Farm Fresh Blog

My Black Wolf finally has what every Belgian wants more than anything else in the world - Ice now has her own person. 

When Ice was a puppy she went to a Narcotics home. And she learned to be a Narcotics dog. Although she knew her job, she had problems handling the chaos of a Narcotics scene and was eventually "bumped from the team."  I was contacted to help find a home for her and snapped her up as a companion for her brother, my Cadaver Dog, Kona.

She fit in well here. Life as a pet dog suited her just fine, but she, like all Belgians, wanted more. She wanted to be someone's Special Dog.  The problem was that her brother was already in that spot. And in time, Lily the Border Collie also occupied that spot.  Ice was happy for any attention I could give her, but I could tell she wanted more.

When my mother's dog, Ice's sister, passed away, Mom was left dog-less.  (I KNOW!  I shudder to even think about being DOG-LESS!)  Mom needed the security of a guard dog, and the companionship of a dog who is hardwired in every fiber of her being to be someone's SPECIAL DOG.  A dog like that lives to have a Special Person that they can shadow and protect. My mom needs a dog like that. 

Ice needs a job. My mother is now Ice's job.  It works - like peanut butter and jelly.

I love Ice, but sometimes truly loving a dog means letting them go to another home where their needs will be better filled. Sometimes love means letting go.

Now Ice has perks that she never dreamed of:

* She can sleep on the bed.

* She can sleep on the couch.

* She doesn't have to share bones.

* She doesn't have to share table scraps.

* She doesn't have to share snuggles & hugs.

And my mom . . .

 . . .  will never get to go to the bathroom by herself again . . .

When's the last time you went through your junk closet?  Don't lie to me!  I know you have one! All sane people have one. If you don't, then your life is waaaay too organized and you probably don't read this blog anyway because the sheer unorganized, wackiness of bouncing between barn flies at home and maggots at work would drive you nuts. (but I digress . . .)

I'm one of those cruel, completely insane, people who puts my pets in Halloween costumes and photographs them. (As I explained to my Border Collie yesterday, it's a small price to pay for room, board, and lifetime health care.) While rummaging through the closet in my office to look for costumes purchases ten years ago, I stumbled upon this:

It was packed on a shelf, behind old riding boots that I can't wear anymore. One would have thought that like the board game Jumanji, I would have heard drums, but instead, I heard a heart beat.  I'm not sure if it was mine, or his . . .  but as soon as I saw it, I scaled over pieces of old dog crates, wrapping paper, and Christmas ornaments to reach it.

A moment before I cracked the rusty seal, I started to cry.  I knew what was in that can . . . and I thought I'd lost it. The lid groaned as I popped it open.  And there it was . . . there he was.

And I stood there and sobbed.  I cried and I cried and I cried.  Poor Ranger the Blue Heeler rushed into the room to save me from whatever evil had sprung forth from the closet.  But as I sat in the floor sobbing, I hugged Ranger and assured him that these were Happy Tears.  (a concept completely beyond Ranger's scope)

In 2002 I lost my Soul Dog. I was in district court when I got the call.  He was down and couldn't get up, but he held on until I got home.  We put him in the back of my 4Runner and I climbed in with him. He was barely conscious, but he laid his great head on my chest, and as my tears soaked through my shirt, I swear that I felt it . . . I felt him . . . soaking into, slipping into, my soul.

And I was okay with that.  I missed him horribly.  I still do.  He wasn't a perfect dog, but he was my Soul Dog. For years when I brushed him, I saved the hair.  SOME DAY I was going to get that hair to someone who could spin it into yarn and make a scarf for me so that I could wear my Soul Dog.  I saved his hair for years.  Then I bought his littermate, and I saved her hair too.  Over time, and tervs, the stashes of hair became a bother.  I'm not sure when, over the 12 years, I stopped keeping the hair, but I did.  I even started throwing hair away. Then I lost him, and by that time, I couldn't find my stashes of his hair.

I mourned that dog like no other, and still do. He didn't just touch my soul, he became a part of my soul. And that's why I found myself sitting on the office floor, holding a rusty tin of dog hair, and sobbing.

I am determined now that Some Day has arrived. The dog and the hair have stood the test of time.  God gave me a special gift in that dog. Now it's time to pull that lost tin of hair out of the closet and spin it into yarn. I know that several of you deal with wool sheep.  Can anyone point me in the direction of someone who can spin Belgian Tervuren hair? There's a lot of it; it's clean; and it's precious, so very, very precious.

"HaPPy HaLLowEeN!!!"

"Yeah, yeah, happy Halloween, and all that stuff.  Are we done?"

Gee Lily, you don't look very happy; give us a Halloween smile.

 "Happy Halloween!  (Can we quit now?)"

Ranger, how about you?

"Happy Halloween, Everybody!"

Dude! Ranger, your slip is showing . . .

 "Oh dear!  Really?"

"Happy Halloween!" 

We hope everyone has a safe and happy holiday!

Today was Ranger's big day! A bull calf was headed to the sale barn and Coach (Other Half) elected to pull Ranger off the bench to allow him to push the calf into the cattle trailer.  Ranger was soooo excited.

