Farm Fresh Blog

     Last night Other Half came home at 5 AM.  He was tired, grumpy, and had a headache. Lily does not recognize those states of being.  At 5 AM, she is happy and wants to play.  She wants to lay in bed and do the backstroke across the covers to get into the crevice between Mommy & Daddy so that she can backstroke across his chest, and he can rub her tummy.  She also wants to scratch imaginary ticks and fleas.  (I check that dog religously and she does NOT have bugs!)  But . . . she will wait until we are trying to sleep and she will scratch dry skin, and then bounce on his chest to announce "HELLLLOOOOOOO!!!!!  I LOVE YOU!!!"

He will scratch her tummy and go back to sleep.  Sometimes I kick her off the bed or put her outside.  Last night I was too tired to do either.  Her Thing 2 Counterpart (Cowboy) is now awake and pacing beside the bed. As he moves his dog tags rattle out an irritating melody.  

At 9:30 AM Other Half decides to get up and go the restroom.  He is naturally escorted the entire 8' from the bed to the toilet.  After all, he might get lost in the artic blast of the air conditioner and need a Border Collie to lie beside his prone body to keep him warm until rescue arrives.

In the restroom there is a calendar. This is the picture for October:

I had just turned it over last night.  (I hope little Trace grows up to look like this dog!) Anyway, with his canine escort, Other Half returns to bed.  The melody of Cowboy's dog tags continues to tinkle and Lily bounces on his chest.  He lays there in silence for a moment . . . and then he says,

"You know what we need to do?"

My mind races through images of kennels lined up on the back porch with dejected dogs waiting impatiently for their day to begin. But then he says something that surprises me . . . . . .

This man who had not had a moment's peace and uninterrupted sleep in 4 hours, announced . . .

"What we need to do is get some pumpkins and carve faces into them and then take pictures of the dogs beside them."

I love this man.

     Other Half is having an affair. He has another love. And as much as he denies it, he loves her with his whole artery-clogged heart.  She is fried food. Country people just love cooking in grease. Take one look at all the fried exotics at the Texas State Fair, and you'll get an idea.  By exotics, I'm not talking about fried swamp buffalo; I'm talking about Fried Oreos!  Or Fried Twinkies!  Or any damned thing that falls in the grease!

     Now in his defense, he will not eat those exotic fried foods.  He does, however, want his vegetables and most of his meat fried. He wants "Man-food!"  Manfood is meat and potatos . . . and cornbread. If something green lands on his plate, it had better be fried, or an opened can of green beans.  He will eat a salad if it has lots of ranch dresssing on it. For him a salad is in a ready-mix bag with a jug of ranch dressing.  He "might" spruce it up with some radishes, some tomatos, . . . and homemade bacon-bits.

This is what I looked like 5 years ago:

  I hid this picture because I thought I looked fat.  Someone told me once that women should keep old photos because undoubtedly you will look back and say to yourself, "What the heck was I thinking?  I'd be happy to look that way now!"  That was an entire jean size ago! Those were wise words.

  Now I look a bit more like this:

 Okay, my hair is still long, but I've added a few (lot) more pounds! And okay, I can probably squeeze into those old pants again if I try really hard, and don't breathe, but the point is . . .  all this fried food isn't doing ME any favors!

So I am determined to get us eating better!  Sunday I went to the grocery store and spent $218 on good, real food.  While I was there, he phoned to place his order since I was also nixing our eating out EVERY NIGHT when on-duty. Not only is it expensive, it's unhealthy!

This is what he ordered for himself:

(Yes!  It cooks in 90 seconds! And has enough sodium to preserve a hog!)

When I came home, he inspected our new meals . . .

chicken breasts
chicken fajitas

"You know I don't eat chicken unless it's fried!"

broccoli
mushrooms
avocados

"That's for you.  I'm not eating that."

tomatos

(He will eat those . . . with lots of salt.)

yogurt
sour cream
low-fat milk  (He hasn't noticed the low-fat label yet!)

and the list goes on . . . .

After spending $218 on food that afternoon. Do you want to know what we did for dinner?

  Whereupon . . .  he ordered a giant chicken-fried steak sandwich, and . . . greedy little pig that I am, I gave up and ordered a chili-cheese burger.  WTF!!??

This humble flower heralds the fall season in south Texas.

Bunches of morning glories creep along the roadsides, across the fences, up the power lines, and down the canals.

 They bring promise of relief from the brutal heat . . . 

. . . and the threat of hurricanes in the Gulf.

Grow Little Friend!  Grow!

Update: Word from Texas A&M Veterinary School is that the necropsy tests on the bull and the feed were inconclusive. This is sad news as now we may never know for sure what killed these cattle.

Cue music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sssqBjaTzOU

"Ebony . . .

and Ivory . . .

Fit together in perfect harmony. . .

           Side by side . . .

                  . . . on the piano . . .

                                  . . . keyboard . . .

       . . . Oh Lord . . .

                                . . . Why don't we? . . ."

                                   "Get AWAY from me, you Common Yard Dog!!!"

Ginny wrote yesterday to tell me that she has a "doggie-crush" on Briar.  I was delighted.  Other Half almost puked.  He is not one of Briar's biggest fans.  She is big. She is often wet. . . and she jumps on him. It's not a recipe for endearment.   While I see a sincere giant puppy, he sees a gigantic muddy dog who was supposed to spend her life locked in the pasture with no human contact. (Yeah right!  Like THAT'S gonna happen around here!)

I have the ability to make a pet out of anything with fur, but I don't believe that has diminished her effectiveness as a Livestock Guardian Dog.  Because the sheep are kept close to the barn, Briar only has about 9 acres that she's accountable for, and even then, it's only at night.  During the day, while the grass is plentiful, the sheep are with the horses, thus, Briar is off-duty.  Since she is more valuable to me than any one sheep, I cannot take the chance that Montoya the Missile will stomp Briar into the ground. 

"Who me?"       

Thus, Briar not only guards the sheep, but the goats, the chickens, the house, and the entire barnyard.  As a bonus, she is gentle with family and friends.  (except that she is a giant, wet, friendly dog . . . imagine Clifford the Big Red Dog in a different color.)

Briar is adapting into a routine of guarding my mother's chickens at night.

  In the evening Mom locks up her hens and opens the back gate.  Briar hustles over to Mom's for an egg. She is officially On-Duty.  She lays on Mom's deck where she has discovered that she can survey her entire kingdom.  Yesterday I noted that she even brought her own entertainment.

 Canine IPOD   

Cee Cee asked for an update on Roanie . . .

I took this shot this morning.  Roanie is fat and happy.  She is amazingly friendly for a sheep who was given injections daily and endured terribly painful medical treatments for her dog attack. Although she is not what I wanted to breed, we made the decision to keep her for breeding because she is the kind of survivor that you want to reproduce.  Her right rear leg is ever-so slightly shorter, giving her a tiny limp, but not really enough to notice unless you're looking for it.

She and Briar remain good friends.  Roanie understands that Briar is here to protect her from others who are a bit more predatory in nature.

 "HEY!  I was never convicted of that charge! There were no witnesses, and no DNA samples were collected! In fact, if you need a good lawyer, I can highly recommend one!"

This is the reason I sleep at night. (or don't, depending upon how much she barks!)

This is also the reason I sleep at night.

Together they are a formidable team.

Much has been written about Briar and her value on the farm, but I rarely sing the praises of poor little Ranger, my Blue Heeler. Friends and family members will argue that Blue Heeler has very little to praise, but I'm here to stand up for him and argue his case. You see, they don't like Blue Heeler because, unlike most dogs, . . . Blue Heeler cannot be bought.

He cannot be bribed, cajoled, reasoned with, or paid to look the other way.  His world is black and white - you either live here, or you don't, end of discussion. Please keep in mind that my mother has lived next door for the ENTIRE three years of his existence, and Son lived in the house with him for two years of his existence, but alas, rules are rules, and as far as Blue Heeler is concerned, if you are not Mommy or Daddy, then you are evil and will undoubtedly steal all the silverware (or at least the paper plates) during your visit. He is, in short, a deranged psychopath.

But quite frankly, there is a time and a place for a psychopath. If we lived along the border, I'd have a pack of thirty little blue psycho dogs since friends there report that they cannot even ride horses along the fence line without being in pairs and carrying firearms. They are literally at a war with the drug cartels that cross their ranch land to run narcotics into the U.S.

As it is, crime here tends to slosh over from the shadow of the city.  Each year I see more and more evidence that the world I live in at work is following me home. And as the crime slowly creeps our direction, I have a greater appreciation for my little blue psycho and am now his biggest fan.  Actually, I'm his only fan. Other Half gave up on him some time ago.

