THE PLAGUE!

The plague made an appearance at our house over the weekend. After a visit to Mammoth Cave with her dottery parents and a weekend trip to the mountains of north Alabama to go wild pig hunting with her brother, my youngest finished off a week of spring break camped out on the living room sofa with a bucket.

NOT the way you want to end spring break and head into midterm exams.

Instead of said youngest's fab cooking, we have been serving up lots of Gatorade and Sprite, applesauce and Jello, chicken noodle soup and saltines here at Kendallville lately.

Our patient is about out of the woods - just exhausted now after a rough couple of days and weak from a lack of calories. She has three days worth of eating to catch up on, which is not an easy assignment for one so small.

Okay, I admit it: most days, I am discontent with my weight. It gets uncomfortable having to bend over this spare tire, and for once, I'd love to discover that my jeans were too loose instead of too tight.

But...

When the plague hits, I am genuinely thankful for my built-in energy reserves. Genuinely thankful.

When the little chicken can't keep food down for a day or two, it's a big, scary deal.

When Mama can't keep food down for a day or two, it's really not a problem. I haven't caught the plague this go round, but I'm ready, just in case.

I guess there's an up side and a down side to everything.

Most days, I'd rather not be a chub-a-muffin. But today - being a chub-a-muffin suits me just fine.

Loving on her favorite patient - Nurse Kitty takes her job very seriously!

MANY MEs

I have written here recently about Reginald-the-Lamb's ornery refusal to behave when my daughter works with him each day. I wrote Saturday about Reginald's star performance in the ring: you could not have found a better-behaved lamb!

Guess what? Sunday, back at home, Reginald popped right back into his familiar ornery belligerence. I was shocked. After his fabulous performance on Saturday, I thought Reginald had moved past such naughtiness. I expected him to behave nicely-ever-after. Boy, was I wrong!

I know people like Reginald - people who speak and behave one way in a particular setting, then speak and act a totally different way in the "show ring"...at church or among peers or in front of coworkers.

Then, there are those people who have a "self" inside their heads and another "self" that engages with the world in which they live. This duality is something I struggle with myself - I know my intentions; never mind what my actual actions say about me!

Why am I writing today about these Many Me-s (both my own, and those of others with whom I relate)?

First, because I do not want my good intentions - the Me inside my head - to anesthetize me to the self-deception I practice when I consistently fail to act on those good intentions. My actions testify to what I truly believe. My actions expose who I am, as opposed to who I think I am. Sadly, the ideal me living inside my head often proves to be a fantasy, an illusion.

I once heard a theologian describe shalom as a kind of integrity: things are what they appear to be. No deception, no duplicity, no confusion. On an individual level, shalom-ness is integrity of person - it is being the same inside and out, in our thoughts and in our practice, in private and in public.

I want my desiring and my doing to demonstrate that kind of personal integrity. Oh, how I long for shalom!

Second, I am writing because - there really are Reginalds in the world. Reginald A, a model lamb in the show ring - is the very same lamb as - Reginald B, who will knock you down and trample you for sport.

I have learned that the Susie I know and the Susie you know may be two completely different people. And when you are crying because Susie broke your heart, I do not need to tell you how wonderful Susie is...I do not need to explain to you how you've got Susie figured out all wrong...I do not need to tell you, "Well, if you would just do [fill in the blank], Susie would be a better friend."

Instead, I need to listen, to grieve with you, and to pray that God will help us all to love more like Christ.

But he looks so sweet and cuddly!

LAMB LESSONS: FOLLOW-UP ON REGINALD

In Thursday's post - Yet More Lessons Learned from a Lamb - I shared a few of the challenges my daughter has faced as she has labored to train her ebullient lamb, Reginald. (Ebullient is euphemistic for You're not the boss of me - I'll do whatever I want/I am bigger than you, so I think I'll just drag you half-way across the yard.)

Helen and Reginald had their first show today, so you are due an update.

Honestly, we were concerned that Reginald might go all "ebullient" in the ring today. "What am I going to do if Reggie acts up and I can't control him?!" Reggie is a good deal bigger than Helen. Lambs don't wear halters/leads in the show ring, and Helen wondered how she would keep him under control if he started acting up. What if he got loose?

Helen has invested sore muscles, sweat, and more-than-a-few tears in this lamb. She has worked very hard with Reginald, but even as recently as yesterday morning, there seemed little to show for all her effort.

But today, when Helen and Reggie stepped into the ring, this ornery lamb behaved like a prince:

As a follow up to Thursday's post, I want to say:

I am so proud of this young lady for the phenomenal patience and perseverance she has demonstrated as she has worked with her lamb. I am impressed by her hard work and by her determination to maintain a good attitude despite moments of discouragement. Well done, Helen. You are an inspiration to your mom.

I am so thankful for a God who hears and answers our prayers. I am thankful that God is well-acquainted with sheep. I am thankful that He condescends to meet us in our need...even if that means meeting us in the show ring of a hot, dusty arena. Is there anywhere we can go to escape the presence and the love of our heavenly Father? No. Nowhere. God is so awesome!

YET MORE LESSONS LEARNED FROM A LAMB

Last summer, my daughter cared for and trained a lamb to show at the county fair. This summer, she is training Lamb #2. Once again, I am learning much from Helen's lamb project. I am learning things like...

Our greatest strength is also often our greatest weakness.

In the ring, an owner wants her lamb to brace. Bracing is a precise, tensed stance that displays the lamb's musculature and conformation. It's sort of like a body builder striking a show-off power pose.

Last year's lamb - Bertie - was a sweetheart. He loved Helen and snuggled up to her like a puppy. That sweet temperament, however, was devoid of the somewhat aggressive physicality needed in the show ring. Bertie was so completely chill that "flexing his muscles" was a completely foreign idea to him.

Last year's lamb - Bertie - was a sweetheart!

This year's lamb, Reginald, is a beautifully-muscled powerhouse full of spunk and spit. He's the cocky sheep version of "Hey, Baby, check out these glutes!" Reggie braces perfectly, almost instinctively. The down side of Reggie's great physicality and energy is that there is no "Chill" setting on his temperament gauge.

This year's lamb - Reggie - is an aggressive stud muffin.
(Um, well, except that he's not actually a stud.)

The challenge Helen faces - the challenge we all face in some area of our lives - is: do I see my circumstances as a blessing/opportunity, or do I see them as a problem/curse? And, am I mindful of how my strengths are also my areas of weakness, so that I can correct my weaknesses as I endeavor to develop my strengths?

