She Lives!

Azure is not going to die. After she got so very sick, she improved ever so slightly. Not a lot, but enough to refuse any medications we tried to foist onto her. Enough to some times join us on our walks. Enough to take a lunge at a well-intentioned and quicker-than-he-looks neighbor Steve. Enough to demand to be petted, enough to voice her displeasure at our refusal to let her into the bedroom to sleep in the bed, and on occasion, enough to tip over the trash can to drag its contents across the floor.


But to say she was back to her old self was not truly a reflection of the mischievous little creature we have come to know and love. Her appetite had not truly returned, and she was losing weight. The types of food we have used in the past to coerce compliance were ineffective at prompting even a second sniff of interest. Her energy level seemed far too low. Our dog toy bill has been extraordinarily manageable.

Across the past few weeks, we have become alarmed enough to collect urine samples and take them in for analysis. We have looked for infection. Loss of kidney function. Presence of anything abnormal. Absence of anything normal. And every single test result has come back just that: normal.

Notwithstanding the normalcy of the test results, Azure just did not seem normal. I was worried. I was watching her every move for signs she was going to either come ‘round the bend or kick the bucket.

Then one day it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe Azure wasn’t really that sick. Maybe she is just playing us. It could happen. She is that smart, or perhaps we are just that stupid. Either way, I decided, “Azure is not going to die,” and I quit watching her for signs of impending death. And amazingly enough, I quit seeing signs of her impending death.


This evening at dinner, I made Azure leave the table area and behave. She sat and scowled at me as I happily sat next to K and devoured my BBQ chicken pizza. After dinner, for the first time in a long time, I felt a little tickling on my leg and looked down to see Azure holding a tug rope in her mouth, looking up at me with those blue eyes and pink piggy face, asking for a game of tug. So we played. She isn’t as strong as she was before, and we weren’t as rigorous as we played in the past, but Azure initiated play, even after a long evening walk and outside time doing lawn and garden work. Her tail was wagging and her eyes were sparkling, even after she rolled over to submit to a chest rub as I celebrated my victory. Later in the evening, when I leaned over to give K a kiss and then caught Azure’s eye, K cautioned, “If she poops on your clothes again, you have only yourself to blame.”

Azure is not going to die. At least not of natural causes anytime soon.

Relax, it's only Pig Sh*t

I was called home by the contractor to meet an official from the county health department last week.

The good news is: he seemed to be nonplussed by the abundance of dogs here at the farm. The bad news is: he was not nearly alarmed enough about the dark, oozing liquid one of the subcontractors observed leaking into our west basement wall. They were concerned about the possibility the uphill neighbors had cut corners in the building of their septic and lateral fields. The gentleman from the health department assured me it was not runoff from a human waste source, but theorized it was the product of runoff from the neighbor’s hobby pig farming operation a/k/a the 4-H project run amuck. In this case, literally run amuck.

Now there’s a tough one to figure out. Do I prefer to have my neighbor’s waste seeping into the basement or my neighbor’s pig waste seeping into the basement? Hmmm. . .

Seriously. I really had to think about that question. I am sad to say I am somewhat more relieved to discover “Oh, it is only pig sh*t.” This homebuilding thing has lowered my standards considerably.

It reminds me of this time I was working the fish cannery in Alaska. There was a lot of dysfunction associated with the melting pot of summer workers, the long hours, and the really pretty hard work. One day, the very creepy man whose job was to walk around and sharpen our knives had taken a belly full of harassment from two young guys from Fairbanks. He repaid their harassment by walking up to them and nonchalantly spraying mace in their faces. When my friend and I were talking about the incident a few hours later, we were stunned to realize we were talking about the episode with this oddly detached and unconcerned tone. “Oh well, it was only mace. It’s not like it was muriatic acid or he stabbed them or anything.”

I see the look of stunned disbelief reflected on others’ faces when I say, “well, at least it’s only pig sh*t.”

Undeterred by – well, anything, the work on the house has continued. The excavator did a little fancy earthmoving to re-direct the pig farm runoff around the north of the house. Since “it’s only pig sh*t,” this seems to be a suitable response for all parties involved, although I really did harbor a secret hope that the health department, zoning or some other responsible county official would address the issue of the six – 16 pigs residing along my property line.

Yes Fred, Two Miles of Pipe

Just to place my very slight hyperbole into context, last night’s torrential rains “moved” the temporary (I assume) flexible pipe into a more photographic position.

Our neighbor(?) came down yesterday evening to discuss the situation, and was greatly illuminated by her ability to witness the two miles of pipe laying on the ground. The very, very long period of embarrassing air bursts emanating from her pipe the evening before were quickly explained.

On a side note, any anxiety we had about this situation negatively affecting the neighbor’s (?) toilet habits was also resolved. She is comfortable evacuating in the great outdoors.

K called me from home today to report that a lovely old gentleman and presumed member of the subcontracting team who will participate in the next steps of basement and foundation construction was here. He was slopping around in the muddy quagmire known yesterday as our excavated basement, mumbling to himself and brandishing a shovel. His handiwork is evidenced thusly:


Seriously. He hand-dug this little trench to encourage flow-off of some of the water that had pooled in the excavated area. K sounded a bit mystified when she called. I was alternately impressed and charmed when I came home to pay witness to his efforts.

And, because I know the real reason anyone cares about this blogging endeavor is because of the stories about our kritters and not the continuing saga of our weak homebuilding efforts, here are a couple of contributions:

It did rain overnight. The lightning began around 3:30 a.m. K got up with the labs to turn on a light (so the lightning was less obvious) and medicate them. By 4:00 a.m., the storms had started in earnest. I got up with the dogs, turned on the radio, sat down to do some work I had been lying in bed perseverating about anyhow, and listened for a break in the rain. At 5:00 a.m., I thought I could hear a lull in the rain. I grabbed a flashlight and dashed out to complete goat, horse, chicken and cat chores.

Today was the day we had been expecting the Vet to come “geld” Bill. Although I didn’t have much hope that any part of the day would be salvaged for such activity, I decided to place Bill’s halter on so we would be ready just in case. So I grabbed the halter, and put it on Bill in the cold. In the rain. In the dark.

And here is another reason I love K. When she called to report the arrival of the lovely fellow with a hand spade, she casually commented she had gone down to check on the goats and Bill and had removed his halter. It seems he was having trouble eating with the muzzle part in his mouth.

And as a final note, the dogs love the new landscaping. Mercy especially enjoys the big mud hole and its therapeutic benefits for her paws.

In the Hole

So, if one piece of heavy equipment in the yard is a good thing, it would stand to reason two pieces of heavy equipment in the yard is even better.

Wrong.

That second piece of equipment would be the emergency backhoe brought in to assist the emergency plumber with making the emergency repairs to the neighbor’s (?) water lines the first piece of heavy equipment unsuspectingly pierced.

Go ahead, ask the question out loud. No, the real question. The one that is the subtext of the first question that came to mind.

The answer: I swear, we are not idiots. As evidenced by the inordinate amount of time spent preparing for the heavy equipment, we attended to every detail. We checked with the water company, the phone company, the cable company, the electric company, the propane company, every imaginable city and county office of: zoning, planning, platting, plotting, a daydreaming.

