Farm Fresh Blog

Thou Shalt Not Chase Horses.

That's one of the Ten Commandments on a farm. (I think it's somewhere after Thou Shalt Not Turn On A Water Hose To Fill A Trough And Walk Away For A Minute.)  Little boys who violate this commandment often end up here . . . at the Vet's . . .

  . . .  if they're lucky.

If they're not lucky, they could end up here . . .

 . . . in the Pet cemetery outside the kitchen window.

 Did he learn anything?  I don't know.  Did Lily learn not to leap at the boards to bite the horses' faces when she was his age?  Nope.  She slipped her skinny little leg between the boards and broke it in two places.

And to this day, she will still leap up and bite at the horses' faces if she's allowed in the stable. So who knows.

I do know that I spent the better part of yesterday and last night wallowing in guilt because I was a Bad Doggy Mommy and had allowed my Little Buddy to get into a situation whereupon he was hurt.  I had even laid his leash out on the kitchen table to use it to walk him through that paddock and into his bunkhouse, but I got busy. I got rushed. I got distracted.

And that's when accidents happen.

Put on work uniform?  Check!
Put Blue Heeler in his prison?  Check!
Put Livestock Guardian Dog in her prison?  Check!
Put Border Collies in their Bunkhouse?  Nope, still gotta do that!
Get Border Collies. Open gate.  Crap!!  Horses in Yard!  Crap!! Crap!! Crap!!!
Desperately attempt to recall puppy.  Puppy shoots me the paw.  ("Mom! I'm busy!!!)
Helplessly watch nightmare unfold. Pick up puppy and call vet. 

And so it played out.

Here is the x-ray:

Want a closer look?

It's greenstick fracture of the radius.  Not bad.  It should heal just fine. In fact, since it's pretty stable, the vet opted against a cast, as that can create its own headaches  (Been there. Done that. Got the t-shirt.  Lily went through 3 casts when she broke her leg!) He just advised crate rest for 6 weeks. (joy, joy, thrill, thrill)

In one of the multitude of phone conversations I've had with Dear Friend regarding this incident, where I replayed the event over and over and over again, wallowing in guilt like a pig in mud, she pointed out that if I wanted to get technical, it wasn't my fault.

"It isn't??"

"No, it's Robby's cow's fault!"

"It is???"

"YES!  Because if that stupid heifer had not been climbing through the chain link fence between Ona and the stallion, it would not have been damaged so badly that you had to move Ona to the front until you could repair it.  And . . . if Ona had not been in the front, she would not have kicked Trace. Soooo . . . the fault lies solely with Robby's cow!

God, I love that woman!

That's why she is my Dear Friend.

Now, on to more news!  (See!  I'm just full of news today!)

Newsflash #1 - I sold Ona.  I know.  I know.  I struggled with it.  But I haven't had the time to drive her regularly and Other Half was asking me to consider selling her. I had refused. But I couldn't ignore the fact that I just didn't have the time to trailer her out to drive, so I was turning it around in my head. Then I found out that an old friend of mine wants to learn how to drive. She is a lifelong horse person who has developed a health problem that may someday prevent her from riding, so she is determined to learn how to drive.  Ona is the perfect teacher. It would be selfish of me to keep Ona when she needs the horse.  Plus, she will have the time to regularly drive her and possibly get her back in competition, and she is an awesome home.  She has promised to sell her back to me if she ever decides that she's outgrown a lesson horse and wants something else. AND. . . she will be about 15 minutes from my house!  It is a win-win for everyone!

So . . . THAT'S why Ona was in the front paddock.  I didn't DARE take the chance that because a cow compromised a fence, my Senior Citizen Stallion would breed a horse that I had just SOLD!

Life is funny, isn't it?  Trace is home now. The sheep are in the back yard.  His crate is set up beside the patio door where he can watch Sheep TV to keep himself entertained.  He's calmly sleeping, happy to be home . . . probably tired of me hugging on him.

Newsflash #2 - We get hitched tomorrow and I get to wear my Hideously Beautiful Boots!  Other Half has begged me to wear another, more conservative, pair, but I refuse! If I'm getting married in blue jeans, I'm getting to wear my Hideously Beautiful Boots!

