Beware of attack chicken

We have, residing here on the Unfarm, an attack chicken. This attack chicken's name is Gretchen and he (yes, you read that right - he) is our rooster. We named him as a chick when we were told that he was a she and the name just stuck. If you ask either my mom or I our opinion on said rooster you would be told that he is a fearsome defender of (almost) all of his lady hens but otherwise he is relatively harmless and even somewhat comical at times - performing his sidestepping shuffle dance for us in an attempt to either add us to his harem or show who is in charge, depending upon which theory you ascribe to. According to Dad, however, Gretchen is a "mean rooster" who attacks both frequently and without remorse. 

In looking at various threads on the backyardchickens.com website the main consensus seems to be that Gretchen's behavior is dominance based and that he should be culled from the flock. Well, that's just not how we roll around here - Gretchen is family and we just don't go around killing our family members. We just don't. And besides, it's not like Gretchen isn't good for anything. He does protect most of the ladies. Penny is the notable exception - we're not sure if it's because she is older than the rest of the chickens and so didn't grow up with Gretchen and his crew or if it is because she is sporting spurs on her legs - but whatever the reason, Penny is definitely lowest down in the pecking order and frequently gets picked on or chased by Gretchen and several of the other hens. 

Aside from his lack of protective instincts towards Penny, Gretchen is quite protective of all the other hens and no one is too big for Gretchen to go up against when it comes to someone bothering his ladies. Axel, the largest of the three dogs, grew up with chickens and cows on a farm somewhere before we rescued him from the shelter so he generally leaves the chickens alone. Scout and Molly, however, are another story. Scout thinks that the chickens are endlessly fascinating toys of some sort and they only want for the proper persuasion to get them to join in a rousing game of chase. Molly will chase almost anything that a) moves and b) is smaller than her. Being a chihuahua mix not many things fall under category b, although she will join Scout if he decides to chase the chickens. The chickens, for their part, squawk and flap their wings and tear around the yard in a highly disorganized manner that often leads them back into the path of the dogs. Hearing this commotion, Gretchen races to the rescue. He flies into the dog run and heads straight for whatever dog is closest and slams into their side, effectively drawing the attention away from the hens in order to give them time to make their escape from the dog run. The party is generally over at that point. The hens are gone and none of the dogs wants to tangle with Gretchen the attack chicken so for now the good outweighs the bad and Gretchen is staying where he is, "mean" or not.

Gretchen, our attack chicken

Thrill ride

Not all mice like those little clear plastic balls that let them roam around the house without danger of them squeezing into some little hole somewhere and reappearing months later with a whole passel of babies in tow courtesy of some local wild mouse. 

Francine, for example, does not like said ball and when placed inside one she simply sits in one place and refuses to move. Evangeline, on the other hand, loves her rolly ball; put her in it and she happily rolls out of the bunny room, down the hall, around the living room and into the dining room. She even hangs out in the kitchen when we're baking, preferring to be where the action is. 

A recent development may have changed her mind about the ball, though. She was rolling down the hall while my brother was throwing toys down the hall for Scout to run and fetch and during one such trip down the hall Scout's foot nicked the side of the ball and sent it spinning. All poor little Evangeline could do was hold on for dear life as the ball spun across the hall. From my position in on the living room couch I could only watch helplessly as Evangeline went from right side up to upside down to right side up to upside down to right side up again when the ball finally stopped moving as it ran into the wall. I ran down the hallway and scooped up the ball and opened the lid to allow a grateful Evangeline to crawl out onto my hand. 

I have yet to try putting her back into the ball and am worried that when I do she will simply sit there in terror like Francine tends to do. Then the only option the mice will have for exercise is time on their jungle gym (aka me.) And as much as I don't mind having mice crawl around on my neck and shoulders I do mind the deposits they leave behind. I have made some tiny outfits for the mice in the past. Just small things (as if all mouse clothes aren't small!) like Santa hats, reindeer antlers and tutus but maybe it's time to consider making mouse diapers...

Evangeline sporting her reindeer antlers

Cuddle time

Most of the animals here on the Unfarm are fairly self sufficient when it comes to going to sleep. The chickens put themselves away in their coop each night - even Lucy, who has stopped going into the Little Coop at night as abruptly, and mysteriously, as she started it. The ducks start nodding off as almost as soon as they get inside for the night and the mice curl themselves away in their little castle to sleep the day away. The rabbits sleep quite lightly but they do doze several times throughout the day and night. Cats are notorious for being good sleepers and ours are no exception, napping most of the day so that Maximus can spend the whole night upstairs playing while the dogs are out of the way in the bedrooms. And speaking of dogs, Molly and Axel can go to sleep whenever they feel like it - mostly when I am gone from the house and there is nothing else to hold their attention. Scout is another story. 

Scout is many things. He is high energy. He is fast. He is a ball thief at the dog park (because he is fast.) He is playful. And cute. And also really, really annoying when he is sleepy. Apparently he can't just go to sleep like everyone else. He must have someone there with him to cuddle up to. He is insistent. Very insistent. When he gets tired he finds someone and proceeds to make a pest of himself. If I am watching TV in the bunny room, Scout will try to crawl up onto the TV stand. Or my desk. Via my chair. If you are working at the dining room table he will try to crawl up onto the table, pushing your laptop out of the way until you give in and sit with him. On occasion, Scout has even tried to crawl onto me, putting his paws up on my shoulders and crawling into my lap. 

