Farm Fresh Blog

     When you live on a farm, there are certain things you expect. Mud will be tracked in the house, you will go to work with hay in your hair, and there are mice in the barn. What you do not expect, nor will you tolerate, is this:

     Other Half returns home last night bearing coffee. I decide to put it in a little-used bottom cabinet which contains old dish towels and burned oven mitts. Slide open drawer. Fat mouse runs along the drawer ridge and disappears in back of drawer.  Scream and commence the Mouse Dance.  (modified version of the Rat Dance) As I jump up and down, point and scream, Other Half (who has been law man for 30 years) also begins to scream and jump in place.  I yell for my Contract Killer - aka Lily the Border Collie, who is fearsome confused by all the excitement.

     I clarify to Other Half that the suspect is a mouse, not a snake, (he was certain I had found a snake) and point Contract Killer toward drawer.  She begins her search for Trespassing Rodent but has no luck. Stewart Little the Mouse has crawled out of the drawer and into the back cabinet.  I slowly open drawer above the bottom drawer.

     A tiny mouse stares up at me. I scream. Contract killer cannot get to mouse before Stewart Little's Little Friend scampers off.  Other Half shouts at me to cease shrieking when I am surprised by a rodent because "it scares the crap out of him."

      I am beside myself. Two mice in less than two minutes! Contract Killer and I now begin a diligent search for mice in the kitchen. As I slowly open cabinet doors, she scans the contents like a Raptor, searching for her prey.

     Other Half finds this vastly amusing.  (I am still amused that he screamed like a girl while I was doing the Mouse Dance. Yes, I know, I was screaming too, but I have boobs, therefore I can scream when I see a mouse and get away with it.)

     Our systematic search of the kitchen is fruitless.  We clean out the cabinets and Other Half baits mouse traps with peanut butter.  I inform him that the cats at my For Sale House are coming here! NOW! (They are still living in the barn at the other house until it sells. It's under contract now. Keep your fingers crossed.)  Other Half informs me that he does NOT want house cats.  They are dirty. They come with litter boxes. He does not like cats in the house.  I remind him that I don't like RODENTS in the house. He continues to set mouse traps.  I state that I will NOT set mouse traps, nor will I empty mouse traps of deceased rodents - that is NOT in my job description.

     I prefer to hire contract killers for such work.  (cats and Border Collies work nicely)

     Other Half informs me that I am over-reacting to the idea of mice in the kitchen.  After all, it's just a little mouse.  They've probably been crawling all through the cabinets and we haven't died yet.  I am not amused.

     The next morning I check his traps. Two are empty of peanut butter and there is a fat blond mouse in the third one.  Other Half is beside himself with happiness. I am grossed out.  The dogs and I go outside for a walk and a morning frappuccino. (Yes, I'm drinking again. Wouldn't you be?)

     I return from the walk to find Other Half standing in the kitchen re-setting traps with peanut butter.  My gaze happens to land on the kitchen sink.  There is a stiff dead blond mouse splayed out in a trap on my kitchen sink.  I begin screaming and shouting at him.  He fails to grasp the problem.  (MEN!) At this point I am ready to have an apoplectic fit. I order him to remove said mouse from my sink and disinfect the entire sink and counter.  He agrees but argues, "it's just a mouse."

     Am I alone in this? Am I a voice crying out in the wilderness? Does anyone else have a problem with a freakin' mouse on the kitchen sink??!!!

     And what really scares me is this: 

If I had not SEEN the Rigor Mortis Rat (okay, it was a mouse) on the sink, would he even have bothered to clean it?!!!  EEEWWW!!!!

Yep, he thinks this is funny.  Wait till he comes home to find that I have purchased a ferret. (just kiddin') I will name it Rikki Tiki Tavi. (I know. He was a mongoose. Hey!  That would work too!)

"The only good mouse is a dead mouse!"

There is a reason why this dog is Top Paw around here.

 Lily

She doesn't have the raw talent of this dog:

She isn't as fearless around cows as this dog:

But she is more versatile than any dog we have because she listens . . .

 Lily closing the gate

. . . . and she tries to figure out exactly what we are trying to do and how she can help.

Got mice?  If so, you need a murderin' Border Collie!

Clearly with a little encouragement, a Border Collie can become as handy for rodent control as a Rat Terrier. (I'll spare you the crime scene photos of the victim. Other Half was astounded that I took them. What can I say? I'm a crime scene investigator. I take pictures of dead people . . . and dead mice.)

Talented pup probably isn't getting his fair share of moving livestock simply because it's so much easier just to have Top Hand do it.

                          "Which is soooo grossly UNFAIR!"

What can I say? I'm lazy.

Heaven help me if I ever lose my Top Paw.

Lily even did her civic duty last night and went out in thunderstorm with me to vote. She barked at the thunder and laughed at the lightning.  (While at home, Ice got scared and peed on my bed . . . . but I still love her anyway.)

Note: I've fallen behind in my email this week, so bear with me!  My virus protection ran out and I simply refused to re-new online (because then the pirates get your credit card number and happily re-new you against your will later. Been there. Done that. Got the t-shirt.  Anyway, I insisted upon buying a hard copy of the software instead, and didn't get that installed until last night.  THUS . . .  my email stacked up!  I promise I haven't been ignoring you!

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: