But Mr. Stud never gets to roll in the hay with that little lady. Rather, he is led to the phantom mare where he, um, lets loose, and, with the help of The Sherriff and his farm assistant deposits his goods into the largest zip lock baggie you’ve ever seen.
Read MoreLast Halloween, my dog and I were greeting little goblins at the door as they trick-or-treated and I got a surprising little trick. A gaggle of young girls, bedecked in wings, glitter and ghostly apparel, pushed towards the door, reaching for treats while asking me, “Can we say hi to Taj?” Taj is my 80-pound Doberman pinscher, a visually intimidating specimen, but as anyone who knows him, a complete mush of a dog. Taj Mahal loves people, especially kids. Not recognizing these little girls as being from my block, I replied, “Oh, sure! How do you know Taj?” I thought they must be new kids at my corner bus stop and visited him as they walked by. But no. They replied, giggling, rubbing the dog’s nose, “Oh, he comes over our house all the time to visit and we feed him!”
Excuse me? My 80-pound Doberman is, without my knowledge and in spite of our Invisible Fence, roaming our suburban neighborhood freely and has apparently taken up with another family? “We love Taj!” they exclaimed.
As they drifted away into the darkness, I turned to my guilt-ridden dog. “You …” I hissed at him. He skulked away silently like Scar from The Lion King, as if to say, “I don’t know what they’re talking about, Mom. I’ve never seen those bitches before in my life.”
Hmmm. It got me thinking. I’m pretty sure our bifurcated farm/suburban lifestyle is creating a schizophrenic dog.
Taj came into our lives as a precious little 8-week-old pup in the fall of 2012. Shortly thereafter, The Farm of Our Dreams came into our lives and ever since, Taj has had to continually switch on and off between the rules of Suburban Dog vs. Country Dog. In the suburbs, (when he’s not stealing away to his Other Family around the corner) Taj lives a pretty typical life; he chases invading deer out of our back yard, intimidates political canvassers (a huge plus), gets many ear rubs and generally lays around a lot. Out in the country, however, Taj lives a dog’s life to be envied. As I throw a few things into the car, about to head out to the country, he eagerly jumps into the back seat, and assumes a kind of meditative sphinx pose for the hour-and-a-half drive. It’s like he’s getting into character for his country self. As soon as we arrive on the farm, he’s out the door like a shot, peeing on everything he sees. (“That’s mine. That’s mine. All this is mine.”) Then he’s off to explore The Great Outdoors, like a kid from the 70’s. “Come back when the streetlights go on!” I yell after him. Only there are no streetlights out there. He disappears over a hill, galloping like a little rocking horse.
Eventually Taj returns, all sweaty and dirty, smiling from ear to ear and slumps into a contented heap, plum tuckered out. Who knows what he has seen, chased, peed on or, frankly, eaten? There are wild turkeys, moles, voles, snakes, toads, huge Pileated Woodpeckers, ground hogs, fox and coyote, out there, not to mention horses that board at our farm. It’s a dog’s delight. I do know that he makes daily rounds through the barns, tormenting the cats there, scarfing down their cat food like it’s manna from heaven. He used to chase the chickens we had, too, until we learned – farm lesson #149 – chicken poop is toxic to horses, so they had to go. Before they were evicted, those chickens were an endless source of amusement for Taj. They’d be out minding their own business, pecking in the grass, when along comes this exuberant dog, darting through them and sending them squawking, flying in all directions like confetti.
Taj has learned the hard way that the fences penning in the horses are electric. The poor bugger got a rude awakening as a pup when he nosed up to a colt through the fence and got zapped by enough electricity to keep a 1,000-pound animal off the fence. He took off into the woods in a confused panic for about an hour. Maybe that’s why he’s unphased by a measly Invisible Fence zap … I mean, he’s been to the zapping mountaintop. It hasn’t dampened his interest in those horses though. I think he think they’re the biggest darned dogs he’s ever seen.
Back in the suburbs, we have rules: no going into the carpeting living room; no sleeping on the couch; no digging the rugs; no wandering the neighborhood (tsk, tsk). I’m sure it feels like a gulag to poor Taj. The constant switching of rules and locations has made him a nervous wreck – he’s become afraid of some of the floorboards, the icemaker, the broom, the rugs, and his dog bowl, for chrissake. And, I think he’s a bit indignant at having to hang like any other domesticated dog, when he knows he was “born free.” Seeing neighborhood dogs with cute little jackets or kerchiefs around their necks, I can almost hear him mutter to them under his breath, “You have no idea what you’re missing out there, you silly fool.”
