Farm Fresh Blog

People in my office are used to getting strange reasons for why I'm late. I can't even surprise them anymore. Yesterday was no exception:

Am driving to work in the rain. Am also on the phone with Dear Friend Jeannie. Abruptly interrupt her to exclaim that two goats are on the highway. YES! Two white goats are walking down the white line of  a major highway. Most people were just whizzing by them. Most people. Not me. No, I'm a crazy person who does a u-turn, in the rain, on a busy highway, to rescue two idiot goats, no doubtedly owned by idiots.

Let me paint this picture: I want you to imagine two white goats wearing orange extension cords. (If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'!) Yes! Orange extension cords! The smallest goat is wearing a collar of frayed orange extension cords that have been wrapped multiple times around her neck. She is dragging a frayed three foot segment of extension cord.  The larger goat is wearing a large, wide orange dog collar. (WIDE - like a fighting dog's collar) Tied to the orange collar is - guess what?!!  An orange extension cord!  The cord is about 12 feet long and was tied to - a tire!  The goat hunkers down, leans into the collar, and drags that tire down the road like a draft horse.

I've seen some crazy shit in my lifetime, but a pair of white goats wearing extension cords, dragging a tire in the rain down a busy highway stacks right up there.  After my brain has a moment to process what I've just seen, (and I report it to Dear Friend Jeannie) I pull into a parking lot and commence to wrangle goats. I grab an extension cord and start reeling in the goat like a marlin. The goats are less than happy to have me save them from a certain close encounter with the grill of a fast-moving Chevy. 

After much pulling and cussing, I get both goats off the highway. I can only imagine what oncoming traffic must have thought - a police officer in uniform, rolling a tire and dragging two goats down the side of the road - in the rain.

WTF!!! (I do not doubt that people almost ran off the road watching us.)

Once safely off the road, I now point them at safer grass behind the bakery while I pause to ponder my dilemma. 

Where did they come from? What am I going to do with them? I'm going to be late for work, again . . .

Tackle Problem #1: Where did they come from?  I leave the goats wrapped around debris behind the bakery while I stomp off toward a strip center to ask.  I knock on four doors before I find a business open. The insurance agents are quite polite when I ask them, "Do you know who owns those damned goats?"

Yes they did! Apparently they have rescued these two in the past.  The goats belong at a mobile home beside a church in the distance.  Okie dokie. Hike back to goats. They are still there but are being worried by a large white Akita-looking-mutt.  I yell at him as he barks at them. He looks at my badge and tells me to f@#* off.  I yell at him again. He calls me a few names over his shoulder and lopes off toward the mobile home.

The goats, who have not bothered to thank me for saving them from certain death on the highway, thank me for removing the dog.  I drive toward the mobile home.  I'm about 6 feet from the door of my truck when I figure out the dog lives here. Rut ro!  Dat's a Big Dawg.

Fortunately I make it to the front porch while he's still pissin' on my tires.  Three cats slither around the porch to avoid my gaze. Orange extension cords are running out of the house, under the door, and at that point, I lose interest in following their path. The light bulb on the porch light is cockeyed and half-filled with rainwater. These people aren't living too far away from the living conditions of the goats. I knock at the door.

And that's when I remember that I'm in a police uniform. Often people who live like this DO NOT like the police. Double Rut ro! I stand to the side of the doorway and knock again. From inside I hear silverwear being thrown together. Someone is home. I say a silent prayer that I do not get shot for walking into a meth lab/dope house/coyote den. 

I have no back-up. No one but Dear Friend Jeannie and the insurance agents know I'm here. Dear Friend Jeannie has no idea where this is and the insurance agents don't care. I wonder if two goats are worth getting killed over. I would NEVER have let this happen on-duty. See?!! See what goats do to you! As I contemplate this, the door swings open.

That's it. The door swings open like a horror movie. No one is there. It just opens. On its own.  That's when I decide I have no intention of dying for two goats. These folks need to know what I'm doing here right here and now!

