We're Changing Her Name to Houdini

     Under the subtitle: Milking It For All It's Worth, my darling Rosebud has become the world's greatest escape artist. While we repair the gate she tore down, and replace the leash she managed to snap in two, I offer you a glimpse of my latest attempts to keep her from making Boo's life a miserable hell. (Until yesterday, she did not grasp how spiral staircases worked. Suffice it to say, today, she figured this out.)

     To the center is Rosey who is thinking "I liked it better when it was just us, Mom" (to which I say, "Yes, Rosey, me too. Vacuuming three times a day was not exactly how I wanted to spend my fall.")
     Fortunately, we only have six more weeks to go until Rosebud will be preoccupied...
     So hang in there Rosey-Posey~ (I, like you, wish those puppies would get here already~ Something needs to calm this girl down!)

Fleas, Dogs and Collars: Part 3

   

     Though it was three months ago, the last days of Minsky's life I remember like yesterday. Painful goodbyes have a way of etching themselves deeply in both heart and cells and when it's your co-pilot, your baby, your best friend of 15 1/2 years...well, some things take longer to heal, and the mental reliving of the ordeal is not something I've been eager to embrace.
     That said, I choose to share her story here in the off chance it might somehow help someone else (and especially now that I have watched another baby of mine suffer from the toxins in a flea-killing ointment).
     I begin with this disclaimer: these are my observations. I did not have Minsky autopsied, though a flurry of google searches has shown me that I am not alone for having concerns.
     The product: Seresto Flea and Tick collar by Bayer.
     The tragedy: my beloved Minsky.
     The background is this:
     I first heard of Seresto collars a year and a half ago. With four huge outside dogs (one going back and forth daily), fleas go with the territory. But when I overheard a groomer swear by this collar, I immediately set out to find not one, but four, as the fur /hair combination of the Pyrenees breed, can make for a matted mess if you don't stay on top of these things.
     And I must say, I was totally impressed. The good news: they last for 8 months, so there's no monthly mess of drops and dips that do not cut it for dogs of this size romping in the great outdoors. The bad news: they're expensive as heck, and (little did I know at the time) they are controversial, and can even be deadly.
     Let the record reflect, my big dogs love their collars, as Rosebud, here will attest: (Note: this is the day she got her new one:http://karlensgarden.blogspot.com/2015/05/blog-post_4.html ... Not sure if they grasp the flea repelling concept or if they simply like feeling as if they belong, but as you can from their glee, it's a big day when we break out the new collars. I had to make special adjustments to get one to fit TJ as his head is so big, but with a little ingenuity, we managed.)

Hix and Rosebud

     This year, I did myself one better. Because these things are so costly, I went online to look for specials. ($70 at the vet; $50 online--It pays to shop around.) Given their success the year before, I decided this year to buy a small one for Minks as well (who weighed 18 lbs; they also make them for cats; though I did not purchase one for Boo.)
     One week prior to Minsky's passing I had taken her to the vet to check out a horrendous hacking cough that had worsened over the past few weeks. $125 worth of x-rays later and I was told her trachea was collapsing, which I attributed to the many meds that had extended her life thus far, (steroids and pain pills being amongst them). Per this examination, the doctors upped her steroids. We knew we were on borrowed time, and I in no way blame the collar entirely. But I am convinced it contributed. And here's why...
     Minka's last day on earth was pure hell for us both. Her cough had worsened and the increase in meds had her throwing up repeatedly, (roughly every 7 minutes at the end). After 22 rounds in 3 hours, I made the call every pet owner dreads, for there was nothing left in her to throw up anymore...Her little body was giving out.
     Keep in mind (for those who follow these things) I had an extra dog on my hands during this ordeal: Layla-- recovering from leg surgery, was back and forth from outside to in, as was Rosey. Given we were in peak flea season, and given Minka's expensive collar was fairly new, I popped in on Boo as a preventive measure. (For the record, Boo weighs 15 pounds...3 pounds less than Minka, but with twice the hair. Per the packaging, ingredients in the small dog collar were identical to that for grown cats, not that it mattered. We didn't get that far.)
     No sooner had I placed the collar on Boo, did I numbly begin going about my day, picking up Minka's bowl, her toys, her bedding...Then suddenly, I heard that God-forsaken sound, now forever etched in my memory--the sound I had heard incessantly over the past week from Minka...The sound I heard throughout her last hours, every seven minutes...There was no denying this sound.  Only this time, it was coming from Boo!  Boo had not had the collar on for one hour when he launched into the identical hacking sound of an irritated trachea.

     In an instant, I grabbed him and snapped the collar off. He ran for water. I ran for my laptop whereupon googling, I found a series of complaints about these collars, particularly on smaller animals. Symptoms ranged from hacking coughs to seizures, to yes, even deaths. Oddly enough, there's very little gray area here. People either love these collars or they hate them. (When you put this kind of money in a collar, I guess you're gonna have strong opinions.)
     As for me, I still keep them on the big dogs. Then again, Pyrs have an undercoat of fur beneath their top coat of hair --2 layers of protection between collar and neck, as opposed to Minka, whose summer cut left precious little fur around her precious little neck. (Boo's fur would've been more akin to the Pyrs by way of thickness, but it mattered not. The sound alone was enough for me. I cringed to hear the familiar hack. So for Boo, it's flea combs and herbal formulas from now on.)

