My Name is Harold

....And I am the oldest calf at Moonlit Oaks Ranch.  The other calf, Ian, is a pest.  He always wants to see what I'm doing.  Anyway, I need to complain about my really bad day on Saturday.  In fact, I will call it that:

Harold's Really Bad Day

There.  

Saturday began normally.  It was cool and refreshing in the morning, but it warmed up quickly.  I made a couple trips to the milk bar (Mama Cow) and then chased Ian a little.  Grumpy old Auntie April told me to keep it down and Buttercup gave me a sneer.   I'm almost as tall as she is, so, whatever.  Holly Cow used to be fun to play with, but she's pregnant now and all grown up (so she says).  She also brags because she belongs to the Church, rather than the farmers, as if I care.  So, yeah, no fun to play with anymore.  The big steers (they spook me with scary stories sometimes) were telling me something about 'my turn' is coming.  Spare me.  Anyway, it was a completely normal day in the pasture.  

Then, the farmers were carrying a green bag and played with the chute thingy.  I didn't think anything of it because they had GRAIN.  Oh, sweet, lovely grain!  They pulled the feeders into a weird spot and we followed.  Then, they pulled them into the bull pen.  I've never been in the bull pen.  So cool!  I wanted to see where daddy spent some of his time before he left for Texas.  So, in we went.  Of course, they closed the gate behind us.  Then, the lady farmer shooed me into a spot in the bull pen where there was an extra fence.  I like her, so I went there without complaining.  Mama Cow yelled out to 'be good'.  Huh?  Well, into that chute thingy I ran and it stopped me.  I was stuck.  "Um, excuse me?", I said to the farmers that were there with their little farmer kid.  The kid (he's my favorite) petted me and I figured the farmers knew I was there and would help me out soon.  Then, the torture began.  Cold wet stuff in one ear and then PINCH!  Ow! Ow! Ow!  "I'll talk!  I'll talk!  I have no idea what you want to know, but I'll talk!", I told them.  Then, they stabbed my other ear and it felt heavier.  Oh man, now I had one of those silly yellow earring things the big cows have.  No one asked me if I wanted one.  That would have been more polite.  Then, the nasty bee sting things (must be the shots the steers warned me about).  And, yuck!  Gooey stuff down my back (it's supposed to get rid of worms.  I don't have any worms, seriously.  I would know!).  Then, as if that wasn't enough, they ripped some hair off of my tail for 'genetic testing'.  Dude, seriously?  The final evil was this heavy thing they strapped onto my head.  It felt weird and was itchy in, oh, about two seconds.  Finally, the chute thingy opened and I was on the wrong side of the fence.   I complained to the farmers, but they didn't seem concerned.  Everybody else was back in the pasture and I was stuck in daddy's pen, all by myself.  While I complained, loudly (sounded a bit more like daddy, actually.  I think my voice is changing), everyone just stared at me from the other side of the fence.  Mama Cow got all teared up with those weird happy tears mamas get.  "What?!" I said.  The steers were impressed with me.  They were the ones that told me the news. "Relax, Harold", they said (they never called me by my name; always twerp, goober, etc..  what a moment).  "You made it!  You're going to be a herd sire, like daddy.".  "Really?" I said.  "What does that mean?".  They both snorted, called me a twerp, and walked off.  Big help they were.  Anyway, all the cows, including mama said they were proud of me.  They told me I would be going to my own herd soon to grow up with strange cows, and then they wandered off to eat.  Okay, so I guess I'm going to be pretty awesome, like daddy.  But it was still a Really Bad Day!

That's my complaint.  Thanks for letting me vent.  I gotta go.  Gotta practice being awesome and doing, you know, bull things, like pawing up dirt and rubbing my horns on stuff.  I have horns, really.  They're short now, but they're growing.

Bye!

Harold

Live Nativity and Xavier's kiss

Xavier is our resident donkey.  He is talkative, affectionate, and sweet.  He is very popular among visitors to our farm.  I was asked by the principal of our son's Catholic school, if Xavier would be willing to be kissed on the nose.  The deal was that if the students at our son's school raised enough money, their principal had to kiss a farm animal.  She preferred a donkey to say, a pig.  Considering how far Xavier has come in his training, and how much he seeks attention from people, it sounded like a trip to the school would be fine.  In addition, this was to be done before Christmas Break, so the children would also be doing a nativity scene outside.  I arranged to bring Xavier, Fiona the Dexter cow, and our two tame sheep for the Nativity.  The animals were perfectly behaved as our priest, Father Andy, sat down on a bale of hay between some kids in costumes and the animals gathered around, and read the Nativity story to the pre-school children.  Due to privacy concerns, I cannot show you any pictures of the children in costumes.  This picture was taken before the event.  Fiona, having some experience at schools with children, was the star.  She enjoyed lots of treats and scratches from the children, and our priests.  



