Farm Fresh Blog

After burying Barn Cat yesterday, it became painfully apparent that my day could only get better. Maybe. I was out of Nyquil. (And the sheep!  The sheep!  The sheep won't shut up! How can I ever get any rest if the damned sheep won't quit calling me.  I vow, and this is a promise - when I am feeling better, every time I pop my head out the back door and they start screaming to be fed, I'm going to take Border Collie out there and work them. Every single time! They just THINK they want my attention!  Well Ladies!  You are about to GET IT!)  Pardon the ravings of Flu Lunatic.

Despite the fact that I'd rather be beaten than go to the grocery store, I was forced to "cowboy-up" and go forth in search of Nyquil.  My stomach announced that it would ONLY be happy if it got a bowl of la'Madeleine's Tomato basil soupe . . . and some sourdough bread.  Since my grocery store had both Nyquil and soup, I let my stomach drive.

I would have been better off letting the Border Collie drive.

Get in car. Go back to house for car keys. Get back in car. Start engine. Decide it is too hot for Border Collie to come so she must stay home. Go back inside for purse. Leave disappointed Border Collie (who is vainly trying Jedi Master Mind Control Tricks on Helpless Flu Patient) Putt-putt down road towards grocery store.  Notice a bird on a fence. What a lovely bird on a fence. Is it Spring yet? AAACKKK!!!  Run off road while staring at bird. Am momentarily scared into sobriety. Grip steering wheel with both hands and forget about Spring. It's warm.  It's really, really warm.   Is it really this warm or is that the fever? Wonder if I still have a fever. Since I don't have a thermometer that hasn't been in a dog's butt, I'll have to continue to wonder about that one. Look in rear-view mirror and note the growing line of cars that is stuck behind me as I have been putt-putting down two-lane road.  They are not happy.  Speed up to something resembling the speed limit.

Finally reach grocery store. Do you know what would be a really good idea?  A drive-through grocery store!!! My mind races at turtle speed as it explores this concept. I find myself staring at a bundle of flowers. Too long. Uh Oh! I am holding up foot traffic. And that's when I saw them.  I was mesmerized. 

Like a baby staring at a mobile, I stare at the glasses.

I was in love. These had to come home with me!  A day like this deserved a set of pretty new glasses.  That's Woman Logic! If your cat dies you can pretty much buy anything you want the rest of the day. They were perfect.  They were plastic. They were cheap.  They made my heart smile.  (and after a dead cat, that's a pretty tall order!)

And right beside the glasses I see this!

A plastic pitcher! It doesn't match the cups, but it's pretty. It hops into the cart too. My cat died and I am sick!

And that's why I spent $129 at the grocery store and still forgot the cough drops!

Update on Border Collie's driver's license:  While several of you agreed with me that this WOULD have been a stellar idea, Other Half shot our theory out of the water with a perfect point. Border Collie and Blue Heeler would easily be able to drive the truck if Border Collie steered and Blue Heeler worked the pedals UNTIL they saw a cat and Border Collie drove into a ditch to chase it. Point well taken.

After you have bagged a dead cat, your day can only get better.

The Barn Cat died today. (Yes, my life is almost sinking into Black Comedy again.)  Karma, my Rat Warrior, announced yesterday that she wanted to come into the house.  I obliged and set her up in the spare bedroom.  She died. It was pretty much par for the course this week.

Last night I announced that I was tired of the flu and I was going to work tomorrow. (I said this in the middle of a wheezing, coughing fit.) Other Half informed me that was Not Gonna Happen.  HAH!  I would show him! So to PROVE to him that I was going to kick this flu, I went to bed without Nyquil.  After what seemed like an eternity of coughing, I realized that the only thing I was proving was that I was an idiot. He finally suggested I take some Nyquil. It helped for about ten minutes.  I still coughed all night, had the sweats, muscle aches, and was otherwise miserable in every possible way.

