Moose On The Loose

It's a grey, overcast fall day here in Alaska, and there is a light breeze fluttering the green and gold birch leaves outside my window. My dog Finn is laying on my feet, a silky, comforting warmth. I am contemplating my errands for the day, and for no reason that I can think of, I am suddenly thinking of moose encounters.

I love moose. Some people I know say they look like they were made by committee, with all mismatched parts; but I find them elegantly adapted to their habitat, and strangely charming. That's when they're safely at a distance or on the other side of some barrier, of course; close to, I find them quite scary. I've seen video of man killed in Anchorage several years ago by an enraged cow. Unfortunately, the cow had been harassed and pressured all day long by various students and others on the U of A campus, who had gotten WAY too close and put far too much pressure on her for hours, taking pictures and so on. She was minding her own business, just trying to make a living, trying to get enough forage to survive the harsh Alaskan winter. She was browsing on some plants near a University building, and the unfortunate target of her ire happened to exit a door near her without realizing she was there. He was far too close to her, and though he never even glanced in her direction, she had had enough. Having been pressured and harassed all day long - without malice, but also without thought for the potential consequences - she wheeled toward the man, striking him in the back of the head with one large hoof. He went down like a sack of potatoes; I suspect he was dead before he hit the ground. She stomped on him for a few seconds, kicking at him, but he was limp as a rag doll. I don't think he ever knew what hit him.

It was a tragic thing all around; the moose was killed by Fish and Game, and of course it's a terrible thing that the man died, really through no fault of his own. He just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and made the mistake of not looking both ways before exiting the building.

Most of the time when I have moose encounters they're much more benign - but I'm not foolish enough to stroll out to my truck if there's a moose in my yard or my driveway. I've several times called in "moose" to work: "Hi, it's me, I can't get to my truck because there's a moose on my deck. I'll be in as soon as she clears off." There used to be a cow that inhabited this neighborhood pretty regularly, though I've not seen her this year. Many times I've seen her scat in my driveway, or a hollow in the snow where she's bedded down outside my fence. Once I found a spot where she'd urinated next to my truck; there was a hole burned through 3 solid inches of ice, leading me to a new favorite expression: "Man, that's just hotter than moose piss!"

Another time I pulled in to my driveway and found her at the top of it, industriously stripping leaves off the trees. I parked halfway up my drive, got out a book and read until she moved off (fortunately I'd just been to the bookstore, so I was well-prepared.) Once she was bedded down about halfway down my drive; I had a safe shot to the truck, but I had to back down my driveway (which is on a hill) with extreme care; she came surging to her feet the minute I started the engine, but at that point seemed in no hurry to vacate the driveway. Instead she stood browsing on my birches for what seemed like forever, her rump end in the strike-path of the truck. Well, I'm not running a moose down for the sake of saving five minutes on my commute, so I waited. What the hey, my truck could stand a few more minutes of warm-up anyway, right?

The scariest encounters have been when I've had one or more dogs with me. One early morning, I let the dogs out into my back yard for their first stretch-and pee of the day. There was a sudden explosion of furious barking, of a tone that any dog owner knows means trouble. I yanked the door back open and saw a large and furiously enraged cow charging my fence, the dogs in scattering pandemonium in front of her, with only a thin barrier of chain-link between them. At that instant it looked flimsy and insubstantial as gauze to my horrified eyes.

"Crap! Finn! Ali!" I screamed. "Get in here! Raven! LEAVE it! Kenzie!" Meanwhile I'm jamming my feet into the boots by the door and running down the porch steps dressed only in an over-sized chamois shirt and a pair of Sorrels. I grab the first dog I come to (Raven) and pitch her up on the deck, where she has the good sense to go into the house, closely followed by Ali - who is not easy to catch, being swift and nearly hairless, but who has started to see the wisdom of backing off the moose cow, so I am able to make a lucky grab and heave him toward the house. Kenzie goes in on her own, following the other dogs, but Finn will NOT come off. Meanwhile Raven has turned around for a second look, so I dart up and slam the door in her face, lest they all decide to come out and rejoin the fray, and then I spin around and run out into the yard.

"Finn! LEAVE it, I said! Finn, God damn it! Get in the house!" I am shouting, slipping in the snow as I try to snatch any part of his body. Finn is dodging back and forth, fence-fighting the cow, barking furiously. Spit is flying from his lips as he leaps at the fence, springing off of it and evading my grasp again as I slide in the snow. The cow has twice kicked the fence with her powerful hind legs - making the chain link sway and bow alarmingly, chinging and rattling along its length - and has now turned face-on to Finn, dodging back and forth, ramming the fence with her head and striking with her lethal front feet, trying to find a way through to kill him. She is making a frightening sound - it's nothing I have ever heard before or can ever describe, something weirdly between a snort and a growl, a deep, thoroughly enraged sound that immediately raises the hair on the back of my neck. With one part of my brain I register that she has two nearly-yearling calves with her, hanging back slightly in the woods. This makes her even more ferociously dangerous, and as she rams the fence again with her head I am seriously afraid she'll come through it.

"Finn, God damn it! Get in the house!" I shriek at him, making another abortive grab at him, putting a hand down in the snow as I lose my footing. But by some miracle my fingers snagged just slightly in his tail, breaking his concentration enough that he finally hears me as I scream "Leave it, LEAVE it!" at him. He registers the fear and anger in my voice and breaks off, running at last up the porch steps, still growling and casting backwards glances as I follow after him.

"Shit! Shit!" I am panting as I shove the door open and stumble into the house, slamming the door behind us all. I can still hear the fence ringing and shaking as the cow rams it and I run into the bathroom, where I can look out the window at her. The fence is rippling and swaying, but it holds. Now that the dogs are gone, her ire dissipates quickly and she trots off into the woods, snorting and blowing, the calves high-stepping in front of her as they vacate my property.

I go to my living room and collapse on the couch, shaking and panting from adrenaline and exertion. Finn is panting too, but he looks thoroughly pleased with himself. The dogs mill about my feet, butting against me, all of them keyed up, but only Finn looking like he'd like another go, because that was fun.

"Damn dog," I say to him, petting him shakily. "When I say leave it, I mean leave it now," I tell him sternly. He grins at me, waving the luxuriant plume of his tail.

Next moose we see, he's not going to leave it. I know he'll do just as he did this time: race in barking furiously, leaping up to snatch at her face, dodging back and forth trying to grab a leg.

Yikes.

Well, he comes by it honestly, I will say. His mother, Keetna - a lovely bitch, a favorite patient, and owned by a friend of mine - is also hell on wheels - er, paws - when it comes to moose. J, her owner, told me this story.

