Farm Fresh Blog

The results are in and the Employee of the Month for December is . . .

 Miss Lily Langford!!!

(again)

For her tireless service, continued devotion to excellence in the workplace, initiative and creativity, Miss Lily Langford has been awarded the Employee Of The Month for the month of December.

(again)

Miss Langford proved her value once more this week when she took it upon herself to keep the goats out of the feed room when the Boss was dishing up sweet feed for cattle. Miss Langford noted the goats behaving like "gypsies in the palace." She observed The Boss repeatedly pushing goats aside and smacking them with buckets. Miss Langford then drew up a plan whereby she placed herself between the feed room door and the goats and disciplined (i.e. "bit") any goat that challenged her authority. The goats backed off. Peace was restored and the cattle were fed without further incident.

The next morning Miss Langford anticipated the problem and assumed the position at the feed room door without being asked.

So once again, for her tireless devotion to this company, Miss Langford has been selected as Employee of the Month.  Because Miss Langford has also been awarded Employee of the Month for:

January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October and November, this earns her the title of Employee of the Year!

Could we hear a few words from Miss Langford?

 (blush)

"Awww man!  That bites, dude! This thing is rigged! What about me?!!  What about ME going out in the dark ALL THE WAY TO THE NEIGHBOR'S to get those stupid sheep?!!  What about ME?!! I'm tellin' Dad! This is a joke! This is rigged!"

"What about ME?!!  I penned that stupid red heifer last week! What about ME?!! This thing is rigged! That little brown-noser wins every month! I'm filing a complaint with Internal Affairs!  DAD!!!"

Our journey to put money down on the ranch was Dillon's first real road trip. It proved to be quite entertaining. The realtor is very pro-dog and encouraged us to let the pups run. (He knows how to sell ranch property!)    Dillon was an angel,

 as always!

Everything about the ranch was a delight to a 4 month old Labrador, and he was a little chocolate angel. He stayed close to us. He came when he was called, and most importantly . . .

. . . he didn't roll in cow poop.

The same cannot be said for other members of our party.

Yes, Blue Heeler has a love of Cow Poop Perfume. 

Let me paint you a mental picture. Imagine this:

We walk into Realtor's Office and the weather is beautiful. Mild temperatures. Blue skies. Sign papers and throw down large sum of money. Walk out of office to discover that a Blue Norther has rolled in and it is now colder than a polar bear's nose.  Inform Other Half that we STILL will go by the property again to take photos of old homestead. He reluctantly agrees. It is cold. We have a long drive ahead of us. Nevertheless, he is stuck in the truck with a woman for the next 7 hours, so he does the only wise thing - he agrees with her.

Drive to ranch. Reason that this is the perfect place to allow pups to play before their long journey home. Problem: the cattle already on the place are certain that we are there to feed them and are thus following the truck. Grrrr. . .

Outrun cattle. Inform Other Half that he can sit in warm truck, pay bills, and keep an eye out for cattle while I throw sticks to entertain pups. (it sounded good on paper) What happened was this:

I get absorbed in playing fetch with Lily and Dillon and fail to note that Blue Heeler has slipped out of my eyesight FOR JUST A MOMENT.  Turn around in time to see him rising out of a roll.  He is covered ON BOTH SIDES with yellow-green slime. Thirty angus calves have been in a wheat field. Thirty calves can leave a lot of yellow-green poop.

Yes, it is 38 degrees outside with a stiff breeze, and we are now facing a 7 hour drive inside a truck with a dog who is now covered in cow shit. Oh joy!  See red for a moment. Vainly try to find way to blame Other Half for this dilemma. He is still sitting in warm truck. Inform him that Blue Heeler will now ride in the BACK of the truck in Dillon's crate.

Other Half argues that this is unfair and is cruel and unusual punishment for the crime.  And so that's how two idiots ended up bathing a stupid blue dog in a 38 degree stream.

 "ma bad . . ."

"Ranger smells funny. Can I sit in the front seat?"

 Greetings Bi-peds!

I'm passing out cigars! (made of hay) Christmas was a busy time for us! We had 4 lambs born in 24 hours. (3 girls and a boy)

 Christmas Carol -

- born midday on Christmas Day

 Twin Girls

- born in the wee hours after midnight on the day after Christmas. Note milk poopy butts.

 Single Boy

- born 8 pm the day after Christmas

 The Human says she is ready to go back to work just so she can get some rest. She says Lambing during the Christmas holidays is almost as stressful as dodging Christmas shopping soccer moms who are driving SUVs while sipping Starbucks and talking on their cellphones.

     It's becoming a Christmas tradition - lambing. What better way to get to the heart of the Christmas Story. While most people are in church, Other Half and I have sleeves pushed up, delivering lambs in the cold mud.

     After this summer's drought, we shouldn't complain, but lambing in the mud during a cold drizzly rain was never on my list of "things to do before I die."

On the other hand, babies are healthy, mommas are healthy, we have rubber boots and a washing machine, so all is good. Our families are also getting used to the familiar excuse,

"We're running late. A ewe is in labor."

Last year Holly was born on our way out the door . . .

This year brought us Christmas Carol . . .

     Thankfully we were home when Ma went into labor because Carol was stuck. Other Half adjusted her massive, unladylike shoulders, and "pop!" she slid right out.  Actually it sounded more like "SLOP!" she slid out and hit the mud. When she stood up she was as big as a two week old baby!

     I'm sooo glad that when I was whittling down the flock this summer I decided to keep these ewes. Rather than keeping the better bred ewes, I chose to keep the core stock of girls that I knew were experienced mothers. Now as they lamb in the cold rain, I appreciate the fact that these ladies know what they're doing, and they trust us. Ma saw us coming yesterday, and said to me,

"I might need just a little help adjusting this bowling ball. Assistance please!"

A few minutes later Carol hit the mud and we backed off to let Ma do her thing. A few hours later, Carol was bouncing around the hay, playing with another baby. It was a good Christmas Day.

     And so even though the rest of the world was snug and warm in church or with their families on Christmas, I didn't feel any less close to God by spending the day in a shed full of animals. If anything, the miracle of new life on Christmas brings me closer.

Lilah lives an hour away from her Neigh-Neighs (nay-nays???) and thus she doesn't get to ride them as often as she'd like. She does, however, pull up their pictures daily on the computer so she can keep abreast of her farms. (online supervision) And trust me, this kid keeps up with her farm!

She knows her animals. For example, last week she was helping me package soap orders. She looked down at the business cards that were attached to each bar and announced,

"Hey!  That's my goat!"

"Well, yes Dear, that IS your goat."

Whodathunkit? On the other hand, Lilah is 2 1/2 years old. She KNOWS what belongs to her, so when she comes to the farm, Lilah comes prepared . . .

 Her Neigh-neighs love to see her coming.

While Napolean genuinely likes kids, Ruffy firmly believes that children are cookie dispensers.

He's not wrong. While Napolean does all the real work, Ruffy soaks up the rewards.

 I dread the day she outgrows this little guy. I suppose there is a Welsh Pony in her future. Don't worry, Napolean's place in this family is secure though. HomeBoy ain't goin' anywhere!

After she plays with ponies, Lilah must drive around the ranch to supervise her other creatures. Yes, she drives the mule.

 Checking on the bull

(I would dearly love to know what she was telling him.)

And baby brother, Everett, is not left out. There are lambs to check too.

On Christmas Eve, Lilah returned bearing more gifts for her Neigh-Neighs. Even the big horses love to see her. It's simple math.

 Double-fisted

Grandbaby = midget human = cookie dispenser

For Christmas her baby brother received a Fisher Price Nativity Scene.

 Lilah immediately confiscated it.

  "Huh?!"

She then proceeded to rip out Baby Jesus and fill the stable with Neigh-neighs.

"Isn't there something wrong with that?"

On that same note, look closely at this Nativity scene.

Closer . . .

Yeah, that!     

Who knew Jesus had a Border Collie?

And I'll leave you with this . . .

Like Lilah, keep track of your blessings.

And like Everett, make sure to keep a little Jesus in your manger.

Yesterday Other Half went to my old farm to pick up some things. Because I simply could not bear to go over there, he dropped me off at my mom's place. Through the window, I could see workmen laboring, but I tried not to focus on what they were doing, and what precious something was being destroyed.

Later Other Half cautiously ventured "I wasn't going to tell you this, but I figured you'd want to know. Those workmen were in the garden beside the house and were stomping all over the dogs' graves."

It stung for a moment, and I didn't answer him. Then I took a second to think about it.

Alice and Frio wouldn't mind. They loved people.  Pippy would politely step aside, she was shy. Katy hated strangers and would growl. She would be the annoying itch at the base of their backs. Penny would bark and wag her tail, charming but harmless. And my beloved Navarre wasn't even there any more. 

 His bones still lay in the cold ground, but that dog is in my soul . . .

. . . and on my back.

The dearest of people, Sue in Wyoming, turned the precious hair that I painstakingly combed from that dog over a span of 12 years, into a beautiful sweater jacket, an earwarmer, and fingerless gloves.

 YES! This is my dog!

When the package bearing the jacket and gloves arrived last week, I was in tears as the mail lady handed it over the counter. By the time I opened it in the truck, I was bawling. Blue Heeler was beside himself with hysteria. "What is IN that box that has Mom so upset?!!"  I assured him that these were happy tears.

My dog and I were together again.  He was keeping me warm once more.

I thank God for people like Sue.  She is an Old Soul who understands this world so much better than I do. I could feel the love in that box. The sweater and gloves were wrapped inside a beautiful pillow case. She sent me Butterfingers for the hard days, and photos of her dogs and family so I could put faces with names. And to Blue Heeler's delight, she sent tennis balls - lots of tennis balls!  This was a care package for everyone!

So even as the sting of workmen stomping over my graves chafed, the knowledge that Navarre was in my soul and on my back was a warm salve.

Thank you, Sue.

There is so much to tell you!

I took the Arapaho way, turned my back on last week and said, "It is finished." (That is amazingly calming by the way, you should try it.)  Anyway, all the way through this ordeal, I've had faith that God would lead me to a much better place. Even as doubts whispered, "You're gonna lose your farm and your dream ranch will already have been sold to someone else," I held tight to the faith that if that were the case, an even better ranch was waiting in my future.

Guess what!

My ranch was still there! I grudgingly promised to look at another ranch in the area before we put money down on My Ranch.  (waste of time) The other ranch was set up for cattle, offered good hunting, and had a building that we could actually live in while building a house. But . . . it wasn't my ranch, and even as I drove around it, I knew it, and was impatient to go see My Ranch again. 

After wasting way too much time at the other place (i.e. setting foot on it), we arrived at My Ranch. (let me take a moment to explain that the other ranch was very beautiful and most people would LOVE to have it, but it wasn't The One and I knew it. I had a Dream for 6 months. I knew what I wanted. Looking at anything else was a waste of time.)

The sun was beginning to creep down as I climbed in the back of the mule and we drove off to take another look at the ranch I've dreamed of for the last 6 months.  It's wild. It's remote. It's beautiful. It's mine.

A tremendous peace washed over me. I was home.  

It's not only beautiful, it's full of history. This was an old Indian settlement (complete with graves) at the base of a mountain. A creek runs through it that supported them. The property had game and water. They settled here and raided the local settlers. (trespassers) A fort was built to the north to protect the settlers from the Indians. The creek has washed up artifacts and bones.

Apparently hunters stumbled upon these and fearing a crime scene, brought in authorities who identified the bones as ancient. The Native Americans said to leave the washed up bones where you find them to allow them to continue their journey. Works for me.

I thought about all this as I rode through it again and let the place soak into me. I need this place. This place needs me. It is a piece of history. It needs protection. It needs someone who will appreciate its wild beauty and not see it as a resource for stripped timber, oil, and future ranchettes. I can take care of this place. This place can take care of me.

The realtor asked, "Do you want to sleep on it overnight and let me know something tomorrow?"

I barely glanced back at him. "No."

He asked again.

"I want it."

"Don't you want to sleep on it overnight."

(stupid question)

"I've slept on it many nights already."

Finally Other Half said, "If this is what she wants, then we'll get it. Let's start the paperwork."

And so it was that I signed my name, threw the money from the sale of my little farm at him, and bought a dream.

Barring any complications, we close at the end of January.

 "I wish to go on public record."

"On the evening cited in the Blog Post 12/12/11, I, Scout, Innocent Mustang, was eating my meager meal in that alcove you people call "my stall" when it was invaded by 3 foul-smelling beasts wearing hoods. I have identified the suspects in the photo below."

"I am fairly certain they were up to no good. They were, as I stated before, wearing hoodies."

"And they were clearly running from the law . . .  

  "It was so obvious."  

"Now everyone here knows, I'm not a big fan of Border Collies. My job has been outsourced to these scrawny workaholics. On the other hand, oats still land in the bucket, and I don't have to lift a hoof to do any work around here now, so it ain't all bad. Therefore, I co-operated fully with the police when the Black & White arrived."

"After all, if something happened to the dog, I might actually have to work for a living again."

Even though we are still in the midst of a drought, the winter rains have returned. While this is wonderful news, it is still terribly annoying if you haven't built your sheep shed yet. On the farm that I just sold, the sheep had 2 large roomy stalls, a covered area, a paddock, and their pasture.

Now that they are squeezed in with the cattle, they have a paddock behind the barn. That's it. No stall with deep shavings. No eight acres to roam and run away from the Border Collie. Just a paddock and supervised access to pasture and the yard. Fortunately, they have a good lobbyist (ME!) and their living conditions are improving, but for the most part, this place is set up for cattle not sheep. BUT. . . they are still fat and happy girls.

However, anticipating the inevitable Sh*t Fit that would arrive along with the cold rain, Other Half took it upon himself to build a sheep shed one night when I was at work - by himself.  Good Boy!  (click & treat)  Imagine my delight when I arrived home to find that he had constructed a rather fine sheep shed to surprise me.  Other men bring roses, mine builds sheep sheds to show his love.

He was putting the finishing touches on the shed as I arrived, and so I chipped in to help. In order to have less help, we evicted the sheep. It was dark. I didn't figure they'd get too far from the barn.  The horses were in their stalls. The cattle were out in the pasture. The sheep could have some nice unsupervised grazing while we were working. (insert ominous music here)

It sounded good on paper.  What happened was that when it was time to come back in, everyone came in but 3 ewes who had hoofed it across the pasture, across the oat field, and onto the neighbor's farm.  The neighbor owns one horse, and 2 pitbulls. (who kill cats) Yeeeeahhhhhh . . . Since Briar was locked in the back yard, a certain trio of trespassing sheep would be defenseless against pitbulls.

Here's what happened:

Other Half informs me that he can shake a bucket and call them back. (not on a cold day in hell) I cannot even see their eyes with a flashlight. Rut ro!  We're screwed. He heads out in the mule toward the neighbor's place while calling Lily (Border Collie #1) to come with him.  Negative, Ghost Rider.  Lily is a titty-baby and will not go with him - not even to work sheep.

I dearly love my dog, but know her limitations.  In order to fetch these sheep, she must go a LONG way away from mom, into the dark, through three fences, and onto a strange farm.  It ain't happenin'.  I start walking to the kennels.

This is a job for Super Puppy!

      This is a job for a red & white heat-seeking missile.

This is a job for Trace!

What he lacks in control, he more than makes up for in confidence - confidence at a distance. And distance is what I need in the dark.

Trace is beyond delighted that he is The Chosen One and happily races out to the pasture to catch up with Other Half. Lily and I join them. We climb into the oat patch and still cannot see the sheep.  Other Half phones the neighbor before we slither through his fence. (WAIT!  Scratch that. Border Collies slither through barbed wire fences. People over the age of 45, painstakingly bend over, grunt, do the Pincushion Limbo, and cuss through barbed wire fences) 

Other Half calls him to:

 A) ask permission

 B) make sure the pitbulls are penned.

Once we secure permission, Other Half pushes the button on The Missile. 

I do not even bother to command Lily to run off into the darkness to locate the trespassers. (A girl's GOT to know her limitations.)  Trace races off into the night.  Even though I should concern myself with his education, and how this is probably not on the LESSON PLAN, I have a problem. Trace is a stock dog, ergo, Trace must handle problems. I am less concerned with his developing education as I am with coyotes and pitbulls eating 3 of my best ewes. And so, the missile is launched.

. . .

                      (crickets chirping)

Lily stares off into the night.

Moments tick by.

"Here they come!"

Sure enough, as Other Half flashlights (yes, that's a word. A verb. I just made it up.) the pasture, three idiots come at us at a breakneck speed.  They fly past us and Trace kicks into warp drive to get ahead and stop them. He turns the idiots around and heads them back to us. (I heard a sonic boom.) At this point we decide that trying to have Trace control 3 ewes who are higher than crackheads behind a convenience store, through 3 barbed wire fences is probably a lesson in futility.  He located them. He returned them to us. Let's quit while we're ahead. We call the dog off. They race toward home. Since they are stampeding in the direction of our barn like kindergarteners to the cafeteria we don't need Lily to drive them home.  She is disappointed. She is bummed.  This has not been her night.

While Trace and Other Half find the mule to ride back, Lily and I walk through fences and attempt to locate the ewes who should have arrived a few minutes earlier. Where are they?  I scan the barn yard.  Nothing.  The penned sheep and goats are calling, but there is no answer.  Crap!  Mother Hubbard!  Did the little bi-otches double back on us?

At this point I am so angry that I decide I will NOT call Heat-seeking Missle OFF them a second time!  I stalk around the barn yard in search of sheep. 

 And that's when Lily points and says, "There they are!"

Do what?  Where?

"In there!"

Huh?  Sure enough. The poor mustang cowpony has company in his stall.  At this point, I must clarify that STALL is a bit generous.  He is standing in a narrow addition to the barn that doubles as a place to eat his meal when he's in there, and a parking place for the mule machine when he's not. There is just enough room to park a wide ATV, or a mustang with a wide ass. The gate had been closed to lock him in the stall and thus keep him out of the way for a while. And there, hiding with a very confused mustang, are 3 sheep.  They stare at Lily like deer in the headlights. I put her on a down, and ease into the stall to attempt to push them out.  Negative, Ghost Rider.

They play ring-around-the-rosies under the horse's belly.  This game is not safe for me or them.  Within seconds, I am saying unladylike words.  (French) I'm not sure what part of that French translates to "LILY!  I need your help!" but a certain black & white snake slithers into the stall. At this point I am so terrified of the wreck that is about to occur that I am speechless with horror as the scene unfolds.

The dog locks eyes with the Home Invaders. Glaring, she oozes into the stall and hugs the wall. The sheep salute and begin to quietly melt around the horse and file out of the stall. The horse, no fan of dogs, lifts his back leg to allow one sheep access to leave the stall. And so, like well-oiled band, they march their little asses

        out of that stall . . .

                                 . . . 

                                         . . .  and straight into Trace . . .

                                                                  . . . who is just arriving into the barn yard. 

"GET BACK INTO THAT STALL!!!" His eyes shout as he moves to thwart another prison break.  They run over Lily and me to get back with the horse.  (Sigh)

However Lily's on top of things, and slithers in behind them.  The horse raises an eyebrow as the parade passes through his stall again. Other Half downs Trace at a distance and so while the Little Crackheads look longingly into the direction of the neighbor's farm, they file into their own paddock ahead of Lily, resigned to the fact that the prison guards can chase them down before they can scale the walls.

As the gate clangs shut, the Border Collies congratulate themselves for a job well done. They are tickled to death.  I am happy with them too, for no amount of shaking buckets and calling into the darkness would have accomplished this. Trace has now proven to us that while it might not be pretty, he can shoulder responsibility in a pinch.   And so although Lily lacks distance work, and Trace is rough, VERY ROUGH, around the edges, together they are a pretty good team, and that's what it's all about!

     As you may recall a few weeks ago my vet asked if he could draw blood on Briar to send it off for a DNA test to determine what combination of dogs went into the soup that made Briar. 

     We had several theories. Briar came from a big sheep operation in North Texas and was reportedly the product of a Great Pyrenees male and a Komondor female.  As she grew, I kept expecting the Komondor coat (dreadlocks) to emerge.  Nope.  No dreads.  It did not appear that Briar was destined to look like a Jamaican Polar Bear.

     And thus began the questions - what IS Briar? Clearly she is a Great Pyrenees crossed with SOMETHING, but what?

     She looks like a Pyr with the face of an Irish Wolfhound, or an Otterhound, or something fuzzy.

Her behavior is textbook Great Pyrenees. She is friendly and nurturing and can climb a fence like a white ape. Her coat appears to have longer guard hairs and less fluff than a Pyr.

     So we all waited with bated breath to discover what Briar's Who's Ya Daddy test would reveal. Last night I received an email that the results are in!  They'll send me a pretty family tree in the mail later, but I was able to go online and see the results.

And they are . . .

Drum roll please . . .

(You aren't gonna believe this.  I didn't.)

Briar is the product of . . .

. . . . . a Great Pyrenees/Belgian Malinois cross mated with a Great Pyrenees mix!

(crickets chirping)

Do what?

(more crickets chirping)

Okay, I certainly buy the Great Pyrenees on both sides part, but the Malinois?

For those of you who don't know what a Belgian Malinois looks like, it's this . . .

 Current Police Dog

Now here's the even odder part. The test was pretty certain about the Belgian Malinois, but it couldn't tell with certainty what was mated with the Great Pyrenees/Belgian Malinois cross other than it was a Great Pyrenees Mix. They gave a list of possible candidates with a percentage of accuracy.  Here is that list:

Norwich Terrier - a 6.37% chance
Pug - a 4.98% chance (PUG!!!!)
Samoyed - a 2.24% chance 
Belgian Tervuren - a 1.74% chance (YES!  A Belgian Tervuren!)
Chesapeake Bay Retriever - a 1.32% chance

So what does this mean?  Well I'll be honest. As a crime scene investigator, my first thought was CROSS CONTAMINATION!

If these were just wild-ass breeds on some AKC chart, I'd doubt the test itself, but the fact that the test shows that Briar is a Great Pyrenees/Malinois cross and I just HAPPEN to have a Belgian Malinois living in my home makes me wonder if "somehow" Oli's DNA ended up in that vial with Briar's blood.  While Oli doesn't play with Briar, they have scuffled and so it's possible that some of Oli's DNA "could" be on Briar's arms. Perhaps the arm that we drew blood from . . . . Possibly.  I'm just throwing it out there. (as a defense attorney) 

I don't know how they run that particular test, but I do know that I've had Belgian Shepherds since 1990 and I can tell you, if Briar has any Belgian Shepherd blood in her at all, it's minute. I'm not ruling it out, particularly the Belgian Lakinois which has a more wiry curly coat, but she displays NO Belgian Shepherd (particularly Belgian Malinois) behaviors. 

So what do y'all think?

"I'm related to OLI!  I feel sick!"
 

     There are two things guaranteed to bolt you from even the deepest of slumbers - the familiar "uhm-uhmmm-yAACK" of a dog wretching, and the smell of warm diarrhea on the carpet.  People will die in house fires without waking up, but if dog poops in the bedroom at 4 AM, there is no sleeping around that. Perhaps they should make fire alarms for Dog People that have a barf sound instead of a siren, or emit a blast of poop smell rather than a piercing sound. But I digress . . .

