Farm Fresh Blog

     As you may recall a few weeks ago my vet asked if he could draw blood on Briar to send it off for a DNA test to determine what combination of dogs went into the soup that made Briar. 

     We had several theories. Briar came from a big sheep operation in North Texas and was reportedly the product of a Great Pyrenees male and a Komondor female.  As she grew, I kept expecting the Komondor coat (dreadlocks) to emerge.  Nope.  No dreads.  It did not appear that Briar was destined to look like a Jamaican Polar Bear.

     And thus began the questions - what IS Briar? Clearly she is a Great Pyrenees crossed with SOMETHING, but what?

     She looks like a Pyr with the face of an Irish Wolfhound, or an Otterhound, or something fuzzy.

Her behavior is textbook Great Pyrenees. She is friendly and nurturing and can climb a fence like a white ape. Her coat appears to have longer guard hairs and less fluff than a Pyr.

     So we all waited with bated breath to discover what Briar's Who's Ya Daddy test would reveal. Last night I received an email that the results are in!  They'll send me a pretty family tree in the mail later, but I was able to go online and see the results.

And they are . . .

Drum roll please . . .

(You aren't gonna believe this.  I didn't.)

Briar is the product of . . .

. . . . . a Great Pyrenees/Belgian Malinois cross mated with a Great Pyrenees mix!

(crickets chirping)

Do what?

(more crickets chirping)

Okay, I certainly buy the Great Pyrenees on both sides part, but the Malinois?

For those of you who don't know what a Belgian Malinois looks like, it's this . . .

 Current Police Dog

Now here's the even odder part. The test was pretty certain about the Belgian Malinois, but it couldn't tell with certainty what was mated with the Great Pyrenees/Belgian Malinois cross other than it was a Great Pyrenees Mix. They gave a list of possible candidates with a percentage of accuracy.  Here is that list:

Norwich Terrier - a 6.37% chance
Pug - a 4.98% chance (PUG!!!!)
Samoyed - a 2.24% chance 
Belgian Tervuren - a 1.74% chance (YES!  A Belgian Tervuren!)
Chesapeake Bay Retriever - a 1.32% chance

So what does this mean?  Well I'll be honest. As a crime scene investigator, my first thought was CROSS CONTAMINATION!

If these were just wild-ass breeds on some AKC chart, I'd doubt the test itself, but the fact that the test shows that Briar is a Great Pyrenees/Malinois cross and I just HAPPEN to have a Belgian Malinois living in my home makes me wonder if "somehow" Oli's DNA ended up in that vial with Briar's blood.  While Oli doesn't play with Briar, they have scuffled and so it's possible that some of Oli's DNA "could" be on Briar's arms. Perhaps the arm that we drew blood from . . . . Possibly.  I'm just throwing it out there. (as a defense attorney) 

I don't know how they run that particular test, but I do know that I've had Belgian Shepherds since 1990 and I can tell you, if Briar has any Belgian Shepherd blood in her at all, it's minute. I'm not ruling it out, particularly the Belgian Lakinois which has a more wiry curly coat, but she displays NO Belgian Shepherd (particularly Belgian Malinois) behaviors. 

So what do y'all think?

"I'm related to OLI!  I feel sick!"
 

     There are two things guaranteed to bolt you from even the deepest of slumbers - the familiar "uhm-uhmmm-yAACK" of a dog wretching, and the smell of warm diarrhea on the carpet.  People will die in house fires without waking up, but if dog poops in the bedroom at 4 AM, there is no sleeping around that. Perhaps they should make fire alarms for Dog People that have a barf sound instead of a siren, or emit a blast of poop smell rather than a piercing sound. But I digress . . .

     When assaulted by that awful aroma, two people who have sworn to love each other "til death do us part" will begin an under-the-covers argument that goes something like this:

"Wake up! One of the dogs got sick!"

"No. That's just Dillon farting."

"That is NOT Dillon farting! It's dog sh*t!"

Truthfully, that should really be part of the marriage vows too. 

