Farm Fresh Blog

     When I was a kid, a repairman came to our house once. As my mother led him to the problem, she stepped in a doggy-doo. With each step forward, her flip-flops tossed dog poop onto the back of her bare leg. It was Mad Magazine Comedy at its finest, but my mother, trooper that she was, gave absolutely no indication that she was being peppered with a dog turd at every step. No! Like Winston Churchill, she proudly marched forward.

     Not a word was said about it. . .  at the time.    Years later we still fall over in laughter. But the point is, I was raised to put your best foot forward and march on. That's what makes this morning all the more embarrassing.

     I had just finished my barn chores and was on the phone with a goat friend who was regaling me with the comedy-drama of having a sheep get out of her truck while at a stop light. (Don't worry, Happy ending!) And that's when my adventure started . . .

Am absorbed in vicarious adventure of chasing sheep at a major traffic intersection, when all hell breaks loose in my front yard. Peek out front window.  Uh oh!  Water Well guy is here.  (Water well guy was supposed to be here three days ago.) Alrighty then!  Step into yard and call Big White Wet Dog who has cleared fence like a gazelle and is threatening Water Well Guy.

  (She jumps this fence with ease!)

Call dog.  Dog ignores me.  Call dog again.  Dog continues to ignore me.  Shout at Big White Dog. Dog continues to ignore me.  Scream like a Fishmonger's Wife.  Deaf Dog Ears.  Remind myself that Big White Dog is NOT a Border Collie and head across yard to retrieve her.

Problem: Current attire - gray gym shorts, baggy t-shirt, flip-flops, no bra.  Hair in pony tail. Have just finished milking goat. Goat milk is still between my fingers. Alfalfa hay is stuck to the sweat on my face. Dusty Hobbit feet. Neon white legs.  Yes, Friends and Neighbors, I am ready for the cover of People Magazine! 

     And here I am, desperate to get in the house and change before greeting these people and my Freakin' Big White Dawg won't come when she's called! So . . . I must slink out and get her.  At this point, the men are out of the truck and she has decided that they are her new best friends. I grab her and begin to haul her dumb ass to the house.  Briar puts on the brakes.  NO! New Friends are here!  I must now bend over and wrestle, in a baggy t-shirt, with no bra, a large wet dog who has absolutely no intention of leaving her new best friends.  I get her half way to the gate and she is learning how to back out of her collar.  Adjust grip. Plant Flip-Flop Feet deep in dust and continue to haul Beast across yard.  Am painfully aware of the picture I present.  (Again, not our finest hour!)

     FINALLY get Beast hauled to back gate.  Proceed to stuff her Big White Butt through gate. Must let go of Beast in order to lock gate behind me so Dogs Who Actually Bite do not stream out and get to main gate.  The Plan is to drag Beast onto back porch and lock her in a kennel.  That was The Plan.  What actually happened was that as soon as I let go of collar, Big White Beast launches herself like the Space Shuttle.  Over the fence she springs. She gallops back to the main gate, grinning at her New Friends. 

"She's friendly?"

"Yeah, but she's WET!"

"That's okay.  She'll be fine." 

And with that, they walk into the main gate and greet Briar!  I grab Blue Heeler who immediately launches into an apoplectic fit at the idea of trespassers behind the gate.  I then shuttle he and Black Wolf into kennel and the Border Collies into front yard.  (and put on a bra!)  I return to find that they have found the water well on their own and Briar, bored now, has already moved back to her rams.  WTF?!!

That's when I have a moment of self-examination. I breathe. I look down at my neon white legs, my dirty Hobbit Feet, and the goat milk between my fingers. And I realize that this is a "Flip-Flop-Doggy-Doo Moment."  I can choose to put a bucket over my head and slink off into the house, never coming into public again, or I can take a deep breath and face those men.

Let me know when it's safe to take the bucket off my head. . .

How, oh how, is this creature still alive?

