Catherine Friend's Blog, page 2
November 24, 2013
Snip, snip!
Fact: We love our three barn cats, Emmett, Pumpkin, and Maisie.
Fact: Two feral cats have been living with them, Brody for two years, Little Guy for less than a year. This hasn't bothered us until now.
Brody hasn't been a problem, but now that Little Guy has matured, Emmett has begun showing up with bloody ears.
Not okay! Emmett is my baby. Time to catch the cats and have them fixed. I despaired of this ever working.
Melissa loves a challenge. We caught our three cats and put them in this massive dog kennel. Poor babies. I wanted to let them out every day, but Melissa held firm.
Melissa set a live trap for Little Guy, and caught him! Little Guy had taken the tuna bait.
Melissa called the vet (I was in the Twin Cities helping make a double batch of limoncello---another story). Ann the vet came right over. She gave Little Guy a shot and they waited until he seemed drugged enough. But when they opened the trap, the cat/oppossum shot out and was gone.
Grrr.
Meanwhile our patient cats remained in the kennel, looking at us with confusion. Melissa set the trap again. The next morning, there was Little Guy again. (He's cute, but not terribly bright.)
The vet came and de-balled Little Guy. One down, one to go.
Our cats were free for a few days, then Melissa imprisoned them again. One and half days later, Brody took the bait. Here's Emmett reassuring him that all will be well.
Now both feral cats are fixed. Yipee!
There will be some adjustments. Today mild-mannered Pumpkin nearly chased Little Guy all the way off the farm. Hope they can all learn to get along, since it's freakin' cold here, and I don't want anyone out on their own.
What a relief. Now the only real testosterone is our new ram, as yet unnamed. So many things to do...
Fact: Two feral cats have been living with them, Brody for two years, Little Guy for less than a year. This hasn't bothered us until now.
Brody hasn't been a problem, but now that Little Guy has matured, Emmett has begun showing up with bloody ears.
Not okay! Emmett is my baby. Time to catch the cats and have them fixed. I despaired of this ever working.
Melissa loves a challenge. We caught our three cats and put them in this massive dog kennel. Poor babies. I wanted to let them out every day, but Melissa held firm.
Melissa set a live trap for Little Guy, and caught him! Little Guy had taken the tuna bait.
Melissa called the vet (I was in the Twin Cities helping make a double batch of limoncello---another story). Ann the vet came right over. She gave Little Guy a shot and they waited until he seemed drugged enough. But when they opened the trap, the cat/oppossum shot out and was gone.
Grrr.
Meanwhile our patient cats remained in the kennel, looking at us with confusion. Melissa set the trap again. The next morning, there was Little Guy again. (He's cute, but not terribly bright.)
The vet came and de-balled Little Guy. One down, one to go.
Our cats were free for a few days, then Melissa imprisoned them again. One and half days later, Brody took the bait. Here's Emmett reassuring him that all will be well.
Now both feral cats are fixed. Yipee!
There will be some adjustments. Today mild-mannered Pumpkin nearly chased Little Guy all the way off the farm. Hope they can all learn to get along, since it's freakin' cold here, and I don't want anyone out on their own.
What a relief. Now the only real testosterone is our new ram, as yet unnamed. So many things to do...
Snip, snip!
Fact: We love our three barn cats, Emmett, Pumpkin, and Maisie.
Fact: Two feral cats have been living with them, Brody for two years, Little Guy for less than a year. This hasn't bothered us until now.
Brody hasn't been a problem, but now that Little Guy has matured, Emmett has begun showing up with bloody ears.
Not okay! Emmett is my baby. Time to catch the cats and have them fixed. I despaired of this ever working.
Melissa loves a challenge. We caught our three cats and put them in this massive dog kennel. Poor babies. I wanted to let them out every day, but Melissa held firm.
Melissa set a live trap for Little Guy, and caught him! Little Guy had taken the tuna bait.
Melissa called the vet (I was in the Twin Cities helping make a double batch of limoncello---another story). Ann the vet came right over. She gave Little Guy a shot and they waited until he seemed drugged enough. But when they opened the trap, the cat/oppossum shot out and was gone.
Grrr.
Meanwhile our patient cats remained in the kennel, looking at us with confusion. Melissa set the trap again. The next morning, there was Little Guy again. (He's cute, but not terribly bright.)
The vet came and de-balled Little Guy. One down, one to go.
Our cats were free for a few days, then Melissa imprisoned them again. One and half days later, Brody took the bait. Here's Emmett reassuring him that all will be well.
Now both feral cats are fixed. Yipee!
There will be some adjustments. Today mild-mannered Pumpkin nearly chased Little Guy all the way off the farm. Hope they can all learn to get along, since it's freakin' cold here, and I don't want anyone out on their own.
What a relief. Now the only real testosterone is our new ram, as yet unnamed. So many things to do...
Fact: Two feral cats have been living with them, Brody for two years, Little Guy for less than a year. This hasn't bothered us until now.
Brody hasn't been a problem, but now that Little Guy has matured, Emmett has begun showing up with bloody ears.
Not okay! Emmett is my baby. Time to catch the cats and have them fixed. I despaired of this ever working.
Melissa loves a challenge. We caught our three cats and put them in this massive dog kennel. Poor babies. I wanted to let them out every day, but Melissa held firm.
Melissa set a live trap for Little Guy, and caught him! Little Guy had taken the tuna bait.
