Today my dog is TEN YEARS OLD!!!

Can you believe this adorable little feller is ten years old?  Dobby True Soul of Abbs, oh yes he actually has a full name,  has reached the double digits.  He's a little old man dog now!

(photo by Selina Bailey)

Dobby has claimed many firsts:

First house dog

First paid for dog

First small dog

First dog of a specific breed

First dog to actually get trained for a specific purpose (which was therapy dog, and then I decided maybe he could just be MY therapy dog, and he's been excellent at it.)

Right now, he is curled up on my left foot, snoring gently, but ready to leap up and bark like crazy until whatever got his attention gets scared away.  He's been pretty rustled up by all the boxes and suitcases around the house lately.  I keep telling him we are taking him with us!!!  

He's been a town dog, and then a country dog, and he's about to become both.  I plan to bring him with me to the farm regularly.  I mean, somebody has to bark at all the things, right?  And Grandma needs to have her pug time.  

I think I'm always going to have a dog in the house.  Preferably a pug.  I type this despite the fact that he just stretched and tooted.  Man, even his farts are cute.  Usually.  

He's been such a blessing to our family.  

I wonder if in October we'll have to have a big anniversary party, marking the ten years he's been in our lives.  But, he doesn't know.  We're making a big deal out of him today but he just turns his head sideways and wags his little curly tail.  It's like throwing a first birthday party for a baby -- the child does not know why there's been a cake placed in front of him.  It's not for the baby.  It's for the parents. Dog birthday parties?  Nah.  Just give him extra belly rubs.  

Maybe an extra chewy bone. 

update - he got a RIDE IN THE TRUCK!  We went down the town line, then down the next concession road, and back on the highway home.  He doesn't care if we ended up where we started, he got a ride in the truck and had a big doggy grin on his flat face the whole time.  

I think it's funny when the dog farts and then looks at his butt like he has NO IDEA HOW THAT HAPPENED!

Of course, being a pug, he looks confused most of the time anyways.  

So about that auction on the weekend...

No, we are NOT the new owners of a nifty little piece of land on a dirt road.

Yes, it sold for a reasonably low price.  No, I did not cry!  It really wasn't the right place for us, and we knew that.

But.  I still took on my first try at BIDDING!

For the first time ever, I bid on something and I got it!  Does that mean I bought it or I won it?  I never thought of it that way before.  You'll hear about that later.

The second time I bid on something... well I got that too.  Before we all start thinking I'm real naturally good at this auction bidding thing, I have a feeling I got my stuff because nobody else wanted it.

Also I ended up bidding against myself at one point.  So I laughed along with all the ol fellers and said, "I'm new here!" which wasn't totally true because I've lurked at these events since childhood.  The seasoned bidders make it look so easy!!!!

So what did I get?

A big ol hay wagon.

Here, the Farm Pug shows off the new implement.  

You know, cuz if you need hay, it's handy to have a hay wagon. 

Plus when I finally organize  HICKSTOCK, the biggest live show of local country-punk-metal bands, I have a stage.  

More later.  I have more.  Later.

When Laundry Attacks...

I thought I had it defeated, but then I walked into my bedroom...

The dirty clothes and sheets had oozed out of the hamper...

AND GOT MY PUG!

This is out of control!  

Look at his worried face!!!  Oh wait.  He always looks like that.  Never mind.

I wrestled the dirties back into place, but not before throwing a good batch into the washing machine.  Ha! That'll learn 'em.  I scooped up my Pug and put him up on my bed, where he is currently snoring away as I write this.  

Poor little house dog.  If it isn't clothes with stinky armpits, it'll be two feet of snow to jump through every time he has to go outside for a wiz. No wonder his forehead is all wrinkled.

It's hard to hold a candle... in the cold November rain...

Well, DUH!

