Farm Fresh Blog

Breaking and entering our house could have deadly consequences. With the number of dogs we have, it's highly unlikely that a burglar could escape detection for very long. That's why I was so surprised.

We have two houses - the cow farm and the sheep farm.  We generally stay at the sheep farm during the week and stay at the cow farm on the weekend. (Now this is important, so keep up here!)

The Master Bedroom at the Cow House opens up to a Sun Room/Game Room that has a sliding glass door which faces the cow pasture.  We rarely use this door.  In fact, we rarely use this room.  It has become a junk room containing a game pool table, an old recliner, leather stuff, old boots, etc.  It is, in essence, a Mud/Muck Room.

Monday Morning, around 4:30 AM, I woke up for a "call of nature" run.  Lily, the Border Collie, follows me everywhere, so she went with me.  We returned a minute later to find the door to the Muck Room standing wide open.  ????

I had apparently just missed the excitement.  It went something like this:

Other Half also feels the "call of nature."  Since Lily and I are in the bathroom, he and Cowboy head for the Mens Room (the Great Outdoors). He opens the bedroom door to walk through the Muck Room. Naturally, he does not turn on the light.  After all, if you plan on peeing off the porch, you don't want to illuminate yourself. (it's one of the things that separates men from beasts) Fortunately he put his glasses on first . . .  because there he was . . .

. . .a naked man . . .

. . . staring . . .

. . . at a raccoon sleeping in the recliner.

Now being a Naked Man puts one at a distinct disadvantage. Like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, our raccoon realizes he is trespassing, so up in a flash, he races across the room, and slides through a hole beside the door.

And just like that, he is gone, leaving a Naked Man and a puzzled Border Collie in his wake.

Lily and I return to the bedroom to find the two of them, staring into the darkness.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

And so he relays this incredible tale of a rather brave Goldilocks Raccoon. 

"So what did Cowboy do?"

"Nothing. He just stood behind me." 

"WHAT?!!"

Cowboy said to me, "I didn't sign up to fight any little bears."

Lily snickered.

And there it was. With the police dog in her kennel beside the bed, and Blue Heeler at the other house, a raccoon had riggled into our home, walked across the room, climbed into the recliner, and fell asleep.

When we reported this to Son the next morning, he summed it up perfectly,

"Can you blame him?" 

No, but I certainly admire his pluck.

"I didn't sign up to fight little bears!"

It was a good day to die. The temperatures are mild again.  The sun smiled on us. Alice started her day, like every day, with a morning walk in the pasture. She went over to Grandma's house for fresh eggs.

She shuffled around the sheep.

Then she ate a hearty breakfast and went back to sleep. She woke in the middle of the day and went outside to lay in the sun. Before I took Trace to his puppy agility class, I made sure she was back in the house.  She was. She was sleeping in my bedroom. Farting. Bloodhound puppies smell like Fritos corn chips.  On a good day, adult Bloodhounds have a rank, hound smell.  Bathe them in rose water and they smell like wet Bloodhounds.  An ancient Bloodhound with skin problems and oozing tumors smells like a decomposing body. That's what Alice smelled like as she happily lay holed up in the Blue Heeler's kennel . . . farting. I'm sure Blue Heeler didn't appreciate Alice stinking up his kennel, but he would never say anything to evict her. No one argued with Alice.  She came. She went. She did her own thing. No one questioned it. 

If she wanted your kennel, you left it. If you didn't, she would just walk in there with you.  She was Pig Pen in the Charlie Brown cartoons - a funky haze followed her everywhere. Because no one wanted to be in a confined kennel with a Funky Bloodhound, the rightful owner never failed to vacate and let Alice have Squatter's Rights until she moved on someplace else. So I left her in Blue Heeler's Kennel.

I returned to find her in my office - on her own dog bed. She seemed fine. We left and went to dinner.  When we got home I went to the barn and fed the livestock while Other Half and Son fed the dogs. When I returned from the barn, Other Half informed me that Alice was dying.

"Do what?"

I was confused.  I argued with him.  No, Alice was fine.  I just left her a couple of hours ago and she was fine. She ate her eggs. She putzed around the pasture.  She had a good day. Alice was fine.

