Farm Fresh Blog

Each season at the ranch brings new surprises and captivating mysteries.  The puzzle for September was this:

I found them blanketing the gravel roadways along fence lines.

But what were they? The blooms looked like tiny purple pineapples or the blosssom of a lavender but the stalks were spiny and brittle, sharp and harsh.  What was the fascinating plant?

So dutifully, Other Half and the dogs sat in the truck while I hopped out with my camera to document this oddity for further research. I then asked some local folks, "What is this?"

And was told, "Thistle."

Hmmm . . . . Interesting. I had never run across this kind of thistle, so when I returned to civilization, I whipped out my stuff on thistles. Nada. Nothing.  Ah HAH!  A mystery! A puzzle! 

I was all kinds of excited, but I'm also lazy. A return to civilization also means the Merry-Go-Round of Life speeds up for me and because I wanted instant gratification the right answer, I posted the pics on Facebook for my gardening and biologist friends.  "What IS this plant?"

The beauty of the internet is that one can toss out a question, like a rock skipping across a pond, and just wait.  Lazy Busy people like this research method.  In a very short time, my mother, an avid gardener, responded:

"Eryngo - not a thistle. In the parsley family."

Wow, thanks Mom!  So off I went to research eryngo.  I NEVER would have thought this was in the parsley family.  Turns out that it IS a native plant of Texas. Deer won't eat it. No suprise there. Spreads by seeds. Wear gloves so you won't rip your hands to shreds while harvesting seeds. Ugly stalks. Wait rewarded by phenomenal display of vibrant purple color.

And as I read more about eryngo, I thought about how this little plant was probably a good example of a life lesson.  People wrote to gardening sites to tell them stories of how they endured patiently waited through the ugly unsightly, harsh, prickly stage of stalk growth, and were rewarded with a dazzling display of popping purple. 

And isn't a lot of life like this?  If we just patiently trudge on through the thistles, eventually, something good comes of it. 

Things are dry in North Texas now and thus much of the creek that meanders through the ranch is also dry. This gives us the opportunity to explore areas we haven't seen before. So like Lewis & Clarke, Other Half, Lily, and I headed down the dry creekbed to discover new frontiers.

There was the mandatory game of fetch along the way.

The creekbed was a veritable newspaper with stories of life and death on the ranch. Footprints in the sand followed the drama of coyotes bringing down an unfortunate piglet.

As the piglet's story trailed out of the creek, we continued our journey down the creekbed, into the rising sun. We rounded the corner and this rose out of the mist.

Boulders captured a freshwater spring in the middle of the dry creek.  

 Lily took the plunge.

 "FISH!  There are FISH in here!"

How to drive a Border Collie crazy: chasing fish on a hot day!

And so it was that we discovered another Honey Hole on a ranch rich with mysteries still undiscovered.

One would think, that given my work experiences, I would quit asking psychological and sociological questions. One would think that I'd have given up any faith in humanity and society as a whole, but like Anne Frank, I still want to believe. I still turn the Rubik's Cube of Life.

So here's the puzzle currently on my mind: Why are some individuals raised to hold life at such high esteem and others not? Or perhaps to explore this correctly we should examine the "glass half empty" versus the "glass half full" people, for in the face of adversity, how one views the situation greatly colors one's emotional perception of what happened.  Take the major accident we were involved in over the holiday weekend.

Now, emotions aside, given the pure laws of Physics involved in the situation, as a "glass half full" kind of person, I realize how close everyone came to death. As an officer, I have worked those kinds of accidents on the freeway and I know firsthand how ugly they are, so in that instant, when faced with causing certain death, I chose life over property. I believed then, and still believe, that it was the only choice I could make. The accident was still ugly, but everyone survived. And in that situation, I, as a "glass half full" person believe that we should all drop to our knees in the roadway and thank God that we are alive and walking. (I am also thankful that everyone has insurance. There is a reason I have been paying Allstate for all these years.)

Now, to the other side of the coin. The occupants of the vehicle that hit me broadside as my truck was sliding sideways down the freeway because I chose not to mow down the girl in the roadway or the woman in the parked truck she jumped out of, are now suing me. Yes, they are suing me.