Things Which Are Also Hard To Do In The Cold November Rain, And Which Axl Forgot To Include:

--get on a tractor and move a manure pile

--walk across a corral made up of clay footing (it's the slipperiest mud ever)

--keep your shoes clean

--stay warm

--wait for the school bus (although some of us are pampered and wait in the nice warm truck)

--hang out your laundry to dry

--look all rockstar-ish and confident as you swagger along

--swagger

--keep your hood up but not have it fall down over your eyes

--dry out the newspaper when it comes in, since the mailbox leaks

--catch the dog and dry him off before he storms into the living room and jumps up on the couch

--BBQ

--look at your horses without thinking they look like the "Before" picture.

--remember July and how hard it was to be thankful for the blistering heat despite the knowledge that this crap was on its way





Did I get all of them?  Can we write a whole nuther song?

Introductions

Last weekend, we had some visitors from the old neighourhood.  Phyllis, who is part of my writers group, took the scenic route home from her stay up north and found her way here to the homestead.  She brought her travelling companion, an adorable little white canine ball of soft fluff named Sofie.

Of course, being here meant touring the place and meeting those two horses I write about all the time.  

Sofie is a brave and easy going little dog, which is especially endearing knowing that she started off her life in a puppy mill.  Phyllis spent a lot of time gaining Sofie's trust, and teaching her about this big world.  My horses, meanwhile, are a couple of giant babies who have never known anything but love and affection.  They were quite willing to lavish all their attention on this dog. 

Sofie just kind of took it. As long as she had that arm around her, those giant critters didn't freak her out!

Nothing to see here, people.  Move along now.  

Poor dog must have thought she was going to get eaten.  But no, they just wanted to smell her.  How could they know that she darn near fit into one of their nostrils?

The real fun was watching the Pug lose his mind over the pretty white girl-dog.  We wondered if he remembered her from our pool party the summer before.  Either way, he was very happy to see her!

Oh and also?  Phyllis had treats in her pocket.

She is welcome to visit ANYTIME!

My mom says that blogging pictures of your laundry is just as bad as tweeting pictures of your lunch.

Okay, yes.  BUT.  My laundry is so PRETTY!

(And how does my mother know so much about the Tweetering?)

Look at those colours, up there against that vivid blue sky, and the kind of cotton-ball clouds you always think of when you think the word clouds.

Through my eyes, the backlit clothes glowed, but the iGadget couldn't quite capture it.  I still like this picture because of the shadows, and that it makes me think of the smell of the wind.  

And of course, a quilt.

How typically Mennonite of me.

We found it in my uncle's house.  Mom says my Grandma made it, since she recognized some of the fabrics in the squares.  Grandma worked in a shirt factory for a few years, and brought home remnants rather than throw them out.  It's practically an unwritten unofficial rule of being a Mennonite woman.  Thou shalt not throw away perfectly good fabric scraps.  

Yep, I've got three boxes in Mom's sewing room.

See the Pug at the bottom of that picture?  He's the reason I wash quilts so often.  Him and his shedding all year round, sleeping on my bed every night habit.  

It's okay with me though.  I love doing laundry.

He'll have to come up with a new Favourite Thing To Do

One of the great things about dogs - and there are so, so many - is the enthusiasm.  Dogs don't just like stuff.  They LOVE IT.  Walk?  YES! Scratch?  YES!  Snooze? YES!  Car ride? YES!  Dinner?  YES!  Barf?  Poop?  Roll in stinky stuff?  YES, YES YES!

The Pug gets really excited whenever he hears the word TRUCK.  Especially when it sounds like, "Dobby...?  You wanna go in the... TRUCK?!?"

I like to bring him with me to the bus stop when I can.  Since the weather's been nice now, I roll down the windows and let him sniff that wonderful country air, with all the different flavours of smells.

I put this rag rug on the seat in an attempt to keep the pug hair from getting stuck in the upholstery.  It helps minimally. At least he's smart enough to wait for me to put the Pug Rug in before he jumps up into the cab.

He's very happy here.  Very happy.  Riding in the Jetta isn't quite as much fun, because he has to ride in the back seat.  He'd prefer to be right up front, in the girlfriend seat (the middle) where he can stick his nose in the air vent and then rest his chin on my leg.  (He loves me.)

