city dogs/ country dogs

WHO LET THE DOGS IN?
By Jocelyn Hainsworth

We live a peaceable existence out here on the farm. Just me and the Farmer rattling around in a house foolishly large for the two of us, but built back in the days of kids and toys, teenagers and stereos, tantrums and hormones, when lots of space was a very good thing. Oh sure, there are times when we miss the kids, but there’s no denying that we have become accustomed to our quiet, laid back routine; our uneventful days and our boring evenings. We’re not at the hearing- aid-and-rocking-chair stage yet, but it seems to be the general direction we’re headed in.

We don’t have the place completely to ourselves, though. Besides the two hay-burner horses, and the hundred or so head of cattle, we also harbour numerous fugitive barn cats (a.k.a. “The Shredders” because that’s what they would do to you if you ever managed to corner one), and a couple of free loading dogs, Chubby and Sam.

As is the case for most farm dogs, Chubby and Sam live the good life. In payment for their diligence in putting the run on various song birds, digging great holes in the lawn to catch gophers, and howling back at coyotes from right under our bedroom window in the middle of the night, we buy them a lot of dog food. Sam is still young enough to run the excess off; Chubby, not so much.

They understand, though, that they are farm dogs. In exchange for all the food and freedom that a dog could possibly dream of, they also know that pampering is not part of their lifestyle. A bath for them is a swim in the dugout, a de-oderizing is a warning to stay away from skunks, and grooming involves a flea and tick collar during the pertinent months of the year. When summer thunderstorms roll in they can hide out in the garage, and when the temperature drops to below freezing they can sleep on an old chunk of carpet in the porch. It’s the good life - or at least it used to be.

One of our kids has gotten married and had kids: all the rest of them so far just have pets.

First, there was Fred. Compared to the usual size of dog we have around here, Fred is somewhat of an ankle biter - built low to the ground, and born and bred to chase things. 80% attitude, 15% hair, 5% dog. In the spring, right after his annual trim, he looks like a dog with a big bushy moustache, four legs and a tail. By this time of the year a person is not too sure whether he is coming or going, if you get my meaning, but he makes a fine self-propelled mop. He has an amazing amount of hair, but at least he keeps it to himself.

Which brings us to Tugger, daughter #2's Blue Healer/Boxer cross. Tugger is a three year old perpetual puppy. His energy level makes me suspicious that his food is laced with speed - or steroids - or both. His tail is at least a foot long, never quits wagging, and is made of titanium. One whack and you have a bruise, two and your leg gives out on you, three and you may be crippled for life. But the most endearing thing about Tugger by far is his hair; it’s short, it’s white, and he’s not very attached to it. Oh sure, he grows it, but after that it’s on it own - everywhere he has been.

Which wouldn’t be so bad if he was a farm dog and stayed outside, but he’s not. Fred and Tugger are visiting dogs. They get to come inside. A few weeks ago they even brought along daughter #1's boyfriend’s room mate’s dog, Willie, and all three of them camped out all over the house on their sleeping pillows while Sam and Chubby looked on from their place in the porch, pondering just how good their “good life” really was, after all.