Farm Fresh Blog

Eegaads!  The bows are still lurking under the kitchen table, used gift bags are stacked inside each other and packed away, and credit card bills have arrived like chickens coming home to roost.  It's time to pay the piper!

I spent the morning paying bills. Sigh . . .  some days I feel like this dog . . .

 "Where's my tail?"

"There's my tail!"

 "A-a-a-almost got it!"

"Nope. . .There it is!"

 "Woowh! I'm dizzy . . ."

"Was that VISA or MasterCard?"

Check out these ears! 

Trace looks more like Dumbo the Flying Elephant than a Border Collie!

  Eeegaads!

I'm sure this really convinces the naysayers that Trace is NOT a Border Collie.  After all, Border Collies should look like this:

                                       Right?

Wrong!

I give you Exhibits A & B:

A Tale (Tail) of Two Puppies

 Ruby

Trace 

They are young Jedi Warriors . . . they are Border Collie!

While other breeds go for a walk, our young Jedi Warriors go for a stalk . . .

May the Force be with them!

 And after they stalk everything that moves in the pasture, they finally collapse . . . and the Universe takes a moment to recover.

Read more about the Liver-Coated Sneak-Stalking Sheepdog:

Sometimes Mom's new dog, Stone, looks over at our side of the fence.

  I can see his mind working . . .

Our side of the fence has sheep, and cows, and horses, and lots of other dogs.

I'll bet he wonders about life on this side of the fence.  But he always chooses . . .

 . . . his new mom!

 He seems . . .

. . .  pretty . . .                                           

                    . . . happy. . . 

 . . . with his choice!

There is something magical about little girls and horses.

My brother brought his family to the farm on Christmas Eve and once again, Ona proved that she is worth her (ample) weight in gold.  My nieces climbed aboard her broad back for pony rides. No one has been on Ona in months. No biggie.  This is Ona - The Golden Horse.  As long as Little Girls come bearing horse cookies, she will walk circles all day long.  She really is the perfect horse - so patient, so calm. Nothing much bothers Ona.

You can't put a price on a horse like this.

 . . . or smiles like this.

Ona is okay with walking large, patient circles, with anyone at the helm.

I didn't buy Ona for this.  I bought Ona to teach me how to drive.  And she is as calm and patient with big girls as she is with little girls. 

By the way . . .

. . . as far as we know . . .  

. . . . Ona has never been broke to ride.

(She is utterly clueless regarding leg aids. We believe she is just so calm that she doesn't mind passengers. Yep, a true Golden Girl. Nope, Ona is not for sale.)

"I didn't trade Trace the lamb for the pig ear. I like looking at my lamb. Mom says it's better than television."

"I like watchin' her play."

 "She runs . . . "

". . . and she bounces."

 "Trace likes watchin' her too, but I don't think it's the same. He says he'll trade me a pig ear, a Milk Bone, aaaand his stuffed chipmunk for her."

"No deal."

"Trace's chipmunk doesn't even have a tail!"

"Santa Paws came! I missed him! I missed him!"

We stayed up real late. We waited and we waited . . . and we watched. . .

. . . and we listened . . .

Oli promised that she wouldn't eat Santa Paws.

Cowboy promised he wouldn't chase the reindeer.

This is Trace's first Christmas, so he was real excited.

It's my first Christmas too! I was gonna stay up all night long . . .

. . . but I got sidetracked looking for Jesus and . . .

. . . and I fell asleep!

I missed him!  I missed him!  

But look what he left!

 . . . and this!

We got a new baby lamb!!!!

(Trace and I are still arguing over who gets the baby lamb . . . He said he'd trade me a pig ear for it.)

"Mom says that Santa Paws is coming tonight!"

"I'm gonna stay up all night long to wait for him!"

Mom says this is a Holy Night cuz Baby Jesus was born tonight.  Mom says it's okay that they won't let me go to church b'cuz I already live in the most Holy of places . . .  . I live in a stable. If it was good enough for Baby Jesus, it's good enough for me!

"Mom says Jesus can see everything we do. Mom says Jesus sees us when I chase the cat.  And He sees us when Lily bites the barn boards. And He sees us when Trace poops in the house. And she said that Jesus tells Santa Paws if we've been bad or good." 

"I wonder where he sits so he can see all those things."

"Maybe he's in here."    

 "That would not be good."

"It's gonna be a long night."

            "Here Trace!"

"Atta Boy!  Hop up here!"

(The Unsuspecting Victim)   

"Look what Daddy has for you!"

("Run, Trace, run!")

    "Now hold still, Little Buddy."

"You're kiddin', right?"     

"I'm fixin' to let him go! Get the picture now! Quick!" 

(Unlike bullriding, the sport of Santa Hat Photography rarely allows you 8 full seconds.)

"Here Lily!"

"Oh Come'on, Lil!  Be a sport! Come 'ere!"

 "Give us a smile for Santa!"

"Yeah, yeah . . . Fa la la la la, and all that crap . . ."

"Okay Lil, that's a take!"

"You realize that y'all need therapy, right?" 

As a crime scene investigator, I go into a lot of homes, and I have always said that you can learn a lot about people by looking at their bookshelf. But you can also learn a great deal about people by looking at their Christmas trees.  Some people have "theme" trees. Some have trees so ornate they compete with department stores. And some people, like us, have Christmas trees that serve as "Way Back Machines." 

Over the years you collect ornaments, some fancy, some plain, but each evokes a memory.  We have two trees.  Other Half likes a large tree in the living room, (where Cowboy is delighted to discover that he now has an indoor restroom!), and I like a rosemary tree on the kitchen table, (where my porcelain ornaments are safe from the dogs!)  Each tree has memories.  His family has a Christmas tree lot, and so his big tree always comes from that lot. It is decorated with old ornaments and treasures the kids made (up high, so Cowboy doesn't pee on them!)

The kitchen tree tends to be more animal-oriented. Go figure . . .

. . .  a little heavy on the horses!

 "The First Noel"

Some ornament hold more memories than others.  Years ago, I bought two Belgian Tervuren ornaments at a dog show.

Is this not cute or what!  

It was Kona's first Christmas and he climbed up onto the kitchen table to help himself to the Christmas tree. He mangled this ornament.  The little angel puppy hanging on the star no longer had ears, his halo was crooked, and his wings kept falling off.

 Instead of having a fit, I put it back on the tree and told myself that this ornament would always remind me of Kona's first Christmas.

He was such a clever little guy.

 And he grew to become a good working partner.  I had no idea he would only have eight Christmas trees.  Now I am so glad that I kept that silly broken ornament . . . for it will always remind me of Kona's first Christmas.

And now he is my angel with the crooked halo and the fallen wings . . . 

 What memories does your "Way Back Machine" take you back to?

Fleece Navidad, Everyone!

Last night we took the kids and the grandbaby on an adventure that would have made the Griswald's proud! Santa's Wonderland is an outdoor playground that boasts 2.5 million Christmas lights. None of us had ever been before, and it was well worth the trip! We took a horse-drawn carriage ride along our lighted journey.   

  A certain Someone was more impressed with the free bag of kettle corn than she was with the lights.

Sparky, our horse, followed the path of cars along the cascade of lights. 

And lest anyone forget . . .

After the tour Sparky got a well-needed drink.

(Note that Lilah has not let go of that bag of kettle corn!)

"Hang on!  That horse is lookin' at my kettle corn!"

After the tour, we went into Santa Town which had everything your little Christmas Heart could desire! They had a cool band that sang Country Christmas songs and hymns.  It was nice to see that in the age of political correctness, the entire theme park wished everyone a Merry Christmas instead of Happy Holidays, and no one was shy about putting the religion back in a religious holiday!

And shopping!  There was lots of shopping!  (I want extra-credit for being an adult and buying a bar of goat milk soap instead of fudge!)

I resisted buying this.  It was hard though!

 They actually had REAL campfires where you could roast hotdogs and marshmallows!

The Lilah Bean's favorite part was still the kettle corn! Her daddy plopped her down in a bale of hay where she happily munched and watched the world around her.  (Note: "The Christmas Story" with Ralphie and the Red Rider BB Gun playing on a large screen in the background!) 

Yes, "God Bless Texas!"

It was a wonderful evening, perfect for building memories. Will she remember Sparky, her taxi cab horse? Probably not?  Will she remember her daddy putting Grandpa's cowboy hat on her head?  I doubt it?  Will she remember the beautifully done Nativity scene?  Certainly not!  What will she remember?

Kettle Corn!!!

Note: They also had a REALLY neat petting zoo with pony rides! Why do we have no pictures of The Lilah Bean at the petting zoo?  Because her daddy took one look at the cost per person and wisely announced that Grandpa had EVERY ONE of those pettable critters at our house and The Lilah Bean could wait until Christmas Eve where she could pet the animals for free.  (I did argue that we did not have a camel, but he pointed out that the camel was not part of the petting zoo. Touche')  The Lilah Bean was unconcerned about the Petting Zoo anyway.  She was still working on the kettle corn.

There is a popular candy bar commercial on the air now that never fails to crack me up. Here's a quick re-cap for anyone without a television set: A guy is in the back seat of a car with Aretha Franklin. He accuses the Diva of being "a diva" when he's hungry and offers him a candy bar. Immediately Aretha Franklin becomes a man eating a candy bar. With some food, his buddy is no longer a Diva. That's when the camera pans to a grumpy Liza Minelli in the front seat. Moral of our commercial: people become grumpy divas when they're hungry.  www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLrsCnBvQFo

That said, Other Half and I went Christmas shopping today. And we were both hungry, thus, you had Liza Minelli and Aretha Franklin in the car together.  It wasn't pretty.

The Divas
Wake up in a good mood.  Swill down enough caffeine to wake up a dead mule. Discuss plans for the day. Note that we have a busy day planned and Other Half is piddling.  Suggest that perhaps our time would be better spent if we split up and he did his chores, and I did my chores.  Aretha Franklin vetos that.  Okay then.  Go feed sheep, horses, and young heifers.  Note that Ruffy, the Evil Red Miniature Horse does not come in for breakfast. 

Begin to really worry until Other Half points out that Ruffy is in the rye grass pasture where he DOES NOT BELONG! Other Half also points out that the heifers have also done the limbo through the fence and have also been dining at the Rye Grass Buffet. This is a disaster. They have reduced an entire pasture of rye grass to nothing. The grass is so short now that it looks like I've turned the sheep on it.  That's about when Liza Minelli entered the picture. Aretha Franklin assures Liza Minelli that since he is off work all next week, he could put up an electric fence to keep Evil Ruffy and The Evil Heifers from slithering into the winter groceries.  Liza Minelli is satisfied and soon Liza and Aretha Franklin are en route to Yuppy Land to shop for Christmas presents with every Homicidal-Soccer-Mom-Slurping-Starbucks-Coffee-Behind-The-Wheel-Of-A-Lexus-In-Three-Counties.  Since Aretha & Liza are Hungry-Divas-who-rarely-shop-at-any-place-other-than-The-Feedstore-and-Tractor-Supply, it was a bad combination.

First, Aretha & Liza have to drive the Toyota 4Runner because they don't want the Ford trucks stolen while In The City. Liza drives the 4Runner to work every day, but Aretha does not like to drive the 4Runner because it is small and not manly enough for a Diva like himself. Aretha has forgotten his gun and must borrow one from Liza.  He has forgotten both his gun and his holster, thus he must wear a very cold gun in the back of his pants.  Liza notes that even with his shirt tail out, it doesn't take a Rocket Scientist to figure out that Aretha Franklin has a gun in his pants.  Liza decides against pointing it out because it simply isn't worth the fight. So Aretha & Liza step into the parking lot of the First Store along their journey.

Both Divas are almost run down by Soccer Moms Slurping Starbucks. Surviving that, they step inside the Book Store to find that it is a Madhouse.  Liza has consumed so much coffee that she sends Aretha in search of a Border Collie Engagement Calendar while she rushes to the restroom.  Certainly her mood will improve with an empty bladder.  Don't bet on it!  Minutes later, Liza heads out in search of Aretha.  Finds Aretha in the calendar section deeping engaged in a calendar about Suicidal Bunnies.  (Do what?  WTF??)  It must be a Guy Thing because despite Aretha's repeated attempts to interest Liza in Suicidal Bunnies, Liza is only interested in Border Collies, sunflowers, and the Lavender Fields Of Provence. Aretha has no interest in these things. Liza looks at watch.  The Divas have been shopping for almost an hour and have only found things for themselves.  (But no Border Collie Engagement calendars!)  

Aretha points out that despite the fact that they are only at Place One of the Three Destinations they have planned for today, The Divas have piddled around so long that they no longer have time to go to Destinations Two & Three because he must return home to meet man who is supposed to buy one of the old farm trucks.  (Note: this man has stood us up three times already!) Liza points out that she cautioned Aretha about piddling BEFORE the Divas left the house this morning.  Aretha doesn't want to hear it.  Liza is hungry.  Liza is VERY HUNGRY!  Liza sees a box of Godiva Chocolates.  Liza wants.  Liza gets.  Liza throws credit card at cashier.  It is now 3:30 PM and The Divas have purchased only one Christmas present.

While walking to 4Runner, Liza & Aretha are almost run over by Soccer Moms in the parking lot. Once safely in vehicle, Liza pops out a knife and demands Godiva Chocolate.  Aretha informs her that she cannot eat chocolate because she has had no food and needs REAL food instead.  Liza demands chocolate. NOW!  Liza has a knife . . .  and a gun. Aretha gives Liza the chocolate.  Liza slices into box and pops a truffle in her mouth.  MMMMmmmm . . . Then Liza tells Aretha that the Godiva Chocolate cost $18.  Aretha screams. 

Aretha then does mental math and asks Liza if she knows how many Butterfingers could have been purchased for $18.  Liza pops another truffle in her mouth.

Fortified with chocolate, Liza finally notes that Aretha is becoming a Bitchy Bear. Since Liza is only one centimeter past Bitchy Bear herself, Liza announces that this vehicle will be going to the first Fast Food restaurant that The Divas pass.  But . . . first they must get out of a parking lot filled with Holiday Shoppers. 

Every exit is packed.  Aretha suggests going to an exit behind the stores.  Liza argues that no such exit exists and she refuses to get out of line to search for this Mythical Exit.  Aretha and Liza scream at each other.  Liza wins because she has the wheel.  As they inch along, Aretha smugly points out the Mythical Exit at the other end of the parking lot.  Liza points out that she is armed.

The Divas go through a Wendy's Drive-Thru. Eight dollars later and the firearms are put back up. The Divas have wasted an entire day, threatening each other and countless unwitting Holiday Shoppers and they have only purchased one present . . . and THAT is why the rest of the presents will be purchased from The Feed Store!

As eventually happens to every devoted parent, Blue Heeler's child has grown up and left the nest.  Despite the perceptions of John Q. Public, Trace is not a Springer Spaniel mix.  He is a Border Collie.  Every gene in his little squirming body screams

 "Young Jedi, You are Border Collie!"

So young Trace has aligned himself with Border Collie.  He follows Lily everywhere. To a Kindergarten-Border-Collie Lily has the cool life of a Jedi-Border-Collie. And it sings to his genes.

 So he follows her . . .

. . .  everywhere.

Is Ranger upset that Trace has grown up

and moved out of the nest?

Not really.

I think keeping up with The Crocodile Hunter was pretty exhausting work.

(I can certainly relate!)

"Where was that Trouble?"

Read:

Other Half is not a big fan of this dog.  This is why . . .

When I went to bed last night this dog was clean. 

She was white and fluffy . . . and huggable!

Every morning she throws herself into what is left of the hay pile,  and she

rolls and plays and looks so cute . . .

 So this morning,

I picked up my camera to capture a Big White Fluffy Dog playing like a polar bear in nice clean hay.  But I forgot . . .

This is Briar we're talking about!

Briar, yes, the dog who cannot resist a muddy pond when the temperature rises about 65 degrees. So instead of cute polar bear pictures, you get shots of a muddy dog wallowing in hay that used to be clean.  I apologize for that now.

Paula in Nevada sent me a link to a site that I simply MUST share with you!

It's a website called http://www.ranching-with-sheep.com/   with a fascinating partner blog at http://ranching-with-sheep.blogspot.com/ .  I just loved it!  The author, Arlette Seib, has a  style that is as stark, simple and beautiful as the Canadian prairie that she writes of.  An earthly spirituality emanates from many of her posts. 

In "Out Here The Air Has Eyes" you can literally "feel" the coyotes watching.  I'm still exploring the site, but you must take a moment to read, "Fixing the Past or Creating The Future?" and "When Old Friends Die."

When she wrote "The Ending Of A Life" I felt her pain and I was reminded of a black day last winter when I was forced to do the same thing . . . 

(Read: Tomorrow is Another Day   and  Ready for Tomorrow )

Please take a moment to look at her website and read her blog.  Your life will be richer for it.  I, for one, will never gripe about another Texas winter.

The Great White Beast spies an intruder . . .

"Prepare to be disassembled, Intruder!"

"Oh, good grief!  You're kidding, right? The sheep aren't even out here!"

 "NO! You are wolf! I am a wolf-killer!"

"But I'm poopin'!"

"Prepare to die, Wolf!"

"Tag!  You're it!"

 And thus continues the saga of Ralph & Sam, the wolf & the Sheepdog . . .  off-duty!

The sheep are lambing and so Briar has been pulled out of the pasture.  She is still a giant baby and I don't want any accidents with the lambs. 

She visits with them daily while I can supervise her and sleeps beside the fence at night. 

Briar has recently proven to me that she is quite the agile little critter (agile Big Critter?).  Do you see how high these stall doors are?

Did you know that a certain Big White Dog can climb these stall doors to get in with her sheep?  Very impressive.  I was inside the sheep pen and had left Briar locked in the barn. A few minutes later I turned to find her ambling through the sheep.  Whudathunkit?

 I'm now convinced that if coyotes climb into the pen with the sheep at night, then Briar is quite capable of climbing the fence to get inside and protect them.  Pretty darned good for a mutt dawg! See!  Blood will tell . . . I'm sold on these Big White Dogs now. 

Despite her appearance, underneath all that fluffy hair is a lean, mean, climbing machine!

Briar is a Great Pyrenees/Komondor cross.  That little brown & white dawg behind her is a Liver-coated Sneak-Stalking Sheepdog!

This is for all the people who have an uncommon breed of dog, or a Border Collie that isn't black & white:

One of our Homicide Investigators saw a photo of Trace.

"That's my new puppy," I said.

He peeked at the camera phone. "Oh. It's a Springer."

"Actually, he's a Border Collie."

Pulling the photo closer to his face, he verified that Trace WAS a little brown and white dog. "Looks like a Springer cross," he said.

"Yeah, he does, but he's really a Border Collie. We drove all the way to Oklahoma to get him."

Then he gave me the polite, patient look that is usually reserved for little old ladies who have just been duped out of cash by the widow of a Nigerian prince on the internet.

Oh dear!  Poor Trace will forever be marked as a mutt because he isn't black & white.  It's okay.  I've had Belgian Tervuren for 20 years, so I'm used to it. The public thinks they're longhaired German Shepherds, or Afghan-Collie crosses.  We had family members who tired of trying to pronounce the breed name and simply called them "Albanian Lavernes."  So it stuck. 

Meet my first Albanian Laverne:

Perhaps I should come up with some clever herding dog breed name for Trace!  Maybe I can call him a:

. . .  Celtic Collie!

. . . .A Cheyenne Shepherd!

a Highlands Herding Dog!

Or what he is . . .

a Liver-Coated Sneak-stalking Sheepdog
 

CRASH through the work day! 

The weekend is NEAR!

If you have goats, you never run out of fence work to be done.

Over the years I've been systematically replacing sagging field fencing (which goats drag down by climbing on them) with cattle panels. (very $$$ project!)

But I told myself that in the end, I would have this farm completely fenced in cattle panels which will keep in sheep, goats, cattle and horses!  Unfortunately I didn't figure on having The Goat King.

Oh, he's a handsome rascal, isn't he?  But this is the Border Collie of horses!  (I know this because I've raised him since he was "knee high to a grasshopper!" ) Montoya is a 'thinking' horse.  Thinking horses are good because they don't tend to explode out from underneath you when you're riding them.  Thinking horses are bad because they tend to tear shit up to get the things they want. (pardon my French)

See this fence line?

 I didn't put those panels up like that!

 SOMEONE (someone BIG) is standing on my cattle panels and dragging them down so he can get behind them.  SOMEONE then walks all over the downed cattle panels, thus twisting and contorting them so badly that they can 'barely' be tacked back up again!

 I can understand this. Force of Nature. It happens.

But this also appears to be a Force Of Nature  . . .

. . . a very expensive Force Of Nature who needs to become intimate with hot wire!

 "Whut?  WHUT?!!"

Read more about The Goat King:

Trespassers will be eaten!

Perhaps I need to post this photo on the front gate for foolhardy meter-readers who by-pass "WARNING - POLICE SERVICE DOG" signs.

Actually, Lily bit her tongue.

She continued to work as the blood steadily dripped.  (Poor kid)  It mixed with saliva, (Lily drools when she works sheep.) and in no time Lil looked like a "slavering beast!"  NO SHEEP WERE HARMED! (But Rasta now has a better understanding that she shouldn't attack Lily.) The dog looked so bad that I was afraid she had broken a tooth, but upon thorough examination, it seems that she had just bitten her tongue badly. It made me wince just to look at it, but it didn't slow the little dog down a bit.  What a trooper!

(Don't ask me why I name the sheep, but when I begin to recognize them as individuals, they seem to end up with names.  Rasta is so nasty that she certainly stands out enough to deserve a name.) 

Don't forget to say "I love you."  Don't get too busy for a hug. Take the time to share a glass of wine and a piece of chocolate (or a whole pan!) with a girlfriend.

We had our glorious Ladies Christmas Party on Saturday.  We laughed. We loved. And if only for a few hours, we were silly little girls again. 

Then Monday afternoon one of our girls had a seizure and died. She was so young. We are still in shock. But we are thankful for the good times we had together. It is so important to live and love each day as if it is your last.   Godspeed Kim, We love ya!

Adorable, isn't he?

Smart, isn't she?

Makes ya wanna run right out and get a Border Collie, doesn't it?

But here's the Dark Side Of Border Collies:

My back yard looks like this . . .

and this . . .

. . . because a certain adorable little Border Collie puts every smidgeon of brain power into finding a way out of the yard and into . . .

. . . here . . . .

(Read: High Drive To Insanity )

And the boards in my horse barn look like this . . .

YES!  THIS! 

(No, a child with a chain saw did NOT do that!)

A certain obsessive compulsive Kung Fu Panda is overstimulated by the sight of horses between the boards.  Take the horse out of the stall and it completely diffuses her.  The horse MUST be on the OTHER SIDE of the boards for the obsession to take hold.  But make no mistake.  She is helpless before the power of her obsession. . . and she's damaging her teeth.

Soooo . . .

We installed a gate in front of the barn to keep out Border Collies!

Note: Yes, we KNOW the gate is upside down.  We had to install it upside down to keep The Crocodile Hunter from slithering underneath it!

Now I'm not saying they are not the most adorable, remarkable dogs in the world, but if you get a mind like this . . . be afraid . . . be very afraid.

For your life will never be the same again.

That said, I cannot imagine how we ever ran a farm without one!

The Christmas Party

Or . . .

In Which Pooh Bear Attempts To Be A Girl

Between my work schedule and and farm schedule, getting "Girl Time" is rare. Most of my girlfriends are also trying to juggle full-time jobs and farms, so we spend more time on the phone than face to face. But each December, we have a Christmas party where we all drop what we're doing, take time off of work, leave the husbands at home, toss some feed at the horses and the kids, put on a clean shirt and get together for "girl time."

Girl Time means you can shamelessly talk about horses, leopard-print underwear, and bling-bling and know you are with like-minded women.  In fact, since one of our members was lifeflighted off the beach after a bad fall from a horse and it was discovered that she was wearing leopard-print bra and panties, we have adopted leopard-prints as well as bright purple as our group colors.  (You don't get more girly-girly than THAT!) We are the "Red Hat Society" on horseback - a posse of purple and leopard!

So yesterday I took off work for my total immersion in "Girl Time."  The Girls always lay out one helluva spread. You won't go hungry at a Girl Party. The problem is that not only do I not cook worth a darn, I worked the night before so there was no guarantee that I'd even have time to cook before the party. Since the bakery in my little town makes awesome cake balls, I planned to swing by the bakery on my way to the party. (The best laid plans of mice and men . . .)

And thus began the adventures of the typical middle-aged premenapausal airhead . . .

Admire cute black holiday horse sweatshirt in mirror. Find matching earrings.  "Damn girl!  You look good!" Pack up purse to leave.  Crap! Go back in house to get White Elephant gift. Crap! Wrap White Elephant gift. Start out door again.  CRAP!  Forgot to unload shavings from back of truck.  Since a cold front is supposed to blow in, decide to unload shavings and spread in sheep stalls.  Manage to accomplish this without getting too dirty.  Amazing.  Decide it is hot.  Very hot.  Too hot for cute black holiday horse sweatshirt.  Damn. Go back in house.  Stare at closet.  Volumes of clothes. Nothing to wear.  Decide on black t-shirt that matches earrings.  Tug on shirt.  It is wrinkled.  Damn.  Decide that at least shirt is clean. With visions of leopard-printed bling-bling dancing in my head, I grab purse and climb into Monsta truck.

Pull into bakery.  It is closed.  Do WHAT??!!!  Uh oh!  Refuse to let Holiday Spirit be dampened. Head to Kroger's. Find chocolate-covered strawberries. (mmmmm . . . BETTER than cake balls!)  Buy outrageously expensive strawberries.  Decide that since it is now 1:45 PM and I have not eaten, I must buy something to eat NOW so I don't eat everything including the paper plate at the party.  (learned that little trick from Scarlett O'Hara)  Buy Spicy California rolls and some potato chips.  I never get to eat California Rolls at home because Other Half flips out and squeals "SUSHI!  How can you eat RAW fish!  GROOOSSS!"

So I get a package of Spicy California Rolls and feel all "urbane" at the idea of eating this yuppy food even though I am fully aware that a piece of fake crab and a hunk of avocado wrapped in a slab of rice is definitely NOT sushi. Decide that Other Half needs a bag of Peanut M&Ms. Rush through check-out line. Climb into Monsta truck. Carefully unpack Spicy California Rolls and place on center console. Tear open package of soy sauce. Pour onto rolls. Pop roll in mouth.  Savor sensation.  Have a Happy Fake Yuppy moment.  Follow roll with a potato chip.  Mmmm. . . perfect balance of salty.  Mmmm . . .

Notice time.  Damn!  Running late.  Plug address into Tom-Tom.  I have been here 4 times already and I STILL have to use the damned GPS.  Oh well, at least the address should still be in there. It's not.  Three tries later and still cannot find it. Damn!  Damn!  Damn!  Give in and call hostess.  AHHHH . . . wrong city.  (Have major Gray Hair Senior Moment) She understands.  She's been there too.

Find directions in Tom Tom.  Pop another roll in mouth and cruise through parking lot. Package of Spicy California Rolls falls into floorboard.  Lots of cussing. Put truck in park and look in floorboard.  Rice and fake crab everywhere.  More cussing.  Begin to pick up hunks of what use to be cute little wheels of rice, avocado, and fake crab and chunk them back into package.  They are covered in Border Collie hair.  Still very hungry.  Debate the idea of picking off the hair and eating them anyway.  Mentally calculate how much microscopic sheep poop and cow patties are on floorboard.  Dismiss the idea.  Stomach growls.  Decide that if the Donner Party could eat their companions, perhaps a few Border Collie hairs wouldn't be a problem.  Begin pulling off dog hair.  Find a Belgian Tervuren hair.  These are quite distinctive crinkly multi-colored hairs. My Belgian Tervuren died in June.  Decide this is Kona's "Hi Mom!" from the grave.  Smile and throw hair back in floorboard. (I have always said that I could never commit murder because anyone who suspected me would have the forensic team look for Belgian Tervuren hairs at the murder scene since I always manage to carry them everywhere I go.)  That dog never even rode in Monsta Truck and yet, here are his hairs in the floorboard.

So now my fingers are coated with sticky rice and spicy sauce. There is orange spicy sauce dribbled down the side of the center console and the floorboard.  Bits of rice and orange sauce are on my wrinkled black shirt, and the thighs of my blue jeans.  Yep . . . I'm ready to go to a Party!

Roll out of parking lot and drive down highway, listening to Tom-Tom and picking dog hairs off my food.  Decide that if I get stopped as a Drunk Driver for weaving on the highway then I will show Highway Patrol Officer my floorboard.  He will feel sorry that Other Half is stuck with such a DingBat and not give me a ticket.   OR . . . he will be so appalled at the idea that the abovementioned DingBat would actually pick doghairs off the food and eat it, that he will be afraid to loan me his pen to sign the ticket. (especially since my fingers are still coated in orange spicy sauce that is now drying and sticky.)