     Every morning at 6:30 am, this little rascal is tapping his Reveille at the window. You'd think the barn cats would have gotten him by now.  (not that I want them to!)  Other Half, on the other hand, has about had it with our peeping tom.  (remember, he works night shift) Just about the time he is getting to sleep, someone starts tapping out a Morse code on the bedroom window. 

I have christened this "Summer of the Cardinal."

Please ignore the dirty windows. For some reason, in addition to the normal dirt, I have bird slobber on them.  (Do birds have slobber?)

     Since with the addition of the "retirement ranch" we simply cannot maintain three properties, so we have finally made the difficult decision to consolidate farms. Therefore ALL the animals need to move to one property. (Eeegaads!) This simply isn't possible, so we must let go of some sheep and cattle. And even though we've already cut down numbers for the drought, we have to be realistic and cut down some more. This translates to a lot of leaning over the fence, assessing who stays and who goes. We cuss and discuss temperament, productivity and the importance of being objective.

The problem is . . .

. . .  I'm not very good at being objective.

I just can't seem to bring myself to sell this ewe. She doesn't keep weight as well as the others, and her babies aren't any bigger than the other babies. Most of the other sheep are just sheep, but this ewe is different. And so . . .

. . .  is her dog.

But then . . .  since a sheep alone is an unhappy creature, I need to select one or two "friends" to come with her. Do you see how this plays out? One extra sheep becomes two or three. But Other Half has no leg to stand on, no room to gripe about my inability to be objective - for he has Killer.

     Killer is a cockatiel.  Year ago he found Killer wandering along the railroad tracks.  Other Half picked him up and Killer promptly bit the sh*t out of him. Killer has been a Prisoner Of War since then.  He sits in a cage in the living room, watching television, and staring out the window, dreaming of days when he was free - free to search for his own food, free to freeze to death, free to be eaten by hawks, but free nevertheless.  Killer does not wish to make friends with his captors. There is no Stockholm Syndrome at work here.  His best friend is his reflection in the mirror. His image is as grumpy as he is, but it doesn't eat his food, so he's okay with it.

I begged Other Half to find a proper bird home for Killer. He reluctantly agreed, but then, at the 11th hour, he backed out.

"I wanna keep Killer" he said.

And that's when I knew . . .

. . . I knew there would be no discussion over why I was keeping this lame ewe.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.  I lied to a cop. Well, not exactly. "Lie" is such a dirty word. Let's just say "I failed to be completely honest."  Yeah, that sounds better. 

You see, last night I had a run-in with 'tha law.' It went something like this . . . 

At midnight I find myself driving down the road, (with three dogs in the truck), when I see red and blue lights in my rear-view mirror.  Since I am on the phone with Other Half, I announce that "tha lawz dun got me!"

I know why.  I know how this game is played. Years ago I worked with narcotics. I know how to troll for dope.  I know how to run traffic while you're looking for bigger fish.  Repeat after me:  Probable cause!

In Cop Speak, we call that PC.  Probable cause is your justification for stopping a vehicle.

Once the vehicle is stopped for a legitimate "law-breakin' offense," that puppy is yours!  You can walk up, flashlight the dazed occupants inside and look for the signs that will lead you to something bigger. 

It is a dangerous game, but can lead to big payoffs.  Running traffic is like a warped game of Let's Make A Deal.  Stopping a car on traffic is like choosing to look behind Door #3.

What's in this car?  A Drunk? A teenager with a hooker?  (Don't laugh. It's happened to me.)  Or it could be big fish, like a drug smuggler, or a felony suspect. Remember Timothy McVeigh was stopped for a broken tail light!  But I digress . . .

In the 'hood, if your car is not in pristine shape with everything working, inspection and registration current, etc, they say you are "ridin' dirty," because that's the PC the cop needs to pull you over for a closer look. And trust me, no one wants the cops to look closely at their vehicle.  I'm a cop, married to a cop, and I still don't like it. Thus, when the red and blue lights popped on behind me, I knew it was because I was "ridin' dirty!"

