Farm Fresh Blog

Lesson For The Day: In case of Zombie Apocalypse, cut the Labrador from the team and take the Anatolian to war with you.

Yesterday an early morning run to the vet delayed morning chores until after my return. To set the stage, Other Half was in town at a class, Dear Friend Clyde was in the same class, and Dear Friend Kim was at work. I had just returned to the house and gotten off the phone with my mother when my little adventure began, so I was, to put it bluntly, on my own. No one was even gonna be looking for my body for at least 4 hours.

And so it began:

Chores on a farm are much like tipping that first domino in the row. Once tipped, there is no going back, things must flow forward in the sequence.

Step One: Release the Livestock Guardian Dogs from the Night Pens. They then run around the yard and play with the Civilized Dogs (I use this term loosely. These are the Inside Dogs who do not pee in the house or randomly attack their cell mates.) The release of dogs heralds the start of Feeding Time, which any rancher worth his salt will tell you, must be run quickly and in the right sequence or there is hell to pay. The sheep and goats begin screaming their fool heads off. This tips off the cattle in the front pasture that Feeding has begun and they begin calling. Horses in the forest are then alerted and start to wander up.

Step Two: Get hay wagon loaded with alfalfa and begin dolling it out to small livestock so they will shut up.

We never got to Step Two.

Just as I was thinking about reaching for the tongue of the wagon, I was hit from behind, just about knee level, by a Labrador Retriever doing at least 60 mph which is well over the posted speed limit for the barn aisle. He sped off as I did a Triple Oxer Double Backflip Somersault With A Twist and landed on my back on the little metal wagon which quickly jettisoned up the saddle rack and dumped my body on the cold concrete with a thud. And a bounce. Like a Hit & Run Driver the Labrador had no Driver License, no insurance, and no intention of returning to the scene. (He probably had warrants too.)

I laid on the cold concrete trying to assess the damage. Since I hit my back pretty hard on the rail of the wagon and then hit the floor hard enough to knock the senses out of me, for a little while, I couldn't even move. I just laid there, mentally cussing the dog, and marveling at how randomly and quickly shit happens. As a crime scene investigator, I've seen too many dead people lying on the cold concrete. Trust me. None of them planned it. My mind flirted ahead to the confused crime scene investigator trying to figure out what happened if I died there. No one, NO ONE, would figure out that I was assaulted by a Labrador prior to my demise.

And so there I was, stuck on the cold floor, wondering if I was paralyzed or gonna die, when someone laid down beside me, stretching his warm body the full length of mine and licking my face. Judge, the seven month old Anatolian puppy had found me. His brother, Jury, stood over my head, and the two of them began nervously licking my face. This jump started me and I reached out to hug Judge closer. Arms and fingers work. Check. Toes wiggle. Check. Sharp pain in back but limbs work. Major progress. (Those Readers who have horses are very familiar with this check list.)

So although everything appeared to be working, the pain in my back kept me on the floor while puppies the size of Great Danes tried frantically to make it all right again. That's when I burst out in tears, not because of the pain, but because I was just so touched by my Disney Dogs. Judge pressed his body along mine and begged me to be normal again. The Border Collie girls zoomed worried circles at my head, wringing their hands, and trying to get past the Anatolians for a Nurse Check of their own. The Anatolians weren't having it. Jury kept blocking them away while Judge resumed his attempts to get me vertical by means of licking my face. That's when the biggest, hairiest white legs sauntered into view. Briar had arrived.

She looked down at me and said, "What have we here?"

The Anatolians were beside themselves, clearly relieved that someone above their rank and pay grade had arrived on the scene. Briar would know what to do. Her first order of business was to remove the Border Collies. The Borders danced back when she growled but not far enough and I had visions of her killing both of my little black & white dogs. This would really have confused authorities finding my body.

"Why is she dead and why are there two dead Border Collies beside her?"

So in my best "I'm still alive and I'm still in charge" voice I announced as such to the immense relief of everyone, including me. Using Judge and Jury as crutches, I hauled myself vertical and did another Health Check. Everything did appear to still be working. Just in case I died later from a head wound, I called Dear Friend Kim and Dear Friend Cathy to update them on my dogs and my gymnastic skills.