There is little else you can do but go and sit with him. And sometimes that is not even enough. In his quest to get close to you he will often sit not just next to you but actually on you. I got a text message the other day that said "look at your dog." Going out into the living room I found my brother on the couch with a 50 pound Scout sitting on his chest. If you are lying down he will try to sit on your head. 

This annoying behavior has been given the innocuous name of "cuddle time" and someone always draws the short straw and has to cuddle with Scout. If you choose not to you have to go into a room and close the door behind you, then listen to Scout as he scratches up the other side of the door trying to get in. Each scratch on the door is another one of your nerves being shredded until you just can't stand it anymore and you give in. Probably not the best way of dealing with him but the only way we have discovered so far. We keep wondering if perhaps he will outgrow this puppy-like behavior but at two and a half years old it isn't looking good as of yet.

Starting the new year off with a fizzle, and wintery weather

Every year I make New Years resolutions. Lose weight, get in shape, blog more, etc, etc. This year I have managed to avoid inevitably breaking my resolutions by not even getting around to making any. So, like I said, I'm starting the new year off with a fizzle. I may eventually get around to making some resolutions but likely not any time before the end of this month and possibly not even by the end of March. We'll see how it goes. At any rate there is some news from the Unfarm to catch you up on. I finished four of my needlepoint stockings just in time for Christmas, we finally got some winter weather and Molly managed to come down with a case of giardia, probably from drinking out of puddles on her walks.

But now: snow. We finally got some, though not as much as I would have liked and it didn't stick around long enough either. We ended up with about ten inches of it here on the Unfarm, which I realize isn't much compared with some parts of the country but it is a fair amount for around here and considering global warming and all. The animals were of mixed opinions about the weather. The dogs thought it was great, even Molly who is barely above the snow when standing in it. We bundled Molly and Scout up in their coats and took them out for walks in the snow. They tended to stick to the pathways where the snow was already packed down while Axel, with his thick fur, simply plowed through wherever he felt like it and was often found lying in it on the back deck.

The ducks and the chickens were decidedly less enthused about the wintery weather. The ducks were forced to stay inside the whole week the snow stuck around as their pond was frozen over and I didn't want them sitting on the ice and sticking to it or getting frostbite on their feet as they have not the sense to stay off of the snow and under the covered areas of the yard. They are frequently to be found sitting out in the middle of whatever bad weather we are having at the time and did I feel like carrying two wiggling, squirming ducks furiously paddling their feet and/or flapping their wings inside each day while trying to keep my balance in the slick, packed down snow? No. I did not. (Why would I have to carry them inside, you ask? Because Maggie has developed a bad habit of stepping on his own feet when he walks, causing him to fall down at which point he often just sits there waiting for you to come retrieve him.) 

The chickens were quite put out by all the snow. On the first day we opened their coop and they poked their heads out like they always do but instead of jumping out enthusiastically they made a collective decision to stay in the coop. For the whole day. And the next day. And the day after that. Finally, feeling sorry for the poor birds, we put out some old fence boards on top of the snow so that they could have somewhere to stand that wasn't covered in ten inches of the wretched white stuff they were so dismayed to awake to each morning. After that they would hang out on the boards or underneath the coop - the only place the ground was still visible - until the snow melted sufficiently (about a week later) for them to begin venturing out into the yard again. Needless to say that the chickens much prefer the warmer months when the ground is soft and they can once again become the terrors of all small plants in the yard.

The mice of the Unfarm: a recap, and whether or not decorating is my calling

We have had several mice here on the Unfarm going, in chronological order, from Bernadette to Caroline, then Daphne, and then Evangeline, Francine, Gemima, and (since it was bugging me that I had missed the "a") Angela. A couple of weeks ago I noticed that Gemima appeared to be losing weight so I made an appointment with the vet for her. It was quite timely because the morning of the vet appointment Gemima was sitting in her cage, hunched and moving very little with a discharge coming from her nose. I had her in the backseat of the car and was ready to leave for the vet's office when I got a phone call from them. An emergency case had just come in and the vet had rushed into emergency surgery with a ferret with a life threatening condition and as a result Gemima's appointment got bumped. Now I faced a dilemma: wait it out with Gemima at home and hope she pulled through until the vet could see her or take her in to the vet's office anyway and leave her there for the vet to check once he got out of surgery. I chose the latter. The next morning I got the call that she had unfortunately passed away sometime during the night, probably due to a failure of some sort in some internal organ. So my little quartet became a trio: Angela, Evangeline, and Francine are left still and are, for the most part, doing well. (Evangeline has a bit of a respiratory illness that she is not quite suppressing as well as she should but it is nothing that requires medication as of yet. Fingers crossed that she beats it on her own.)

