Farm Fresh Blog

Trace's minion is growing up. Mesa has a strong sense of self, and prefers to be with the Border Collies even though Cowboy hates her, and Lily just tolerates her. Trace seems to enjoy her company and Mesa can finally keep up with him.

I limit their time together because he is a troll, and she is already slightly bent toward the troll direction herself. She rages in her crate at meal time so badly that I've had to place a screen between kennels so she doesn't intimidate poor Ranger. She is Trace Jr. If she emerges as a full-fledged Troll Dog, I'd like to think it was genetics rather than modeling Trace's behavior. So although Mesa prefers to be a part of the Border Collie group, the bulk of her time in a pack is spent with Dillon and Ranger who model canine good citizenship. (Wow... I'm certainly scraping the bottom of the barrel to say that Ranger has canine good citizenship skills. Let's just say that he doesn't behave like a Troll, and leave it at that.)

Since I've announced many times in both public and private that Lily is The Perfect Dog, and since Mesa is related to Lily, one would think that Lily's perfectness would rub off on Troll Jr, but I haven't seen it yet. Nope, Mesa likes Bad Boyz and Trace is just soooo fine!

So who wants to hang around with a tight@&$ like Lily when you could be riding with a Biker Boy like Trace?

And she does love to ride that bike.

Mesa is ready for a leather jacket and a studded collar cuz Sister wants to be a Biker Chick.

When the clouds parted the moonlight reflected on the road ahead of me as I walked down the highway in full police uniform leading a goat on a leash. Not only did it light up the pavement, but it illuminated the absurdity of my life.

Who else does this?

And here's the most baffling part. As the goat walked beside me, I couldn't help but think that she heels better than my Border Collies do. I know. God forgive me. I thought it. I was thankful that we didn't encounter any passing motorists, for even in our rural community a cop leading a goat down the highway at midnight might raise a few eyebrows.

I know why this happened. It happened because Other Half went out of town again. Drama always finds me when he's out of town. I had just arrived home from work and was moving goats from their outside pen to a stall inside the barn. They greeted me in the dark and everyone filed into the light except one. A big pregnant one. A big, big, very pregnant one.

I heard her calling me in the dark and mentally calculated her due date. Since her sister gave birth a week early the idea of her giving birth two weeks early wasn't outside the realm of possibility but it sent shivers down my spine. So I hustled everyone else into the barn and went back for her. There she was standing in the dark, calling to me - on the other side of the fence.

Somehow she had managed to go over, or under, or perhaps like a vampire, she turned herself into a wisp of smoke and blew through the fence. Nevertheless, we had a problem. She had managed to enter the yard of the rancher next door and although he wouldn't mind, he has a large pack of Black-Mouth Cur dogs that have been known to chew the ears off cattle, so I didn't even want to consider what they could do to a pregnant goat. Since the goat was still intact, I imagine she got in there after he had let his dogs run and returned them to their kennels for the night. That meant the only other occupant in the yard was an Australian Shepherd who would be okay with the goat, but who might bite me if I enter the yard to retrieve said goat. This is the part where it's nice to have neighbors who understand farm animals.

I called the rancher at midnight to inform him that my goat was trespassing. He offered to come outside and help. I told him I'd be happy if he just called the dog inside to keep it from biting me, but by the time I walked through my gate and down the highway to his gate, he already had my goat in hand, and she was happy to see me. The neighbor and I both noted the upside to having tame goats. Clipping a leash on a goat and walking it down the highway is a lot easier than trying to chase down a wild goat at midnight.

The most difficult part of the whole adventure was getting the goat back through the main gate while an overexuberant Livestock Guardian Dog was trying to give an unwilling goat a health inspection. Imagine trying to close and lock a gate while a large white dog is trying to sniff an appalled goat. Think Melissa McCarthy in "The Heat" trying to stick her nose up Audrey Hepburn's butt.  It was a culture clash.

And that pretty much sums up my attempts to juggle a full time job and a farm - it's a culture clash.

Sarah, in Washington, wrote: "absolutely love your blog, especially about the dogs, and was wondering if you could kindly tell me a bit more about them? Are they pedigree/papered etc? "

Dear Sarah:  Awwww . . . THANK YOU!  I'm so glad you like the blog! I think you were probably talking about the Border Collies since you said you were "off to read another chapter of Barbed Wire Borders" but just in case, I don't want to slight the other dogs. So we'll start with the first dogs the readers ever met.