No. Alice is dying.

So I went to see for myself.  He was right.  He had found her on the couch, where she had thrown up watery foam. When he called her for dinner, she moved to her dog bed in my office.  She had thrown up white foam all over the office and her bed. She wouldn't eat.  I put a hand on her tummy.  I could hear her gut.  I could feel the motion of something, be it gas or blood, oozing through her.  This was so very bad.  She was in pain.  It was time.

So Dear Friend and Vet Husband rushed over with drugs.  He sedated Alice to help with the pain until he could get to the clinic and back with the drug he needed. While he was gone, Other Half and Son dug a hole. Dear Friend and I sat with Alice. And then the most amazing thing happened . . .

Dear Friend announced that she smelled lavender. I informed her that all I could smell was rank bloodhound funk. She insisted that she smelled lavender. I insisted that there was no lavender in the office or the bathroom across the hall. 

And then . . .  I smelled it . . .

She was right. I whiffed it too!  Here and there, hints of lavender wafted through the room.  How could that be?  I looked down at the old dog, sedated and dying, and the most bizarre thought popped in my head.  Perhaps, just perhaps, the angels that God sends for good little Bloodhound souls, smell of lavender.  Lavender Bloodhound Angels.

I have no idea where the lavender came from.  We both smelled it. I checked that room again this morning.  There is no lavender potpourri, no lavender candles, nothing. Alice is gone now.  And so are the whiffs of lavender.  But wouldn't it be fitting?  I know that I for one, will never think of lavender the same way again.  And I'll plant some lavender on Alice's grave, and always remember the Lavender Bloodhound Angels that came for Alice last night.

Kona passed away June 2010.

Alice passed away February 2011.

May they run through the lavender fields of Heaven together today.

CeeCee asked for an update on little Trace, so here it is!

Trace is 100% Border Collie puppy!

Yes, he does still sneak out to get to livestock every chance he gets. (but I've plugged the holes now, so he only gets out when he slips through the gate with me.  DUH!!!!) Yes, he is still adorable and thus forgiven when you finally get your hands on the little beast.  He is scheduled for his first puppy class this afternoon so he'll get a chance to get out and be with other puppies. (I expect him to be a raging maniac . . .) 

. . . but that's no big deal. He's clever and should soon settle down. It's a baby agility class. I won't be trialing him in agility, but he does need the socialization with strangers and strange dogs.   (He should be used to dealing with "strange" dogs by now.)

Overall, Trace is shaping up to be a really nice dog.  It looks like he will have Lily's talent (perhaps more) without being as handler-sensitive as she is. But he is a loooong way from doing any real work because at the moment, Trace is all about Trace.

And that's not a bad thing.  He is still a baby. On the 12th he turned 6 months old.  We're confident that he and Lily will grow to be a great working team.

See this guy?   He was just a few days old here.

 Here he is at 5 days old.

 Here he is at 5 months.

Can't beat growth like that!  I show you these to explain my actions this morning. . .

Ya see . . . (Here's the story I told Other Half . . . )

Ya see . . . I was on the phone this morning, arranging details for a herding clinic, when the organizer just happened to drop the information that she was getting a new ram because she's had her other ram for 4 years already. (Time for new blood.)  I just so happen to really like her former ram.  He is the sire of the above young fella.  Everything that he puts on the ground is, pardon my French, "built like a brick shithouse."

So I asked her how much she wanted for him.  And just like that . . .

 . . . I bought him.  He's 4 years old and registered. He produces NICE babies. And as a plus, he isn't a butthead yet.  So that's how things just happen.  Sometimes, you just fall into buying another mouth to feed when you're calling about what kind of dish you can bring to a potluck . . .

Other Half took the news pretty well. 

 Frosty Fun

    Tail Fun   

   Zoom Fun  

 Stick Fun

Fun is just so exhausting.

Guess who earned her Puppy Chow last night?