One year, when Keetna was herself less than a year of age, J was walking with her step-daughter down a street in Girdwood, where they had a condo. J had Keetna on a leash, as any sensible person would with a Border collie puppy. It was summer time, a pleasant day. There was a moose browsing on some shrubs on the far side of the street, well off the road. J kept a weather eye on it, but it was peacefully engaged in its breakfast and they walked by without incident. There were other people here and there out on the street, but no one near the moose; everyone was giving it a wide berth. There was enough distance that J thought little of it, beyond taking care to leave it room and keep an eye out for any signs of irritation from the moose.

A while later, on their return down the street, J retraced their path. The moose was still decimating some home-owner's bushes, ignoring all else. About the time they were abeam the moose - or perhaps just a little past it - J catches motion from the corner of her eye and turns her head in time to see the moose charging out of the yard strait at them.

"Run!" she shouts, and run her step-daughter does - unfortunately, right down the middle of the street, the easiest possible path for the moose to follow and run her down - but luckily for her, the moose goes after J instead. J leaps into the woods, dragging Keetna, and dives behind the paltry shelter of a small black spruce. These are thin, weedy trees, some of them little more than a large sapling with a bristle of short, needled branches sticking randomly out from the sides. The tree J has taken refuge behind is one such, and it is little cover; the moose doesn't seem to think much of it, either, as she comes after J, making that hair-raising sound of rage and striking at J with her huge front feet. The spruce is narrow enough that the cow can strike at J from either side of it, and she does, her long legs whipping her sharp-toed hooves at J with bone-crushing force. J stumbles back from the strike zone, tripping over the uneven footing and dropping Keetna's leash.

The result is instantaneous. Keetna, freed from restraint, leaps snarling into the cow's face, her razoring teeth aiming for the cow's nose. The astonished moose rears back for a moment, her attention diverted from J to the snarling, snapping black-and-white fury in front of her. Keetna presses her advantage, using the moose's hesitation to leap at her face again. The moose turns on her haunches and runs. Keetna runs after her. Julie regains her footing and runs after them both, screaming at the top of her lungs, "Keetna! Get back here!"

The amazed neighbors look up to see a moose cow galloping down the street, with a small Border collie in hot pursuit, and J - herself a runner, and no doubt spurred by adrenaline - bringing up the rear, pelting down the road after them at top speed and screaming for her dog to come back now.

A short period of time later - although I imagine it seemed like an eternity to J - the moose has enough of a lead that Keetna breaks off her pursuit. She comes loping jauntily back to J, all smiles, and clearly pleased with herself. It was a lucky thing in one sense that Keetna was there, as she may well have spared J being stomped by the moose; on the other hand, it instilled in Keetna the absolute certitude that she is the Queen and Commander of all moose everywhere - a dangerous confidence to have.

So far that hasn't led Keenta into any serious trouble, although it's been a near thing at least one other time. That was a time when I was taking care of Keetna for J, when J was out of town. It was winter, and the dogs had all been out (on a runner in my front yard) and then back in and had their breakfast as I got ready for work. I was taking Keetna to work with me, and had gathered all my stuff. The dogs had been restless, but I'd attributed their subterranean growls and uneasy fidgets to the fact that we had a "strange" dog in the house - not that she was unknown to any of them, but that she didn't normally live with us.

At that time, I had a dog run along the side of my house, but it did not enclose my back door, as it now does; on that day it was empty, since the dogs stay inside while I am gone. I am thinking about the day ahead of me, paying little attention as I open the door and let Keetna outside to go to the truck; she's a well-behaved dog, so it naturally never occurs to me to leash her for the 15 yard walk to my truck. Keetna trots down the steps of the deck and about three feet into my yard and then starts barking furiously.

"Keetna, knock it off, you'll wake the neighbors," I say absently, juggling keys and lunch as I step out onto the porch, pulling the door to behind me. One second before I slam it shut - locking us out - I see movement from the corner of my eye.

There is a moose bedded down at the far end of the dog run. It comes surging to its feet, hackles up across its big shoulders, eyes slitty with annoyance, ears laid flat back along its skull.

"Crap! Keenta! Get in the house!" I yell. Keetna responds to this piece of advice by taking a short, stiff-legged charge at the moose, who is now rounding the corner of the dog run. Keetna and the moose are now about ten or twelve feet apart, a distance the moose can close in one stride.

"Keetna! Come!" I shriek, sounding a bit unhinged, even to my own ears. The moose, distracted, looks at me, now. I try to figure out how long I have to let Keenta come darting back into the house before I have to jump back and slam the door - or if I can just leave the door open, hoping the moose will not enter the house. As an added bonus I am imagining J's voice telling people "Keetna is lame because my vet broke her with a moose." I am thinking: Great, the first time I board Finn's mother at my house and I let her tangle with a moose and maim herself to death.

I plant one foot inside and the other on the deck, and try once more.

"Keetna! Get in the house right now!" I bellow, pointing furiously inside; Keetna looks at me, then back at the moose, who is now hesitating: still blowing down its nostrils in irritation, its attentions are divided and it is not advancing. Apparently figuring her work here is done, Keetna trots jauntily back into the house, where I slam the door and let out a whuff of relief. Keetna gives me a glance of sparkling delight, clearly saying: Did you get a load of that? See how I made that moose back down? I am QUEEN of all moose. They do as I tell them or they feel my Border collie wrath.

I go call work and tell them I'll be late, as I am currently trapped in the house by a moose. They are not completely astonished to hear this; it's an uncommon occurrence but not unheard-of. I peek out about 10 minutes later, but the moose - who has now been joined by a companion - is happily mowing down on my birch trees. I'm standing inside at the window, thinking: The willow. Eat the willow. But no: They like my birch.

I'm late to work that day, but in the end it's all fine. Keetna's confidence in her moose supremacy is unshaken - although my nerves are less steady than hers in this regard. No one gets hurt. The moose have a nice breakfast. And my first client, who I have kept waiting for 30 minutes, gives me a twinkling smile.

"Nowhere but Alaska can you be late to work with the excuse that there's a moose on your porch," he says, but as my staff has craftily plied him with coffee, he is quite cheerful about the whole thing. I'm telling you. Moose have NO consideration for other people's schedules.

Ah, well. Part of life in the Greatland. But realistically, I prefer my moose either served up on a plate or safely on the other side of some sturdy barrier (preferably in a photogenic pose easily shot from my balcony or other suitable vantage points). But I'll be extra careful in the next few weeks; in fall and spring they move around more, so I can just about guarantee that somewhere along my daily path, moose will be on the loose.

Snow Falling in Winter

[Author's Note: Okay. I admit it. This blog entry is really just an excuse to post a lot of pictures.]

