That Knucklehead, Jake!

True to form - true to his irritating, aggravating misfit form, Jake the Bad Dog got himself run over yesterday. Luckily, it did not kill him, but it did severely break his leg in two places. The neighbor who hit Jake is also a very nice human being, who stopped his car to try to determine the extent of Jake's injuries. When the man could not get close to Jake, he commenced tracking me down to let me know he had unfortunately hit one of my dogs, and how sorry he was.

I left work right away because no one knew how badly Jake might be hurt. When I could not find Jake at all, and when all of my calling met with silence, I began to feel very bad. That sometimes means an animal has hidden itself away to die. After tromping all over the heavy brush around the old garage and the timber around the new house, I thought to look by the barn. I found Jake where he had taken refuge in the space between two bales. It meant I could drive the car very close to him, but I still had to drag him on a blanket. Thanks to handling heavy water bottles and hay bales, and 50 pound bags of oats, and chicken feed, and dog chow, I was strong enough to lift Jake into the back of the car, using the blanket as a makeshift sling. After seeing how badly his leg was damaged, I was almost sick to my stomach. Poor guy.

Once in the car, a mere 40 minutes later, Jake was in the caring hands of Dr. J. The good news is that Dr. J is confident that he can mend Jake's leg. The bad news, of course, is that it is not free - far, far from free - for a danged dog who barks at his own horse friends in their own pasture. For a ying yang who hides under the porch when strangers come on the property.

That is what happens when you have a dog in your life, even a ying yang like Jake.

Jakey, all bummed out at Anda's house when I would not let him chase The Cats.

JAKE!

Of the fifteen winters I have lived here in my little corner of the Flint Hills, this has been the most extreme one. (It is the counterbalance to the winter-that-never-was a few years ago, when it never got below freezing the entire winter.) I provide food for the wild birds every winter. I do this to help the declining bird populations and because I greatly enjoy watching the variety of song birds and their peaceful sharing of a steady food supply. Unfortunately, the trees where the feeders hang are too far from the house for me to have the ring-side seat I enjoyed at the old house. The larger birds I can still recognize, but the little guys are just too far away for me to identify, except the juncos.

The juncos are easy to recognize because they are the first to arrive and the last to leave. Even when the cardinals, blue jays and gold finches have exhausted the feeders, the juncos are still scratching through the remains and finding the last little millet seed or bit of corn. All the birds scatter into the safety of the mature trees when I arrive with the buckets of seeds, but the juncos are the last to take flight. They only rise into the tops of the two redbud trees, safely out of my reach, but close enough so they can descend immediately when I walk away. This winter, they are even more reluctant to waste energy scattering for the big trees when they know I present no threat to them.

While I shake the feeders empty and refill the little nyger seed dispenser for the gold finches, the juncos patiently wait, whistling and making a pleasant musical twittering among themselves. One little guy has decided he does not even need to fly to the top of the tree, but remains just a branch or two out of my reach. Just like chickens, there are one or two birds smarter and braver than the others, who will avail themselves of every opportunity to get to the food first. If winter lasts long enough, I know I could coax the little junco to land on my hand and eat the seeds offered. That is, I COULD if Jake would stay the hell back! He already knows he is not supposed to follow me to the bird feeders because he hoovers up the seeds that fall to the ground. Each time I see the brave little junco, I put a few seeds in the palm of my gloved hand, and hold it up toward the bird. I mentally quiet my thoughts and consciously extend the energy of invitation toward the little bird. The instant I extend the mental invitation, Jake apparently feels it too and comes directly to me. The junco immediately flies higher into the tree, and I am so irritated at that dog that it ruins the chances of trying again with the little bird. Bad dog!

Cheap Thrills

The end of the line for the dog bed.  Glad I got it on sale.  I think Jake would agree it was worth every penny.

What are you gonna do?

Jake the Bad Dog

The last detail Dan the builder had to complete was to pour the front sidewalk.  I knew I should have penned the dogs before I left for work the morning the concrete truck arrived.  Let me clarify.  I knew I should have penned Jake before I left for work.  Yes, there are dog paw prints in the new sidewalk but none of them, not even a toenail scratch, belong to the Good Dog Duke.  He knew to steer clear of things that do not concern him.  Jake the Bad Dog clearly enjoyed several trips across the concrete.  The final invoice from Dan contained an official builder apology at the bottom: "Sorry about the dog prints."  Of course, the fact that there are permanent dog prints in the sidewalk does not cause a disturbance in The Force, but it is another black mark against the Bad Dog Jake.

The dogs sleep on the front porch of the new house.  They will sleep there until cold weather makes them sleep in either the hay bale shelter or the big igloo dog house at night.  When it gets really cold this winter, I will let them into the garage at night.  Tonight I brought home a brand new sleeping pad big enough for Duke.  No amound of coaxing or putting a treat on the far side of the pad convinced Duke that it was his.  When I opened the front door to see if it was raining, I discovered enthroned in the center of the cushy new red pad the undeserving Bad Dog Jake.  So, I guess I need to get another sleeping pad for the front porch and hope that the Bad Dog Jake does not possess the selfish behavior of a snotty red American Quarter Horse mare I know - the one who insisted on keeping her pasture mate out of both barn stalls, though she herself could only use one. 

Trash, Trucks and Dawgs

First, my daughter needed the truck and then my son.  The truck has not been at the farm since late June.  Consequently, I have not been able to haul the trash to the landfill.  The cans have been filled to the brim and this has made Jake the puppy immensely happy.  He expertly works the lids off (despite all best efforts to prevent it) which makes it easy to tip the cans over.  Then, to his great delight, there is a mountain of smelly garbage to nose through - a plethora of textures to chew and rip apart - and an over abundance of material to drag all over the yard.  He has all day to create a scene that instantly turns me into a murderous woman.  I want to kill that dog - with my bare hands.  I have considered hauling him back to the humane shelter.  He is a bad dog.  He is not a good farm dog.  He rarely barks at anything.  When people drive up, he disappears.  He has killed two of the three chickens survivors.  The only thing Jake has going for him is that he is so darned cute when he lays down to watch me pick up the trash, cussing him all the while.  He crosses his front paws, kicks back and watches the show.  Literally.

My son showed up with the truck last Saturday.  We hauled off every scrap and molecule of trash.  All that disgusting stuff Jake happily dragged around and I angrily and repeatedly picked up is now safely in the landfill.  I do not know what Jake has been doing to keep himself occupied during the day, but he has not been close to death a single, solitary time since Saturday. 

I have plans to build a corral for the cans.  It will require a gate to allow for the easy removal of full cans for hauling and that makes it a bit of a larger project. A gate is not beyond my basic building skills, though.  I can fix this most aggravating and imminent danger to Jake's health and well being, but I cannot fix Jake's other problems.  I cannot teach him how to be a good farm dog.  I keep hoping his genetics will activate and he will become the watch dog I need him to be.  So far he is nothing but a worthless trash hound. 

I think Duke appreciates having a companion even though Jake often irritates him, too.  The dear old Duke, that most valiant and wonderful of good dogs, continues to diminish in strength and ability.  He is a retired dog who gets fed first, and petted first, and receives treats first.  It is almost to the point that when I go to the pasture, I have to put Duke in the pen to stop him from following.  He can no longer make the trip without great effort.  If I had the money, I would have one of those four wheelers with a small trailer.  Then Duke could ride along and still be part of the action.  He is just too big for me to carry. 

This summer, I drove past the house of a distant neighbor.  Those kids were in school with my son.  The boy, now a young man, must have been visiting home and had gone for a run or a hike.  His dog, now old like the Dukenator, was struggling to make it back to the house.  The poor old dog was in the road, lagging far behind the young man, obviously in pain and unable to do anything but take baby steps.  I do not think the man realized how far behind the dog had fallen.  It caused a lump in my throat.  But if Jake does not shape up, he will not have to worry about getting old on the farm like Duke and the neighbor dog.  (He will go live in the city!  What did you think?!)