Farm Fresh Blog

. . . there are no sick days, there is simply a shifting of priorities. Normally you are concerned with feeding everyone, turning everyone out, making sure no one gets eaten by the coyotes, etc. When you are sick, you are doing good to get everyone fed. Here's how it works:

Thursday:  wake up with wretched headache. Decide that it will go away. Pop some Advil and go to work. Buy Dayquil and Nyquil at convenience store on way home from work.  Guzzle Nyquil and go to bed.

Friday: Wake up to head that feels like a football on Superbowl Sunday. Take Dayquil. Go to work. Warn co-workers to stay away.  We are a small, specialized unit. Six people for the entire metroplex. With each cough I become more aware of the fact that I am infecting the entire unit. Assure myself that this is the worst day and tomorrow will be better.

Saturday:  I lied.  Tomorrow is not better.  Tomorrow is now Today, and it sucks.  Am coughing up a lung. Running a fever.  There is a growing mountain of Kleenex on the night stand (dog kennel beside the bed) Accept the fact that I am sick. Realize there is NO WAY I can go to work without infecting EVERYONE. Call in sick. Feed livestock. No new lambs. Turn sheep out. Go back to bed. Send Other Half to store for Musinex. Other Half returns with Musinex , Kleenex, and a stuffed animal. (Awwwwwww . . . ) Then he goes to work.

Throw all dogs outside. Plan to sleep all day. Dogs are barking at everything that moves. Turn on television to drown out barking dogs.  Dogs bark louder.  Dogs are fence-fighting with Mother's dog next door. Finally drag out of bed, fling open patio door and scream at top of lungs "Shut up! Shut up! Shut the *#@! up, you stupid dogs!"

(This is how the people across the road learn new words.)

Dogs are momentarily silent. I slam patio door and go back to bed. Turn on heating pad. Go to sleep. Other Half calls to make sure I haven't died. Stumble to kitchen to make a bowl of cereal. Collapse in cushy chair in front of television. Stare at television in a stupor. Cough through two hours of Sex In The City. Bring dogs in house. Go back to bed while watching television. Listen to Livestock Guardian Dog bark for FOUR SOLID HOURS!  If she is locked in barn, she cannot protect rams, but she will shut up.  By the end of the fourth hour, decide that I do not care if the rams are eaten by coyotes. I HAVE GOT TO GET SOME SLEEP! Lock Briar in barn.  Go back to bed. Forget to put Baby Border Collie Trace in his kennel.  Wake up to discover that he has pooped all over the hallway and has fingerpainted in it.  Clean up hallway. At least I cannot smell the poop that is smeared all over the tile.

While I am cleaning up hallway, he poops in living room.  Want to sit down and cry, but because of constant running nose, am so dehydrated that there are no tears. Throw Trace outside into kennel on back porch. Go back to bed. Finally get to sleep.  Other Half comes home from work and begins to gripe about poor little Trace, in the cold, on the back porch. I am not the picture of sympathy.  He's not sick. He chose to poop in the house. I roll over and go back to sleep.  Hear him yell at Trace for peeing in the living room.  Get some morbid sense of satisfaction out of that.  Go back to bed.

Sunday:  Wake up and throw dogs outside.  Stumble out to see if coyotes got rams.  Nope. Good. Go back to bed. Wake up to phone ringing. Roll over to see who would call at this gawdawful early time in the morning.  It is 11:30 am.  Uh oh! Dear Friend has new Anatolian Shepherd puppy and wants to come get the Boer goat does that I promised to loan her for his socialization training. Stumble out of bed. Feed Very Hungry Very Indignant Farm. Put dog collars on confused goats. Let sheep out.  Accidentally let Trace in with sheep while letting Briar in with sheep.  Call puppy. He ignores me to go gather sheep. Consider shooting myself and going back to bed. People on Nyquil should not match wits with Border Collie Puppies. Finally get puppy captured and thrust him back through fence. 

Dear Friend and Husband come for goats. Try not to cough on them. Put leashes on goats and lead them with a bucket of feed across pasture, down the fence line and into their new pasture. Baby Anatolian puppy says hello.  Awwwww . . . They are not impressed. Watch long enough to determine that goats will not hurt puppy and puppy will not hurt goats.  Go back to bed. Wake up hungry. Wake Other Half up and insist he make me pork chops. Wonder of wonders - he does.

