Farm Fresh Blog

After hauling cow hay, Trace and Other Half go the grocery store . . .

Since Kroger's takes a dim view of canine shoppers, Trace waits in the truck.

Other Half returns to find that someone has locked the doors and he cannot get in the truck. Who would have done that?

 "Trace! Unlock the door!"

Fortunately for Other Half, Mommy and Lily are sitting in another truck in the Kroger's parking lot . . .

. . . so there is another key.

I didn't blame Trace. Who leaves a puppy in an unlocked truck with the motor running? (even if his wife IS sitting in the lot! Someone who doesn't mind having his ice cream melt . . .)

 "I was skeered, Dad!

 I had to lock the doors so strangers wouldn't take me!"

The greatest thing about hosting this website is the fantastic group of people I meet through it. We are like an extended family, and today, the family started sharing critters.

 Meet longtime reader, Sue!

 . . . and Emma June!

Emma reminds me so much of my Border Collie #1, Lily! Look! (Above) They could be littermates!  I was so happy that she brought Emma! (She also brought the most adorable red & white Border Collie puppy that if I had played with any longer, I'd have arm-wrestled Sue for her!  (Yeah, like anyone would be able to wrench a puppy like THAT away from her!)

Sue also brought her daughter, Gretta.  (I wanted to keep her too!)  My goat is getting ready to give birth and I'll have to learn how to start milking goats soon.  Gretta is a pro at this!  She has Alpines. The more she talked about goats, the more I wished she lived next door.  (I forsee me calling her in a panic before I get the goat milking routine down pat.)

Clover tells Gretta a secret.

She knows a Goat Person when she sees one!

Sue and Gretta drove HOURS to get some dog-broke lambs.  I had planned on keeping this group of wethers.

 Magellan

  Ricearoni & Macaroni

 Ken of the Malibu Twins

(His sister, Malibu Barbie The Blond, went to live with Dear Friend's flock!)

But because of the drought, we decided to cut down the numbers of both cattle and sheep.  That meant I had to sell the lambs I'd set aside for dog-training. Unfortunately because I thought I'd be keeping this group, I allowed myself to get attached to them, thus, the idea of them getting butchered with the rest of the lambs, was a bit of a problem.  (I'm a softie.)

Sue needed some new sheep.  It was a match made in Heaven. (or Texas! Well, same thing!) So Sue and Gretta trucked across Texas today to pick up the boys.

 With a bucket of feed (and the threat of Border Collies) and they loaded into the trailer.

It was great to finally meet Sue and Emma in person.  I feel like I knew them already! It was kind of funny to see that they already knew my dogs and called them by name. 

While I tried to keep Briar from climbing in the truck with them, the dog kept saying,

"But Mom!  These people KNOW me!  And I'm dry! I'm not wet today! Surely they want a large dirty white dog in their faces! Come'on, Mom!  Quit being such a drag!"

(This is why they make dog kennels.)

We hauled hay on Sunday.

 We unloaded hay on Monday.

Border Collie #1 supervises all activities,

waiting to be of some help.

After all, it's simply a matter of time before we need her. She knows this, so she waits . . . waiting to help.

And wonder of wonders, her patience is always rewarded.

This afternoon when unloading hay, we uncovered a nest of barn mice. Mice ran everywhere at the same time, up the wall, under pallets, across the floor, etc. Two adult police officers/special agents who carry guns, chase drug dealers, stand over dead men, and generally enforce city,state, & federal laws, screamed, danced, hollered, and pointed at small field mice scattering across the barn floor. (it was shameful!)

But someone else knew just what to do . . .

A pounce, a snap, and a rodent was flipped across the barn aisle 

. . . dead.

Senior Special Agent Lily Langford has everything under control.

The suspect/victim (depends upon your viewpoint)

"Just one of the many services provided by Barbed Wire Border Collies Inc.

We thank you for your business!"

 Working out!

