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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.

The art of cow cooperation.

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I had the pleasure on this fine fall day of accompanying pops, just like old times, in bringing the cows home in fall roundup fashion.

My pops loves cows. He is first a horseman, but second a sort of cow whisperer. I am not kidding. It is, in its own way, extraordinary. His method for punchin’ cattle is not necessarily the bullwhips and whooping and hollering old western type of scenario most think of when visualizing a cattle roundup.

No, there isn’t even much swearing involved (unless I’m along. Then there might be a few slung here and there, I’m not gonna lie…) Anyway, the art of chasing cows with my pops is actually, I might stretch as far to say, a sort of “zen” experience, with the motto being, “slow and steady…let the cows think they are in charge.”

And really, they are. In charge that is. The cows. Because they will always outnumber us, no matter the strategy, no matter the brains and brawn you and the cow horse that is under you posses.  Most of the time things generally go as planned, with the cows catching wind of the horse at their backs and filing, nose to rump, on the trail to the gate. Just like pops had visualized. But then there are the days when the cows see that same gate open to greener pastures, and then choose, very casually, very snarky, to simply not enter and, you know, run as fast as their creaky legs can carry them to the nearest, most snarly, most thistle ridden brush there is on the entire place.

Yeah, I can see ya girl.

Then laugh and whisper to each other as pops and I discuss the idiotic fact that we own a pug, two labs and an old, crabby shepherd between the two of us and not one sense to possess a decent cow dog (whose job it is to correct these bovine attitudes). And then we proceed to dismount and walk into the critter and weed ridden brush to chase them out ourselves.

“Hya”  “Whoop.” “Come on girls.” “Yip. Yip. Yip.”

Arms waving, these are a few of the most choice phrases used by pops and me to encourage cow cooperation.

(I admit, I sometimes say “Dammit.” I know I shouldn’t, but I am passionate.)

Anyway, no matter the attitude, this type of situation is bound to occur on a cow-moving extravaganza, but it very rarely causes heart failure and hissy fits in the cowboy.  Because pops is a man who has been working cattle on this ranch his entire life, so he knows the drill.  He gets in their heads. He sees what a rebellious cow is thinking before she makes her move. He knows where all the gates are located in case the bovines get picky, he has been in all of the draws and has crossed all of the creek beds and has had to run damn quick to the tops of all of the clay hills. He’s got it down, so there really is no need to cuss, Jessie, geesh.

But for the last five years, pops has done this type of work, moving anywhere from 10 to 50 to 100 cows by himself on the back of his most savvy horse for years, being out here as the lone cowboy since his kids left home.

So he is really happy to have help, no matter how distracted that help may be by her camera and the lazy, spoiled pleasure horse she stupidly selected to take with her on the job.

Damnit.

Oops.

But it all worked out, like it always does on this fine fall day. After watching as a few surly strays decided to run down the steepest cliff with the most thorns and bogs in the entire pasture, with pops in the lead, saying “Well, if this is how they’re going to be, we’ll just follow them around the entire pasture until they find the gate,” we calmly rode in after them. And then I remembered why cowboys wear chaps as one of those thorns found a home in my shin. I might have said “shit” but I can’t remember.

And then, after a few “Yip yips” and Hya”’s, like well trained beasts, they came out of the brush…and proceeded to head for the other side of the pasture to a lovely spot where a deep creek winds up and back again through cliffs and washouts and lots and lots of thistles.

We followed.

We followed as the cows, with their rather large calves at their tails, waded in mud up to their knees to get away from us. And then proceed to swim across the deep creek and climb and claw and scramble out its steep, 90 degree bank. You know, to get away from us.

I shook my head, kicked my pokey mount along and scratched at the thorn in my leg. Pops laughed and commented on how gorgeous the view is out here. He said this is his favorite pasture. He pointed out the nicest calf.

What a beautiful day.

And it was, because just as I was sure these cattle were calling the Greyhound Bus to get the next ticket to NYC  (you know, to get away from us) we popped up over the hill and saw them file in line behind their girlfriends and their babies who were making their way through the open gate.

Just like pops had planned. Just like he asked them to.

And as they all gathered for a drink of water before their final destination, pops looked out over his spread, their shiny black coats glistening in the sunlight and said, “Look at those beautiful cows. What a herd. Take a picture of that Jess. Those are some great cows.”

