Hug-O-War

A glimpse into this evening’s conversation:

We are sitting at the table, finishing dinner. We are discussing the possibility of enticing our amazing friends from Minnesota to meet us at some halfway point for a “Great Dane escape” weekend and perusing potential locations on the Internet.

Clearly bored with this conversation, and sensing that she will be excluded from the festivities, Azure begins bumping my arm with a slobbery object. Checking the object for “appropriate play” status, I observe that it is the mostly intact remnants of a previous shoe sacrifice. I grab a hold of a spot which gives me adequate grip, give a little jerk, and the game commences. Azure and I are intently staring each other down, an integral part of the game.

K: She never plays that way with me.

A: Hmmm. . . I wonder why that is. . .

K: I don’t play that way with her.

A: Well, that probably explains it.

Azure is tugging as I continue to hold on. She tries a “jerk lose” move. I cling to my end of the shoe. I gently pull towards me, dragging her along the floor. She jerks and I let go as she careens backwards.

Before I can awake the computer from sleep mode, Azure is back at my arm, nudging me with the slobbery shoe. The game recommences.

K: What kind of floors do you think will withstand this?

A: Concrete.

K: No seriously.

A: I am serious. We can paint the concrete floors at the new house. We can do parquet or hardwood patterns, tile, creek bottoms, name it.

K: (pretending to pout) But I don’t want concrete floors in the new house!

A: Hmmmm. . .

Azure is trying to exert authority by subtly pulling backwards. I am holding my ground, but the effort is dislodging the tablecloth and pulling my beer and the computer precariously close to the table’s edge. Because she loves me, K. moves my beer to safer ground.

This time, I try to the “jerk lose” move. Azure holds on but thinking she may have the upper hand, vigorously tugs backwards at which point I let go and she careens backwards.

Azure gains her footing and returns to nudge my arm with the slobbery shoe again.

K: I guess she must want to play.

A: Hmmm. . . I guess so. . .

K: Why does she want to play the tug game with you and not me?

A: Must be saving herself for your snuggles later.

K: Yeah, I’m a lover, not a fighter.

A: Pretty much, yeah.

MisFit Farms True Foundation

While I can’t compete with the stories told by A, I thought I would give a shot at describing the wonderful world we live in here at MisFit Farms due in large part to A. A is the eldest of three, this is apparent in her ability to mother and care for everyone here. A is our foundation, chef extraordinaire, maintenance person, gardener, yard person, and the chief nurse/doctor; a neurotic, obsessive compulsive care giver, not a scrape is missed with antibiotic ointment or as in Emmett’s case, a happy tail not bandaged before turning in for the night. Medicine is dispensed with vengeance in order keep allergies at bay, sore joints moving, and thunderstorms from causing a number of maladies. Without A we would be lost. A has little quirks such as: A can only write blogs on A’s laptop (my laptop has all the keys, I guess this throws A’s creative thoughts off.) As much as A dislikes birds or some would categorize A’s response to birds as “terrified of birds”, A is determined to raise chickens so we can be safe knowing the eggs we consume will not be affected with any weird feed disease. A tries to convince me and others that Azure is psychotic and a pain (okay, I admit Azure is not for the faint of heart human companion). There is no way A will convince me she isn’t in love with Azure as much as I am. (I have caught Azure receiving kisses from A on many occasions even though A denies it.) A also has special talents: A is a photo bug, no one is safe from her incessant picture taking. Flash bulbs will burst at the most innocent of feats. (Mercy is still disgruntled from the one snapped of her napping with the record 12 inch drool hanging from her bottom lip while she slept sitting up in a chair). Mercy is after all a model, she is the resident Diva, Mercy is the calendar girl for December 2007 in the 2007/2008 Great Dane of the Ozarks Rescue Calendar. A will try anything to repair a scrape, cut, gouge, or bleeding tail. As Skeeter discovered with the maxi pad bandage held in place with a section of 1980’s running pants. (She is still recovering from that humiliation.) What I find most interesting is that it seems the dogs must have secret meetings. For example, While Emmett was not a member of the MisFit Farm menagerie when Skeeter was outfitted in what our neighbor Steve referred to as a “speedo” Emmett has been suspicious of any bag we bring home from the store. A was sent the directions of how to make a garter belt style tail holder for Emmett’s tail. The purpose is to hold his tail under his belly until it can heal. Emmett obviously overheard us talk about the contraption and even though he was not here for the whole maxi pad running pant outfit, seems concerned about what might be in store for him. I am still holding on to the band-aid and tail wrap treatment that does not involve a swivel hook and a clasp hook. We will see who wins out. One of my favorite talents of A’s is the teaching techniques used for newcomers to MisFit Farms on the use of the doggy door. I have always heard a good teacher uses verbal, visual, and hands on approaches to make sure the student gets the message in the best way suited for their individual learning needs. A covers all bases as documented in this photo. Living here at MisFit Farms is the greatest blessing I could have ever received. I am surrounded with love, laughter, and the wonderful antics that A comes up with in an attempt to keep us all safe and healthy. A’s renditions of what goes on here at the Farm only scrap the surface of what we experience every day. We recently met a new friend while at a conference in San Francisco, A was retelling some of the high points here at MisFit Farms, her comment was “you have to be making this stuff up, no one could have all this happen” The truth is each and every day is an adventure and another page in the Adventure of MisFit Farms. I have never laughed or loved so much in all my life. I am truly blessed to be a part of this incredible Krewe with A. A has turned my life upside down and I am enjoying every second of it!

