Farm Fresh Blog

Yes, ours is life on the Funny Farm. I found this sign at Tractor Supply and simply had to have it. My only complaint is that it has no goats - NO GOATS! Or sheep! What the heck?! (This little flaw didn't concern Other Half. Go figure.)

Anyway, we were up at the ranch in North Texas last week, and as always, it's a great place to get away from it all. It is a study in contrasts. The raw beauty and peace allow you to overlook the real dangers that lurk. Our lives there simply fold around the dangers. We wear snakeboots. We (I!) mow the grass beside the cabin so we can see the snakes. We exercise the dogs in the heat of the day. And we carry guns.

Just like American Express - "Don't leave home without it!"

The creek was dry again, but clearly it had run with some power while we were gone. Tires had floated downstream. Other Half pulled them out carefully and dumped the sand out of them (carefully!) before loading them onto the mule.  Guess what a grown man with a gun does when a mouse falls out of a tire?

He screams like a girl.

Okay, he didn't really scream like a girl. He kinda barked in surprise. Thankfully it was a mouse and not another copperhead. The last time he lifted up a tire there was a copperhead underneath it, so the mouse was an improvement.

My favorite thing to do on the ranch is to drive! I love just driving in the mule around dusk and seeing the wildlife.  Turkey! Turkey! Turkey! I love watching the turkeys. And deer. Lots of deer.  With the return of good eats, the hogs have moved on, so we haven't sighted them in a while.

This is my favorite inhabitant. He is a painted bunting and is quite a flashy little dude. He lives in the meadow at the top of the staircase climb of rocks. I see him all the time, crisscrossing above me as I drive through, but I've only once gotten a picture of him. (and it wasn't very good) Since he is clearly a regularly, I think I should name him. Perhaps I shall name him after an artist. Picasso?

And no drive at dusk is complete without this:

WARNING! Not for the squeamish!

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It is what it is, Folks.

I don't like killing, but my little Henry lever-action .22 rifle is my buddy. We have more than our fair share of poisonous snakes, and thus my "live and let live" attitude has shifted to exclude rattlesnakes and copperheads. Yes, they have a place in the food chain. Just not outside my back door.

Sorry about the delay in getting your comments approved and posted! We went to the ranch and didn't have a computer.  Here is an update on Henry:

Dear Friends Michelle & Bobby puppy-sat Henry for us while we were at the ranch. They have lots of dogs too. They have GREAT DANES!  Henry did just fine. Michelle sent regular text messages so we got to see pictures of Henry.  He got along great with his roommates. 

Henry chewed the Great Danes' bone . . .

He enjoyed family time with their mommy and daddy . . .

 Yes, that little black blob on Bobby's foot is Henry!

Henry played!  Like a real puppy!

Here is Henry with Lulu:

  It's a video. Hopefully it'll work. (first time I tried to upload a video. We'll see....)

Henry also gained more weight! He's filling out now. I took him by the feed store yesterday and he was quite the little celebrity. Other Half had taken him in last week so when I walked through the doors with Henry in my arms three women cried out, "HENRY!!!" and whisked him up. Henry enjoyed his time meeting and greeting people in the store. The staff girls had Henry running around the counter like a cat.

 They took pictures with him and put him on Facebook.  Henry is a 'happenin' little dude!'

Please get the word out and help us find the perfect home for Henry. He will stay small. He gets along with people, dogs, and cats. He rides in the car well. He loves to be carried, and is happy to sleep with you, or sit in the recliner and watch television. Henry has won the lottery and he knows it!

Henry's story will always be a mystery to us, but given our experience policing in the ghetto, we've got a pretty good idea of his start in life. His un-neutered generic ghetto dog father met his un-spayed generic ghetto dog mother and several puppies were born. Human children likely played with them for a while. He likes humans. A LOT! Someone in his life was kind to him.  For some reason, the food ran out. Henry was on his own in a ditch by a railroad yard.

Henry is clearly a plucky little survivor. He is obsessed with where his next meal is coming from. He's had some bad encounters with other dogs because he was quite defensive around our dogs at first. When Briar first met him, he hunched up and growled low at her.  Briar has killed possums bigger than Henry. She raised her eyebrow, gave him an incredulous look and walked away.