So I did. I took a picture.

Then shifted my lens to snap a picture of a cowboy. You know, a real one.

“Happy Trails Y’all”…well we don’t really say “ya’ll” around here…let me try it again..

“Happy Trails You Guys!”

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Until we meet again.

She will be a mother.

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So my big little sister is having a baby. I say big sister, cause she’s older than me. I say little because she’s smaller. Much smaller. Petite. Lovely. Fragile. Like a porcelain doll.

You know, the opposite of me.

And we’re all laughing around here because this woman, this ballet dancer who wears nothing but dresses and high heels and red lipstick, this woman whose wrists are about as big around as spaghetti noodles and who is the epitome of feminine, (you know the opposite of me) is having a boy.

Well, “it” hasn’t popped out yet, so I guess anything can happen, but you know, they are pretty sure…

This is a big deal around here, not only because it’s the first grandkid and it will be funny to see how it all turns out, with the trucks and boogers and snakes and noise and dirt and squirt gun fights that come with boys, but it will also be the first boy to have entered the picture since husband first started driving his Thunderbird out to see me when we were 15.

Poor pops.

Anyway, I have been an aunt now for a while to three wonderful little girls, so I know something about what it means. Like candy when they want it and projects that involve glitter and pink and taking them swimming and saving them from their mean uncle who makes them finish all of their macaroni and clean up their crayons. I know a thing or two about giving the kids what they want.

But I have to say, I wasn’t prepared for this: watching my big little sister–the one who forced makeovers upon me, who made me her own personal baby doll (until I was the age of 4 and I started beating her up), who baby-sat me when our parents were out of town and let me have popcorn and Oreos for dinner–preparing to become a mother.

I heard the news eight months ago and smiled, but the reality of this life-changing situation doesn’t kick in until you see her each day, her small graceful frame that treads so softly on this earth slowly taken over by a life. Each day, she glows a little more, each day her belly more swollen and her back arched a bit further, dresses stretched a little more snugly across her torso, until the one sad day when her husband outlaws her high-heals and we all know what happens next…

But she has never looked more beautiful.

And my big little sister has always been beautiful. Seven years my senior, there was this adoration, this mystery, this absolute intrigue that she would exude to me, an Olive Oyle-esc adolescent, all arms, elbows, fuzzy hair and bad t-shirts who wanted nothing more than to wander the hills alone picking berries and singing at the top of my lungs.

I was a wild child. My sister was civilized. I was a bit unkempt. She was polished. I was a tomboy who belched a little too loud and a little too often. My sister was a lady who I was certain had never even farted. I was an earth tone. She was sultry red. I loved dogs. She loved cats. I was a Pippy Longstocking. My sister was Marilyn Monroe.

We were perfect opposites, and even though I ridiculed and tortured every boy that she would bring home and complain when she would take too long in the bathroom, my big little sister never scorned me for my differences. Yes, there was the occasional bribe to let her experiment on me with makeup and eighties hair and she did pay me money to let her shave my gorilla like legs, but I think mom may have been involved in that one (God bless her).

But, she never made fun of my Garth Brooks posters, the 101 Dalmatian sweatshirt I wore until the seventh grade or my earthy, over-the-top poetry. No, she never made me feel ridiculous, she just embraced her quirky sister and took advantage of the fact that I had no problems playing the male role in all of her dance routines that we, unfortunately, captured on video (thanks to the filming capabilities of our much younger sister) …

Yes, I may or may not have donned a fake mustache and suspenders in many a home movie.

And that’s what I’m saying here. Those days don’t really feel so far away do they? I mean, wasn’t it just yesterday that we were arguing about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher? Didn’t she just get after me about tormenting our little sister? Didn’t I just eat the tuna noodle salad she always made for us when she was babysitting? Didn’t she just leave the house for college? Didn’t I just eat a piece of her wedding cake?

I know at 27 I might be too young for this type of nostalgia, but I guess these big moments, you know, the ones that change everything, bring it out of me.

And as we prepare for the little bun’s arrival, and big little sister cooks him a bit longer, and pops is planning ways to steal him away and mom is thinking about how she’s going to dress him, and little sister is vying for babysitting duty, I am standing here, mouth agape, watching helplessly as the world flies by at a thousand miles an hour.