"Put me in, Coach!  Put me in!"

Lily was ready.  Lily is always ready.

Trace was not nearly as happy about the arrangement.

"wHy dOO I hAf tO sIt iN tHa tRuCk?"

It seemed simple. The calf was already in the trap, just open the trailer doors and have the dogs push the little bull into the trailer.  No problem, right?

Oh wait, I forgot we were talking about Ranger. . . Ranger . . . who hasn't worked ANYTHING in a while, much less a recently weaned bull calf.

(It was a train wreck!)

Lily pushed the calf toward the trailer, Ranger scooted out of the pen, then ran back under the trailer door to scream, "Boogity! Boogity!" at the calf as he got close to the trailer.  The calf ran over Lily.

We yelled at Ranger to get back in the pen and help Lily push.  He ran to the other side of the trailer, stuck his head under the trailer door and screamed,

 "Boogity! Boogity!" at the calf.  It ran back over Lily.

This happened three times. The last time, he sprang out from underneath the trailer and the bull calf ran over Lily, crashed through the fence and landed in the roping arena with the other calves. 

There was silence for a moment.  You could hear Lily panting and Other Half counting to ten.  I'll give the man credit. Instead of screaming at the dog (like he normally would have done!) he quietly said, "Put Ranger back in the truck."

 "Back on tha bench . . ."

Lily had to help us cut out the bull calf, return him to the pen, and load him into the trailer by herself.  In the process she got kicked once and bit her tongue.

Once we got the bull calf separated again, Lily and I stood outside the pen and put pressure from the outside to keep the rascal from crashing over the fence again.  That's when I found out that THIS calf has an evil side (just like her mother)

This is Mocha. Her mother is the biggest, nastiest, black cow on the property.  She is a chip off the old block.  While Lily was focused on keeping the bull calf from crashing over the pen, this calf stalked and rushed Lily. Fortunately Lily saw her coming, stepped aside, grabbed her nose and sent her packing with a bite to the heel.  Three times this stupid calf tried to stomp my precious Lily.  (Her days may be numbered if she keeps that shit up . . . I'm just saying . . . )

But Lily handled it with all the grace of a ballet dancer armed with a switchblade. I was impressed.  So was Mocha.

So off to the sale we went.

Once there, Other Half unloaded the bull calf while I took a moment to document Trace's first cattle auction. He was like a pig in slop.

 "LOoK!!"

A cowboy came over to talk with me about Lily. All three dogs lined up for a group shot. He didn't pet Ranger. Ranger bites.  (pardon the quality of the pics! Thou shalt not fiddle with the camera when working cattle.)

 "cOWZ!!"

Twenty minutes later you see that Ranger is already bored.  The Border Collies are still waiting, confident that if they watch the cows long enough, their patience will be rewarded and we will ask them to unload cattle belonging to a total stranger. 

"Hey, when are we going to Whataburger?"

Thirty minutes later Ranger is beyond bored.  Trace is now fantasizing that a Brahma bull will break loose and he will be called out of the truck to assist in getting the bull back in the pen.

Lily is certain, absolutely certain, that when everything goes to hell in a handbasket, she will be ready to get it all gathered back together and put in the basket again. 

You might ask yourself if this dog ever relaxes.  The answer is "yes" . . . on the drive back home.

I have a problem.  See it?

I work a full-time job and have two farms. We have cattle at one farm and the other farm has goats and sheep. Both farms have horses. We both spend so much time either at work, or working on the farms (hauling hay, fixing fence, broken pipes, planting rye grass, weaning babies, taking livestock to the sale barn, etc.) that riding for pleasure is actually
the LAST thing I want to do.

I have a $7000 horse that my trainer rides more than I do! Montoya, my Andalusian
cross, is an awesome horse and I've told Other Half that if I NEVER throw a leg
across his back again, I won't ever sell him because he's my baby. I've had him since
he was a weanling.

BUT . . . a dear friend (bless her heart for trying) calls me regularly to go
trail riding. Yet every weekend there is "something" going on that keeps me
from riding. Yesterday (after she called AGAIN for next weekend!) I put some
thought into why a $7000 sweetheart horse was sitting idle in the pasture and I
realized that I've lost the interest in trailriding because it's so much trouble
to load the trailer, haul to wherever we go, ride, then haul back. Minimum time
- most of the day.

I used to be able to saddle up and ride from my house, but now our area has
developed so I can't go many places safely. Now each ride is such a major
production, and I'm already so tired from working everything else, that I just
avoid it totally.

So I told myself that since I have absolutely no intention of selling my horse,
I have to find something to do with him that makes my heart go pitty-pat enough
for me to MAKE time to haul my horse and climb up on his tall-ass self! The
only two things that come to my mind are Team Penning and Cowboy Mounted
Shooting.

Cowboy Mounted Shooting will have to wait because I can't afford the gear right
now, but I'm seriously considering playing at Team Penning. (Just for fun,
nothing serious!) We have cattle.  We have a roping arena.  Team penning would be something we could do together that doesn't cost any money and we can train for it a couple of hours once or twice a week.