"YOUR GOATS ARE OUT AND THEY'RE ON HIGHWAY 6!!!  You need to come get YOUR GOATS!"

A young Mexican man comes bouncing through the kitchen.  "My GOATS!"

"Yes! Your goats are out! I got them off the highway but you need to come bring them home."

And just like that, he was okay with me. He and I are both clearly relieved. At the moment I am not the law. I am someone who got his goats off the highway. And that's all I wanted to be. I didn't look at anything in that kitchen. I didn't look at anything outside. Like Sergeant Schultz on Hogan's Heroes "I SEE NOTHING!"

As he catapults into his little Nissan and drives off in search of his goats, I climb in my truck and drive off to The Big City . . . where it's safe, sorta.

At least there I expect to find danger, not goats wearing extension cords and dragging tires down the streets.

And THAT Dear Friends, is why I showed up late for work, yet again . . . wet and muddy.

OH! And the above photo is NOT one of those goats. That's one of my old goats. When I finally got to the office, Dear Friend Fergus Fernandez asked "Did you take a picture of them?"

CRAP! I forgot! This little adventure was so bizarre you would have thought I would at least have photographed the goat dragging the tire. DUH!  So not only am I wet and muddy, and late, but I have absolutely no proof that it even happened!

Other Half argues that I spoil the livestock. (Guilty as charged!) I've slowly come to terms with the concept that "They're COWS!" and they don't have to be in a barn. I want to build a giant pole barn to house all cold and wet cattle. (yeahhhh. . . not gonna happen.)  I don't agree with it, but I've come to terms with it.  But what about cowPONIES?  

Other Half is completely fine with the idea that cowPONIES should live like cows - out in the elements.  Unlike the nice 5-stall barn I used to have, this property only hosts a two-stall barn with an attached shed - and we have four horses.  Yeah... 

Here's how it shakes out: 

Joe gets a stall - the best stall - because Joe is older (13) and most valuable (to me!) and sweet and innocent.

Despite the fact that he is a cowpony, Musket gets a stall because he gets along with Joe, and he is calm and easy to handle.

 "Yesssss!"

Montoya (who is NOT a cowpony!) and Scout (who is the only REAL cowpony!) get to stay outside because they can be wild and silly to handle and they are most likely to run over you while jostling for resources.  (I know, it sounds cruel, but when you've been on the receiving end of those flying heels you get a better appreciation for the term "collateral damage" and it hardens your heart.)

This has worked out pretty well thus far, but now we've entered the nasty cold, wet winter.  It's cold, and we've had 2-3" of heavy rain this week. Joe and Musket were happy campers, snug and warm in their stalls.  Scout and Montoya were miserable in the cold rain. After the rain came through, and we were left with standing water in the pasture, I decided to flip things.  I brought Montoya inside and put Musket outside. (he's young)  I started to bring Scout inside but he almost kicked me while running Musket overtop of me.  Alrightie then. . . stay out in the cold, Stupid.

Montoya was happy to be inside, but was still a bucking, farting, crazy person at meal time. Scout was much more subdued the second day in the cold rain.

    "Can I come inside now?"

After breakfast today I was able to easily bring Scout inside to enjoy his hay. This also gives him a respite from the cold mud.  He can snuggle up in clean shavings, dry out, and relax a bit.

In the meantime, Joe and Musket can putter around in the mud and get some fresh air while Scout and Montoya enjoy a respite. We'll see how long things work out flipping the boys every 12 to 24 hours.

Someone else is getting a respite from the cold mud too.

This simply sends Other Half over the edge, but I cannot help it. I must bring her inside where she can sleep on the warm carpet and relax a bit.

Outside is cold and wet. She "can" sleep in a softer, warmer spot outside, but she chooses to sleep on cold, wet rocks in the driveway under the horse trailer.

 "I keN gARd beddr fRuM hEEr."

