World's Greatest Big Sister

As much as she pushes my buttons, Azure has to be credited with the ability to bring out the best in us.

Her boundless energy keeps me active. Her enthusiastic destruction has helped us identify the highest quality chew toys. She keeps toys that would otherwise repose at the bottom of the toy box in a state of constant rotation. As noted in a previous post, she has unbound me from my ridiculous idea of the private ownership and excessive acquisition of shoes.

Had it not been for Azure, we would not have realized that Trinity makes a great big sister.

There is no shortage of appropriate chew toys here at MisFit Farm. We have dog food, treats and toys drop-shipped in multiples. For every toy or chew-bone, there are generally two or three replicates available for the taking. This matters not to Azure, who is convinced that every toy or chew-bone Trinity selects is the absolute-most-fabulous-one-and-only-most-desired object in creation.

Azure may be on the other side of the room, deeply engrossed in the destruction of some innocent object, and from the moment she realizes Trinity has something – anything – the purpose of her life becomes to dispossess Trinity of her engagement.

Azure begins this process by hovering. She does a mean imitation of the Snoopy-vulture look, which Trinity is generally able to ignore. Deciding that her elevation is the reason her demands have not been fulfilled, Azure then drops to the floor and army-crawls as close as she can get to Trinity. Finding it difficult to continue her processing of the object of Azure’s interest with Azure’s nose pressed against hers, Trinity will then turn away. Shocked at Trinity’s rudeness, Azure bolts upright and begins articulating her displeasure, audible to everyone but her.

She will continue with this series of rejoinders until, driven nearly to insanity, Trinity will relinquish the object of Azure’s momentary obsession.

Azure settles into Trinity’s spot with a satisfied look and the object of her affection. Trinity inevitably retires to her chair with a sigh and a resigned look cast our way.

Is it ever enough for the good big sister to be acknowledged for being a good big sister?

I'm So Happy, I Could Bleed. . .

K felt that it was necessary to clarify from an earlier post that we are not the family who could not afford to provide Emmett with adequate veterinary care. Of course, we are not above using home remedies when necessary.

Ever since Emmett’s tail emerged from its position tucked under his body, he has walked a very fine line between happy enough and painfully happy. Periodically, he experiences a burst of the painful variety of happy, and the result is a mangled, bloody tail. The next step is blood smears across the wall, on the dryer, over the front of the refrigerator, along the knees of pants, etc. . .

Emmett has an amazing capacity for happiness. I have stepped into a wag where his tail hit me so hard, it nearly brought me to tears. We took him with us to visit K’s brother and his family. Her two-year-old niece complained loudly at one point, “Make him stop wagging me!” It is these power wags that sometimes result in physical damage to Emmett, as well as others.

If left unchecked, we have found it necessary to affix the outside of a very large syringe to the tip of his tail, to provide a “splint” and extra protection for healing. The unfortunate side effect of this arrangement is the welts and bruises experienced by others who are standing in the way of this most enthusiastic and most powerful wag. Otherwise, we keep plenty of this self-adhesive veterinary gauze on hand, apply a generous amount of hydrogen peroxide followed with a slathering of Neosporin, and wrap up Emmett’s powerful, stinging, gleeful tail for a healing period.

No Such Thing as Plan A

As is usually the way of the world, neither scenario A or scenario B played out as I had planned.

K arrived home late last night, exhausted and completely incapable of processing another event, activity or anything other than the exuberance every last inhabitant of the trailer was expressing upon her entrée through the door. I was jazzed; my preferred plan A was coming to fruition!

I woke up this morning, filled with the anticipation of a kid on Christmas morning, only five hundred times worse. I imagine my father must have felt this same way a thousand times over every Easter as he watched the agonizing process of my sister and me looking for the hidden Easter eggs. Inevitably, we would miss one or two, which would be found at a much later date in a much less appetizing state.

I was beginning to think this morning that I, too was destined for this agony. Like Sisyphus, doomed to push the boulder up the hill and helplessly watch it roll back down, I was growing more and more certain that none of the parties to my big surprise were going to cooperate. The boys, Tumnus II and Digory, are so docile that, unlike the other kids who have resided in the trailer-side kennel, they don’t cry out a lot. I made up reasons to go outside and try to stir them up. I repeatedly looked out the window at them, encouraging them to say hello, feed me, jump in a lake, anything. . . to no avail. K got up briefly, but retired back to bed, exhausted, and fell back asleep, certain to incorporate any kid calls I could coerce from the boys directly into a dream.

When K finally made her way to the window and saw them there, she was breathless, speechless, giggling, crying tears of joy. She did that absolutely adorable thing where she covers her mouth with both hands and squeezes her eyes shut.

Phoebe and her husband have really done a phenomenal job with these boys. They are as sweet and as tame as can be. We took them out into the yard, and then they walked all the way around the pond without leashes. They just followed K along, stopping to graze and sample various and sundry leaves and greeneries along the way.

I was able to catch some video footage:

So, although my “picture perfect” image of how everything would go once again fails to predict the actual course of events here at the farm, I got plenty else that turns out to be better than I could ever have imagined.

A Home-coming Surprise

No, this is not a Siamese goat as the latest edition to MisFit Farm.

These two cute little fellows, and as shown here:

there are two of them, were brought to the Farm this very morning as a surprise birthday gift for K. Thanks to laws against driving while logging on to the Internet, K. hopefully will not see this dispatch from MisFit Farm before tomorrow.

I always thought I was good at keeping a secret. This has been absolutely the hardest thing to do. Logistically, it was a snap. With K out of town and a very, very thin story about running to look at the pens at an exotic poultry farm with our neighbors, Steve and Carolyn, the aspiring exotic bird breeders, to get an idea of what the proper pens should be built like, grabbing a few hours of un-accounted-for time was easy.

This ruse would place me out of pocket long enough to drive to Florence, KS and back, and was boring enough to not elicit too many follow-up questions from K that will require heaping tall tales on top of tall tales. It has been the almost-slips in casual conversation that have nearly busted me. An offhand comment about the ridiculous price of gas at a Lawrence gas station nearly prompted a comparison to the price of gas on the turnpike. Which, I should not know because I would not theoretically have taken the turnpike for any reason today, and which, for those interested, is $.20 more expensive in Lawrence.

These guys came from the same place where we have obtained the rest of our herd. They are full-bred fainters, born March 2nd. They are not brothers, but they were born within minutes of each other and have been fast friends since then. When I pulled up at the Janzen’s farm, they were both out loose just following Phoebe around in the yard. Phoebe was absolutely correct, these guys are amazingly docile.

So here’s the ideal plan for the surprise: K should get home very late tonight. With any luck, it will be late enough that it will be too dark to see into the pen we have set up where they are staying. The boys should be asleep for the night, so they won’t make any noise, and we will just mosey on into the house and into bed for the night. Tomorrow morning, as the sun is coming up, the boys will begin to cry. So just outside the bedroom window, there they will be. As our friend, Ev, pictured K’s home-coming like a Christmas morning, this is how I envision the ideal surprise goat discovery. I have this picture of K rushing outside in her bathrobe, grinning ear-to-ear, baby goats scrambling all over her lap.

Just in case this scenario plays itself out, I have cut back all the cockleburs. This is the voice of experience speaking: there is nothing worse than cockleburs in terrycloth.

The other potential scenario is that K gets home tonight and is unusually alert and observant. She notices something in the kennel, goes over to check it out, and finds her birthday surprises. Then she rushes into the kennel, grinning ear-to-ear, baby goats scrambling all over her lap.

Either way, I win. K is homecoming, ear-to-ear grinning, baby goats scrambling, dogs dancing, life is good.

Cinder-Emmett

My paternal biological family lives in Hawa’ii. I was visiting them about five years ago, and among the many, many gifts of aloha I received was bar-none the largest dog collar I have ever seen. Its intended recipient was my boy, Coffee, but he would have to balloon to double his size to fit it.

It is a gorgeous collar. It is leather, with impressions of turtles, or Hōnu, as they are called in Hawaiian, pressed around it. Hōnu are a symbol of luck to the native Hawa’iians.

