Farm Fresh Blog

A farm is a toddler, it runs on a routine. The biggest part of animal husbandry is getting a schedule established and sticking with it. And like toddlers, animals behave better when you stick to a schedule. That's what makes feeding this circus look easy. Trust me, folks, easy is just an illusion.  Get off that schedule and the wheel falls off the clown car, spilling clowns around the arena as the vehicle continues to chug onward in spirals, while you, the confused ringmaster wonder what happened.

After retiring and moving the farm across the state, we are slowly shaping order out of chaos by developing a routine around here. I get up in the morning and shuffle the outside dogs inside where they crawl into bed with Other Half.  I then turn the inside dogs out to play. I toss the livestock some alfalfa and release the Livestock Guardian Dog puppies to hang out with the inside dogs.

We take a short walk and return to change water buckets and milk the goats. The puppies wander around the barn aisle and supervise. After milking I put the pups on the milking stand which doubles as a grooming table for Livestock Guardian Dogs. They enjoyed their private time on the table getting snuggles and scratches.

I'm trying to add a daily grooming for the LGDs as part of the farm routine. These Anatolian dogs will be ginormous and the idea of fighting them over toenails isn't something I want to do. Briar has to be checked each morning for snake bites and sand spurs. No snake bites yet, thank God, but every morning she has sand spurs in her feet which must be removed.

By the time I'm through with the dogs, the sheep and goats are finished and can be released to begin their day of looking for trouble. Some wander off for adventure while others poke around the yard picking up stray alfalfa.

The pups supervise all this like tiny adults. I watch them and see glimmers of what they will become. Coyotes killed another calf north of us. They're bad this year. A friend of mine just lost a full-size horse to coyotes.  The mare had to be euthanized. I'm glad that Briar has some access to Tiny's night pen where she can monitor the big horse since he isn't free to move away from predators like the others.

I don't fool myself into thinking coyotes won't come up to the house for sheep and goats. The only reason they haven't ventured into the yard yet is because Briar barks all night. As winter moves in and the predators get bolder, she will need help.  While still too young to be real assistance, at least the puppies will be bigger and have supersonic thunder barks that can wake us up, and few things are more dangerous than a rancher in his underwear with a Remington.

I blog about schedules and a routine today because tomorrow morning it will all fall apart. Today I return to the Big City for a visit, leaving Other Half in charge of morning chores. He can be told what to do and in what order. He can be given written instructions. But the reality is that he will do things when he wants, how he wants, in the order he wants - because he is the human and he has thumbs. It gives him a false sense of superiority.

The other reality is that the farm will throw a collective fit.

"That's not the way MOMMY does it!"

 The wheel will fall off spilling out goats, sheep, cows, horses, and dogs and no amount of yelling in frustration will put that wheel back on the clown car.  The animals are happier when they have a schedule. And really, aren't we all? Aren't we all just big toddlers who thrive on having a routine?

There are certainties in this life which are as constant as the Laws of Physics, and if you run a ranch, here is one to add right behind the Law of Gravity - Do not ever attend an horse auction after you have just picked up a cattle sale check.

Because something killed a calf last week, we decided to sell off some of the youngest bull calves and a cow/calf pair. The calf was too young to wean, and her mother is a crackhead so whatever killed the first calf, be it the cougar or the coyotes, it would certainly be back for this one. We might as well sell the pair before we lost the calf.

Yes, Paisley fans, say B-Bye to the Crackhead! That's a burr out of my saddlepad. After years of listening to me argue about selling that headache, Other Half finally agreed. I think it had something to do with staring at the carcass of nice heifer calf belonging to the best mother on our place. Paisley's calf didn't stand a chance. She's a nice cow who produces nice babies but she needs to be on a ranch with no water gaps and fewer predators. You may also be as surprised as I was to learn that the buyer saw Paisley riding in the trailer with the calves and followed us right back to unloading dock where he checked her out, asked some questions, then walked right into the building and bought her. Paisley wasn't at the sale barn for 30 minutes before she and her calf were on their way to Oklahoma. Alrightie then. There's another chapter passed.

So back to the horse sale. We took a break from building fence because Dear Friends Kim & Clyde had bought us tickets to the Extreme Mustang Makeover in Fort Worth. We'd always wanted to see this event where top trainers around the country take Bureau of Land Management Mustangs for 100 days of training. After that time there is a competition to show off their new skills, and the horses are auctioned off to adopters.