Tenacity: the stubbornest girl/lamb wins.

Reginald is not very smart. He IS very stubborn. As Helen leads Reggie around the yard each day for exercise, he bucks, jumps, sits back on the lead and resists her every way imaginable.

If you watched Helen working with Reggie this morning, you would have wondered if that lamb had ever been handled by a human before. Yes, he has. A lot. Still, Reggie begins each workout with the resist-at-all-costs mentality of a 3-year-old human.

Reggie has tried Helen's patience to near the breaking point. She has at times wanted to throw in the towel. But this morning, she was back outside, wrestling Reginald around the yard until he calmed down enough to behave like a civilized lamb. This afternoon, she'll do the same thing again. And again this evening. And again tomorrow morning... (Thanks to Reggie, Helen is developing some awesome muscles herself.)

I admire Helen's tenacity. I am confident she will succeed in training this ornery lamb, because she is determined that - as stubborn as Reggie is - she will be even more stubborn.

Yes, size does matter...and mamas will do almost anything for their kids.

Have I mentioned that Reginald is a moose? And that he's super muscular? And that he has a lousy attitude?

Have I also mentioned that he weighs nearly twice as much as his trainer? That often, it looks more like Reggie is dragging Helen around the yard than the other way around?

If you have ever been to a livestock show, you have probably wondered how on earth tiny little people manage to lead great huge animals around the show ring. Well, let me tell you...

Somewhere in the process of that animal's training, Mama or Daddy looked out the kitchen window and saw her/his precious little baby being dragged across the yard by a stupid, stubborn, ornery excuse of a show lamb/calf/whatever, and Mama or Daddy decided - That's enough of that!

For every kid you see in the livestock show ring, there is a mama or a daddy who has gone smack-down with an animal.

Me - I've got weight, stature, and brains on that lamb. He's got nothing on me. And after raising seven kids, let me tell you, I don't have any problem going head-to-head with his sass.

When life's circumstances drag you through the weeds and brambles, sometimes you just need an almost-200-pound woman with gray hair to step in and yank a knot in somebody's tail. God gives us parents - and He gives us older, wiser, more-experienced Christian friends - for a reason. We all need help sometimes, and it is okay to ask for help.

Pray about everything.

One of the things I love about my daughter Helen is that she prays about almost everything. No concern is too small or too big to take to her Heavenly Father.

Helen and Reggie have their first show on Saturday. That's only two days away. Will Reggie be ready to behave himself in the ring? I don't know. But I'm certain of one thing: Helen - and Helen's mama - will be praying.

If you think about it on Saturday, would you please pray for Helen and Reggie, too?

* * *

What did I learn last year from Bertie? Click on these links to find out!
THINGS I HAVE LEARNED FROM A LAMB
MORE LESSONS LEARNED FROM A LAMB

SPECIAL DELIVERY

I am sitting here trying to think of something to write, when the cat begins meowing frantically at the front door.

Is Kitty injured? Is she frightened? I hop up and dash to the door.

Kitty has brought me a very small, very dead mouse. She lays her gift gently on the door mat at my feet. Lovely.

"What a beautiful little mouse. You are such a wonderful hunter!" I praise the kitty, then close the door.

The emphatic meowing begins again.

I open the door. "What?"

What, indeed. Kitty wants to come inside, and she wants to bring her treasure with her. I am perfectly fine with Kitty coming in out of the cold for the night, but the mouse is a No-Go.

A stare-down commences. I open the door a bit wider. Kitty steps forward, then reaches down to pick up the mouse in her teeth.

"No mouse!" I close the door slightly. Kitty drops the mouse and sits back. I open the door wider. Kitty steps forward again, then pauses to retrieve her trophy. This continues until I am cold and bored. "You are not coming in the house with that mouse!" I close the door until the latch click!s and return to my seat at the computer.

The meowing stops. I guess Kitty got the message.

I sit here staring at a blank screen for several minutes. My brain is tired. It idles in neutral, refusing to engage the gears.

* * * * *

"Meow! Meow! Meow!" The earnest meowing resumes.

I cross the room to the front door, exhaling a sigh of frustration. What does Kitty want now?!

I open the door. Kitty sits like a dainty princess on the sisal door mat. There is no tiny brown mouse. Kitty looks up at me and winks her eyes. Kitty stands, and with stately dignity, she steps inside.

I swear she is smiling.

MORE LESSONS LEARNED FROM A LAMB

Tension.

So much of life is characterized by tension.

Last month, I wrote about a few of the things I learned from a lamb this summer. (Read those thoughts HERE.) Yesterday, Helen showed her lamb, and last night she sold him.

We drove home after the livestock sale without Bertie. Helen was pretty stoic - she has no problem with the reality that he was a "commercial" lamb, although she will miss working with him every day. I, on the other hand, was an emotional mess.

I am SO GLAD that we no longer have to drive back and forth to the sheep barn every day (it's a 30 minute drive, one way) - we'll have more time to focus on schoolwork, now - but, dang, I really liked that sheep! Happy/relieved and heart-broken, both at the same time.

So much of life is not either/or - it's both. Tension.

But back to things I have learned from a lamb...

Or, more precisely, lessons learned or relearned in the context of working with a lamb this summer, that have nothing at all to do with a lamb, but with people...

1. There is a huge difference between saying you will do something - and - honoring your commitments. It is wonderful to want to help others; it is even more wonderful to actually follow through on your promises. The Bible exhorts us to let our Yes be Yes, and our No be No. I have learned that it is wise to answer Yes slowly, thoughtfully, carefully...to try to make sure my Yes will indeed be Yes before I speak. This is a HARD lesson to learn. It is also hard to be working alongside another who is learning this lesson, to bear the brunt of someone else's unfulfilled obligations. And it is extremely hard to watch your child have to deal with the frustration of working with others who don't follow through on their commitments.

2. Concerning livestock, there are people in this world who work with lambs/hogs/cattle because they truly love the stock and the livestock industry; and then there are those who care very little about lambs/hogs/cattle, but who care very much indeed about ribbons and prize money. There is room in this world for all kinds of people; but, at a livestock show, the people who are in this for the long haul, the people who actually genuinely love working with sheep/hogs/cattle, the people who care about the future of the industry, those are the most fun to interact with. They. Are. Awesome.

3. Watching the kids who showed animals...Some absolutely loved everything about their animal: feeding, grooming, cleaning up after, showing, everything. Some were there...for I'm not really sure what reason. They were unaware, un-engaged, and obviously wanted very much to be somewhere, anywhere else. Not sure why the heck they were in the barn at all...

