Catching Up

Lucky for me, my life is full of low-maintenance types, willing to tolerate long lapses in communication and picking up right where we left off when connection is re-established, with a mutual understanding and acceptance of the lives we lead.

The ponies put up with my series of short daily check-ins, probably because my presence, however brief, generally includes some sort of sustenance, and stomachs rule in their world. Chicago most always greets me with a nicker, especially if I start the dialog with “Hi Handsome”. Once in a while he’ll stand at the half-wall that divides the horse shelter from the barn porch, staring toward the house or my truck driving down the driveway. He’ll put on his softest, most mournful equine eyes and let out a high-pitched plaintive whinny that translates to something between I Miss You and You Owe Me.

I recently made my way back to the barn to finally finish the self-shedding process in which Biskit and Chicago were unintentionally engaged this spring. Turns out they united in a show of solidarity with their groom, each emerging from the pandemic period with a bigger belly and a broader backside, though unlike the horses’ seasonal surplus, it’s going to take a lot more than a few strokes of the shedding blade to whittle away my girth.

On the feline front, Fennel has assumed full responsibility for rodent removal around the barn, honing his skills on a daily basis. He courageously takes on mice, moles, voles and small songbirds, but remains leery of the tack room dehumidifier or anyone who doesn’t maintain permanent residence at Four Sticks Farm. He recently joined us on the deck, with much trepidation and tremendous mistrust of the patio furniture. Getting neither empathy nor encouragement from the green-eyed golden, he pushed past his inner Cowardly Lion and found comfort in a familiar lap.

Mace made it through his 14^th annual veterinary checkup without incident to self or vet staff, apparently mellowed by the passing of the Barn Patrol baton and all the pressure that goes with it. Hard to be surly when one spends one’s days snoozing in the sun on the barn porch or sleeping in the heat of the hayloft.

My yearly battle with the barn swallows flared up again last week. While I appreciate their assistance in mosquito control, I prefer they spend their downtime somewhere other than Biskit’s stall, as my experience in playing gracious host has proven the swallows to be houseguests from hell, who make a mighty mess, bring unending bunches of babies, and Never leave.

Rowdy revels in chasing the trespassers with his squeaker ball, so has added Bird Banishment to his daily duties. Border Collies clear geese off of runways, Goldens scare swallows out of barn aisles. Everybody has a job to do, however humble, and Rowdy is all in on making sure he does his well.

So that’s the latest friends. We’ve picked up and caught up on the month since my last post. I love the idea of weekly updates, and it remains a goal, albeit an elusive one, for the slow-processor who writes them. I recently enrolled in a 3-hour online writers’ course offering, among other things, strategies to develop a consistent writing process. So far, I haven’t taken the 3 hours to watch it.

But I’ll get there. Summertime is rife with subject matter at Four Sticks Farm – equine exploits, cat capers, and of course, endless ramblings with and about rowdy Rowdy.

Stay tuned, come back. In two weeks. Maybe three.

Overnight Explorer

Blogger’s Note: I wrote this post last week, then managed to close the program without saving the work. It was of course, some of my best work 😊 and though I spent the weekend trying to recapture the brilliance of my words, my success was limited. I humbly present Take 2.

Fennel has taken to greeting me on the barn porch in the morning. The sun remains unrisen at that hour, and though this is a daily occurrence, his stealthy block of blackness slinking toward me from under the rocking chair or on top of the hitching post continues to jump start my system with a jolt that my first cup of Laughing Man dark roast will never duplicate.

It must be part of The Barn Cat Code to remain silent until a familiar voice is heard, because neither he nor Mace ever make a meow until I speak to them. Perhaps I’ll introduce an “Announce Your Presence” amendment at the next meeting.

Because he’s lurking outside in the early a.m. on such a consistent basis, I suspect Fennel must be sticking close to home while giving in to the nocturnal wanderlust his DNA demands. Or maybe Mace assigned the rookie to the graveyard shift, in accordance with the by-laws established by the loosely organized Felines Around Barns Catching Adversarial Trespassers (FABCATs).

