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.
Ruffian and I took our debut solo walk last week, heading out on the 2-mile dirt road loop across the street, and despite my doubts, it turns out he is (mostly) willing and able to leave home without Rowdy.
He looked back once or twice, but I never gave him time to consider the distance growing between him and home. Cheerful encouragement and enthusiastic curiosity kept us moving along with no hint of the dreaded Ruffian refusal. No stopping, stiff legged, frozen in his tracks, engaging all available senses to detect threat and decide direction.
In fact, next to Boone, the old brindle greyhound who subscribed to a deeply held belief that one ought to stop and smell the roses, the daffodils, the daisies, the dandelions and the assorted grasses that grew along the edges of the road; Ruff proved himself my most pleasant canine walking partner.
Full disclosure here – there was no perfect heel position, but neither was there insistence that he stretch to the full four feet allowed between the brass clip under his chin and the leather loop in my hand. The holy grail of loose-leash dog walking, a j-hook of slack in the leash. What a feeling!
When we crested the small hill between a frog pond and a fenced pasture and saw two trail horses with their stoking-capped riders headed our way. Ruff froze. Stock still, staring at the approaching equines like he’d never noticed the pretty palomino and the handsome sorrel paint living on the other side of the dog yard barrier in his own backyard.
We humans waved at each other as I tried to convince Ruffian that forward progress was, in fact, still possible under these circumstances. But Ruffian had entrenched himself in the I’ll wait here camp. So, implement Plan B – move his brain, then move his feet.
I asked him to sit, a word at the top of his lexicon list, and with which he is situationally conversant. A hand resting on the door handle means “please sit pal;” a treat hovering just above his nose says, “park your posterior partner” and an index finger in front of the food dish indicates “find a seat friend.”
But horseback riders on the road did not translate, so I went back to basics, getting his eyes up with one hand while tapping his rump down with the other. And it worked just as they reached us, thanking us for waiting while they walked by, and impressed by the solid sit, though their position down in the ditch prevented them from seeing that his excellently executed sit stuck us solidly in the middle of the road.
Fortunately, the gravel road travel gods held off the afternoon traffic, so we faced no Chicken Challenge by any neighborhood car, pickup or ATV; and once convinced that any danger had passed with the now-distant equines, Ruff trotted merrily all the way home.
Our little rabblerouser is learning. The Attrition through Extinction method has worked its magic, along with Ruff’s response to routine.
He’ll still occasionally go for a golf shoe or barn boot but will almost immediately lie down and move the footwear in his mouth to position for the inevitable “Give” that almost immediately follows.
He heads directly to his crate in the truck when released from the back door even though he’s endured a couple smacks to the skull when he jumps before the tailgate has reached its fully upright and locked position.
He developed a short-lived fondness for scrap paper in the recycling basket, but now backs away empty-mouthed as soon as he hears any verbal disapproval of his garbage collection venture.
Best of all, he’s started to wag his tail when we talk to him. Though he’s always been friendly – overtly, oafishly friendly – always happy to be with us, always sporting a smile in his ebony eyes and his jolly jowls, I noticed that he’d wag his tail while engaged in energetic canine games but not in quiet human conversation.
But now he does, which I take as a sign of security; that he’s learning to trust his place in our pack.
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.
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
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.
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.
Just over a month since Ruffian joined the pack at Four Sticks Farm, and we’re starting to widen his world.
An energetic extrovert at home, which is his safe spot, Ruff gets a smidgeon shy and skittish in unfamiliar spaces, so I stay mindful of the fact that he’s still a pup with a mystery history and there is work to be done.
Obedience 101 is an exercise in confidence construction. Last week he willingly hopped out of the truck upon arrival, unlike our debut performance, which involved the instructor and I hefting his portable kennel on to the parking lot, a little dragging, and a lot of treats to convince him to leave at safety of the 24 x 38 nylon doggie den. Talk about impressive first impressions.
Our Tuesday night class includes five assorted mixes, another golden retriever, a black Labrador about the same size as my rambunctious rogue, and a mammoth merry Muppet of a doodle dog named Harvey, who will definitely be the pick to plan the graduation party.
Ruffian is interested in the activities, and curious about his classmates, but sometimes opts to tuck himself between my knees to simply survey the situation. He’s learning to focus and has mustered the courage to cross over a tiny teeter-totter, step on a mini-trampoline and climb up and down a little ramp.
He’s happy to be there but happy to leave, leaping into his crate as soon as the tailgate lifts to minimum clearance. Tuesday nights are solid sleep nights.
We took our first walk in the park which turned out to be a walk in the park, strolling for 30 minutes with George and Rowdy, on paved trails in a quiet park on a cool cloudy day. Bolstered by the successful maiden voyage, I’ve now repeated the trip four times by myself with both dogs. Successfully. Mostly.