The sheep were also perfect.  They enjoyed pets and scratches from the littlest children.  Father Pervaiz even helped me feed them.



After the Nativity, the promised kiss was to be done in front of the entire school.  The children formed a horseshoe around the principal and I led Xavier in for his kiss.  He did quite well.  Here is a picture from the local paper.

Tara and Tina are coming home

In 1993, I began working with cattle while in college at Colorado State University after being inspired by my advisor, Dr. Temple Grandin.  I worked as a calf feeder at a dairy, wrangled on a bison ranch, and worked extensively with CSU's herd during calving season. These were large operations and the learning curve was high. At times, it was like taking a drink from a fire hose. I was hooked. I also worked with a local mobile vet. Of all the client's herds we cared for, my favorite were the little Dexter cattle at one ranch.  After reading up on their history, I learned about their origins in Ireland.  After college, I joined the US Navy.  I did a little research about Dexters from time to time while I was serving in the military and dreamed of a farm of my own.

In 2003, while I was still serving as a Surface Warfare Officer in the US Navy, I bought my own farm in Virginia near where my ship was home-ported. I raised some commercial cattle at first to get a feel for the land. It was much different than raising cattle out west. Finally, one year before I was to be stationed on shore duty, I contacted a Dexter cattle breeder in Missouri. They had some very nice looking animals.  I arranged to drive out to their farm in September 2005 and pick up three 6 month old Dexter heifers, Tina, Tara, and Trudi. I would be returning from the war in August 2005 so I had enough time to prepare for my new arrivals.

A week before the trip, tragedy struck as Hurricane Katrina smashed the gulf coast. I looked at my big, empty, stock trailer that I would be hauling halfway across the country and formulated a plan. I dropped the trailer off on base in a prominent location and sent a message out inviting people to fill it full of school kits and personal hygiene kits. One week later, I left Norfolk, Virginia for Missouri with my two dogs in the cab of my truck, bedding, hay, camping equipment, and buckets in the pick-up bed, and a trailer crammed full of goodies for Hurricane victims.  I delivered the goods to the Salvation Army in Tennessee. They would be loading an 18 wheeler immediately to take supplies to one of the locations for displaced victims.

I left very early in the morning and pushed through all the way to Tennessee that first night to ensure the donations were delivered ASAP. The dogs and I found a hotel in Tennessee and then headed towards Arkansas the next morning.  We reached the Ozarks after dark and had to feel our way through strange mountain towns. Finally, at about 10:00 pm, we arrived at the cattle ranch in Missouri. The rancher was also a military veteran and had already insisted that I stay with his family instead of finding a hotel.

The next morning, we caught up my new heifers, haltered, vaccinated, and loaded them up for their trip home. They had the run of the big three-horse trailer. Shaving provided thick bedding, hay was piled on the sides, and a large tub of water was secured in the corner. I entered twice a day to play with them and feed them grain in their individual buckets (Tara has the green bucket and Tina has the blue).

We hauled out early the next morning and made it to an RV campground just over the border into Kentucky. The park owners were amused at the calves in my trailer. The dogs and I slept in the little tack-room area. We awoke early to the thumping of calves playing in the trailer. They had enough room to romp and took full advantage of it.

At a gas station the next day, a cattle truck, crammed full of steers, pulled in to refuel next to us. My girls were strangely quiet as they watched the random flashes of crowded cattle move behind the round holes in the sides of the huge double-decker trailer. A big, brown, eye peered out to the calves and some mooing was exchanged. It was a strange moment.

That night, I talked my way into staying at the Kentucky Horse Park's campground. The manager said I'd have to leave if the calves mooed too much. I only wanted a few hours sleep, so I promised that we'd be gone before the sun came up. My cows were quiet all night. 

A year later, I was married and out of the Navy. My husband and I took two trips with the stock trailer to haul, first the Dexter cows, then, our two horses and donkey, down to our new farm in Florida.

