Tag Archives: dogs

Heaven help the cat farmer…

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Ok, so I realize I am running a major risk of turning into one of those ladies….

But last night, after I had so clearly declared my feelings about the state of the cats in my life and posted it with authority and a couple necessary exclamation points for the world to see, feeling pretty free and right with the world and where I stand as far as cats are concerned, I headed out to the barn to practice taking pictures with my shiny, new fancy nancy, big girl camera.

I was glowing. This machine could quite possibly be the single most beautiful thing I have ever owned (besides the pug of course, but I don’t own him….no, that’s a free spirit there…free as the wind…and I’m pretty sure he owns me).  Ok, the camera…yes, it’s more complicated than any woman I know. With more bells and whistles and mysterious features, not only is this contraption equipped to capture some undoubtedly precious moments, I am pretty sure, if I find the right button, it could very well send me back in time, or at least to the moon or something.  Yes, my life is sure to be transformed with this little piece of magic…or, you know, allow me to capture an image in lowlight for starters.

Anyway, I was out gallivanting around, looking at the world from the other side of a lens that really, I’m not sure I’m worthy of owning. And as I was taking pictures of the inside of the barn, reveling in how beautiful old things can become when you spend enough money to be able to see them in high resolution (as opposed to the resolution of real life, which, as it turns out, sometimes doesn’t seem to compare…especially if you don’t wear the glasses you were prescribed), I heard it…

The lab, who had been hot on the trail of a mole or something heard it….

The pug,? Yes, of course the pug heard it…

“mew…”

Faint at first, I ignored it, certain it had to be the crazy cat from the house following me again. Cats take a while to learn a lesson.

I continued my quest for a Nobel Peace Prize winning photograph…

“…mew…mew…mew…”

Shrill, high pitched, panicky…

Ok, that’s not the noise of a creature I feed from a bowl.

But look at that magnificent spider web and those old horseshoes…

“…mew…mew…mew…”

Shit.

This is a plea for help. This is the sound of a creature that needs rescuing—this means business. And no doubt another house guest.

So, as you can imagine, even though I didn’t get around to making the pug the cape I promised him, the super-dog was all over this investigation.

Just call him the Cat Whisperer. Actually, I think his first book is scheduled for release this winter.

“mew…mew…mew…mew…”

It just couldn’t be ignored so off we went, the pug gallantly leaped through the window of the barn and landed nose to the ground toward the pathetic squeaks. And the lab, not to miss a good hunt, squeezed all 105 pounds of him right behind.

Well of course I couldn’t be left out, and going around to the door and out to the source of the “mews” would waste precious time, so I squeezed through too….you know, all of me…somehow…

Anyway, after the nose of the lab and the nose of the pug took them screaming through the barnyard, weaving in and out of the hay bales, very dramatically collecting burs and kicking up birds, I took two steps and looked down at my feet to discover what I had expected:

A tiny, fluffy, noisy, pathetic, desperately adorable, fit in the palm of my hand, kitten searching high and low for her momma, you know, in an old tire.

Oh, I’m no momma, and I couldn’t find one around anywhere, especially not in the tire, so, well you know what happened next.

I mean, how could you leave something like this out alone in the world?

Not possible.

So I swept her up and pulled her close to my face and said a few things like:

“Oh, hewo widdle kiddy kiddy…awen’t you the cutest widdle kiddy kiddy…whews yo mamma? Huh? Whews yo mamma?”

Yup, I was her.

I was that.

Crazy.

Cat.

Lady.

Crazy cat lady.

Fast or slow, punctuation or no punctuation, any way you dice it,  it always spells:

C R A Z Y.

And that kitty kitty, I’m sure was glad to be saved.

It took me .5 seconds after that to get back to the house, which was not nearly enough time to concoct a story to tell husband about why oh why I was bringing yet another furry thing into our tiny, tiny home.

But as soon as I opened the door and sweetly presented our little gift from the cat gods (or from someone who is playing a dirty, nasty trick on me for ever having said an ill word toward the species) husband grabbed her up.

And when I began the inevitable photo shoot of the new addition?

getting acquainted...not going so well at this point...

He told me to stop.

Stop?

Yes stop.

“You are scaring her.”

And then, after my failed attempt at giving her milk, he fed her spaghetti.

And put her in his pocket.

And told me to stay back.

“She’s mine. “

Good Lord, what have we become?

The crazy cat lady has created a monster.

Or a cat farmer.

I wonder if this one will get a name?

Heaven help the softhearted.

I give up.

NOW IF YOU’LL EXCUSE ME, I’VE GOT TO GET A CAT OFF MY CAPS LOCK…

It’s a jungle out here.

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I’m telling you, it’s a jungle out there.

Well, I’ll be honest here (because I am what I am) it is generally a jungle in here as well.

You know, with the four critters, two humans and occasional visitor popping over for supper…oh, and lovely brother in law who is living in his camper in our yard while on a job out here. Love him. He washes the dishes and brings me Oreos and grills us chicken.  I’ll tell you more about him later, because you are sure to like him too…

but today I want to tell you a tale about adventure—a tale of travel and danger and betrayal and close calls with death and rescue and heroism and reuniting, passionate, true love.

A real Indiana Jones type story…

Only this involves a pug, some disheveled horses, a couple humans and….a cat.

A damn cat.

Damn the cat.

Dammit cat.

Cat, dammit

Dammit.

Cat.

Ok.

So last weekend was lovely and I spent it with an old friend and a new friend and they came out to the funny farm to take a nice relaxing ride in the hills, breathe in the fresh air and take in the beautiful fall day.

I’ll note here that I was all alone out here last weekend with my momma down the road, because you know, it’s hunting season.

