About Last Night

Whatever kind of lousy evening you had last night -- trust me -- ours was worse.

After I stupidly decided to run errands during rush hour, with two cranky kids after a long day of work...after getting stuck in a sea of red lights...after draining the truck to fumes because I couldn't find a gas station with diesel...after a panic attack and finally, fueling up... after I drove home with our brand new over-priced porch furniture in a torrential rainstorm... after I rolled up at 8:30 with unfed kids and water logged wicker chairs...

...the dog ran off.

Martin didn't say a word. He didn't get a coat. He just fired up the gator and drove off in the inky rain.

Thirty minutes later he returned and almost immediately, Maisie ran off again. Because I failed to barricade the dog door.

Martin set out again in the rain. And eventually found the dog. After getting the gator mired in mud and vines by the river. And after he pushed, rocked and shoved the gator free (while Maisie incessantly barked and taunted him). And after he nearly got attacked by a pissed-off, hissing possum who bared his teeth in anger after the dog collided with it. After that, at 10:45, we shed our wet clothes and ate dinner.



Why Martin stays married or continues living on this crazy farm with this nutty dog is beyond me.

Fugitives on the run

I often say that raising a kid is a lot like training a dog.

Grossly oversimplified, but it's true.

Unfortunately, one of the kids is behaving a bit too much like the dog.

As I've chronicled before, Maisie's a constant flight risk, requiring frequent retrieval from her romps down by the river.

Well, Hadley's been on the loose as well.

(And let me interject here that while he does not eat stink bugs or sift through cat litter, the Boy's no patron saint. He's blog fodder but there's no denying that the 2-year-old's been on the lamb.)

The first few episodes were pure parental misjudgment: Just because one kid sleeps late and is unwaveringly mesmerized by the idiot box, doesn't mean the other kid will follow. We assumed that it was safe to jump on morning chores while the rug-rats were sleeping. But we discovered that Hadley rises early, gives the TV a cursory nod, then buzzes out the door.

One winter morning I returned from a crack-of-dawn gym workout and noticed tiny footprints etched in the frost on the deck. They led down the stairs and disappeared in the grass. Glancing up the driveway I spotted Martin and the dog...and distantly trailing them, a pajama-clad kid -- with no shoes or jacket -- picking her way along the rocks and gravel.

After a few of these incidents, we've modified our stellar parenting skills -- we no longer leave sleeping kids unattended while we're out and about.

But last weekend a new challenge arose. My friend Linda and I were walking our horses to the nearby indoor ring while Martin ate breakfast with the kids. We had nearly reached the neighbor's barn when Linda's horse, Mingo, stopped in his tracks. He craned his head backwards to look at the small figure -- this time in boots, still no jacket -- sprinting in leg-flailing-toddler fashion toward us. Hadley had run out the door, across the yard, through the barn, out the open gate and through the pasture. She was breathless when she reached us.

What are you doing? I asked.
Looking for you, she said. I found you.
Where is your Dad?
In the house, she said casually.

So parental presence no longer discourages the roaming Barbarian.

Our short-term solution has been to secure the gate on the deck with a leadrope. And so far that's hampered her travels. But the other night Hadley deftly scaled what we thought was an unclimbable railing.

So the next step is to rethink our door locking mechanisms. And perhaps invest in an ankle tracking device.

For both the dog and the kid.

"I shouldn't be alive"

These are Martin's words after a recent dog retrieval mission.

A little dramatic in my opinion. Then again, I wasn't clawing my way through waist-deep snow drifts in the dark. (But if I had been, I would have worn gloves and snowpants....)

Judging from blog entries, it appears as though Maisie rarely embarks on a great adventure. But in fact, that dog runs away all the time.

All. The. Time.

Minding Maisie is like having a third kid. Worse, actually. At least the kids stay put when we tell them to.

Despite her frequent disappearing acts, we haven't purchased a GPS dog tracking system. They're super expensive and effectiveness is questionable. And an underground fence is out of the question until springtime.

So Martin and I either tie up Maisie or keep an eye on her -- methods that fail daily. The dog is like a ghost. One minute she's snapping her teeth at a horse's heels or snuffling up cat food, and the next she's gone, out of sight and ear-shot.

Recently however, Maisie's been grounded -- thanks to the snow barrier blocking her escape. Even she can't run long distance through 3 feet of snow, so instead she sprints up the plowed drive and runs home again. It's been a relief.

But Monday I made a horrific discovery: the dog was in ghost mode again. Thawing and freezing created a nice crusty top layer, substantial enough to hold a 29-pound dog. Whereas we still plunged into knee- or hip-high snow.

Martin announced that Maisie retrieval down by the river was not only impossible, but "sheer lunacy." The gator was undriveable and we'd never make it on foot. Maisie would eventually come home when she was hungry.

