Farm Fresh Blog

The results are in and the Employee of the Month for December is . . .

 Miss Lily Langford!!!

(again)

For her tireless service, continued devotion to excellence in the workplace, initiative and creativity, Miss Lily Langford has been awarded the Employee Of The Month for the month of December.

(again)

Miss Langford proved her value once more this week when she took it upon herself to keep the goats out of the feed room when the Boss was dishing up sweet feed for cattle. Miss Langford noted the goats behaving like "gypsies in the palace." She observed The Boss repeatedly pushing goats aside and smacking them with buckets. Miss Langford then drew up a plan whereby she placed herself between the feed room door and the goats and disciplined (i.e. "bit") any goat that challenged her authority. The goats backed off. Peace was restored and the cattle were fed without further incident.

The next morning Miss Langford anticipated the problem and assumed the position at the feed room door without being asked.

So once again, for her tireless devotion to this company, Miss Langford has been selected as Employee of the Month.  Because Miss Langford has also been awarded Employee of the Month for:

January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October and November, this earns her the title of Employee of the Year!

Could we hear a few words from Miss Langford?

 (blush)

"Awww man!  That bites, dude! This thing is rigged! What about me?!!  What about ME going out in the dark ALL THE WAY TO THE NEIGHBOR'S to get those stupid sheep?!!  What about ME?!! I'm tellin' Dad! This is a joke! This is rigged!"

"What about ME?!!  I penned that stupid red heifer last week! What about ME?!! This thing is rigged! That little brown-noser wins every month! I'm filing a complaint with Internal Affairs!  DAD!!!"

Our journey to put money down on the ranch was Dillon's first real road trip. It proved to be quite entertaining. The realtor is very pro-dog and encouraged us to let the pups run. (He knows how to sell ranch property!)    Dillon was an angel,

 as always!

Everything about the ranch was a delight to a 4 month old Labrador, and he was a little chocolate angel. He stayed close to us. He came when he was called, and most importantly . . .

. . . he didn't roll in cow poop.

The same cannot be said for other members of our party.

Yes, Blue Heeler has a love of Cow Poop Perfume. 

Let me paint you a mental picture. Imagine this:

We walk into Realtor's Office and the weather is beautiful. Mild temperatures. Blue skies. Sign papers and throw down large sum of money. Walk out of office to discover that a Blue Norther has rolled in and it is now colder than a polar bear's nose.  Inform Other Half that we STILL will go by the property again to take photos of old homestead. He reluctantly agrees. It is cold. We have a long drive ahead of us. Nevertheless, he is stuck in the truck with a woman for the next 7 hours, so he does the only wise thing - he agrees with her.

Drive to ranch. Reason that this is the perfect place to allow pups to play before their long journey home. Problem: the cattle already on the place are certain that we are there to feed them and are thus following the truck. Grrrr. . .

Outrun cattle. Inform Other Half that he can sit in warm truck, pay bills, and keep an eye out for cattle while I throw sticks to entertain pups. (it sounded good on paper) What happened was this:

I get absorbed in playing fetch with Lily and Dillon and fail to note that Blue Heeler has slipped out of my eyesight FOR JUST A MOMENT.  Turn around in time to see him rising out of a roll.  He is covered ON BOTH SIDES with yellow-green slime. Thirty angus calves have been in a wheat field. Thirty calves can leave a lot of yellow-green poop.

Yes, it is 38 degrees outside with a stiff breeze, and we are now facing a 7 hour drive inside a truck with a dog who is now covered in cow shit. Oh joy!  See red for a moment. Vainly try to find way to blame Other Half for this dilemma. He is still sitting in warm truck. Inform him that Blue Heeler will now ride in the BACK of the truck in Dillon's crate.

Other Half argues that this is unfair and is cruel and unusual punishment for the crime.  And so that's how two idiots ended up bathing a stupid blue dog in a 38 degree stream.

 "ma bad . . ."

"Ranger smells funny. Can I sit in the front seat?"

 Greetings Bi-peds!

I'm passing out cigars! (made of hay) Christmas was a busy time for us! We had 4 lambs born in 24 hours. (3 girls and a boy)

 Christmas Carol -

- born midday on Christmas Day

 Twin Girls

- born in the wee hours after midnight on the day after Christmas. Note milk poopy butts.