Decide that the rest of the rolls are too mangled, hairy, and disgusting for even the Donner Party to eat. Still hungry.  Work on potato chips.  Look longingly at Other Half's M&Ms.  Decide that since he never KNEW I BOUGHT the M&Ms, he wouldn't necessarily know that I'd opened and ate some of his M&Ms. Calculate length of arms and distance to reach M&M bag.  Since numbers don't add up, decide against M&Ms.

Am making good time down the highway until a little blue Honda Civic looms into view.  Almost run over it like a skateboard.  It is going 40 MPH in a 60 MPH zone. Roadway is now down to two-lane highway.  Cannot pass little Pokey Car.  Mentally picture that Little Pokey Driver is a Half-Blind Elderly Woman.  Envision driver as Teenager-On-Cell-Phone. Since that brings up "less than Christian" thoughts, opt to envision her as Little Old Lady instead. Do not wish to intimidate Half-Blind-Elderly-Woman by being so close she can read F.O.R.D. in her rear view mirror. Slow way down. Speed limit changes from 60 MPH to 50 MPH.  Half-Blind-Elderly-Woman changes from 40 MPH to 30 MPH. Still cannot pass her. Follow her down roadway for an agonizingly long time.  Note long line of cars in my rear-view mirror.  Note that since they cannot see around my Big Ass Monsta Truck, they are probably blaming me for the slow down. 

Little Old Lady FINALLY pulls into the grocery store, sparking the start of the Indianapolis 500, but by now the speed limit is 35 MPH.  Decide that despite the fact that I am now thirty minutes late for my Girly Party, a city cop would not be impressed if I tried to explain to him that I was speeding through his town because I had been stuck behind a Little Old Lady for the last seven miles and felt I was entitled to "split the difference" as far as the speed limit was concerned. (Cops can be such downers where that's concerned.)

Finally emerge into something resembling a decent speed limit when Tom-Tom announces that it's time to turn right.  Really?  I have been to this house numerous times and this does not look remotely familiar.  Consider arguing with the computer but look at the time and decide to follow directions instead.  A few minutes later we emerge into familiar territory.  I'm sure I heard a smirk in Tom's voice.

Roll up to a house with horses in the back yard and a front yard full of farm trucks. (40 of my favorite people!) I am now late, wearing a wrinkled shirt covered in spicy orange sauce and potato chip crumbs. Bits of rice are clinging to my blue jeans, and I have rice and fake crab in the tread of my cowgirl boots - "Let the Party Begin!" 

While walking in the pasture last weekend, I stumbled upon this:

It begged for a tagline but I simply couldn't think of one.  So I posted this picture on my Facebook page and we've had so much fun trying to come up with a caption for this shot that I decided to see what your creative minds could come up with!

Whatdaya think?

We have already established that I like high-drive, thinking dogs. Now on the surface, most people will step up and shout "Me too!"  BUT . . .  do you really?

For every cute and clever thing they do to amuse you, there are five not-so-cute dangerous things their brains also concoct. Take, for instance, our intrepid young Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin. (Trace)

The Crocodile Hunter discovered sheep last week. Actually, that's wrong.  He had discovered them before, what he discovered last week is that he could GET TO the sheep.  No longer content to stay in the yard while I fed livestock, The Crocodile Hunter would race along the fence line until he found an impossibly small spot that he could slither his tiny ass through.  Thus, I would be mindlessly feeding sheep, annoyed that they were stepping all over my new Crocs, when suddenly I would get that feeling that I wasn't alone.  (Mostly because sheep would be magically moving in my direction.) Casting around for the source, I would find a pair of little blue eyes slithering sheep in my direction. EEEEKKKK!!!!  Not good!  Very, very NOT GOOD!

On the surface, you would assume that you could just throw his butt in a kennel until you were done feeding and then let him out after the excitement was over.  Right?  Wrong!  Steve Irwin makes his own excitement!  Immediately upon release from prison, Trace would begin running the fence line, looking for any spot he could slither his multi-jointed, snake-like self through.

So we commenced to fortifying the back yard like Fort Knox.

We tacked up cattle panels on top of the board fence which already contained hog fencing. Yes, it is the most Hillbilly Trash-looking arrangement you've ever seen.  (Thank God you don't live next door to us.) I keep telling myself that when he is older I can take the cattle panels down and re-use them somewhere else.

 I was amazed with how quickly he figured out that all he had to do was run to the end of the cattle panels and find another spot that had washed out where he could squirm through.  I soon ran out of cattle panels. What to do? What to do?  AHH HA!!!  Cinder blocks! (Yes it just keeps getting trashier and trashier!)  So we lined the rest of the fence with cinder blocks!

And then we tested it.  Turn out the sheep . . . . and wait.  Trace ran up and down every inch of that fence . . .  

. . . but he didn't get out!

 Don't feel sorry for him.  He's plotting.

(To read why we call Trace "The Crocodile Hunter": The Crocodile Hunter LIVES! )

The Gate - Revisted

My mamma always told me, "Give the hardest job to the laziest person, and they'll find the easiest way to do it."

As we have already established, I'm a lazy person. That's why I have high-drive dogs. I like my dogs (minions) to make my life easier. Yes, I'm shamelessly lazy and give them all sorts of jobs to do! 

One of those jobs is closing the gate after the sheep come into the paddock. During the rains, the gateway is often muddy, (ewwww) and I developed the perfect solution to the problem: Get a slave (Border Collie) and ask them to walk through the mud and close the gate for you!

Lily absolutely LOVES to slam that gate closed, over and over and over again.  She grabs a lead rope which has been tied to the gate and pulls it shut. (If a lazy person puts a magnet on the gate, it'll stay shut!)  Now this is all well and good until a 35 lb Border Collie swings on the gate so much that the gate hinges break. (imagine that!)

Then the gate has to be LIFTED out of the mud and pulled shut. This particular lazy person has not yet figured out how to train a Border Collie to lift the gate and then pull it shut, thus, this particular lazy person has had to tromp out there herself and shut the damned gate.  (grrrrr)

BUT . . .this week Other Half fixed the hinges AND put a WHEEL on the gate.  Woo hoooo!  The wheel makes the gate roll through the mud quite nicely.  So Lily and I are back in bidness!

Lordy, Lordy, I do love a good dog!

Watch and learn, Little Dude, watch and learn!

Steve Irwin & The Coffee Table

All of our dogs eventually end up with a nickname, so it's no surprise that Trace ended up with one too.  The surprise however, is that he has assumed the unlikely name of "Steve Irwin."  Yes, the Crocodile Hunter lives!

We began calling him Steve Irwin when we noticed his fascination with Oli, the Current Patrol Dog.  Oli is young. Oli is fast. And Oli looked at young Steve Irwin like he was a fast & fluffy bunny rabbit. Steve Irwin was definitely on The Menu.  (along with sheep, goats, cows, horses, and trespassers)  But Young Steve Irwin was drawn to Oli like a moth to a flame. 

He would dance right up to her kennel, peer through the bars, and say (in a thick Australian accent) "Blimey!  Look at the Dangerous Beast!  I wonder what would happen if I tugged its tail!"

Yes, our intrepid young Crocodile Hunter wanted to PLAY with the Dangerous Beast. And the Dangerous Beast wanted to play with him too.  It was a match made in Mommy Nightmares.  So we juggled Oli and Steve Irwin for weeks, waiting for young Steve to either grow up enough to get some common sense (not likely), or grow up enough for Oli to realize that he was a D.O.G. and not a bunny zooming across the yard. We'd been doing pretty well until Friday night.

That night I came home from work, and took Steve Irwin and the Pack for a walk.  Then I crammed The Crocodile Hunter in the house and took Oli out.  She cruised along with the rest of the pack while I checked the rams.  When I was done I whistled them in. Lo and behold, Oli came zooming in with Steve Irwin bouncing along beside her. (Apparently I had failed to notice that the Doggy Door was opened.) I'm sure I paled.  There he was, a pre-schooler with arm floaties, swimming in the ocean with a Great White Shark. Despite the fact that he bounced all over her shoulders, she trotted along, oblivious to the little remora on her neck. I swallowed the urge to snatch up that little pre-schooler, pull off his arm floaties and throw his ass in the outside kennel before she could change her mind. Instead, I watched them.  Oli knew he was there.  She knew he was a dog.  And she knew he was a puppy.  Oli was okay with her little remora.  I removed him before he pushed his luck too much, but it was clear that they'd reach The Day - the day that the Crocodile Hunter became a dog and not a bunny.

Today we let them play in the house. At first she didn't see him as a playmate, but he was persistent . . . and cute, . . . and so she finally gave in and played with Steve Irwin.    

They started on the couch . . .

 . . . and moved . . .

. . . to the floor . . .

And like an idiot, I watched them, happy they were having such a good time. Yep, I watched them.  I watched them crawl under a glass top coffee table. (why do Dog People have glass furniture!!!) And then I watched Oli stand up . . . taking the glass top with her. And then . . . then she said, "Holy Shit!" and she dropped like a rock . . . and so did the glass table top. 

Steve Irwin was delighted.  The resulting crash was very impressive. Oli ran.  The Crocodile Hunter bounced beside her, "Blimey, Dangerous Beast!  Do that again!!!!"

No, no one was hurt.  Yes, we now have a new coffee table.

When you have goats,

you learn to expect this.

 But . . .

. . . these are lambs! 

(Somebody (bodies?) didn't get the memo that sheep aren't goats!)

 "Whut?"

There is a wealth of wisdom to be mined from the experiences of our elders. During a discussion on people who retire and then get bored, today's words of wisdom come from a long-time rancher and county judge:

"If you have a black bull and a windmill,

you always have something to do."

Black bull?  Check!

Windmill? Not yet. 

Clearly we are only halfway there to saving ourselves from retirement years of boredom.  On the other hand, something tells me that we'll have enough to keep us busy . . .

I'm just saying . . .

Over the years I've discovered that dogs recognize members of their own breed.  They speak the same language.  They play the same games.  Belgians play a distinctive "wolf & the sheep" game that other breeds don't necessarily understand. 

"I am the wolf. You are the sheep."

They play this for a while and then the roles are reversed.  It's fast. It's loud. It sounds like a dog fight.  It's great fun for everyone. Since Ice lost her brother, Kona, in June, there has been no one to play "reindeer games" with her. Until now. . .

I cheerfully announced that she and I were going over to Grandma's to meet her new little brother. 

Ice said, "Oh dear God, it's not another Border Collie, is it?" 

"No! It's a two year old Belgian Tervuren.  Just for YOU!  You can play with him. And Lord it over him. And impress him with your Greatness!"

She allowed as how this DID have possibilities, so we went next door to G'ma's house. Stone was simply delighted to meet her. He dropped down into a play bow and spun around the room.  Her ears touched and she pulled herself up on her tip toes to impress upon him that she was certainly the most exotic and queenly creature he had ever, or would ever, meet in his life.  He was most impressed with her royal self.

 He zoomed.

And they played a bit.

He checked back with Mom from time to time.

And got hugs. . .  

 before running off . . .

. . . to play some more.

 Ice settled down in the leaves.

And while she watched him run, I couldn't help but wonder . . .

. . . if she missed her brother as much as I did.

"Preludes Kona Winds" - Cadaver Dog & Best Buddy (2002-2010)

              I'm toast!

Christmas arrived early for my mother!  Santa Claus (Lynne Foster!) drove all the way from Illinois to deliver CH M.A.J.I.C.'s It's A Family Affair (call name: Stone) to his new mommy in Texas!

  It's a win-win situation for everyone!

Lynne and his breeder, Melody Jensen, know that Stone will receive a forever home where he gets to be the ONLY dog of a retired person who already has experience with Belgians. Stone gets his own Special Person. My mom gets the companion that she needs.  And neither of them will ever be alone again.

Thank you so much Melody Jensen of M.A.J.I.C. Belgian Tervuren & Groenendael and Lynne Foster of Frostfire Dalmatians for making this possible! And God bless Lynne for making that marathon drive across the country to make someone's wish come true!

To read about why Mom was alone:  Godspeed, Penny

To read More about people like Stone's breeder, Melody Jensen:  The Unsung Heroes

There is one big reason why a certain grandpa . . .

 . . . who only got four hours sleep last night,

. . .  bounced out of bed . . .

 . . . . to drive to The Big City . . .

Do . . .     

 . . . you . . .

. . . have any idea . . .

. . . why?

     Unlike what the media hype would have us believe, Thanksgiving is about more than the Black Friday Sales which will launch an Oklahoma Land Rush of shoppers armed with credit cards and holiday spirit.  Thanksgiving is about giving thanks for the things you already have - family, friends, health, and hope.

     This media-hype away from giving thanks isn't something new. When I was a kid it struck my childlike brain as odd that the high point of the Thanksgiving Day parade was the arrival of Santa Claus. That was over thirty years ago, and it hasn't gotten any better. Now it seems that the high point of Thanksgiving is actually the big sale after the holiday.  How sad. . .

     But it doesn't have to be that way. You can change things. A forest fire starts with a single spark. Just take a quiet moment, away from the madness of Butterballs and shopping malls, to thank God for what you already have . . .

DeEr LoRd,

tHanK Ewe fOr aWl mY fAmiLy N FrIEndz, FuRRy N nOt. tHank Ewe for mY puPPy choW, n mY shEEp, n mY toYz, n mOmmY, n DaDDy, n G'Ma. tHank Ewe cuz iM heaLthee n caN rUn fAsT. tHank Ewe tHat mOmmy n DaDDy haf joBs 2 puT puPPy chow on thA taBle . . .

"Don't forget the pig ears!"

"OOOh! N tHanK Ewe fOr awl tha pIg Eears!"

I stepped out my back door to find this:

This is what happens when you leave a roll of blue garage paper towels out.

It wasn't a mystery who did it . . .

AND . . .

They are a team, the Usual Suspects . . . .

(I think "mentally", they are the same age.)

The mystery was not WHO vandalized the back yard.  The big mystery was HOW paper towels and the core ended up . . .

 . . . in the outside kennel with Oli!

                  "Should I call my lawyer?"

Now before you people with old dogs start feeling all smug because your yard and property haven't been trashed lately, let me show you this:

This mess was all over my kitchen counter.

I stepped into the house and was momentarily dumbfounded.  What tha?!! My first thought was to blame Other Half for the mess.  (A woman immediately jumps to this conclusion first!) But I remembered that Other Half was not home. 

Then I looked closer . . .

AHHHHH . . . this was not mud smeared all over the counter!  It was GREASE!

I had left a pan of grease and Lipton Onion Soup cooling on the stove so that I could pour it over the dogs' food. 

But who?!!!  The Usual Suspects had been outside with me.  So who?

 . . .  who indeed!

There is a suspect . . a suspect who is as old as Methuselah.  A suspect so old that her tumors have tumors.  Half blind, like Gollum in the Lord Of The Rings, she slinks about in the darkness, and people forget she's there . . .

. . . a suspect so intelligent that despite her age, she can use a kitchen chair to climb onto the stove . . . 

             and      . . . .

                                          . . .  help herself to an early supper.

  Alice in her favorite barn chair

           "What?"

So to all you people who thought your dogs had outgrown making a mess . . .

Think again!

There reaches a point where they are so old that they KNOW nothing will really happen to them.

 "Oh pu-lease! 

 What are you gonna do? Hit me? Pu-lease! We both know better than that.  Hey! Go easy on the Onion Soup next time.  It was a little salty." 

     Some days you tackle the farm, and some days the farm tackles you. Today was a big WWF Smackdown on me. Perhaps I'm just hormonal. You just shouldn't work livestock and water hoses when you're hormonal. I had some yearling rams that needed to be moved. Now common sense would tell you to wait until Other Half or Dear Friend could help, but NO!  I was PMSing and it needed to be done NOW!  So here's how it went:

Lock up everyone but Lily. Start to separate sheep.  The constant barking in the dog pens has me thinking about handguns. Snarl at the Main Barker.  Ice is offended that I would speak to her in this manner and shuts up.  But barking resumes as soon as I start working sheep again.  Thoughts of handguns dance like sugarplums in my head. Lily and I soon have the two young rams separated. (I know that lots of folks don't like them, but I LOVE my cheap wooden feedstore crook. It allows me to reach out and grab the one I want while Lily steps in to move everyone else off. It also allows me to hold onto his bucking little self when everyone leaves him.)  So my Clunky Crook, Lily, and I get the rams separated and begin to move them through the barn, into the back yard, and toward an opened gate that leads to more paddocks.

All is well until the rams decide that the open gate is waaaay to close to a kennel of Foosas.  (Ranger and Trace)  Note that the kennel is not that close, but if the rams see it as a problem, it's a problem.  Decide that it is easier to move the dogs than it is to convince the rams to move past the dogs.  Trace is beside himself watching Lily work.  ("Put ME in, Coach!  Put Me in!  Let me slip into my SuperSuit and I can work those rams too!")   Eegaads.  Not what I want.

So while Lily watches rams, I grab Trace and Ranger and throw them in house. Okay then.  Problem solved. Begin again. 

Rams decide that kennel which USED to contain Foosas is also too scary to walk past. Although I tell myself I have all the time in the world to do this, the idea of butchering these rams is looking better and better.  Lily is much more patient and continues to slowly move two flighty, moronic rams, who should probably be removed from the gene pool, around the back yard and towards the gate.  Her patience is rewarded and shortly they are through the back yard, through two small paddocks, and into their new Bachelor Pad Prison. God helps us. I know our style may look like a train wreck on a Sunday afternoon, but it gets the job done.

Safely in their new prison, the rams happily discover rye grass and wander off.  Now that the marble that is their brain has stopped rolling around and settled back into its hole, they have settled down too.

Look around and realize that they need fresh water and the hose which feeds their tank has a giant hole in it.  Probably because someone drove her truck across it. More water now sprays out the geyser than comes out the end of the hose. The hose must be replaced. Trudge to barn to find another hose. Drag old hose through barn, across yard, through dog poop, and into paddock. Replace geyser hose with ancient yellow hose.  Turn on spigot.  Note that Yellow Hose also produces a geyser.  Did I drive over every hose on the property?!

Since this geyser is not as large as the Green Hose Geyser, I approve hose just for today.  (which probably will mean that I won't get around to replacing it for months!)  Pull hose toward trough.  It is six feet too short. Lily is slightly confused at this round of cussing which does not involve sheep.  Walk back into house for a dose of Calm Down Juice - cup of coffee.

Exit house with coffee and re-examine length of hose.  No, it did not grow any longer while I was in the house. Perhaps I should have fertilized it.  Decide that if I pull it underneath the horse trailer instead of around the horse trailer, it "might" be able to reach to the trough.  Ponder how I'm gonna run the hose underneath the trailer without getting down on my knees and reaching under there.  Consider standing on one side and asking Lily to fetch the hose to me.  It has possibilities but then, how many additional holes do I want in the yellow hose?

Pull hose where I want it and discover that all I have to do is run it underneath the tongue of the trailer. FINALLY!  Things are working in our direction again.  Now the hose is only one foot short of the trough.  Decide that I can hold it while it fills the trough. YES!  We're on a roll!

And that's when Lily said to me, "Hmmm . . . look at that."

"Huh?"  I turned to look.

The rams who had been grazing in peaceful bliss were now perfectly upright, staring at a Foosa. This was confusing, since Lily was standing beside me.  Where was the Foosa?  Then I see him.

Apparently when I went into the house for coffee, Trace must have slithered his tiny little ass out behind me.  Eeegaaads!  A four month old puppy in a paddock with two yearling rams is a recipe for disaster.  So I call to him.  Deep in stalk mode, he barely glances out the corner of his eye, and says, "Sshush Mom!  I'm getting my groove on!"

I am now in deep Freak-Out mode as I watched my toddler neatly gather two rams and start walking them towards me.  (and I must say that despite my absolute hysteria, I was quite impressed too!)  He walked; they walked.  No running. No barking. Just smooth, deliberate stalking. And it was working for him. The problem I saw was that the sheep were walking away from Foosa A (Trace) toward me, but Foosa B (Lily) was standing in the shed beside me.  Quickly project that all will be well until the sheep discover Foosa B and run back over Foosa A. 

So I call Foosa A again.  (Why did I bother?)  He has on his Supersuit and he is in full Superhero mode.  No running. No barking. Just slowly creeping the sheep in my direction. So I put Lily on a stay and walk out of the shed.  The rams decide that on second thought, perhaps they DON'T want to go into the shed and turn to move away from me.  Foosa A then moves his tiny ass around to cut them off, and heads them back toward me again.  (Holy crap! What a good boy!)  This time they move into the shed.  I let them pass me, and as he slithers past, I grab up his bratty butt. 

It is pointless to scold him.  It was my fault that he got into the pen in the first place, and he's proud of himself for gathering the sheep.  Despite the fact that I saw his life and working career flash before my eyes, I'm proud of him too.  Lily is not nearly as impressed. 

Then I whisk him back into the house where he belongs and pack his Supersuit away for another year until he is ready to be a real stockdog.  (and count my additional gray hairs)

Do other people live like this?

          ( I'm just askin' . . . .)

I keep an exercise pen beside my back door. All boots and shoes are placed in the pen immediately upon removal from your feet.

If they are not placed in the pen . . .

. . . this is what they will look like.

Sad, isn't it?

One is tempted, when one steps in the back door . . .

 . . . . to kick off one's boots and set them against the wall beside one's sorting stick

But that would be a mistake.

So let's re-cap!

       Boots in the pen!

Boots outta tha pen!  

One would also be tempted to place the blame . . . .

. . . . solidly on the shoulders of this little suspect.

 "Who me?"

But that would be an incorrect assumption.

(This is the suspect responsible for cramming his head through the door and scaring the sheep when you are wondering why they won't move in that direction.)

So no, the little red monster is not The Boot Bandit!

The title goes to this clown . . .

 "Who me?"

For some reason, this goofball developed a taste for rubber boots during last winter's rains. It would appear that he hasn't lost that appetite . . .

So I ask you again, do other people live like this?

Milli Ann sent me a story that had me blowing Pepsi out my nose at work.  (This can be slightly disturbing to people in the cubicle beside you . . . and it burns your nose . . . I'm just saying . . . .)

I immediately contacted Jane, the writer, and begged her to let me share it with you.  If you love the adventures of my little red demon, Ruffy, you will thoroughly enjoy Mr. Chips!

You can't fix stupid, or so I've been told.  God, I hope they can fix stupid, because if not, I'm in trouble.  You see, I had a major attack of The Stupid today.

Because I had been feeling out of sorts, I decided to take the day off, lay in bed, and read a book.  BUT . . . then I remembered that I needed Goat Food. (SEE!  It all comes down to GOATS AGAIN!) So this afternoon I tossed the dogs off me, and hauled my butt out of bed.  Lily The Border Collie and I loaded up in my Monster Truck (I LOVE my Monster Truck!) and off to the feed store we went. That's when I noticed I had no gas.

So I headed to the gas station. I pulled up to the pump that I ALWAYS use, swiped my credit card, and pumped $62 worth of gas into that sucker while Lily and I chatted about herding lessons. (I was NOT on the phone!)

The pump clicked off. Lily pointed at the $62 total and gasped.  I KNOW! Eegaads! My 4Runner only guzzles up about $28! You see, I bounce between two trucks.  The 4Runner is my putt-putt car for running back and forth to work. Monsta Truck is my farm truck.

So Monsta, Lily and I headed to the feed store. A few minutes later we were loaded up with feed and headed towards home.  And that's when life went to Hell In A Handbasket. It started with a knocking in the engine.  Then I noticed the blue smoke.  "Holy Shit!"  (I said that, not Lily.)

I pulled into a parking lot and called Other Half - who didn't answer his cell phone.  Then I called the house phone - no answer.  Then I called his cell phone again. Still no answer. Then I called Son - no answer.  Then I called Other Half's Guy Friends - NONE of them answered.  "Holy Shit!" (Lily said that - pardon her French.)

So I called one of my old partners who is a K9 officer now. I described the situation to him. 

"Leroy! (He calls me Leroy. It's a long story.)  Did you put gasoline in your diesel truck?!!"

"Holy Shit!"  (Lily and I both said that.)  I got this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.  Could I have done something so stupid?  I WAS deep in thought at the time.  (I was NOT on the phone!)  I DO have two vehicles that require two different kinds of fuel. I DO fill them both up at the SAME gas pump, but I'm usually careful to use the CORRECT nozzle . . . still . . . it was hard to deny that SOMETHING had caused the engine to knock and blue smoke to come out of the back.  (It wasn't looking good for Stupid.)

Then he informed me that he would be happy to come help me but he was working a scene and his patrol dog had just bitten someone. Oh . . . ok then! Since he was on-duty and at least an hour away, it never occurred to me that he'd even consider coming to get me, bless his heart. He is a Real Friend. (Remember this, a friend helps you move.  A Real Friend helps you move a body!) So I thanked him for his diagnosis of the problem. Then I asked him if it was covered under insurance and he said,

"I doubt it."

"What!  Why not?"

"Cuz Insurance don't cover Stupid!"

"But if I'd gotten drunk and driven in a ditch, they'd cover that!!!"

"But not if you filled the ditch up with water and then drove into it!"  (I didn't understand that statement at all.  It must be a Man Thing.)

Anyway, I let him go back to work and called Dear Friend Debbie.  (of Cornerstone Stables!  Remember Chase and Chazz?)

Dear Friend Debbie was most supportive.  She was on her way home from work and immediately called her husband (Dear Friend Doug!) who was also on his way home from work. (Note to self: Remember to get Dougie's cell phone number!)  Anyway, Dear Friend Debbie called Dear Friend Doug (who is her husband, Are y'all able to follow this?) and informed him that Stupid had put gasoline in a diesel truck.  (I'm sure she was more sympathetic than that.  Debbie is a sweetheart.)

Just as she was giving me the happy news that Dear Friend Doug was on his way to the rescue, Other Half called.  He did not say "Holy Shit."  In fact, because this is a family-friendly program, I cannot print what he said. He did ask me one question though.

"NO!  I was NOT ON THE PHONE!!!!"

So Dear Friend Debbie came to sit with me while we waited for the Men to rescue me.  (Eegaads!  How did I get in this situation?) Anyway, Dear Friend Debbie crawled into the passenger seat of Monsta Truck and Lily crawled into her lap. Lily, who is not a stranger to drama and cussing, realized that this was one particular Drama which couldn't use a Faithful Border Collie. So Dear Friend Debbie and I chit-chatted while we waited for The Boyz.

Other Half came in his patrol truck and Dear Friend Doug drove our Dually.  After it was positively established that yes, Stupid DID put gasoline in a diesel truck, the Boyz put a tow rope between the trucks and we started down the road.  Dear Friend Debbie was in front with her flashers on.  Dear Friend Doug was pulling Monsta with our Dually.  Lily and I sat in Monsta truck with white knuckles.  I had white knuckles because I had no power steering, no power brakes, and what seemed like about 4 feet of clearance between the grill of Monsta Truck and the tailgate of our Dually.  (Lily had white knuckles cuz all her feet are white anyway.) Other Half followed us with his emergency strobe lights on.

Because it was already dark and we were now in rush-hour traffic, it took us forever to get out of the parking lot and onto the roadway. We had just started rolling down the road when I heard something break.  "Holy Shit!"  (Lily and I both said that.)  The tow rope broke. (What Other Half said cannot be repeated.)

So we were now broken down ON THE ROADWAY!  And that's when I remembered that prayer might be a good idea in this situation.  Dear Friend Doug quickly put on another tow rope  (He was as fast as any Rodeo Cowboy with a calf.) Other Half was in the road with a flashlight, trying to stop traffic so Doug wouldn't get run over.  The problem was - the traffic WOULDN'T STOP!  These were commuters.  They were tired.  They were hungry.  (They were on cell phones.) And Other Half was beside himself with anger.  There was LOTS of cussing. I did lots of praying.  So did Lily.  (In fact, I'm sure I heard her say "Dear Lord, please watch over Daddy and Uncle Dougie, and Dear Lord, while I have you on the line, would you please make Mommy buy pig ears at the feed store next time.)

After much yelling, Other Half finally got the traffic stopped.  I kid you not, I saw one woman actually point at herself with a question mark. Me?  You want me to stop?  Me? (Yes YOU!)  She never got off her cell phone, but she stopped, and that stopped everyone else. Dear Friend Doug finished with the tow rope, climbed in the dually, and we were Back In Business!

So our unlikely parade rolled down the road - way too fast.  I could barely steer, I had little or no brakes, and I couldn't see because the windshield was all fogged up. I'm normally a calm person, but panic clawed at me like a cat getting a bath. I whipped out that cell phone (YES!  I WAS ON THE PHONE!) and called Dear Friend Debbie.  (because I forgot to get Doug's number before our little train left the station.) 