Because I don’t know if I will ever be a mother. I don’t know if I will ever get to worry about what color to paint the nursery or who to choose as Godparents,  how to dress the baby for his first Christmas, what sport he will play or if he can make it through his first sleepover. I don’t know these things.

And that’s ok.

But I do know one thing. I know my big sister, the one I used to beat up, the one who borrowed my 101 Dalmatian sweatshirt for “nerd day” at high school, the one who laughs at my stupid jokes and never gets a word in at the dinner table, is going to make all these decisions and more with the grace, style and compassion she has always possessed–just with a bit of spit-up on her dresses and boogers in her hair.

She will be a mother next month.

This I know.

She will be a mom to a little boy and I will bring the fake plastic snakes and squirt guns.

And I couldn’t be happier.

Thanks sister, for letting me splash your preggers self all over this page. And thanks for trusting me to capture this moment.

Bringing the horses home.

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One of the things I am trying to do here is give you a glimpse into this colorful, peaceful (well, except for the cats), muddy, middle of nowhere life we lead. So hang out for a second and I’ll take  you on a ride dad and I took the other day to bring the horses home.

Right now we have 6 1/2 horses (the 1/2 being the horse part of the mule…so technically we also have 1/2 a donkey…is that confusing?).

Anyway, my dad has an obsession with horses like I have an obsession with, well…every animal. So at any given time he will be training from 1 to 4 young horses. I got in on the action when I was growing up. This usually involved me on the back of a green horse during the summer when dad was at work, riding out in the open space in the heat of the day. One of three things would more than likely occur:

1) I would get bucked off and horse would run away, leaving me pissed, bruised and walking my sorry butt home.

2) Horse would run back to the barn while teenage version of myself (think Olive Oyl: arms and legs flailing) would remain in the saddle, yanking and yelling “hoe, hoe, hoe” (that’s what we say around here to get a horse to stop…get your mind out of the gutter).

3) All would go perfectly well, causing me to trust a little too much, which would, in turn, lead to item 1 or 2 occurring on the next ride.

So, when you have all these horses, you need to ride a lot to keep them nice and trained and in good shape. That is why you see lots of pictures of us riding out in the hills and not so many of us chasing cows. Because when we are strolling out in the pastures, I have lots of time to take pictures of my beautiful surroundings.When we are chasing cows, apparently shit can hit the fan at any given time and I am expected to pay attention. In order to avoid more accidents than I normally create without distraction, I leave the camera at home.

Maybe someday I will learn to multi-task and then you will see some pictures of cows.

Anyway, I promised you a ride with me, not an explanation of my shortcomings, so here we go…

Some views from the clay buttes in the horse pasture…

I love how the sky looked that day and the way these trees stick out on the horizon along the road…also, I think after walking a good mile, this is where I realized I wouldn’t be finding these hiding horses on foot…

So my dad came over on Tucker and brought me a horse from his place and off we went…

We didn’t find the horses yet, but did see this spotted fawn, just standing as still as he could, watching us as we passed by. I got as close as I could to him and then he spooked, revealing his brother who was laying, invisible, in the brush below him. Adorable.

Dad took the camera. He thought there needed to be some pics of me in my flannel and dorky vest on Stormy. Oh, and I skipped the saddle, which was impressing him. He thought I was getting too old for daring adventure. Not so I say Pops. Not so!

Some of the trees are turning gold, but my favorite are the splashes of red you see in the brush…

We watched a couple deer on the sidehill and then waited for them to run up and look at us from the horizon. The cowboy’s always hunting…

Again, the sky that evening was killing me…it was like the big man was pulling the fluffy covers up over us, getting us all warm and snuggled down before the cold season.

Found ’em. When horses see each for the first time out in the open hills, they get excited and whinny and neigh and sniff and snort and cause all sorts of dramatic scenes.

Oh, Colonel, aren’t you a gorgeous boy? Yeah, he knows it.

Let’s go boys (and mule…).

I taught them to line up like that. Horse whisperer? If you believe it, it must be true.

I think this is dad’s shot of the barn. Nice skills Pops.

This is what your butt looks like after sitting on a horse’s bare back for an hour…sexy…

These are horses who expect treats for good behavior…

And this is home.

On a totally separate topic, I saw this spider the other day on my walk “off road” with my momma. This spider was huge, and he was fastening his bib and sharpening his knives, getting ready to have a delicious butterfly for supper.

