Farm Fresh Blog

Now I ask you, would you walk past this sign?

Would you read this sign, look in the yard and see a police K9 truck, and STILL open the gate to walk into a GATED COMPOUND?

I'm just askin'.

It happened like this:

I'm getting ready for work. In the shower. Nekkid. I point this out merely so you can understand my predicament. Other Half is in bed. Asleep. Deep sleep.  Now I'm happily scrubbing up with my goat milk soap when I hear the sound of blue heeler peeling out of the bathroom so fast that he broke the sound barrier. Stick my head around shower curtain. See nothing. Hmmmm.... go back to shower. Then hear all hell breaking loose at the front door. Peek around shower curtain. See nothing. Darn. Tip toe nekkid to bathroom door. See power company truck at front gate. Double darn.

Do mental headcount:

Briar - in yard
Oli - in house
Ice - in house
Ranger - in house
Dillon - in house
Lily - in house
Trace - in outside kennel
Cowboy - in outside kennel

I count them on my fingers to make sure I haven't forgotten anyone. (when you have 8 dogs you have to do that!)

Definitely sounds like five dogs raging at the front door. Hear echo of two dogs in kennels raging. They almost drown out the knock at the door.

Yes!  You read that right. A KNOCK AT THE DOOR!

I am standing in my hallway, naked as a jaybird, still wet, with five dogs raging at the front door, and someone at the door. (note: husband has not even rolled over in bed)

Tiptoe back to bedroom and wake up husband. Inform him that someone is AT THE DOOR! Someone has ignored BEWARE OF DOG/CAUTION POLICE WORK DOG signs and walked right through the gate. Other Half jumps out of bed to get door. He lacks social skills on a good day, but I am less than concerned about him hurting anyone's feelings at the moment.

After all, it takes a special kind of person to ignore those signs.

I hear him snarling at dogs. I hear him walk outside. Then I hear muffled talking, but no shouting. Still, I get dressed quickly and head out there myself.

By some miracle they are talking civily. I listen as the man explains that he "reads dogs really well" and wasn't worried about being bitten. I assure him that when a blue heeler is attached to his leg or a malinois is attached to his a@# he might re-think his actions.  He is clearly unconcerned. He tells me that EVERYONE has these signs and he walks past them all the time with no problem.

I then ask, "Everyone has a BEWARE! POLICE SERVICE DOG sign?"

He allows as how not everyone has that particular sign.

"With a POLICE truck in the yard?"

He allows as how he saw that too, and no, not everyone has those either.

Other Half and I are clearly dumbfounded. The man is nice enough, but we cannot get him to understand that it was pure dumb luck that out of eight dogs, (four of those that would probably bite), he happened to walk through the gate when only the most friendly dog was loose. He is still confident that he wouldn't be bitten. Even by the unfriendly dogs.

Even by Blue Heeler The Space Cadet that we have to drag across Texas on every vacation because he's such a freakin' psycho that no one else wants to take care of him.

I emphasize to him that for the safety of THE DOGS he must respect these signs. I explain that the DOGS are the ones who get into trouble when someone ignores all warnings and walks through closed and chained gates, and gets bitten by a dog. Society and insurance companies blame the dog and the homeowner.

He still doesn't get it. He has a job to do. He needs to get in the yard.

I point out that our phone numbers are in his database. He agrees that they are but he didn't call them.

Did he honk the horn?

No, the dog seemed friendly.

I ask myself how many police dogs look like Briar.

After much discussion, we still couldn't convince him that for his safety and the safety of our dogs, and every other dog he encounters, he needs to stay out of the freakin' yard! (And call the phone number provided) Will he do it again? Yes. Yes, I'm sure he will.

(I bang my head in frustration!)

However do we protect ourselves and our dogs from these people?!!

I like to take pictures. Lots of pictures! Years from now I will be able to look back at my digital library and say "This was my life!"

Now I'm not claiming to be that good at it, but it doesn't stop me from taking bunches of them. People ask me all the time what kind of camera I use. Both at home and at work I shoot with a Canon EOS Digital Rebel XT. It's not a fancy camera, but it's sturdy and dependable. It can handle a lot of abuse and cow poop.

I don't have any fancy camera skills, I just shoot a lot of pictures. Out of several hundred shots, I usually find a few that are keepers. And lots of times even the ones that aren't perfect capture something that I want to preserve. I'm less about perfection than personality. I want to capture the personality of my subject. For instance, take Trace:

These pictures aren't all that great, but they make me smile because they capture the essence of who he is.

And Montoya:

Not perfect, but I liked the colors, so I'll keep it.

Now let's move on to my next secret to getting good pics.