     When assaulted by that awful aroma, two people who have sworn to love each other "til death do us part" will begin an under-the-covers argument that goes something like this:

"Wake up! One of the dogs got sick!"

"No. That's just Dillon farting."

"That is NOT Dillon farting! It's dog sh*t!"

Truthfully, that should really be part of the marriage vows too. 

 "In sickness and in health, when the dog craps on the floor, til death do you part."

     At this time, it's worth pointing out that despite the fact that it's colder than a polar bear's nose outside, Other Half cannot sleep without a fan - a fan which is wafting the aroma of warm poop across the bedroom. Having played this game before, I lean over and turn on the lamp.  (Do NOT, for any reason, get out of bed BEFORE you turn on the light. This is advice learned the hard way.)

     With the light on, I scan the carpet at my feet.  No land mines.  Whew!  His side of the bed = his problem. Tentatively tip-toe around bed.  THERE it is! Definitely his side of the bed.  Now begins the other familiar argument which goes something like this:

"That's yours. It's on your side of the bed!"

"Unt UHHH! I did it last time! In the dining room!"

"No way. That one does not count because YOU were in charge of the puppy and YOU failed to take him out and left a COLD turd under the table for me to find when I came home from work."

     Thus begins the "ownership clause" part of the argument. If it can be proven the poop belongs to YOUR dog, it's your poop.  May I point out again that it is 4 AM and the turd is cooling.

"It was Lily!"

"It was NOT Lily!  She never got off the bed.  It was not Dillon. He never got off the bed. It wasn't Cowboy. He always poops beside the door. (so you can slide it through the carpet when you open the door.) It had to be Trace."

     Pointing out that it was Trace is safe for me since Trace is Other Half's dog. He accepts this argument, scowls, and rolls out of bed. And steps in another turd. It squishes between his toes.

     There is a howl loud enough to wake the neighbors. It is now 4:05 AM. Two piles of warm poop before the sun is up. There is nothing to do but put the dogs outside and help him. At this point we begin Argument #3 - WHY the dog is sick.

"Don't feed them any more rawhide chew bones!"

"It wasn't the rawhide chew.  He didn't even eat much of it. He just guarded it, growling like Gollum muttering about his Precious. What did YOU feed him?"

And that's when it hits him.

"Did you feed him ranch style beans last night?"

(Rut-ro.  Ma bad.)

"Uhhmmmm..... He got to clean out the pot before he went to bed."

     Good thing Other Half is already cleaning up the poop because YOU GOT EM SICK trumps IT'S YOUR DOG and technically the turd has just become mine. Had he still been under the electric blanket it would be a different story, but as it is 4:30 AM and the job is over we can tackle the next problem together - the entire north side of the house smells like diarrhea. We solve this by lighting a candle and setting spare bars of scented soap in front of the fan. Within minutes all we can smell is soap, candle, and the salty aroma of Fritos corn chips (Dillon's feet) as he snuggles between us.

     And thus we go back to bed to ponder ranch style beans, dogs in the house, fire alarms, and marriage vows.

"I met Santa!  I met Santa!"

        (sigh)

"Did you at least make a decent Christmas wish?"

"Yup!  I asked for a dove trainin' dummy!"

"Awww!  You should have asked for a lamb!

"Peanut-Head!!!  You could have asked for a stick!"

"You could have asked for something fluffy to kill!"

"Or a car to chase!"

"I just don't know about that boy . . . "

"Somebody saw Santa?!!"

 "Where?!!"

The folks at Bass Pro Shop are marketing pros!  While buying Dillon's puppy collar last month, the cashier asked me to bring him in the store.  Huh???  YEP!  They welcome dogs!  She asked that we return to the store and bring our little hunting dawg.  (Well heck yeah!)

So when we found a bit of time for Christmas shopping, guess where we went.  Yessirree Bob! We loaded up the pup and headed to Bass Pro Shop.

Other Half brought a towel so little Dillon could ride in the cart.

We plopped his butt in the cart and rolled into Man Heaven. (I was a total geek and took my camera!)

Dillon was delighted.  It was a Labrador Dream Come True!

 Kids!

 Toys!

 Decoys! 

  Guns!

 More Kids!  

and . . .

 "Hey, where's my toy?" Huh?"

   "What tha?" 

 "Santa???"

 So Little D-Man got to meet the Big Guy. 

It plumb tuckered him out.

He had a big shopping trip. By the time he left the store, his cart was full with two new dog beds, a decoy, a toy, fudge for mommy, and more Christmas surprises than you can shake a credit card at. 

Bass Pro made out like a bandit. When the cashier found out we'd left Trace in the truck, she was aghast.

"Why didn't you bring him in?"

I explained that we didn't have room in the cart for two dogs. 

"Oh! He could walk on a leash!  We LOVE to have dogs in here!"

(I bet they do! Apparently dogs have credit cards.) Oh well. Maybe next time.

 "Aww man!"

"That's not fair!  He got to meet Santa! He doesn't even know who SSS-SSanta is!"

also titled . . .

When Briar Bit Daddy And Oli Bit Mommy

or perhaps . . .

When You Are In The Wrong Place

At The Wrong Time.

This is not what you want to see coming at you in the dark.

Who knew she bites?

Last night Other Half, (who was supposed to be in bed asleep), put on his coat and went outside to meet the rancher next door. While they were enjoying some guy time over the back fence, sharing a cell phone photo of a 13 point deer that had been hit by a car, (why else would you climb out from underneath an electric blanket?)  they happen to startle a pack of dogs who were not expecting the sight of two men lounging by their fence.

     The neighbor had his Black Mouth Cur Dogs with him. Fortunately for them, they were on the other side of the fence with their owner. Unfortunately for Other Half (apparently!) he was not.

Who knew Briar could outrun Blue Heeler? Or . . . perhaps she didn't outrun Blue Heeler, perhaps his sniffer is just better than hers.  Nevertheless, the fact remains that a pack of dogs, HIS OWN DOGS, descended upon Other Half in the dark and SOMEONE . . . (Briar) . . . bit him in the leg!

  "Ma bad!"

There was much cussing (Other Half) and giggling. (that was me)

She didn't break the skin.  I assured him that it was a case of mistaken identity and she pulled her punch when she realized it was him.  He was not amused.  (I was highly amused!) Who knew Briar would actually bite a human?  Briar LOVES humans - apparently strange humans at the back fence don't count.

So there it was, Briar and I were in the dog house. (because I giggled) Then the sun rolled up this morning and the tables were turned.

     While Other Half was getting ready for work, I was shuffling dogs in and out for potty breaks.  Oli, the Current Police Dog, is a most primitive creature, very much like a velociraptor in Jurassic Park. 

She must be monitored closely lest she find a way to get through the fence and cause havoc with small hooved creatures.

     So after Oli took her break, I brought her back in the house.  Oli brought a rather large stick with her.  Because she hopped onto my bed, with my NEW BEDSPREAD, and settled down to chew her stick, I decided to take it away from her.  This necessitated a trade.  Oli is always happy to barter.  So I grabbed up one of Dillon's fluffy toys and said,

"Here Oli, wanna trade for this?"

She did.  She very much wanted to trade a muddy stick for a fluffy toy that could be eviscerated. So she let go of the stick and snatched the toy. Unfortunately I was still holding the toy. 

     Her back molar crunched down on the fingernail bed of my left index finger. (Thank GOD it was my left hand!) Someone started screaming.  (that was me!) Other Half almost cut his throat while shaving. 

"Oli bit me!"

Other Half probably wanted to cut his throat when he heard that.

Fortunately the skin was barely broken. It was the equivalent of having someone slam a hammer (claw end first) onto your fingernail.  I continued to squeal and bounce around the bedroom. Oli dropped the toy and raced into her kennel. Other Half came to examine the damage. (and proclaim that I was a weenie) I had to coax Oli out of her kennel to reassure her that accidents happen and we were okay.  (which is MORE than HE did when MY dog bit HIM!)

And through it all, Dillon watched in amazement.

"Dogs bite HUMANS???"  Why would you bite a HUMAN?"

Despite the fact that my finger still hurts like the Dickens, Oli and I are okay. Other Half is still pissed at Briar.

  Men are such wusses.

This dog is a bit of a puzzle.

 "Who me?"

We were told that her mother was a Komondor and her father was a Great Pyrenees. While there is clearly a Great Pyrenees in there somewhere,

whatever else is in Briar's genes is open for debate.

Perhaps a Komondor,

with a dash of clown . . .  

There has been much serious discussion on the subject.

Today I received a phone call from Briar's vet. He wanted to take a blood sample from my Big White Dog and send it off for a free DNA test to finally have something more than speculation.  (not that it really matters but inquiring minds want to know!) Since we are all curious and the test is free, we decided to draw the blood up . . .

"Do what?!!" 

I got off the phone and walked outside to fetch up my Big White Dog.  The vet was on his way, and she was covered in cow poop. (Unscheduled Midnight Romp in the pasture) A date with a water hose was necessary to make her presentable to even the most tolerant of farm vets.

An hour later and Briar's "who's ya daddy?" test was in the mailbox. Anyone want to take bets on what turns up?

"Sugar and spice and everything nice!"

     The "Christmas Spread" is a term the press threw about this morning to describe the shrinking holiday of Thanksgiving. Although this is my favorite season, I cannot help but feel like Charlie Brown, lost in a world of consumerism run amuck. 

     While some retailers hide the fact they are opening on Thanksgiving Day by calling it "Midnight on Black Friday," others proudly battle for the right to loudly proclaim they will be opening Thanksgiving Day. All this is to separate the consumer from his almighty dollar.  And as if it were real news, the press carries this madness on every channel.  They glorify the family that camps outside the department store, more than the family that sits at home with an empty chair on Thanksgiving Day, a chair that belongs to a soldier.

     This morning the national news carried the story of a woman who camped on the sidewalk with her children - her 15 minutes of fame. What is she teaching? Is saving a few dollars on a television set more important than teaching her kids to thank God for the ability to even buy a television set? Is saving money on presents more important than thanking God for the friends and family who will receive these presents?

     It's not about the shopping, it's about saying "thank you," about holding one day out, one holy day, to survey your little kingdom, to take stock of your life, and to thank the Good Lord for the things He's given you.

    "Wow! We've got a lot to be thankful for."

"Yep. We sure do."

     It became painfully obvious this week that a farm runs on routine. Upset the delicate applecart of Routine, and you have one helluva mess. While it may appear faster to cut corners, short some chore here or there, with plans to make up for it later, it never works. It will, in fact, blow up in your face, for a farm is like a giant baby - it thrives on routine. It wants everything done EXACTLY the SAME way everything is normally done - no exceptions. Any variation sets you up for a giant temper tantrum.

     Routine on a farm is built around the temperament and idiosyncracies of each individual animal or group of animals. One must take into account multiple personalities.  For instance:

You MUST put Musket the Cowpony in the barn first.

Feed him to get him out of the way. Failure to do so sets up a chain reaction that raises everyone's blood pressure. If Musket is not in the barn, he will follow you to feed the sheep and try to squeeze his Queen Mary size ass into the pen behind you, thus intimidating the dairy goats enough that they will not follow you back through the pasture to be milked.

When feeding the horses in the arena, you MUST feed Scout the Mustang Paint first. Failure to do so results in a wreck because he will simply wade in like John Wayne and take Montoya's meal anyway. Feed them over the fence so Scout will not run Montoya on top of you. If you feel the need to feed Montoya a little extra because you feel sorry for him, Scout will thank you because as soon as he finishes his meal, he will run Montoya out of his, thus any extra will just go to Scout anyway.  You must keep these two horses away from all cows, sheep, and goats at meal time. They are both determined eaters who will eat their meals, and anyone else's. 

If you choose to skip the step of putting Musket the cowpony in the barn (thus having to wait for him to finish eating) and opt to feed him in a bucket in the pasture, the dairy goats will run to Musket's bucket for grain, rather than continuing onward toward their milking spots in the back yard.

Sheep must be fed before you release dairy goats. If they are not happily munching something, they will notice that goats are moving through an open gate and race after them.  That kind of chaos can only be sorted out by a Border Collie.

You must have the goats locked up BEFORE you feed the house cows. Failure to do so means the goats will run to the fence opposite the cow feeders and attempt to squeeze their scrawny necks through the bars and eat grain which an 800 lb bovine is also eating. See the problem?  A goat's motto is "No guts, no grain!"  A cow's motto is "My grain, your guts - on the ground."

With the exception of THE Border Collie (Lily), the dogs must be locked in kennels before the goats will stand to be milked. Failure to do so results in a chocolate lab puppy climbing into a milk bucket - aka "chocolate milk."  

 "What?"

 Goats also do not like to stand quietly while Trace stares at them like a serial killer. Put Dexter the Serial Killer up.

     IF you follow the rules, the animals will happily wait their turn, confident that the gears of the great Routine Machine are grinding in their direction. If, however, because you are sick, you decide to depart from the routine, prepare yourself for one land mine after another as the Routine Machine blows a gasket. And when you lose your temper because the dairy goats just freight-trained over you in a mad dash through the gate to get to someone else's grain, and you throw a bucket of grain at their disappearing asses, it is a good idea to have a Border Collie to head them off and clean up your mess.

I'm just sayin'.

"The grass is not greener on the other side.

The grass is greener where we water it."

                                    Joel Osteen

Catching up: A respiratory bug has hit and we've spent the week coughing, sneezing, blowing noses and hacking up lungs. Unfortunately we were short-staffed at work, so I wasn't able to take off, thus I'm sure to have infected half of the city by now.

The down side to both of us being sick is that no one wants to do the chores.  The up side to both of us being sick is that we can get it over faster and be done with it.

Bonus:  a certain chocolate lab puppy has the amazing ability to stay in the bed for long hours, much like a hot water bottle, and keep two human adults warm.

"Just one of my many talents."

     There are many times in life I've said, "Thank God I didn't do that!"  This was one of those times.

     A few days ago Other Half and I were getting him ready to go to work. While he gets dressed, I take the dogs on a morning walk and drink frappuccino. (Yes, I know. I'm drinking again.)  Because the main gate opens onto a highway, I try to put most of the dogs up before he leaves so we don't have to worry about dogs getting out. 

     On this particular morning I had finished the walk and everyone was in the house except Lily. And as often happens any time before 11 AM,  Other Half was in a particularly grumpy mood.  (Can you say "Bitchy Bear?  Sure. Sure you can.)

     Anyway, while His Grumpiness was getting loaded into the truck, I was tossing a stick for The Perfect Dog.  Lily was happily returning said stick. Unfortunately, a certain Red & White Border Collie was NOT happy that he was not involved in the game which he could see from my office window. That's when Mr. Bitchy Bear growled at me.

"Quit throwing that stick before Trace breaks the window out."

So I did. And so Lily bounced up to Daddy with her stick.

And he threw it . . .

. . . and Trace broke the entire window out.

"Aaaahhhh. . . ma bad."

     For a moment, time stopped. I'm ashamed to say that my first thought was "Thank God I didn't throw that stick!"

     Trace was a bit shaken, but otherwise was okay with his close call. No vet was needed, just an entire three foot window to be replaced. Other Half was beside himself with anger.  His face turned red. I thought his head would explode. (and all before 11 o'clock.) I took this opportunity to point out the obvious.

"I'm so glad you threw that stick."

     Now this world is made up of Tiggers and Eeyores.  I choose to be a Tigger. For instance, yes, the dog broke out a window, BUT he was not hurt, AND it happened while we were home so no one else was hurt climbing through broken glass.  So in reality, it was really a GOOD thing - we were blessed! (That's how Tiggers think!)

That kind of thinking really pisses off the Eeyores of this world.

Fortunately despite the fact that he was a Bitchy Bear that morning, Other Half is also a Tigger. . . so I am still alive to tell the tale.

 "And me too!"

     When you live on a farm, there are certain things you expect. Mud will be tracked in the house, you will go to work with hay in your hair, and there are mice in the barn. What you do not expect, nor will you tolerate, is this:

     Other Half returns home last night bearing coffee. I decide to put it in a little-used bottom cabinet which contains old dish towels and burned oven mitts. Slide open drawer. Fat mouse runs along the drawer ridge and disappears in back of drawer.  Scream and commence the Mouse Dance.  (modified version of the Rat Dance) As I jump up and down, point and scream, Other Half (who has been law man for 30 years) also begins to scream and jump in place.  I yell for my Contract Killer - aka Lily the Border Collie, who is fearsome confused by all the excitement.

     I clarify to Other Half that the suspect is a mouse, not a snake, (he was certain I had found a snake) and point Contract Killer toward drawer.  She begins her search for Trespassing Rodent but has no luck. Stewart Little the Mouse has crawled out of the drawer and into the back cabinet.  I slowly open drawer above the bottom drawer.

     A tiny mouse stares up at me. I scream. Contract killer cannot get to mouse before Stewart Little's Little Friend scampers off.  Other Half shouts at me to cease shrieking when I am surprised by a rodent because "it scares the crap out of him."

      I am beside myself. Two mice in less than two minutes! Contract Killer and I now begin a diligent search for mice in the kitchen. As I slowly open cabinet doors, she scans the contents like a Raptor, searching for her prey.

     Other Half finds this vastly amusing.  (I am still amused that he screamed like a girl while I was doing the Mouse Dance. Yes, I know, I was screaming too, but I have boobs, therefore I can scream when I see a mouse and get away with it.)

     Our systematic search of the kitchen is fruitless.  We clean out the cabinets and Other Half baits mouse traps with peanut butter.  I inform him that the cats at my For Sale House are coming here! NOW! (They are still living in the barn at the other house until it sells. It's under contract now. Keep your fingers crossed.)  Other Half informs me that he does NOT want house cats.  They are dirty. They come with litter boxes. He does not like cats in the house.  I remind him that I don't like RODENTS in the house. He continues to set mouse traps.  I state that I will NOT set mouse traps, nor will I empty mouse traps of deceased rodents - that is NOT in my job description.

     I prefer to hire contract killers for such work.  (cats and Border Collies work nicely)

     Other Half informs me that I am over-reacting to the idea of mice in the kitchen.  After all, it's just a little mouse.  They've probably been crawling all through the cabinets and we haven't died yet.  I am not amused.

     The next morning I check his traps. Two are empty of peanut butter and there is a fat blond mouse in the third one.  Other Half is beside himself with happiness. I am grossed out.  The dogs and I go outside for a walk and a morning frappuccino. (Yes, I'm drinking again. Wouldn't you be?)

     I return from the walk to find Other Half standing in the kitchen re-setting traps with peanut butter.  My gaze happens to land on the kitchen sink.  There is a stiff dead blond mouse splayed out in a trap on my kitchen sink.  I begin screaming and shouting at him.  He fails to grasp the problem.  (MEN!) At this point I am ready to have an apoplectic fit. I order him to remove said mouse from my sink and disinfect the entire sink and counter.  He agrees but argues, "it's just a mouse."

     Am I alone in this? Am I a voice crying out in the wilderness? Does anyone else have a problem with a freakin' mouse on the kitchen sink??!!!

     And what really scares me is this: 

If I had not SEEN the Rigor Mortis Rat (okay, it was a mouse) on the sink, would he even have bothered to clean it?!!!  EEEWWW!!!!

Yep, he thinks this is funny.  Wait till he comes home to find that I have purchased a ferret. (just kiddin') I will name it Rikki Tiki Tavi. (I know. He was a mongoose. Hey!  That would work too!)

"The only good mouse is a dead mouse!"

There is a reason why this dog is Top Paw around here.

 Lily

She doesn't have the raw talent of this dog:

She isn't as fearless around cows as this dog:

But she is more versatile than any dog we have because she listens . . .

 Lily closing the gate

. . . . and she tries to figure out exactly what we are trying to do and how she can help.

Got mice?  If so, you need a murderin' Border Collie!

Clearly with a little encouragement, a Border Collie can become as handy for rodent control as a Rat Terrier. (I'll spare you the crime scene photos of the victim. Other Half was astounded that I took them. What can I say? I'm a crime scene investigator. I take pictures of dead people . . . and dead mice.)

Talented pup probably isn't getting his fair share of moving livestock simply because it's so much easier just to have Top Hand do it.

                          "Which is soooo grossly UNFAIR!"

What can I say? I'm lazy.

Heaven help me if I ever lose my Top Paw.

Lily even did her civic duty last night and went out in thunderstorm with me to vote. She barked at the thunder and laughed at the lightning.  (While at home, Ice got scared and peed on my bed . . . . but I still love her anyway.)

Note: I've fallen behind in my email this week, so bear with me!  My virus protection ran out and I simply refused to re-new online (because then the pirates get your credit card number and happily re-new you against your will later. Been there. Done that. Got the t-shirt.  Anyway, I insisted upon buying a hard copy of the software instead, and didn't get that installed until last night.  THUS . . .  my email stacked up!  I promise I haven't been ignoring you!

Oh! My! Gosh!!!

I completely lost track of my week!

Friday Clover and I were supposed to post the winners from the Land Of Milk & Honey drawing!

(but then . . . you knew that!)

Forgive me, the week got away from me, it was busy at the office,  and I forgot. And because of that, and the fact that I just love you all, everyone who entered will receive a bar of Clover's Love Spell soap. It may take me a few weeks to get them all out because Other Half just arranged a deal to carry our soap in a wonderful Western Wear store and they're gearing up for the Christmas rush. But nevertheless, I WILL have your soap to you before Christmas! 

And now to the big winners . . .

Susan B. and Terri's Pal "COME ON DOWN!"

You are the two big winners of The Soap Is Right!

Send me your snail mail addresses and I'll fire off a package of soap for each of you!

I'll be looking for addresses from everyone who entered. Y'all start looking for a package from Texas!

Yesterday Dillon was a victim of Family Violence.

I know!  Who could attack this little face? 

 But someone did. They sliced his nose - and it bled - and it bled - and it bled some more.

On the surface it appeared we had our suspect. After all, she had blood on her face.

But we should never hop to snap conclusions.  For instance, rather than assaulting her best friend, it is possible that a certain Livestock Guardian Dog was actually "helping" our victim.

"Oh please, my Queen, forgive him.  He knows not what he does!"

And it's also possible that our suspect got blood on her face as she raced to comfort our victim.

"Don't do that again, Little Buddy.  You know Ice hates you."

And it's also possible that our complainant is a bit thick-headed.

"Look at this Awesome Cool Bottle!  Who wants to play with this Awesome Cool Bottle?  You?  Do YOU want to play with the Awesome Cool Bottle?" 

 "Please die now."

"Let's play!"

 "NO! 

Go away, you Filthy Beast!"

"Bummer. What a downer."

(Our complainant wanders off in search of other people to bother.)

"YOU!  You want to play with my Awesome Cool Bottle!"

And thus we see how a case of Aggravated Assault/Family Violence "could" also be considered Self-Defense. But most of all we see that just because someone is hurt, and someone else is covered in blood - one cannot jump to hasty conclusions.

  "Yeah!"

Disclaimer: Plastic bottles are dangerous. Puppies shouldn't be left alone with one. Dillon is only allowed to carry it around, he isn't allowed to chew it.

You, dear readers, have given me so much that it's time for me to give back.

Who wants soap?!!