We almost didn't go. I still have acres and acres of field fence to string, and stalls to put up, but instead we opted to take a break and enjoy the evening with friends. Dear Friend Kim has proudly accepted all blame and accolades for the results.

On the way there we stopped by the post office and lo and behold, the check from the sale of the calves was in. Now ordinary people wouldn't be concerned about this, but in the back of my head, I was watching the dominoes line up. We get settled and watch the event. It is truly amazing that these horses were running wild earlier. Not only is the event a display of the mustang versatility, but it showcases some of the finest trainers in the country. Ordinary people would just sit back and enjoy the evening, but my husband had a pocket full of money and so I was a bit edgy.

Now he doesn't follow this event closely so he was completely unaware that many of these trainers and horses are internet celebrities with a faithful following of fans. Truthfully, even I didn't realize the extent of it until the end of the night. (Welcome Tiny Fans!)

The evening unrolled as expected, long concession lines, crowds of people eager to see the show. The horses were really nice. Although there were some bobbles that can be expected at any horse show, they were well-started and the talents of both the horses and the trainers showed well. Some were cute. A couple of horses I would have taken home except for the fact that I already have two riding horses and have been thinking of stealing Other Half's cow horse. Buying a mustang was tempting, but I don't need another horse.  And then.

The big red horse rode out. Dear Friend Kim had told me about this giant red horse named Tiny. His trainer, Tom Hagwood, is something of a legend, and it didn't take long to figure out why. The other horses were good, but this big red horse was something else. Wow. He wasn't flashy, he was correct. Big long John Wayne strides of correct. I liked him even before he started working the calf. And as soon as the horse saw that calf, he readied himself and got to work. I glanced at Other Half and knew that look. As soon as the horse was finished, he nodded his head and said, "I want that horse."

Dear Friend Kim couldn't point him to a buyer's number fast enough. I was daring to be a bit excited. We needed another cow horse. One cowpony and some border collies just can't do it, and the country is too rough to do everything on 4-wheelers. That big red horse would be a lot of help around here, and Other Half was ready with a pocket full of money and buyer's number. But then, the expected happened - Tiny and Tom Hagwood won 1st place and $20,000.

I was happy for them, but sad for us. We wanted him, we needed him, but I looked at that first place ranking and decided that someone with more calf money was about to outbid us.

Other Half is never one to let the odds get him down, so during the short meet & greet where the trainers ride along the rails and talk to fans and prospective buyers, he talked with Tom about Tiny. After the talk he was even more convinced that Tiny was the horse for our ranch. I was too, but that whole pesky thing about money kept rearing its head. We are just simple ranchers. We don't have big pockets. We have lots of wild country, wild hogs, and constant fence repairs.

The bidding began and Other Half jumped right in. As the bidding climbed, he kept looking at me for approval. Should he keep bidding? Like him, I knew that big horse could be exactly what we needed. A few confused minutes later, it was done. Tiny was ours.

That's when the real confusion began. We had just bought the winner of the Extreme Mustang Makeover and suddenly I had my doubts. We just wanted a cowhorse. This horse and his trainer were celebrities.

We went back to the stalls and I was overwhelmed. Friends and fans crowded in to congratulate Tom and Tiny and I wondered if perhaps this horse was destined for more than a life with us as a simple cowpony. He would be loved but there isn't much flash around here, just beautiful sunrises, beautiful sunsets, and lots of work in between.

We picked him up the next morning and that's when I fully appreciated how big Tiny was. Tiny towers over the other horses. On the way home we stopped by our farrier's to pull off his sliding shoes. Shoes like that aren't useful in heavy brush and can be dangerous. We're missing a band of 6 cows and so, as is typical around here, there is no rest for the weary. Along with our farrier, and Dear Friends Kim & Clyde, Tiny saddled up to hunt for cows. There was no honeymoon for Other Half and Tiny. No easing into a relationship. Off to work they rode. We joined up later in the brush and he was gushing praises about the big red horse. Tiny went anywhere he was pointed and through anything. The John Wayne horse was proving himself to be a honest and willing worker.

As we rode back to the house Other Half turned around in the saddle and said, "I think I finally found my Skip again."

Ahhhh.... the elusive Skip horse. He'd had that Skipper W bred gelding for almost 25 years. There are horses, and then there are partners. Skip was a partner. After his death Skip has been hard to replace. Other Half has looked for the last eight years for a horse that could fill that void.  I watched him work with the big red horse and like Other Half, I thought of Skip too. And I was able to sort out my thoughts about buying a celebrity. Tom Hagwood wanted the horse to go to a working home. Tiny is a working horse. It fits him. He fits us. From the wilds of Oregon, to the BLM pens in Nebraska, to the trainer in Wyoming, and then here to Texas, Tiny's journey has brought him home to us.

