Farm Fresh Blog

Yesterday evening, while hustling to finish chores, I got an excited phone call from my Other Half.

"You know what we forgot tonight?" he asked.

There were so many possibilities, I didn't even bother.

"The Youth Rodeo! Cooper's in Lead-Line!"

Background information: Other Half loves all things Rodeo. Other Half is BIG into supporting kids in any kind of rodeo or agriculture (thus we have multiple high-priced show heifers in the back yard . . . ) Cooper is the son of Kindly Rancher Next Door who is a Good Friend to Other Half and a God-Send to me when Other Half is out of town and I am stuck with a calf hanging out of the back end of straining cow.  But I digress . . .

The Youth Rodeo was tonight and Other Half wanted pictures for the blog.  I was still an hour away.  I reminded him that he had a camera in his truck - for crime scenes - Oh! He forgot. (yes, crime scene cameras CAN be used to take pictures of our nation's youth doing things other than vandalizing rail cars, and selling dope.) He was getting off work, so he and his camera headed over there.

When you've had enough of sagging britches, tattoos, nose rings, and narcotics, go to a county fair or a youth rodeo.  You will be inspired that yes, there is a future, and these kids are it.

I once walked into an apartment complex and saw a little boy playing in the sand with his trucks.  He saw me, in a police uniform, . . . and threw a dumptruck at me. 

What are his parents teaching him?

But here, in the shadow of The City, parents are still teaching rural values to their children.  Here the county fairs and the youth rodeos are still alive.

And they start young!

Object of Game:  Get the ribbon off the goat's tail

  Grab rope

Reel in goat

 Untie ribbon

 I love that face!

 And this face!

This is the serious face of a young rancher. His grandpa is a rancher. His daddy is a rancher.  Roping is serious business.

 "Yay Cooper!"

(Grandpa behind him.)

 His daddy

  His little sister

 A lot of stick horses get ridden.

And then the real horses get ridden.

The kids got older and the horses got faster as the night wore on.  By the time I joined them, the horses were MUCH faster, but the atmosphere was still the same - good, clean fun.

My Other Half helped build this arena when he was eighteen years old. At 55, he's still playing here. As I sat in the bleachers, eating a greasy cheeseburger, I watched our future, and pondered life. The kids who built this very arena are grown. Their children played here. Now their grandchildren play here.  Each generation leaves a gift for the next generation. 

 It is our responsibility to give them the values they need to survive in this world and make it a better place.  As I watch farmers and ranchers struggle to make a living in a rapidly desolving world, I marvel at how well they manage.  These children, who are using computers by the time they can walk, are riding horses even before then.   They are learning to care for, and live with, the world around them.

It isn't technology, or MTV that is destroying our nation's youth, it is the lack of one generation to instill the proper values in the next generation. 

 They say it takes a village to raise a child. It does, but it starts at home. And, there's this: some villages are doing a better job of it than others . . . 

I'm just saying . . .

I should know better. No matter how cute goats are, there is still a criminal mind lurking behind those floppy ears.

It all started with Ingrid Birdman (aka: Ingrid The Evil).  Ingrid has not softened her attitude toward her juvenile roommates.  She is, to put it bluntly, a bitch.  I tried putting them in a pen inside the bigger area to give her a chance to get used to them, but it's so hot in the barn during the mid-day hours that I don't like to leave them there. So I spent an entire morning tacking up plastic netting on top of the cattle panels to allow the chickens into the smaller goat paddock.  It sounded good in theory.  BUT . . .  I didn't factor in the goats . . .

  They immediately began to rip  up netting. Fun! Fun! Fun! Fun! FUN!

 WTF??!!!

Goats! Goats! Goats!  They eventually lost interest and left the netting up.  I turned the chickens out.  Ingrid immediately mutated from innocent Little Red Hen to Lizzy Borden chasing family members around with an ax.

Evil Ingrid Attacks Victim

 Victim Flees

 "Where dat chikken go?"