Not only am "I" having bunches of fun soapmaking, but my friends are enjoying my new farming adventure too.  Soap is flying out of here so fast that I need to take a few days off of my "real" job to make some more!  People like it. And that's why I want to give you some.

I'll be giving away two baskets of soap. All you have to do is hit "post a comment" (at the bottom of the page) and tell me 1) what is your favorite farm blog 2) what is your favorite CSI blog, and 3) who's your favorite farm character.  That's it. Just pick your favorites, hit "post a comment", and give me some feedback.  I'll have Clover the Milk Goat select 2 lucky readers and we'll ship you some soap! 

Clover will select her winners Friday, Nov. 4 at noon.

  "Pick me!  Pick me!!!"

As I was taking my morning walk, this thought sprang to mind:

The one thing about moving the sheep & goats from the old farm to the cow ranch is this . . .

. . a whole new set of garbage men to hate Briar.

 I'm just sayin'.

We are at war. The mosquitoes have made us prisoners in our own home.  There isn't much I can do for the livestock, but all 8 dogs are living in the house. (Yes, Briar too!)

This has been going on for a week.  A cold front due to come in this afternoon is promising some relief but it can't come fast enough for those of us who must guard against Flying Monkey Mosquitoes each time we open the door.

I don't even like to turn the dogs out until the sun is up good and, like vampires and zombies, the skeeters subside a bit.  (That's relative though. We're talking having 400 mosquito attacks as opposed to the 4000 attacks at dusk.)

So once the sun was high in the overcast sky, I let the dogs out this morning.  A few minutes later I heard this godawful barking.  Through my office window I watched the mosquito fogger truck slow-rolling down the road.  In his wake were 5 barking dogs. (Briar, Ice, Cowboy, Trace, and Lily) 

I rushed to the door to save them from gassing themselves. They reluctantly abandoned their assault. (he had passed the corner of their fence anyway - sector 12 was clear)

As I hustled them back in the house and cautioned them on the dangers of chasing fogger trucks and Briar said,

"I didn't inhale . . . "

"May I have some Cheetos and pizza?"

Someone forgot to warn Willie that his mouth shouldn't write a check that his ass can't cash.

I'm not a big fan of cattle. I'm more into goats and sheep. Cows are big. Cows are stupid. Anything that big, and that stupid . . . is dangerous.  For instance, let's examine Willie and Paisley.

  Willie

(Pity buy on Other Half's part) 

Last winter I left a cattle auction to give the dog a potty break. A few minutes later, Other Half called to inform me that he had purchased Willie because "he felt sorry for him."  Willie serves absolutely no purpose on this ranch. He has managed to avoid being sold with all the calves and all the cows that were "cut from the team" because of the drought. The fact that Willie has made the cut, not once, but four separate times, is a mystery beyond my scope. That is between Willie and Other Half.  Fortunately Willie is pretty sweet and causes no trouble.

Enter Paisley.  (I don't name these heifers, the Ag kids do. I just call 'em what the kids called 'em.)

Paisley is what you get when two people go to the County Fair Commercial Heifer sale and agree beforehand not to purchase ANY MORE COWS!  When a little Red Angus bred to a notable bull comes across the block, those two people who agreed not to purchase ANY MORE COWS come home with a Paisley.

Paisley is a sweet little cow, but sista ain't takin' no flack from dweebs.

  Willie walked up to Paisley and she informed him that pipsqueaks need to "git!"  Willie, the pip-squeak, took exception to that . . . and thus began Willie's check cashing experience.

She pushed poor Willie all over the yard.

  Back . . .

and  . . .

. . .  forth

Willie had a tiger by the tail and couldn't let her go.

And as you can see,

Willie doesn't have any ass to back up what he says.

But Willie does have something Paisley doesn't have. Willie has horns. We were a little concerned that someone would slip, and Paisley would get gored.

Fortunately for Paisley, (and Willie) Willie doesn't really use those horns for weapons. The scuffle went on so long that even the spectators grew bored and went back to grazing.

Believe it or not, Paisley gave up first.  I'm not sure who was more surprised, us or Willie.

"Some girls just cain't take a joke!"

"I'm just reportin' the facts."

"It has come to my attention . . .

. . . that a member of this family . . .

. . . one of God's Chosen People - a Border Collie,

  has been seen

fraternizing,

with a Flat-head, an N-BC, a Non- Border Collie, someone who is clearly NOT one of God's Chosen People.

 "This behavior has become an all too frequent occurrence, and in my opinion, should stop immediately."

"I'm just sayin'. This could lead to all manner of things."

My husband, the cattle man, tolerated my Boer goats. He grudgingly accepted my switch to dairy goats. And because he knew how to milk a cow, he taught me to milk a goat, but that was about the extent of his interest - until I started soaping.

I had already made two batches of soap at the vacant house we are trying to sell. (no disturbs me and the house smells great for realtors!) He had never watched me make soap, but was noticing that his empty cardboard cowboy hat boxes were quickly being filled with curing bars. Last Sunday I took him to Wal Mart with me as I stocked up on soaping supplies.  Because I'd been wanting to try the loofah soap, I grabbed a couple of overpriced loofah sponges for the day I ever got around to making the molds.

I hadn't planned on using them for this batch of soap, but as I started making soap, I soon realized that he was puttering in the barn.  He came back into the house, grabbed a loofah, wet it, crammed it into his tube, measured it, and proceeded to cut two pvc molds.  I didn't bother him. He was clearly a man on a mission.
 
He then had two tubes with no end caps and no apparent plan for how to get the hardened soap out of the mold. He came back into the kitchen, and rummaged around until he found two coffee cans.  He then sprayed his cans and his tubes with PAM. He lined the bottom of the cans with freezer paper.  I just made soap and kept my mouth shut. The loofah tubes were HIS project. Clearly he planned on using my batch of soap for his project, so I mentally wrote off this batch of soap even as I was mixing it up.
 
He put his tubes in the coffee cans and placed the cans in a shallow pan of ice water.  I had my doubts, but it was his project.  When the batch was ready to be poured, I poured some in a large pyrex measuring cup for him. He poured it into each sponge. He filled two sponges and used the rest in a flat mold. The next day he used a green bean can to push his soap out of the mold and cut it up with a miter box and a serrated bread knife. Wonder of wonders! ALL the soap turned out!
 
Now he wants his own rubber gloves for soapmaking this weekend.  Whodathunkit?

Other Half's Loofah soap:

This is not an uncommon sight around here.

It appears that the Big White Dog can take all manner of abuse

 and really enjoys the company of a certain little chocolate monster.

It goes without saying that the little monster enjoys the company of his couch/punching bag/guardian. Perhaps he should talk to George the Chicken.

Read: "I will name him George"

(disclaimer: They are not left alone. He is tiny and she is gigantic.)

I have said before that if you're lucky, you get one really great dog in your lifetime - one dog that becomes so entangled in the fiber of your being that he becomes a part of your soul.  Such was my Navarre. Our adventures continue even after his death . . .

     This

 +

  This

(minus the Border Collie)   =

This!

Goat milk soap!

Last week I made my first batch of goat milk soap. This is clearly addictive.  I made my second batch this weekend. I will make my third batch NEXT weekend. 

 (so many fragrances, so little time . . . )

It really isn't that hard. 

First you mix up the lye and water.  This is the dangerous part, so there are no pictures of that.

Then you mix up your oils (lard, cottonseed oil, sunflower oil, olive oil, whatever oils you want) Still no pictures because I can't take my attention away when working around lye.

Then you blend the lye-water with your oil mixture.  When the oils completely coat the lye-water, blend in your goat's milk.  Blend, blend, blend until the mixture begins to trace.  This means that when you lift your stick blender out of the substance, and droplets fall back into the substance, they will sit on the surface for a moment before they sink back into the substance.  (clear?  clear as mud?)  I'll have someone take pictures next time.

Anyway, when you hit trace, that's when you stir in the fragrance.  Ahhhhh. . . the fragrance . . .

After you stir in the fragrance, you dump the mixture into the mold.

I'm not happy with my choice of molds, but it's the best I've got for the time being.  The soap mixture will heat up A LOT because of the lye. Put it in a safe place so kids, dogs, cats, and realtors don't get into it. I'm using my oven at the old house because no one is living there now. 

 Since realtors are showing this house, I put a note on the oven. 

Do not disturb! I leave mine uncovered in an oven until the next day.

Let the soap cure overnight and cut it the next day. (some recipes call for a much longer cure time.)

My cutting methods are less than stellar.  Clearly I'm a "work-in-progress."  I'll get better with practice! (and I forsee a LOT of practice in my future!)

Aahhhh. . . the smell!

  I got some really weird patterns on the top of the soap as it cured.  I'll have to research this and find out what's going on there.

Let the soap cure for a few weeks before you use it.  The longer it cures, the harder it gets.

So there you have it! 

From the goat to the tub!

Learning to make soap is an adventure!  I cannot begin to tell you how wonderfully satisfying it is.  Goat's milk produces a most creamy soap that spoils you for anything else!

And a special "Thank You!" goes out to Karen Buckley and Gil Loe at Rose Cottage Dog Hotel in Greenwood, Louisiana, (www.rosecottagedoghotel.com) for helping out my husband who just had some tire trouble in Lousiana.

He had to get off the highway fast, saw your place with a large horse trailer and took a chance that he could find help there.  Bless you!

What are the odds that a man with a Malinois patrol dog would happen to stumble upon people who had Malinois dogs and did bite work? He called me up raving about your son's Malinois. Bless you again for helping him get back on the road.  Since he told me that you liked goat milk soap, as soon as this next batch of soap cures, I'll pop a gift basket in the mail!

Thank you again!

     Recently I was at the District Attorney's office in a meeting with a prosecutor. She shared with me that her husband was returning to town from London and could take care of her child if our meeting ran over.  I hastened to assure her that his return was much more important than our meeting and we could simply have it another time.

At this point she said something that immediately moved us from strangers to Soul Sisters.

"Oh no! He jetted to London and left me with a full time job and a three year old child, HE can just deal with a three year old baby by himself until I get home!"

     And with those words, we became friends. As shameful as it is, I know EXACTLY how she feels. We love our kids, (and our dogs, sheep, goats, cattle, and horses . . .) but when the husband leaves and we have full responsibility of EVERYTHING, women do tend to resent it.  (At least me . . . and a certain prosecutor)

It goes like this:

Other Half informs me that he is headed out of town to serve an arrest warrant . . . and he "might" have to stay overnight.  CODE: "I will be gone overnight, leaving you with a full time job and more animals than Noah, but I'd rather be four hours away when I confirm this."

Fortunately I understand the code and am not too surprised when he is four hours away before he confirms that yes, he won't make it home tonight. That's okay.  I am Woman. Hear me ROAR! Whatever . . .

By the time I get home from work "I AM WOMAN" is tired, and she still has to feed the horses, feed the cows, milk the goats, feed the sheep, and feed the dogs, and do all this while swatting mosquitoes who swarm like flying monkeys threatening to carry off small dogs.

And this is where women have a shift in logic - every little bump in the routine becomes HIS fault . . .

Come home from work. The Flying Monkey Mosquitoes swoop in as I open the main gate.  Grrr . . . This must be His fault. Yes, mosquitoes blown in from the marsh must certainly be his fault. Greet happy dogs and head to barn. Open feed bin. Stuart Little the mouse races across the sea of oats. He attempts to shimmey his fat little butt through a crack in the boards. Failing, Stuart dives and begins feverishly digging down through the oats. His little butt is sticking up but he doesn't know this. Stuart is an ostrich in the sand - a mouse, with his ass sicking out of the oats. I could just pick him up by the tail and kill him, but he amuses me, so I scoop around him.

Shovel oats at Husband's Horse who is as long as the Queen Mary ship and has an ass about that broad. On way out of stall, horse rotates around his bucket, planting his big-ass foot squarely on the top of MY foot, effectively pinning me in place. He then proceeds to spin his big-ass-ass around, without removing his big-ass-foot from the top of my foot Thus . . . Big-Ass knocks me down. I land in dirty shavings and horse shit - in my uniform. There is hay and horse shit in the barrel of my gun. Oh! THIS is definitely some man's fault. LOGIC: It is his horse.

Feed the other horses. Cows are bellowing. Stalk back to feed room for cow feed. Grab  an open bag. Large fat mouse races out of bag - Stuart Little's cousin.  This time I am not nearly as amused. Consider shooting little bastard as he darts across floor. Gun still has horse shit on it. sigh . . . Decide to blame Husband for mouse problem too. LOGIC: They are his cows.

Stalk through the dark toward cattle who are tossing feeders like tinker toys.  Heavy metal feeders crash against pipe gates to remind me that they are hungry. Blame this on Husband too.

Refuse to walk into pen and straighten feeders against fence. It is dark. They are big. They are smashing each other. I would simply be collateral damage. After experience with horse, am feeling a bit vulnerable. Laying on the ground in horse poop is a bit different from laying on the ground amid dozens of impatient cow hooves. (Would then need Blue Heeler to rescue me.)  Opt to throw feed over fence and hope it hits feeder. If not, too bad for cows - they shouldn't play bumper cars with their feeders.  Blame Other Half for this too. LOGIC: They are his cows.

Settle down to milk goat. Ahhhhh peace . . .  But wait! Freakin' Flyin' Monkey Mosquitoes attempt to take me and goat back to Oz.  Goat is not amused.  Miserable milking for both of us.  Wonder how I can blame this on him too, since he is most certainly clean and not swatting bugs at this moment.  Failing in that leap of logic, go inside and strain milk.

Feed dogs and get ready for bed.  Shower and crawl in nice cool bed. Border Collie settles in beside me. Other Half calls. Will serve warrant first thing in the morning. He is laying in a clean hotel bed with the air conditioner blowing at 59 degrees. Patrol Dog is curled up in the bed with him. Icicles are on her nose.

Exchange details of our days. His day did not involve rodents, mosquitoes, or falling in horse poop. On the other hand, he is in a strange bed, in a strange town, and he keeps getting lost trying to find the police station.  The dog beside me sighs with contentment. I think on it for a second and decide that perhaps Other Half did get the short end of the stick.  Despite the time spent staring at the other side across the fence, despite the rodents, the mosquitoes, and the hungry animals, a hotel is still a hotel, and Home is still home. And Dorothy was right, there's no place like home.

On this farm there is a hierarchy of power. Let us examine this further.  Take for instance, the power struggle over the willow branch. Yes, a willow tree branch.

Our dogs are like children who receive an expensive birthday present and proceed to play with the box it came in.

A stick off the ground is better than any toy from the feed store. (and lasts longer)

But herein comes the power struggle.  Top Hand, the most useful dog on the ranch, has the willow branch.

She loses it to largest dog on the ranch.

Who promptly loses it . . .

. . . to smallest dog on the ranch.

"There is something so grossly unfair about all this."

Having a ranch is not about having room for eight dogs to run.

(Obligatory puppy picture!)

It's not about having sheep, goats, and cattle for the Border Collies.

    "Huh?"    

Farming and ranching is about this:

 YOGURT!

Well, it's not really about yogurt. It's about food! If you have a farm then you can raise your own food! Food that didn't travel across the ocean can land in your bowl! Food that wasn't abused can fill your plate. Food that was loved and never lived in fear can be yours if you just care to take a little bit more trouble than running to Kroger's.

I should run for president! 

If I'm elected, I promise that every family will have a dairy goat and three chickens!  And no one in this nation will ever go hungry again!

     After an extensive search through every pet supply store around here, I went to Bass Pro Shop to buy Dillon a camouflage puppy collar. Finding a suitable collar wasn't too hard. After all, in Bass Pro Shop, your choices are camouflage or neon orange. That's it.

     I was in a hurry, (What's new?) so I grabbed the collar and ran to the checkout. Now here's where it gets a bit strange. . . 

 I'm standing in the checkout line at a major hunting/fishing manly-man guy store when I just happen to read the warning label on the puppy collar.

Excuse me?

Am I the only one who was dumbfounded by this?

I'm just askin'. . .

I was at a law enforcement K9 seminar once when they got to talking about how dogs are tools in your tool box and like a well-stocked tool box, each dog should have its unique skills.  Someone mentioned using a Trailing Bloodhound as a Cadaver Dog and someone else said something I shall never forgot.

"That's like using your finest wood chisel to open a paint can."

Like a Leatherman tool, a multi-tasking dog is great, but if you have real work to be done, it's nice to have a dog that can excel at the job it was bred to do. That said, Other Half and I are blessed with two well-paying jobs and so when a dog isn't stellar, we don't trash the dog. We work around their limitations.

Here are the dogs in our tool box:

Ranger the Blue Heeler:

Cow Dog. Good for dangerous jobs because he is least likely to be killed by a cow. Not useful for anything that requires "thinking outside the box."

Lily the Border Collie:

Top Hand. Most useful stockdog. Good on cattle, sheep, & goats. Excellent for jobs that require finesse. Not good for distance work because she always "checks back" with handler.

Trace the Border Collie puppy:

Very green but has more raw talent than Top Hand Border Collie. Better at distance work now, but lacks finesse because he gets excited and forgets to listen. Is not used on cattle at all yet.

Cowboy the Rescue Border Collie:

Picked up as a rescue. Does a decent job on cattle but has no distance work or finesse whatsoever. Fortunately for him, despite the fact that he isn't a great working dog, he has excellent "suck-up" skills and Other Half loves him dearly, thus he has a Forever Home.

Briar the Livestock Guardian Dog:

Her only job is to guard the sheep & goats. Bonus is that she guards the farmyard.

Oli the Belgian Malinois:

No, she's not an ugly German Shepherd. She is a $6000 police dog who has always looked like an SPCA commercial. She is a currently working Narcotics and Patrol Dog.  She has no other job and cannot be trusted around any hooved livestock.

Ice the Black Belgian Tervuren:

Yes, she is a Terv.  She was born a black dog in a litter of brown dogs. Ice had a career as a Narcotics Dog but was too spacey to be consistent so she was re-homed with me because one of her littermates was my working Cadaver Dog (he was not spacey!) Ice has absolutely no job in our family, but we love her and are her Forever Home.

Dillon the Labrador puppy:

Bred to be a hunting dog, Dillon is the only "recreation" dog. It would have been really nice if one of the other dogs had the ability to hunt dove, ducks, and geese, but alas, not one of the herding dogs has any interest in being an accessory to murder.  (I'm just sayin' . . . )

And this, Friends & Neighbors, is why the boys don't take me hunting with them.

The Border Collies have decided there is just "somethin' odd" about Dillon.

While Lily adored Trace when he came to live with us . . .

. . . and let him sprawl all over her . . .

. . .  after careful consideration . . .

. . . they have decided that Dillon is an N-BC, a Non-Border Collie,

a Gentile, not one of God's Chosen People.

Fortunately other members of the pack are not so judgemental.

In fact, for some of us, watching Dillon is better than having HBO.

The Border Collies tolerate him, and watch his antics with mild interest, but they have decided that for the most part, he is an ugly little kid with nothing in common, who is unlikely to amount to any kind of ranch dog.

Meet Count Chocula.  No seriously, we named him "Dillon." I just call him Count Chocula because he's a chocolate vampire - a Fudgy Fangster.

He looks so innocent, like a living Hershey's Kiss.

  "A whut?"

"Whure?"

 "Who me???"

This is supposed to be an outside dog, you know, a manly hunting dog. Guess where he was last night?

  Okay, he was in a crate beside the bed, but he still spent a goodly amount of time in the bed too. 

The rest of the pack is absorbing him pretty easily.  Trace (1 year old Border Collie) thinks he's a neat toy.  Lily (3 year old Border Collie) thinks he's too little right now to be interesting. Talk to her when he gets big enough to play.  Briar (Livestock Guardian Dog) thinks he's a neat toy.  Ranger (Blue Heeler) thinks he's a darling baby who must be watched constantly. Ice (former Narcotics Dog) thinks he's an annoying brat who better quit checking her for the milk bar. Cowboy (antisocial Border Collie male who pees on everything) wishes the puppy would hold still so he can pee on him. Oli (present police dog) would like to check Dillon out closer because she believes he just "might" be an exotic squeaky toy.

At six weeks old, Dillon is already fetching. We will continue fetching games and will expand the games to include obedience and scent work. The Border Collies could always use some scent games too, since that's not exactly their forte.  On the other hand, Dillon shows absolutely no interest in livestock. He can't understand why Trace is so fascinated by the hooved creatures and Trace doesn't understand why Dillon likes feathers.  Different strokes for different folks.

  And water!

One of us REALLY loves water!

Dillon is the only member of the canine family who ISN'T a livestock dog or a police dog. They are "work" dogs. Dillon is a "play-work" dog. I keep telling Other Half that he should train him to do Narcotics so Dillon can pick up birds and pay the bills too! He said he ain't gonna ruin a good Gun Dog. Hey! Who says the dog can't multi-task?!!

I'm just sayin'.

There has been a significant shift in the weather here - hell just froze over.

We got another dog.

I know! I know! We both swore there would be NO MORE DOGS until all but two of the current dogs died.  Three is a good number. Yeah, three. The problem is that when you have working dogs, you become lazy.  After all, why work when a dog will do it for you?  And that brings us to this little guy . . .

 Guess what his job is.

This is opening weekend of dove season.  Oh wait!  I typed that wrong.  This is OPENING WEEKEND of DOVE SEASON.  Let me just say, I'm not a hunter. I'm a dog person who can appreciate a good dog doing whatever it was bred to do. That said, even though I, myself, don't hunt, I love a good working retriever.

 In case you haven't figured it out already, these aren't his birds. (but don't tell him)  Son and Friend shot and recovered all these birds themselves, i.e. no dog. Son informed me that he and his father had not been hunting dove together since the death of Millie. (Lab who walked on water. Much like my Border Collie, Lily)  For years Other Half has wanted another dog like Millie, so today, I broke down and bought him a Bird Dog. (before he brought home a stray that wasn't bred to hunt, and then we'd have another dog but it wouldn't WORK! At least this one will work.)

   Next year, look for this pair to be wearing camouflage together. Puppy does not yet have a name. His Indian name is Sleeps-A-Lot-Pees-A-Lot. Tomorrow his Indian name will probably be Chews-A-Lot-Pees-A-Lot.  He needs a REAL NAME.  Any ideas?

Disclaimer: Puppy was NOT riding in the back of the pickup truck. Our dogs do not ride in the bed of trucks. They ride inside, on leather seats.  And for the more sensitive among us, I apologize for photos of dead doves. It upsets me too. It's a guy thing. They see a successful hunt. I see thirty birds that should have gone to the veternarian.

Crimson, the new dairy goat, is afraid of dogs.

 "Wwwhere's a dddog?!!"

She is so afraid of dogs that for a week I kept the Livestock Guardian Dog away from the goats to give her time to settle in. This weekend I put Briar back in with the sheep and goats. Crimson ran.

"OOOOhhh!  There's a dog!!!"

Clearly someone has failed to tutor Crimson regarding roles of dogs on this farm, so here is a quick tutorial:

  Dangerous!

 Not Dangerous

If you don't believe me (since after all, I am a Two-Leg) take it from Roanie the ewe who survived the attack from Dangerous Police Dog:

 "Big White Dog is our friend."

She protects us from dogs, coyotes, and bobcats.