Perhaps it is a deep-seated psychological dysfunction that makes me associate the leather collars with boy-dogs, but after it didn’t fit Coffee-dog, I just held onto it; I guess I must have been waiting for the right boy to come along. I didn’t try it on Mercy or Trinity when they came. When our foster boys, Clapton and Alistair, came, I tried it on each of them, and although it “fit,” it didn’t seem quite right.

Emmett had been here for about three weeks before I tried it on him. It fit in every sense of the word. Naturally, it was sized just the way I like collars, not big enough to slip over his head, but plenty loose in case it is caught in underbrush. The color, which looked strange against Clapton and Alistair’s black coats, seems tailor-made for Emmett’s dappled merle. As he has worn it in multiple splash-fests into the pond, the collar has darkened and it now takes effort to discern the turtles, but it looks better on him with each passing day. We know the turtles are there, and that seems to be enough.

Somehow, wearing a “lucky” collar suits Emmett. Were he a human, he would religiously purchase Powerball © tickets, fully expecting that his day would come. Until then, he would be happy living with a family who couldn’t afford to get him adequate veterinary care, in a crowded trailer brimming with love, on a farm with room to run and a pond, or any other place he landed.

I have no doubt in my mind that Emmett could love anybody as much as he loves us. But I don’t know that there is any place in the world that would fit quite as well.

Good Girl, Azure (good enough, at least)

K is out of town for the week, so the dogs have been left to my care and control, such as it is.

K’s work schedule is . . . flexible. As a freelance interpreter, she tends to go where the work takes her, when it takes her. I have a basic 8 to 5 Monday through Friday gig, which can have a tendency to stretch a little beyond. This is all to explain that the dogs have human companionship, thanks to K’s job arrangements, for a goodly part of each and every day. Although Azure has slowly earned the trust of being left out of her crate overnight, we rarely afford her this luxury for the brief periods she is unattended by humans during daylight hours.

Even when we are here, it is sometimes difficult to keep up with her. Last night, as I was working on the computer, I was distracted by a ripping sound. I turned around to find Azure tearing at something soft-looking and day-glow green. As she and I were contemplating one another, me thinking, “what the dickens is she destroying now?” and trying to process. . . green. . . soft . . . tearing, she was coolly regarding me thinking, “what the dickens is she looking at now?”

And then my beer-adled mind put the pieces together: green, soft, tearing. . . my neoprene beer koozie from Devil’s Tower, Wyoming!!!!! I jumped up, snatched it from her, salvaged what I could, and decided that I didn’t really need that one portion of the koozie anyhow. I tried to amuse myself by chanting “The devil dog ate Devil’s Tower,” but no one else seemed particularly entertained.

When K is home, Azure doesn’t need to spend substantial amounts of time in her crate. K is, as mentioned previously, out of pocket, and here I am with my silly job that keeps us in these luxurious accommodations and kibble. Today was an especially intense day: I had a trial, meetings stacked end-to-end, and then an after-hours evening meeting with a group that is long overdue. Azure was facing the specter of a very long day in the crate. As I began to calculate it up, it was looking like a veeeeeeerrrryyyy long day to be left in a crate.

So I made the executive decision to leave her out of her crate for the day. We have a doggy door and a large fenced-in area. I still don’t like to leave the kids alone for too awful long, but today I had very little choice in the matter. I scoured the house for all things within reach and tempting for a destructive she-devil to shred, and filled with the dissonance of temerity and necessity, I left behind a wealth of stuffed Kong toys, bones, and pig ears, and off I went to work, a hopeful mantra chanted under my breath.

As I walked up to the front door of the trailer this evening, I was admonishing myself to visualize a positive outcome. I was squeezing my eyes closed with the effort I building the mental image of the usual toys strewn across the living room floor absent any un-toy objects. I opened the door and slipped in over the baby gate to meet a crazy, jumping, gurgling, licking mass of happy babies. A quick look around the room was quickly followed by a sigh of relief and unleashed any inhibitions I had been exercising in my greeting.

The casualty of the day was the toe of one of a pair of my shoes, which was then joined by the other shoe because what really was I going to do with just one un-chewed shoe. For the record, the shoe had to be removed from a hanging shoe tree to meet its demise.

All-in-all, I was not displeased with Azure’s performance. Of course, after the attempted assault on the Devil’s Tower koozie, she had nowhere to go but up.

Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone

Despite my mother’s exhortations to the contrary, we all have a job here at MisFit Farm. In a Maslowe-ian sense, I am in charge of primal needs: physiological, i.e., food and shelter. It isn’t always sexy, but it’s my job, and I think I am reasonably good at it and I like it.

On a good, aspirational day I can bleed over to the secondary needs: safety and security, if only because I am one crazy little chick who will mess you up if you mess with my family. When a wild critter ate our chickens, I tore through the barn like blazes reinforcing walls, doors and ceilings to prevent further carnage. On some level, I share this role with the dogs. My mother commented the other day that she would come to visit more oftem, but she is intimidated by all these dogs. When I told my sister this story, she guffawed and said, “I didn’t think anything intimidated Mom.” Suffice it to say that the notion that an unwanted visitor would dare breach the threshold of our space doesn’t keep either of us awake at night.

As we have pointed out in other places, the goats’ job is to keep us from being enveloped in overgrowth. Charlie and Miss May, the cats, keep the barns free of rodents and snakes (mostly). Trinity makes everyone feel welcomed and loved. Mercy keeps us all in our paces. Coffee gets me to work every day. Skeeter alerts us to impending foul weather. Emmett holds us up with the sheer magnitude of his lean. Azure; well, she keeps us on our toes.

K is the “higher order” needs satisfier. In Maslowe’s hierarchy, love/belonging, esteem, and self-actualization are in her realm of household fulfillments.

K is chief dog treat-er. K is the head ice-creamer dish-er.

She praises the dogs as they all take their morning pee breaks. She calls me in the middle of the day to remind me that there is sanity in the world.

K signs “good dog” to Azure with such an alarming frequency and intensity, I worry she will rub a spot off her jawbone. (I can’t ever tell if this praise is delivered as an affirmation or as an aspiration.) She reminds me that my belief that “we can do better” in this world is not a criticism, but a statement of hope.

K’s creativity and sense of aesthetic keeps us in ready supply of matching leash/collar combinations and reminds me to do silly little things like brush my teeth, put on deodorant, and stain-treat the shirt I was wearing when the goats jumped up on my back.

So what happens when there is a vacuum in those higher order needs?

We take our walks like we always do. We run and splash in the pond. We get our twice-daily kibble, sometimes with a special addition like scrambled eggs. We perfunctorily deliver our animal crackers and raisins to the goats. We pick vegetables from the garden that just aren’t as much fun to eat without her, so we can or freeze them. We joke about eating buffalo wings and beer, but really, that is dinner. We mow the lawn, water the garden, clean the house and do laundry the old-fashioned way: looks like enough to make a load, toss ‘em in there! Azure is willing to tolerate my presence, since it means she can sleep in the people bed, and as long as I keep the kibble coming.

In other words, we survive until that time when she comes home and she smiles and fills this place with her sunshine, her scent and her softness. Then, we thrive.

It's 3 a.m., I must be lonely

In a nightly homage to Rob Thomas and his old pals in Matchbox 20, Mercy has developed the mid-night ritual of a 3:30 a.m. barkfest. Some nights, she wanders outside to share her barking with the wide open sky and all neighbors, friend and foe. Some nights, she makes her pronouncements from the comfort of “her” sleeping couch.

Azure has earned enough trust that she is not relegated to her crate to sleep at night, and some times, Mercy’s barking must be loud enough for Azure to hear, so Azure stirs and joins in on the fun. The difference is that Mercy can hear me when I shout, “Hey, knock it off!” from the bedroom. Azure, being deaf, can’t and doesn’t.

We have modified sleeping arrangements here at the Farm, so Skeeter, Emmett and most nights, Coffee, sleep in the bedroom with us, safely behind a two-baby-gate pile-up in the doorway. This leaves Trinity the insistent snuggler, Mercy, and Azure on the non-bedroom side.

