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That’s what bikes are for.

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All this talk about roads got me thinking about my bike, which has been leaning up against the shop all summer after being taken out of hiding in the shed in Dickinson earlier this summer. It has been sitting there, with slightly flat tires, so sad looking, pouting, asking me to come out and ride. I turn my head in guilt when I walk outside…try not to look it in the eye. There has been so much to do this summer, like packing, unpacking, packing, unpacking and then, of course, frolicking around the ranch on horseback and on foot. I actually kind of forgot about my bike.

Which is really sad considering how much I used to absolutely live on the thing. I am sure most everyone can remember their first bike as a right of passage. A gift. One more step to freedom because, not only could you get from point A to point B a little bit faster, you could now officially leave your little sister/brother in the dust and set off into new, undiscoverable horizons (or at least to the end of the block and back).

And isn’t it a shame how quickly we forget the initial absolute thrill of the bicycle as soon as we get behind the wheel of our first car? After we have gone through all of the phases of the bike: riding in the seat behind our mother, the training wheels on, the training wheels off, the streamers on the handle bars, the basket on the front (although, I never had any of these features…my first bike was blue and I’m sure it was made for a boy). Then we learned to ride with only one hand, then with no hands, and then, wow, we could coast along with no hands and no feet. And that was amazing, really. I mean we mastered the thing, so we put a clothespin and card in the spoke to fool anyone in a mile radius I’m sure, that we were not on a boring bike, but riding a so much way cooler moped.

By that time, then, we were probably already practicing for our first drivers test, parallel parking between the lawn mower and a bag of grass seed, learning to work a clutch and a stick shift and use our blinkers and giving our parents mini-heart attacks. And I am sure all of you passed the test on the first attempt and were on to the next phase of your young adulthood. I may or may not have had to take my test a couple times…

It’s a natural transition I suppose, so I thank the Lord in heaven that He finally had mercy and allowed me to pass my drivers test or it would have been a lonely and tiring high school career. Because having to ride my bike thirty miles to town and then back again would have made an awful discouraging dent in my social life.

Which reminds me of what I was going to say about life on a bike out here as a kid in the middle of nowhere. See, it was quite a bit different than the bike experience of the town kids. They actually used their piece of glorious metal on two wheels to get somewhere–like the pool, school, the video store, anywhere you get ice cream or candy or to set up their lemonade stand and make millions.

Our lemonade stands didn’t fare so well out here along the open highway. We made some money, but now I am sure our parents called the nearest neighbor and had them “randomly” drive by, only stop and pay $10 for a styrofoam cup of weak lemonade. Hey, we were just happy to have a customer that wasn’t related to us.

Anyway, my best friend and I were the only kids for miles on bikes and we used our cruisers to meet half way between our houses, which were about a mile apart. This half-way agreement actually never really worked out for me because there happened to be a huge, steep, daunting hill coming out of our yard, so I spent the majority of the time pushing my way up. But she would wait for me at the top and we would hit the highway, weaving in and out of the yellow, dotted line, gossiping about our little sisters, complaining about our parents and making plans for our next project while we cruised back and forth between the boundaries of the two cattle guards. And sometimes we would stop at her house to get a popsicle and jump on the trampoline and sometimes we would make our way down the big hill to my house to have a glass of water and venture off into the trees to gather juneberries and wood ticks.

But most of the time we would just ride out there on the open prairie as the wind played with our fluffy, youthful hair, tied back loosely in hasty ponytails. We would stand and pedal hard up the steep hills, breathing heavily and then squeal and throw our heads back as we flew down to the bottom. Without a care. From a birds eye view I was sure we looked like we were flying as we were gliding gracefully on that ribbon of blacktop. We sure felt like it.

And, no, we didn’t really go anywhere. We didn’t have change jingling in our pockets to buy some tootsie rolls or a backpack with a towel and sunscreen so we could make a stop at a pool. Our adventure wasn’t interrupted by these things, which gave us time to think about really important stuff–like inventing a bug shield to protect our faces from the critters that slammed into our eyes and got in our teeth when zooming through the tall grass at astronomical speeds. I think we actually executed this invention with a little sister’s bike helmet and a ketchup bottle. Screw the lemonade stand, there was our millions right there.