While I finished chores Judge walked beside me and Briar walked behind me. Jury puttered nearby but cast an eye over regularly. Their normal playtime was shot. I don't think it had ever occurred to them that The Ultimate Authority/The Commander In Chief might be helpless and need them.This blew their minds. Frankly it hadn't occurred to me either. I expect 'Lassie' things from the Border Collies, their behavior didn't surprise me too much. And the reality is that I shouldn't have been surprised by the Livestock Guardian Dogs. Hellllooooooo.... they're GUARDIAN dogs.  They saw a situation and stepped up to bat.

I gave this some thought as I tossed hay to the cattle. The Labrador was hunting rats in the cactus, oblivious to everything, while the Livestock Guardian Dogs followed me with worried eyes. Yep, I'm sold. I will always have these dogs. Even if I didn't have livestock I would have an Anatolian Shepherd. These dogs make me feel safe. They are big enough, and strong enough, and most importantly, they are bred to recognize a problem and solve it themselves. So what if they are strong-willed, gigantic horses with a mind of their own who eat you out of house and home? When you've fallen and you can't get up, that horse of a dog is pretty damned important to you. And so while the Border Collie may be able to retrieve your cell phone and call 911 or race to the neighbors and say  "Mommy's in the well," the Livestock Guardian Dog will climb in the well with you and he is strong enough to carry you out.

'Men have forgotten this truth,' said the fox. 'But you must not forget it.

You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.' 

Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Because I live with a Mustang, I've given a lot of thought to this quote. Something is wild, living on its wits and the elements, and then man interferes. Once captured, man must assume the responsibility for its care.  When we bought Tiny at the 2015 Extreme Mustang Makeover, his trainer, Tom Hagwood, had carefully molded a wild mustang into a Champion domesticated horse who had chosen to walk with and carry a man as his partner in life.

Here on our ranch, Tiny has a foot in both worlds. He is both a cowhorse, and a wild mustang. Although our ranch is not big, the terrain is varied and wild enough to give a horse the illusion that he is free, and frankly, depending upon which side of the creek he's on during a heavy rain, he is wild, using his own wits for survival.

Our small band of geldings live loose on the ranch and they choose to come in each morning. If there is work to be done, we keep Tiny and a friend up for a few hours, or a few days, but then they are released to return to their lives as semi-wild horses again. The ranch itself is untamed enough that it's entirely possible to completely lose four horses in its bowels. I know, because I've looked for them in the dark. I don't know where they go, but they are swallowed by the night, and each morning they amble up as docile as any plow mule.

One day last week they didn't come in. The water in the creek wasn't up, but recent rains had left sand deposits on the banks that were so deep we couldn't navigate the crossing with a four wheeler. I called for them but the cold wind threw my shouts back at me unheard. I could choose to wade across the creek and hike the game trails through the forest in hopes of getting to a place where they could hear me, or I could take their alfalfa back to the barn and give it to them when they came up on their own. I was tempted to take the hike with the cougar and coyotes, but something in the back of my mind stopped me.  I don't own these horses. They own themselves. They can take care of themselves. Give them the credit they deserve for that. With Tiny at the helm, they are surviving just fine here. Hiking in the dark would just have been a way to ease my worry. The horses didn't really need the alfalfa.

Sure, I care for them, but living in this place has changed my outlook a bit on the concept of animal ownership. Unlike the calves, or the sheep, or the goats, the horses are not helpless. Each night they must deal with predators, the weather, and the terrain itself. Each morning that they come shuffling in, they have survived a night before without falling off a cliff, stepping in an armadillo hole, being attacked by a cougar, or drowning in the creek. These horses do not live pampered lives in stalls, snug at night in fitted blankets. They put their asses to the wind and shelter the storm. Even when given the choice to come into a stall, they choose instead to stand in the pen outside the stall and stare into the darkness as the freezing rain settles on their backs.

They choose to be free, and free from a sheltered life is still free. Despite this they also choose to be with us. They choose to hang their heads into the barn aisle and interact with us. This is not only true for the domestic horses, but for Tiny as well.