Whether we are fortunate enough to escape the 3:30 a.m. barking or not, we are always entreated to a 5 a.m. wake up call as Trinity stands outside the bedroom door, peering through the gates and calling out for her buddy, Emmett. Trinity doesn’t bark, so much as she articulates. Her communication is occasionally punctuated by a bark, but mostly it more closely resembles talking. There is a grumble, but not a growl. There are long, guttural sounds and variations in pitch and tone. And for a teacup Dane, she has one heckuva’ low voice which amuses me at all other times that are not 5 a.m.

Trinity begins exercising her voice at 5 a.m., seemingly directed at her best pal, Emmett, more so than us. Emmett then wakes up, begins nuzzling my face, arm, back, or any other part that is handy and exposed, and begins his responding whine.

If I were fluent in dog, I believe the conversation would go something like this:

T: Psssst [stage whisper] Emmett! You up?

E: [High pitched whine] Trin! Why do you always sneak up on me like that? You know I’m sardined in here between the bed and the wall.

T: Sorry. I missed Mercy’s 3 a.m. sentinel. Hey, are the bi-peds stirring? Check that one’s pulse, will you?

E: Well, let me ask them first. I don’t want to be accused of “bad touch.” [recommences high pitched whining until a hand pokes out to pet him]

T: So what’s the prognosis?

E: Alive - but trying to placate me with head patting.

T: Oh no! Don’t give in to that! Resist! Revolt! It is time for us to run and play!

E: I could try to turn my head and twist her arm until she gurgles. That usually works.

T: Try pushing your head up there some more. Your nose will fit under the covers. If that doesn’t work, place a paw on the bed.

E: Ah, here come her feet. Time for me to do my happy dance under them! Here we come, it is time to run!

Whereupon I grab my morning chore clothes, manipulate the baby gates in pig-chute fashion to
shepard bedroom dogs into the living room while keeping living room dogs out. On my
way up the hall, I slip into the bathroom, where I am joined by four dogs, all
happy and dancing and chattering their various morning incantations.

And so begins another glorious day at MisFit Farm.

A Date with the Nephew

We took my precocious nephew (referenced previously) and K’s very quiet, very sweet 14-year-old niece for dinner and a movie this evening. The following story puts a fine point on the exchange from the preceding post and may explain a lot for the reading audience.

[We are driving in the car on the way to dinner. I am driving, K is riding shotgun, C and K2, nephew and niece, are riding in the backseat.]

C: “Knock, knock.”

Me: “Who’s there?”

C: “Alaska”

Me: “Alaska who?”

C: “Alaska to shut the door one last time!” [erupts into laughter and is joined by me
and the other victims riding in the car]

C: “What do you call cheese that doesn’t belong to you?”

Me: “I don’t know, what do you call it?”

C: “Na-cho cheese! [erupts again into laughter that is joined with hesitation by me and the other victims in the car] Get it??!??! NOT YOUR cheese?!?!?! Like – it is not yo’ cheese?!?!?!?" [more laughter eruptions]

Me: “You shouldn’t have to explain the punch line.” [Cedric continues to laugh]

C: “Yeah, but it’s NOT YOUR cheese. So what do you call chips that don’t belong to you?”

Me: “Na-cho chips. [no laughter] Get it??!??! NOT YOUR chips?!?!?! Like – it is not yo’ chips?!?!?!?” [we both laugh and the other victims in the car join in]

C: “I got it – it’s just the same as not ‘yo cheese.” [we laugh and the other victims in the car chortle uncomfortably]

K: “You know, the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Me: “I know, he is just like his father.”

Anyhow, we went to see Ratatouille. It was a delightful film that outlasted the attention span of everyone in the theatre under the age of 20 by about 20 minutes or so. The story line also seemed a little esoteric for most young ‘uns. It is about a rat who wants to become the greatest chef in Paris. I think you have to bring quite a bit to the party to get totally on board with that story. I mean, I myself was a hard core Iron Chef © fan when I used to do the whole TV gig, and that yummy Rachel Ray appears to be at a zenith of popularity, but I don’t know that “chef” is taught as part of the career day curriculum at most schools.

C had already seen Spiderman 3 (twice), Shrek 3, Fantastic Four and the Silver Surfer (and yes, it must be referred to thusly every single time it is talked about), and any other plausible seven-year-old boy films, so that is how we ended up at Ratatouille. Having grown up in the age of “The Secret of Nimh,” I was just glad for the opportunity to re-visit the image of rats in theatrical performances. I think this film should do wonders for their image.

As lawn mowing implements, our goats are worthless. Well maybe not worthless, just selective in their application.

I take full responsibility for their selectivity.

When we first entertained the goat proposition, neither of us had ever owned livestock, much less goats. We researched them on the Internet. We read books. We interviewed goat owners. In accordance with the instructions provided, we erected a barn three times the recommended size. We established a pasture six times the recommended size. We built them a homespun jungle gym. We tried to introduce native habitat by building a stone mountain. And here is where were the folly of errors begins. We set up feed bins, which we faithfully place food in on a twice daily routine. We learned that they liked the delicacies of animal crackers and raisins. Given these delicacies and the ease of access, why toil with the bothersome task of wandering around, eating grass?

The animal crackers, raisins and twice-daily sweet-feed deliveries likely account for some degree of selectivity.

My extraordinarily precocious six-year-old nephew was not impressed with or amused by the irony of goats eating animal crackers. I swear they don’t teach kids anything in the Second Grade these days. When you find yourself saying to a six-year-old, “Get it? Animal crackers? Animals eating ANIMAL crackers? Look – there’s a goat shaped one, let’s see if Bam-Bam will eat it. . .” you know that your life or at least your sense of humor has dropped to a subterranean level.

About every six weeks or so, I bring the garden tractor down and spin through to knock back the pasture a little. After all, I wouldn’t want the goats to get chiggers from the tall grass. They seem to appreciate this and do save me the trouble of raking or baling, as they are content to trail me around and eat the clippings.

I have tried a Weight Watchers © version of the twice daily goat feeding, but they seem as aversive to the silly notion of self-restraint commonly referred to as a “diet” as the bi-peds here at MisFit Farm are. Days when goat feed is rationed or minimized, they loudly proclaim their displeasure, chasing along the fence, looking accusingly at me with those keyhole eyes and bleating, “heeeeeyyy, you forgot to put the rest iiiiinnnn. Baaaaad mommmmmy.”

I was at the feed coop several months ago when the fellow who runs the place remarked that I could save some change by just buying the pellets instead of the sweet feed. How to explain to a man who was practically born wearing those overalls that the goats prefer sweet feed?!?!

In their defense, they are wonderful with children (holding animal crackers), and have selected quite a bit of the undergrowth on the island for consumption. And the sound of their hooves trip-trapping across the bridge brings a smile every time.

Azure's Revenge

Now that K has finally forgiven me for not having the stomach to authorize administration of the sleepy shot to Azure, she has found herself the recipient of Azure’s peculiar form of psycho-love. And the adoration is wholly reciprocated by K.

Azure can be sitting perched at my shoulder, licking her chops, preparing to eat my face off, and K will look lovingly at her and say, “Awwww. . . isn’t she the cutest?”

I laugh nervously, and agree. I have learned better than to get in the middle of this love fest.

This lesson was reinforced last week. Azure was sitting on the non-bedroom side of the baby gate, gazing longingly through at K lying in bed drinking her morning coffee. Azure was vociferously expressing her displeasure at this arrangement, her on one side, K on the other with me, when I got the brilliant idea to engage in a little game called taunt the psycho pup.

Here’s how the game worked:

I caught Azure’s eye through the gate, walked over to K, leaned over and planted a kiss on her forehead. I looked at Azure, who was staring at this activity with ire. I caught her eye again, and bent down and kissed K’s chin. Azure howled in disgust and looked at me with the contempt of Jerry Falwell shaking Anna Nicole Smith’s hand. Catching her eye again, I smiled at Azure and then stooped at the side of the bed, laying my head on K’s chest, looking Azure in the eye the whole time.

