Senses Census

Glue sticks and spiral notebooks now occupy the prime retail real estate, and rumor has it Halloween displays are already claiming their share of shelf space, so it seems fair to say we’re midway through the summer, a season rivaled only by Christmas for sensory stimulation.

We had a house painting project happening around here in June, which meant no flowers on the porch or deck, but the garden center conveniently located 4.5 miles due East, and on my way to almost everywhere, seemed to hold a sale of some sort every time I drove by.

Being the civic-minded sort, I stopped in to support the local economy, which explains the excessive pinks, yellows, and purples of the too-many annuals placed around the yard in my temporary holding zones.

Economic assistance. That’s Lisa Logic. I love it, George has learned to live with it.

Painting completed, the plants were moved to their more permanent locations on the deck and after a brief tutorial, Ruffian learned that they are for decorative purposes only, and not, actually, for his dining pleasure.

New this year are some cheerful zinnias and showy cosmos, through which I feel my grandma Maxine, who planted them along the cedar fence in her backyard. When I look at those flowers, I see teenage me sitting with her on the concrete patio that connected her two-bedroom rambler and the detached garage.

I smell the smoke of her PallMall red, taste the real sugar of my icy Coca Cola in a glass bottle, and I hear Herb Carneal calling play by play for our Minnesota Twins as jets cruise across the flight path overhead, approaching and departing Minneapolis St Paul International.

Fortunately, Mother Nature has generously supplied the waterworks this summer, leaving me, the generally neglectful gardener, in a mostly supporting role; and I’ve come to appreciate my watering routine – the grounding of my bare feet on the warmed wood of the deck planks, the cathartic calm of deadheading spent blossoms, and the affable acceptance of a hummingbird’s impatient whirring around my head as he waits for me to move away from his Cuphea café, the new pollinator hot spot at Four Sticks Farm.

The best view from my deck includes Chicago and Moe, sporting shiny summer coats, both spotted with white dots befitting their heritages.

It’s a Pasture Palooza kind of summer, so they’re enjoying as much green freshness as they can manage with swishing tails, twitching ears, and an afternoon break to doze beneath the draft of their stall fans while the bugs are blown away.

The seasonal barn bouquet is one of warm horse and hay and citronella insect spray, but the tack room, unless I remember to run the dehumidifier, retains the faint but foul smell of a stray brown tabby who, many years ago, spent the night as an uninvited visitor. Fortunately, he found more accommodating accommodations elsewhere, so his was a single night stay, but he left a mark.

To minimize the muddy paws and stinging insects of our so-far warm and wet summer, Rowdy, Ruff and I are mostly walking at a park with a paved trail that winds past a target shooting range, through the woods, next to a radio-controlled airplane landing strip, along the Mississippi River, and around a disc-golf course.

The trail takes us across a sunny stretch of wild-flowered prairie grasses before leading into a shady pine forest, where we meet walkers, runners, cyclists, hoverboarders, skateboarders, inline skaters and frisbee golfers.

We hear the staccato pops of target shooters, and the droning whines of miniature flying machines, the thwack of golf discs hitting trees and the metallic ting of golf discs hitting chain-link baskets.

If our schedules have been synchronized, we also hear the threatening vocalizations of a pair of tiny dachshunds asking my golden punks if they feel lucky.

And if we really are lucky, we hear the nearly silent thump of a deer paw landing on soft soil when it leaps through the trees ahead of us.

It’s been a bunch of beautiful days in this neighborhood. Even when the humidity hits the high notes, when I feel that single drop of sweat sliding down my spine, there is respite in the slightest breeze or spot of shade.

The air around the house smells of pink verbena, damp soil, mowed grass, and some wildflower that I’ve yet to ferret out.

I wake up Every morning and fall asleep Every night serenaded by house wren who sings incessantly, staking his claim and looking for love. All. Day. Long.

I look at a world of wildlife.

And cats and dogs and horses.

And flowers.

Fifty percent off.

Road Sign for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 3
Obedience night
He did pretty well
The lessons, it seems
Are starting to gel.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 4
He ignored the distractions
That were placed on the floor
I had hope when we started
And now I have more.

Midsummer Musings

Moe is learning it maybe will pay
To be calm and stand still and to stay.
The bugs are so bad
He no longer gets mad
When it’s aerosol, not a pump spray.

Chicago, unlike his friend Moe
Lets me spritz him from forelock to toe.
Goodbye to the bugs
From me he gets hugs
My old pony, I just love him so.

