I have a two pound eggplant inside a basketball inside my tummy. This strange occurrence and the analogy disturbs me a little. Being pregnant is weird enough without the food and sports references. Because of this interesting if not so unusual happening I am not allowed to start riding my three year old. Mind you they said I can’t ride him they (doctors, husband, people with more common sense than me) didn’t say I couldn’t work him.

I don’t know why I’m so worried about getting him started all of a sudden. Yes he’s three. No big deal. Morgans, horses in general, shouldn’t be started until then any way. It’s just that I am surrounded by a culture in which horses are started at two. An un-broke three year old means that I am a bad owner. Granted I have already admitted to this sad fact, I need to convince myself that that is not the case on this particular occasion. Next year he will be four, next year I will start riding him. He will be that much more ready to ride because I will have spent this year preparing him. It will be great.

Not.

All I want to do is hop on Coyote bare back in a halter and plod around the yard. I am lazy, I am pregnant, I am burned out on training horses.

Next year though, next year he shall be ridden.

It seems like only yesterday that we picked them up as day old chicks. Now they are large ferocious finger eating chickens.

Large is all relative I suppose. They are Buff Orpingtons and will get much bigger than this before they are done. The ferocious beasts progressed quickly from pouncing upon grasshoppers as we herded them into their cage to ripping them out of our fingers as we dangle them over their heads.

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Every thing is going well. No rain, for the moment that’s a good thing, no hail, always a good thing. They are working on the neighbors wheat now.

That is the full extent of my knowledge of farming. Maybe when he is done combining he can give factually accurate account.

Maybe he can also return to editing my posts. I never claimed to be able to spell or practice proper grammar. Really I barely have a working grasp of the English language. So any mistakes are his fault for being gone.

It’s always a mans fault it’s only fair.

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The bees may be gone but the gap they left behind has been filled at least partially by their much larger cousins. The buzzing roar of the bumblebees is a little intimidating as the zip past your head. They gather pollen fertilizing plants the same as honey bees.

I do love my flowers, pitiful though they may be, and it is nice to have these gigantic insects to keep them company. What is left of them after the grasshoppers are through that is.

It’s here already. Combining started on the first of July.

The heat is suffocating. The ground is dry and cracked and the wheat is burnt golden brown and ready to cut. Lots of wheat ground was cut early and baled. There was just not enough moisture for it to grow and the wheat head to fill out. Hay is in very short supply and worth a fortune right now. The wheat bales will at least be something to fill a cows belly. Hopefully baled green there will be some nutritional value. Most of it will be ground in with good exorbitantly expensive alfalfa.

The air has been heavy with smoke this summer. The scent of it is overwhelming every time you step out side. Every one keeps asking where the nearest fire is. We have been lucky so far no big ones real close. Today it looks foggy out from the smoke and the closest fire is near Edgemont SD. That’s not enough of a fire to bring us this much smoke, so it looks like we have those Colorado people to thank. Hopefully this is the worst we get from them, the fires down there are horrendous.

But the blazing red sun doesn’t slow the combines any. I will be abandoned and alone for the next week or so as my husband, his father and a neighbor work in the fields.

Except when they call desperate for someone to bring them food of course.

Ava and I went for a beautiful ride this weekend. We hopped on Coyote bareback, double, and meandered about the yard. We paused to watch the guys, her little brother Cade included, switching semis around to different trailers getting ready for wheat harvest. We let Coyote, who is not spoiled at all, stop to graze. Why do horses like to eat the flowers off Canadian Thistle? It does seem like it would be prickly.

When we finished riding Ava decided we needed to make the horses pretty. First it was only Jerry. Since she is a girl and all. We braided her forelock then we braided her mane. That was so much fun, she decided Nevil would like to be able to see. So we brought him in and braided his forelock, not his mane cause he’s a boy, and decided a bridle path might be good too.

Poor Coyote, turned out already, didn’t leave soon enough. So he got to come back to receive the works. That’s what he gets for sticking around to mock his now beautiful and manicured pasture mates.

I took pictures of Ava with her hair all braided to match the horses as she helped groom them, but my phone ate them. Stupid phone.

Last weekend was hot horribly, miserably hot. Perfect weather to wash the…..

Combine.

No simple washing of cars for us. Perhaps this weekend we will get down to those mundane matters.

The horribly dry weather has lead to an early and poor wheat harvest. We saw the first harvesters going on June 26 and probably won’t be far behind. Time to get ready. Every body knows a clean combine works so much more efficiently or at least cuts down on fire hazard.

On another note, I was in high school before I knew that warsh was not spelled with an R.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mIIDEWUEk5E

The Daisy Dog found me last summer. Her wet cold nose pushed into my hand as I walked along. After jumping out of my skin I looked down to see a skinny little dog looking up at me. She wiggled and squirmed and begged to be petted.

“Why hello there” I said “are you for me?”

She said yes. It was very clear I swear I could hear her. So I took the Yellow dog with a pink nose home with me.

Daisy is still skinny and still little. She doesn’t believe in eating as there is too much to do in life. She doesn’t walk, she bounds, often visible in short burst as she clears the tops of three foot weeds chasing pheasants. She loves every one and every thing. Her joy is expressed clearly as she leaps up to greet any newcomer with happy licks and a furiously wagging tail. Not to say that she is ill mannered. She comes instantly when called and is a surprisingly good cow dog.  Mostly because she comes when called, a trait I have found to be rare in cow dogs. She easily goes all day behind the cows not pushing to hard or biting at heels.

Or she did until she discovered the joy of four wheelers. She loves four wheelers with an undying love. With that much energy why run when you could ride? Now she runs desperately to the nearest four wheeler and begs to be let on. She’s not picky she’ll ride with any one. She balances precariously on the back, tongue blowing in the wind.

When people ask me what kind of dog my little Daisy is, I smile and tell them “Why she’s a yellow dog  of course!”