Farm Fresh Blog

     By the light of the smuggler's moon I listened. Yep. There it was. The sound of trouble. I padded back into the house, locked up the rest of the dogs, and flicked a finger to confirm to Lily, that yes, once again, she was the "chosen one."  The little dog raced to the front door and waited while I put on my boots.

    I stood on the front porch and listened again. The water well was still running. Since I'd done a livestock check before the storm swept through that night, I knew no water spigots had been left on by humans. That meant a cow had rubbed her head on a spigot and turned on the water. It was now 1:30 am. The water could have been running since 8:30 pm.

     And it was. By the light of the full moon I could see that the damned calves had flooded the barnyard again. This was what had gotten them locked into the back pasture in the first place. They had only been up in the front pasture for two days, and on Day Two they flooded the pasture. Clearly it was time to lock them in the back again. But first, they must be sorted.

     Just this week Other Half bought a few more little heifers to add to the gene pool. They are considerably younger than the other calves and I'd noticed that they weren't getting their fair share of groceries. Thus they'd been separated from the big calves.

But Other Half had just decided to turn everyone together in the front pasture to enjoy the lush grass that was growing so fast that even the sheep couldn't keep ahead of it. Well, scratch that little experiment. I turned off the water spigot and glanced at the Border Collie beside me. Her eyes bore into me, blazing as bright as the full moon over our heads.

     No rancher wants to sort cattle at 1:30 in the morning. No Border Collie doesn't want to sort cattle at 1:30 in the morning. So with a sigh, I turned toward the pasture. She gave a happy bark and off we went. I trudged through the high grass while she bounced along. No one should be that happy in the middle of the night without loads and loads of caffeine. But despite my bad humor, her happy bounce tugged a smile out of me.

     Ready. These dogs are always ready. And with a quick salute, she raced out and brought the calves up. The youngest calves had never been worked by a dog, but this actually made it easier to sort them from the rest of the crew who wanted no part of that little black & white face with the crazed eyes which glowed in the moonlight.

     The younger calves were a bit bewildered by their nighttime visitor who momentarily stared at them like a serial killer, but then moved on to other victims. She selected the big calves and pushed these troublemakers into the arena, where they could be released into the back pastures.

     It took me longer to walk out there than it took the Border Collie to separate the cattle and push the offenders back into jail. And by the light of the smuggler's moon, we walked back to the house. She had that jaunty little trot with her gay tail waving in the air like a flag raised to the world. It was a good night to be a farm collie.

     I couldn't help but smile as the moonlight shone off her bright eyes. She searched my face, hoping for more chores ahead. I listened in the silence. The water well was quiet once more. It was a good night to be a farm collie. It was a good night to have a farm collie.

"Closing the gate on one more chore!"

   We have a fig tree in the back yard. I pay little or no attention to this tree except when Other Half goes bat-shit crazy because the goats or sheep have been pruning the leaves and breaking limbs in their attempt to prune the leaves. Frankly, I think they've done the tree a favor. Five years ago, it was little more than a sprawling woody bush with branches going everywhere. Now that sucker has learned to grow up, Up, UP! It is now a tree. (You're welcome. Ruminant Tree-trimming Services available everywhere for a small fee!)

Anyway, not only is it becoming a nice tree, but it's bearing fruit.

 Unfortunately we didn't notice it had fruit until other members of the family brought it to our attention. Other Half looked out the living room window, saw this, and stroked.

  Really? He should have learned by now. And he should be happy that I'm not charging him for tree-trimming services on his fig and pecan trees. Just sayin'.

But this time he accused them of not only eating leaves, but eating FIGS! He called them: FIG THIEVES!

I call them budding scientists. They have discovered Isaac Newton's theory of gravity. In 1687 Isaac Newton saw an apple fall from a tree and began wondering if the same force at work on the apple also affected the moon. This led to questions about why the apple fell to Earth but not the moon.  He puzzled on this a while and came up with a theory.

"Every particle of matter in the universe attracts every other particle with a force that is directly proportional to the product of the masses of the particles and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them."

Did you get that? No? Let me put this way:

"If you shake the tree, a fig will fall down."

Yes, our young physicists have discovered that if they shake the tree, rotten figs will fall to the ground, thus providing fig newtons for everyone!

I love this shot of Sparrow with her foot on that branch shaking it like a palm tree in a hurricane!

