Farm Fresh Blog

I have a much better understanding of that phrase now. Guess what happens when you don't leave the faucets dripping . . .

 . . . the well freezes. Pipes freeze. I get an education in plumbing.

Other Half and I did a great deal of shouting and pointing fingers at each other yesterday.  A good bit of the morning was spent with a hair dryer under a horse blanket trying to thaw out the well.  God smiled on our efforts (and probably laughed too.) and blessed us with running water once again.  Mom's pier and beam house is still a problem because the pipes run underneath the house and APPARENTLY those suckers aren't insulated well enough for 24 degree temperatures. But eventually we got water running in her house again too. The Cow House is okay though.  Evidently Son has a better understanding of "LEAVE THE FAUCETS DRIPPING" than I do.

The temperatures are a bit higher today, but they are calling for freezing rain and snow this afternoon.  Eegaads! We need to shuffle animals. Haul more hay.  Break the ice in the tanks. Haul water to the barn.  Buy another ton of cow feed.  (and unload it!)

It looks like it's going to be a long day.

Here is a list of things I'm thankful for:

Thank you, Lord, for running water.
Thank you, Lord, for electricity.
Thank you, Lord, for hair dryers, horse blankets, and men who know how to use them.
Thank you, Lord, for a Boss who understands the words . . .

"I might be late. I might not even make it in" and then says, "Take the day off and do what you need to do."

Now at this point, I know my Northern neighbors are laughing.  But HEY!  It doesn't get this cold in South Texas!  We don't know how to handle it here! There are rolling blackouts over the whole state!  Perhaps I should have noticed when the horses began to look like caterpillars . . .

 Yep, maybe I should have noticed that,

. . . because this is probably what they will look like tomorrow. . .

Briar's first lambing season . . .

She is fascinated by the "little people" in her flock.

She tries to convince the Christmas Day lamb (Holly) to play with her dead mole.

 Briar is quite taken with this blond-headed lamb.  When the lamb has had enough "love" she gets up and walks away.  Fortunately Briar allows her to captive to leave, unlike her behavior with George the chicken.

Our Giant Puppy is finally growing up.  I still don't trust her completely with the lambs because she is big and they are small.  But next year . . .  maybe . . .

To read more about Briar & George: "I will name him George"

Why I like Sheep better than Cattle -

As a rule, sheep don't try to kill you. The same cannot be said for cattle.  Other Half is a cow man. Like most of his kind, he has an ingrained prejudice against sheep and sheep people. Cow people tend to hold themselves above sheep people. I haven't quite figured this out since my sheep have never tried to kill me and yet, cattle seem to do this on a semi-regular basis.  Take Saturday night:

Come home from work to discover that despite the fact that Other Half had INSISTED he and Son would be working cattle EARLY in the day, he has STILL not done it.  In fact, he has planned to wait until I get home. Now one would think that this meant he valued my in-put. Apparently such was not the case. 

The Chores:

1) Separate new red calf with cough, shoot him up with antibiotics, tag his ear
2) Separate the mother of another calf who has still not passed the afterbirth, pull afterbirth out, shoot her up with antibiotics

Note that Son has managed to get mammas and babies in the roping arena.  (He did not use a Border Collie.  It took him over 2 hours. He had to physically pick up some newborn calves and carry them by hand through the chute to get them into the arena.)

Note that little red calf and his mama are already eating hay in the catch pen. Woo hoo!  Half that battle is done!  Cut out his mama and close pipe panel in his face.  He is upset.  His mother is enraged.  Note that Big Red Mama Cow has plans on stomping us into mud if she can get back into the catch pen.  Son catches calf.  Calf bawls.  Rodeo begins.  Appreciate the fact that Son is Big & Strong as he flips calf on its side.  Wham!  Bam!  Thank you! Ma'am!  Calf is done.  Turn him back with his Mama. 

Now the real rodeo begins . . .

Note Black Mama has nasty stringy afterbirth hanging from her butt. Note that she is ignoring her baby. Looks like someone better shape up or she will find herself at the sale barn. Cut Mama out and put her in catch pen.  She is still ignoring her baby.  Baby walks up to catch pen to talk with her.  She vaguely recalls that she had a baby several days ago.  "Oh yeah, it's you again."

He toddles back to the herd.

Ask Other Half EXACTLY how he plans to get cow cleaned up.  He informs me that he will simply rope her, put bull tongs in her nose, whereupon she will hold still while he works.

Do WHAT??!!

