Farm Fresh Blog

I just finished Jill Conner Browne's latest Sweet Potato Queen book, "Fat Is The New 30 - The Sweet Potato Queens' Guide to Coping With (the crappy parts of) Life" and as always, JCB does not disappoint.   Get it. Read it. You'll love her.

Her parting words were so profound that I wanted to share them with you:

"What if, when you woke up in the morning,

ALL you had LEFT was what you had

thanked God for the night before?"

Wow. Something to ponder.

I am sorry to report that due to the warm, sunny, humid weather we've been experiencing lately, our current lawn crew simply couldn't keep up with the grass in the yard.

 Hey! Don't laugh!  They are cheap and energy efficient. Unfortunately since we cut back in numbers, and the weather is favorable for grass growth, yesterday I found myself in the most annoying situation of having to mow the yard with a PUSH MOWER!

I KNOW!

How the hell did THAT happen?

Now mowing with a push mower is an activity guaranteed to push one to obscenities, (especially if one's ownself is given to frequent trips down that path anyway!)

It starts with well, starting the damned thing.  That requires a fair amount of pulling. This wasn't easy when I was 12 years old. My shoulders are now 48 years old. But while my shoulders may have deteriorated, my command of the Sailor's English Language has improved. Just ask the dogs watchin' me pull that danged cord yesterday.

Suffice it say, after much pulling and cussing, the engine poofed to life and off we went - me and the lawnmower. It is a self-propelled beast. At least it is until I wear the little knobby thingees off the front wheels because I never let go of the stupid handle. I often fail to notice this until the front wheels have dug little ruts in the earth.

So I cruise along, me and the mower, plowing through high grass that chokes out most mowers. (Mine would be one of those mowers too. . .) Thus, in order to make any progress, I must lift the mower, set it down, let it chew, lift the mower, move forward, let it chew, repeat. This is an agonizingly slow process, and is hard on the back and shoulders. This is also a recipe for the invention of new vocabulary words.

And that's when one starts to think about new mowers. Yes!

Yes, we did! 

The start-up cost is pretty hefty, but the maintenance is low. AND it's energy efficient. Not only does it use no gasoline, it uses no power from me whatsoever.

Well, except opening the gate . . .

for the three-horse power lawnmower!

Very little is required from the user except for some monitoring to make sure they leave the water well and the trucks alone. One can simply sit in a lawnchair with a glass of lemonade and mow the yard.

 It's hard work, but somebody has to do it.

My Other Half works night shift most of the time, except one weekend a month when he works day shift, or unless someone is gone, then he works dayshift, or unless there is a big something-or-other going on, then he works dayshift. He is supposed to get two days off, unless someone is gone, or there is a big something-or-other, then he gets one or no days off. Having worked this shift for almost 33 years, he prefers the night, and like most vampires, doesn't really get going until the sun goes down.

I am a day shift creature. I'm up with the animals and turn into a pumpkin shortly after midnight. While Other Half can function for long periods of time with little or no sleep, I'm a bitchy bear if I don't get my required 8 hours.

He will work for days on just 3 hours of sleep and then collapse to sleep 24 hours at a time.  That can NOT be good for the metabolism or anything else.

Which brings us to last night. After he came home from the cattle sale yesterday, he crawled in bed and slept, and slept, and slept. He did not rise until 8 PM. When I came home from work and went to bed, he was just getting geared up. Other Half was bouncing around like a cocaine-addict. (Imagine Robert Downey Jr. in Sherlock Holmes.) Fortunately he has two willing partners in his midnight madness - Trace & Dillon.

During the night I was vaguely aware of bumping from the living room, but ignored it. With Lily and Ranger sprawled out across the bed, not much concerned me. (Monsters can't come past Ranger.)

When Other Half finally came to bed at 5 AM, I rolled over, opened one eye, and asked, "WHAT have you been DOING all night?"

To which he happily replied, "We've been having a SLUMBER PARTY!"

Oh dear. Let me describe for you the canine frat house that greeted me when I finally got up this morning:

I opened the bedroom door to find a trail of dog toys from the hallway to the living room. The dogs' wicker toy basket was pulled away from the wall, and EVERY toy they own was spread out on the floor - kongs, balls, knotted gym socks, nylabone thingees, sticks, frisbees, and what was left of their Angry Bird toy. The entire house reeked of popcorn - because what else do you serve at a slumber party?

