Pug: For Giveaway

Posted on June 28, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

When I’m out and about in the world–working, shopping, grabbing a drink with friends–there’s a common question people from all corners of my life make sure they stop to ask me. It isn’t “how ’bout that weather,” or “how’s the new house coming along?” (the answer is “slow” in case you’re wondering). No, it’s not even “why’s your hair weird?” or “where’s your husband?”

It’s “How’s the pug?”

Followed by “Any more run-ins with porcupines?”

And then “Does he still think he’s a cat?”

“Has he peed in your husband’s boot lately?”

“Is he still wandering around the countryside?”

And finally “Oh that dog, he makes me laugh.”

The damn pug. Everyone just loves him.

These days, as his behavior has moved further away from domestic lap dog and closer to wild hound I’m trying to figure out, despite all of the reasons I shouldn’t, why I don’t send that damn dog packing.

Because as I run through the answers to the questions it’s pretty evident that’s exactly what I should do.

I should just let him run away like the wild wind he thinks he is, tell him that the next time he hits the road, curly tail in the air, nose to the ground sniffing out which oil rig or neighbor has steaks on the grill, I should just leave him there to fend for himself.

Yeah.
I should.

I had this discussion with myself yesterday when a friend I work with in town popped in my office to tell me she had received a phone call.

About the pug.

See I hadn’t seen him ever since I pried him off of the couch a few days earlier and shoved him out the door to find a spot to poop.

Well apparently he likes a little privacy to do his business away from the house…like far away.

And apparently it takes him a while…or maybe he just gets distracted by things like butterflies, wandering coyotes, the herd of cattle up the road and, well, life in general.

Each time he goes missing I imagine him sitting shotgun in a big rig finally fulfilling his dream of traveling the country by highway, front paws up on the edge of the open window as he leans into the wind, letting it blow through is floppy ears sending the drool trailing off with the dust of the 18-wheels. I think of him looking over at the truck driver with the white beard, bald head and Harley Davidson t-shirt, and saying something like “Hey, thanks for picking me up man. I’ve been trying to get out of here for years. Life on the road…now this is livin'”

In my imagination the pug’s voice sounds like one that would come out of the lungs of a middle-aged biker who’s been smoking cigars and Marlboro Reds his entire life.

Anyway…it’d been a few days since I’d seen the damn dog, but I wasn’t concerned. Aside from the one recent episode where my momma was on her way home from a trip to the city and spotted a black dot out in the middle of our neighbor’s pasture nearly four miles away from home, the dog has generally been making his regular rounds. When I decide it might be time to get him back on his diet, I’ll get in the pickup and start my searching ritual: up to the oil site south of the house, then the one across the road. If he’s not there, I’ll check mom and dad’s. If he’s still MIA, he’s usually at the rig near the highway.

It’s getting ridiculous, but each time I arrive to load his fat ass into the pickup I have to spend a good ten to fifteen minutes talking to the guys about how awesome he is, how bad-ass he looks with one eye, how much fun they had with him and how they fed him T-bones and let him sleep in their campers with them that night.

No wonder the little bastard won’t stay home.

How can I compete with T-bones?

Anyway…back to yesterday. The pug was missing and I was starting to get a little concerned because he wasn’t in any of his usual locations. And the lab was home.

When the lab is home and the pug is not, that’s when things get hairy. The pug, left to his own devices, has the potential to go rogue and stay that way until someone comes looking for him. And he never calls to tell us how late he’ll be out.

But I decided I had reached an all-time low when I got a phone call about the bandit AT WORK!

This electrician who had been working on a site on the highway tracked me down to let me know that the little shithead had been hanging around the site for days (shithead might have been my word and not his) and I suddenly felt like a mother who’s kid had been sent to the principal’s office.

And I would have never thought to check there. The pug would have been missing forever, because Lord knows he wouldn’t have made his way home until he was certain there were no more steak dinners coming out of those campers.

So on my way home from work I got to make a pit stop to pick up the pug who pretended like he didn’t hear me when I called his name across the muddy field.

But when our eyes finally met he did do me the service of at least acting happy to see me. Like he suddenly remembered he had a previous life away from this construction site. A life that maybe wasn’t so bad after all…I mean, I do occasionally let him sleep on my favorite blanket and feed him leftover dinner scraps. Come on buddy, what more do you want from me?

But I guess I’ll keep him…

tied up in the yard with a “For Giveaway” sign tied around his neck.

You love him? Come get him!

Shit.

I might as well grow fur.

Posted on April 27, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I live in a barnyard.

Literally.

I can walk out my door and, if I forget to look down, I will more than likely step in horse poop.

I can watch the steers graze from my bathroom window while I brush my teeth.

There’s more gravel and mud in my entryway than there is out in the corrals.

Somedays I think I am literally growing fur just to fit in.

But then I remember it’s been three weeks since I shaved my legs.

Civilized women shave their legs.

But what’s the point? Really? I mean I’ve been back home at the ranch nearly two years and it seems that whatever refinement I picked up while I was away living along city streets has slowly dissolved out here where the racoons help themselves to the cat food and pets show up at your door missing eyeballs.

I mean surrounded by characters like these, it’s only a matter of time until I start taking on their behavior and characteristics.

I’m afraid it’s already happening.