Briar works the Night Shift. When the rest of the dogs are snug and warm in the house, Polar Dog is at work.  At 5:30 am this morning, Polar Dog announced there was an intruder in G'Ma's yard trying to get into the chicken coops. Her barking woke me and I let the rest of the pack out. With canine back-up, Briar climbed the fence and headed to the chicken coops. Blue Heeler, The Black Wolf, and Border Collie raced right behind her.  The suspect (s) apparently ran underneath G'Ma's deck and got away. (short little buggers! probably raccoon or oppossum)

I returned to bed with the rest of the pack and Briar resumed her patrols in my yard. When the sun came up, I looked out to find that instead of sleeping on the hay in my barn, Briar had climbed the fence again and like a Sphinx on guard, was on the icy deck between the chicken coops. 

The Boogey Beast did not come back for chicken dinner last night.

Good Dog, Briar!

They say this is perfect weather for warm milk & cookies.

Mmmmmmm . . . warm milk!

Now . . .

. . . what's a cookie?

I have a much better understanding of that phrase now. Guess what happens when you don't leave the faucets dripping . . .

 . . . the well freezes. Pipes freeze. I get an education in plumbing.

Other Half and I did a great deal of shouting and pointing fingers at each other yesterday.  A good bit of the morning was spent with a hair dryer under a horse blanket trying to thaw out the well.  God smiled on our efforts (and probably laughed too.) and blessed us with running water once again.  Mom's pier and beam house is still a problem because the pipes run underneath the house and APPARENTLY those suckers aren't insulated well enough for 24 degree temperatures. But eventually we got water running in her house again too. The Cow House is okay though.  Evidently Son has a better understanding of "LEAVE THE FAUCETS DRIPPING" than I do.

The temperatures are a bit higher today, but they are calling for freezing rain and snow this afternoon.  Eegaads! We need to shuffle animals. Haul more hay.  Break the ice in the tanks. Haul water to the barn.  Buy another ton of cow feed.  (and unload it!)

It looks like it's going to be a long day.

Here is a list of things I'm thankful for:

Thank you, Lord, for running water.
Thank you, Lord, for electricity.
Thank you, Lord, for hair dryers, horse blankets, and men who know how to use them.
Thank you, Lord, for a Boss who understands the words . . .

"I might be late. I might not even make it in" and then says, "Take the day off and do what you need to do."

Now at this point, I know my Northern neighbors are laughing.  But HEY!  It doesn't get this cold in South Texas!  We don't know how to handle it here! There are rolling blackouts over the whole state!  Perhaps I should have noticed when the horses began to look like caterpillars . . .

 Yep, maybe I should have noticed that,

. . . because this is probably what they will look like tomorrow. . .

Briar's first lambing season . . .

She is fascinated by the "little people" in her flock.

She tries to convince the Christmas Day lamb (Holly) to play with her dead mole.

 Briar is quite taken with this blond-headed lamb.  When the lamb has had enough "love" she gets up and walks away.  Fortunately Briar allows her to captive to leave, unlike her behavior with George the chicken.

Our Giant Puppy is finally growing up.  I still don't trust her completely with the lambs because she is big and they are small.  But next year . . .  maybe . . .

To read more about Briar & George: "I will name him George"

Why I like Sheep better than Cattle -

As a rule, sheep don't try to kill you. The same cannot be said for cattle.  Other Half is a cow man. Like most of his kind, he has an ingrained prejudice against sheep and sheep people. Cow people tend to hold themselves above sheep people. I haven't quite figured this out since my sheep have never tried to kill me and yet, cattle seem to do this on a semi-regular basis.  Take Saturday night:

Come home from work to discover that despite the fact that Other Half had INSISTED he and Son would be working cattle EARLY in the day, he has STILL not done it.  In fact, he has planned to wait until I get home. Now one would think that this meant he valued my in-put. Apparently such was not the case. 

The Chores:

1) Separate new red calf with cough, shoot him up with antibiotics, tag his ear
2) Separate the mother of another calf who has still not passed the afterbirth, pull afterbirth out, shoot her up with antibiotics

Note that Son has managed to get mammas and babies in the roping arena.  (He did not use a Border Collie.  It took him over 2 hours. He had to physically pick up some newborn calves and carry them by hand through the chute to get them into the arena.)