 "In sickness and in health, when the dog craps on the floor, til death do you part."

     At this time, it's worth pointing out that despite the fact that it's colder than a polar bear's nose outside, Other Half cannot sleep without a fan - a fan which is wafting the aroma of warm poop across the bedroom. Having played this game before, I lean over and turn on the lamp.  (Do NOT, for any reason, get out of bed BEFORE you turn on the light. This is advice learned the hard way.)

     With the light on, I scan the carpet at my feet.  No land mines.  Whew!  His side of the bed = his problem. Tentatively tip-toe around bed.  THERE it is! Definitely his side of the bed.  Now begins the other familiar argument which goes something like this:

"That's yours. It's on your side of the bed!"

"Unt UHHH! I did it last time! In the dining room!"

"No way. That one does not count because YOU were in charge of the puppy and YOU failed to take him out and left a COLD turd under the table for me to find when I came home from work."

     Thus begins the "ownership clause" part of the argument. If it can be proven the poop belongs to YOUR dog, it's your poop.  May I point out again that it is 4 AM and the turd is cooling.

"It was Lily!"

"It was NOT Lily!  She never got off the bed.  It was not Dillon. He never got off the bed. It wasn't Cowboy. He always poops beside the door. (so you can slide it through the carpet when you open the door.) It had to be Trace."

     Pointing out that it was Trace is safe for me since Trace is Other Half's dog. He accepts this argument, scowls, and rolls out of bed. And steps in another turd. It squishes between his toes.

     There is a howl loud enough to wake the neighbors. It is now 4:05 AM. Two piles of warm poop before the sun is up. There is nothing to do but put the dogs outside and help him. At this point we begin Argument #3 - WHY the dog is sick.

"Don't feed them any more rawhide chew bones!"

"It wasn't the rawhide chew.  He didn't even eat much of it. He just guarded it, growling like Gollum muttering about his Precious. What did YOU feed him?"

And that's when it hits him.

"Did you feed him ranch style beans last night?"

(Rut-ro.  Ma bad.)

"Uhhmmmm..... He got to clean out the pot before he went to bed."

     Good thing Other Half is already cleaning up the poop because YOU GOT EM SICK trumps IT'S YOUR DOG and technically the turd has just become mine. Had he still been under the electric blanket it would be a different story, but as it is 4:30 AM and the job is over we can tackle the next problem together - the entire north side of the house smells like diarrhea. We solve this by lighting a candle and setting spare bars of scented soap in front of the fan. Within minutes all we can smell is soap, candle, and the salty aroma of Fritos corn chips (Dillon's feet) as he snuggles between us.

     And thus we go back to bed to ponder ranch style beans, dogs in the house, fire alarms, and marriage vows.

"I met Santa!  I met Santa!"

        (sigh)

"Did you at least make a decent Christmas wish?"

"Yup!  I asked for a dove trainin' dummy!"

"Awww!  You should have asked for a lamb!

"Peanut-Head!!!  You could have asked for a stick!"

"You could have asked for something fluffy to kill!"

"Or a car to chase!"

"I just don't know about that boy . . . "

"Somebody saw Santa?!!"

 "Where?!!"

The folks at Bass Pro Shop are marketing pros!  While buying Dillon's puppy collar last month, the cashier asked me to bring him in the store.  Huh???  YEP!  They welcome dogs!  She asked that we return to the store and bring our little hunting dawg.  (Well heck yeah!)

So when we found a bit of time for Christmas shopping, guess where we went.  Yessirree Bob! We loaded up the pup and headed to Bass Pro Shop.

Other Half brought a towel so little Dillon could ride in the cart.

We plopped his butt in the cart and rolled into Man Heaven. (I was a total geek and took my camera!)

Dillon was delighted.  It was a Labrador Dream Come True!

 Kids!

 Toys!

 Decoys! 

  Guns!

 More Kids!  

and . . .

 "Hey, where's my toy?" Huh?"

   "What tha?" 

 "Santa???"