Because I’ve been known to show up to the hair salon or shopping mall with woodticks stuck to my head, find cockleburs in my bed and arrive at the office with horse hair on my jacket and mud on my fancy shoes. I’m afraid if I already smell like my barnyard friends, I might as well start rolling around in the grass…

chewing on sticks…

sneaking up on mice…

and howling in the kitchen….

A life (couple days) without dogs…

Posted on March 15, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Some days I’m not sure why I bother. Some days I wonder why the things that are supposed to be simple, things that other human people seem to manage properly without much sweat or confusion, don’t come the same kind of easy for me. Some days I wonder how most put-together people go through most put-together days without worry or lost sleep, without poop on the floor, panicked hollers in the night, slow drives down a country road at dusk with binoculars, worried phone calls to neighbors or a wrestling match on the kitchen floor with your husband and that stupid black dog with a smooshy face and one eyeball that at one time three years ago you decided was a good idea.

No. Simple has never been a word in a vocabulary dominated by the words “where the hell are the dogs?”

Some days.

Today was one of them.

Today is the day that I ask myself what my life would be like without the two stinky fur balls who have taken over my yard, my kitchen, my couch and my life. Today is the day I ask myself who I would be without them, what I would do with the extra time I would be gifted by not having to pick off their ticks, pluck porcupine quills from their noses, rescue them from the cows and drive over to my mom and pop’s to pick them up after their daily jaunts to visit their girlfriends.

Today is the day I contemplate this scenario because, well, I was nearly granted it.

A dog-free life.

Can you imagine?!

Maybe I should start from the beginning. See, its been on my radar for a while, the idea that these dogs of mine need to lead a much more civilized life. And by civilized I mean locked up behind bars in order to keep them from going wherever they have been going to snack on something rotten enough to cause gas emulsions that force husband and I out of our own home.

So when I received a call last week from a voice on the other end of the line telling me that two overly-friendly dogs had wandered three miles up the hill to an oil drilling site I did not hesitate to believe my ears. One whistle out the door revealed there were no dogs in site, so I pulled on my muck boots over the skinny jeans I wore to work and squished a beanie on my puffy town hair and drove my pissed off ass up to that site to retrieve them.

Now, a girl in skinny jeans and oversized boots with a Bozo-esque hairstyle in giant (but glamorous) sunglasses pulling onto a rig site is not a glimpse into womanhood these hard-hat wearing men see every day…nor was it a pretty glimpse. And if the outfit didn’t label me crazy, questioning these men in the middle of their work day about the whereabouts of a wandering one-eyed pug a giant brown lab sealed the deal.

Especially since not one of them knew what the hell I was talking about.

Shit.

It wasn’t until I made my way back down the hill that I realized I should have probably checked mom and pops’ place for the dogs before subjecting myself to a situation in which I could be labeled “crazy lady” in bar room conversations. Hindsight was a clear 20/20 as I pulled into their drive to find that sure as shit they were there. And judging by the relocation of pops’ work boot collection on the front lawn, they had been there all day.

Flash forward to yesterday when I came home to discover the dogs were again missing in action.

“Typical hooligan behavior, low life, vagabond rascals, curse word, curse word, curse word,” I muttered to myself as I got back in my car and drove down the pink road to mom and pops’ to retrieve their wandering, misbehaving, rebel-dog asses. But when I pulled into the drive something seemed fishy. All of pops’ boots were in place, his two dogs were laying lazily out in the sun and my dogs? Well, they didn’t come running out of the trees to greet me.

I stopped cursing and then I said “What the hell?” (Ok, I stopped cursing for a second.)

Gone.

The dogs were gone.

Shit.

I headed back home slowly, windows open, whistling into the wind, hollering their names, squinting into the hills and the trees, waiting for them to come flying out of wherever that smelly dead thing they like so much is lying.

Nothing.

I parked in our driveway to find Husband home and soon my string of cursing blended in harmony with his.

But we weren’t worried yet. We were just pissed. There was still time for them to climb out of whatever stinky hole they had found themselves in on purpose and make an appearance.

So we had supper, whistled for them a bit more, called my pops to check the status, wandered around the yard and then went to bed.

I asked husband if I should worry. He told me it would be a waste to worry about two dogs who have stupidly escaped a life of luxury to roll around in cow shit, munch on rotting rabbits, dig giant holes, and chase innocent deer over miles of rolling landscape.

Husband told me that we could worry tomorrow if they don’t show up.

So we went to bed pissed.

And I woke up worried.

Because when I opened the door to the morning air there were no dogs waiting on my stoop. Just three hungry cats meowing for food when they should be mousing.

So I drove to work slowly with the windows open, whistling into the frosty air and stopping into mom and pops’ place just to be sure they didn’t shack up with their girlfriends’ last night.

Nope.

No dogs.

I said a little prayer for the wanderers and went to work.

And when I got home the results were the same. No dogs and a pissed husband who hadn’t started worrying yet, but decided it might be time to go looking for them.

We got in the pickup and chose a direction, the first guess being a place where a pair of mis-fit dogs might wander in search of the affection and table scraps they have so unfortunately been denied in the home we’ve created for them.

So we headed to the drilling rig site a half mile from our house, a place I was fooled into thinking they were smart enough to avoid (But this time I wore a less ridiculous outfit, and brought a man with me.) When we pulled onto the site husband rolled down the window and asked one of the men if they have happened to see a couple canines roaming around.