Growing up in a place thick with rattlesnakes, my momma imprinted this lesson on me pretty early:

"Thou shalt not mess with ratttlesnakes! If you, as a tiny child, get bitten, we are too far away from the hospital to save you."

Alrightie then. So as children, although we regularly saw rattlesnakes, we did NOT under any circumstances get up close and personal with them unless the head had been cut off. Then and only then could you play cruel jokes on Mom, like stuffing the body of a 5' rattlesnake under the back porch just enough so that his lack of a head was hidden.

This particular snake had to be pulled back into place multiple times before my mother saw it because the body kept crawling off without its head. YES! Snakes do that. You learn weird facts like this when you live in the boondocks. So we pulled that sucker back into position many times. It was a pain in the butt, but the payoff when she came home carrying groceries and saw that giant snake sticking out from under the porch gave us riotous amusement. Forty years later, I'm still laughing. (My family has always been a little twisted.)

But I digress . . .

Each year Other Half simply MUST attend the grand Hunting Show which hosts booths and booths of vendors with plans on separating the hunter from his money. This is DisneyWorld for men. I get dragged along each year just because Other Half enjoys my company. (I guess that's the reason.) Anyway, for the most part, Father and Adult Son run around with starry eyes like children, darting from booth to booth. I have little or no interest in the booths, except one particular one.

  Yes, those are rattlesnakes. Lots and lots of rattlensakes. This is a large pen and they are clustered along each wall, and underneath the lawnchairs and table in the center. The pen is made from a double layer of hardware cloth (1/4" wire mesh) tacked over 2x4 boards. The wire is the covered with 1' boards on the seams. This gives a relatively snake-proof enclosure. The humans step through a raised doorway to enter the pen. Thus no snake can squeeze under an ill-fitting gap between the door and the floor.

I tell you these things not because you, or I, ever plan on containing a hundred rattlesnakes inside a convention center. No! I have studied this man's enclosure because he uses it effectively to keep snakes inside. I plan to use something like this to keep snakes OUTSIDE! Outside my flower garden. Outside my dog pen. O-U-T-S-I-D-E!

I plan to fence this area in a pen similar to his rattlesnake cage.

And so that's my only real reason to look at this excuse for nightmares. That, and I'm morbidly curious about the people who do not police themselves and their children around these things. Last year I watched older kids lifting themselves up on their elbows to lean over the railing. Their feet weren't even touching the ground. This pen was not designed to support the weight of multiple small children using it as a jungle gym. There is only ONE man inside the pen to interact with the public, and not manage to get bitten by snakes himself.

 Those snakeboots work. I watched this guy get bitten multiple times. He's a walking adverstisement for snake boots.

My point is that this guy cannot be responsible for YOUR CHILDREN! This is not a babysitting service! This man is trying to look out for you, your kids, and himself, but it is your responisibility as a parent to keep your kids from hanging on the fence, poking their fingers through the mesh, and putting their faces up against the wire. Yep. I've seen it all.

And my conclusion is that these are future Darwin Award Winners, parents who expect the world to be so sanitized that it's safe for their child to be nose to nose with a rattlesnake because the snake is behind a wire cage.

 Alrightie then.

I was also able to talk to the main snake guy regarding my copperheads. It has come to my attention that  many of my copperheads that are the size of adults still have yellow tails which indicate they are still juveniles.

 I noted that my juvenile copperheads were much larger than the copperheads in his display terrarium which had the solid red tails of adults. My question was: When do juvenile copperheads lose the yellow tail?

He looked at my photograph and assured me that yes, indeed, that was a copperhead. Yes it was a juvenile. And yes, that was a pretty freakin' big copperhead to still be a baby.  Hmmmm....

I thanked him for his time and took more pictures of the way he built his snake cage. If this size snake is a baby, my flower garden definitely needs a snake fence around it.

"You Live In A Barn?"

Well, we will. Yep. That's the plan.

Upon hearing this, many people tilt their heads, much like the RCA puppy listening to his master's voice in a phonograph.

"In a barn?"

Yes.

"With the animals?"

Yes.

I don't try to explain it anymore. My horsey friends get it completely. Since they'd have their horses in the bedroom if they could, the idea of living in the barn appeals to them. Don't get me wrong, there are sacrifices. Lots of them. For instance, I've had to sacrifice the cute factor for function. I love cute. Clapboard wood-frame houses are just adorable to me.

