A Stinging Rebuff

I suppose it's a lingering effect of my suburban upbringing that I still don't feel entirely comfortable in the woods alone. Not that we have particularly dangerous woods around here. No bears, no wolves, not even any moose*.

This does not mean that I can't imagine dangers so remote as to be ludicrous, however.

I have ample opportunity to dream up these unlikely scenarios as I do my very early morning trail runs up to the Plantation, because it's not quite light when I go. Light enough to see where I'm going, but the sun isn't up all the way yet at 5:30 a.m. That time just before dawn is the best time to see animals in the woods. Or the worst, if you don't actually want to see animals.

So far I've only seen small birds and deer, and heard a lot of wild turkeys gobbling in the gully. But I can imagine that there are rabid raccoons just waiting around the curve in the path up ahead. Or, worse thought, a coyote.

This is not as unlikely as it might be, actually, since there are big coyotes in those woods. You may remember A.'s helpful comment that they would only attack children and small women. I don't want to know if I'm considered small enough for a coyote to attack.

I still remember seeing a coyote right in the Plantation several years ago when I used to walk the dogs up there every morning. I almost walked right past it, it was so still. When I caught sight of it, I stopped immediately, and just stared at it. It did the same. Then the four large dogs in the vicinity came bounding up the gully bank and the coyote disappeared. It was a memorable experience, and not one I would wish to repeat without my furry security contingent.

This morning when I went out at 5:30, it was darker than usual because it was raining and the cloud cover had blocked the dawn light. I thought maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a dog with me again, just to ease my suburban-reared mind, you see. Mia is too stiff and gimpy these days to run much. The puppy would be no use whatever (except as a smaller and slower sacrificial offering--but I didn't think of that at the time). That left Otty.

I let Otty out of the back hall and started up the lane to the pasture.

She didn't follow.

I called her. Still nothing.

I walked back down, found her, and announced with appropriate excitement, "C'mon, Otty! We're going for a walk! Let's go for a walk!"

She looked at me for a second, then turned around and went the other way.

"Fine, Otty," I yelled. "I'm going on a walk without you and if I get eaten by a coyote, you'll be sorry."

Obviously, I did not get eaten by a coyote. I am still burning from that canine diss, though.

Harsh, Otty. Way harsh.

* Sometime I should tell you about the time I saw a moose on my way to the bus stop in Alaska, about a quarter mile from our house. I was nine years old. It was pitch black--as it always is at 8 a.m. in the Alaskan Interior in the winter---and I was walking along with my tiny Maglite, and there was a noise, and there was a really big moose on the side of the road, so I turned around and went home. I . . . guess that's it.

Welcome to the Wolf Pack

I don't care how impressive a dog's pedigree is, it still has the base instincts of a wolf. If you show the champion of the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show (a.k.a. the dog show that comes on after the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade) a moldy old bone, he will be all over it.

Like so. Get it, Sky.

Gifts From the Heart

Both Cubby and Charlie came home from school on Thursday with Mother's Day gifts for me, all wrapped up and ready for today. Cubby has been asking every day since if it was Mother's Day yet. Upon hearing this morning that the blessed day had finally arrived, he ran off to get my gift and I brought out Charlie's gift too, so I could open them at the same time.

Charlie's gift was a bracelet made of plastic beads strung by his very own small hands. "Thank you, Charlie!" I said. "Should I wear it right now?"

"No," he said, reaching for it. "I'll wear it."

"I thought you made it for me," I said, trying not to laugh, because this was so very Charlie.

"I made it for everyone," he replied. "So I'll wear it so everyone can see it on me."

Right. The joy is in the giving for Charlie, obviously.

Next was Cubby's gift. It was a small wooden box in the shape of a treasure chest. Inside were ten little pieces of folded paper, on which Cubby had written the word "love." He explained that it was a kiss box with ten kisses inside, and when I missed him, I should take a kiss from the box.

Oh. Well, thanks for breaking my heart, Cubby's teacher. Sniff.

Further investigation revealed something glued to the bottom of the box, which, when the kisses were removed, turned out to be a photo of Cubby. And what a photo.

Will he kiss her or kill her? Stay tuned to find out!

Mother's Day gifts from little kids are the best. The end.

And I Didn't Even Blink

I was outside with all three boys this morning when Cubby called me to the front porch, announcing, "You HAVE to see this."

That's how I knew it would be something I probably wouldn't actually want to see, but I went anyway.

It was a dead grackle. Yup, could've happily skipped that one.

I could tell from the fact that the grackle was directly under the parlor window that it had flown into the window. I was almost certain it was dead, although I did have a momentary flash of horror as Cubby bent to pick it up that it might have just knocked itself out and would come back to consciousness right there in Cubby's hands, at which point I'm pretty sure I would have had a stroke.

It didn't, though. It was very dead, with a broken neck. And I know it was broken, because Cubby spent several minutes in a minute examination of the deceased bird, pulling out its wings, feeling its beak, touching its creepy sharp talons, and all the while its head was flopping grotesquely about on its broken neck.