Switching gears: apparently I am a horrible decorator. As soon as I set a litter box down in the rabbit cages the rabbits start tossing them about, moving them from one side of the cage to the other. Ginger was quite fond of tossing her litter box off the second floor of her cage and scattering her litter, box, and bunny berries all over the floor until I thwarted her by keeping her box on the first floor of her cage. Dog beds and blankets neatly laid out get scrunched and rearranged and dragged down the hallway until the dogs are satisfied with the new arrangement. The chickens and ducks are not much better - the chickens scratch about in their straw convinced that there is invisible food buried somewhere in the coop until they have made a proper mess and Minna is fond of pulling up any loose material around her to create little nests. I am no more successful with the mice. I cleaned their cage the other day and put in more bedding than I usually do - too much, as it turns out. I saw Francine at the cage bars yesterday, busily pushing bedding out of the cage between the bars and onto the table below. Maybe the feng shui was off somehow. Or maybe the cage wasn't "open concept" enough anymore. Or maybe I simply am a horrible decorator.

Camping out at the vet...again

It had been a couple of weeks since we've been to the vet's office so naturally it is time to go back. This time it was Axel and Jojo who drew the short straws. It seems no one else wanted to volunteer to go in for some reason.

Axel went in for a bout of diarrhea that lasted three days before we gave up and took him in to see the vet. We brought in a stool sample and he was given some nasty medication to take to help clear up the diarrhea. We had to coat the medication in peanut butter to make sure he would swallow it because it tastes bad and starts to dissolve quickly - I know this from personal experience. I had to take this same medication several years ago and in order to be able to swallow it at all I had to coat each pill in chocolate almond bark so I wouldn't be able to taste it. Gotta give me props for creativity, right? Axel's visit was pretty straight forward: test for parasites and treat for diarrhea.

Jojo's visit was another story. Jojo went into the vet for something that we thought was minor - blocked tear ducts and a disinclination to use his litter box - that turned out to be a bigger problem than we foresaw. His tear ducts are in fact blocked, and he was given eye drops to try and clear that problem up but his reluctance to use the litter box was more than simply wanting to keep me on my toes and make more work for me in an effort to keep his cage clean. It turned out that he had poor control of his hind end which could have been caused by several different things, the first of which was parasitic infection, so we tested for that and it came back positive for E. cuniculi. Enter another medication, stage right. Now, not only is Jojo on eye drops three to four times a day, he is also on oral medication twice a day. 

And they weren't done yet - they wanted x-rays of his back end, so back we went to the vet. The x-rays were taken but the vet advised sending them out to a specialist to look at to see if it could be cancer of the bones that could be causing the rather squabbagy (pronounced skwa-buh-gee, it basically means crooked) look to his spine. It seems the vets are determined to clean out my entire savings account this month. The results are in and they do not think it is cancer (thank goodness), just arthritic changes and an old, healed fracture but they want him on an anti-inflammatory medication and ideally laser treatments twice a week for several weeks at $50 a pop. Someone there must have a child headed off to college that they need me to pay for. We are starting with the anti-inflammatory medication because really, why not add another medication to the already long list of medications the animals need each day? Whoever said that moving to the country and living on a farm was getting back to the simple life was seriously mistaken. Or else I just have rotten luck.

The nightly routine

It is no secret that dogs like to eat and that their palate is somewhat less sophisticated than ours with a taste for, among other things: cat poop, bunny poop, chicken poop... basically anyone's poop, liver, cat food, and fish oil. Along with their own food they also have a taste for duck food, which leads me to the nightly routine. After the dogs get their dinner the chickens get put away in the coop for the night and the ducks are brought in. Before bringing the ducks inside for the night we feed them dinner on the back deck: a bowl of water and a bowl of Purina duck chow. The dogs know this and wait impatiently at the kitchen door for me to bring the ducks inside. This is not because of some great love for the ducks and a strong desire to see them again after being separated all day. No, this is purely selfish on the part of the dogs. 

After I put the diapers on the ducks I scoop them up while they furiously paddle their little feet and we head to the back door. As soon as I get the door open six inches or so the dogs will force the door open the rest of the way and then I just stay out of the way as all three dogs burst through onto the back deck. They run right past the ducks and I as if we weren't even there and make a beeline for the duck bowls. Were Scout and Axel after the same thing we might have a problem but they complement each other perfectly because Axel heads straight to the water bowl and starts drinking while Scout grabs the food bowl and takes off. Scout picks up the bowl by the rim without tipping anything out and takes it across the deck to eat the water soaked duck chow in peace. Molly is left to clean up the scraps that fall onto the deck boards. Having eaten less than an hour ago I know for a fact that the dogs are not starving, they simply like the taste of watered down duck food. Go figure. I guess there's no accounting for taste.

Tags: check

Check that one off the list - I've been wanting to get the ID tags back onto Scout and Axel's collars for a while now but I couldn't find the right size key rings. I finally just gave up and bought regular sized ones instead of the small ones I was searching unsuccessfully for. But the story here is not about my to do list or the fact that Axel's ID tag had been sitting in my desk drawer for months, but rather how it got there in the first place.