 This is a good piece of equipment to have in your camera bag.

 Yeah, this.

A horse? 

No, not just a horse, a horse that allows you to use him as a tripod.

I wonder if I could use him at work. He could carry all my camera equipment. Do you think they make booties in his size?

Yesterday we had to move cows again. Since I didn't get to ride my horse on Sunday, I really wanted to use the horses to move cows, thus killing two birds with one stone. So I load up two horses in one trailer and Other Half loads up one Border Collie in the cattle trailer and down the road we go.

We end up short one rider, and thus have to table the cowpony idea. But although we are short a rider, we are not short a cowhand.

The plan is to back the trailer up to the gate. Build a small working pen out of cattle panels. Lure or push cattle into the pen (with horses or dog or cattle cubes) Close pen shut. Push cattle from pen into trailer. Slam trailer doors. Roll off down the highway.

Fortunately the cows come up. In fact, the dog has to chase them back while we build the pen. The thing about a cow is if you tell her that she ISN'T allowed in an area, just as soon as she can, she will ENTER that area. Thus, once the pen was built, we simply back off, toss some cubes down, and let cow nature take over.

Once the gate is closed, that's when the dog's job is so important. The cattle soon understand they have been duped and will begin to push on the panels to escape. The dog MUST convince the cattle that it is a BAD idea to push against the fencing.

Cowboy knows his job.

  On patrol

From time to time, Cowboy attempts this horribly dangerous move whereby he slides under the panel and into the crowded pen with cattle that WOULD cheerfully kick or crush him to death.

I do not encourage this behavior. I happen to be snapping pictures outside the panels when Cowboy slips under the bars, and nails a cow. What comes next is straight out of the movie The Matrix. A foot snakes out in response, and Cowboy arches in the air in a pure Matrix-like ninja move. Then he lands on his butt.   Sadly the camera does not capture the Matrix bend. Bummer.

Before the cows can turn on him, he slips out of the pen like a wisp of smoke.

Leaving an enraged Paisley

The cows are now convinced that Ninja Dog will get them if they get too close to the panels. Their only option is to climb in the trailer.  Which they do with enough encouragement. Ninja Dog follows the closing door just to make sure.

Another job well done, Cowboy!

Dude! You've got cow poop on your face. . .

PS: Peter, thank you for your sweet comments. I tried to send a private reply but you didn't include your email address.

As we have already established, I have a drinking problem. Frappuccinos. Starbucks Frappuccinos in little glass bottles. They are sinful. They are addictive. They are expensive. They are 180 calories!

I decided on Sunday night that I would quit. Monday afternoon Other Half brought home a 4-pack. I'm not sure if it was for me or him. It didn't matter. I'm weak. I drank them.

One day I'm gonna whip this caffeine addiction. Just not today. And tomorrow isn't looking too good either.

Let me re-hash the last 24 hours:

Other Half is back at work now. He is currently working day shift. His patrol dog is not. He drops her off at vet's office yesterday because she is limping. Off to work alone he goes. He calls me to go pick her up for him.

I do. She has a bum left knee that looks to be career ending. Great. Just great. I call Other Half to inform him that I have picked up his dog. He informs me that Son's truck has just been stolen. And the day just got darker . . .

But like a Ginsu commercial, I hear "But WAIT! There's more! All his police equipment was inside the truck!"

OMG! Ohmygosh! Son has just joined the police department and picked up his gear. He and his sister then stopped in The Big City to buy more gear he would need in the Police Academy and his truck was stolen. Great. Just freakin' great.

Chew on that all day. Thanks to fantastic work by night shift officers the truck is recovered around midnight. Other Half and Son get it and Other Half returns home at 3:30 am. Gear is still inside. Oh Happy Day!

This morning Other Half goes to pay vet bill and confirms that this is indeed a career-ending injury for Patrol Dog. The agency will be getting him a new dog in May.  Probably. Maybe. We'll see. And the looming question: What do we do with Oli? We have 8 dogs! Now 9!!!! Nine! 

Get ready to start my morning chores. Phone rings. Wonder of wonders. Paisley the Problem Cow is out again. This is the cherry on the sundae of my day. Paisley is a supposed to be a red angus but I think she is really a goat that merely looks like a cow. Am beginning to hate that cow.

Must now abandon plans for the morning, pack up Border Collies and drive to property to round up stupid cow. Call Other Half to scream at him about Paisley. Load up dogs. Load up a sack of cubes. Drive through gate.

