Rockin' and Rollin'

As things would have it, yet another interest has invaded my feeble ADHD brain.  My  jewelry making, lends itself to an interest in gemstones, which lends itself to an interest in rocks in general. 
The next thing I know, I am the proud owner of :

1) a rock tumbler 
2) various grits to go through the 4 phases
3)a flex drill 
4) a set of diamond tipped bits
5) a tile saw (which we already owned)

Not really a big investment at all. Far less than the tools for making jewelry, not to mention purchasing all the beads, findings, etc.
...all because my husband showed up one day with an interesting looking greenish rock he found on the road.

A family emergency had us heading back to California, with prayers on our lips and terror in our hearts. Both of those are still in residence. We stayed at my younger son’s, even though for the most part, he was not home, as he can typically be gone for days while working. He is a hunting guide on an enormous historical land grant ranch (The Tejon). So we stayed in his immaculately clean and organized, employee-housing abode upstairs (really long steep ones, IMO), filled with his treasures and houseplants. He has both an amazing green thumb and an artistic eye. He cooks. He's witty. In fact, now that I think about it, he's a helluva catch. If any of you happen to be a sweet, kind, beautiful lady who enjoys the outdoors and wants to meet a really good man, he's the One. No vegans or activists need inquire. Seriously, he is one of the last really good guys. I am completely objective in this.
Also, if he reads this, he is probably completely mortified right about now. 
Sorry, Bear.

 While taking Heath out for a potty break, we discovered the rocks on his road looked much different than the ones from our road in Oregon.

When the day came to make the 13 hour trek back to the Oregon ranch, which we have always driven straight through, only stopping for fuel, and Carl’s Jr in Bishop, we left at 5 am, made it to Tehachapi to meet up with half of our friend’s family for breakfast, so we weren’t the least bit hungry when we hit Bishop…well, not speaking for Heath of course, who was really looking forward to the stop, where he always enjoys a “puppy patty”.

With a rapturous expression, full of hope, he stuck his head between the seats as we approached his beloved fast food diner. His face dropped as we passed the driveway, and fell further as he saw it disappearing behind us. Poor sheppie.


 

...but...wait!

The morning’s cup of tea forced us to the side of the road, shortly after passing a wild donkey herd in Nevada, which I failed to get pictures of because TheMan was driving at 80 mph and they were on his side. I tried though. I really did. But mostly it was a shot of TheMan’s ear hair so I opted out. While off the road, I found a few glorious rocks in a ditch. I began to feel that tingle of excitement one gets, when a really cool, and intriguing new hobby starts worming it’s way into your heart.



Bypassing Carl’s also had the effect of being ravenous  by the time we hit Hawthorne. I found a small pizza place there on Maps, so we stopped. It was WELL worth the wait. What a shame that a great place like Old Nevada Pizza is sequestered away from the world in tiny Hawthorne. We decided to drive on a wee bit and pull off on Walker Lake to eat.


We were unavoidably delayed for over an hour, collecting the bitchenest rocks I have collected so far. I even pulled my shoes and socks off, to step into the lake and seek treasures there. If you’ve ever been to Nevada, you would understand that it is full of all sizes of sharp rocks...right on into the lake. Two steps in, I was trapped. The pain radiating from my soles to my brain was foreign to me, as I spent the majority of my life barefooted, even riding barefoot, unless spurs were required. I have been known to jump over a wall and land on broken glass without injury, because my feet were so tough. Living on the ranch for over a decade, where what isn’t sharp rocks, is goat-heads, I developed the bad habit of only going barefoot in the house. My feet are no longer the feet I used to know. TheMan was forced to rescue me by helping me limp painfully from shard to shard and spike to spike until I could lay down and let him use my socks to wipe the "not-quite-sand-sized" rocks off of my feet and then put my boots back on over them, while I laid on my back with my feet in the air, so he didn’t have to bend over. 
(He was already stiff from driving. Getting old sucks and don’t let anyone tell you differently) 
After this little activity, he had to help me sit up, roll to a hip and pull me to my feet, which I didn’t do very quietly. I am pretty sure the young couple strolling the water’s edge didn’t mean to snort so loudly, and I didn’t let it offend me. I no longer have any pride.

