Farm Fresh Blog

The sheep finished lambing, now it's time for the cows. This is the first calf of the year.  She's a pretty little heifer.  I'm really concerned because it's cold, windy, and wet.  Look at all this water!

Check out this wind!                                             

(That's Reggie the Hateful Rooster.  If I'm lucky, the wind will blow him into Oklahoma.) Look at the freakin' mud!!!! 

I'm so worried about this little girl.  They are predicting 2 more inches of rain this afternoon.  She is shivering.  I know. I know.  Cows are born out in this every day,  (I've already heard it from Other Half.) but I wonder about the mortality rates in those calves.  Other Half is out of town for 3 whole weeks.  It's cold, it's wet, the house is full of mud, the cows are calving, and the dog is dying . . . and all I want to do is sit at the kitchen table and cry. I know that if I just keep plugging along, things will get brighter. In the back of my mind I keep hearing that fish's voice in "Finding Nemo" - "just keep swimming.  Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming . . ."

  The Enforcer is in renal failure. The vet just told me that if he was a human they would put him on dialysis (sp)  {pardon me for not checking that in the dictionary right now} and give him a kidney transplant.  Obviously we cannot do that.  All we can do is bring him home and make him comfortable.  At the moment, he is still happy.  He is in some pain, but he works through it.  We suspected somthing was wrong because he was losing a lot of weight, his breath has a "urine" smell, and something just wasn't quite "right." His blood work was VERY Bad.  Because the vet is a friend, and married to my oldest friend, he is pretty straight with me.  Even with herioc efforts that we cannot afford, and wouldn't force him to endure anyway, we cannot save him. 

Sooooo . . . I cried.  And I called Other Half who is out of town at K9 training, and cried some more. And I called the vet's wife . . . and cried some more. And I called my former sister-in-law who is still "my sista" . . . and cried some more.   And considered calling my mom, but figured that both of us would be hysterical, so I put off that call.  Then I called his breeder . . . and cried harder.   His breeder is more optomistic than I am.  She says she's gonna "ride the Hope Train." 

I didn't pin the vet down to a number of how long he had, because I didn't want a number in my head.  We will take it one day at a time.  We will have fun.  We will work on a Bucket List.  For those of you who didn't see the movie, Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman were terminally ill patients who embarked on a grand adventure to finish all the things they wanted to do before they "kicked the bucket." 

So Kona The Enforcer, also known as Attila The Hun, will begin his Bucket List.  We will try to do everything except allow him to kill the Blue Heeler.

"Anger is like the hot coal we pick up to throw at another,

only to burn our own hand."

                                   Budda

Years and experience are teaching me that if I wait long enough, I will eventually see the good in a situation so it is pointless to fly off the handle.  Now Other Half may argue that I still fly off the handle pretty frequently, and he's right, I may still do it, but at least I "try" to recognize later that not only was it a waste of energy, but that God has a plan. I had one of those "Ah HAAA! moments" last night that forced me to sit up and marvel at how Things really work in Life.

There are certain things guaranteed to pull my chain.  Computer problems are one of them. I love my computer. I am a Bitchy Bear without my computer. These events led up to my Ah Hah, God Knows What He's Doing moment:

* Old Laptop got terminally ill last summer.

* Took Old Laptop to uppity rude, know-it-all computer guru boy who took my money and then informed me that Old Laptop was sick. The files were wiped clean and he could not recover anything. Too bad. My Loss.  "Learn to back up your files, M'am!"  I mourned the loss of many, many, many old photographs that were now completely lost.  These included some of my favorite photos of Bloodhound and Ancient Arabian Stallion.  Threw a fit. Got over it. Bought a new laptop.  Packed old laptop away.

* Found cool photoshop program for New Laptop. Loaned program to Very Responsible Dear Friend so she could play with it.  Very Responsible Dear Friend accidentally broke the disk.  She was almost hysterical. Program was already on my laptop so I was unconcerned about loss of disk. Very Responsible Dear Friend told me about another free photoshopping program called Picasa by Google.  I was interested but don't need it because I have a photoshop program on my laptop.