In any case, the tabby tyro spends his overnight hours exploring the flora and fauna of greater Four Sticks Farm. He’s cultivating his kitten brain, becoming a solid-citizen cat as he experiences the ways of the world beyond the boundaries of the barn, and learns a little about how the other halves live.

There’s a big wide world of wonder out there, much to be marveled at by a freshman mouser. It’s good for a guy to figure out who’s friend, who’s foe; what’s worth a fight, what’s not; where to hunt, where to play, where to rest, where to steer clear; when to stand still, and when to beat feet.

I suspect he roams through the reed grass, finds frogs in the marsh and mice in the field, climbs trees, runs fence lines, spooks at shadows, feigns ferocity and burrows in the bushes.

The slow return of hair on the slow healing gash on the tip of his tail bears witness to his first successful lesson in wilderness survival, though the cause of the cut shall forever remain a mystery. The little ginger cat is becoming wise to the ways of the woods and the swamp, discovering which are the trails less traveled, which are the most rapid routes home. It’s fun to be Fennel.

So venture out Fennelton, enjoy your overnight explorations, but be home for breakfast.

And please meow a morning welcome upon approach.

Return to Reading – Shelved Again

I started this post with the intention of announcing the summer’s return of Reading with Rowdy, reworked, refreshed, and renamed The Rowdy Readers Club, to our little local library.

But upon further review, the idea of gathering a group of energetic elementary schoolers in a small space with a rambunctious retriever who knows nothing of social distancing seems unwise. So, sadly, for the second consecutive year, the fleecy blanket shall stay in the closet, folded next to the library-only pawprint collar in the 2-wheeled tote that elicits spins of great joy when pulled out and thump, thump, thumped down the steps.

Rowdy may miss the ear scratches, head smooches, belly rubs, sticky fingers and smelly toes that come with children in the summer, but he will not, for one moment, regret the cancellation of the pre-visit grooming session. Five years into our relationship this remains a bone of contention, and he refuses to accept that he must occasionally endure the indignity of the bathtub and the blow dryer.

It occurs to me that by the time we return in 2022 (yikes!) many of the readers we knew way back in ’19 will have grown beyond our program, which makes me a little bit sad. But several of them have younger brothers and sisters who may need some handholding by older siblings, so I’ll have the opportunity to not recognize my old book buddies as they’ve matured 2 years closer to middle-school.

It also occurs to me that by the time we return in 2022 (can’t believe I’m talking about events in the year Two Thousand Twenty-Two!) the gregarious golden retriever will have celebrated his 6^th birthday, which puts him solidly in the middle-age sporting breed demographic.

Middle age. A time in which one may be expected to have put away childish things. Key word – may. Rowdy has yet to become the ironic twist of a name I believed it would be, but now we’ve got a whole ‘nother year to make that happen. So maybe we shelve The Rowdy Readers Club in favor of Relax with Rowdy. Possibly Read in Repose, Restful Readers, or even Recline and Read.

Just thinkin’. And hopin’

In the meantime, rowdy Rowdy and I will while away the summer hours hanging out at home, hiking in the park, and horsing around with Biskit, Chicago, Fennel and Mace.

We’ll miss the kids and the books and the fleecy blanket.

But not the bath.

No April Fool

Seems all I had to do was put Fennel’s fears into the blogosphere, as within two weeks of my post about the timid tabby he met me on the barn porch in the pre-dawn darkness for morning chores. I’ll confess to a moment of regret for what I’d wished for, as I realized he’d possibly been out all night, facing the perils of the country after dark.

My discomfort deepened with the observation that his newfound knowledge was limited to one-way travel through the feline flaps.

Shortly after I wrote about Fennel’s fear of the cat door, he figured it out. Initially, he went from workshop into barn, and I’d find him in the hayloft when I came down in the early a.m. He didn’t seem to realize that there was another door that opened from the barn to the outside world, which was fine with me.

