The day the sheep kicked my bootie. And leg. And arm. And skull.

When I think of sheep, the cute, giant cotton-ball image comes to my mind. Little did I know, there exists what's called a hair sheep. They're tall, like a goat, thin and fast. Very fast.
Sadie, my sweet yet inept Australian Shepard, needs herding lessons. Bad. She herds the chickens into he pond, kids around the front yard, the guineas into the woods next door, and the cows back and forth through the pasture.
I took her to a local trainer a few weeks ago. Apparently, my Sadie is a herding genius. I,  on the other hand, need some work. A lot of work.
The trainer placed herself, Sadie, and three hair sheep in a small round pen to try out her natural instincts. She began herding them like it was her job. Instinctively picking up on the trainer's signals, and running those sheep like it was her job.

Am I sexy, or what? My vote is what.

My job was to simply walk across the ring and exit through the metal gate. The trainer said that if the sheep headed my way, to simply throw my hands in the air and they'll divert. It did not go well.

The first time they ran toward me, I threw my hands up and they scatter in the opposite direction. The second time they charge I raised my hands, and no such luck. I was backed against a 6-foot metal fence. And they ran UP me. Not around. Not over. UP.

I felt six front hooves dig into my leg. Then my forearms. They my forehead. I stumbled into the center of the ring, dazed and seriously confused. And crying behind my sunglasses because I was just that embarrassed. It was kickball in fifth grade all over again. I'd gotten smacked, and it hurt my body and pride.

The people watching rushed to open the gate, grab water, and Advil. Lots of Advil. Once I got over the initial shock, I realized just how beat up I was. My head pounded. I was bleeding. And I was sleepy.

I don't consider myself graceful. I'm always finding mysterious bruises from run ins with random tables, chairs and animals. But this time, The sheep kicked my bootie. And leg. And arm. And skull. One for the records.

They Call them Birdbrains for a Reason

We've raised many birds over the years. Chickens. Geese. Ducks. And now guineas.
And let me tell you...they're all stupid. The ducks were afraid of water. The geese landed on the barn. Last week one of the chickens drowned in their own water bowls. And it takes the guinea's two hours to find their way out of their coops. If one is left in our out, it rams its chest against the chicken wire, not thinking to walk around to the door.
I may not have the most commonsense in the world. I count on my fingers. I can't do multiplication in my head. And I can't do percentages, even when armed with a calculator.
But so far I haven't drowned in my bathtub (except for the time when Jasen caught me passing out in the tub from Benadryl to get rid of the hives throwing my Dad's 50th birthday party gave me), I can find my way out of my house (although I can't find my key to get it) and I can back my car out of the driveway (except for the time I couldn't, and plopped into the ditch, and had to get Jasen to yank me out).
But the next time someone calls me a birdbrain, I'm going to kick their ass. Them's fightin' words, I tell you. Fightin' words.

i. Am. WONDERWOMAN...



 I woke up this morning feeling like I'd been run over by a Mac truck head-on. And smacked by a train from the other end. Then left to die between the two. My entire body screams with aches. I slithered out of bed. Almost poked my eye out with the mascara wand, because my fingers can't grip anything. Total muscle exhaustion in every inch of every muscle from my ears to my pinkie toe. And it feels awesome. Almost as awesome as last night.

Buttercup is in the front, followed by Big John
and the cow that had so much trouble last week.


I delivered Buttercup's calf last night. I know. Not something I ever consider in my realm of possibility. But I did it. Me. ME! Me. The sister who wears makeup every day. Even to the gym. Me. The girl who has too many shoes. None of which are covered in anything stinky. Me. The one who doesn't pick the chicken eggs because the coup makes me gag. ME!

I'd spent the day making pickles, doing the laundry, mowing the lawn, and hanging out with Juni's friend Kyle and his mom Grace. I love Grace and Juni loves Kyle. A match made in preschool heaven. Grace loves animals as much as I do, so when I noticed Buttercup by herself, circling and contracting, We both hooked the boys up with a cartoon and snacks, and we plopped a squat in the field, armed with a zoom lense camera and optimistic excitement.

Thirty minutes later the boys were running in the back yard, Buttercup had passed the bubble (her water breaking) and two hooves were sticking out of her by just inches. Wonderful. Just friggin wonderful. We both decided to head to the house, watch from the window, and have my cell phone ready to dial the vet. Thirty minutes after that, and I knew it was time to make the call. Calves can't take much labor. After an hour things get sketchy. Two hours, and all bets are off.

I called the emergency large animal vet over at The Oaks...I love them. Strong, kick-ass women with awesome attitudes. This was the second call I'd made in as many weeks. And I didn't want the same result as the last. Unfortunately, the vet was an hour-and-a-half away from my home. Fabulous. There was a possibility she could save the calf. I really didn't want to go through delivering a dead animal again. It's just not my style. So I asked her what I could do.

5 minutes old. If it's blury, it's because I was still shaking.

"Anything you can do with your hands and body strength won't hurt either one of them," she explained. "It's when you start using chains and come-a-longs that you can get yourself into a mess."

 Fabulous. But that wasn't the best part...Jasen wasn't home. I dialed his cell. At least an hour before he'd roll down the driveway. My first thought? The f-bomb. Damn it! I am SO not cut out for this.

