Fancy Free

Another unintended consequence of letting the goats wander around the property  has been that their pasture-mate, Bill the horse, developed free-range envy. The first time he joined them on their ex parte pasture outing, he pushed through an opening I had left in the gate. Pleased with himself, he began running wildly around the property, across the levy, through the front yard, and over me. Twice. 

K was in the house doing laundry. Our niece and nephew were playing on the back deck when I discovered Bill's escape. A previous lesson was reiterated: yelling and whistling are difficult tasks to perform effectively while chasing down livestock.

When K finally emerged from the house, she appeared like a vision on the deck, bringing Bill to a sudden and screeching halt, and causing me to  tumble over his back. Docile and contented, he stood there, sides heaving, making moony eyes at K while I snapped a halter on him and led him back to the fenced pasture. 

His appetite for freedom whetted by this experience, Bill determined to devise more plans for escape. Across the next several days, I would come home from work to find him roaming freely about the property, fatted by a day of munching on overgrowth and grass, yet complacent. Hoofprints popped up in unusual places: the front porch, the gardens, by the fishing dock.

It was by using the profligate prints left in his wake that I eventually was able to discern his escape route. He was swimming around the fence enclosure for the pasture where we were using the pond to form a fourth side as a barrier. 

And so I found myself one cold November morning wielding a post pounder in one hand and a come-along in the other, wrestling a roll of field fence while Bill smugly overlooked my work.

Footloose

K had developed an elaborate scheme for setting up temporary fencing to give the goats more areas for grazing, and to give me less areas for mowing, chain sawing, weed whacking, etc. . . As well-conceived an idea as that was, I thought my idea was better: give the goats unfettered access to all areas by offering them free ingress and egress from their pasture.

It took very little convincing to get them to expand their horizons. The books we have read say that, while they will generally eat about any type of greenery, they definitely have preferences. They seem to really enjoy dried leaves, and their crunching and devouring of dried leaves has led K to refer to them as "goat potato chips." But they don't really seem to have a method to their madness. For the time being, they are like residents of a third-world country cut loose at an all-you-can-eat buffet. They wander around with their eyes wide at the bounty before them. They cruise around, checking out different spots and sampling the offerings.


We may look out to find them poking around in the wildflower area.

They will sometimes cruise into the "front" yard.

All-in-all, it is a great plan, at least until they show up in your neighbor's barn camouflaged within his herd, or on the front porch.

We're baaaack. . .

Hey folks, it has been a while, no?

Yes. It has.

Here’s the thing: we have a pretty wonderful life here at MisFit Farm, but even into the most wonderful of existences a little rain must fall. And from about February right up until yesterday, we have experienced a lot of precipitation, mostly generated by tear ducts.

In sum, because I am still processing and cannot deal with a lot of these things like a reasonable adult, since February: we lost Coffee-dog, we lost Skeeter, we lost several surrogate love-puppies including Sunny the wonder-retriever and Luna the Dane elder statesman, we lost our Vet and friend, and yesterday we found out we lost my Grandmother’s Prince. As I mature into a functional human, in future endeavors, I will spiffy up previous attempts to share stories about each of these; that, my friends, is for another day.

Amongst all this death and destruction, we found other ways to fill our lives and bring us joy, because that is what we do. We have reconnected with old friends, made new ones, free-ranged goats, feebly attempted to train Bill the horse, got married, ran muddy, firey and firey-simulated obstacle courses, traveled, snuggled with puppies, and spent time with family. Just like that infamous video where I am attending to the engrossing task of brushing one dog and am unexpectedly bowled over from behind by an out-of-control Mercy, even when life knocks us on our hind ends, we have to just laugh and say, “that’s life with the MisFits.”

Well, life with the MisFits just got a little more interesting. We brought two kittens into the fold, another example of the cruel acceptance of a casual invitation. I mentioned once in passing that we might think about getting an indoor cat to help guard against possible mouse incursions. Magically, not one but three manx kittens appeared one day. Thankfully one was able to be re-homed. Not that I am a math genius or anything, but I am compelled to point out that three minus one still equals two.

Two kittens. Two playful little balls of fur. Everything is a toy or a potential toy: Electrical cords. Cotton balls. Speaker wires. Pieces of furniture. Feet. Dog tails. A potato chip that accidentally fell to the floor. I honestly had no idea how completely under-stimulating I had mistakenly believed our world to be.

K took the kittens to a “new” Vet yesterday. They were nice people, and really enjoyed the kittens. The kittens were poked, prodded and sent home with eyedrops for a little eye infection they each have. The kitten we thought might have been a female was sex re-assigned. So K brought home two fully vetted kittens: Whatsit and The Cat-Formerly-Known-as-Meg.

K is delighted. The dogs are intrigued. I am resigned. And a little amused. But don’t tell anyone I said so.