Get out and lock gate. Drive down road. Pass police car on highway. Note car turn around in rear view mirror. Call Other Half to cuss him out because I am about to be stopped for speeding . . . because of his stupid cow. (Woman Logic 101)

Yes indeeed, am being stopped by police. Grrrr... Why aren't they out catching REAL criminals. (evil grin) Give husband my location in case I'm arrested and he has to come rescue dogs. (just kidding) Get off phone. Step out of truck. Note officer is tiny female. Makes me feel old and fat. I looked like that at the beginning of my career too.

She introduces herself. I have been stopped for going 40 mph in a 30 mph. I happen to note that she sees that I am wearing an FBI Academy sweatshirt. I inform her that there is a gun in the car but I am a police officer. Then I yell at Border Collies to shut up. Deputy introduces herself. She must be a rookie. She shakes my hand and takes my word that I am a cop. She then asks for driver license. I am happy to retrieve this item and open truck to reach into bag and get it. To my horror I realize that I only have one Border Collie in the truck.  (Cue Psycho soundtrack music here)

At this point, I completely forget that I am on a traffic stop and thus being detained by the po-lice. I have bigger problems. I have LOST a dog! I jump on running board and begin to climb into vehicle in search of a dog that isn't inside. Rookie Deputy is intrigued but does not stop me. I explain that I have a loose cow and am racing to get said cow back and SOMEHOW have managed to lose an adult Border Collie! Clearly this was not covered in the police academy but she figures that I am not a real criminal and thus not worth more of her time. She gives me back my license and bids me farewell. And is probably off in search of less psychotic people to stop.

Now I must now drive back home and find Cowboy.

Decide that he either hopped out of truck when I was loading cattle cubes or he hopped out when I closed the main gate. Speed home. No, I didn't learn the first time. Bounce into driveway to find that Cowboy is in the yard, fence-fighting with Ranger. (They both have disfigured noses because of this behavior, thus we try to keep them apart.) Thankfully neither dog is mangled. Grab Cowboy and throw him back in truck. Speed back toward Stupid Cow. (Yes I know, but I looked for the deputy this time!)

Am about to arrive when I get another call from neighbor. They got Stupid Paisley back inside. This news clearly disappoints both Border Collies. Their help is not needed. Now we must fix the fence. I cuss Other Half one more time as I will be late for work AGAIN because I must help neighbor fix fence. It is not his responsibility but he is big-hearted and so we roll up our sleeves and do it together. Cowboy sneaks off and bites Paisley. I snicker. It is the high point of my day.

Finish fence. Race back home. I have only thirty minutes to do chores and take a shower. (not gonna happen) Walk in house to find that Labrador has busted out of bedroom and spread trash all over the kitchen floor. Kick trash in disgust and leave it, just LEAVE IT for Other Half to deal with when he gets home. (YES, I DID!)  Get in shower. Put on uniform. Feed dogs. Note that we have no more dog food. Alrightie then. Call Other Half to inform him that he must get dog food on his way home and finish chores when he returns. He argues that feed store will be closed and thus he cannot buy food. (Implied: "Since you're already late, you might as well stop by feed store and buy dog food.")

That was NOT going to happen. I don't care if dogs are eating frozen hamburger patties and breakfast sausage for supper.  I'm going to work and what they eat tonight is his problem.

Look at gas gauge. Empty. Figures. Text the office to advise them that I will be late AGAIN.

This surprises no one. 

And you wonder why I'm addicted to caffiene.

I want to take a moment to weigh in on the recent debate regarding "assault weapons." Since I am a cop in a major metropolitan city, since I am a steadfast environmentalist, since I have stood over more than my fair share of dead men, since I am a rancher, and most importantly, since I am a woman, I feel well qualified to comment on this issue.

I am not a gun guru. I am not a gun collector. I do not have guns to compensate for anything other than the fact that I am an average sized woman who enjoys waking up in the morning. Let me be perfectly clear on this one issue. Cops do not have guns to protect the public. Cops have guns to protect themselves. Cops must protect themselves because while everyone else is running from danger, the cops are running towards it.  As a citizen, you must protect yourself until a cop can get there.

That said, I do not carry my AR-15 at work. I carry my AR-15 in the one place where I am almost completely safe from predators of the two-legged variety. I carry the AR-15 when I'm on our ranch in North Texas.

Why?

I give you Exhibit A:

The first time I encountered these guys when walking alone with four dogs I nearly peed my pants. My police training kicked in and I found myself shouting and pointing a puny .380 handgun at them. Fortunately they ran. Had they not, it would have been very bad. THAT'S when I realized that I needed something bigger. Unfortunately a gun with more knockdown power is also much heavier and I'm on foot. I needed something light. I also needed something with more bullets (i.e. high capacity)

Hogs are tough. If a hog is running at you, do not expect that first bullet to bring it down. When you run out of bullets, a gun is nothing more than a club, and I assure you, you will not be clubbing an enraged sow hog to death with an empty rifle. So I got the AR-15 because it is light enough for a woman to handle, there is little or no recoil, and it carries enough bullets to make me feel safe.

