Peace Offering

Our little girls are very smart.  I'm not saying this just because they are mine, but they are verrrrry smart.  However, 'smart' and 'intelligent' do not always coincide. 

Example: Loopie knows the rules..... she just chooses not to always follow them.  She likes to drag things from our shop into the great outdoors and then watch me go on a scavenger hunt in our front yard.  A few weeks ago, one of these "episodes" happened.  I looked at the half-used sack of potting soil, looked at Loopie, and then looked back to the sack.  She got the idea that she was about to get in all sorts of trouble and took off like a flash.  I cleaned up the mess and went back into the house.  A few hours later I heard something hit our kitchen door that leads into the shop.  I opened the door to find a leg bone from some poor deceased calf laying on our doormat. 

When I say leg bone I don't mean from a newborn or six inches long or even clean.  No, this was one for the record books.  This monstrosity had taken considerable time and effort to drag the few hundred yards from the dead pile to our door.  It went clear from the hip to the hoof and still had a considerable amount of hair on it.  Five foot from the door mat was Loopie, laying on concrete floor, making sure I understood that it was from her. 

Peace offering #1

Example:
Loopie did not come when Wes called last night and as a result did not get to sleep in her comfy pen and doghouse with Laurie last night.  Well, at least the entire night.  She started to bark incessantly at the coyotes at about 2 this morning.  I finally could not take it anymore and proceeded to throw on my bathrobe and mudboots and wade across our rain soaked yard and put her in the pen.  She got the hint that I was less than thrilled with her. 

I let the girls out this morning, go about my morning routine in the house..... hear something hit the kitchen door.  I open the door and.....

Wait for it....

A petrified racoon skull. 

She gets extra points for originality and creativity, if nothing else.  How am I supposed to stay mad?!

The Little Girls

Wes and I have no real children (yet) and so we have become 'those dog people'.  You know the ones I'm talking about.  Pictures on their phones always shown a little too eagerly, talking about their personalities as if they were human and joining conversations with mothers of real children with phrases like, "Oh really?  My dog does that too!" or "Yeah, we had that same potty training problem with our little ones too".  Some find it endearing.  Some just walk away. 

Loopie and Laurie are our two blue heeler females and our main source of entertainment.  Their dog pen where they sleep at night is situated not twenty feet from our bedroom window.  Every morning I get out of bed, open the window and say, "Good morning girls!" in the most chipper voice that I possibly can.  I feel that it helps get the day started off on the right foot.  Right before Easter I had to take them to the vet to get fixed, ensuring their would never be any 'accidents'.  (Not that we don't loooove puppies, but we're realistic and know that we have a houseful the way we are now.)  Every morning I'd walk to the window, pause, sigh, and keep walking.  Wes would lift his head off his pillow, shake it, and sigh.  Only I think he sighed for different reasons. 

After Easter at my folks we came home and commenced to settle into our daily routine once again.  Monday morning bright and early I popped out of bed, walked by the window and paused, contemplating not telling the girls good morning and perhaps sparing Wes and his sanity.  As I stared out the window I heard Wes' growly voice behind me, "Dammit - just do it.  You know you want to."  And I turned around just in time to see him roll over and duck his head underneath his pillow.  I know he loves me, you just can't always tell.

Example of conversation:
"I bought my son a toy and all he did was play with the box!"
"Really?  I buy my little girls toys too, but their favorite thing is playing tug-of-war with a dead coyote's tail!  How funny that our little tykes are so similar!"  (Okay, I never take it quite THAT far.)

How did this happen???

I'm not sure where to begin.  First, I feel that I should lay down some ground rules.  This is my blog and therefore you must abide by my rules, regardless of rationality. 

1.  Spelling/grammatical errors are acceptable, though not encouraged.  I will TRY to utilize spell check and similar features, but no promises. 

2.  Timeliness is not of the essence.  I shall blog only when I want, on what I want.  This is not a newspaper so I have no deadlines to meet.  Please do not ever have expectations. 

3.  We lead rather boring lives.  (Actually, I love our little life that we've created together, but I always feel the need to apologize for the lack of trips overseas, the meeting of dignitaries, etc.)  If you don't appreciate the wonderfulness of our simplistic existence, please leave and never come back. 

Well, I believe that should cover most of the basics. 

Again, I have no idea where to begin or how this all started.  I always knew I would be a rancher's wife.  Period.  Just like I always knew I'd be a vet and make millions of dollars.  (So far my batting average is not that high...)  Growing up I never realized that being the 'wife' meant I would also have to be the behind-the-scenes coordinator.  If Dad wanted to go to the pasture I could always drop absolutely everything I was doing and immediately go with him.  Not the case these days. 

Example: 
One evening last week I am in the midst of a huge bake-a-thon.  Homemade sugar cookies with browned butter frosting (my first attempt ever at frosting from scratch) and sprinkles.  And then, to show off my superior homemaker skills I was going to make a loaf of bread that would be fresh from the oven right at supper time.

From time to time I have these momentary lapses with grasping reality and I failed to realize that:
1.  I would have to be at the house, uninterrupted, for an extended period of time.
2.  Wes never comes home at 'supper time'.  Not that I grew up in this sort of home, but I have always clung to this fantasy of Leave it to Beaver and watching a husband stroll through the door at 5:15 and sit down to a perfectly cooked three course meal.  In reality, its usually about four hours after this time when he comes home to something that can easily be reheated. 

Sooooooo, as I'm nearly elbow-deep kneading my dough, Wesley barges in and asks me to come transfer equipment from the hayfield back to the house with him.  Now.  I called Mom to see what I might do to salvage my hard work, knowing that perhaps she had been in a similar situation before.  Perhaps..... oh I crack myself up.... 

Long story short, the loaf never materialized and I've yet to reattempt this venture.  Stay tuned!  (Yes, these are the little things that I live for these days.) 

Ooooh!  More rules!
4.  Stories will digress according to my discretion.  I try to reread my stories to make sure that one can keep up with me, theoretically, but no promises.  I feel that this first post may serve as an adequate example of future endeavors.