     The people in my office never expect me to arrive on time.  In fact, if I DO happen to come in on time or "God, Help Me" EARLY, the guy in the cubicle behind me simply pushes a button on his computer and angels sing the "Hallelujah Chorus."  (I'm not kidding!)

     Anyway, the point is - I'm always late.  I start out with great intentions but things just happen. The Farm, like a living, breathing Borg-like Life Force of its own, somehow senses when I'm about to walk out the door on time, and reaches out to stop me.  (I think they take bets at work to see just how bizarre my excuses are.)  Today it was Trace.

     I was walking out the door - in uniform.  I had a package of last night's Chinese dinner in hand to give to the Border Collies when I locked them in their Bunkhouse.  What I failed to properly consider was that in order to take the Border Collies to the Bunkhouse, I had to walk through the driveway paddock, and today there were HORSES in the driveway paddock.  And THAT'S when the Farm Borg took over . . .

Trace shoots through the gate like a brown and white comet.  Calling a 7 month old Border Collie in hot pursuit of not one, but three, horses, is a lesson in futility.

The little comet goes blazing up to Ona's ass and she sends him into orbit. 

 "Self-defense!"

I watch him sail through the air with my heart in my throat.  He lands, skids, and commences to screaming.  That is actually a good thing, because it proves he is still alive.  Suddenly, the horses aren't as much fun as he thought they'd be and he races back to me with his little front leg swung out in front like an opened car door.  Oh shit!  She broke his leg.

I'd seen this before.  Lily broke her leg when she was a puppy and it looked frighteningly familiar.  He is bleeding from the mouth.  Oh shit! She knocked his teeth out.

Thankfully when I get his mouth open, he has all his teeth, he'd just busted his lip.  The leg is beginning to get puffy though.  Great . . . just great . . .

Call Dear Friend Married To Vet.  Thankfully they are home.  They are on their way over.  Trace is putting a little weight on the leg. Vet probes. No serious damage requiring surgery. Possibly greenstick fracture. Possibly just hurt feelings. Vet gives him an anti-inflamatory and makes a kennel for him in their garage.  They will babysit him and ice the leg while I'm at work.  If it begins to look more serious, they will take him to the clinic for x-rays and a cast.  Sigh . . . been there, done that.

For some reason the office didn't seem too surprised that I was calling to tell them that I'd be late again.  Wonder why. 

Forty minutes later Trace is settled in the Vet's garage and I'm headed to work. The Farm Borg has completed its objective.  I'm late again.  I'm thankful though.  Thank God it wasn't more serious. Thank God my little buddy is okay. Hopefully he is just bruised. Hopefully he has learned an important lesson.

And that, Friends & Neighbors, is why I was late for work AGAIN!

Diane sent me this adorable story of when good dogs go bad.  I just HAD to share it with you!

"Been re-reading some of your older blogs lately.....LOL....a LOT of them strike me as familiar......

Couple years ago, I went on a binge and bought several pair of wildly colored cowboy boots.......bright blue, one has yellow shafts, another is a lovely pale aqua.....lilac fatbabies.....
Now at that time, our family had always eaten out at Easter. That year, we ate at a casual place, so I wore a pretty blue sweater over some nicely pressed jeans.......and my bright blue cowboy boots.
My father chuckled and said they were spiffy enough to wear to his funeral. I laughed and solemnly promised to wear cowboy boots to his funeral.
 
Now fast forward to last November. My father has passed away, and I have no clothes to wear to his funeral. I bought the neatest grey pinstripe slacks and vest (very Al Capone-y) and wore it for the wake. But my feet swelled from all the standing, and I knew I wouldn't get the same shoes on in the morning. So, for the funeral, I dug in my closet and found a beautiful pair of low grey suede heels.....shoes that I had never even worn......and set them out on the bench at the foot of my bed.
 
I got up in the morning to find this:

Belle has never chewed anything inappropriate....even as a teething puppy. She has her big bones......but she just never has done anything destructive.
(I don't count dead things, frozen horseapples or sticks. Those are just what dogs do.) I took it as a sign.
 
