When You Run with the Big Dogs

And you are a Big Dog…

TJ and His Forever Family

TJ is eleven years old. When he was two years old, we spotted each other at the county animal shelter. He was in a crate, which he and I instantly agreed was a cage,  in the restricted area (don’t ask how I accidentally wandered into the restricted area) while he waited for his owners to pick him up from the pound for the third time. The label on TJ’s crate said ‘Runaway’.

A week later, FarmerMan saw a video of a dog that a man had posted in a local group on Social Media. Ten minutes later, we were in front of the house, talking to the man about a dog.

The dog was TJ, and the man said they’d had TJ about six months, but TJ’s boy  was going into the Marines. The family couldn’t keep the dog because of Old Cat, who had a rule “No dogs in the house or zip code”. According to the owner, TJ had never been to the vet because  he’d never been sick. TJ went home with us.

First Vet Visit

TJ had his first visit with our talented vet. After a round of vaccinations and a check up, the vet told us that his wonky right back leg was from an untreated injury when he was a puppy, and most likely he’d been hit by a car. When we told her  he’d been labeled a runaway, she said he was looking for us, and we wouldn’t have any issues. Our brilliant vet was right.

Old Dogs Still Got It

Even though TJ now suffers from osteoarthritis, especially in his right back leg, he still guards me while I write, stalks and chases field mice in our front field,  reminds me to take our daily  walk, so he can have his supper, is a fierce hunter of armadillos, and will dance and sing for his meals or treats.

Teaching the Young Ones

TJ also taught our sweet Toby, who was a stray that came to the farm and stayed, the fine art of being a Faithful Kitchen Sentry. In the mornings, FarmerMan frequently whips up a batch of scrambled eggs with potatoes and sausage for us and a second breakfast of fried eggs for the sentries.

In the evening, I’m notorious for my wild chopping of vegetables that hit the floor, dropping the whisk while I make gravy, or the obligatory offering  of half of a pecan to each sentry when I whip up a batch of cookies.

Dog Stories

You might have noticed all my stories have at least one dog in them.  No surprise at all, is it?

You keep reading; I’ll keep writing.