I’m Thankful For…

Front door sunny day view

This post has absolutely nothing to do with the Thanksgiving holiday coming up.

And then, it has everything to do with it.

That wasn’t my intent this afternoon.

Its not really my style and we sometimes don’t even celebrate because Canadian Thanksgiving was last month and often we aren’t even together for the holiday.

Its because I’m thankful that Steve started.

There’s more to the story.

HRH Sport Fyfe… “sorry about that!”

You see, I woke up at 5:38am to the sound of Sport, our Siamese cat, puking on our bedroom carpet.

I have always said I’d make a million bucks if I knew how to design an alarm clock that sounded like a cat barfing. Nothing gets me out of bed faster than that.

So it was a bit of an early, bleary start but the sun was out.

Ahhhhh… its not Hawaii but it can be quite pretty here

My freshly tanned-in-Hawaii body got a shock last week when we suddenly got a frigid blast of winter. It was expected and all but, damn, it has been cold.

Our creek is still open under the ice

Continuing on with my stellar morning, the big tractor’s battery was completely dead (surprise!) and I had to feed horses who are in separate pastures because 2 of them won’t cross the creek and its not like I can force them because they are kind of big so its obviously going to require me to bond with those damned square bales again.

“I don’t want to get my hooves wet.”

If Steve starts.

Steve is our Ranger.

He is, at times, my savior.

If he starts.

STEVE!

You see, the shit usually hits the fan when Alistair is on his 2 weeks of working in North Dakota.

Its at those times I need something like Steve to rely on.

That’s when I get tractors or trucks stuck or the hot water tank dies or horses founder or animals get sick or guinea pigs lose eyeballs or ferrets break their pelvises or Loki’s cornea gets ulcerated or there’s angry wasps getting caught in my hair stinging the bejeezus out of me.

Me vs.. the wasps nest after the bastards got caught in my curly hair and stung me. A lot. Something had to be done and it had to be done with a big can of wasp spray.

Times like now when I know that disgusting deer leg is still on the driveway.

I’m not sure who dragged it home but every day its a battle to see which dog is going to get it.

Cleo, today’s victor with the limb, getting away from the other dogs

Its gross but I’ve thrown it out twice now and both times garbage cans have been knocked over to retrieve it so I’m just letting them go with it.

Casey usually wins the leg…

I’m especially allowing old Casey to have his fun.

He’s had a couple of weird episodes this past week where I’m not sure what was going on.

It seemed like none of his limbs would work.

He never lost consciousness but he did seem confused both times it happened and he either fell or slowly laid down for close to a minute.

Then he gets up and he’s good to go.

Casey, 11 or 12 years ago

As a veterinarian, I’m thinking it could be little strokes or little seizure events, neither of which are good when they come on in a 13 year old Labrador.

As a Mummy, I’m totally freaking out.

But he has been fine the past few days so I’m trying to be fine.

And then Mulder’s sometimes-wheeze has really picked up the past week.

Special Agent Fox Mulder Fyfe

To the point where it wakes me up and it sounds like he’s coughing up a wet lung.

The veterinarian in me thinks its a nasty return of his herpesvirus complicated by bacteria or it could really be something in his lungs because maybe he is sleeping a bit more lately.

The Mummy in me is panicking and feeling completely helpless that I can’t fix what is wrong.

But maybe the clindamycin I started is helping and maybe I can get to town where a friend can xray him for me.

And then Steve starts.

clear crisp days to be thankful for

On a clear crisp morning when I simply must get hay to the horses in their various fields Steve fired right up.

Which I was so thankful for.

And then I came inside to put jeans on (square bales require leg contact for little girls and yoga pants just don’t cut it) and I got rummaging around in my old “farm jeans” pile and found a pair from about 10 years ago.

And they fit!

Freaking happy about these old jeans!

The world can be falling apart around me but if an old pair of jeans fits and I didn’t have to lay on the bed to get them on and I can breathe comfortably wearing them, its a good day.

I’m not quite as vain as that but it did make me smile.

Cleopatra “helping” with the hay bales this morning

And I got thinking of all the things I am truly thankful for while driving Steve and the hay bales out to the horses.

I’m so thankful we have all these merry misfit animal companions and that we have shared many wonderful years together.

Thankful that they seem to love us and want to be with us whenever they can, even if that means getting a king sized bed for everyone.

