Farm Fresh Blog

I've said it before and I'll say it again. A farm knows when you have some free time and will find some way to eat it up. Other Half and I are both on vacation. I actually had the gall last night to wonder out loud what our plans for today were. I will go on the record and say this was ALL MY FAULT.  This morning New Police Dog got in the pasture with the new sheep.  That was a Very Bad Thing. For all practical purposes, sheep are completely defenseless.  Police dogs are not.

Other Half checked trailers in at the livestock show all last night.  When he came home at 6:30 AM, I turned his police dog out in the yard with Blue Heeler and then we both went to bed. I woke up later to check on them.  Police Dog was chewing on a deer antler outside the bedroom window. (I don't know where she found a deer antler, but it kept her happy and so I didn't question it.) I woke up later to Blue Heeler's furious barking. Police Dog was inside the isolation pasture with the three new sheep.  It was ugly, Folks. It was ugly.

I spared you the photographs because frankly, I didn't think the sheep would survive. I was certain that two of them were goners. Large chunks of flesh were ripped from their hindquarters and both had right hind legs which just dangled. So with only three hours of sleep, Other Half helped me carry sheep back into the barn.  The Porch Pony, St. Napolean, fussed and fretted over one of his sheep buddies who was gravely injured.  When I found her, he had been hiding her behind him.  Bless his little heart.  He is only a Miniature Horse, but he has the heart of Clydesdale.

I was certain that two of the sheep would die of shock, (Thus, no pictures.) but our attempts to save them took up the better part of the day. First we gathered vet supplies. Then we called Friend who is Vet's Wife. Sewing up Sheep was definitely a Three Person Job. That's another thing about farms - they will suck up the free time of your friends too!

Good friends know this and so with good humor and a strong stomach, she joined us in Today's Farm Adventure. Other Half has stitched up cows, horses, and dogs, but he hadn't stitched up my sheep before and so there was a great deal of argument (discussion) about whether or not to use sutures or the new staple gun that he was just dying to try out.  I voted for tried and true sutures. He wanted to play with his new staple gun. We called Vet for advice on the staple gun.  Other Half was delighted to hear a vote for his new gun. (I was outvoted.) We reached a compromise though. He used sutures on part and stapled part. Vet's Wife and I held the sheep while he stitched and tried to repair the hamburger that used to be a hind leg. It was slow work.  Soon we were all smeared with blood, betadine, and sheep poop.

I was still certain that the sheep would die. Other Half insisted that they would survive.

"They're tough," he said. (What Universe does he live in??)

"They're sheep," I pointed out. Sheep are born looking for a place to die. (Turning a police dog in with them tends to speed up the process though.)

So by the time Vet With Actual Diploma arrived, Cow Man with Vet Skills and Two Vet Wanna-Be Assistants had stitched up the two patients. Vet admired Other Half's work.  Other Half preened.  He was quite proud of his job and chided me for not taking pictures. (He was right!  I should have taken pictures.)  I explained that some Readers (most readers) probably didn't want to see photos of mangled sheep. He pointed out that he would liked to have had Before and After pictures of his handiwork.  Touche. This was a good point.

Shortly after suturing up the sheep, Other Half informed me that we were going to the Livestock Show again this evening.  Again???  OH Yess!  The Kids were going and he had told them that we would be there.  Again???  I hadn't done laundry. We had no clean jeans.

And that's how we both ended up at the Livestock show wearing jeans smeared with blood, betadine, and sheep shit. Par for the course when you have a farm.  You know what? We fit in just fine.

When I returned home, I rushed to the barn to check on our patients.  They are still alive. (So is the Police Dog.) Keep your fingers crossed and keep them in your prayers.  (Police Dog too!)

  Today I named her "Jamaica."  (dreadlocks)

  Today I named her "Roany."

Farms evolve. Sometimes it helps to look back from time to time to see how your farm evolved.  Sometimes it doesn't. In fact, sometimes, it's downright scary. Those are the times when you calculate exactly how much money you shell out each month for feed, fencing, vet bills, and livestock. (Usually tax time!) After you have calculated the monetary expense, you then factor in the labor and time. Since most of us aren't full-time farmers (we would starve to death if we were!) you calculate your hourly wage at work versus how much your farm pays you. Eeek! At this point you wonder what people who live in subdivisions do with their time and money.

I mean really?!! Is there a reason to get up in the morning if you DON'T have screaming mouths to force you out of bed? What do they do with their money? I've calculated the figure, and if we didn't have goats, sheep, cattle, and the chickens we donate each year to coyotes, opossums, and raccoons, we'd be rich.

But lets get back to how farms evolve. First start with land. Land leads to horses. (naturally) Horses lead to fences. Fences lead to work. Clearing fence lines is hard work.  Round-up is both bad for the environment and the pocketbook. That leads to goats.  Goats are good for the environment, but bad for your mental health. Goats lead to muttering and cussing.

Enter man with cattle. Cow man understands ranching. Cow man leads to cattle, more dogs, more horses, and more land.  Cow man leads to cow dogs. Goats lead to Border Collies.  Border Collies lead to sheep.  Sheep are much easier on fences. Sheep are as cute as goats but with less cussing. Dorper sheep do not have to be sheared and kinda look like goats at a distance.

Cow man actually gets use to sheep and no longer hides his head in shame when he has to admit that yes, he has sheep. Cow man has his first crop of lambs.  Cow man announces (loudly) that he does NOT eat lamb. Cow man also refuses to allow the sale of lambs to anyone that he knows because he does not want to KNOW the person eating his cute little lambs. (As God is my witness, he said this!)

Cow man rules:

* It is NOT okay to serve goat on his plate in any form or fashion. The only creature God meant man to eat was the cow.
* It is okay to sell all goats at auction or to Middle Easterners in mini-vans.
* It is not okay to sell goats to anyone he KNOWs who will eat them. (He does not actually KNOW the Middle Easterners in the mini-vans)
* It is not okay to even talk about humane ways to kill your own baby lambs.
* If you plan on butchering lamb, plan on eating it by yourself.

Sheep lead to Livestock Guardian Dog because sheep are helpless creatures who look cute and don't destroy fences.  Because of this, you will throw all manner of money in their direction after the first lamb is born. Sheep lead to more sheep. You calculate that each ewe will have twins. You calculate that 50% of those will be female. Lambs are born.  All are singles.  All are male. THUS . . . you must BUY MORE SHEEP! You sell some goats. Instead of putting that money into savings or retirement, or whatever city people do with their money, you plan to BUY MORE SHEEP! You decide that your situation is hopeless because the man you plan to retire with also suggests that you use goat money to buy more sheep. (Unless one member of the family is of sound mind, there is no one actually piloting the ship, and you will both happily sail off the edge of the world together.)

And thus farms evolve. While city folk spend their free time going to dinner and the movies, hardworking country folk spend their time hauling hay, fixing fence, and admiring lambs built like brick shithouses that they will never eat. 

It's that time again! There are three major holiday seasons in Texas - Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Rodeo! Despite the fact that we will all whine and bemoan that each year the show gets more commercial and moves further away from its "Livestock show" roots, we'll all still knock the dust off the hats and head to town!
 

Since the Rodeo is ALL about education, pregnant farm animals are brought in from the local veterinary university. There, under the watchful eyes of their trained staff, and a half a million elementary school children, they will give birth. (Something tells me the cows would probably rather be outside in the cold pasture, but no one asked me!) Mothers and babies stay for the remainder of the livestock show in a "farm yard nursery."  This popular exhibit hosts Jersey cows, sheep, and hogs.

I tell you all this to lead up to our Rodeo Quote of the Season:

As soon as we entered the exhibit hall last night, Other Half turned to me and said, (I kid you not!) "OH! Let's go see if any baby calves have been born yet!!!"

Note to new readers:  This man has a whole damned pasture full of baby calves!!!!  He DOES NOT need to drive to town to look at someone else's BABY COWS!!!!

But look he did.  Like any city slicker, he oohed and ahhed over baby Jersey calves. Then he sat back and watched the yuppies ooh and ahh. He did resist the urge to point out that the little bull calf they were admiring was undoubtedly destined to be hamburger since it was a male. He also resisted the urge to point out that the birth weight of our lambs was much higher, but then our sheep are for meat and not wool, so I guess the skinny wool lamb has the last laugh.

There was so much more that I could have seen last night, but we got sidetracked. He heard an auctioneer.

To a rancher, the sound of an auctioneer is like announcing a shoe sale in a room full of women with new credit cards. With absolutely no warning, I found myself in the middle of a Simbrah auction. (But we don't raise Simbrah. Why are here?") But alas, he'd heard the call of the auctioneer. I knew that look on his face. He was on vacation.  He was at the rodeo. He had Bonus Money in his pocket. That is a recipe for buying cattle.  I looked at the bovine faces tied along the fence and tried to predict who was coming home with us. I know NOTHING about Simbrah cattle, but I KNOW how to pick a good cow. My criteria for cows goes like this - ARE THEY CALM?

That's about it. Does it look like something I want to live with?  I don't care how pretty it is, if it leaps fences, tries to stomp dogs, or runs over people, then it needs to live in someone else's pasture. Other Half selects cows based on how much meat he thinks it will produce, ease of calving, whether or not she has nice teats, and . . . whether or not I declare she has a "sweet face."

A very nice looking heifer dragged a young man into the arena. ABSOLUTELY NOT!  She was pretty, in a crazed Volkswagon kind of way.  I watched her swish her tail and haul that big, corn-fed boy around. NO WAY, JOSE! Since her purchase price did not include Hank the Corn-Fed Cowboy to handle her big ass, I nixed her pretty quickly. Other Half wasn't discouraged.  There were plenty of calm ones tied to the fence.

Finally I found one I liked.  She was big.  She was calm. She'd just had a baby two months ago. Hmmmmmm . . .  Where was the baby? Other Half was so busy asking himself that question that a buyer from Mexico snapped up Big Mamma. That was okay with me. (He kicked himself the rest of the night.) I was getting bored quickly. Princess didn't come to the Rodeo to buy cows. Princess came to the Rodeo to shop! And look at GOATS!  And look at SHEEP! And EAT!!!  Princess did NOT WANT TO BUY MORE COWS! 