A couple of weeks ago, the farm across the road from the bus stop put their young heifers in the pasture. 

So the Pug was just hangin' and enjoying the nice breeze...

...when suddenly his ears perked up.  

Check him out in the mirror.  Those strange black and white critters needed to be barked at!!

He barked alright.  He barked until the cows shuffled into the bovine version of a dead run.  He sure showed them, he did.  That'll learn 'em to respect the power of the Pug.

As you can see, it's a good thing I bring him with me sometimes.  I mean, Jethro can't always be around to protect me from... well, them.  With their spots and udders and all.

His days of waiting in the truck for the school bus might be short lived.  Not only does school end in a few days, but this whole bus stop routine might not be happening at all next year.  If I'm lucky I'll get the kids on a bus route that stops right in front of our place.  I mean, that would make my life so much easier.  

I'll have to bring him with me to other places.  I know he's welcome at the TSC.  But then there's always his favourite place to go in the TRUCK.  

THE DUMP!  

WANNA GO TRUCK DUMP STINKY TRUCK WITH ME?

YES!

Is a Spotlessly Clean Truck a Sign of Good Management, Or Way Too Much Spare Time?

Personally, I'd like to lean towards the second option.  I'd like to say that my truck is a mess, inside and out, because I'm so busy doing stuff with it that I don't have time to clean it.

Of course, that could be a load of crap (ha, just one of the many things I use my truck for) because I suspect those clean, tidy organized people out there are actually capable of doing all that truck stuff and still find time to clean the truck.  I admire that.  I aspire to that standard, I really do, I just don't quite get there.

Having said that, I do like to keep a broom in the box.  I sweep the box out every time I do a dump run.  I hate when the bed's all covered in junk-crumbs.  So I guess I'm not a total truck slob.

I gave it a good vacuum a couple weeks ago when the weather was nice.  Sucking up the fine pieces of mud and gravel was nothing -- the real work, an almost impossible task, is getting all the Pug hairs.  Pugs shed constantly, all year round, and I really shouldn't let him ride in the truck with me... but I have to!  He's my DOG.  And what do you do with a DOG when you have a TRUCK?  Don't say put him in the back.  He's right up there beside me in the Girlfriend seat where he belongs, dirty paws and extra hairs and all.

The last couple mornings when I drive the kids over to the bus stop, I've looked up in my half awake stupor and noticed little muddy paw prints right in my line of vision.  Then I notice the rest of them on the hood. There's still a cat path running across the cab, except for the fan-shaped spot the wipers cleared.

Maybe I just don't care.

Maybe I like having a good supply of blankets and work gloves and shopping bags in the backseat.

Maybe I only have two arms and can't carry everything into the house.

Or maybe I have other stuff to think about.

Like how cute the Pug looks when he's plunked on the seat beside me with his happy tongue hanging out.

Today I was driving to the dump in my pickup truck...

...with my window down, the passenger window down a crack, the dog beside me with his tongue hanging out, my new pink John Deere cap on my head and a can of no-name "Sprite" in one hand.  Under my feet were the Taz floor mats I found up in the barn (buddy who left 'em there ten years ago probably not gonna miss them I figure).  I was wearing a plaid shirt and rubber barn boots.  The sun was hot, the air was cool, and I had a truckload of garage and barn garbage and useless plastic car parts I just couldn't wait to get rid of.

I took stock of the whole thing and realized, "Holy crap, I really truly am a hick.  There is just no fighting it."


(Also not worth fighting: trying to decide if I'm going to write about our weekend in St John's Newfoundland, or musing about moving the last of our worldly possessions out of the mostly empty house that will only be ours for another four days.)

Turns out I drink a can of pop once year to remind myself I don't like it.  Scratching the top of the grinning Pug's head is more fun than steering with a can in hand anyways.

I should write something!

But instead, I've been riding, and flinging manure, and trying to get caught up with my real life after our short-and-sweet trip to Newfoundland for the Junos. I have more to say about Newfoundland, or at least what I saw of it, which I'll be sharing next week.