 Single Boy

- born 8 pm the day after Christmas

 The Human says she is ready to go back to work just so she can get some rest. She says Lambing during the Christmas holidays is almost as stressful as dodging Christmas shopping soccer moms who are driving SUVs while sipping Starbucks and talking on their cellphones.

     It's becoming a Christmas tradition - lambing. What better way to get to the heart of the Christmas Story. While most people are in church, Other Half and I have sleeves pushed up, delivering lambs in the cold mud.

     After this summer's drought, we shouldn't complain, but lambing in the mud during a cold drizzly rain was never on my list of "things to do before I die."

On the other hand, babies are healthy, mommas are healthy, we have rubber boots and a washing machine, so all is good. Our families are also getting used to the familiar excuse,

"We're running late. A ewe is in labor."

Last year Holly was born on our way out the door . . .

This year brought us Christmas Carol . . .

     Thankfully we were home when Ma went into labor because Carol was stuck. Other Half adjusted her massive, unladylike shoulders, and "pop!" she slid right out.  Actually it sounded more like "SLOP!" she slid out and hit the mud. When she stood up she was as big as a two week old baby!

     I'm sooo glad that when I was whittling down the flock this summer I decided to keep these ewes. Rather than keeping the better bred ewes, I chose to keep the core stock of girls that I knew were experienced mothers. Now as they lamb in the cold rain, I appreciate the fact that these ladies know what they're doing, and they trust us. Ma saw us coming yesterday, and said to me,

"I might need just a little help adjusting this bowling ball. Assistance please!"

A few minutes later Carol hit the mud and we backed off to let Ma do her thing. A few hours later, Carol was bouncing around the hay, playing with another baby. It was a good Christmas Day.

     And so even though the rest of the world was snug and warm in church or with their families on Christmas, I didn't feel any less close to God by spending the day in a shed full of animals. If anything, the miracle of new life on Christmas brings me closer.

Lilah lives an hour away from her Neigh-Neighs (nay-nays???) and thus she doesn't get to ride them as often as she'd like. She does, however, pull up their pictures daily on the computer so she can keep abreast of her farms. (online supervision) And trust me, this kid keeps up with her farm!

She knows her animals. For example, last week she was helping me package soap orders. She looked down at the business cards that were attached to each bar and announced,

"Hey!  That's my goat!"

"Well, yes Dear, that IS your goat."

Whodathunkit? On the other hand, Lilah is 2 1/2 years old. She KNOWS what belongs to her, so when she comes to the farm, Lilah comes prepared . . .

 Her Neigh-neighs love to see her coming.

While Napolean genuinely likes kids, Ruffy firmly believes that children are cookie dispensers.

He's not wrong. While Napolean does all the real work, Ruffy soaks up the rewards.

 I dread the day she outgrows this little guy. I suppose there is a Welsh Pony in her future. Don't worry, Napolean's place in this family is secure though. HomeBoy ain't goin' anywhere!

After she plays with ponies, Lilah must drive around the ranch to supervise her other creatures. Yes, she drives the mule.

 Checking on the bull

(I would dearly love to know what she was telling him.)

And baby brother, Everett, is not left out. There are lambs to check too.

On Christmas Eve, Lilah returned bearing more gifts for her Neigh-Neighs. Even the big horses love to see her. It's simple math.

 Double-fisted

Grandbaby = midget human = cookie dispenser

For Christmas her baby brother received a Fisher Price Nativity Scene.

 Lilah immediately confiscated it.

  "Huh?!"

She then proceeded to rip out Baby Jesus and fill the stable with Neigh-neighs.

"Isn't there something wrong with that?"

On that same note, look closely at this Nativity scene.

Closer . . .

Yeah, that!     

Who knew Jesus had a Border Collie?

And I'll leave you with this . . .

Like Lilah, keep track of your blessings.

And like Everett, make sure to keep a little Jesus in your manger.

Yesterday Other Half went to my old farm to pick up some things. Because I simply could not bear to go over there, he dropped me off at my mom's place. Through the window, I could see workmen laboring, but I tried not to focus on what they were doing, and what precious something was being destroyed.

Later Other Half cautiously ventured "I wasn't going to tell you this, but I figured you'd want to know. Those workmen were in the garden beside the house and were stomping all over the dogs' graves."

It stung for a moment, and I didn't answer him. Then I took a second to think about it.

Alice and Frio wouldn't mind. They loved people.  Pippy would politely step aside, she was shy. Katy hated strangers and would growl. She would be the annoying itch at the base of their backs. Penny would bark and wag her tail, charming but harmless. And my beloved Navarre wasn't even there any more. 

 His bones still lay in the cold ground, but that dog is in my soul . . .

. . . and on my back.

The dearest of people, Sue in Wyoming, turned the precious hair that I painstakingly combed from that dog over a span of 12 years, into a beautiful sweater jacket, an earwarmer, and fingerless gloves.

 YES! This is my dog!

When the package bearing the jacket and gloves arrived last week, I was in tears as the mail lady handed it over the counter. By the time I opened it in the truck, I was bawling. Blue Heeler was beside himself with hysteria. "What is IN that box that has Mom so upset?!!"  I assured him that these were happy tears.

My dog and I were together again.  He was keeping me warm once more.

I thank God for people like Sue.  She is an Old Soul who understands this world so much better than I do. I could feel the love in that box. The sweater and gloves were wrapped inside a beautiful pillow case. She sent me Butterfingers for the hard days, and photos of her dogs and family so I could put faces with names. And to Blue Heeler's delight, she sent tennis balls - lots of tennis balls!  This was a care package for everyone!

So even as the sting of workmen stomping over my graves chafed, the knowledge that Navarre was in my soul and on my back was a warm salve.

Thank you, Sue.

There is so much to tell you!

I took the Arapaho way, turned my back on last week and said, "It is finished." (That is amazingly calming by the way, you should try it.)  Anyway, all the way through this ordeal, I've had faith that God would lead me to a much better place. Even as doubts whispered, "You're gonna lose your farm and your dream ranch will already have been sold to someone else," I held tight to the faith that if that were the case, an even better ranch was waiting in my future.

Guess what!

My ranch was still there! I grudgingly promised to look at another ranch in the area before we put money down on My Ranch.  (waste of time) The other ranch was set up for cattle, offered good hunting, and had a building that we could actually live in while building a house. But . . . it wasn't my ranch, and even as I drove around it, I knew it, and was impatient to go see My Ranch again. 

After wasting way too much time at the other place (i.e. setting foot on it), we arrived at My Ranch. (let me take a moment to explain that the other ranch was very beautiful and most people would LOVE to have it, but it wasn't The One and I knew it. I had a Dream for 6 months. I knew what I wanted. Looking at anything else was a waste of time.)

The sun was beginning to creep down as I climbed in the back of the mule and we drove off to take another look at the ranch I've dreamed of for the last 6 months.  It's wild. It's remote. It's beautiful. It's mine.

A tremendous peace washed over me. I was home.  

It's not only beautiful, it's full of history. This was an old Indian settlement (complete with graves) at the base of a mountain. A creek runs through it that supported them. The property had game and water. They settled here and raided the local settlers. (trespassers) A fort was built to the north to protect the settlers from the Indians. The creek has washed up artifacts and bones.

Apparently hunters stumbled upon these and fearing a crime scene, brought in authorities who identified the bones as ancient. The Native Americans said to leave the washed up bones where you find them to allow them to continue their journey. Works for me.

I thought about all this as I rode through it again and let the place soak into me. I need this place. This place needs me. It is a piece of history. It needs protection. It needs someone who will appreciate its wild beauty and not see it as a resource for stripped timber, oil, and future ranchettes. I can take care of this place. This place can take care of me.

The realtor asked, "Do you want to sleep on it overnight and let me know something tomorrow?"

I barely glanced back at him. "No."

He asked again.

"I want it."

"Don't you want to sleep on it overnight."

(stupid question)

"I've slept on it many nights already."

Finally Other Half said, "If this is what she wants, then we'll get it. Let's start the paperwork."

And so it was that I signed my name, threw the money from the sale of my little farm at him, and bought a dream.

Barring any complications, we close at the end of January.

 "I wish to go on public record."

"On the evening cited in the Blog Post 12/12/11, I, Scout, Innocent Mustang, was eating my meager meal in that alcove you people call "my stall" when it was invaded by 3 foul-smelling beasts wearing hoods. I have identified the suspects in the photo below."

"I am fairly certain they were up to no good. They were, as I stated before, wearing hoodies."

"And they were clearly running from the law . . .  

  "It was so obvious."  

"Now everyone here knows, I'm not a big fan of Border Collies. My job has been outsourced to these scrawny workaholics. On the other hand, oats still land in the bucket, and I don't have to lift a hoof to do any work around here now, so it ain't all bad. Therefore, I co-operated fully with the police when the Black & White arrived."

"After all, if something happened to the dog, I might actually have to work for a living again."

Even though we are still in the midst of a drought, the winter rains have returned. While this is wonderful news, it is still terribly annoying if you haven't built your sheep shed yet. On the farm that I just sold, the sheep had 2 large roomy stalls, a covered area, a paddock, and their pasture.

Now that they are squeezed in with the cattle, they have a paddock behind the barn. That's it. No stall with deep shavings. No eight acres to roam and run away from the Border Collie. Just a paddock and supervised access to pasture and the yard. Fortunately, they have a good lobbyist (ME!) and their living conditions are improving, but for the most part, this place is set up for cattle not sheep. BUT. . . they are still fat and happy girls.

However, anticipating the inevitable Sh*t Fit that would arrive along with the cold rain, Other Half took it upon himself to build a sheep shed one night when I was at work - by himself.  Good Boy!  (click & treat)  Imagine my delight when I arrived home to find that he had constructed a rather fine sheep shed to surprise me.  Other men bring roses, mine builds sheep sheds to show his love.

He was putting the finishing touches on the shed as I arrived, and so I chipped in to help. In order to have less help, we evicted the sheep. It was dark. I didn't figure they'd get too far from the barn.  The horses were in their stalls. The cattle were out in the pasture. The sheep could have some nice unsupervised grazing while we were working. (insert ominous music here)

It sounded good on paper.  What happened was that when it was time to come back in, everyone came in but 3 ewes who had hoofed it across the pasture, across the oat field, and onto the neighbor's farm.  The neighbor owns one horse, and 2 pitbulls. (who kill cats) Yeeeeahhhhhh . . . Since Briar was locked in the back yard, a certain trio of trespassing sheep would be defenseless against pitbulls.

Here's what happened:

Other Half informs me that he can shake a bucket and call them back. (not on a cold day in hell) I cannot even see their eyes with a flashlight. Rut ro!  We're screwed. He heads out in the mule toward the neighbor's place while calling Lily (Border Collie #1) to come with him.  Negative, Ghost Rider.  Lily is a titty-baby and will not go with him - not even to work sheep.

I dearly love my dog, but know her limitations.  In order to fetch these sheep, she must go a LONG way away from mom, into the dark, through three fences, and onto a strange farm.  It ain't happenin'.  I start walking to the kennels.

This is a job for Super Puppy!

      This is a job for a red & white heat-seeking missile.

This is a job for Trace!

What he lacks in control, he more than makes up for in confidence - confidence at a distance. And distance is what I need in the dark.

Trace is beyond delighted that he is The Chosen One and happily races out to the pasture to catch up with Other Half. Lily and I join them. We climb into the oat patch and still cannot see the sheep.  Other Half phones the neighbor before we slither through his fence. (WAIT!  Scratch that. Border Collies slither through barbed wire fences. People over the age of 45, painstakingly bend over, grunt, do the Pincushion Limbo, and cuss through barbed wire fences) 

Other Half calls him to:

 A) ask permission

 B) make sure the pitbulls are penned.

Once we secure permission, Other Half pushes the button on The Missile. 

I do not even bother to command Lily to run off into the darkness to locate the trespassers. (A girl's GOT to know her limitations.)  Trace races off into the night.  Even though I should concern myself with his education, and how this is probably not on the LESSON PLAN, I have a problem. Trace is a stock dog, ergo, Trace must handle problems. I am less concerned with his developing education as I am with coyotes and pitbulls eating 3 of my best ewes. And so, the missile is launched.

. . .

                      (crickets chirping)

Lily stares off into the night.

Moments tick by.

"Here they come!"

Sure enough, as Other Half flashlights (yes, that's a word. A verb. I just made it up.) the pasture, three idiots come at us at a breakneck speed.  They fly past us and Trace kicks into warp drive to get ahead and stop them. He turns the idiots around and heads them back to us. (I heard a sonic boom.) At this point we decide that trying to have Trace control 3 ewes who are higher than crackheads behind a convenience store, through 3 barbed wire fences is probably a lesson in futility.  He located them. He returned them to us. Let's quit while we're ahead. We call the dog off. They race toward home. Since they are stampeding in the direction of our barn like kindergarteners to the cafeteria we don't need Lily to drive them home.  She is disappointed. She is bummed.  This has not been her night.

While Trace and Other Half find the mule to ride back, Lily and I walk through fences and attempt to locate the ewes who should have arrived a few minutes earlier. Where are they?  I scan the barn yard.  Nothing.  The penned sheep and goats are calling, but there is no answer.  Crap!  Mother Hubbard!  Did the little bi-otches double back on us?

At this point I am so angry that I decide I will NOT call Heat-seeking Missle OFF them a second time!  I stalk around the barn yard in search of sheep. 

 And that's when Lily points and says, "There they are!"

Do what?  Where?

"In there!"

Huh?  Sure enough. The poor mustang cowpony has company in his stall.  At this point, I must clarify that STALL is a bit generous.  He is standing in a narrow addition to the barn that doubles as a place to eat his meal when he's in there, and a parking place for the mule machine when he's not. There is just enough room to park a wide ATV, or a mustang with a wide ass. The gate had been closed to lock him in the stall and thus keep him out of the way for a while. And there, hiding with a very confused mustang, are 3 sheep.  They stare at Lily like deer in the headlights. I put her on a down, and ease into the stall to attempt to push them out.  Negative, Ghost Rider.

They play ring-around-the-rosies under the horse's belly.  This game is not safe for me or them.  Within seconds, I am saying unladylike words.  (French) I'm not sure what part of that French translates to "LILY!  I need your help!" but a certain black & white snake slithers into the stall. At this point I am so terrified of the wreck that is about to occur that I am speechless with horror as the scene unfolds.

The dog locks eyes with the Home Invaders. Glaring, she oozes into the stall and hugs the wall. The sheep salute and begin to quietly melt around the horse and file out of the stall. The horse, no fan of dogs, lifts his back leg to allow one sheep access to leave the stall. And so, like well-oiled band, they march their little asses

        out of that stall . . .

                                 . . . 

                                         . . .  and straight into Trace . . .

                                                                  . . . who is just arriving into the barn yard. 

"GET BACK INTO THAT STALL!!!" His eyes shout as he moves to thwart another prison break.  They run over Lily and me to get back with the horse.  (Sigh)

However Lily's on top of things, and slithers in behind them.  The horse raises an eyebrow as the parade passes through his stall again. Other Half downs Trace at a distance and so while the Little Crackheads look longingly into the direction of the neighbor's farm, they file into their own paddock ahead of Lily, resigned to the fact that the prison guards can chase them down before they can scale the walls.

As the gate clangs shut, the Border Collies congratulate themselves for a job well done. They are tickled to death.  I am happy with them too, for no amount of shaking buckets and calling into the darkness would have accomplished this. Trace has now proven to us that while it might not be pretty, he can shoulder responsibility in a pinch.   And so although Lily lacks distance work, and Trace is rough, VERY ROUGH, around the edges, together they are a pretty good team, and that's what it's all about!

     As you may recall a few weeks ago my vet asked if he could draw blood on Briar to send it off for a DNA test to determine what combination of dogs went into the soup that made Briar. 

     We had several theories. Briar came from a big sheep operation in North Texas and was reportedly the product of a Great Pyrenees male and a Komondor female.  As she grew, I kept expecting the Komondor coat (dreadlocks) to emerge.  Nope.  No dreads.  It did not appear that Briar was destined to look like a Jamaican Polar Bear.

     And thus began the questions - what IS Briar? Clearly she is a Great Pyrenees crossed with SOMETHING, but what?

     She looks like a Pyr with the face of an Irish Wolfhound, or an Otterhound, or something fuzzy.

Her behavior is textbook Great Pyrenees. She is friendly and nurturing and can climb a fence like a white ape. Her coat appears to have longer guard hairs and less fluff than a Pyr.

     So we all waited with bated breath to discover what Briar's Who's Ya Daddy test would reveal. Last night I received an email that the results are in!  They'll send me a pretty family tree in the mail later, but I was able to go online and see the results.

And they are . . .

Drum roll please . . .

(You aren't gonna believe this.  I didn't.)

Briar is the product of . . .

. . . . . a Great Pyrenees/Belgian Malinois cross mated with a Great Pyrenees mix!

(crickets chirping)

Do what?

(more crickets chirping)

Okay, I certainly buy the Great Pyrenees on both sides part, but the Malinois?

For those of you who don't know what a Belgian Malinois looks like, it's this . . .

 Current Police Dog

Now here's the even odder part. The test was pretty certain about the Belgian Malinois, but it couldn't tell with certainty what was mated with the Great Pyrenees/Belgian Malinois cross other than it was a Great Pyrenees Mix. They gave a list of possible candidates with a percentage of accuracy.  Here is that list:

Norwich Terrier - a 6.37% chance
Pug - a 4.98% chance (PUG!!!!)
Samoyed - a 2.24% chance 
Belgian Tervuren - a 1.74% chance (YES!  A Belgian Tervuren!)
Chesapeake Bay Retriever - a 1.32% chance

So what does this mean?  Well I'll be honest. As a crime scene investigator, my first thought was CROSS CONTAMINATION!

If these were just wild-ass breeds on some AKC chart, I'd doubt the test itself, but the fact that the test shows that Briar is a Great Pyrenees/Malinois cross and I just HAPPEN to have a Belgian Malinois living in my home makes me wonder if "somehow" Oli's DNA ended up in that vial with Briar's blood.  While Oli doesn't play with Briar, they have scuffled and so it's possible that some of Oli's DNA "could" be on Briar's arms. Perhaps the arm that we drew blood from . . . . Possibly.  I'm just throwing it out there. (as a defense attorney) 

I don't know how they run that particular test, but I do know that I've had Belgian Shepherds since 1990 and I can tell you, if Briar has any Belgian Shepherd blood in her at all, it's minute. I'm not ruling it out, particularly the Belgian Lakinois which has a more wiry curly coat, but she displays NO Belgian Shepherd (particularly Belgian Malinois) behaviors. 

So what do y'all think?

"I'm related to OLI!  I feel sick!"
 

     There are two things guaranteed to bolt you from even the deepest of slumbers - the familiar "uhm-uhmmm-yAACK" of a dog wretching, and the smell of warm diarrhea on the carpet.  People will die in house fires without waking up, but if dog poops in the bedroom at 4 AM, there is no sleeping around that. Perhaps they should make fire alarms for Dog People that have a barf sound instead of a siren, or emit a blast of poop smell rather than a piercing sound. But I digress . . .

     When assaulted by that awful aroma, two people who have sworn to love each other "til death do us part" will begin an under-the-covers argument that goes something like this:

"Wake up! One of the dogs got sick!"

"No. That's just Dillon farting."

"That is NOT Dillon farting! It's dog sh*t!"

Truthfully, that should really be part of the marriage vows too. 

 "In sickness and in health, when the dog craps on the floor, til death do you part."

     At this time, it's worth pointing out that despite the fact that it's colder than a polar bear's nose outside, Other Half cannot sleep without a fan - a fan which is wafting the aroma of warm poop across the bedroom. Having played this game before, I lean over and turn on the lamp.  (Do NOT, for any reason, get out of bed BEFORE you turn on the light. This is advice learned the hard way.)

