First calf of 2012

Not long after we moved our cattle to their new farm, SS told us a story about her formative memories of cows and calving. Apparently, her father was driving home on a snowy spring day when he spotted a neighbor's newborn calf stranded, shivering in an irrigation ditch. Hoping to extract it, he left little SS in the passenger's seat of his truck and climbed in the pasture to fish the freezing calf out of the water. The mother cow took exception to his altruism and proceeded to bludgeoned him half to death in front of his terrified daughter. For her entire life, this memory has plagued SS, but she was able to overcome it to allow us to house our cattle at her farm.

We assured our friend that her scenario was unlikely to be a problem for us. We have tame cows after all, and May babies. No snow, no attack mommas. Nevertheless, SS is still a bit dodgy about going in the pasture with the bovines, fearing an unsolicited confrontation with one of them.

On May 9th, I got a call from one of the folks who frequents SS's farm informing me that Momma Cow was acting like she was in labor. Contractions, stringy stuff emerging, etc. As I was about an hour away, I texted the Hubby to tell him the news, and he hustled out to find Momma grazing comfortably, with no calf in sight. Hubby  headed into the pasture to look for signs of birth, and quickly discovered the afterbirth...but still no calf. Now turning to Momma Cow for answers, Hubby suddenly recalled SS's calf in the ditch story. Off he marched to the irrigation canal that bordered the cow pasture and found the hot wire that keeps the cattle out of it had been destroyed. Uh oh.

There at the bottom of the canal, was a tiny, very cold newborn calf. His two little front feet were struggling to maintain a foothold on the sheer edge of the canal and he had quite a shiver going. Hubby realized that if he climbed down to grab the baby by himself, he might be stuck as well, so he called the farm friend for help. She held his belt while he hung over the bank of the canal and collected the tyke.

Momma Cow took it in stride, even while Hubby vigorously rubbed the newborn dry. SS soon appeared on the quad and Hubby climbed on the back holding the baby calf, and Momma, now a bit concerned followed closely behind calling to her baby as she walked. Slow and steady, they moved Momma and baby to a new pasture...without a deep canal. Hubby laid little guy in the sun and stepped away to see him hop to his feet and nurse.

You may recall this calf is the one sired by Stenberg Coalition 509 which I blogged about in "Shopping Online for Baby Daddies", and he's our first bull calf. We dubbed the little fella "Buoy" after his aquatic adventure and he is growing and gaining weight well. Thankfully, he has suffered no ill effects from his early struggles, though he remains the only of our cattle to have been baptized.

Shopping online for baby-daddies

Momma

A few months ago, we did the math on our two cows and decided that July would be the perfect time to breed them for the ideal spring baby. In the past, we trucked Momma cow up to her birthplace and allowed her to mingle with the boys for a few months, and low and behold, she would come home pregnant. This year, since we almost have a "herd" of cows, we decided to look into Artificial Insemination.  

Daisy

I'm a relentless internet researcher. My hubby thinks I need a 12 step program for it. I admit, I can get a little compulsive about researching a topic, be it finding a fridge on craigslist or hunting down zoning codes for our property rights debate with the Town, but for me, opening the google IV and letting loose the stream of information straight into my veins quells my deep-seated fear of being underprepared. So, it's a character defect that I'm working on. In any case, it was with this same manic sense of anticipation that I delved into the world of breeding cattle. After learning the process of injecting the cows with Lutalyse to synchronize cycles, and how to recognize the resulting signs of estrus, it was time to research the final step of the process...semen.

I must say that it was with a fair bit of apprehension that I typed such a word into the google search bar, as I half expected  tens of thousands of pop-up windows to appear containing sweaty undulating man flesh in it's various seedy forms, but thank the good Lord, my fears were not realized. To my great surprise, bull semen is relatively easy to shop for online. I plugged away learning how to read an EPD Production data chart, and prioritized which feature was most important to our family.

For us, it's all about docility, which is directly related to ease of calving, as it turns out, and also affects tenderness...I guess that all makes sense. Mellow animals are that way from the womb, and remain so until butcher day when they are found soft, supple and tender. And that's the way we like them. Next on the priority list was small calves that are quick gainers. Momma cow is a veteran calver, but Daisy is still a rookie. And since we're also amateurs, we'd rather cut our risk exposure and give the girls the very best chance at a safe and easy calving experience that requires minimal intervention from us. So, without further ado, I'd like to introduce you to our girls new...uh...partners.