But you can never underestimate the power of worrying. By nightfall Martin realized that forging through snow drifts was less daunting than my constant fretting. At 7 he clomped out into the darkness.

Thirty minutes later he phoned in a report: "I'm barely past the back field. This is impossible."

"So you haven't found her yet?"

"No, I want you to understand that I can barely move!"

"Is that your way of saying that you're giving up? You're not coming home without her, are you?"

pause

"No."

Fifteen minutes later Martin reported that he found the dog...and now he was going to kill her. "I was nearly buried alive," he announced. "I could have been trapped and you wouldn't have been able to get me out."

"I would have called 911," I told him. "After you got the dog."

Eventually one surly husband appeared with a cheerful Border Collie -- gleeful that once again, the big guy had found her. Another successful jaunt.

I'd like to say that we won't let Maisie escape or that she won't bolt again. But it's only a matter of time.

I just hope it's after the snow melts.

The Dog Whisperer

After this weekend's sheepdog training clinic, we learned a few things about Maisie and her herding style.

The most obvious lesson: allowing her to chase sheep around a field at warp speed -- in Wile E. Coyote/Road Runner fashion -- is not productive. Maisie should practice moving sheep in a small pen where she can gain confidence and we can correct her and teach her specific commands. Such as "come by," which tells her to move clockwise around the flock, and clockwise, or "away."

The other notable fact is that Martin has a knack for this. He quickly caught on to Jack's training tips.

Maisie moves the sheep; Martin moves Maisie

And he started thinking like his dog, as Jack often says, and even thinking like a sheep and sensing what they would do.

Jack passes on a few pointers

Our next job is to build a small pen for Maisie to practice. (I see a trip to Tractor Supply and a truckload of fencing and T-posts in our future. Sigh...).

We'll see how much dog and handler can learn before the next clinic in November.

Shape up, Maisie

Maisie's days of "freelancing" with our neglected herd of sheep are coming to an end. I just enrolled her in an intense, hands-on sheepdog training clinic next weekend.

Border Collie boot camp.

Frankly I'm leery about it. For one thing, I'll be around dog people for 3 straight days. And no one's crazier than a dog owner. Except maybe a horse owner.

Secondly, this clinician is a no nonsense trainer. He's Scottish, he yells and he carries a big stick. And while he hollers a fair share at the dogs, it's the owners who bear the brunt of it.

Back in the day, my old dog Corrie went to these clinics. But she was teacher's pet -- a suburban dog with no experience, no practice, but a natural knack and style for moving sheep. Poetry in motion.

Jack, the stick-wielding Scotsman, would cast a look of disgust over the crowd of owners. Then he'd point at Corrie. "Just look at this dog. Lives in the city, never gets any proper training (looking disdainfully in my direction), and see how she moves out here. She listens...she senses... You wish your dogs did this well."

Of course I'd be sitting there smugly, basking in the glow of Jack's backhanded compliments.

Well, the tables will turn. Next weekend I'll be the chagrined owner facing a lecture. Because Maisie doesn't herd our sheep. She winds them up like cars on a Nascar track, running them faster and faster until they're just a dingy white blur streaking through the field. She does not know finesse, only speed.

It would be nice to banish her bad habits. I just wish I didn't have to get schooled, too.

Gully Washer

(no, I didn't take this picture....)

On radar it was just a red, deformed blob. An angry yolk in a misshapen egg slinking across a satellite map. I looked it up after the fact -- just to see how meteorologists depict a storm like that.

Normally, we know when bad weather's coming. You'd have to be blind not to see a wall of gray gathering from the West. It's like a ticking clock: when the furthest ridge disappears from view, you have 30 minutes to finish mowing. When the near ridge evaporates you've got 15 minutes, tops.

But yesterday we weren't outside and this storm could have crept up on us, if not for our failsafe detection system.

I was in the bathroom stepping out of the shower, when I nearly brained myself on the sink as I tripped over the dog. Maisie was cowering near the tub, her head wedged behind the toilet.

I raced around shutting windows while Martin dashed out to button up the barn. And that's how fast it hit. He got stranded out there.

It was one of those scary storms -- not because of thunder and lightning -- but because it positively cannot rain any harder, and it sounds like the wind's trying to suck the house through a straw. Ever seen the movie "The Perfect Storm?"

It was kind of like that. Minus the nautical theme and George Clooney going down with his ship.

But it was bad enough that I wondered if this might be "The One" to take the house down. I seriously considered rousting the kids and stashing them in the cellar. But as I weighed the options.......wake sleeping kids, die in storm, wake sleeping kids, die in storm,...the weather checked itself. It dialed back as if you say, yea, you'll make this one.

But not without some towels to mop up the rain that dripped through a window molding and puddled in the sills and cascaded down the walls. I don't even know who to call about that repair and how they'd even to fix it. For now I hope it doesn't rain sideways for a while.