   First there was Alice the Bloodhound. Yes, Alice was registered. She came from Jerry Yelk's line of trailing hounds in Wisconsin. Impeccable working lines. Alice was a mantrailing dog. She was retired long before I began the blog, so the readers only knew Alice as a temperamental senior citizen.  Alice died in 2011.

   Kona, the Belgian Tervuren, was my Cadaver Dog. Yes, he was registered too. Kona came from Prelude Kennels in Wisconsin. I retired him from Human Remains Detection work when I became a Crime Scene Investigator because dead people on duty and off duty was a bummer. I later regretted that decision to stop training cadaver dogs. Nevertheless, he was happy to settle into the role of a farm dog. Kona passed away of kidney failure in 2010.

   Ice, Kona's littermate, was actually a Narcotics Dog who belonged to dear friends in North Texas. They retired her early and re-homed her with me where she stayed for years until she and my Livestock Guardian Dog, Briar, could no longer live in peace. I then re-homed her with my mother where she has blossomed. Ice finally has what every Belgian wants - a person to care for 24/7. She is my mother's shadow, the Black Wolf.

   Lily is my first Border Collie. Other Half found her in a feed lot in North Texas. Her breeder takes in 18 wheeler shipments of calves which he moves from green pasture to green pasture using horses and dogs. The point is to move the cattle without stress so they will gain as much weight as possible. His dogs are unregistered Border Collies. Because I wasn't interested in showing or breeding, I didn't care that Lily didn't have papers. I just needed her to work. This guy can't afford to get sentimental and keep dogs that don't work so I knew odds were in my favor that my pup would work. And she did. At the time I got Lily I was raising meat goats, and she proved herself to be invaluable on the farm.

   Ranger was given to us by a friend. He also has no papers. Ranger is an Australian Cattle Dog, commonly called a Blue Heeler around here.  He is a decent little cow dog when the job is pretty straightforward with no stress. Since this is rarely the case with cow work, we needed another stockdog who could think outside the box.  This called for another Border Collie.        When Kona died, we ordered a registered Border Collie from Glenn Christianson, a breeder in Oklahoma who does cow dog trials with his dogs. This puppy was Trace. Trace is a complicated little dog, but is tremendously talented, so despite having little or no formal training, he and Other Half seem to get their work done. Ranger, the Blue Heeler, retired to the couch where he just gets fat and supervises everyone else. Before Trace could be picked up from the breeder, Other Half found Cowboy,    a stray Border Collie in Abilene. We didn't need another dog, but Cowboy needed a home, so we kept him. He is limited by a bad back injury he received when he tangled with a donkey before we got him. Considering the x-rays, I'm surprised he worked cattle as long as he did. Now he no longer works cattle, he just starts dog fights.

Because Trace is often lame, and Cowboy has a bad back, that leaves Lily to handle to bulk of the ranch work by herself. She is six now, still going strong, but cow work is hard, and it's dangerous. It takes a few years to get a cowdog ready so we needed to get one now before Lily retires. Although Trace has more natural talent, Lily has a work ethic that goes beyond talent, so we chose to go back to her breeder for our next puppy. Mesa is that puppy. Again, no papers, but generations of cowdogs behind her, so I felt confident that she would meet our needs.

   When I first met Other Half, he was on his third German Shepherd patrol dog, Zena. Despite the fact that she was a police dog, Zena was a gentle soul. When she retired from police work, Zena was re-homed with the elderly mother of a friend who wanted an older dog to lie on the couch and watch television with her. They were a perfect match.

   When Zena retired, she was replaced by Oli, a Belgian Malinois from Czechoslovakia. Oli was a predator deluxe. Juggling Oli and a farm was like trying to live with a tiger surrounded by sheep. After Oli blew a knee out and had to be medically retired, she actually increased her attempts to hunt and kill livestock. Her predatory behavior had reach the point that if we didn't place her in a home, we would have to put her down. She had already killed one sheep and maimed two others, and since she was no longer going to work, she now had 24 hours a day to study new ways to get over/under/through the fence to kill sheep. I couldn't have her killing all my farm animals. The dog had to go, one way or another. I'd never been in a position like that before. Oli was our responsibility, but so were the sheep and the goats, and eight other dogs in the household were not searching for ways to kill livestock. Thankfully, Triumphant Tails Rescue stepped in and took Oli. They then placed her in a home with an active couple where she happily became an active couch pet/jogging partner. My farm animals breathed a sigh of relief.

