Have you ever done something really, really stupid and then, done the same, really, really stupid thing again? I confess, I have. And I got away with it twice without anybody getting hurt.
As I was recovering from the minor carnage of my repeat effort at stupidity, I thought about Lorraine's mantra of looking at life as an adventure. This certainly fit the bill. It also occurred to me that I was blogging out our "adventures" and I had to make the decision of whether to slink away quietly and never share with anyone what happened, or, I could fess up and share it with the world in the hopes they wouldn't do the same stupid thing. As you can probably surmise, I've opted for the latter.
My first major stupid occurred in 2007 on a trip to MN to pick up our first Icelandic sheep. That's plural for sheep as we were stopping at two separate farms before returning home with our load of four Icelandics. First though, a little fun was to be had on a tour of the Mall of America.
Keep in mind this trip involved towing our 1986 livestock trailer. The color of the trailer is different shades of rust. Suffice it to say, we weren't going to impress anybody with this trailer. But, that's not the point of this story, is it? The point here is that I dragged a trailer behind our Excursion from Iowa to Minnesota and we're now cruising the Mall of America parking lot for a place to park. And, being the efficient guy that I am, I wanted to park as close as possible to the entrance as possible like everybody else. Not knowing the area at all I found myself driving up a ramp to an elevated parking ramp. Getting to the top of the ramp though, I realized it was a covered parking garage and that I wasn't going to fit with my big Excursion dragging a big livestock trailer. I nimbly, if I do say so myself, backed out, got turned around and headed back down the ramp to the parking lot where anybody else dragging a trailer and having at least one little lick of common sense would park. Feeling pretty proud of myself I moved down the ramp and hit a speed bump a little faster than I should have and, before I could do, well, anything, I realized that I was going faster than my trailer. The trailer had bounced off the hitch and was now following me down the ramp. Since the tongue of the trailer was now down on the pavement it was slowing, but certainly not stopping. And I wasn't steering it anymore either (that's apparently why the laws state that there are to be chains attached from the trailer to the bumper, in case something like this happens so something like this doesn't happen). I very quickly realized I needed to stop that thing before it got any more out of control. I swerved in front of the trailer and let it hit the Excursion which I quickly braked to a stop. Major catastrophe averted.
I got out of the Excursion and walked back to the trailer. As far as I could tell the only damage was the front end of the trailer pushed in and a nice sized dent on the upper part of the rear quarter panel of the Excursion. Both were still drivable.
Now, this trailer is really, really heavy and, try as I might, I couldn't lift the tongue back onto the hitch. I asked Dani, my daughter, to help, but the two of us still weren't strong enough. Then, like a gift from God, a good Samaritan pulled up behind me. And, God bless him, he not only helped me lift the tongue back onto the hitch, but he also gave me an out for looking incredibly stupid and inept. He said, "so, looks like somebody must have messed with your locking collar." Yep, that's it! It was somebody else's fault that the locking collar wasn't engaged to keep the trailer from falling off the hitch when I hit a bump. Of course, he assumed that I'd been parked in the mall and that some vermin of a human being intentionally messed with my hitch. And, of course, I didn't say anything to dissuade him of that belief. I just grunted an, "I guess," thanked him repeatedly and we both moved on our way.
When I got back into the Excursion I was really rattled. I was literally shaking from the burst of adrenalin coursing through my veins. And then I started catastrophizing. It occurred to me that I'd probably not engaged the locking collar on the hitch when I'd left IA. I could have hit one of hundreds of bumps along the trip that could have caused the trailer to drop off the hitch. That included while driving 70 mph on the interstate. I then had visions of the trailer careening across the median into oncoming traffic. It also occurred to me that the only way to make that worse would have been for it to happen on the trip home with livestock in the trailer.
Now, it's possible that someone might have messed with the hitch while we were parked at a restaurant or rest area on the way home, but it's more likely this not too smart farmer had a lot to do with the oversight. That being realized there on the ramp at Mall of America's parking garage, I promised myself I would check that hitch every time I got into the vehicle for the rest of my life, or as long as I owned the trailer, which ever was shorter. And I did, until this morning.
This is where it really pains me most. Having to admit to doing the same stupid thing twice.
I got up a little earlier than usual this morning to run a couple of lambs over to the Redfield Locker. We needed some additional inventory for the upcoming Des Moines Downtown Farmer's Market (we'll be there Saturday, October 1st by the way). Evan (my son) had hooked up the trailer the night before and we'd loaded the two lambs so they'd be ready to go in the morning. I vividly remember looking at the collar and then checking the connector for the lights since they weren't working. I wasn't too worried about the lights since I'd be driving in the day time. In my mind, the locking collar was engaged.
The delivery part of the trip was uneventful other than seeing my neighbor to the west nearly drive off the westbound ramp as he was heading onto I-80. But he didn't.