The boys didn’t even leave me the lab.

Anyway, so I was excited for a ride with the ladies, but unsure of the equine skill set my guests possessed. So I decided to play it safe, because, well, you know my track record with luck and injuries isn’t so great. I didn’t want to put them in harm’s way. I didn’t want a rodeo. I wanted peace and peace of mind.

So out to the pasture I went to retrieve our best-tamed broncs.

Well, broncs isn’t quite the word.

Nor is tamed really.

Old and relatively lame might be better adjectives.

Oh, and absolutely full of cockleburs and mud from spending their elderly days out to pasture relaxing, chomping on greens and pretty much letting themselves go.

But it was time that Stormy and The Mare earned their keep around here and after literally waking them up (I think I caught the entire herd snoring) and dragging their fat asses back to the barn, I proceeded to use my hair dressing skills (I have some sweet skills I haven’t told you about yet) to remove a field of burs from their manes. After much cussing and sniffing and scratching and chunks of hair flying, I decided they might be able to pass as dignified, although slightly older, members of the equine family.

They were ready for their close ups.

They were ready for a stroll.

They looked so good, I actually had to go inside and change to my fancy shirt so we matched.

 

Stormy and The Mare

 

Anyway, we were ready and presentable just in time for my old friend and my new friend’s arrival. I introduced them to their mounts and, after an explanation on why The Mare doesn’t have a real name, we were off into the crisp, clear autumn morning.

The sun was shining. The birds were chirping. There was a flawless breeze. Not a cloud in the sky.

Perfection, just as I had planned.

And then…

“Meow….meow….meow….meow….”

What the hell is that?

“Mmmmmeeeeeoooooowwww…..meow…meow…MEEEOOWWW”

Oh, ha ha, how cute, the cat followed us.

I explained to my guests:

“Oh, that’s ok, he’ll turn back. He’ll turn back. How funny. Ha ha.”

They weren’t quite sure.

The Mare started to cough.

The sun shone warm on our backs.

We took in the scenery and talked about how great life is and…

“MEOW. Meow. Meowmewomeowmeowmeow.”

“MEOW”

Well, I guess the cat was not only coming along, he was intent on weaving his little body between the legs of the old beasts’ feet. I mean, anything for a scratch. Anything for attention.

I explained to my guests:

“Here, I’ll try chasing him back. He’ll go home if I just encourage him with a little sound effect…you know, scare him home…..”

My old friend said:

“Good luck with that.”

I said:

“Pssst….pssstt….get back….go home….psst…shhhhhh…..pppppssssssttt…..you little sh…..hahaha…..get back kitty….ppppsssstttt…..”

The Mare groaned.

My new friend was reminded why she is allergic to cats.

Stormy fell asleep.

 

Stormy

 

The cat didn’t budge.

“Meow.”

We continued on our merry way and tried to ignore the panicked screams for attention going on below us. A cat that thinks he’s a dog. A cat that thinks he’s a horse. A cat that thinks he is far more adventurous despite the lack of appropriate outfit or gear for this type of wilderness travel.

Then our attention was diverted to The Mare who had somehow developed a major limp since the last time we took her on a stroll.

My old friend wasn’t so sure her horse was going to make it.

I told her it was an act, a ploy for sympathy and attention. She has to exercise. This is good for her. She really has let herself go.

My new friend sneezed.

“Meow….meowwwwwwww…….

Reeeeeaaarrrrrooooow…..REAAAR!”

Silence.

New friend:

“I think my horse just kicked your cat.”

Old, animal loving friend:

“Oh no! Is he ok…is he…”

“Meow, meow, meow…”

Oh, good he survived.

Thinking now would be a good time to head toward home and wondering how much bleeding would be involved with carrying a cat on a horse, we turned toward the corrals.

Barnyard bound, Stormy, who had been trailing a half a mile behind the crew (no doubt facing pangs of jealousy as his much younger rival took up the lead) caught up to give my horse a good kick, you know, to remind him to respect his elders and stop looking so shiny and sleek.

The Mare miraculously recovered from her bad hip or foot or whatever ailment she was faking and picked up speed.

And the cat disappeared.

Oh shit.

Me to my guests:

“Don’t worry, he’ll find his way home. Cats can smell home. Cats are smart.”

Me to myself:

“He’s a goner. Eagle bait. Coyote bait.….shit.”

My old friend was not so sure. My old friend was concerned.

My new friend sneezed.

Onward we pushed, my posse and I, mourning the loss of our adventurous little mate, sure he would pull through, sure it would turn out fine, weary and ragged from the drama of it all (or the dust and bur particles swirling in the air).

We arrived, unsaddled, picked our wedgies, brushed our beasts, gave them a treat…

 

The Mare, rolling off the drama of the ride, trying to get the stink off...

 

and listened for the cat….

“Oh, there he is,” old friend exclaimed pointing to brave cat’s identical brother, sleepy, lazy cat. “He made it home after all.”

And honest-to-a-fault me, who has been caught in every untrue story I have woven, pulled off the ultimate sin and lied to my old friend’s face.

“Uuuhhh, yup, there he is. What a trooper.”

I didn’t have the heart.  I didn’t want her to worry. I didn’t want her to feel like she needed to get in on the scavenger hunt that would ensue after her car pulled back into civilization.

So my old friend and new friend, who turns out was allergic to pretty much every particle at the ranch, but held it together so graciously and wonderfully for the love of the ride, despite a swollen eye and slowly closing throat, took off back to town, where there is no dirt and cats stay in the house and eat canned food from a fancy dish and there is no toxic dust.

And I convinced myself that the cat would come back.

