3 up - 3 down

Being a farm dog comes with its up and downs. Rather than spending the day staring at the world through a glass window, my dogs get to enjoy the life they've been bred for - farm collies. They guard the house, move the goats, carry tools, collect eggs, patrol the pastures, patrol the pastures, and patrol the pastures. While moving the goats is the most fun work, and carrying tools is admittedly long and hot work, guarding the house and patrolling the pastures are a farm dog's bread and butter. It does, however, come with certain risks.

Since the recent loss of poultry from an enterprising bobcat, I have stepped up pasture patrol. The two farm collies and the bloodhound have been happy to oblige. So after work each night, the four of us patrol the pasture before heading to bed. We are often accompanied by three or four half-grown kittens. Their eyes glow amber in my flashlight beam as they play Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat in the wake of the House Wolves crisscrossing my light in their hunt for a bobcat or any other excitement that can be stirred up at 1 AM.

Last night Excitement found us. Like fighter jets, all three dogs zoomed across the back pasture. I shined my high-powered beam in their direction and caught Ice running beside a most curious black creature with a very long tail. I'd never seen Pepe run that fast. In fact, I'd never seen Pepe run at all.

The largest skunk in Brazoria County lives in my hay barn. For the most part, we co-exist peacefully with Pepe. I give him plenty of warning when I go to get hay, and he slips out the back until I'm finished. Research has proven the Pepe is a male since it was determined that he has a distaste for chocolate-covered strawberries and clearly, no female of any species will turn her nose up at chocolate-covered strawberries, thus - Pepe is a male.

At that distance, angle and speed, it was difficult for me to discern exactly what that long-tailed black creature was, but it clearly was NOT a creature that shares my Steinhauser's Feed Store bill, so I hastened to call the dogs back. The shepherds galloped back immediately, but Alice, in typical Bloodhound fashion, shot me the bird and continued onward toward her destiny. Pepe slowed his gallop (skunks actually gallop, whodathunkit?), and Alice caught up with him. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. Three up, three down.

The smell of burning rubber arrived a nanosecond after the first dog landed at my feet. While I felt a bit sorry for the Belgians, who rolled around the pasture in agony, the sneezing Alice elicited no sympathy whatsoever. Perhaps the next time I call her, she'll come. Nah... probably not.

Now their problem had become mine. Doggy doors are wonderful things - until your entire pack gets sprayed by a single skunk. I had visions of the dogs rubbing against my couch in their furious attempts to rub off the now-clinging Pepe. Kona had abandoned rolling in the grass to opt for rolling in the sand pile. Since he was already wet from the dew, the sand stuck to him. Like a Canine Sand Castle he rose and shook himself.

"Better?" he asked.

"No, not better. Now you stink AND you look stupid. You're not coming in my house like that."

"Do WHAT??!!! But I ALWAYS sleep in the house!"

"Not tonight you don't."

"But what about the Boogey Man? How can you sleep tonight if I'm not there to guard you from the Boogey Man?!"

I took a cautious sniff, and the burning rubber assaulted my nose. Ice was still rolling on the patio while Alice continued to sneeze. Like a sphinx, Kona stared at me, still covered in sand. No Boogey Man in his right mind would be here tonight. But since I'm a believer in democracy, we took a quick vote. The geese voted to move the dogs into the house, but since the geese are under-age, and clearly not old enough to vote, the cats and I won. The dogs slept on the patio last night.

:) s

Haiku & The Griswalds

I know better than to fall in love with someone near the bottom of the food chain, but I did it anyway. Monday morning I let the geese out and there was the pitter patter of four little pairs of feet behind me. I turned around and counted... one ...two...three... four ???? Where's #5!!

That damned bobcat had come into my barn and stolen Haiku! The cat climbed over a 6' tall chain link fence that was under a porch to come into an enclosed barn and grab little Haiku. Two little downy feathers were found in the pasture. That's it. No evidence the bobcat was even in there except that the rest of the babies are traumatized. I immediately moved their 6' tall dog kennel and set it up outside my bedroom window. My own dogs should be able to patrol that area and if the cat comes that close to the house, I'll know it.