So we got a biiiig lovely snowstorm the other day. This is not earth-shattering news, of course, but it WAS rather pretty. Unfortunately, it did cause some injuries to the dogs....

AAAAAHHHHH!!! Ali has no legs!

Pepper has no legs either!

Armless legless dogs!

Finn has no legs and an alien stuck to his butt! (I would say "Run away! Run away!" but clearly it is NOT POSSIBLE ANY MORE!)

Apart from the carnage of the armless legless dogs, it was really quite pretty. Relatively warm, with big lacy flakes falling softly through a diffuse pearly light. Every so often a breath of a breeze whispered through, dislodging the heavy mantling of snow from the trees and making tiny local blizzards.

Spruce shedding snow

D's house in the calm...

... and in the breeze, 30 seconds later.

The snow fell all day like this. Just as the storm began to wane, D called to let me know that he had a lot of snow to brush off the Cessna, and invited me to come over, bring a dog, and keep him company (and help excavate the plane, if I so desired.) Here it is, tied down on the lake.

The Cessna before....


... during....

... having the extremely accurate "arm gauge" snow-depth measurement....


... and after excavation. (The wings aren't black and wrinkly. Those are wing covers.)

The fact of it is that on a warm day like that, with the snow falling thick and pretty and the light all diffuse and softly glowing, as if it comes both from nowhere and from everywhere at once, it is really rather a pleasant thing to go brush the snow off the Cessna. It's like painting in reverse: you load your brush with white to reveal the vibrant glossy red of the bird. Apart from which, the dogs are entertaining; they're highly excited by all the snow being brushed off the plane, and God forbid you should set down your gloves or your whisk broom. Those are obviously HIGH VALUE TOYS, since you are playing with them and denying them to the dogs. The minute you turn your back, they're suddenly borne away in the jaws of some Border collie. The only downside, from the dogs' point of view, of spending an afternoon this way is that when it is warm and snowy (and by warm I mean 30 degrees), there's a tendency for ice to accumulate between their toes.


Finn! Look at your feet! You have ice balls!

Dude! I WOULD, except you neutered me, remember?

After all this, of course, the best thing in the world is to go inside, have something hot to drink, and watch an old Cary Grant movie (with popcorn, naturally.)

I don't know; somehow, it seems that there's nothing like a heavy snowfall to make the simple pleasures of life seem like the most decadent of luxuries.

Maybe it's just me.

Carolina Cold

So, after NAVC it was time to head north to NC where JP, her farm, and Raven awaited me. Unfortunately for poor JP, I arrived in my most unappealing possible state: Jet-lagged, sleep-deprived, virus-laden and somewhat the worse for wear after several months of combined winter- and injury-induced inactivity and stress- and Holiday-related chocolate consumption. Whilst JP was driving us around, I was actually hallucinating; I'd fall asleep in the middle of a sentence, entering a weird fugue-state in which I was simultaneously listening to the conversation, sleeping, aware I was sleeping, experiencing auditory hallucinations, and aware I was having auditory hallucinations. Such events lacked all sense of time: they might have gone on for a microsecond, or a half hour. Someone in the hallucination state was telling me aaaall about what Diane had to say. I have no idea who Diane is. I know some truly delightful women of that name (or a variation thereof), but I have no idea if it was to one (or all) of them that the hallucination referred. But I digress.

Raven appeared pretty confused to see me at first. It is a measure of JP's dog competence (and her absolute trustworthiness as one in whom to place your animal's well-being) that Raven looked to her for explanation, even while she was re-acquainting herself with my scent and voice. That made me feel good, to know that Raven trusted her so well; JP has had her care for nine months now, and I feel less as though I had abandoned Raven, knowing that she landed in so safe and worthy a spot. Intellectually, I knew it would be so, or I would not have done it in the first place, but it brought me a little extra measure of peace to know that on another level; to see it with my own eyes. It's one thing to know it will be all right. It's another thing entirely to Know it.

What with one thing and another I was entirely useless til the next day. JP and I went out in the early afternoon to see what Raven could do. It was amazing, and overwhelming, to see how far she has come in JP's skilled hands. Out into the pasture went my little black and white dog, much as I have known her all along. And then JP sent her, and all of a sudden it wasn't just my little dog. It was all the dogs that came before her, their genetics gathered and sorted and combined and re-combined into the particular array of what Raven is; bits and pieces of all the stock dogs of her line, her own unique combination of their genetics contained in that one small body, and summoned by the skill of a shepherd.

Damn, I thought. I'm way over my head here. There's no way I'm even one percent as good as the dog is.

Oh, well. I always knew that between us, I would be the weak link.

I practiced at first with another of JPs dogs, a made stock dog who will, she says, work for anyone. An honest dog, and one who forgave my idiocy readily, bless her lovely heart. I practiced with Raven, who was less sure of me and her job, and inclined (most likely out of stress and uncertainty) to dive in for a little ye-hah moments, feeling the pressure of my unfamiliarity to her as a handler, unsure of my leadership. I was dizzy as it was from sleep deprivation and the head cold, but I quickly got dizzier still trying to stay in front of Raven's speed in the round pen.

After a bit - needing to regain my equilibrium both literally and figuratively, I paused for instruction. JP pointed out that my voice was too kind, a concept that gave me a wry grin; I have spent so much of my professional life cultivating that voice, the one that coaxes the terrified dogs and cats from the backs of their cages to creep, trembling, but trusting through their fear that my tone speaks the truth of my intent, to my hand. So I must reach further back, to my days as a racehorse groom, when I had cultivated a voice that with a certain well-pitched "Ahhht!" could convey to a randy colt the laid-back ears and pinched nostrils and bared and snapping teeth he would have gotten had I been his lead mare.

In the open pasture JP showed me what Raven's mother, Twist, is made of. Here is a dog that needs no instruction beyond knowing what the job is that she is asked to do. She is an agile, tough, lovely little dog, so quick to read her stock and adjust accordingly in order to accomplish the task that, before your mind can process the conscious thought of what needs to come next, she is already at least two moves past it. If you have ever seen a good competition reining horse or working cow pony working a steer, weaving back and forth (while the rider sits quiet, staying out of the way of the pony's instinct), heading the steer off almost before the steer has had the thought to bolt, you have an idea of Twist on a sheep. She knows what to do, and she does it, correcting herself and judging her stock so fast that is is like magic, like a dance, like she and the sheep have rehearsed this all before and know what comes next. She's kind to her sheep, and a joy to behold. It's difficult to understand just how good she is while you are watching it, so fast does this dance move; it is only later, when you replay it slowly in your head, that you really start to get it.

