What’s in an hour…

Posted on November 5, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

The sun has started waking us up earlier. A funny little phenomenon called “Daylight Savings Time” made it that way. We moved our clocks back on Saturday night and woke up at 6 am on Sunday, watching the sun come up over Pots and Pans, waiting for some light to help us assess the recent neighbor call regarding a cow (or three or four) out in a pasture by the highway.

I remember when moving the clocks back meant moving the hand on an actual clock. I look around my house and I realize I don’t have an actual clock anywhere. Our clocks blink blue numbers on stove tops and microwaves, on telephones and digital temperature gauges and cellphones, computers and iPads that are smarter than us and don’t even need a human hand to remind them to change. They are programmed to know.

They do the same when we cross the river into Mountain time, switching swiftly and we gain an hour. Switching back and we’ve lost it.

I’ve spent that last few days looking at those clocks, the one on my phone and the one on
the stove I haven’t managed to change yet, and saying ridiculous things like:

“What time is it really?”

“So, it’s 9 o’clock but it’s really 10 ‘o’clock?”

“It’s 6 am but it’s really 7 am?”

“Man, it gets dark early.”

“Man I am tired.”

“Man, I miss that extra hour of light at the end of the day.”

But what’s in an hour anyway? It’s not like the changing of the clocks changes time. There are still 24 hours in these days and the sun still does what it will do up here where the earth is stripping down and getting ready for winter.

Daylight Savings Time, moving the clocks, adjusting the time, is just a human’s way to control things a bit. Moving time forward in the spring months means farmers and ranchers and outdoor enthusiasts get to stay out under that sun, working on the tractor, chasing the cattle, climbing a mountain, until 10 o’clock at night when the sun finally starts to disappear.

Moving the clocks backwards in the fall means we might drive to work in the light and get home in the dark.

It means a 5 pm sunset and a carb-loaded dinner at 6. It means more conversation against the dark of the windows, more time to plan for the things we might get done on the weekends in the light.

It means I went to bed last night at 9 o’clock and said something ridiculous like “It’s really 10.”

But it wasn’t. It was 9.

Because we’ve changed things. (Although I still haven’t changed that stove top clock).

I lay there under the covers in the loft and thought about 24 hours in a day.

10 hours of early-November daylight.

If I closed my eyes now, I thought, I would get 8 good hours of sleep.

I wondered about that hour and what I could do with an 60 minutes.

A 25 hour day? What would it mean?

Would it mean we could all slow down, take a few more minutes for the things we rush through as we move into the next hour?

Five more minutes to linger in bed, to wake each other up with sweet words and kisses, to talk about the day and when we’ll meet back at the house again.

Three more minutes to stir cream into our coffees, take a sip and stand in front of the window and watch the sun creep in. A couple seconds to comment on it, to say, “What a sight, what a world, what a morning…”

Four more minutes in the shower to rinse away the night.

Two more moments in front of the mirror to make my hair lay straight and my cheeks blush right.

An extra moment or two for the dogs so that when I throw them their food I might have been given some time to extend that head pat and ear scratch and stick fetching game.

Six more minutes on my drive to town, listening to the radio, the weather report and the school lunch announcements while trailing a big rig with out cussing or complaint. I have an extra hour after all. What’s six more minutes to me now?

Fifteen more minutes for lunch with a friend, a friend I could call for lunch because I have sixty more minutes now and the work can wait.

Five minutes more for a stranger on the street who asks for directions to a restaurant and then I ask her where she’s from and she makes a joke about the weather and we laugh together, a little less like strangers then.

Then, when I get home, eight more minutes on my walk to the top of the hill, to go a little further if I feel so compelled, or maybe just sit on that rock up there and watch it get darker.

Four extra minutes to spice up the roast for supper or stir and taste the soup.

One more minute to hold on to that welcome home hug.

Three more minutes to eat, for another biscuit, to wind down and visit.

And four more minutes to use to say goodnight. To lay there under the blankets, under the roof, under the stars that appeared and be thankful for the extra time.

So what’s in an hour really? Moments spent breathing and thinking and learning. Words spilling out that you should have said, or should have kept, or that really don’t matter, it’s just talking.

Sips on hot coffee cooling fast.

Steps on your favorite trail.

Frustration at dust while you wipe it away, songs hummed while scrubbing the dishes or washing your hair.

Broken nails, tracked in mud, a decision to wear your best dress tonight.

Laughter and sighing and tapping your fingers on your desk while you wait.

Line-standing, hand-shaking and smooches on best friends’ babies as you pass at the grocery store.

Big plans to build things, to change things, to move. Small plans for dinner or a trip to the zoo.

A phone call, an answer, an “I love you too.”

It’s not much, but the moments are ours to pass.

And those moments, they move on regardless of the clock and the hour in which it’s ticking.

Although not many people have clocks that tick anymore.

I suppose that’s just one of the many thing time can change…

Sunday Column: The miles between us.

Posted on November 3, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

There are Veeders in Texas, down there where the sun shines a little longer, a little hotter, and it doesn’t snow much.

Pops’ little brother moved his family down there when his oldest daughter and I were in the phase of our childhood where we wanted everyone to think we were twins. We wore the same biker shorts and Coca-Cola t-shirt. We put our hair up with the same scrunchie. Our skin turned the same kind of brown in the summer. We were best friends.

As soon as they unpacked their bags under that big Texas sky I begin making plans with our other cousin S who lived on a farm on the southern edge of the state to save up our 4-H money so that we might make our first plane ride to visit cousin M before she developed a new accent.

We wrote letters back and forth explaining our annoyance at our younger siblings, our mutual affection for Reba McEntire and Vince Gil, our struggle to discover any kind of athletic capabilities in our gangly bodies and, like good farm kids, of course, the weather.

At the end of each letter we reported how much money we had saved for our adventure down south.

P.S. I have saved $34.67 for TX adventure…

Forty-seven long letters and a year later, miraculously and undoubtedly with a fair amount of secret financial aid from our parents, cousin S and I stood in a small airport in the middle of North Dakota, stuffing our wallets and snacks into our fanny packs before hugging our parents goodbye.

We were ten or eleven, on our own, and headed to Texas.

My memories of that trip were some I have kept with me throughout my life. I look back on it now and understand that it wasn’t likely either one of our families had the spare cash to help a couple kid cousins hop a plane for an extended sleepover, but somehow it was more than that.

Our parents knew it meant that time spent like this would lay the foundation for a relationship we might feel inclined to keep throughout our lives, regardless of the miles that had suddenly been put between us.

Veeder Cousins: (that’s me on the left and my twin cousin next to me. Cousin S, my TX travel companion, is that tall boy in the middle)

We spent that week exploring Ft. Worth swimming in a warm Texas lake, riding a Texas sized roller coster, telling ghost stories, sleeping in a tent in the backyard and having our first taste of BBQ brisket.

When we boarded the plane back North, cousin S and I were sun kissed and tired, more grown up and more connected to a family that would spend the next twenty years under that Texas sun.

Since that initial trip I’ve been back to visit our Texas family for weddings and singing gigs booked so that we might have an excuse to all sit on the porch together, remember, catch up and laugh a little.

It’s interesting how, wherever your family resides, a piece of it becomes yours too.

Funny how the miles don’t seem to matter when your hearts beat the same way…

Coming Home: Miles don’t matter to brothers who grew up together
by Jessie Veeder
11-3-13
Fargo Forum
http://www.inforum.com

Texas sky…

When winter is welcome

Posted on October 31, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

October is heading over the horizon and it’s bringing with it all the colors–the golds and reds and browns–of a season that doesn’t stay long enough.

And it’s leaving a trail of frost in its wake.

I see it in the mornings, sparkling and shimmering on the railing of my deck, on the cracked windshield of the pickup, on the leftover leaves and acorns on the trails,

on the stems of the grass and the crust of the dirt.

I am digging out my sweaters again. Funny how it’s only been five months since I packed them away but I can’t seem to remember where they went.

Funny how it’s only been a few weeks since the sun touched my legs and already my skin is fading into its pale winter shade.

I run my hands over the horses’ backs and notice they’re changing too, long scruffy hair growing in to protect them from the promised winter winds.

We are becoming the season it seems.

I’m sipping tea to ward of the little scratch in my throat, the little runny nose that I acquired when the cold came in.

I am North Dakota. Personified in the permanent chilled flush in my cheeks, rolling up the hoses and packing away the cutoff shorts. Swapping cowboy boots for winter boots and my straw hat for one that is knit and covers my ears.

If I were California I would never change. If I were California I would wear summer dresses all year and never be ashamed of my scaly winter skin. I would eat orange popsicles and sip iced tea and put fresh flowers in a vase on my table every week. I would be sun kissed and golden and I wouldn’t wear socks.

Especially not wool socks.

If I were California I would be beautiful all year.

But I am North Dakota and my flowers have dried up now. And we are beginning our predictably unpredictable decent into winter.

The ice rests lightly on the water in the stock tank.

The air bites and the trees have stripped down to sleep. I am cutting potatoes for soup, boiling water and feeling weighed down but hungry the way only Northerners can feel.

If I were a beast I would hibernate.

If I had wings I would fly toward the sun.

If I were a legend I would find a way to catch the snow in my hands and send it back up.

Back up for another month.

And back down in December when winter is welcome.

Sunday Column: My name

Posted on October 28, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I tried to change my name to Stephanie when I was in kindergarten. A little boy named August raised his hand during sharing hour and asked to be called Gus, and, well, I thought that meant in kindergarten we got to change our names. So I raised my hand and declared that everyone must now call me Stephanie.

My sweet teacher looked at me, no doubt trying to stifle her laughter at the little weirdo before her, and calmly declared she thought Jessica was a nice name and I should keep it.

I was bummed. This was the 80s after all and Stephanie was the name of my favorite character on Full House. But I carried on as Jessica until second grade when we moved to the ranch and, struck with a sudden urge to shorten things up, I introduced myself to my new country school classmates as Jessie.

Everyone should call me Jessie.

Our names are more than just our signatures on paper or a word on a tag stuck to the lapels of our shirt at a meeting. Did I look like a Stephanie? Well I’m not sure, but I’m thankful Mrs. Schaffer didn’t allow me to undo the name I was given with a raise of the hand at five years old.

And so I stayed Jessican Blain Veeder.

Jessica after the woman on “The Man From Snowy River” (did I mention it was the 80’s?)
Blain for my mother’s maiden name.
Veeder for my father’s side.

Fast forward twenty-some years and for as much as I wanted to be Stephanie at five years old, upon my marriage I couldn’t bear part with the names I was given, no matter the tradition or how much I lived and respected my new husband and his family.

This week’s column explains why a woman like me might choose to live out a life with four names…

Coming Home: Holding on to family name important
October 27, 2013
Fargo Forum
http://www.inform.com

What the dog thinks.

Posted on October 22, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Yesterday the dogs ran away.

Now, don’t get all panicky. This is not a new thing. Those damn dogs run away at least three times a week, or, if I rephrase it to sound more like the truth, every damn chance they get.

Why?

I ask this every day.

I mean, they have everything a pooch could need within paw’s reach in our yard –all the sticks to chew on, all the mud and poop they could possibly need to roll in, a stock dam for swimming and drinking and splashing, plenty of squirrels and turkeys for chasing, a big moon to howl at and a nice warm basement for sleeping if they just scratch at the door.

But, apparently that’s not enough.

Since we’ve moved back to the ranch, that’s never been enough.

The snacks taste better at Mom and Pops’.

Or on the highway where construction workers are dropping sandwich crumbs.

Or at the neighboring oil site where they might land a steak, a night on the soft cushions of a camper or a shot at getting into the building where the lunches are stored.

You’ve heard this before. Since we’ve moved back to the ranch, all we ever do with these damn dogs is look for them. Go and get them. Cuss them and then load them in the back of the pickup and bring them home.

Someday we will build a fence around the yard so they can’t get out, but first, well, we need to finish building our own house, dammit.

But this is all besides the point. Because I’m having a moment here. A confusing moment where my annoyance at my wandering four-legged friends is mixed and muddled in with something else.

See, when I brought these dogs to the ranch three summers ago, all of us, humans included, didn’t quite know where we might fit in. The pug was pleasantly blindsided by the transfer from sidewalks to dirt trails, having only been alive and under our care and management for a little over a year, but Big Brown Dog, the lab I bought for my husband a month after we were married, had been with his crazy couple for a long series of misadventures and these days, I can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s thinking.

I mean, when I brought him to Husband, the poor guy’s little paws barely hit the ground before I disappeared for a two-week tour and he was alone with a tired man who smelled like oil and ate an unhealthy amount of Dinty Moore portable meals. He must have been terrified. I look in his droopy brown eyes and wonder what a dog like him has thought of our decisions through the years. I mean, we have never been a married couple without that brown dog at our feet, so if I could ask him, I wonder what he’d say?

Would he thank us for adjusting our lives around him? Would he appreciate that we searched longer and paid more for the only decent duplex with a yard in town that would allow dogs?

What would he say about our long jogs along city sidewalks and the only time he ever showed his teeth at a stranger? How would he explain that? Would he say he was protecting me?