And while juggling horses to give them a bit of relief can get dicey, Briar never causes any problems. She slinks inside, plops down near the heater vent, and passes out. That's it. If you don't trip over her, you never even know she's there. Briar takes full advantage of the respite to relax and recharge her battery.

Do I spoil her?

Yep.

Do I care?

Nope.

 "Thanks Mom!"

Despite the rain and snow this week, Texas is still in the grip of a drought. Now I can gripe about how I don't dare bother to spend money drilling for water at the moment, or I can be happy that I can explore the ranch along the dry creek bed. 

So much of the wild interior of the ranch can only be explored on foot or by horseback. Now that most of the creek is dry, we can walk along the creek bed that meanders throughout much of the property.  The only water left in the creek is that which pools up from underground springs beneath the creekbed.

I love these rocks. The rocks on this creek were what sold this ranch to me. There is something primitive in these rocks that speaks to my soul. I'd like to hear the stories these rocks could tell.

 Trace makes such a wonderful model.

He is much like the rocks himself: beautiful, yet hard & primitive.

 He pauses to patiently pose for me, before racing off down the creek to discover more new places that have been here forever. . .

We just returned from the ranch in north Texas and it was a white Christmas!  I didn't plan on it, (obviously not, or I wouldn't have dragged two horses across Texas to freeze their butts off in 20 degree snow!) but it was a nice, forced time of quiet solitude.

Watering horses on Christmas Eve:

Watering the horses on Christmas Day:

(Yes Sue, that IS the hat you sent Robby! He LIVED in that hat this week!)

The ranch is secluded and wild even when the weather is good, but when the weather turns icy, this southern girl is a little hesitant to brave the roadways. Thus, even though we had planned to spend Christmas with friends less than thirty minutes down the road, the snow was coming down so fast, I chickened out. I didn't want to leave 4 dogs and 2 horses and then find ourselves stuck away from the ranch.  So we spent Christmas day playing in the snow with the dogs.  These photos were taken immediately after the snow started falling.

Trace wasn't sure he liked snow at first.

Then he discovered running in the snowflakes and really got into it. 

A veteran of snowstorms (one!)  Lily showed everyone how it was done.

But the biggest fan of the snow was the D-Man!

Dillon thought snow was the greatest Christmas gift ever! And even though the storm really messed up our plans for fun and fellowship with good friends, the pure delight in every fiber of his being made up for it.  Dillon was joy personified.

He was so wild that long after the other dogs and I had retired to the warmth of the pickup, Dillon and Daddy were still walking the trail ahead of us because D-Man was so wild that no one else wanted to be in the truck with him.

"Just a little longer!  Can we stay out and play just a little longer?"

Harry Houdini was actually a goat. For all you younger people, google him. Houdini was a man noted for his ability to escape the most elaborate restraints. See? He was a goat.

My dairy goats are pretty good about not going walk-about.

 They are angels.

   But Oscar? Not so much.

Oscar has been getting out since he came to live with us as a baby.

(Read: Oscar's Big Adventure)

For the longest time I worried about him, but now I figure if he gets too far away from Briar and gets eaten, then that's Darwinism at work, folks. Life on a farm can be cruel.

Lately I've noticed that Houdini has an apprentice - Chuck.

Remember Chuck?  Stuck like Chuck? Remember: Chuck

Yeah, for some reason I kept her. She has managed to not get sold or butchered yet. Her personality amuses me.  Read: Job Security  Chuck is Roanie's lamb from this year.

Lately each day on my morning dog walk, this is what I see:

 See those white dots?

(I apologize in advance for the grainy photos, but it was the best an iPhone could do at that distance.)

That's Oscar and Houdini's Apprentice: Chuck!

They sneak out of their pen every morning and graze in the rye grass.

"Ut oh!  Busted!"

So off they run to slither through the fence, 

and back into the sheep pen, where they blend in with everyone else and stare at me innocently.  It took me a while to figure out how they were getting out.  See this?

