Full Circle

 

Another puppy left the farm last week, for a new life with a new family.  All the puppies are special in their own way, and all the people who adopted one have their own reason for finding their way to these particular puppies.  I could write a story about each one.  This one had its beginning many years ago.

Over thirty years ago, I started raising and selling puppies.  I had a long history with collies, beginning when I was born into a household that included a beautiful dog named Robin.  He had been a gift from my great aunt, Mary, and was a part of my life from the time I learned to walk, hanging on to his white ruff as I tottered up and down the walkway in from of the big farmhouse that was my home.  When I was about 3, Rinty came into my life.  He was another collie, and I don’t remember, or never asked, where he came from, but he was my constant companion and guardian for the next decade or so.   These were just the first in a string of collies – a constant presence in my life until I married and moved away to a small home on a busy highway, where a collie was not a practical breed.

As soon as my husband and I moved to the country, we bought our first collie puppy.  Bridget was a joy and was followed by another line of dogs, both male and female.  It was only natural that I started planning a litter of puppies each year.   Out of one of those earliest litters, I sold a female puppy to friends of mine with a little girl of about 3 or 4 years old.  She became a shining example of the bond between collies and kids.  The next time I saw the puppy, her small owner was proudly showing off her tricks at the county fair, and her tricks were many.  She was one of the best trained puppies I ever saw – I laughed and said, “Amy has taught that puppy to do everything except cook and wash dishes.”  Down through the years, I would often hear stories of her exploits and it always warmed my heart.  She died on Amy’s 18^th birthday, and was the first in a string of collies for that family.

Many puppies later, I came to the end of my long line of collies when Tess died, at the astonishing age of 17.  Work, other responsibilities and hobbies had put an end to raising puppies and I set that part of my life aside.  Then came Sophie, a bright light in my life from her first night with me.  Most people would not have thought it was a good plan to bring home a puppy while clearing out and remodeling an old farmhouse, but Sophie thought it was the perfect time. She was right.  She was followed by a whirlwind called Scout a couple years later and resulted, as these things sometimes do, in an unplanned litter of puppies less than a year later.   2022 will forever be remembered as the summer of the puppies, nine bundles of fur and fun, born on Father’s Day.  Their birth date was prophetic – Scout turned out to be just as great as dad as Sophie was a mom and took over the care and education of his offspring as soon as they were big enough to follow him around. 

Now they are finding new homes, all ready to write their own story.  Several went to homes with children and grandchildren.  Some went to farms, some to homes with backyards and houses to rule.  Some went to people who said they have always wanted a collie and some to people who had a collie when they were growing up.  And this particular puppy, much to my delight, went to Amy’s parents, who took him to their home as a gift for their grandchildren.  So, it’s a full circle, from that puppy three decades ago who was a constant companion to their little girl during her growing up years, to a friend for her children.

It's going to be a sad and lonely place when the last puppy leaves.  Scout will be lost, Sophie will be relieved, and I have mixed feelings every time I watch one get in a car to head out for a new life.  I can only hope that each one brings as much joy and love as mine bring me.

In a Hurry

 

I have mentioned before that on my way to and from town I pass a great chrysanthemum nursery.  This time of year, I always glance over to check for that first hint of color.  Usually, it’s the yellow that signals the beginning of the season, and the yellows are usually in the row closest to the road.  I think the owners told me once that they plan for the blooms to appear in order, so that the selling season is drawn out across several weeks.  At first it’s just a hint of color, as if the sun lightly brushed against the tops of a few plants on its way across the sky.  Then, before you have time to realize it, rows of jade green foliage are crowned with yellow, then gold, white, rust and red.  The farm is open for business and cars are pulling into the lot to transport pots of mums home.

Imagine my surprise one afternoon last week when I looked over and saw, in the very middle of the army of green, a lone burst of white blooms.  I have no idea why, but one lone pot of mums was blooming.  Before Labor Day!  I guess it just couldn’t wait any longer for fall.  There are renegades even in the plant world!

I saw a meme on facebook the other day about this being the weird season where bins of watermelons are displayed right next to the Halloween candy.  I joked that the Christmas decorations were right down the aisle and, sure enough, the next time I was in the store, there they were – snowmen and Santas facing off with grinning jack o’ lanterns and witches on their brooms.  Every year, the seasons overlap more and more, until I expect we will be hearing medleys of Frosty the Snowman, Over the River and Through the Woods, and Here Comes Peter Cottontail, while eating a box of Valentine candy.

In my kingdom, such things do not happen.  Admittedly, my kingdom is very small – just 130 acres – and my rules only apply to one house.  But fall decorations do not appear until after Labor Day, Christmas decorations are not brought out until after Thanksgiving, the tree goes up the second week of December and does not come down until after Epiphany.  I don’t have control over much, but I can make the rules at my own house!  I noticed today that the pot of white chrysanthemums has been taken – I’ll bet whoever got it puts up their Christmas tree right after Halloween!  The rest of the pots are behaving with proper decorum – just a hint of color is showing on top of the shiny dark green foliage and I expect they will burst into color right at the beginning of fall.