Lessons in (Under)Estimation

Crib mattresses are not built to hold up under a 160 # slumbering adult night after night.

This, my friends, is the voice of experience.

I come to know this because I have been spending quite a few nights of late sleeping on a crib mattress on the floor next to Coffee-dog. I sleep in the manner with which I approach most things in my life, which is to say, with a vengeance. Coffee, on the other hand, is active (such as the term could ever be applied to him) throughout the night, as he has lost the ability to independently ambulate, and has required increased assistance in turning, toileting, getting a drink of water, and otherwise doing many of the things he must have done without assistance previously.

The wonderful thing about Coffee is that he is concrete about his needs, but not overly insistent. When he has found himself needing assistance through the course of a night, we are put on notice with a singular, wheezy bark. For someone who sleeps with a vengeance, this type of alarm is wholly inadequate to the task of rousing a response. For someone who sleeps in a more reasonably light fashion, such as K, however, this has meant she is up and down throughout the night, discerning and attending to Coffee’s needs. In an effort to compensate for my oversleeping, I took up residence on a crib mattress placed immediately beside Coffee’s bed, so I would better hear his bark, and allow K to sleep through the night. In all honestly, this experience has completely reinforced why having children would never have been a good idea for my world. While K, in her sweetness, gives me glowing marks, I know I wouldn’t even receive a passing grade for how well I am able to wake and respond to another creature, even one who is barking in my ear, while two others have sandwiched me and taken up residence on top of my legs.

As I am sure will happen to many of us, Coffee has become a lesson in regression. His back legs are no longer up to the task of holding him up to stand or walk. I discovered this when I left him outside to pee while I ran in to change the sheets on his bed, only to come back and find him laying in a snowdrift. We do layperson’s physical therapy with him, holding him up to stand several times a day, massaging the area to keep blood flowing, doing some light stretching, and most importantly, helping him turn every couple of hours. He wears a “diaper” almost all the time, and lays on a disposable pad for the other parts. Food and water are brought to him; he is allowed to eat pretty much anything he wants under the premise that life is short enough now, dessert first makes great sense, and if we have to cut “dessert” up into bite sized pieces and hand feed him, that is o.k., too.

Above all, Coffee’s continued good humor through these life developments has been remarkable. He shows no signs of frustration, no demanding insistence such as that displayed, for example, by a certain dauchsaund when her crate is not opened quickly enough, when she is forced to wait at the front door to be let in not quickly enough, when she is not fed quickly enough, or treats are not forthcoming quickly enough. Coffee expresses his needs by issuing one bark, and waits patiently, his bright eyes following us until we get to him to attend to his needs. On rare occasions, when a point of emphasis is required, he will sometimes offer a second bark, and in desperation, a third, all affording us ample time for response in between each.

To infer from his compliance that he does not have an opinion on things would, however, be selling him way too short. He expressed his dissatisfaction with his attendants the night I decided it would be easiest to forego the usual process of cleaning him up using a sponge bath method, instead electing to give him a full-fledged bath, by declaring a stormy 12-hour hunger strike. Additionally, we believe we may have underestimated his functional capacity. The past several days, we have come home to find Coffee someplace other than where he was left, most notably not on the crib mattress I had been using, which is definitely a less fluffy or buoyant crib mattress than say, the papasan-shaped XL bed Mercy usually claims.

Furthermore, he has mastered the skill of removing his own diaper, not through shimmying out of it, but by actually undoing the Velcro closure and scooting out of it.
Each day, upon our return to the house, the first one home calls the other with a report on where Coffee was located and what other oddities accompanied him. And so describes most of the life I have shared with Coffee, plus or minus a few diapers, and a few dozen hours of sleep.

Coffee's Retirement

Coffee-dog has a retirement party at the office tomorrow. Whereas he once paced by the door, creating a physical impediment to my egress, my daily query, “you want to go to work today, buddy?” is now met with a heartfelt tail thump, a look that seems to say, "you go on without me" and no more.

He is old, and with age he has become a more needy dog. Well, he has always been an emotionally needy dog, so the more accurate statement is: his physical needs have eclipsed his emotional needs with age. Reflecting back on the past year, I have spent more time attending to his physical needs and less time just sitting together with my hand on his head, or patting his back, or rubbing his chest. That boy loves to have his chest rubbed. I commit myself to lots of chest rubbing and petting henceforth.

December 31st was his birthday. Traditionally this would have been celebrated with the bestowing of a big, beefy bone, but since he has had most of his teeth extracted, he got an obscenely large snausage twist treat thing, a rare deviation from an otherwise pretty controlled diet.