They believe that if I had stayed in the right lane, they would not have been involved in an accident.  Clearly they don't understand that if a large truck with a loaded trailer hits a person in the roadway and then plows into a parked vehicle, it will NOT stay in the same lane anyway. Laws of Physics dictate that the truck would either have bounced into their lane upon impact, or it would have bounced into the retaining wall, and THEN into their lane upon impact. Either way, they would have still been involved in the accident.

Yes, I have insurance. Yes, they have insurance. Yes, the woman whose child jumped from the vehicle also has insurance. So I ask you, what is the point of suing someone?  Sadly, I fear the answer is "money."  

And herein lies my frustration. Why is that we cannot all be thankful we survived? Why do people feel the need to get rich off the backs of others?  Is the need to 'make a buck' stronger than respect for human life? Has our society stooped this low?

As we have discussed before ranch dogs are more than pets, they are tools in the tool box, each with his or her own specialty.

If you want finesse, you choose Lily.

If you need more distance but no teeth, you choose Cowboy.

But if you want distance, and you don't care about finesse or gentle, you choose Trace.

While he has more raw talent than the other dogs, Trace has less control. He is a red rocket, bent on his goal toward world domination. Livestock WILL comply - or else.

Unfortunately, Trace doesn't get as much practice because the weather has been too hot for the sheep, and we don't have free time to focus on Trace, thus, he is like a genie in a bottle. When you need him, you need him, but then you have a time getting that genie back in the bottle.

But such was not the case on Saturday. Lily and Trace were in the house and Cowboy was in one of the outside pens when I realized I was late for work, and still needed to turn sheep and goats into the yard to mow while we were gone.  No problem.  Or so I thought . . .

Call sheep as I walk to their pen.  They are pumped. They have been locked up and are ready for grass. Open gate and begin to escort them on short walk to back yard.  All but two lambs enter back yard.  Those two decide they want to turn around at the back gate and head to pasture instead. Everyone else decides this is a good idea and the entire flock runs over me like a water in a fast rushing stream. I stand in the gate, helpless to stop them.

"Fine!" I shout as their wooly butts disappeared into the trees. "I'm gettin' a dog!  I'll be back!"

Grab Cowboy out of kennel.  He is happy to oblige. He lopes toward the trees. They race around the round pen and begin this ring-around-the-rosies game they have learned to confound the dogs. Cowboy doesn't know what to do. He won't bite them. They know this. The dog stops and looks back at me as the sheep do the "end zone" dance on the other side of the round pen.  They laugh and taunt him.  He looks back, confused. They run through two more pastures and are now 5 acres away.

"Come' on, Cowboy. It's okay, Boy, you tried."

I have asked more than his gentle soul is capable. This is a job for The Terminator. So we walk back to the house and I exchange dogs. The Terminator has been watching this drama from the picture window in the living room. He already has assessed the problem and assimilated that into his plan for world domination.

I slip the end of the crook through his collar lest he, true to his impulsive nature, begin his quest without me, and we hike toward the flock. They are still 5 acres away, but they see Trace coming and begin to run in the opposite direction.  I down him and slip loose the crook.

"Git 'em up, Boy!"

And with that, the Heat Seeking Missile is launched. Instead of running after them, he kicks out at an angle as fast as his little legs can run. The flock continues its path across the pasture until - the Genie magically appears in front of them. And then, it's on. Unlike Cowboy, Trace will use teeth and they know it. There is no laughing and taunting now.

He turns the flock on a dime and they decide they will outrun him in another direction, but he kicks out at an angle and heads them off again. This game continues until they reach me. They attempt to blaze past me, but he catches them again. In fits and starts, he escorts them through two pastures until they reach the paddock with the round pen. They attempt their foolish round-the-rosies game with The Terminator, but he is on them like a duck on a june bug.

He re-groups them and we continue our journey to the yard. I down him as they stream through the gate into the yard, but Trace and the sheep are convinced they are escaping again, and so he gives lip-service to his down and races off to catch them again. 

Herein lies the difficult part of getting the genie back in the bottle. The yard is filled with all kinds of hazards that make working sheep difficult for a green dog with a wiley flock. I lock the gate and round the corner of the house as the first sheep are barrelling back my way. They split up in the yard, but he is carefully rounding trucks and trailers to recover the mass and roll that ball of sheep back to me.