The rest of the drive home was uneventful, as Heath enjoyed some jerky we stopped and got for him and I alternated snoring with imagining what my rocks might look like after we experiment with the tumbler, should Fed Ex ever decide to deliver it to us.
Meantime, stop by the store and see what's new! Like these. I love these!
Etsy Shop 

in silver

That is about all I have to report.
As an aside, I want to mention, please don’t panic about this pandemic. Humanity has survived far worse and although we must be vigilant, don’t give up living in fear of dying.

Til next time!

Me & The Heathen

Through the Storm

The sky is painted in shades of silver, grey and cream, and the shadows of the clouds throw a purple cast upon the mountains which lay on the far side of the valley. The top of the large fault block to the west shimmers white with new snow and deep blue crevasses, the peak pushing up out of the clouds at 10,000 ft while the rest of the mountain is cloaked beneath the haze.

A drizzle falls slowly on the ranch as EmmaLou lays sleepily cudding in the straw under her little shelter. The sheep are out in the back 20 acres nibbling at the young grasses that dare to push their way up out of the soil under the straw colored forage of last season. I pick my way through the downed thistle, following Cletus along the small cattle trail leading down to the grove of trees where the sheep were grazing.

The weather has been taking its toll on me, as well as a wicked chest cold that I can’t seem to get over, so as soon as we reach a spot out of the heavier wind I lay down in the grass to soak up what little sun peeks through the clouds as they scud across the landscape. Cletus comes to make sure I am all right, sticking his great cold nose in my face. I laugh as his lips hang in floppy wrinkles and his big white head hangs down, eyes disappearing and resembling a giant, white Sharpei. His huge fangs are brilliant white, probably from working on the bones and antlers he and Bruno lug home from their nightly patrols, his lips falling away in a grin. He gives me an affectionate nose touch and then goes to check each individual sheep. The lambs follow him around as if he is their hero, which, indeed, he is. 

My nephew and a young lady visiting the ranch are up by the barn in my round pen, working colts. One jumped out of it the other day, crushing one of my panels. I hear their voices on the wind and a wave of sadness rushes over me. I contemplate how many horses I myself, broke and started in that pen before my condition rendered me unable to do what I had spent my whole life loving and doing. I miss it terribly, some days more than others and watching and listening to other people enjoy a life that is lost to me is hard...especially when they are doing it in my space. I wipe a selfish tear from my eye and look back towards Cletus. He seems to sense my sadness and comes to lay down next to me. Burying my face and hands in his fur, I thank God for the life He has preserved for me. If I did not have the animals to keep me company while Randyman is working, I think it would be unbearable. I chide myself for having a bad attitude. I no longer use the roundpen for riding horses, but I could break it down and make smaller pens out of it for my sheep and goats. I decide to see if the boss wants it and if so, maybe we can work something out. At least if its no longer my own, it won’t hurt so much to see it damaged. There was sentimental attachment to it, as it was a gift from someone very important and very dear to me, but that someone is somebody I won’t get to see again. Some memories are better left behind, or they become toxic and eat a hole in your heart like a cancer.

Cider came over with a ‘hand-picked’ cowpie and sets it down next to me, expecting me to throw it. I roll my eyes at him and find a bone, and substitute it instead. He runs and picks it up, then heads off through the grass exploring. He comes back, offering a stick. I throw it and he returns, his body covered in mud. 

I finally pull myself to my feet and head back up the hill to the corral. The sheep and dogs walk slowly with me and we eventually arrive. I leave them behind as I head through the gate with Cider and go back in the house. Still feeling a little desolate and foggy headed, I tell him to stay outside and dry off.

I stumble to the couch to check my email on the laptop,and find that I scored a butterchurn on ebay. That makes me smile, as I have been wanting and needing one for a couple of years. Making butter 3x a week in the Kitchenaid hasn’t been all that bad, but its a good bit of work cleaning up and I also have to use my hands and wrists a lot to wash the butter. I should be able to do a lot more of that in the churn now, so I am excited for it to get here.