And hummed that little childhood tune…you know:

The cat came back, the very next day.
The cat came back.
We thought he was a goner.
But the cat came back,
He just wouldn’t stay aaawwwaaayyyy!

I made myself some lunch. All will be well.

Took a bite.

Looked out the window.

Finished my chores.

Looked over the horizon.

Made some supper.

Turned on the yard light.

Read some pages out of my book.

Yelled for the cat.

Fell asleep.

Woke up.

Wandered around the barnyard.

No cat.

Damn cat.

Cat dammit.

Dammit cat.

Now I’ve done it. I’ve lied and will have to explain this to my old friend or risk living a life with one cat who has to play the role of two, you know, like the girl in Parent Trap, in order to convince my friend I’m not a heathen.

And I kinda missed the crazy cat. He was the yin to calm cat’s yang.

He completes….ok, well never mind.

Anyway, it was time to find him. After all, how long could he survive out there with out a proper hat or cargo pants or canteen at least?

So I rounded up Chug the pug (who would have to do in the absence of the lab) and put on my scouting outfit and we went on our own hunt, thank  you very much.

 

My search partner

 

We backtracked and marched diligently along yesterday’s route, staying on course, except for an occasional pause to take a picture or chase a bird or pet the horses, we were thorough in our efforts.

Through the thick brush, up to the tallest hill I scoured the landscape with one hand on my hip, one to shade my eyes and point, Lewis and Clark style. The pug sniffed the ground and followed hot on the trail…oh wait…not a cat, just a jackrabbit. Keep it together man!

I listened in the silence for brave cat’s cries for help.  I scoured the earth, high and low…oh wait, what a beautiful tree….oh, the sky is just stunning today…beep, beep, click…

FOCUS!

The pug slapped me. I slapped the pug. We were back on track, traipsing past where brave cat was allegedly stepped on, past where he meowed, and meowed, and meowed and finally, past the place I was sure he disappeared into the mist of that fine morning.

Oh no, could hope be lost? This was my last resort, my last chance at retrieving this animal that was stupid…I mean loyal… enough to follow his beloved human out into the wilderness….

Oh cat, our time was brief together, but so full of love and life…I’ll miss you…good…

“meow…meow…meow…”

The pug stopped in his tracks. That never happens.

“mmmeeeooowww….mmeeoowww….mmmeeoowww.”

I turned toward the snarly brush behind me…

“meow.meow.meow.meow.”

I looked down. The pug followed. I dug through the brush, moving closer to his pleas for help…

“meow meow meow meow.”

Close now, I looked to the sky to catch a glimpse of two little eyes blinking with worry and anticipation. Our eyes lock and the pug went crazy and started chasing his tail and brave cat, way up in the highest tree, where he undoubtedly built himself a little cat sized hammock and settled in for the night in the middle of the most gnarly brush patch on the ranch, came barreling down to the ground at full speed.

The pug gave him a nuzzle. I gave him an apology and felt really guilty for giving his instincts too much credit.

Brave cat started purring, so I think he forgave me, but wasn’t over it enough to let me carry him home.

 

Not my biggest fan...

 

He chose to follow the pug.

 

"Don't worry buddy, I got your back."

 

The entire way.

To hell with me.

And Chug the pug proudly lead the way…

 

Homeward Bound...Milo and Otis...anyone? This is my life....

 

 

"C'mon buddy, don't give up, we're almost there..."

 

And when we finally made it, I got in my car to head to the big city and found that a mouse had taken up residence in my glove box.

What did I say about the jungle? Yeah, it’s out there.

 

Reunited and it feels so good.

Reunited, and it feels so good...

 

Damn cat.

 

Thanks for the help buddy...I really should get you that cape I promised...

 

Tremendous Tuesday’s “Love Your Life” Game

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In the sometimes repetitive, dull or excruciatingly hectic ebb and flow of the work week it is easy to get wrapped up in the things that drive us crazy–the lack of milk in the fridge when all you want is cheerios, the driver that almost ran you off the road, the coffee that wasn’t in the pot when you needed it, because you dumped it on your new shoes, dogs that won’t listen and kids that won’t get up in the morning, or, you know, that alarm clock that never quite rings loud enough…

But this is Tuesday. Tremendous Tuesday. And as I sit here procrastinating the inevitable shower and the rummaging through my closet for town clothes and the getting-ready-to-get- off-the-ranch experience, I am mentally preparing myself for the day ahead, just like everyone does every morning. You run through the things you need to bring, the projects that need to get done, the groceries you need to pick up at the end of the day, the appointments you need to make.

Yes this is life in all its glory.

However, in light of Tremendous Tuesday, a day that generally isn’t so exciting until you add a great adjective, like tremendous, to the beginning, I want to hear from you. I want you to cut through the negative and make each other’s day by filling in this sentence, borrowed from one of my favorite bloggers…

“I love life, because life includes: ____________.”

Now, you don’t have to get fancy on me here. The blank can include anything from double chocolate cheesecake to the love of your life.

Here, I’ll go first.

“I love life because life includes: Fruity Pebbles (and I’m an adult now and can eat them whenever I want).”

Wow, that felt good. This is a great idea, thank you very much.

How ’bout some more?

“I love life because life includes:

This…

and this…oh my heart…

…and this…I’m melting…

…and this…mmmm, delicious….

…and this…yes, delicious again…

…and this…not as much delicious as it is funny...

…and this…I’ll get you the recipe….

…and this…

…and this…

…and this…

…and this…

…and this…

…and of course, this…

Pug, not so happy about swimming

Ahhh, aren’t we happy now?  Tuesday might just be one of my new favorites…

Now don’t let me down, hit me with your life loves! I think we’ll all be smiling a bit more today for it.