I argue that this is impossible. I point out that once he ropes this cow, she will go apeshit, he will be flipped around like a monkey on a string, AND the cow will end up kicking the shit out of him.  It seemed to be a quite logical conclusion to me, but then, I'm a girl. . . and a sheep person.  I pointed out that since we have no stocks or squeeze chute over here, we could MAKE one by undoing the pipe panel corral and "oooch" it toward the roped cow, thus pinning her against the board fence where we could safely work.

And there it was . . .

The dividing line between men and women. The point where the man decides that he knows it all and dismisses the woman.

And he so does.

He ropes Big Black Cow.  She bawls and the rodeo commences. I stand on the fence and watch.  It is midnight. I am calculating how long the wait at the Emergency Room will take.  She finally calms down a bit but refuses to allow him to put bull tongs in her nose.  (Sista ain't no fool!) But in time however, the two men get bull tongs on the enraged cow.  She is snubbed to the fence and everyone re-groups.  I point out that she is still VERY DANGEROUS because she can kick the snot out of anyone who plans on getting near her rear end.  (and perhaps we should move the panels and pin her against the fence.)

Other Half points out that this is a former show cow and won't kick. 

Do WHAT??!!

In what universe?  This bawling, slobbering, angry creature in no way resembles a show cow anymore.  In fact, she looks very much like a wild animal plucked out of the swamps of the South Texas Lowlands. This is NOT A HAPPY ANIMAL.

He ignores my warning.

Cow is swishing her tail back and forth.  Cow is VERY ANGRY.

He ignores her warning.

With Son holding tightly on the bull tong chain, Other Half scooches up to Angry Cow's Ass. 

And she kicks the shit out of him.

The sound of ripping blue jeans tears through the night. Other Half bellows and limps away.  I stand there in silence. Son and I exchange looks. He is putting weight on it, so it must not be broken. Maybe . . .  hopefully. We examine the leg and it looks bad. Bad, but not broken.  And in the world of working cattle, that means - get back to work.

But guess what!

He decides that perhaps, just perhaps, it might be easier to take panels apart and ooch them forward to press cow against board fence.  (No sh*#, Sherlock!)  I cannot stand it.  I point out that WASN"T THAT WHAT "I" SAID??  He allows as how that's where he got the idea.

So we do that. And wonder of wonders - it works.  Other Half pulls lots of stringy, rotten, afterbirth from cow's butt. I give her injection of antibiotics. We release Ungrateful Cow who scampers back to herd.  She barely notices her calf.  (This young lady may well find herself at the sale barn.)

As we walk back to the barn, I point out, rather loudly, that I deeply resent it when he blows me off and disregards my advice when working large animals.  I further point out that Men do jobs with the BRAWN, but Women must do the same jobs using their BRAINS.  Son finds this conversation vastly amusing.  Other Half just nods and limps off.  

But at least he said the words I needed to hear . . .

"Okay . . . you were right. And I was wrong."

Music to my ears.  And that's why I like sheep better than cattle.

I have absolutely nothing to say in my defense.  I stand over dead people for a living. But still . . .

It was a typical winter morning in Texas. The temperatures were mild. There was standing water in the yard. And more rain is predicted for tonight. The morning was spent dealing with new lambs and moving hay, thus, it took me a while to notice. But there were signs . . .

There was this.

Each time I popped into the house I saw her.  Secret is the house cat, so that shouldn't have been unusual. Thus, it didn't ring any bells.

There was this:

As I went about my business outside, she tagged along at a distance. But Faith is a barn cat, so that didn't ring any bells either.

But sometime during the day, I had a thought:

Why am I seeing Secret and Faith?  They should be locked up in the Cat Room.

(fail to hear the ominous music playing in the background)

Secret, the house cat, rarely goes outside.  Faith, the Barn Cat, loves to come inside, but because her bathroom habits aren't to be trusted, when I do give in she is relegated to a spare bedroom that hasn't been re-tiled yet - The Cat Room.  If she happens to stand in the litter box, and poop OUTSIDE the litter box, it isn't a tragedy. Most of her life is spent outside, but when it is cold and wet, she begs to come inside. And last night, I gave in.

So I asked myself that little question, but shrugged it off.  Perhaps "I" had opened the door and didn't remember it.  I am often a victim of GHS - Gray Hair Syndrome. 

But then . . . I passed the doorway and the door was closed.   Hmmmm . . .  a mystery.