I held my breath, certain I was going to get the same look I got last week when I asked the same question about the same damn dogs.

But I was pleasantly surprised when the man smiled and said something like “Oh, that round little black thing and a lab? Yeah? They’re around here somewhere. They’ve been here for a couple days. We’ve been feeding them. They should be over there….”

He pointed in the direction of three men working the platform of a giant piece of drilling equipment and our eyes followed the tip of his finger and settled angrily on the two banes of our existence who were staring up at the workers, tails wagging, ears perked, waiting for one of them to drop a piece of jerky or something.

Husband called out their names.

Nothing.

He moved closer, yelling a little louder.

Their stares were affixed.

He stormed toward them whistling.

The lab turned his head in acknowledgement.

Husband screamed their names.

The pug didn’t move.

He stomped his feet and clapped his hands.

The lab turned his head back toward the anticipated jerky….

And so you understand now, I hope, why I have been daydreaming about a simpler existence. An existence where I am not responsible for Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dumb and their appetite for adventure and tasty treats, but one where I am a proud owner of the more appealing and lower maintenance goldfish, small monkey or circus elephant.

But in my self-assessment about why and how I get myself into these situations when I am certain dog ownership isn’t as much of a debacle for regular human people as it is for me, I have come up with a solution that I am certain no regular human person would come up with.

Doggie prison.

And I’m open for business if anyone needs a rehab facility for their canines. There’s two overly friendly dogs waiting there to hand them their matching orange jumpsuits.

Multiple Personality March

Posted on March 7, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Ahhh, March. You bring us one month closer to the promise of spring with your wild and unpredictable snow storms, your extreme warmth, your puddles and mud, little bit of rain, thawed out cow plops, cloudy and sunny and then cloudy again skies. All of your personalities keep us on our toes and undecided about appropriate footwear and jackets and I like that about you.

I like that you bring on the wind and the mud, the fifty-degree temperatures and the blinding blizzards, the rain and the ice.

Yes March you’re a little ambitious. You get up a little earlier and go to bed a little later. And that suits you fine, all of that light reminding us that soon we will be able to stay outside until 10 pm and wake up with you at 6.

Soon our days will be full of warm sunshine and green grass sprinkled with flowers…

I am looking forward to it, I am. But truthfully March, right now, it doesn’t appear that all of us are on the same page. You know, the page we turn to take us from hibernation, head under the covers, groggy, snugly evenings that meld into dark and lazy, robe wearing mornings spent shuffling around the kitchen with our eyes barely open to the place where we crack open our windows and let the warm breeze sing us to sleep after a day spent under the soul-refreshing spring sky only to be wakened by the sliver of sun peeking through the window in the early morning hours, prompting us to pop out of bed and greet the chirping birds and fresh green grass poking through the earth…

Nope.

Some of us are not quite there yet.

Some of us are caught in limbo, the place between holding on to our winter coats and throwing caution and our fur, to the March wind.

Some of us are still sleepy.

Some of us aren’t quite ready to trade in our flannel p.j.s for nothing but the sheets.

Some of us haven’t shaved our legs for months.

Some of us wouldn’t mind another extra hour or so to finish up that reoccurring dream about Ryan Renolds.

Some of us need three to six cups of coffee before the day can start.

So March, don’t take this the wrong way. Realize it’s still early, the pug’s still snoring and I have yet to change out of my robe. March, I appreciate the little glimmers of hope you create and I expect that whole “Lion/Lamb” thing. I appreciate your puddles and the way you warm the hilltops. I like the vibe you’re throwing this week and what you’re promising for the weekend: 50+ degrees and a chance to ride some horses.

But I know your good mood won’t last. It never does.

And that’s why I haven’t packed up my furry vest and slippers that might as well be boots.

Nope.

I don’t trust you.

And neither do these guys.

They’ve been burned before.

So we’ve come to an agreement to milk it. To call it winter and sleep in. To lay down in your sunshine and put on another pot of coffee just in case.

We love your face March. We do.

But you can’t trick us. We’ve learned and we’re going to stay tired for a while longer.

So we aren’t moving, we aren’t shaving, we aren’t opening these windows, packing up the down coats, or looking for our short sleeves until at least mid April.

Yeah…when April gets it together, maybe we will too.

Maybe

If you give a pug a home…

Posted on March 2, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

If you give a pug a home he will probably want full reign of your couch to go with it. So you will move over to clear the area for that smooshy nosed, squishy, cuddly animal to lie down next to you. When you’ve helped him to his spot and sufficiently scratched his ears, he will circle and sniff and roll around to get comfortable. And when he finally finds an adequate spot under your arm, sprawled out along your body, nose three inches from your face, he will sigh, blink and ask you for a blanket.

Slowly, so as not to disturb his rest, you will move off of the couch to fetch your favorite fluffy blanket from the closet. As you close the closet door you will turn around to find him staring up at you from the floor with those adorable eyes. He will ask you, since you are up, if you happen to have a hamburger or a steak or something in the meat family in the house. He could really use a snack after that rest.

As you dig in the refrigerator to find some leftover sausage or some sandwich meat to satisfy him you will offer him a piece of jerky and notice then that you have a little refrigerator cleaning to accomplish. While your pet enjoys his snack you will decide to take a look at the contents of an unidentifiable specimen that is growing in a Tupperware in the back of the fridge. You will pull off the lid and promptly fling the container across the room, an understandable reaction to the stench of decaying meat.