 So Little D-Man got to meet the Big Guy. 

It plumb tuckered him out.

He had a big shopping trip. By the time he left the store, his cart was full with two new dog beds, a decoy, a toy, fudge for mommy, and more Christmas surprises than you can shake a credit card at. 

Bass Pro made out like a bandit. When the cashier found out we'd left Trace in the truck, she was aghast.

"Why didn't you bring him in?"

I explained that we didn't have room in the cart for two dogs. 

"Oh! He could walk on a leash!  We LOVE to have dogs in here!"

(I bet they do! Apparently dogs have credit cards.) Oh well. Maybe next time.

 "Aww man!"

"That's not fair!  He got to meet Santa! He doesn't even know who SSS-SSanta is!"

also titled . . .

When Briar Bit Daddy And Oli Bit Mommy

or perhaps . . .

When You Are In The Wrong Place

At The Wrong Time.

This is not what you want to see coming at you in the dark.

Who knew she bites?

Last night Other Half, (who was supposed to be in bed asleep), put on his coat and went outside to meet the rancher next door. While they were enjoying some guy time over the back fence, sharing a cell phone photo of a 13 point deer that had been hit by a car, (why else would you climb out from underneath an electric blanket?)  they happen to startle a pack of dogs who were not expecting the sight of two men lounging by their fence.

     The neighbor had his Black Mouth Cur Dogs with him. Fortunately for them, they were on the other side of the fence with their owner. Unfortunately for Other Half (apparently!) he was not.

Who knew Briar could outrun Blue Heeler? Or . . . perhaps she didn't outrun Blue Heeler, perhaps his sniffer is just better than hers.  Nevertheless, the fact remains that a pack of dogs, HIS OWN DOGS, descended upon Other Half in the dark and SOMEONE . . . (Briar) . . . bit him in the leg!

  "Ma bad!"

There was much cussing (Other Half) and giggling. (that was me)

She didn't break the skin.  I assured him that it was a case of mistaken identity and she pulled her punch when she realized it was him.  He was not amused.  (I was highly amused!) Who knew Briar would actually bite a human?  Briar LOVES humans - apparently strange humans at the back fence don't count.

So there it was, Briar and I were in the dog house. (because I giggled) Then the sun rolled up this morning and the tables were turned.

     While Other Half was getting ready for work, I was shuffling dogs in and out for potty breaks.  Oli, the Current Police Dog, is a most primitive creature, very much like a velociraptor in Jurassic Park. 

She must be monitored closely lest she find a way to get through the fence and cause havoc with small hooved creatures.

     So after Oli took her break, I brought her back in the house.  Oli brought a rather large stick with her.  Because she hopped onto my bed, with my NEW BEDSPREAD, and settled down to chew her stick, I decided to take it away from her.  This necessitated a trade.  Oli is always happy to barter.  So I grabbed up one of Dillon's fluffy toys and said,

"Here Oli, wanna trade for this?"

She did.  She very much wanted to trade a muddy stick for a fluffy toy that could be eviscerated. So she let go of the stick and snatched the toy. Unfortunately I was still holding the toy. 

     Her back molar crunched down on the fingernail bed of my left index finger. (Thank GOD it was my left hand!) Someone started screaming.  (that was me!) Other Half almost cut his throat while shaving. 

"Oli bit me!"

Other Half probably wanted to cut his throat when he heard that.

Fortunately the skin was barely broken. It was the equivalent of having someone slam a hammer (claw end first) onto your fingernail.  I continued to squeal and bounce around the bedroom. Oli dropped the toy and raced into her kennel. Other Half came to examine the damage. (and proclaim that I was a weenie) I had to coax Oli out of her kennel to reassure her that accidents happen and we were okay.  (which is MORE than HE did when MY dog bit HIM!)

And through it all, Dillon watched in amazement.

"Dogs bite HUMANS???"  Why would you bite a HUMAN?"

Despite the fact that my finger still hurts like the Dickens, Oli and I are okay. Other Half is still pissed at Briar.