 But each time he makes some disparaging remark about Blue Heeler, I hasten to point out that HE, (not ME!) brought this little pyschotic creature home. While I tend to research and agonize over the best puppy to fit our household, Other Half lets caution fly and hopes for the best.  In the case of Blue Heeler, he needed a cow dog. He went to an old childhood friend that raised cow dogs who had a litter of pups. While they cussed and discussed current events, he leaned across the back fence, pointed at Ranger, and said, and I quote, "I'll take THAT one."  (He . . . never. . . touched . . . the . . . dog!)

I was aghast.  But . . . it was HIS dog, and I would never stand between a man and his dog. So we brought the terrified little fruitcake home and over time, the Stockholm syndrome took over, and he quit trying to run away and accepted us as his family. We started him on billy goats and he was soon a decent little helper on the farm.  He moved to penned cattle where he was also a nice little helper . . . as long . . . as you didn't get excited and yell at him.  (Read: Birth of a Cow Dog )

You see . . .    Blue Heeler is a sensitive soul. As I have explained to Other Half many times, "Ranger knows what's in your heart."  If you are angry, he knows it. If you scream at him for chasing cattle past the gate, he will throw up his little paws like Nathan Hale in "The Bird Cage" and wail, "Well!  I can't do ANYTHING right!  No one loves me! Pen 'em yer own damned self then!" 

And he runs out of the pen. This never fails to ignite Other Half who is a country boy and not given to cajoling and building up the self-esteem of a working dog when he's standing in a muddy cow pen.

And so Blue Heeler comes to Momma, who hugs him and makes him feel special again. I have come to appreciate Ranger, not for his working skills, but for his steadfast devotion to family.  He loves his pack.  As fruity as he is, he will risk death, dismemberment, and electric fences to protect his family.  When Briar was zapped by the hotwire, Blue Heeler jumped not one, but two fences, to rescue her. He was zapped twice but he came to lick her face and make sure his giant friend was okay.  (read: Justice? )

Last month when Border Collie was absolutely freaking because I was trying to pull a tick from between her toes, he leaped onto the bed to lick her face, and comfort her. (We have since addressed the "don't play with my toes" issue and she's much better now.)

Several times a day he cleans the eyes and ears of Ancient Blind Bloodhound. It makes me smile as I watch his obessive devotion to his pack. More and more, I see Ranger not as a Mad Hatter, but as a crazy Greek Mother, protecting his family and giving the "evil eye" to anyone who dares threaten them.

So when Other Half is not home, and Blue Heeler crawls into bed with Lily and me, I can sleep soundly, knowing that I am protected by the best little blue psycho in Texas.

After the death of one chicken, the Beast was sure to return for another easy meal last night, so we left the gate open to allow my dogs to patrol my mom's yard too.

When my mother got up this morning,

         this is what she found beside her chicken coop . . .

     . . .

                 . . .

                            . . .

                                      . . .

My mom sent me a text message to inform me that Briar had

              camped outside the hen house,

                                                                       . . .  next to George!

(for more about Briar & George, read: "I will name him George" )

Hopefully the raccoon saw that George the Hen has a Very Big Friend.

The sun was up so Mom returned Briar (and Ranger) home and closed the gate.  Briar was a happy camper when I woke up.  I received a morning briefing from her regarding her duties that night and she was then off-duty and free to enjoy her day.

 Yeeee Haaaaa! 

As many of you will recall, last winter The Boogey Beast (or Beasts!) got into my hen house and murdered ten (10!!!!) chickens in less than a week. Night after night I would fortify that building like Fort Knox, only to find the dismembered bodies of victims and traumatized witnesses. That effectively put us out of the chicken business at this house.  We transported the remaining laying hen to the hen house with the cattle, about 7 miles away from THIS Boogey Beast. 

As you will also recall, my mother lives in a little house in one of my pastures and raises a small flock of chickens that are her pets.  She names and dotes on these birds. (a hazardous and heartbreaking habit in this neck of the woods!)  Thus far, her birds have remained safe because she keeps them in a coop by her back porch whereas my birds were inside a locked coop, inside a 1/4 acre flight pen, right beside a canal which is a Predator Superhighway. 