The first is Momma's new fella, black Angus bull, Stenberg Coalition 509. Known for his extremely docile temperament, easy calving, and low birth weight calves that gain at incredible rates to be top performers across the board. The notes claim that he's perfect for a herd on a grass program...which is what we're all about.

Daisy and Oreo

The next one was trickier. Daisy is a Hereford, but the hubby wanted wanted to breed her to an Angus for their bigger frames and excellent beef. Her current calf, Oreo is by a black Angus bull and she was a monster at birth. Daisy was so massive in her last weeks, in fact, that we were afraid she was going to have twins! So it's critical that Daisy get a boyfriend with proven track record of small babies that are easy to calf. Little Oreo is pretty cute with her black body and white face, but just for kicks, I searched the Red Angus bulls, because I like the idea of our girls' calves matching them. I came across this handsome fellow: LMG Gills Custer 1580 and I think he'll be perfect.

So now, we wait. Wait for the graduate student intern to call us and set up the time to come out and give the girls their Lutalyse shots, and then the semen order gets placed, and 3-5 days after the shots...conception! At least that's the plan. We will keep you posted on our progress.

Birth and restoration

As you know, the last month and a half have been pretty rough, between losing our chickens, and being told to get rid of our cows. But God is an awesome restorer of peace. Monday, we presented our case for keeping our cows to the Town and by Wednesday, the Town had received so much mail from folks supporting our cause that the Town agreed to begin revising its livestock code. Following our success, it started to rain, and continued to rain for two straight days. Somehow, it seemed to symbolize a fresh start, and it brought with it some new arrivals to our farm.

Little Oreo was born May 11th in the pouring rain to first time momma, Daisy the Hereford. We obtained Daisy from a friend just 4 weeks before receiving the notice from the Town banning livestock. At time of purchase, we agreed for Daisy to stay at her home until she had her calf, as our friend's son was desperate to see her calf born. It was his success showing the cow in 4-H that had earned Daisy the breeding that resulted in Oreo.

Our new heifer is a big girl with a voracious appetite. As with many first moms, it is taking Daisy some time to get used to the concept that a wallop to the udder by a hungry headbutting calf is the universal signal to share her milk, but they're both starting to get the hang of things.

In addition to the cows, we have started to restore the chicken population. Today we added six 9-week-old pullets and five 2-week-old broilers to the flock, bringing our flock total to 15. I still struggle with the pain of losing all of our chicks, and had a twinge of sadness today when I realized that our chicks would have started laying this month if they'd survived. But the excitement of new hens, fresh eggs and meat is beginning to overtake the frustration and grief.

The hubby is on coop reinforcement duty this weekend, though we haven't seen the foxes in several weeks. The fact that the dogs have been sleeping through the night (and letting us do the same) makes us hopeful that the foxes have taken up residence elsewhere, but as we learned the hard way, it's better to be prepared than be caught with our pants down and lose everything.

I'll be in the garden getting the rest of the veggies planted this weekend. On the list are cucumbers, zucchini, pumpkins, tomatoes, peppers and corn. Plus, I'll be replanting the bush beans and beets that failed to make an appearance. Everything else in the garden is doing well. We've already harvested radishes and will be eating bok choy very soon.

Despite the setbacks, things are steadily beginning to get back on track, and we are grateful for the bounty God has in store.

Government that prohibits citizens from growing food condems them to death

I came across this headline today in my internet perusal:

US meat and poultry widely contaminated with bacteria including superbugs 

In the past when I read headlines like these, I praised God for giving us the inclination and ability to raise and eat our own food. But now, we're in a battle with the Town to defend that right.

When we purchased our property 9 years ago, we recognized the value of owning land that could feed us. Our priorities have not changed: we don't have a 4000 square foot house in a fancy subdivision, and we can't take vacations to Maui twice a year because of this life we have chosen. But if our economy collapses or all of the commercially available meat is found to be tainted (see article above), we will be able to feed ourselves and our neighbors with what we painstakingly cultivated on our land. 

This is our right, given by God, not just to Americans but to every person in the world...from camel farmers in outer Mongolia to goat herders in Pakistan.

In a previous post I mentioned that we received a letter from the Town demanding that we remove our cattle from our property. Though our 7.44 acre property has housed livestock since before the Town existed, the current administrators are attempting to enforce a 20 year old municipal zoning code that excludes any animal you can eat from its list of approved "domestic large animals."

After we rejected the Town's first demand to relocate our cattle, the Town suggested that we apply for a Conditional Use Grant in order to keep our cows. At a non-refundable cost of $100, it holds no guarantee of being approved and can not be transferred to anyone who buys our property. For our family, the thought of paying a municipality for permission to feed ourselves runs contrary to everything our nation was founded on, and is simply not an option. So, true to form, we will stand firm.