Oh well, lesson learned. Clearly Ingrid doesn't want company. The young hens will be going back to Dear Friend's farm tomorrow.  Sigh . . .  At least Ingrid lays eggs, and entertains baby goats.

This dog has never quite found her niche. She started out life as a Narcotics Dog doing locker checks in schools, but that really didn't float her boat.  Then she became a Cadaver Dog. The slower pace appealed to her, but there simply was not enough work in that region to keep her employed.  Then she was re-homed with me as a playmate for her littermate.

They enjoyed each other until he passed away last summer, and then, she was once again, out of a job.

After her brother's death, she rose to become Leader Of The Pack. Everyone kisses her butt, so she is relatively happy, but still, she is a working dog and wants a job - any job.

This week we found her a job:

Climb out of shower and see Roach the size of Volkswagon Bus hanging upside down on the bathroom door - like a vampire bat. Repress urge to scream and dance. Adopt Clint Eastwood squint, tip-toe Naked Self past roach and motion to Border Collie to get set "on point" for Roach Attack.  Point at Roach.  Border collie nods.  Like a Runner 'on mark', she's ready. Knock Roach off door with toilet brush.  And it begins . . .

And that's when we hear the baying, screeching, battle cry of The Black Wolf.

Black Wolf shoves Border Collie out of her way and pounces on Roach. She bites him with a crushing blow and flings him across bathroom.  Border Collie snaps him up. Black Wolf roars. Border Collie drops Roach - slack jawed. Black Wolf pounces Roach again. Grab! Smash! Fling! Very Happy Black Wolf smiles at me with a roach leg stuck between her teeth.

She is Warrior. Hear her roar. Roaches will soon tremble in fear at her name.

And thus began the career of the Roach Warrior. (Cue Chariots of Fire soundtrack.)

Border Collie has settled into her role as Second String Roach Warrior while The Black Wolf waits, waiting for the scream of a Naked Woman armed with a toilet brush. She is a happy girl. She finally has a job. 

     One would think that when you make a living standing over dead people, you'd have more important things to do than involving yourself in the politics of chickens. And yet, I still do. I cannot seem to help myself. Perhaps it's because my world is filled with murder, suicide, (and murder-suicides), that I feel the need to right the wrongs in the chicken coop. I wonder what Freud would say about that. Scratch that thought. Perhaps I'm better off not knowing.
 
Meet Ingrid.

Ingrid Birdman (no relation . . . )

The chickens were at the cow house - 3 red hens and a little Silver Duckwing Banty Rooster (that I didn't want to begin with!) Like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the other chickens wouldn't let Ingrid play "reindeer games" with them.  They would saunter off, leaving Ingrid to scratch and peck by herself, all alone.  She had the last laugh though.  The neighbor's dogs got in our yard and ate them. Now Ingrid is really alone.  Or she was . . .

I bought a couple of pullets from Dear Friend, a Rhode Island Red and a New Hampshire Red. 

 I moved Ingrid to the goat stall at the other house and put the pullets in with her.  She hated them on sight. No, that's not true.  She loved them. She loved bullying them.  They were terrified of her.  They huddled in a corner while she pecked them.  Bitch!

So I called Dear Friend.  She suggested I put them in a pen to protect them from Ingrid The Evil until she got used to them.  So I did.  They cautiously came out of the corner.  She stuck her head through the bars and hissed, "Get BACK!  Get BACK TO YOUR CORNER! You peons!"

Instead of shrinking back into their corner, they danced away from her vicious beak and laughed.  She was furious.  That little red hen paced the bars like a frustrated prison guard, pausing occasionally to stick her head through and snap at the inmates.  They happily scratched and pecked at oats and sunflower seeds, ignoring her.  Ingrid was beside herself.

I watch, mildly amused, wishing life in the barn yard was a bit more idyllic, and less like life on the streets. 

The Abused become The Abusers. The Innocents are locked away in their happy little sheltered worlds to protect them from Those-Who-Lack-Social-Skills. And the police patrol, like Border Collies maintaining order in the Barn Yard. 