I needed to get to work, so I scrambled up, opened the baby gate to allow Azure entrée, and finished my workday preparations. Azure promptly joined K in bed. As I bustled around the room, Azure caught my eye. She looked right at me, stuck her snout up, and kissed K on the chin. I laughed and patronizingly patted Azure’s head. Azure then curled up in my spot in the bed, as close to K as physically possible without an umbilical cord, and suspiciously eyed me as I moved about the room.

Later that day while I was at work, Azure carefully sorted through a heap of dirty clothes on the bedroom floor, separated my clothes from K’s, and deposited a smoldering pile of poop on my clothes.

“Awwww. . . isn’t that the cutest?” Did I mention that I don't do laundry?

Six

Six. The number of beers in one of those handy holders.

All the fingers on one hand, and then another for good measure.

A half dozen.

A boundary shot in cricket; where the batsman hits the ball over the boundary without the ball touching the ground (analogous to an automatic home run in baseball).

The name of a race of superhumans in Philip K. Dick’s sci fi novel “Flow my Tears, the Policeman Said.”

And courtesy of our friend, Kathleen, six is:

* The number of feet below ground level a coffin is traditionally buried; thus, the phrase "six feet under" means that a person (or thing, or concept) is dead.

*The number of strings on a standard guitar.

*The name of the smallest group of Cub Scouts, traditionally consisting of six people and is led by a 'sixer'. Logically speaking, this isn't always the case, particularly in packs with less than 6 Cub Scouts in it.

*The atomic number of carbon.

*The number of tastes in traditional Indian Medicine called Ayurveda. They are: sweet, sour, salty, bitter, pungent, and astringent. These tastes are used to suggest a diet based on the symptoms of the body.

*Bert of Sesame Street’s favorite number.

Six is a number three times the maximum number of dogs I set on our first date as a household limit.

Six is the number of dogs we now own.

Welcome home, Emmett.

Score: Humans: 9; Azure: 27

Somewhere along the way, Azure has developed what is, as best as we can tell, an ear infection. An interesting conundrum, what to do with a Deaf dog with an ear infection? Even though she can’t lose her hearing from the infection, it needs treatment. Let’s refine that question: what to do with a psychotic Deaf dog with a bizarre form of reactive attachment disorder who has an ear infection?

The problem is this: Azure does not like to be messed with. The other dogs will allow me to manipulate their body parts; I am given absolute license to poke, prod, pull, snip and squeeze. But of course, not Azure. The administration of monthly heartworm preventative and Frontline leaves the trailer looking like a WWF wasteland after Azure’s turn. At toenail clipping time, as I take her paw into my hand for trimming, she gently takes my forearm into her mouth. She exerts no pressure, just offers a gentle reminder to “go ahead, make my day.”

With the ear infection, I spent the better part of two days trying to sneak up on her and shoot transderm into the afflicted ear. Resigning ourselves to the high likelihood that this regimen of “treatment” was going to be unsuccessful in any therapeutic sense, we called our vet to explain our troubles.

The conversation went something like this:

“Hey doc, remember that lunatical Deaf dog we brought in as a possible euthanasia and you convinced us that maybe there was another way?

Well as it turns out, the other way is that she lives with us because no one else is willing to take on the baggage of a lunatical Deaf dog who has an incredible animus for vehicle windshield wipers and who will not allow her toenails to be cut. And now we think she has an ear infection, and I have spent the better part of two days trying unsuccessfully to sneak up on her and shoot transderm into her ears, bribe her into allowing me to shoot transderm into her ear, force her into allowing me to shoot transderm into her ears, and otherwise outsmart her into allowing me to "help" her by shooting transderm into her ear, but she is too damn smart for me to get the job done with any amount of effectiveness.”

To which he responded, “Well, do you think you are smart enough to get some pills into her?”

By way of foreshadowing, I answered, “Well, I don’t know, but I can sure try.”

Admittedly, some pill administrations have required several attempts, but so far, we have been able to get all of them down. I have to admit though, our Vet may be onto something: I am wondering more and more these days if I am smart enough for Azure.

Happy Anniversary, Trinity!

It is almost impossible to believe it was one short year ago that Trinity joined us here at MisFit Farm.

The only dog we could find who needed the access features here at MisFit Farm more than Mercy was poor Trinity, who had been found on the side of the road with a completely engorged and mangled front leg. The woman who picked her up out of the ditch had four miniature pinschers at home. The pictures she sent to the Dane Rescue group were titled, “Monster Dog.”

Monster, indeed. If she were a monster of one type or another, she would be a mermaid. Just today, she and Emmett were playing by the pond as I was mowing. June has finally arrived in Kansas, bringing an unrelenting heat that begins to amp up at about 9 a.m. Trinity and Emmett were splashing in the pond and chasing one another. I noticed a lack of movement and turned to see Trinity sitting in the pond, with the water at about her shoulders. All I could see was the brilliant white on her chest, her shoulders, and that alert, astoundingly cute head poking up out of the water.

Trinity is the resident cheerleader and welcome wagon. Trinity is always up for a car ride, a walk to the pond, or snuggling up for a nap. All newcomers, friend, foster or foe, are met smack-dab in the chops by Trinity’s ebullience.

From the time she set foot here on the farm, it was obvious that she would be staying. Our concerns about Mercy’s eventual fate given her health conditions, as we were warned by our vet that she would eventually become less and less active until she began to develop ulcerations that would be difficult to heal, dissipated as Mercy and Trinity became fast friends, chasing each other in loping, looping, spinning circles around the property. The bon vivant she brought to Mercy’s life has been shared with every foster and every foster failure who has come to MisFit Farm since last June.

When we adopted Mercy, I had been clamoring about my desire to have a “lap dog.” I was thinking something along the lines of a Westie. As luck would have it, the fates were smiling down upon us, and Trinity came instead.

Trinity is my Co-Pilot

We admit - we are part of the problem. We each drive an SUV – not the obscenely large variety, but as a matter of fuel efficiency and earth-friendliness, our vehicles still don’t make the grade. They do perform well on snowy Kansas roads around December – January. The horrible truth is that we actually probably really need one of the obscenely large varieties of gas-guzzling SUV to haul around the krewe.

As it is, we can fit up to 4 dogs into the back of either of our vehicles with the seats folded down, unless Trinity is one of the krewe in transport. With Trinity, we can fit in 5.

We drove to see our dear friends in South Louisiana last November. It is a 16-hour drive. Trinity made the entire trip perched at my shoulder thusly, tentatively balanced on the folded-over seats we had so thoughtfully configured to create a wide open area in the back of the car for . . . Mercy to stretch out in, apparently. As far as Trinity was concerned, we could have taken a Mini Cooper or a mini-bike.

Emmett

Leaving Alistair at his forever family’s home last Friday night, I was ushered to the home of people on the opposite side of the rescue equation.

The family who surrendered Emmett was really, genuinely nice. They clearly cared about him, even though he had been dumped on them by a neighbor who had, amazingly enough, fewer resources than they did and less ability to address his needs, even quite frankly, if they were not special in any sense of the word.

Things like flea and tick treatment. Suitable nourishment. Routine vaccinations. And then there was the whole “blood-in-the-urine” scene.

How could they not care about him? He is a honey of a dog, and those sweet, sweet eyes reminded me of Emmett Kelly, the clown who swept up the spotlight, and hailed from the small community of Sedan, Kansas. The family cared about Emmett the dog, they just couldn’t care for him.



Like that archetypical clown, Emmett Kelly, we have a fellow who wants more than anything to please, to be petted, to be talked to, to be adored, to be loved.

It is a week later. We have been heavily vetted and are halfway through our antibiotics for a major urinary tract infection. Two days after coming home from the Vet’s office, the droop in Emmett’s tail was gone. By yesterday, he has developed a tail wag that can leave a welt on the back of your thighs and caused Skeeter to yelp when she was hit in the face as she stepped into a full-body wag yesterday evening. Emmett is given free run of the farm as he has no interest in chasing goats, eating cats, or going too very far away from us for more than the length of time it takes him to make a wide circle of a run.

We are methodically working on adding some substance to his frame, now that he has been rid of whipworms. We are neutered and careening headlong toward full preparedness for adoption by some forever family.

Really, we are. We mean it.

