Farm Fresh Blog

     From time to time I run across people that restore my faith in humanity. Such was the case this weekend. Other Half and I were driving home from the north ranch when we discovered there were no running lights on the horse trailer, and the sun was going down. Although we hustled to a trailer company along our route, we arrived just in time to see them closing up and driving out of the parking lot. Never one to take "no" at face value, Other Half pulled into the lot anyway. Wonder of wonders, they stopped. They came back. 

They peeked at the trailer and then called their electrician BACK IN from home!  And while I stood in the parking lot with four dogs on leashes (not a real picnic there!) they fixed the lights on the trailer so we could get back on the road. Then the most remarkable thing happened . . .

. . .  They refused payment.  This company had remained opened, called someone in after hours, and yet, they still refused to accept payment for a simple fix.

Wow. They have just earned themselves lifetime customers. Stephenville Trailers, in Stephenville, TX, sells horse trailers, truck beds, Ranch Hand bumpers, and all manner of stuff for the rancher. If you live in Texas any where near that area, and are looking for an honest vender, I heartily recommend these people.

Stephenville Trailers is located in the heart of Horse Country. Until that evening we had never been customers of Stephenville Trailers. We'd just passed them on the highway. Through their integrity and work ethics, they have now earned all our business. If you're anywhere close to Stephenville, try 'em. If you own your own business, take note. That extra thirty minutes after closing time 'could' be the most important advertising you do!

The beauty of our new ranch is that every day there is a new adventure, ripe with new discoveries.  This weekend Dillon found  a most "wonderful round thing" while on a walk. He was immediately the envy of everyone else.  When I first saw this "thing" I thought Dillon had found an oversized tennis ball. This intrigued me because the ranch is remote and not the place one would expect to find a dog toy just hanging around.

Here Ranger checks out the curious thing.

Dillon brought it home and everyone played with "the thing" to the point where I had to hide it so it was relatively intact when I had local friends identify this curiosity.

My friend, Kim, identified the oddity as a "bois d'art" or "horse-apple" and we drove off on the 4wheeler to find the tree. Then I came home to google the thing. I found lots of interesting stuff about it, but the most interesting (to ME!) was its use as an insect repellant similar to DEET.  Really? Hmmm . . . I wish I had brought home this wonderful round thing so I could test this theory. You can bet your Grandma's best cast-iron skillet that I'll be putting one of these curious round things under the bed the next time I go to the ranch!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maclura_pomifera

We took the boys to the north ranch this weekend - in the rain.

Palo Pinto Painted Pony in the rain

 One of us was a happy camper.

One of us was not . . .

 "Can we go home now?"

Poor Musket was on his first camping trip and he was not happy. I woke up the first morning to find him standing beside the gate, begging me to come get him. 

He was covered in biting black flies, soaking wet, and had cactus thorns in his nose.  He was pitiful. I woke up Other Half, and we pulled the cactus out of his nose, put on some fly spray, and put oats in his belly.

 His day was looking up.

 They discovered the pecan trees gave nice shelter, and on Day 3 the sun came out.

On that day, I woke up early and saddled Joe. Other Half was still asleep, so I took a walkie talkie and tossed another one in bed with him. Then I climbed on Joe and off we went down the trail.

He was pretty scared at first. The forest has eyes out there and Joe knew it. He stalled out a few times, certain he would be cougar bait if he kept going. I kept humming a little tune and eventually he would sigh and head a little further through the woods. On the way back I noted that in the places were he stalled out there were hog and deer tracks in the road that had not been there before. Joe was being watched.

Our return trip was much faster but uneventful. I was elated. We DID it!

Other Half was less than enthusiastic about our trip.  Apparently I had forgotten to turn on my walkie talkie.  (Ma bad!) I had ridden off to parts unknown on an unfamiliar horse without a gun and without turning on my radio.  (not my finest hour)

Nevertheless, I was still elated. I had trusted Joe, and he had trusted me. (or got tired of my singing and just gave up)  So for a little while, I had forgotten all the ugliness and violence in this world. I was just a little girl on a pony.  And it felt good.

 Painted Pony & Prickly Pears

  Poor Joe is having some problems fitting in.  He is a gentle soul, so I put him in the roping arena with Musket. Since Musket gets picked on by the other horses, I thought they might make good roommates. 

