Farm Fresh Blog

As The Kids and The Neighbors will tell you, around here, you can easily plan floods and calving around one thing - Other Half WILL be out of town.  This is such a certainty that I'm sure the Weather Man consults Other Half's work schedule to determine when torrential rains will hit this area. (If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'!)

The rancher next door also knows this is when the calves will drop. And I will call him in a panic because labor is too long, or a calf is looking puny, or the mother hasn't passed the afterbirth, or for whatever other cow-related problem that he will climb the fence and solve for me.

So it was that despite the fact that Texas was once again in the throes of another drought, Other Half and Aja left, and guess what? The Weather Man called for Horrendous Rain & Hail. And I had 8 dogs to juggle. And I had to go to work. And a cow was about to calve . . .

So I left for work. Sure enough I caught a murder. (we say this like it was a virus) Anyway, I caught a murder. The worst of the storm held off until we were just about to load up and leave. (Thus insuring a wet run to the truck and the joy of wearing wet clothing the rest of the night.)  The storm was so bad that even while creeping along, when my suburban reached the top of a high-rise overpass, I literally felt the truck slide across the highway as it was pushed sideways by windgusts. (This, Ladies & Gentlemen, scared the crap out of me. Being pushed by the wind off the top of an overpass is NOT on my Bucket List! Just sayin'. . .)

Anyway, to speed the story up, I was frantic to get home and get my dogs out of the weather, and with Dear Friend Jeannie and her husband on the phone as my co-pilots, they safely navigated me through flooding situations and I arrived at home shortly after the worst of the storm had passed.

Even in the dark I could tell we had received a tremendous amount of rain. My garden was an island. We had received pea-sized hail but the baseball hail that smashed windows down the road had skipped us. Nevertheless, the dogs were frantic to get inside, everyone except Briar. Briar is a not a wuss. She puts on a patient face and deals with whatever the weather sends her way.

            And Lily.

Lily laughs in the face of thunder. In fact, she barks at the thunder and taunts the storm. This never fails to scare the beejeebers out of Trace, Cowboy, Ice, and Oli, who ARE scared of storms.

So I put Oli and Trace in the living room. I put Cowboy in the Muck Room which joins the bedroom. I put Ranger in a kennel in the bedroom and I went to bed with Dillon and Lily. Ice, (The Black Wolf), passed out on the bedroom floor. I think after the hailstorm, she was such an emotional wreck that she had nothing left, mentally or physically.  I went to bed at 1:30 AM. At 2:00 AM I heard a brief growl from Dillon and the bedroom exploded with breaking glass.

WTF! (pardon my French)

  "Ma bad."

It would appear that Cowboy heard the thunder roll and decided that he wanted in the bedroom. Cowboy was not taking another chance with a hailstorm. Dillon growled at him through the door, and the rest is history. A pane of glass (1 foot by 2 feet!) was all over the carpet and I was left to pick up glass for the next thirty minutes and figure out how I was going to plug the jagged hole. A cold wind was already blowing through the Muck Room and into the bedroom.

Both dogs were fine. Not a scratch on them.

I considered calling Other Half (happily sleeping in his hotel room with just one dog). I wanted to wake him up and scream at him for leaving me with this mess - by myself! AGAIN!

But I "cowgirled up" and found a metal sign and some gorilla tape. The problem was fixed enough to at least get back to bed. By then it was 3 AM. I put Cowboy in a kennel in the living room and tried to go to bed again. I was just getting snuggled back to sleep, listening to the thunder roll, when I heard a scratch at the bedroom door.

"Mom?"

I ignored him.

"Mom?"

I ignored him.

"Mom? Can I come sleep with you?"

The scratch was quiet, soft, pleading.

 The Troll Dog doesn't ask for much, but when he does want human attention, I try to listen to him. So I got up and opened the bedroom door. Oli shoved past Trace and rocketed into the bedroom.

(Big Bad Police Dog had decided that hail storms are NOT on her Bucket List.) Trace smiled at me and hopped in bed. Okay, whatever.

I climbed back in bed and thought of Other Half in his hotel room. One dog. Clean sheets. No storm. No mud. Lucky bastard. Then I curled up with his Labrador. My Border Collie snuggled in behind my legs. The Malinois snuggled in front of my legs. And Trace the Troll nestled himself on top of Other Half's pillow.  The thunder rolled in the distance. I thought about the hail damage and what tomorrow would bring when the sun came up - in less than 4 hours.