And as for the first, more socially appropriate question: we do not know why the neighbor’s (?) water line runs down the center of our property.

The defense presents as exhibit “A” this crude drawing:




Wherein MisFit Farm is the area in red, Steve and Carolyn’s homestead is roughly represented by the area in yellow, and the property owned by the neighbor (?) is grossly underrepresented in green. The brown area represents the house, which is not even close to scale or proportion. The left side of the image is south-oriented, and the neighbor (?) is located to the north of us. Steve and Carolyn are to our west.

The point I am trying to make is that this isn’t a “neighbor” in the conventional sense. We actually rarely see or interact with this person, since the part of our property that abuts hers isn’t even accessible without the use of a machete, anti-malaria serum and hip-waders. The access road to her home runs on the west side of her property.

The neighbor’s (?) water line, as it turns out, runs smack-dab down the center of our property.



To answer the second socially appropriate question: We have no idea what we are going to do. Our contractor was super – he had someone out this afternoon to “repair” her line so she wouldn’t be forced to bring her rubber ducky and bathrobe here to the trailer to bathe in the morning. But I shudder to think what the extra two miles of pipe will do to her already challenged and inadequate water pressure. And I shudder to think of the “who pays” and “how much” questions which will likely face us tomorrow.

Stay tuned: we can’t wait to see how this saga ends.

On Deck

Change has been afoot – apaw – and ahoof – at MisFit Farm. We received an e-mail from the contractor two weeks ago, letting us know that our house had come onto somebody’s radar. The excavators had one basement to dig and then our basement was next. His estimate was that they would complete the first basement early in the week, and then, weather permitting, arrive to dig ours at the end of the week.

Here is where K and I experience a fundamental disconnect. It is of the “glass half-full or half-empty” variety. K immediately seized upon THURSDAY as the day we should expect to see the heavy equipment. Rather than cast myself as a pessimist, I like to think that I viewed the estimated arrival time as task-oriented, rather than time-oriented. So I did not choose a particular day upon which to fixate, but left myself open to seeing the equipment arrive at the Farm after they were done with the basement before ours.

K is not a sports person, but I tried to explain the concept of “batter up, MisFit Farm on deck, and someone else in the hole.” The only part of the analogy K embraced was the idea that there would be a hole – for our basement. She really liked the sound of that.

Thursday came and went, and a dejected and disappointed K sat at home, anticipating the arrival of the equipment.
Thankfully, this disappointment did not dampen her elation to come home this afternoon to find destruction, clearing, and at long, long last, heavy equipment.


And I guess I have to admit, my sports analogy doesn’t really hold up, since tomorrow, we get a hole.

Little Moments

I make no illusions that living at MisFit Farm has been, in many respects, my salvation. It provides me with wide open spaces and room to make big mistakes. It gives me many things outside myself to focus on. It offers plenty of creative outlets for my hyper-ass. It routinely offers up little moments like these:

Lessons from High School

I remember this lesson from High School:
If you put a drugged-up chick in your car, there is a near-certainty that you will end up with drool on your window, and a high likelihood that you will end up with pee on your seat.

Within the past 24 hours, Azure had begun acting a little lethargic. Returning home yesterday evening, we noted that her color was a little – off. It seemed like she was missing her usual piggy pinkness at the nose, and maybe the membrane around her eyes seemed a little washed out. She was eating and drinking fine, and willing to accompany us on our evening walk. She was her usual protective self over her pork roll treat. She just did not seem to have her usual bon vivant.


Not entirely certain what to do with a new, low-key version of Azure, but certain we wanted to keep a close eye on her, we let Azure sleep in bed with us last night. With the exceptions of delivering a couple of upper cuts to my chin around daybreak, I don’t know that she moved all night long from the little nest she made plunk in the middle of the bed, head resting on K’s sacred “Mickey Mouse” feather pillow.

Having returned from our vacation last week to find a variety of random objects misplaced and missing, it had not entirely escaped our attention that Coffee’s prescription bottle of Deramaxx turned up in an altered state, appearing to have suffered at the jaws of a massive chewing. Last weekend, Azure welcomed our yearly geese visitors with a dinner party whereupon she crashed their nest and consumed all of their eggs. In making the acquaintance of a new visitor to MisFit Farm, Azure rushed into the pasture to gulp down some breath-freshening horse dung breath additive. And these, of course, represent only the most egregious and obvious intake transgressions of note from the past week. How, then, to narrow down the offending source of malaise?

You begin the narrowing-down process thusly: sedate her to draw blood for a full work-up including a liver panel. Upon identifying some high white blood cell counts and what may look like a little bleeding in the tummy, direct an overweening Mom to take her home with a handful of medications, instruct Mom to offer up a cottage cheese and yogurt diet (can you hear Azure jumping for joy and shouting “YEEEES!”?), and keep a close eye on her for “abnormal” behavior. I don’t know how we are expected to modify her behavior to discourage things like perching on the kitchen counter, climbing on top of buildings, and destroying everything that crosses her path when the absence of this behavior would be the indicator that there is something “wrong” with Azure.

The good news is this:
Even though Azure peed on the seat just like those chicks from high school, unlike those chicks, I got to bring this one home.

Boo-Boo *hearts* Azure

Based on purely non-scientific observation, it appears as though Azure possesses a certain. . . attraction that is not readily apparent to some of us. Notwithstanding my admonitions to Coffee that dating crazy women only leads to trouble, he continues to be morbidly fascinated, even attracted, to Azure.

The other inhabitant of MisFit Farm with an intense interest in Azure is Boo-Boo, the goat. The problem with being adored by a goat is that it looks like it could hurt. At least the part where they ram their head and horns into you. I guess the whole “sneaking up behind you and giving you a love tap with my 8 inch horns and tongue sticking out” is a sign of goat adoration. I am perhaps not as brushed up on my goat-speak as I could be.

What we have been able to discern is that the only dog Boo-Boo has any interest in whatsoever is Azure. You can almost see the stars in his eyes when Azure is released into the pasture to run. While the other goats are intent on feeding time, Boo-Boo lurks in the background, awaiting his opportunity to prevail upon Azure and to convince her that they are a match made in heaven. He is crazy about her.

While Azure may be crazy, she certainly isn’t stupid. So, much to Boo-Boo’s dismay, Azure cuts him a wide path. I have been lurking around, trying to capture glimpses of Boo-Boo’s love overtures on video, but the following is the best I could do.

The Squeeze Cheese Incident

MisFit Farm contains some staple ingredients. The grocery carts from weekly trips to the store almost universally feature “bunny milk” for K., “cheesy poofs” for me, animal crackers for the goats, and “squeeze cheese” for the dogs. Squeeze cheese serves as an inexpensive filling for Kong © toys, a masking compound for medication administration, and as seen here, a source of great amusement or an instrument of torture, depending on whether you are the squeeze-er or the squeeze-ee.

And because we are big fans of loose association, we offer this additional delectable cheese-themed video from a group called “The String Cheese Incident” (emphasis mine).
However you like your cheese, Bone Appetite!

