Crafty Canines

The Englishman was up very early.  He let the dogs out, placed a steaming mug of coffee on my bedside table and shut the door so the dogs wouldn't disturb me. The bliss lasted for the time it took for him to back out of the driveway, watched carefully by Chase and Charlie from a front window. Then the torture began.

Knock, knock.  Scratch.  Low whine.  Medium whine.  Loud whine.  BARK!

I dragged myself out of bed, clutching the cup of coffee.  It was early and still dark.  I shuffled to the kitchen.  The dogs tap-danced on the tile floor begging for me to feed them.  I pulled the plastic container of food from the refrigerator.  I frowned at it, thinking it looked less full than the day before.  "Did your dad feed you?" I asked the two dogs who were wiggling around my legs.  They barked.  I looked on the floor but did not see any dog bowls.  I looked in the sink.  Nothing.  I grabbed two clean dog bowls and put a small amount of food in each.  Chase and Charlie both nibbled delicately at their meal.  This was unusual dining behavior for them and deviated from the typical "two bites and done" tactic.

I went back to the bedroom to dress for work, still bothered by the dogs' strange eating etiquette.  I searched the kitchen again and I finally found the evidence I needed:  two bowls were pushed deep under a counter.  Two used bowls.  The Englishman had fed them before leaving the house and these two dogs had once again proven themselves to be much smarter than me.

Old Dogs are the Best Dogs

The Englishman was not excited when I announced that Ollie’s Bargain Outlet was opening in our small town.  I wasn’t sure if it was the word “Ollie” or “Bargain” or “Outlet” but he snorted when I dragged him to the grand opening.  He vowed never to return.  So, I dragged him back into the store several weeks later.  I pushed the shopping cart and he feigned the three disses that are apparently in the English DNA: displeasure, disdain and disinterest.  When I reached the cash register and unloaded the items onto the counter, I realized there was a book in my cart that was not placed by me.  The Englishman avoided eye contact.

Old Dogs are the Best Dogs by Gene Weingarten was a black and white tribute to old dogs and was filled with pages of stories.  Truths such as “Old dogs can be cloudy-eyed and grouchy, gray of muzzle, graceless of gait, odd of habit, hard of hearing, pimply, wheezy, lazy and lumpy.”  My three-pack was all of that and more.  The stories were funny and heartbreaking and reminded me of many of the pet companions I have had throughout my life and their special quirks that I realized I now missed.

Poppy was my childhood cat from Mahwah, New Jersey who loved water.  She might beat you to the bathtub for a swim.  She was a fiercely loyal companion who would always wait on a boulder near our driveway at 3:30PM when my sister and I returned from our school bus stop.  She would roll on the surface and wait for one of us to scoop her up and carry her back to the house with us.

Drummer was my childhood dog who had an unusual begging ritual for popcorn.  He would flip onto his back and kick his legs violently into the air as he grunted with noises we dubbed “herf-a-lating”.  He tolerated us using him to pull our sleds down the driveway in the winter to make a path, worried glances behind as the sled moved faster until my sister or I reached forward and pulled him on board for the ride of his life.

Sebastian was my Persian cat who adored shoes.  He slept in mine until he outgrew them and then transferred to one of my father’s work shoes.  He loved to snuggle and would place a paw on each shoulder to knead me.  Happiness came in the form of purrs and drool.

Checkers was the family cat while I was still in college.  Black and white and super fluffy, we eventually nicknamed him the “Quilting Cat”.  As my mother and I placed pins through material, Checkers would work behind us, methodically pulling every pin.  If we banned him from the room, he would race outside and sit in the window, miserable howls echoing through the neighborhood.

Madison was my cat when I first started teaching.  He was sound asleep when I chose him from the shelter and he never forgave me from waking him from his cat nap.  He could hold a grudge.  Retaliation might not be immediate but it was sure to come when I least expected it.  He would not tolerate the snooze button on my alarm clock.  Once the alarm buzzed in the morning, any attempts at hitting snooze was foiled by teeth and claws.  He loved anything that rolled and stole bottle caps, lipstick and plastic Easter eggs as his toys.

George was a quirky English Cocker Spaniel.  He didn’t trust my athletic abilities.  I had terrible aim.  I still don’t understand how I managed to bounce the tennis ball off his head but George would flinch and duck if he saw me with a tennis ball after that incident.  I have never seen another dog flinch and duck.

George howled.  He taught the other dogs to howl.  He howled to go outside.  He howled to come inside.  He howled at sirens.  He howled when he was bored.  It has been nearly two years of silence and I really missed the howls.

There are things that I miss with my current three-pack.  I miss Chase digging in mud puddles and snapping at the rain.  I miss Molly greeting me at the door with a treasured stuffed toy in her mouth.  It didn’t matter if I had been gone for five minutes or the entire day, the greeting was the same.  I miss Charlie dancing in his dog bowl to signal it was time for dinner.  I miss the dogs making me late for work because they decided to explore well outside of their boundaries.  I miss the joy of throwing tennis balls on the court after hours and watching the boundless energy of the dogs racing after them.  But I have gained so much, too.  I love the contentment of the dogs to be near us doing absolutely nothing.  I love my newest ritual of carrying Molly to bed because she is sound asleep and it takes her too long to wake up.  Charlie waits for me at the driveway gate each day at six o’clock without fail and we spend a few moments alone before the others realize I am home.  All of my companions are still very much alive in my memories or right now in the present.  So I read through the book with laughter, tears and joy and must agree with the author:  old dogs are the best dogs.

Banning the Bag

When Chase was just a puppy, he had several conditions that affected his immune system.  He was the sole litter survivor of parvovirus, and then promptly caught the mange.  He was so small that I used an Igloo cooler to dip him twice a week into a medicated mixture that didn’t seem to work.  The vet suggested a diet rich with immune boosting foods so I cooked for my puppy for several months until he was fully recovered.

Thirteen years later mealtime was becoming a battle of the wills.  Molly and Chase were fine with kibble but Charlie refused to eat it until we layered shredded cheddar cheese on top.  If the other two saw us garnish Charlie’s meal, they demanded the same treatment.  Charlie usually abandoned the bowl once the cheese was gone and Molly and Chase would finish it off for him.  Older dogs, dry dog food plus days filled with napping caused serious weight gains.  The vet declared Chase chunky in April and I hurt my back trying to give Molly a bath.  I knew they needed a change.

I threw out the dog food and headed to the grocery store filling my cart with ground turkey, chicken, spinach, peas, green beans, sweet potatoes, apples, carrots, zucchini, brown rice and light red kidney beans.   Then with my crock pot I assembled a meal that would last three dogs a week.  Very quickly, the three-pack began to associate the crock pot with their meals.  They watched me each Saturday evening as I chopped and assembled layers within the large appliance and they smelled the meal cooking all night long.  They waited very patiently, until at least six in the morning when they barked until I fed them.  They became excellent judges of time.  Meals were at 6:30 in the morning and 6:30 in the evening and they would not allow a deviation from the schedule.

I also explored sweet potatoes as dog treats (sliced and tossed with olive oil and cinnamon and baked for 3 hours at 250 degrees).  These were also a success.  The best indicator, however, was a vet visit at three months.  Molly and Chase had lost ten pounds each and Charlie was down by two.  The vet was very pleased, the dogs were content with their new and improved diet and I was now the official crazy dog lady.

Dog Bowl

It was the end of “YEAR TWO OF HOUSE RENOVATIONS”.  So much had been accomplished yet there was still so much more to achieve.  Before we had turned the sun porch into part of the main house, there were two Papasan chairs in faded orange at one end.  The frames were made of rattan and they looked like a big bowl.  You could purchase a Papasan chair at Pier One Imports or World Market or several other places online.  At the start of “YEAR ONE OF HOUSE RENOVATIONS” both chairs were lugged down to the basement and stacked into a corner where I hoped they would be forgotten.

On the occasional trip to the Goodwill, I would suggest to the Englishman that we rid ourselves of the chairs.  His reaction varied from glares, to pouts to ignoring my presence entirely.  After changing the older English Boy’s bedroom into a computer room, the Englishman moved the Papasan chairs to their new location.  He was courageous and waited until I was away for the weekend.

I must admit it…they are comfortable.  They are also comical, especially when The Englishman lost his balance and fell onto the floor.  The one thing I never counted on was how much our dachshund, Charlie, loved the chairs.  When they were located on the porch, he never slept in them.  Now, if I was searching for Charlie, the first place I looked was the computer room.  Most of the time, the little dog had curled up into one fast asleep.  Ugly or not, this was one battle that I didn't think I would win.

A Cemetery Visit

There are only so many routes to the Englishman’s workplace and the road from the interstate through Sharon, Georgia is the most direct.  Railroad tracks that are still in use follow the road and Sharon boasts a tiny post office, stately homes from years gone by and the oldest Catholic Church in Georgia.  A small sign points the way to the original church site and the remaining cemetery dating to the 1700s.

Tucked away from the rural road, I have visited the Locust Grove Cemetery on a few occasions.  It is surrounded by a stone wall and the many headstones are difficult to decipher.  As the Englishman stopped our truck, I jumped out and carefully helped our 16-year old English Cocker Spaniel, Molly, to the ground.  In the past year, her hearing had completely vanished and her vision diminished as well.  She sniffed the air and then followed us into the cemetery. 

Birds chirped overhead in the canopy of trees.  The grounds were difficult to navigate with unexpected low points filled with water from the recent rain earlier in the week.  Autumn leaves still covered the ground, a contrast to the snow drops and daffodils carpeting the ground with blossoms of bright white and lemon yellow.

Molly shuffled through the crisp, brown leaves until she found a dip of rain water.  She pressed down into it, covering her belly and lapped up a mouthful.  The Englishman rushed to the truck to retrieve her bottled water and a towel.  Molly met us at the entrance to the cemetery and the Englishman poured clean water into a Ziploc bag that was improvised into a bowl.  Molly lay on the ground, a paw on either side of the bag and started to drink.  I perched on a small, flat rock and the Englishman stood a few feet away.  Molly abruptly raised her head and moved it upward from side to side. 

“What is she doing?” I asked the Englishman.  He stepped forward and crouched down next to her, lightly touching her back.  “Are you finished, Molly?” he asked.  Molly’s head lowered once again to her water bowl.  The Englishman stroked the top of Molly’s head.  She stopped drinking, raised her head and moved it upward from side to side.

As we drove away, Molly on a towel next to me and sun flickering through gaps in the trees, I wondered if someone from long ago was happy to have the chance to pet a dog once more.