I'm so far behind on email it's stoopid.

Because I'm lazy, and don't understand facebook, I'm doing it this way instead: HI EVERYBODY!

April is almost over.  We're emptying our house this next week.  (And filling mom's house.)  Meanwhile the grass is green and sitting outside no longer requires a warm sweater.  It's bearable.  I can survive this.

Annyong took this picture with the iGadget. She's an artist, what can I say.

She sat outside with the PUG this afternoon, soaking up the sunshine. He smells warm when he's been basking in the sun.  Sometimes we stick our faces in his rolls of neck fur to get that scent.

Happy weekend...

A Reminder that Life Can Be Good...

Last week was our March Break, and none of us got up at 6:30 am because we didn't have to.  The horses spent the week sleeping outside, which they loved.  I made the kids take the dog out for several "walks" each day, and I use the term "walk" loosely because there isn't really much walking going on out here!

We tackled our ongoing yard cleanup project, what with the departure of a few scrappers over the last month.  There were little bits of automotive hose, and the odd paper coffee cup and a few bits of metal that rusted off an old truck.  Like a treasure hunt, only not treasure.

I'd think about my house and the old neighbourhood.  I hope my friends all get to like the new owners.  I know it won't be the same.  CuteStuff won't be able to fling himself out his front door and end up in our backyard anymore.  No more ridiculously large pickup truck in the driveway.  But who knows, maybe the impromptu summer chat time at the side of the road will continue, just with different accents.  

It won't be the same.  It can't be.  Life never stays exactly the same.  

Some of this is a total drag but it can mean happiness too...

And that right there is a whole lotta happy!

The sun shines, the snow melts. Happens every year.

It took me a few years to figure it out, but it seems that every spring, I have a hard time coping with life.  The past few months have been particularly stressing, but despite that, I'm actually doing pretty okay.

Here's the way I see it: Every spring people get a hint of what's to come and they start getting silly, running around in shorts and T shirts when it really isn't that warm yet, getting out their motorcycles and carefully stored summer cars, and packing away the snowblower.  We all darn well know it's gonna snow again.  It always does.

But for a short time, we sort of don't care.

That little taste of summer feels so good.  

(I really must find a better tether for this poor guy.  Spending the winter under a snowbank was not good for this rope.  Last year's chain didn't do much better.)

This is the fourth day of sunshine.  The corral is drying up and I finally feel like going out there and doing something with my two hayburners.  Out in the pasture, a steady trickle of water runs down the low spot.  All the snow banks are gone now.  There are only a few wet spots in the corral.  The horses have been rolling off chunks of winter fur, and providing us with regular horse shows.  

The downside is that there's no way around it: SPRING STINKS.

In town, all the winter's worth of dog droppings surfaces in backyards, while out here, a giant pile of next year's compost is just cooking away in the sun and stinkin' up the place.  

I walk the Pug around the back and stare down at the mud, and the slimy remains of melted snow.  The horses are filthy.  There's gravel in places it shouldn't be because of snowplows.  

I don't think this is why I get seasonally depressed.  I don't know why.  I kind of don't care.  I'll just keep taking my big pink capsules and running around with my dog and staring at the huge lamp every morning.  

It's gonna be okay.  It is every year.  All I have to do is give it time.  And you know what? Looking out the window and seeing this somehow makes it all feel so much better.

I have an appointment with Dr Puggy and Dr Phoenix this afternoon.  Lucky me.

Couldn't I just pull my fingernails out instead?

I'm at my house/ the house we're going to sell/ my former home/ place where my wonderful neighbours still live.  I'm here because I have to clean/ vacuum/ scrub/ cry/ put things in garbage bags/ complain/ cry/ touch up/ repaint and generally pretty up the place.

Honestly, except for the chance to catch up with neighbours and go to my writers group, I'd rather be flinging horse manure.  Haven't I done enough here?  I have painted EVERY WALL IN THIS HOUSE.  It took 12 1/2 years, and most of it's been done in the last 6 months, but seriously, haven't I done enough primping and fixing in this house?

