Farm Fresh Blog

The key to a good horror flick is suspense. When armed with popcorn and a supersize coke, suspense isn't a bad thing. When you're naked in the shower, suspense is highly overrated.

An arctic cold front is rolling across the country, and we're trying to juggle a farm and seven dogs. We normally divide our pack of seven dogs into sub-packs: the indoor dogs and the outdoor dogs. Indoor dogs have social skills. Outdoor dogs tend to either mark the furniture, or are primitive, dog-aggressive psychopaths.

Guess who lives outside?

Trace the Troll!

But on this particular morning, in preparation for nasty weather and lots of time spent in dog crates, I had shuffled the indoor dogs outside and vice versa. Thus I found myself, once again, taking a shower with Norman Bates. Since the first time was such an adventure (Read: Behind The Shower Curtain   ), I removed all dog toys from the bathroom before stepping in the tub.

But the problem with clever dogs is that Petsmart doesn't have to carry it for an object to become a dog toy.

And so it was that I took a quick scan of the bathroom before stepping in the shower, and the suspense began:

 Pull curtain back to peek at Norman Bates. He is staring at me with yellow wolf eyes. Close curtain and pick up soap. Begin to mull over his expression. What was he thinking? Did I puppy-proof the bathroom properly? Mentally run through a diagram of the bathroom in my head. What can he turn into a toy?

Peek through curtain again. His yellow wolf eyes are still staring at me. This time he's smirking. Close curtain. I'm certain the little creep was smirking at me. What's he up to? Peek through curtain again. He is lying on the bathrug. He raises a Spock eyebrow, daring me to question his innocence. I close the curtain. My cell phone by the sink rings. Because I'm soaking wet, I stay where I am and continue washing my toes. And that's when the shower curtain is ripped open.

A cold blast of air rushes into the tub. His dancing eyes smile, "Your phone's ringing!"

He stays there, with the shower curtain draped over his head, staring at me intently, letting in the cold air. I assure him I will return the call later. He backs out. The phone continues to ring. Norman Bates slashes the curtain open again.

"Your phone is ringing!  Want me to get it?!"

I see the direction his mind is working and assure him that, "No, I'll return the call."

He disappears again. The phone stops ringing. I go back to my soap, but the ominous music soundtrack in my head begins. Something is going on. I peek out the curtain. He is staring at me. Staring at me. Staring. Staring. Staring. Playing his Jedi mind games. Staring at the phone. Staring at me. I refuse to be trained by a dog. After all, I'm the trainer here.

 I tell myself that I won't be long and go back to my shower. Still, the music dances in my head like his dancing eyes. I reassure myself that there is nothing in the bathroom he can hurt, but the mental picture of an expensive iPhone being thrown into the shower pops in my head.

He wouldn't.

I peek through the curtain again. He would. His front feet are already on the toilet and he's staring at the phone like the RCA puppy listening to his master's voice in a phonograph. And that's when it rings again. He grins at me from the toilet seat.

"YOUR PHONE IS RINGING AGAIN! Must be important! I think it's Dad! That's his ring tone! Want me to bring it to you? Huh? Huh?!"

The music in my head has reached a climax. The chance that an iPhone will come flipping into the shower like a hockey puck is about to become a reality. I bounce out of the tub with a bark and answer it. It's my husband. I'm wet, so I put him on speaker phone. The glazed yellow eyes at my dripping feet point out my error.

"Dad? Dad? Dad's in the box?"

Hmmm.... yes, to a Border Collie, Dad is indeed in the box. And that is a bad thing. I hop back in the shower. I peek around the curtain. He continues to stare at the phone like a puzzle.

How is it he has never noticed cell phones before? Judging from his expression, Kong is about to add an iPhone to their inventory. I doubt Otterboxes cover that. I'm sure AT&T Insurance wants to hear this excuse.

"Yes, my dog tried to get my husband out of the Otterbox. No, he's not a Labrador, he's a Border Collie.  Yes, you're right. It wouldn't be a bad idea to upgrade my insurance. Yes, they are smart dogs. Yes, I should probably check to see if he downloaded any new apps." 

 And sure enough, there is an app on my phone:

"Sheepdog Trials - Lite Edition"

And yes, I suck at it. Maybe I should let Trace the Troll play it instead.

There is more to this dog than fluffy white hair - and mud, and thistles, and bits of hay caught in her coat. While the battle to keep a white, heavy-coated, outside dog clean is a constant struggle, I've never regretted adding this Big White Dawg to the farm.

I cannot emphasize this enough: You should not take just any large, imposing dog, slap it in the farmyard, and expect it to guard your livestock!

It isn't safe for the livestock. I know, I know. Your friend's brother's sister-in-law's cousin had a Labrador that did it, and my cousin's uncle's aunt has a blue heeler that is supposedly the best livestock guardian dog ever. And both those dogs are just the perfect farm dog. They are gentle with lambs, children, and chickens. They have the remarkable ability to kill snakes (but only poisonous ones), pick up eggs (and put them in a basket), rescue Timmy from the well, and have the uncanny ability to know which stranger is the tax assessor and which ones are simply school children hawking overpriced fundraiser products.

