Date: 2008-04-01 10:35 Subject: A typical morning - Security: Public

As many of you know, about 80% of this blog is written by me (Brandie) the other contributor is Sasha - friend, fellow crazy woman, and my stand-in around this ranch when I'm off working on the weekends.  I think she's nuts, personally, to be so on board with what I think (sometimes) vacillitates between a lost cause, a labor of love and a potential achievement in sustainability.  Crazy is good.  Sometimes we delve into insane, but mostly we're just a couple of cuckoo's trying to get off the hamster wheel.

I'm pretty happy for her contributions - not only in her writing but in the physical energy she puts forth into this place when she's out here.  I don't work during the week much - I have fairly open scheduling with the studio where I spend my time and my other part time job - carriage driving in downtown - is heavily weighted on weekends at night.  (I work while the world plays...go figure.)

But...during the week, she's back at her desk job in Denver (which she really doesn't like) and I am back in the drivers seat out here.  Or at least that's where I like to think I sit.  My other operating theory is that I just provide the legwork and the hay fork - the critters are really the ones running the joint.

So my typical morning nowdays consists of prying my hiney out of bed by about 7:30.  Priority #1 is to get clothes on and go milk the goats.  As Sasha said in the previous post, this sometimes can be an act of Congress.  Maggie is a lovely, adorable, sweet animal - but she has impossibly tiny teats.  I have decided to call my new technique for milking her the "fingertip" technique.  I think you could use this on a mouse....if you were so inclined.  (Visions of the Simpson's episode with the rats come to mind....)

Bry just shored up the milking stand, so this helps ease the back a bit and it's got the added effect of holding the doe still.  Maggie is squirmy.  With the stand, we had very little issue this morning.  I rubbed some vitamin E cream on her teats afterward in hopes of soothing the chapping that us inepts have caused - and also in the vague hope that we can encourage her skin to stretch a bit. 

There is a part of me that is in horror for this.  I've spent my entire life trying NOT to let MY teats stretch.  I've gone so far as to wear devices and contraptions that are very uncomfortable to avoid this.  I've lotioned to keep skin taut.  I've patted dry instead of rubbed down out of the shower.  Hurmph.  I'm 32, I've had two kids...NO SUCH LUCK.

Anyway.  A bit more than you wanted to know, but this is how my brain works.  I have empathy for stretched mammary glands everywhere.

But stretching would be good - because even as small as my hands are, they get a helluva a cramp trying to get Maggie milked out.  At the moment, she's providing about 1/3 of the half-gallon both does are yielding.  She'd provide more, but the human element isn't up to par yet.  I'm only too willing to let the kids have at her after 15 minutes of one tablespoon sized squirt at a time.

Annie, on the other hand, is my dear old friend.  I've debated long and hard to continue milking her - but after miss-tiny-teats, I look at Annie with udder lust.  (ha!)  After all these years, she's got TEATS.  Hand-sized, lovely, squishy, filled-with-milk teats.  She's also an old hand at this game.  Beyond not caring for the milking stand, she's got no qualms standing stock-still while I milk her out.  Oh Annie - how I love you.  You make me feel like I'm actually accomplishing something. 

My perverse sense of humor strikes again as I imagine some fella saying this to his girlfriend.

With her big udder and only one kid, I'm finding Annie is producing the other 2/3rds of our yield.  I dunno how many years this old girl has got in her, but she's getting the best of care.  Even with all the lovely Angoras, the two wonderful Nubians, my beloved Cashmeres...Annie is still my favorite.  She's the one that taught me how to get the job done right - i.e.  if you're rough, you're going to get both hind feet in the bucket.  Bribes are good.  Grain is better.  Some goats don't like milking stands.  Adapt to what the goat wants.  We love you if you use udder balm.

So after the wrestling match with Miss Tiny-Tits and the satisfying hiss-hiss of milking Annie, I bailed over the fence and headed to the house.  I strained the milk into a clean jar and went to put it in the fridge.  I note that there's a full gallon sitting there...mostly untouched.  The kids are a hard sell sometimes.  (I have resorted to pouring goat milk into plastic milk jugs from the store and playing dumb on occasion.) 

Regardless, when I've got excess milk, I have to do something with it.  So I set one jar out to make cheese with, filled a glass for myself and drank it down.

It was the sweetest taste of success...and the perfect start to the morning.  Yeah...I might be crazy, but we're doing this right.  Yanno?

So I owe you folks some pictures of the new babies....as promised:



These two are the new mini-Maggies.  Alpines are a trip - they have a different call than the angora babies.



The tiny little guy on the right was rejected by Annie for whatever reason.  We tried a couple of times to get the two of them to bond, but she was having none of it.  When we went out to check on everyone and found him almost comatose from hypothermia, we decided to bring him in the house.  He spent the remainder of that night curled up against my chest...to weak to get to his feet.  I was up every two hours feeding him colostrum we'd milked from his mom.  The next morning he started wriggling in my very sleepy arms and when I dared open an eye - he'd triumphantly gained his feet and was standing on my chest.

Then.  Just as triumphantly....he peed on me.  The indignities of having farm animals in your bed just crack me up sometimes....but he needed the warmth and he needed a heartbeat....and I wasn't about to sleep in a kennel.

Over the next week or so, he's gained his land legs and one piece at a time has conquered my livingroom furniture.  Just yesterday he tried climbing the TV and today I'm very thankful that it's warm enough outside that he can be with his sister in the pen.  Sadly, I think it's about time for him to move outdoors permanently. 
So there's the backstory....and on a typical morning, it ends with me sitting down to check my email, bottle and baby in lap...coffee somewhere close by.

Oh.  By the way....I gave him to Sasha.  I hear she needs a goat.  :)  *grin*

Date: 2008-03-31 17:09 Subject: Waking Up To Spring Security: Public

(post from Brandie's friend "the goat-lovin' city girl")

This weekend my body started waking up to the fact that it is spring. We rose early to milk the two goats that have freshened, fed the little guy, ran errands in town, and cleaned the corral hauling tons of horse manure to the compost piled in the garden. The sun was shining and with temperatures in the 60's I bared my shoulders in appreciation and was paid with a wicked sunburn. This is a ritual I'm familiar with. I just don't usually get my first sun of the season in March. We finished up the day building a dresser/desk for their 8 year old daughter out of discarded water bed parts. We filled our bellies at dinner with no guilt for the calories. We'd burned our fair share in the work of the day, and after making a half gallon of milk replacer I moved on to the late evening feeding of the little guy before sleep came fast and hard.