And thus we continue our story . . .

I announce to Other Half that 'tha lawz' now have me because I am ridin' dirty. The right rear tail light has been out for . . . at least 3 months.  (I KNOW!  I KNOW!  I keep forgetting it!)  Anyway, I know why I am being stopped, and I'm a cop.  And my husband knows exactly where I am and why I am being stopped, but still my heart is beating a bit faster. Why?

Well . . . have you ever been stopped on traffic with three loose dogs in the truck when you have a gun beside you, but a badge in a backpack in the back seat?   Yeaaaaaahhhhhhh . . . (note to Self: Don't let this happen again.)

The spotlight in my rearview mirrors drown out my vision. Since I've been on the other side of that spotlight, it doesn't really bother me.  This is a state trooper however.  State Troopers work alone.  People who work on dark county roads by themselves don't like to see guns anywhere but on their own hips.  But then again, there's a solution for that!

A rabid Border Collie!  Two rabid Border Collies!  Two rabid Border Collies and a Blue Heeler! 

Picture this - an innocent state trooper starts at the back, and walks along the passenger side of the vehicle to the front of the vehicle, and back down the driver's side of the vehicle, all the while flashlighting the interior.  Friends and Neighbors, it was ugly.

My innocent Lily mutates into Cujo. She makes Ranger the Blue Heeler look like Ghandi.  She follows that flashlight beam all the way around the vehicle.  All that trooper sees is teeth and tonsils. I could have had 50 kilos of cocaine in that truck and it would have been neatly hidden underneath all that rage and slobber.  She has her feet on the dash following the flashlight beam with her teeth! Holy crap, she even scares me.

Add to this ridiculous scene the screaming woman snarling "SHUT UP! SHUT UP! Get back!" and you have a pretty good idea of what the trooper saw. (It wasn't our finest hour. I'm just sayin'.)

I roll the window down a smidge and inform "tha law" that I was also "tha law" (thus not dangerous) and promise to produce a badge and ID to go with the gun. (that was hidden under a growling dog, but you should never really count on that . . .)  After I snarl my beasts back into submisssion, I crawl out of the vehicle.  The trooper then informs me that my tail light is out.

"REALLY??!!!"    (Father, forgive me!)

"Yes M'am, come look at it."

"Oh, I believe you!  Ohmygosh!  You're RIGHT!  My tail light IS out!"  (Father, forgive me!)

The trooper then looks at my police ID and Driver license while I wallow in guilt and shame for deceiving "tha lawz."  On the other hand, saying "Yeah, that sucker's been out for 3 months" just doesn't seem appropriate for the situation.  I take my warning ticket with a measure of relief colored with a twinge of shame.  I am now "on paper" for my crime.

I get back in the car and inform Lily that now Mommy is "on paper" and we have a record. She informs me that the dogs have discussed it as a group and have decided if things had turned ugly on the side of the road, they wouldn't be taken into custody, nor would they be taken alive. I offer that it was highly unlikely things would turn ugly from a broken tail light unless "my gang" escalated the situation by cussing at the cops. She allows as how that might be true, but since Trace is too young to spend any time in the doggy slammer, they weren't taking any chances. Point well taken.

I peer through the slobber and nose prints that coat my windshield as I pull back onto the highway and contemplate the poor trooper, teeth, tonsils and the sanity of someone who ride with beasts like that.  It really wasn't our finest hour . . .

Holy cow!  I've clearly been falling behind! Since you asked for updates, here they are:

Zena the Former Police Dog . . .

 . . . still lives with a delightful little old lady.  She sleeps beside her bed, under the air conditioner. She is getting the beginnings of cataracts herself but is doing fine otherwise. They are wonderful companions for each other.  Other Half hasn't visited Zena for fear of confusing the dog.  He went to visit her daughter to get an update and Zena continues to be a very loved member of the family. That was a good match.