Melissa called the vet (I was in the Twin Cities helping make a double batch of limoncello---another story). Ann the vet came right over. She gave Little Guy a shot and they waited until he seemed drugged enough. But when they opened the trap, the cat/oppossum shot out and was gone.
Grrr.
Meanwhile our patient cats remained in the kennel, looking at us with confusion. Melissa set the trap again. The next morning, there was Little Guy again. (He's cute, but not terribly bright.)
The vet came and de-balled Little Guy. One down, one to go.
Our cats were free for a few days, then Melissa imprisoned them again. One and half days later, Brody took the bait. Here's Emmett reassuring him that all will be well.
Now both feral cats are fixed. Yipee!
There will be some adjustments. Today mild-mannered Pumpkin nearly chased Little Guy all the way off the farm. Hope they can all learn to get along, since it's freakin' cold here, and I don't want anyone out on their own.
What a relief. Now the only real testosterone is our new ram, as yet unnamed. So many things to do...
April 27, 2013
The Difficulties of Writing About Nature....
If you blink, you miss it. Spring thaw hits my area hard on March 30, as if Mother Nature is just as tired of snow as we are and wants it all gone now. It’s a perfect day: sunny, 35 degrees. My wife and I are driving to Northfield, a familiar trip, but the landscape has gone crazy. Impromptu rivers have formed everywhere. I can barely keep the car on the road as I eagerly trace multiple waterways on both sides of the blacktop at 60 mph.
So. That’s all there is. I have progressed no further in my attempt to write about this encounter with nature, or more specifically, about the awesome power of water. I’m reluctant to write more because I know all too well the traps writers can fall into when describing their nature ‘encounters,’ since I’ve had to claw my way up out of all those traps. Witness my use of the word “awesome.” How trite is that? Is my best tool for describing the power of water really to be a worn-out word from the 80s? (Or was it the 90s? Help me out here.)
If I am to write more about those impromptu rivers, how do I describe the energy of water rushing and churning where it doesn’t belong? I don’t have a good answer for that. One of the problems I face when writing about nature is that not only do I want to convey the beauty of what I saw, but how it made me feel. It’s perfectly normal to believe that I’m the first to drive west on Country Road 9 on Spring Thaw Day and be utterly beguiled by the water’s journey, so therefore I must share it with everyone. But here’s the thing: I’m not the first nor the only one to have experienced this. No one wants to read yet another “Oh my god, water is so freaking awesome” essay.
I doubt that adding ‘freaking’ helps explain how, on Spring Thaw Day, the water flows in wide sheets down two sloping fields and merges so that now it’s a rivulet burbling toward the culvert under the road. It shoots out the other side, joins another rivulet so now it’s a stream racing down the ditch and then around someone’s back yard and into a ravine, where it smashes into another stream to become a furious river that foams back through another culvert, passing underneath us to the other side where it finds a flat field and spreads out with relief in a shallow sheet, exhausted from its mad rush to become a lake.
As a farmer and rural resident, I’m immersed in nature. But I struggle to find effective ways to write about it without going all misty-eyed and saccharine. That’s why I’m not quite ready to write about my Spring Thaw Day. Today, three days after our drive to Northfield, it’s a different landscape. Nothing but soggy fields and damp ditches. The water is gone, absorbed by the soil or evaporated into the air or moved on to lower elevations to beguile other lives.
I won’t write about this day until I can find a way to share what a gift it was to witness a perfectly normal event that only lasts a few hours.
Perhaps the gift isn’t the water itself, but that Mother Nature has—through numerous rude and insistent invasions into my life—taught me to open my eyes and really see, to capture what others miss when they blink.
So. That’s all there is. I have progressed no further in my attempt to write about this encounter with nature, or more specifically, about the awesome power of water. I’m reluctant to write more because I know all too well the traps writers can fall into when describing their nature ‘encounters,’ since I’ve had to claw my way up out of all those traps. Witness my use of the word “awesome.” How trite is that? Is my best tool for describing the power of water really to be a worn-out word from the 80s? (Or was it the 90s? Help me out here.)
If I am to write more about those impromptu rivers, how do I describe the energy of water rushing and churning where it doesn’t belong? I don’t have a good answer for that. One of the problems I face when writing about nature is that not only do I want to convey the beauty of what I saw, but how it made me feel. It’s perfectly normal to believe that I’m the first to drive west on Country Road 9 on Spring Thaw Day and be utterly beguiled by the water’s journey, so therefore I must share it with everyone. But here’s the thing: I’m not the first nor the only one to have experienced this. No one wants to read yet another “Oh my god, water is so freaking awesome” essay.
I doubt that adding ‘freaking’ helps explain how, on Spring Thaw Day, the water flows in wide sheets down two sloping fields and merges so that now it’s a rivulet burbling toward the culvert under the road. It shoots out the other side, joins another rivulet so now it’s a stream racing down the ditch and then around someone’s back yard and into a ravine, where it smashes into another stream to become a furious river that foams back through another culvert, passing underneath us to the other side where it finds a flat field and spreads out with relief in a shallow sheet, exhausted from its mad rush to become a lake.
As a farmer and rural resident, I’m immersed in nature. But I struggle to find effective ways to write about it without going all misty-eyed and saccharine. That’s why I’m not quite ready to write about my Spring Thaw Day. Today, three days after our drive to Northfield, it’s a different landscape. Nothing but soggy fields and damp ditches. The water is gone, absorbed by the soil or evaporated into the air or moved on to lower elevations to beguile other lives.