4. A junior livestock show and sale takes a TREMENDOUS amount of time, energy, organization, sweat, muscle, and money. And a lot of people in my community give these things freely because they care about the livestock industry and they care about the future of the industry. Extension agents, volunteers, area farmers, feed suppliers, businesses who help underwrite the event and who bid on stock in the sale ring...SO MANY PEOPLE give freely of their time, energy, and resources to encourage young people who are genuinely interested in learning. Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who invested in my daughter this summer as she cared for, trained, showed, and sold her lamb. Thank you. In a day when so many folks seem interested only in taking, it was a blessing to me to see so many whose desire was to give.

Today, we will clean up and put away the blue halter and the feed and water bowls (and, yes, I will cry - I am crying right now, writing this). Today, it's back to physics and art history for Helen and me. But, man, we have learned so much this summer, so many valuable lessons working with a lamb.

Thank you, Bertie.

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED FROM A LAMB

While my youngest has been away at 4-H Round-Up this week, I have been pulling lamb duty. Every day, I feed and water Bertie (and his companions) and I take him for a walk. Lambs need exercise, too, you know.

As Bertie and I were strolling down the road on Wednesday, an air-conditioner repairman parked at a house along our route called out, "Funny looking dog you've got there!" When we strolled back past the house on our way home to Bertie's pen, he added, "He's got a funny bark, too!"

Bertie is a 130-pound, mixed-breed market lamb/dog. Yeah, he's got a funny bark! But he has a great disposition, too.

Bertie is smiling as big as Helen in this picture - he loves his girl!

After a week of tending sheep, I want to share a few things I have learned from Bertie and his companions:

1. People say sheep are extraordinarily stupid. On Wednesday, I found the lambs all packed in a knot in their shed, panting from the extreme heat. They were in the shed, I think, because of the shade it provided. However, they could have opted to stand outside in the shadow cast by the shed and still been in the shade - plus, they would have had better air circulation outside. It was much cooler outside in the shade than inside in the shed, but they didn't seem to have figured that out.

I don't know if that makes them stupid or if it means they are creatures of habit. Either way, when we humans are likened to sheep in the Bible, I don't think we should necessarily take that as a compliment.

2. Lambs seem to take on the personality their handlers display when working with them. Helen's lamb Bertie is sweet and agreeable. Some of the other lambs in the pen are cranky and cantankerous. Funny thing is, the cranky lambs seem pretty sweet, too, when someone with a little patience and a kind voice is in the pen.

Maybe this is another way we humans are like sheep - we respond differently to different people, based on how they treat us. Body language and tone of voice matter.

3. Lambs know their owner/caretaker. At least Bertie does. When Helen walks up to the sheep pen, Bertie perks up and notices. The other lambs don't seem to care a bit. This week, Bertie recognized Mom as his caregiver, and was quick to trot up to meet me. He would stand patiently while I slipped the halter over his head, as if he was eager to head out on his morning walk.

Lambs may not be smart, but it doesn't take them long to figure out who really cares about them. And the cool thing is, they seem to return your affection. (Maybe that's the "dog" coming out in them, Mr. Air-conditioner Repairman!)

4. Bertie loves to be scratched. If you scratch him on the side of his barrel/rib cage, he will lean further and further over until he loses his balance. If you scratch him between his shoulder blades, he kicks his stomach with his hind leg, like a dog. If you scratch his knobbly head, I swear he smiles.

Ummm, I don't know how this translates to human experience.

All of this to say - it has been a fun week of sheep tending! Like Helen, I have fallen in love with this sweet lamb. He is pleasant and cheerful and a delight to care for.

I think Helen's lamb would make Bertie Wooster proud!

THANKFUL FOR SOMETHING BETTER

During conversation over dinner with friends last night, one member of the group asked those gathered around the table if we found it easier to be thankful during the "empty" seasons of life or during the "full" seasons.

Interestingly, we all agreed that it is during difficult times that we seem to see God's goodness and faithfulness to us with the greatest clarity and consequently are moved to deeper gratitude. Yes, we are thankful when life is easy and pleasant, but during trials - health problems, broken relationships, financial hardships - it's as if God strips away all the downy fluff of misplaced affections and security, and He gives us the much greater pleasure and the very greatest security of all - Himself.

My experience has been that God rarely gives me precisely what I want or what I think I need. However, when my desires or expectations have been disappointed, God has consistently given me something better.

I did not ask for a broken relationship, but through it, Jesus taught me that He is an ever faithful friend.

I did not want financial hardship, but through it God showed himself to be my Great Provider.

I hate conflict, but in the midst of conflict I became more intimately acquainted with the Prince of Peace.

Yes, for that I am truly, deeply, eternally thankful.

* * * * *

On a somewhat related note...

My 4-H All Star is away at State Round-Up this week. This means that Mom has Lamb Duty: it is my job to make sure the lamb is fed and watered, and I get to take Bertie for a walk every day.

As I wound my way down some of the remoter roads in Obion County this morning on my way to the sheep barn, I listened to the clanking and rattling of my dilapidated van and looked at all the indicator lights blinking on the dashboard and I thought, "God, if I break down out here in the middle of nowhere, how in the world am I going to find anyone to help me?!"

Of course, the van made it out to the sheep barn just fine (otherwise, I wouldn't be sitting here typing right now). I fed and watered the sheep, and Bertie and I enjoyed a leisurely morning stroll in the country.

Sheep kisses - blech! This is one sweet lamb!

When I finished at the sheep barn, I changed shoes and loaded my mud-&-poop encrusted boots into the van and I threw Bertie's halter into the back seat. (These days, my van smells strongly of sheep, BTW.) Then, I started the long, winding drive home.

And I smiled.

I smiled because:
1.) Bertie is so much fun to work with, and
2.) I was so thankful that I was driving a vehicle that I didn't have to feel bad about hauling stinky boots or sacks of lamb feed around in.

It occurred to me as I drove home this morning: my rattle-trap minivan is the PERFECT Lamb Mom transportation!

As I was thinking how glad I was that I didn't have to worry about getting sheep poo on the carpet of a new vehicle, I remembered the conversation from last night, and that made me smile, too.

LAMB THERAPY

Today felt a little bit like Monday all over again. Blegh.

It is 6:00, and I still have over a dozen things on my ToDo list, things that take time and brain power, both of which I am lacking this late in the day. Blegh.

So, what's a tired, stressed, frustrated middle-aged woman supposed to do when the day goes sour? Is there any hope of turning things around this late in the day?