Hubby tried to tell me it was because they were suede, but there were 2 pairs of suede shoes laying in the living room, and she has touched neither one of them. She still hasn't.
 
I threw my good ropers with the silver kilties at Hubby and told him to give them a quick polish.
So yes, I wore cowboy boots to my Father's funeral.......LOL....
Guess I needed a reminder of my promise....."

Who, ME??? I want my lawyer!!!!!
 

Janie asked for an update on Roanie, Macaroni, and Ricearoni. This little ewe was mauled by a dog and now, here it is a year later, and she is walking with little or no limp and two fat little boys by her side.  Unfortunately she has dropped a lot of weight since the birth of the twins.  She appears to be putting every ounce of nutrition into making milk, so she is beginning to resemble a dairy cow.  In addition to pasture, free choice of hay, and supplemental feed, Roanie has been known to sneak back into the barn, and call my attention to the fact that she is alone, and thus, I can feel free to give her another bucket of food without alerting everyone in the pasture.

This amazes me because the little ewe endured more than a month of daily penicillin injections in her butt.  She has every reason in the world to avoid me, and yet, she seeks me out and quietly implores with her big yellow eyes,

"Oh Human!  Bi-ped! You with the thumbs! Here I am!  By myself!  In the barn!  Where you can feed just little ole skinny me without having to feed everyone else again!  Look how my hip bones stick out!  See how fat my babies are!"

And like the very well-trained little bi-ped that I am, I slip her more food.  She grabs up a mouthful and mumbles a yellow-eyed "thank you, Human" before turning her complete attention to licking up every morsel of Sheep Chow before anyone else notices she is eating.

Then she shuffles out to the pasture, feeds the boys, and settles down in the sun for a nap.  It doesn't suck.

Read: Miss Hardy  Blood Will Tell

Lily started her herding lessons again.  Hopefully our court schedule and the weather will cooperate this time and we'll be able to keep them up.  Our lessons are two hours away on the opposite side of The Big City.  This means we must rise at 5:30 AM to beat the traffic through town.  Eegaads! That alarm went off early this morning.  (The beauty of working evening shift is a life without alarm clocks.)

 Lily was ready. Lily is always ready.  I should have named her Ready, because she is, always . . .  ready.  

Trace began his first official lessons with the Sheep Goddess today.

 And he went swimming in the stock tank. He knows all about swimming in a stock tank. In fact, he took a dip before he even got to work.  An empty stock tank is an open invitation, so he climbed right in like a little seal.  This is cute at my house.  This is not cute when I have to drive home 2 hours with a wet dog.

But mostly, he spent time on the fence . . . again . . .

 . . .  on the fence, watching other dogs play.

And then . . . he got the call . . .

  "mE?!!  whO mE?!!"

"Yes, it's your turn!"

And he played. And I didn't get any pictures because I was walking with the Sheep Goddess.  He did a fine job and will continue to have one run after Lily's lessons until he grows up. One run a week is probably as much as his little kindergarten brain can handle.

And now . . . over 8 hours later, we have returned home and I'm exhausted.

"zzzzzzz"  

I have to finish putting hotwire on the lamb paddock, unload feed, get gas for the mower, and jump-start the mower since it hasn't run all winter. AND entertain 4 dogs that have been penned all day.  Or maybe, just maybe . . . I could take a nap.

These dogs are polar opposites.

Big Goofy Bumbly Friendly meets Sleek Serious Suave Reserved

Most of the time, Ice ignores Briar. The Big White Dog is beneath her - far, far, far beneath her.  Since her brother's death, Ice has claimed the crown, and wields the scepter of Top Dawg. Even Lily fawns over Ice, grateful for any attention the Queen tosses her way.

Unlike her brother, The Enforcer, Ice is not a bully. For the most part, she ignores the peasants of the pack, only exercising her power when she deems it necessary.  And when she does, like her brother, she swings a big hammer - as Briar found out this morning. I regret that I did not have my camera.

A cold front blew in last night. Cool, brisk wind rolled across the pasture making the morning walk a special delight for those of us with heavy coats.  (not so good for those of us who failed to dress accordingly)  Briar was beside herself with happiness.  While the sheep ate breakfast, she got to play with the pack.