By this time his tongue is down to his toes but he has them saluting him. As the snow ball of sheep gathers around my knees, I ask him again for a down.  This time he drops to the grass.

The poor guy is so hot I fear he'll seizure and heat stroke out on me, so I scoop him up and drop him in stock tank.  The Terminator is hot, but he is a happy boy. Mission accomplished, and he knows it.

As the weather cools, he will be able to get more practice. I feel bad because as it stands now, the only work he gets on sheep is when the job is already a train wreck.  That's no way for a green dog to get experience. On the other hand, when I need him, I really need him. He is more capable of handling those train wrecks than the other dogs because he has the confidence for distance work they don't possess. The sheep choose to misbehave. They choose to run like deer. He merely heads them off and gathers them back up.

So as I take the soaking wet pup into the house where he can plop under a ceiling fan in the air conditioning, he looks back at the flock and growls,

"I'll be baack."

I believe I have firmly established now that my final words will be "Oh God! OhGod!OhGod!OhGOD!!!"

Trust me, there are probably worst things to say in your final moments.

(For instance: "Hey! Hold my beer. Watch this!")

One would think that my business would give you more than ample opportunity to examine what's important in life, but from time to time, defining moments stand out.  I had one of those moments this weekend.

Another birthday rolled around for me, and unlike those who dread each birthday like the tolling of a death bell, as we have also already established, I see birthdays as my excuse to make demands eat cake and expect to be treated like royalty wear a birthday crown. 

Yes, aging brings unwelcome party guests like arthritis,  wrinkles, loss of flexibility, and weight gain, but it also brings a richness of experience and wisdom that my toned, tanned, and youthful self just didn't possess. And there is always the other alternative. So keep in mind that despite your ailments, "any day on this side of the grass is a good day." That point was driven home like a line drive in Yankee Stadium this weekend.

Other Half and I loaded up the truck and headed for the ranch to enjoy my birthday do ranch work. I was driving. (This is important.) I drive like a Grandma. In the Police Academy, my classmates teased that I was "driving Miss Daisy" because I am such a conservative driver. (This is important too!)

That established, let's drive on with our story:

Other Half had a brand new Garmin GPS. We named her "Michelle."  Other Half had already noted that Michelle not only shows a map, but she also posts the listed speed limit and what I was actually driving at that moment.  (tattle-tail!)  Anyway, Other Half smugly pointed out that I was "dragging ass" and driving too slowly.  My argument that driving a loaded rig on a crowded freeway in holiday traffic did little to sway his opinion that I was once again, "Driving Miss Daisy."  But . . . I'm a 'grown-ass woman and do what I want, so thank GOD, I continued to drive Miss Daisy and he soon bored and fell asleep.

He woke up as we were sliding sideways down the freeway. That was about the time I realized we were about to crash over the guard rail and pull a "Thelma & Louise" into thin air.

But let's go back some.  I have replayed this scene a thousand times and the most frightening thing is that you can do everything right, and shit just happens.  When I was learning to drive, my mother taught me this little rhyme:

"She was right she was,
as she sped along,
but she's just as dead,
as if she'd been wrong."

And so it was that I sped along, wearing my seatbelt. The sun was up. Visibility was good. I wasn't tired. I wasn't fiddling with the radio, the dogs, my cell phone, or any of the countless other distrations that attack drivers daily. I wasn't speeding. I wasn't tailgating. I was Driving Miss Daisy.

BUT . . .  I was on a busy freeway that is a major artery across the state. The freeway was a two lane roadway with concrete barriers on either side. There was no shoulder. There was nowhere to go. And that's when a woman riding in a truck ahead of me decided to leap out of a moving vehicle and land smack in the middle of the holiday traffic on the freeway.  As you can imagine, chaos ensued. 

The cars ahead of me were standing on their noses and swerving. I hit the brake too, but I was driving a Ford F350 and pulling a loaded trailer. That's a lot of weight. In essence, I was driving a freight train in the right hand lane. If I didn't get that truck stopped, someone was going to die.  That was a given. The passenger-turned-pedestrian would die, people in stopped vehicles would die, and we might die if I couldn't get that truck stopped.

And that's when I saw the left lane open up.

