When the cord snaps

Last night I was once again impressed with how easily the thin cord of civilization can be severed. So much depends on those wispy little power lines snaking in from the outside world. Last night, about 1800, they failed.

This is not an unusual thing out here, but I have gotten in the habit of calling it in immediately, since the phone company's line batteries tend to go out very quickly. I keep a little old-fashioned line-powered 'phone handy for just such occasions, even though I can hardly hear the other party. My power coop is aces, and no matter the problem they hustle to get it solved.

About an hour after the juice stopped flowing I fired up the fireplace, since the temp was dropping rapidly from about 28°. I lit the oil lamps, unplugged computers, the VCR and the TV, and settled into a rocker with the iPad for some reading. This was the first time I had the iPad during a power failure and glad I was to have it. The backlight makes reading a delight— reading with oil lamps is not what it's cracked up to be in books about the Good Old Days— and the 10+ hour battery is a comfort. (If you just listen to music on it it will last a lot longer. Sixteen days by one test.) I read from Richard Harding Davis's war correspondent writings until about midnight when I pulled out the couch-bed in front of the f/p and the dogs and I sacked out.

The power popped back on at 0230 this morning and I restarted the furnace. The temp was 15° outside but the house temp had only dropped to 66°, even though I had let the fire go out after we went to bed, thanks to all that good insulation.

I never started the genny. Didn't see the need.

There's nothing like a power failure to bring home how much we depend on that wired-in juice. Just about everything comes to a screeching halt when it fails, especially if it's after dark. It's probably a Good Thing that it happens from time to time to keep us humble. And to remind us to know where the flashlights are and to keep plenty of lamp oil on hand. We live on a thin crust wherever we happen to be.

Prairie raisins

Lots of these around the place. They are essentially everywhere, in various sizes and consistencies. The dogs are connoisseurs, unfortunately, but they are dogs, after all. Some they just sniff at; others they savor. Sheep leave similar gifts and in Ireland I know them as "Kerry raisins."

The deer are still around.

Boy-dogs and "tools"...

All of my males have been fascinated by tools and their use. Murphy, my Rottie, was the tool-champ. If I (or anyone else) was using a tool of almost any type he would be right there, watching. Sometimes when I finished with the tool he would sneak off with it. He did that with hammers, pliers, crescent wrenches, etc. Once he even tried to make away with a small electric drill. Jack is much the same. NONE of my girl-dogs have had any interest whatsoever in tools or "tool process." I find this very interesting.

I found this surprise on my game cam when I checked it y'day...

Yes, Jack, it's another tool.

My daily chuckle

Not a day goes by that my dogs don't give me a good laugh. Usually it's either Mags or Jack, and sometimes both together. This morning there was a mad chase around the place for a few minutes followed by a tug-of-war after Jack found one of their favorite toys in the grass. This struggle went on for a good five minutes with neither competitor giving an inch. Jack is strong enough that he can lift her off the ground and whirl her around. (She likes that apparently.) He's also strong enough to get it away from her with a couple of vicious, neck-wrenching snaps. But he doesn't. It's surprising how careful he is and how much he veils his strength advantage.

It's great fun to watch them enjoying each other.

Come and gone...

The regular firearm deer season is over now, ending at sundown yesterday, and I didn't "harvest" a deer during it. I had many opportunities, as they were literally all over the place at all hours.

But if I change my mind we have a month-long muzzleloader season for me to remedy my malfeasance.

I think one of the problems is that I still have venison in the freezers from last year and I don't like even the appearance of being greedy or unappreciative. I also hunt very much by the feelings of the moment. Is it "right," or not. And so far it hasn't felt "right."

Been Gone

I've been "off-duty" for a while. Hard to believe it has been that long.

Our little house on the prairie is sailing into the teeth of winter now, which comes on apace. It continues to be a strange fall— one day being a balmy 60° with lovely sun and little wind and the next morning it will be 10° at sun-up. It certainly keeps things interesting.

Jack is back. Same ol' lovable Jack but a sharper dude in the field, and stylish too. He's been used to daily exertion and bugs me no end when he doesn't get his ration of run-and-search. I was a bit concerned about him when I got him home as he was very thin. "Skin and bones" would not have been un-apt. But when I weighed him I found that he had lost just a single pound. I would have sworn at least ten. Everything had been turned to hard muscle and it all showed when he moved.

I'm a firm believer in lean dogs, but he was a bit too lean for my taste so I have been building him up a bit with special fatty beef stews over his kibble and that sort of thing. He's already looking better to my eyes. I never want him to be fat, but I do want him to have a bit of reserve.

The regular firearm deer season here ends tomorrow. I have had at least twenty opportunities to take one and have yet to do so. I'm just not as keen on it as I once was, and I guess I am waiting for a sign that "this is the one"— which hasn't come yet.

I can't believe the holiday season is once more upon us. And soon it will be over and we can say Another one down!

Jack goes back to skool

Yesterday my boy Jack went away for his last semester at Burd Dawg Skool. I'm already missing him, a lot. So is Mags, as they are great buddies and playmates. Jack's constantly happy approach to life, his merry pranks, and his gentle good-heartedness have become an essential part of the household and I'm already thinking about how nice it will be to have him back. But he won't be coming home 'til November and we just have to deal with it.

Real estate transfers

Quite a lot of that going on yesterday, with my county contributing to the land mass of the county northwest of us and the county southeast of us giving us a good bit of their ground in return. Sandstorm of major proportions, with winds in excess on 50MPH. Whole lot of dirt in the air, giving the sky an eerie, almost otherworldly look. A kind of amber haze that seemed like "High Plains smog." Would have been quite a sight from the air if you could have seen anything at all.

Rain, rain, glad to see ya, but...

We wanna come in now!

Our second day of rain, and dreary overcast skies. It was 37° this morning at 630AM and only 39° at noon. The roads to the wee towns south of me will be impassable by now. They become a morass with extended rain, defying even 4WD vehicles and experienced back-country drivers.

The dogs don't even want to stay outside very long. Just to tend to bizness and come right back in for some more couch time. A day of this is OK with Jack; two days become marginal; on the third day he becomes extremely anxious to get outside for some serious exercise. So far he is being very good. And patient. Emma is always good about this sort of thing and Mags, of course, being a little homebody, doesn't much care one or the other.

It's supposed to taper off tonight and give us a drying wind for the next few days. If that happens, then by Sunday or Monday the roads should be navigable once again.

Jack and the Gophers

This has been a bad year for the Northern Pocket Gopher (Thomomys talpoides). Perhaps I should rephrase that. It has been a good year for them, and a bad year for me where they are concerned. Last year they pretty much gave us a pass. This year they were everywhere, making their wandering semi-circles of pock-holes all over my front yard, in the garden, everywhere. I've managed to pot a few, from the deck, with a rested scoped rimfire off a bag, but it's inefficient work. They only pop their heads up for a second or two at a time while they are cleaning the loose dirt out of their burrow. And they only do that for a few minutes of the day.

Jack thinks they are fun. He's a digger and loves to throw a spume of sand and dirt behind him. And can he ever dig! It takes him no time at all to dig a tank trap in the yard that I could drop the mower into. I try to discourage that, since he never catches one and also never fills in his holes.

But if he finds a fresh hole he can be shoulder deep in it in about thirty seconds, so I have to watch him pretty carefully. If he ever actually catches one with his excavations I am afraid the fever will be upon him and I can kiss my yard goodbye.

Tired of weeding!

If weeds were edible (and I guess some are) there would be no world food problem. I could probably feed all of Bangladesh out of my little garden plot, at least this year I might've as they seemed especially vigorous and fast-growing.

I know there are many schemes to avoid or defeat weeds, but next year I am going to try a containerized garden. I have quite a few of those heavy-duty "lick tubs" that ranchers use to feed specialized nutrients to their cattle. One of my neighbors has a huge stockpile of the really good ones (heavy resin or plastic construction— almost indestructible) and said I could have all I want.

So Jack and I took a ride today. Only about 25 miles round trip, but we ended up with some nice containers for next year, and the promise of more if we want them.

The Little Man

Anyone who has visited this blog more than once or twice knows that dogs are, and have been, a very important part of my life. I have been enormously privileged to have lived with some really fine dogs. By fine I do not breeding, pedigrees, and the like. I mean character, intelligence, and spirit.

In the last couple of decades I have been unusually lucky to know six such very special friends. Casting no aspersions on my present house-mates, the finest of them all was Murphy, who died in 2007, prematurely from a particularly vicious form of cancer.

The other day I was going through some boxes of stuff and found this little portrait I did of him right after he came to live with me in 1999. He's eight or nine weeks here and I believe I can already see the keen intelligence and sensitivity that would characterize his life. He was by far the smartest, most savvy four-legged I have ever known and his instincts, particularly about people, were always spot-on. He also had the most wonderful, complex sense of humor. He very quickly earned the nickname "The Little Man." I used to joke that he was not really a dog, but a pure soul on his journey to his next level. Well, I say I was joking anyway.

It's been four years since he went on ahead, I hope to find a shady spot for us under some trees next to a mountain stream. I miss him terribly.