Stories from the Farm

Good Night, Old Man, August 26, 2012

Last night, Joey could barely make it down off the couch to hobble into his room at bedtime. This morning, he refused his cookie, and cried out when, together, he and I lifted his 85 lbs. to a standing position so he could go outside and enjoy the sunshine.

Joey is a quirky golden retriever/collie mix who experienced such severe trauma as a puppy of 14 months that his life and personality were forever altered. At that terrible time, he was a discardable plaything for someone; left to die at roadside after being hit by a car and shot with bb guns. Luck was with him that day; a passing motorist who was a dog trainer/kennel owner saw him and stopped, scooped the pup up without hesitation, and rushed him to her vet.

Two surgeries and a month later, the pup came to me for physical therapy, now walking on three legs with the fourth quickly atrophying from lack of use. He had a pin in his left front leg, lost part of the shoulder muscle, all feeling in his paw, and had to be taught to walk on four legs all over again. His therapy took many months, and by the time he was stable on four good ones, this formerly homeless dog and I both knew he was home forever among my brood.

And now, 12 years and a full, good life later, Joey has let me know that his time has come to say good-bye. He sniffed the perimeter of his yard, and disappeared from view into what my farrier refers to as "The Doghouse," a dugout the dogs created beneath the end of a grape arbor. It is cool and dark in there, and over the years I let the vines grow down so it resembles a cave, a perfect den for a dog who just needs some time for himself. I looked in on Joe at 11 a.m. and he was watching the neighbors chickens from his spot; at 2 p.m., Tess protested that she also wanted a turn in the den, but Joey would not budge. "He is old," I explained to this impatient youngster. "He needs his quiet time."

Twelve years is too short, but it was all the time Joey had to share with us. I will be forever grateful for all I learned from this fragile and expressive soul. Beloved Joey: 1998-20012. 

Marielle's Water Bucket Mystery, August 20, 2012

Today is the second day it's been over 90 degrees, very hot for the Pacific NW, and all the animals on the farm are drinking more water than usual. Yep, the horses needed their trough refilled. The donkeys had two of their three buckets drained dry. Oddly, I could see the water glistening high in the llama's bucket, barely touched since last night. Watching Marielle, it was clear something was up. She went over to her bucket, put her head down to drink, and then picked it up quickly, grunted, and backed away clear to where fall wood-cutting had begun, grumbling the entire way.

"Hi ho, Big Girl," I said, walking over to where she stood sulking. I scratched her neck, working my hand back along her spine to the top of her rump just above her tail. She turned her head sideways and lifted her nose in the air, half-closed her eyes. She was thoroughly enjoying my discovery of her itchy spot. Still, we had a mystery to solve. "Let's go look at your water bucket." Marielle likes to dine beneath a crooked pine tree and my first thought was that a pinecone had plunked itself into her water. I set her grain bowl down and looked into the bucket.

And there I saw an exquisite butterfly, it's black, white, and yellow wings, a three inch span, fully open. It lay body-side up, floating motionless on the water and I thought sadly that in seeking to quench its thirst, the beautiful creature had drowned instead. I picked up a small piece of flat wood lying nearby and gently moved it in the water under the butterfly, thinking to attempt to remove it without damage to its wings. What I would do with it then I hadn't a clue, but it could not stay in the bucket, and it didn't feel right to simply dump it out on the ground.

As I began to lift the board and butterfly from the water, it twitched an antenna, moved a leg. Marielle must have wondered at her human, surprised and smiling into her water bucket, then carrying a piece of wood with an upside-down drenched butterfly on it over to the top rail of a board fence protected from the sun by the shade of a vine maple. I slowly tipped the wood until the butterfly's dry feet touched the fence rail, then held the wood suspended above it as it worked to release itself from the wet board. Finally, the  butterfly was fully on the rail, its wet wings open to the drying air, its antennae exploring. Walking back to pick up Marielle's now empty grain bowl, I tried to imagine how long it would take the butterfly's wings to dry, and if it could fly again. I thought I would check on it in an hour or so, but turned back to look again before heading down to the barn - and the lovely creature had already flown away.