Farm Fresh Blog

This series of photographs got me to thinking about dogs and kids.

Every day this child takes a stroll around the neighborhood with her grandfather, and every day our house is one of their stops because of this big white dog. Briar has watched this child grow up. I clearly recall the first time she smiled her toothless grin at that big white dog and Briar's heart melted. The dog had never seen a human that small before and I was a tad worried until I watched her expression change to the same look reserved for baby lambs. Briar got it, she just got it. And they've been friends every since.

And this works for the dog and for the child. This little girl will grow up loving animals and she won't be afraid of big dogs, and Briar, and dogs like her, will benefit from being seen as a person of value. This dog is teaching not only the child, but her parents and her grandparents, and everyone else who experiences the bond between a dog and child. Briar isn't just a dirty dog in the barnyard. She is Briar The Person, someone who has feelings, likes and dislikes, and rights. She is not a piece of property; she is not a tool. She is a 'someone' not a 'something.'

As a child, I was born with a passion for dogs. My mother likes to tell the story of how, as a toddler, I interrupted my grandfather's funeral by loudly announcing to everyone there was a dog in the cemetery. I was born with a passion for dogs, but I was educated by my parents how to properly behave with a dog, and that is the key to a happy life for both the child and the dog.

When I was a kid, we had a pit bull. Say what you will about these dogs, but I will still stand up and loudly defend them as the perfect kid's dog. There is a reason why they were called "nanny dogs."  Butch was a black brindle dog with a white t-shirt, and he was our constant companion. My mother used to say she knew it was time for the school bus because Butch would park himself by the road and wait for the bus carrying his kids. Butch was Our Gang's dog, Petey.

I don't remember all the spankings I got as a kid, but I do vividly remember the spanking I got when Butch was a puppy and my parents found me using him as a pillow while I watched television. I don't recall the dog minding it that much, but I do recall the lesson that A DOG IS A PERSON AND NOT A PILLOW. And I also recall the lesson that no matter how much we have to sacrifice, you don't leave family, and Butch is family. Butch got heartworms. We were poor, but I don't think my mother could bear the thought of three children losing their dog, so instead of putting him to sleep then or letting the disease take him, she opted to bite the bullet, tighten up the already tight belt just a little more, and try the dangerous procedure that could cure him. She taught us an important lesson. A dog is not a thing. A dog has value. A dog is a member of the family.

A dog is not born being a kid's dog. There is education on both sides. My brother had the quintessential kid's dog in a yellow Labrador Retriever named Beau. He got Beau when he was still single. Baby Beau was a little chick-magnet. After all, who doesn't love a Labrador puppy? But if you've ever seen "Marley and Me" you know how destructive Labrador puppies can be and Beau was a true soulmate of Marley. My brother used to travel a lot and so I babysat Beau quite often. There was no fence high enough to contain him, and once loose, Beau was a one-dog destruction team.

But my brother loved him, and the dog was family. Dumping the dog at a shelter was never an option. It's a wonder Beau survived to adulthood, but when he did, something wonderful happened. Beau grew up to become the perfect dog. Roy got married and had kids of his own, and the dog that in many homes in America would have ended up in the pound, became the perfect kid's dog. That yellow dog was worth his weight in gold. He raised my brother's three little girls as patiently as my brother raised him. Beau more than gave back everything he'd chewed up, dug up, and thrown up. My brother's patience with that destructive puppy was rewarded, and it was a sad day for everyone when the old dog died. My brother has since added a chocolate Labrador to the family because the loss of a good dog leaves a gaping hole and the creation of the perfect dog takes time.

I share this story not so you'll run out and buy a Christmas puppy for your children, but to shine a spotlight on the lessons you are teaching your children now. That wild dog that is currently digging up the back yard can become the perfect dog with some attention and some time. Don't discard that dog in favor of the cute little puppy in the window who will also be digging up the back yard in a year. Don't dump that old dog at the pound to make room for a new shiny puppy. Don't teach your children that dogs are things to be discarded when they misbehave or your life gets busy, or you just want something new. The way you handle that dog today teaches your child important things about life tomorrow.