Just a Little Loopy

Molly, our fifteen-year-old English Cocker Spaniel had been waking us up for weeks at 3AM, barking until her fur became drenched with perspiration.  We tried leaving her out of her crate, leaving the dog door open, medication…all with no improvement.  I finally suggested a visit to the vet was in order.  Molly was not a fussy dog or a needy one.  The incessant barking was quite out of the ordinary.  A quick exam ruled out our fears that she was in pain from arthritis; however a more troubling diagnosis was given:  Canine Cognitive Dysfunction or Doggie Dementia.  After the vet explained all the early symptoms of the disease and then what to expect in the more advanced stages, the Englishman declared that Molly was “just a little loopy”.

The diagnosis really fit with the symptoms:  sleeping more during the day, less at night, more accidents in the house, barking at nothing and an increase in anxiety.  The vet initially suggested trying a nighttime dose of Benadryl to help her sleep.  We tried it for two nights in a row and it made things worse.  With Chase, a small dose of Benadryl makes him sleepy but with Molly, it made her hyperactive.  I decided to do some online research and found several support groups and websites with suggestions.  There were so many articles to read and so many ideas I became overwhelmed until I stumbled across and article called “Dementia and anxiety in your older dog” on A Path with Paws website.  Everything began to click with me, especially the sentence “Not all dementia has an anxiety component to it and not all anxiety in older dogs is from dementia but the two often go together”.  I realized that we needed to treat the anxiety, first.

Molly had lost all of her hearing over the past couple of years and her eyesight had greatly diminished.  She slept soundly because of this but when she woke up in the dark, she would bark until the Englishman or I came to her aid.  She wasn’t barking in our direction.  She was barking in the spot where she woke.  I could only imagine that it was a great distress to Molly when she woke in the dark and couldn’t see or hear.  We immediately moved her bed into our room, placed a water bowl nearby and added a motion activated nightlight right next to her.  If she woke in the night, there was a light at her level and she could detect our presence with her nose.  I also added lavender essential oil to a timed diffuser for extra comfort.

The improvement was immediate.  Molly no longer barked incessantly and reached such deep levels of sleep, her snoring returned.  The other two dogs, while initially envious of Molly’s new nighttime sleeping arrangement, settled back into their crates with four-inch memory foam mattresses and custom sheets.  As we headed into the New Year and Molly’s upcoming 16^th birthday, we felt it was just fine that our companion was a little loopy.  Aren’t we all?

Silence of the Ducks

It was raining.  In fact, it seemed that it was always raining.  In typical fashion, the chickens complained and the ducks thrived.  The Englishboy was visiting for Christmas and I asked him if he would put the ducks away for me.  I was tired of digging out my umbrella and struggling in and out of my wellies twice a day to trudge down the hill to the garden, the grass bubbling up with warm mud.  "They will probably be in their house already so it should be easy," I told him.

The Englishboy couldn't locate the ducks.  They weren't in the garden or their house.  They weren't on the pond.  They weren't in the neighbor's yard.  In fact, he couldn't even hear them which was unusual because they were constantly quacking to each other.  He feared the worst fate had happened to them.

I teetered precariously over my wellies and managed to get the hem of my pajama bottoms tucked neatly inside.  I clutched an old umbrella and grabbed my flashlight.  Carefully, I sloshed to the center of the back yard and called out "Ducks....".  Silence.  "Ducks?!" I yelled with less grace and certainty.  They answered me promptly with loud quacks and I could hear their feet slapping against the wet brick path.  Relieved, I rushed over to see them waddling into their house, all neatly in a row.  I closed their gate and bid them goodnight.  They had been hiding from The Englishboy, yet they still came when I called.  I supposed that they did appreciate me after all.

The Cloak of Invisibility

Chase is a white dog and easily spotted in the yard on any dark night.  He is quite aware of this handicap.  If he doesn’t want to come in when called, he freezes, hoping he won’t be spotted.  He also knows the phrase “I can SEE you!” which then convinces him that he will be in more trouble if he doesn’t comply with the earlier command calling him in.

At the beginning of the year, The Englishman and I were in American Apparel and discovered, to our delight, a selection of dog shirts and hoodies.  I purchased a classic sweatshirt complete with the single pocket and zip up front for Chase.  It was a perfect fit and he refused to allow us to remove it for five days.  Warmer weather soon arrived and the hoodie was stored until the cold returned.

Summer turned into fall, bringing endless rain.  I dressed Charlie and Molly in new turtleneck sweaters and zipped Chase into his hoodie.  It was his super hero outfit.  It allowed him to spend longer periods of time in the yard, protected from the stinging rain and wind.  He lounged near the fire, perfectly bundled in the soft, black fleece.  He slept in the hoodie, swaddled in its’ warmth.  He would not allow anyone to remove his hoodie and one night I discovered why.

Chase followed me outside into the inky dark to check on the ducks and chickens.  I had a flashlight that dimly lit a small area in front of me.  Chase poked and sniffed near the edge of the driveway.  I whistled and assumed he would follow me.  Ever-obedient, Chase had disappeared when I returned less than a minute later.  I peered into the dark but could see nothing.  My dog had used his main super power:  The Cloak of Invisibility.  I whistled into the night.  Nothing.  I called for him, pleaded with him and offered treats.  Silence greeted me.  I returned to the house and gathered several more flashlights.  

I scanned the front yard and the street.  I imagined the lost dog posters and the embarrassment of adding “last seen wearing a black American Apparel Hoodie” to the description.  I could hear the whispers of the neighbors: who puts clothing on a dog?  I had just turned back, defeated and planning to seek assistance from The Englishman when I heard galloping clicks from the street.  Out of the darkness came a slice of white fur racing down the driveway.  Chase  dodged me and ducked quickly into the house through his dog door.  Panting heavily, he lapped the water in his bowl as The Englishman and I searched the American Apparel website for a new hoodie…in white.

