Farm Fresh Blog

I haven't forgotten you guys!  In addition to painting the house, painting furniture, keeping a farm going, and going to my "payin' job" every day, I'm trying to put in a new garden.  (before the goats kill the lemon trees that are valiantly hanging in there!)

The new tractor paid for itself already. Yesterday we sank cedar fence posts for a new fence (to keep the goats out!) Today we slammed metal posts into the ground between the cedar posts.

And this picture is for all my girlfriends who asked, "Has HE let you drive the new tractor yet?"

Clairesmum asked about Trace the Troll and so here's the skinny on the little beast:

He is a troll. Trace is the consummate "Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde," for beneath the sweet exterior lies the soul of a beast. Trace is a resource-guarding monster. He has never had to compete for food, yet at the slightest hint of meal time, he races to "his spot" near the food bin where he rolls his eyes, bares his teeth, and lets out noises more associated with a Hollywood demon possession scene than a serving up of the same meal he receives twice a day, every day.

And he does not merely save this aggressive streak for meal time. Nosirree! The Troll is always looking for someone or something to herd - aggressively.  He must be tied in the back of the mule because he's such a monster to the other dogs as they run along beside it.

Because The Troll has the moves of any Urban Parkour traceur, (see: http://youtu.be/WEeqHj3Nj2c ) he must be confined to kennels with tops when we go to the pasture to feed, otherwise the little beast scales a 6 foot kennel and races up and down the fence line, foaming at the mouth with a satanic gleam in his eye.

What's so bad about that, you ask? Well let me give you just the last 24 hours of living with The Troll:

Exercise dogs and shuffle them into kennels. Have a brain fart and leave Trace and Dillon loose. Note Trace racing up and down fence. Note Innocent Dillon bouncing along beside him with a stick (club) in his mouth. Dillon has no understanding of the herding dog's desire to race along the fence. "Wouldn't you rather play with my stick?"

Apparently not.

I stepped into the house to take a pee. (You cannot even take a piss around here some days.) In my defense, I couldn't hear Other Half's screams over the racket of barking dogs in outside kennels. In hindsight I should have noted that their barks sounded like the Roman Colosseum crowd cheering and jeering gladiators locked in a life and death struggle. 

As I passed the refrigerator, cold frappuccino in hand, I glanced out the window. Oh crap!

Other Half was no longer feeding horses. He was on his hands and knees in the back yard, on top of what appeared to be a semi-conscious Dillon, while Trace circled them both with bared teeth. The little monster darted in and out like he was in a knife fight.

I raced outside, snatched the little monster up, and threw him in a kennel (with a top). Other Half's screams barely resembled English, but I did recognize the occasional F-bomb and the blood . . . I recognized the blood.

He let Dillon up and we examined the carnage. Trace bit THROUGH his thumb. Yes. Can I have a collective tightening of the pucker factor here. It takes a lot to impress me and that made my butt twitch.

Apparently Trace had enough of Dillon thrusting the stick at him and attacked Dillon. Dillon is a goofy, sweet dog, but like little Ralphie in The Christmas Story, when finally pushed into a fight by a bully, Dillon will let fly with such a rage that he is blind as he pummels his attacker.  And so it was that by the time Other Half came racing through the gate, Dillon had Trace in a choke hold and the Little Monster was gasping like a fish out of water.

Other Half had to punch Dillon off of Trace to keep the big dog from killing his precious little monster. As soon as he was free, The Beast rewarded him by biting through his thumb. He then disengaged, back off, circled, darted in again, and bit Other Half in the thigh. (All this while I was getting a frappuccino out of the refrigerator.)
 
The damage:

Other Half has a bad bite on his hand and his thigh. Dillon has a lump where OH punched him. Trace is unharmed.

Now whose fault was this?

Mine. Other Half's. We know Trace is a primitive beast given to fits of rage. We should have put him in a kennel before we went to feed.