Getting between a sow and her piglets is no laughing matter, but let's look at the other end of the spectrum.

Warning! I don't like pictures like this either. Posing with dead animals appears to be a male thing, but I use this picture to illustrate my point . . . . . .

        . . .

                  . . .

This is not some internet "Hog-zilla" photograph. This picture was taken Christmas night, on my husband's cell phone of a boar hog that roamed our property. The neighbor shot him and came over for our help because he was too big to handle alone. Other Half took the picture to show me because I stayed in the cabin (by the fire) with the dogs.

THAT is what is running around on our ranch. We have game cameras set up all over our ranch. I easily estimate at least 30 hogs with piglets and several large boars roaming at all hours of the day and night. THAT is why I carry an AR-15 when I walk.

I am not at all worried about the coyotes, bobcats, (and reported cougar sightings) when I walk, but I would be a fool not to take precautions with something like these hogs. Because of that I carry the lightest rifle with the most firepower and least amount of recoil that I can handle. And while many would like to paint us as nutjobs who carry guns like this because we are unenlightened rednecks, such a broad sweeping notion just doesn't hold water.  

They say that burning wood warms you twice - once when you cut it and once when you burn it.

But this weekend, cutting wood warmed me three times. Do you see this chopping block?

Yes, I know, it's too big and needs to be split again, but Other Half is still recovering from hernia surgery and can't use the big chain saw yet. And I definitely can't use the large chain saw. The baby chainsaw "might" do it, but it's not worth the risk. For now, it'll stay in one giant block.

As you know, I'm a sentimental creature, and I love my trees. (read: Ferngully , Saving Ferngully , Anne Frank Meets Dirty Harry, What We Have Here . . .  , Chess Games , Battle Drums , The Good Fight)

And because of this, Other Half hauled that chopping block all the way across Texas.  When I sold my beloved little farm to buy the ranch, the new owner immediately began chopping down trees. It broke my heart.

He renovated the house and flipped it for a profit. The newest owner chopped down even more trees. Each time I go over there to tend cattle I hear a chain saw or see a smoldering fire, and it further breaks my heart. I planted some of those trees. They were old friends.

So last week when we were over there feeding cattle again, Other Half looked next door and saw two giant hunks of one of my old trees sitting in the front end loader of the new owner's tractor. He was getting ready to burn them. Other Half asked me,

"Hey! You want to take one of those chunks to the ranch for a chopping block? It's a way to have a piece of your tree."

I didn't hesitate. OF COURSE! So Other Half climbed off his tractor and went to see if the new owner would give us what was left of my tree.

He would. In fact, he would load it straight onto our trailer for us. Oh happy day!

So this weekend as I split wood on what was left of my old sycamore tree, my mind wandered down memory lane. This tree was one of the few trees in the yard when I bought that property in the late 80s. It was already a large tree. It stood at the end of the driveway to welcome me home.  Two chainlink dog runs and a pumphouse were built underneath it. I used to tie my horse to its branches. On a windy day, the sycamore leaves rattled in the breeze, as if it were talking. The tree always heralded the arrival of Spring with its rustling leaves. It was an old friend.

And it was the first to go when the new owners fired up the chainsaw. . .

And that's why my husband hauled a horrendously heavy tree trunk across Texas to be used as a chopping block on a ranch that is already filled with giant trees. Trees which are already lying on the ground. Victims of high winds and not chain saws.   

I thought about this as I split wood and it warm me. It warmed my soul.

"Humans are strangely sentimental creatures. Sometimes you just have to humor them."

     Our journey through life is filled with gateways and thresholds, corridors that lead us in new directions. Many choose to stay on the well-marked road, but others, like Alice in Wonderland, fall down rabbit holes into the bizarre, or climb through the wardrobe to emerge in Narnia.

     I have always been a child to stray off the path, to choose the road less travelled. Perhaps destiny lies in the direction. I gave this some thought this weekend as I took my early morning walk on the ranch with the dogs.

Some paths are clearly defined. We follow a dry creekbed to new wonders.

But other pathways are only noticed when when you are in just the right spot. A few feet in any direction ....  

... and the path is gone.  

     I gave this some thought as I backed up, lined up, and followed the path that emerged. How often is it that, caught in the chaos of a busy life, we fail to see the things which part and align to lead us in another direction? Into another world? Any even if for just a brief moment, we see that path, will we follow it?

