/4 mile trails with crosstracks, but two years later she still had no reliable obedience skills.  Then my Great Dog died. Navarre, The Great One, passed away and I was left to start over again with a new cadaver dog puppy.  And THAT led me to my greatest breakthrough!

Teaching the Fetch

How To Teach a Belgian To Fetch:

1) Throw the ball
2) That's it.  That's all you do.

How to Teach a Bloodhound To Fetch:

1) Throw the ball for 2 years and watch her look at it with no interest whatsoever.
2) Get a Belgian Tervuren puppy. 
3) Hug the Terv when he brings back the ball.  Tell him how clever he is when he brings back the ball.  Every time the Terv has the ball in his mouth, point out to everyone how clever he is.
4) Note Bloodhound begin to get jealous of Terv and ball.  Watch as Giant Bloodhound steals ball from Toddler Terv.
5) Protect Unwise Bloodhound from Very Angry Toddler Terv as he steals ball back from Bloodhound.
6) Note that ball is now VERY important to both Terv AND Bloodhound.  Note that Bloodhound retrieves VERY well.  (huh!  Whodathunkit?) Also Note Very Angry Toddler Terv when Bloodhound beats him to ball.  Protect soft Bloodhound ears from Angry Toddler Terv when Bloodhound beats him to ball.
7) Put all tennis balls away to preserve harmony in the home.

There is a reason why Kona's nicknames were "Attila The Hun" and "The Enforcer."  He was a ruthless little beast, even as a puppy. This same bold desire to get ahead in life is probably what kept him alive four months after the vet found he was in renal failure and only gave him a month to live.

Since Kona passed away at the end of June, I've dreaded changing the website photo section to remove Kona's pictures from "The Swampwolves."  I finally did it today. Then I cried all afternoon.  I consoled myself by adding a new "Never Forgotten" section which highlights Kona and his predecessor, "The Great Navarre." (read that with trumpets blaring please)

Navarre passed away two weeks before Baby Kona stepped off the airplane.  I had hoped that Navarre could help me train Kona, but alas, twas not to be . . .

When Baby Kona arrived, he had a very big Search & Rescue vest to fill, since he inherited Navarre's vest, and with it, the King's Crown.

And even though I horribly missed Navarre, Kona proved to be a delightfully charming and clever pup. Sometimes that's the only thing that kept me from killing him . . .

Come home from work after midnight in cold rain.

Note that Faithful Pup is at the back gate to greet you.  Bend over wooden gate and allow Faithful Pup to give "puppy kisses." Kiss puppy back.  Ruminate on how much you love puppy.

Note with pride that Clever Pup is learning to bring his toys as "presents" to welcome you home. Run through mental rolodex in head and try to classify the toy he is currently bringing you.  Recoil in horror as toy turns out to be a very plump, very dead, rat.

Curse cat for leaving rat where Clever And Faithful Pup could get it.  Realize that Hunting cat has been shut in spare bedroom and probably did not kill this rat.  Note that there is the slight possibility that Clever And Faithful Pup killed Slow-Witted Fat Rat.

See how proud puppy is as he chomps rat with delight and prances around to show you his rat.  Mentally race through options of how to remove rat from puppy's mouth.  Quickly delete option of touching rat with hands.

Ponder how to get in door without puppy and rat.  Realize that due to doggy door and relatively dry puppy, rat has probably already been inside kitchen.  Sigh and open door to go inside.  Watch in disgust as delighted Clever And Faithful Pup proudly chomps on rat and brings it to you. Realize that you are still clueless as to how to remove rat from pup without touching it.  Weigh wisdom of giving pup a treat to trade for this prize, (since that is obviously what he is shooting for . . .) because you know that if pup drops rat to eat treat, you will still have a dead rat in the kitchen.

Walk dogs to barn where there are rakes and shovels.  Note Clever And Faithful Pup happily chomping rat. Note Sullen Bloodhound who is wishing she had a dead rat to chomp on . . .

Spill cat food on barn floor and watch as Clever And Faithful Pup drops rat to vacuum up cat food.  See Bloodhound scoop up dead rat.  Mentally kick self for not adding that into equation.  See rest of dog pack race in to vacuum up cat food.  See Bloodhound drop rat in cold rain to get her share of cat food.  Sigh with relief.

Quickly scoop up dead rat with barn rake and sling it into horse paddock.  Feed horses who are now wide awake and demanding some retribution for this midnight intrusion.

Go back to house and give puppy and entire apple to rid him of "rat cooties" ("an apple a day chases the rat cooties away!")  Give other three dogs an apple in case they have rat cooties too.

