Up-to-date

It is almost rule number one in Dane rescue that no one is ever up-to-date on shots. And failing positive proof otherwise, even if the person handing you the leash says the dog she is relinquishing is up-to-date on shots, the dog is not up-to-date on shots until we make him or her so.

We took The-Dog-Formerly-Known-As-Princess to see Dr. Kevin to bring her up-to-date on shots, to have her tested for heartworms and other less severe worms, to get his general appraisal of her overall health, and to solicit his opinion or intervention with some other items of interest, namely a festering, oozing stye in her left eye, a growth that was large enough to fill the area between the pads on her rear-driver’s side paw, large skin tags strategically located all over her body, and what was hopefully just a fatty deposit the size of a golf ball on her belly. A short 24 hours later, The-Dog-Formerly-Known-As-Princess had emerged from general anesthesia sans stye, skin tags, and fatty deposit, and with bright shiny teeth to boot.

The extreme makeover must have done her a world of good, because since then she has become more and more interested in kibble, and more and more concerned about everyone else’s kibble. By the next day, she was feeling good enough to run right out of the protective wrap on her paw, depriving me of the opportunity to use my surgical shears. We are learning to communicate with one another, to the extent both a whine and a single, sharp bark are necessary to rouse us for her middle-of-the night bathroom outing.

So, now that we are up-to-date on our shots and feeling our oats, all there is to do is to wait for the absolute-perfect-made-to-order forever family. Until then, we will have to do.

No Doubt

I was having those last-minute doubts and recriminations – it is one thing to go to visit a friend and meet her family, impose upon them to suffer a major disruption to their schedules and priorities, ask them to entertain you and help you negotiate their city; but it seemed like perhaps a bit much to ask to also provide you with accommodations for the weekend. So, even if out of nothing but a misguided notion of proper manners and genteel upbringing, I felt compelled to ask, “Are you sure you don’t want us to get a hotel?”

But from a hotel, we would have missed the talk and laughter until 2 a.m.

We would not have been able to stumble from our room for early morning snuggles with the MajorDanes.

We would have missed spontaneous outbursts of tug-o-war.

We would have been terribly overdressed for breakfast at Hell’s Kitchen.

No one would have been able to warn us about the teeter-totter crossing.

So in the end, the loving embrace and hospitality of friends won us over, and gave us new reasons to appreciate the joy of the MajorDanes family.

Time

The life expectancy of a Great Dane is 9 – 11 years. Now, some of us see this as a definite mark in the minus categories for owning Danes. For dogs so sweet and so wonderful, it seems like such a short amount of time to share.

Or perhaps you are someone who expects your Dane to live only nine years, and then, well, she’s just marking time at the ripe old age of 9 ½, so you move and leave her behind with enough kibble to last her a couple weeks, as long as she doesn’t eat too much.

Yesterday morning, Princess ate the last 2 cups of the Ol’Roy she had been left.

Yesterday afternoon, freshly washed and coiffed, Princess made her way here to MisFit Farm, which we all expect to be the last move she makes before leaving this mortal coil. While we have an exceptional track record for longevity here at the Farm, we have every expectation Princess will leave us wanting for more time to share.

It's Hot in Toe-peek-ah

This only begins to capture how the 109 degree heat index is feeling here in the Toe-peek-ah area.

The dogs have retired to lay on the cool concrete floor in the basement almost permanently. While the rest of the dogs still want to lay on the tops of our feet, when they are not curled up around the cold air register, Emmett can be found routinely sprawled out in the cool recesses of the dog room. When I let the old dogs out the front door for a potty break, they skirt along the front of the house under the covered porch and dance across the hot sidewalk into the yard. They may be goofy, but they sure aren't stupid.

True to form, my girl, Trinity, bucks the trend by following my footsteps as a sun worshipper. While the other dogs duck-dive for a cool spot in the mud under a shade tree while they accompany me for garden work, Trinity stretches out in the sun, her sleek black coat glistening. I come home from work to find her sitting out in the middle of the dog yard, head uplifted as she drinks in the warm summer air. The other dogs offer, at most, a cursory bark from their positions inside the cool confines of their air-conditioned and ceiling fanned room.

I must remember to add to my list of things I betcha didn't know: chickens can (and do) pant. They may be laying their eggs pre-hard-boiled soon. The ducks, still residing at our pond, spend most of their days languishing under the shade of the bridge, venturing out only occasionally to splash tepid pond water onto their backs. The goats and horse find shady spots of their own, take dust baths, and suck down enough water to keep RWD #6 in full employment.

If It Quacks Like a Duck . . .

This may come as news to everyone, but I am someone who is relatively routine-bound; maybe not bound so much as routine-dependent. That’s it – routine dependent. Even within the chaos of our lives, which are really pretty unpredictable given the scheduling vagaries of K’s work, my impulsive decisions to do things like join semi-professional athletic teams, and our joint decisions to randomly incorporate large stray dogs into our pack, I manage to build patterns into our daily activities that make me feel grounded, centered, and almost-sane.

I have a very specific routine for the twice-daily care and feeding of the goats, horse, cats and chickens. Note the very specific list: Goats. Horse. Cats. Chickens.

Note the absence of: ducks.

Said absence would be attributable to the lack of domestic ducks here at MisFit Farm. Or perhaps I should say, would have been attributable. On Monday, as I was completing my chores with the goats, horse, cats and chickens, something by the pond caught my attention. I shuffled out to investigate, and found a pair of domestic farm ducks, handily un-camouflaged in snow-white feathers, clambering up the bank from the pond and waddling around the pasture.

We have not had historically good luck with waterfowl here at the Farm. Our annual wild goose-couple were alienated after Azure invaded their nest and consumed their bevy of eggs. Coffee-dog chased a beautiful foursome of Mallard ducks given to us by friends as a pond-warming gift were into the neighbors’ above-ground swimming pool. After these events, I sort of figured were had been labeled locus non grata in the poultry world.

Apparently this pair didn’t get the memo. And so my Monday evening routine came to a screeching halt. I try not to overthink these things. I try not to ask myself if these two have arrived to help us reconcile our be-fowled karma. I like to think of myself as a person of action, not someone mired down in the banality of mindless routine. My first action step was to retrieve some English Muffins I had thrown to the chickens over the weekend and offer them to our visitors. I crumbled and tossed the crumbs to them. When this did not catch their interest, I decided perhaps offering a full muffin half would give them something substantial. Tossing it like a Frisbee, I managed to directly hit one of our guests in the side, resulting in a lot of flapping and quacking. Understandably, they retreated out onto the pond, a safe distance from me, my flying food offerings, and my dead-on aim.

We are not off to a good start.

We are committed to taking action to locate the pair’s rightful owners, but are a bit uncertain how to go about (a) locating the owners, and then (b) the logistics of collecting the ducks for return to their owners. Do we post photos on telephone poles? Buy space on milk cartons? Take out a personal ad in the local paper?

Or do I just adjust the routine to accommodate these additional wards?

Dane-love Thomas Style

People who are familiar with Great Danes as a breed know them to be extremely social – a common Dane characteristic is the “lean,” where they relinquish the task of holding their bodies upright to allow their people to support their weight. They are known to help themselves to open laps for sitting, an art form Trinity has taken to new levels as she scrambles into laps open only by virtue of sitting on a toilet at the time. They seek out companionship and attention; even she-who-will-not-be-bothered Mercy will resort to the elbow-nudge when the need to be petted strikes her. It is not uncommon here at the Farm, when trying to move from one room to another, to find oneself held fast in place by a Dane paw that has been placed atop one’s foot. And when one’s foot has been extricated from under the huge paw, one can almost always count on an entourage accompaniment that makes the journey from one room to another take on the air of a furry, squirmy, chaotic parade marched to the beat of multiple large, long tails drumming walls, doorways and furniture and punctuated by a dialogue of, “oh excuse me, didn’t mean to get in the way, guys – oh sh*t – ouch, my leg - watch out – incoming!”

As I was making my way around the house this morning, it occurred to me our foster boy, Thomas, displays all of the typical Dane traits, but he seems to have taken his need for contact one step beyond. He has somehow moved beyond Dane and reached . . . cat? Which is ironic on a number of levels, not the least of which is Thomas has a somewhat checkered history with cats.

For Thomas, padding up for a morning petting session is not enough. He likes to cram his head into you, rubbing his face on any available body surface. Bellies and hips will do, but if you would be so kind as to use both hands to rub the sides of his face, get his ears really good (he lets you know you have hit the right spot by purring with delight, which unlike a cat’s purr has a low, rolling thunder quality), and then scratch down his back.In return for this massage, he will imitate a classic feline maneuver, where they slam the side of their body against you, pushing and twining through your legs. Only in Thomas’ case with the force of a linebacker and the hazardous consequence of knocking you to the ground if caught unawares or left off balance by attempting the audacious move of continuing to prepare for the day. And as cats will sometimes give you a farewell flick with a tail to send you on your way, Thomas’ frenetically wagging tail will offer a final slap on the back of the thighs, butt, or lower back, leaving you with a sting and a welt, but in most cases, no bruising.

Planes and Wheels

I have long maintained if we are open to it, the cosmos will supply us with the things we need. This belief has carried me through pretty well; since becoming involved in the Great Dane rescue, however, the gifts we have received from the cosmos have been tenfold as much as any two people deserve.

It was through the rescue that I found myself speaking on the phone to a complete stranger about two and a half years ago while trying to coordinate an adoption transport. My lines were crossed; this was not the person to whom I would be passing the transported dog. She was in Minnesota. I was in northeast Kansas. This conversation should not have taken place. But thanks to the cosmos, it did. And it planted a seed that took root enough so that when the same woman on the Minnesota end of the line found herself making a reverse-Dane train trek, we were called into action to intercede her.

The cosmos are sneaky that way. You find yourself in the parking lot of some random gas station, tears being shed all around, and it turns out those tears won’t be the last the three of you share. Those tears are watering laughter and adventures you haven’t even realized are taking shape.
From those tears, we have shared flaming desserts, melancholy restaurant hostesses, and indifferent waitstaff in San Francisco. We have had chance encounters in local airports, where we found her dragging around a sound system as carry-on luggage. We have connected over passing canine maladies and permanent characteristics. We have shared stories and pictures and videos, albeit hers are much more well-produced.

And this past weekend, our friend from the Dane exchange in the parking lot, Evonne, winged in from Minnesota. I know from first-hand observation, she has the ability to make every creature feel like he or she is the only one in the room, so a girl can’t be too surprised at the warm reception the kritters here at MisFit Farm gave her. We watched as the people at her workshop each blossomed and basked in the warmth of her energy. It was a marvelous weekend.

Putting her on a plane to return was so difficult, we almost didn’t make it to the gate on time. But rest assured, there will be stories to come of that adventure and many more.