Isn't it perfect enough already????

waaaaa.

Anyways.  Catch watch the Limpics because the TV got moved to the farm.  I do have Mac White, so I can look up big Olympic news.

I have The PUG to keep my company.  He keeps spinning out on the beautiful freshly sanded and varnished hardwood floors, which convinces me all over again that he is valuable for comic relief.

And speaking of which...

That's my son Bucky the Nerd, last weekend, flailing around like a slippery Pug.  He was blinded by the brightness of that amazingly shiny floor.  You know, it kind of makes me feel like after all this work we should just jack up this house, load it on a truck and ship it out to the sticks... but not.

Because that just sounds like too much damn work.

Well, I have procrastinated enough and must continue putting sawdust into bags.  I'M NOT BITTER ABOUT THIS.

Okay maybe I am just a little.

But I'll get over it.

I promise.

I will just sigh heavily and accept the fact that living in a house means fixing a house, and that someday I'll have a house to call my own again.  And I'm sure it'll be a slightly rundown little old farmhouse that I will love, and I will never be wealthy enough to make it look this perfect.  All I can hope for is that selling this house will soon get us into one with some land attached.

Also I have learned an important lesson.

DO NOT SAND A FLOOR UNLESS THE HOUSE IS EMPTY.

And always have extra vacuum cleaner bags handy.

Later, folks.

Gaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh

Yeah I'm still here.

Working on the barn - pictures soon.  Maybe.

Not writing.  Want to, would like to, but any spare hour is often spent sitting on a couch watching something on TV that does not stimulate my brain in any way - and I like it.

My mom's taking a few weeks off work.  Did you know you have a little internal filtering organ called a gallbladder?  Well she doesn't anymore.  And soon she'll be much happier about it.  Until then, I take over all grocery shopping duties as well as all dish washing, cooking, and bathroom cleaning.  I continue with my laundry jobs.  She continues to instruct the universe from a position of relaxation, and continues to be amazing.

My dog is now full time foot warmer for Grandma.

I'm glad I'm here for her.

My ol' Man is 67 years old and might be close to admitting that he ain't 45 anymore.  Nobody believes him though. Will keep you posted.

Tribble wrote her Grade 10 english exam today.  Good thing she can read.  She doesn't have to go to school again until Friday, when she performs her Dance exam.  I fully intend to work her like a rented mule, hahahaha!  Good thing she likes the barn.

Bucky has to be at school at 7 am tomorrow for a field trip.  I will be getting up around 5:30 am, leaving the house with him at 6:30, returning home at 7, kicking the horses out of the barn with a half bale of hay, taking the Pug for a quick run in the melting snow, then going back to bed.  (Where Tribble will most likely be, taking up as much room as a 102 lb person can.)

Jethro got the floors in that house of ours sanded.  Looks gorgeous.  I think we should do that again soon in a house we intend to live in for many years.

There's a big grey and white tomcat hanging around the barn.  Larry and Moe kind of avoid him.  I figure if he's gonna hang around and eat our generic feed mill cat-kibble, he better tame up.  I can get almost 2 feet away from him, but he still looks at me like I'm a cat eating monster.  Maybe I should stop picking up Larry and telling him he's deliciously cute.

Lucy In The Sky With Ladybugs is still insane, stalks shadows, pounces on my feet in bed, thinks she's weightless and eats like a dog.  I suspect she might be a shapeshifter but she's so damn fast I can't catch her at it.  Hmmm.

Phoenix and the Little Lady both in need of hoof trimming.  I have neglected them.  I feel awful every time I look at their hooves, especially his.  I shouldn't even be posting this on the internet.  His hooves are all long and cracking and I must be a bad horse owner.  I had to choose between parasite control and hoof trimming.  Then I had to buy feed.  Then shavings to bed their stalls.  Then... my own children needed new pants.

I hate being broke.

I am working on getting work.