After arriving at the locker I unloaded the lambs and gave my instructions for processing. I jumped into the Excursion and pulled out of the locker's parking area. I heard an unusual metal on metal bump as I drove out of the lot. I thought to myself, "self, you should probably check that hitch." But, self wasn't listening and rationalized, "I know I checked that hitch last night when Evan hooked it up. It's fine." Surely that kind of talk is the work of Satan himself because, after another two blocks, I hit a modest bump in the road. I instinctively looked in the rear view mirror and verbalize in my mind, "Oh $%#T," as I watched the trailer sending up a spray of sparks from the pavement, veer to the left, up over a curb and into Heartland Coop's gravel parking lot. I cruised parallel to the trailer for about 25 yards, willing it to stop as it headed towards two small, above ground fuel tanks. I envisioned a fiery blaze as the trailer skidded to a halt a mere three feet from the first tank. I pulled into the parking lot and, looking around, hoped that nobody had witnessed this embarrassing feat. If anybody saw it, they weren't coming out to check on me or try to help. Using the word "fortunately" here is like calling a three legged dog with a broken tail and a bite out of his ear, "Lucky," but I was fortunate nothing was damaged. No cars, no trucks, no pedestrians and, mercifully, no flaming carnage. And I was fortunate nobody saw what happened.
I was able to push the trailer away from the tank enough to back to the Excursion to the hitch, but, as was the case at the Mall of America, I wasn't strong enough to lift it. I figured if anybody had witnessed the event they'd come out to help but, either nobody saw it or, if they did, they weren't willing to help. Or, worse, they saw it and just stayed inside looking out the windows wondering how a not too smart farmer was going to solve his problem, all well meeting their entertainment quota for the day.
This escapade took place about a block from Redfield Feed. I was loathe to have to ask for help, but I'm sure Dave at the feed store would if I asked. The problem was he wasn't open yet and I wasn't sure if he opened in 15 minutes or 45 minutes. I had to figure this out on my own.
I found my bottle jack for the Excursion. The problem was, I had to put it about 1/3 of the way back because the jack wouldn't fit under the trailer anywhere closer to the tongue. I hoped it would raise it enough but wasn't optimistic. I was right. I jacked it up as high as I could and put my spare tire under the edge of the trailer on the hitch side of the jack to keep it higher off the ground than it was before I jacked it up. I then moved the jack to the hitch side of the spare and was able to get the tongue up high enough to pull back the Excursion up and get the ball under the tongue. After I lowered the tongue onto the ball I engaged the locking collar and checked it twice to make sure it was engaged. Total time lost, about 20 minutes.
Now, this has left me wondering just what happened when Evan hooked up the trailer. I don't know if he actually engaged the locking collar. I do know that I looked and I saw, or at least I thought I saw, the collar was engaged. So, is this sort of like those times when you're at an intersection in your car and you look both ways, see that it's clear, only to pull out in front of a motorcycle? We sometimes see things but, because we're distracted, they don't process the way they should. I know that I had a habit of checking the hitch regularly, but I didn't this morning, so I guess it's not really a habit.
How stupid is that?
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
Zephyr 2003-2011
I have another blog that is titled, "... and then it died." That one is about the Bailey's living their lives of "adventure" which sometimes includes livestock meeting their untimely ends on our farm. Sometimes the "adventures" make more sense in my other blog. Sometimes they belong in both. Like this one.
Death once again visited our farm. This time it took one of our more beloved guests on the farm.
About four years ago we were offered three free wethers. Their names were (are) Sam, JR and Zephyr. I'm not sure who named them or why, but I do know that the person who had them before us couldn't keep them and wanted to find them a good home. As I've said before there's no such thing as a free llama or any other kind of "free" animal. But, I can say that some animals are closer to being free than others. These three Romney crosses fit that description. Our primary up front costs were the trip to Letts, IA, near Muscatine, to pick them up. At 8 miles to the gallon and a 352 mile round trip, you can do the math. As wethers they weren't going to give us lambs neither as mothers or fathers. Their sole purpose on our property would be to deliver us nice fleeces once a year. Two of the three wethers did that and more.
Sam's fleece was always thinner and not all that desirable to home spinners. Also, unfortunately, Sam was far less stout that either Zephyr or JR. He succumbed during the winter a couple years ago. We had sheared the "boys," as we called them, in October. That's usually more than enough time for a sheep to regrow sufficient fleece to keep them warm. But poor Sam shivered incessantly even early on that winter. I think he just wore out trying to keep warm.
Of the three boys, JR was the problem child. He was both a pain in the butt on the one hand and a wonderful source of fleece on the other. He was so skittish and contrary that he'd bolt the opposite direction I was trying to herd the flock. Sometimes I'd get the flock moving in the direction I wanted only to have JR bolt off in another with several sheep following. Typically it's futile to try and get the remaining sheep in the flock continuing in the intended direction. They wanted to follow JR and the few other wayward sheep. That meant getting them all together in a group again and starting the process of moving them all over again. He eventually settled down a bit, but he was never going to be seeking attention from his shepherds. On the other hand, JR's fleece has been coveted by hand spinners that we know. Not only do the hand spinners like the way it looks and feels, we liked it because of its size.
JR in Winter
While JR lives on, we lost Zephyr late last week. I knew his time was short. He was nine years old which is pretty good for a sheep. In recent months he'd lost a lot of weight. About a week ago I went out there and saw him staggering from weakness. Lorraine suggested taking him to the locker but I didn't have the heart. He was down to skin and bones and he was more like a pet than livestock.
I'm guessing Zephyr was bottle fed because he liked to be around people. He liked to have his head and back scratched, sometimes leaning into you as you tousled the wool on his head. And he was very patient and tolerant of the kids even to the point of letting them ride on his back. I always kidded that he reminded me of Eeyore, from Winnie the Pooh. He was so lethargic with a kind of mopey look on his face, locks of wool hanging over his eyes and with his head hanging down. Truth be told, he think he was actually pretty happy on our farm.
