A visit with the horse

We came to my parents' house today. When we got there dad was down riding the horse. And he left the saddle on so we could come join him. Grace was excited. So was Calla.

Shamere looks good. Really good.



Obviously that isn't his best side. Sorry, boy.

And he has company. This is Custer. He liked Calla.



He liked Grace, too.



A pack shetland.



And a burro. He was just about Calla's size. In fact, she wants to ride him. Someday.



And since the baby was home with grandma, I hopped on for a ride.



It felt good.



That's me laughing at Calla's wide-eyed excitement. "Mom! I want to do that!"

Soon enough, Calla. Soon enough.

I love this picture

We arrived at my mom and dad's house on Saturday. Mom always has new fun things to show us. Last time it was her new window treatments. This time it was her new Ipod. Yes, my mother has an Ipod. I don't, but I'm pretty proud of her.

So she was showing me her little gadget and how she put pictures of all her grandkids on it, and this is the one she has of Grace:



I hadn't seen it before. Mostly because it was taken when I was in labor with Violet. But, I love it.

I love it for lots of reasons. Obviously it's my little girl who's getting big. You should see her ride that horse. She is really getting it. She makes him go where she wants him to go. With purpose. She looks so grown up sitting there. And she looks like she belongs there on top of that horse.

That saddle, even though it's still big for her, was mine when I was that age. And it was my mom's when she was that age. Runs in the family I guess.



And that horse. My dad traded two bull calves for him when I was about 12 years old. My dad helped me break him to ride and that horse and I spent countless hours together. We rode the hills. We chased cattle. Once we got hit by an angry bull and even though we ended up on different ends of the field, neither one of us was hurt and we left the bull to his maddness and went home. Sometimes I think he loved trying to see how many times I would fall off in a day (neither of us liked the saddle much, so sliding off was rather easy.) He may be the reason I'm even on talking terms with my mother. I was a hormonal mess in my teens. But what girl isn't?



Shamere is his name. He's 25 or something around that now. (Shoot, I don't even know how old I am.) Mom and dad brought him over to us when they sold the farm. That was three years ago. Recently, with the move looming, we didn't know what to do with this horse. We threw several ideas around, listed him on Craigslist, talked about donating him to a local organization that works with at-risk youth. He'd be great at one of those places.

Then, I watched Grace on him in the back field. She had that look. That look like she was really getting it. Like she was really enjoying riding him and she was falling in love with him. I know that look. So I called my dad. He has a soft spot for this horse, and his granddaughter. And his daughter for that matter.

"Dad, we need to keep this horse."

"Let me make a few calls," he says.



And he did. And a couple weeks ago when I was watching Grace in the field with Shamere, brushing him because she decided he needed it (she was right) and watching Shamere watch her and enjoy every moment of his brushing, I called my dad. He wasn't home, so I left a message.

"Dad, I just wanted to say thanks. I'm standing here watching Grace and Shamere and I think they have something good starting. He's got another little girl smitten. Talk to you later."



Sometimes, life is just good.

Here she is!

Okay. It's just Amy.



But here you have it.



In living color.



Proof that I do try to take care of the crazy little dog.



And I have to admit, she's pretty cute when she's all groomed up and has bows in her hair.

Darnit anyway. I have a foo-foo dog and kinda like it. Don't tell anyone, okay?

I don't know what to say

Meet Amy.



She USED to be a spoiled dog. So spoiled that she was fully insured and she got boiled chicken for dinner every night. So spoiled that she did what she wanted when she wanted and was doted on every moment of the day. So spoiled that her previous owner probably had actual wheels on her vacuum cleaner. (Oh wait, that's me thinking I need a new vacuum again. I need to stop that or I might have to go vacuum shopping. That ranks right up there with car shopping. Eeek!)

Then she moved in with us. I didn't give her boiled chicken. We canceled her insurance. We have three kids and she is treated like a dog. To add insult to injury, I still think Amy is a weird name for a dog and she now has a bad haircut. (finding a good groomer after you move is HARD!)

Now, you know those times when you walk into a room and what you find there just makes you stand there and chuckle and shake your head.



I think she's dreaming of the good ole' days.

Of dogs and puppies

We are dog people. We are not dog people in the sense that we are obsessed with dogs and have dogs that are ultra pampered and spoiled. They are taken care of and quite comfortable, but I actually had a friend tell me that I'm the ONLY person she knows who treats her dogs like dogs. Apparently I'm a dying breed.

We are dog people in the sense that we are not cat people. Nothing against cats. I'm half allergic to them and can never figure them out. Too complicated I guess. And they belong outside. But outside there are coyotes. So, we don't have cats.

Yes, we are dog people. But we are NOT puppy people. The two dogs that we have right now we did not have as puppies. They came to us after the puppy thing was over. One is a rescue dog that was abused and eventually abandoned by her former owners. The other was the pampered pooch of an elderly lady who passed away. I would argue that they are two of the best dogs on the planet for many reasons. One comes when she's called and the other one doesn't shed. I'm obviously not too hard to please.

Yesterday my brother came into town. He brought his puppy. His little cute beagle puppy. His cute little impulse buy beagle puppy that his wife fell in love with at the pet store. He's pretty smitten himself. How can you not be? Look at that face.



But, she is a puppy. My husband came home and was home for a grand total of ten minutes before he commented, "If we ever get a puppy again, one of us has dementia, and the other one . . . "

"Is dead?" I finished for him.

"Yea."

We've had our share of dogs that weren't so great. One was named Sadie. She shed unbelievable amounts of hair for a smooth-coat dog. She was part dalmation. If you've ever had a dalmation, you probably know where I'm going with this. If you've never had a dalmation, don't get one. She spent the better part of her life jumping fences (8 foot chain-link fences) and running away.

I spent the better part of my life while we had her chasing her around city streets furious that she wouldn't come and worried she'd get hit by a car. Two emotions that when experienced together at that level of intensity make normal level-headed people such as myself wish for some sort of medication. Really it was probably the dog that needed it, but I was driven to the brink by that dog. On a regular basis.

My brother's theory is that we gave her the wrong name. Like she would have answered to a different name.

I doubt it. But it's a good theory.