Weather

It's stormed here recently, in case you didn't know. Ted calls them "Whoopee-bangers." Usually I roll my eyes, but in this case, I agree.

We lost our kennel building, though the outdoor, fenced-in runs weren't harmed at all. A large maple limb came down perfectly in our barnyard, and because it didn't take down any fence, and wasn't endangering anything, we decided to leave it for a bit. The llamas are having a ball eating the leaves, and the chickens have decided it makes the perfect roost. There's another branch down atop a couple of the outdoor monkey cages, and every once in a while I catch them throwing leaves at each other. The day after the "big storm" another smaller storm came through and knocked a tree down over the driveway.

Clockwise from top left: The tree in the side of the kennel; the outside of the kennel; inside one of the dog runs in the kennel; llamas enjoying the maple limb; and Topaz "hiding" where she thinks I can't see her.

Other people got it worse than us. One of the neighbors had her electrical torn from the side of her house, but she still had power. She was scared to death and called Ted in a panic. He called CL&P for her, and they took care of her. Three houses down the street had two trees over both their cars and live wires in their yard- all while they were in Vermont. Their neighbors received a "natural skylight" in their living room.

Somewhere across town, someones chicken coop lost fencing...

Ted called me up yesterday afternoon, asking if I was coming over. He said he got me something. (A PUPPY?) I hate surprises. (Unless they're puppies.) I headed over. (Maybe a puppy!)

When he told me it was on the kitchen counter I was disappointed. (No puppy.) Apparently, someone brought a chicken to the local vet, claiming that their dog caught it in their yard, but they got it loose from the dog before any damage was done.

What should a vet office do with a frightened little hen with a bruised leg and nowhere to go? Of course, they call Ted.

She has an almost hawk-ish look to her. When I first walked in she was laying down in a rabbit cage, and all I saw was her head. My first thought from across the kitchen was, "He must be insane- I don't do raptors!" But she's a sweet little hen. Soft as can be, and the most beautiful slate gray. Ted and I debate on breed. I think she's an araucana, and Ted thinks she must be something else. (My response? "Well, wait till she lays an egg.") She's rumpless and tiny. She can't possibly weigh more than our cockatoos.

Our cockatoos who are keeping her company in the extra outdoor monkey cage on the porch till her leg gets better...

Time to play

"Guess The Chicken Breed"

Pierre

I tell people that the official farm dog of Connecticut is the poodle, and I believe it with all my heart because of Pierre. He's a mini-poodle, but we don't hold that against him.

Mary likes poodles, and it's seeped into me. I love Pierre. I love his bigger cousins, his smaller cousins, and anything crossed with his cousins. I never thought that I'd be a "Poodle Person," but I am. And I'm proud of it. I get defensive when people call them "froofy dogs"; you mean to tell me a hunting dog is "froofy"? I'm patient and tolerant when people actually take the time to listen and learn about the purpose of the "poodle cut".


Poodles are smart. Super smart! They learn rules quickly and retain the knowledge. After years of Pierre I can't imagine a lab as a farm dog. They're too slow, too clumsy. Pierre is light on his feet and knows more commands than my nephew does. When we take him to fairs to set up he knows to stay under the tent and near the truck. I told him one year to "stay close" and he spent half an hour whining at the edge of the tent, staring at the high school girls that wanted to pet him. A simple, "Fine, go Pierre" and he took off towards them like a rocket. They pet him for a few minutes and he came back to lay in the shadow of the truck, completely satisfied with himself.


I like a poodle with a simple kennel clip. I like a sleek head, and in the winter a puffy tail. I make no illusions that the "poodle cut" is cute, though I have the utmost respect for the groomer that can do it well. I am comfortable trading a $45 grooming bill ever couple months in exchange for a dog that doesn't shed and is mostly hypo-allergenic. (Poodles have hair, not fur. No fur equals no dander, which is what most people are allergic to.) I have friends that think I'm crazy for being that way, but I also have no problem paying for someone to shear my sheep and llamas, or do the ponies' feet, or any of the many other things we eat the cost of because it's just easier that way.

Pierre came to us from the local animal control years ago when Mary finally realized that Putz, her ancient toy poodle, wasn't going to live forever. I remember Pierre being on a leash twice. We never bothered after that.

He's getting old- though we don't know exactly how old- and it's beginning to show. He was an adult when he came to us eight or nine years ago, so his age is an elusive number, the way it is with most adopted dogs. In my eyes he's always been a coppery champagne color, and I try not to notice the gray creeping into his muzzle and ears. He tries to be the energetic dog we all know and love, but we've come to notice he needs more and more time to rest and recoup after a long day.

Lately, he hasn't been obeying as well. Mainly because he hasn't been hearing as well...

It's impossible for me to think of how the farm will be after him. I have trouble remembering it before him. I drive down the driveway slowly, and when he comes running to the car- his one and only vice- I simply open my door and let him hop in. The ride to my parking space is enough to pacify him. As much as my llama gets annoyed if I see anyone else in the barnyard before him, Pierre refuses to stop hopping on me till I pet him first. Skeeter can wait, he insists, the world revolves around poodles, not terriers.

At least, my world does.