Last winter's Boogey Beast attacks and earlier attacks on goats prompted me to drive across Texas to purchase a Warrior . . .

Okay, I know she was little, but cut her some slack, she was 12 weeks old!

Look again!

  Yeah!  That's right! 

My little warrior is all grown up now, and she's a force to be reckoned with!

Now this is all well and good, as long as she can get to the animals she is supposed to guard.  Thus far, there have been no attacks on the sheep or goats.  They are penned up at night and Briar is their Bodyguard. She takes her job very seriously . . . so seriously, in fact, that there are times when I am sleep-deprived that I want to turn off her barking. (If you have a Livestock Guardian Dog close to the house then you can empathize.)  Most of the time I hear the racket and visions of terrified coyotes dance in my head, so I fall back to sleep, contented, but when I get to bed at 2 AM and she barks from 3 AM to 4 AM, I am tempted to shut her up so I can sleep.  (As I discovered last night, that is not a good idea.)

Common sense would tell you that you don't buy a LGD and then shut her up so she can't patrol.  If she isn't patrolling, then someone is left unguarded. But I didn't have common sense last night . . .

After listening to Briar bark for a solid hour, I stalked outside, saw my mother's flashlight in her back yard, and decided that my idiot dog was barking at my mother who must be giving her dog a late-night potty break. So I told poor Briar to "Shut up!"  (I believe I said, "Shut the *BLEEP* up, you stupid dog!", but who remembers?)

Anyway, I shut poor Briar up, and I went back to bed.  Other Half rolled over and grunted when I informed him that my stupid dog was barking at my mother. 

When I woke up and turned the dogs out for a walk, Briar made a bee-line to the fence . . .

  Uh oh!

So did everyone else . . .

Then I got the uneasy feeling that I'd done a Very Bad Thing last night as Briar tracked down the fence line.

Her path led to the old bird pen. The scene of many murders (20 turkeys and over 30 chickens in two years!), last winter I abandoned the flight pen and its chicken coop. It appears that The Boogey Beast still remembers the flight pen.

 Briar even checked out an ancient coop that had been abandoned at least 15 years ago. This was also the scene of countless chicken killin's.  (Briar is peeking straight down into the canal from that perch. Two years ago a bobcat piled 4 dead chickens behind the window that Briar is looking through.)

 While the rest of the pack became bored and wandered off, Briar continued her hunt. She was a woman on a mission.  (The dog did her Master's Thesis on "Predators of Texas.")

 And all the while she worked, I remembered how I called her names and shut up that poor dog last night. I was ashamed of myself.  I'm a dog trainer. The mantra of ALL dog trainers is . . . "Trust your dog!" 

And then the phone rang . . .

and my mother informed me that The Boogey Beast had gotten into her chicken coop last night sometime around 4 AM.  She was lucky.  She only had one dead.

Briar doesn't hold a grudge. She continues to patrol with a renewed vigilance. And tonight . . . tonight, I'm a lot more humble . . . and tonight . . . tonight the gate will be opened so she can patrol in Grandma's yard too!

To read more about the Boogey Beast Wars read:

Boogey Beast!

The Warrior

Boogey Beast Revealed!

Every morning when the livestock are put out, and these two are off-duty, . . . they play . . .

They dance . . .

 They shuffle . . .

They spin . . .    

And they remind me that no matter how serious life gets, it's important to take a moment and enjoy . . . 

 . . . the dance.

The thing about raising livestock is that your plans for the day can change at a moment's notice.  Yesterday Other Half and I were finishing up watering sheep when his phone rang . . .  

and our plans for the day changed . . .  because $11,000 worth of show cattle were dead.

While these weren't our cattle, they belonged to a friend down the road and he needed help. So we climbed in the truck and raced across the bayou. It was bad.  It was really bad.

On the surface it appeared to be a problem with the feed. All died within minutes of eating. One died with her head still in the bucket.

Thus began the phone calls and the cold, hard reality of getting two heifers buried and a dead bull loaded onto a flatbed trailer for a trip to the state veterinary university for testing.

And all this had to be done before his daughter came home from school.  They were her cattle, her hopes, her dreams. The little brahma heifer was her baby.

The well-digger across the street came and dug a gigantic hole in the pasture. Son brought our flatbed trailer over to load the bull.  And as the school bus stopped in front of the house, tears welled up in my eyes, for the hardest part of the day was about to begin.