Farm Fresh Blog

Despite their appearance, these are not guinea pigs.  They are baby Border Collies. By mid-October, one of them will probably be my baby Border Collie.

After the loss of Kona there was a large gaping hole in my heart.  Actually, it was more like a canyon. I began to talk about getting another dog.  I began to talk about getting another Belgian.  Other Half begged me to get a Border Collie instead.  Although the Belgians are wonderful dogs, we aren't doing search & rescue work any more and I'm not doing cadaver work anymore.  They are great farm dogs, but what we really need is a bold, reliable cow dog.

Cowboy is fine on calves, but lacks the boldness for the nasty momma cows.  He is also dealing with the back problem resulting from the donkey attack before we got him. I doubt his working career will be long. Lily is bred to work cows, LOVES to work cows, and is pretty darned good at working cows, but she is young, and she is little, and she is my best friend. Don't want a cow kicking her tiny hiney in the head. Then I'd lose my best goat dog, my best sheepdog, and my best friend. So as you can imagine, Other Half was all over the idea of getting a cowbred Border Collie.

So I have been researching . . . and guess what I found?  Nice working lines.  (Internet video is wonderful!) 

I found this breeder in Oklahoma.  They just happened to have a litter on the ground.  Born August 11.

There are two males available . . .

                                                 a red & white  . . .

                    and a black & white . . .                  

(I'm leaning toward the red & white.)

Lily has already given me a list of things she refuses to share with her baby brother:

1) Front seat of Monster Truck

2) The Crevice (area between Mom & Dad in the bed)

Everything else is optional, but she reserves the right at any time to add things to her list.

So now, it is your job to help me come up with puppy names!

Rules:

* cannot sound like herding commands (come-bye, away, lie-down)

* short - one or two syllable

* cannot sound like:  Lily, Briar, Ranger, Ali, or Ice  (Zena doesn't care and is highly unlikely to respond anyway.)

Today's adventure is brought to you courtesy of a old "Belgian" friend of mine, Libbye Miller, who raises sheep in Kentucky. When she sent this to me I laughed so hard I almost peed in my pants.  So I begged her to let me share it with you! She graciously obliged!

It's probably somewhat telling that for me, the Farm Fresh Blog reads like an episode of "This is Your Life". Because around here things like this happen...

I went down to the barn to feed much later than usual because shockingly, DearHubby and I had actually left the farm together for dinner. There was a lot of milling around and complaining from the flock as I filled the lambs' creep feeder. Toffee, who was particularly incensed about the lateness of service, managed to cram her head through the creep feeder bars and hoover up a bunch of pellets. Soon I heard that peculiar gagging/coughing sound that suggests someone is choking. I looked around and there's Toffee, staggering, foaming at the mouth and looking "not too shiny" (as we say in the south when someone doesn't look well).

Usually they get things unblocked on their own but Toffee was getting increasingly distressed so I grabbed the foal tube (a 7 foot long tube made for passing through the nose and into the stomach of horses) that hangs on the barn for just these occasions and went to work. Did I mention it was nearly dark? And the heat index was 110? And this greedy little pig of a ewe is one of Dear Hubby's favorites?

Toffee gagged and stagged around while I tried to hang onto to the incoherent, foamy slobbery slippery, 150 lb sheep and pass the tube. Sometime during the ensuing melee, she managed to suck the offending wad of pellets deep into her trachea at which time she proceeded to die. Like flat on her side, non responsive fully dilated pupils dead.
I tried various methods of Heimliching her, up to and including jumping on her chest yelling "YOU ARE DADDY'S FAVORITE, NO DYING" to no avail. Well CRAP.