I look up and notice Cider is not outside, but laying on my newly cleaned carpet. I jump up and open the back door and tell him he has to go out. He sneaks around the other side of the kitchen table and heads for the bedroom. I growl at him and he stops, turns around and heads for the service porch, sighing dejectedly as he slumps down on the dog bed. 

I can't help but laugh at him, then I think about my new butter churn again.

Even the most lowly days have their high points.


This is the second day in a row of this strange stormy weather. That said, the weather is always a bit strange in this valley anyway. It can be sunny at our house and snowing at the bottom of the pasture. The dark clouds still cover the sky, but today there is a huge rainbow over the range. Bruno accompanies us as Cider and I go out to visit Cletus and the sheep. Cletus is beside himself to have Bruno there to play with again. I sit on the grass and the pups surround me, clowning around and teasing me unmercifully.

 I move down by the big 'octopus tree'. It's a huge tree with several thick trunks growing like tentacles along the ground. It makes for a handy seat to watch the goings ons and the antics of the 'polar bears'. They play chase and tumble and knock one another over at breakneck speeds, flipping and grabbing throats, legs, or whatever it takes to win the battle. The sheep graze on contentedly, not the least bit worried as the two dogs blaze a trail between them.

They finally wear themselves out and take up stations on opposite sides of the sheep. Bruno is watching from above, close to my observation post and Cletus has gone several hundred yards further down the pasture, beyond the sheep. They both sit quietly, eyes scanning the surrounding area. It has been drizzling for awhile and now it has stopped, so I gather up my things and head back up the hill to the house. 

Rosemary sees me and comes running from way down where the sheep are grazing. She continues to follow on my heels all the way to the corral, across the back yard, up on the porch and into the kitchen. She stands at my side and DEMANDS  a bottle. It's not time for her evening bottle yet, but I can't resist her so I heat up her bottle and allow her to have 1/3 of it early. I hear a vehicle race past the front of the house and as I look out I see both Maremma's racing past. They think I have left. I call their names and they stop, spinning around in surprise to see me behind them. We return to the pasture and resume our places in the grass.

As we lay in the gentle drizzle, I could hear a roaring coming from far away. Living in this valley, under the 10,000 ft. faultblock, our weather can become very turbulent, very quickly. The wind blows often, and blows strongly, but every now and then, it tunnels up the valley, contained by the mountains and charges through like a freight train, and that is exactly what it sounded like.

Cider and I made it to the house just before the first strong gust hit. I could hear it whistling around the little rock house we live in, through the gaps in the doorways and past the rock wall as dirt, tumbleweeds, tin from a building and other things went whirling past. I saw Emma’s shelter begin to heave as if breathing heavily as she stood at her feeder and watched. The wind continued to build and blow. The sheep ran into the corral with the dogs, but I didn’t see Stewie and his mother Madge. I ran out to find them, dirt blinding me temporarily as it blew and scratched its way into my eyes and my long hair whipped about painfully. I fought my way through the dead orchard but didn’t find them. Returning to the corral, I found she had already taken Stewie to shelter under the big cattle panels. EmmaLouMoo continued standing at her feeder, watching her own shelter blowing chaotically in the wind. Normally she takes cover in there every time it rains or snows, or anything disagreeable is taking place.  I drug out what hay I could find and stuffed it down deep into feeders, hoping it would stay long enough for the animals to get some sustenance from it. When I was finished, Emma’s shelter was gone. She was standing in the ruins of it, with her eyes agog, and her tongue hanging out. She was making awful noises, as though she was gagging or choking, and was breathing heavily. The heavy gate panel doorway to the milking shed was bending towards us, the wind beating against the backside of it unrelentingly. I made my way to Em with a halter, and once getting it on her, I realized she wasn’t choking at all, but was just terrified. The tarp which had once protected her was wrapped around her legs, whipping her madly and she had no sanctuary left to turn to. Bruno accompanied me as I led her through the large corrals and out to the old orchard where she and Dolly used to take cover. She ran to the back corner, seeming to find solace there. There is no longer any fence down the side of the orchard but I didn’t think she would be going anyplace, anytime soon. I cried a little for her, knowing how scared and lonesome she felt without Dolly here. As I returned, Randyman had shown up and together we tried to brace up the heavy panels that threatened to blow down and crush anything in their path. It took two of us to close the door after opening it to see if it would let off some of the pressure. It didn’t. We came back to the house, bringing the dogs in with us, as there was nothing they could do out there and having more animals in danger of being hit with flying debris just didn’t make much sense. Surprisingly, we never lost power. Randyman said it was gusting 70-80 mph.