Alistair gets a forever family

I don’t know that MisFit Farm will ever host another dog as big as Alistair. He was a truly amazing specimen. He was the epitome of the gentle giant this breed is known for.

Alistair got his forever family a week ago Friday night. He has a big, fenced in back yard, puppy playmates, and a family that is absolutely in love with him. Not that we weren’t, it is just that Al had this feeling about him that he was waiting for something. . .

As I watched him play tag and tear around the living room with the female Dane at his new home and the family’s faces were lit up with unmitigated delight, Al looked at me, and I could see exactly what he had been waiting for.

Although the adoption process takes a while for reference checks, home visits, interview, etc. . ., once the decision is rendered, the final delivery can be made at breakneck speed. When we were finally approved for Mercy, we couldn’t live another day without her. K had a funeral, so I made the trip alone on a Saturday morning, trying to steal as much uninterrupted weekend as possible with our new girl.

The blessing in this arrangement for the foster family may be that the speedy delivery forestalls any “seller’s remorse” or other reconsiderations. With Al, I was in auto-pilot. I prepared the write-up of flea/tick treatment and heartworm preventative dates, inclinations and proclivities, bagged up some dog food and a couple of favored toys, loaded him into the car, and pointed it south.

As I stood there watching Al and his new family, I knew that there would not be any reconsiderations. As we have said before: some times, the cosmos get it all right.

Mutt-n-Strut

The Lawrence Humane Society has been building a signature event called the Mutt-n-Strut across the past few years.

It is the average run-of-the-mill dog festival with free goodies, exhibitor tents, an emcee with drawings and raffle prizes, and a 1 or 2-mile walk. Of course it is done in Lawrence, where there is an overarching attitude of superiority, so that adds to the overall snooti-ness factor of the event. So what if there are only 100 people there; of the 100, there are really only 25 who make the cut in terms of tragic hipness. Residents of MisFit Farm do not make the cut.

I woke up the morning of the event, having arrived home at around 2:30 a.m. and gone to bed around 4 a.m., feeling not my perky best. As a matter of fact, I was wondering why in the world this EVER seemed like a good idea.

We leashed up Mercy, Trinity, and Emmett (more about him in a future blog) and headed out for a lovely morning stroll with 100 of our closest canine friends, or at least with our friend, Scout, and his parents.

It has rained for what has felt like 40 days and 40 nights. There are flash flood warnings. Lake closures. Roads washed out. Not on the day of Mutt-n-Strut. The day of Mutt-n-Strut, we were treated to a bright, sunshiny morning where the heat index hit about 112 degrees by the time the 1 or 2-mile walk started, 45 minutes after its publicized time. We parked at my parent’s house, which was a few blocks away, in order to save the trouble of locating parking at the event.
I was checking off the contents of my backpack as we began our walk to the event. We had made it about three blocks when I realized that I had forgotten to bring poop bags. “Surely,” I thought, “we can make it five blocks to the event where they will have bags available for future usage.” Approximately one block later, Mercy deposited what our friend described as a “pudding poop” directly in the middle of the sidewalk. Of course with her rear-differential issues, she can’t be subtle about it. She splays her back legs out, hunkers down, and then cranks her one leg to encourage the activity, a lot like one of those play-doh machines. I would have been mortified, except that I was gaily leading the pack, being towed along by a three-legged and never-before-leashed socialite built of pure muscle who was hell-bent on making it to the event like, yesterday.

When I realized what had happened, I purged myself of any thought that we would make the elite and tragically hip Mutt-n-Strutters cut.

Had I not been continually engaged in the process of reining in a three-legged and never-before-leashed socialite built of pure muscle, I would have done the responsible thing and gone back to clean it up. The cruel world being what it is, I was not afforded the opportunity, and instead was treated to the spectacle of watching the 85% of the Mutt-n-Strutters who all took off before we were able to get our krewe together to join their walk, dance around and wrinkle their noses up at the trail of pudding poop and tidy little pile left on Mercy’s outward bound voyage.

Land Shark and Rabbits

The rabbits are killing me this year. The rain is welcomed, but not much help, either.

The rabbits are so bold, they sit in the yard as we pull into the drive. One was sitting under a tree as I was mowing yesterday evening. As I passed, it coolly regarded me and didn’t move an inch. They began nibbling our sno peas until I laid a protective barrier of dryer lint and hair around the perimeter of the planting. Unbelievably, we ran out of hair before we got the spinach surrounded, although we are in a state of constant production, but in the meantime, they mowed down the spinach patch.

My animus toward our cute little cotton-tailed friends is nothing compared to Alistair’s.

The state of Kansas is compensating for nearly two years of drought by hosting marathon rain sessions, a benefit of which has been that the pond has filled for the first time in as many years. The negatives are twofold: first, the rain tends to drive us inside where we become a little stir crazy and hyperactive; second, when we have a brief break in the downpours, we all spill outside to romp around in what amounts to a muddy, mucky mess.

Always opportunistic, we had a break this evening accompanied by a little sunshine, so we leashed up and headed out for some exercise. Unfortunately, the rabbits had the same idea.

Al saw the rabbit first. I was able to keep pace for about 5 strides, and then we hit this depression. My eyes the size of saucers, I “decided” to attempt a bold slalom land-shark move which consisted of lifting my right foot up and “skating” through the mud on my left leg. Alternatively, I lost my balance and hit the brakes Scooby-Doo-and-Shaggy style.

No one was more surprised than me when I found myself upright on the uphill side of this exercise.

Note the recurring theme: I stood at the top of this schism, wide-eyed and breathless when along meandered K. “Did you see that?!” I exclaim. “No, what happened? Are you o.k.?” comes the standard reply. I motion toward the skid with my head (I am standing on Al’s leash at this point, both hands pressed into my lower back where I am most certain I have experienced a strain which will require extensive beer therapy). K sizes up the skid, takes note of my muddy foot and asks, “Why don’t we ever have a camera when we need one?”

Just Another Outing

We were headed out to a fundraiser for a literacy program on Friday evening, and I thought that it would be nice to take the dogs out for one last romp before we vacated the premises for the evening.

Al, our foster dog, is just about the sweetest, most well-dispositioned animal you could ask for. He is affectionate and attentive, at least until you get into the great outdoors. Sunlight and fresh air summon the puppy resting deep within his 150-pound frame to bubble up to the surface. He jumps, runs, barks and frolics, but he DOES NOT LISTEN, meaning chiefly, he does not come when called.

We have tried exercises where K stands at one end of the levee and I walk him to the other end. We turn him around, K gets his attention, I let go of his leash, and she calls him. About 75% of the time, he goes bounding straight for her, pulling up just at the critical moment where I cover my eyes, and where, if it were happening to me, K would begin to laugh. The other 25% of the time, he veers off to the side, choosing to skirt the edge of the pond to run at the goat fence, or to go crashing through the woods. One such time, he emerged from the woods, and headed up through the neighbor’s pasture, with me in hot pursuit.

Betcha’ didn’t know, but it is well neigh impossible to whistle while running.

On another occasion, as he made the return run to me, instead of pulling up, he danced around me, running full-bore. I reflexively reached out and took the leash as he whizzed past but could not arouse the conscious part of my mind in time to command my hand to “let go,” resulting in what may have looked from afar a lot like a blow-up doll tied to the back bumper of a honeymooner’s Ferrari.

Although I had already showered, I was still in my grubby clothes when I took Al and the krewe out for one final trip Friday afternoon. We headed north to the area around the goat pasture. I practiced commands with Al. He sat. He lay down. He heeled. The prospect of Al responding when I issued the “come” command, or even in response to a whistle, looked fair to cloudy. It looked promising enough that I let him off his leash.

I hadn’t anticipated the rabbit.

By the time I caught up with Al in the woods, I had slid down the back side of the levee, tripped and fallen across the bed of a stream, caught my shirt in barbed wire, slid back up the side of the levee, left flesh and hair trail markers along the schizophrenic and virgin path cut through the woods, and taken sizable mud samples from various locations around the property. My knee had a gash in it sizeable enough to bleed and continue bleeding throughout the evening. My theory is the copious amounts of alcohol I consumed through the evening promoted blood circulation and healing.