Florida was a whole new challenge to raising cattle. We are high and dry on our new farm in northern Florida, so it is similar to the west but the porous sandy soil means that their hooves must be trimmed because they don't wear naturally as they would on hard ground. 

Tara and Tina gave us Easter and April the following spring.  We sold Trudi because of some temperament issues.  

Over the next several years, Tina, Tara, and Tina's daughter, April, helped us grow our herd into a nice size.  

In 2011, we signed up to take ten cows to the local fair.  We had to dehorn Tina and Tara because of the fair rules.  They are at the far end in this picture from the Clay County Fair.

Our herd was too big at this point, so we sold Tina and Tara to a gentleman just starting out in Dexters.  This is one of the last pictures I have before he picked them up.  Tina is the black cow in the middle and Tara is the bigger dun cow behind her.

They had been bred to our bull, so this was a perfect "Dexter starting kit".  It seemed like a good home.  In 2013, however, I received a call from a lady in central Florida telling me a sad tale.  Tina and Tara had been left to starve in someone's pasture (not the person we sold them to).  This nice lady had picked them up cheap and brought them back to health.  She used them for milking for several years. 

This year, just before Easter, she asked us if we wanted to buy them back.  Since we are a small farm and bit light on cows at the moment, it seems like good timing.  There is also, of course, the emotional attachment one experiences when working with animals.  Tina and Tara were always easy to handle and nice to work with.  We are looking forward to bringing them home.  Cattle remember each other, even after several years.  In our herd, we have two daughters of Tina.  It will be fun to see how they interact when they are reunited.  

In addition, our bull was new when we sold them, so we never saw any calves from breeding Tina and Tara to our bull, Armstrong.  Hopefully, we will finally get that chance next year.  

I will post a picture of them, or maybe even a video of their reunion with their herd, this weekend.  :)

Feeling Sheepish, Adventures with Sheep Chapter Two

As stated in a previous post, my first attempt at being a shepherdess failed.  The sheep were as independent as a teen with a car and a credit card.  In fact, after that experience, I had sworn off all wool bearing creatures.

One fine day, however, I came upon an ad for friendly, older ewe in need of a home.  She was a St. Augustine sheep, which is a Florida breed that sheds their wool instead of requiring shearing (YES!).  I loaded up our son and headed off to meet Lippy.  The sheep farm had friendly, bright-eyed, sheep that actually enjoyed being with humans.  Lippy was a mostly white ewe with big dark spots on her.  One spot was over her eye and one on her lip, (hence her name).  She gazed up at me as I pet her and leaned on me slightly.  These are REAL sheep, I thought.  These sheep were as cuddly as a muddy Golden Retriever.  Our son was entranced.  The owner offered to sell us Lippy and a young ewe, named Marmalade, for company (sheep prefer to be with at least one other sheep).  We brought our new flock home and they settled right in.  The first thing I noticed was how dependent these sheep were compared to our first sheep.  These sheep not only liked us, but actually acted as if they needed us.  With the howling coyotes at night, they were absolutely right.  At first, they wouldn't even venture into their paddock without us with them to guard them.  We often let them out to explore the yard and nibble to their heart's desire (the dogs are locked up for these excursions).  They stay close to us and run after us as we walk around the yard doing chores.  These are the most endearing, sweet, creatures.  They look at us as bearers of all good things and protectors.  It's quite flattering.  I wish they sold bumper stickers that said "I hope to someday be the person my sheep think I am".

Love and Fences

Some calves are born naughty.  Some develop naughty little habits over time.  On our farm, I believe we unwittingly groomed a rebellious group of Dexter calves that sought adventure and excitement beyond the confines of their fields.  Their dreams were as big as the skies above and no silly, aged, barbed wire fence would stop them.  The fence in question is on the leased portion of the farm.  It's rumored that the first Spanish settlers in Florida were patching this same stretch of fence 450 years ago.  Sometimes the patchwork design, such as in a quilt, will create unique patterns of folk art.  Sadly, patchwork fences, with strands of barbed wire from several different manufacturers over many decades, and posts of various shapes and sizes, do not inspire the same sense of awe and charm.