I won’t write about this day until I can find a way to share what a gift it was to witness a perfectly normal event that only lasts a few hours.
Perhaps the gift isn’t the water itself, but that Mother Nature has—through numerous rude and insistent invasions into my life—taught me to open my eyes and really see, to capture what others miss when they blink.
The Difficulties of Writing About Nature....
If you blink, you miss
it. Spring thaw hits my area hard on March 30, as if Mother Nature is
just as tired of snow as we are and wants it all gone now. It’s
a perfect day: sunny, 35 degrees. My wife and I are driving to
Northfield, a familiar trip, but the landscape has gone crazy. Impromptu
rivers have formed everywhere. I can barely keep the car on the road as
I eagerly trace multiple waterways on both sides of the blacktop at 60
mph.
So. That’s all there is. I have progressed no further in my attempt
to write about this encounter with nature, or more specifically, about
the awesome power of water. I’m reluctant to write more because I know
all too well the traps writers can fall into when describing their
nature ‘encounters,’ since I’ve had to claw my way up out of all those
traps. Witness my use of the word “awesome.” How trite is that? Is my
best tool for describing the power of water really to be a worn-out word
from the 80s? (Or was it the 90s? Help me out here.)
If I am to write more about those impromptu rivers, how do I describe
the energy of water rushing and churning where it doesn’t belong? I
don’t have a good answer for that. One of the problems I face when
writing about nature is that not only do I want to convey the beauty of
what I saw, but how it made me feel. It’s perfectly normal to believe
that I’m the first to drive west on Country Road 9 on Spring Thaw Day
and be utterly beguiled by the water’s journey, so therefore I must
share it with everyone. But here’s the thing: I’m not the first
nor the only one to have experienced this. No one wants to read yet
another “Oh my god, water is so freaking awesome” essay.
I doubt that adding ‘freaking’ helps explain how, on Spring Thaw Day,
the water flows in wide sheets down two sloping fields and merges so
that now it’s a rivulet burbling toward the culvert under the road. It
shoots out the other side, joins another rivulet so now it’s a stream
racing down the ditch and then around someone’s back yard and into a
ravine, where it smashes into another stream to become a furious river
that foams back through another culvert, passing underneath us to the
other side where it finds a flat field and spreads out with relief in a
shallow sheet, exhausted from its mad rush to become a lake.
As a farmer and rural resident, I’m immersed in nature. But I
struggle to find effective ways to write about it without going all
misty-eyed and saccharine. That’s why I’m not quite ready to write about
my Spring Thaw Day. Today, three days after our drive to Northfield,
it’s a different landscape. Nothing but soggy fields and damp ditches.
The water is gone, absorbed by the soil or evaporated into the air or
moved on to lower elevations to beguile other lives.
I won’t write about this day until I can find a way to share what a
gift it was to witness a perfectly normal event that only lasts a few
hours.
Perhaps the gift isn’t the water itself, but that Mother Nature
has—through numerous rude and insistent invasions into my life—taught me
to open my eyes and really see, to capture what others miss when they
blink.
it. Spring thaw hits my area hard on March 30, as if Mother Nature is
just as tired of snow as we are and wants it all gone now. It’s
a perfect day: sunny, 35 degrees. My wife and I are driving to
Northfield, a familiar trip, but the landscape has gone crazy. Impromptu
rivers have formed everywhere. I can barely keep the car on the road as
I eagerly trace multiple waterways on both sides of the blacktop at 60
mph.
So. That’s all there is. I have progressed no further in my attempt
to write about this encounter with nature, or more specifically, about
the awesome power of water. I’m reluctant to write more because I know
all too well the traps writers can fall into when describing their
nature ‘encounters,’ since I’ve had to claw my way up out of all those
traps. Witness my use of the word “awesome.” How trite is that? Is my
best tool for describing the power of water really to be a worn-out word
from the 80s? (Or was it the 90s? Help me out here.)
If I am to write more about those impromptu rivers, how do I describe
the energy of water rushing and churning where it doesn’t belong? I
don’t have a good answer for that. One of the problems I face when
writing about nature is that not only do I want to convey the beauty of
what I saw, but how it made me feel. It’s perfectly normal to believe
that I’m the first to drive west on Country Road 9 on Spring Thaw Day
and be utterly beguiled by the water’s journey, so therefore I must
share it with everyone. But here’s the thing: I’m not the first
nor the only one to have experienced this. No one wants to read yet
another “Oh my god, water is so freaking awesome” essay.
I doubt that adding ‘freaking’ helps explain how, on Spring Thaw Day,
the water flows in wide sheets down two sloping fields and merges so
that now it’s a rivulet burbling toward the culvert under the road. It
shoots out the other side, joins another rivulet so now it’s a stream
racing down the ditch and then around someone’s back yard and into a
ravine, where it smashes into another stream to become a furious river
that foams back through another culvert, passing underneath us to the
other side where it finds a flat field and spreads out with relief in a
shallow sheet, exhausted from its mad rush to become a lake.
As a farmer and rural resident, I’m immersed in nature. But I
struggle to find effective ways to write about it without going all
misty-eyed and saccharine. That’s why I’m not quite ready to write about
my Spring Thaw Day. Today, three days after our drive to Northfield,
it’s a different landscape. Nothing but soggy fields and damp ditches.
The water is gone, absorbed by the soil or evaporated into the air or
moved on to lower elevations to beguile other lives.
I won’t write about this day until I can find a way to share what a
gift it was to witness a perfectly normal event that only lasts a few
hours.