Unfortunately, I'm having to build a home that can withstand forest fires and requires little to no maintenance. Other Half and I will grow old in this house. We can't be calling the kids up to North Texas to fix things because we're too old to climb up ladders, and too poor to pay someone else to do it.

Thus, I had to give up my idea of a cute little gingerbread house and make do with what was, in essence, a metal box with an apartment inside. I have faith though, that even my metal box will become a really cute home after we add the porches, paddocks, and a garden.

At the moment, it's little more than a metal box, but I love staring at the ranch house and planning what will be. While others see a simple metal box, I see my dreams. I pour through photos like a child studying the Sears & Roebuck Christmas Catalog. I just dated myself and lost half my audience! For you younger folks, imagine someone has given you a large sum on an Amazon Gift Card and you are trolling Amazon while your mind calculates, runs down rabbit trails, and returns again.

I must balance my wants with my needs, my bank account with my dreams. There is also the inevitable power struggle with the Other Half. It's not so much a power struggle as a space struggle. He claims valuable real estate for things like welding machines and tractors, I claim the same space for goats and dog kennels. It is said that building a house is a sure test of a marriage.  Now that's Reality Television for you!

Who wants to see drunk kids in Jersey when you could watch the more realistic drama of a husband and wife plan a house together? Put them in a remote region of Texas and arm them both with pistols, and you will have a recipe for real Reality Television!

Other Half has already solved part of our problems by deciding that he must build a 'shop' behind the barn. At first I stroked  because I had planned to put turn-out paddocks there, but he pointed out that he would cover the area between the barn and shop, thus giving me "covered" paddocks. Deal!

And that's really what planning a house is all about - running down rabbit trails in your head, only to find that your spouse has run down different rabbits.

Here are some photos of My Metal Box. With just a bit of imagination, you can see beyond the box to the home it will be!

 Because the water retention tank is here, we cannot have livestock in this area, thus, it'll be fenced as a garden for plants I don't want goats eating.

 This runs the entire side of the building.  Things that need protection from the sun and hail can go here.  This area has been the object of multiple space fights. (grin)

 Peeking through the barn aisle. This was supposed to be the back door into the home, but since the Builder tilted the house on the lot, this will end up being the front door. The barn aisle is extra wide. We'll have gates on both sides to lock animals in or out of the barn area. The loft area isn't finished yet. It'll be accessed by a spiral staircase inside the house, but we'll have aisle access to the loft too.

A French door will be put in the loft so that you can walk out the loft to stand on top of the patio and overlook the pasture and the mountain.

The four stalls will open up to covered paddocks behind the barn. Other Half plans to put in a shop behind the paddocks.

Once the Loft Porch is put in, this will be the view: 

Current view from the kitchen window

 The dairy goats and sheep will have access to this area. It slopes down into a pond area which is dry now, but holds water during the winter and rainy season.

So there it is, bit by bit, with each new project, my metal box will become a home for us and our animals. So to answer the question,

"Yes, we will live in a barn with the animals!"

     The sight of it caused me to slam on brakes and run bang on a total stranger's door. Because I was on my way to work, I was in a police uniform, so I gave a silent prayer that this house was not a closet cocaine or meth dealer as I knocked loudly again. Out here in the country it would probably be meth, but then again, those cows are really nice, so it could be cocaine. (That's the kind of crap that goes through a cop's mind as they're banging on the door of a stranger.)

     Nevertheless, he needed help, he just didn't know it. Actually, a little fellow in his pasture needed help. I had just rounded a curve in the roadway when I had seen the drama unfolding - a newborn calf, an upset momma cow, and a nasty-ass donkey keeping the momma away from the baby.

     The donkey had separated the baby from the mother and was moving the confused little guy away.  His umbilical cord was still hanging. The momma was just this side of hysterical but every time she tried to help her baby, that nasty donkey turned on her with teeth and she backed off.  Yes, this is the kind of stuff that makes me dash into the ditch and bail out of the car.

     I started running to the pasture and the donkey decided he really didn't want any part of the "po-lice" and so he backed away from the calf a bit, giving the momma cow the room she needed to go recover her calf. The calf seemed shaken but okay. I still wanted the rancher to know that his donkey was trouble so I banged on the door to tattle on the nasty donkey.  Fortunately the man who came to the door looked more like a rancher than a cocaine dealer. Trust me, I know these things. Suffice it to say, he did not shoot through the door at a uniformed police officer on his doorstep. I explained what I saw, and he assured me that he'd move the donkey out of that pasture immediately.

