Farm Fresh Blog

Some folks are simply masters of the insult. Cowboy is one of these people. He is the Don Rickles of the dog world - the Insult King. (For those of you under 45 who have no idea who Don Rickles is, google him.)

Anyway, Cowboy's social skills in the pack are less than stellar. He is the perfect candidate for an 'only dog', not one dog in a multi-dog household like ours. Cowboy is such a sweetie that unless you had other dogs, you'd have no idea what a butthead he can be. Actually, Butthead should be capitalized, because he's a capital butthead, but yesterday Cowboy was crowned KING Butthead.

Storms have been rolling through the area all week, bringing much needed rain to ranchers, and sending storm-sensitive dogs hiding under the house. Cowboy is one of those dogs. So while Lily laughs in the face of thunder, Cowboy is reduced to a panting, slobbering puddle - which is why he was in the house.

I left him in a dog crate.   Cowboy was in one crate, and Trace the Troll was in the crate beside him.  After all, that's what dog crates are for - happy, secure little caves for frightened puppies. But the storm was over and it was time for chores, so I left the Mean Dogs inside and took the Dogs With Social Skills outside to feed livestock.

And all was well and good until we walked back into the house - and Cowboy greeted us at the front door.

Yessirree Bob! He was a happy boy. Me? Not so much.

I wasn't so much concerned about Cowboy getting out of the crate. No, my problem was the smell. Yes. The. Smell.

You know The Smell.

It's the smell of dog poop in the morning, People! Trust me, there is not enough caffeine in the world to face that with a smile. Like Elmer Fudd hunting 'wabbits', I crept into the living room, stalking the offensive smell. The problem was that it's hard to narrow down the aroma of a warm turd under a ceiling fan. (Sorry to be blunt, just keepin' it real, Folks.)

Anyway, after a cursory unsuccessful search, I punted the ball to Other Half because under the Rules Of Dog Ownership, the owner of the dog is the owner of the dog turd, thus if one can prove up the identity of the dog that left said poop, one can further assign the responsibility of clean-up to the dog owner. And since all MY DOGS had been outside with me, and his two degenerates were both in dog crates when we left, and upon our return ONE of those degenerates was loose, assigning ownership of the poop wasn't much of a task. That said, after a quick fruitless search, I tossed the responsibility at Other Half and headed for the shower.

It took a while but soon Other Half's screams echoed through the house. Yes, screams. Not shouts. Screams. Hmfph.... His tone was enough to really get my interest. Where. Was. That. Poop?

So filled with curiosity, I padded into the living room to find Other Half standing over The Ultimate Insult.

Cowboy really outdid himself this time. Even I was impressed. Lily was disgusted. Trace was horrified.

As an aside, Other Half pointed out that Cowboy cheerfully followed him along his search with great interest, saying,

"You're warm.  You're warmer. You're cold. You're colder. Ice cold. Warmer. You're getting warmer. Hot. Red HOT! Smoking hot!"

Cowboy had done something so evil that he may as well have been dressed in black with a tall black hat twirling a pencil-thin mustache as he tied the heroine to the railroad tracks.

Cowboy pooped IN. The. TOY. BOX!

YESS!!!!  He gave all the other dogs the ultimate middle paw. He crapped on Holy Ground - the toy basket.  That rascal backed up to the big wicker basket that houses ALL the dog toys and dribbled poop ALL OVER THE TOYS.

I know. Trace almost died of shock.

Other Half managed to salvage the kongs and a rope, but if it was fluffy or made of cloth it had to be tossed.

"MY WUBBA!  Snidley Whiplash KILLED MY WUBBA!"

And that, Friends & Neighbors, is how to deliver the ultimate insult.