Farm Fresh Blog

    "Rise and shine!"

 "The farm is awake, but we've been up all night."  

 "Allll night . . . "

"But now the sun is up and we thank God for another day"

"It's so hard to get real work done when the farm is awake though. For instance, have you ever tried to hunt with a cow walking behind you. Subtle, real subtle.  You blend in like a billboard." 

"I just cannot work under these conditions!"

Perhaps I'm just getting old. Perhaps I'm just tired. Perhaps I've just seen too much in this world, but I find that more and more, I am reminded of the words of John F. Kennedy.

"Too often we enjoy the comfort of opinion

 without the discomfort of thought."

I'm just saying . . . .

I'm still not sure how this happened,

                                                  but we just bought another cow horse.

He's Colonel Freckles bred on the top side, double Hancock on the bottom side.  This boy is bred to be a ranch horse.  We have friends who have his full brother and his half brothers and they're very happy with them and the ranch they purchased them from.  This ranch produces nice cows and nice cowponies.

Sooooo . . . that's how we ended up with a three year old instead of the solidly trained ranch horse that we were looking for . . .   Ah well . . . I couldn't resist his butt and his kind eye.

". . . and he whispered to the horse,

trust no man in whose eye

you do not see yourself

reflected as an equal."

source unknown

D.H. Lawrence wrote "I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself."

(But if you saw the movie G.I. Jane you already knew that.)

A seven month old Border Collie is a wild thing. A seven month old Border Collie with a broken leg is a wild thing that doesn't feel sorry for itself.

He doesn't.  He really doesn't. In fact, a broken leg doesn't slow him down a bit.  When not confined, or stretching his neck when he richochets off the end of a leash, he tries to sneak outside (at breakneck speed) with his little leg held up just high enough to not slow him down.  I'm amazed. I'm trying to keep him quiet, but at the same time, keep him sane.  Confinement is much tougher on Wild Thang than having a broken leg. 

I let him out of his kennel to stretch his legs this morning. He grabbed a kong, climbed onto the couch and proceeded to drop it off the back of the sofa. Then he raced off the couch to catch it, climbed onto the couch again, and repeated the process.  Oh dear.  He was playing fetch with himself.  Please!  Please!  Please! Don't tell my vet that I watched him do that three times before I stopped him!!!  I'm sorry!   I couldn't help it!  He was so freakin' cute!  And he's going nuts confined to a kennel.  But he doesn't feel sorry for himself.

He is the K9 equivalent of a 6 year old little boy running around with a broken arm.  His world has changed and he simply adjusts accordingly.  Although he doesn't cry or whine in his crate, he is pretty creative with his toys, and unfortunately, just because he's confined in a crate, it doesn't mean he's quiet.  I don't think richocheting off the bars was not what the vet had in mind.  He is actually quieter when we drag him around with us to run errands, since he sits in the truck like a little co-pilot, happily looking out the window.  He's quiet when the sheep are in the back yard and he can sit in his crate and watch Sheep TV.  But he's waiting. He's waiting for me to slip up and not remember that he has a broken leg. Then, . . .  like a P.O.W. he will make a jail break. He will slither out, knock down the baby gate, sneak outside the doggy door, swim in the pond, and return back through the doggy door, to play fetch with his soaking self on my couch.  (That's my little boy!)

But he doesn't feel sorry for himself.

Other Half is on a quest. Since he lost The Greatest Ranch Horse Ever, he's been in search of a replacement.  The problem is TGRHE (see above) was an old horse from an old line (Skipper W) that isn't as common as it used to be, PLUS, he was a push-button horse that didn't have to be ridden regularly.  (That is VERY important around here!)

Before he lost TGRHE, Other Half purchased this horse. 

He is a great roping horse, and he looks like TGRHE, but he's an athlete who needs to be ridden regularly. His talents are being wasted with us. Other riders have made money on this horse, but we're not interested in that, we just need a reliable ranch horse. He is probably better off as a competition roping horse, not a replacement for TGRHE.

Sooooo . . . despite the fact that Other Half really loves this horse, what he really wants is a Skipper W bred ranch horse - a horse used to working cattle, a "been there, done that, got the t-shirt" horse. We don't have regular ranch work (most of it is outsourced to Border Collies) but Other Half still wants to have a reliable ranch gelding around.  Our ranch is the perfect home for the "semi-retired" ranch horse and that's what we're looking for.  It's easy to find nice young well-bred 2, 3, & 4 year old geldings.  (and Other Half is tempted!) but the reality is that we are TOO BUSY to regularly school and ride a young horse. 

So my plea to you is this - if you know someone, who knows someone, who has a Skipper W bred older ranch gelding for sale, let us know.

Read this blog about TGRHE to understand why Other Half continues to search . . .

