I have often heard that things come in threes.  It was certainly true for us one cool March day. 

The day started with our sheltie/collie mix (we think) dogs running off.  They came back covered in greenbrier, duckweed, pond scum and “proud of ourselves” attitudes.  That evening after a 45 minute per dog clean-up we started a fire in the woodstove.  It was one of the first in quite some time.  We were enjoying its heat when our black cat, Mater, comes flying out of the bedroom not far in front of the dogs’ snouts.  He jumped to safety on the woodstove.  He had not expected it to be on.  One of the pads of his feet got burned.  After the shock of the moment, we raced after him.  We found him downstairs tending to his wound.  We covered it in ointment and wrapped it well.  Yeah, not cool for a cat.  He seemed more disturbed over the bandage than the burn, but it had to be done.

My husband and I got the kids to bed and sat down to relax.  We realized the chickens had not been put in yet.  We let them roam during the day and lock the coop at night when they return.  That night I presumed it would be an easy lockup.  What was I thinking?  I looked in before closing the door and what do you know, a raccoon looked back.  Are you kidding me?  I ran to the back door of our house and banged on the sliding glass door while yelling “there’s a coon in the coop!”  My husband jumped up and came out after only a few minutes.  He had his .22.  I said hey, “I can get him out.”  Apparently the day had taken a toll because getting a coon out of a coop without it scratching my eyes out is a joke.  Reluctantly I held the flashlight as my husband opened the coop window and sniped the masked mammal.  I could tell the chickens were relieved because they started moving again.  All except Snowball, the Polish top-hat male, who strutted around through the entire ordeal.  Once you see him it all makes sense.  His feathers stand up on his head as if he stuck a toe in a light socket. He is a far cry from the smooth, fluffy-feathered female.  Apparently his naiveté nature kept him safe.

Snowball, our Polish top-hat male, this is his typical look. 

We headed inside, locked the doors, and turned the lights out all without a word.  At that point there was nothing left to say.

  

 
This recipe for dog treats combines the breath freshening and digestive attributes of mint with the antioxidants in blueberries. The molasses provides energy and calcium, while our fresh eggs provide essential fatty acids that improve a dog's coat and skin, as well as building strong eyes, bones and internal organs.  The peanut butter adds lots of protein and dogs love the taste. 

  

Join me on FACEBOOK and my BLOG at Fresh Eggs Daily for tips on raising happy, healthy hens naturally!
  

 

I arrived at work at 7:30 AM, following a grueling 150 foot commute.  The traffic was terrible.  Normally both dogs march along shoulder to shoulder at the ends of their leashes.  I tell Cochise, “Play yard,” or “Home” or “Mail box”, or (his least favorite) “Work” and he heads off in the right direction.  I tell Blondie, “Stay with Cochise” and she obediently strides along beside him wherever he goes.  Normally, but not today.  Today I’d started the pickup earlier to warm it up before Marie heads into town and her work and Blondie really, really wanted to go for a ride; so when we came down the steps she was intent on going that direction.  Cochise smelled something fascinating down in the yard and really, really wanted to go that way to check it out.  So they strained in opposite directions, neither one in the direction I needed to go.  We worked it out eventually, but it was a disorganized swirl instead of the usual orderly parade. 

Yesterday was the official first day of spring.  It’s cold and foggy this morning.  There is a possibility of snow.  I was wondering what happened, when I remembered something I saw at the Source of All Wisdom (Facebook), “The first day of spring and the first spring day are not necessarily the same, and can be separated by as much as a month.”  I’m glad now that I didn’t put my potatoes in their garden boxes last weekend, I’ll do that next weekend.  But I had planned on working at opening the garden for summer session this week.

The winter gardening session was disappointing; it was too wet and cold for much of what I grew.  Still, we did get a fair bit of lettuce (until it got crushed by condensation that froze into ice on the inside of the greenhouse) spinach, beet tops, onion greens, garlic greens, carrot tops, as well as the last of the summer’s carrot roots.  I got enough Brussels sprouts for one meal – but that is the best I’ve ever done with these sprouts; normally the looper worms gut the plants and kill them in days.  By using a greenhouse vented with window screen I kept the moths away in the fall so the plants had a chance to grow to maturity for once.  I had to cover the top vent with plastic after a particularly wet spell practically drowned them out as well.

The Swiss chard is just now getting any size to it.  I’ll get one decent harvest from that when I pull it up to replant the box with something else.

On the positive side, our local Lowe's store now carries composted chicken manure.  That will help in rejuvenating the soil in my boxes.  I used composted cow manure last year with disappointing results.  Slowly, very slowly, I’m learning what works.

For the Love of Dogs

Marie and I have always enjoyed the company of canines.  Trained to behave in a civilized manner and be indoors with us much of the time, they were more members of the family than pets.  Last summer we lost both of our pampered pooches.   

First was Zadie.  She was accustomed to heading up into the woods in the morning with her adoptive sibling Dolly and their friend from down the road, Boots.  That day was no different except that they did not return for breakfast.  It wasn’t like Zadie to miss a meal.  Any meal.  Ever.  And we became concerned.  Later in the morning Dolly returned, without Zadie (also unusual) and acted very strangely.

Dolly had been dumped on this mountain before we arrived.  When we moved into this home, she watched us for a while from a rocky outcropping above us, then decided she would take us under her wing (so to speak) and teach us to be proper mountain folk.  By this time we had been together for about 11 years.  Zadie arrived as a pup – apparently dumped as well – and Dolly took her in and mentored her in proper civilized behavior.  One of her most adamant tenants was that good dogs don’t “go” in their yard, but head up into the trees to do their business.  I particularly appreciated this personal habit.  But starting after Zadie's disappearance, Dolly would not go more than a couple of feet past the tree line for her personal hygiene needs and NEVER went off a-wandering or chasing small game as she always had before.

Boots was oddly absent as well.  He used to visit every morning, but for days we had not seen hide nor hair of him.  Finally I did catch a glimpse of him, waved and shouted “Hi Boots!”.  He tucked his tail and scurried off as though I’d threatened him.

Being a Border Collie/Rottweiler mix, Zadie was very smart – in terms of being clever.  She could open any door and would paw a spring clip until it opened and she was gone.  To tether her required a padlock.  She was nimble too: 68 pounds of canine ninja.

Dolly may not have been as clever, but was very wise.  She was also compassionate and an excellent mentor to Zadie and Cochise.

Shortly before this occurred there had been a fire on Hogback Mountain: the next mountain over from ours.  It had burned for days and the Forestry Department was using bulldozers and helicopters to fight it.

A while after this day my nearest neighbor and I both heard what we were sure was a bear snorting and snuffling in the woods above us.  We think the bear got Zadie.  Most likely The Three Pooches caught its scent and tracked it.  We did not hear barking that morning, but if they came up on the bear suddenly, they might not have.  Seeing a bear kill Zadie would account for the trauma Boots and Dolly exhibited.  Zadie would have been cocky enough to take on the beast, Dolly would have recognized the danger and stayed back.  Boots was all bark and no backbone.

A few months later, Dolly died of heart failure, with her head in my lap.

We were deeply hurt by the loss of Zadie, and devastated when Dolly passed on as well.  They were our children.  Rather than wallowing in our own pain, we chose to focus on the good times we had together and celebrate the fact that they had shared our lives at all.

