Farm Fresh Blog

You know you're a punk when you can't catch a half-blind deaf dog. In my defense, she's really fast.

Because severe storms with possible golf ball size hail had been forecasted I busied myself with getting my trucks under cover before I went to bed. I tucked in sheep and Livestock Guardian Dogs, set up my weather radio in the window, and crawled into bed. Other Half had been planning on leaving his truck outside in the elements because he's one of those "gotta touch the wet paint" people. Then he listened to the weather report and saw the radar. Hmmmmm. . .

Still stinging from the broken pipes fiasco, I think he knew he'd never live it down if he left his truck out and ended up with a broken windshield, so at 1 AM he moved the tractor out of the haybarn and drove the dually in.  (For you city folk, that's just a farm truck with four tires in the rear. Very common in rural areas where people haul heavy loads.) The problem was that the roll-down door wouldn't close because the truck was longer than the tractor. No worries. He just tied the door to the trailer hitch. Problem solved.

The storm was a non-event for our little area but I'm not complaining. Any time we dodge hail it's cause for celebration. So the next morning I made my coffee, let the dogs out, and greeted the day. MoonPossum, the deaf, visually impaired, Australian Shepherd puppy, wears a bell on her collar so we can keep track of her as she toots around the barnyard. On most mornings, the tinkling of her bell is a welcome addition to the normal din of sheep bleating, goats screaming, chickens cackling, cows mooing, horses neighing, and dogs barking. On this morning it was absent.

Always afraid that Possum will find a hole in the fence and slip out with large livestock or the everpresent BoogeyBeast, I dropped what I was doing and marched out in search of Tinkerbell. There was a muffled jingling inside the haybarn. Damn! With the dually's ass sticking out of the barn, the barn gate couldn't close and thus MoonPossum had gained access to the Forbidden Palace.

The Hay Barn houses the tractor, the hay (duh!), pallets of cow feed, the bobcat (tiny bulldozer-like Tonka toy for men), tools, more tools, and Nikita the Barn Cat - Queen of the Night. Nikita is a hired assassin.  Like most contract killers, contact with her employers is minimal. We place catfood (payment offerings) in her bowl (altar) and in turn, she leaves the bodies of her victims targets lying either by the altar bowl or on the hay.

Rats equal damaged bags of cow feed. Rats attract copperheads. Close contact with live rats gives me gray hairs. Thus Nikita the contract killer is exhalted to supreme status on the farm and given whatever she wants. Therefore copious amounts of cat food are placed on the altar.

The altar (cat food bowl) is set on the pavement near the tractor where Nikita sits on her throne (tractor seat). From this position the Queen of the Night lies in wait for any and all rodents attracted to her altar. It is not at all unusual to find one or two dead rodents (sacrifices) each morning. Her top number was three large rats and a mouse in one night.

And so it was that I heard Tinkerbell shuffling around inside the Hay Barn. As I untied the string on the door the sound of the altar (cat food bowl) scraping across the floor announced that MoonPossum had found the cat food. After I freed the door, it rolled it up and sunlight flooded the barn to reveal a smiling MoonPossum with a rather large dead rat in her mouth. The rat's tail bounced in rhythm to the tinkling of Possum's bell as she bounced across the pavement.

"DROP THAT!"

The curious thing about a deaf and blind dog is that they cannot hear you scream at them, and so Possum settled down at the altar and commenced to gagging down that rat, tail first.  The rear-end of the dually was sticking out of the barn door like Winnie-the-Pooh stuck in a honey jar. I tried to squeeze through on the right side but it wasn't happening. Too much sourdough bread. Too much winter clothing. So I sucked in my breath and squeezed through on the left side. The front of the truck was pulled up so close to some tools that I couldn't pass without climbing over. Possum saw me coming and momentarily stopped choking down her rat to run under the the truck and out the door.

I squeezed my fat ass back past the truck bumper and out into the barnyard where Possum lay in the sand poking her rat.