"So there. Take THAT, Donkey!"

This donkey convinced me I didn't ever want to have one with my baby calves. Other Half had been talking about getting one because of the predator load at the ranch. Most of our cows are former show cattle that never had to deal with coyotes taking their babies and he's been worried about calves at the ranch. I put my money on Snickers.

After all, who needs a donkey when you have a Snickers?

This is the meanest cow south of Oklahoma.

      As you might recall last year she won "Mother Of The Year" because of her steadfast protection of not just her own calf, but ALL calves in the herd. To put it bluntly, Snickers is one psycho bitch when she's protecting calves. She mutates into a Cape Buffalo - the most dangerous bovine on the planet. Snickers will mow down a Border Collie in an instant. She will fling herself into fences, bellowing at the top of her lungs. It makes an impression, I tell you.

     Despite the fact that these cattle belong to Other Half, I am the person who knows them. I remember their show names. I remember the child we bought them from at the county fair. I know their personalities. I remember the calves they've had over the years. The calves may or may not get names, but the show cows get names. If a personality emerges, so too does a name. It's how I distinguish them. Last week we were recording births and matching calves to mothers in the pasture when Other Half asked me "What's her number?"

"Do what?"

"Her tag number? What's her ear tag number?"

"How the heck do I know? I never notice their numbers! They have NAMES!"
 
This perplexed him. I then proceeded to rattle off some names and stories.

Dancing Cow - everyone knows the bald-face Secretariat who is first to come running to feed
Paisley - Trouble
Ruby - split ear because the Border Collie took a cheap shot at the feeder
Daisy Mae - Big girl, lost her first calf "Norman" even though we brought him into the bedroom, where he died and it upset me and Ranger
Snickers - Water Buffalo known for trying to kill dogs, bad udder, good momma cow

    I continued to point out cow names, but he gave up and walked out there to get their ear tag numbers. In his Cow Book he wants numbers and birth dates, not names and events. Go figure. It must be a guy thing. I want the story behind every cow. A number doesn't give me that. I don't remember numbers. I remember names and stories. I keep a geneology of these girls in my head. (and on a calendar)

     And that's why I knew we didn't need a donkey. We have Snickers. She's more reliable than any donkey. We'll never have to worry about Snickers killing a brand new calf. Other mothers may not pay close attention, but rest assured, Snickers knows where each and every calf is lying. In fact, the first calf born on the new ranch was born to Daisy Mae, but Snickers was so protective, we had to check her udder to make sure the calf was not hers.  And speaking of her udder, that's a sore subject.

     Snickers only has half an udder because of mastitis. I first noticed this after her second calf was weaned and pointed out to Other Half that we need to pen her up and treat it. He kept insisting that she would be fine, there was nothing wrong with her udder; she was just drying up. He proclaimed this with the air of "I'm the cow man, I know what I'm talking about!"

Whatever. I raise sheep and goats, and you'd better treat that udder because it's mastitis.

Guess what?

I was right. He was wrong. The cow lost half an udder.

Some folks would sell her, but even with half an udder, she raises nice calves. And even when she reaches the point where she can't raise calves, she still has earned her spot in the herd because she's a darned good guard donkey too. Trust me, you don't want to be on the business end of this cow when a calf hollers.

It occurred to me last week that living on a rural (read:wild) ranch requires a certain 'skill set' from dogs as well as people.

Those of you who follow us on Facebook at Failte Gate Farm have already seen this snake on Trace's pictorial tour of the ranch last week.

Dear Reader Kathy asked if Trace had killed that snake. When I read this, I snorted frappuccino up my nose with laughter. Mercy me! No, Trace is unlikely to kill any snake, poisonous or not. Those tiny holes in the snake are not fang marks. They are #9 shotgun pellets.

And while Trace is unlikely to kill a snake, he is just as unlikely to be bitten by a snake because Trace clearly understands the Prime Directive of Ranch Living: "Stay Away From Copperheads & Rattlesnakes!"

I found this snake on my multiple trips between the ranch house and the cabin one morning. It's a short walking trip, a stone's throw. Because of the snakes, I normally carry a gun on my person, but on that particular trip, I found myself slapping my empty back pockets in search of a gun, while Blue Heeler and I gaped at a rapidly moving copperhead.