When we abandoned hoping that Zadie would be found or come home, we were not considering adopting another dog but we did want to do something to help repay the joy they’d brought into our lives.  Marie found the Dogs In Danger web site, which works with the Rolling Rescue program to save dogs in kill shelters and relocate them to no-kill shelters or breed-specific rescue programs.  We were surprised to learn that our local Animal Shelter works with both programs and decided to see what we could do to help out.

Our local shelter’s greatest need was foster homes for dogs that were too sick to qualify for local adoption or Rolling Rescue.  Mostly this involves heart worm positive dogs.  Treatment is expensive and makes them very sick for a while.  If donations from the public pay for the meds, they require an environment where lots of attention can be paid to them and their activity severely restricted until they recover.  An animal shelter is not such an environment.

One of the dogs they had on this list was Cochise, an American Bulldog who had been there long enough that he was just 4 days away from taking the one way walk.  He had a sponsor for his meds, but no foster home. Something about him touched our hearts and we decided to help him.

We bought a 10’ x 10’ chain link dog pen and built a make-shift sleeping shelter out of wire fence and a tarp (we called it his wickiup).  It rained all that weekend, but he could not afford for us to wait for better weather, we put it all in and went back for him.

That was seven months ago.  Cochise turned out to be such an amazing animal that after nursing him back to health we adopted him.  He in turn has helped us help four others (so far).  The two that have completed the process went to facilities in New Jersey.  Marie says it’s like the witness protection program: a new name and off to New Jersey.  They must have a tremendous need for good dogs out East.

The first one, Curry, a traditional Mountain Cur has been adopted by a veterinarian who is also a professor of Equine Studies at a college and we have received photos of him with his new big brother (a Lab).  It makes us so happy to know that he is in such a good forever home and is so happy there.

The second, Ruckus, is a Labrador/Pit Bull mix and a really sweet boy.  He left just the other day to go to a Pit Bull rescue facility that will help him find a good home as well.

Bella, a Beagle / German Shepherd mix was not doing well at all at the shelter.  She was terrified there.  We decided that since Ruckus was crated, Bella could live in the Guest Quarters – which has been upgraded with a roof, wooden dog house and 2” of pea gravel as a floor to keep them out of the mud.  She immediately responded by becoming an affectionate and entertaining member of the group.  She went in for her treatment this morning.

As soon as Ruckus left, Bella moved to the indoor crate and we opened the Guest Quarters  to Faith, a hunting dog breed who came in from a highly neglectful environment: severely malnourished she was just skin and bones.  The Shelter pulled her through, but she tested positive for heart worms and we took her in.  Faith is such a sweetheart that we all just love her.  She is obviously grateful for being removed from that horrible environment and giving her a better life.

Because Faith will begin treatment before Bella’s recovery period is finished (typically 30 days) we have ordered another crate.  That means the Guest Quarters will be open and we can step up to three foster dogs at a time.

So far, Cochise’s only objection to any of this is that he just gets them trained to be good playmates and we ship them off.  I understand that feeling: I was an Air Force brat as a kid, my family moved every year, leaving all our friends behind never to be seen again. It was hard.  We might have to adopt one more – maybe Faith – as a steady playmate for him.  But that will be up to him more than us.

One thing though: none of the dogs are allowed to run loose anymore.  Cochise and I go for long walks up the mountain, but he’s always on a leash, and we’ve fenced in two large areas for the dogs to use as play yards, but no more running the mountain.  Aside from the danger that the bear may still be around, Cochise and I have encountered deer a couple of times on our walks and I’m sure that bull-headed dog would chase those things clear into the next county if he were loose!

Giving back by helping these programs snatch good dogs from the jaws of death, heal them and offer them to good forever homes is a very fulfilling venture.  We are volunteers; the shelter provides the medications, paid for through donations from the public, and dog food for the foster dogs. We provide all the equipment needed and of course the love and attention they need.  But you could not find a more grateful group of beings to help.  And because these programs are registered non-profits, our fostering expenses are tax deductible as contributions. If you have any interest in doing something similar, please visit Dogs in Danger or your local animal shelter to see what programs they have for you to be involved with.

The old man struggles at the slow end of the leash as his 80 pound bulldog, Cochise, strains like a John Deere with a plow at the other; dragging them both up the steep, winding mountain path.

The path was once a crude dirt road; just a common access for owners of property on the undeveloped, upper portion of the mountain. For several years an occasional 4-wheel drive pick-up would trek up the mountain to release hunting dogs, cut firewood to haul home, or just enjoy a few hours sitting in the woods soaking up the solitude.  Then, for a while only ATVs went up there to rip and snort along the path and tear new trails through virgin woods.  The old man was glad when the kids lost interest in their new toys and stopped coming.  Now, it had been a year or more since anyone went up the old road.  No maintenance had been done, not even the farmer who occasionally used his tractor to drag a scraper blade along to even out the humps and ruts and shear off the saplings. Now those saplings were crowding in from the shoulders and taking over again, trees had fallen, shattering branches all over and heavy rains were forming huge ruts and rills that made the road difficult for any vehicle to navigate faster than a creep.

Only he and Cochise – occasionally his wife and a foster dog would accompany them a short ways; just to where it got steep – where the only ones to go up there.  They managed to keep a path trampled down for a half mile or so up the main route and a few hundred feet along a branch road.

By the time they got to the first switch-back the old man’s heart is pounding and his lungs heaving the crisp cold October air in and out of his lungs. The cold burn is invigorating.  The warm burn in the backs of his thighs feels good too. In years past he lifted weights to keep in shape and knew well the satisfaction of a good workout.  But then age and deteriorating connective tissue put a stop to such heavy work.

The ground is strewn with gold, russet and brown leaves, building over the past few weeks from a sprinkling to a deep carpet. The loud crunching of their quick march up the road warns any critters of their approach and avoids a confrontation – or, normally it would.  It rained hard last night and the leaves are tamped down into a sodden, slippery coating this morning.

Cochise lets out a sudden, “Grrouf!” and bolts ahead, practically wrenching the old man’s arm from his shoulder as he stumbles along behind just trying to keep his feet under him. He manages to look up the pathway in time to see a white shape bobbing along about 3 feet above ground. In the dim, early morning light it’s difficult to see much, especially under the tree canopy, but a flash of fawn colored fur and an eyeball finally identifies the object as a young deer bounding up the road a ways then turning and leaping into the forest. The creature slides between the saplings and disappears with nary a sound.

“So, that’s what you’ve been so excited about every morning, huh boy?”

Cochise stood, forepaws on the mound at the edge of the road, his gaze darting about trying to catch a glimpse of his alleged prey through the trees.

“You don’t want to tangle with a deer anyway, Cochise.  They look sweet and helpless, but when cornered they can beat the daylights out of you AND me with those front hooves.”

The dog doesn’t understand the words, of course, but he seems to get the meaning.  A slight tug on the leash and a, “Come on boy.” and Cochise obediently turns back onto the road and continues his trek upward.

The old man smiles; it wasn’t but a few months ago that Cochise came to stay with them as a foster dog with the Dogs in Danger pet rescue program.  He’d been picked up as a stray and held at the animal shelter until he tested positive for heartworms. A death sentence for too many dogs. Fortunately the Shelter got funding from public donations to pay for the medications and the old man and his wife provided the care and quarters for his treatment and recovery process. When Cochise first arrived, taking him for a walk was a battle of wills that often stalemated with them at opposite ends of the leash glaring at one another and telegraphing through their squinting eyes, “We are going THIS way.”

