My story starts in early July, with a visit to both of Great Falls' animal shelters. I was not yet ready to make room in my heart for a new dog. Jim, however, was determinedly scouring Craig's List for a dog that might make up for our best-ever dumpster dog, Weed, and I decided to try to make something canine happen for his July birthday. Only one of the incarcerated dogs nudged me toward commitment, a female due to whelp soon and, thus, unavailable for adoption. Nevertheless, I filled out adoption papers and prepared to wait. The shelter staff mentioned the possibility of foster caring for her until her yet-to-arrive pups were old enough to wean; I chewed on the idea en route home. Surely this gentle quiet dog deserved better than a series of temporary homes, starting with abandonment and proceeding through institutional shelter, to foster home, to yet another stint at the shelter, before landing in what would hopefully be a permanent home. Visualizing foster care, followed by seamless adoption, I filled out the on-line foster application. The 4th of July holiday, shelter staff vacations, and their requirement for a background check on me all served to slow-track my application.
On July 9, after receiving a call from the county shelter, I dashed to Great Falls for an interview, received approval, and came home with Toot and both of her six-day old puppies. What winsome little sausages they are. Just this week, their eyes opened. If they were not so fat, they could probably gain mobility more quickly. As it is, they have much pudginess to hoist on legs not yet fully under them, so they continue to mostly swim along on their bellies and occasionally toddle. They are too chubby for Toot to encompass with her jaws, so when she feels compelled to move them, she rolls them or gently drags them short distances by their skin, accompanied by much complaining. We will have to make a serious change in accommodations when they are off and running, but for now, our big dog crate is perfect for the small family.
Both Jim and I like Toot, and she seems devoted to us. Yes, she wants to chase the sheep anytime they move, but we are working to squelch that before it becomes a habit. She is keen to learn commands, increasingly responsive to them, and I am hopeful that she will help in the fields and corrals, rather than hinder and worse.
Yes, she likes to recline on our bed. That, too, we are working to squelch, even as we laugh about a recent scene. Let me digress. On several mornings last week, Jim got up at 3:00 to bale our over-dry hay, hoping for dew to keep leaves intact on the stems within the bales rather than pulverized to dust on the ground. One morning he returned to bed shortly after he left. There was no dew and no baling to be done. I popped out a short time later to offer Toot a piddle break. Though the night was dark, I could see that she was acting very playful, holding something between her front paws, and inviting me to chase her. At that hour, in my slippers and PJs, annoyed by clouds of mosquitoes, I was not in the mood, and we hustled back inside. Toot rushed to the bedroom with special eagerness and jumped onto the bed, with me in hot pursuit. I swept her off and as I crawled in, Jim roused enough to say, "I hope you didn't step on the little bird that was sound asleep on the garage floor." Two hours later, in the full light of dawn, we were horrified to find his little garage bird lying between us in the bed, rather permanently asleep.
Toot is also a foodie--begging for fritos, crackers, cheese, etc.--and is very able to put her front paws up on the counters to inspect what those surfaces might offer. (That, too, is being discouraged.) This afternoon I left our first, four, fresh-picked, garden-ripe tomatoes on the counter, before making a run to a valley post office. Upon returning less than an hour later, I noted that only two tomatoes remained on the counter. I found one of the escapees, unscathed by tooth marks, on the living room carpet. Toot joined me to search for the other runaway. I did not see her pick it up, but she pranced ahead of me into the bedroom, leaped onto the bed, and then offered me her prize after being sternly ordered off the bed. Though somewhat the worse for wear, her tomato was not so damaged that I couldn't enjoy it for lunch, cut into wedges atop a bowl of cottage cheese.
And then there is the Irish Cream. Again, I must digress. The week has been one of irrigation problems: not enough water in the canal to keep our pump running, on-again off-again wheel line, and no water delivered to the 80 acres that we flood irrigate. That last required an all-day repair of the buried pipeline recently installed to get rid of the delivery ditch that flowed through the neighbor's pasture; Jim worked alongside three irrigation project employees, the neighbor, the project's backhoe, the neighbor's Bobcat, and the owner of the business that supplied the pipes and fixtures. Gaskets twisted and re-twisted and seals persistently leaked, but finally, at 5:30 water began flowing to our parched 80. Well after dark, after pushing hard to make as many sets as possible before calling it quits for the night, I poured a celebratory shot of Irish Cream into my favorite coffee mug, tucked it onto the edge of the bathtub, between layers of the shower curtain, and stepped into the shower to luxuriate in hot water and pleasurable sipping. Hearing a bit of clanking, I wondered why Jim was sweeping the floor and rattling the dust pan so late at night. Silly me. When I stepped out, there was Toot, tipped mug beside her on the floor, licking up the last evidence of her tipple. I trust that she slept soundly.
On July 9, after receiving a call from the county shelter, I dashed to Great Falls for an interview, received approval, and came home with Toot and both of her six-day old puppies. What winsome little sausages they are. Just this week, their eyes opened. If they were not so fat, they could probably gain mobility more quickly. As it is, they have much pudginess to hoist on legs not yet fully under them, so they continue to mostly swim along on their bellies and occasionally toddle. They are too chubby for Toot to encompass with her jaws, so when she feels compelled to move them, she rolls them or gently drags them short distances by their skin, accompanied by much complaining. We will have to make a serious change in accommodations when they are off and running, but for now, our big dog crate is perfect for the small family.
Both Jim and I like Toot, and she seems devoted to us. Yes, she wants to chase the sheep anytime they move, but we are working to squelch that before it becomes a habit. She is keen to learn commands, increasingly responsive to them, and I am hopeful that she will help in the fields and corrals, rather than hinder and worse.
Yes, she likes to recline on our bed. That, too, we are working to squelch, even as we laugh about a recent scene. Let me digress. On several mornings last week, Jim got up at 3:00 to bale our over-dry hay, hoping for dew to keep leaves intact on the stems within the bales rather than pulverized to dust on the ground. One morning he returned to bed shortly after he left. There was no dew and no baling to be done. I popped out a short time later to offer Toot a piddle break. Though the night was dark, I could see that she was acting very playful, holding something between her front paws, and inviting me to chase her. At that hour, in my slippers and PJs, annoyed by clouds of mosquitoes, I was not in the mood, and we hustled back inside. Toot rushed to the bedroom with special eagerness and jumped onto the bed, with me in hot pursuit. I swept her off and as I crawled in, Jim roused enough to say, "I hope you didn't step on the little bird that was sound asleep on the garage floor." Two hours later, in the full light of dawn, we were horrified to find his little garage bird lying between us in the bed, rather permanently asleep.
Toot is also a foodie--begging for fritos, crackers, cheese, etc.--and is very able to put her front paws up on the counters to inspect what those surfaces might offer. (That, too, is being discouraged.) This afternoon I left our first, four, fresh-picked, garden-ripe tomatoes on the counter, before making a run to a valley post office. Upon returning less than an hour later, I noted that only two tomatoes remained on the counter. I found one of the escapees, unscathed by tooth marks, on the living room carpet. Toot joined me to search for the other runaway. I did not see her pick it up, but she pranced ahead of me into the bedroom, leaped onto the bed, and then offered me her prize after being sternly ordered off the bed. Though somewhat the worse for wear, her tomato was not so damaged that I couldn't enjoy it for lunch, cut into wedges atop a bowl of cottage cheese.
And then there is the Irish Cream. Again, I must digress. The week has been one of irrigation problems: not enough water in the canal to keep our pump running, on-again off-again wheel line, and no water delivered to the 80 acres that we flood irrigate. That last required an all-day repair of the buried pipeline recently installed to get rid of the delivery ditch that flowed through the neighbor's pasture; Jim worked alongside three irrigation project employees, the neighbor, the project's backhoe, the neighbor's Bobcat, and the owner of the business that supplied the pipes and fixtures. Gaskets twisted and re-twisted and seals persistently leaked, but finally, at 5:30 water began flowing to our parched 80. Well after dark, after pushing hard to make as many sets as possible before calling it quits for the night, I poured a celebratory shot of Irish Cream into my favorite coffee mug, tucked it onto the edge of the bathtub, between layers of the shower curtain, and stepped into the shower to luxuriate in hot water and pleasurable sipping. Hearing a bit of clanking, I wondered why Jim was sweeping the floor and rattling the dust pan so late at night. Silly me. When I stepped out, there was Toot, tipped mug beside her on the floor, licking up the last evidence of her tipple. I trust that she slept soundly.
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