Farm Fresh Blog

 Spring has sprung!

 Pony hair is everywhere!

Hairy ponies everywhere!

In reality, despite the size, everyone is a horse. (but I still call them all "ponies")

Montoya is lonely.    

He wants to be with the minis. Cows just don't cut it.  He wants to be with horses, even pint-sized horses. So this morning I caved and put them together. The minis, who need to be on a dry lot because they get fat when they even sniff spring grass, raced to the spring pasture.

and everyone lived happily ever after . . .

. . . until the mean owner decides they've had enough grass

 and they need to go back in their dirt lot again . . .  

"To know even one life has breathed easier 

 because you have lived,

 this is to have succeeded."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Timing is everything, and every woman knows this. As an illustration, let me share the events of last night:

While peacefully sitting at my desk, I receive call from Other Half, who is also at work. He is working a Big Multi-Agency Operation and has been away from home quite a bit. The purpose of this call is to inform me that he has found a litter of raccoons. Since he is actually in a loud restaurant it is hard to hear the details, but the long and short of it is Momma and litter are slated for death, so he rescued the litter. 

I inform him emphatically that we can NOT keep a litter of raccoons. He reluctantly agrees. (reluctantly!!!!) I remind him that it is AGAINST THE LAW! That fails to deter him.  I remind him that he has been an absentee husband for almost 3 weeks, leaving Son and I to handle HIS animals and we will NOT be happy if he brings home MORE responsibilities!!!  This seems to strike a chord.  I offer to make some phone calls to find wildlife rehabbers in his area. He agrees and goes back to dinner.  Minutes later I call him with two phone numbers and then forget about the raccoons.

All is well until I call to inform him that I am leaving work. It is at this point that he shares  that he is STILL, 3 hours later, in possession of baby raccoons.  Do what??!!!  (He only called one number and they didn't return his call.)

I throw a Giant Hissy Fit. He points out that he was not driving the car, thus not in control of his own destiny, and everyone else wanted to eat, not deal with raccoons. Angry Women aren't the least bit sympathetic to this excuse.  Angry Woman points out that poor baby raccoons have been waiting for 3 HOURS . . . and she will NOT be happy if he comes home with a litter of raccoons for her to take care of while he is out playing Secret Agent Man. (cue music)

Other Half assures Angry She-Bitch that he will drop Innocent Babies off at the SPCA.  Angry She-Bitch points out that the SPCA is NOT OPEN at this hour.  Other Half counters that he did this with a baby owl last year and the facility is always manned.  He then asks if we have any Kitten Formula.  Angry She-Bitch goes postal.  He promises her that he will not bring home a litter of raccoons.

Minutes later an elated Other Half calls to inform her that Precious Babies are now happily snoozing under a heat lamp at the SPCA. He is quite proud of himself.  Angry She-Bitch is slightly satisfied, but since she sees the door open . . . she runs through it. She takes this opportunity to inform Other Half that she has just purchased two baby Nubian goats. He strokes.

"Do what??!!  You just chewed my ass for thirty minutes about responsibility and you bought two more GOATS!?!?!?"

Less-Angry She-Bitch now proceeds to explain that she has been playing with the milk goat mommas and these babies for weeks now. AND .  . . the cheese in the refrigerator is from these momma goats. AND . . .  HE was the one who talked her into selling the last of her Boer goats. AND she has dearly regretted that sale. AND Grandbaby and Grandbaby-On-The-Way want goat milk. 

Helpless before the onslaught of Female Logic, Other Half just gives up. Less-Angry She-Bitch feels slightly guilty for being such a 'bitch' about a Litter of Helpless Baby Raccoons (which are ILLEGAL) and tells him that he is a Good Man for not letting the Pest Control Guy kill the Baby Raccoons. She reminds herself that his heart is in the right place even when he's busy playing Secret Agent Man.

I'm seriously considered giving Briar a haircut.  Maybe a puppy cut, or one of those Portugese Water Dog clips. She'll probably look silly but I think she'll feel better. Briar spends so much time in the pond that her butt is beginning to matt.  Combing her out isn't much of an option because by the time I get up in the morning, she's normally already taken her morning swim.  Then we take a walk, and she takes another swim. Briar is a closet-hippo! Combing out a wet dog is not an option for me.

Not only is she rarely dry, but she smells like a fish bowl  (much like Trace!) Soooo . . . that's why I'm seriously considering giving Briar a 'wash & wear' haircut.

Look!  I spy an Albino Hippo!

"Hey!  A fish!"

"Look!  My TAIL!!!"

"OH!  There's my tail!!!"

Any questions?

Scientists say we commit the sin of "anthropomorphism" when we say an animal grieves; we are, after all, giving "human characteristics to things not human." I argue however, that they feel emotions as we do. One cannot hear Montoya's cries echo through the night and not understand that he is lonely, that he grieves.

He still calls for Sultan. He calls. He listens. He waits for a response. He calls again. It breaks my heart. Tonight I pulled him out and played with him.  It was therapy for both of us.

I open the stall door and invite him into the aisle. Like a overgrown dog, he eagerly bows, backs, and sidepasses for cookies. I pull out his hot pink brushes and rub him down.  His world is getting back in balance. The grinding of his teeth lulls me to a state of Here & Now as he munches the hay and I comb his tail. Three calico cats drop from the rafters to land in the hay beside him.  He gives no notice, happy instead, for the company. From time to time he turns and gazes at me, a mouth full of hay, and I remember him as a weanling again.  I have spent so many hours combing his mane, combing out the tangles, combing away my problems.  This horse has always been therapy for me.  Tonight we were therapy for each other.

