Farm Fresh Blog

This is me, when I spend all morning working on goat milk soap and realize that time has gotten away from me and it is now time to get ready for my 'real' job:

"Sigh... time to go to work."

I was in the groove! Got up in the morning and fed The Masses. Milked the goat.

Cut up two batches of fresh goat milk soap!

Stacked cut soap to dry

Got ready to make another batch of soap ..... and noticed the time.

"Well crap! Where does the time go?"

I really wish making soap paid as well as playing Twister over dead people.

Heeeey!  Remember this little face?

 Well he and his sister are eating solid food now and that's the green light for me to start milking their mom.

 This means that at night the babies are locked in a pen inside their mother's pen. They are given alfalfa when I tuck them in at night so they won't be hungry. They get to eat their breakfast when I milk Clover in the morning.

 She can give me almost half a gallon each morning, but I don't take all that. I milk enough to fill my jars and then leave the rest for the babies.

 "Mmmmm.... warm milk!"

All this means that I am back in the soap business - my favorite kind of business!

WARNING: Graphic!
 

A wise old man once told us that you're never bored

"as long as you have a windmill and a black bull."

His reasoning was that you always have work to do on one or the other. Our black bull is normally never any trouble, but he's been getting up in age and that brings special health problems.

We returned to the ranch in North Texas last Friday after the nasty winter storms released their grip on that country. Bully didn't make it.

 We knew it was coming. He was pretty old. He wasn't maintaining his weight. His vision wasn't good. He had started getting nosebleeds. Death has been creeping up on him. Apparently Death caught up with him during this last ice storm.

The rest of the cows are fatter than dog ticks. They survived the weather just fine. Although the cubes had run out of their feeders, they had plenty of grass in the forest. Bully didn't starve to death. I examined his body quite closely. I'll spare you the most graphic photographs, but the crime scene investigator in me had to detail Bully's death in pictures.

Although I was sad that Bully died, I was happy to know that he had not starved to death, nor had he been attacked by coyotes. There was plenty of grass in his belly, and no evidence of bite marks on his hindquarters, tail, nose or ears. It looks like he just laid down and died in the cold.

My next concern was completely selfish: the location of his death.

Bully often hung out beside the cabin. Not only did he appear to enjoy the company, we later put a feeder there to make hauling feed in sloppy weather easier. I feared Bully would die beside the cabin and I'd have hundreds of pounds of rotting bovine upwind of me.  But no, Bully died like he lived, with very little trouble to us.

He died in the forest below the pasture, far enough from the cabin that even when he began to thaw, we couldn't smell him. Good ole Bully. He was such a sweet bull. I miss him. On the other hand, he was an old bull and he lived a good life. Other Half and his rancher buddies point to Bully's death in the forest as a waste of money. He could have been taken to the sale barn months ago and we could have gotten 'something' for him before he died.

I guess so, but the idea of an old bull, confused and frightened, being prodded to his death, bothered me. I felt like Bully deserved better than that. As it was, we got two more good calf crops out of him and he got to live, and die, like a wild cow. (Not really wild because he had a feeder in addition to all that acreage, but it was a lot closer than most cows ever see to being wild.) So I was okay with Bully's death, and once he was gone, the scientist inside me wanted to study him.

First I had to study his death scene like any good crime scene investigator. I looked for some cause of death. Since I saw no signs of murder, I opted for "natural causes." I had to photograph the scene. Don't ask me why. It's just habit I guess. Finally, his death provides me with the opportunity to examine the predator/scavenger population.

WARNING! Graphic! (well, not really by my standards, but then I recognize that my standards are pretty screwed up, so I'll bow to what is considered graphic by normal people.)

We found Bully on Friday. He had just started to thaw and the flies were arriving. Most of his body cavity had already been cleaned out by critters prior to our arrival, but there was still plenty of eats available so we set up a game camera to capture shots of everything that bellied up to the Bully Buffet. (pardon my sick humor - it's something Crime Scene Investigators have in spades)

I was most disappointed in our pictures. What I expected: coyotes, raccoons, oppossums, bobcats, buzzards, and maybe a curious cougar!

What I got:

Possums   Lots of possums, or maybe just lots of visits from the same fat possum

Coyotes  

 No feeding, just curious

   And a mangy coyote that reminded me to keep my dogs away from there! This rascal is what gives rise to tales of the "chupacabra!" (people who live outside of Texas will need to google this)

But two nights and hundreds of pictures and that was it!

Except for this visitor:

Paisley came to stand with Bully for a while. It broke my heart. I don't even like Paisley, and it still broke my heart. I had noted that Paisley was particularly aggressive with our dogs this week, and couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with watching the coyotes eat Bully.  Something to ponder . . .