“No, we are going THAT way!”

They often stood there for many minutes stubbornly staring one another down.  A pocket full of dog treats, administered each time Cochise relented to the old man’s will, sped the training process. Now, most of the time Cochise is a pleasure to walk with, he leads well and obeys commands that keep him from putting the old man into dangerous situations.

They continue on to the fallen log that lies across the pathway and offers a convenient excuse for the old man to halt their travels in this direction. The first few times, Cochise bounded up onto and over the log as if to say, “Look, it’s easy to cross, see. Come on, let’s keep going!” but the old man’s refusal to clamber over the barrier brought his dog back over with a huff.  Now he knows this is the limit.  Some days he stands with his forelegs up on the log, looking and sniffing  the dense packing grass on the other side, but accepts that this is as far as they’re going – at least until some fool with a chain saw comes and clears the way again!

They turn around and head back down the slope. In this portion of the trail there are few oak trees.  Once they round the switchback again there are a lot of them and acorns dropped by these trees work like ball bearings under the man’s feet.  Or did while the ground was dry and hard.

But before they get there, Cochise elects to take the left turn onto a spur road; the high route, the old fella calls it because the connection to the main trail is a 60° slope upward for about 20 feet. This path hasn’t been traveled in any way by anyone but these two and a few forest critters in a long time. The saplings have almost entirely reclaimed it; only a narrow winding path where their daily tramping and crushed the vegetation allows any passage at all.  They don’t get far and another fallen log marks the end.

This one is small enough that the old man could step over it fairly easily, but the area beyond is so dense and congested with brambles that he has no desire to do so.

Cochise spends some time doing a detailed inspection of several plants, leaving his own scent before moving on to the next.  Occasionally he finishes with an aggressive four-paw digging of the ground that effectively denudes it of vegetation and leaves deep striations in the dirt from his claws.  The old man figures this is his way of saying to any passers by, “I am the mighty warrior, Cochise; chief of these woods. Do not enter here or I’ll do this to you too.” It’s a territorial thing.  The old man lets him have his fun up on the trail, but puts a quick stop to it when on the lawn in their yard.

Heading back down, the old man is glad to find that the softer ground now allows the acorns and bits of stick to push into the ground and pose little danger of slipping.  It was these acorns that caused him to hurt his knee and hip a couple of weeks ago, rolling under his weight-bearing foot as he stepped forward, causing him to have to slam his trailing foot back down or fall.  The shock strained ligaments in his joints and hurt intensely until recently.  They’re healing now, but this is what caused him to restrict their daily tromp up the old road from two, sometimes three times a day to just the one early morning trip.

It is Cochise’s need, after being crated all night, that causes him to double-time their ascent, determined to get to the furthest point he’s allowed before depositing his spoor.  The return trip is always more sedate and Cochise sniffs his way along and gazes off into the woods.  On clear days the sun is just coming over the mountain now and the rays of sunshine stabbing through the trees is a beautiful sight. Today the sky is overcast.

Once they exit the old road, Cochise turns aside and leads them along a perimeter walk around the two acres of cleared land where they all live. He inspects the bushes and freshens his markings.  They loop around the house and up the slope on the other side to a play yard that was put in as a place for Cochise and their Foster dogs to romp without being on a leash. Fenced and gated, they can run to their hearts content without dragging the anchor of the old man along behind them.

The old man laughs as Cochise runs laps like a race horse around the fence, then tightens into for a couple of loops round his human companion, back out for another lap then gallops head-long toward the gate, skidding to a stop with his nose just brushing the juncture of gate and post. “OK, I’m done playing now, let’s go home.”

Back on the leash and a short walk to the house, a big dish of cool water awaits the exhausted canine.  The old fellow gives him some dog treats, scratches his neck and says, “Good boy, good dog.  He’s my boy.”  Then a cushy pile of pillows and blankets beckons from within his crate.  His room.  His safe spot. HIS place.  He walks in, circles a couple of times and drops down, curled up and ready for a snooze.  But first, he shoots the old feller a look that says, “Thanks for the walk old man, I love you too.”

One of the joys of living in the country is taking walks with my dog.  We have three dogs but our yellow lab is the one who loves to walk.  When she walks, she does not chase critters and she rarely puts her nose to the ground.  She simply walks.  She will greet other walkers then move on.  And it astounded me that when a fellow dog walker offered her a treat, she refused it.  She wanted to walk.  Labs are rather single-minded.

We walk in a local, county park.  Unfortunately, the country roads where we live are rather busy and it is safer for us to walk in the park.  Walking in the same areas gives me the chance to notice seasonal changes.  I especially like this time between summer and autumn.  It is quieter on our walks.  The ducks, geese, and swans on the lake are much more docile.  The visiting songbirds have headed south.  Since this is not mating season, the chirping of the local chickadees and blue jays signify scuffles and warnings rather than songs of love.  I noticed a white egret in a wetland the last few days.  It will be making its way south shortly.

We come across a snake sunning itself on the warmer dirt path.  It looks like a stick and my dog walks right over it.   I hear the rustling of chipmunks and squirrels in the undergrowth. 

The leaves have not yet changed but the wildflowers give us late season color.    The grey, overcast days of winter are not yet upon us here in Michigan, so we can still enjoy the sunny, clear blue skies of summer without the heat and humidity. 

A cold front blew through last night so our highs will be in the 60s and the lows in the 40s for the next week.  Our yellow lab thinks this is perfect weather for a walk in the country.  I tend to agree with her.

Happenings at home and at work with the animals.

Since we live on a major highway, our yard is fenced to keep the dogs safe. They love swimming in the ponds when it's hot, but that means someone has to take them, and we don't always have time. So, a couple of weeks ago, when the temperature hit 90 degrees, we went to the local hardware store and bought them a baby pool.

They couldn't wait for it to fill. They were in it before we even got the hose in and turned on.

This is our 9-year-old Lab, Maggie. She looks old, with lots of gray hair, but she doesn't act any older than our 2-year-old, Boone. Her favorite thing to do is dig in the pool and splash water all over herself. Then she takes her nose and dips it in the water like she's retrieving something, even though she's not.

Here's Boone digging at the bottom of the pool. I wonder where he learned to do that!

They were enjoying the pool so much, even though it's not really big enough for two big ol' Labrador Retrievers (Maggie weighs 109, Boone 118). Since we didn't have much planned for the day, we decided to really make their day, so we took them down to the pond. When Maggie hits the pond, she loses herself in her own world. She sees nothing and nobody, and she hears nothing and nobody. She would swim for days if we'd let her. Once she gets in, she is in until we manage to trick her into getting out, which normally takes about 30 minutes. We've timed her swimming adventures, and her longest swim was just shy of an hour. Now, when I say she swam for almost an hour, I mean she swam. She didn't get out once. She absolutely loves swimming, and since she has arthritis now, the vet says swimming is the best exercise for her - and she is more than happy to exercise.