Flash forward 24 hours:

Note that goats and sheep are out and are now in the neighbor's pasture. Call them. They blow us off. They are too far away for Lily, who has distance issues. They don't have enough respect for Cowboy, who has force issues. The Troll is the man for the mission. Problem: sheep must be run through the pasture with the cattle. The momma cows will kill The Troll if he even looks cockeyed at one of those calves.

Before we begin, Other Half calls cattle and they meander to another pasture - all but one cow and two calves. The sheep have now moved further away. They are at least three acres away. Send Trace. He is a heat-seeking missile. They start running. The little comet reaches them long before they reach the highway.

Problem: they decide to back up to the barn and not move.

His solution: He goes bowling.  I see him hit poor Roanie, who just happens to be in the back. I am not happy. It was dirty and uncalled for.  I stomp over there as he continues bowling hysterical sheep and sullen goats. One of the dairy goats refuses to move. "Go ahead and kill me now." 

I get there and grab her collar to hoist her to her feet. There is blood on her head. I look for damage. No damage. Then I scan the rest of the flock. And that's when I see red myself.

Trace bit half of Roanie's ear OFF! 

I am livid. I am in a Dillon-like rage. I want him DEAD! As he circles past for another go at them, I smack him on the back with a wooden crook. "Take THAT you little bastard!"

(This did have the desired effect of clearing the cobwebs from his brain and knocking that glazed look out of his eye.)  He drops to a down. I move him a few feet forward and down him again. And again. And again. By now, the sheep are in their pen. I am so angry that I just leave The Troll with Other Half. I completely understand why some ranchers will shoot their own dogs. I was that mad.

He is a bully. He needs to be on cattle only! Cattle can fight back. They may kill him, but at least it'll be a fair fight.

In his defense, he is a cowbred Border Collie. He is bred to work cattle, not sheep. He is bred to take the fight to them, and not quit when the chips are down. On the other hand, Lily is too, but she doesn't bully the stock the way Trace does. Trace looks for a fight. He hopes for a fight. It is part of his nature.  He is a troll. He is 'bad to the bone. B-b-b-baad.'

I want to go on the record as saying I KNOW BETTER THAN THIS!  And yet, I still did it. I let my dogs wrestle with their collars on. That's gonna change.

I give you Exhibit A:

Look closely:

Yeaahhhh. . .   that's a problem.

Thankfully, both dogs are good-natured and neither escalated into panic. In fact, I didn't even realize it had happened until I looked at the photos. (then I freaked!)

Ranger just shook it off. No harm. No foul.

And thank God it was Ranger's collar that got caught and not Aja's chain fursaver collar. That would have been a nightmare. I DO NOT like leaving chain collars on dogs. (that's an argument in this household)

I shiver when I think about what could have happened.

Fortunately Ranger is such an easy-going dog. (Wow! Never thought the words 'Ranger' and 'easy-going' were two words you'd see together.)

If there is anyone happier than Other Half about his new tractor, it's Trace the Troll. (Hereafter referred to as: Trace the Tractor Troll)

The Kids brought the Grandkids by the farm today (to pick up tractor implements) on their way to The Rodeo held in The Big City.  The Kids live on one side of The Big City and we live on the other side of The Big City.  I get such a kick watching the little ones enjoy the farm.

These have never been city kids. They are raising chickens themselves and have been around livestock since birth, but they don't have "Neigh-Neighs" at the house. So any trip over here involves feeding, petting, and riding horses.

This little cowboy is gonna be a heartbreaker some day.

He has graduated from riding the mini-horses to riding Joe and Scout.

 Unlike his sister,

                                                                      he's a bit too daring.

His dad has to keep a firm hand on the little rodeo rider.

And all was well and good until his parents announced that it was time to get down and go to The Rodeo.

  I believe this face sums it up.

After all, why pay and stand in line at The Rodeo Petting Zoo when he had his own petting zoo at Grandpa's house? Complete with full-size Neigh-Neighs!