I'm about to run electric wire across the top of all my fences. I'm also planning on letting my dogs patrol the fence along the canal more frequently.

Poor little Haiku. She was the one who was always tugging on my pants leg and untying my shoestrings. Now drastic measures must be taken to protect the rest of the Gang.

Bling is simply beside herself with delight. Christmas came early this year. To protect the Apple Dumpling Gang from the Boogey Beast Bobcat I have peeked back down the Evolutionary Ladder and taken some hints from the Caveman. When you've got a saber-tooth tiger in the neighborhood, it's time to stoke the fire!

And stoke the fire, I did! The kids have Christmas Lights! By the time I got their new living arrangements set up, it was dark. As I draped lights around their dog kennel, the geese chattered and generally made a point of calling every predator in Brazoria County - until I plugged in the cord. There was silence. They stared at their new Christmas lights in awe, like pilgrims in a stained glass cathedral. Bling stood with her little mouth slack, delirious at so much sparkle, so much BLING! The Apple Dumpling Gang watched in silence, colors dancing in their beady little eyes. Chevy Chase, look out! They had become Griswalds

Sexing Geese and Other Mundane Farm Chores

Tripping over a dead rat is a more powerful morning "pick-me-up" than all the coffee Juan Valdez ever produced. Thus began my day.

With coffee in hand, I slid the back door open to marvel at God's rural blessings - horses nickering in the morning mist, the faint chatter of geese in the barn, chickens cackling a greeting, hungry kittens chirping at my feet, flies buzzing on the patio. ...... Flies?

Hmmmmmmm....... I know that sound. I'm a crime scene investigator; I KNOW that sound. Fortunately my friends, the flies, saved me from actually stepping on the rather unwelcome morning guest who lay on my patio. His appearance threw a monkey wrench into our routine and this upset all the hungry stomachs along the cafeteria line, for while I was off in search of a shovel to remove the rat, they were NOT getting their breakfast.

Horses started pawing and pounding, geese began screaming, and cats stood beside their bowls and cried. Chaos reigned while the dogs and I removed the rat. (Their only role in this chore was running back and forth to hurry me along my task but they were quite serious about it.)

There was much internal debate. I have six cats. If I threw that rotting rodent anywhere the cats could reach, his little furry, fly-bait self would be back on my porch, so I flung that dead rat into a pampas grass bush in the corner of my property.

As soon as I set the shovel down and resumed the regular routine, harmony was restored. I fed the cats, fed the horses, fed the geese, fed the chickens, took the dogs on a walk, turned the goats out, moved the horses, fed the dogs, and then --- turned the geese out.

It was time to sit back in my lawn chair and enjoy my coffee while I watched them explore their world. But there was a problem. They didn't want to explore their world today. They wanted to explore ME. So much for relaxing. This did, however, give me greater opportunity to observe personalities. As yet, the only way I can tell them apart is by their beaks. Each goose has a dinstinctive cream-colored mark on his or her beak. Once I figured this out, individual personalities emerged. I gave them temporary names using the beak marks (Dot, Stripe, Hook, Snip, and Blank) They will get real names when I can figure out their sex and personality.

Dot has already become Speck because I think he is a male. He is larger than the others and the most shy. Speck always puts himself on the fringes of the group and avoid contact with me. I'm still waiting on a permanent name for him (or her).

Stripe is the boldest. I think he is a male, but the jury is still out. He is also larger. Stripe is the first to chase the cat, first chase the goat, and explore his enviornment.

Hook has become Haiku. I don't know if he is male or female, but the hook-shaped marking has now changed to look like some kind of Oriental writing. Haiku is the goose most liking to be pulling your pants leg or untying your shoe.

Snip is still waiting on a name. Also tremendously friendly. Screams bloody murder when you pick him up, but comes right back for more as soon as you set him down. LOVES attention.