At this point I paused and whipped out my phone to preserve this moment so I could roll it out the next time she was licking Other Half's face as they played in his recliner. I am wicked that way.

With photographic proof in hand, I then snatched up a barn rake and marched toward Possum. She smiled at me as I approached. With the sun to her back the half-blind dog was able to see me and the rake and read my intentions, so she grabbed up her rat, and danced off gagging it down as fast as she could. I tried cajoling her. I tried threatening her. I tried chasing her down. You know you're a punk when you can't catch a half-blind deaf dog.

I resorted to ordering the Labrador to steal the rat. This was fruitless too. Apparently possession is 9/10ths of the law no matter how small you are, and as such, Dillon had no intention of stealing a rat from a baby. MoonPossum settled down in the driveway to crunch the rat. The puppy grinned at me before turning her head sideways and crunching that rodent's skull like a child with a Tootsie Pop. And that was it. Down the hatch. All gone. It was enough to make me barf up my sourdough pancakes.

Rat down, MoonPossum burped and smiled at me. I gagged. The puppy was then happy to wiggle up to me. She tried licking my hand as I snapped a leash on her collar. I then locked her in a kennel run and went inside to scrub the rat cooties off my hands. And then scrub out the kitchen sink. And change coats. Cuz there were rat cooties on the sleeve.

Back outside I backed the dually out of the Hay Barn and rolled my garden cart inside for fresh alfalfa. Nikita meowed and curtsied to me as I hoisted a bale aside and uncovered a hidden graveyard of rat heads.

I plopped the bale at my feet in disgust. Nikita meowed again and stepped back and forth on her front feet kneading the air with her toes while I swallowed the rising bile in the back of my throat. Briar shuffled up beside me. After one quick glance to assess the situation, the big white dog snarfed up rat heads like popcorn shrimp. I gagged and stumbled outside into the fresh air and sunshine.

The only good thing about starting a day with dead rats is that things can only go uphill from there. Farms just ain't for sissies.

     The leap to murder is not that far when you're standing naked in a cold shower and the water runs out. The line between holy matrimony and homicide blurs even further if it was a loving spouse who promised there would be enough water.

     I ask those of you north of Texas to withhold judgement on those of us who had a fifty degree thermometer drop in one day. I awoke Sunday morning to find that it was 14 degrees Fahrenheit. Water freezes at well above that temperature. Ask any newscaster in North Texas. They advertise that kind of information freely. They even tell you days in advance that temperatures will plummet like a roller coaster at Disney World. Prepare for it. Doomsday cometh!

     I believed them. I believed them because I am a rule-follower. If I read a sign on a park bench that says, "WET PAINT," I do not touch the bench to see if the paint is really wet. My Other Half, however, is "paint-toucher." He must touch the paint. He must pee on the electric fence. And so like the ant, and the reluctant grasshopper, we busied ourselves for the coming freeze. The chicken coop was winterized with bubble wrap and burlap. Cows and horses were fed extra rations. Dog beds and stalls were packed deeply with hay.

     Friday afternoon the wind shifted and a arctic breeze began its low steady push south. At 4 pm I was watching water in the troughs freeze so I told Other Half it was time to turn the water system off and drain everything to keep the house water from freezing. The grasshopper argued that the heat lamp would be enough. The ant again pointed out water freezing in troughs.

     By then we had a fire going in the house and it was toasty warm. I fed the dogs their supper while he installed a heat lamp in the pump house which contains the water filtration system. After supper I went to bed early. I didn't take a shower and wash my hair before bed because the water had already been turned off.

     At 1 am Other Half woke me to inform me that he'd gone outside to turn off the water before coming to bed and the pipes were already frozen. Wait! Wasn't the water already off? Didn't we see water in the troughs freezing at 4 pm? Was it not then the logical conclusion that water in the pipes would also freeze? The grasshopper had not leaped to the same conclusion as the ant and had chosen to wait until bedtime to shut off water. By then it was too late.

