Farm Fresh Blog

Before we get started on this discussion, it has come to my attention (because I didn't post one this morning, and I HEARD about it!) that quite a few readers WANT an update on the Dynamic Duo. Here are their pictures for today:

 New Year's Eve Lamb

  New Year's Day Lamb   (This little Hulk is auctioning for the position of herd ram. He does not want to go to market!  I had planned to get a young ram by this little guy's sire, but Other Half wants to keep him instead. We'll see . . .  His mama IS my favorite ewe. Good mother. Calm ewe. Boss ewe.)

Now . . . on to our discussion: In the immortal words of Shakespeare, "To Spay, Or Not To Spay"

Shakespeare didn't say that???? You're kidding! Well, he should have. It's an important discussion!

Border Collie is in heat. (sigh) Our little "Kung Fu Panda" is a big girl now. Look at her Big Girl Panties!

  Look!  Tiny Hiney!

Several people have asked me about getting puppies from her . . . "negative, ain't gonna happen." Border Collie will be spayed when she comes out of heat. We just wanted to make sure that all her hormones were working and she was an adult first. Some folks spay as soon as possible, I just choose to wait a little longer.

"But she is such an awesome dog!"

Yep, she is an awesome dog. But . . . as much as it pains me to admit (and you never heard it from me!) I think Border Collie is probably just an average cow-bred Border Collie who simply landed in a working home. She is a great working dog, but HOPEFULLY there are lots more out there just like her. She isn't registered. Her parents work cows on a feed-lot. I doubt she is a fluke, because her breeder only breeds dogs that work cows. I imagine if they don't work cows, he probably culls them (and that does NOT mean place them in a pet home). He is not in the dog business, he's in the cow business. Dogs are tools that make his job easier. He clearly produces some nice dogs, but it doesn't mean I should breed Lily. I can't trace her lineage. Breeding her would be a crap shoot. 

"But she's healthy!"

She's only 9 months old. That's a little early to decide that she doesn't have some underlying problem that hasn't come to the surface. Her parents had NO health checks. They worked. That's the way her breeder selected dogs. If a dog was too weak to work, it didn't stay.

"But she WORKS!"

Well, yeah. She works. She is probably the best farm dog I've ever had, (and perhaps ever will have) but that doesn't mean she should be bred. I greatly appreciate the generations of effort that went into producing this dog, and I hope that when I'm ready for another Border Collie, I can find one "just like her." 

"Don't you want to let her have puppies?  I'd take one."

Right, and I'd take one too, but what would happen to the other five puppies? I firmly believe that if you breed, you are responsible for those puppies FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES. Rescue organizations are overflowing with good dogs. As much as I love this dog, and want another one "just like her," I don't want to contribute to the problem.

So . . . Border Collie will be spayed. She'll be happy. She lives to work . . . and chase cats. Besides, I don't think she'll miss having to wear her "Big Girl Panties.

                                                                                
The Paper Boy

People who raise goats share one thing - loose goats. As you get more experience, (and better fences) the episodes are not as frequent, but nevertheless, every goat is a blood relative of Harry Houdini. Not only are they escape artists, they are also psychics.  Goats KNOW when you are too busy to fiddle-fart around with them .

Nothing in my life is ever simple. Now I'm not a mathematician, but I do see a common denominator among the problems in my life. Most of my headaches stem from the same source - goats

Goats. God sent goats to test me. God sent dogs to help me . . .

Tonight I found myself running late for church. I had exactly fifteen minutes to make it out the door and into the chapel. It's a ten minute drive. I didn't have time for a shower, so I put on a clean shirt and a spritz of perfume (just in case I smelled like a dog.) I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. That's when the phone rang. There are four words I do not want to hear at any time of day or night. They are fingernails on a blackboard: 1) Your 2) Goats 3) Are 4) Out

I glanced at the clock again. "Please, please, please Lord... can you just slow down Time a little so I won't be late for the service?"

And with that prayer, I grabbed up The Enforcer and headed for the front door. As soon as I hit the step, I pointed at the loose goats and said, "Fetch 'em up, Boy." A tawny streak raced across the front yard... until he saw the newspaper. I could read the indecision on his face.

"The paper. The paper. She always sends me out the front door for the newspaper. Maybe she wants the paper. Goats? Paper? Goats? Paper?"

I yelled at him. "Not the paper! Get the f#*kin' goats!"

Ah! A language he understood! But to err on the safe side, he grabbed up the newspaper as he raced across the yard toward the goats. By this time, the goats were already in a full-scale panic. The Enforcer, still carrying the newspaper, looped behind them and galloped them back toward me - at break-neck speed. They passed me so fast that I'm surprised there was no sonic boom. With a nimbleness that would make a gymnast pea-green with envy, they vaulted onto a stack of firewood and leaped back into the pasture. The Enforcer screeched to a halt and dropped his newspaper beside the fence. The goats huddled together like innocent choir boys and stared.

Then the dog turned to me, picked up the newspaper, and said, "Hey, you still want this?"

Sleep. I need some sleep. I haven't had more than 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep in a week. I am a Bitchy Bear! That's what happens when I don't get enough sleep. I grow horns. (like the Evil Goat, Evie) There is a multitude of reasons why I haven't gotten enough sleep.

Border Collie is in season (argh . . .). The Enforcer and Blue Heeler are intact (a constant source of argument between Other Half and myself). So . . . we must juggle dogs. We must juggle dogs in the #%!*^! mud! MUD! MUD! MUD! I hate MUD! (Breathe . . . breathe . . .)

Okay, there's the mud. Muddy boots. Muddy paws. Muddy floor. Muddy laundry. Need I go on?

House Goats. The young goats are near the house (so they don't get eaten by the Boogey Beast!) They begin to scream for me to let them out THE MOMENT the sun is peeking over the horizon. If they don't quit that I'm gonna LET the Boogey Beast EAT THEM!

Work (the job that actually pays the bills around here). Work is work. Well duh, that's why they call it WORK. 'Tis the season. I really, really, REALLY hate standing over dead people in the cold . . .  'nuff said.

In a nutshell, I haven't been getting enough sleep. Whining dogs, screaming goats, and worrying about ewes in labor and baby lambs are keeping me awake at night.

But then . . .  the goats force me to finally drag my butt out of bed. And I see this . . .

                                        and this . . .

and this . . .

 and . . . . my heart smiles. And I'm not a Bitchy Bear any more.

We noticed another ewe in labor just as we had finished up with the first birth. I checked her during the night and at 7 AM this little visitor greeted me!

This little guy is not as vigorous as the other lamb, but he has a good mama and so I still have high hopes.

The New Year's Eve lamb is doing just fine!  He is eating well and quite inquisitive.

I think he is going to make it. (hopefully I don't jinx myself!) I'm hoping the lamb belonging to the other ewe will gain more strength and perk up some in a few hours.  This little guy will want a playmate!

Look what the New Year brought!

I came home from work to find this little lamb had joined our farm!  What a cutie patootie!  The first lamb of the season!  Fireworks popped in the sky as this little beastie searched out that first meal.  There are few things more satisfying than the sound of a baby finally figuring it out!  Keep your fingers crossed that there are no complications. So far, so good! 

There is a certain "learning curve" that comes with goats. Raising no other kind of livestock quite prepares one for the trials, tribulations, and comedy that comes with goats. Good fencing is a must, but good humor is even more important. I first started raising goats in the years BBC (Before Border Collie) and BOH (Before Other Half). We've come a long way since then, but some things never change. Here is just one of those early days:
 

No day should start without caffeine:

Wake up at 7 AM. Realize that David, (most trusted handyman that I borrow from his wife, Sandy!) will be over at 9 AM to help me put up new goat fencing and I still need to go to Home Depot. Start to go feed the horses. Note chicken is loose in back yard. Chicken trespassing is a capital offense punishable by death on this Homestead, and so I had to put the dogs up so I could get the chicken in. Chicken is not at all cooperative. Finally get Ice (who looks like a black wolf to livestock)

Pretty quickly Black Wolf gets Chicken to go where she belongs. Get garbage out. Feed animals. Note that goats are where they should be. My mother lives in a small house on my property. Move goats into Mom's back yard where she can watch them.The only area in that yard not entirely goat-proof is a pipe gate. Plan to tack fencing on top of pipe later today. Mom is in her back yard so she is keeping eye on goats. Fine.

Really, really, REALLY need some caffeine. Realize I'm totally out of Starbucks mocha frappuccinos. Will get frapps on way to Home Depot. Get in truck. No gas. Take a deep breath.  Will get gas when I stop for frappuccinos. Go to Exxon. Rush to door to get frappuccino. Door is locked. Sign says "Be back in 5 minutes." Look at handgun in car and wonder how much jail time I would get. Decide to pump gas instead. See clerk return. Go get frappuccinos. Get back in truck and slurp up caffeine like an addict snorting coke. Feel better.

Head to Home Depot. Can't find cart. Can't find wire. Finally steal cart from display. Find field fencing. Can't get cart close enough to rolls of fencing because of machinery left in aisle. Have to roll wire to cart. Pay for wire. Try to unload wire into truck. Wire is stuck in cart. Cuss. Look around to see who is watching me have a childish temper tantrum. No one. Cuss some more. Kick the cart. Wire comes free. (hmmm.. violence 'can' be a good thing.)

Arrive home at 9:10 AM....Ten minutes late. (spent 10 minutes chasin' freakin' chicken this morning!) David is already there. Inform David that I haven't had enough caffeine, it's been a bad morning, and I'm just a bitch. He seems okay with that. (Sandy has trained him well.)

We spend all morning putting up fortress to keep my beasts inside their prison. Break for lunch. Goats are where they should be. Return from lunch to finish up. Goats have gone walk-about. David tacks up fencing on top of pipe gate while I retrieve goats. Since I do not have a bucket of feed, the goats are less than enthusiastic about returning home. Wish for BB gun to shoot goats. Push goats toward opened gate. Watch them by-pass opened gate. Wish for handgun instead of BB gun. After much cussing, get goats back in yard. David finishes their gate. They should be secure. Woo hoo! David and I head for back pasture to tear down an old fence.

Mom yells that goats are out again. WHAT!!!!! They got down on their knees and crawled under David's new & improved goat-gate. (Seriously consider shooting goats now.) Decide that goats need to understand that there is a severe penalty for jail breaks. Go get Ice, The Black Wolf.

Black Wolf is happy to help herd (read: terrorize) goats. Black Wolf enters pasture. Goats stand at attention like gazelle staring at a cheetah. Black Wolf slowly meanders in their direction. Goats scream "WOLF! WOLF! WOLF!" and run like hell to get back where they belong. Yeeeeesssss.... I pat myself and the Black Wolf on the back. This method has definite possibilities. Decide that goats need to clearly understand that they are not safe from Black Wolf until they are in the barn. So I have Black Wolf move them to the barn. Goats trot to barn quickly. Yep... I was liking this a lot! Too much perhaps. The goats make it to barn porch. Nope, that's not good enough for a grumpy woman who started the day with no caffeine. I wanted them in a stall. (should have stopped while I was ahead.)

I ask Black Wolf to move them into the stall. Goats panic and two of them run right over us and take off at a dead run for the north forty. Black Wolf immediately overtakes smaller one and pulls him down. He is certain that he is a dead goat and yells to his companion. His companion runs faster and leaves him. (Companion didn't have to outrun the dog... just his little buddy) I yell at Black Wolf and she drops goat who is now firmly convinced that Satan has him. (Satan has pointy ears and a fluffy tail.) Goat races around corner of pumphouse to follow his companion through goat-proof gate. I hear only a thunk of wire. My mother reported that from her angle, she saw goat slide under the wire. In order to accomplish this feat at that speed, the goat must rival the talent of any professional baseball player who slides into home plate. The goats are now split. Those left in the stall are beside themselves with horror at what has happened to their companions who ran over the dog, so in true goat-like fashion, they decide that they must leave the safety of the barn, to re-join their companions.

I shake my head at the utter stupidity of it as they attempt to sneak past Black Wolf to get to their buddies who are huddled against the fence line in terror. Wolf and I back off so the herd can get back together. Then we step toward them. They race through a non-goat-proof fence toward the barn. Ahhh... progress. I put Wolf on a stay and open goats' stall door. They stare at us like gazelles. I motion Wolf forward. Goats bolt toward barn, into stall, and into the goat prison.

Hmmmmm . . . The predator/prey relationship at work. Black Wolf watches a lot of Animal Planet on television. The goats apparently need no such tutorial.

Everyone should have the kind of job where work is play. No, I'm not talking about CSI stuff, I'm talking about the gig Border Collie has . . .

This is for all the readers who write me about training their dogs to herd. GO TO A PROFESSIONAL!!! I have been blessed with a dog with good genes, but I still manage to screw up things on a fairly regular basis. Because Border Collie MUST help me on the farm, we tend to work with an eye toward the job and not look too far down the road. We just muddle along, the work gets done, and everyone is happy . . . until . . . we go to our semi-regularly scheduled training time with Professional Herding Dog Trainer aka Sheep Goddess. At this point, Sheep Goddess screams and points out that Border Collie doesn't like to go in a counter-clockwise direction, and not only have I unwittingly ALLOWED this, I have actually been quite accommodating and adjust my own body position for the dog. Hmmmmm . . . . never noticed that. (That, by the way, is what you pay these people for . . . )

After pointing it out, Border Collie is quite happy to go counterclockwise.

Then things went a lot smoother. Sheep Goddess was happy. Border Collie was happy. I was happy. Sheep were . . . sheep.

Things were going well . . . until the sheep began to lose interest. Now Border Collie is pretty smart. She can count fairly high and tends to notice when she is missing someone. But then again, this was a larger group.

Someone got bored with the game.

Apparently Border Collie failed to notice this and marched the rest of the group along. Sheep Goddess was not amused.

                                                            "Huh? Where? OOPS! My bad!"

                                              The morning was filled with tough mental and physical work for her. But at the end of it . . .

Don't you wish we ALL had this much fun at our jobs?

(I want to thank Other Half for taking these pictures. The day was cold and windy and he did NOT want to get out of the truck!)

I also want to take a moment to invite everyone to view "The Countdown" section of the website. Police Dog and I are counting down the days to her retirement. She has given most of her life in service of Man, and I'm of the opinion that she needs a hum dinger of a retirement to make up for the fact that soon ANOTHER dog will be leaving for work each night with Other Half. (Sniffle . . . sniffle. . . sniffle)

OH! and something else! I have FINALLY figured out how to enable the comments sections for the blogs. Most of you have been e-mailing your comments (and you are quite welcome to continue to do so!) but I finally figured out how to let you post the comments publicly. I'm still having to go back on the old blogs and enable the comments sections (give me a little time) but the new ones should be up and running!

Police Dog is reaching the end of her career. In 10 days she will officially retire. She and I are marking off the days on a calendar. She is old now, and her body is beginning to betray her. Police Dog couldn't get in the truck last night without help.  (Sniffle . . . sniffle . . . sniffle . . . .)  

The life of a police dog isn't an easy one. They are often born in another country and imported here by a vendor. (Police Dog was born in Germany.) The vendor then sells the dog to a police agency. They often don't get a REAL mommy or daddy until they get a permanent handler. Much of their lives is spent in kennels.

The lucky ones end up in homes where the police officer makes the dog a part of their family.

Other Half has had 3 police dogs. Soon he will get Police Dog #4. Retired police dogs have a VERY hard time adjusting to civilian life when they must watch NEW POLICE DOG go to work with Daddy. (They often don't last very long after they retire.)

Because I firmly believe that Police Dog got a raw deal in life before she came to live with Other Half, I am determined that she will spend her retirement years living The Good Life that the average pet dog in this country takes for granted. Against Other Half's wishes, Police Dog and I have been practicing for her retirement. (Police Dog LIKES PIZZA!)

When Police Dog retires, she will become a civilian. She will no longer be owned by a police agency. She will become my full-time dog. This comes with certain perks! (Ask Border Collie.)

My dogs eat people food!

My dogs take LONG walks in the pasture and play in the snow! (where they can read their pee-mail!)

                                      My dogs are allowed to sleep on the bed . . .   (where there is an electric blanket)

(note the pillow stuffed between the bed and the night stand so little people don't fall off the bed . . . this chick has got it made!)

                                       My dogs get to be REAL FARM DOGS! Police Dog is marking the days off her calendar!

From our home to yours,

Wishing you a peaceful holiday,

Unless you live with a Border Collie . . .

. . . .  in which case, we know your holiday won't be peaceful.  In that case, may it be joyous!

Montoya's disdain for goats grew over time. They were safe in their own paddock, but woe to the goat who strayed into his Kingdom. This happened two years ago . . . nothing has changed.

Montoya, my four year old gelding, provided me with his version of bullfighting last night:

I am a cop. I get home late. Tired. Walk in barn. Notice that several goats have escaped their pen and are inside Montoya's paddock. Hmmmmm . . . that was probably entertaining at some point. Goats are happy to see me. I am not as thrilled to see them. Herding goats is not an activity anyone wants to do after midnight. Goats want in their stall, but cannot figure out how to get into their stall so they are huddled in the stall with the chickens. Huddled . . .  Hmmmm . . .

Note that Montoya is in the stall beside them looking a bit peeved. There is a board across the chicken's stall doorway to keep His Royal Highness out of the chicken scratch. Goats are huddled safely behind this bar. Feed horses so His Royal Highness is occupied while I try to figure out how to easily move four billy goats into their paddock. Decide best course of action would be to just lock goats in chicken stall and figure out where they got out when the sun comes up.

Go to shut stall door. One goat decides that I really want to barbecue him and thus he must race out of stall before I can shut door. Other goats panic and want to follow but I slam door in their faces. Now they are screaming. Chickens are clucking because goats are stepping on them. His Royal Highness has decided that this is FAR more interesting than his supper, so he exits his back door to come investigate.

HRH notes the loose goat. I swear, horses have "Spock" eyebrows because His Royal Highness gives Nitwit Goat the"Spock" eyebrow. Nitwit Goat screams in terror. HRH lowers his head and charges Nitwit. I yell at HRH. Colt looks at me with complete innocence. Nitwit continues to bleat in terror while his caged friends scale the wall of the stall. His Royal Highness peeks into their stall. There is a moment of silence. I yell at HRH. He gives me a look that only chaplains and little old ladies should wear. I yell at him again and order him back in his stall. He shrugs and walked inside. I open back door to goat stall. Nitwit is too scared to enter. He continues to run around bleating while his compadres answer in sympathy. I try to herd him inside.

Convinced that I am the Spawn Of Satan with a Fork, Nitwit Goat runs from me in blind panic. Barbecued goat was beginning to sound good. Nitwit begins running in circles farther and farther from the open stall door. This proves too much temptation for His Royal Highness. Like a gray Specter of the Night On Wings, His Royal Highness glides out of the stall. Nitwit decides that perhaps I am not the only Spawn of Satan in the pasture. He screams and runs for the barn. With a move that would make any cutting horse proud, His Royal Highness swoops in front of the goat. This was the stuff of Nitwit Nightmares. Alone, away from the herd, a Giant Gray Demon toys with him. Nitwit is beside himself with horror. His Royal Highness is having the time of his life . . . until I yell at him. The Choir Boy stops and looks at me.

"Huh?"

"Quit chasin' the goat. We'll be out here all night."

"Not if I catch him."

"Touche"

"So can I kill him?"

"No, then we'll have a dead goat in the pasture."

"I have no problem with that."

"I'll give you an apple if you'll go into your stall."

"DEAL!"

So His Royal Highness hustled to his stall. Nitwit grabbed that opportunity to race into the goat stall. And I finally got to go to bed.