Scout's tag came off innocently enough, likely while he was rough housing with Axel or playing with Molly but Axel's tag came off after repeated abuse. Axel, in case I have not explained before, likes to sleep on the floor in my room at night, wedged between the bed and the wall right next to the air vent cover. Often on top of the air vent cover, actually. And herein lies the problem: his neck and head are often over the air vent, which means so is his collar and, naturally, his ID tag. Several times while lying over the air vent Axel's tag would slip between the slats on the vent cover, become wedged there, and the tag would get pulled on and the ring bent out of shape as Axel repositioned himself. Were this Molly we were talking about she may have remained stuck there, attached to the floor until someone came to rescue her but this is Axel and - being rather more on the large side - he would simply stand up and walk away. The reason I know this is what happened is because it usually occurred in the morning after he had been lying on the vent all night and I would wake up to a clanking sound only to discover Axel walking around my room with the vent cover hanging off of his collar like an oversized pendant. I would then have to twist the tag back around so that it could slip back between the slats and remove the grate from his collar. It seems that after this had happened ten or fifteen times the ring called it quits and gave up trying to keep the tag attached to the collar. I can't say that I blame it. At least it didn't fall down the air vent and get lost. The new ring should be stronger and hopefully the new vent cover will prevent his tag from slipping through it because next time we might not be so lucky and I have no desire to fish around in a forty year old air vent looking for his ID tag.

The best seat in the house

This post is late by, like, a week because we've been hosting my cousin and having a craftapalooza here on the Unfarm. She only gets to come down from Seattle once a year or so since she is usually so busy with school so we like to cram as much arts, crafts, and tax free shopping in as possible which leaves very little time for blogging, checking email, or doing anything remotely responsible aside from taking care of the animals and even that didn't always get done - the dogs missed their walk on Wednesday. At any rate, here comes a post for you, short as it may be.

Scout likes chairs. And couches. And beds. And basically any soft spot. In the bunny room/my art studio/my office there are two chairs. One is a wooden desk chair and the other is an IKEA poang chair that I stole from the living room. Needless to say, the poang chair is by far the more popular one. It is springy and cushioned and comfortable and it was where I happened to be sitting last night when Scout came into the room. He stood around near me for a few minutes before he lost patience and used his muzzle to nudge my elbow a couple times. When I didn't respond he repeated himself, nudging my elbow again. Figuring he wanted something I stood up to find out what it was he needed. He immediately hopped into the chair and made himself comfortable. Turns out what he wanted was my seat. If Scout is in the room I usually have to content myself with the desk chair because Scout will inevitably want to sit in the poang chair. But saying no to those puppy dog eyes is nearly impossible, and Scout is incredibly persistent so I may as well get used to it.

Scout curled up in the poang

A healthy respect

It would seem that after Molly's misadventure with the chickens the other day (see previous post: Gretchen - warrior rooster) she has developed a healthy respect for the chickens. Actually it tips the scales closer to fear. Ask her now if she has to go out to go potty and she'll perk up, wagging her tail and heading toward the door to her territory (aka the master bedroom.) But if it is still light out, that's as far as she will go. She has made the connection that daylight means the chickens are out and could ambush her at any moment, and so long as they are out she has determined that she won't be. Put her outside and she cowers on the back deck, tail tucked between her legs. Even if the chickens are not actually visible, she is certain that they lurk somewhere nearby, ready to chase her the minute she starts to pee. As this is a relatively new situation I am not sure what exactly we are going to do to remedy it. In the short term we have been taking her out to the front yard to go to the bathroom but this is far from ideal as she has been known to take off into the neighbor's yard to chase their cat or run after people walking past the house. Maybe some kind of canine-galline desensitization therapy in which we place a chicken in the same room with Molly for longer and longer periods of time. Or is it that you add more and more chickens in the room? Something like that. Or maybe we need to increase her dosage of prozac. Or maybe some kind of dog therapist. To be honest, she probably needs more prozac and a therapist as a matter of course anyway. She is far from well adjusted. Probably the next big project we'll need to tackle here on the Unfarm.

Gretchen - warrior rooster

The routine for letting the dogs - or rather Scout - out in the backyard has become more complicated now that he is full grown and no longer an eight pound puppy who can be bossed around by the chickens. Before we can let Scout out we have to do a head count of the chickens and establish that they are, indeed, all out of the dog run. This is best accomplished by tossing a scoop full of squirrel food off the deck over by the blueberry bushes. The chickens are, by this point, used to the sound of the squirrel food bin opening and know to come running from whatever part of the yard they are in if they want an easy meal. Which they always do. If all five chickens start pecking the ground for bits of sunflower seeds and corn we know that we are in the clear and Scout is free to go out. If one or two chickens have flown into the dog run we have to entice them out with additional scoopfuls of squirrel food before we can let Scout roam freely. 

It happens, though, that on occasion one of us (cough "dad") fails to do a proper head count and just opens the back door and hopes for the best. Sometimes this works out and sometimes it doesn't. When it doesn't, Scout's exit is quickly followed by a barrage of squawking and a great deal of flapping about as whichever chicken attempts to flee from a rather exuberant Scout intent on playing with them. We quickly intercede on behalf of our frazzled chicken and wrangle Scout, hopefully before any damage can be done. 

Axel and Molly do not require such maneuverings before being let out because Axel was raised on a farm with chickens and has learned to ignore them and Molly is about the same size as the chickens and is too fearful to try and take on any of them by herself. This does not mean that she will not join in with Scout if he is chasing a chicken: she will. Safety in numbers, I guess.