These dogs are polar opposites.

Briar is a thoughtful mountain, slow to anger, but a force to be reckoned with when moved to action. She divides her world as thus:

Sheep & Goats = family
Humans = family
Cows = evil creatures that kick
Coyotes & Other Varmits = need killin'
Stray Dogs = need killin'

She further subdivides the dogs in our household:

Dillon the Labrador: family
Ranger the Blue Heeler: family
Cowboy the Border Collie: can be bullied/steal his lunch money
Trace the Border Collie: nuisance who can be bullied but bites
Aja the police dog: stupid wolf-creature who may need killin' later
Lily the Evil Border Collie: arch rival, snitch, may need killin' when humans aren't lookin'

Lily is the micro-managing control freak. She wants to take names when the teacher is out of the room. She wants to be the hall monitor, the crossing guard, and the teacher's pet. She is a creature of rules. Lily likes knowing what the rules are and she expects everyone to follow the law. Lily is that cop who arrests other cops, she is Internal Affairs. Rules are meant to be followed. There are no exceptions.

This is the way Lily sees her world:

Mommy & Daddy = Gods who make the rules
Grandma = gives treats and fun to visit
Uncle Bubba = provider of circus cookies and snuggles
All Other Humans = not important in my world
Sheep & Goats = are stupid and need to be dominated
Cows = are stupid and need to be dominated
Coyotes & Other Varmits = Briar's problem
Stray Dogs = Briar's problem
Dillon = good for a laugh/hogs the bed, otherwise he is stupid and needs to be dominated
Ranger =  can be tolerated but is a lower life form
Trace = evil bastard
Cowboy = sucks as a herding dog, "go sit in the truck, Sucker"
Aja = stupid wolf-creature who barks in my face
Briar = stupid, stupid, dirty dog who smells like cow poop

Lily and Briar share no mutual admiration. They barely tolerate each other. Lily has no respect for Briar's power and Briar accurately pegs Lily as a bitch. No time was this more evident than yesterday as I fed the dogs. It went like this:

Scoop up dog kibble from bin on porch. Feed Briar on porch. Feed Lily inside house behind screen door. Scoop more food and go to outside kennels. Feed dogs. On return trip hear insistent barking. Not alarm barking. Tattling.

"Quit that! Stop that! I'm telling! I'm tellin' Mom! Mom! MOM!"

Round the corner to see Briar glaring over her shoulder at the screen door. Hmmmmm . . .

Step onto porch and note that I left the lid off the dog food bin. Briar must have been stealing dog food.  Note Lily's satisfied, smug look. The teacher has finally returned and read the list of names. Briar has been bad and Lily is happy to report it.

Lily smiles at me. Briar narrows her eyes and stares at Lily.

 "Snitches get stitches. . ."

Please forgive me while I have a sexist meltdown.

There is a reason why Labradors end up in the pound. They are smart. Monkey smart.

I have one of these apes. Two actually, if you count the husband. At the moment they are both in the doghouse, but the dog is safer than the husband. It is said that women are better than men at multi-tasking. I'd like to offer up that women are also better at following a chain of future events like a line of falling dominoes. A woman's mind will have flashed forward with computer-like speed while the man is still wondering why we even care that the first domino fell.

Let me give you an example:

Last night I come home from work to find that husband has decided 11 pm is a good time to clean out his closet. He announces that he is "throwing stuff out!"  Since he is a borderline hoarder anyway, I'm always supportive of any attempt on his part to throw away blue jeans he's had since 1970, but it soon becomes apparent that he's not really throwing stuff out, he's merely reorganizing things in a search for a pistol he probably hasn't seen in four years and has just now remembered. His trash bag remains suspiciously empty on the floor. I note this, but being a veteran of that fight, I refrain from comment. After all, all I really want to do, is lay in bed, play on facebook, and then go to sleep.

After having worked night shift for 33 years, Other Half is wide awake. He is a squirrel on crack. And he has a partner, a monkey smart partner who is thrilled to death with every new discovery in the closet. Dillon is thrilled simply because Other Half is thrilled. They are hunting. The dog isn't sure what they are hunting, but the air of the hunt is afoot. Count him in.

