Chicken poop + puppy = Ewwww!!!

We can fix this.

Step 1: Wash puppy:

Step two: try not to get tangled up with puppy:

Step three: Give puppy a stern “talking to!” Bad puppy! Sit puppy! Sit, sit, sit!

Wait a minute puppy! No puppy, don’t shake! I can’t get away!!! No! No! Don’t shake!

Don’t Shaaaaaaaaaaake!

Puppy Revenge!

Funny: Hearing a weird goofy sound coming from the chicken house that sounds like something out of a “The Farmer Sez” toy.

Not so Funny: Realizing that two of the “guaranteed pullets” you got from big box farm store are not pullets but roosters.

Funny: Realizing that even though your garden has been decimated *again* (yep again) you will have at least something homegrown and local this week: chicken stew.

Not So Funny: Realizing you have to break it to the twins that Nancy and Bess are not girls after all.

Funny: Watching your USMC husband hopping around, chasing two roosters around the yard with a .22 in a thunderstorm because you are too scared to catch the darn things because they scratch and bite and darned if you are going to ask your kids to catch their babies to send them to their doom. And husband wants to shoot them instead of chopping off their heads because he doesn’t want blood all over and headless roosters running around creating CHAOS!!! And USMC husband wants to shoot them in the thunderstorm because he doesn’t want to freak the neighbors out with a gunshot and thinks the storm will mask such gunshot. You bet.

Not so Funny: getting in an argument with the big box farm store manager because you feel like you got gypped because these were definitely not sexed birds but straight run because you are pretty sure there is at least one other rooster in the bunch and that would make the chicks you got half female and half male. And you have invested time and money into these birds expecting layers that will be producing for some time to come and your kids are attached to them and on and on and on. And then the manager goes, it isn’t our fault but our supplier’s fault. So I need to take it up with their supplier? After BIG BOX STORE was the ones who guaranteed these birds? Whaaaaa???? That just makes me mad. Poor customer service always makes me mad. Needless to say I won’t shop there anymore. I end up getting mad everytime I go in there. I should know better.

Funny. Homegrown roosters shot by USMC husband and all cleaned and skinned and tidied up and brought to you to put right into a pot look remarkably like regular old chicken from the store. Not gross at all. And you know where this bird came from, and know it has led a very good, pampered life up until the time it was chased around the yard by a man with a .22.

Every bit of this will be used from dinner tonight, to homemade stock to be frozen and used all year along. Especially when we have those horrible winter flu episodes. I can’t think of anything better. And no I am not going to let that make me feel better about big box store. They still make me mad.

I have declared war! War on hail. War on bugs.

Yesterday, as a black cloud rolled over, I ran out and did this:

I sat inside and watched as quarter-sized hail rained down. All the plants made it through.

Then, this morning, I noticed the return of the squash bugs. I hate those things worse than anything. So, to entice the twins to assist in my search and destroy mission, they are allowed to say a “bad word” for each squash bug they squish. This is the only time ever they are allowed to say a “bad word” — and as such,  they are squishing with gusto. Call me a bad mommy if you will, but in times of war, all bets are off!

The theme song from the “Six Million Dollar Man” keeps running through my head, when Steve Austin is almost dead but the voice-over is saying: “we can rebuild him . . .” My garden isn’t bionic, but I have managed to scrape together some odds and ends from the various big-box stores around town to re-plant a few items I don’t like to live without:

There are rows of quick crops planted as well: spinach (Mark standing by with the .22), lettuce, peas, beets, turnips.

Of course this doesn’t replace the new variety of tomato I was trying out courtesy my “Minimite” homesteading friends who live in Nebraska. I raised those babies from seed and they were all flattened. Ditto the patch of egyptian walking onions from the same friends. Hopefully those, as they are perennial, will come back.

Gardening up here in the Black Hills is certainly a challenge. Since 2001, there has not been one year without strife. The first year it was a wildfire that forced our evacuation for a week, and the end result was an untended garden in the midst of drought. The next  five years brought drought, drought, drought — with a fear of our well going dry if we dared water too much. Two years ago the drought broke, followed by a flood that was worthy of Noah — it even lifted the asphalt from our highway leaving a gaping hole where the road used to be. Last year I was besieged by squash bugs — nasty, nasty creatures. They decimated the garden in no time.

I am nothing if not A: a glutton for punishment or B: determined to make this work somehow, some way.

Good thing I don’t actually HAVE to rely on my garden for all my produce. One hailstorm is all it takes to reduce everything to shreds.

The entire garden. Gone.