Unfortunately after a one day honeymoon, I came home from work to find that Musket had beat up poor Joe.  I had one paint horse with kicks and bites all over him, and one roan horse with not so much as a scratch.  Eviction time! 

So I until Joe can get assimilated into the herd, he can stay alone in the arena or with the sheep. 

 This worked out until the goats discovered Joe had hay.  Yes, the idiots who have so much hay in their pen that they turn their noses up at it, decided that when turned loose in the yard with a horse, they simply MUST eat his hay.  They swarmed over Joe's breakfast hay like gypsies in the palace!

Easygoing Joe just ambled off and returned after the gypsies had left. He's such a sweetie. 

This afternoon when I left for work, Joe said that instead of staying alone, he wanted to go out with the sheep. Okie dokie. So I opened the gate to let him in with the sheep and goats. And that's about the time Briar turned into a monster and informed poor Joe that he was "NOT a part of the flock!"

(clearly someone has failed to inform Briar that SHE'S a dog and not part of the flock either. I'm just sayin'.) 

         Poor Joe!

It's rough being the New Kid On The Block.

Did you ever see a stranger across a room and swear you'd met before? Did you ever meet someone for the first time and get an immediate sense of familiarity? A connection. You can't explain it, you just trust in it.

And so it was last Sunday afternoon when I was dropping off a soap delivery to an old friend.  I glanced in her back yard and saw this:

Like a cartoon character, my heart leaped out of my body. Who was this horse?

I stopped in my tracks and asked her about the horse next door.  She told me he belonged to her brother who'd purchased the horse for his 5 year old daughter and rarely ever rode him. 

"He's a push-button horse, but he's just wasting away there. I've hopped on him bareback and he's PUSH-BUTTON."

I was intrigued. "Take me to meet this horse."

And so we walked to the pasture. He immediately came up to greet me.  She remarked that he is normally polite but distant and was surprised he was so friendly.  I was more intrigured.  There was "something" about this horse.

I've learned to trust those "somethings" and so I asked if the horse was for sale.  She allowed as how he wasn't on the market, but her brother had recently tossed around the idea since the horse wasn't really being ridden. So I made a date to test drive him the following Sunday.

I went home, but couldn't get the horse out of my head. He was perfect for me.  Short enough to easily mount,  (unlike OTHER members of the family)

and calm as a cucumber. (Unlike OTHER members of the family)

 "Who?"

I've spent a good bit of my life riding hot horses, but I'm 49 years old now. Now, I want short and calm. (But OTHER members of the family will ALWAYS remain members of the family!)

In the middle of the week I took Other Half to see this paint horse. He was unimpressed. He likes his horses big. Big ranch gelding are more his speed. This guy looked more like a mustang off the plains. But I was undaunted. There was "something" about this horse.

At first I thought he was a 'medicine hat' paint since he appeared to have the distinct "hat" and a front "shield" that made these horses so prized by the plains Indians. They believed the horses possessed special powers that would protect the rider from harm.

Closer inspection revealed that he wasn't a true medicine hat because the "hat" was just a bit off over his left ear.  He has parti-colored blue eyes.

Nevertheless, there was still something about this horse that I just couldn't get out of my head.  He just seemed to be the Painted Pony I had spent my entire life searching for. So two days later I dropped in to visit him. Once again, he happily walked up to greet me. This time I gave him a cookie. We were now BFFs.  

  "Best Friends Forever"

So Sunday rolled around and I waited for reality to smack me in the face. My friend reported that he'd been hard to catch in the pasture. Yet once again he happily greeted me like we knew each other. Once again, she thought this was odd. By then, I'd decided that perhaps the horse felt the same thing about me - something familiar, something comfortable.

He was easy to handle on the ground. Loaded into the horse trailer like a champ. Unloaded like a gentleman. Although he hadn't been ridden in months, he acted like he'd been ridden yesterday. 

 There was nothing not to like about this horse. I hopped on him bareback and felt like I'd ridden him for years.

And so it was that I listened to that little voice and bought him. His current name is Little Joe, but as my friend said, "It's not like he answers to it."