But being a cat of cautious curiosity, he eventually figured out the second door too. Though just as with the first, it seemed to be one-way trip, and in this case, the way back in added the peril of getting past eight equine feet that might move in any direction at any moment.

He figured out how to get out, but he did not know how to get in unless you count waiting outside for Lisa to come down and open the people door. Which I do not.

But here he was, alive and well so I gave a nod to the gratitude gods and opted to think positive, take the small victory and pray for a steep learning curve.

However, on April 1^st, there was no Fennel. Not on the porch or in the barn or on the lawn chairs or in the hay loft. He didn’t come when I called him out back, in front, or alongside the barn. He didn’t come when I shook the feed bin and rattled the kibble onto his plastic plate. No joke.

It made for a sad day at Four Sticks Farm to be sure, even though I’ve learned to let go a little of the urge to ride herd too tightly on the barn cats. They keep the barn rodent-free, and in return they get love, food, love, shelter, love, an annual road trip to the vet clinic, and the privilege of roaming the wild kingdom that surrounds our home, where every exploration runs the risk of being the terminating trek. We’ve lost some to cars and more to fates that shall forever remain a mystery. But other than the 3-day adventure of Mocha, the Kwik Trip Kitten, which I’ll save for another post, once a cat doesn’t show up at a regularly scheduled time, s/he never does show up. It’s heartbreaking but it’s reality.

So when Fennel did not appear to demand his Good Night kibble ration, I knew I needed to open his space in my heart and fill it with thanks that he’d been part of our feline family. But just in case, I didn’t slide the barn door completely closed as is the norm, but rather left it open about 6 inches, just enough for a little fraidy cat to fit through in the dark of the night.

Which was apparently what he was waiting for, because he greeted me in the barn the next morning. Real casual, jumping down the hayloft ladder like he always does, like I wouldn’t even notice his Day of Disappearance. Of course, joy beat irritation, so he escaped a serious scolding and instead endured several minutes of being scooped in my arms with smooches and head scratches.

Apparently, he also escaped something not so pleasurable though, as I noticed a smear of dried blood on the tip of his tail, a barn cat badge of honor. I’ll never know just how he spent his April Fool’s Day vacation, but I do know that since his return he’s moved to the hayloft for most of his day. He acknowledges my presence at the top of the ladder every time I go into the barn. Every time.

And on Easter Sunday he passed another rite of passage – his first rodent kill, properly presented for my approval. Halleluiah.

So Fennel has faced his fears and found his calling.

I know he’ll do his job; he’ll do his exploring; he’ll find his way home.

And I’ll leave the barn door open.

Trust Tests

March has been a test of trust here at Four Sticks Farm.

A few of our favorite family and friends are working though some heavy heartbreaks, and it hurts that I can’t protect the people I love from such grief. I keep them in my heart and in my prayers, remind them they are loved and let them know I’m ready to listen. Then I trust that that’s enough, but somedays it seems like a mighty big leap of faith.

On a smaller scale of confidence shakers, the Happy Hooligan has developed an obsession with the deer who wander through the back pasture; his sentry shift starts at 5:00 pm and demands he stare through the deck door until sunset.

He’s been banned from the barn because his vigilance paid off earlier this spring with a few epic chases through the cattail swamp. Fortunately, his run across the pasture to get to the cattail swamp sounds the evacuation alarm to the cervine crew, so it’s White Tails in Flight before rowdy Rowdy hits the tall grass.

I don’t believe he has any interest in catching his prey, it’s all about the chase. One giant, disjointed oval through the woods, the reeds, and the swamp, then a return to the barn with energy that is nothin’ but joy. Exuberant, exhilarated, did-you-see-that, aren’t-I-something joy.

But there is no joy in Mudville and to the one with the opposable thumbs and the mop to go with them, it’s a bad habit and a bunch of time in the grooming room with bad words. I tried to use the behavior as a training opportunity to practice a long down/stay in the barn aisle, which worked for a while, but then it didn’t.