Fall Spider

I guess I think he’s beautiful, in a creepy, arachnid sort of way. I came home to tell husband and this is what he said…

“Where did you see this?”

“I dunno, somwhere along the road.”

“No, exactly where did you see this?”

“Why?”

“So I can be sure to never go there.”

Husband hates spiders…bwahahahaahaa!

A cup of coffee and a change of weather.

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Ok, ok. I had my little hissy fit yesterday, you know, about summer leaving. I have always be proud of the fact that I accept change, welcome it with open arms, persuade it to occur really more often than I should…but I admit, I always have a hard time letting go of the sunshine season.

But let’s move on. Because (after the snow melted) it is truly spectacular out here. Maybe I have a super hero nose (it is rather large), but I think each season has its own distinct scent…I swear I can smell the fall coming in the musty, damp waft of leaves falling to the earth and turning to dirt. When I step outside today, even after a raging, uncharacteristic thunderstorm this early morning, I breathe in the crisp air and it is like this world that surrounds me has cleaned up and started over once again.  I suck in and feel the cool wind on my face and I am taken back to the first day of school, football games in town in my new jacket, chasing cattle to the reservation line and spitting plum pits at my little sister as she kicks her pony along.

What is it about us North Dakotans and our obsession with the weather? I ask this all the time. I walked into the local Cenex in town yesterday, the one that used to be a little diner called the “Chuckwagon” when I was growing up, and there sat my Great Uncle sipping coffee with his boys, talking about the crops and the cattle and kids these days and, of course, the weather.

Cue another flashback and ode to old times: because there he was, my Great Uncle, a few years older, with less mud on his boots from having moved into town years ago. He was sitting in the same building with the same group of men with whom, at well past 70, he has had coffee with nearly all his adult life.  And as he talks crops and takes a dip of Copenhagen and laughs, just as he always has, while offering me a pinch, around him the world is changing.

His once regular table where he would order the pie of the day is now a “Hot Stuff Pizza.” And instead of sitting down next to him for my own slice  (or chocolate ice cream with chocolate sprinkles,) like I would have done 20 years ago when I came to town with my gramma, I said a quick hello, gave them a smile and ordered my coffee on the run.

coffee

And outside the window in this once sleepy town the high-school kids are driving up and down main street, just like they always have, but this time with fast, flashy cars and cell phones, weaving in and out of the constant wave of truck traffic that has swept in with the second coming of oil to this area. An industry my uncle has watched boom and bust and boom again outside this very same window.

Across the street, he has seen his favorite hardware store change hands, close down, open up again and get a face-lift. He has enjoyed his last movie for a nickel and then waited years and years until he could see one again on Main Street…for $6.99.

He’s watched as the storeowners have wrapped gifts for his wife in dozens of different boutiques, in the same three buildings, and has purchased new-to-him pickups to take him to and from his farmstead thirty miles away. He has watched his children play sports and move out and have children of their own, who he has watched sing in the school concert, ride horses, get their first big buck, and their first job and move on and out and back to this once sleepy town.

And he takes that pickup to coffee every morning.

Old Truck

Yes, this is dramatic stuff, this cycle of life. Watching my uncle smile the same smile behind modern glasses in his remodeled and repurposed coffee joint, I think I am beginning to understand what it is about the weather…

…Imagine your lives here, in the middle of the mid-west, where one day it is sunny and the crops are thriving and the next day a hail storm wipes your heart and work out in a blink as you stand helplessly looking out your back screen door, powerless to change the outcome. Imagine standing in water up to your waist, carrying calves through a flash flood to dry ground, giving all of your energy and passion to save your animals. Or, after a severe spring storm, taking a newborn calf into your basement and warming it by the fire to save the fragile life. Imagine the most beautifully, unexpected spring day where you skip work to go fishing. Imagine losing someone you love on the road in the grip of an ice storm. Imagine waiting for the rain to stop to get your crop out before the snow flies…and the rain just turns to flurries…

And all the while, with each coming fall, your children are one year older, one year away from starting a new life…and with each drop of a leaf, gust of wind, and change of season, one more laugh line appears, one more year of work and sacrifice and special movie dates in town is gone.