For all I know, Taj has a secret farm family, too, that he visits when he disappears over the hills. Are they Amish? Do they call him Yoder? Do they feed him farm fresh eggs and churned butter? There’s no way he’s doing chores. I can’t even get him to retrieve a ball. I’m certain that when they start doling out jobs, he’s off like a salty teen. “Y’all, it’s been real, but I gotta bounce and get back to the 21st century,” he would say to them, galloping away.
Either way, Taj has it pretty good, living his best life in the country or the ‘burbs. Honestly, me too.
Taj Mahal Sullivan
One of my husband, The Land Baron’s, favorite activities on the farm is driving a four-wheeler around the property, breathing in the country air, master of his domain. Invariably, this includes a drive along the creek that separates our farm from our neighbor’s cattle farm. We “poser farmers” enjoy watching the cows as they munch their way across the landscape, occasionally mooing their disapproval as we whisk by. Recently, on one such tour, we came across our neighbor, the owner of said cattle farm, out stomping along the creek bed. This fellow is a massive man, burly and strong with a round, kind, face. He reminds me of Paul Bunyan because he’s as big as a, well, a big blue ox. He was poking along the fence line with a long stick, seemingly searching for something.
“Howdy!” the Land Baron called out. “You lose something?”
It seems one Paul Bunyan’s newborn calves had gone missing and Paul was set on finding him. It was a scorching hot day and the calf, born just the day before, could be in real danger in the heat. The mama cow mooed her concern as she followed Paul Bunyan along the fence line and he nonchalantly chatted with us, all the while poking in the grass along the creek bed. “Yeah, they do this sometimes,” he drawled. “Just get curious about the world and wander off.”
I had learned that to be true the previous summer when I was fascinated by one such wandering calf. This rogue calf, on a daily basis, insisted on sneaking under the hot wire electric fence on Paul Bunyan’s property to wander over onto our property to graze. There she was, every day, a few times a day, putzing around on our hillside, munching and enjoying the view. It made me giggle every time I saw her: defiant, independent, her own gal. Every day, a few times a day, Paul Bunyan would have to wrangle her back to the fold. What was a pain in the rear and a lot of work for him was pure entertainment for me (which is kind of a theme for my sometime-pseudo-farm life). Our little rogue gal eventually grew too big to sneak under the fence without getting zapped and her wandering stopped.
So here was Paul Bunyan, a year later, searching for yet-another rogue calf. The Land Baron and Paul exchanged chatter about animal breeding and horse foals vs. cow calves and such. “Is it a male or a female?” I asked, trying lamely to contribute to a conversation about which I knew very little. “Oh, it’s a male” he said. “Males can be that way. The young males can be kind of big and stupid.”
“Just like human males,” I replied. "They can be big and stupid, too.” My gaze lifted to take in Paul Bunyan’s massive form. Gulp. Our eyes met for an instant and I realized I had just stepped in it.
Paul Bunyan let out a hearty laugh. “I guess I left myself open for that one!” he chortled as he walked on through the brush.
I let out a breath and laughed too. What a moron I am.
Paul Bunyan strolled on a bit and we rode alongside until he found his rogue calf. There was Little Guy, in the heat of the day, lolling in the creek bed, cool water trickling past his little form. “Oh my!” I gasped. “Is he ok?”
“Oh, he’s fine,” Paul said. “He’s just cooling off.” The water must have felt fantastic on Little Guy, because when Paul went to grab him, he didn’t even rustle. He just lay there like a nonviolent peace protestor (“Hell no, I won’t go!”). Paul scooped him up with one massive arm, like the calf was a bundle of twigs, not a one hundred pound animal, palming the calf under his soft, wet belly, and carrying him up the creek bed. When he tried to set him down, Little Guy’s legs were like puppet legs, lightly dangling on the ground under him. So, Paul tucked Little Guy gingerly under the hot wire fence and gently scooched him towards his mother. Mrs. Cow still watched the whole thing along the fence line, mooing her approval to Paul and, I would guess, chastising Little Guy for wandering so far and giving her such a fright.
Once on the other side of the fence, Little Guy, finally found his legs and scampered up the hill, Mrs. Cow nudging him from behind. We drove away, waving goodbye to Paul Bunyan as he lumbered up the hill. And there they were, Mrs. Cow and Little Guy, reunited. Little Guy was hungrily nursing. All was forgiven.
Years ago, I had a toddler that was forever going rogue, only it involved her streaking down the street naked after bath time, more times than I can count. I sympathized with that mommy cow’s exasperation, anger and then relief and comfort. Mrs. Cow and I met eyes and kind of nodded to each other. “Kids ….” I said out loud to her, shaking my head. We continued on as they nursed and nuzzled, enjoying their reunion.
Stay close, baby.