The Hard Way

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

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

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

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

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

Here is where pictures speak for a thousand words:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You sure rise to meet a challenge."

A$$-end Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cruel Acceptance of a Casual Invitation

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

I guess we could have said, “no.”

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

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

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

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

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

You know it is a good day when. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bling Bling

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Anniversary, Mercy!

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

Although we would never have guessed it at the time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Bones About It

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

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

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

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

Grosser than gross

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

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

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

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

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

Things we have learned

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Behavioral training is not best acquired through the internet.

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

Dogs can be un-housebroken.

Obsessive-compulsive disorder is not unique to humans.

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

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

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

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

The Best Laid Plans

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

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

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

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

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

Change of plans.

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

Change of plans.

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

Dane Train

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

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

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

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

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

There Were Rules

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

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

Foster Success!

O.k., if we hear, “I could never foster a dog. I would get too attached. It is incredible to me that you can give him up.” one more time, we will scream.

Here is the deal: someone was Mercy’s foster family. If they hadn’t been open in their hearts to the possibility that we were the absolute, just-perfect, made-to-order family for Mercy, we wouldn’t have Saturday mornings that look like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n75HrFUFcMU

Clapton has found his forever family. He got his daddy, and we have to be big enough in our hearts to give him the chance to have his absolute, just-perfect, made-to-order family. He is too cool a guy to keep just because he is too cool a guy.

Now, no one is perfect, least of all, Clapton. His counter-surfing was incredible. We would come home to find dog toys in the kitchen sink. How do you put stuff up high enough to be out of reach for that? I am looking forward to discovering exactly what all got put up onto shelves higher than my 5’5” can reach.

However, about 3 ½ hours into our 4 ¾ hour drive to Clapton’s forever family home, we experienced a bout of what can best be described as “explosive diarrhea,” with a splatter effect that was likely helped greatly by the fact that we were alternatively bombing along the highway at about 80 mph, cutting sharp right to take the closest exit, and coming to a screeching halt. Wow. You have to love a dog to still cry when you drop him off after scrubbing out the back of your car with cold water, pine sol and paper towels on the side of the highway.

We talked to Clapton’s new people this morning, and they reported that he had taken his new daddy on a drag through the local Petsmart this morning, has come to an understanding with the house’s chief chow hound, Max, and decidedly has chosen to ignore the 4 cats.

Here’s how you work the foster dog thing backwards. You drive away and think, “Maybe I just drove away from one of the greatest dogs I could have ever owned.” And maybe you get to the gas station, and as you are arranging stuff in the back of the SUV, pull the carpet aside to get to the under-compartment and find a little overflow that was missed in the roadside cleaning. You get home and the crazy girls that some other foster family hosted once are crazy-happy to see you, and you all laugh and dance and jump around the front yard.

Maybe the cosmos have everything right, after all.

Trinity's First Bath

For the past few weeks, K and I have had discussions about Trinity's possible parentage. She is clearly not pure Dane -- so we think, "Boxer? Bull Terrier? . . ."

Well, we have the answer. We think that the attached may be an important key to the mystery:

http://www.movie-list.com/g/gremlins.html

After a late-evening bathing last night, Trinity became a gremlin. We mean this. Take note of the behavior from the end of this video clip. This was our house last night. Add fur and racing from one end of the trailer to the other. Add all night long.

We have decided that bath-time will have to be a morning event. But the good news is that she was sure tired this morning. Thank God we had to go to work so she can get some sleep.

Mogwai. Cute little Gizmo. Cute little Trinity. Add water and bad things happen. Mogwai.

Guinea Fowl Cult

These things are killing me! They are soooo stupid, we lost a second today - Rocky didn't make the trip. We came home to find him half in/half out of the "drown proofed" water dish. He didn't drown, he just got tired of living as he was sitting on the edge of the water bowl. His feet were the half in portion.

THEN they do things like this, which causes me to freak out and run around, and then the litte peckers sit up and start running around, but first two have to run over the one's head.

K called me from the road asking if the kitty litter is getting too hot under the brooding lamp, since it is clay. I look over, and three of the little peckers are laying out like this, and I am thinking, "Holy cow -- it is like Jim Jones meets KFC in here!" I run over, and they pop up and start chirping to beat the band.

Guinea Fowl, a New Addition

We got something last weekend that the krewe thinks is way better than TV. Not that we watch TV - no cable, no satellite, no reception here at Misfit Farms. Witness the power of baby Guinea fowl.

Our neighbors bought Guinea fowl about a year ago in retaliation for the other neighbors (in between us) and their incessantly yapping weenie dogs. They hatched their first batch of babies last week, and shipped them off to us in what we originally thought was an act of love.

Three hours later and the chirping had not stopped. We were thinking, "maybe they don't like us so much after all." The dogs submitted and rested peacefully. K's mom called, asked what all the racquet was, and declined an invitation to dinner. Roasted guinea fowl is not on the menu yet. Give us a couple of days. K says it will never be on the menu.

I have a book that has recipes in it.

Although I have to say, if you have ever seen an adult Guinea, they fit right in here at Misfit Farms.

Rinse Ace Pet Shower Deluxe

Here is a link to a website where I found a photo from the actual front of the package of the Rinse Ace Pet Shower Deluxe.

http://www.valleyvet.com/ct_detail.html?PGGUID=30e07821-7b6a-11d5-a192-00b0d0204ae5

Glub, glub five dogs in the tub . . .

Today was bath day at Misfit Farm. Now that it is all said and done, we sit here trying to evaluate who were the winners in today’s match. Certainly not the tub, which suffered a slight but reparable injury when its side got kicked in as a 165# dog was being pushed, pulled, cajoled, and implored over it.

Judging from the doleful looks on their faces and the struggles of all except the one, (Trinity, who we will send along the story of her first bath with us some other time), the dogs don’t feel so much like they came out on the good end of the deal. They spend a lot of time rolling in various and sundry “found” odors to have brought themselves to their pre-bath bouquet. Now they will have to start all over again. Harrumph!

Something about the low-level ache in my lower back right now tells me that I won’t feel so much like I was a winner after this is all said and done. Certainly I love any opportunity I get to wash every single towel, bath mat, and otherwise absorbent item in the house. And nothing beats a Sunday morning spent with suds in your mouth, and fistfuls of soggy dog hair.

But one good thing is we have discovered another dog product which has potential spokespuppies written all over it for us: Rinse Ace Pet Shower Deluxe. Probably the second best thing about this product is the photo on the front. We recognize the look on the dog’s face, but the woman washing this pup doesn’t look like she has been participating in a wet t-shirt contest in a fur factory, she isn’t grappling on the floor with the dog sud-covered and desperate looking, and this crazy woman is smiling!!! Additionally, nowhere in this photo is a three-legged bath cheerleader who keeps running in and out of the room, biting at the water from this shower head, pulling on my pony-tail to offer a diversion, and barking encouragement to her siblings that probably translates to either, "Hey, aren't you having fun?!?!? Isn't this the greatest game ever?!?!" or to, "Run for your life! Save yourself by following me as I run barking through the house!" Probably both.

Ultimately, the winner was probably Rural Water District #6, who will be the proud recipients of a greatly inflated water bill this month. Good thing we don’t live in Salina, KS, who is currently under a water rationing plan. I would think that washing dogs and two humans with a cumulative weight of roughly 1,000# may somehow be brought in under the restrictions.

And now for our next feat, we will accomplish the task of trimming 19 sets of toenails!!! Stay tuned. . .