    Hell hath no fury greater than a woman who missed a bath the night before she is to participate in a big Christmas program at church. Although 15 degrees Fahrenheit may be a heat wave in Canada, it is enough to make Texans loose their minds. At 2 am two people standing in a polar wind will make no attempt to be nice to each other. Imagine two grizzly bears yoked together. There is a lot of roaring but not much work gets done.

     I texted Son, "I will need bail money. I'm killing your father."

     "U chose him."

    So while I was singing "A Great And Mighty Wonder" at church, my Other Half was at home working on frozen pipes. Sunday night the temperatures dipped even lower. I awoke at 6:30 am and texted Son, "Holy shit! It's 8 degrees!"

     According to the weatherman it was actually only 11 degrees but really, when it's that low in Texas, what difference does a few degrees make?

     Apparently, quite a bit.  The pipes that didn't burst on Saturday night, burst on Sunday night.

     We were blessed with a half a pallet of bottled water and much of it was still in the hay barn, so we hauled four cases to the house. That water was used for drinking, cooking, and washing dishes. Tired of sponge baths, Other Half decided that water would also be used for a shower. He hauled the propane camp shower out of the horse trailer and busied himself with hooking it up.

     "There's not enough water to wash my hair. I'm gonna go over to Virginia's or Nora's and bathe there."

     "We have plenty of water. Cases and cases of water!"

     "That's drinking water! I have long, thick hair. I need a lot of water to rinse it."

     "There's PLENTY of water. It won't take that much!"

     In an effort to convince me, he took a shower himself. The propane heater was set up on a dog crate he had pulled to the shower stall. A pump was placed in a bucket of water. Water was sucked into a propane heater, then sent through a shower nozzle and came out in a weak stream. This was a two-person job. One person worked the propane heater and pump while the other person showered stood in the cold waiting while water which alternated between frigid cold and seering steam dribbled through the flacid hose.

     "See! I only used a quart of water."

     "You used a gallon."

     "It's your turn."

     "Dude! There is not enough water to wash my hair."

     "Yes, there is!"  (And the paint isn't really wet.)

     By this time I was an enraged grizzly yoked to Yogi the Bear, so in a effort to prove the point, I climbed into the shower. In hindsight, this was really stupid. I am much like a cat. I do not like to be cold. I do not like to be wet. Why I would choose to be cold and wet just to prove my point, merely illustrates the depth of a blinding rage.

     "Hey, are you almost done?"

     "NO! I'm rinsing my hair."

     "Uuhmmm.... We're running low on water. You need to wind it up."

     Yogi the Bear was finally realizing the problem, but by then he had a wet grizzly in the shower. He shuffled off for another case of water. The grizzly shivered and cussed as bottle after bottle was uncapped and poured into the bucket to be heated.

     Yogi the Bear peeked behind the shower curtain at a very angry wet grizzly.

     "Oooh sexy..."

     "I will kill you."

     And there you have it, the recipe for murder. In his defense, even had he turned the water off and drained the pipes before the freeze, the pipes would probably still have burst. One pitiful heat lamp was not enough against that kind of polar shift. Tricks that normally worked for people up here didn't. Pipes burst all over north Texas this weekend. Plumbers are no longer answering their phones. Hardware stores are running out of PVC.

     We still don't have running water. Hopefully we'll get it back in order today. Warm and dry, the grizzly has calmed down and had time to reflect on the situation. The upside is that we now know where our weak spots are, and are much more familiar with our water system. Apparently there is more to it than simply turning on the kitchen faucet. Huh, who knew?

     After a 911 call to Dear Friend Sue, in Wyoming, I got more tips on tried and true methods for handling extreme temperatures. My next order of business after the water is flowing is to insulate the pipes again. This time, in addition to the fancy foam we will also be packing that sucker full of sheep wool!  Yes! Sheep wool! The poor man's insulation! With plastic baggies, socks, and duct tape, I should be able to insulate every bend of pipe, every nook and cranny, and every spot that cold might creap. Oddly, even though we still have the fancy foam insulation, I have more faith in the wool. As Sue pointed out, if you could only pick one animal, pick a sheep. A sheep meets so many needs.