I better hit the trail.

Love ya!

Jessie

The passion of the pets

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I know. I admit it. I have before. I am obsessed with animals. I take too many pictures of them, I talk too much about them, they are too often the subjects of my mind’s meanderings. But c’mon they are hilarious. My animals. They are hilarious and naughty and sweet and crazy (especially the cats) and cuddly and fascinating, really.

Plus, I don’t have kids, so what else am I supposed to obsess over?

My eccentric tendencies on this subject became more evident last night when I was on the front porch talking on the phone with my best friend. We were trying to catch up on the latests: TV shows, her brother’s wedding, who is having or just had babies, what’s for dinner. And in between movie critiques and recipes my best friend would pause to save her three year old child from tumbling down the steps, driving his toy tractor in the street, slamming his fingers in the door and certain death. You know, important, motherly things.

And in between those pauses, I was yelling at the dogs.

You know, trying to save the cats from certain death…

Come on down. I won't hurt ya, I promise.

Yeah, yeah, me neither. I also promise.

I think I'm quite comfortable up here, thanks.

Well, we can all see here whose responsibilities might save the world some day. Or at least have a chance to become president.

I don’t think they are electing pugs to office, although some have tried their hand…er, I mean…paw.

My best friend and I laughed together at the chaos, each one of us enjoying the heck out of the life that surrounds us. I love hearing about how my friend had to duct tape her three year old’s tux at the wedding, how he loves tractors so much it’s the only word he uses and I absolutely melt when he gets on the phone to say “hi Dessy” (that’s how he says my name…ahh, so cute.)

I’m not so sure my best friend is equally impressed with the stories about how my pug sleeps with the cats and then proceeds to chase them up the tree–so I spare her the phone chat with him.

Anyway, my conversation with her got me thinking about what it is that makes me keep these animals around. Because they are naughty (did I say that already?) and dirty, like the furniture way too much and, occasionally, they smell a lot like poop.

But sometimes they are so much like humans it blows my mind.

So come along with me here to explore the multiple personalities of the animals that make their homes at the funny farm.

Let us begin with the horses:

This is Tucker. He only loves us for the treats. He follows me around the barnyard with his mouth like this, checking my pockets and taking little nibbles. Yes, every pocket.

Can you say “goose?”

Relentless.

Unicorn? Alien?

No, Tucker again. Tucker and the burs he got into, most likely on his scavenger hunt for treats.

Spooky.

And kinda pathetic.

Stormy. He might look bored, and that’s because he is. Bored with life, no matter the weather, no matter the job, his pace doesn’t exceed what you see here.

Stormy’s old.

The mule. She’s old too. She runs into things…and people.

She’s blind.

Nuff said.

Now for the cats, who have yet to be named. I’ll take any suggestions. Right now they are affectionately referred to as “Don’t” and “Get Down.”

Here they are climbing into a boot.

This is mischief.

This is not helpful, thanks anyway. This is disruption…and disobedience.

Climbing the walls. Monkey business.

Tipping the vase, knocking over the frame to use it for his own personal stepping stool in order to reach the only sparkly decoration in the entire house. This is sure to end in disaster.

This is damage.

And after all of that chaos and damage done, this is finally…peace.

On to my beloved lab, who has one emotion that seeps out of his soul…

Pure, unfiltered, untouchable…

Joy.

And last but not least, the pug, who has saved me from a life without drama, snoring, curly tails and every expression an old man would convey.

He has taught me what it really means to….

…relax with such passion your face skin sags…

…never back down…

…ever…

…smile so wide it consumes your entire face…

…really not give a damn…

…sport an attitude…

…have your best friend’s back…even if it means getting your paws wet…

…and love with all you’ve got inside that furry chest…

May we all live with the same passion our pets possess.

Now go scratch a belly or two.

Summer, I miss you already…

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In honor of the last day of summer (sniff, sniff…waahhhhh), I decided to share some of the photos that speak to the sunny side of life at the ranch and are sure to warm you like the wool mittens and ear-flap cap that will soon become a fashionable staple of my wardrobe.

I am sure I will be revisiting these pictures many times in the coming months, because come December, I tend to forget…

…what colors really look like…

Storm cloud and rainbow

…the smoky taste of brats and beans on a tiny grill…

Campsite Grilling

…the warm wind in my face (or the fact that one day, I will be able to drive with the windows down again)…

Pug on a summer ride

…the sweet smell of wildflowers…

Wildflower bouquet

Wild Sunflowers

Purple Wildflower

…the thrill of the first splash in big Lake Sakakawea…

Sailboat on Lake Sakakawea

Pug's version of swimming

…well, maybe “thrilling” isn’t the word of choice for all of us…

Pug, not so happy about swimming

…the drama of the horizon…

Moon rise over pasture

Summer Sunset

Horse on hill

…and the true meaning of “dog days”…

Pug and Lab in the lawn

Dogs on the boat

Enjoy the last day of the season everyone. I think I’ll celebrate by wearing my swimming suit and short shorts under my long pants, flannel and fluffy socks. Then I’ll eat some cookies. Lots and lots of cookies….

Goodbye summer…I miss your face already.

Goodbye Summer

Sniff, sniff…

Blue skies

Crazy (insert animal) lady…

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So I am officially crazy. Or have gone crazy. Or maybe I was there already.

Yeah, I think that’s it.

Because in this tiny house lives two humans, two dogs, probably a million spiders, a couple mice I’m sure, and now, two cats.

Well, kittens for now, but someday too soon they will become cats. And that is the problem with kittens.