Perhaps the gift isn’t the water itself, but that Mother Nature
has—through numerous rude and insistent invasions into my life—taught me
to open my eyes and really see, to capture what others miss when they
blink.
April 15, 2013
Facebook Fans Help with Shearing!
Faced with a sudden shearing date, we scrambled to find help. All our usual suspects were busy, so I posted on Facebook--"Hey, anyone want to help with shearing?"
And respond they did...and they came, despite the crappy weather. It was 32 degrees. Snow. Sleet. Rain. More snow. Wind. If I hadn't already been at the farm, I wouldn't have come for shearing in that weather. But these brave souls did.
Cheryl came from 40 miles away. Brett, Jan, and children came from 20 miles away. Don and Betsy came from 30 miles away. Laura and daughter Mara came from 60 miles away! (Mara arrived, as teenagers do, in leggings and sneakers. "Nope," I said. "Come with me." I dragged her down to the house and made her don a pair of insulated coveralls and my boots...one more Rising Moon Farm helper saved from hypothermia.) And our neighbor Jaycee came (with Allan's chocolate chip cookies) and our friend Tim came.
Everyone arrived but the shearer, Drew. Here we are waiting for him to arrive.
Still waiting...
Black Girl isn't happy. "I did this last year," she complained. "And the year before that. What do you people do with all that wool anyway?"
Finally Drew arrives and our crew leapt into action. They swept the board.
They wrestled the sheep.
That's Don in the blue coveralls---he wrestled each sheep onto the shearing board, which meant Melissa didn't have to!
They picked up fleeces. They skirted fleeces, picking out the poopy stuff.
And people brought food. Chili and corn bread and cookies and deviled eggs. Hot cider kept our insides warm... a space heater in the feed room worked on the rest.
The only disaster was back at the house. I forgot the new dog needs to go out every 2 hours, so she peed. And she also pulled a bag of three avocados off the counter and ate everything but the pits. "LUCY! You got some 'splaining to do!" (Gaack. Did a quick net search to determine that no one agrees if they are poisonous to dogs. She's fine. The avocados, of course, will never fulfill their purpose of being in an avocado-zuchinni-goat cheese sandwich. Sigh.)
The best part of the day was that Melissa and I had a great time meeting new people. Everyone shared a love of sheep, and our new Facebook friends impressed us with their willingness to get in there and get the job done. I love that when a group of total strangers come to the farm, they end up talking with each other like long-lost buddies. Shearing parties bring people together.
Thanks, everyone! Now we have a small flock of naked sheep, still in the barn because it's freakin' cold outside.
April in Minnesota. Sheesh.
And respond they did...and they came, despite the crappy weather. It was 32 degrees. Snow. Sleet. Rain. More snow. Wind. If I hadn't already been at the farm, I wouldn't have come for shearing in that weather. But these brave souls did.
Cheryl came from 40 miles away. Brett, Jan, and children came from 20 miles away. Don and Betsy came from 30 miles away. Laura and daughter Mara came from 60 miles away! (Mara arrived, as teenagers do, in leggings and sneakers. "Nope," I said. "Come with me." I dragged her down to the house and made her don a pair of insulated coveralls and my boots...one more Rising Moon Farm helper saved from hypothermia.) And our neighbor Jaycee came (with Allan's chocolate chip cookies) and our friend Tim came.
Everyone arrived but the shearer, Drew. Here we are waiting for him to arrive.
Still waiting...
Black Girl isn't happy. "I did this last year," she complained. "And the year before that. What do you people do with all that wool anyway?"
Finally Drew arrives and our crew leapt into action. They swept the board.
They wrestled the sheep.
That's Don in the blue coveralls---he wrestled each sheep onto the shearing board, which meant Melissa didn't have to!
They picked up fleeces. They skirted fleeces, picking out the poopy stuff.
And people brought food. Chili and corn bread and cookies and deviled eggs. Hot cider kept our insides warm... a space heater in the feed room worked on the rest.
The only disaster was back at the house. I forgot the new dog needs to go out every 2 hours, so she peed. And she also pulled a bag of three avocados off the counter and ate everything but the pits. "LUCY! You got some 'splaining to do!" (Gaack. Did a quick net search to determine that no one agrees if they are poisonous to dogs. She's fine. The avocados, of course, will never fulfill their purpose of being in an avocado-zuchinni-goat cheese sandwich. Sigh.)
The best part of the day was that Melissa and I had a great time meeting new people. Everyone shared a love of sheep, and our new Facebook friends impressed us with their willingness to get in there and get the job done. I love that when a group of total strangers come to the farm, they end up talking with each other like long-lost buddies. Shearing parties bring people together.
Thanks, everyone! Now we have a small flock of naked sheep, still in the barn because it's freakin' cold outside.
April in Minnesota. Sheesh.
Facebook Fans Help with Shearing!
Faced with a sudden shearing date, we scrambled to find help. All our usual suspects were busy, so I posted on Facebook--"Hey, anyone want to help with shearing?"
And respond they did...and they came, despite the crappy weather. It was 32 degrees. Snow. Sleet. Rain. More snow. Wind. If I hadn't already been at the farm, I wouldn't have come for shearing in that weather. But these brave souls did.
Cheryl came from 40 miles away. Brett, Jan, and children came from 20 miles away. Don and Betsy came from 30 miles away. Laura and daughter Mara came from 60 miles away! (Mara arrived, as teenagers do, in leggings and sneakers. "Nope," I said. "Come with me." I dragged her down to the house and made her don a pair of insulated coveralls and my boots...one more Rising Moon Farm helper saved from hypothermia.) And our neighbor Jaycee came (with Allan's chocolate chip cookies) and our friend Tim came.
