Farm Fresh Blog

I stood in the road with my gun drawn and yelled at him, "This is why I can't wear pretty sandals to church!"

The dusty boots on my feet gave an apologetic shrug.  I stepped out of the fired bullet casings that were scattered in the dirt, climbed back into the truck, and turned the key off. Without the roar of the diesel engine the forest stood in silence, waiting to see what I'd do next.

When I retired from police work, I thought I could actually be normal, but like an ill-fitting coat, normal just doesn't hang well on me. We moved to a beautiful ranching community, joined a traditional country church, and thought we'd slide into the roles of normal people. Be just like everyone else. Who was I kidding? Here I was supposed to be on my way to choir practice at the church, but instead I was standing in the road like Matt Dillon, waiting for my Other Half to bring me another gun.

There were more bullets in the gun I had, but it's a good rule of thumb to never empty your last gun. So instead I snatched up the phone, gave thanks that there was cell reception in this part of the dirt road driveway, and called the husband.

"I need you to bring me The Judge! I've got a rattlesnake in the road by the main gate."

"How big is he?"

"How big does he HAVE to be? It's a rattlesnake! He's small. About the size of a copperhead. I shot at him but he was moving so fast that I don't know if I hit him. He stopped in the weeds. Right now he and I are just looking at each other."

"Okay, on the way."

The Judge is a revolver that shoots .410 shotgun shells, thus greatly increasing your chances of hitting the target. It's tough to hit a fleeing snake with the .380 I had in my hand. Snakes tend to do that whole serpentine thing really quickly, because, well, you're shooting at them. Bullets whizzing into the ground tend to speed up a snake, but this one had reached the safety of the weeds and stopped. I quit shooting because I lost sight of him. So there I was, in my dusty boots, standing by the weeds, looking for a snake. Rattlesnakes take that camouflage thing to a whole new level. You can be shooting at one that's running across a gravel road and the minute he reaches the weeds it's like he activates a cloaking device and poof!

He's gone.

Except that he isn't.

And you're standing in the tall weeds with a rattlesnake. That you can't see.

I finally located the black and white stripes on his tail and worked my way up to the whole snake. He was looking at me. Trying to decide whether or not to fight or run for it. I backed up into the roadway and waited. If he tried to run then I could take the chance and waste bullets but otherwise, it was easier to wait for The Judge.

While waiting I texted the pastor:

"Running late to choir practice. Killing a rattlesnake."

Even as I typed the words, the irony struck me. Nope. Still not normal. Normal people drive past rattlesnakes. They do not stop the truck and do battle. If they happen to shoot and miss, they certainly do not follow said snake into the brush and call for reinforcements. And if they do the above, they definitely do not advertise their special brand of crazy by texting the pastor.

But I was gonna late. And I'd just joined the choir. Being late might give people the impression that I didn't care. And these people don't yet know I'm crazy. They think I'm normal. On the other hand, after that text, I'd say they figured it out.

So I stood in the road in sturdy boots instead of sandals because running into poisonous snakes at the gate was not a new thing for me. You can be fashionable or you can be prepared, but you cannot be both.

A low hum in the distance assured me the wait was over. The gravel crunched beneath his tires as Other Half rolled to a stop and carefully stepped out of the mule. Since possession is 9/10ths of the law, and he had the gun in his hand, there wasn't much argument about who got to shoot the rattlesnake. We've killed 14 copperheads by the house this summer. There are plenty of snakes to go around.

One dose of .410 shotgun shell and the rattlesnake had moved on to a greener patch of weeds. I kissed my Snake Soldier on the cheek, climbed back in the truck, and continued my journey towards normal. I will never arrive there, but it's a nice illusion.

For an adrenaline jolt, coffee and Red Bull can't hold a candle to the sound of a bawling calf and a herd of cattle crashing through the brush in the dark. I'd just stepped out the door to pen the chickens for the night when the cry of a calf riveted me to the forest. It was not a mournful, "Where's my momma" cry but a panicked "It's got me!" bawl which was accompanied by brush and small trees snapping as adult cows bellowed and barreled toward the calf.

Abandoning the chickens, I hitched up my sagging jeans and raced to the gate toward the cries in the woods. This was the point where once again, I regret my fashion decisions. Just because pants are on sale at a ridiculously low price doesn't mean you should buy them if they are too big. Maybe I thought they'd shrink, or, since normally faced with stacks and stacks of jeans meant to fit only the bodies of prepubescent girls, perhaps I was merely drunk on the illusion that I may find jeans that fit a middle aged woman. As it was, I came home with pants that were a size, or two, too big.

Since a good part of my police career was spent chasing young men in saggy pants, I must say that after running through the dark toward a crying cow with jeans sliding down my ass, I have a greater respect for drug dealers that can scale the fences between apartment complexes and still keep their pants above their ankles.

I made it through the gate and paused to hitch up my britches again. With a rescue battalion of tanks and bulldozers that were mother cows stampeding in my direction, it didn't take long to re-think the wisdom of becoming collateral damage under the onslaught of panicked cattle. I had no idea what had the calf, but it was quickly barreling in my direction and bringing a herd of cows with it.