When the naughty calves met the fence, they first showed it proper respect, as one should do to the elderly.  However, it wasn't long before, perhaps by mere accident, a weakness was found and exploited.  Was it a tasty bit on the other side that caused the first tentative push?  Or, maybe a rude shove from an irritated mama cow on a hot day when baby just won't settle down and nap?  Whatever it was, it was a significant moment in the herd's history.  The calves met in secret, while their elders chewed their cud under the oaks trees, and egged each other on, as youths do.  Before long, there were tardy appearances at feeding times as calves wiggled back through the loosened fences to causally stroll back into the herd as if all was normal.  They developed a taste for Spanish moss and stole into the woods to snatch some from the trees before coming back to their bawling mamas.  These short forays still contained the calves because of the perimeter fencing around the woods.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (ha!) we decided to separate a few of the heifers from the herd, to prevent unwanted breeding by our bull.  When the bull realized a few of his herd members were absent, he was certain that we had made a terrible mistake and the only thing he could do to rectify the problem was to climb over the so called "no climb" fence.  We found him, the next morning, in with the heifers and politely asking to return to the main herd.  We reunited the herd and carefully planned our next move.  Meanwhile, the heifers decided to stage another push through the fence and our bull, now sensitive to their absence, pushed HIS way through the fence.  Fence staples popped like popcorn as he leaned his weight in between the second and third strand of the barbed wire until the fence sagged like the back of a sway backed horse.  Luckily, there was a perimeter fence to stop them from leaving the property, but we were spooked enough to build a bull pen for our bull.  He tested the boards for about 30 minutes and then settled down with his favorite cow as his companion.  No one ever wants a bull outside of his fences, no matter how gentle he seems to be.

Meanwhile, I breathed a sigh of relief, we patched up the fence, once again, and everything seemed fine until I got THE CALL.  All farmers know which one I'm talking about.  The dreaded "Your cows are out" call.  For reasons beyond my understanding, several of my cows, along with the aforementioned naughty calves, perhaps feeling the desire for salvation, pushed through the pasture fence, followed by the perimeter fence, and invaded the Baptist church yard next door.  When I showed up, these lovely people had already returned the wandering beasts to their pasture.  An enthusiastic motorist also joined in the fun.  Since we go to the Catholic church, I suppose you could call it a nice, ecumenical, moment of loving one's neighbor.  We put all the cows and calves into the "time out" corral.  Then, the following day, our son and I walked next door with a bucket and manure fork to remove the remains of their visit.  We thanked the church members profusely and assured them that we would prevent any future attempts by our animals to stage an impromptu live nativity scene.

The herd is now locked up until we replace the patchwork, folk art, fencing with something more secure.

The bull pen.

Adventures with Sheep, Chapter One

A few years ago, I came up with the bright idea that Florida native sheep, known for their browsing abilities, would make good weed eaters, and thus remove the thorny blackberry bushes that the cattle and horses ignore.  I dreamed of frolicking in lovely, thorn-free pastures.  In fact, I daydreamed that they would take a liking to other noxious plants, such as hogweed and soda apple.  With these happy thoughts, I approached a sheep breeder.  We worked out a deal and I loaded up a ewe and her two wether (castrated male) lambs.  The first thing I noticed about our new additions was that they were suspicious of my every move and not interested in being friends.  The breeder explained that native sheep are naturally independent and flighty.  That's fine, as long as they run off and independently munch up on yucky, thorny, plants.

To my delight, our new browsers did nibble at a few leaves of the blackberry bush, but they also demanded expensive peanut hay and good feed.  They very soon forgot all about the blackberry bushes and wanted more of the tasty stuff.  Perhaps I spoiled them.

I made no inroads into becoming a shepherdess.  They didn't trust any more than they trusted your average coyote or wolf.  They still regarded me as dangerous, despite the fact that I fed them, smiled at them, called them nice names (to their faces) and never made any offensive jokes (in front of them).

The only slight bit of affection the sheep ever had for me was upon meeting our eager German Shepherd.  The ewe almost leaned on me, but stopped herself and threw a proud, indifferent, look in my direction instead.  Our dog is a lovely creature, with absolute loyalty, devotion, and a sense of duty.  Well, his 'sense of duty' indeed kicked in when he saw the sheep.  His gratitude at what he thought was a gift for him and him alone was apparent in his eyes as he perked his ears so high that they almost touched.  He whined and rubbed against me as if to thank me for his own, life-sized, genuine, sheep flavored, chew toys.  He was absolutely beside himself with a desire to 'help'.  His eyes pleaded for a chance to 'play' with our newest additions.  Never was a dog so disappointed.  Although he had a few lessons in sheep herding, he was far from fully trained.  On the few occasions I did allow him to help me move the sheep, he spent most of the time in a down-stay, panting and whining.