She said that since he looks like an Indian pony, he needs an Indian name. If something comes up we'll see, otherwise, I guess we'll just call him, "Joe."

Other Half and I made a quick trip overnight trip out of town, leaving most of the dogs at the house either in the yard, or in outside kennel runs.

Most, not all:

Too much trouble

Too Precious

While everyone else stayed at home where Son could come by and care for them. Too Much Trouble went to a professional kennel and Too Precious stayed with her grandma!

This is because she is a Little Princess who does not stay in a concrete kennel and loose in a fenced yard was out of the question. Certain members of the family are not only too precious, they are smart and uppity and may be "voted off the island" by other dogs, thus, for her safety and my peace of mind, she went to stay with my mother overnight.

Now Lily knows my mother quite well. My old farm was right next door to my mom's house, and Lily grew up there. 

When she was little, my mom would babysit Lily while I was at work. That, apparently is not enough, for a determined Border Collie who has been abandoned, left in loving hands while her mom goes on an overnighter.  Less than 4 hours later my mother called to report that Lily had escaped three times!

 "Lassie Come Home!"

It would appear that while she was happy to see G'ma and enjoyed her company, Miss Lily firmly believed that a Border Collie's place is with her mom and so Lily headed out in search of me.  Poor Lil was convinced that if she could just get to her OLD home (next door) that she could find me.  There are several reasons why this was a bad idea:

a) I was not there.
b) The new family had removed both doggy doors.
c) The new family had two small children.
d) Small children like Lily. Lily is afraid of small children.
e) If left alone long enough to determine that I was NOT next door, Lily may then decide to hit the road in search of her OTHER home.

One can easily understand why my mother was concerned. Pit one clever Senior Citizen against one clever Border Collie and that must be reality television at its finest. For instance, I would have paid good money to watch this:

My mother has a doggy door so that her own dog can let himself into the yard to pee instead of using the dining room floor. Because Lily grew up with doggy doors, this was an express lane to the back yard and freedom.  Apparently she had sneaked out of the house twice and so my mother decided that she would plug any tiny holes in her back yard to prevent our Canine Einstein from escaping. Lily watched all this from the porch.

Mom then went into the house and watched from the window as Lily inspected each newly plugged gap. Then, much to my mother's dismay, she hoisted her tiny ass over the fence like a gazelle and headed back to her Old House.

Thus it became apparent that unless her outdoor time was supervised, Lily would leave any time she pleased in search of her mom.

This is the same dog who, even if she is already outside, will sit beside the back door waiting for me to go with her before she will "do her business."  While she has none of the annoying destructive separation anxiety issues, Homegirl is most definitely a titty-baby dog who has watched too many Lassie Re-runs. Since she was 6 weeks old, Lily has only spent 2 nights away from me.

Ironically, when I went to retrieve her this morning, although she was happy to see me, she blasted past me to greet Other Half, and then came back inside to play like she had been on vacation and daycare was the most wonderful place in the world. 

Afterwards we went to The Kennel to pick up Oli. As we pulled up an alarm of barking dogs sounded. Lily was quite interested in such chaos and leaped to the front seat to get a better view. Other Half asked her,

"What's THAT, Gator?"

To which Lily replied, "Those are doggies who don't have grandmas!"

Each season at the ranch brings new surprises and captivating mysteries.  The puzzle for September was this:

I found them blanketing the gravel roadways along fence lines.

But what were they? The blooms looked like tiny purple pineapples or the blosssom of a lavender but the stalks were spiny and brittle, sharp and harsh.  What was the fascinating plant?

So dutifully, Other Half and the dogs sat in the truck while I hopped out with my camera to document this oddity for further research. I then asked some local folks, "What is this?"

And was told, "Thistle."

Hmmm . . . . Interesting. I had never run across this kind of thistle, so when I returned to civilization, I whipped out my stuff on thistles. Nada. Nothing.  Ah HAH!  A mystery! A puzzle! 

I was all kinds of excited, but I'm also lazy. A return to civilization also means the Merry-Go-Round of Life speeds up for me and because I wanted instant gratification the right answer, I posted the pics on Facebook for my gardening and biologist friends.  "What IS this plant?"