We live in weird times. There are people who want the government to provide them with everything, and who live from disappointment to disappointment, perpetually irritated that they're not getting what they want or what the neighbors have. Then, at the other end of the spectrum, there are people who defy authority to provide anything for them, and struggle with age-old challenges to provide everything from food to clothing for themselves. And finally, there are people in the middle--most of America--who are completely indifferent...typical consumers trying to do their part, content to remain blissfully unaware of the struggle around them. Government, is equally conflicted, wanting the role of parent and provider for all mankind so intently that it often cuts off its suppliers to prove its sovereignty. This is the drama that's playing out here in my town.

Town government is not a Homeowners Association. Homeowners may voluntarily enter into a contract with an HOA and sign over their property rights to that private organization for whatever security it offers in exchange. But municipalities may not operate in this way; they are beholden to the Constitution and obligated to defend the rights of the people they serve. It seems that we have become so used to people telling us what we can and can't do with our private property that we've forgotten that it is our our property to begin with. If the Town wants to decide how our property should best be used, it can buy it from us.

 

Perhaps this latest hurdle is our chance to stamp out tyranny in our own backyard, or perhaps this is a lesson to us all about what happens when government is permitted to run unchecked on the taxpayer's dime. It's time we all remembered that it's not someone else's job to protect fundamental unalienable rights, it's mine and yours.

Surrounded by predators

I awoke yesterday morning to my hubby's breathless statement: "They're all gone."

"What are all gone?" I asked with my eyes still closed.

"The chickens," he reported, "the foxes got them all."

Fox #2 (left of barn) guarding chickens morning after the raid

I sat bold upright, still foggy from sleep, and tried to comprehend the details..."What does 'gone' mean? Did they escape? Are there remnants? How did he know it was the foxes? Does he mean the big chickens or our little hand raised pullets?"

As he filled me in on his grizzly chicken house discovery, I began to sob. I know we raise our own food, so animal death shouldn't bother me, but discovering that our sustenance has been ripped away from us--our time, our money and our tender loving care--by a predator, that, in town, possesses more rights to survival than we do drove me to anguish.

Perhaps, my response was also enhanced by the events of the two days prior to the devastation.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Monday morning, we were awoken by Ruth's hysterical barks. I had been laying in bed, semi-conscious, listening to her woof for about an hour before her barking escalated to a fever pitch. Assuming she was just doing her job of defending the property from marauding foxes, I laid there considering whether to wake hubby to perform a spotlight inspection of the chickens. But the new intensity to her bark woke both of us. Hubby jumped out of bed and opened the blind, and a split second later, grabbed his Glock and the spotlight and headed for the front door.

The headlights he alarmingly saw on our property belonged to the cops. The investigating officer, seeing our spotlight, reversed & headed to the front door. I heard most of his comments to Hubby: "We received a complaint about your dog barking. This is your only warning; the next call we get will result in a ticket."

Hubby interjected to explain she was only trying to scare off the foxes, but the cop cut him off. "Just keep her quiet or I'll have to cite you."

Hubby put the Glock away and came back to bed, but neither of us slept very well for the next 2 hours before the alarm went off.

The day went on as usual, Hubby at work, the kids and I starting a new homeschool unit. On our way back from taking Hubby lunch, I grabbed the mail to find an unexpected letter from the Town, which went something like this:

It has come to the Town's attention that you currently house cattle on your property, which is a violation of the zoning  restrictions cited here...blah, blah, blah...you are required to remove the cattle by April 29th; please call me to inspect the property on or before that date. Sincerely, the new Chief Planner

Momma Cow, Decalf & Blacky on the property last fall

Lack of sleep and anxiety over the potential of a noise disturbance citation still plaguing my guts, I felt my stomach infused with a new dose of adrenaline. "Lose my cows? Our source of meat for the year? They have no right," I ranted in my mind. "Preventing my family from growing its own food is a direct violation of my divine right to life and liberty! Where's the government established to protect my rights? It's been replaced by town bureaucrats who take pleasure in telling residents what they can and cannot do with their own land..." Let's just say it was all down hill from there.

For the next 3 hours until Hubby got home, I sat down and crafted letter after letter in response to the Town, called the other families I knew in town that graze cattle on their land to find out if the Town had ever threatened them, and tried to work out a "Plan B" in case the Town won and we ultimately had to relocate the cows...where would they go? What would it look like to have to drive somewhere to "visit" our livestock?