Just Another Service

Living with these wonderful crazy dogs with disabilities has given us a new appreciation for many things.

Every time I try to pivot in the kitchen in an effort to execute some amazing culinary move and find that my foot is pinned under Skeeter, instead of getting frustrated, I remind myself of the short time we have together, and that some day I will miss not tripping and falling over her as I move across the room.

As we crawl around with a Clorox wipe-up and try to erase the blood splatter from Emmett’s tail off the appliances, newly discovered Pepto-Bismol shrapnel from the walls, or crusty drool from anywhere and everywhere, I think of all the messes and laughter we will share in the next weeks and months, and hope for years.

Mercy, in particular, has given us a sense of urgency and appreciation. When we adopted her, we had not realized that her prognosis was so glum. At our last visit, our Vet announced that she has outlived his prognosis by a good six months, and appears to be going strong. Aside from being the one who made me fall irretrievably in love with Danes, Mercy is the one who our Vet crouched in front of and proclaimed, “I can tell now, you are going to break my heart.” And she will. All of ours. And to be clear, I would do it a million times over for her.

In the meantime, she muddles on, seemingly nonplussed by her repetitive sit-and-spins, spills and shenanigans. When she decides it is time to get from point A to point B, there is nothing that is going to stop her, not these gangly, unworkable back legs, not solid objects in her pathway, and definitely not embankments. Through the amazing work of her original foster family, Mercy was essentially taught to walk, because she does not have the neurology to make it happen otherwise. Since coming here, she has developed some other adaptations, including the moves we refer to as the “sit-and-spin,” the “fishtail,” and the “bunny hop.”

When she comes careening down the path, her ability to control and most importantly, to stop, is nonexistent. Thankfully, the adage that you cannot teach an old dog new tricks turns out to be patently false, as we have been able to teach Coffee and Skeeter the commands for “run!” “watch out!” and “get out of the way!” since Mercy’s arrival.

So really it can be said that Mercy has made us much more appreciative of our neurological functioning in general. More specifically, however, Mercy has taught us of one other terrible consequence of not being able to feel or really to control the parts of our bodies below our torso.

Mercy is a world-class, unannounced, uninhibited flatulence machine. We are beyond being offended. We are beyond thinking that it is the food, or nerves, or barometric pressure. She can’t feel her hind end, and so anything goes, and since she is holding nothing back, it goes quite loudly.

I wish I could quit giggling each time she does it, but it always serves as a reminder of another thing we will miss when she is gone. I have thought about that line from the movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life,” where they say that each time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings. I wonder if there is a similar deal for Mercy’s eruptions. I would like to think that each time Mercy farts, a Dane finds a forever family. Somehow I doubt there is that robust an adoption market.

Random, flatulence-induced giggles, just another service we provide.

Azure Gone Wild (the video)

Here at MisFit Farm, we are big fans of two comedic staples: irony and sarcasm.

After my previous post and the various and sundry others demonizing our poor, sweet Azure, I took a step away from hyperbole to realistically assess her behavior. We know that there are at least four other folks out there who can appreciate the antics of this little dervish, and we would not want to mis-represent her or them.

It occurred to me that the best instrument available to express what a day in the life of Azure is like was sitting at my fingertips. So this afternoon, we picked up our trusty digital camcorder and set about to document what life is like living with Azure the crazy, out-of-control, psycho puppy.

Buckle up kids, and keep the antacid tablets handy. What you are about to see will shock and amaze you.

It did us.

The Care and Feeding of Azure

The house sitter was not entrusted with the care and feeding of Azure.

