Farm Fresh Blog

There are times when I question the sanity of having eight dogs. Yes, 8! Eight freakin' dogs! Old dogs, young dogs, retired dogs, and working dogs! And when you add monsoon rains to eight dogs, my life becomes a Dr. Seuss book.

"Can you stand it in the rain?"
"What if he added a Great Dane?"

ARRRRRGGGHHHHH!  I'm losing my mind!!!!!

Mud, barking, juggling personalities, buying dog food. It becomes a maddening cycle. And when the mud forces us inside, tempers flare - both with us and the dogs.

So it was that by yesterday, Other Half and I were at each other's throats regarding dogs and mud. And that's when we got a call that the cows were out.

Okay, not all the cows, just the stupid one that I've been trying to get him to sell for over a year.  (Read: When It Rains, It Pours ) Unfortunately when one cow is out, the rest are not far behind. This almost sent us both over the edge.

I had to go to work. I had no time to be screwing around with cows. I really did not want to be late AGAIN! (Remember that just last week I arrived at work late and muddy because someone else's goats got out) So as Other Half got his blue jeans and mud boots on, I got ready for work.  I found myself singing under my breath in the shower.

To the tune of "I Love Paris" -

"I hate cows in the springtime,
 I hate cows in the fall . . . "

Even though I have to go to work, I still feel obligated to drive over and help him before I headed to work. I shouldn't have bothered. Other Half had a secret weapon.

Cowboy the Cowdog

Yes, I objected six ways to Sunday when he rescued Cowboy weeks before we were to receive a Border Collie puppy that we'd already ordered (Trace). We didn't need another dog, especially a dog that marked in the house and didn't get along with the cow dog we already had (Blue Heeler).  But brown eyes and a soft heart won out and Cowboy came to live with us. 

He has more control on the field than Trace, and he gathers rather than drives like Blue Heeler, so he's another good tool for the tool box. 

We arrived to find stupid Paisley had made a jail break again, (that cow needs to be on the first boat OUT!) but no one else had found the hole yet. It took us longer to walk out there than it took Cowboy to grab Paisley and drive her back through the gate that Other Half opened for them.

I watched him work and had one of those slap your forehead "Wow, I coulda had a V-8!" moments.  Oh yeah!  THAT's why we have all these dogs.  Okay. I remember it now.

A tool box isn't much good unless it's got just the right tool for the job. So I happily left Other Half and Cowboy fixing the fence while I drove to work . . . and got there five minutes early.  http://youtu.be/76RrdwElnTU

Considering what I do for a living, I am never happy when images from my "work life" lap over into my "home life," but nevertheless, there are lessons to be learned from walking so closely with the dead.

Lesson #1: "Healthy" people drop dead all the time.

This world is filled with busy people who either ignore warning signs, or don't get the warning signs to major problems. They think they're healthy but they're not. 

Lesson #2: Don't get so arrogant as to believe it won't happen to you. Death is the great equalizer.

     With those two lessons in mind, after a day of ignoring shortness of breath, I finally fessed up and told Other Half that I was having trouble breathing. Please keep in mind that it was his birthday and we had just spent the morning hauling cattle cubes and hay to hungry cows.  I had just tromped through the mud, struggled with heavy uncooperative gates, dumped several 50 lb bags of cubes and helped him push a 500 lb round bale off the back of a truck. I had done all this with no visible problem.

But I knew that I was having to take much deeper breaths. I was yawning a lot more. I could fill my lungs with oxygen and moments later I would still feel the urge to force a deep breath again.

     Later at lunch the problem persisted. It was clearly not an issue with physical exertion, but then I knew that.  Having had a history of minor chest pains, I decided to spill the beans. And just like that, our day was f@#*d and we were headed to the ER. I didn't want to ruin his birthday, but having a heart attack would ruin his birthday anyway, so we erred on the side of caution.

The cowdog was still in the truck. Other Half and I were both muddy, and I was wearing bright pink rubber muck boots. It was embarrassing. He dropped me off to walk inside while he parked the truck and gave Blue Heeler a potty break. Thus began the long wait and my period of enforced observation. They observed me. I observed them and everyone else in the ER.

Here is a smattering of images:

The rubber cement they use for the EKG is sticky stuff. Why is it that someone compelled to go to the ER still wants to lie about how much they weigh? There are a lot of sick people in the ER. I can look at someone in the ER and recognized that condition in dead people.  ("Danger! Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!") At least they came to a hospital where they belong. There are a lot of sad people in the ER. Nurses are angels.

Over a period of 4 hours we watched one woman, sitting by herself, call many, many, many people looking for someone to get her car, feed her dog, give her sympathy, and pay her light bill. Each person clearly hoped she'd find someone else. I noted she was quite an active person to be having a heart attack. In the time I went to the bathroom, she called 5 people. In the time Other Half went to the bathroom, she called 4 more. And while we sat and waited, she called and called and called. She clearly had a lot of acquaintances but no friends. I felt sorry for her.

My heart went out to the old man coughing up his toenails as he sat alone reading magazine after magazine. For hours he tried to control it. Finally he left and came back wearing a particle mask. He made no phone calls. No one came to join him. He was alone. I felt sorry for him.

The single working mother with the sick toddler looked familiar. Turned out she worked at a restaurant we frequent. In time, she was joined by family who shared her wait.