And she gives kisses. But sometimes she licks my butt before she kisses my face. I could do without that.

"We are good friends."

After all, who couldn't trust this face?

To read more about Briar and Roanie: Blood Will Tell

     I was awakened in the wee hours this morning by a large black dog clawing at my back.  Assuming Ice had a CODE 1 potty issue, I bounced out of bed to escort her to the door . . . and that's when I heard it.  Rain!  Rain! Rain!  (and thunder - thus leading to the claw marks on my back, but who cares! We got RAIN!)

     So I gathered my crew and hustled outside to play in the rain. Some of us, however, were less than amused with a morning walk in the rain.

 "Freakin' rain! Freakin' thunder! Freakin' Freaks who play in the freakin' rain!"

     Others more than made up for this lack of enthusiasm. I apologize for the quality of the photos. It was dark, and it was raining, but Briar's exuberance was such a joy to behold that I simply had to share it with you.

Thank you for indulging us in our celebration of rain. We now return you to your regularly scheduled program. Oh! But wait! One more thing!

"Thank you, Lord, for sending us rain!"

     The weekend has finally arrived and it couldn't come soon enough.  Yesterday I looked out in the pasture and my boys had perfectly summed up exactly what I want to do this weekend . . .

ZZZZzzzz . . .

Yeah, that's it . . . and maybe lay in bed with a good book.

 "Huh?"

(Yawn . . . ) Bbbut I can't read . . . "

This is the poster child for CONTRAST.

What is it?

This poster child for the concept of CONTRAST is a bowl of . . .   

 swimming in a bowl of . . .

                    goat's milk.

Yes! Captain Crunch, the military genius of sugar, mixed with goat milk, the icon for healthy living. And yes, I eat it . . .

(I was a complicated child too.)

Clover is my milk goat.

Her temperament is as sweet as her milk. Because of that, when her breeder culled Clover's twin because she had a seriously uneven udder, I told her that rather than send Crimson to the butcher, I'd be delighted to take her and try to correct the problem. 

Seriously uneven udder. Oh yeah.

And she's scared of dogs . . .

. . .  and we have 7 dogs.

 "Dddid I hear a dog?"

"Ssseriously! I hear a dog!"

But despite her uneven udder, and her fear of dogs, Crimson gives LOTS of milk! (which the dogs drink. What sick irony.)  On another note, today I took my first soapmaking class. I LOVE goat milk soap, and frankly, why should I buy goat milk soap when I have goat milk rapidly filling my refrigerator?

I thoroughly enjoyed my class. We made two batches of goat milk soap!

 This is not one of them!

The soap we made is curing. These are soap samples my teacher sent home with me!  Look at the one up front.  It's loofa soap!  I LOVE IT!  You cram a wet loofa sponge into a pvc tube mold, and pour the soap into the loofa. The loofa absorbs the soap. When you cut the bars, you have a wonderful exfoliating scrubber inside your bar of soap.  How cool it THAT?!! I can't wait to try this!

Thank you Vicki at Lonesome Doe Nubians! You opened up a whole new world for me!

"Whenever you fall, pick something up. "

 Oswald Avery

     One thing this life has taught me is that tragedy happens; it's what we make of it that has the greatest impact on our lives. At this moment wildfires continue to sweep across Texas. Homes and lives are being destroyed. Tragedy comes like dominoes falling across the state. And yet even as our world goes up in flames, the east coast is dealing with floods from record rains. While I am a "glass half full" kind of person, one may still wonder what good can come of such heartache.

     As each passing day brings more tragedy, the sun also rises and sets on shining examples of neighbors helping neighbors, of strangers stepping up to lift up strangers. While we often complain of the internet and social media as a fanciful whimsy of youth or folks with too much time on their hands, Facebook, Twitter, yahoo groups, and other media are connecting people in need with people who can help. My Yahoo groups are normally filled with emails regarding farming and raising livestock, yet now they serve as a lifeline to save farms. People are connecting on the internet. Strangers open up their ranches and their homes to refugees simply because they understand the enormity of this threat.

     I have been that refugee.  I know what it's like to load all my animals and what precious few possessions I could carry and depend upon strangers. Years later, I am still moved to tears at the memory of their kindness. I bless them now, as I blessed them then. I shall never forget the young man, baked and parched himself, who gave his last bottle of water to save a dying horse. I shall never forget the old rancher who saw stock trailers and knew horse people needed help. And I shall never forget the family of strangers who took us in, fed us, and took care of our animals. May God bless them each morning the sun rises and every night that it sets.

     And so this leads me to the key to unlock the secret to what is really important in this life - love your neighbor, even when he is a stranger.  

In the immortal words of Bronco Billy,

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

It is September in Texas and we are finally getting a break from the brutal heat. We had a record low temperature last night and I awoke to a gloriously cool morning. And thus begins my favorite time of year - fall!

Chores on a brisk cool morning seem less like chores. Come join us!

First we feed the horses.

Sweety Pie Horse greets us at the gate.

 Evil Border Collie Puppy threatens him.

Every morning . . .

Sweety Pie Horse is really scared. Really. Muskett is terrified. Can't you tell?

Go feed horses.

Fairy Tale Horse comes trotting in. Always happy to see his momma. (especially when she is carrying a bucket of feed!)

 Cowpony comes blasting in.

Note that Cowpony is evil to Fairy Tale Horse. Threaten to sell Cowpony to a hungry European diner with a taste for horsemeat.

Cattle begin wandering in. Note that no matter how many hay bales and syrup tubs they have, they will still insist on mooching grain.

 Turn goats loose.

 Milk Goat 

 Remind sheep that they are fat and do not need to be fed.  Turn them loose in the yard.

 Take a walk with the dogs and remember to thank God for this glorious day.

And remember to say a prayer for all the victims of the fires that are sweeping across Texas, for as I enjoy a cool morning walk with a frappuccino, others are waking up in their cars after a frightful night spent watching flames destroy their homes.

Thank you, Liz in Australia, for thinking of us, and checking to make sure we were okay. I am truly blessed to have such wonderful people in my life.

     Since Trace just passed his first birthday, his breeder called for an update, so here it is for him and the rest of Trace's fans:

     Trace has grown into a delightful young dog. Most of the time he is quite biddable EXCEPT when he's with livestock, then he goes off into "the zone" and you have to crack him on the head to get his attention. He tends to get sticky and wants to head off the stock to stop their movement, and refuse to call off. Because this resulted in lots of head cracking, I decided to put him up until he matured some more. I worked him on sheep early in the summer and when given a larger number of sheep and more room to work, I noted that he was relaxing and settling down some. Then the brutal summer heat came.

     The drought brought gigantic cracks in the ground which endangered livestock and dogs, so I decided to quit working Trace until it cooled off and the rains came again to fill the cracks. It simply wasn't worth a broken leg on sheep or dogs.

     From what I've seen thus far, Trace likes to go to the head. This is a nice complement to Lily, who likes to heel. 

     He also is bolder in his fetching and is willing to go much farther than Lily to pick up the sheep.  I haven't worked him on cattle at all yet.  Because of the drought, we sold all our calf crop from this year. When the rains return and he is biddable on sheep, then we'll pick up some calves for him to start.

     His people skills are excellent, and he is very friendly with strangers. He gets along well within our pack, but he is a resource guarder, putting a great deal of unnecessary energy into guarding food and humans. It isn't a major problem though. Overall, Trace has been an excellent addition to the farm and I expect that when he matures, he will probably be a more skilled herding dog than my Lily. He just has to learn there is no "I" in the word "teamwork."

     His littermate, Ruby, was quick to jump into the game and is already a big help on the farm. That may well be the difference between boys and girls, as I recall, we discussed how the boys tend to mature slower than the girls. Trace is very keen to work, so I don't doubt that with a little maturity, he'll get with the program too.

Sunday we moved Montoya from the other farm to this one.  I really missed my elegant clown and it's so nice to look out the window and see this again:

I've had this horse since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, now he towers over me. But no matter how big he gets, he will always be my little goof, and it's so nice to have him in the back yard again.

Baby Montoya aka Xenophon Star

"I will be filing a complaint with DUG (Dairy Goats Union) regarding the outrageous treatment I have been forced to endure.  This is degrading and I wish it to STOP!"

"From time to time the Male Biped on this farm has performed milking duties. Unfortunately he feels it is entertaining to shoot that Insane Black & White Beast With The Googly Eyes in the face with milk. Apparently Insane Beast likes this and has now taken to 'lingering' during milking time.  

I find this behavior intolerable, and wish to renegotiate our contract. My union attorney will be contacting you!"

 "Whaaat!!"

Disclaimer:

In this time of extreme drought, we do not water our lawn or wash our cars. I have cat pawprints on my windshield that have been there since June.  We are careful with our water, and each precious drop goes to the animals.  That said, we did allow for some summertime fun this weekend.

Other Half dug in the garage and found a forgotten water sprinkler.  Like inner city children with an open fire hydrant, the dogs played in the water for about 5 minutes.  Everyone had great fun, but someone monopolized the sprinkler . . .

 "What???"

Yesterday I made my favorite summertime treat!

Ingredients:

   Nilla wafers

Nilla puddin' 

  Nanners

Goat 

Wait!

                        Yea, goat milk!

Put 'em togther . . .

  Nanner Puddin' !!!

Thank you, Clover!

Anyone know what this is?

Try it from this angle.

It's a dog, you say?!!  An OUTSIDE dog??!!  An OUTSIDE dog sleeping INSIDE??!! In the foyer?!!

A dog who is supposed to be living in the 102 degree temperatures with the livestock??!!  THAT dog??

Well . . .    

. . .  you're right!

Briar has so much hair that the heat is really hard on her.  Her skin is pink, so I don't want to give her a haircut because she will sunburn.  It started innocently enough.  I began sneaking her in the house during the hot part of the day while Other Half was at work.  She is the perfect house dog. Briar lays around like a bearskin rug - a polar bearskin rug.

I was feeling guilty until a friend of mine in North Texas lost a mule (a MULE!) to the gawdawful heat. So I said to myself, (and Other Half)

"Screw that! Ih'm bringin' ma dawg inside!"

Whereupon he objected that she was dirty. So I bathed her in Pantene Pro V shampoo, and combed her out.  (There is a BEAUTIFUL dog in all that hair!)

I was still feeling a bit overindulgent until I watched the evening news last night.  Believe it or not, there is a couple in Central Texas who are bringing LLAMAS into their house during the heat of the day!  Suddenly bringing Briar in the house during the day didn't seem so outrageous.  

Llamas go inside house to escape heat

This weekend Huckleberry went to his new home.

As I explained to him when we neutered him, the very best home for a male goat was a Pet home.  Dear Reader Kelly bought Huckleberry and Swan and took them home Sunday to begin their new careers as Pet Goats. 

This means all the milk Clover produces now becomes MINE!

As a first time mother, I didn't take Clover's baby from her until he was ready to be weaned. Thus, the lion's share of the milk went to Huckleberry.  Now that he is weaned, I must milk her twice a day.  This was the milk on the first morning.

Now I have visions of cheese, yogurt, soap, and lotion dancing in my head!

"And dogs!  Don't forget warm milk for dogs!"

While Lily may be born and bred to be a cow dog, I'm just not sure I'm emotionally stable enough for Lily to be a cow dog.  Take this morning:

Am lying in bed, peacefully minding my own business, cuddling my precious Border Collie, (that's not true, she was asleep at the foot of the bed) when Other Half rolls over, slaps me on the hip, and announces "Since we have the cattle trailer already hooked up, let's take those cows to the sale today!"

Other Half is like that. Planning is never his strong point. He's more a "fly by the seat of your pants" kind of person. And since we both had the morning free, and since the trailer was already hitched because he took some sheep to the sale yesterday, he decides that this is a fine morning to take the cows to the sale.  Okie Dokie, Smokie.

"And hurry! They stop checking them in at 11 am!"

It is 8 am. My mind has barely had enough time to process the chores that need to be done, and he is already rushing me. Sigh . . . I haven't even had my caffeine yet. (Yes, trouble is a'brewin'. Cue ominous music now.)

So I juggle dogs for potty breaks and slip into jeans and boots.  He is already feeding cattle. By the time Lily and I get out there, wonder of wonders, he has, by some miracle, managed to separate the ones headed to the sale. The next task should be simple.  Move the cows through the chute where they will hop up into the cattle trailer, then you slam the gate shut and roll on to the sale barn. 

In reality, it isn't as simple.  Cows normally try to run back over you as you push them toward the chute. Large animals are frightened, or at best, annoyed. And it's tight in there. Not much room to work. People and dogs can get hurt.

While Other Half has originally planned to use Ranger The Blue Heeler, I have visions of the dog getting excited, barking, and running cattle back over us, so I choose Lily. She is Top Hand, the dog most likely to figure out exactly what we're doing, and how to help. Most of the time . . .

We begin moving cattle toward chute. All is well until Lily has a Border Collie moment and decides that she must GATHER the cattle and bring them back to us.  Holy Crap!  Get out of way. Try it again.  As cattle try to bound back toward the main herd on the other side of the fence, Lily is bounced into a fence.  My heart is in my throat. She recovers and heads them off.  With cows turned around, Other Half begins to aggressively smack cattle with sorting stick and move them toward chute.  Lily is TOTALLY on board now.  She understands and is pushing cattle along with Other Half.  Cows shoot through chute and into cattle trailer.  I barely see a flash of black and white in the trailer nanoseconds before I hear the trailer door slam shut.  Oh Dear God!  Lily is trapped in the trailer with the cattle. At this point I see her little fluffy life flash before my eyes . . .

That's when I begin screaming and running down the chute toward my precious puppy. Other Half has figured out that Lily is trapped and is working to get her out before the cattle discover it and stomp her to death. As I run down the chute, I fail to lower my head and am smacked across the top of the skull with a board or pipe, or something the size of a refrigerator.  See stars.  Keep on running to save my dog.

She has apparently discovered her mistake and is trying to be a Very Small Black & White Dog In A Corner. Other Half scrapes his knuckles off trying to get the cattle trailer opened, but manages to get Lily out before the cows see her. 

Lily springs out, all grins.  I am sick. I cannot decide whether to cry or throw up. I still see stars, but mostly I see the image of a crumpled bloody dog underneath angry cows.  Still a toss-up whether I cry or throw up.  Decide to hug dog instead. It is more productive and not as likely to upset her . . . and Other Half.  (who is very aware that if anything happens to that dog, the world will stop spinning, and life as he knows it will cease to exist.)

We roll to the drop-off location for the sale barn to find that one poor man is trying to unload cattle, register cattle, tag cattle, and put them in pens, all by himself. 

Cattle trailers are lined up. Everyone is selling cattle because of the drought.

Other Half decides that he must help this poor man. He bales out to assist. That leaves me with plenty of time to decide that I hate cows.

Despite the fact that I live in Texas and am married to a Cow Man, I prefer sheep and goats. Handling them isn't as likely to result in a trip to the emergency room or the Pet Cemetery.

Despite the drought, we've had just enough rain here to make the lawn grow.  Woo hoo! Today I turned the "lawn crew" out to work.

Supervisor in the Shade:

Like Pac Man, the sheep go through the yard.

 Goats in the Yard

MMMMMM.... browse! 

The Supervisor patrols the perimeter.

"Sector 12 is clear!"

  V.  

    I have finally got the bulk of the furniture out of my old house. It is sitting in a cattle trailer in the back yard, which will explain the strange stains on the back of the couch.  That's not a major problem because there are strange stains on the front of that couch too.  If there has ever been a bloodhound in your life, you have strange stains in strange places - drool marks on the wall, drool marks on the ceiling. And you will have rub marks on the couch. 

     Some time ago Other Half informed me the couch was not coming. Naturally, being a woman, just because he told me we weren't moving the couch, I planted my feminine feet and insisted that we WERE moving the couch. It could just stay in the muck room.  Being a man, he realized he was facing a wall, and gave in.  I think he had plans on burning it while I was at work one day. I was adamant, the muck room would be turned into a Dog Room and the couch could stay there. I wavered a bit though when a friend who was helping me move, announced, "You're not really taking this thing to Robby's are you?"

     Hmmmm . . .  Yeah, she was right. It smells like a Bloodhound. But still, the couch had to get out of the house. so into the cattle trailer it went with everything else. And after all the fabric furniture was out, I scrubbed the floor with chlorox.  All was well until I got feedback from prospective home buyers, "House smells like a dog."

WTF!!  I scrubbed the floors!  I lighted incense!  I didn't smell anything when I left!

     I compared notes with Dear Friend who visited AFTER the Homebuyers.  She stated that it smelled good. It smelled like incense.  Thus you see the problem.  Dog People cannot smell dogs. Sigh . . .  thus begins the war, the war on Dog Odor. . .

. . .

Arrive at house armed with LARGE jug of bleach. House is empty.  House cat has apparently decided to exit doggy door and play in The Great Outdoors. Fine.  Walk into kitchen. Am Scared shitless by tiny rodent racing across floor. 

Do what?!!  Mouse?  In the house? Holy shit!

Am reminded that House Cat is old and worthless as a hunter.  Her idea of fun is to drink latte and watch The View. Sister does not do rodents.  Make plans to bring barn cats in house later.  Doggy door bursts open. House cat races into kitchen and announces,

"Hey! You're back! You gonna feed me?"

Point out to cat that a MOUSE was in the house.

Cat reminds me that without thumbs she cannot open the cat food container.  Like the well-trained pet I am, I trudge to back room and feed her.  Then I begin to clean.  This involves filling large buckets of water and bleach and sloshing it out over tile floors.  Take THAT Dog Odor!  In no time, my entire house smells like a country club swimming pool - but not a dog!  (At least as far as I could tell, apparently Dog People cannot be trusted in these matters.)

It is in one of my many trips from the kitchen sink that Stuart Little decides to crash my party again.  I'm guessing that like me, the little mouse is also a bit tipsy from chlorox fumes, because just as I am leaving the kitchen with a bucket of bleach water, Stuart races across the kitchen and into the dining room - narrowly missing the top of my foot.  Because the dining room floor is already wet, he can't get good traction and is slipping like a pig on ice across the tile.  Three things happen:

1) I scream.
2) I toss an entire bucket of bleach water onto a tiny mouse.
3) Someone cues the theme from Hawaii 5-0 . . .  because . . .

Stuart Little goes from a pig on ice to a little mouse riding the waves.  That little bastard climbs on his surfboard and rides the giant wave across the dining room tile, under the table, and out the other side, where he gracefully exits his surfboard and scampers under the piano. 

I am in shock. I stand there, staring at water all over the floor and an innocent-looking upright piano. At this moment the House Cat appears in the dining room, requesting another can of food.  DO WHAT??!!

"If you want to eat something, eat this!" I snarl as I roll the piano away from the wall. 

No Stuart Little.  Some wet dust bunnies and an old birthday card from my sister.  And like the ADHD person I am, I say, "Hey! Where'd that come from?" and reach down to snatch it up before Stuart Little's slowly advancing tide of water can reach it.  I am already crammed behind the piano when I come to my senses and realize that if Stuart is not BEHIND the piano, it means he is INSIDE the piano.  I back out quickly and shake myself like a horse after a good roll. EEEWWWWW!

Meanwhile, the House Cat is unimpressed.  She yawns at my birthday card and puts in another request for cat food. I inform her that the barn cats hunt without the benefit of satellite television and air-conditioning.  She is still unimpressed.  I do however, gather up all her dry and canned cat food and put it on the back porch.  No more eating in the house!  No more free meals for a rodent who has obviously figured out the dogs are gone.  Clearly prospective homebuyers have better noses than Dog People and tiny rodents in Hawaiian shirts because we can't smell the dog odor in that house.

I told a good friend that I was going to have a Non-Dog Person come and do a sniff test for me.  She texted me this:

"Good luck fiding one of those in ur contact list."

Touche. Point well taken.

(and to answer your questions, No, Lily was not with me. Had she been, Stuart Little would be pushing up daisies in the back yard.)

Can you identify this picture?

It's a pupcicle!

     Texas has reached triple-digit temperatures. Even with a summer trim, Briar is roasting in the heat. Until I can get a bathtub rigged up for her, she must take her dips in small water troughs. (the goats and sheep do NOT appreciate this!) 

     So in the mean time, I've started making Briar some pupcicles to help her beat the heat.  Because we have fire ants, I didn't flavor the water with any meat; I just froze it in a dog bowl. 

 She seems happy enough with frozen water.

It has drawn some curious stares though . . .

"What is that stupid dog doing now?"

The dairy goats, by the way, have a most interesting relationship with Briar.  They are scared of her . . . until something scarier comes along, then they run to Briar for support.

Addendum:  I just had the bright idea that I could freeze the water, then add a slice of bologna, cover that with a thin layer of water, and freeze THAT!  She could knock herself out getting to the bologna. Hopefully she can get it faster than the fire ants can discover it!  I'll let you know how it works.

Send me more ideas for how you are handling animals and the heat!

The most important part of the move happened last night . . .

No! Even more important than the sheep and goats!

  Briar!

     I agonized over moving Briar. Not much more than a giant puppy, I worried about how she would take the move. If she jumps out here, the cows could kill her, or she could get killed on the highway.  It weighed heavy on my mind. I was a basket case.  I stayed up all night. I cried.

     By the time we got the livestock loaded it was already dark. I debated over whether or not to let her ride in the cattle trailer with the sheep, or in the truck with Lily.  I chose the truck. I didn't want her frightened in the trailer. Other Half says I spoil her.  (Guilty as charged!) We went through the Whataburger drive-thru on the way home.  Briar discovered talking boxes and sliding windows with French Fries.  (Briar likes French Fries.) And then we followed her sheep and goats to their new home.

 It's wild!

Actually, it's not.  This is just an untamed area behind the barn that Other Half had fenced off to keep the horses away from the septic tank.  It has years of undergrowth.  I give it a month.  As soon as they off-loaded, the sheep and goats headed for the buffet line.

It looked like this, except in total darkness.

Yes! It's Roanie! 

You didn't think we'd leave Roanie, did you?!!

     I made a point to bring the sheep that were Briar's friends - Roanie and the old ewes that raised her from a puppy.  I sold the better ewes to a local friend where I can keep the genetics and buy back ewe lambs from them if needed later.

The sheep were thrilled with their new jungle.  The goats were happy at first, then they realized that they actually had to sleep in the jungle.

 "Uhm . . . pardon me, but where's our stall?  Where's our shavings? Concrete aisle? Starbucks?"

I got up all night long to check Briar, and by default, the goats.   With the arena lights on, they were blinded to my approach in the dark.  The goats, who are normally frightened of Briar, had decided that perhaps Big Hairy Friends were preferable to squinty yellow eyes in the darkness.  

     Each time I checked, the dog was a large white lump surrounded by dairy goats.  I had to laugh when Clover heard me, threw her head up like a deer and poked Briar with her nose.

"Hey!  Did you hear that?!!"

"Hmpfh? Wha? I'hm sleepin'."

"That!  Get up! Something's out there!  There in the dark!  There it goes again!  Don't you hear that?"

The goat pokes Briar again and the dog sits up, stares off into the bright lights. Nothing. Dog lays back down. Goat is miffed.

This repeated itself several times throughout the night.