99% of the time when the dogs are in the dog run, the chickens know enough to stay out of it until the dogs return to the house. But there is that one percent. This happened a few days ago when Lucy decided to fly into the dog run while Scout and Molly were still in it. The chase was on. Molly and Scout started chasing, Lucy started running and squawking and then in came Gretchen. Bravely coming to the aid of his wife, he flew over the dog run fence and began chasing Molly. Molly, for her part, was completely taken aback by this startling turn of events and did what any sensible ten pound dog would do when being chased by a full sized rooster: she ran up onto the deck and hid between Axel's legs. While this was going on, Lucy seized the opportunity to fly back over the dog run fence and into the safety of the rest of the yard. Gretchen celebrated his victory by strutting back and forth a few times, crowing, and then flying back into the yard with Lucy. Who would have guessed that under all those fancy feathers lurked the heart of a warrior, ready to leap into action to defend his hens whenever the need should arise? I must admit that I have rather a little more respect for our little rooster-cum-warrior.

Sand cookie caper

Dogs and cats, I have decided, have extremely opposite opinions when it comes the the issue of the litter box. Cats view this as a place for making deposits, while dogs view this as a place for making withdrawals. "Sand cookies," if I have not explained previously, are what we call the "treats" that the dogs dig out of the litter box to snack on. The dogs know that they are not supposed to be digging through the litter boxes so they tend to do it when we aren't looking, and then run off with their sand cookies to devour them in some corner somewhere where they are less likely to be caught. "Leave the scene of the crime as fast as possible," seems to be their thought process. On the occasions when we do catch the dogs leaving the litter box area looking rather more guilty than usual we can yell "drop it" and they will, if they feel like it, listen once in a while and drop the sand cookie wherever they are standing.

On one occasion I happened to catch Scout sneaking out of the laundry room with a suspicious lump in his mouth. "Drop it....," I warned, and for once Scout obliged, spitting out the sand cookie on the floor in the hallway. I went to the bathroom to grab toilet paper to pick it up and dispose of it and by the time I came back Max had come out of the bedroom and was wandering down the hall. Coming upon the sand cookie Max seemed rather surprised to find it where he did not recall leaving it. He sniffed at it, and then proceeded, as any self respecting feline would, to scratch at the floor around it, trying in vain to cover it up. He obviously did not recall making a deposit in the hallway but tried to be responsible about it nonetheless. I found the sight of Max trying to clean up after Scout rather amusing. Max seemed mainly concerned that he may have gone to the bathroom outside of the litter box without recalling doing so. And Scout, for his part, failed to see any humor in the situation and seemed to focus only on the loss of his snack.

Another one bites the dust

The population of Scout's toy box is steadily declining. Stuffed animals, frisbees, and rope toys have all become endangered species around here. Apparently, the most entertaining part of a toy is not shaking it or chasing after it but actually pulling the stuffing out of it to reach the squeaker inside. Watching the toy box progressively get emptier I grew concerned that our puppy would become bored and move on to the destruction of less appropriate things like, say, the couch. Knowing that if that were to take place Scout himself would become the endangered species I came up with what I thought was a genius solution. I bought a package of tube socks and a bag of stuffing and stuffed each sock with the stuffing and a squeaker and then sewed the top closed. Voila! A bunch of new toys. This should last him a while. Right?

It took Scout all of an hour to figure out that these new toys were perfect for tug of war. As soon as he could convince Axel to play with him the two of them were squared off, each trying to rip the sock away from the other. More than winning the sock, the real appeal of this game appears to be the sound of the sock ripping open and the sight of the stuffing falling all over the living room floor. Now not only is the toy box population still decreasing, but we are cleaning the living room daily of fluff and squeakers and ripped up socks. I think that I am going to have to break down and buy new toys made of tougher stuff or risk finding pieces of the couch strewn about the living room.

Hang ten

Scout is a professional surfer. Counter surfer, that is. At this point he could win pro-surfing competitions with all the practice he's had. And Scout is not shy about his surfing. He will do it right in front of us if he thinks there is something worth going after on the counter. His regular raiding runs have netted him several prizes already including, but not limited to: an entire container of dog treats, a hot dog bun, cookies, bread, a variety of lids to a variety of containers, plastic bags containing or previously containing food, the top to a thermos for Mom's tea, plastic water bottles, dog toys, training treats, half a jar of peanut butter, an entire cube of butter including the wrapping, and his latest prize: a bottle of fish oil for the cat's food. Much to his disappointment I caught him red handed and confiscated the smelly item, but not before he chewed several holes in the bottle and spilled fish oil all over the living room carpet. This was, presumably, a tactic to ensure he would have some for later, like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter. He spent the next hour licking fish oil out of the carpet, even after Mighty Mouth - our industrial carpet cleaner - tackled the mess. What remains from Scout's counter surfing is the unpleasant aroma of fish permeating the house, and several large stains all over the carpet. 

This was obviously not Scout's first misadventure with counter surfing and I'm sure it won't be his last. Case in point: just a few days ago I found a chewed up bottle prescription bottle and several pills scattered on the living room carpet. This pill bottle was previously a resident of the kitchen counter and we have never made a practice of storing our medications scattered across the floor. Clearly Scout had been at work again, and this time it cost us $65 to call the animal poison control emergency line to make sure that Scout had not inadvertently poisoned himself with Molly's Prozac. (He had not, although he was rather more sleepy for the rest of the day than a ten month old puppy should be, which was actually a nice change for us all.) As much as we try to keep items that may be of value to Scout out of his reach, he has a habit of turning lemons into lemonade and finding a purpose for anything he encounters in the kitchen, whether it is edible or not. Non edible items make great chew toys, after all. It would not surprise me if there was a sequel to this story.

