Farm Fresh Blog

Captain Ahab heads out in search of the Great White Whale

Deep in a sea of amber and green he searches . . .

Suddenly he spies the beast as it comes up for air . . .

And the chase is on!

 Over the waves . . he leaps in his relentless pursuit of the Great White Beast

  He is closing in . . .

. . . just as the beast turns upon him!   "Oops!"

  "UH oh!"

(Captain Ahab is under there somewhere . . .)

Moby Dick flees . . . leaving the scene of an accident and failing to stop and render aid

The Great White Beast doesn't get far.  Captain Ahab has a Fairy Godmother (Godfather?)

Apparently this was a felony.

(Yes, Moby Dick is under there somewhere.)

After a severe tongue-lashing, the Fairy Godfather releases Moby Dick.

"Are you okay, Little Buddy?  How many toenails am I holding up?"

 "Uhhmmm . . . 4?"

So the Fairy Godfather declared that the Little Captain was okay, and all was well.

The Great White Beast even returned to play . . .

. . . but this time she was more careful.

I know a criminal profiler who is fond of quoting Shakespeare.

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His act being seven ages."

I have always been a believer in the concept that "what's meant to be, is meant to be."  Translated: "You are exactly where God wants you at this moment." And I've held firm to the idea that we are on our own journey through life, other people and animals crisscross our lives along their own journeys.  Sometimes their paths follow our own for a while. Be it a little while, or a long while, during that time we are meant to be together. Everyone is blessed with talents and gifts that they share with others along the journey.

George Eliot wrote,

 "What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?"

I share this little tidbit not so you can pull out your yoga mat and meditate on life during your coffee break.  It is so much easier for me to ponder Life's little puzzles while I'm taking the dogs for a walk.  As the morning sun rises to lift the dew off the pasture, they play in the tall grass, and I contemplate life. You don't have to journey to Tibet to find the meaning of life - just take a walk on your farm. All of life's dramas are played out in the muck and mire of farm living.

It is said that life is a beautiful tapestry. The problem is that we are looking at the back of the rug, while God is looking at the front.  All we see is a chaotic hodge-podge of colored thread.  I thought about that concept this morning while I was taking my coffee, and the dogs, for a walk.

I didn't want this dog. 

When Other Half brought this little space cadet home, I was aghast.  The dog was a fruitcake and he was now our fruitcake for the next 12 years.  After a difficult adjustment period for all of us, I finally consoled myself with the knowledge that God had put this little space traveler in our home because he needed us.  After all, the dog is so weird that in most homes, he'd end up in the pound.

Over time I came to love him, despite his eccentricities.  Instead of viewing him just as a fearful space cadet that God had put with us because we could give him a loving home, I began to see the value of his steadfast devotion to family. And this morning, as I watched my Loveable Loon bounce through the pasture, carefully keeping step with a puppy, his puppy, it made my heart smile. Perhaps Life is not about who is the best and the brightest. Perhaps it's more important to realize that everyone, EVERYONE, has something to contribute to this world.  And if you haven't seen that yet, then you haven't met this little dog.

"My Beloved Monster and Me"

1) Take puppy out of crate where he has been imprisoned beside the bed all night long. At this point he is a tightly wound toy about to explode.

2) Take puppy into pasture with deep grass

3) Let the Wind-Up Toy go . . .

"I can't breathe!  I can't breathe!"

After a run and a swim, take breathless puppy into den where he catches his breath, empties his toy box, and massacres his Halloween toys.

But I see shades of a dominant, assertive little snot as he looks up to discover that someone else has raided his toy box.  He is not amused.

"HEY!  Is that my BAT?!  Put it down!  That's MINE!!!!!!

And amazingly, she does . . .

"Stay outta my toy box! I'm keeping my eye on you!"

(I saw the exact same behavior in Kona when he was a toddler.  Because of that, he was nicknamed Attila the Hun.)

Ranger is deep in Crazy Greek Mother Mode.  Here are the boys bouncing to the barn, undoubtedly humming "My Beloved Monster and Me."

 What a cute little butt!

Now for the other end . . .

I'm in danger of sharing too much information here, but . . .   Someone sank his pearly whites into Dad's calf when Dad was takin' a whizz. (And Dad had to clean up the bathroom floor!)

Unlike Ranger, there is not a maternal bone in Lily's body.  She does, however, really enjoy playing with her baby brother and tolerates his devotion pretty well. 

I give you State's Exhibit A:

Driving back from the grocery store

Trace is a bold little fart who is settling in just fine. 

He hit the ground running . . .

 and running . . .   

 and zooming . . .

In fact, if I could bottle his energy . . .  

. . . and sell it in six packs, I'd make a fortune! 

His battery runs down pretty quickly.  In the photo above, his little blue eyes are already getting droopy.