Feel better with food in belly. Other Half demands to know why there are no vitamins in house.  I argue that I do not like to take pills and would rather get my vitamins in my food.  Other Half scoffs, "Chocolate?"  (That was mean.  You shouldn't be mean to sick people.)

Send Other Half to work. Water rams and ponies. Note that Little Red Monster Pony is down.  Colic?  Sleeping? Go check him out.  Definitely colic.  Severe abdominal pain.  Call Other Half.  Banamine is in the fridge. Call Dear Friend.  Need help giving Beast injection because he is a Half-Pint Monster. No answer.  Walk down road.  She is gone but Vet Husband is home.  Pennies from Heaven.  Walk back down with vet.  Try not to cough on him. He holds Ruffy while I give injection.  No rodeo.  (Monster does these things to make a liar out of me.)  Put ear on his gut to listen for gut sounds.  He tries to kick me in the face.  Ahhh.... there's the Monster!  In a feat of athletic prowess that surprises me, I catch his hoof in my hand as he attempts to smash my face.  Wow! Listen again while I hold his hoof in the air.  He tries to kick me again.   Hear no gut sounds. Get turkey baster and pump Little Monster full of Pepto Bismal. Now he has a reason to be angry.  His lips are pink.

Walk Devil Pony up and down roadway until banamine takes effect. When his gut finally relaxes, put him back out in paddock where he and other pony begin to play.  O.K.  Thank Vet profusely. Hope I have not infected him.  Go back to bed. Phone Other Half for update. He agrees to call every two hours to wake me up to check on Devil Pony. True to his word, he does.

Ruffy is not happy to see me. He makes it clear that unless I come bearing cookies instead of Pepto Bismal, I can take a hike. I remind him that if his hoof had connected with my head earlier, Other Half would have let a Certain Red Monster die of colic. He is not impressed. But he is alive, and that's all I care about, so I go back to bed. This is repeated every two hours until Other Half comes home from work.

Have six (6!!!!) uninterrupted hours of sleep! Border Collie #1 (Lily) wakes me up to inform me that everyone with 4 legs has to pee and they would very much like me to drag my butt out of bed to open the patio door for them. Stumble to the door.  It is pouring down raining. Why me, Lord? Dearly, dearly want to go back to bed, but must check on Monster Pony and Ewe-About-To-Pop. Ewe has no babies. Pony is standing in stall, forcing his companion to stand out in the rain. He is very much back to his normal self.

Stand in rain, looking at Grumpy Ungrateful Pony and wonder what people who live in subdivisions do when they get sick.

To read more about Ruffy:

Hyacinth bulbs in my kitchen window

They permeate the entire house with a sweet floral smell. (When you have a Bloodhound, every little bit helps!)

Unfortunately, I can't smell them.  I have a head cold. There is never a convenient time for a head cold. Other Half is working overtime, the temperatures are freezing, we're already running short on hay, I have another pregnant ewe that simply refuses to drop her baby, and I've almost eaten an entire pound cake in three days. Calories don't count if you're blowing your nose every 2 minutes. Right? Besides, when you're sick you should eat fruit. Am I right? Since strawberries are a fruit, I choose to eat strawberry shortcake! Please don't remind me of this the next time I'm whining about how fat I'm getting . . . I put a half a stick of butter in that pound cake!

After everything this ewe has been through, it's hard not get sentimental about her, and in turn, it's hard not to get sentimental about her babies.  Because they belong to Roanie, we decided to keep them as wethers and use them to work the dogs. They have been christened "Macaroni" and "Ricearoni" since their mother is "Roanie."

Not only did Roanie survive the dog attack, she gained the use of her leg again. She was Briar's friend in a pasture of sheep, who at best, ignored the puppy. And now, Roanie has twins.  Today was their first day out with the rest of the flock and Roanie had definite hesitations about taking them out of the barn.

After a few false starts, where she teased them with glimpses of The Great Outdoors, only to return them to the sheep pen, she finally took a breath and headed through the alley to the Lamb Paddock.

They had to pass goats . . .  and . . .

. . . navigate the giant mud puddle.

Once in the Lamb Paddock, although it was mild and sunny, there were still large patches of standing water.  Poor Ricearoni hesitated as his mother and brother plowed across one.

  "MOM!  Come back!"

His cry called some of the other lambs, who hustled over to check out the new kid on the block.

But Roanie (with Macaroni in tow) splashed back through the water and informed the older lambs to "Get away from my baby!"