They reached the clearing behind the barnyard just as I was slipping back through the gate.  The cattle circled and stomped and I could barely make out a yellow calf thrashing on the ground in the center of milling cows by the fence.  In a desperate hope that whatever had the calf was more frightened of humans than enraged mother cows, I shouted into the night.

"HEY! HEY! HEY!"

I mean, really, what does one yell at a creature that isn't afraid of a herd of enraged cows?

Clearly my saggy pants and I needed reinforcements, so adopting the ghetto gait of the Troop Of Saggy Pants Soldiers, I managed to juggle a flashlight, a gun, and my beltloop to do a rolling lope back to the house.

Other Half was just sliding his masterpiece of shrimp kabobs into an opened oven when I burst through the door. He dashed outside as I grabbed a better flashlight. I joined him to find confused cattle still milling around the clearing, so we flashlighted the area in a search for mangled predators.

A rat ran. A bunny bounded off. One of the barn cats meowed back at me. The yellow calf blinked into the beam of my flashlight.

Nothing.

There was nothing to justify a full-scale City-Wide-Assist-The-Officer Cow. Since everyone was calm, I went through the fence and poked around the dark with the cattle. That's when I saw the red thing.

A thing.

A red thing.

What the hell was that? I flashlighted the thing and Other Half erupted into cursing normally reserved for goat adventures.

The red thing was the base of a mineral feeder.

It would appear that Yellow Calf must have gotten the base hung around her head, resulting in a wild dash through the forest in a vain attempt to outrun this thing that had her. Since the mineral feeder was a long way from the house, this was quite a jaunt. I'm not sure if she got it off when she hit the fence at the house, or if one of the other cows somehow managed to stomp it off of her. Regardless, the calf was okay and except for some dents, the mineral feeder was fine.

Since she is a heifer we plan to keep, I may name the calf "Steering Wheel" because she ran through the woods with a red steering wheel on her head.  Nevertheless, I cannot poke fun at her since she did a better job running that distance with a giant wheel on her head than I did loping across the barnyard in pants falling down my butt. Hopefully the calf will learn not to stick her head in strange things and I'll learn to wear a belt.

Several of you have asked about updates on Luna, the Moon Possum. I try to keep the Failte Gate Farm/Red Feather Ranch Facebook page updated with videos but I realize that many of you don't do Facebook so I'll give you an update here.

Like the rest of the dogs in the pack, Luna has a nickname that has evolved into her fulltime name. She became MoonPossum.

 Possum fits into the large pack quite well. We rarely go anywhere without a dog, or two, or three, in tow, so it's easy enough to take her with us when we leave the house, thus she gets a lot of socialization outside the home.

Things of note: Possum is a very happy-go-lucky creature who is unfazed by the sights and sounds that would rattle many pups - beeee-cuzzzzzzzzz - pause - SHE CAN'T SEE AND HEAR THEM!

That makes for happy walks in downtown Fort Worth, with traffic, railroad tracks, and sirens blaring, but on the other hand, it really makes you ever vigilant about her safety because she cannot hear the dangers around her.

Possum's day starts right after dawn before the sun is up and bright. She helps hinders with the chores and plays while I feed small livestock and horses. Then we go for a walk in the pasture where she piddles and plays and stays with big friends so she doesn't become a meal for a day-ranging coyote.  (yes, we have those here)

She comes in and helps me milk goats. The goats tolerate her pretty well. Possum loves fresh goat milk!

All the dogs like her, but Mesa is her BFF (Best Friend Forever) and constant babysitter when Mesa is not working. Mesa Moo provides companionship without the doting indulgence she may get from the adult dogs. If she steps out of line, Mesa nails her as if she could hear and see just like everyone else.  She cuts Possum no slack. Since our goal is to have Possum grow up as close to normal as possible, I think this is a good thing.

We make some adaptations for her disabilities. She has her goggles for bright sunlight. (HUGE thanks to Kathy for sending her some more pairs for her to grow into!) MoonPossum also wears a bell that helps us track her when she's not in sight. We bought an electronic collar that has a vibration mode on it. The shock mode will be disabled so there is no chance she'll get a shock. In essence the collar will serve as a pager to let her know we're trying to get her attention.

We are also getting lots of help on Facebook from the pages of "Keller The Double Merle" and "Braille The Double Merle" that help give us ideas and put us in touch with other dog handlers who have dogs like Luna, the MoonPossum.

Luna continues to introduce us to many new people, and we're appalled to learn how many pups like Luna are euthanized because of their disabilities. While I wouldn't knowingly breed for it, there is no reason why a puppy like Luna cannot live a wonderful life in the right home. The resources are out there and available to new owners, like us, to help you  with these pups. We don't find Luna to be more work than a 'normal' pup, she is just different.  She is an X puppy!

To learn more about these dogs visit Keller and Braille the Double Merles on Facebook and also check out the Pawsavers rescue. They're having a fundraiser right now where they're selling the cutest shirts! Go check them out at:

https://www.booster.com/pawsavers

"Oh my gosh! What kind of dog is that?! I want one!!"

With doggles or without, the reaction is the same, and we soon end up having a talk with total strangers about breeding merle dogs. I've learned a lot about the subject in the past week, and met many new people because of it. Ordinarily I wouldn't think Luna's color was such a big deal, but she has created so much interest everywhere she goes that I figured we may as well wade into the subject here.

