Bushhogging During the Dog Days

by admin | August 14, 2026 3:49 am

I was on the tractor by sunrise earlier this week, preparing to bushhog the side pasture for the third time this year, maybe the fourth. I have lost track. Our three large critters — Pancho the Donkey and Willie and Waylon, a pair of Longhorn steers — would rather munch on shorter grass. The trio dutifully followed the mower, eager to graze. It has taken months, but Pancho is finally willing — actually prefers — to hang out with Willie and Waylon. We had to keep them separated for a long while because our aged donkey loved to chase them around the pond, running laps as it were.

We are deep into the dog days, so I arrived early on the Kubota. While mowing is less physically demanding than other hobby farm chores, such as weed-whacking or cutting tree limbs, the heat still wears on me. I generally quit before noon, ready for AC and iced tea. A month or so ago, I foolishly let myself become overheated, to the point of nearly passing out. Now I am more cautious.[1]

While mowing, I admired the lone pecan tree still standing in the side pasture after we mulched the place five years ago. It was barely my height then. I carefully mowed around it each spring and summer, watching that pecan tree grow. Now it’s about 25 feet tall and might actually bear fruit this fall. I might have lost an inch or two in the interim.

Trees grow; trees die. Last week, our tree guy’s crew finally arrived to take down the last dead water oak in the front pasture and trim the other trees there. (Our tree guy is worth the wait. His crew is the best.) I was going to save money and forgo trimming the remaining trees — a baker’s dozen — until I was mowing the other day beneath one of them with the zero-turn. I was shocked out of podcast paralysis when something struck my wrist hard. A 20-foot tree limb had crashed into me, missing my neck by about 18 inches. Luckily, the part that landed on my body was toward the thin end. It left a bruise, a renewed sense of life’s fragility — and a mental note to get those trees trimmed.

A large clump of knockout roses lines the fence, providing a visual barrier against our only neighbor. A couple of months ago, I noticed a couple of renegade plants shooting up over the roses, about 15 feet tall. My plant app indicates that a pair of water oaks has sprouted, no doubt from seeds or acorns from one of the previously cut-down trees. Once the weather cools down, I’ll transplant two of them to the spot where the old water oak stood. Trees die; trees live.

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Whi[2]le bushhogging, I make mental notes of the next tasks. Clean those fence lines once it cools off. Finish clearing brush in the wooded lot south of the side pasture. A fellow mulched most of it a few months ago, so it’s ready for grass planting once we have a chance of rain again. I bought $150 worth of carpet grass, which is supposed to flourish in shade or sun, albeit slowly, so I need to get it in the ground. But first I’ll have to rough up the dirt with the rake. All this involves swapping out implements on the tractor — the bushhog for the rake, then the rake for the seeder. I always dread swapping implements. It involves skinned knuckles and drawing on my vast repertoire of curse words. No matter. It has to be done.

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The feral hogs are back, not that they ever actually left. Now they found the bar ditch by the driveway, with its damp soil and plentiful supply of grubs. I used the tractor tires to smooth out the damage and then dragged the bushhog across the surface for the final touch. The day after the hogs caused this damage, I looked up at dusk and spotted at least two dozen of those pests in Pancho’s Pasture, on the far side of his pond. I grabbed the .357 from the drawer and headed down the hill, firing off a couple of rounds from a distance guaranteed to miss. (First, I made sure our critters were out of the way.) As expected, the gun’s report sent the hogs hauling pork butt back behind our property, to the back half we sold off earlier this year. We have shrunk Three Geese Farm to a more manageable 24-plus acres, plenty for our hobby farm habits without being overwhelming. The hogs know no boundaries.

[3]By 11 a.m., I parked the tractor and headed inside to shower. I was covered in dust. It had been a productive morning, especially in the dog days.

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