Pretending to Farm

What You Missed

One thing we learn on a farm, even a small pretend one like ours, is that life can be cruel; and, in the last 17 months, we have definitely had our share of cruelty. Loss occurs without narrative or explanation; it occurs via storms, tumors, and predators; it occurs with little emotion from nature itself. 

Although at times I have perceived nuanced sadness from the farm lot and the in-house domestics, mourning is an individually human adventure and mourning we have done. Hey, you wanna mourn some, too? It’s fun; you get to eat all the Ben and Jerry’s you like straight out of the pint carton and people say nice things to you and make you feel all warm and loved inside. Spoons at the ready? Let’s catch up.

 3. Chickens

   

Some of you might recall the Great Chicken Massacre of Summer 2006. Coyotes had discovered the Rancho Laurena Chicken Shack in our backyard and couldn’t get enough of that free range poultry goodness. This led to the purchase of Spartacus, our most excellent guard llama, and essentially took care of The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Chickens. Well, guess what Nancy Drew? Bobcats ain’t afraid of no llama. And they’re sneaky. And husbands think they’re mountain lions. So the chickens started disappearing, first, the bolder ones who eschewed the comforts of their home for the wilderness of the trees and then the elderly and ailing. We began receiving telephone calls from our area’s mandatory nosey/crotchety neighbor. Poor bitch, she actually had to bend over and pick up a few chicken feathers. Then she had to start hanging feathers with notes attached on our back fence as if we were in danger of impending tribal warfare. 

To give her credit, she was the one who fingered bobcat as the perp though David saw the attack cat early one morning and said it was at least 50 pounds where bobcats who don’t eat fried food top out at 35 so it must be a mountain lion, right? Right? After a particularly bad loss in which all the roosters but one died in defense of their harem, many of which we lost as well, the boys four spent a day in the farmyard battening and boarding and we have lost no chickens since (though we have received a couple more notes from Injun Ginny). 

 2. Ducks

   

It was a dark and stormy night, actually, the stormiest since we moved here. Thunder. Lightning, the way it shook was frightening. You gotta knock, knock, knock on wood. And then awake to a bunch of dead ducks. 

Poor Robert was on a school break and had the misfortune to be saddled with the post-storm farm chores. A scant two minutes after he went out into the farmyard he returned to share this particular non bon mot, “I’m sorry Mom but all the ducks are dead.” Yeeeaaaahhhh, metal poles were maybe not the best materials to use in the construction of the duck pen. With the exception of one horror flick worthy inside out bird, the rest of the birds were without injury and, if not for the fact that they were ducks and could not hold a glass or wear Nikes, one might have thought they committed group hari kari to get on that space ship orbiting for losers. Lightning, shockingly effective killing method. 

Yes, things are no longer ducky here at Rancho Laurena 

 1. Molly

   

Molly deserves the number one spot because, after all, her passing affected us more than any other. She was a crazy old bloodhound but she was our crazy old bloodhound and, for that, we loved her. 

In case you have forgotten/never knew, we adopted Molly from a woman at Camp Pendleton whose husband was injured in Iraq and whose new handicapped housing would not allow pets. Unknown to us, Molly arrived in heat and we awoke the following morning to the raucous sounds of bloodhound sex in our backyard (they howl, you know). Next came puppies and bottlefeeding and wildfires and evacuations, all enough to drive a sane dog a little crazy and this adopted one certifiably batshit. 

Molly was, above all, David’s dog. That dog loved him more than all of Troy loved Helen. Even when old, obese, and very infirm, Molly followed David’s every move, slept beside him, worshipped at his feet. Though perhaps not quite as obsessive, David returned Molly’s feelings and it was a far right nightmare scenario made in heaven (yes, the approval of gay marriage will lead to legal man-dog love). 

In one month’s time, what had been a small fatty tumor on Molly’s torso grew to the size of a large bisected soccer ball which bounced sickeningly at her side. The vet said nothing could be done, that a real danger of bleeding out existed, and that Molly’s rainbow bridge time had come. Sadly, we said au Revoir to our crazy old bloodhound and buried her in that Stephen King novel in our backyard. 