And even though Paisley annoys me, I found a little spark of fondness grow in my heart for Paisley when I saw these photos.

Despite it all, I have no regrets about Bully. While I don't mind selling older calves for meat, I just didn't feel right about sending ole Bully down the road to slaughter. He'd been a good bull for us, and I suppose the best I could do for him was let him die with some dignity. We could have brought him back down to South Texas to die, but he was happier there.

So last night I pointed out to Other Half that he no longer had "a black bull and a windmill" to keep him busy. He then reminded me that he does indeed still have a black bull!  In fact, he has three black bulls! He had kept these three to watch them grow in order to decide which bull to keep as a replacement for Bully. And true to form, we were gone for four days and they flooded the pasture twice while we were gone!  They still have a fascination with water spigots.

 Bully lives on!

Vaya Con Dias, Bully

This is a Public Service Announcement:

"The very next person who tells me we are in a drought will be clubbed to death with a muddy boot."

Thank you.

It has come to my attention that people who say this tend to be weather men, and folks who aren't actually slopping their way through chores in the mud. These are people who get up in the morning, walk down the sidewalk for the newspaper, and return to the comfort of their clean house. They then get ready for work. This involves walking on clean floors, with clean walls. They then select clean clothes and clean shoes. After this they may walk through the house into the garage where their car is parked. They will drive to work and be slightly miffed that their clean car has now got road scum on it. They will be even further miffed when they discover their child's afterschool sports event has been cancelled due to weather. They will return home in their climate-controlled vehicle, drive up to their mail box, open their automatic garage door, slip their shoes off onto a special 'mud mat' at the door, and settle down to a nice evening in front of their computers and/or television where they will hear the weather man announce that we are still in a drought. 

Now let's examine the lives of people with farms.

These people get up early to care for the animals. There are no holidays, no sick days, no snow days, no rain-out days.  Like the old donut commercial where the man staggers out of bed every morning and says "got to make the donuts," these people stagger out of bed and say, "got to feed the animals." 

The carpet is not clean in this house. It is tan with a muddy brown layer in high traffic areas. The walls are flecked and smeared with mud at dog level. Muddy boots are stacked in the foyer. Muddy coats are hanging from the kitchen chairs. Muddy towels are piled in front of the washing machine. They smell slightly of wet dog.

These people fall out of bed in the morning to slide into Carhardt jackets and trip toward the foyer. They examine the strange lump in the hallway and note with satisfaction that it is not a dog turd, but a clod of mud from someone's boots. They thank God for this and continue to the foyer.

In the foyer they select the driest pair of wet boots and struggle to get them on over insulated socks. They then slide to the barn. These intrepid individuals are either sliding in mud or ice depending upon the day of the week and the hour of the day. Depending upon the temperature, the locks on the gates will be frozen shut. Much cussing and banging will be involved to open them. If it is not frozen, it will be muddy thus resulting in muddy gloves. The sound of the gate opening will not be greeted by welcoming nickers, but by impatient banging and screams of

"Where's my bloody breakfast!"

It is at this point where the individual will be mugged. Feeding farm animals is not as simple as reaching into a clean dog food bin and tossing sterile kibble into a bowl on the kitchen floor. Feeding farm animals on a cold, wet morning is like a Wal-Mart Black Friday Sale. Mouths will reach and grab from all directions but unlike monsters in a scripted Haunted House, they will make contact and will knock you down. Only when one has been knocked down by cattle while slinging out hay or cubes can one truly understand the meaning of the term 'collateral damage.' An Olympic figure skater has nothing on the moves a sheep rancher can make when sliding in the mud under the onslaught of wooly backsides pushing at knee level.

After the initial wave is over and mouths are busy, then the farmer can ready himself/herself with the problem of water. Ice may need to be broken and buckets must be filled. This is not the time for multi-tasking. Doing other chores while leaving hoses unattended only results in flooding. Although this is a Law Of The Farm Universe, to save time most ranchers will ignore this and thus overfill buckets which will lead to more mud and/or ice later - and more cussing.

After the livestock have been fed and watered, it is now time to return to the house and get ready for work. Yes, work - because hauling 50 pound bags of feed and 65 pound bales of hay is not work. Sliding through mud or ice while carrying water buckets that slosh on your pants leg is not work. It is now time to shed those muddy clothes and find clothing that isn't muddy. It will not be possible to find shoes/boots that aren't muddy. Although the selected pants start out clean, they will be flecked with mud along the journey between the house and the truck as the now off-duty rancher leaves for the office. The running board of the truck will be slippery from either ice or mud, thus resulting in Olympic gymnist moves to get inside the vehicle, and more mud on pants legs.