Boone, on the other hand, loves to swim, but he also loves to run in the pasture. One of his favorite things to do is run around for a few minutes, then run full speed and splash into the pond. Once he's in the pond, he swims over to where Maggie is and asks her to play. However, she turns tail and swims away. He's finally (after two years) realizing that when Maggie is swimming, he is on his own.

In other animal news, we have three geese at work that have been making regular appearances for the past few weeks. Our back parking lot slopes, so when it rains, it creates a nice pool for them. They started out just bathing in the pool after a rain, and within a few days, they began making themselves at home. They seem friendly and will walk right up to you.

Here is one of them standing tall on the company truck in the back parking lot. It looks like he's checking out our shipping department through the dock door. Maybe he's planning a trip to tour the building in the near future.

A few days later, our visitors helped themselves to some goodies in the community garden in front of the building. Provided with food for the taking, as well as a nice watering hole for bathing, I think they just might be here to stay.

Hi there. Pleased to meet you. I’m the Fearless Farm Frau (AKA the Crazy Chicken Lady), and it’s been quite a journey to get here. I’d shake your hand, but I’m not at your computer, and asking you to shake your computer sounds like quite an imposition. However, if you were to offer me a virtual cup of coffee, I wouldn’t turn it down.

I grew up in a small German town here in Kansas. Both sides of my family grew up farming, but moved to town. As most kids do, I moved to the big city as quickly as I could. While cities have their pluses (sushi, delivery pizza, etc), I just didn’t ever feel comfortable. For a while, with an ex-husband, I lived in deep South Texas. At least there I could indulge my love of horses and meet some great folks. Alas, that deal went even farther south, and I found myself back in Kansas.

Lots of people knock Kansas. I still think it’s one of the best places to be. Open space, good land, lower cost of living, and just plain nice folks. After meeting and marrying my husband (our first date was making chainmaille — the armor, not the pesky letters), we formed a 5-year plan to get a place out in the country and get away from the constant traffic noise and sirens, plus getting our (then) future kids into good schools. Well, the 5-year plan turned into a 10-year plan.

So here we are. We bought our dream farm. (Hubby’s aunt and uncle had lived here, and we fell in love with the place.) It’s been maintained as organic for at least the last 30 years, plus being certified as a tree farm. We were so excited when we found out it was on the market. There’s such a peaceful feeling here that seems to include everyone who comes. Yes, we had quite a time selling our city house, and that’s another story. But here we are. Organic farmers at last.

I’ll be happy to regale you with more stories (mostly funny) as we get to know each other. It’s certainly been a learning experience for me, and I’ve still got lots more to learn. Hopefully stories about kids, chickens, horses, dogs, cats, and cutting and heating with wood won’t bore you. If they do, feel free to tell me so. I’ll take it as another learning experience. I’m not bored out here, and hopefully you won’t be either. Buckle in and saddle up. It’s going to be a great ride. 

Just remember to be kind.
 

Always look the person straight in the eye when talking to each other.

And don't get "uppity" when things don't go your way.
 

Just remember...nice begets nice.

In other words...The Golden Rule 

Last time I wrote about my moveable chicken pen.   It works great, and the chickens are happy, but with so many grasshoppers just waiting to be eaten, it was hard for me to say no to free food.  Long story short is I let some of the chickens out to wander around picking up bugs.  I own quite a few dogs (partly because I'm a stray magnet), but since they were all in pens, I didn't think much about it.  Fast forward a few days and I come home to find dead chickens all over the yard.  What had happened?  A beagle that had never shown any interest of escaping her pen did just that and decided she wanted a snack, say around eight half-grown birds.

So that brings me to my warning.  Dogs are probably the number one cost on most small farms.  It costs money to feed them, house them, and don't even get me started about vet bills.  Sadly it's been my lot in life to love animals, and I can't say no to a dog, even with all of these expenses.  What's so ironic is that most dogs around a farm are supposed to be used to help, not hurt.  Pyrenees and other sheppards are used to protect the herd.  Australian Sheppards and Collies herd the livestock from one place to another.  Pointers, hounds, and terriers hunt for food, and even Labradors retrieve it when it's been shot. 

I'm here to tell you, all dogs, even livestock guardian dogs are prone to eating chickens.  Everything goes fine for months, so you let your guard down a little, and in just a few minutes time, your flock has been reduced to a pair of jittery, terrified looking pullets.  Now I'm not saying all dogs do this.  I own a Pyrenees that loves chickens, for dinner that is.  My in-laws, on the other hand, have an unrelated Pyrenees that has no interest in chickens, and even lets them pick up the leftovers once he's done with his dog food.  The strange thing is, even with my Pyrenees' affinity for fast food (Yes... That was an attempt at humor.), he fiercely protects my goats from any stray dogs, coyotes, and sometimes even from the neighbors cows (which is strange because there are calves in the field with him.  Maybe he thinks they are jumbo goats.).  Yet, as I said, he feels no loyalty in protecting a chicken.  That is unless another dog is trying to take his meal away from him.

So how do you know if you're dog is a chicken killer?  It's hard to say for sure.  I've tried walking dogs next to my chicken pen, and some known chicken killer's act as though there isn't anything there.  Suffice to say you'll know that you have a chicken killer when it's too late.  But for those of us that don't want to shoot their dog, how do we break them of this?  I honestly don't have any surefire ways.  One method that's been used for generations is to tie the dead chicken around the neck of the dog.  The smell of the decaying bird is supposed to make them sick of chickens.  For the most part it works (I've heard), although I know more than one farmer that's said it doesn't.

I suppose the point to all my rambling is this.  Think twice before getting a dog.  They are wonderful little creatures, but consider what you may be dealing with when they're grown, not just what they're like when they're puppies.  Now, don't get me wrong.  I'm not saying don't get a dog, but realize the possible problems associated with dogs on a farm.  On the flipside, scientific evidence has proven what most "pet people" have known for centuries.  Dogs make your life better in so many ways.  Nursing homes come alive when a well-trained canine enters.  Dogs have been known to save humans, detect seizures, find drugs and blood trails, and they are in fact man's best friend.  You know how I know?  Lock your spouse and your dog in the trunk of a car.  An hour later let them out and see which one is happy to see you. 

My dogs and my grandsons have no “disgust” discernment. There isn’t anything in any state of decay that they won’t poke with a stick or drag from its resting place.

So, one afternoon in July, I wasn’t surprised when I found them hovering over a dead crow in the side yard. Eldest Grandson indeed was poking it with a stick and Youngest Grandson was wringing his hands. He’s had some issues with death ever since the unfortunate “the hamster bit me and I threw him and now he won’t move, whoops he is still alive” fiasco. EG watches the news, he knows about West Nile virus. He knows, with the certainty of a nine year old that something must be done with a dead bird. Youngest Grandson is convinced that if we just give it some water, it will be okay. It worked for the hamster. It takes some persuading to get him to realize that a bird doesn’t just sleep in the yard with its legs up in the air. EG still wants to know what I am going to do with it.

Now, that’s a problem. If I just throw it in the bushes, the dogs (who are waiting impatiently for the kids to give up the stick poking so they can commence with the dismemberment) will drag it back on the lawn. If I bury it, they probably will just dig it up. It doesn’t seem right somehow to just put it in the trash. (I have no logical explanation for this conclusion in retrospect.) And yet, it is so hot I just can’t think what to do.

I tell EG we are doing nothing.

He looks me dead in the eye and says, “Nothing?”