The weather turned chilly on Sunday. I had help with the early morning feeding of the little guy and we headed out to milk goats again. The hard sleep was still heavy on our heads and Maggie eventually grew tired of my in-experienced tugging. Bryan took over and while trying to get the last dribbles from her she decided she'd had enough and stuck her foot in the bucket.

After some expletives we released the babies to their mother's milk and headed inside where I was given my first lesson in pasteurization. They heated the milk to 161 degrees in order to make the milk safe for consumption. They only do this when they get a foot in the bucket. The rest of the time we just filter it and refrigerate.

With a spring chill unwilling to lift and the urge in our bodies to move, the spring cleaning bug bit into us and we scrubbed the kitchen down. In the middle of this, and I'm sure spurred on by the foot-in-bucket incident, Bryan took a break from cleaning to go fix the milking stand.

While many missions were accomplished - we unfortunately did not get around to starting the dig for the cistern. Perhaps next weekend the weather will hold long enough to get through more of the work at hand. Still with my skin stinging from the sun, my finger cut, and a splinter embedded deep in my hand - my body is glad of the warmth and the movement and the productivity.

After getting home last night, though, I discovered quickly that I miss the crying of the little guy, the warmth of his body in my arms, and the sound of his quick breathing in my ear. I miss the way he would find me in the kitchen and try to nurse on the leg of my blue jeans telling me he was ready for another bottle, and his antics as he leaps and pronks about slowly but proudly conquering more of the living room furniture.

Date: 2008-03-25 15:39 Subject: (no subject) Security: Public

Obviously I'm playing catch-up on my farm posts and I apologize in advance for the sudden upsurge in farm adventures (to those who keep this journal on their friend's pages) - I'm certainly not trying to monopolize your time, but spring is a busy time.  That means post writing gets put on the back burner sometimes.

So far this spring, we've started with a variety of projects.  First, we added about 40 baby chicks to our menagerie.  Codie has taken complete charge of them.  She's been getting up every morning early to make sure they've got food and water for the day.  She cares for them at night as well as collects the eggs from the older hens.  Bry helped her get them set up in the tank out in the chicken coop.



Additionally, we've added two cats to the household.  We're being overrun by mice.  I initially looked at some Craigslist ads for a special needs cat named Angus.  I didn't hear back from his owners right away, so I took on a a female rescue named Fiona.  I figured she could at least be a barn cat.  Turns out Angus still needed a good home and I took him too.  I never got around to moving Fiona outside - and in truth she keeps the dogs in line.  She's actually a total bitch, but like I said - she just doesn't take guff from the dogs (who needed to be reminded that they aren't the only living things in the household.)  The two cats get along okay together...mostly passing respect and they stay clear of each other's territories.  Angus holds down my loom and Fiona has completely taken over the dog's kennel.  (She chases them out of it.)

Now Angus is special needs because he is deaf.  Stone-cold deaf.  Can't hear a thing.  He does love to mouse though and he gets very excited about string.  I've watched Codie play for hours with him and the string.  I've even seen string tied to the daschund and seen her go gleefully scampering by with a white cat on her six.  This is a product of Codie's imagination - why not use the dog as a cat toy?



Initally, Angus's deafness caused one bit of commotion that only our house could muster.  When I had the chicks sitting on the counter top under a heat lamp for the first few days, he discovered what he thought was an easy meal.  Late one night, Raven heard the frantic cheeping of a chick in trouble.  He looked around the corner just in time to see Angus in the middle of what only can be described as a "sylvester and tweety moment."  He had a chick in his jaws and was making off for parts unknown.  I can't hardly blame him...obviously it was like shooting fish in a barrel for him.  We MUST have put those birds there JUST for him.

In a panic, Raven yelled at the cat to get him to drop the bird.

Suprisingly.  There was no response.  It all of a sudden occurred to him that Angus couldn't hear him.

He dove for the cat and the chick and scared the hell out of Angus who was just settling down to a fine meal of free bird.  Luckily, the chick was unhurt and Angus was only slightly miffed at being thwarted.  We all found it hysterical the next day - I mean really, how DO you yell at a deaf cat?  (We call him to dinner by banging on the floor.  Our friends didn't believe us.  We showed them.  They laughed very hard.  Our cat has morse code for "SUPPERTIME!")

Beyond cats and chicks, we're now in baby goat phase.  I note that the goats (mine) have beat the sheep (Harvest's) out of the baby gate this year.  Usually she's lambing a couple of weeks before my critters kid.  I only bred milk does this year (not fiber babies) so I could go earlier in the season than normal.  (Fiber goat kids don't survive cold and wet very well.)

We've had another couple of training sessions with the horses.  I love the relationship the kids are developing with them!  Breeze and Star did exceptionally well with another driving lesson...this time we actually drove them while they pulled a barrel behind them  I taught Dustie some basic driving lessons and she had Breeze responding to "Gee" and "Haw" before the session was over. 

I deny any use of baling twine.

No.  I have not tried anything new with Captain lately other than a few rides here and there.  Dustie is riding him in the pics below.

Mars and Robin worked on longing.  There was a point to where I didn't know who was longing who, but I think they got it figured out.  She also rode Pepe for a bit and did beautifully.

Date: 2008-03-25 12:48 Subject: Shed cleanup and training day (A continuation on the things I get myself into) Security: Public

One of the things that I've noted with an amazing vast amount of humorous reserve is that horses, when bored, will eat ANYTHING.  Actually, out of sheer cussedness, I'm pretty sure that my remuda will chew on things whether they're bored or not.  Yes.  They get enough to eat.  Yes.  They have mineral.  Yes.  They have toys.  Yes.  They have enough fiber in their diet...but looking at this post, you'd think that evidently they don't have enough.



A friend saw the damage and wondered if I had a herd of starving beavers instead of horses.  I said I wasn't sure.  I did examine them later for buck teeth and flat tails.  Nope.  They were certainly horses.

Funny thing is - this post is just one connected to the entire 3-sided shed that is their shelter.  If you think the post is bad, then take a look at this:



That WAS, at the beginning of winter, the horses shelter.  Now it's a pile of scrap wood.  I've renamed my remuda the "Camp Chaos Equine Demolition Team."  I bet you think this is funny, don't you?

Now I'm not always a model of efficiency or anything, but I believe that sauce for the goose is well...sauce.  That means that if they're gonna eat and otherwise demolish the structural integrity of their shed, then they get to help haul it out of the pen.