The swallows are back for round two
I’d rather they not, but they do
When the barn door is open
They fly in just hopin’
This time they can stay, I won’t shoo.

The cats don’t seem bothered by heat
Though I question their choice of first seat
They spend most of the day
In the loft with the hay
Coming down once or twice just to eat.

Ruff’s allowed in the barn during chores
Cleans up grain that’s been dropped on the floors
Then unless I watch close
He’ll go roll in the gross
Unperturbed by my shouts and my swores.

Rowdy’s great, just an all-around champ
Edging close to his Senior Dog stamp
Still got plenty of pluck
But to exit the truck
Doesn’t jump, now he trots down a ramp.

It’s a beautiful time of the year
To sit out on the deck with a beer
Watch this place and these pets
Know no better it gets
Raise a glass, nod of thanks, give a cheer.

Road Sign for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 2
I opened his crate
He hung in the back
I convinced him to join me
He did really great

Rainy Days and Reading. Or Not

A friend loaned me a book at the end of March, and I planned to read it before I next see her at the beginning of May.

“Plan” is a word I’ve learned to use lightly, as some stronger lifeforce likes to play with the power of the plot twist.

My road to reading time, paved with good intention, is often detoured by a host of omnipresent obstacles. Barn work, housework, yard work, work work, family events and adventures, text conversations about family events and adventures, phone calls about family events and adventures, dog walking, horse grooming, cat coddling and blog post writing, act as roadblocks to my books.

But Sunday’s rainy weather proved to be a perfect indoor-recess kind of day – finally, a day for doing nothing but getting lost in another time, another world.

Morning chores were completed under cloudy skies with cool temps and fine rain falling. Chicago and Moe stood in the mist long enough to be wet enough to remove “Brush horses” from the day’s To Do list, so they came in the barn for a long, leisurely lunch.

Rowdy and Ruff were still recovering from two days of rabblerousing with Remi during a cousin dog sleepover, which allowed us to skip a cold walk on a muddy trail without threat of any rambunctious ramifications.

So, prop up the pillows and open up the book! However, the view from my couch was one of copious clumps of Ruffian fluff covering the front of every furnace vent, clustered in every corner and collected under every piece of furniture.

Ruff is our Charlie Brown Christmas tree, dropping strands of silky white hair with any and all movement – sit, stand, lie down, get up, walk, run or jump on the window seat in the back entry. A full body shake brings me near to tears.

But before the Swiffer® sheet comes out, the Bona® wet mop must sop up the splotches of slobber slopped across the hardwood.

Ruffian slurps from the water dish in staccato swipes of the tongue, leaving the surrounding area splashed with spots flicked from his mouth, but Rowdy drops saliva in the bowl as he gulps water out, then dumps a trail out the door as strings of slippery spit stretch to the tile.

We keep a bleached-out beach towel on the bathroom doorknob to wipe his chin when we catch him and swab the floor when we don’t, and because he so often bellies up to the water bowl saloon, there’s a whole lotta wipin’ goin’ on.

Rowdy is also a distracted drinker. When I hear the familiar gulp-gulp-gulp-pause-gulp-gulp-gulp, I sneak in and stand in silent stillness until the last gulp goes down, because if his spidey-sense detects my presence, he’ll turn his head mid-guzzle, dump a pool of slobber on the floor and splatter the wall with a shake of his juicy jowls.

Practice has polished my mop and dust process though, so I quickly cleaned the floor and mentally cleared the remainder of the day for nothing but a book and a beverage.

I opened my book to page 38.

Ninety minutes later I opened my eyes to page 41.

And 2 dogs willing me to get their supper.

And 2 horses calling me to let them out.

At this pace, I’ll finish the book for my friend’s New Years visit.

Bring on those snow days.

Slow Spring

While doing dishes the other night, standing at the kitchen sink, hands soaking in hot soapy water (one of my many peculiarities – I find some peace and satisfaction in this chore) I looked out the window to see six deer strolling along the south fence of the pasture, sauntering out of the cattails on the east side into the woods on the west.

Generally, I’d announce their presence, but cervine sightings create a ruckus with the retrievers, and even George getting up to look out the deck door would alert the always-on-call Ruff and Rowdy, which would provoke much barking and jumping and running from one lookout spot to the next until the last white tail high-tailed into the swamp.

And lulled as I was, by the warm lavender-scented suds, I opted to circumvent the canine chaos and said nothing, just kept the secret as I stood, watched, and wondered where they’d stop to sleep.