"MAKE HIM SLOW DOWN!  MAKE HIM SLOW DOWN!" I screamed into the phone.

And she did.  And the wet cat in my stomach calmed down a little.

It was still a long, white-knuckle trip home. When we finally reached the driveway, I leaped out to hug Dear Friend Doug!  Then I hugged Dear Friend Debbie! Then I hugged Other Half. And then . . . Other Half and Dear Friend Doug announced that they were going to get a sticker for the gas cap of my truck that reads: Sheri! Use Diesel Fuel Only!

I was not amused.  I KNOW it only takes diesel fuel, I'm not STUPID!  (And I WASN'T ON THE PHONE!!!)

And I'd like to take a moment to thank God for dear friends like Doug and Debbie who race to the aid of members of PWAPA. (People Who Aren't Paying Attention)  I am a card-carrying member of PWAPA, an ever-expanding group of busy women in their 40's and older who put the television remote in the refrigerator, put the milk on the washing machine, and put gasoline in a diesel truck. I encourage other members of PWAPA to step forward and let your voices be heard!

Proudly wave your membership cards at your husbands and repeat after me: 

"I was . . . NOT ON THE PHONE!"

The thing I love so much about your notes to me, is that you people make me feel NORMAL!  God love ya! And I do too!

Diane is a perfect example!  After Other Half squished his finger and mangled up his ring while the two of us were trying to pull a horse cart down the street with a mule, (read: Red-light Adventures in Carting ), Diane shared this with me.  I begged her to let me post it.  This is soooooo something I'd do!

".........your little adventure reminded me of something I did once....well, let's just say I was glad no one was around to see me in the midst of it.
 
The goaties wrecked my fencing. 2 little goaties did more damage than 3 horses. They rubbed up against the fence to get rid of their spring shed......and all of a sudden, I had wires running all over the place. I was using welded wire then, not woven. Now I avoid the whole issue and use cattle panels.
But I digress.
 
The fence was ruined. So, I went and bought the same kind again, and went to put it up. (You see here, I still had not learned my lesson?!?!?!) Now, fencing comes rolled up in these neat tight little bundles....pretty solid and easy to handle.
 
Alas, when you take down bad fencing and roll it up for disposal, the closest you can come to *neat* is about the size of a round bale. So there this monstrosity sat.....right up against the back porch. I didn't have my tractor then, so my next problem was how to get this eyesore up to the dump with my garden tractor and cart.
 
I decided it would be easier if the whole mess were flat.....so I got the brilliant idea of climbing up on the porch rail (which is roughly 7-8' above ground level) and JUMPING on this huge roll.
I did NOT flatten it. IT launched ME about 6 feet in the air like a wire trampoline. I landed in a heap, looked around on the faint chance that anyone had seen me indulge in this lunacy........
 
Then I went inside and called my father, who came up with his big tractor and crushed that evil roll into submission.......ROF........
 
But even now, when I go to do something questionable.....I remember that roll of wire......and try to find a better way.....LOL....
Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose......
But at least I haven't put myself airborne lately......."
 
Diane I.
WI

I laughed so hard that I almost peed in my pants!  That's me!  That's me!  I'd do something JUST LIKE THAT!  In fact, I even have a roll of wire just like hers!  See!

Fortunately I haven't climbed on the barn and launched myself off of it, but that is only because it isn't beside a building.  Had it been close enough to the pump house, Gooberhead that I am, I "might" have tried that. Thankfully, I have Diane's little adventure to educate me!

See how much we learn from each other!

There is nothing quite so humbling as taking a herding lesson - except perhaps looking at a photograph of yourself.  Nothing quite says "lay off the holiday fudge" like a photo where the photographer is focused on your dog and not on making YOU look good. Today I had both of those little humbling experiences and I feel like horse hockey.

 (Holy Crap!  Is that my butt?!)

Okay, in the grand scheme of things, it's not that bad . . . I'm in my 40s, I'm getting fat, and my dog and I suck at anything resembling something more than basic farmyard herding.  Let me grab another piece of fudge while I tell you about it.

Here goes . . .  We haven't had an officical herding lesson since last March.  Now while other folks bemoaned the fact that their dogs haven't SEEN livestock in months, I bemoaned the fact that my dog works livestock every day but we do it WRONG.

 Ironically, WRONG has been working for us.  We speak the same wrong language.  We dance the same Wrong dance.  We get the job done, but I know that we can do better.  Sooooo . . . it's time for lessons again.

I told our instructor that I was confident that she'd look at us and ask what we've been doing since March when she last saw us work. (She was much more tactful than THAT!) She watched us work, politely pointed out that my handling really, really, REALLY sucked, (She was much more tactful than THAT.) and that the dog and I had compensated for our lack of training by developing a communication that was INCORRECT. Add to that the fact that the dog had trained ME as much as I had trained HER (and we were both doing it wrong!) and you had two people (dog and human) who didn't have proper basic flanks.  (I KNOW!  How humbling!) So she tried to show me AND teach the dog at the same time.  Simple flanking commands . . .  But this time she wanted it done right, not this bizarre Pseudo-herding bullcrap we've been doing! Eegaads!  When you took away our incorrect communication, we sucked. And God help me with a sorting stick!  (I've been doing that wrong too!) Soooo  . . . Bless her heart, she tried to show me what she wanted, while showing the dog.  It just wasn't working.  (The dog is clever.  I'm a bit slow.) 

You see, the dog and I have developed this language. It's wrong, but when you try to change it, we both get confused.  Sooo . . . our instructor asked if Lily would work for her.  (probably not)  It made sense though.  Teach the dog what she wanted, then give the Newly Educated dog back to me and teach ME what she wanted.  That sounded good in theory, but in reality, there was not a snowball's chance in Hell that Lily was going to work for her.  (because Lily is a titty-baby)

It was ugly.  It was really ugly.  Lily bucked like a marlin on a fishing line.  She acted like she'd never had a collar or line on in her life.  It was a rodeo! It was painful to watch.  (In reality, nothing she asked Lily to do was unusual at all.)  Lily's reaction to me leaving her and having someone else at the helm was, and I quote,

 "I don't know you!  I don't wanna know you! You ain't my Momma, and you can't tell me what to do!"

 Lily Having a Hissy-Fit!

Friends and Neighbors, it . .  was . .  ugly. Lily had absolutely no intention of working for her while I was there.  So after some discussion I left the field and went to hang out with other handlers.  (Despite what the dog will tell you, she was not abusing Lily. Lil acted like she had NEVER been on a collar before.  Talk about a Titty Baby!)

Lily is planning on LEAVING the field!     

A few minutes later she returned Lil to me. (I think most of the time was spent convincing Lily that yes, she COULD and WOULD work for someone else.  "You will not DIE if your mommy leaves you.") Then using some trash cans and a sorting stick, she taught me the concept.  It's not like it was THAT difficult, but somehow when you had dogs and sheep in the mix, it was confusing me.  (I felt like such a doofus!)

So we thanked her for her time and we went home.  Then we grabbed up four of our own sheep and tried what we'd learned.  Eureka!  That simple little concept which had us falling over ourselves when the Instructor changed up our Wrong Language seemed easy now that Lily UNDERSTOOD the Right Language and voila, I was able to move from training trashcans, to working with a Border Collie and sheep again!

So we called the instructor, (who was still working in the cold with someone else because Lily and I had hogged so much time), to thank her for her time and patience and let her know that we FINALLY got the concept.  I hope . . .  unless of course we don't, then will we practice it wrong all month . . . And when we see her at the end of the month, we will be back at square one again.  Oh dear . . .

So for those of you who are lamenting because you don't have livestock to put your dog on, just think of this . . .you could be practicing it the WRONG way, EVERY single day!  Believe it or not, even though herding trial folks cringe when they watch us work, Lily and I always manage to get our work done. But just imagine how much work we could get done . . . if we were doing it the RIGHT way!

Ta Ta!  I'm off to go eat another piece of holiday fudge!  (and next time I will inform my photographer to not take pictures of my BUTT!)

Please indulge me for a moment while I climb up onto my soapbox:

In this age of political correctness, dog breeders are often colored as the enemy. National Animal Rights organizations tell us that breeders are the cause for the high number of dogs that end up in shelters each year. People who show dogs are painted as arrogant, irresponsible airheads with too much money who are out of touch with reality.

What they fail to tell us is that there is a giant, yawning cavern which separates the Responsible Breeder from the people who have a purebred dog and "want to get their money back out of her." After all, she has papers, why not "let her have a couple of litters?"  I argue that papers are meaningless unless you actually know what they say. If you don't know the dogs on those papers, they are useless. 

A Responsible Breeder knows the dogs in that pedigree.  They know their strengths and their weaknessness. They know their health problems and if they breed working dogs, they know their working ability.  Not everyone is breeding for the same goal, and that's why even among responsible breeders, controversy can arise.  But the singlemost important trait that separates the Responsible Breeder from the Irresponsible Breeder is this:

The Responsible Dog Breeder assumes responsibility for EVERY dog they have produced for that dog's ENTIRE life.

If you cannot do that, spay Fluffy. If you are not willing to devote countless hours on the phone and on the computer and driving across the country to pick up and deliver dogs that you bred four years ago who now no longer have a home because of death or divorce or a myriad of other tragedies that befall them, neuter Bruiser.

I have never bred a litter. This is not because I'm not willing to accept the responsiblity, but because when I'm ready for another dog, I can usually find a responsible breeder out there who produces exactly what I'm looking for at the time. I need working dogs, and I'm lazy, so I want to stack the deck in my favor.  Just because you can train and "shape" many behaviors, doesn't mean I want to have to do that. I'm too lazy for that now.  I research and buy a puppy that has been specifically bred for that job. 

But what if I'm not looking for a working dog or a puppy?  What if I'm looking for a pet?  What if I'm looking for an older dog? My mother faced this issue after cancer took her beloved Penny. She scoured ad after ad of rescue dogs looking for a companion. Days later she was overwhelmed and disillusioned.  We discussed it, and despite all the fluffy little-old-lady-dogs she was looking at, what she really wanted was another dog of the same breed as Penny. 

"Well then, that shouldn't be a problem," I said.  "Call the breeders." 

Because of Responsible Breeders, we can be reasonably certain that we can find a dog with the traits we desire. I'm going to go out on a limb here to state that if you properly research your chosen breed, and if there are enough Responsible Breeders in that breed, the buyer can be fairly confident that most of the dogs of the breed possess certain traits.

The key components are this:

1) if you properly RESEARCH the breed
2) and finding Responsible Breeders

For years my chosen breed has been the Belgian Tervuren. Since I am no longer doing Search & Rescue work, I am slowly moving to the Border Collie because I must have a working stock dog.  This is not to say that Belgian Tervuren cannot work stock, but the vast majority are not bred for it, and as I have stated, I am a lazy dog trainer.  I like for genetics to do most of the work for me.  But I shall always have a fondness for the Belgians and will probably always have one - which brings us back to my mother.

My mother has had two Belgian Tervuren and simply adores them. She doesn't need a dog that works, she needs a companion, but she wants a companion that has traits common to most Belgian Shepherds -

A) a near-fanatical devotion to the owner
b) a watch dog
c) the inability to allow the owner to go to the restroom without canine assistance

For the most part, not many Belgian Tervuren end up in a formal rescue situation.  The breed is rare enough, and the breed fanciers are responsible enough that most dogs needing rescue are fostered somewhere until an appropriate Forever Home can be found.

Many times the dogs aren't advertised except for word of mouth. That is why it is so important to do your research.  Meet the breeders. Get in contact with fanciers of your chosen breed. You can find them on the internet. If you don't see the dog you are searching for in the Rescue System, don't lose hope of finding it.  Contact a Responsible Breeder. Many have dogs that have been returned to them through no fault of the dog.  A good breeder is responsible enough to take that animal back and find it another home.  YOU could be that home.  These dogs are not called "rescues," they are called "re-homes."   

I've had three re-home Belgians. Both my Mom's Belgians were re-homes.  There is nothing wrong with these dogs! In fact, if you are looking for a particular breed as a companion, then you cannot go wrong with contacting a breeder for a re-home dog.

Because many formal rescue organizations have developed a thick, indifferent skin from years of dealing with the horrors and the absolute stupidity of the public around them, many potential good homes are lost when the grieving become intimidated and overwhelmed by the system.  And that's where Responsible Breeders and Fanciers of the Breed step in and shine.

As soon as my mother admitted that she really wanted another Belgian Tervuren, I contacted breeders and breed fanciers. I explained my mother's situation and described the home she could provide. And I asked the people who love this breed if anyone "knows of a dog who is in need of an old woman in need."

 The response was overwhelming.  Many people had dogs in their homes, waiting for a loving Forever Home. My mother's tears of grief turned to tears of gratitude. And she is now eagerly counting down the days until she receives her Special Dog. He will be her constant companion. He will want for nothing.

For years Responsible Dog Breeders have endured the stigma slapped upon them by politically correct rescue organizations who often look down their noses at anyone with an unaltered dog. But those of us who benefit from the time, tears, hopes and fears of Responsible Dog Breeders should take a moment to stand up and thank them.

I would personally like to thank:

Linda Newsome of Tacara Belgian Tervuren
Marilynn Reichel of Prelude's Belgian Tervuren
Elly McCarthy of Rockaway Belgian Tervuren

and now Melody Jensen of M.A.J.I.C. Belgian Tervuren & Groenendael for allowing Stone to become my Mother's Special Dog.

God bless you all!  Bless all the breeders and fanciers who are the unsung heroes for preserving and protecting the dogs and the genetics, so that future generations can be fairly certain they can find a dog with the traits they need - even if it's just making an old woman feel safe while she lies in bed with her dog and watches Jay Leno.  

I'm stepping down from my soapbox now . . .

Dear-Friend-Married-To-Vet-That-Lives-On-The-Next-Farm-Over bought Trace's littermate.  And Thank God for that!  (Other Half and I were tempted to buy her ourselves!)

Look at this adorable little thing! Her name is Rue. (we think . . . at the moment it's Rue.  Then again it might be Rune, or it might be Ruby . . .)

She was so cute and clean before she came over and played in the mud with her brother!

I've informed Cathy that if she looks away for a moment, then I shall stuff Rue into my backpack and keep her for myself. 

Yes, she is that much bigger than Trace.  He's a shrimp.  (but we love him!)

I wish I could bottle that energy and sell it in six-packs!

It made me tired just watching them.

(You're welcome for that rather exhausting mental work-out!)

I have a dear friend who lives in Los Angeles. Despite the fact that I'm a gun totin' conservative in Texas, and he's as liberal as Hillary Clinton's hairdresser, we've had many intelligent "give and take" discussions regarding politics, crime, health care, national security, and foreign policy. I respect the fact that he was a journalist in different parts of Asia for 12 years and has the passport stamps to back up his views.  He respects the fact that I've lived nightmares that he's only seen in bad dreams. His experiences tend to color his view on foreign policy.  My experiences tend to color my view on crime and punishment. But the point is, we still respect the views of the other.

He told me something once that I shall never forget, (I'll paraphrase my National Geographic Explorer and edit some of the cuss words for you.)

"I've been all over the world. I've seen a lot of different political systems. And I'll tell you this . . .  no matter how "effed" up our system is, it's still better than anything else I've seen."

Regardless of how you voted in the last presidential election, the peaceful exchange of power was something that should have given every American chillbumps. Here were two very different political camps coming together peacefully and exchanging the reins of an entire country. I remember watching that ceremony in awe.

How blessed we are to live in a society where two people of differing viewpoints can openly trade opposing ideas.  How blessed are we to live in a country where we have the right to criticize our government without fear. If we don't like the way our elected officials are running things, we don't have to take up arms, Americans can take up the pen.  Americans can speak up.  Americans can vote. And they do.  Over the course of this country's history, the pendulum has swung back and forth between liberal and conservative.  Regardless of your political leanings, the important thing is not whether the pendulum swings in your favor, but that the pendulum has the freedom to swing at all.

And that's where the Constitution and the American soldier come in.  Men and women have died, and continue to die, to give you these freedoms. Whether or not you agree with why America is at war, the American soldier will still stand up and fight for you and for your right to disagree with policy.  Many people will argue that war is senseless, violence begets violence, we're fighting for all the wrong reasons . . . and the list goes on.  But they often forget that the soldier is not the policy.

The American soldier is not a nameless, faceless, automaton, or an army of political puppets.  The American soldier is your brother, your sister, the child you taught in school, the Little League kid, the Girl Scout, the Boy Scout, the Neighbor's boy, the kid down the street . . . the kid who takes a moment to share a kind word of thanks for the old man, the old woman . . . the veteran . . . who years earlier also fought for your right to enjoy freedoms that so many take for granted.

So please take a moment to treasure the freedoms you enjoy.  Thank God, thank a soldier, and thank a veteran, that you live in a country where you have these freedoms. 

Other Half is out of town.  He has gone to some "starched shirt something" which doesn't include his partner, Oli.

Because we have so many freakin' dogs, their care is divided into "yours, mine, and ours."

HIS:

New Police Dog - Oli
Old Police Dog - Zena
Rescue Border Collie - Cowboy
Space Cadet Blue Heeler - Ranger

MY DOGs:

Precious Can Do No Wrong Border Collie - Lily
Ancient Half-Blind Bloodhound - Alice
Black Wolf Belgian - Ice
Livestock Guardian Dog - Briar

OUR DOG:

Little Red Snot Border Collie Puppy - Trace

(Even though Ranger is in Other Half's stack of dogs, he believes he is MY dog, so I attend to his physical and emotional needs. And even though Trace is OUR puppy, make no mistake - he's MINE!)

For the most part, the care of everyone except Oli and Cowboy falls on me (cuz I'm tha Mommy!).  Oli is his partner, and Cowboy is his truck dog. Since Cowboy tries to fight with Ranger (who kicks his butt every time) and he pees all over the house, he cannot run with the Big Pack. Since Oli still views Trace as if he's a high-priced meal, she is also not allowed to run with the Big Pack.  (It would not look good if Other Half had to report to his agency that I shot his $7000 dog because she ate my toddler puppy.) So Oli and Cowboy are a small pack of their own.  They putter around the yard together, they play together in the living room, but they have absolutely nothing in common.  (just cell mates!)

* Oli loves to trot endless circles, chase cats, & kill sheep.

* Cowboy likes to run in large sweeping, slinking circles around livestock. He likes to stare at stock, and cats are beneath his radar. (and he likes to pee on everything!)

While Other Half is out of town, I must exercise his dogs.  So today after the Big Pack got a morning walk, the Special Needs Pack got their morning walk. That's when this was caught on the surveillance camera. (or it could have been me sitting in the horse trailer with a Canon)

I took these shots for Other Half since he will not believe me without proof. 

This is my driveway.  

Robert! See that crater!

Look at the dog diggin' that crater! 

Does this little butt look familiar?

No, it's not "out of focus," that's sand flying at the camera!  Look again!

 Does that look like my precious, innocent Briar? 

No!  In fact, it looks a LOT like your little red heathen dog, OLI!  Doesn't it?

The State rests its case, Your Honor!

They say that horses are dangerous. They say you should always wear a helmet when working with horses.  What they don't say is that horses are dangerous even when they're not around you.  For instance, let's just suppose that you need to move a horse buggy from one house to another house that is less than a mile away.  Do you:

A: load it up on a flatbed trailer
B: have the horse haul it down the road
C: have someone sit in a Kubota mule and hold the shafts while someone else drives the Hillbilly contraption down the street

Stupid people that we are, we opted for "C."

It was late, in fact, it was dark.  (I want to go on record here to state that "I" suggested that we wait until the next morning when the sun was up!  But NO! He wanted to get that chore out of the way.  Okie Dokie, Smokey!)

Sooo . . .  he found a red lantern that flashes, (yes it is exactly like the red lanterns that the railroad men used to hang outside the prostitute's door, thus, "the red light" district was born . . . I read somewhere that this is actually a myth,  but I digress . . . )  Any hooo, he used some hay string to hang a red lantern from the back of the buggy, sat on the tail gate of the little mule, picked up the shafts, and gave the order to proceed.

There was much yelling to get it out of the driveway.  Other Half is a yeller and a screamer.  Unlike Ranger, the Blue Heeler, I don't take it personally, I just slam on the brakes, hop out, and scream right back at him because he yells contradictory instructions.  (It makes for a healthy relationship.  Either that, or it entertains the neighbors, I'm not sure which.)

After much yelling, we navigated the driveway and headed off down the highway . . . in the dark - two fools, pulling a horse cart behind a Kubota mule . . . illuminated by headlights in the front, and a prostitute light in the back.  All was well until we got to our destination. A sharp right-hand turn was needed to get into the driveway.

I slowly put on the brakes.

"You got it?" I asked.

"Yeah, I got it!  Go ahead!"

So I did.  And that's when he started screaming.  Now this wasn't the deep-voiced, impatient yell of a man used to telling other people what to do.  No, this was the high-pitched wail of pain.

"No!  NO! NO!  Back up! Reverse!!!"  (Plus there was lots of cussing, but since this is a family-friendly channel, I deleted those words.)

So I put the mule in reverse.  The screaming reached a whole new pitch.  And cussing . . . lots more cussing. (Something about cutting his blankety-blank finger off.)  So I leaped out of the mule and ran around the back to see what he had gotten himself into. 

Eegaads!  To make it easier to pull, he had wedged the shafts of the cart into the bed of the mule.  This worked well on the straight-away, but it didn't allow for the turn.  He was holding the shaft inside the bed of the mule. When our Hillbilly vehicle turned right, the wooden shaft of the cart pinched his hand against the metal bed of the mule. Ouch!  (or . . .  Bleep!  Bleep! Bleepity! Bleep!)

There was more hollering as we lifted the shaft to release his fingers.  (It actually made the skin on my butt crawl!) But . . . it didn't amputate his fingers.  Fortunately for him, he was wearing this . . .

It took the pressure of the shaft.  The ring bent, but the bone didn't break.

We had a doggone hard time getting that ring off. He refused to go to the Emergency Room to let them cut it off. (Diamond horseshoe ring)  We finally got it off with dish soap.

I was looking for a frozen bag of peas to put on his hand, but he insisted that I run to his fancy, smancy tactical gear and get a chemical cold pack (yes, he actually has chemical packs as well as "if you get shot, open this packet" gear.)  So instead of a bag of frozen peas, he wanted the chemical cold pack.  He grabbed it with the good hand, ripped it open, and it exploded in his face.  (uh oh!  It was not a good night for Other Half.)

So while he was standing over the kitchen sink washing out his eyes, I was rummaging through bags of frozen vegetables.

"No peas.  How 'bout some French Fries?"

He declined my offer of frozen French Fries.  (Truth be told, Other Half was a bit of a Bitchy Bear last night.)  Instead, he soaked his hand in a tupperware container of ice water.  (Which was 25 degrees Fahrenheit. I know this because he had a thermometer.  Why?  I don't know. After all, cold is cold.)  At this point the dogs and I were just standing in the kitchen watching the show, wondering what he'd do next.

Interestingly enough, despite the pain, the hand seems to have survived without much damage.  The ring was a bit oblong, but nothing was broken.  We discussed taking it to the jeweler's to have it fixed.  I'm gonna let y'all in a little secret.  Other Half is tight.  Other Half is really, really tight.  Why pay a jeweler to fix a ring when you have a pair of pliers?  I kid you not. It ain't pretty, but it fits on his finger again.  And now we have both learned a valuable lesson.  He learned to watch his fingers when pulling the cart, and I learned to always drive the mule and let him pull the cart.   (I'm just saying . . . )

I tease about Ranger being Trace's Fairy Godfather . . .

But the reality is that despite his good humor,

 Ranger is most definitely a Marlon Brando-style "Godfather."

Just ask Briar . . .

when she gets too rough with Trace . . .

"Don't play too rough with The Baby!"

After Ranger lets her up, Briar and Trace shuffle off to the more sedate sport . . .

. . . of hunting for cat poop.

While Trace's Godfather watches . . .

Other Half works nights, so he rarely gets to experience the best time on a farm . . .

. . . when the sun comes up.

As the sun rises, so do the animals.

(Some are a bit more enthusiastic than others.)

There are dogs to be walked . . .

"MOMMM!!! dOnT tAkE PicKcHerS oF mE pOOpiNg!!"

"MaKe LiLy QUiT LooKN aT mE!"

There are horses to be fed.

Goats and sheep to turn out . . .

. . . and cows to be checked.

(Note to self: Cows do NOT appreciate it when humans lie in the grass and rise up to take their pictures.  Cows don't have much of a sense of humor. It probably has something to do with McDonald's and Big Macs.  I'm just saying . . . )

  Horses are okay with it.

Horses have a sense of humor.

Border Collies have a great sense of humor!  Uh oh!

Group mauling!     

I want to take a moment to thank all the angels who flew to my rescue when I asked for help finding someone who could spin my Soul Dog Hair into yarn and make it into something I could wear as a remembrance of him.  You guys are awesome!

The hair in the can will be going to Mary Berry of Fancy Fibers Farm  (www.FancyFibers.com ) here in Texas. She thinks I have enough hair for a scarf and maybe a hat!  (woo hooo!)  I found another small stash of hair in a plastic garbage bag (more tears of joy!) and Sue Givens in Wyoming has offered to spin that into yarn.  She thinks maybe we can make one of those earwarmer headbands.  (Yee haaa!) 

I cannot begin to thank you guys for all the support you have given me!  You are like family! Over this year we've shared laughs, loves, tears of sadness and tears of joy.  During this season of Thanksgiving, I just wanted to take a moment to tell you how much you, my dear readers and friends, mean to me.

Thank you,

(many hugs)

sheri

 . . . and Lily!

Last night Ice came home. Even though life for her is much better at Grandma's house, after a few days she realized that she wasn't just visiting, and she became more and more stressed. She missed her pack. She missed her mommy.  I took her on the "pack walks" each morning with us, but it wasn't enough.  She began waiting by the fence for me. She turned her back on "the good life" and wanted to come home . . . home to a half-life where she must share everything with the pack, but it was what she wanted, and so we honored that. 

I was reminded of the street dog who belonged to the homeless man.  We fed him roast beef and cornbread, but he left us and never looked back when his master hobbled down the street. (read: Moral Dilemmas)  Ice is a devoted little dog.  She still loves Grandma, but she wants to live over here.

On a side note:  Ranger had taken to hopping the fence, going through Grandma's doggy door, and visiting Ice.  Apparently he was also feeling the pinch of a pack divided.  Either that, or he has decided that cleaning out the refrigerator with G'ma is the cat's pajamas!  He is an odd little dog.

This morning he raced across 3 pastures when he heard lambs bleating in distress. Normally his attitude towards the sheep is "they are great toys to bark at," but upon hearing them in a panic, his Crazy-Overprotective-Greek-Mother genes kicked in and he raced to their defense.  How utterly odd . . .

(They were fine, they had simply misplaced their mother.) Ranger was not satisfied however, until the lambs found their mother and all was well again.  I'll say this, I was strongly against getting that little fruitcake, but he has proven to be such a good family dog that if I lived in some remote part of Texas, (and didn't have to worry about them biting people) I'd have a pack of little blue psycho dogs.

This is Old Timer. 

(Don't get excited, he's not staying!)

Last night Other Half and I attended a fancy suit & tie multi-agency thingee which necessitated both of us trying to get out of the house without dog hair on black fabric.  (not easily done in our household!)  Nevertheless, we arrived at the little shing-ding, met interesting folks, discussed national security, interstate commerce, and livestock guardian dogs (I kid you NOT!  Another couple found out we had sheep and asked us about Anatolians!  We ended up talking dogs most of the night.  Go figure.)

Anyway, when the ride was over, and people were filing out, this little wayfaring stranger flagged us down.  He ran up to Other Half, jumped on his leg and said, (and I quote), "HEY, I need some assistance!  I've lost my human and my cellular phone.  Could I borrow your phone to call my human?"

How this dog found the one K9 handler in a sea of suits I don't know, but he did.  And from the moment he climbed into Other Half's arms, I knew that at least for tonight, he was coming home with us.  So much for not getting dog hair on a black suit. A Secret Service Agent helped us with him and after calling his mom and not getting an answer, we drove around the neighborhood to talk with security guards, yuppies, and homeless people to see if anyone knew where this little guy came from. No such luck.

A few well-placed phone calls later and we had an address but it was nowhere near where he'd flagged us down.  We also found another phone number but it only yielded another answering machine.  It looked like Old Timer was coming home with us for a while.  Oh joy, just what we need - another dog.

Fortunately Old Timer loves to travel, loves to be carried, walks on a leash, is familiar with a dog crate, is housetrained, and gets along well with other dogs.  The night was not nearly as stressful as I'd thought it would be.

And bright and early this morning his mommy called Other Half to report that Old Timer had been staying with friends while she was out of town.  He had gotten away from them, faced fast-moving cars, braved the pitbulls in the ghetto, forded the railroad tracks, and flagged down the three people in a sea of suits most likely to lend him a cell phone.