On the drive to work they will note the scores of farm workers at the local farmer's market removing or covering the crops for the third time in a week.

People who have livestock will arrive at the office with hay in their hair, without make-up, with mud smeared on clean clothes from the kneee down and from elbow to wrist. Their co-workers will be dressed in clean clothing that is not appropriate for the weather outside a climate-controlled office or vehicle. They will question the off-duty rancher about the moral issues regarding raising livestock for food as they explain that everything necessary for a good meal can be obtained without guilt, or effort, from the grocery store.

Alrightie then.....

.... people who say things like that just scare me.

Few things make you question your life choices as much as cold rain and mud. Juggling personalities as you make sure animals have adequate shelter and hay can often require an elaborate flow chart.

'This animal can bunk with that one, but not next to that one. These get along, but not at meal time. We used to have enough kennels, but then you rescued THAT one.'

Heaven forbid if a little Nyquil throws your flow chart off. Chaos ensues. I've done this long enough now to recognize the patterns. When the weather is bad, not only are we grumpy, the animals are grumpy too, thus juggling the personalities becomes even more of a chore.

So when I'm sliding through mud, and knocking frozen locks open, it's easy to ask myself why I keep them. Despite their trouble, the sheep, goats, and cattle actually earn money, and although it's tempting to cut back to just one species, I'm not big on putting all my eggs in one basket. Plus, running these species together confounds the parasites that prey on them. But what about the horses? Why are we keeping horses we rarely have time to ride?

They're large. They eat a lot. Sometimes they're dangerous to the smaller livestock. Much of their work is outsourced to Border Collies. We rarely have time to enjoy riding them. And yet, we feed them. We juggle their personalities. We enjoy their company over the fence.

And oddly enough, we buy more.

What is the magic of a horse? Since you can only ride one horse at a time, it stands to reason that you would only have one horse for each rear end in the family. Oh, sometimes we reason that we need extra horses in case someone else wants to ride with us, but in reality, we simply want the extra horse, or don't want to sell a horse we already have to buy another one that we want. What is this spell a horse casts over us?

I was the quintessential horse crazy little girl.  A horse was not merely my ticket to the stars, a horse was my star. Not to ride, just to breathe. Perhaps that is what separates those who want horses from those who need horses. Ride, ride, ride. A horse is not a glorified bicycle. It is not a toy. A horse is a magical being that takes us to Tirnanog - that mystical Celtic land of eternal youth, abundance, and joy.

I was a shy child, who withdrew to my world of books and animals. I spent much of life with my nose in a book, dreaming, or drawing horses. My interactions with real horses were few and far between, but I dreamed. Oh, how I dreamed. Life changed when we moved to an area with a boarding stable within bicycle distance. I lived at that barn, a willing slave who worked just to be around the horses. And because of this, my mother took a chance. A single mother with two children and more than enough responsibilities of her own, took a chance and bought a $750 horse - and changed my life forever.

For the first time I actually participated in life instead of reading about it. My world opened up. I developed friends at the barn, not friends my age, but friends who actually shared my passion for horses. Girls younger than me, ladies older than me, all these women were caught under the same spell - the magic of a horse. When other girls my age were experimenting with drugs and sex, I had the confidence to avoid those pitfalls because I had the responsibility of a horse. I learned the value of hard work at a thankless job because every burger served meant a bale of hay for my horse. That mare wasn't just my ticket to adventure on the trails, she was my ticket to life.

In hindsight, I realize the one gift of a horse was life changing. It was more important than my grades, what car I drove, or what college I attended. That horse wasn't a mere stepping stone in my life, she was the solid foundation that gave me the confidence to build a life. So much responisibility on the back of a little horse. . .

And so now, like countless other horsewomen with busy lives who keep horses they don't have time to ride, I say,

"It's not about riding the horse, it's about breathing the horse,"

and about the days, sometimes the rare days, when we take some time to throw a leg over the back of a horse and ride away to Tirnanog.

Life is just clearer from the back of a horse.

I clearly recall the 'ah ha' moment I had standing in a tangled jungle of briars as I listened to goats browse. It stirred something in my soul. In that moment I understood peace and living in the moment. The overwhelming spinning carousel of being newly divorced, with a new job, new friends, and new responsibilities slowed, and the fading tune of the merry-go-round was replaced by a patient grinding of teeth. One piece at a time, one bite at a time, the goats tamed an area thigh-deep in thorns.  The lesson was not lost on me. Like the old joke about how one eats an elephant, the goats taught me that life's problems could be handled 'one bite at a time.'

