Farm Fresh Blog

I love taking a walk with Briar. Unlike the Border Collies, who are constant motion, Briar strolls, a slow methodical patrol.

 She tests the winds from time to time and marks the fence line, but unless she sees the neighbor's chickens on our side, not much bothers her.  (Briar exacts a stiff fine for trespassing chickens. She eats them.)

She wanders around the hay bales, then checks the goldfish in the big tank.

Fish are still there.

 And onward she goes. Briar slithers through the gaps in the fence made by young calves who bend the stays holding the wire in place.

I stay on the other side as I watch Briar slowly patrol that paddock. She putters around, stopping to test the winds and mark the ground from time to time.

But when you call her, she happily trots back, 

 and squeezes through the fence. Then we meander on to check the small critters,

 who barely notice us,

past the ungrateful goats,  

who resent Briar breathing the same air they breathe.

And she plops down where she can watch her little kingdom, confident that her borders are secure, and she is the Warrior Queen of all she surveys.

I believe we have already established the fact that I don't "DO" rodents. In short, they freak me out - not the helpless, screaming, refusing to get off a chair kind of freak me out, more like the dancing in place, screaming obscenities while shooting randomly at the disappearing rodent kind of freak out. Fortunately for those in my kitchen, I rarely have a handgun in my grasp when I see one of the little bastards.

I am completely flummoxed. I've lived in country houses for most of my life, and I have never, EVER had this kind of war with mice.  I have 5 freakin' dogs in the house at any given time, sometimes 7 dogs! What mouse in his right mind would come in this house?  Clearly quite a few.

Because I'm such a freakazoid about it, I have now moved my silverware out of the drawer and into a crock on my kitchen counter. I have moved my bread into a hanging basket over the kitchen sink. Now I have discovered the little bastards in the upper cabinet!  The only sugar and flour not touched was that already in cannisters.  Ewwww!!!  Even Other Half was tripped out.  My switch had been tripped a LONG time ago.

My switched has been tripped in such a manner that I have re-designed the kitchen in the new house at the ranch to eliminate the hiding places. I will have free-standing hutches that separate rooms so if those little rascals want to get in them, they have to go through a rather talented rodent control device.

You don't understand creepy until your Border Collie is scratching and barking at your cabinet doors.  Eewwwww!  But alas, she is unable to get to them and they know it. That will be remedied in the future. But for now, we are reduced to setting snap-traps (because I will not let Other Half put out poison or sticky traps). Unfortunately I am a wuss and can not empty them. Not only can I not empty a mouse trap, I don't even want to LOOK at a dead mouse in a trap.

But still, I'm a glutton for punishment. Take, for instance, my rude awakening this morning. Knowing that Other Half set a trap in a high cabinet, I still felt the need to greet the day by checking for results.  This required pulling a step ladder over to the counter, climbing on the ladder, and opening the cabinet.  I'm not quite sure what I expected to find, but I was clearly unprepared to see a mouse and trap dangling in front of my face when I opened the cabinet.

     "EEEEWWWWW!"  

 Apparently the entire combo-package had bounced across the cabinet and landed sideways against the cabinet door. I opened the door and a dead mouse was 8 inches from my nose. I almost fell off my ladder.

That is not a trip to the Emergency Room and the Animal Emergency Clinic that I want to explain.

"Yes, I said I was attacked by a dead mouse and fell off a ladder and landed on my Border Collie."

I know what would solve the problem, but I'm not there yet.

A girl has got to know her limitations.

In the mean time, I'm busy designing rodent-proof kitchens for the new house . . . and waiting for Other Half to wake up and remove the mouse from the kitchen. (HEY! Don't judge me . . . )

I'm not sure my horses are ready to move to North Texas with the rattlesnakes and copperheads.

I give you Exhibits A & B:

This is what I found on my morning walk with the dogs. The poor thing had dogs on one side of the fence and horses on the other. The horses were fascinated. The dogs had a more appropriate response.

Trace had the right idea.  Stay VERY far away and growl and bark. Lily was the only idiot who wanted to attack the snake. That earned her a frappuccino bottle bounced off her head. She never saw it coming and now has much more respect for snakes. Everyone else seemed to have some respect and trust me when I shouted,

"No! It's a NASTY! Get away!"

Unfortunately, the horses have no understanding of the word "nasty" and thus had the poor thing cornered.

 Barking dogs on one side

 Horses on the other

What's a snake to do?

EEEKK!  Get away you stupid horses!  But do they listen?!!  Nope. Right back for more. I wonder if they have de-snaking clinics for horses . . .

We eventually had to lure the horses away with the promise of a shower. Other Half squirted them with a water hose and while they were enjoying their fountain baths, the snake made his escape.  I shudder to think how this would have turned out if these idiots had run across a rattlesnake.

So I ask you, do people in subdivision have to deal with this at 8 am?

All to often I find myself quoting Danny Glover in the movie Lethal Weapon,

"I'm just too old for this."

Stress has its way of taking a toll now. Yes, we handle what fate throws at us one day, but then we spend the next day sleeping like a pride of lions in Africa. The collective "we" refers to the dogs and I, not to Other Half, since we lounged in bed all day, and he had to work. Hah! We are all still recovering from the stress of yesterday, and he will undoubtedly join us in The Land of Slackards when he comes home. But hey, somebody has to make some money to pay the vet . . .

Our adventure began Friday night. I fed the dogs lunch before I left for the office at 2 pm. At 2:30 pm, Other Half, who had worked the night before, awoke to find Dillon throwing up in bed. Isn't that the way most people wake up?  He got up to find multiple piles of undigested food in the bedroom. So he called me at work.

"What did Dillon get into today?!!"

I had many answers for this, as in the very short time Dillon is outside unattended he could have consumed:

toads

lizards

fallen branches

mushrooms

a lead rope

siding on the house

dirt

pecans

rocks in the driveway

a yuppy on a bicycle in neon colors and tight shorts

At some point he has attempted to put all of the above in his mouth. I know that while he was INSIDE the house, I personally witnessed him with these items in his mouth:

a lead rope
a kong
a kong dumbell
a rope dog toy
a paper towel
a dish rag
kitty litter
Trace

I distinctly recall pulling yellow and purple rope fibers from between his teeth, but what made him sick? That answer is a crap shoot.

He was alone outside approximately 20 minutes. Inside, he is a canine Dennis the Menace, so I keep a pretty close eye on him. But here's the rub:

He's a year old Labrador Retriever!

He could have anything in his stomach from a license plate to a piano!  Labrador puppies are like sharks in cuddly packaging.

If it fits in their mouth, it goes down their throat. If it's something big, it can be "disassembled" so that it can fit in their mouth, and thus go down their throats.

So normally the report of a dog throwing up doesn't concern me too much, but a one year old Labrador throwing up immediately gives me pause.

I returned from work ten hours later and Dillon was offered his supper. He refused.  Now this is a red neon flashing sign.  This is the robot from "Lost In Space" swinging his arms wildly, chanting,

"Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!"

It was 12:30 am on Saturday morning.  We decided that Mr Dillon had an appointment with his vet as soon as the doors open. We tucked D-Man between us and went to sleep. At 5 am I was jolted out of bed by Other Half shouting,

"Dillon is throwing up!"

That's it. Off to the Animal Emergency Clinic we go . . . .

By 6 am we see the vet. It is $95 to walk in the door. They estimate the cost will start at $1200. Throw credit card at vet. By 6:30 am they are x-raying his tummy.  The $1200 does not include any abdominal surgery, that's just to put him on fluids, hospitalize him, and start looking for the problem. We begin to look down the road at $3000 to $5000 surgery.  Eegaads.  We discuss it, but there is very little to discuss. This is Dillon. He is a young, vibrant, healthy, happy puppy with his entire future ahead of him. He has already shown that he has that spark of "something" that defines him as one of the "great" dogs in your life.

And so, the decision is made to juggle money, juggle ranching priorites, tighten the belt even more than it already is, and fix him.

We regretfully leave him at the hospital and try to return to life as "normal" while we wait. Other Half goes to work. I try to get some sleep. Sleep eludes me. End up making lots of deals with God to save my dog. Still cannot sleep. Get up to phone Dear Friend Who Is Married to Our Retired Vet. They have now moved to their retirement ranch.

Wonder of wonders, he answers her cell phone. I explain problem with Dillon and my concerns that I waited too late to take him to vet.  By then I am sobbing.

Fortunately, being a vet, he is used to sobbing and can interpret "Hysterical Woman-Speak."

"No, you won't lose him. Yes, he'll recover. Yes, he'll be fine. Yes, you caught it early enough."

He patches my emotional wreckage back together and I feel better. Dillon will survive. (We may not be able to afford hay for the winter, but Dillon will survive!)

Other Half calls. He cannot wait for vet to call him back. He has phoned clinic and got results: no obstruction!

Do the Snoopy-Happy-Tushy-Dance in living room. Border Collies watch me in shock. Surely Mom has lost her mind.

Go to work. Deal with two rather disgusting issues, then meet Other Half at the vet clinic. Visit D-Man.  He is wearing an apron around his neck to prevent him from pulling out his cathater. He looks like an idiot. We all three go for a walk. Ask vet if Other Half can take Dillon home with him after work. No.

Ask if I can take Dillon home after my shift. Maybe. If he eats at 9 pm and doesn't throw it up.  Go back to work. Wonder again how normal people live.

Phone rings. Another dead man.  Sigh . . . will this day ever end?

God smiles on me and this turns into a "hurry up and wait" call once I get to the scene, so night shift takes it from me when they come on duty. I am able to pick Dillon up and get him home.

A half-dressed Other Half greets us Dillon at the main gate and the Happy Homecoming begins. Dillon is happy to be home. We are happy to have him home.

So 24 hours later, Dillon settles back into his memory foam mattress, with his favorite humans on either side, like book ends.  He is happy and they are thankful to have him back.

The Border Collies have done the accounting and are questioning why you would spend that kind of money on someone who would eat the siding off the house . . .

. . . someone who could eat a block of wood next week . . .

I have only one answer to this:

because it's Dillon!

In addition to moving livestock from Point A to Point B, my dogs must also develop skills in "tending" stock. I think of tending as taking livestock to an area, and hanging out with them while they browse. Mostly this involves keeping them from leaning toward their own criminal tendencies to stray off the property or get into places they don't belong. (i.e. stacked hay)

This is tougher on the dogs because they want ACTION. Tending involves lots of INaction punctuated by occasional glares and a creep from time to time. 

 This is toughest for Trace. He practically "wills" them to misbehave.  That doesn't take much. If the dogs were not there, the little beasts would scoot underneath a cow fence and be gone.

But under proper supervision, (read: prison guards) they are a decent landscaping crew for the cow pastures.  Tallow trees are an invasive species prolific in South Texas. Cows don't eat it. Sheep and Goats mow it down like teenagers with a pizza.

 For a few minutes . . .

After that, they begin to look for trouble.

"Ma!  Get out of that hay!"

  "Pardon me, were you addressing me?"

 "Who me?"

Then they drop their heads and ignore me.

 I couldn't help but note this. Why, I ask you, would this goat spend any amount of time eating dead tallow branches when she is surrounded by LIVE tallow branches?

I finally got tired of watching them waste my time. They needed to get back where they belonged.

Exit Prison Guard Border Collie.

 The dog has moved 12 feet beyond the mule. The stock take their collective asses back where they belong. Proof positive that they KNOW they don't belong there.

"Ppppppppppthhhhhhhhhh!!!!"

 "Don't those dogs have a sense of humor?"

"None that I'm aware of."

Today we rustled up the former show girls (and Bully) and moved them to another pasture. Even show cows go wild pretty quickly and so using a dog to move them is just easier for us.  It's easy to get complacent when moving cattle, but a recent tragedy woke us all up.  Some good friends of ours were moving cattle when she tripped and fell under the cows. One of them ran over her and used her back as a springboard.

Fortunately her husband is in the medical field and immediately recognized the signs of serious injury.  She was lifeflighted to the nearest hospital where she stayed for a very long time. We almost lost her - because of something they'd done for years without incident.

It was a wake-up call for all us around here who work cows. They are still wild animals and accidents do happen.  So I couldn't help but think of Cheryl as Other Half and Cowboy went to pen the cows.

The Job: Pen the cows. Run them through the chute. Load them in the trailer. Move them to thick, green pasture down the road.

   Dispatch Cowboy.

Holler directions as he gathers cattle. He ignores most directions but appears to understand the job anyway.

  Gather the cows.

Bring them down the alleyway.

Hold them while they settle down.

 Push them into pen.

 Close the gate.

No muss. No fuss. One man. One dog. Three minutes.

Push cattle onto trailer. Drive them down the road. Open door and dump them out.

Happy cows. Happy humans. Happy puppy.

 Thank you, Cowdog!

Yet another service provided by Barbed Wire Border Collies, Inc. Thank you, thank you very much . . .

Do you remember some time ago when a certain Someone was blamed for turning on water spigots and pulling the float valve out of the stock tank?

 "ME! That's who! ME!"

Yes, poor little tall Montoya was blamed for causing the chaos. Other Half threw a fit and said unkind things about my Fairytale Horse. Because he is smart and playful, he was blamed for the trouble. UNTIL . . .

Montoya went to summer camp (the trainer) for a month. He had been gone exactly 48 hours when I came home from work to find the well running like an exhausted triathlete. ???

I headed out to the pasture to find not one, but two water hoses turned on!

 "I'm so busted!"

 Now it might not be Musket. Chances are greater that it's Musket because he's the New Guy.  We've had Scout for 5 years and never had this problem before.

   "YEAH! What she said!"

In hindsight, Musket moved in the shortly before we moved Montoya over from my old farm. So when the Phantom Water Bandit struck, we just ASSumed that it was Montoya!  (I have to admit, I did too . . . ) 

What's that?  What'd you say, Montoya?

  "Ppppttttttttttttttthhhhhhh!"

Just returned from the ranch and had to give you a report on the new Sun Oven! 

Friends & Neighbors, that sucker works!

Picture this:

*104 degrees in the shade

(should I really say any more?)

The ranch is quite primitive. (Think "pioneer") We haven't gotten the power poles for electricity yet, and so we are running on a generator. In North Texas, our little camper can quickly become an oven in July. The air conditioner works its little heart out. Don't even CONSIDER using the microwave and the air conditioner at the same time. (blows the breaker)

It is most certainly too damned hot and dry for anything resembling a camp fire.  (Although after the shredder machine cleared the mesquite trees off the homestead lot, we have mesquite mulch 6" to 1' deep in there. If you want to collect firewood, just bend over.)

We bought one of those wooden portable cabin/barn buildings and had it built on the property. (because it was too wide to fit through the cattle guard so it couldn't roll in on a truck) The cabin/barn can be used as a bunkhouse after we get it outfitted. It can be a smashing good feed room/office later.  Since those BadBoys come in basic vanilla, we'll have to finish it out and put a porch on it ourselves. So this weekend's goal was to start putting insulation in the Cabin . . . in 104 degree heat.

Not only did we not have time to cook a meal, but God forbid, we heat up the inside of that camper.

This was the perfect time to use a solar oven . . .

Just plop it in the sun. Spread open the solar screens. Plop in a roast and some veggies. Dump the seasoning on top.

Close the lid. That's it. Nada. Nothing else.

 Go back to work.   

Turn oven one time to follow sun.

Peek at it through the glass and drool.

 A few hours later. Pull out a meal fit for hungry pioneers!

Note: that darkening on the top is not burned, but carmelization of the seasoning packet that I didn't mix into the liquid. By leaving a bit on the top, it gave a nice color. You cannot burn anything in the solar oven. The hot air is all around the food, and the liquid cannot escape. The meat is quite tender and juicy.

The whole meal cost less than $10. It used absolutely no electricity, and didn't heat up the camper at all. This meal required no energy from me except plopping the ingredients in a dish and closing the lid.

The solar oven doesn't require it to be 104 degrees outside. They cook with this on Mount Everest. It doesn't use heat, it uses the sun's rays.  It's like a crock pot that can be used outside. (you can also bake in it!) If you're worried about dogs or livestock getting in it, leave it on top of the truck.

The neatest thing is that it's basically idiot-proof. (I need that!) It's easy to carry. Easy to set up. And best of all when it's 104 outside, doesn't heat up the house!

 Yummy!

And when the meal is over, the dogs can clean out the dish!

"That's what I'M talkin' 'bout!"

With the recent rains, much to the delight of children everywhere, there was no fireworks ban this year on Independence Day. In our household, that was met with mixed reviews because although we don't participate in the fireworks festivities, we are close to many who do.

And with 8 dogs, it's a given there will be a difference of opinion regarding fireworks.

Ice - "Make the shelling stop! We're all gonna die!"

Cowboy - "We're under attack! Save the women and children and Border Collies first! In reverse order!"

Trace - "I'll be under the house until the shelling stops."

Ranger - "I'll save you! I'll save you all!"

Dillon - "GUNFIRE! Oh boy! Where's my dummy?!!"

Oli - "You people don't know what gunfire is. Back when I was in Czechoslovakia . . . "

Briar - "OOOOhhhh. . . . look at tha colors!"

The reactions are varied, but none is more amusing than Lily, the Fireworks Fiend.

Lily is noise-stimulated, meaning, when she hears a strange sound, she starts barking like a maniac. Since Other Half's hearing is leaving quickly, Lily makes an excellent hearing-ear dog for high-pitched sounds like fire alarms, alarm clocks, and the ding on the microwave.

Now Lily has HEARD fireworks all her life, but this year was the first time she actually SAW fireworks. Her reaction was hysterical. I truly wish I could have filmed it for you.

The night went like this . . .

Ran out of frappuccinos. Yes, I'm drinking again. Does this surprise you? Care to take a guess on how many frapps I drank during that whole Ferngully drama? I'm just askin'.

Decided that I MUST go to grocery store since another sun cannot rise without a frappuccino. Loaded up Lily and Trace in the truck. Lily is always my co-pilot; whoever else gets to go is up to my mood and their behavior, but Her Majesty always gets to go. Tonight, Trace was the Chosen One.

So we headed to Kroger's because they have frapps and a particular salsa I had fallen in love with, (Hazelwood's Smokey Sweet!) The local community college was having a fireworks display. What I didn't count on was that the display was right across the street from Kroger's. Everyone and his cousin was sitting in a lawnchair at Kroger's.  (groan)

I left the dogs in the air conditioning of the truck with a friend while I shopped.  They'd be safe, and we'd be outta here before the show began. What I didn't count on was that everyone sitting in the parking lot had sent a representative inside Kroger's for snacks. (Good night for Kroger's)

By the time I got back to the truck the show was well under way.  I heard the barking before I found my truck. Lily, her eyes bright with wonder, was barking like a madwoman with each explosion. Trace was hiding in the back seat.

The cutest thing was that Lily would watch the fireworks soar up into the air, and track the path in anticipation. Then as it burst, she would wag her tail and bark.  As I slow-rolled out of the parking lot, Trace climbed into my lap. Lily settled her happy ass in the front passenger's seat and stared out the window like a child seeing fireworks for the first time. Her little mouth would even make a little "o" as she watched them shoot into the air.  Lily had found another passion. She was a Pyrotechnic Puppy!

(Also titled:  How Nadine Never Left)

Despite the fact that my common sense tells me Rat snakes are good things to have in the barn for rodent control, I'm sorry, Nadine just gives me the creeps.  I'm okay with her/him at a distance, when I expect her, but surprises are bad for my heart. Therefore, every since the day Other Half assisted Nadine in her/his exit from the feed bin and she/he slitered under the hay pallets, I have just always ASSUMED that Nadine is still in the barn.

Other Half did not live under such assumptions. Out of sight. Out of mind. Not a wise way to live in my book, but he does spend less time springing away from bungee cords on the ground.

Farm chores are never-ending. Scout chose to double-barrel kick through the boards in his stall, trapping his back legs at the hock.

While kicking his way free, he did significant damage to the barn. Miraculously except for the loss of hide, his back legs are somewhat intact. The same could not be said for that wall of the barn.  And since fixing rotting boards in jungle-like heat and humidity has always been on my Bucket List, I was practicaly gushing with excitement to begin.

Monday:

Wake up looking forward to a wonderful, fun-filled day of fixing goat escape routes and broken barns. Joy, joy, thrill, thrill.