And then I looked out the window and saw Buttercup, mooing in pain, pushing for all she was worth, with no progress.

So I traded in my comfy pants for a pair of Levi's and slipped on my barn boots, which I wear maybe once a year. If it snows. Of course I forgot socks. Because who has time to run upstairs? Not me.

I decided I was going to do this full-out, or not at all. So I rolled under the hot wire. Rolled up my sleeves, and slowly walked up to the Daisy.

Here's something to know about Daisy. She's friggin huge. A good 1500 pounds of pregnant, heaving, mooing bovine. But she's calm.

Big John



The bull, on the other had, was not. He immediately trotted through the ditch with curiosity. I waved a stick at him. Yeah right. Big John is a ton of fun. Literally. He weighs a ton. I'm in the field, between a laboring cow and her 2,000 lb baby daddy, and he's dancing around me, trying to get to the action. So I ripped part of a 3-inch tree out of the ground, chased after him, and threw it at his head once he crossed the ditch. And wouldn't you know it...I hit square on. He shook his curly fat head, bucked and kicked and turned his fat ass around. Phew.

Daisy was standing. So I inched up behind her, and knelt down. Luckily cows can only kick to the side. She bent her head around and sniffed me. It's important to note something about a cow's nose at this point. It's not cute and cuddly like a horse. It's wet. And drooly. And snotty. And I didn't care.

Buttercup and her Little Man the night he was born.



She heaved down to the ground with the next contraction, and I grabbed hold of the hooves. Holy slipperiness. She tried to get up, so I patted her hip, and spoke to her like I would an injured dog. And she understood. She began to push, and I began to pull. And nothing moved, except me. I pulled so hard on the slippery suckers that I flew to the ground, on my ass, in cow crap. Excellent. I needed a towel. But was wearing a shirt. Good enough.

I wiped the hooves while she relaxes. Dug my boots into the ground, and sat. The next contraction, I effing pulled. And a little came out. So I wiped with my shirt, and pulled again. Inch by inch, wipe by wipe, I got to the knees.
And all progress stopped. Fabulous. Without thinking, I dove into the abyss. Up to my biceps in cow whowho. I grabbed on behind the knees, and heaved them out after the next set of contractions. But the head was stuck. She'd pushed so much with no problem that her cervix was swollen. I'd learned this from What to Expect when You're Expecting. It creates a ring, and the head can't come out.
Okay. So I knew what the problem was. And I knew how to fix it. The how to was what freaked me out. But what the hell. She'd pooped on me, I had amniotic liquid and goo on me, and I was sweating like a pig. No going back now.
So I stretched and rubbed and massaged while she relaxed, and pulled her open, allowing the tongue and nose to come through. The tongue sticks out because the contractions are so strong. I took a break, and noticed that the tongue was blue. And licking its lips. Holy cow...the cow was alive. I shouted to Grace, and the adrenaline kicked in full force.
I shoved both arms in to my biceps again, put my heels against her ass, and friggin pulled like I've never pulled before. She mooed and pushed. I growled and pulled. And talked to Buttercup like she could understand me. This calf was alive. I was not going to have the vet turn up with it dead. The head came out, and the next thing I knew, the body, up to the back hips, slithered out of her, on top of me. I was laying in the field with a baby calf covering my entire body. His head in my arms, on my chest.
He was covered in white goo ... the sac, and staring at me like I was an insane person. Which, let's face it. I was. He gasped his first breath, and Buttercup flopped her head to the ground. I got up, pulled the rest of the calf out, and Daisy lugged herself onto all fours. She was licking and grunting at him. And me. I guess she figured since I smelled like her baby, I needed some cleaning, too.
Another thing about a cow...their tongues. They are a slab of muscle covering in 10 grit wet sandpaper. Very strong. And exfoliating. I rubbed the calf, shooing the flies, and she cleaned.
And then it happened. A true adrenaline rush. I was shaking from head to toe, and crying with pride and amazement. I called the vet, and we both squealed in delight. I called Jasen, and I'm still thinking he doesn't believe me. I just kept talking to Grace. A play-by-play I tell everyone I see. Partially because I'm so proud of myself I just can't stand it, and partially because I still can't believe I did it. I even called Jasen's dad.
I sat in the field, propped against a tree, for hours. Helping him scramble to his feet. Begin to nurse, twirling his tail like a windmill in delight. Morph from this flopping sack of goo to a dry, adorable, giant deer-like calf. Jasen estimates he weighs a good 85 pounds. Huge.
He's limping a bit, but healthy and happy. I'm thinking the limping comes from me putting so much pressure on his knees that my hands don't work today. The joints in my fingers have never worked so hard. (Three days later, and they're still not working just right. And the little man is still a little wobbly.)
I've never been nastier, but I've also never done something like this disgustingly beautiful. I told everyone giving birth felt like being Wonderwoman. Seriously. We women rock. We grow a baby, and them shove them out. How awesome is that.
This was another Wonderwoman moment. I pulled an 85 pound calf out of a 1500 lb cow. With my bare hands. I am Wonderwoman. Seriously. Wonderwoman.



Buttercup, with A LOT of milk on Saturday...three days after the calf was born.