Two Years

There is an amazing, barely perceptible place in the universe known affectionately as the “Dane hole.” I hadn’t realized we were traipsing into “Dane hole” territory when I hopped into the car and drove to Southern Missouri on Saturday, March 18, 2006. I thought I was headed to pick up a sweet, sensitive girl who would someday take the place of my boy, Coffee. I thought I was retrieving a girl who needed some extra TLC and a special place to settle into. I thought I was bringing home a girl who needed us more than we needed her.

How wrong I was. What I picked up was a whole new episode; a whole new experience; a whole new way of living. As it turns out, the fawn-colored girl I picked up has evolved into an ornery, entitled, delightful, jubilant celebration of life.

She reminds me of my grandmothers, not just because of her excessive, unannounced flatulence, but also because of her enthusiastic embrace of the mundane as she tosses a disemboweled fleece toy into the air in the living room; because of her unbridled joy in executing a perfect lope across the front yard; and because of her spunky, oblivious spring back into action when the lope ends in a tumble. She is completely unaware of her limitations. The fact that her walk resembles the crazy dance of a front-wheel drive pickup truck with bald tires driving on a frozen pond is completely lost on her. She is Mercy. You may worship her now. When I retrieved Mercy, I was advised by the Grande Dame d’Dane Rescue that we could select a different name for the peculiar fawn-colored girl I picked up that day. But each time one of us, bearing witness to a new variety of sit-and-spin, exclaims, “Oh, Mercy!” I am reminded of the absolute perfectness of her name. It features two of my favorite rhetorical tools: entendre and irony. Which pretty much sums up life with Mercy.

Daylight Savings Time with Bill

We were able to make a more or less smooth transition to Daylight Savings Time this weekend, buoyed along by the previous week we spent living on Eastern Standard Time while visiting the (second) happiest place on earth.

The trip was my first to the Disneyworld complex, and I remain incredulous that the happiest place on Earth could really be inhabited by all the crying, distraught, overwrought children and parents I witnessed in my time there. At the Farm, it generally takes a serious storm front or the deprivation of a very meaty bone to reach the fever-pitch tantrum casually observed in the Disney patrons. Emerging from a mucky, messy, cold and dreary Kansas winter, the weather in Florida was much more congenial, making for one very happy feature.

Not to be shown up, Kansas decided to tease us with a beautiful early Spring day on Sunday, to welcome Daylight Savings Time. We took advantage of the sunshine and daylight savings to spend some quality time with Bill the horse.

Bunny Ears

With impending Easter festivities looming in the not-so-distant future, we here at MisFit Farm have been working on our technique for consuming the forthcoming and inevitable carob bunnies.

On the first day, we leave the prized rabbit alone as we indulge in the consumption of delights more fungible.

Across the next couple of days, we allow bunny to remain intact and free to move about the trailer.

Unable to allow this untenable intact bunny situation to continue forever, a deep, instinctual impulse overcomes Azure.

Why is it always the ears?

There Were Rules II

As in a previous post, note the use of the past-tense. There were rules.

Before we made and broke the rule about “no more than two dogs,” and “no dogs sleeping in the bed,” we had a rule about the acquisition of “exotic” animals, or at least the acquisition of animals that had not been previously owned by members of our immediate family. The rule was that, before we could acquire said animals, we had to first get a book about the breed/species AND read it. Consistent with the rule’s intended purpose and contrary to popular belief, because of the rule, there are species of animals for which we own the book but not the creatures.

The rule was broken with the acquisition of Bill, the horse. To date, we have not been able to even locate a book that would begin to provide the range of information we need about owning and caring for a miniature horse.

Aside from the obvious reference value in having a book about the animal type on hand under the book rule, the reading process gives us opportunities to engage in a robust dialogue about arrangements, idiosyncracies and preferences in advance of the animal’s arrival here at MisFit Farm. Agreements are made about important things like: what types of behavior we wish to discourage; what methods will be used to discourage and/or reinforce behaviors; and, how we will respond and react to unusual situations. Through this process, we are often spurred on to seek out additional information and resources, giving us a good foundation for parsing out the good from the bad information obtained from other sources, such as the Internet.

That the book rule had been broken was made abundantly clear to me one balmy evening last week.

Bill the horse is a fun little fellow. We play with his jolly ball. We go for walks. We chase in the pasture. We were engaging in a combination of these types of play activities after I got home from work. As it was beginning to get dark, I turned my attentions to the chores at hand and headed out of the pasture and up to the barn. Crossing the pasture, unsuspectingly enjoying the fresh evening air, I distinctly felt a touch on my shoulder blades. I turned around just in time to observe Bill reared up in what looked to be the process of removing his hooves that had, moments earlier, ostensibly been placed lightly, yet insistently on my back.

The best way I could explain what had happened to K in retelling the story is that it looked like Bill wanted me to give him a piggyback ride. Thankfully, he wasn’t too insistent on it, and was not dejected when rebuffed. If I didn't know better, I would swear he was actually laughing at my indignation.

Having entertained various explanations for his behavior, the one thing I feel I can conclusively and unequivocally determine is that there is not a book in the world that will provide me with a satisfactory answer for just what in the world happened in the pasture that evening. Nor do I probably really want to know. I am not that type of girl.

K's Baby

Here is a synopsis of the conversation that took place the day I brought Azure here to MisFit Farm (keep in mind that I had been dispatched to take care of the “Azure” problem):

K: So, how did it go? How are you doing?

A: Uh, well, uh. Not exactly as planned.

K: Oh?

Pregnant pause.


A: Well. She didn’t eat any of the others.

K: She – who? Eat – who?

More silence.

A: Azure. Mercy. Trinity. Coffee. Skeeter.

K: Azure is there?!?!? At the trailer?!?!?

A: Uh.

K: Azure is there?!?!? At the trailer?!?!?

A: Well.

K: Azure is there?!?!? At the trailer?!?!?

A: Uh.

K: Azure is there?!?!? At the trailer?!?!?

Silence again.

A: So, you’re almost home?

K: Oh. My. God. When I get home, will I find Azure there?

A: Uh, yes?

K: What happened?

A: Nothing. I took her and Trinity to Kevin’s to do introductions and everything was fine. So I brought her home.

K: You brought her home? To the trailer? Azure? To stay?

A: Well, yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I guess. She’s doing fine. Everyone is fine. This will be fine. Everything will be fine.

So here she is at the trailer. Azure. Still. And everything is fine.

Snow Days & Dogs

It has been a long time since I have seen a winter produce so much white stuff. I shoveled the front porch and stairs to the trailer last night just after midnight and by 5 a.m., I had to force the front door open against the newly fallen snow. As the snow continues to fall and accumulation ranges from 6 – 12 inches (with drifting), schools are closed, appointments have been cancelled, and traffic has been brought to a trickle. A snow day has been officially declared for Northeast Kansas.

Work, productivity and house-building are negatively affected by the white stuff, but the dogs seem to derive a sick pleasure from it.
I was recently reminded of the song, Solsbury Hill, when it was casually mentioned in a book I just finished reading. Popular lore has it that the song is about Peter Gabriel’s choice to leave the band, Genesis, but I like to think the song is about the more mundane, day-to-day choices we make: enslave ourselves to the “machine” or find meaning in our work; embroil ourselves in the pursuit of more material possessions or be contented with the blessings of gifts bestowed; emphasize that which we are “not” or embrace the things we “are.”

