My Bad

Some friends have inquired as to the state of the Herd.  I think we are fine now.  No signs of colic, and they have pooped enough to float an aircraft carrier.  They seem content, and gobble up the cupful of vitamins and minerals each day with much gusto.  Thankfully, our Vet is swift and sure, and the Primary wife is rock steady about medical stuff.  Thank you to everyone that sent well wishes, or prayed, or sent money.  (ok, no one actually sent any money, much to my dismay.  I’m anticipating a vet bill roughly the size of Guam’s GNP.)

Thanks again.

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8 Comments

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8 responses to “My Bad

  1. according to my google-fu, that’s like two billion smackers.

  2. M’kay, Mack, don’t rip me for this, but are you a goat herder? Honestly, I don’t know a lot about you, and I’m genuinely curious. I read at TCP you had goats and now read this post. In no way making fun. I grew up on a farm with goats. Just curious 🙂

  3. Am so amazingly late to offer good wishes, and am so amazingly glad that all turned out happily.

    Those little buggers will get into ANYTHING. ANYTHING, I tell you. We had a mare who could open locked gates, untie knots … whatever we did to keep her out of the feed room, she undid. My granddad, the original Horse Whisperer, somehow finally convinced her that thievery and risking death was no longer in her best interest. (I think there was a twister involved.)

    Again, so glad all are better, including the frantic two-legs.

  4. Grandefille, your granddad played Twister with horses?! And settled arguments that way?! Oh my god. I so, so hope Mack starts keeping his horses in line like that. I will make a mint on the internet with photos of that.

    Christian, he has a couple of goats who take shade in the shadows of his horses.

  5. Christian, I suppose, if i took a mind to do so, I could indeed herd the goats…but, to where?

    The herd in question is horses. Thanks, btw, for stopping by, be sure and check yer boots on the way out.

  6. democommie

    Mack:

    Back a ways, (89-93) I shared a house with a post & beam framer/cabinet maker who’s from VA. He was a farm boy through and through.

    One day, March or April something, 1992 while our landlord and his family were vacationing at Hilton Head and we were enjoying a NH Sprinter (Springish Winter) he went up to the barn ( we were on a 40 acre “farm”) to feed the sheep that our landlord kept as lawn ornaments.

    He left the house about 4 PM while I was fixing my dinner and came back around 8:30. He walked in, kicked off his shoes, made a call from his office and came back to wash his hands and get a drink of water.

    It was about then that I noticed he was covered with straw, mud, shit and blood. I asked him what had happened. He told me one of the ewes was having a “little trouble” with a lamb so that he had tried to help, but that he couldn’t do it himself so he called the vet. As it happened, the lamb was stillborn and the ewe almost didn’t make it, but was saved. Four or five months later (hottest day of the year) I came home from a brief vacation and found a dead ewe about 3o feet from the house. I called the landlord and told him about it. He suggested I give his “man” a hand with loading it into the front end loader. I suggested he think that one through again. Sure enough when Tom came home from work, he went out and helped the handyman move the carcass.

    I think I’ll stick to chickens and plants.

  7. Although that mental image makes me laugh like you wouldn’t believe (Granddaddy on the ground with Gal the broodmare, fighting for a green dot), I must say that I used a term many may be unfamiliar with. I think the technical name for it is a “twitch.” It’s a metal clasp that fits on the horse’s upper lip and sort of pinches it, exerting mild pressure on the nerve there to calm the horse down. Granddaddy didn’t use one except in extreme cases, and then only very briefly. (They’re useless after about five minutes or so, because the endorphins wear off.) This particular thieving mare was the only one I ever saw him use it on; my dad had to use a twister occasionally for one of the other horses who’d get frantic in the crossties for grooming or medication.

    I often wondered if Granddaddy thought about using a twister on a neighbor man who accused my then-teenage dad of stealing calves. Heh.

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