My mind was a million miles away as M tried to ask me a simple question. I had already taken Kona the Wonder Dog on a 2 mile walk, enjoying the unseasonably warm December weather and the calm quiet of an early Saturday morning. And it wasn’t even 8 am yet. Admittedly, I have a lot on my mind this holiday season, and as M spoke to me, I heard the words he was saying, but paid little attention to their meaning in regard to what he was asking me. Besides…he wasn’t making any sense!
“Mom-ma!” he asked again, “Did you hang my ornament on the time bomb?”
“Hmm? What M?” I replied, as the realization of what he was asking faded back into conscious. Usually M asks very intelligent, very intellectual-type questions. Or busts out with random math equations…in fact, shortly before asking me about “time bombs” he was showing me how he could count BY SEVENS to 100. Typical M.
To be honest, I was a bit irritated with myself for being annoyed by M’s nonsensical query. When he asked a final time, I was unable to suppress my frustration and I snapped.
“Momma…Did you hang my ornament on the time bomb?” He asked, in earnest.
“M! WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? NO! I DID NOT HANG YOUR “ORNAMENT” ON A TIME BOMB!!! AND FURTHERMORE, I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR YOU SAY “BOMB” AGAIN!!! I gasped for air.
“Momma, “Time Bomb” means “Christmas Tree” in GERMAN."
…
(And just so you know, the answer was YES, I already had placed his ornament on the Tannenbaum)
He was named for a Hindu God of reincarnation; AND he could eat your face, if he was so inclined.That very fact came into question during my very first dealings with Rama, as part of my duties were to “put him up” in a pen during milking.Rama had a perchance to roam.Far.And rather than spend several hours covering several miles of Rama’s “turf,” the decision was made to put him on lockdown, which he happily agreed to, it meant he got treats!I was understandably nervous, seeing as I was a “Suburban Mom” turned“Rural Bo Peep” and on top of that, I had “Cat Brain” from years of dealing with nothing but felines, which basically meant I was afraid of the big, bad country dog, and didn’t know (if, like a cat) he was going to, (without any kind of logic of forethought), maim me for simply existing.
“No, he won’t eat your face!” Chuckled my boss, although I could tell by the twinkle in her eye that she was quite certain he would and could, if I happened to be a bob cat or coyote or bad guy, or any other number of threats to the herd.One thing was certain…faces would be eaten!But not mine.Thank Goodness I wasn’t Caroline, the Pot Bellied Pig…her face was tasted on a regular basis… “Practicing” on Caroline made for great fun for the Anatolian Shepherd/Great Pyrenees cross.
One day, I was working in the “hospital pen” area of the barn.Amidst the many chickens and barn cats hanging around the pens, I was oblivious to anything other than my job…refilling water, feed and hay and making sure the hospitalized goats had fresh straw to lie on.I suppose I was probably performing any of the above duties when I was jump startled out of my *farm trance* and jerked/leapt about 4 feet into the air by a most frightening noise.It was the sound of a dog barking…in my general direction.After I landed back on planet earth, I whipped around to see who/what was barking at me…It was the scariest looking, but also most beautiful dog I had ever laid eyes on.His toasted-marshmellow colored coat hung in pleats around his huge…but at the same time, sleek, muscular frame.His chocolate brown muzzle camouflaged his easy-to-read mahogany eyes, and if I looked close enough I could see his “this is a warning, the next time I bark I will eat you, no offense.” expression.
But he wasn’t looking at me, he was looking past me.When I whipped back around to where I was originally facing, I came eye to eye with RC…the donkey equivalent to, well…Donkey, from Shrek.If there was mischief to be made, it was made by RC. The two farm donkeys had been put, intentionally, into a pen they weren't normally in and I'm sure it surprised/startled Rama to see a DONKEY rather than a GOAT in the back of the barn and not in his usual place out in the pasture. According to the dog, I was mere seconds away from being donkey kicked (quite literally!)...but Rama intervened. Rama.
A feeling of relief filled me and I took a deep breath.Wow.I probably wasn’t in any real danger, but Rama (who was thankfully separated from RC by a gate…I did NOT want to be in the middle of a donkey/Anatolian shepherd throw-down!) saw a potential “threat” and let his opinion be known.Rama did NOT like the way the donkey was eying me, and picked up on the fact that RC was not in his usual location.Something felt “off” to Rama, he was on it like lighting, sounding off like thunder.I knew from that day on that I was well protected on the farm.Rama and the other Guardian Dogs were always working, always watching.Always.