We’re still a little sad but, on the bright side, our food bills are lower. 

So there you have it. I may have missed a few things but I tend to suffer from a combined case of post traumatic farm death disorder and can’t remember shit. Tomorrow, I shall talk about things less rigor mortissy. Until then...

Mea Culpa Slobberatus

I have a confession to make (status of palms = sweaty, heart = racing).

Um, uh, yeah. Maybe if I say it fast and all at once.

WhenIAmTakingPicturesInTheHouseIOftenUseTheCloneStampInPhotoshopToEraseBloodhoundSlobber.

There, I said it (sort of). I say my house is messy, I know; but I do not show it. I am embarrassed, dare I say ashamed. Today, however, I have lost all shame. I need to come clean (unclean). I am ready to show you the unsanitary, un-wiped-off, un-clone-stamped truth.

The juicy culprits:

Her

Her

And him.

The formerly clone-stamped slingers:

The High-up Western

The Down-low Paisleys

A By-the-Fireplace Lazy Vertical Arc

Joined by the Lazy Horizontal Arc

The Australian (boomerang-shaped, you know)

The "Auntie-Em-It’s-a-Twister!” Cyclonic

The Shy Short and Wide

Sometimes they like to hang in groups:

The In-the-Corner Klatch

The Hallway Hangers

The Inebriated Wall Flowers

I will now stay by the phone and wait for my mother to call and bitch at me. Sorry Meem, Happy Early Mother's Day.

That is all (wasn’t it enough?!).

Welcome to the Fun House

Although it is rarely quiet here, each visitor, delivery person, and/or resident of Casa de Dillon is welcomed with this unable-to-hear-over reception. Raucous bloodhound howls plus the yips of a little brown mutt make time stop because no conversation can be had, no telephone call can be continued, and no sanity can be maintained. This is my life; I like it. Be happy it's not yours.

BTW, you email subscribers will need to actually go on the blog site to view (and hear) this and, if you happened to visit anytime close to 5:15 p.m. Arizona time (we don't change as we SO do not need to save daylight), YouTube tells me the video is still processing and you will receive a "video is no longer available" message. Keep trying.

Super Millie the Millenium Mutt

First of all, I’d like to thank you all for your comments and suggestions as to my future path to becoming the next Bill Gates (ha!) Seriously, though, you gave me some great thought-provoking ideas. Keep ‘em coming!

Now I thought I’d share a story that anyone who has known me for any length of time has heard so I apologize for the repetition. Unless I’m having a senior moment, I don’t think I’ve put it on the blog though so here goes.

We had an elderly Springer Spaniel/Chocolate Lab mix named Cocoa who died whilst we were camping over a President’s Day weekend with the illustrious camping crowd, most of whom can be seen here. She had a good last day, chasing the ball nonstop and then getting into a fight with Arrow, John T’s beagle. Then, she lied down and couldn’t get back up and quietly passed away.

Of course, we were all devastated and it wasn’t long after that we went to the San Diego Animal Shelter and found a little brown mutt of a puppy who we fell immediately in love with and named Super Millie the Millennium Mutt (she was supposedly born on Jan 1st, 2000 and she has a white “M” blaze on her chest) . At the time, I didn’t realize how much she resembled Cocoa but one pointed look from my friend Allene opened my eyes and I had to fess up that I was still in mourning and attempting to replace my poor dead dog.

Millie was a bad puppy. Housetraining was a nightmare plus she was a submissive piddler so any loud noises (which come free with our household) made her drip. We began to think getting her was a bad idea but, not a family to give up on its animals, we gave her another chance (and another and another and so on and so forth).

It was during this not-housetrained-submissive-piddling period that HH woke up in the middle of the night full of temper, cursing and carrying on. Millie had peed in the bed (yes, all our dogs sleep with us; we have a phobia about being able to spread out comfortably while catching zzzzz's) and HH had rolled over onto a cold wet pee puddle. Millie, scared out of her wee puppy wits, ran toward me, my pillow, and my head. I began to scream. David looked at me like I was the biggest wimp in the world. He was the one who woke up in wet pee; I was just getting my hair pulled by little puppy feet.