What about our fights in the kitchen, the ones where I said he was wrong and Husband said I was too emotional and I threw my hands in the air and slammed the door, leaving the brown dog laying on the linoleum and my husband shaking his head. Would he say we were crazy? Was he wishing to be let out and away from the tension an animal like him can sense for miles?

What’s it like when it’s so close to him?

And what about the night we left him alone and he destroyed one of our good pillows, leaving a sprawling feather explosion covering every inch of the apartment and every inch of that brown dog. How would he explain that? What possibly overcame him? Was it for fun? Was that pillow threatening him somehow?

Oh, and our movie choices. Yes, I’d love to hear his opinion on sitting through an argument between vampires and Ryan Gosling. Somehow I think that brown dog would pick neither and then ask if maybe there’s room for him on the couch between us…all 105 pounds of him.

And all the times I cried so hard, out of frustration or sadness with only him to know what it’s like to see me so vulnerable. I don’t have to ask. Even if he could, I know he wouldn’t tell.

Then I would want him to tell me about the time he heard my song come on Husband’s iPod when I was away and he spent the entire duration searching the house, searching for where my voice was coming from, whining and wondering where I was.

Hondo the Big Brown Dog has a gray beard now. This is what I’m saying. He’s seven years old and these days the years are showing themselves a bit louder in the creaks in his joints and the slow way he rises from his spot at the foot of the steps in the morning.

Last week, after a particularly long journey away from home, Hondo’s attempt to jump in the back of the pickup left him tipped over backwards on the scoria driveway with a shaken confidence and no desire to attempt the feat again.

So I had to lift him. The day came when I had to lift him.

I tried to tell him that he’s getting too old for traveling so far from home. I tried to ask him why he wanders.

But to our dogs our voices are muffled, words cloaked in nothing but the emotion they can feel radiating from our bodies. I knew he couldn’t answer. I knew he didn’t understand, the same way I cannot understand what it is that he’s looking for when he roams.

I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway and I suppose I know what he would say.

He would say he’s a dog. My dog. And sometimes a dog just follows his nose, the same way, sometimes, his human gets in that car and drives away.

We all need to see what’s over that hill, he’d say…

And then he’d thank me for the lift.

Sunday Column: Don’t look in my car…

Posted on October 20, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

On Thursday night after a morning of rounding up cattle, an afternoon of office work and an evening of photography, I threw some clothes in a bag, squashed a cap over my tangled hair and pulled out of the muddy drive in the dark toward the highway to make my way the 180 miles to the big town for a meeting early the next morning.

In the box of the pickup were five giant rolls of orange electrical wire we purchased last week for the garage project, a bucket of grain and an antique chair I used during the evening’s photo shoot, but neglected to bring into the house.

In the back seat was Husband’s fireman’s uniform, three to ten half empty bottles of water or diet coke or Gatorade, a copy of Marie Claire Magazine from last May, a hand saw, an extension cord, a blanket, the muck boots I wore to get from the house to the pickup, a variety of tools, three to-go cups, a couple pamphlets on patio blocks from the lumber yard, a half-eaten bag of pretzels, a winter cap, a regular cap, a pair of fencing gloves, and a partridge in a pear tree.

And then there was me with my duffle bag packed in a half-hearted attempt to be prepared and convince someone around the table at the board meeting that I have my shit together enough to at least take the construction supplies out of the pickup before coming to town.

(Then I made a mental note to pull the Tunneau cover over the evidence on my next stop for diesel.)

I sat down at the table, only fifteen minutes late on account of two previous and failed attempts at locating the correct venue and within moments the hotel manager arrived to announce that someone in a black pickup was blocking a semi-truck trying to exit the parking lot.

I slumped my shoulders and announced to the room of professors, business owners, and put-together professionals that I would be right back.

Sometimes it’s hard to fit it all in out here thirty miles from the nearest civilized community when fitting it in means scheduling hours of time traveling down the road.

Sometimes it feels like half of my life is spent behind the wheel accumulating miles, sunflower seeds and opinions derived from endless talk radio on my way to pick up groceries, get a hair cut, get to a show or get my tooth fixed.

Because, despite my best efforts, the professionals in my life don’t seem to be too keen on holding board meetings around my kitchen table and contrary to some romantic beliefs, this country living thing doesn’t mean we grow our own vodka out here among the cow poop and scenic hills.