To say that Coffee is a mellow dog would be such a vast understatement; it would be like remarking that the surface of the sun is temperate. Coffee has been known to allow children to use him as an organic jungle-gym, offering only a plaintive look by way of objection or self-preservation. To say Coffee is an unmotivated dog, however, would be just plain wrong. I was talking to a member of my staff yesterday about the old fellow, and she was extolling his praises, and reminding me of the myriad stories Coffee has been the protagonist in across our time together. It is in this spirit that I offer the following story, one heretofore untold in this blog, a grave oversight on my part:

We had gone to visit my father and his wife at their new home in a small town in Southeast Kansas, and to make a day side-trip to Southwest Missouri to meet a new nephew over the weekend. By this time in our relationship, Coffee had become my constant traveling companion, so his attendance was a non-issue, at least until we arrived at my dad’s house. My dad had two aging and unpleasant cats who simply would not tolerate the incursion of another animal into their domestic domain. Through the evening, the arrangement was fine as it was March, the weather was pleasant, and we were able to spend the remaining time outside, Coffee sitting companionably at our knees.

When it was time for bed, we set down a bed in the two-car garage, laid out some treats in his food dish, and an ample supply of water. I left a light on for Coffee, wished him sweet dreams, and retired to bed in the house.

At about 5:00 in the morning, my dad woke me, telling me he thought something was going on with my dog. I pulled on clothes and trotted to the back door where it was very clear the overhead garage door had been pushed open about 10 inches. I walked outside into the very cold morning air, Coffee’s leash in hand, and began looking for him. As I was finishing walking the perimeter of the back yard, Coffee came trotting around from the front of the house.

We went about our business for the day, loading Coffee-dog into the car for the short jaunt to Missouri, and returned to my father’s house later that afternoon to a compiled honey-do list. First on the list was the installation of a ceiling fan, requiring us to install a ceiling fan brace from the attic. We fastened Coffee’s lead to the clothesline in the backyard to give him some time in the fresh air while we got started on the list.

I clambered into the attic, leaving my partner downstairs under the proposed ceiling fan location. Presently, there was a knock at the back door, and my father answered it to meet his next-door neighbor for the first time. We could hear the conversation from our respective locations. It went roughly like this:

Dad: Hello.

Histrionic neighborlady (hereinafter HN): Is that your dog? (At this I am assuming she is gesturing towards Coffee, tethered to the clothesline.)

Dad: Well, no. That’s my daughter’s dog. She is visiting this weekend. And you are?

HN: I live right there. (As this I am assuming she is gesturing to the house next door). That dog knows where I live. He broke into my house last night.

Dad: I’m sorry. That dog knows. . . ? Come again?

HN: That. Dog. Broke into my house last night. While I was sleeping. He broke in. He was standing beside my bed, looking at me with those yellow eyes. He broke into my house.

Dad: Well, I don’t know what to say about that.

HN: (continuing, thereby absolving Dad of any need to say anything about that) I was sound asleep and I could feel him looking at me. I was so scared, I covered my head with the blankets. I peeked out and he was standing there, looking at me. I had to call my daughter to come get him. She took him out of the house and HE BROKE IN AGAIN.

Dad: Um.

HN: He jumped on the door, and he pushed it in. I had to put a chair in front of the door to keep him out. He broke in again.

(I peek through the fixture hole in the ceiling to see my partner laughing silently and clutching her sides, tears streaming down her face.)

HN: That dog kept breaking into my house. I was terrified. He was standing beside my bed, just looking at me. And then he broke in again. Thank God my daughter was there. She is very good with dogs. I was terrified. I didn’t know what it was. Those big yellow eyes looking at me in the dark. And he was breathing on me. I was scared. To. Death.

(I hear the gasp of barely-contained laughter from my partner, and the tone of voice change from my dad that indicated he was not amused.)

Dad: Well, I am awfully sorry about that.

HN: You just keep control of that dog. I don’t want him breaking into my house again tonight. I was a nervous wreck. Didn’t sleep a wink. Scared. To. Death.

My dad apologized about 20,000 more times, promised to keep the wild beast under control so the lady could get some sleep tonight, and finally placated the woman off his back stoop.

Coffee, the hardened criminal:

I Didn't Mean It

We are all about “truth in advertising” here at MisFit Farm, which may account for why, despite several adoption inquiries, Presley remained here with us. While we may wax poetic about our best traits, we have an incisive honesty about our less-desirable traits, and a pretty no-holds-barred forthrightness in our communication styles.

Which is why I found it odd, as I sat with Presley that afternoon, to find myself patting her head and leaning in real close to say to her, “It’s o.k. if it is time for you to go, girl.” Because I didn’t mean it. I can tell when I say something I don’t mean, because as a corollary of K’s theory about not saying what you don’t want to happen, as I was saying those words, I was seeing something entirely different happen.

I was seeing Presley standing insistently in front of me, silently demanding I scratch her head, especially just behind her left ear. I was seeing her cruise from food dish to food dish, snatching up mouthfuls and then moving on to claim the next, as if the rule from our childhoods, where we lick each open tootsie roll pop to stake our claim, applies to food dishes for dogs. I was seeing her run up and down the pasture paths with me despite my admonitions to take it easy; when we turn around to make our way back to the house, her eyes are dancing, her big lolling tongue is hanging out the side of her mouth, and her back legs and hips are drooping as she staggers, elated and exhausted, back onto her corner of the couch.

I was seeing the beautiful day from earlier this Spring, when we had stolen time home from the office and had the doors and windows open and were unexpectedly visited by a family of religious adherents who despite my polite and gentle treatment were insistent that they would read me some scripture (which is one of my pet peeves, as I am perfectly capable of reading to myself); Presley thereupon reified my irritation and agitation by urinating on the nice lady’s daughter. I was seeing Presley stick her big nose right up in my face to pretend she wanted to give me a stinky kiss, running roughshod over the proscription against dogs approaching the table during mealtime.

I was seeing her the first day she came to us, and the day she came back after her failed placement, and I was hoping upon hope that it wasn’t time for her to go so she could come back to us yet again, that I could see her coming home again in my mind and it would be so. Notwithstanding Doc’s best efforts and my hopes to the contrary, Presley took my permission and passed along that night. She must have known that each time I saw her I would fill my mind with more of what I wanted to see happening, and try to fill myself with words that I didn’t really mean.

To Do Lists

I am a compulsive list maker. The house features lists of “ready made” meals and meals for which we have all the ingredients. We have magnetic notepads on the fridge and in the utility room, where needed items can be jotted down for incorporation into the house shopping list I prepare and organize according to aisle based on the store I will be using to complete such shopping. I have long-term “to do” lists, short-term “to do” lists, and for special events, I prepare a “to do” list as a reverse timeline.

Between attending to family needs, routine care and upkeep of the house and our menagerie, and work, lately, my to do lists feel like they are almost overwhelming.

Which is precisely the time when something happens that is ex parte to do list, like our perma-fost girl, Presley, falls ill.

Presley has been with us for about a year and a half. At the age of 9 ½, her owner moved on. Literally moved, and left her behind on a raggedy couch on the back porch of a house with no air conditioning and one final bag of Ol’ Roy. The woman who owned the house started looking for someone to help, because when the bag of Ol’ Roy ran out, so did Presley’s back-porch residency.

On the very day the woman poured the last bit of kibble from that bag into Presley’s dish, a Dane rescue fairy picked up Presley, gave her a flea bath, and met me at a Dairy Queen in a town south of Kansas City. At the age of 9 ½ , we pretty much figured this would be the one and only “placement” for Presley. There were inquiries and one attempted and failed placement, but Presley managed to find a place in the pack, fall into the rhythm of life here among the MisFits, and worm her crotchety way into our hearts.

Presley’s liver enzymes are three times the upper limit of normal, and whether the issue is hepatitis, cancer or some other disease, the prognosis is the same. With any luck, she will be feeling well enough to come home tomorrow so we can manage her pain and let her go in the small comfort of this last place she has known as home.

But as for today, we put the to do lists aside and spent a nice long time just sitting with her on the floor at Dr. Kevin’s, doing nothing but looking into those baleful eyes, trying to soothe her with touch and quiet murmurings, while people came and went. Presley perked up discernibly when K went to see her this morning; K has that effect on us all. As I was sitting with Presley this afternoon, Doc's kids came in to regale us with stories about their second day at school. I know it wasn’t on Doc or his family’s “to do” list, to provide a soundtrack of laughter, life and love, just as it wasn’t on our list of “to do’s” to while away time sitting in Presley’s fluids and detritus; but I can say with absolute certainty, exactly what needed to get done today, did.

A Place for Bill

Anyone who has visited MisFit Farm learns quickly of my reservations about poor Bill, our miniature horse. He IS cute - he is small, which always pre-determines a certain level of cuteness. His coloring is exquisite. His mane and his tail are lovely. He has a nice, soft, muzzle, rounded, fuzzy ears, lush, velveteen eyelashes, and soulful eyes. But as my equestrian aunt pointed out to me once, you don’t ride the mane or the color. Those things are nice, but they do not make the horse. And I guess that underlies some of my reticence around wholesale acceptance of Bill.

I am not sure how Bill fits into my utilitarian view of the world. He is a sweet boy, but I haven’t been able to figure out how to give him a “place” here at the Farm. He seems to want for a task that makes him uniquely integral to the overall quality of life here. I have resolved to at least start the process of teaching him to pull a cart through this summer. I think that would be quite fun. There is a total horse-drawn carriage parade in Lawrence every winter, there are neighborhood Fourth of July parades, there are visiting friends and family who might like to go for a ride. I have thought this through and it seems feasible, at least in theory.