As has happened so many times before in the misadventures at MisFit Farm, I came trudging up the path, weary and forlorn, to meet a fresh and smiling K. She met me with the inevitable question, “Are you o.k.?” To which I responded in due understatement, haggard, muddy and bleeding, “I may need to freshen up a bit before we go.”

Rought-Ro!

It wasn’t until last November that I came to the realization that Scooby Doo © is a Great Dane. I don’t know why I hadn’t put the association together earlier. Now that this piece of information has been pointed out to me, it makes total sense: size, markings, tail, ears, temperament. I guess I always just thought that Scooby was an archetypal “dog,” breed non-specific. But believe me, he is all Dane.

Last night, or early this morning, about 4 a.m., we were treated to a “Zoiks!” moment by Al. Although it is difficult to put together the details from my sleep-addled brain, my reconstruction of this morning’s events are thus:

In very quick succession, one of the baby gates that was leaned against the wall fell over with a reasonable clatter. Out of alarm, Al sprung up from a dead sleep, somehow plucking himself from the very tiny space where he sleeps wedged between the bed and the wall (the previous hole in the sheetrock has grown from the size of a softball to the size of a soccer ball, thanks to this sleeping arrangement) and landing with all fours on the bed where K and I were peacefully reposed in slumber.

Upon landing with his forepaws somewhere in K’s chest region, she let out a burst of sound reminiscent of a goat being violently squeezed, a parrot coughing and a cat in heat, all captured in one vocalization.

As I lay there laughing, I couldn’t figure out whether I was laughing at K’s ridiculous noise, or the ridiculous notion that a 160 pound dog would be so frightened of a noise that he would have reacted so.

And then I remembered, Scooby Doo was a

Great Dane.

The Hard Way

You have to know me for about five minutes to figure out that I love my wife. I absolutely adore her, but. . .

She comes from a family that does not believe in doing things the easy way. Take this evening, for example.

Until recently, we fed the dogs Natural Balance Venison and Brown Rice, which was recalled about two weeks ago. This resulted in a very abrupt series of kibble changes, with more or less success in terms of anti-allergenic characteristics and epicurean appeal.

The one for sure negative consequence associated with rapid kibble changes is the very distinct and highly likely possibility that one or more of the dogs will experience diarrhea. In our case, three. Big. Dogs. With. Diarrhea.

So K. called her brother, who is a Vet, today, to ask for some friendly advice. Here is where the family not believing in doing things the easy way comes in. He told her without equivocation that Pepto-Bismol is bar none the BEST way to address such issues. Further complicating issues, although you can use the pill form, the liquid really is the only way to go for quick, decisive results.

Here is where pictures speak for a thousand words:

This is an upper cabinet in the kitchen, with a corner of the stove hood.

The streaks on the side of Azure’s face are Pepto Miss-o shots:

K’s most precious responses from this evening’s mis-adventures:

“I don’t understand. They eat poop, for goodness sakes. It’s not like they have discerning tastes.”

“Wow. We will be wiping up Pepto-Bismol from random locations for the next 20 years.”

“Geez, no wonder this stuff works to coat your stomach. It becomes concrete when left standing. Can you hand me a chisel?”

"I see now why you would think you have a future in professional football."

"You sure rise to meet a challenge."

A$$-end Up

As has been mentioned before, the goat pasture was (we previously thought) quite cleverly designed using the pond to create one boundary, with the bridge offering a path to the island which was badly overgrown and in need of the severe pruning the goats offered.

Count among our successes that the goats have done a fine job working through the imbroglio of sumac, hedge and poison ivy to allow sunlight to touch the ground’s surface and grass to begin establishing itself on our island. Count among our detractors the “porousness” of the pond-side boundary, such as when drought dropped the pond level to the point where the goats and other animals could have unimpeded ingress and egress by simply walking around the fence. For the purposes of this story, the other detractor to this boundary system was manifest last winter in a long cold-snap, when the pond froze over completely, allowing the adventurous Azure to trot across the pond’s surface for her own island exploration expedition, a friendly visit to the goats, or just random ice-skidding meanderings.

We are well past such freezes, but they clearly remain sharply outlined in Azure’s mind.

One of the fine things in this world is to enjoy the quiet of the fall of evening on the water. We were doing just this last night, K. sitting in a chair, me leaning against the railing of the floating dock, listening to the cacophony of crickets and bullfrogs, watching the peculiar variety of chase that occurs as fish tap the surface of the pond where bugs briefly light for a sip of water. The sun was making its final dip toward the horizon, filling the sky with ribbons of pinks and oranges. It had been a hot day, so the evening breeze was especially nice as we stopped for this time on the dock to savor the fleeting moments of our weekend.

This restful moment was abruptly interrupted by a splash and K’s gasp, “She’s in!”

I turned just in time to see Azure’s ass-end pointing straight up in the air, her back toes clutching to the deck boards, tail straight up in the air, and every available puppy part reaching for something behind her. I grabbed her leash to reel her in, and K swooped down and scooped her back onto the dock.

Safely returned to the solid planks of the dock, Azure was completely wet and had moss covering her forehead and snout. K was laughing that unhinged, scared, relieved laugh that she saves for special moments when people she loves are hurt or nearly hurt. I was wondering what in the world was going on in Azure’s crazy little mind. Azure shook the moss off her nose and didn’t seem to wonder or notice much had happened at all. As she nosed her way back to the edge of the dock, we decided we had had enough quietude and relaxation for one evening.

The Cruel Acceptance of a Casual Invitation

I do not know where I first heard this phrase, but it is on my list of top favorite sayings. It seems to capture so many different possibilities and the associated consequences. As we were trying to decide what to do with our Sunday after receiving a phone call from a virtual stranger asking K to make good on an oblique reference to fishing our pond, this phrase echoed through my mind.

I guess we could have said, “no.”

The caller explained that his brother is getting ready to ship out to Iraq within the next couple of weeks, and they were trying to get in as much fishing as possible before then. How do you say no to that? (She says - looking at the six slumbering, snoring dogs scattered across the living room.)

When they arrived, we showed them to the pond, gave them as much advice and pointers as anyone can give about what I regard as unfathomable: the inclinations and proclivities of fish, and went on to try to salvage the day’s projects. The pond is one of the many amazing features of MisFit Farm. It appears to be remarkably well-stocked with something for everyone. We have pulled 15” crappie out of it, bass ranging from hand-sized to 6 pounds, a flathead catfish that was over 40 inches and well beyond 25 pounds, and the best part of all, there is a mess of bluegill, perfect for a day fishing with smaller children, as long as the worms hold out. Kids can spend an entire day dropping in a line, and plucking bluegill out of the pond, squealing with delight at each catch.

Brandon, the soldier, caught the big catfish pictured here. It is a big one - weighed in at over 20 pounds.

I happened to be by the goat barn working on digging a trench for a French drain when I heard a commotion by the pond. I came out from around the corner of the barn just in time to see him dancing around, fishing pole pulled to a bend, line taught and swirling, and Brandon, the man who will leave the verdant Kansas Spring for the sands of Iraq soon, laughing, whooping, and exclaiming to his brother, “Ooooh, it’s a big one. I’m gonna need help here. Help me here. Lord amighty it’s a big one!”

Although I am not inclined to sentimentality, I was reminded today of our shared human-ness: that a grown man who has been trained for battle-testing is as delighted with the simple act of catching a fish and a day with his brother in the sun, as any child who has accepted our casual invitation.

You know it is a good day when. . .

You get a mud bath from a romp in the yard where you go sliding down a hill on your back like a trip down “slide rock” in Oak Creek Canyon.

Then you go inside, prop yourself up for a nap in your favorite chair and sleep so hard, you drool.

What do you do with a dog that is too big for the largest crate in production? What do you do with a dog so large he cannot fit through the XXL doggie door? What do you do with a dog who, standing flat-footed, is prone to being hit in the face when the top-freezer door on the fridge is swung open?

Put him in the trailer at MisFit Farm, of course.

Our newest foster, who fits the above description, is Alistair. Since K insists on shortening every name, except oddly enough, mine, he has become “Al.” “Al” seems to suit him. Big Al. My pal, Al. Al-a-ca-zam.

