Farm Fresh Blog

Oh! My! Gosh!!!

I completely lost track of my week!

Friday Clover and I were supposed to post the winners from the Land Of Milk & Honey drawing!

(but then . . . you knew that!)

Forgive me, the week got away from me, it was busy at the office,  and I forgot. And because of that, and the fact that I just love you all, everyone who entered will receive a bar of Clover's Love Spell soap. It may take me a few weeks to get them all out because Other Half just arranged a deal to carry our soap in a wonderful Western Wear store and they're gearing up for the Christmas rush. But nevertheless, I WILL have your soap to you before Christmas! 

And now to the big winners . . .

Susan B. and Terri's Pal "COME ON DOWN!"

You are the two big winners of The Soap Is Right!

Send me your snail mail addresses and I'll fire off a package of soap for each of you!

I'll be looking for addresses from everyone who entered. Y'all start looking for a package from Texas!

Yesterday Dillon was a victim of Family Violence.

I know!  Who could attack this little face? 

 But someone did. They sliced his nose - and it bled - and it bled - and it bled some more.

On the surface it appeared we had our suspect. After all, she had blood on her face.

But we should never hop to snap conclusions.  For instance, rather than assaulting her best friend, it is possible that a certain Livestock Guardian Dog was actually "helping" our victim.

"Oh please, my Queen, forgive him.  He knows not what he does!"

And it's also possible that our suspect got blood on her face as she raced to comfort our victim.

"Don't do that again, Little Buddy.  You know Ice hates you."

And it's also possible that our complainant is a bit thick-headed.

"Look at this Awesome Cool Bottle!  Who wants to play with this Awesome Cool Bottle?  You?  Do YOU want to play with the Awesome Cool Bottle?" 

 "Please die now."

"Let's play!"

 "NO! 

Go away, you Filthy Beast!"

"Bummer. What a downer."

(Our complainant wanders off in search of other people to bother.)

"YOU!  You want to play with my Awesome Cool Bottle!"

And thus we see how a case of Aggravated Assault/Family Violence "could" also be considered Self-Defense. But most of all we see that just because someone is hurt, and someone else is covered in blood - one cannot jump to hasty conclusions.

  "Yeah!"

Disclaimer: Plastic bottles are dangerous. Puppies shouldn't be left alone with one. Dillon is only allowed to carry it around, he isn't allowed to chew it.

You, dear readers, have given me so much that it's time for me to give back.

Who wants soap?!!

Not only am "I" having bunches of fun soapmaking, but my friends are enjoying my new farming adventure too.  Soap is flying out of here so fast that I need to take a few days off of my "real" job to make some more!  People like it. And that's why I want to give you some.

I'll be giving away two baskets of soap. All you have to do is hit "post a comment" (at the bottom of the page) and tell me 1) what is your favorite farm blog 2) what is your favorite CSI blog, and 3) who's your favorite farm character.  That's it. Just pick your favorites, hit "post a comment", and give me some feedback.  I'll have Clover the Milk Goat select 2 lucky readers and we'll ship you some soap! 

Clover will select her winners Friday, Nov. 4 at noon.

  "Pick me!  Pick me!!!"

As I was taking my morning walk, this thought sprang to mind:

The one thing about moving the sheep & goats from the old farm to the cow ranch is this . . .

. . a whole new set of garbage men to hate Briar.

 I'm just sayin'.

We are at war. The mosquitoes have made us prisoners in our own home.  There isn't much I can do for the livestock, but all 8 dogs are living in the house. (Yes, Briar too!)

This has been going on for a week.  A cold front due to come in this afternoon is promising some relief but it can't come fast enough for those of us who must guard against Flying Monkey Mosquitoes each time we open the door.

I don't even like to turn the dogs out until the sun is up good and, like vampires and zombies, the skeeters subside a bit.  (That's relative though. We're talking having 400 mosquito attacks as opposed to the 4000 attacks at dusk.)

So once the sun was high in the overcast sky, I let the dogs out this morning.  A few minutes later I heard this godawful barking.  Through my office window I watched the mosquito fogger truck slow-rolling down the road.  In his wake were 5 barking dogs. (Briar, Ice, Cowboy, Trace, and Lily) 

I rushed to the door to save them from gassing themselves. They reluctantly abandoned their assault. (he had passed the corner of their fence anyway - sector 12 was clear)

As I hustled them back in the house and cautioned them on the dangers of chasing fogger trucks and Briar said,

"I didn't inhale . . . "

"May I have some Cheetos and pizza?"

Someone forgot to warn Willie that his mouth shouldn't write a check that his ass can't cash.

I'm not a big fan of cattle. I'm more into goats and sheep. Cows are big. Cows are stupid. Anything that big, and that stupid . . . is dangerous.  For instance, let's examine Willie and Paisley.