I groom him. We play. And as I leave the barn, his cries echo through the night again.  

The End Of The Trail

Today was a good day to die. The longest walk I ever take is from the horse trailer, down the path that leads behind the clinic.  It's a beautiful path, with tall grass and wildflowers.  Trees line either side.  Cows bellow from the pasture nearby. I think they call both a welcome, and a farewell. The cows see this walk played out all too often. I've walked this path too many times, for both myself, and dear friends. It's never an easy walk, and it helps to have a girlfriend walk with you - to hold your hand, to lend a shoulder, to remind you to cut a lock of mane and tail.

I shared 26 years with Sultan, my sexy senior citizen. I'll miss him, but I know he lived a long, good life. I bought him from his breeder as a four year old, and he never knew an unkind hand. He loved his saddle and his horse trailer.  They were his "tickets to adventure." His farrier and his vet loved him - which says a lot for a stallion. He was a model citizen, he was a great horse.  I'm honored to have shared the journey with him.

Look at this heifer. 

She looks innocent enough, doesn't she?  Look again.

See!  There it is!  She's plotting!

Daisy Mae has GOT TO GO!  (at least that's what I informed Other Half this morning when I called him in a rage) She is a cow. Cows belong with other cows, behind the fence, chewing their cuds. Daisy Mae didn't get that memo. 

She is a registered Santa Gertrudis heifer. We plan to breed her to another registered Santa Gertrudis.  Unfortunately our bull is an Angus.  (you see the problem)

Thus we moved Daisy Mae to the Sheep Farm so she didn't get bred to an Angus. Unfortunately she has proceeded to walk through fences like a red bulldozer. (no barbed wire)  Chain link fencing is NOTHING to a red bulldozer in heat. 

As if that wasn't a big enough sin, this week Daisy Mae escalated her criminal activities.  She is now bullying the stallion out of his food.  YES!!!  (my stallion is a weenie . . . )

 Sexy Senior Citizen

This is how meal time runs now:

Walk to barn as sheep scream in stereo from both sides of the path. Enter feed room. Lock dogs in feed room. Scoop up sheep food.  Spread sheep food among various feeders.  Note that Blue Heeler has escaped from feed room.  Wonder (???)Feed weaned lambs. Feed rams.  Go back to feed room. Scoop horse food. Lock Blue Heeler back in feed room with everyone else. 

Shovel feed to stallion.  Move to next stall and shovel feed to gelding. Head to cows with hay. Note large red cow has moved stallion out of his stall.  Stallion moves in with Gelding. Gelding runs out and moves Red Cow out.  Red Cow barrels toward Stallion.  Stallion exits stall and runs toward stall with Gelding.  Gelding leaves stall and evicts Red Cow.  Red Cow just moves stallion out of his feed again.  

Enraged Human phones Spouse to scream into his answering machine. Spouse wisely decides to allow her some time before he returns call. Note that Blue Heeler has escaped from feed room again.  (???)

It is time for Daisy Mae to return to her breeder so when she comes home she can go back out with THE COWS!

"Greetings Bi-ped!"

"Hey Bro!  Wake up!  The Bi-ped is here!"

"Look cute, Bro!  Look cute! Look into the camera-thingee and smile! We're boys. Boys either end up at the sale barn or for working dogs.  We want to stay and work dogs, so look cute."

"Look at me smile!  I like dogs!  (Smile Bro!  Smile!)"

The new mama didn't want to take her babies out of the barn this morning. She's happy enough to share her babies with the rest of the flock, as long as they stay in the barn.  When everyone else strolled out the gate, she stayed behind.  Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

Terri's Pal asked me to post more photos of my lambs.  Because the new lambs are inside the barn, I can't get good shots of them without a flash (and then they have blue eyes!)

Here they are with the Malibu Twins. Note the size difference.

I named them the Malibu Twins because the ewe lamb has a blond head.  I call them Malibu Ken & Barbie. (born Jan 29)

Here is the lamb that was born on Jan 2.  He's a little hulkster now.

The Jan 2 lamb with the Dec 25 lamb.  Compare them to the lambs born yesterday. 

Here are Roanie's boys - Ricearoni & Macaroni

They've grown a bit, haven't they?

We've got lambs stretched from Oct 25 birthdates to March 28 birthdates. Thus far, the singles born later have caught up with the twins born in October.  Next year I'm hoping to plan better so that everyone is born within the same month.  We're weaning in groups and so I have to listen to screaming babies from now til June!

 "What'z weaning?"

The last of the hold-out pregnant ewes gave birth yesterday.

 Twins!

She is a first-time mother and I had worried about her.  This ewe was as wide as she was tall and I was certain that she'd have twins. As a yearling, she loved the new babies and so I had hopes that she'd be a good mama herself.  She is.  She gave birth to twins all by herself (a plus!) and is the doting mother to both of them.  I returned from a herding lesson to find two more additions to the flock and a very attentive mama.

The little ewe is as friendly to me as she was before she gave birth, but the barn cat . . .  well that's another issue . . .

"Run, Cat, run!!!" 

"Babies okay?"

  "Check!"

And so she assumed the position again, standing guard over her little ones, keeping them safe from the Big Bad World of Barn Cats.

 "Yawn . . . "