He has since loosened up. By now he's figured out that the dogs here will just ignore him. Dillon tries to engage him to play with a kong toy that is almost as big as Henry is. Toys are clearly not in his databanks. Henry is almost frantic in his perpetual search for food. Even though his belly is full, he cannot wrap his mind around the idea of regular meals.

"You must eat fast! You must eat it ALL! You must hunt for more!"

Henry is starved for human attention. He loves to carried. He loves to be cuddled. He loves the human touch. Other than food, Henry loves nothing more than to sit in the recliner and watch television with you. He would make a perfect companion dog for someone who wants a smaller dog.

 
Yesterday Other Half let him ride along as he ran errands.

Henry was in Heaven. He charmed everyone. They ran into my mother at the post office. She texted me to say that I needed to take pictures that captured his "grateful expression." The vet gave him a clean bill of health and pronounced that he just needed 'groceries' and TLC. They sent him home with goodies and promised to help find him a "furever home!"

The people at PetsMart were smitten and have also offered to help. The people at the feed store took pictures of him.  Henry is the face of stray dogs everywhere - scared, uncertain, overwhelmed, and ever so cautiously grateful.

Most of these photos were taken on Day 1 of the new chapter in Henry's life.  Even now, 3 days later, he is a changed dog. He now sports a little collar and a jaunty little trot. There is food in his belly and hope in his eyes.  Once we get some weight on his bones, you won't even be able to recognize him.

Please get Henry's story out there. We want to find him a perfect forever home with someone who loves a plucky little terrier-type dog with a strong will to survive. The vet estimates that Henry is approximately 5 months old. He will stay small. We will get him neutered when the vet decides he's healthy enough. Even though we don't plan to keep him, I will always worry about his future, therefore, I'll have him microchipped so he will always have a ticket back to us no matter where his journeys take him.

I once heard a story about a man walking on the beach who saw a boy running along the surf, picking up stranded starfish and tossing them back into the ocean. The man asked the boy why he was bothering to toss the starfish back into the water since there were so many stranded starfish on the beach that morning that it was impossible to make a difference.

The boy picked up another starfish, threw it into the surf and said,

"I made a difference to that one."

(This story is credited to Loren Eisley.)

Well Friends & Neighbors, we can't save them all, . . .

. . . but we can save this one.

Other Half was working a neighborhood known as the 5Th Ward today and was flagged down by this poor little tyke. I fully believe the puppy read the side of the police car and said,

"K?" 

"9?" 

"K9?"

"Canine?"

"CANINE?!!!"

"Hey YOU! Officer! Pullover!  PULL OVER!"

Other Half stopped and called the little guy who came up whining. He brushed the fire ants off the little fellow and gave him some water. Grateful puppy slurped it up. Then Other Half, who keeps dog food for his own patrol dog in the car, tossed out some food.

And took a cell phone picture.

Which he sent to me.

Then he called me.

We both knew it. We couldn't just leave him in the ghetto. Emaciated, dehydrated, covered in ant bites, and fleas, he climbed into the front seat of that patrol car, and drove out of the ghetto forever.

Other Half met me at Petsmart where we bought him canned dog food, a collar, a toy, and a dog bed. We took him home and after a long warm bath, he settled down in his very own bed for the night.

He can stay until we find him a 'forever home.' We can't keep him, but we couldn't just drive away and leave him there either.

You can't save them all, but when God tosses one at your feet, what else can you do?

 Looking at a brighter future

Now he needs a name befitting the brighter days he has ahead of him.  Any ideas?

Like 'old age,' having a farm "ain't for sissies." This is never more apparent than when you raise birds. Chickens are on the bottom of the food chain and I learned a long time ago that getting attached to birds was almost masochistic. Don't get me wrong. I still got attached to some of them, (The Famous Dora the Explorer, and all my geese), but experience has taught me that birds don't die of old age on a farm.