I returned him to his mommy this afternoon.  She saw his little face in the passenger's seat and began running down the sidewalk even before my truck came to a stop.  I rolled down the window and she ripped him through the open window and into her arms. He wriggled around, kissed her tears, and started to tell her about his big adventure.  All I can say is that God must certainly look out for brave little dogs with big hearts.

Note: Old Timer made it home because he was wearing a dog tag with his name and telephone number and he was friendly enough to flag down a stranger.  Dog tags and/or microchips are well worth the time.  I would be hysterical if my little Lily had been lost in that neighborhood.  Other Half says I would have had a police helicopter up looking for her.  (He's right . . . I'm sure we could have somehow tied the disappearance of a Border Collie to terrorist activity and national security.  I'm very creative that way.)

On my desk is a greeting card that I've framed.  It shows a black and white photograph of a man lifting up a little dog so the pup can drink out of a water fountain.  At the bottom of the card is a quote from George Eliot that reads:

 "What do we live for,

 if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?"

There is a profound wisdom in that quote. We are all an army of angels.  I hold firmly to the belief that God puts us where he wants us. Sometimes being in the right place at the right time means good befalls you, but other times, being in the right place at the right times means you are there to help someone else.

One of my favorite quotes is from an old Clint Eastwood movie, "Bronco Billy."

"A hand-out is what you get from the government,
 a hand-up is what you get from a friend."

(I only saw that movie once, but I never forgot that quote.)

Each and every one of us can be an angel for someone else. No matter how great, or how small they are, everyone can use a little "hand up" from time to time.  Today while walking the dogs in the bird flight pen, I happened to run across this little Neighbor In Need:

A dragonfly had gotten caught in the netting. He buzzed and buzzed, but he was caught fast.  I noticed him, even the dogs noticed him, it was simply a matter of time before he became an unhappy participant in the Food Chain's Circle of Life on the Farm. So I decided to help him. There was a problem, however. God had sent him an angel, but my little neighbor was probably 12 feet off the ground, and this angel is only 5'5" tall. 

I also firmly believe that if "God sends you to it, He'll send you through it," and I wasn't the only angel that God sent to this little dragonfly.

Just about the time I wished I was 12' tall, the dogs just happened to find this really cool stick.  (Huh! Whodathunkit?)

 So I asked them to bring me the stick.  And they did . . . (eventually it got to me.)

"Let go, Stupids!  I'M bringing it!"

So I freed the dragonfly and he went off about his little dragonfly business. It got me to thinking about the chain of events leading up to his unlikely rescue and how God would use a human, a stick, and five dogs to rescue a dragonfly.

Perhaps there's a lesson in all that.  Maybe it's this:

Maybe, just maybe, if we all slowed down . . .

. . .  and took a look around,

 just maybe, we could help "make life less difficult for each other. . . " 

My Black Wolf finally has what every Belgian wants more than anything else in the world - Ice now has her own person. 

When Ice was a puppy she went to a Narcotics home. And she learned to be a Narcotics dog. Although she knew her job, she had problems handling the chaos of a Narcotics scene and was eventually "bumped from the team."  I was contacted to help find a home for her and snapped her up as a companion for her brother, my Cadaver Dog, Kona.

She fit in well here. Life as a pet dog suited her just fine, but she, like all Belgians, wanted more. She wanted to be someone's Special Dog.  The problem was that her brother was already in that spot. And in time, Lily the Border Collie also occupied that spot.  Ice was happy for any attention I could give her, but I could tell she wanted more.

When my mother's dog, Ice's sister, passed away, Mom was left dog-less.  (I KNOW!  I shudder to even think about being DOG-LESS!)  Mom needed the security of a guard dog, and the companionship of a dog who is hardwired in every fiber of her being to be someone's SPECIAL DOG.  A dog like that lives to have a Special Person that they can shadow and protect. My mom needs a dog like that. 

Ice needs a job. My mother is now Ice's job.  It works - like peanut butter and jelly.

I love Ice, but sometimes truly loving a dog means letting them go to another home where their needs will be better filled. Sometimes love means letting go.

Now Ice has perks that she never dreamed of:

* She can sleep on the bed.

* She can sleep on the couch.

* She doesn't have to share bones.

* She doesn't have to share table scraps.

* She doesn't have to share snuggles & hugs.

And my mom . . .

 . . .  will never get to go to the bathroom by herself again . . .

When's the last time you went through your junk closet?  Don't lie to me!  I know you have one! All sane people have one. If you don't, then your life is waaaay too organized and you probably don't read this blog anyway because the sheer unorganized, wackiness of bouncing between barn flies at home and maggots at work would drive you nuts. (but I digress . . .)

I'm one of those cruel, completely insane, people who puts my pets in Halloween costumes and photographs them. (As I explained to my Border Collie yesterday, it's a small price to pay for room, board, and lifetime health care.) While rummaging through the closet in my office to look for costumes purchases ten years ago, I stumbled upon this:

It was packed on a shelf, behind old riding boots that I can't wear anymore. One would have thought that like the board game Jumanji, I would have heard drums, but instead, I heard a heart beat.  I'm not sure if it was mine, or his . . .  but as soon as I saw it, I scaled over pieces of old dog crates, wrapping paper, and Christmas ornaments to reach it.

A moment before I cracked the rusty seal, I started to cry.  I knew what was in that can . . . and I thought I'd lost it. The lid groaned as I popped it open.  And there it was . . . there he was.

And I stood there and sobbed.  I cried and I cried and I cried.  Poor Ranger the Blue Heeler rushed into the room to save me from whatever evil had sprung forth from the closet.  But as I sat in the floor sobbing, I hugged Ranger and assured him that these were Happy Tears.  (a concept completely beyond Ranger's scope)

In 2002 I lost my Soul Dog. I was in district court when I got the call.  He was down and couldn't get up, but he held on until I got home.  We put him in the back of my 4Runner and I climbed in with him. He was barely conscious, but he laid his great head on my chest, and as my tears soaked through my shirt, I swear that I felt it . . . I felt him . . . soaking into, slipping into, my soul.

And I was okay with that.  I missed him horribly.  I still do.  He wasn't a perfect dog, but he was my Soul Dog. For years when I brushed him, I saved the hair.  SOME DAY I was going to get that hair to someone who could spin it into yarn and make a scarf for me so that I could wear my Soul Dog.  I saved his hair for years.  Then I bought his littermate, and I saved her hair too.  Over time, and tervs, the stashes of hair became a bother.  I'm not sure when, over the 12 years, I stopped keeping the hair, but I did.  I even started throwing hair away. Then I lost him, and by that time, I couldn't find my stashes of his hair.

I mourned that dog like no other, and still do. He didn't just touch my soul, he became a part of my soul. And that's why I found myself sitting on the office floor, holding a rusty tin of dog hair, and sobbing.

I am determined now that Some Day has arrived. The dog and the hair have stood the test of time.  God gave me a special gift in that dog. Now it's time to pull that lost tin of hair out of the closet and spin it into yarn. I know that several of you deal with wool sheep.  Can anyone point me in the direction of someone who can spin Belgian Tervuren hair? There's a lot of it; it's clean; and it's precious, so very, very precious.

"HaPPy HaLLowEeN!!!"

"Yeah, yeah, happy Halloween, and all that stuff.  Are we done?"

Gee Lily, you don't look very happy; give us a Halloween smile.

 "Happy Halloween!  (Can we quit now?)"

Ranger, how about you?

"Happy Halloween, Everybody!"

Dude! Ranger, your slip is showing . . .

 "Oh dear!  Really?"

"Happy Halloween!" 

We hope everyone has a safe and happy holiday!

Today was Ranger's big day! A bull calf was headed to the sale barn and Coach (Other Half) elected to pull Ranger off the bench to allow him to push the calf into the cattle trailer.  Ranger was soooo excited.

"Put me in, Coach!  Put me in!"

Lily was ready.  Lily is always ready.

Trace was not nearly as happy about the arrangement.

"wHy dOO I hAf tO sIt iN tHa tRuCk?"

It seemed simple. The calf was already in the trap, just open the trailer doors and have the dogs push the little bull into the trailer.  No problem, right?

Oh wait, I forgot we were talking about Ranger. . . Ranger . . . who hasn't worked ANYTHING in a while, much less a recently weaned bull calf.

(It was a train wreck!)

Lily pushed the calf toward the trailer, Ranger scooted out of the pen, then ran back under the trailer door to scream, "Boogity! Boogity!" at the calf as he got close to the trailer.  The calf ran over Lily.

We yelled at Ranger to get back in the pen and help Lily push.  He ran to the other side of the trailer, stuck his head under the trailer door and screamed,

 "Boogity! Boogity!" at the calf.  It ran back over Lily.

This happened three times. The last time, he sprang out from underneath the trailer and the bull calf ran over Lily, crashed through the fence and landed in the roping arena with the other calves. 

There was silence for a moment.  You could hear Lily panting and Other Half counting to ten.  I'll give the man credit. Instead of screaming at the dog (like he normally would have done!) he quietly said, "Put Ranger back in the truck."

 "Back on tha bench . . ."

Lily had to help us cut out the bull calf, return him to the pen, and load him into the trailer by herself.  In the process she got kicked once and bit her tongue.

Once we got the bull calf separated again, Lily and I stood outside the pen and put pressure from the outside to keep the rascal from crashing over the fence again.  That's when I found out that THIS calf has an evil side (just like her mother)

This is Mocha. Her mother is the biggest, nastiest, black cow on the property.  She is a chip off the old block.  While Lily was focused on keeping the bull calf from crashing over the pen, this calf stalked and rushed Lily. Fortunately Lily saw her coming, stepped aside, grabbed her nose and sent her packing with a bite to the heel.  Three times this stupid calf tried to stomp my precious Lily.  (Her days may be numbered if she keeps that shit up . . . I'm just saying . . . )

But Lily handled it with all the grace of a ballet dancer armed with a switchblade. I was impressed.  So was Mocha.

So off to the sale we went.

Once there, Other Half unloaded the bull calf while I took a moment to document Trace's first cattle auction. He was like a pig in slop.

 "LOoK!!"

A cowboy came over to talk with me about Lily. All three dogs lined up for a group shot. He didn't pet Ranger. Ranger bites.  (pardon the quality of the pics! Thou shalt not fiddle with the camera when working cattle.)

 "cOWZ!!"

Twenty minutes later you see that Ranger is already bored.  The Border Collies are still waiting, confident that if they watch the cows long enough, their patience will be rewarded and we will ask them to unload cattle belonging to a total stranger. 

"Hey, when are we going to Whataburger?"

Thirty minutes later Ranger is beyond bored.  Trace is now fantasizing that a Brahma bull will break loose and he will be called out of the truck to assist in getting the bull back in the pen.

Lily is certain, absolutely certain, that when everything goes to hell in a handbasket, she will be ready to get it all gathered back together and put in the basket again. 

You might ask yourself if this dog ever relaxes.  The answer is "yes" . . . on the drive back home.

I have a problem.  See it?

I work a full-time job and have two farms. We have cattle at one farm and the other farm has goats and sheep. Both farms have horses. We both spend so much time either at work, or working on the farms (hauling hay, fixing fence, broken pipes, planting rye grass, weaning babies, taking livestock to the sale barn, etc.) that riding for pleasure is actually
the LAST thing I want to do.

I have a $7000 horse that my trainer rides more than I do! Montoya, my Andalusian
cross, is an awesome horse and I've told Other Half that if I NEVER throw a leg
across his back again, I won't ever sell him because he's my baby. I've had him since
he was a weanling.

BUT . . . a dear friend (bless her heart for trying) calls me regularly to go
trail riding. Yet every weekend there is "something" going on that keeps me
from riding. Yesterday (after she called AGAIN for next weekend!) I put some
thought into why a $7000 sweetheart horse was sitting idle in the pasture and I
realized that I've lost the interest in trailriding because it's so much trouble
to load the trailer, haul to wherever we go, ride, then haul back. Minimum time
- most of the day.

I used to be able to saddle up and ride from my house, but now our area has
developed so I can't go many places safely. Now each ride is such a major
production, and I'm already so tired from working everything else, that I just
avoid it totally.

So I told myself that since I have absolutely no intention of selling my horse,
I have to find something to do with him that makes my heart go pitty-pat enough
for me to MAKE time to haul my horse and climb up on his tall-ass self! The
only two things that come to my mind are Team Penning and Cowboy Mounted
Shooting.

Cowboy Mounted Shooting will have to wait because I can't afford the gear right
now, but I'm seriously considering playing at Team Penning. (Just for fun,
nothing serious!) We have cattle.  We have a roping arena.  Team penning would be something we could do together that doesn't cost any money and we can train for it a couple of hours once or twice a week.

Riding for me is fun, but now I'm pulled in so many different directions that
instead of seeing it as relaxing, I see it as one more chore to make time to do.
I'd like to get more passionate about it, without being so serious that it
becomes work.

Anyway, is anyone else like me, too busy and too tired to ride?

 Who would not wanna ride this horse?

He is as smooth as warm butter underneath you!  (Andalusian/Paso Fino cross)

Even when I get off work on time, it's still 1 AM when I get to bed. No matter what time I get to bed, Trace gets up at 7:30 AM . . . on the dot. He was playing hockey in his kennel beside the bed this morning so I decided, "Why fight it?" and just got up to turn him out. 

 The fog had rolled in and the farm was blanketed in a thick layer of peace.

Our lemon trees are in bloom and the sweet smell permeated the porch.

So I stepped out into the welcoming serenity of a foggy morning to do my chores.

 "What the heck . . .

 . . . is that??!!"

"Houston, we have a problem!!!"

Apparently fences are "no big thang" for our Caped Crusader.

 "WHaT?"

Thank God my little comet comes when he's called, because he was on a collision course with Rasta the Nasty. So now I get to spend my day before I go to the office cramming landscape timbers between the fence and the ground so he can't slither his skinny little butt under the fence! So much for peace and serenity.

"oH! hOrsE pOOp!  mY fAvoRiTe!!"

"hEy DuDz!"

"iM n tHa baK oF tHa tRuk!  iM n tHa baK oF tHa tRuk!

MuM cAwLz iT tHa bOrDeR cAwLy bAbYsiTTeR!  (I AiNt nO bAbY!) MuM sTandZ owTsIdE tHa tRuk wHILe DeDDy unLOadz cOw fEEd sO I kEn WaTcH tHa cOwz!"  

(MuM waTcHz mE cLose bUt I AiNt a bAby,  I AiNt goNNa fAwL owT!) 

"MuM caWLz us bArBed wIre bOrDeR cAwLyz cuz bArBed wIre iz UseFul to raNcheRs n sew R bOrDer cAwLyz!"

"Stay in tha truck Stupid! Yer Too Little to work cows."

"I cAnT wAiT TiL i gRoW uP!!!!  bYe dUdzzzzzzz!"

(Disclaimer: None of the dogs is allowed to ride in the back of the truck outside the pasture and Trace is NOT allowed in the back of the truck unattended by a HUMAN!)

Guess what time it is!!!

This is Briar's first lambing season.  She is meeting her lambs for the first time.

Because she is young and enormous, Briar isn't allowed with the lambs without supervision.  The other ewes, particularly Rasta the Nasty is very protective of this first set of twins, so it's in Briar's best interest to stay at a healthy distance anyway.

"I've got my eye on you, you stupid dog!"

It's county fair time!  This is a Big Deal around these parts mostly because of the commercial heifer auction.  (I know . . . more cows)

Other Half simply cannot pass up a cattle auction. As we have already discussed, even our vacations somehow end up centering around livestock.  We have been known to whip into a cattle auction while en route across Texas for something else just because he wants to see what cattle are bringing in different parts of the state.  Actually, I don't believe it has anything to do with cattle prices, I think it's a sickness - and it's genetic.

I give you State's Exhibit A -

His Granddaughter at the cattle auction

(The acorn doesn't fall far from the tree.)

This child does love the County Fair Commercial Heifer Auction.  After all, what's not to love? 

The Fair has cows, free food, free drinks (so buyers will buy MORE cows!) and more cows! She was enthralled!

She gets her own sign so she can buy her own cows.  (Yes, she bought her first heifer last fall! The office said she was their youngest buyer yet!)

Lilah's cow, #197!

Other Half has always loved his black cows, but last year the kids and I convinced him to get a Santa Gertrudis at the County Fair. 

Now we're sold on 'em and after a field trip to the King Ranch in South Texas, Other Half has decided that it's time to start turning the herd towards these hardy red cows. 

We'd like to have about 50 more like this!

That said, Other Half bought another Santa Gertrudis at the fair this year.

Meet Daisy Mae!

 (Yes, that's what her name was, so "Daisy Mae" it is!)

The little girl decorated Daisy Mae for the auction. (Guess who had to wash off all that paint and glitter this morning?  Yep, little ole me!)

Other Half really likes to support the Fair kids. He bought this little girl's heifer 4 years ago.

It was her first show heifer.  She cried and cried when she sold Angel. She's older now, but each year she asks about Angel and we're happy to report that Angel is a good mother and is producing nice calves.  She won Reserve Grand Champion with her calf this year and her father thanked Other Half for starting it all by buying that first calf.

When I look at this little girl, who cannot take her eyes off the excitement of the auction,

I'm reminded of her grandfather, wheeling and dealing cattle, . . .  

 . . . and I cannot help but wonder if she'll be showing cows too. 

Something tells me that she probably will . . .

One thing's for sure . . . if she wants to show cattle,

her grandpappy will have lots of nice red calves for her to choose from.

"Im giTTn purTee DaRned tIred oF hEErin, "Trace, Yer tOO LiTTle!"

"wE wuz haWLin hAy tooDAY n I cooDnT giT owt oF tha Truk!"

"N wheN wE wuz DoNe, I haD too weAR a LEESH wheN I goT owt"

"I dOnT nEEd nO sTinKn LEESH!"

"QUIT pULLn mA LEESH!!!"

"LiLy gOt oN tOp oF thA rOwnD bALeS."

 "Ha Ha, Yer too LITTLE!"

"MuM puT mE uP tHeRe!!!!  pLees!!!"

 "wOw! iT reeLLy IZ a LoNg wAy dOwn!"

"yOO kEn sEE fuRevEr uP hEre!  Iz awL thiS oUrs?"

"Nope.  It's all MINE!  You're too LITTLE!" 

The Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe would have lost her mind if she had lived on a farm. While I have no little children bouncing around here, we do have so many dogs, cats, goats, sheep, and horses, that I feel like I have "so many children, I don't know what to do!" 

We just bounce from one drama to the next.  If you have enough pets and livestock, you WILL have drama. My Livestock Guardian Dog, Briar, was the big adventure for yesterday. Who knew that someone could get soooo melodramatic about a jolt of electricity?  I was so caught up in Briar's metamorphosis into a 747 jet jumping fences that Trace's adventure fell between the cracks.  After all, who notices a "foosa" when there's a white freight train hurtling across the pasture?

Anyone who has seen the movie "Madagascar" will recall that a "foosa" is a small furry meat-eating predator. (If you haven't seen the movie, then you absolutely, positively MUST rent it!  I promise you will laugh so hard you'll pee on yourself! But I digress . . . )

 Deep in thought, I opened a gate to allow sheep to move into an adjacent paddock. The sheep filed in and immediately came to attention.  (This is a clue that you should look behind you.) Lost in my world of hotwire and haywired dogs, I failed to remember that Trace is small enough to slither out of the back yard and follow me.  Thus the adventure began:

Note puppy sink into classic Border Collie crouch.  "I'm a Foosa!" he said.

Call puppy. Note puppy has developed a hearing loss. Puppy begins to slink forward toward sheep.  Sheep stare in disbelief. 

"Is that a Foosa?!!"

"Yeeeesssss!  I AM a Foosa," Trace assures them.

I attempt to scoop him up.  Despite the fact that he never takes his eyes off the sheep, he easily scoots out of arms' reach.  I spout UnChristian-like words. (Yes, the Lord knows my weakness and we're working on it, but progress is slow.)

The sheep continue to ask each other, "Is that really a Foosa?"

Like a suave python, Trace mesmorizes them as he gets closer and closer.  Again and again, I reach out and end up grabbing air. (very humbling) Rasta, the largest, nastiest ewe, gives him the "hairy eye" as he approaches.  Desperate, I snatch at air again as he assesses the problem.  Like David before Goliath, the puppy glares at the ewe.  Then he reaches deep into his chest and pulls out a Power Bark.

"YESSS!!!!!  It IS a FOOSA!" the sheep scream in unison. 

By now, Trace is drunk with power and slithers behind them as they file back into their pasture like obedient school children. I grab him when he turns to grin at me. 

"Gotcha!"

I hug him tightly as he wags his little windshield-wiper tail, still dizzy with his new-found Superpower. Then I remind him that he is Pre-schooler and will not be pulling out his "Super Suit" any time soon.  (and I found 5 new gray hairs on my head!)

   "What was he thinking?"

Many of you may recall Briar's first experience with electricity.  It wasn't pretty.  She cried. I cried. We were both hysterical.  But that was last spring, when the ground was wet, and Briar was younger.  (I'm not sure why I thought anything would change in a few months . . .)

     But the sheep have overgrazed some areas and it's time to pen them up with the goats and the ponies while the pastures recover and the rye grass takes root. This worked well for about 45 minutes.  Briar puttered around, checking out her digs while I went back to the house.  Then I heard the screams. 

     It started in the distance, like the whine of a locomotive.  As it grew closer, a large white freight train roared into sight.  I was on the back porch with Ranger when he leaped the fence to go help Briar.  At the same time, Briar was climbing out of the pasture - and raking her back along the hot wire strand.  The screams reached a new octave, and the freight train launched into overdrive. 

     She passed Ranger like a jet taking off the runway as she leaped into the back yard.  The other dogs and I watched in open-mouth disbelief as a 747 squeezed through the doggy door and into the house.  I went inside to find a quivering mass of jelly hiding in the hallway.  Ranger scurried in with me to make sure she was okay.  Briar was definitely NOT okay.

An hour later she was still huddled on a sheep skin in my office.  Oh well . . . like oil & water, I guess Briar and hotwire won't ever mix.

"But I don't WANNA go back in there!"

Embrace your obstacles!

When Life squirts water in your ears, shake it off!

"Shake it out, Little Dude."

 "Can't . . get . . it . . . out!"

Climb great pinnacles . . .

. . . and chase your problems away!

Then . . .

 Sleep hard!

It's Monday! Time to tackle the week ahead!

So when weighty problems smack you aside the head . . .

. . . take advice from Trace!

Handle those mountains . . .

. . . one bite . . .

. . . at a time!

"Whew!"

"I got sand in ma eyes!"

"What we need is a dip in tha pond!"

 Trace has never been swimming.

(Pardon the quality of these photos, but they were too cute not to share.)

Trace's First Swim

 "Geronimo!!!!"

Look at that grin!

 "A goldfish!!!"

Ranger closely supervised Trace's swim. You couldn't ask for a better babysitter than this goofy little blue dog! After multiple trips back into the water, we finally headed to the house.  (. . .where he got a bath in the kitchen sink, and it was not nearly as much fun as swimming.)

Disclaimer:  Farm Fresh Forensics is not receiving any monies from the sale of Kong products.

That said, you have GOT to get one of these suckers!

Seriously . . .  you do.

I got a great deal on it because they weren't selling at my local feedstore. "Buy one, get one free," the man said.

"Sold!" I said.

With 9 dogs, we're always in need of toys.  Small wubbas are a favorite, but don't last long.  Someone always chews the octopus legs off and that takes a lot of fun outta the toy.  With Trace moving in, the new toys are tiny. Everyone wants to play with Trace's tiny toys.  So . . . Trace and I went to the feed store and found toys for the rest of the pack. (after the staff played with him, and fed him, and gave him a chewie to take home. . . )  But a Giant Wubba? Would a Giant Wubba replace the fun of destroying tiny toys?

I'll let you be the judge.

"Whatcha got?"  

 "It's mine!"

"But Mom said the toys were for everyone."

"Go away Pin-Head or I will rip your ears off!"

May I take a moment to point out that these two are best friends.  Apparently friendship for Lily does not involve sharing Wubbas. At this point, I decided to try a little experiment.  How important was the toy to her?

"Lily, where are the sheep?"

"Huh?!  What? Sheep?!!  Where?!"

 "Oooh lookie what Somebody left!  Thanks, Mom!"

"HEY!!!!" 

 "That's mine!"

"Not for long, Pin-Head!"

  "Whut y'all got?" 

"Ooooohhhh . . . I want it!"

After much tussling and intimidation . . .

. . . guess who . . .

. . . ended up with the Wubba?

"There's a lot to be said for Old Age & Treachery."

And guess who else . . .

My mom's dog, Penny, passed away yesterday. 

 This is my favorite photo of them.

It shows the pure joy that a good dog brings.  They make your heart smile.

     She was Mom's constant companion.

      Penny was Kona's sister, and like Kona, her life was also cut short by cancer. She fought the good fight all summer.  More than ever I am convinced that everything works out for a reason.  The winds of Fate blew a tiny little angel to my mother's doorstep . . .

"Thank you, God!!!"

 . . . and just as Penny entered the worst days of her illness, this little angel came to bring a smile despite the dark clouds.

It has been a long, hard summer . . .

. . .  but I've been told . . .

. . . there are goats to chase in Heaven.

Godspeed, Pen-Pen

On a more uplifting note, for those of you who expressed an interest in whether or not Glory was a male or a female, the vet took a look at the kitten yesterday and proclaimed that Glory was definitely a little girl.

Now here's the funny part -

(Hehehehehehe. . . I'm still laughing about this!) Mom became so curious about the sex of her little kitten that she got on the internet to research how you properly determine the sex of a kitten.  (hahahahahhahahaha . . . ) Sorry, I couldn't help myself.  So anyway . . .  guess what kind of websites you pull up when you google the words "sex + kitten" together?  

I laughed so hard I almost peed in my pants.  Mom won't be doing that anymore.

Captain Ahab heads out in search of the Great White Whale

Deep in a sea of amber and green he searches . . .

Suddenly he spies the beast as it comes up for air . . .

And the chase is on!

 Over the waves . . he leaps in his relentless pursuit of the Great White Beast

  He is closing in . . .

. . . just as the beast turns upon him!   "Oops!"

  "UH oh!"

(Captain Ahab is under there somewhere . . .)

Moby Dick flees . . . leaving the scene of an accident and failing to stop and render aid

The Great White Beast doesn't get far.  Captain Ahab has a Fairy Godmother (Godfather?)

Apparently this was a felony.

(Yes, Moby Dick is under there somewhere.)

After a severe tongue-lashing, the Fairy Godfather releases Moby Dick.

"Are you okay, Little Buddy?  How many toenails am I holding up?"

 "Uhhmmm . . . 4?"

So the Fairy Godfather declared that the Little Captain was okay, and all was well.

The Great White Beast even returned to play . . .

. . . but this time she was more careful.

I know a criminal profiler who is fond of quoting Shakespeare.

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His act being seven ages."

I have always been a believer in the concept that "what's meant to be, is meant to be."  Translated: "You are exactly where God wants you at this moment." And I've held firm to the idea that we are on our own journey through life, other people and animals crisscross our lives along their own journeys.  Sometimes their paths follow our own for a while. Be it a little while, or a long while, during that time we are meant to be together. Everyone is blessed with talents and gifts that they share with others along the journey.

George Eliot wrote,

 "What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?"

I share this little tidbit not so you can pull out your yoga mat and meditate on life during your coffee break.  It is so much easier for me to ponder Life's little puzzles while I'm taking the dogs for a walk.  As the morning sun rises to lift the dew off the pasture, they play in the tall grass, and I contemplate life. You don't have to journey to Tibet to find the meaning of life - just take a walk on your farm. All of life's dramas are played out in the muck and mire of farm living.

It is said that life is a beautiful tapestry. The problem is that we are looking at the back of the rug, while God is looking at the front.  All we see is a chaotic hodge-podge of colored thread.  I thought about that concept this morning while I was taking my coffee, and the dogs, for a walk.

I didn't want this dog. 

When Other Half brought this little space cadet home, I was aghast.  The dog was a fruitcake and he was now our fruitcake for the next 12 years.  After a difficult adjustment period for all of us, I finally consoled myself with the knowledge that God had put this little space traveler in our home because he needed us.  After all, the dog is so weird that in most homes, he'd end up in the pound.

Over time I came to love him, despite his eccentricities.  Instead of viewing him just as a fearful space cadet that God had put with us because we could give him a loving home, I began to see the value of his steadfast devotion to family. And this morning, as I watched my Loveable Loon bounce through the pasture, carefully keeping step with a puppy, his puppy, it made my heart smile. Perhaps Life is not about who is the best and the brightest. Perhaps it's more important to realize that everyone, EVERYONE, has something to contribute to this world.  And if you haven't seen that yet, then you haven't met this little dog.