I'll spare you the drama filled with screams (me), and cussing (me), confusion (Blue Heeler, as I stuffed him quickly in a kennel), and more screams and confusion (Other Half) as I shouted orders to get him off the toilet to come help me find and kill this snake. Suffice it to say, life around our place is a bit like Keystone Cops.

Before anyone lectures me on snakes, rodents, and the food chain, I will add that, yes, I understand and agree with these things, but when you find three copperheads within 100 yards of each other within 3 minutes, and when you have dogs and grandchildren wandering around, we'll discuss it. Until then, if it's non-poisonous, I let it go. If it's a pit viper, I shoot at that sucker like Yosemite Sam. 

We solved the immediate snake problem and removed his still very dangerous, dying body by flinging it over the fenceline. Then one of us had the brilliant idea to do a spot test on whether or not the dogs remembered the 'snake-proofing' clinic they had attended after Dillon had been nailed (right between the eyes) by a rattlesnake.  So one by one we brought the dogs out to the kill site to read their body language.

Lily the Border Collie: mild interest and curiosity - FAIL

Ranger the Blue Heeker: mild interest and curiosity - FAIL

Dillon the Labrador: barrel right into the scene with great interest - BIG TIME FAIL

Trace: His reaction can be summed up like this-

        "SNAKE! SNAKE! There's a f*#@ing SNAKE out here! Everybody Run! RUN!

 "I don't like snakes, so sue me."

Trace passed with flying colors and will not have to go to another clinic this year. And yes, Friends and Neighbors, as much as it pained me to put a shock collar on him, his reaction to smelling a pit viper was worth it. If Trace can smell a snake before it sees him, Trace will not be bitten.

Dillon, on the other hand . . .

There's a reason why the Snake Man said Labradors normally need yearly 'tune-ups.'

So Trace definitely scored higher in his Ranch Intelligence Test #1 than anyone else.

Dillon did do well on Ranch Intelligence Test #2 - Walking across cattle guards

 Most of the time we drive over cattle guards, but if I take a walk down the road, I must cross two cattle guards on foot. Any dog wishing to participate in these walks must also be able to navigate these barriers.

He may as well have been a Seeing Eye Dog as he navigated this obstacle which required him to walk the rungs like a ladder. (I really wish I'd had this dog when I was doing Search & Rescue work.)

The Border Collies have not taken this test yet. Neither has the Blue Heeler. My expectations for Ranger are pretty low. He's certain the world is out to get him. Removing the ground from under his feet is not likely to go over well with him. We'll see how it goes.

 "Hey! Don't be hatin' on the blue dawg!"

Friends and Neighbors, over my lifetime, I've seen a lot of stuff. I play Twister over dead men for a living, and frankly it's just plain hard to impress me anymore, but last night did it. In the middle of a 10 hour drive back home from the ranch in North Texas, we received a text from the neighbor who'd been farmsitting for us down south.

Other Half's Border Collie, Cowboy, was missing. Since storms had moved through the area earlier, we assured the neighbor that the dog was merely hiding under the house, scared of the thunder. Thus we weren't concerned until we arrived home to blue skies, a setting sun, and no dog. That was a Very Bad Thing.

I called the dog and there was a distant answering bark from under the house. I called again. He barked. I searched inside the house. Perhaps he had broken a window during a storm and was now inside the house. Nope. Husband and I got down on our bellies with flashlights to check under the house. Didn't see him there. But then, he barked again. Ut oh! Clearly the dog was stuck under the bowels of the house. Slowly the horror began to sink in: The dog was stuck under a pier-and-beam house that only had about 8 inches of crawl space.

Where was he? How do we get him out? Had he managed to tear under the floorboards? Was his collar hung on something?

Clearly if we didn't get him out, he would die. Stuck. Under. The. House.

And I'm claustrophobic. I burst into tears. I burst into prayer. This was definitely beyond our scope. It didn't take long for me to make the leap into a hysterical, shaking, blubbering mess. It wasn't even my dog, but the thought of him dying under the house simply because we couldn't retrieve him sent me into a tailspin. (There's a reason why I don't watch "Trapped-In-Space/Trapped-Under-Water" movies. Imagining that shit is not fun!)

