Farm Fresh Blog

Briar cleans up well.  Here she is right after a bath and a brushing:

The baby goats do not appreciate their Livestock Guardian Dog. Perhaps they have their reasons.

I say, "Come out and be nice to your Big White Dawg."

To which they reply, "But..... but ...."

  "It's dirtyyyyy..."

And they do have a point. It doesn't take Briar long to get dirty. This is what they see:

....a large, wet, hulking creature with twigs and hay stuck in its coat that eats sheep's wool.

And unlike me, the goats are not smitten with her Hollywood smile.

   "Being clean is overrated."

And lest you think that I would leave you with images of a large, wet, dirty dog on your computer screen, I leave you instead with images of my lavender which looks like this, until I kill it, or give up and race it to the plant doctor (i.e. Doctor Mom who ends up with ALL my plants that are in danger of death from either goats or my black thumb.) 

 While I would very much like to take credit for growing this beautiful being, I cannot. I bought it already in bloom. My goal is to see how long I can keep it alive, dry the blooms, and photograph it until I simply cannot take any more pictures of lavender! And then rush it to my mom's before it's too late for her to save it.

This plant feeds my dream of some day, SOME DAY, being able to grow rows and rows of lavender at the ranch in North Texas. But alas, that dream will have to wait until I am available full time to care for baby plants. I do much better with baby goats and things that can walk to water. Just sayin'.

We're slowly getting a handle on operating the Day Care Center. Like everything else on a farm, it's all about routine. Get in a routine and don't change it! Seriously. I'm not kidding. A farm is like a classroom of 8 year old kids. Get in a routine and do not change! Preschoolers don't handle change well.

Personalities are emerging now.

We have the elegant 'teenagers' Feather and Sparrow, who are the leaders of this rowdy group.

 Jethro, our little buckling, affectionate, but unless his tummy is empty, is more reserved than the others. He does love to untie shoe laces.

Brothers Tony and Tim are destined to be wethers (today) and will be full time companions for Jethro. These little guys are much younger than everyone else but hold their own quite well.

  Timmy- willing to eat anything once

  Tony - King of the World

 The always affectionate Rosa Linda.

Stunt Driver Lacey - part imp, part mountain goat

 Lacey & Rosa Linda

They are spending more and more of their time in the front yard. The plan is to allow them free rein of the yard so they can help the sheep with lawn duties. What happens? Very little lawn work is done. Baby goats end up sprawled out on the front porch like house cats. If they so much as hear you approach the front door, the spring up and begin to scream through the screen door.

  "You come out now?"

And each evening the Kindergarteners make the long walk back to their pen,

where they spend the night under the watchful eye of their Big White Dawg.

 "And people wonder why I sleep all day."

On my way to town there is a magical little side street that loops off the main road. It adds just a few minutes to my journey, but it's time well spent. Since Other Half was a little boy, there have been peacocks on this street. That's fifty years of peacocks! Bunches and bunches of peacocks! I counted eight one day sitting on the neighbor's fence and pickup truck! Although I'm sure the neighbor wasn't thrilled, I was beyond captivated!

I drive past there every time I go to town now, and like a silly tourist, I hang out the window with my cell phone, eagerly snapping "the peacock picture of the day!"  One day I found myself blocking traffic and pulled aside only to discover that the woman behind me was doing the exact same thing. I cannot help but wonder how many people pull over from their busy lives, for just a moment, to gaze upon these stunning creatures.

Yes, I know they're loud. I know they roost in all the wrong places. And yet . . .

There is something I find magical about these living jewels. While I've never been big on buying jewelry, I've got to get some of these birds!  (Not now, of course, after I retire and have more Livestock Guardian Dogs.)

For now I will content myself with watching them walk in the dappled sunlight, rays playing off their colors, dazzling my delighted eyes. No matter what else is going on, the day is just a little brighter if you take a moment to drive past the peacocks. We should never be so busy that we fail to slow down and enjoy the sight.

They are a little smile from God.

A "tipping point" is defined as the critical point in an evolving situation that leads to a new and irreversible development. Some would call this a "turning point."