But I needed them. You know, because of the alleged mice. And they are supposed to be barn cats. When I entered into this agreement with the previous possessors of the kittens, this was the plan. Out to the barn.

Well…they have been here for two weeks, living wild, bouncing off furniture, hanging from the curtains, running from the pug, jumping on the pug, scratching at the carpet, and today I caught one on the inside of my partially open window, making his merry little way up the screen. Yes, they have been here, in all their grey striped, fur-ball, squeaky, jumpy, frantic and dare I say charming and completely loveable ways…and they have yet to see the inside of that barn.

See I claim to be a dog person and have stood my ground on this for a long enough time, but here, friends, is my confession. I am not a dog person. I am not a cat person. I am not a hamster person. I am just a plain, downright, head over heals, stupidly obsessed, animal person.

And the proof is in my colorful past spent catching, finding, taming and raising ridiculous creatures. Yes, I had the occasional cow puppy who I would take over and try to train to do everything but chase cows (which turns out to be the only things cow dogs are really good at, besides eating poop). I had pups that bit my little sister’s ankles, pups that never learned to fetch and pups that would come and lick my face when I would try to get them to pull me on my sled.  I even had a runt puppy that made it into an elementary school play dressed in a tutu.

Yeah, I did that to him

Of course there were horses (although we don’t really consider them pets), and the occasional bottle-fed calf that would be fun and cute until it was big enough to escape the fence and chase me home, nudging and knocking me over as I ran for my life doing everything it could to get the last drop of milk out of the bottle I stupidly still clenched in my hands.  No, I was not his mother, but I could never convince the calf of that.

But my love for the non-human did not end with my furry friends. No, I did not discriminate. I spent much of my childhood searching for and trying to capture frogs and salamanders living in the creeks behind our house. I also had a couple of pet turtles that had brief stays in mom’s crock pot (for a cage, not for soup) and one snake our hired man found in the yard.

And then there were the lizards. All six of them. The kind that would change from brown to green. So cool.  No, I didn’t have all six at once, just one unfortunate lizard soul at a time, each one a replacement for the previous lizard that died a mysterious death before; each death a little blow to my tender, animal loving heart and each death over analyzed:

“Perhaps it was the giant wasp I tried to feed him?”

“Maybe it was the cat?” (those damn cats)

“Maybe it was old age, I mean how do you tell the age of a lizard? That must be it.”

“Maybe mom shouldn’t have left the terrarium out in the sun on a 90 degree day while I was away at Bible Camp (and then try to trick me with a replacement lizard. I was at Bible Camp for crying out loud!)”

Oh, and I almost forgot about the baby goat, Filipe, who wasn’t really mine, but a baby…errr…goat sitting project during Christmas break when I was eleven. Nevertheless, I put him in diapers and took photos of him under the Christmas tree.

I am pretty sure they enjoyed this...but I can't quite tell...

Anyway, all of these critter experiences were little lessons for me about death and self-control and frustration management and the fact that it is a miracle if you can get anything to listen to you (especially when it comes to pulling you in a sled), you bring it home, you feed it and life generally doesn’t turn out as planned.

Hence the cats.

Oh, we had cats when we were growing up too, but I try to blame that on my sisters, especially when I reveal to those who show any kind of interest all of the incredibly random names we gave them…I mean, we had a cat named Belly who had kittens that we respectfully named Button (get it?) and Head. Really not quite sure about that one.

But the truth is, I really loved cats too. So much so that when I was in diapers, and had yet to learn my own strength, I would pick up the kittens my grandma would bring in from the barn (where they are supposed to live) and love them so much that, unsupervised, I would literally squeeze them until they puked.

I wouldn’t believe this either, but unfortunately I was born after cameras were invented.

Poor kitties.

Anyway, luckily I have grown up into a non-sadistic, animal loving adult (I am sure my parents were worried there for a bit) and I haven’t squeezed these kitties to death yet. I think I can control myself. But I am not sure what I am going to do about the four animals in the house thing. I am eating my words for making fun of my sister for her four cats. I am not sure who is crazier here.

But they have made their home. They have found their little nooks and crannies and favorite blankets to curl up on. They chase each other around the coffee table, they purr when I pick them up. They lick my toes. They dart around after little glints of light and bask in the sunspots that shine through the windows.

Even the pug loves them, although it might be because they are so good at hide and seek, but he is appreciative enough to let them have his spot on the couch and that is serious business. And the lab doesn’t mind as long as they leave his tail alone.

I think this is where he developed his annoyance--with our first attempt at a house cat...see how she's going right for the tail.

So what’s a girl like me to do? I am an adult now and know better, but the truth is, these animals I surround myself with make me feel…

…calm on a crazy day and crazy on a morning when I’m running late and one of them puked…frustrated when all of my screams will not succeed in getting the lab to cease in chasing after the deer he will never catch…completely enthusiastic about inanimate objects like sticks and Frisbees…absolutely disgusted when what goes in must come out–on the living room floor…totally relaxed on a winter’s evening with a good book and a fur ball at my feet…absolutely loved when I come home to slobbery, jumping, balls of energy who couldn’t be happier in any other moment….and human for knowing that no matter what, these are just animals and they will never be able to tell me if my ass does indeed look big in these jeans.

So I think I’ll keep those kitties in the house a while longer, if only to make up for the ones I may have squeezed too hard. Besides, they need a few more good meals before they go out on their big mouse hunt…you know, in the barn…

Meow.

