Feeding and Caring.

 Feeding and Caring.

 

For some strange reason, memories of Grandmother Pollard griping about how much she and Granddad had to spend on feed came to my feeble mind. My age was not such that it really meant that much to me, but it was obvious that Granddad was not going to let the stock go hungry. A trip or two downtown to the feed store in Wichita Falls always tickled me because the place smelled SO good. Plus, they had little critters in that place that they would let me see and sometimes touch. They had baby chicks, ducks, turkeys, and other assorted fowl. Then they also had rabbits—baby rabbits. But Granddad never bought critters there. He just came mostly for cattle and sheep feed. Chicken feed might have been included in that load, but that is not part of my memories.

 

Feeding the livestock was always something of an adventure. My place was behind the fence while Granddad went through the gate or poured feed over the fence into the trough. They had one cow called Granny who had horns—she was the ONLY one with horns other than the bulls that came and went every few years. The bulls never stayed more than three years because the heifers were kept to raise their own calves. Anyway, unless it was cold and icy, Granddad hauled those sacks of feed up the hill to the barn on his shoulders. He was only five feet tall, but he was all muscle. He had an old oil field metal tank that he had cut a door in for a feed storage place. It was tightly built so that he did not have to worry about critters like rats getting into the feed. And he had built the foundation himself from concrete and rocks that he placed in the area where the tank fit. It would have been a decent storm shelter in a pinch, but it was too far from the house to be handy.

 

Granddad had to be careful when he went to feed because Granny would hit him or the other cows with those horns so that she could get to the feed first. She was the oldest cow on the farm for as long as she lived, but it may have been Red Water disease that put Granny down. Not sure just exactly what that sickness would be called now, but the cows would die after about a week unless they were treated. Daddy and Granddad had to put them all up in the corral and give each one a shot for whatever it was. Even the bull got a shot. That was interesting! Bulls are not particularly easy to handle unless raised from a calf like my Kennedy grandfather had done. But the Kennedys sold registered Angus bulls, so they were all gentle and expensive. Big difference between an Angus and a Hereford bull—besides the size, that is. Granddad Pollard’s bulls were sometimes right off the range and full of snorts and high jinks. One winter when he was feeding out of the back of his truck, the bull decided to get in the back of the truck WITH him. Granddad hit that bull over the head with the shovel he had back there and knocked a horn smooth off that bull. The bull shook his head and came back for more. So guess what happened to the OTHER horn! Granddad said at least his head matched.

 

Granddad was not the least bit mean to his critters. Well, maybe his least favorite ram might have been a bit of a toss up on that situation. The ram was a high dollar Rambouillet that was supposed to bring better breeding into the herd for lambs with high grade wool and smaller lamb size. Grandmother Pollard named him Satan. He was the meanest creature that farm ever saw! When Daddy was bent over a ewe during shearing, Satan hit him through the fence and knocked him all the way into the side of the house. Broke a shingle on the house and made Daddy so made that he roped the ram and tied him to Grandmother’s clothesline pole. Satan uprooted the pole! Soon after that, Satan caught Granddad out in the feed bin and wouldn’t let him out the door. Grandmother had NO idea why Granddad was out so late, but he finally escaped and got back to the house. Satan left that weekend!

 

The lambs were always good for some fun each spring. So many of the Suffolk ewes would have twins, but even the Rambouillet would have twins sometimes. Usually, a Suffolk could raise two lambs pretty well, but it seemed there were always a few lambs who needed “extra” care in the form of a bottle of milk early in the morning for a month or so. Those lambs knew just exactly where to go and how much tail wagging they would do when they got that little extra milk! Two of Grandmother’s favorite ewes were Pet and Granny. Pet was a black-faced ewe, and Granny a Rambouillet. They nearly always had twins. When my grandparents sold the farm, those two ewes were taken to Byers to live in the “yard” of the telephone office. How long they lived is beyond my memory, but they were well loved.

 

It was not until an allergy specialist told Mom that my allergies included lanolin and wool that she realized why my childhood was spent with horrible rashes. Such fun. But at least my allergies did not include my donkey or later my horses. Life with animals would never have been the same, however, without those lambs and the sheep that grazed in the “trap” near the house.

 

Knowing that my dogs are appreciated and loved for their companionship and for their varmint hunting skills just makes me realize that even though my hens are the only “country” critters on the hill, my life will nearly always include animals. Feeding and caring for stock, even just dogs and a few hens, will always remind me of the farm and my grandparents. Good memories.

 

May you all rest well this evening and enjoy life. We can be grateful for all His blessings and all the memories. You are loved.