* MONTHS later (Friday) New Laptop gets sick.  Opt against taking it to Uppity Rude Know-It-All Computer Guru Boy who "fixed" old laptop and instead take it to Police Department Old Friend who is also a computer guru.  She finds virus and dispatches it. Accidentally leave my power cord in her office IN INTERNAL AFFAIRS over the weekend.  They are closed over the weekend. (unless of course I was to accept a bribe, abuse a prisoner, or get caught snorting cocaine on the 5 o'clock news)   

* Start to throw a hissy fit.  Bitchy Bear begins to emerge.  Then a thought popped into my head.  OLD LAPTOP!!!!  It's wiped clean, but it can STILL get on the internet. I dusted the cat hair off the case, plugged that puppy in, and it booted right up.  It was like the Heavens opened!  Trumpets blared!  Angels sang! (or maybe that was just the Windows Tune, but nevertheless, it was music to my ears!)

* Downloaded a few photos from digital camera into Old Laptop.  Realized I have no photoshop program to re-size them.  Hmmmm . . . Remember Picasa.  Download free Picasa from Google.  What happened next was almost frightening.

Every photograph I had EVER put on Old Laptop was ferreted out and uploaded into Picasa.  EVERYTHING! Picasa found photos I didn't even remember taking.  Five years worth of photographs were pulled out.  It was like I hit the payoff at a slot machine!  With tears in my eyes I watched the tiny thumbnails of photos load. My mind raced back to all the frustrating events that led up to this moment - everything that had seemed like a tragedy, or a least a major pothole, was actually a blessing - waiting like a bud to bloom.  

So I will sing it loudly from the rooftop, "Have Faith!  Everything will be just fine.  Just wait and see."

(That is true unless, of course, you are a pedophile and have kiddie porn in your computer.  Obviously no matter how hard you try to erase that stuff, Picasa would pull that crap right out and probably hand it to the police.  Thankfully, I am boring and only had 5 years worth of animal and flower pictures!)

My sheep can be very "assertive" in the pasture. The lambs have made it a great sport to chase chickens now. Yesterday I watched several ewes and a lamb chasing a cat. Briar seems to have elevated herself in the eyes of the ewes by joining in on these chases. I honestly believe it is a classic example of the philosophy that "the enemy of my enemy is my friend."

  "Sector 12 is clear!"

Does anyone else have sheep who chase cats and chickens, or are my sheep confused? 

Janet asked who Briar gets to play with and so I took a few shots of Briar at play.

Border Collie has finally lowered herself to play with the puppy.

It's often a bit one-sided, but Briar has fun. And more importantly, I feel it's necessary to let her interact with Lily so that she doesn't eat my Border Collie later when she feels her sheep are threatened.

Here is Briar's other trusted playmate. I can totally trust Retired Police Dog not to hurt her. Zena has raised both Blue Heeler and Border Collie. She is very maternal and adores puppies.

The ewes seem to have finally accepted Briar as one of their own. Yesterday I witnessed one of the particularly nasty ewes ask Briar for ear-kisses. Briar groomed the sheep for a long time. When she was through with one ear, she nibbled the ewe's neck. Then Briar went back to scratching her own butt. Ironically, the ewe presented the OTHER ear for cleaning and Briar obliged. I was completely fascinated and wished I had my camera. That's when I made the decision to allow her free access without barriers. Last night was her first night to sleep with the sheep with no bars. Our little girl is growing up! :)

     Trying to juggle farm-work and work-work is a constant struggle. Some days I'm better at it than others. My success is directly proportional to the amount of sleep I get. I accept the fact, and will readily admit, that I am a Bitchy Bear when I don't get at least 6 hours of sleep. That's the minimum. The problem with life on a farm is that if I get in from work at 4 AM, the farm still wakes up at 7 AM.  Border Collie does her GI Joe crawl across the bed to kiss me and inform me that the sun is up and so is she. The goats begin to scream, and this invariably sets off the sheep. (Don't even get me started on the damned rooster.)

     An end-of-the-shift murder call had me getting in late, and thus I'd only had about 4 hours of sleep when the farm got up yesterday. They were all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I was not. I was not even close. I staggered to the refrigerator for a bottle of Starbuck's Mocha Frappuccino. It's my addiction. If they made frappuccinos illegal, I'm afraid you'd find me strung out in a crack motel somewhere, except they'd call them "frapp-motels," and dealers would smell of coffee and use code words like "grande" and "vente." But I digress.