No, sometimes we need to make the three-hour trip to the big town to meet face to face and sometimes we have to go even further to get that special giant bright orange electrical wire for the garage project, and sometimes we take the same vehicle we just used to grain the horses and respond to a fire call to stock up on the essentials.

Like donuts.

And hairspray.

And vodka.

You’ll have to understand this if you ever ask me for a lift and find yourself moving a saw horse, an Elmo doll, a microphone stand, a leather jacket and a bag of Cheetos off the seat to get in and get buckled up.

Because with all those miles between me and civilization, you never know when you’re going to get hungry, be called to help with a construction project, put on an impromptu concert or entertain a three-year old.

And a girl needs to be prepared.

Coming Home: Rural living’s romantic notions dashed by reality of time on the road
by Jessie Veeder
10/20/13
Fargo Forum
http://www.inforum.com

Where you’re needed.

Posted on October 19, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

To be nowhere

But in the moment.

This moment.

Is exactly where you need to be.

Project: schedule

Posted on October 15, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Annddd….now we’re building a garage.

A garage that looks like it might be bigger than this house, and, well, we all know the sorts of debacles that went into this place.

Look familiar? That’s the basement wall building party…in the middle of a 20 degree winter day…

Last winter’s three night backsplash marathon that sent Husband up and down a ladder to the basement to get to his saw, because, well, we didn’t have stairs. (Or a basement floor, but who’s keeping track?)

Last summer’s death defying chandelier project two hours before hosting Husband’s 30th Birthday Party

This summer’s railing, saving me from sleep walking to my death…

The bathroom tiling project that nearly ended a thirteen year relationship…

The loft that went from shop to master bedroom one board at a time…

And let us not forget the birthday deck...

So now we’re onto the garage. Oh, it’s only about a year off schedule, but right in time to be tackled in the monsoon, 24-hour rain that fell the day before Husband got the hammers out.

And so it’s the story of his life, standing ankle deep in a mud puddle holding a power tool with one hand and holding up a giant wall with the other, looking up at the sky wondering which way the clouds are moving and where the time goes while his wife hollers out the door wondering if there’s time for some lunch.

Why must all of our projects span over the year mark? That’s the next question I wanted to ask after the lunch question, but I thought maybe it wasn’t the best time to bring it up.

I mean, wasn’t it last November that we dug the giant hole for the footings for this thing? Did I or did I not walk across a plank over a moat over the slush and snow and ice to get to my house for a good ten months before the weather dried the ground enough to get some blocks and concrete in that thing?

Didn’t I fall in that hole?

More than once?

Didn’t my neighbor nearly slide her way to a broken hip in her innocent attempt to deliver Christmas wreathes?

Didn’t I make my dear husband promise that this building project was going to be easier than the last house project?

That there on the right is a face of hope and trust…

Didn’t he tell me that a garage could go up in a couple weekends?

Didn’t I make him define the number “couple?”

Didn’t I learn anything about believing him?

Didn’t he tell me to order scoria last week while he was away in Texas so that he wouldn’t have to work in a mud hole if it rained?

Did he know it was going to rain?

Didn’t I make that call? I can’t remember…

Didn’t anyone tell me not to marry an ambitious carpenter no matter how cute that carpenter looks in his Carharts?

I mean, I have sawdust in places I didn’t know existed…

But it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t have listened.

Because I have a weakness for capable men.

And turns out we need a garage. Somehow it’s feeling a bit more urgent today…

Heaven help the carpenter’s wife. May we one day reclaim our kitchen tables from the tools that rest there…

Sunday Column: Looking for mercy from the prairie sky

Posted on October 13, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

On Friday it rained relentlessly. I woke up in the dark at 6 AM to the sound of drops pounding on my windows. I drove out of this place kicking up mud under that weeping sky and headed out toward the big town and back again.

It never let up.

And then the wind came and it blew that rain sideways and covered my head while my boots sunk in to the slippery on my way to hunker down under the safety of my roof.

The day before the sun shone bright and clear and the season looked and felt like the photographs you see on all of the Western calendars for October.

24 hours later the scene was drenched.

We expect this. Rain in October. Snow in October. Heat in October. Fire in October.

Anything can happen under this prairie sky. And that’s the beauty and the tragedy of it all.

Coming Home: Looking for mercy from the prairie sky
by Jessie Veeder
10/13/13
Fargo Forum
http://www.inforum.com

Want to help the South Dakota ranchers? Here are some ideas:

The South Dakota Cowgirl
How can you help?
http://www.thesouthdakotacowgirl.com

Heifers for South Dakota
Pledge a heifer (a bred yearling or a replacement quality weanling) for a rancher in South Dakota

Give to the cause today!
Rancher Relief Fund

The making of a dog.

