Farm Fresh Blog

I give you Exhibit A:

What have we learned from our experience with the rattlesnake?

Do we rush in and sniff strange creatures?

Maybe? Maybe not?

It would appear that Dillon is a tad more cautious than he was prior to his encounter.

Briar, on the other hand, definitely needs some snake aversion therapy before she moves to the North Ranch.

Oh well, for the time being, she isn't likely to encounter a rattlesnake. Dillon is scheduled for an appointment with a rattlesnake and a shock collar in the near future, but it's nice to see he's not quite ready to wade right in again to "Dangerous Creatures."

To prevent any harm from coming to the turtle from a curious Briar (or Aja who might use the poor thing as a Nylabone) I removed the turtle safely to the pond,

 where he continued his little turtle journey, one step at a time.

Snapshots are memories captured in time. That's why I love taking pictures. I want to remember this moment, that flower, this texture, that tree against the sunset. But often the very act of taking the picture becomes a memory of its own. I love looking at calendar pictures and award winning photographs. They're nice, but they usually lack one thing. I really want the "behind the story" of each picture. I wish calendars including THAT. Yeah, yeah, any camera can take a good picture. I don't care what f-stop and ISO you used. Tell me the STORY behind the picture.

For instance, let's take these two pictures:

Not earthshattering, but cute enough to satisfy me. Now let's examine the story behind the pictures. It was raining. We had loaded the dogs up and were headed into town. At the end of our gate, Other Half had planned to turn right, but something caught my eye toward the left, so he waited there while I got out in the rain and walked toward this beautiful patch of red with my camera.

Keep in mind that it is raining. This clearly shows in the photos. I'm not sure what Rocket Scientist thought she could take pictures in the rain like this. Nevertheless, I took bunches of photos of wet flowers. But guess what? You know what wet flowers need?  Wet dogs!  So I motion to Other Half to drive the truck over to me.

He doesn't move.

I step out into the road and wave.

He doesn't move.

Surely he sees me. I dance in the road to get his attention. Nope. Nada. Nothing.

By then I'm a bitchy bear. That man is IGNORING me in the rain! I stalk back to truck. Other Half is happily playing on his iPhone. (high tech redneck) I snarl something rude about him ignoring me to which he defends himself by explaining that he never saw me motioning to him. (I could have been dancing with Fred Astaire in the rain and he would have missed it.)

So we drove over to the red flowers and I selected my first subject (victim). Lily. Always Lily. She is always the chosen one. Lily has had a camera in her face since she was six weeks old. She has this runway model thing down. Pouty face and all.

I snap my shots and exchange her for Trace. While he isn't keen on a modeling career, the camera likes Trace. He's a nice color for most shots. Lily's stark black and white often creates problems. So I chose Trace.  He happily leaped out of the truck. All was well until he realized that we weren't on a bunny hunt, a snake hunt, a rat hunt, a cow hunt, or a sheep hunt.

We were having a photo shoot in the rain. I think these pictures pretty much sum up the way Trace felt about his photo shoot.

Gee whiz. Why do these dogs have to be such divas?

And Dillon? Where was Chocolate Thunder you ask? The D-Man absolutely sucks at modeling. He is a gooberhead with a less than stellar "stay" for posed shots. I am reminded of Alice the Bloodhound. When asked to model, Dillon stays for half a second, announces, "This is Stupid!" and walks off. Yes, we need to work on our stay command. Dillon is a perfect example of the Shoemaker's children. Two dog trainers have an ill-mannered, goofy puppy. Go figure.

So anyway, that's the STORY behind the picture!

     Thus began the initial heated argument between two otherwise intelligent adults. Other Half, not wanting to face the horrible possibility of losing Dillon, insisted that the marks on Dillon's nose were caused from leaping into the barbed wire fence. Me, ever the "let's face the worst case scenario head on and deal with it", insisted that Dillon WAS BITTEN by the rattlesnake and needed to get to the vet immediately.  I refused to even entertain the idea of dilly-dallying around waiting to see if Dillon swelled up and died.

So after a quick search for the vet's phone number, and a text to Dear Friend Kim, we bounced off down the road with a confused Lily, a terrified Trace, and poor Dillon, who was already beginning to swell. I tried to call the vet's office (with the ad that says they answer the phone 24/7), but our phone reception was so bad that I couldn't get the call out. I tried to call Dear Friend Kim. She answered immediately. Which direction to go? South toward the 24/7 vet that I couldn't reach on the phone or north toward Kim and her vet. Through broken cell phone reception, she advised north. North it was. I glanced at Dillon. There was no denying it now. No barbed wire did this. His head looked like a Shar Pei and was quickly approaching Bull Terrier.