Our weak winter offered the deer many dining options and we didn’t see much of them this year, but spring brings them back to call dibs on the fresh pasture. I’m happy to see them, though Chicago and Moe, denied access until the grass gets a chance to establish itself for the season, do not share my sense of hospitality.

Spring also brings a series of addendums to the ever-present list of ideas and intentions that get added, edited, sifted, sorted, and prioritized in my mind.

Fill the long-empty bird feeders for the long-gone birds who flew off in search of a more secure food source
Rake the piles of rejected hay left on the shelter floor by the two indulged geldings who may be just slightly overfed and underworked
Spend some serious time with Chicago, Moe and the shedding blade
Drag the two shamrocks and the peace lily out from their winter refuge under the saddle rack and get them growing before going outside for their summer vacation
Figure a way to get Fennel to the vet for annual vaccinations and examination of a suspected abscess on his right rear leg which morphed into a mysterious series of bald patches circling his tail

I’m a card-carrying member of the Lifelong Listmakers Club, but lately the tasks don’t make the move from my noggin to my notebook or beyond. Not much step in my spring so far.

The animals are always priority of course – stalls are cleaned, feed pans and water buckets filled, and everybody gets conversations, confections, affection, and attention multiple times a day, it’s just the extra activities that get shuffled to the bottom of the never-ending list.

Small things, big things, fun things, dumb things all float around my mind, bubble up and settle down to simmer or to soak while I cogitate, procrastinate, and finally opt to activate.

Funny though, over the weekend I realized that my barn chores are once again serenaded by cardinals, chickadees, robins, wrens, owls and red-winged blackbirds in the trees, while turkeys, pheasants and sandhill cranes chime in from the marsh. So, the feeders are full again.

The black mat of the shelter floor is now clearly visible, devoid of the layer of leftover hay. Turns out that if I feed Chicago and Moe like the easy-livin’ equines they are, rather than putting out enough to fuel a couple draft horses plowing the back forty, they cycle back through the ration a time or two, picking out the pieces that they passed over previously.

A few exfoliating sessions in the mud puddles of the “dry lot” have helped them self-shed, shiny summer coats starting to peek through the crusted dirt that’ll clean up quickly with a curry comb.

The shamrocks and the peace lily pushed up through the potting soil despite my inattention, and their tenacity inspired me to add a little fertilizer-infused water to aid the effort.

Fennel’s skin has healed, his hair is growing back, and since we’ve mutually agreed to call an end to his veterinary visits, the cat crate has been removed from the barn, so he no longer eyes me with suspicion, nor bolts when I get close enough to touch him. He trusts me. He really trusts me.

“Slowing down doesn’t mean giving up” said my Calm app the other day. Timely, welcome words. Sometimes it’s ok to take a minute to let the universe unfold.

To stand silently at the sink and wonder where the deer are headed.

Don’t tell the dogs.

Winter Weather

March was mostly a lamb, mild and meek
Devoid of its usual bleak.
I thought we’d get lucky
But now it’s quite mucky
From the 15-inch snowfall last week.

Chicago’s quite light on his feet
When the sun shines its spring-level heat.
The barn roof of snow
Warms up, then lets go
And slides off in one big noisy sheet.

For the most part, Moe took it in stride
But he’d rather be out than inside.
He pooped in his bucket
His version of F*#@ it
When he heard the first rooftop snow slide.

Ruff and Rowdy thought snow piles were grand
Loved to play in the white-covered land.
Never minded the cold
They burrowed and rolled
Chasing snowballs, they climbed and the ranned.

The cats hunkered down in the barn shop
Out the door, two tabbies would not pop.
They had food, choice of stall
To take care of it all
Content ‘til they saw the last snow drop.

We may still have one last winter fling
Warm weather’s not yet a sure thing.
But the air has less chill
And the birds have more trill
So there’s hope, it will really be spring.

Sunday Unscheduled

6:37. I wake naturally, notably more rested than when roused by an escalating ringtone or socked with a sandpapery paw pad, and fully aware that I have nothing on the schedule today. It’s one of the rare days with no calendar commitments so I caution myself to not waste it.

Our many meteorologists predict 60-something degrees, also rare, also not to be wasted.

My Unscheduled Schedule: change the sheets, get a couple loads of laundry done early, walk in the park with Ruff and Rowdy, then spend the afternoon in the barn with the big boys, cleaning equines and their winter-weary equipment.

Fresh linens on the bed, others piled on the floor, breakfast is ready, so I’ll haul sheets down to the laundry room after I eat.