Until we got Little Luna, I never gave it much thought. For the many years that I trained and trialed dogs, I often came across merle colored dogs and always found them to be lovely creatures. But as with breeding paint horses, I know that breeding these striking animals always comes with a risk of health problems.

In the very short time we've had Luna, my eyes have been opened to the realities of these risks and although I am just beginning to scratch the surface on the subject myself, because I see the public's response to this cute pup, I feel compelled to let Luna be an ambassador on the subject so that we can nip some things in the bud.

So let's start with the basics. Many breeds have merle colored dogs, and as a general rule, you shouldn't breed a merle dog to another merle dog because you have the chance that 1 in 4 of the resulting pups could be deaf and/or partially blind like Luna.

So why do people do it?

I honestly believe that a lot of people don't realize the risk. It's here where some folks start foaming at the mouth and viciously attack breeders who produce double merle pups. Folks, this doesn't help either. It blames and alienates people. I've spent my entire adult life training dogs and although I've never produced a litter myself, with that much time spent rubbing shoulders in the dog world, I can give you a few generalities about dog people.

Working Dog breeders look down on Show Dog breeders and they both look down on Backyard Breeders. Rescue people look down on all breeders because they're the ones in the trenches dealing with the heartache of someone else's decision to breed two dogs. And puppies from ANY of these breeders can end up in a rescue situation.

It is very easy for everyone to look down on the Backyard Breeder who doesn't show, work, or do health checks on their dogs, but since I've spent so much time in the show dog/sport dog world, I've seen the other side of the coin too, and my measuring stick for judgement is the answer to this question:

How many puppies are produced and how responsible is that breeder for his pups after they are born?

Yes, many breeders of all kinds produce litter after litter with no thought to the welfare of the pups once money has exchanged hands. On the other hand, some breeders are responsible for their puppies from birth to grave. Those are the ones I consider to be responsible breeders.

So let's get back to merles.

We've had Luna for exactly one week now, and in that time I've met every example of the above breeders and rescuers of Australian Shepherds.

Luna came from Backyard Breeders who mistakenly bred two merle dogs and then made every effort to find responsible, loving homes for those pups. Since Luna is a pup, like any other puppy, she needs plenty of time socializing in public, and I have to say I'm stunned by the way she attracts attention. (Not always in a good way.) We've met a lot of new people because of her. We met one lady just walking through a horse show  who immediately came over and identified herself as an Aussie breeder. She knew exactly what Luna was and explained that she had made the same mistake herself years ago. She placed those pups in homes and stopped breeding those particular parent dogs.  We later ran across another  woman who told us she'd bred Aussies for over 20 years and  just euthanized all the white pups like Luna.

Really?! Holy crap! Since 1 in 4 can be born like Luna, that's a lot of dead puppies. We were appalled.

It's a puppy, not a product.

So I ask you, who is the more responsible breeder? The breeder who lacks education, makes a mistake, but finds homes for their pups, or the breeder who produces a lot of dogs, and just euthanizes the handicapped ones? Many folks unwittingly make the mistake of breeding two beautiful dogs, unaware of the possible results,  but others do it on purpose despite knowing the risk.

Why would anyone knowingly breed dogs that could produce deaf or blind pups?

Well, after living with Luna for a week, I'll tell you why.

The public likes flashy, loud-colored dogs, and they flock to these white blue-eyed puppies.

I've socialized a lot of pups in public and I can tell you that I have never, NEVER, had a pup generate the kind of buzz that Luna creates.  People are simply blown away by her exotic appearance. (Okay, I think she's cute too, but she also looks kinda like a white possum and thus her nickname is 'Possum.")

Because of all this attention, we are caught between trying to warn people not to breed two merles and at the same time show people that despite being partially deaf and particularly sensitive to bright light, Luna lives a very happy life and is not some accident of nature that demands pity. As far as Luna is concerned, she is just like everyone else in this family, except shorter.

After all this research, would we still bring Luna into our home?

Absolutely.

She is a delight to live with, and she will ultimately make us better dog trainers as we attempt to make her life as normal as possible.  For all practical purposes Luna is a normal puppy.

Inside the house, and on cloudy days, she can see just fine. In bright light Luna wears sunglasses because her eyes are very sensitive. She can hear really loud sounds, like dogs barking or banging pans, but for the most part, appears to be deaf to sounds within the normal range. To compensate for that, we are all learning hand signals. Each morning Luna, Lily, and Mesa line up and we learn basic puppy commands in sign language. (Just wanna point out that Luna is progressing faster than the Border Collies. . . ) I think it will take longer to train the humans than the deaf dog.

Our decision to bring Luna home was in no way affected by whether or not she would prove to have serious vision or hearing problems, and it makes me uncomfortable for people to praise us as saints. We're not. We're just dog people who can make a little more room for another crate and another food bowl. True saints are the folks who rescue dogs in danger. We don't consider Luna to be a 'rescue.' She's not. At no point was Luna ever in any danger. She came from a loving home and she came to a loving home.

Yes, she has some things that make her different from other puppies, but we prefer not to think of her as handicapped. She is more like one of the mutants in X Men. Luna is not handicapped, she is just unique,

and never for one moment do we regret bringing her into our home.