And the coyotes followed me home…

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I took a walk on what the weather man calls a “Goldie Locks Day” out to my favorite spot on the place, the East Pasture. It turned into quite the adventure, as I quickly learned the location of the coyote den that has been causing such a eerie ruckus in the evenings at the ranch. Coyote pups were popping their heads up like curious teenage boys over every hill and in every nook and cranny to check out the commotion of the weird animals hoofing it across their turf. I think I ran into about four or five, and was a little unnerved when I turned around to find Hondo, my chocolate lab following close behind me and a coyote just as close at his tail. Oh, and no Chug the pug to be found.

I broke out in a fast trot then, with one cheek turned over my shoulder. You know, I’ve been in this situation before, but I was on a horse. So I wanted to get a fair distance between me and the wild animal. I figured I’d call to my little dog when I got to a good lookout point–you know away from any brush where I was now sure the unexpected was bound to jump out at me at any moment. And then it occurred to me that no matter how tough and big my beefy pug is in his mind, he bears a strong resemblance to a rabbit…especially to a coyote.

Oh shit.

I yelled for him at the top of the hill.

No pug.

Walked a little further. Called his name again.

No pug.

I made it home.

Hondo took a nice little dive in the stock tank. Tried to get him out. He wouldn’t budge. At least he wasn’t worried.

Called to the pug.

No pug.

Called husband.

“I think the coyotes got the pug.”

“Hmmm…Really? Why do you think that?”

“Because he looks like a rabbit…and he’s not very smart…and they were swarming me. The coyotes! They were swarming around me.” (I may have exaggerated here, just a little, to get the point across about the urgency of the situation).

“Hmmm. Yeah, he does look like a rabbit.”

I am trying to decide now if dear husband should have been a bit more concerned about the little dog. I mean, if I’m not mistaken, he almost sounded like he was smiling, just a little, over the phone.

Anyway, husband instructed the following: take his pickup and his .22 to scare anything off and go look for the pug.

I called dad for a second opinion.

Same opinion.

I took a long time to get my shoes on.

I called to the pug again.

I called husband again.

I took a long time looking for the gun.

I opened the door to face the inevitable, gruesome death of a lap dog…

The pug was home.

Crisis averted.

At least I got some good cardio, an adrenaline rush and some photos to share of this gorgeous and wild backyard.

But I wish I could ask him what happened out there…he seems pretty shaken up 🙂

The bravery thing.

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RooftopWe spent what I hope to be one of our last weekends working on the house renovation in Dickinson this weekend. And no matter how positive I keep my attitude during this massive project (that has, I think, worked really hard to ruin my life for the last two years) sometimes you just have to sit on the roof and have a little mental breakdown.

Because I saw my life flash before my eyes this weekend.

I have never claimed to be a brave person–I mean when it comes to hazardous situations that have the capabilities to maim or dismember or cause head trauma or possible death, the worst case scenario always flashes in my mind. I play it all out: I am running the table saw and my hand slips, slicing off a much under appreciated (until that moment) left hand appendage. I scream in horror. Blood pools from my hand and the husband comes rushing to my side, wrapping the wound with the bandana from his head as he frantically searches for the missing limb in a garage full of dust and tools and scraps I should have cleaned up yesterday, dammit. We rush to the hospital and the limb cannot be saved, and I walk around the rest of my life having to explain the accident and why I don’t have a left thumb. Knitting is definitely out.

I snap out of the day dream (or nightmare) and realize that the particular situation is probably unlikely, considering all of the safety precautions and the fact that I rarely run the table saw.  But I also realize that shit like this does happen sometimes. It happens to some people–you know, the ones that are walking around missing pieces of their bodies. And if I’ve learned anything in my short life it is that if it’s gonna happen, it’s gonna happen to me.

See, I’m accident prone. It has been proven. I have stubbed multiple toes, broken fingers, and have scars from minor,  “walking”Painting Hand and “baking” accidents all over my arms and legs. Yes, I have been labeled a bit of a klutz. My cousins called me “tuck and roll” for most of my life for crying out loud. This unique characteristic of my existence is at the top of my mind today because I am nursing an old injury. It “flared up.” (Does using this phrase make me that much closer to becoming the old lady I always knew I was meant to be?)  And, as chain of events seem to go, this happy little reminder of a youth spent in several different casts was the culprit of my near demise this weekend.

When I was about thirteen years old I was helping my dad get the horses in from the pasture to the front of the barn. At that time, our horses didn’t come when we whistled, unfortunately for me.

Most of the time when I was growing up we would walk to look for them in the pasture and then lead them in with grain, or take a bridal and ride one of them bareback home, while the others followed. Well this particular time my dad, my little sister and myself took the pickup and some grain out into the pasture to call them in. But we forgot a bridal. No worries. Dad told me to just jump on my old mare and ride her in. He had a piece of twine (or leather, I can’t remember, it’s all a blur now), from which he made a temporary bridal, slipped it over her nose and boosted me up on the old, red mare, stomping and milling around with the other ten horses. My mission was to ride her in while the rest of the herd followed.

Simple.

Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Except it did.

RoadAs we made our way toward the barn over the hill, my horse began to step up the pace–from a walk, to a trot, to the not so fun on bareback fast trot, to an all out run.

I pulled frantically on my homemade bridal with no response, because the mare was on a mission and I guess my dad needed to take a class in bridal making. I was now trying to steer and gain control of an oversized animal with a mind of her own with a piece of string connected to NOTHING BUT AIR!!! And all the beautiful horses followed behind, bucking and kicking and snorting and stomping and laughing and teasing me as a tried to remain calm on the back of a 1,200 pound beast in the middle of a damn stampede.

So after weighing all my options and seeing my death played out in my mind, what did I do? I decided to bail.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, you could decide to jump on the hardest, most uneven, piece of hard packed gumbo on the ranch, which just happened to be littered with rocks and boulders and sharp objects ready to pierce your fragile skin. Yes, you could decide to jump off there, all elbows and legs flailing as you reason that hitting the ground on purpose couldn’t possibly be as life altering as hitting it by accident.