Marshal the Anatolian Shepherd Puppy . . .

. . . is the baby Livestock Guardian Dog who moved in with Dear Friend last Spring. He now has his own flock of sheep and has grown into a massive puppy.  He is good with the sheep but still plays a little rough sometimes. He is becoming an excellent livestock guardian dog with a very big bark. I'll have to go over and get you some more recent pictures.

Ruby the Border Collie . . .

. . . is my puppy's littermate.  Like Marshal, she has her own sheep (Marshal's sheep!) and has developed into a crackin' nice working dog.  (She listens better than her brother who is just now discovering that there is no "I" in the word "teamwork.")

Stone the Belgian Tervuren . . .

 . . . continues to be my mother's constant companion. Stone has chewed up a cell phone and at least one purse. He couldn't be more loved.

And last but not least -  Briar!

 "Huh?"

Hellooooooo??!!!  I said "and last but not least - Briar!"

"Oh! Let me find her!"

 "There she is!"

"Wait!  That's me!"

Briar continues to be my beloved goofball.  She has grown into a hairy mountain who jumps fences like a gazelle.  Fortunately she stays on the property. 

The neighbors are a bit annoyed at her 6:45 am wake-up barking every morning but we have tracked it down to horseback riders with 2 dogs that rise early to beat the heat and jog down our road. There isn't much I can do about that.  Briar is a guard dog. Guard dogs bark.

Since I got Briar I haven't lost any livestock to predators.  She is good at her job. I sleep well at night knowing that she's on duty.  She does sneak through the doggy door sometimes to sleep inside the air conditioning during the middle of the day. It is summer in Texas. Who can blame her?

This weekend we did another whirlwind trip in search of ranch land. This one shows a great deal of promise.

Yes, yes, I know there's more to a ranch than beautiful scenery, but I just can't get past the rocks! This place is rich in history and I could hike it for hours.  So can the dogs . . .

It was like being in a state park with no leash laws!

It has everything we want except a water well.  The ranches around it have water wells, so God willing, we'll be able to find well water here too.  I'd rather not drink out of the stock tanks or the creek. I'm a little fussy about my drinking water . . .

"Gee Ma, what's wrong with drinkin' out of the creek?"

The grandbabies came to the farm today.  Few things compare with seeing the world through the eyes of a child . . .

. . . from the back of a pony.

Brushing the Neigh-Neigh . . .

Milking the goat

Picking melons

  "Cut the melon, Grandpa!"

MMMM . . .  sweet melon on a hot day!

She has lots to teach her baby brother about life on a farm, and the first thing is . . . 

. . . the pony!   

Disclaimer:  NO! Those were not my melons! As has been previously established, I can't grow anything.  All melons and cherry tomatoes picked today by little fingers were grown next door by my mother! I will take credit for the pony though!

     I kill plants. I am the Dr Kevorkian of plants.  If a plant wants to die, I will help it. Actually, if it doesn't want to die, I will help that one die too. If you have four legs, I will keep you alive, but if you have a stem and are stuck in a pot . . . things just ain't lookin' good for ya 'round here.

     I'm the kind of person who picks up a little potted plant at the nursery and it screams to be put back in the flat with its buddies. For that little plant knows it has a better shot at survival by getting the occasional watering at Home Depot than taking its chances with me.

     But this year I planted two tomatoes and a basil in one big pot on my back porch.  I would water it when I watered the dogs.  How hard would that be?  The sheep and goats are there from time to time, but they ignore the pot because they'd rather eat my roses.

