Farm Fresh Blog

"Stupid White Dawg is chasin' away the customers."

Lily is right. Briar is chasing away the customers.

     "Move along!

"Not for sale!" 

    "Right?"

Unlike the other farm, the Cow House is not at the end of a dead-end street, thus the "public" has access to Briar's sheep.  Since the lambs have gotten big, there is a lot more interest in them. I often see pickup trucks pausing near the front to examine the sheep now. Unfortunately Briar missed the memo that lambs are for sale.

  "Go away! Not for sale!"

Yesterday she sat in the rain by the front gate after a blue truck perused her sheep for quite a while. I was just getting ready to walk out there when he slowly drove away. Briar spent the next half hour sitting in the rain, daring him to come back.

 This is Bronco Billy. At least that's what I'm calling him at the moment. He is a Boer/Spanish cross and is our ticket to milk from the dairy goats this season.  This is a popular cross around here and since I cannot keep the babies, I need to raise something that is popular for re-sale value.  I fear this will not sit well with Briar, since the trucks that linger near the front fence are not looking for pets.

 "Goats are not for sale either! And don't even CONSIDER coming back when the sun goes down!"

My yard is flooded again. This morning it has rained harder than a cow pissin' on a flat rock. The weatherman insists that we're still in a drought. He has clearly not talked to my goats. Goats don't like water. Few things are more pitiful than a goat standing on a bucket because she doesn't want to get her feet wet.

 "I need rubber boots!"

Even as the Powers That Be insist we are still in a drought, it continues to rain, and once again, the difference between city people and country folk emerges. City people arrive at the office in clean clothes, with clean shoes.

City people are inconvenienced by rain. They have to carry umbrellas. They have to drive a little slower on the freeway. They have to wait until it quits raining to get their cars detailed. For the most part though, their lives don't change much.

Now let's look at country people. Country people get wet on the way to their car because any building that 'might' be used as a garage is pressed into service as a barn for animals or hay, thus, they must park in their unpaved driveway. There is no sidewalk leading to the driveway since the yard is also used as a pasture. After all, why waste decent pasture with a sidewalk?

Thus, country people must walk in the rain to their cars. Rain equals mud, ergo, their shoes/boots get muddy on the way to the car.

City people climb in the car, drive out the garage and down the street toward their office. They "might" get their arms wet checking the mail in the mailbox.

Country people must open the main gate first. This means climbing out of the car, into the rain, sloshing through the mud, opening the gate, climbing back into the car, watching for sheep or goats who are attempting to make a jailbreak, then gunning the engine to drive through gate, hopping out of car and rushing to close gate before the livestock gets out.

This situation improves if your Livestock Guardian Dog moves stock away from the gate as mine has taught herself to do.  Woo hooooo! Good Dog, Briar!

Pet wet dog on the head to reward her for her efforts. She rewards you with a large muddy pawprint on your thigh and wet white hairs pressed into navy blue pants. Such is life.

Lock gate and drive to work. Arrive at office building with wet hair plastered to head. Pull it up in a pony tail and try to pass it off as that "just stepped out of the shower" look.

Ride elevator up with civilized people and note that city people are wearing pristine white tennis shoes, polished flats, silk, pressed, dryclean clothing, and have slightly frizzy hair. They politely move away from Wet Country Person who steps into elevator.

Stare at elevator lights pinging up floors while are painfully aware that you have wet hair, and are slightly dripping onto polished floor. Smell a wet dog. Wonder if anyone else in the elevator has a wet dog. Perhaps you can pretend it's someone else. Wonder if the dog hair on your pants gives you away. If they do not, the giant muddy pawprint on your thigh probably does. Stare down at muddy boots. Perhaps if you stare at the lighted buttons you can will the elevator to go faster. Wryly note that Civilized people are probably wishing the same thing.

Arrive at desk. Turn on television to hear WeatherMan call for yet more rain, and add that we are still in a drought.

REALLY?

 Really, People?

I was so humbled by your sweet notes regarding Norman and wanted to take a moment to thank you all for just being the best!   It boggles my mind that over 1243 people even CARED about our sick calf.  Your kindness amazes me, and I want to thank you for the pick-me-ups you sent, both public and private.

"The shortest way to God is to bring comfort to the soul of your neighbor."      Abu Sa'id

Earlier this week I got a note from Anne in South Africa (Hi Anne!!!) and it completely flabberghasted me.  I knew we had readers in Canada and Australia, (which amazed me too!) but South Africa!  Wow!  Whodathunkit???  That's a looooong waaaay from Texas!

 "Where's South Africa?"

"I think it's somewhere past Galveston."

 "No Morons! It's south of Mexico!"

 "I'm surrounded by idiots."

Hmmmm. I may have to pull up a map for them, as they don't get out of Texas much.  Showing them a globe is out of the question.

   "Is that a ball?  A blue ball!"  

 "It's MINE!  My blue ball!"

 "Throwtheball!Throwtheball!Throw the BALL!"

 "Get AWAY! It's MY blue ball!"

Yeah . . . showing them a globe is out of the question. I'm just sayin'. A girl has GOT to know her limitations.

     I named the calf "Norman." Not exactly original, but I doubt he cares. Norman passed away last night. Other Half fed him around 7 pm and tucked him in. I came home from work at midnight to find him still warm, but gone. Norman was premature. His teeth were not fully developed but other than that, he looked like a full term calf.

     Other Half had planned to put him down yesterday afternoon because he wasn't making a marked improvement but after some more research on premature calves we decided to give him one more chance. The mortality rate is high, but some do pull out.

     So we continued to try. Unfortunately, I opened the bedroom door last night to find him motionless. Ranger rushed in and attempted a canine version of CPR.

   It was touching. The little blue dog was quite upset. I gave him all the time he wanted. He guarded Norman's body from the other dogs while I pulled Norman's pallet into the muck room. I left the calf there while Ranger valiantly continued to revive the little guy. It was sad, poignant - Hollywood's version of what a dog is, and most aren't. And yet, there it was in front of me.

     Briar was in the back yard and so she came into the muck room to check out Norman's body.  Ranger threatened her but she was politely persistent. I don't think Briar has ever seen Death claim someone, so I called Ranger away to let her carefully explore Norman's body. Then I went to phone Other Half.

     I was okay. Despite our best efforts, I knew saving Norman was a longshot. It is what it is. Nature can be cruel. While I chatted with Other Half, I was okay - until I walked back into the muck room and saw Briar. Then I burst into tears.

     Briar, who had never seen Norman alive, was lying beside his still body with her chin on her paws. Her expression was the saddest I've ever seen. Briar understood Norman was dead. She settled down beside him, and waited, her expressive eyebrows shifting but her head never moving from her paws. And then I cried.  Not for Norman, but for the sweet nature of a good dog. Briar and Ranger have a level of empathy not seen in the rest of the pack. 

Typical narcissist, my beloved Lily bounced around, "Can we play fetch now?"

Dillon, who had been frightened of Norman when he was alive, was not frightened, but now curious of the dead Norman. Trace was still slightly growly. To them, Norman was a Thing, never a Someone. But Ranger and Briar see suffering and death for what it is, and they respond with an uncanny sympathy. It touches me.

Sadly, Norman joins the ranks of my other failed attempts to save the longshots. For most of my life, God has sent helpless animals my way. I have killed more baby birds than I care to remember. At one point I recall upon finding yet another helpless bird, throwing my hands to Heaven and shouting,

"Why do you INSIST upon sending me these things?!! You KNOW that I can't keep them alive!"

(I have a long history of shouting at God. It gets me nowhere by the way.)

My baby bird dilemma has been solved by the wildlife rehab people. Now I can whisk a little bird up, drive an hour, and gratefully hand it and some money over to someone far more qualified than me. It may still die, but at least I feel I've done all I can do.

And such is the same with Norman. Other ranchers and the vet wouldn't have spent much energy or money on Norman, and yet for some reason, like Ranger and Briar, we felt 'something' and were compelled to try.

I am still tempted to throw up my hands and shout at God, "Why do you keep sending me hopeless cases? My faith does not grow each time I try and lose them anyway!"

It is tempting to carry them to the vet and let him deal with it, (translated: I don't have to watch them die and feel responsible for their death) but as Other Half has pointed out, "He'll do the same thing we're doing, and besides, he doesn't think you should even try." (Our vet went to high school with Other Half and doesn't sugarcoat things for us.)

But like Ranger, I have to try. And when the calf dies, like Briar, all I can do is mourn another failed attempt to cheat Death.

     Thus far the calf is still alive. No real improvement though. He is taking his milk, so he gets warm food in his belly.  I'm concerned that his brain may have been denied oxygen for too long during his birth which has resulted in brain damage.  He doesn't seem to be able to control his head much or make any attempt to stand.  He is taking his milk well though, so that's something.

 Ranger spent the night sleeping on the corner of the bed. He often jumped down to lick the calf and check on it before returning to his post on the corner of the bed where he had a birds-eye view of the calf.  Ranger is a regular Florence Nightingale.

Keep up the prayers. It ain't over till the fat lady sings. We'll give him every chance possible. At the very least, he's warm and dry, and as long as Ranger is there, he has a constant nursemaid.

There is. There really is a cow in my bedroom. 

 "There IS!"

Here he is.

He is one sick little boy. He needs your prayers.  His mamma is Daisy Mae.

He is her first calf. We missed the birth and by the time we found him, the buzzards were already gathering. We thought he was dead, but because he was still breathing, we scooped him up and drove him back to the barn. He may have just had a difficult birth, or there may be something else working here. We got him revived, filled him with antibiotics and electrolytes, brought his mamma in, milked her, and fed him.

The plan was to leave him with her in a small pen. She licked him and seems concerned, but unfortunately the temps were dipping too low and she wasn't staying close enough to keep him warm.  Thus . . .

. . . he ended up in the bedroom.

I debated on whether or not to blog about him because I feared folks would get attached to him, and he'd die. On the other hand, this blog is about the ups and downs of life on a farm. This is one of the downs. Ranching isn't always about the cute and cuddly. Lots of times it's about the muddy and the bloody.

At this point, it's in God's hands. He is re-hydrated and has a full belly of his mother's milk. He's warm under a pile of old dog blankets with his head on a dog pillow. If he dies, at least the ants and the buzzards won't get him.

The assorted reactions from the dogs have been interesting.  Lily shows cautious concern. I doubt the concern is for his health. Most likely she's concerned that there's a cow in the bedroom. Dillon barked, growled, peed on himself, and had to be locked outside.  Trace is cautious and growls a bit. He's now staying with Dillon.  Ranger surprised me the most.  We had forgotten that Ranger loves baby animals. He set aside the fact that he is a Cattle Dog, and showed a great deal of concern for the little fellow. Ranger licked his butt and reminded me that there's a lot more to this little blue dog than a space cadet in spots.

Keep this little fella in your prayers.  He has a long road ahead of him.

This is another Tale Of Two Dogs . . . and some idiots

I was minding my own business, happily eating my breakfast, absorbed in my black & white world of Timmy & Lassie, when I heard the screams . . .

Hear hysterical barking of police dog in outside kennel. See sheep zoom past living room window at the speed of sound. Window is open. Lily-The Border Collie, and Ice-The Black Wolf, who have been watching Lassie with me, run to window as the last of the flock speeds past. Ice leaps through open window. Lily follows.

Leap off couch faster than I thought 48 year old body was capable and begin screaming at dogs. Ice has only run a few feet from the window. Call her back. Lily has kicked into warp drive and is heading off sheep.  Call her back. Sheep are  still screaming.

Is police dog loose?  Holy shit! That would be a bloodbath!

No, police dog is in her kennel, bouncing off the bars like a lunatic. She is high on "sheep crack." Running, screaming sheep have pushed her over her very low threshold. Wonder for a moment if her head will explode. Or perhaps she will have a sheep cocaine-induced heart attack.  Decide that is Other Half's problem. I must figure out why sheep are screaming and running around yard when all dogs are apparently confined.

Whistle Lily up and put her in the house.  She is most disappointed. Put on rubber boots. Yes, it's still muddy. Yes, the weather man says we're still in a drought. Rush through front door in time to see flock galloping past again.  Something is most definitely chasing them.

Briar?

Nope. Briar is still in outside kennel where I locked her this morning so Lily could work sheep.  Briar has decided that Lily's uppity butt aggravates her and has several times attempted to rid this world of Lily's arrogance. Understandably, this doesn't go over well with management. Thus, when Lily is loose, Briar is not, and vice versa.

So back to the original problem:  What is chasing the sheep?

Hear lamb screaming and thumping through driveway.  ???

Yes, thumping.

Lamb finally thumps into view.  Oh dear . . .

Apparently said lamb has been climbing on flatbed trailer which contains junk destined for the dump. She is now adorned with a lovely broken flower pot.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!  The pot's got me!  The pot's got me!"

This has resulted in a race to the flock, which is horrified at her fashion choice and has run from her. Thus beginning the vicious cycle. Flower pot chases lamb. Lamb runs to flock. Flock runs from lamb. Lamb follows flock. Flower pot follows lamb.  It is a warm day and the entire flock is now in danger of overheating.

Need help. Do not DARE wake Other Half for this drama. He has been asleep for 3 hours.  Don't want a repeat of the Chuck Episode. Whistle for Lily.  She almost breaks screen door in her haste.

Lily rounds sheep up and holds them. I grab lamb and remove pot. Chaos stops. Just like that. Chaos simply stops.  Enter Border Collie. Exit Chaos.

Put Lily back in house. Let Briar out of kennel. She is ready to stroke with concern for her flock. First she checks out Roanie.

Yes, they are best friends, thus Roanie gets preferential police protection.  She then begins the cautious "I'm not looking at you" game to allow her to get close enough to lamb to check her out.

Lamb freaks.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! The dog's got me! The dog's got me!"

The rest of the flock is unimpressed. She runs to her father. He is the picture of sympathy.

"Shut up and graze, kid."

Briar is satisfied that lamb is fine. She meanders through the flock for a quick check of everyone else.

"Sheep need patience and gentle guidance."

"Sheep are stupid and must be dominated."

And so it goes. Two dogs. Two jobs. Too many idiots in one flock.  All that drama, but in the end, peace is restored, reminding me once again that if you have sheep, you need a Border Collie, and a Big White Dog . . . and caffeine, lots of caffeine.

Note:  This lamb will now be named: Flower Pot

Nuther Note: Police Dog's head did not explode.

I simply MUST share this with you! Although I'm rarely able to keep up with Facebook, I saw this on Paige's Facebook page (yes, the Border Collie has a FB page, and yes, I follow it.) and was captivated.  I think this just may be the up-and-coming technology for lost pets.

You know those funny looking squares we're starting to see everywhere?  I call them Aztec bar codes.  Well, anyone with a smart phone can scan those rascals with their phone and it'll take them to a link.  Someone thought of putting those Aztec bar code thingees on your dog!

Yessiree!  You buy the tag, which is cheap, like $12.95 and then I got a $10 discount for "liking" them on Facebook. Then I got another $5 coupon for voting for my favorite video. (Paige of course, but her friend the bulldog was a close second!)

Anyway, you buy the tag, and they send it in like 4 days. Then you register the tag online with PetHub. You can put all sorts of information about your dog AND include the dog's picture.  This is important if your dog looks like Briar!

 "What's wrong with the way I look?!!"

I don't have a smart phone, but just about everyone else under the age of 35 does.  Sure enough, I registered my dogs online and had Fergus, my buddy at work, scan Briar's tag with his phone.  I IMMEDIATELY got an email alert on my phone to notify me that someone had scanned Briar's tag AND Fergus was able to type an email message into the website which was sent to me within seconds. It read, "Is this Sexy Beast yours?"

What cool technology!!!  Even though my dogs are microchipped, I still got these PetHub tags for them.  AND ANOTHER THING! They even have a capability where you can get a GPS location of where the dog was when the tag was scanned!  How cool is that?  You have to pay extra for that. I didn't get that feature, because I have so many tags to buy. And besides, anyone who finds Briar would be HAPPY to return her to me after she had barked all night, jumped on them with muddy paws, and got in their garbage!

Check out Paige's video.  They are in a video contest for a PetHub commercial. It's adorable!

Paige via PetHub

ýPetHub is featuring our video today! Help us out in the contest by going to their page and sharing, liking, or commenting on their post that is featuring our video!

PetHub Video Contest Entry 4

www.youtube.com

To vote for this video, please click "Like"...points also awarded for positive feedback and unique shares. Honest feedback is appreciated...but offensive com...

Susan in Texas sent the most delightful story that I simply had to share with you!

I noted your rock story.

I too have a rock.

It is red and looks like a liver. ok a big liver.

 

 

In 1888 when my grandmother was 2, her dad decided to move them from Indian Territory in northern Oklahoma, to live in North Texas.

They packed up their two wagons, and with 2 other families trekked as far as the Red River. There, her 12 year old brother became ill. (my grandmother later became a nurse and thought it was appendicitis from her mother's story of it) In any case, after 3 days he died.

They buried him on the banks of the Red River, probably just north of the Sherman/Denison  now. They piled river rocks on the grave.

My great-grandmother took this as a sign from God that their family was not meant to cross the river into Texas. At her insistence, they started back north..  a few miles away, she realized she had no memorial of her boy. So my great-grandfather unhitched one of the mules and rode back and brought The Rock from the Red River with him.

That's the story of my rock.

I grew up an Air Force brat.. that rock has been to: The Red River -  Freedom OK  - Waukomis OK -- Weatherford TX --  New Mexico  --   Amarillo TX -- Tachikawa Japan   -- Denver CO -- Atwater CA -- Limestone Maine -- Sherman TX -- and come full circle (almost) to Enid OK - and now here in Houston TX

 

Susan in Houston

 

Some things in life are a given:

* Dogs will barf on the bed.

* Goats will get out.

* Sheep will . . .

. . . fill in the blank after you read this.

Other Half worked all night. He got in bed at 7:30 am. I try to minimize the noise around the house when he's sleeping. Unfortunately dogs still bark, cows still bellow and sheep still . . .

Anyway, Other Half had been asleep about two hours when I heard the plaintive sound of Roanie calling her baby. I ignored this for a while. Babies wander off and blow their mammas off all the time.  BUT . . . the hollering continued. Then I heard the answering call of her baby. It juuuust didn't sound right.  In fact, it sounded WRONG.  So I whooshed through the screen door to find Roanie standing in the yard, staring at me.

"HEY!  You with the thumbs! I need some help!"

"Roanie, did you misplace your baby?" I asked as I started walking around the yard looking for the adventurous waif.

Then I saw Briar. Her face said it all.

"I didn't do A THING!"

Okay then. I rounded the corner of Other Half's work truck, fearful of what I would find.  And here's what I saw . . .

Yep, Roanie's baby was stuck like chuck . . . in a truck. (forgive me)

I'm guessing she got on her knees to crawl under the truck to graze. When she stood up, her fat little self got stuck. Seriously stuck.  Like I couldn't budge her little tubby ass stuck. 

I tried pulling. I tried pushing. I tried folding her legs under her so she'd drop down out of the crack. Nope. Nada. Nada Nada Enchilada. Stuck.

So I got a camera.  And a drink.

  YES! 

And people wonder why I haven't kicked my caffiene habit yet!  Those people DONT HAVE SHEEP!

Anyway, after I photographed the scene, and put some more thought into it, I decided that this was certainly a two-person job.  Yep. . . Other Half had been asleep for two hours. He had worked for 12 hours. 

It wasn't pretty.  (There was lots of cussing. And threats of butchering.)

But he eventually got out of bed and went to examine the situation.  Yeah . . . she was still stuck.  There was more cussing. He finally stomped over to the flat-bed trailer and returned with a heavy-duty jack.

   THIS . . .

. . . soon led to this!

(And people wonder why I'm still drinking. I'll be keeping Starbucks in business as long as I have sheep and goats.)

So now can you fill in the blank!

* Sheep will . . . . get STUCK!

 And even though she's a girl, I'm naming this lamb "Chuck."