Yarns and Tales

Winter of 2006 was off to a good start. There was only a 6 inch thick crusty snow left from December and the
temperatures were on the mild side ever since winter began. I still had to walk the third of a mile in and out from
the road to bring in supplies but I didn't need snowshoes to do it.

When I got up that early January morning to feed the yak and get the rest of my body going, I looked out the front
window and saw Danny-boy zooming around the house in a circle. Now he's not supposed to be out of the corral
and neither is Peanut but lo and behold, both are out and friskier than all hell. By the time I got my boots on and
enough winter garb to keep me from freezing, the yak, 4 out of the 5, were heading out through the pass and out
of sight. And that's a sinking feeling. I grabbed the yak lead, went out and fixed the fence breach, then headed out
to the car to chase after them. By the time I got to the road, they were long gone out of sight and heading off to
investigate the unknown. The last time they escaped, there were reports of the yak peeking into people's
windows and I suppose looking for an open door. Talk about being embarrassed in a small community! Good
lord, why don't you just inflict me with boils! I was hoping that this time they weren't out peeping or investigating
other people's houses. Anyway, once I got out, I checked with the local store/post-office/gunshop up the street
which is a haven for local information but they had not had any reports of wayward yak sightings. As I was driving
off down the road, my cell phone rang. I never get calls . . . or at least hardly ever. It was the store calling saying
that they just got a report the animals were heading south on New Limerick Road. The animal control guy
happened to be coming up the road and got them to at least slow down.

When I got there only a few minutes later, Peanut was in the middle of the road and had just stopped a logging
truck and was staring the driver down. It reminded me of the pictures I'd seen during the Tienneman Square
massacre in China where this solitary brave sole stood brazenly in the road blocking the path of oncoming tanks.
Of course the driver didn't know that you don't take Peanut serious, nor is Peanut particularly brave, but he does
have that menacing, half-crazed look about him so the driver took no chances on having to wear a full body cast
or hospitalization for his rig. After the driver stopped, Peanut did his jump and spin and shake his giant head
thing, then swaggered off the road, belly hair flopping back and forth and allowed the truck pass. Secretly, I was
proud of him, standing up for his own freedom at the risk of his life. As I got out of my car and approached the yak,
I performed my ritual scolding as usual shaking a finger and looking as stern as I can. Then I caught Danny-boy
with the lead after a few short tries. It was 2 miles from the house and so we journeyed towards home on foot.
Danny-boy and I took up the lead with Mossy and YoYo following. Peanut, with his head-bobbing swagger in the
rear about 150 feet back but at least he was following. The Animal Control guy, (yes, we have one in New
Limerick, and a heck of a nice guy), positioned his pickup truck at the very back and held back traffic . . . all 3 rush
hour cars, for fear a passing car would set Peanut off again. Three times on the way home, Danny-boy would
ping off west or some other direction instead of the northerly route along the road and take me for a drag. I knew
from past experience that letting go of the lead was not something I wanted to do so when he got to going too fast
I laid down and he would drag me until he got tired or succumbed to my cussing. During one such episode while
he dragged me along the sand and gravel encrusted road, I thought to myself that it will be a darn site easier
picking gravel out of my butt than it was picking the burdocks out from last summer's drag through the burdock
patch he took me on. There were patches of melting ice on the road where I slid along quite easily and
somewhat painlessly, like being dragged over a sheet of grease. But other stretches were fully down to the bare
pavement and in these spots I feared that my belt buckle might be emitting a shower of sparks and considered
the consequences of having my pants ignite in a glorious ball of fire . . . even so, there's no way I was going to let
go of the leash. And wouldn't you know, during the drag my cell phone started ringing! Being rather dispatched
at the time, I couldn't take the call and there was no ensuing message but I suspect it was from one of the locals
who were held up in the 3-car traffic jam on New Limerick Road wanting to tell me how much they were enjoying
the show. Eventually, I don't know if Danny-boy tired or the tornado of obscenities I was belching out at him got
through to him but Danny-boy soon slowed down and I could get up, get back on course, and merrily head
towards home.

We did get home; I was tarnished and bruised but mostly in one piece. The Animal Control guy said he enjoyed
the diversion and now would put "yak roundup" experience on his resume. I was so grateful for the assistance
and the reassuring words that neither I nor the yak would be put behind bars (this time) or taken away in
straight-jackets (this time), I made the Animal Control guy a t-shirt with the Yak Roundup 2006 image on it. It's
good to live in a small community where everybody is friendly . . . except perhaps if your yak are peeping-Tom's.

Another winter episode involved Mossy and the woodstove.

It was a December morning, not too cold and I was working on the computer when I heard the knock at the back
door. Since no one ever comes into visit me in the winter due to the long snowshoe in, I knew it was Mossy
knocking on the glass door wanting to come in. She's good like that, she'll knock and wait patiently for an answer
and after 15 minutes or so if I don't open the door, she'll wander off. But this time I answered the door and let her
in. Neither she nor YoYo had been in for a week or so, so I let her visit. Surprisingly, she is good in the house,
usually just wants to see if there is an open bag of grain she can dip into for special treatment. She even limits
herself in eating the grain when there's no competition from the big guys so I don't mind. Then she'll drink the
dog's water and head back out or perhaps hang in a while, lay down and take a snooze on the bed I have out
there for summer sleeping where abundant moonshine filters in from the group of south side windows I
installed. Even that, I don't mind too much, I employ double sacrificial comforters that absorb most of the abuse
and detritus she leaves in her wake. Nevertheless, I always close the intervening door between that room and
the main room in the house when the yaks are visiting. I just don't want to have to clean up two rooms . . . I guess
it is a male thing. But I do keep the outside door opened so they can go out when they are ready to. Each room
has its own woodstove and both were fired up at the time just enough to take the chill out of the room. I know I
can add an extra log or two while the outside door is opened and still maintain a decent level of comfort. And this
I did.

Mossy seemed to be a little perturbed at me for some reason, perhaps it was the delay in answering the door or
that she hadn't been allowed in for a week or so, or perhaps it was just because she is Mossy and Mossy is
prone to moodiness. In any case, I went back into the other room to resume working while carefully listening for
any strange sounds that may indicate pending disaster. None came and I was getting a good block of work done
when I decided to go and check on her.

I opened the door and I saw Mossy backed up nearly against the woodstove tail high like a flag with smoke
billowing up from her fanny. Good Grief!! I thought her ass was on fire but then I noticed something strangely
odiferous. It had a funny smell, not bad like hair burning but a rather sweet, not-too-unpleasant smell. A smell my
memory banks did not immediately recognize. Sure enough, Mossy is smiling at me while whizzing on the
woodstove! And let me tell you, yak whiz is a flood! Vaporizing yak whiz isn't as messy but I have no data on how it
affects other structural parts of the house. But, that's what it was . . . an alfalfa flambe! Complete with a rising
cloud of whiz steam. Mentally disgusting perhaps but overall not bad. Egads, I thought, what next!!! That's when I
knew for sure, this place was not a conventional ranch but an asylum. An asylum for the odd and delirious and
it's scary to think that I'm not even the warden. I wonder if I could bottle the fumes and sell it? Perhaps not.

Today, the woodstove still shows some rust and scale on that side, sure signs of woodstove neglect and abuse.
I suspect that my warranty is voided since she voided on my appliance. I don't know that for sure, but I do know I
am too embarrassed to ask.

It wasn't any single episode that caused the Aussies to be rechristened as "The Sisters of No Mercy". In fact, it
was a series of events that lead me to conclude it is actually a state of mind that Aussies develop to partially
offset or balance their normal lovey-dovey-kissy-smootchy warm affectionate stick-to-you-like-glue temperament.

Other dogs and cats that I have been owned by, seemed to be able to sense when I was ill and would mother me
or curl up next to me and try as they might, make me as comfortable as possible. Not so for the sisters. Being out
of commission and laid up in bed with the flu somehow triggers the dreaded heavy-as-a-brick trampoline
response the Aussies get as they all clamor up on daddy's belly. All 5, all at once, jumping and thumping on any
body part available. I even get paws jammed in my throat as I open my lips to hurl expletives. Even without my
mother telling me, I am well aware that this kind of tom-foolery can cause an eye to be poked out. Nevertheless, it
goes on and it is just another reason why I faithfully take my Flintstone's vitamins to avoid a downward spiral into
trampoline hell.

Most of the time when it is cold out, the dogs sleep in the bed with me. More appropriately, they usurp the bed
leaving me to sleep like a pretzel which then takes me hours in the morning to unfold and feel normal again.
Often they will spend their waking hours in the bed as well if they are not outside tangling in a ball. Fortunately, I
double wrap my bed in sacrificial quilts and comforters for hygienic reasons. Most of the time this double
wrapping suffices to keep the doggie toys, drool, hair, and occasional puke out of the sleeping blankets and off
the pillow. Although I think my pillow has an invisible bullseye on it for the spit-up and puke.

One night last fall, the chill was in the air, frost was surely going to cover the ground by sunup and I had my wood
delivered so I could fire up the woodstove and sleep in comfort. Unfortunately somewhere during the night the fire
went out and the Sisters of No Mercy came to take over the bed. Since I was there first and being slightly heavier
than they, they had too much trouble moving me so they decided to pack themselves on top, above my head and
over my legs and pin my arms. It's just their way of making sure I'm comfortable. That's probably an extra 250
pounds my frame is not use to supporting and for that matter, the bed itself didn't like it one bit. But it didn't matter,
I was tired, and after a half hour or so of "no's", "Bad dog, bad dog's" and even a "Don't steam me Alice, 'cause
I'm already steamed", and one of those "That's it, sisters, I'm thourougly nonplussed now!" I ran out of clichés
and they were tired of hearing them so we all went to sleep. Mattress sagging, straining, dipping down at the
center and curling up at the edges and everybody rolled down toward the middle in a massive wad of
slumbering, snoring life.

I woke up later that night well before the moon was on the other side of the sky hearing clinking noises and with
sharp stabbing pains in my thigh and side. I wasn't sure, but I didn't think appendicitis made noises like that and
besides the intermittent sharp pain was on the wrong side. Then I thought maybe my spleen was festering or my
adenoids were going to explode but I wasn't really sure where my adenoids are located. So, with a mighty thrust
upward, enough to rupture otherwise good body parts, dogs went flying every which way like leaves caught in a
twister, and I was upright. Clinking got louder but the stabbing pains ceased. It was an easy reach to switch on
the light and throw off the sacrificial covers and voilà! There it was. The source. The most bizzare collection of
doggie bric-a-brac ever to be stashed under the covers anywhere! I found harmless things like a torn apart
sneaker and nylabone, some filthy socks (I might have done that), and less harmless things like 2 of those big
stinky marrow bones you get at the supermarket, my missing serrated steak knife which made me think there
was an evil plot afoot perhaps to operate on me in the wee hours maybe to loosen my asthma mucus so they
could be even more disgusting than normal . . . but worst of all, the very worst of all was an intact skull of some
unidentified animal they must have snuck in from the woods who know when! This skull still had sharp pointy
teeth and a death grimace/snarl set to its jaw but thankfully no tissue or other decomposing parts. EEEWWWW! I
wasn't tired anymore. And I don't even HAVE asthma mucus but they would have operated anyway.

It seems like once every season I say to the Sisters of No Mercy, "That's the most disgusting thing I have ever,
ever, EVER, seen!" But sure enough, the very next season I'm penciling that disgusting thing out in my "Gross
Things Dogs Do" journal to add the new number one gross thing to the top of the list.

No mercy . . . just no mercy at all. But I love them so! My little spotted friends. It's impossible not to. All of them
have such a zest for life . . . I so admire their enthusiasm, their zeal, I wish I could stuff a copy of it and place it
deep within my soul.