Enter Robin.  She's our homeschool kid.  Part of the commitment to keeping her home is giving her an education in as big of a variety of things that we can.  I watch this teenage kid gladly bury herself in books all day long without so much as moving a single muscle.  While my fears of her becoming a vampire due to lack of sunlight aren't quite accurate, it's my belief that regardless of how fascinating and educational Japanese comics may be, getting your blood moving during daylight is important to one's health and well-being.

We have a day that dawns bright and sunny.  That shed needs taken down.  I've got Raven home to lend some muscle to demolition and I've now got a lightweight harness in my possession.  (Hey - it beats baling twine!)  There is a straight line that gets drawn in my brain.  Kid.  Horses.  Harness.  Pieces of shed.  Oh yeah - we're going to play the "make the horses haul pieces of the shed they ate out of the pen" game.

First things first.  We have to get Robin out of the house.  Doesn't she look like she's having a GREAT time??


Next, we catch Breeze.  She's pretty easy going.  I figure this should be a pretty easy deal.  I give Robin the basics of harnessing a horse and away she goes.  The kid is not half bad at this.


In the meantime, Raven has disappeared somewhere under here:



Robin and I lead Breeze over to the shed, grab a few pieces of wood and drag them behind Breeze to get a reaction...nada.  She's apparently dozing.  We grab a single piece of wood (to contain damage in case of blow up) and link it to her harness.  Then, with Robin leading Breeze and me keeping the traces from getting tangled, we drag it out of the pen.

We do this, oh, say two or three times and then put Breeze away.  No sense in getting crazy with this - we certainly don't want to ruin her on the idea.

Robin is now into what we're doing.  We catch Star and Robin harnesses her by herself without much coaching from me.  We go through the same process with Star - who isn't exactly asleep but is SO interested in what's going on that we're having to pull pieces of harness, shirts and whatever else out of her mouth.  (She's largely responsible for the shed destruction all by herself.)

We've hauled all the little pieces with Breeze, so now it's time to lift the roof down.  Robin gives her Dad a hand here:



We break up pieces of the roof (while Star works on dismantling something else) and now have some sections to work with.  Again, it goes off mostly without a hitch.  This time, I'm able to get pictures.



I'm pleased as punch.  We chose to lead the horses rather than try to drive them - especially since they haven't been ground driven yet.  I just wanted to accomplish them being comfortable with a little noise and a little weight behind them.  The two mares did beautifully.  Robin's slow, methodical manner in how she chose to work with them was a benefit to the whole process.

We used Star to drag out a few more pieces and left the rest for another day.  Then, since we were on a roll, Robin and I decided to work with her horse, Mars.  He's too young to drag anything yet, but it didn't hurt to put the harness on him and lead him around.



This is one of my favorite pictures from this session:



Finally, as I surveyed the remaining horses, I mentally ran through my list of willing participants in the "drag things around" program.  Pepe?  Nah.  He's too old and dignified - and very powerful.  I wouldn't be able to introduce the idea as quickly as I had the other horses.  While I knew he could drag stuff, I also knew he's Bry's horse...and introducing new stuff to him should really be Bryan's deal.  Not to mention, Pepe really is a one-person horse. 

What about Charlie?  Hmm.  No...he's Mar's age, but he's hot blooded enough that I knew I'd have to take many more steps with him.  Probably not a good option for the limited amount of time we had left.  This leaves Captain.  My horse.

What the hell?  Why not?

We put the harness on him and walked him around.  No reaction.  Not even nervousness.  Robin took his head and lead him while I played around with putting weight on the traces.  He didn't even twitch as he willingly drug me all over the pen.  I grabbed a couple of boards and drug them behind him while Robin led him.  Got an ear twitch.  All the signs said - "give it a try!"

So we hooked him up to a small piece of plywood.  It was probably about 2x4 at best.  I took his head and asked him to walk a couple of steps forward.  No reaction.  I asked him to walk another couple of steps.  Curosity overcame him and he decided to swing around to take a look at what was following him.  It moved.  He swung around a little faster.  It moved faster.  You could see the light dawn on his face.

"THERE'S A LION BEHIND ME AND IT'S ABOUT TO EAT ME!!!"

Captain shot straight into the air.  The board followed.  He took off in a flat gallop...in a circle (I was holding the other end of the lead rope).  I yelled at Robin to get back - she dove behind the feed bunk just as Captain made a lap by it - the board smacked the bunk with a huge BANG! and he increased speed.  I was now the center-pivot point for an over-exposed horse.  He was in a flat panic...no matter how hard he tried to run, dodge, circle...that lion was on his tail and couldn't be shook loose.

A 2 x 4 sheet of plywood makes a great kite if you get it moving fast enough.  A Morgan horse, suitably inspired, can move a 2 x 4 sheet of plywood fast enough to make it airborne.  It's not like the noise of such a thing dragging on the ground was his inspiration - it wasn't even touching the ground.

After 5 minutes of going in circles and me talking to him, he slowed down and finally came to a stop.  He was terrified.  I was shaking.  Robin hadn't come out from behind the bunk yet.  I talked my way back to the clips on the traces and gently unclipped one.  I took a chance and reached across his rump and unclipped the other.  I led him away...and he promptly turned and got a good look at the "lion" that was about to eat his butt a few minutes earlier.

He stuck his nose on it, snorted and gave me A DIRTY LOOK.

So not wanting the lesson to be completely wasted (even if in retrospect I'd rushed it with him) I led him out and had Robin drag the board a good distance behind him so he could turn and look at it.  Every time he'd hear it, he'd turn and look.  So we tried standing him still and dragging the board in circles around him.  No deal.  He'd wait until it'd get out of his line of sight behind his butt and he'd have to turn and look at it.

Evidently this is going to take some work.  We reassured him and put the board away.  Then I longed him in the harness and gave him a good ending.  I took the harness off of him and Robin and I decided we'd had enough fun for the day.  I'd happily post pictures of Captain's antics, but understandably I had my hands a wee bit full.

Not wanting the day to be a total loss, (and needing some sense of accomplishment after Captain's panic attack) I asked Robin to write me a quick report on what she'd learned.  Here's what I got:

Date: 2008-03-11 13:01 Subject: State of the farm address. Security: Public

We have dubbed the new milk doe "Maggie."  I can't get past her tri-colored hide.  While absolutely HUGE and obviously in the so-huge-I-have-to-pee-every-five-minutes stage, she's only just sunk a little through the hips and shows no signs of a bag nor puffiness under the tail. 