The third outing provided an educational opportunity, thanks to (a term I use very loosely) a heart-stopping moment when both dogs managed the exceptionally unlikely feat of rubbing open the clips on their Gentle Leaders®, allowing them to slide not only off their noses, but also off their necks, leaving them free to roam about the countryside.
I watched Ruffian raise his head, sniff the air, and slowly start to trot. Away. He glanced at me when I spoke his name but continued to move in a direction not toward me. Recognizing this as a call for critical management skills, in which I am neither practiced nor proficient, I stifled the panic and conjured up my A-game Happy Voice, called him as I raised my arms in the universal dog handler sign for “Woo-hoo! How much fun is this game?!!!” and watched him run right to me. Right into my relieved, grateful arms that gathered his sixty pounds in a vise grip, as my thumb slid under his buckle collar for reinforcement.
Ruff stood calmly as I secured the head collar and turned to do the same for Rowdy, the greatest dog in the whole wide world, who had been standing patiently by my side through the whole ordeal.
The rest of the walk was blissfully uneventful, though Ruff did eventually leave a mushy pile of stress relief in the pine trees that edge the trail.
It took an hour for my knees to shop shaking, but The Houdini Hounds incident transpired in fewer minutes than it took me to type the last four paragraphs, and twenty-four hours of reflection resulted in the revelation that Ruffian was not really running from me, just trying to remove an irritant from his nose.
I had him on the head collar because I had assumed he’d pull me down the trail like all the goldens who’ve come before him, but I was wrong. I switched to a martingale collar that proved comfortable for both of us, and we now work our way through the trail sans pulling, partnership secure.
Ruffian’s oafish charm, his enthusiastic embrace of the world around him, and his willingness to accept direction from the two-leggeds for as little as a “Good boy!”, a shoulder rub or an ice cube (he perfected his sit during Happy Hour) earned him a permanent place in my heart, but he and Rowdy are still sorting out their spots in the pack.
Ruff tries tirelessly to befriend, only to be rebuffed by a reluctant Rowdy whose responses range from a sneer with curled lip to a lunge with bared teeth to a snub with closed eyes, lying on the floor sending a prayer to the Gods of Unrequested Roommates, pleading for an end to this nightmare.
As a last-ditch effort to encourage the Happy Hooligan to join his play party, Ruffian will find a rug to drag, drub and drop, leaving a heap of machine washable microfiber anywhere but where it’s supposed to be, after easing his frustration with several substantial shakes.
Though reticent to assume the role of Lead Dog, Rowdy seems set on playing the part of Canine Conduct Controller, sidling up with side-eyed disapproval whenever Ruff engages in any activity considered unacceptable, generally an accurate assessment.
But because his motives are mostly about making friends not mayhem, and because his attention span is still puppy-short, my oft-employed tactic of taking neither notice nor action works as a cease-and-desist order in the world of Ruffian, and no matter the mischief in which he’s currently engaged, he’ll momentarily move on to his next happy place.
Despite the canine cold shoulder, Ruffian’s persistence to win Rowdy’s friendship secures him just enough reinforcement to find comfort and confidence in the presence of his crabby compadre. I’m sure it was the absence of Rowdy that kept Ruff glued to his crate at class, and the presence of Rowdy that kept Ruff with us at the park.
We’ve all got our parts to play, and we’re working our ways to relegation of roles – leading, following, getting out of the way.
Ruffian’s in charge of floor covering configuration.
Back to School On the first Tuesday of the month, new blue backpack loaded with the required supplies – water bowl, lint rollers, slobber towels, canine breath freshener and a bag of Newman’s Own Peanut Butter Dog Biscuits, the Happy Hooligan hopped into the silver SUV that serves as his school bus and headed off on a new adventure.
I work at a school in an adolescent residential care & treatment facility and am delighted to have a new officemate this year. Two weeks of perfect attendance in the books and Rowdy’s earned passing grades for his work as Start of the Morning Greeter and Study Hall Monitor, providing a cheerful calming presence that helps students navigate some of the rough spots.
After happy hellos for all his friends, he relaxes in my office until Periods 3 and 5, when he wanders around the library during Study Hall, accepting ear scratches, belly rubs, back massages, and whispered words of affection in return for tail wags and pooch smooches, with a new-found fancy for the flavor of hands steeped in Fruit Loops with a smattering of #2 pencil. He seems to sense when someone needs a little extra canine composure and settles in while they settle down.
A few of the students consistently engage in a ceaseless stream of adolescent chatter, to which Rowdy remains oblivious. He hangs with them for a while, then heads off to sit by someone else. Nothing personal, no judgement, just doing his job. From his example I am learning to take things in stride, stay neutral, and tolerate the constant, low-volume clamor that translates to white noise in teenage brains. In some cases, it seems the mumbled recitation of rap song lyrics actually motivates completion of a couple math worksheets. It’s no Barry Manilow, but the times they have a-changed.