And so it was, the sun came up and Briar was still in her pen.  I was exhausted and so were the goats,

 but Briar was just fine.

For the past two weeks the alarm clock has screamed each morning to remind me that I must rise early to either/or/and:

Pack boxes
Sort yard sale items
Oil paneling
Scrub floors
Take down fence
Put up fence
Meet with realtor
Meet with contractors
Meet with customers buying livestock

AND . . . feed the farm animals, feed the dogs, realize I've packed the coffee maker so no homemade frappuccino will be in the bare refrigerator! (but each morning I will still check. Perhaps this is the day the Frappuccino Fairy will leave me a present!)  I am on a rapidly spinning carousel that threatens to lift off like a space ship.

Each morning I step out the door to the sound of sheep screaming, goats hollering, and horses neighing. Dogs bark as they race up and down the fence line, escorting sheep to the barn. The combined shrieks echo in my head, bouncing off thoughts that already crowd my mind like commuters on a bus.

I shovel grain to the horses, flip some token alfalfa pellets to the sheep, and toss goat grain into troughs.  My dairy goat climbs onto her stand, thrusts her head in the bucket, and suddenly . . . there is peace.

I straddle the bench behind her and place the bucket underneath her udder. Her teats are warm in my hands and soon the rhythmic squirt-squirt makes its metallic ring. And for a short time there is peace. Throughout the barn screams have been replaced by the soothing sound of grinding teeth. And so it goes, the rhythm of peace -

squirt/squirt/grind/grind/squirt/squirt/grind/grind . . .

I lay my head against her flank, thankful for a moment of peace among the crashing waves of insanity. While moving an entire farm may drive you crazy, milking a goat can bring you back into the now, and remind you why you keep all these animals. They are cheaper than therapists . . . but much louder. 

"Welcome Bi-Ped, come lie down on my couch . . . "

Eegaads!  Moving sucks!  Building fence in July sucks! Yard sales suck!

But . . . this is all an exercise in logistics:

We need to sell House #1 to buy Ranch #3.

We cannot sell House #1 until the Realtor puts it on market.

We must move everything and DOGS to House #2 before Realtor shows House #1.

We must build fence around front and back yard of House #2 BEFORE we bring dogs over.

And we must do ALL this BEFORE someone else snaps up Ranch #3!!!

And THAT is why I milked the goat this morning and left the barn and forgot the poor dairy goat locked on her milking stand.  An hour later I heard a familiar metallic banging from inside the house and found the poor thing with her head still locked in the bars.  She has forgiven me. I haven't forgiven myself . . .

"Oh Human! Get with the program!"

This is me this week!

Sort through 20+ years of accumulated "stuff" to figure out what to move, what to sell, and what to trash.  Move 20+ years of accumulated "stuff" into a house that won't hold it all. Put Dog Fencing around front and back yards of House #2. Put Goat fencing behind Barn #2.  Get House #1 ready for Realtor to show . . . and do this all while juggling 7 dogs!

And THAT'S my only defense for why I left the water hose running when I went to work yesterday. (for 12 freakin' hours!)

Yes!!! Texas is in the worst drought in 40 years and for 12 hours I filled the sheep trough . . . and the sheep yard . . . and the back yard . . . sigh . . .

Friends and Neighbors,

there is not enough caffeine in the state of Texas!

While searching through old documents, I stumbled upon these little faces. Look familiar?

The Perfect Puppy

 No, seriously . . .

Lily was the perfect little puppy who grew into the Perfect Dog.  Feel free to barf now. Other Half wants to barf every time I inform him that Lily is THE perfect dog.

 Ranger . . .

. . . was also perfect!  

He was a perfect psycho. But we loved him. And still do. And he's still a psycho. Ask anyone who knows him. But he's my psycho.  My little monster.

Speaking of monsters . . .

. . . remember this little monster?!!

Who could resist this little face?

Which leads us to the real monster in the family!

  Eeegaads!!!

Who would bring home such an ugly little creature?!!!

How 'bout this one?

Can't place him? No?

Look again . . .

I just love looking at baby pictures . . .

     When I was a kid, a repairman came to our house once. As my mother led him to the problem, she stepped in a doggy-doo. With each step forward, her flip-flops tossed dog poop onto the back of her bare leg. It was Mad Magazine Comedy at its finest, but my mother, trooper that she was, gave absolutely no indication that she was being peppered with a dog turd at every step. No! Like Winston Churchill, she proudly marched forward.

     Not a word was said about it. . .  at the time.    Years later we still fall over in laughter. But the point is, I was raised to put your best foot forward and march on. That's what makes this morning all the more embarrassing.

     I had just finished my barn chores and was on the phone with a goat friend who was regaling me with the comedy-drama of having a sheep get out of her truck while at a stop light. (Don't worry, Happy ending!) And that's when my adventure started . . .

Am absorbed in vicarious adventure of chasing sheep at a major traffic intersection, when all hell breaks loose in my front yard. Peek out front window.  Uh oh!  Water Well guy is here.  (Water well guy was supposed to be here three days ago.) Alrighty then!  Step into yard and call Big White Wet Dog who has cleared fence like a gazelle and is threatening Water Well Guy.

  (She jumps this fence with ease!)

Call dog.  Dog ignores me.  Call dog again.  Dog continues to ignore me.  Shout at Big White Dog. Dog continues to ignore me.  Scream like a Fishmonger's Wife.  Deaf Dog Ears.  Remind myself that Big White Dog is NOT a Border Collie and head across yard to retrieve her.

Problem: Current attire - gray gym shorts, baggy t-shirt, flip-flops, no bra.  Hair in pony tail. Have just finished milking goat. Goat milk is still between my fingers. Alfalfa hay is stuck to the sweat on my face. Dusty Hobbit feet. Neon white legs.  Yes, Friends and Neighbors, I am ready for the cover of People Magazine! 

     And here I am, desperate to get in the house and change before greeting these people and my Freakin' Big White Dawg won't come when she's called! So . . . I must slink out and get her.  At this point, the men are out of the truck and she has decided that they are her new best friends. I grab her and begin to haul her dumb ass to the house.  Briar puts on the brakes.  NO! New Friends are here!  I must now bend over and wrestle, in a baggy t-shirt, with no bra, a large wet dog who has absolutely no intention of leaving her new best friends.  I get her half way to the gate and she is learning how to back out of her collar.  Adjust grip. Plant Flip-Flop Feet deep in dust and continue to haul Beast across yard.  Am painfully aware of the picture I present.  (Again, not our finest hour!)

     FINALLY get Beast hauled to back gate.  Proceed to stuff her Big White Butt through gate. Must let go of Beast in order to lock gate behind me so Dogs Who Actually Bite do not stream out and get to main gate.  The Plan is to drag Beast onto back porch and lock her in a kennel.  That was The Plan.  What actually happened was that as soon as I let go of collar, Big White Beast launches herself like the Space Shuttle.  Over the fence she springs. She gallops back to the main gate, grinning at her New Friends. 

"She's friendly?"

"Yeah, but she's WET!"

"That's okay.  She'll be fine." 

And with that, they walk into the main gate and greet Briar!  I grab Blue Heeler who immediately launches into an apoplectic fit at the idea of trespassers behind the gate.  I then shuttle he and Black Wolf into kennel and the Border Collies into front yard.  (and put on a bra!)  I return to find that they have found the water well on their own and Briar, bored now, has already moved back to her rams.  WTF?!!

That's when I have a moment of self-examination. I breathe. I look down at my neon white legs, my dirty Hobbit Feet, and the goat milk between my fingers. And I realize that this is a "Flip-Flop-Doggy-Doo Moment."  I can choose to put a bucket over my head and slink off into the house, never coming into public again, or I can take a deep breath and face those men.

Let me know when it's safe to take the bucket off my head. . .

How, oh how, is this creature still alive?

     Every morning at 6:30 am, this little rascal is tapping his Reveille at the window. You'd think the barn cats would have gotten him by now.  (not that I want them to!)  Other Half, on the other hand, has about had it with our peeping tom.  (remember, he works night shift) Just about the time he is getting to sleep, someone starts tapping out a Morse code on the bedroom window. 

I have christened this "Summer of the Cardinal."

Please ignore the dirty windows. For some reason, in addition to the normal dirt, I have bird slobber on them.  (Do birds have slobber?)

     Since with the addition of the "retirement ranch" we simply cannot maintain three properties, so we have finally made the difficult decision to consolidate farms. Therefore ALL the animals need to move to one property. (Eeegaads!) This simply isn't possible, so we must let go of some sheep and cattle. And even though we've already cut down numbers for the drought, we have to be realistic and cut down some more. This translates to a lot of leaning over the fence, assessing who stays and who goes. We cuss and discuss temperament, productivity and the importance of being objective.

The problem is . . .

. . .  I'm not very good at being objective.

I just can't seem to bring myself to sell this ewe. She doesn't keep weight as well as the others, and her babies aren't any bigger than the other babies. Most of the other sheep are just sheep, but this ewe is different. And so . . .

. . .  is her dog.

But then . . .  since a sheep alone is an unhappy creature, I need to select one or two "friends" to come with her. Do you see how this plays out? One extra sheep becomes two or three. But Other Half has no leg to stand on, no room to gripe about my inability to be objective - for he has Killer.

     Killer is a cockatiel.  Year ago he found Killer wandering along the railroad tracks.  Other Half picked him up and Killer promptly bit the sh*t out of him. Killer has been a Prisoner Of War since then.  He sits in a cage in the living room, watching television, and staring out the window, dreaming of days when he was free - free to search for his own food, free to freeze to death, free to be eaten by hawks, but free nevertheless.  Killer does not wish to make friends with his captors. There is no Stockholm Syndrome at work here.  His best friend is his reflection in the mirror. His image is as grumpy as he is, but it doesn't eat his food, so he's okay with it.

I begged Other Half to find a proper bird home for Killer. He reluctantly agreed, but then, at the 11th hour, he backed out.

"I wanna keep Killer" he said.

And that's when I knew . . .

. . . I knew there would be no discussion over why I was keeping this lame ewe.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.  I lied to a cop. Well, not exactly. "Lie" is such a dirty word. Let's just say "I failed to be completely honest."  Yeah, that sounds better. 

You see, last night I had a run-in with 'tha law.' It went something like this . . . 

At midnight I find myself driving down the road, (with three dogs in the truck), when I see red and blue lights in my rear-view mirror.  Since I am on the phone with Other Half, I announce that "tha lawz dun got me!"

I know why.  I know how this game is played. Years ago I worked with narcotics. I know how to troll for dope.  I know how to run traffic while you're looking for bigger fish.  Repeat after me:  Probable cause!

In Cop Speak, we call that PC.  Probable cause is your justification for stopping a vehicle.

Once the vehicle is stopped for a legitimate "law-breakin' offense," that puppy is yours!  You can walk up, flashlight the dazed occupants inside and look for the signs that will lead you to something bigger. 

It is a dangerous game, but can lead to big payoffs.  Running traffic is like a warped game of Let's Make A Deal.  Stopping a car on traffic is like choosing to look behind Door #3.

What's in this car?  A Drunk? A teenager with a hooker?  (Don't laugh. It's happened to me.)  Or it could be big fish, like a drug smuggler, or a felony suspect. Remember Timothy McVeigh was stopped for a broken tail light!  But I digress . . .

In the 'hood, if your car is not in pristine shape with everything working, inspection and registration current, etc, they say you are "ridin' dirty," because that's the PC the cop needs to pull you over for a closer look. And trust me, no one wants the cops to look closely at their vehicle.  I'm a cop, married to a cop, and I still don't like it. Thus, when the red and blue lights popped on behind me, I knew it was because I was "ridin' dirty!"

And thus we continue our story . . .

I announce to Other Half that 'tha lawz' now have me because I am ridin' dirty. The right rear tail light has been out for . . . at least 3 months.  (I KNOW!  I KNOW!  I keep forgetting it!)  Anyway, I know why I am being stopped, and I'm a cop.  And my husband knows exactly where I am and why I am being stopped, but still my heart is beating a bit faster. Why?

Well . . . have you ever been stopped on traffic with three loose dogs in the truck when you have a gun beside you, but a badge in a backpack in the back seat?   Yeaaaaaahhhhhhh . . . (note to Self: Don't let this happen again.)

The spotlight in my rearview mirrors drown out my vision. Since I've been on the other side of that spotlight, it doesn't really bother me.  This is a state trooper however.  State Troopers work alone.  People who work on dark county roads by themselves don't like to see guns anywhere but on their own hips.  But then again, there's a solution for that!

A rabid Border Collie!  Two rabid Border Collies!  Two rabid Border Collies and a Blue Heeler! 

Picture this - an innocent state trooper starts at the back, and walks along the passenger side of the vehicle to the front of the vehicle, and back down the driver's side of the vehicle, all the while flashlighting the interior.  Friends and Neighbors, it was ugly.

My innocent Lily mutates into Cujo. She makes Ranger the Blue Heeler look like Ghandi.  She follows that flashlight beam all the way around the vehicle.  All that trooper sees is teeth and tonsils. I could have had 50 kilos of cocaine in that truck and it would have been neatly hidden underneath all that rage and slobber.  She has her feet on the dash following the flashlight beam with her teeth! Holy crap, she even scares me.

Add to this ridiculous scene the screaming woman snarling "SHUT UP! SHUT UP! Get back!" and you have a pretty good idea of what the trooper saw. (It wasn't our finest hour. I'm just sayin'.)

I roll the window down a smidge and inform "tha law" that I was also "tha law" (thus not dangerous) and promise to produce a badge and ID to go with the gun. (that was hidden under a growling dog, but you should never really count on that . . .)  After I snarl my beasts back into submisssion, I crawl out of the vehicle.  The trooper then informs me that my tail light is out.

"REALLY??!!!"    (Father, forgive me!)

"Yes M'am, come look at it."

"Oh, I believe you!  Ohmygosh!  You're RIGHT!  My tail light IS out!"  (Father, forgive me!)

The trooper then looks at my police ID and Driver license while I wallow in guilt and shame for deceiving "tha lawz."  On the other hand, saying "Yeah, that sucker's been out for 3 months" just doesn't seem appropriate for the situation.  I take my warning ticket with a measure of relief colored with a twinge of shame.  I am now "on paper" for my crime.

I get back in the car and inform Lily that now Mommy is "on paper" and we have a record. She informs me that the dogs have discussed it as a group and have decided if things had turned ugly on the side of the road, they wouldn't be taken into custody, nor would they be taken alive. I offer that it was highly unlikely things would turn ugly from a broken tail light unless "my gang" escalated the situation by cussing at the cops. She allows as how that might be true, but since Trace is too young to spend any time in the doggy slammer, they weren't taking any chances. Point well taken.

I peer through the slobber and nose prints that coat my windshield as I pull back onto the highway and contemplate the poor trooper, teeth, tonsils and the sanity of someone who ride with beasts like that.  It really wasn't our finest hour . . .

Holy cow!  I've clearly been falling behind! Since you asked for updates, here they are:

Zena the Former Police Dog . . .

 . . . still lives with a delightful little old lady.  She sleeps beside her bed, under the air conditioner. She is getting the beginnings of cataracts herself but is doing fine otherwise. They are wonderful companions for each other.  Other Half hasn't visited Zena for fear of confusing the dog.  He went to visit her daughter to get an update and Zena continues to be a very loved member of the family. That was a good match.

Marshal the Anatolian Shepherd Puppy . . .

. . . is the baby Livestock Guardian Dog who moved in with Dear Friend last Spring. He now has his own flock of sheep and has grown into a massive puppy.  He is good with the sheep but still plays a little rough sometimes. He is becoming an excellent livestock guardian dog with a very big bark. I'll have to go over and get you some more recent pictures.

Ruby the Border Collie . . .

. . . is my puppy's littermate.  Like Marshal, she has her own sheep (Marshal's sheep!) and has developed into a crackin' nice working dog.  (She listens better than her brother who is just now discovering that there is no "I" in the word "teamwork.")

Stone the Belgian Tervuren . . .

 . . . continues to be my mother's constant companion. Stone has chewed up a cell phone and at least one purse. He couldn't be more loved.

And last but not least -  Briar!

 "Huh?"

Hellooooooo??!!!  I said "and last but not least - Briar!"

"Oh! Let me find her!"

 "There she is!"

"Wait!  That's me!"

Briar continues to be my beloved goofball.  She has grown into a hairy mountain who jumps fences like a gazelle.  Fortunately she stays on the property. 

The neighbors are a bit annoyed at her 6:45 am wake-up barking every morning but we have tracked it down to horseback riders with 2 dogs that rise early to beat the heat and jog down our road. There isn't much I can do about that.  Briar is a guard dog. Guard dogs bark.

Since I got Briar I haven't lost any livestock to predators.  She is good at her job. I sleep well at night knowing that she's on duty.  She does sneak through the doggy door sometimes to sleep inside the air conditioning during the middle of the day. It is summer in Texas. Who can blame her?

This weekend we did another whirlwind trip in search of ranch land. This one shows a great deal of promise.

Yes, yes, I know there's more to a ranch than beautiful scenery, but I just can't get past the rocks! This place is rich in history and I could hike it for hours.  So can the dogs . . .

It was like being in a state park with no leash laws!

It has everything we want except a water well.  The ranches around it have water wells, so God willing, we'll be able to find well water here too.  I'd rather not drink out of the stock tanks or the creek. I'm a little fussy about my drinking water . . .

"Gee Ma, what's wrong with drinkin' out of the creek?"

The grandbabies came to the farm today.  Few things compare with seeing the world through the eyes of a child . . .

. . . from the back of a pony.

Brushing the Neigh-Neigh . . .

Milking the goat

Picking melons

  "Cut the melon, Grandpa!"

MMMM . . .  sweet melon on a hot day!

She has lots to teach her baby brother about life on a farm, and the first thing is . . . 

. . . the pony!   

Disclaimer:  NO! Those were not my melons! As has been previously established, I can't grow anything.  All melons and cherry tomatoes picked today by little fingers were grown next door by my mother! I will take credit for the pony though!

     I kill plants. I am the Dr Kevorkian of plants.  If a plant wants to die, I will help it. Actually, if it doesn't want to die, I will help that one die too. If you have four legs, I will keep you alive, but if you have a stem and are stuck in a pot . . . things just ain't lookin' good for ya 'round here.

     I'm the kind of person who picks up a little potted plant at the nursery and it screams to be put back in the flat with its buddies. For that little plant knows it has a better shot at survival by getting the occasional watering at Home Depot than taking its chances with me.

     But this year I planted two tomatoes and a basil in one big pot on my back porch.  I would water it when I watered the dogs.  How hard would that be?  The sheep and goats are there from time to time, but they ignore the pot because they'd rather eat my roses.

     And so it was that I found soon myself with thick basil amid ripening tomatoes.  Who says I have a black thumb? I examined my crop of basil last week and proclaimed it to be enough to make pesto. This is how the pesto adventure went:

Go to store. Buy pine nuts. Buy cheese. Buy garlic. Olive oil?  No, have that.  Get home. Discover that I have no olive oil. Cuss.  Wait a week. Have even more basil now. Go back to store. Buy olive oil.  Come home to discover that dairy goats have eaten all the basil while I was gone . . .

We have the most annoying Peeping Tom.  Meet Redmon.

He stares through the kitchen window.  He is not looking at my orchid which has finally began to drop its blossoms.

He is not reading my farm ledger. No, Redmon is fighting with the red bird he sees in the window.  (Whoda thought my windows were that clean? Go figure.) After he has beaten that red bird, and himself, senseless, he flies to the back of the house to fight with the bird he sees in the bedroom window. 

Each morning at 6:30 am, Redmon attacks my bedroom window . . . repeatedly. Seven dogs, three barn cats and one house cat live here.  Redmon's days are numbered.  One day I will find a pile of red feathers and be traumatized by the death of a stupid little bird that I don't even like. 

But nevertheless, until that day, Redmon will bang his beak against the glass.  He's doing it right now . . . as I type.  Yesterday I lay in bed, ruminating on the problem as Redmon smashed his little red body against the glass.

 It went like this:

Try to sleep. The annoying sound of feathers and beak hitting the glass keep waking me up.

Brush/bang/brush/bang/brush/bang! Over and over and over again. House cat!  I have a house cat! Spring out of bed.

Locate sleeping house cat in spare bedroom. Snatch her up and carry her to master bedroom. Put dazed cat on dresser so she can see red bird.  Perhaps he will find himself staring at a cat and go elsewhere.  He is not that smart.  Cat is perturbed. Cat stares out window. 

"Bird? Hunt?  Hunt bird???  I'm retired, Human.  Didn't you get the memo?  HOUSE cat!  What part of HOUSE cat did you not understand?  House cat = air-conditioning + naps  Get it?"

Cat hops off dresser.  Redmon continues to bang on glass.  Lay back in bed and ponder the problem some more.  Border Collie Lily lays beside me.  Her eyebrows shift back and forth as the bird bangs against the glass.  Idea forms.  I can teach Border Collie to chase bird away from glass.  It will take me about 1 minute 45 seconds.  Hmmmmmm. . .

Do something I rarely do . . . think the idea through.  Ah yes.  While it will only take me 1 minute 45 seconds to train BC to chase bird, it will take Other Half several hours and about $145 dollars to replace the broken window.  Scratch that idea.

Lay back in bed and remind myself that I will not cry when I find a little pile of red feathers after one of the barn cats wanders close enough to the house to hear that odd brush/bang/brush/bang sound. I will not cry. I will not cry. 

Stupid little bird is gonna make me cry . . .

     While other parts of the country are suffering from floods, Texas has been hit with the most severe drought we've seen in 40 years.

This is a pond at the cow house.

     Shortly before it dried completely, we were tooling through the pasture and Other Half noticed a flash of silver in the pond. We stopped, and much to our dismay, we found that the sludge left in the bottom of the pond was filled with catfish and perch trapped by the drought. 

     As if we don't have enough drama with the animals we raise, we found ourselves tending to animals that flew in on the feet of birds. But nevertheless, they were in need, so we spent the evening with nets, catching fish, and transporting them to a stock trough in the arena.  It was muddy, yucky work, (mostly for Other Half) and the fish were not tremendously grateful, but in time, we got the bulk of them moved.

They are in cramped living conditions, but until the rains return, they're better off living in a water tank that gets filled with a hose daily.  The next day we checked the pond.

Everyone too crafty to be caught, or too tiny for the net, was dead.

     Things like this always fill me with wonder. What are the odds that Other Half would see one flash of silver in a deep pond when driving through the pasture?  What are the odds that he would see this on a night when we were both available to scoop out refugees?  What are the odds that these things would line up on the last night before the sun would overtake them? What are the odds that fish pray?

     Like mirrors into our souls, dogs and children can be a reflection of our own inner child.  Take Trace, for instance.  On vacation the dogs learned the routine pretty quickly.  Sleep in horse trailer. Get up early for a run and a swim. Come back wet and tired. Wake Daddy up. Begin day of exploring county in search of New-Home-Away-From-The-City.  Unfortunately there was a lot of sitting in the truck for the dogs.

So on the last day, Trace reminded me that we were still on a vacation: 

Get up. Take dogs for a swim. Note the time. Head back up bluff to truck.  Count dogs.  One dog short. Note that Trace has decided he does not WANT to go back to truck. Trace wants to stay and play.  He is hiding behind a bush.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

Send Lily (who is carrying the Stick-Of-The-Day) back down the bluff in a mock search for her little brother.