While downing my oatmeal and grapefruit, I solve the sudoku, and with coffee I crack the cryptoquip and nearly complete the crossword when I hear the telltale zzzzzzzzzzttt of tearing fabric. Ruffian’s decided to do a bit of tailoring, splitting the seam on one corner of the flat sheet lying on the bedroom floor, preparing to take a little off the edges.

I recognize his universal sign for “I need something constructive to do,” and outdoor activity is in order, so I heap the linens on the washer, vow to do laundry when the sun goes down, and take advantage of our unusual sweatshirt weather with two of the greatest dogs in the whole wide world.

Off to Montissippi to walk with my gentle-leadered goldens, pleased with their minimal attempts to rub off the head collar, the reduction in pulls off the path, and the nearly never occurrences of Ruff dead-stopping in the middle of my path.

The last occurrence was at this park, when he halted abruptly on the pavement, directly in front me, leaving an angry raw scrape that turned into a thick itchy scab that morphed into a scar on the left side of my left knee cap, which pairs nicely with the scar on the right side of my left knee cap, a memorial to a no good very bad day on my beloved purple stingray on the unforgiving gravel of Coon Rapids Boulevard.

But now we mostly keep moving, mostly in our own lanes.

Thinking while I walked, about my pre-spring cleaning barn project, I realize I need hay cubes at the Country Store which closes early on Sunday, so the dogs and I take the long way home from the park, which is to say we drive completely out of our way to get Chicago and Moe’s Senior Supper, a salt block for Chicago and one more thing that’s been on my mental supply list for a couple weeks, but which I’ve now forgotten, and hope I will remember when I get there. But I don’t.

Once home, I let the golden boys in the dog yard with a big stick of distraction for Ruff. Headed to the barn, forty pounds of hay cubes hefted over my shoulder, feeling remarkably heavier than the 50-pound bags I used to haul around,

Horses in, I head out, to rake the rejected hay remnants from the edges of the shelter, loading the wheelbarrow, hauling and dumping and spreading in the dry lot, giving the ponies something to pick through while they pass the next couple of months of closed pasture.

Shelter clean, horses enjoy fresh quarters, fresh hay and fresh air.

Company! Time for a spontaneous beverage break, chatting, chips and whiling away an hour or two. Or three.
Back to the barn to toss hay down into the small storage stall, but first, lift the pallets, sweep, load, haul, dump, and spread; then climb up the ladder, crawl across the bales loaded in the loft, ponder the probability of ever solving the annual mystery of putting up hay in a manner conducive to a convenient, First In, First Out system of inventory management.

Throw 28 bales over the ledge, climb down the ladder, crawl across the bales scattered in the stall, push, pull and pile them in an orderly stack, sweep up the broken bales, fill up the wheelbarrow one more time, and let Moe pick out his favorite pieces while I set some in front of Chicago and parcel out the rest to the feeders for the overnight ration.

Good night ponies.

A little kibble in the cat dishes for Fennel and Mace.

See you in the a.m., kits.

A shower (how does hay even get there?!) some supper and a cocktail that I fall asleep before finishing.

A good day. Not a moment wasted.

And on the Monday schedule – laundry.

Wintertime at Fours Sticks Farm

We were coddled by a mild December
Spared the snow and cold that we remember
But the new year brought a frigid change
Which made the winter not so strange

I bundle up and trundle out to live this life I’ve chosen
With gratitude for thick warm socks and boots to slide my toes in
The weight and bulk of extra layers make daily chores take longer
But I muddle through and I’m still here, so I guess I must be stronger?

Ruff and Rowdy are always game to hike the trails at the park
But our daily treks are shorter now, to be sure we’re back by dark
They like the rhythm of routine, how it connects to time to eat
They recognize it’s mealtime, and when they get their treat

Youthful Fennel still patrols the perimeter of the grounds
Frosty footing shall not stop him from his self-appointed rounds
But oldster Mace stays in the barn throughout the winter season
With food and heat and comfy beds, and horse stalls that he pees in

Chicago and Moe in shaggy coats survive the frigid weather
In their shelter full of forage, standing close together
For snack they head to pasture, with its scattered piles of hay
To ensure they move a little bit, every single day

The outside chores begin and end within the hours of sunlight
Except for final barn check in the dark and peaceful night
When I plant a couple kisses on a couple frosty muzzles
Then head back in to settle down, with a beverage and some puzzles