Chicken Little

My youngest chicken, Willow, was broody.  She firmly planted herself in a nesting box keeping company with two golf balls.  When I checked on her, the feathers on the back of her neck rose like fine, reddish-brown needles.  She was cranky and solitary.  She wasn't laying eggs.  She wasn't granting entry for the other four chickens during the day.  I would force her out of her solitary confinement each day to make sure she had access to food and water but she promptly returned to her nest to guard the golf balls.

After two weeks of this behavior I decided that she needed a nice, warm bath to distract her from her broodiness.  I filled the kitchen sink basin with warm water and carefully placed Willow into the water.  She shook her body like a dog and flapped her wings which gave me a bath, too.  It seemed like she was okay with this new adventure because she settled into the warm water fairly quickly.  

When I was ready to remove her from the sink, I faced the challenge of wrapping a towel around her.  I needed two hands to hold Willow and keep her from trying to fly.  I looked down at the floor and saw a perfect space between the sink and my sleeping dog, Molly.  I dropped the towel to the floor, plucked Willow from her bath and set her in the center of the towel.  Willow turned her head to the left and screamed.  Molly had woken and was staring back at the dripping chicken.  The Englishman ran into the house and asked "Are you okay?"  I assured him that I was fine and that it was the chicken screaming.  The Englishman scoffed and said "I was asking the chicken, not you."

I wrapped Willow tightly in the towel and carried her into a patch of sun on the deck.  I sat down in a chair and held her in my lap.  She was peacefully basking in the sun until Chase approached and nudged me under my right arm for me to pet him.  Willow stared at the dog and then screamed again.  Her screams were loud, obnoxious and echoed across the pond.  I decided that I couldn't have the neighbors call the police so I patted the chicken dry as best as I could and returned her to the coop.

When I checked on her an hour later, she was dry and happily keeping the golf balls company once more.

The Pain of Rain

It's raining again.  The dogs don't want to go outside at all.  I push them out the door into the rain and try to offer encouraging words about going to the bathroom.  I'm waiting on the SPCA to arrive to give the final approval on fostering a dog.  Three dogs snooze and ignore the arrival of two strangers.  Car doors close and the doorbell rings.  Three dogs do not react.  I stare at them in disbelief.  I invite the two ladies inside.  Three dogs approach them like they are long lost relatives.  I continue to stare at these dogs, positive they do not belong to me.  The SPCA employees greet the dogs with plenty of petting and hugs.  They are at my home to see where the dogs sleep and to make sure we are not “dog hoarders”.  I remind them that I have three dogs, pretty sure they can count.  Apparently I am not a hoarder of dogs.

We move into the living room, standing on the new hardwood floor.  Chase jumps onto a couch.  Charlie begs for more attention.  Molly pees an entire river next to my foot.  Awkward.  I tell the ladies that the dogs don’t like to go outside in the rain.  They nod, and share a few stories of their own.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Molly has done more than just pee.  Chase uses this moment to try to start a conversation with the two ladies and I hope they don’t notice the pile that Molly has gifted me in the corner.  

Pleasantries over, they approve me for a foster home and leave.  I grab the mop, a bucket and some cleaning supplies and pray for a weekend of sunshine.  I still have to drive to work.  As I lock the house I hear the flap of the dog door and see two dog noses peek out.  Charlie and Chase watch me leave but they won’t come out.  It’s raining even harder and my dogs still don’t want to go outside.

Risks of Renovations

Chase was pink.  A lovely, yet distinct blush color had covered most of his previously white fur.  The Englishman and I pondered and argued over his new hue and finally settled on the unfinished Brazilian walnut hardwood floor we were installing.  For more than eighteen months the house was under renovation while we continued about our daily lives. 

Aside from the loud noise at times, the renovations did not seem to bother the dogs.  In fact, they seemed to enjoy the changes.  Did I just sweep a pile of debris and nails?  Molly insisted on walking right through it, tracking dusty paw prints as she continued through the house.  Did I leave a strip of insulation on the floor?  Chase preferred this to any expensive dog bed.  Did we try to nail, saw, measure or do anything low to the ground?  Watch out because Charlie was right there, ready to lick you or just be underfoot. 

At the end of the day, though, it all washed out.  Dirty paws can be cleaned, dog kisses wiped away and even a pink dog can become white again.

Lights Out

It was stormy and the power was out.  The dogs protested my late arrival home from work.  The dark gray sky was fractured by jagged bolts of lightning.  The Englishman had scattered tiny tea light candles throughout the house which provided a miniature diameter of yellow only an inch from the flame.  As I pulled out larger candles, he complained that it was too hot for them.  This was true, but I did not want to walk into sharp things as we had not finished installing the hardwood floor and tools, air compressors and an assortment of sharp items were strewn throughout the living room.

I left the house with a flashlight to check on the chickens.  I discovered a perfect, tiny blue egg sharing a nest with a larger greenish-blue one.  My newest chicken had laid her first egg and I was thrilled.  Realizing the door to their house wouldn't close without power, I fashioned a temporary barrier for the night.  I returned to our house and began the task of locating and extinguishing all of the candles.  Without streetlights and no stars or a moon, the house was filled with an inky darkness.  I used a flashlight to guide my way to the bedroom and climbed in bed,  The sheets had been pushed to the foot of the bed by the hot and cranky Englishman.