We couldn't figure out how to get him out, and yet, we couldn't leave him there. We couldn't even isolate his location. His barks were sporadic, and Husband kept reminding me that sound echoes under there which could fool us. And it did. Finally, desperate, we sent Dillon the Labrador under the house in search of rats. Dillon and Cowboy hate each other with a purple passion, but the 'plan' was to illuminate Dillon and watch his body language. When he got close to Cowboy, it would most certainly show in his posture. That was the plan.

In reality, Dillon  didn't get far enough under the house to find Cowboy, but he did cause Cowboy to erupt in a frenzy of strong barking. All right! We had a location. Under the kitchen! This presented a problem because we could clearly see with flashlights under the kitchen. No dog. He somehow must have crawled into the wall. Okayokayokayokayokay. . . . just breathe...

Now how do we get him out? My solution - go into the kitchen and start ripping the floor out.

Husband's solution - Other Half decided to put on a Tyvek suit and G.I. Joe like a Tunnel Rat in Vietnam to get his dog.

Do what?! DO WHAT?!! Yep. He zipped that suit up, slipped on some rubber gloves, got down on his belly, and slid under that house.

Alrightie then. Color me impressed. Every day I work with police officers and firemen - men and women who run toward danger when people with common sense are running the other way. I'm one of them. I've actively hunted drug dealers, rapists, and murderers. Now, as a CSI, I play Twister over dead men for a living, and frankly it's just hard to impress me, but that did it. Husband is a cop too, so normal cop stuff he does isn't impressive, it's just expected. Truthfully, if something goes bump in the night around here, both of us get up to check it out. No one gets a free pass to stay in bed and wait for the other one to patrol around the house with a baseball bat (read: gun).

But crawling under that house impressed me. Aside from the fact that the crawl space was ONLY 8 INCHES, because of the rain, there was standing water under the house. Factor in rats, snakes, spiders, and whatever the hell else lives under a house, and you get the picture. Folks, it takes real balls to crawl under that house in search of a dog.

But he did. Never underestimate a man's love for his dog. He crawled under that house - and he promptly got stuck.

And the only two flashlights we had were running out of juice quickly.

I had reached my tipping point. Hysterical, I called a friend, because that's what police officers do. They don't immediately call the fire department. They call each other. They call their friends. Then.... only when police officers are helplessly stuck, then and only then, will we call the fire department for help. It's a sibling rivalry thing.

So I called a friend. I called a former cop who does search and rescue work. He and I used to work on a SAR Team together. He is your go-to person when life bitch-slaps you or you make questionable decisions, and you need the cavalry to come with flashlights, saws, jacks, and moral support.  By the time he picked up the phone, I was crying so hard that he couldn't even understand me. This was a new experience for him. Bill has never seen me hysterical. It doesn't happen often, folks. But there it was. I was a puddle. I needed advice. I needed help. I needed somebody to stand in the dark with me.

It took a few minutes to relay the situation, but without hesitation, he offered help and assured me that he would gather his toys and head my way. Neither he nor I had any idea what we were going to do, but it made me feel better just to know that he was coming. God bless him! Folks, there are friends, and then there are the kind of friends you can call at any hour and they will come because that's the kind of fabric they're made from. And if you have people like that in your life, hang on to 'em. They're precious.

So there I was, standing in the dark, wiping tears, waiting on Bill, when I heard happy barking from under the house. Robby had managed to find Cowboy and free him! I called the dog. I could see him. He was dancing around the husband, wagging his tail and licking him. But he wasn't under the kitchen, he was deep under the bowels of the house. I called him again. Nope. He wouldn't leave Robby - who was stuck again. Lovely.

This was shaping up to be a fire department call after all. This is how folks end up on the 5 o'clock news. This is how folks end up on the yahoo news feed. Figures. There was a week's worth of grass that needed mowing in the yard, and the house was dirty. Whatever. Firemen see worse. And hey! The dog was finally free!

And given some time, and slick mud, the husband managed to inch-worm himself free too.

I called Dear Friend Bill to tell him the good news, and to tell him that he could stop loading up gear. It was time to praise God. Time for thanks. My prayers had been answered. It was time to give the husband a wet rag and a cold beer. And it was time to hug a muddy dog, and a muddy man.