For years I lost birds. And for years I sought ways to protect my birds from predators. I considered the idea of a dedicated "farm dog" whose only job was to stay outside and protect my stock, but couldn't justify the cost of another dog just to protect chickens or goats.

And then I lost a goat not 100 yards from the barn. And 11 turkeys in one night. And 3 geese. And 10 chickens in a week. Night after night. No matter how well I fortified the chicken coop, The Boogey Beast kept sneaking in and murdering my critters.

One day I counted the dollar cost of lost livestock. It was staggering.  That's when I decided to bite the bullet and get a warrior to stay in the farm yard and protect my livestock. 

And guess what? 

The killing STOPPED.

Suddenly I realized something that farmers for centuries already knew: the Boogey Beast doesn't like dogs.

Soon I embraced the idea of using dogs to protect my stock. Clearly the mere presence of dogs helps a lot. (Especially as my warrior grew!)

I was reminded of this little factoid this week when Daughter informed me that while she and hubby were on a well-deserved vacation, and the kids and dogs were staying next door with their grandparents, that Dangblasted Cursed Boogey Beast snuck onto their farm in the middle of the day and killed 7 chickens. 

Damn you, Boogey Beast!

She pointed out that now she realized the value of a good farm dog. Apparently while her older Heeler/German Shepherd mix, Maddy, was next door with Grandma and Grandpa and the kids,  the Beast(s) had felt comfortable enough to stroll right in and dine on chicken. Regardless of whether or not the Beast was a couple of loose dogs, or a single coyote, the end result is the same. Heartbreak.

This got me to thinking about the Other Cost of losing livestock.

It's not just about the loss of life and money. These birds were more than just well-cared-for-free-range-egg-layers. They were pets. 

Damn you again, Boogey Beast.

I asked her how the kids took the loss of the birds and she shared that Grandbaby said,

"That's what happens on a farm sometimes. That's why we always have a gun, huh Daddy?"

(I love this child!)

And so the moral of this sad tale is: Never underestimate the value of a good farm dog.

As I'm sure the men in our audience will agree, women (particularly hormonal women who are armed) are dangerous creatures. Because of this, wise men know to tread lightly. (young and ignorant men either learn quickly, or they become statistics, and thus sad examples for other men)

And as we have already established, Other Half is a cow man - he barely admits that he even has sheep and goats. In fact, he is quick to point out that the sheep, goats, and Big White Dog that comes with sheep and goats, belong to his WIFE. (unsaid - "I wouldn't have those foo-foo creatures if not for her because I'm a REAL MAN. I have CATTLE.")  Yeah.... whatever.

(Don't be fooled, folks. He kisses lambs.)

Although he isn't big into my livestock, he knows they are important to ME and by default, they are important to his happiness. (cuz "when Mama ain't happy, ain't NOBODY happy.")

And so it was, that no one was more upset than Other Half when he could not locate one of my goat babies the other night. He was walking the whole crew back into their pens when he did a head count and came up short one baby goat.

"DANGER! DANGER, WILL ROBINSON! DANGER!"

(extra bonus credit if you can name that quote!)

Other Half quickly backtracked and heard the plaintive cries of his missing buckling. But where was he?

Imagine it is dark, and this is your scene.

Yes! The baby goat was in the boat!

Apparently Raisin Bran had climbed onto the riding mower and jumped into the boat! 

A goat in a boat . . . somewhere there is a Dr Seuss book in this . . .

You know you're married to a K9 Handler when:

Your husband is grilling steaks outside. You receive a telephone call from Hubby and he says, "Put Dillon's vest on and have him bring me a beer."

Alrightie then.

Please forgive the bad cell phone photography. The dog was eager to complete his mission. This is actually a k9 backpack, not a vest. Dillon is more than happy to serve as a beer courier. While the Border Collies would like to do it, alas, they are not big enough to fit in the backpack.

Summer is upon us. So Ladies, may I point out that this an EASY skill to teach both dog and husband. The backpacks are cheap. AND . . . it saves YOU a lot of running back and forth outside to bring Husband things he didn't bring with him when he went outside to grill.  Just sayin'. 