Total trustbuster.

From the department of Keep the Faith however, we’ve now slogged through the worst of winter, though we still have a little slogging left to do as rain and rogue snowfalls make for mud puddles, mud pawprints and mud ponies. The pasture looks rough – bare trees and brown grass dotted with a winter’s worth of brown piles; and the horses have donned their seasonal camouflage, red and yellow coats caked with the dark brown mud of the not yet dry “dry” lot.

While I can’t force the grass to green, or keep the horses from their beloved mud baths, I can take the harrow to the pasture and spread those piles of natural fertilizer, and I can spend some bonding time in the barn with a dandy brush and a shedding blade.

I can trust that the snow will melt, the rain will end, and the puddles will dry.

I can breathe deep, stop to stare at the stars and soak in the silence of late nights and early mornings at Four Sticks Farm.

I can be grateful for living a life I love with people I love.

I can trust that the world is unfolding as it should.

~~I can trust that Rowdy will learn to live in peaceful harmony with the deer who wander through the back pasture~~.

Comfortably Cool

March Mudness has arrived, and with it, many memories of my Old White Pony Cloud, the first equine love of my life, who was not, actually, a pony, nor, when he could help it, was he white.

Cloud was not cool horse. Rusty, retired from a successful stint in the local hunter/jumper show circuit was cool. Especially when he taught my nieces to execute a flying lead change.

Chicago, tall and handsome and a little too full of himself, is cool. If you have any doubt, just watch the raised-tail, high-headed extended trot he performs when cued by the shake of a metal garbage can, flap of a plastic garbage bag or bang of a nearby garbage truck.

But Cloud wasn’t cool.

I met Cloud while we both volunteered for a therapeutic horseback riding program in which we each did our part to enhance the lives of people with disabilities through equine interactions.

His breed and his age were unknown and unremarkable, his stout body covered with a wooly white coat that no longer shed naturally.

His perpetually long hair aside, Cloud’s most distinguishing physical feature was a broad pink scar across his muzzle, the cause of which shall forever remain a mystery along with the rest of his long-lost history.

His personality did nothing to make him stand out among his pony pals either, as he was a bottom of the herd horse, preferring to walk away from a challenge rather than engage in any unpleasant interaction.

I once watched a young rider scramble up the mounting block, uber-eager for his turn to get on a mighty steed and ride off to the evening’s adventures. He made his way to the top of the stand, turned to watch his horse approach, slumped his shoulders and mumbled, with just the slightest quiver in his voice, “ahhh, I have to ride Cloud?”

Two years later I was finally prepared to get my very first, very own horse, and had arranged to adopt one of the therapeutic program retirees, thinking of the middle-aged sorrel Arabian/Quarter Horse gelding with whom I’d fallen in love, and whose career was being called prematurely due to some mild lameness issues.

So, when the news came that the fulfillment of my life-long dream would come not in the form of a flashy red horse, but rather a stocky white pony with a permanent pink patch on his nose, for the tiniest fraction of a moment, I was the 40-year-old version of that boy on the mounting block – ahhh, I have to own Cloud?

But it was truly the tiniest fraction of a moment. He was still a horse after all and better yet, now he was My horse. Old, shaggy, and slow to some, but experienced, fluffy, and judicious to me.

He was calm and wise and prudent – my First Choice for the First Ride of any wannabe equestrian to visit Four Sticks Farm, which earned him a special place in the hearts of many little girls, but his cool factor faded quickly as they moved on to newer, sportier models.

He learned to bow while being groomed – a accidental consequence of me happening to be quick with a treat when he happened to need to stretch – but though his one pony trick was good for a laugh and an extra affectionate pat of the neck, it did nothing to raise his status as The Horse of Choice.