I can assure you that they spent all night watching something like this:

Hatfields & McCoys
Lonesome Dove
Band Of Brothers
Any Kind of John Wayne marathon
Or any other kind of movie where people get shot or blown up

Trace and Dillon are still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning, but other Half is in a popcorn-induced coma.

His patrol dog is snuggled in beside him and his Border collie lies beside the bed. They spent the night outside and so are more than ready to sleep all day under the fan.

The good thing about having 8 dogs is that no matter what you want to do, when you want to do it, you will find a canine partner more than willing to accompany you. 

Saturday officially starts at midnight on Friday.  Go to bed shortly after midnight. Sometime around 1 AM, Other Half phones to say he has completed doing charges at the jail and is now doing report. Reminds me that we are sorting calves and taking them to the sale barn as soon as he gets home. Joy, joy, thrill, thrill.

Am awakened at 6 AM by Other Half who bounces into the bedroom like a squirrel on crack and kisses Dillon (but not me!) How does the DOG rate a morning kiss and I just receive a "Get up! It's time to work cows!"

"Mom, don't hate me because I'm beautiful."

I inform Dillon that he is a Bird Dog, not a Cow Dog and thus will not be attending today's adventure. His feelings are hurt. The D-Man is a sensitive soul.

Pull on jeans and boots. Shuffle into kitchen. The sun is barely up and it's foggy.  While Other Half goes to barn to feed livestock, I rake and sweep shavings out of cattle trailer which also doubles as a dog kennel. Don't laugh! It makes the perfect kennel - covered & confined. What more do you need?

Put dogs in kennels. Let Lily come along but assure her that she isn't needed since we are working cow/calf pairs in tight quarters. Dangerous for little Ninja Dogs. Tell her to sit in the truck. She is disappointed but does as she's told.

 "B-b-but what if you need me?"

Assure Ranger that if a cow dog is needed, he will be the Head-Man-In-Charge. Since he is fast, tough, and already believes the world is trying to kill him, an enraged momma cow is less likely to stomp him in the ground.

  "Piss on Bad Cows!"  

Cows and calves have been locked all night in roping arena. They are hungry (they are always hungry) and happy to see us.

 Note steer with horns on the right.

That's Willie. Remember Willie?  Scrawny roping steer that has managed to avoid a trip to the sale barn for the last year and a half. Despite the fact that we've taken at least 3 other groups of cows, Willie has managed to slide/slither/squeak through attempts to get him in the sale barn group.

Truth be told, Other Half wasn't even trying. He is fond of Willie and hates to see him go. I'm not a big fan of horns. I am even less a fan of horns that eat and do no work. Son and I outvoted Other Half, and Willie was slated for this journey to the sale barn.

With very little trouble, (Okay, there was 'some' trouble and we almost called in a dog)

    "Me???!!!" 

. . . we got the calves (and Willie) sorted and loaded onto the trailer by 8 AM.  I lobbied hard to sell Paisley too, but Other Half pointed out that she had managed to raise (i.e. not kill by neglect. Read: When It Rains, It Pours) her calf and should thus be given another chance. By 8:25 AM we were off to the sale barn. 

 Willie in the chute at the sale barn.

Dear Friend Helen who takes care of the stock when we go to the ranch in North Texas was sorry to see us sell the calves and Willie. She had gotten attached to them. She texted me to tell me that she thought she was now  Buddhist and wanted to make pets of my cows. I reminded her that she eats Taco Bell and Whataburger.  Other Half told her that she would see Willie again in her next taco. She was not amused. He is mean like that sometimes.

I reminded her, and myself, that as long as we eat beef and wear leather, we must raise cattle. These cows have been humanely raised and enjoyed a happy life.

With the cattle dropped off, we headed back home. Other Half went to bed, and I got ready to go to my 'other job,' the one with a paycheck from a government agency and not a sale barn.

And that's the anatomy of a Saturday!

Guess what I found this weekend on the way to the ranch?

Fields and fields of sunflowers!

 If I had been driving,

I would have run off the road when I saw them! Look at this! Like the drums of Jumanji, they called me!

Apparently Texas farmers have decided that sunflowers are a nice cash crop and are now taking advantage of it. They are hardy, drought-tolerant, and weeds and bugs are not much of a problem.  Deer like the little plants but not the big ones. Hogs ignore them altogether.

Judging by the number of fields, they are profitable too. After seeing all this, even Other Half was beginning to toy with the idea of growing them. That's not really an option, since I don't see him plowing up all the cow pastures to raise flowers, but it's a nice thought, and perhaps we could devote a small pasture to it, just for grins . . . and photographs!