     Again, I reiterate, Minks had several problems in her latter days. I in no way blame the collar entirely. But I am convinced it contributed. And I am sufficiently convinced it has done harm to other smaller breeds of dog, so if you're considering one, please do your homework.

     Meanwhile, I share Minka's memory once again...May her little life serve as a reminder to us all to cherish every moment of every day...Not a day goes by that I don't think of her with love and gratitude for the time we had. Here's to you Minka girl...I'm praying there are no fleas in heaven.

http://karlensgarden.blogspot.com/2015/06/love-of-all-time.html

   
   

Fleas: Part 2 -- Sammy

   

L-R: Hissy Missy (my Tortie'),  Sammy (Siamese) and Gracie (Gray and White)

     As anyone reading this blog is aware, I recently acquired 3 new family members about six weeks back: my feral cats. I'm going to use the term only once in this post, as it's become the running joke between the friend who delivered them to me that my cats are broken as there is nothing feral about them.(We can thank his girlfriend for holding them while little and blame me for thinking for 2 seconds I was gonna have a critter around these parts that I didn't at least try to tame.)

     In case you haven't met them, their names are Gracie (gray and white), Sammy (Siamese) and Hissy Missy (a brindle colored cat, also known as a "tortie"-- personality for which is unmistakeable.)

(i.e. In addition to their distinctive coloring, torties also have a reputation for unique personalities, sometimes referred to as “tortitude.”  They tend to be strong-willed, a bit hot-tempered, and they can be very possessive of their human.  Other words used to describe torties are fiercely independent, feisty and unpredictable.  They’re usually very talkative and make their presence and needs known with anything from a hiss to a meow to a strong purr. Author's Note: Hissy Missy has these traits in spades. I've never seen a cat hiss and purr simultaneously, but she does, which netted her her name...)

     But today's story is about Sammy...

     Given the fruit basket turnover of alpha energies and hormones (i.e. Rosebud's in her last week of a three week heat cycle...Thank GOD!) life around here has been more topsy turvy than usual. (i.e. Rosebud, though safe from being bred by a family member, has acclimated quite nicely to air conditioning and as a result, has learned (when put in the pen) how to jump out, so she's been in the house with Rosey and me for the past week. As a result, Boo has retreated upstairs, totally confused as to where this Rosey-clone came from; the new kitties (who have not met Boo, as their jobs were SUPPOSED to be keeping mice at bay) have been in the basement, where they are allowed access to the great outdoors in the day. (Although given the jungle gym of stored furnishings and ductwork, they are blissfully content to play indoors where it's cool.) But because they can go back and forth, from outdoor to in, they have contracted a nasty case of the"fleasles".

     Fleas, as every pet owner knows, are a nuisance to any fur bearing critter, and they are particularly bad here in the South. My dogs have flea collars (more on this in my next blog). As for Boo, he gets the occasional back-of-the-neck "spot on" formula, and we keep a flea comb handy, but given he's not intermingling with the babies in the basement, he's relatively safe.

     So with a gorgeous day to do it in, I set out to bomb the basement (for those unfamiliar, go to http://www.wikihow.com/Flea-Bomb-a-House; this is not for the faint of heart, but given the complexity of the situation, it was the only real choice) moving my trio of playful teenage kitties to the back deck, (which simultaneously turned my indoors into a life size pinball machine with Rosebud as the ball.) Suffice it to say it was not a quiet afternoon, though fortunately, the kitties, were un-phased by Rosebud. (I wish I could say the same about my furniture.) 

     Next up: treat the kitties.

     Running across a year-old tube of flea formula, I checked the label to confirm it could be used on kittens, but to be EXTRA cautious (fully knowing this might not rid me of all the fleas, but it was a start), I divvied the one tube among 4 cats (Boo, upstairs, got a tad; the three kittens got a tad; note the formula was to be used entirely on one full grown cat; again, I THOUGHT I was being safe.) Turns out...not so much.
      Coinciding with this event, was the fact that this was going to be the kitties first night in the great outdoors. I had cleaned, moved (even painted) the Igloo house that once sheltered Rosey's puppies their first night outdoors (If you aren't familiar, these are weather resistant dog houses shaped like an igloo, supposedly to keep animals from jumping on them, though my goats have mastered this to perfection)...In short, I was both excited and relieved to be finally shifting my growing kittens onto their intended turf. They could stay on the porch, huddle in their igloo, or climb down a tree if they wanted. It was, in fact, kitty paradise. Last step of the process: apply the flea formula (1 tube, divided by 4, with Boo getting half because he's HUGE, and the remaining 3 kitties getting a third of the other half, making that ....? Someone else can do the math.)

     The next morning (Sunday...another beautiful day), I go outside to check on the babies to find only one there to greet me. (Three guesses as to which one: yep. The tortie.) Hissy Missy is swishing and swaying and doing the tail-around-your-leg thing, hoping he's gonna get all three bowls of food I've toted out. The other two are nowhere to be found...though I could hear them.

     Gracie, was directly under the deck, poised to pounce, guestimating the leap between porch rafter and log pile. Sammy, on the other hand, had made his way back to the familiar basement door where he was hunkered down, crying and shaking uncontrollably.

     At first glance he appeared to be traumatized by something. I picked him up and held him close, as he continued to shake and purr simultaneously. "It's OK Sammy....It's OK...It's OK...I'm sorry I left you outside...Did something scare you? Who scared you?" (Rosebud had not been out without a leash, though clearly in the country, any number of animals prowl at night. I'm wondering "Maybe a possum?..But on closer inspection, there were no wound marks...nothing to indicate physical damage.)

     Placing him on the floor, I watched him stumble, then stagger, his little body spasming as he tried to walk. Fortunately, he did eat, though the water part seemed to confuse him. Suddenly it dawned on me: he wasn't  traumatized: he was toxified!

     I raced upstairs for my Dawn detergent and a clean towel to scrub whatever residual flea formula I could off his little blonde body, which did not resist (unusual for a cat). "Hang in there Sammy! Hang on bud...Mommy's SO Sorry.... I am SO sorry, Sammy, I'm SO SORRY..." (I'm crying and scrubbing...crying and scrubbing.)

     I guess it was subconscious. (I didn't google till after.) But something from all the animal rescue footage I've seen over the years must've kicked in (visions of the Valdez oil spill in particular). After 2 - 3 round of washing and rinsing (fleas flowing off the little guy like crazy) I patted him dry as I held him and rocked his little body, that twitch every so often out of sheer reflex. I went for a dropper and got a few rounds of goat's milk into his little brown mouth; then I bundled him up as I went to gather the other two to keep him company. 

     NEXT came the google search. And I searched. And I searched. And I searched. There were plenty of links on how to SPOT flea formula toxicity...Hotlines to call so folks could confirm your symptoms (which I didn't need; I knew what I was looking at). But sadly there was no real advice as to what to do about it after the fact. So I called my trusting vet friend, Dr. G, who, though now retired, cared for my every childhood pet from dogs to cats to hamsters and is the wisest man I know when it comes to caring for animals. While I could not find the packaging (I feared I had tossed it in trash I had already hauled; fortunately, I DID find it later) Dr. G already surmised what was happening, assuring me that if my little guy pulled through (and eating was a good sign) that the good news is, the damage would not be permanent.

     This story ends on a good note. (Thank you God.) If you ever encounter this situation, the good news is the effects are not permanent. What I feared would do irreversible damage to little Sammy's nervous system, fortunately proved unfounded. Today, Sammy is back to his bouncy, normal kitty self, playfully enjoying both outdoors and in with his fellow partners in crime.

     That said, today finds me on a mission to study the ingredients, not only in the toxic formulas I will no longer be using, but in the alternatives, which, if I can grow it, I'll be making myself. 

     (And if I do...I'll let you know.)

     

A Word About Fleas, Flea Collars and Flea Treatments (1 of 3 in a series)

     Lest you think it's all lollypops and roses living with all these adorable faces, let me take a moment to tackle one very serious, could be fatal topic. One cannot live with outside critters without encountering the bloodsucking parasite otherwise known as: the flea.  Everybody I know has his/her own approach to the topic. (Farmers in particular, but even my city-dwelling friends seek answers.) Some swear by certain flea dips. Others swear by certain collars (as I once did). I even have one neighbor who Seven Dusts his dog. (Not uncommon in the country though I personally don't recommend it...Then again, I don't recommend anything I am about to tell you here...) I simply feel it a topic worthy of a blog, that's how significant it is to me, and to those who (like me)  love so deeply it hurts.
     For starters, fleas are not only a nuisance, they can be downright deadly. While spending an inordinate amount of time researching the subject this weekend, I ran across this -- (as if I weren't scared enough already).
Fleas are notorious for having carried the bubonic plague that wiped out a substantial portion of Europe's population during the Middle Ages. Although we like to think that the plague is ancient history, the truth is that fleas, particularly in the southwestern United States, still carry the bacteria that causes it. Cats are as susceptible to this disease as humans, and if not treated, it can be fatal.
     I share this bit of news to say, fleas are serious business and left untreated, can be deadly. But what can also be deadly are the products we use to treat fleas...a subject I now feel led to write about. As a journalist, I can only pray you know how much I weigh these sorts of things before I write, particularly as it pertains to name brands and incidents (which I feel led to share here)...More particularly yet, as it pertains to babies I've known and loved.  That said, owing to two heartbreaking incidents I have lived all too recently, I feel this is something I need not gloss over with fun, furry, happy faces, but something I should offer up as I share my due diligence. Sadly, some of the sweet faces I have posted,  didn't make it...Those that did, I feel would want me to share this information  for the pain they endured.
     One such event happened just this weekend and involved one of my newly acquired "feral" cats; the other involved my beloved Minka.
     As I debate the pictures...I struggle with a starting point...
     But the story, journalistically
     I feel, I must share. . .
   