Of all of the sheep we've had I don't recall any that were like Zephyr. It was not uncommon for us to be sitting out in the pasture and for Zephyr to come and lay his head on our knee to be petted. I've heard Lorraine shriek on more than one occasion, thinking that something was about to bite, sting or do something else equally unpleasant to her. She would turn only to see Zephyr with his nose to her ear, waiting to be petted.
I think every farm needs a Zephyr. He will be missed.
I wonder who will take his place in our hearts.
Death once again visited our farm. This time it took one of our more beloved guests on the farm.
About four years ago we were offered three free wethers. Their names were (are) Sam, JR and Zephyr. I'm not sure who named them or why, but I do know that the person who had them before us couldn't keep them and wanted to find them a good home. As I've said before there's no such thing as a free llama or any other kind of "free" animal. But, I can say that some animals are closer to being free than others. These three Romney crosses fit that description. Our primary up front costs were the trip to Letts, IA, near Muscatine, to pick them up. At 8 miles to the gallon and a 352 mile round trip, you can do the math. As wethers they weren't going to give us lambs neither as mothers or fathers. Their sole purpose on our property would be to deliver us nice fleeces once a year. Two of the three wethers did that and more.
"The Boys" - J.R., Sam and Zephyr from L-R
Sam's fleece was always thinner and not all that desirable to home spinners. Also, unfortunately, Sam was far less stout that either Zephyr or JR. He succumbed during the winter a couple years ago. We had sheared the "boys," as we called them, in October. That's usually more than enough time for a sheep to regrow sufficient fleece to keep them warm. But poor Sam shivered incessantly even early on that winter. I think he just wore out trying to keep warm.
Of the three boys, JR was the problem child. He was both a pain in the butt on the one hand and a wonderful source of fleece on the other. He was so skittish and contrary that he'd bolt the opposite direction I was trying to herd the flock. Sometimes I'd get the flock moving in the direction I wanted only to have JR bolt off in another with several sheep following. Typically it's futile to try and get the remaining sheep in the flock continuing in the intended direction. They wanted to follow JR and the few other wayward sheep. That meant getting them all together in a group again and starting the process of moving them all over again. He eventually settled down a bit, but he was never going to be seeking attention from his shepherds. On the other hand, JR's fleece has been coveted by hand spinners that we know. Not only do the hand spinners like the way it looks and feels, we liked it because of its size.
JR in Winter
While JR lives on, we lost Zephyr late last week. I knew his time was short. He was nine years old which is pretty good for a sheep. In recent months he'd lost a lot of weight. About a week ago I went out there and saw him staggering from weakness. Lorraine suggested taking him to the locker but I didn't have the heart. He was down to skin and bones and he was more like a pet than livestock.
One of my favorite Zephyr pictures, taken by my son-in-law Jordan
I'm guessing Zephyr was bottle fed because he liked to be around people. He liked to have his head and back scratched, sometimes leaning into you as you tousled the wool on his head. And he was very patient and tolerant of the kids even to the point of letting them ride on his back. I always kidded that he reminded me of Eeyore, from Winnie the Pooh. He was so lethargic with a kind of mopey look on his face, locks of wool hanging over his eyes and with his head hanging down. Truth be told, he think he was actually pretty happy on our farm.
Of all of the sheep we've had I don't recall any that were like Zephyr. It was not uncommon for us to be sitting out in the pasture and for Zephyr to come and lay his head on our knee to be petted. I've heard Lorraine shriek on more than one occasion, thinking that something was about to bite, sting or do something else equally unpleasant to her. She would turn only to see Zephyr with his nose to her ear, waiting to be petted.
I think every farm needs a Zephyr. He will be missed.
I wonder who will take his place in our hearts.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Hay finally cut
After much procrastination on my part in looking for someone to bale our hay and, after failing to find anyone willing to do it on shares, I asked the Ory's to cut it for me on a custom rate basis. That got done on Tuesday. There's lots of hay on the ground now, but cutting it didn't improve the quality. I'm yet to take a stroll out there to see what was underneath that weed infested mess. Hopefully there's still some good potential for the alfalfa and orchard grass to grow a bit before the first frost and establish a strong root system and some good top growth to reduce winter kill. I now need to decide what, if any, soil amendments I want to put down now that will make that field healthier. I know for sure that I need to do everything I can to promote growth of the alfalfa and grass next spring and summer to help choke out the fox tail that will inevitably be growing next year.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Farming can suck sometimes.
If you read one of my early posts you would have learned about my adventure in getting my hay field planted. We put in alfalfa, orchard grass and oats. The field was planted late, going in on 6/3/11. We promptly got scads of rain that created ruts and washed a small portion of my field down a slope, leaving a sparsely seeded area on the high side and densely seed area on the downside. Those torrential rains were followed by...nothing but a few light sprinkles over the next ninety days. Now, granted, it wasn't nearly as bad as TX has been this year with their draught, but I watched at least three storms barreling towards our farm veer to the north or south and completely miss us.
I watched the field over the last three months go from a stand of oats with strong potential to a weed laden field full of oats smothered out by fox tail and other unwanted growth.