Life in the country comes with perks, like wildflowers, stars, and silence. But the flip side of those perks of living in the country is the mud, mosquitos and lumps. Yes, lumps.

People who live in the county understand the generic term "lump." A lump is an unidentified 'something' on the landscape that wasn't there earlier.

Let me give you an example: Years ago, I came home from work one afternoon to find an excited dog greeting me at the gate. Katy was given to wild affection, but her mood seemed particularly crazed that day. (It had been a good day for Katy.) That's when I saw the lump. There, in the back yard, was a red lump. Hmmmm. . .

I narrowed my eyes and noticed another lump. And another. In the country, lumps are usually not good things. In this case there turned out to be ten red lumps in the yard. Katy had managed to break into the hen house. There was nothing left of my rooster but feet and a comb.  Does this better define the word 'lump' for you? 

Which brings us to this morning.

"Yes, please, get to the point."

This morning I was walking the dogs when I noted Lily slow her trot to a cautious walk and raise her eyebrow. Something nasty was afoot. Ever watchful of snakes, I snapped to attention.  There, in front of Lily, was "a lump."

Dillon hustled over to examine the lump too. Since no one leaped back, I assumed the lump was not a coiled snake. That's a plus. It was gray. Now this is the part of living in the country where one talks to God. Living in the city, one prays for good parking spaces, living in the country, the prayers run a bit more like this:

"Dear God, please don't let that be another one of the neighbor's chickens."

As I got closer I couldn't see any feathers on the ground, but still couldn't identify it. It was small and gray.

"Dear God, please, please, please don't let that be one of the neighbor's cats!"

When I got over the lump I could see that my prayers were answered. No chicken. No cat. But Briar had indeed murdered someone.

(I didn't take pictures. It was gross.)

Briar had murdered a possum.

"I 'terminated' a possum."

And then, in true Briar fashion, she had licked it all night. Who knows if the poor thing was dead before she started licking it, or after hours of being used as an all-day (night) sucker. Much of its fur was gone. Briar was immensely pleased with herself. She is now three years old and a definite threat to anything not on hooves.

Other Half, who doesn't like Briar (big goofy, often wet dog) will be pleased that she killed a possum.  The neighbor with the chickens will probably be pleased that Briar killed the possum. Briar is most certainly pleased that she killed the possum.  But I feel just a little sorry for the possum and hope his end came quickly rather than spending a night of torture.

"Mmmm. . .  a possum-flavored sucker! Mmmm . . . "

I committed murder Friday night. To be more specific, it was a mercy killing; Other Half committed the murder. I merely put the victim out of his misery. Still, I feel bad.

Friday night we were driving around the ranch in the mule and happened upon a copperhead. I grew up in rural North Carolina in a place crazy thick with rattlesnakes and copperheads. I've seen a lot of rattlesnakes but ironically, I'd never seen a real live copperhead until then. Still, there was no mistaking it.

There he was, minding his own little snake business, crawling across the red dirt road, illuminated by the lights of the mule. Other Half leaped out with a gun. I leaped out to hold Trace who is no fan of guns. Given the choice, Trace would choose to take his chances with a poisonous snake than a 'thunderstick.'

A few shots later and Other Half came back to the mule in search of a shovel. I went over to examine the poor victim.

He had been fatally injured, but was still alive. His little snakey head was up and moving, trying to figure out how to remove himself from the situation.  I felt sorry for him. It wasn't his fault that he happened to be in an area frequented by my dogs. I'm a 'live and let live' kind of person in most situations. (Other Half is not.)  I felt sorry for the snake. Then I remembered the bird dog I knew who died from a snake bite. So I reached in my back pocket pulled out a .380, and shot him in the back of the head. No more suffering for the snake. (But I still felt bad.)

Over the next four days, I kept the dogs close to camp. They all know how to ride in the mule, so when we explored the wilder part of the ranch, they stayed in the safe confines of their mule. It is their ticket to adventure. It keeps them safe, and just as important, it keeps the snakes safe from them. An unseen snake is a safe snake.

This morning, back at the cowhouse, I was beebopping around the corner of the house and ran smackdab into a large black yellow-belly water snake:

Despite the fact that I ALWAYS looks for snakes IN THAT VERY SPOT, the sight of the snake momentarily scares the crap out of me. I see the snake, utter a profanity while leaping sideways, and run smack into a tree.  The snake giggles but otherwise doesn't move. Even though it is big, I recognize that it's non-poisonous. I am feeding dogs. One does not stop in the middle of feeding 8 dogs. That act alone causes chaos.