I've fallen off enough horses to know that time slows down in the middle of a wreck, and I had time enough to read "Moby Dick" as the scene unfolded. It all came down to two choices:

Choice A: Stay in Right-Hand Lane
Consequence: Someone WILL die.

Choice B: Move to Left-hand Lane
Consequence: Lane is clear ahead. Green SUV in rear view mirror is far enough back that he may cuss me for changing lanes so quickly but I won't shove him off the road if I change lanes. There appears to be enough room to try it.

Glance back at Right-hand Lane. Vehicles are stopped. We definitely cannot stay there. Go for left and continue to try to stop truck to prevent hitting any vehicles who are springing from right lane to left lane. Sit on brake. Truck begins to slide too far to the left and bumper catches concrete barrier.

Short Commercial break:

Ranch Hand Bumpers.  These are sported on big trucks all over Texas. I must admit that in the past I thought this was a macho thing for country boys to put on their trucks and say they were protecting their trucks from damage when they hit a deer.  Nope. That sucker will SAVE YOUR LIFE!  Get one.

Now back to our story:

I am now trying to stop a truck that is sliding sideways down the freeway. The left hand side of my Ranch Hand Bumper is shaving away concrete.

This slows our speed considerably, unfortunately the green SUV in my rear view mirror now t-bones me and is shoving us down the freeway. 

Another Short Commercial Break:

Big Trucks. Yes, we all strive for energy efficiency in everything. Little cars are great, but those of us on ranches need big trucks. The bonus is that when you are in a major accident, being in a tank doesn't suck. I will no longer whine about my gas bill when I drive across the state in my big truck.

Back to our story:

Other Half is now awake. We are sliding sideways down the freeway, and have just been hit broadside. And as if things can't get any worse, I realize, to my horror, that not only is the truck being pushed sideways, but it wants to continue going left into the concrete guard rail and we are on an overpass. I see nothing but my hood and a steep drop onto the highway below us. 

At this point I have a thought,

"This is how people get launched over the overpass and fall onto the roadway below. And everyone dies . . ."

And this was the point where I gave it up.  I had done everything I could possibly do and it wasn't enough. This had just become a "Jesus Take The Wheel" moment. It was not in my power to keep anyone alive. I held that wheel and started to pray the truck would stop before we climbed that k-rail and launched into space.

If the Ranch Hand Bumper gave way, the factory bumper would give way, the grill would give way, and the tires would touch the concrete barrier. If those tires grabbed the concrete, they would climb that truck up and over the rail. So I prayed. The Ranch Hand Bumper continued to chew along the concrete, but even with the force of an F350 pickup truck, a loaded trailer, and an SUV pushing it, that bumper would not give up. It didn't break.

And the truck stopped. For a moment, time stood still for me as I looked out over my hood, at the roadway below. 

Then I became vaguely aware of Other Half cursing loudly. He wanted answers but I had none. How does one explain what just happened?

 (pic taken off freeway)

Angry and bleeding, but very much alive . . .

I climbed out of my truck as everyone else stepped out onto the freeway. There was a surreal moment of peace as the dust settled and humanity counted the damage. The question on all lips:

"Is everyone okay?"

Like actors on a stage, the players emerged.

The principle cast was obviously the drivers and passengers of the striking vehicles, but the supporting cast was quite interesting: the motorcylist who rode through the stopped traffic to come up and assist us, the doctor who came to render first aid.

When the doctor informed Other Half that he was bleeding, Other Half told him, "I don't have time to bleed."

???

Cops think a little differently. At the moment, Other Half was looking for the body of the woman who jumped out into traffic. No body on the highway. He peeked over the railing. No body down there. Hmmm . . .

Where was she?

A man came up to me talking about a kidnapper. Of course!  Why else would you jump out of a moving vehicle into a crowded freeway? The freeway ahead of me was clear, the traffic long gone. If there was a kidnapping suspect, he was gone, but then again, so was my body. This was a puzzle.

And then I heard something that clicked everything into place.

"Why did you jump out of the truck?"

I saw an older woman talking to a young girl who was crying. It soon became apparent that the young woman had jumped OUT of the older woman's truck, causing the older woman to stop in the middle of the roadway, thus resulting in a bad day for everyone.