 One little guy took repeated head butts before he got the message.  (He's not the brightest crayon in the box.)

But eventually, they shuffled along their way.

Not only is she a survivor, Roanie is a very attentive mother.  I wish we had a dozen more ewes like this mis-matched little sheep.  

To read the story of Briar & Roanie, click: Blood Will Tell ,  Miss Hardy , Farm Drama

     We have 9 dogs - old dogs, new dogs, working dogs, retired dogs. But just because we have bright-eyed promising pups, it doesn't mean that we don't love the retired dogs with cloudy eyes and gray muzzles.  Alice the Bloodhound is my Gollum-Dog. Like Gollum in Lord Of The Rings, she skulks around in her world of darkness, a creature repulsive to others. Tumors are erupting over most of her body and the ordinary rank smell of Bloodhound is magnified by a nasty yeast smell. She is blind and her front teeth are worn down by bouts of near constant chewing.  For years, she has lived on antibiotics and steroids.  We have tried every dog food, shampoo and ear wash on the market to no avail. We have tried every home remedy on the internet. Things that used to work no longer control her skin problems, and now at her age, I'm leery of even putting anything new into her system.

     I looked at her yesterday. I can smell Alice before I can even see her. She has raw red tumors popping through the skin like volcanoes. They don't appear to hurt. She has a hearty appetite and eats more than Briar, yet she's skin and bones. She lives in a world of darkness and cloudy shadows, but she's happy.  Alice navigates the back yard like a bat in the night. The pack doesn't pick on her.  In fact, they dote on her like a grumpy old grandmother.  They clean her ears, clean her eyes, and clean the oozing tumors.  (Eegaads!  YUCK! GROSS!) No one dares to get close to her food bowl.

    Yet I look at her condition and I cannot help but wonder if we should put her down. Her tumors have tumors.  In the past, I've always said that if a dog is still happy and has a hearty appetite, then it's not time, but perhaps I was wrong about Alice.  After looking at her volcano tumors again yesterday, I picked up the phone to call Dear-Friend-Married-To-Vet.  They will honestly advise me so that I don't let sentiment lead to neglect. So I phoned Dear Friend, and as I walked into the kitchen, I saw The Most Amazing Thing . . . 

There I was, on the phone, getting advice about putting her down, and with me out of the room, Alice took the opportunity to use a chair to climb onto the stove and get the remnants of a Frito Pie that I had set aside for Briar.  Her body may be rejecting her skin, but there is nothing wrong with her nose.  She is a Bloodhound, a nose with feet . . . and Frito Pie on her breath. And she is a thief . . .

That pretty much settled the issue on whether it was time to put her to sleep.  The vet came and looked at her again last night. She is ugly, she is stinky, but she is happy. And that's the only thing that matters.  

Meet Roanie.

Roanie was part of a group of sheep that I purchased sight unseen.  I hadn't planned on keeping her. Phenotypically she wasn't what I wanted to reproduce, so I had planned to get her back in good condition and then sell her. But . . .  Someone got into the isolation pen and attacked sheep. 

  "I was never convicted of that!"

 Roanie was seriously injured. The dog had mangled her back leg. Roanie had to endure the stitching and initial treatment, and then daily injections of penicillin.  We discussed amputating the leg. We discussed euthanizing the ewe.

The ewe with less serious injuries later contracted tetanus (despite being vaccinated!) and had to be euthanized. We considered euthanizing Roanie, but she was such a trooper that I couldn't do it.  If she wanted to live, I was willing to help her. After the other ewe died, the vet told us to just throw Roanie out with the rest of the flock and hope for the best.  So we did. At that point, you could literally see daylight through her leg.

Briar was just a puppy then, but she immediately gravitated to the injured ewe.  She became Roanie's Florence Nightingale.  Roanie, the ewe who had every reason to be afraid of dogs, somehow knew this dog was different.

 Their first meeting

At the time, we felt she was destined to live out her life with a permanent severe limp, but we decided to keep her. We figured that with her limp, she couldn't be used for breeding, but she could be an auntie for weanlings. Besides, I felt we owed her, since it was my mistake that allowed the dog to get to her. So Roanie and her Florence Nightingale puppy hung out in the pasture together, and over time though, her limp became less and less noticeable.  Then there came a point where she was able to keep up with the flock with little or no limp. 