And in short order the dog's anticipation is rewarded when Other Half pulls a dusty orange dog bumper off a shelf. He knocks some dust off it and Dillon glows with excitement. Gollum has just set eyes on his precious ring.

And this is the way everyone in the room processes the incident:

Other Half: "Oh look! I forgot we had this. Dillon would like it."
Dillon: "Ohhhhhhhhh! An orange thingee!"
Me: "Hmmm.... there is a reason why we put that bumper on a shelf. It was probably to hide it from the Labrador we haven't had since 2009. That's a lot of dust. Do we not ever dust there? Where does all that dust come from? He should play with Dillon and then put the toy up or the dog will kill the toy. The first thing to go will be that cord on the end of the bumper. Then he will rip the canvas. Then he'll choke on the cord or the canvas. Or get an impaction. That'll be at least another $1200. There will be orange canvas all over the bedroom when he shreds that toy. I wonder what's in the center of the toy. Other Half should supervise him when he plays with that toy. Where did all that dust come from?"
Lily: "If that stupid dog doesn't quit bouncing on the bed I will tear his ears off his head."

And true to form, Other Half gives Dillon the bumper and then goes back to searching for a pistol cleaning. I note the dog immediately begins to chew the cord. I point this out to Other Half. He scolds dog but does not take toy away.

What man says: "Dillon! Don't tear that toy up!"
What dog hears: "Dillon! Aeiamtyat yaeamtiye eitpewer!"

Man goes back to searching for gun while pretending he's cleaning. Dog goes back to disassembling the toy. I go back to playing on Facebook. Not my monkey, not my circus. I cannot help but note that dog is continuing to destroy toy. He has now punctured canvas and sand begins to spill onto bed. Who the %$#! puts sand in a dog toy?!

Dog is delighted. Woman is not. Sand is all over the sheets. Husband decides that NOW he should probably take toy from dog and clean sand off bed. Ya think?!

Flash forward to the next morning. Man leaves for work before the sun comes up. Large Brown Dog takes up his side of the bed. Woman notes dog is moving around and not sleeping. Woman's brain is too sleepy to process this infomation properly until she feels dog stand over her. A dumptruck load of sand drops into her face. Woman begins to screech much like a cat getting a bath. Border Collie attacks Bonehead Labrador and chases him to back of bed. Woman flips off covers. She spits sand out of her mouth and roars at man who is blissfully at work. Labrador blinks in confusion. He cannot quite understand why woman is not as thrilled as he is to greet the day. Border Collie brings the car keys and the phone number for Animal Control.

Woman screams at Labrador and snatches orange bumper from him. He is crushed. Woman then assures him that this is not his fault. Dog is blameless. Fault lies with Man-Child who did not properly secure toy in trash. Woman examines bed. Bed has enough sand in it to shoot a "Beach Day Barbie" ad. The only thing needed is a little plastic dune buggy. Woman now has sand in her eyes, her nose and her hair. Woman is reminded that she just had her hair colored and cannot wash all this sand out with water.

Woman does what women do - she phones Man in a rage.

Man finds this turn of events tremendously funny. He is, after all, many miles away from the blast zone. He is charmed that his dog located the toy, and stole it back. Woman wipes sand out of eyebrows and announces that since neither the dog, nor the toy, belong to her, she will just leave this mess for Man to clean up. Man happily agrees. He clearly has no understanding of just how much sand can be fit in a hunting dog's bumper toy, or perhaps he just has a better understanding of how angry a woman can become when she finds a load of sand dumped on her head just as the sun is rising. Woman properly disposes of toy and throws Dog outside.

Dog finds a rubber bucket and begins running laps around house with the bucket in his mouth.

Life is good for him. Note that a Labrador Retriever is the perfect Man-Child's dog, since they are both eternal children. As I watch Chocolate Thunder race around the yard shaking his prize at anyone who looks in his direction I am reminded that perhaps there is much we can learn from his happy innocence.

Live in the moment. Seize fun where you can find it. Make your own beach.