I had a dilemma. The dairy goats need an area for "free play" where I can keep an eye on them. I don't want them in the pasture with the sheep because I don't want my milk goat eating poison ivy, poison oak, and other weeds that I don't want to drink. Thus, they can stay in the back yard (and eat my roses!), or the front yard.

 From kitchen window

The down side to the front yard is that it borders the street.  Problem: They eat goats in Texas.  These are friendly goats.  These goats would crawl in the car with you and expect to be strapped into the child seat. 

"My Mum says I have to ride in a car seat!"   

Uhm, Negative GhostRider.  No car seats for you!

I have something better than a free ride to the butcher shop. I have a Warrior Dog for you.

"A DOG!!!"  

 "A DOG!!!"

Yessiree!  A dog!  A dog who earns her puppy chow!

 A dog who has already informed the mailman . . .

 . . . and the neighbor . . .

. . . that goats are not on the menu.

Last week there were two burglaries at the other end of the road.  Briar is making sure they don't come to this end of the road.

Good Dog, Briar!

     My new milking stand arrived the week I was sick in bed, thus I did little more than set it up, plop a bucket of feed in front of it, turn the goats loose, and sit down on it to drink a homemade frappuccino. (nope, haven't kicked that habit yet. I just pour it into the old glass bottle and pretend it's Starbucks.)

To get the baby goats used to eating on a stand, I dragged some old pallets out.  They happily climb up and chow down.

Clover reluctantly gets on the milking stand to eat.  She has a hard time eating at the same time she is concentrating on this character zoom-zooming around the barn.

     Slowly but surely it's coming together though.  I haven't tied her in yet. That may be a rodeo. (the proverbial goat-roping!)  I also haven't figured out how the head lock works.  I bought a stand for horned goats, since the two weanlings have horns. It looks like the v-shaped bars come together to lock them tight - but - I don't like this part - the chain that locks the bars is designed so that a nut screws over a bolt to lock the chain in place.  Sounds good until the critter falls off the stand.  There is no quick release.  GOAT PEOPLE!  HELP me out here!  How is this supposed to work?

     I plan to keep the baby on Clover full-time for a couple more weeks. When he is beginning to eat solid foot, I'll lock him up at night, and milk her in the morning before turning him out with her.  That gives me a little more time to figure out the stanchion and get her trained so she doesn't panic and fall off the stand when she figures out she's tied.   Right now, Clover hops on, eats a bit, and hops off to check on Huckleberry. Then she hops back on, or goes to the weanling feeder.

     I would appreciate any advice from goat milkers regarding getting the goats used to the stand.  At the moment, the stand means sunflower seeds, pets, and scratches, so she likes it well enough, but she hasn't been trapped in it yet.  That may be a whole different kettle of fish. 

  "Do what???"

Take a moment to thank a soldier.

"All gave some . . .

some gave all."

God has a way of putting things into perspective. For instance, long about the time you start bellyaching about cockroaches, something more significant appears . . . and all before breakfast.

Without the benefit of morning coffee, I headed to the barn to feed the livestock. (Pay close attention to the path.)

It's a short walk to the barn. Five dogs preceded me . . . multiple times. Back and forth they ran down the path.  (That's important.)

See where Trace is now? 

Yeah. Right about there. As I flip-flopped my way (in shorts!) down the path and got right about there, I happened to notice something in the corner of my eye.  My brain registered the sight just a nanosecond before my feet did.

There on my right, just a foot and a half from my bare leg and flip-flop feet was a snake. YES!  I KNOW!!!!  (cue "Psycho" soundtrack)

Quit looking. He's gone.

But at the time, he wasn't gone. He was laying there, stock still, in front of God and everybody, hoping no one saw him.  But I did.  I just didn't have my camera. Five idiot dogs continued to run back and forth down the path, now fearsome-confused, because I had stopped.  There was a break in their routine. Progress to the barn had stopped, and it confused them.  They crisscrossed close to the snake, but he didn't move, and they didn't notice him.  For all I know, they'd been playing cards with him all morning before I got out of bed.