The moral of this story is 1) Don’t call your wife a wimp at three in the morning if you want clean sheets put on the bed and 2) Don’t second guess her reason for screaming.

Yes, ladies and germs, Millie ran to my head in fear and proceeded to pee generously in my ear. If she pulled my hair, I didn’t notice. The good part of this whole urinating situation was that for a brief time period I got a humbled, chagrined husband (who changed the sheets while I took a much-needed shower). As a bonus, for the next few weeks after this happened, my hearing was exceptional.

Today, Millie is the most loyal dog we have and, despite the era of submissive piddling, we love when she crawls into bed with us. The End.

A Beautiful View (and The Ocean, Too)

This is Kona, Australian Cattle Dog and wonder pet of our good friends, Chrissy and Richie (if you remember from previous posts, she's the efficient bitch who, despite this, I love and he's ol' one lung; you better be all cured young man or I'm coming to beat your butt). The photo was taken just this past weekend on the cliff near their home in the Bird Rock area of La Jolla.

I love Bird Rock. It has somehow escaped the hoity toity Prospect Street vibe, instead maintaining its funky surfer dude heritage. Some of the best fish tacos in the world can be found here and, no, I'm not talking Rubio's. I'd live there in a minute, especially with Hunky Husband traveling west just about every week now, but I don't think the town council would lay out the welcome mat for our menagerie. For now, I'll use my imagination to smell the kelp, listen to the waves, and pet a very cute Australian Cattle Dog.

Chrissy, did you bring the wine?

I'm Afraid It's Contagious

It started with Cordelia. Being the baby of the bloodhound family, she got in her droopy giant head that she deserved to lie on the furniture. She’s done this since puppyhood and we’ve come to accept it. (Notice how it doesn't stop her from taunting us still today.)

Around Christmas, however, a tear opened in the time/space continuum because suddenly all the dogs have decided the role of couch potato is their given right as well. Cordelia is four years old and this has never happened before; something is definitely screwy here. I get up in the morning, pour my much-needed coffee (hopefully in my preferred Farm Ho mug), and, as I head over to my favorite corner of the sofa to ease into the day to come, I can’t sit down. Molly, matriarch, rescue hound, and downright grumpy old dog, is sprawled from one end of the sofa to the other. I try to move her and she growls at me and, believe you me, I am frightened. The dog has issues.

Hunny, Molly is in my spot again. Could you please move her?!

(David is the only one she minds and respects and even that is not a given.)

Big Daddy Marshall has joined in on the act as well except that, instead of lounging on the sofa or loveseat, he has decided he is King of Rancho Laurena, and, befitting his royal status, deserves to sit in a club chair/throne. The dog weighs about 140 pounds and barely fits in the thing but I truly believe he thinks it is his blue-blooded right.

I’ve even found Millie, the little brown mutt, sneaking into one of the chairs, and believe me, her blood is nothing but red.

Monday the final straw was reached. I walked into the restroom and saw this. I think I need to call Stephen Hawking.

Is Mr. Wizard Still Out There?

We awoke this morning to unrelenting wind and driving rain, atypical for our little patch of the Sonoran Desert. It was still dark, causing me to wonder if the washes were running, how the livestock were faring, and if anything had been swept away or, on the contrary, deposited homeward. Leaving myself bare, I looked at Hunky Husband and pondered, “I wonder what it will look like when the sun comes up.”

Not missing a beat, he said, “Lighter.” The smart aleck.

This is my life. It is not boring and one has to stay on one’s toes or be slaughtered by multi-directional, not-quite-rapier wit.

An hour later, I still cannot see what the storm hath wrought but, in the dim light, I am assured that none of our livestock are tumbling down our semi-annual river and our home has not leapt from its moorings so I think we’re okay. It’s probably silly to worry about a simple rain storm when elsewhere snow is drifting and waves are roaring but, hey, I’m nothing if not egocentric. We got five whole inches of rain last year; two in a 24-hour period makes an impact.

