Farm Fresh Blog

It would appear that the chicken was not the only victim of coyotes last night. I have a lamb who may not make it. The sheep were fine last night. I didn't notice anything unusual this morning when I fed, but later found that this lamb couldn't stay up on her feet. Alert and eating while lying on the ground. I didn't immediately see a problem. Later it became apparent that although she could struggle to her feet, she could not walk. It is like her back legs are partially paralyzed. 

Called the vet. He hasn't had a chance to get back with me. Contacted sheep/goat man who is also a paramedic. He thinks she has a possible pelvic injury, or disc problem, probably caused by the horse . . . probably caused by the coyotes. At the moment, we are still working with her and haven't given up hope, but we may still have to put her down. Grrrr . . . damn coyotes! 

My day began with dead chickens. Well, actually only one dead chicken, with visions of many more to come. A canal runs along the entire south side of my property. This canal is a Predator Superhighway and is the main reason why all livestock smaller than Border Collie MUST be locked up when the sun comes down. (The Zombie Wars begin!)

My bird pen is, unfortunately, on the south side of the property, right along the canal. It is about a 1/4 of an acre, covered in bird netting on the top, field fencing on the sides, and a short sheet of tin along the ground. The chicken coop is a metal/wood building enclosed on three sides. The fourth side has field fencing covering bird netting. There is a wooden door and a piece of heavy welded wire cattle panel across the wooden door (like burglar bars!) so the chickens can put themselves up at night when I have to leave the house before dark. Anyone caught outside the henhouse after dark is in danger. Or dead.

This set-up has worked for a while--until last night. My first clue (even before coffee I could figure this out) was the pile of feathers beside the chicken coop door. In my neighborhood, a pile of feathers is a BAD thing.  Either Blue Heeler has shredded a down-filled jacket, OR there is a dead chicken somewhere.

It would appear that The Boogey Beast managed to get inside the main pen and slip up to the chicken coop. It then grabbed a chicken that was sleeping too close to the wire. Although it wasn't able to pull the whole chicken through the wire, the hen is dead and partially eaten. 

I HATE picking up dead chickens!  I wish I had a $100 bill for every dead chicken I've had to pick up over the years. Needless to say, there were NO eggs today. Also, none of the birds wanted to walk past the scene of the attack to get outside this morning.  Duh! I'm sure it was a bit traumatic to watch their girlfriend get eaten. And like Jurassic Park, the predator WILL be back. I'm not sure where it's getting in, but it will most certainly be back tonight. I've seriously considered getting a couple of Livestock Guardian Dogs for that area, but then, who would protect my chickens from the Livestock Guardian Dogs?

I am reminded of something a friend said to me some time ago. She told me, "I just can't wait to get home at night so I can work on my Virtual Farm!"  I was intrigued. What the hell is a Virtual Farm? She is on Facebook and loves to play FarmTown or Farmville, or Farmsomething. I asked her if there were "virtual coyotes" on her virtual farm.

"Of course not," she said, "It's a VIRTUAL farm!" (Hmpfh!  City Girl!)

I questioned further and determined that there were also no vet bills on her virtual farm. Hmmmmmm . . . exactly how does one farm with "virtual coyotes and virtual vet bills?"

I bet there are also no virtual dead chickens on a virtual farm. 

Update on Otis: He is getting better. The swelling is still down. He is taking his antibiotics, his Red Cell, and molasses.

Update on Dora: Before I get 500 emails asking me if Dora the Explorerer is okay, YES! she is! Dora didn't live this long because she sleeps beside the fence at night. The victim was one of the brown chickens who was not nearly as wise as Dora. 

Otis survived the night! The swelling started going down within the first hour of receiving the injections. I walked out this morning and a happy, hungry, little goat greeted me.

Today he will start receiving doses of Red Cell and molasses to aid his recovery. Otis should REALLY like the molasses! (The gigantic pink ear tags have GOT TO GO!!! Good grief! Those suckers are enormous! Poor little goat! Other Half just infomed me that he'd found some much smaller tags to replace the pepto bismal pinks.) I want to thank everyone who emailed and called through the night to check on little Otis. Your prayers, advice, and well-wishes were greatly appreciated!

OH MY GOSH!!!! Look at Otis!

This is what he is SUPPOSED to look like. Here is his brother, Amos.

I walked out this afternoon to get eggs and found poor Otis looking like The Elephant Man. 

I mean LOOK AT THIS:

Poor Otis! I couldn't immediately get in touch with my vet, so (God bless the internet!) I got on the GoatandSheepRancher yahoo list and the Dairy Goat yahoo list for advice. God bless these people. Within an hour the advice was rolling in.

I was able to reach my vet who, after hours, (Bless him too!) gave me three shots for Otis--banamine, dexamethasone, and nuflor. Other Half wasn't at home, so Border Collie and I were left on our own to separate Otis from the other goats and poke him three times. (Otis was NOT amused.)

Keep little Otis in your prayers. Hopefully we'll figure out what's causing this before it's too late. 

(I swooney! Ain't that just life on a farm? If it ain't one thing, it's something else!)

Because we spent the day tagging and worming goats, there was precious little daylight left for moving cattle out of the rye grass. We do rotational grazing and thus, we need a cow dog. Cattle have to be moved frequently to prevent overgrazing. A 4-wheeler and a sack of cubes doesn't necessarily do it; there are always a few stupid ones, a few stubborn ones, and a few that just want to make you tromp through the mud.  

Although Border Collie is a fine dog for sheep and goats, she's too young, too little, (too precious to me!) to put on cattle. For cattle we use Blue Heeler. It's not that he isn't precious to me too, it's just that he's bred to work cattle. He's built to work cattle. He can take a kick better than Border Collie. And he thinks it's funny when large bovines try to kill him.  (I don't!)

Last night Blue Heeler and Other Half headed out to move cows. I took pictures. (Border Collie stared through the living room window and pouted.)

The smarter ones see the 4-wheeler and start running to the chute.

Some are less cooperative. In fact, that big yellow cow regularly tries to kill Blue Heeler.

Blue Heeler finds this insanely funny.  (I do not.  In fact, this cow is the main reason why Border Collie will NEVER be allowed to work this group of cows!)

Blue Heeler is much like Muhammed Ali. "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!"

Eventually the cows end up in the new pasture, Blue Heeler has a great time, and Yellow Cow runs off to plot more ways to kill him.

Today we wormed and tagged some goats. It was Border Collie's first time to handle Evil Goat, a particularly nasty girl who has been known to attack even The Enforcer. She often carries a tuff of goat hair on the end of her horns because she will not hesitate to hook the other goats either.

Evil Goat

(Look closely . . . she has a tuff of hair on her left horn!)

Because Border Collie is a baby, she has been used only on weanling goats . . . until today.

"Bring 'em in, Pup!"

                 "Hold "em here, Pup!"                                                                        

Sure enough, Evil Goat just had to cause trouble.

I held my breath. Those horns are sharp. That head is hard.

Border Collie said, "You want a piece of me?" 

 "REALLY?"

After a short "Come to Jesus" meeting and one torn ear, Border Collie established herself as She Who Must Be Obeyed and order resumed.

Note the two weanling goats who already KNOW that Border Collie must be obeyed. She ignores them while she watches Evil Goat to make sure nasty Evil Goat behaves. Very wise. I have seen Evil Goat knock The Enforcer on his butt when he took his eyes off her.

She handled herself like a pro. She is almost ready for billy goats . . .

The Mystery of the Disappearing Eggs

I am not a mental giant before I've had my coffee.  I recognize this fact and try to accommodate for my weakness.  But lately, I have had to question my sanity.  Each morning, it is my habit to stumble out of bed, cuss excited dogs, turn out goats, and collect eggs.  I then return with the eggs, place them on a barrel and proceed to feed horses and sheep. 

I always count the eggs.  I am certain when I leave the hen house that I know exactly how many eggs I have in my pocket.  I think.  After I return from feeding the horses, lately I seem to come up with a different number.  It's always LOWER than my original count.  (In my business, we call that A CLUE.)

So today I did a little surveillance . . . and wonder of wonders . . . I found my suspect!

     My Black Belgian!

                                                                          Caught!  Red-handed!  (Red-tongued!)

"Hmmmm . . . that tasted like another."

                                                                                                    And another . . .

And then there were 7 . . .

I put the remaining eggs in the pockets of my gym pants.

A word of caution: Do not, I repeat, DO NOT place 7 eggs in your pockets if you own a very bouncy 9-month old Border Collie . . .

. . . and then there were 6.

The trouble with Currier & Ives paintings is that they show you the romance but they forget the reality. 

Romance is snow . . .

Reality is the mud that comes after the snow . . .                              

Romance is catching snowflakes on your tongue . . . 

Reality is ice in all the puddles . . . 

Apparently no one informed Blue Heeler there were sheets of ice floating in the puddles before he zoomed across them.  He skated and careened like he was trapped in a pinball machine. When he finally reached dry, non-slippery land, he had to take a look back to see what demon had taken hold of him. The look on this dog's face pretty much sums up the romance and reality of a life after snow. 