Watch Other Half begin tearing down rotting and/or broken boards. Nothing interesting here. Wander off to fix goat escape routes on my own. He hollers. Much like a child screaming, "MOM!" when you're out of sight, Other Half has a tendency to want his slaves close by so he can order his minion to do simple/unpleasant tasks. After a lifetime of this, Son has adapted to it, I don't do so well and tend to wander off when not given a task.

"I NEED you here with me!"  (Translated: "Hand me tools. I need a gopher.")

"I need to fix Oscar's hole!" (Translated: "What you are doing is boring and my time could better be spent hauling cattle panels and wire in the never-ending task of foiling goat escapes.")

"Well I need you here."

"OKAY!"  (Screamed in the tone of Alvin the Chipmunk)

Since handing someone tools is B-O-R-I-N-G, I begin to fiddle inside the barn, addressing clean-up tasks that have been bugging me, but still staying close enough to be a slave/minion.

Begin by picking up feed sacks that Other Half carelessly discards on floor. Pet Peeve - I put them in garbage or use them as trash bags in the house. What? Doesn't everyone replace their Hefty Bags with Oat Bags? Take the opportunity to smugly lecture Other Half on his messy habits. He refrains from throwing a hammer at me. It does cross his mind though.

Cautiously pick up 6 sacks. Fold and stuff them inside each other. Hay is gone now. All that remains is wooden pallets on the floor. Two Used-To-Be-Good-Before-He-Left-Them-On-The-Barn-Floor-With-Bugs-Rodents-And-Snakes horse blankets are sitting on top of a pallet. Use a hay rake to cautiously, carefully remove blankets.  Squirm and EEEk as palmetto bugs (Fancy word for Giant Freakin' Cockroaches!) scramble over and through blankets.  Other Half observes this and smirks,

"What are you afraid of? They're just bugs!  Call Lily in here and let her take care of them."

Border Collie Lily has been employed in the house as a contract killer for bugs, but I because I didn't want her involved in this particular (read: nasty, probably dangerous) activity, I had left her in the house. Other Half continues to taunt me as I cringe while watching bugs crawl in and out of blanket. I am annoyed. The minion is not happy. She is hot, sweaty, and immensely dislikes cockroaches. Move second blanket. Recoil violently across barn.

Other Half laughs.  "Nadine?"

"YES! And she's GROWN!"

  "Boo!"

This is only funny to Other Half because he is on the other side of the barn. Had he pulled up a blanket to find a 5+ foot snake underneath, he would have been richocheting off the walls too.  Although my initial reaction was less than admirable, I recovered, curious to check out the New & Now Scarier Nadine.

 Old Nadine

 New Nadine

Apparently a steady diet of mice is good for a snake.  I don't doubt this is the same snake. She is in the exact same spot Other Half released her. And after all, why leave? Nadine had a good thing going.

And here's the part where the crew mutiny began:

"Finish taking your pictures, and move her out of here."

"I'M not moving that snake!"

"Well, she's right where I need to be to repair that wall."

"That's YOUR problem!"

He stands there, from the safety of the snake-free side of the barn, and stares at me. This is a mutiny. The line was drawn in the sand. (Read: hay dirt)  Nadine is now pissed/frightened and is rattling her tail. This is smacking against the blue tarp giving a fairly nice rattlesnake impersonation. It does nothing for my confidence. I am NOT moving that snake. Other Half comes over to inspect Nadine.  Yes, she is MUCH larger. No KIDDING!

He picks up shovel she is hiding behind. Nadine is not happy. She is trying to find an exit. He tentatively pokes her with shovel. Nadine decides to slowly exit Stage Left. She slithers through the pallet toward the feed bin. As she moves we get a better idea of exactly how long Nadine is now. Yes, that is a standard size wooden pallet.

 Impressive. At this rate, the next time I stumble upon Nadine, she will be so large that I will surely faint dead in my tracks.

I can see it now: Other Half will walk into the barn to find me passed out beside the feed bin, a bucket of oats spilled all over the floor. He will ask, "Nadine?"

And Border Collie will nod.

We left Nadine safely (for Nadine) under the feed bin. I made mental note to remember to ALWAYS wear boots when shoveling out oats. Although Nadine has proven multiple times she is a peace-loving snake, bare ankles around a large (insert: ANY size) snake gives me the willies.

Can I have an "Amen" here?