Of course I am uniquely un-qualified to teach a horse to pull a cart, never having done so before. As a matter of fact, I cannot remember ever even riding in a horse-drawn carriage or cart, and I know for a fact I have never ridden in the pony carts that are the chosen vehicle for miniature horses to pull. So although I have this theoretical world where Bill happily halters up and trots down the road, our shiny red cart in tow and me or some other person sitting comfortably and in control at the reins, this world exists only in my imagination, where it is likely to remain. The more likely scenario looks a lot like a hairy WWF match as I try to put a halter on Bill; should we eventually get him to don the necessary equipment and actually attach a cart to him, it most likely ends with the cart wrapped around a tree, or an overturned cart being pulled on its side down the road, and me running either after or away from the whole mess.

Thankfully, the need to stake out a place in the world sometimes resolves itself.

As I rounded the cedar tree to make my way to the pasture for morning chores today, I discovered Bill’s purpose.
A closer look is warranted.

And a short video clip to boot, because I knew no one would ever believe it otherwise, and I can't blame anyone for that:
And a link because FB hates my videos: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EgtaJCuuooc

She Who Will Not Be Moved

In homage to this day when we celebrate our Mothers, Mercy offers this powerful reminder about the beauty, the frustration, and the humor we should all find in the parent/child relationship.

On the other hand, the new mothers, Pebbles and Lucy, have stepped into the role of mother in fine style, offering a good mix of nurturing and independence.

Baby Goats!

We are philosophically, dispositionally and practically non-reproducers here at MisFit Farm. Meaning, we spay and neuter as a rule, and those who are not spayed or neutered are not exposed to impregnating agents, generally speaking.

Last Fall, an exception was made for reasons that I no longer can begin to fathom. For some inexplicable reason that in memory amounts to: K pleaded, cajoled, and batted her eyelashes at me while smiling that heart-and-reason-melting smile, I agreed to let our two un-spayed female goats intermingle with Steve and Carolyn’s goats, including their un-un-masculined male, Dewey (Batman). After two weeks of our goats brutalizing Dewey, I retrieved them, reasonably assured that Pebbles had been tapped, but doubtful as to whether Lucy allowed herself to succumb to Dewey’s amorous advances. I have since concluded that poor Lucy had to have slept at least once, because she does indeed appear to be carrying some of Dewey’s product.

The girls’ stay at the Rancho Curry is a story unto itself, which will remain untold until such later time as I need to tell a story and haven’t anything else more imminent to relay.

Fast forward roughly 150 days into the future: Sunday, April 25, 2010.

In the middle of a weekend where I had managed to triple or quadruple book myself until the point in time when a family health situation caused me to sharply refocus my priorities, and where we had not just one, but two out-of-town houseguests, Pebbles gave birth to two lovely little goatlets. Thankfully, she appeared to have the situation well in hand, so minimal intervention was needed on my part.

The upshot of this all is that we now have two very fresh baby goats at the Farm. AND THEY ARE TOO FREAKING CUTE FOR WORDS. So here’s a video instead:

Clean Catch

Having owned and housed various Danes across the past several years, many of whom have come with health or disability issues, and then having felt our way through goat and miniature horse ownership, we have had a front-row seat for veterinary care for treatments ranging from spays to sutures. I have held goats as they were being de-manned, and squatted alongside the Vet in our front yard as I learned about a “brave cut” while gelding the horse. We have learned about blood conditions, cherry eye, endometric eyelids, stenosis, colds, osteoporosis, and displaysia; we have explored the full landscape of the wonderful world of NSAIDs, and treated lots and lots of UTI/bladder infections.

K pointed out yesterday that Presley had gone out like clockwork every hour overnight, prompting us to wonder if she might have a UTI/bladder infection of some sort. Presley had dealt with such issues in the past, making her a prime candidate for these types of ongoing issues. K mentioned she has the day open today, so she would be happy to take Presley in to see Doc. Well, even if she is somehow able to wrangle Presley into the CRV and get her over to see Doc, I know from past experience: we will need a urine sample.

Knowing my chance would surely come to collect such a sample, and believing firmly that chance favors the prepared mind, I loaded my pocket with a syringe and one of the little vials we have re-purposed for taking urine samples in to Doc. Seriously. We have done this enough to have designated containers for this purpose.

Sure enough, a short while later, I followed Presley as she wandered out into the yard for a potty break. She squatted and I tiptoed up behind her with the vial, trying to make a “clean catch.” For my trouble, my hand was given a warm sprinkling, the vial remained empty, and Presley scooted away from me, shooting a disgusted look over her shoulder. In retrospect, I can’t really blame her. But I wasn’t done. I didn’t have my sample. Thankfully, Presley wasn’t done, either.

