Stewie is one of my dachshunds--my black with brown points, long-haired doxie. He's about a year old, and in that year has come to love the adventures on my farm. He loves most everything about it, except for the ticks and fleas, which his mommy has found a remedy for, finally. Anyway, here's a bit about how Stewie and his cohort sister, Annie Mae, view life on the farm.
Morning:
"It's a new day: things to do, places to go. Who cares about breakfast as long as I see the outside and get to go potty at 6 AM? I wonder what mommy and sis and I are going to do today, but first I must check the manure pile for tasty horse turds. Come on, Annie! Hurry up! There's a big juicy one on the pile this morning!
"Mommy's picking weeds in the garden, thinning the carrots, admiring the huge red beets, the mounds of lettuce, and rows of onions, beans, cabbages, and garlic. I love to lie under the tomato plants, tree-sized just for me. I help mommy by digging huge holes next to the zinnia path in the vegetable garden. There's very good evidence that badgers reside here, and I need to protect the family.
Afternoon:
"Annie! Let go! We can't both be playing with one stick! And we live in a woods, so you can get your own!
Anyway, now that mommy's done in the garden and is weeding the vinca in front of the house, we can take a nap in the shade of the old golf cart. I don't know why she doesn't want to play with our stick, but she's so focused on pulling weeds she doesn't seem to want to play. I even brought her a branch more her size. We can never roam far because she seems to instinctively know when we are on the scent of a squirrel, and then she hollers at us. And once I tried chasing a cat, and, well, that didn't go over very well. I sat in the house the rest of the day, and I don't like to be in the house. I'd rather be outside. My sister, Annie Mae, doesn't mind very well, so I must lead her back to the house from time to time so that mommy doesn't worry.
Evening:
"Mommy looks so tired. Normally she's very pretty, but after a day working on the farm, her hair is matted, and her fingernails are stained with dirt.
"She eats her salad in my big black chair in the living room, and she's watching this black box on the wall that talks and has people inside it. It's a very weird thing. She gets very upset and yells when this one guy comes into the box and starts talking and swiveling his head from side to side. And his ears are even bigger than mine. She sounds like she's screaming 'MAMA!" but he doesn't look anything like my mama. I don't often see my mommy that angry--except when I chew the squeaky ball out of my new toy. After mommy calms down and that man is out of the black box, Annie and I try to look pathetic and starving as she puts forkful after forkful of food in her mouth. If I try to lick her plate, she barks at me. I know she is as possessive of her food as I and Annie Mae are. I better back off before she begins to growl.
After Annie and I eat our meals, we climb into mommy's lap. She cuddles with us, but I can tell she likes me better than Annie Mae. She talks to me in a low calm voice, and I cradle myself in her arms while Annie licks her face. Sometimes, when Annie licks her, she yells. I don't know why, but then she frantically rubs her lips and spits like one of the house cats. Yet, through it all, I know she loves us because she shows her teeth, and her lips are drawn back, the corners raised.
Soon after mommy takes her bath, she will ask us to "Kennel up," and we will be so obedient and climb into our crates for the night. I'm actually glad to abide because I'm doggone tired from all that weeding in the garden. Whoever said a dog's life was easy was dead wrong--we dachshunds have it 'ruff, ruff, ruff' living on a farm where we must play and sleep all day long.
So, people, I will see you in da morning!"
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