 A boy & his dog

Each morning after the main chores are done, I try to take Lily for a walk in the pastures. We check the water troughs. Play fetch. Count sheep. Count cows. Make sure the neighbor's horse is still alive. Walk the goats. The only part of this checklist that Lily is really concerned about is: play fetch. 

She plays fetch while the baby bucks (read: one baby buck and two wethers) follow along. This can be a major downer to Lily who lives in an "it's all about me world" and she absolutely loathes when goats interfere with her game. Today I took the camera along and snapped a few shots of Her Majesty.

She played it up like a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model until I knelt down to get a shot and the baby goats stampeded up behind me. In a flash she went from Sports Illustrated to Clint Eastwood.  Check out this classic Eastwood squint:

"Do you feel lucky? Well, do you?"

Ahhh.... such is the true nature of a female Border Collie.

Each morning while the baby goats are drinking their milk, Briar walks around and carefully sniffs their butts. I'm not talking a casual sniff-sniff here, I'm talking a detailed inventory for each and every goat. This appears to be an important part of her day, and nothing struck me as unusual about it until last night.

Yesterday Other Half had been 'in charge' of the barnyard because he was off and I was at work. When I left for the office I cautioned him that the Girl Goats were in the back yard. (Code: DO NOT TURN POLICE DOG OR TRACE LOOSE UNTIL YOU PUT UP THE GOATS!) Boy Goats were loose in the pasture. His job was to confine everyone at dusk in their separate pens and feed them. 

Easy, but it requires some planning. For instance, the goats are still close friends and so if you simply choose to walk through the main gate, you will have a crush of friendly goats on both sides of the fence. Since this fight is rather like trying to push toothpaste back in the tube, it's easier to just walk through the gate with a dog. The presence of the dog will keep friendly goats from mobbing you because dogs are icky and if you have a dog beside you, then you have cooties. Thus, you should take Briar or Lily with you when you walk through the gate. I can explain this until I'm blue in the face, but since men seem to think they know what they're doing and shun any female assistance, my advice falls on deaf ears.

And so it was that last night I returned home to find that Other Half had put the goats in their pens but had saved the task of bottle feeding them for me. Oh joy. I pointed out that at no point on my days off do I ever have a day off from barn chores, and yet, when he has a day off, I still end up doing most of the barn chores. So while he's working, I'm doing the barn chores. And while I'm working, I'm doing the barn chores. On my days off, I'm doing the barn chores. And on his days off - I'm still doing the barn chores!  And so there it was, almost midnight, and he was off ALL DAY LONG - and the goats still hadn't been fed.

Blah, blah, blah.... he tuned me out like Charlie Brown's teacher.  This is something I'm sure every other woman in this world is familiar with too. You can see a man flip the switch in his head. Like a remote control. You have been muted. Your mouth opens and closes, but no noise comes out. Nevertheless, I had my little fit, and he nodded his head. On the surface while this appears to be agreement, experience has taught me this is merely the male version of "Let's get on with it."  And so we trudged out into the dark, armed with flashlights, and a large bucket of milk.

I went into the Girl's Pen. Immediately warning bells sounded in my head. The Robot from 'Lost In Space' was waving his arms wildly shouting "Danger! Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!"  I was missing a goat.

A baby goat. The tiniest little girl.

My intial reaction was to panic, but then I remembered that they had been with Briar all day long. I glanced at Briar. She was unperturbed. Other Half headed for the back yard where Trace the Troll and Cowboy (aka Snidley Whiplash) were now running loose.

That's where the baby goat had been all day. So while he searched the back yard, I took one look at that Big White Dog and trusted that if a goat was really missing, that dog would have known it. I gambled, and with Briar in tow, I headed to the buck pen.

Sure enough, she was sleeping in a pile of cuteness with the boys. Apparently Other Half had not noticed that she had squeezed through the gate with him and joined the boys when he put the boys in their pen. Now had it been me, instead of Other Half, "I" would have noted that I had FOUR goats in that pen instead of THREE goats. The DOG would have noted that there were FOUR goats in the pen instead of THREE. The dog would also have noted that one of those goats was a FEMALE. But Other Half does not concern himself with such things. Everyone was in a pen. No one was screaming. Everything must be okay. Right?

Okay, whatever.

So Briar escorted Little Lacey back to the Girl Goat Pen where she sucked up her milk and all was well in the world.