This morning the view of the fog-covered farm from the window had me grabbing the camera and rushing out to catch the moment. The problem was that I only planned to go take a few pictures, not do all the chores.  This didn't sit well with the citizens.

 Well, that's not exatly true. Briar was okay with it because she raced into the barn to steal what was left of the barn cats' bunny.

 As soon as they heard the chain on the gate, little people started wandering up from the pasture.

 "Hold up! She's got a camera, she's not feeding yet."

 "What?!"

 "Nnnot even Nicker Makers?"

 "Bbbut I walked so far that I might pass out without some breakfast."

 "Duped! Ladies, we've been duped!"

 "She's really not feeding?"

 "By-bye!"

 "No, wait, people. No worries, folks. Here's some cat poop!"

 "Clearly they need to lower their standards. There's plenty to eat out here."

**CAUTION** GROSS PICTURE BELOW **  (Well, not really by my standards, but other people have much lower standards for what is disgusting, so I'm just throwin' it out there.)

Animal Planet does a show where they list the Top Ten Most Dangerous Animals. Guess what is the #1 most dangerous animal on this planet.

Yes, the common house cat.

Cats kill the most diverse assortment of animals in such numbers that they actually ranked as the most dangerous animal on the planet. (but they're really soft and they purr and sharks don't do that!)

So when the rats in the barn began to eat us out of house and home, we turned to mercenaries. Hired killers. Hit men. Hit Kitties.

Other Half, who is no fan of cats, wanted to see a pile of dead rat bodies at the barn door the morning after the cats arrived. We haven't seen that yet, but the rats have hit the road. I don't know where they went. Frankly, I don't care. (Probably the neighbor's farm since he doesn't have a barn cat.) Anyway I now see cats where I used to see rats. It makes my heart smile to see a large black cat draped across the same board in the rafter where rats used to scurry. It makes my heart smile to see two little black faces appear from underneath the feed room where rat tunnels ran like a New York City Subway system.

Do you know what doesn't make me smile?

This.

This made me grimace. It made Other Half howl in anger. This was his rabbit. Well, not really his. It was a wild rabbit that was choosing to hang out in the pasture near the barn. Other Half used to admire him at night. I think the proximity to the barn made the rabbit feel safe from the coyotes that cry in the dark. It's been here for months. We often wondered how it avoided Briar. Apparently Briar doesn't move as fast as a ninja cat.

I found the rabbit's partially eaten body in the cats' stall. The next day nothing was left but two feet, some fur, and a fluffy cotton tail.   :(

Since the cats arrived, Briar hasn't had free run of the barnyard because I didn't want her to chase away my feral cats before they had settled. Tonight I let her come into the barn with me. She immediately snatched up a half-eaten can of cat food, but then she dropped it in favor of the bunny parts she found. (Since the can was full of fire ants this was probably a wiser choice.) Briar selected a large chunk of bunny fur and immediately exited the barn. I called to her, but she gave a furtive glance over her shoulder and picked up the pace. Girlfriend didn't want to take any chances that I planned on crossing bunny fur off her diet. I actually didn't mind her eating the fur, but in her defense, this is how she believes I've mapped out her diet:

Dog Food
People Food
Fast food bags containing old tacos
dead rats
dead oppossums
dead squirrels
Lily
The Garbage Man

So she hustled her big white butt out to the pasture and settled down to eat her prize.

I still feel bad for the rabbit, but at least no part of him was wasted. There is nothing left now but two little feet, and there is no doubt in my mind that Briar hasn't forgotten about them either. The next time she gets into that stall those feet will go faster than chicken wings at a Superbowl party.

"Anything you can do, I can do better!"

Over the weekend I was reminded of this song from the musical "Annie Get Your Gun," when I was informed that my husband had little or no faith in the ability of a group of women who came together to work some cows.

(Pause for the collective shouts of outrage. I KNOW, huh?!)

It began like this:

Dear Friend Clyde had a hip replacement three weeks ago. Dear Friend Kim announced to her girlfriends that since her hubby was currently out of commission, and she had some cow work that needed to be done, she needed some help from the girls. Well duh! That's really all women need to do. Girlfriends do not need the promise of beer and emergency room visits to entice us to help each other. (Although there was one ER visit when a green mule announced rather vehemently that she DID NOT want to work cattle today. And this would be why I like my horses old and short.)