"It's so beautiful," he said. "But so sad."

I assume he meant sad that it was dead, because the grackle was quite clearly beyond any emotion.

Cubby then danced the grackle about on the porch railing, singing an original song with the refrain of, "I'm the beautifullest gracklegracklegrackle, graaaa-CULL!"

And then Charlie had to have a turn, of course.

Some of you may be wondering how I could have let my sons play with a dead bird. Well, it's not the first time, you may remember. And I did insist that they could only play with it this afternoon, at which point we would bury it in the gully because it would start to rot. I also insisted they wash their hands thoroughly when they were done with it. See? Totally responsible!

In the end, I suppose I just didn't care that much if they were playing with a dead bird because, well . . . this is our life. And this is the sort of thing they do. Country boys gonna be country, and nothing I can do will change that.

You Want a Carefully Styled Food Photo?

Well, in that case, you'd best go somewhere else.

But! If you want to celebrate Cinco de Mayo Blackrock-style, post-three-kids . . . well then. Look no further.

Taco meat with a toppings consisting of cheese, onions, tomatoes, and lime? Festive!*

It's kind of dumb that I insist on celebrating (in the loosest and lamest sense) Cinco de Mayo, considering I have zero Mexican ancestry. But then again, I'm only nominally southern, and I'm pretty stubborn about the New Year's Day health, wealth, and happiness, so what the hell. We take our traditions where we can find them.

Feliz Cinco de Mayo, mis encantadores!

* Plus gin and lime, even though it's not Friday. Wild. Should've been tequila, but, well, I didn't have any and I don't really like tequila, so there you are.

Running Wild

I've had an on again/off again relationship with running my whole life. I've been firmly in the "off" setting for the past six years, however. I just couldn't figure out the logistics of running while also being pregnant/nursing/on constant call for one, then two, and now three children.

Also, if I'm to be honest, I just didn't really want to run.

But then I did.

Last week when we took the kids to the playground at the local school, I ran around the extensive athletic fields. It was surprisingly easy. Then again, it was also only about a mile and, more importantly, on the grass.

I didn't realize that the grass was a key component until I tried running on the road this past weekend. As soon as my feet hit the blacktop of the main road, I could feel the jolts running up through my body from the unyielding surface. And then my wretched foot started to hurt.

I thought it would be okay, though, because I only run on the main road for a few hundred yards before I turn onto the small road leading away from the lake. When I ran it regularly six years ago, that road was gravel.

Alas, I am doomed by progress. That road has been paved.

DAMMIT.

I walked part of the way just because I didn't want to cripple myself by striking hard on pavement with my weak feet.

Okay. Now what? I can't run regularly on a paved road without crippling myself. I can't be getting in my car to run at the athletic fields. I have a very limited amount of time for this fitness crap, you know. I'm already getting up at 5:30 a.m. so I can be done and showered in time for my child care duties to commence at 6:30.

That left running from the house up to the Plantation.

I had some reservations about this. It's a very steep incline running up there. But then an easy downhill run to come back, which is nice. Also, it's wet. Really, really wet. High grass in our pasture to start, then unmowed grass in the neighbor's field, all trapping every drop of moisture. It rained all day yesterday, and by the time I got to the neighbor's field this morning, my feet were so wet I was squishing with every step.

It was 39 degrees. That's some cold, sock-saturating water, right there. I was really questioning my motivation for doing this at about that point.

That was the worst part, though. By the time I got through the fields I was mostly awake (5:30 a.m., remember?), and the path through the woods was relatively dry, though muddy in parts. I had to stop once to break off a hanging limb that was in my way, and I had to do a small hurdle over a fallen tree, which was actually kind of fun.

I scared off three deer and heard some wild turkeys gobbling in the gully as I ran. There was no loud traffic, no chance of being hit by a large truck, and no hard pavement.

So I guess I'll be a trail runner now. Let's just hope I never meet a coyote up there.

Let the Puppy Games Begin

Okay, are you ready? I want everyone to take a deep breath before you view this photo, the better to make the appropriate exclamation. Here we go . . .

Awwwwww. 

That's Sky. He's a ten-week-old rough Blue Merle* collie puppy that the MiL brought home yesterday. He's her retirement gift to herself, but of course, she must share him with the small boys of the household.

Cubby has more or less not left the puppy's side since his arrival.

It's very cute.

Charlie likes the puppy, but is not so attentive.

Still cute, though.

Jack is mostly disinterested.

Puppies are okay, but not as fun as the ducks.

As for the older dogs . . . Mia is resigned to her fate as always, though doesn't go out of her way to engage Sky, and Otty tried to bite his face off within ten minutes of his arrival, so he prefers to hang out with the humans. Can't say I blame him.

At the moment he sticks close to the people and his crate, but I'm sure he'll grow into his natural role of raccoon killer and carrion chewer. He has plenty of time.

* This refers to his coloring and it means he has patches of black, white, and bluish gray. Rough means fluffy instead of short-haired like Mia and Otty.