This longer stretch of darkness grants permission to just be
To read and dream and organize and maybe watch tv
Our winter standard time is not so governed by the clock
A season of serenity, I try to pause and think, relax, take stock

It’s a Wonderful Life -2023

Six seniors meet for supper and close the place down – at 9:00 pm – cheers!
Horses eating hay in the moonlight
Bagpipes and bars in New Richmond warm frozen Irish arses at the St Patrick’s Day parade – ssssSlainte!
Brief battle of wits with a raccoon ransacking the barn – the good guy won
Catchin’ up in Kernersville – has it really been 3 years?
Ruffian – Rowdy’s unrequested roommate – 60-pounds of cream-colored cheerful charm
George’s caterpillar conservation colony sends nearly 4 dozen monarchs in search of warmer weather from the cages on our front porch – fyi, caterpillars poop a lot
Heartbreaking goodbye to Biskit leads to heartwarming hello to Moe
Fiber optic internet reaches Four Sticks Farm – speeding into the 21st century
Rowdy’s work as Study Hall Monitor schools Lisa in open-hearted, clear-headed kindness – be present, be quiet, and understand that some days it’s ok to simply sit and pet the dog
Little kids meeting big horses
Making new friends and treasuring the old, dinners and movies, bike rides and beers, brunches, lunches, picnics and parks, sister sleepovers, sharing frozen pizza with several favorite people
It is still a beautiful world
Here’s Hoping for a Peaceful, Happy, Healthy New Year!

*Muddy Moe – beauty is, truly, in the eye of the beholder*

Dog Days of December

Postscript to “Relationship Rehabs”: about the time that post was published, Ruffian was annihilating the bed pictured in the middle photo at the end of the entry. That was number 3, so the Destroyer of Dog Beds has since been enrolled in the FSF Dog Bed Behavior Modification program.

I bought a replica of Rowdy’s orthopedic memory foam cushion, which is the only bed Ruff hasn’t tried to demolish, and three weeks in, under strict supervision, the only damage done is removal of the manufacturer’s tag, even under penalty of law. Scofflaw.

Thanks to our exceptionally mild weather, we’ve been able to enjoy some unusually easy winter walking, so have also been able to maintain our daily hiking routine, and Ruffian seems more at ease in the woods.

Sudden stops are minimal now, less about safety and surveillance, more about snuffling of scat. The trails are littered with the leavings of woodland creatures who’ve passed before us, and the irresistible intrigue of scratch-n-sniff secrets allows ample opportunity to practice our “Leave It”.

But enforcement of the instruction still requires a gentle tug of encouragement, resulting in 60 pounds of semi-cooperation sling-shotting from two feet behind me to three feet in front, requiring me to channel my inner yogi and “activate my core” to counterbalance, keep my shoulder in the socket and my feet on the forest floor.

Fortunately, Rowdy’s excrement explorations rarely require more than a 10 second verbal “wrap it up” warning, setting the stage for Ruff’s eventual acquiescence, as majority rules and the majority are movin’ on.

Speaking of stages, the Happy Hooligan recently made his theatrical debut, playing the part of Max in our little school production of “The Grinch”.

His character spent the entirety of the play in the cave on Mount Crumpit, constructed of two bookcases cleverly disguised with cardboard, so years of yoga came in handy as I spent 20 minutes in Hero Pose, crouched behind Rowdy and next to The Grinch, who, fortunately for all involved, weighs in at a pint-sized 90 pounds.

In preparation for the role, Rowdy learned to speak and bow on cue, neither of which he actually executed during the performance, but the students still adore him, and having seen the skills during rehearsal, they continue to bombard him with requests for the behaviors during Study Hall, so he’s barking and bowing on a regular basis between the hours of 9:45 and 11:15.

Despite some industrial strength vigilance, Ruffian breeched security and helped himself to a snack of fabric wrapping ribbon, which his intestines did not find festive. He’s purged (fingers crossed) most of it in the dog yard, and puked some putrid puddles on the hardwood floors, the scent of which now permeates the house. Nothin’ says Home for the Holidays like a dog in digestive distress, and there are not enough pine boughs or gingerbread houses to clear this air.

He appears to be on the road to recovery so I’m cautiously optimistic that he’ll follow the same path to survival as the steel-stomached retrievers of my past, especially after a trip to meet his new best friends at the vet clinic, where we spent a lot of money for a little information, a few x-rays, a bunch of barium and a passel of peace of mind.