    The Navajo use the expression, "Sheep is Life," because they consider the sheep to be a sacred gift from the Creator to meet their needs. I think they're right. I, for one, will be wrapping the heck out of those pipes with sheep wool today.

With a hypnotic whisper their eyes tapped me on the shoulder.

"Turn around."

So I did.

Reason #467 for having a Border Collie.

In the years BB (Before Briar) it was my custom to have Lily herd the chickens back into the coop around 2 o'clock in the afternoon before I left for work. Since birds behave about like cats, this wasn't an easy task but in time, she trained them.

Now that I have Livestock Guardian Dogs, getting chickens into a coop before dark is not such a pressing issue, but before I retire for the night, I like to have the birds locked inside their coop in the chicken yard.

Birds work on their own schedule and sometimes getting them to bed is like putting down a Girl Scout slumber party. They don't want to go inside the coop until the sun has completely set. Since I greatly dislike having to tromp back out in the dark to lock the coop, I recently hired a new Troop Leader.

One part Nanny McPhee. One part traffic cop. One part Clint Eastwood. Mesa gets the job done.

Tonight I didn't get the birds in until well after dark, so they were already inside the coop. All I needed to do was lock up.  I was still leaned over, locking more devices than a New York City apartment door, when I felt the stare.

Then there was an angry squawk.

"You want this one?"

I turned around. Lily and Mesa were outside the chicken yard, poking an indignant bird toward me. One dog on each side, steering a chicken. My Darwin Award Winner. Aptly named "Darwin."

This bird flies out of the chicken yard on a regular basis. I doubt clipping a wing will solve her problem as she is a master of the artful hop. Her study of aviation would make the Wright Brothers proud. And she could definitely be a contestant on the television show, Wipeout. I have been assured that as she matures, she'll get too heavy to accomplish these feats of grace. Maybe. If she lives that long.

Darwin gets out every few days. Sometimes multiple times a day. Her record is four. I have ten dogs. The chicken is playing Russian Roulette. One day she is gonna roll a Blue Heeler.

But not today. Thanks to Lily and Mesa, Darwin will live to see another sunrise. And you can add that to your X Games list of extreme sports. There beside BASE jumping, skydiving, and wingsuit flying, you can add the extreme sport of Wipeout Chicken Hopping.

This sport consists of a young bird, preferably a heritage breed of laying age, who will use objects in the court of play to provide a take-off point for launch. Objects may consist of, but are not limited to, the coop roof, the shade cloth tarps, feeders, waterers, and the metal hoophouse.  Bird may use any of these objects in any combination to achieve her desired launch. Bird must take into account weather conditions such as prevailing winds and humidity which may adversely affect feather frizz and lift-off potential. Points will be added for each obstacle used in combination. No points will be awarded if player is eaten by dog on the other side of the chicken yard fence.

Thus far, our reigning champion in the extreme sport of WipeOut Chicken Hopping is Darwin.

Don't get too fond of her. Her days are numbered.
 

     As the car slowly crunched to a stop beside me I looked up from the sidewalk and read the pity in the woman's eyes. Perhaps I shouldn't wear my barn clothes in public.

     Other Half had business at Best Buy, our local electronics store, and as usual, we brought a dog or two. On this day the Chosen Ones were MoonPossum and her best pal, Mesa. After a short potty break the dogs and I sat down on the sidewalk outside the store to wait for Other Half to exchange his new cattle-hunting drone for another one. He seems to think a drone will replace riding the ranch on horseback or 4Wheelers in search of stray cattle. I imagine that now we'll be riding the ranch on horseback or 4Wheelers in search of a stray drone. Nevertheless, it is an itch he has the scratch, and so the dogs and I waited patiently outside the store.