I asked a friend a couple of weeks ago if they would be willing to bale the field into small squares for me. They came to look at it and felt it was to weedy to make use of as small bales. They suggested I put it into large rounds. I contacted Steve Ory (remember Steve from my AI post earlier?) and he put me in touch with his nephew Dan Ory. Dan took at look at it and said they weren't interested in baling it on shares (they keep 1/2 and I keep 1/2) but they would do it on a custom basis, which means I'd have to pay them in cash to bale it. They suggested a few names I could call about doing the hay on shares. Since there's so much weed seed in it the hay would best be used by someone with a feedlot. Nobody wants to put that much weed seed on their pastures. I made three calls. Two never called back and the third didn't have a use for the hay either. I'm out of names and I need to get the hay cut to expose the alfalfa and orchard grass below so that they can grow a bit before the first frost which is coming soon most likely. That pretty much means I'll need to pay to have it baled and hope I can sell it all, and quickly.
My venture began with the hopes that I could raise a nice stand of oat hay that I could feed to my livestock. If harvested early enough we might then even have a second cut of nice alfalfa/grass hay that I could sell with the proceeds used to pay off the ag loan we took earlier in the year to pay for all of the field work. Due to my ignorance I managed to let the fox tail go to seed and the oats get over mature which has reduced the value of my hay by probably 50%. That's going to be an expensive education.
I watched the field over the last three months go from a stand of oats with strong potential to a weed laden field full of oats smothered out by fox tail and other unwanted growth.
I asked a friend a couple of weeks ago if they would be willing to bale the field into small squares for me. They came to look at it and felt it was to weedy to make use of as small bales. They suggested I put it into large rounds. I contacted Steve Ory (remember Steve from my AI post earlier?) and he put me in touch with his nephew Dan Ory. Dan took at look at it and said they weren't interested in baling it on shares (they keep 1/2 and I keep 1/2) but they would do it on a custom basis, which means I'd have to pay them in cash to bale it. They suggested a few names I could call about doing the hay on shares. Since there's so much weed seed in it the hay would best be used by someone with a feedlot. Nobody wants to put that much weed seed on their pastures. I made three calls. Two never called back and the third didn't have a use for the hay either. I'm out of names and I need to get the hay cut to expose the alfalfa and orchard grass below so that they can grow a bit before the first frost which is coming soon most likely. That pretty much means I'll need to pay to have it baled and hope I can sell it all, and quickly.
My venture began with the hopes that I could raise a nice stand of oat hay that I could feed to my livestock. If harvested early enough we might then even have a second cut of nice alfalfa/grass hay that I could sell with the proceeds used to pay off the ag loan we took earlier in the year to pay for all of the field work. Due to my ignorance I managed to let the fox tail go to seed and the oats get over mature which has reduced the value of my hay by probably 50%. That's going to be an expensive education.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Only in a small town...
It's like the beginning of a Jeff Foxworthy redneck joke, but the truth is there are some things that only happen in small towns. One of those would be a lunch time discussion about the successful artificial insemination of our cow. At the time we had two cows. The cow to be bred was Aster. She's a cross of a Dutch Belted and a Holstein. You may recognize a Dutch Belted when you see one. It looks like an Oreo Cookie with a white middle and black ends. They're dairy cows. But don't confuse them with the Belted Galloway because they're beef cows. I'll pretend that I know the difference when we drive by them on the highway but, truth be told, it's hard for me to tell sometimes when they're too far away.
The particular discussion I'm referring to above on artificial insemination, or AI as it's known, took place in a local restaurant in our small town of Earlham, IA. It's called the Master Griller and was owned by John Horton at the time. John also has a successful catering business but that' got absolutely nothing to do with my story other than to give John a free plug to my nine readers who will probably never eat in Earlham.
The restaurant is divided into two parts with one less formal that the other, if that's possible. One part serves off of a menu and the other serves lunch cafeteria style. In addition to the two or three entrees on the steam table, you can also order burgers, and my personal favorite, breaded tenderloins.
Lorraine and I had gotten into the habit of eating lunch there on Saturdays. We'd go out to eat and make the kids stay home and eat leftovers. Don't let child protective services know please.
One day Lorraine and I were sitting there eating not paying attention to who or what was around us when I hear the guy at the table next to us say, "so how did it work out for your cow." After first getting the dumb look off of my face trying to figure out who this guy was, the light bulb went on and I realized it was Steve Ory, the guy who AI'd my cow and is a local farmer. For you literalists, he didn't do it himself, mind you, he used the appropriate equipment and some sperm donated by an ecstatic bull.
I'd only met Steve a couple of times before, but he struck me as a very friendly, genuine kind of guy that would give you the shirt off his back if you asked and he'd throw in his coat and pickup too if he really thought you'd need it. The first time I met him I thought he was his brother, Mike, who lives down the street. In his typical, amiable manner, he let me know the mistake was OK and that it happens all the time.
I don't think we crossed paths again for several months but it was the need for somebody knowledgeable about AI that got me in touch with him. I'd asked some other local farmers and our vet about AI and none of them did AI work, but they told me to call Steve, which I did. He explained how the process works. First, you need to catch your heifer acting like she's fertile.
PARENTAL WARNING: I'M GOING TO DISCUSS PROCREATION HERE! Not mine, but cows.
You can get a pretty good indication that a cow is fertile when other cows try to mount her. If you see this activity in the morning, you need to perform AI in the afternoon. If the activity is in the afternoon you need to perform AI the next morning. I've now pretty much exhausted my working knowledge of identifying cows in heat.
I also forgot to mention, you need some bull semen and that's a sub story in itself so bear with me.