I prayed for Emma and the animals and we settled down for the night, with popcorn, 4 big dogs in the house, and the wind howling outside.

I woke up at midnite to a sudden stillness. The wind had finally spent its fury. I let the dogs out and donning a sweatshirt and flashlight went to the orchard to find Em. I moved her into the big hay corral where she could safely spend the rest of the night, and let the dogs patrol. All the sheep seemed fine, as did the goats. Grateful for no injuries and minimum damage I headed back to the house.

The sun rose high and the air was crisp with a blue sky. After milking EmmaLou, I put the calves in the hay corral and set about to rebuilding and repairing her little tent shelter. I sandwiched the big tarp between cattle panels which I then wired together so the next time the wind blows, there is nowhere for the tarps to go. Of course, the likely scenerio is that everything will flip over but in a wind as strong as last night's there just isn’t a defense. This will do for normal weather.

I let the goats in with the sheep but Peebody the buck and Ray the Ram got into a terrible tussle and as Peebody has horns, he was not just butting, but hooking. I got ahold of his horns and front legs and with his front legs on either side of me, I towed him back to the goat pen alone. Ray felt the two doe goats were intruders and has been valiantly defending his little flock from them. They are fairly evenly matched weight wise, all weighing about 150 lb each so I let them be. As they butted heads at the top of the pasture, the pups were down with the ewes and lambs by the Octopus tree. I looked up and saw one of the visitor’s dogs in the pasture by the corral. Bruno and Cletus saw it too. They took off running and stopped, about 100 ft apart and 100 ft short of it. There was no way it was going to be able to get past them to the sheep. The dog paid little attention to them, so they advanced again, this time with a warning bark. This time the dog looked at them. Not seeming to be of a disposition to leave, they charged the dog a third time and the dog turned tail and ran, taking the shortest route back into the horse corral. The pups stopped where they were, satisfied that justice had been served and after checking the area where the dog had been thoroughly, they went back to the sheep. I hugged them and told them how proud I was of them, as they not only removed the intruder, but they didn’t  use anymore force than was necessary. They ramped it up each time they had to, but they used good discretion. I laid down in the sun, with my arms around Bruno, and I thought I felt Cletus laying on the other side of me. Now and then he would nuzzle me, but I was too weary to roll over yet. Finally, I turned my head and saw that it wasn’t Cletus at all, but Rosemary. She had snuggled up with us and stretched her neck out in ecstasy as I scratched her under the chin.

I looked up to see Randyman at the fence. He was laughing at the antics of Ray and the goats. Prissy, the evil doe, bit Ray and came up with a mouth full of wool. That’s what she gets for biting a hair sheep, it comes out!!

We headed back to the house with Rosemary at our heels and I made her a bottle while Randyman made lunch.

Afterwards, Rosemary followed us back out to the corral and Randy put all the huge gates back where they had been before the wind. He left and I went to check on Emma, who was laying down, sunning herself. She’s been very itchy lately, so I found a stiff brush, and laying with her, scratched her neck and chin for her. She lolled her head with her eyes closed and then wrapped her neck back around me as if to show her appreciation.

It was really my pleasure.

It always seems so serene after a storm. 

I think the rest of the day, we will all just rest in the quiet warmth of the sun, under the watchful eye of our Protector.

It snowed here last week. Or maybe it was the week before. It’s hard to remember as one day runs into another here. There are no real weekends to mark the days by so I often lose track. Anyway, it snowed one day.

Cider sat outside the milk room waiting for me and he got snowed on.

Emma came out of her tent and got snowed on.

The next morning was sunny again and all the snow had melted.




The 'boys' came and waited for me to finish milking and escort me back to the house.










