Farm Fresh Blog

Other Half is out of town.  He has gone to some "starched shirt something" which doesn't include his partner, Oli.

Because we have so many freakin' dogs, their care is divided into "yours, mine, and ours."

HIS:

New Police Dog - Oli
Old Police Dog - Zena
Rescue Border Collie - Cowboy
Space Cadet Blue Heeler - Ranger

MY DOGs:

Precious Can Do No Wrong Border Collie - Lily
Ancient Half-Blind Bloodhound - Alice
Black Wolf Belgian - Ice
Livestock Guardian Dog - Briar

OUR DOG:

Little Red Snot Border Collie Puppy - Trace

(Even though Ranger is in Other Half's stack of dogs, he believes he is MY dog, so I attend to his physical and emotional needs. And even though Trace is OUR puppy, make no mistake - he's MINE!)

For the most part, the care of everyone except Oli and Cowboy falls on me (cuz I'm tha Mommy!).  Oli is his partner, and Cowboy is his truck dog. Since Cowboy tries to fight with Ranger (who kicks his butt every time) and he pees all over the house, he cannot run with the Big Pack. Since Oli still views Trace as if he's a high-priced meal, she is also not allowed to run with the Big Pack.  (It would not look good if Other Half had to report to his agency that I shot his $7000 dog because she ate my toddler puppy.) So Oli and Cowboy are a small pack of their own.  They putter around the yard together, they play together in the living room, but they have absolutely nothing in common.  (just cell mates!)

* Oli loves to trot endless circles, chase cats, & kill sheep.

* Cowboy likes to run in large sweeping, slinking circles around livestock. He likes to stare at stock, and cats are beneath his radar. (and he likes to pee on everything!)

While Other Half is out of town, I must exercise his dogs.  So today after the Big Pack got a morning walk, the Special Needs Pack got their morning walk. That's when this was caught on the surveillance camera. (or it could have been me sitting in the horse trailer with a Canon)

I took these shots for Other Half since he will not believe me without proof. 

This is my driveway.  

Robert! See that crater!

Look at the dog diggin' that crater! 

Does this little butt look familiar?

No, it's not "out of focus," that's sand flying at the camera!  Look again!

 Does that look like my precious, innocent Briar? 

No!  In fact, it looks a LOT like your little red heathen dog, OLI!  Doesn't it?

The State rests its case, Your Honor!

They say that horses are dangerous. They say you should always wear a helmet when working with horses.  What they don't say is that horses are dangerous even when they're not around you.  For instance, let's just suppose that you need to move a horse buggy from one house to another house that is less than a mile away.  Do you:

A: load it up on a flatbed trailer
B: have the horse haul it down the road
C: have someone sit in a Kubota mule and hold the shafts while someone else drives the Hillbilly contraption down the street

Stupid people that we are, we opted for "C."

It was late, in fact, it was dark.  (I want to go on record here to state that "I" suggested that we wait until the next morning when the sun was up!  But NO! He wanted to get that chore out of the way.  Okie Dokie, Smokey!)

Sooo . . .  he found a red lantern that flashes, (yes it is exactly like the red lanterns that the railroad men used to hang outside the prostitute's door, thus, "the red light" district was born . . . I read somewhere that this is actually a myth,  but I digress . . . )  Any hooo, he used some hay string to hang a red lantern from the back of the buggy, sat on the tail gate of the little mule, picked up the shafts, and gave the order to proceed.

There was much yelling to get it out of the driveway.  Other Half is a yeller and a screamer.  Unlike Ranger, the Blue Heeler, I don't take it personally, I just slam on the brakes, hop out, and scream right back at him because he yells contradictory instructions.  (It makes for a healthy relationship.  Either that, or it entertains the neighbors, I'm not sure which.)