With his Coat That Would Not Shed, Cloud was literally not cool during our hot humid summers but only a commitment to the curry comb and a tolerance for taking home nearly as much hair as was left on the barn floor could make a dent in ridding him of all that white fleece. And by the time I reached some semblance of a summer coat, I had approximately one week to admire it before seeing sprouts of the protective covering needed for the winter that would come – in four or five months.

I once spent the better part of two afternoons body-clipping him, and he patiently tolerated my hours of sweaty toil as he stood in front of the barn fan, but upon release he immediately headed for the mucky end of the pasture to exfoliate with a full-body mud pack.

He loved to be dirty and without fail, would find the muddiest spot available for a deliciously decadent roll immediately following any grooming session.

Cloud was the well-worn brown leather ropers in a world of pink ostrich-skin cowboy boots. But he was comfortable in his dusty, hairy skin and I was lucky enough to live with him for the last five years of his life, time spent learning from a master of sage humility. He knew who he was, and where he fit in his herd. He knew what was expected of him, when he needed to move, when he could stay where he was, and why that bell rang every evening at 5:00 – he was well aware of the value of the daily snack-n-snooze in the peaceful confines of his own stall.

My Old White Pony knew how to live a life – get along with the others, but when you can’t, just walk away; do what you can to make kids happy; make people laugh a little whenever you get the chance; scars make for good stories; short do’s aren’t for everyone, and keep your hair the color you want it to be.

Cloud was a cool horse.

Friend of All Fleecies

Rowdy loves his Squeaker Bone. Though what golden retriever wouldn’t love a 24-inch fleecy femur filled with a 20-inch plastic noisemaker?

Be it a testament to his generally gentle nature or a demonstration of devotion to this particular toy he’s loved it for months, with no implementation of the search and destroy mission targeting the hidden squeaker that would be standard operating procedure for the Four Sticks Farm canines who came before.

He does enjoy the occasional display of dominance, in which he grabs the bone on one end and shakes it with great vigor until he knocks himself into the closest piece of furniture. But mostly he likes to carry it around the house, applying periodic pressure to confirm that the squeaker is still in proper working condition.

I bought the extra-large plaything as a training aid, to keep Rowdy and his teeth to themselves when company came in. For as many dogs as I’ve owned, loved and educated, I’ve never managed to convince any of them that a knock on the door does not, in fact, translate to “rush to the door leaping and barking ‘cuz obedience is for idiots”. But since Rowdy’s interpretation also included guiding the visitor into the house with a gentle grasp of the hand, I had to address the situation pronto.

The obvious “Stay” options, Sit/Stay, Down/Stay, OnYourBed/Stay, DeathGripOnTheCollar/Stay – proved ineffective, likely victims of handler error, handler frustration and handler fatigue. So, I channeled my mostly dormant inner dog trainer and came up with a strategy that plays to one of Rowdy’s greatest pleasures – carrying something in his mouth. If his mouth is otherwise occupied, he can neither bark nor grab, and when I saw the super-sized snuggle toy in the catalog, I decided to dive deep and spend ridiculously big dollars on a ridiculously big pet toy.

Money well spent. As a behavior modification, the big bone fills the bill. He still rushes to the entry at the slightest sign of People Entering but is now slowed by

the need to grab his greeting support object and
the balancing act involved in getting through doorways with the extra-wide load.

Upon arrival he happily presents his pride and joy to the incoming, but is not likely to drop it, lest he lose it – sharing is not a core value in Rowdy’s realm.

The Squeaker Bone became a constant companion. So much so that I ordered the smaller, more portable “Squeaker Man” as a travel companion because jumping into the truck while balancing and centering 24 inches of floppy fabric presents a logistical challenge more easily conquered with the 10-inch alternative.

He managed to silence the Squeaker Man without breaking its’ fleecy skin but even on permanent mute he loves it as much as the day the man in the big brown truck dropped it at our door.

The Squeaker Squad has now expanded to include the Squeaker Squirrel, a diminutive wooly rodent just about mouthful-size, and the Squeaker Monkey, a perfectly proportioned primate with appendages perfect for tossing. These most recent additions sport a color that doesn’t display the dirt collected during days of being soaked in dog saliva and dragged across the wood floors, a sizable selling point to the shepherd responsible for tending the flock and their living quarters.