Judging by the response to "The Old Fat Woman" (-in-the-mirror) blog, I'm not the only one struggling with health and aging.  Apparently no matter how much we weigh, and how old we are, we're never happy.  One of the wisest things anyone ever told me was "save those old pictures - the ones where you think you look bad. One day you'll look back on them and say, "HEY! I didn't look that bad. In fact, I looked pretty darned good!"

But most of us, no matter our weight or age, eventually look in the mirror (or the new Driver License photo!) and say, "I gotta start taking better care of myself!"

In the spirit of accountability, I must give a report on my recent attempts to drag myself into better health.  So . . . here tis:

Day 1

Work out with Dear Friend. Drink lots of water.  Weigh self. Stroke. Record weight. Blog health issues. Determination sets in.

Day 2

Dear Friend goes out of town. Work out alone.  Emphasize weights. Go light on cardio (lazy) Weigh self. Lost 2 pounds.  Woo hoo!  It's water. I know it's water. It doesn't matter. Feel healthier anyway. Progress is progress.

Day 3

Work out alone. Lift weights with Dear Friend over the phone.  (love earpieces!) Weigh self. Lost 2 more pounds.  Woo hoo!  Seriously, it's water weight. Again, doesn't matter. Buy $233 worth of healthy food at grocery store. Note that I could have bought junk food for less than half the cost.  There is something WRONG with that!  Real food costs more than chemical-laden, imported, food-like substances.  Grrrr . . .

Day 4

Eat healthy breakfast. Weigh self. Gained 2 pounds.  Stupid Freakin' Scale! Tell self it's water weight and nothing  matters but how I feel and how pants fit. Kick scale. Go work out. Other Half insists on eating at Italian restaurant for dinner. There is absolutely NOTHING healthy on menu.  Grrrrr . . .  We split a meal and told ourselves we were being healthy.  Yes, Denial is more than just a river in Egypt!

Day 5

Skip workout at home. At office, run up and down stairs multiple times. Major work-out. Decide that if I die in the stairwell, it would be a Bad Thing.  Warn cellmate in cubicle behind me when I am running stairwell and what floors to search for my body on.

Day 6

Busy morning. No work-out. Dear Friend calls to give her progress report. She is having problems working out while out of town. No problem.  We will get back on the wagon tomorrow morning. No, wait. She has the Farmer's Market. Okay, Sunday. Sunday we will start again.  Yeah, Sunday! Other Half wants breakfast.  Give him multiple healthy choices. He wants Frosted Flakes instead.  (sigh) Hand him cereal box and large jar of milk.  He notes that milk is not in plastic jug and inquires as to why. (trained investigator) Come clean and admit that milk is raw milk from local cow (named "Sugar") - milk on April 26 in the afternoon. Other Half refuses to drink milk and eats his sugar cereal dry.  Inform Other Half that he acts like a 14 year old girl and that from now on his name is "Buffy."  He stares at me while he nibbles on dry cereal - unimpressed by my threat.  Flat-ass refuse to make him eggs and bacon.  Buffy nibbles on dry cereal and pistachios instead - refusing to drink cold, clean milk that comes from a healthy cow down the road. Buffy weighs himself. Buffy informs me that scale is wrong.  Whatever . . .

Go to office.  Cellmate in cubicle behind me has been inspired to run stairwell too. He runs stairwell and later informs me that according to the Surgeon General, he is healthy enough for sex. At least two flights.  (Thank you for sharing that, Dave) I congratulate him. He has run four flights.  Go Dave! Men obviously don't need as much motivation to run stairs as women do . . . 

"If we are facing in the right direction . . .

. . . all we have to do is keep on walking."

Proverb

Trace waited impatiently for his broken leg to heal.

Now it's life in the fast lane again!

Unfortunately, it scares the bejeebers out of me!

"OOmpf!"

 "Arrfffpp!"

 "Ooppff!"

"Umpff!"

And like a contestant on the game show "Wipeout," he is happy to jump up and get back in the game. (I would be in traction for months.)