High Noon

 

He died that same way he lived, like a real cowpony. The call came in yesterday morning. Even though we had expected it, you are never quite prepared.

"Skip is down, and I can't get him up," the neighbor said.

The old horse was approaching thirty years old now and time is cruel. He'd cheated Death twice this year already, and we didn't expect him to make it through the winter. Other Half and Skip had logged many miles together. Skip had penned many a cow, carried many a child, and was that "go-to horse" that you could count on when you needed the job done right. They shared a lot together, they were co-workers, they were friends. They took care of each other. And so when he put the phone down, Other Half drew a heavy sigh. This horse, who had safely carried him through so much, this horse who had safely carried his children, now needed to be safely carried along his journey.

Phone calls were made. The vet was unavailable. His staff would give him the message when he got in, but the earliest appointment would be in five hours. Death was already pulling Skip away. He was a fighter, but it was a losing battle, and Other Half refused to allow Death to toy with Skip for five more hours.

Skip laid his great head against Other Half and he cuddled that old horse like a lap dog. He stroked his eyes, smoothed his mane, and kissed his forehead. Then with a heavy heart, Real Cowboy shot Real Cowpony. We held each other as Skip fell.

I've seen a lot of Death and have come to learn that there are worse things -- Suffering and Regret. Skip lay in the shade of a beautiful October morning with the blue sky over his head. The weather was good. It was a good day to die. Other Half took a ragged breath and went back to stroking Skip.

Well, I'm down to just The Boys again -

Montoya,

and Sultan the Sexy Senior Citizen. 

(The Porch Ponies don't count as horses.  They are "horse-like dogs" who live with the rams, and the Cow Ponies live with the cattle.) Sultan is approaching thirty and in less than stellar health. 

"I am NOT in poor health! Quit sayin' that!"

 He has had melanoma for years but seems okay.  The winters are harder on him now, but he recovers his weight in the spring. I've had him since he was four years old, and you couldn't ask for a better behaved stallion. I used to do some endurance and competitive trail riding with him and other riders couldn't believe he was a stallion because he was so mannerly. Still, I never felt comfortable putting a gelding companion with him, because he IS a stallion. 

The few times when a gelding has broken into HIS pasture, he appeared to welcome the company.  Just last winter Ruffy the Miniature Horse broke in twice. Both times he was safely waiting for me to retrieve him for breakfast, and I was thankful that Sultan has such a good temperament - but he is STILL a stallion. 

Friday my friend who bought Ona convinced me to go ahead and put them together. She raises Arabians and has known Sultan since he was born. Sultan is a weenie (even the goats bullied him!) Montoya is a butt-head, no one bullies him.  He's used to being Big Man On Campus.

So yesterday I opened the gate that joins their pastures. It was quite uneventful. 

Montoya grew up on the other side of the fence from Sultan, so he was more interested in access to Sultan's pasture than the stallion. 

 The feeling was mutual. 

They checked out each other's digs and just wandered off - it was anti-climatic. Occasionally they graze together, but they are neither hostile nor clingy. It certainly simplifies things to not have to juggle a stallion and it gives Sultan his own little herd - finally.  He now has one gelding and two heifers.  I will still watch them closely, but I think they both enjoy the company.   

Yesterday was a busy day, but we did it our way. Exactly twenty-six minutes before he was supposed to get married, Other Half was on the phone, trying to buy a ranch horse.  Twenty minutes before he was supposed to get married, Other Half was on the phone again, trying to buy a ranch horse.

In hindsight, I think we spent more time trying to find the perfect ranch horse than we spent planning the wedding. (and there's nothing wrong with that!)  The average wedding ceremony costs more money than a good ranch gelding! After a ceremony that took all of five minutes, the Justice of the Peace regaled me (and threatened Other Half) with tales of Other Half in the Ole Days, back when policing was a bit more like the movie "Tombstone."  (He has mellowed quite a bit!)

Then we raced off to do chores on the "other" farm, and I got sheep poop smeared on the toe of my Hideously Beautiful boots!  Grrrrrrr . . . 

And then . . .  off to the Livestock Show!

Daughter met us there with a delightful wedding cake that she'd made!  Like our atypical wedding, the cake was perfect for us.

Look!  It's a little farm!  It has sheep! And a cow!  And a horse!  And chickens!  And a pretzel fence!  And she has altered her father's brand to include me!   (hehehehehe . . . I thought that was a nice touch to the ranch cake!)

And so in a 12 hour period, we got hitched, watched the sheepdog trial, watched the Cowboy Mounted Shooting, got tacos at a street taco wagon on the way home, did our chores, and then . . . watched the movie "Tombstone."  

For us . . . it was a perfect day. Life is short. Do it your way.

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!