Each time we have a close encounter with a copperhead, I'm reminded that even in Paradise, God stuck a snake. I thought about this yesterday as I stood over the scene of our first murder.

I knew she was dead when her mother, Snickers, came up to the house with a full udder for the second time. On Day One we told ourselves the baby had been laid down in the forest, and was waiting for her mother to claim her. This is common with deer and cattle, so we weren't alarmed until the second day. Snickers is the last cow I would expect to lose a baby to predators because she will stomp a dog in an instant and mutates into a Cape Water Buffalo the moment she thinks any calf is threatened.

Snickers is meaner than any donkey, so when this cow showed up without her baby and a full bag, it was time to start scanning for buzzards.

And so began the search. Not only did we search our property, but we had to search the properties to the north and south of us because the fences that cross the creek are nothing more than suggestions of a barrier to a cow. Since one band of cattle came in from the south, we loaded up Trace and Cowboy, drove to the creek, and headed south on foot down the dry creek bed.  And that's when we noticed little Trace was tracking cattle. Hmmmmm . . . didn't know he would do that.

We tracked, and tracked, and tracked. Clearly those cattle had roamed quite a ways. Trace tracked them all the way down the creek and then up through the fields where they looped up behind our house. It was an interesting display of Trace's job skills, but we didn't find the calf. So we loaded up the dogs and drove north. And drove. And drove. And got stuck crossing the creek in dry sugar sand. And cussed. And blamed each other. And cussed some more. And got unstuck. And drove some more.

We ran into some hunters who were happy to help look for a dead calf. They also volunteered to fix fence for beer. Alrightie then. So Other Half exchanged the dogs for fencing tools, and a cooler with ice and beer. I stayed at the house doing chores while they bounced off on 4Wheelers in a cloud of red dust. A couple hours later I got a phone call reporting that they found the calf on our ranch, not far from the house. I loaded up Lily and met the men on the road by the creek.

As I rolled up, one of the hunters cautioned me, " Don't go down there. You don't want to see that. It's bad. It's real bad."

I was puzzled, but then I remembered that he was a stranger and didn't know how I used to pay the bills. I assured him that I was a crime scene investigator and I'd be okay. Lily and I began our hike down the creek bed. It didn't take too long to find the body. Getting to it was another matter.  The calf was on the other side of a set of big boulders.

This area was a death trap for cattle. The banks were steep, funneling the prey into the large rocks where the more nimble predators had the advantage.  The sugar sand around the body made reading tracks difficult, but we saw a few large coyote tracks in a wet area by the bank.

There were long scrapes of hide missing from the calf's legs which suggested a frantic, ill-fated trip across the boulders. If the calf was flushed away from the larger cattle into this area the pack could kill her before an enraged mother could rescue the calf.  It was a good night for coyotes.

We are assuming the calf was killed by coyotes, but I suppose it's also possible the coyote tracks we saw were from secondary predators who happened upon a cougar kill. The calf's body didn't display the tooth marks on her back legs or her nose and ears. In fact, I saw no tooth marks at all on her hide, so I suppose it's possible a cougar dropped down and killed the calf.

Their mode of attack is reportedly to drop down from a tree and suffocate the prey by grabbing it by the neck. Although the calf's injuries seemed more consistent with a cougar attack rather than a pack of coyotes, the placement of the body didn't seem consistent with a cougar attack. It wasn't in or around a tree. It wasn't buried.

We'll never know, but last night a neighbor did report that on the night the calf was killed a cougar was seen by someone else on the gravel road just south of where we found the body. Ironically, the cat was headed north. Regardless of whether or not the calf was killed by the cougar or coyotes, the fact remains that the cougar is dangerously close to my sheep and goats.

Despite Briar's appearance, she is all fluff. Briar only weighs 86 lbs.

That's smaller than the average male cougar, so I won't breathe easier until Judge and Jury reach their full size.

They are growing fast, so if we can just tiptoe through this season, by next year, the small livestock will have a pretty impressive security detail.

