The Independence of a Doer

Cowboy was raised an independent doer.  Growing up on the farm, if he saw something that needed done, he just did it, with Big Dad’s blessing. 

Take, for example, his first independent project using wood, a circular saw and bent nails: rabbit cages at the age of 12 or so.  Simple stuff, right?  I mean, what 12 year old doesn’t hammer out bent nails and brandish a circular saw while his dad is out driving a semi across country?  No biggie.  Little Cowboy saw a need, Big Dad wasn’t around to do it, it had to be done, so he did it.  And, as the story goes, when Big Dad got home and saw him working on the project, he simply asked “Whatcha doin’?”  Apparently satisfied that Little Cowboy had it all under control, he left him to the task.

This was the story of Cowboy’s life.  Different scenarios throughout the years, of course, but ultimately always the same ending.  And that, as they say, is how a doer “does.” 

Being the doer that Cowboy is, it’s only natural that the same doing gene be passed along to his daughters, right?  Our girls are pretty much doers.  They see a need, they tackle it.  Except for one silly little thing…their dad is not Big Dad.  Cowboy doesn’t turn a blind eye and let them do their thing like his dad did for him. 
Take, for example, the hay rack.  Girl 1 and Girl 2 know that we need a new hay rack, and they are more than willing to build one, but they first must get the okay from Cowboy.  The conversation came up one afternoon as we ate lunch.  It went something like this:

Girl 1:  Do you remember we need a hay rack?

Cowboy:  Yep.

Girl 1:  When can you build it?

Cowboy:  Some day.

Girl 2:  I can build it.

Cowboy:  Oh really?  You know how to use power tools?  You know how to use a saw?  Can you cut a straight line?

Girl 3 (jumping in):  She can’t DRAW a straight line! 

Girl 2 (shooting evil looks at Girl 3):  Sure I can do it.  How hard could it be?  Where are the tools?

Cowboy:  In my trailer.

Girl 2:  What trailer?

Cowboy:  The black trailer.

Girl 2:  (looks at Cowboy with a blank stare)

Cowboy:  The one in front of the barn…the one I take to work…the one you walk past every day…

Girl 2 (as realization dawns):  Oooooooh THAT trailer!  I knew that.  I can do it.

Cowboy:  How will you do it?  How will you draw a straight line?

Girl 2:  I’ll use the little triangle doo-hickey.

Red flags pop up in Cowboy’s mind.  First, she doesn’t know what the tool trailer is, and second, she doesn’t know the name of a speed square.  He laughs, sympathizes a bit, then says no, sorry, no can do.  Cowboy will do it when he has time.  This is where Girl 2 turned it on thick.  You know, all that annoying nagging stuff about being responsible and being able to handle the job and “don’t you trust me” and all that nonsense.  Cowboy didn’t reply, he just sat quietly eating his lunch.  Girl 2 was smiling, obviously thinking that Cowboy’s silence meant he was considering it.  She’d give him a few days to think about it and try again.

Interestingly enough, later that same day, after Girl 1 left to meet a friend, I let Libby-the-big-dog outside to use the facilities and asked Girl 2 to please remember to let her back inside shortly.  Libby, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, likes to roll in manure and eat gross stuff when no one is looking.  An hour later, Libby was scratching at the door, begging to be let in.  Uh-oh.  “EMMA! Why is Libby still outside?”  Oops, she had forgotten.  Ha ha ha, laughs all around, jokes about responsibility and independence. 

And that’s when it happened.  As we were laughing, the grossest of all doggie grossness reared its ugly head…and ears.  Libby walked over to the only piece of carpet we have in the house and without any warning whatsoever, she upchucked a full size, intact rabbit.  In one piece.  Whole.  Except the head.

Cowboy winced.  Girl 2 gagged.  Girl 3 ran away screaming.  I covered my eyes.  Libby sprawled spread eagle on the hardwood floor and sighed.   

This is where Cowboy, in an attempt at full seriousness and with the stern-dad voice he doesn’t generally use, “encouraged” Girl 2 to express her responsible independence in all its blazing glory by picking up the gross headless mess.  I was cheering:  Show him your stuff, Girl 2! Show him you can do it; you can handle it; you are willing and able to manage anything that comes your way; anything boys can do girls can do better!

With a look of complete and utter disgust, she refused. 

I guess this means she won’t be building a hay rack anytime soon either.

Cats Rule, Dogs Drool

The cats rule at this farm.  Every human and animal who lives in the area knows this simple truth.  We have the BAD-est cats this side of the Mississippi, hands down.  Jack and Lola are their names.  There is nothing known to man that  can match them.  They snicker at mice and rats.  They giggle at squirrels and rabbits. They laugh out loud at snakes.  And they frequently poke fun at the dogs.  As for the horses…they simply have no respect for the big lugs who leave huge clods of manure in the big sandbox.

Jack and Lola came to us at a time when we were in desperate need of BAD-ness.  Most of you remember our beloved barn dog, Diamond.   She was a gem.  She kept order.  No one and nothing crossed Diamond.  Everyone and everything knew better.  We thought many times of posting a warning for all creatures great and small: “Strangers Beware: Diamond Rules Here.”  She protected children, adults, horses and little dogs from raccoons, rabbits, squirrels, deer, coyotes, cars, trucks, UPS men, and IRS auditors (true story…and a mighty funny one!). 

In the fall of 2008, when Diamond died, we erroneously thought Diamond’s daughter and partner in rodent crime  fighting, Libby, would pick up where Diamond left off.  Libby was fierce against humans whom she thought were threatening, so surely mother had taught daughter the tricks of the rodent trade as well?  Alas, no. Libby wasn’t cut out for the job of rodent crime fighting.  That fact was made abundantly clear the day we introduced her to the new Chihuahua puppy, Tito. Tito, nearly exploding with curiosity,  ran straight to Libby, looked up at her with tail wagging and his tongue licking 500 licks per second, and bounced with joy…up and down, up and down…DYING to be instant best  friends.  Libby, unsure what to do with this tiny little mass of energy, cowered, whimpered,  and turned to run as fast and as far as she could possibly go to get away from him.  It wasn’t long after that Libby began leaping up into the sill of our family room window, begging to be let inside to watch Criminal Minds with her family.  We gave in of course, suckers that we are.  The house became Doggy Daycare.  The barn turned into Rodent Resort.  

While the dogs were warm and snuggly in front of the fire that winter, the Rodent Convention’s closing announcement was made: “Diamond is gone!” We could hear the cheers as news spread far and wide and rodents moved “en masse” to Jordan’s Crossing.  Mice, rats, chipmunks, squirrels, rabbits, raccoons,…they were all staking claims and taking over.  That’s when Brian put the word out that he needed cats.  Not just any cats, mind you…no, no…only BAAAAAD cats need apply. 

Enter Jack and Lola.  Jack and Lola were siblings out of a momma stray cat roaming my aunt’s neighborhood.  My aunt had been caring for them, offered them to us, and Brian gave them the job.

Jack and Lola quickly accepted their new farm life.  They established napping spots on my front porch rockers, found all the best window screens to use as claw sharpeners, and  left disgusting little look-what-the-cat-drug-in gifts at the back door.  Brian was suspicious of the origin of these gifts.  He wasn’t noticing any decrease in activity in the barn, and was pretty sure the hunts were taking place outside of our property line.  So, one morning as Brian watched Lola venture out to the front pasture, he jokingly hollered “Hey  Lola, there’s plenty to hunt up here by the house!  Why don’t you take care of that mole that is tearing up our back yard?”  She didn’t act as if she heard his plea, but she certainly must have, because when Brian returned home from work that afternoon, a dead mole was waiting for him in the middle of the parking lot.  The rodent activity in the barn slowed considerably after that, the cats were lauded as royalty, and from that point on, the cats have monitored the comings and goings of every breathing creature.

One day, Jack and Lola were sunning on the back patio, taunting the poor Chihuahua, Tito.  Tito, always a bundle of nerves, was begging to be let out to investigate the situation.  I opened the door, and he ran straight for the cats.  The three of them began peaceably scrutinizing each other, so I thought it was  okay to turn my back for two  seconds…just TWO.  Nope.  Immediately, the cry of a tortured puppy reached my ears.  I whirled around to see Tito running toward me, crying like a baby, both cats sitting prim and proper, proudly swishing their tails and smirking.  I could’ve sworn I heard “We don’t know WHAT his problem is…big baby.”

Birds are certainly not off limits for taunting.  I’ve seen both cats leap four feet into the air to bat at them mid-flight.  Humans don’t escape the taunting either.  This winter Lola came into the barn during a riding lesson and dropped a still-live chipmunk at the feet of a student’s parent.  The chipmunk ran around a little bit before Lola bounded after it again. She was of course expecting praise from the visitor, adding a little excitement for drama.  But her plan backfired.  The parent couldn’t stand to watch the event unfolding before her, and she held Lola back until the chipmunk safely escaped the confines of the barn.  Lola looked up at the parent as if to say “Now c’mon…what’d you go and do THAT for?”   

Jack recently began carrying half-dead, still-wiggly snakes  to Brian.  Somehow he found out that Brian hates snakes worse than anything, and I think Jack gains some sort of satisfaction in hearing Brian squeal like a girl.  They’re ruthless, I tell ya…ruthless!

Just yesterday I was sitting on Jack’s front porch rocker with our dog Skip at my feet.  Jack came around the corner and stopped dead in his tracks.  I thought maybe he was suspicious of Skip, but quickly realized he was wondering what in the devil I thought I was doing sitting in his chair.  He walked up to the porch, used my jean-clad leg as a scratching post, then jumped into my lap and lay down.  He obviously wasn’t going to let me get in the way of his afternoon nap.  As I sat reading, Skip gave out an excited yelp and went tearing through the yard, chasing a squirrel up the nearest walnut tree.  Skip sat at the base of the tree, yelping up at the squirrel.  The squirrel sat at the top of the tree, chattering down at Skip.  Jack opened one eye and I think I heard him snicker.  I stroked his back and assured him “Don’t worry. Skip wouldn’t know what to do with that squirrel if he caught him.” Jack closed his eye, swished his tail, and seemed to sigh.  I can’t be sure, but I think he mumbled something akin to “Dogs drool.”

Last evening, someone let our big dog Libby outside and forgot about her.  By the time we realized it, she had found the manure pile and rolled in it repeatedly.  We tried to let her sleep in the garage for the night, but the stench was overwhelming, so Brian escorted her out to the barn and closed her inside...with the cats.  This morning, we awoke to Libby clawing at the kitchen door, whimpering.  We have no idea how she got out of the barn, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Lola held the door open as Jack picked her up by the collar and booted her out.  They’re baaaad cats.  The cats rule.