ranch adventures – Page 4

Slow as Molasses

I have officially declared myself unfit as a chicken mama.

Someone call CPS. No, not Child Protective Services, ring up Chicken Protective Services.

I lost another chicky. I don’t know the cause of death, I contribute it to Mother Nature. Beneath my electrical pole, it is beginning to look something like a chicken cemetery.

Two down, Fifteen to go. And there may be more. I have one who seems to be having seizures. Every so often it begins peeping very loudly, flops over, and twitches its head and feet for about 20 seconds. I don’t know what to do when this happens. I don’t think I can fit a spoon in its beak.

I have another I’m very concerned about. It’s not eating or drinking much. Nor does it socialize, it just stands in the corner and stares at the box.

Frankly, if any of them make it long enough to lay an egg, it’ll be a miracle.

I don’t understand why my chicken flock isn’t stronger. I’ve been taking very excellent care of them. I make sure their temperature is just right, I give them plenty of food, fresh straw, and water.

However, I can pretty much bet that I won’t be winning the “chicken caretaker of the year” award. Let me tell you why. Yesterday I awoke and the chicks were happy, healthy, and rambunctious. They only had tissue paper lining their box for the first day (as per the instructions). Day two suggested giving them some sort of litter; straw, hay, big pine shavings, but not anything too small like sand or wood shavings, as they might eat it and mess up their digestive systems.

I got some hay from a big round hay bale out in the field. I picked each of the little chicks up, counting as I went, and set them in a temporary box to get them out of the way. I laid some fresh hay in their permanent box, then picked them up, once again counting each of them, and placed them back one by one on their new, cozy, straw bedding. Then I gave them a feeder filled with chicken starter feed.

I went into the kitchen, heated their water to a pleasant 98 degrees on the stove (as per instructions), and filled their waterer (pictured below).

I checked on them a few more times throughout the day, then I left to come into town (spoken like a true country girl) to take care of some business. I returned home around four or five in the afternoon and discovered the dead little black chick. I was distraught. My husband pulled in the drive and I met him with the bad news. He buried my little chicky for me.

After the funeral we were just sitting around the box watching the little chicks. I have a couple of little stools that set next to the box and my butt has almost become permanently affixed.

I received 17 chickens and two have died so I am down to 15. Sitting around the box, I did a quick headcount. I counted 14. I counted again, and again got 14. The little boogers are running all around the box, so they are difficult to count. I announced to J-Dub there were only 14, he counted and said, “No there’s 15.” I mentally counted again. Still 14.

“Jason, I’m only getting 14.” He counted again and this time, he too got 14.

“There’s a chicken missing!” I exclaimed.

“Well it can’t be far,” he answered.

Just like a mama whose lost a kid at The Walmarts, thoughts began racing through my mind.

Maybe it flew somewhere? I looked around the room. No chick, chick here. Maybe I left it in the other box and forgot about it? I checked the box. No chick, chick there.

J-Dub says, “Maybe you miscounted when you first got them.” I knew I hadn’t. And then the dreaded thought occurred to me. What if I squashed her underneath the waterer when I set it in the box? I carefully lifted the waterer and peeked beneath, expecting to find another dead chicken, but instead out wobbled a little black chick, hungrier and thirstier than ever. She had been underneath the waterer all day long. Fortunately, it didn’t set flush to the floor, and there was a tiny little space where she was crouched. But the poor little thing just isn’t the same. It’s easily recognizable by its spraddled legs. I think the poor thing must have been in the “splits” position all day and now her legs are very wide-spread. She also doesn’t have very good balance and wobbles around like a little drunk man. Even when she’s standing still, she’s weaving.

We decided if she wasn’t slow in the head before that incident, she is slow now, possibly even retarded.

So Ashy named her Molasses. Slow as Molasses.

She’s a tough one, that’s for sure.

Me? I feel awful. I’m relieved she survived.

So far.