In Mercy’s case, the choice is to go skipping, leaping, and bounding through life.

As for the other inhabitants of MisFit Farm, in accordance with the “new trick” command we have taught our old dogs since Mercy’s arrival, “Get out of the way!”

Civilized

Lest we be accused of being uncivilized, it is worth noting that, in addition to our newly annointed "house beer," MisFit Farm also boasts a “house wine.”

Country Is. . .

As much as friends and family are able to keep abreast of events at MisFit Farms through these blogs, we recognize the limitations inherent in the process. We are sometimes chastized, "We hear a lot about the dogs, but how are the goats doing?" It seems that the majority of posts reference the dogs, who provide us with more than ample fodder for entertainment. The goats and Bill, the horse, admittedly receive lower billing.

On the other hand, the goats do concentrate most of their energies on the consumption of food and the production of manure. How much can a person write about these two activities without one or the other becoming the kind of fetish that demands professional intervention?

In order to appease the goats so they do not invoke the "fairness doctrine," we put together a little footage of them doing what they do best: eating and producing manure. The choice to use a Tom T. Hall song to accompany the footage seemed like a no-brainer.

I spent a large amount of my childhood at my grandparents' dairy farm. Tom T. Hall is an inextricable character in the time spent with my grandparents, where their milking barn always smelled of a bleach-water, cigarette and ivory soap combination, and where 61 Country played on a small radio 24 hours a day. When my grandmother died, I was in high school. As she headed out to finalize the distribution of my granparents' possessions with her siblings, my mother asked if there was anything of my grandmother's that I particularly wanted. I could think of only one thing: her Tom T. Hall album.

When I told K of my intention to use a Tom T. Hall song for the blog, she giggled and asked, "Will you be using your favorite Tom T. Hall song?"

While I did not use this Tom T. Hall song for this blog, it is worth noting that I like beer. I like goats. While at the liquor store yesterday, I found a magical convergence of both:
. . . and the official "house beer" for MisFit Farm has been found.

Elopement

I have worked a myriad of jobs in my life. Through the course of my sorted, sordid employment experiences, I have been introduced to numerous important lessons and linguistics. I have learned everything from how to skin a fish to how to administer shots. For example, the first time I recall having encountered the phrase “elopement risk,” was in a brief stint at a community adult day care program, where I also coincidentally learned to two-step and shoot pool.

I was re-acquainted with the phrase when I went to work for an organization that runs group homes for people with cognitive impairments, known here in Kansas as Intermediate Care Facilities for the Mentally Retarded. In both locations, as the addition of the term “risk” would seem to indicate, elopement was seen as a bad thing. Heretofore, I had always thought of “elopement” as an exciting, romantic term, one which conjured up images of a love that could not be denied, the exhilaration of the open road, and the freedom of unencumbered travel.

Perhaps it is my age. Perhaps it is an overweening and misdirected maternal instinct. Perhaps it is the lull of a careful, measured life. Whatever the reason, I have come to embrace the phrase “elopement risk” as exactly the type of situation that demands immediate attention and intervention.

In less anxious times, I would romanticize Trinity and Emmett’s elopement risk as another manifestation of their deep and multi-faceted love and mutual adoration. Really, how could I blame them? I have spent the better part of my life as an elopement risk when I was not busy self-fulfilling my prophecy of elopement reality.

Beyond the fear and anxiety experienced by the bi-pedaled non-elopers as we envision scenarios involving our two, sweet lovebirds in a close encounter with trains, automobiles or other undesirables, I have to confess to a low level of longing. I wish I could be there to see them dipping under barbed wire fences, splashing across creeks, zig-zagging from tree to tree with their noses to the ground, and chasing each other through open fields.

These days, the elopement risk amounts to another point of desperation in what we hope are the waning days of our life in a trailer. The house has been designed with a designated dog room overlooking a dog yard that will be measured in square acreage, not footage. As with everything else, far from the wild abandon of elopement, the dog yard has been carefully designed and thought through so they will have at least the illusion of freedom and a variety of topographies while they remain safely restrained.

Puzzle Ball Smackdown

One of MisFit Farm’s greatest discoveries has been toys that in their various incarnations amount to “puzzle” balls. We aren’t talking about the fleece “beehive” toys that would represent a puzzle in the only sense that we would be left wondering why we spent $20.00 on something so easily and quickly destroyed. We are talking about the “hard” toys where treats are inserted into a contraption with an internal “maze” which requires the contraption to be twisted and turned to manipulate the dispensation of the internal treats.

The puzzle balls are bar-none Azure’s favorite toy EVER. The other members of the krewe have no interest in anything requiring such a high effort-to-reinforcement ratio. Azure, on the other hand, dive-bombs through life with the mantra of diminishing returns.

We started with a ball procured on a fluke from Wal-Mart. I say this was a fluke because (a) Wal-Mart is not one of our most favorite or frequented shopping establishments, and (b) we have never since found another such toy for offer at any Wal-Mart establishment.

Azure was interested in the first ball, which was blue, but not overwhelmingly so. K reasoned that because the ball wasn’t see-through, the intermittent reinforcement the ball offered Azure was not associated with contents she could see. She, naturally, could not hear the contents rattling around inside the ball and therefore lost interest before the bounty had been exhausted. Hear no treats, see no treats,

Never ones to accept subtle rejection, we located another version of the puzzle ball. This one was clear and allowed Azure to see the presence of tasty treats inside the ball. With the introduction of this version of the puzzle ball, Azure was hooked like Danny Bonaducci in an opium den.

Armed with a better understanding of the puzzle-ball concept, like a one-armed carpenter with a single tool, Azure approaches all new toys as if they were a puzzle ball.

And, thanks to the ingenuity of dog toy manufacturers, she is mostly correct. We are now the proud owners of clear puzzle balls, solid puzzle balls, a large buster cube, a buddy treat dispenser, and the remnants of a rubber puzzle ball resides in the yard somewhere beneath the snow. Azure is relentless when on the trail of a puzzle ball and its solution. The buddy tug jug © learned this the hard way.

Tonight, however, Azure may have met her match, although not in the form of a puzzle ball.

Soft Serve

A friend of ours once described A as a dipped ice cream cone, with soft serve on the inside and a hard chocolate shell on the outside. Basically, A tries to come across as strong and unaffected by the world. However, A is very much affected by the world. The world is unkind and cruel to the many people and animals A tries so hard to fight for.

I noticed while I was gone the last couple of days, A was at it again: trying to put out the image that without my presence, Azure’s life was in danger of an early termination. Anyone who knows A realizes these are idle threats, stemming from the frustration of cleaning up the “Taj-Mah” crate 2 days in a row (Azure had left steaming piles of evidence that the chili she knocked off the counter and ate maybe didn’t set to well in her stomach – or possibly the Shrimp Jambalaya was the culprit – hard to say). Or maybe it was Azure’s barking in the middle of the night, or her insistence on jumping in and out of the bed, that seemed to put A on the edge.

Just for the record I have been home for 24hours and all is as I left it . . .

Buffer

Although I never for a minute take K’s presence in my life for granted, it is on the intermittent occasions when she spends significant amounts of time away from the Farm, as in overnight trips to nether-regions of the state, when I realize there are specific functions K performs that I may take for granted.

Not the obvious ones, like cleaning up dog regurgitation.

No, things like providing a buffer between me and her precious Azure. So I do not clobber Azure with my bare hands when she insists on jumping up to investigate the contents of the kitchen counter, toaster over, stove top, or sink.

When she uses the bed I am using for repose as a trampoline/springboard combination for a 1 a.m. routine.

When she plunks down for an intense toy destruction session right where I am headed with the vacuum.

When she insists on barking because I won’t let her into the goat pasture, because other cars dare use the road we live on, because someone has a bone she wants to sample, or just because her existence needs affirming. When she dumps over the dog toy box for the exclusive sport of stringing its entire contents across the living room, which inevitably results in me stepping on things like nylabones, partially consumed cow hooves, or soggy, eviscerated fleecy toys.

When she constantly “bumps” my arm as I am trying to use the computer or put a loaded spoon in my mouth.

Hopefully, our buffer will be home soon. At least before the ground thaws.

Field Tripping with Azure

There is a terrible irony in the notion that our Deaf dog, Azure, seems to suffer from chronic ear infections.

My sister has had sinus problems all her life, even after her tonsils and adenoids were removed and tubes were put in her ears. I myself suffer from a serious combination of selective hearing and earwax overproduction, which led to routine “treatments” through my childhood. My childhood ear de-waxing regimen was a special form of torture concocted by my mother, which included such sterile and highly medical implements as a hand towel, baby oil, warm water, a recycled “booger sucker,” and a bobby pin, all treated with isopropyl rubbing alcohol.

Because of my heightened awareness around ear canal issues, I have a special sympathy for Azure’s ongoing issues with her ears. Across the past couple of weeks, we have plowed through a dosing of Amoxicillin, cleverly disguised in anything necessary to get her to take it. When K was dispatched to Dr. Kevin on another canine health matter, we asked for another round of something stronger. Dr. Kevin instructed K that if all was not better after this round, we would need to bring Azure in to have her knocked out and get her ears flushed out.

When Azure continued to shake her head and scratch at her ear after the last dosing of Doxycycline ran out, we decided to take her in to Dr. Kevin to apply his version of ear de-waxing, hopefully without the bobby pins. Always looking for the bright side of life, K and I agreed that while Dr. Kevin had her unconscious, we would take full advantage of the opportunity to trim her nails and do any dental work that seemed appropriate or necessary.

Leashed and loaded, Azure and I headed out for a date with the Doc. The very short ride was unremarkable except for one lunge Azure made across the front seat to defend me from the tractor-trailer carrying an oversized piece of heavy equipment in the oncoming traffic lane, from which we all emerged alive. We arrived early and after practicing making eye contact and sitting on command in the front seat of the Jeep, exited the vehicle to walk off our nerves a bit.

As it turns out, we should have started walking our nerves off at about 3 a.m. No amount of sniffing, of practicing our sitting, of being reminded in sign “Me” + “Boss,” dampened Azure’s high-spirits or desire to engage in such entertaining activities as: jumping up into the window of the Beauty Parlor adjoining Dr. Kevin’s office; jumping up into the windows of parked cars containing other canines awaiting the arrival of Dr. Kevin; and, jumping out into the field by Dr. Kevin’s office to take me on a doggy doo-doo sampling tour.

When he looked mildly surprised to see me with Azure in tow, I reminded Dr. Kevin that he had admonished K about bringing Azure in for an ear de-briding if the last round of antibiotics didn’t work.

For being the guy who is in large part responsible for her continued existence on the earth, Azure doesn’t like Dr. Kevin much. She wasn’t having him so much as touch her head, much less look in her ears. When he dared try to look at her from across the service counter, she retorted with a snarl and a growl. She didn’t want his pets. She didn’t want to be in a small room with him. She darn sure didn’t want the lovely shot full of magic wellness potion he had to offer her.

In the end, Azure didn’t get knocked out and de-brided. What she did get is held tightly in place using her leash and the handrail of a bench for leverage. Dr. Kevin got to work on practicing some snazzy dance moves. I got my hand bashed against something. The syringe and needle got to administer a shot of Dr. Kevin’s magic elixir with the needle at a 90 degree angle. The woman standing in the waiting room with her extraordinarily tranquil boxer got to see quite a production.

The good news is, Azure continued to funnel her ire at Dr. Kevin. After the ordeal was over, she curled up against me, happily followed me to the Jeep without any interest in the windows of adjoining businesses or vehicles, and insisted that I console her with constant petting for the car ride back to the Farm. As we stepped out of Dr. Kevin’s office, it began to rain lightly.

For the record, Azure hasn’t completely overcome her hatred of windshield wipers.

For photographic proof, witness the “before” photo of the Jeep dashboard:

And the dashboard after Azure’s sojourn to the Vet:

Painful Lessons

When the dogs are hurt, we load them into the back of the Jeep and take them either to our regular Vet, or to the 24-hour clinic where he works part-time. When the goats are hurt, the process is basically the same.

Hindsight being 20/20 and all, we should have asked ourselves, “So what happens if the horse is hurt?”

The short answer is, we load him into the back of the Jeep and take him to the Vet. In this case, because of our regular Vet’s unavailability, we take him to a large animal Vet who seems to be completely nonplussed by the presence of a horse in the back of a Jeep and who is totally prepared to perform minor surgical procedures in the back of said Jeep.

The first trick: getting the horse into the back of the Jeep. Begin by layering tarps and sheets across the folded-down rear cargo area. As it turns out, this is the easy part. With horse haltered and on a lead, attempt to convince him that the feed in the dish you are holding is sooooo yummy and sooooo enticing, he would like to crawl up into a metal box to eat it. When simple enticements do not work, offer him the accommodation of a telescoping dog ramp which he politely declines. Attempt to lift said horse into the rear of the Jeep. Abandon this effort when hatch-door comes to horse’s rescue and hits horse-hoister on the top of the head. Try the concessionary move of placing horse’s front hooves onto rear bumper of the Jeep for the pleasure of observing the ruts caused by horse’s rear legs as he backs out of the situation.

Eventually, he was coaxed into the rear of the Jeep after the vehicle had been backed up to the trailer deck portion at the top of the wheelchair ramp. By placing granules of grain on the ramp, a la Hansel and Gretel, and suggesting with gentle tugs on his lead that he follow them, using the aforementioned telescoping ramp untelescoped as a threshold, sitting on the speaker box at the side of the cargo area in the Jeep, and coaxing him far enough into the vehicle to be able to close the hatch.

The second trick: getting the horse in the back of the Jeep to the Veterinary Clinic without some type of major damage to the horse, the Jeep, or me.

K has this funny thing about negative inferences. She says that you shouldn’t say what you don’t want someone to do, because they will automatically envision themselves doing it and then it will happen. My poor buddy Val, came to appreciate this lesson quite painfully one time when she admonished a hammer-swinging K, “Don’t hit my thumb.”