  Men are such wusses.

This dog is a bit of a puzzle.

 "Who me?"

We were told that her mother was a Komondor and her father was a Great Pyrenees. While there is clearly a Great Pyrenees in there somewhere,

whatever else is in Briar's genes is open for debate.

Perhaps a Komondor,

with a dash of clown . . .  

There has been much serious discussion on the subject.

Today I received a phone call from Briar's vet. He wanted to take a blood sample from my Big White Dog and send it off for a free DNA test to finally have something more than speculation.  (not that it really matters but inquiring minds want to know!) Since we are all curious and the test is free, we decided to draw the blood up . . .

"Do what?!!" 

I got off the phone and walked outside to fetch up my Big White Dog.  The vet was on his way, and she was covered in cow poop. (Unscheduled Midnight Romp in the pasture) A date with a water hose was necessary to make her presentable to even the most tolerant of farm vets.

An hour later and Briar's "who's ya daddy?" test was in the mailbox. Anyone want to take bets on what turns up?

"Sugar and spice and everything nice!"

     The "Christmas Spread" is a term the press threw about this morning to describe the shrinking holiday of Thanksgiving. Although this is my favorite season, I cannot help but feel like Charlie Brown, lost in a world of consumerism run amuck. 

     While some retailers hide the fact they are opening on Thanksgiving Day by calling it "Midnight on Black Friday," others proudly battle for the right to loudly proclaim they will be opening Thanksgiving Day. All this is to separate the consumer from his almighty dollar.  And as if it were real news, the press carries this madness on every channel.  They glorify the family that camps outside the department store, more than the family that sits at home with an empty chair on Thanksgiving Day, a chair that belongs to a soldier.

     This morning the national news carried the story of a woman who camped on the sidewalk with her children - her 15 minutes of fame. What is she teaching? Is saving a few dollars on a television set more important than teaching her kids to thank God for the ability to even buy a television set? Is saving money on presents more important than thanking God for the friends and family who will receive these presents?

     It's not about the shopping, it's about saying "thank you," about holding one day out, one holy day, to survey your little kingdom, to take stock of your life, and to thank the Good Lord for the things He's given you.

    "Wow! We've got a lot to be thankful for."

"Yep. We sure do."

     It became painfully obvious this week that a farm runs on routine. Upset the delicate applecart of Routine, and you have one helluva mess. While it may appear faster to cut corners, short some chore here or there, with plans to make up for it later, it never works. It will, in fact, blow up in your face, for a farm is like a giant baby - it thrives on routine. It wants everything done EXACTLY the SAME way everything is normally done - no exceptions. Any variation sets you up for a giant temper tantrum.

     Routine on a farm is built around the temperament and idiosyncracies of each individual animal or group of animals. One must take into account multiple personalities.  For instance:

You MUST put Musket the Cowpony in the barn first.

Feed him to get him out of the way. Failure to do so sets up a chain reaction that raises everyone's blood pressure. If Musket is not in the barn, he will follow you to feed the sheep and try to squeeze his Queen Mary size ass into the pen behind you, thus intimidating the dairy goats enough that they will not follow you back through the pasture to be milked.

When feeding the horses in the arena, you MUST feed Scout the Mustang Paint first. Failure to do so results in a wreck because he will simply wade in like John Wayne and take Montoya's meal anyway. Feed them over the fence so Scout will not run Montoya on top of you. If you feel the need to feed Montoya a little extra because you feel sorry for him, Scout will thank you because as soon as he finishes his meal, he will run Montoya out of his, thus any extra will just go to Scout anyway.  You must keep these two horses away from all cows, sheep, and goats at meal time. They are both determined eaters who will eat their meals, and anyone else's. 

If you choose to skip the step of putting Musket the cowpony in the barn (thus having to wait for him to finish eating) and opt to feed him in a bucket in the pasture, the dairy goats will run to Musket's bucket for grain, rather than continuing onward toward their milking spots in the back yard.