Yes, we had no one out there, but the black top and gravel roads and an occasional little sister yelling “wait for me” in our dust. And those were my glory days really. That was true freedom.

So last night the pink road and my relatively new, pink big girl bike got together and called my name loud enough that I finally obliged and husband and I hit the trail. I excitedly climbed on the first bike I have owned in my adult life (which I  purchased when we lived in town with every intent to ride it to work or the store–you know, to get me somewhere) and I made my wobbly way up the hill and out of the yard. Husband cruised up ahead, cruising in and out of the ditches and practicing his wheelies. I worked to balance my camera and take some action shots and discovered that the phrase “it comes back to you, just like riding a bike” is true to an extent, but may require more practice as I slammed on the breaks and nearly launched myself over the handlebars and into the hard gumbo of the road ditch.

Maybe I should just concentrate.

And after a few test runs with the brakes and switching gears, soon I was twelve again, and so was my husband. We quickly veered off of the main road and up the prairie trail, past where I jumped off of my horse and broke my arm, past the hay yard, up through the alfalfa field, past the swather and the perfectly constructed hay bales. We flew down through the coolies and panted and stood up in the pedals as we pushed our bodies up the hills and along the fence lines. We gasped for air, nervously flung our hands to the sky and threw our heads back as we sped through the clover and over the bumps in the now nonexistent trail. I screeched with sheer joy as I caught air over a cow pie and nearly  crashed to the ground. He chuckled as the dogs ran too close ahead and almost caught a tire in their tails. And the horses, not accustomed to this type of activity, spooked and went running and bucking across the pasture, only to return again and again to see really, what these people were up to.

What were we up to anyway? We weren’t going anywhere. We weren’t checking the time or taking our heart rate or working on building our muscles. We weren’t being careful or quiet or slow to take in nature, stopping to smell the flowers or to enjoy the breathtaking scenery. We were obnoxious really, screaming and laughing and laying down grass and pushing up dirt with our tires. We were hot and sweaty and itchy from the weeds scraping up against our bare legs. We were sucking in air as we bounced out of control out of the yard and over the horizon.

Because in that moment, the last fifteen years never happened and we were kids again for a bit, blissfully happy and youthful on our bikes, re-living our glory days and going nowhere, but going fast.

And we were free….

because that’s what bikes are for.

The pink road

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There is a pink road that leads me to our house in the hills. I guess I always call it pink, but for those of you who are picky about color choices, you could refer to it as a salmon or a coral I suppose. Anyway, this pink road, or red road, or coral road is surfaced with a rock the locals call scoria. Scoria, or what the smarty pants geologists label clinker, is a form of natural brick formed in the landscape by strips of once burning lignite coal. (And that’s probably the only scientific fact you will hear from this woman for a long time, thank you very much Google).

Anyway, I always thought it was stunning–the vibrant road that winds its way through a landscape that changes from green, to yellow, to gold, to brown, to gray, to white and then back again.  And just like the landscape changes, so does the road it seems. In the spring it is at its best, perhaps because we missed it so much, buried under all of that snow for months. It slowly appears a vibrant, soaked deep maroon color digging its way out of the banks, emerging from under ice and puddles of mud. I splash around in it and, with windows rolled down, I zoom out of the yard and over the hills and off somewhere. As the sun warms up the world and the season changes to summer, the once soaked and cold road becomes hot under the rays and turns from deep red to a hazy pink as the rocks break up under the weight of our tires and our feet and the hooves of wild beasts. I drive slowly out of the yard, trying not to disturb it as a tail of dust stretches out behind me.

And then a summer storm passes through, and it looks like God took his favorite, sharp red crayon and drew a nice thin line right down the middle of the neon green grass and dark blue, rolling thunderheads off in the distance. Down through the cool draws and up on top of clover covered hilltops it bends and straightens, leaps and lands and stretches its arms, like the land is the road’s personal dance floor.

And I am the charter member of its fan club.

Because you may pass by it on your way to town, or to the lake, or to your relative’s farm, and not even glance at the subtle invitation to take a little trip with it. But I have will never refuse it again.

When I was really young, like four or five, I lived with my family in Grand Forks, ND. On my favorite weekends I would be lifted into my dad’s pickup by my little armpits and I would sit proudly alongside him as we made our way across the piece of pavement that stretched a good five or six hours across the great state and out to my grandparent’s ranch–our ranch. At four or five everything seems bigger and every travel adventure seems further and longer than it is in reality. When I was certain we had been in the pickup at least fifty-six hours, it was then I would start looking for the pink road that signified our arrival. With my nose smooshed to the window, I would watch for the white line to break and open itself up to the approach that welcomed me like an old friend.

“Are we there  yet?”

“How much longer?”

“When are we going to be there?”

And when we arrived on that stream of road, even at four or five I could breathe a sigh of relief, because even then, the road meant home to me.

But it also meant so much more. It meant comfort and adventure and family and my grandmother’s arms wrapped tight in a hug.

When we moved out here permanently as a family when I was in second grade, there was no more waiting and looking and asking when were we going to get there.

We had arrived.

And the road held my hand like an old friend as I wobbled on my first ten speed bike and followed it up the hill to my best friend’s house. It soaked up the blood from skinned knees and tears from lost dogs and hurt feelings. It created space between hurtful words exchanged among three very different and very frustrated sisters. It eaves dropped on my quiet, made up songs, scuffed my new shoes and laughed as the bottle calf chased us home from the barn after a feeding. It smiled sweetly as it lead me back to my mother after a couple short stints of running away. It welcomed me off of the school bus and happily took the brunt of my skid marks as I learned to drive.

And then slowly, the road began to change, taking on an entirely different meaning as I grew from a young girl to a teenager. Without me really noticing, it began to mean more to me going out than coming in. It meant escape, freedom, independence, civilization, relief and a chance at love. It didn’t recognize me anymore as I came and went in the mist of the early morning and the shadows of late nights. I didn’t frolic as much, but instead began to sneak and sulk and stomp.  I brought strangers home and they littered its ditches and the grass grew around my bicycle as I stepped on the gas to my new life and wasn’t so quiet about kicking up its dust.

But when the time came to leave, to really leave this place for a good long time, I closed the door to my bedroom, hugged my parents goodbye,  filled my trunk with memories and followed my old friend out into the world.

From the corner of my rearview mirror, I smiled a bit as the road waved at me from the hill top, always the last to say to say goodbye.

And the first to welcome me back.

So I am thinking about the road today because I think I owe it an apology. Because I feel a bit like an old friend who hasn’t picked up the phone to say hello for ages and then suddenly stops in for dinner, without warning. I want to bring it a casserole in Lutheran Lady fashion in an attempt to make amends and let it know that I am older now. That I understand.

Because I realize, in this moment, that I have learned something from this road after all of those years of watching it dance. See, the road never cut through a hill or plowed down the trees. It moved with the curve of the land and under the rhythm of our feet and trusted that it would meet up in the right way with something–a fork, a bend, an endless horizon–in the end.

The road trusted so much in the path it was taking that it changed color and texture to blend and bend and take the heat of our tires and our words and our plans to leave. It understood that just like the landscape changes, so do the seasons of the human spirit. And even as I spit on and kicked its stones and turned my wheel off of its path, my entire life the road was just trying to tell me to follow my feet.

So I am thankful today. Thankful for the road. Because after changing my shoes a few dozen times, knocking down doors, banging my head against the wall, digging holes in the dirt, speeding lazily along the interstate and sticking out like a water tower on the horizon, in all of my despair and frustration I closed my eyes tight and saw the road, waving like it did so many years ago.

And I finally stopped stomping and looked down to find my feet dancing on pink stones.

Listen to “This Road”-Jessie Veeder Live at Outlaws

This Road


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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 🙂

Be wild, child.

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Cowgirl ShoeThere was an invasion at the ranch this weekend. An invasion of pink and glitter and ruffles and frills and dresses and jewels and ponytails and princess paraphernalia–all of the things little girls are made of. And all of those glamorous, glorious things were smuggled in inside of purple and pink purses and bags on the shoulders of an almost 7 year old and an almost 5 year old (well, when the next July comes she’ll be 5). And in 5.3 seconds it was like Barbie’s mansion exploded in my tiny house, with no sign of Ken anywhere…not even a loafer.