    Because text messages were going through but cell reception was not, Kim called her vet to tell him we were en route. He didn't return her page. We got to an area where we could get cell service and paged him too. No return call, but we chose to just drive there anyway. Thirty minutes had gone by and we were sitting in the clinic driveway. It was now dark. No one was home. No one was at the clinic. Called Kim again. She had drugs on hand for this occasion. In the country, sometimes you have to be your own vet. Even the vets knew this, so her vet had made her an emergency snakebit kit with the necessary drugs.

     So we drove toward Kim. Another 25 minutes. She met us on the highway and we drove to her ranch. Dillon's entire head was swelling. Other Half shot Dillon up with dexamethasone and epinephrine and we took additional drugs to get him through the next day or two. Dillon's head was alarmingly large, but he was still breathing and that was the important thing. He had had the rattlesnake vaccine last spring and was due for another. I kicked myself for not updating it before this spring. Now we just had to trust that it would work. And pray. I did a lot of praying. We had gotten drugs into Dillon within 2 hours of the bite. Hopefully that would do it.

     So we took him back home and thus began his night of D-Dog hell. Dillon was in pain. He wanted to sleep, but his head hurt so much that he didn't want it to even touch the floor and wouldn't sleep in bed with us.(you KNOW he's sick then) He slept with his head in the air. We set our clock for 3:00 AM and gave him more drugs. By 6:00 AM he was better. By 8:30 AM, he was his happy self again. The swelling had gone down some, and he was clearly gonna make it. 

     When the sun was high, we drove to town to buy an additional security light and a push mower. The plan was to create a safe "potty area" that I could walk (with my Henry rifle) prior to letting the dogs out for a bathroom break. So I mowed for several hours that afternoon and six more hours the next day. We saw three more snakes but they were non-poisonous.  The snakes were definitely on the move this Memorial Day weekend. 

     I didn't rest easy until we'd given the dogs their final potty break and loaded them up in the truck to head back south. The people who live here full time take this in stride. They keep drugs on hand in case, or they just let the dogs take their chances.  I look at Dillon's happy little face and know that this isn't the last time he's gonna get bitten by a snake. He's a Labrador, it's in his DNA. The best I can do is protect him from himself, keep his rattlesnake vaccine up to date, and keep lots of drugs on hand.

Note: It turned out that the vet was camping in an area with shoddy cell phone reception and didn't get our pages until the next morning. By then Dillon was already his happy D-Dog self again.

   (Actual sign at the San Antonio Police Academy)

Two things scared the crap out of me as I was a child - tornados and rattlesnakes. As kids we watched The Wizard Of Oz every year and frankly, few things scared me more than tornados and flying monkeys, but since to this day, I've never run into a flying monkey, the rattlesnake trumps the flying monkey.

Let me begin by saying that I grew up in rural North Carolina where the timber rattlesnakes were longer than the shovel that killed them. And while I appreciate the fact that everything plays its role in the ecosystem, since a rat snake is pretty fine rodent control, I've never been a big fan of rattlesnakes. My mother impressed upon me early that if a snake that big bit a small child (i.e. "me") then there might not be enough time to get to the hospital before said child died. Alrighty then . . . Made a believer out of me!

That said, we three children, two dogs, and numerous cats played in that forest and except for some close encounters no one was ever bitten by one of these monsterous snakes. For the most part we simply understood this simple rule of survival in the country:

non-poisonous snake = good     poisonous snake = bad

Then I grew up and the snakes grew smaller. Well, they didn't actually grow smaller. I simply moved to parts of the civilized world where a foot long snake of any sort sends everyone into a tizzy. Since my measuring stick for impressive snakes was a shovel, most of these snakes were found lacking. Don't get me wrong, I'd still shoot a foot long copperhead in the blink of an eye, but I would pause to apologize first. Rattlesnakes? No. Rattlesnakes get no apology before I pull the trigger.

So what do I do? I buy a ranch in North Texas that is so wild you can't sling a dead cat in the woods without hitting a copperhead and neighbors tell of killing multiple rattlesnakes in one day.