Super Dog!

... Or, How I Came to Walk Scout Before I Walk Molly and Axel. But "super dog" has a better ring to it, don't you think? Dog walks. It sounds like a simple enough activity: attach leashes to dogs on one end, your hand on the other, and proceed to put one foot in front of the other. But add in one slightly grumpy 90-pound dog, one extremely exuberant 50-pound puppy, and one overly neurotic ten pound dog all pulling in opposite directions and/or barking like a crazy thing (Molly) and the task becomes decidedly less simple. The solution was obvious: I needed to walk in shifts, taking one or two dogs and then the remaining dog(s). The first day I attempted this was a utter fail. 

I decided that I would talk Molly and Axel together so that I could ensure that Molly's bad habits would not rub off on our impressionable young pup; Axel being rather set in his ways and not so easily influenced. Scout would walk by himself because he tends to be calmer on his own, and he was in obedience class at the time and could benefit from the extra training time. So off I set one summer evening, Axel and Molly in tow. Scout was less than pleased. He was convinced that I was leaving without him and he would not get a walk this day. As I rounded the corner of the house, Scout ran to the master bedroom, jumped up on the bed, and pounded on the window. Which was, unfortunately, open. I stood outside, shouting for Mom and trying to force my frozen muscles to move my body back into the house. While I stood there watching, Scout pushed the screen out of the window and almost fell out. My heart skipped a beat, but he recovered and managed not to fall out. You can imagine my relief. Followed by my utter dismay when Scout took a look out the (second story) window, figured, "I can make that," and proceeded to JUMP OUT THE WINDOW. He went flying, like some sort of super dog, out the window. My heart stopped. I had visions of Buddy jumping off the garden retaining wall and injuring his wrist and how that was the beginning of the end for him. I was sure that jumping out of the window would have some kind of dire consequences for Scout. He landed behind the trailer and I stood without breathing for half a second, waiting for the worst to happen. What actually happened was that Scout ran out in front of the trailer and came bounding up to me, as if to say, "Well? What are we waiting for? Let's go!" My relief was immeasurable.

That he was uninjured was a miracle. That he was unfazed was somewhat disturbing. What, after all, was to stop him from jumping out the window again? This then, is how I came to walk Scout before I walk Molly and Axel, in hopes of draining off some of his energy before he sees me walk off without him. This is also, incidentally, how I came to be even more anxiety ridden than I already was, which is saying a lot. Prior to all walks now we shut every window, every door, lock all doors to the outside, and insist that anyone coming or going does so through the garage, which means there are two doors for the dogs to get through before they can gain any access to the outdoors. These precautions afford me a small measure of comfort but as I am about as neurotic as Molly, it doesn't afford much.

Crazy is as crazy does

Molly is the newest canine addition to our Unfarm family. Our reasoning for getting her was as follows: Scout needed a playmate closer to his own age. Axel likes the companionship of other dogs, but has - we quickly learned - absolutely no interest in playing with an overactive upstart of a puppy. Enter Molly, stage right.  She is a small, ten pound cocker spaniel and chihuahua mix with soft, short, caramel brown fur and brown eyes. She is cute, certainly, and sweet, definitely, but she is also - unfortunately - a tad bit crazy.

The shy, five month old puppy we thought we were adopting turned out to be closer to eighteen months old and "shy" is an understatement. She is scared. Terrified, actually. Petrified, even. At least fifty percent of the time. And what here on the Unfarm could be so scary? Oh, lots of stuff including, but not limited to: bike racks, floor vents, doorways, sewer drain covers, metal plates in the sidewalk, storm drains, changes in the color of the sidewalk, people (outside the family), other dogs, pet stores, slippery floors, dog bowl platforms, and dog bowls themselves (but only certain ones.)

And how did we end up with such a "special" little thing? We adopted her from a local rescue who got her from a shelter in southern California where she was picked up as a stray which means we have no history on her: no clue how her formative months were spent, or how long she was on the streets, or how she ended up there in the first place. We have nothing to go on and are left to try and undo months of deep seated issues.

She is nothing if not neurotic, which is probably why she fits in so well here. Half of us are crazy (Scout is a puppy, and by definition that makes him crazy) or special needs (we've got a duck with a limp and a chicken with a permanent broken toe - rest assured, neither issue causes the birds any pain) so the addition of Molly just adds more character to the Unfarm.

It's not all bad, though. She loves Scout and plays with him daily and worships the ground Axel walks on and will spend half of her walks jumping up to give Axel kisses (which he mostly rejects.) She also loves beds and sleeps all night with Mom and Dad on theirs with them, then spends Dad's working weeks sleeping all day with him. She is, to quote Dad, "a good little sleeper" and has taken over Maia's duties of keeping Dad company while he sleeps. Molly also, inexplicably, loves the beach. I thought for sure she would be terrified of the sand or the water or the noise or the people or everything combined but by some miracle she wasn't. She happily followed Scout, Axel and I into the water and splashed about in the waves, getting soaked in the process.