"My Beloved Monster and Me"

1) Take puppy out of crate where he has been imprisoned beside the bed all night long. At this point he is a tightly wound toy about to explode.

2) Take puppy into pasture with deep grass

3) Let the Wind-Up Toy go . . .

"I can't breathe!  I can't breathe!"

After a run and a swim, take breathless puppy into den where he catches his breath, empties his toy box, and massacres his Halloween toys.

But I see shades of a dominant, assertive little snot as he looks up to discover that someone else has raided his toy box.  He is not amused.

"HEY!  Is that my BAT?!  Put it down!  That's MINE!!!!!!

And amazingly, she does . . .

"Stay outta my toy box! I'm keeping my eye on you!"

(I saw the exact same behavior in Kona when he was a toddler.  Because of that, he was nicknamed Attila the Hun.)

Ranger is deep in Crazy Greek Mother Mode.  Here are the boys bouncing to the barn, undoubtedly humming "My Beloved Monster and Me."

 What a cute little butt!

Now for the other end . . .

I'm in danger of sharing too much information here, but . . .   Someone sank his pearly whites into Dad's calf when Dad was takin' a whizz. (And Dad had to clean up the bathroom floor!)

Unlike Ranger, there is not a maternal bone in Lily's body.  She does, however, really enjoy playing with her baby brother and tolerates his devotion pretty well. 

I give you State's Exhibit A:

Driving back from the grocery store

Trace is a bold little fart who is settling in just fine. 

He hit the ground running . . .

 and running . . .   

 and zooming . . .

In fact, if I could bottle his energy . . .  

. . . and sell it in six packs, I'd make a fortune! 

His battery runs down pretty quickly.  In the photo above, his little blue eyes are already getting droopy.

In 48 hours he has eaten:

1) beef fajitas  2) breakfast ham  3) toast soaked in grits  4) horse poop   5) sheep poop

6) goat poop   7) yogurt    8) pork rib meat   9) a stick   

and . . .  drum roll please . . .

10) dead rat

Amazingly, he doesn't have shooting diarrhea.  The boy has a strong intestinal constitution.

We've gotten bunches of notes asking how he's getting along with the rest of the pack. So here goes - - -  

Lily: She's totally okay with him.  He's a Border Collie and she knows it.  He initially fixated on her because she is a black and white Border Collie who probably reminds him of his mom. She won't cut him any slack because he's a puppy but she won't hurt him either.  Since she has always had to share attention, she isn't really jealous.

Cowboy: is also okay with him.  He doesn't play with him but knows Trace is a puppy and tolerates him quite well. Trace likes to tag along with the other Border Collies.

Ranger: LOVES the puppy.  This is Ranger's puppy!  He has kicked into Crazy Greek Mother Mode and is doting on little Trace like the gay men in the "Modern Family" sitcom dote on their infant. 

Briar:  I didn't want Trace around Briar because she is sooooo big, and he is soooo little.  That was fine until this morning when she climbed the fence to check him out while I fed horses.  I turned around to discover him bouncing around beside her while she chased cats.  She knows he's a dog and is gentle with him.  (That giant puppy continues to amaze me.) 

Alice the Bloodhound:  is blind and hasn't really noticed him. 

Ice: finds him mildly amusing but doesn't want him to jump in her face. I keep her away from him while he's loose.

Zena the Retired Police Dog: is fascinated by him.  Zena raised Ranger and Lily.  She adores puppies, but she is a bit pushy and wants to smother him. He is a little freaked by the way she stalks him and keeps near to us or Ranger when she looms too closely.

Oli the Current Police Dog:  thinks he is a neat video game.  She is not allowed loose with him because he is little and she is fast.  Later they will be great playmates but we're not sure she understands "It's a baaaaaby!" So until we're convinced that she knows he's a dog and not a guinea pig, she can stare at him through the bars like a crazed football fan.

Overall, he is getting along great with the pack (in small doses.)  Ranger is the only one that I trust with him though.  Ranger freaked out when I walked down the road with Trace to visit Dear Friend.  Ranger jumped the fence and came to find us. He was quite disturbed when he found HIS PUPPY in HER lap!  She released his little friend and he checked out Trace quite closely to make sure he was okay. Then he scooted away and shot her the Evil Eye.

"I'll let it slide this one time, but I'm keeping my eye on you!"

After a marathon driving adventure across Texas and Oklahoma, . . . 

. . .  we brought The Little Prince home.

 Meet Trace!     

(More pics to come after we've had some sleep!)

Mom's little blessing is growing like a weed.

  She has come a long way from flagging down strangers at a gas station for help. ("HEY! You with the thumbs! I need some HELP down here!")

Now she's a member of a FAMILY!  Since the name "Blossom" didn't really stick, Mom has re-named her "Glory", and she already comes to her name.   (and wipes her paws!)

  She has a garden . . .

 . . . with birds!

 BIGGGGG Birds!

She has a big brother who likes to play rough!

  And a dog!

 "I have a family!!!"

"Thank you, God!"

Years ago I went with a friend to pick up some goat's milk. We were greeted by a most delightful man who escorted us around his farm. He showed us his goats, his pig, his miniature horses, his cattle, and his chickens.  And he did all this . . . in bare feet.

I remember being struck with the idea that this cheerful little man was a modern day Hobbit, spirited straight from the Lord Of The Rings.  And his feet looked like it. 

Now I'm not one to point fingers.  (perish that thought!) I was in my 30's before I got my first professional pedicure. The reason I was forced to get a pedicure is because Montoya had stomped on my foot ("Oops! Sorry mom!") and my big toe was a most striking shade of blue. 

A friend was tired of looking at it, so she insisted that we that head to the nearest Vietnamese lady with polish to paint that sucker!  So I did.  I went in looking like a Hobbit, and an hour later, (and lots of muttering in Vietnamese) I hobbled out with new feet. There was even a beautiful hibiscus flower painted on my bruised big toe. 

From that moment on, I was in love with pedicures. Ahhhh . . . the vibrating chair, the girl talk, the stupid paper flip-flops. And the magical hibiscus flower that announced "These are the feet of a Pretty Woman, not a Hobbit!"

But the sad reality is that the Magical Hibiscus Flower fades pretty quickly under the cold hard reality of farm living. The polish gets chipped off each time a critter bounces across the top of it.  I want to, I really want to, but I cannot seem to wear responsible shoes every time I step out of my door. Too often I'm simply puttering around the house in flip-flops or Crocs when drama stalks me, and then I regret my choice of footwear.

 (Read: The Grace of God & The Red-Headed Demon)

You'd think I would learn. But alas . . .   take this morning for instance.  One would think that I would know better. 

This is not a picture you want to see when you're wearing flip-flops! 

Or this!  (They get MUCH closer!)

One overeager Border Collie (just trying to help) + A Few Errant Sheep = Bruised Toes

Why don't I ever learn?

Did Hobbits have Border Collies?

 (I'm just asking . . .)

While city folks may not have to sling dead 'possums out of their yard on Mondays, they also don't get to rise early on "Hump Day Wednesdays" to this . . .

The sun rises to capture the dew on the pumpkin. 

(Okay, the City Folk can have pumpkins too, but do they also have dew on the horse poop behind the pumpkin?  I'm just asking . . .)

View from the Front Porch:

View from the Back Porch:

There's no hum of traffic in the country.  This is the traffic I hear in the morning:

Sexy Senior Citizen gallops into the barn!

Before I can feed myself, there are animals to be fed:

My Second-In-Command climbs up high on the hay to oversee the operation.

After all the animals are fed it's time to walk the fence line with the dogs.

Our version of Brinks Home Security . . .

And the chores are done! Bring on the day!

There are few things that I consider myself an expert on, but the smell of decomposing tissue is one subject that I know a great deal about. So when I drove into my garage barn last week and the smell of decomp assaulted my nose as I climbed out of the truck, I felt that I could safely report, "There is something dead in the garage!"

The problem was that I couldn't find it.  The garage shed is attached to the goat barn. There are also lots of hidey holes in old junk where a small animal could crawl off to die.  My concern wasn't so much WHERE the critter was, as WHO the critter was.

Here was my first concern:

Lovey hadn't been seen in a couple of days.  This launched an all-out search at 1 AM for a tabby calico cat. I called and I called and I called.  (Yes, I'm sure my neighbors hate me.)

I really worried that the dogs had caught her in the ever-popular, "Let's chase the cat and try to kill it" game.  Faith likes this game, but Lovey is not a big fan.  (She's not as good at the game as Faith.)  So I continued my hunt for Lovey.  A can of cat food at 1:30 AM finally produced three calico cats who climbed out of the rafters of the horse barn.  One of them was Lovey.  I could go to sleep.

Perhaps the victim was Remus, the banty rooster who survived multiple Boogey Beast attacks:

  Remus used to spend his evenings roosting in the Goat Barn until daybreak where he would trek across the pasture to greet my mother's hens as they began their day.  "Hellllloooo Ladies!"

I worried that perhaps Remus had met up with Blue Heeler in his journey across the pasture.  Or Briar could have loved him to death.  The result is about the same.  (Again. . . it depends upon your view of torture.)  Or . . . Remus could have been killed by whatever attempted to kill him a couple of weeks ago when I thought something was after the goats.  I moved Briar into that barn, only to discover that Something was after Remus, not the goats.  But I left Briar there anyway.
 
So I went to bed that night, The First Night Of Decomp In The Barn, comfortable that Lovey was okay, and slightly annoyed that Remus had finally met his demise. The next morning my mother reported that Remus was alive and well, and spending his nights in an oak tree above her chicken coop.   At this point, since everyone in my Family Fold was accounted for, I quit worrying about the smell of decomp in the garage.

 Until yesterday . . .

I asked Other Half to feed the dogs.  He couldn't find Briar.  We hunted and finally found Briar hunkered down in the driveway paddock.  My heart skipped a beat . . .   Briar had something. . .

Fearing for my calico cats, (and Mom's calico kitten) I cautiously approached.  Briar looked over her shoulder and happily grinned at me.  She reeked of decomp.
That ruled out the calico cats and kitten.  Now what did Briar have?

Warning!  Warning!  Warning!   GROSS ALERT!!!!!

This was what Briar had been working on like an All-day Sucker:

Eeegaaads!

It took me a second to identify the victim, but this cleared it up.

Now it's possible that the opossum lost the Let's Kill The Kitty game and crawled off to die.  "Look!  A cat with a skinny tail!"  I doubt Briar tried to love it to death.  It is also possible that it came to kill Remus and Briar caught him instead. (Oh well . . . sucks to be him.)  Regardless, he ended up dead and Briar finally dug him out of his death bed.

The down side to my job as a crime scene investigator is that I cannot throw down the Girl Card and get Other Half to dispose of gross items that are too horrendous for my delicate sensibilities.  (You forfeit "The Girl Card" when you play Twister over dead men for a living.)  So I had to dispose of the dead opossum while he changed out a broken tail light on the flat-bed trailer.
 
Then I had a more important task at hand . . .

 
Do City People have to do this kind of stuff on a Monday afternoon?

I'm just saying . . .

It's Monday!!!!

Seize the day!

       Embrace it!  

And if problems come your way . . .

Ranger says . . .

Go forth and make it your day!

This is Rasta. Pardon my French, but she's a bitch.  (Actually . . . since we are in the South, we don't call her a bitch, we say, "Bless her heart . . .")

Rasta is a large, aggressive ewe who will attack a dog in an instant.  This served her well when Oli The Patrol Dog climbed the fence last winter and attacked the sheep in the isolation pasture.  Roanie suffered horrible injuries, Jamaica later died, but Rasta was such a "Bless her heart . . . " that the dog went on to easier prey and Rasta was left with just a few blood stains on her wool.

Rasta has a deep hatred of all dogs - even Briar.

  Briar tries to stay away from Rasta.  Sometimes that works out for her, other times it doesn't.  This morning . . .  it didn't . . .

 "Get away from here, DOG!"

"Beat it, you stupid white dog!"  

 "You are a DOG!  You are not a SHEEP!  Don't you get it?!!"

Dejected, Briar wanders off to lay down in some sand and watch the flock.

But someone sees her.  That Someone leaves the flock to go lend a sympathic ear.

  Roanie, the sheep who survived the dog attack with grievous injuries, leaves the other sheep to go stand beside Briar.

"Hey, you okay Dog???"

And the ewe who has every reason in the world to hate dogs, stood beside the Giant White Beast, and stayed there. And Briar felt better.

Perhaps this world would be a better place if we were all a bit more like Briar and Roanie . . .  

                        . . .

                                               . . .

 (Roanie recovering from her injuries last winter leans on Briar. It was months before she could use her right hind leg again. This photo was taken less than a month after Roanie was attacked by a dog.)

I bathed Alice again this week, and as always, it was quite the task. 

Most of the time it's a chore simply to catch her for a bath, but this time, Blue Heeler felt compelled to play in the bath water.  

It made The Rinse Cycle difficult.

But as annoying as it was to have a Little Blue Dog bouncing into the spray, it got me to thinking about the biggest hurdle to bathing a Bloodhound - Montoya.

This is what bathing a Bloodhound is like when you add a horse to the bucket:

      Now for those of you who have ever considered getting a hound, you need to know that even on a good day, they stink. Even if you bathe them in rose-scented shampoo, they will still smell like wet bloodhounds (with a faint hint of rose). But poor Alice, like most bloodhounds in Texas, has skin allergies and must be bathed regularly. This is no thrill for me or for Alice. Bloodhounds come with an uncanny sense of smell. They also come equipped with an uncanny sense of knowing when the thought of a bath just flits across your mind. As soon as the thought enters my mind, Alice runs to hide in the pumphouse. Fortunately for me, cat food is Kryptonite for Bloodhounds, and if I pretend that I'm not holding a leash in my armpit, I can dump dry cat food on the barn floor and snare her as she's scarfing it up .... if I'm fast.

Luck was with me, and I was able to catch my hound, pour a little Pantene Shampoo & Conditioner in a bucket, and hit it with the water hose. That's about the time things got interesting.

Because Montoya spends so much time in the back yard, I tend to forget he's there. He's like Andalusian Yard Art. And he happens to be fascinated with bubbles. I did not know this until this afternoon. Neither did he. Montoya was delighted with the bucket of suds that I was sponging onto the hound. He hovered over us and supervised the entire operation.

"Whatcha doing?"

"I'm bathing the Bloodhound."

"Why?"

"She stinks."

"Look! Bubbles!"

"Yep.... you need those to bathe Bloodhounds."

"Why don't I ever get bubbles?"

"You don't stink."

"I want BUBBLES!"

"Go away. Leave that alone."

"I want BUBBLES! I want BUBBLES! I WANT BUBBLES! ......Whoops..."

"Happy now? Your bubbles are all over the ground."

"Look! I have a Bubble Mustache!"

"I'm not impressed. Go away!"

"See my mustache? Look. Right here. See? Oh good! You're making more bubbles!"

"Go away! I've got to bathe the dog!" (once you finally catch a Bloodhound, you do not, under any condition, let go of that hound if you plan on bathing it that day.)

"Oooooh... there are bubbles on the DOG!"

"GO AWAY!"

"Can I lick the bubbles off the dog!"

"NO!" (The dog was in total agreement with me on this.)

I dropped the water hose. It squirted him.

"That was rude, Mom."

"So go away."

"Hey! I've got a Bubble Mustache. Do you see it?"

By the time I was finished, the hound was soaked, I was soaked, and Montoya was soaked, but he proudly wore his Pantene Mustache until I wiped it off. I don't think the hound will ever come out of the pumphouse again.

     Last night Other Half came home at 5 AM.  He was tired, grumpy, and had a headache. Lily does not recognize those states of being.  At 5 AM, she is happy and wants to play.  She wants to lay in bed and do the backstroke across the covers to get into the crevice between Mommy & Daddy so that she can backstroke across his chest, and he can rub her tummy.  She also wants to scratch imaginary ticks and fleas.  (I check that dog religously and she does NOT have bugs!)  But . . . she will wait until we are trying to sleep and she will scratch dry skin, and then bounce on his chest to announce "HELLLLOOOOOOO!!!!!  I LOVE YOU!!!"

He will scratch her tummy and go back to sleep.  Sometimes I kick her off the bed or put her outside.  Last night I was too tired to do either.  Her Thing 2 Counterpart (Cowboy) is now awake and pacing beside the bed. As he moves his dog tags rattle out an irritating melody.  

At 9:30 AM Other Half decides to get up and go the restroom.  He is naturally escorted the entire 8' from the bed to the toilet.  After all, he might get lost in the artic blast of the air conditioner and need a Border Collie to lie beside his prone body to keep him warm until rescue arrives.

In the restroom there is a calendar. This is the picture for October:

I had just turned it over last night.  (I hope little Trace grows up to look like this dog!) Anyway, with his canine escort, Other Half returns to bed.  The melody of Cowboy's dog tags continues to tinkle and Lily bounces on his chest.  He lays there in silence for a moment . . . and then he says,

"You know what we need to do?"

My mind races through images of kennels lined up on the back porch with dejected dogs waiting impatiently for their day to begin. But then he says something that surprises me . . . . . .

This man who had not had a moment's peace and uninterrupted sleep in 4 hours, announced . . .

"What we need to do is get some pumpkins and carve faces into them and then take pictures of the dogs beside them."

I love this man.

     Other Half is having an affair. He has another love. And as much as he denies it, he loves her with his whole artery-clogged heart.  She is fried food. Country people just love cooking in grease. Take one look at all the fried exotics at the Texas State Fair, and you'll get an idea.  By exotics, I'm not talking about fried swamp buffalo; I'm talking about Fried Oreos!  Or Fried Twinkies!  Or any damned thing that falls in the grease!

     Now in his defense, he will not eat those exotic fried foods.  He does, however, want his vegetables and most of his meat fried. He wants "Man-food!"  Manfood is meat and potatos . . . and cornbread. If something green lands on his plate, it had better be fried, or an opened can of green beans.  He will eat a salad if it has lots of ranch dresssing on it. For him a salad is in a ready-mix bag with a jug of ranch dressing.  He "might" spruce it up with some radishes, some tomatos, . . . and homemade bacon-bits.

This is what I looked like 5 years ago:

  I hid this picture because I thought I looked fat.  Someone told me once that women should keep old photos because undoubtedly you will look back and say to yourself, "What the heck was I thinking?  I'd be happy to look that way now!"  That was an entire jean size ago! Those were wise words.

  Now I look a bit more like this:

 Okay, my hair is still long, but I've added a few (lot) more pounds! And okay, I can probably squeeze into those old pants again if I try really hard, and don't breathe, but the point is . . .  all this fried food isn't doing ME any favors!

So I am determined to get us eating better!  Sunday I went to the grocery store and spent $218 on good, real food.  While I was there, he phoned to place his order since I was also nixing our eating out EVERY NIGHT when on-duty. Not only is it expensive, it's unhealthy!

This is what he ordered for himself:

(Yes!  It cooks in 90 seconds! And has enough sodium to preserve a hog!)

When I came home, he inspected our new meals . . .

chicken breasts
chicken fajitas

"You know I don't eat chicken unless it's fried!"

broccoli
mushrooms
avocados

"That's for you.  I'm not eating that."

tomatos

(He will eat those . . . with lots of salt.)

yogurt
sour cream
low-fat milk  (He hasn't noticed the low-fat label yet!)

and the list goes on . . . .

After spending $218 on food that afternoon. Do you want to know what we did for dinner?

  Whereupon . . .  he ordered a giant chicken-fried steak sandwich, and . . . greedy little pig that I am, I gave up and ordered a chili-cheese burger.  WTF!!??

This humble flower heralds the fall season in south Texas.

Bunches of morning glories creep along the roadsides, across the fences, up the power lines, and down the canals.

 They bring promise of relief from the brutal heat . . . 

. . . and the threat of hurricanes in the Gulf.

Grow Little Friend!  Grow!

Update: Word from Texas A&M Veterinary School is that the necropsy tests on the bull and the feed were inconclusive. This is sad news as now we may never know for sure what killed these cattle.

Cue music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sssqBjaTzOU

"Ebony . . .

and Ivory . . .

Fit together in perfect harmony. . .

           Side by side . . .

                  . . . on the piano . . .

                                  . . . keyboard . . .

       . . . Oh Lord . . .

                                . . . Why don't we? . . ."

                                   "Get AWAY from me, you Common Yard Dog!!!"

Ginny wrote yesterday to tell me that she has a "doggie-crush" on Briar.  I was delighted.  Other Half almost puked.  He is not one of Briar's biggest fans.  She is big. She is often wet. . . and she jumps on him. It's not a recipe for endearment.   While I see a sincere giant puppy, he sees a gigantic muddy dog who was supposed to spend her life locked in the pasture with no human contact. (Yeah right!  Like THAT'S gonna happen around here!)

I have the ability to make a pet out of anything with fur, but I don't believe that has diminished her effectiveness as a Livestock Guardian Dog.  Because the sheep are kept close to the barn, Briar only has about 9 acres that she's accountable for, and even then, it's only at night.  During the day, while the grass is plentiful, the sheep are with the horses, thus, Briar is off-duty.  Since she is more valuable to me than any one sheep, I cannot take the chance that Montoya the Missile will stomp Briar into the ground. 

"Who me?"       

Thus, Briar not only guards the sheep, but the goats, the chickens, the house, and the entire barnyard.  As a bonus, she is gentle with family and friends.  (except that she is a giant, wet, friendly dog . . . imagine Clifford the Big Red Dog in a different color.)

Briar is adapting into a routine of guarding my mother's chickens at night.

  In the evening Mom locks up her hens and opens the back gate.  Briar hustles over to Mom's for an egg. She is officially On-Duty.  She lays on Mom's deck where she has discovered that she can survey her entire kingdom.  Yesterday I noted that she even brought her own entertainment.

 Canine IPOD   

Cee Cee asked for an update on Roanie . . .

I took this shot this morning.  Roanie is fat and happy.  She is amazingly friendly for a sheep who was given injections daily and endured terribly painful medical treatments for her dog attack. Although she is not what I wanted to breed, we made the decision to keep her for breeding because she is the kind of survivor that you want to reproduce.  Her right rear leg is ever-so slightly shorter, giving her a tiny limp, but not really enough to notice unless you're looking for it.

She and Briar remain good friends.  Roanie understands that Briar is here to protect her from others who are a bit more predatory in nature.

 "HEY!  I was never convicted of that charge! There were no witnesses, and no DNA samples were collected! In fact, if you need a good lawyer, I can highly recommend one!"

This is the reason I sleep at night. (or don't, depending upon how much she barks!)

This is also the reason I sleep at night.

Together they are a formidable team.

Much has been written about Briar and her value on the farm, but I rarely sing the praises of poor little Ranger, my Blue Heeler. Friends and family members will argue that Blue Heeler has very little to praise, but I'm here to stand up for him and argue his case. You see, they don't like Blue Heeler because, unlike most dogs, . . . Blue Heeler cannot be bought.

He cannot be bribed, cajoled, reasoned with, or paid to look the other way.  His world is black and white - you either live here, or you don't, end of discussion. Please keep in mind that my mother has lived next door for the ENTIRE three years of his existence, and Son lived in the house with him for two years of his existence, but alas, rules are rules, and as far as Blue Heeler is concerned, if you are not Mommy or Daddy, then you are evil and will undoubtedly steal all the silverware (or at least the paper plates) during your visit. He is, in short, a deranged psychopath.

But quite frankly, there is a time and a place for a psychopath. If we lived along the border, I'd have a pack of thirty little blue psycho dogs since friends there report that they cannot even ride horses along the fence line without being in pairs and carrying firearms. They are literally at a war with the drug cartels that cross their ranch land to run narcotics into the U.S.

As it is, crime here tends to slosh over from the shadow of the city.  Each year I see more and more evidence that the world I live in at work is following me home. And as the crime slowly creeps our direction, I have a greater appreciation for my little blue psycho and am now his biggest fan.  Actually, I'm his only fan. Other Half gave up on him some time ago.

 But each time he makes some disparaging remark about Blue Heeler, I hasten to point out that HE, (not ME!) brought this little pyschotic creature home. While I tend to research and agonize over the best puppy to fit our household, Other Half lets caution fly and hopes for the best.  In the case of Blue Heeler, he needed a cow dog. He went to an old childhood friend that raised cow dogs who had a litter of pups. While they cussed and discussed current events, he leaned across the back fence, pointed at Ranger, and said, and I quote, "I'll take THAT one."  (He . . . never. . . touched . . . the . . . dog!)

I was aghast.  But . . . it was HIS dog, and I would never stand between a man and his dog. So we brought the terrified little fruitcake home and over time, the Stockholm syndrome took over, and he quit trying to run away and accepted us as his family. We started him on billy goats and he was soon a decent little helper on the farm.  He moved to penned cattle where he was also a nice little helper . . . as long . . . as you didn't get excited and yell at him.  (Read: Birth of a Cow Dog )

You see . . .    Blue Heeler is a sensitive soul. As I have explained to Other Half many times, "Ranger knows what's in your heart."  If you are angry, he knows it. If you scream at him for chasing cattle past the gate, he will throw up his little paws like Nathan Hale in "The Bird Cage" and wail, "Well!  I can't do ANYTHING right!  No one loves me! Pen 'em yer own damned self then!" 

And he runs out of the pen. This never fails to ignite Other Half who is a country boy and not given to cajoling and building up the self-esteem of a working dog when he's standing in a muddy cow pen.

And so Blue Heeler comes to Momma, who hugs him and makes him feel special again. I have come to appreciate Ranger, not for his working skills, but for his steadfast devotion to family.  He loves his pack.  As fruity as he is, he will risk death, dismemberment, and electric fences to protect his family.  When Briar was zapped by the hotwire, Blue Heeler jumped not one, but two fences, to rescue her. He was zapped twice but he came to lick her face and make sure his giant friend was okay.  (read: Justice? )

Last month when Border Collie was absolutely freaking because I was trying to pull a tick from between her toes, he leaped onto the bed to lick her face, and comfort her. (We have since addressed the "don't play with my toes" issue and she's much better now.)

Several times a day he cleans the eyes and ears of Ancient Blind Bloodhound. It makes me smile as I watch his obessive devotion to his pack. More and more, I see Ranger not as a Mad Hatter, but as a crazy Greek Mother, protecting his family and giving the "evil eye" to anyone who dares threaten them.

So when Other Half is not home, and Blue Heeler crawls into bed with Lily and me, I can sleep soundly, knowing that I am protected by the best little blue psycho in Texas.

After the death of one chicken, the Beast was sure to return for another easy meal last night, so we left the gate open to allow my dogs to patrol my mom's yard too.

When my mother got up this morning,

         this is what she found beside her chicken coop . . .

     . . .

                 . . .

                            . . .

                                      . . .

My mom sent me a text message to inform me that Briar had

              camped outside the hen house,

                                                                       . . .  next to George!

(for more about Briar & George, read: "I will name him George" )

Hopefully the raccoon saw that George the Hen has a Very Big Friend.

The sun was up so Mom returned Briar (and Ranger) home and closed the gate.  Briar was a happy camper when I woke up.  I received a morning briefing from her regarding her duties that night and she was then off-duty and free to enjoy her day.

 Yeeee Haaaaa! 

As many of you will recall, last winter The Boogey Beast (or Beasts!) got into my hen house and murdered ten (10!!!!) chickens in less than a week. Night after night I would fortify that building like Fort Knox, only to find the dismembered bodies of victims and traumatized witnesses. That effectively put us out of the chicken business at this house.  We transported the remaining laying hen to the hen house with the cattle, about 7 miles away from THIS Boogey Beast. 

As you will also recall, my mother lives in a little house in one of my pastures and raises a small flock of chickens that are her pets.  She names and dotes on these birds. (a hazardous and heartbreaking habit in this neck of the woods!)  Thus far, her birds have remained safe because she keeps them in a coop by her back porch whereas my birds were inside a locked coop, inside a 1/4 acre flight pen, right beside a canal which is a Predator Superhighway. 

Last winter's Boogey Beast attacks and earlier attacks on goats prompted me to drive across Texas to purchase a Warrior . . .

Okay, I know she was little, but cut her some slack, she was 12 weeks old!

Look again!

  Yeah!  That's right! 

My little warrior is all grown up now, and she's a force to be reckoned with!

Now this is all well and good, as long as she can get to the animals she is supposed to guard.  Thus far, there have been no attacks on the sheep or goats.  They are penned up at night and Briar is their Bodyguard. She takes her job very seriously . . . so seriously, in fact, that there are times when I am sleep-deprived that I want to turn off her barking. (If you have a Livestock Guardian Dog close to the house then you can empathize.)  Most of the time I hear the racket and visions of terrified coyotes dance in my head, so I fall back to sleep, contented, but when I get to bed at 2 AM and she barks from 3 AM to 4 AM, I am tempted to shut her up so I can sleep.  (As I discovered last night, that is not a good idea.)

