FOR THE DOG

I have no choice but to take up walking again.  I will commit to no less than two miles per day, and not at any old leisurely stroll either – it needs to be a fairly decent pace if it’s going to do any good.  You see, I’ve noticed that the dog is packing on weight.  I’d sure hate to see him get old and fat and lazy.  What I don’t do for that dog.

This weight problem of his has been coming on all year.  That’s how the weight sneaks up on a dog.  You start out all active and bouncy and lithe.  You’re confident in your looks.  You feel healthy and strong.  You may plan for a two milejaunt but somehow the day is so nice you end chasing a few rabbits, dig for a couple gophers, and take a run at a flock of ducks to see how far they will scatter.  Pretty soon you’ve done four miles.  When life is this good, keeping your figure is a piece of cake.  

But then, of course, along comes winter.  Even for a guy who is part husky, forty below is nasty.  Oh sure, he still has to go out every morning, check the boundaries, mark his territory, make sure the local coyotes don’t get to feeling too comfortable, but then it’s back inside, curl up on his matt and watch for anyone who might make a move toward the kitchen.  If there’s a human in the kitchen the chances of treats go up.  If it’s the male human the treats are exponentially better and more plentiful.  The male human seems oblivious of where calories go after they are consumed.  The dog doesn’t care.  I am well aware for all three of us.

Winter lasts a long time in these parts.  The walks become very few and far between.  The trend toward napping in the sunbeams becomes very entrenched.  It’s not that he wouldn’t welcome a walk (he and his arctic fur coat) but motivating me to join him gets harder every year.  I’ve explained to him countless times that he can go explore on his own but it’s like he feels obliged to make sure I get my exercise too.  He won’t leave the yard without me.

Spring – when it finally happens – is also not conducive to walking.  The roads are muddy.  Or icy.  Or both muddy and icy.  And Turbo refuses to wear boots.  Given a warm, melty afternoon outside in March that dog can soak up, conceal, and transport into the house his body weight in sand and silt.  All I have to do is sweep it up, add a little peat moss, and I have enough soil to fill my starter trays for my garden.  During the muddy month of March and all through April’s showers I would just as soon the dog stayed inside.

 One would think that the next half year is perfect walking weather.  It is, of course, but I have other stuff I have to do.  All my walking time and energy is spent out in the garden … weeding, planting, picking, watering, mowing, tilling.  I work in the sun, he lays in the shade.  I dig holes that he gets quite excited about; he digs holes and gets yelled at.  I tell him how good the strawberries taste; he sniffs them, gives me his famous groan of disgust, and looks at me like I’m crazy.  It’s sort of the same reaction I have to finding one of his rotting bones buried in my flower bed. 

Every once in a while I take the quad out for a spin to give him a quick run.  He used to revel in the challenge but lately he’s all about wanting to hop up on the back to ride home.  With a routine like that, it’s no wonder his clothes - ahem, his collar - is getting tight.

So, it’s time to hit the road again.  I am a responsible pet owner and am putting his need for physical activity first.

He just looked over at me and gave me his “You’re pretty hefty yourself these days, lady!” look. 

This just gives me something new to worry about.  He really is getting on in dog years … obviously his eyesight is going on him too!

WAITING FOR THE DRUGS TO KICK IN

Here I sit, facing my computer screen, waiting for the drugs to kick in.  My goal for today is to breathe through both nostrils.  At the same time, if I’m really lucky.

It was with great reluctance I got dressed this morning – pajamas are so comfy and cozy – but I told myself wearing daytime clothes would help me focus and move forward.  So far this has not been the case, and I have since regressed to the point where I put my housecoat back on over my clothes.  I am almost warmed back up.  I have one more trick up my sleeve – if you come by and find me sitting in my car don’t worry, it’s just me soaking up some butt warmer love.

I have my dear spouse to thank for this.  He has spent the past week complaining about hanging around with the wrong crowd.  By this he means short people … his grandchildren.  School is back on and the rounds of disease development and sharing is in full swing.  They are lucky they are so cute.

I managed to avoid the first wave of this head cold but obviously not putting grandpa in some kind of exile while he was contagious was a mistake.  I think my head might explode this morning.

So I went through the drug options in our medicine cabinet.  We are not pill takers in this household so there’s not much to choose from, and what is there could be up to five years old.  I wanted a magic pill that would promise me air flow through my sinuses and also would loosen the belt that seems to be cinched up tight around my temples while easing the pressure against my top teeth.  My whole face hurts.  My options were plain head ache pills, nausea medication, antacids, children’s cough syrup (because, you know, grandkids) and one bottle with a couple night time cold remedy pills.  Although this is what I had been looking for it was the oldest bottle in the cupboard.  Through bleary eyes I think I made out a promise to help with sinus pain and congestion.  I wonder: does medication gain or lose strength over time?  Will the placebo effect help me at all?  Do I have the strength to drive to town?

Also, there was a jar of Vicks Vapor Rub.  I am not yet that sick.

Not having great confidence in the prescription I have provided myself, I took the pill but feel it is just as important to think about something else – you know; diversion, distraction, mind over matter.  I have the radio playing on my favorite channel, a warm mug of tea sits by my keyboard, the pockets of my housecoat are stuffed with tissues at the ready, and Microsoft Word tells me that I have managed to think of 475 words so far.  At some point before posting this I plan to read them and see if they make any sense.

I could really use some chicken soup although anything would probably do.  I just reheated what normally would be a tasty meal.  It was warm.  It looked yummy. The texture was right.  My stomach has quit growling for food, but I feel cheated.  My senses of taste and smell are AWOL.  I hate it when that happens.

It has now been 90 minutes since I took an obviously worthless pill.  My eyes are still bleary.  My head still hurts.  And neither nostril is functioning at full capacity.  Besides that, I feel the need for a second housecoat or a big fluffy blanket.  I guess I will try for a nap, and if that doesn’t make anything better I will turn my butt warmer up to high and go to town for fresh drugs.  If you see me coming, don’t breathe my air.

NOT A GOOD THING

The scene outside our windows is very fresh and white.  It’s October 5^th.  This is not a good thing.

There are thousands of acres of unharvested crops out there on the ground.  The wet wet ground.  Farmers are understandably worried about time ticking by and no progress being made.  A snow storm in early September is easier on the nerves; you know it’s going to go away for sure.  But early October is scarier.  When it happens at this time on the calendar it may or may not go away.  More than likely it will go away, but there’s an element of doubt a person just can’t shake off.  Especially when the weather forecast for the next week looks like there is plenty more coming.  Is the harvest of 2018 going to be one of those stand-out catastrophes they talk about for years?  Making it into the history books in a story like that is not a good thing, either.

On the one hand we are one step removed from the biggest of the worries.  It’s not our investment on the line.  There isn’t a day goes by that we aren’t relieved to be in this situation: we get to live in our rambling farm house, enjoy our wide open yard and gardens, and participate in the agricultural life around us by being employed in it for the growing season, but we are an arm’s length away from the debt and the worries. 

Once a farmer, always a farmer, though: it seems that it’s a pretty short arm these days.

And so the men try to keep busy.  The first day or so it was easy to find things that needed doing.  During the busy days of harvest there are small breakdowns that are by-passed or jury-rigged so they can keep going while the going is good.  When the weather makes them take a break these small jobs get fixed. 

As the weather refused to smarten up they turned their attention to making sure that the grain dryer would be ready for action.  Obviously they were going to need it this year.

Then they did some maintenance on the cattle waterer and tended to a few other cattle chores.  The fence lines were inspected for breaks or downed trees.  Cattails were cleared so the current wasn’t grounded out of the electric fence.  Still the skies were grey, the swaths too wet to go through the combine.  They switched it up to drinking coffee working out their formulas of cost versus loss.  Everyone comes to a different number but the bottom line is the same … every wet day is draining dollars from the operation.

This past week the make-work project has been to inspect an older combine that had a major breakdown last year.  It turned out that the quote to fix it from the dealership was crazy high and something they could do themselves.  This solved two problems – fixing it gave them something to do, and no doubt a third combine would definitely be beneficial in the race to finish should Mother Nature ever give them the chance.  Finally, this was a good thing. 

But, with that job behind them and even more snow coming down, things have gone a little off course this morning.  Grandpa has had too much time on his hands.  He’s tried to steer his energy toward good instead of evil – he even made a stab at cleaning up his shop … which led to finding a fun project he had started a while ago … which led to him deciding to finish it … which led to target practice … which led to me being conscripted to videoing it so he could show off the new toy to various people (mostly grandsons) who would be suitably impressed.  In my humble opinion a pellet gun uzi, in no way, can be considered a good thing.

But at least it has changed the mood.  Instead of wandering morosely around the house with nothing to do, he and the grandson happiest about this invention are spending time on Facetime plotting the gophers and pigeons who are about to die(of laughter) at a weapon that only shoots six feet with any impact and has to be attached to an air compressor for its energy source.

I’m left wondering how I can get some of my ‘honey do’ things on his list, or if I should re-double my prayers for better weather.