The gangbanger with the busted head did not garner my sympathy. He was a gangster wanna-be - a white boy with tattoos over every visible part of his body. His pants were belted below his buttocks and he walked around the waiting room with the familiar shuffle caused by holding your pants up with one hand. He looked like an idiot. He also had no family, no friends, no other gangstas that came to share his wait. I stared at his appearance and wondered how he would ever get a job when outgrew this phase. (assuming his lifestyle didn't lead to an early death) 

A heavy young black man was wheeled into an area where he could see the television. I felt sorry for him. He clearly had some major health problems. The good thing was that although he didn't have friends or family waiting with him, he did know some family members of other patients and they visited with him.

Hospital staff doesn't get enough credit for being the wonderful angels they are. Over the hours, their patience and compassion clearly showed.  I listened through the curtain as they tried again, and again and again to contact the daughter of an elderly man. His wife had died in the same hospital months earlier and now he was here for himself. It was heartbreaking. He couldn't remember his daughter's phone number. The staff tried over and over again. They never gave up. He was more worried about his dog than himself.

I noted this was a common theme in many conversations, not just for him, but for several others.

"Will someone feed Boomer?"

Even the woman long on phone numbers but short on friends had a dog - the one true friend everyone can have. But unfortunately, they cannot wait with you at the hospital.

Smart phones have clearly changed the face of the hospital experience. Everyone was playing on their phone.  Without a charger (this will NOT happen again) my phone battery ran out pretty quickly and when they finally took me away from Other Half, I couldn't even text him. Bummer Dudes!

So I decided to just pull out a pen and paper and write down my impressions from the ER. Wrong! I didn't have a pen in my wallet. I had left it on my kitchen table. DUH!  So I sat there, with muddy pink boots, muddy blue jeans, and a funky green hospital gown. I was a true fashion statement. I sat and listened to the dramas unfolding around me. No sense wasting this experience. I opened my eyes and embraced it.

I worried about the old man behind the curtain beside me. I listened to make sure he didn't fall. While I couldn't catch him, I could pick him up. Fortunately, the nurses were watching him closely too. He was grounded when they finally took his pants. That did it. No self-respecting man of his age was going to climb out of bed in search of a bathroom wearing just a hospital gown. In time, they found his daughter and all was well for everyone.

I also followed the drama of the young prisoner. He was two curtains away from me. I watched his guard leaving him repeatedly. I just ASSUMED that he was handcuffed to the bed. DUH! The staff (and I) thought he was faking his seizure. They were most short and rude with him. This was my first clue that he was faking.

 "Clean yourself up!" they kept telling him.

Apparently in his desire to not go to jail, he had faked a seizure and pooped on himself. There's a trip to the hospital for ya! So I listened to the drama with great interest. This cat was a runner. I waited for him to run past my curtain, wondering if I should tackle him. I decided that I would. It would make my wait go by faster and since I had no cell phone, it was the best excitement I could muster. I started to text Other Half and tell him to look out for this clever cat but my phone was dead.

Sure enough, the guard left the guy alone again and he made his move - out the OTHER doorway.  I never heard it open. He didn't pass my curtain, so I didn't realize he had made a break for it until the nurse told me.  ARGH!!!  I asked her if my Other Half did anything  since that door opened to where he was waiting. She said that Other Half had seen a naked man in a hospital gown trying to leave the hospital and alerted someone. That's when she found out my cell phone was dead and offered to charge it for me. God bless nurses!

Fortunately my Other Half did not tackle the naked man because Other Half is recovering from hernia surgery and can NOT be going toe-to-toe with naked poopy people in the hospital. 

According to Other Half, he had seen the prisoner when they brought him in and had told the lady next to him that the guy was a flight risk, so when his poopy-naked self ran past, it was no surprise to Other Half and the lady beside him. The lady thought Other Half was clairvoyant or something. No, he's not a mind-reader, he's just been a cop for 33 years. The woman turned out to be the daughter of the old man beside me, so Other Half got the other side of the sad story. Thankfully the staff found his daughter. She had been waiting for 4 hours in the ER while they had been calling every combination of wrong telephone numbers.

It was unclear whether or not the prisoner got away. Some nurses said that Other Half's warning did the trick and they caught him down the hall. Others said he hadn't been caught yet. Regardless, I told Other Half that he had chosen wisely. He was NOT supposed to be tackling someone else's prisoner while on short-term disability. Besides, prisoners like that are frequent fliers. If he gets away today, we'll catch him tomorrow.

So after an EKG, a chest x-ray, and blood work, nothing showed up for me. The doctor wanted to keep me overnight for observation, but I figured our 6 hour stay had already run up over $3000. If I wasn't having a heart attack, then it was time for me to go home. There were sicker people who needed that bed. So we left. I gave Blue Heeler another potty break, loaded up on frappuccino, and headed back home to the farm, making mental note to be thankful for my family and friends. (and always keep a cell phone charger, a pen and paper in my purse!)

As you will recall, there was much speculation regarding the ancestry of a certain member of the family.

 "Who? Me?"

We had been told that Briar was a Great Pyrenees/Komondor cross. I took that at face value and didn't worry too much about it until our vet received a free offer to do one of those fancy "Whose ya Daddy?" tests. He asked if he could use it on Briar since she was such an odd interesting dog.

According to the results, Briar was a Great Pyrenees/Belgian Malinois cross! WTF!!!  Clearly there was a problem with the test. Several of you sent me photos of your GP/Kom crosses and wonder of wonders - they looked just like Briar!

Well, I need you folks now. Jessica adopted two GP/Kom pups a few years ago and fell in love with the cross. She recently lost one to a health problem and is looking for another. She is looking for a pet, so she says an LGD flunk-out would be just fine for her.  I can certainly understand her wanting another one.  They are cool dogs (if you can deal with the weird coat)

Look at her pics:

Don't these pics look just like someone else we know and love?

"MEEEEEEE!!!!!"

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.