Everyone arrived but the shearer, Drew. Here we are waiting for him to arrive.
Still waiting...
Black Girl isn't happy. "I did this last year," she complained. "And the year before that. What do you people do with all that wool anyway?"
Finally Drew arrives and our crew leapt into action. They swept the board.
They wrestled the sheep.
That's Don in the blue coveralls---he wrestled each sheep onto the shearing board, which meant Melissa didn't have to!
They picked up fleeces. They skirted fleeces, picking out the poopy stuff.
And people brought food. Chili and corn bread and cookies and deviled eggs. Hot cider kept our insides warm... a space heater in the feed room worked on the rest.
The only disaster was back at the house. I forgot the new dog needs to go out every 2 hours, so she peed. And she also pulled a bag of three avocados off the counter and ate everything but the pits. "LUCY! You got some 'splaining to do!" (Gaack. Did a quick net search to determine that no one agrees if they are poisonous to dogs. She's fine. The avocados, of course, will never fulfill their purpose of being in an avocado-zuchinni-goat cheese sandwich. Sigh.)
The best part of the day was that Melissa and I had a great time meeting new people. Everyone shared a love of sheep, and our new Facebook friends impressed us with their willingness to get in there and get the job done. I love that when a group of total strangers come to the farm, they end up talking with each other like long-lost buddies. Shearing parties bring people together.
Thanks, everyone! Now we have a small flock of naked sheep, still in the barn because it's freakin' cold outside.
April in Minnesota. Sheesh.
And respond they did...and they came, despite the crappy weather. It was 32 degrees. Snow. Sleet. Rain. More snow. Wind. If I hadn't already been at the farm, I wouldn't have come for shearing in that weather. But these brave souls did.
Cheryl came from 40 miles away. Brett, Jan, and children came from 20 miles away. Don and Betsy came from 30 miles away. Laura and daughter Mara came from 60 miles away! (Mara arrived, as teenagers do, in leggings and sneakers. "Nope," I said. "Come with me." I dragged her down to the house and made her don a pair of insulated coveralls and my boots...one more Rising Moon Farm helper saved from hypothermia.) And our neighbor Jaycee came (with Allan's chocolate chip cookies) and our friend Tim came.
Everyone arrived but the shearer, Drew. Here we are waiting for him to arrive.
Still waiting...
Black Girl isn't happy. "I did this last year," she complained. "And the year before that. What do you people do with all that wool anyway?"
Finally Drew arrives and our crew leapt into action. They swept the board.
They wrestled the sheep.
That's Don in the blue coveralls---he wrestled each sheep onto the shearing board, which meant Melissa didn't have to!
They picked up fleeces. They skirted fleeces, picking out the poopy stuff.
And people brought food. Chili and corn bread and cookies and deviled eggs. Hot cider kept our insides warm... a space heater in the feed room worked on the rest.
The only disaster was back at the house. I forgot the new dog needs to go out every 2 hours, so she peed. And she also pulled a bag of three avocados off the counter and ate everything but the pits. "LUCY! You got some 'splaining to do!" (Gaack. Did a quick net search to determine that no one agrees if they are poisonous to dogs. She's fine. The avocados, of course, will never fulfill their purpose of being in an avocado-zuchinni-goat cheese sandwich. Sigh.)
The best part of the day was that Melissa and I had a great time meeting new people. Everyone shared a love of sheep, and our new Facebook friends impressed us with their willingness to get in there and get the job done. I love that when a group of total strangers come to the farm, they end up talking with each other like long-lost buddies. Shearing parties bring people together.
Thanks, everyone! Now we have a small flock of naked sheep, still in the barn because it's freakin' cold outside.
April in Minnesota. Sheesh.
March 19, 2013
Meet Lucy!
Many memorists think their own lives are fascinating. However, after writing 2 1/3 memoirs (The Compassionate Carnivore counts as 1/3, in my mind), I still think my life is not fascinating. So it's hard to write about it....luckily, writing about dogs is easy.
After a month without little Teddy, we adopted a new dog. Lucy was rescued from a high-kill shelter somewhere in the US by Midwest Animal Rescue Services and driven to Minneapolis to live temporarily with a foster family.
We found her listed on petfinder.com, a dangerous place to go because so many great pets need homes. We fell in love with this face:
She's big---half-St. Bernard, possibly half-Great Dane. Melissa put a coin in Lucy's pawprint. If you look closely, you'll see it's a quarter, not a dime! Big feet.
The shelter thinks she might be 18 months, which is still a puppy. And she acts like it. When she runs, she flails around as if her legs are about to come off! She loves to run in the backyard, huge loping strides.
No one knows what her life was like before coming here, but she's very underweight---ribs and backbone showing, muscles underdeveloped. We think she weighs 80 pounds... not sure how large she will get. Yikes, what were we thinking?
Unfortunately, Molly (griffon on the right above) really dislikes Lucy. Growls and snaps. Molly has been cranky the entire two weeks Lucy has been here. If anyone has any suggestions on how to make this better, we're open to ideas. Lucy is pretty laid back around her, but gets excited outside. She gets ugly when around food, so we're keeping that under control.