It is clear that we are not Tiny's captors, we are his friends. This big red horse genuinely likes humans. Tiny is easily caught when he sees a halter. He lowers his head for a bridle, and does not at all mind participating in ranch work or trail rides. And when the job is done, he is just as happy to shuffle off into the forest again where he can believe that he is wild once more.

Horses are different from cattle. A show cow very quickly reverts to a 'touch me not' creature who comes to feed but stays just far enough away that you can't touch her. A cow knows it is neither pet nor partner, and it is quickly absorbed back into the herd, but the horses made a different choice. The horses chose to stay. So although I feed them and care for them because they are tamed, I do not own them, for they are not property. The word denotes a lack of respect for their choices. They are not tools, not a saddle, nor a shovel. Like the dogs that ages ago cast their own vote to stay with man, these horses are our partners in life.

The holidays have passed and now for most of the world, the vacation has ended and they're back to work.

But if you have a ranch, then there was no vacation from work.

And if ranching is your passion, it isn't work. My hope for you, Dear Reader, is that you find your passion, so that every day you live a life where you don't need a vacation.

After the bleating of the sheep has lulled to a comfortable chewing, the dogs and I take a walk just as the sun begins to climb its way into the blue sky. This morning routine serves both to exercise dogs after a long cold night, and allow them to re- fortify the perimeter with a wall of urine. Make no mistake, this ritual is more than a simple walk. Great detail is paid to reading the events of the night before. This is the Canine Facebook.

Winter is here and the coyotes are becoming bold enough to be seen in the daytime away from the ranch. The regular bleating of sheep and goats is sure to lure in empty bellies hoping for an easy meal.  Each morning we not only walk the boundaries of the sheep pasture, but we expand our wall of urine and scratch marks deeper into enemy territory where coyote and cougar have been free to prowl. We tag their wall with our own urine graffiti. A new pack is in town. They're wearing sheep bells and they have teeth, and they want the predators to know it.

With the sheep still munching in the barn, this is a time for the dogs to hunt and to play games which keep them in peak physical condition.

They sharpen their skills on each other, and tag team the Border Collie in a frightening shadow of a kill.

We end our walk to return back to kennels for a raw breakfast of chicken or beef - the bounty after the hunt. I watch an entire chicken leg quarter disappear with a few casual crunches and marvel at the power of jaws that arguably belong to a Elementary School Student. It is easy to forget the Anatolians are only 7 months old, as they are bigger than the other dogs, and are already earning their keep as Livestock Guardian Dogs. 

If there is ever any doubt about whether these dogs are necessary, one need only look to the ground. The proof is in the tracks lurking below the house.

I've never been one to make New Year's resolutions. Why set myself up for failure? I'm a weak-willed person. That's my favorite part about me. Let's just go ahead and accept that if the lemon pie is in the refrigerator, I'm gonna eat it. If I have the option to lie in bed and read a book, or jog, I'm gonna read that book. I might read a book about jogging, or about a jogger eaten by a cougar, but you get the point. New Year's resolutions are lost on me.

I'm not likely to start doing yoga because it's January 1. I'm more likely to start doing yoga because I'm fat and can't reach reach my stirrup anymore. Now THAT'S more incentive than a date on the calendar. Resolutions are for goal-oriented people. I'm not that. Mine is not a dedicated paddling down the rapids of life, mine is more a lazy canoe ride downstream. From time to time I dip my oar in the water with a half-hearted attempt to change direction, but most of the time, my boat follows the current. Sometimes the flow takes me into the rapids, but instead of furious paddling, I just keep my hands in the boat and hope to stay upright.

The current has taken me places I never would have planned for myself, but through it all, I never stopped being myself. Know who you are, and as Shakespeare would say, "To thine own self be true."

"We are who we're going to be when we're very old, and when we're very old we are who we were when we were 8."     Meryl Streep

When I was 8, I was a child of the forest who dreamed of horses and writing books. I don't expect much to change when I'm 80.  If you like who you were when you were 8 years old, why beat yourself up every January 30 because you couldn't maintain the goals you set for yourself on January 1?