Oh Happy Day

I received a phone call this morning at 6:40 from the United States Postal Service informing me that I had a package to pick up as soon as possible.

I jumped in the shower, threw on my clothes, and rushed off without a bit of make-up.

Yes, my friends, the day has finally arrived. The day I have longed for, anxiously crossing off calendar dates, to arrive.

Let’s open the box together!

I wish you could’ve heard the dozens of sweet little peeps that were escaping during the transport to my house.

There they are. Sweet little baby chicks. And one with chicken dookie on his back.

Unlike human babies, these little darlings came with instructions!

They shouldn’t be handled for the first 24 hours.

They need a box with water and a heat lamp. The temperature needs to be about 98 degrees.

You must take each bird and dip its beak in the water so they can begin drinking. Also, make sure the water is 98 degrees.

It does them some good to have a little sugar in their water, and to chop up a couple of boiled eggs to give them a strong start. Boy, did they like those boiled eggs!

You just need to sprinkle their feed in the box, so they can practice pecking for the first day, later they’ll learn to eat from the trough.

They’ve already grown so much today, I know they’ve gained at least 2 ounces each!

Also included in the instructions, way down at the bottom, was the stuff everyone forgets to mention about chicks, like: how to wipe pasty poop that gets stuck on their butt, and what to do when they pull their feathers out and start bleeding, how to prevent the chicks from pecking one another, and as a last resort for pecking how to cut part of their beaks off!! I will not be doing that. These chicks will surely behave.

So dear reader, this is my first chicken post. I say that because I’m sure it will not be my last.

Happy pecking!

A Rare Horse; A Rare Friend

My husband’s horse was born on May 5th. That’s how he received the name Cinco. A horse with a sweeter disposition could not be found. As soon as he saw you, he was lumbering your way to nudge and beg for attention. My husband sometimes got aggravated with him when trying to work. “He’s always right in my hip pocket, ” he occasionally complained.

As fitting as his name, Cinco only lived five years. He got sick with an upper respiratory infection. J-Dub took him to the vet, and they gave him some medicine. He began to pep up. Then two days later, I drove out to our place to find Cinco laying down. Now, I admit I don’t know much about horses, but one thing I know is they rarely lay down. He wasn’t just resting, he was slowly rolling from side to side. I walked closer to look at him, and his eyes had a look of illness to them. I felt very uneasy, but not wanting to be the over-cautious wife who freaks out at a rolling horse, I decided to watch him a while. He got up slowly, took about 5 steps, and then was back on the ground rolling. I decided something truly must be wrong. I called J-Dub immediately. He was far away in another county, so he called his friend Matt to drive out to check on him.

In the meantime, Cinco would rise very slowly onto his knees with his hind legs in the air, attempting to get up. Sometimes he would make it, and sometimes he would lay back down. When he did manage to struggle to his feet, he would walk for a short way, then lay down and begin rolling. My husband said it sounded like he was trying to colic. I didn’t know what that meant. Matt arrived and when he saw him, he ran to him, slapped his butt and pushed on him, forced him to get up. He put a halter on him and began walking him around. Matt explained that when a horse colics, they get a terrible stomach-ache, so they lay down and begin to roll to try to relieve the pain. That causes their intestines to twist, and they die. The best thing to do is make them walk.

As Matt walked Cinco all around the place, I paced inside the house. I felt helpless. Shortly after, the vet arrived. She listened to Cinco’s stomach, then inserted a tube down his throat, and began pumping his stomach. She removed the tube and drained all this liquid onto the ground, and then reinserted it again for another round. This continued for a very long time. The vet then decided to take him into the clinic and keep him overnight. Rabies was suspected, and possibly West Nile Virus.

The next morning Cinco wasn’t any better. They continued observing and treating him throughout that day and the night, but he died there in the vet’s clinic by morning.

Because the only way rabies can be detected is through a post-mortem exam, and the only way to test is to send an animal’s head into a laboratory, my husband had to drive to the vet’s to pick up his dead, headless horse and bury him. It was a sad day. I wish I could have helped him, but there wasn’t any help I could give except my words of sympathy.