It started with a phone call. His brother from another mother. Could we possibly take on another one? My initial reaction was absolutely not. Of course not. Not one more dog. I reminded Other Half that since she was a double merle, she could also be a special needs dog. But what better environment for a pup that may have vision and hearing problems than a multi-dog home in the middle of nowhere with two dog handlers? Touche

And so this happy little ball of fluff came to our home.

I did a lot of research on white Australian Shepherds to better understand her and get tips on raising a dog that may have hearing or vision problems. She squints in bright sunlight so we bought her some doggles. She can hear other dogs barking but has problems hearing things in the normal range. Because she came from a household with experienced dog people, she is very well socialized and is a highly intelligent, very friendly, playful, and for all appearances, normal puppy. She isn't shy or reactive at all. In fact, the world is her cupcake.

Welcome to the pack, Little Luna.

Lest I give anyone the impression that raising Livestock Guardian Dogs is easy, and that your big white dog which keeps sneaking out is somehow inferior in some way to my teenagers, who in print appear perfect in every way, let me reassure you. The raccoons around here can probably cuss like sailors courtesy of my example each time those two disappear.

The trick is that they CAN NOT BE LOOSE TOGETHER. They can't.  It's as simple as that. Independently they will lie around like responsible livestock dogs. Together, they are frat boys on spring break. We are blessed to be in the middle of nowhere, so when two large white dogs the size of calves go on walkabout, it is highly unlikely they will be hit by a car. On the other hand, they could be killed by hogs, bitten by poisonous snakes, or shot by hunters. AND - if they are running amok, they are not protecting the effing sheep!

Of late we have settled into a routine with Judge on Dayshift, while Jury is locked in the barn, and Jury loose at night while Judge is locked with the goats. Briar may either be with Judge or Jury. This has been working really well - until Thursday night.

Thursday we left to deliver several baby goats. Because the babies were in the back of the truck screaming, and we didn't want Judge to follow us down the road, we locked him in the barn with Jury. Together. Where they could plot. We returned far later than planned and it was already very dark with a bright moon in the sky. I was physically and emotionally exhausted and all I really wanted to do was go to bed. That's normally when things happen. I was not to be disappointed.

I opened the barn aisle gate and the boys bounded off into the night with a jubilant jog. I called them back to sort them for their shifts. Their jog accelerated into a flat-out gallop into the night. By the time I screamed at them, they had reached warp speed. There was a sonic boom as they broke the sound barrier when they discovered Other Half had left the gate open between the barnyard and the big pasture when he was planting wheat earlier.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to cuss. I wanted to throw things. Two giant dogs can cover a lot of territory on those long legs and they clearly had no intention of coming back on their own. There are rules I accept out here. You cannot catch a large animal running through thick brush if it doesn't want to be caught. I leaped onto a 4wheeler to take a pass through the pasture in hopes they would decide to lope back and follow me. Nope. Nothing. Nada. There was absolutely no sound but crickets and owls. They were so far away I couldn't even hear their bells jingling. At this point I felt like Merle Haggard's mother.

If you were not raised in rural America in the 1960's perhaps you've never heard the song "Momma Tried" in which a young man laments about how his mother tried to steer him straight despite his wandering ways. This chorus kept running through my head as I cussed in the moonlight:

I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole.
 No-one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried,
 Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied.
 That leaves only me to blame 'cause Mama tried.

Yes, I was Merle Haggard's mother in the moonlight, but I refused to drive around in the dark, calling for dogs that would ignore me. I refused to sit up and worry about them. This was Darwinism at work, I ranted. I provide a safe home, meals, and medical care. If you are too stupid to accept that, then let Natural Selection sort it out. And with that, I went to bed. Yes, I was a tad angry.

And perhaps a bit harsh.

I woke up around 2:30 am and peeked out the window. They had returned sometime earlier and were both safely in the barnyard with the sheep. I have no idea if they ran 30 minutes or 3 hours. I went back to bed. At 6:30 am they were both still in the barnyard with the sheep. When the sun came up they were both still home. Apparently God and Darwin smiled on Big White Puppies that night.

We have returned to our routine and I'm even more cautious about letting them out together, especially on the weekends when they may encounter hunters. Briar lies around the barnyard watching these shenanigans with amusement. At their age, on this property, she would have been exactly the same way, but she's older, wiser, and slower now. She still enjoys the occasional off-property romp, but she doesn't go far, and she comes when called. When she was their age, I had a property small enough to employ electricity.

It's important to keep all this in mind if you choose a Livestock Guardian Dog breed. Do not hold my poster boys up as the epitome of perfection. They roam. All Livestock Guardian Dog breeds roam. Keep that in mind if you live in the city. These are not good city dogs because they WILL make a jail break from time to time. Out here, they 'might' run into trouble, but if you live in the city, trouble, in the form of a fast-moving Chevy, is right at the next intersection. If you live in the country and have a small place where you can fence with electricity, you're in luck. But if you have a large property, with varied terrain that makes it impossible to keep them from pushing up a fence 'somewhere' along the perimeter, until they mature, get ready to play an on-going chess game with teenagers, and stand in the moonlight with Merle Haggard's mother.