We both heard it before it reached our room.  Toe nails clicking and clacking on the wood floors, onto the plywood subfloor and slowly down the hall toward us.  Three dogs without night vision.  Crashing into tools, walls and each other as they fumbled their way to our bedroom.

Chase reached my side of the bed, first.  He then chose to climb into a chair instead of the dog bed.  I had placed some mail and shopping bags on the chair and they crinkled and rustled as Chase turned and turned in the secret, required number of circles that all dogs seem to know.  He finally flopped into the chair but still wasn't satisfied.  Shifting and flipping and sighing, the plastic shopping bags and now crumpled envelopes were hard to ignore.  I climbed out of bed and cautiously made my way to the chair.  As I attempted to remove the items from beneath Chase, he snapped at the air, unable to find my hands.  Finished, I returned to bed.

Molly decided to let us know how hot she was by panting loudly.  Charlie found something under the bed and began to play with it rambunctiously.  The Englishman was unbothered by the circus and began to snore.  I jumped up, grabbed the flashlight and ordered the dogs to follow me.  I secured Molly and Charlie in their crates.  Chase, ever obedient, was still in his chair.  I returned to bed.  The Englishman woke up and accused me of dog neglect.  I went to sleep.  Soundly.  Until five in the morning.  Three dogs who had been playing all night, including two who had been released from their crates, gathered on my side of the bed to wake me up with barks, cries and whines.  The power was back on but I knew it was going to be the start of a very long day.

Before and After

My last month there were lots of trips to the vet.  I ate mozzarella cheese even though I knew there was a pill hidden inside.  I ate canned food mixed with my favorite green beans.  Sometimes I even ate the moist dog food packets.  I knew the other dogs envied my new food.  I no longer slept in my crate at night but had my memory foam dog bed in the master bedroom next to my mom's side of the bed.  I wore a dog diaper and was able to roam freely through the open dog door at any hour.  I could still bound down the slope in the backyard with my long ears flopping and howl at the sirens in the distance.  The other dogs in my family would join in, too.

My last week I took a trip to Florida to drop the younger English boy off at his new home.  I ate chicken and waffles for lunch outside of Warner Robbins, Georgia.  I rode in my favorite spot in the car, at the very back on my dog beds piled three high so I could look out the window.  I sniffed around a parking lot in Florida but the journey made me tired.  The Englishman found a vet that was open in Gainesville, Florida and we stopped for a visit.  I pretended that I needed to go outside and dragged my mom through the slick, black parking lot in the rain.  The vet gave me a pill and I felt better.  I had sausage and pancakes for dinner.

My last night, I couldn't sleep.  I went into the backyard that shimmered with the silver moon and howled.  My mom came out and got me.  She tucked another pill into cheese and brought me back to my dog bed.  I was restless so she pulled her pillow and blanket to the floor and slept beside me.  I fell asleep with my head on her chest.

My last morning, the Englishman made bacon for breakfast.  I had the lion's share.  The older English boy arrived and I had a video phone session with an old friend from England.  I was wrapped in my blanket and sat on my mom's lap for a final drive in the car.

The first hours after, we couldn't return to the house so we went to a movie.  I don't think either of us remember it.  The Englishman secured a small orange collar with dog tags dangling like a miniature wind chime around his wrist.

The first day after, the Englishman had to leave on a business trip.  As I sat in the living room, I heard a voice clearly stating "I love you".  Gathering my courage, I went to the kitchen to explore and found Molly, holding a Build-A-Bear teddy bear that George had cherished.  I didn't realize the bear talked and Molly had set off the trigger.  I later found Chase staring at George's crate relentlessly.  I had to move it to another room.

The first week after, I returned to the vet's office and picked up a small box.  I couldn't speak.  I sat in the parking lot and cried.  I then placed the box in the passenger seat and took a slow drive around town with my former friend riding shotgun. He would have approved.

The first months after, the house was so quiet.  Sirens would sound and the three dogs wouldn't even blink.  The silence seemed so loud.  I would return home from work and remove four treats from the jar on the counter, remember and slowly put one back.  My hand naturally held four.  We folded one dog crate and stored it in the basement.  I still had his small pillow at the foot of our bed.  The material still smelled like him.

Ten months after, I heard Charlie start to howl from the deck.  He hadn't forgotten.  I looked at the Englishman and he said, "I was thinking of him, too".

Hobby Farm: A Daily Commitment

I love my little backyard farm and it has become part of my daily routine.  Before I leave for work each morning, I make the rounds with my three-pack in tow.  First I walk down the hill to the pond and check on Richard.  My beautiful male duck greets me with quacks, tail quivers and quick circles in the icy water.  He thinks he is a wild duck but I know better.  He still eats his food from a ceramic bowl.

Next, I trudge back up the hill, glancing at the bee hives.  It's still too early for any activity.  The chickens already spotted me on my way down to the pond and are cackling loudly, lined up by the gate and hoping for a treat.  Berries?  Apples?  Bananas?  If the fountain has iced over into a beautiful fairyland sculpture, I have complaining chickens trying to herd me to the corner to get me to fix their water source.  They watch me break up the frozen water with a small garden trowel and they gobble up the bits of ice that land on the ground.

Finally, I check on my newest duck members.  Two female rouen ducks and three drakes are settled in  the enclosed duck area with my tiny mallard call duck.  They aren't sure of me yet and hide behind Puddle Duck Pub, heads peaking around the corner to see if I am giving them food. 

A similar routine occurs each evening when I return home.  This time, I collect the eggs, too and watch the bees make their final landing into the hive.  It doesn't matter if it's too hot, too cold, raining, sleeting, windy, or stormy.  Keeping a hobby farm is a responsibility as well as a source of happiness and a stress reliever.