When the twins were just 1 year old I got a wild hair that I wanted a sheltie dog. Like I needed more stuff to do and things crying and keeping me up at night! But I was determined. We had two shepherds, but they stayed outside and I wanted a smaller dog in the house. I liked the idea of something that would bark if someone tried to break in. I know, I know, we live in the middle of NOWHERE, but I was a paranoid new mommy of twins. And very hormonal. And I’ve always been slightly whacked anyway, being an artist AND a musician. So I found a litter of AKC Shelties and came home with a cute little sable male puppy. Here is how tired I was at the time, I usually think up fun names for my animals that describe their personalities. But this dog got named “Woody” because Toy Story was on TV and I kept hearing Woody over and over again. But it fits. He was so cute that when he was about a year old, he was used in a local promotion put on by one of my photographer friends. It helped that my kids were super cute too. Of course. Everyone’s kids are super cute at this age, but remember, you agreed to indulge me!!

So here is “Woody” the sheltie, all famous and stuff:

 Poor Woody got bitten by a rattlesnake when he was about 2 and never was able to walk very well afterwards. Now he is very old and completely deaf.

When we moved to the new log house, I decided I needed another Sheltie. My personal shepherd had died and Woody was destined to be an outside dog because he was ridiculously hairy and had never really been housebroken. So I got a new puppy. A female sheltie, named “Jessie the Yodeling Cowgirl”, or Jessedog (all one word, just like that) for short. She was a pill. She went down in the “not the best dog” category. Basically when you told Jessedog to do something she would wait until your back was turned, give you the finger and then do her own thing. Yeah.

After Jessedog died I found out that her parents had had another litter. Glutton for punishment that I am, I decided I needed ANOTHER sheltie. From the same bloodlines! Oy! But this is where dog genetics get strange. I brought home the tiniest little tiny puppy you could imagine. Meet Madeline. A very small Madeline:

The twins are away at their dance camp for three weeks. Because of this, I have become keeper of the cats. Two cats who are used to all day long undivided attention are now demanding it from me. At 6am no less.

I am also keeper of the turkeys. 7 little poults who need constant water and food lest one of them die out of nowhere because turkeys are fragile like that. (we started with eight) They’ll be ready to go outside as soon as the real turkey keepers return. It figures.

Keeper of the chickens! That becomes my job now too — spoiled rotten chickens that are used to having their water pail meticulously scrubbed and ther food on demand and tucked into their chicken house at night after each one is cuddled and told a bedtime story.

Really I would prefer to be keeper of the two horses we have left. But alas, we have green grass now and they don’t want anything to do with me . . .

This is my 100th post on this blog! I can’t complain about the dentist on this post. That would be bad karma. (especially because I am having oral surgery tomorrow. yay me.) No, no. This post must be positive! Let’s call this post: bountiful!

My front yard is a sea of red tulips! I got a little carried away in the bargain bulb bin at the greenhouse and then they multiplied.

And multiplied:

A few rogue yellow tulips:

And we got the garden in:

And picked some of this:

And turned it into this!

The first fruits from the garden this spring. It’s like a flavor EXPLOSION! Oh how I have missed our garden bounty over the winter. The twins and I made two rhubarb pies. Using this recipe for the crust (substituting butter for shortening — and another secret, roll out the crust between two sheets of parchment so it won’t stick) And this recipe for the pie part. Perfect!

The only ones around there who aren’t happy are the chickens. Locked up to protect the new garden.

So about 6 years ago I am at the dentist. I hate the dentist, but I went because it had been a long time since I had been. Plus I need to model good oral hygiene for my kids. Sure I brush and floss several times a day, but if kids go to the dentist, moms need to go to. So it went like this:

Tooth Nazi Hygenist (TNH): You have beautiful teeth. You don’t want to lose them do you? DO YOU??? I didn’t think so. You need to get a crown on that back tooth RIGHT NOW OR IT WILL FALL OUT!

Me: What? What is wrong with the tooth?

TNH: Nothing right this MINUTE. But it is on the verge of becoming a problem. You need to crown it NOW before it becomes a problem. You don’t want to end up with a root canal and more dental work and LOSING THE TOOTH because you didn’t get a crown DO YOU???? It starts with one tooth and pretty soon all your teeth are falling out all because you didn’t crown that ONE TOOTH when I told you to! You don’t want all your teeth to fall out. DO YOU???? DO YOU????

Me (shrinking in chair): NO! No of course I don’t!! Okay, crown the tooth! Crown it!! Whatever you say!!!

TNH: First sign this form that you agree to pay $1200 for the crown. Sign it RIGHT NOW OR YOU WILL LOSE THAT TOOTH!!!

Me: Okay! Okay I’ll sign! Just fix my tooth that I didn’t know anything was wrong with! Hurry before it falls out!!!

Then, in walks Tooth Nazi Dentist (TND)

to be continued . . .