You can listen to the song from the link below:

http://www.metrolyrics.com/mama-tried-lyrics-merle-haggard.html

The first thing I remember knowing,
 Was a lonesome whistle blowing,
 And a young un's dream of growing up to ride,
 On a freight train leaving town,
 Not knowing where I'm bound,
 No-one could change my mind but Mama tried.
 One and only rebel child,
 From a family, meek and mild,
 My Mama seemed to know what lay in store.
 Despite all my Sunday learning,
 Towards the bad, I kept a turning.
 'Til Mama couldn't hold me anymore.
And I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole.
 No-one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried.
 Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied.
 That leaves only me to blame 'cause Mama tried.

Dear old Daddy, rest his soul,
 Left my Mom a heavy load,
 She tried so very hard to fill his shoes.
 Working hours without rest,
 Wanted me to have the best.
 She tried to raise me right but I refused.

I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole.
 No-one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried,
 Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied.
 That leaves only me to blame 'cause Mama tried.

https://youtu.be/0GYfjMMHEY0

Read more: Merle Haggard - Mama Tried Lyrics | MetroLyrics

Tending sheep outside the confines of good fencing requires some basic tools. Because our property is more than a bit untamed, it really isn't set up for sheep and goats who could be picked off in broad daylight without the dogs. The barnyard pasture is more of a 'sacrifice' area where the small stock can graze and browse in relative safety, but there isn't a lot of nutrition there. They can graze in the large pasture below the house without being monitored, because it's close enough that help is just a rifle away, but everywhere else they must be taken out with dogs and tended closely.

Tending keeps them within the somewhat loose confines of outer fencing and it keeps them out of the sticker burrs, which I will unfortunately already be picking out of some churro lambs.

(No, Halloween has not come early. She is really not black and orange. The red dirt around here turns all my white animals orange or pink.  Thankfully it washes out easily.)

So back to tending:

The basic idea is to roll out with the necessary tools needed to move sheep and goats safely.

Here is a list of tools needed on my belt:

The dogs understand their jobs. The Border Collies have the perimeters tattooed on the foreheads and thus any sheep straying outside the imaginary line is dealt with accordingly. The Livestock Guardian Dogs take this time to poke around the pastures and leave pee-mail for the rival gang of coyotes. Then they scratch out a hole in the shade and watch sheep with the rest of us.

If our browsing takes us close to a pond, everyone goes skinny dipping, except me and The Supervisor. I'm not a big fan of wading through cactus and copperheads in bare feet to swim in muddy water, and she doesn't feel she can let her hair down and play in the water when there is the chance that a single sheep may randomly walk across the arbitrary line she has assigned.  Ah well, we all have a cross to bear.

Others are not so encumbered by the weight of responsibility.

This can be a quiet time to enjoy coffee, a book, and peaceful meditation.

Or it can be a time of great cussing where curses are hurled at sheep who don't care,  Border Collies learn new adjectives,

and Livestock Guardian Dogs don't care one way or the other.

Regardless, the nuts and bolts of tending sheep come down to the dogs, and the generations of breeding that has gone into making them the willing partners of man that they are today.

If you mixed a runway supermodel with a toddler you'd have a dairy goat. If you don't believe it, you've never tried to feed one.

My dairy goats are given a high quality sweet feed, sunflower seeds, cotton seed meal, calf manna, and alfalfa. The goal is to get as many calories as possible into them because milk production takes so much out. Life would be just grand if they'd happily eat everything they are served, but that is not the case. Goats are picky and their tastes change as often as a man with the television remote control. Sheep, on the other hand, eat what is served and gain weight on a diet that would make a dairy goat look like a prisoner of war.

Since we have sheep and goats it is necessary to separate them at meal time. Not only do the sheep not need all those calories, there is too much copper in goat food for sheep, so if the goats are getting a special goat chow, it's imperative that food be completely consumed before sheep have access to the area.

This is what feeding at our house is like:

Pull wagon to hay barn and load with alfalfa. Sheep and goats stagger out of their slumber and began screaming and dragging little tin cups across the prison bars to loudly announce to every coyote in the county that they are awake and are hungry. Drag wagon filled with alfalfa across yard and dump little piles into outside feeders. Release sheep only.

Sheep gallop like thoroughbreds bursting through the gates. There will always be one or two goats with them. These goats will run up to the alfalfa, stand over it in disgust, and demand to be returned to the pen. Every day. Same two stupid goats.

The rest of the goats will wait expectantly near their stall in the pen. I walk through barn and attempt to open sliding door. Cannot open door because goats are hanging on it. Goats knock door off runners. Cuss goats. Cuss door. Use Border Collie to push goats off door. Goats run to their feeders and climb inside. Dump feeders to clear them of any goats or debris. Go back outside and get hay. Goats mug wagon and climb on top.  Toss alfafa into first feeder. Almost fall as goats rush like waves crashing on the beach. They shove each other out of feeder. Toss exact same hay into second feeder. All goats leave first feeder to rush at second feeder like a Black Friday Wal-Mart opening. Toss hay into third feeder. Black Friday shoppers abandon first two stores and race to third store. They climb in feeders and flip them. Ut oh! Hay has now touched dirt. It is no longer good. It is soiled and as such, cannot pass goat supermodel pouty lips.

They run to the next feeder and flip their neighbor's hay onto the ground. Oh, my bad. Looks like neighbor now has soiled hay too. While they are busy ruining $23 per bale alfalfa, I begin to dish out grain mix. This is an electronics sale on Black Friday.