I said, “Yes, we are doing nothing.”

“Why?” he asks. A reasonable but irritating question.

“Because,” I say, “Because it’s hot, and I can’t think, and I’m having a hot flash. That’s why!”

I bribe YG with unlimited hose use and he finally gives up trying to make me do something about the crow. EG has learned not to do anything past the hot flash statement.

Several days go by and I still haven’t figured out what to do with the crow. It’s taking on mythical proportions now. It’s a special bird, and needs a special ceremony. Bright light fills my head. The chimenea!

I get some gloves and pick up the bird – not any better for being several days older. I walk it up to the deck and place it gently in the firebox of the chimenea. I go get some dryer lint (extremely flammable – someday I’ll tell you how I learned that little bit of information. I didn’t have to wax my brows for several months) and pile it on top of the bird. I get some nice dry firewood and put that on top, too. I say a few words about what a noble bird a crow is. That I haven’t really been negligent – I was just waiting for the planets to be correctly aligned, for the time to be right, for the inspiration to be present to send it out to the universe. I take the long lighter, light the lint and in a flash that bird is on its way to heaven. Too late I wonder whether I can die from breathing the smoke.

All that took place on a Friday and by Monday morning; the crow is a distant memory. I have to drive Daughter-In-Law to the dentist with YG because he knocked his front teeth out, so I’m rushing around. Before I go upstairs for a shower I notice the dogs are on the porch. They look so cute lying in the sun. I’ll just leave them out there until I’m ready to go.

I take my shower and I actually have clean clothes, so I’m feeling pretty spiffy. My hair got wet so I can push it into a style sort of. I like to pretend I have the kind of hair you can do that with. This only works until I look in the rear view mirror of the car, so I’m savoring these last few minutes of feeling positive about my appearance. On the way down stairs I stop in the living room to put on my cleanest shoes. The first thing I notice is that there appears to be charred meat all over the living room rug. 

I wonder, could the dogs have figured out how to get the fridge open? I can see the kitchen from the living room. Everything out there seems to be fine. I lean down closer to the charred meat. It is meat and feathers ...Charred meat and feathers. And bones. Yup, there are bones there, too. Despite my best efforts, the dogs have resurrected that crow.

Now, I know you are wondering how you get dead crow off an antique Nichols rug worth over $4000. Well, you get the kitchen trash can, a broom and snow shovel. After you have finished heaving your guts into the trash can until you have nothing left but stomach lining, you use the broom to push the charred bits onto the snow shovel. Then you march out onto the deck where the dogs are hiding and hurl it right out on the lawn. You don’t really care anymore.

Then you scrub your arms and hands with bleach and hot water, gag up some ginger ale you thought you might be able to hold down and make a few passes with the rug shampooer.

Our new little goat, Rachael, is fitting right in.

Upon bringing her home, both Rustic Russ and I began "talking" to her as her mother would.

Low, reassuring Baaaaa.

Being a surrogate goat Mama and Papa comes in handy. 

We call and she comes a runnin’.

She wants that “motherly” reassurance. 

And that “fatherly” approval.

The only time she isn't responding back, is when her little mouth is full.

Thank goodness she likes leaves, and not berries. 

Not yet anyway.

At the end of the day, she must return to the company of other ruminants. 

It’s only right. 

Until tomorrow ~ gotta love those goats ~ God willing,

Woodswoman

Compost Problem Solving Day – Before 9 a.m.

“If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.” – Marcus Tullius Cicero

I would like to go on record here as saying that I wholeheartedly believe that this is true. I have multiple reasons, but the one that comes to mind at the moment is that if you’re going to garden with any kind of seriousness, you’re going to need the information in that library to figure what the heck to do with the garden – every step of the way. Cicero’s sentiment has particular resonance for me this morning because I also believe that the following (from Mike and Nancy Bubel) is true – that experience can be translated to mean “doing it wrong the first time”.

How do I know? Check it out. Does this look like compost to you?

My two favorite books right now are the Bubels' Root Cellaring: Natural Cold Storage of Fruits and Vegetables, and Steve Soloman’s Gardening When It Counts: Growing Food In Hard Times. I pulled out Gardening When It Counts this morning because I woke with a feeling of restless agitation, an inability to concentrate, and an un-assuageable drive to DO something. So … today is the day I solve the composting problem – hopefully without too much flexing of the checkbook.

Quite a few years of studying philosophy has shown me that you can’t solve a problem (in the real world OR in the metaphysical one) unless you can define that problem, so here goes.

Essentially, there are two problems. Make that two “problem areas.” There is The Inside Problem, and The Outside Problem. The Inside Problem deals with how to handle the food scraps before they ever make it outside, and I’m going to save discussion of The Inside Problem for another post. Today we’re heading outside.

The Outside Problem is the mess that I’ve already shown you. It contains the season’s worth of food scraps, dead vegetable plants (with and without vine borers, seeds, and who knows what else), gigantic weeds pulled haphazardly and far too infrequently from the summer garden, at least one dead snake, at least one cardboard box, and a very flimsy and unsatisfactory tomato cage. Oh, and at this point, LOTS of yucky grub-like organisms that have sprung into existence there and are quite obviously having the time of their lives.

The problem is further complicated by the fact that we have a pack of dogs, so whatever we do has to be appropriately fenced off so that the scraps are unavailable to them. They don’t look too intimidating, but believe me, they’re crafty when it comes to snatching scraps out of the “compost” pile, and my raw-foodie cocker would rather eat melon than meat.

We have an out of the way spot picked out for this new pile, but it’s currently full of grass clippings … this I believe is known as putting the cart before the horse. 

Still, as my husband quite rightly pointed out, this most recent massive grass cutting will probably be our last big one of the year, and if we want to do something useful with the grass clippings then we needed to rake them up and pile them somewhere (we don’t have a bagger).

So … my idea was to use the same materials that I did for our un-composting disaster pile – cheap fence posts and rabbit guard – and to close off a much larger space this time, enough space that I can make a pile on one side and then move that pile to the other side. But I feel like I don’t have a whole lot of room here to work. I SO wish I could just go buy one of those big composting turning barrel thingies. But that’s not what we’re (trying to be) about here, so out comes Steve Solomon, the “gardening grandfather that I never had.” Except that I DID have a gardening grandfather of my own.

But he’s been deceased for some years now. I think about him often and really miss him these days. But I didn’t see him all that often before he passed away, since he lived a thousand miles away from me; and quite frankly, I’m ashamed to say, when it came to gardening know-how back then I was happy to pick and eat the produce, but I wasn’t exactly paying rapt attention to the know-how. Enter Steve Solomon.

Anyway … It’s a cool September morning and I’m out here on the deck eating my breakfast and waiting for my daughter to wake up, and now I pause to read.

Compost Problem Solving Day – Noon

Well, after reading enough of Mr. Solomon’s compost chapter to feel thoroughly intimidated, I’ve come up with a plan. This rabbit guard and flimsy fence post thing just isn’t going to cut it. I don’t have enough materials on hand to make an enclosure big enough for me to make what should be an effective compost heap, to be able to move around it, and to keep my dogs the heck away from it. I have no problem going and getting more materials if that’s what it takes the get the job done – except that it doesn’t. I have a better idea. It’s this.

Nope, not the rabbit guard in the foreground…the 6 foot tall chain link fence in the background, that’s standing in front of the privacy fence.