Blank has officially become BLING. I have suspected that Bling is female because she is smaller and more delicate than the others. Bling is also the goose most likely to grab jewelry. She adores my ring. A toe ring would simply send her into waves of hysterical delight. Today I decided for certain the Bling is a girl, because today she ran off with one of my bright pink Crocs flip-flops. Bling grabbed up that flip-flop and waddled off with Snip and Haiku in hot pursuit. That girl has some smooth moves and would be an asset to any basketball team. Yessirree, give that girl some jewelry and bright pink flip-flops!

:) s

The Exodus

When you're a goose, every day is an adventure, and this was a full day for the Apple Dumpling Gang. They are a couple of weeks old now, and have graduated from swimming in a kitty litter box to a real honest-to-goodness swimming pool (for infants).

As I filled their new pool with water, they gathered around and chattered like children. I announced that SplashTown was ready and the race was on.

They were like kindergarteners in Chuck E. Cheese. I laughed so hard that even the chickens had to come see. Dora the Explorer led the way as they high-stepped over to examine the kiddie pool. Clearly it was goose thing, because the chickens just could not understand what all the fuss was about.

I had so much fun watching them play that I was almost late for my next-door neighbor's barbecue. On my way across the street, I checked them one last time. They were still splashing and the chickens were still standing at the sidelines with cocked heads - like the RCA puppy staring at the phonograph.

Two hours later I returned home. The sun had just gone down and I was kicking myself for not leaving earlier. I had to put the birds up in the dark. They live in a 1/3 of an acre covered flight pen that includes two coops. Attached to this is an uncovered chain-link fenced area that includes two barns. My five meat chickens had been evicted from the flight pen earlier this week because they were tormenting the geese, so they were staying in this chain-link area. Before the sun goes down each night, I always lock the geese in their coop. (goose prison)

So tonight I flashlighted my way to the bird pen. I entered the chain-link paddock and saw one petrified white chicken. Hmmmm.... that's never a good thing. Where were the other four? In a panic, I immediately called the geese. As soon as they heard my voice, they set up a chorus of "Mom! MOM! MOM! MOMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!" Clearly there had been trouble on the homefront while I was eating barbecue.

I ushered the babies into their coop and went to assess the damage. The five egg laying hens that were in the flight pen with the geese had survived, but three meat chickens were dead and one was missing and presumed dead. It would appear that while I was passing the blackberry cobbler, a bobcat was passing my chickens across the fence. Now I don't mind donating a bird here or there to wildlife, but I had three fat dead birds that appeared to be just too heavy for the Boogey Beast to drag across the fence. Three birds wasted. I wasn't eating them and neither was anything else. Hmmmm.... time to re-group.

While the chickens are Food Products, the geese are not. The geese are like puppies with wings, dolphins with feathers. The geese are pets. Even though their coop is like a Fort Knox, the very fact that the Boogey Beast is prowling not 30 feet from my beloved Apple Dumpling Gang was enough to galvanize me into action. It was time to move the geese into the barn with the horses. So we began The Exodus.

The Apple Dumpling Gang was delighted to see me, but not at all thrilled to be packed into a dog kennel. I stacked their food, water, and little baby pool on top of the kennel and we rolled toward the barn while the Apple Dumpling Gang screamed loudly and called every predator in Brazoria County. The image of a bobcat with white feathers stuck to his lips pushed me onward, and I was glad the dog was there. While I didn't consider a bobcat a threat to me, it's still nice to have another set of eyes (and an impressive array of teeth!) for company.

We made it to the barn and once inside their stall, the Apple Dumpling Gang finally quit screaming. This is not to say that they shut up. Far from it. Geese don't ever shut up. Nope. The Gang began exploring and talking loudly to each other about their new home. They explored while I filled up SplashTown. They were clearly impressed. Their new home included a stall that opened into a covered chain-link run. They had running water, electricity, and MUSIC! Pat Green! They announced that Geese LIKE Pat Green. Geese LIKE running water! Geese LIKE lights after the sun goes down. Geese LIKE playing in SplashTown at midnight!