Rowdy rarely enters a room without a fuzzy friend in tow, offering an up close and personal introduction to anyone else in the area, confident that everyone shares his affection for his beloved buddies. What’s not to like about a slobbered-up hunk of synthetic wool mashed into one’s lap?

He embraces every member of his fleecy fold with affectionate enthusiasm, and each has its own place in Rowdy’s world, no matter their individual idiosyncrasies. He chooses one to shake, squeeze, toss, tote or travel with no discrimination toward size, sound, shape or color.

But mostly he just hangs with them. He sets them on one of his many dog beds and lies behind them, ready to pick them up when the time is right, willing to wait quietly until then. A silent supportive friend, present but not pushing, in-touch but not intrusive.

Until someone knocks on the door.

Fraidy Cat

Turns out Fennel may not be the bravest or brightest of barn cats.

The experience of losing two of my favorite kittens to wildlife (ok, so since it took 2 times maybe I’m not the brightest of barn owners) taught me a lesson – keep the kittens in the barn at night.

So baby Fennel’s arrival brought a first to Four Sticks Farm – a litterbox in the tack room. Along with a scratching post, a comfy cat bed and an assortment of cat toys not constructed of baling twine. He has access to the attached workshop and to Mace, the ancient barn cat, with outside exploration ~~available~~, ~~encouraged~~, mandated, whenever I am in the building.

He’s learned to climb the hayloft ladder to the wonders of dried grass bales, spider webs and barn soffits; to stalk grasshoppers, leaves, snow chunks and Biskit’s tail; to scale trees and hay piles and the sidewalls of the manure bins.

He’s learned to outrun a 70-pound golden retriever bearing down hard with a slobbery squeaker ball.

He’s also learned to race for the safe space of the tack room at the sound of a stranger’s voice, a horse’s sneeze or the hum of the overhead barn door, which limits his feats of athletic achievement to a 50-yard radius of the barn.

While Rowdy and I fill bird feeders in the back yard and spread hay flakes in the back pasture Fennel never ventures far from the barn porch, yowling a plaintive caterwaul that clearly expresses his woe, his fear and his fervent hope that we will be back soon.

With pet doors conveniently located in 2 of the barn doors, our feline friends enjoy 24/7 access to the heated shop, with freedom to explore the great outdoors whenever they choose. This also provides the convenience of using a horse stall when our Minnesota winter freezes the natural litterboxes outside, or when they just want to save a couple steps.

We generally take a couple minutes and a couple treats to teach newbies the mechanics of the magical 2-way plastic flap, and aside from a couple dicey moments during Mace’s super-sized days, the cats have passed through willingly and without incident.

Then along came Fennel. In his defense, we haven’t taken a couple minutes with a couple treats with him, an intentional omission inspired by my desire to keep him confined to the safety of the building, away from the owls, coyotes and cars that prey on innocent, ignorant barn cats.

I also believed that he’d eventually figure it out, especially after witnessing a wrestling match from which Mace escaped Fennel’s seemingly solid whizzer hold by pushing through the cat door directly behind them. Fennel watched his nemesis disappear through the translucent flap, but rather than follow Mace to finish the fight, he sat down to watch me finish my barn chores, perfectly content to wait for me to open the people door, plenty spacious for the both of us to pass through.

So, it seems my efforts to shelter my little orange purrsker from the dangers of the big wide world have left him cornered in a tiny narrow neighborhood, a misguided tabby traveling down the path of good intentions.

But March has arrived, my annual injection of renewed optimism. I’ll open the doors, embrace the sunshine and enjoy the melted muck, the shedded hair and the growing green that is the fun of Four Sticks Farm in spring.