This particular adventure was overshadowed when Dillon got bitten by the rattlesnake but has colored everything since. Storms had rolled through north Texas about a week before we arrived and we worried that our little cabin had been whisked away to Oz. Thankfully, that was not the case, but we did find the two double doors standing wide open.

Rut ro!

Our immediate reaction was "Someone broke into the cabin!"

Double doors were opened and swinging in the wind, but everything seemed fine. Relatively. Nothing had been taken.

All the important stuff was still there. Other Half decided that because the doors were still locked, he must have failed to bolt the top and bottom bars, and the storms must have sucked the doors open. Sounded like a valid theory to me. Now we had to address the next problem.

Mouse poop. Mouse poop. And RAT POOP! I'm not talking about Stewart-Little-cute-field-mouse-kinda poop. I'm talking Rat-the-size-of-an-oppossum-kinda poop. Apparently they had been dining on deer corn and catfish food. I can just imagine the party they had when they first discovered this bounty.

And then there was the next problem. Where you have rodents, eventually, you will have snakes. And since snakes are VERY plentiful at the ranch, I was definintely worried. So we kept a worried eye out as we cleaned, and cleaned, and cleaned.  (I don't DO rodents!)

By dark I was satisfied that we could safely go to bed.

But wait!  There's more!

Now what is the Golden Rule for Dog Handlers?

"Trust your dog!"

I am a firm believer in this rule. And so it was that when the sun came up the next morning, I noticed Lily (Barbed Wire Border Collies Pest Control Specialist) tilt her head toward the base of the cupboard.

Hmmmmm . . .

So I asked her, "Lily, what do you have?"

To which she eagerly crammed her nose under the cupboard and wagged her little butt, then looked back at me, and said, "Rodent!"

Oh crap . . .

By then Dillon and Trace were cramming their noses under the cupboard. And yes, they confirmed Lily's assessment.

Groan . . .

So backing away a safe distance, I got down on my hands and knees with a flashlight.

Ohshit!ohshit!Ohshit OHSHIT! OH SHIT!

(Said out loud)

I start to scream at Other Half (who is naturally still in bed). There was much screaming on both parts. The dogs were in a frenzy. They had cornered the suspect, but kept looking back at me. Clearly, since I was the only one with thumbs, I had been elected to flush the suspect. Groan . . .

So armed with my flashlight, a broom, and three snarly dogs, I got down on my knees again. Judicious use of the broom sent the suspect scurrying out and right past Dillon who grabbed it by the tail. At this point I began to scream (like a girl). Then I realized that Dillon had it, and I screamed some more, "Kill it! Kill it! KILL IT!"  (like a homicidal girl)

By now Other Half was awake and up (and naked.) I want to give you this mental picture:

Imagine a happy dog, (a proud dog) carrying a rat the size of a possum, eager to show his prize to his horrified momma and his naked poppa. Yeahhhhhh . . .

Other Half sprang to the door and open it quickly to usher Dillon and his prize outside.

Trace and Lily were quite deflated and disappointed. Dillon didn't want anyone but his humans to admire his prize.

And it was quite a prize.

While Other Half got dressed, I examined the now-dead rodent.  Holy crap. This wasn't some field mouse, this was a Fifth Ward Wharf Rat. I've seen BMWs smaller than this sucker.

Eewwwww . . .   

I noted that she was a female and felt just a moment of sympathy for this rat as a person. Then it passed.

I don't like rodents in my house!

Other Half came outside to admire Dillon's prize.  Dillon was just beside himself. I continued to build him up and tell him how proud I was of him. He glowed.

Then Other Half burst our bubble by saying, "Way to f@#& up a soft-mouthed bird dog."

Hmmm . . . good point. Very good point. Dillon's father was a primo hunting dog. Dillon's grandfather was a 3x Grand Champion Hunting Dog by the age of 5.

And I had encouraged Dillon to kill something . . . 

Given some time to think about it . . . 

                                                             . . .

 I DON'T CARE! I don't hunt birds! I hunt rodents!

 Go Dillon!

Does this creature look dangerous?

Just in case she/he is sooo well camouflaged (not!) that you can't see her, I'll blow it up a little.