She re-squatted a few yards up the path to finish the job she started, and in a desperate attempt to make my catch, I ran up behind her, cupped my hand, and thrust it into the stream. I dipped the vial into the puddle I had gathered in my hand, and stood up triumphantly, at least until I fully processed that I was feeling a sense of accomplishment while holding dog urine in my hand. My feeling of triumph was slowly replaced by a sense of wonderment about what I would do now that I had my uncapped sample in one hand and a fistful of uncontained urine in the other.

I did what any reasonable, college-educated person who suddenly found herself standing with urine in her hand would do. I began calling for K to come save me. She padded outside, shot me a questioning look as I stood there with my urine hand-cup, and without a word, took the sample vial from my “free” hand. She then held open the door and waited as I dumped the hand-cupped urine out onto the ground and followed Presley into the house. I washed my hands and capped the vial off, but somehow I can’t get Presley’s disgusted look and my concurrence in her sentiments out of my mind.

A Gentleman's Agreement

I was not enthusiastic when K first suggested we fence off the property. Aside from the obvious: cost and effort, it ran counter to my notion of “ownership” and "property." I wasn’t opposed to creating pasture area, obviously. So we had fenced in an area for our goats, when I noticed how a dachsund-width “path” was being worn from all along the pasture fence line up the hill to the “bad neighbors‘” house.

K's position that fencing exists for the dual purposes of keeping in and keeping out was a salient and compelling one. After much haggling, grunting, squatting, and post-pounding, a fence was erected the entire length of the property between our land and the “bad neighbors’” slice of property.

Then came the Danes. When we lived in the trailer, we didn’t spend much time indoors, so the “fence” was mostly an area the doggy door opened onto for middle-of-the-day potty purposes. The fence itself was only a 4 foot field fence secured to t-posts. My joke was that the fence itself represented a “gentleman’s agreement” between us and the dogs. Since we only intended to live in the trailer for a few months (famous last words), the t-posts were placed about 10 feet apart, and the fence was basically clipped to the posts in three spots. A committed dog could have easily burrowed under, and an able-bodied Dane could have easily jumped over it. To our understanding, the fence represented a barrier, and the dogs honored that barrier.

So we happily lived under the mistaken and misplaced trust in the existence of said gentleman’s agreement. One day, I came driving up the road and turned into the driveway. I thought I saw Emmett running out in the yard north of the trailer as I turned in, but since that area wasn’t fenced, I dismissed this as a shadow or hallucination. Sure enough, when I walked into the trailer, Emmett was among the wiggling, wagging mass of dog that rushed to greet me.

A few weeks later, K was home when the UPS truck turned into the driveway to make a delivery. Hearing the truck, Emmett barreled out the doggy door and completely forgot his ruse, hopping over the fence and running around to greet the delivery man. K stepped out the front door just in time to see Emmett running around the trailer. She exclaimed, “Don’t worry, he’s gentle!” and called for Emmett. The driver pulled a dog biscuit out of his pocket and said with a smile, “I know. It is good to know his name now.”

As it turned out, Emmett had been greeting the UPS man thusly for months.

We have been re-configuring the dogs’ yard now that we have been living here at the house for over a year and have a better sense of how we use the space, and what would be most convenient for all of us. This weekend, I expanded the existing dog yard, bringing it around to the front of the house in anticipation of the installation of an upstairs doggy door. I pulled out the posts at the previous edge of the yard and swung the fencing out, extending it about 40 feet. Emmett lay in the dog yard watching me work, sprawled out at the place where the fence had been previously installed. When I called him to urge him into the newly fenced area, he lay at the edge in the “old“ yard, crying, and refusing to step across the line where the fence previously existed.

My only question is how long this gentleman’s agreement lasts.

Once Again, I Stand Correct(ed)

Trinity barfed in the bed last night. Seriously. In. The. Bed. I was sitting there, minding my own business, reading a few chapters before turning in for the night, and she sat bolt upright, began making that unmistakable retching sound and proceeded to hack up what looked to be about three cups of semi-chewed, mucous-drenched kibble.

And just like that, I was 8 years old. “K come quick! Trinity puked! Gross! It stinks!!!!!”

Thankfully it was on the comforter. Yes, I just wrote that. I can’t hardly believe it myself.

As I stood in the corner of the room, dancing from foot to foot, and whining about the smell, the aesthetic, and the overall ill-advised-ness of allowing dogs into the bed, K calmly removed the comforter, took it outside to shake off the solid chunks, applied some sort of laundry magic elixir, and put the comforter into the washer. Whereupon it occurred to me just how ridiculous I was behaving, so I got another comforter out of the linen cabinet, made the bed back up, and returned to my book.

As we were turning in for the night, I couldn’t resist the urge to point out one last time that the recent events reinforced my overarching bias against allowing dogs in the bed. I turned off the reading lamp and settled down to go to sleep . A few minutes later, I felt the movement of the bed as one and then a second dog crept up to join us. Resignedly, I rolled over just as I was being gifted with a singular, barf-smelling kiss to my chin.