Al was turned over to rescue when the workers at the factory where he was living a chained existence pooled their money and bought him from the owner. Given this history, I felt that he should be named Bolshevik or Karl. I have conceded, however, that “Al” is a suitably proletariat name.

Notwithstanding the fact that every person who sees him lets out a low whistle and an under-the-breath, “holy cow,” Al does not seem to have any appreciation for how large he is. He thinks nothing of leaning against any person who will hold still long enough for him to get into position and coax into petting him. He has determined that his “sleeping place” is in the large, but really not large enough, nest bed on the floor between my side of the bed and the wall. He wants nothing more than to play with the goats, and expresses his desire by rearing up in the form of a Lipposanzer stallion, thereby scaring the wits out of the goats, the person holding his lead, and low-flying birds.

I almost forgot one of Alistair’s best features: he is very thirsty, and has a special way of drinking that has contributed exponentially to the drool content of the household.

The water dishes at MisFit Farms are buckets. For Al, they also double as training grounds for the international snorkeling team. It seems that drinking is best accomplished by plunging his nose deep into the bucket, so that the water line nearly reaches his eyes. This allows him to blow bubbles at the same time water is being slurped. It has the secondary effect of providing a waterfall feature that cascades across the floor and any other available surface when his head is lifted from the bucket.

In a weak and futile effort to contain the runoff, we have placed the bucket on a rag rug remnant in the “pan” from a large dog crate. He is willing to have his face wiped off with a paper towel wielded by the vigilant, but for the unwary, he is willing to accept a pant leg, shirtsleeve, or in my case, the shoulder of my t-shirt.

We are actively searching for a home for this amazing fellow. He is the kind of dog I can and likely will write about in the chapters of my days. He is the kind of dog that makes you proud to be with him. He is the kind of dog that leaves you with absolutely no doubt in your mind that you are loveable and adored. Al and about a dozen other wonderful babies can be virtually visited at: http://www.petfinder.com/shelters/MO61.html

Bling Bling

The girls, well the teenager girls, got new digs last week. Aren’t they pretty?

Mercy previously had been outfitted in a hunter orange collar for deer season, contemplating the possible trespass of a near-sighted or inebriated deer hunter. Having survived both the indignity that she may, under any circumstance, be mistaken for a deer, and the insult of the gauche hunter-orange collar, we thought it was high time to outfit her in something sleek and sophisticated. Witness the “martini” collar.

Trinity was still wearing the collar she had when we retrieved her nearly 10 months ago. Trinity’s old collar had some type of reflective striping on it, which coincidentally did not seem to work very well. The striping was a gray color, so her old collar always looked like it had been “blinged” out. Well, all we can say is watch out Paris Hilton, no not because Trinity still has a crotch-sniffing vigor that will lift you off your feet: check out the CZ bling bling on this collar!

Azure has eaten through several of our old spares, but has sufficiently mellowed enough to be trusted with her own, new collar. What to buy for the psycho dog who has everything? Maybe something in a nice, bubbly blue to match her eyes.

After this shopping escapade, I can almost see how people fall into that terrible trap of thinking that it is a good idea to put clothing, nay, fashion clothing, on their dogs.

This may be the next bold step in reality television: Pimp My Dog. Since we don’t watch television, adding this potentially disasterous program certainly wouldn’t do us any harm.

Happy Anniversary, Mercy!

Sunday, March 18th marked our one-year anniversary with Mercy, the girl who sent us down the dane-hole.

Although we would never have guessed it at the time.

Folks who know our story are familiar with the background – we happened across Mercy on petfinder.com as I was innocently looking for a male, fawn Dane to bring to MisFit Farm and name Aslan. Six rescues later, we are still looking for our Aslan.

Mercy was perfect for us. As our Vet says,"You girls and your hard-luck cases." MisFit Farm is fully accessible, so we felt like we had the understanding, the commitment, and the accommodations to meet the needs of a dog with Mercy's physical conditions. We had a series of detailed conversations with Mercy's foster family about her health conditions, her best interests, her ideal family, etc. . . and when our adoption application had all checked out - complete with a home visit, we were green lighted to come and get her.

As luck would have it (not), K's aunt passed away the previous week, so she had funeral and family obligations to attend to, and I was left to my own devices to make my way Springfield, MO to bring Mercy home. I took Coffee with me (Duh - I take him everywhere with me) and hit the road. A few short hours later, I found myself wandering around Springfield, MO until I found the place.

Words cannot describe how stunned I was when I met Mercy for the first time. She has social anxiety and is a nervous drooler, both very attractive features in a large dog. Despite the fastidious and conscientious care from her foster family, she was bone thin with legs all the way up to her ass. She was so tall, Coffee walked right under her. She "fishtailed" when she walked and had no ability to pull herself into the back of the SUV when it was time to load up and head north for home, causing her to produce a sort of "c-clamp" effect on the back bumper of the car until I boosted her into the back. For the first 40 miles home, I just shook my head and repeated, "holy sh*t," over and over.

As we watch her romp and run, scold her for her diva-like possessiveness of "her corner" of the living room which seems to expand with every day, offer her up twice-daily feedings with her litany of medications, supplements, vitamins and culinary enticements, and encourage her to pull herself back up from repeated sit-and-spins, it is difficult to remember the girl we brought home a year ago. It is hard to remember life before we fell down the dane-hole.

The past year has been filled with unexplained medical phenomenon, unanticipated excitement, uninhibited tears, and unbelievable happiness. Welcome home, Mercy.

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.
"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."
"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.
"You must be," said the Cat. "or you wouldn't have come here." – Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

No Bones About It

The aforementioned mystery bones were creating a problem. Aside from totally grossing us bi-peds out, some of the krewe were obsessing over it. It was like Bilbo Baggins and Gollum’s ring. I tried throwing the bone out in the trees and overgrowth, but one or the other of the dogs would snuffle around in the snow until it re-surfaced and then there would be the whole dysfunction all over again.

Finally, out of desperation, I was able to get it and touch it long enough to toss it on the roof of this slated-for-demolition shed on the property. I thought to myself with great satisfaction, “That’s the last we’ll hear about that bone until the Spring thaw.” About 5 days later, after Azure had been on one of her crazy I-can’t-hear-you-so-I-don’t-have-to-come-when-called runs around the property, she returned to the front porch with THE BONE in tow.

I have to admit, I was confused. I was disappointed. I had thought I was so darn clever. I was baffled, and as I am likely to do when baffled, I scratched my head and then moved on to the next thing. I collected the bone, this time placing it in a garbage bag and the garbage bag in the car for delivery to my office dumpster the following morning.

K. e-mailed this photo later that day. Mystery solved.

Grosser than gross

Ooooh, lookee at what the Kanine Krewe found on this morning’s walk.

It is hard to say where this originated, or rather, from what type of animal this hails. Mostly it is hard because neither of us can stand to look at it for too long.

Steve and Carolyn stopped by to ask if we needed anything from town. This greeted them at the front door. Oddly enough, they were nonplussed about the piece of animal carcass laying on the porch. When I stepped out to talk to them, I pointed it out, and Carolyn opined that it must be from a deer. A small deer. Like Bambi.

It gets worse. The bend appears to actually be a knee joint, or some type of anatomical “ball joint.” So when a three-legged dog has one end of this in her mouth and is running across the yard, the bottom portion swings around.

It has started snowing today, and we have shut ourselves into the trailer. Periodically, we entertain a discussion about how to dispose of this animal remnant, and then engage in a larger discussion about where the rest of this poor animal may be.

Things we have learned

The cardboard roll on the inside of a roll of toilet paper can be removed, with the remaining toilet paper still usable.

The Styrofoam pellet filling of a 30 x 40 inch dog bed has the ability to cling to vertical surfaces and has the half life of carbon.

A 10 inch fleece toy contains enough polyfill stuffing to cover an entire living room floor.

Squeaky toys are best initiated through the removal of their squeakers.

Once the squeaker and stuffing have been removed, the shell of fleece toys retain value as tug toys.