Yep.

Lamb therapy.

The newest addition to Helen's menagerie is named Bertram. As in Bertram (Bertie) Wooster. Hugh Laurie, eat your heart out.

Bertram is cantankerous and stinky. He screams like a girl when you try to lead him with a halter. He can hop straight up, three feet off the ground. He has a very thick, hard skull that serves as his primary means of communication with humans. Bertram is also fuzzy and adorable.

So, Helen and I headed out to work with Bertram - one of the many, many things on my long, long list of things to do today. Helen practiced leading Bertram. Then, while Helen caught her breath (at this stage in the game, "leading" the lamb means "dragging" the lamb, which is exhausting work), I tried my hand at leading Bertram.

After leading/dragging practice, we gave Bertram a bath. Did you know that lambs, when they get wet, shake just like a dog? Do you have any idea how much water even a very short coat of lamb wool will hold?

I smell like a sheep.

And I feel much, much better.

I may not get everything on my ToDo list done today. Not may not, but probably won't.

Who am I kidding?

I will NOT get everything on my list checked off today.

But it's been a good day.

Thanks to Helen and Bertram and a little Lamb Therapy.

GEOFFREY WITH A 'G'

Helen named him Geoffrey:  "Geoffrey - with a 'G' - because he's so glamorous!"

Yes, Geoffrey is glamorous. Beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous.

And I want him dead.

Geoffrey looks exactly like this:

Geoffrey is truly this fluffy, this fat, and this strikingly colored.

I do believe this is the very same fellow who bombed the air intake of our heat pump back in February, effectively stinking up our entire house (you can read that story HERE.) The smell lingered for months.

I think he hangs around our house because the next-door neighbors are known to put out pans of delicious left-overs on the porch for the local wildlife. (I also think that is how Geoffrey got to be so incredibly fat and shiny.) We don't put out left-overs here at our house, but Geoffrey has us on his regular evening circuit all the same.

Anyway, I headed out the back door yesterday evening to go shut up the hen house for the night. Just as I launched down the back stairs, Geoffrey popped out from under the steps. With the momentum of 160 pounds already in motion, I couldn't stop.

Geoffrey stood up on his hind legs, spread his front paws wide, and hissed at me like a mad cat.

Since there was no way I was going to turn the Titanic around, I opted to bolt forward as fast as I could. If Geoffrey decided to spray, maybe I could run far enough, fast enough, to avoid the worst of it.

I made it across the back yard faster than an Olympic sprinter. And thankfully, Geoffrey did not have time to turn around and douse me.

Needless to say, after I closed up the chickens for the night, a made a very wide, circuitous path back to the house and came in the front door.

I miss having the fur trapper around. I think it's time he came home for a visit.

SUNSHINE ON A CLOUDY DAY

Right this moment, the sun is shining.

I'm grateful for that.

Helen asked me, "So, what are your 'sunny' thoughts right now?"

"Ummm, I'm not having many sunny thoughts right now."

I went to let the chickens out of the coop this morning. The wind was so blustery and cold that it raced right up my jeans legs and numbed my tookus. Brrrr! I'm not fond of cold.

I bent over to do some chore while I was outside, and - crunch! - smashed one of the eggs I had collected and stashed in my sweater pocket. The pocket with my phone in it.

So, I blow back into the house, shivering and chattering. Wash the three remaining eggs and put them away. Clean my gooey phone. Wad my sweater into the washing machine.

And discover I have a big globs of chicken poo on my shoes. Yuck! Why couldn't I have discovered that when I first came in the back door?

I've been looking online at mother-of-the-bride dresses. Apparently, manufacturers think Barbie has given birth to children and that she is now old enough for said children to be of marriageable age. Sigh. The models all look like Audrey Hepburn - rail thin and fresh-faced - and the dresses all look beautiful on them. This is not reality. I know better.

I tried on several beautiful dresses - potential mother-of-the-bride dresses - passed to me by friends. I did not look like Barbie. Or like Audrey Hepburn. I looked like the ballerina hippo from Disney's Fantasia. Without the beautiful music playing in the background.

Cold wind. Smashed egg. Chicken poo. Frothy, sparkly, beautiful, too-tight dresses. Nope, not many sunny thoughts happening.

"What about the white-faced calf?" Helen asked.

I smiled.

This little bugger is a joy to watch frolicking on the hill behind the house. He is easy to spot in the field - his bright, white face stands out like a flashing billboard against his silky black coat and against the gray of the frozen pasture.

He dances like a fairy on his short, spindly legs, chasing the other calves or running circles around his momma. Up the hill! Down the hill! Charge!

I don't think I have ever seen such a lively calf. I've been calling him Rocket.

Maybe, just for today, I'll call him Sunshine.

IS IT BECAUSE THEY'RE BLONDE?

"I think maybe the chickens are finally laying eggs!"

New little peep!

We've had these chickens since mid-spring, when they arrived via U.S. Mail, tiny balls of yellow peeping fluff delivered in a cardboard box.  Ben's flock of Rhode Island Reds had long been extinct, save one precious pet who eluded the foxes and raccoons and who we liked too much to convert to stew.  This spring, I decided to order my very own flock of chickens, and Ben has been teaching me the ins and outs of chicken farming.

Buff Orpingtons.  They are simply beautiful.  So fluffy that they look like they are wearing frilly bloomers.  And they are congenial - even the roosters are pleasant.

But these are the stupidest chickens I have ever met.  They don't put themselves to bed at night until after dark, when the owls are already out hunting dinner.  They startle and run at the silliest things.  They have an entire hayfield in which to graze...but they prefer to strip the rose bushes of all their petals.

Gorgeous George

 The roosters try to put on an air of manliness on occasion - but give one a stern look and he'll trot off to hide under the chicken house.  No, they're not very smart or very brave - but, man, are they good looking.  Reuben has dubbed the fanciest rooster "Gorgeous George"  - all glam and no substance.  The other rooster, we call Larry.  Leaning Larry.  Everything about him is kind of "sideways" - his tail, his gait, his stance, his way of looking at you.  Again, definitely not the sharpest tack in the box.

I've been getting very frustrated at tending my extraordinarily stupid chickens - but have persevered in the hopes that they will soon redeem themselves by laying eggs for breakfast.  Apparently, Buff Orpingtons begin to lay later than other breeds....still no eggs.  So, Helen's announcement this morning was the cause of great excitement.  Uproarious cackling - a sure sign of egg production - had me all excited.  I walked outside - no chickens anywhere in the yard.  "Helen, I think you may be right!  I think they've all headed back to the hen house!  Maybe they've decided it's time to lay some eggs!"