Unmet Expectations

     There is nothing more disappointing than watching something you've been working on for weeks, go up in smoke....Nothing more disappointing than anticipating... looking forward to something you've poured heart and soul into, going flat out bust. (Wait. I take that back. There is something more disappointing. It's when you've invested that time and energy into someONE. There is nothing more disappointing than when someone you thought you could count on, lets you down.)
     Sure, it happens. You see it in business all the time. But when your business and your personal go hand in hand...when your partners are like family, let's just say it packs an extra punch to the gut.
     Here of late I've seen a lot of board rooms; I've been involved more meetings than usual. The business side of my world (i.e. the part that pays my bills) is suddenly filled with entrepreneurial types taking (what appears to be) a sudden interest in the sorts of things I've been doing and writing about for the past 2 -3 years, with my garden, critters and creations. Granted, I love this farm life, and I plan to stay. But it turns out, what I embraced as a new chapter, born of a gnawing, internal desire to step back, hole up, figure out my life, (while documenting the journey) others see as trend-worthy, marketable...i.e. the future.
     While flattered that business types see potential in what they call "sustainable living' to me it's personal. So it stands to reason I'm going to weigh things with a little more heart despite what business numbers and market trends might suggest, (though don't get me wrong, I take these things seriously too).
     It comes as no surprise to me, this growing interest in sustainable living. Call it the environmental right thing, call it health-driven or call it common sense, somewhere deep inside seems others too, are sensing we can't keep up the facade without repercussion. I have been careful in wording these blogs not to lean into doomsday scenarios or "prepper" theories, for in truth, that is not what brought me to this table. But I will say I hear from these folks...often. And you'd be surprised to find how very everyday and ordinary they are. (They just have food and water stored alongside their generators, and  like me, want to know how to grow and store more should the situation call for it.)
     It doesn't take a rocket scientist to spot that the US economy is not that stable; and despite our thinking that what's happening in Greece is their problem, it is not. It is a global problem, and one that governments can't keep bailing out without it coming from somewhere. And while investor types come at this self-sustaining wave with impressive research to back it, what I have is a gut feel, based on paying attention to one life (namely my own)--taking note as I go.
     My market research consists of increases in emails from people I barely know wanting to know how much land it takes. I'm noticing more hits on FB when it comes to certain topics...The number of folks reaching out personally, asking questions about growing their own or wanting to come visit and experience first hand, has started to take up larger and larger portions of my working day, so much so, that we are now making plans to walk you through things via video blog next go round.
     As a matter of spiritual philosophy, I'm a big believer that if you seek, you will find...if you knock, doors will open. (I'm also a big believer that when one door closes, a better one awaits, especially when what you've been asking is to be protected from those who might be there for the wrong reasons. I'm big on asking for protection.) It is also my belief that God protects those who seek to make use of the talents they've been given, provided they're doing it for good and not just selfish gain. And it's been my experience that the sooner I can forgive, the sooner my energy can return to its normal creative flow. (As it turns out, the same energy it takes to process disappointment, is the same energy you need to create new solutions or entirely new projects all together.)
     It was not for thinking of doomsday scenarios that led me to ask "What matters most in my life?" It was a spiritual search that led me to question, "If I am going to invest my time and energy into something for good, what will it be and who am I best working with to make it happen?" for it is also my belief that we are only as good, productive, successful (pick your adjective) as those we surround ourselves with, and for me, trustworthiness tops that list. I want to surround myself with people who share my vision for helping others...people who want the best and highest good not just for themselves, but for those around them, and for others who can benefit in the grander scheme of things.
     You can plan till the cows come home for what you'd do in the event of a crisis. But meanwhile life is lived in the day to day, and fortunately, the day to day gives us ample opportunity to see things for what they are. Any soldier will tell you the buddy who winds up with you in your foxhole is as important as the foxhole plan itself. And to my way of thinking, it's good to test this mettle early, even in the small stuff...long before the bigger plan is called for.
   

Rosebud and Cotton, Sittin' in a Tree . . .

     Parental discretion is advised. (Not to worry; this is not a graphic video...This is the happy aftermath when Cotton's mom called to share the happy news of two dogs, that, 3 days prior, we had to separate...Ah the difference a few days can make. When it comes to breeding dogs, it's everything...Here's how it works...)

     For those unfamiliar with the breeding habits of large dogs, it boils down to this: 

     You have 7 days warning. There are tell-tale (tail) signs, but mostly you know it's time when your boys start fighting again and your girl stays tail-tucked under a rock. (As for this farm, I'm sad to note that for all the progress with Hix in the alpha-dominance training, all the name-stating, bowl-setting exercises go pretty much out the window when it gets down to real tests like who's gonna get the girl, even if the girl IS your sister, or your niece as the case may be.)
      Bottom line; dogs don't care. Nature is nature and for the record, TJ is still alpha supreme in these parts. (Between that buzzard, the possum and now TJ once again, poor Hix's muzzle is starting to resemble Mike Tyson's face.)

     Second 7-day window IS your window. Tail-tucked goes to tail-strut. That said, you can have a girl who simply will not breed, which is what I feared we might have in Rosebud, ah but just about time we were about to call it quits...

     We have contact!

     Turns out Rosebud and Cotton DO like each other! Very much! (Oh the comforts of modern day cell technology! Nothing like seeing the happy faces of your kids off at at camp...Doesn't this just warm the heart?)

     Waiting out the final 7 days is the patience test of all patience tests. Having brought Rosebud home and reintroduced her to her tribe, I became concerned that someone might tear down a gate or jump a fence to get to her. In this period, your girl is once again, totally uninterested in the males around her, but that doesn't mean they aren't interested in her (as is every other male dog in the neighborhood).

     Bottom line, you start counting. While women take 9 months, girl dogs take nine weeks, which means Rosebud's babies should be up and playing by Thanksgiving, and ready for new homes by Christmas, good Lord willing. 

     For those who have reached out over the course of this year inquiring about Pyrs to protect your goats and / or your spring chicks, this Rose-bud (may be)  for you. As I have shared in prior blogs, it is my habit to allow each girl one breeding before spaying to keep Rosey's line going. At present three of Rosebud's pups are spoken for. For more information, you can contact me direct at karlenevins@gmail.com.

No ER This August!

     True to form, Augusts find me slammed more than any other month of the year (including December) thanks to this farm and garden thing, so much so that when I stopped to think back, I came to realize the last 3 landed me in the ER for one reason or another. First year, it was a brown recluse bite; second year, I judged a pie contest at the county fair totally forgetting that in my 20s I battled Crohn's. (Let's just say I can no longer brag on a 20-year "sympton free" run). Third year found me flat out tired. (Turns out I was anemic. Not sure whose blood they gave me, but I was sure happy to get it.)
     While clearly each of these are separate scenarios, they do share one common denominator and that is the guilt I feel when I can't pick it all, pickle it all, freeze it all or even find homes for it all once the harvest comes in. Given this inevitability (i.e. that what you plant in the spring, WILL show up in the fall) the combination of trying (and failing), coupled with the sheer, raw guilt of seeing a tomato rot on the vine or an okra grow 12 " long because you skipped a day of picking...well guess what? Turns out stressing over these things can do you in ...even weaken an immune system or else it can leave you so exhausted you forget to shake the jeans you left lying on the bathroom floor and a spider bites you!

     For that reason, I entered this year with a new mantra: No ER in August! (Actually, I didn't come up with it. My workers did, but I'm on board with it...Almost printed up bumper stickers.) This year I decided to plan ahead. First, we added a new freezer. (I now have 3.) And I blocked off time to just BE with the corn and the okra and the . . . (whatever came up today that needs tending to before it rots). What's more, (and this was even more important)  I forgave myself when the kitchen looked like a bomb went of in it -- for two weeks. (Turns out those who dropped by during this period didn't mind a bit; amazing how forgiving your friends can be when you send 'em packing with a basket of veggies!)

     Likewise, starting late last month, I made it a point to never leave the house without a car full of whatever came up that day (which means if you're my bank teller, my oil changer, my postal person, or the person who parks beside me in the parking lot, Congratulations! You've just won some okra!... or "Lucky you-- it's Tomato Tuesday!" (You should've seen the expression on Watermelon Wednesday.)
     In short it occurred to me that what made August so difficult was the fact that while most farmers  grow a garden just to GET to this month, I grew mine for other reasons (i.e. to learn how to do it, to spend time with Thurman or Miss Duff hearing stories of how their parents did it, to take pretty pictures for the next cookbook, etc.). In other words, the veggies were an afterthought (so much so that trying to make up for having not made them a "fore thought" found me scrambling...and worse--stressing.)
     If a garden is about anything, it's about life, and if life is about anything, it's about enjoying...savoring...BEing fully present for it.  That's why this August, we took a different tact. Having learned long ago that definition of insanity (doing the same thing over and over and hoping for a different outcome) we decided that in order to enjoy things like last month's blue moon or this month's gorgeous sunsets and meteor showers, we'd be wise to change our plan...Take time to savor each elemental part of the process, just as I had taken time to savor the earlier parts that I love so much (like planting, and tilling, and yes, even weeding...i.e. the process).
     For in the end,  let's face it -- it's ALL about the process. If you miss the joy in that, you've missed the point entirely. (My experience anyway...So far, so good. Of course, we've still got half a month to go, so knock wood and say a prayer!)

