You Have Not Lived (the full country experience) Until ...

     One of your dogs ...
     Gets sprayed by a skunk.

     While this is definitely not my first rodeo, it is (by far) my WORST ...
     (That it takes place at 2AM only exacerbates the wound.)

     For the record, Pyrenees, world renown for protecting goats, sheep and wounded creatures everywhere a la St. Francis, would normally think nothing of having a cat in their mix. And at least 4 of my 5 do consider our cats family.

     But isn't it so life?

     There's always that one ...

     Rosebud (my wild child Pryenees) hates cats.

     What this means for us around here is that Boo, never knowing for sure which big white dog might make the occasional indoor visit, keeps an eye out. No biggie.
     The outside (so called feral) cats, are on super high alert now that wiley coyote here has found (more likely "created") a hole in the fence ...a hole I thought I had found/fixed/resolved; clearly I was mistaken.
     To her credit, Rosebud's very smart, and has (all by herself) figured out:
                           "Inside=AC -- Outside=Barn floor...Is this a trick question?"
While placating me come meal time, she has for the past two nights, shown up at my door when she's had enough...(leaving Hix and TJ at the gate ...blank stares and some version of "Dang. How'd she do that?" popping like a cartoon bubble over their big ol doggie heads)

     Until fence dude makes it this weekend,  it was easier just let her in...my thinking being -- if a dog is this smart, she deserves a little A/C for a day or a night...
     That was my thinking ...
                                                until last night.

     Hunkered down for the night, we were bolted from our sleep when Rosebud, out of nowhere, commences to barking (inside the house--just to be clear). With outside dogs prompting (or following ... hard to say) this leads me to conclude: "Must be a coyote, otherwise, why would she risk her cushy comforts after all this effort?"
   
     I stumble downstairs to let her do what we have Pyrs here to do in the first place, which is to say "Go Rosebud go. Protect your charge. Run that critter off."

     Five minutes later, after hearing an ever so slight skirmish (nothing huge) ~ I conclude: mission accomplished...  I open the door to let her back in...

     Only to find .......

                           OH DEAR LORD ROSEBUD ....WHAT HAVE YOU DONE??

                                               ~~~~~~~~WHEEEEEEWWW~~~~~~~

     Looking up at me with eyes swollen (rims, totally pink) and a stench that could knock down Manhattan,  she left me no choice: I quickly shut the door. Heading downstairs water bucket in tow, I open the garage door to a dog of mixed emotional facial expressions~ (Good news: Hey Mom~ Ran it off! Bad news~ Didn't win.)

     Rosebud sashays into the garage and with head hung low, she circles twice and plops~thoroughly understanding why she won't be in the big house tonight.

     I wash up/wrap up and make my way back to bed (now 3 am) when, thump! I feel a pounce. I flip on the light to find Roz (Rosebud's daughter...now 80 pounds herself, thankyouverymuch)...with her nose squarely positioned under my pillow as if to say, "First floor --too close to basement! You mind?"

     While not our habit to let dogs sleep on beds, I was too tired (and quite frankly too tickled) to care. I flip off the light, pet my therapeutically-inclined canine and say, "We'll deal with it tomorrow Roz...But she is still your mama."


     For the record, today's no better. Not enough tomato juice on the planet...Gonna have to ride this one out~

     Here's praying your weekend brings a lovelier bouquet ~

Rosebud wakes to greet the day... Hope springs eternal...
(for her at least...for the rest of us, jury's still out~)

Thank you Mr. Fence Dude for showing up early.

Got 4 More Just Like Her Back Home!

   
   

     To say the least, Roz is a show stopper...
     Take a big white dog sporting a bright pink vest down any hallway and in no time she's holding court, working to both protect total strangers (who don't know they're being herded) while learning to allow them to mussy-up her face in her "Pet Me I'm A Therapy Dog" career move...

     But the funniest (and most consistent) response is when we pull out the phone to start bragging on the others...

     Number 1 question asked:
     "What kind of dog IS she?"
    (Answer: Great Pyrenees)
     Second question: "How much does she weigh?" (Answer: 75 pounds as of her last vet visit; she's gained at least 5 since we've been here...)

     But the eyes really pop open when I say "But she's just a puppy...Just 8 months old...she's FAR from full grown~"

     And in our never-ending efforts to educate the world on matters of Pyrenees dogs with goat-herding talents while introducing one that leapt off the farm to start her own career as a therapy dog, we can't help but laugh
                                                     ..........at Hix's big head!

(Seen here the day I left...Don't you KNOW these Shepherd people are grateful I didn't tote him in for training!)

     Nope. Some things are best left alone...
     Like Hix...back on the farm with the kids ...
     (After all, somebody's gotta watch out for those wiley coyotes!)

Meet Rosamarie (a.k.a. Roz)

   

     Ok....Not exactly the blog I planned for this day... (3 months off, the list backs up, but clearly, living in the "now"  means "today's surprises" move to top of the list.)
     So for those not following on Facebook, mid-hiatus, came a bunch of puppies...
     For those not so familiar with my familiar-farm-family, I am the mother of 4 big white Pyrs (as in Pyrenees dogs)...Rosey and TJ were my first (bro and sis); Rosey had one round of babies before being fixed (11 to be exact; we kept 2--Rosebud and Hix). Rosebud is my most recent mother--all babies (including the one I kept) are today on farms protecting everything from sheep to goats to chickens to people. In keeping with the Rosey/Rosebud line of things, our latest family member is named "Rosemarie" a.k.a. "Roz" a.k.a. "Rozerini" a.k.a. ...anything that comes out of my mouth when she's chewing on something or otherwise looking very cute.
     So, in keeping with the tradition, RoseBUD (are you following this? She's Rosey's daughter...Roz's mother) did a super job as mom, but is now more than happy to be back at her duties guarding goats. Baby ROZ we kept for 2 reasons: 1) Rosey's line we plan to continue; Roz is 5th generation goat herding/working dog so one female in each generation we keep for sake of the line, so in time Roz, too, will birth a litter of pups. But for now--no rush, for Roz is the perfect puppy who showed up at just the right time, (i.e. Nothing like a puppy to snap you out of your exhaustion or dysfunction or any other kinda funk; nothing will snap you into the "now" like a Pyr puppy, although I dare say most any puppy is capable of the same. I just happen to be particularly fond of Pyrs.)
     But the greater reason I opted to take on a fifth pup, is I have recently discovered Pyrs are now being trained as service dogs for returning vets suffering from PTSD, and well... I applaud whomever made the connection and I want to help.
     So I have a different plan for Roz.
     For starters, my goat to large dog ratio is well taken care of around here. We've basically got 1 dog for every 4 - 5 goats. (Technically "One will suffice" especially when factoring the food bills, so the goat-guarding duties are covered.)
     No. I'm interested in seeing just how trainable these dogs really are. And while 12 weeks is the recommended start date for basic obedience training (Roz turns 12 weeks tomorrow) she has already shown great potential as a greeter and volunteer (if not a mascot) tagging along with me at Room in the Inn. (In fact, it was one of our homeless guests who, upon hearing I raised Pyrs, shared that he was about to be assigned one.)
     "Assigned one?" I was curious...Surely he was mistaken.
     "Yes. As a service dog." (I'm thinking, "They're kinda stubborn and they aren't cheap to feed...are you sure you have the right breed?")
      Answer: Yes. (Turns out he was right. I had to know more.)
     I came home and started Googling and lo and behold, Pyrs are being ranked one of the best breeds out there for vets dealing in post traumatic stress disorder. Why? Because of their temperament...Because of their loyalty...Because of their instinctive protective nature...Because you don't want to step foot between a Pyr and whatever it is that Pyr is there to protect. (I would personally like to meet the person who came up with this one as I think it's brilliant.)
     So for starters, we'll see if Roz is trainable. (FYI Pyrs are known to be stubborn (we like to say "independent minded") i.e. difficult to train if you don't start early. Don't know that this would work with Rosey or TJ; Hix and RoseBUD are definitely out of the question, so set in their ways are they; but in starting Roz out early, we are eager and hopeful to see what training can do.
     If she takes to it, (and so far, she's socializing well in large group settings) who knows, Roz may make it to a VA near you. If not, we'll at least report back on the experience.
     Pyrenees do (sadly enough) wind up too often in pounds and shelters...(If you've never had one, read up on the breed before falling in love with this polar-bear-looking pup.) They DO grow quite large and will require space. (Think Saint Bernard only solid white.) They are also nocturnal (meaning they bark all night to keep things away), and in the summer months, they shed and some drool.
     On the other hand, these dogs are fiercely loyal, instinctively protective...truly "gentle giants" when it comes to injured animals and kids (both children and newborn baby goats).  But don't let the label fool you. In these parts a Pyr will flat take out a coyote or a fox and mine are particularly rough on buzzards and hawks. In short they are on patrol at all times and live to protect the things they love, be it goats, sheep or their owners.
     The thought of this breed being of aid to returning soldiers warms my heart no end. (Then again, I'm pretty nuts about these dogs.)

Ok. May I just say, this was the "not so great" part of my day
when Rosey dragged into the yard the skeletal remains of a
possum, leaving it for Rosemarie to find~
 (Think it's safe to say, this one's not faking)
Fortunately, Roz is (as of today) still small enough to fit in the shower~
(ugh)

   

Making God Laugh

   

    Certainly not the way I'd planned it... But anymore I'm living proof that time is an illusion and those folks thinking they can manage it have never lived on a farm.

     Let's see if I can paint you a picture...

     So yesterday it is discovered that one of my pups is no longer a pup. (How to put this delicately....? Hmmm. Rosebud's in heat.)

     For those of you unfamiliar with the timing element on this little scenario, it's really quite simple. God lives for sevens. You've got 7 days of warning. (Good luck knowing precisely when the count begins.) You've got 7 days in which to act (or avoid). You've got a 7 day cooling off period. By way of dog behavior, this nets you 21 days of male dogs going bonkers; and 14 days (broken down before and after) when your girl will eat their heads off like a preying mantis.

     Wasn't sure precisely the moment we started our count, but let's just say Rosebud had a rough night. (And TJ and Hix weren't exactly stress free, though they didn't care.)

     Came out this morning to find her stuck between two lovers (one being her uncle TJ, the other being her brother, Hix...neither being a good thing for Rosebud). My two males are fighting for her (dis)honor like Arthur and Lancelot, meanwhile, my Gwinevere Rosebud is standing her ground, but wants the heck out of dodge.

     Leaping to action, I pull her from the brawl, hoisting her safely inside our new barn (doors for which we've not perfected). Bolting her securely inside, I make my way to the side dutch door, hoping to avoid the two Cujo like males now pining away. 

   

      But I am no match for Hix, who on his hind legs, now stands a good 7 feet tall (who knew?) Having closed the bottom half of the dutch, I was not prepared for him to attempt a pole-vaulted leap across the upper opening, but seeing it in his eyes, I knew he was going to try. In a moment of reactionary brilliance, I reach for the upper half of the door just as he lunged when SLAM. I am in!  Only problem: I am LOCKED in, with no inside latch to let me out...

     Rosebud breathes a sigh of relief, circles three times and hits the hay. (Fortunately, we did have a lot of it, along with her food and fresh water.) What we did not have was a doorknob.

     On the other side are two raging hormonal male dogs, now chewing and clawing their way through the cracks. Meanwhile, Rosebud (who has not slept a wink since this all started) curls up in a goat stall as if to say "Yeah. Work it out Mom. I really need sleep."

     The good news (thank God for this part) I did have my cell phone (and amazingly, it was charged). The bad news, I had to call Thurman, who, after laughing his fool head off, did come to my rescue. On the other side of the barn doors I hear the barking go distant, and then I hear Thurman approaching with, "I dunno boys...What do you think? Think we should leave 'em in there?"

     It's a battle of the sexes. 3 against 2...which makes me think (now that we're out) God must be female...
     On the other hand, who would do this to her own?

      

     

     

     

Rosey 1: Coyotes 0

   

     There are barks and there are barks...and then there are the growls. Each sound sends a message and when it comes to Pyrs (as with any breed you live with long enough) you start to recognize the differences if you listen close enough. Even when they wake you, there's comfort in hearing the sounds a dog makes, especially those hired to keep an eye out for things.
     But let a thing get a lit-tle too close...All bets are off. Intruder Beware!
     Such was the case of Wiley Coyote (may he RIP). I'm sure he was somebody's papa, but on Rosey's turf, Rosey rules. Next time, dude, you might wanna do your prowling elsewhere.
     Graciously she spared me the gory details; my only clue that something was up when I couldn't get Rosey out of the garden a night ago. My first thought went to deer. It is not uncommon this time of year to see deer parts in your yard (gross as they are to find). Some deer fall wounded (more common with bow hunters). Some remains are left behind from cleaning, (leaving guts behind for buzzards is not uncommon in the country...Deer guts, btw, are called "umbles" It's where we get the phrase "Umble Pie" (often mistaken for "Humble Pie" though the phrase origin has to do with deer intestines made into pies for serfs and servants, so as to make use of every possible piece of a slaughtered deer, i.e. the "chitlins" of a deer....Little "I Didn't Know That" moment for you).
     All a part of nature. All a part of life in the country. (Insert your Lion King/Disney tune here.)
     But in the unsolved mystery of "What the heck is Rosey eating?" from a night ago, it was an Agatha Christy moment when by the light of day I made my way cautiously, delicately out to where she was once again, hunkered down over her prey, growling her guttural victory growl, uncertain if I was there to scold or remove or both. (Trust me. I'm not THAT stupid.)
     Definitely not a scolding moment. No, no. Nay, nay. This was a "GOOD DOG ROSEY! GOOD GRRRRRRL!" kinda moment, for Rosey had done what God put Pyrenees on the planet to do: Rosey had killed herself a coyote!
     Let the record reflect (having raised Huskies and wolf breeds in a prior life) I probably would've cried had I witnessed this first hand, after all, this creature must surely have a family of its own given the eerie-baby cries we've been hearing recently...(For those who've never heard this, there is no sound in the world like a bunch of coyote pups howling at the moon...One of the most unique, albeit, spine-tingling noises you'll ever hear.) Why I'm sure Wiley was just shopping for groceries like the rest of us, but (sorry dude) my goats are not your Butterball!
     Thankfully Rosey (and God) spared me the worst of it. By the time I found what was left of the dude, Rosey was paws to pelt, crunching on his head giving me this: "Let me just polish this off" kinda glance.
     Meanwhile, back in the pen were three super impressed (though slightly jealous) relatives and 16 very relieved goats (perched high atop their spools)!

   
   

TJ My Protector Dog

     For reasons I can't explain there is something about this massive dog protecting his favorite stuffed toy that cracks me up.  TJ, seen here, chooses bunnies over bones any day, and should you dare consider trying to take it from him, well you'll be drawing back a nub.
     (The lighter side of my day today. Some days (most days) it takes the critters to keep it in perspective. In TJ's world, it's all about the bunny.)

Pyr Pressure

          I awoke to barking I had not heard before…And I thought I knew 'em all.

         There’s the happy bark that yelps, “She’s Home!” And the hungry bark that says “Let’s eat!” There’s a low, gruff bark that commences to a steady pitched bark when a cement truck or school bus drives by, which is nothing compared to the steady loud bark for things coming up our drive. 