  Willie

(Pity buy on Other Half's part) 

Last winter I left a cattle auction to give the dog a potty break. A few minutes later, Other Half called to inform me that he had purchased Willie because "he felt sorry for him."  Willie serves absolutely no purpose on this ranch. He has managed to avoid being sold with all the calves and all the cows that were "cut from the team" because of the drought. The fact that Willie has made the cut, not once, but four separate times, is a mystery beyond my scope. That is between Willie and Other Half.  Fortunately Willie is pretty sweet and causes no trouble.

Enter Paisley.  (I don't name these heifers, the Ag kids do. I just call 'em what the kids called 'em.)

Paisley is what you get when two people go to the County Fair Commercial Heifer sale and agree beforehand not to purchase ANY MORE COWS!  When a little Red Angus bred to a notable bull comes across the block, those two people who agreed not to purchase ANY MORE COWS come home with a Paisley.

Paisley is a sweet little cow, but sista ain't takin' no flack from dweebs.

  Willie walked up to Paisley and she informed him that pipsqueaks need to "git!"  Willie, the pip-squeak, took exception to that . . . and thus began Willie's check cashing experience.

She pushed poor Willie all over the yard.

  Back . . .

and  . . .

. . .  forth

Willie had a tiger by the tail and couldn't let her go.

And as you can see,

Willie doesn't have any ass to back up what he says.

But Willie does have something Paisley doesn't have. Willie has horns. We were a little concerned that someone would slip, and Paisley would get gored.

Fortunately for Paisley, (and Willie) Willie doesn't really use those horns for weapons. The scuffle went on so long that even the spectators grew bored and went back to grazing.

Believe it or not, Paisley gave up first.  I'm not sure who was more surprised, us or Willie.

"Some girls just cain't take a joke!"

"I'm just reportin' the facts."

"It has come to my attention . . .

. . . that a member of this family . . .

. . . one of God's Chosen People - a Border Collie,

  has been seen

fraternizing,

with a Flat-head, an N-BC, a Non- Border Collie, someone who is clearly NOT one of God's Chosen People.

 "This behavior has become an all too frequent occurrence, and in my opinion, should stop immediately."

"I'm just sayin'. This could lead to all manner of things."

My husband, the cattle man, tolerated my Boer goats. He grudgingly accepted my switch to dairy goats. And because he knew how to milk a cow, he taught me to milk a goat, but that was about the extent of his interest - until I started soaping.

I had already made two batches of soap at the vacant house we are trying to sell. (no disturbs me and the house smells great for realtors!) He had never watched me make soap, but was noticing that his empty cardboard cowboy hat boxes were quickly being filled with curing bars. Last Sunday I took him to Wal Mart with me as I stocked up on soaping supplies.  Because I'd been wanting to try the loofah soap, I grabbed a couple of overpriced loofah sponges for the day I ever got around to making the molds.

I hadn't planned on using them for this batch of soap, but as I started making soap, I soon realized that he was puttering in the barn.  He came back into the house, grabbed a loofah, wet it, crammed it into his tube, measured it, and proceeded to cut two pvc molds.  I didn't bother him. He was clearly a man on a mission.
 
He then had two tubes with no end caps and no apparent plan for how to get the hardened soap out of the mold. He came back into the kitchen, and rummaged around until he found two coffee cans.  He then sprayed his cans and his tubes with PAM. He lined the bottom of the cans with freezer paper.  I just made soap and kept my mouth shut. The loofah tubes were HIS project. Clearly he planned on using my batch of soap for his project, so I mentally wrote off this batch of soap even as I was mixing it up.
 
He put his tubes in the coffee cans and placed the cans in a shallow pan of ice water.  I had my doubts, but it was his project.  When the batch was ready to be poured, I poured some in a large pyrex measuring cup for him. He poured it into each sponge. He filled two sponges and used the rest in a flat mold. The next day he used a green bean can to push his soap out of the mold and cut it up with a miter box and a serrated bread knife. Wonder of wonders! ALL the soap turned out!
 
Now he wants his own rubber gloves for soapmaking this weekend.  Whodathunkit?

Other Half's Loofah soap:

This is not an uncommon sight around here.

It appears that the Big White Dog can take all manner of abuse

 and really enjoys the company of a certain little chocolate monster.

It goes without saying that the little monster enjoys the company of his couch/punching bag/guardian. Perhaps he should talk to George the Chicken.

Read: "I will name him George"

(disclaimer: They are not left alone. He is tiny and she is gigantic.)

I have said before that if you're lucky, you get one really great dog in your lifetime - one dog that becomes so entangled in the fiber of your being that he becomes a part of your soul.  Such was my Navarre. Our adventures continue even after his death . . .