The young woman had road rash but was otherwise unharmed. I informed Other Half that I'd found our body, and our body was still alive. He went to investigate this further as I went back to the truck to check the dogs. What came next boggled my mind even more than finding my dead body alive.

The reason she leaped out of a moving vehicle: 

They were having an argument about her doing her homework.

Do what? 

Yes, homework.

She leaped out of a moving vehicle onto a crowded freeway, endangering her own life, and countless others, over HOMEWORK?

Yes. It would appear so.

And there you have it.  There are moments in our lives which force us to sit up and take notice, to assess life as we know it, for you can be tooting along, minding your own business, and the next moment make a decision that will profoundly affect your life and the lives of everyone around you.

So which would you choose?  Right-hand lane or Left-hand lane?

Do you bitch and moan about growing old, or do you drop to your knees on the freeway and thank God that you lived to see your next birthday?

I love taking a walk with Briar. Unlike the Border Collies, who are constant motion, Briar strolls, a slow methodical patrol.

 She tests the winds from time to time and marks the fence line, but unless she sees the neighbor's chickens on our side, not much bothers her.  (Briar exacts a stiff fine for trespassing chickens. She eats them.)

She wanders around the hay bales, then checks the goldfish in the big tank.

Fish are still there.

 And onward she goes. Briar slithers through the gaps in the fence made by young calves who bend the stays holding the wire in place.

I stay on the other side as I watch Briar slowly patrol that paddock. She putters around, stopping to test the winds and mark the ground from time to time.

But when you call her, she happily trots back, 

 and squeezes through the fence. Then we meander on to check the small critters,

 who barely notice us,

past the ungrateful goats,  

who resent Briar breathing the same air they breathe.

And she plops down where she can watch her little kingdom, confident that her borders are secure, and she is the Warrior Queen of all she surveys.

I believe we have already established the fact that I don't "DO" rodents. In short, they freak me out - not the helpless, screaming, refusing to get off a chair kind of freak me out, more like the dancing in place, screaming obscenities while shooting randomly at the disappearing rodent kind of freak out. Fortunately for those in my kitchen, I rarely have a handgun in my grasp when I see one of the little bastards.

I am completely flummoxed. I've lived in country houses for most of my life, and I have never, EVER had this kind of war with mice.  I have 5 freakin' dogs in the house at any given time, sometimes 7 dogs! What mouse in his right mind would come in this house?  Clearly quite a few.

Because I'm such a freakazoid about it, I have now moved my silverware out of the drawer and into a crock on my kitchen counter. I have moved my bread into a hanging basket over the kitchen sink. Now I have discovered the little bastards in the upper cabinet!  The only sugar and flour not touched was that already in cannisters.  Ewwww!!!  Even Other Half was tripped out.  My switch had been tripped a LONG time ago.

My switched has been tripped in such a manner that I have re-designed the kitchen in the new house at the ranch to eliminate the hiding places. I will have free-standing hutches that separate rooms so if those little rascals want to get in them, they have to go through a rather talented rodent control device.

You don't understand creepy until your Border Collie is scratching and barking at your cabinet doors.  Eewwwww!  But alas, she is unable to get to them and they know it. That will be remedied in the future. But for now, we are reduced to setting snap-traps (because I will not let Other Half put out poison or sticky traps). Unfortunately I am a wuss and can not empty them. Not only can I not empty a mouse trap, I don't even want to LOOK at a dead mouse in a trap.

But still, I'm a glutton for punishment. Take, for instance, my rude awakening this morning. Knowing that Other Half set a trap in a high cabinet, I still felt the need to greet the day by checking for results.  This required pulling a step ladder over to the counter, climbing on the ladder, and opening the cabinet.  I'm not quite sure what I expected to find, but I was clearly unprepared to see a mouse and trap dangling in front of my face when I opened the cabinet.

     "EEEEWWWWW!"  

 Apparently the entire combo-package had bounced across the cabinet and landed sideways against the cabinet door. I opened the door and a dead mouse was 8 inches from my nose. I almost fell off my ladder.

That is not a trip to the Emergency Room and the Animal Emergency Clinic that I want to explain.

"Yes, I said I was attacked by a dead mouse and fell off a ladder and landed on my Border Collie."