Yes, there. See this dangerous beast?

Mother deer put their babies down and tell them to "stay here until I get back."  Apparently deer are much better behaved than children and dogs. This fawn's mother  (big thinker) had put her in the perfect place - at the base of a deer blind. 

Yes, a deer blind! Out in the open! Friends and Neighbors, she did NOT blend. 

Which might have been the point. Perhaps her mother was 49 and prone to forgetting where she put things. I could certainly understand that! Just sayin'.

So we kept a loose eye on her/him hoping that Mom would come get her baby before the coyotes found it. Fotunately she did.

So why do I consider this to be a dangerous beast?  Well let me tell ya!

You see, we saw this little rascal a few weeks ago and were reminded that most baby deer WILL NOT move if Momma tells them not to. Therefore, when mowing the roadways in the forest, Blue Heeler and I went ahead of the tractor on a 4wheeler to make sure we wouldn't mow over any baby deer.

Keep in mind that I zoom up and down these roads ALL THE TIME on that 4wheeler. In fact, on this particular morning, a few hours earlier, I had zoomed down this path 3 different times. And so it was, no one was more surprised than me (and maybe Blue Heeler!) when I ran over a  limb measuring somewhere around 4-5 inches in diameter and several feet long, that jumped up and whacked me in the elbow!  LIKE A FREAKIN' BASEBALL BAT!!!

I kid you not, it was like I was just slowly cruising down the path, when a baby deer with a baseball bat smacked the crap out of me!

I was vaguely aware of the front left tire rolling over it a moment before impact. Then there was a lot of cussing. And gasping. Blue Heeler did a lot of gasping, since if my arm hadn't blocked the blow, he would have gotten a baseball bat to the snout.

I was certain it was broken. The elbow swelled immediately. Then again, since my fingers still worked, I decided it wasn't that bad. It swelled to the point that I couldn't bend my arm enough to brush my hair, or clean the red dirt out of my nose! (Sorry! TMI!)  Still, I considered myself lucky. Not only is a broken arm inconvenient, but I can not AFFORD a broken arm! Frankly, who can? So we resorted to veterinary medicine again. After all, what's good for the horse is good for the human!

The elbow is still sore, just like the foot the damned cows stomped on earlier. (same side too) Did I tell you about that? I'm not sure if I did or not, but the damned cows stomped all over my left foot, thus leaving me hobbling and wondering about broken bones and the wisdom of having cows.  For we all know that regarding cows, anything that big and that stupid can be dangerous, but who figured this little critter for dangerous?

Until Bambi runs out of the woods with a baseball bat!

While I don't spend a lot of time wishing for rain at our south Texas place, I really want rain at the north Texas ranch. That area has received very little rainfall and the stock tanks (ponds) are low. The cattle and wildlife still have water to drink, but I won't rest easy until the tanks are full again, and the creek is flowing.

Except for the occasional spot where the underground springs pop to the surface, the creek has been dry.

This was last June.

 North side of the creek

I was driving through here this weekend. There was nothing but dry sand.

After this weekend:

Same rocks, but on the south side of the creek. I had no intentions of trying to wade through that fast-moving water for a northside picture.

Here is the bluff from inside the creek bed. It was dry on Monday.

Here is the same bluff from on top looking down yesterday:

Monday night we got an inch of rain. I would swear the grass I had mowed that afternoon grew a 1/2 inch over night. Tuesday morning about 2:30 am another round of thunderstorms rolled through. This dumped just shy of 1 1/2 inches of rain.

I was driving through this shallow creek crossing the day before.

Yesterday the current was running so swiftly that I wouldn't let the Labrador Retriever play in the water.

This country is very different from south Texas. The rain comes down and rather than absorbing into the ground, it runs down hills to create rivers of muddy water on the landscape. The stock tanks got a lot more water, and the creek is flowing again. Hopefully once things slow down a bit, the sediment will settle and clear the water up again. Hopefully the water will still be flowing the rest of the summer, but without more rain, I doubt it. The plants are already bounding back, eager to take advantage of the rain while it lasts.