People I know are dealing with problems worse than mine.

That doesn't make me feel better.

I have a dream of wearing really expensive high quality overalls out to the barn.

I like having a radio out there.

I'll need a new corn broom soon.  This one's wearing down from sweeping all those miserable cobwebs. Will it ever end?

I miss Jethro.

My imaginary people talk to me while I'm working.  I hope they don't stop.  I'm listening.

I am behind on EVERYTHING.

I just remembered that my coveralls are still in the washing machine and I think I'd like them to be dry before I put them on to go back out to the barn.

I still have a huge amount of re-arranging to do before the last of our belongings will fit into this house.  I have nightmares about brown webs and cardboard boxes and garbage bags.

So, yeah, I'm just gonna mosey on down to the cellar and do some laundry.

I hope it doesn't take me a week.  Stay tuned.

Friday. Just... Friday.

Giving ol' Johnny a day off.  He's earned it.  I'll find another model for this scattering of thoughts...




I've got a stinky little dog under my right elbow.  He keeps farting.  I still love him.  How weird is that?

I got the stalls cleaned out before 9 am today.  I didn't do a whole lot of sweeping, or clean water buckets, but that gives me a reason to go out to the barn again this afternoon.  I like being in the barn.

I think my little housecat is always going to be slightly more than half wild.

I have a lot of research to do this afternoon.

I need to know where to put all my advertising for my riding lessons this spring. I haven't ridden my horses since November because of the ice, but when the ground warms up it'll be time to get back in the saddle.

And I'm thinking of putting some of my words into a little tiny book, like a real book that people could open in their hands and read.  It won't be one of my novels because I'm still planning on getting them done the hard way.  I just need a sense of accomplishment in the writing part of my world.

I feel heartbroken about the earthquake in Haiti.  In the Mennonite church there's a lot of emphasis on mission work, and Haiti is a place needing help. They needed help before the earthquake.  I can't comprehend the devastation.  My cousin and his wife returned last summer; their little boy was born in Haiti.  As much as I selfishly am so glad they're back, safe in Ontario, my heart aches for those nearby who have lost a loved one in the disaster.

I have no money.  I can't contribute with money.  But I can find other ways to help.   Mennonite Central Committee  has always been good for getting relief efforts to places that need it.  I can pray.  I pray a lot and always wonder if it's doing any good but on the chance that it does, I will do it.  Any bit of positivity in this world has got to do some good.

People ask me how I'm doing and I reply that I'm keeping busy.  It's true.  Living with my parents does not mean a free ride for me -- I do all I can to make my presence here a help rather than a hindrance.   I want to take a burden off my folks, not load them up with more.

I hardly read blogs anymore, which I miss.  When I do read, I don't comment like I used to.

I'm waiting for a really good book to arrive in my hands.

I miss my town neighbours.

I love living in the country.

I have so much stress in my life but I have so much to be thankful for -- I cannot let myself forget that!

Jethro says most of his problems can be solved with money.  You know, he's right.  If he could get that together, what would he have to worry about?  My first reaction is to be sickened with worry about the money thing, but if I look at it like it's the ONLY problem, it gets put into perspective.  

I have a lot of work to do today, and it ain't gonna do itself.  That's okay.  I never get bored.  Ever.

LET'S GO FOR A RUUUUUUN!!!

It doesn't matter that it's full on winter; that the weatherman says it's -9C today but it feels much colder with the wind; that out here, it IS colder with the wind.

That little house-dog still needs to go outside.  And there'll be none of this opening of the screen door and chasing him out to play on his own.  He's a pet.  He wants to be with his people.  Specifically, ME.

He's got trees to pee on and snow to dig into with his flat face.  In his world, these things can only be done with ME as his supervisor.  He loves the snow, but if left on his own, he'll go take a wiz under the lilac bush then crouch at the door shivering and looking pathetic until I let him in.

So I have no choice.  I bundle up and follow him out into the wastelands...