Other Half headed to work this morning and left me in the capable paws of Border Collie who assured him that she would not let me die in my sleep, but she couldn't do much if I aspirated on puke. I finally dragged myself up to begin feeding animals. First I opened the door to the spare bedroom to let the cat out.  Karma stared at me with dead eyes. You know your day can only go uphill from there.

I called Other Half to inform him that Barn Cat had died.  There was a silence as he waited for the water works, but I just didn't have the energy. We decided to bury her under the apple tree. Since I couldn't have a dead cat in the house until he got home, this meant that I actually had to dig said hole. Fortunately, the flu had not quite taken ALL my faculties and I realized before I buried the cat under the apple tree that there the dogs would have access to a fresh grave.  It didn't take my mind long to run that to its inevitable conclusion so there was a change of plans.  I would bury Karma under the Pecan Trees, in the Porch Ponies' pasture.

This sounds romantic until you factor in the roots. It took a while to dig the hole.  Then I threw up.  The dogs stared at me through the fence, fascinated by this new sport of digging and puking.  Faith, the fluffy calico, supervised.  When the hole seemed big enough, I went inside and got Karma. Bagging a dead cat is the low point to any day.

So I buried Karma.  I tapped the black clay tightly with the shovel, wished her Godspeed, and headed back to the house. On my way across the pasture, I happened to catch the sunlight dancing across the back of St. Napolean, the Porch Pony. It looked so warm. So I stopped a moment and ran my fingers deep into his warm, thick coat.  It was the hug that I needed. Then I picked up the shovel and left.

Vaya Con Dios, little Rat Warrior

     When you have the flu, you are not the only one who suffers. Everyone around you is miserable too. I went to work yesterday.  Duh!  Why???  Me! The person who will take off work in an instant if one of the dogs is sick, made the bright decision to drag her butt to the office yesterday.  (Other Half wants to go on public record to state that HE was solidly against this decision.) I lasted EXACTLY 33 minutes before my colleages and my boss sent me packing back home.  What was I thinking?  I guess the logic was that time off should be taken for farm chores only.  If you're too sick to labor on the farm, you may as well go to work.  (That's the Nyquil talking.) 

     As I sat in rush hour traffic on my way back home, I cursed my poor decision and prayed I didn't rear-end anyone.  A few people honked because I strayed into their lanes.  Oh dear!  Clearly I wasn't as "on top of things" as Nyquil had led me to believe. When you are sick, your one best friend in the whole, wide world, is your electric blanket.  I know. I know. You're probably right.  The electro-magnetic waves it gives off will kill me, but not as fast as the flu, and certainly not as fast as my colleages if I show up at the office again before I'm able to keep down food.

     So except for when I'm actually feeding animals, I'm living in an electric blanket cocoon. A dear friend just told me, "No one has time for the flu."  The reality is just the opposite. No one has time to actually "fight" the flu, but once you've lost the fight, and accepted that you've got it, you have nothing but time.  I slept for 20 hours one day and if the animals hadn't insisted on being fed I never would have crawled out of that bed. Which leads me to the other hapless victims of the flu - the animals.

     Farm animals don't care.  As long as food arrives in a timely manner, horses, cattle, sheep and goats don't care.  Dogs do. Dogs study humans like NASA studies space.  They know everything about us.  I'm sure Border Collie knew I had the flu long before I did. Herein lies the problem.  Dogs know when you're sick.  Dogs care.  (except for Bloodhound and Briar) Dogs want to be in the bedroom with you when you are sick, but all you want is uninterrupted sleep. Dogs cannot be quiet.  They won't quit checking on you. Thus, you are forced to hurt their feeling by announcing,

"EVERYONE WITH MORE LEGS THAN ME, GET OUTSIDE!!!"

     You stagger out of bed, cursing the cord on the electric blanket because it will not allow you to drag the blanket with you to the door. You toss everyone outside.  Just as you are about to slam the door, you see Border Collie staring, like a Jedi Master working Mind Control.