Common sense would tell you that you don't buy a LGD and then shut her up so she can't patrol.  If she isn't patrolling, then someone is left unguarded. But I didn't have common sense last night . . .

After listening to Briar bark for a solid hour, I stalked outside, saw my mother's flashlight in her back yard, and decided that my idiot dog was barking at my mother who must be giving her dog a late-night potty break. So I told poor Briar to "Shut up!"  (I believe I said, "Shut the *BLEEP* up, you stupid dog!", but who remembers?)

Anyway, I shut poor Briar up, and I went back to bed.  Other Half rolled over and grunted when I informed him that my stupid dog was barking at my mother. 

When I woke up and turned the dogs out for a walk, Briar made a bee-line to the fence . . .

  Uh oh!

So did everyone else . . .

Then I got the uneasy feeling that I'd done a Very Bad Thing last night as Briar tracked down the fence line.

Her path led to the old bird pen. The scene of many murders (20 turkeys and over 30 chickens in two years!), last winter I abandoned the flight pen and its chicken coop. It appears that The Boogey Beast still remembers the flight pen.

 Briar even checked out an ancient coop that had been abandoned at least 15 years ago. This was also the scene of countless chicken killin's.  (Briar is peeking straight down into the canal from that perch. Two years ago a bobcat piled 4 dead chickens behind the window that Briar is looking through.)

 While the rest of the pack became bored and wandered off, Briar continued her hunt. She was a woman on a mission.  (The dog did her Master's Thesis on "Predators of Texas.")

 And all the while she worked, I remembered how I called her names and shut up that poor dog last night. I was ashamed of myself.  I'm a dog trainer. The mantra of ALL dog trainers is . . . "Trust your dog!" 

And then the phone rang . . .

and my mother informed me that The Boogey Beast had gotten into her chicken coop last night sometime around 4 AM.  She was lucky.  She only had one dead.

Briar doesn't hold a grudge. She continues to patrol with a renewed vigilance. And tonight . . . tonight, I'm a lot more humble . . . and tonight . . . tonight the gate will be opened so she can patrol in Grandma's yard too!

To read more about the Boogey Beast Wars read:

Boogey Beast!

The Warrior

Boogey Beast Revealed!

Every morning when the livestock are put out, and these two are off-duty, . . . they play . . .

They dance . . .

 They shuffle . . .

They spin . . .    

And they remind me that no matter how serious life gets, it's important to take a moment and enjoy . . . 

 . . . the dance.

The thing about raising livestock is that your plans for the day can change at a moment's notice.  Yesterday Other Half and I were finishing up watering sheep when his phone rang . . .  

and our plans for the day changed . . .  because $11,000 worth of show cattle were dead.

While these weren't our cattle, they belonged to a friend down the road and he needed help. So we climbed in the truck and raced across the bayou. It was bad.  It was really bad.

On the surface it appeared to be a problem with the feed. All died within minutes of eating. One died with her head still in the bucket.

Thus began the phone calls and the cold, hard reality of getting two heifers buried and a dead bull loaded onto a flatbed trailer for a trip to the state veterinary university for testing.

And all this had to be done before his daughter came home from school.  They were her cattle, her hopes, her dreams. The little brahma heifer was her baby.

The well-digger across the street came and dug a gigantic hole in the pasture. Son brought our flatbed trailer over to load the bull.  And as the school bus stopped in front of the house, tears welled up in my eyes, for the hardest part of the day was about to begin.

Obession has a name and it is Border Collie. Although I consider myself a relative newcomer to the breed, their quirky behaviors don't surprise me a bit. I've had Belgian Shepherds for many years and am used to high-drive, creative dogs. 

Most of that time I cautioned the casual observer that they did NOT want one of those dogs unless they were able to devote a great deal of time to them. With the Border Collie, I must add this though:  "You must be prepared to live with someone who has all the creativity of a 5 year old child, without the thumbs." 

That's it!  If my Border Collies had thumbs, they would be dangerous. (Or . . . very, very useful, I haven't decided which.)

Quirky is the word that most aptly describes them.  Lily's intelligence is scarey. In my past life, before I went into police work, I taught middle school for ten years, and I can assure you, Lily has more focus than the average 12 year old child. If she had thumbs, there is no doubt she would be building Science projects in my living room while she watched the Discovery Channel.

Instead, when she is not working livestock, she is coming up with creative ways to entertain herself and help around the farm. (A Border Collie really would re-wire the light fixture when asked to change the light bulb!) Part of the problem is that her idea of help is to dominate every other breathing creature under her watch and force them to tow the imaginary line of rules that she sets forth.  She is "the Fun Police." Lily is that child in the classroom who asks the teacher if she can "take names" when the instructor steps out.

While many of you already have Border Collies, to those of you who are thinking about taking the leap, look closely at this:

Look at the boards in my barn. Yes, it looks like a child playing with a chain saw whittled at them. 

 They should look like this:    

Our suspect is pacing back and forth under her artwork.

When she was four months old, she leaped up at a horse's face, stuck her skinny little leg between the boards and fell. Her leg broke in two places.  Okay, THAT took the wind out of her sails for the next 24 hours. But later, after she sported a little pink cast, she was back in business!

We unwittingly create obsessions:

I taught Lily to close the gate. I stepped back and proclaimed "This is good."  But it was not good enough for a Border Collie as unfortunately now she cannot pass that gate without closing it . . . again . . . and again . . . and again.

While I was at work one night, Other Half sat in the recliner and watched eight (8!) hours of Band Of Brothers. During that time, he encouraged Lily to hunt "Nazis."  Unfortunately, Lily had no clue what a Nazi looked like, so she ran around searching for a Nazi, confident that God would reveal a Nazi to this humble little hunter.  That's when she saw the Barn cat on the porch. Suddenly the Lord had revealed to her the true identity of a Nazi.  (groan . . . ) 

Other Half thought it was funny.  He demonstrated his new Nazi Hunter when I got home from work that evening.  I was not amused.  Neither were the Barn cats.  Neither was the House Cat. An obsession was born.

Cowboy cannot ride in the pick-up, the 4Wheeler or the Mule without reaching out and snapping at passing cars, passing tree limbs, or shadows.  Since he is a rescue, we have no idea where this obsession sprang. If you scream at him for slamming into the window when you're driving down the road at 60 mph, he will sulk for a moment and then begin to lick the windows instead. Ohhhh. . . grossssss . . .

Now people argue that Border collies without jobs create these weird obsessions, but I cry NAY!  (neigh!!!!)  My Border Collies have jobs!  (well, Lily does, because of his back problems, Cowboy is just a Truck Dog now.)  Lily works livestock; she has constant mental and physical stimulation, and she is STILL a nutcase!

But I love her, and wouldn't have her any other way, because with a creative dog, you are only limited by your imagination and their lack of thumbs.

There is a giant chasm behind my barn. It's a drainage swale that runs the length of one paddock and measures about 2' wide and approximately 1' to 6" deep.  (Yes, that's inches - 1 foot to 6 inches) But if you are an equine of any sort, be you horse, mule, or donkey, this is a giant chasm and must not be crossed lightly.  (Goats however, will plough through this with no problem at all.)

Wednesday morning Ruffy conquered the chasm.  Why he chose to run in wild abandon escaped both me and the rest of the herd, but it was beautiful to watch. 

(We've all quit asking why Ruffy does the things he does . . .)

Nevertheless, something crawled up Ruffy's behind and he decided to race back and forth across the chasm.  I captured the proof of his bravery for all to see!

  "Hey Everybody!  Watch THIS!!!"

  The Approach

  The Gather

 Airborne!

  "Watch me AGAIN!"

(Yes, that little bitty shadow of a ditch IS what he's jumping!)

 BIG Approach!

 And . . . LIFT-OFF!

  "Eat my dust, Suckers!"

"Hey! Ona!  Didya see THAT?"

(For more on the chasm, read: The Chasm )

Yes, we know Ruffy is fat. He gets one carrot a day and is forced to live in a paddock where the sheep have mowed down all useful vegetation, and yet . . . our little Dunkin' Doughnut still maintains his rotund figure!

Ruffy runs!

After working a murder call for over 10 hours, I got in at 3:30 AM last night. Now I ask you, if this little fat pony can run . . why . . . after almost $1000 spent . . . is my air conditioner NOT RUNNING?!!!

Note: after calling Other Half (who is in an air conditioned hotel room!) to report the latest development in the lightning-strike saga, I heard him turn to the dog and say, "Uh oh, Oli. We better stay here. It's not safe to come home yet.  Mommy is a Bitchy Bear."

It's the little things in life that make it just so much more pleasant - perks like electricity and air conditioning immediately come to mind.  (Particularly if you live in Texas during the summer.)

"I FINALLY HAVE AIR CONDITIONING AGAIN!!!  WOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

I'm sure the dogs and House Cat appreciate it too.  (Thank you, Lord!)  Other Half is at K9 training again and thus hasn't been able to share in our joy.

Speaking of little things . . .

The breeder sent new pictures of Trace.  Little Dude is not missing any meals!  He is a major chunky monkey!

Does this little Beast look familiar?

It's a Lily-Gator!

She used to be a chunky monkey ball of fuzz too! She was all fur and teeth!  Now she is my most spoiled top ranch hand.

BUT . . . (warning!  Blackmail photo!)

I am not the only one who spoiled Lily  . . .

I give you State's Evidence 1:    

Note the pillows stuffed between the bed and the night stand so little people don't fall off the bed. Shhheeesh what a lucky pooch!

I was sweeping the floor yesterday when I spotted this:

  EEEEKKKKK!!!!!  When you're moving quickly and the room is dark, this looks like a giant spider!  (shudder)

Then I remembered this:

  Rugback sheep

When I sheared the rugbacks, I tossed the rugs on the floor in my study. Every time Border Collie gets into my office, she picks a little bit of the rug off and carries it around like a toy. 

Satisfied that this monstrous "spider" was a actually a stray piece of stringy wool, I reached down to pick it up. But something, . . . Something . . .  made me pause.  Thomas Magnum on Magnum P.I. used to call it his "little voice."  Well just as I was about to snatch up that piece of wool, my little voice of caution screamed, "Wait! Turn on the light first!"

So I did.

                                                     Oh . . . My. . . Gosh . . . 

That does NOT look like a piece of stringy wool!  It looks like a giant crunchy spider!

It IS!  IT IS!!!!  It is a giant spider!!!!  And a little one too!  and some dog hair . . . .  .  (Please ignore the dog hair.)  I almost picked this up with my bare fingers!!!!  The very thought of it made me shudder and do the "spider shuffle."   This is a move whereby the shudder starts at the tip of your fingers and like a giant wave it moves up your arm to your shoulder where you then begin flicking your hands and dancing in place saying "Eeeewwwwww! 

You are welcome for that mental picture.  Have a nice day.

The moral of this story is . . .  turn on the lights when you sweep!

One of my readers (Peg!) asked me if Penny and Ice were the same dog.  She went on to point out that since most of the dogs have stage names it can be a little confusing trying to keep everyone apart.  I realized immediately that SHE WAS RIGHT!!!!

So the first thing I did was fire off an answer to her that "No", Penny and Ice are not the same dog.  They are both Kona's sisters, but Ice is his littermate.  Kona and Ice are from a repeat breeding of Penny's litter.  The breeder liked Penny's litter so much that she repeated the breeding and got another nice working litter.  My mother had three old dogs die within a year apart, leaving her dog-less (shudder!), so Kona's breeder sent her Penny.  Penny's owner had died and Penny needed a loving home.  It was a match made in Heaven.

  This is one of my favorite pics of these two.  What a yard-workin' team!  (Union Mandated LoveFest Break!!!)

I also put some thought into the problem that many newer readers probably need a playlist to figure out our Cast Of Characters, it would help if I actually gave readers a "Cast of Characters!"

So I did!  In the About Us sections I just included photos and names.  I'll add to it later, but I hit the main cast.  Go have a peek and let me know what you think!

Oh dear . . . Deb just wrote to inform me that I needed to add the horses to our Cast Of Characters.  I'll start adding them . . .

If you have livestock of any kind, one of the most important tasks is getting hay.  Unlike square bales which have to be picked up out of the field and immediately stacked in a protective barn, large round bales can stay outside.  The rain rolls off the top and down the sides.  The exposed hay provides sort of a protective thatch covering for the good hay inside.

  See?

It looks yucky but underneath all that straw yuck is nutritious yum!

Yesterday we had to haul round bales.  Because we need to go down a county road, Border Collie and I followed behind in the Mule to supervise and provide highway assistance.  (jumper cables in case ancient antique Ford tractor dies!)

 So we loaded up and down the road we went!

  Few things stir the heart of country people like hay in the field. Note the thunderheads forming in the sky.  Not only was the sun going down quickly, but the storm clouds were brewing.

  Storm is coming!

There wasn't much for Lily and I to do . . .   

except follow and make sure the traffic didn't run over the tractor.  I'm not sure what we were supposed to do if the traffic ran over us . . .

  The storm passed us by . . .

 . . . but we couldn't escape the setting sun.  

And THIS is why I didn't get my yard mowed or my house cleaned last night!  I finally got the yard mowed this morning. Now I must tackle the house.  I have an air conditioning repair man coming over this afternoon, and my living room still smells like a Bloodhound.  (for those of you who aren't familiar with that odor, it is a fragrace best left outside, but alas, it is hot, and she is old . . . so we make sacrifices.)

   I had a reader write me yesterday to ask about Ice.  Janie writes,  "... what is Ice's story? I know she is Kona's sister, but is she a retired police dog as well?"

Well Janie, yes and no. Yes, she is a former narcotics dog, but no, she isn't one of our retired dogs.  Her story goes like this:

When Kona was four months old, I took him to a Cadaver Dog seminar.  The instructors giving the seminar were so impressed with him that they asked about getting a puppy from that litter.  There was only one puppy left - a shy, black female. So they got her, and they turned her into a Narcotics dog. Unfortunately she was a timid soul and narcotics scenes tend to be chaotic.  They are in strange places with strange people.  Ice couldn't handle it.  The only thing they could do with her reliably was locker checks in schools - same environment, no chaos.

These people had other working dogs, and Ice's limitations soon had her shuffled to guard dog status in the back yard.  Unfortunately she took this job seriously.  Their home bordered a hiking trail.  Soon joggers were complaining to authorities about "the black wolf."

So they called me and asked if I knew someone who may be interested in giving Ice a Forever Home.  At the time, I just had Kona, (Ice's littermate), and Alice the Bloodhound who was already infirm.  Alice was not in the least bit interested in entertaining and young and virile Kona.  So I agreed to take Ice.  Her only job would be as her brother's friend and playmate. They hit it off immediately and I spent many hours sitting in my hammock with a glass of wine after work while I watched two Belgians play WWF at my feet.  And she remained his best friend until the day he died. 

At first she was lost without her brother.  She's always clingy, but she became desperately so.  In time, she has loosened up a bit.  In fact, she has even managed to rise to the top and has claimed her brother's throne as Top Dog in the pack.  Surprisingly, Lily the Border Collie (who is meaner) and Briar the Livestock Guardian Dog (who is bigger) still bow to Ice's authority.  I find it amusing that the two dogs most concerned with taking control of the pack are Ice and Ranger the Blue Heeler.  Both dogs are gentle spooks, but they have decided that "someone" has to lead the pack so "they" might as well step up and take the helm. Ice is a better candidate than Ranger because he tends to "shoot first, and ask questions later." He means well, but he views everyone as "the bad man" until proven otherwise.  This includes Grandma, Son, and Other Half if he comes through the wrong door.  (Blue Heeler really is nuttier than a fruitcake!)  Kona kept Ranger from making some stupid decisions. Ice doesn't have that kind of control over Ranger. 

So to answer your question, Ice hasn't done anything resembling real police work since she came to live here.  And even though she no longer has a real job here, she will always have a real home here.  She is my black wolf, my Florence Nightingale, my egg bandit . . .   

Egg Mystery

A Sister

Ice and Kona play in the morning dew (Nov 2009)

Kona died of kidney failure eight short months later. I never had a day's regret about bringing Ice into our home. They were littermates, they were best friends.

Many of us will take a moment today to remember where we were on that fateful morning.

I was off-duty.  I had called the office and no one answered the phone.  Since police work is a 24/7 job, I found this disturbing and called the cell phone of a friend who worked dayshift. She told me that everyone was clustered in front of the television sets.  I flipped on my television - and watched the tower fall - and cried.

Then I drove to work.  The air space above the city was clear except for the fighter jets that zoomed above to protect us.  I shall never forget the image of those jets over the skyline.

I got the answer to the "Why me, Lord" question yesterday. Sometimes God puts Little Angels in your path so that you can help them along the journey to where they belong.  I didn't need a kitten, but I never overlook the fact that at a very dark time, God sent me four little blessings that brightened my life.  (read: The Littlest Angel )

Initially I wanted to find this kitten a home, any home, as long as it wasn't with me.  Given a little bit of time to think though, and I remembered what a ray of sunshine a kitten can bring. And I knew someone who needed some sunshine in her life.

My Mom's dog is dying of cancer.  She is young.  Ironically she is The Enforcer's sister. Her cancer popped up shortly after his kidney failure. Every day Mom is faced with the prospect of losing her beloved Penny as she watches the tumor grow. It sucks. I know what she's going through. I faced it each day during Kona's kidney failure. 

But that's where a little ray of sunshine comes in . . .

   It is impossible not to smile when you hear her purr with her little motorboat engine . . and feel her claws kneading bread.

 and smell her butterfly kisses!                    

 Brother is still young and likes to play.

 And now he has a little friend!     

So when your spirits are looking low . . . .

  Never overlook the charm . . . .

 . . . of a Homicidal . . 

Psycho . . .    

. . . Jungle Cat!   

(I think Mom has decided to name her "Blossom.")

We had no sooner finished up our moral dilemma with the homeless dog (see CSI Blog: Moral Dilemmas ) when Other Half's phone rang.  It was Son.  He had stopped at the local Chevron where lo and behold, he was flagged down by this:

  She called out to him, "HEY YOU! You with the thumbs!  I need some HELP DOWN HERE!!!!"

So he scooped her up and called his father. . .  sigh . . .

(Don't get excited. She's not staying. We do not need another cat. We have four barn cats and one old house cat.)

Irrational people can argue that I lost a barn cat this winter, and my house cat is old.  My argument is that three barn cats is enough, and if I lose the house cat, and if I actually "want" a cat in the house, then I can bring one of the barn cats back inside.  (Faith votes for this!) So at 1 AM I was snapping pictures of her cute little self and then I slapped them to the inbox of every Soft Touch I know.

For the time being she's staying in "The Cat Room" which is where the last litter of calico kittens was raised. It currently contains a day bed where Retired Police Dog sleeps. (note all the dog hair) She and House Cat are locked in there with a litter box, some furniture and some toys. House Cat won't hurt her and may actually enjoy the company. I refuse to name her. 

I got up in the middle of the night to check my email.  Dear Friend From England Who Lives In Texas Now (aka: DFFE) sent me a message at 2:42 AM informing me that she does NOT need a kitten, but she congratulates me on my new kitten. (She said, "sorry - that was pure evil but I cannot sleep and it's late.)

I refuse to name this cat!  I refuse to name this cat!  Hey!  Don't you think her markings look like a puzzle?  Maybe I will call her Puzzle until I find her a new home.

Yesterday I bought a little window unit air conditioner for the bedroom.  Naturally it wouldn't fit in the bedroom windows, so we had to install it in the master bathroom.  We cranked the thermostat down low and now the bedroom is quite comfortable.  The bathroom, however, has icicles hanging from the toilet!

Our message for the day is brought to us courtesy of Faith the Barn Cat who wants to be a House Cat again:

"This is what you get for shutting me outside with the fleas . . .  and no air conditioning!" 

 "Can I come back in the house now?"

"I don't take up much room and I promise I'll use the kitty litter box this time!"

Yesterday Tropical Storm Hermine rolled across Texas. We were expecting bands of heavy rains so I did what I could do to clear drainage and prevent my barn from flooding. The rains started on Monday. Tuesday morning more bands were coming in.  Other Half & Cowboy had run to town and I was playing on my computer. BUT . . . I had that puppy unplugged and was using the battery and an air card!   I had no sooner finished what I was doing and shut down my trusty laptop when a bolt of lightning struck.  BAM!!!

Dogs came racing into the kitchen!  "MOM!  Is that normal?"

Not wanting to create titty-baby K9's, I walked around in a sing-song voice and said, "WOW!  Look at THAT!  Ain't it cool?  Holy Toledo!  How cool was that??!!" as I checked the house for damage.  The dogs were not fooled.  Then I smelled the smoke. Electrical wires were burning somewhere.  Holy shit!  (I did not say this in a sing-song voice.)

I immediately phoned Other Half to inform him that the house was just struck by lightning and "something" was burning but I couldn't find it.  I said this as I was hustling all the dogs and the house cat outside.  They were like Elementary students in a fire drill.  "Is this for real?  Is there really a fire? Can I call my parents to come pick me up?"

Other Half happened to be less than 1/4 mile off and as soon as he rolled up he hopped out of the truck (it may have still been rolling) to examine the roof.  No damage.  We did find this:

  A power surge had literally blown a light fixture apart!

 This used to be a light bulb.

The television immediately shut off.  Other Half turned on the breaker and for a moment we saw a green weather man.  Yes, he was green! Then we got this message:

And then the television and satellite receiver expired.

The burning smell soon subsided but as Other Half went around the house testing stuff with his electrical doo-hickey he found a problem in the area where we smelled burning.  Don't ask me to explain it.  I didn't understand.  Something about open ground or some such.  All I saw was a red light on his tester and he yelled "Cut it off!  Cut it off!"

Sooooo . . . since I have worked Electrocution Deaths before, I didn't want Other Half to even bother trying to find the problem. I called an electrician . . .

. . . who came out in the rain, took one look at the socket, and said, "In my business we call this "BOOM!"

He worked for three hours repairing the damage, got the ceiling fan in the living room working again, and then gave us the happy news that our air conditioner was fried. 

"Do what!"

Then I called Allstate while Other Half called an air conditioning repair guy.  Honest air conditioning repair guys are busy.  Cuz they're honest!  Our man won't be able to make it out until next Monday.  Eegaaads! It's summertime in Texas!

We did okay with fans last night, but the weather is still relatively cool from the storms.  When it clears up, things might get ugly hot. We may have to get a little window unit for the bedroom.

Or . . . we may have to move into the "Other House." The Weekend House is his house B.M. (before Me!)  The Weekday House is my house B.H. (before him!) Neither farm is big enough for ALL the livestock so we bounce between them until we both retire and move to Bumfuktexas.

We'll see.  I'm trying to remain positive.  Lightning caused a lot of problems, but it could have been so much worse.  Plus, at least we were home! The house might have caught fire.  My DOGS!!!!!!  I shudder to think. I'm sure that in the long run, we'll see this as a blessing rather than a curse. It might not be fun, but it is an adventure!

To be continued . . .

Last night Other Half and I were enjoying dinner with some friends when I received a text message from my dog.  Yes, from my dog!  Before I go any further, let me remind you that my mother and her dog, Penny, live in a small house in my front pasture.  She raises a little flock of chickens, and from time to time she shares eggs with my dogs. Apparently she also shares her cell phone with my Livestock Guardian Dog:

Title:  grandma says i can have all the eggs i want

dear mum,

today i herd a grate commotion at grandma's and montoya running into the barn. when i got to the fence, the chickens was under the ramp screaming, penny and grandma was headed across the pasture with penny barking and grandma screaming like a wild woman, and pore george was running toward grandmas as fast as her legs would carry her . . . but not as fast as the chicken hawk was closing in on george. well, i let out a huge woof woof (huge is the only kind of woof woof i have) and just as the hawk was about to pick up george, he decided he would rather not have chicken for dinner if he had to face me. he was about 3 feet from poor george when he lifted off and disappeared behind the barn.  grandma says i'm a good chicken dog and i can have ALL THE EGGS I WANT!

call grandma tomorrow and let her know when i can have my eggs

luv

the brier

For more on Briar and George, read: "I will name him George"

Our slice of America is represented each year by the Small Town Parade.  Nothing quite stirs the spirit like a home town celebration.  Other Half grew up here.

 He spent a good deal of time hopping off the wagon to shake hands with folks in the crowd. (He also does this in the grocery store which makes shopping with him difficult . . . I'm just saying . . .)

Since Ona's feet weren't yet "road-worthy" for the parade, Doug & Debbie, of Cornerstone Stables, graciously invited us to climb in their wagon. Debbie also grew up in this little town, so while she and Other Half reminisced about childhood memories and places gone by, Doug and I could only listen to them and smile. 

Parades always involve a great deal of waiting in the staging area. It's a good time to catch up with old friends. . .

  . . . and take pictures of each other!

  After a long wait it was time to roll to the start of the route. 

 Chase & Chazz were our Picture Perfect Percherons for the parade!  

We had a Pug in a sundress riding shotgun . . .      

  . . . a Yorkie in the middle!

                     . . . with Border Collie and Other Half hanging off the back of the wagon!

Let the parade begin!

I love to watch the kids stare in wonder at the horses!

Parades are all about the kids . . .

Little kids . . .

. . . and Big Kids

You just gotta love a parade.  I am so thankful that I live in a small town.  I am so thankful that I live in America.

Our little town had a parade today. This is a rural community, so tractors and horses were a big part of the parade. We had planned to drive our draft pony, Ona, but she'd had ouchy feet in the weeks leading up to the event, so we decided not to push it.  Naturally, shortly after we decided against it, she started galloping in the pasture the following weekend.  (Fat Chick is getting hitched to the cart and starts lessons again TOMORROW!)   

So because we couldn't drive our own horse in the parade, Doug & Debbie of Cornerstone Stables, graciously invited Other Half, Border Collie, and me to climb in their wagon for the party.  We had a blast.  I love a small town parade.  My favorite part is watching the faces of the kids as they stare at the horses. I took loads of photos which I'll share as soon as I get a chance to edit 270 over-exposed pictures! 

But if I had to sum up the parade, and our small town, in just one photograph it would be this one . . .

As I confessed earlier this week in Lazy? , I am a Lazy Person, who is more than willing to train a Border Collie to be my most willing and able servant. This is a great deal of fun for both me and Border Collie.  Since she recently got a bit overexuberant and pulled one of the gates off its hinges (while she was repeatedly slamming it shut during a photoshoot to demonstrate what a wonderful help a dog is to Lazy People!), I decided to indulge Other Half in his desire to finally have a dog who would "Get him a beer!"

Lily loves training of any sort.  She trains me as much as I train her. It's really more of a jam session than a dog training session, as anything with Lily always involves the free exchange of ideas on both sides.  So last night at 1 AM, we demonstrated to Other Half our progress in the "Get me a beer" trick. (then I told him that we broke the gate!)  "WHAT?!!!"

This past week we have been learning the skill of opening the refrigerator,  (very easy) and a separate skill of picking up a cold drink in a coozie (very hard).  This is what happens when you give a cold Dr Pepper to a 1 1/2 year old Border Collie:

 Since this didn't happen until she had retrieved it several times, it was "well shaken."  Thus, we had Dr Pepper spewing all over a $700 Lazy Boy and a confused but delighted Border Collie.

I decided to table this part of the trick until we'd purchased a sturdier coozie.

BUT . . . there was still another step we could work on - Reach in the refrigerator and grab a desired object!

For this task I employed the skills of Lily's best friend, Chuck!    (Chuck lays around and smiles.)

 (Please do not tell my mother that I'm keeping a slobbery dog toy in my refrigerator.  Yes, this is only one of the many reasons why we rarely entertain in our home.)

So last night while Other Half took pictures for you, Lily and I demonstrated her progress:

"Lily, open the fridge, and get Chuck!"

  "Hello Lily!"

  Mission Accomplished!

Because Lily is a Border Collie with OCD, this trick can be done at least 50 times in a row, or until she rips the refrigerator door off the hinges, whichever comes first.

  "I didn't do this!"

 "Seriously. Ona did it. Yeah. Ona did it when she was scratchin' her big butt. Look! There are even blond tail hairs stuck in the wood. Look!"

 "Are you lookin'?"

"Ruffy, you have blond tail hairs too . . . "

 "Somebuddy call my lawyer!!! I want DNA testin' done! I want my lawyer!"

 The Work Dog

The After-Work Dog    

After his shift Other Half likes to stop and pick up a bacon sandwich for breakfast.  The cook at the gas station always packs that sandwich tight with bacon.  Since we have eight (8!!!) dogs, Other Half cannot share his bacon sandwich with all eight of them.  Soooooo . . .  there is only one chosen Bacon Hound.

Bloodhound is old, and blind, and stinky, and her tumors have tumors, but her Super Sniffer still works great!  And it never fails to rouse her from a deep sleep each morning when it detects the odor of bacon wafting through the house.

 "Do I smell bacon?"