In one of the pens JP had several ewes, one with a lamb at side. Ewes with lambs are inclined to fight the dog, rather than giving in to it. Moreover, there was one ewe - the crazy red ewe - who was inclined to cause problems in general. We took Raven in there, JP meaning to show me some of the other dynamics that Raven should be able to handle for me on the farm. It was a useful lesson. The stock split, the ewe with the lamb going one way and the rest, with the crazy red ewe in the lead, going the other. Raven placed herself where I thought she was wrong, off balance to the handler, and looking away from us at the small bunch of ewes headed by the crazy red one. But JP waited, and I watched. The ewe with the lamb faced Raven, stomping her foot, challenging her. Raven spared her an occasional glance, but kept her body facing toward the other ewes, where most of her attention was focused. In inter-dog or dog-people dynamics, this would indicate that she was either submitting to some degree (declining to engage directly, turning her shoulder), or stressed enough that she had to look away. But JP's narrations brought it into another light for me.

"See? She's using her physical presence to hold the ewe with the lamb, and using her eye to hold the crazy red ewe," JP told me. Suddenly the awkward triangle had symmetry and balance, and I thought: Trust the dog. She knows things about what is in the minds of these sheep that I will never be able to see. A moment later, two moments, and JP and Raven were proven right. The mama ewe, given a few moments to think while Raven held her with just enough pressure to keep her from bolting, turned her back, giving way. Raven came to her feet. The mama ewe eased over to the other ewes, bunched up behind the red ewe. Raven came to the balance point, heading the whole group and balanced to the handler. The ewes turned and filed into the stall that was our intended goal. And I felt completely humbled by this little dog, created by JP's good judgement and by a hundred and more years of Raven's forbears, honed by the work that they do and by the judgement of generations of hill shepherds.

The next day we drove to RF's farm for some different work on different sheep. There I worked Raven in a larger pen, and it went better; we started to get a feel for each other. She started listening more to me, getting a sense of my leadership, which steadied a bit with more practice and less spinning in dizzying circles. I corrected a flank and Raven stopped, listened, went the way I asked her to go. I called her off and she came, still eager for her sheep, but waiting to be sent.

I watched others work their dogs in bigger areas, with greater obstacles and more challenges. I watched some work their dogs in the round pen, or in a packed pen jammed with sheep and handler and dog so tight there was little space to move. I could not tell you what things I was learning from that, but I find that my eye now seeks different information when I look at an animal; perhaps my brain is weaving together the subtle and elusive tapestry of information that comprises stock sense. A rudimentary form of it just yet, to be sure, but the beginnings of it.

So it was a productive visit, although in some ways a muddled one, thanks to the head cold. Like Florida, it had been unseasonably cold in NC, so there were two kinds of cold to deal with - although compared to the deep sub-zero we'd endured for weeks in AK, it was quite pleasant for me. But I must say that there was a deal of warmth, as well... I was blessed to meet a number of people who I had known only from the Border Collie Boards, or other Internet contact, and I was charmed and delighted by these Southern women, so lively and warm and kind and mannerly, but also so full of fire and spice and wicked humor. There's something about the combination of hospitable good manners and cut-to-the-chase directness and pragmatism that is deeply engaging. I think I like the South... the food is as good and plentiful as all the stereotypes would lead you to believe, but the people are better than you would be able to imagine from any description.

I highly recommend it.

The Purple Toes of Doom

Well, you may recall that a few days ago I was rammed in the shin by one of my ewes, who at the time was apparently trying to break the sound barrier (and coincidentally, my shin.) It was like being hit with a woolly sledge hammer. Kinda hurt.

As is usual for these sorts of events I had a greeeaaaat big bruise on my shin, which I ice packed at my earliest opportunity. A few days later, I noticed I had an even larger bruise on the BACK of my calf, about 120 degrees rotation away from the original. Wha...? Could it be some sort of contra-coup injury, where the shock wave has travelled through the limb to create a bruise more or less opposite of the impact site? Then I noticed more bruises, pretty much circumferential around my leg. My ankle, not surprisingly, was about twice its normal size (presumably as the fluids from the initial bruise migrated south with gravity.) Unfortunately, all of the bruises hurt. I can only assume that the inflammatory mediators that were released with the initial injury went right along with the other fluids as they travelled about my leg.

Now, of course - having worked for many days with the Giant Bruise of Death on my shin - the top of my foot has a weird dusky corpse-flesh appearance, and my toes are mottled and splotched with a color like a ripe plum. I would happily document this for you in photos, but luckily for you my digital has suffered an untimely demise and my film camera has too long a lens on it to get the shot. So you will have to be content to take my word about the bizarre and increasingly gangrenous appearance of my leg from the knee down.

One of the many misfortunes of this event is that, even without socks on, my ankle is so swollen that I can't get my foot into my Sorrells without distinct pain and suffering. If I take the laces completely OFF and open the boot shaft as wide as it will go, it is still slightly excruciating to get my foot into it. God forbid I should do something so foolish as to, say, wear a sock, or perhaps (gasp!) an Ace bandage. I can't get my gym shoes on. My ugly/comfy Croc clogs are right out. I do have one set of old leather cross-trainers that I can (barely) flare out enough to accommodate my ankle. This is fortunate, because OSHA frowns on doctors working barefoot in the hospital. For added entertainment, sometimes the slightest brush of my slacks against my shin is cause for marked grimaces, and two or three times a day it's evidently time for Random Shooting Pain Hour. If that wasn't enough fun, the entire leg from knee to toes has become inexplicably but increasingly itchy, particularly on the surfaces of the bruises. Which naturally you don't want to touch, because they hurt, but you are DYING to touch, because they itch.

Helpfully (or not), the other day as I was limping around in the X-ray suite my nurse J remarked, "You're limping MORE now than the first day. Are you sure you don't have a giant clot in there, waiting to break off and kill you?"

Oh, excellent. That would be perfect. In some alarm I yank my pants leg up and inspect my shin for new disasters. Hmm. Still looks like crap, but it's the same crap as yesterday.

"I don't think so," I say doubtfully, poking things gingerly. "There's no cramping or cold or numb spots, and it's not worse than yesterday; I think it's just travelling around with gravity, you know, like when I sleep on my side and all the blood runs to the outside of my calf and stuff." But now I have a new disaster to think about. Oh joy.

Meanwhile J herself has had a recent fascinatingly disgusting injury, which may be encouraging her to her ghoulish speculations. She was doing something with her dogs and happened to have her hand palm-down on a hard surface. A flexi-lead somehow got jostled off a higher surface and fell directly onto one of her fingernails. This, I can tell you, hurts. There are tons of nerves in the hand, and they are MOST eager to report to you even the slightest injury, so I'm sure J was hearing quite a lot about how one should never allow a flexi-lead to fall on a nail-bed. Not surprisingly, in view of the nature of her job, J was finding this a bit unpleasant at work. She decided to soak her finger in DMSO. Now here please note that I am NOT advising anyone to try this at home, nor did I endorse J's decision to do so. But, it's not illegal, and she knows better than I do how she feels about these things - plus she's an adult and a medical professional, so even though I said "Well, *I* wouldn't do it," she went on ahead.

The first thing that happened is that J said her finger DID feel better. The next thing was that it got all pruney and turned a lovely corpse-flesh grey. Gak. Okay, still not my finger, so I just kept my mouth shut about it and went on with things.

A few days later the surface skin peeled off, and the finger was a normal color again (except for the nail, which is black. But it was black to begin with, so that's no big deal.) Now, several days on, she is on the verge of losing the nail (that was a foregone conclusion, and obviously her fate from the moment the flexi-lead fell.) It doesn't hurt, so J is inclined to press on the end of the nail which makes the bed of the nail pop up disturbingly. Brr. I lost a toenail once when I was a kid (courtesy of a little brother and a full jumbo-sized can of Dow bathroom cleaner), which experience I do NOT remember fondly. Seeing the nail bed popping up like that kind of creeps me out.

So here I am running around the clinic with my Purple Toes of Doom, and J is running around with the Black Finger of Death and suggesting that maybe I should soak my whole leg in DMSO. Somehow (and here I'm sure you'll be surprised) I have managed to resist this enticing suggestion, and am making do with my own self-made three-day-old-corpse coloring. If my shin doesn't start to look a whole lot better in a few days I may X-ray myself to look for bone chips, but I am NOT painting my entire calf with DMSO. I may look like I have some hideous tropical disease in my leg, but at least it's not all rubbery grey and pruney.

Meanwhile I'm plotting my revenge (and living for the day I get my stockdog back). Next time it'll be me and the Snapping Jaws of Menace (aka Raven the Border collie) against the Shetland Sledgehammer.

Wish us luck. We may need it.

Gratitude, Sixth-Grade Style

So, from time to time I am called upon to do educational programs at some of the local elementary and middle schools. I generally take some X-rays to be displayed on the overhead projector (I have quite a collection of old films rescued from th to-be-culled pile), and sometimes a bone plate or some bladder stones. I also bring a dog, since this is the real reason for the programs, at least so far as my audience is concerned. Generally I take either Finn or Kenzie as my demo dog, as both of them adore children beyond all reason. Each has their advantages; Kenzie, my Westie, is small and engaging and kissy and less likely to be threatening to little children who are fearful of dogs. In addition (if the desks are arranged in a ring) she can walk desktops full-circle, to the delight of the children in the room (both because there is a dog in school, and because it walked on the desk! On MY desk! IN SCHOOL!) Finn, one of my Border collies, is three times Kenzie's size, affording more space for little patting hands, and he knows some endearing tricks (in addition to which he's less likley to be overwhelmed by being completely mobbed by children, since he's not as short and doesn't feel quite so "buried" if they all swoop down on him at once.) He's also unfailingly cheerful and has the most stable temperament of all my dogs.



When it's the middle school, I usually take Finn; for some reason Kenzie is less comfortable in "big kid school", so I reserve her for the second-graders. Finn is an equal-opportunity ham, however, and happily goes wherever I take him, regardless of the age of the children.

Finn is also (in my 100% unbiased opinion) a very good-looking dog, and one who does not require grooming to look spiff (although in the photo above he's had his belly shaved for surgery - a story for another time.)

I do the school programs in part because I enjoy them; in part because I try to do some community-minded volunteer-type stuff (after all, I get a great deal from this community, so I feel it's only right to give something back); and in part, I admit, because I live for the thank-you notes. I adore the thank-you notes. They're dear and funny and sweet, full of gratitude and charm. I admit I find the spelling and grammar errors endearingly amusing; this may be because I am myself an indifferent speller, and I can relate. (I am deeply grateful for spell-check for this reason, as well as because I'm an iffy typist and mildly dyslexic, to boot. And you should all be grateful for it, too, most especially as it seems NOT TO BE WORKING for this post, so you're going to have to suffer my deficiencies this time around. You poor things.)

At any rate, after one such school program at one of the local middle schools, I received in due course and as usual a hefty packet of thank-you notes. There are two distinctly different piles, evidently reflecting the different tones of the two classes. I suspect (though there's probably no way to find out) that the more formal ones came from the class where the teacher reminded me of my high-school gym teacher... kind of blunt and direct and a little bit brusque, but sort of funny (to an adult, at least) as a result of her bluntness. She struck me as more of a disciplinarian and therefore perhaps less likely to encourage a lot of extra creativity in the students. The other group (wildly creative) I suspect to have come from the class taught by the sexy piratical guy, the one with the shaven head and the van dyke. Kind of an offbeat persona, which at least implies that he might encourage a more creative approach in the TY notes. But I could have that compeltely backwards, and there's no knowing.

Anyway, many of the notes came with drawings of dogs and cats and various other animals (some of the more ghoulish kids drawing several Frankenstein-esque gashes sutured with something heavy enough to tie down a small plane). One made a rather adorable little pop-up thank-you doggie inside, and a couple wrote my name in snakes or other animal shapes. One girl engineered her card (with staples) into the shape of a kite (although I initially took it for a paper airplane, til I opened it). And one enterprising lad wrote an entire poem to me (or maybe it's a commercial jingle). I'll try to hit the highlights (and despite my usual egregious typing, the spelling errors you are about to see are faithfully copied from the originals - mostly, at any rate)...

Dear, Dr.

I am listening to everybedy talk whale there supos to work. Now the teacher is talking. I listen when I am wrighting. [I rather like the introspective tone of this beginning.] I like the part when you told me what dog apered the most. Another part I like is the xray of the dog that ate the rocks. And how you get thame out. The job that I whoud whant is Chane Reactions. Chane Reactions is a julury stor whare you learn how to make beads, neckleses, braslets and shapes. [Presumably spelling isn't a big part of the job]. Thank you for telling me about vets and what they do. I hope I can see you ageane. I whish you where hear rigt now. [That's rather sweet, isn't it?] I whish you luck with the animals.

Dear Dr.

Thank you for coming to our class about your proffession. I thought that the little dog you brought in at the end was really cute. I thought some of those pictures of the dogs that had been hit by cars were perrty gross. [No photos - WAY too graphic. Instead, a couple of Xrays of broken legs, bladder stones, rock dogs, pregnant dogs, etc.] I think it would be interesting to work on a snow lepord. [This evidently in reference to me telling them about working on snow leopards (oops, I mean lepords), rhinos, bison, etc, at the Denver Zoo when I was a student].