"I must be in bed with you. I only weigh forty pounds and don't take up much space.  I will be still.  I promise.  Plus, if you die in your sleep, I won't keep rescue workers from getting to your body like The Enforcer would."

     Your mind puzzles on that thought for a moment.  You decide she has a point, so you let her back inside.

(See? . . . crime scene investigators think of weird sh*t. Give 'em some Nyquil and there is no telling which direction the mind will wander.)

  We never actually "wanted" a mule.  Ruth was like an unplanned pregnancy. "Ooops!  Now we have a mule." As mules go, she's a beautiful creature. The camera just LOVES her, and I really enjoy taking pictures of Ruth.  Like a Sports Illustrated bathing suit model, Ruth is ever so patient about posing when I thrust a camera in her face.

But as much as I love taking pictures of my mule, it's not fair to keep her.  She is too nice a mule to be a yard ornament. The recent rains flooded her stall, leaving her an island in the back to stand on when she eats. I cannot put her in with the geldings.  They don't like Long Ears.  I obviously cannot put her in with the stallion.  I moved her companions, the two miniature horses, in with the goats, but Ruth is just too big to be with heavily pregnant goats. I don't want to throw her out with the cattle. So poor Ruth is alone. Although parts of her pasture are nice and dry, when the brutal north wind returns, bringing with it a cold rain, Ruth is left to trudge through mud to come stand on her island.  That's not how a Sports Illustrated Supermodel should live.  Therefore, Ruthie is going to a new home with a mule person who has promised a dry stall and lots of TLC. 

Her new home also comes with a new friend - another mule!  Ruth will finally have another Longears to hang out with.  The horses around here have always been a bit racist and never truly accepted Ruth and all her Long Ear splendor.  (their loss, not hers!)

I think she'll be a lot happier.  The horse trailer just pulled out of the driveway, and Ruth begins a new adventure.

So here's to Ruth.  Go with God, Little Friend!

On Border Collies & Nyquil

The problem with a head cold is that it seems to linger forever.  You have one good day and you think you've seen the end of it.  Wrong.  One good day means you act like business as usual, overdo it, and end up back in bed the next day.

The problem with a farm, is that there is no time off for head colds. You must stumble out and feed the ungrateful masses who will greet you, not with a "glad to see you this morning," but with a "what took you so stinking long?" (except the Livestock Guardian Dog - she is always happy to see you at whatever time you happen to stagger in.)

But have you ever noticed that once you are finally able to bumble through the chores, manage to come back inside and collapse into the loving embrace of your bed, that's when The Thought pops into your head. You know The Thought. (it comes with an ominous drum roll) Everyone with a farm knows this Thought. You have completed your chores. You had enough feed for today.  But there is not enough feed for tomorrow.  Some how, some way, you must drag your sniffling, sneezing, coughing, germ-infested butt to the feed store.

Your mind frantically searches for ways around the problem.  That's when The Thought springs up. In a Nyquil haze, your drug-addled eyes settle on the searching face of your everpresent farm dog. She KNOWS you have a problem. She can sense it.  All good farm dogs have this power. She wants to solve your problem. Nyquil convinces you to explore this idea further. The logic runs like this:

Since the feed store knows your dog, you can simply tie a list around her collar of the things you need. Then you can stay in bed. Yeah! That's it!

Logic rears its ugly head. How is the dog going to get to the feed store, Dummy?  Nyquil assures you that she is smart enough to drive the dually. Logic argues that she doesn't have a Driver's license.  Nyquil puzzles on this for a while. From there, Nyquil takes you on a little daydream journey of teaching Border Collie to drive the dually and take her Driver's test.  Your mind is momentarily hung up at the idea that she is too short to work the peddles, then Nyquil assures you that Blue Heeler can work the peddles while Border Collie steers. Generations of Farm children have already worked out this problem. Then Logic informs you there is NO WAY the state will give a Driver's license to someone so short that she has to have someone else work the peddles. Damn! Nyquil convinces you that the State has a prejudice against people with disabilities.  Nyquil further convinces you that Border Collie and Blue Heeler would look quite fetching as a canine version of Bonnie & Clyde as they motor down the highway in a large white F350, their tommy guns hanging out the window, with state troopers in hot pursuit. This image entertains you for a few minutes as you drift off to sleep. Suddenly, you are jerked out of your mushroom fog.  Border Collie cannot sign the form on the feed store farm account!  She cannot write!