In 48 hours he has eaten:

1) beef fajitas  2) breakfast ham  3) toast soaked in grits  4) horse poop   5) sheep poop

6) goat poop   7) yogurt    8) pork rib meat   9) a stick   

and . . .  drum roll please . . .

10) dead rat

Amazingly, he doesn't have shooting diarrhea.  The boy has a strong intestinal constitution.

We've gotten bunches of notes asking how he's getting along with the rest of the pack. So here goes - - -  

Lily: She's totally okay with him.  He's a Border Collie and she knows it.  He initially fixated on her because she is a black and white Border Collie who probably reminds him of his mom. She won't cut him any slack because he's a puppy but she won't hurt him either.  Since she has always had to share attention, she isn't really jealous.

Cowboy: is also okay with him.  He doesn't play with him but knows Trace is a puppy and tolerates him quite well. Trace likes to tag along with the other Border Collies.

Ranger: LOVES the puppy.  This is Ranger's puppy!  He has kicked into Crazy Greek Mother Mode and is doting on little Trace like the gay men in the "Modern Family" sitcom dote on their infant. 

Briar:  I didn't want Trace around Briar because she is sooooo big, and he is soooo little.  That was fine until this morning when she climbed the fence to check him out while I fed horses.  I turned around to discover him bouncing around beside her while she chased cats.  She knows he's a dog and is gentle with him.  (That giant puppy continues to amaze me.) 

Alice the Bloodhound:  is blind and hasn't really noticed him. 

Ice: finds him mildly amusing but doesn't want him to jump in her face. I keep her away from him while he's loose.

Zena the Retired Police Dog: is fascinated by him.  Zena raised Ranger and Lily.  She adores puppies, but she is a bit pushy and wants to smother him. He is a little freaked by the way she stalks him and keeps near to us or Ranger when she looms too closely.

Oli the Current Police Dog:  thinks he is a neat video game.  She is not allowed loose with him because he is little and she is fast.  Later they will be great playmates but we're not sure she understands "It's a baaaaaby!" So until we're convinced that she knows he's a dog and not a guinea pig, she can stare at him through the bars like a crazed football fan.

Overall, he is getting along great with the pack (in small doses.)  Ranger is the only one that I trust with him though.  Ranger freaked out when I walked down the road with Trace to visit Dear Friend.  Ranger jumped the fence and came to find us. He was quite disturbed when he found HIS PUPPY in HER lap!  She released his little friend and he checked out Trace quite closely to make sure he was okay. Then he scooted away and shot her the Evil Eye.

"I'll let it slide this one time, but I'm keeping my eye on you!"

After a marathon driving adventure across Texas and Oklahoma, . . . 

. . .  we brought The Little Prince home.

 Meet Trace!     

(More pics to come after we've had some sleep!)

Mom's little blessing is growing like a weed.

  She has come a long way from flagging down strangers at a gas station for help. ("HEY! You with the thumbs! I need some HELP down here!")

Now she's a member of a FAMILY!  Since the name "Blossom" didn't really stick, Mom has re-named her "Glory", and she already comes to her name.   (and wipes her paws!)

  She has a garden . . .

 . . . with birds!

 BIGGGGG Birds!

She has a big brother who likes to play rough!

  And a dog!

 "I have a family!!!"

"Thank you, God!"

Years ago I went with a friend to pick up some goat's milk. We were greeted by a most delightful man who escorted us around his farm. He showed us his goats, his pig, his miniature horses, his cattle, and his chickens.  And he did all this . . . in bare feet.

I remember being struck with the idea that this cheerful little man was a modern day Hobbit, spirited straight from the Lord Of The Rings.  And his feet looked like it. 

Now I'm not one to point fingers.  (perish that thought!) I was in my 30's before I got my first professional pedicure. The reason I was forced to get a pedicure is because Montoya had stomped on my foot ("Oops! Sorry mom!") and my big toe was a most striking shade of blue. 

A friend was tired of looking at it, so she insisted that we that head to the nearest Vietnamese lady with polish to paint that sucker!  So I did.  I went in looking like a Hobbit, and an hour later, (and lots of muttering in Vietnamese) I hobbled out with new feet. There was even a beautiful hibiscus flower painted on my bruised big toe. 

From that moment on, I was in love with pedicures. Ahhhh . . . the vibrating chair, the girl talk, the stupid paper flip-flops. And the magical hibiscus flower that announced "These are the feet of a Pretty Woman, not a Hobbit!"

But the sad reality is that the Magical Hibiscus Flower fades pretty quickly under the cold hard reality of farm living. The polish gets chipped off each time a critter bounces across the top of it.  I want to, I really want to, but I cannot seem to wear responsible shoes every time I step out of my door. Too often I'm simply puttering around the house in flip-flops or Crocs when drama stalks me, and then I regret my choice of footwear.