I currently am fighting bronchitis and the last thing I really want to do at 6:45 in the morning is my routine.  It's draining.  I'm so tired.  Breathing is a challenge.  So I start a little earlier and take my time.  This morning, I opened the top latch on the duck fence and then stooped down to pull up the latch on the bottom that fits tightly in place.  The spring that The Englishman recently installed to bring the door back into place, creaked open as I entered.  I let the door go too quickly and it slammed into place, startling my fine feathered friends.  I quickly filled the feeder with grain and turned to leave.  The door wouldn't budge.  The top was fine but with dread, I realized that the problem was with the bottom.  I was positive that the bolt had fallen back into place, locking me inside.  I quickly checked my pocket to make sure that I had brought my cell phone with me.  I did not want to call my husband back from the start of his commute because I had stupidly locked myself into the duck compound.  I looked around at his craftsmanship and knew I couldn't escape easily.  Before making the call, I gave the bottom of the gate a little tap with my garden clog.  Nothing.  I was impatient, sick and had six cackling ducks peering around their house at me.  I gave the bottom of the gate the hardest kick I could muster.  The gate slammed open and I quickly leaped out, my thin shawl billowing around me like a super hero cape.  I secured the gate and retreated up to the house swinging my empty bucket.  As I placed it outside the garage, I thought better of that and placed it on the floor of my car to take on my long commute to work.  After all…I still am sick!

As Seen on TV

My boss has some amazing stories to share.  My favorite story that I love begins when he first started working for the company.  He was staying in a hotel and was watching a program on the Discovery Channel about snakes.  The snake guru was demonstrating that you could pick up most snakes by the tail and the snake could not climb back on itself to bite you.  My boss was dazzled by the idea and soon an opportunity arose at home where he could proudly show off his newly discovered skill.

One evening, his daughters and wife discovered a snake in the garage and began screaming.  My boss rushed to the rescue.  One daughter was concerned for the snake’s well being and didn’t want it to be harmed.  My boss confidently informed his family that you could pick a snake up by the tail and it couldn't bite you.  He crouched down and picked the snake up by the tail.  It promptly bit him.  He threw the snake and with blood dripping down his hand, his wife drove him to the emergency room.  I suppose he missed the "don't try this at home" message in the programming.

Group Names

My pets have individual names and then they have group names.  They are smart enough to know the difference.  With a multiple pet family, it’s a lot to yell out each of their names when you require the presence of all of them.  The dogs, respond to each of their names however, if they are outside and I need them to return to the house, I simply call out, “DOGS!”    The chickens have a group name, too.  “CHICKENS!” brings about frenzy near the gate as they cluck and pace to see what sort of treat I have for them.  I’m not sure if they know their individual names of Raven, Buffy, Angel and Nancy Drew but they do respond to the group name.  The ducks have diminished down to one lonely drake named Richard and I still call him by the group name.  Calling out “DUCKS!” from my deck at any hour will bring a series of quacks in response.

Matters of Choice

George has cancer.  We first became concerned with the weight loss that was noticeable after the groomer shaved him for the summer.  His appetite had diminished and he also seemed crankier with the other dogs.  A vet visit was scheduled and blood work was taken.  We were told he didn’t have diabetes or cancer.  Further testing for other possible weight loss explanations was also negative.  The vet’s assistant was unsuccessful in retrieving a urine sample.  The Englishman and I tried on a fifteen minute walk, but George was stubborn. 

There have been numerous occasions where we have been given this impossible task with each of our four dogs.  First, it is required to sneak behind your already suspicious dog and then quickly slip a pan beneath his leg as soon as it appears he is about to lift it.  Any trickle that may have started flowing immediately stops, the leg returns to the ground and the dog glares angrily at the interruption.  In spite of numerous demonstrations by our vet and her assistants, we cannot master the technique.  We finally left with a diagnosis of arthritis in George’s back legs and a bottle of pain pills.

We changed George’s food to a softer variety.  We added canned food to his meals.  He appeared to have a slight gain in weight.  Six weeks later we returned to the vet for another checkup.  George’s weight was now at 19 pounds.  His ideal weight is 28 pounds.  A tiny bit of urine that was collected was dark with hints of blood.  He was given an antibiotic and we were given options to discuss which included an MRI to confirm cancer followed by surgery and chemotherapy.  There was also an alternative medication that involved a derivative of blood root.

When we returned to the vet’s a few days later, what she suspected was a mass in his back pelvic region had grown in size.  Surgery was no longer a viable option due to the invasiveness and the uncertainty of surviving the anesthesia.  The alternative treatment was also not an option because it could do George more harm than good at this point.  I had also researched it extensively and was still not comfortable with it as a treatment.

George is eleven years old.  He is happy at home and is comfortable with his pain medication regimen.  He still interacts with his four-pack, riling them all in a nightly chorus of howls when he detects a siren in the distance.  We pause and smile and I wonder if the other dogs will continue the howling tradition without him.  As annoying as it can be at times, the thought of silence makes me sad.  So we watch him for signs, for changes and discomfort.  He sleeps in our bedroom each night so we can hear him if he needs us.  And we cherish these moments that we have remaining because he is a part of our four-pack and a part of our family.