Walk into bedroom closet to get pajamas. Turn on light. Recoil several feet back upon seeing unidentified object on dog bed in closet.  Kick self when you realize that purple felt bone in no way resembles a dead rat.

Take a shower and wash face.  Wash face again.  Contemplate scrubbing kitchen floor and brushing puppy's teeth.  Realize that 1:00 AM is not a good time to introduce puppy to toothbrush.

Sit down at computer.  Reluctantly welcome Clever And Faithful Pup as he crawls into your lap.  Note that he now has "apple breath."  Refuse to allow him to kiss you because you can still vividly recall him chomping on dead rat.

Realize how much you love Clever And Faithful Pup as he settles down beside desk and sighs with contentment.  All is well in his little world. Decide that Cuteness is actually a Defense Mechanism to keep you from killing him.
 

The temperatures have climbed into the triple digits now and so yesterday we took a break from farm work to run the boat a little. Never one to overlook any opportunity to include my dog, I voted for bringing the Border Collies.  They also voted to bring the Border Collies, so Other Half agreed.  As is always the case whenever you deal with boats, there was a great deal involved with "getting ready."  Part of this was an intensive search on my part for Lily's life jacket.  (YES!  My dog has her own life jacket!  Don't laugh at me! Not only is it hard to replace a good ranch dog, but Other Half's life would be miserable if I lost this dog!  Soooo . . . she wears a life jacket when she's in the boat. Nuff said!)

After much ado, the boat was in the water, the truck and trailer were parked and it was time to go!  Thing 1 and Thing 2 were quite excited. 

   Cowboy loves to ride the 4wheeler around the pastures. He had been told about this Water-4wheeler and was particularly anxious to try it. Lily is always ready to try anything.  Fun is her middle name.

But wait . . .

"Is there a problem with the Water-4Wheeler?"

  (there was much cussing . . .)

"Uh oh . . ." 

(Thing 1 and Thing 2 have heard these words before when Other Half talks to the broken lawnmower, and the tractor . . .)

The gravity of the situation begins to sink in for Cowboy.

"No Water-4Wheeler rides???"

"No Water-4Wheeler rides . . . "

Lily refused to allow the lack of Water-4Wheeler rides ruin her fun. Her world is always a happy place. As long as the sun comes up in the morning, it's a good day for Lily.  She makes her own fun and takes it with her!

Lily has the World on a String!

  Or at least . . .

She has Cowboy on a string!           

So while Other Half fought with the boat motor and Lily entertained herself, Cowboy stared wistfully . . .

 . . . and watched other dogs ride Water-4Wheelers.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned . . .

                            I caused Other Half to tell falsehoods on my behalf . . .

(And it all comes down to goats . . . again.)

It's time to wean some goats. 

It's time to sell some goats.

After they completely stripped the bark off a lemon tree, Other Half persuaded me to sell ALL the goats and concentrate on the sheep. After all, pound for pound, the goats are more trouble and the sheep put on weight faster.  

This hulking creature was born on January 1.

  It's hard to beat the growth rate of these Dorpers.

Thus far, the Dorper sheep have outperformed the Boer goats.  They are easier on the fences and not nearly as clever. But I've had a hard time biting the bullet and getting rid of ALL my goats.  Despite their nature, I rather like the little beasts - they keep me humble and teach me new cuss words.

But nevertheless, I placed an ad for all the goats - as individuals or a package deal.  There was an immediate response for the Package Deal.  I made Other Half talk to him.  He argued that they were MY goats, thus "I" should talk to the man. I've always done this in the past and I hate it.  So I informed him that men deal better with men and HE should make the arrangements.  (while I armchair quarterbacked . . .) 

From my end of the room, it soon became clear that this was another "mini-van deal."  (been there, done that, hated every minute of it) The man planned to pack all the goats in a vehicle together and drive them back to the city where I'm sure he would slit their throats that afternoon.  SCREECH!!!!

I had no problem with the boys being eaten.  They are males, that's what they're raised for.  But the does are former show goats and proven producers.  I didn't want them slaughtered and on a barbecue pit if I could avoid it. Thus . . . I nixed the whole deal . . . leaving poor Other Half to explain to the man that HE himself had made a mistake and since these were show goats his wife was now tripping out and refused to sell them. Sorry for the error.  (He was not happy with me.)

Eegaads . . .  I felt bad. But not bad enough to allow my girls to have their throats cut.

Soooo . . .  I'm still weaning goats this afternoon anyway, but I've decided to keep the does and take the boys to the sale barn next week.  Unless of course, the girls piss me off sometime between now and then.  (If I'm not careful, Other Half may sell ME at the sale barn next week!)

"I wouldn't let that happen, Mom."