Everything looked so pretty in the summer.  I spent much of September pulling forgotten junk out of the long grass, trying to make some room.  Not that I specifically needed the room.  I just needed to work.  I wanted to do the work so my ol' Man wouldn't have to.

Now the hunker-downs are parked for the winter, soon to be covered.  The intrepid Pug plows his way through the soft stuff.

It's not deep.  We had no snow in November, and what we do have gets blown away by the harsh wind. Maybe the wind is feeling like I am these days.  Restless.  Slightly helpless.  Needing to do something but not quite sure where to throw that energy.

The wind has more energy than I do.

So does the crazy little dog, once he's done snoozing and snoring on Grandma's couch.

Sometimes he still looks out over the wide expanse of field and looks like he's about to run for it.  What really knocks me out is the little guard dog routine.  He sees a car going down the town line - how he sees anything with his whacky eyes is beyond my imagining - and growls like he's just spotted an enemy and must now go chase it away!  Of course the car keeps going, so clearly, the Guard Pug has done his job.

Then he has to go inspect that gnarly old camper that didn't quite make it to the scrap yard this year.

Then it's time to run up the hill to the garage.  This will be way too much fun in a month or so when the snow is up to my knees.  Pug tunnel!

After that he's got some serious snoring to do.  He's a very busy dog.

It is not Beige. It is "Fawn Pug."

I have made my peace with the new colour on the walls of our house.  You know, that colour meant to "wow" "lure" and "entice" potential buyers of this house.  I was really disappointed about beige, but I'm getting over it.

Here's the reason:

He's such a good boy I can work without worrying that he'll create a trail of little beige footprints all over the house.

Plus he looks quite nice against the backdrop of the new "Natural Linen" walls.

We were so proud of him for not getting paint all over him.

Except for that little speck on his right ear.

And a little bit on a whisker.

Then Bucky noticed the fur on his shoulder was kinda crusty.

Yep.  Natural Linen.

It matches the Pug perfectly.

Now I feel much better about everything, even if it means putting so much work into a house that isn't really ours anymore.

The whole point of this little adventure is to get ourselves into the country, and this house will get us there.  It's easy to be bitter that someone else gets to enjoy the prettied up house, but I need to remember why we're doing this.

Room for the Pug to run!

Lookin' for a place to happen, makin' stops along the way...

okay, now which one of you genius readers can guess that lyric???  Prize is the same - my pure admiration - cuz that's all I got to give!  I've just decided this is going to be a November thing.  Stay tuned...


Walking the dog has become a whole new adventure. It used to mean harnessing him up and going for a nice mannerly walk around the block, or various combinations of loopy subdivision blocks, on the sidewalk.  I always had a bag in my pocket to carry the poop home in, because that's how you do it.

Now, going for a walk means running in circles, sniffing, barking, running, crapping in the long grass, and more sniffing.

I wonder if he misses finding all those messages from other dogs in the neighbourhood.  I imagined him sniffing and his little puggy brain going, "That's Rocky.  Before that Monty was here."

What does he smell now?  Does he detect Moe the barn cat on his most recent hunting trip?  Does he find all those sneaky nocturnal critters we never see?

I've been keeping busy lately getting the old scrapyard cleaned up before winter.  When I was a kid, and my Dad supplemented the farm income by painting cars, we had quite a few parts cars and wreckers in the bottom of the yard.  Now I go for dog walks and come back with handfuls of radio knobs, hoses, door handles.  I got the eagle eye for this stuff; I can spot weatherstripping hiding in the short grass from several feet away.  I used to want to be an archaeologist.  I imagined myself digging treasures out of the Egyptian sand.  Now I dig junk out of the Ontario clay.  It's still fun.

Everything is interesting to this dog of mine.  Everything.  I don't know what he sees or smells, but he sure gets excited about those treks around the yard.  It's like a two acre dog playground.

The yard looks better every day, the dog is slim and trim, and winter's coming.  In his first three years, winter at the farm has meant leashed walks around the lane way and quick dashes to the lilac bush for nature calls.  This year will be different.  The little house dog has figured out where the property line is, where his territory ends, and what happens if he steps over the line.