Drama Dog

In his medical folder, I have a full body X-ray of Chase when he was several months old.  Puppies get under your feet.  They get in the way.  They get stepped on.  This was the case when Chase somehow got his paw stuck in the front door on a Saturday afternoon.  Chase cried, he limped, and he held his quivering right front paw several inches above the ground.  I cried.  I was a bad person.  I didn't deserve him.  I scooped him up, placed him in the car and raced to the animal emergency hospital.  I carried him in, paid the three hundred dollar entrance fee and was ushered into an examination room.  The vet rushed in, Chase wriggled from my grasp and promptly forgot about his injury.  When he remembered he had hurt his paw, he seemed to forget which one it was and tried the hurt paw pose on his left paw and then his right.  Since we were already there, I agreed to an X-ray of his paw but because Chase was still so small, his entire body was scanned.  No fractures, no injuries…I felt betrayed.

I firmly believe that dogs prefer to injure themselves on weekends or after regular veterinary hours in order to incur costly bills to their human companions.  My pet companions have proven this theory many times over the years.  I have also realized that Chase is a bit dramatic when it comes to his wounds.  I was reminded of this a few nights ago when his friend Marty, a tough little dog from three doors down came by to play.  Chase and Marty romped through the back yard doing dog things until Marty was called home.  Chase raced up the deck stairs but tripped on the top step.  He circled me a few times visibly limping.  Concerned, I followed him into the house where he was balancing on three legs with his right paw lifted in the air.  I examined his paw carefully.  It wasn't swollen; his recently trimmed nails were fine and there were no splinters or blood.  I released the paw and it began to tremble.  Chase limped to his crate and I attempted to apply an ice pack.  This proved to be an impossible task so I decided to leave him alone. 

An hour later I checked on him.  Chase’s left paw was bent at a strange angle and I couldn't see his other paw.  I had forgotten which paw he had hurt.  I touched the left paw.  Chase pulled his right paw out from beneath him.  The paw started to tremble.  I brought him some water since he was apparently too injured to move.  He lapped it vigorously.  I left him alone again and returned to the kitchen where I offered the other three dogs a treat.  Suddenly, I noticed Chase was dancing around my legs, demanding his treat, too.  No more paw trembles.  All four legs firmly on the floor.  Chase… my heart, my mini-me, my drama dog.

One Door Closes, Another One Opens

The Four-Pack was confused.  In January, the Englishman and I embarked on the daunting task of renovating the kitchen.  Within hours, we added the laundry room, sun porch, dining room and living room to our renovation project.  Dry wall dust covered every surface, including the dogs, white primer streaks added new coloring to their fur while leaving odd, feathering patterns on the walls and the Four-Pack took every opportunity possible to walk directly into piles of sawdust.

We walled in doors because they weren't needed, added doors where there weren't any and completely turned their home upside down.  The dogs would see the construction, watch a door disappear, yet still run toward it later, sliding into the wall looking absolutely befuddled.  They delighted in the new doors that emerged and spent their time testing it out.  The "piece de resistance" was a small, fancy dog door inserted directly next to the new French doors in the kitchen.  A door of their own.  The Four-Pack was very excited when they discovered this door (discovered because I pushed each of them through it).  They practiced jumping in and out of it, tasting a bit of independence.  Tails wagging, paws dancing on the kitchen floor, they gained expert precision with each trial run.  Sometimes the best things in life really are small.

Cold Duck

At the beginning of December, the ducks finally noticed the pond in the back yard.  Not the turtle pool that I had been filling twice a day for their bathing pleasure, not the small Koi pond the Englishman and I had been digging just for them…the big pond.  The pond with a dock and a row boat and their fancy floating duck house.  The real pond with room to forage along the banks and tasty bits to pluck from the surface.

 

A couple of months earlier, I tried to introduce them to the pond.  I herded the ducks to the dock and managed to catch two.  With a duck under each arm, I trekked to the end of the wooden dock and tossed them unceremoniously into the inky surface.  They acted like I had tossed them into acid, flapping their wings and practically flying to the safety of the grass.

 

Now, the ducks marveled at the wonders the pond had to offer.  They swam, they dove, they dunked each other below the surface and they foraged among the lily pads.  They would only return to the main house if they were hungry and they avoided the shelter of their own little house I dubbed “Puddle Duck Pub”.  Each morning when I let the dogs out, I would call to them with my own version of a duck call.  “Ducks!” I would yell and they would quack back to me from their hidden spot in the pond.   At night, I would walk down to the pond with my flashlight and play tag with them.  I would shine my light to the left and they would swim furiously in a pack to the right.  I’m not entirely sure they enjoyed this game as much as I did.

 

The mild temperatures of our southern winter finally gave way to the bitter, blustery winds of the New Year and the Englishman and I arrived home after work to find the ducks in a small pile of feathers near our driveway.  It looked like they couldn’t remember where their house was after weeks of frolicking on the pond.  We each grabbed a flashlight and guided them to the warmth of Puddle Duck Pub.  I closed the door and listened to their chatter before retreating to the warmth of my own house.  I was amused that, even with all those feathers, pampered ducks still get cold and could (partially) navigate their way back home.

Cattails

When my sister lived in Atlanta she had a problem with the destructive feral cats in her neighborhood.  Animal Control provided a trap and as long as she continued to catch cats, they would continue to remove them.  Liz was quite successful in her endeavors to rid her yard of cats and firmly believed that they would be rehabilitated and then adopted by a loving family.  This dream was shattered by me when we checked the trap in her backyard one day and found a spitting, hissing tiny ball of dirty fur in the trap.  She saw a sweet kitten that just needed a little bit of TLC from Animal Control.  I saw something that had clearly been fed after midnight and was one step away from being labeled an evil Gremlin.  She shared her vision of rehabilitated feral cats and I told her what Animal Control was doing to the cats she caught.