I have reached this both personally and professionally. Few things allow one to see life as clearly as when one sees death regularly. When one is no stranger to death, the vagaries of life become more apparent, and painful. Over time we see that some people, animals, and places are merely seasons along our journey through life.   We can choose to rave and shake our fists at God, fighting against what appears to be a tide of senseless hurts, or we can simply choose to accept that there are some things in life that we can never explain. We just accept it and move on.

A dear friend of mine said something last week that made a profound impact on me. She said, "I love you unconditionally."

Wow. Think about that. I don't think anyone has ever said something like that to me. The sad thing is that we rarely make time to spend with each other. Both of us are too busy. Most of our time together is stolen with hurried phone calls on the highway while she's at work and I'm going to work. She is still my sister, long after I divorced her brother. She accepted his new wife, just as she accepted my new husband. And always, always, she has accepted me. Like the famous line in "Bridget Jones' Diary", she loves me "just the way I am." And I love her. Some people come into our lives for a season, and some come for a lifetime. I suppose the trick is figuring out the difference.

At the end of life, people like this will be with you. Not your job. Not your money. Not your diploma. A fancy car and a fine house mean nothing if you're alone. Family and friends are your true wealth.  

Perhaps life is like a bird's nest. It is built with care. Eggs are laid. Parents carefully tend the nest. The eggs hatch. Three tiny lives of hope. And all is well until the storm tears the nest apart. One baby drowns in a puddle beneath the nest. One is missing. And the other, the last remaining hope of its parents, falls to the ground into a puddle, beside his dead brother. As this baby struggles against the water, his parents screech helplessly. Another storm is on the horizon. Is the human that intervenes on behalf of the baby bird an angel, or a demon? The parents and the baby are convinced the human is a demon, bent on harm.  Perhaps God is like that helping hand, his actions often misinterpreted by those who do not have the full story, and have no interest in weather reports.

And perhaps that is what faith is - trusting that despite everything, God has the weather report.

After too many years of juggling clipboards over dead men, I've decided to put in for a transfer. It is time to find something closer to a "regular job" where I can focus more on what's really important in my life. I shall forever be grateful for the lessons the dead have taught me, but now is time to focus on the living. 

I now have a better appreciation for people who run Daycare Centers (and dairies.) Caring for baby goats at different stages and times of feeding, while still trying to hold down a full time job, has me running ragged. Last Sunday we brought home 5 babies that were either bottle babies or on a lambar/lamb bar (i.e. big bucket of milk with nipples).

The bottle babies are destined to be wethers that will be companions for our new buckling

 Jethro

They will move with him when he moves into a separate 'boys only' area. These are my NCIS boys. The breeder was already calling the buckling 'Jethro' and so I will give him some kind of NCIS-type registered name for the main character, 'Leroy Jethro Gibbs.' His sidekicks were named Tony and Tim.

They are tiny now and are being fed four times a day. Photographing them is like trying to catch birds in flight, or popcorn as it bounces around.

 Tim

The older kids are getting grain, hay, and beet pulp in addition to their milk. The oldest babies are getting grain, hay, and beet pulp and are completely confused by this whole lambar thing and why it's so popular with everyone else.

 Sparrow & Feather

The oldest girls are happy to have the company of other goats and everyone enjoys playing Romper Room. I was happy to see the tiny guys holding their own in the group so I didn't have to separate them long.

 Rosie & Elsa

 Tim, Tony, Elsa, Jethro, & Rosie

I also have a better appreciation for the amount of milk baby goats drink. Since I had always let my does raise their babies, I grossly underestimated how much milk these little guts can consume. Holy cow! I look forward to getting them weaned. I won't try this again until I'm retired and am able to devote more time feeding them and running back and forth to the store for more milk. I do have to say they are the most adorable little critters and a most welcome addition to our family.

 "More milk, please!"

Bull calves who kick Livestock Guardian Dogs end up going to the sale barn instead of staying on the farm and breeding the young heifers.

    "Your loss, Fireplug."

So we were all up bright and early this morning to take Fireplug to the sale barn where he once again proved he is an idiot by attempting to crawl UNDER the chute gate at the sale barn. This resulted in him getting his head stuck.

 It took him about 3 minutes to figure out how to un-stick himself. Yes he is Son of Paisley. No doubt about it.

I assured Briar that even though she didn't get to eat his heart, he may be in her next taco!

 "yyyeck!"

