Farm Fresh Blog

Despite the drought, we've had just enough rain here to make the lawn grow.  Woo hoo! Today I turned the "lawn crew" out to work.

Supervisor in the Shade:

Like Pac Man, the sheep go through the yard.

 Goats in the Yard

MMMMMM.... browse! 

The Supervisor patrols the perimeter.

"Sector 12 is clear!"

  V.  

    I have finally got the bulk of the furniture out of my old house. It is sitting in a cattle trailer in the back yard, which will explain the strange stains on the back of the couch.  That's not a major problem because there are strange stains on the front of that couch too.  If there has ever been a bloodhound in your life, you have strange stains in strange places - drool marks on the wall, drool marks on the ceiling. And you will have rub marks on the couch. 

     Some time ago Other Half informed me the couch was not coming. Naturally, being a woman, just because he told me we weren't moving the couch, I planted my feminine feet and insisted that we WERE moving the couch. It could just stay in the muck room.  Being a man, he realized he was facing a wall, and gave in.  I think he had plans on burning it while I was at work one day. I was adamant, the muck room would be turned into a Dog Room and the couch could stay there. I wavered a bit though when a friend who was helping me move, announced, "You're not really taking this thing to Robby's are you?"

     Hmmmm . . .  Yeah, she was right. It smells like a Bloodhound. But still, the couch had to get out of the house. so into the cattle trailer it went with everything else. And after all the fabric furniture was out, I scrubbed the floor with chlorox.  All was well until I got feedback from prospective home buyers, "House smells like a dog."

WTF!!  I scrubbed the floors!  I lighted incense!  I didn't smell anything when I left!

     I compared notes with Dear Friend who visited AFTER the Homebuyers.  She stated that it smelled good. It smelled like incense.  Thus you see the problem.  Dog People cannot smell dogs. Sigh . . .  thus begins the war, the war on Dog Odor. . .

. . .

Arrive at house armed with LARGE jug of bleach. House is empty.  House cat has apparently decided to exit doggy door and play in The Great Outdoors. Fine.  Walk into kitchen. Am Scared shitless by tiny rodent racing across floor. 

Do what?!!  Mouse?  In the house? Holy shit!

Am reminded that House Cat is old and worthless as a hunter.  Her idea of fun is to drink latte and watch The View. Sister does not do rodents.  Make plans to bring barn cats in house later.  Doggy door bursts open. House cat races into kitchen and announces,

"Hey! You're back! You gonna feed me?"

Point out to cat that a MOUSE was in the house.

Cat reminds me that without thumbs she cannot open the cat food container.  Like the well-trained pet I am, I trudge to back room and feed her.  Then I begin to clean.  This involves filling large buckets of water and bleach and sloshing it out over tile floors.  Take THAT Dog Odor!  In no time, my entire house smells like a country club swimming pool - but not a dog!  (At least as far as I could tell, apparently Dog People cannot be trusted in these matters.)

It is in one of my many trips from the kitchen sink that Stuart Little decides to crash my party again.  I'm guessing that like me, the little mouse is also a bit tipsy from chlorox fumes, because just as I am leaving the kitchen with a bucket of bleach water, Stuart races across the kitchen and into the dining room - narrowly missing the top of my foot.  Because the dining room floor is already wet, he can't get good traction and is slipping like a pig on ice across the tile.  Three things happen:

1) I scream.
2) I toss an entire bucket of bleach water onto a tiny mouse.
3) Someone cues the theme from Hawaii 5-0 . . .  because . . .

Stuart Little goes from a pig on ice to a little mouse riding the waves.  That little bastard climbs on his surfboard and rides the giant wave across the dining room tile, under the table, and out the other side, where he gracefully exits his surfboard and scampers under the piano. 

I am in shock. I stand there, staring at water all over the floor and an innocent-looking upright piano. At this moment the House Cat appears in the dining room, requesting another can of food.  DO WHAT??!!

"If you want to eat something, eat this!" I snarl as I roll the piano away from the wall. 

No Stuart Little.  Some wet dust bunnies and an old birthday card from my sister.  And like the ADHD person I am, I say, "Hey! Where'd that come from?" and reach down to snatch it up before Stuart Little's slowly advancing tide of water can reach it.  I am already crammed behind the piano when I come to my senses and realize that if Stuart is not BEHIND the piano, it means he is INSIDE the piano.  I back out quickly and shake myself like a horse after a good roll. EEEWWWWW!

Meanwhile, the House Cat is unimpressed.  She yawns at my birthday card and puts in another request for cat food. I inform her that the barn cats hunt without the benefit of satellite television and air-conditioning.  She is still unimpressed.  I do however, gather up all her dry and canned cat food and put it on the back porch.  No more eating in the house!  No more free meals for a rodent who has obviously figured out the dogs are gone.  Clearly prospective homebuyers have better noses than Dog People and tiny rodents in Hawaiian shirts because we can't smell the dog odor in that house.

I told a good friend that I was going to have a Non-Dog Person come and do a sniff test for me.  She texted me this:

"Good luck fiding one of those in ur contact list."

Touche. Point well taken.

(and to answer your questions, No, Lily was not with me. Had she been, Stuart Little would be pushing up daisies in the back yard.)

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. . .