So weather–this is how we talk about life here. This is how we talk about the hard stuff, the new stuff, the stuff that makes us crazy and lonesome and completely and utterly blissful. The stuff that puts the gray in our hair and the wedding dress on our daughters and the grandchildren in our arms. The stuff that makes us lose and gain and lose again…

Because nothing stays the same, nothing is for sure here, nothing is certain….nothing…

Except a good cup of coffee and a change of weather…

Summer Leaves

Winter Branches

Listen to Heroes Proved, a song I wrote about change in the rural lifestyle.

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

“Sneeeek….Sneeeeeeeek….” “Shhhhhh…”

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It’s hunting season here. Well, bow hunting season to start it off. So I’ve lost husband for the evenings from now until, well, I don’t know,  I must blank out when we talk about these things…I think until at least Christmas. But I could be wrong.

If you haven’t figured this out yet, I will tell you something about husband…he is a patient, patient man. So naturally, he is good with the whole bow hunting sport, which requires a lot of quiet, and sneaking, and waiting and analyzing animal patterns in the unpredictable fall weather. He is particularly enthused about the sport this season because:

  1. we are living in the deer’s backyard  and
  2. he saw some of those deer on a cow chasing ride the other day…and they had grown some really….big….horns….(or antlers, I think I am supposed to say antlers)

So this week husband has come home after a hard day’s work and…

….hello wife…goodbye wife…goodnight wife…

And the cycle continues.

Husband loves hunting season. And I love husband. So sometimes I go along.

Truth is I actually hunt too. With a gun. But it’s the kind of hunting that involves one of the men in my life helping quite a bit…help getting my license, lending me a gun, loading the gun, picking out my camouflage shirt and placing the blaze orange Elmer Fudd hat on my head (which, by the way is not my color) and shoving my once warm and cozy ass out of our backdoor and into the innocent, unsuspecting wilderness.

And for the record, I’m a damn good shot, no matter the outfit.

Proof with one of my bucks (and dad). I removed the blaze orange hat for photographic purposes.

But I love hunting. I do. I love traipsing around in the crisp air, treading lightly on the earth and blending in with my surroundings. Because in those moments (you know, when you resemble a tree) if you do it right, you really see it. When you are forced to be unbelievably still  (either by free will, or because husband continues to calmly “shush” you) and when your state is unobstructed by cell phones dinging, The Bachelor on television, or that damn laundry, you give yourself a gift really.

While you focus on the quiet part, you notice how the hawks circle, you spot a porcupine perched in a tree, you can hear the bumble bees swarming in a nearby patch of fall flowers, just hanging on tight to life before the winter sets in.  When you are paying attention to silence, you are also, thankfully, paying attention enough to not sit on that cactus, really hear the wind in the trees, and… oh look at those beautiful red fall leaves, and the geese, and the way the sun is setting, giving way to the moon…oh, I need my camera…

…beep, beep, click…

Shhhhh…..

Oh, yeah. We’re hunting deer here…

When you remain completely still and don’t use your typical “sneaking” sound effects, e.g.: “…sneeeeeek, sneeeeeeekeeekkeeeee, sneeeek….” you notice how the deer graze in the open spots and move and bed down and spook at the slightest crack or pop of a twig or, you know…sound effect.

Ooops. Oh deer…

In my defense, I wasn’t a total distraction on my inaugural bow hunt this year (I didn’t wear my “swishy” pants this time). I mean, I kept it together enough to get close to some really beautiful creatures, but I had my fair share of coffee that afternoon, didn’t remember the lunch thing, and forgot that “crisp fall weather” means wear some long underwear. So unfortunately, my growling stomach and shivering cut our hunt short of the necessary “witching hour.”

I was wearing the exact same thing. Just hanging back, blending in...

And I felt a little bad, because I’m usually a trooper. Really, I was raised following behind the footprints of my father, in snow up to my armpits, chasing after the majestic beasts that he had been scoping out all season. I have been in on some really intense, really successful, really invigorating hunts. And I’m sure I will be again, that is, if I’m ever invited back.

So on our way home, when I was staring at the ground (instead of the horizon) and thinking about how I could get Chinese food delivered to the middle of nowhere, I apologized to patient husband for my apathetic, non-sportsmanlike, non-intense behavior. I apologized for the giggling, the sneeze, the sneaking sound and the un-authorized camera click.

And after all of my rambling, I was reminded of the spirit of the sport when husband turned to me and said:

“I’m just glad you came with me. I am glad to have you here”

Awwwww….the words of true sportsman. Or a man looking to secure many, many more hunting trips, to which I say, “wishes granted.”