So I opened the door.  The sliding window above the daybed was wide open. The screen had been pulled aside.  How odd . . . I walked across the room to investigate this further. The lock swung easily in place. Ahhh . . .   Faith has been known to use her paws like fingers, thus, it wasn't a stretch to see that Faith jiggled the lock, slid open the window, popped the screen and let herself (and Secret) outside.  Secret must have come back inside through the doggy door which is a task Faith has yet to master.  Mystery solved.   So I turned to leave the room.  I still had a full day of farm work ahead of me before I actually went to the office. And that's when I glanced down.  (and that's when the music from "Pyscho" started)

I screamed. I screamed like a little girl.  I screamed and danced in place.  I screamed and danced and pointed.  Dogs came running. They observed this odd ritual with great interest.  Why do I bother to scream?  I see horrid stuff all the time. (Of course, it's not usually IN MY HOUSE!) When the screeching finally subsided, and I could catch my breath, I ran for the camera, because that's what I do.   I take pictures of gross and disgusting things, and this certainly topped the chart.

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It would appear that Faith brought me a little thank you gift. I'm sure if I look closely there is a little tag attached that reads,

Remember this ewe?

- the ewe who held onto her babies so long

I was ready to take her to the mall for some mall-walking!

This Ewe has a public service announcement:

   :

Good Morning, Bi-peds!

Lookie here!

Everything in its own time . . .

Tolstoy credits this little pearl to an Arabic Wisdom:

Moses said to God, "Where can I find you?"

God said, "If you are looking for me, you have already found me."

I spend a lot of time looking at sheep butts.   

Now before you call the authorities and have me hauled off, let me explain.  I like "tending" sheep.  I enjoy walking out among my little charges, sipping my coffee, while I look for signs of impending births, impending problems, and anything else that happens to catch my eye. 

Briar and I compare notes.

Take this ewe for instance.

     Because I don't have an exact date on when she should be due, I've been waiting on Big Mamma here to deliver for a month. Thus, I spend a lot of time staring at her butt. She is the lead ewe.  While she is not the exact picture of what I'd like to breed for, she has the right temperament, and she throws nice hulking babies.  This ewe is the calm voice of reason among the flock. (if it can be said that sheep EVER possess a voice of reason)  Because of this, I named her "Maa."

     Not every sheep has a name.  Some are just sheep - nameless, faceless butts, in a sea of black and white. But some are special.

 Roanie

I enjoy spending time walking among them with their Great White Dog.  Time slows down as I listen to them graze, peace settles on the pasture . . . and in my soul.

Clouds pass overhead and I have romantic notions of what life must have been like for shepherds who spent most of their time alone, tending their flock.  I swallow that last drop of coffee and walk back to the house, quite aware that if I were freezing my ass off in a Wyoming winter with those shepherds right now, the image would not be nearly as romantic.

Marshal is an Anatolian Shepherd. (Don't get excited, he's not mine!) Dear Friend just bought Baby Marshal.  She and Vet Husband raise turkeys and chickens. 

Last year they also had goats. Last year coyotes ate one of the goats.

Enter Marshal . . .

When Marshal grows up, that won't happen again. Marshal will be big.  Big!  BIG! (Bigger than Briar!) Since Marshal is a baby, he needs a livestock family now, so Briar loaned Marshal some of her goats and sheep.

Marshal knew what goats were because his breeder had goats.

But WHAT IS THAT??!!!!!

Sheep were definitely NOT in Marshal's databanks. At first he ran back to Mom . . .

 . . . and they studied sheep together.

Sheep are definitely NOT goats.

But Marshal soon moved off to study sheep on his own.

Nope. I don't think that the coyotes will eat anything in Marshal's pasture when he grows up. Do you?

He kinda reminds me of someone else I used to know.  Remember this little girl?

My! My! My! What a difference a year makes!

     Forced bedrest gives you lots of time to think. Yesterday afternoon I had an epiphany as I stared at the cobwebs on the ceiling fan. This will not come as a surprise to fans of The Briar Patch, but believe it or not, this Big White Dog has quite a following.  Other Half is still shaking his head in amazement.  I told him that he won't think it's funny when that Big White Dog brings home a paycheck. I finally decided to follow the advice of so many of you and do a Children's book about Briar & Roanie.

     Last night I waded through all the photos I've taken of Briar from the tiny puppy to the smiling mountain she has become. After I select the photos, then I'll write the picture book text around them.  At that point, we'll begin the laborious task of finding an agent interested in the tale (tail!) of a Big White Dog and an Injured Sheep. Wish us luck!

. . . 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: