Maggie Demands Equal Time

I write a lot about our camelid residents, but Maggie has informed me that I've been remiss.  I have excluded our canine residents (but really, they kept saying they weren't quite ready for their close-ups).

This is my beautiful pup, Maggie.  We met at a pet rescue.  She was originally billed as a lab/Weimaraner mix, but based on several key characteristics, the vet told us that she is a lab/greyhound mix .  As she's gotten older, the "lab" part has come to the fore, and the "greyhound" part of the mix has capitulated to gravity and middle-aged spread (kind of like me).  Ultimately, though, we'd most accurately classify her as a "goodie-hound".

Maggie is a nurse-dog.  If you're home sick, or if you're sad, or if you're just out of sorts, she will snuggle close to you with a very worried expression, as if to say, "Are you okay?  Are you okay?  Can I get you anything?  Ooh, squirrel!......Are you okay?  Can I get you anything?  Just a second....shiny thing!  So are you okay?"

Maggie is where all toys containing squeakies go to die.  She's never met a squeaker she couldn't get out of a plush toy.  With absolute focus, and single-minded purpose, she will nibble (with her front teeth) at the seams of any toy containing a squeaker until she creates a hole large enough to extract the squeaker.  She will then gnaw on the squeaker until it squeaks no more. 

Maggie also has a very keen sense of style.  When she and another of our canine residents were arguing about who was top dog, she got a couple of puncture wounds on her chest.  The vet had to shave her chest and insert drainage tubes, in order to make sure the wounds didn't get infected.  We needed to cover the tubes so that they wouldn't catch on anything, so our solution was to have her wear a T-shirt of Jerry's.  She LOVED that T-shirt.  She pranced around like a runway model, and thought she was Tyra Banks.  To this day, any time Jerry gets a T-shirt out, she gets so excited she can't sit still.  Kind of like how I feel at a DSW sale.

She sleeps on our bed, and if she thinks we've stayed up too late, she will perform what we call "doggie turn-down service".  In order to get us to come to bed, she'll drag ALL of the blankets down to the bottom of the bed, as if to say, "Look, I've got it all ready for you.  Hurry up so I can continue my nap!"

She is sitting outside my office right now, waiting for me to get done with this post, because she's decided it's bed time.  I'd better go, or I'll end up re-making the entire bed.

Bonding with the Boys

I love it when I get bonding time with the boys.  I feel that it enriches all of our lives.  I feel as though they've let me into their secretive, alpaca club when they let me get close to them.  Here's what bonding looks like at Dunwill Farm:

Hello, Atticus!

Hello, Mizzie!

Hello, Solomon!

Hello, Goldie!

Quality time is a precious thing.  Maybe someday they'll like me even when I don't shamelessly buy their affection with 'Paca Pellets.

Good Night

Good night, girls.

Good night, Harry.

Good night, Goldie.

Good night, Mizzie.

Good night, Atticus.

Good night, Solomon.

Good night, back yard.

Good night, stubborn blackberries.

Good night, pond.

Good night, fish.

See you all tomorrow.

Alpaca Pedicures

We'd put it off long enough.  Those boys needed their toenails cut.  But how would we go about it?  The way I saw it, we had three options:
1. Have the vet make a house call and do it for us ($$$).
2. Hire someone to do it for us ($$).
3. Do it ourselves ($).

Anyone who knows me, or indeed, anyone who's read a few of these posts, knows that I'm a cheapskate, AND, I don't let the fact that I've never done something before get in the way of just diving into it headfirst.  As long as there are YouTube videos and how-to websites available, I'll be game to try pretty much anything but a DIY appendix removal. 

After researching carefully (see the aforementioned YouTube and how-to website references), I knew what I needed.  I needed super-sharp trimmers, a place to restrain the alpacas, and help.  Actually, what I really needed was two Long Island Iced Teas and a nap, until the urge to do this task passed. 

You remember the scene in "Top Gun" when the fighter pilots walked out onto the flight deck in slow motion, with the theme song playing majestically in the background, and you just knew that the best and brightest our country had to offer was headed off to defend freedom and the American Way?  Yeah, well, we didn't look anything like that as we headed for the pasture.

Jerry and I clomped out to the pasture in our rubber boots, I with clippers in hand, and Jerry with lengths of PVC pipe.  It was an awesome display.  The herd was intimidated.  Not.

As an aside: when we fenced in the new pasture, the section of fence between the old and new pastures did not attach perpendicularly to the outside fence.  It veered off oddly to form a little triangular section that could easily be barricaded using two long PVC pipes stuck through the wire.  We really did leave it like this purposely, figuring that at some point, we'd need to corral the boys, and also figuring that they wouldn't fall for the old "wander innocently into the shelter" gag more than once.

We used the lengths of PVC to herd the boys toward the corner.  They move as a pack, so where Atticus went, the others followed.  Once they were all squished into the corner, we let three go and held one hostage. 

Jerry and I had developed our strategy beforehand--he would hold the alpaca, and I would clip the toenails.  Jerry was going to use a "bracelet" hold on the alpaca's neck, which would render said alpaca immobile.  I would then carefully coax the alpaca to lift one leg at a time, and swiftly clip the toenails.

Solomon was our first victim.  Jerry got him held in the bracelet hold, and I bent down to lift Solomon's back leg.  I expected active resistance, but I didn't expect passive resistance--as in, leaning his whole weight on my back as I struggled to get his foot into position.  So, Jerry had Solomon in what could only be termed at this point to be a sleeper hold (the bracelet hold flew out the window immediately) and I clipped the toenails of the alpaca, who was laying ON MY BACK.  The game, "Twister", had nothing on us.

Yes, he was laughing at us the whole time.  Doesn't he look pleased with himself?  We got three of the four feet clipped, with Jerry keeping Solomon in the head lock, and me being crushed with 150 lbs of dead-weight alpaca.  By foot #4, Solomon had turned passive resistance into active resistance, and he broke free.  I tried to coax him back with promises of foot massages (yes, there is a lady on YouTube who gives her alpacas foot massages), but he wasn't buying it.

One down, three to go.  Ashley came wandering out, and we recruited her for our mission.  Sucker.  We did the same thing, guiding (chasing) the herd around the pasture and into the corner again.  We got smart this time, and decided to halter the selected victim (Mizzie) for ease of handling.  But we made the mistake of thinking we'd save time by moving Mizzie to the halter, rather than the halter to Mizzie.  I keep trying to tell Jerry that when the alpaca breaks free, LET GO.  Jerry is a stubborn man.  Now, Jerry is a stubborn man with a Mizzie footprint on his chest.  Yes, he fell down, wouldn't let go of the alpaca, and got stomped for his troubles.  

I was a little concerned about how we were going to clip all of Mizzie's feet, since due to his bionic shoulder, his right front leg (front passenger side leg) is a little shorter than the others, and he lists to that side.  I wasn't sure how much weight he could put on the affected leg if I had one of his back legs up.  I needn't have worried.  Not only could Mizzie lift the back leg, he could KICK with the back leg.  Sorry, Ashley. 

Mizzie 2; Dunhams 0.  Jerry has a Mizzie print on his chest, Ashley has one on her stomach.  Have I yet mentioned that sometimes, it's good to be the person doing the clipping, rather than the person doing the alpaca-holding?

Although, I had troubles of my own with MIzzie.  He really is a stubborn little thing.  I solved the troubles completely by accident, though.  I was trying to get him to hold his back foot still.  It just so happened that when I held his foot with the hand closest to his body, the angle forced my elbow into his....."man-bits".  He was suddenly very, very still.  Huh.  Works with all species, I guess.

Once Mizzie was done, we chased the alpacas around the pasture again, and once again cornered them.  Atticus was starting to look a little sheepish--I mean, getting trapped once was bad enough, but three times???

Golden was the next victim.  We had ambitious plans for Goldie.  His toenails were by far the worst of the lot, AND his front teeth needed to be trimmed (more YouTube research had been done).  The most popular method of tooth trimming was using a Dremel tool.  Some people used an OB-wire, but try finding one of THOSE at short notice.  So, we had the Dremel primed and ready.  Feet first, then the teeth.

Goldie was not amenable to either of the processes.  He was the worst of the lot when it came to his feet.  He pulled Solomon's trick of passive lounging, and Mizzie's trick of random kicks.  By then, Jerry, Ashley, and I were tired, sore, and heartily sick of alpacas.  Goldie's toenails were much worse than the others' had been, and I did the best I could, but I'm going to have to work on his gradually, due to how much they'd overgrown.  By the time we were done wrestling him to get his toenails trimmed, we knew his teeth would have to wait for another day. 

Thank goodness Atticus' toenails didn't need trimming.  I think it will take at least two weeks before our bruises fade.  Maybe then we'll try to trim Goldie's teeth.

Did They Miss Us?

It's hard to tell if the boys missed us while we were gone this weekend. 

Do these look like the faces of boys who missed us?

Does this look like the face of someone who missed us?

It's hard to tell....they're not very talkative.  And "hmmmm, hmmmm, hmmmm" can be interpreted in many ways.  I'll let you decide.

The Most Beautiful Place on Earth....and a Bird

I love the Oregon coast.  To me, there's no more beautiful place on earth.  I love everything about it--the long, sandy beaches, the funky little towns, the smell of the ocean and dead fish--it's the best. 

While Jerry and Erin are deep sea fishing, I have most of the day to myself.  This was an unusual phenomenon in my life.  Even if I'm home by myself, it's not really "by myself", and there's rarely "free" time, with nothing to do.  At home, I fidget.  I do laundry, play with the dogs, read, work, go out and annoy the alpacas, etc.  Today, however, I am in a new town, in a hotel room, and filled with the nagging sensation that I should go somewhere so that housekeeping doesn't have to work around me. 

So I did what any person would do.  I made the bed (I blame my mother for this little habit of making the bed, even though I know it will be stripped and remade in about 5 minutes), got dressed, and jumped in Velda Van to go explore. 

Garibaldi is a busy little town, and the best thing about it, I think, is that it's REAL.  There isn't a whole lot of tourist-y stuff going on.  Mostly, it's real people, earning a real living by fishing, working at the cannery, or working at the lumber mill that's located just a few steps from our hotel.

Sure, there's the requisite knick-knack shops, restaurants, and myrtlewood stores, but from what I can tell, at its essence, Garibaldi is a fishing town.  The harbor marina, literally 20 feet from the front door of our room, is constantly busy.  Boats coming in, boats going out.  There are recreational fishing boats, charters, and what appear to be commercial fishing boats going in and out of the harbor at a brisk pace.

I pointed Velda north, toward Rockaway.  We tooled along Hwy 101 for a while, and before I knew it, I was in Wheeler.  This looked like a cute little town that I'd like to explore, but I wanted to wait for Jerry, because he'd love to see the little bay front area.  Maybe we'll go up there tomorrow and rent a little boat for a few hours....

On my way back, I noticed a sign for Manhattan State Park, and it had a small accompanying sign that indicated that it had beach access.  It's been a while since I walked on the beach, so I decided to try it out.  Once I got to the beach, this is what I saw:

And this:

How amazing!  How beautiful! 

I took off walking north, and the wind was pretty strong.  It was fun to look at the footprints and imagine who had walked there, and how recently.  I turned around and looked at my footprints, wondering if a forensic scientist could examine them and guess how much I weigh.  I resisted the temptation to find a stick and run back and obliterate my footprints. Then I turned back around and looked where I was walking, because as we established yesterday, gravity is not my friend this weekend, and I didn't want to trip over seaweed and end up with a mouthful of sand.  I caught sight of my shadow, and was pleased to note that it looked somewhat svelte.  I surmised that, if I was 9 feet tall, like my shadow, I'd look pretty darned hot. 

When I was in my early twenties, I would often spend weekends at the coast by myself, just basking in the beauty of the ocean, and contemplating great, metaphysical things, like, "What is the meaning of life?" and, "Why am I here?" and, "Where do I fit into the grand scheme of the universe?" and, "Dear God, please tell me that Keanu Reeves is my soul mate..."

I think adulthood (or maybe cynicism, raising teenagers, and having just finished a book on criminal profiling of serial killers) does something to your brain.  It makes you less idealistic, less whimsical, less trusting in the innate goodness of one's fellow man.  I say this because today, even though I was by myself, closer to God than I've been in months, lost in the vastness of the empty beach, with the wind in my hair and salt water on my face, all I could think of was, "What a great day.  I don't have any chores, I don't have anything I HAVE to do.  Someone else is re-making my bed.  I hope they put another of those yummy-smelling vanilla coconut-scented soaps on the vanity.  I'm out here on the beach, no one around for miles...wait--no one around for miles--do I have my car keys?  Do I have my inhaler?  Do I have my phone?  Do I have cell service?  Does that dune look like a good place for a homicidal maniac to hide my dead body?  Okay, get over yourself and focus on the beauty around you.  Anyway, I'm here, sharing my adventure with.....a dead bird." 

Yes, out of all the places on the vast, empty beach I could have sat down, I chose to plop myself next to a dead bird.  Poor bird.  I started contemplating the fleeting nature of life and the great circle of life--dead bird, flies, parasites, more flies....  I tried to get metaphysical, but really, all I could think was, "Glad I'm not that bird." 

Jerry: 1; Me: 0

So we're over at the Oregon Coast for the weekend.  The weather is pretty nice for mid-October, with a few sprinkles here and there, but also with some occasional sun breaks.  The fog burned off, and it's a clear view into Tillamook Bay. 

We took a lot of detours, one of which was the Old Scenic Hwy 101, because there was an accident on Hwy 18, close to the 101 junction.  I hightly recommend the trip--beautiful rainforest views, a narrow little road, and sheer drop-offs (which, for some reason, Jerry doesn't like.  Apparently, I hug the side of the road when I drive.  Whatever.  I just like to make sure he's still awake by running over the rumble strips at the edge of the road.  In the case of our detour, there were no rumble strips, just a narrow band of soft, squishy moss that you hit just before you plunge to your death over the cliff...) 

We also took the 3 Capes Scenic Route, but unfortunately we started in Tillamook, and came back to Hwy 101 considerably south of where we started.  Jerry sees this as a navigational failure, since our ultimate destination was Garibaldi (north of Tillamook).  I see it as a beautiful drive that took us in a large circle.  And since I was driving, we will, going forward, see it MY way.

We've checked in to the Harbor View Motel, a little motel, coincidentally, on the harbor in Garibaldi.   The harbor in Garibaldi is very busy.  Lots and lots of boats coming in and out of the water.  Lots of people dressed in rain gear with rubber boots.  Jerry brought his rain gear and rubber boots, too.  He'll fit right in.  I did make him knock the 'paca poo off of the bottoms of his boots before he put them in the van.  The room is clean and homey.  It has wi-fi.  I'm set.  It has a little one-cup coffee maker.  Jerry's set.

Tomorrow, Jerry and Erin will brave the frigid waters of Tillamook Bay and the Pacific Ocean for an 8 hour deep reef fishing trip.  I will sleep in, read, and just generally have a relaxed and lovely day.  Mmmmm....sleeping in....

The charter boat they're taking is literally 300 feet from the front door of our hotel room.  Even Jerry, with his dismal sense of direction, should be able to find it in the dark. 

He is definitely primed and ready to go fishing.  He even convinced me to stop at the Barview Jetty, a little park just north of Garibaldi, so that he could "practice" fishing.  Yes, we brought ALL of Jerry's fishing tackle, two poles, and a big, greatly optimistic styrofoam cooler, so that he can store all the fish he plans to catch. 

Since I do NOT fish, I thought I'd still try to be a supportive wife by at least going out with him and reading while he fished.  We parked, and Jerry scampered out of the van to throw his line in.  Excuse me, CAST.  I've been duly corrected.  I noticed that the area we were in had large rocks that went from the parking lot to the water (I believe the technical term for this type of terrace/barrier is "rip-rap").  I saw that Jerry made it down with no problems.  I figured I'd do the same. 

What I forgot to take into account was that I was wearing my super-cute, super-comfy, brown leather, platform B.O.C. clogs.  With 3-inch heels.  I was also carrying my precious Kindle, and fighting off a way-too-curious yellowjacket.  I made it halfway down the rocks.  Jerry had already thro--CASTED, and his attention was completely absorbed on the end of his line. 

You know that sinking feeling of impending doom that you get when you realize (too late) that your plan is fatally flawed, and a trip to the emergency room may be in your immediate future?  Yeah, that one.  I had a fleeting moment to recognize that feeling before my ankle twisted and gravity took over.  As we're all aware, gravity is NOT my friend.  My right knee hit a particularly pointy rock, and the rest of me just crumpled in a blobby sort of heap. 

I did manage to save my Kindle, and I think the yellowjacket was so disgusted with my embarrassing display of clumsiness that he went to find more coordinated, and ultimately more challenging, prey. 

And what did Jerry do?  NOTHING.  He didn't even know I fell until I (very loudly) pointed it out to him. 

"Huh?" was his response.

"I fell!  Didn't you hear me, or somehow sense, with that special hyper-awareness that only happens between true soulmates, that your beloved was in distress??"  It's possible that I screeched that question.

"You what?  Just a second....I think I have a bite," he answered absentmindedly.

"I COULD HAVE DIED!!!" I calmly observed.  Or not. 

When he finally turned around, it was to find me sprawled on the rocks like a lumpy bag of dirty laundry.  He was surprised that I was still sitting there, but I figured that if this is where my nemesis, Gravity, put me, I'd better stay there.  It's safer for everyone that way.

Jerry's ahead on points so far, but the weekend is young.