So the whole car ride to the Vet, I am telling myself, “don’t visualize what you don’t want to happen.” And my mind keeps responding with unhelpful suggestions like, “Oh yeah, like him kicking out all the windows?”

I would like to take this opportunity to thank every last person who, when told of K’s intention to acquire a miniature horse, responded by asking me if he bites. Because at some point in time thanks to the sense of humor of either Bill the horse or the cosmos, Bill’s lead rope got caught around my headrest and held his head right over my right ear and shoulder, which on the one hand was a relief since I could then abandon the image of him kicking me in the back of the head as I was driving, in exchange for the visual image of him taking a big old bite out of my shoulder.

While the cosmos were busy playing tricks on me, here is another sad twist: having loaded Bill into the back of the Jeep and having started to make my very tense-but-I-am-trying-to-put-good-energy-out-there-so-Bill-will-not-feed-off-of-my-energy-and-kick-or-bite drive to the Vet, I passed by Steve and Carolyn’s house, where Steve had arrived home just a few minutes previously. His red pickup truck sat, gleaming and utilitarian in their front drive. Had I know this was his early day at work, we would have placed a XXL kennel in the back of his pickup and transported Bill to the Vet thusly. Inertia being what it was, I put my unbitten shoulder to the wheel and pressed on with the wheels already having been set in motion.

We made it to the Vet without incident.

Bill needed stitches in his eyelid, which was accomplished in the back of the Jeep by a very flexible and very nice Vet. In order to perform the procedure, the Vet gave Bill a mild sedative, which made me feel much more secure about making the trip home. Much to all three of our surprise, I was able to hold Bill’s head steady and help with the suturing.

I profusely thanked the Vet, gathered up the antibiotic and ointment for continued care, happily paid for our services, and returned to the Jeep to chauffer Bill home.

The sedative was working nicely. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that shot must have contained a Veterinary form of ecstasy. Thanks to the sedative and whatever elixir was contained therein, I learned today that it is possible to drive a standard transmission vehicle with the head of a drooling, loving, bleeding horse resting on your right shoulder, upper arm, and inner elbow.

When we arrived home, convincing Bill to use the ramp to exit the vehicle was no more successful than using it to encourage his entrée. With Bill’s sedative offering a calming affect for us all, I was able to fashion a different approach for Bill’s extrication from my Jeep. I backed the Jeep up to a low-lying area so the bumper was just a few inches off the ground, and convinced Bill he could make the 4-inch leap with a smattering of pixie dust and a tug on the lead.

And herein lies the most valuable lesson from today’s escapade, as I return home greatly relieved and probably more in love with a horse than I had ever anticipated being, I am awestruck by these magnificent MisFit Farm creatures who offer breathtaking everyday reminders that we can do things we never before thought were within our capacity, no matter how foolhardy they may be.

Emmett & Trinity's Everlasting Love

We were having dinner with an old acquaintance recently. Notwithstanding her confessed efforts to try to keep K and me from continued attempts at dating several years ago, she observed with some degree of astonishment, “My goodness! The two of you are perfect for each other. You belong together.” I think we would agree, most days. As I found Emmett and Trinity piled atop each other on the loveseat after an afternoon of outdoor playing, the theme of belonging together surfaced again.

Her penchant for eating livestock aside, Trinity is gregarious and welcoming to all visitors here at MisFit Farm. Perhaps it is the amount of time Emmett has spent here, or perhaps it is some type of karmic connection, but Trinity and Emmett’s bond appears to be something a little more extraordinary than her run-of-the-mill friendliness. Aside from the copious amounts of time they spend using one another as pillows, Trinity and Emmett are voted the two most likely to disappear on adventures in the woods. If the two of them were second-grade classmates, they would form a formidable dodgeball duo. The snarkiness occasionally demonstrated by their housemates, present company included, rolls right off their collective back. Unlike the others, their food dishes are completely interchangeable. This, truly, will be an everlasting love.



In the not-so-distant past, we were admonished by our friend and the instigator of the Dane-surplus here at MisFit Farm that “[Emmett] wasn’t ever really leaving the Farm, was he?”

Hmmm, I guess not.

If I Had a Pony

Steve and Carolyn, our neighbors and co-conspirators in most things ridiculous or dangerous, brought their granddaughter down to visit MisFit Farm’s newest addition. As documented in the attached video, both Janda and the horse did well, notwithstanding Janda’s sincere disappointment that we would not allow her to ride him.

I was all for plopping her on his back, instructing her to hold on tight and seeing what would happen, but apparently that type of empiricism is discouraged in parenting these days.



So we all had to be contented with petting him, and petting him, and petting him some more. He did try to offer a small concession by rolling around a little, but it wasn’t anything compared to the fun he had when allowed to roam free at his home of origin.

The goats were initially horrified. They ran like crazy when we brought him into the pasture and barn. Well, all except the two fainter boys, who took to this new outsider like a myopic third-grader takes to the new kid in class, especially when the new kid outweighs the class bully by a good 100 pounds.

The dogs are fascinated but too stupid to understand that the traditional dog salutation will likely result in traumatic brain injury when he responds to a friendly, inquisitive butt-sniffing with a kick to the head. We have allowed the dogs to come into the pasture, but are closely supervising all canine/equine interactions.

We are still considering naming options. I like the name Bill, and I think K. is fond of Frodo. Neither of us is so committed to our chosen name that we would melt into a puddle of despair, should the preferred name not be selected. Which probably means his name is Frodo. Why I don’t learn to quit resisting is something I will never understand.

All I Want for Christmas. . .

So, the Hallmark “2007 Pony for Christmas” ornament looks like this:

















The pony K received for Christmas in 2007, amazingly, looks like this:














Well, actually, he isn’t a “pony.” He is a fully grown miniature horse. We don’t have an exact measurement on him, but I estimate him at about five hands tall. As we noted to a friend earlier, he is smaller than a “real” Dane, but larger than a “faux” Dane. Realistically, he is about the height of a Laborador Retriever, but with about 100 extra pounds.

To answer the question everyone seems to have: no, he doesn’t bite. At least not yet. Give us a week.

So far, here is what he DOES do: Wear a halter. Walk on a lead. Allow his hooves to be handled. Romp in the snow.
Engage in a concerted butt-scratching.Receive copious pettings. Try to tolerate being brushed. Dispense nuzzles. Eat hay, sweet feed, and his first-ever apple nugget treats.

His name? Well, we are working on that one.

Happy Ho Ho Holidays from MisFit Farm

It snowed yesterday. It was a snow like I remember from my childhood, an unrelenting, dumping, blowing snow that piled on rooftops and drifted into banks. I shoveled the front deck and steps at about 8:00 yesterday evening, and woke to another inch and a dusting this morning. Most communities didn’t even send out snowplows until well after dark. We awoke this morning to find their handiwork evidenced in a 3-foot high pile spanning the end of our drive.

Among the many good fortunes routinely visited upon us are these most recent blessings: safe travels in adverse weather; plenty of Dane-blankets to keep us warm; and, continuous power and light through the storms.