"I can't find him."

At this point, they are so cute that I give in and say, "Okay, we can play a little longer."

 Trace springs from behind the bush and all is well in their little world. I have been conned by not one, but two Border Collies. (remember, when you have intelligent dogs, they spend as much time trying to shape your behavior as you spend trying to shape their behavior.)

But if you look past naughty, if you look into the soul and find your inner child, you will see that

1) Schedules aren't as important as you think.

2) Play is more important than you think.

     While this was a working vacation for us, it was a boring vacation for the dogs - lots of waiting in the truck, punctuated by playing in the water, long walks down red dirt roads, and chasing sticks.

Before playing fetch, all stick must be brought to an official from the Texas Department Of Stick Inspections for approval.

(Note the Inspector's toes. Return to Hobbit Feet.)

The Inspector carefully examines the stick for length, sharp ends, jagged branches, and anything else that could otherwise result in a trip to the vet's for the playee or the playee's companions.  Thus Lily spent most of her vacation in search of The Perfect Stick.

 "This one?"

"How 'bout this one?"  

"Wait! It hasn't been inspected yet!"

It fails inspection. . .

And so, like a treasure hunter in search of the elusive sunken ship of gold, Lily continues to hunt North Texas for The Perfect Stick.

Everything I know to be true in life I learned from Scarlett O'Hara's father:

"Land . . . it's the only thing that lasts."

Yes, as a child of the South, I grew up on Gone With The Wind, and those words branded themselves deep into my psyche.  And so it is that Other Half and I once again left in search of ranch land far away from The City. We had narrowed our search to one area and this time, we went with a realtor - who had to use a jeep to take us there. (my kind of place!)

We stayed with friends and each morning the dogs and I rose to greet the day and play while Other Half slept in.  It didn't suck.

The dogs vote for here!

Yesterday evening, while hustling to finish chores, I got an excited phone call from my Other Half.

"You know what we forgot tonight?" he asked.

There were so many possibilities, I didn't even bother.

"The Youth Rodeo! Cooper's in Lead-Line!"

Background information: Other Half loves all things Rodeo. Other Half is BIG into supporting kids in any kind of rodeo or agriculture (thus we have multiple high-priced show heifers in the back yard . . . ) Cooper is the son of Kindly Rancher Next Door who is a Good Friend to Other Half and a God-Send to me when Other Half is out of town and I am stuck with a calf hanging out of the back end of straining cow.  But I digress . . .

The Youth Rodeo was tonight and Other Half wanted pictures for the blog.  I was still an hour away.  I reminded him that he had a camera in his truck - for crime scenes - Oh! He forgot. (yes, crime scene cameras CAN be used to take pictures of our nation's youth doing things other than vandalizing rail cars, and selling dope.) He was getting off work, so he and his camera headed over there.

When you've had enough of sagging britches, tattoos, nose rings, and narcotics, go to a county fair or a youth rodeo.  You will be inspired that yes, there is a future, and these kids are it.

I once walked into an apartment complex and saw a little boy playing in the sand with his trucks.  He saw me, in a police uniform, . . . and threw a dumptruck at me. 

What are his parents teaching him?

But here, in the shadow of The City, parents are still teaching rural values to their children.  Here the county fairs and the youth rodeos are still alive.

And they start young!

Object of Game:  Get the ribbon off the goat's tail

  Grab rope

Reel in goat

 Untie ribbon

 I love that face!

 And this face!

This is the serious face of a young rancher. His grandpa is a rancher. His daddy is a rancher.  Roping is serious business.

 "Yay Cooper!"

(Grandpa behind him.)

 His daddy

  His little sister

 A lot of stick horses get ridden.

And then the real horses get ridden.

The kids got older and the horses got faster as the night wore on.  By the time I joined them, the horses were MUCH faster, but the atmosphere was still the same - good, clean fun.

My Other Half helped build this arena when he was eighteen years old. At 55, he's still playing here. As I sat in the bleachers, eating a greasy cheeseburger, I watched our future, and pondered life. The kids who built this very arena are grown. Their children played here. Now their grandchildren play here.  Each generation leaves a gift for the next generation. 

 It is our responsibility to give them the values they need to survive in this world and make it a better place.  As I watch farmers and ranchers struggle to make a living in a rapidly desolving world, I marvel at how well they manage.  These children, who are using computers by the time they can walk, are riding horses even before then.   They are learning to care for, and live with, the world around them.

It isn't technology, or MTV that is destroying our nation's youth, it is the lack of one generation to instill the proper values in the next generation. 

 They say it takes a village to raise a child. It does, but it starts at home. And, there's this: some villages are doing a better job of it than others . . . 

I'm just saying . . .

I should know better. No matter how cute goats are, there is still a criminal mind lurking behind those floppy ears.

It all started with Ingrid Birdman (aka: Ingrid The Evil).  Ingrid has not softened her attitude toward her juvenile roommates.  She is, to put it bluntly, a bitch.  I tried putting them in a pen inside the bigger area to give her a chance to get used to them, but it's so hot in the barn during the mid-day hours that I don't like to leave them there. So I spent an entire morning tacking up plastic netting on top of the cattle panels to allow the chickens into the smaller goat paddock.  It sounded good in theory.  BUT . . .  I didn't factor in the goats . . .

  They immediately began to rip  up netting. Fun! Fun! Fun! Fun! FUN!

 WTF??!!!

Goats! Goats! Goats!  They eventually lost interest and left the netting up.  I turned the chickens out.  Ingrid immediately mutated from innocent Little Red Hen to Lizzy Borden chasing family members around with an ax.

Evil Ingrid Attacks Victim

 Victim Flees

 "Where dat chikken go?"

Oh well, lesson learned. Clearly Ingrid doesn't want company. The young hens will be going back to Dear Friend's farm tomorrow.  Sigh . . .  At least Ingrid lays eggs, and entertains baby goats.

This dog has never quite found her niche. She started out life as a Narcotics Dog doing locker checks in schools, but that really didn't float her boat.  Then she became a Cadaver Dog. The slower pace appealed to her, but there simply was not enough work in that region to keep her employed.  Then she was re-homed with me as a playmate for her littermate.

They enjoyed each other until he passed away last summer, and then, she was once again, out of a job.

After her brother's death, she rose to become Leader Of The Pack. Everyone kisses her butt, so she is relatively happy, but still, she is a working dog and wants a job - any job.

This week we found her a job:

Climb out of shower and see Roach the size of Volkswagon Bus hanging upside down on the bathroom door - like a vampire bat. Repress urge to scream and dance. Adopt Clint Eastwood squint, tip-toe Naked Self past roach and motion to Border Collie to get set "on point" for Roach Attack.  Point at Roach.  Border collie nods.  Like a Runner 'on mark', she's ready. Knock Roach off door with toilet brush.  And it begins . . .

And that's when we hear the baying, screeching, battle cry of The Black Wolf.

Black Wolf shoves Border Collie out of her way and pounces on Roach. She bites him with a crushing blow and flings him across bathroom.  Border Collie snaps him up. Black Wolf roars. Border Collie drops Roach - slack jawed. Black Wolf pounces Roach again. Grab! Smash! Fling! Very Happy Black Wolf smiles at me with a roach leg stuck between her teeth.

She is Warrior. Hear her roar. Roaches will soon tremble in fear at her name.

And thus began the career of the Roach Warrior. (Cue Chariots of Fire soundtrack.)

Border Collie has settled into her role as Second String Roach Warrior while The Black Wolf waits, waiting for the scream of a Naked Woman armed with a toilet brush. She is a happy girl. She finally has a job. 

     One would think that when you make a living standing over dead people, you'd have more important things to do than involving yourself in the politics of chickens. And yet, I still do. I cannot seem to help myself. Perhaps it's because my world is filled with murder, suicide, (and murder-suicides), that I feel the need to right the wrongs in the chicken coop. I wonder what Freud would say about that. Scratch that thought. Perhaps I'm better off not knowing.
 
Meet Ingrid.

Ingrid Birdman (no relation . . . )

The chickens were at the cow house - 3 red hens and a little Silver Duckwing Banty Rooster (that I didn't want to begin with!) Like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the other chickens wouldn't let Ingrid play "reindeer games" with them.  They would saunter off, leaving Ingrid to scratch and peck by herself, all alone.  She had the last laugh though.  The neighbor's dogs got in our yard and ate them. Now Ingrid is really alone.  Or she was . . .

I bought a couple of pullets from Dear Friend, a Rhode Island Red and a New Hampshire Red. 

 I moved Ingrid to the goat stall at the other house and put the pullets in with her.  She hated them on sight. No, that's not true.  She loved them. She loved bullying them.  They were terrified of her.  They huddled in a corner while she pecked them.  Bitch!

So I called Dear Friend.  She suggested I put them in a pen to protect them from Ingrid The Evil until she got used to them.  So I did.  They cautiously came out of the corner.  She stuck her head through the bars and hissed, "Get BACK!  Get BACK TO YOUR CORNER! You peons!"

Instead of shrinking back into their corner, they danced away from her vicious beak and laughed.  She was furious.  That little red hen paced the bars like a frustrated prison guard, pausing occasionally to stick her head through and snap at the inmates.  They happily scratched and pecked at oats and sunflower seeds, ignoring her.  Ingrid was beside herself.

I watch, mildly amused, wishing life in the barn yard was a bit more idyllic, and less like life on the streets. 

The Abused become The Abusers. The Innocents are locked away in their happy little sheltered worlds to protect them from Those-Who-Lack-Social-Skills. And the police patrol, like Border Collies maintaining order in the Barn Yard. 

I had a dilemma. The dairy goats need an area for "free play" where I can keep an eye on them. I don't want them in the pasture with the sheep because I don't want my milk goat eating poison ivy, poison oak, and other weeds that I don't want to drink. Thus, they can stay in the back yard (and eat my roses!), or the front yard.

 From kitchen window

The down side to the front yard is that it borders the street.  Problem: They eat goats in Texas.  These are friendly goats.  These goats would crawl in the car with you and expect to be strapped into the child seat. 

"My Mum says I have to ride in a car seat!"   

Uhm, Negative GhostRider.  No car seats for you!

I have something better than a free ride to the butcher shop. I have a Warrior Dog for you.

"A DOG!!!"  

 "A DOG!!!"

Yessiree!  A dog!  A dog who earns her puppy chow!

 A dog who has already informed the mailman . . .

 . . . and the neighbor . . .

. . . that goats are not on the menu.

Last week there were two burglaries at the other end of the road.  Briar is making sure they don't come to this end of the road.

Good Dog, Briar!

     My new milking stand arrived the week I was sick in bed, thus I did little more than set it up, plop a bucket of feed in front of it, turn the goats loose, and sit down on it to drink a homemade frappuccino. (nope, haven't kicked that habit yet. I just pour it into the old glass bottle and pretend it's Starbucks.)

To get the baby goats used to eating on a stand, I dragged some old pallets out.  They happily climb up and chow down.

Clover reluctantly gets on the milking stand to eat.  She has a hard time eating at the same time she is concentrating on this character zoom-zooming around the barn.

     Slowly but surely it's coming together though.  I haven't tied her in yet. That may be a rodeo. (the proverbial goat-roping!)  I also haven't figured out how the head lock works.  I bought a stand for horned goats, since the two weanlings have horns. It looks like the v-shaped bars come together to lock them tight - but - I don't like this part - the chain that locks the bars is designed so that a nut screws over a bolt to lock the chain in place.  Sounds good until the critter falls off the stand.  There is no quick release.  GOAT PEOPLE!  HELP me out here!  How is this supposed to work?

     I plan to keep the baby on Clover full-time for a couple more weeks. When he is beginning to eat solid foot, I'll lock him up at night, and milk her in the morning before turning him out with her.  That gives me a little more time to figure out the stanchion and get her trained so she doesn't panic and fall off the stand when she figures out she's tied.   Right now, Clover hops on, eats a bit, and hops off to check on Huckleberry. Then she hops back on, or goes to the weanling feeder.

     I would appreciate any advice from goat milkers regarding getting the goats used to the stand.  At the moment, the stand means sunflower seeds, pets, and scratches, so she likes it well enough, but she hasn't been trapped in it yet.  That may be a whole different kettle of fish. 

  "Do what???"

Take a moment to thank a soldier.

"All gave some . . .

some gave all."

God has a way of putting things into perspective. For instance, long about the time you start bellyaching about cockroaches, something more significant appears . . . and all before breakfast.

Without the benefit of morning coffee, I headed to the barn to feed the livestock. (Pay close attention to the path.)

It's a short walk to the barn. Five dogs preceded me . . . multiple times. Back and forth they ran down the path.  (That's important.)

See where Trace is now? 

Yeah. Right about there. As I flip-flopped my way (in shorts!) down the path and got right about there, I happened to notice something in the corner of my eye.  My brain registered the sight just a nanosecond before my feet did.

There on my right, just a foot and a half from my bare leg and flip-flop feet was a snake. YES!  I KNOW!!!!  (cue "Psycho" soundtrack)

Quit looking. He's gone.

But at the time, he wasn't gone. He was laying there, stock still, in front of God and everybody, hoping no one saw him.  But I did.  I just didn't have my camera. Five idiot dogs continued to run back and forth down the path, now fearsome-confused, because I had stopped.  There was a break in their routine. Progress to the barn had stopped, and it confused them.  They crisscrossed close to the snake, but he didn't move, and they didn't notice him.  For all I know, they'd been playing cards with him all morning before I got out of bed.

So here he was, in all his glory, waiting to see what was going to happen.  He was a yellow-belly water snake - harmless. Probably lives in the rocks beside the pond near the barn. But I still didn't want him here. 

 In the immortal words of Richard Pryor, 

 "Snakes . . . make you hurt yourself."

So I took a rake and prodded him.  He eased through the fence and disappeared through the bricks into the Border Collie Bunkhouse. (which they won't be using anytime soon now!)  It is a small wooden building that has doggy doors which open into chain-link runs.

Stanley the Snake moved into the Bunkhouse. I grabbed my camera and went to get his picture.  He's shy.  That's fine, cuz I wuz skeered.

 No, my dogs will not be going in this building for a while. I don't want them encountering Stanley and learning they can play with a snake.

I'm sure that the moment I moved Stanley with a rake, Lily decided snakes must be erradicated (like roaches and mice!) and the last thing I want is her playing with Stanley (and not getting hurt) and then tackling a cottonmouth (with serious consequences!) I'm hoping Stanley finds his way back to the pond before I meet him in the dark and hurt myself.

Oh, woe is me.  These kind of adventures didn't happen when Alice the Bloodhound was alive.  Her nose never failed to detect a snake.  She had learned from Frio the Catahoula Leopard Dog (the best snake-huntin' dog in all of Texas!) that snakes were bad and could never be ignored.  You must call the Human's attention to all snakes! I used to turn Frio loose in the garden to find any snakes BEFORE I went in there to weed.  I miss that dog . . .

See this?

These prehistoric creatures, the size of a Volkswagon bus, are coming into my house! We're in the middle of a drought. Dinosaur Bugs are coming into the bathroom for water. This is the expected result:

Come home late from work. Change clothes. Go pee. Note gigantic bug scurry across floor, dangerously close to my toes. Leap off toilet while screaming for dogs. Snatch up plunger and attempt to smash bug the size of a hubcap as it flees room. Scare the wits out of large black dog who responded to 911 call but is now afraid of the plunger. Scream for Border Collie who comes careening into bathroom and assesses the situation just as bug races under door into another bathroom.

Fling open door in time to see bug racing underneath another door which leads to my bedroom.  Border Collie is now in hot pursuit.

Bug runs underneath armoire. Border Collie crams herself as far under armoire as possible. I thrust plunger under in vain attempt to drive bug back out into room.  After repeated attempts to smash bug without crowning Border Collie, I give up. Border Collie pulls herself out from beneath furniture. Dust bunnies are stuck to her face.  She reports that she has lost bug.  Damn!

Pat trusty dog and pull dust bunnies off her nose.  Go to bed. Get up in middle of night to pee.  See giant bug hiding behind bottle of goat milk lotion. (the bastard!) Retreat. Whisper for Border Collie.  Inform her that The Enemy is in the bathroom again. Her eyes glaze as she braces herself for combat. With plunger in hand, I pick up bottle of lotion . . .

. . . and the race is on. 

Giant bug shifts gears into four-wheel drive and scales a basket containing toothbrushes, glasses, and soap.  I hesitate to slam plunger down on him because, quite frankly, which is worse, a giant bug scurrying across your toothbrush, or a toilet plunger smashing it?  It's kinda 50/50. So . . .  I scream. 

In an amazing burst of speed Bug crosses basket and scurries down wall toward floor. With the determined look of a practiced hunter, SEAL Team 6 Border Collie snatches up bug just as he makes it to crack in cabinet. She then tosses his broken brown body across the room, returns and salutes. 

Who needs Raid when you have a Farm Collie?

By the way, some people will inform you that this is not a cockroach. It is a palmetto bug.  Forget that! I don't care how you prettify it up. This is still a Texas-size COCKROACH!

(I Googled it!  It IS a cockroach! It is the largest and fastest cockroach in the cockroach family! Eewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!)

Meet Huckleberry!

One week old!

The world is his playground!

"I'll be your Huckleberry!"

(My apologies to folks who haven't watched the movie "Tombstone" fifty times with their spouse and have no idea what that quote means!)

In the immortal words of Mark Twain,

"The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

But, for a while, I wondered! Yes, I've finally returned to the Land Of The Living. I think. I hope. God willing. And while I spent most of this past week in a haze of sickness, Life rolled on without me. Painfully so, it seems. 

 For each time I turn on the news, I'm reduced to tears at the horrors our friends and neighbors across the country have experienced.  Please keep the most recent storm victims in your prayers.  And keep this in mind; between the floods and the tornadoes, the Red Cross has been stretched to its limits, so I urge you to support them. As Other Half pointed out last night, many charity organizations stand with their hands out, wanting a share of his paycheck, but where are they during these tragedies? And yet, the American Red Cross is always there, on the front line, helping. Now they are asking for our help. 

Donate at:  www.redcross.org

I looked out the back door today and the immortal words of Forrest Gump sprang to mind,

"Stupid is as stupid does, Sir!"

He has probably been like this all morning.

The search for alfalfa led this young ram to quite a predicament.

Yup. He's stuck.

 Unstuck

"Hey Mum!  Now that my head's out of the gate, could you spare a little alfalfa? I've been there for a while. I'm feelin' the need for a little 'pick-me-up'. Whatdaya say? Huh? Huh?"

The Universe doesn't seem to understand that I don't have time to be sick. This is Day Two of SICK. Yesterday I spent approximately 32 hours sleeping, staring at the ceiling fan, and trying not to puke. I did, however, drag my butt out of bed to take this picture of Cuteness Personified.

And now . . . I'm goin' back to bed.

Look who was born under the Smuggler's Moon last night!

Actually, he was born in the barn, with Dear Friend and Husband Vet assisting (just in case!), but the Smuggler's Moon filled the sky over the farm.  (I was stuck at work in the city. I guess in the city it's probably called the Drug-Dealer's Moon.  I'm just sayin'.)

His momma was a bit confused at first,  ("Where did THAT come from?!!") but finally realized that THAT was her new Baby Boy Buckling.  I'm still not convinced he's nursing well enough, but baby poop is coming out and one side of her udder is down.  I'm just never happy until I see them vigorously nursing.

These photos are 12 hours after birth.  I've had 4 hours of sleep.  (late night at work) I was awakened this morning by a man calling to find a baby lamb for his 10 year old daughter's birthday.  The man doesn't understand why he's having such a hard time finding one.  He doesn't even need the lamb for very long because, and I quote,

"She's only gonna play with it for a week and then be done with it."

Alrighty then. I was speechless. Then again, perhaps that was for the best. I see why he's having problems finding one. I didn't even mention this adorable baby goat.

Christine sent a quote regarding yesterday's blog on "Know Your Food" that deserved its own blogspot.  It is now my new favorite quote:

"A government big enough to give you everything you need is big enough to take everything you have."

Thomas Jefferson

     Do you know your food? Where it comes from? What it ate? My Other Half and I have a running battle about food.  We raise cattle. We raise goats. We raise sheep. He refuses to eat any of the above.  Don't get me wrong - the man is not a vegetarian. Oh, perish the thought!  No, he eats meat, he just doesn't want to "know" his meat.  He would rather take cattle to the sale barn, get a nice check, and take that money to Krogers.  I, on the other hand, want to know my food. 

     I know our cows are humanely raised. I know what goes in their tummies. I know my lambs. I watch them play in the sun. I watch them get fat on pasture. I know them. The kids and I are slowly dragging their father into this line of thinking. A large part of our lives is spent producing animals that go into someone else's freezer, it's time we changed that.

     He's agreed to save a calf and butcher him ourselves. I'm saving a couple of lambs. Other Half may still refuse to eat the lambs, but the kids and grandkids will have no such inhibitions.

     I'm drinking raw milk now too. I've found a wonderful woman down the road who raises dairy cows. Now I can "know" my milk. By the way, my milk comes from Sally and Sugar. I like that.  My milk doesn't come from a plastic jug. It comes from a cow!

 I've met the cow.

 I've been to her farm.

Healthy Way Dairy - Grade A Raw Milk

 I've met her pasture mates.

 I've met the farmer who milks her.

Right to Left - Dear Friend, Dairy Farmer Irene Nelson, and her son!

 I'm totally smitten with the idea that people can buy milk on the honor system.

Put your name on the list. Put your money in the bucket. Open the fridge and pull out a big mason jar full of milk.

You can pick your cow. You can pick your date.  I know that my milk is from Sugar, who was milked May 14, in the afternoon.

I can return my mason jar next week and get another jar of milk. How cool is that?!!

     Aside from the health and ecological benefits of finding locally grown, humanely raised food, I also like the fact that I'm supporting the small farmer. Right beside the other rights in the Constitution, Americans should have the right to raise our own food. Big industry is lobbying for legislation to take away these rights, and it frightens me. I'm all for convenience, but it often comes at too high a price. Industry tells lawmakers what is in our best interest, so behind a mask of concern for public health, bit by bit, Americans are losing control of their own food. I fear a day in the future when a farmer's market will be against the law, when the very seeds we need to grow crops are so regulated that it's against the law to grow your own produce.

     That's why I'm taking a stand now, to support the small farmer, to support the small rancher, to make an effort to buy local, to make an effort to "know" my food.

For more on this I urge you to read:

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle - by Barbara Kingsolver
The Omnivore's Dilemma - by Michael Pollan

An excellent video on the subject - "Food, Inc."

After hauling cow hay, Trace and Other Half go the grocery store . . .

Since Kroger's takes a dim view of canine shoppers, Trace waits in the truck.

Other Half returns to find that someone has locked the doors and he cannot get in the truck. Who would have done that?

 "Trace! Unlock the door!"

Fortunately for Other Half, Mommy and Lily are sitting in another truck in the Kroger's parking lot . . .

. . . so there is another key.