     And so it was that I found soon myself with thick basil amid ripening tomatoes.  Who says I have a black thumb? I examined my crop of basil last week and proclaimed it to be enough to make pesto. This is how the pesto adventure went:

Go to store. Buy pine nuts. Buy cheese. Buy garlic. Olive oil?  No, have that.  Get home. Discover that I have no olive oil. Cuss.  Wait a week. Have even more basil now. Go back to store. Buy olive oil.  Come home to discover that dairy goats have eaten all the basil while I was gone . . .

We have the most annoying Peeping Tom.  Meet Redmon.

He stares through the kitchen window.  He is not looking at my orchid which has finally began to drop its blossoms.

He is not reading my farm ledger. No, Redmon is fighting with the red bird he sees in the window.  (Whoda thought my windows were that clean? Go figure.) After he has beaten that red bird, and himself, senseless, he flies to the back of the house to fight with the bird he sees in the bedroom window. 

Each morning at 6:30 am, Redmon attacks my bedroom window . . . repeatedly. Seven dogs, three barn cats and one house cat live here.  Redmon's days are numbered.  One day I will find a pile of red feathers and be traumatized by the death of a stupid little bird that I don't even like. 

But nevertheless, until that day, Redmon will bang his beak against the glass.  He's doing it right now . . . as I type.  Yesterday I lay in bed, ruminating on the problem as Redmon smashed his little red body against the glass.

 It went like this:

Try to sleep. The annoying sound of feathers and beak hitting the glass keep waking me up.

Brush/bang/brush/bang/brush/bang! Over and over and over again. House cat!  I have a house cat! Spring out of bed.

Locate sleeping house cat in spare bedroom. Snatch her up and carry her to master bedroom. Put dazed cat on dresser so she can see red bird.  Perhaps he will find himself staring at a cat and go elsewhere.  He is not that smart.  Cat is perturbed. Cat stares out window. 

"Bird? Hunt?  Hunt bird???  I'm retired, Human.  Didn't you get the memo?  HOUSE cat!  What part of HOUSE cat did you not understand?  House cat = air-conditioning + naps  Get it?"

Cat hops off dresser.  Redmon continues to bang on glass.  Lay back in bed and ponder the problem some more.  Border Collie Lily lays beside me.  Her eyebrows shift back and forth as the bird bangs against the glass.  Idea forms.  I can teach Border Collie to chase bird away from glass.  It will take me about 1 minute 45 seconds.  Hmmmmmm. . .

Do something I rarely do . . . think the idea through.  Ah yes.  While it will only take me 1 minute 45 seconds to train BC to chase bird, it will take Other Half several hours and about $145 dollars to replace the broken window.  Scratch that idea.

Lay back in bed and remind myself that I will not cry when I find a little pile of red feathers after one of the barn cats wanders close enough to the house to hear that odd brush/bang/brush/bang sound. I will not cry. I will not cry. 

Stupid little bird is gonna make me cry . . .

     While other parts of the country are suffering from floods, Texas has been hit with the most severe drought we've seen in 40 years.

This is a pond at the cow house.

     Shortly before it dried completely, we were tooling through the pasture and Other Half noticed a flash of silver in the pond. We stopped, and much to our dismay, we found that the sludge left in the bottom of the pond was filled with catfish and perch trapped by the drought. 

     As if we don't have enough drama with the animals we raise, we found ourselves tending to animals that flew in on the feet of birds. But nevertheless, they were in need, so we spent the evening with nets, catching fish, and transporting them to a stock trough in the arena.  It was muddy, yucky work, (mostly for Other Half) and the fish were not tremendously grateful, but in time, we got the bulk of them moved.

They are in cramped living conditions, but until the rains return, they're better off living in a water tank that gets filled with a hose daily.  The next day we checked the pond.

Everyone too crafty to be caught, or too tiny for the net, was dead.

     Things like this always fill me with wonder. What are the odds that Other Half would see one flash of silver in a deep pond when driving through the pasture?  What are the odds that he would see this on a night when we were both available to scoop out refugees?  What are the odds that these things would line up on the last night before the sun would overtake them? What are the odds that fish pray?