I bought this kennel earlier this year in yet another attempt to solve The Dog Problem. They quite refused to be kenneled quietly in it, and its use as a kennel was short-lived. So then I moved it to the side of the yard as you see above to distance my four dogs from our neighbor’s four (or five?) dogs. The neighbors keep their dogs out all the time, and the whole crew tends to get into an insane barking frenzy the moment my dogs step out the door. (I’m going to resist the opportunity to enlarge upon how unbelievably annoying this is. Moving on.)

This fence is an eyesore here anyway, and even though it DID cut down enormously on the fence-barking frenzy, it’s no longer doing any good, because the whole area has been reconfigured because of our immanent construction and now the dogs can get behind it, so Voila! I’m going to go with this as a compost enclosure.

I’ve eaten lunch, fed the kid, and bathed the muddy, groundhog-obsessed cocker spaniel, and I’m heading outside now with a craftsman wrench.

Compost Problem Solving Day – 1:38 p.m.

Well, once I decided what to do, doing it was pretty short work. It’s still an expensive solution to the problem, but it’s hundreds of bucks I wasted months ago, and not hundreds of bucks I’m wasting today; and if it works well then the money I spent on this thing won’t have been wasted at all, and that’ll be a good thing.

So, Phase 1 of The Great Compost Project is complete, and it looks like this.

It’ll keep the dogs out, keep the decomposing stuff contained, and give me some room to work so that maybe I can actually do something useful with all of our scraps.

What's to come? Well, phases 2, 3 and 4 are as follows:

Phase 2: Organize what’s in this cage so that I can collect stuff through the rest of the fall, and then build the compost heap. That’s going to involve moving all of these already nicely-rotting grass clippings up into one corner so that I can put them on as I build the pile at the end of the fall. I think I’m going to need a pitchfork for that. I can’t WAIT to get my pitchfork!

Phase 3: Develop a new in-house system for collecting food scraps. I think I need something bigger than the bowl that I’ve been using, so that the project requires less-frequent trips out to the heap.

Phase 4: Actually build the compost heap so that I will have compost for the spring. I’m still a little fuzzy on this step, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out, if I keep reading Steve Solomon and apply myself to it.

So, there you go: a problem-solving project well begun. I feel better already.

This year after two floods – second one happened in July with 4 inches of rain – I can’t believe my garden is producing this well. So far I’ve managed to get 3 dozen ears of corn, some peppers, cabbage, tomatoes, onions, and potatoes. Sadly, it’s those precious heirloom beans that didn’t quite make it through the second flood. I managed to pick one mess, so we had a medley of sorts for dinner with white-half runner, rattlesnake, and goose beans. It was soo good. I think I will just leave the rest on the vine and save them for seed for next year.

So, it was a nice surprise one day when some good friends called and said to come out to their country garden and pick beans. Well we couldn’t pass that up and we jumped in our truck and drove 40 minutes out to their garden that day. They received the same amount of rain as we did but their garden sits on a hill – so they still have a bountiful garden.

We picked a bushel that day and I canned 14 quarts – there is nothing like good friends.

This year I’ve become used to all the weeds, bugs, floods, and frosts. It’s when something quite out of the ordinary happened (like floods are ordinary) that I just threw up my hands, laughed, and thought, What next? Quite unenexpectedly one day while working in the garden, I heard big paws thumping on the ground, and then I heard someone holler, “TANNER!” I should have realized he was coming after me, his favorite neighbor, but it was too late. The neighbor’s big, brown, 120-pound Lab, Tanner, dashed through the vegetable garden stomping on plants as he ran to greet me, with his big tongue hanging out. He loves me what can I say. Except now the onions are not standing up so pretty and straight, and the poor corn plant on the end... Oh well, I straightened them up the best I could – they’ll grow.

Here I am, smack in the middle of an “I Love Where I Work” moment. At this time of year, I have a lot of those.

This morning a staff member for our sister publication, Mother Earth News, brought in his Barred Rock broody hen to be a foster mom for editor Cheryl Long’s fertilized Welsummer eggs that just arrived in the mail. As I got myself situated in my office, instead of hearing the usual coffee gossip, I heard the peeping of a brand-new chick and the oohs and aahs of co-workers peering into the box to get a glimpse of the mom and babies.

Throughout the day, the chicks have hatched and now we have six new Welsummers, ready to start their lives on Cheryl’s farm (and soon to produce those fabulous, dark-brown speckly eggs for which their breed is so famous.)

It’s like that around here. Every few days, someone in this building brings in a critter – often, these days, it’s Hank and his new puppy, Henry, who stole every heart on this side of the office the day he showed up looking for all the world like a baby hedgehog and not the ferocious Cairn terrier we’re assured he actually is. So far, poor Henry’s four little paws barely touch the ground when Hank brings him in because someone is holding Henry practically the entire day.

This time of year a lot of people are getting chicks and ducklings, so we’ll frequently hear lots of cheeping, since having chicks delivered to the office makes more sense than risking not being home when the USPS guy shows up. This year we have our famous Chicken Project, which Hank will talk about a lot more in his blog, The Daily Commute, and in the magazine, so I expect a whole lotta cheepin’ going on very soon. We’re testing incubators, brooders and, ultimately, for a few of our feathered pals, a plucker (I expect to be away on urgent business that day, thanks).

Puppies, kittens and stray animals of one kind or another are fairly commonplace. One spring, one of the women in Customer Care brought in her Babydoll sheep lamb twins, decked out in little disposable diapers to keep them socially acceptable. So far, we haven’t had any calves or piglets, but around here, you never know. I have threatened to have a metallic sign made for my car, “K.C.’s Roadside Rescue” for the number of stray dogs I pick up from the side of the road.

I do truly love working someplace where feathered and four-legged friends occasionally make up part of the workforce. This probably makes me functionally unemployable at most places on the planet. Good thing I love my job.

Come to think of it, my neighbors are getting some piglets in a few days. Hmmm … I wonder …

Chicken photos courtesy Troy Griepentrog; Henry photo courtesy Gina Souders.

Work on the high tunnel greenhouse continued today, after several delays due to wind. Trying to wrangle large sheets of plastic in the spring winds of Kansas isn't anyone's idea of fun.

I still wonder how aforementioned plastic is going to hold up to aforementioned wind, but other farmers in our neighborhood have these very same structures and swear by them, so we shall see.

Next: planting heirloom tomatoes! Followed eventually by eating and canning heirloom tomatoes. Yesss!

And in this photo, you'll see a certain little blonde dog busily helping the Fieldstone crew by running circles around them as they wrestled plastic. He also helped the geese get in the water by chasing them to water's edge and the cat get in the barn by charging her as she emerged to stretch in the sunshine. CP is a very helpful dog.

Photos by Nancy Krause.

Some time ago, the good folks at FURminator Inc. sent me a little care package containing one of their deShedding Tools, a bottle of deShedding Shampoo and a package of deShedding Dog Treats. I was thrilled because we have six dogs at the farm and they are constantly in need of grooming. In fact, the need for routine grooming is so great that it sometimes just doesn’t happen … imagine a West Highland white terrier that is a greenish-brown that’s not just reminiscent of the color of a fresh steaming pile of ….