Just a few years ago with Casey, Cleo and UB at the Dog Days of Summer (photo by Gary Kyrouac)

I’m thankful to even have sun-kissed skin from a wonderful recent vacation to the Hawaiian islands.

Just over a week ago… how fortunate we are!

I’m thankful to have my education and brain to fall back on and keep me grounded when Casey, Mulder, Boomer and Loki might need it.

They need my sensibility more than I need to freak out so I have to be calm for them and try to figure out what they need.

Doctor Mummy and Mulder

I’m very thankful that I had the patience and knowledge to work with little Loki’s seriously damaged cornea over the past few months.

Thankful for connections with talented veterinary friends who were able and willing to help when I wasn’t sure we would be keeping her eye.

Thankful that Loki lets me continue to put drops in and that finally, I do believe we are keeping the eye.

Hope this doesn’t gross anyone out. This was a couple of weeks ago and it looks even better now. Not great, not pretty, but better.

I’m thankful for the support and encouragement from friends and family for my fun book that has been such a unique journey! Thankful for small bookstores who support first-time novelists and those of us who self publish.

Dropping books off for consignment at Kona Stories on the Big Island of Hawai’i.

And I’m thankful for my amazing husband, Alistair, who somehow trusts me on this big farm with big machines and big responsibilities.

Thankful for Alistair and Loki (a few years ago)

The fact he somehow believes the house will still be standing and we will hopefully all be alive when he returns every 2 weeks amazes me.

And fills me with love.

And happiness.

And gratitude.

Just before our Blue Hawaiian experience on the Big Island, complete with extra frizzy hair thanks to the island air

So even if winter comes on suddenly or the tractor won’t start or the horses won’t cross the creek or that deer limb is still there or Sport barfs on the carpet or its so cold my face hurts or my boots leak or Alistair is in Bismarck, I’m still okay.

My jeans fit. I still have a bit of a tan.

Aloha!

I’m alive and able to toss hay bales.

Amazon shows one more book sale over the weekend and I’ve started the sequel.

Alistair is only an email or a facetime away.

Casey, Loki, Mulder and the gang are all pain free and pretty happy.

And Steve.

Steve started.

Its all good, right, Casey?

Anyone seen UB?

UB Fyfe… surveying the farm

UB Fyfe.

UB Pickles Napolean Jumping Jack Flash Moves Like Jagger Savard-Spinorama Tight Buns Fyfe.

This little guy is a character.

UB joined our family about 5 years ago.

Just a little fella back then!

The economy had tanked, our town had few jobs and the young couple who owned him just turfed him onto the street when they packed up and moved to Missoula.

He had been born in Seattle and a sister of the “breeder” took him and brought him here.

Then they ditched him.

He found his way to the local animal rescue/shelter that was located in our town back then.

They brought him to my clinic where I thought he was the most peculiar looking little guy! His outstanding underbite is hard to miss but his big dark brown eyes just envelope you and you can’t help but fall in love. The day I neutered him was a slow day and he sat on my lap most of the afternoon. We bonded.

Coming in for landing… air traffic control….

I told Alistair about him and we did that “what’s 5 dogs when you have 4” thing but we still weren’t sure. Until a bit of a farm tragedy occurred.

Our beloved Hissy Phitt

2 young mountain lions were wrecking havoc on our neighborhood and in the space of 2 days we lost 2 of our special barn kitties, Hissy Phitt and little Jinxie. We were both pretty devastated but then we remembered that the cute little black dog with the underbite was still at the shelter.

Jinxie in one of her many hiding places in the back of my vet truck

We got him that afternoon.

It didn’t bring my cuddly kitties back but UB went a long way towards filling that gap and now he’s practically taken over both of our hearts.

Granted, the first thing he did inside the house was take an enormous dump in our living room but, for the most part, he has fit in just fine.

That’s not to say he isn’t mischievous or sometimes a bit naughty but its so hard to stay mad at him for very long.

C’mon… just look at those eyes!

There was no other name that suited him besides UB (‘you be’). For his underbite.

And its easy to do his voice- just jut your lower jaw out, get a serious look on your face, sound authoritative and you’ve nailed it!

UB is in charge of the forest behind us which is why we are often saying, “Anyone seen UB?”

This statement is usually followed by the silent realization by both of us that the other 4 dogs are around and UB is nowhere to be seen.

UB loves his ‘smoking jacket’ and riding shotgun in our Ranger, “Steve”

One time we came around the front of the house to look and we were captivated by a large herd of elk running the entire width of our field.

But then we saw that half the herd was held back.

Then they would run to join the others. It was quite the spectacle.

Until we saw the little black dot in the midst of everything… like he was directing traffic.

“YOU, elk… run that way. FAST.”
“YOU, elk, stand back and wait.”
“Ok, now you can go but run FAST….. oh, wait, is that my Mummy calling?”

UB and Mummy…. post bobcat experience

Another time he disappeared we heard him shriek in the trees and then yelp… while moving very quickly.

It was a strange sound… a moving sound… a frantic sound.

About 30 minutes later he came home, tail between his legs, limping, with a wound the shape of a paw on his side.

Kind of hard to see but the poor guy definitely got swatted!

I’m sure he pissed off some sleeping bobcat probably trying to lick his ear hair like he does to Mouse and Mulder. Oscar used to let him suck on his pointy little ears but now UB has to be creative. And careful!

The worst trouble he got himself (and Daddy) into was when he was still pretty new and was out back barking. Barking and barking. And barking some more.

“I’m pretty dashing, aren’t I?”

Alistair (in flip flops) went out to see if there was a poor squirrel or porcupine trapped by our ferocious hunter.

He froze when he saw the enormous grizzly bear standing 2 feet from our barking boy, just staring at him.

Enter growling, hissing, spitting, frothing, hackles-up, who-the-Hell-are-you-never-seen-this-kind-of-aggression-from-you Casey and that’s when the bear looked up.

At Alistair.

Without bear spray.

In flip flops.

The bear stood up and Alistair thought, “This could be bad.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

Maybe the bear wasn’t up to a confrontation with the rabid-looking Labrador and the annoying little barking thing.

Alistair and the bear both slowly backed away from the scene, which got UB’s attention.

UB, Casey and Harry (who was probably spinning circles a few feet away) were right behind Daddy when he felt it was safe to turn and run.

I’m sure in UB’s head that was just another grand adventure!

Another way to exercise and maintain those tight buns he’s so proud of.

Tight buns enable you to leap higher than a tall building in a single bound!

His voice pops into our heads as Spirit of UB no matter where we are.

If we’re on the treadmill its, “Come on, lets go, those buns aren’t going to tighten themselves!”
“You can do it, Mummy, run faster!”
“Come on, Daddy, my buns are still tighter! Do you want to see? C’mon, you can bounce a quarter off of these things!”

UB helping Mummy at work on Hallowe’en

If we’re outside with all of the other dogs its, “Is Casey really that stupid? He just walked into the tractor blade.”
“I know, I know, I’m not supposed to chase the cats but the rules change if they run away!”
“Can I chase those elk? No?”

On the golf course we hear, “Brilliant. Just brilliant. Do you want me to go get that?”
“That would have been awesome if you had actually hit the ball, Mummy!”

“10 and 2 in my Subaru, you dreadlocked, patchouli smelling, bra burning hippie!”

Or, lately, “Oh, GREAT… a SUBARU just drove by….”

With all of the miles Alistair and UB or Spirit of UB drive every month, they have figured out 2 things:

1. There are a staggering number of Subarus in the Missoula and Seeley Lake area; and,

2. Almost all of them are driving ridiculously slow. Leading a pack of semis and old trucks pulling boats and moving vans. Old Subaru is right out in front.

Once I started to pay attention, I realized there was some truth there.

So UB has started shouting out comments from the passenger seat.

“HIPPIE!”
“BUM!”
“DRAFT DODGER!”
“GATABOUT!”
“DREADLOCKS!”
“TREE HUGGER!” (this one is particularly hilarious if you’ve seen the recent Subaru commercial with the little girl…)

Discussing the merits of Subarus with my bar buddy, UB

UB appreciates that there are exceptions, like Aunty Dona.

But then Aunty Dona and Uncle Gary bought him this.

Somebody is SO impressed with his new bandana… thanks, Aunty Dona & Uncle Gary…. can’t wait to pee on your Subaru’s tires next time you’re here…

So that’s the story of our strange little mixed breed stray (DNA blood testing says he is a 50/50 mix of Boston Terrier and Cocker Spaniel. We’ve decided he is a Bostonocker Sperrier.)

Shelter dogs all have their own stories and they often make fabulous companions.

He adores everyone he meets, usually preferring humans to dogs if given the choice.