After our short drive home, my golden guru generally clocks back in for a bit, to school the rambunctious rogue that is his roommate. Ruffian, the golden-hearted galoot, embodiment of enthusiastic charm covered in a creamy white coat, spooks at random, real-life objects, so in tandem with encouraging words from me, Rowdy works him past the trepidation. To date we’ve conquered a doorstop, the tv remote, and a water bucket disguised as a plastic ice cream pail, but the Swiffer® sweeper remains securely posted on the Silent but Scary list.
Neither has made peace with the vacuum cleaner, fundamentally frightening to all my goldens, so on that front they’ve bonded as allies in apprehension.
Ruff retains the title of Class Clown, with recess as his favorite subject but Rowdy endures the juvenile hijinks with remarkable patience. He’ll occasionally take Ruffian to task with a series of snarly barks, to which Ruff responds with an ebullient play-bow, followed by a series of leaps, spins and airs above the ground that would make a dressage horse proud and leave me with supple-spine envy.
Their relationship has passed the point of potential bloodshed or broken bones, so I’ve resigned my position as everlasting referee and learned to let them negotiate their own conflict resolutions unless lamps or limbs are threatened.
Elsewhere on the education front, about the time this post is published, Ruffian and I will be lining up, the behemoth in the back row of the class picture, as we begin our foray into formal training. Though older than the customary Obedience 1 enrollee, we’re starting with the basics to build a solid base and since he’s a quick study, I expect Ruff will sail through and soon be sitting, staying, and heeling on an acceptably loose leash.
Bonus points if he masters enough manners to dismiss from his playful puppy mind the delusions that climbing onto guests’ laps or ever-so-gently holding a human forearm in his mouth are included in the Solid Citizen Canine curriculum.
So, we’re back to, or better yet, still in school. Tolerating and teaching, leaping and learning, growling and growing, finding our way beyond the ABCs to peaceful co-existence.
With a little luck and plenty of perseverance, maybe even floor-cleaning tool toleration.
Among the constants on my Facebook feed are the postings of the “Lost Dogs MN” page, which feature notices of dogs lost or found around the state. Mostly I glance and scroll, but occasionally I drop down the rabbit hole, lured by a sad-eyed pup or a comment that makes me hope to read a “Reunited” announcement.
In early August I stopped on a post, studied the face of a bald-faced cream-colored golden retriever, and told George this dog may be the next new animal at Four Sticks Farm – strictly a courtesy comment because in matters like this George is nearly always out-voted 1 to 1.
Not that I was in the market for an additional dog. In fact, at the end of July, a mere one week prior, I’d been marveling at the ease and fun of life with Rowdy – how readily he responds to a remarkable number of words, spoken in a civilized, conversational tone, how he can be trusted in the house when home alone, how I can take him out in the yard without worry that he’ll run off, except for the occasional doe sighting, but he’s no match for deer and never gets to the pasture fence before the white tails have high-tailed into the cattails, at which point he executes an abrupt and immediate about-face and returns to me, out of breath but full of joy.
But sometimes, the universe, algorithms and the power of pet rescue groups exert a force the magnets of our hearts cannot repel. I lasted 2 days before contacting the animal control officer regarding the homeless hound, waited out the 5-day stray period (extended in his case to allow for extensive veterinary treatment) started the adoption process on Day 9, and brought him home when his vet care was completed, 18 days after seeing the fateful Facebook feed.
Ruffian (Ruff, Ruffles, Ruffino, Ruffinstuff, Ruffington, Ruffleupagus, or McRuff) met Rowdy, moved in, and made himself part of the pack. He’s sweet, sociable, charming, and compliant. A quick learner and a lover of ice cubes, he responded to his new name within 24 hours and recognized the sound of the freezer drawer sliding open within 48.
He takes his medicine, sits for treats, waits for his food, and chills in his crate. He did walk into a pane of glass next to the open front door, but I’m giving him a one-time pass on that one as the windows had just been professionally cleaned.
For an animal apparently abandoned in an uninhabited area of a wildlife refuge, he is admirably friendly and trusting – when spooked, which has been only by the sudden appearance of a couple scary objects (including the Swiffer sweeper, which even Rowdy still eyes with some suspicion) he’s quickly and willingly worked his way to acceptance with a few encouraging words.
Ruff’s outside time is spent on the deck and in the dog yard, where he finds twigs, wood chips and an assortment of herbs in the cedar planter, for taste testing, which may be a remnant of foraging at the refuge since he shows no inclination for chewing anything but his food, his toys, and small chunks of frozen water while in the house.