And it was absolutely lovely.

Yes, the nieces came to visit for what they called “a vacation away from their baby sister” while their parents were in Belize for a wedding. But they also came to play in the mud, pick wildflowers, yell at the dogs, swat at bugs, ride horses and become bonafide, tried and true cowgirls. And in preparation for this adventure filled weekend they made sure that they told everyone who crossed their paths where they were going in three weeks..two weeks..one day..today.

And I bought them cowboy hats. Pink ones. Because a girl’s got to look the part you know.

Cowgirl WalkAnd apparently looking just right is at the top of the almost-7-year-old and almost-5 year-old’s list. Because when I showed up at their doorstep, they were dressed to perfection in matching red and black cotton dresses with ruffles and well placed stripes and dots. Sporting brand new hair cuts, the little blondies were tapping their toes, clutching their princess backpacks nervously, and pacing back and forth, asking gramma “how many more minutes?” “when is she going to get here?”  And while it’s so nice to be wanted, it’s not so great when you are running about 20 minutes behind and an almost-7-year-old and almost-5-year-old-next-July have been told a specific time to expect the much anticipated cowgirl adventure to begin. I am not sure gramma appreciated my road construction excuse, but it was legit.

Anyway, I made it. And I promptly began to pack into the back of my car what I estimated to have been about 1,550 pounds of everything a couple of little girls could possibly need for three days. I mean we were loaded down. But, as I always say, you never know when you’re going to need a pink toy hamster on wheels.

In our 75 mile trek to the wilderness we covered about everything. Who’s your best friend? What have you been doing this Cowgirl Wildflowersummer? What is your favorite color? What do you want to be when you grow up? Can we get ice-cream?

So we stopped to get ice cream.

“What flavor would you like?  Chocolate or vanilla?”

“Strawberry”

“They don’t have strawberry honey.  Only chocolate or vanilla.”

“Banana”

“No banana. Chocolate or vanilla.”

“Just regular then.”

Which I took to mean vanilla and we were on our way to a melty, sugary, delicious, wonderful mess.

And back on the road to the ranch.

Cowgirl MoonWhen we arrived, the wonderment began. Not just for the two princesses, but for myself as well. In preparation for their visit, I tried hard to remember what it was like to be an almost-7 year-old and almost-5-year-old-next-July. What  did I do for fun? What did I like to eat? When did I go to bed? I remember much of my young childhood spent in jeans, t-shirts and boots running around in the hills, making tree forts and pots and vases out of the wet clay in the buttes. I remember enjoying projects, like rock painting, which could occupy me for hours. I remember wanting to spend as much time as possible outside.

I don’t remember owning as many dresses as these girls packed for a weekend. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t think I have owned that many dresses in my lifetime.

Anyway, I employed what I knew about entertaining young ladies, as I was once one myself (although I possessed a little less ofCowgirl the lady part) and the rest the almost-7-year-old planned out for me.

First things first, we found their jeans.

And then we made supper. I gave them their hats. They squealed with delight. We marched down to the barn and saddled up their horses and hoisted their itty bitty bodies up on the backs of these gentle beasts.

They were nervous. They were thrilled. They chattered and asked questions and giggled and told stories and took instruction quite well…and then forget everything about 3 minutes later. They wanted to go faster. And farther. They wanted me to let go of the reins and let them try it themselves. They wanted to go up the hills and through the trees and ride off into the sunset a full blown cowgirl. Alone. Without my help.

A bit jolted, I was reminded of what it really was like to be almost 7 and almost 5 next July. It was about growing up…every second.

In all of the play that was squeezed in between riding the horses and picking flowers and running around outside, every conversation and fantasy scenario was centered around pretending they were older. Pretending they were the big girls and the world around them was filled with things they were allowed to do, allowed to control and experience and excel at. And they pulled me into that play land where I was the mom and they were the teenagers, or we were all ladies putting on makeup and getting ready for a party, or wives in the kitchen baking for our husbands. And it was lovely.