 Yes, it appears to be a normal cattle panel. Closer inspection will reveal that some of the welds have broken thus allowing the determined Houdini (and his apprentice) to wriggle their fat asses through the fence.

Oh! And HOW you might ask, did the welds on the cattle panel get broken?

 "Huh? Who me?"

Yes, Montoya stands on the cattle panels to mooch sheep hay, thus smashing, crunching, warping, and breaking my sheep fencing. Grrrrr. . .

Granted, this would cease to be amusing if the rest of the flock figured out this little escape door. I could replace the panel, but then Oscar would just find another escape hatch. Thus far, since the flock isn't gifted with big thinkers, it hasn't become a problem. And since Other Half just had hernia surgery, I am juggling more important things. I will just have to delegate this problem:

"I'm on it, Mom!"

From time to time, the Merry-Go-Round of Life stops for a moment. It's up to us whether or not we appreciate this chance to catch our breath, or simply trudge on, oblivious to the opportunity.

Other Half is recovering from a hernia surgery. He is now out of commission for the next 6 weeks. All of his responsibilities fall on little ole me. Christmas is bearing down on us. I have to go back to work tomorrow. The car battery is dead. My truck is attached to the gooseneck horse trailer. (pain in the butt to unattach!) The dually is too big to park in my office parking garage. I have to pay bills, cook a turkey, buy a new car battery, install said battery, give Husband his meds, feed animals, not burn turkey, clean house, shop online for Christmas presents, mail goat milk soap orders, make one last batch of soap, and so on and so on . . .  It blurs.

This morning I was up at the crack of dawn. The sun was peaking over the horizon and frost blanketed the pasture.

After giving him his meds, get Other Half safely settled back in bed with Blue Heeler (Florence Nightingale) Each morning we have a 'changing of the guard' as Cowboy and Ranger change places. Ranger rushes inside to a warm bed and Cowboy rushes outside to greet the day (and chase morning commuters down our fence line.)

With responsibilities whispering in my ear, I bundled up and headed to the barn . . .

The voices in my head argue with each other as they jockey for my attention. What needs to be done first? What can be put on the back burner? I hustle through my morning chores, barely noticing the chilled, grateful faces that greet me.

Joe kicks at Lily as she bites him in the back of the leg while he eats. Lily is a bitch. I love her, but she lives to dominate livestock. I evict her from the pasture, and trudge on along with Ice and Briar in tow. There is a fresh canine turd on the frozen ground outside the barn. Hmmm . . . smaller than Briar, about the size of a Border Collie, but it isn't one of my dogs. Perhaps a coyote is visiting. This is the second time I've found a fresh turd just outside the goat fence. Someone is trolling for trouble. Briar puts her nose to the ground and follows it across the pasture. I go back to feeding animals.

The sun is crawling across the frost as Ice and I haul hay. We finish feeding and walk out into the pasture to check the water tank. The tank is full, the goldfish are fine. I see Briar on patrol and call her. She changes her path to head in our direction. As she scoots under the barbed wire fence, she grins and gallops my way.

 She roars past me, and becomes a furry snow monster chasing her tail.

Around and round she spins, her face splits into a giant smile, her eyes gleaming with delight. There are no voices at war with each other in Briar's head. She is living in the moment, and it's a beautiful day to be alive.

I take a moment to watch her. Ice and I stand in the cold and stare as Briar's circles grow wider and wider, and then tighter and tighter as she closes in on her tail. She collapses in a giant white heap. She lays there for a moment with her sides heaving plumes of frosty breath in the cold air.

I wish for my camera. This moment is too precious to waste. Instead I must satisfy myself with the snapshots I take in my head. And as I watched that silly dog, the voices in my head stopped too. Briar pulled me back into the moment, and reminded me to step off the Mad Carousel of Life and appreciate living. 

The acorn doesn't fall far from the tree. And just as drama follows her father, Daughter is no stranger to her own brand of escapades. As we discussed earlier, Daughter moved her family out to the country and is experiencing the joys of raising her young children with nature.  As you will recall, I almost peed in my pants when I read her Facebook post about the hawk in the garage.  (Read: Farm Kids)

And it continues. I received this text last night:

"Any idea what this is?"