I know what would solve the problem, but I'm not there yet.

A girl has got to know her limitations.

In the mean time, I'm busy designing rodent-proof kitchens for the new house . . . and waiting for Other Half to wake up and remove the mouse from the kitchen. (HEY! Don't judge me . . . )

I'm not sure my horses are ready to move to North Texas with the rattlesnakes and copperheads.

I give you Exhibits A & B:

This is what I found on my morning walk with the dogs. The poor thing had dogs on one side of the fence and horses on the other. The horses were fascinated. The dogs had a more appropriate response.

Trace had the right idea.  Stay VERY far away and growl and bark. Lily was the only idiot who wanted to attack the snake. That earned her a frappuccino bottle bounced off her head. She never saw it coming and now has much more respect for snakes. Everyone else seemed to have some respect and trust me when I shouted,

"No! It's a NASTY! Get away!"

Unfortunately, the horses have no understanding of the word "nasty" and thus had the poor thing cornered.

 Barking dogs on one side

 Horses on the other

What's a snake to do?

EEEKK!  Get away you stupid horses!  But do they listen?!!  Nope. Right back for more. I wonder if they have de-snaking clinics for horses . . .

We eventually had to lure the horses away with the promise of a shower. Other Half squirted them with a water hose and while they were enjoying their fountain baths, the snake made his escape.  I shudder to think how this would have turned out if these idiots had run across a rattlesnake.

So I ask you, do people in subdivision have to deal with this at 8 am?

All to often I find myself quoting Danny Glover in the movie Lethal Weapon,

"I'm just too old for this."

Stress has its way of taking a toll now. Yes, we handle what fate throws at us one day, but then we spend the next day sleeping like a pride of lions in Africa. The collective "we" refers to the dogs and I, not to Other Half, since we lounged in bed all day, and he had to work. Hah! We are all still recovering from the stress of yesterday, and he will undoubtedly join us in The Land of Slackards when he comes home. But hey, somebody has to make some money to pay the vet . . .

Our adventure began Friday night. I fed the dogs lunch before I left for the office at 2 pm. At 2:30 pm, Other Half, who had worked the night before, awoke to find Dillon throwing up in bed. Isn't that the way most people wake up?  He got up to find multiple piles of undigested food in the bedroom. So he called me at work.

"What did Dillon get into today?!!"

I had many answers for this, as in the very short time Dillon is outside unattended he could have consumed:

toads

lizards

fallen branches

mushrooms

a lead rope

siding on the house

dirt

pecans

rocks in the driveway

a yuppy on a bicycle in neon colors and tight shorts

At some point he has attempted to put all of the above in his mouth. I know that while he was INSIDE the house, I personally witnessed him with these items in his mouth:

a lead rope
a kong
a kong dumbell
a rope dog toy
a paper towel
a dish rag
kitty litter
Trace

I distinctly recall pulling yellow and purple rope fibers from between his teeth, but what made him sick? That answer is a crap shoot.

He was alone outside approximately 20 minutes. Inside, he is a canine Dennis the Menace, so I keep a pretty close eye on him. But here's the rub:

He's a year old Labrador Retriever!

He could have anything in his stomach from a license plate to a piano!  Labrador puppies are like sharks in cuddly packaging.

If it fits in their mouth, it goes down their throat. If it's something big, it can be "disassembled" so that it can fit in their mouth, and thus go down their throats.

So normally the report of a dog throwing up doesn't concern me too much, but a one year old Labrador throwing up immediately gives me pause.

I returned from work ten hours later and Dillon was offered his supper. He refused.  Now this is a red neon flashing sign.  This is the robot from "Lost In Space" swinging his arms wildly, chanting,

"Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!"

It was 12:30 am on Saturday morning.  We decided that Mr Dillon had an appointment with his vet as soon as the doors open. We tucked D-Man between us and went to sleep. At 5 am I was jolted out of bed by Other Half shouting,

"Dillon is throwing up!"

That's it. Off to the Animal Emergency Clinic we go . . . .