Given the amount of this stuff I've given away,
I've decided to call it Okra- Win-Free!

   
   

Playing Possum

     Sometimes you just gotta marvel at God's sense of humor, if not Nature's sense of wonder and awe There is nothing more fascinating than that "so-ugly-they're-cute" marsupial, the possum. (And no, we're not talking George Jones).
     To be technical, they're called opossums, and as anyone in the country knows, they have the unique defense mechanism of playing dead in order to have their predator (in this case, Rosey) leave them alone. (Only Rosey cannot understand it when her prey starts to slowly crawl away. It would be like watching your steak walk off your plate...Poor Rosey. Poor Possum.)
     One wiki search and you'll find that playing dead isn't the only trick little dude is capable of. For starters, it turns out this coma-like state he goes into when in extreme fear is totally involuntary and that by going into this state, the predator after it, looses all interest in eating it. But in case that's not enough, a really startled possum drool starts to form drool, which appears as bubbles blowing out its nose, leaving predators like Rosey thinking it's sick (another unappetizing plus for Mr. O).
     Just as involuntary, is the teeth-showing snarl that leaves humans thinking the little guys are fierce. (And while I'm told they are not, no one in her right mind would reach down to pet one in this posture.) But finally, as if Mother Nature had not used all her tricks on this otherwise defenseless little creature, as a final message of "back away dude" a REALLY scared opossum will emit a green stench of a back-side fluid, just for good measure. (They do not spray like skunks, but I'm told it can smell just as bad. Fortunately, we didn't get that far with ours.)
     Suffice it to say when I heard all the commotion, and my flashlight revealed what was going on, it was easy enough to get Rosey inside. (Turns out Rosey, my cookie-monstor Pyr, will take "Cookie? Cookie?"any day over apparently dead, stinking possum.)
     Once left to his own devices, a few kibbles and a little humming, the guy was up and at 'em, scurrying quietly into the dark of night.

In the Words of Scooby-Doo...

   

                    "Rut Row!"
      So much for all the dog whispering. . .
      No sooner do I brag on my boys... no sooner are TJ and Hix finally getting along, does all chaos break loose!
     Turns out no matter whose bowl you put down first, it only takes one female going into heat to let know who's really in charge. (FYI, TJs back in the driver's seat and RoseBUD's on her way to visit a friend...)
      Stay tuned.
                          Film at 11.
                                             (#neverboring)
   

Good Boy, Hix, Good Boy! (Cracking the Alpha Code)

   

Hix, My Ever-Growin' Boy

     While therapy for me to process out loud various challenges that go along with life on the farm, I am deeply moved when people write or post comments about my critters. Be they prayers or some tidbit of advice I am grateful for the information and I marvel at the time people will take to show they care.

TJ Meets Hiccapup for the Very First Time

     Several weeks ago I wrote about dominance challenges between my 2 male Pyrs, TJ and Hiccapup (a.k.a."Hix"--the pup that keeps on growing). At issue: TJ (brother to Rosey) has been my established alpha. Hix (son of Rosey, brother to Rosebud) came into TJs world as an 8 week old puppy, and as such, simply became part of TJs charge. (Since he was the size of a goat, TJ viewed him as such, but what happens when the thing you are protecting shoots past you in growth? Food fights for starters...and now dominance issues that has Hix vying for alpha rights.)
     Having decided to love the big guy through it (a human if not spiritual approach to what most will tell you is a primal issue dating back to the dawn of time), my former radio colleague and fellow dog-lover Lee Swain reached out to offer this keen insight:
       Your dogs will NOT obey you BECAUSE you actively give them love all the time ....they will obey because they recognize you as the natural supreme Alpha (via food, etc) and they will will respect your authority from your CONSISTENTCY of commands, play, love, treat and food giving ....... dogs acclimated to human co-existence still respond to the primal instincts of pack order ....ie who eats first in a feral wolf pack .... the alpha male and female ..... and as regards elective neutering, the younger male wolves are "encouraged" to leave the pack when they are mature enough to challenge the alpha's breeding rights
      (One can see right away why Lee was such a good talk show host.)
      I still maintain my one-on-one, eyeball-to-eyeball, heart-to-heart time with Hix is an investment worthy of cultivating as it reinforces, 1) he has a place in this family and will not be abandoned over what I perceive as bad behavior and 2) around here, we choose love reinforcements over fear. That said, Lee makes a valid point that, much as they are my babies, their wiring is that of dogs. Furthermore I agree that left to nature, Hix, by now, would have left the family pack rather than give up his shot at alpha because TJ got there first (something he can't do while domesticated as he's fenced in).