          There are growly barks for the occasional bone debate and a long, slow, guttural growl if you dare get between TJ and a new stuffed toy.

          There are threatening “get back or I’ll bite” barks (usually done while under the porch with a bone with teeth showing) and there's one very specific “Don't you EVEN think about stepping on our porch” bark when a stranger comes near.

          But the barking that woke me this morning was none of these. It was 5 am; the whole pack was barking incessantly. Given that Pyrs are nocturnal (sleep all day/bark all night) I’m used to night barking and have more or less learned to block it out. But this was different. It started loud, and would then fade into the distance, then it would ramp back up again… It was continuous, and it wasn't about to quit anytime soon. The dogs were seriously upset about something.

          I must confess, my first reaction was to reach for a second a pillow. A high pitched yelp and I’m out the door in 10 seconds flat. But this was group bark. Whatever it was, they had each other's backs. It didn’t alarm me so much as it woke me. But with no break in the pattern, I couldn't ignore it.

          Tossing on jeans and boots I head to the door when I instantly spot the problem: two unwanted guests. From where I was standing I couldn’t make out if they were German Shepherds or possibly coyotes, but whatever they were, they were after the goats.

          The outside animals were stalking the parameter, looking for a break in the fence, (hence the volume change of dogs first on this end, then on the far end). TJ kept the goats in check; the other three maintained their side of the fence~ and back and forth they went.

T

          The intruders ran off with a porch light and a loud "HEY!" But I gotta say, there is nothing more beautiful than a Pyr doing its job (unless it’s 4 Pyrenees doing their jobs). 

Green Acres is the Place to Be

           

            As yesterday’s blog will attest, this day was cast before it began…

            Only you can’t really “cast” a day in the country. You can only, kinda start one and then hang on for the ride…

            I was given strict instructions to pick Rosey up by 7:45 at the big S&N (Spay and Neuter clinic over in Gallatin). Seems things pick up steam after 8, and by the looks of things, I’d say Thursdays are cat days.

            At the mercy of my friend with the truck and given that same said friend had cats in need of “fixin’” …we were two for two on the ol early morning drive to Gallatin heading towards a clinic where we could now be staff.

            In a scene I could only title “What a difference a day makes” …we arrived back at the same, said clinic, at approximately same said hour….only to find a line out the door looking lots like a Walmart day after Thanksgiving. There were cats in carriers; cats in crates; cats in little kid’s arms. Seems someone put out a memo saying “Today is get your kitty spayed day” and everyone clipped the ad. I’ve never seen so many cat people (nor have I seen so many cats)…It was a 180 opposite of Rosey’s check in the day before.

            Ever the co-dependent, simplifier in moments such as these, I hit the scene hoping to help, thus was doubly grateful when one of the staff whistled “Pssst…Hey….You~ Meet me out back”  which I did. . . only to be greeted by Rosey …all belly-shaved and druggy happy. Having swapped her ovaries for a microchip and a tattoo (seemed a fair trade to me) I was told Rosey refused their food, but she was plenty happy with the drive thru we managed on our way home J (I know. I know. The paperwork forbade this, but hey… Rosey spent her first night ever in a cage. Work with me people. Work with me.)

            Having blocked off my day to work from home, it was “Farm-ville 101” in the truest sense of the word as I used the day to catch up while Rosey napped off her drugs.

Catch up on a farm includes pulling crops, picklin’ cukes, freezing corn and basically stashing away all the produce one girl can stash between talking on my blue tooth and making notes for business meetings to come. (Yes, at some point I have to leave my little doggie /goat haven and head into the city to do business things…otherwise, dogs, goats and girls don’t eat)…But today was Rosey’s day to have her mama at home. At least I was able to check on her regularly and stop every so often when she’d go belly up to show me her stitches, reminding me that this was her day to be pampered.