So how to increase the good times and decrease the stress and anxiety for Molly? We're going to try getting her on the friends and family plan at the local pharmacy. I think that enough of us are on mood stabilizing drugs that we qualify for getting another prescription for free. Whether or not it will help any remains to be seen but I will keep you posted.

Hello my name is Scout

In the several months that we have lived with Scout we have discovered several things:

1. Puppies are absolutely adorable but they don't stay that way for long. Pretty soon the little six pound, eight week old pup that was the picture of cuteness when he gently mouthed your slippers or jumped up to see you when you got home is a forty pound teenager who destroys your shoes in five minutes and pulls you down the street as he gasps and chokes at the end of the leash, making you look anything but in control (and let's face it - you're not.) On the plus side, he pees outside most of the time now so let's celebrate the small victories.

2. The grass is always greener. Scout has come to the decision that any treat any other dog has is better than the one he's got and will complain bitterly about the injustice of life having served him up a treat (bone, rawhide chew, peanut butter filled Kong, etc) that is clearly sub par to the one that Axel and/or Molly have. After about five minutes of his incessant barking in the particular tone that we have come to learn can be translated as, "I want what they have! My treat isn't nearly as good as their treat and if I only had their treat I would be completely satisfied for the rest of my life!!" we will either take all the treats away or we will switch treats with Molly who generally couldn't care less what treat she has, so long as she has one. Scout is perfectly happy for about two minutes until he realizes that Molly now has his former treat and suddenly that treat is the best one and the process starts all over again. For Scout, the grass is always greener on the other side, or the other treat is always better than the one he's got.

Scout has been jealous of the other dogs treats from the beginning

3. Toys are awesome and toys with squeakers are even more so. Scout loves toys, the noisier the better. Apparently, the purpose of toys is to either A) interrupt dinner with the loudest squeaky toy in his arsenal by running in circles around the dining room table merrily squeaking away, or B) cover the living room floor with the stuffing from whatever toy has fallen victim to Scout's ruthlessness, leaving the sad, empty shell of the toy lying forgotten on the floor amid it's own innards.

4. The purpose of life. The purpose of life, according to Scout, is to eat treats. And he's not picky about our treats either - treats can, and do, include traditional dog treats: food, bones, Zuke's treats, cookies, rawhide chews, homemade dog treats, and any assortment of items found in the aisles of both Petsmart and Petco. But let's not overlook the benefit of nontraditional treats - peanut butter straight from the jar on the counter, regular butter from the [now broken] butter dish, cat food, pre-digested cat food (otherwise known as sand cookies around here on the Unfarm), duck food, chicken poo, duck poo, rabbit bunny berries (do you detect a pattern here? if it came out of any animal other than a dog it's fair game), plastic of any kind (water bottles and milk jugs are a particular favorite), and food of variety that gets left out on the counter.

5. Life is full of obstacles - it's how you deal with them that matters. Nontraditional treat inaccessible? Use your surroundings: Scout will crawl, climb, jump, and stand on tiptoes to get to what he wants.

Scout stands on my desk to look for treats

Scout searches for bunny berries in Jojo's hutch

6. Make yourself at home. Scout will turn almost any object into a chance to relax; the world is his pillow. Literally. He will sit on just about anything: beds, couches, rugs, carpets, Molly, Mom, Dad, me (especially when I am trying to get my shoes on for a walk), and - believe it or not - actual pillows. 

The end of an era

I have tried and failed numerous times to start this post. There is no way to make light of the loss of Maia, nor should there be. So instead, here are a few memories of her:

*Fair warning: disjointed memories follow... watch for awkward - or even no - transitions ahead. 

Years ago, we took Kita and Maia up to our family's vacation home on the Puget Sound and one time we decided to row her and Kita out to the floating dock to hang out with us, thinking it might be fun to spend some time with the dogs out there. Maia apparently disagreed. Almost as soon as we got the dogs out to the dock, Maia jumped off and swam to shore. We jumped back in the boat with Kita to go retrieve her but halfway to shore Kita jumped out of the boat and joined Maia on the beach. The beach there is a rocky curve of land below a cliff, upon which the houses stand; to reach the house you have to climb a tall staircase to get to the top of the cliff. When he reached the beach, Kita led Maia up the stairs before we could get to them - unfortunately, he led her up the wrong stairs, sending us on a chase through the neighborhood to track them down again. Maia would - and often did - follow Kita anywhere, when they finally came back Maia had found something in what must have been an advanced state of decomposition to roll in - she stank to high heaven and it took multiple washes to get her smelling anywhere near approachable again. 

We used to camp every summer on the southern Oregon coast, at a small campground with beach access that was generally fairly unpopulated so the dogs could run free to have a little fun and stretch their legs. Since the beach was bordered by a tall cliff on one side and the ocean on the other we considered it a fairly safe area to let the dogs explore off leash. On one occasion, Kita and Maia took off down the beach and disappeared. When next we saw them, they were running along the top edge of the cliff. How they got up there is still a mystery. How they got down was terrifying: Maia tripped and started to fall. I panicked and ran in terror to the cliff edge, ready to try climb up to get her or catch her if she fell all the way to the bottom. When I looked up again, she was happily running back down the cliff to the beach. To this day I could not tell you how she recovered from her fall or how she found her way around on the cliff so quickly. She was, apparently, a lab/beagle/mountain goat mix.