Until then we will just have to keep the small stock and the dogs near the house where there is safety in numbers and firearms. Here is my plug for those who so strongly advocate gun control. Hubby and I tracked cattle on foot with two small Border Collies yesterday in the exact same forested area where this was seen:

Excuse me if I feel more comfortable with a gun that fires more than six shots. Out here you have little or no cell phone reception in the forest so if a cougar attacks you, your dog, or your husband, you better be ready to deal with it by yourself because 911 ain't coming.

These three are fast friends. Mesa enjoys her time with her giant playmates. At 12 weeks old they are almost her size, but not nearly as agile so she exercises this to her advantage.

But eventually agility alone just doesn't cut it when you have numbers and sheer determination working for you. Mesa often ends up on the bottom with a puppy hanging from each ear.

I watch their play and see shades of the budding titans they will become. They're playing now, but given their size and the fact that they have mastered the art of "tag team wrestling" I pity the varmit they latch on to when they're grown.  And for that reason I make sure they are exposed to all members of our pack.

I realized a few days ago that the pups hadn't spent a lot of time with Trace and Cowboy.

This became apparent when, in a search for water, Trace rushed into a pen which normally contained goats. He bulled past Judge and buried his head in the bucket. Trace was so busy drinking that he didn't note the posture of the Junior Security Guard who had taken exception to the invasion of his territory. Judge postured a bit and Trace ignored him while he drank, but I noted it, and put it away in the back of my head. Another few months and Trace won't be a physical match if Judge decides to draw the line in the sand.

They don't have to become friends and playmates, but clearly these toddlers cannot be brushed off for too much longer.

Whoever came up with the idea for a Zombie Apocalypse must have been raising goats. When the sun goes down around here, the only thing standing between slumbering livestock and The Walking Dead, is my favorite Nightwalker - Briar.

The coyotes begin to sing shortly before sundown and our sleeping giant awakes to begin her shift. All night long she barks and races off into the dark, the bell around her neck clanging loudly. It is the same bell the goats wear. In time perhaps the predators will come to associate the bell with the big white dog.

Sunup normally finds her lying behind the sheep pens looking up at the mountain. I release the pups from the goat pen, and we take a walk with the rest of the pack. Briar's shift is over, and she can relax. The cool mornings find her playful and sometimes she deigns to interact with her minions. They fall over themselves when she even notices them, so when she plays they are absolutely giddy. Her antics tend to be shortlived, perhaps she is burning off steam from the night before, but like the puppies, I enjoy watching her play.  She is an animated carpet, whirling in the red dust, chasing her tail, full of humor.

As quickly as it begins, it's over. Briar shakes the dust off along with all trappings of silliness, and as the sun climbs higher in the sky, she once more becomes the lazy white dog sleeping off the responsibilities of the night.

The good thing about making a complete fool out of yourself around here is there is no one around to see you. That's not true - there's an entire forest watching me. In fact right now there's conversation going on between a coyote and a bobcat that goes something like this:

"Did you see her last night?"

"Oh yeah. I laughed so hard I fell out of the tree."

It started innocently enough. I had just returned from the laundromat with a truckload of clean blankets, sleeping bags, comforters, and clothes - six washer loads! I was walking back outside for the last load when I noticed Judge and Jury trotting across the yard, carrying something black. On closer inspection the object in question was my favorite black bra.

Each pup had an arm strap and they were spinning and slingshotting each other back and forth across the yard like a canine Tilt-A-Whirl. Here's my plug for Champion Sports Bras - it held up for a long time.

I started asking the pups to come show me what they had. Judge dropped his end and trotted up with a toothy grin. Jury ran like a spotted ape with the bra.

He dipped under the barbed wire fence and settled down about twenty feet on the other side to chew his new black slingshot.

So close, and yet, so far.

The fence was tightly strung and the closest gate was 300 yards away. Jury was 'just' on the other side, laughing at me. I called. I pleaded. I heard the sound of fabric tearing. I cussed. I cajoled. He was having a grand time, both enjoying his prize and watching my multiple personalities emerge.

Finally good sense settled in and I opted to call all dogs and take off running for the barn. This proved too enticing for the little beast and he came running in with everyone else - without the bra. No problem. I'd just send Lily to retrieve it.

Retrieving underwear out of the pasture is not exactly in Lily's databanks. (Other Half and I are pretty civilized by those standards.) When given orders to slip under the fence and "bring me that!" Lily shot under the wire and began to trot back and forth across the bra looking for something of greater importance. This gave Jury the time he needed to scoop up his prize and trot down the fence line. Judge joined him and another round of Anatolian Tilt-A-Whirl commenced.