Oh dear!  Nyquil can't seem to puzzle its way through this one. So you pull yourself out of bed, splash water on your face, and drive to the feed store.  As usual, Border Collie is riding shotgun. You sniffle and sneeze your way through ordering feed. Then you happen to mention that you wish you'd been able to stay in bed and send the dog.  The Feed Store Lady assures you that if Border Collie ever comes into the store with an order, they will know that it IS INDEED from you, and will let her make the purchase.  In the back of your mind, Nyquil whispers "Told you so!"

Other Half comes home today.  It has been three long weeks and it seems like longer. He has been all the way across the state (big state!) and although we talk many times each day, it isn't the same as having him here to actually share the drama.  He has had drama on his end too.  I fear he may have broken a couple of ribs, but being a guy, he will "cowboy up" and work through it.  He is a firm believer that a hot bath and Absorbine Jr. will fix whatever ails you.  Yeah right.

Anyway, he will return to fewer goats,

more cows,

and Briar, who has suddenly sprouted legs.

I very much hope he can come home to a clean house, one that doesn't have muddy pawprints all over the floors.  But the only way THAT is going to happen, is if I get off the computer and start cleaning.  On the other hand, I have a head cold.  He has a head cold. The floor might not get very clean today.  I've just finished my chores and I'm sapped. I feel a nap calling me. I'm not sure how much housecleaning is going to get done today.

Puppies will be puppies, and Briar is no different.  Her problem however, is that she is caught between two worlds.  She is a sheep, and she is a dog.  Sheep don't have needle-sharp teeth. Sheep don't wrestle.  Dogs do.  Puppies have to.  So on Saturday while I was selling goats and didn't have time to watch her, little Briar wrestled with a lamb and bloodied up his ears.  She was playing.  She was having fun.  He was not.  I pulled her out of the pasture and let her beat up on Blue Heeler for a while.  He is tougher than Hulk the lamb.  Blue Heeler can take the abuse.

Then I got sick, so yesterday I didn't feel like standing in the cold with Briar to supervise her sheep activities, therefore, she spent the night with the sheep, but in an exercise pen so they were safe from a bored pup.  So this morning, armed with a frappuccino, Briar, the sheep, and I headed for the pasture.

Briar was full of energy. She was like a little cinder block on meth!  Happy, happy, happy puppy!

She zoomed.  Well, she's a little big for zooming.  It was more like boucing and lumbering. She chased birds.  She chased chickens. (and got a bucket tossed at her) She chewed on sticks.  Then . . . she decided to play with her lamb buddies.

  And we are bowling for sheep!

   Mom screams, "NNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooo!"

  Briar drops to the ground.  "I'm bad?"

  "Awww man . . . I'm bad!"

She looked so pitiful.  She even closed her little eyes as I screamed at her.

"Awww man!  I wasn't gonna hurt 'em.  They're my friends!"

The sheep settled down.  They're not really scared of her anyway.  That's the really scary part.  They completely trust her.  The biggest, meanest ewe actually watched Briar bloody up her lamb on Saturday and gave no indication that it was happening.  Her attitude seemed to be, "Well it's Little Briar, I'm sure everything will be just fine." The ewes have completely forgotten that Briar is still a predator - a baby predator, but still a predator.

The problem was that no one has actually informed Briar that she cannot play this rough with the lambs.  They break easily. She was really upset that she got in trouble.  I chewed her out.  Then I let her up.  She ran over to sniff butts and make friends again.  

That lesson should last until she is bored again - about 5 minutes.  It's going to be a long 2 years until she grows up enough to trust her with them.  But she is trying, and that is really all we can ask.