So here he was, in all his glory, waiting to see what was going to happen.  He was a yellow-belly water snake - harmless. Probably lives in the rocks beside the pond near the barn. But I still didn't want him here. 

 In the immortal words of Richard Pryor, 

 "Snakes . . . make you hurt yourself."

So I took a rake and prodded him.  He eased through the fence and disappeared through the bricks into the Border Collie Bunkhouse. (which they won't be using anytime soon now!)  It is a small wooden building that has doggy doors which open into chain-link runs.

Stanley the Snake moved into the Bunkhouse. I grabbed my camera and went to get his picture.  He's shy.  That's fine, cuz I wuz skeered.

 No, my dogs will not be going in this building for a while. I don't want them encountering Stanley and learning they can play with a snake.

I'm sure that the moment I moved Stanley with a rake, Lily decided snakes must be erradicated (like roaches and mice!) and the last thing I want is her playing with Stanley (and not getting hurt) and then tackling a cottonmouth (with serious consequences!) I'm hoping Stanley finds his way back to the pond before I meet him in the dark and hurt myself.

Oh, woe is me.  These kind of adventures didn't happen when Alice the Bloodhound was alive.  Her nose never failed to detect a snake.  She had learned from Frio the Catahoula Leopard Dog (the best snake-huntin' dog in all of Texas!) that snakes were bad and could never be ignored.  You must call the Human's attention to all snakes! I used to turn Frio loose in the garden to find any snakes BEFORE I went in there to weed.  I miss that dog . . .

See this?

These prehistoric creatures, the size of a Volkswagon bus, are coming into my house! We're in the middle of a drought. Dinosaur Bugs are coming into the bathroom for water. This is the expected result:

Come home late from work. Change clothes. Go pee. Note gigantic bug scurry across floor, dangerously close to my toes. Leap off toilet while screaming for dogs. Snatch up plunger and attempt to smash bug the size of a hubcap as it flees room. Scare the wits out of large black dog who responded to 911 call but is now afraid of the plunger. Scream for Border Collie who comes careening into bathroom and assesses the situation just as bug races under door into another bathroom.

Fling open door in time to see bug racing underneath another door which leads to my bedroom.  Border Collie is now in hot pursuit.

Bug runs underneath armoire. Border Collie crams herself as far under armoire as possible. I thrust plunger under in vain attempt to drive bug back out into room.  After repeated attempts to smash bug without crowning Border Collie, I give up. Border Collie pulls herself out from beneath furniture. Dust bunnies are stuck to her face.  She reports that she has lost bug.  Damn!

Pat trusty dog and pull dust bunnies off her nose.  Go to bed. Get up in middle of night to pee.  See giant bug hiding behind bottle of goat milk lotion. (the bastard!) Retreat. Whisper for Border Collie.  Inform her that The Enemy is in the bathroom again. Her eyes glaze as she braces herself for combat. With plunger in hand, I pick up bottle of lotion . . .

. . . and the race is on. 

Giant bug shifts gears into four-wheel drive and scales a basket containing toothbrushes, glasses, and soap.  I hesitate to slam plunger down on him because, quite frankly, which is worse, a giant bug scurrying across your toothbrush, or a toilet plunger smashing it?  It's kinda 50/50. So . . .  I scream. 

In an amazing burst of speed Bug crosses basket and scurries down wall toward floor. With the determined look of a practiced hunter, SEAL Team 6 Border Collie snatches up bug just as he makes it to crack in cabinet. She then tosses his broken brown body across the room, returns and salutes. 

Who needs Raid when you have a Farm Collie?

By the way, some people will inform you that this is not a cockroach. It is a palmetto bug.  Forget that! I don't care how you prettify it up. This is still a Texas-size COCKROACH!

(I Googled it!  It IS a cockroach! It is the largest and fastest cockroach in the cockroach family! Eewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!)

Meet Huckleberry!

One week old!

The world is his playground!

"I'll be your Huckleberry!"

(My apologies to folks who haven't watched the movie "Tombstone" fifty times with their spouse and have no idea what that quote means!)