Four years ago yesterday, we found this adorable little ball of fluff in a cattle feedlot in North Texas.

She has been my best friend every since. So in honor of her "Got-Day" Lily received a new collar (big whoop) and a Birthday Bone!  (Yeee haaa!)  She began celebrating her Got-Day at exactly 12:20 AM on Friday morning.

 She then participated in a popcorn party in her honor.

"No it wasn't! We have popcorn parties every Friday night. . . "

The better part of the next day was spent hauling hay. Lily and Trace rode to get the first load. Then Lily supervised the tractor operation as I hauled the round bales out to the pasture while Other Half and Trace went to get another load.

And that's when the day really got exciting:

Put two horses in barn so I can drive tractor in pasture. Get a round bale and take it to horses in roping arena. They see opened gate and blast past tractor to cavort about pasture.  Grrr.... Unload round bale for them and exit arena. They are still racing around pasture. Since there is little hope of getting both of them back in arena without halters, get off tractor and open gate to rye grass pasture. They race inside. Close gate and get back on tractor. Go get a round bale for cattle in the back pasture.

Problem: Cows have seen that horses are in rye pasture and ALSO want in rye grass.

So instead of following tractor with hay, they meander through opened gate. They are now in front horse pasture - next best thing to rye pasture to a cow.

Baby calves are bucking and bouncing while momma cows settle down to the important task of grazing illegal grass.

There is NO WAY I can get the cows back up without saddling a horse or using Border Collies.  Opt for dogs.

BIG Problem:  These are cow/calf pairs - the most dangerous cattle to work with dogs.

Decide to use Cowboy and Lily instead of Ranger because Cowboy listens better and this job requires finesse.

Go get excited dogs who have already assessed the problem from their kennels. They race to pasture. I remind them to wait at gate. This is a job that requires teamwork and planning.

Momma Cows see us as we walk toward them. Smart cows turn around and begin to meander back toward their pasture. Not-So-Smart-Cows (and one Badass Cow) stare at dogs and say, "Make me."

Problem: Calves see dogs and are immediately intrigued. Instead of following the Smart Cows, they hang back to examine the dogs.  ("Danger!  Danger! Will Robinson! Danger!")

Badass Cow raises her eyebrows and shoots a laser beam at dogs. She mutates into a Water Buffalo (REALLY BAD-ASS COW!) and snorts at dogs.  The dogs hold their ground. I note cow's mutation and decide perhaps we have bitten off more than we can chew. Do not want to get Lily killed on her Got-Day (or any other day).  Cowboy breaks and makes a pass toward Water Buffalo.

She bellows like a Hollywood Cow and thunders at him. He slides under barbed wire fence into rye pasture. She hits fence. Backs up. Hits fence again. And again. And again. Each impact is punctuated with loud bellows.  This cow has totally lost leave of her senses. The calves are intrigued. The dogs are intrigued. I am horrified.

How in the heck am I gonna get these cattle safely back in the pasture without getting one of the dogs stomped to death?

Stare at problem for a moment. She stops ramming fence and moves back to the calves who are standing in a group, gaping like spectators at a NASCAR crash. This is bad, Bad, BAD on so many levels. I continue to stare at Water Buffalo while she glares at all of us. Lily is trembling with anticipation at beside me. She is ready to address Uppity Cow. She doesn't retreat like Cowboy does. But then again, sometimes retreat is the better part of valor. After all, Cowboy is still alive.  In the same situation, Trace would have been a greasy brown spot in the grass by now.

And Lily, I didn't even want to think about that . . .

So we stand there, the dogs and I, staring at the Water Buffalo.  And that's when I see something that gives me a glimmer of hope. Most of the cattle have already meandered back through the opened gate. They want no part of the dogs. In fact, everyone but Stupid Paisley, some calves, and The Water Buffalo have already moved on.  If we can just hold our ground and maybe push a few steps forward, they might follow the herd.

So I wait. The dogs glare at the cows. The Water Buffalo glares at us all. But given a minute to think, she realizes that the rest of the herd has left her. She thinks about it for a moment. Then she lowers her head, gives us a snort, and backs toward the opened gate, pushing calves with her.  And the sun shines again. Until . . .

Stupid Paisley decides she is having none of it.  The Water Buffalo and the calves are already through the gate when Paisley says,

"Nope. I'm not going. I want Horse Grass. Screw the Human. Screw the dogs. I'm getting Horse Grass."