Since nothing else was there, I asked:                 "What is?"

As soon as I asked, this picture came through:

That looked all too familiar.           "Looks like a copperhead from here."

Since the picture was tiny, and we are old were in dim light, her father and I blew up the picture so we could examine it closely.

Yep, looked like a baby copperhead to us. And then this text came through:

"It is a snake I caught in the garage."

                "Yes, it is a copperhead. Baby copperheads have yellow tails."

"Yikes!! That's definitely what it is!!"

As her father and I examined the photograph, something caught my attention.  See that reflection? THAT is what's caused when a flash of light bounces against glass and reflects back at the camera.  Rut ro! Knowing the interests of a budding naturalist in the family . . .  

 (This one!)

I was quick to text back,

                              "Tell me it's not in an aquarium in your house now!"

"Hehe. Maybe :) it won't be for long..."

At this point her father snatched up his phone to call her. It was a lively conversation.  Daughter informed us that after the kids went to bed the snake would be "released." (with a shovel!) Yeahhhhh . . . that's what we're telling the kids. Yeahhhhh . . . that sounds good.  Ahhhh . . .  life in the the country.

And remember this: Just when you think your life needs some excitement, try being the mother of this child . . .

 . . . in a place where copperheads crawl in your garage in the middle of December.

Susan asked how Joe did in the parade.

Well, let's start with The Bath.  You see, the problem with beautiful black and white horses is that they like rolling in dust in dry weather, and rolling in mud in wet weather. At no point do they actually like water baths (except of course, if you are trail riding through a stream, then they will stop, drop, and roll with the best of them) But I digress . . .

Suffice it to say, Homeboy needed a bath. In December. With no hot water. And although I waited until late in the day when it was warm (high 70s) it was still cold water because, well, it's December.   Joe was less than thrilled with the arrangement. He has a thick winter coat and it took forever to rinse him, thus exceeding ALL of his patience and mine.  We finally gave up on his lower legs and decided to borrow baby powder from Dear Draft Horse Friends (Doug & Debbie) who were carrying Santa in the parade.

 Prior to Santa's arrival

So I loaded up Joe and headed toward the parade.  Keep in mind, that at this point I have not bothered to introduce Joe to the concept of wearing Christmas lights. I merely have a grocery sack of lights that I purchased at the last minute that Other Half kindly inserted batteries into the night before. I had yet to plan out how I was going to put the lights on Joe.

You really should plan this stuff out, but I live much like Scarlett O'Hara: "I'll think about that tomorrow."

Well, tomorrow was here, and I still didn't have a plan. Whatever. Jesus loves me and so does Joe. (well, Joe likes me. And he's a patient horse, so it's practically the same thing.) I unloaded Joe amid all the hustle and bustle of everyone else unloading and outfitting their unsuspecting excited livestock for the Sparkling Rodeo Parade Of Lights.

As I watched the rodeos around me,  dressed Joe, I decided that Joe and I could do with much fewer strands of lights than I had bought.  He ended up looking like this:

 Joe had lights around his breast collar and on this garland. I opted against lights around his butt and feet, not because Joe objected, but for once in my life, I remembered my physics:

For Every Action There Is An Equal And Opposite Reaction.

Joe is a calm horse. Then again, I doubt he's ever had a strand of Christmas lights slide under his tail and give him a 'wedgie.'  I don't know for sure, I'm just guessin'.  And as I watched people put all manner of things on their horses, I decided that I had enough things to worry about from items on OTHER horses. Joe and I would just keep it simple. We were clean, and that's doing good in December.

We had a chance to relax walk around and look at the floats and other riders.

 Yes, that is a real Bethlehem scene on a flatbed trailer - complete with a real donkey and real goats. It was awesome! (But I made mental note to keep Joe away from that float, lest donkeys and goats become airborne in the middle of the parade.)