The pug, who has remained in the kitchen, not quite satisfied by the slice of dry jerky he inhaled, will investigate the stench coming from the steaming brown splatters on the floor. And while you’re gagging and writhing and scrubbing your hands in the sink, your back will be turned to the pet who has decided that the contents of the smelly Tupperware are really quite satisfying.

Hearing the snorting and slurping behind you, you will turn around, horrified at the thought of your adorable pet consuming the poison that somehow developed over time as a result of your refrigerator negligence. To keep him away from the danger you’ve created, you will place his fat little body outside.

Still hungry and with the taste of rotting meat on his tongue, the pug will decide to go on a mission for more stinky culinary experiences, following his nose to a nearby coulee where an unfortunate deer lost his life in the cold snap of the previous month and is now thawing out nice and fast and stinky in the unseasonably warm late winter weather. Catching sight of his small and weird-looking companion and wind of the stench coming from the direction he’s heading, the big brown dog who lives outside will follow in his friend’s path.

Meanwhile, inside the house, you will pull out your best mop to clean up the mess you made on the floor. While you are mopping you will decide that you might as well scrub the cupboards. And once the cupboards are clean, you will notice that your oven might as well get a polishing. And if you’re going to clean the oven, you ought to do the stove and the microwave. It’s been a while since they have seen a good disinfectant spray. Speaking of ovens and microwaves, you will decide that you had better put supper on the stove, but not before you clean out that ghastly refrigerator that sent you on this mission in the first place.

You will open the fridge and remember the pug.

Realizing he’s been away for hours, you will step outside and call his name.

You will hear silence and then catch sight of big brown dog running towards you from over the hill. You will stand in the doorway, waiting for the black dot of a dog to come running on his trail. And as the big brown dog get’s closer you will notice that he has something large and furry in his mouth.

A rabbit?

No.

A cat?

No.

A giant furry hat?

No.

The brown dog will come closer with no sign of the pug behind him. Bringing the mystery item toward you he will drop it at your feet. You will screech as you identify his proud find as nothing other than the head of a deer, ears flapping, eyeballs missing.

A familiar gag reflex will again be engaged as you run inside the house for the bathroom.

And while you collect yourself, again scrubbing your hands under the sink, you will light your favorite lovely smelling candle to help cleanse your palate and your husband will walk through the door. His presence will remind you about the supper that didn’t quite make it to the now-shiney stove. So you will ask for his assistance in the process and the two of you will whip up something that resembles a noodle hot-dish that needs to bake in the oven for a good hour.

When you pull the hot dish out of the oven you will be reminded of the pug again and you will inform your husband about the missing pet.

He will suggest that the pug more than likely made his way over to his girlfriend’s house down the road at my mom’s and pops and that since it is so late he is certain they won’t mind keeping him overnight.

Meanwhile, at mom’s and pop’s, the pug, who indeed did make his way to his girlfriend’s house down the road, will be jostled out of his snoring sleep on the fluffy dog pillow under the heat lamp in my parent’s garage by the howling of a nearby pack of coyotes. Not to be outdone by their wild calls into the night, the pug will feel compelled to throw his head back and take a shot at the howling thing. After a weak start, the pug will get his rhythm and be so pleased with his performance that he will have no intentions of letting those coyotes take the solo.

The obnoxious whining and screeching coming from the garage will awake your pops who had been sleeping soundly on the couch inside of the house. Curious about the creature responsible for the chaos, your pops will open the door of the house to find your pet putting on his best performance. Realizing that the ruckus was not about to end as long as the pug can hear the competition, your pops will let him in the house to spend the night.

Once in the house the pug will spot the couch. Understanding that this is not his home and getting the vibe that he might not be welcome on the furniture, the pug will wait until your pops starts snoring and then assume his position under his arm, sprawled out along his body, nose three inches from his face. The pug will sigh, close his eyes and ask him for a blanket.

At the sight of that adorable smooshy face, your pops will decide that he likes the company and slowly, so as not to disturb his new companion, he will move off of the couch to fetch his favorite fluffy blanket from the closet. As he closes the closet door he will turn around to find that the pug (who suddenly realized his mighty dead deer feast may not have been the best food choice) mid-squat, mid-diarrhea, squirting shit in the middle of my momma’s favorite leather rug.

And that’s what happens if you give a pug a home.

The animals of winter…

Posted on February 27, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Well the wind blew winter in this weekend and I breathed in the frozen air, a kind of sigh of relief that the season didn’t skip us altogether. Nope, the snow and the cold made it just in time to keep us wondering if there will be lions or lambs trotting in for the grand opening of March.

Oh, it doesn’t really matter much anyway. Around here we can’t trust in spring until the first weeks of June no matter how easy the winter season was on us. But on Sunday morning I was reminded of how much I missed winter all of these months when it was supposed to be snowing. The months I have come to call the extended fall…the early spring…

But we had winter yesterday and I couldn’t wait to get out in it. I squeezed into my long underwear, pulled on layers, tied my scarf around my neck, made sure my wool cap covered my ears and zipped my coat to my chin. The snow was fresh and the wind was blowing it in sparkly swirls around the barnyard. The hay bales were adequately frosted in neatly stacked white drifts, remnants of the small blizzard that blew through the ranch in the evening and was lingering into the late morning hours.