And she makes a break for it. Lily and Cowboy are on it. They turn her around and send her back toward the gate.

Unfortunately the Water Buffalo sees it too. Like a train she runs for the dogs - right into the barbed wire fence. She has failed to calculate (or doesn't care) that the dogs are still in the Horse Pasture. Water Buffalo hits that wire and bounces back. And hits it again. And again. And again. And as before, she bellows in rage.

I call the dogs back. I am in shock. They are giggling. Lily's Got-Day is complete. She has gotten to bite Paisley. 

I am still shaking. Her short little life has flashed before my eyes. I hear the familiar chant in the back of my head,

"I hate cows in the spring time. I hate cows in the fall. I hate cows..." (to the tune of "I Love Paris.")

Other Half and I have a regular argument about this. As far as I'm concerned, cattle are big and stupid, and dangerous. Sheep and goats are much easier to handle. But convincing a Cow Man of this is like spittin' in the wind.

So the dogs and I walk back to the house. They are a bit disappointed that the chore didn't involve more running, but are otherwise pretty satisfied.  I put them back in a kennel run and climb back on the tractor to haul more round bales.  As I drive, I think about cattle and cow dogs.

We simply cannot work cow/calf pairs with the dogs until the calves are much older. Water Buffalo belongs on the North Texas ranch. Her babies will survive quite well. No coyote will cross that bitch.  She needs to be on the first cattle trailer headed to north. We can keep the 'less than dedicated' mothers down south but she is definitely slated to move with the group headed north.  

Other Half and Trace return with another load of hay.

I catch him up on our latest adventure. We unload hay and head for a well-deserved meal. (Our first of the day. It is almost 5 pm.) A steak. He wants a steak. 

So we sit down to two rib-eyes and discuss dogs, cows, and Got-Days. After gorging ourselves there is still plenty left over. Enough for another meal. But do we get a to-go box for the lunch the next day?

No.

A friend of mine later pointed out the poetic justice of letting the cow dogs eat steak after their encounter with the Water Buffalo.

She said, "Look who's on top of the food chain now!"

Good point, Dani. Good point.

While walking through a local garden center I found a statue that I simply had to share with you. LOOK! 

A dog troll! 

It reminded me of another Troll Dog we know.

Trace the Troll!

Unfortunately the Troll Dog statue was $200 and as much as I like the idea of having a dog around here that didn't eat, that was a little steep for my blood, so we left this precious thing at the garden center.

But I still took a picture of it so I could share it with you! In some gothic alternate universe, I would have a big Victorian house surrounded by a heavy wrought iron fence, and the top of the house would be lined with these troll dog gargoyles! 

If I had to state my biggest fault it would be "biting off more than I can chew."

It's not really that I have the attention span of a butterfly, (I do!) but that I have so many interests, goals, and plans that I want to accomplish RIGHT NOW!  Waiting has never been my forte.

And so it is that I always find myself spinning too many plates. For example:

Other Half agreed to stay in his job for four more years. This means four more years in the Cow House. (oh dear!) The house is fine for a single man, but then, men are happy living in deer camps. I'm not. Thus, I decided that it was time for a "home make-over" (on a budget, because, after all, we are still in the process of building another home in North Texas.)

The first thing to address was the carpet. OMG! (oh. my. gosh!) Carpet is for people without dogs or kids. The carpet was old when he first bought this house. Now it's ancient. But then again, with 8 dogs in and out of the house, we'd be crazy to replace the carpet. So for now, we'll have to live with it.

Next order of business - Paint! The interior of the house was painted a most unusual combination of colors which made it seem like a dark trip to an ice cream parlor. (pink dining room, lavender bedroom, holly green kitchen, etc.) I need LIGHT! The fastest way to get it was a trip to Sherwin Williams. (more on this later)

And the thing most guaranteed to pull it all together was re-doing the furniture. We have an eccletic mix of antique and junktique. With my discovery of Annie Sloan chalk paint, I am able to take that furniture and without sanding or priming, turn it into beautiful distressed pieces that look like they belong in a French County farmhouse.  Think simple lines. Think distressed. Think light simple colors.

So I started with the kitchen cabinets just to prove to Other Half that it would indeed, make a big difference.  They went from old, stained, dirty tan pine to Annie Sloan Old White. I white-washed them to give them a "farm" look, and took a Sherwin Williams sage green to lighten up the dark holly green. Eureka! The room opened up and I was on a roll.