After much yelling, we navigated the driveway and headed off down the highway . . . in the dark - two fools, pulling a horse cart behind a Kubota mule . . . illuminated by headlights in the front, and a prostitute light in the back.  All was well until we got to our destination. A sharp right-hand turn was needed to get into the driveway.

I slowly put on the brakes.

"You got it?" I asked.

"Yeah, I got it!  Go ahead!"

So I did.  And that's when he started screaming.  Now this wasn't the deep-voiced, impatient yell of a man used to telling other people what to do.  No, this was the high-pitched wail of pain.

"No!  NO! NO!  Back up! Reverse!!!"  (Plus there was lots of cussing, but since this is a family-friendly channel, I deleted those words.)

So I put the mule in reverse.  The screaming reached a whole new pitch.  And cussing . . . lots more cussing. (Something about cutting his blankety-blank finger off.)  So I leaped out of the mule and ran around the back to see what he had gotten himself into. 

Eegaads!  To make it easier to pull, he had wedged the shafts of the cart into the bed of the mule.  This worked well on the straight-away, but it didn't allow for the turn.  He was holding the shaft inside the bed of the mule. When our Hillbilly vehicle turned right, the wooden shaft of the cart pinched his hand against the metal bed of the mule. Ouch!  (or . . .  Bleep!  Bleep! Bleepity! Bleep!)

There was more hollering as we lifted the shaft to release his fingers.  (It actually made the skin on my butt crawl!) But . . . it didn't amputate his fingers.  Fortunately for him, he was wearing this . . .

It took the pressure of the shaft.  The ring bent, but the bone didn't break.

We had a doggone hard time getting that ring off. He refused to go to the Emergency Room to let them cut it off. (Diamond horseshoe ring)  We finally got it off with dish soap.

I was looking for a frozen bag of peas to put on his hand, but he insisted that I run to his fancy, smancy tactical gear and get a chemical cold pack (yes, he actually has chemical packs as well as "if you get shot, open this packet" gear.)  So instead of a bag of frozen peas, he wanted the chemical cold pack.  He grabbed it with the good hand, ripped it open, and it exploded in his face.  (uh oh!  It was not a good night for Other Half.)

So while he was standing over the kitchen sink washing out his eyes, I was rummaging through bags of frozen vegetables.

"No peas.  How 'bout some French Fries?"

He declined my offer of frozen French Fries.  (Truth be told, Other Half was a bit of a Bitchy Bear last night.)  Instead, he soaked his hand in a tupperware container of ice water.  (Which was 25 degrees Fahrenheit. I know this because he had a thermometer.  Why?  I don't know. After all, cold is cold.)  At this point the dogs and I were just standing in the kitchen watching the show, wondering what he'd do next.

Interestingly enough, despite the pain, the hand seems to have survived without much damage.  The ring was a bit oblong, but nothing was broken.  We discussed taking it to the jeweler's to have it fixed.  I'm gonna let y'all in a little secret.  Other Half is tight.  Other Half is really, really tight.  Why pay a jeweler to fix a ring when you have a pair of pliers?  I kid you not. It ain't pretty, but it fits on his finger again.  And now we have both learned a valuable lesson.  He learned to watch his fingers when pulling the cart, and I learned to always drive the mule and let him pull the cart.   (I'm just saying . . . )

I tease about Ranger being Trace's Fairy Godfather . . .

But the reality is that despite his good humor,

 Ranger is most definitely a Marlon Brando-style "Godfather."

Just ask Briar . . .

when she gets too rough with Trace . . .

"Don't play too rough with The Baby!"

After Ranger lets her up, Briar and Trace shuffle off to the more sedate sport . . .

. . . of hunting for cat poop.

While Trace's Godfather watches . . .

Other Half works nights, so he rarely gets to experience the best time on a farm . . .

. . . when the sun comes up.

As the sun rises, so do the animals.

(Some are a bit more enthusiastic than others.)

There are dogs to be walked . . .

"MOMMM!!! dOnT tAkE PicKcHerS oF mE pOOpiNg!!"