Clover and her babies, Dash & Dottie, went to live with the Grandbabies this weekend.  My mother had been babysitting the goats for two weeks (thanks Mom!) while the kids built a pen (i.e. Goat Palace!) for the goats.

The grandbabies already have Sally, the most adorable little Pygmy goat you'd ever want to meet. Sally is exactly what you want in a child's goat. She is small. She is friendly. She is bonded to the kids and follows them like a dog. Sally has now made me a believer in Pygmy goats!

So now they've gone from a one goat family to a four goat family!

 Sally meets her new friends.

 Grandpa shows the kids how to hold branches down for the goats.

 Real Farm Girl with her goats

I want him gone, Gone, G-O-N-E, GONE! Paisley's idiot bull calf launched an unprovoked attack on my baby goats yesterday. Their Big White Dog immediately launched a counter attack to chase him away from them and that sorry bastard kicked my Livestock Guardian Dog smack in the head! There was much screaming and shouting. (that was me!) The bull abandoned his attack on the goats.  

From my angle she took a direct hit to the side of the head. I checked her for broken teeth but she seemed okay. I'm sure at the very least she has a concussion since she took a heck of a smack.

After checking Briar out I informed Other Half that I wanted that bull GONE! G-O-N-E! GONE!

To the sale barn or to the butcher. I don't care which.

I promised Briar that if he went to the butcher I would let her eat hamburger, or his heart, I don't care which.

 "Heart, please!"

Unlike the Border Collies who live to have confrontations with cattle, Briar was quite shaken by her blow to the head. I noted that she was pretty leery of the cattle last night, so instead of leaving her on patrol, I locked her in the pen with the babies. Unfortunately this left my sheep unprotected, thus tonight the calves will have to stay in the arena so Briar can patrol the farm all night.

Since I posted this rage on Facebook, a friend pointed out that Briar was entitled to a Dairy Queen Dip Cone. Ah HA!  Good point! So she is. But since Briar is terrified to leave the farm, she got Ben & Jerry's this afternoon instead.

Someone needs to teach Briar how to eat an Ice Cream Paycheck because if she didn't have a headache before, she certainly had a brain freeze after she gobbled down that ice cream.

  "Oooh, I'm kinda woozy."

Full Disclosure: the bull in the photo is not Paisley's calf, Fireplug, but simply one of the other bull calves that I had a close-up picture of. I don't have any close-up pictures of Fireplug. And now the only picture I want of that little bastard is one of him leaving in a cattle trailer. Or maybe a steak on my plate. . .

     There is a peace that comes with tending the flock. It is gift yielded only in the company of gentle beasts who live in the moment.  The easy pace of sheep and goats forces the shepherd to slow down, lulled by the steady grinding of teeth that turn plant fiber into milk, meat, and wool. This heals and renews the soul just as the pecking and scratching of chickens rejuvenates the land.

     A child knows when she is happy, but it takes many years for the woman to recognize something which stirs her soul. After years of trial and error, years of experimenting with societal expectations, she finally understands the 'click' - that something which clicks into place and fills an emptiness not even realized.

     Since Biblical times man has been tending the animals, alone in the wilderness with his flock and his God.  The world spins faster now, pulling us farther and farther away from the still quiet voice inside. Yet some of us stumble upon the answers of our ancestors - peace through the patient grinding of teeth, the pecking and scratching, which slows down our world and stirs our soul.

Webster's Dictionary has multiple definitions for the word.

Tending:

1) (archaic) to listen

2) to pay attention

3) to act as an attendant, to serve

4) to have or take charge of as a caretaker

5) to stand by in readiness to prevent mischance

     While on the surface we are the caretakers of our charges, I note the archaic definition 'to listen.' Is this not what all the quiet grazing, browsing, and pecking beg us to do? Listen. Listen to the silent screech of pulled grass, the pop of the branch as it swings back in place, the brush of soil thrown behind upturned feathered rears. Listen to the birds. Listen to the morning glories open. Listen to sunflowers turn. Listen to the earth. Listen to your soul. Listen to God. Just listen.

"The best laid plans of mice and men, often go awry" 

Robert Burns

     Moving cattle to the ranch up north has proved challenging but rewarding. Because we only moved tame former show cattle up there, they are easy to monitor. They happily come up to the cabin like dogs when we arrive, thus there is no need to search the ranch on 4wheelers counting hidden cattle. And except for the loss of our old bull, everyone has thrived.