After I sold goats yesterday I went to feed the cows.  This is what greeted me.

That is NOT bubble gum hanging out of the back of that cow.  Her name is Snickers.  She used to be a show cow. The little girl who showed her asked about her at the fair this year.  I REALLY don't wanna have to tell that child next year that her cow died giving birth.  The Rancher Neighbor had already called Other Half to inform him that the cow was in labor.  The neighbor on the other side of the property had already called Other Half to inform him that the cow was in labor and the calf was probably dead.  Oh joy. 

So I met with Kindly Rancher Neighbor who is my Rock when Other Half is out of town. He came over the fence.  His Blue Heeler, Deuce, crawled through the fence.  Snickers tried to run Deuce down.  Deuce ran to hide behind Rancher.  I had to laugh as Man Who Always Has Everything Together informed his dog, "Don't hide behind ME!!!" as a large, enraged black cow chased the dog. Deuce was evicted, but Snickers was not in the mood to be caught, so there wasn't much we could do. We had to wait until she got tired enough to let us catch her and pull the calf. Kindly Rancher Neighbor went home.

  We agreed to watch her and try it again in an hour.

I kept checking, but then I got on the phone with Vet's Wife to discuss The Enforcer, kidney failure, and selling goats. Thirty minutes later I looked out the window to find Kindly Rancher Neighbor propped against the fence, looking at this.

According to him I missed it by 5 minutes.  He had to pull the sack off her nose so she could breathe, but otherwise, his help was not needed.  Snickers had her first baby on her own, just fine thank you very much. No humans NEEDED! (I like cows like that!)

Snickers is a good mother.  This morning when I went to feed, the Wal-Mart Shoppers Mob knocked her calf over in the mud.  (I was almost hysterical as I watched this precious mocha baby get trampled!) Snickers, who is a sizable girl herself (she is a plus-size, full-figured broad!) saw red and rushed to rescue her baby.  Then she led little Miss Mocha away from the herd.  I finished filling the feeders.  While the Mob settled down to eat, Snickers checked her baby.  I sat on the 4Wheeler and cried. (I am a big help!)

The baby seemed to be okay. (good, because I have NO idea how I would be able to help her if her momma didn't cooperate.)  All I could do was drive off and get another bale of hay for Snickers.  The baby settled down beside her as Snickers munched.  She regularly reached over to sniff little Miss Mocha to make sure she was still okay.  

Snickers still has not passed the afterbirth.  It was hanging down to her ankles.  I was a bit worried so I stopped by Neighbor's ranch to beg for help.  (a woman left in charge of two farms full of cows, goats, sheep, horses, and a dog dying of renal failure is just one drama away from completely losing her mind . . .) I desperately needed to know that I wasn't wallowing in the mud alone and the cows would be just fine.

Kindly Rancher Neighbor wasn't at home, but luckily his dad was there fixing a tractor.  His DAD!  This dude knows LOTS about cows!  So we talked.  He assured me that Snickers and Mocha would be just fine. He would check on them.  Kindly Rancher Neighbor would also check on them for me. Thank God! I'm not alone! Help is just one farm away. 

And that, ultimately, is what country living is all about.  No man is an island unto himself.  We all need good neighbors and we need to be good neighbors.

Here is my Valentine!

  He is in deep thought about land and leases and doesn't know I am taking his picture.  Other Half is rather elusive when you have a camera pointed at him.  At the moment, he is up to his butt in snow.  I had some snow pictures of he and Oli that I FORCED him to have another agent take, but I can't get my blasted computer to recognize them in the email that he sent, soooooo.... here is one from a couple of months ago. 

We aren't getting to spend Valentine's Day together, but we are spending quite a bit of time on the phone this morning because I'm selling goats today. 

The conversations have gone something like this:

"I have 10 different people who want to buy goats, but I think most of them actually want to EAT my goats and the other half are just TELLING me that they want breeding goats but they are secretly going to EAT my goats too."