     We could have waited in the truck, but Possum is a pup and needs to see the world so we plopped down outside the main doors. On the sidewalk. Yes, the ground.  If you've worked with cattle then you realize that on the Cleaniless Continuum, a sidewalk outside an electronics store isn't all that bad.

     So I leaned my back up against the wall and engaged in a bit of people watching while the dogs chilled. Ranch dogs. Just chilling. I was impressed by how calm they were. They were as calm as Homeless People Dogs, just sitting there, watching the flow of human traffic. Chilling.

From time to time dogs in passing cars said hello. This bulldog rolled past us several times.

I was thinking that perhaps we looked a bit Bohemian, me in dirty clothes with a scarf on my hair, and two scruffy dogs at my feet. Somewhere between rancher and writer, I was okay with that look.

Just me and my girls, chilling like some Bohemian artist hiker. I was okay with that image until the car slowed to a stop beside me and an older woman with kind eyes held a Whataburger bag out the window.

"Do you want this for your dogs? They look like they'd like a hamburger."

I gaped like a goldfish as my romantic Bohemian vision crumbled into the cold reality. "She thinks we're homeless."

On the one hand I wanted to explain myself. On the other hand, it was What-A-Burger. I didn't want to cheat them out of What-A-Burger.

     And so we kindly accepted the charity of a stranger who drove away feeling much better. The dogs got a double meat cheeseburger and I was reminded to clean up before I went to town. It is still nice to know that if I'm ever homeless, the good citizens of Weatherford, Texas will make sure my dogs are fed.
 

He leered at me with a smile that was supposed to be charming but the charm was lost by the beads of urine on his nose.

I just wanted a walk. A simple walk. I live in a wild and beautiful place that rivals any state park, and yet I can't enjoy it on foot because of the damned animals. Not the wildlife. Oh no! There are copperheads, rattlesnakes, coyotes, bobcats, feral hogs, and at least one cougar, but am I worried about them?

Not in the least. No. I can't take a walk because of my own animals.

Hunting season officially opened this weekend, thus I have to lock up my young Livestock Guardian Dogs. They simply cannot grasp the idea of seasonal visitors who set up camp right along our fence line, and cook sausage and bacon, and all manner of delicious food. These are temporary neighbors who offer an exciting relief from the boring ho-hum daily grind of barking at buzzards, bobcats, and coyotes.

It is simply impossible to leave the dogs loose to guard the livestock without having at least one (Judge) abandon his post for a vacation with the neighbors, who thought he was cute at first, but since he:

1) crapped on their front porch
2) raided the garbage they left out
and
3) hiked his leg on their deer feeder

I'm sure he has more than worn out his welcome.

So the boys are in lockdown. The sheep have to be kept at the house, and the Boys have to be in pens or in the barn. That's a lot of confined energy. Since I'm fat, out of shape, (round is a shape) in need of exercise, I decided to start walking the boys on leash after chores. I'd have safe companions and they could burn a little steam.

Because the buck pen was sloppy due to rain, I'd left the bucks out last night with Briar. Instead of returning them to their pen this morning, I tossed them across the fence into the lease pasture where they could trim trees along the fence line when they finished breakfast.

After chores I leashed the Anatolians and headed out for my walk. Since the horses were still finishing up their breakfast at the gate, the plan was to slip out through the lease pasture, walk down the fence, and then slip back into our place from another gate. That was the plan. That didn't happen.

I opened the gate to walk through with the Anatolians and the spotted buck bulled his way past me to get into the yard with the sheep. He then proceeded to try to rape my ewes. I slammed the gate in the brown buck's face and turned to watch the chaos in the barn yard. It was like a pervert on a merry-go-round. Suave is not in the vocabulary of a billy goat.