A prison riot food fight breaks out. After the dust settles, the goats decide that this week they do not eat Brand X of sweet feed, but prefer Brand Y which they refused to eat last week because Brand X cost more money. They did not like Brand Y until they saw the sheep eating it, and now it is their favorite and they hate Brand X. But they only want the top 1/3 of the bag, after that it is tainted and cannot be eaten. It must therefore be replaced with Brand Z which costs enough to put a child through college. Brand Z is their new favorite. Buy several bags of Brand Z because they seem to like it. Wrong! They only like the first bag. The next bag is unacceptable.

Leave them with food for two hours. During that time the milkers are pulled out and given the same food in a bucket on the milking stand. There is a fight at the door every time a milker is pulled out. The food in the milk stand bucket must be far superior to the food in the troughs. Because, well, it's in a bucket, and everyone knows that food in a bucket tastes better than food in a trough.

Once done milking Goat #1, take the bucket out of the milking stand and place it on pavement in barn aisle. Pull out next milker and put her on the stand. Goat #1 leaves her bucket to mug the bucket on the stand belonging to Goat #2. Milk Goat #2 while Goat #1 attempts to steal grain from Goat #2 even though it IS THE SAME GRAIN!  When finished, take that bucket and place it on the pavement next to Bucket #1 so they can clean up grain. Pull out Goat #3 and put Bucket #3 on the milking stand. Goat #1 and Goat #2 leave Bucket #2 and attempt to eat out of Bucket #3 while Goat #3 is being milked. Same feed. Different buckets.  Repeat this a 4th time with next goat.

Now this begs the obvious question: "Why don't you just kick Goat #1 back in with everyone else when you pull out Goat #2?"
 

Folks, trying to drag one goat back into a pen when ten more are trying to get out of that same pen is the very definition of insanity. The best I can do is kick her out of the barn with the sheep. By leaving her inside the barn aisle while I milk, I am able to monitor exactly how much food she eats. She will also eat more food if she is fighting with her neighbor. This boggles my mind, but is the very reason why shoppers line up for hours outside Wal-Mart for a Black Friday sale. The merchandise isn't as important as the thrill of the game.

Nevertheless, I'm seriously considering going back to the old method of tying all the milkers up against the wall where they have to wait until their turn. I'm not sure which is less stressful on me. Watching them duke it out, or listening to them scream when they're tied to the wall.

After everyone has been milked and most of the goats have announced that Brands X, Y, and Z are no longer acceptable and the next time you're at the feed store, you need to buy Brand Q, with the crimped oats, not the whole oats, and they want chicken soup with stars and the crust cut off their toasted cheese sandwich.

The goats will then wander out to the pasture to eat poison ivy and mesquite trees.

The bucks will be turned into the same pen and they will conduct clean-up duties. Hours later the sheep and dairy goat girls will be returned to that same pen. The dairy goat girls will then fight with the sheep for whatever food the bucks left, forgetting this is the same grain and alfalfa that they wouldn't eat eight hours earlier. If the sheep want it, it must be special. And never forget, if you are feeding goats, every day is Black Friday and you are the Wal-Mart greeter.

Self-confidence can take you a lot of places, but some days it just leads to trouble. Although a misfit in a herd of Nubians, Liam has a high opinion of himself, and together with his best friend, Natty, every day is a wonderful adventure for the little prince - except yesterday.

Liam's day started as usual, I stepped out the kitchen door to feed the animals. All was well in little Liam's world until I noted the two Livestock Guardian Dogs, Briar and Jury were not in the barnyard but were instead, in the pasture with the cows.  This diverted my attention and Liam's breakfast. Since I noted this development after I had fed the bucks but before I had fed Liam and the girls, this resulted in a major upset of his morning.

No problem. He would just slither his ample fat belly underneath the gate and share breakfast with two Nubian buck goats in full rut. Yeah, it wasn't his brightest move. Who breaks into a prison of sex offenders?  Liam.

Much to my disgust, and Liam's horror, he was the cutest fluffy white sex toy they'd ever seen. Liam was actually happy to see the two Border Collies I sent in to rescue him. The bucks will be sending him love letters for weeks.

After breakfast the sheep and goats (minus the bucks) were released into the south pasture to graze. Oh joy! His favorite thing!  Because this area is wild and only partially fenced, I accompanied the stock with Border Collies and Livestock Guardian Dogs. This is a daily occurence and comes as no surprise to Liam.

The stock goes out. They graze and browse until their bellies are full. Then everyone comes back to the safety of the barnyard pasture to drink water and chew their cud. This is repeated as needed or time is available during the day. Liam knows the routine. Follow everyone back inside. The gate closes. Go get water and lie in the shade.

Not on this day.

I somehow failed to note that little Liam was dawdling and failed to make it through the gate in a timely fashion. I place all blame for this on Liam and his bus buddy, Natty, who should raise her hand and announce that her buddy was not on the bus before it left the field trip location. But there you have it, Natty and I both dropped the ball - or Liam.

Several hours later when I stepped outside,  Judge, Dayshift Livestock Guardian Dog On Duty, ambled over to me, and reported,

"Hey, there's something over here you need to see."