My next project was an antique dresser that had almost been ruined by dogs chewing on the legs and cats leaping (not far enough) onto the top. The top drawer was scratched from repeated failed attempts to land safely.

This was a four hour project.

The photos simply don't do it justice. I cannot believe the difference some paint and wax made on this dresser. (and it looks great in the lavender bedroom that I haven't had a chance to paint yet!)

Last weekend while Other Half was at work, I went to work on the pink dining room. As I slapped on the Sherwin Williams "Tea Light," it was really too yellow for my taste. The paint chip looked like a warm cream. Thinking that perhaps it was merely a case of bad lighting and cream over pink, I kept a'goin'. I painted the dining room. I painted part of the hallway. I painted the foyer. It still looked yellow - a pale Easter egg yellow.  Oh crap!  In fact, it fit in perfectly with the ice cream parlor color palette that had been there. Double crap!

Thinking it might be my imagination (and bad eyesight) I waited until Other Half came home.  He walked inside and asked,

"Is it supposed to be yellow?"

Triple Crap!

There was no way I was painting the rest of the house in this!  And I still had two more gallons of it!  So I called my mother, the color expert, for advice. She said it could be the paint clashing with the tan/brown carpet. She said it could be the stark white trim of the door frames pulling out the yellow in the paint. She said maybe I didn't mix it well enough. So I took the used can of paint outside in natural light. Looked fine. Just like the color chip.

Brought it back inside. Pale yellow. Damn! Darn!

Other Half kept insisting that we take it back to Sherwin Williams and see if they could change the color. I laughed at him. We picked the paint. The paint is the color we picked. It was OUR FAULT that the paint didn't look good in the house. We "chose poorly."  There was NO WAY Sherwin Williams was gonna bail us out.

Guess what?

They did.

God bless 'em. Over my protests, Other Half walked into the store and politely said,

"Hey, we bought this paint and when we put it on the wall it was too yellow."

The young men behind the counter asked, "Want us take some of that yellow out for you?"

I almost melted with relief in the store. As of that moment, Sherwin Williams now has all my business. Their good business sense paid off big time for them because while they were busy re-mixing paint, Other Half was shopping. He found a paint gun.

Yes, I can't get him to pick up a paint brush or a roller, but give a man a gun and he's ready to shoot up a wall like Rambo. It didn't take him long to talk himself into this wonderful paint gun that would spray the paint on the walls in record time. (and probably the carpet and the ceiling and the trim, and the dogs . . . ) But nevermind that - we walked out of there with a new color, more tape and drop cloths, and a fancy new gun.

So let's move on to the next project:  the garden

Let me go on record stating this: My mother has a green thumb. I did not inherit this. I do recall that during my childhood we had a garden that produced quite a bit of food to feed a family of five. I recall weeding. I recall hauling water. I recall mixing fertilizer. I recall my mom canning. I recall jars and jars of food. I recall wonderful, wonderful meals. Over the years I have had many futile attempts at gardening.

What I fail to take into account is that it was a full time job for my mother and she had three unwilling slaves (children)  I also fail to consider that for my entire childhood the garden was planned by my mother. I was a grunt. I really know nothing about gardening other than picking the weeds and hauling the water. My mother, however, is a gardening genius.

And I'm lazy. I'd be happier if the plants walked to water when they needed it - like dogs do. Yes! Like livestock do.

See! I'm good at raising animals. Animals WALK to water when they want it. They don't tend to overwater themselves.

If you plant them too early, they will survive in a barn. If you put plants in too early, you get - cold baby plants that wither and die. 

I don't have to decide if a sheep needs full sun, partial sun, or full shade. Goats are pretty good about walking to where their needs will be met. (and climbing over, under, and through!)

So in the past, I simply raised livestock and left anything but tomatos, basil and essential herbs to the more accomplished gardeners.  (Mom and Dear Friend Cathy) But I've decided that I'm not happy with grocery store produce.

I don't trust some corporation to be making the decisions about my food. It's time for me to take charge and learn to feed myself.

Other Half likes to garden, but his slave labor has grown up and moved on. While visiting Daughter, he spied her fantastic new garden and decided that perhaps we needed such a beast too. I heartily agreed. This coincided nicely with the addition of the new tractor. (with a front end loader!) 

And so it is that I find myself torn between projects.

1) paint the walls
2) paint the furniture
3) put in a garden

We put the painting on hold to put in the garden fence this week. The fence is up now. Woo hoo! Our plants are now safe from marauding pirates (goats) and dogs. My mom graciously started baby plants for us.