It didn’t help that Fix was back to square one. Even at 15 years old, when I got on her she was like an untrained colt. Jumpy, shying at everything. I got brave enough to take her out one day for what I hoped would be a pleasant ride. She saw a concrete well cover on the ground and came unglued. Jumped a mile sideways, wrenching my back in half, and snorted and sweated the whole way home. I was shaking so hard I could barely hold my seat. My hands were like ice. This was something I could have handled a few years ago. But now I knew I was done. I untacked her, went out behind the barn and cried. I was that shook up. It was a full-blown panic attack. What a wimp.

I knew I had to make a decision. I couldn’t keep a horse around that I would never ride. I loved her. She was beautiful. But I knew I would never get on her again. I was wrecked. I put her up for sale and it broke my heart. Luckily (I thought) nobody in these parts wanted a high-strung Ay-rab mare. She languished in the pasture again. I couldn’t even bear to go look at her.

A few years earlier Mark and I had been at the county fair and had seen some horses that really caught our attention. They had big, calm eyes. Pleasant faces. Unique color, and what really struck me was their temperaments. Nothing seemed to faze them. Not a bunch of people, loud crowds, four-wheelers zipping around, ice cream trucks, cows, chickens and bleating goats. They seemed to like the attention. They liked to be petted and scratched. I was curious — what were these strange looking horses? Their manes stood straight up — uniquely colored with flaxen on the outside and a dark stripe that ran down the mane to a dorsal on the spine to the tail. I did some research — Norwegian Fjord horses! Wow! This really had me interested considering my Scandinavian heritage.

Mark made me a deal — I find a good home for Fix and he would let me get a Fjord of my own. He knew I wanted one. I knew their calm nature would be just what I needed. OK, I said, I’ll do it. I called a good friend and breeder of Arabian horses. Did she know of someone who might want Fix? It turns out she did, herself. She always had. And Fix and her filly went to the best home I could have hoped for. They are pampered and shown and Fix has a new baby every year — her favorite thing is being a mommy.

Then I was on a quest. To find the perfect Fjord. I searched and searched. I finally came across a mare on a website with a gleam in her eye and a pretty head. I emailed the breeder. Her name was Fancy. Perfect! Fancy was the horse for me.

We drove for two days to Northern Montana to get her. Once there I started to feel a little trepidatious. Fancy was a little more high-strung than I had expected. She almost ran me over coming out of the stall. But I had my heart set. We had come all this way. I was going to get her. At the last minute Mark suggested we buy Fancy’s full sister — a yearling named Fiona. Fiona to me looked like a dog. She was in that awkward yearling stage. OK I said, if you like her she can be your horse. We left the farm with two Fjords in the trailer.

We got home and on my first ride my fears were confirmed. Fancy was waaay too much horse for me. Mark took her in hand. The two of them matched perfectly. Fancy loved to bull-doze her way into everything. Mark has a heavy hand, heavy enough to keep her in check. Perfect match.

So what about me? Well, I was left with the doggie-looking horse Fiona. Yuck. I was used to Fix with all her glamour, her stop- and stare look-at-me attitude. Fancy had that too. Fiona most definitely did not.

But something happened. Little by little I gained a rapport with this ugly duckling of a filly. She began to look for me over the fence. She would nicker when I would walk outside. I would climb on her back for a few moments to get her used a little weight and she would just stand there and reach around to smell my feet. She would follow me. I taught her tricks — how to do a full-on bow. She would stay in the bow for a long time, waiting for me to hand her treats. She would lay down in the pasture, napping, and not care if I came out and sat with her to braid her forelock — she would just stretch out broadside, grunting. She turned two and then three. It was time to ride her.

I won’t pretend I wasn’t scared. I rode her around the paddock. Then I made a very wise, important decision. I decided not to try and start her on my own, but to send her to a trusted trainer, the one who had started my kid’s ponies. Fiona came back with a stellar report card — the sweetest horse they had ever worked with! Never a wrong step! Always pleasant!

Now it was my turn to ride. And guess what? I did it. I didn’t shake. I didn’t sweat. I did work through a battle of nerves, but Fiona just walked on her merry little way. We trotted, we cantered, we jumped! She even crow-hopped a few times, not out of meanness, but out of exuberance, and I didn’t get scared. I knew deep down that this horse wanted to give me a pleasant ride. That she knew she belonged to me and didn’t want to mess that up.

And something else happened. Fiona’s body caught up to itself. Her face developed refinement. Her nose has a little dish and her forelock is long and thick over big, brown liquid eyes. She turned into a beautiful little mare. Perfect for me. And every morning when I walk outside she hangs her head over the fence and nickers for me. Just like a horse should. A horse that is a perfect match for its person.

Thanks, Fiona! Thanks for giving back to me something I would have sorely missed if it was taken away forever.

** quick aside– Melinda, my friend who now owns Fix, just called to tell me that Fix (at 20 years old) had a beautiful bay colt this morning, and that her last filly that I had with her is going to show dressage at Scottsdale! That’s some accomplishment!**