But he was a big boy about it and climbed down. Then his dad reminded him of the most important part of the ride . . .

 . . . thanking Joe.

  There is something magical between a child and a horse.

There is a cruelness in life that yanks away your ability to trust. Oh yes, we can have faith that everything works out in the end for the greater good, but that doesn't mean that individual castmembers in this play we call Life will survive.

I see this both at work and on the farm. The Circle of Life can be a vicious Merry-Go-Round. It's not all cotton candy and sunshine. Sometimes the wolves are in hot pursuit as the carousel spins.

Yesterday this little girl was born.

 Her mother is Dancing Cow. She pops out babies in all weather and is a very attentive mother. I never worry about Dancing Cow's calves.

Then there is Daisy Mae.

She is a registered Santa Gertrudis. Other Half paid a hefty price for her. My experience with cattle thus far is that if they have papers, there will be problems somewhere down the line. Just sayin'! The more money they are worth, the greater the risk.

Last year Daisy Mae popped out the prettiest little bull calf - early.  Here is his story: There's A Cow In My Bedroom , Thus far . . .  ,  On Baby Birds, Norman, and Other Lessons In Futility

That said, I woke up this morning to find this:

With the other cattle I wouldn't be worried, but since Daisy Mae had some issues last year, I trotted out there to check on them. I 'think' it's a bull calf. He appears to be full term. He's trying to nurse. She's attentive and trying to help him. Her teats are normally big. Now they are really big. He's having some trouble nursing. Naturally Other Half doesn't get back into town until tonight. Yeahhhhh . . .

I really don't want a repeat of Norman.  Thus far this little guy seems like he's healthy but if he can't nurse, we'll have to milk her. I use the term "we" loosely, since there is no one here but ME. It's not like I'm gonna be able to carry that calf, run Daisy Mae into a chute, milk her, and then bottle feed the baby by myself.

Thus, I'm hoping that he figures it out on his own. If he hasn't nursed by this afternoon, I'll have to stay home from work to help Other Half milk her tonight when he gets home.  (I'm sure my supervisor really doesn't want to get THAT call...)

And sadly, if we have to milk her out, Other Half will end up selling poor Daisy Mae. He's already said that if she loses this year's calf, she's gone.

I see the logic. We just aren't set up to coddle cows that need help calving. On the other hand, Daisy Mae is trying so hard to be a good mama, unlike Stupid Paisley whose baby survived DESPITE her poor mothering skills. (Read: When It Rains, It Pours )

So I say a prayer for Daisy Mae and her baby. He keeps trying. She keeps trying to help. And in the mean time, I keep looking at the clock and wondering when Other Half will be home.

     Other Half has been out of town (again!) and I've been juggling everything at home (again!)  But this time I've chosen to take advantage of the time alone and start renovating this house! I've been painting since he left! 

     As you recall we sold my little farm to move into the "cow house" and buy the big property in North Texas.  I was completely on board with this except for one tiny little detail . . . I didn't like the "cow house." 

    The "cow house" needs lots of work both inside and out. At first I wasn't planning on doing it simply because I have neither the time nor the money for home renovation, but then I discovered Annie Sloan paint. It all started innocently enough, you see.  Our furniture didn't match. Mine didn't match his. At first I just planned to send a few pieces off to get them distressed and painted.  ("distressed" is a relative term in this home. We have dogs, therefore ALL our furniture is "distressed" in some way.)

     I love the look of distressed and "white-washed" furniture, and the more I looked around the house, the more furniture I wanted painted. I soon realized I didn't have enough money to hire someone to do this.  :(

Enter Annie Sloan.

     On my way to work every day I pass a little cottage on the highway that recently put out a banner which read:

"We sell Annie Sloan chalk paints."

Hmmmm... what is Annie Sloan paint?