Grooming

One of the major benefits of being owned by Danes is that they are basically wash-and-wear. They don’t have to be taken to a groomer for some ridiculously expensive haircut, and I did not have to invest in some industrial-strength shears and 30-minutes with an instructional video to give them mullets.

Like all of us, they need to be bathed on occasion. We have found across the past two years, as Trinity and Emmett have discovered the joys of skunk-hunting, some of them need to be bathed more than others. And even with our magic skunk-scent-neutralizing potion, the bath-to-skunk-encounter ratio is at a minimum a 3:1 ordeal, and even at that, you will still get whiffs of skunk for months to come, especially around the eyebrow region.

Hair brushing is a nice thing to do, especially around the turn of each season. It only takes about five minutes with them to be disabused of the misconception that they do not shed, and giving them a nice brushing seems to land a somewhat preemptive blow that I assure myself saves at least two house-wide sweepings a day. The way I see it, I can stand and pick the hair off the brush, or I can chase it around with a broom and crouch down with a dustpan later.

Nail-clipping is a major ordeal, with that not being their most favorite thing , nor, truth be told, mine. I can usually get one foot done on one dog before the rest are alerted to the activity, and run off to apply grease to themselves so wrestling them to the ground to submit to my caretaking can be that much more difficult. Four out of six of them have black toenails, which means I either exercise great caution in taking just little bits off the ends with a need for frequent re-trimming, or risk quicking one of them and then running around, mopping up blood spots, apologizing profusely and abandoning whatever remaining nails need to be trimmed on that dog to be attempted another day.

.Now ear-cleaning is an entirely different matter. The dogs take responsibility for policing and augering out one another’s ears on a routine basis. Sometimes we will stumble upon the highly sonorous and slobbery event of a group ear cleaning And sometimes, they offer their grooming services to us, free of charge, whether we want or need it, or not.

Mysteries and Miracles

Mysteriously, a momma Dane and her litter of what seems like 500 pups were turned over to the Rescue just over a week ago. O.k., the term “mysteriously” was used in jest. Under-nourished: check. Filthy: check. And as it turns out, dreadfully ill with a highly contagious and completely preventable condition: check.

Without exception, each of the puppies had Parvo. As a side note here: I have known of several owners who had dogs that contracted Parvo. In those cases, the dogs died. The merciful owners (who did not have the resources to treat their babies) put the dogs to sleep as a pre-emptive measure. In the other cases, the dogs were not treated and died suffering.

Not that I need to remind those of us who commune through this medium, but I am duty-bound to say it: vaccinate. The Dane Rescue has encumbered bills in the thousands of dollars to save these pups for want of someone forking over $15.00 per puppy for the d*mn vaccinations. Parvo is very preventable, but once a dog gets it, life becomes a very tenuous and very contagious proposition for these babies.

Which brings me to my second point, which is that the amazing people involved with the Great Dane Rescue of the Ozarks (and with a nod to Special Castaways in NE Missouri) somehow managed to save every single one of these precious babies, at great personal cost (tears, time, energy), for which no compensation would be adequate, and also at great financial cost. So if anyone out there has some extra bucks, there are some Vets in Missouri who we would like to keep on our good sides by paying in a prompt and full manner. GDRO even has PayPal and a 501c(3), so your donation would be charitable in every sense of the word.

https://www.paypal.com/us/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_flow&SESSION=JiN87GIVHlHgFRQmgW0N9nRhfgINSw-pPctDeUHyzE2QdBGqbX7BnMFyggu&dispatch=5885d80a13c0db1ffc45dc241d84e953c6c47237de2bc4f5b43fafc6513a8a86

I would include a picture of the puppies here, but they are so devastatingly adorable, it wouldn’t be fair.

OK, maybe just this one because I might be secretly in love with this little guy, although I don’t even know his name:

Real Estate

We have acquired a second king-sized bed. The question has been where we plan to place said bed. There is space in the dog room, but only Emmett uses the room when not otherwise obliged. When he takes his voluntary time-outs to the dog room, he seems to prefer sleeping on the loveseat.

Our bedroom is large enough; I pointed out that we could simply rotate the existing king-sized bed and line the second one next to it. Space for sleeping has become a precious commodity since Trinity and Emmett have taken up residence in our bed. I seem to be particularly vexed by the loss of real estate, notwithstanding the fact I could sleep through the dropping of the A-bomb. K is the one who loses ground each time she gets up to let the old dogs out for middle-of-the-night pit stops.

K nixed my proposal, based on the prognostication that they would still insist on using just the 1/3 of the bed we are occupying. Which appears to be empirically proven.