Before he left for the National Guard, I worked with an 18 year old boy named Jeremy.He was quiet, shy and 6 feet tall, but probably weighted ninety-five pounds soaking wet.He was thoughtful, intelligent…a hard worker who was polite and eager to please.I respected him, as he was much more “country” than I was (and ever will be) and that gave him “street cred.”One day, as we were dutifully cleaning the parlor (the area where the goats get milked) we were discussing our families.I would often chide him that if I had him when I was 14, I’d be old enough now to be his mother.I would tell him about my kids, and he’d, well, he didn’t say much.He’d just listen. This particular day, we were discussing our pets and I mentioned my 4 cats.
“You mean, you don’t have a dog?” He questioned.
“No,” I replied, and then went through my usual laundry list of why I didn’t have a dog just yet.
“You really don’t have a dog for those kids?” He asked again.
“No!” I answered, laughing at his obvious and dead-serious offense to my lack of canine companionship.
“Well, that’s just UN-AMERICAN.” He spat back to me, in totally legitimate disgust.
Oh My Gosh!I thought to myself.Was I really un-American, as he suggested?He was just getting ready to leave for active duty.I needed to listen to him.So several well thought out months later, we welcomed Kona into our lives.We named him “Kona” as an homage to “Rama.”Not exactly the same name, but the similarity was no mistake.There were many reasons to name him after Rama, the mighty Anatolian Pyrenees, the mighty canine warrior.
It was with a heavy spirit and lump in my throat that I said “Goodbye” to Rama last Sunday.For I knew with certaintly, it would probably be the last time I saw him.Rama had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer and it hit him square in his belly (and the rest of the farm in the heart…)I asked my Boss if she wanted him in or out, thinking maybe she’d want him accessible or close by.But she unselfishly replied that he could be wherever he wanted to be, and for him, that was with the Milkers, with his girls, out in the pasture.Working.He indicated such by begging to get let out to them, as soon as he had visited with us and was sure milking was over, the same routine as any other night.The last night I worked with Rama, knowing full well his fate had been decided upon, I cleaned the parlor as I always did.It was a dark night, so when I heard the familiar barking, I stopped spraying water, and looked outside to make sure everything was okay.And there was Rama…barking with his “Brother At Arms” dog Joe, keeping watch over the pasture, tail wagging, doing his job, because it’s what he wanted to do.
If there are coyotes in Dog Heaven,pot-bellied pigs,bob cats and bears,people to love and pet; then Rama is there, too, (chasing them and!) guarding them, loving them...working…and happy.
1. the new Stephen King book, Just After Sunset(which I hear, on good authority, has already been ba-oughten!)
2. The Complete Twilight Movie Companion(I have a totally cute husband whose coworkers have nicknamed "Superman," I have two awesome kids, 3 cuddly (if not persnickity) cats, the most perfect dog in existence...I am a stay-at-home-mom who "gave up" a life of creativity and impulsivity to provide a nice life for the afore mentioned creatures under my proxy...so throw me an effing bone if I want to obsess over a teenaged vampire/werewolf love story. I have NEVER said that I WASN'T a nerd, at heart...)
3. An expensive dog bed for my newly adopted shelter dog with his name snobbishly monogrammed on the side...
4. a doggie DNA test (yes, they DO exist, and I snobbishly want to know his pedigree...his history...as mixed as it may be...I'm just so curious...He IS the World's Most Perfect Dog, after all! Besides, I really would like to know what part of "Boxer Mix" actually means "Purebred American Pit Bull,"
even though it really doesn't matter, he had me at "hello."
and finally...
5. a Bosu ball
(because despite what I am about to write, I LOVE using it at the gym, and would LOVE to try using it in the privacy of my own home...)
However, since I don't like to be like everyone else (seems like everyone has a Bosu ball, and since I am often wont to buck gimmicky excer-scams and because the visual alone makes for good blogging...), why not try this nifty little device, as seen in the Brookstone catalog that arrived in my mailbox just in time for Holiday Shopping.
What better way to "exercise" my "core" than by dry humping a simulated horse torso, devoid of useless, pesky head or limbs! I know, here's an idea! While V is busy scooting around on her Little Tikes Pony, (yes, in a moment of weakness, I decided it would be a great idea to spend money during a recession...) I can gyrate like a hooker at Cafe Risque (formerly of Lavonia, Georgia...good thing they were run outta town a la "Footloose...") on Mommy's new "exercise" machine! "Regulators, Mount up!"
Seriously, is the "uGallup" contraption for real? I somehow can't imagine this $599 (yes, friends FIVE HUNDRED AND NINETY NINE DOLLARS!) piece of "workout equipment" fitting in next to my 10 year old treadmill and elliptical machine. In my playroom. "Pay no attention to Mommy's little riding machine! TEE HEE HEE [hystryonic laughter optional...]!" I'm sure it's "fun" and "easy" as the literature poses, but so is Britney Spears, and I'm sure she's not good for me, either. Just reading the ad for the uGallop makes me want to check for crabs.
Hopefully Santa will be good to me (even in this economy.) I'd still love the dog stuff (because, as usual, it's all about NOT me...), and the Bosu ball. As for the other item...well, I can always sit on the clothes dryer like a normal person.
Farm work is dirty, stinky, smelly work, and there’s really no way around that.On any given night after work, I may smell like wet Border Collie, bleach, sweat, goat cheese, raw milk, poo-poo, afterbirth, buck pheromones and hay.It didn’t take long for me to realize that bringing a spare change of clothes was not only a good idea, it was kind of a hygienic necessity.Most nights, I pack some comfy pajama pants, a cami and a sweatshirt and of course, my trusty “Farm Flip Flips” a slip-on alternative to proper shoes that eliminated the need for more socks (i.e the need to touch my body any more than necessary, as well as creating no additional laundry.)
When I am done working, I typically find a nook or crannie not otherwise occupied by animal, farm supply or person and change into my “jammies,” as my boss Evin calls them.Then I head over to the farm house to check-in, visit for a few minutes and say “good-night.”I have to be honest…most nights I strip down right in the barn.It’s the only lighted area that isn’t either wet from cleaning or housing a mammal and I change so fast, I don’t worry about anyone “catching” me.Besides, the farm is owned by women, run by (mostly) women…Hell, it’s a GOAT DAIRY…even the ANIMALS are girls.I’m quite sure there nothing on my person that would surprise or shock anyone.And the goats don’t say a word.
Well, I’m not sure if I was subconsciously scared of the unseen cougar who made it’s presence known by caterwalling loudly and running several bucks up and down the creek a few nights before, or if the first chill in the air of fall sent me to seek warmer quarters, but for some reason I left the publicity of the barn for the privacy of the feed room.I turned on the light and began my transformation from “Bo Peep”
to “Drive Home Jammies.”Suddenly I was startled by a loud THUD THUD THUD against the wall opposite of the barn door.The only thing against that wall outside was the rabbit hutch and I was quite sure the rabbit was not “thumping” that loudly.But before I could contemplate the cougar (or realize that the Guardian Dogs were NOT barking…) a large black cat appeared atop a shelf in the upper right corner of the room, seemingly entering from under the roof, in between the wall and ceiling.He was big and beautiful with long black fur laying in pleats around his attentive eyes and focused ears. He was “talking” to me, sitting and meowing, looking like he was up for a night of feline farm adventures and bidding me adieu before heading out for the evening.I called, “Hey kitty, kitty!” but he didn’t budge, so I finished changing, closed the feed door tight, and headed for the farm house.
As I was leaving, I mentioned to Pat and Evin that one of their cats visited me while changing, specifically noting the “big, long-haired black cat.” The two women went pale and exchanged wordless glances.Before I could think, “Was it something I said?” Evin said, “We don’t HAVE any of the black cats on the farm tonight…”
“But…” I started…Was it a black cat?
“All of the black cats are back at Pat’s.” Stated Evin, flatly.
“Oh.”
The two women exchanged looks, again.
“I want to see the cat!” Exclaimed Pat, breaking the awkward silence, but further fueling my confused curiosity.Pat and I started off to the barn. But before we left the front porch the two women shared with me…
They had taken on two cats that had belonged to a friend of theirs’ from church who had entered a nursing home and was unable to care for them.They were two long-haired black cats, and much like their friend who entered the home they were old.In fact, one had recently passed away.On the farm.In Pat’s arms.His name was Jeremiah.He was 18 years old when he died.He was a big, long-haired black cat…who “talked” a lot.