     So I got on the internet and discovered that Annie Sloan was the answer to my prayers!  Here was a type of paint which was easy to work with, easy to distress, easy to white-wash, and didn't require me to strip or sand! In fact, with this paint, you are only limited by your imagination. ("Hot Damn, Loretta! Sign me up!")

While researching Annie Sloan paint, I stumbled upon this:

Be still my beating heart!

    I LOVE this woman's website! I was so inspired! Not only was I planning to re-do my furniture, I was planning to re-do the whole damned house!

     I went back to the little cottage to buy some paint and ended up signing up for a class on painting techniques. That was Saturday. My life hasn't been the same since. 

     I've mentally painted everything in the house, from the walls and furniture to the lamps. I literally painted the dog. This dog now sports a sage green line down the side of her face. Don't tell Other Half. (That's what he gets for leaving his new patrol dog at home.)

     The kitchen, which was a dark place with pine cabinets and holly green walls, was my first victim. (If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'!) Other Half apparently was more concerned with putting in a new roping arena than with re-painting the house when he first bought it, (Single men think that way.) so those walls have been that dark for years. Ladies and Gentlemen, I white-washed those suckers today!

     It was so easy I almost cried. I've suffered that kitchen for years and all it took was 4 hours and one can of paint. Tomorrow I'll put on the wax. I still need to re-do the floor and put knobs on the cabinets, but the room, ahh, the room!  I can SEE in there now!  It's like God said, "Let there be light."

     I'm so happy with this paint that I wish I had known about it when I had my little farm house. I would have painted those cabinets too!  My advice to you is this:

If you want to jazz up things around your house, play on "The Purple Painted Lady" website to get some ideas, and then buy yourself some Annie Sloan paint. You won't be sorry!!! 

(And YES! That paint is well worth the $38 for that tiny little can!)

Aja is settling in nicely, but her first day to meet the pack was touch and go. (literally) Because we have so many dogs it's necessary to pair them off into sub-packs so they can still live like dogs and have family time with us. In order to accomplish this, Aja needed a friend. The obvious candidate was Ranger the Blue Heeler. He has social skills, and he's tough enough to handle a big girl like Aja.

What Aja lacked in social skills, she made up for in exuberance.

 I think Ranger's facial expression pretty much sums it up here.

But he soon got things under control and began to teach Aja the subtle art of play.

 "I chase you."

 "You chase me."

Now this worked out well. Ranger has taught lots of puppies and is both tough and patient. The next best candidate as a playmate for Aja was Dillon. The problem was that although Dillon has lots of doggy social skills because he was raised in a large pack, he has never accepted a new member into the pack and was initially afraid and hostile. After watching her for a day or so, we tried them together.

 Dillon immediately ran and got his stick. Actually, it's more like a club.  He and Oli wrestle with this club. There is a real art to this. If you don't grab it when he swings it, you WILL get konked with the end.

 Oli has it all figured out. It's a good way for them to blow off steam without getting too physical.

Unfortunately Aja didn't understand the game. She just wanted him to drop the club and wrestle with her like Ranger does. As you can see from his hackles, Dillon was more than a little frightened of her "Baby Huey" antics.

And then he discovered the perfect way to deal with an overenthusiastic playmate. When he swings his head toward her, the end of the club smacks the crap out of Aja. She either gets out of the way, grabs the club, or gets the s@*t whacked out of her.

Girlfriend never did learn not to rush up and try to pounce him, so she took lots of smacks with the club.

 "Dad! He won't play right!"

I'm happy to report that after a week, she is fitting in well. She and Ranger are best buddies and she plays with Dillon too. Aja still hasn't figured out the club game, but she doesn't get smacked as much now, and he isn't as afraid of her.  After much study, I've come to the conclusion that he actually smacks the crap out of her on purpose. When she gets too rough, he swings that club and lets her have it.

"Alright Sister, try it again!"

Oli has a message for you . . .

"Retirement does NOT suck!"