There is a long silence.  Then he says, "This is a business, sell the goats to anyone who pays cash. Don't let them negotiate. No deals. Full price for everyone. That guy who wants a deal on all of them is only trying to take advantage of you because you're a woman. Stand your ground. Full price for everyone."

(I secretly want to let them go cheaply to anyone who will hug them and feed them and ruffle their ears. He knows this.)

The first lady on the list lived 30 minutes away.  She said she was en route NOW!  The second guy on the list tried to buy them ALL over the phone.  I told him another lady had first dibs because she called first. She didn't want all of them.  He pushed harder, informing me that I could save myself lots of headaches by just selling everything to him. Nope.  The other lady was promised that if she got here first, she'd have first pick.  The third guy wanted to buy everything but wanted a package deal.  Huh?  He was #3 out of 10 people who wanted those goats. 

First lady arrives.  She has a stock trailer in tow.  Hmmmm . . . serious buyer.  She and Husband expertly select the best of the crop.  I am saddened to see Bubbles go, but know that she is one of the best and I don't "think" this lady is actually planning on eating these goats. They have a good eye for goats.  Pays cash and drives off happy.

Second man arrives - in a mini-van!  He snatches up remaining goats.  I ask him where he plans on putting them. 

"In the van."

Friends and Neighbors, I would have paid money to videotape that.  I sorely wished I had my camera, but decided that was the epitome of "unprofessional" and since for today, without Other Half in town, I was pretending to be the Rancher in the family. So I resisted the urge to run into the house and grab up the Canon.  Instead, I helped him catch and load goats. 

Here are the photos I didn't take that I sooooo wanted to share with you:

#1 - Otis in the driver's seat

#2 - Goat in front passenger's seat staring at me through rear-view mirror

#3 - Goat leaping from Mini-van when door was opened to remove said goat from driver's seat.

#4 - Goats staring at me through rear window of Nissan Quest.

#5 - Otis sleeping under steering wheel.

#6 - Children happily holding goats in back seat.  (They are not going to be any happier than I am if their dad butchers those goats.) 

So now I have money in my pocket and far fewer goats.  I'm a bit sad.  I don't want them eaten.  I know, they're goats.  Goats are born to be eaten, but still, I'm fond of some of them.  Other Half pointed out that if the coyotes ate them, they wouldn't pay for them first. Point well taken.

Briar is in BIG TROUBLE.  She was evicted from the sheep pasture this morning.  While I was busy selling goats, Miss Briar was busy messing with Hulk, the ram lamb we want to keep.  Now Hulk has bloody ears.  Briar is about to be thrown back into the x-pen when not supervised.  She is clearly still too young.  Her lamb buddies are just not as tough as other puppies. They break . . . And tear. And Mom gets pissed.

Do you know what THIS is?

No?  Here's another spot.  Take a closer look.

THIS is coyote hair caught on MY fence.  The first one is the fence on the South side of the back pasture.  The second one is the fence on the North side of the back pasture.  Coyotes are coming along the canal on the south side and using my property as a Superhighway to get to my neighbor's pasture.  They are eating his Barbado sheep.  He is officially "out" of the sheep business as of this week. 

The guy only had a ewe and a ram.  They were just stuck out behind his house.  No protection. A baby was born.  It survived for a while and then it was eaten.  This week they got bold enough to take his ewe.  He just gave the ram away before the coyotes ate him too.

It is cold. They are desperate.  Not much stands between these hungry coyotes and my little group of baa-baa-baas.

Not much, except this:

It's a very thin Blue Line.

The sheep are moved into the barn each night.  Briar is with them all night, but we do not expect her to provide much protection yet.  She is little. They are many. I am considering the idea that she needs another dog for back-up.  By next winter, she will be a forminable opponent, but she is still just one dog against desperate coyotes. It may be time to start looking for another puppy.  Other Half is gonna defecate a brick when I tell him that. But he isn't home right now, and he isn't looking at the empty pasture next door.