Other Half was visibly relieved. The absolute last thing he wanted to happen is for one of those goats to end up hurt or dead on his watch. Because even though he accuses me of doting too much on them, he knows that hell hath no fury like a woman who is right!

He defaulted to the one phrase we use that reminds us to see the humor in things around us: "You can blog about this."

Yeah. I guess so. And I thought about that as I watched Briar take a careful inventory of baby goat butts this morning. Their little tails swished like windshield wipers across her face. She counts. I swear the dog counts. I'm certain that Big White Dawg knows how many goats she has, what sex they are, what they had for dinner, and how they're feeling this morning. And so while Other Half doesn't have a clue, (Until last night, but I bet if you asked him today he could tell you!) which goats are male and which are female, I can assure you that Briar has it all carefully mapped on a spreadsheet in her head.

Some folks are simply masters of the insult. Cowboy is one of these people. He is the Don Rickles of the dog world - the Insult King. (For those of you under 45 who have no idea who Don Rickles is, google him.)

Anyway, Cowboy's social skills in the pack are less than stellar. He is the perfect candidate for an 'only dog', not one dog in a multi-dog household like ours. Cowboy is such a sweetie that unless you had other dogs, you'd have no idea what a butthead he can be. Actually, Butthead should be capitalized, because he's a capital butthead, but yesterday Cowboy was crowned KING Butthead.

Storms have been rolling through the area all week, bringing much needed rain to ranchers, and sending storm-sensitive dogs hiding under the house. Cowboy is one of those dogs. So while Lily laughs in the face of thunder, Cowboy is reduced to a panting, slobbering puddle - which is why he was in the house.

I left him in a dog crate.   Cowboy was in one crate, and Trace the Troll was in the crate beside him.  After all, that's what dog crates are for - happy, secure little caves for frightened puppies. But the storm was over and it was time for chores, so I left the Mean Dogs inside and took the Dogs With Social Skills outside to feed livestock.

And all was well and good until we walked back into the house - and Cowboy greeted us at the front door.

Yessirree Bob! He was a happy boy. Me? Not so much.

I wasn't so much concerned about Cowboy getting out of the crate. No, my problem was the smell. Yes. The. Smell.

You know The Smell.

It's the smell of dog poop in the morning, People! Trust me, there is not enough caffeine in the world to face that with a smile. Like Elmer Fudd hunting 'wabbits', I crept into the living room, stalking the offensive smell. The problem was that it's hard to narrow down the aroma of a warm turd under a ceiling fan. (Sorry to be blunt, just keepin' it real, Folks.)

Anyway, after a cursory unsuccessful search, I punted the ball to Other Half because under the Rules Of Dog Ownership, the owner of the dog is the owner of the dog turd, thus if one can prove up the identity of the dog that left said poop, one can further assign the responsibility of clean-up to the dog owner. And since all MY DOGS had been outside with me, and his two degenerates were both in dog crates when we left, and upon our return ONE of those degenerates was loose, assigning ownership of the poop wasn't much of a task. That said, after a quick fruitless search, I tossed the responsibility at Other Half and headed for the shower.

It took a while but soon Other Half's screams echoed through the house. Yes, screams. Not shouts. Screams. Hmfph.... His tone was enough to really get my interest. Where. Was. That. Poop?

So filled with curiosity, I padded into the living room to find Other Half standing over The Ultimate Insult.

Cowboy really outdid himself this time. Even I was impressed. Lily was disgusted. Trace was horrified.

As an aside, Other Half pointed out that Cowboy cheerfully followed him along his search with great interest, saying,

"You're warm.  You're warmer. You're cold. You're colder. Ice cold. Warmer. You're getting warmer. Hot. Red HOT! Smoking hot!"

Cowboy had done something so evil that he may as well have been dressed in black with a tall black hat twirling a pencil-thin mustache as he tied the heroine to the railroad tracks.

Cowboy pooped IN. The. TOY. BOX!

YESS!!!!  He gave all the other dogs the ultimate middle paw. He crapped on Holy Ground - the toy basket.  That rascal backed up to the big wicker basket that houses ALL the dog toys and dribbled poop ALL OVER THE TOYS.

I know. Trace almost died of shock.

Other Half managed to salvage the kongs and a rope, but if it was fluffy or made of cloth it had to be tossed.

"MY WUBBA!  Snidley Whiplash KILLED MY WUBBA!"

And that, Friends & Neighbors, is how to deliver the ultimate insult.