Farm Fresh Blog

Can you identify this picture?

It's a pupcicle!

     Texas has reached triple-digit temperatures. Even with a summer trim, Briar is roasting in the heat. Until I can get a bathtub rigged up for her, she must take her dips in small water troughs. (the goats and sheep do NOT appreciate this!) 

     So in the mean time, I've started making Briar some pupcicles to help her beat the heat.  Because we have fire ants, I didn't flavor the water with any meat; I just froze it in a dog bowl. 

 She seems happy enough with frozen water.

It has drawn some curious stares though . . .

"What is that stupid dog doing now?"

The dairy goats, by the way, have a most interesting relationship with Briar.  They are scared of her . . . until something scarier comes along, then they run to Briar for support.

Addendum:  I just had the bright idea that I could freeze the water, then add a slice of bologna, cover that with a thin layer of water, and freeze THAT!  She could knock herself out getting to the bologna. Hopefully she can get it faster than the fire ants can discover it!  I'll let you know how it works.

Send me more ideas for how you are handling animals and the heat!

The most important part of the move happened last night . . .

No! Even more important than the sheep and goats!

  Briar!

     I agonized over moving Briar. Not much more than a giant puppy, I worried about how she would take the move. If she jumps out here, the cows could kill her, or she could get killed on the highway.  It weighed heavy on my mind. I was a basket case.  I stayed up all night. I cried.

     By the time we got the livestock loaded it was already dark. I debated over whether or not to let her ride in the cattle trailer with the sheep, or in the truck with Lily.  I chose the truck. I didn't want her frightened in the trailer. Other Half says I spoil her.  (Guilty as charged!) We went through the Whataburger drive-thru on the way home.  Briar discovered talking boxes and sliding windows with French Fries.  (Briar likes French Fries.) And then we followed her sheep and goats to their new home.

 It's wild!

Actually, it's not.  This is just an untamed area behind the barn that Other Half had fenced off to keep the horses away from the septic tank.  It has years of undergrowth.  I give it a month.  As soon as they off-loaded, the sheep and goats headed for the buffet line.

It looked like this, except in total darkness.

Yes! It's Roanie! 

You didn't think we'd leave Roanie, did you?!!

     I made a point to bring the sheep that were Briar's friends - Roanie and the old ewes that raised her from a puppy.  I sold the better ewes to a local friend where I can keep the genetics and buy back ewe lambs from them if needed later.

The sheep were thrilled with their new jungle.  The goats were happy at first, then they realized that they actually had to sleep in the jungle.

 "Uhm . . . pardon me, but where's our stall?  Where's our shavings? Concrete aisle? Starbucks?"

I got up all night long to check Briar, and by default, the goats.   With the arena lights on, they were blinded to my approach in the dark.  The goats, who are normally frightened of Briar, had decided that perhaps Big Hairy Friends were preferable to squinty yellow eyes in the darkness.  

     Each time I checked, the dog was a large white lump surrounded by dairy goats.  I had to laugh when Clover heard me, threw her head up like a deer and poked Briar with her nose.

"Hey!  Did you hear that?!!"

"Hmpfh? Wha? I'hm sleepin'."

"That!  Get up! Something's out there!  There in the dark!  There it goes again!  Don't you hear that?"

The goat pokes Briar again and the dog sits up, stares off into the bright lights. Nothing. Dog lays back down. Goat is miffed.

This repeated itself several times throughout the night.

And so it was, the sun came up and Briar was still in her pen.  I was exhausted and so were the goats,

 but Briar was just fine.

For the past two weeks the alarm clock has screamed each morning to remind me that I must rise early to either/or/and:

Pack boxes
Sort yard sale items
Oil paneling
Scrub floors
Take down fence
Put up fence
Meet with realtor
Meet with contractors
Meet with customers buying livestock

AND . . . feed the farm animals, feed the dogs, realize I've packed the coffee maker so no homemade frappuccino will be in the bare refrigerator! (but each morning I will still check. Perhaps this is the day the Frappuccino Fairy will leave me a present!)  I am on a rapidly spinning carousel that threatens to lift off like a space ship.

Each morning I step out the door to the sound of sheep screaming, goats hollering, and horses neighing. Dogs bark as they race up and down the fence line, escorting sheep to the barn. The combined shrieks echo in my head, bouncing off thoughts that already crowd my mind like commuters on a bus.

I shovel grain to the horses, flip some token alfalfa pellets to the sheep, and toss goat grain into troughs.  My dairy goat climbs onto her stand, thrusts her head in the bucket, and suddenly . . . there is peace.

I straddle the bench behind her and place the bucket underneath her udder. Her teats are warm in my hands and soon the rhythmic squirt-squirt makes its metallic ring. And for a short time there is peace. Throughout the barn screams have been replaced by the soothing sound of grinding teeth. And so it goes, the rhythm of peace -

squirt/squirt/grind/grind/squirt/squirt/grind/grind . . .

I lay my head against her flank, thankful for a moment of peace among the crashing waves of insanity. While moving an entire farm may drive you crazy, milking a goat can bring you back into the now, and remind you why you keep all these animals. They are cheaper than therapists . . . but much louder. 

"Welcome Bi-Ped, come lie down on my couch . . . "

Eegaads!  Moving sucks!  Building fence in July sucks! Yard sales suck!

But . . . this is all an exercise in logistics:

We need to sell House #1 to buy Ranch #3.

We cannot sell House #1 until the Realtor puts it on market.

We must move everything and DOGS to House #2 before Realtor shows House #1.

We must build fence around front and back yard of House #2 BEFORE we bring dogs over.

And we must do ALL this BEFORE someone else snaps up Ranch #3!!!

And THAT is why I milked the goat this morning and left the barn and forgot the poor dairy goat locked on her milking stand.  An hour later I heard a familiar metallic banging from inside the house and found the poor thing with her head still locked in the bars.  She has forgiven me. I haven't forgiven myself . . .

"Oh Human! Get with the program!"

This is me this week!

Sort through 20+ years of accumulated "stuff" to figure out what to move, what to sell, and what to trash.  Move 20+ years of accumulated "stuff" into a house that won't hold it all. Put Dog Fencing around front and back yards of House #2. Put Goat fencing behind Barn #2.  Get House #1 ready for Realtor to show . . . and do this all while juggling 7 dogs!

And THAT'S my only defense for why I left the water hose running when I went to work yesterday. (for 12 freakin' hours!)

Yes!!! Texas is in the worst drought in 40 years and for 12 hours I filled the sheep trough . . . and the sheep yard . . . and the back yard . . . sigh . . .

Friends and Neighbors,

there is not enough caffeine in the state of Texas!

While searching through old documents, I stumbled upon these little faces. Look familiar?

The Perfect Puppy

 No, seriously . . .

Lily was the perfect little puppy who grew into the Perfect Dog.  Feel free to barf now. Other Half wants to barf every time I inform him that Lily is THE perfect dog.

 Ranger . . .

. . . was also perfect!  

He was a perfect psycho. But we loved him. And still do. And he's still a psycho. Ask anyone who knows him. But he's my psycho.  My little monster.

Speaking of monsters . . .

. . . remember this little monster?!!

Who could resist this little face?

Which leads us to the real monster in the family!

  Eeegaads!!!

Who would bring home such an ugly little creature?!!!

How 'bout this one?

Can't place him? No?

Look again . . .

I just love looking at baby pictures . . .

     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.