Brekfuss: Most Important
Meal of the Day (We take it
very seriously around here. )

     Lee went on to suggest that given I'm in charge of the food around here (minus the occasional bird or a possum) the order in which I call the dogs each morning, and the order in which I place their bowls sends a powerful message as to alpha reinforcements, something I had not thought about, but something I was eager to try. (And I must say, it is making a difference --3 days and no fights. We shall continue this practice.)
     Until these past few, the "brekfuss" ritual consisted of Rosey bolting out with me, eager to get in the pen with the others, as this is where brekfuss is served! (For the sake of consistency and to be able to get her in the pen for when I need her there, Rosey must eat with all the others. Fortunately, she wants to.)
     But based on this newfound info, what I failed to notice, is that it's neither Hix nor TJ who is alpha, but ROSEY...something "I" have affected owing to the fact that Rosey's goat to guard is me.
     As she enters the pen, everyone comes to greet her.  Hix and Rosebud are happy to see their mom; TJ comes out to inspect his sister. They romp, they run, they wait for me to put bowls down --bowls Rosey has had the honor of watching me prepare, again, I suppose, reinforcing (in her at least) just how alpha she really is.
      Until now, I simply placed the bowls several yards apart, as to allow any dog the bowl of his/her choice...As far as who went first, the order has always been Rosey first, then Hix or Rosebud... (Sometimes Hix wanders to see if someone else got more in their bowl, or goes to turn one over, either way losing time to Rosebud who hunkers down pretty early once she finds a bowl to call her own.) Last but not least comes TJ. (As a matter of practice, TJ normally doesn't start eating until he sees EVERYONE eating, including the goats; he stands beside his bowl and watches. Whether this makes him alpha or tenderhearted, it's what he does.)
     So by way of the alpha message, what has happened is, I have clearly messed with the pack.
     For starters, TJ took over Rosey's role when the pups came into the pen. Alpha, maybe. But mostly TJ is maternal. He took Rosey's role, after Rosey's pups were weaned and Rosey resumed her role back with me. TJ does not as a rule eat first, but now, something about Hix annoys him (as Hix is no longer WANTING TJ's protection, but wanting to be in charge himself. Only Hix isn't Tj. TJ's got more feminine in him. He's a nurturer. Hix, is a fighter and I think it's that fighting energy that's making TJ wonder if he shouldn't be more aggressive as well...So recently, he's started showing his teeth. (As a side note, I have to smile. TJ LOVES stuff toys. Hix, loves bones. At any given time, you'll see TJ toting his teddy bear over to his favorite shade tree; you'll see Hix hauling his bowls into the woods. They are VERY different dogs; both male; both protectors, but in very different ways. (You'll note it's TJ who follows the babies around, nudging them to their mothers. Meanwhile it's HIX who growls ferociously when those babies are first born making sure nothing gets anywhere near until their mother has her baby totally cleaned of afterbirth --a scent that draws predators like nothing else).
     So I tried a new theory (and so far it's working). If I'm the main alpha, and Rosey's second (after all, I am her primary focus), how do I acknowledge who's next? (For when Rosey and I are inside, this is the pecking order that rules the great outdoors.)

TJ and Hix, Sharin' the Shade
(any idea how happy this makes me?)

     Before when stepping into the pen to feed everyone, I called them by name as they showed up. Some mornings Rosebud might come out first; others might find TJ already in his shady spot. It never occurred to me that whose name I speak first sends a signal to THEM. This time, I called for Hix. I did not place any bowls until Hix was in the mix and if Hix showed up first, I gave him his first. (He's still a little bumfuzzled right now...Kinda like winning the lottery and not totally believing it. He's got this "What just happened here?" look about him, as there's nothing to fight over since I said it was so.)
      First morning, Rosey bolted to her food as I tried to give Hix his bowl even BEFORE Rosey. (Didn't work, but I tried.) What DID work was I finally figured out the alpha isn't the boys, it's Rosey.
      Day 2, I spoke to Hix. (Rosey gets talked to in the kitchen...She's so focused on what's in the bowl by the time we get to the pen, she doesn't need to hear her name anymore. As I've always said, Rosey's a dog most comfortable in her own fur.) While preparing to set the bowls down, I intentionally (i.e while making eye contact and speaking his name repeatedly, which dogs love) placed Hix's bowl down at precisely the same time I set Rosey's down as if to say "You two are alphas together--Rosey outside of this fence; Hix inside." Again, Hix looked a bit perplexed, but he was plenty pleased.

TJ:Keeper of the Sock-Monkey

     Question became, what about TJ?
     Curiously, because TJ is such a sweetie (to be so big and scary when he snarls) all it took for TJ was for me (after Hix was eating) to take his food to him (not make him come to me) ...Place it on the ground and (yes, with TJ I can do this) I pet him while he eats. Given a choice, TJs a softie. He's rather have my undivided attention (even if it means Hix gets to eat first) than fight for alpha.  In short, everybody wins.
     Rosebud (who is wired a lot like her mom, but with even more of an independent streak) is focused on her own bowl. Like her mother, she doesn't need all this coddling. She's the beta of the bunch (or the delta...or whatever the baby of the family is called in dog kingdom). The only time I've ever seen Rosebud come unglued was when Layla was here as oddly enough, Layla was a threat to her "lowest pup on the totem pole" position and she didn't like it one bit.