There's a thriving industry of brokering bull semen. Donors are identified by the desirable genetic traits. Semen is extracted from the bull by means that would be more graphic than this forum would allow. The semen is placed in straws which are narrow glass tubes that are about 2 1/2 inches long. These tubes are frozen in liquid nitrogen and can be stored for many years I suppose. The aforementioned brokers have huge tanks that can store hundreds of straws each. Locating and storing our semen was an education in itself.
Lorraine checked around and found a lady that owned some bull semen she was willing to sell us. The good news is that the straws only cost about $8 each. We wanted three in case the process didn't work the first time or two. The bad news was, it would cost about $80 to ship because it needed to be shipped overnight in a special container that would keep the semen frozen. It would cost about the same as buying the straws and having them shipped, but this way we'd have the tank for future use. I headed to Hawkeye and bought the tank, liquid nitrogen (really cool stuff, figuratively and literally and the straws and we were on our way home.
This is when we became voyeurs and started watching our cows showing signs of being "frisky." It didn't take but a few days and I called Steve. I told him that we'd spied a couple of our heifers trying to do the dirty deed that afternoon. He said to bring her over the next morning and he'd be glad to AI her. Suffice it to say, when I told my work place that I was going to be late I didn't try to explain that it involved sex and a farm animal.
Evan and I got the cow loaded and I drove the two miles to the Ory Farm. We got her unloaded and into a stanchion and then Steve got his equipment ready to go. This was the first time I'd ever witnessed the procedure so I was certainly curious.
Before opening the AI case with "the tool" was pulled out, he place a long plastic glove over his hand and arm and inserted his arm into the vagina of the heifer. Aster wasn't exactly enamored with this procedure but didn't complain too much. Steve extracted his arm and a plethora of mucous followed the gloved arm and hand out. Steve said that Aster's cervix was open and that, combined with the plentiful mucous suggested we probably had the timing right on this.
He then extracted what looked like a long, large bore needle with a rounded, hollow tip that had a plunger attached at the other end. The straw would be inserted into the hollow end and the plunger would force out the semen. He set the tool aside before inserting the straw. I'd brought our semen tank along in the trailer. Steve opened to the top of the tank and selected one of the three straws, closed the tank back up and then inserted the straw into "the tool" (for the life of me I have no idea what "the tool" is actually called. I just know I don't want it to ever be used on me for any reason).
Steve reinserted his arm into the cow and guided "the tool" in with the other along side his arm and down to his palm. He used the inserted hand to guide "the tool" into the cervix. He then pressed the plunger with the other hand, leaving the semen inside the cervix to do its job. He quickly extracted "the tool" and his arm and we were done. Some quick clean up of the equipment and it was time to reload the cow. I'd arrived there at 8:00 a.m. and I don't think it was even 8:20 yet. It had taken longer to unload and reload her than the procedure itself.
I asked Steve what he charged and, using the typical Steve response said, "don't worry about it. Glad to help." And I was on my way home to unload a cow and head to work.
It would be several months before I saw Steve again. We'd since had a calf so it was at least nine months later. And there we were in the Master Griller with Steve asking if the AI worked. Now, asking if AI worked is a pretty inane, harmless question in a restaurant, but the discussed that ensued was far more graphic than probably the average city folk could endure while eating their lunch.
When he heard that the AI was successful he was genuinely happy, exclaiming, "yeah, the conditions were ideal. There was all that mucous and her cervix was wide open. It was probably one of the easiest AI's of done." I joked that it wasn't too often that you went to a restaurant and openly discussed vaginal mucous and open cervixes and you weren't asked to leave the restaurant. But hey, only in a small town.
P.S. The calf was named "Supper" and about 16 months later provided us with over 600# of delicious, healthy, grass fed beef that was free of antibiotics, growth hormones and chemicals.
The particular discussion I'm referring to above on artificial insemination, or AI as it's known, took place in a local restaurant in our small town of Earlham, IA. It's called the Master Griller and was owned by John Horton at the time. John also has a successful catering business but that' got absolutely nothing to do with my story other than to give John a free plug to my nine readers who will probably never eat in Earlham.
The restaurant is divided into two parts with one less formal that the other, if that's possible. One part serves off of a menu and the other serves lunch cafeteria style. In addition to the two or three entrees on the steam table, you can also order burgers, and my personal favorite, breaded tenderloins.
Lorraine and I had gotten into the habit of eating lunch there on Saturdays. We'd go out to eat and make the kids stay home and eat leftovers. Don't let child protective services know please.
One day Lorraine and I were sitting there eating not paying attention to who or what was around us when I hear the guy at the table next to us say, "so how did it work out for your cow." After first getting the dumb look off of my face trying to figure out who this guy was, the light bulb went on and I realized it was Steve Ory, the guy who AI'd my cow and is a local farmer. For you literalists, he didn't do it himself, mind you, he used the appropriate equipment and some sperm donated by an ecstatic bull.
I'd only met Steve a couple of times before, but he struck me as a very friendly, genuine kind of guy that would give you the shirt off his back if you asked and he'd throw in his coat and pickup too if he really thought you'd need it. The first time I met him I thought he was his brother, Mike, who lives down the street. In his typical, amiable manner, he let me know the mistake was OK and that it happens all the time.