Dear Dr.

Thank you for explaining your job to us. I enjoyed seeing the pictures of the animals with broken bones and diseases. [This must be one of the ghoulish ones]. I especially liked your dog, I didn't get to touch it so I hope you can bring him again.

Dear Dr.

I thought it was weird how one of the dogs swallowed about 10 rocks. I was the one who guessed it. [I put up the Xrays and ask the kids what they think that is... I'm not sure it teaches them a lot about what it is to be a vet, but they really like it.] I think that if you like having dogs as pets you should get a canarie island bird dog. They are really nice becuase they always listen and they are very loyal. [Okay, this is the first time I've gotten advice on what breed I should own while doing one of the school programs. Clearly this child knows something I don't, since I've never heard of a Canary Island Bird dog. And if there's any breed on earth that always listens, I'm eager to learn more.]

Dear Dr.

Thank you for caming in and talking to us about your job as being a veteranarian. I think ispired alot of people. I think that you did a good job. [Ahhhh, my first rave review of the batch. Always nice to know you've performed well.]

Dear Dr.

I liked your prformens it was good. The best part about your prformes is that I diden't know that dogs would eat rocks. But I thought that all of the exrays were cool. I thought that the dog that got shot in the head and diden't even know wus the cooest. [TRUST me the dog knew when he got shot in the head. Even the densest, goofiest American Bulldog will tend to notice a thing like THAT.] Well, I won't to thank you again for comming in Thanks.

Dear Dr.

Thank you for comeing in to my class. I had a cat that had a broken leg. Your friend, Jess [I suspect this is one of the 2 kids who didn't get to tell me about his pet's injury/illness/visit to the vet during my 25-minute visit, since approximately 27 of his little classmates were doing so all at the same time.]

Now we come to the 'creative' batch, most of which were folded like cards, and many of which featured color drawings exhibiting various degrees of talent for color, form and gore.

To: Dr.

Thank you! [accompanied by a drawing of a dog with several Bandaids stuck to its head, a long incision on the neck apparantly closed with 30# test line, and (judging by the angle) a dislocated shoulder.] Inside is written: I'm glad you came. You showed us some x-rays and thanks for answering my questions about British Bulldogs

sincirly, Rory [underneath which is drawn a very stiff-looking dog all in black except for the end of its nose and its eye, which are white. The reason for the strange coloration is apparant in the caption, which reads "Full body cast".]

[On the front] THANKS [with grass, flowers, a biiiig sun, and a dog and a cat both apparently levitating above the flowers.]

[Inside] Rank roo rery much! Dr. Petit [I believe this is the Scooby Doo entry.] I think your job cool and I wold like to look into the job more because you make it look FUN! [All in blazing color.]

[On the front a picture of a dog through a window, which at first I took to be a little Harry Potter wizard dog because it looked like it was wearing a pointy hat. On closer inspection, however, it proved to be a dog with THREE Bandaids (two crossed in an X), a long scary incision with more of the heavy nylon rope-type sutures, and a bandage tied around its forehead, above which protrude the pointy ears, evidently glued together into a spike, which is what I mistook for the hat.] Dear Doc

[Inside] I am so glad that you came in because after I've lived all my life with animals I want to become a vet. The first time I wanted to be a vet was when I helped my mom save a lamb when I was in the forth grade. [Accompanied by a drawing of a dog covered from head to toe in an intricate crosshatching of bandages that would do a mummy proud. The only things not covered by the wrap are the muzzle, the eye, and the ears - again appearing to be glued together into that darn spike.]

Dear Mrs. Dr.

Thank you for comeing to our class! My favoret part was the exray's. Some day I might become a vetinairian. [Along with a vividly colored portrait of what appears to be a dachshund approaching a bonsai tree, possibly to urinate on it, based on the pose... or perhaps this is the one child in the class who noticed that Finn tried to claim one little boy as his own by urinating on his shoe. (Yikes.)]

[On the front, along with a drawing of a long-necked something that looks quite a bit like a llama] Dear D Thank you for coming!

[Inside, along with another sketch which I take to be an animal of some description, since it has four legs and a head with long pointy ears] Dear D thanke you for coming to our class. I learned somethings. I never new that dogs can get elphaseaha. [??? I *think* he means emphysema, which is the only thing I can come up with that comes even close; although I don't recall mentioning emphysema to them, I certainly might have done. I did say "testicles", after all, so I might have lost my head completely and said practically anything.]

[On the front, along with a head-on view of a cat with a VERY large nose - unless it's a tumor - and a dog which appears to be plugged into some sort of electrical device capable of making all its fur stand on end, not to mention producing a distinct look of alarm on its Crayola'd face.]

Thank you Keith A.

[Inside] Thank you for coming. If I need my gerbil worked on, I'll come to you. In the meanwhile, be carefull and have a good time. Sincerly, Keith A. P.S.: When handleing needles, don't pook yourself. [Sage advice, which I give you my word I ty to follow daily.]

Thank You Dr. [On the front, along with drawings apparently erased but still visible, of a muscle man hanging from the "o" on "you" - rather nicely done, actually - and a tree with what appears to be an orangutan in it, perched in the branches above what is either a small rhino or a really big warthog.]

[Inside] I reely liked the fact you have don surdry on a monky. [Here he must be again referring to my stint at the Denver Zoo, unless he has somehow gotten wind of that unfortunate encounter with Mickey Dolens and Davy Jones...]

Dear Dr.

Thank you for coming. It is a delight that you take time off work for us. I really enjoyed when you showed us the ex-rays. I think you changed my mind about a doctor. I'm going to be a vet. [Accompanied by a rather adorable drawing of a dog, although he does have little stars in his eyes which make him look like someone just cold-cocked him.]

And the piece de resistance (I hope I can do this one justice...)

On the front are drawings of a snake with a biiiig bulge in the middle, an apparently sneezy cat with (I kid you not) a box of tissues in its paws (clearly labelled, with one popped up out of the top), a dog with a ferocious grimace on its face and what looks like a Robert Jones bandage on its back leg, and small aquarium with three smiling fish in it. My little artiste has written "Thank You Dr.!" At the bottom of the page he's signed it "From: Jake". Inside, it goes like this (and I am NOT making this up):

A PET TETE-A-TETE

If your cat is sick or your dog thinks he's a nick Call the VET!

If a snake swallows a ball or a pig takes a fall bring in your PET!

If your bunny is funny (hey, that's kind of punny) call the VET!