So, for all the well-wishers out there who have sent messages of concern about the bad weather, here is videographic proof that all is well with the krewe here at MisFit Farm.

Sea-food

I may go down in the annals of snobbery for this one, but I couldn’t resist.

On a weekly basis, we receive, gratis, a circular from a local grocer. On a weekly basis, I perfunctorily flip through the circular admiring the pre-processed food products offered by the local grocer.

I laughed out loud at this one and immediately reached for the digital camera.

On our next vacation, we are making arrangements to visit the sea where we will find catfish and pre-breaded, processed fish sticks. But first, I must research what type of bait is used to catch these yummy breaded fish portions.

It is hard to see, but at the fold, the IGA has combined the best of all possible worlds into the seafood delicacy of breaded catfish nuggets. I just can't get enough of those fresh seafood catfish nuggets.

Oh and by the way, gigantic, stocking-hat-wearing penguins are indigenous to the sea where these wonderful products all reside.

Be-deviled by Eggs

K thinks I am obsessed with eggs. The jubilation that accompanied the first two has been repeated, time and again, as production has increased and we have come to the place where we are collecting between 3 – 6 eggs every day. At an average rate of 4 eggs a day, we accumulate a dozen roughly every three days. I cook an egg breakfast for the dogs every Saturday, which uses generally six eggs, resulting in a weekly egg credit of 22. That’s almost two dozen. Using a Monday – Sunday week, that is usually a full two dozen by the time I hop into my car and head off to work each Monday.

Jubilation is slowing being replaced by the discomfort associated with bounties undeserved and product without any available outlet.

Not one to believe in wasting anything, I have been researching egg recipes. This great guy I work with has told me stories about his mother, who keeps chickens, and her miraculous feats of egg-incorporation. As a creative, articulate, socially responsible retiree, she seemed to be an incredible woman before; as the number of full and filling egg cartons begins to populate our fridge, her stature is ever mounting in my mind. I am seriously considering offering to pay for self-publication if she will compile a cookbook for all-egg recipes.

I made a pound cake this evening. K watched in awe as I dumped sugar into a bowl of softened butter and beat it to a fluffy consistency. I am not inclined to bake. I ascribe to the notion that carbohydrates are a zero-sum game. I choose mine wisely, mostly in a liquid form. She asked at some point, “what inspired you to try to make a pound cake?” I think it was my response that has touched off concern. The pound cake I made was from a recipe procured from the American Egg Association Website, Plantation Pound Cake. It contains lemon, which K’s mom loves. So my response was, “I thought I would give it a try to see if it might be something your mom was into." I tried to add under my breath, "And it uses 4 eggs.”

At the time, she was peering over my shoulder, scrutinizing the other recipes I had copied from the Website. “Oasis Eggs? Cabbage? Green onions?” she queried. My response, “Well, it looked interesting. It also has crabmeat and uses six eggs.”

She doesn’t think I noticed, but I saw the look of chagrin and concern.

More Holiday Observations

I don’t get out much. K, she works “in the community,” so her exposure to people, contemporary developments, retail, and other things, is greater than mine. I have an office job, where I spend the great amount of my time in close proximity to my desk, which accounts for a great amount of my life, at least 40 hours a week, usually more. While I do the family grocery shopping, I attack that process with the same aggression and surgical precision I apply to most all other things in my life. I don’t browse – I map out the layout of the store, organize my list accordingly, and do not deviate. I don’t window shop – I use the Internet, precisely because I can do it whenever I want, or at my desk, if necessary. I read about “real life.” I hear about it on NPR. I listen to its music. However, I choose not to interact with it very much.

So imagine my surprise, or alternatively, my consternation, at being plopped down into the middle of a local Best Buy store Sunday afternoon. Where I discovered the real-life fun of virtual guitar playing, known commonly as Guitar Hero ©. Rock on!

Aside from the fact that I had to wait patiently in line for the under 13 crowd to relinquish their grimy hold on the guitar at one of the playstations to the rear of the store, I have to admit that I enjoyed myself thoroughly.

And it wasn’t just the time spent with guitar in hand.

As I walked into the store past the computer section, I noticed one of the game centers, where there were two young men with long, frizzy hair and flannel shirts commandeering the guitar/drum/karaoke station. These guys were at the station when I arrived, held court in it the entirety of my visit, and were still firmly ensconced when I left the store. These guys were a riot – grunge circa 1992, likely owners of every single album Pearl Jam ever put out (with strong opinions on what the “true” greatest hits should have been), lifesize posters of Cobain adorning their bedrooms, with the last car in Topeka, Kansas to use regular gasoline parked in the Best Buy lot. These guys air-riffed, drummed and wailed their hearts out, as if the rest of the population: Best Buy, 50,000 were not sharing their space. I tried to organize people to stand on the other side of the machine and jump up and down with their hands in the “I love you” formation, crowd-swim, or hold up lighters, but the real Topeka is just as boring as I remembered it.

Holiday Gift Idea

Because we are shameless promoters of all things we perceive as good in this world, we bring to you this evening a wonderful holiday gift idea: The 18-month Great Dane Rescue of the Ozark calendar. http://www.lulu.com/content/266829

It is hard to believe, but we have nearly used up the last 18-month calendar purchased from the GDRO, which means that it has been over a year and a half since we fell down the “Dane hole.” I cannot think of a more delightful way to mark time.

Should any of you find yourselves wondering, “How in the world will I cover that very large hole in my wall/door/ceiling (perhaps a hole caused by the intrusion of a small plane or a cannonball)?” Or, “How can I ensure that on the first day of every month, I get to flip over a page and go, aaaawwwww?” Or, “How can I complete all my holiday shopping from the comfort of my own home?” The GDRO calendar is just the ticket. The calendar is large enough that people who drive Shriner cars home have replaced entire garage doors with it. With a full 18-months’ Dane delights, it has the added feature of offering insulation when displayed on an exterior wall.

Ours arrived in the mail yesterday; it offers a variety of delightful, laugh-out-loud photos, tearful moments, and plenty of “aaaawwwww’s.” This year’s calendar features MisFit Farm’s resident mayhem-maker, Azure; the archetypical alpha-dog, Apollo; the consummate camera-pleaser, Nadia; the sire of a goodly number of the Danes bred in SW Missouri, Chief, along with a few others who left this mortal coil to wait for the rest of us at what is referred to by those more inclined toward Hallmark-described events as “the rainbow bridge.”

We highly recommend the GDRO calendar for holiday giving, because while not everyone has Danes, everyone does have days. Or, you could always give the REAL gift that keeps giving and ADOPT A GREAT DANE - GDRO has plenty of lovable babies in need of loving homes.

Azure's Campaign of Annoyance

What do you do when you are sitting miserably at home, lamenting the lackluster performance of your alma matter in possibly the most over-hyped college football game to visit the Midwest in recent memory? Why, share the joy by offering up the vicarious experience of life with Azure.



As observed in a previous post, Trinity is the world's greatest big sister.

As is obvious from the beginning of this clip, Emmett is the world's loudest drinker.

Azure is . . . Azure.