As the temperature increased, I realized that shearing the sheep was necessary.  I thought that surely a $14 pair of sheep shears would do the trick for only three sheep.  I failed to consider that these sheep were originally kept in a crowded pen at the breeder's farm, which meant their wool had many dirty patches, especially the closer I got to their skin.  Four hours later, on that steamy hot day in May, I had one sheared sheep with a new look that would have earned me expulsion from even the lowest rated beautician school, and a grumpy, but cooler sheep.  I managed not to actually nick her, but she did have some pink spots where I came very close.  Meanwhile, I was covered from head to toe with grime, sweat, and lanolin.

This experiment was a failure.  Since they weren't even friendly, we never bonded with our sheep so we decided to sell the ewe and her two nearly full grown lambs.  An ad brought a quick response from a gentleman with a heavy Middle Eastern accent.  I understood that his truck was in the shop, but he would come and get the sheep anyway.

A four door sedan came to our farm later that day.  A large blanket was draped over the back seat and the gentleman (originally from Jordan) told me about his young family and their small flock.  He was pleased with the sheep and didn't even laugh at my shearing job (it had grown out a little).  His plans for the ewe were to breed her to his ram and he told me about how his children gentled all the lambs.  After we shook hands, he grabbed hold of the ewe and slid her into the back seat.  She was in the sitting position and pretty much stayed where he put her, though she did let us know her displeasure (Baa!).  In went the two lambs, one after the other until all three were seated on their butts in the back seat with their front legs up in the air. He shut the door and the nearest sheep fogged up the window slightly with his breath.  "Baa, baa, baa.." went the sheep in the car.  The gentleman had to drive to another town.  I wondered if three sheep in the back of a sedan (which actually looked like his wife's car because of the little knickknacks hanging from the rear view mirror) would cause a significant disruption in traffic.  My fingers twitched at the thought of a picture for prosperity, but it would have been rude.  Plus, the gentleman was in a hurry.  Perhaps to make sure he could return the car to his dearest undefiled and unsheeped before she was the wiser.  He seemed to be a nice man, I do hope his wife didn't make him sleep in the barn that night.

Finding myself suddenly sheepless, I actually missed their pleasant noises, despite their disdain for me.

It would be several years before I tried sheep again.  This time, it would be lovely, affectionate sheep that can live here as long as they like, whether or not they ever nibble a single leaf of a thorny bush.  But that story will have to wait until next time.  :)

Phoenix the Wonder Horse

I have held many different jobs in my lifetime.  I worked for various farms and ranches, worked for the police in both California and Colorado, served in the US Navy for nine years, first as enlisted and then as an officer, and even did internships with both the CDC and the US Senate.  Those first jobs included shoveling poo.  In fact, many of my jobs had elements that could be described as 'manure handling' (especially in the military) but actually physically moving horse poop or cow poop has always been a side skill of mine.  Not something that appears directly on a resume ('handled over eight tons of prime post digested hay') but nevertheless, it's been a recurrent side job of mine since I was thirteen years old and really wanted to ride a neighbor's horse.  Ever since I got my own horse at fifteen, I have been cleaning up after horses off and on throughout most of my life.

It was while proving my poop handling skills that I met Phoenix.  His owner was a friend of the folks I was working for at a barn in northern Virginia.  At the time, I was an NROTC student at George Washington University in DC and worked at the twenty stall barn for a little extra cash.  The owner brought him in and I tested him out in the indoor arena.  At nine years old, he was fairly young but still green.  He knew his arena job, but the outside world brought out the snorts and spooks.  He hadn't been trained on the trails and what I wanted was a trail horse.  However, he had a good mind and responded to praise.  It was also apparent he enjoyed attention.  I thought he would make a nice trail horse, even if he was a little spoiled and spooky.

Phoenix is a registered American Quarter Horse and was 'saddled' with the registered name "Buckle Pal".  Either word doesn't quite roll off the tongue easily, so his previous owner called him Dakota, but a dear friend of mine had just put down a beloved horse with a similar name so I changed his name to Phoenix.  He is a golden palomino with a white mane and tail, so the sunny city was the first name that popped into my mind.  