Cowgirl SunsetBut when I pulled the covers up to their tiny little chins at night, I wanted to whisper in their ears, “slow down little ones.” Slow down and breathe in the air around you and try hard to remember what the sky and the flowers and the bugs and the trees look like from down there. Take it easy and take note of how sweet the sugar tastes on your tongue right now, without any worries. I’ll worry for you. Let your hands dig in the dirt and mess up your clothes. Let your feet trudge up the hill and think about rolling down through the sweet smelling grass. Run as fast as you possibly can (and I know that it’s fast) and hear the wind whip through your ears. Sing at the top of your lungs the words to a song your can’t quite remember. Sneak up on a rabbit with every intention of making him your pet. Catch a frog, climb a tree, splash in a puddle. Be wild child. Be wild. And then tell me all about it.

Because as the big girl they are impatiently waiting to be, there are things I want to tell them, but I know these things can’t be Cowgirl Walksaid. Like, being a princess might not be all that Disney promised and sometimes you have to save yourself, and the prince (and then kick him to the curb). I want to tell them to be kind to their grandparents and hold on tight to their hands, because you never know when you will have to let go. I want them to know that there will be times you will curse your womanhood and scream at mother nature for being so cruel, but respect your body and understand that it can do great things–and push it to do so. I want them to know that they should rely on themselves first and make sure to learn to change a tire, fix a sink, check the oil and use a hammer, because it’s not a guarantee that someone capable will be around to do these things for you. I want to prepare them for the fact that they may not grow up to look like Barbie, and that’s a great thing. I want them to know that life will try hard to change you and mold you and break you down, but take a moment to look in the mirror and tell yourself you’re beautiful, without the sparkle, without the curlers, without the frills. And believe it. Wear your dresses when you want to. Wear your jeans when you have to.

Cowgirl sunsetI wanted to tell them all of these things, but I imagine they will get to learn them the hard way, just like every other woman. So as they drifted off to dream land, I chose to whisper a thank you to them instead. Thank you for reminding me to go faster and farther (with nervous squeals) off into the sunset and into a world that waits for three beautiful, muddy, thrilled and wild cowgirls who know a thing or two about how to really live.

Cowgirls
Sunset

What Rain Looks Like

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I had plans for another hot day at the ranch, but woke up to a nice, refreshing surprise this morning–the sound and smell of rain outside my open windows. The wind wasn’t blowing, the tree branches weren’t moving, there was no lightning–just calm, steady, trickling, warm rain. This means so much to the landscape this late in the season. I am not sure what the farmers have to say about it, but the moisture will help it stay green out here just a little longer and I’m ok with that. So I took a walk to capture what rain looks like on a North Dakota summer morning. Everything seemed to sparkle and open up wide to thank the sky. Even my lawn ornament looked refreshed.

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Now I’m off to pick up my nieces. We were going to hit the pool, but I think we will play cowboy all weekend instead (which is much more fun).

A Dog’s Life

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A Dog’s Life

It seems to be fitting that my first real pondering of this back home experience would be about dogs. Considering I have found myself at times (against my better judgement and all things I learned to love and respect about animals in my childhood)  one of those borderline annoying pet owners who tries to relate to my friends who have actual, human children, with a story about my dogs that is in no way comparable, because they of course have four paws, no real ability to speak and are always happy to see me. I have also been known to put my two dogs next to the Christmas tree and make them pose for a photo to be sent to relatives. But in my defense, it is only because I knew I couldn’t get my husband to cooperate. I mean, they are dogs. Not children. I know this, but sometimes I slip.

Anyway, now that I am out here, the idea of being a pet owner has shifted back to reality a bit. Because when you are a pet owner at the ranch, there are some things you’ve got to get used to. I never did give this much thought when I was growing up here. I never had a house dog–just a cat who lived inside, but she was obsessed with my little sister, so we didn’t talk much (the cat, not my sister).

I was always a dog person anyway (and a turtle person, rabbit person, snake person, fish person and lizard person–which didn’t end well–but that is a story for another day).

My family had quite the collection of dogs over the years. All of them loved for their quirky traits and personalities, and all of them with a purpose–to help us in this wild place. To chase cows out of the brush, fight the bull that turned on us in the pasture, keep the raccoons and snakes and an unfortunate porcupine out of our yard and out of our way.