Just do as she says and no one gets hurt, o.k.?

Rescue

Lest anyone think we are anything more than the garden-variety goobers with poor boundaries we are, the Grande Dame of the Great Danes, KK, sent along these photos to offer comparison/contrast to the recent video of our Mercy-girl:



Our friend, Fred, says he would like to meet every SOB who’s ever dumped a dog. I think these photos help illustrate the reasons for his anger.

To be clear: The Great Dane Rescue of the Ozarks saved Mercy. They were the ones who were brave enough to walk into a bad situation and walk out with a dog it hurts to look at. They were the ones who taught her to walk. They took her for x-rays, shots, spay and vet consults. They fed her. They loved her. They helped restore her trust in humans.

And then, they did the most amazing thing: they loved her enough and trusted us enough to release her to become a member of our family.

We never met the Mercy from these photos. Thank goodness there was someone else there to meet this Mercy, and nurture her along to the Mercy we met and fell in love with.

We didn’t do the hard part. The brave people who really rescue dogs and who provide safe haven for rescued dogs at great personal cost, do the hard part. We got the easy part, take home a sweet, loving creature, adjust to a silly walk and small idiosyncrasies, and build a family around her.

**For the part of us that is enraged by these photos, they are instructive and inspirational for this:

1. This is the work of puppy mills. Spay and neuter, and encourage everyone you meet to have their animals spayed and neutered. Don’t patronize businesses that sell animals or are associated with puppy mill operations.

2. Support local rescues, no-kill shelters, spay and neuter programs, or any other program that encourages responsible pet ownership and supports the brave people who refuse to just sit by idly while harm befalls other creatures. And if you are in the market for a worthy charity where your donation is tax deductible, the Great Dane Rescue of the Ozarks fits the bill perfectly. Just this week, they rescued two more desperate babies with parvo and idiopathic seizure disorders, so I bet they can use the help.

The Wood Song

The first time my secretary and her sons met Mercy, her four-year-old rushed to his babysitter's house the next day to regale her with the story of “the dog that walks sideways.” For a four-year-old, he does a mean imitation of Mercy’s crazy gait, with her back driver-side leg swinging out, and the little twisting she does at changes of terrain or tempo. I am sure the humor was completely lost on his day care provider.

While to some, her sit-and-spin routine may be the type of tragedy to cry over, for us it has become almost humdrum, not really anything of note except to exhort her to “pull herself back up,” and check the area for any needed applications of triple antibiotic ointment upon return to the trailer. That said, she really is a remarkable creature for her amazing spirit and because of her plucky willingness to keep pulling herself up notwithstanding her crazy back end that sometimes just does not want to mind its manners.

The key to Mercy’s longevity has not been so much anything we can take credit for – we don’t hand-prepare highly specialized diets, we don’t have any magic elixir to help her get around, we don’t place her in a pool for physical therapy. Her “therapies” such as they are, consist of primarily being given run of the trailer and right of first refusal for the couch, the bed, and the kibble dishes; we give her daily vitamins and supplements, pets and pats and massages, farm fresh eggs on the weekends, playmates, and ample opportunities to walk, run, romp and spin.

We could have chosen an easier path. There are plenty of perfectly healthy Danes available for adoption. But Mercy has provided us with a living, breathing celebration and a powerful reminder that, “we’ll make it fine if the weather holds, but if the weather holds, we’ll have missed the point.”

DR Emmett

We have previously told of the new “implement” here at the Farm, our turbo-charged weed eater, the DR. I spent a weekend working with it and its different sharp attachments, emerging with only a small nick on my thumb, a completely cleared island in the pond, and several new “paths” cut around the property.

We were quite pleased with the results. We may have paid a little too much attention to the device, however. It appears as though someone has been left with the mistaken impression that hacking down weeds and spinning around are features we look for in all objects of our affection.

If Wishes Were Houses, We Wouldn't Live in a Trailer

I bought the property now known as MisFit Farm over three years ago, wholly intending to build a house on it. In the meantime, there was a trailer on the property, which for the likes of Coffee-dog and me was quite all right. A few months ago, one of the Dane rescue people, desperate to find a placement for a foster baby, asked, “aren’t you done building your house yet?!?!”

“The house” has taken on a number of iterations. I have been encouraged to build a sod house, an A-frame, a berm home, a kit home, a straw bale home, just about everything except a toilet home. Before I realized the joys of mass animal care, I had entertained the notion of a total do-it-myself home building project. When K joined me in the planning phases, we spent hours poring over home design books and floorplans. We made lists of “must-haves,” “like-to-haves,” and “absolutely not’s.” We thought we had decided upon the perfect design. Then came the Danes. And not just Danes. Danes with disabilities.

The summer before last, I was sharing some bonding time with my mother in a brief car ride. She confided in me that she had a terrible fear that in ten years, I would still be living in this trailer, only I would have ten dogs living here with me. I encouraged her to find other more important things to worry about like ice caps melting, world hunger or genocide. Shortly after this conversation, the dog count hit five, and a mere year later, we have crossed the halfway mark on the “feared number of dogs” count to bring our total to five-plus-one-more. I certainly hope the alternative fears my mother agreed to take on have gone better. We may have to call her off the whole ice caps melting thing lest Kansas become the new Galveston.

Always ones to look upon the brighter side of life and in an effort to not appear lazy, indecisive or unmotivated, we believe that this additional time has provided us with an opportunity to reconsider how we (meaning both bi-peds and the dogs) will live in a house. Thanks to this additional time, we have come to appreciate what a complete inconvenience the presence of things like hallways would be in our home. We have had time to think through the design of a “dog room,” plumbing configurations, appropriate furniture and doorway placements, home entry strategies, safety features and storage needs.

As you can clearly see, the planning process and what will hopefully soon be our final descent into the actual event of homebuilding has taken quite a bit out of my already truncated attention span. So we hope all will bear with us as we are perhaps a bit less frequent in our posting. Once the house is completed, we promise to throw a big virtual party for all to join.

In any event, one of these days very soon, we will have the perfect home for our not-so-perfect krewe. Hopefully before MisFit Farm becomes beachfront property.

Love Seat Redux

I assume that the Shriners and/or the “clown car” are a universally recognized emblem. An emblem of what, I am not certain. Like a magician pulling miles of scarves from a hat, the Shriners or the clowns emerge, one after the other, wearing funny hats, or wigs or makeup, some wearing shoes that alone would fill up the back seat of a Honda Civic.

But the “clown car” has some magical property a ‘la Hermoine Granger’s clutch from The Deathly Hallows – jangling around in the untold depths are bucket seats, family photos, and probably the very same circus tent that houses scores of clown car aficionados.

As it turns out, the love seat in the trailer contains the same magic elixir that allows not just one oversized dog to inhabit it; the love seat is not even mollified by the presence of two Danes, a feat so oft-repeated it doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. But three: now there is a feat worthy of the awe and attentions of people who haven’t received the memo about the obsolescence of fez hats.

Or, at least it merits a photo.

There is one person in the Dane rescue group who labors under the delusion that there is something that could be done to stop the Dane infestation of a household’s furnishings. As for us, we have just given up and started saving for our next couch.