Ranger, who has just finished his own breakfast, bounces over to beg for Oli's bowl, which is in my hand. He is standing a foot away from the snake - oblivious.  I point it out.

"Ranger, look out."

He glances at it.  "Yeah, it's a snake. Since you're too scared to walk past the snake, can I have Oli's breakfast?"

At this point, Trace has finished eating and comes racing around the corner to put dibs on Oli's bowl too. He runs right over the poor snake. Having experienced Trace bouncing all over me in bed, I know this is not a pleasant experience. The snake flips upside down, writhing and twisting in his haste to get away from the Border Collie toenails. Like a victim of a drive-by shooting, the confused snake rights himself and escapes under the propane tank.

Trace never even notices him.  Clearly snakes don't even cause a blip on his radar.

I continue down the path to feed Oli. Dillon comes beebopping down path. Gets to spot where snake WAS and slams on brakes. He doesn't even see snake, but is fascinated by the scent. Rut Roh! That is a VERY BAD THING! Scream at him and inform him that scent is "Nasty!"

He looks up. "No it's not."

"Yes it is!  That's NASTY! Leave it alone."

He shrugs. "Whatever."

As much as I hate to do it, Mr. Dillon is going to need a de-snaking clinic with a shock collar. Dillon's interest in snake scent and a ranch populated with pit vipers is a bad combination. We spoke with a man this weekend who told us about the daughter of a friend who was playing hide and seek last weekend. She hid in the pumphouse. A rattlesnake bit her three times before she could get out. Holy shit.

I will only carry "live and let live" so far.  

I love Texas. I love the wildflowers of Texas. Wildflowers are proof that God loves Texas too!

Look!

The ranch is now covered in black-eyed susans.

 And these things blanket the front gate. I don't know what they are.

I 'think' this is called "plains horsemint."

 At a distance it looks like lavender. Imagine my shock to discover all this "lavender" at the front gate! Trust me, the lavender I planted does not look like this!  Actually, it's a little sick now.

 The baby lavender is dying. The bigger lavender plants are sickly. I think they need more attention than I can give them until I'm there full-time.  Texas is a brutal climate. I was hoping to get them established before the summer drought hit. Too late! A Texas summer is tough on everything. Ironically, the wildflowers are thriving.

Look again. 

Real lavender planted by me:

Make-believe Lavender planted by God:

Perhaps God is saying I should wait until I'm up at the ranch full-time before I plant my lavender fields of Provence.  

 "Ya think!"

There is a lot to be said for native wildflowers. No water. No fertilizer. No worry. Just drive through the gate and see this. It doesn't suck.

     Today, on my day off, I was in court talking to an officer that I worked a case with five years ago. We met briefly on a murder and hadn't seen each other since. Since she had been working patrol in a particularly active part of the city at that time, I asked if she was still there.

"Oh no! I needed a rest. I got tired. I'm in a desk job now and I love it. It's so relaxing. I don't miss the action one bit!"

     I chewed on that for a minute. Mulled it over in my head. Before I became a crime scene investigator, I had been working in a particularly active unit, running narcotics and felony warrants. The crime scene unit was a rest for me too, so I understood where she was coming from.  Then I thought about my yesterday, my - day off.

It went like this:

Other Half works Saturday night from 6:00 PM to 6 AM Sunday morning. He gets to bed at 6:30 AM.

At 7:30 AM my mother calls to inform me that a water pipe on her well has burst and now water is spewing from the pump house like a geyser. A neighbor has turned the well off. My day begins.

Get up and do ranch chores. Allow Other Half to sleep.

Wake Other Half up at 9:30 AM so he can throw some clothes on and come to paint store with me to pick up 16 gallons of paint for Mom's house. He is grumpy. Well DUH! Drive into Paint Store Parking Lot just as employee is unlocking door.  Give him order for 16 gallons of paint. He informs us that he does not have the requested paint. Point out that he assured us LAST weekend when we tried to buy it that he would have it THIS weekend when he told us the paint would go on sale for 30% off and we should wait. Since we were the first customers of the 30% sale, and we ordered it LAST weekend, surely they had the paint.  They did not.  Make another selection.  OKAY!  Nervously note Other Half making coffee in store. He is fiddling with coffee pot. Quiet. Too quiet.