Note that little red calf and his mama are already eating hay in the catch pen. Woo hoo!  Half that battle is done!  Cut out his mama and close pipe panel in his face.  He is upset.  His mother is enraged.  Note that Big Red Mama Cow has plans on stomping us into mud if she can get back into the catch pen.  Son catches calf.  Calf bawls.  Rodeo begins.  Appreciate the fact that Son is Big & Strong as he flips calf on its side.  Wham!  Bam!  Thank you! Ma'am!  Calf is done.  Turn him back with his Mama. 

Now the real rodeo begins . . .

Note Black Mama has nasty stringy afterbirth hanging from her butt. Note that she is ignoring her baby. Looks like someone better shape up or she will find herself at the sale barn. Cut Mama out and put her in catch pen.  She is still ignoring her baby.  Baby walks up to catch pen to talk with her.  She vaguely recalls that she had a baby several days ago.  "Oh yeah, it's you again."

He toddles back to the herd.

Ask Other Half EXACTLY how he plans to get cow cleaned up.  He informs me that he will simply rope her, put bull tongs in her nose, whereupon she will hold still while he works.

Do WHAT??!!

I argue that this is impossible. I point out that once he ropes this cow, she will go apeshit, he will be flipped around like a monkey on a string, AND the cow will end up kicking the shit out of him.  It seemed to be a quite logical conclusion to me, but then, I'm a girl. . . and a sheep person.  I pointed out that since we have no stocks or squeeze chute over here, we could MAKE one by undoing the pipe panel corral and "oooch" it toward the roped cow, thus pinning her against the board fence where we could safely work.

And there it was . . .

The dividing line between men and women. The point where the man decides that he knows it all and dismisses the woman.

And he so does.

He ropes Big Black Cow.  She bawls and the rodeo commences. I stand on the fence and watch.  It is midnight. I am calculating how long the wait at the Emergency Room will take.  She finally calms down a bit but refuses to allow him to put bull tongs in her nose.  (Sista ain't no fool!) But in time however, the two men get bull tongs on the enraged cow.  She is snubbed to the fence and everyone re-groups.  I point out that she is still VERY DANGEROUS because she can kick the snot out of anyone who plans on getting near her rear end.  (and perhaps we should move the panels and pin her against the fence.)

Other Half points out that this is a former show cow and won't kick. 

Do WHAT??!!

In what universe?  This bawling, slobbering, angry creature in no way resembles a show cow anymore.  In fact, she looks very much like a wild animal plucked out of the swamps of the South Texas Lowlands. This is NOT A HAPPY ANIMAL.

He ignores my warning.

Cow is swishing her tail back and forth.  Cow is VERY ANGRY.

He ignores her warning.

With Son holding tightly on the bull tong chain, Other Half scooches up to Angry Cow's Ass. 

And she kicks the shit out of him.

The sound of ripping blue jeans tears through the night. Other Half bellows and limps away.  I stand there in silence. Son and I exchange looks. He is putting weight on it, so it must not be broken. Maybe . . .  hopefully. We examine the leg and it looks bad. Bad, but not broken.  And in the world of working cattle, that means - get back to work.

But guess what!

He decides that perhaps, just perhaps, it might be easier to take panels apart and ooch them forward to press cow against board fence.  (No sh*#, Sherlock!)  I cannot stand it.  I point out that WASN"T THAT WHAT "I" SAID??  He allows as how that's where he got the idea.

So we do that. And wonder of wonders - it works.  Other Half pulls lots of stringy, rotten, afterbirth from cow's butt. I give her injection of antibiotics. We release Ungrateful Cow who scampers back to herd.  She barely notices her calf.  (This young lady may well find herself at the sale barn.)

As we walk back to the barn, I point out, rather loudly, that I deeply resent it when he blows me off and disregards my advice when working large animals.  I further point out that Men do jobs with the BRAWN, but Women must do the same jobs using their BRAINS.  Son finds this conversation vastly amusing.  Other Half just nods and limps off.  

But at least he said the words I needed to hear . . .

"Okay . . . you were right. And I was wrong."

Music to my ears.  And that's why I like sheep better than cattle.