Folks, if you can ever meet this remarkable dog that probably never existed, ask to do so. My experience has always been that Stoutheart the Wonderous Farm Dog is no longer alive because he was hit by car or shot by a local rancher, because Stoutheart was an unaltered male that ran loose. BUT - there are plenty of Stoutheart puppies available - in the pound, giving rescue organizations ulcers.

The true Livestock Guardian Dog comes from generations (read that: GENERATIONS!) of dogs that are bred to guard livestock! They are not bred to hunt ducks or herd sheep. They are bred to live with the livestock.  At no time is this more apparent to me than when the sheep are lambing or the goats are kidding. Briar is more than just an imposing white dog (in constant need of grooming.)

Briar is my first Livestock Guardian Dog. I've trained dogs most of my adult life (and I just hit 50!) but these LGDs are "a different breed o' cat!"  Briar is a mutt, but she is a product of two Livestock Guardian Dog breeds, thus, her genetic code still urges her to be gentle with her charges and yet protect them. Folks, you can't train this! You can train them not to be bumbling idiots that don't chase lambs and chickens for fun. In fact, all Livestock Guardian Dog puppies MUST be supervised, socialized, and trained, but the genes that kick in and tell the dog "these are helpless people that need my protection" are either in the dog, or they're not.  It's highly unlikely the average Labrador or Blue Heeler wants to live with the sheep and protect them.

I'm not talking about a dog that just guards the barnyard where the livestock live, and does various odd jobs around the ranch - the "jack of all trades' dog. My Border Collies and Blue Heeler are perfect for that. And that's where your Aussies and English Shepherds come in.  The dog I'm talking about is the Livestock Guardian Dog, the dog that recognizes the livestock as family, a dog that appoints itself as babysitter, a dog that walks through the stock without making waves because it submissively 'oozes' around them.

Briar met the baby goats yesterday and again I was blown away by the way she behaved. She oozed over, careful not to piss off their momma.

Then she sniffed them as they sniffed her - and she wagged her big plume of a tail.

And that was it. They are now part of her flock.

 Briar then wandered off a little way to sit down and watch them.

And when I put the babies in their playpen, she walked her big self over to the pen, sat down with her back to the babies, and put herself between the playpen and the rest of the world. If she'd had arms, she would have crossed them over her puffed up chest like a nightclub bouncer. No one was coming past this Big White Dog.

And this is when her relationship with the rest of my pack of dogs is iffy. When we have babies, it's imperative to keep the uppity Border Collie away from Briar, because she will not hesitate to eat my little black and white dog and pick her teeth with the bones. This Big White Dawg ain't playin'.
 
She loves babies. She loves helpless things. And something in her DNA speaks to her. It tells her that SHE is appointed, she is annoited. She is their guardian. 

Anyone who has tried to photograph Nubian goats will tell you that it's hard to get a good candid picture of them because they are so friendly that they see you with a camera and walk straight into the lens. Clearly, these little guys will be no exception. I have a harder time getting side shots because they both look straight into the camera and say ....

"Cheeeeese!"

 "Cheese!"

 Here is a side view of the little boy and his gray ear.

He poses for mug shots,  

but this little girl is such a ham that almost all her pictures are looking straight into the camera.

Now for the blackmail pictures . . .

Yes, this is my husband snuggling goats.

 It was the view behind him that just cracked me up though. Raisin Bran is 9 months old. Next month he'll be leaving for his new job at the Houston Zoo Children's Petting Zoo, but today he was just a tad jealous.

 "HEY! I'm cute! I'm CUTE!"

"No seriously! I'm cute!  The Zoo People said so!"

  "Cheese!!!"

  "Helloooooooo!"

The babies arrived yesterday afternoon! A doe and a buck.

(Okay, this is not news to those of you who follow us on Facebook, but most of our readers aren't on Facebook, so it's news to them!)

 Baby buck - most pictures are of him eating. He's a Baby Gut.

 Baby Gut

 Baby Doe - most pictures of her are walking toward the camera. She is quite a friendly little thing and by this morning was already trying to engage me in play.

 I'm most interested to see what color she will eventually become as she has these little gray dots on a brown background.

Okay, People!  Help me name them!  I was thinking about calling him Camo and calling her Truffle but I'm open to suggestions.  If she has the temperament of her mother, she'll be staying with us. He'll become a wether and he may stay with us as her playmate or he may later be sold as a pet goat. We'll see. If he is as sweet as the little wether destined to go to the Houston Zoo, I may keep him. Although not as pushy as his sister, he is quite friendly.   :)

And last night I FINALLY got a full night's sleep! Now today my mission is to get some good photographs. Cell phone cameras have a hard time keeping up with baby goats.

     By the time we made it to the ranch last week, the ice had released its grip on North Texas and the temperatures were much more reasonable. (I say this as if the weather is a sentient being that can be reasoned with!) Anyway, although it was 43 degrees inside the cabin when the fire burned out at night, daytime temps were nice - if you were bundled up in fuzzy socks and a down jacket.  