The results for rabies came back negative. The cause of death was never known.

My husband has been without a horse since November until yesterday when his friend Shawn gave him a horse, and a dang nice one at that.

Here’s Shawn hamming it up as usual.

This new horse goes by the name Freak because of his rarity. He is a palamino roan.

Palamino is a yellow color, and roan refers to little white speckles.

Right now he is roaned from his middle to the back, but in the summer he roans all over.

He reminds me of a Californian surfer with his bleached blonde mane.

What a horse!

But more importantly, what a friend!

My husband and I are blessed beyond words to have a friend in Shawn who sees a need and fills it.

Thank you Shawn!

So Happy Together!

My cowboy husband J-Dub needed to move some cows on Saturday. They had grazed down a pasture pretty well and needed some greener grass. You know, over on the other side. It is typically a rather large job for one cowboy alone to move 90 cows from one pasture to another, so he moved most of them with the feed wagon, aka the cake wagon, aka the feed truck. Cows recognize the Chevy that feeds them and once trained they most of them will follow the feed truck from here to kingdom come. Or at least into the next pasture. He later planned to get horseback to go pick up the few stragglers, the loners, the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

It is not uncommon for a mama cow to leave her baby calf to come feed. J-Dub noticed this one mama cow in particular who approached the gate, almost stepped over the threshold, almost crossed into the Promised Land of Greener Pastures, but then thought better of it and turned to go find her calf that she had abandoned for the buffet line. J-Dub made sure to leave the gate open so once they paired up, they could return to the rest of the herd.

Side note: While my husband was telling me this story, I just couldn’t understand it. It has been ingrained into my brain as a cowboy’s wife to ALWAYS CLOSE THE GATE! I just couldn’t understand why in the Sam Hill he would leave a gate open and allow all those cows that he just moved to return to the pasture he wanted them out of. But then he oh-so-very-patiently explained to me in his most gentle, most soft-spoken, sweetest voice that they had grazed the old pasture down and the grass was better in the new pasture. And of course any cowboy’s wife worth her weight in Wranglers would know that cows will stay in the pasture with the better grass. Hence, I hang my head in shame.

All the moving of cows here and yon happened on Saturday. On Monday, he noticed the same mama cow wandering aimlessly, with a tight bag (a sign that her baby had not nursed recently) through the grazed pasture looking for something she’d lost. And it wasn’t her ear tag she was looking for. She and her baby, unequipped with GPS, still had not found one another. It had been 2 days. A baby will typically return to the last place it nursed, and it’s mother will find it there. But this baby must’ve gotten a wild hair and ventured farther than the street lamp. J-Dub drove around the pasture, looking for the baby without any success. Needing to get on to other duties, he had no choice but to leave.

Today when he checked on the cows, the situation was the same. A mama with no baby. A baby with no mama. After 3 nights without the protection of its mother from the Big Bad Coyotes that roam freely, without the warmth and nourishment of its mother’s milk, the likelihood of the calf surviving was bleak.

But alas, I will not tell a tale without a happy ending. Not today anyway.

J-Dub decided he would get horseback and go to the far end of the pasture. He began bawling like a little baby calf. This was an act of trickery so the mother cow would think it was her baby bawling instead and follow. It worked. She followed J-Dub over to the far end of the pasture where lo and behold, a small miracle occurred and the baby calf was found alive. They were reunited and it felt so good.

The calf’s little belly is full, the mama’s bag is no longer engorged, the gate is closed and all is well.

Breaking Ice

I have a new BFF today.

He’s my good pal.

My buddy.

My friend.

He’s a little furry.

And maybe a little smelly.

But I don’t mind at all. Especially today, when he doesn’t see his shadow.

I’m ready for an early spring.

Here’s some pictures of our world.

Yesterday it was 5° at 5:30 p.m. with 30 mph winds. After you do all that meteorological mumbo jumbo that comes out to equal -15 below zero wind chill.

