Johnny Be Good

This morning our cattle came home all in a row from their daily fence inspection. All was good on the perimeters said Bessy, the provider of the cream for our coffee and the dominant matriarch in her stable little hierarchy. They had been chatting with Johnny Be Good's cows out on fringes of the northeast quarter section. Apparently Johnny Be Good had been living up to his moniker, again. Johnny's cows had cornered him in the coral after he lost his temper with them for being a little pushy at his shiny new tractor when he brought them a fresh bale of hay. Seems like they got him stuck in the muck, and he had to make a run for it and jump over the nine foot high coral boards, Johnny being the butt of his cattle's joking around about extremists, and Johnny, not tolerating any of this incitement to joviality, had put them all in the chute and promptly trimmed their horns all off. This had destabilized their dominance hierarchy so much that their glucocorticoid levels were running rampant and this had caused much infighting, all over a bit of horse play. That Johnny Be Good.

Bessy, she's pretty smart, she asked us if we'd check out on the net what the root cause of their friends problems were. So we gathered info from many different sources, some possibly a tad less reliable than others. Applying it all to this situation we found there was a given amount of food and resources available for Johnny's cattle on his homestead. If it was divided evenly among them all, they would all have enough for their needs. It was all in this game of distribution.

Present day conjecture assumes that all cattle have the same opportunity to eat and take care of their needs. Those who are stronger or a bit smarter or have more desire to, can however eat more than others. What arises from this is that once they eat more they may produce more milk or gain more weight and become the favourites of their champions, and this can influence the astuteness involved in allowing them to eat even more and produce even more milk or gain weight even faster. Those with this influence have thus modified their customary feeding habits and their champions are content to enforce this adjustment, in fact, it can become quite an autonomous culture, this enforcement thing, especially with shiny new armaments involved. When other cattle question these conjectures this enforcement culture can get a mite uptight.

So, it would seem here the problem is Johnny's new tractor. Some of his cattle were not too keen on his feeding strategy. Johnny Be Good's dogma which purports to value a shiny new paint job over the needs and desires of his fellow creatures may herald forth a few dissenters. So we were able to give Bessy this information to pass on, that if Johnny Be Good's cattle want to be treated civilly, they must dent and scratch that shiny new tractor till it looks like a a piece of junk. Only then will the dogma evaporate into a sustainable relationship for all parties involved.

As a disclaimer we must add that this solution we passed on to Bessy involves absolutely no conflict of interest. Just because the pile of fence posts we had stored along side our adjoining fence line were slowly disappearing, and Johnny claimed he didn't even know they were there when they were in plain sight, does not mean we have any other interest at heart, other than the well being of his cattle. Now you keep that pot covered, eh.

The good widow Rachael

As you may gather, Schmoes Diner (that is without the apostrophe because that is the way his sign is writ), is the focal point in our neck of the woods out here since the municipal yard just has one shed with no heat. Anyhow, Schmoe has a bulletin board by the door which is used mostly for buy and sell stuff and major notifications. So, one fine morning there was this poem tacked up. It had no title but it didn't really matter as everyone buzzed around cracking up in merriment. The speculation was that one of the local wives had become a trifle vengeful and had taken to heart the saying that the pen was mightier than the sword. This is what the wrathful one had writ:

There was a nice lady who lived on a farm

She raised chickens and pigs with elegance and charm

Had a big garden and fruit bushes too

And big fuzzy cats who meant no one harm

And on her wee farm she had a wee still

In a wee shed at the bottom of the hill

She had three husbands all buried in a row

They all died most blissfully from drinking her swill

She talked with droll umbras when she was want for enthrall

About life in the Orient and high in Nepal

She knew all the vices of wise men she'd desiderate

In her journeys to remote places she had quite the ball

She'd been on a space ship that took her to Mars

Always been enraptured since visiting the stars

They'd taught her of magics and premises disquisitive

And showed her their wonders in macrocosmic bars

Her dress it was ornate as was her thought

And she bamboozled her neighbours with tales well wrought

Wives would find broomsticks to beat their behinds

When husbands were tempted to have a small drought

There was a nice lady who lived on a farm

It's a mystery to fathom her gracious good charm

So good luck to you weasels if she finds you enthralling

Best wax as inscrutable and head for your barn

Just as everyone was settling down a bit in walks no one other than the good widow Rachael herself. Of course she has to stop by the pin board to read the latest and there is definitely a hush in the atmosphere. Well, composure being a trait of elegance and charm, she simply sits herself down and asks Joe how his kids are doing. Everyone thought maybe she hadn't bothered to read the little poem so the place got to humming with our local gossip again. Later on after the good widow Rachael had made her way on, someone eyed a new little line at the bottom of that vengeful lyric and everyone gathered to read  “cause she just loves a dare.”

Try to keep that pot covered,eh.

