A few posts back, I told you I would soon introduce you to our dog. Technically, we have four dogs...well, twelve, if we're going to get really technical. Let me explain.
Cliff had three hunting dogs: Dot (a female), Smoke (a female), and Tuck (a male). The dogs are kind of spoiled for outdoor hunting dogs. They have a HUGE pen, a room of their very own in the barn full of warm, soft, and snug places for sleeping, individual beds outdoors for cool summer sleeping, individual food and water bowls, all the gross parts of two whole cows for their eating pleasure, a daily feeding routine, and frequent hunting tours. Oh, and Cliff, who loves them all very, very dearly. They didn't even get in much trouble the day they ate ten of the prize-winning chickens.
So this past summer, Dot, Smoke, and Tuck are all living in harmony in their pen together. Dot comes into heat and, since she's getting older, Cliff wants to get one more set of pups out of her. Tuck is a young dog, and Cliff isn't even sure he will figure out the whole process. He starts by mounting Dot's head, but I guess he eventually figures it all out, because--Boom. Eight weeks later, Dot gives birth to three little pups. They were adorable. Tuck was just starting to really excel when hunting, so Cliff decides to keep the male pup out of that litter and we name him The Colonel. Okay, Colonel Beer Money to be exact, but to avoid any shame in having such a white trash name, we just call him "The Colonel"--see how we completely turned that around and made it sound so honorable?
Not long after Dot gets pregnant, Smoke comes into heat. Now we know that Tuck knows what to do in this situation, but Cliff has tried to breed Smoke several times before and she never stuck. So, we just leave them all in the pen together. Then, Boom. Eight weeks later, Smoke gives birth to nine puppies. Again, adorable. Seven females and two males. I'm partial to the little runt.
Just a few weeks later, Tuck escapes from the pen. THIS TIME, it was not because I was trying to be helpful by feeding them and completely forgot to close the gate. Sadly, he fell victim to the railroad tracks next to our house.
So, back to this past summer again. Cliff is outside one night and he comes in with his eyes gleaming. He tells me all about this bird dog that wandered into the yard. He tells me how sick it is. How it's about to die. How cute it is, even on its deathbed. And how he put food out for it so it would stick around.
The next morning, Cliff is like a kid at Christmas. He can't wait to get outside and see if the bird dog is still there. It is not. Cliff feels so used.
Fast forward to September. We're hosting a big Labor Day party at our house. Everyone is dancing to the live band, hanging out around the fire, having a good time. Cliff goes behind the garage to...let's say, check his tire pressure...okay, fine, he goes behind the garage to pee, and magically, the skinny, sick, bird dog is there. Cliff captures him this time, and holds him hostage, (if a bed of straw and big bowls of food and water can be considered a hostage situation) in the barn for the night. All he can talk about the rest of the evening is his bird dog coming back to him, eyes gleaming.
So, this time, the bird dog stays around. We name him "Labor Day" in honor of his day of resurgence. And he turns out to be one cute dog. Now, he's really healthy, happy, and has a permanent spot right outside the french doors on the side of the house. Everyone loves him, and we'd like to find a good home for him, in order to reduce the dog population around here, but so far, we've only had one taker and I started crying at the thought of him leaving, so that kind of ruined that plan.
With three puppies sold and Tuck resting in peace, our total of sixteen dogs is now down to twelve. Cliff is supposed to sell the remaining eight pups, reducing our final total to four--Dot, Smoke, The Colonel, and Labor Day. (Anyone want to buy a pup? Anyone? Anyone?)
So that was the long story of how we inadvertently started our very own five star puppy mill around here. And how Labor Day is considered our "dog" while the others are the "hounds" and how Labor Day gets to roam the open, free range, and how he found his new home* and we found our new pet.
So, without further ado...I introduce you to Labor Day:
And just for fun, this is The Colonel:
And for even more fun, here's the nonet trying to eat out of the same bowl, at the same time:
*Around November, a guy that lives about 3/4 of a mile down our gravel road stopped one day and asked where we got Labor Day. We told him the story and he told us that Labor Day was his dog and his real name was Little Frisco. We tried to give him back, but the guy said Labor Day looked happier with us. Obviously. He gets to actually eat here. And we figured Labor Day was probably most happy to be called Labor Day instead of Little Frisco, so we were all in agreement that he would not be evicted.
Cliff had three hunting dogs: Dot (a female), Smoke (a female), and Tuck (a male). The dogs are kind of spoiled for outdoor hunting dogs. They have a HUGE pen, a room of their very own in the barn full of warm, soft, and snug places for sleeping, individual beds outdoors for cool summer sleeping, individual food and water bowls, all the gross parts of two whole cows for their eating pleasure, a daily feeding routine, and frequent hunting tours. Oh, and Cliff, who loves them all very, very dearly. They didn't even get in much trouble the day they ate ten of the prize-winning chickens.
So this past summer, Dot, Smoke, and Tuck are all living in harmony in their pen together. Dot comes into heat and, since she's getting older, Cliff wants to get one more set of pups out of her. Tuck is a young dog, and Cliff isn't even sure he will figure out the whole process. He starts by mounting Dot's head, but I guess he eventually figures it all out, because--Boom. Eight weeks later, Dot gives birth to three little pups. They were adorable. Tuck was just starting to really excel when hunting, so Cliff decides to keep the male pup out of that litter and we name him The Colonel. Okay, Colonel Beer Money to be exact, but to avoid any shame in having such a white trash name, we just call him "The Colonel"--see how we completely turned that around and made it sound so honorable?
Not long after Dot gets pregnant, Smoke comes into heat. Now we know that Tuck knows what to do in this situation, but Cliff has tried to breed Smoke several times before and she never stuck. So, we just leave them all in the pen together. Then, Boom. Eight weeks later, Smoke gives birth to nine puppies. Again, adorable. Seven females and two males. I'm partial to the little runt.
Just a few weeks later, Tuck escapes from the pen. THIS TIME, it was not because I was trying to be helpful by feeding them and completely forgot to close the gate. Sadly, he fell victim to the railroad tracks next to our house.
So, back to this past summer again. Cliff is outside one night and he comes in with his eyes gleaming. He tells me all about this bird dog that wandered into the yard. He tells me how sick it is. How it's about to die. How cute it is, even on its deathbed. And how he put food out for it so it would stick around.
The next morning, Cliff is like a kid at Christmas. He can't wait to get outside and see if the bird dog is still there. It is not. Cliff feels so used.
Fast forward to September. We're hosting a big Labor Day party at our house. Everyone is dancing to the live band, hanging out around the fire, having a good time. Cliff goes behind the garage to...let's say, check his tire pressure...okay, fine, he goes behind the garage to pee, and magically, the skinny, sick, bird dog is there. Cliff captures him this time, and holds him hostage, (if a bed of straw and big bowls of food and water can be considered a hostage situation) in the barn for the night. All he can talk about the rest of the evening is his bird dog coming back to him, eyes gleaming.
So, this time, the bird dog stays around. We name him "Labor Day" in honor of his day of resurgence. And he turns out to be one cute dog. Now, he's really healthy, happy, and has a permanent spot right outside the french doors on the side of the house. Everyone loves him, and we'd like to find a good home for him, in order to reduce the dog population around here, but so far, we've only had one taker and I started crying at the thought of him leaving, so that kind of ruined that plan.
With three puppies sold and Tuck resting in peace, our total of sixteen dogs is now down to twelve. Cliff is supposed to sell the remaining eight pups, reducing our final total to four--Dot, Smoke, The Colonel, and Labor Day. (Anyone want to buy a pup? Anyone? Anyone?)
So that was the long story of how we inadvertently started our very own five star puppy mill around here. And how Labor Day is considered our "dog" while the others are the "hounds" and how Labor Day gets to roam the open, free range, and how he found his new home* and we found our new pet.
So, without further ado...I introduce you to Labor Day:
And just for fun, this is The Colonel:
(photo by Cliff)
And for even more fun, here's the nonet trying to eat out of the same bowl, at the same time:
*Around November, a guy that lives about 3/4 of a mile down our gravel road stopped one day and asked where we got Labor Day. We told him the story and he told us that Labor Day was his dog and his real name was Little Frisco. We tried to give him back, but the guy said Labor Day looked happier with us. Obviously. He gets to actually eat here. And we figured Labor Day was probably most happy to be called Labor Day instead of Little Frisco, so we were all in agreement that he would not be evicted.
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