Anyway, we have put all three of the products through their paces this mud season and all of us are pleased with the results. First of all, the deShedding Tool is one of the few combs or brushes that our canine crew universally tolerates. And while most of our dogs don’t tend to shed out in clumps, the deShedding Tool has definitely decreased the amount of dog hair flying around the house. I particularly like the deShedding Tool because I can use it to remove some of the caked-on mud and tangled debris with no protest from the dogs.

Of course, good farm dogs know how to devour treats of all kinds. All six of ours love the deShedding Dog Treats, although I can’t say for sure that there is any difference in their coats so far. I know that the anticipation of receiving a deShedding Dog Treat is motivation to jump in my lap for a good working over with the deShedding Tool. Even Gus, our super-sensitive, lean, 50-pound border collie tolerates the tool when a treat is involved … my lap doesn’t totally love that.

Iris, our youngest Westie has been rolling in cow pies so regularly the past couple of weeks that we know she really loves the deShedding Shampoo. We used the entire bottle on her … she was white again last night, but I know she is already green today.

If you struggle with indoor dogs and/or cats that shed, I can’t recommend the deShedding Tool from FURminator highly enough. If you have farm dogs and like to keep them looking somewhat civilized, the deShedding Tool makes grooming easy and a lot more fun.

Well, we went and did it. We got ourselves a puppy. It’s not that we were looking all that hard for a dog; this little guy just sort of fell into our laps. He needed a home by February 12th, or he was headed to the pound where he’d most likely be euthanized. We couldn’t let that happen! Plus ... the farm does need a dog ... So last week, we adopted Oreo, a 4 month old Lab/Blue Heeler mix with dark brown eyes and a tender spirit. He has quickly wiggled his way into our hearts. Here you can see him with Andy and Elly through our kitchen window.

But before I begin to tell you about our new adventures with Oreo (now it’s Rio, as Andy has coined him), I must back up a bit and give honor to our farm dog that we lost this summer. Before we were sharing our lives with all of you here at GRIT, we had a few months blogging online by ourselves. I’d like to re-post one of those blogs in which I detail the life and times of our faithful friend, Candy. She made a big impact here on the farm and excluding her from our dog archives would not be right. So, from July 2008, here is the story:

It is with a sad heart that we post this blog tonight. At around ten this morning, we had to euthanize Candy, our farm dog of 12 years. Yes, this is the same dog that only days ago was rambunctiously reeking havoc with our new sheep.

Some things aren’t always as they seem. She just became really sick on Tuesday. We took her to the vet first thing Wednesday morning, and she didn’t improve. Amongst a host of other issues, her kidneys were failing. It’s weird to hear that with a dog; but there’s no dialysis for animals, at least not that a farmer could afford. The humane thing was to put her down quietly and with family holding her.

Candy ... this little Shephard/Heeler/who-knows-what mix has been running through mud puddles for over a decade here!

Twelve years ago, I was just finishing up my freshman year of high school. The spring of 1996 was a turning point for the farm. After several years of trying to do it all on his own, my father made the tough decision to sell his milking cows and just raise heifers. It would free him up beyond words, yet always leave something wanting. In early April of that year, my long-time friend, a horse named Spark, had to be put to sleep from failed hips and old age. He was as much my father’s horse as he was mine. We both lost a true friend. (To this day, don’t get us talking about Spark; we’ll both choke up!)

Shortly thereafter, I heard from a friend at school that they had puppies to give away. We didn’t have a dog on the farm at that point....

The timing was ripe. It was perfect. But Dad didn’t want to deal with a new puppy! So I promised him that I would take care of its every need and he wouldn’t have to do anything. (How many of you have said that before?) With help from my mom, we convinced him. Not that he said yes. He just said, “Fine, but it’s YOUR dog. Not mine.”

I don’t remember how we picked her out of the litter of rolling puppies, but suddenly we had a vibrant, three month old pile of fur that we could call ours.

In honor of her golden-coated mother, Snickers, we named the new puppy Candy. She came to us as big as a large tomcat and loved us from day one. We taught her to stay off the road (more than one farm dog met its demise on that highway), to fetch and to not jump on people. Ok, that last one she never really got.

The life of a farm dog is exciting, free and often dangerous. Candy was not more than a “teenage” dog when she learned what a kick from a cow can mean. The heeler in her caused her to nip at the cows’ feet to get them moving and they did not like it! As she grew in size (and bark!) they began to respect her and moved along as she saw fit. Now, it wasn’t perfect by any means. We never really trained her much in the art of herding. A herding dog has the instinct to keep animals together and on the move, but a lot of the times, Candy had them all perfectly formed, stampeding forth ... in the complete wrong direction.

And sometimes, she really got it. If a heifer strayed, Candy would hunt her down and work her back into the group. It was beautiful to see, especially if you’ve ever had the privilege of trying to move a herd of unruly cows. (There’s lots of running involved. Seeing a dog do that part is satisfying indeed.)

A few years into her young life, Candy had an accident that we thought would end her. It was winter and my father was driving some heavy machinery around to feed the cattle. Always at his side, Candy slipped on the ice and went right under the tractor tires. She was rushed to the vet where they did surgery to repair her hips, but she was crushed so bad that her left socket couldn’t hold her leg into place. You know what? She pulled through! For ten years, she ran around the farm (and I do mean ran) with a dislocated hip and a limp.

Candy could be really annoying, too. I guess, who can’t? She would bark at the sound of thunder, fireworks and gunshots. We live in rural Wisconsin. Those noises are very common. She jumped on every guest with muddy, poopy farm paws. She barked all night over nothing. (Though she was invaluable at keeping the coyotes away.) She dug up animal carcasses from who knows where and ate them on the front lawn. And kept re-finding them even after we tried to dispose of them. She chewed through our summer hammock. She scratched up the finish on all the drivers’ side doors of our vehicles because she couldn’t wait for us to exit. She chased barn cats just to show off.

She was just being a dog.

She befriended the barn cats that had no feline friends. She shared her home under the porch with more than one litter of kittens. She had a companion with my beef steer Buckeye. And she always greeted us every morning with a wagging tail and loving eyes.

When I went away to college, she ceased to be my dog ... but in reality, she had been my father’s dog long before. For years, Candy was my father’s only companion on the farm. Through blizzards, rainstorms, intense heat and of course the balmy days, she could only be found by his side. That little puppy he never wanted had become his very best friend.

In recent years, Candy had noticeably slowed down. She didn’t always go to the fields with Dad. Sometimes she ignored the wandering cow. Many days were spent basking in the shade of our great maple trees. We all knew she was getting older and into her twilight years. I guess, though, you can never really be ready for that day.

Today was that day. And I write tonight so that the memory of a good friend won’t die with the dog that created it. She is at peace. The Bible doesn’t say if animals go to heaven. But God did create all creatures here on Earth and He knows every single one. He knew Candy. He blessed us with 12 long years to care for her. He delighted in her mischief and doggy ways.

And so did we. Farewell, old friend. Your loving eyes and wagging tail will desperately be missed.

Candy, you were a Good Dog.

As Constant Reader has already seen in earlier blogs, I relatively recently adopted a completely adorable cocker/poodle mix from the local humane shelter. He stole my heart the minute I laid eyes on him and is still absolutely the object of my affection. He’s gained several pounds (from a nearly starved dog to a little round chunk, actually) and has easily settled in with my elderly dog and my adolescent cat. He is joyful, energetic and adoring, the happiest of happy dogs.