But even with the dismantled dog beds, substandard stage performances, and gummed up gastrointestinal tracts, like the Who’s down in Whoville we’re enjoying the spirit of the holidays – the colored lights, the Christmas cocktails, the chocolate-dipped ginger snaps, the extra efforts to connect with favorite people and share food, laughter, memories and plans.

It is still a beautiful world.

Relationship Rehabs

A new pooch in the pack, a new horse in the herd, new routines to design, and new relationships to develop.

Ruffian is settling in, his adolescent enthusiasm a little less frenzied, a little more responsive to requests for awareness of the rest of us. He’s dialed back the desire for thrashing throw rugs, battering dog beds and running the ottoman obstacle course, but retains an irresistible delight for life that inspires great joy.

Though I cut some slack for the unknowns of his Before Life, Ruff’s a quick study. He’s figured out that sitting or lying down are solid choices during those awkward pauses when he’s been told to do something but wasn’t actually ready to listen.

He understands that the good chews are given out just before I head to the barn for night check, and if I forget, he only needs to sit straight and stare intensely to bore the reminder into my brain.

He knows to eat only from his own dish, and that the chewing of dog beds is frowned upon in this establishment, though that last one is still on his list of 4th quarter goals.

Rowdy, Ruff and I walk most afternoons, practicing and progressing as a mobile unit; Ruff in his harness, Rowdy in his head collar, picking their positions and staying put. Kind of. Ruffian continues crisscrossing and zigzagging, thus tangling leashes and tripping Lisa, but with a little less frequency, so my shoulder now stays firmly in its socket, though the left Deltoid may be slightly over developed.

Ruff still spooks some on the trails – other hikers, horses and their riders, squirrels scrambling up trees, acorns falling down, deer leaping deftly, leaves drifting lazily may all cause a momentary pause in forward progress. We stop, look, listen, loosen the leash, and wait until he determines we may safely proceed, and move on.

While we’re at a standstill, I study that remarkably sweet face surveying his surroundings and wonder, again, what happened to him. Is he listening for the sound of a familiar voice? Scenting for the smell of someone he knew? Mentally mapping our course so he can find his way back? It saddens me enough to stand quietly for a few seconds while he thinks his dog thoughts. For the first 5 or 6 stops anyway.

Down in the barn, Moe moved in, Chicago moved over, and the herd moved back to equilibrium.

Moe is missing one eye, but his calm demeanor and everyone else’s mindfulness of the restricted vision made for a smooth transition.

He conquered his suspicion of the automatic water bowl within minutes, and by the end of our first afternoon trusted me as a reliable source of raspberry horse snacks and reassuring neck scratches.

We’ve learned to walk together, he’s comfortable in the crossties, and we’re getting to know the choice grooming spots. He’s ok in his stall but prefers the wide-open space of the pasture and has singled out a section with plants he particularly enjoys.

Chicago and Moe have settled into a generally accepted equine routine, Moe plays Goldilocks in the cottage that is our run-in shelter, checking each feeding station for the hay he finds Just Right, while Chicago waits. Given that the Big Red Beast has had first pick of the porridge for the last 7 years, this makes my heart hurt a bit, but it’s standard operating procedure for the horses, and it only takes Moe a minute to make his choice, then Chicago moves to one of the other spots so all may live happily ever after.

Much as I enjoy a formal training class, my schooling style has morphed into a more prosaic approach. Core principles of safety, civility and citizenship are presented in a conversational tone – a hand raised casually with a “Give me a sec” gesture, translates in Ruffianspeak to “Wait until I get to the top of the landing, the bottom of the stairs, or on the other side of the threshold.”

A single tasty golf shoe is eagerly swapped for three pieces of tastier dog kibble.

A hand on Moe’s left hip as he walks enters his stall means “Continue walking until all 4 feet have cleared the door.”

I set up the bumpers of consistent, persistent guidance and we bounce down the Alley of Acceptable Actions. It’s shaky for a second, but solid for a lifetime, as we build the bonds of time and patience and practice and trust.

We’re creating the rhythm of routine in established relationships, the comfort of the counted-on response, the presuppositions of partnership, which help me recognize the “Was this really necessary?” expression on Rowdy’s face when it’s time to negotiate a Ruffian respite, and prompt me to keep a couple extra cookies in my pocket to occupy Chicago while Moe cherry picks for the choice pile.

I’m learning to communicate clearly and calmly, to celebrate the desired behavior and ignore the undesired if it presents no danger to self, others, or material possessions that matter.

I’m looking for peace and coexistence vs power and control.

And a bulk discount on dog beds.