Sheep must be fed before you release dairy goats. If they are not happily munching something, they will notice that goats are moving through an open gate and race after them.  That kind of chaos can only be sorted out by a Border Collie.

You must have the goats locked up BEFORE you feed the house cows. Failure to do so means the goats will run to the fence opposite the cow feeders and attempt to squeeze their scrawny necks through the bars and eat grain which an 800 lb bovine is also eating. See the problem?  A goat's motto is "No guts, no grain!"  A cow's motto is "My grain, your guts - on the ground."

With the exception of THE Border Collie (Lily), the dogs must be locked in kennels before the goats will stand to be milked. Failure to do so results in a chocolate lab puppy climbing into a milk bucket - aka "chocolate milk."  

 "What?"

 Goats also do not like to stand quietly while Trace stares at them like a serial killer. Put Dexter the Serial Killer up.

     IF you follow the rules, the animals will happily wait their turn, confident that the gears of the great Routine Machine are grinding in their direction. If, however, because you are sick, you decide to depart from the routine, prepare yourself for one land mine after another as the Routine Machine blows a gasket. And when you lose your temper because the dairy goats just freight-trained over you in a mad dash through the gate to get to someone else's grain, and you throw a bucket of grain at their disappearing asses, it is a good idea to have a Border Collie to head them off and clean up your mess.

I'm just sayin'.

"The grass is not greener on the other side.

The grass is greener where we water it."

                                    Joel Osteen

Catching up: A respiratory bug has hit and we've spent the week coughing, sneezing, blowing noses and hacking up lungs. Unfortunately we were short-staffed at work, so I wasn't able to take off, thus I'm sure to have infected half of the city by now.

The down side to both of us being sick is that no one wants to do the chores.  The up side to both of us being sick is that we can get it over faster and be done with it.

Bonus:  a certain chocolate lab puppy has the amazing ability to stay in the bed for long hours, much like a hot water bottle, and keep two human adults warm.

"Just one of my many talents."

     There are many times in life I've said, "Thank God I didn't do that!"  This was one of those times.

     A few days ago Other Half and I were getting him ready to go to work. While he gets dressed, I take the dogs on a morning walk and drink frappuccino. (Yes, I know. I'm drinking again.)  Because the main gate opens onto a highway, I try to put most of the dogs up before he leaves so we don't have to worry about dogs getting out. 

     On this particular morning I had finished the walk and everyone was in the house except Lily. And as often happens any time before 11 AM,  Other Half was in a particularly grumpy mood.  (Can you say "Bitchy Bear?  Sure. Sure you can.)

     Anyway, while His Grumpiness was getting loaded into the truck, I was tossing a stick for The Perfect Dog.  Lily was happily returning said stick. Unfortunately, a certain Red & White Border Collie was NOT happy that he was not involved in the game which he could see from my office window. That's when Mr. Bitchy Bear growled at me.

"Quit throwing that stick before Trace breaks the window out."

So I did. And so Lily bounced up to Daddy with her stick.

And he threw it . . .

. . . and Trace broke the entire window out.

"Aaaahhhh. . . ma bad."

     For a moment, time stopped. I'm ashamed to say that my first thought was "Thank God I didn't throw that stick!"

     Trace was a bit shaken, but otherwise was okay with his close call. No vet was needed, just an entire three foot window to be replaced. Other Half was beside himself with anger.  His face turned red. I thought his head would explode. (and all before 11 o'clock.) I took this opportunity to point out the obvious.

"I'm so glad you threw that stick."

     Now this world is made up of Tiggers and Eeyores.  I choose to be a Tigger. For instance, yes, the dog broke out a window, BUT he was not hurt, AND it happened while we were home so no one else was hurt climbing through broken glass.  So in reality, it was really a GOOD thing - we were blessed! (That's how Tiggers think!)

That kind of thinking really pisses off the Eeyores of this world.

Fortunately despite the fact that he was a Bitchy Bear that morning, Other Half is also a Tigger. . . so I am still alive to tell the tale.

 "And me too!"