After milking, I took the milk can into the house and strained the milk into jars. I then put them outside in the ice chest with ice water to quickly cool them. Then I tried to find room in the refrigerator for another 3 gallons of milk.

Then we all took a nap.

After a long and productive day, EmmaLou wanted to eat some dinner.

Bruno also wanted dinner.

 Randy and I had an outrageously delicious dinner. Best I ever tasted. Much better than crackers.

And I discovered that if you use homemade butter to make sugar cookies, and cut them out with a heart shaped cookie cutter....

...they look like "butt-crack" cookies. If I knew any plumbers, I would make more to hang them on his tree. As it is, I guess we will just have to eat them.

Taking the "Punk" out of Punkin Pie

Food! What a topic to write about. I hope this doesn't cause anyone to lose their appetite. It's that time of year again and as I rock back on my porch and reminisce, it makes me think of the many pumpkin pies I have known, and how they have affected my life. Lets take a little trip down memory lane, shall we?

My earliest clear memory of actually making a pumpkin pie, was at my mother's. She had some of those really nifty, decorative pie plates with the nice picture and the recipe written right on the bottom, as part of the ceramic glaze. You know the ones I am talking about.

Mom happily went about making her picture perfect crust, whistling and humming and being all 'homey' as we were going to do this together. She took extra special care to make the edges especially beautiful, as this was Thanksgiving and therefore it deserved special effort. The next 15 minutes found her fussing back and forth, no longer humming OR whistling...but muttering to herself, and clearly frustrated. I could no longer stand the suspense and asked her what was wrong. She responded,

"I CANNOT find that darn recipe!!!Where ON EARTH did i put it???"

She was not happy with my obvious response and I inherited the pie plate. We had store bought pie that year.

Fast forward and you will see me in my own kitchen, cooking with my two young boys. 

"We are going to have a great time cooking Thanksgiving dinner together this year. What fun! What togetherness! What memories!"
I multi-task around the kitchen handling everything else, as I talk them thru how to make dessert. I am pretty sure it was Cody's job to put the sugar in the pie. His older brother Matt, agrees with me on this. What Cody did instead, is beyond me, but suffice it to say, that neither dogs, nor chickens will eat a pumpkin pie with no sugar...and your family sure as heck won't either!!

A year goes by. Another pumpkin pie sits on the table, center stage. We are pressuring Cody to eat his vegetables. He doesn't like vegetables, so we inform him that yes, indeed, he DOES like vegetables, because pumpkin is in fact, a squash!! Cody stops eating pumpkin pie for several years.

Time flies by, the boys have grown up and moved out on their own, but are coming for dinner. Cody sends me a recipe and asks me to PLEASE make this "2 layer, No-bake Pumpkin Pie" made with cream cheese and jello pudding....it has to be good cuz Bill Cosby is on the ad with it! He is willing to give squash another try, so out of great affection for my son, and concern for his health and well being, I assemble the pie and set it in the fridge overnite.

Dinner goes off without a hitch, and I happily bring out the two pies I have made. My own favorite homemade Dutch Apple, and Cody's choice, Bill Cosby's No-bake Pumpkin Pie.
Cody graciously volunteers to cut and serve, as I go about getting the whipping cream. I hear him proclaim

"MOM! You could make a fortune selling this pie!"

I beam happily, and with my best Betty Crocker-Marie Callendar-Martha Stewart toothy grin, I ask him

"It's that good?"

I step around the corner to see the entire family huddled over the pie plate...as I look on in horror, the uncut portion of the pie oozes forward and fills in the space recently vacated by the piece that Cody just removed.

"No, its not! But you'd never have to make another one, because it grows back!"

And that, boys and girls, is how we began the tradition of having Cheesecake at our holiday table.

The Victor

I had somewhat of a rough start this morning. Having a condition that often prevents me from sleeping, I had spent most of the night sitting up in the living room. Once I was finally able to sleep, I returned to the bedroom to find my spot had been taken. I begged and cajoled to no avail, so I crawled to the center of the bed and slept the next 2 hours until morning.

As we all know, chores can become a little more challenging in the winter.

What is interesting in my case is that they are the same chores I had in the summer, although there is a slight difference. I have to hand feed the critters now, as the pasture is kaput.