Azure is a special case. Since she is Deaf and we do not have all of the Farm fenced off, she joins in on our walks and outings on a leash. Although she has earned the privilege of overnight furloughs from her crate, when we leave the house for more than an hour, she is crated. She goes into the crate quite happily, with the sign-command for “home” – which we prefer to the sign-command for “jail,” although it may be a more appropriate location for our little delinquent. Sometimes, she expresses her consternation with being crated by giving the door a good lunge. So far, the door always wins. The combination of restricted freedoms and foreign language for communication, along with an overall high-strung-ness results in her time away from us being spent at a kennel.

When I retrieved Azure from the kennel, I had Coffee-dog with me. The heat here has been unrelenting, and even with the car running, I did not want to leave him outside waiting for me as I completed paperwork, wrote out checks and waited for the kennel people to gather Azure and her belongings. I snapped a leash on Coffee, just for looks, and in we went. There were other people in the waiting area as I was finishing up the paperwork and payment portion of our visit, so I asked if I could go to the back to collect Azure. Giving me a knowing look, the kennel tech agreed.

I could see through the window in the door as the kennel tech was jerked around the corner and began hurtling down the hall towards us, a white bag with Azure’s puzzle ball, Charlie Bear treats, and the only other remaining chew we sent along, a cow hoof, flailing around in the air. They burst through the door, and when Azure saw me, she started jumping and twisting and jerking the young woman around like a rag doll. With her hair flying in all directions, the woman looked me in the eye and promptly let go of Azure’s leash.

I dropped Coffee’s needless leash, and placed my hands all over Azure, working to calm her, get her attention, and focus her so she would look at me and begin the process of taking commands. By the time I was able to render some sanity to the area, the leashes were a tangled mess, but Azure was following her “sit” command, and I was knelt on the floor holding her in what may look to uninformed third parties like a head-lock, rubbing her head and chest. Now, my hair was flying in all directions and I was lathered into a nice sweat. Glad to have his one true love back, Coffee was sitting with his hip pressed to hers, wagging his tail maniacally with his tongue lolling out from the effort of trying to stay above the fray.

The kennel tech continued to look stunned. I apologized and explained that she gets a little hyper. She responded with a derisive laugh which sounded a lot like the air being squeezed out of a chew-toy, “When I brought her out and she saw you, that was actually the calmest she has been all week. I had no idea she was capable of this.”

Oh yeah, she is capable of plenty. In between naps, that is.

Neurotic

Does it seem excessive to feel compelled to impose a three-page limit for the kritter instructions for the house/pet sitter who will be left in charge as K and I take a weeklong sojourn for education and world exposure purposes?

The page limit was not so much a spoken restriction as something that I must have held in my subconscious as I was re-formatting the instructions for clarity, precision, comprehensiveness and readability. My internal editor was saying, “Oh, if you eliminate that carriage return, it won’t take up as much space.” I thought to myself, "Hmmm. . . I wonder what the margins are set at?" And then it dawned on me just exactly what I was doing – trying NOT to look as neurotic about the care and feeding of the krewe as I AM.

After we met with the house-sitter last week and walked her through the “routine,” I stood and held my breath, expecting she would run screaming from the trailer. She giggled and asked if we would mind if she used the washer and dryer, which of course we don’t. She could open a laundry business here at thetrailer for all we care, just so long as the krewe are well-attended.

Here is another random and unnecessary confession: until K moved into the trailer, I didn’t own a washer or a dryer. I would leave my dirty clothes in a basket on a chair inside the door, and a laundry fairy would come to the house, pick up the basket, and return it a few days later with clean, folded clothes inside. I know good and well I was old enough to do my own laundry. Then again, I was also probably old enough that I should have known Scooby Doo was a Great Dane.

The final page count: four.

Single spaced.

In my defense, the carriage returns were re-inserted, and margins were left at the standard one inch.

World's Greatest Big Sister

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Such Thing as Plan A

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was able to catch some video footage:

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

A Home-coming Surprise

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

These two cute little fellows, and as shown here:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cinder-Emmett

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good Girl, Azure (good enough, at least)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

T: So what’s the prognosis?

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so begins another glorious day at MisFit Farm.

A Date with the Nephew

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

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

C: “Knock, knock.”

Me: “Who’s there?”

C: “Alaska”

Me: “Alaska who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I take full responsibility for their selectivity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Azure's Revenge

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

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

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

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

Here’s how the game worked:

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

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

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

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

Six

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

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

A half dozen.

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

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

And courtesy of our friend, Kathleen, six is:

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

*The number of strings on a standard guitar.

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

*The atomic number of carbon.

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

*Bert of Sesame Street’s favorite number.

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

Six is the number of dogs we now own.

Welcome home, Emmett.

Score: Humans: 9; Azure: 27

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

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

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

The conversation went something like this:

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Anniversary, Trinity!

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

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

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

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

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

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