As winter approached, it became apparent that like everyone else, Roanie was pregnant. She had no trouble carrying the extra weight.  Her leg is a tiny bit shorter, but otherwise, she is fine. We decided to keep whatever baby she had. If it was a ewe lamb, I had already determined that it would stay simply because Roanie is such a fighter that I need genes like that in the flock.  And if it was ram lamb, we would just neuter it and keep him as a wether to work the dogs and wean babies. Sunday morning, Roanie blessed us with twins.  I checked her at 3 AM. No babies. By 8:30 AM she had two healthy, clean and dry little guys.

They are both rams, but we will be keeping them. Despite everything this ewe went through, she not only survived, but she thrived and reproduced. I try not to get sentimental about the livestock, but Roanie is special. We'll be keeping these little guys.  As yet, Florence Nightingale hasn't been allowed around Roanie's new babies, but I imagine that everyone will be just fine.

Remember Puss In Boots from Shrek?

I'd forgotten about Puss In Boots until I found that weepy little worried face staring at me at the herding clinic this weekend.  Lily walked into the pen with the sheep on Saturday morning and said "I don't wanna be here!  I wanna go home!"  Eegaads!

Do WHAT!!!!???  She was in major shut-down. I was in complete shock. How could this weepy-eyed creature be the same dog that regularly takes on cattle trying to kick the crap out of her? I expected major handling errors on my part. I expected her to look at me too often. I expected her to slice in on her flanks and run sheep on top of me, but never in a million years did I expect her to stand there like Puss In Boots, staring at me, frozen in her tracks.  Holy Crap!

And that's where I really came to appreciate Patrick Shannahan and the rest of the herding people at the clinic.  He patiently worked through Lily's fear.  Because Lily only had one training slot on Saturday, someone else graciously offered her afternoon slot so that we could work out Lily's problems then. Although still incredibly inhibited, Lily did loosen up and work enough in the afternoon for Patrick to see what our general problems were.  And yes, we have many.  I have worked too much on driving at the expense of her gathering skills.  That needs to be remedied. We also need to work on having her respect my bubble and the sheep's bubble. And OBVIOUSLY she needs to go to NEW places to work so she doesn't freak out and shut down again.

While neither of these runs were typical of the way Lily regularly works, both runs took our faults, compounded them, and amplified them quite loudly. But the good thing was that we were in the perfect place for that to happen. I cannot say enough good things about the people at the clinic this weekend.  They were so welcoming and supportive that I left the clinic, after not one, but TWO really poor showings, and yet I left eager to continue to learn and go to more clinics.

Unfortunately we couldn't stay for two days because we had farm work calling us. Ewes are lambing. Cows are calving, and naturally, it's cold and raining again.  Of course . . . every cow wants to be born in the cold mud. Although I regretted only be able to train for one day, I was happy to have that day.  And this morning Roanie, (remember Roanie, my favorite ewe that the police dog mauled) blessed us with twins!

Fortunately she popped both out with no trouble, but it still reconfirmed my decision to not leave our farm caretakers with the responsibilities of sheep lambing in the mud for three days. Thankfully, Roanie had enough sense to have both of these little fellows in a dry corner of the barn.   (pictures tomorrow!)

     I'm supposed to go to a Patrick Shannahan clinic this weekend, and I'm really looking forward to it, but at the same time, I'm a little scared since I'm well aware that Lily and I are certainly not a textbook example of how to work stock. We suck. Our outruns suck. Our flanking commands suck. More often than not, at a critical moment I can't remember the correct word, and Lily just reads my body language. (Oh crap!  I meant "A-Way," not "Come Bye!")  While Lily appears to know her flanking commands when the sheep are between us, when she is driving stock and I'm behind her, she doesn't seem to understand the words, thus I end up reverting to commands I used in agility and SAR with other dogs, "Get out", "Come 'ere" and "go-on."  At this moment, I hear a collective groan from the herding trial people. Yes, I've screwed my dog up. Yes, I know that. No, I'm not really ashamed of it. I suppose I'm not ashamed of it because despite the fact that our work looks like a train wreck on a Sunday afternoon, we still get it done. I can never be ashamed of Lily.  She gives me 110% of everything she does. She may not be a trial dog, but she is a stock dog. All her faults are mine.

Today is a perfect example of why no matter how bad we look on the training field, I could never be ashamed of my little dog:

Wake up to sound of a cow bellowing and dogs barking.  Livestock Guardian Dog is having a stroke because big Santa Gertrudis Heifer has climbed fence and is in the Sheep pen beside the house. Lock all dogs up except Lily (Top Hand Border Collie). Lock sheep up. Santa Gertrudis Heifer is in heat and doesn't understand that we do not wish to breed her to our Angus Bull but wish to breed her to Registered Santa Gertrudis Bull instead.  She is not a fan of arranged marriages and wishes to pick her own suitor. She picks - the bull on the neighbor's pasture.  This will require her to crawl in with sheep. Crawl out of sheep pasture. Go through yard. Cross canal. Climb into neighbor's pasture.

That is quite a journey, but Daisy Mae is not daunted.  She is a Heifer On a Mission.  And at the moment, nothing stands between her but an Irritated Human and a Little Black & White Dog.   She vaguely recalls that she doesn't like Little Black & White Dog but in her Love Lust, has forgotten why.  Oh Yes!  That's it! Little Black & White Dog bites heels. Bitch!  She then exits sheep pen the same way she got in.  Human produces food products (hay) which entertain her for a short time until Love Calls and she climbs in with sheep again. 

Freakin' Livestock Guardian Dog tattles and a short time later, Very Irritated Human and Little Black & White Dog reappear. Heifer discovers round bale of hay belonging to sheep and goats!  Woo hoo!  Pennies from Heaven! Dog bunches sheep up at end of pasture. Human locks alleyway gate to keep Heifer from sliding back out into pasture with sheep.

With a mouth full of hay, Heifer bellows to Boyfriend in another pasture to coax him into joining her and her newly discovered bounty. Boyfriend ignores her. (Men!) Little Black & White Dog with Freaky Eyes appears.  Perhaps if Heifer continues eating hay and ignores her she will go away. Bitch!  She bites! Heifer turns to leave. Little Black & White Bitch insists that Heifer walk to barn instead of joining sheep in pasture. Heifer ignores Black & White Mosquito. Bitch!  She bites! Heifer turns back to barn. Heifer discovers sheep feeders.  OOOOOHHH!  Crumbs!  Pennies from Heaven! Dog with Freaky Eyes waits. Human points. Dog insists Heifer enter barn. F**k barn! Heifer does not wish to leave feeders. Bitch!  She bites! Heifer slings mud into Human's face as she tries to kick Black & White Mosquito Helldog but walks into barn.

Discovers square bales of hay.  Pennies from Heaven!!!! Decides that if she squeezes her fat ass between bales and barn she will not have to leave Hay Heaven. Helldog goes all the way around the hay from other side. Squeezes her tiny self along wall and slithers up to Heifer's head.  Ouch!  Bitch bites noses too!  Heifer backs down wall and out of hay.  Dog reappears. Human opens stall door. Helldog insists Heifer leave Hay Heaven and walk through stall door. Heifer hesitates. Dog nips heel again. OKAY!!!!!  (Spoken exactly like Alvin the Chipmunk!)

Heifer goes through stall and exits other side to wander back outside with horses. Immediately checks fence to find that Irritated Human has locked gate which allows Heifer to get near sheep fence again.  Bellows to Boyfriend.  He ignores her. (Men!) Black & White Mosquito With Freaky Eyes stares through fence.  Heifer wanders off to eat hay and re-organize her thoughts.  Little Black & White Dog high-fives Human.

Thus is a typical morning in the life of Lily.  We have so much to learn. I have barely scratched the surface of what she is capable of doing and that's why I want to attend more clinics, meet more herding dog people and pick their brains. And even though we could never successfully compete in a sheepdog trial, I will always be proud of my Little Black & White Top Hand, for she is invaluable and I cannot imagine how we ever ran stock without her. 

Guess who can climb this gate?

 "Who? Me?"

Guess who taught him?

"Who? Me!!!"

Yes!  It would appear that Trace has discovered the OTHER dimension - UP! He is now experimenting and has realized that he can climb like a little spider monkey.  Mommy is not happy with a certain little spider monkey.  She is also not happy with a Giant White Gorilla.

 "Where's a gorilla?"

"There's a gorilla!"

 "OH! A gorilla-tail!"

True to his word, before we could unload the calves, Other Half insisted that they be tagged and wormed. Oh joy.

Two tired Divas + Three Terrified Calves = Long Night

Other Half collects the necessary items: cydectin, ear tags, bands, band applicator

I examine banding doo-hickey and proclaim that roping calf's testicles are WAAY too big for banding.  Other Half grunts and ignores me.  I again protest that Roping Calf (let's call him "Willie") has testicles that are MUCH larger than the little fat green rubber band that Other Half is planning to use to castrate him.  (a practice which I don't care for . . . I'm just saying . . . )   Other Half ignores me again.  So I put it in words he can understand, "HEY!  His balls are too big for this rubber band!"

"I'll look at 'em and see when we do him," he mutters.

Do what?  Does he think I can't peek through the bars and mentally calculate that a rubber band smaller than a dime is not gonna stretch over balls the size of summer egg plants? Oh well. . .  Since I am not in the mood to argue with him about it, I decide to let him figure it out on his own. He gives instructions on EXACTLY how he wants the cydectin measured and EXACTLY how he wants the new tag set up.  Ok, I got it!  I think.  I hope.  It's not as easy to do when holding a flashlight. Everything must be done with one hand because IT'S DARK!!!!

Other Half climbs into cattle trailer containing three snorting calves with a rope and a wooden crook. He attempts to get one of the beef cows to move into the back of the trailer where it can be isolated. The roping calf is happy to move back there, but NO! Other Half wants one of the little heifers first. Because . . . he wants to castrate the little roping calf.  Now keep in mind, those balls haven't gotten any smaller since I announced that he was too big to be banded, but nevertheless, Other Half refuses to even address the issue until the heifers are done.  Okie dokie Smokie!

He finally gets the little white calf in the back. Then things got interesting. This is how it was supposed to go:

His job:

1) Rope calf
2) Press calf against bars and call for necessary items to be handed through bars

My job:

1) Hand him bull chain/tongs which clip into calf's nostrils (and must hurt like hell) in order to control 230 lbs of bawling cow
2) Pour cydectin on calf's back
3) Hand him ear tag applicator

This is how it actually happened:

His job:

1) rope calf
2) Richochet off bars of trailer while being dragged like a kite on a string by a hysterical calf
3) Yell for tongs
4) cuss

My job:

1) hand him bull chain/tongs
2) argue that he is hurting calf when she starts bawling
3) cuss
4) pour on cydectin
5) hand him ear tag applicator
6) open door to release newly tagged hysterical calf with a purple stripe down her back
7) inform Other Half that when we are retired, we will be too old to handle cows so we should go 100% to sheep now
8) inform Other Half that we are too old NOW for this shit

Re-group -  set up another ear tag. Pour more cydectin. Separate another calf.  Little roping bull (let's call him "Willie") still wants to go first, so this time Other Half let him.  Get Willie into back of trailer. Shut gate so Willie and Other Half are alone.  Convince Other Half that he needs my assistance INSIDE the trailer. He ropes Willie.  Willie is okay with that. Examines Willie's testicles. Proclaims that they are too big to be banded.  (wonder of wonders!) Other Half decides that he will cut him later. Clip tongs on Willie's nose.  Willie says "Damn!  That hurts!" So Willie doesn't move.  He stares at his nose with crossed eyes. I pour on cydectin.

Other Half tags him. We unclip Willie's nose, and open the gate. Wham! Bam!  Thank ya, Willie! Off he goes to join the white calf.  Yessiree, we're in the groove now. 

That's what we thought . . . until he roped the black calf . . .

Holy Crap!

Black calf was certain that she was gonna die. She was a kicking, bawling, bucking maniac. Other Half took that ride like a monkey on a border collie at the county fair. He had a tiger by the tail, afraid to let her go.  I stood in the corner of the trailer and waited for the cyclone to quit spinning.  They finally landed in a corner where he called for the tongs. Okay, I can do that!  Clip!  The bawling commenced in earnest now.  He hooked the rope of the tongs over the top bar of the cattle trailer and pulled poor little black calf up by her nose.  Lots more bawling, from the cow and me.  Then he made a mistake.  He handed me the end of the rope. . .

In my defense, a man should NEVER hand a woman the end of rope with a hurting, hysterical calf on the other end.  Feeling sorry for said calf, the woman will immediately release some pressure on the cow's nose.  Now two things happen when you do this:

1) The man will scream loudly in a high pitched voice, "NO! NO! NO! Don't let her GO!"
2) The calf will feel the release of pressure on her nose, shake her head, and guess what  . . .  Dude . . . the tongs will fall off . . .

And the rodeo was on again.  There was lots of screaming, cussing, and bawling  (most of that was from Other Half). It took a while but we finally got her wrestled into the corner again. This time everyone (me!) followed instructions and the calf was wormed, tagged, and released without further incident. We thought . . .

Shortly after she bounced out of the trailer to find the other calves at the end of the arena, Other Half announced that one of the calves must have really been bleeding from that ear tag.  Huh???

None of the cows were bleeding.  That's when we discovered that Other Half was the one bleeding . . . a lot. The thumb of his glove was filled with blood.  Blood had dripped all over the floor of the trailer.  He gingerly pulled the glove off.  It made the skin on my butt crawl. 

Somehow . . . some way . . . after "Someone" let up the nose-pressure, thus releasing the cow, the lariat attached to a 270 lb bucking bawling baby had gotten wrapped across his thumb in such a way that it ripped his thumb and split it under the nail.  (ouch!)

So Other Half stood there in the trailer, with blood running down his hand, and he asked me, "So what have you learned about cows today?"

I didn't even hesitate.  With firm conviction I announced, "I learned that SHEEP are easier to handle!"

(He was not amused.)

Sidenote: We put food in a trough for the calves. It became apparent that the black and white calves had not seen a feed trough before.  In fact, it appeared that they had not been properly weaned, just ripped off their mammas and taken to the sale.  Thus, they spent a good bit of time bawling at the fence while our more maternal cows rushed over to comfort them. The little scrawny roping calf however, KNEW what a feed trough was.  He KNEW what groceries were. Over the next day and half, he taught his companions how to eat from a trough. When we worked the dogs on them, he was calm and led the way to sanity (unlike the white calf!) so well that Other Half mentioned that if he remains so calm and well-behaved, he may be a good teaching steer for other additional dog training calves, and thus we might consider keeping him for said position.  So I said to him, "Hey, if we keep him, I'm gonna name him 'Willie!'

He glanced at me, with his hand still dripping blood in the darkness. Something crossed his mind but he didn't say it out loud. Probably best . . .

Remember when the Divas went shopping?  The Divas Go Shopping

Lest anyone think our "diva-like" behavior is limited to Christmas shopping, let me share yesterday's adventure with you . . .

Other Half announces that on Saturday we will go to the cattle auction. Thinking this is a simple road trip for fun, I agree. Other Half then announces that we are taking the cattle trailer. "Why" I venture cautiously. It is winter. We have sold our spring calves. The cows are calving. I'm staring at another winter of cows calving in the cold rain and hauling hay in the mud. Why add more responsibilities?

"You never know what we might find."

Translated: He has just sold an old farm truck and the money is burning a hole in his pocket.

Saturday arrives.  A cattle auction is for Other Half, as Toys R Us is for your average 6 year old - an adventure. Give him a pocket full of money and you might as well have handed a 6 year old a credit card as he walks through the sliding glass doors.

We make decision to take only Trace, Kindergarten Cowdog. He is delighted - he is riding shotgun to the cow sale. Yee ha! Other Half has decided to buy Lily (Top Hand Border Collie) some baby calves to practice her cowdog skills on this winter. I argue that he would not have to do that if he had kept the 2010 calf crop instead of selling them. He argues that at the time, the money was more pressing than letting the dog play with calves valued at $700 each.  Touche.

Two hours later we arrive at cattle auction with every other rancher in a four county area. By now, it is noon, my caffeine level has dropped dangerously low and Diva (Liza Minelli) emerges from my personality. Because of crowd, decide against taking Trace inside sale. Send Other Half inside to buy cattle.  Trace and Liza Minelli stroll around outside and examine the LONG line of cattle trailers lined up to drop off cattle.  Trace is quite interested.  Liza and Trace watch as they slap stickers on cow butts.

Liza decides that this is a good place to actually do some re-con work because you can see the cattle better out here than when they are run through the sale.  Decide that Trace and I can phone Other Half with tag numbers of good calves.  Other Half used to be an assistant ranch manager on a 44,000 acre cattle ranch.  Other Half has spent almost 50 years buying and selling cattle.  Liza has spent . . . less . . . considerably less . . . time . . . (none!) buying cattle.  But never mind THAT!  Liza feels completely qualified to judge good cow flesh. So Liza and Trace walk the trailers looking for nice, clean, beefy calves that will put on weight quickly. There are too many to bother with.  Liza becomes bored long before Trace does.  Liza wants a frappuccino.