I stuck out my tongue to taste the snowflakes and snuggled down into the collar of my coat like a turtle as I walked toward the horses munching on hay below the barn.

I wished I had their fur coats, thick and wooly and brave against the wind.I wished I had their manes, wild and tangled and smelling of dust and autumn leaves, summer heat and ice. They keep it all in there, all of the seasons.

They nudged and kicked at one another, digging their noses deeper in the stack of hay, remembering green grass and fields, tasting warmer weather in their snack. I lingered there with them, noticing how the ice stuck on their eyelashes and clung to the long hair on their backs.

I scratched their ears and pulled some burs out of their manes and imagined what grove of trees they picked to wait out the storm last night, standing close and breathing on one another’s back. A herd.

I followed them out of the protection of the barnyard and into the pasture where the frozen wind found my cheeks and the dogs cut footprints in the fluffy snow in front of my steps. They played and barked and jumped and sniffed and rolled in the white stuff, like children on a snow day.

I found the top of the hill and remembered that I hadn’t felt this cold for months.

I had forgotten how my cheeks can go numb, how my fingertips ache, now my eyelashes stick together at the close of a blink and how the wind finds its way through the layers of clothing and freezes my skin. I forgot that sometimes it doesn’t matter that you took care to wear wool socks and three pairs of pants, we are never as prepared as the animals. Sometimes the weather just wins.

I wished I had fur on my ears, tufts on my feet, whiskers to catch the snow.

I wished I had hard hooves to anchor me in the snow, my own herd to lean against, to protect me from the wind.

I wished I was part of a pack, chasing and jumping and rolling through the drifts.

Oh, I would have stayed out longer if I had these things. I would have explored how the creek had froze, stuck my nose in the snow, walked along the banks of the coulee, leaned against the buttes and followed the indecisive sun.

But my scarf wasn’t thick enough, there was snow in my boots and my skin is fragile and thin. No, my body’s not wooly and my nose is not fuzzy. In fact, I wasn’t sure if my nose was still attached to my face. And my fingers? Well, I decided then as I turned my body back toward the house with a billowing chimney that there was a reason for those fingers I wasn’t sure I would be able to keep. Yes, those fingers knit sweaters and sew together blankets, our hands build fires and houses to protect us, our arms wrap around one another, our feet propel us toward shelter or sun and our brains invent things like warm, spicy soup and hot coffee and buttery buns.

No, we might not have fur coats, but we have opposable thumbs.

I pointed my frozen feet toward the house and flung open the door, stripped off my layers and stood over the heater vent, happy to have experienced winter, happy for my warm house and man-made blankets.

And happier still for a promise of spring that isn’t too far away on this winter day…

Instigator…Idiot…Pug…

Posted on January 23, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

If I were a pug with one eye I would tread lightly in this world, understanding that my life is hanging on the fact that my remaining eye, well, remains.

If I were a pug I would have put pen to paper in my journal to detail each gory detail about how, exactly, I lost said eye. I would have made a special note on how it is best to stay in the yard for the love of safety and even though some creatures look fluffy and cuddly and similarly built, looks can be deceiving…and unbearably poky.

I would have written that down for sure. Then I would have underlined it and placed it right next to a sketch of the spiky animal who caused such misery in the first place.

Now I know if I were the pug I wouldn’t have opposable thumbs, but I would find a way. I would talk to someone. I would ask them to remind me every night before I kenneled up or snuggled on the blanket on the couch to tell me the story about how I approached a porcupine for a cordial discussion about politics only to come away with one of those needles he wears as fur poking out of the middle of my eyeball…

My favorite eyeball…

Yes, if I were the pug this traumatic event would be burned into my brain, because what followed was misery, three trips to the vet, stitches, drugs and several desperate attempts to jump out of the cone that was placed over my head to protect me from myself.

If I were the pug I would have not forgotten.

But alas, I am not the pug. I am a me, a woman who puts rolls in the oven to rise at 9 am only to discover that at 7 pm after the oven is adequately pre-heated and ready for the evening casserole, that the rolls I had completely forgotten about are done, saran wrap and all. Surprise!

No, I am not the pug. I am me, a woman who forgets things in her oven, but who will never, under any circumstances, forget how an injury occurred. I’m on my tenth or twelfth diary folks.

But the pug?

Well, the pug is the pug and the pug just happens to:

a. have a short memory
b. have balls of steel (those balls, of course, being metaphorical, because well…)
c. be an idiot
d. all of the above

And after yesterday’s events I believe I have enough information to answer the above multiple-choice question correctly.
Because as I held the stocky, determined, incredibly strong for his size, pathetic pug on the floor of my kitchen while husband worked to remove what I have documented as the third round of porcupine quills the animal has endured in his short lifespan, I grabbed my pencil and circled:
d. all of the above.

Now I admit there should have been signals that this animal’s intelligence is questionable. I admit I should have figured this was bound to happen again after witnessing how much gusto he put into chasing that raccoon off the deck…twice. And the rabbit that showed up, umm, not living, to my doorstep? Well, I’m pretty sure he didn’t commit suicide.

So you see, I could blame last night’s incident on the lack of an eye, like maybe the pirate pug couldn’t properly assess the situation he was getting himself into. Like maybe he was blindsided… But as Pops pointed out, the fact that quills were poking out of his squishy nose right below the good eye, indicates, well he at least saw it coming. The quills inside his mouth finish the story.