"MaKe LiLy QUiT LooKN aT mE!"

There are horses to be fed.

Goats and sheep to turn out . . .

. . . and cows to be checked.

(Note to self: Cows do NOT appreciate it when humans lie in the grass and rise up to take their pictures.  Cows don't have much of a sense of humor. It probably has something to do with McDonald's and Big Macs.  I'm just saying . . . )

  Horses are okay with it.

Horses have a sense of humor.

Border Collies have a great sense of humor!  Uh oh!

Group mauling!     

I want to take a moment to thank all the angels who flew to my rescue when I asked for help finding someone who could spin my Soul Dog Hair into yarn and make it into something I could wear as a remembrance of him.  You guys are awesome!

The hair in the can will be going to Mary Berry of Fancy Fibers Farm  (www.FancyFibers.com ) here in Texas. She thinks I have enough hair for a scarf and maybe a hat!  (woo hooo!)  I found another small stash of hair in a plastic garbage bag (more tears of joy!) and Sue Givens in Wyoming has offered to spin that into yarn.  She thinks maybe we can make one of those earwarmer headbands.  (Yee haaa!) 

I cannot begin to thank you guys for all the support you have given me!  You are like family! Over this year we've shared laughs, loves, tears of sadness and tears of joy.  During this season of Thanksgiving, I just wanted to take a moment to tell you how much you, my dear readers and friends, mean to me.

Thank you,

(many hugs)

sheri

 . . . and Lily!

Last night Ice came home. Even though life for her is much better at Grandma's house, after a few days she realized that she wasn't just visiting, and she became more and more stressed. She missed her pack. She missed her mommy.  I took her on the "pack walks" each morning with us, but it wasn't enough.  She began waiting by the fence for me. She turned her back on "the good life" and wanted to come home . . . home to a half-life where she must share everything with the pack, but it was what she wanted, and so we honored that. 

I was reminded of the street dog who belonged to the homeless man.  We fed him roast beef and cornbread, but he left us and never looked back when his master hobbled down the street. (read: Moral Dilemmas)  Ice is a devoted little dog.  She still loves Grandma, but she wants to live over here.

On a side note:  Ranger had taken to hopping the fence, going through Grandma's doggy door, and visiting Ice.  Apparently he was also feeling the pinch of a pack divided.  Either that, or he has decided that cleaning out the refrigerator with G'ma is the cat's pajamas!  He is an odd little dog.

This morning he raced across 3 pastures when he heard lambs bleating in distress. Normally his attitude towards the sheep is "they are great toys to bark at," but upon hearing them in a panic, his Crazy-Overprotective-Greek-Mother genes kicked in and he raced to their defense.  How utterly odd . . .

(They were fine, they had simply misplaced their mother.) Ranger was not satisfied however, until the lambs found their mother and all was well again.  I'll say this, I was strongly against getting that little fruitcake, but he has proven to be such a good family dog that if I lived in some remote part of Texas, (and didn't have to worry about them biting people) I'd have a pack of little blue psycho dogs.

This is Old Timer. 

(Don't get excited, he's not staying!)

Last night Other Half and I attended a fancy suit & tie multi-agency thingee which necessitated both of us trying to get out of the house without dog hair on black fabric.  (not easily done in our household!)  Nevertheless, we arrived at the little shing-ding, met interesting folks, discussed national security, interstate commerce, and livestock guardian dogs (I kid you NOT!  Another couple found out we had sheep and asked us about Anatolians!  We ended up talking dogs most of the night.  Go figure.)

Anyway, when the ride was over, and people were filing out, this little wayfaring stranger flagged us down.  He ran up to Other Half, jumped on his leg and said, (and I quote), "HEY, I need some assistance!  I've lost my human and my cellular phone.  Could I borrow your phone to call my human?"