So, I might not be a bow hunter yet, but I am working on it…

And in my defense, it is a little difficult to focus on the hunt when I am surrounded by such beauty…don’t you think?

Happy hunting.

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.

I Googled “Jelly Making”

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So in between my first month of employment back at the ranch, turning 27, planning a vacation with my friends, drinking entirely too much red wine, losing my wallet, not doing the laundry, frolicking in the hills, not mowing the lawn, making dried wreathes and crappy dinners for my husband, trying to get through a painfully boring book and painting my toenails bright pink, I have been canning.

And it turns out the age-old art it is nothing in real life like was is in my head.

As most of you know, this has been the summer of every North Dakotan’s dreams. The moisture and sunshine have been taking turns nicely, which has enticed the berries on every wild bush out here to grow big and bright. So husband and I decided that this bountiful, juicy, beautiful fruit simply could not go to waste and, between the two of us, we should be able to figure out how to get it into some syrupy, jelly, sugary delicious form. It couldn’t be that hard, could it?

It all started off innocently, like a scene from a Laura Ingalls Wilder novel (minus the prairie dresses and berry buckets and add cheap sunglasses, tank tops and plastic bags from Target). Husband and I, jelly on our minds, roamed the hills together scoping out the best place to pick chokecherries and plums, talking dreamily about the tips we have received from generous relatives and friends about the best way to make the jelly gel, the syrup sweet, the jars seal and how not to poison yourself and every innocent victim that receives our canned goods as a Christmas gift.

Our first berry hunt however, turned up nothing. We scoured all of my familiar places on the ranch…you know, where I used to pick plums and spit the pits at my sister, but it seemed the deer had the same idea we had about the sweet fruit–only a couple days before us. I am sure their jelly tastes good. Wonder if they have any tips.

Anyway, it didn’t matter much because with husband taking the rifle along for target practice and me with my camera obsession, we lost our focus somewhere between me taking photos of the last wildflowers and him shooting their heads off.

We tried again a few days later and did manage to come up with quite the crop, but that was after swatting away crow sized mosquitoes, a weird tan line, one lost husband (or maybe I was lost…that was never resolved really) and multiple bloody cuts on hands and elbows from the bushes that grow thorns as well as plums (which is, in my opinion, an unnecessary form of protection for a plant)

And so we trudged home with our loot, very gratified and very excited about the bounty that these little berries were about to produce.

I thought about really getting after it….

But there they sat, in the plastic bag for a good three to five days, while I procrastinated.

I wasn’t sure why I chose to wait so long to tackle an activity that I have always wanted to master. And as it turned out, I had all of the stuff. All of the required tools my grandmother used to can her world famous jellies and syrups and tomato soup and pickles was still packed neatly in a cupboard in the basement, waiting for the next canning season—a season that had been skipped in this house for nearly sixteen years.

So I was determined to break the streak, no matter how intimidating words like “pectin” and “pressure cooker” and “lid bands” were to me. I was going to figure this thing out. Without any help. Just like the old days!

And it was going to be so calming, this process. I visualized husband and I in our cozy kitchen, sorting through our crop, laughing and talking about our hopes and dreams. I imagined him stirring the juices in a big pot as I added the necessary ingredients–the kind of loving and cheese ball teamwork you see in between the covers of a Better Homes and Gardens Magazine.

That was the plan anyway. Until I realized that perhaps the Pod People in BHGM don’t have parties to plan, bills to pay, jobs and, you know, have probably done this sort of thing before.

So I Googled “Jelly Making” and shit hit the fan.

Because you know all those helpful people that were giving husband and I advice about something they have been doing for years and years with grammas and old aunts and sisters and maybe even a Betty Crocker style male role model? Yeah, well there are a lot of those helpful people on the Internet.

A LOT!

And they all have something different to say.

I started to sweat.

My berries were picked. They were sorted through. I had my pots and pans, I had my jars and lids, I had my pectin and sugar, I had my spoons and strainers. I had a good two hours to devote to this…

I had a nervous breakdown.

And after a good hour and a half (just short of my allotted time frame) of verbally abusing myself and husband, the loving man sent me to bed.

Like literally sent me to bed. No joke, he said “You. Go to bed. Now.”