The beauty of the internet is that one can toss out a question, like a rock skipping across a pond, and just wait.  Lazy Busy people like this research method.  In a very short time, my mother, an avid gardener, responded:

"Eryngo - not a thistle. In the parsley family."

Wow, thanks Mom!  So off I went to research eryngo.  I NEVER would have thought this was in the parsley family.  Turns out that it IS a native plant of Texas. Deer won't eat it. No suprise there. Spreads by seeds. Wear gloves so you won't rip your hands to shreds while harvesting seeds. Ugly stalks. Wait rewarded by phenomenal display of vibrant purple color.

And as I read more about eryngo, I thought about how this little plant was probably a good example of a life lesson.  People wrote to gardening sites to tell them stories of how they endured patiently waited through the ugly unsightly, harsh, prickly stage of stalk growth, and were rewarded with a dazzling display of popping purple. 

And isn't a lot of life like this?  If we just patiently trudge on through the thistles, eventually, something good comes of it. 

Things are dry in North Texas now and thus much of the creek that meanders through the ranch is also dry. This gives us the opportunity to explore areas we haven't seen before. So like Lewis & Clarke, Other Half, Lily, and I headed down the dry creekbed to discover new frontiers.

There was the mandatory game of fetch along the way.

The creekbed was a veritable newspaper with stories of life and death on the ranch. Footprints in the sand followed the drama of coyotes bringing down an unfortunate piglet.

As the piglet's story trailed out of the creek, we continued our journey down the creekbed, into the rising sun. We rounded the corner and this rose out of the mist.

Boulders captured a freshwater spring in the middle of the dry creek.  

 Lily took the plunge.

 "FISH!  There are FISH in here!"

How to drive a Border Collie crazy: chasing fish on a hot day!

And so it was that we discovered another Honey Hole on a ranch rich with mysteries still undiscovered.

One would think, that given my work experiences, I would quit asking psychological and sociological questions. One would think that I'd have given up any faith in humanity and society as a whole, but like Anne Frank, I still want to believe. I still turn the Rubik's Cube of Life.

So here's the puzzle currently on my mind: Why are some individuals raised to hold life at such high esteem and others not? Or perhaps to explore this correctly we should examine the "glass half empty" versus the "glass half full" people, for in the face of adversity, how one views the situation greatly colors one's emotional perception of what happened.  Take the major accident we were involved in over the holiday weekend.

Now, emotions aside, given the pure laws of Physics involved in the situation, as a "glass half full" kind of person, I realize how close everyone came to death. As an officer, I have worked those kinds of accidents on the freeway and I know firsthand how ugly they are, so in that instant, when faced with causing certain death, I chose life over property. I believed then, and still believe, that it was the only choice I could make. The accident was still ugly, but everyone survived. And in that situation, I, as a "glass half full" person believe that we should all drop to our knees in the roadway and thank God that we are alive and walking. (I am also thankful that everyone has insurance. There is a reason I have been paying Allstate for all these years.)

Now, to the other side of the coin. The occupants of the vehicle that hit me broadside as my truck was sliding sideways down the freeway because I chose not to mow down the girl in the roadway or the woman in the parked truck she jumped out of, are now suing me. Yes, they are suing me.

They believe that if I had stayed in the right lane, they would not have been involved in an accident.  Clearly they don't understand that if a large truck with a loaded trailer hits a person in the roadway and then plows into a parked vehicle, it will NOT stay in the same lane anyway. Laws of Physics dictate that the truck would either have bounced into their lane upon impact, or it would have bounced into the retaining wall, and THEN into their lane upon impact. Either way, they would have still been involved in the accident.

Yes, I have insurance. Yes, they have insurance. Yes, the woman whose child jumped from the vehicle also has insurance. So I ask you, what is the point of suing someone?  Sadly, I fear the answer is "money."  

And herein lies my frustration. Why is that we cannot all be thankful we survived? Why do people feel the need to get rich off the backs of others?  Is the need to 'make a buck' stronger than respect for human life? Has our society stooped this low?

As we have discussed before ranch dogs are more than pets, they are tools in the tool box, each with his or her own specialty.

If you want finesse, you choose Lily.

If you need more distance but no teeth, you choose Cowboy.