UB just basically helps himself to anyone’s lap, including Uncle Pete with Cleo right there for cuddles

Visiting Aunty Angel up in Canada this summer

He does take his job as Loki’s seeing eye dog very seriously and has been quite concerned about her injured left eye.

The eye is maybe starting to heal but her new heart murmur is a bit alarming and her probable zero thyroid is also something new.

UB, making sure Loki had someone to cuddle up to under the covers

Our merry band of misfits fits right in on the Fyfe Farm. They love and we love and its kind of like another Happiest Place on Earth.

With tight buns.

And grizzly bears.

And an underbite.

And a bizarre dislike of Subarus.

By the way… has anyone seen UB?

“Why drive a Subaru when you can drive a snowmobile? I’m an excellent driver, right, Daddy?”

To Every Thing

As the glowing yellow orb of warmth and joy starts hanging around less and less each day and a crisp coolness creeps into the air, I am amazed yet again with the realization that summer is over.

My neighborhood

There is frost on the ground one morning.

Then another.

And another.

Pretty fall colors on the golf course

The leaves that were green become red, yellow, and orange and each year I am struck by how short the summer seemed and how I didn’t get to do all of things I wanted to do.

We didn’t get out on the boat once this summer.

We didn’t take the canoe out to lounge on a peaceful lake while one of us reads and the other “fishes”.

Hard at work on the canoe

We haven’t hiked with the dogs because of Casey’s laryngeal paralysis and Alistair’s torn medial meniscus.

We haven’t explored the mountains surrounding us on horseback with Alistair’s knee and just the timing of things.

But, my goodness…

The things we did do.

There’s the book I completed and published and am now promoting.

I am in literary Heaven because people are enjoying the book.

My first book signing at the beautiful Holland Lake Lodge (photo by Gary Kyrouac)

I hear so many different things in peoples’ voices when they share their thoughts on the book.

Surprise, from friends and colleagues who have only known me as a veterinarian.

Warm, happy relief from friends who have known I’ve wanted to write for years.

Shock, at times, that a self-published author can actually string words together with correct grammar and punctuation. Words that can create emotions as they are read. Words that can take you places.

I am so freaking happy its not even funny.

Me. Freaking happy. (Photo by Gary Kyrouac)

I got to re-embrace the little community I live in this summer as so many people have thrown their support behind me even though I closed my veterinary clinic one full year ago. I removed a trustworthy place to have your concerns listened to, your animals cared for and your hands held and yet they continue to support me.

The old clinic days with a good buddy, Moses

From the folks on the golf course, the gang at the Double Arrow Lodge who let me and Gary have a PR photo session, to my friend at Good Times who helped dress me, the community of Ovando gearing up for a book event, staff at the Grizzly Claw for organizing their upcoming event and to Christian at Holland Lake Lodge for agreeing to host my very first book signing ever… the friendship and encouragement is overwhelming.

Holland Lake Lodge’s beautiful main seating area… perfect for my first book signing.

This summer I have been able to share laughter and smiles with people who have read my book.

Or are going to read my book.

Or want me to sign their book.

Signing an as-yet-unread book for friends and former clients

I love hearing their thoughts about the future of the characters, their enjoyment of the relationships within and the particular moment they meet the character, Tabitha.

I won’t say any more about that, though. Its yours to explore.

Cindy, Lollie, Jessi, Lynn, Marty, Jackson, Merielle, Jill, Jill’s postman… what an adventure!

Alistair on the 16th tee

We got out to golf a lot this summer.

A lot.

It was easier on Alistair’s knee than hiking or riding horses and its just been so enjoyable watching our games change and slowly improve.

At Missoula’s Ranch Club golf course in the late summer sun

And I have bonded with our animal companions more than I could have imagined by having the time to be at home with them.

Cleopatra… bonding with Mummy

Amazingly, Casey is still with us.

The goofy, jumpy, wiggly, ridiculous, clumsy black Labrador with the unilateral floppy laryngeal fold had a couple of scares on really hot days where he wouldn’t settle down and everything was getting swollen and I could hear the fold flopping as he panted and he started turning blue.

Yeah.

Blue.

Its not a color that makes veterinarians or Mummy’s very happy, I can assure you.

Casey… our good old boy enjoying a peaceful moment in the sun

The cooler weather is a welcome relief for our old goofy boy.

Maybe not if he slams into you or me or blind Loki with her bad eye but it is amazing that Casey is still here to be such a pain in the ass.

And Loki right now, with her really bad corneal ulcer.