   Other Half's newest patrol dog, Aja, is another German Shepherd. She is from Czechoslovakia too. Like Zena, Aja is a sweetheart. Although she is an active kickass police dog, she isn't a menace on the farm, like Oli. We hope his agency will retire Aja with us when he retires.

   Briar is our Livestock Guardian Dog. There is much speculation about her parentage. According to her breeder Briar's mother is a Komondor and her father is a Great Pyrenees. According to the "Who's Ya Daddy?" DNA service, Briar is reportedly a Great Pyrenees/Malinois cross. I wouldn't put much faith in those tests. Regardless, Briar is an excellent Livestock Guardian Dog and like Lily, is a pillar on the farm.

   And then there is Dillon. Dillon has no job. He is the only freeloader on the farm. Other Half will swear that Dillon has the most important job - he sleeps with us. Yes, he is a full-size Labrador and takes up as much room in the bed as 10 year old human, but Other Half insists that Dillon sleep in the bed. The truth is, he is quite cuddly.  :)   We got him because Other Half just had to have a duck dog. After all, he wasn't duck hunting because he didn't have a duck dog. Guess what? Dillon is one of the best bred duck dogs you can find. He has a fantastic pedigree, health checks, titles, the works. Dillon has been hunting twice.

So I decided to steal Dillon and start him in Cadaver work. He was clever, and so it was easy. The problem was that shortly after Dillon began training, all the Forensics work for our agency was taken out of the hands of the police department and moved under the umbrella of a civilian corporation, taking all the CSIs with it. As a police officer who was a crime scene investigator, I was already caught up in this tangled mess and decided it was no place for Dillon, so I quit training him in cadaver work. He will be happy enough just being a pet.

So there you go, Sarah. That's the straight skinny on the pack! I hope I answered your questions!

The bucklings got their first taste of the Great Outdoors today. Actually that's not true. They were born in the Great Outdoors and were whisked away to the safety of an artificial world of stalls and shavings.  I don't like keeping them in a barn because it's dark and dusty and not a good place for growing lungs. So today we met the rest of the goats and played in the yard.

Everyone else had beet pulp and given the choice between babies and beet pulp, there was little interest in the babies so they were free to explore.

 There was the occasional "Are you my mother" moment. The other girls were horrified at the idea of being followed by hungry munchkins.

 "Are you serving breakfast?"

 "NOOOO!!!"

 "Are you my mother?"

 "Are you lost, Kiddo?"

Briar assured herself the buckling was okay and he ran back to Mom and 24 Hour milkbar.

Then Briar settled down beside the fence to bark at the cows and inform them that she had new babies and so there would be severe consequences for any cow caught trespassing near her kids.

Although many dairy people take the babies off their mothers at birth, my schedule just doesn't allow for that. That's why being a good mother is really important to me. I want to know that the does I keep have strong mothering instincts. Feather sure proved that when she delivered two healthy baby boys by herself (undoubtedly with interference by Briar) and refused to leave the second baby (which I didn't see because it was under the cattle trailer) when I tried to lead her away. She is very attentive to both her little boys.

One guy is a real Hoss. He is big and robust and quite the eater. At the moment I alternate between calling him "Hoss" and "Groceries" because he's always eating.

The spotted one is a bit smaller and not as strong an eater. We worried about him at first, but today he seems to have picked up and gotten with the program. (Thank God, because we were going to start bottle feeding him if he didn't.) He appeared to be the one born first and was hiding under the cattle trailer when I found him. I think he had a lot more interaction with an overenthusiastic Briar (thus he was hiding under the trailer) as he is more shy and more easily startled than his brother.

I think he just needs more time with me sitting in the stall taking his picture. He loosened up enough to start checking out my boots this morning. At the moment I'm calling him "Arrow." He has a marking on his right shoulder that reminds me of an arrow. His mother has the same marking.

I'm happy that Feather had two babies as they are already beginning to spar with each other.

So it looks like these guys will be just fine, and all is well in our little world.  :)

   WOW!

We came home from the ranch last night to find that someone gave birth early! Feather was due the first week of April so I thought we'd have enough time to get back, but these babies were just barely dry when we drove up. Briar was already eating the placenta.  (yes... gross, but it's part of her job too!)

The not-so-good news is they are both bucks. I'll either sell them as bucks or wether them and keep them as weed-eaters at the ranch. The good news is that Mom and babies appear to be just fine. Feather is a good momma and considering that she did all this without human help, I'm happily impressed.