We always seem to be impatient.  We are understandably eager for spring, especially after a cold, wet winter.  When my husband and I were young and spent most of the summer weekends on the creek or the river, I used to long for weather hot enough to brave the icy water of Sugar Creek.  Memorial Day was the very earliest we ever were able to swim in the spring-fed water.  Along about August, generally the most miserably hot month of the year, I am more than ready for fall.  (I remember a book from long ago called “Let’s Do Away with August,” and I will second that motion.)  I don’t have time to anticipate winter, once September arrives, because in the little town I call home, fall is the busiest time of the year.  Once Halloween decorations appear in the stores, we mount a galloping horse that doesn’t stop until Christmas.  My calendar already holds a solid wall of events for the next two months, and there are surely more to be filled in.  It will be January before we can draw a long breath. 

But right now, anticipation rules the day.  However hard it is to wait, the waiting makes the thing itself sweeter. Waiting for a special concert is exciting.  Waiting for the weekend and a much-anticipated party is exquisite torture.  Waiting for Christmas morning is almost better than Christmas morning itself and there is always a let down at the end of those special days.  I would have explained that to those white chrysanthemums if they had just asked.

Adventures with Daddy

 

Last night just about dark, it occurred to me that I need a GPS tracker on Scout. This was not the first time I had that thought.  I was opening the gate to the barn lot (something I like to avoid whenever possible because it is one of those gates you have to drag) so I could take the Kubota in search of Scout and the puppies.  I had already called, rang the treat bell and driven up the road and through the front pasture and there was no sign of a large Collie and four errant puppies. I knew they were together.  They are almost always together. 

From the time those little puppy legs could halfway keep up with Scout’s long legs, they have followed him to places I don’t know about and probably don’t want to know about.  I do know he has shown them the branch down in the holler.  They came from that direction, wet, muddy and tired, with little tongues hanging out.  I suspect he might have shown them the pond, although I shudder at the thought.  I imagine he has explained to them about cows and I certainly hope he has warned them about coyotes and skunks.  Their first trip was to what we call the “sinkhole field” because it has a large sinkhole at one end.  He came back without them that time and I had to go in search.  They came running when they saw me from the very edge of the field and rode back in triumph in the Kubota. 

Since then, it has been a daily event.  “Where are the puppies?” I ask Sophie, who doesn’t seem to worry about their whereabouts at all.  Sophie is not a helicopter parent at this point.  The days of warning Scout away from the litter passed as soon as they became mobile and she has been perfectly happy to turn parenting duties over to him, other than at mealtime.  Her responsibility in that field has passed too and she doesn’t participate in the daily adventures.  In fact, she stays as far away from them as possible.

I try to look at it as a form of doggy boy scouts (with one girl in the mix).  “Now look here,” says Scout, “this is water.  You lay in it, then you find a really nice spot of loose dirt to dry off in.  It makes a nice coating of mud on your legs and belly.  You’ll love it!”  Or maybe he teaches them to chase rabbits, although what they would do with one if they caught one, I don’t know.  I know what he teaches them at the house.  Chase around the couch, keep away, dismantle the cushion, shred the paper and tug o war. 

The main reason I was concerned about their whereabouts last night was the groundhog.  Two nights ago, Bear did not come in the house at bedtime.  I called him several times but he occasionally chooses to stay outside all night so I wasn’t worried.  The next morning, as I was leaving for an appointment, I discovered a dead groundhog just outside the front yard fence.  Bear was on guard, daring anyone else to get near it.  He has a tendency, as most dogs do, to find or kill things and bring them home to display for a few days.  Last Thanksgiving, as their contribution to the festivities, the dogs brought what I think was a large deer hide to display in the front yard.  Sometimes he eats them, usually in the most public spot he can find.  More often he just lets them lie there until I manage to trick him into letting someone dispose of them.  That’s what I had done earlier yesterday.  I knew the carcass was going to deteriorate rapidly, so I asked my cousin to take it off down in the pasture.  It occurred to me while I was on puppy search that Scout might have discovered the burial site and taken his boys to participate in the exhumation.  I could just picture all of them feasting on an overripe groundhog.

Just about the time I got through the gate from hell, Scout arrived triumphantly in the back yard, followed by his kids.  Scout always likes to make an entrance, whether from a long trip around the farm or a short trip outside for potty duty.  A quick count told me the fearless four were present and accounted for.  They were, of course, wet and muddy.  It had rained most of the day and all the dogs had spent their time napping in the house.  I had spent a good part of the day cleaning up the mess they had made, happily tearing up old magazines and pulling the stuffing out of the corner of the dog bed.  “Where have  you been?” I asked, as I always do. I didn’t expect an answer; Scout just wagged his tail and grinned at me and the puppies bounced up and down in excitement.  I thought again how I wish they could talk.  I would love to hear their version of their adventures with Daddy.  What does he tell them?  I probably don’t really want to know.