And the best part? We've hated our vacuum cleaner for years because it doesn't pick up the dog hair, but we just couldn't justify spending the money. Turns out Lucy sheds like CRAZY. So---yippityskippity---we bought a new vacuum, a special Cat and Dog vacuum. And it does a GREAT job.
Incorporating a new dog is a time of adjustment and training: "No, you can't get up on the bed. No, you can't hold my hand with your mouth. No, you can't put your paws on our shoulders." But she's learning (especially when treats are involved.) Our first command is always Battlestations, which means "Get your butt out of the kitchen so I can cook without tripping over you!"
So we're back to being a two-dog family. And once we get Lucy trained, and Molly relaxes, life will return to normal. Normal is good. Our only problem will be fighting over who gets to vacuum, but Melissa and I will work that out.
After a month without little Teddy, we adopted a new dog. Lucy was rescued from a high-kill shelter somewhere in the US by Midwest Animal Rescue Services and driven to Minneapolis to live temporarily with a foster family.
We found her listed on petfinder.com, a dangerous place to go because so many great pets need homes. We fell in love with this face:
She's big---half-St. Bernard, possibly half-Great Dane. Melissa put a coin in Lucy's pawprint. If you look closely, you'll see it's a quarter, not a dime! Big feet.
The shelter thinks she might be 18 months, which is still a puppy. And she acts like it. When she runs, she flails around as if her legs are about to come off! She loves to run in the backyard, huge loping strides.
No one knows what her life was like before coming here, but she's very underweight---ribs and backbone showing, muscles underdeveloped. We think she weighs 80 pounds... not sure how large she will get. Yikes, what were we thinking?
Unfortunately, Molly (griffon on the right above) really dislikes Lucy. Growls and snaps. Molly has been cranky the entire two weeks Lucy has been here. If anyone has any suggestions on how to make this better, we're open to ideas. Lucy is pretty laid back around her, but gets excited outside. She gets ugly when around food, so we're keeping that under control.
And the best part? We've hated our vacuum cleaner for years because it doesn't pick up the dog hair, but we just couldn't justify spending the money. Turns out Lucy sheds like CRAZY. So---yippityskippity---we bought a new vacuum, a special Cat and Dog vacuum. And it does a GREAT job.
Incorporating a new dog is a time of adjustment and training: "No, you can't get up on the bed. No, you can't hold my hand with your mouth. No, you can't put your paws on our shoulders." But she's learning (especially when treats are involved.) Our first command is always Battlestations, which means "Get your butt out of the kitchen so I can cook without tripping over you!"
So we're back to being a two-dog family. And once we get Lucy trained, and Molly relaxes, life will return to normal. Normal is good. Our only problem will be fighting over who gets to vacuum, but Melissa and I will work that out.
March 1, 2013
Not All Dog Rescues Work Out
Over five months ago, we adopted Teddy, a Tibetan terrier mix. He was five years old, and cute as a button. We had no idea what his life had been like before his owners surrendered him to the animal shelter.
After about six weeks, Teddy really started to relax. He began playing with toys, and racing around the living room, hoping that Molly (the Wire-haired Pointing Griffon) would chase him. She often did, barking in frustration because she couldn't catch him. (Karma's a bitch, Molly dear. You did the exact same thing to Sophie when you were a puppy.)
We soon discovered, however, that Teddy had a few physical boundaries that, when violated, turned him into a Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde. It's as if he was possessed for 10 seconds, then normal. One of the boundaries was human feet, so he might have been kicked a lot. We hired a trainer to help us, and I worked with Teddy every day, and kept him leashed to me all day to help establish dominance. We muzzled him and did desensitizing exercises, touching his feet and body. It was going well....then not well...then well...then not well.
Turns out that I, as a person with clear boundaries, somehow chose a dog with clear boundaries. Melissa and Molly, on the other hand, do not have boundaries. When you don't have them, it's hard to recognize and remember that others have them. Teddy became my dog, following me everywhere. Melissa became, to Teddy, "The Other."
To make a long story short, after five months it was clear that Teddy and Melissa/Molly weren't a good combination, which upset all of us.
A friend of ours who'd met Teddy, and spent an evening caring for him, stepped up. "I'll take him," she said. "I live alone, don't have visitors, and I can respect his boundaries."
We have never given away a dog. Any dog we've owned--purchase or adopted, no matter the problems---stays with us until he or she dies. But after five months of really, really trying, I had to accept that we couldn't do that this time.
Three weeks ago, Teddy went to his new home. He's doing well. I miss him. Melissa even misses him. It's easy to fall in love with a dog even though he has 'issues.' Luckily, he's only five miles away, so I can visit him whenever I want.
A friend recently asked us for advice. She'd rescued a little dog from a horrible living situation, but the new dog wasn't getting along with her existing dog, and there was lots of stress. She wanted to find him another home, but felt guilty, as if she had to keep him. We reminded her that she'd done something important---getting the dog out of a difficult situation, which is the first step.
I guess we have to look at Teddy's situation that way. We got him out of the shelter. We showed him what a good, safe home looks like. We taught him lots of things. We loved him every day.
Now it's someone else's turn.
We'll get another dog soon---there are too many dogs stuck in kennels to not open up our home and try again.
After about six weeks, Teddy really started to relax. He began playing with toys, and racing around the living room, hoping that Molly (the Wire-haired Pointing Griffon) would chase him. She often did, barking in frustration because she couldn't catch him. (Karma's a bitch, Molly dear. You did the exact same thing to Sophie when you were a puppy.)