My last two ewe lambs drove off in a Mercedes yesterday. Yes, the lady packed 'em off in a Mercedes SUV. They are to be the foundation of her new Dorper flock.  I was feeling pretty good.  I had cash in my pocket, and they had a good home. I had this ranching life down by the horns.

Unfortunately that all changed this morning:

Sleep at Cow House. Because I have a murder trial this morning, I must rise early, go to other house to care for sheep and goats, find a clean uniform, and head to the Big City.  Drive down road and note beautiful blue dog trotting down highway.  To my horror, note that it is MY BLUE DOG! 

Slam on brakes.  Call dog who is now sniffing noses with strange dogs through a fence.  He is delighted to see me.  Rushes into open door.  Apparently Little Blue Dog is athletic enough to leap OVER hotwire fence and go walkabout when we're not home.  DARN!

Arrive at Sheep House.  Deposit Little Blue Dog in yard with Big White Dog and Black Wolf. They are happy to see him but refuse to give up information regarding how long he's been gone.  Decide that since the ewes cannot go out in the pasture today, (since I must leave early for court) I will toss them some alfalfa. Open door to barn.  Large number of large sheep come rushing up alleyway.  Am caught in a sea of black and white. This is like trying to walk in heavy surf. 

Cuss sheep.  Go feed horse.  Happen to look through barn and note that ponies are eating with ewes.  How is that possible?  Ponies are with rams and weanlings.

Uh oh! Someone has either failed to properly shut the gate (me?) or someone has managed to open the gate himself. 

  "Who me?"

Rams and weanling wethers are now co-mingling with ewes.  Holy shit!  Two rams.  Count forward 5 months. October.  Crap!  In October we will be playing "Who's ya daddy?" 

Bang head against gate in frustration.  Ranching seemed so much better when I had hundreds of dollars in cash in my pocket and I was watching a Mercedes drive away . . .

Who was that old, fat, drunk woman staring back at me?

I looked at my new driver license photo again.  Eegaads! Who was this person?

I compared it to my last one - the one that I hated because I looked like such a bitch.  (But at least the woman in that picture was a skinny bitch.)

There is nothing quite like the reality check of a bad photo to smack you across the face like a wet fish.  But wait! There was one more nail to drive in my coffin.  I called my old Karate Instructor regarding butchering lambs (he is a butcher) and had to admit to him that I'd gotten fat.

"NO!" he protested.

This is the same man who carefully tuned my body years ago before I joined the police department.  This is the same man who cautioned that I was getting "too thin" after I joined the police department.  And here I was having to admit that I'd let all the training and hard work go out the window. It was like telling your mechanic that you'd gotten drunk and driven his sports car into the ditch. And true to form, he happily offered to fix the problem. 

"Come back to my morning class.  You'll love Krav Maga."  (Israeli martial art)

"I'm sure I would, but when would I have the time?"

And there it was.  Time. There was never enough of it. I decided then and there that I needed to start making the time to get back in shape. Not for Krav Maga, but for me - for my health, for my self-esteem, and so I didn't die young and leave Other Half with all these sheep.

I immediately grabbed the phone and dialed Dear Friend. We had plans to go shopping and summer capri pants were our target item. Obviously we now needed to find work-out clothes too.

She answered the phone and informed me that today was a VERY BAD DAY for her to go shopping.

"I haven't been this big in years!" my former marathon runner said. "I feel horrible!"

To make her feel better, I drove over to show her my driver license photo. Clearly, it cheered her up. I'm not sure what to make of that.  Regardless, we were both inspired to start a work-out program.  It was decided that since she lived at one end of the street, and I lived at the other end of the street, we could have work-out stations in each yard and jog/power walk between the stations.  Naturally we would each take a dog, and the dog would get to do a down-stay at each station.  (Oh joy for the dog!)

