Farm Fresh Blog

I stared in shocked amazement at the carnage before me, but like so many deaths I've stood over, I couldn't cry because I was in a police uniform and there is no crying in police work. I just stood there in the street, holding back a silent tear.

My office is in the city, a building surrounded by concrete. And along the building, in this paved barren landscape, stood four trees - until yesterday. I was told that it took only twenty minutes. In twenty minutes a truck rolled up, sawed down four trees, loaded them into a shredder, and then workers blew the debris away and continued down the street. It took them longer to block off the street than it took them to kill four trees.

Why?

I held back a tear as I stared at the pitiful empty stumps sticking out of the pavement.

"They're gonna widen the sidewalks and put in planters."

Really? Really! They are gonna put in giant concrete planters like we have on the other side of the building? Planters that are filled with weeds and the occasional cigarette butt? Those planters? They cut down four trees for THAT!!?

"No, they cut down 72 trees for that..."

Someone decided to go the entire length of downtown and cut ALL the trees so they could widen the already very wide sidewalk and create a nicer stroll for pedestrians.

I listened to this explanation and tried not to let the tear roll down my cheek. I've stood over dead humans with less emotion than I felt for those trees. When is enough enough? When does man in his infinite arrogance quit killing things to satisfy his fickle fancy for the moment?

Those big dreams for sidewalks and planter look fine on a storyboard, but the reality is that someone has to care for those planters. Someone has to put plants in there. And that someone always chooses annuals that must be watered often and replaced regularly. These plants float in a sea of concrete like a shipwrecked lifeboat floats in the ocean.

Seventy-two trees . . .

Seventy-two trees were probably chopped up yesterday to form the mulch for the spring potted plants the city will pay to have planted, and cared for, and ripped out and then replaced later with the next Home Depot season special.

I need to retire. I need to be in a place where the trees are older than me, where they and the rocks around them, look down on the struggles of man as he tries to eek a living from the land, with the land. I need to be there to protect the trees. There is a reason why I must own my land - because the land needs an advocate, a voice, someone who will stand up and defend it. The land needs people who will stand up and shout "NO! You will not cut down those trees to make room for whatever stupid idea of you've come up with today!"

It is easy for people to say that land should belong to the government so that it belongs "to the people," but I will take a firm stand and tell you that the moment you give control of land to the government, some pencil pusher sitting on an IKEA chair in a sea of concrete will look up from a painted storyboard drawing and give the order to cut down your trees to make room for people who will bring more money to the government. And the people who love those trees will stare at the pitiful stumps in the concrete and shake their heads.

The people will leave their offices to head to the bus stops, and they will stand around the stumps of these trees and ask why. They will look around and ask the police.

"What happened to the trees?"

And the police will be just as upset as everyone else. Some people will go to the city to demand answers, and they will be reminded that the trees belong to the government and the government can cut them down for "the good of the people," because tourists like wide sidewalks, and tourist bring money. And you can always buy more trees.
 

  To read the story of my own personal battle for the trees:

Read -

Ferngully

Saving Ferngully

Anne Frank Meets Dirty Harry

What We Have Here . . .

Chess Games

Battle Drums

The Good Fight

Embrace the weekend!

Cue Pharrell Williams' "Happy" video: ="https://www.youtube.com/embed/y6Sxv-sUYtM"

Dance the Happy Dance!

"Whose got your tail?!"

SCCCRAAATTCCCCHHHHHHHHHH......

Cue: Needle scratching across LP record . . .

Oh well . . .

Take a lesson from Briar: Don't let a minor annoyance ruin your happy day.

Bring on the weekend!

But be responsible . . .  Am I the only one who thinks this dog looks stoned?

Note to Fluffy Dawg Fans:  Yes, it's ALL HAIR! Briar has a massive amount of coat now. Because she's got bad hips, we keep her just a tad underweight but sister is carrying enough extra hair to make an entire sled dog team.