I popped open a frapp and wobbled to the patio door to slide into rubber boots. It's hard to put on rubber boots while you're mainlining caffiene and as luck would have it, the cap of my frapp fell off and rolled under the couch. Oh dear! I don't know about the rest of you, but I have at least 5 dogs at any given time inside my home. That's a lot of dog hair. I try to keep it swept up pretty regularly, but nevertheless, it can accumulate under the couch. Generally by the time I move the couch to sweep, you could make a poodle out of the hair trapped under there. And friends and neighbors, that's exactly where my lid rolled! Yuck! Since I really needed the lid, I was forced to get down on my hands and knees and grope about in the darkness until I found it. I suppose I should thank the hairy poodle under the couch that it didn't roll any further. My lid had dog hair stuck to it. Grossssss . . .  For a moment, I considered the germs. Then I decided that someone who steps in blood at night shouldn't be too picky about a little dog hair. So with that thought, I slammed the lid back on my frapp and stepped outside.

I locked the main pack of dogs in a paddock to keep them out of the mud, then I staggered to the barn to release Briar and the sheep. s the sheep filed behind us, Briar bounced up and down at my leg.  She is now 13 weeks old, and is as solid as a cinder block with legs. I would say she is built like an "excrement domicile" but my grandmother would not have approved of that term and since we have younger readers (who are no doubt racing for their dictionaries as we speak), I have to keep it clean.

It made my head hurt just watching Briar as she danced along. Once in the pasture, I fed both the puppy and the sheep.  She wagged her little tail and occasionally paused in her 'heifer-like snarfing" to smile at me. I took a long slow sip of frappuccino and decided it should be against the law to be that happy in the morning. (I told you I am Bitchy Bear without my sleep!)

Briar finished her breakfast and puttered off. The sheep happily hoovered down their food while I kept a watchful eye on Hulk lest he choke again. Several days ago, Hulk was bolting food down so fast that the little booger started to choke and I was forced to do the Heimlich maneuver on a lamb--a very fat lamb. Although I am considered a First Responder, I don't think the police department had lambs in mind when they taught that class. It must have worked though, because the little pig lived.

I stood in the pasture, letting the caffeine slowly drip into my veins, wishing I was still in bed, when a black and white bouncing blur crossed my field of vision. It took a little effort to focus on the Bounce. Tiny Tim was springbokking his way across the pasture. Like a little antelope, he leaped toward Briar. She was deep in thought with her nose crammed in a bush when he stopped in front of her. For a moment they stared at each other, then like a sewing machine, Tiny Tim started bouncing up and down in front of the dog. Her eyes lit up and the chase was on. The little cinder block managed to get up considerable speed, but Tim turned on the juice and kept just out of reach.

Tim was delighted. I was not. I didn't want Briar to discover that she was a foosa after all. While it seemed like innocent fun, I was reminded of that chase scene in the movie, "Madagascar", when the lion and his best friend, the zebra, discover that the lion is a foosa, after he becomes mesmerized by the zebra's butt running in front of him and takes a chomp out of his best friend. Briar and Tiny Tim are tight, but I was afraid that Briar would begin to see lamb chops instead of her little snuggle-buddy. I could almost hear the National Geographic theme song playing in the pasture.

So as the pair raced past me, I dropped a bucket on poor Briar's head. (I know. It was mean. I felt guilty for doing it, but she can't chase the lambs, even if they "started it.") Briar staggered a bit, but immediately spied my leather gloves that fell out of the bucket. Pennies from heaven!!!! Briar LOVES those gloves. She quickly abandoned Tiny Tim and snatched up a glove. Then she danced around to show me that although it was raining buckets, it was also raining leather gloves, and this was a Delightful Thing. Like Winnie-the-Pooh, Briar's world is pretty simple and it's easy to make her happy.

I took another sip of frappuccino and decided that Briar was probably right--when Life throws a Bucket at you, don't get discouraged, your favorite leather gloves just might fall out of it.   