By 6 am we see the vet. It is $95 to walk in the door. They estimate the cost will start at $1200. Throw credit card at vet. By 6:30 am they are x-raying his tummy.  The $1200 does not include any abdominal surgery, that's just to put him on fluids, hospitalize him, and start looking for the problem. We begin to look down the road at $3000 to $5000 surgery.  Eegaads.  We discuss it, but there is very little to discuss. This is Dillon. He is a young, vibrant, healthy, happy puppy with his entire future ahead of him. He has already shown that he has that spark of "something" that defines him as one of the "great" dogs in your life.

And so, the decision is made to juggle money, juggle ranching priorites, tighten the belt even more than it already is, and fix him.

We regretfully leave him at the hospital and try to return to life as "normal" while we wait. Other Half goes to work. I try to get some sleep. Sleep eludes me. End up making lots of deals with God to save my dog. Still cannot sleep. Get up to phone Dear Friend Who Is Married to Our Retired Vet. They have now moved to their retirement ranch.

Wonder of wonders, he answers her cell phone. I explain problem with Dillon and my concerns that I waited too late to take him to vet.  By then I am sobbing.

Fortunately, being a vet, he is used to sobbing and can interpret "Hysterical Woman-Speak."

"No, you won't lose him. Yes, he'll recover. Yes, he'll be fine. Yes, you caught it early enough."

He patches my emotional wreckage back together and I feel better. Dillon will survive. (We may not be able to afford hay for the winter, but Dillon will survive!)

Other Half calls. He cannot wait for vet to call him back. He has phoned clinic and got results: no obstruction!

Do the Snoopy-Happy-Tushy-Dance in living room. Border Collies watch me in shock. Surely Mom has lost her mind.

Go to work. Deal with two rather disgusting issues, then meet Other Half at the vet clinic. Visit D-Man.  He is wearing an apron around his neck to prevent him from pulling out his cathater. He looks like an idiot. We all three go for a walk. Ask vet if Other Half can take Dillon home with him after work. No.

Ask if I can take Dillon home after my shift. Maybe. If he eats at 9 pm and doesn't throw it up.  Go back to work. Wonder again how normal people live.

Phone rings. Another dead man.  Sigh . . . will this day ever end?

God smiles on me and this turns into a "hurry up and wait" call once I get to the scene, so night shift takes it from me when they come on duty. I am able to pick Dillon up and get him home.

A half-dressed Other Half greets us Dillon at the main gate and the Happy Homecoming begins. Dillon is happy to be home. We are happy to have him home.

So 24 hours later, Dillon settles back into his memory foam mattress, with his favorite humans on either side, like book ends.  He is happy and they are thankful to have him back.

The Border Collies have done the accounting and are questioning why you would spend that kind of money on someone who would eat the siding off the house . . .

. . . someone who could eat a block of wood next week . . .

I have only one answer to this:

because it's Dillon!

In addition to moving livestock from Point A to Point B, my dogs must also develop skills in "tending" stock. I think of tending as taking livestock to an area, and hanging out with them while they browse. Mostly this involves keeping them from leaning toward their own criminal tendencies to stray off the property or get into places they don't belong. (i.e. stacked hay)

This is tougher on the dogs because they want ACTION. Tending involves lots of INaction punctuated by occasional glares and a creep from time to time. 

 This is toughest for Trace. He practically "wills" them to misbehave.  That doesn't take much. If the dogs were not there, the little beasts would scoot underneath a cow fence and be gone.

But under proper supervision, (read: prison guards) they are a decent landscaping crew for the cow pastures.  Tallow trees are an invasive species prolific in South Texas. Cows don't eat it. Sheep and Goats mow it down like teenagers with a pizza.

 For a few minutes . . .

After that, they begin to look for trouble.

"Ma!  Get out of that hay!"

  "Pardon me, were you addressing me?"

 "Who me?"

Then they drop their heads and ignore me.

 I couldn't help but note this. Why, I ask you, would this goat spend any amount of time eating dead tallow branches when she is surrounded by LIVE tallow branches?

I finally got tired of watching them waste my time. They needed to get back where they belonged.

Exit Prison Guard Border Collie.

 The dog has moved 12 feet beyond the mule. The stock take their collective asses back where they belong. Proof positive that they KNOW they don't belong there.

"Ppppppppppthhhhhhhhhh!!!!"

 "Don't those dogs have a sense of humor?"

"None that I'm aware of."