I stumbled down this rabbit hole of goats because of the thorns. After a winter of torrential rains, spring brought a growth of blackberries, poison ivy, and briar rose hedges that I couldn't handle alone. My fences were disappearing under the onslaught of vegetation. A woman alone couldn't physically hack all that down, and I refused to use chemicals.

So I turned to goats.  I bought a handful of half-wild young bucks from a friend of mine. They were my first introduction to goats. These bucks taught me new cuss words, and how to build better fences. And they taught me the lesson of "one bite at a time."

Not only were they slowly taming the jungle around me, they were teaching me independence. A woman alone could run a farm, but she needed the right help. Work smarter, not harder.  And I soon learned that small livestock was the key.

Within a season, the goats had tamed the weeds on the property. I took a couple to the livestock auction and discovered that I could triple my money by buying bucklings, feeding them out a year and selling them. This lesson soon moved me to raisie my own Boer goats.

I appreciated the goats, but they were livestock, not pets. Then I met my first dairy goat.  The moment she tugged at my sleeve for attention, the heavens opened and angels broke out in the Hallelujah Chorus.

By the spring, I was milking my first dairy goat, and my relationship with goats changed. They were no longer admirable adversaries in a battle to keep livestock contained, they were friends who gave me milk, yogurt, and soap. While a goat raised for meat showed me a profit only by the sale of her offspring, a dairy goat showed me a continual paycheck in goat milk soap sales that far exceeded my meat goat sales.

And selling soap was a much more pleasant task than watching my kids drive off to slaughter. So I turned my back on the meat goats and embraced the dairy goats.

As I look back at my evolution in goats, I am amused by the shifting roles. I started out with goats as lawn crews. Their value was in how much land they could clear and how little they troubled me. Now I am their caretaker. They are pampered orchids that I dote on with great pleasure. And just as my first batch of scrub goat bucks, these dairy goats teach me lessons of living in the moment. Like shepherds of old, I experience the peace of sitting in the field, listening to them browse, and the quiet time of milking, with the satisfying 'ting ting' as the milk squirts into the bucket.

While the triumphs and tragedies of life are well illustrated in the confined cosmos of a barn yard, there is no greater therapy than a farm. And in this renewed age of homeschooling, I would also argue there is no greater classroom than a barn yard either. So perhaps that is what this world needs - less mood-altering drugs, and more time spent fixing fences, less time spent on a therapist's couch, and more time spent in the pasture, less time learning about life on cable television, and more time experiencing the circle of life on a farm. Perhaps....

I just received word that Raisin Bran and Bailey safely arrived at the Houston Zoo this morning, thus beginning their new life as pampered petting zoo goats that may some day have to face a loose tiger but will never have to face a barbecue pit.

After 30 days in quarantine, they'll be in the exhibit where I can visit them.

As those of you on Facebook already know, as soon as she is weaned, another little girl will be joining our family! My first registered Nubian!

Other Half and I were at the Dairy Goat show at the Fort Worth Stock Show on Sunday when I saw this:

 We had been talking with Nubian breeders in our search for registered doelings to become the foundation for a registered herd. After three years with my grade Nubians, I was convinced that Nubians were definitely the goat for me and I wanted to improve my genetics and slowly begin to get a registered herd.

And so it was that we were talking with Nubian breeders about foundation stock. A show is a good place to get an idea of what a breeder is producing. I liked this breeder's does and her philosophy regarding raising goats. As a bonus, this doe that I liked won Grand Champion. (this helped reinforce that at least the judge that day agreed with me.) I like this breeder's goats,

..... and she just happened to have some doelings for sale!

A few days later we took a trip to the breeder's farm. We looked at more of her stock. I really, really, really like this lady's goats!  Sharon Galbreath of G Bar Acres Dairy Goats in Weatherford, TX is just fantastic! She and her husband spent the day with us and she's even beginning to sway me towards showing this little girl. (I have a background in showing dogs so it isn't a stretch.)

 Meet G Bar Acres Juliet's Dahlia!

(and my baby doeling draped over her head!)

These babies are by G Bar Acres Romeo if you happen to be perusing her webpage.

Udder picture for the dairy goat folks who want to see! (apologies to the non-dairy goat folks who think this is goat porn!  It's really not. This is very important in the dairy goat world.)

So, now I need to come up with a name for my baby. Her dam is Dahlia, a daughter of Juliet. Juliet was bred to Aslan to produce Dahlia. Dahlia was bred to Romeo to produce these babies.

 Romeo

I have plenty of time to decide since I won't get her until she is weaned. At the moment I'm toying with Shakespeare names, or perhaps I should go with the gardening theme. Ahhhh... naming animals, one of my favorite chores.