(Now, why on earth would I think the idea would occur to my silly chickens to lay eggs in their nesting boxes?  Hmmm?)

It wasn't twenty minutes later that Ben looked out the window and asked, "Mom, why are the chickens all over at Grammy's?"

No, the chickens were not in the hen house laying eggs.  Rather, they had decided today was a lovely day for a road trip.  They had hiked all the way over to Grammy's, for who-knows-what reason.

Errrrrgh!  I ran into the yard and called across the hay field:  "Chick!  Chick!  Chick!  Heeeeeeere, chick, chick!"  Gorgeous George raised his head and looked at me.  The hens perked up and trotted a few steps down Grammy's driveway.  After 20 minutes of calling, I gave up.  All they did was stand at stare at me.

Thankfully, Helen agreed to help round up my wayward flock. By the time we had hiked over to Grammy's, there were no chickens to be seen anywhere.  Not in the yard.  Not in the road back to the cow pasture.  Not in the calf lot.  So we headed out to the barn.  Finally!  I found George and 5 hens chilling out under the tractor.  Where were the other 12?  Nowhere.

I began herding George and his tiny flock across the pasture toward our house.  Herding chickens is about like herding cats - if you want to develop patience, here's a good way to practice!  We reached the tree-line behind our house.  Under the canopy of trees, I found several other hens.  Then, further up the hill, more chickens.  Grrrrr!  "Come on, Chick-chick, back to the hen house!"

The entire flock is now safely back in our yard.  My legs are scratched from crawling through the underbrush, and I'm waiting for the poison ivy and chigger bites on my ankles to start itching.  We still have no fresh eggs.

But, as Helen cheerfully observed, at least I something to blog about!

HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY!

"HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! GET ON!...." I bolted out the back door, arms flailing and feet pounding. I probably set some kind of speed record as I whipped around the corner of the garden shed. The adrenaline was pumping and I felt like I could've run forever. I stopped at the fence line at the edge of the hayfield, though - didn't seem much point in going further. "GET ON, YOU DOGS!"

Three dogs - one black lab, one lab-sized fluffy white dog, and one St. Bernard-ish behemoth - had just run through my back yard, headed for the chickens. Fortunately, I spotted them just as they reached the flock of hens, and my screaming rampage sent them running.

Folks, we live in the country. Out here, big dogs, running in packs (that's groups of 3 or more), are nothing but trouble. All three of these dogs had collars. They were probably just somebody's family pets. Affectionate, docile, harmless. Until they joined each other for a romp through the countryside. Unfortunately, no one had given them lessons in chicken etiquette. My guess is they haven't had lessons in cow etiquette, either. Their owners probably think these dogs wouldn't hurt a flea, much less a chicken or a newborn calf.

I have some sad experience with bad dogs of my own, but I don't have any problem with the country man's rule: if you see my dog in your cows (chickens/etc.), you have my permission to shoot him. Still, I'm a bit of a pushover, a bit soft around the edges. So today, my tactic was run and holler. But we have new baby chickens on the way, and no dogs of our own to guard them. I'll be keeping a sharp lookout now, and, with the boys' help, I'll be getting in a little target practice this weekend. Just in case.

SPICY BLUE

A cat food commercial playing over the sound system at Wal-Mart last week purred about cats dreaming of meaty, moist, delicious Brand X cat "dinners." I smiled, thinking "Well, they definitely got that wrong!" Some folks may think cats dream of saucers of milk or of chasing mice or bobbing for fish in a fishbowl. J.R.R. Tolkien once said something to the effect that, when cats dream, they are chasing gazelle. Anyone who owns a cat can testify - Tolkien had it right. Every cat, in his own little mind, is really a lion, ruler of the savannah.

Our cat Elizabeth looks like a small, rather plain domestic tabby. But watch her for any length of time and you realize she is really a ferocious lioness. At least that's the case when she is self-aware. Other times, she is a very silly kitten, despite her years. Like when she chases a BB around the house, batting it across the hardwood floor in a frenzied fit of hysteria. She likes to herd a BB up to one of the floor vents. There, sitting calmly at last, she slowly rolls the BB over the grate, pushing it delicately with a tiny paw, and then watches in smug satisfaction as it rattles out of sight. This game never gets old.

But back to the lioness. Lacking an African savannah populated with antelope and elephant calves, our kitty contents herself with hunting the smaller residents typical of a Tennessee hayfield - mice, voles, lizards, birds. She often shares her kill with the rest of the pride, leaving a tiny carcass on the front doorstep to be discovered by one of us as we head out the door. Blech! This summer, we have noticed a distinct preference for things blue. Blue birds. Indigo buntings. Which got me to wondering - are blue-colored birds just easier to catch than, say, sparrows - or - are they more fun to stalk, or perhaps tastier than drab little mice? Any thoughts, cat owners?

In closing, here is a recipe for scrumptious cat-head biscuits. This was breakfast at my house this morning....

Cathead Biscuits
2 c. all-purpose flour
1 Tbsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 cup + 2 Tbsp. butter, chilled
1 c. buttermilk
1 Tbsp. butter, melted

Combine the flour, baking powder, soda, and salt, stirring well. Cut in the 1/4 c. + 2 Tbsp. butter until mixture resembles coarse meal. Pour buttermilk evenly over mixture and stir gently until dry ingredients are just moistened. Turn dough onto a floured surface and knead 10 - 12 times.

Shape dough into 2-inch balls, and press with knuckles. Place biscuits on a greased baking sheet. Bake at 450 degrees for 10 minutes. Brush tops of biscuits with melted butter, and bake 2 minutes more, or until lightly browned. Yield - about 1 dozen. (Note: I usually roll these out and cut them with a biscuit cutter...but then they don't look like catheads!)

Serve hot with butter and jelly...or fresh bluebird, if Kitty is just back from the savannah. Just kidding!

SHALOM

The tiny twin calf that lived....died. Her beautiful sillky black coat and adorable floppy ears were not enough to compensate for the blue clouds in her eyes. If not for the blue clouds, she would have been bottle fed, like Nate's Weezy, becoming in time a beloved family pet of sorts. A tiny blind calf is one thing - an 800-pound blind cow something totally different. And so blind cows....are not.