I have only one pair of summer pants. That's not true.  I have 3 pairs of summer pants that I can barely squeeze my ample ass into, but they don't count.  I have only one pair of loose-fitting summer pants, and I am beginning to wear a hole in the seat of those.  The goal of our mission was to find comfortable britches.  The problem with most summer capris is that they are made for 16 year old girls who want hip huggers.  Where do 47 year old women shop?  Are we destined to wear long t-shirts forever because we can't find pants that don't come above our love handles? A clue that there is no need to even take that cute pair of pants off the rack is if the zipper is only 3 inches long. Again, where do mature women shop?

So we began our odyssey at the sporting goods store - racks and racks and racks of dazzling colors, and none of them fit.

Dear Friend found the most adorable swim suit.  Excited, she waved it at me before she headed to the dressing room.  The look on her face when she came out said it all. I didn't even bother to try.  Swimsuits would be reaching a little high for me anyway.  Hey!  I just wanted some freakin' pants that fit! The frustrating thing was that the sizes varied wildly even within the same pants.  For instance, I tried on three pairs of pants - same size, same brand, same cut, different color.  All I can say is that the 8 year old kids in China who made those pants were all using different scales.  One pair was grossly too big (yea!). One pair was grossly too samll. (boo!) And I could barely squeeze into the last pair, 

AND YET THEY WERE SUPPOSEDLY ALL THE SAME PAIR OF PANTS!

I did find yoga pants and some adorable, overpriced t-shirts ("Life Is Good" brand) that hopped into my cart.  I also bought a scale. It was about the same as buying a dragon. We drove home, inspired to cut back on sugary drinks, fried foods, and sweat a lot more.

Apparently farm work is great for your arms, but does very little for your middle. I know this because over time, I'm beginning to resemble an apple.  How is it possible to be on your feet all day, fall to bed exhausted, and still gain weight?

There is a fascinating difference between men and women.  I bought a scale, but I had no plans to actually get on the thing any time in the near future. Yet as soon as I brought it home, Other Half happily climbed on the dragon.

He peered down, and said, "That can't be right."

I laughed. (And Denial is a river in Egypt.) Despite his urging, I didn't even bother to climb on.  The next morning, after Dear Friend and I had sweated our way up and down the road for about 45 minutes, and while Other Half was still sleeping, I snuck onto the beast.

Do what?!!  40 pounds overweight!!!

I didn't even bother to deny it.  And yet somehow, magically, I felt better.  I was now tackling the problem, and the problem had a number. And I had a plan. And I have a goal!  Don't laugh, but as soon as I get back in shape, I'm gonna take a new driver license photo. How vain is that?

  Seven years ago when I thought I was overweight!

 Now!  40 pounds later! Girlfriend has GOT to get back in shape! It is not so much the weight, as how it makes me feel. It ages me. So, with my trusty Border Collie at my side, I embark on yet another journey to get back in shape!

Dorothy asked for a blog about Oli, the current Police Dog, so here it is!

Born in Czechoslovakia, she is a Belgian Malinois, who at best, looks like a coyote on crack!

 Unlike the magnificent Zena,

Other Half's last partner, Oli strongly resembles a nondescript mutt - a tiny little brown dog (on crack!)

Years ago, I heard the tale of a canine officer with a malinois who confronted a belligerent drunk.  The officer informed the man that he needed to move on out of the area. 

The drunk snarled,

"Who's gonna make me? You and that little brown dog?"

And with that, he kicked the officer in the crotch.

The poor cop dropped like a rock . . .

The drunk had to be hospitalized.

Unfortunately there was no one available to pull the "little brown dog" off him.

What our intrepid drunk failed to realize is this:

Force = Mass X Acceleration

What the Little Brown Dog lacks in Mass, he makes up for in Acceleration. These little dogs are like speeding bullets.

While on the surface, Oli looks like a pound puppy.

 In reality, she is a very expensive bundle of energy, bred to work. 