So Princess and her camera wandered off in search of cuteness. Nothing quite screams "Yuppy Tourist" like a Canon hanging around your neck, but since I have nothing to prove to anyone, I happily embarked on my National Geographic tour of the Livestock Show. It didn't take me long to locate goats. Goats that belong to someone else are cute. Well, not this guy. 

This moron kept backing up, charging his bucket, and backing up again, and charging his bucket again. While it was entertaining, it would definitely eliminate him from MY breeding program. 

 I kept searching.  I was searching for cute, not stupid.  Then I found it! 

Look closely!  Buried in that mound of cuteness is even more cuteness!!!  

I think he might be a tiny Angora goat buried under those dairy goat kids.  This little fellow is just Beyond Cute!

Other Half eventually caught up with me here.  Most of the calves went to Mexico. None of the calves came to live with us. But the show is just getting geared up and Other Half will be there all week.  There is no telling what he'll come home with.  Last year we ended up with a Border Collie.

But this year . . .  I got these really cool Border Collie socks!

(Almost, but not quite, as cute as an baby Angora goat!)

Any idea what this is?

Look again.

Briar stares at it suspiciously.  She ain't sure what it is either.

Here's a better look.

A couple of months ago, I bought some new sheep. Through a set of unfortunate circumstances, my sheep died before their arrival and so we picked up these girls instead. Two of them have rugs - heavy rugs! The rugs are supposed to fall off this Spring.  I sure hope so. If not, Other Half and I are going to learn to shear sheep.

  At the moment, they're still in isolation. Thus far, they've been pretty easy to handle.  That's a plus. Easy to handle is good.

Today is the first day of my wellness! Except for the fact that I still cough like a tuberculosis patient, I'm much, much better! I actually feel pretty good!  Thank you for all the well wishes, e-hugs, and flu advice!  The dogs are all kinds of excited.  They got to go on a walk in the pasture for the first time in a LONG time!

  Briar goes ZOOM ZOOM!

  Zoom Briar ZOOM!

  Briar goes SPLATT!  (Blue Heelers are like that!)

  Run Briar RUN!

  Briar goes SPLATT!

Blue Heeler and Border Collie think this is a fun game.  It won't be as much fun next year when Briar weighs 85 lbs and they're on the bottom!

After the loss of Barn Cat this week, I was reminded to be thankful for all "the little people" around the barn. Several years ago I found myself with an abandoned litter of calico kittens. This evening I returned home to find the toilet paper shredded again.God Bless 'em! It reminded me of this essay which was written when they were kittens. It's been three years now, and someone is STILL "squeezing the Charmin!"

Okay... this could fit under the category of Too Much Information, but I imagine that anyone who has kittens in the house has experienced Kittens and The Bathroom!

My kittens are half-grown now and fully believe that my bathroom is Disney World. They are completely fascinated with the Porcelain Jungle and my toilet is the next best thing to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride! Since they were little, I always made sure to put the lid down, for fear that one of my tiny tots would drown. This has only served to heighten their curiosity. Absolutely nothing pleases them more than to watch that sucker flush! They stand on the seat and peer down into the bowl, with O's on their faces, like little kids watching fireworks for the first time. (except instead of looking up in wonder, they're looking down, and their heads spin a little...) And the toilet paper! Oh dear! The toilet paper! They have discovered the toilet paper and now I have to keep a basket under the rack just to collect the unrolled paper as they merrily spin it off the roll.

A bathroom break for me has become an adventure in The Magic Kingdom too. For instance, it's MAGIC how quickly a kitten can appear when she hears you lift the lid. And when a kitten materializes on the seat just as you are lowering your arse down.... it's MAGIC! (This appears to be their version of an Extreme Sport.) But today surely beat all...... (The squeamish should hit delete now!) When you are sliding toilet paper down to your privates and a little hairy arm snakes out from the other side of your drawers to snatch the paper away from you ..............THAT'S MAGIC! The Toilet Paper Bandit struck! At first it scared the crap out of me. Then I flew into a royal rage. After all, it was My Throne! Like a Calico Robin Hood, she ran across the tile with her stolen loot while I yelled at her. (Couldn't follow..... cat took my toilet paper!)

So I sat there and fumed while Robin Hood and her siblings shredded the stolen bounty. Then I reached for a fresh roll from a brand, spanking new package of Charmin, and it looked like a victim of a farming accident! Apparently Mister Whipole and the Charmin Bears are not the only ones who love that "squeezably soft" tissue!

Feeding the cows. Note that Border Collie is allowed to drive on the ranch.  No Driver License needed!

We just bought a new Angus bull today! (Actually, I just sat in the truck and coughed.)

(Not him.  This young fellow is the daddy of NEXT year's calves.)

My Favorite Calf of this year:  Miss Mocha!!  I LOVE this calf.  What a cutie patootie!

  And all under the watchful eye of the Ranch Manager!

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!