But if you want distance, and you don't care about finesse or gentle, you choose Trace.

While he has more raw talent than the other dogs, Trace has less control. He is a red rocket, bent on his goal toward world domination. Livestock WILL comply - or else.

Unfortunately, Trace doesn't get as much practice because the weather has been too hot for the sheep, and we don't have free time to focus on Trace, thus, he is like a genie in a bottle. When you need him, you need him, but then you have a time getting that genie back in the bottle.

But such was not the case on Saturday. Lily and Trace were in the house and Cowboy was in one of the outside pens when I realized I was late for work, and still needed to turn sheep and goats into the yard to mow while we were gone.  No problem.  Or so I thought . . .

Call sheep as I walk to their pen.  They are pumped. They have been locked up and are ready for grass. Open gate and begin to escort them on short walk to back yard.  All but two lambs enter back yard.  Those two decide they want to turn around at the back gate and head to pasture instead. Everyone else decides this is a good idea and the entire flock runs over me like a water in a fast rushing stream. I stand in the gate, helpless to stop them.

"Fine!" I shout as their wooly butts disappeared into the trees. "I'm gettin' a dog!  I'll be back!"

Grab Cowboy out of kennel.  He is happy to oblige. He lopes toward the trees. They race around the round pen and begin this ring-around-the-rosies game they have learned to confound the dogs. Cowboy doesn't know what to do. He won't bite them. They know this. The dog stops and looks back at me as the sheep do the "end zone" dance on the other side of the round pen.  They laugh and taunt him.  He looks back, confused. They run through two more pastures and are now 5 acres away.

"Come' on, Cowboy. It's okay, Boy, you tried."

I have asked more than his gentle soul is capable. This is a job for The Terminator. So we walk back to the house and I exchange dogs. The Terminator has been watching this drama from the picture window in the living room. He already has assessed the problem and assimilated that into his plan for world domination.

I slip the end of the crook through his collar lest he, true to his impulsive nature, begin his quest without me, and we hike toward the flock. They are still 5 acres away, but they see Trace coming and begin to run in the opposite direction.  I down him and slip loose the crook.

"Git 'em up, Boy!"

And with that, the Heat Seeking Missile is launched. Instead of running after them, he kicks out at an angle as fast as his little legs can run. The flock continues its path across the pasture until - the Genie magically appears in front of them. And then, it's on. Unlike Cowboy, Trace will use teeth and they know it. There is no laughing and taunting now.

He turns the flock on a dime and they decide they will outrun him in another direction, but he kicks out at an angle and heads them off again. This game continues until they reach me. They attempt to blaze past me, but he catches them again. In fits and starts, he escorts them through two pastures until they reach the paddock with the round pen. They attempt their foolish round-the-rosies game with The Terminator, but he is on them like a duck on a june bug.

He re-groups them and we continue our journey to the yard. I down him as they stream through the gate into the yard, but Trace and the sheep are convinced they are escaping again, and so he gives lip-service to his down and races off to catch them again. 

Herein lies the difficult part of getting the genie back in the bottle. The yard is filled with all kinds of hazards that make working sheep difficult for a green dog with a wiley flock. I lock the gate and round the corner of the house as the first sheep are barrelling back my way. They split up in the yard, but he is carefully rounding trucks and trailers to recover the mass and roll that ball of sheep back to me.

By this time his tongue is down to his toes but he has them saluting him. As the snow ball of sheep gathers around my knees, I ask him again for a down.  This time he drops to the grass.

The poor guy is so hot I fear he'll seizure and heat stroke out on me, so I scoop him up and drop him in stock tank.  The Terminator is hot, but he is a happy boy. Mission accomplished, and he knows it.

As the weather cools, he will be able to get more practice. I feel bad because as it stands now, the only work he gets on sheep is when the job is already a train wreck.  That's no way for a green dog to get experience. On the other hand, when I need him, I really need him. He is more capable of handling those train wrecks than the other dogs because he has the confidence for distance work they don't possess. The sheep choose to misbehave. They choose to run like deer. He merely heads them off and gathers them back up.

So as I take the soaking wet pup into the house where he can plop under a ceiling fan in the air conditioning, he looks back at the flock and growls,

"I'll be baack."