Something about Emmett

One of the disadvantages of Dane ownership is summed up thusly: floppy lips. More exactly, wet, floppy lips. Wet, floppy lips that can leave an unsuspecting victim of love with a slime coating.
One of the advantages is the belly-laugh shared when standing up from the slobber assault to K's exclamation, "Oh look - hair by 'Something about Mary'!"

Not the Boss of Me

As hard as it is for a control-freak such as myself to admit, I think we may be losing control of the pack, at least insofar as sleep rituals are concerned.

Although consensus does not exist on the etiology of the issue, I am of the belief trouble began with excessive middle-of-the-night toileting activities. First, dogs were asking to be let out around midnight. Then they added a 2 a.m. outing to the mix. The one thing we do agree on is, they have us on this one. The alternative involves more scrubbing than either of us want to engage in as a first-thing-in-the-morning ritual.

Mercy has since added a 4 a.m. rousting – not for the purpose of going outside. Heavens no, it is cold and dark outside at 4 a.m. Which makes it a perfect time to play squeaky-toy smackdown. Like clockwork, she is up and ker-plomping around the bedroom, snatching up squeaky toys. Contrary to her name, she squeaks them mercilessly, tosses them so she can chase them down and pounce on them with all the grace of a defensive lineman wearing a plaster leg cast. We have tried telling her, “Mercy, go back to bed,” but that directive doesn’t seem to exist in the small pantheon of commands she has chosen to heed.

At the other end of the spectrum, we have Presley, who is a very avid communicator. She uses a whine/bark combination, always in an escalating manner, to express her wishes. Obtuse as we are, she has found it necessary to employ this communication method to various tasks throughout the day. If her twice-day feeding ritual is off-schedule, a series of whines moving to short, persistent barks is all it takes to get us back online. When she would like to be released to the front to do her business or investigate the incessant barking from the neighbors’ weenie dogs, we are similarly informed. About two weeks ago, at 9:30 p.m., Presley began doing her whine/dance/bark routine. One of us got up from our position in the living room and walked over to let her out the front door. She stood there with that “stupid human” look in her eyes and did not move to the front door. She slowly sidled toward the bedroom.

K, always the more astute communicator, observed, “I think she is ready to go to bed.” Being the accommodating person I am, and the designated 4 a.m. playmate for Mercy, I acceded to Presley’s wishes and followed her in to the bedroom to get ready for bed. In the ensuing weeks, the 9:30 p.m. bedtime call has slowly inched itself earlier and earlier, so the dancing toward the bedroom and barking begins around 9:00 p.m. these days. I was remarking that 9:00 was a little early for even me, when K pointed out it isn’t if one is to be getting up every day at 4 a.m. As usual, she has a point.

A few days ago, when I followed Mercy out into the dark living room to begin our puppy calisthenics, I noticed a dark lump on the couch. As I crouched down and moved towards it, a single eye rheumy eye opened to return my gaze. Slowly and with a great groan, the pieces fell into place: after she ushers us off to bed each night, Presley assumes a resting place on the basically-no-dog couch and settles in for her beauty sleep.

I could go further and posit that her “plan” has been working insofar as she gets up and moves off the couch before Mercy and I rise for our 4 a.m. playdate, which explains the earlier and earlier calls to bedtime, but that would make her smarter than me and we all know that can’t be true, right?

A Toy Story

K was dispatched to pick up dog food the other day, and she came home with a bonus bag stuffed to the brim with toys. She meekly offered up the receipt, sheepishly smiling and pointing out “they were on sale.”

Of course: irrespective of need, the acquisition of more shreddables should be dictated by the sale rack at the local Petco or Petsmart. And of course, I don’t really care one way or another, it’s just part of the complex dance we engage in over the dogs. I say they don’t need treats – their treat is fresh water and predictable twice-daily offerings of high-quality kibble. She says they need pork rolls, greenies ©, pig ears, and Blue Dog Bakery treats. I say the dozen dog beds we have laying around the house are more than enough. She says so-and-so needs a special one in a special spot where he/she likes to rest. I say they should be happy to have each other for playmates and chewthings, and walls to eat for entertainment. She says they need toys.

So the treat jar runneth over, dogs beds fill up any available floor space, and yesterday evening K gleefully unloaded a bag full of Halloween-themed toys, busily presenting them to me, emphasizing their various features, and lined them up on the table. One by one, dogs walked up and gingerly claimed toys for themselves, pulling them off the table as K had removed tags, stickers and other potential hazards. Their new plaything in tow, they each moved to their respective corners, beds and special spots to explore the squeaking feature, chewiness, and tossability of their new playthings.
Since a picture is worth a thousand words, I concede the point that even if not completely necessary, the toys are well-appreciated by the krewe. They have indiscernible yet distinct preferences in toy selection. Each evening before bed, I dutifully pick up all the toys and place them in the toy basket, and every day the dogs dig through the toy basket, looking for the toy du jour.





And who I am to try to say no to an evening spent thusly: