L'il Rosco Falls through a Roof

One advantage (among several) of living on a horse-farm is that a free-form walk is just outside the door. No need for leashes or drives to anywhere. And so the past two days have been studded with walklets which the doggies have used to explore the grounds and get their soundings of the place.

Late last night, before bed, I decided to take the dogs for another mini-out. It was cool and moonlit. As Fips sniffed around the planters Rosco followed a scent onto a platform by the side of our cottage. There is a drop in ground level toward the rear so that, at the backside of the house, the platform is actually the roof over some sort of stable-like shed. I watched as Rosco sniffed back and forth, his fur cast in a bluish moon glow.

I was just about to call Rosco back to the road level when all of a sudden, amidsts a clang of looose corrugated metal sheetings, Rosco dropped through what had been the roof onto the grassy gulley below. Oh Christ....

As I rushed over, Rosco scampered up from the gulley and ran onto the roadway. I was instantly relieved to see that he could run. And just then his hind legs gave way and he collapsed onto his butt.

Instant visions of veterinary nightmares.

I rushed over to him, knealt down and --- somehow, I don't recall exactly how -- I held his neck while I pulled out his hind quarters as if he were an accordion. I had no idea and no thought as to what I was doing. I just did it; and somehow it seemed to work... he recovered control over his legs and trotted over to the doorway, with a very attentive and very concerned me assesssing his every move.

One of the disadvantages of moving is that one doesn't bring along essentials like methocarbamol ... a muscle relaxant Rosco was given a couple of years ago when he strained his shoulder. So for want of a drug, I gently lifted him onto the bed and just as gently stroked his spine and massaged his hips and thighs. There was a little quivering in his haunchie but it gradually dissipated.

On the morrow... so far so good... Rosco has been trotting about normally all day. Still I am going to have to keep an eye on him. A country horse-ranch is a lot of fun.. but there are hidden dangers neither dog nor human are aware of.
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With a minimum of wrong turns (one), we soon found and got to our new destination, where our co-tenant opened the gate to let us through. I cut the engine and put paws to ground, where the dogs got down to business.

Jackson meets Fips

Rosco Meets Jackson

Fips greets Tasha

And so we all headed for a walk around the grounds, on soft, moist and gently undulating tree-lined paths. Everything here says "earth" and the terriers -- all three of them -- love it.



Jackson, who is a two-year old dachshund-terrier mix, runs around proving that his exuberance knoweth no end. I remark that Jackson will do Rosco some good in the weight control department. Fips, at the other end of the cycle, limps along... but his nose is as good (and certainly more seasoned) than any puppy's.

Does Fips know we are talking about his limping gait? He can hardly miss Jackson's gymnastic displays. Returning from the far side of the property, I remark that Fips looks like he's getting a little tuckered out. A little ways on, we come across some jumping hurdles. Fips, debates.....


And...he JUMPS! Proving that arthritis or not, Old Fuzzie still has plenty of spunk.

Rosco ponders .... but then decides there are better things to do and sniff.

At length we complete our survey of the premises which have clearly met with the Fuzzies' approval. And so we return to our new digs where I hang up the Holy Bone.

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Separations

The pups are real travel champs. I don't know anyone who is easier to travel with than Fips and Rosco. But there is no question that it is hard on them. They like the adventure of going somewhere and yet at the same time they are on constant "separation alert." They eye my every move and for the past two nights Fips has engaged in affirmative snuggling. And so, this morning, rather than suffer their anxieties in addition to mine, I put the pals into the truck as I did my final repacks. After all, at this point, the truck is the most familiar environment, almost as constant as me myself.

At noon, we checked out of the Dog Motel, and headed north to Lynden, through vast fields and family farms encompassed by a distant ring of majestic mountains.


Reaching Canada at last....

... or almost. What the sign should have said was "Leaving the Homeland -- Prepare for Search" But for all the doggies knew, the border exit point was simply a place to lull around and back scratch on the grass, before being lifted back into the truck and heading on toward Aldergrove.

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Man & Dog Stuff At the Border

After a night's rest, the human busied himself with mail boxes, boxes, and what not, after which -- it being a warm and crisp afternoon -- we went for a scope and sniff about around Blaine-at-the-Line.

Main Street in Blaine
(where the pups sniffed every tree and post)

Looking toward the promised land

"Strutting down Main"
(watch for upcoming video)

The Red Caboose where we shared a
Monte Cristo sandwhich

Back to Bellingham

Northward Ho

A certain farewell at Loopy Loops

Last Looks at Middletown

"Dog in Mirror"

Rosco Ventures into Oregon

Back to the Truck so Soon?

Wooshes in Washington

Doggie Travel consists of wooshing, snoozing and sniffing. I made a point of stopping every three hours to give the dogs time to sniff the smells in "places of interest". Human travel consists of forging on so as to make it to Bellingham by midnight in order to have a relaxed Friday taking care of boxes and business.

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Fips Snaps his Diggies -- Sort of

0927

dance in the morning.
about 10 days ago, little moan-talks
at times a little very light sanp at the heel
today, pulls down my shorts, and pulls me back.

Senior Citizen Alert!

Yesterday it was close to 100 degrees, dry and listless. Today it is in the low 60's, moist and overcast. Toward evening it gets a little blustery. Fipsie Weather!

I heave the doggies into the Jeep and drive them over to the High School where, after due poking around for pizza crusts in the class yards, they amble on over to the fields. There, with soft grass under his paws and earthy wind-smells in his nostrils, Fips kicks up a dash.

I run alongside squealling various half-dog, half-man noises as Rosco trots behind. The only thing Rosco has ever dashed for has a certain smell ... which is not in offings today.

We always think of Fips as Il Pensoroso but, while he is that, he's also one hell of a jock, and running has always been his favorite. More squeals from half-dog. Fips is in his element, so clearly being happy to run; and I am blown away.

He chases diagonally across the field toward an exit on the far side where a handful of people are playing frisbie. I want to avoid them and so double back through the baseball diamonds so as to make a circle to from when we came.

Fips will have none of it. After a short time, I turn around and see that Fips has chased over to where the people are. He is being petted by a black boy and his blond friend. Rosco, who apparently had a "dilemma moment", has decided to follow big brother. So much for my "plan".

I walk on over and recognized the boys from the other week. I wave to the black boy's mother who is seated in a chair by the fence wrapped in a hooded sweatshirt. As I get closer, Fips kicks up and trots on over to the adults playing frisbie. He chases up to one and then to another. They think he's going for the frisbie, but I know otherwise. I call to the humans' attention: "He's coming to say hello..."

One of them turns around and bends down. Fips accepts his due and heads off towards another , as I remark in a loud voice that he's 15 1/2. "Really?" the man who just petted him says. "Yes, really."

"Hey folks! Senior Citizen Alert!!!"

Fips heads for the blond boy's mother for a snif and pet before changing directions and heading off toward someone else.... making the rounds the group, before finally sitting on his haunchies and looking up, as if, all accounted for, some sort of gather-round will now begin. Overstaying one's welcome is not really a canine concept, and so I tap Fips on the neck and say, "Okay Fips, lessgonow komm."

I've lost track of Rosco, but soon catch sight of him off sniffing by the fence. After some pleasantries with the sweat-shirted mom, we head on out toward the Jeep with the black boy and his blond friend skipping after us. The blond boy says something about "doggie years" and the black boy announces, "My great-grandfather is 90 years old,"

"He's almost as old as Fips."

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