We soon discovered, however, that Teddy had a few physical boundaries that, when violated, turned him into a Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde. It's as if he was possessed for 10 seconds, then normal. One of the boundaries was human feet, so he might have been kicked a lot. We hired a trainer to help us, and I worked with Teddy every day, and kept him leashed to me all day to help establish dominance. We muzzled him and did desensitizing exercises, touching his feet and body. It was going well....then not well...then well...then not well.
Turns out that I, as a person with clear boundaries, somehow chose a dog with clear boundaries. Melissa and Molly, on the other hand, do not have boundaries. When you don't have them, it's hard to recognize and remember that others have them. Teddy became my dog, following me everywhere. Melissa became, to Teddy, "The Other."
To make a long story short, after five months it was clear that Teddy and Melissa/Molly weren't a good combination, which upset all of us.
A friend of ours who'd met Teddy, and spent an evening caring for him, stepped up. "I'll take him," she said. "I live alone, don't have visitors, and I can respect his boundaries."
We have never given away a dog. Any dog we've owned--purchase or adopted, no matter the problems---stays with us until he or she dies. But after five months of really, really trying, I had to accept that we couldn't do that this time.
Three weeks ago, Teddy went to his new home. He's doing well. I miss him. Melissa even misses him. It's easy to fall in love with a dog even though he has 'issues.' Luckily, he's only five miles away, so I can visit him whenever I want.
A friend recently asked us for advice. She'd rescued a little dog from a horrible living situation, but the new dog wasn't getting along with her existing dog, and there was lots of stress. She wanted to find him another home, but felt guilty, as if she had to keep him. We reminded her that she'd done something important---getting the dog out of a difficult situation, which is the first step.
I guess we have to look at Teddy's situation that way. We got him out of the shelter. We showed him what a good, safe home looks like. We taught him lots of things. We loved him every day.
Now it's someone else's turn.
We'll get another dog soon---there are too many dogs stuck in kennels to not open up our home and try again.
February 4, 2013
Fall down, go boom.
Ice can be treacherous. I know this. I wear cleats when I do chores and always have my cell phone with me...except when I don't do either. :-)
Saturday I stepped on the icy-but-snow-covered driveway, and slipped. As I fell, I remember thinking "This is not going to end well!"
Instant pain and my arm stopped working right. A friend was with me so she got Melissa, and off we went to the hospital 30 miles away. I was in so much pain but remembered thinking "No one will know me so if I cry and carry on, it'll be okay."
Checked at the emergency desk, and the nurse came to help me remove my coat, which I decided would be my first opportunity to cry. But then Anne the nurse smiled at me. "Now you'll just have more to write about." Gaack. She knew who I was. I put on a brave, authorial smile, as if farming writers live with this level of pain every day.
She parked me in a room and gave me morphine. Ahhhh. A doctor came in. "I know your books. You should visit my kids' school." I smiled again, a brave author high on the nice drugs in my system.
Because I am a memoirist, I am compelled to share the x-ray of my dislocated elbow:
The lower bone is supposed to be tucked in next to the upper bone. I know the bones have names, but I can barely stand to look at this, let alone be accurate at the same time. Melissa, of course, thought the x-ray was totally cool. The less I know about the inside of my body, the happier I am.
Another doctor came in to explain he was going to put the bone back where it belonged. "More pain meds," I pleaded. "Okay" After a few minutes, he began. "No no no no, " I moaned, forgetting to be a brave farmer writer. "More drugs."
Let's just skip over the parts where they put me on my stomach and attached a weight to my wrist so the arm slowly stretched out. Luckily one of the drugs helps you forget. I was aware that Melissa was right beside me, holding my hand and explaining they had to do this. Then SNAP, it popped back into place.
Here's the proof:
I asked Melissa the next day if I'd cried out at all during the procedure. "Are you sure you want to know?"
Shoot. Apparently I did make a bit of a fuss, even though the doctor and nurses were being incredibly gentle with me. My apologies to anyone within earshot.
Luckily, as a writer, I will have the chance to revise this entire episode. In fact, I'm fairly certain the next time I tell this story, I will have made it through the experience wearing a brave, authorial smile, as if farming writers live with this level of pain every day.
Yes, it's true, I do write fiction!
(and I'm also typing with one hand on a split keyboard. signing off to take more meds!)
Saturday I stepped on the icy-but-snow-covered driveway, and slipped. As I fell, I remember thinking "This is not going to end well!"
Instant pain and my arm stopped working right. A friend was with me so she got Melissa, and off we went to the hospital 30 miles away. I was in so much pain but remembered thinking "No one will know me so if I cry and carry on, it'll be okay."
Checked at the emergency desk, and the nurse came to help me remove my coat, which I decided would be my first opportunity to cry. But then Anne the nurse smiled at me. "Now you'll just have more to write about." Gaack. She knew who I was. I put on a brave, authorial smile, as if farming writers live with this level of pain every day.
She parked me in a room and gave me morphine. Ahhhh. A doctor came in. "I know your books. You should visit my kids' school." I smiled again, a brave author high on the nice drugs in my system.
Because I am a memoirist, I am compelled to share the x-ray of my dislocated elbow:
The lower bone is supposed to be tucked in next to the upper bone. I know the bones have names, but I can barely stand to look at this, let alone be accurate at the same time. Melissa, of course, thought the x-ray was totally cool. The less I know about the inside of my body, the happier I am.