Sure enough, poor Liam was bouncing up and down the fence like a little fat white basketball. He was quite hot and most relieved to see me. Once inside he scampered to join Natty, his Bus Buddy, in the shade beside the trough. I was happy the dog stayed close enough to keep him from being pinched by the occasional day-ranging coyote that trots through there.

As if being sexually assaulted and abandoned was not enough for one day, the evening brought humans with a curious new syringe gun. The dosing gun looked suspiciously like a bottle. Not really. But close enough for Liam. He watched as sheep were selected for worming and pushed his busy body self right into the action, determined that if the sheep were getting a bottle, he, Liam the One-Horned Wonder, was gonna get a bottle too! To insure the humans were aware that no sneaky bottle stuff was going to get past him, Liam pushed and climbed his way into every sheep mugging, nibbling on clothing and pulling arms. He made such a pest of himself that his eyes were checked too. Since it could go both ways, and Liam was INSISTING on a trying out this fancy new syringe gun bottle thingee, we gave him some wormer.

And that was it. The ultimate betrayal. His bottle. Liam was ready to move to Australia.

Nevermind that he's weaned. Hasn't seen a bottle in months. And is fatter than a white Halloween pumpkin. That did not end his fascination with the syringe gun but it dialed it back a bit.

The sun finally set on Liam's terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. The buck pen has been reinforced to save Liam from himself, and I shall take better care to make sure he is with his Bus Buddy when the gate is closed. The sun is rising on a new day now and Liam is once again, the Napolean Prince of his barnyard kingdom.

(For those of you who have not read the most delightful children's book, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day  by Judith Viorst, I highly recommend it. The book is a classic and is a must-have for any child's library.)

Sometimes living out here is like driving on a winding country road, where you cruise along, enjoying the scenery, smelling the fresh air through opened windows, just loving life in general, and as you crest the top of a mountain the grand scenic expanse spreads out in front of you, with rolling hills dotted with mesquite trees under a layered blue sky, and rays of  sunlight burst through painted clouds to fan out on the valley below as if touched by the hand of God, and that's when a bird slams into your windshield.

Yeah, that's pretty much what living out here is like. You get to enjoying the rugged beauty, and bam! Suddenly nature is up close and personal like stray feathers floating through opened windows to land in your lap. Let us examine just one of last week's little adventures.

Because I have several large soap orders to fill, I spent the last few weeks furiously making, cutting, drying, packaging, and shipping soap.  Soaping is not the quaint cottage task that one would imagine from reading Hobby Farm magazine where you can see in your mind's eye a woman in homespun dress making soap like making butter in a stoneware butter churn. Soaping is a chemistry experiment, much like making meth, except you're less likely to blow the house up.

Soaping is Hobby Farms meets Breaking Bad. True cold process soap, like Grandma used to make, involves mixing lye with fats and oils. There are as many recipes as there are soapers but they all come down to mixing a variety of fats, and oils with lye which is a very dangerous chemical and should be treated with the greatest of respect - long sleeves, shoes, goggles, mask.

Yes, you can skip the goggles and the mask, and make your soap in shorts and flip-flops instead. You can. I wouldn't advise it, but you can. You can also find yourself backing away from the sink, coughing and gagging when a whiff of vapor blows your way too. And be careful not to spill it as you recoil across the kitchen with a wet spoon. That stuff burns. No children. No pets. No kidding.

But once mixed, the fats and lye join in holy matrimony, kiss and walk down the aisle, and a new union is formed - soap. It is a glorious marriage, where the properties of the individual are no longer separate, but become one. This new something is born completely different from its parts.  The chemical reaction is complete and the result is a wonderfully safe, wholly decadent bar of sudsy indulgence. But until then, it's like making meth in your kitchen.

When you make a lot of soap, it's easy to get complacent, but for the sake of safety, I observe a few rules. I never talk on the phone. I never get involved in the television. And I never stop in the middle of the recipe.

And so I ignored the barking.

Plopped in his recliner, Other Half was Facebooking and watching television, while I was busy trying to finish up Soap Batch #3 of that day. This third batch is where mistakes are most likely to occur because I am tired, it is the third hour on my feet, and I've done the same messy, methodical steps through three hours of daytime television and things are beginning the run together like the same guests on all the morning shows just walking from one studio into another. I continued to ignore the barking outside as I poured liquid soap into flat slab molds.

There is a point in the barking, where it reaches a feverish pitch and moves to the forefront of your attention, kinda like when the optometrist dials and clicks those funny little goggles and the letters of the card in front of you finally come into focus.  Yeah, that's it. That's the spot. Things are clear now. Some serious shit is going on outside.

I set my soap bucket down, walked past the husband in the recliner, picked up a revolver, and stepped outside the kitchen door to stomp off in the direction of the barking. Always the picture of fashion, having exchanged the goggles for the gun, I was wearing yoga pants and cowboy boots. Perhaps that would be why my husband didn't come out with me.

Once outside I marched toward the barking. Somehow poor Briar had managed to get locked in the barn aisle, and so when I opened the gate she shot out of the barn like a loosed arrow, leading me toward the source of Judge's barking. I followed the big white dog through the yard and into the forest. There is a curious point when you are trailing a large dog through the woods in North Texas where you regret your fashion choices. Cowboy boots are not snake boots, and you may as well be naked when wearing yoga pants. While this doesn't seem like a big deal in the air conditioning, when the forest is clawing at your thighs, denim is your friend.

