Sunday, September 24, 2006

Foster Success!

O.k., if we hear, “I could never foster a dog. I would get too attached. It is incredible to me that you can give him up.” one more time, we will scream.

Here is the deal: someone was Mercy’s foster family. If they hadn’t been open in their hearts to the possibility that we were the absolute, just-perfect, made-to-order family for Mercy, we wouldn’t have Saturday mornings that look like this:

Clapton has found his forever family. He got his daddy, and we have to be big enough in our hearts to give him the chance to have his absolute, just-perfect, made-to-order family. He is too cool a guy to keep just because he is too cool a guy.

Now, no one is perfect, least of all, Clapton. His counter-surfing was incredible. We would come home to find dog toys in the kitchen sink. How do you put stuff up high enough to be out of reach for that? I am looking forward to discovering exactly what all got put up onto shelves higher than my 5’5” can reach.

However, about 3 ½ hours into our 4 ¾ hour drive to Clapton’s forever family home, we experienced a bout of what can best be described as “explosive diarrhea,” with a splatter effect that was likely helped greatly by the fact that we were alternatively bombing along the highway at about 80 mph, cutting sharp right to take the closest exit, and coming to a screeching halt. Wow. You have to love a dog to still cry when you drop him off after scrubbing out the back of your car with cold water, pine sol and paper towels on the side of the highway.

We talked to Clapton’s new people this morning, and they reported that he had taken his new daddy on a drag through the local Petsmart this morning, has come to an understanding with the house’s chief chow hound, Max, and decidedly has chosen to ignore the 4 cats.

Here’s how you work the foster dog thing backwards. You drive away and think, “Maybe I just drove away from one of the greatest dogs I could have ever owned.” And maybe you get to the gas station, and as you are arranging stuff in the back of the SUV, pull the carpet aside to get to the under-compartment and find a little overflow that was missed in the roadside cleaning. You get home and the crazy girls that some other foster family hosted once are crazy-happy to see you, and you all laugh and dance and jump around the front yard.

Maybe the cosmos have everything right, after all.

Friday, September 01, 2006

Trinity's First Bath

For the past few weeks, K and I have had discussions about Trinity's possible parentage. She is clearly not pure Dane -- so we think, "Boxer? Bull Terrier? . . ."

Well, we have the answer. We think that the attached may be an important key to the mystery:

After a late-evening bathing last night, Trinity became a gremlin. We mean this. Take note of the behavior from the end of this video clip. This was our house last night. Add fur and racing from one end of the trailer to the other. Add all night long.

We have decided that bath-time will have to be a morning event. But the good news is that she was sure tired this morning. Thank God we had to go to work so she can get some sleep.

Mogwai. Cute little Gizmo. Cute little Trinity. Add water and bad things happen. Mogwai.

Guinea Fowl Cult

These things are killing me! They are soooo stupid, we lost a second today - Rocky didn't make the trip. We came home to find him half in/half out of the "drown proofed" water dish. He didn't drown, he just got tired of living as he was sitting on the edge of the water bowl. His feet were the half in portion.

THEN they do things like this, which causes me to freak out and run around, and then the litte peckers sit up and start running around, but first two have to run over the one's head.

K called me from the road asking if the kitty litter is getting too hot under the brooding lamp, since it is clay. I look over, and three of the little peckers are laying out like this, and I am thinking, "Holy cow -- it is like Jim Jones meets KFC in here!" I run over, and they pop up and start chirping to beat the band.

Guinea Fowl, a New Addition

We got something last weekend that the krewe thinks is way better than TV. Not that we watch TV - no cable, no satellite, no reception here at Misfit Farms. Witness the power of baby Guinea fowl.

Our neighbors bought Guinea fowl about a year ago in retaliation for the other neighbors (in between us) and their incessantly yapping weenie dogs. They hatched their first batch of babies last week, and shipped them off to us in what we originally thought was an act of love.

Three hours later and the chirping had not stopped. We were thinking, "maybe they don't like us so much after all." The dogs submitted and rested peacefully. K's mom called, asked what all the racquet was, and declined an invitation to dinner. Roasted guinea fowl is not on the menu yet. Give us a couple of days. K says it will never be on the menu.

I have a book that has recipes in it.

Although I have to say, if you have ever seen an adult Guinea, they fit right in here at Misfit Farms.