   As we have discussed before, I'm a fan of baby steps when it comes to dog training. I like to lay a nice foundation and build on that framework. (It doesn't always happen that way, but that's the way I WANT to do it.)

     And then there's Other Half. He's more of a dog handler than a dog trainer. He'd rather just head out to do a job and let genetics and his relationship with the dog do the task for him. Yeah.... sounds like the recipe for a train wreck to me.

But by some miracle, he and the dogs manage to muddle through it just fine. This just grates on my nerves.

Take this dog.

So much potential talent . . .

   . . . wasted.

I argue that the dog should be sent off to Boot Camp for some professional training since we have neither the time nor the experience to finish a dog of his caliber, and he could be so much better than he is. 

.............. Nah... that's not gonna happen.  He isn't sending his little red monster off to anyone.

So they go out together and work cows anyway. No training. No playbook. Just a man and his dog. It isn't pretty, but the job gets done, and they're both happy.

And so maybe I should just shut my mouth, and let them work. 

The rancher next door came over this morning to borrow a dog box so he could make a road trip to purchase a new finished cow dog. ($$$ Wow! Finished cow dogs are big bucks! Undoubtedly worth it, but nevertheless, big bucks.)

Anyway, he made the funniest observation this morning:

"Trace is kinda creepy, isn't he?"

Ya think.

Since he isn't privy to Troll Dog's real personality, I was curious as to how he came to this conclusion. His explanation was that Trace lurked by his fence line, peeking through the grass like a stalker (read: sniper). Trace never says anything. He just lurks and watches. Creepy?

By his standards?

Well, since he has Black Mouth Cur Dogs and an Aussie, then yes, Trace's behavior might be creepy, but to us, lurking and staring like a stalker is the very least of Trace's weird behavior. In fact, that isn't weird at all. That's just being a Border Collie. They stare. They just do. They study the world around them like Graduate Students working on a thesis - minus the drinking.

Since Trace is one of the Outside Dogs, he is either in a dog run or loose most of the time. His dog run is elevated so he can see a lot. I assure you that Trace knows exactly what time the cows settle down to chew their cud, what time the rancher's wife comes home from work, exactly how many times the sheep pooped and where, which plants are in bloom, the number of trucks that pass on the highway, how many of those are Fords, Chevys, and Dodges, and who drives them. Trace has a PhD in what goes on around here day and night. He is a Jedi Master in mind control and the art of staring at the world around him. He is - a Border Collie.

They study things, that's what they do.

There are so many other parts of Trace's personality that could be called 'creepy,' but staring is not one of them.

The arctic weather has pulled away, leaving milder temperatures, but a raging head cold on my part. Unfortunately, the farm doesn't slow down merely because Primary Caretaker is sick. Other Half is out of town and thus, the care of a hungry farm falls on me - and Nyquil.

We have streamlined most of the chores, but some things cannot be rushed. In addition to throwing feed at the animals, I must also socialize the baby goats. It's a tough chore, but someone has to do it! This involves feeding everyone else, and then collapsing on the ground in their pen. They find this vastly amusing and so they jump all over me for snuggles and pets. They also push and shove each other as they fight for who gets to be held.

Although this doesn't sound important, it really is. These aren't bottle babies, thus, if I want them tame like dogs, they must be treated like puppies regardless of how tempting it is to just feed the animals and go back to bed.

Because goats are definitely on the menu in Texas, it is paramount that the little boy is Pet Material. Semi-wild goats get eaten. Pet goats that are cute have better prospects than the dinner plate. Because the little girl is destined to be a milk goat like her mother, it's important that she is easy to handle and friendly. Wild dairy goats get sent down the road - and ultimately can end up on the dinner plate, so proper socialization is important.

When sitting on a bed of shavings, drunk on Nyquil, the mind tends to wander. My mind is constantly looking at ways to improve the current barn situation when we build again. For instance:

* New barn will have cameras and baby monitors. This will limit cold, midnight trips to check mommas and babies.
* New barn will have HOT water. This will help when trying to clean Momma's butt off.
* New barn will have television in the stall. This will allow me to watch the news with a baby goat in my lap.
* New barn will have a recliner in the stall. This will allow me to watch the news, in a recliner, with a baby goat in my lap.
* New barn will have a pharmacy. This will allow me to sit in the recliner, watch the news, with a baby goat in my lap, and get more aloe vera Kleenex and cherry Nyquil without leaving the house.

Yessirree. That new barn is gonna be a doosey! In the mean time, please pass me the Nyquil and another Kleenex.