I didn't blame Trace. Who leaves a puppy in an unlocked truck with the motor running? (even if his wife IS sitting in the lot! Someone who doesn't mind having his ice cream melt . . .)

 "I was skeered, Dad!

 I had to lock the doors so strangers wouldn't take me!"

The greatest thing about hosting this website is the fantastic group of people I meet through it. We are like an extended family, and today, the family started sharing critters.

 Meet longtime reader, Sue!

 . . . and Emma June!

Emma reminds me so much of my Border Collie #1, Lily! Look! (Above) They could be littermates!  I was so happy that she brought Emma! (She also brought the most adorable red & white Border Collie puppy that if I had played with any longer, I'd have arm-wrestled Sue for her!  (Yeah, like anyone would be able to wrench a puppy like THAT away from her!)

Sue also brought her daughter, Gretta.  (I wanted to keep her too!)  My goat is getting ready to give birth and I'll have to learn how to start milking goats soon.  Gretta is a pro at this!  She has Alpines. The more she talked about goats, the more I wished she lived next door.  (I forsee me calling her in a panic before I get the goat milking routine down pat.)

Clover tells Gretta a secret.

She knows a Goat Person when she sees one!

Sue and Gretta drove HOURS to get some dog-broke lambs.  I had planned on keeping this group of wethers.

 Magellan

  Ricearoni & Macaroni

 Ken of the Malibu Twins

(His sister, Malibu Barbie The Blond, went to live with Dear Friend's flock!)

But because of the drought, we decided to cut down the numbers of both cattle and sheep.  That meant I had to sell the lambs I'd set aside for dog-training. Unfortunately because I thought I'd be keeping this group, I allowed myself to get attached to them, thus, the idea of them getting butchered with the rest of the lambs, was a bit of a problem.  (I'm a softie.)

Sue needed some new sheep.  It was a match made in Heaven. (or Texas! Well, same thing!) So Sue and Gretta trucked across Texas today to pick up the boys.

 With a bucket of feed (and the threat of Border Collies) and they loaded into the trailer.

It was great to finally meet Sue and Emma in person.  I feel like I knew them already! It was kind of funny to see that they already knew my dogs and called them by name. 

While I tried to keep Briar from climbing in the truck with them, the dog kept saying,

"But Mom!  These people KNOW me!  And I'm dry! I'm not wet today! Surely they want a large dirty white dog in their faces! Come'on, Mom!  Quit being such a drag!"

(This is why they make dog kennels.)

We hauled hay on Sunday.

 We unloaded hay on Monday.

Border Collie #1 supervises all activities,

waiting to be of some help.

After all, it's simply a matter of time before we need her. She knows this, so she waits . . . waiting to help.

And wonder of wonders, her patience is always rewarded.

This afternoon when unloading hay, we uncovered a nest of barn mice. Mice ran everywhere at the same time, up the wall, under pallets, across the floor, etc. Two adult police officers/special agents who carry guns, chase drug dealers, stand over dead men, and generally enforce city,state, & federal laws, screamed, danced, hollered, and pointed at small field mice scattering across the barn floor. (it was shameful!)

But someone else knew just what to do . . .

A pounce, a snap, and a rodent was flipped across the barn aisle 

. . . dead.

Senior Special Agent Lily Langford has everything under control.

The suspect/victim (depends upon your viewpoint)

"Just one of the many services provided by Barbed Wire Border Collies Inc.

We thank you for your business!"

 Working out!

Judging by the response to "The Old Fat Woman" (-in-the-mirror) blog, I'm not the only one struggling with health and aging.  Apparently no matter how much we weigh, and how old we are, we're never happy.  One of the wisest things anyone ever told me was "save those old pictures - the ones where you think you look bad. One day you'll look back on them and say, "HEY! I didn't look that bad. In fact, I looked pretty darned good!"

But most of us, no matter our weight or age, eventually look in the mirror (or the new Driver License photo!) and say, "I gotta start taking better care of myself!"

In the spirit of accountability, I must give a report on my recent attempts to drag myself into better health.  So . . . here tis:

Day 1

Work out with Dear Friend. Drink lots of water.  Weigh self. Stroke. Record weight. Blog health issues. Determination sets in.

Day 2

Dear Friend goes out of town. Work out alone.  Emphasize weights. Go light on cardio (lazy) Weigh self. Lost 2 pounds.  Woo hoo!  It's water. I know it's water. It doesn't matter. Feel healthier anyway. Progress is progress.

Day 3

Work out alone. Lift weights with Dear Friend over the phone.  (love earpieces!) Weigh self. Lost 2 more pounds.  Woo hoo!  Seriously, it's water weight. Again, doesn't matter. Buy $233 worth of healthy food at grocery store. Note that I could have bought junk food for less than half the cost.  There is something WRONG with that!  Real food costs more than chemical-laden, imported, food-like substances.  Grrrr . . .

Day 4

Eat healthy breakfast. Weigh self. Gained 2 pounds.  Stupid Freakin' Scale! Tell self it's water weight and nothing  matters but how I feel and how pants fit. Kick scale. Go work out. Other Half insists on eating at Italian restaurant for dinner. There is absolutely NOTHING healthy on menu.  Grrrrr . . .  We split a meal and told ourselves we were being healthy.  Yes, Denial is more than just a river in Egypt!

Day 5

Skip workout at home. At office, run up and down stairs multiple times. Major work-out. Decide that if I die in the stairwell, it would be a Bad Thing.  Warn cellmate in cubicle behind me when I am running stairwell and what floors to search for my body on.

Day 6

Busy morning. No work-out. Dear Friend calls to give her progress report. She is having problems working out while out of town. No problem.  We will get back on the wagon tomorrow morning. No, wait. She has the Farmer's Market. Okay, Sunday. Sunday we will start again.  Yeah, Sunday! Other Half wants breakfast.  Give him multiple healthy choices. He wants Frosted Flakes instead.  (sigh) Hand him cereal box and large jar of milk.  He notes that milk is not in plastic jug and inquires as to why. (trained investigator) Come clean and admit that milk is raw milk from local cow (named "Sugar") - milk on April 26 in the afternoon. Other Half refuses to drink milk and eats his sugar cereal dry.  Inform Other Half that he acts like a 14 year old girl and that from now on his name is "Buffy."  He stares at me while he nibbles on dry cereal - unimpressed by my threat.  Flat-ass refuse to make him eggs and bacon.  Buffy nibbles on dry cereal and pistachios instead - refusing to drink cold, clean milk that comes from a healthy cow down the road. Buffy weighs himself. Buffy informs me that scale is wrong.  Whatever . . .

Go to office.  Cellmate in cubicle behind me has been inspired to run stairwell too. He runs stairwell and later informs me that according to the Surgeon General, he is healthy enough for sex. At least two flights.  (Thank you for sharing that, Dave) I congratulate him. He has run four flights.  Go Dave! Men obviously don't need as much motivation to run stairs as women do . . . 

"If we are facing in the right direction . . .

. . . all we have to do is keep on walking."

Proverb

Trace waited impatiently for his broken leg to heal.

Now it's life in the fast lane again!

Unfortunately, it scares the bejeebers out of me!

"OOmpf!"

 "Arrfffpp!"

 "Ooppff!"

"Umpff!"

And like a contestant on the game show "Wipeout," he is happy to jump up and get back in the game. (I would be in traction for months.)

My last two ewe lambs drove off in a Mercedes yesterday. Yes, the lady packed 'em off in a Mercedes SUV. They are to be the foundation of her new Dorper flock.  I was feeling pretty good.  I had cash in my pocket, and they had a good home. I had this ranching life down by the horns.

Unfortunately that all changed this morning:

Sleep at Cow House. Because I have a murder trial this morning, I must rise early, go to other house to care for sheep and goats, find a clean uniform, and head to the Big City.  Drive down road and note beautiful blue dog trotting down highway.  To my horror, note that it is MY BLUE DOG! 

Slam on brakes.  Call dog who is now sniffing noses with strange dogs through a fence.  He is delighted to see me.  Rushes into open door.  Apparently Little Blue Dog is athletic enough to leap OVER hotwire fence and go walkabout when we're not home.  DARN!

Arrive at Sheep House.  Deposit Little Blue Dog in yard with Big White Dog and Black Wolf. They are happy to see him but refuse to give up information regarding how long he's been gone.  Decide that since the ewes cannot go out in the pasture today, (since I must leave early for court) I will toss them some alfalfa. Open door to barn.  Large number of large sheep come rushing up alleyway.  Am caught in a sea of black and white. This is like trying to walk in heavy surf. 

Cuss sheep.  Go feed horse.  Happen to look through barn and note that ponies are eating with ewes.  How is that possible?  Ponies are with rams and weanlings.

Uh oh! Someone has either failed to properly shut the gate (me?) or someone has managed to open the gate himself. 

  "Who me?"

Rams and weanling wethers are now co-mingling with ewes.  Holy shit!  Two rams.  Count forward 5 months. October.  Crap!  In October we will be playing "Who's ya daddy?" 

Bang head against gate in frustration.  Ranching seemed so much better when I had hundreds of dollars in cash in my pocket and I was watching a Mercedes drive away . . .

Who was that old, fat, drunk woman staring back at me?

I looked at my new driver license photo again.  Eegaads! Who was this person?

I compared it to my last one - the one that I hated because I looked like such a bitch.  (But at least the woman in that picture was a skinny bitch.)

There is nothing quite like the reality check of a bad photo to smack you across the face like a wet fish.  But wait! There was one more nail to drive in my coffin.  I called my old Karate Instructor regarding butchering lambs (he is a butcher) and had to admit to him that I'd gotten fat.

"NO!" he protested.

This is the same man who carefully tuned my body years ago before I joined the police department.  This is the same man who cautioned that I was getting "too thin" after I joined the police department.  And here I was having to admit that I'd let all the training and hard work go out the window. It was like telling your mechanic that you'd gotten drunk and driven his sports car into the ditch. And true to form, he happily offered to fix the problem. 

"Come back to my morning class.  You'll love Krav Maga."  (Israeli martial art)

"I'm sure I would, but when would I have the time?"

And there it was.  Time. There was never enough of it. I decided then and there that I needed to start making the time to get back in shape. Not for Krav Maga, but for me - for my health, for my self-esteem, and so I didn't die young and leave Other Half with all these sheep.

I immediately grabbed the phone and dialed Dear Friend. We had plans to go shopping and summer capri pants were our target item. Obviously we now needed to find work-out clothes too.

She answered the phone and informed me that today was a VERY BAD DAY for her to go shopping.

"I haven't been this big in years!" my former marathon runner said. "I feel horrible!"

To make her feel better, I drove over to show her my driver license photo. Clearly, it cheered her up. I'm not sure what to make of that.  Regardless, we were both inspired to start a work-out program.  It was decided that since she lived at one end of the street, and I lived at the other end of the street, we could have work-out stations in each yard and jog/power walk between the stations.  Naturally we would each take a dog, and the dog would get to do a down-stay at each station.  (Oh joy for the dog!)

I have only one pair of summer pants. That's not true.  I have 3 pairs of summer pants that I can barely squeeze my ample ass into, but they don't count.  I have only one pair of loose-fitting summer pants, and I am beginning to wear a hole in the seat of those.  The goal of our mission was to find comfortable britches.  The problem with most summer capris is that they are made for 16 year old girls who want hip huggers.  Where do 47 year old women shop?  Are we destined to wear long t-shirts forever because we can't find pants that don't come above our love handles? A clue that there is no need to even take that cute pair of pants off the rack is if the zipper is only 3 inches long. Again, where do mature women shop?

So we began our odyssey at the sporting goods store - racks and racks and racks of dazzling colors, and none of them fit.

Dear Friend found the most adorable swim suit.  Excited, she waved it at me before she headed to the dressing room.  The look on her face when she came out said it all. I didn't even bother to try.  Swimsuits would be reaching a little high for me anyway.  Hey!  I just wanted some freakin' pants that fit! The frustrating thing was that the sizes varied wildly even within the same pants.  For instance, I tried on three pairs of pants - same size, same brand, same cut, different color.  All I can say is that the 8 year old kids in China who made those pants were all using different scales.  One pair was grossly too big (yea!). One pair was grossly too samll. (boo!) And I could barely squeeze into the last pair, 

AND YET THEY WERE SUPPOSEDLY ALL THE SAME PAIR OF PANTS!

I did find yoga pants and some adorable, overpriced t-shirts ("Life Is Good" brand) that hopped into my cart.  I also bought a scale. It was about the same as buying a dragon. We drove home, inspired to cut back on sugary drinks, fried foods, and sweat a lot more.

Apparently farm work is great for your arms, but does very little for your middle. I know this because over time, I'm beginning to resemble an apple.  How is it possible to be on your feet all day, fall to bed exhausted, and still gain weight?

There is a fascinating difference between men and women.  I bought a scale, but I had no plans to actually get on the thing any time in the near future. Yet as soon as I brought it home, Other Half happily climbed on the dragon.

He peered down, and said, "That can't be right."

I laughed. (And Denial is a river in Egypt.) Despite his urging, I didn't even bother to climb on.  The next morning, after Dear Friend and I had sweated our way up and down the road for about 45 minutes, and while Other Half was still sleeping, I snuck onto the beast.

Do what?!!  40 pounds overweight!!!

I didn't even bother to deny it.  And yet somehow, magically, I felt better.  I was now tackling the problem, and the problem had a number. And I had a plan. And I have a goal!  Don't laugh, but as soon as I get back in shape, I'm gonna take a new driver license photo. How vain is that?

  Seven years ago when I thought I was overweight!

 Now!  40 pounds later! Girlfriend has GOT to get back in shape! It is not so much the weight, as how it makes me feel. It ages me. So, with my trusty Border Collie at my side, I embark on yet another journey to get back in shape!

Dorothy asked for a blog about Oli, the current Police Dog, so here it is!

Born in Czechoslovakia, she is a Belgian Malinois, who at best, looks like a coyote on crack!

 Unlike the magnificent Zena,

Other Half's last partner, Oli strongly resembles a nondescript mutt - a tiny little brown dog (on crack!)

Years ago, I heard the tale of a canine officer with a malinois who confronted a belligerent drunk.  The officer informed the man that he needed to move on out of the area. 

The drunk snarled,

"Who's gonna make me? You and that little brown dog?"

And with that, he kicked the officer in the crotch.

The poor cop dropped like a rock . . .

The drunk had to be hospitalized.

Unfortunately there was no one available to pull the "little brown dog" off him.

What our intrepid drunk failed to realize is this:

Force = Mass X Acceleration

What the Little Brown Dog lacks in Mass, he makes up for in Acceleration. These little dogs are like speeding bullets.

While on the surface, Oli looks like a pound puppy.

 In reality, she is a very expensive bundle of energy, bred to work. 

Oli is NOT a calm, family farm dog. She is highly intelligent, (in a velociraptor sort of way), and will actively plot means to get chickens or sheep. Absurdly affectionate, Oli will launch herself from a great distance to land in the recliner with Other Half, where she falls asleep and snores like freight train. It is one of the few times she is not in motion. When Oli enters the house, without fail, she flings herself across the living room furniture like a blazing brown pinball, bouncing from chair to ottoman to couch, and back to ottoman. Oli is good with other dogs, and ironically, good with cats. (After all, why hunt cats when you can hunt sheep?)

She is a narcotics dog who also does basic patrol work.  They work with interstate freight traffic, looking for illegal aliens and narcotics. Oli and Other Half can be sent anywhere in the country, (insert frowny face here) but their primary focus is along border states.

Whenever Other Half works without Oli, she stays home on the farm with me. 

Repeat: Oli is NOT a farm-friendly dog!  She would love nothing more than leg of lamb with a side dish of fresh chicken, and is intelligent enough to find a way to get it. Thus, she requires a bit more juggling than the rest of the dogs.

And so Dorothy, that's about it!  Oli is a Dual Purpose Dog who digs, kills chickens & sheep, plays endless silly games with the puppy, and makes sure that my husband comes home safely at the end of the night.  So in the long run, I guess it doesn't matter if she looks like a coyote of crack!

READ: The Crocodile Hunter LIVES!   A Study In Contrasts

  Warning!  Warning! Warning!

If you are squeamish, skip this blog and tune in tomorrow for something warm, and fuzzy, and cute.  The truth of things is that I'd rather skip it too, but in keeping with my moral code, I must share ALL the parts of living in the country, not just the good ones. 

That said, enter this blog at your own risk . . .

Now those of you who are left, everyone hold hands . . .

Okay, here goes . . .

Our neighbor, Kindly Rancher Next Door, is a young man who raises cattle, a few goats, and some chickens.  The chickens and goats are income and education for his young son, Cooper, who is learning early the values of hard work and the ranching way of life.  I am proud to say the I bought Cooper's first crop of baby goats, and Other Half paid WAAY too much for chickens we didn't need one year because he wanted to give this budding rancher some encouragement.  But I digress, back to the story . . .

Spring has sprung and the season of baby chicks is upon us.  Kindly Rancher Next Door shared this little tidbit over the fence this week:

He lost 8 of his first crop of baby chicks to one of our barn cats!  I felt terrible.  He was okay with it. No hard feelings.  Life in the country, and all that.  Anyway, he had moved on, and was looking forward to their next little crop of chicks that had just hatched. 

And now here's the horrifying part . . .

He came in one day last week to find a 6 foot chicken snake had gotten into the pen and eaten ALL of his chicks.  Then the bastard was so fat that he couldn't sneak back out again!

EEEEEKKKKKKK!!!!! (cue "Psycho" soundtrack)

My skin is still crawling! I'm not a snake-hater, but Friends & Neighbors, if a chicken snake just ate all my peeps that would be one dead snake! The severe drought is bringing wildlife closer and closer to the houses and barns.  I'm most grateful that the sheep rotating in and out of the yard keep the grass down low enough to discourage snakes, but we have no sheep at the other house.  (right beside where the 6 foot chicken snake was discovered)

Now some of you may be old enough to remember the comedian Richard Pryor. While much of his comedy was a bit raunchy for me, I do recall a delightful skit he did on snakes where he summed up precisely my feelings regarding them.

"Snakes . . . make you hurt yourself."

Now I see snakes everywhere.  The garden hose is a snake.  The dog toy becomes a snake.  The stick looks like a snake.  Everything long and slender has suddenly mutated to become a snake.  I jump. I run into things. I cuss.

And I keep rotating sheep and goats around the house so every shred of vegetation that the little bastards would use for concealment is GONE!

And Other Half wonders why I refuse to collect eggs in the dark!

I do want to add one note:

Don't you reckon that the Easter Egg Hunt on the ranch next door was modified a bit last Sunday?

(I'm just saying . . . )

"Hey Frank!  Lookat that."

"What? Tha dog?"

"Yeah, Dude, lookat those googly eyes! Gives me tha creeps."

"Earl, Man, get a grip.  It's a just a little dog. He's maybe 40 pounds drippin' wet.

"Oh Frank!  He's comin' this way! Run!"

"Pul-ease, Earl! Get a grip!  It's just a DOG."

"Seriously Frank!  Those googly eyes are comin' this way!"

"Earl, Earl, Earl . . . He's on the OTHER side of the fence, Dude. Get ahold o' yerself."

"That's a good point, Frank.  He's on the other side of the fence.  Yeah, yeah, yer right. On the other side o' tha fence."

"Of course, I'm right, Earl. Stick with me, Dude."

 "OH CRAP!!!"

"Run, Earl!  Run! He's gonna git us!"

"I thought you said he was on the other side of the fence, Frank!"

Friday and Saturday the boys spent the day building a new cow pen. Easter Sunday we worked cattle in the new pen. 

The Plan:

Step 1: Run cattle into roping arena.

Step 2: Run cattle through new rear gate that leads to new pen which leads to new chute which leads to new head gate!

Step 3: Catch cow in head gate. Doctor any cows that need doctoring. ID Tag the calves.

Step 4: Release cattle to allow them to run back into roping arena.

Sounds easy. Right?

Wrong! 

There were a couple of hitches in the plan. 

Hitch 1: Cattle had NO intention of running from arena through new gate.

Solution:  Border Collie

 Cowboy

Hitch 2: We didn't inform the cattle that they were supposed to run from the head gate back into the roping arena. 

Solution:  Border Collie

  Lily

Cowboy moved the cattle from the arena into the holding pen. The cowboys (Other Half, Son, & Dearest Friend Doug) moved the cattle through the chute and into the head gate. 

With the occasional help of a Border Collie

Lily picked up the cattle as they came through the gate and ran them back into the arena.  A job that would have taken hours otherwise, took less than an hour with 3 Cowhands, 2 Border Collies, and a new headgate.

GooooooooOOO TEAM!!!

 And the girls?

What did we do?

Contrary to what the boys will tell you, we did not sit on the couch eating bon bons watching Oprah while the boys worked.

Dear Friend Debbie supervised Cowboy,

. . .  and I handled Lily.  And I took pictures. And I let the bull get away because I was too busy taking pictures. So Lily had to go get him back.  Ooops!  Ma Bad!

Sorry Lil!

"No problem, Mom. I gotcha covered!"

Bertha is one of the latest additions to the farm. She is a nice ewe but has a loud mouth.  Seriously. That's what the lady told me when I bought her. 

"She has a loud mouth.  She will just stand in the pasture and holler for no particular reason. No lost lamb. Not hungry. Just screaming to hear herself scream."

 If her mouth is empty . . .

. . . she's screaming.

Since I have another one just like that, I wasn't too concerned. So I brought her home and plunked her in the paddock with the weanlings, where she would fit right in. So what if she screams?  Everyone in there is screaming.  But yesterday . . . oh dear!

Yesterday the weanlings and Bertha, were in the back yard and I was plinking away on the computer.  I heard Bertha on the porch screaming.  I checked her.  She was fine.  She was peeking through the dog nose smudges on the sliding glass door.  Once she saw me, Bertha was convinced that this indeed, was the pickup window for the drive-thru restaurant and amped up her screaming. 

The Border Collie was beside herself.  She is the self-appointed hall-monitor/taker-of-names-when-the-teacher's-out/crossing-guard kid who firmly believes that it is her duty  to make this farm run as tight as a battleship, and sheep begging at the back door did NOT float.

 "LEAVE!!!"

I ignored Bertha and went back to typing. The Border Collie settled down under the table.  And that's when I heard it . . . the unmistakable sound of someone trying to break in the house!  YES!  I KNOW!  Can you believe it??!!  That stupid ewe was banging the glass on the back door. 

Aging Sliding Glass Door vs Hooves & Forehead of Impatient Sheep = Catastrophe

I couldn't get out of my chair fast enough.  It clattered back as I catapulted across the room.  Border Collie led the way.  Fortunately before either of us could get there, my Livestock Guardian Dog took care of the problem.  Believe it or not, this creature can move very quickly.

Just as I rounded the corner, I saw Briar body-slam Bertha. Normally she wouldn't consider bouncing a full-grown ewe, but in the instance, even the DOG knows sheep who bang on glass doors end up in freezers! Border Collie was voting for this anyway.  She was livid.  I flung back the door to verbally abuse the sheep and Bertha grinned at me,

"There you are!"

Lambs were gathering on the porch to see what Bertha had found. It was definitely time for some Border Collie intervention.  I gave the word, and she moved them off the porch as Bertha was placing her order in the drive-thru window.