Oli is NOT a calm, family farm dog. She is highly intelligent, (in a velociraptor sort of way), and will actively plot means to get chickens or sheep. Absurdly affectionate, Oli will launch herself from a great distance to land in the recliner with Other Half, where she falls asleep and snores like freight train. It is one of the few times she is not in motion. When Oli enters the house, without fail, she flings herself across the living room furniture like a blazing brown pinball, bouncing from chair to ottoman to couch, and back to ottoman. Oli is good with other dogs, and ironically, good with cats. (After all, why hunt cats when you can hunt sheep?)

She is a narcotics dog who also does basic patrol work.  They work with interstate freight traffic, looking for illegal aliens and narcotics. Oli and Other Half can be sent anywhere in the country, (insert frowny face here) but their primary focus is along border states.

Whenever Other Half works without Oli, she stays home on the farm with me. 

Repeat: Oli is NOT a farm-friendly dog!  She would love nothing more than leg of lamb with a side dish of fresh chicken, and is intelligent enough to find a way to get it. Thus, she requires a bit more juggling than the rest of the dogs.

And so Dorothy, that's about it!  Oli is a Dual Purpose Dog who digs, kills chickens & sheep, plays endless silly games with the puppy, and makes sure that my husband comes home safely at the end of the night.  So in the long run, I guess it doesn't matter if she looks like a coyote of crack!

READ: The Crocodile Hunter LIVES!   A Study In Contrasts

  Warning!  Warning! Warning!

If you are squeamish, skip this blog and tune in tomorrow for something warm, and fuzzy, and cute.  The truth of things is that I'd rather skip it too, but in keeping with my moral code, I must share ALL the parts of living in the country, not just the good ones. 

That said, enter this blog at your own risk . . .

Now those of you who are left, everyone hold hands . . .

Okay, here goes . . .

Our neighbor, Kindly Rancher Next Door, is a young man who raises cattle, a few goats, and some chickens.  The chickens and goats are income and education for his young son, Cooper, who is learning early the values of hard work and the ranching way of life.  I am proud to say the I bought Cooper's first crop of baby goats, and Other Half paid WAAY too much for chickens we didn't need one year because he wanted to give this budding rancher some encouragement.  But I digress, back to the story . . .

Spring has sprung and the season of baby chicks is upon us.  Kindly Rancher Next Door shared this little tidbit over the fence this week:

He lost 8 of his first crop of baby chicks to one of our barn cats!  I felt terrible.  He was okay with it. No hard feelings.  Life in the country, and all that.  Anyway, he had moved on, and was looking forward to their next little crop of chicks that had just hatched. 

And now here's the horrifying part . . .

He came in one day last week to find a 6 foot chicken snake had gotten into the pen and eaten ALL of his chicks.  Then the bastard was so fat that he couldn't sneak back out again!

EEEEEKKKKKKK!!!!! (cue "Psycho" soundtrack)

My skin is still crawling! I'm not a snake-hater, but Friends & Neighbors, if a chicken snake just ate all my peeps that would be one dead snake! The severe drought is bringing wildlife closer and closer to the houses and barns.  I'm most grateful that the sheep rotating in and out of the yard keep the grass down low enough to discourage snakes, but we have no sheep at the other house.  (right beside where the 6 foot chicken snake was discovered)

Now some of you may be old enough to remember the comedian Richard Pryor. While much of his comedy was a bit raunchy for me, I do recall a delightful skit he did on snakes where he summed up precisely my feelings regarding them.

"Snakes . . . make you hurt yourself."

Now I see snakes everywhere.  The garden hose is a snake.  The dog toy becomes a snake.  The stick looks like a snake.  Everything long and slender has suddenly mutated to become a snake.  I jump. I run into things. I cuss.

And I keep rotating sheep and goats around the house so every shred of vegetation that the little bastards would use for concealment is GONE!

And Other Half wonders why I refuse to collect eggs in the dark!

I do want to add one note:

Don't you reckon that the Easter Egg Hunt on the ranch next door was modified a bit last Sunday?

(I'm just saying . . . )