Meanwhile in the house world, all remains a this-is-the-filthiest-I’ve-ever-seen-it mess. This is not helped by these.

Or the rabbit who thinks he is a cat
(or bloodhound depending upon his present company). His potty training is not going well, still thrown way backwards since our Thanksgiving absence, and he is now in solitary confinement in the master bathroom (which is fairly large so it’s not like we’ve thrown him down a dark hole with a pocket watch and given him the idea he is late for a very important date).

This one doesn’t help either. He has a penchant for knocking things over, graceful feline my you-know-what. Felina can literally pussy-foot her way across a tabletop of clutter and never graze one object but Apollo takes after his Rocky-born namesake, Apollo Creed.

He does make it up by keeping our laps warm during those rare relaxing times. Of course, he also never fails to accompany us to the restroom because no one wants to do their business in solitary peace. I have had Marshall the bloodhound, Apollo the part-Siamese-if-you-please, and a certain Pint-sized farmer all join me in the tiny throne room. Oh, joy. You know, I grew up in a usually-quiet family of three (or four if you include Terry Dog), two parents and me. Lately, I’ve been thinking I conked my head one too many times during those aforementioned eighties, leading to my current predicament/blessing. Help, Mr. Wizard.

So now I must rise and shine (flicker?) and dive into the overwhelming clutter and dustbowl that is my home. I feel like I am in the scene in “Apollo 13” after Tom Hanks’ character and his wife have thrown a party and she says, “The house is too dirty; we’ll have to move.” Wish me luck (or send a housekeeper or ten). I’ll need it.

The Odd Couple

Marshall and Albert, both someplace they shouldn't be, personifying our household in one photo. Blessed? Cursed? You be the judge.

See Spartacus. See Spartacus Eat.

It’s now been over two weeks since Spartacus arrived to play guard llama and, in that time, he has bonded with Lucky and sworn Tumalo as his mortal enemy. He has also so far not taken up his proper post and coyotes have gotten into the farm yard at least three times. Apparently, we were not supposed to introduce our dogs to him as a guard llama cannot tell the difference between Marshall the Bloodhound and Marauder the Coyote. That seems just downright stupid to me but I am trying not to be overly judgmental here. He is a llama after all.

Bad Marauder (who generously left some scat in payment) took Zorro who was once a very sweet house turkey until he bonded with Hunky Husband and, filled with two deadly sins, envy and wrath, attacked me at every opportunity. So poor Zorro became a martyr and is in turkey heaven with his 72 virgin hens. Hunky Husband misses “ma’ boy” who followed him around as he did farm chores and treated him like the second coming. I wish I could say I miss him as well but, alas I cannot tell a lie. Well, I can but I don’t like to and tangled webs are unsightly, doncha think?

Spartacus loves his alfalfa, the bouquet, the texture, the mouth-feel. Oh, lovely, delicious alfalfa!

Even so, he generously shares with Lucky.

But someone needs to teach the boy some mealtime manners.

“Spartacus, you’ve got a little some-something stuck in your teeth.”

“Where?”

“Well, pretty much everywhere. Maybe you just need to excuse yourself and take a look in the mirror.”

By the way, has anyone seen my cat?

E = MC2

I don’t know what the rest of the world does upon adopting a very fluffy werebunny and bringing him home to bond with the rest of the family but we, weirdos that we are, well we go to the park.

It didn’t take long for Albert Bunnicula Einstein to display his inner rock star. Due to his my-that’s-a-huge-rabbit size and his overflowing fluffiness, he quickly formed a large and ever-changing fan base. Apparently, these Quarts wander the parks of Scottsdale looking for rabbits with whom to have their picture taken. Groupies.

Albert lapped up the attention. After traveling many confusing and bumpy hours in a cardboard box in the backseat of a Dodge Truck and sharing in the near-death experience with Robert and me off-roading in the Navajo Nation, he had more than a bunny’s share of pent-up frustration and was ready to blow off some steam.

He’s magic, this bunny.

He makes Frisbees levitate

And Pints swing.

He even has the power to soothe the angst-ridden teenager.

I think we’ll keep him.