Another doctor came in to explain he was going to put the bone back where it belonged. "More pain meds," I pleaded. "Okay" After a few minutes, he began. "No no no no, " I moaned, forgetting to be a brave farmer writer. "More drugs."
Let's just skip over the parts where they put me on my stomach and attached a weight to my wrist so the arm slowly stretched out. Luckily one of the drugs helps you forget. I was aware that Melissa was right beside me, holding my hand and explaining they had to do this. Then SNAP, it popped back into place.
Here's the proof:
I asked Melissa the next day if I'd cried out at all during the procedure. "Are you sure you want to know?"
Shoot. Apparently I did make a bit of a fuss, even though the doctor and nurses were being incredibly gentle with me. My apologies to anyone within earshot.
Luckily, as a writer, I will have the chance to revise this entire episode. In fact, I'm fairly certain the next time I tell this story, I will have made it through the experience wearing a brave, authorial smile, as if farming writers live with this level of pain every day.
Yes, it's true, I do write fiction!
(and I'm also typing with one hand on a split keyboard. signing off to take more meds!)
Fall down, go boom.
Ice can be treacherous. I know this. I wear cleats when I do chores and always have my cell phone with me...except when I don't do either. :-)
Saturday I stepped on the icy-but-snow-covered driveway, and slipped. As I fell, I remember thinking "This is not going to end well!"
Instant pain and my arm stopped working right. A friend was with me so she got Melissa, and off we went to the hospital 30 miles away. I was in so much pain but remembered thinking "No one will know me so if I cry and carry on, it'll be okay."
Checked at the emergency desk, and the nurse came to help me remove my coat, which I decided would be my first opportunity to cry. But then Anne the nurse smiled at me. "Now you'll just have more to write about." Gaack. She knew who I was. I put on a brave, authorial smile, as if farming writers live with this level of pain every day.
She parked me in a room and gave me morphine. Ahhhh. A doctor came in. "I know your books. You should visit my kids' school." I smiled again, a brave author high on the nice drugs in my system.
Because I am a memoirist, I am compelled to share the x-ray of my dislocated elbow:
The lower bone is supposed to be tucked in next to the upper bone. I know the bones have names, but I can barely stand to look at this, let alone be accurate at the same time. Melissa, of course, thought the x-ray was totally cool. The less I know about the inside of my body, the happier I am.
Another doctor came in to explain he was going to put the bone back where it belonged. "More pain meds," I pleaded. "Okay" After a few minutes, he began. "No no no no, " I moaned, forgetting to be a brave farmer writer. "More drugs."
Let's just skip over the parts where they put me on my stomach and attached a weight to my wrist so the arm slowly stretched out. Luckily one of the drugs helps you forget. I was aware that Melissa was
right beside me, holding my hand and explaining they had to do this. Then SNAP, it popped back into place.
Here's the proof:
I asked Melissa the next day if I'd cried out at all during the procedure. "Are you sure you want to know?"
Shoot. Apparently I did make a bit of a fuss, even though the doctor and nurses were being incredibly gentle with me. My apologies to anyone within earshot.
Luckily, as a writer, I will have the chance to revise this entire episode. In fact, I'm fairly certain the next time I tell this story, I will have made it through the experience wearing a brave, authorial smile, as if farming writers live with this level of pain every day.
Yes, it's true, I do write fiction!
(and I'm also typing with one hand on a split keyboard. signing off to take more meds!)
Saturday I stepped on the icy-but-snow-covered driveway, and slipped. As I fell, I remember thinking "This is not going to end well!"
Instant pain and my arm stopped working right. A friend was with me so she got Melissa, and off we went to the hospital 30 miles away. I was in so much pain but remembered thinking "No one will know me so if I cry and carry on, it'll be okay."
Checked at the emergency desk, and the nurse came to help me remove my coat, which I decided would be my first opportunity to cry. But then Anne the nurse smiled at me. "Now you'll just have more to write about." Gaack. She knew who I was. I put on a brave, authorial smile, as if farming writers live with this level of pain every day.
She parked me in a room and gave me morphine. Ahhhh. A doctor came in. "I know your books. You should visit my kids' school." I smiled again, a brave author high on the nice drugs in my system.
Because I am a memoirist, I am compelled to share the x-ray of my dislocated elbow:
The lower bone is supposed to be tucked in next to the upper bone. I know the bones have names, but I can barely stand to look at this, let alone be accurate at the same time. Melissa, of course, thought the x-ray was totally cool. The less I know about the inside of my body, the happier I am.
Another doctor came in to explain he was going to put the bone back where it belonged. "More pain meds," I pleaded. "Okay" After a few minutes, he began. "No no no no, " I moaned, forgetting to be a brave farmer writer. "More drugs."
Let's just skip over the parts where they put me on my stomach and attached a weight to my wrist so the arm slowly stretched out. Luckily one of the drugs helps you forget. I was aware that Melissa was
right beside me, holding my hand and explaining they had to do this. Then SNAP, it popped back into place.
Here's the proof:
I asked Melissa the next day if I'd cried out at all during the procedure. "Are you sure you want to know?"
Shoot. Apparently I did make a bit of a fuss, even though the doctor and nurses were being incredibly gentle with me. My apologies to anyone within earshot.
Luckily, as a writer, I will have the chance to revise this entire episode. In fact, I'm fairly certain the next time I tell this story, I will have made it through the experience wearing a brave, authorial smile, as if farming writers live with this level of pain every day.
Yes, it's true, I do write fiction!
(and I'm also typing with one hand on a split keyboard. signing off to take more meds!)