Dear Friend Mindy owns Frodo, Joe's BFF (Best Friend Forever). Joe and Frodo are buddies. Frodo arrived shortly before the parade began. We hastily flung the rest of Joe's colored lights on Frodo.

Like me, Mindy hadn't bothered to introduce Frodo to lights prior to the parade. Like Joe, Frodo took it in stride. Other Half arrived minutes before we mounted up. He objected to Joe's 'minimalist' look. Other Half wanted Joe decorated like a Griswald Christmas.

No problem. He can ride him. Nevermind.

The sun went down. Santa arrived. And we all lined up. Christmas carols blared from sound systems all around us. The street sweeper roared to life and followed right behind the horses. As you can imagine, horses were freaking. Frodo, who is scared of motorcycles was less than amused by the decorated ATV mule that followed us closely.  Since so many other horses were freaking out, even though Frodo resembled a fractious Thoroughbred being led to the starting gate by his solid pony (Joe), we didn't particularly stand out. 

The streets were lined with children who darted into our path friendly kids. The air crackled and chimed with Christmas music and jingle bells from floats and panicky prancing horses.   It was a horse nightmare lovely experience. I had a blast. Then again, I was on one of the calm horses. Joe took everything in stride. Frodo bounced against us for the length of the parade but they switched roles when we returned to the trailer.

I loaded Joe into the trailer and Calm Mr. Joe went batshit crazy at the thought of being separated from his BFF Frodo. He began bucking and sitting back in the trailer. I gawked at him in disbelief for a moment before Mindy rocked me back to reality by asking,

"Want me to just load Frodo up beside him and you can drive him home?"

Does that sound like we're enabling? Ahhhh . . .yeah.  Did we do it?

Yessirree Bob!  As soon as Frodo stepped up into the trailer, Joe calmed right down.  And so, the two best friends drove to Frodo's house while Mindy drove behind us. Other Half drove his police truck behind Mindy and lighted up the highway so we could unload safely.  Joe was happy. Frodo was happy. Mindy and I were happy.  Life was good.

Overall it was a wonderful night filled with friends and fellowship, and who could ask for anything more?

With the holiday season ramping up things are getting even more chaotic around here. I rode Joe in a Parade Of Lights Christmas parade on Saturday night.  That was supposed to be the blog for today, but, understandably, it got bumped.

Yesterday was a special kind of circus because I had to get Other Half off to work, finish up soap orders, load soap into truck, cook a dish for a party, feed the dogs, feed the horses, feed the sheep and move them to the yard, and get dressed for the party, pick up Dear Friend Mindy, drive to party, and then, well, party with The Girls!

And I accomplished all this . . . life was good, until this morning.

Here's how it all began to unravel:

Other Half calls me on his way home from work to see when I'm coming home. I'm still partying and so he stops and gets a burger on his way home. He lets Patrol Dog/Psycho Dog/Oli out to play in the dark for about 5 minutes. Brings Dillon, Lily, and Cowboy into the house. Turns Trace/Troll/Psycho Border Collie and Ranger/Blue Heeler into yard.

I return home around 8 pm and we watch television for a while and then go to bed.  Wake up at 6:30 am. An idea pops into my head. I forgot to remind Other Half that the sheep and goats were in the yard. Oh...Sh*t!

Turn to Other Half and say, "You DID get the sheep in last night. Right?"

"SHEEP!!! WHAT?!!"

We both spring out of bed. (Levitate is a much better verb here.) I run outside in my pajamas. Thankfully my neighbors are ranchers who are used to this behavior.  I swing open the door and race outside into the fog . . .

. . . and total silence.

. . . nothing . . .

"Trace?"

Nothing. Just empty fog. I start to walk around the yard. No sheep. No goats. No dogs. Nothing.

"Trace???"

A figure races out of the fog. Ranger bounces into focus. No Trace.

"TRACE!!!"

