LJR Enterprises

Our homestead, Our links

Category: Four legs

Pigs on A Tarp

by Scott Smith

Advertisements

Pigs on new pasture

by Scott Smith

Our Pigs in Milk

by Scott Smith

Goats in Snow

by Scott Smith

Cow Pie

by Scott Smith

Sorry for the lack of editing. Attempted to use Kodak’s crap-ware, but gave up and simply uploaded without an edit.

My hands are too big for the teats

by Scott Smith

Our goat visit video:

Pigs Have A New Pasture

by Scott Smith

The boys have a new pasture to play in.

Lost Dog in Hickory Corners, Michigan

by Scott Smith

Update: Pup (that’s the dog’s name) is back with his owner.

A silly title, but wanted to make sure the post is found by the search engines.

This afternoon this female puppy (about six months-old) showed up in our backyard. She is mostly black with white paws and chest. She has what appears to be an invisible fence collar.

If this sweet puppy is yours, our information is on the site and down at the gas station.

Lost dog in Hickory Corners, Michigan

Martha Kitty

by Scott Smith

Martha Kitty died earlier this morning.

Martha was the loner kitty, a crazy calico. She chose when to give some lovin’ and it was intense. She would knead my back for 15 minutes if I lay still and wore polar fleece. She also liked dress pants. After U&A, going on interviews for the first time in more than a decade, she always found me, leaving large swaths of fur on my cuffs.

Most mornings George and Martha would wrestle and yell at each other, which in turn would cause the border collies to bark. It was a reliable alarm clock.

She was the mouser of the crew. Falco had no interest in chasing, and George and C.C. lacked a killer’s instinct. Not Martha. The chase wasn’t the point, the kill was.

The girl liked her boxes and open suitcases. She sought and found comfort in confined spaces. She comforted my old lab, Slicer. As Slice lay dying, it was Martha that slept next to her.

Most of all I’ll remember Martha for the socks. Each morning she’d drag several down the stairs, trophies from her imaginary kills. That hadn’t happened the last week or so, and I should have known something was wrong with her. Two fresh piles of socks to sort through on the table and not one was moved.

Missing My Pigs

by Scott Smith

Robinson and I talked about getting pigs this spring. I do miss them. I know I made the right or practical decision to skip raising pigs this year, but I do miss them.

Missing the pigs