Thrived to the point of having hippo hineys:

Except for some cubes during the roughest part of winter, this weight gain is all grass. The ranch is rich in nutrients and minerals and the cattle look better than when we were feeding them daily.

They get to live like wild cattle, and they're doing just fine - except for Paisley.

This stupid cow is the heifer I have voted off the island since we purchased her at the fair several years ago. First I wanted to cut her from the team because she gets out regularly. Then I wanted to vote her off the team because she kicks. (She's an Angus, duh!) Then I wanted to cut her from the team because she gets out, tries to kick us, or the dogs, and then walked off and left her newborn calf.  (That's REALLY a dealbreaker for me.)

Anyway, Other Half kept Paisley's dumb ass because he likes her body. (Whatever, I like cows that don't get out and don't kick.) But since they're his cattle, and he chose to keep her, we did.

And so it was, when the rancher who leases the property next door to our ranch sent us a cell phone text including a picture of a certain red cow that was with his black feeder steers, I knew without even looking which cow it was - Paisley had gone 'walk-about.'

Yes, she has 133 acres of pasture, woods, and rich wild land with plenty of water, but Paisley chose to visit another ranch. (probably because our bull died and she wanted to visit the boys)  The rancher assured us that she was fine where she was at, happily enjoying his wheat field (and getting the wheat grass runs).

We made plans to bring horses with us on our next visit to the ranch because we didn't know how much area we'd have to cover in our search for Paisley and it's springtime in Texas:

So we dragged the paint horses across Texas along with two young bulls to replace our old bull. We touched base with the rancher and he felt he could call his steers up for cubes and our renegade cow would follow. This worked well. Much to my surprise Other Half and the Rancher were easily able to slice Paisley out of the herd and close the gate on her red butt, thus isolating her on an old dirt road that serves as our 'driveway' into the ranch. The problem was getting Paisley to follow us down the road and inside our main gate.

He gave us a sack of feed and at first Paisley was happy to follow me as I drove on the mule and the men shooed her from behind. It was looking good. She was within ten feet of the gate -

- but NOOOOOOOO!  (This is Paisley!)

She had a Paisley moment and tried to run over both men in her attempt to race back down the road and to her new friends, the steers.  So we walked back down there. I fear I taught the rancher new words he had never heard come from a woman's lips.  (If he spends more time with Paisley he will learn those words on his own.)

So the three of us spent a while trying to herd the stupid cow out of the thick cedar and mesquite trees. This was clearly not a job for a horse. The trees were too short. The brush too thick. It also looked like it was a perfect place for copperheads (we've killed two here already) and rattlesnakes (killed one here already).

But after spending way too much time fighting tick-infested brush trying to push, cajole, and coax the stupid cow into cooperating, I lost all patience. We had tried the carrot, now it was time to try the stick:

Yes, my 'go-to' dog was up at bat again.
 
I drove to the cabin, grabbed the best ranch hand dog-biscuits can buy, and drove back to the neighbor's place. Saying a little prayer, and crossing myself, I sent my beloved pup out to work. Paisley knew that dog and she was having none of it. Lily got kicked at, stomped at, run into trees, and through cactus, but she never quit. She patiently worried that dumb-ass cow until the cow made the fatal mistake of trying to escape the dog by running into abandoned cattle pens in a run-down barnyard. Hallelujah! We had her! I called Lily off because there was absolutely no way on God's green earth I was gonna send my dog into that snake-infested ancient cow pen. The men used an old panel to lock Paisley inside while Lily and I drove back to get the cattle trailer. (work smarter, not harder!)

In a rare move for Paisley, she easily walked into the cattle trailer like a civilized cow and rode back home. I made Other Half promise that if she gets out again, she goes to the sale barn. After getting Paisley settled, we drove to Dairy Queen to reward Lily for all her hard work with a Dairy Queen ice cream cone. Lily was exhausted.

But after a dip cone and good night's sleep she was ready to work cattle the next day.

I have said it before and I'll say it again - her work isn't stellar or flashy, and she certainly would never pass muster in a herding dog trial, but this little dog is the best damned ranch employee you could ever buy.