Notice all the wind breaks out here on the high plains.

The wind slices you like a knife.

Coming down the road, you can see that the cows are thirsty. Instead of getting down into the breaks out of the brutal wind, they are huddled around the drinking tub.

But this is a first.

My husband J-Dub has seen many cows, and many drinking tubs, but has never seen a cow standing on top of a drinking tank before. Frozen solid.

It’s a wonder she didn’t fall through. She weighs approximately 750 pounds.

When I stood on it to cross over into the other pasture to chase a rolling black Stetson, it began to crack under my weight.

Which means I out-weigh a cow.

Probably by 100 pounds.

Not a happy thought.

It’s a real wonder I didn’t fall through. I carefully held onto the post and tiptoed on the edge.

J-Dub had to break the ice for them to get a drink. If you wonder how he does that, it’s probably how you imagine.

With his brute strength!

And an ax.

This is hard work, I don’t care who you are.

Add the bitter temperature, this isn’t even close to being fun.

It’s tough being a cow.

And tougher being a cowboy.

Today my sweet husband had to break ice on 18 different drinking tubs across the panhandle of Texas.

Did you enjoy your hamburger today?

Be sure and thank a cowboy.

Wicked wind

The weather today is no joke.
I went with J-dub to go feed a little. We came upon a herd of yearlings huddled around a water tank attempting to drink from the frozen tank.

J-dub grabbed an ax and began chopping ice. I got out to snap a couple of pics and before I knew it, my legs about fell off due to frostbite.

The wind whistled and roared across the great plains and cut us to the bone. Then it decided to get smart and whipped J-dubs hat right off his head and landed it on the other side of the fence.

Being the helpful hand that I am, I attempted to open the gate, but to no avail. So as my hard working, hatless husband swung his ax and shards and chunks of ice flew and splattered, I, with much trepidation walked across the frozen drinking tub into the other pasture to retrieve his hat.

Just as I was upon it, that wench of a wind decided to have some fun with me, and snatched the hat and ran farther away.

I’m sure it was quite a sight. A black cowboy hat tumbling across the pasture with a dumb ninny chasing it.

It would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been so dangerous. Even bundled up and running as fast as I could in snow boots, it didn’t take me long to realize how fearful and dangerous a winter storm with a 14 degrees below zero wind chill can be.

But now we’re home, safe and sound, with hat on head, or at least on a hook, fixin to chow down on some beans and cornbread, and counting our blessings.

Stay blessed and warm.

Got No Power Windows

Let me tell you about my yesterday.

We had to do some work on the chicken coop, so I needed my new, old truck to help haul some old wood for me. We tore down one side of the chicken coop that was just crappy old particle board hammered together.

We’re replacing it with some rustic looking wide planks that are in a pile of rubble from a torn down structure.

So me and my niece Ash loaded up in the truck to gather the planks and drive them to the coop. This was her first time to see this old heap of metal and as soon as she climbed in, one of the first things she exclaimed was how she loved those kind of windows. You know the kind. The crank handle kind.

It took some work to get the truck running. But once it did, it only died 3 times. But then it got warmed up, and it was ready to go. If only I could get it to go, that is.

Now I’ve driven a stick shift in my time, and once I re-introduce myself to the gears I can normally do just fine. So I put this truck in first, it jerked forward a couple times, and then died. My second attempt in first gear was a repeat of the previous failure. I then attempted to start off in second gear, and it jerked and died. I eased off the clutch more carefully, it still died. I tried and tried and could not for the life of me figure out why I couldn’t get this truck to go without dying. I studied the gear shift again.

I wasn’t really sure what L stood for, I don’t recall ever seeing it on a gear shift before. Ash assured me that it probably stood for Launch, so I slammed it into L, and sure enough that must be what it stands for ’cause away we went.

We gathered the boards up.

Then pulled all the nails out.