When Hubby did get home to hear the news, he reacted as I did: incensed, overwhelmed, saturated with the hostility pouring out of the town we've called home for 9 years. Our property predates the existence of the Town by 20 years. It remains one of the last few intact working farms in the town, and was only annexed prior to us purchasing it for the tax revenue it could generate. Our southern property line is the invisible division between "town" and "county" land, though no discernible difference exists between the use of the two properties.

Despite its history here, ever since we've owned the land, we've had to defend every right that came with it. First it was fencing, then water, then access, and now, which animals we're permitted to graze in our pastures.We've been robbed, threatened, attacked, sued, and threatened some more. And yet, we do not retaliate. We lovingly cultivate the ground, enhance the landscape, groom the pastures, and upgrade the house, living on and nurturing every square inch of this land we call home. Our neighbors' property values soar because of their scenic views across our land, but we are ceaselessly surrounded by hungry predators hoping to devour what is rightfully ours. What a relief it will be when this place finally chooses a new owner to fight for it.

So, Wednesday morning, when I was awoken to the news of catastrophic loss in the chicken house, I was inconsolable. "Why does this place want us to die? We are only trying to mind our own business, feed ourselves, teach our kids good values...but they want us to fail, they want us to cry 'uncle'."

 * * * * * * * *

It seems unfair that wild animals, that we knew had targeted our chickens as their preferred food source, could possess more rights in this town than we do. We simply aren't permitted to defend our food from these predators, the dog can't bark to scare it off, we can't shoot it, and we can't trap it. We just have to lie down and wait for the two foxes to dig under the chain link fence and devour 31 out of our 35 birds. Our entire future of homegrown eggs and meat was gone in one morning.

But, today is another day. The foxes, now labeled "nuisance wildlife", are no longer protected, and the traps are in place awaiting their next attempt. Four chickens remain of our flock: 2 aged leghorn hens and 2 Brahma pullets that were being picked on so badly by the other pullets we had to separate them by locking them in a small wire dog kennel. And today, there was one gleaming white egg in a nesting box...proof that at least one layer is back to business as usual, even without its comrades to keep it company.

Our elected town representatives, who I alerted to the bullying we received over the cow issue, have responded by going to bat for us, so I am cautiously optimistic that we may prevail in that area as well. I am doing my best to remember that all of our trials, losses and triumphs are part of God's divine plan for our lives, and I am grateful that we have a grocery store nearby where I can buy eggs, chicken and beef in a pinch.

'Horse crazy' is an incurable disease

A dear friend of mine sent me this video after I was lamenting the transition of my beautiful horse property to a frumpy old livestock farm.

It occurred to me after watching the video that the love of horses, or what I call being Horse Crazy is a lifelong affliction. Some people who claim to "like horses" may not suffer from the disease, but for those of us who would trade anything--dignity, money, friends, normalcy--for the chance to be near one of those creatures, it's a life sentence. It can be expensive, painful, frustrating, infuriating, rewarding, blissful. But the addiction doesn't ever go away. You may be able to hide it for a while, but eventually, it will rear it's forelocked head.

My beloved horse Blacky turned 23 this year. I've had him for 10 of those years. I make time to get on him periodically to lope his arthritic joints around the pasture, but since kids, the old guy and I just haven't been able to do the trail riding we used to live for.

Blacky, taken 10/2010

Did I ever tell you about the time Blacky saved my life? No? Well, it goes something like this...

We were up at elk camp in the Colorado mountains. The horses (Blacky and hubby's mule Red) and I had dropped him off at the top of the mountain to archery hunt on foot. On the way home we spied a lovely little trail and decided to take a stroll, me atop Blacky, Red being ponied behind. Baxter the dog (my first child) trotted along beside us sniffing the trail and marking it as we went.

As we came to the treeline, the trail started getting muddier and muddier. A ways into the trees, a huge pine lay across the trail, but upon closer inspection, I noticed animal tracks heading off the trail to the left on what appeared to be the path around the obstacle. Baxter also investigated the path and, though it was muddy, he successfully navigated around the log.

Following Baxter's lead, I turned Blacky off the trail, dragging Red behind me. A few steps off the main trail, I felt Blacky's front end drop out from beneath me. Believing that he stumbled, I kicked him on, and felt the back half of him drop down too. The rope connecting the horn of my saddle to Red was taught across my leg as the old mule saw what had happened to his buddy and refused to follow. 

Red the mule at elk camp

As I looked around to evaluate my predicament, I observed that I was hip deep in mud, atop my 15.3 hand horse who was struggling to keep his nostrils from filling up with swamp water. The same mud that was thick enough to support my 40 pound dog was only the shell on a bog-like sink hole that Blacky and I were now in.