I, however, am not the happiest of happy dog wranglers. He doesn’t have the very best manners and insists on jumping up on visitors. Since the farm I live on has a U-pick operation and, therefore, lots of visitors, CP needs to learn to keep his paws to himself.

But the worst thing he does is get to my front door, get just about ready to come in the house, then look at me with complete joy and mischief in his eyes and gallop away. He wants to play, thanks. He doesn’t quite agree with the go-inside-now plan. To my enormous chagrin, this behavior most often happens when I am dressed and ready to drive into town to my job. So I am faced with two options: Chase him down or just let him stay outside all day and hope my neighbors will take pity on me and toss him in the house if they can lasso him once he’s worn himself out. Either way, I end up late for work.

So what I would love to know from our wonderful readers – so many of whom are dyed-in-the-wool dog people – is what I can do to break this bad behavior and get him to come when I call? The not-jumping-up-on-people thing would earn bonus points.

Help!!!!

Around the New Year, we received word that the runt of a Cairn terrier litter was available from the kennel that produced our adult Cairn terrier Woodrow a few years ago. Kate thought that Woodrow needed a friend to climb rock walls with … and hey, we already had two West Highland White terriers and two Border collies. I am a sucker for dogs … and we are suckers for runts, so I figured a full six pack would be great. The only problem was that this little Cairn puppy was in Pennsylvania.

As luck would have it, our daughter Becca was hankering for a visit to the farm. So she flew from New Hampshire to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, picked up the Cairn puppy and continued on to Kansas. I guess the people who encountered Becca and the puppy wondered what kind of animal it was. And the exercise wasn’t expensive at all … thanks to Expedia.com.

When I first met Henry (that’s his name now), I was stunned that a Cairn puppy of that age could be so small. His short little legs make him look like an animated South Park character when he walks … or runs. He is a precocious little guy and fits into the pack quite nicely. His lack of size makes him a bit vulnerable to getting stepped on … he likes to hang out in my sweatshirt pocket while I’m doing chores. So, now we have two Toto dogs, but their connection to Oz isn’t why we have them. Like all of our dogs, it’s their stamina of will, their naked joy and their physical expertise that make their companionship such a gift.

I can’t say whether Henry will be it in the dog department for us. And I see no reason to make such a pronouncement. But I can report that the addition of Henry the Cairn terrier fills out our six pack quite perfectly.

I was out with my dog, Chili, the other day, taking one of our treks around the pond and I decided to experiment with her a little bit. She’s an Australian Shepherd mix, so needs a lot of running to keep her from bouncing off the ceiling. Well, the solution from the time she was just a fuzzball was to train her in the fine art of Frisbee.

Sue claims the flying disk thing is really not as much for her as it is for me. The argument goes like this: when I was at the University of Iowa, I was never more envious of my fellow classmates than when I spent summer days trying to study on the campus while more socially oriented students took the summers off and played Frisbee with their dogs. So when I found Chili, I was simply trying to capture the youth I never allowed myself to have in the first place.

All I know is that once a friend of mine dropped that little ball of fuzz into my arms and warned me that the critter was going to the pound unless I kept her, I never had a choice.

For the first seven years of her life, Chili lived in the city. After some obedience training, she was able to heel off leash, until one day the neighbor woman complained that I was violating some City ordinance. Maybe she was right, but I’m guessing that was the moment I decided we had to move out to the country. I couldn’t be the one to break the pure dog spirit in my furry friend by insisting that she take to the leash for the rest of her life. The time she ended up herding the elementary school kids who were waiting for the bus in our front yard really clinched the deal. It was time to get out of town.

When we bought the country house, we had a lot of renovations to do, so a lot of days after work I would swing by to pick up the dog in the city then take her out to the new place while I worked on something. She came to view these as strange outings, when I largely ignored her while she got to explore a big new area. I still remember the moment, a couple of days after we finally made the move, when Chili realized that this was her new home. All of a sudden she went into puppy mode, running at full bore back and forth across the property for the pure joy of running, giving herself over completely to her new domain. She became a country dog in that burst of energy, free to roam and explore, with nary a leash in sight.

So, fast forward to the Frisbee and the pond. I periodically test her intelligence with various games, and the one I played this day was to throw the disk across the end of the pond so she would have to run around the curvature of the pond to catch it. This had the added benefit of wearing her out quicker since she needed to run a lot farther to catch the thing. On the final throw, she forgot herself and launched straight out into the pond, sinking up to her haunches in the muck bottom. She came out pure black.

It took three towels before I could even bring her inside to toss her in the bath tub, but she got the first bath she’s had in years. We’re still cleaning spots off the wall where she shook herself dry after the bath. Fortunately, Sue tolerates this kind of stuff with good humor. And Chili? I didn’t take her long to get over the shock of the bath. Before the afternoon was out, she was trolling the compost pile for some great-smelling table scraps.

They say that if you find your place, it makes all the difference in your life, and I guess it must be true with dogs as well. Our dog Chili has definitely become like pure essence of dog since she found her place in the country.

One of the reasons I was eager to move back to the farm is that I know from experience the opportunities for daily wonder that abound out here. Not that they don’t abound in town but, living in the city, I’m not as tempted to walk out the front door and pay close attention to what I see. Part of my sacred pledge to the life force of this world is that I will notice, and I find that easier when nature is so close at hand.

Here on the farm, wonder is only a walk away – and sometimes not a far walk at that. This morning, for instance, I took the dogs and went to pick some blackberries for breakfast, with a quick cruise over to the peach trees just in case. The peaches were ripe and the berries perfect – even CP, my new pup, agrees.

He’s taken to eating a few berries (green, not ripe, thank you) off the lower branches while I’m picking. Last week, I heard something crunching down the row from me and was afraid to look because I just knew the dogs had been hunting and some little creature had bitten the dust. Instead, I laughed out loud when I saw CP’s head sticking out from under the blackberry bush, merrily chomping on unripe blackberries. He had no idea dogs just don’t do such things.

We walked back to my place and as I looked down I spied this beautiful moth, displayed as if pinned in an exhibition. I thought he was dead, but discovered otherwise when I reached down to pick him up. I don’t believe he was long for this world because he barely moved – but it was enough to startle me into dropping him (or her. I don’t know how to determine the sex of moths – and am not hugely motivated to discover the secret).

I ran back in the house to grab my cell phone and take a photo (which still sounds nonsensical to me, even though I do it routinely these days) and was thrilled that the moth was still in place, having the good taste to die beautifully right where I could get a good shot of it.

I wasn’t so lucky for my second wonder of the day. I just couldn’t get the phone/camera out in time, so you’ll have to take my word for it.

As I drove down the road that runs beside the farm, I saw ahead what were obviously a mother bird and her babies, crossing the road. Looking more closely, I recognized the feathered-football outlines that identified the bird as a guinea hen and her half-grown offspring. Bringing up the rear was not the daddy guinea, as I first imagined, but a wild turkey hen, shepherding the straggler keets and urging them to keep up, keep up.

They were minding right smartly, providing a tender tableau of mom and her BFF – a best friend forever, even if from a slightly different species – marching the kids off to relieve the field of a few of its grasshoppers.

I wonder if her accent was funny to them.