A necessary skill for a cowdog around our place is riding on the 4-Wheeler. Most of the interior of the ranch is not accessible by pickup, thus, if you want to get places, you ride a 4-wheeler or a horse. I use the 4-Wheeler a lot to roadwork dogs in cool weather, and in warm weather it provides a safe way to transport dogs through snake-infested areas. (One evening last summer Dillon and I shot 3 copperheads within 100 yards of each other. I'm so glad he was safely seated on the back of the bike instead of racing down the trail beside me.)

So last week Miss Mesa Moo learned to ride the 4-Wheeler. Each frosty morning, she'd bounce up and down on the side of the bike, shaking her ticket at me, and I'd haul her into the seat up front while another dog or two climbed up behind, and down the trail we'd go. To a young pup, this was Disney Land, and that bike was her ticket to the Magic Kingdom.

One morning the 4-Wheeler didn't want to start because it was cold. Mesa was so excited that she grabbed a root sticking out of the ground and began shaking it back and forth in frustration,

"MAKE IT GO! MAKE IT GOOOOOOOO!"

The engine heaved to a start and she happily climbed on board to ride. What a brat. I think we can check "Ride The 4-Wheeler" off her list of skills a cowdog needs around here.

Mesa has sprouted legs now and is entering the gangly, scruffy stage of puppyhood. She is better able to keep up with the big dogs, but since she is still merely a tasty meal for coyotes, Mesa is not allowed to play near the forest edge without Dillon and Ranger. A Border Collie is not the top of the food chain in these woods.

 (Game camera photo on ranch 25 minutes from our gate.)

Although Mesa prefers hanging out with the other Border Collies,

 don't kid yourself. If something dash out of the forest and snatched Mesa up, Trace and Cowboy wouldn't look back. They would simply be good witnesses to the abduction.

 So if you need a bodyguard, your best bet is your big brown buddy. He's always got your back.

I head out to feed on yet another cold and drizzly night when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I'd like to say I don't recognize that person, but I do. I'm certain I arrested that old woman for public intoxication and fighting about 15 years ago. I stare at her in the mirror. Eegaads! When did that old woman sneak up on me? When did I become her?

Have you ever noticed that barn attire in the winter bears a striking resemblance to the way homeless people dress? Layers. Lots of layers. And the top layer is a dirty camouflage jacket. You don't bother to wear clean clothes because frankly, you're just gonna get dirty again. In muddy weather cleanliness lasts all of thirty seconds once I exit the door. A dog will greet me with muddy paws, or a goat will stamp muddy hoofprints on my clothing. A horse will then give me a kiss, wiping mud on my cheek. I resign myself to wear mud all winter.

Homeless people have an excuse. I don't. I have a hairbrush. I just didn't use it today. I stare at my hair sticking out in all directions from a loose ponytail. Talk about fifty shades of gray! And I believe that's a piece of hay left over from this morning's feeding.  Shaken out of my daze by the tiny paws bouncing on my leg, I look down at her toothy grin, but the rip in the leg of my gym pants glares back at me. The puppy really doesn't care what I look like. She doesn't care that I smell like muddy cow shit already. No, the dogs don't care, and Other Half is out of town, but I look in the mirror and decide that I care.

At least at this moment I care. When I am rested. When I'm not hungry. When I'm not overwhelmed with too much to do and not enough time to do it. I care today. I look at the dirty old woman in the mirror and resolve to make a better effort to walk outside not looking like a homeless person. The neighbors might appreciate that. Tomorrow?  Well. . . we'll see how much time I have.

Because of the mud and juggling Briar around the cows, yesterday I put her in the buck pen with the boys.  While the goats fall under her protection, Briar considers herself a sheepdog, not a goat dog. The goats have never been fond of Briar, and thus no one was particularly thrilled when I locked her in with the buck pen.  As I filled the water trough I watched this little drama play out.

 Jethro - young buck, not even a yearling yet, who believes he's Billy Bad-ass since he's the only one with testicles. (These things get him in trouble.)

Briar - self-appointed Guardian Of The Galaxy

As soon as Briar entered the pen, I noted Jethro giving her the hairy eye. She ignored him. He shook his ears at her a few times. She continued to ignore him.  He got bold enough to stiff-walk her way with his head down. She turned her face to the side, just barely in his direction, and lifted her lip in a silent snarl.