So I did.

The next day, after a strong cup of coffee and an apology, I hunkered down and asked for advice from a trusted source.

And you know what that advice was? Just read the directions in the packet of Sure Jell.

So I did. When husband was gone, I turned off all forms of distraction, stood in the kitchen in my bare feet, prepared my lids, put the juice and sugar and pectin in a pot and stirred and stirred and stirred over my grandmother’s stove in my grandmother’s kitchen.

And she, my gramma, must have been in that house, in that kitchen with me that afternoon. She must have been balancing her berry strainer, holding the spoon, timing the boil, whispering in my ear when to remove it from the heat and letting me know just how much hot liquid to pour in the jars. She had to have been there, making up for lost time, because it came together somehow. I let go and she took over and it all came together (without injury) into sugary, sweet, perfectly purple plum jelly lined up on her counter in a neat little row.

I took a step back, hands on my hips after the work was done, and I was damn proud.

Then a little sad.

And in that moment it occurred to me why it has taken me so long, why this is an art I haven’t attempted.

Because there were people I could call, friends and family I could ask to come over and help me, really good cookbooks I could trust. But I didn’t want them–I didn’t want to trust those pages, those people. .

This was her art…her kitchen…her tools.

I wanted her.

And she had been there all along.

The Sun–Vegas Style.

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I am obsessed with the evenings, especially in the summer. After a long, hot day working or playing in the sun (or just watching it bake the landscape out your open office window), the sun that you thought might hang happily in the sky forever has been slowly creeping down the other side of the world while you talked on the phone, shoveled dirt, sped happily along the highway or slept the day away.

I imagine the sun feels under appreciated during this time of year, especially in North Dakota. So when it’s finally time to hit the horizon, it goes down with drama and flair, accessories shining, hair coifed for a night on the town saying: “Hey, don’t take this for granted people…I’m going on vacation in a month and you will miss this hot mess then!”

But I don’t take it for granted. In fact, I am filled with guilt on a beautiful night in the summer if I am not out there in it, soaking it up, breathing in the calm air in the cool valleys if the ranch, and climbing to the top of the hills to watch the sun put on his Vegas style show. And each time the summer sun sets out here I quickly re-hash my day, counting all of the ways I really lived it…all of the ways I frolicked and smiled and sweat and basked in the rays. It’s almost as if I am collecting these perfect summer days in order to seal them tight in a jar on my desk so I can use them later, you know, like on one of the cold days we have around here.

So I am thinking about these days of summer, and all of the sunsets I have witnessed from the top of the buttes. Especially today. Because today is August 25th, the first day of school and my birthday (in case anyone was waiting for it), which always signals for me, really, the last day of summer. The days are getting shorter, the nights cooler, the clover and the wildflowers that were so lush are drying out, the wild berries dropping from their stems.

North Dakotans everywhere have made and lived their final vacation plans and filed away their summer photos. The kids of summer traded swimsuits and jeans with worn out knees for fresh school clothes and were forced by their loving parents at 7 am this morning to stand up against the front door (eye crusties, freshly washed hair and clean, new backpacks in tow) for a final farewell-to-summer photo that will be used against poor child in every slideshow of their life to come. The first of many organized mortifying moments to occur this year.

So since I am not of school age anymore (my 27th birthday reminding me of this today as I got out of bed, looked in the mirror and my hair still looked like a lion’s mane, but with a few grays poking through) I decided, last night, to make my own farewell-to-summer slideshow.

And the sun must have noticed my camera, because what a show it was. He pulled out all the stops as his light reflected off prairie grasses, creating a sparkle, a shine, on each stem. He cast long, dramatic, shadows along the hillsides and off the bodies of beasts. He turned the trees black, gave the clover one last shot at bright yellow and painted the sky orange, then pink, then a dark, dark, blue, then all of those colors combined.  He was in such form even the coyotes stood on the hills and the deer came out of the brush to lend their applause.

And even with all of the frills, the sun is generous at the end of the day, especially when the moon has gone to the trouble of putting on his party pants. So after the fireworks and the spectacle he created,  the sun turned the lights down low, calmed the wind, made everything dead quiet, and left with a whisper.

And all eyes were on the moon.

Happy end of summer kids and parents and people like me. Hope it has gone out with the style and fashion of the sun.

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Cheers to a new season and a new outfit!