Unfortunately, she was a bit too rough with Trace for his Godfather's liking, and Ranger rolled her. 

Briar, feeling a bit cheeky on this cold morning, decided that today was the day to challenge The Godfather.  After all, she IS twice his size.

And that's when the Queen rushed in like Thor the Thunder God slinging her hammer. It was a bad day for Briar. 

 Fortunately she gave in immediately so no blood was shed.  The Godfather's authority was established once again, and Ice reinforced the immortal words of Dwight D. Eisenhower,

"What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight,
it's the size of the fight in the dog."

"Dudes!  I got sand in my ears!"
 

Briar has had an unusual fascination with these lambs.

She often follows them around the pasture.

They reluctantly put up with her obsessive affection.  At least I thought that was the case. . .

Until I finish getting hotwire up around the entire lamb paddock, Briar is stuck on a cable, where she can only supervise.  On one of my multiple "Briar checks", I happened to catch this through the patio door.  (pardon the photos, I was shooting through the glass.)

Briar's lambs had come to her. They had an entire paddock, and my back yard, and they chose to bed down with their giant white friend.

 "Bored. Let's go."

 "Come on, Sis."

 "Are you coming Big White Dog?"

"Nope."         

"Why not? Come on. Let's go!"

"Can't. Tied."

"Dude!  That sucks!"

"Tell me about it."

"Because you chased the garbage man?"

"So they say . . . I think it's a coyote plot."

"Oh well, I guess I'll stay here with you then."

"Hey, you could stand to stay out of the pond. Your butt smells like a goldfish bowl."

"Gee, thanks."

"If your friends can't be honest with you, who can? I mean really, Girlfriend, your butt smells like a goldfish bowl."

"Thank you for your opinion."

"I'm just saying."

"I think I smell a hungry coyote."

"WHERE?!  Where's a coyote?!!!"

Police Dog

Police Dog on Crack

Retired Police Dog

Current Police Dog

Mellow

Psycho

Any Questions?

 Yes, we DO feed Oli. She simply has the metabolism of a hummingbird.  She trots endless circles in the yard or digs to China.  Zena, on the other hand, only trots to her dog dish.

     Briar was a Very Bad Big White Gorilla yesterday. She has developed a habit of hopping into G'Ma's yard, going through the chicken yard, and hopping the fence to get off the property and threaten neighbors who drive up in their own yards, and garbage men. 

     As we sat at the table yesterday, we watched Briar scale two fences to race across G'Ma's yard and terrorize some poor garbage man who bravely defended himself with a trash can.  It wasn't pretty.  Other Half almost choked on his cereal.  He advised me that if we cannot control Briar, we will have to consider getting rid of her.  (Like THAT's gonna happen! Not in this lifetime!)

Fortunately for Briar, she is Mommy's dog, and Mommy doesn't dump problem dogs, Mommy fixes the problem. Unfortunately for Briar, Mommy fixes the problem. 

Briar and electricity have a history together.  It was short. It was ugly. But Mommy will spend the next few mornings hammering insulators along the lamb paddock and G'Ma's yard.  Briar is about to meet electricity somewhere other than the goat paddock.

Until then, Briar will have to live in her escape-proof pens and on a cable in the lamb paddock. She will not be a happy gorilla.  But the neighbor who called at 10:30 PM to inform me that Briar wouldn't let him into his house will. And so will the garbage man.

Sigh . . . life on a farm . . .

Every morning, after the livestock is fed, I try to take the dogs for a nice long walk. Often we walk in the lamb paddock that borders G'Ma's fence.  If she's awake, G'Ma will come outside bearing gifts for granddogs.

Everyone (except Lily the Titty Baby) rushes up the ramp to beg an egg.

 Some of us are a little pushier than others.

 "Pul-ease!  G'Ma! Pick me! Another for me!!!"

And that . . . is how this happens.

"I got egged!"  

In an effort to be fair and make sure everyone gets their share, G'Ma tosses eggs to each granddog. Sometimes eggs are stolen. Sometimes people get hit with an egg not intended for them.

 But everyone enjoys a visit from G'Ma. 

Some of us just enjoy it a bit more than others.

 "More please, G'Ma!  More please!"