 And Jethro decided that retreat was the better part of valor. Interesting. This is the same idiot who thinks he can spar with the cattle. Perhaps Delta knocked some sense into him when he tried to ram her calf a few weeks ago. Whodathunkit?

 "Uuuhmmm" 

"Sparring with the dog will not part of the matinee performance."

As Briar points out almost every day, not everyone loves Border Collie puppies. Some folks like Big White Dawgs. Therefore today's post is a nod at my favorite BWD, so let's take a morning walk with Briar.

 The stock has been fed. The sheep and goats have to stay locked up until the calves finish eating or they will mob the cattle troughs and then eat all the cow chow. (This bothers Other Half more than it bothers the calves.) While the calves eat, Briar and I take a walk.

 She patrols the pastures.

 And up by the yard.

 She gets the giggles and transmogrifies from Briar the Noble Pasture Protector to Yeti - the Spinning Abominable Snowdog.

 And she runs.

 And she spins around.

 And she collapses on the ground.

 Where she winds herself up and begins again.

 And when she is finally out of breath, the spinning Yeti turns back into a peaceful pasture puppy,

 who is just as cute as any Border Collie.

After careful consideration and taking into account that Mesa is quickly growing into an opinionated, independent pup, who thinks nothing of standing up for herself, we decided Mesa was ready for The Big League - Aja, the patrol dog.

Although Aja isn't dog aggressive, for the longest time Mesa looked like a guinea pig, not a dog, and until we were certain that Aja understood that Mesa was a little person, there was always a stout fence between them - until this day.

She got bounced around quite a bit, but she loved it.

"If you can't play with the Big Dawgs, stay on the porch."

And play they did. Mesa quickly figured out that she'd leaped into the deep end of the swimming pool but soon discovered that she could still engage Aja from the relative safety of underneath vehicles. She used guerilla warfare to dash out, do a sneak attack, and dash back behind a tire to emerge with a face full of teeth on the other side. It was great fun for both dogs.

Because Mesa is so small, I still wouldn't leave them unattended but not having to juggle these two for potty breaks sure makes my life easier. It has been pointed that juggling dogs around here is like living in a penitentiary. (Yes, it is!) The pack is broken up into two sub-packs:

The Nice Dogs: Dillon, Ranger, Lily, & Aja

and The Mean Dogs: Trace & Cowboy

At the moment, Mesa interacts nicely with both packs, but I wonder if in the future she will live as peacefully under Lily's thumb. Lily is a micro-managing bitch, but she isn't a fighter. Mesa is a scrapper who isn't going to back down unless she is clearly outmatched by her opponent - and then she might hold a grudge for a while.  This will probably put her in the Mean Dog camp with Trace in the future, which is fine, because I need her to be able to work with him as a team on cattle.

In the mean time, I will enjoy the liberty of being able to bounce her between the packs for playtime and potty breaks. And to answer the question before you ask -

No, she still isn't allowed around Briar.

Briar still sees her as a Little Lily and despises her. She watches Mesa playing with the other dogs and isn't charmed one bit. As far as Briar is concerned, Mesa is not cute, Mesa is a baby Border Collie, something akin to a baby alligator in her book.

"It's not cute. It's just small."

Well, it happened today - this morning - on our morning walk. The goats rushed to the fence to see me and suddenly they slammed on the brakes - staring at my feet. And at my feet a sleeping dragon had awakened.

She squared off, lowered her little head, raised her eyebrow, and the National Geographic music rolled. And at that moment, the goats and I realized a baby cowdog woke up. They took a step back and sealed the deal. That was it. The "power" breathed into her like a Jedi force and just like a light switch flipped, Mesa turned on. Alrightie then.

I was reminded of one of my favorite scenes in the movie, "Madagascar" when Alex finally realizes he's a lion, the ultimate predator. This scene never fails to put me in stitches: http://youtu.be/6PutXIL2MS8

If you haven't seen the movie Madagascar, do yourself a favor and see it. You will not regret it.