Other Half phones demanding location. He announces that he has just purchased a calf.  Liza is expecting to hear that he has purchased a nice beefy red or black Angus-looking calf. He informs Liza that cattle prices are too high today and so instead of buying three, he just bought one. ???? Liza is annoyed.  Why even bother to buy just one?  You can't work dogs on just one calf! Wellll . . . perhaps the calf was of such exceptional quality that he decided to add it to his breeding herd. Liza inquires as to breed. Other Half describes a scrawny roping calf. 

 Roping calf in rain

Liza has a fit. Liza launches straight into Diva Domain.  Liza is not happy.  Why buy it then?!!!!

Other Half launches straight into Diva Domain himself. Enter Aretha Franklin.  Aretha informs Liza that if she didn't like the calf he purchased, then she should have had her ass in there with him when he was bidding on it. Put Trace back in truck. Stomp into sale barn to show cow man (who has logged almost a half century in cattle) how to buy good calves.

See nice calves cross through.  "Get any of those," Liza informs him.  Other Half is not bidding. He is looking at numbers on tally board.  The cattle are moving through quickly and Liza is having trouble caculating the price per pound weight with the actual weight of the calf who just left the area. It is all moving entirely too fast.  Unlike the sheep and goats, which sell by the animal, cattle are sold by the pound, and then weighed as they step out of the arena.  The weight then flashes on the screen.  Liza wants little cows to train her dog on, but she also wants to re-sell the calves next summer at a major profit, thus, she does NOT want scrawny roping cows, she wants nice beefy BEEF calves.  (Liza has gotten a bit spoiled when it comes to having nice cows.) 

But Aretha is the COW person. Liza is the GOAT/SHEEP person. Liza has trouble remembering how big the animal which just left the arena was when comparing it to the number flashed on the screen. It is much easier to simply snap at Other Half and say, "Buy that one!" when a fat toddler animal crosses the arena.

And he does. He buys a little black angus thing.

He then informs Liza that the next calf will come out of HER money.  Do what??!!  Okay fine then.  Liza watches numbers flash and becomes bored.  Liza announces that Trace needs a break and informs Other Half to just buy another good beefy one as she starts to climb down stairs.  Aretha Franklin informs Liza Minelli to get her ass back there and select the calf SHE wants.  And so she does.  Liza quickly finds a nice little Charolais-looking heifer and informs Aretha to get THAT ONE.  He does.  Liza now owns a cow. 

 Liza is bored and ready to go.

Aretha picks up the paper work.  Liza's one cow cost almost as much as Aretha's two cows.  Holy Crap!  Is THAT what those numbers mean? Obviously Liza and the meat packers are buying the same type of calf. Oh well.  The scrawny roping calf will probably eat just as much as Liza's white elephant and not gain as much weight. Liza is quite certain that she will double her money on this calf by next summer.

Aretha gives Liza the paper work and tells her to give it to the man at the loading dock while he gets the cattle trailer. Liza strides towards the man like she knows what she's doing, then hesitates. Pink or Yellow???  Which copy does he get?  She doesn't want to look like she's never done this before.  (She hasn't!) Notes that he has a pink paper in his hand.  DUH!  He must take the PINK copy!  (Liza IS actually a Trained Investigator in her Other Life!) Give man pink copy like she's done it all her life.  (Ah ha!  Take THAT, ARETHA!)  Aretha backs up trailer to loading dock like he's done it all his life, (which he has!).  Liza peeks through the bars at HER calf.  Do what???  She's the same size as Other Half's scrawny roping calf but she cost three times as much! OUCH! 

Other Half then informs Liza that there are cows you train dogs and horses on (i.e. roping cows/longhorn crosses) and there are beef cattle.  (Liza declined to remind him that there are dairy cattle too, because it just didn't seem like the time.) Instead, she argued that the beefy calf would gain weight faster than the roping calf and why put feed into something that wasn't going to double in value. Aretha agreed that Liza had a valid point. Since now Liza was not only suffering from LCL (low caffeine level) but also LCBL (low checkbook level), Aretha pulled out of the sale barn parking lot and headed out in search of caffeine.  Then . . . he informed Liza that although it would be dark when they returned home,  they would still need to tag and worm all the calves and castrate the roping calf before they ate dinner. Yeee . . .  freakin' . . . ha!