Maia lived to the ripe old age of 19 years - a pretty good feat for a dog of medium (about 45 pounds) size. To the end, she loved going with us on trips and to the beach. Unfortunately, she was less and less able to keep up or walk for very long the last year or two. We were then faced with two options: 1) leave her at the house and take just the younger dogs, or 2) get creative. Clearly option 1 was off the table so we got creative. We bought one of those big-wheeled garden carts from Costco and loaded it, her dog bed, and the dogs into the Suburban and headed to the beach. We put the dog bed in the garden cart and pulled it along the beach behind it us. When Maia got too tired to continue on we would set her in the cart, on her dog bed, and wheel her along with us, her ears flapping in the breeze, her eyes blinking in the sun. She seemed to not mind being treated like a princess and she always got a lot of attention from the other people on the beach. She has always adored being the center of attention and in her opinion the more people, the merrier.

Maia in her princess cart, with a blanket to keep her warm on the windy coast

Upheaval on the Unfarm

Life on the Unfarm has been rather more chaotic than usual of late due to the fact that we had to refinish the wood floors last week. These would be the floors in the kitchen/dining room and on the landing, which also meant we would lose access to two of our three doors to the outside.

We were told that the crew would start sanding the floors on Tuesday so we spent Monday evening cramming all the dining room furniture into the living room. This annoyance for us proved to be a blast for Maximus: so many places to hide, so many new things to jump on. Tuesday we spent the day rearranging our schedules so that someone would always be at home when the crew arrived. They never did. Wednesday was more of the same: the crew said they would show up in the morning, then in the afternoon, and then in the evening. They didn't, they didn't, and they didn't. The less than reliable crew finally showed up on Thursday and then the real upheaval began. 

It's blurry, and this is after half the furniture is back in the dining room, but this gives an idea of the mess that was the living room/Max's playground.

The dogs and cats were moved downstairs where we had our only access in and out of the house, through the garage and out into the (unfenced) front yard. This meant that every time the dogs had to go out we had to round up the leashes and walk them out - which I realize is probably what people in apartments have to do every single day, but we are unaccustomed to this inconvenience and in addition we had to deal with Maximus who was determined to launch himself through the doorway the second it was opened. Our indoor only cat was then outdoors and we had to chase after him and fetch him back again from whatever bush or plant he had hidden himself under.

The other problem with the downstairs is that the whole thing is in laminate flooring which means that the trouble Maia already has with walking - or even remaining upright, at her advanced age of nearly 19 years - is made even more difficult by the slippery floors. In an effort to combat this problem we ended up laying out all of our rugs, blankets, yoga mats, and dog beds in a line from the main room, down the hallway, and up to the garage door. 

The finished dining room floors. Hallelujah! Bring on the pets! (Literally - the pets can finally walk on it.)

Needless to say, everyone was more than happy when we were finally able to walk on the floors again: the dogs returned to the (largely carpeted) upstairs and greatly appreciate the freedom to come and go as they please (unless Una is on the deck, in which case the dogs have to wait until she finishes her meal.) The humans on the Unfarm are enjoying the ability to once again access the kitchen and the backyard. Una also appreciates our ability to access the kitchen as that is where we keep her sunflower seeds and almonds, and the window she looks in to let me know she is hungry. Mynx is relieved to have the downstairs returned to her so that she can enjoy the relative solitude again. The only one who seems unaffected either way is Max, who enjoyed both the play land that was temporarily set up for him in the living room, as well as access to the kitchen where he can sit on the counter to watch Rat TV. As for his excursions in the out of doors, his view on the floors finally being finished appears to be that he once again has three potential places from which to escape the boredom of the house so we have to step up our game again to block the black streak that is Maximus on his way out. I am embarrassed to admit that Max wins more times than I would like. We are at times little match to his speed and flexibility.

Life on the Unfarm: an illustrated account

Not all of our living happens on the Unfarm. We leave comfort of the Unfarm for visits to the vet (more often than we would like); fun outings like hikes, camping or trips to the beach; and the not-so-daily dog walks. Yes, it is true, I am at times a terrible procrastinator and don't always get around to walking the dogs every single day, although I am trying to do better. (Says every procrastinator that ever has or ever will live, probably, but I really mean it.) At any rate, when I do get around to walking I face a dilemma: do I bring Maia along and move at a pace that would have snails passing us by, or do I leave her behind with her sad little eyes watching Axel get leashed up while she stays home? Clearly neither option will do. Maia deserves to go with us, but at 18 years old it is unfair of me to expect her to keep pace with Axel who is half her age. The solution was clear: buy a stroller/trailer (it has handlebars but can also covert into a bike trailer) made for dogs that Maia can ride in. This photo is taken from the back of the trailer (she calls it her dog sled), with her sitting inside while we go for a walk. That way we can go at Axel's pace without straining Maia or leaving her out of the fun. At the end of the walk she gets to hop out and finish it alongside Axel but the rest of the time she is content to sit inside on her dog bed and enjoy the view. She seems to like it, and certainly prefers it to being left at home. I prefer it because then I don't have to suffer the horrible guilt of leaving behind such a loyal companion of so many years, and Axel still gets his exercise.