Then we took a drive in the truck. We rolled, and I do mean literally rolled, our windows down. We even pushed open that little triangle window that is next to the big window and let the wind blow through out hair as we chugged down the dusty country lane.

My old truck reminds me of a song that my daddy likes. It’s called Power Windows.

Louis drives a beat up ’69 Dart.
Swears it’s the statue of Mary that keeps the car from falling apart.
With Gracie right beside him sittin’ closer than a smile.
She’s got her head on his shoulder.
He loves to drive and hold her.

He got no power windows. Got no power brakes.
He ain’t got no power nothin’ but he got what it takes.
He’s got Gracie’s arm around him and a smile on his face.
He’s got the power of love.

That night, as I was saying good night to Ash, she remarked that it was the most awesome day ever. The most awesome day ever? How strange. We didn’t do anything but work. So I asked her what made it so awesome.

Her response made me smile. She said just being out at the place, tearing down the chicken coop, driving the truck, and having family fun.

It made me realize that we didn’t spend any money.

We didn’t see anything fancy.

We didn’t have the newest, high-tech $300 gadget to entertain us.

We got no power windows even.

Just the two of us, hanging out, enjoying the sunshine, laying on an old wagon gazing at the clouds, telling stories, singing songs, and enjoying each other.

Which reminds me of another song. This one my mama used to sing me when I was just a wee one.

Oh, we ain’t got a barrel of money,
Maybe we’re ragged and funny
But we’ll travel along
Singing a song
Side by side.

Don’t know what’s comin’ tomorrow
Maybe it’s trouble and sorrow
But we’ll travel the road
Sharing our load
Side by side.

Travel the road in our old blue truck with no power windows,

Side by side.

Preg Checking

There comes a time in every cowboy’s life when the question arises as to whether or not a cow is pregnant. But only dudes say pregnant. Real cowboys say bred. For fear of embarrassing my husband, I shall only speak in cowboy lingo for this blog. So try to keep up, okay?

Recently we acquired a cow that was believed to be 8 months bred on August 25th. Cows are pregnant on average 283 days, just like a woman, which meant she should’ve calved (Dude translation: given birth) back in September, October at the latest.

As of December 27th, she still hadn’t calved, nor was she springing heavy (Dude translation: showing any signs). Click here for a visual. So J-Dub questioned if she was even bred at all and thought she was probably open (Dude translation: not pregnant).

Since cows don’t voluntarily lay on a table and put their legs in stirrups or pee on a stick on demand, there’s really only one cost efficient method to determine a cow’s state of pregnancy.

For this method you need a:

1. a cow (for obvious reasons)

2. a plastic sleeve (for obvious reasons to be seen)

3. lubrication (for obvious reasons)

4. one tough cowboy (for obvious reasons)

Here we see Maybelle looking a bit wary. She knows something is up. She has been penned away from the rest of the cattle. And she’s not liking it one bit.

First, she takes a big ol’ crap.

Then she takes a big ol’ pee. If you’ve never seen a cow pee, there isn’t anything dainty about it. It’s a gusher.

Next J-Dub pens her in a chute.

And prepares himself by putting on a plastic sleeve and squirting some lube in his hand.

He enters the chute at the rear of the cow……

and does exactly what you’re wishing he won’t.

Sticks his hand into her #2 hole. His arm rather.

Right into her poop chute. He feels around a bit, concentrating.

He doesn’t have to go too far until he pokes something in the eyeball.

“Yep, there’s a big ol’ calf in there”

And everyone is all smiles.

Everyone except Maybelle.

Stickhorses and Dustbunnies

After my last great attempt at horse riding, Adventures in Cowboying,
I decided I needed some spurs. Jason said I needed to learn how to ride first.

If you are any kind of a real cowboy, stop reading right here and go rope a goat or something, this will not impress you one iota. But if you are like me, a dude who doesn’t know the difference between a halter and a bridle, continue reading and be impressed.
Be very impressed.

