Ruffly Speaking

Dawn never gets brag posts up fast enough for me, so I will take over for her today :).

Magnum (our puppy that was “Dashiell” when he was here) went WD/BOW/BOS for two more points today from 6-9. He’s been shown four times and has a major, this win, and a major reserve. You all know how I feel about him, but it’s lovely to have the judges agree with my good judgment!

Look at this sweet boy!

He’s just a year old or even younger; he was dumped in a park in Hartford. The ACO chased him for days and he just laughed at her, and then came running up to kiss a little girl, who caught him and handed him over. Sounds like our kind of guy.

We’ll vet him in CT, get his rabies shot and a health cert before we bring him home. Once I know what kind of dog he is, make sure he’s healthy and happy, and he’s neutered and his cherry eye fixed, he’ll be available.

After I take approximately 150,000 photos of him.

This is ALL because of you wonderful people. I got $180 in donations, which is enough to get us there and get him vetted and home, and even a chunk toward his eventual neuter.

The ACO says he’s a real mystery mix, but a big chunk of terrier is obvious. He’s maybe 18 pounds, she thought. We’re very excited!

There are very few pictures of Clue not smiling. Even this one has the corner of her mouth turned up, as she looked out over the river on her fourth birthday.

I’m going to follow her lead and not be sad that she has decided that no more puppies are in the offing. After talking with Betty Ann today we agree that failing to ovulate is her way of saying “No thanks, not again,” which is her right after seven pelvic fractures and a c-section! She may be splitting this heat, meaning she’ll be back in season in six or eight weeks, but I won’t breed her if she is. A January litter is so work-intensive and the effort of keeping puppies warm is enormous. So she gets a free pass, is put on a slimming regimen, and gets to laugh at me from the end of my bed for all her days.

I am disappointed but, honestly, not sad. And more than a little relieved. When it comes to Clue everything is so high-stakes; I drove myself into a complete tizzy when she was pregnant last time and my disappointment at not having something with spots to keep going from her is made up for by the fact that I get to relax. Conformationally she’s never been better, and there’s no question that I thought she had something more to give to the breed, but she calls the shots on this one.

However, fear not that the blog will not be interesting. There are a couple of Big Things in the works, now that I will not be raising a litter this fall. Stay tuned…

After a year of searching for a hatchery that bred its own chickens and was no-kill (little-known fact: Most of the big hatcheries keep a few breeds but are sourcing most of their “rare breed” chicks from a huge variety of farms that you do not necessarily know anything about, and in order to keep up with last-minute hobby-owner orders they will vastly overproduce every hatching cycle and the extra chicks are then killed), we placed a small order at Sand Hill Preservation.

I know nothing about them except that they are wonderful via phone and e-mail and that the owner is dedicated to good genetics and function, so it’s a bit of a grand experiment, but he’s sending us a little group to begin our backyard flock.

We’re getting mystery chicks and experimentals, probably none of them purebred, that he sells very inexpensively in order to never kill the “unwanted” chicks. The hope is to keep a couple of the hardiest roosters, let the other boys move into the freezer, and push a couple of hens to go broody every year to make our own little mixed-breed pasture flock.

When I was growing up we had a tiny “mutt” flock, never more than twenty or so, that long ago had been a shipment of Light Brahmas and a shipment of Rhodies, a couple of Black Sex-Link, and two bantam roosters that someone gave us. After five or six generations they were indeterminate brown, small, every-other-day layers that lived ridiculously long lives and went broody naturally. They were a complete failure as production birds but as backyard birds they were brilliant.

I am very much looking forward to showing the kids what eggs are supposed to look like – shells like iron and a fat orange yolk – and knowing that at least one bitty part of our food supply is safe and clean. No idea what hatch I’ll be getting babies from, but I’ll of course post a zillion pictures when they come.

We took the kids and a friend to the lighthouse beach last night, on what turned out to be the darkest night of the summer. No moon, and the Milky Way was visible in a way I haven’t seen in years. The surf was very high and too dangerous to swim, so we scrambled on rocks until the sun went down and then ran on the grass near the parking lot as the night gathered.

While the kids laid on their backs and ate ice cream and talked about stars, Zuzu had Ginny’s leash and was running with her in big loops; I could just barely see her white dress and Ginny’s tail.

There was some momentary crisis – somebody suddenly darted in one direction and I had to look away from Zuzu – and I called out “I need somebody’s eyes on the baby. Ginny, DO NOT LET HER RUN!” and ran to deal with whatever it was. Fifteen seconds later turned back because Zuzu was crying angrily, and saw Ginny dimly at the other end of the lawn, flat on the ground, pressing herself into the grass, as Zoob furiously yanked her and tried to keep going. I called to Ginny and she stood and began to come to me; Zuzu screeched in rage and threw herself on the ground, still holding the leash. Ginny DRAGGED her five or six feet toward me before I could get to them.

I checked them both for bumps and bruises, gave them both kisses, and told them it was OK now, and off they went again, running.

And yes, Ginny got to clean up the ice cream.

That was not a command we’ve ever taught, or even close to it. She’s not particularly bonded to Zuzu and doesn’t usually think of Zoob as her duty or try to help her the way she helps Honour; my calling to her was pure panicky instinct. As Doug said, “You know, she likes to pretend she’s a dog, but she gets the details wrong.”