  Thank you, Lord!

One that looks like Mom. One that looks like Dad.

"Hello World! Nice to meet ya!"

While I was coughing, doing my taxes, and sleeping, look who grew up!

 Aaaaaand then everything went out of focus because Mommy forgot there were sheep in the yard when she went outside with a puppy and a camera.

When Nyquil is your best friend, the only thing that pulls you out of bed is staggering outside to feed the animals. Let me just say this: A farm is a giant baby that WILL NEVER GROW UP! It wants to be fed - now!

The farm doesn't care if you're sick. The farm doesn't care if you are coughing up a lung. The farm doesn't care if you haven't brushed your teeth or if your hair looks like a rat's nest. It only cares that you walked past the window in search of more Nyquil, thus proof that you are vertical, thus you cannot claim you died in your sleep.

At times like this the farm will post sentries near the fence, animals who assume the responsibility of watching the windows for signs of human activity. These sentries will then alert the rest of the livestock who will begin bawling, neighing, and baaing en masse. It is a barnyard symphony led and conducted by the sentry who witnessed you sneak past that window for Nyquil.

The farm is not your friend. You are sick. You only have two friends - Nyquil & Blue Dawg.

While you huddle under the blanket, awaiting the next coughing spasm, the Blue Dawg waits beside you. When the spasm of coughing seizes you, he bravely wades through it to lick your face, and offer CPR. Should he call 911? Should he make funeral arrangements? Are you an organ donor?  He is Florence Nightingale - the Canine Nurse. Blue Dawg will stay at your side for hours. He is concerned about your health.

The Border Collies are concerned about their walk.

"Exactly how long do you plan to shirk your responsibilities and stay in bed?"

Goats:

Sheep:

When in doubt, a good rule of thumb is:

Tail up = goat

Tail down = sheep

This may not always apply, especially if the tail is docked so closely you can't see it, but it's still a reasonable rule of thumb.

Orville Reddenbacher didn't get that memo.

 He is a sheep, not a goat.

In his defense, when the young ram first moved in, the ewes hated him on sight, and the only group that would let him hang out with them was the dairy goats, so he stayed with the goats, who kinda stayed with the sheep, so it was fine. The plus side is the goats are very tame and thus Orville is decently approachable without being too friendly. But recently I've noted that when the groups get split, young Orville chooses to go with the goats instead of the sheep. Yes, the goats get better food, and more of it, but sheep can't have copper in their diet, thus Orville's continued Identity Crisis can be a bit of a problem. Plus, Orville doesn't NEED the delicious groceries the goats dine on.

And times they are a changing. The pregnant girls are beginning to show. Feather is starting to 'udder up.' Sparrow is getting a matronly spread.

It's time to evict Orville from the group before babies are born. I thought this would be as easy as simply locking the goats up and leaving him outside, but he waits. Like a teenaged boy, he waits. He waits for them to return his Facebook messages and Tweets. He waits.

The goats do not return his affection. He is, after all, a meat sheep, far beneath dairy goats on the Farm Caste system.  They let him hang around because they are ladies, ladies from the South. Well-bred ladies from the South are never rude. After all, there is never a good excuse for bad manners. Bless his heart.

Sometimes all you can do is hold them while they cry. And cry with them.

We were strangers until today, but I suppose God put me on that path because I'd understand. I saw the little dog's broken body in the ditch just across from my mailbox. I went to her and touched her side to make sure there was nothing I could do, but she was cold. Her little red collar was lying beside her at the edge of the road. I picked it up to check the tag, but it was from a clinic far from here, and I knew she was a neighbor. I picked up the collar anyway. At the time, I didn't know why, but now I do, for the collar led me there.

We were pulling into the driveway with a load of feed, so I carried the collar with me while I opened gates to the barn. I got the animals fed and then climbed in the truck to drive to the neighbor's. On my way out the main gate I noticed the little dog's body was gone. They already knew.

But they'd want her collar, so I drove on.  I pulled into the driveway and began calling out. A moment later her tearstained face walked around the edge of the garage clutching the little dog wrapped in a sheet. We were strangers, but in that moment, she was a sister. I opened my arms and held her as she cried. As we cried together.

She set the little dog down on the bloodstained tailgate of her truck and we talked. We held each other and cried some more. And then I knew why I'd been moved to take the collar. It led me to her, and on this terrible day, she needed the warm arms of a stranger who understood the pain of losing a good dog.

Sometimes God just works that way.