I worried how the town dog would transition to becoming a farm dog, but I'm not worried anymore.  I mean, I still have to keep an eye on him.  There's a lot of traffic around here and he's small.  I don't want him to get hit.  Plus, just because he knows he's not allowed in the horse pasture doesn't mean he'll never sneak in there.  Those smells are just so tempting.  But he's doing great.  I'm expecting this winter that we'll pack down a few trails through the huge snowdrifts and possibly have a little bit of fun with it.

Of course, there's always the possibility of finding messages from sneaky critters who don't want to be seen... I'm sure the little dog'll find things to take care of.

It's October: that means 3 things. It's Friday: you know what that means.

You're here, I'm here, outside the cold rain is dripping like misery, but it's Friday, so Johnny's here too. I kinda missed him. Thanks for reminding us to dress warm, Johnny.

Summer is over, kids. I'm as melancholy as you, I'm sure.

October means:

1) digging out the warm hats and flannel shirts. That brings me just a small comforting measure of happiness. I busted out the earflaps hat the other day.

I love flannel. For me, a good plaid flannel shirt is one of the best things about cold weather. It represents warmth and reality and signifies a trustworthy, honest person. Sounds corny, but that's what it says to me.

I'm taking any comfort I can these days. Now that it's over, I can confess that it wasn't the best, most fun summer of my life. We were totally broke, not in the "Can't afford to go to the movies" kind of way (which is why I did NOT get out to see Johnny Depp's latest), but in a "Can't buy cheese and meat in the same week" kind of way. Since I'm training myself to always look for the bright side - even if it hides from me - we did not starve. (I thank God and loved ones for that.) We are not homeless, despite not knowing where we'll be living a year from now. This past summer was all about uncertainty, but we got through it.

There were a few good things about this crappy summer.

I had visitors out to the farm. I got to use my tiny saddle on the little Lady so my friend Cute Stuff could ride her. See, I'm glad I decided to hang onto those cowboy boots my kids outgrew!

We actually did ride, but she would have been okay with standing around and being admired.

It's good to have friends over. Even dogs need friends.

We got one trip to the beach. One. We picked the only nice day in August.

September, however, was beautiful. I'm thankful for weather that allowed me to enjoy the great outdoors with my horses, and kept my kids out of the house after school.

Now it's rainy and miserable and feels like our two weeks of summer never even really happened.

October also means:

2)the Ol' Man will be packing his truck away for the winter. I finally drove it again after a few years of chickening out. If the seat moved all the way up, it would work better for me, but heck, I don't have to shift it into 5th, right? Too skeert to open that thing up and go full speed.

Like the door lock? I think my dad might be a redneck.

He's still got his winter van, but it only seats one other. I need to roll my truck down the big highway. I need wheels (under a cargo box) out at the farm. I need to do something about that highway phobia if I'm ever going to get my truck there.

October brings me a jarring change this year. I'm wandering around my house putting things in boxes. It makes the house look less like our house. My dog is following me around all day looking very confused and concerned.

I'm staring at bookshelves feeling very indecisive. Books don't belong in boxes. They need to be on shelves where they can breathe! This is very hard. I haven't even started on the bedrooms yet. I'm still fretting over books.

Know what else?

October means:

3) It's my Blogiversary.

It's been FOUR YEARS since I started this bizarre little interactive journal. Many of my readers have gone on to other things, and I've gotten new readers, and I'm still writing although finding the time gets harder.

Help me out here. What should we do to mark this occasion? What would you like me to write about? I'm overdue for another H the Heidi magazine but that's really hard to pull off on dial up. Maybe you should tell me about a particularly memorable blog post and I'll re-run it with updates and commentary. I do want to know what readers want to see. I'd be here typing anyways, but it sure is nice to know somebody's reading.

Gotta go. Boxes do not fill themselves.


ps  I pressed a few virtual buttons so that now anybody can comment.  (I think you all know who you are!)