Except I am not sure there is a difference really. Hitting the ground is hitting the ground, especially when you abandon all logicalRear View falling moves designed to protect one’s limbs and noggin. Like the well known “tuck and roll.”

And I eventually hit the ground. And hit my head on a rock. And broke my wrist in half.

That was a fun one for the little horse gathering crew to explain to mom.

Anyway, after a surgery and pins and a summer in a cast, without really noticing, I have chosen to use that wrist as little as possible into my adult life. And this weekend that little injury came back to bite me… funny how my accidents connect.

Like I said, it flared up. I pride myself on being able to tell when the weather is going to change, because the old wrist stiffens up (yeah, I am definitely an old lady) but this was a bit more severe than an ache, and the weather wasn’t changing. But I didn’t let it stop me from getting my work done. No, not this tough girl. I complained enough about it, but I went about my business, which on this particular day happened to involve painting the outside of the house. Which requires a really tall ladder and getting on the roof.

Did I mention I hate heights? Like I pray to God when I am above ground level a few feet to save me from my immanent death.

LadderBut anyway, I also happen to hate asking for help. Because I should be able to handle moving a 20 ft. antique, adjustable fiberglass ladder around to all sides of the house with only one, measly, Olive Oyl arm.

No problem.

What could possibly go wrong.

Well, after a couple successful, but agonizing moves, exhausted and sweating to beat hell, I tried, one last time to move the 100 pound apparatus by positioning myself directly underneath it, balancing it on my shoulder as I attempted to dig the base into the ground and hoist it to lean it in its proper location. That was the plan. Until my good arm gave out and the ladder wobbled back and forth as my shoulders acted as the base in a teeter totter, positioning my head directly between two rungs. Two adjustable rungs. And in my efforts to stay standing to avoid being flattened by this fiberglass ladder that was ripping all exposed flesh to shreds, I maneuvered the ladder just right to get my good arm in position to fling the thing off of myself, which also happened to be the same maneuver that  signals the ladder to adjust. Adjust down. Which trapped my head between the two rungs.

Shit.

I pulled back.

Still stuck.

I pushed forward.

Still stuck.

I wondered if the neighbors were watching.

Still stuck.

I contemplated the embarrassment of this sort of explanation on my death certificate.Rooftop

The pressure began to constrict my airway.

I laughed a little at the thought. I began to sweat. I thought about calling to my husband, but didn’t want the neighbors to hear. I started to cry…just for a second.

In one more breath of courage and adrenaline in the face of humiliation, I decided to see if my bad hand may be able to finally pull its weight around here and I reached for both sides of the ladder and with gusto managed to signal the ladder to adjust up, freeing my skull and rocketing the ladder to the ground.

Praise Jesus.

I ran in to tell the story to my husband, who promptly came out to move the ladder for me so I could get on the roof and finish the job.

Yes. That  is exactly what could go wrong. And exactly what I did. I got back on the horse. I got back on the roof. I dangled over the edge, scraping the siding, praying to the Saint of gravity or falling or not falling or landing softly (I’m not Catholic, and am not familiar with the Saints, but figured there must be one for these situations). I negotiated all worst case scenarios. I shook. I swore. I cried…just a little.

Brave PugAnd then I called my husband up for help. And he, like Superman, or Spiderman or something, jumped from the pickup, to the garage roof, to the house roof in three noble leaps to sit with me high above Dickinson, on top of the life we’re about to sell, as I wished away my fear.

I wished to be more like him, my husband, who conquers tasks, high above or down below ground (or in his most dreaded situations, like cocktail parties) with precision and confidence. I wished to be more like my pug, who on the way home leaped from the window of my moving pickup and bounced and rolled like a beach ball into the ditch, only to get up and run toward the house, because he just couldn’t wait to be back at the ranch and he thought he could get there faster.

But would life be easier without the fear–without our mind and our reasoning and our logic getting in the way of all of the things we are capable of? If we could just jump, head first like the pug as the ground goes whizzing out from under us without thought of how this could end? Would we be better If we could make the decision, in a split second, and have faith that it will turn out, or at least get us somewhere–somewhere more than a broken arm, a head stuck in a ladder or a life without bravery?

I don’t think so. Bravery defined is “feeling no fear.” But to live a life of bravery, to me, does not mean to live a life with no fear. We need fear–it makes us human and separates us from the pugs. It saves us from head trauma, hurt feelings and broken ams. Fear is always in there, somewhere. I mean, even noble husband is afraid of something (which happens to be spiders).  Fear gives us pause to reflect and really feel, to think and reason and then, hopefully do it anyway. Because it is the conquering that is the mostPug difficult, which makes it the most important really. It is the conquering that makes us brave.

I am working on it. The bravery thing. The conquering thing.

Because the project needs to get done, my husband’s not a great painter and I at least have one good hand.

And another for emergencies.

Summer Walk

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What I see on my walks around this place. I have been trying to snap a photo of the yellow and blue birds outside my window, they are loving bathing in the puddles on the road after last night’s thunderstorm, but my old digital camera, limited photography and sneaking skills leave something to be desired. Enjoy this beautiful day!

Red road coming cutting through the ranch.

Summer Flies

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Clover blooming in the pasture outside my house.

It’s hot today at the Veeder Ranch. Not a smoldering heat, but the sun is beating on the scoria road outside my house and quite unexpectedly, the trees are standing relatively still due to the lack of push by the usually relentless wind. Which entices the flies to buzz  confidently at my front door and around our horses’ noses, sending them into a some sort of trance, bobbing their heads like a metronome in an attempt to keep the persistent insects away. They head for the hill tops to find a breeze.