Annie, on the other hand, looks like she's going to go soon.  Her bag hasn't filled completely, but it's swollen and she's darkened up and started to get puffy under the tail.  Ironically, I'm betting she's going to go first...which makes me wonder if Harris didn't get her bred before he got sick.  We'll see what color the babies are I suppose.  She's not real huge tho - I'm betting on a single.

The two flighty nubian girls don't seem to be anywhere near obviously pregnant.  They may have just recently bred - which is fine.  It puts them late-summer on babies and milk production if so.  Trixie will be due for re-breeding shortly thereafter.  I don't have any other does on the roster this year....most were slated for Harris rather than Forrest.

After loosing Rascal, I'm finally able to go out in the pens again.  The horses were glad to see me.  I noted that since it's spring, I'd best start my worming program and am going to have to call a farrier out for trims by the end of March.

I picked up some goat wormer too.  I'd like to do it so that any shed worms aren't in the same pens.  I won't have that luxury though...our plans for a more extensive pen system aren't complete yet.

Baby chicks came in yesterday.  We've lost three out of 35.  I've got another couple of weaklings that I'm watching but for the most part the batch seems pretty healthy and lively.  I don't know what breed the hatchery put in my "suprise me" run, but the little black ones are like pack of rabid wolves when going after the shiny bits on my rings.  Almost afraid to put my hand in there.

And, of course...since it's mid-March, it's now officially shearing time.  Due to limited shelter, I'm going to wait until next week.  We've got a 4 day stint of cold, wet weather coming this weekend that I don't want the newly-shorn to suffer through.  (I'm also mostly okay with procrastinating another week.)

Pictures coming soon!

Date: 2008-03-03 10:36 Subject: Definition of a Cow Security: Public

A big city school boy describes a cow something like this:

A cow is a completely automatic milk manufacturing machine. It is encased in un-tanned leather and mounted on four vertical, movable supports, one on each corner.

The front end contains the cutting and grinding mechanism, as well as the headlights, air inlet and exhaust, a bumper and foghorn.

At the rear is the dispensing apparatus and an automatic fly swatter. The central portion consists of four fermentation and storage tanks connected in series by an intricate network of flexible plumbing. This section also contains the heating plant complete with automatic temperature controls, pumping station and main ventilation system. The waste disposal apparatus is located at the rear of this central section.

In brief, the externally visible features are: two lookers, two hookers, for stan-uppers, four hanger-downers, and a swishy- wishy.

There is a similar machine known as a bull, which should not be confused with a cow. It produces no milk, but has other interesting uses.

- Author Unknown

Date: 2008-03-03 09:46 Subject: Farmers or Ranchers?? Security: Public

Farmer or Rancher?
There is distinction in the livestock business between ranchers and farmers. But how does a city slicker tell the difference? I have some guidelines that should be helpful.

Ranchers live in the west. Except beet growers in Idaho, cotton farmers in Arizona, prune pickers in California and wheat producers in Montana. Farmers live east of Burlington, Colorado. Except for cattle ranchers in the Sandhills of Nebraska, ranchers cowboys in Florida, Flinthills cowmen in Kansas and mink ranchers in Michigan.

Farmers wear seed company caps except when they're attending the PCA banquet, The annual cattlemen's meeting or going on a tour to a foreign country. Ranchers wear western hats except when they're roping, putting up hay or feeding cows at 30 degrees below zero.

Ranchers wear western boots except when they're irrigating and sleeping. Farmers wear western boots except when they go to town.

Farmers work cows afoot, on a tractor, a 3 wheeler, a motorcycle, in the pickup, snowmobile, road grader, conoe or ultralight. Virtually any motorized contraption except a horse. Ranchers work horseback.

Farmers can identify grass. Ranchers have trouble distinguishing grass from weeds and indoor-outdoor carpet. Farmers think grass is green. Ranchers think it is yellow.

Ranchers haul their dogs around in the pickup and pretend they are stock dogs. Farmers usually leave their pets at home.

Farmers think a rope is good for towing farm equipment, tying down bales, and staking the milk cow along the highway. A rancher's rope hangs on the saddle and is only used to throw at critters.

A rancher wouldn't be caught dead in overalls. A farmer never wars a scarf or spurs.

Farmers complain about the weather, the market, the government, the banker, taxes, country roads, the price of seed, equipment, veterinary work, pickups, tires, and kids. So do Ranchers.

Now that I've made it perfectly clear, let's assume you see a man on Main Street in Enid, Oklahoma. He's wearing western boots, a seed corn cap and has a pocketful of pencils. He's driving a pickup complete with a dog, a saddle, and a three wheeler in the back. Which is he, a farmer or rancher?

He's either a rancher on his way to a roping or a farmer coming back from the flea market. The only way to be sure is to examine his rope. If it has more than two knots in it, he's a farmer.

Date: 2008-03-03 09:03 Subject: Spring is coming. Security: Public

It's not here yet...we're a ways out, but the cold, dry bitter part of winter is done.

Sunday was the day we choose to let one of our beloved rescue horses go.  He was a labor of love from the beginning.  We knew our time with him was finite.  His body was crippled and bent from abuse and neglect and his final two years here were lived with as much dignity and happiness that we could give the old guy.  Though he was certainly willing to keep right on truckin'...his body was unable to keep him standing any longer and we felt his pain levels were reaching unreasonable.  Our vet was wonderful (as always) and the whole moment was approached with love and reverence.  We love and miss you Rascal.

So despite the broken heartedness of the weekend coupled with a spring snowstorm on Sunday, today has dawned bright and warm.  All of us have been bit by the spring fever cleaning and project bug.  The flatbed trailer has been loaded with odds and ends junk (mostly old stuff that's just not useable any longer) and Bry and Sasha worked on dismantling Rascal's pen.  It is to be converted into a series of 4 runs for other animals.

We will be adding pigs soon.  We have several families requesting pork from us.  Bry's family raised pigs when he was growing up and he's seeing the viability of putting a single sow out back and raising litters of piglets one by one.  If our timing is right, I'll have a pig or two to try again with home cured bacon and hams.  (It worked out great last time...except I got nervous about spoilage and added too much salt.)

I bought a new milk doe a week ago.  She's a lovely creature that is very people-friendly.  She needs a new name, but I'm waiting until something really sticks in my head.  I will post some pictures soon.  I can't wait to see her babies...cross your fingers folks...we're hoping for twin girls. :)

Since it's now the first part of March, it's time to start shearing too.  My back gives a sympathetic twinge just thinking about it.  Since I was mostly on the ball with shearing this fall, I've got some good fleeces out there. 

We have goat mamas due in the next week, sheep mamas due sometime this month.  It's just about baby time!

OH!  I will have 30 chicks arriving in 2 weeks from McMurray Hatchery.

...and of course, the never ending battle with manure.  The pens have thawed out and it's time to shovel them out and move it all in to the garden pasture to compost.  Harvest and I were talking of burning the whole pasture, tilling it under, and sowing spring wheat and sorghum on the perimeter.  With the chicks coming, it's time to clean the coop, shore up the corner that the chickens have dug out with road base, and adjust the door. 

I'm hearing a LOT of coyotes out back.  Fixing the coop is a priority.  As for having babies on the ground - we've got our two llamas on duty.  Santana has guard on the sheep and sheep pasture.  Aquila has guard on the horse pasture and goat pens.  He's also strategically located in the way of the chicken coop.

So I have a few things I could work on today...as well as working on laundry (cause it's laundry day!) but I thought I'd start with an update as to what we've been doing around here.

More stuff to come - pictures, babies...adventures...  Whooo hooo!  Yay for spring!

Date: 2008-02-15 10:14 Subject: A film photographer's lament Security: Public

In terms of my photography, I have been spoiled.  Ruined even...by the advancements of technologies.

Date: 2008-02-15 09:50 Subject: Observations of the art world... Security: Public Mood: amused

"Painting bares your soul.  Woodworking shows off your ego."

-Harvest

Date: 2008-02-11 11:00 Subject: Keep it simple. Security: Public

Bry and I...we get along. 

I mean, there was that time, once, when hearts were always a-flutter and it was impossible to be separated from each other for long bouts of time.  There was a lot of heavy breathing...  That was mostly the high school days.  (Yes, I know...it probably makes you ill, but we were high school sweethearts), but after the formal hitchin' and livin' and moving on down the road of life, I've become more and more aware of how good of a fit we are.

It seemed at first that we were two peas from the same pod.  We had a lot of similar interests (the opposite sex in good-fitting jeans, rock music, and a vested interest in less-traveled country roads) and our horizons quickly expanded to include college, mutual career interests (we both wanted to be veterinarians) and a bouncing baby girl (a product of aforementioned country roads).  We were kids when we got married...we were still kids as we went through several major life changes, college changes, career changes and at least 3 moves to different states.

I think that two peas in a pod philosophy had a lot more to do with learning to depend on each other to survive in a tough world than it had anything to do with our core personalities.  Because we were out there with our backs against a wall fighting for the same thing - our survival and the survival of our little girl - we had a united front.  It never occurred to us to even question or examine our differences until many years later when the pressure of survival eased a little bit and we had found some equilibrium in our lives.  In essence, we grew up.

No longer was our love born of just a mutual attraction, ability to get along, like-mindedness in wanting to accomplish the same things.  It wasn't a hearts-and-flowers, head-in-the-clouds kind of romantic love any more.  It became a love made out of a mutual respect and acknowledgment of who this other person was....as an individual...and loving them as a person as much as loving the interaction and joining of ourselves as a couple.  We thought we had it good at the beginning...but that ain't nuthin' compared to what we share now.

I've gotten older.  I'm not OLD, mind you...but older.  I'm not 20 years old anymore.  I'm 32.  Good-fitting jeans sorta drifted by the wayside in level of importance to be replaced by other things.  At 32, I'm finding things attractive that never even occurred to me to find attractive before.  Take, for example, the time that the pump on the well went out.  The water just quit flowing.  Completely.  Nada.  I was in a state of panic because I had visions of well companies and drilling towers and all sorts of stuff involved with "pulling the well" - not to mention my state of anxiety over how we were going to get at least a hundred gallons of water to our horses, the remaining livestock and the garden?  It was summer and it was HOT. 

Bryan had disappeared.  Gone.  Vanished into thin air.

Where the hell was he?  Who do I call?  How am I supposed to handle this by myself?  Gah!!!  I ventured a glance outside.... there's was a hole cut in the roof of the well house and several lengths of PVC sticking out the top.  (It was like a bizarre alien flower arrangement.)  I wander outside with phone book and pen in hand, to find Bry sitting on the stoop of the well house with a large cylinder-shaped object in his hands.  As he heard me open and close the gate in my approach, he casually mentions that the pump is burnt up.  He'll have to go to town and get a new one.

Wait.  What??  (Visions of well companies and drilling towers are slowly fading and replaced by the quiet rustlings of a summer barnyard.)  A few chickens strolled by and pecked at some fragments of grain on the ground.  They were obviously as non-plussed about the well as Bryan was.  A horse hung his head over the fence in curiosity.  There was no panic in his face either.  Evidently, I was the only one not in on the joke here. 

I ruminated another minute and then ventured my next stupid question..."So, uh...there's a store where you can buy another pump?"

Bry stopped fiddling with the wires on the cylinder squinted up at me for a moment, then looked back down at the pump he was holding. 

"Yeah.  Home Depot should have one.  Probably run us a hundred bucks or so."

I got a little flabbergasted at that.  I think my jaw opened and closed a few times.  I was at risk of sucking in a fly in my amazement, so I shut it.  I knew I was trying to articulate something, but...oh hell.  nothing sensible was even forming into words in my brain.  I left Bry with his rapt audience (the horse was still pretty interested in what he was doing) and I went back in the house and put the phone book away.  I think I was almost disappointed that the solution was so simple.  How the hell did he know what to do?  How did he know where to buy a new one?  How the hell did he know what it was going to cost?!?  I swear to god, the man just has an uncanny knack for such things.

It's this simple practicality of Bryan's that just blows me away.  I think triage...call a water truck, get a well company on the phone, pray for the sun to set so the garden doesn't burn up, go buy some electrolyte drinks for the kids so they don't spontaneously dehydrate into raisins before my very eyes. 

He goes and cuts a hole in the roof of the well house.

I love him for it.

I shouldn't have been too shocked when he did it to me again yesterday.

We've had a stint of warm days here lately.  Temperatures have been a blissful 50 degrees for February...and it's got the whole house in a state of spring fever.  We've all been in the mood to clean, organize, de-junk...you name it.  We're going to get a helluva shock when it snows later this week...but for now, we're all jonesing for spring.

A side effect of warmer weather has been the re-appearance of the flies.  Evidently the little bastards will hatch out at any semblance of warmer temperatures.  They've re-invaded the house and I've had a constant pest trying to buzz it's way into my face, hair and hands while I've been sitting in my chair reading or knitting.  They must have been driving Bryan crazy too.

Instead of picking up more fly strips (which I think the flies have gotten wise to or something), or digging around and finding fly swatters or in any way expending a ridiculous amount of energy eradicating the problem from the house (which would be my approach)...he came home with a new pet....a Venus Flytrap.

What the...??

I'm a known plant killer.  One can just look at the sorry specimens hanging about my house and realize that entrusting me with the care of something green and leafy is probably not a good idea.  I'm pretty good with critters - mostly because they'll hunt me down if I forget to feed or water them.  Plants?  I can't ever seem to remember about the plants.  It takes looking at their droopy leaves to guilt me into watering them...and a plant can only get so droopy before it gives up the ghost and is completely unrecoverable.  I suck with plants.

This fly problem, however, has got me half out of my skull with crazy fits.  Bry has watched me spontaneously burst from my chair in what can only be called as a fit of hysterics, swatting and slapping at random objects because some insect has yet again tried to nasally penetrate my personal, physical being.  While this has no doubt caused him large bits of amusement, it must have registered in his brain as a problem.  Strolling through Home Depot the other day he happened upon a display of Venus Flytraps.  Problem A connected with Problem B in his brain and Solution C presented itself.

Not to mention, there's that sheer morbid fascination of a 12 year old boy that most men continue to possess.  Bry is no exception.  It's a plant that eats bugs.  This is a cool thing.  Gross.  Kind of creepy.  But cool.

So while I've chewed and marinated and scratched my head in puzzlement over this Venus Flytrap thing, Bry has dually installed it next to his chair.  It has caught and eaten two flies.  The kids spent more time watching it last night than watching the TV.  I should be happy about this.  I'm partially creeped out, but it's two less flies that are bugging me.   I'm ready to go buy a whole flat of them.

It' d probably make a better story if Bry had given me the plant for Valentine's day.  If it had occurred to him to do so, he probably would have - if he'd thought about it.  I certainly found it ironic that I discovered the Flytrap in the midst of a conversation about what we want to do for the hallmark holiday...and it just struck me funny.  Me.  Bryan.  The way we think.  Who we are now.  Who we were then.

This certainly isn't a big thing or a monumental event or even something of significance  It was just a moment that I had where I realized that I'm completely and totally in love with him....still.  We may have figured out that we're different people along the way, but we have a lot to celebrate in each other.  This goofy plant speaks of Bry's contrary, but good-humored and infinitely practical nature.  I bring home homeless animals as pets.  He brings home a bug-eating plant as a pet.  It's funny, and it's adorable...and it's just makes me love him all the more.
 
It's the simple things, really.  A bug-eating plant.  A well that went south.  I have a thousand stories just like these that remind me of what a good love is about.  I should write them all down so I don't forget any of them.  I could probably make y'all sick of the thousand little moments a day where I look at Bry and thank my lucky stars that he's the other pea in my pod. 

I'll spare you most of them, but I couldn't resist this one.  That plant just caught another fly too...

Date: 2008-02-06 11:25 Subject: Mustings on farm equipment... Security: Public

So much of my life is wound up in this old horse trailer and the farm pickup...although they are not without their quirks too. The tires on the trailer are bald, the lift doesn't work (one must use a cranky handyman high-lift jack to raise it up), the pickup has a personality I can't even begin to describe here...

But they are solid and real. Every time my head dissolves into pieces of paper and plans for the future and where we're going to go with this place, I look at this mish-mash of odd equipment with quirks and just shake my head.

I forget sometimes that there's a lot of history in these old things...and despite their flaws, they still do their job and do it well.

I'm grateful to have this old horse trailer and I'm thankful every day that the pickup reliably fires up despite her worn-out engine and chugs on down the road.  It does more than that...we rely on it to bring home a one ton bale of alfalfa about every 4 to 5 days.  Last winter, with all the snow, we ended up using it to haul all the 2WD vehicles out of the steep incline of the driveway.  A friendly neighbor wandered over with a loader to help clear the tons of snow and got stuck.  This old pickup (armed with a set of tire chains, 4WD, a determined Bry at the wheel and a tow chain) pulled that loader right out of the ditch like a darn carrot!

(There was also another adventure that took place in the pickup-eating driveway up in Steamboat...with me driving...but we are NOT discussing that right now.)

They may not look like much. I may swear a bit when I get my hand bit by the jack, or crack my knee against the hitch, or sweat a little every time I go to start the pickup on a really cold morning...

...but that's just the way farmin' goes. It ain't shiny...not at all. It's a hard living, and it's mostly a gamble, but it's always real, earthy, and in your hands...not like ideas, or numbers or even pieces of paper.

:)

Date: 2008-01-29 16:01 Subject: The things I get myself into. Security: Public

At bajillion years ago, when I was a little girl, I used to spend ridiculous amounts of time and energy into a game of "pony express rider."  I had a fascination with horses, pony express riders...and any reasonable excuse for me to spend several hours at a time riding my little skewbald Welsh pony...*ahem*  Named "Sweet."  (Because she WAS sweet as SUGAR!!!)

The game, in and of itself was fairly elaborate...I made mailboxes out of whatever scrounged materials I could find (empty cereal boxes were PRIME material) and spend laborious hours writing letters in as many different forms of handwriting that I could summon up (which, at 7 years old was probably fairly limited.)  I'd then go out and put a bridle on Sweet, forgo the saddle (I WAS half-indian you know...and thus fully qualified to ride bareback.  Not to mention, that damn saddle was HEAVY!!) and would proceed to ride out into the 8 acre pasture next to the farmhouse and would deliver mail, dodge enemy indians, stampeding buffalo, and make sure to sit and have a social conversation with each and every mail recipient.  (This led me to do a lot of talking to my imagination.)

Eventually the game evolved to where I could actually dismount and be social with my customers.  This had been a problem for some time because riding bareback doesn't leave one with a whole lot of options for re-mounting.  Welsh ponies are incredibly smart when you try to climb a nearby fence and then attempt to inch across their backs.  Smart enough to stand perpendicular to the fence anyways.  My legs finally grew a bit and I was able to truly do indian maneuvers and grab a fistful of mane and leap up.  I was also big enough to hoist the saddle by this point...so being a pony express rider eventually lost it's appeal.  I needed another challenge.

Somewhere around the time of the origin of this game, I got a baby brother.  He was pretty useless for the first couple of years, but somewhere about the time I turned 9, he turned 4.  Four year old brothers are useful for a LOT of good stuff.  Namely, someone to ride shotgun.

You see, part of my daily chores was to collect the eggs.  Now, mind you...collecting eggs was an important job.  Very important.  I had my marker to mark single eggs in the nest so the hen would come back and lay more.  I had to get the rest of the eggs out though...and those hens get MEAN when they get broody.  When everything was said and done, I'd have a dozen eggs in my bucket.  Then it was a long walk back to the house.

One day, having gotten bored with pony express rider, and was doing my chores without the prerequisite nagging from my Mom, I was strolling back down the hill from the henhouse when I happened to see Sweet out of the corner of my eye.  An idea formed.  I realized that this was going to take some planning...and of course...some imagination.  So I spent some time mulling it over through the evening and into the next day.  By the time I'd gathered all my materials together, I was about as excited as I could get for chore time. 

Forget pony express rider!  I was gonna drive me a STAGECOACH.

My materials list was as follows:

1 welsh pony named "Sweet."  Who, I might add, was not altogether sure of this latest scheme of mine.
1 "shotgun" driver.  This would be the brother I was talking about.  (You can't have a stage coach without someone riding shotgun.  This just isn't DONE.)
Several yards of baling twine.  Have I ever mentioned that baling twine is the biggest source of all creative things for a farm girl of 9 years old?
A steak knife pilfered from the kitchen.  (To cut the baling twine.)
One satchel.  I believe it may have been an official "Strawberry Shortcake" purse at one point, but that was neither here nor there.
One little red "Radio Flyer" wagon.
One dozen eggs.

Now I know you're squirming on the edge of your seat...but bear with me here.  I spent a LOT of time making my harness and planning my route up the hill to the hen house...so I don't want to just get to the punch line just yet.  My nine year old brain deserves a little credit.

The pony deserved a lot of credit too.  It's a big job being a Stagecoach horse.  It's an even bigger job when your harness is made by a nine year old out of baling twine.  She stood for it though...and when all was said and done she had a fairly serviceable network of twine tied to her body that worked pretty good as a harness.

Now nobody had ever taught me the finer intricacies of driving...or of harnessing a big, powerful stagecoach horse to a little red wagon.  I didn't know a thing about something called "britching"...and this, ultimately, proved to be my undoing.

You see...the hen house sat at the top of a hill.  Not a big, or a long one...but enough of a hill that most objects with wheels will roll down of their own accord when left to their own devices.

But.  I digress.

Everything went well enough.  Horse harnessed (more like trussed up like a chicken) to the wagon, brother installed as "shotgun" rider.  Satchel for the VERY important delivery over his shoulder.  Because I didn't think I'd get anywhere by actually driving the pony, I figured I better lead her.  It was okay though...I could visualize myself sitting in that wagon as soon as I could figure out how to drive...and then the world would be my oyster.

We started out UP the hill.  Everything was looking good.  I was congratulating myself on my ingenious harness...well made by thickly braided strands of baling twine.  The pony was just fine with the rattling and banging of the wagon behind her heels...in fact, she was willing and steady and didn't put up much of a fuss at all.  (I honestly think she figured this was another one of my shenanigans and I'd eventually get bored, let her go and she could go back to eating.  I will forever love her for putting up with me through this.)

Eggs were collected without incident.  The shotgun driver was holding the stagecoach horse (so she didn't wander off to eat grass during out ultra-important mission).  Safely stowed in the Strawberry Shortcake purse...errr...satchel...and shotgun driver back in the wagon, I turned the little brown and white mare down the hill for home.

That's when all hell broke loose.

You see...without britching on a harness...there's no way to keep a vehicle from rolling into the horse's back legs.  In all my careful planning, I'd left this critical piece of harnessing out.  So about the time the wagon rediscovered gravity, it bounced and jostled it's merry way a little faster than what the pony was moving....and it wound up shoving the tounge right between her back legs.

I think that was the breaking point.  Sweet, having been rogered by a Radio flyer wagon at high speed decided she'd had ENOUGH of being a stagecoach horse for one day.  She broke into an all-out gallop down the hill with the shotgun driver screaming his bloody head off while clutching the sides of the wagon with a white knuckled grip.

The lead rope burned it's way loose from my hands and I watched helplessly as my stagecoach, my horse, my shotgun driver and a load of at least one dozen eggs accelerate down the hill at amazing speed.  I had the presence of mind to give minor thought to horse racing, but was quickly distracted when the horse reached the fence and decided to make a right turn.

Unfortunately, anyone that has ever owned a radio flyer knows that 90 degree turns spell disaster.  Once the wheels become perpendicular to the wagon body, the wagon simply tips over.  ...and that's exactly what it did.  Since it was going high speed at the time, it puked out the shotgun driver and the eggs in the direction of the gate, flipped over on it's top and bounced along helplessly behind the little pony mare...who at this point had started throwing bucks and kicks into her galloping routine.  One final leap into the air effectively shredded the last of my carefully made baling twine harness, the wagon broke free and skidded to a stop and Sweet retreated to the far corner of the pasture and promptly buried her nose in a clump of grass....only stopping every now and again to cast a baleful eye in my direction.

My mouth was hanging open.  My brother was screaming bloody murder, but was so far as I could tell, unhurt.  But I was filled with dread as soon as I gave thought to the eggs.  I ran down that hill as fast as my legs would carry me.  I couldn't find the satchel.  Oh god.  Where was the satchel?  I started digging frantically through the grass and weeds by the gate.  I dusted off the shotgun driver and put him to work...we looked everywhere in a state of panic.  MOM was going to KILL us.

We finally found it...several feet from the unplanned dismount...much to our dismay not a single egg survived.  What was left was this gooey mush of yolks and shells.  Both of us knew better than to take THAT in the kitchen...so we hid it behind the sheep shed.  We dusted ourselves off.  Swore each other to secrecy, and with that I went and convinced Sweet to hold still long enough to let me cut the rest of the twine off of her and then my brother and I went in the house.

Passing mention was made at the lack of eggs, but we both played dumb.  Mention was made about the wagon having a dent in the side.  We didn't know anything about that either.  Amazingly enough, we pretty much got away with one of the dumbest stunts I've ever pulled.

Of course, getting away with something like that doesn't do anything to squelch the imagination and it wasn't long before I had plans again...

I just made sure not to include eggs as part of the plan.  The shotgun driver didn't want to be a part of it either.  The pony?  She was cool.  She was game.

Date: 2008-01-28 12:57 Subject: (no subject) Security: Public Mood: moody

Something wicked this way comes.  I hear it rattling my windows and throwing sand against the sides of the house.  The horses are standing in the corral with their rumps facing the west, heads down to shield their faces from the onslaught.

It's the fohn, the chinook....the snow-eater.

At this stage in the winter game, I always think that something that makes the world warmer would be most welcome.  My anticipation rises in hope of an early spring and I get all geared up to accomplish things...and realize that it's January (whether I like it or not) and there's a 20% chance of snow in two days.  My mouth quirks just a little at this...ah, yes...the Colorado plains.  Life is not always kind here.

I could feel the rising tide of spring fever manifest this weekend.  Tempers were short and easily flared, the horses were crabby and out of sorts, the kids were loco...running around with a crazy chaotic energy as the pressure changes wreaked havoc upon their bodies as well.

Then today...the wind.

I always see it in my mind's eye as a blue and white demon howling down out of the west....gaining momentum as it races down the mountain slopes to sink it's teeth into the snow and push relentlessly against anything in it's path.  It's merciless...taking everything with it that isn't battened down, tied, fastened or braced against it.

The snow and ice in my driveway have succumbed to it's onslaught...melting away into puddles that are quickly shrinking by the hour.  The pasture out back?  Laid completely bare...the grasses and damp earth visible again...naked to the characteristic cold, dry winter of the Great Plains.

I was to go work tonight, but the reservation is delayed by the weather.  I was going to go out and have Robin harness one of the colts today...but this is not the time to teach anything to either kid, horse nor myself.

So today, I let the snow-eater come.  I stay quiet and steady and let it's beastly presences rattle my windows and throw it's temper tantrum with tumbleweeds and bits of hay outside.  It will pass and tomorrow the season will continue.

Date: 2008-01-17 12:49 Subject: Oh, the things that must be done! Security: Public

So once again, I've gotten a gentle "nudge" from yet another person about my lack of updates on the IdleWild site.  This one just happened to come from Maine.

*sigh*  Ah well.  I'm out of excuses now.  I've survived the holy-daze, recovered from a dread illness, and for the most part have my life, my livestock, my household, family, and job are somewhat in order.  (The laundry is an ever-present issue, but I concede it's never going away until I can afford a maid...)  I've also managed to finish the book that has kept me in it's deadly grip for the past week.  (Thank-you Diana Gabaldon!)

BUT.  One final tripping point remains...and that's the minor fact that my computer is so overloaded with stuff that it's barely able to operate a web browser...much less photoshop and dreamweaver simultaneously.  Ultimately, this is what stopped the updates in the first place, but I'd forgotten this little tidbit until just now.

Bryan handed me an external hard drive last night...so today is committed to un-assing various amounts of uselessness and getting my files in order so I can dump what I need to onto this drive (and hopefully free up enough space on the internal drives) that my programs will run again.  There has been talk of a completely new system, but I'm not committed to anything just yet.

In the meantime, so sorry for the delay...your regularly scheduled program should resume shortly.

Date: 2007-12-04 15:11 Subject: I am NOT gloating... Security: Public

I think the following IM conversation deserves to have it's own place in history.  Not only can you tell my chaotic style in the kitchen (we had inside-out pot pies last night) but you can see where the typical male interest and interaction lies.

Indigo Helix: I am an evil genius!!
Indigo Helix: I just made a batch of gluten free chocolate chip cookies.
Indigo Helix: Okay.  Shouldn't blow my own horn yet.
Indigo Helix: They aren't out of the oven.
Indigo Helix: but the dough tastes good!
Bryan: *LOL* did ya tell sasha yet?
Indigo Helix: No.
Indigo Helix: 'cause if they come out like chocolate chip bricks, I'd rather save myself the embarrassment.
Bryan: *L* ok, well let me know how they come out.
Indigo Helix: I will.
Indigo Helix: I have a secret diabolical plan to be able to make a basket of holiday sweeties that will be gluten free.
Indigo Helix: cookies, brownies...fudge...
Bryan: that sounds great
Indigo Helix: I feel fat thinking about it
Indigo Helix: it's as if my instinct for making gluten free stuff is somehow justifying loading everything with fat (like using heavy cream to make tomato soup.)
Indigo Helix: we'll be eating good...but we might be a set of porkers come spring. 
Bryan: As long as they taste good is all I care...
Indigo Helix: If not, we'll use them as projectile weapons.
Indigo Helix: 'cause I've seen how hard the bread gets...and you could take out an armored tank if you threw those things with any force.
Indigo Helix: Ooo!  Taste test time!!
Indigo Helix: Nevermind.
Bryan: not good
Indigo Helix: evidently gluten free cookies take longer than normal cookies
Bryan: LOL
Indigo Helix: Gah.  *drumming fingers*
Bryan: well, don't cook them too long!
Indigo Helix: Well at this point, they look like they did when I put them in the oven.
Indigo Helix: I have a secret ingredient too.
Bryan: not sure i want to know
(five minutes later)
Indigo Helix: hmmm
Indigo Helix: gluten free cookie...*munching*
Indigo Helix: i pronounce this cookie to be edible!!
Bryan: are they good??
Bryan: or just edible?
Indigo Helix: I think they're pretty good warm.  Might be another story when they cool off
Indigo Helix: Ugh,  The cookie dough is good though...made myself sick on THAT already...

If the celiacs only knew...


 

Date: 2007-12-04 09:43 Subject: Notes on junk mail.... Security: Public

I've just spent a gleeful 10 minutes opting out of the billions of pounds of junk mail that I get on a daily basis.

http://www.ecocycle.org/junkmail/index.cfm


Although my goats will be disgusted that I'm not going to feed them credit card offers any longer.  They love paper, and it's really the only effective way of making sure NOBODY gets my credit information.  Who would want to get rich sifting through goat poop??  That's a lot of work for even the most determined of criminal masterminds...

Date: 2007-12-03 10:26 Subject: YARG! Security: Public Mood: annoyed

I'm going to have to teach Valla the meaning of "dead dog." 

I'm certainly NOT talking about the 'play dead' version that I've taught Ebby and Kimber...you know the fun, funny flop on the floor in wriggling anticipation of getting a goodie.  Nope.  That's not what I'm talking about at all.

She ate my network cable...in half.  I picked up the two ends and eyeballed them for a few minutes in a sortof disbelief.  (Only after going in circles for half an hour trying to figure out why my computer wouldn't connect.)  It makes me wonder technical questions like - does this dog crap out network cabling and silk warp?  If so, is there some sort of practical application??

Ugh.  This means that the work I wanted to do to the farm website is once again at a standstill...because the dog ate the cable.  I'm currently reduced to working off the laptop - which doesn't have my programs on it.

I swear to god, I'm going to remove her teeth.