Apparently Other Half and Dear Friend Clyde had a conversation about our ability or lack thereof to complete the task without the aid of testicles. (I know!) Under interrogation, both men pointed fingers at the other one. I have no doubt that my own husband, (who should know better by now, but I've always said, "It's easier to train a dog than train a man"), took a very active, if not dominating, role in this conversation. Alrightie then.

Few things will entice a group of strong women into action like telling them they can't do something.

Take that! No testicles needed, Boys!

The day was cool and windy. Not a good start for green horses and mules. One mule opted not to participate, and another lady made the wise decision to exchange her youngster for her tried and true, old steady horse.

Trust me, the older I get, the older and shorter I like my horses, so I strongly approved of her decision to ride this old girl instead.

Rather than carting my Steady Eddie Horse, Joe, back up to North Texas, I borrowed Dear Friend Clyde's horse, Leo. Leo is a mountain of a horse, but he's calm. Leo is Joe on steriods.

Dear Friend Kim rode her mule. I just love saying her name: "Jelly Bean!"

We rode out with Dear Friend Clyde leading on the 4Wheeler with a sack of cattle cubes. Once we got the cows gathered, the chowhounds followed the 4Wheeler, while we used the horses to keep stragglers, doubters, and calves with the group.

After the cows were gathered, we sorted calves and mommas, and popped a calf with a shot and a sporty new ear tag.

Weaned calves went in one pen. Mommas went in another. Everyone else returned to the back pasture. The bull calf that needed to be banded (castration) turned out to be a heifer, so outside of husbands, no banding was necessary.

I took some pics of the ladies working.

This was such a solid working pair. This girl and her horse made sorting cows look easy.

I wanted to steal this mare tied to the fence. She's a 'been there, done that' horse.  If I didn't already have Joe I would have tried to buy this mare.

That mare came from the farm of the lady who owned this stallion.

She's got some really nice horses. He's a four year old homozygous liver-colored paint with the most level head I've ever seen. I watched him get his horseshoe caught in the fence.

He patiently waited for his mommy to rescue him. This could have been a catastrophe, but the horse was only mildly annoyed that his foot was caught. He was also ridden easily with mares. Loved this stallion!

After the work was completed, we returned the herd to the back pasture and then went to the house for beef stew. As the sun was going down on the drive back to my place, I had the great pleasure of calling my husband to report our success. Making that phone call felt good.

So men, remember this:

Never underestimate the power of a group of women on horseback.

Sometimes I look through my photos and feel more than a tad guilty. This poor dog spends a great deal of her life waiting on us

to do something. Anything. Something important. Something fun. Anything.

This series perfectly illustrates her problem:

 "Hey!Im readyAreweworkingcowsorsheep?Arewetakingthemuleorwalking?Areyoucoming?  Are you coming? Are you COMING!"

 "Hellloooo? You coming? Tired of waiting. I'm getting weak here."

"Cobwebs. Cobwebs growing on my ears cuz I'm waiting so long on you."

 "Seriously? The cats? You're feeding the cats first? Do you have any idea just how much of my life I spend waiting on you to get to work?"

 "And they say the Border Collie is the World's Smartest Dog. Clearly somebody needs to re-think that list."

"The only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys."

Other Half has been pining away for a GoPro video camera. Since he doesn't lean toward extreme spots, I wondered why he needed a tiny camera that he could strap on before doing something that would give our insurance company fits. But true to form, he wasn't planning on strapping the camera on himself. He planned to strap the camera ON THE DOGS. Yes, the dogs. He even bought a special harness made just for strapping the camera on your dog.

He wanted a camera on Aja when she was training in bite work and narcotics. He wanted a camera on Dillon to get a dog's eye view of the forest as the dog bounced across the ranch. (Buy plenty of Dramine.) And he wanted to strap that camera on the Border Collies while they worked cattle. Yyyyyyyeah. . .

Trace was not nearly as thrilled with this idea as his handler.

Since the camera battery was still charging, Other Half decided to do a test run with Trace just wearing the harness. He wanted to make sure we didn't take any chances with Trace slithering under a barbed wire fence and catching the camera on it. I had to go to work so I sent Other Half out there with my Canon to document it. I caught the first part and frankly, I wasn't too impressed. I was later assured that the dog finally settled and started to work.

The job:

Calves are bunched into the buck pen, munching on a round bale of hay. Remove calves from buck pen. Place cattle in arena where they will later be fed.

This is right up Lily's alley. Her forte is up close, predictable pen work. She drives well but gathering at a distance is simply beyond her. On the other hand, Trace's forte is long distance gathering. He sees no point in close up pen work because, "Well duh, you've already penned 'em up."

Nevertheless Other Half wanted to use Trace for this because he eventually wants to put his camera on Trace. As predicted, Trace went into the pen and announced,

"Well duh, you've already got 'em penned."

Eventually he got the cows moved out. (I think the cows moved on their own because they're used to Lily moving them daily.) Anyway, once they were outside the goat pen, then Mr. Trace decided that they needed to be penned in the arena and he was the man for the job. Alrightie then.

According to Other Half, after Trace got over his initial hesitation, he decided he could work in the harness, so the next step is to attach the camera to the harness. Of course, then there will be the whole learning curve when we try to figure out how to upload the video into the computer and then edit it. Trust me, all the cussing will need to be edited out.  :)

 "Oh yeah. . . "

 "That's the spot." 

 "Right there. . . "

 "Oooooohhh  yyyyeaaaah."

 "Whew."

  "Oh gosh. That's better."

                                    "Sigh. . . "   

"I think I caught cow cooties."

"A man's got to know his limitations."
                             Dirty Harry

Yes, my efforts to photograph black cats with a camera phone have reduced me to quoting Dirty Harry. I might also add that as if trying to shoot black cats in a dark barn isn't hard enough, like trying to photograph nubian goats, these cats give me two poses - eating at my feet, or getting in my face.

After yet one more unsuccessful attempt to use the camera-phone, I gave up and promised myself that tomorrow I'm taking that Canon into the barn and cranking up the ISO on those cats. I WILL get some decent pictures of black cats. It might not be tomorrow, or the next day. Or next month. Or next year. But I accept the challenge!

Any animal shelter will tell you that black dogs and black cats are the hardest to place. They are shadows that fade into the wallpaper behind their flashy, colorful counterparts. Some organizations even go so far as to highlight the problem and promote these animals as "Ninja Cats" or "Ninja Dogs." And so when Dear Friend Michelle said she was rescuing feral cats and that she'd place black ones with me, I was delighted to be able to give two ninja cats a home. I don't have to have flashy, I just have to have lethal.

Another plus to the black cats is that they're friendly. While stumbling around the internet in search of names for black cats, I happened upon a reference to a comment Temple Grandin made in her book "Animals Make Us Human." She said that black cats are "more social overall."  Interesting. Perhaps that's why two mostly feral cats tamed up so quickly. Another interesting tidbit I stumbled upon was that the Feline Genome Project is experimenting now with the idea that a mutation which causes the black fur might actually make black cats resistant to viruses in the HIV family. Hhmphf . . .

Anyway, I turned my assassins loose in the barn today while I did chores and let them stay out of their cage for a while.
Over the course of this past week, I've compiled a list of things they like:

1) canned cat food
2) dry cat food
3) long pets starting at their heads and ending at their tails
4) exploring under the tarped hay
5) exploring the rafters

Things they don't like:

1) Briar
2) Lily
3) Goats in their faces

(There is nothing wrong with that goat's eye, it's 'goat spit' on the camera lens. Such is the problem with photographing Nubian goats!)

This afternoon the cats explored the stalls, the hay, and the rafters, and each time I popped my head into the barn and called them, they scurried out to see me. Tomorrow will be their first full day of freedom. It took me a week, but I have finally settled on suitable names for my hired killers:

Ninja & Nikita (La Femme Nikita)

Look out rats! There's a new sheriff in town, and she moves like a ninja in the night.