I slammed the kennel door shut on confused Anatolians and raced off in pursuit of a spotted buck who couldn't understand why none of my ewes were interested in a relationship with a total stranger from another species, who landed on their backs like a child having a pillow fight while bouncing on a newly made bed. After several futile attempts to catch the bastard, I seriously considered shooting him. Seriously.

There was a gun in my back pocket, because, well, one never knows when a copperhead will rudely enter your morning. Shooting the buck was a dancing temptation in front of me. I own both his parents, so he can easily be replaced. A buck in full rut can be a nasty, obnoxious creature who pees on his face and tries to screw anything that will stand still. If I'd already bred him this season, I think I would have shot him right there in the yard as he knocked down my churro ewes. I was that mad.

It was time for a Border Collie. There is nothing like having a Border Collie grab a back leg to make even the most horny of bucks change his way of thinking. Lily penned the buck. I caught my breath, put the Border Collie back in the barn, and tried to start my walk again.

With leashes on the Anatolians, I started through the gate once more. The brown buck trotted toward me with a smile. I stomped past him. One does not want to encourage the attention of a billy goat. Especially a friendly one coated in urine.

"Hey, would you like a little company?"

"NO! Go away!"

Not quite as obnoxious as his son, Jethro, the brown buck, still wasn't going to put off by my rude behavior, so he opted to amble along behind the dogs. With a happy bobble, he followed us down the fence, his long ears swaying with each joyful step. We were taking a walk! Together! He was a happy camper.

Disgusted. I was not a happy camper. One cannot enjoy the smell of the forest with a billy goat in tow, particularly when the goat wants to rub his urine-soaked body against you.  We made it to the gate and the dogs and I slipped back through, leaving the buck to himself on the other side. Not to be discouraged, he called behind us,

"Hey! Hey! You guys go on ahead, I'll catch up with you as soon as I cross the hill and go around the pond. Don't worry. I'll catch up with you!"

I ignored him. His bell jangled in the distance as he sought a way to keep up with us. And true to his word, he joined us on the other side. The cattails around the pond parted to reveal his bright eyes. He reminded me of Joe Pesci in the Lethal Weapon movies.

"Hey! Hey guys! I found you! See? See? I told you. I told you I'd catch up!"

I growled and ignored him. We reached the fork and struck out north toward the creek. The buck stood at the fence and called.

"Hey! Hey! Uhm... there's a barbed wire fence in the way. I can't really go there. Well. Maybe I can. I guess I might can climb through the wire. Give me a second. Oh crap! That hurts. Well. Hang on. Wait. Don't go. I'm coming with. Wait!"

I left him.

Soon the forest was silent except for my boots squishing into the red mud and the bell ringing  on the dog's collar. That's when I rounded the bend to see the cattle coming through the creek in my direction. Nothing can ruin a walk with dogs faster than a cow trying to stomp your dog.

We shrank into the forest before they saw us. So much for my walk. I turned around and headed back home. Much to the relief of the billy goat pacing the fence, we emerged from the forest beside him. With his world now back in balance, Jethro bounced down the trail on the other side of the fence. I was still trying to salvage my walk in the opposite direction of the cows, when we ran into the horses.

Montoya stood in the road ahead of us. Delighted. What a pleasant surprise! Mom. Out here. In the middle of nowhere. Perhaps Mom has more breakfast with her.

Sigh. No. No close encounters with horses either. Like cows, the horses aren't big fans of dogs. I plowed forward and slipped through the gate into the lease pasture before the horses could get too close. No worries. They would just follow us down the fence. The cattle trailed behind the horses. Jethro was beside himself with pleasure. We had finally joined him again. As he walked with the dogs beside me, he would stop and look back over his shoulder with a coy grin.

"Hey! I'm cute. I'm sexy! Really. Don't you think I'm sexy?"

I slapped the end of the leash across his ass. "Get out of my way, you stupid goat!"

"Ooooh! S & M! Okay! Not really my thing, but I'm game. I can play that if you want!"

I ignored him and stomped off. He angled in front of me, but then had second thoughts.