     Wait for him to go Batshit Crazy on Employee. He does not. He is that tired. Okay then. Make another selection.

     Employee mixes paint. We load it and take it to the painters who are already working on Mom's house.

     Unload paint. Trek to pump house to examine damage. Yep. Pipe is broken. (Had a pinprick leak for a long time anyway. We knew it was inevitable.) Trek to Home Depot, aka Man Mecca. Other Half is too tired to enjoy it.  Get another pipe and fresh glue. Return to Mom's house. Fix pipe.

     Take Other Half by Kentucky Fried Chicken to pick up a bucket for lunch before he heads back to bed. Arrive at home.

      While giving dogs a potty break, note that our water well pump keeps kicking on and off.  Rut Roh!  Since no one is doing laundry, that is a bad sign.  (In my business, we call this a "clue.")

     Trot out to pasture. Yessir! My horse, Montoya, has taken the automatic float value waterer out of the water trough again. Water is spewing everywhere. He has been watering the pasture while we were gone.  Lovely. Turn off water to pasture and decide to deal with that tomorrow.

     Trot back to house. Other Half has food on plates and is settling in front of the television to watch the Preakness horse race which he has taped on television. He has fried chicken in one hand and a remote in the other. That's a man with a Do Not Disturb sign if I ever saw one. Get my food and settle on couch to watch horse race.

     Note Cowboy the Slightly Deranged Border Collie racing back and forth along the fence in the back yard.

     He is running after horses that are not only not moving, they don't even know (or care) that he is there. Go back to horse race on television.

     Pretty horses. Pretty colors. Note that outside Deranged Border Collie is continuing to move back and forth past window.  Go back to pre-race show. Pretty horses/pretty colors. Happen to note Deranged Border Collie hasn't passed window in a while.  Hmmmm... should I even care?

     Something, some niggling something in the back of my mind, moved me off the couch. I peeked out the window.

     What I saw was a scene from some absurd Disney movie.

     Cowboy had apparently run up and down the fence line and smacked right into the water spigot - and snapped the PVC pipe in two. Yes, water was spewing and cowboy was playing like a city child in a fire hydrant.

Oh. My. Gosh.

I looked at Other Half, happy with his remote and his fried chicken.  And then something completely insane crossed my mind.

"Dear God, Thank you that it was his dog, and not one of mine. Thank you that it was his dog and not my horse. Thankyouthankyouthankyou."

And then I called Other Half to the window. He stood there, mouth slack, watching his dog play in the spray. At this point I should advise you that Cowboy is lucky Other Half was holding a remote control and not a gun. I'm just sayin', that's all.

It took almost two hours to repair the TWO pipes that Cowboy had snapped off. One pipe was above ground and the other was under a foot and a half of soppy mud. It was ugly.  Other Half and I almost killed each other.  I think we both deserve gold stars for not beating the crap out of each other with shovels. It says something about our self control, don'tcha think? 

But the day didn't end there!  No!  Now Other Half, who has had only a few hours of sleep, must GO TO WORK!  Yes! He must take a shower and GO TO WORK a 12 hour shift.

But it doesn't end there! (this is like surreal info-mercial!)  He gets ready to go to work and cannot find his truck keys! We spend almost an hour looking for his keys. He is not a happy man. He finally goes to work, undoubtedly relieved to leave the house. I get animals fed and settled and head to bed. After all, I have to get up early (on my day off!) and testify in court.

So this morning I sat across the table from a police woman who told me about how life was soooo much less stressful now that she had a desk job. I pondered that for a moment, reflected on yesterday, and decided that a desk job probably wouldn't do much for the stress in my life.

And I still want a gold star for not smacking him in the head with a shovel for throwing mud at the horse. I'm just sayin'.

I've trained dogs most of my adult life and each dog teaches me something new. Ironically, the most 'complicated' dogs teach me the most.

Enter Blue Heeler:

     Describing Ranger as "complicated" is an understatement. He is a fiercely devoted little dog who is convinced the world is trying to kill him. Clever, he is held back only by his own insecurities.

     I am a lazy dog trainer. I like dogs who fetch because the fetch is the skeletal framework for almost everything else I teach. I don't like having to 'teach' a fetch. I want a natural fetcher. (Yeah, yeah, we can't always get what we want in life.)  That said, Ranger taught me that a natural fetch isn't necessary to end up with a fanatical retriever.