The engaging personalities of our animals make what should be a relatively simple task, extremely complicated. In other words, they are very greedy.

Dolly, the senior Jersey cow, injured her leg. We aren’t sure what happened but the vet thinks she tore the cartilege in her hock. I suspect fat little EmmaLou had something to do with it, as she likes to motor around bucking and kicking at everyone and everything, in the blush of her youth. I am hoping that calving next summer will encourage her to behave a little more ladylike and suitable for a milk cow.

Dolly and Emma must now be confined to the small pasture by our house, which previously was ruled by the goats and sheep, who have been evicted to the large corral and the big 20 acre pasture, which is known as the “Sheep pasture” but actually is full of 350 of the smallest weaner calves.

There are more pastures on this ranch than I can count. The names of them have persevered throughout generations, and can be confusing. The “Horse pasture” is full of willows and brush, and houses nothing but quail and pheasant. The “Cornfield” is where the horses live. The “Barn Pasture” is a very large pasture below the Cornfield, the “Elk Fields” no longer have elk, and the “Airport Field” would be suicide to land in. I could go on and on, as this is 250,000 acres, but I think I have made my point.

Handfeeding the critters is risky, to say the least. The 2 orphan calves equal me in weight, and tend to push on both sides of me as I fight my way to the bottle hangers to feed them. This is preferable to them sucking off one of my kneecaps, I suppose. The goats and sheep like to play interference, and block my way with their bodies, while stepping on my feet, and successfully knocking any armloads of hay or buckets of grain out of my arms. I have outsmarted them. We have parked our large stock trailer in the corral, and hidden hay in the front of it. I jump in the back and close the door behind me. I then open the middle door to access the hay and I squeeze a little out the slat on the sides. The sheep and goats race around and around the trailer in circles, desperate to the the first at the 'table' and not knowing which side I will squeeze the hay through. It always gives me a chuckle. After they all dive into the handful I tossed them, I run and throw a big flake into the tub behind the trailer and make good my escape.

I collect the calf bottles and head to the house. I then grab the cow buckets off of the back porch and put Dolly and Emma’s grain in them.

This is where it gets tricky.

I have to carry the buckets out to where the 800 lb bale of hay sits. I set them on top of it, and pitchfork some hay thru the pipe panel to where Dolly and Emma wait impatiently. I then must wrestle a leadrope onto Emma’s halter and drag her around the corner to a small feeder. After tying her securely, I then put Dolly’s bucket out for her, and lastly pour Emma’s bit of grain into the feeder. This prevents Emma from stealing her mothers grain, and keeps Dolly from having to move so much on her injured leg.

At some point, I will have to drive the old feed truck for Randyman, as he throws 2400 lb of oat hay off the back for the calves in the pasture. This is always an exciting endeavor, as we never know if I will get stuck in a ditch…kill the battery, or just pop the clutch several times, knocking him off the flatbed. Life on a ranch holds so much excitement and suspense.

One of the calves is, sadly, dying, likely from pneumonia. We have actually had a very good year, as we have only lost 2 out of the 350 that were isolated for extra care. That is out of the 4000 calves that were born on the ranch this year.

The Maremma pups have taken charge of the 350, and do perimeter checks and nose counts daily. They are very fond of the calves, but, as guardian dogs, they would instinctively eat a dead one, (or try their best to do so) in order to avoid the carcass attracting predators. They are all about protection, and predator control. I went to bring them in so the cowboys could dispose of the calf. Guardian dogs historically find anything messing with their charges objectionable, so I wanted to make sure they were not in the way.

I hollered and yelled and searched, and finally spotted them at the bottom of the pasture. I called their names once more, and they headed my way. Being Livestock Guardian Dogs, they are self directed, so of course, were in no big hurry to get to me, so a little horseplay was in order on the trip. After knocking each other over several times, they finally arrived. As I was leading them back to the house, Cletus took a right hand turn and started counting calves again. No amount of coaxing would bring them back my direction. Clearly, he was on a mission.