(because she knew that otherwise I would end up with no baby plants, or tall, spindly, weak, weedy baby plants, since I'm too soft-hearted to thin seedlings)

Then Other Half and I went to the native plant store for more plants. (rosemary, lavender, patchouli, okra, basil, peppers, flowers!)

All these are now sitting in containers in the garden because we haven't had time to put the beds in yet. I bought patchouli for my mom to hedge my bets. (If I kill mine, Mom's will still survive!)

Today I added my blue bottle tree. (more on that later!) Envision this rascal surrounded by sunflowers and/or black-eyed susans. The sun shining through the blue glass is magical in a sea of yellow flowers.

I tell you all this to explain why you've received spotty blogposts. Spring has sprung and I've got to get these projects done while the gettin' is good. That, and I still actually have to work for a living so I can afford to buy vegetables from the local farmer's market when I forget to water creatures that cannot walk to a water bucket.

I haven't forgotten you guys!  In addition to painting the house, painting furniture, keeping a farm going, and going to my "payin' job" every day, I'm trying to put in a new garden.  (before the goats kill the lemon trees that are valiantly hanging in there!)

The new tractor paid for itself already. Yesterday we sank cedar fence posts for a new fence (to keep the goats out!) Today we slammed metal posts into the ground between the cedar posts.

And this picture is for all my girlfriends who asked, "Has HE let you drive the new tractor yet?"

Clairesmum asked about Trace the Troll and so here's the skinny on the little beast:

He is a troll. Trace is the consummate "Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde," for beneath the sweet exterior lies the soul of a beast. Trace is a resource-guarding monster. He has never had to compete for food, yet at the slightest hint of meal time, he races to "his spot" near the food bin where he rolls his eyes, bares his teeth, and lets out noises more associated with a Hollywood demon possession scene than a serving up of the same meal he receives twice a day, every day.

And he does not merely save this aggressive streak for meal time. Nosirree! The Troll is always looking for someone or something to herd - aggressively.  He must be tied in the back of the mule because he's such a monster to the other dogs as they run along beside it.

Because The Troll has the moves of any Urban Parkour traceur, (see: http://youtu.be/WEeqHj3Nj2c ) he must be confined to kennels with tops when we go to the pasture to feed, otherwise the little beast scales a 6 foot kennel and races up and down the fence line, foaming at the mouth with a satanic gleam in his eye.

What's so bad about that, you ask? Well let me give you just the last 24 hours of living with The Troll:

Exercise dogs and shuffle them into kennels. Have a brain fart and leave Trace and Dillon loose. Note Trace racing up and down fence. Note Innocent Dillon bouncing along beside him with a stick (club) in his mouth. Dillon has no understanding of the herding dog's desire to race along the fence. "Wouldn't you rather play with my stick?"

Apparently not.

I stepped into the house to take a pee. (You cannot even take a piss around here some days.) In my defense, I couldn't hear Other Half's screams over the racket of barking dogs in outside kennels. In hindsight I should have noted that their barks sounded like the Roman Colosseum crowd cheering and jeering gladiators locked in a life and death struggle. 

As I passed the refrigerator, cold frappuccino in hand, I glanced out the window. Oh crap!

Other Half was no longer feeding horses. He was on his hands and knees in the back yard, on top of what appeared to be a semi-conscious Dillon, while Trace circled them both with bared teeth. The little monster darted in and out like he was in a knife fight.

I raced outside, snatched the little monster up, and threw him in a kennel (with a top). Other Half's screams barely resembled English, but I did recognize the occasional F-bomb and the blood . . . I recognized the blood.

He let Dillon up and we examined the carnage. Trace bit THROUGH his thumb. Yes. Can I have a collective tightening of the pucker factor here. It takes a lot to impress me and that made my butt twitch.

Apparently Trace had enough of Dillon thrusting the stick at him and attacked Dillon. Dillon is a goofy, sweet dog, but like little Ralphie in The Christmas Story, when finally pushed into a fight by a bully, Dillon will let fly with such a rage that he is blind as he pummels his attacker.  And so it was that by the time Other Half came racing through the gate, Dillon had Trace in a choke hold and the Little Monster was gasping like a fish out of water.

Other Half had to punch Dillon off of Trace to keep the big dog from killing his precious little monster. As soon as he was free, The Beast rewarded him by biting through his thumb. He then disengaged, back off, circled, darted in again, and bit Other Half in the thigh. (All this while I was getting a frappuccino out of the refrigerator.)
 
The damage:

Other Half has a bad bite on his hand and his thigh. Dillon has a lump where OH punched him. Trace is unharmed.

Now whose fault was this?

Mine. Other Half's. We know Trace is a primitive beast given to fits of rage. We should have put him in a kennel before we went to feed.

Flash forward 24 hours:

Note that goats and sheep are out and are now in the neighbor's pasture. Call them. They blow us off. They are too far away for Lily, who has distance issues. They don't have enough respect for Cowboy, who has force issues. The Troll is the man for the mission. Problem: sheep must be run through the pasture with the cattle. The momma cows will kill The Troll if he even looks cockeyed at one of those calves.

Before we begin, Other Half calls cattle and they meander to another pasture - all but one cow and two calves. The sheep have now moved further away. They are at least three acres away. Send Trace. He is a heat-seeking missile. They start running. The little comet reaches them long before they reach the highway.

Problem: they decide to back up to the barn and not move.

His solution: He goes bowling.  I see him hit poor Roanie, who just happens to be in the back. I am not happy. It was dirty and uncalled for.  I stomp over there as he continues bowling hysterical sheep and sullen goats. One of the dairy goats refuses to move. "Go ahead and kill me now." 

I get there and grab her collar to hoist her to her feet. There is blood on her head. I look for damage. No damage. Then I scan the rest of the flock. And that's when I see red myself.

Trace bit half of Roanie's ear OFF! 

I am livid. I am in a Dillon-like rage. I want him DEAD! As he circles past for another go at them, I smack him on the back with a wooden crook. "Take THAT you little bastard!"

(This did have the desired effect of clearing the cobwebs from his brain and knocking that glazed look out of his eye.)  He drops to a down. I move him a few feet forward and down him again. And again. And again. By now, the sheep are in their pen. I am so angry that I just leave The Troll with Other Half. I completely understand why some ranchers will shoot their own dogs. I was that mad.

He is a bully. He needs to be on cattle only! Cattle can fight back. They may kill him, but at least it'll be a fair fight.

In his defense, he is a cowbred Border Collie. He is bred to work cattle, not sheep. He is bred to take the fight to them, and not quit when the chips are down. On the other hand, Lily is too, but she doesn't bully the stock the way Trace does. Trace looks for a fight. He hopes for a fight. It is part of his nature.  He is a troll. He is 'bad to the bone. B-b-b-baad.'

I want to go on the record as saying I KNOW BETTER THAN THIS!  And yet, I still did it. I let my dogs wrestle with their collars on. That's gonna change.

I give you Exhibit A:

Look closely:

Yeaahhhh. . .   that's a problem.

Thankfully, both dogs are good-natured and neither escalated into panic. In fact, I didn't even realize it had happened until I looked at the photos. (then I freaked!)

Ranger just shook it off. No harm. No foul.

And thank God it was Ranger's collar that got caught and not Aja's chain fursaver collar. That would have been a nightmare. I DO NOT like leaving chain collars on dogs. (that's an argument in this household)

I shiver when I think about what could have happened.

Fortunately Ranger is such an easy-going dog. (Wow! Never thought the words 'Ranger' and 'easy-going' were two words you'd see together.)

If there is anyone happier than Other Half about his new tractor, it's Trace the Troll. (Hereafter referred to as: Trace the Tractor Troll)

The Kids brought the Grandkids by the farm today (to pick up tractor implements) on their way to The Rodeo held in The Big City.  The Kids live on one side of The Big City and we live on the other side of The Big City.  I get such a kick watching the little ones enjoy the farm.

These have never been city kids. They are raising chickens themselves and have been around livestock since birth, but they don't have "Neigh-Neighs" at the house. So any trip over here involves feeding, petting, and riding horses.

This little cowboy is gonna be a heartbreaker some day.

He has graduated from riding the mini-horses to riding Joe and Scout.

 Unlike his sister,

                                                                      he's a bit too daring.

His dad has to keep a firm hand on the little rodeo rider.

And all was well and good until his parents announced that it was time to get down and go to The Rodeo.

  I believe this face sums it up.

After all, why pay and stand in line at The Rodeo Petting Zoo when he had his own petting zoo at Grandpa's house? Complete with full-size Neigh-Neighs!

But he was a big boy about it and climbed down. Then his dad reminded him of the most important part of the ride . . .

 . . . thanking Joe.

  There is something magical between a child and a horse.