If I mention that I'm a vet will it make you feel any better about this next part? Let's hope so. As a totally last resort I ran in the barn and grabbed the scissors I use to cut hay strings. Available at your nearest "Anything for a Buck" store for ...$1. Then, in the dark, sitting in a patch of spiny pigweed in my shorts, I did an emergency tracheotomy.  Lo and behold she sucked an explosive gasp of air and started coming around a little. So I'm sitting there with a large  semiconscious sheep in my  blood, sweat, and sheep spit covered lap. Oh, and I'm holding the hole in her trachea open with my finger and can't let go. Time passes. I sweat profusely  and wonder why DearHubby hasn't noticed I haven't shown back up at house. There is cursing. Toffee remains semi-conscious. Finally I decide that she's brain dead from heat stroke and lack of oxygen and I'm just going to have to put her to sleep. Well CRAP.

On the way to the house for some drugs, I meet DearHubby coming to the rescue finally and blubber that I've killed his favorite sheep and he has to help me pick her up so I can take her to the back of the property to the "final resting place for sheep". In this weather, you uhmm, don't want to put this task off.  I collect drugs and tell him to wait in front of the barn while I administer the coup de grace. Did I mention that DearHubby is not of the veterinary persuasion? I try to spare him the really gory stuff.

So I walk out to where I left what I assume to be the dead/near dead Toffee.......and she's gone. There's blood and tube and scissors but no sheep. How very odd. I finally spot her out  GRAZING WITH THE OTHER SHEEP.This gives new meaning to "Rise and Walk".  I figured I should give her some antibiotics and put some fly spy on her neck wound but she's RUNNING AWAY from me. Not that I blame her. I decided we've both had enough stress for one day and leave her to her EATING.

I did catch her up the next morning and treat her wounds. She was just mad that I'd interrupted her grazing.  I'm happy to report that's she's made a full recovery.  Other than her baa sounds a little raspy.

     I put Libbye on the spot and asked her to write a short bio for you! 

I married DearHubby in 1979, graduated from vet school in 1982, moved to the farm in Kentucky in 1985 and spent the intervening years getting horses, getting out of horses, and somehow accumulating a flock of around 70 Kathadin/Dorper/What'sMyMoodThisYear sheep. The flock is been ably attended by my beloved Belgian Tervuren Quazar (retired) and his grandson Buzz (current manager of all things ovine). DearHubby's sheltie Eli frequently adds his two cents because that's what shelties do.

In my spare time, I dabble in showing dogs, herding trials, running doggy email lists, and generally making a nuisance of myself around the internet.

Oh dear!  The heavy rains this year brought heavy grass. In less than a month, Ona has gained back most of the weight she had lost since I brought her here in May.  She and her little fat buddy, Ruffy, have fattened up dangerously on the bounty of pasture. I fear it is time for drastic measures. They have both been taken out of the pasture and placed in a paddock beside the house. Their paddock contains two pecan trees and very little grass.  Together with two goats, they share one pat of hay each morning.  That's it.  They think they're dying.

Other Half calls them "Fat Arses."  I prefer to think of them as having been "blessed with more than enough."   But before they eat themselves to death, something has to be done. So until we see some changes in girth size, that paddock will contain: two goats, two pecan trees, and two little fat horses.

Postscript:  Between the rains, the heat, the mosquitoes, and now her everwidening girth, Ona hasn't even had a chance to pull her new cart!  Other Half measured the cart today and Ona's butt is almost bigger than the distance between the shafts!  EEGaadds!

Poor Briar! 

Yesterday was a bad day.  She no sooner got home from the vet's and settled in the house than she was viciously attacked by the bathroom cabinet door. 

  "When can I go back outside again?"

YES! I heard all manner of commotion coming from the bathroom.  I scurried over there to find poor Baby Briar had got her collar caught on the cabinet door.  Naturally she put it in reverse and then she was solidly stuck.  (I would have taken pictures but even I am not that cruel. (and I didn't want her jerking my cabinet door off!)

Fortunately the story had a happy ending.  BUT . . . had I not been home (I would have lost a cabinet door) or if she had been in a choke chain, or a collar that twists, Briar would have strangled herself.  (shudder)

And THAT is why I spend a little more money and buy sturdy leather collars.

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.