Farm Fresh Blog

Steve Irwin & The Coffee Table

All of our dogs eventually end up with a nickname, so it's no surprise that Trace ended up with one too.  The surprise however, is that he has assumed the unlikely name of "Steve Irwin."  Yes, the Crocodile Hunter lives!

We began calling him Steve Irwin when we noticed his fascination with Oli, the Current Patrol Dog.  Oli is young. Oli is fast. And Oli looked at young Steve Irwin like he was a fast & fluffy bunny rabbit. Steve Irwin was definitely on The Menu.  (along with sheep, goats, cows, horses, and trespassers)  But Young Steve Irwin was drawn to Oli like a moth to a flame. 

He would dance right up to her kennel, peer through the bars, and say (in a thick Australian accent) "Blimey!  Look at the Dangerous Beast!  I wonder what would happen if I tugged its tail!"

Yes, our intrepid young Crocodile Hunter wanted to PLAY with the Dangerous Beast. And the Dangerous Beast wanted to play with him too.  It was a match made in Mommy Nightmares.  So we juggled Oli and Steve Irwin for weeks, waiting for young Steve to either grow up enough to get some common sense (not likely), or grow up enough for Oli to realize that he was a D.O.G. and not a bunny zooming across the yard. We'd been doing pretty well until Friday night.

That night I came home from work, and took Steve Irwin and the Pack for a walk.  Then I crammed The Crocodile Hunter in the house and took Oli out.  She cruised along with the rest of the pack while I checked the rams.  When I was done I whistled them in. Lo and behold, Oli came zooming in with Steve Irwin bouncing along beside her. (Apparently I had failed to notice that the Doggy Door was opened.) I'm sure I paled.  There he was, a pre-schooler with arm floaties, swimming in the ocean with a Great White Shark. Despite the fact that he bounced all over her shoulders, she trotted along, oblivious to the little remora on her neck. I swallowed the urge to snatch up that little pre-schooler, pull off his arm floaties and throw his ass in the outside kennel before she could change her mind. Instead, I watched them.  Oli knew he was there.  She knew he was a dog.  And she knew he was a puppy.  Oli was okay with her little remora.  I removed him before he pushed his luck too much, but it was clear that they'd reach The Day - the day that the Crocodile Hunter became a dog and not a bunny.

Today we let them play in the house. At first she didn't see him as a playmate, but he was persistent . . . and cute, . . . and so she finally gave in and played with Steve Irwin.    

They started on the couch . . .

 . . . and moved . . .

. . . to the floor . . .

And like an idiot, I watched them, happy they were having such a good time. Yep, I watched them.  I watched them crawl under a glass top coffee table. (why do Dog People have glass furniture!!!) And then I watched Oli stand up . . . taking the glass top with her. And then . . . then she said, "Holy Shit!" and she dropped like a rock . . . and so did the glass table top. 

Steve Irwin was delighted.  The resulting crash was very impressive. Oli ran.  The Crocodile Hunter bounced beside her, "Blimey, Dangerous Beast!  Do that again!!!!"

No, no one was hurt.  Yes, we now have a new coffee table.

When you have goats,

you learn to expect this.

 But . . .

. . . these are lambs! 

(Somebody (bodies?) didn't get the memo that sheep aren't goats!)

 "Whut?"

There is a wealth of wisdom to be mined from the experiences of our elders. During a discussion on people who retire and then get bored, today's words of wisdom come from a long-time rancher and county judge:

"If you have a black bull and a windmill,

you always have something to do."

Black bull?  Check!

Windmill? Not yet. 

Clearly we are only halfway there to saving ourselves from retirement years of boredom.  On the other hand, something tells me that we'll have enough to keep us busy . . .

I'm just saying . . .

Over the years I've discovered that dogs recognize members of their own breed.  They speak the same language.  They play the same games.  Belgians play a distinctive "wolf & the sheep" game that other breeds don't necessarily understand. 

"I am the wolf. You are the sheep."

They play this for a while and then the roles are reversed.  It's fast. It's loud. It sounds like a dog fight.  It's great fun for everyone. Since Ice lost her brother, Kona, in June, there has been no one to play "reindeer games" with her. Until now. . .

I cheerfully announced that she and I were going over to Grandma's to meet her new little brother. 

Ice said, "Oh dear God, it's not another Border Collie, is it?" 

"No! It's a two year old Belgian Tervuren.  Just for YOU!  You can play with him. And Lord it over him. And impress him with your Greatness!"

She allowed as how this DID have possibilities, so we went next door to G'ma's house. Stone was simply delighted to meet her. He dropped down into a play bow and spun around the room.  Her ears touched and she pulled herself up on her tip toes to impress upon him that she was certainly the most exotic and queenly creature he had ever, or would ever, meet in his life.  He was most impressed with her royal self.

 He zoomed.

And they played a bit.

He checked back with Mom from time to time.

And got hugs. . .  

 before running off . . .

. . . to play some more.

 Ice settled down in the leaves.

And while she watched him run, I couldn't help but wonder . . .

. . . if she missed her brother as much as I did.