 "Why yes!  Yes!  I do smell bacon!  Bacon, please!!!"

 "Is there more bacon?"

   "Yes!  Yes, there is!  More bacon, please!"

(Note the gawdawful talons that she calls toenails. Those suckers need to be trimmed.  That'll be a trip to Disney World for everyone . . .)

 "No more bacon?  What else you got up there?"

  "That'll do."

 Yes, Bloodhound is old, blind, stinky, and on her last leg, but she definitely knows how to work it to her advantage.

My Mom used to tell me "Give the hardest job to the laziest person, and he'll find the easiest way to do it!"

That . . . is the God's Honest Truth!  I am lazy. That's why I like smart dogs.  I'm a lazy dog trainer. Instead of pouring time into training dogs that I have to beg for attention, I prefer dogs that Live To Learn. The down side to this is that high-drive dogs are hard to live with if they don't have jobs.  The upside is that you are only limited by your own imagination.  Since I am a lazy person, and Border Collie is a high-drive dog, I can sit around and ruminate on ways that she can make my life easier. 

For instance, when I let the sheep out or put them in, it's so nice to have someone close the gate behind them.  (I'd prefer that Someone not be me.) This job actually began last winter when a certain lazy person (Me!) didn't want to slop through the mud to close the gate and decided that it was much easier to send a loyal servant (Border Collie!) through the mud to close the gate.

  Sheep file through gate.

 (This is a muddy mess in winter.)

 "Lily, would you get the gate?"

 Border Collie salutes and races off.

 If a Lazy Person has a rope tied to the gate . . .  and a magnet on the pole, said Lazy Person does not have to walk through the mud to close the gate.

 If they have a willing farm hand . . .

 . . . who enjoys closing the gate!

Disclaimer: this is a great way to reduce work for the Lazy Person, BUT . . . if you are doing a quick photo shot to demonstrate how a dog closing a gate can reduce your work, and IF that dog really gets into slamming the gate over and over and over, you MIGHT just pull the gate off the hinges and actually make more work for your Other Half . . . (I'm just saying . . .)

Sidenote: It helps sooth things over if the same dog is learning how to open the refrigerator and get your Other Half a beer.  She has the refrigerator opening down pat, now we just have to put a can in a coozie and teach her to retrieve that can, then close the door to the fridge.  It's coming along nicely and Other Half is happy with her progress.   (Good thing, cuz I haven't told him about that gate yet.)

I'm genuinely perplexed.  I have these signs posted by my driveway:

Our yard is gated.  This one is on the driveway gate.

There is another fence around the house. This one is on the gate by the house.

This one is on the gate leading into the barn.

ALL of these signs can be seen from the driveway. So upon your initial approach into the yard, there should be NO doubt that we have dogs in this yard. And just in case you are a little slow . . . .

Other Half's patrol truck is parked not 6 feet from the main gate!  And guess what it reads!

Now I tell you all this not to scare you away from visiting us.  (Please do! After you help me fix fences, we can kick back and have a tall glass of sweet tea!)  Nay, I tell you this because of the unbelievable incident that happened this morning!

The dogs and I were in the barn.  Five (5!) dogs were with me.  Other Half was asleep in the bedroom with 2 dogs and current police dog was in her outside kennel run that is behind the bedroom.  Border Collie had just turned the sheep out and closed the gate when I heard the unmistakable sound of a human whistling for a dog.  "Huh???"

Surely I didn't hear what I just heard.  I listened.  Yep, there it was again.  Someone was calling my dogs.  Uh oh.  Then I heard it. The chain to the main gate was being opened.  Holy shit!  (Yes!  I said it out loud!)  Sure enough, there was a meter reader walking past three signs and a K9 police truck to read a meter that they ALWAYS read with binoculars.  (They began this after my pet goose, Bling, flew over the main gate and attacked a Meter Reader.)

Armed with a small stick that had a tennis ball on the end, he was walking through the main gate. What was he thinking???  Signs don't apply to our intrepid young meter reader. . .  I'm sure he's good with dogs. . . He probably has dogs of his own. . . Dogs like him . . . He feels he has a right to be on my property.  The sign on his truck makes it official. And the list goes on. 

Guess what!

  This dog doesn't read.

Don't show him your credentials. He doesn't care.  He will come. He will come fast . . . and he will bring 4 to 6 of his best friends.

What really bothers me is that despite ALL those signs, someone would still walk onto my property, and this poor dog (and probably the others) could get in trouble for DOING THEIR JOB!

Now I understand that this may not be intimidating to people:

But come ON, People!  THIS SHOULD!

So I saved him before the dogs ate him. Then I thanked God that I was home when he tried this stunt.

This shook me.  I haven't told Other Half yet. (He is still sleeping.) All I can do is post signs and say a little prayer that God will protect them and the fools that walk through those signs.

Dear Lord,

please protect my dogs, kind and gentle creatures that are only doing their jobs, from the arrogance and ignorance around them.

Every morning Border Collie starts the day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I don't. I often suffer from LCL in the early morning (low caffeine level).  Because of this syndrome Border Collie must work extra hard to get me to rise with the sun and begin her day.  To accomplish this, she leaps on the bed and stuffs a dirty sock in my hand, or drags it repeatedly across my face.  Last night while I was cruising the internet I find another Border Collie who has a much better idea of how to wake her mommy up in the morning.  Perhaps my Border Collie needs to watch THIS video:      Breakfast In Bed

  "Com'on Mom! We're burnin' daylight!"

In the evening the sheep & goats are penned up near the barn. Their "Bodyguard" is on-duty all night long.  In the morning they are released out to the pasture with the horses and their Bodyguard is off-duty until the sun goes down and once again, we begin the cycle of the "Zombie Wars."

  "Good Morning Briar!"

Briar gives me a debriefing of the night before, providing detailed descriptions of each coyote, bobcat, raccoon, skunk, oppossum, and zombie that she has sent packing overnight.

 Ahh yes . . . dawn is here. The zombies have gone back to wherever zombies go when the sun comes up.

 The sheep & goats file out.  I count them.  Briar counts them.  We compare numbers.  She is almost off-duty. Everyone is happy.  Everyone except . . .

. . .  BarnCat!

 BarnCat is not happy to see Briar.  See that look of joy on her face?

 Briar, however, is delighted to see BarnCat!

 "Run, Cat! Run!"

 "Run Cat! Run so I can squish you!"

 BarnCat is soooo not amused. 

 This was not how she wanted to start her day.  But she finally sees an opening.  Briar zigs when she should have zagged. 

And . . . .

                                       They're off!

  Scattering sheep!

Briar is delighted!  BarnCat is pissed. (Pissed off Puss!)

BarnCat finally scoots up a tree.  From there she runs on top of the barn to groom herself and remove the dog spit while Briar hustles to the gate to commune with her doggy friends and enjoy a morning swim in the pond.  Nope, being off-duty doesn't suck!

Here in Texas we have a joke about students from Texas A&M University. They are nicknamed "Aggies."

The joke goes like this: "How do you drive an Aggie crazy?"

Answer:  "Put him in a round room and tell him to pee in the corner."

Aggies analyze the world quite closely. In this way, they are much like Border Collies.

Case in point:  "How do you drive a Border Collie crazy?"

Answer:  "Put her in a pond and tell her to bring you the goldfish."

  The Aggie salutes and begins her search!

  This is serious business!

 Ah ha!  Spotted one!

 Target acquired!

 "FIRE!"

 "Wait!  You were just kidding, right?"

Hats off to Aggies and Border Collies everywhere!!!

It's hot.  It's really, really, REALLY hot!  If you're gonna stay outside, you've gotta find a way to stay cool.  Briar has that covered. When the temperatures soar, she slips into her "Super Suit" and transmongerates into "SPLASH the Streak!"

She stands at the edge of the pond, contemplating her transfiguration.

 She slips into the Magic Depths . . .

And transmogrifies into . . .

 SPLASH the STREAK!!!!

(Cue Ray Stevens' "The Streak" soundtrack.) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XtzoUu7w-YM

 "Oh yes they call her The Streak!"     (Boogity Boogity!)

 "Fastest thing on four feet!"

                                                                        (Boogity Boogity!)

 "What?!!  Is that you, Ethel?"

"GIT YER CLOTHES ON!!!"

(For those of you too young to know who Ray Stevens is, I strongly urge you to google him and listen to his music. Your life will never be the same. Parents with young children or bored teenagers:  this will keep them entertained for weeks.)

Exactly one hour before I was supposed to leave the office last night . . . the phone rang.  It was a murder, a complicated, tear-jerker, stay-out-all-night-long murder.  I called Other Half and informed him. He was supposed to get off early so I was satisfied that even though I'd be out all night, the dogs would be fed soon. He called me back a few minutes later to inform me that he and Oli just got a call.  They were gonna be out all night too.  In fact, we ended up meeting on the highway at the end of the night.  It was almost sunrise when I finished chores and staggered in. 

All I wanted was a bath and a bed.  Unfortunately other members of the family had slept all day, and all night. I tossed breakfast at them, promised them some attention later, and crawled to under the covers. Bless her heart, Border Colle gave a heavy sigh, laid her head on my hip, and settled down, where she stayed until I dragged myself out this morning.

I woke up mid-morning and tripped my way to some caffeine. The dogs had emptied their toy box but they had let me sleep.  Frankly, I don't think Border Collie ever got off the bed. Now she was ready to play and all I wanted to do was check the sheep, eat a bowl of cereal, and go back to bed.  (a real Border Collie downer!)

The rest of the pack was disappointed too, but I have a perfect Puppy Pacifier for just this situation.  So I reached in the cabinet and grabbed the bag.

  "Ooohhhhhh YEEEAAAHHHHHH!"

Everyone filed up for their pig ear.  Everyone except Bloodhound - she was sleeping.  (Bloodhound is a bit senile and so we let her do her own thing.)  Everyone settled down to chew their Puppy Pacifiers.  Everyone . . .  except Border Collie.

   "Can we do something FUN now??!!"

Poor Border Collie!  She wants to play.  She wants to work.  She wants to take a walk.  She wants to do ANYTHING but hang out and chew a stupid pig ear!

The sounds of crunching pig ears finally woke Someone up.

Or maybe it wasn't the sound that woke her up.  She does possess a Super-Sniffer!

So Bloodhound shuffled up for her pig ear too.  Then everyone was happy . . . except Border Collie. She waited. And she waited.  And finally she settled down under the kitchen table with a heavy sigh while I ate a bowl of cereal.  I have promised her that as soon as I wake up properly, we would play fetch. 

In the mean time, she should watch this video and get some ideas of ways to entertain herself . . .

Amazing Dog Tricks by Paige the Border Collie!

Okay Class!  Get Ready! Pony Pilates!

And Back UP!!! And Shake!                                                                      

Exercise session for the day brought to you by Ruffy.

Downward Facing Pony

(Our morning yoga class brought to you courtesy of Napolean.)

I am a firm believer that everything happens for a reason.  I go through life with complete confidence that no matter what happens, I can rest in the knowledge that it's "meant to be."

Get to the point!  I'm getting there!

Okay, when we first started looking for a cowbred Border Collie, I told the breeder that I wanted a black and white male.  He sent me pictures of the two males.

  a red & white

and a black & white   

I LOVE a split face, so I fell in love with the red & white.  I told the breeder I wanted that one. He agreed, and a day later sent me another picture of the puppy.  But  . . . it wasn't the same puppy!  No split face!  So I questioned it and he apologized and explained that he accidentally had sent a picture of a female that he planned to keep.  I assumed that he meant the most recent photo was a female. A day later he sent me more puppy pictures. Uh oh!  I was wrong!

It turned out that the split face puppy was a girl! 

The red & white male is actually this puppy:  

No cute little split face????  Awwww . . .

At first I sent a note to the breeder and said that because of the misunderstanding, we'd take the black & white pup instead.  But something just didn't feel right about it.  I talked with Other Half. He was okay with either pup.  So I sent the breeder back another note (I'm sure he's convinced I'm a total airhead now!) that I'd be happy to take the little red male instead of the black & white. 

Ironically, it turned out that the black & white male sold on Sunday.  When I read that, I was realized that this little red guy was meant to come to us.  I wouldn't have considered a red if not for the split-face that I fell in love with. Now, the more I look at the reds, the more I like them. So through a series of divine misunderstandings I ended up with a completely different puppy.  And I am certain that he will be the perfect puppy for our farm.

After going through all the wonderful suggestions for names of this little guy, I have finally decided on a name.  I am a crime scene investigator. I work with trace evidence.

So Ladies & Gentlemen,

meet TRACE!!!

I ate one of my lambs this week.

Other Half refuses to eat the lambs or the goats.

While I see them like this:

and this:

He sees them like this:

and this:

This is an ongoing argument.  I want to know where my food comes from. He counters that he does know where his food comes from.  It comes from Kroger's!

I argue about the humane treatment of animals.  He counters with this comeback which never fails to end the discussion, no matter how accurate my arguments . . .

"I don't want to KNOW my food!"

Despite their appearance, these are not guinea pigs.  They are baby Border Collies. By mid-October, one of them will probably be my baby Border Collie.

After the loss of Kona there was a large gaping hole in my heart.  Actually, it was more like a canyon. I began to talk about getting another dog.  I began to talk about getting another Belgian.  Other Half begged me to get a Border Collie instead.  Although the Belgians are wonderful dogs, we aren't doing search & rescue work any more and I'm not doing cadaver work anymore.  They are great farm dogs, but what we really need is a bold, reliable cow dog.

Cowboy is fine on calves, but lacks the boldness for the nasty momma cows.  He is also dealing with the back problem resulting from the donkey attack before we got him. I doubt his working career will be long. Lily is bred to work cows, LOVES to work cows, and is pretty darned good at working cows, but she is young, and she is little, and she is my best friend. Don't want a cow kicking her tiny hiney in the head. Then I'd lose my best goat dog, my best sheepdog, and my best friend. So as you can imagine, Other Half was all over the idea of getting a cowbred Border Collie.

So I have been researching . . . and guess what I found?  Nice working lines.  (Internet video is wonderful!) 

I found this breeder in Oklahoma.  They just happened to have a litter on the ground.  Born August 11.

There are two males available . . .

                                                 a red & white  . . .

                    and a black & white . . .                  

(I'm leaning toward the red & white.)

Lily has already given me a list of things she refuses to share with her baby brother:

1) Front seat of Monster Truck

2) The Crevice (area between Mom & Dad in the bed)

Everything else is optional, but she reserves the right at any time to add things to her list.

So now, it is your job to help me come up with puppy names!

Rules:

* cannot sound like herding commands (come-bye, away, lie-down)

* short - one or two syllable

* cannot sound like:  Lily, Briar, Ranger, Ali, or Ice  (Zena doesn't care and is highly unlikely to respond anyway.)

Today's adventure is brought to you courtesy of a old "Belgian" friend of mine, Libbye Miller, who raises sheep in Kentucky. When she sent this to me I laughed so hard I almost peed in my pants.  So I begged her to let me share it with you! She graciously obliged!

It's probably somewhat telling that for me, the Farm Fresh Blog reads like an episode of "This is Your Life". Because around here things like this happen...

I went down to the barn to feed much later than usual because shockingly, DearHubby and I had actually left the farm together for dinner. There was a lot of milling around and complaining from the flock as I filled the lambs' creep feeder. Toffee, who was particularly incensed about the lateness of service, managed to cram her head through the creep feeder bars and hoover up a bunch of pellets. Soon I heard that peculiar gagging/coughing sound that suggests someone is choking. I looked around and there's Toffee, staggering, foaming at the mouth and looking "not too shiny" (as we say in the south when someone doesn't look well).

Usually they get things unblocked on their own but Toffee was getting increasingly distressed so I grabbed the foal tube (a 7 foot long tube made for passing through the nose and into the stomach of horses) that hangs on the barn for just these occasions and went to work. Did I mention it was nearly dark? And the heat index was 110? And this greedy little pig of a ewe is one of Dear Hubby's favorites?

Toffee gagged and stagged around while I tried to hang onto to the incoherent, foamy slobbery slippery, 150 lb sheep and pass the tube. Sometime during the ensuing melee, she managed to suck the offending wad of pellets deep into her trachea at which time she proceeded to die. Like flat on her side, non responsive fully dilated pupils dead.
I tried various methods of Heimliching her, up to and including jumping on her chest yelling "YOU ARE DADDY'S FAVORITE, NO DYING" to no avail. Well CRAP.

If I mention that I'm a vet will it make you feel any better about this next part? Let's hope so. As a totally last resort I ran in the barn and grabbed the scissors I use to cut hay strings. Available at your nearest "Anything for a Buck" store for ...$1. Then, in the dark, sitting in a patch of spiny pigweed in my shorts, I did an emergency tracheotomy.  Lo and behold she sucked an explosive gasp of air and started coming around a little. So I'm sitting there with a large  semiconscious sheep in my  blood, sweat, and sheep spit covered lap. Oh, and I'm holding the hole in her trachea open with my finger and can't let go. Time passes. I sweat profusely  and wonder why DearHubby hasn't noticed I haven't shown back up at house. There is cursing. Toffee remains semi-conscious. Finally I decide that she's brain dead from heat stroke and lack of oxygen and I'm just going to have to put her to sleep. Well CRAP.

On the way to the house for some drugs, I meet DearHubby coming to the rescue finally and blubber that I've killed his favorite sheep and he has to help me pick her up so I can take her to the back of the property to the "final resting place for sheep". In this weather, you uhmm, don't want to put this task off.  I collect drugs and tell him to wait in front of the barn while I administer the coup de grace. Did I mention that DearHubby is not of the veterinary persuasion? I try to spare him the really gory stuff.

So I walk out to where I left what I assume to be the dead/near dead Toffee.......and she's gone. There's blood and tube and scissors but no sheep. How very odd. I finally spot her out  GRAZING WITH THE OTHER SHEEP.This gives new meaning to "Rise and Walk".  I figured I should give her some antibiotics and put some fly spy on her neck wound but she's RUNNING AWAY from me. Not that I blame her. I decided we've both had enough stress for one day and leave her to her EATING.

I did catch her up the next morning and treat her wounds. She was just mad that I'd interrupted her grazing.  I'm happy to report that's she's made a full recovery.  Other than her baa sounds a little raspy.

     I put Libbye on the spot and asked her to write a short bio for you! 

I married DearHubby in 1979, graduated from vet school in 1982, moved to the farm in Kentucky in 1985 and spent the intervening years getting horses, getting out of horses, and somehow accumulating a flock of around 70 Kathadin/Dorper/What'sMyMoodThisYear sheep. The flock is been ably attended by my beloved Belgian Tervuren Quazar (retired) and his grandson Buzz (current manager of all things ovine). DearHubby's sheltie Eli frequently adds his two cents because that's what shelties do.

In my spare time, I dabble in showing dogs, herding trials, running doggy email lists, and generally making a nuisance of myself around the internet.

Oh dear!  The heavy rains this year brought heavy grass. In less than a month, Ona has gained back most of the weight she had lost since I brought her here in May.  She and her little fat buddy, Ruffy, have fattened up dangerously on the bounty of pasture. I fear it is time for drastic measures. They have both been taken out of the pasture and placed in a paddock beside the house. Their paddock contains two pecan trees and very little grass.  Together with two goats, they share one pat of hay each morning.  That's it.  They think they're dying.

Other Half calls them "Fat Arses."  I prefer to think of them as having been "blessed with more than enough."   But before they eat themselves to death, something has to be done. So until we see some changes in girth size, that paddock will contain: two goats, two pecan trees, and two little fat horses.

Postscript:  Between the rains, the heat, the mosquitoes, and now her everwidening girth, Ona hasn't even had a chance to pull her new cart!  Other Half measured the cart today and Ona's butt is almost bigger than the distance between the shafts!  EEGaadds!

Poor Briar! 

Yesterday was a bad day.  She no sooner got home from the vet's and settled in the house than she was viciously attacked by the bathroom cabinet door. 

  "When can I go back outside again?"

YES! I heard all manner of commotion coming from the bathroom.  I scurried over there to find poor Baby Briar had got her collar caught on the cabinet door.  Naturally she put it in reverse and then she was solidly stuck.  (I would have taken pictures but even I am not that cruel. (and I didn't want her jerking my cabinet door off!)

Fortunately the story had a happy ending.  BUT . . . had I not been home (I would have lost a cabinet door) or if she had been in a choke chain, or a collar that twists, Briar would have strangled herself.  (shudder)

And THAT is why I spend a little more money and buy sturdy leather collars.

A freshly bathed, freshly fluffed Briar slept in the house last night. Early this morning I roused Other Half out of bed so we could load her up in my old Toyota 4Runner for her trip to the vet. It took two of us - and Lily.  The air conditioner was already running, so once inside she looked to Border Collie as an example and consequently, settled right down. She rode like she'd been doing it all her life.

To get to the clinic, we must pass through YuppyLand. Briar saw things she'd never seen before - joggers, bicyclists, traffic, convenience stores!  It was a whole new world and she gazed upon it with calm interest.  Lily slept. She's been there, done that, didn't want the t-shirt.

Once at the vet's clinic, Lily escorted Briar inside.

"Who do we have today?" the receptionist asked.

"Briar, and Briar's Courage," I told her as Lily pranced her tiny hiney into the clinic beside her slinking, hulking companion.

The vet came out to welcome Briar to the clinic.  Since she knows him as Uncle Steven, who comes to babysit her, doctor sheep, and milk goats, she wasn't afraid.  She went into the kennel and settled down to observe this new world of stainless steel and disinfectant. As soon as the door was closed, her tiny companion forgot about her. We were at the VET'S!  The Land Of Cookies & Cream Cheese! Forget Briar!  She was on her own!

I signed the form and Lily and I headed home. Several hours later, Briar was ready. Getting her back into the car was another two-person adventure, but once inside, she settled down nicely and watched the world with a placid look on her face.  She's really a pretty calm dog. (but then again, maybe that was the drugs!)  My only experience with surgery showed me that the effects of anethesia could be worse than the surgery itself.  I threw up my toenails.  Mindful that Briar may be feeling the same way, I drove like a little old lady on my way back through YuppyLand. This proved a bit much for drivers used to the hustle and bustle of Life in the Fast Lane. YuppyLand is a world of jack rabbit starts where you zoom as fast as you can to reach the next red light. Turns are to be made sharply and a high speeds so as not to break the flow of traffic.  Briar and I simply don't fit in. Briar threw up. I drove even more slowly. The trip home was an adventure.

Let me first explain that no one died. I am a cop in the 4th largest city in the country. I straddle dead men for a living. I carry a Smith & Wesson. I am NOT likely to be intimidated by a Little League Dad in a Lincoln Navigator. 

Sooooo . . . Forget about the dog. Beware of the owner!

But I will leave you with this thought - before you get in such a hurry that you attempt to bully another driver on the road, be aware that the driver may be carrying a nauseous dog who just had surgery . . . and they may be armed . . .  and they may not be scared of you.

Briar came home . . .

         . . .  and threw up in the den.

(I make no apologies for "Driving Miss Daisy.")

Tomorrow we have an appointment to get Briar spayed. I dread it. Perhaps that is why I've put it off for so long, thus allowing her to grow to the size of a St. Bernard before her first trip to the vet. YES!  I said it!  Her FIRST trip to the vet!  Now before you string me up for being a bad Doggy Mommy, let me point out that our vet lives less than 500 yards from my front gate. He is married to one of my dearest friends. In short, Doc does house calls.  He has seen Baby Briar since she was still wild enough that she had to be "captured" in the sheep stall. Now she is large enough to put muddy pawprints on his shoulders.

And it's time to get her spayed.  In fact, it's well past time to get her spayed.  They charge by the SIZE of the dog, ya know!  You would think that I'd have spayed her when she was the size of a small brick shithouse, but no!  I had to wait until she was the size of a Volkswagon bus. Also keep in mind, that unlike all the other dogs around here, except for the ride over here, Briar has NEVER been on a car ride!  AND . . .  to further complicate things, except for when she was small enough to manhandle onto the kitchen counter and put in the kitchen sinks (yes, it took two sinks to fit her!) she has never had a bath.

Again, before you lynch me, let me hasten to point out that Briar is a Livestock Guardian Dog.  She is supposed to be with the sheep 24/7 with little or no contact with humans.  Her parents were fed from a self-feeder. As a puppy, she had to be "kidnapped" and captured with leather gloves.  Apparently many livestock guardian dogs work out quite well with this method. As we have already established however, "I" am a softie.  I like to play with her.  Plus, I need a dog that is a bit safer than a large, white, unsocialized mountain with teeth. My sheep are handled daily and other people are often over here.  I cannot have Briar eating my mother, my friends, or my Border Collie. So Briar is fairly well-socialized as far as Livestock Guardian Dogs go.

As far as the average ranch dog goes, Briar is wilder than a March hare.  All my dogs are obedience trained and happily fight to ride in the truck.  Even Blue Heeler, who is crazier than a Mad Hatter, has logged many miles riding across Texas. A leash is their ticket to adventure. Unfortunately, because of my laziness, Briar doesn't know what a leash is.  (I know!  I'm a bad Doggy Mommy!)

The reason I kept putting off getting Briar spayed was because I really wanted to get Briar used to car rides and leashes BEFORE she went to the vet. But alas, that hasn't happened. And because she spends so much time in the nasty pond, she needed a bath.

 I embarked on that little adventure this afternoon and dearly fear that our experience with the bath is setting the stage for my whole tomorrow . . .

Collect shampoo, leash and water hose.  (Note Bloodhound observes this collection and run to the barn.  The last I saw of her was floppy ears and skin waving goodbye.)

Blue Heeler and Border Collie see waterhose and begin to dance and scream for the much-loved Hose Battle.

Slip lead around Briar's neck.  She is unconcerned. (Perhaps Momma wants to brush her and check for ticks. She LOVES to be checked for ticks!)

Lead White Mountain to water hose. The dust has barely settled from Bloodhound's blazing trip to the barn. Briar is still unconcerned.

Pick up hose.  Briar is unconcerned.  Border Collie and Blue Heeler are poised with anticipation. (I should have sold tickets.) Turn on water. For a moment, nothing happens.  I actually allow myself to undulge in the pleasant surprise, but this little slice of nirvana is jerked away as I suddenly find myself propelled across the porch like a kite on a string. Briar is not quite as fast to process things as Border Collie and thus it took a moment for the experience to sink in.

Decide that perhaps flip-flops were not the best choice in footwear. Drop water hose. Border Collie and Blue Heeler are delighted.  This has exceeded their expectations. They happily chase the water spray across the porch as I struggle to reel in Briar like a marlin on a line. Suddenly Briar drops like a sullen cow. ("Just kill me and get it over with!")

Since this New Briar is much easier to deal with than Marlin Briar, I hurry to grab water hose and start again. She is now completely passive - a giant beached Beluga whale. I soap her up and do the rub-a-dub-dub thing.  She is unimpressed with my singing voice and is waiting to die. Border Collie and Blue Heeler wait patiently.  They are certain that the rodeo will begin again and soon the water hose will be free for another battle. As Briar waits to die, I rinse her.

When I am satisfied that all the soap is out, I stretch my back and drop the leash. She takes the opportunity to dart through doggy door and into house. I follow the unique trail of wet pawprints and the wet leash she is still dragging. Thank God for tile flooring. Trail leads through kitchen into den into bedroom, through bathroom loop and back into den again.  I follow this wet trail for a minute but am completely perplexed. No Briar? Where is Briar?

Follow trail through house again. No Briar? How does something the size of a Greyhound Bus hide in a 3 bedroom house?

Follow trail again. No Briar! German Shepherd is sprawled across my bed though.  (make mental note to move the ottoman so Hairy Old Dog cannot climb onto clean bed.) Check house again.  Still no Briar.  Call her.  (Duh!  In what dream world was THAT gonna happen?) Check under bed. Nope.

Decide to use Crime Scene Investigator Skills and follow water trail through house AGAIN! This time note that on one pass through the den, tracks led into front foyer WHERE THERE IS ANOTHER DOGGY DOOR!  This leads to front yard. Open front door.

Find Briar wallowing in the sand.  Like Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby, she stands up. Sand and shavings are now stuck to her coat. Pick up wet, yucky leash that is now coated in dirt. Pull Straining Heifer back through front door. Briar sees Back Door Doggy Door and lunges for the light.  I drop leash before I am dragged through doggy door with her.  Border Collie and Blue Heeler are delighted with this afternoon matinee showing of "When Good Dogs Go Bad.")

Meet Briar on back porch and drag her to hose again. Wonder how to explain back injury at the office. (No really, I was dragged through a doggy door.") Dog decides to become Sullen Cow again but sand is so thick in her coat that I make decision to let it dry and brush it out. Turn off hose. Sullen Cow perks up.  Border Collie and Blue Heeler are disappointed that show is over.