Other Half set out a game camera the other night. After much cussing and taking pictures of our boots, we got the sucker set and attached to the base of a tree. Things have been very busy with murder scenes and murder trials and so on and so forth, that we just now got around to checking the camera. In two days there were over 155 shots!  That's a lot of traffic for an abandoned bird pen. Barn cat set it off quite a bit, but that's no surprise. I'm sure rats are still cleaning up bird feed.  But guess what! . . . The camera finally captured the BEAST! 

Since I watched the animated movie Madagascar, all predators on the farm are now referred to as FOOSAS! (I recently learned that there is actually a critter called a foosa, but it's spelled fossa. It lives in Madagascar and eats lemurs--well duh!  That makes sense if you've seen the movie.) Anyway, I digress--the point IS all predators on my farm are referred to as Foosas. 

If you're not a vegetarian, you're a foosa. The sheep are not foosas, except when the lambs are chasing the rooster.  Gerald the Rooster might argue that lambs are foosas.

The Boogey Beast is definitely a FOOSA! Anything that can disassemble chickens like that critter can do is most certainly a foosa. Our question was purely academic. "What kind of foosa?"

So with the help of a game camera that was set to flash whenever the beam was tripped, we now have a pretty good idea of who visits at night. Here is a our Foosa . . .

                                                                    . . . .

                                                                             . . .

But now I've got a foosa too! You just wait Mr. Raccoon! You just wait!

We are giving Briar longer and longer periods of free time with the sheep - always under supervision. Today I was glad I had my camera. I'm still laughing. She is approximately 13 weeks old.

  Briar with her sheep.

I was leaning on the fence, just supervising, when I noticed Briar alert on something. Three lambs were in hot pursuit of a chicken - YES! The lambs were chasing the Rooster!

  Hulk, the testosterone-ridden baby, was in the lead and he wasn't letting up. Briar was fascinated.

  Then she decided to join the game.

  The lambs stopped as Briar chased the intruder.

 Rooster doubled back.

As soon as he was away from the sheep, Briar stopped the chase. Now I ask you, how can I teach the dog that chasing chickens is wrong when the SHEEP are chasing the chickens??? I'll give her credit though. She didn't continue the chase once the rooster got away from the sheep. Good puppy. But all that running did work up a thirst.

    "Sector 12 is clear!"

Today we decided to give Briar a little more freedom for a while. She has been spending about 22 hours a day, or more, with the sheep. For her protection, she has been separated by a pen from the ewes with lambs. The lambs like her; the ewes are more suspicious. I'm satisfied they won't kill her now, but I still don't want her to have a bad experience with them. (They obviously have overlooked the idea that it doesn't hurt to have big friends.) 

She was delighted to be free with them. As soon as everyone fiinished breakfast, she settled down beside them while they grazed.

All went well until they decided to wander off and she got up to follow them.

  As soon as she sat up, they decided she was no longer a sheep, but a FOOSA, a little predator.

  "No, seriously, I'm a sheep.  Listen.  Baaaa!"

  Mama Sheep is not fooled.

  Briar slinks off. 

  "Nobody likes me . . . ."

  She sees me standing on the fence.

  "Ma, nobody likes me."

  We discuss it.

  And she is convinced to give it another shot.

  Then we walked back out there together,

and she lay down with her sheep. 

I have often said that what I like so much about living in the country is the comforting silence - no hum of the traffic, no sounds of the city. But if you take a moment to listen, life on a farm has its own sounds.

The sound of a sunrise and a silent moon . . .     

The sound of Bloodhound shaking her long ears . . . 

She is old and no longer works, but every morning, a shake of those ears starts the day.

The sound of goat feet rat-a-tatting across everything they climb over when I turn them loose . . .

The sound of screaming dogs who are locked up so they won't get muddy feet . . . 

The sound of sheep hollering to be fed . . . 

The sound of one of the two remaining roosters as he greets the day . . .  

He celebrates another night that he escaped the Boogey Beast. This is Remus. His brother Romulus bit the dust.

The sound of animals eating hay . . .   

This is the most comforting sound in the world. There would be no more war if everyone just listened to the sound of animals eating hay.

And the sound of silence . . . as Border Collie stares at me and wills me to put down the camera and get on with the serious business of feeding everyone on the farm.