I don't think we crossed paths again for several months but it was the need for somebody knowledgeable about AI that got me in touch with him. I'd asked some other local farmers and our vet about AI and none of them did AI work, but they told me to call Steve, which I did. He explained how the process works. First, you need to catch your heifer acting like she's fertile.
PARENTAL WARNING: I'M GOING TO DISCUSS PROCREATION HERE! Not mine, but cows.
You can get a pretty good indication that a cow is fertile when other cows try to mount her. If you see this activity in the morning, you need to perform AI in the afternoon. If the activity is in the afternoon you need to perform AI the next morning. I've now pretty much exhausted my working knowledge of identifying cows in heat.
I also forgot to mention, you need some bull semen and that's a sub story in itself so bear with me.
There's a thriving industry of brokering bull semen. Donors are identified by the desirable genetic traits. Semen is extracted from the bull by means that would be more graphic than this forum would allow. The semen is placed in straws which are narrow glass tubes that are about 2 1/2 inches long. These tubes are frozen in liquid nitrogen and can be stored for many years I suppose. The aforementioned brokers have huge tanks that can store hundreds of straws each. Locating and storing our semen was an education in itself.
Lorraine checked around and found a lady that owned some bull semen she was willing to sell us. The good news is that the straws only cost about $8 each. We wanted three in case the process didn't work the first time or two. The bad news was, it would cost about $80 to ship because it needed to be shipped overnight in a special container that would keep the semen frozen. It would cost about the same as buying the straws and having them shipped, but this way we'd have the tank for future use. I headed to Hawkeye and bought the tank, liquid nitrogen (really cool stuff, figuratively and literally and the straws and we were on our way home.
This is when we became voyeurs and started watching our cows showing signs of being "frisky." It didn't take but a few days and I called Steve. I told him that we'd spied a couple of our heifers trying to do the dirty deed that afternoon. He said to bring her over the next morning and he'd be glad to AI her. Suffice it to say, when I told my work place that I was going to be late I didn't try to explain that it involved sex and a farm animal.
Evan and I got the cow loaded and I drove the two miles to the Ory Farm. We got her unloaded and into a stanchion and then Steve got his equipment ready to go. This was the first time I'd ever witnessed the procedure so I was certainly curious.
Before opening the AI case with "the tool" was pulled out, he place a long plastic glove over his hand and arm and inserted his arm into the vagina of the heifer. Aster wasn't exactly enamored with this procedure but didn't complain too much. Steve extracted his arm and a plethora of mucous followed the gloved arm and hand out. Steve said that Aster's cervix was open and that, combined with the plentiful mucous suggested we probably had the timing right on this.
He then extracted what looked like a long, large bore needle with a rounded, hollow tip that had a plunger attached at the other end. The straw would be inserted into the hollow end and the plunger would force out the semen. He set the tool aside before inserting the straw. I'd brought our semen tank along in the trailer. Steve opened to the top of the tank and selected one of the three straws, closed the tank back up and then inserted the straw into "the tool" (for the life of me I have no idea what "the tool" is actually called. I just know I don't want it to ever be used on me for any reason).
Steve reinserted his arm into the cow and guided "the tool" in with the other along side his arm and down to his palm. He used the inserted hand to guide "the tool" into the cervix. He then pressed the plunger with the other hand, leaving the semen inside the cervix to do its job. He quickly extracted "the tool" and his arm and we were done. Some quick clean up of the equipment and it was time to reload the cow. I'd arrived there at 8:00 a.m. and I don't think it was even 8:20 yet. It had taken longer to unload and reload her than the procedure itself.
I asked Steve what he charged and, using the typical Steve response said, "don't worry about it. Glad to help." And I was on my way home to unload a cow and head to work.
It would be several months before I saw Steve again. We'd since had a calf so it was at least nine months later. And there we were in the Master Griller with Steve asking if the AI worked. Now, asking if AI worked is a pretty inane, harmless question in a restaurant, but the discussed that ensued was far more graphic than probably the average city folk could endure while eating their lunch.
When he heard that the AI was successful he was genuinely happy, exclaiming, "yeah, the conditions were ideal. There was all that mucous and her cervix was wide open. It was probably one of the easiest AI's of done." I joked that it wasn't too often that you went to a restaurant and openly discussed vaginal mucous and open cervixes and you weren't asked to leave the restaurant. But hey, only in a small town.
P.S. The calf was named "Supper" and about 16 months later provided us with over 600# of delicious, healthy, grass fed beef that was free of antibiotics, growth hormones and chemicals.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Bridger, where art thou?
Lorraine and I were recently reminiscing about some of the dogs that we've had in our lives. A very short list of them were considered pets. Several were pups from various litters produced by our pet dogs that include a variety of Border Collies and Great Pyrenees. Among these was a litter that came from Chloe, a Great Pyrenees that died this past winter. With her, we knew when she'd been bred and it was a stray that had crossed our property. At the time that she was bred, and we knew that she had been bred because the kids were able to share in graphic detail the events that were involved (farm life sure won't leave your kids ignorant of the procreative process involving farm animals). As far as we were concerned this was just a big, overgrown lug by the name of Bridger. And we knew that because that's what his collar said. Lorraine reminded me that I'd let loose some expletives when she shared the news. We didn't need a litter of mutts.