I’ll hope that Fennel finds his brave; that he moves on from this very scary year aware but not afraid, hopeful and not hesitant, confident and not so cautious. I hope he pushes through that little cat door and sees the beauty of his world, trusting that he’s tough enough to make his way, comforted in the knowledge that when he finds himself sitting solo on the barn porch, help is only a caterwaul away.

Though it may come bearing a slobbery squeaker ball.

Life from a Different Angle

Chicago likes to remind me that the grass is truly greener on the other side of the fence. Even if the grass is last year’s hay and the other side is the barn aisle.

Though 19 years at Four Sticks Farm has allowed for the establishment of a solid chore routine, sometimes things just happen. During a recent lunchtime ritual, I forgot to close Chicago’s stall door, possibly distracted by Rowdy patrolling the pasture in search of something to eat, something to chase, or something in which to roll. Or maybe the disruption was Fennel, demanding I open the tack room door so he could sit in the opening, heating the unheated barn while he decided whether or not he felt up to an outdoor stroll or a hay pile inspection. Biskit may have been pounding the stall wall in protest of the sluggish service. It may have been the need to monitor a water bucket perched under the running faucet, precariously close to overflowing. Or Mace’s insistence that the Time For Which the Cat Dish Has Been Empty had now entered status Completely Unacceptable and required immediate attention.

In any case, The Big Red Beast opted for a little barn walkabout that ended right back at his stall, eating his ration from the outside looking in. With minimal encouragement he quietly returned to the confines of said stall, where he finished his lunch and settled into his bed of many shavings for the noontime nap.

No harm, no foul, just another little lesson in looking at the world through a different lens. Lots of ways to live your life. Or eat your hay. So let go of the judgement.

But do keep the cat dish filled.

Learning to Listen

listen (lis·ten) vi. 1: to pay attention to sound 2: to hear something with thoughtful attention : give consideration 3: to be alert to catch an expected sound

Reading with Rowdy went to the Delano Library this week with high hopes for big improvement in his library listening skills.

Rowdy and I have been working on a “listen” command, that translates to golden retriever as “lay your chin flat on the ground and lie quietly until instructed otherwise” and which lets our little patrons know that he is ready to pay attention to the sounds of their voices sharing their storybooks.

Thanks to a training clicker and a bag of rabbit-flavored mini treats, my happy hooligan mastered the meaning of the word and will eagerly drop his head to the floor, with the rest of his golden giddiness following in some semblance of stillness. He’ll usually stay put, and generally needs only a silent-but-serious look or a subtle “Ahem” as a reminder to set his head back down if he lifts it before official release. Unless…

Unless someone enters the room. Or leaves the room. Or talks in the room, walks past the room, opens the door, closes the door, or drops something on the floor in the room. Shiny objects are everywhere.

We introduced his new trick – which, when the novelty wears off and the reliability soaks in, we’ll call a behavior – last month, using small bits of a soft treat as an intermittent reward. Fortunately, the treats brought out a series of successfully completed reading sessions. Unfortunately, they also brought out a series of soundless stomach releases that I could not pass of as those of the sleeping sibling, napping while her brother read to Rowdy.

So this month we went in sans food rewards, verbal praise only; and Rowdy respectfully showed his readiness to listen when asked, maintaining the position as the kids shared their books with him. Mostly.

Mostly, except for the 2 attempts to complete his favorite roll-on-the-back-and-grab-the-leash maneuver, which threatened to morph into his full-blown clear-the-fleecy-blanket thrashing episodes of old.

Mostly, except for the irresistible lure of toddler siblings with sticky hands and smelly shoes; Rowdy’s Nirvana, a veritable disco ball of distraction.

Turns out though, he really is learning to listen; to pay attention, to hear with thoughtful attention. Especially when he gives consideration to the tiny bit of pressure he feels under his chin from an opposable thumb on the other end of the leash -a low level attention-getter, perfectly suited to stopping the dog without stopping the reader. He picked up on the prompt and stayed alert to catch the expected sound.

Good boy! Let’s go get a treat!

In the truck. With the windows open.