Blue Heron Farm Alpacas

March 16, 2011: How is it possible that nine months have gone by since I last updated life on the farm? Time flies when you're having fun, I guess. In the spring, I added Suzie to the alpaca herd -- she was born the same time as the baby I lost in fall 2009 -- and she's a strawberry blonde, so eventually I will have black, grey and apricot fleece and yarn.

And I have actually sold some yarn from Edmund, Gazelle and Audrey -- last year I made $82.50. (The processing cost about $450.) A thriving business!

At the end of June, in 90-degree heat, there was a dog crisis. I got a phone call at 6:30 am on a Tuesday from a kind neighbor telling me that he thought Faith and Dolly were about a mile and a half down the road. I checked the barn -- no Pyrenees. Sure enough, they had taken a little trip in the night -- a first -- and were visiting the Wrenns. With much effort (they don't know from cars), I got them loaded and home, found the place in the fence where I think they escaped, and fixed it. But on Thursday morning, they were gone again. I drove the neighborhood, talked to the folks who had first called me, talked to other neighbors, posted on the Chatham Chatlist (a local message board and invaluable source of gossip, political intrigue, school sports scores,  lost and found pets and more), and drove around some more. And some more.

No big white dogs. (That's Faith above and Dolly below.) I fixed the obvious breach in the fence (the other one, the one I hadn't noticed on Tuesday) and worried they wouldn't be able to get back in if they came back the way they went out. By Saturday morning, I was desperate and despairing. I was cleaning up at the barn when a man I'd never seen before walked up. He said his name was Walter and, because he has Pyrenees, he'd gotten a call from his sister that morning saying that she and a neighbor of hers had spotted two dogs in her pasture and was Walter missing any? Turns out Walter drives along Flint Ridge Road frequently, so he had seen Faith and Dolly in my pasture as he passed by. Were they missing? I followed him to the expansive horse farm about two miles away where they'd been spotted, and we tramped through pasture after pasture after pasture. No luck.

We went to his sister's place and asked her for specifics. She came back with us and pointed us toward a distant grove of trees where she and the farm owner had seen the dogs. Sure enough -- there they were. I managed to get a leash on Dolly, walked her up to the barn and put her in a horse stall. When I returned, however, it was clear that Faith was not budging -- in fact probably could not budge, she was that exhausted and overheated. So Walter went to his sister's place and returned on a tractor pulling a big mowing bed. (I don't think even a four-wheel-drive truck could have reached the remote spot.) We got Faith on the bed (no easy feat, since she weighs more than I do), I climbed on and held her, and we made it back up to the barn and got both girls into the car. After effusive thanks -- these folks had spent their whole Saturday morning helping me -- I got the dogs home. But we weren't out of the woods yet. Dolly seemed okay -- she's younger and smaller -- but Faith did not. She wasn't moving, just panting. I read about heat stroke in my dog-vet book and took her temperature. It was 107. I called the  vet. Following his instructions, I soaked her with the hose and put ice packs in her armpits. Slowly, the temperature began to come down. (The vet had cheerfully told me that 107 isn't necessarily fatal in a dog, and he wished me luck.) She was virtually immobile and lethargic for two or three days, but finally she bounced back. I don't think she's going wandering again any time soon.

Shadow had been in declining health -- he hadn't been able to go on walks for months -- and by the beginning of July, his hindquarters were just not working. If I lifted him into a standing position, he could get to the food bowl, but he couldn't stand by himself. If he was on his feet, he would try to get out the dog door, but he couldn't make it. So on a Wednesday, I took him to the vet and let him go. The process was very quick and very peaceful.

The following Monday, Beau walked down the driveway. The god of dogs had apparently noticed there was an opening. Beauregard (he's a southern gentleman, after all) is a chocolate lab, probably about a year and a half old, and he had a collar on but no tags. I called the shelter, posted on the Chatlist and polled the neighbors -- no takers. So I took him to the vet and discovered he had heartworms. Which is treatable to the tune of about $500, which is probably why he was dumped in my lap. So we fixed him, then treated the heartworms, and now he's just fine -- a wonderful, loving, slobbery addition to the family -- with just a few quirks.

He splashes in any body of water -- muddy ditches, even the tiny fountain in the garden -- and he chews. No, he  really chews. While I was away for a long weekend for a mini-family reunion at the end of July, he ate a couch. Down to the frame. (I have too much furniture for this house anyway.) And when I was in New York in September, he started in on the record collection. When I'm in the house, he's fine, but any absence longer than, say, half an hour, results in scattered wastebaskets and general mayhem. So he goes into his crate if I'm off to a meeting or a dentist appointment or somewhere I can't take him. I carefully introduced him to Faith and Dolly so he can come along when I'm doing barn chores, and the alpacas no longer react with alarm to his presence. The geese are back, and he happily joins them for a swim in the pond.

On the subject of too much furniture, I have discovered a wonderful thing: a storage unit. So the house no longer looks like it's edging into hoarder territory, and the barn is no longer hosting two very nice dining tables. (My friend Pam visited over Labor Day and convinced me to acquire a utility table for the tack room and move the good tables into storage. She's a wise woman.)

I went to Los Angeles for Thanksgiving, first Beau-proofing the house to within an inch of its life. No accessible records (I thought), everything chewable behind closed doors. So he found some remaining vinyl and then pulled books out of the bookcases and ate them. And the door off a printer. And shredded the slipcover on the love seat. I'm beat. Next time I take a trip, Beau is going to the kennel.

As I was getting ready for the flight home from LA, I got a call from my neighbor Pat who does dog duty in my absence. Clint couldn't get up. This had happened before, and I had gotten him into a carpeted area (more traction), and after a little time, he would be up and about again. I had asked the vet about it, worrying that it might be a stroke, and was told that strokes are very rare in dogs. More likely just something temporary going on with his spine. But this time he couldn't maintain a standing position even if he was lifted onto his feet, and it wasn't temporary. He was still down -- on newspapers in the bedroom -- when I arrived home on Monday. I got him to the vet, who gave him a shot of cortisone and some pain killer and kept him overnight. But he still couldn't stand the next morning, so I held him while the vet put him to sleep. Like Shadow, he was 15 or 16, but it still hurt to let him go.

So I'm down to four dogs in the house, which is plenty. (A replacement did not arrive on this occasion -- that would have been really spooky.)

December and January were ridiculously cold for this area, but then the daffodils started blooming in February and now -- mid-March -- the forsythia and the ornamental pears and the cherry trees are in their full glory, and soon the redbud and the dogwood will be. And the grass in the pasture will come in (please, god -- the horses and alpacas are still going through a bale and a half of hay a day), and it will be time to mow the lawn. And all's right with the world.