I began to plead with Lily to just march right in there, pull rank, and take the damned bra. Apparently possession really is 9/10's of the law because Lily refused to steal their toy. In desperation I tried the Run-To-The-Barn routine again. It worked. Once more the whole crew ran to barn. This time I had the presence of mind to give the little snots an empty water bottle. I called for Dillon and ordered him to go retrieve the bra. He presented me, instead, with a black rubber feed tub.

"NO! Drop that and go get my bra!" I shouted.

"But wouldn't you rather have a bucket? Buckets are so much more fun. "You can run with them. And carry them on your face."

"And carry things inside them."

"NO!!!!!! Go get my bra!"

Slightly hurt at my tone, he dropped the bucket and stared at me.

Lily assessed the situation. Idiot. He's an idiot with a bucket. She slipped under the fence and searched the area for whatever 'something' was so important to me. As she crossed the bra, I yelled "YES!!"

The dog turned around, inspected the dirty, torn bra lying in the briars, raised an eyebrow and said, "This? Really? All that screaming was about this?"

I was just a little bit ashamed of myself. Yes, shamed by a Border Collie. Trust me. It happens more often than I'd like to admit.

So I got the bra back. Another plug for Champion Sports Bras: Despite rocketing Anatolian pups around the barnyard the only real damage was a few tooth holes, which is not too bad for the abuse it took. Dillon forgave me for screaming at me. Jury doesn't care. And Lily, she's staying close for whatever personality emerges when puppies steal mom's underwear.

Say goodbye to Orville.

We dropped him off at the sale barn yesterday. I would have preferred to butcher him for us or the dogs, but Other Half refused to eat him and didn't want to go to the trouble to butcher him for the dogs. We will butcher a calf soon and so freezer space will be limited. There was not enough room for a ram who had earned a spot in freezer camp.

The thing about rams and bucks is that they are basically all about sex, or in Orville's case, sex and killing rivals. Orville decided that my high dollar buck, Jethro, was a rival and thus, must be killed. I heard Jethro screaming and ran to help, certain I'd find one of the dogs had him by the ear. I rounded the corner to find Orville bouncing Jethro around the pen like a soccer ball. The buck is much larger than the ram, but Orville is all muscle with a low center of gravity. Poor Jethro wasn't fighting, he could barely defend himself against the attack.

I had my doubts about running into the pen but figured that if I didn't, he'd kill Jethro. Lily was in the house, so I took Briar with me. The presence of the dog temporarily shocked Orville out of his homicidal fog, and bought me the time to shuffle Jethro out of the pen. Then Briar and I beat a hasty retreat while Orville was trotting around with his head on a swivel like a Spanish bull.

I took one long look at that and said, "Orville's got to die."

Other Half was aghast at my decision. He had not seen Orville's assault and really didn't seem to believe I'd sentence him to death for just playing rough. Read my lips: Orville was not playing.

Orville's goal was to kill the ram. Rams who do that also attack people. Not all rams attack people, but all rams that attack people started attacking other animals first.

Had I not been home he would probably have succeeded in killing a Nubian buck twice his size. Orville had been getting cheeky since the girls came home. He had rammed Briar for no reason and threatened the other dogs through the fence. I wouldn't even let the puppies around him. The day before the attack Orville was attempting to rape one of my wethers (neuthered male goat) and I tossed the wethers out of the pen and left him alone with Jethro, naively believely the bigger buck would be safe.

After the attack I contacted a friend who is a longtime sheep breeder and asked for her advice, and recipes. She said she would have butchered him when he first started attacking the dogs. Alrightie then. I'm aware that people have been killed by aggressive rams, so once I decided that Orville had to die, it was just a matter of when and where. I'd have been happy to put him in the freezer for sausage but Other Half would have none of it. With ten dogs, the prospect of dog food also seemed promising. (and won't be ruled out in the future!)

In the end we took him to auction. Over 3000 sheep and goats ran through that sale yesterday. I said goodbye to Orville as he trotted off to the pens and all the other sheep. He didn't look back.

Some deaths are tragic, but other deaths cap off the end of a good life. When I was a crime scene investigator, I recall a man who died in the manner most men would want to go - no, not that way. He was an elderly man who simply dropped dead while piddling in his garage. He had a long, fruitful life, and had spent the morning tinkering on his projects. Because of his age the neighbors kept a pretty close eye on him and so it wasn't long before someone noticed legs sticking out the garage door. His was a good death. So was Ice's.