"I'll have some alfalfa.  I said, ALFALFA.  Hey! Is this thing working?  I said 'I'll have some alfalfa. Hold the fries."

(And to answer your questions, "No!" Bertha was not a bottle baby. She came off a 600 acre sheep ranch.)

I think my Indian name must be "Walks With Goats."

Each morning I take the Dairy Goats for a walk.  They're learning to browse.  (What goat has to be taught to browse???!!!!  I KNOW!!!  Whodathunkit?!)  Nevertheless, this little group has never been allowed to free range so the concept of browsing is a bit alien to them. 

 "Weeds???"

They're used to eating Goat Chow and alfalfa, not trimming fence lines, but they follow like puppies while I sip coffee. (no, the dogs don't come along on this walk) They are beginning to discover honeysuckle.

 Clover/Copper

I may have to re-name Clover, since for the life of me, I keep calling her "Copper,"  (Gray Hair Syndrome) We are ending our little walks with an arrival in the Kitchen Garden/Pet Cemetery.  The goats were a bit reluctant to enter the garden at first, (Understandable, since 6 dogs are buried there!) but they have now gotten into the hang of pruning roses, jasmine, weeds, and lemon trees.  I like keeping them there because I can peek out the window and monitor their progress.

 Through the Kitchen window

 Yard Crew   

I'm pleased to announce that Trace is "Back In Bidness!"

After weeks of trying to keep a baby Border Collie quiet and confined . . .

. . .  so his broken leg could heal . . .

. . . we have let loose The Beast!

(As if we were ever able to keep him quiet anyway! But please don't tell the Vet!)

I call this creature the White-Chested Sneaky Snake.

When I'm headed to the barn and I don't want 5 dogs running with me, I put them, one by one, into a kennel on the back porch. Dutifully, each pup slides behind the bars.  Every pup, except one . . . the White-Chested Sneaky Snake.  This creature hides.  It hides behind the Toy Tub.  It hides behind the Tomato pot.  It hides behind the barrel. It flattens itself into the pavement and stays really, really, REALLY still, like a little green lizard, blending into her environment.  It wants to go to the barn. The White-Chested Sneaky Snake knows that I will, at some point, need her help . . .  

 . . . because there are sheep at the barn.

 "Are we going?  Are we going?" Are we going?  What are we doing?  What are we doing? Are you ready now?"

How To Confuse A Livestock Guardian Dog

Step 1: Wean lambs

Step 2: Add some more adult sheep and a few goats

Step 3: Move rams daily

Step 4: Wean more lambs so the screaming is in "surround-sound"

And for the final step . . .  have the Dear Friend put HER sheep on the property next door!

Poor Briar saw the sheep next door and had a mental melt-down this morning.

 "My sheep??!!"

No, not your sheep. Cathy's sheep.

"MY sheep!!!"

No! Cathy's sheep on Roberto's land. NOT your sheep.

"MY sheep! My sheep! MINE!"

Do NOT go over there!  The fence is hot!

 "Not my sheep? Why not?"

Because they're Cathy's sheep.

"Why not My Sheep? I hear sheep screaming. My Sheep screaming. Sheep not happy."

Mommy won't be happy either if you climb that fence!

"STRESS!  STRESS! 

The sheep won't shut up! I cannot stand the stress!"

I feel the same way, Dog. I feel the same way.

Texas is staring down the barrel of a Monster Drought. This means we have to take calves and lambs to the sales sooner. I'd rather wait, but feeding hay all summer will off-set any profit to be had by weight gain. Unfortunately, some of the lambs I had planned to keep, will have to go.  We have to concentrate on managing grassland rather than allowing areas to become overgrazed and feeding hay. 

The best way to manage the property is multi-species mob grazing with fewer animals.  So we're selecting the best and selling the rest.  (but keeping Roanie!)

That said, the dairy goats are still staying.  They are part of the program.  Goats are a pain in the butt, but a necessary part of farmland management, and great comic relief. 

Besides, although meat goats, and sheep are currency, bottle-raised dairy goats are pets who double as a lawn crew . . .

I keep trying to get good pictures of this goat, but it hasn't happened. 

 This is what I get.

 And this.

And this. . .  peeking from under my shirt tail.

 Someone told this goat we were culling critters, so she is making darned sure that we aren't cutting dairy goats from the team. Cute and cuddly tends to stay. Clover knows this!

I'm at a Death Investigation Conference this week (such is the nature of my job) and Other Half is in charge of taking care of my sheep and goats.

Do I feel in the least bit guilty about saddling a cow man with the responsibility of sheep and goats?  Not a bit!  How many times does he jet off for work and leave ME to take care of his cows?!!  So Ladies and Gentlemen, it's payback time!   I did take great delight in telling him that he had to make a special effort to sit down with the dairy goats to pet and cuddle them. Yes, there was a moment of silence after I told him that was one of the chores.

But I predict that this little girl will charm him like she charms everyone else.

"May I have a tummy rub?"

Trot on in to see the newest Spring Brings!

 New Cowpony!

This fella is bred to work cows.  (Colonel Freckles on top/Double Hancock on bottom)  Very nice baby! Very calm. He is already dragging calves.  Other Half already has friends trying to talk him out of this guy.  The poor fellow came from North Texas and went from temps in the 30s to temps in the 80s down here (with high humidity!)  I can just hear him saying (with a George Lopez accent)

"I can't breathe! I can't breathe!"

 And water, he drinks LOTS of water.  (Give him a few weeks to slick out and he'll be just fine.)

New Ewes!

 Very nice big-boned girls to add to the breeding program.  Like 'em a lot! (I might just call the one up front "Big Bertha!)

And I just couldn't help myself! I've wanted dairy goats for years.  The deal was too good to pass up. (package deal from Sheep Goddess)  I've been eating their cheese, and bottle feeding their babies, so when Sheep Goddess needed to part with bottle babies to make way for more, I ended up with goats again. 

Calypso & Swan 

 AND . . .  I just happened to fall in love with this girl who is pregnant.  She decided she wanted to come home with me too.  (Despite the headaches, there's something about goats that I just love!)

 Clover

And so there were goats again at Failte Gate Farm! (somehow I knew the state of being goat-less wouldn't last long!)

But wait!  There's more!!!!

Drumroll please!

The latest, greatest addition to the family . . .

more drumroll . . .

Grandbaby #2

Is this not the most adorable little face??!!  It won't be long before his momma has him on a horse! He will be riding The Supervisor's pony in no time! Remember THIS little girl?

Two years later . . .

It doesn't come much more adorable than this!

(No bias at all!)

I finally found a breed of sheep that meets with Other Half's approval!  Check these out!  They're perfect!  Easy on the fences. They eat practically nothing. Not loud. No shearing. No health problems . . . yet!

But wait until one of the dogs climbs onto the piano!

Then there could be some serious health problems!

I think they may be a bit difficult for the Border Collie to herd though! However something tells me she has other plans!

And she may not be the only one!  Run, Little Sheep!  Run!

This breed is also pretty cheap at Kroger's:

Sheep: $7.99

Lamb: $3.99

 Spring has sprung!

 Pony hair is everywhere!

Hairy ponies everywhere!

In reality, despite the size, everyone is a horse. (but I still call them all "ponies")

Montoya is lonely.    

He wants to be with the minis. Cows just don't cut it.  He wants to be with horses, even pint-sized horses. So this morning I caved and put them together. The minis, who need to be on a dry lot because they get fat when they even sniff spring grass, raced to the spring pasture.

and everyone lived happily ever after . . .

. . . until the mean owner decides they've had enough grass

 and they need to go back in their dirt lot again . . .  

"To know even one life has breathed easier 

 because you have lived,

 this is to have succeeded."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Timing is everything, and every woman knows this. As an illustration, let me share the events of last night:

While peacefully sitting at my desk, I receive call from Other Half, who is also at work. He is working a Big Multi-Agency Operation and has been away from home quite a bit. The purpose of this call is to inform me that he has found a litter of raccoons. Since he is actually in a loud restaurant it is hard to hear the details, but the long and short of it is Momma and litter are slated for death, so he rescued the litter. 

I inform him emphatically that we can NOT keep a litter of raccoons. He reluctantly agrees. (reluctantly!!!!) I remind him that it is AGAINST THE LAW! That fails to deter him.  I remind him that he has been an absentee husband for almost 3 weeks, leaving Son and I to handle HIS animals and we will NOT be happy if he brings home MORE responsibilities!!!  This seems to strike a chord.  I offer to make some phone calls to find wildlife rehabbers in his area. He agrees and goes back to dinner.  Minutes later I call him with two phone numbers and then forget about the raccoons.

All is well until I call to inform him that I am leaving work. It is at this point that he shares  that he is STILL, 3 hours later, in possession of baby raccoons.  Do what??!!!  (He only called one number and they didn't return his call.)

I throw a Giant Hissy Fit. He points out that he was not driving the car, thus not in control of his own destiny, and everyone else wanted to eat, not deal with raccoons. Angry Women aren't the least bit sympathetic to this excuse.  Angry Woman points out that poor baby raccoons have been waiting for 3 HOURS . . . and she will NOT be happy if he comes home with a litter of raccoons for her to take care of while he is out playing Secret Agent Man. (cue music)

Other Half assures Angry She-Bitch that he will drop Innocent Babies off at the SPCA.  Angry She-Bitch points out that the SPCA is NOT OPEN at this hour.  Other Half counters that he did this with a baby owl last year and the facility is always manned.  He then asks if we have any Kitten Formula.  Angry She-Bitch goes postal.  He promises her that he will not bring home a litter of raccoons.

Minutes later an elated Other Half calls to inform her that Precious Babies are now happily snoozing under a heat lamp at the SPCA. He is quite proud of himself.  Angry She-Bitch is slightly satisfied, but since she sees the door open . . . she runs through it. She takes this opportunity to inform Other Half that she has just purchased two baby Nubian goats. He strokes.

"Do what??!!  You just chewed my ass for thirty minutes about responsibility and you bought two more GOATS!?!?!?"

Less-Angry She-Bitch now proceeds to explain that she has been playing with the milk goat mommas and these babies for weeks now. AND .  . . the cheese in the refrigerator is from these momma goats. AND . . .  HE was the one who talked her into selling the last of her Boer goats. AND she has dearly regretted that sale. AND Grandbaby and Grandbaby-On-The-Way want goat milk. 

Helpless before the onslaught of Female Logic, Other Half just gives up. Less-Angry She-Bitch feels slightly guilty for being such a 'bitch' about a Litter of Helpless Baby Raccoons (which are ILLEGAL) and tells him that he is a Good Man for not letting the Pest Control Guy kill the Baby Raccoons. She reminds herself that his heart is in the right place even when he's busy playing Secret Agent Man.

I'm seriously considered giving Briar a haircut.  Maybe a puppy cut, or one of those Portugese Water Dog clips. She'll probably look silly but I think she'll feel better. Briar spends so much time in the pond that her butt is beginning to matt.  Combing her out isn't much of an option because by the time I get up in the morning, she's normally already taken her morning swim.  Then we take a walk, and she takes another swim. Briar is a closet-hippo! Combing out a wet dog is not an option for me.

Not only is she rarely dry, but she smells like a fish bowl  (much like Trace!) Soooo . . . that's why I'm seriously considering giving Briar a 'wash & wear' haircut.

Look!  I spy an Albino Hippo!

"Hey!  A fish!"

"Look!  My TAIL!!!"

"OH!  There's my tail!!!"

Any questions?

Scientists say we commit the sin of "anthropomorphism" when we say an animal grieves; we are, after all, giving "human characteristics to things not human." I argue however, that they feel emotions as we do. One cannot hear Montoya's cries echo through the night and not understand that he is lonely, that he grieves.

He still calls for Sultan. He calls. He listens. He waits for a response. He calls again. It breaks my heart. Tonight I pulled him out and played with him.  It was therapy for both of us.

I open the stall door and invite him into the aisle. Like a overgrown dog, he eagerly bows, backs, and sidepasses for cookies. I pull out his hot pink brushes and rub him down.  His world is getting back in balance. The grinding of his teeth lulls me to a state of Here & Now as he munches the hay and I comb his tail. Three calico cats drop from the rafters to land in the hay beside him.  He gives no notice, happy instead, for the company. From time to time he turns and gazes at me, a mouth full of hay, and I remember him as a weanling again.  I have spent so many hours combing his mane, combing out the tangles, combing away my problems.  This horse has always been therapy for me.  Tonight we were therapy for each other.

I groom him. We play. And as I leave the barn, his cries echo through the night again.  

The End Of The Trail

Today was a good day to die. The longest walk I ever take is from the horse trailer, down the path that leads behind the clinic.  It's a beautiful path, with tall grass and wildflowers.  Trees line either side.  Cows bellow from the pasture nearby. I think they call both a welcome, and a farewell. The cows see this walk played out all too often. I've walked this path too many times, for both myself, and dear friends. It's never an easy walk, and it helps to have a girlfriend walk with you - to hold your hand, to lend a shoulder, to remind you to cut a lock of mane and tail.

I shared 26 years with Sultan, my sexy senior citizen. I'll miss him, but I know he lived a long, good life. I bought him from his breeder as a four year old, and he never knew an unkind hand. He loved his saddle and his horse trailer.  They were his "tickets to adventure." His farrier and his vet loved him - which says a lot for a stallion. He was a model citizen, he was a great horse.  I'm honored to have shared the journey with him.

Look at this heifer. 

She looks innocent enough, doesn't she?  Look again.

See!  There it is!  She's plotting!

Daisy Mae has GOT TO GO!  (at least that's what I informed Other Half this morning when I called him in a rage) She is a cow. Cows belong with other cows, behind the fence, chewing their cuds. Daisy Mae didn't get that memo. 

She is a registered Santa Gertrudis heifer. We plan to breed her to another registered Santa Gertrudis.  Unfortunately our bull is an Angus.  (you see the problem)

Thus we moved Daisy Mae to the Sheep Farm so she didn't get bred to an Angus. Unfortunately she has proceeded to walk through fences like a red bulldozer. (no barbed wire)  Chain link fencing is NOTHING to a red bulldozer in heat. 

As if that wasn't a big enough sin, this week Daisy Mae escalated her criminal activities.  She is now bullying the stallion out of his food.  YES!!!  (my stallion is a weenie . . . )

 Sexy Senior Citizen

This is how meal time runs now:

Walk to barn as sheep scream in stereo from both sides of the path. Enter feed room. Lock dogs in feed room. Scoop up sheep food.  Spread sheep food among various feeders.  Note that Blue Heeler has escaped from feed room.  Wonder (???)Feed weaned lambs. Feed rams.  Go back to feed room. Scoop horse food. Lock Blue Heeler back in feed room with everyone else. 

Shovel feed to stallion.  Move to next stall and shovel feed to gelding. Head to cows with hay. Note large red cow has moved stallion out of his stall.  Stallion moves in with Gelding. Gelding runs out and moves Red Cow out.  Red Cow barrels toward Stallion.  Stallion exits stall and runs toward stall with Gelding.  Gelding leaves stall and evicts Red Cow.  Red Cow just moves stallion out of his feed again.  

Enraged Human phones Spouse to scream into his answering machine. Spouse wisely decides to allow her some time before he returns call. Note that Blue Heeler has escaped from feed room again.  (???)

It is time for Daisy Mae to return to her breeder so when she comes home she can go back out with THE COWS!

"Greetings Bi-ped!"

"Hey Bro!  Wake up!  The Bi-ped is here!"

"Look cute, Bro!  Look cute! Look into the camera-thingee and smile! We're boys. Boys either end up at the sale barn or for working dogs.  We want to stay and work dogs, so look cute."

"Look at me smile!  I like dogs!  (Smile Bro!  Smile!)"

The new mama didn't want to take her babies out of the barn this morning. She's happy enough to share her babies with the rest of the flock, as long as they stay in the barn.  When everyone else strolled out the gate, she stayed behind.  Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

Terri's Pal asked me to post more photos of my lambs.  Because the new lambs are inside the barn, I can't get good shots of them without a flash (and then they have blue eyes!)

Here they are with the Malibu Twins. Note the size difference.

I named them the Malibu Twins because the ewe lamb has a blond head.  I call them Malibu Ken & Barbie. (born Jan 29)

Here is the lamb that was born on Jan 2.  He's a little hulkster now.

The Jan 2 lamb with the Dec 25 lamb.  Compare them to the lambs born yesterday. 

Here are Roanie's boys - Ricearoni & Macaroni

They've grown a bit, haven't they?

We've got lambs stretched from Oct 25 birthdates to March 28 birthdates. Thus far, the singles born later have caught up with the twins born in October.  Next year I'm hoping to plan better so that everyone is born within the same month.  We're weaning in groups and so I have to listen to screaming babies from now til June!

 "What'z weaning?"

The last of the hold-out pregnant ewes gave birth yesterday.

 Twins!

She is a first-time mother and I had worried about her.  This ewe was as wide as she was tall and I was certain that she'd have twins. As a yearling, she loved the new babies and so I had hopes that she'd be a good mama herself.  She is.  She gave birth to twins all by herself (a plus!) and is the doting mother to both of them.  I returned from a herding lesson to find two more additions to the flock and a very attentive mama.

The little ewe is as friendly to me as she was before she gave birth, but the barn cat . . .  well that's another issue . . .

"Run, Cat, run!!!" 

"Babies okay?"

  "Check!"

And so she assumed the position again, standing guard over her little ones, keeping them safe from the Big Bad World of Barn Cats.

 "Yawn . . . "

In the classic country song, Tom T. Hall sang the praises of "Old Dogs, Children, & Watermelon Wine."  There's something about old dogs and old people that tugs at my heartstrings too. Some time ago a friend of mine asked about finding a German Shepherd as a companion for her elderly mother.  In one year her mom had lost her husband, her daughter, and her dog. (that alone, makes tears spring to my eyes) We immediately thought of Zena. 

We love Zena, and she's happy in our home, but she deserves more.  As much as I love my animals, I'm not so arrogant as to believe that we are always the best home for each animal.  Such is the case with Zena.  She is enjoying retirement, but she doesn't get her share of attention because she is one of eight dogs, and she is the well-behaved one.  Thus, she ends up getting shuffled to the back.

So I spoke to my friend and she said Zena would be perfect for her mom. Unfortunately her mother got very sick before she was able to meet Zena. After a long illness, she finally was able to meet her new dog today . . . and it brought tears to my eyes.  (This is why I would suck at Therapy Dog work.  I would cry in every hospital room.) There is something magical in the touch of a dog. When she ran her twisted arthritic fingers through Zena's hair and said, "I dreamed of you when I was sick," I almost bawled.

Zena is always welcome back into our home, but it's obvious that this woman needs Zena, and Zena needs to be needed. So we're gonna give this a try and see how it works out. Something tells me that this pair will be just fine.

Since today promises to be another busy day of running errands, and I don't have time to pen a clever blog this morning, (plus I still don't have my camera back yet!) I figured I'd answer some questions Peg sent last night:

Which horse did I sell?  Yes, she was right, we sold Marshall.  Maybe. We'll see. You know how I am. In my world, everyone must be happy - the buyer and the animal. This is a friend of mine and I want to make sure she's happy with him before I consider it finalized. I am a firm believer that once I bring an animal into my home, I am responsible for that animal for the rest of its life whether it still lives with me or not.

Which horse did I get back? No, it wasn't Ona.  You probably couldn't pry Ona away from that woman even if you used a crow bar. The horse I got back was a four year old Azteca. The lady no longer had the time or facilities for him and so I took him back and put him with the same trainer I use for Montoya, Scout, and Marshall.

A herding update?  I finally bit the bullet and started taking herding lessons again. (2 hours away) Thus far the weather and my court schedule are cooperating and I see major progress in Lily (and myself)  As the Sheep Goddess has politely pointed out, Lily isn't the problem.  My handling sucks.  I screech commands, wave my arms, and otherwise do lots to confuse my little dog who then lacks the confidence to go out and do a proper fetch, so working with my handling is a must.  Lily is having a blast, and I see her gain more and more confidence. After her bad experience with another trainer last year, she had become scared when someone screamed or waved a stick, now she is back to trying to sneak onto the working field again while at practice. I'm very happy to see that.  I feared the hole in her confidence was permanent.

"Got sheep?"

Today I take Zena to a possible new home.  (again, assuming the lady and Zena are both happy!)  An elderly lady who lost her husband, her daughter, and her dog, is in need of a companion to sit on the couch and watch television with her.  Zena would absolutely love a home like that. This could give an older dog a second career and provide years of loving, watchful companionship to an elderly woman. 

So Peg, hopefully that answered your questions!  Other Half and Oli are out of town again, and things tend to overwhelm me when I haven't had enough sleep, enough food, and I'm trying to juggle everything (while he "armchair quarterbacks" over the phone!) Say a prayer that Zena and this lady are perfect for each other other.  Zena would be happier in a home like that, but we weren't actively trying to place her.  She just gets lost in the sea of panting faces that jockey for our attention around here.  There she would have her own person that she didn't have to share. We shall see how it turns out.

Some days are like an angry goose. It's just best to retreat. Did you ever have one of those days? I had one on Monday.  I got up at 5:30 AM, and ran around all day long, subsisting on caffeine and a bag of Cheetos. By the end of the day I was mentally and physically exhausted, and in tears.

In one day I had:

* Gotten up at 5:30 Am to do chores
* Driven 2 hours to herding class
* Driven 2 hours back from herding class
* Dropped off dogs at home
* Loaded up 2 horses and took them to trainer
* Sold one horse
* Got another horse back (Nature abhors a vacuum!)
* At 9:30 PM still have not eaten.
* Realized that I left my camera at herding class 2 hours away
* Cried
* Visualized Livestock Guardian Dogs playing keep-a-way with my Canon
* Texted and called Sheep Goddess - no answer

It was at this point I remembered Post-it notes. One of the wisest and most profound things I ever heard, (and for the life of me, I cannot remember where I heard it!) was the simple idea of mentally writing down your problem on an imaginary Post-It note,  and here's the important part - putting it on God's desk. You have a problem.  You can't solve it yourself. There's no sense worrying any more about it. Write it on a Post-it note for God to handle . . . and let go of it!

I kid you not. It works . . . every time. It works. Call it weird, call it naive, call it anything you want, but - it works.  And that's all that really matters.  Just give it up. As a dear friend once told me, "Let go, and let God."

So that's what I did.  I ate a bowl of cereal, mentally wrote out a post-it note, put it on God's desk, and went to bed.

At 6:30 AM the following morning I received a message from the SheepGoddess. She had found my camera and misplaced her phone. All was well. I thanked God for the prompt response to my Post-it note, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

    "Rise and shine!"

 "The farm is awake, but we've been up all night."  

 "Allll night . . . "

"But now the sun is up and we thank God for another day"

"It's so hard to get real work done when the farm is awake though. For instance, have you ever tried to hunt with a cow walking behind you. Subtle, real subtle.  You blend in like a billboard." 

"I just cannot work under these conditions!"

Perhaps I'm just getting old. Perhaps I'm just tired. Perhaps I've just seen too much in this world, but I find that more and more, I am reminded of the words of John F. Kennedy.

"Too often we enjoy the comfort of opinion

 without the discomfort of thought."

I'm just saying . . . .