It is now 2 AM and the Apple Dumpling Gang is happily settled into their new home. SplashTown has gone from blue to green. The hay is wet. The geese are snoring. Life is good. There is nothing like a brush with the Boogey Beast to separate family from Food Products. The geese are family.

And as I've said many times, if you have a farm, you don't need cable TV. :)

Dora The Explorer

I think my life just pegged the meter of ludicrous today. Each morning after I feed the kittens and the horses, it is customary to take a nice long walk in the pasture with the dogs and my iced coffee. I enjoy nature while the critters read their pee-mail. Most of the time 3 or 4 half-grown kittens tag along. After Montoya finishes his breakfast, the horse joins us too. We must be quite the spectacle.

Today we had a new float attached to our little parade. With the help of the goats, one of my hens has discovered a hole in the bird pen that is just chicken-sized, so rather than waiting for me to deliver breakfast, she met me in the barn this morning. Now if you are on the bottom of the food chain, this is not a Good Idea, but Dora The Explorer had other plans. She was coming on the walk with us. That goofy hen clucked and cackled her way down the trail behind me while I snarled at dogs who are very much aware that Dora is on the bottom of the food chain. The kittens stalked and pounced at Dora who cackled and darted which made her even more tempting to 3 dogs who hadn't had breakfast yet.

Any attempts to shoo Dora back to the barn would have ended in disaster since the dogs were just looking for a reason to kill her anyway, so I let her come along. From time to time she'd drop behind and then run as fast as her little drumsticks could carry her just to catch up with us. Clearly Dora's days are numbered if I don't patch that hole quickly because she rather enjoyed her morning walk with predators. For chickens this must be the equivalent of swimming with Great White Sharks on the Barrier Reef.

Since I don't have time to do it today, I dearly hope the Boogey Beast is not prowling in my pasture at sunrise tomorrow, for there is no doubt in my mind that Dora will be waiting in the barn with her goggles and scuba tank.

Bonfires & Bubbles

Those of you who remember the Great Bonfire of 2007 will be happy to know that I learned from my near-death experience with gasoline. This afternoon I chose a much tamer way to start my blaze - Swiffer Sweeper towels. I can assure you, towels matted with dust bunnies and dog hair make great firestarters. (They don't explode nearly the way gasoline does!)

After my adventure last Spring, I put a great deal more thought in Bonfire Preparation.

Step 1 - collect all four kittens and lock them in dog kennel
Step 2 - explain to yowling kittens that they are F-L-A-M-M-A-B-L-E.
Step 3 - remove dogs from pasture
Step 4 - explain to dogs that they are F-L-A-M-M-A-B-L-E
Step 5 - put my hair under ball cap (no need to remind me that I am flammable)
Step 6 - put wads of dog hair-dust bunny Swiffer Sweeper towels at one edge of brush pile
Step 7 - strategically place old cedar limbs over towels
Step 8 - light towels & move back
Step 9 - watch fire from safety of other side of fence
Step 10 - explain to yowling kittens again that they are F-L-A-M-M-A-B-L-E

Once the fire began to burn itself out, I turned my attention to bathing the Bloodhound. Now for those of you who have ever considered getting a hound, you need to know that even on a good day, they stink. Even if you bathe them in rose-scented shampoo, they will still smell like wet bloodhounds (with a faint hint of rose). But poor Alice, like most bloodhounds in Texas, has skin allergies and must be bathed regularly. This is no thrill for me or for Alice. Bloodhounds come with an uncanny sense of smell. They also come equipped with an uncanny sense of knowing when the thought of a bath just flits across your mind. As soon as the thought enters my mind, Alice runs to hide in the pumphouse. Fortunately for me, cat food is Kryptonite for Bloodhounds, and if I pretend that I'm not holding a leash in my armpit, I can dump dry cat food on the barn floor and snare her as she's scarfing it up .... if I'm fast.

Luck was with me, and I was able to catch my hound, pour a little Pantene Shampoo & Conditioner in a bucket, and hit it with the water hose. That's about the time things got real interesting.