If your fish is almost a dish (while watchin' TV! (well, not the Omish!))[could he mean "The Comish"?] your pet's standards are MET!

Next to this is a hilarious picture of a snake (evidently the one that swallowed the ball, since it has a hugely distended middle) and a cartoon speech bubble saying "BURRRP!"

This was funny enough, but on re-reading it later for a second giggle, I happened to flip it over and on the back (where the Hallmark logo would be) he has written:

P.E.T.Z.

Protection Egenst (against) Total Ziffheads.

No animals were harmed in the making of this card.

I just howled. Partly I was pretty impressed with little Jake (whoever he might be - although I'm not at all certain what a Ziffhead is), and partly it reminded me of a card I made for my "little sib" in vet school.

There's s program in vet school where they assign all incoming freshmen a "big sib": an outgoing freshman who, having just finished the gruelling and scary first year is (one hopes) in a position to advise the new frosh about books, prof's, exams and so on. Traditionally, the big sib comes and leaves a card with words of encouragement or a small present on their little sib's desk just prior to the first exam, to loosen them up and give a little moral support before the scariest exam of first semester (and maybe of the entire program). On the morning of my first vet school exam, I got a card, a plateful of snickerdoodles, a new eraser, a new and freshly sharpened #2 pencil, and a petri dish full of M&Ms labelled (on lab tape) "M&M culture - eat on [whatever the exam date was]". I thought the M&M culture was a pretty good idea, so I shamelessly stole it for my little sibs (of which I had two). I also made little hand-drawn encouraging cards - a general one for the one I didn't know as well, but a more personal one for M, the sib I'd roomed with over the preceeding summer. I went to a bit more effort there since we were friends and she'd spent a lot of time with me AND my little vet-school sidekick dog, Merrik.

Inside her card I wrote something along the lines of, "You've worked. You've studied. You've come to recognise your classmates by smell alone. You are READY for this test. You can do this!" (and several other rah rah statements). On the back - unnoticed, I was told later, the first time around (shades of my go with Jake's card), I had drawn a picture of Merrik - a good likeness, if I say so myself, with her abundant curly/wiry terrier-mix fur and her big bat ears, and a pronounced squint on the right, where she'd lost the eye. Under this "logo" I wrote "HallMerrik: When you care enough to send the hairy pest." Evidently during the exam M was sitting and waiting for her turn at the microscope, killing time, so she idly picked up the card to read it again and just happened to flip it over. I gather she aspirated an unfortunate amount of coffee, and that some of her classmates were less than pleased to have her burst out laughing hysterically in the midst of the exam. Tight-asses.

So that's the best of the thank-you notes from that visit... but I assure you there are others, from other programs in other years and other schools. I'd like to say that they're from my little fans, but by far and away most of them are really from fans of my dogs. That seems fair; of the two of us - my dogs VS me - they really have the more difficult job; I get to live with them.... but they, poor things, have to live with me.

I have Sheep Lust

No, not THAT kind of sheep lust. What do you take me for?

What I have is a distinct longing for more sheep to add to my flock.

Right now I have five sheep, all Shetlands. I never in 1,000,000 years thought I would have sheep. Ever. I mean, I raised orphan lambs when we were kids (this started as a 4-H project, which I wasn't very good at... I loved raising the lambs - and I WAS good at that - but I hated the record-keeping that the 4-H-ers wanted you to do, I didn't like showing them, and I really really didn't like that my little lambs were going to slaughter in the fall, to reside in our freezer for later consumption. For one thing, I didn't like the taste of lamb, particularly, and for another... ick. That was my pet. It just seemed wrong. But I had no choice in the matter, at the time.)

As you might imagine, all of that sort of put me off of the idea of ever having sheep as an adult. But. I got Border collies. Now, I will say this is not my fault; Pepper forced me (FORCED me, I tell you) to fall in love with Border collies. It is futile to resist. It's part of her Evil Genius. So once I fell in love with Pepper - which I will remind you was not my fault - more Borders were an inevitability. And then I found myself on an Internet chat board-o-BCs. And then I got sucked into the world-o-BCs a little bit more and a little bit more... and suddenly one day I was taking my dog for training. And then - quite by accident, I assure you - I got another BC, this one bred out of a good working farm dog belonging to a friend of mine, and by [cough cough] the dog who won of the 2007 National Cattle Dog Finals (and placed in the top 10 in 2008).

Still, I thought I was safe. Ignorance is bliss, and all that. After all, I had no place to keep sheep. I have no sheds or outbuildings, and as I live on a ridge, not enough flat land for stock pens. But I did not figure on The Power of the Border Collie. I look back on it now and shake my head at my childish innocence. I'd only had my stockdog pup for a year when The Worst happened.

I got sheep.

It certainly looked like an accident. A client who had to downsize her flock offered me some registered Shetlands "for free". A neighbor who used to have sheep (but had gotten out of them for a while) had been missing having sheep on her farm and was willing to trade chores and board for lambs. Suddenly I found myself riding in a pickup truck, hauling a stock trailer into a farm yard and wondering when, exactly, I had gone completely insane.

I'm still not sure when it happened. I AM fairly certain that it was sometime before I found myself helping two other women wrestle a large and annoyed ram by his (rather impressive) horns into the stock trailer. And it was definitely before we all started tackling a series of ewes who were the approximate wildness and agility of your average mule deer (although luckily, not so tall). It was certainly before I was helping my friends unload the sheep into their new pen. But by then it was too late. Bemused, I asked my sister: "When did I become a farmer?" She said: "You've always been a farmer. You just haven't always had livestock."

So, in went my new ram with my new ewes, with the hopes of producing tasty little lambs in the spring. Because, in the many years since I reared 4-H bottle lambs, I'd made two discoveries: One, I like the way lamb tastes. A lot. Especially if it's Shetland, which really does have a distinctly different flavor from the usual market breeds. And two, I STILL don't think it's right to eat bottle babies... but I have a lot less objection to eating lambs bred for production, reared by their own mothers, and not made into pets.

So, come spring, there was lambing. Here are two of my ewes, plus one lamb (daughter of the brown ewe, Nutmeg). For the uninitiated, in Shetlands, "brown" is referred to as "moorit" (which is probably Gaelic for something much more elegant than merely "brown".) This lamb - a ewe lamb, which means one I won't eat and therefore named - was quite huge, literally twice the size and weight of the other lambs. Hence we call her Gigantor. Don't ask me why she's eating a feather. Probably she'd already disposed of the rest of the bird and is using it to pick the bird fragments out of her teeth. Just in case there should be any awkward questions later on, or maybe forensic investigation for incriminating evidence.