Shalom - the Hebrew word for peace, commonly used as a greeting and as a farewell. This word means more than an absence of strife or conflict. It is something greater than rest or calm or tranquility. Shalom means....all is as it should be. But shalom is something we will never truly experience in this life, because we are sinners living in a fallen and sinful world.

I was graphically reminded of this sad reality again last Monday while walking the dogs. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny morning as we headed down a trail toward the back of the farm. Powdery dust rose like smoke from the path with each footstep and paw pad. Piff-piff-piff. In some places, the ground was lined with deep cracks, testimony of the dearth of rain these past few weeks. The blackberries are loving this dry heat, but the garden is withering and the hay fields languish. Every dusty step was a vivid reminder of our great need for rain. Things are not as they should be.

As we headed down a hill toward the creek, Jessie bolted suddenly through the underbrush. A squeak, a scuffle, and Jessie returned proudly bearing a young raccoon clamped tightly in her jaws. Maybe this is a carry-over from her days as a stray, when she had to rustle up food for herself...Jessie can flush out and kill small varmints in a flash, and is always eager to share her trophies with the family. I froze where I stood holding OB's leash, freaking out because I knew Jessie was going to deposit her prize at my feet. Ick! I did NOT want a dead raccoon for breakfast! Worse yet, what if it wasn't dead - but just mostly dead? What if Jessie dropped the raccoon at my feet, then it revived and tried to climb my legs? "Jessie! Drop it! DROP IT!" I screamed. Jessie stopped, dropped her catch, and stood looking at me in confusion. Talk about a lose-lose situation: the poor raccoon died needlessly, and Jessie didn't understand my rejection of her gift. I was sad for both of them. Not Peace.

We reached the creek and crunched through gravel to one of the few deep water holes that hasn't yet dried up. The dogs love splashing into the creek to cool off on our walks. But, no, not this morning - a long snake slipped through the water just as we reached the pool. Once again, I was freaking out. I know most snakes are not poisonous, but they still ALL give me the creepies. I didn't resort to shouting this time, but did a quick about-face and headed back up the dry creek bed. "Come on, dogs! No swimming today!" Not Peace.

The remainder of our walk, I imagined snakes slithering through the tall grass. I heard raccoons and who-knows-what scuttling in the underbrush. When a Great Blue Heron lifted off near us, the noisy flapping of its wings made my heart race. NOT PEACE!

But even seemingly small causes of stress and grief and anxiety, those things which splash against my occasional delusions of peace and tranquility, they remind me that yes, there is indeed a true peace. That one day, Christ will return and restore His creation. That the ground will not wither with thirst. Young raccoons will not die needlessly. Snakes will not threaten swimmers. Women will not scream hysterically at their dogs. There will be No More Fear. All will be as it should be.

There are two words I long to hear with my own ears. I long to hear my Saviour say, "Camille" and to hear him speak, at last, "Shalom."

It has rained since I wrote this post - Yay! - but the kids and I are still a bit sad about the calf. In the midst of much that is very good, we cannot forget that all is not as it should be. Every day...living and longing for Glory, and for Shalom!

COW SEQUEL

I wrote over a year ago about Nate and his cow, Weezy. Nate adopted Weezy when she was a sick, orphaned calf, and he lovingly nursed her back to health and cared for her like a mother. Here is a picture of Nate and baby Weezy:


Such a pretty baby!


Well, Weezy lived, and thrived, and grew to be a full-sized cow. An affectionate cow, too. She loves neck rubs and back scratches. The other cows in the herd tend to ignore you if you walk out into the fields near where they are grazing. Weezy, however, is quite sociable and will even trot up for a little loving.


Here is a shot of Nate and Weezy together, taken in April 2009. Weezy is a young-adult cow in this picture (notice how much cow and boy have grown since the above picture was taken!):






This winter, Weezy presented Nate with his first Grand-calf. (I'm not sure if that term is technically correct, but you get the idea.) Nate was delighted with this addition to his little herd! Sissy looks a great deal like her mother and is quite a butterball:

Since Sissy is not a bottle-fed calf, she is nowhere near as tame and affectionate as her sweet mother, and she is a little wary of humans. But she doesn't mind standing nearby when Weezy is in the mood for some petting.

Nate says he likes having two cows better than having just one. He puts it this way: "When I'm out with the guys, it sounds so much better to say, 'Well, I gotta get home and check my cowS.' Yep, I've got my own herd now!"

A boy and his cows!

SIMPLE PLEASURES

(It has been so long since I last posted that I had difficulty remembering my password to log in - this simply has to change!)

While life here in Kendallville is very definitely good, it is by no means easy. I often find myself battling against a tendency to focus on life's difficulties, to wallow in negativity or self-pity....seems I am too frequently having to repent of the sin of grumbling. I find that I have to battle discontentment with very deliberate and focused counter-measures.

One frustration I've wrestled with over and over since our move relates to the seeming impossibility of my getting exercise on a regular basis. At our last house, we lived one mile from the local YMCA. I could pop over to the Y, swim a mile, shower, dress, and return home recharged and ready for whatever came next - all in less than an hour. Now, living out in the Boondocks, I have no Y, no fitness center, not even a walking trail. I'm getting fatter every day, and my energy level is at an all-time low - who wouldn't complain about such an untenable situation? Oh, how I have missed my thrice-weekly swims!

The words of a wise friend, spoken years ago, came to mind recently. Katherine once told me, during a discussion about how much exercise was necessary to be effective for good health: "You don't have to exercise every day. You don't even have to exercise three times a week. You only have to exercise once - and that is today, if you're able." Remembering her words, I resolved to take them to heart anew. Okay, I can't swim laps, my all-time favorite way of "working out." There's not an elliptical walker or a universal weight machine for miles. But it occurred to me one sunny afternoon about a month ago that "Today, I can take the dogs for a walk back on the farm." And so I did just that. And now, more days than not, you'll find me taking OB and Jesse for a walk back on the farm, sometime shortly after noon. (For an explanation of just why farm dogs have to be "walked," see earlier post - A DOG TALE, 11/19/08.)

Actually, it would be more appropriate to say the dogs take me for a walk. I commented to a friend recently that my new fitness program is called "Fat Lady Dragging at the End of a Dog Leash." OB weighs 64 pounds, and he is all muscle and all forward motion. How on earth can a 64-pound dog possibly pull a *@#! - pound woman up a 45 degree incline? Beats me. Suffice to say, my arms get as much of a workout as my legs! And, this "fitness program" seems to be working - I've lost five pounds since we began our "program," and I'm less winded on our long walks than when we began.