The Porch Ponies gave me gray hairs this afternoon! They have three separate paddocks, one of which is the area where I park my truck. I was getting ready to go to work this afternoon and noted that the ponies were in the paddock beside the canal, NOT in the paddock with my truck.

"Ah HAH!" I said to the Border Collie (who is always with me). "Now would be the perfect time to move my truck outside the gate."

So I did. I opened the gate, got into the truck, and started to back out. That's when everything went to Hell in a Handbasket. Ruffy, hereafter referred to as The Red-Headed Demon, heard the gate opening and said to himself, "Why lookee there, Freedom is just behind that gate. I'm outta here!"

His little fat self can move with all the speed and grace of a professional football player. He hustled out of the canal paddock with speed that would make a Derby winner envious. In vain I tried to maneuver the truck to cut him off. Wrong! As soon as he squeezed his little fat ass through that tiny space between my truck and the gate, I swear the little bastard did an End Zone Dance.

I wasn't overly alarmed at this point, I just got out of the truck and started the sideways ease towards him. You all know the game -- the "I'm not trying to catch you, I'm just walking kinda in your direction" game. Unfortunately, The Red-Headed Demon has played this game before and knows how it ends. Off he trotted down the street. Now I was getting alarmed. I live on the end of a quiet dead-end street, but The Red-Headed Demon was headed toward a very busy county road at a fast clip.

The Border Collie offered to help, but fearing the she'd get kicked, or end up chasing him further down the street, I declined. I was now trotting a parallel line along the street. The Demon was trotting down the street, and I was trotting in the neighbor's yards (in Crocs . . . Note to self: wear running shoes)

At this point, I was deep in serious prayer. "Dear Lord, HELP ME!!!!!!!"

That's when I turned around and realized that Napolean, The Tiny Emperor, was ALSO running along beside us. I said a few choice cuss words and prayed harder. (I know, it seems a bit contradictory, but God knows I'm weak.)

I phoned my neighbor at the end of the street in hopes that she could head them off. Too bad, she was not home. By then, I was in the middle of the street and the minis were already approaching the busy highway. At this point, I was praying out loud, "PLEASE LORD, PLEASE HELP ME!!!"

I ran up to the house of some neighbors that I barely know and started ringing the doorbell. The son (a police officer) came to the door with his mother. I frantically pointed at the ponies who were by now crossing the busy highway! Fortunately, the young man understood the language of hysterical women, and with very little explanation, the kid figured out the whole story. We shoved my poor Border Collie into the house with his mother, and he and I took off after the ponies.

And I prayed some more.

You know those folks who don't have jobs in the middle of the day and you see them just walking down the street? Well . . . at that very moment, a young man in his 20's was walking down that busy road. (His name is John.)

The young man saw the ponies cross the highway. He saw the traffic slow down to avoid hitting their little fat asses. (Thank you again, Lord!) The ponies crossed the road to enter a hay field with grass taller than they were. Eric (the police officer) and I crossed the road after the ponies and John came to join us. I easily walked up to Napolean and caught him by the mane. He grinned at me and said, "Look, Ma! Look at this great place Ruffy found!"

I hugged Napolean and handed him to Eric. The Red-Headed Demon looked over his shoulder, saw that his companion had been captured, and headed through the hay field toward the canal. At this point, I decided we were safe enough to run back and get halters, so I left John and Eric with Napolean while I ran (jogged) back in Crocs. (I'm never going out of the house without running shoes again!)

I drove back with halters. Napolean was knee-deep in ecstasy. The Red-Headed Demon had settled down and was enjoying the bounty of his naughtiness too. We put a halter on Napolean and Eric held him while John and I headed out after Ruffy. John asked, "How fast can he run?"

I admitted that to a twenty-something year old man, a little fat pony did NOT look very fast, but I advised him against a foot race with an animal who could give a zebra a run for his money. I walked towards Ruffy as I explained to The Red-Headed Demon that I was late for work and that he could have gotten himself, Napolean, and my Border Collie killed on a busy highway. He stopped walking away from me, turned and grinned. Then he walked right up to me. I hugged him.

Halters on both minis, we all started the long trip back. Once at the truck, Eric and I thanked John and bid him farewell. Then Eric climbed in the back of the truck and held the lead ropes while two very happy little fat ponies trotted along behind the truck. We stopped to pick up the very confused Border Collie who was waiting in the house with Eric's mother and then drove home.

I thanked God again . . . and again . . . and some more. Then I hugged the Red-Headed Demon and informed him that he would never be allowed the opportunity to slide his little fat self through that gate again. He winked at Napolean and looked angelic.

I love my little Red-Headed Demon.