The story that ends with the pug being labeled not only “idiot” but “instigator.”

Instigator.

Terminator.

Eliminator.

Dumbass.

Because even now as I type this I hear that shithead barking ferociously at some poor creature up in a tree or down in a coulee somewhere…

Yup, now he’s running around in circles down below the corrals, the lab on his tail, following the scent of some threatening vermin.

I just got in from screaming at him to come back, but he must have lost his hearing in that last porcupine fight. I swear to Martha, if I find myself pulling quills from that snorty snout again tonight he’s up for grabs.

Adoption.

A pug orphan.

Because even after a half-hour, four-way fight between me, husband, the pug and those damn porcupine quills, a fight the pug was sure was going to be the death of him; a fight that found him whimpering, bleeding, shaking, and begging us to unhand him; a fight that ended with a gallant victory by a strong man with pliers and a stunned and feeling-much-better-already-thank-you-very- much black lap dog curled up on the foot of the couch sighing deep, grateful, breaths of relief, it is quite clear that the third time is not going to be a charm.

When the pug gets in from his latest life-threatening chase, I’ll let you know what I think about the forth. And then I’ll give you the number of the mile marker where you can pick him up if you would like to take on the task of saving his life…day after day…

Cause I tell you, it would be my luck that this is the only dog in the history of the universe that has the potential to live forever… Despite the tiny brain, big balls, and all the odds.

Now, where did I put his safety goggles?

“Where the deer and the mis-guided pug with an identity crises play…”

Posted on January 17, 2012 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

If I had to estimate the miles I have trudged around the hills of this ranch since moving back a year and a half ago I will go out on a limb and shout out loud with my hands in the air (because I talk with my hands) “Hundreds!”

I know this is probably not accurate. I know it’s likely exaggerated a bit, but it sounds good. It sounds like a number I am content with considering that whenever I have a moment to spare to clear my head, find my breath, get my blood pumping or look for inspiration, I find myself bundling up, grabbing my camera and climbing to the top of the nearest butte, crouching down in the creek beds, or trudging in the fields above our house searching for the horses.

It’s a ritual that can’t be beat. One that never fails to put me right with the world actually.

Have you ever finished a giant meal full of more carbohydrates than a woman should consume in a week while watching the latest episode of “The Biggest Loser?”

No?

Me neither.

But if I were to engage in such unhealthy behavior that left me with a feeling that resembles a mix of “no self-control” and a very present tinge of “self loathing”, a walk in those hills with the wind blowing through my hair and flushing my cheeks would clean the ick right out of me. Not to mention put a very necessary dent in the calories consumed and a much-needed burn in my calf muscles.

And all of the huffing and puffing in the prairie wind also happens to be a nice quick fix for writer’s block as well as those unavoidable gloomy moods where you are certain the universe planted that slipper in the middle of the floor just to trip you.

The universe or your husband.

And if I were ever to have a fight with said husband over said slipper that starts with a joke only one of us thinks is funny and ends with none of us laughing, I am comforted knowing that the cure lies in the entryway where at least one-pair of boots is waiting for me to save them from the depressing depths of the closet and get them out into a world full of dirt and sunshine and cool breezes and snow and maybe an adventure…

And you know who else is waiting out there for me to overdose on carbs, get stuck on the last line of a new song, pick a fight with the hubby, or, you know, avoid the laundry?

Yup, you guessed it.

My P.ICs, my M.V.Ps…

My D.O.G.s

Yup. They never miss a chance to escort me on old cow trails, rocky hilltops and slushy creek beds. Because they too think slushy creek beds are the best. And it doesn’t much matter if they are a few miles over the hill visiting their girlfriends at mom and pop’s, or rolling in poop below the barn, or catching a really good nap in a sunny spot by the garage, as soon as they hear the door knob turn they are at the door wagging their butts at the idea that we are going somewhere.

In rain, or snow, or, well, you know, a blinding blizzard, my loyal companions are ready for me to go anywhere…at anytime.

Oh, to have that much trust mixed in with an even greater amount of passion for things like sniffing and running and munching on dead things. What a life!

And I love it. I do. They are my constant, fluffy, four-legged, slobbery, poop sniffing, leg lifting, floppy eared, droopy faced, smooshy faced, out-of-place companions.

But let us take a moment to note that nowhere in my description of my furry friends is there an adjective that is synonymous with the following terms: regal, photogenic, award-winning, gorgeous, nobel, handsome, agile, graceful, rustic, poetic, inspiring or the quality some living things posses that make those witnessing them actually slow the object’s motion down in their imaginations in order to fully absorb the grandeur of their presence…you know, like when the hot chick enters the library and lets her hair down in your favorite tween movie.

No, my pups have never been anyone’s love interest, nor will they be appearing in any major motion pictures anytime soon.

Unless there is a sequel to “Homeward Bound.” If they make that I’ll be putting together some audition tapes of my cats following the dogs following the horses following the cows in the home pasture.

Now that’s a sight for the big screen.

A comical sight, but this is my life.