Posted on October 11, 2013 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Remember this little girl?

OMMMGEEEE she was so fluffaaaayyy I could diiieee!!!

Yes, that was Juno, The Littlest Cow Dog last winter when we brought her home to the ranch in Pops’ pickup. I held her the whole thirty-some miles while she drooled all over my arm and shook with fear or anticipation or nervousness or whatever it is that goes through a little puppy’s head when she’s taken away from her momma.

We had high hopes for that puppy that day. Our old cow dog, Pudge, limpy, gimpy, faithful, storm fearing, fur tangled, sweet as sugar, gramma Pudge is getting a little too arthritic to make it on long rides or up into the pickup box by herself. She has retired to sleeping on her soft pillow under the heat lamp and occasionally accompanying us to the barn or down the road to get the mail. It’s tough to admit that any day now Pudge will take her last 4-wheeler ride, but it’s clear looking into those sweet ancient eyes that it’s the truth. And without Pudge the Veeder Ranch would be left cow-dog-less.

Because, contrary to the pug’s delusions he doesn’t quite fit the bill.

And so we found Juno. Part border collie. Part blue heeler. Part angel and part acrobatic, magical boot sniffer-outer and chewer-upper. (Seriously. It doesn’t matter how you put those boots on the shelf, she’s gonna get them and she’s gonna eat them).

When Juno found herself on her new ranch she was a bundle of energy, fur and timid playfulness. Everyone fell in love.

My mom wanted her to sleep in the house.

I wanted her to sleep at my house.

And Chug the Pug wanted to move to mom and dad’s house.

Even Pudge, who had been getting up slower and slower every day found a new swig of youthfulness that she occasionally employs to chase her new garage-mate around the yard.

Funny what a wave of youth and fluff and plain cuteness can bring to an old place.

But Juno was meant to be more than a cute companion. That’s the thing here. Cow dogs have many important responsibilities, and when you’ve got a pup on your hands who’s only interest seems to be digging holes, spilling the food dish and chewing the fingers out of your best leather gloves, a large part of you wonders what you’ve got on your hands here (besides fingerless gloves).

Yes, cow dogs have a punch list and Juno, cute as she was, wasn’t an exception. She needed to grow up to be:

Gentle with children but rough on varmints who might wander into the yard.

Sweet and obedient but brave enough to convince a 2,000 pound bull to get his ass out of the brush.

Vocal and adventurous, but only with the cattle.

Athletic and smart and sensitive to commands.

Quick

Fierce and loyal and friendly with a work ethic and an eager to please attitude.

Instinctual. As in: know what to do even without being told…and while we’re at it..

Bur and tick repellent

Not too much to ask right? Not too much pressure from an eager to please baby who hasn’t even seen her second winter…

But here’s the thing, a good dog is an invaluable asset around here. I joke about the expectations, but if they emerge, if they are even remotely met out here on the days when it’s just a cowboy against 100 head of cattle heading in the wrong direction, that cowboy won’t trade that dog for a mansion in the mountains.

And so we’ve been watching that pup closely, wondering how she might emerge from puppyhood. Will she be too timid? She’s a sweet little thing. Will she ever want to jump in the back of the pickup on her own? Will she come back when called? Will she be intimidated by the ornery cows? Will she come along on a ride? Will she become more than a pet?

Will she be what we hoped she would be?

Well, take a look here friends. It’s Juno.

And there she is way out there alongside of Pops and his horse, bopping and jumping and trotting through the long grass on our way to move some cows.

Take a look at how she’s grown up, that little sweetie.

Then take your coat off, take a seat and let Pops pour you a fresh cup of coffee because if you’ve stopped over you’re gonna hear it.

And it’s gonna be a while.

Because he’s proud.

Like Trail-90 proud.

Like grandkid proud.

“Can I tell you about my dog?” he’ll ask.

And before you can answer he’ll tell you how last night she would have taken that bull all the way home on her own if he would have let her.

He’ll tell you she’ll little but she got instinct.

He’ll tell you she’s sweet but she’s tough enough.

He’ll tell you how she’s so smart she comes back with one ask of one command and this morning he thinks he might have actually heard her say a word, like “hello” or “hi there” or something that sounded like a greeting, and, well, he’s not quite sure but she just might be bur repellent too…