I was out of town when this escapade began as well. Although big, like an over sized Golden Lab, Bridger was very gentle and, other than spending time with Chloe uninvited, was a real gentleman. And he was certainly smarter than some of the other dogs we had at the time, including Uncle Chester, another Great Pyrenees we had at that time. It was Chester that was supposed to breed Chloe, but he was too busy with other tasks I suppose, because he never got the job done. Although Chester, for the life of him, couldn't figure out how to get through a closed gate, Bridger, who probably outweighed Chester by 30 pounds, virtually oozed sideways through the rails of the gates, to go visit our sheep. He didn't bother them, but it seemed some instinct compelled him to be near them.
After several hours on the property it was clear he wasn't going anywhere. Lorraine started calling around to see what could be done with this wayward, fornicating animal. She tried the City of Earlham, but they said we weren't in the city limits so they couldn't help. She tried the county sheriff but they don't deal with strays. The local vet wasn't interested in taking him in. For the moment, he was ours.
Lorraine told the boys to put him in our dog run. That's the typical chain link fence run that's 10 feet long, 6 feet wide and 8 feet high. A little later she yelled at the boys for not putting him in the run. They said they had and put him back in. She yelled at them again later for not latching the gate on the run. They said they had and put him in there again. It was a little later that they saw this 130# beast climb the chain link fence and jump to the ground. From there they put him in the livestock trailer which held him until I got home.
I checked his collar and it said his name was Bridger and that he came from the Upper Clover Ranch which is located in Elko County, NV, equidistant from Battle Mountain and Winnemucca. On the map it looks like one of those places that you can't get there from here. The collar included a phone number. I pulled out my cell phone and called. The number was disconnected.
I then tried Google to see what I could find on Upper Clover Ranch. There were some references in newsletters about somebody from the ranch speaking at a couple of different meetings. I don't remember what the groups were that they spoke to, but the newsletters had phone numbers. I called and left messages. Meanwhile I called the Elko County Sheriff's office to explain my predicament. They said that the ranch was about four hours from their HQ but that they had a deputy who lived and patrolled that area. They'd get the message to him and have him call me. The return call from the newsletter contact came a day or two later. They gave me a name. J.D. Radakovich. I Googled J.D. and lo and behold, he was a local from Earlham. But that didn't clear up the connection between him and Bridger's home address being in NV.
J.D.'s parents live in rural Earlham, not to far from our house. I called Steve and told him the story about Bridger and Chloe. He said that J.D. had passed through Iowa on his way from NV to a new job in TX. He'd left Bridger in the care of his parents who were experiencing the same frustration in confining Bridger as we had. I told Steve we had Bridger and that he was welcome to come and get him. Figuring that he wouldn't go anywhere since he'd already been with us a few days, I went ahead and let him out. Steve showed up shortly thereafter and Bridger was gone. On the road again apparently, seeking out new horizons. Steve went home, empty handed.
A few weeks later I began to wonder what breed of dog Bridger was. I called Steve, reminding him who I was. He explained that Bridger was an Akbash, a livestock guard dog breed with a Turkish heritage. In fact, Steve said he might be interested in one of the pups since the Akbash and Great Pyrenees are both livestock guard dogs. I was elated. I not only had a litter of pups on the way, I had a litter of livestock guard dog pups that would be worth far more than plain old mutt pups.
I did some research on the Akbash breed and was intrigued. They had some variety in the way they looked with some looking like a short haired Great Pyrenees while others looked like a very large golden lab with over sized heads. What I really liked though was Bridger's personality. He was very gentle and tolerant of the kids and apparently very attentive to the sheep.
Lorraine nor I can remember how many pups there were. We're guessing eight with seven surviving. The pups were unique in that some of them would growl and snarl when you picked them up, even before their eyes were open. This little growling routine continued until they were sold. It was kind of cute, but I'm not sure if that evolved into an unpleasant trait as they grew or if it was just their way of communicating, albeit in a threatening sounding way.
Not all of them growled or snarled. The others were downright cute and we grew attached to a couple of them. It was also fun to watch how Chester interacted with them. He was very gentle with them as they climbed on him and pulled his tail. That's when we started calling him Uncle Chester.
The litter was eventually winnowed down to one who we simply called "Puppy." We hadn't intended to keep him and never got around to naming him properly. We really would have liked to keep him but in addition to him we still had two Border Collies and two Great Pyrenees. We couldn't justify a fifth dog, especially since Chloe tended to wander, sometimes with puppies in tow. Chester couldn't be confined to the pastures with the sheep either. The two border collies were both worthless in terms of herding. We simply didn't need another pet.
But, Puppy had a great temperament and reminded me a lot of his father. A most enduring trait of Puppy's was his tail and back end wagging in unison as he walked up to you while smiling. He would literally curl his lips up, but there was no hostility or snarling like some of the other pups. He was actually mimicking our smiling at him. The first few times I saw this it scared me. He was probably 4-5 months old and already weighed over 50#. This animal coming at me with bared teeth was intimidating. But then he'd saunter up, tail wagging, and wanting to be petted. It broke my heart when someone came to pick him up. I hope they enjoy him as much as we did the short time we had him.
Epilogue: We received word that Bridger was eventually located a few towns west of ours. Steve found him a new home. We'd hoped to use him as a sire again, but the new owners had him neutered in order to reduce his wandering ways.