Who you are is not about your weight, your money, your wrinkles, your job, or what other people think of you. Who you are is about how you touch the world around you. Do you bring goodness? Can you be a blessing to others? Can you lift someone up when they're down? Those things aren't numbers on a scale or a paycheck.

So perhaps the new year isn't a time for making promises but a chance to decide if you are being true to the 8 year old inside of you.

Humans aren't the only ones who have trouble with the neighbors. Since we moved the expectant mother cows and calves into the pasture near the house, they are in closer contact with the sheep - and Briar. Big White Dawg just can not stand a cow staring at her sheep. Because we want the cows as close to the barn as possible, we feed them close to the fence. In addition to a round bale of hay, I also toss red top cane hay over the fence into their troughs. Because cows are messy, and sometimes the hay comes apart as I toss it, there is often a trail of hay near the fence on both sides. As soon as the goats and sheep are released from their pens, they race to this loose hay for a buffet. The morning after it snowed, the buffet became a hockey match.

I felt sorry for them because: A) goats are pitiful in cold weather, and  B) everyone had been locked inside the barn for a couple of cold rainy days leading up to the snow and they wanted more roughage.  So instead of watching them play hockey over the remaining dregs of hay, I got them their own bale. They were delighted. (except the goats. The goats were still miserable. Anything below 60 degrees is frowned upon. Anything resembling wet weather is Goat Hell.)

Even though the cows had their own hay, they were attracted to the fence by this new bale that was quickly being scarfed up by midget not-cow creatures. This freaked Briar out. There are rules about staring at sheep. The rules: Don't Stare At Sheep!

She snapped at them a couple of times to back them away and then settled down under her tree to supervise.

They were warned politely, but the sound of the neighbors enjoying hay was too much for them, and the younger ones ventured close to the fence again. It is amazing how fast a dysplastic dog can move with the proper motivation.

I think the roll must be the canine equivalent of an end zone dance. "I scored. You lost. You suck. This is my side of the fence. Don't forget it! Quit staring at sheep!"

And back to her post she went.

And this is why the cows hate Briar.

I stared at it for a moment in stunned silence. I looked up at the house and back down again. No doubt. Nope. Ten dogs is not too many dogs . . . .

It snowed last night. This added another dimension to our morning patrol.

Each day after I feed the livestock I take the dogs for a walk so they can spread their scent along the predator side of the fence line.

Today our patrol started out as great fun for all of us but soon the dogs got serious.

Afraid we'd run into a pack of wild hogs, I called the dogs back. We returned to the house where I locked them in kennels and went inside for breakfast. A hour or so later Other Half and I fed the cattle and the horses some more groceries, and then we went to check the deer feeder at the blind near the pasture below the house.

I whipped out the camera to photograph tracks in the snow.

The more I looked, the more animals I found. And all was well until I found this:

That's a cat. That's a cat the size of Briar. I can only think of one cat around here the size of a Great Pyrenees.

Yes, a cougar. A cougar was within shouting distance of the house this morning. The cat was uncomfortably close to little Melvin.

The cat was also pretty close to where the dogs and I turned around and went back, where I walked alone into the forest with six dogs and no gun.

No, ten dogs is not too many.

One of my favorite things about Christmas is that for this one day life slows down and gives us time to reflect. Everything is closed. There's no place you need to go and nothing you have to do, so there's no reason to feel guilty about just relaxing. It's also a great time to sit back and take stock of your blessings.

I did a lot of that these past two days.

This is my view from the kitchen door. Living inside the barn has a lot of perks.

We were able to fit in some time to ride just for fun. That hasn't happened a lot lately. It's hard to believe that two retired people living in the middle of nowhere can't make time to ride. Dear Friend Mindy (long distance ranch hand) brought her family to spend the holiday with us and she and I stole away on Tiny and Musket.

I do love this big red horse.

I reckon this is probably one of the best places to spend some time counting your blessings - on the back of a horse.  So as the sun sets on another Christmas, take a minute to slow down and reflect on all the goodness in your life.

Merry Christmas to you and yours!

Here's a little Morning Melvin for your coffee break. There are worse ways to start your day than sipping coffee with a calf!  :)