His training began immediately.  He was from Texas originally so the crowded dark forests of Virginia's Great Falls Park were completely foreign.  His most serious spooks happened whenever a leaf skittered across the paved road near the trail.  It occurred to me that the sound "tika-tika-tika-tika" was not unlike a Texas rattlesnake.  Perhaps that's why Phoenix reacted to that sound.  He eventually accepted the vicious leaves as non-threatening.  The squirrels and deer moving suddenly proved to be the next challenges.  I taught him the words "squirrel" and "deer" to identify those sounds for him.  He learned quickly and new challenges were more readily accepted, like the fox that appeared suddenly in front of us.  Or the mountain bikes careening over a hill ahead.  I discovered he liked water and would play in it at every opportunity.  His rubber water trough was a plaything first and source of water second.  

As a Quarter Horse, I suspected Phoenix had some propensity for moving other creatures about, such as cattle, but we had few opportunities while I was in college.  It wasn't until a year later that I finally had the chance to test him and he proved to be almost too aggressive towards the poor bovines.  One day, as a seasoned trail horse now, Phoenix and I were quietly pursued by a wolf hybrid dog that was off leash.  Phoenix revved up quickly into almost a full panic when the creature was close to his heels.  I stopped Phoenix and spun him around towards the animal.  The beast stopped and there was a pause as prey and predator stared at each other.  I urged Phoenix forward saying, "get the cow", the same command I used at our recent bovine playdate.  There was a brief eye rolling "Are you freaking nuts?" response from Phoenix, but he did take one tentative step forward.  The creature stepped back.  Another brief pause, and then Phoenix lowered his head slightly, pinned his ears slightly and the new chase was on!  The wolf-dog ran all the way down the trail, right back to his owners, with his tail tucked.  Phoenix snorted and pawed while I held him at bay and chewed out the owners before riding off.  Phoenix practically pranced down the trail after that.  I'll bet he couldn't wait to tell his barn buddies what happened.  We used the same technique on a German Shepherd dog someone had let loose with the same effect.  The park was quite clear about dogs being on leash and those dogs with strong drives definitely posed a threat to wildlife.  

Phoenix and my retired AQHA mare, Ellie, became my Navy brats after I was commissioned.  We lived in Rhode Island while I was in training and then onto Norfolk, VA.  Phoenix and I conquered the trails that Paul Revere rode in Massachusetts as well as Yorktown, VA, Gettysburg, PA and Manassas, VA.  We were in a parade in Fredericksburg, VA.  Phoenix and I carried the flag for the King Neptune parade in Virginia Beach, VA after I returned from deployment.  I even hung lights on him for an evening Christmas parade in Chesapeake, VA and he never flinched.  I boarded him on an Air Force base and he was 'jet broke'.  F-16s taking off right over didn't phase him, nor did the mortar fire at the practice range.  He truly was bomb proof now.  

Phoenix was part of our wedding reception when my husband and got married.  A year later, I gave this trusty steed to my husband and they make a good team.  Phoenix is our farm's horse mascot and has given many first rides to children when we have a Farm Day for families from our parish.  

He is unusual for a horse because he loves to have his face petted and even hugged.  I took him to a medical supply repair facility and he was shown every possible medical device.  He never flinched.  Soon afterwards, I took him to the local Veterans' hospital to visit with the long term care patients.  He put his head ever-so-gently in a wheelchair patient's lap, closed his eyes and enjoyed the attention.  He is that sort of horse.  A rare gem of a horse that seems to know what's needed.  

Most recently, Phoenix went to our son's Catholic school for Cowboy Day.  The Catholic daycare next door even brought the little ones out to meet him.  He gladly accepted petting on his nose and head from every child that came up, no matter how clumsy they were or how loudly they squealed with delight.  He does a few tricks as well, so that helped entertain the kids.  He really enjoys visiting children so it was an easy day for our old bomb-proof trail master.   

At 22 years old, Phoenix has slowed down a bit and has a few minor ailments, but we try to keep him comfortable and happy.  He is officially retired from harassing the cattle, but we still take him out for trail rides.  The older cows still respect him.  He is a great family horse and worthy of all the attention he gets.  

I still do side work as a professional animal waste removal engineer, but only on our farm.  I would have never met Phoenix if I hadn't had that little college side job shoveling horse poop.  One should never be too proud for a humble job as a stablehand.  You never know when you might meet the horse of a lifetime.  

                                                                      Summer picture

Winter fuzzy picture

                                                               Christmas parade

   
                                                               Our son's first ride.