Rosebud: My Go-Along, Get-Along Dog
(except when it comes to Layla)

     But now that Layla's in a paradise of her own, Rosebud is happy in last place (in pecking order only). Rosey's focused on her food. TJ gets my undivided attention until he's done eating, by which time Hix is toting his bowl to the woods and everyone's back to doing their favorite thing.
     Long way of getting here, but this is the update. As of now at least, we're cracking the alpha code one day at a time.

For Teddy

   

       
     My life is peaceful for the most part these days. Any conflict... inner turmoil, usually involves my animals: my feral cats aren't feral...my dogs don't know their pecking order. Otherwise, while I observe things like international politics and presidential debates, I no longer ingest these things personally like I used to...May be age, may be wisdom, but I find myself resonating more with each passing day to that line in the serenity prayer: those things I cannot change, I leave for others. I've got goats to feed and corn to pick.
     When I DO find myself unnerved by something over which I have no say, I pause to ask myself "Why, Evins? Why does this bug you so? What about this pea under umpteen mattresses (i.e. layers of my life) is sticking in your craw?"
     Today, I hit such a pea. Made no sense why it hit me like it did..but at least one of my friends got an earful on my drive home from Nashville. (Thanks dude, for allowing me to vent. Clearly I'm not quite done yet.)
     Setting:
     If you follow this blog you know, I now live in the country. Nashville is no longer the home I once knew, but is still, a place I go for meetings, and today was chock full of 'em. To allow the rush hour to subside, I stop off at one of my favorite eateries to take home food for the weekend. While waiting, I pick up a Scene. (Note: I've not read a Scene in awhile now; don't think they deliver them as far as Lebanon, but my history with Scene people is rich and it's personal...(i.e. the dudes who founded the original are friends; ditto that for its current owner today. Don't know all its writers, but I know a few...not that this matters.)
     For reasons that make absolutely no sense ( note: I used to read the Scene for its political views and as I have stated, I limit my intake of this stuff anymore) I flip to the "culture" segment of the paper only to find that Shirley MacLaine is coming to Nashville. And to read the article, you'd think she's walking into alien territory.
     Now, for reasons that perhaps DO make sense (for they are hitting a button BIG time in me), I feel my blood pressure rising. The article ends with Ms. MacLaine's response to the question: How do you think you'll be received (by Nashville) ...Answer: "I don't know. Let's see...They probably think I'm crazy. Let's see what happens."

     (I'm sure there's an emoticon for this somewhere, but bug eyes, wide open come to mind.)

     You don't KNOW? Seriously, Miss MacLaine? You've got no clue about Nashville and her people and curiosity about these things?
     Wow. That's a shocker. For a woman whose interviews cost us sponsors in the day...For a woman whose trans-channeling guru (Kevin Ryerson) played at TPAC to a sold out auditorium thanks to Teddy Bart....I'm surprised that you can remember at seven years of age, a past life holding a pistol, and can't remember 25 years ago, a man who dared to interview you when certain clergy in this town preached we were going to hell. (I know. I walked out of my own Nashville church the day it was said... It's now starting to dawn on me why this is hitting a nerve.)
     I hold no angst. Hope her show's a big sell out, after all Shirley's provided us many a good interview. But to set the record straight Shirley, Teddy interviewed you both when you went "Out on a Limb" as well as when you wrote "It's All In the Playing" Best sellers, and not-so-best sellers, Teddy was there for you.
     Props to Abby White for nabbing the interview. But I'm sorely disappointed in you Shirley MacLaine for acting as if you have no clue how Nashville will respond.
     Today, these topics are safe thanks to the visionaries who blazed the path. In the 80s...it took nerve to give an hour of air time over to someone that could've gotten a host killed, or at the very least, condemned to hell.
     Just gotta take a moment to speak up here on behalf of a partner who saw this day coming and sadly didn't live to see it take place.
     On the other hand, I'm kinda glad Teddy's not here to see it. He would've been so proud that topics like life after life and reincarnation have made it to the Schermerhorn. On the other hand, I think it would've made him very sad to think no one remembered that he, not only interviewed them, yes here in the buckle of the Bible belt, but HE took the hit when people made a mockery of folks like Shirley MacLaine AND himself, Teddy Bart--one of the best and bravest interviewers to ever grace a mic. That he approached those interviews with the same dignity and respect he approached EVERY interview... well that was just the way he rolled. (So for those of you being ridiculed by everyone else back then...you lucked out.)
     Rest in peace Teddy Bart. What you said would happen, IS happening. But sadly, no one seems to remember you were there first.
     (But I do...and while it's not very spiritual of me to admit this, it kinda pisses me off.)

     I now return to my regularly scheduled goat feedings. (THIS is why I moved to the country. I'm done venting now. Sorry to take up space normally reserved for cute goat faces and big, fluffy white dogs. Just goes to show, I'm as human as the rest.)