"Preludes Kona Winds" - Cadaver Dog & Best Buddy (2002-2010)

              I'm toast!

Christmas arrived early for my mother!  Santa Claus (Lynne Foster!) drove all the way from Illinois to deliver CH M.A.J.I.C.'s It's A Family Affair (call name: Stone) to his new mommy in Texas!

  It's a win-win situation for everyone!

Lynne and his breeder, Melody Jensen, know that Stone will receive a forever home where he gets to be the ONLY dog of a retired person who already has experience with Belgians. Stone gets his own Special Person. My mom gets the companion that she needs.  And neither of them will ever be alone again.

Thank you so much Melody Jensen of M.A.J.I.C. Belgian Tervuren & Groenendael and Lynne Foster of Frostfire Dalmatians for making this possible! And God bless Lynne for making that marathon drive across the country to make someone's wish come true!

To read about why Mom was alone:  Godspeed, Penny

To read More about people like Stone's breeder, Melody Jensen:  The Unsung Heroes

There is one big reason why a certain grandpa . . .

 . . . who only got four hours sleep last night,

. . .  bounced out of bed . . .

 . . . . to drive to The Big City . . .

Do . . .     

 . . . you . . .

. . . have any idea . . .

. . . why?

     Unlike what the media hype would have us believe, Thanksgiving is about more than the Black Friday Sales which will launch an Oklahoma Land Rush of shoppers armed with credit cards and holiday spirit.  Thanksgiving is about giving thanks for the things you already have - family, friends, health, and hope.

     This media-hype away from giving thanks isn't something new. When I was a kid it struck my childlike brain as odd that the high point of the Thanksgiving Day parade was the arrival of Santa Claus. That was over thirty years ago, and it hasn't gotten any better. Now it seems that the high point of Thanksgiving is actually the big sale after the holiday.  How sad. . .

     But it doesn't have to be that way. You can change things. A forest fire starts with a single spark. Just take a quiet moment, away from the madness of Butterballs and shopping malls, to thank God for what you already have . . .

DeEr LoRd,

tHanK Ewe fOr aWl mY fAmiLy N FrIEndz, FuRRy N nOt. tHank Ewe for mY puPPy choW, n mY shEEp, n mY toYz, n mOmmY, n DaDDy, n G'Ma. tHank Ewe cuz iM heaLthee n caN rUn fAsT. tHank Ewe tHat mOmmy n DaDDy haf joBs 2 puT puPPy chow on thA taBle . . .

"Don't forget the pig ears!"

"OOOh! N tHanK Ewe fOr awl tha pIg Eears!"

I stepped out my back door to find this:

This is what happens when you leave a roll of blue garage paper towels out.

It wasn't a mystery who did it . . .

AND . . .

They are a team, the Usual Suspects . . . .

(I think "mentally", they are the same age.)

The mystery was not WHO vandalized the back yard.  The big mystery was HOW paper towels and the core ended up . . .

 . . . in the outside kennel with Oli!

                  "Should I call my lawyer?"

Now before you people with old dogs start feeling all smug because your yard and property haven't been trashed lately, let me show you this:

This mess was all over my kitchen counter.

I stepped into the house and was momentarily dumbfounded.  What tha?!! My first thought was to blame Other Half for the mess.  (A woman immediately jumps to this conclusion first!) But I remembered that Other Half was not home. 

Then I looked closer . . .

AHHHHH . . . this was not mud smeared all over the counter!  It was GREASE!

I had left a pan of grease and Lipton Onion Soup cooling on the stove so that I could pour it over the dogs' food. 

But who?!!!  The Usual Suspects had been outside with me.  So who?

 . . .  who indeed!

There is a suspect . . a suspect who is as old as Methuselah.  A suspect so old that her tumors have tumors.  Half blind, like Gollum in the Lord Of The Rings, she slinks about in the darkness, and people forget she's there . . .

. . . a suspect so intelligent that despite her age, she can use a kitchen chair to climb onto the stove . . . 

             and      . . . .

                                          . . .  help herself to an early supper.

  Alice in her favorite barn chair

           "What?"

So to all you people who thought your dogs had outgrown making a mess . . .

Think again!

There reaches a point where they are so old that they KNOW nothing will really happen to them.

 "Oh pu-lease! 

 What are you gonna do? Hit me? Pu-lease! We both know better than that.  Hey! Go easy on the Onion Soup next time.  It was a little salty." 

     Some days you tackle the farm, and some days the farm tackles you. Today was a big WWF Smackdown on me. Perhaps I'm just hormonal. You just shouldn't work livestock and water hoses when you're hormonal. I had some yearling rams that needed to be moved. Now common sense would tell you to wait until Other Half or Dear Friend could help, but NO!  I was PMSing and it needed to be done NOW!  So here's how it went:

Lock up everyone but Lily. Start to separate sheep.  The constant barking in the dog pens has me thinking about handguns. Snarl at the Main Barker.  Ice is offended that I would speak to her in this manner and shuts up.  But barking resumes as soon as I start working sheep again.  Thoughts of handguns dance like sugarplums in my head. Lily and I soon have the two young rams separated. (I know that lots of folks don't like them, but I LOVE my cheap wooden feedstore crook. It allows me to reach out and grab the one I want while Lily steps in to move everyone else off. It also allows me to hold onto his bucking little self when everyone leaves him.)  So my Clunky Crook, Lily, and I get the rams separated and begin to move them through the barn, into the back yard, and toward an opened gate that leads to more paddocks.