"Where's your little black and white dog?"

I ignored him.

"She's not here, is she? Ahhhh . . . she's NOT HERE, is she?" He leered at me.

I put an Anatolian Shepherd between us and kept walking. The buck stopped to pee on his face and then trotted to catch up with us.

"Hey! Hey! Hey! Food Lady! Wanna screw!"

"Go $#@! yourself."

"Already done that!"

He leered at me with a smile that was supposed to be charming but the charm was lost by the beads of urine on his nose. I walked faster and made mental note to never again leave the house without a Border Collie. So there we were. What should have been a peaceful walk was instead a barnyard parade. I was flanked in the protective custody of two Anatolians while a horny billy goat leered at me,  four horses followed us down the fence line, and cattle trailed along bringing up the rear.

The buck was clearly disappointed when we arrived at the barnyard gate and his walk was over. As I stuffed the Anatolians back into the goat pen it was hard to ignore her stare tapping me on the shoulder. The Border Collie's eyebrow was arched across her forehead like Spock as she silently accused me.

Why do I fight it? Without a Border Collie there is chaos.  Why do I ever leave the house without a Border Collie to provide order and stability in this world?

No matter how bad your Monday was, you still didn't have to grab a bull by the penis. Or maybe you did, in which case I tip my hat to you, because you're probably a rancher in North Texas.

"I think that little yellow bull calf got bit on the pecker by a copperhead."

"Do what?"

"The end's all black and it looks like the tip is sloughing off."

It really takes more coffee to have a conversation like this. Aside from the monetary loss of another bull, I was really pretty fond of the little guy. His sire was a Charolais bull that belonged to a friend of ours. We bred that Charolais to an assortment of Braford heifers and each calf that hit the ground was really nice. Since we moved up here and no longer had access to that young bull, we opted to keep a bull calf from this year's crop.

I like to work with the 'heir and a spare' approach to breeding bulls since they're so important to a cattle operation. If something happens to your only bull, there is no calf crop, and around here, it's entirely possible to lose a bull to a freak accident. Since we moved the cattle to North Texas, we've lost three bulls already. One was lost to age and blindess. His loss was no surprise. Another jumped a barbed wire fence and hung his penis, thus moving him from breeding bull to auction barn, to Taco Bell. The other one somehow damaged his shoulder enough to become permanently lame, thus he ended up in our freezer.

So I stood in the kitchen gaping like a goldfish. And that's when I remembered. Like a drowning man grabbing a life preserver I snatched at that thought.

"Cockleburrs!"

"What?"

"Cockleburrs! I bet he has cockleburrs in his hair! That's probably the black stuff you see!"

Days earlier I'd spent thirty minutes picking cockleburrs out of the paint horse's mane and tail, so it was entirely possible that the bull calf had simply walked through the same field and collected burrs on his penis. Ouch.

Other Half penned the cattle up and a sure enough, rather than a nasty infection, our young lad just had a major owwie which could be treated with a pair of scissors. So while he sorted cattle, I hiked to the house for a pair of scissors. No, I will not be using them in the kitchen again.

Never trust a cow not to kick the crap out of you. Especially when you're holding his penis. In addition to the lovely calf crop he put on the ground this year, the thing I liked most about the Charolais bull we borrowed was his temperament. He was easy to handle. I named him Groceries. We kept him for a while, and I worked with him daily. Groceries was just a nice, sensible bull. And he produced nice, sensible calves.

When you're standing in the pasture, holding onto a bull's penis, you appreciate a good nature in a cow. I mean, really, how exactly does one explain those injuries to an ER doctor? On the other hand, an ER doctor in North Texas has probably heard that one before.

So I stand and tip my hand to Groceries for passing on a nice temperament to his calves. Son Of Groceries stood like a placid plowhorse for his 'manscaping,' and soon joined the herd where they admired his new Beach Boy Clip and fitted him for a Speedo.

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.