And a comedy is the only category these hounds fit into really. Which, in turn, makes it challenging to really focus on the contemplative, inspiring, whimsical, natural, meditative, stunning and magical photographs I am shooting to capture on these jaunts out on the countryside when Tweedle Dee and his BFF Tweedle Dumb are high tailing it for the nearest stock dam…

Or, you know, doing things like this…

Needless to say I spend a majority of my time on these walks shouting at the dogs to get the hell out of the frame and a few extra editing moments at the computer weeding out the unwanted dog tail, snout, foot and always present butt that might have snuck its way into one of my beloved sunset/landscape/horse/babbling creek/rainbow/wildflower photos.

Case in point:

Without dogs:

With dogs:

Without dog:

With dog:

Without dog:

With dog:

Without dog:

With dog:

Without dog:

With dog:

Somehow a photograph of a North Dakota sunset says something a bit different with a profile of a flat nosed pug and a droopy faced lab silhouetted in the forefront.

But what, exactly, does it say?

“Home, home on the range, where the deer, the mis-guided pug with an identity crises and a prematurely aging labrador play …”

And as much as I’ve tried to make the lab look nobel and stoic sitting strong against the backdrop of the rolling prairie, the orders aren’t rushing in for a 20X30 framed and matted photograph of a 105 pound chocolate hunting dog with drool flinging off of his droopy lips due to the relentless wind of the day…no matter how big his heart…

For some reason nobody is in desperate need of that work of art to hang over their fireplaces to complete the warm and sexy look of their home.

It’s the same reason that this shot here:

is just a bit more appealing than, say, this shot:

No, we’re just not ready to appreciate and celebrate the spirit that these types of life-loving creatures can bring to a beautiful landscape.

Take a look at this shot for instance. Here we have a handsome group of long horn steers, a symbol of the rugged west, a story waiting to be told of cowboys and wide open range and a lifestyle that is adventurous and brave.

Now throw a pug in the mix and, well, that beautiful poem is instantly replaced with that childhood song “one of these things is not like the other/one of these things just doesn’t belong…”

Now that’s what I call contemplative.

Ah, yes. There are a hundred pictures like this. Hundreds of photos of the hundreds of miles these to yahoos have spent running the trails in front of me, sniffing in the brush, licking my face when I lean in close to the ground to get a close shot of a flower, or coming to my rescue when I lay down in the grass to look up.

And I am aware that when I crop out the wandering tail, the meandering paw and the occasional out of control floppy ear, this landscape looks the way it was meant…authentic, natural and pure…

But sometimes I like to keep in a squishy nose or a blur in the grass to remind me that , well, sometimes when you’re looking for inspiration, relaxation, and escape from the stresses of the world, the best medicine is to remember your sense of humor…

And that life is nothing without good company. And I would walk a million miles in those hills with these two clowns.

Forever…

and ever…

Amen.

The pug situation…

Posted on November 18, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Recently one of my lovable bloggy-mcblog visitors inquired about the one-eyed pug. He said he wondered where he’s been. He wondered how he’s been doing and how he’s handling all the changes around here.

He noticed there haven’t been many updates lately. Not many photos. Not many references to his quirky and cute habits.

Well, I’ll tell you, it’s been rough, but I suppose it’s time to address the situation.

A situation that has been brewing around here for a few months. One I don’t like to talk about.

It’s too painful.

And awkward.

See, the pug and I, yeah….well…we’re in a fight.

I’m not sure when it all started, but somewhere between the Santa Suit, the porcupine incident of 2011, the cone, the Frankenstein/Pirate jokes and the eye stitches that finally disintegrated, the pug started sporting an attitude. He showed up after a night MIA minus one collar and plus a swagger that sends the songbirds flying from his path.

He started barfing on the floor with no remorse, finding hidden spots to leave smelly surprises, dragging dead things to the porch while casually licking his paws, watching them disintegrate and smell up the barnyard. Rolling his eyeball when he hears me open the door and screech.

And he’s started sleeping in. Like really sleeping in. Like 2:00 in the afternoon unless he is literally picked up and pushed out the door. Yup, that’s going on, which is really annoying and inconvenient when I am trying to get myself out the door and to work on time.

You know what else is annoying? Having to drive to mom and pop’s house every day to pick his hitchhiking ass up.

Because he’s started doing that too. Yup. He ties on his little bandana, puts a pity patch on the spot where his eye used to be, throws his duffle bag over his shoulder, finds his best pathetic face and strolls on out of the yard, thumbing his way over to his girlfriend’s house as soon as my tail lights are out of sight.

Yeah, he has a girlfriend.

how could he resist?

She lives at mom and pop’s place. And the two of them like to go on day trips up the highway to the neighbors. They also like to bark into the night at the moon or the wind or a rustling leaf. He likes to show off, show her he’s tough.

You know how he does that? He howls. He howls loudly. At 2 am. While he’s still in mom and pop’s garage because I “forgot” to go and get him before bed.

Oops.

Pops hasn’t slept through the night for three months.

And on the nights that Chug the Pug is on lockdown and is forced to sleep in his rightful place on the floor in the entryway in the house like he was meant, the ballsy little bugger not only sneaks on the couch immediately after husband and I turn out the lights..he lays on husband’s favorite blanket…

leaving behind the scent of disobedience and betrayal.

All of these things are not good. They are rebellious. They are irresponsible.

They are not cute.

And I am pissed.

Don’t get me wrong, I have let some of this slide. I have let him sleep in my bed when husband was gone on business trips. I’ve let him sleep even when his snoring has disrupted phone conversations (yeah, that’s an embarrassing noise to try to explain). I have laughed when I hear him howl. It is hilarious.