Blacky never struggled, flailed or panicked. I untied the mule's rope from my saddle horn to free him (and me). I swung my leg over the mud topping my horse's rump. I slithered down, clinging to the saddle while I searched for a foothold in the mud. I found a submerged log to stand on that Blacky was apparently straddling.

I began to pray...it wasn't fancy, but went something like, "OK. What do I do now, God?" Thoughts of leaving to get the truck to drag the horse out, and firing off 3 shots as the universal signal to send help went through my head, but I needed to try to get Blacky out first.

Still grasping Blacky's rein, I spotted some trees growing out of the mud a few yards away. I estimated that the trees must be rooted to something, so there should be solid ground beneath them. Half laying on top of the thickest surface mud, while simultaneously kicking my feet in the soup beneath me, I made my way to the bank. Once there, I began pulling on Blacky's rein to drag him toward me, literally on top of me, as it was the only exit I knew of.

Still, he never panicked, and never fought. He made a first huge lunge toward me and landed to rest. I urged him on again. He gathered his might and leaped toward me again. This time I felt his front legs slip past mine as he searched for firm ground. He found it. Slowly, carefully he picked his way up the embankment until he was standing on dry land, coated to the ears with mud and algae.

As I looked down, I realized that my appearance matched my horse's as my jeans, now heavy with mud were situated somewhere below my rear end.

We were quite a group, walking back to camp. Red mule led the parade, his lead rope dangling. He checked back periodically to ensure we were following him, but there was no way in his little mule mind that he would trust me to lead him after I nearly drowned his best friend. I was next in line, pants sagging, mud-caked pistol protruding from the pocket, and blaze orange hunting vest coated with black & green from the mud and algae. Last came Blacky, soaked with mud, head dragging from exhaustion. We all made it back to camp that morning by the grace of God and I spent the next 6 hours before the Hubby got home attempting to clean human, horses and tack using a dish sponge from the camp's kitchen dipped in the creek running by camp. 

Some non-horsey people will read this story and wonder how I could see it as horse saving human, when I was the one who dragged the old guy out of the swamp. But anyone who really KNOWS horses understands that a horse who, when tested with a fight for survival, puts his rider first is worth his weight in gold. I've ridden horses that tried to kill me for taking off my helmet at the end of a ride. I've rehabbed thoroughbreds that have been airborne more than they were in contact with the arena floor because they were so hopped up on rocket fuel that 2 weeks of stall rest turned them into ticking time-bombs. So, to now own a fellow like Blacky, I feel truly blessed, even in his retirement. He's not perfect and he still crow hops and bucks on virtually every outing, and he'll never be a beginners horse or a lesson nag, but he's still my horse & I love him. 

The point of this story is this: if, like the girl in the video, you're willing to train a flippin' cow to jump because you long for a horse so badly, you've got the same disease I've got..."Horse Crazy". There's no cure, and even the most trainable cow won't stave off the symptoms forever. Only a horse will do, and the good ones will keep you coming back for a lifetime.

It's Spring!

Spring is...A cloud of dust behind our 7-month-old Angus heifer "De-calf" as she runs ripshot through the pasture after jousting with the fence post.

Spring is...Pink cheeks and smiles on the kids' faces as they dig their bare toes in the sandbox for the first time this year.

Spring is...Curry combs chock-full of fly-away horse hair

Spring is...The ecstatic grunts of muddy, rolling dogs as they emerge from their maiden dip in the freshly-thawed water trough.

Bubbles and sidewalk chalk, robins and bumblebees...could it possibly get better than this?

This week marked the first week of spring, and I'm brimming with excitement and optimism as I've already ticked several "to-do's" off the checklist. The 6-week-old pullets are in the hen house, the garden is tilled and weed fabric rolled out, the spring veggies are in the ground, and the layers of winter chaos in the landscape have been peeled away to reveal the earth bubbling with spring bulbs.

In my home state of California, I never appreciated the true beauty of this restorative season, because how can you know the delight of rebirth if nothing ever really dies? Every winter here in Colorado I mourn the last dangling red leaf on the burning bushes and every spring I boil over with excitement as the brown transforms to green. I know what I have in store: weeding and mowing, harvesting and preserving, the labor and chores of summer all lie ahead, but I'm undaunted, ready to take on the challenge, and excited to see where God's perfect plan moves me.

It's with this same sense of giddy anticipation, excitement and suspense that I launch my new blog. So welcome, enjoy, partake...I can't wait to get to know you.