My steps quickened towards the barn.Could it have been Bob, the short-haired grey cat, I thought?NO!This was, positively, a long-haired black cat.I was sure of it.I would bet on it.We threw the door to the feed room open, and there, in the darkness was…
NOTHING.
Poof!The “Spook” cat had vanished.Pat and Evin were tickled that I had seen a ghost on the farm (one of several, I am told, but I was the first to see this particular one…) and I was a bit horrified.I mean, I want to believe in ghosts, but I don’t actually want to SEE any.Too scary.But of course, I will keep my eyes peeled for Jeremiah…after all, I DO feel special that he made his presence known to me...so may he stay forever young enough to bound off rabbit hutches to startle and meow to half-naked farm employees! May he happily roam a well-appointed farm full of life, baby chickens, chipmunks and field mice. May he forever dine on the best goat cheese in the country and commune with some of the most cat-friendly ladies (myself included) in all the land. What a(n after) life!We should ALL be so lucky!!! Your friend forever, Bo Peep.
Oh, the Holidays...the are upon us like a dog in heat...and we are inundated, as parents, with the "next cool toys." Exhibit A: The Hasbro Hyper Slide. It looks like something I, (as an adult woman) would use in my shower. Alone.
This next little number is supposed to be another one of the "hot" toys this season. I haven't a clue what it does, although it looks like some kind of electronic game involving a "joy stick." However, is also looks closely resembles a "game" I play when Big Daddy is traveling too much. Ha ha *sigh* I don't think Santa will be bringing this in his sack for the kids this year. Me on the other hand...
Just for the record: Bid Daddy “claims” that he speaks with perfect diction; perfect annunciation. He claims that I “am deaf.”
In reality…he mumbles.Badly.
Case in point:Now that that whirl-wind that was October is over, capped off by the craziest, busiest Halloween I’ve ever had, we are using our first day of November to catch up, organize and relax!Big Daddy and I sent the kids upstairs to the playroom so we could spend a few, well-deserved, moments ALONE (read: NO KIDS!) on the couch.We were watching “Talk Soup” on E! and snuggling when we heard the most dreaded of sounds two relaxing parents enjoying each other’s company can hear…the thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud of muffled-by-socks footsteps of one or both of the kids heading down the stairs seeking our attention.
We should be flattered…it’s so sweet that they want to be with us…but even Momma and Daddy need a break sometimes.
It was M, looking for his “Human Barbie Doll” (i.e ME) because despite the playroom full of toys, I am STILL the most sought after plaything in this house.
Unwilling to share, Big Daddy attempted to divert M’s attention and sent him off to “go comb his hair.”
M obediently left the room.Shortly after, he returned with my hairbrush, looking just as muss-haired, and so Bid Daddy combed M’s hair and sent him on his way.Again.After a few minutes, I glanced over at Big Daddy’s knee and noticed a chunk of hair.A CHUNK of hair.
“What’s on your leg!?” I half-exclaimed, half-queried, and I reached over and grabbed the tuft of hair.It was about 2 inches long.Too long to be either cat or dog, too short to be V or myself and the wrong color to be Big Daddy.
“Maybe it’s Tina’s hair!”he suggested.But I quickly poo-pooed the idea since a) why would Tina be brushing her hair at my house and b) why would her hair be falling out in chunks?
“Where did the hair come from?Why is it on your knee?” I asked.
“It came out of your brush.”
Nooo.I COULDN’T have come out of MY brush.My hair isn’t falling out, is IT?I panicked momentarily because I recently cut a shit load of my hair off in order to free myself of chemical damage from a year ago.I started taking vitamins and using shampoo that costs more than my wine…My hair is looking and feeling great…is it now falling out?! AHHH!
But the panic for myself quickly transformed into panic for my son, who was once again, walking into the room.
“M, where did this hair come from?” I asked, holding up the tuft of hair from Big Daddy’s knee.
“My head.”He replied matter of fact.
I ran my hairbrush through his hair, bringing with it several additional chunks and tufts.
“M! Why did you do that?What made you DO THAT?!”I asked.
“Daddy said, ‘Go cut your hair’ so I did.” M replied.