So here we are. Ahhhh, spring in North Texas, when the tornados and the snakes are on the move. Even though last spring we saw no rattlesnakes, I wasn't naive enough to believe we didn't have any. No sirree, my experience with rattlesnakes has been that when they do show themselves, it's in a big way. (like just when you think you've made it safely back in the cabin)

The two things I worry most about at the ranch are snakes and hogs - and the solution to both is down the barrel of a gun. I wear snake boots to protect myself, but for some reason, Cabela's doesn't sell snake boots for Labrador Retrievers. (probably because in order to work, he would have to wear it on his head)

I always monitor the dogs closely during any outside time. During the snake months, instead of a morning run, they ride on the 4wheeler. It satisfies their urge to run and explore without giving them access to snakes. All bathroom breaks are closely supervised. (experience has just proven that this does not prevent the dog from being bitten RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU)

Our first night at the ranch I killed a copperhead on the gravel driveway close to the cabin. (right where a rattlesnake would be 2 days later!) This reinforced the message that snakes were on the move and we needed to be careful. And were we careful? YES! We were so careful that while supervising the evening potty break, we walked right past that rattlesnake ourselves before the damned thing bit the dog on our second pass.

We had already walked down the driveway and were less than 25 yards from the cabin when Dillon leaped 4 feet in the air. I heard the buzzing immediately. Other Half is partially deaf and never heard the buzzing even when he was standing beside it.  I grabbed the dogs while he grabbed my gun.

Since Lily and Dillon are stimulated by gun fire, I held them while Other Half opened fire on the snake with two guns. Trace ran like a spotted ape back to the cabin. He now associates the smell of rattlesnake with the dreaded sound of gunfire and has some serious Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. (but in this country, that's a good thing)

We saw that Dillon had been struck on the bridge of the nose, slightly below his eyes. So I rushed all the dogs back to the pickup truck, started the engine and air conditioner, and grabbed my beloved Henry 22 lever action rifle. The snake was mortally wounded, but still very much alive, and very angry.

So was I. I know it's not right. I know that no joy should be gained from killing something, but looking through the peep sight at that snake staring right back at me brought immense satisfaction. I said unladylike things as I pulled that trigger and sent him to his maker.   And while this snake was certainly not as big as the timber rattlers I grew up with, he was still large enough to get my attention - and kill Dillon.

I lowered the rifle and glanced at my phone to see what time it was - 7:40 PM. And so the countdown began to save Dillon's life.

We just got back from the ranch and I'm gonna let these pictures tell the story:

Lessons Learned:

1) No matter how closely you watch a dog, things happen. Life is too short to beat yourself up about it. Live and learn. And Reload.

2) Memorial Day weekend is not a good time to reach a vet at 7:40 PM on a Saturday night.

3) Other Half will shoot a snake until he almost cuts it in half.

4) "Vengeance is mine" sayeth the Lord, but it still feels REALLY good to look through the sights of my lever action Henry 22 rifle and see the peep sight filled with the face of a rattlesnake staring back at me, whisper "Die Motha F*@#r" and pull the trigger for a kill shot.

5) If you live in Rattlesnake Country you MUST get the new rattlesnake vaccine. This probably saved Dillon's life. (and prayer! Prayer too!)

Since time is short today, I'll give you all the details later. Hug your dogs. And if you live around rattlesnakes, call your vet TODAY and get that vaccine. It's cheap. It can save a life.

And get a Henry lever action .22 rifle too. 

Bonus Lesson: Nothing will motivate a woman to push a lawnmower for 6 hours like rattlesnakes hiding near her cabin.

Conversational Quotes For The Weekend:

Salesman at Loews: "Good afternoon, M'am. What kind of mower are you looking for?"

Me: "A lawnmower that cuts up rattlesnakes into tiny pieces . . . ."

Salesman at Loews: (Pause) (Nod) "Okay, I can help you with that!"

Aja has been with us long enough now for us to get a real feel for her true personality. Unlike Oli (medically retired police dog), Aja LOVES being a police dog. She loves everything about it, and truthfully, if this dog wasn't ours, if I saw this coming at me in the dark, I might 'poop ma pants.'

But unlike Retired Police Dog Zena who exhuded a quiet dignity,

Aja is a goofball, a giant puppy with no social skills whatsoever. She has the best of intentions, but Aja makes Dillon look dignified. Like the daughter in ABC's "The Middle", she is a canine version of Sue Heck.

I have to laugh at her. Dillon can only handle limited play time with her because she is so rough. Ranger, ever the tutor, is amazingly patient with her lack of social skills. The rest of the pack look at Aja like she is, well, "Sue Heck." 