Ill defined prerogatives

We all bucked through the unplowed snow drifts to Schmoes Diner yesterday where the talk was all about Canada's new immigrant program designed to bring millionaires to our impoverished country. The government announced it would give permanent residency to international investors who could invest $2 million in Canada, in an effort to attract experienced business people who could give the Canadian economy a boost. We were all pretty excited that maybe we could attract one or two to our neck of the woods. Schmoe was a little less than enthusiastic as it would mean he would have to add more items to his menu than burgers and coffee and fries (in alphabetical order) if he were to compete if one of these rich dudes decided to open up a new restaurant.

We figured if we could attract some of these rich whippersnappers to buy a quarter section of bush and start homesteading we could really build our municipal tax base and get some decent roads and maybe even a fire truck. With all that business experience they might even be cajoled to sit on the council and maybe give some insight into keeping our ancient 671 Champion grader running at least enough to plow the snow. But then Cultivated Herb came along and said he had met some of these rich foreign folk, and he thought they'd be more app to be city types living with a few niceties than joining us out here in the sticks.

Cultivated Herb is up on a lot of these things, he even reads the “Globe and Mail,” and he said this outfit called the Immigrant Investor Capital Program would take these dudes $2 million, if they were wanting to integrate into Canada's somewhat languorous relationship with the world at large, and divest it into brazenly speculative ventures aimed at increasing our exposure to the economic forefront of civilization, all at their own risk mind you, contributing to our long-term perplexity and the economic growth of the 1%. For this they would be given the right to vote and make full use of our medicare programs.

Bucking the snow drifts on the way home again, we got to feeling kind of in touch with the rest of our amazing Canada. Those guys in Ottawa were really trying their best to make a go of our humble nation. To open our borders to these one percenters who may come part and parcel with some other ill defined prerogatives is quite enterprising and makes us feel quit at home here living with our resourceful neighbours who also have some ill defined prerogatives. Oh to be part of this great land. You all keep that pot covered now, eh!

Pavlov's chicken

We have this neurotic chicken running around the yard here this year. She takes a brown marker to her toes because she doesn't want the others to know she quit smoking. Yes she has quite the complex. But since she quit smoking she's taken to chasing Fritz who being a cross between an Irish Wolf Hound and a real wolf, his mother chased one down, picks her up all squawking and drops her in the water trough.

Mystified at this behaviour, we stumbled upon Pavlov and his behaviour theory. The central doctrine of this school is that an understanding of all behavioural responses may be acquired through a grasp of the concepts of drive, cue, response, and reward and their derivatives; rewarded responses become habits through a process of conditioning, and unrewarded responses tend to be extinguished. This doesn't seem to really apply to our wet smoke free chicken as we ponder of our fountains of amusement. Our guess is Pavlov didn't raise neurotic chickens.

The results of two studies indicate that people who are high in openness to new experience and high in neuroticism are likely to be bloggers, and additionally that the neurotical relationship was moderated by gender indicating that women who are high in neuroticism are more likely to be bloggers as compared to those low in neuroticism whereas there was no difference for men. So our chicken being a women for all intents and purposes, we wondered if bringing her in the house to the keypad would ease her sillier tendencies as she vented herself on the world at large. Us not being fluent in hen peck, do not really know if it is working, but she does seem to enjoy the house more than the water trough, although Fritz with his insight can't stop anticipating the friendly fire with his eye on the back door.

Being high on positive emotion is an element of the independent trait of extroversion. Neurotic extroverts experience high levels of both positive and negative emotional states, a kind of emotional roller coaster. Being intent on comprehending the masochistic tendencies of our chicken, we're pretty sure the water trough episodes and ensuing grooming sessions are needed to gratify the needed negative emotional states. Pavlov would be exalted by our acumen, and his theory would stand unabated.

With all due respect to our chickens, we do not harbour any ill will, or even entertain ridicule. We mostly poke fun at our own misunderstandings of your appreciated presence on our planet. And we enjoy having you over for dinner. We don't seem to be able to dig ourselves out of this hole now, do we?   We do wonder what Pavlov would say.      You all keep the pot covered, okay?

Chickens in the cloud

We were working on our pugnacious old D7, that's the one with the pony motor and the hand clutch that'll rip your arm off, because it gives us this tingle of intrepidness to embellish the task of clearing three inches of snow off our drive. Somehow the cloud of diesel smoke wafting away into evanescence got us thinking since the cloud was all the rage out there, why not bring it to the bush. We had first considered the enterprise of raising virtual chickens and pigs and cows and of course complete with virtual excrement, and to sell them for virtual money so we could pay our virtual hydro bill and live in virtual warmth, but then winter would come along and we'd freeze our virtual buts off, so we sort of decided to pass on that one, because string theory aside, winter isn't all that virtual.

This cloud thing however, it has real possibilities. We could raise our cows and chickens and pigs along with their feed in the cloud, so to speak. If each hick out here got together and we created a few misty meadows out in the bush where we could keep all our livestock, and a few more misty ramparts to stash the feed in, why look at the possibilities. We could focus on maximizing the effectiveness of our shared resources by dynamically reallocating them per demand. So if Joe over there wanted a chicken or two to feed his nine kids, he could just call up the widow Rachael who we could hire as our full time data central and she wouldn't have to wink so much at the local bachelors to make ends meet. She could get Bob and his brother Bob and his other brother Bob to deliver them toot sweet and they could have a real job to keep them out of adversity. And all of us hicks, why we'd have all the time in the world to get a real job to pay for all this innovativeness. On second thought, that's what we toil away at already, and it may be easier just to raise our own chickens and cows and pigs. And the good widow Rachael and Bob and his brother Bob and his other brother Bob all kind of get titillated with the life they have anyhow, with all due respect. Oh how this intrepidness clouds the brain.

Well, the drive is clean right down to the bedrock, and a steaming hot cup of coffee will put our intrepidness right up there on cloud number nine, so till next time, keep the pot covered, eh.

Anankasticism

We aren't part of the 1% out here on the back 40, those rich dudes we keep hearing about on the news, and that may be an understatement. But we have our own ways of gratifying our obsessive compulsive disorders. Why, we have one heifer who's so obsessed with her anxiety over a consistent feed supply that she keeps breaking the fence down into the stack yard. Our local vet tried fluoxetine, but she developed such an aversion to her meds that we can't get close to her with that darn pill gun. The vet says this poor heifer thinks that all the cattle have the need to be as well fed as her, but they can't do it because they are just inferior. It never occurs to her that the rest of them just have other goals.

We were in Schmoes Delicatessen, that's the place out on the highway with burger, coffee, and fries all listed alphabetically on the menu and where you can usually find a willing mouth to entertain you for a stretch. Cultivated Herb, our local palaver of useful information, was discoursing on obsessive–compulsive personality disorder, also apparently called anankastic personality disorder, this personality disorder characterized by a pervasive pattern of preoccupation with orderliness, perfectionism, excessive attention to details, mental and interpersonal control, and a need for power over one's environment, at the expense of flexibility and openness.

Now the drive to amass wealth, in purely psychological terms, is a symptom of this anankasticism. Fear of the world makes these dudes want to control it, and wealth is a means of obtaining some measure of control. Most of this, like most of what motivates us, is subconscious. Dudes who want to become wealthy are not known to be paragons of self-inspection, and for the most part think they are quite normal. That's why they think that everyone has the need to be as rich as them, but can't do it because they are just inferior. It never occurs to them that the rest of us really just have other goals. This has apparently been studied, and is becoming increasingly well understood. In previous centuries these people became robber barons, dictators, and tyrants. We have simply progressed.

These regulars at Schmoes, they all know we have this here blog, and the conversion got vitiated around for the need to amass followers for our little blog here, and they're making all kinds of pleasantries at us and our need to control the world and all with our blogging. Guess we'll have to go home and take some fluoxetine if that rascally heifer don't want it.

You all have a good day and keep the pot covered, eh.

Escape of the bull

So, we've got the bull back in the barn and his pen all shored up. It was quite the morning with him a pawin and a snortin and then goin through the barn door, well he sort of lifted it and went underneath, all because he got the hots for some neighbourhood sweety who was smelling fine. He was off an over the fences and through the widow Rachael's garden patch, and we'll never hear the end of that. We had to load a charming heifer who was jumpin on every critter in sight on the back of the pickup and he followed her home like a good little boy and we let him have a go at her and he got as placated as a bag of wet macaroni.

Now we were having our coffee and discussing the philosophical implications of such occurrences what with the earth's population sitting at around 9 billion. Men and women being men and women they all gets the hots too, and the Pope he doesn't value much any counter potency efforts excepting good morals and that's real good if your fine and upstanding, but we got politicians on this good earth too. So we figured that if we did away with politicians we could control our population, but Joe, he wants to be on the school board because he's got nine kids, and well that just about ended our discourse right there but we all had a real good snicker.

This big colloquium their having in Davos has really got our chickens scratching. Some top drawer cracks are worrying their poor heads that economic growth was slower than it might have been in countries with limitations on online activity. They say people should be concerned, national solutions won't protect the interests of global companies. They want to mobilize businesses on this issue in the same way they are mobilized for free trade pacts. Our chickens are telling us we better watch out or we'll be voting for Walmart or Exxon or Cargill to exalt our freedoms pretty soon, and chicken feed could get pretty pricey. We run a real democracy out here in the back 40, and the chickens all voted to keep themselves free range, with lots of cock a doodle dooing about keeping that hole in the fence open. Says a lot for their confidence in humanity.

If we can keep this telephone internet connection operational here, we'll try to keep you city folk all informed about our valued opinions out here in the bush. Keep the pot covered, eh.