So what does my almost-daily drag with the dogs have to do with my anti-grumbling campaign? There is a long field waaaaay back on the furthest side of the farm - we call it "the back hay field," although we no longer cut it for hay. It's just a long strip of lush pasture, bordered on one side by the creek and on the other by hills rising up into woodlands. One day last week, I took the dogs out for a drag. I was grumbling to myself because I'd had to wait so late in the day for our walk, going out in the evening instead of the afternoon. I was grumbling to myself because OB had bolted across the creek and drug me through water that came over my shoes and soaked my socks. I was grumbling to myself because I had walked through a spider web (blech!) as I pushed through the cane thicket lining the creek bed. Finally, we emerged from the creek, into the back hay field. Because it was later in the day - very near sundown - the air in the bottomland was noticeably cooler than the air out in the open fields. A shiver tickled my spine. Then, an amazing aroma filled my nostrils...what on earth was perfuming the air so sweetly?! As we waded through thigh-high grass to the far side of the narrow field, I saw the answer to my question. Wild roses - mounds and mounds of wild roses - were blooming all along the hillside leading up to the woods. And all their scent was bottled up in the cool air settling in the little valley in which the dogs and I were walking. It was one of those rare fairy moments - I just had to stop and breathe, and breathe, and breathe in the sweet perfume.

Standing there gulping in the fragrant air, I realized that I could savor the moment - or I could continue with my previous grumbling and miss the magic altogether. I resolved to savor the moment. This is a wonderful place to be, I thought, and I'm so grateful to be right here, right now. My socks were soggy with brown creek water, and my hair was sticky with yucky spider goo - but the roses...the roses were amazing.

No, I cannot swim a mile three times this week - but today I can finagle 45 minutes to go for a drag with the dogs. And today, I will find something beautiful to be grateful for and to enjoy. Maybe my grumbling - like my excuses for not exercising - will fade away as I endeavor to savor the very simple pleasures that God has given me in this moment.

A BOY AND HIS COW

There's nothing like the love between a boy and his....cow? This picture shows Nate with his "baby," Weezy. Weezy's mother died a few weeks after giving birth, and Nate adopted the sweet brown calf as his own. For several months, Nate bought and mixed calf milk replacement, trudging out to the barn in all kinds of weather to feed his charge every couple of hours. Of course, Weezy fell in love with her new mother and food source. Now, two years later, she still comes trotting across the field when she spies Nate out on the farm, eager for a good scratching and a snuggle from her favorite boy.

After these pictures were taken, several "special" cows from my own childhood came to mind. My favorite, hands down, was the family milk cow Ruthie, a Brown Swiss/Jersey cross with huge brown eyes and a disposition as sweet as honey. Standing only waist high to my dad, Ruthie was the perfect size cow to appeal to children. Her coat looked and felt like brown velvet, and she never seemed to mind the eager attention we kids lavished on her. Mom would let Ruthie's milk sit in the refrigerator for a day in a plastic gallon bucket, to allow the cream to rise to the top. When Mom would go to skim the cream, the bucket would be half full of cream, half full of milk. We had lots of home-made butter and the best ice cream I've ever tasted when Ruthie was with us.

Then there was Friendly Fred, a Longhorn bull the size of a locomotive. Honestly, I think this red-and-white spotted behemoth weighed well over a ton. Fred had impressive horns curving out from his enormous skull, each as long as my outstretched arm. For all his fearsome appearance, Fred was about as tame as a dog. I can remember Fred lolling in the shade of an ancient beech tree out behind the chicken house, surveying the herd of beef cows under his charge - I had no qualms about walking right up to him and scratching his long, rounded back. Of course, I didn't want to be in the way if he decided to swing his head around at a bothersome fly!

Early one spring, we had a very hard freeze right when the cows were calving. An unfortunate bull calf dropped on a bitterly cold night, and Dad didn't want to leave him out exposed to the extreme cold. Dad loaded the little fellow up into the Jeep, drove him home, and carried him into the house for a little TLC. Now it just so happened that at this particular time in the Stricklin cattle program, Dad had a Brahma bull in with the Angus cows - I think the offspring were christened "Brangus." This little bull calf looked extraordinarily like his father: long, drooping Brahma ears, a tiny hint of a hump about his shoulders, a mouse-colored coat as soft as silk, and huge glowing eyes the color of dark chocolate. Dad administered his special treatment - a mixture of whiskey, honey, and colostrum - and then bundled the little fellow up in a pile of blankets in the laundry room. By the next morning, "Mohandas" was up rollicking about the laundry room, making a tremendous mess of everything. Of course, all of us kids fell hopelessly in love with this delicious bit of cow-dom, and Mohandas became a family favorite - was even spared the normal fate of bull calves, and enjoyed a long and comfortable life following in his father's footsteps, so to speak. (By the way, Dad's "special treatment" for us kids, whenever we had a cold or congestion, was about the same recipe - whiskey, honey, lemon juice, and hot water. Blech! We thought it tasted awful, but it really did seem to help.)

Seeing my kids making bovine friends among Granddad's herd has sent me on a journey down memory lane. When my boys and girls come in talking excitedly about Clovis or Nike or Good-Momma-Cow, I smile at the thought of another young girl who loved Ada and Bessie and countless others of the family herd, many years ago. And when I'm out walking in the fields, nothing brightens my day like the sight of Weezy trotting over to say "hello," and nuzzling up for a neck rub.

A DOG TALE

Boy, what a day! Yesterday was one of those special days when one vexation seemed to pile onto the heels of the next - you know, the kind of day that ends with "Okay, God, could you give me just a little clue what in the world is going on here?! Would it be alright for me to have a minute or two to catch my breath?!"

The kids and I were busy at schoolwork yesterday morning when an unfamiliar silver SUV pulled up in front of the house. I opened the door to find a very distressed man, obviously struggling to control his emotions, cradling a tiny toy pinscher in his arms. "Lady, your dogs have just torn my dog up! I know it was your dogs, because I recognized that blue heeler that lives here." About the time the fellow finished this accusation, "my" three dogs trotted up onto the porch, gleefully incriminating themselves. The rat-sized dog in his arms looked from the new arrivals to me, as if to say, "Yep, those are the ones!" I ordered Nate to put our two dogs, Jessie and OB, in their pen immediately, and I assured my distraught neighbor that I would call the owner of the little blue dog at once to let him know what had happened as well. Then I spent the better part of ten minutes apologizing profusely, struggling to keep my own emotions in check, before I finally convinced my neighbor that I was as upset about the situation as himself and that we would do what we could to help with any vet bills. (Thankfully, the little lap dog didn't look too terribly injured - he was quite bright-eyed and animated the entire time he was following our conversation. Also, as upset as the owner was, he obviously didn't feel like he had to rush down the highway before having a lengthy discussion with me on the front porch.)

