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.