Because Montoya spends so much time in the back yard, I tend to forget he's there. He's like Andalusian Yard Art. And he happens to be fascinated with bubbles. I did not know this until this afternoon. Neither did he. Montoya was delighted with the bucket of suds that I was sponging onto the hound. He hovered over us and supervised the entire operation.

"Whatcha doing?"

"I'm bathing the Bloodhound."

"Why?"

"She stinks."

"Look! Bubbles!"

"Yep.... you need those to bathe Bloodhounds."

"Why don't I ever get bubbles?"

"You don't stink."

"I want BUBBLES!"

"Go away. Leave that alone."

"I want BUBBLES! I want BUBBLES! I WANT BUBBLES! ......Whoops..."

"Happy now? Your bubbles are all over the ground."

"Look! I have a Bubble Mustache!"

"I'm not impressed. Go away!"

"See my mustache? Look. Right here. See? Oh good! You're making more bubbles!"

"Go away! I've got to bathe the dog!" (once you finally catch a Bloodhound, you do not, under any condition, let go of that hound if you plan on bathing it that day.)

"Oooooh... there are bubbles on the DOG!"

"GO AWAY!"

"Can I lick the bubbles off the dog!"

"NO!" (The dog was in total agreement with me on this.)

I dropped the water hose. It squirted him.

"That was rude, Mom."

"So go away."

"Hey! I've got a Bubble Mustache. Do you see it?"

By the time I was finished, the hound was soaked, I was soaked, and Montoya was soaked, but he proudly wore his Pantene Mustache until I wiped it off. I don't think the hound will ever come out of the pumphouse.

The Paper Boy vs The Wolf

Nothing in my life is ever simple. Now I'm not a mathematician, but I do see a common denominator among the problems in my life. Most of my headaches stem from the same source - goats

Goats. God sent goats to test me.

Tonight I found myself running late for church. I had exactly fifteen minutes to make it out the door and into the chapel. It's a ten minute drive. I didn't have time for a shower, so I put on a clean shirt and a spritz of perfume (just in case I smelled like a dog.) I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. That's when the phone rang. There are four words I do not want to hear at any time of day or night. They are fingernails on a blackboard: 1) Your 2) Goats 3) Are 4) Out

I glanced at the clock again. "Please, please, please Lord... can you just slow down Time a little so I won't be late for the service?"

And with that prayer, I grabbed up Kona and headed for the front door. As soon as I hit the step, I pointed at the goats and said, "Fetch 'em up, Boy." A tawny streak raced across the front yard... until he saw the newspaper. I could read the indecision on his face.

"The paper. The paper. She always sends me out the front door for the newspaper. Maybe she wants the paper. Goats? Paper? Goats? Paper?"

I yelled at him. "Not the paper! Get the f#ckin' goats!"

Ah! A language he understood! But to err on the safe side, he grabbed up the newspaper as he raced across the yard toward the goats. By this time, the goats were already in a full-scale panic. Kona, still carrying the newspaper, looped behind them and galloped them back toward me - at break-neck speed. They passed me so fast that I'm surprised there was no sonic boom. With a nimbleness that would make a gymnast pea-green with envy, they vaulted onto a stack of firewood and leaped back into the pasture. Kona screeched to a halt and dropped his newspaper beside the fence. The goats huddled together like innocent choir boys and stared.

Then Kona turned to me, picked up the newspaper, and said, "Hey, you still want this?"

sheridan
(Although it was a metaphysical impossibility, by some miracle, I did manage to make it to church with time to spare. Sometimes I think God just needs a laugh. That's why he sent me these goats.)

Xena Rides Again!

January in Texas tempts us with Spring days that stir the heart of any gardener, and I'm no exception. As soon as the sun comes out, I'm already planning new beds for flowers and sewing the seeds for this year's herb garden. I spent today hauling horse manure to make new beds. I put some serious thought into why I even considered yoga and a work-out program when I have chores like: shoveling manure, hauling manure, picking weeds, and trimming trees. If you add the extra exercise benefits of wearing rubber boots while clomping through mud, actually "paying" for the privilege of working out not only seems a bit asinine, but I'm sure it would have farmers in my family tree rolling in their graves.

So I hauled countless loads of old and new manure today. As often happens when one is deep in repetitive labor, my mind began to wander and I left the gate opened. And as sure as the sun will come up in the morning, if a gate is left open, a goat will find it - three goats to be precise. So as I strained like a mule to pull a load of fresh manure through the mud, I noticed three white goats in my neighbor's front yard. Now my neighbor is unlikely to run off and buy three white goats, so it was a sure bet that they were mine.

I am rarely, if ever, in the mood to fiddle-fart with loose goats, and today was no exception. Since I have a very willing farm-collie to help me, I pointed out the goats and said, "Kona, fetch 'em up." What happened next was pure poetry. A tawny streak raced across my yard and into the neighbor's. The goats dropped their jaws in open-mouthed shock. Kona went wide, circled the goats, and did a beautiful lift. Since the dog has no training in herding, I was pretty darned impressed. So were the goats. In fact, the goats were so impressed that they came running straight toward me. Kona was beside himself with glee. He was fetching goats. The goats were beside themselves with hysteria. A large wolf was behind. (keep in mind that three weeks earlier their comrade was killed and eaten by loose dogs, and it's probably still fresh in their little pointy heads) The goats were racing towards me at warp speed, when they decided that the obvious path to get back into the pasture was to take the long way around my property to the only other gate they knew. They hooked a left around the front of my house. I called the dog back to me. He was quite disappointed that he didn't get to complete the fetch. The goats ran around the edge of the property and waited at the gate. Fine.

Since goats don't have thumbs, they need help opening gates, and so I put the dog on a down-stay and started to walk toward the goats. In a blind panic, they raced down the fence line. I turned to glare at the dog. Nope, wasn't him. He was still on his down-stay with the intoxicated look of a crazed football fan. I wouldn't have thought they could see that far, but obviously they weren't taking any chances of becoming some dog's dinner. They ran down the fence line and crashed into the hot wire fence. It is a scientific fact (we proved it today) that goats are more afraid of dogs than electricity.

With the goats safely back in the pasture, I put Kona in the back yard and went to check the fence to see how much damage they did to my hotwire. Hmmmm.... three frenzied goats can bound through a four-strand barbed wire fence that is re-enforced with two strands of hotwire and the only evidence will be a tuft of goat hair in the barbed wire. No fence repairs needed. That didn't suck.

So I headed back to the barn. And that's when the rooster attacked me.

That red bastard ran straight at me with fire in his eyes. I kicked the crap outta him. He ran in two more times and met my boot both times. Then he got crafty and started this circle/feint/attack move. It was getting serious. I screamed for Kona. There was an answering bark, "Shit!" I had locked him in the yard.

I had no back-up and the rooster wasn't backing down. I started edging toward a board on the ground. The rooster kept rushing me. The dog was throwing himself against the fence in a rage. Slowly I moved toward the board. Bending over to grab it was a tricky thing because the rooster kept up the attack. But when I finally reached that 2x4, I was Xena Warrior Princess. "Look out you Red Bastard!" I started swinging. Roosters are amazingly agile when facing off with a woman that is armed with a seven foot long 2x4. I was unable to kill him, (which was indeed, my goal) but at least I got some respect and he soon shook his feathers at me one last time and wandered off. I then called my mother and informed her that Wooster, otherwise known as That Red Bastard, had to GO!

She protested that he was her best rooster. I advised that if he attacks me again, he will be dog food. Kona is more than willing to oblige, since not only do farm-collies fetch goats, they will also make short work of crazed roosters. Xena Warrior Princess might not be fast enough with a 2x4 to kill a rooster, but I'm sure Kona the Wolf Dog is.

Murder & Mayhem

The only thing worse than stumbling to the barn in the morning fog and finding all the goats missing, is stumbling to the barn in the morning fog to find only one goat missing. If they are ALL gone, you can assume that they got out, but if only one goat is gone – He's dead.

I stood in the barn this morning and watched as three goats dutifully filed into the barn (with an extra spring in their step) and went into their stall (prison). Three goats? Counted them again. I hadn't finished my coffee and Math is not my forte before 8 AM. Three goats. Hmmmm…. That can't be good. Listened carefully. No bleating. That was definitely Not Good.So I locked the inmates inside their prison, grabbed up my coffee and headed out to the pasture.

Noted a large pile of feathers behind the barn. Hmmmm…. My mother raises a rare breed of Heritage chickens in my pasture. Apparently Spotted Sussex Chickens are a bit rarer after this m orning. Saw a suspicious lump in back pasture. I'm a crime scene investigator; even before I've finished my coffee, I can spot a goat stomach at 40 yards. (no specialized training is really needed for that)

En route to the stomach I found more feathers. Subtracted another Spotted Sussex. Found what's left of a Boer goat. Not much but a head, a backbone and three feet. Even I was impressed at the way poor Ken looked. The Boogey Beast may not have been too keen on goat entrails, but the rest of the goat was pretty much gone. I had turned that goat out to graze at 12:30 AM last night. By 7:30 AM this morning, Ken looked like a lion kill that had been picked clean by buzzards. Impressive. Very impressive.

Started poking around the pasture and found bits and pieces of Ken all over. It would appear that the Boogey Beast was actually a collection of Boogey Beasts. Canine paw prints marked the area. And more dead chickens. Actually, they were just piles of chicken feathers – no bodies. A trail of chicken feathers led out of the pasture and into the canal. Okay then. I could accept that coyotes had come in and stolen my livestock. I live in the country. If you live in the country, those things happen. I even happen to like coyotes. I could donate a goat from time to time to wildlife. (Ken would vote differently on that issue.)

I decided that I would just have to make sure to keep the goats in their stall at night, and make sure that the chickens were not released until well after the sun was up. I was comfortable, (not happy, but comfortable) with that idea until the rancher next door shot a hole in it when he pointed out that the tracks were not coyotes, but dogs. "WHAT!!! YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT DOMESTIC DOGS JUST KILLED FIVE CHICKENS AND ATE AN ENTIRE GOAT!!"

Rancher informed me that he'd been having a problem with dogs comi ng from the neighborhood across the canal. I looked down at what was left of Ken and started to get mad. Rancher put on rubber boots and followed the trail of feathers through the fence, across the canal, and up to the neighboring street. It appeared that Fluffy and Friends got tired of eating Purina and had decided to cross the canal and hunt in the Serengeti.

Those goats have been a pain in my butt, but come on – Ken was in his own pasture, minding his own little goat business (for once in his life!) and the chickens were simply early risers (undoubtedly they had not finished their coffee either) who had unfortunately been invited to breakfast by Fluffy and his friends who were still picking their teeth. I was ready to follow the feather trail myself to find Fluffy's owner and inform him that he needed to confine Fluffy and Friends. Rancher pointed out that I didn't want to do this since it could cause me to lose my job. I followed his train of thought for a moment and realized that perhaps he was right. There was a strong possibility that Irate Farm Girl With a Badge And a Gun was unlikely to be amused when Bubba informed her that this was a free county and it was his God-Given Right to let his dogs run free. It is also highly unlikely that the Police Dept, my employer, would be amused when we had to extract my gun from Bubba's butt.

Yes, Rancher was probably right about this one – let Animal Control handle it. So now the remaining three goats are locked in their stalled (and are apparently quite happy to be there!) After six hours the Animal Control guy still hasn't showed up. I figure they're busy and Fluffy is not a high priority. But -- since Ken was eaten a mere baseball throw from my barn (and a $7000 horse!), I can assure you that if I catch Fluffy chasing that horse, lead will fly.

And I hate to even think about what my mother will do if she catches Bubba. Exactly how far can a cane go up someone's butt?