In order to communicate the emotional impact that yesterday's Vexation #1 had on my nerves and my mood, I'll have to give you a little background. Shortly after we first moved to the country 3+ years ago, someone dropped a mangy, starved, lab-mix dog off at our house. Of course, the kids pleaded to be able to feed it and nurse it back to health, and, being the pushover that I am, I agreed. With some TLC, Jessie turned out to be a beautiful, well-behaved, affectionate family pet. About the time Jessie's coat was finally filling in, someone dropped a wormy, ancient, immensely-pregnant beagle off at our house. The mercy pleading began all over again. This time, I stood firm: "We absolutely can not keep another dog!" However, since I am irrationally sympathetic with any creature that is PREGNANT, I did agree that we could care for the little beagle until she delivered her puppies; then, we would find homes for her and her offspring. Our first Christmas Eve in Obion County, the beagle birthed three adorable puppies. Within a matter of weeks, Jessie birthed 9 more of her own. Talk about dog overload! The short story is that at tremendous effort and inconvenience to ourselves, we did eventually find homes for everyone and ended up with only.....two dogs.

In my opinion, one dog is almost one dog too many. Two dogs are most certainly one dog too many. So how did we end up with two dogs? This part of the story needs a little more explanation. One of the beagle's puppies was an adorable roly-poly black male with a white bib and boots. Although he was a tub of lard, loose folds of skin draped over his sides and down his legs. When he sat down, a puddle of black fur slid down around his feet and behind. This little fellow looked like something from a Hallmark greeting card - cute, cute, cute! Now, it so happened that Steve took a particular liking to this delicious tidbit of dogdom, and soon started talking about the possibility of keeping "just this one" puppy. My initial response was, "Absolutely not!", but then things got a bit complicated in a weird kind of way.

My husband is one of the most gentle, patient, gracious men I know, and he tries to be considerate of my feelings and concerns. If I had insisted - "No more dogs!" - I am sure he would have consented to giving the puppy away without any fuss or regret. At the time of our great Puppy Fest, however, we were in the process of building the house we live in now....lots of decisions to be made, lots of things to be discussed, etc. ....and Steve was also in the process of a major career change. In the midst of these circumstances, an insensitive relative made the comment to Steve, "You don't ever make any decisions without checking things out with Camille first. What kind of man are you? You don't have to have her input on everything: just do whatever you want!" Although the comment wasn't true - Steve does indeed make LOTS of decisions without any input from me, many of which I would probably address differently - the bitter jab hurt. So, when Steve mentioned he really liked the little black puppy, I suppressed my internal opposition to the idea of keeping him and agreed. "You just do whatever you want, honey. You don't need my permission to keep that puppy." This puppy would be a living testimony to the fallacy of my relative's unkind remark. Incredibly, that tiny puppy with a mother who stood less than twelve inches tall, grew to over knee-high and now weighs close to 70 pounds. OB is a moose. And, although he has proven himself to be about as smart as a brick, he is extremely gentle and has a wonderful disposition. He is the kind of dog I can imagine someone taking to the hospital for pet-therapy with small children. (I should mention here that although OB is very docile towards people, he will lay into a raccoon or snake like the devil, and without a moment's hesitation.)

So what about dog #3 - the blue heeler? Blue (or Blue Dog, Jack-Jack, Dog, Hey You....he doesn't officially have a name at our house) showed up at our house almost a year ago. He hung out with our dogs for a couple of months before the UPS lady positively identified him for us as belonging to our neighbor Earl, who lives about a mile down the road. Earl came and picked him up promptly as soon as we called. "That dumb dog...he has a habit of just wandering off, and then can't seem to find his way back home! My wife will sure be glad to get him back - we thought maybe he'd gotten killed or something." Earl laughed as he loaded Blue into his pickup. Earl pulled out of the driveway and headed down the highway. Forty minutes later, Blue Dog was back on our porch. Obviously, he had NO PROBLEM finding his way home - he just preferred to think that his home was with us instead of with his other family. Thus began an exasperating game of Take the Blue Dog Home. Every time Steve left for an appointment, he would load Blue into the car and run him over to Earl's. We would start the stopwatch - 15 minutes was the average time it took Blue to trot his way back over. Several times, we called Earl to come pick Blue up, but we finally gave up when we saw the futility of the dog shuttle service. When we see Earl in town now, the joke is always, "Come on over and pick your dog up any time!"

And so, all our goodwill and noble sacrifice in the service of Dogdom was finally rewarded yesterday with, "Lady, your dogs have just torn my dog up!" I have to admit that I had wildly mixed emotions as I stood on the porch with my irate neighbor. My first thought was, "Alright, I'm ready to shoot all three of these mutts right now. Boys, bring me a gun!" My second thought was, "Good Lord, man, do you not realize that you are living in the country?! What kind of an idiot would turn a 4-pound dog loose outdoors in an area infested with coyotes, raccoons, and hawks? Never mind my dogs, mister - your little rodent dog is going to be coyote bait if you don't have any more sense than that!" Then I thought, "We'll just have to keep OB and Jessie always shut in the pen now, to keep them from harrassing this fellow's pooch." But that wouldn't do - "No, we can't keep the dogs locked up all day. We let the dogs out during the day to keep the raccoons and coyotes away from the chickens and the cat." (These reprobate mongrels actually do provide us a meaningful service.)

So, I spent much of yesterday stewing over the dog crisis. I was mad at OB and Jessie for being nefarious, cannibalistic criminals. I was mad at Blue Dog for NOT GOING HOME, and I was mad at Earl for not giving him a good reason to stay there. I was mad at my neighbor for behaving like a petowner from a California apartment complex and so endangering his own dog. I was mad at myself for not having absolute control over Jessie and OB, and for having ever agreed to more than one dog in the first place. I was mad at the thought of having to pay unanticipated vet bills when I don't even have grocery money for next week.

So how will this all work out? Looks like I'm going to have to quit being so passive and namby-pamby and take a more deliberate, active role in the pet situation around here. And that probably means I'm going to have to step into the familiar role of being the Mean Mom, a role I particularly loathe even though I understand it goes with the job. Looks like I'm going to have to "clean house" around here - the dog house, that is. And I haven't even mentioned yesterday's Vexation #2 yet, have I?!