Because of this I'm embarking on a project to gracefully mature Aja into "something you can live with."

This involves a lot more play time with Ranger and Dillon and a lot more time loose in the house. Think "bull in a china shop."  

Today I found myself telling her "Drink with your mouth, not with your feet."

I have finally found a way to soothe the wild beast. Today after she'd been careening around the house, bouncing off furniture, playing until Ranger was worn out, and playing until Dillon was worn out, she stood beside me while I folded laundry. I started singing to her and she just stopped and stood there with the sweetest look on her face. I folded an entire load of white clothes while that silly dog sat there listening to me sing to her. It was the high point of our morning.

It has come to my attention that I clearly overlooked someone in the pasture. Apparently the baby goats are not on their own. I've noticed that when photographing them, they tend to hang out with their aunt, Clover. Since she didn't seem to dote on them, I didn't pay it much attention until I saw a most intriguing thing.

     Ice, The Black Wolf, can often be loose with the sheep because she doesn't bother to chase them, but the baby goats have garnered her attention, so I've been locking her up when the sheep are in the yard.  But on this day she was walking with me to get the mail and she happened to look at the babies with just a bit too much interest.

     That's when Clover sprang into action. She rammed that dog so fast neither the dog nor I even saw it coming! The babies peeked out from behind her.

"What she said Dog! What she said!"

"Prayers For Oklahoma . . ."

The goat twins are quite bonded to each other. They are more bonded to each other than they are to their crack head mother. (Who has a habit of just walking off and leaving them alone anyway.) They have learned that when in doubt, you can count on each other, and maybe the lady who doles out sunflower seeds. In a panic, run to Primary Caretaker (or the creepy dog who stares at you) if you can't immediately locate Crack-Head Mother.

Yesterday their bond paid off.

Take 1 old syrup tub bucket + 2 curious goat kids = fun (or disaster)

Around our house the syrup tub buckets are used for everything. They are dog water bowls, tomato planters, doggy jacuzzis, horse feed troughs, sheep feed troughs, and jungle gyms for baby goats.

Because goats and sheep have a habit of climbing in the buckets and pooping in them, I often tilt the buckets against the side of the lean-to or barn to reduce the debris I have to dump out the next morning. This keeps the buckets cleaner.

Enter baby goats. I have several tubs of different sizes just for their climbing amusement. This almost proved fatal yesterday:

Am walking around goat/sheep pen where babies have just been released to play with the rest of the flock. Note with satisfaction that they are careening around comfortably. In preparation to blend babies with flock full time, begin to examine fence for "baby gaps."  Get absorbed in this task until the screams of Baby Brother (who has just been christened "Raisin Bran.") rattle my brain enough to garner my attention. He is hysterical. He is running around hollering his fool head off. I look for his sister. Bailey is nowhere in sight. Hmmmm...

Begin earnest hunt for Bailey. Raisin Bran has climbed on top of a bucket and is screaming at the top of his lungs. I cannot find Bailey either and begin to panic. I cannot hear her answer him. That is BAAAAD!

Raisin Bran climbs off bucket and begins to race around again, searching for his sister. Note that his crack-head mother has not bothered to answer him. Briar is outside the pen so no one comes to his rescue except me, Primary Caretaker.

Then I hear it - the pitiful answer to his screams.  Under the bucket.  I flip the syrup tub to find a very grateful Bailey.  She races off to join her brother,

and all is well in their world again. 

I thank God that I was in the pen when this happened. Had Bailey not been able to get out of the bucket, she would have roasted in the sun. (shudder)

Note to self: Do not prop tubs against buildings. Always listen to the screams of baby goats. Don't forget to thank God for all blessings - large and small. 

Except for Roanie and Ma, I've never really made pets out of the sheep, but that was before the dairy goats. Dairy goats are not goats. They are dogs in little goat bodies. And they're really, really easy to handle. And so, I decided that I need to tame up some sheep. Enter sunflower seeds.

Sheep and goats LOVE sunflower seeds. They are crack for sheep. And look who has gone from a 'touch me not' sheep to a begging crack fiend!

Remember Flower Pot?! She is taming up nicely and hopefully she'll soon be as easy to handle as the dairy goats. Girlfriend DOES love her sunflower seeds! 

And for everyone who has forgotten how this cute lamb got such a stupid name, read: Another
Tale of Two Dogs