The hair on his many shaved areas (treatment for skin infections) is growing back, the muscle on his midsection is filling in, and the kennel cough is calming down. We will eventually start training classes and trail hikes, but for the next couple weeks, we’ll focus on recovery and relationships.
Rowdy is working to concede his only-dog status, handling the new guy with grace. His minimal growling is kept to an appropriate and generally acceptable level. Mostly, the quiet grumbles rumble when Ruff tries to worm his way between Rowdy and me, or between Rowdy and his beloved Big Guy, but Ruff’s response is always one of affable acquiescence. No offense taken, he offers a play bow, grins with his big pink tongue lolling out to one side and moves on.
Biskit and Chicago remain objects of fascination observed from the distance of the deck, and the cats have made themselves scarce around the house, conducting their surveillance under cover of the daylilies by the barn. Mace is too old to care about another galoot of a golden retriever, but I suspect Fennel will stow himself safely in the soffits when Ruff earns his all-access pass around the property.
So ready or not, we’re doing the dog adoption thing. And we’re ready. All of us.
Except the timid tabby at the top of the hayloft ladder.
Once upon a weekend, two hungry tabby cats and their sleepy-eyed caretaker entered the barn shop for breakfast. Imagine their surprise at seeing the chow container on its side, the lid lying several feet to the left, the scoop sitting several feet to the right. The water bowl stood upright but nearly empty, its contents covering the surrounding floor.
Due to an unfortunate, though not necessarily uncommon, lapse of communication between the two-leggeds, the overhead door had been open all night, offering free food and lodging to any and all who might wander by.
Luckily, only one took me up on the offer, and apparently wasn’t uber-impressed, as most of the food and water were still here, just scattered and sloshed around the cat corner of the shop.
I swept up the cat chow, re-hinged the container lid, re-hung the measuring scoop, and cleaned off the floor where the mystery guest left a calling card in the form of a yellow puddle and a brown pile.
Monday morning dawned cool and cloudy, perhaps enticing our uninvited visitor to sleep in, or maybe he didn’t realize we open earlier on weekdays, but when I came in through the little door, he was scrambling to get out through the big door.
Not sure which of us was more rattled, but I do know I hit the button on the opener while he ran at least 2 laps up and down the other side of the room, separated only by the car and the exercise equipment.
Though he once again evaded apprehension, the identity of the kibble crook was clear when I caught a fleeting glimpse of his masked mug as he scampered under the weight bench, and I noticed the distinctive wet pawprints left after swishing his snack in the water bowl.
The incident remains under investigation, as I try to determine the mode of entry. It’s possible that I (and only I, this time it’s all on me) left the door partly open to let the breeze blow through the barn. I hope that proves true, because if not, it means the little raccoon has figured out the cat doors.
Yikes.
Yuck.
Stay tuned.
Part of the family
This is not our first raccoon adventure. We once had a family of 5 take up residence in a big maple tree in the west paddock – one of Rowdy’s favorite springs, as he spent many, many, many moments staring into the branches from the base of that tree, praying to the god of Dogs with Strong Prey Drives, hoping for just one of those babies to challenge him to chase.
They did not.
We’ve had several species stop by over the years. Some travel non-stop, others stay for an hour, a day, a season.
Deer roam through randomly, singly, in pairs, or herds of 13. Fawns run wind sprints across the pasture, arching their backs and kicking their heels, bronco-style. One summer brought an orphan fawn who spent a couple months trying to join our little gang of geldings, only to be rudely rejected by then Head Horse Rusty. The ponies did, however, allow the little one to spend much of the summer safely grazing close enough to be protected by their proximity.
The turtle and the cat
Much to Mace’s amazement and amusement, a painted turtle ambled across the alley several springs ago. Its pace was painstakingly slow, but its presence was brief – just the solitary walk across the pasture to the swamp, after which we never saw it again.
One cold January day I slid the barn door open and interrupted a coyote napping in the sunny corner of the shelter – sitting up to stretch out the sleep and jog away just as Biskit and Chicago trotted out to pasture.
Chicago and the beaver
Ducks and geese swim in supersized spring-melt paddock puddles, stray cats strut across the yard, and sandhill cranes promenade in the pasture with their progeny. Pheasants and turkeys call from the tall grass and every once in a while, a muskrat, weasel, or one of their kin navigates across the creek that sometimes runs through the culvert.
A giant yellow garden spider graced our day lilies with her home of spun silk, complete with Charlotte-style egg sac, a wild kingdom fairy tale missing only a trip to the county fair and “Some Pig” woven in the web.
The carousel of creatures that cruise, saunter, prance, and wander through the property provides such interest and reminders of the many ways to live a life, none better or worse, just different. We’re a Live and Let Live operation here at Four Sticks Farm, and with a bit of behavior management for a certain golden retriever, all are permitted to pass through in peace.
From Four Sticks Farm 