I became attached to all of my family’s four legged members. There was Patch, the ankle biting Blue Healer we got as a puppy when I was ten years old. My little sister wasn’t too fond of him considering he would take every opportunity when she was swinging innocently on the tire swing to latch on to her pant leg or her sock and catch a ride. But he was a damn good cow dog.

And there was P.V., my grandparent’s  Border-collie who began her life with my grandma and grandpa and ended her life without them both. After that I swear you could tell that she missed them. She got sadder and sadder and was the only dog on the place that I know of to have died of old age and not a heroic or adventurous cause. But despite her sadness, P.V. was a good cow dog.

Let’s not forget, of course, P.V.’s pup Colonel, named in honor of my grandpa who always lost the name game with that suggestion. Colonel was a thick skinned collie with a lovely coat of hair who would accompany me during my treks to take photos and sing at the top of my lungs in the hills around the place. He was such a lover of human attention that his overzealous attempts at being the first to greet you as you pulled into the drive landed him in the way of an SUV tire. He survived the impact, but his hearing and sight did not. He used to be a good cow dog.

Which leads me to my predicament here in my second week living full time back at the ranch. As a girl I appreciated these rustic and rugged animals for what they were bred to do. They loved, loved, loved to be free to roam the hills, chasing rodents and the occasional cat, drinking out of the puddles and swimming in the stock dams. In my opinion, there was no better life for a dog really. I mean, some people would disagree, but then I would have to disagree with pushing a shitzu donning a sweater vest in a stroller down the street. I would argue that that is one pissed off shitzu.

Anyway, I digress.

During nearly ten years of being away from this rustic place, you couldn’t expect I would have gone all those years without accumulating some furry friends of my own. So now, as you have already heard, I have come home with a labrador and a pug. Home to the 3,000 acres of tick, snake, dirt, cow poop infested glorious spot of nature with two somewhat (minus the sweater vests) citified animals. I mean, yes, the lab, he was bred for something worth while and helpful to man. My husband has taken him on many successful bird hunting trips and he’s really good at it (the dog, not my husband particularly). You know, good at it, minus the whole “get your ass back over here” thing, which is also coincidentally causing some chaos around here as well with all the fun cows and deer and rabbits to chase–it impairs the hearing.

But the pug, ah the pug. Acquired last summer, after a particular slump in life’s progress, my judgement was blinded. It seemed like a good idea at the time. So here we are, the pug, well puggle actually–a cross between a beagle and a pug for those of you who need a visual. The beagle in him, is in fact his redeeming quality out here actually. That 1/4 blend appears to equip him for adventures that were not meant for dogs of his caliber. Other than that, there is nothing practical about him. A smooshed in nose causes issues when running for his life after horses he has been screamed at to stay away from. That curly tail is cute, but I have no doubt that the ranch dogs are mocking him behind his back. The short legs and small stout body do not propel him with ease across this landscape–they in fact make it so that he’s closer to the ground to sweep up the wood-ticks before they can get to any other living thing (I guess that is kinda handy).

But for all of these disqualifications, frankly, Chug the pug doesn’t give a shit and neither does Hondo, the 4-year oldchocolate lab with a hip problem and premature aging. See, these animals, in a different life, had they not been picked up by an eccentric, animal obsessed ranch girl, may have wound up in a neighborhood backyard kennel, tied out in a lawn somewhere, traveling the U.S. on the lap of a retiree in an R.V., or heaven forbid, in a turtleneck sweater in a stroller in Seattle.

But I’m not here to judge. All scenarios are fine lives for dogs, full of love from owners who need them. But it may come as a surprise to some people that what dogs really want is to sniff each other’s asses, roll around in the grass, eat cow shit, (and their own shit for that matter) chase other critters and run until they collapse in the shade under a big oak tree…

Or something like that.

I think of this when I’m pondering what the hell I’m doing out here with my scrawny arms and sometimes nonspecific ideas on how I can acquire the muscles and brains it takes to re-invent the idea of making a living off of my family ranch. And as I pick off the twentieth wood-tick from my dogs and me, or find a surprise in the form of a remnant of some once living mammal at my front stoop, I cringe a little and then take a look around.

This life for me is the life for my dogs indeed.