The bimples from Booda © Bimple bones are a dog-owner’s equivalent of legos © on bare feet in the middle of the night.

There is such a thing as the exactly just perfect, no-other-will-do toy that may be at the bottom of the toy box. Or, there might not be. Either way, it is best to pull out all the toys to see.

The peanut butter in the other Kong toys doesn’t taste better, but it is good to try to gather them all together for a taste test.

A dead thing consumed will eventually return in an aromatic form, only 50 times more repulsive than it could ever have smelled prior to ingestion.

Behavioral training is not best acquired through the internet.

The “pennies in a can” aversion technique for training can result in the un-housebreaking of a dog.

Dogs can be un-housebroken.

Obsessive-compulsive disorder is not unique to humans.

It is possible to fall asleep petting a dog, wake up in 6 hours, and pick up right where you left off.

I hadn’t realized the extent to which I had marked chapters in my life with things. There was the pair of very unique but likely overpriced Doc Martens©, not purchased on sale, at an outlet, or under any other pretense than to get over a short-lived and not particularly promising relationship gone sour. There was the perfectly beat-up brown leather belt grudgingly handed over to me by an ex who mostly couldn’t stand the cheap belts I was prone to wearing. There were the bowling shoes friends and I had stolen from a bowling alley some drunken night when I was in high school. There were the blue slip-on Nikes purchased on a business trip in West Virginia – the last trip I ever took with a good friend who is now on a ventilator and likely will not travel again. Not to mention the Land’s End slippers my mother bought me as a housewarming gift when I moved to MisFit Farm. Or, there is always the candy-cane holiday push-up bra purchased for pure aesthetics, and which seemed to do the trick nicely. Things.

The great thing about having Azure has been that she has helped me close these chapters with finality. Here she is, a breathing, snarling, chewing, chewing, chewing, living creature, sent to help me let go of all of this baggage, not to mention 20 years of shoes. She has a seek-and-destroy radar which has honed in on most of the emotionally-endowed shoes in my dwindling collection, and demonstrates a particular penchant for my underwear. She is willing to climb, dig or dive for any of these chosen items of her affectation. No shelf is too high, no door truly closed, no spot deep enough down in the laundry basket to deter her for more than a fleeting moment, during which you can race into the room, only to find her streaking past you and headed for the doggy door, the object of her search dangling from her mouth and a maniacal puppy grin on her face.

I have turned most of the shoes over to her for continued destruction, and as I sweep, vacuum, and pick up the shards of shoes of the past, I deposit each one lovingly into the wastebasket and turn my eyes forward to a breathing, living, future. When we are done cleaning up the remnants of Azure’s latest search-and-destroy mission, I laugh, and tell K I need to go shoe shopping, this time for just the right reason.

The Best Laid Plans

O.k. -- so the plan was simple. Drop Azure off for her next transport and return to Misfit Farm with Ava, a sweet little partially-blind, Deaf one-year-old foster Dane, in tow.

As we woke to a beautiful Saturday morning, it appeared that the plan had worked. Ava was settling in and very, very quickly winning our hearts. The introduction to the other dogs the previous evening had gone exceedingly well. We should have known right then that there was something amiss in the cosmos.

Ava claimed an empty dog bed in the bedroom, and an easy chair in the living room. Her almost completely-white coat was an outward manifestation of her inner sweetness, pure sugar. She gamely followed us outside for our morning goat feeding, and the sound we heard in the cool morning air was her teeth chattering. We started to work on signs with her, and she picked up “sit” nearly immediately. As we worked with her, it became clear that when you had her attention, she would turn her head so her one good eye had you in its scope, and her attentiveness was expressed by a tilt of the head. Words cannot express how absolutely adorable she was.

We spent Saturday bathing all of the Krewe, bringing Ava’s white coat to a shiny brilliance. Thinking that it would be easier to get her attention if she had a harness rather than a collar to take hold of, we outfitted her in a lovely red harness, nestled her into a warm, cozy bed and went to sleep Saturday evening, planning to spend the day on Sunday acquainting dear, sweet Ava with life here at MisFit Farm and hoping she would fall in love with us as we were falling in love with her.

Imagine our surprise to awake to the phone ringing on Sunday morning. Something had gone horribly wrong with Azure’s adoptive placement. So wrong that a desperate woman loaded her into the car and began a marathon drive from Minnesota to Southern Missouri at four in the morning. So wrong that this poor woman slept on the floor in front of Azure’s crate the previous night, just in case there was a jailbreak. So wrong that Azure had been medicated for part of the ride north to meet her adoptive family. So wrong that Azure was tethered into the back seat of the car for the return trip to Missouri.

Change of plans.

Could we, would we, pretty please, intercept the reverse Dane Train as far north in Northern Missouri as possible, and retrieve Azure? Oh, and could we take Ava with us and possibly trade?
We would like to chalk this up to our second foster success. But that would be wrong. We really cannot take credit for what happened next, and have only ourselves to blame.

Change of plans.

Amazingly enough, we haven’t been able to find a permanent home for Azure. As the days pass and she acclimates more to us, enjoys the crazy chasing games in the yard, steals toys and gamely submits when her toys are stolen, learns new signs such as “home” for her crate, and becomes more predictable (i.e. we can see the next victim of her search-and-destroy toy missions), it looks more and more like we have another “perma-fost.” We would like to be sad about this, but as it turns out, Azure is about 90% puppy and 10% crazy, which we can live with, as one of those conditions will resolve itself with time, structure and stability. We have made the hardest step, which is forgiving her for not being Ava. The rest comes pretty naturally.

Dane Train

Please, rest assured. No pedestrians were hurt in the shooting of this photo. The car wasn’t moving yet. This photo is a self-portrait, taken on our maiden “Dane Train” voyage.

The Dane Train is a marvelous, socialist concept. Dog Azure needs to get to place Far North from the Springfield, Missouri area. They toss her in a car with someone who doesn’t mind windshield time, and so begins the train. Someone takes the first couple of hours, and then you find them at a pre-ordained location at the appointed time, looking desperate and somewhat disheveled. They hand the leashes to you, high-tail it into their car, and give themselves whiplash as they lay tire skids in the parking lot in an effort to get beyond cell phone reach before you have a chance to dial them up and say, “As I was pulling into the parking lot, I got an emergency call from my second-cousin’s ex-boyfriend’s brother, and since your car is already pointed in that direction, could you . . .”

You shrug your shoulders, load the crazy kids into the vehicle for their next two-hour leg, and drive like heck to get to the stop where you pass the favor on to the next victim, uh, I mean, driver. I like to think of it as a modern version of the Underground Railroad, but with fur and drool.

And so it goes, until Ms. Azure reaches her final destination. . .

I knew I was in trouble when I was explicitly and profusely thanked for taking Azure for the next 3-hour leg. For the first 40 minutes of my drive through metro Kansas City, Missouri, we treated passers-by to witnessing Azure's special game that she made up for the drive, which consisted of jumping from the front to the back of the vehicle and vice-versa, alternately using the space between the front seats, the space between the passenger seat and the car ceiling, and the space between the front passenger seat and the passenger-side window. After negotiating the construction zones and big-city traffic, I stopped for a much-needed people potty break. Imagine how glad I was to return to the car for this greeting.

There Were Rules

Note the use of the past tense. There WERE rules. One such rule was “No dogs in the bed.” Enter Trinity. No dogs in the bed became, stealth dog sneaks into the bed after I am so dead asleep I can’t object. Then the rule was, “we will allow this one dog to sleep at the end of the bed to save us from 4:30 a.m. ebullient, leaping, bounding, jumping on the bed, face-licking and chin-flea-biting wake-up calls.” Then I began to wake up with said dog impersonating a quite heavy blanket, her snoring, drooling mouth perched at my shoulder.

Now, each morning our house wakes to either the sound of the alarm, followed by the special grunt that one can only make when one moves one’s head forward quickly, only to be jerked back when one finds that one’s hair is being laid on by a 85 pound dog, or to the pre-alarm sound of my forehead striking the bedside table, as an alarm-anticipating, stretching solitary Dane leg juts forward into the back of my head, propelling my slumbering face into the nightstand.