Reasons #1,#2, & #3, for why you should always check before you roll out the main gate onto the highway:

I was at work last night, minding my own business, when Other Half called. He was a most happy camper. The rancher next door had caught a hog in a trap and didn't have time to deal with it. He had called asking if we wanted said hog. (And it's Christmas in the Langford Household . . . )

Naturally, being a man recovering from hernia surgery who has been off work for four weeks, Other Half said "Of course!" and called Son to come help butcher (translated: do it for him.) But having his father's genes, it goes without saying that Son also jumped at the opportunity to butcher a hog in the dark, in the cold. Alrightie then.

Since I get my share of blood and guts at work, I wished them the best and hung up the phone.

I didn't think any more of it until I got home. Other Half met me in the driveway. He had that giddy look that men get when they've been doing man-things, and they've still managed to get all their barn chores done before you get home from work. Thus proving that they are indeed, useful creatures to keep around, even when they are only partially housetrained. 

Any homecoming around our house is cause for much canine celebration but on this night I noted the dogs barely gave me much more than a glance and a "Hi Mom, you're home" before they went back to sniffing around the front yard.  It was then that Other Half proudly pointed out that for supper Briar had eaten testicles, heart, and (I stopped listening after that)  I watched the dogs crisscrossing the yard in a mad search for Porky Pig Parts. Oh dear. Then he shared the little tidbit that stopped me in my tracks.

"We had to string him up and butcher him in the front yard. There's still a lot of blood over there. See? Briar has been rolling in the blood."

Ahhh yessss.  Yes, the dog that I just petted in the dark appeared under the porch light.  Blood was smeared all over her shoulders and the top of her head. (the part I had just petted) I mentally flashed forward to dog fights over Porky Pig legs, diarrhea, and dogs rolling in pig blood.

In retrospect, this line of thought merely proves that Other Half and Son are not the ONLY Rednecks in this family. Because although my mind immediately leaped to the problems of mixing yard dogs and butchering hogs in said yard, no other problem sprang to mind.

 Apparently with the recent rains, the regular "butchering oak" in the horse pasture was not an option so the boyz had chosen to use an oak in the front yard. I made mental note that all diarrhea accidents on the carpet were now HIS responsibility.

I still didn't realize how far into the Realm of Redneckdom I have come until Other Half told me about a call he received from a friend of his. It went something like this:

"Hey Man, watcha doin'?"

"Cleaning a hog in the front yard."

"The front yard! You REDNECK M#*@)^ F@%*(! Why would you do something like that in the front yard where people coming home from work can SEE THAT?!"

Hhmmmm... yes, there is that . . . He did have a point. Apparently this basic social grace escaped the entire Langford Clan. I guess nothing quite says "Rednecks live here!" than butchering hogs in your front yard.

And on that note: Guess who had diarrhea resembling Starbucks coffee this morning?

And guess what Dillon found and ate for breakfast this morning?

A Swamp Oyster. Yes, apparently Briar didn't eat both of them and Dillon found a Porky Pig Testicle. He was in heaven. 

That's a good thing too, because we go through 40 pounds of dog food a week. In the 1990's I fed the raw diet. (That was when I had 2 dogs and not 8 dogs.) It was expensive then, and a lot of trouble. Over the years I ended up switching back to commercial dog food and table scraps, but I still believe the raw diet was best for my dogs. And now that we now have so many wild hogs at the ranch, once we're at that ranch full time, our dogs will be eating a lot more raw meat and bones.

The hogs have to be taken out, and we can only eat so much pork. There is no reason not to supplement the dogs with raw meat after our own freezer is full. I even have a second freezer we can use for their pork.  Fortunately the ranch is so remote that the neighbors won't see us butchering hogs in the front yard. But for now, something tells me that as long as we have mud up to our ankles in the pasture here, this won't be the last hog hanging from the oak in the driveway.

"I'm ready to move to the North Ranch FULL TIME!"

It's cold. It's wet. It's miserable if you're stuck outside. Today was a good day to stay in bed with a good book and a bowl of chili. Unfortunately Other Half had other plans. He has cabin fever in a bad way. And so it was that instead of lounging away the day in bed with a book, I found myself headed south to look at tractors. 

Other people go to parties and watch football on Sunday afternoons. We go look at tractors. And eat sirloin, shrimp, and baked potatos! And because we cannot go anywhere without a dog, (or two) a couple other lucky members of the family also had steak and baked potato!

So all I have to show for an entire day of goofing off are these pictures of the dogs playing on a gigantic oak tree. It leaned out into the bayou and was a most wonderful thing of beauty.

There are worse ways to spend a cold, wet Sunday afternoon.