All is well until the rams decide that the open gate is waaaay to close to a kennel of Foosas.  (Ranger and Trace)  Note that the kennel is not that close, but if the rams see it as a problem, it's a problem.  Decide that it is easier to move the dogs than it is to convince the rams to move past the dogs.  Trace is beside himself watching Lily work.  ("Put ME in, Coach!  Put Me in!  Let me slip into my SuperSuit and I can work those rams too!")   Eegaads.  Not what I want.

So while Lily watches rams, I grab Trace and Ranger and throw them in house. Okay then.  Problem solved. Begin again. 

Rams decide that kennel which USED to contain Foosas is also too scary to walk past. Although I tell myself I have all the time in the world to do this, the idea of butchering these rams is looking better and better.  Lily is much more patient and continues to slowly move two flighty, moronic rams, who should probably be removed from the gene pool, around the back yard and towards the gate.  Her patience is rewarded and shortly they are through the back yard, through two small paddocks, and into their new Bachelor Pad Prison. God helps us. I know our style may look like a train wreck on a Sunday afternoon, but it gets the job done.

Safely in their new prison, the rams happily discover rye grass and wander off.  Now that the marble that is their brain has stopped rolling around and settled back into its hole, they have settled down too.

Look around and realize that they need fresh water and the hose which feeds their tank has a giant hole in it.  Probably because someone drove her truck across it. More water now sprays out the geyser than comes out the end of the hose. The hose must be replaced. Trudge to barn to find another hose. Drag old hose through barn, across yard, through dog poop, and into paddock. Replace geyser hose with ancient yellow hose.  Turn on spigot.  Note that Yellow Hose also produces a geyser.  Did I drive over every hose on the property?!

Since this geyser is not as large as the Green Hose Geyser, I approve hose just for today.  (which probably will mean that I won't get around to replacing it for months!)  Pull hose toward trough.  It is six feet too short. Lily is slightly confused at this round of cussing which does not involve sheep.  Walk back into house for a dose of Calm Down Juice - cup of coffee.

Exit house with coffee and re-examine length of hose.  No, it did not grow any longer while I was in the house. Perhaps I should have fertilized it.  Decide that if I pull it underneath the horse trailer instead of around the horse trailer, it "might" be able to reach to the trough.  Ponder how I'm gonna run the hose underneath the trailer without getting down on my knees and reaching under there.  Consider standing on one side and asking Lily to fetch the hose to me.  It has possibilities but then, how many additional holes do I want in the yellow hose?

Pull hose where I want it and discover that all I have to do is run it underneath the tongue of the trailer. FINALLY!  Things are working in our direction again.  Now the hose is only one foot short of the trough.  Decide that I can hold it while it fills the trough. YES!  We're on a roll!

And that's when Lily said to me, "Hmmm . . . look at that."

"Huh?"  I turned to look.

The rams who had been grazing in peaceful bliss were now perfectly upright, staring at a Foosa. This was confusing, since Lily was standing beside me.  Where was the Foosa?  Then I see him.

Apparently when I went into the house for coffee, Trace must have slithered his tiny little ass out behind me.  Eeegaaads!  A four month old puppy in a paddock with two yearling rams is a recipe for disaster.  So I call to him.  Deep in stalk mode, he barely glances out the corner of his eye, and says, "Sshush Mom!  I'm getting my groove on!"

I am now in deep Freak-Out mode as I watched my toddler neatly gather two rams and start walking them towards me.  (and I must say that despite my absolute hysteria, I was quite impressed too!)  He walked; they walked.  No running. No barking. Just smooth, deliberate stalking. And it was working for him. The problem I saw was that the sheep were walking away from Foosa A (Trace) toward me, but Foosa B (Lily) was standing in the shed beside me.  Quickly project that all will be well until the sheep discover Foosa B and run back over Foosa A. 

So I call Foosa A again.  (Why did I bother?)  He has on his Supersuit and he is in full Superhero mode.  No running. No barking. Just slowly creeping the sheep in my direction. So I put Lily on a stay and walk out of the shed.  The rams decide that on second thought, perhaps they DON'T want to go into the shed and turn to move away from me.  Foosa A then moves his tiny ass around to cut them off, and heads them back toward me again.  (Holy crap! What a good boy!)  This time they move into the shed.  I let them pass me, and as he slithers past, I grab up his bratty butt. 

It is pointless to scold him.  It was my fault that he got into the pen in the first place, and he's proud of himself for gathering the sheep.  Despite the fact that I saw his life and working career flash before my eyes, I'm proud of him too.  Lily is not nearly as impressed. 

Then I whisk him back into the house where he belongs and pack his Supersuit away for another year until he is ready to be a real stockdog.  (and count my additional gray hairs)