 (Read: The Grace of God & The Red-Headed Demon)

You'd think I would learn. But alas . . .   take this morning for instance.  One would think that I would know better. 

This is not a picture you want to see when you're wearing flip-flops! 

Or this!  (They get MUCH closer!)

One overeager Border Collie (just trying to help) + A Few Errant Sheep = Bruised Toes

Why don't I ever learn?

Did Hobbits have Border Collies?

 (I'm just asking . . .)

While city folks may not have to sling dead 'possums out of their yard on Mondays, they also don't get to rise early on "Hump Day Wednesdays" to this . . .

The sun rises to capture the dew on the pumpkin. 

(Okay, the City Folk can have pumpkins too, but do they also have dew on the horse poop behind the pumpkin?  I'm just asking . . .)

View from the Front Porch:

View from the Back Porch:

There's no hum of traffic in the country.  This is the traffic I hear in the morning:

Sexy Senior Citizen gallops into the barn!

Before I can feed myself, there are animals to be fed:

My Second-In-Command climbs up high on the hay to oversee the operation.

After all the animals are fed it's time to walk the fence line with the dogs.

Our version of Brinks Home Security . . .

And the chores are done! Bring on the day!

There are few things that I consider myself an expert on, but the smell of decomposing tissue is one subject that I know a great deal about. So when I drove into my garage barn last week and the smell of decomp assaulted my nose as I climbed out of the truck, I felt that I could safely report, "There is something dead in the garage!"

The problem was that I couldn't find it.  The garage shed is attached to the goat barn. There are also lots of hidey holes in old junk where a small animal could crawl off to die.  My concern wasn't so much WHERE the critter was, as WHO the critter was.

Here was my first concern:

Lovey hadn't been seen in a couple of days.  This launched an all-out search at 1 AM for a tabby calico cat. I called and I called and I called.  (Yes, I'm sure my neighbors hate me.)

I really worried that the dogs had caught her in the ever-popular, "Let's chase the cat and try to kill it" game.  Faith likes this game, but Lovey is not a big fan.  (She's not as good at the game as Faith.)  So I continued my hunt for Lovey.  A can of cat food at 1:30 AM finally produced three calico cats who climbed out of the rafters of the horse barn.  One of them was Lovey.  I could go to sleep.

Perhaps the victim was Remus, the banty rooster who survived multiple Boogey Beast attacks:

  Remus used to spend his evenings roosting in the Goat Barn until daybreak where he would trek across the pasture to greet my mother's hens as they began their day.  "Hellllloooo Ladies!"

I worried that perhaps Remus had met up with Blue Heeler in his journey across the pasture.  Or Briar could have loved him to death.  The result is about the same.  (Again. . . it depends upon your view of torture.)  Or . . . Remus could have been killed by whatever attempted to kill him a couple of weeks ago when I thought something was after the goats.  I moved Briar into that barn, only to discover that Something was after Remus, not the goats.  But I left Briar there anyway.
 
So I went to bed that night, The First Night Of Decomp In The Barn, comfortable that Lovey was okay, and slightly annoyed that Remus had finally met his demise. The next morning my mother reported that Remus was alive and well, and spending his nights in an oak tree above her chicken coop.   At this point, since everyone in my Family Fold was accounted for, I quit worrying about the smell of decomp in the garage.

 Until yesterday . . .

I asked Other Half to feed the dogs.  He couldn't find Briar.  We hunted and finally found Briar hunkered down in the driveway paddock.  My heart skipped a beat . . .   Briar had something. . .

Fearing for my calico cats, (and Mom's calico kitten) I cautiously approached.  Briar looked over her shoulder and happily grinned at me.  She reeked of decomp.
That ruled out the calico cats and kitten.  Now what did Briar have?

Warning!  Warning!  Warning!   GROSS ALERT!!!!!

This was what Briar had been working on like an All-day Sucker:

Eeegaaads!

It took me a second to identify the victim, but this cleared it up.

Now it's possible that the opossum lost the Let's Kill The Kitty game and crawled off to die.  "Look!  A cat with a skinny tail!"  I doubt Briar tried to love it to death.  It is also possible that it came to kill Remus and Briar caught him instead. (Oh well . . . sucks to be him.)  Regardless, he ended up dead and Briar finally dug him out of his death bed.

The down side to my job as a crime scene investigator is that I cannot throw down the Girl Card and get Other Half to dispose of gross items that are too horrendous for my delicate sensibilities.  (You forfeit "The Girl Card" when you play Twister over dead men for a living.)  So I had to dispose of the dead opossum while he changed out a broken tail light on the flat-bed trailer.
 
Then I had a more important task at hand . . .

 
Do City People have to do this kind of stuff on a Monday afternoon?

I'm just saying . . .