     As a puppy, Ranger was always underfoot as we ate supper. Naturally, he wanted some. Since he had absolutely no interest in retrieving a kong for the mere thrill of retrieving, I offered to "pay" him for bringing me the kong.  He watched me toss the kong. Watched it land. Watched it roll. Rolled his eyes. Nada. Nothing.

     Now here is the key. I didn't care. I didn't care one whit. At that point I didn't even LIKE Ranger, much less worry about whether or not he fetched. I had absolutely no aspirations of making Ranger into anything. He was a cow dog, nothing else, so I didn't burden Ranger with my expectations. His inability to fetch didn't let me down in any way.  And guess what? 

     After a few nights of begging with no results, Ranger went over and picked up the kong. Surprised, I gave him an academy award and a bite of steak. Voila. Ranger had an epiphany. He didn't learn how to fetch. He learned how to exchange a kong for a piece of food. The concept of MONEY was born!

     Again, because I didn't care, I didn't burden Ranger with any expectations. In very short time, he was a kong pest at meals and soon earned my interest.  I would toss the kong, he would happily retrieve it for payment. Soon the bug bit him, and he no longer needed payment. Ranger had become a fanatical retriever of kongs and everything else thrown.

  Hmmmmm . . . Mom had an epiphany. 

   The old school methods for teaching a reliable fetch are often brutal and over the years, I abandoned them. They simply didn't fit into my relationship with my dogs. My dogs are partners.  I don't choke or ear pinch my partner.  I taught a play retrieve and never had it bite me in the butt. (But I had natural retrievers!) Ranger taught me another way to get a retrieve with a dog who was not a natural retriever.  It took a while, but the key was not putting unrealistic expectations on the dog or myself.

Enter Trace:

Trace is a Border Collie. He should retrieve. Wrong. We're making assumptions again. Trace has no natural retrieve. Trace has been bred to herd cattle, not retrieve dumbbells, flyballs, or anything else. Still, I like a dog to retrieve. Fortunately I had learned from my experience with Ranger. The world will not stop turning if Trace doesn't retrieve. In August, Trace will be two. Guess what Trace discovered this week?

Retrieving!

For some reason, a light bulb went off in his little head, and he discovered the joy of having a human throw a toy for him. In the past he had always enjoyed chasing the other dogs when they ran for a toy, but now Mr Trace has decided that a one-on-one game of fetch is an awesome way to pass the time.

And again, I learned something. Trace reinforced the idea that things don't have to be rushed. Everything happens in its own good time. When Trace was ready to retrieve, he would retrieve.  I'm still taking my time with Trace. His herding skills aren't reliable. The raw talent is there. The control is not. I can bang it out of him, but I've been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Instead we'll let him grow up some more, get more obedience, get more maturity. In time, he'll be better than Lily. The talent is there. The important thing is not to get my ego wrapped up in a dog. If I play it wrong, I can ruin the dog, or get him killed by a cow. 

     I'm sure I could have forced the fetch issue with Trace and Ranger, but I would have had an awful time myself, and possibly ruined my relationship with my dogs. I think the biggest lesson I have learned over these years is DON'T LET YOUR EGO GET CAUGHT UP IN THE DOG. I have seen too many people stomp off the agility field, the obedience field, the tracking field, the schutzhund field, etc, because they let their sense of worth get caught up in a dog's performance. 

     You are not your dog. The sun will not fail to rise because your dog missed a contact zone in agility. The tide will not fail to come in because your dog blew an obedience pattern. And if the sheep scatter on the field, God won't love you any less.

     This lesson took me years to learn. With each dog, I get less worked up over learning skills on a schedule.  Other Half was doing some reading and proudly proclaimed that Dillon was "ahead of schedule" in his bird dog training. He is a clever boy, and it's tempting to start pushing him, but why? He'll be ready for dove season and duck season, but if he's not, so what? Training can be slow and fun for everyone, or we can push him and maybe make a star, or maybe we'll just take all the fun out of it for him and for us.

My first show dog taught me a most valuable lesson. Navarre was a star.

     To this day, people may not remember me, but they remember him. They remember me as "Navarre's Mommy."  He had more titles behind his name than I could count. He had so many awards that I couldn't keep them all. But most importantly, he was my partner, my Soul Dog. And I remember the first night I came home after he died. I distinctly recall that I would have given up every award, every title, everything that dog had won, if I could have had him greet me at the back gate just one more time.

And THAT is the gift Navarre gave to every dog I will ever own.