I must say that when I stepped out of the kitchen, I expected that Judge had found a snake. I was prepared to shoot a snake and treat the dog for multiple snake bites. I was not prepared for a hike through cedar and mesquite in a bizarre game of Marco Polo.

I called out "JUDGE!"  (Marco!")

Deep in the forest, he answered, "POLO!"

We continued shouting Marco and Polo at each other for a while until he appeared, panting and exhausted at the base of a cedar tree. I peeked around but saw nothing. He gave me the "Follow Me" look and trotted off into the brush. Lovely. Just blooming lovely. I cursed my fashion decisions again and dove off after him.

And that's when the bird slammed into my windshield.

I expected a snake. Or possibly a raccoon. Or maybe an armadillo. Or a possum even.

What I did not expect to see was a small black feral pig backed up to the base of a cedar tree. Judge informed me that he'd apprehended a trespasser. Since there was a small band of eight piglets in our area, my guess was that they were headed to the pond behind the house when Judge found them and managed to separate this guy from his siblings. Now that he had bayed the pig up, he didn't know what to do with it. That's when Briar burst forward and said,

"You KILL IT!"

And it was on like Donkey Kong.

Right in front of me. Once the decision was made for him, Judge took control, snatched the pig away from Briar, and began shaking it. The piglet weighed somewhere between 25-35 pounds and Judge shook it like a rag. The screams of that piglet echoed through the forest and three thoughts rocked through my head.

#1 - "Awww... poor piggie."
#2 - "Holy shit! That dog is strong."
#3 - "That piglet is calling his momma and I'm standing here in f@#king yoga pants and cowboy boots."

Over the piglet's screams I heard Other Half calling. Apparently he had reached the end of his Facebook scroll feed and was now curious as to where I was, why I needed a gun, and why a pig was squealing.

Just as fast as it started, it was over. Judge stood panting over the dead pig.

Briar stepped forward to sniff it and he informed her that if she didn't get away from his piglet that she would be next.

Alrightie then.

It is a curious fact of life that you can raise a dog from a bumbling puppy to the size of a small Great Dane, and still not fully appreciate their size until you watch them kill a 25 lb pig in front of you. That's when you realize the animal at your feet with the glazed eyes is not a squishy snuggly pup but a predator who demands a whole new level of respect. I called to him,

"Judge???"

He shifted his gaze in my direction and growled.

Okaaaaay.

Forget peace in the Middle East, diplomacy is the art of getting a dog away from something he has just killed. I slowly walked past his pig and called him again. This time the giant dog meekly followed me. Away from the pig, I told him he was a fine dog. He was a brave dog. And piglets come with large, angry, dangerous mothers, and we were wearing yoga pants and cowboy boots and thus  couldn't stay here.

And that's when Briar couldn't resist sneaking a sniff of the dead pig. The squishy Doctor Jekyll at my side mutated into Mr Hyde and roared past me to knock Briar away from his pig with such force that she and I believed he would kill her if she dared to touch it  again. Sigh . . .

The dust settled and I called him away from the pig. Shooting a warning glare at Briar, he reluctantly came and I praised him for that, gave him a pat on the head, and said a prayer that the momma pig was nowhere around as I looked  for the closest tree to climb in case she came bursting through the brush.

The plan was to scream, "He did it!" and climb a tree, hoping to shoot her before she could kill my dogs. I figured Judge had a better shot of getting away from an angry sow because he wasn't wearing yoga pants.

So I stood with the dogs and the dead pig, playing the same Marco Polo game with Other Half, and no enraged mother hog appeared. He drove up in the mule and I was painfully aware of the picture that greeted him, but Friends and neighbors, let me tell you this. Few things get a man's respect more than a woman and a dog standing in the woods over a dead hog. (okay, it was just a pig but it was dead and that impresses men) And nothing quite screams 'crazy' like a woman in yoga pants and cowboy boots, carrying a big-ass revolver loaded with .410 shotgun shells, with a dog the size of a small pony and a dead pig.

He gave us a cautious, quizzical look and I held Judge while he admired the hog. Judge and Briar and I slowly walked back home through the forest while he drove the pig another direction. Since the pig was perfect grilling size, we figured that we may as well enjoy the bounty of Judge's prize and share a little with him, but alas, such was not to be.

What started out as a butchering, turned into a morbidly fascinating necropsy and a new-found respect for the power of a dog. Judge had done so much damage that butchering the piglet for cooking was more trouble than it was worth. It was less than thirty seconds from the time he engaged until the time the piglet was dead. And in that time these are the minimun of injuries the piglet sustained:

Broken neck
Broken back
Rib broken completely off at spine which severed stomach
other broken ribs with punctured lung
abdominal cavity filled with yucky contents we don't want on meat

Was it edible? Yes. Did we want to go to all the trouble? No. Does Other Half have a greater respect for my dog? You betcha. I do too. I still think of him as my squishy bumbling puppy.

But I cannot forget that he has matured into a warrior.

And so that's a slice of life in the country. One minute you're cruising along the highway, happily absorbed in your world of making soap, and the next moment a bird slams into your windshield and you're watching your dog kill a feral hog at your feet.

In yoga pants and cowboy boots.

Me. Not the dog.