As those of you on the Failte Gate Farm Facebook page already know, Ice passed away in her sleep this week. She went the way dogs want to go - lying beside her human. Since we re-homed her with my mother, the dog bloomed with new life, as she has had what every dog wants, a special human to guard 24 hours a day. Ice worked for a while as a narcotics dog and later as a cadaver dog, but she didn't really find her niche until she became a full-time companion to a retiree. It was a perfect fit for both of them.

After two wonderful years, Ice died in her crate beside my mother's bed. Everyone who has ever been faced with the angst of wondering when it is time to make the painful decision to euthanize a pet understands the wish that they would simply die in their sleep. I'm almost 52 years old and I've never, ever, had a dog die peacefully in their sleep, until Ice.

She had had her good days and her slow days, but nothing to remotely suggest the time was imminent. Ice went to bed that night and she was breathing heavy. Because storms were rolling into the region even that didn't send off any major alarms. The next morning, she had simply passed away in her crate beside the bed, exactly the way she would have wanted it.

And so while we shed some tears at her passing, I still tip my hat to her, because she had a good life, and a good death.

What is Faith?

Faith is the strong belief that in the midst of chaos, if you just keep moving forward, putting one foot in front of the other, then things will work out. That doesn't mean things will work out the way you want, or the way you expected, but faith is the belief that whatever does happen, was meant to be. And even in the chaos, especially in the chaos, God has not forgotten you.

Faith is also the knowledge that when something comes your way at the worst possible time, there is a reason, so don't question it. That's why I didn't put a whole lot of thought into whether or not we were keeping the little black kitten who flagged me down on my way home from work last June. The odds that I would hear a barking dog, stop my truck for a barking dog, get out of my truck to investigate the barking dog, get back into my truck and hear the plaintive cries of a kitten over the air conditioner and the radio, are so astronomical that when the tiny black kitten ran out of the darkness, I knew that he was in the hands of God and I didn't question it.

We were in the midst of packing and moving to North Texas and the last thing I needed was a tiny kitten with eight dogs. Thankfully my mother agreed to house the little beast until we got settled at the new home. He hit her household like a miniature tornado, leaving a path of destruction and disruption in his wake, and leaving his mark on all the hearts he touched. My mother named him Pavarotti because he sang an opera when locked in his kennel.

Pavi came to live with us the first week of August and his giant personality made quite the splash. Although the barn cats merely tolerate him, the dogs genuinely enjoy his company. In their minds, he is the best toy they've ever had. Since I've seen the way they play with Kongs, I have my concerns. Pavi has no such worries. He doesn't run from dogs, he strolls. He takes the game to them, shocking and confusing their predatory natures. This kitten thinks nothing of doing playful Halloween cat hops sideways and leaping into his opponet's face, landing across their noses with arms and legs outstretched like a feline SpiderMan.

Fortunately for the kitten, no one in the family harbors serial killer tendencies, but I still keep a pretty close eye on SpiderMan because he is tiny, they are easily excited, and accidents happen. He is not allowed outside at night. He is not allowed outside when we're not home. He is not allowed outside when too many dogs are loose. In short, his life is filled with rules and he thinks I'm a real downer because of it. A personality like his cannot be repressed for too long.

I don't know what big plans God has for this little tyke, but I never questioned whether or not he'd fit into our household. I have faith. Sometimes life is just easier if we quit agonizing over the details, and have faith that everything will work out in the end. And if things are not working out, it must not yet be the end!

Briar's minions, Judge & Jury are promising to be fine Livestock Guardian Dogs. They stay with the dairy goats at night and each morning when the goats and sheep are released in the yard pasture to browse the boys walk with them. They follow the goats for a while, then they find a spot on the top of a hill to watch. Sometimes the sheep and goats split with some browsing uphill and some browsing in the thicket downhill. The puppies actually manage to pay attention to both groups. I pull out a chair and sit with them. As often happens, I get distracted with some chore and then panic when I cannot locate puppies. Invariably I find them either with the goats, or sleeping with Briar.

 Briar appears to be a reluctant tutor who reminds me of Tommy Lee Jones in "Men In Black." She is gruff and surly most of the time, but I note that she is actually paying close attention to the puppies. Yesterday one of the ewes took aim on a pup and began to run it down. Briar moved her hulking mass amazingly fast to deflect the ewe's attack on the youngster. The ewe stamped off in a huff and Briar led the pups away,

where they once more set up on a hill to provide security for ungrateful sheep.