Outside, we escaped with the minor damage: One pasture tree snapped in half and a fine collection of meaty branches in the front yard. The weather also took another bite out of the silo's tin roof in its quest to rip it from the frame, slowly and painfully, storm by storm.

But that's another blog entry.

Technical difficulties

A few of the loyal 6 out there who read my blog instead of working, have complained that they have been unable to post comments. Am I censoring posters, they ask?

No, of course not! I just don't want to hear from you!

I consulted the great lint-condom retriever/lawn boy/technical lackey who shrugged and said, "I dunno." But after nagging and badgering him, he worked his clickety-clack magic, click this, unclick that, reload a widget here and there and shazamm!

I don't know if it'll work now, but give it a whirl (and email me if problems prevail). I promise not to censor you.

Unless you say something disparaging about my dog. The kids are fair game, me, Martin... but Maisie's perfect so don't go there.

Hey, round of teeth cleaning for everybody!

April happens to be National Autism Awareness month and National Breast Cancer Awareness month, but did you know that it's also National Mathematics Awareness month, National Poetry month and National Kite month?

On the farm, it's 'Get Your Butt to the Dentist' month.

Admittedly, I'm a bit obsessed about dental care and have always been neurotic about flossing and brushing. In jr high, my friend Kris & I would kill time by holding teeth brushing contests. (Yes, I realize this is totally nerdy but we were bored. Thankfully MTV came along and saved my gums from permanent damage.)

Kris and I would also see who could chew their food the longest. This stemmed from a report that Nancy Reagan credited her petite frame to the fact that she chewed every bite of food at least 22 times. Have you ever tried to chew a potato chip 22 times? Let me tell you, it's super nasty.

So now we've established that I'm a nutty tooth brusher. Thanks to that fact and a little bit of luck, I have no cavities and nearly perfect teeth. At least that's what dentists have always told me. And I'm proud of that fact.

Some people are out there saving the world, discovering cures for disease, or collecting trophies on their mantels for athletic achievements. Me, I live for that twice-yearly affirmation that yes, I have top notch choppers. "As always, your teeth look great," says the dentist, snapping off his gloves and rolling away on his little chair. Seriously, when you receive such accolades, where else is there to go after that?

Well of course, I can share my gift with others. And I've passed my wisdom onto Martin, who, in my opinion, is not particularly appreciative. And let me tell you, he was once a dentist derelict with a spotty visitation record. But I lectured him, goaded him, beat with my toothbrush and he's come around. We reached an agreement -- he'll no longer threaten me with bodily harm as long as I shut up about the goddamn dentist.

So I've moved on to foster dental awareness in youngsters. My kid was an easy target and I wanted to explain things simply and concisely. You know, bring it down to a 3-year-old's level. I think I drove the message home: "Boy, listen up. if you eat junk and don't brush your teeth, little monsters called cavities will camp out in your mouth and gnaw away at your pearly whites until all that's left are painful, rotten nubs. So brush or else."

Yea, I scared him good.

"Does this have sugar in it?" the Boy quizzes us daily, eyeing whatever is speared on his fork.

"Nice work," Martin glares at me. "Now the kid's totally paranoid."

I'm so proud.

This month, virtually everyone has taken a spin in the dentist's chair. The Boy had his first visit and my magic worked -- he sat stock-still. Martin and I were there for check ups, too, while the dog was just a couple miles away, getting her teeth cleaned as well. She's the only one who walked away with before and after pictures.
The horses were the last on the list. Horse teeth are kind of funny. Young horses have fully-formed teeth tucked away in sockets in the jaw and face. Their teeth wear down and emerge at a rate of about a 1/4 inch a year. So young horses' heads are full of teeth. In some, you can actually see the lumps in their jaws where their teeth are stored.

But the wear isn't always even, and some teeth become too sharp or wavey, so a dentist comes once or twice a year to rasp -- or "float" -- sharp points and level things out.

The dentist arrives wielding a bucket and a bunch of metal files -- sort of like emery boards on steroids.


And on each horse he straps on a torturous-looking midevil device called a speculum which simply holds the horse's mouth open and guarantees that the dentist doens't loose a digit while he's working in there.

There's not much for me to do other than shadow the guy and get a status report on who's got steps, waves or ramps -- fancy talk for the uneven wear patterns.

Chance thinking: "Whoa, enough already!"

Our dentist has a thick French accent, and sometimes I have a hard time understanding what he says. But I get the gist when he chides me for slacking on the horses' teeth.

dentist: "how long it's been since zees horses have had their zer teeth done?"

me: "um, I think it's been...I don't know... I have to check my records--"

dentist: "--too long I sink! Supposed to be 12 months! Zees have been longer than 12 months," he says shaking his head.

Huck, my happy-go-lucky brown-noser thinking, "Hey this is great! When's the fluoride treatment? I got dibs on mango flavor!"

I watch as the dentist plugs a file into a horse's mouths and see-saws back and forth. Then he plunges his hand in between the top and bottom jaw, practically up to the elbow, to check his work. Then he rasps some more. It's pretty innocuous but even I wince when he pulls a pair of plyers from his kit to yank a canine tooth. "Don't worry, doesn't hurt him," he says. Snap! and tooth flies off and disappears into the stall bedding.

Really, the horses are a lot like people: some tolerate the dentist and others don't. Beacon, the final patient, is the kid who flat out refuses to climb into the dentist's chair. Kids, you can bribe with toys. With horses, that's not an option. Beacon gets a bit of mother's little helper. Ten minutes later behold, a willing patient.

this is your brain on drugs...

Bottom line, the next time you find yourself squirming in a dentist's chair as a hygenist threatens with a metal scraper and a fist full of floss, be thankful that you're not facing a Frenchman with a mammoth file and a pair of plyers!

Border Collies part deux

As a follow up to yesterday's post on Maisie, check out this video -- proof of what these crazy dogs can do, & evidence that the Scots have too much time on their hands. (thanks to Stacey who passed me this link)

Stalked at home

I dare not move.
I need the stapler but it's out of reach. And I'm thirsty. And I'd love to stretch for that matter. But if I lean back, the chair will squeak. And if the chair squeaks, it's all over. She's watching.

Even when she's not watching, she's monitoring. Hearing is set on high alert. The slightest movement is cause for Immediate Action.

IS THIS THE REAL THING? IS SHE GETTING UP?
I THINK SHE IS. SHE'S ON THE MOVE.
THIS IS IT! GO GO GO GO GO!

"No, no no! Sorry, false alarm. Just getting the stapler..."

Welcome to life with border collie.

Not just any border collie. Maisie, 3 years old -- wolfish/foxy build and trademark black coat with odd cookie-dough markings. Tannish-brown creeps along her mouth and splashes her white legs along with funny black mottling -- as if the Boy attacked her with a Sharpie. But what makes her unusual is her disarming gaze, thanks to the blue eye that makes her look, well...

demented.

It also signals open season for comments such as:

"Hey I like your dog. Except for her eye. I could never own a dog with that eye."
"Wow, she is freaky looking."
"Is she blind? Can she see out of that thing?"

Seriously, you'd think she has a horn jutting out of her forehead.

I'll admit, that sky-blue eye is a bit unsettling and I tend to focus on the normal brown one. But this isn't the first border collie I've owned. I'm used to being stared at. And Maisie's like the others. Driven.

Border collies are the OCD-ers of the canine world. All they want to do is work work work. More than anything. More than sleep. More than food. More than sex, if you can believe it.

Obviously, they're hard-wired to herd sheep, but they'll try herding anything by staring at it. By giving it "The Eye."

Sounds kind of David Blane-ish, doesn't it? But it's pretty powerful. Maisie will stare down anything that moves:

Sheep...

horses....

toddlers....

luggage....

Kidding. She's a little nutty about cars and will jump in any open door without hesitation. Driving offers the chance to practice The Eye on passing vehicles.

Endurance? Forget about it. Rarely will you tire one of these guys out. Only once has Maisie run out of steam. It was on my friend Hunter's watch while I was on vacation. It took herding horses, herding goats and herding a tractor mowing a field in July heat and humidity to finally achieve exhaustion. "It can be done!" Hunter's email crowed, along with photo evidence of Maisie asleep on the tile floor. Okay, so we've gotten her once in 3 years.

There are some pluses. It's hard to be sedentary. You will get your butt off the couch and do something everyday whether you want to or not. In all sorts of whether. You can't escape The Eye.

And I'll say another thing: border collies are a good warm-up to raising kids. People always say that your life is never the same once you have a child. Ditto with a border collie. The first 3 years are hell and even after that, you won't get much rest.

Fortunately, there's a reverse advantage. If you can train one of these things, you can train a kid. The tenets are the same: 1. exercise them frequently, 2. give them a job, 3. and when they're wrong, correct them. Otherwise let them figure it out.

So why have one of these in the first place, aside from the exercise-drill sergeant aspect? (the dog, not the kid) If you're a manic, outdoorsy person, they're good company. Maisie keeps up with our life. She fits with the farm. And she is blissfully accepting of toddlers who sit on her, pull her tail and yank treats from her mouth.

And even if you're being watched, there is always a reprieve. Late at night when the horses are stabled and kids are asleep, the tv's silent and the lights are off, the dog sprawls at the foot of the bed. The foot usually seeps into the middle -- how does a reed-thin dog command so much territory?

But no matter. The dog's cutting you a break, so don't complain. You can stretch, roll over and reposition without scrutiny.

Cause even border collies have to sleep sometime.