A little red figure emerges from the fog. He nods at me and races off. Okay. At least I have a direction of travel now. I head off after him. Plunk Ranger in kennel. Mentally prepare myself for the carnage. This is, after all, the unpleasant part of raising farm animals.

And so it was that I round the corner, and standing there in the middle of assorted tractor implements is a band of scared sleepy sheep and three disgusted goats. And standing tall with the sheep was one Big White Dog.

Trace is circling the band like a satellite. He is a red moon orbiting a fluffy confused planet (and three disgusted goats).

I call the little bastard. He ignores me.  I roar at him. He flicks an ear but continues his orbit.  He has waited all night long for me to arrive so he can work sheep and refuses to be cheated. The sheep are very happy to see me.  I wade into their grateful midst. They crowd around me and tell me all about their horrific night with The Psycho With Googly Eyes.  Trace continues his maddening orbit.  I order him to down, which he does. (Miracle of miracles! Then again, he had probably been doing this for 12 hours already.)

I walk over to him to scoop him up and note that he has lost his collar.  The sheep unwisely decide to make a break for it. He is on them like a duck on a June bug. Briar grabs him by the tail and football tackles him. The sheep run back to me.  Briar trots along with them. Other Half joins us and we check them out.  They are fine. All of them. Ever single sheep and goat is safe. Wonders never cease.

The whole band of us begin our walk to the barn.  All is good until they see The Promised Land (i.e. The Opened Gate)

They make a break for it. Trace breaks his down. Briar football tackles him again, and the sheep slide through the gate and run like Spotted Apes back to their pen. There is a sonic boom as they broke the speed of sound.

Other Half and I have the same argument discussion about Trace's less than stellar behavior with livestock.  He is the first dog that I've actually felt the need to use electricity on. It may be in his future. He MUST learn that 'down' means "down and STAY DOWN, DAMNIT!"

And then it hits me.  I'm mad at Trace for not calling off sheep, but I have completely overlooked the fact that a Psychotic Malinois/Proven Sheep Murderer was completely unattended with the flock for at least 5 minutes.

(translation: If Other Half tells you they were unattended for 5 minutes, it really means at least 15 to 30 minutes.)

 There is only one reason why I didn't find bloody bodies all over the yard:

Yes, Briar.

Briar has an intense dislike of Oli. (No, duh! Wonder why?)

Oli wakes up in the morning and says, "What small hooved mammal can I kill today?" She is a velociraptor on paws.
 
And Briar is . . . Briar.

She is a gentle mountain of a dog, slow to anger, but force to be reckoned with when pushed too far.

Oli must have decided that killing sheep wasn't worth going through Briar.

"Wise choice, Bee-otch!"

Sometimes I take my Big White Dawg for granted, but I thank God she was on duty last night.   :)

I almost snorted frappuccino through my nose when I read a post on Facebook by Daughter and couldn't resist sharing it with you...

They have recently moved their family from the suburbs to the country and are currently raising baby chicks in their garage.

 When her father and I were there for Thanksgiving, the chicks were getting pretty big and the family was hustling to get their "chicken tractor" built so they could explore the great outdoors.

But as we have discussed earlier, the problem with real farms, as opposed to "Farmville," is that REAL farms are in the COUNTRY and thus REAL farms come with Predators.  And so it was that a hawk found its way into the garage with the baby chicks. Yes, according the Facebook report, chaos ensued.  (I laughed my ass off.)

I want you to imagine a young mother trying to chase a confused hawk out of her garage, while her toddler is busy tossing chicks into the house to protect them from the hawk.  (The mental picture literally had me falling out of my chair with laughter.)

Fortunately the mission was a success and there were no casualties.  And naturally, this was a stellar "teachable moment".  Lilah was later quizing her mother on hawks and asked, "Are hawks 'turnal' or 'not turnal?"

Nothing against the Discovery Channel, but few things quite illustrate the Food Chain and the Circle of Life better than a hawk chasing chickens in your garage. I'm just sayin'.