I was out of town when this escapade began as well. Although big, like an over sized Golden Lab, Bridger was very gentle and, other than spending time with Chloe uninvited, was a real gentleman. And he was certainly smarter than some of the other dogs we had at the time, including Uncle Chester, another Great Pyrenees we had at that time. It was Chester that was supposed to breed Chloe, but he was too busy with other tasks I suppose, because he never got the job done. Although Chester, for the life of him, couldn't figure out how to get through a closed gate, Bridger, who probably outweighed Chester by 30 pounds, virtually oozed sideways through the rails of the gates, to go visit our sheep. He didn't bother them, but it seemed some instinct compelled him to be near them.
After several hours on the property it was clear he wasn't going anywhere. Lorraine started calling around to see what could be done with this wayward, fornicating animal. She tried the City of Earlham, but they said we weren't in the city limits so they couldn't help. She tried the county sheriff but they don't deal with strays. The local vet wasn't interested in taking him in. For the moment, he was ours.
Lorraine told the boys to put him in our dog run. That's the typical chain link fence run that's 10 feet long, 6 feet wide and 8 feet high. A little later she yelled at the boys for not putting him in the run. They said they had and put him back in. She yelled at them again later for not latching the gate on the run. They said they had and put him in there again. It was a little later that they saw this 130# beast climb the chain link fence and jump to the ground. From there they put him in the livestock trailer which held him until I got home.
I checked his collar and it said his name was Bridger and that he came from the Upper Clover Ranch which is located in Elko County, NV, equidistant from Battle Mountain and Winnemucca. On the map it looks like one of those places that you can't get there from here. The collar included a phone number. I pulled out my cell phone and called. The number was disconnected.
I then tried Google to see what I could find on Upper Clover Ranch. There were some references in newsletters about somebody from the ranch speaking at a couple of different meetings. I don't remember what the groups were that they spoke to, but the newsletters had phone numbers. I called and left messages. Meanwhile I called the Elko County Sheriff's office to explain my predicament. They said that the ranch was about four hours from their HQ but that they had a deputy who lived and patrolled that area. They'd get the message to him and have him call me. The return call from the newsletter contact came a day or two later. They gave me a name. J.D. Radakovich. I Googled J.D. and lo and behold, he was a local from Earlham. But that didn't clear up the connection between him and Bridger's home address being in NV.
J.D.'s parents live in rural Earlham, not to far from our house. I called Steve and told him the story about Bridger and Chloe. He said that J.D. had passed through Iowa on his way from NV to a new job in TX. He'd left Bridger in the care of his parents who were experiencing the same frustration in confining Bridger as we had. I told Steve we had Bridger and that he was welcome to come and get him. Figuring that he wouldn't go anywhere since he'd already been with us a few days, I went ahead and let him out. Steve showed up shortly thereafter and Bridger was gone. On the road again apparently, seeking out new horizons. Steve went home, empty handed.
A few weeks later I began to wonder what breed of dog Bridger was. I called Steve, reminding him who I was. He explained that Bridger was an Akbash, a livestock guard dog breed with a Turkish heritage. In fact, Steve said he might be interested in one of the pups since the Akbash and Great Pyrenees are both livestock guard dogs. I was elated. I not only had a litter of pups on the way, I had a litter of livestock guard dog pups that would be worth far more than plain old mutt pups.
I did some research on the Akbash breed and was intrigued. They had some variety in the way they looked with some looking like a short haired Great Pyrenees while others looked like a very large golden lab with over sized heads. What I really liked though was Bridger's personality. He was very gentle and tolerant of the kids and apparently very attentive to the sheep.
Lorraine nor I can remember how many pups there were. We're guessing eight with seven surviving. The pups were unique in that some of them would growl and snarl when you picked them up, even before their eyes were open. This little growling routine continued until they were sold. It was kind of cute, but I'm not sure if that evolved into an unpleasant trait as they grew or if it was just their way of communicating, albeit in a threatening sounding way.
Not all of them growled or snarled. The others were downright cute and we grew attached to a couple of them. It was also fun to watch how Chester interacted with them. He was very gentle with them as they climbed on him and pulled his tail. That's when we started calling him Uncle Chester.
The litter was eventually winnowed down to one who we simply called "Puppy." We hadn't intended to keep him and never got around to naming him properly. We really would have liked to keep him but in addition to him we still had two Border Collies and two Great Pyrenees. We couldn't justify a fifth dog, especially since Chloe tended to wander, sometimes with puppies in tow. Chester couldn't be confined to the pastures with the sheep either. The two border collies were both worthless in terms of herding. We simply didn't need another pet.
But, Puppy had a great temperament and reminded me a lot of his father. A most enduring trait of Puppy's was his tail and back end wagging in unison as he walked up to you while smiling. He would literally curl his lips up, but there was no hostility or snarling like some of the other pups. He was actually mimicking our smiling at him. The first few times I saw this it scared me. He was probably 4-5 months old and already weighed over 50#. This animal coming at me with bared teeth was intimidating. But then he'd saunter up, tail wagging, and wanting to be petted. It broke my heart when someone came to pick him up. I hope they enjoy him as much as we did the short time we had him.
Epilogue: We received word that Bridger was eventually located a few towns west of ours. Steve found him a new home. We'd hoped to use him as a sire again, but the new owners had him neutered in order to reduce his wandering ways.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Baby Ducks
We've had one batch of baby ducks hatch. Seven of the eight eggs hatched. We have another batch from another duck that are due to hatch any day. Looks like we have duck roast in our future.
Hannah and Emma are really excited about the new ducks. Let's keep the duck roast comment quiet for now.
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