As most of my adventures do, this adventure began on the internet too!  I am a member of a most wonderful group of women who trail ride together.  We are like the Red Hat Society on horseback, and we stay connected on the internet. Because of my schedule, I rarely get to participate in the functions, but I enjoy keeping up with them online. I was perusing my email last week when I happened to note that one of our members shears sheep.

"Yee haaa!" I screamed to the cat sleeping beside my computer. She fell off the desk.

I have two sheep that need shearing! Most of my sheep are high percentage Dorper crosses that shed out in the spring, so they don't need shearing, but these two have dreadlocks so thick they look like members of the Jamaican Bobsledding Team.

 So I quickly emailed this Sheep Savior and begged her to come shear my Jamaican bobsledders.  She agreed, and thus the adventure began . . .

Wake up and decide that even though I barely have an hour before Sheep Savior arrives, I simply MUST put fresh shavings in the horse barn. Feed horses. Let goats out of Goat Prison. Let Sheep and Livestock Guardian Dog out of Sheep Prison.  Avoid massive muddy white paws from Abominable Snowdog as she bounces along beside me. Spill coffee.  Threaten to shoot Snowdog. 

Snowdog is unimpressed and bounces over to greet her canine friends who enjoy house privileges at night. Get large garden cart and begin hauling bags of shavings from Garage Barn to Horse Barn. Fill stalls with shavings.  Happy horses play in shavings.

Have Border Collie and Blue Heeler put goats in Kitchen Garden that is overgrown with weeds again. Lock gate and admire them as they immediately begin working like weed-wackers on methamphetamines. Suddenly realize that I have lost my cell phone.  Oh crap! Mentally run through chores and try to figure out where it fell off my belt.  Have disturbing thought that best bet is horse stalls.  Have distinct mental picture of horses pawing through shavings as a Blackberry sifts deeper and deeper into the stall. Have mental picture of Big Fat Ona standing on expensive Blackberry. Have mental picture of Andalusian cross finding phone and running up bill by calling Spain or text messaging his friends in other stables.

Run to barn to save phone.  Lots of shavings.  Confused horses. No phone. Run back to house.  Try to use house phone to call cell phone.  House phone refuses to dial the number 7 so I cannot call my cell phone and listen for the ring tone.  Lots of cussing.  Run to my mother's house.  Bang on door. Hear her dog frantically bark but no one comes to door.  Consider crawling through doggy door but decide to run around front of house instead.  Find mother lounging on front porch swing.  Mom is happy.  Mom wants to chat.  Explain emergency. No time to chat.  Need Mom's cell phone NOW to call my cell phone.  While desperately trying to convey this information quickly, see that Someone is pulling into my driveway.

Sheep Savior has arrived. Briar has climbed out of her puppy prison and I fear that she may eat Sheep Savior or at the very least, put giant Abominable Snowdog muddy footprints on her shirt. Must leave now, but Mom still wants to chat. (retired people appreciate life in the slow lane and aren't quite as quick to recognize the emergency of strangers driving up when no one is home but loose dogs who may or may not eat people. Finally wrangle phone from mother (Sorry Mom!) and run back next door to find Sheep Savior and two small children crawling out of car.  Fortunately White Mountain with Teeth has decided that she is friendly today - but still muddy.  Football tackle dog and force her into outside kennel with Blue Heeler (who is NEVER friendly to strangers - today or any other day.)

Greet Sheep Savior and explain that expensive Blackberry may be in stall with horse who is currently digging to China in the shavings. She listens while I call my phone.  Sheep Savior finds my phone! Phone is on ground beside Garage Barn. Phone is fine. Woo hoo! Thank her profusely and explain that I must run Mom's phone back to her house.  Please don't pet dogs behind bars.  Some of them bite. Sheep Savior happily agrees.

Return phone. Apologize to mother. Have Border Collie pen sheep who are now grumpy because they just LEFT the barn. Single out Jamaican Bobsledders. Rodeo. Mutton Bustin'!  Ride that sheep, Cowgirl! Finally get first bobsledder strapped onto trim stand. Fire up those clippers! Wow!  Return dazed bobsledder back to flock sporting a new Marine haircut.  The rest of the flock admire her new doo!  More Mutton Bustin' as we rodeo second bobsledder onto trim stand.  In no time a new dazed bootcamp recruit joins the rest of the flock. Turn flock back out and barely recognize bobsledders. There are actual sheep under those dreadlocks! 

I haven't figured out what to do with the armadillo shells of dreadlocks that pass for wool rugs.

 Maybe I'll give them to the dogs for beds.  On the other hand, my dogs are so uncivilized they will probably eat them, and we all know what that will happen then!   (Read: Useless Factoid )

Farm Rule #23 - When dogs eat wool . . .  they poop out felt!