The Englishman does not like cats.  When he somberly tells the story of “THE NIGHT HE WAS ATTACKED AND ROBBED BY A CAT” as a wee lad in England, I have to hide my face and muffle my snorts of laughter.  When he was eight years old, he was sent to the corner store on a mission to buy bread, milk and cigarettes.   Arms filled with his purchases, he walked quickly down the city sidewalk, eyes darting left and right searching the shadows for lurking danger.  As he passed a low wall, a feral feline leaped upon him, gouged his arms and stole his loaf of bread.  The tiny Englishman ran home, had his war wounds cleaned and bandaged and his father prowled the streets looking for a cat with a pilfered loaf of bread.

So my sister helped clean up the neighborhoods of Atlanta, I will never be permitted to own another cat, and apparently there really are cat burglars and they stalk the streets of Manchester.

Packing Peanuts

I placed my empty Stonewall Kitchen box on the floor, careful to close it up so the leftover packing peanuts wouldn’t escape.  I thought that I might be able to reuse the peanuts and the box for Christmas gifts to England.  Over the next few days, as I walked past the box, I always crouched low to close it, puzzled as to why it stubbornly opened on its own several hours later.

And then, one evening as I walked by the box, I caught Molly with her nose buried deep inside.  She was gorging on the packing peanuts.  In fact, it looked like she had been eating them for days as the supply had been depleted by more than half.  I secured the box shut once again, sure that she wouldn’t be able to undo the lid this time.  Molly brought backup in the form of George and with teamwork, they opened the box and began scarfing peanuts with wild abandon.  I removed the box from the house and placed it in the garage.  

When I told the Englishman about the incident over Sunday supper with his oldest son and daughter-in-law, I learned that packing peanuts can be made with biodegradable starch and are safe to eat.  The Englishman demonstrated by retrieving a peanut from the drool-covered box and popped one into his mouth, chewing vigorously.  He declared it quite tasty and mentioned that if we had a zombie apocalypse, he would head to the nearest warehouse to stock up on the edible delights called packing peanuts.   He patted his clever canines on the heads and sat down to finish his dinner.

Duck Herding, Jedi Style

The ducks don’t want to sleep inside their safe and warm house at night.  They prefer to huddle in an appetizing pile of feathers right next to it.  I prefer not to feed the neighborhood’s nocturnal critters and perform the tedious task of herding the ducks into their home each evening.

In thrift shops I have seen vintage prints of small children herding a flock of ducks with a stick.  My ducks would cackle at such a sight.  If I approach them with a stick, they scatter, then reconvene and chatter about my failed efforts in a circle.  If I approach them at night with the two insanely long and metallic flashlights that the Englishman calls “torches”, I am a duck herding Jedi knight.

I walk straight toward the flock of feathers who stare at me in alarm.  They rise and move as one to the left.  I flash my left beam of light and block them.  Like Carol Ann in Poltergeist, they fear the light.  They make a move to the right.  My right arm rises with the flashlight beam.  They resort to moving in the only direction not dissected by a ray of light.  I am filled with a sense of accomplishment as they file reluctantly into their house within thirty seconds, loudly expressing their unhappiness.  I don’t care as I shut the door.  “You are sleepy” I tell them using my Jedi Mind Trick and I return to my house with the light sabers, errr… flashlights by my side.

Don’t be a chicken!

Donning my beekeeper’s veil and gloves, I headed out with the Englishman first thing in the morning for some hive chores.  On the way back to the house, I stopped by the chicken house to see if there were any eggs to collect.  I barely noticed the squawks as I approached the gate and pushed my way inside the chicken yard, awkwardly maneuvering in the large hat and veil.  I greeted the ladies with a cheerful “good morning!”  The chickens scattered to the far corners leaving a trail of feathers in their wake.  I was missing one chicken.  I opened the hen house and clumsily squeezed inside.  Rosie was sitting in a nesting box and looked terrified when she saw me.  I quickly backed out, realizing that the chickens did not recognize me.

I walked briskly up the hill to the garage, passing the ducks waddling for their lives in the opposite direction of my path.  I flung off the veil and gloves, gathered some treats, and returned to my flock looking less alien than before.  Not only did I get a great idea for a Halloween costume, a valuable lesson was learned:  what works for the bees does not always work for the birds.
 

Moving Day

Puddle Duck Pub was moved five feet to the side and two feet forward.  This allowed for more sunlight to reach the solar panel powered lights.  All five ducks watched the Englishman and me carry the house to the new location.  They tilted their heads and peered through one glittery eye each as I cleaned the inside and added new bedding.  They kept careful watch as the Englishman moved the green plastic turtle pool behind the house and filled it with clean water.  They splashed in the pool as we cleared weeds, vines and thorns.  They happily waddled in and out of their house, taking mouthfuls of food from their feed bowl.  They padded over to their drinking bucket and gorged on the lettuce I had placed on the water’s surface.  They raced around the house, chasing each other until they tired.  They slept behind the house on a mound of fall leaves, tucking their heads into their feathers in a warm patch of sun.

And when it was dark, all five huddled in a pile on the ground in front of the old duck house location.  Puddle Duck Pub was lit up like a beacon to their immediate right but they took no notice.  The ducks were confused and so were we as the Englishman and the English Boy cornered the ducks and carried them back to their shelter a stone’s throw away.