Riding for me is fun, but now I'm pulled in so many different directions that
instead of seeing it as relaxing, I see it as one more chore to make time to do.
I'd like to get more passionate about it, without being so serious that it
becomes work.

Anyway, is anyone else like me, too busy and too tired to ride?

 Who would not wanna ride this horse?

He is as smooth as warm butter underneath you!  (Andalusian/Paso Fino cross)

Even when I get off work on time, it's still 1 AM when I get to bed. No matter what time I get to bed, Trace gets up at 7:30 AM . . . on the dot. He was playing hockey in his kennel beside the bed this morning so I decided, "Why fight it?" and just got up to turn him out. 

 The fog had rolled in and the farm was blanketed in a thick layer of peace.

Our lemon trees are in bloom and the sweet smell permeated the porch.

So I stepped out into the welcoming serenity of a foggy morning to do my chores.

 "What the heck . . .

 . . . is that??!!"

"Houston, we have a problem!!!"

Apparently fences are "no big thang" for our Caped Crusader.

 "WHaT?"

Thank God my little comet comes when he's called, because he was on a collision course with Rasta the Nasty. So now I get to spend my day before I go to the office cramming landscape timbers between the fence and the ground so he can't slither his skinny little butt under the fence! So much for peace and serenity.

"oH! hOrsE pOOp!  mY fAvoRiTe!!"

"hEy DuDz!"

"iM n tHa baK oF tHa tRuk!  iM n tHa baK oF tHa tRuk!

MuM cAwLz iT tHa bOrDeR cAwLy bAbYsiTTeR!  (I AiNt nO bAbY!) MuM sTandZ owTsIdE tHa tRuk wHILe DeDDy unLOadz cOw fEEd sO I kEn WaTcH tHa cOwz!"  

(MuM waTcHz mE cLose bUt I AiNt a bAby,  I AiNt goNNa fAwL owT!) 

"MuM caWLz us bArBed wIre bOrDeR cAwLyz cuz bArBed wIre iz UseFul to raNcheRs n sew R bOrDer cAwLyz!"

"Stay in tha truck Stupid! Yer Too Little to work cows."

"I cAnT wAiT TiL i gRoW uP!!!!  bYe dUdzzzzzzz!"

(Disclaimer: None of the dogs is allowed to ride in the back of the truck outside the pasture and Trace is NOT allowed in the back of the truck unattended by a HUMAN!)

Guess what time it is!!!

This is Briar's first lambing season.  She is meeting her lambs for the first time.

Because she is young and enormous, Briar isn't allowed with the lambs without supervision.  The other ewes, particularly Rasta the Nasty is very protective of this first set of twins, so it's in Briar's best interest to stay at a healthy distance anyway.

"I've got my eye on you, you stupid dog!"

It's county fair time!  This is a Big Deal around these parts mostly because of the commercial heifer auction.  (I know . . . more cows)

Other Half simply cannot pass up a cattle auction. As we have already discussed, even our vacations somehow end up centering around livestock.  We have been known to whip into a cattle auction while en route across Texas for something else just because he wants to see what cattle are bringing in different parts of the state.  Actually, I don't believe it has anything to do with cattle prices, I think it's a sickness - and it's genetic.

I give you State's Exhibit A -

His Granddaughter at the cattle auction

(The acorn doesn't fall far from the tree.)

This child does love the County Fair Commercial Heifer Auction.  After all, what's not to love? 

The Fair has cows, free food, free drinks (so buyers will buy MORE cows!) and more cows! She was enthralled!

She gets her own sign so she can buy her own cows.  (Yes, she bought her first heifer last fall! The office said she was their youngest buyer yet!)

Lilah's cow, #197!

Other Half has always loved his black cows, but last year the kids and I convinced him to get a Santa Gertrudis at the County Fair. 

Now we're sold on 'em and after a field trip to the King Ranch in South Texas, Other Half has decided that it's time to start turning the herd towards these hardy red cows. 

We'd like to have about 50 more like this!

That said, Other Half bought another Santa Gertrudis at the fair this year.

Meet Daisy Mae!

 (Yes, that's what her name was, so "Daisy Mae" it is!)

The little girl decorated Daisy Mae for the auction. (Guess who had to wash off all that paint and glitter this morning?  Yep, little ole me!)

Other Half really likes to support the Fair kids. He bought this little girl's heifer 4 years ago.

It was her first show heifer.  She cried and cried when she sold Angel. She's older now, but each year she asks about Angel and we're happy to report that Angel is a good mother and is producing nice calves.  She won Reserve Grand Champion with her calf this year and her father thanked Other Half for starting it all by buying that first calf.

When I look at this little girl, who cannot take her eyes off the excitement of the auction,

I'm reminded of her grandfather, wheeling and dealing cattle, . . .  

 . . . and I cannot help but wonder if she'll be showing cows too. 

Something tells me that she probably will . . .

One thing's for sure . . . if she wants to show cattle,

her grandpappy will have lots of nice red calves for her to choose from.