Indiana Jones and the temple of turkey

"Listen up, turkey...if you don't run, I can't chase you..." 

I watched my dog follow the turkeys around the yard today. It's a slow speed chase through the underbrush, over the porch, and around the house. He never catches them, and you can tell this is by design. He just wants to keep them in his sights. If they run, he runs. If they walk, he walks. If they stop, he nudges them to get them to run again. It's fun to watch. But it makes me wonder what Indy's motives really are.

Is he just enjoying a little playtime with turkeys? Or is he thinking of the future. Is he aware of their true purpose in life? Can he puzzle out the reason they're here? After all, the turkeys of today are tomorrow's leftovers, right?

One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong. 

When the turkeys are out, Indy can be found in their midst, and when they're in their pen, he can be found napping at the entrance, waiting for them to come out again. In the end, I think he's just having a grand adventure. The chickens have become boring--yesterday's news. The turkeys are new and exciting, and they make weird noises. And dogs love things that run around and make noises. Indy practically worships the ground they walk on.

Like he's worshiping at the temple of turkey. I'll be interesting to see what happens as the birds grow up.

Until the next time...I'll leave you with more pictures of Indy and the turkeys.

what do you mean, I can't have a mongoose?

I had to take Indiana Jones, mastiff extraordinaire, to the vet today. For reasons unknown, his leg was horribly swollen, and it was oozing fluid from a small wound. He made deep growling sounds when I touched it, though he let me clean it up and put medicine on it without putting up much of a fuss. Still, my poor doggy was in pain, so off to the vet we went.

After a short wait for the country doctor, we were told Indy had been bitten by a copperhead. Now, I saw no snake, and Indy never cried out or behaved the way one would expect a dog to act when bitten by a snake, yet the vet looked at the symptoms and was quite convinced. The choices were simple. Indy needed antibiotics for infection, and something for pain and swelling. Luckily, the wound was draining, or so said the vet. 

Indy narrowed his eyes as the doc approached with a syringe filled with antibiotics, and the doc, smart man that he was, asked me if I would be able to stick the dog if he wasn't able to get close enough.

"Umm...yeah?" I agreed.  But I didn't really want to handle the needle in this operation. Instead, I opted to hold the biting end of the dog while the doc stuck him in the butt. No one died during the procedure, and even after a nasty shot, Indy was more than willing to make friends with every dog in the waiting room on the way out.

Indy is expected to make a full recovery, though it will take a while for him to fully heal. All in all, it's been a horrible experience. As for me? I'm never going outside again. There are copperheads in them there woods! And my husb--I mean, the IDP---says I can't have a mongoose. Something about them being illegal in the US.

I say, damn the laws and get me Rikki Tikki Tavi...stat! 

Until the next time...I'll be staying indoors. 

chasing bacon

Isn't Monday bad enough on it's own merits without tossing in a game of chase the bacon? And I'm not talking about a breakfast, or the newest thing in porn. I'm talking about five bad little piggies stampeding their way out of their fortress to run rampant in the yard...again.

I was busy working on interview questions at lunchtime, paying little attention to the goings on outside the window, but when my daughter came downstairs and looked out the window, her exclamation of, "Pigs!" had me on my feet and out the door in record time. ​

It took the two of us, and a bucket of feed to coax the pigs from the next yard over back into the pen. But within a few minutes, they were blissfully wallowing in their water trough again, and I was back to work on my interview.

I'd done it. I'd captured them. I'd secured them. All. By. Myself. I was officially a pig whisperer, and those same pigs were happily  locked up, doing whatever pigs do in the daytime.

And then they weren't. Happy that is. In fact, they were downright miserable.​

It was almost eight o'clock in the evening and the sun was heading down over the horizon when the pigs started to stir behind the gate. Their squeals carried into the house like the mournful cries of sea monsters or rodents of unusual size. I didn't know what they wanted, they'd already been fed twice. It was obvious they wanted something because the leader, Napoleon, was bashing his head against the gate in what appeared to be an attempt to break the latch.

It's funny how cute, seemingly sweet, pigs can so quickly morph into raging bulls when they band together with a common goal. That goal being escape. Even as I'd armed myself with a bucket of feed and a broken rake handle (hey, one can never be too prepared around pigs) they broke free and went on a rampage. ​

The first stop was the chicken's feed, where they decimated every bite, stomping on the empty feeder before (literally) heading for greener pastures. ​

I called out to the dogs. I don't know why I did it. It's not like the dogs have been much help to me in the past, where the pigs were concerned, but I was here alone and it gave me a false sense of security to have them near me.

Did I say false sense of security? Because my dogs rose to the occasion this time, running circles around the pigs and barking like junk yard dogs. My beloved Indiana Jones, Mastiff extraordinaire, took it upon himself to herd the wild and crazy party pigs around the property at top speeds, nipping at their...errr...bacon, as they went. ​

I felt like I was in a front row seat at the coliseum watching my mighty mastiff go up against a lion. The dog that was terrified of the pigs just a week ago was suddenly circling and attacking with vigor. He was not about to let these pigs out of his sight until they were back in their paddock.

"No, Indy!" I screamed as panic gripped me. It was a high speed bacon chase, but he was chasing them in the wrong direction. "Not toward the open road!" I ran behind them, still waving my broken rake and a handful of hot dog buns, being trailed by a group of chickens, just waiting for the bread to drop. ​(This is where the film crew would have come in handy.)

Somehow I managed to break the language barrier with Indy and he circled a small group of pigs around again, chasing them toward the pen. I couldn't keep up, but I watched, panting along behind them (chickens running behind me, still waiting for me to trip and drop the hot dog buns) as Indy clamped his teeth into the pig's rump pushing it forward until it ran directly into the former duck pen. ​

Holy crap! He did it!​

I don't know who was more surprised, me, the dog, or the pig. We had one locked up, and Indy went back out after the rest. Once he'd captured the leader, the others followed soon after, and as the sun finally set, blanketing the farm in darkness, all five pigs were back where they belonged, and my poor dog was exhausted. As the chickens feasted on buns.

The moral of the story? It's a dog eat pig world out there, and you pigs better not forget it! I guess it's all in a day's work on the crazy haunted farm, right?

Until the next time...I'll be taking a few Advil and a long ass nap!​