     There is, however, a certain member of the family who scoffs at the idea of fuzzy socks and down jackets. Dillon is a member of the Polar Bear Club - crazed individuals who leap into freezing water for a swim.

     Every morning he ran along the trails during our daily walk. Dillon runs three miles for every three hundred feet that I walk as he zig-zags and zoom-zooms back and forth down the road, through the forest, along the creek, and into the ponds.

 He was a bit perplexed by the ice in the pond as it creaked and groaned under his weight.

 Since he couldn't figure the sound out, he abandoned trying, and just plunged right in. Every freakin' morning. Just like a polar bear.

 "Wwhuut? Come on in! The water's fine!"

On the other hand, there is Lily. She is NOT a member of the Polar Bear Club. Each morning she happily bounced and played in the frost but had absolutely no intention of dipping more than her toes in the pond. Lily firmly believes that when it's 43 degrees INSIDE the cabin, Border Collies belong underneath the electric blanket, snug as a bug in a rug.

 Life really doesn't suck for Lily.

     As the sun sets on another Christmas night, I'm reminded once again what an important role friends and family play in our lives. I am so blessed to be part of this whacky, blended, extended family. Dear Reader, remember this, family is not just about blood. It's about relationships and friendships, in-laws and outlaws.  It's about who is there, in the good times, and in the bad times. We have a sayin' in this family,

"He'd bring a shovel to help you hide a body."

That's a real friend. That's real family.

It's official! The last jar of goat's milk is no more.

  Crimson is drying up.

 "Bout damned time!"

 Clover is due to drop her baby/babies any time now, and so milk production (soap production) will begin again after her crew is eating solid food.

And yes, every night I still get up to check her every three hours. Sigh.....

Like a freight train, Christmas is bearing down upon us. It gives the optical illuision of being in the distance and moving slowly, and so we go about our day, blissfully unaware of how close we are to being hit by a speeding holiday.  I didn't start shopping until last week. Since we plan on going to the ranch in North Texas this weekend, any shopping must be finished this week - i.e. "TODAY!" 

All my holiday soap has been made, cut, and packaged, and most soap orders have already been delivered. Crimson is drying up now, so no more soap will be made until Clover's babies are eating solid food. "What babies?", you ask.

 "Are you watchin' me again?"

The babies that haven't been born yet! We're still on Baby Watch for Clover. I'm praying she gives birth before we head to the ranch. If not, Son will be saddled with that responisiblity too. Thankfully, Dear Friend Michelle will be here to help either way. That said, I must shout this from the rooftops! You cannot, cannot, CAN NOT farm and ranch without a strong support system of friends and family.

Those of you who follow us on our Facebook page at Failte Gate Farm understand how worried we were about our cattle in North Texas when the bitter ice just wouldn't let up. Thankfully, last week Dear Friend Clyde braved the icy roads to count and care for our cattle as well as his own. There is a reason why when we number our blessings, that we count our friends and family as our biggest blessing.

Yesterday I attended my one big Christmas party of the year - with my girlfriends. We are a rowdy group of women who share a love for horses and a zest for life. We laughed, cried, and hugged our way through the hours, and I was reminded once again just how important it is to make time for friends. For life is not about the accumulation of wealth, but the accumulation of love. Life is about love, laughter, family and friends. It's about taking care of each other, easing the pain of another and making someone else's journey a little bit easier. It's about making time for each other. Perhaps the greatest gift you can give is your time, and your attention.

Time is a fleeting and fickle beast. Don't let it get away from you. 

It's official! After Christmas the baby goats will be going to their new home -

- at the Houston Zoo!

Last month I was contacted by the zoo. They were looking for goats for their Children's Petting Zoo and wanted to know if I had anything available.

Hmmmm.....  let's see...

 Raisin Bran & Bailey (9 months old)

This is a wonderful opportunity for young goats. We don't eat goats ourselves, but the world outside our front gate is pretty eager to put a young goat on a barbecue pit. Young Raisin Bran is so friendly and trusting that he would climb up on the grill himself with a little napkin tied around his neck and say, "What's for dinner, guys?"

I can't betray trust like that. A friend of mine was going to take him but her husband wasn't too keen on that and so I had opted to keep him myself.

But the reality of life on a farm is that you can't keep them all. Here was a wonderful opportunity for any goat, particularly a goat that is young and tender. Lifetime care and feeding! No barbecue pits! So I told the zoo that I'd donate them and they came out and ran a battery of tests. The test results just came in and the babies are cleared for take-off!

So there it is, after the holidays Raisin Bran and Bailey will be headed to college, off to make their way in the world. A world free of barbecue pits! A world of lions, and tigers, and bears!

   "WHAT?!!"

"Lions? Nobody said anything about lions?"

"Uhhmm..... can we bring our Big White Dog?"

This post is from last December, but for all our new readers it pretty much sums up why, with the exception of the Blue Heeler and the Labrador, who put up with her antics in good humor, everyone else in the pack would be happy to 'vote Lily off the island.'