How this dog found the one K9 handler in a sea of suits I don't know, but he did.  And from the moment he climbed into Other Half's arms, I knew that at least for tonight, he was coming home with us.  So much for not getting dog hair on a black suit. A Secret Service Agent helped us with him and after calling his mom and not getting an answer, we drove around the neighborhood to talk with security guards, yuppies, and homeless people to see if anyone knew where this little guy came from. No such luck.

A few well-placed phone calls later and we had an address but it was nowhere near where he'd flagged us down.  We also found another phone number but it only yielded another answering machine.  It looked like Old Timer was coming home with us for a while.  Oh joy, just what we need - another dog.

Fortunately Old Timer loves to travel, loves to be carried, walks on a leash, is familiar with a dog crate, is housetrained, and gets along well with other dogs.  The night was not nearly as stressful as I'd thought it would be.

And bright and early this morning his mommy called Other Half to report that Old Timer had been staying with friends while she was out of town.  He had gotten away from them, faced fast-moving cars, braved the pitbulls in the ghetto, forded the railroad tracks, and flagged down the three people in a sea of suits most likely to lend him a cell phone.

I returned him to his mommy this afternoon.  She saw his little face in the passenger's seat and began running down the sidewalk even before my truck came to a stop.  I rolled down the window and she ripped him through the open window and into her arms. He wriggled around, kissed her tears, and started to tell her about his big adventure.  All I can say is that God must certainly look out for brave little dogs with big hearts.

Note: Old Timer made it home because he was wearing a dog tag with his name and telephone number and he was friendly enough to flag down a stranger.  Dog tags and/or microchips are well worth the time.  I would be hysterical if my little Lily had been lost in that neighborhood.  Other Half says I would have had a police helicopter up looking for her.  (He's right . . . I'm sure we could have somehow tied the disappearance of a Border Collie to terrorist activity and national security.  I'm very creative that way.)

On my desk is a greeting card that I've framed.  It shows a black and white photograph of a man lifting up a little dog so the pup can drink out of a water fountain.  At the bottom of the card is a quote from George Eliot that reads:

 "What do we live for,

 if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?"

There is a profound wisdom in that quote. We are all an army of angels.  I hold firmly to the belief that God puts us where he wants us. Sometimes being in the right place at the right time means good befalls you, but other times, being in the right place at the right times means you are there to help someone else.

One of my favorite quotes is from an old Clint Eastwood movie, "Bronco Billy."

"A hand-out is what you get from the government,
 a hand-up is what you get from a friend."

(I only saw that movie once, but I never forgot that quote.)

Each and every one of us can be an angel for someone else. No matter how great, or how small they are, everyone can use a little "hand up" from time to time.  Today while walking the dogs in the bird flight pen, I happened to run across this little Neighbor In Need:

A dragonfly had gotten caught in the netting. He buzzed and buzzed, but he was caught fast.  I noticed him, even the dogs noticed him, it was simply a matter of time before he became an unhappy participant in the Food Chain's Circle of Life on the Farm. So I decided to help him. There was a problem, however. God had sent him an angel, but my little neighbor was probably 12 feet off the ground, and this angel is only 5'5" tall. 

I also firmly believe that if "God sends you to it, He'll send you through it," and I wasn't the only angel that God sent to this little dragonfly.

Just about the time I wished I was 12' tall, the dogs just happened to find this really cool stick.  (Huh! Whodathunkit?)

 So I asked them to bring me the stick.  And they did . . . (eventually it got to me.)

"Let go, Stupids!  I'M bringing it!"

So I freed the dragonfly and he went off about his little dragonfly business. It got me to thinking about the chain of events leading up to his unlikely rescue and how God would use a human, a stick, and five dogs to rescue a dragonfly.

Perhaps there's a lesson in all that.  Maybe it's this:

Maybe, just maybe, if we all slowed down . . .

. . .  and took a look around,

 just maybe, we could help "make life less difficult for each other. . . " 

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.