But I am reminded that this is not the show, this is just the preview.  The show is tomorrow when I try to stuff her into a car.  Why, oh why, did I not spay this dog when she was big enough to fit in two kitchen sinks?

   "I hate Border Collies!"

 "They are mean to cows."

 "Border Collies suck!"

But today . . .  I got revenge on the Border Collies!

 "Look at this damn Border Collie! Hiding from cows like a snake in tha water."

 "See tha innocent cow comin'."

 "tha Border Collie, he jump outta da water!"

 "freakin' Border Collie!  I hate 'em!"

 "I jus' snapped!"

 "U gonna DIE Border COLLIE! You cain't git outta this pasture!"

 "Run DOG! RUN!"

 "If I ketch you, you stoopid DOG . . ."

 "You better GIT back on dat damned 4-Wheeler!"

(This broadcast and the substandard photographs brought to you by the Chick-fil-A Cows, coming out in support of abused cattle in ranches everywhere.)

We weaned goats this week.  Briar has been #1 Goat Babysitter. This morning Border Collie (and a bucket of grain) loaded them into the trailer for their journey to the sale barn.  Even though I know they are raised for food, I still hate that part of raising goats. 

 Briar does too.

Border Collie doesn't care.

She is only concerned about getting the goats loaded and unloaded.

Life is much simpler for Border Collie than it is for Briar and me.

Despite the fact that Other Half accuses me of turning every animal on the farm into a pet, there is someone who is a softer touch than me.  (I KNOW!  Can you even believe it?!!)

That someone regularly comes over to bring farm fresh eggs to the dogs . . .

 "Helloooooo, Grandma!!!!"

 Grandma!!!

My mother lives in a small house in my front pasture. There she raises a few chickens and keeps a watch on the farm while I'm at work.  And from there . . . she spoils my critters even worse than I do. (The dogs already expect an egg EVERY day! But hey!  With all those dogs around, she is the safest Grandma in the County!) Today it came to my attention that Ancient Arabian Stallion has the perfect gig worked out.  He goes to the handicapped ramp of her back deck and paws the boards.  She comes out and feeds him an apple.  What a little beast!

Today I witnessed this exchange from my side of the fence.  Stallion came to her back gate and announced that he wished to be allowed access to her back yard. And this is what I saw . . .

  Now I ask you, "Who spoils the farm animals around here?"

"Don't forget ME, Grandma!  Don't forget ME!!!"

(P.S. My mother will never forgive me for posting pictures of her in a nightgown on the internet!)

Kona's death and the subsequent packing away of his things (more tears . . .) had me exploring both his training log and the that of Bloodhound, who is also in poor health.  Alice the Bloodhound has taught me humility.  Before I got Alice I had trained all manner of working dogs, but I had never trained a Hound.  My rationale was "I've trained dogs all my adult life, how hard can it be to train a Bloodhound?"

Oh dear . . . Pride goeth before the fall.

Alice's sole job in life was to be a mantrailing Bloodhound - she hunted people.  She was bred to do that and it came as easy to her as waking up in the morning. But try to train her to do ANYTHING ELSE but mantrailing and you were setting yourself up for a humbling experience.  She is HIGLY INTELLIGENT, but trainablility is another issue entirely.  Simple obedience tasks were beyond her.  I just "thought" I was a dog trainer until I met Alice.  She humbled me, and she has taught me how to train the dogs that aren't "hardwired to please."  So for two years I worked with her. She taught me to trail and I tried to teach her obedience and simple agility skills.  I was astonished with how easily this puppy ran tracks.  At 14 weeks old she was running 24 hour old 1/4 mile trails with crosstracks, but two years later she still had no reliable obedience skills.  Then my Great Dog died. Navarre, The Great One, passed away and I was left to start over again with a new cadaver dog puppy.  And THAT led me to my greatest breakthrough!

Teaching the Fetch

How To Teach a Belgian To Fetch:

1) Throw the ball
2) That's it.  That's all you do.

How to Teach a Bloodhound To Fetch:

1) Throw the ball for 2 years and watch her look at it with no interest whatsoever.
2) Get a Belgian Tervuren puppy. 
3) Hug the Terv when he brings back the ball.  Tell him how clever he is when he brings back the ball.  Every time the Terv has the ball in his mouth, point out to everyone how clever he is.
4) Note Bloodhound begin to get jealous of Terv and ball.  Watch as Giant Bloodhound steals ball from Toddler Terv.
5) Protect Unwise Bloodhound from Very Angry Toddler Terv as he steals ball back from Bloodhound.
6) Note that ball is now VERY important to both Terv AND Bloodhound.  Note that Bloodhound retrieves VERY well.  (huh!  Whodathunkit?) Also Note Very Angry Toddler Terv when Bloodhound beats him to ball.  Protect soft Bloodhound ears from Angry Toddler Terv when Bloodhound beats him to ball.
7) Put all tennis balls away to preserve harmony in the home.

There is a reason why Kona's nicknames were "Attila The Hun" and "The Enforcer."  He was a ruthless little beast, even as a puppy. This same bold desire to get ahead in life is probably what kept him alive four months after the vet found he was in renal failure and only gave him a month to live.

Since Kona passed away at the end of June, I've dreaded changing the website photo section to remove Kona's pictures from "The Swampwolves."  I finally did it today. Then I cried all afternoon.  I consoled myself by adding a new "Never Forgotten" section which highlights Kona and his predecessor, "The Great Navarre." (read that with trumpets blaring please)

Navarre passed away two weeks before Baby Kona stepped off the airplane.  I had hoped that Navarre could help me train Kona, but alas, twas not to be . . .

When Baby Kona arrived, he had a very big Search & Rescue vest to fill, since he inherited Navarre's vest, and with it, the King's Crown.

And even though I horribly missed Navarre, Kona proved to be a delightfully charming and clever pup. Sometimes that's the only thing that kept me from killing him . . .

Come home from work after midnight in cold rain.

Note that Faithful Pup is at the back gate to greet you.  Bend over wooden gate and allow Faithful Pup to give "puppy kisses." Kiss puppy back.  Ruminate on how much you love puppy.

Note with pride that Clever Pup is learning to bring his toys as "presents" to welcome you home. Run through mental rolodex in head and try to classify the toy he is currently bringing you.  Recoil in horror as toy turns out to be a very plump, very dead, rat.

Curse cat for leaving rat where Clever And Faithful Pup could get it.  Realize that Hunting cat has been shut in spare bedroom and probably did not kill this rat.  Note that there is the slight possibility that Clever And Faithful Pup killed Slow-Witted Fat Rat.

See how proud puppy is as he chomps rat with delight and prances around to show you his rat.  Mentally race through options of how to remove rat from puppy's mouth.  Quickly delete option of touching rat with hands.

Ponder how to get in door without puppy and rat.  Realize that due to doggy door and relatively dry puppy, rat has probably already been inside kitchen.  Sigh and open door to go inside.  Watch in disgust as delighted Clever And Faithful Pup proudly chomps on rat and brings it to you. Realize that you are still clueless as to how to remove rat from pup without touching it.  Weigh wisdom of giving pup a treat to trade for this prize, (since that is obviously what he is shooting for . . .) because you know that if pup drops rat to eat treat, you will still have a dead rat in the kitchen.

Walk dogs to barn where there are rakes and shovels.  Note Clever And Faithful Pup happily chomping rat. Note Sullen Bloodhound who is wishing she had a dead rat to chomp on . . .

Spill cat food on barn floor and watch as Clever And Faithful Pup drops rat to vacuum up cat food.  See Bloodhound scoop up dead rat.  Mentally kick self for not adding that into equation.  See rest of dog pack race in to vacuum up cat food.  See Bloodhound drop rat in cold rain to get her share of cat food.  Sigh with relief.

Quickly scoop up dead rat with barn rake and sling it into horse paddock.  Feed horses who are now wide awake and demanding some retribution for this midnight intrusion.

Go back to house and give puppy and entire apple to rid him of "rat cooties" ("an apple a day chases the rat cooties away!")  Give other three dogs an apple in case they have rat cooties too.

Walk into bedroom closet to get pajamas. Turn on light. Recoil several feet back upon seeing unidentified object on dog bed in closet.  Kick self when you realize that purple felt bone in no way resembles a dead rat.

Take a shower and wash face.  Wash face again.  Contemplate scrubbing kitchen floor and brushing puppy's teeth.  Realize that 1:00 AM is not a good time to introduce puppy to toothbrush.

Sit down at computer.  Reluctantly welcome Clever And Faithful Pup as he crawls into your lap.  Note that he now has "apple breath."  Refuse to allow him to kiss you because you can still vividly recall him chomping on dead rat.

Realize how much you love Clever And Faithful Pup as he settles down beside desk and sighs with contentment.  All is well in his little world. Decide that Cuteness is actually a Defense Mechanism to keep you from killing him.
 

The temperatures have climbed into the triple digits now and so yesterday we took a break from farm work to run the boat a little. Never one to overlook any opportunity to include my dog, I voted for bringing the Border Collies.  They also voted to bring the Border Collies, so Other Half agreed.  As is always the case whenever you deal with boats, there was a great deal involved with "getting ready."  Part of this was an intensive search on my part for Lily's life jacket.  (YES!  My dog has her own life jacket!  Don't laugh at me! Not only is it hard to replace a good ranch dog, but Other Half's life would be miserable if I lost this dog!  Soooo . . . she wears a life jacket when she's in the boat. Nuff said!)

After much ado, the boat was in the water, the truck and trailer were parked and it was time to go!  Thing 1 and Thing 2 were quite excited. 

   Cowboy loves to ride the 4wheeler around the pastures. He had been told about this Water-4wheeler and was particularly anxious to try it. Lily is always ready to try anything.  Fun is her middle name.

But wait . . .

"Is there a problem with the Water-4Wheeler?"

  (there was much cussing . . .)

"Uh oh . . ." 

(Thing 1 and Thing 2 have heard these words before when Other Half talks to the broken lawnmower, and the tractor . . .)

The gravity of the situation begins to sink in for Cowboy.

"No Water-4Wheeler rides???"

"No Water-4Wheeler rides . . . "

Lily refused to allow the lack of Water-4Wheeler rides ruin her fun. Her world is always a happy place. As long as the sun comes up in the morning, it's a good day for Lily.  She makes her own fun and takes it with her!

Lily has the World on a String!

  Or at least . . .

She has Cowboy on a string!           

So while Other Half fought with the boat motor and Lily entertained herself, Cowboy stared wistfully . . .

 . . . and watched other dogs ride Water-4Wheelers.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned . . .

                            I caused Other Half to tell falsehoods on my behalf . . .

(And it all comes down to goats . . . again.)

It's time to wean some goats. 

It's time to sell some goats.

After they completely stripped the bark off a lemon tree, Other Half persuaded me to sell ALL the goats and concentrate on the sheep. After all, pound for pound, the goats are more trouble and the sheep put on weight faster.  

This hulking creature was born on January 1.

  It's hard to beat the growth rate of these Dorpers.

Thus far, the Dorper sheep have outperformed the Boer goats.  They are easier on the fences and not nearly as clever. But I've had a hard time biting the bullet and getting rid of ALL my goats.  Despite their nature, I rather like the little beasts - they keep me humble and teach me new cuss words.

But nevertheless, I placed an ad for all the goats - as individuals or a package deal.  There was an immediate response for the Package Deal.  I made Other Half talk to him.  He argued that they were MY goats, thus "I" should talk to the man. I've always done this in the past and I hate it.  So I informed him that men deal better with men and HE should make the arrangements.  (while I armchair quarterbacked . . .) 

From my end of the room, it soon became clear that this was another "mini-van deal."  (been there, done that, hated every minute of it) The man planned to pack all the goats in a vehicle together and drive them back to the city where I'm sure he would slit their throats that afternoon.  SCREECH!!!!

I had no problem with the boys being eaten.  They are males, that's what they're raised for.  But the does are former show goats and proven producers.  I didn't want them slaughtered and on a barbecue pit if I could avoid it. Thus . . . I nixed the whole deal . . . leaving poor Other Half to explain to the man that HE himself had made a mistake and since these were show goats his wife was now tripping out and refused to sell them. Sorry for the error.  (He was not happy with me.)

Eegaads . . .  I felt bad. But not bad enough to allow my girls to have their throats cut.

Soooo . . .  I'm still weaning goats this afternoon anyway, but I've decided to keep the does and take the boys to the sale barn next week.  Unless of course, the girls piss me off sometime between now and then.  (If I'm not careful, Other Half may sell ME at the sale barn next week!)

"I wouldn't let that happen, Mom."

As most of my adventures do, this adventure began on the internet too!  I am a member of a most wonderful group of women who trail ride together.  We are like the Red Hat Society on horseback, and we stay connected on the internet. Because of my schedule, I rarely get to participate in the functions, but I enjoy keeping up with them online. I was perusing my email last week when I happened to note that one of our members shears sheep.

"Yee haaa!" I screamed to the cat sleeping beside my computer. She fell off the desk.

I have two sheep that need shearing! Most of my sheep are high percentage Dorper crosses that shed out in the spring, so they don't need shearing, but these two have dreadlocks so thick they look like members of the Jamaican Bobsledding Team.

 So I quickly emailed this Sheep Savior and begged her to come shear my Jamaican bobsledders.  She agreed, and thus the adventure began . . .

Wake up and decide that even though I barely have an hour before Sheep Savior arrives, I simply MUST put fresh shavings in the horse barn. Feed horses. Let goats out of Goat Prison. Let Sheep and Livestock Guardian Dog out of Sheep Prison.  Avoid massive muddy white paws from Abominable Snowdog as she bounces along beside me. Spill coffee.  Threaten to shoot Snowdog. 

Snowdog is unimpressed and bounces over to greet her canine friends who enjoy house privileges at night. Get large garden cart and begin hauling bags of shavings from Garage Barn to Horse Barn. Fill stalls with shavings.  Happy horses play in shavings.

Have Border Collie and Blue Heeler put goats in Kitchen Garden that is overgrown with weeds again. Lock gate and admire them as they immediately begin working like weed-wackers on methamphetamines. Suddenly realize that I have lost my cell phone.  Oh crap! Mentally run through chores and try to figure out where it fell off my belt.  Have disturbing thought that best bet is horse stalls.  Have distinct mental picture of horses pawing through shavings as a Blackberry sifts deeper and deeper into the stall. Have mental picture of Big Fat Ona standing on expensive Blackberry. Have mental picture of Andalusian cross finding phone and running up bill by calling Spain or text messaging his friends in other stables.

Run to barn to save phone.  Lots of shavings.  Confused horses. No phone. Run back to house.  Try to use house phone to call cell phone.  House phone refuses to dial the number 7 so I cannot call my cell phone and listen for the ring tone.  Lots of cussing.  Run to my mother's house.  Bang on door. Hear her dog frantically bark but no one comes to door.  Consider crawling through doggy door but decide to run around front of house instead.  Find mother lounging on front porch swing.  Mom is happy.  Mom wants to chat.  Explain emergency. No time to chat.  Need Mom's cell phone NOW to call my cell phone.  While desperately trying to convey this information quickly, see that Someone is pulling into my driveway.

Sheep Savior has arrived. Briar has climbed out of her puppy prison and I fear that she may eat Sheep Savior or at the very least, put giant Abominable Snowdog muddy footprints on her shirt. Must leave now, but Mom still wants to chat. (retired people appreciate life in the slow lane and aren't quite as quick to recognize the emergency of strangers driving up when no one is home but loose dogs who may or may not eat people. Finally wrangle phone from mother (Sorry Mom!) and run back next door to find Sheep Savior and two small children crawling out of car.  Fortunately White Mountain with Teeth has decided that she is friendly today - but still muddy.  Football tackle dog and force her into outside kennel with Blue Heeler (who is NEVER friendly to strangers - today or any other day.)

Greet Sheep Savior and explain that expensive Blackberry may be in stall with horse who is currently digging to China in the shavings. She listens while I call my phone.  Sheep Savior finds my phone! Phone is on ground beside Garage Barn. Phone is fine. Woo hoo! Thank her profusely and explain that I must run Mom's phone back to her house.  Please don't pet dogs behind bars.  Some of them bite. Sheep Savior happily agrees.

Return phone. Apologize to mother. Have Border Collie pen sheep who are now grumpy because they just LEFT the barn. Single out Jamaican Bobsledders. Rodeo. Mutton Bustin'!  Ride that sheep, Cowgirl! Finally get first bobsledder strapped onto trim stand. Fire up those clippers! Wow!  Return dazed bobsledder back to flock sporting a new Marine haircut.  The rest of the flock admire her new doo!  More Mutton Bustin' as we rodeo second bobsledder onto trim stand.  In no time a new dazed bootcamp recruit joins the rest of the flock. Turn flock back out and barely recognize bobsledders. There are actual sheep under those dreadlocks! 

I haven't figured out what to do with the armadillo shells of dreadlocks that pass for wool rugs.

 Maybe I'll give them to the dogs for beds.  On the other hand, my dogs are so uncivilized they will probably eat them, and we all know what that will happen then!   (Read: Useless Factoid )

Farm Rule #23 - When dogs eat wool . . .  they poop out felt!

Most of my sheep look like this:

They are Dorper crosses, hair sheep who shed, so you don't have to shear them.  Woo hoo!

 But I have two who look like this:

They have heavy rugs on their backs. I was hoping that most of it would shed off by now, but it hasn't.  So here it is at the end of July and they are roasting.  It's time to accept the fact that these two girls will HAVE to be sheared. (See! That's why I didn't want them in my breeding program!) 

I've never sheared a sheep.  (Being a lazy person who lives in a very hot humid climate, I quickly realized that raising sheep in parkas was not something I wanted to do.) Other Half has never sheared a sheep either.  So . . . we are enlisting the help of someone who actually HAS sheared sheep.  And she is coming over in 30 minutes . . . and I am still in my pajamas!  Eegaads!

The sheep are already yelling, demanding to be released from their prison this morning.  It's going to be a long morning for the sheep. It's probably going to be a long morning for the humans too.  I can only think of one person who is going to enjoy this morning.

There has been some disagreement about who spoils #1 Ranch Dog . . .

thus, I give you PROOF that I am not the only one who spoils Border Collie!

I give you:  State's Exhibit A:

Want more proof?

I give you State's Exhibit B:

The State rests . . .

What's not to love about this little face?

   This little face is one of the many in need of a Forever Home!

  See!  How could anyone resist this?

  Or this?  (Hey!  I think I have a face at home that looks just like that!)

Although we did a great deal of shopping for dog stuff at the dog show, I find it pretty easy not to shop for DOGS at a dog show.  We already have enough dogs. Each of our dogs either has, or currently HAD a job.

 (we do have some free-loaders enjoying retirement in the air conditioning, but I'm not gonna point fingers or anything!)

So I was pretty immune to the sea of adorable faces in need of a Forever Home, until I saw this . . .

  Be still my beating heart!

Please understand, I am a product of the Lassie Generation.  I LOVE these dogs.  I have always wanted one of these dogs.  (Just like this one!)  When I bought my first Belgian Tervuren in 1990, it was a toss-up whether or not I should get a Belgian or try to find a Rough Collie with working drive.  I went with the Belgians, but there is still a fondness in my heart, ney! my SOUL for the Rough Collie. 

So I saw this young dog . . .

  He gazed patiently while the world around him was in chaos.  I almost reached out and touched him, but something stopped me . . . After all these years training dogs, I knew what stopped me.  There is power in the touch.  Don't touch him. Don't touch him. Don't touch him.  For I knew that as soon as I touched this dog, so soon after the death of Kona . . .  I knew that if I touched this dog, there might be a spark . . .

And if there was, Other Half was powerless to prevent it.  (much like I was powerless to prevent him from bringing Cowboy home . . .  )

A dog like this deserves to be someone's primary dog. I don't even have a job for him at my house. So I took his picture . . . I didn't touch him.  But even now, looking at his picture, he touches me.

Most of our shopping tends to be at the feed store and Tractor Suppy.  When we go on vacation we stop and shop at Rancher's Supermarket places like D&D and Teskey's, but they never have a good selection of DOG stuff.  A 4-Day dog show however, can provide just about anything your little Dog-Person-heart desires!

 LOTS of shopping!

  I won't tell Border Collie about this!

  or this . . .

  or this!

Other Half wanted to buy this for Oli . . .

I wanted to buy THIS for Oli . . . 

He vetoed my suggestion!  Can you believe that? That man simply can not think outside the box! Girlfriend would look absolutely SMASHING in this dog bed for her police truck! Other Half pointed out that the other K9 handlers would make fun of them.  I informed him that he really shouldn't care what other people think!  After all . . .  

  Would you tease a woman who can do this?

(Trust me, if I was in charge of the Company Credit Card, then Oli would be sleeping in that dog bed!)

Nevertheless, I did lots of my own shopping . . .

I bought a decal for the tailgate of my truck.  (this is a pic of it BEFORE it's installed.  The wrinkles will come out!) At first, I just wanted a Border Collie.  Then I saw the sheep.  Well duh!  Gotta have the sheep.  Then Other Half suggested we add the farm name.  (advertising = tax deduction)  Good point!  Sooooo . . .

And . . .  I bought Border Collie a new fancy leather collar!  It wasn't until I got it home that I realized this collar matched one of my hats!  Look at this!

Look closer!

Now I have to wear this hat more often so I can match my dog.  I am such a Dork!

Let me preface this adventure by explaining that I began showing dogs in 1984 BOH (Before Other Half). I did conformation, obedience, tracking, schutzhund, flyball, agilty, and in the late 1990's, I began Search & Rescue work. By 1999 I had quit showing entirely and focused on cadaver and mantrailing work. Now, except for the police dogs, all our dogs are either retired working dogs, or working farm dogs. 

Enter Other Half - all his dogs have been either hunting dogs, police dogs, or working farm dogs.  He is completely unfamiliar with Show Dogs.  Last year I took him to his first dog show.  It was a giant 4 day show - lots of dog sports, lots of shopping! I was in Dog Person Heaven.  He was overwhelmed.  One of the first things he ran into was a woman carrying a dog in a front-papoose.  The dog was in baby clothes and was wearing little puppy dog booties.  Other Half's eyebrows crawled to the top of his forehead. I was embarrassed. But then again, perhaps he needs to see things like that.  He believes that I horribly spoil Border Collie (I do!) but seeing a dog in baby clothes being carried like an infant sort of puts Border Collie and I in a different light.  ('nuff said!)

Anyway, his first trip to a dog show opened his eyes to a whole 'nuther world of dogs.  So I dragged him again this year!

I am trying to open his eyes, broaden his horizons! Unfortunately he ran smack into this:

Apparently the poodles were not being shown last year when we were there.  Other Half was stupified. Having worked with standard poodles in the past, I know they are smart and delightful creatures with a working dog heritage and tried to explain that to him.  He couldn't get past the hair cut.

The world according to Other Half:

  Real Dog

 Not a Real Dog

Since Other Half is more about Tactical than actual "tact,"  I kept him away from the poodle people.  Thus, I steered him toward Flyball and Agility.  He really liked watching the Border Collies in Flyball.

  Just take my word for it . . . this is a Border Collie doing Flyball.

He enjoyed the Agility too,  (Since this is my favorite I got too caught up in the action to take pictures!)

I had a blast at the Dog Show.  It was a trip down Memory Lane, and it made me a bit wistful.  On several levels, I miss being in that world.  Other Half may as well have been a National Geographic Explorer in that world. I think he enjoyed seeing what people did with their dogs,

 but Other Half still has his own ideas about working dogs . . .

I told him that he shouldn't be such a Working Dog Snob.  He should lighten up a little!  Have FUN with his dogs!

I wonder if they make these in Border Collie size?

This weekend we were leaving a Gun Show (a whole 'nuther story) when Son announced "Dad, Justin wants your job."

His father works for a large agency with long arms that give him state and federal jurisdiction. Son's friend, Justin, works for the same large police department that I work with and it's ripe with opportunities for young officers, so I said,

"A lot of people want your father's job. Aside from the big paycheck, what is it exactly that he wants?"

"Oh, he wants to travel and do all the special weapons and operations stuff."

"That is precisely the part of your father's job that I DON'T like," I said. 

Since I was the only female in the truck, I didn't get any agreement. From a young man's point of view, Other Half has an awesome job - cool toys, the element of danger, state and federal jurisdiction, travel, a great paycheck, and a certain amount of freedom to get yourself into trouble. What's not to love for a testosterone-ridden American Male?  From the point of view of the woman at home - death and an empty bed come to mind, but then, those aren't the kind of things that men think about.

While Other Half does come with a certain set of unique skills that make him handy to have around in a war, or if the zombies attack,  I rather appreciate his other skills more:

 * Always answers his phone or immediately calls back to let me know he's safe!

* Appreciates good horseflesh!  Bonus: comes with cowponies! (read: High Noon )

* Knows how to pull a calf out of a cow and knows when to wait   (read:  Swinging Calves )

 * Will drive all the way across Texas in one day to get me the puppy I want  (read: On The Eighth Day )

  *Can stitch up injured sheep (read: Miss Hardy)

  * Can butcher a wild hog (read: Easter Ham )

* Will rescue any animal with a Hard-Luck story (read: Cowdog )

  * Knows how to milk a cow and a goat (read: Milking A Goat )

  * Can fix farm equipment when it breaks

* Would rather drive REAL horsepower than fast cars! (read: Driving Drafts )

* Doesn't hesitate to come on-duty to bring me a Dr Pepper, a Butterfinger, and a hug if I'm working a really bad scene

 *  Will spend all day putting up a hotwire fence in the rain, and then not stroke out when I announce that the sheep and LGD will not be allowed in that pasture because the dog was just shocked by the hotwire and freaked out   (read: Justice? )

 These are just a few of the skills that Other Half possesses which do not include weapons and special tactics.  When the zombies come, I'll probably be very happy for those fancy weapons skills, but until then, I can appreciate these skills more.  Big guns, cool gear, and Ninja skills don't make a real man.  A big paycheck doesn't make a real man.   Blood, sweat, tears, hugs and patience, make a real man.

  (sweet Arabian Stallion)

 Guess who I found in the paddock with the stallion when I came home from work last night?

    Who? Me?

(evil Miniature Horse)

Guess who wriggled his fat ass through a goat-size hole in the fence to get into a pasture with a stallion WHILE there is a mare in full-blown heat in the next pasture?

  Who? Me?

Guess who made a hole in the fence big enough that a FAT MINIATURE HORSE COULD SQUEEZE HIS AMPLE ASS THROUGH IT??

  Who?  US?

I am very thankful for the sweet nature of a certain ancient Arabian stallion . . .

                                . . . . who did not eat a certain little fat pony . . .

  Who? Me?

 Fortunately this morning Briar appears to have recovered from her trauma.  We turned the livestock out and took a nice walk in the pasture (with the hotwire OFF!)  Since Briar's confidence is more valuable than the goats (5 goats are simply not worth losing a good LGD for!) the hotwire will be off EVERY time Briar is in that paddock.  The goats will get training in the paddock when Briar is somewhere else.  Briar's primary responsibility is to protect the flock of sheep.  The goats may have to fend for themselves.

Had Briar been a criminal, crawling or leaping out of the fence, then I wouldn't have a problem with her getting zapped. But the reality is that she is a 9 month old giant baby who has been doing a splendid job of guarding both the sheep and the property.  She was building the confidence to go along with that big bark. Although she was rather melodramatic when shocked, nothing good can be accomplished by telling her to "man-up."  If SHE thinks something horrible happened to her, then it did.  I'm sure me holding her and crying didn't help either, but I got so upset by her performance that water-works were inevitable. Poor Other Half was left standing there watching me sob as I held a sobbing dog.  After working all day in the rain to get that fence up, it was probably a toss-up who he wanted to shoot more - the goats, or me and Briar.   

But alas, what is done is done.  The dog appears to have recovered and I'll be more careful in the future about her sensitive feelings. Other Half stopped short of calling her a weenie. (It wouldn't have been a wise thing.  I was still crying over traumatizing my puppy.)  Police dogs should be raised to never lose.  They always win. These dogs must have a tremendous amount of self-confidence to do their job.  A LGD needs more.  Briar is alone with the sheep. She has to have the confidence to take on whatever lurks in the dark and she shouldn't have to be afraid that the fence will bite her.  The goats are about to lose their bodyguard. I will not jeopardize the confidence of a dog who can protect an entire flock of sheep for five felon goats!

  Sometimes there is just no justice in this world.  Want proof?

  Goats & Sheep

 In order to foil the goats in their near constant attempts to leave our property to sample the exact same foilage on the "other side of the fence,"  we are adding hotwire to existing fences.

  A solar unit was employed for the big pasture and has worked like a charm.  I got the bright idea to put hotwire around the front paddock so the sheep and goats can spend their nights outside instead of being locked in their goat prison.  So we spent the day laboring in the rain to get a hotwire up.   The problem however, was that I was in such a hurry to shock goats that I didn't think about the OTHER victims in the pasture.