I just want you to know, I have absolutely no business with these. My darling husband, whose desire is to fulfill my every whim, bought these for me, yes even though he knew I had no business with them. That’s just how he is. They’re cheapies. I wouldn’t have known, but he felt the need to tell me. It didn’t damper my enthusiasm.

Cheap or not, they still poke a horse, which I found out after trying them out with the trusty mount, Money.

Wearing these things got this horse’s attention and scared my socks off. As soon as I dismounted, I took those bad boys off with the ninja quickness. Translation: they were removed at an accelarated rate.

On a good note, I found a horse. He’s just perfect for me. Not a bit snorty. And I don’t think he’ll mind my spurs too much.

My other pets are the dust bunnies under the bed.

Just keeping it real,

Angel

Adventures in Cowboying

I went out with my husband Jason yesterday. When I say “out”, I don’t mean on a date. I mean “OUT” in the country, “OUT” away from civilization and Starbucks, “OUT” where men are men and sheep are scared. Well, not quite that far.

Now, you must know that just because I’m married to a cowboy, that does not make me a cowgirl. You know that right? You know that I can’t ride a horse? You know that I can’t rope a steer? You know that my jeans are usually too short to wear with boots?
Okay, as long as we’ve got that straight.
I’ve got this great idea for a book. I’m going to call it Never Blow Bubbles in the Cowpen and Other Lessons From a Dude. The dude being me. The only lesson I’ve learned so far is “never blow bubbles in the cowpen.” In order to bring my idea to fruition, I need more material. So, “OUT” we go.
I knew we were going to get horseback. I told you I can’t ride a horse, but what you may not know is I can’t even get ON a horse. That’s right, I need a boost on the butt.
Here’s my horse. Not my horse, but the one I’m going to bounce around on, because that’s what I do, bounce.

If you think he looks old, that’s because he is. He’s old and safe, the way I like ’em. He goes by the name of Money. I like that too.

Money doesn’t get out much, mostly just grazes in the pasture so he wanted to make sure he looked good.

Do I have anything in my teeth?

Maybe you’d like a closeup of that.

Purty, eh?

After I’m saddled, so begins our adventure. Here’s the plan. We were going to sort off a sick calf and doctor it, then gather six bulls, load them in a trailer, and move them to another pasture. Hmmm…..

I’m a nervous wreck because I am way out of my comfort zone, on top of a horse that needs his teeth cleaned, and my jeans are too short for wearing boots. Jason, the cowboss, sensing my angst, consoles my with this advice:

“Think like a cow.”

Gotcha! All my anxiety melted right then and there.

We head out and ride into this trap that is holding some calves. Jason finds the sick one by his bloody butthole (sorry, but true). And our job is to try to cut that one out of the herd. Now, you must know that I don’t like Money to get above an amble. We’re good moseying along. I have no desire to trot, lope, or heaven help us– run. So we’re walking behind this herd, pushing them along, (yes, just like the movies).

But cattle seem to get a little bit stirred up at times and they don’t go the way you want them too. But remember, I am thinking like a cow. Nothing could go wrong, right? Well, it doesn’t. We do pretty good. Here’s the little guy getting some medicine. Yes, it’s dark by now, because it took us all day. I think Jason slowed me down a bit.

We gathered the bulls, we attempted to gather the bulls, before dark. Things were going okay, I actually trotted a bit and sort of, kind of got into a rhythm. We almost had these bulls where we wanted them to go, when one 2000 lb bully decided he was ready to fight. There was some pushing, shoving, and headbutting, followed by a small stampede, and then the smaller of the two bulls went airborne, double flipped over the barbed wire fence, and landed in a different pasture. I sat there atop my trusty mount, hands over my eyes, peeking through my fingers as Jason chased down the bull, expletives flying through the pasture. We got him though. That bull didn’t have anything on us.

Needless to say, Jason could’ve done all this by himself in about an hour, but instead brought me along for the experience. And I am home with some shot nerves, a sore saddle, and some real ranch dressing on my boots.