I saw both pups stop on the other side of a group of calves and peer intently at the ground. Clearly their protective instinct had kicked into high gear. Something dangerous and daring was about to take place. The suspense was building and I was about to scream.
Suddenly, they went into action. Dirt was flying, both dogs were deadly serious and Cletus pounced, all 100 lb of him and came up with a quarter sized gopher in his mouth.

I am not sure a gopher falls into the predator category, but you would not convince Cletus of this. He pranced along, his chest puffed out and the plume of his tail held high, convinced that he was a vicious killer. He glanced across the field of calves, satisfied in the knowledge he had certainly saved them from a gruesome death. He climbed up on a high spot to survey the rest of his kingdom. 

Bruno followed me back to the house, leaving the great, and semi-white hunter to savor his victory.

Country Folk

Farm Folk

Last spring we purchased 2 Nubian Does (goats for those who are not familiar) and were told they “might” be bred. With 150-day gestation, we should have been “goat poor” by August, but the girls were still as slender as runway models, so I went to work looking for a suitable buck, or ‘billygoat’. I don’t know ‘who’ Billy was, but it’s my guess he had less than impressive hygiene”.

Call after call failed to produce the desired ‘y’ chromosome goat. One lady suggested a few more places I could call, and both had large goat operations.

My first call was never returned, but the second number, I caught someone at home. I inquired about purchasing a buck and she said yes, she did have a few for $150. She asked how many does we had, and I told her…two.

Her response was

“well, that’s just silly to buy a buck for just two does.”

I explained we lived 2 hours from town and she said

“well, why don’t you just borrow one, and bring him back when you are done? What do you want? A meat goat, dairy? Oh, you can decide which one you want to take when you get here. We’ll be gone in the morning loading sheep, but we’ll be back by noon…sure, I can hold back a couple of ewes for you.”

We had yet to meet this woman!!

We found their ranch, introduced ourselves at the appointed time and she recommended an Oberhasli buck and had two nice ewes for us to buy. She and her husband loaded them in our trailer and we were on our way.

Upon arriving home, we put the sheep and goats in a stall next to Cletus, who was recovering from his 5-month birthday surprise…a neutering.

The 100-year old barn is divided into 3 sections. The center, which is about 2/3 of the space, contains the tack closets and feed bunks for the horses that are brought in for saddling. The right side of the barn has ‘sheep stalls’ and the left is storage.

Buck goats have an aroma that is powerful beyond description and only pleasant if you are a she-goat in heat. The next morning, Jakes perfume had permeated the entire barn. Cowboys were gagging and retching next door and asking

 “What have you GOT in there? Something DEAD??”

Later that day, Jake, his harem, the sheep and the pups were relocated to the big pasture behind our place, with the milk cows.

I remained ever vigilant, as cougars, bobcats and coyotes previously wiped out 80% of the boss’ 200 lambs in one season, discouraging them from raising any more. That is the reason we got the Maremma pups, to protect them, but they are still just pups, and not ready to take on predators completely yet. In spite of the solid fencing on our side, and the size and scope of the pasture, I always knew where they all were, because we could smell Jake.

No bobcats, coyotes or cougars have showed up this year. Not sure if it was because of the pups, or if they are as disgusted by Jake’s aroma as we are.

After all the romancing had taken place, and we were relatively sure the goats were bred, we drove the 2 ½ hours back to the ladies ranch to return her goat.

I gave her a bar of homemade soap as a small token of our appreciation, and we had a great conversation about soap making. She mentioned they had to leave and haul a ram to Vale. I asked if she knew of anyone with a ram for sale, that I could breed to the two sheep we had purchased from her. Twenty minutes later, there was a beautiful ram in our trailer and she told us

“Be sure to keep him thru at least 2 cycles to make sure they are bred. Sometimes these sheep will fool you. And don’t bend over in front of him, keep your eyes on him, if he tries to ram you, you just take a club to him!! I don’t want him getting mean.”

Our relationship was now an accumulated 45 minutes, if you include the phone call.

As we pulled out, she said

“I’m sure sorry we have to rush off like this, but we have a 4 hour drive to pick up hay and drop off the other ram. Maybe when you bring him back, we can sit and have some coffee and visit!”

I just love country folk!