The cows also have a ritual, which I’ve only noticed, but haven’t studied (as I don’t claim to be, at the present time, a cow expert. I am however, to my husband’s dismay, hoping to become a pig expert, but we won’t go there today). They gather together in a cluster, maybe near the corner of a pasture, or on a side hill, and at a sporadic pace, switch their wiry tails, slapping each other over backs, on faces, under bellies, forming a sort of jumbled up assembly of “I’ll scratch your back, you scratch mine.”  I imagine them saying to each other on these days,  after a long winter of trudging through the snow, “Really? We just can’t catch a break here can we?”.

These instinctual methods for dealing with the mites that come with the short North Dakota summer seem a bit more methodical than my form of extermination, which is cussing mostly, and a flyswatter made available on every table in the house. Oh, and Raid.

But the pastures are green. Like neon green. After a couple days of rains that poured down from the sky like God was

The paint catching a breeze on a hilltop.

throwing out his bathwater (and God, I imagine, has quite the large tub), the sunshine is working on drying the puddles and putting a nice crust on the gumbo buttes of the badlands and the ruts created in the gravel roads around here.

So I roll up my sleeves and my pants legs and, with my flyswatter in tow, I sprawl out on the porch. Because of course I love the warm sunshine. It is what I have been waiting for since it left us last September. I welcome it to come and brown my skin and entice the sweat-beads on my forehead and chest. I tilt my head upwards, squint my eyes and say “bring it on!” Because, in my sun-worshiping opinion, we don’t get enough of these kinds of days up here. And when we do, unfortunately for the office bound and car bound and truck bound and shovel bound North Dakota employees, they do usually land on a Monday or Wednesday, followed up with a nice rainy weekend, which doesn’t stop the hearty residents from loading up their fishing boats and digging out their Bermuda shorts anyway, because dammit, the summer is short.

Clay butte outside my window baking in the summer sun.

I found in my days touring the Great Plains as a musician that there are two things people want to talk about when you tell them you are from North Dakota (as if they didn’t already figure it out as soon as I open my mouth): your accent (say “You Know”) and the weather. And as soon as I got done explaining that yes, I know I have an accent, and that I blame it on my Lutheran Church Lady heritage, and yes, I know I say “Dakoota” funny, and haha, yes, I wish I talked more like you and said “ant” instead of “aunt” and “yes” instead of “yah,” the conversation always turns to weather.

“It’s cold up there isn’t it?”

“Yah, sure is”

“How cold does it get”

“Pretty cold. Sometimes like 30 below zero” *

“Holy Shit”

“Yah”

Yes, we talk about the weather. Ask us and we will proudly declare that it takes a certain type of person to live here.

Cows switching their tails near the water tanks.

That the winters keep the riff-raff out. That we hunker down and deal with it.

But we, from the humble stock we sprang, rarely talk about the summers here. Maybe because, in our minds, they are not so dramatic. They don’t incline us to use as many puns and metaphors and exaggerated stories about the neighbors nearly freezing to death in a blizzard or almost dying walking across campus at the University of North Dakota in Grand Forks (which is the coldest place on earth I am sure of it), or how the wind could blow the snow in a flurry one thousand miles an hour over roads coated with sheets of ice and North Dakota schools would not think of shutting down. No, North Dakota summers could not possibly be that dramatic.

But I think we are wrong here. The summers here are not to be skipped over on your way to explaining yourself out of why we endure the bitter cold. I believe there is something to be said, I mean, really be said, about the season that was sent here to save us.

Hondo cools off in the dam

Because graciously summer unfurls itself from its cocoon ever so slowly for us, year after year, revealing its colors in soft buds of green on the trees, allowing the sun to shine for just a few more minutes every day, enticing the crocuses to poke through the earth on the sides of hills. It gently whispers to us to open our windows, to let the winter air out of our houses, to let the dirt creep in on the bottom of our shoes, to water our lawns and watch the blades grow, to throw something on the grill. To warm up already!

It eases us into the new, refreshing sensation,  like a mother coaxing her child to get his feet wet in the pool, to come in a little further, until he finally, after giddy squeals and nervous shakes, dunks his head under the water.

And although most North Dakotans don’t truly believe it’s summer until it’s half-way over, until we have complained

Pearl the mule going in for a drink.

enough about the rain and the wind and the tornado warnings, it is days like today we jump right in. We say to each other as we walk down the street “What a beautiful day!” “It’s gorgeous out there.” “Finally! The sun!” And we plop down in our gardens, and jump into the chilly lakes, and take our sandwiches to the park, and tend to our flowers. Because days like these allow us to completely and utterly forget about the long, frigid January, the snow we shoveled through to get to our garages and the white out blizzard on the highway we were stuck in during Christmas. We finally get a chance to thaw out enough to suck on a popsicle from the Shwan’s man.

In fact, show us a photo of the previous winter and it would be unrecognizable on a day like today when the sky is so blue and the birds are chirping and the dogs are panting and our children are covered in sunscreen and sweat. Those snow drenched houses were another lifetime. Another world.

My summer fly.

Because it is hot today at the ranch and North Dakotans everywhere are turning on sprinklers, nursing their first sunburns, opening their windows and feeling at least a little grateful for the flies.

And that takes a special type of person.

*just a note for those of you looking to take a visit, and don’t know me personally–I do tend to exaggerate, especially when it comes to the weather. 30 below zero has probably never occurred here.  I am included in the dramatic bunch.

Happy first day of summer you crazies!