This is Zena with her spotted lamb. He was a little weak at the start, so we put him in a lamb sweater. Lamb sweaters are made of Army-surplus neck-gaiters with leg-holes cut in them. Wool, nnaturally. (What else? No self-respecting sheep would be caught dead in, for instance, cotton - or, God forbid, poly-pro.)

The black ram-lamb. We started him in a sweater too, but he took it off. Maybe he thinks wool is itchy.

Gratuitous picture of adorable baby goats of Wildwood Farm, which may be the only thing on earth cuter than lambs. They may also be the only thing brattier than Gigantor.

Aaaand, more of Gigantor (whose middle name should be Houdini, as she has demonstrated quite a talent for escape, mainly by squirting through the square wire. You'd think that would be over now, as she's much bigger, but she still makes escapes from time to time. I don't know how. Levitation, perhaps.) I told you. Bratty.

This is my ram, Trinity.

Now, here I must pause to say that rams in general can't be trusted and most of them are right pains in the arse (or knee, or hip, or wherever they decide to - well, ram you). Trinity, however, is the kindest, calmest, most good-hearted and gentle ram I've ever met. This is not to say I ever really turn my back on him or completely trust him. It's also not to say he's okay with you taking his ewes away (which we do in order to control when he breeds them, so that we don't have lambs too early in the chilly Alaskan spring). In fact, come late summer, when he's getting a little rammy and starting to think amorous rammy thoughts, he isn't really even okay with you taking the chickens out of his pen. (Don't ask me why the chickens like to hang out in his pen, but they do. Also do not ask me what, exactly, he thinks he might DO with the chickens, but suffice it to say that he Is Seriously Not Okay with you taking them out of his pen). However... if you, say, want to bring him food or water, he stands back politely as you enter the pen, and then follows at a respectful three-foot remove, waiting patiently for you to fill his manger and walk away before he goes into his gluttonous, I'm-being-starved-here, they-haven't-fed-me-for-a-month act. Also, once you get your hands on him (for shearing or worming, or to have his feet trimmed or his blood drawn), he's really pretty tractable - easier in temperament than any of the ewes. Even easier yet in that he comes equipped with a pair of useful handles, in the form of those nice full-curl horns. The shearer loves him; she says he's amongst the easiest sheep she's ever shorn (AND she can't say enough about how nice his wool is). Plus, he never went after me for treating Nutmeg when she had eclampsia, even though they were penned together. Still.... even Trinity isn't above trying to run down a stockdog, and I never lose track of where he is when I'm in the pen.

Now that you see how handsome he is, can you blame me for wanting more ewes for him? Besides... lamb. Yum. And wool. Nice wool. Sheep to work my dog with. And maybe some dairying... sheep cheese.... sheep-milk soap.... sheep-milk yogurt.... sheep milk in my coffee.... D'you think I can make sheep-milk ice cream? And no, I am NOT psychotic. I am blinded. By sheep lust.

Hitting the Bottle

Or rather, being hit BY the bottle.

This is Pepper, the BF's Border collie. She looks peeeeerrrrrrfectly innocent, doesn't she? Just lying there in the grass with a niiiiice soft fabric disc, minding her own biz. Nothing maniacal about her. Nothing at all.

Little would you know she's an evil genius.

Okay, maybe not ALL that evil. But she has invented some games which A) require me to do a lot of ducking and dodging and climbing into unlikely parts of my house, 2) involve a certain amount of pain and wincing on my part, and iii) are weirdly addicitve. (Here I will enter the disclaimer: She did not invent these games for MY benefit, but for Dave's. Dave may believe he taught her to play these games, but I contend that it was the other way around, and aaaaall part of her Plan.)

Like most BCs, Pepper is able to FORCE those around her (well, anyone in posession of an opposable thumb) to play "fetch" games with her. By dint of various engaging expressions, endearing head-cocks and judicious staring, Pepper is able to instill in the primate brain an irresistable urge to pick up some object (which she has thoughtfully provided, generally well-lubricated with varying amounts of dog spit) and throw it for her. Over and over and over again. Until your arm falls off.

See how well it works on Dave? In this case she has caused him to drive her to Canada for some international disc-dog practice. Don't be fooled by the innocent smile. It is all part of her nefarious plan.

Here's the wind-up......

Here's the pitch....... (note the intensity - and be warned).

Now, it all looks perfectly normal, an ordinary game of disc with the dog, right? Nothing at all sinister here. And in fact, that's pretty much the truth... in public. It's only in secret that her true evil brilliance is seen. It all starts so innocuously. You're sitting there, maybe relaxing after a hard day of work or a trip to the gym or unloading hay for the sheep. Maybe it's a hot day and you've just sucked down a bottle of water or a cold soda. Maybe the bottle is sitting on the coffee table in front of you, or on the couch beside you. Out of reflex, the cap has of course been screwed back on. Maybe there's even a little bit of water left in it. Everything seems just fine. Nothing going on here.

Until suddenly, the bottle is presented to you by Pepper. She puts it in your lap - maybe with a little encouraging nudge - and then looks at you hopefully, eyes big and melting, adopting the patented BC crouch to demonstrate her readiness to play. So you think: What the hell, why not? Or maybe you don't think at all, and just toss her the bottle by reflex.

This is where her twisted brilliance becomes clear.

Pepper leaps up like a breaching shark. Her jaws clash shut on the bottle with a sharp snapping noise. But because the bottle in non-compressable (having been capped), it ricochets right back out of her gnashing teeth at approximately 428 mph, directly back into your face. Or some other, less convenient body part. (Poink! Ouch!) But of course, it's sort of funny, and after all, the bottle is now back in your lap. And Pepper is looking sooooooo engaging with her big brown eyes allllll full of hopeful worship. So you think, What the hell..... (and, you are now doomed.)

In the next 15 minutes you will be retrieving the bottle from behind the couch, from under the table, from the top of the bookshelf, and (of course) from the floor, where it's inclined to bounce after it hits you in the forehead. Pepper will, of course, help you retrieve it (see how helpful she is?) - well, not from the top of the bookshelf. She will, however, look politely away as you teeter on the arm of the couch whilst groping for the bottle, lest you feel embarrassed by the ridiculous posture (or the ridiculous reason for which you are assuming it). All the while you are running a commentary: Pepper, catch! OW! [hee hee hee] Oh, crap - go get it! No, wait I'll get that one... Catch! OUCH! [snerk!] Jeez, WHY am I doing this, again? Okay, one more... YIKES! Is my nose bleeding? Dang. Okay, here, catch! Ow, DANG!.... How am I going to reach it up THERE...? and so on.

But don't worry. It's really not your fault. None of us are a match for the the Nefarious "Doctor" Pepper.