     With the light on, I scan the carpet at my feet.  No land mines.  Whew!  His side of the bed = his problem. Tentatively tip-toe around bed.  THERE it is! Definitely his side of the bed.  Now begins the other familiar argument which goes something like this:

"That's yours. It's on your side of the bed!"

"Unt UHHH! I did it last time! In the dining room!"

"No way. That one does not count because YOU were in charge of the puppy and YOU failed to take him out and left a COLD turd under the table for me to find when I came home from work."

     Thus begins the "ownership clause" part of the argument. If it can be proven the poop belongs to YOUR dog, it's your poop.  May I point out again that it is 4 AM and the turd is cooling.

"It was Lily!"

"It was NOT Lily!  She never got off the bed.  It was not Dillon. He never got off the bed. It wasn't Cowboy. He always poops beside the door. (so you can slide it through the carpet when you open the door.) It had to be Trace."

     Pointing out that it was Trace is safe for me since Trace is Other Half's dog. He accepts this argument, scowls, and rolls out of bed. And steps in another turd. It squishes between his toes.

     There is a howl loud enough to wake the neighbors. It is now 4:05 AM. Two piles of warm poop before the sun is up. There is nothing to do but put the dogs outside and help him. At this point we begin Argument #3 - WHY the dog is sick.

"Don't feed them any more rawhide chew bones!"

"It wasn't the rawhide chew.  He didn't even eat much of it. He just guarded it, growling like Gollum muttering about his Precious. What did YOU feed him?"

And that's when it hits him.

"Did you feed him ranch style beans last night?"

(Rut-ro.  Ma bad.)

"Uhhmmmm..... He got to clean out the pot before he went to bed."

     Good thing Other Half is already cleaning up the poop because YOU GOT EM SICK trumps IT'S YOUR DOG and technically the turd has just become mine. Had he still been under the electric blanket it would be a different story, but as it is 4:30 AM and the job is over we can tackle the next problem together - the entire north side of the house smells like diarrhea. We solve this by lighting a candle and setting spare bars of scented soap in front of the fan. Within minutes all we can smell is soap, candle, and the salty aroma of Fritos corn chips (Dillon's feet) as he snuggles between us.

     And thus we go back to bed to ponder ranch style beans, dogs in the house, fire alarms, and marriage vows.

"I met Santa!  I met Santa!"

        (sigh)

"Did you at least make a decent Christmas wish?"

"Yup!  I asked for a dove trainin' dummy!"

"Awww!  You should have asked for a lamb!

"Peanut-Head!!!  You could have asked for a stick!"

"You could have asked for something fluffy to kill!"

"Or a car to chase!"

"I just don't know about that boy . . . "

"Somebody saw Santa?!!"

 "Where?!!"

The folks at Bass Pro Shop are marketing pros!  While buying Dillon's puppy collar last month, the cashier asked me to bring him in the store.  Huh???  YEP!  They welcome dogs!  She asked that we return to the store and bring our little hunting dawg.  (Well heck yeah!)

So when we found a bit of time for Christmas shopping, guess where we went.  Yessirree Bob! We loaded up the pup and headed to Bass Pro Shop.

Other Half brought a towel so little Dillon could ride in the cart.

We plopped his butt in the cart and rolled into Man Heaven. (I was a total geek and took my camera!)

Dillon was delighted.  It was a Labrador Dream Come True!

 Kids!

 Toys!

 Decoys! 

  Guns!

 More Kids!  

and . . .

 "Hey, where's my toy?" Huh?"

   "What tha?" 

 "Santa???"

 So Little D-Man got to meet the Big Guy. 

It plumb tuckered him out.

He had a big shopping trip. By the time he left the store, his cart was full with two new dog beds, a decoy, a toy, fudge for mommy, and more Christmas surprises than you can shake a credit card at. 

Bass Pro made out like a bandit. When the cashier found out we'd left Trace in the truck, she was aghast.

"Why didn't you bring him in?"

I explained that we didn't have room in the cart for two dogs. 

"Oh! He could walk on a leash!  We LOVE to have dogs in here!"

(I bet they do! Apparently dogs have credit cards.) Oh well. Maybe next time.

 "Aww man!"

"That's not fair!  He got to meet Santa! He doesn't even know who SSS-SSanta is!"