But it is also loud.

Like his snoring.

And his farting.

What the hell? What has gotten into this once sweet, once cuddly, once cute and innocent and smooshy faced little animal who used to fit so sweetly in the crook of my arm? Where did I go wrong?

Was it the Santa Suit?

Maybe, but he’s had a year to get over it.

Maybe it was all the pressure I put on him to tame the wild cats.

Or could he be trying to fit in on the ranch by making up for his lack of size in attitude?

Or, could it be?

No, it couldn’t…

Could it.

Could it be the eye?

Do you think that little shit caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and decided, well, he looks tough? Do you think he walked in the closet one day to plop down and wait for me to come out of the bathroom and noticed this sexy, masculine, muscular canine with one eye looking back at him and thought to himself “Hell, I’m a stud. S. T. U. D. It’s prime time I started acting like one.” ?

Do you think?

Hmmm….

I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.

I am out of options.

He won’t even look at me. He just hangs out under the heat-lamp with the cats.

Or on the couch that he just jumped on when my back was turned.

He glares at me from there.

I glare back.

Then I tell him he stinks.

He tells me my hair is frizzy.

I ask him if he just ran into a wall or if his face is supposed to look that way.

He asks me if the zit on my face has its own mailing address.

I say no, it gets its mail at our home address, thanks very much.

This is getting ugly.

So you ask how the pug is handling the changes around here friend? To that question I have another one…

Anyone have a number for a good therapist?

Quick, change your season!

Posted on September 15, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

So I hope yer termaters were covered last night, because there was a frost.

whimper, whimper…sigh…sniff.

Yup.

There was a frost. I saw it with my own eyes when I woke up, rubbed out the crusties and scrounged around for the dog food only to collapse in a heap when I noticed that the water in the dog dish had a little crust of ice on the top.

Sob.

How do I get the defrost button to work on, you know, the earth?

Anyway, I suppose it is about that time. It seems like it went too fast didn’t it? I mean, I hear Texas is still feeling 100 degree weather. It’s weird how quickly the season’s change around here. Just last Saturday I had on my swimming suit and was splashing in the big lake.

Just last week I was using my little window air conditioner while husband and I screamed casual conversation over its rumble! Just last month I was cussing the rain and the cows who ruined my lawn. And just like that, the lawn really doesn’t matter much anymore.

Oh, but it’s not so bad really, when considering last year at this time we had SNOW!

Oh, North Dakota and your weather games. No matter how many tricks you play we always wonder where the hell we put our sweaters.

Anyway, I’m not complaining. (Does it sound like I’m complaining?) Fall is a sweet time of year, even though it’s a bit short. Fall means hunting and camouflage beer, colors changing in the trees, cute sweaters, pumpkins, being able to ride horse and jog in the middle of the day…you know, if I were the type of woman to exercise on purpose.

But I am going to miss summer, just like I do every year. I am going to miss my summer skin that makes me look more human and less pasty white alien. I am going to miss my cutoff jeans and bare feet, my horse’s slick coat, husband’s t-shirt sleeves that hug his arms perfectly, vodka tonics, and wildflower hunting, brats on the grill for supper once a week, not having to plan my outfit around a jacket and sunshine that lasts past 10 pm.

However, the snow will be a good disguise for my destroyed yard, it will also send these mosquitos into hibernation as well as the necessity to shave my legs every other day.

Yeah. I guess a part of me, perhaps a large part of me, is looking forward to snuggling down in my sweaters and traipsing around in my boots. That will be good.

As for the pug? Well, I think he’s kinda pissed about the whole colder weather thing…

Anyway, I can almost taste the soups that will be boiling in cowboy’s kitchen. Oh how I’ve missed you dumplings. Maybe this winter I will find myself a free weekend to enjoy a blizzard under the blankets while I watch a good girly movie. The happy hot summer sunshine doesn’t allow for such excuses.

A blizzard? Well, that’s a perfect reason to do nothing but eat Red Vines and cry at Sandra Bullock movies.

But it seems like just yesterday I was hunting out crocuses and now I have a few tubs of chokecherry juice waiting for my domestic side to come and make it into something delicious. Wasn’t I just sleeping on top of the covers with the fan blowing on me and the windows open? Didn’t I just document the first buds of spring only to wake up to find the leaves kinda droopy?

Man time flies when you’re trying to find a way to stop it. It changes right before our eyes every day out here. We know it’s bound to happen, yet it seems we never expect it. It seems the seasons, with the exception of the North Dakota winters, leave us all too quickly. So I’d like to do something fun here. As you have probably noticed, I have been keeping up with a photo a day for about a year now. And the point of that endeavor was to help me open my eyes to something beautiful, something interesting, every day. But you will notice when you visit the Daily Photo page and scroll through the pictures that it also does something more. It documents the subtle changes around here, not only in weather and season, but in the animals, the vegetation, the mood and feelings of each day. It’s amazing how that in one spot there is so much to see, so much to document, so many different perspectives constantly shifting and moving with the spin of the earth, the rise and set of the sun, the changes of the moon. So I invite you to take a moment to visit the Daily Photos page for a quick recap of the past year in photos.

Because we can’t stop time, we can’t change the weather or make our favorite season stay, but we can keep our eyes and hearts open to the beauty, subtle strength and mystery nature displays every day of the year.

In the horses: