The Wordle for this Blog

In Which We Retrieve our Retriever

In order for me to explain what happened on Friday the 13th, you must know that the New Pudge is not the Old Pudge. The dog we accepted as our beloved and long lost pet was not him. Don' t think less of us because we didn't know our own dog, understand that we were heartbroken. We wanted it to be him, and he wanted to be our dog. What we thought was his bad behavior from being loose was actually a dog that hadn't been properly trained. We thought he was furrier from the winter weather, and skinnier from lack of food, but he is just a furrier and slightly smaller dog than we had. When he buried his head in my husband's lap, it wasn't because he knew Mark, but because he wanted to be his dog. And he is. We call him Buddy, and he's one of us now.

On Friday March 13, I was supposed to be cleaning the house while Mark was at work and the kids at school. Instead, I was enjoying the first spring day. I took the dogs for a walk, and then took the duck for a walk. The duck loves to follow me, so we went back to the pond t0 see if the frogs and toads had come out of hibernation. When I got there, I noticed something in the water.

Time was very slow, because the sun was warm and it was a day without responsibilities and I was out near the woods. I was trying to decide if the kids had tossed a pumpkin in the pond, or if it was a really big turtle, or what it could possibly be. It was too far out for me to get to it, so I stood around and wondered for about five minutes. Suddenly, I knew what it was, and with that understanding, time accelerated. I was looking at fur, and my dog went missing eight weeks ago, and I had said things like, "He would never run away," and "If he's alive, he will make it back to us." I knew instantly that my dog had done his last deed for us, chasing a deer through the yard, and had gone on the ice, and had fallen through. I knew how he spent his last minutes. I knew that he hadn't ever left us, and had been waiting for us frozen at the bottom of the pond until the first spring thaw.

I tried to wade out, but the water level was so high that my boots filled with icy water. I ran to get Grandpa Schenimann's row boat because I had to get my boy out of the water right away. I needed to do this without question and immediately, like the urge to throw up. My husband would have to dig the grave, and he shouldn't have to do this too. I didn't want the children to see their pet this way. But most importantly, our dog had waited long enough.

The one oar in the boat was broken; It was essentially a long handled stick. I got out to him and tried to push him to shore. This didn't work, it just pushed me away from him. He was too heavy for me to lift into the boat without tipping. I finally realized that I would have to use my oar like a fulcrum, resting it on the side of the boat and sliding it under his belly. I was able to lever him up, crying and talking to him. I was afraid to look at his face, that it would be marred somehow. But when he came up, he landed in the boat with his face resting on the seat, as if he were simply resting there.

He looked like him. He looked nothing like Buddy, and I wondered how we could have ever confused them. He had a lot of sand in his fur, and one eye was closed, and he was beautiful. It really was Pudge. Morbidly, I wanted to take a last photo of him. I thought of all the people who've fished out their beloved family members and lovers from ponds and rivers and lakes, and how that would be more terrible than this.

As hard as it was, getting Pudge from the pond and then buried in his sodden clay grave was not what he needed, but exactly what we needed, a laborious physical service that we did for him. Mark chose a spot down in the woods, and we all took turns with the mud-heavy shovels. We wanted to know what happened to him, and we wanted his remains to bury at home. We got both.

Does it matter?

In January 2009, we lost our dog Pudge. He went out to use the bathroom one night and wasn't there when we called him back inside. We looked for him for weeks, using everything we could think of. We all cried just about every day he was gone. After 5 weeks, when we had given up hope, we found Pudge. At least, I'm pretty sure we did.

My husband got a call from a shelter in Defiance Ohio and went to look at the dog. This dog was smaller and had more hair than Pudge, but it could be him if he had on a winter coat and had lost about 15 lbs. Mark went into the cage and said, "Pudge?" and said the dog looked up at him, with his head cocked to the side, in the universal dog language of "Huh?" He brought him home, and we welcomed him as our Pudge. He is mostly like Pudge, going upstairs to check on the children when they are playing in their rooms, and loving us without reservation. He does have some un-Pudge behaviors, like not kissing - EVER - and jumping on us constantly.

When my mom came to visit and see Pudge, she asked me to take a walk with her. As soon as we got out of earshot of the rest of our family members, she pulled me by the sleeve and whispered, "That's not Pudge."

I know just what she means. I'm 80% sure we have Pudge. He's so much like our lost boy, and we missed him so desperately, that I've decided the other 20% doesn't matter. If he's not Pudge, he's a gift from the universe.

Shit Happens

One of the life changes I didn't anticipate when we moved to a rural area was The Whole Excrement Thing.

When the wind blows from the north, we smell the horse farm. When it blows from the west, we smell the pig farm. And when it blows down from above our house, we smell the gas from our own septic field.

Our chickens, duck, and turkeys create waste that we can easily reuse. The humans, dogs and cats present more of a problem since we are all meat-eaters. I know that The Humanure by Jenkins gives ideas about recycling human waste (haven't read it yet), and our Septic System Owners Manual is wonderfully indispensable.

Grabill Library

I've been at Grabill Branch for about 6 months now, and I continue to be excited about meeting new patrons and finding out about their interests, as well as getting to know the other folks who work here. I've met many patrons who are also interested in farming, rural living, animal husbandry, and books and reading.

Since I've moved from an urban branch to a rural branch, I'm now in the minority in my political and religious views. I'm a pants-on-fire liberall, and most of the people I serve are very conservative. While it was fun to serve urban patrons who were "like me," there's something essential that I'm trying to learn about serving people with a different world view than the one I have. I haven't really figured it out yet, but I'm working on it.

Earlier this summer, we had a visit from my dad who lives in Portland Oregon (Portland is probably the most ruralexperi city there is, props to all you chicken owners in Portland!). We visited Plainwell, Michigan to see the Wiggins clan and play some family baseball.

Hair, Flow it, Show it

After clumps of hair started coming out each time Zoe shampooed, I knew that something was wrong. We went to visit our family doc, who tells me she has a type of alopecia. Zoe will probably lose about 90% of her hair, but in six months or so she'll start growing it back.

Needless to say, I've been ruminating on why (that answer will come with our blood test results next week), as well as the meaning of hair in general. Why am I so devastated for her?


If you were a caricature artist drawing a picture of my family, you'd draw me with a big nose, my husband with a bald head, my son with ears that stick out like a car with both doors open, and Zoe with really big hair. Her hair is her most salient feature, the curly mop I've been so vain about since she was born. My own hair is thin and fine, soft but insubstantial, but Zoe's hair is a wild and sensuous. It is part of our bond as mother and daughter, and I am responsible for washing it, putting it up, getting it cut, and stroking it when she's sick or can't sleep. I know that of all the things that could go wrong with a child's health, this is not the worst. And yet.

Thanksgiving

Inspired by Barbara Kingsolver, I bought our turkey, Thanksgiving. She runs around behind me in the yard, and if you've never seen a turkey run, you're missing out on hilarity.

Unfortunately, she's such a gentle giant that the hens and roosters peck at her, so she has to be kept separate from them. Lesson learned - Never get just one of any animal. It's a lonely life.

The Windmill

Here's our new 20 foot windmill, built by Mark and installed by Mark and Nub. The windmill is aerating our pond so that it will be less mucky and more swimmable. As you can see, Pudge finds it perfectly swimmable already!

It took Mark several weeks of work in the garage to get most of the unit built. The last section was so large it had to be finished in our yard. Then we packed the whole thing on our John Deere and drove it to the site. Post holes were dug, cement* poured, and the windmill is now firmly anchored. When we get a good gust, the top turns to catch the wind, the compresser inside the top does its magic thing, forcing air through the tubing into the airstone sunk at the bottom of our pond. Little bubbles come up from the bottom.

*Note: A fan of this page (okay, it was my husband) has explained to me that cement is what you pour, and concrete is what it becomes. My original post used the word "concrete" when I should have said "cement."

Kudos to Scottie

My big brother Scott works in New York doing party planning, hosting, captaining, serving, tear down, the whole party shebang. I'm excited to see that Sara Moulton at Gourmet Magazine mentioned him and his best friend Gunna in her blog. She's sharing Scotty and Gunna's tips for party prep. Enjoy!

Click here to learn Scotty's Secrets