Eggs, easy

(Google image)

The hens are laying again. One by one, they find suitable places (never a regular nest; god forbid!) and lay a lovely brown orb full of nutritious goodness. A popular place for Betty (or is it Biddy?) is in the waist-high brick planter by the back door.

Last season, it was in the seat of my dead aunt's power wheelchair that recharged by the backdoor, waiting for my sister's husband to retrieve it. That didn't go well. Winston the Wonder Dog ate every one of them. It wasn't a happy situation; how can a girl relax enough to pass an egg with a squished black face waiting eagerly to consume the next generation? She fretted, he gobbled (then farted), we were without eggs. But, she could not be dissuaded. Even when the chair was removed, she laid the egg on the patio where the chair had been. I'm telling you, it is no wonder these birds need the protection of humans.

So, here we have the sad tale of the modern small farm. Hen lays egg, Pug eats egg, farmer goes hungry. Farmer endures smelly companion.

Winston the Wonder Dog: good/bad dog

Today, Winston just went all hinky, growling, hair standing up, going to the patio door. We opened the door, told him to go find the source of his upset. He stood at the screen door to the south, barking. My brave husband ventured out in the broad daylight to find a hawk on a close-by gate next to the doves! Winnie must have been reacting to the chickens weird 'bad thing from above' sound and got our attention! How cool is that? He got lots of praise.

But, later, after I tended and fed the animals, I looked out the kitchen window to see the same heroic Pugster lying on his tummy in a cage I open each morning to let the girls roam. He was eating fresh eggs! I hollered him out and we had a talk. I made him come in the house.

He came up to me almost immediately with his octopus, a stuffed toy he has had since babyhood. I didn't fall for the bribe. I just came from my bedroom. He left his offering on my pillow. Don't know if he was apologizing or paying his restaurant bill.

Winston, my grand-dog

I have written about Winston the Wonder Dog.  He was my dog-smell connection during my first few days after Cali's death.  He worried about me, cuddled me and drew me out.  He absorbed my tears and cast long looks into my eyes as if to ask, 'What can I do?' and 'Are you okay?'. 

He is a Pug, a black-black Pug with 75% cacoa eyes.  He is long legged and athletic with a tongue-lolling joie de vivre that gives him the confidence to know he is welcome anywhere and on any lap.  He follows conversations with direct eye contact and a great deal of head tipping. He gets excited to watch animals on the television and often runs up to watch while standing on hind legs under the tv, looking up.  He runs flat out in the wheat field, ears and tongue flapping back in the wind.  He snores, wheezes and snorts.  He gives kisses and hogs the bed.  He sometimes forgets himself and crowds through legs to get outside.  He is a wonder.

Well, yesterday, I wrote about a dog bed in the living room.  I thought the reader deserves an explanation since we went through my loss of Cali and my grief together.  Winston has come to live with us, as often as I can 'borrow' him. In a kind of 'custody arrangement', my son's girlfriend has agreed to let him stay as often as we want!  I am soooo thrilled, kind of like a non-custodial parent with a benevolent ex.

With a spirit too big to be confined to one part of the house, he has the run of the place.  He greets me in the morning, hangs with me on my day off when I am at home, and wanders the yard at will.  He is good with the chickens, only occasionally showing a little too much curiosity, which is curbed by a soft sh-h-h sound, Cesar Milan-style.  ('Dear Cesar, I love you.  If I wasn't 50 something, I would have your children... Meanwhile, we could try'... wait, okay, back on track).  Winston.

Back on the farm, Winnie is running amok, checking everything out.  He gets a little hinky at night, though. He often sees or hears danger, emitting small little 'wuff' noises.  Pugs don't really bark.  They have a Rod Stuart/Bonnie Tyler breathy gruffness to their voices that results in a 'wuff', not a 'woof'.  I hope he can get used to the night sounds of the country.  If not, his little breathy exhalations are cute and tickle me and George.

Meanwhile, I again have a canine companion after not having after one Cali died for the first time in nineteen years.  George is self proclaimed as 'not a dog person', though he is loving with and tolerant of them.  We have discussed the pro's and con's of getting another dog, and I understand that they restrict freedom to travel and travel nurse.  But, for now, I don't have to make that decision.  I again have a dog in the house.  And it feels good.