This is the modern cowboy:

  While not entirely excluding work on horseback, we still find that the use of a 4wheeler with dogs is a pretty easy way to work cows.

There is a creek running through our ranch that wild hogs (and cows) use as a highway. The fence gates across the creek crossings are supposed to work like doggy doors, flipping up when the water flows bringing debris with it, and then settling back into place. The problem is that the cattle have figured this crap out and use the fence gaps like giant doggy doors. Thus they come and go as they please. Since our ranch has the only ponds in the area, they still come home to drink, but those hussies roam like tomcats in the hood.

This must stop. They have everything they need on our property: grass, water, shelter, cattle feeder. There is no need to adopt this "free-range" attitude. Talking to other ranchers in our area, this is common with their cattle too. One rancher even pointed out that Texas is a free-range state, thus fences are to keep cattle OUT not to keep cattle IN.   Hmmmm...

I don't care. I don't want my cattle loose. I don't want my cows so far away that they can't even hear us calling them. Thus Other Half made plans to seal the doggy door closed. The first good rain will take it out since the fence can't raise up now, but for a while, it'll keep the cattle inside. But before he could change the fence, he had to find the cows and return them to the property.  I drove around the first day and they were nowhere close. And since we've had some rain up there recently, there was obviously no burning desire to return home to water either because the next day they hadn't returned.

So Other Half loaded up the 4wheeler with his favorite tools: fencefixing materials and Trace

I have a love/hate relationship with this dog. I would probably like him more if he wasn't so dog-aggressive and so hard on my sheep. Other Half adores the little beast. He's happy enough with the way the dog works cows and they have a good relationship. I suppose the dog works because Other Half believes in him.

For example, they loaded up on the 4wheeler that cold rainy morning while I stayed in the warm house and did inside chores. He had a thermos of coffee, a walkie-talkie radio, a gun, and Trace, so I didn't worry much, but I didn't expect to see them for hours.

Less than an hour later I heard him bumping me on the radio. A half mile off the property Trace had found the cows, gathered them up, and headed them back home.

And after that he just settled down behind a cactus and watched them - like a peeping tom stalker.

 That big black cow is Snickers the Water Buffalo who will stomp a dog to death if she can catch it. The trick to working these cows is to give Snickers a healthy amount of distance and let her think moving the right direction is her idea. Don't push this old girl to fight or she'll make an honest attempt to kill your dog.

 He doesn't have a lot of formal training, but Trace reads cattle really well. He doesn't have a lot of finesse but he understands the basics - find the cows, get around them, pick em up, bring em to Dad, hop back in the 4wheeler.  And because of this, he manages to be a basic tool for the modern cowboy.

 I think it takes more than just having a good dog. I think it takes a healthy dose of believing in that dog. Trace steps up to the job because Other Half believes he can. He isn't nearly as judgemental with this little dog as I am, and it shows in the dog's performance. They ride out together, both having a big picture of the job, and working together, they get it done. And really, I suppose that's what it's all about.

The evolution of a nickname is a curious thing. Lily's alias is "Gator," Dillon is the "D-Man," and Trace is "Red Feather." It was assumed that Mesa's nickname would evolve to be "May May," but such is not the case.  This past week at the ranch her new nickname emerged:

"Moo Moo"

Because the cow goes "Moooooo."

 And Mesa Moo has supervised all cow feeding,

and she has figured out now that the cow goes "MOO!!!"

Mesa was quite happy to watch the cattle from the safety of the truck but when Other Half carried her through the bunch to count cows, she was a bit apprehensive that the 'moo-moos' noticed her.

It is clearly a lot less intimidating when you're being carried through sheep or goats, but neverthless she handled the cattle well. I did notice there was no discussion of "Put me DOWN! I've got legs. Let me walk!"

The conversation went more like:

"Hold me tight, Daddy!"

And he did. And Mesa was just fine. At her age it's all about exposure to the world she will work in without allowing her to have a bad experience. So Mesa spent a week at the north ranch, soaking up real ranch life and the worst thing that happened to her was she got a stupid nickname.

 Mesa Moo