I’ve been able to spend the time to help her.

Loki… SO not a fan of The Cone

I’m still not sure we’re going to save the eye but we’ve come this far and I’m going to keep trying.

Another special treat is that little Boomer is still with us.

Doing very well, in fact.

Got grass?

She is tolerating her twice-daily methimazole and has even put some of her weight back on.

Not a lot, but enough to make Mummy, Daddy and Boom Boom happy.

This summer took me back to Bismarck to help with the hay and get my dental crowns taken care of.

While the latter isn’t something to focus on, the hay-making was great.

Even with New Neighbor nearly dying from the effort.

Ahhh… those bales of summer

And now its time to talk about fall and the chilly mornings and the wood that needs to be cut and more book signings and starting a new book and keeping Loki’s eye and getting out to ride the horses and changing my golf attire just a tad.

Adaptable and still fashionable, making par on the 14th hole at the Double Arrow golf course!

We’ve got a little propane heater rigged up in Norman and we’re toasty warm on a golf course that seems abandoned now that the summer people have left.

One more bonus to the end of summer.

The weather changes bring some outstanding scenery both in Montana and North Dakota. As I’ve said before, I am a lucky woman to know both places.

North Dakota morning

So, goodbye Dear Summer and hello, Autumn.

An exciting month ahead where I will turn 42 and Alistair will turn a bit older than that and the golf course will be empty.

And some overdue Aloha.

Stay tuned for that one and think happy thoughts for Loki’s eyeball.

We think of her and Casey all of the time now with the addition of our golf buddies….

Loki-Head and Casey-Head, keeping Mummy’s clubs protected and happy

Hey.

There’s always next summer.

Canoe-view of Lake Upsata

Harry-a-woo-woo

Harry goofing around

Harry is our Alaskan Husky. We think.

I mean, its quite obvious he is mostly a husky but there could be something else in there.

Something that makes him wary of people and shy around boisterous children.

Something that causes him to be stand-offish or run back into the dog kennel when there are loud noises or strange situations.

Something that makes him bend his head and move in the most unusual of canine ways.

Something that allows him to harmonize with the wolves who used to freely run the forest behind our house.

Like, maybe he’s got a bit of wolf in him?

maybe just a little bit of wolf?

Whatever he is, he is part of our family thanks to a telephone call from one of the technicians at vet school at the very end of third year. I had the truck packed, the cats in their crates and was just about to embark on the 8 hour journey back to Bismarck when I answered the phone.

“Tanya…. its Robyn. Harry is scheduled to be euthanized at 11 o’clock this morning…”

I paused for a second.

“Can you change that to a neuter?”

“YES, YES, I’ll do everything I can. Give us until about 1 o’clock and you can come get him!”

All of the technicians and third year students knew Harry and 3 other dogs because they were our Medical Exercise dogs.

Which means we practiced on them.

Harry and Mummy hiking the mountains of Montana

Not surgeries or painful things but generally every joint site was shaved and they all had circles on bare skin patches where allergy testing was done.

You can certainly have your opinions on live-animal labs and I’m not saying it was ideal. These Med Ex dogs had it a lot better than some of the animals used for study purposes. We could choose to be conscientious observers and not handle particular animals for particular learning purposes. Lets just say the only hands-on lab I skipped was the chicken one where things didn’t end well for the chickens.

The Med Ex dogs did serve us all well, though. It is one thing to read about hitting a pulsating vein on a moving, fuzzy, warm target versus a plastic model.

I wouldn’t want to say to my first few clients, “yeah, I should be able to do this… I read about it a few times.”

Our beautiful boy

How on Earth could I justify leaving Harry to be put to sleep after he gave us a year of his veins, his joints, his skin, his retinae, his ears, and pretty much every other body part you can imagine?

These Med Ex dogs were generally culled sled dogs… meaning their sled dog breeders didn’t want them. The school was somehow connected with some northern Canadian sled dog peeps and at the beginning of 3rd year, every year, a few students would head to the Greyhound station (how ironic) and wait for whatever and whoever to be unloaded in kennels.

Harry was one of ours that year.

The idea was that, out of 72 students, 4 would fall in love with the dogs and they would all be adopted out and live with their student owners, even by Christmas.

Lightning was lucky. So was Thelma. But Harry?

Not so much.

Harry in his favorite environment- the Montana winterscape

It certainly wasn’t his looks. Harry is a gorgeous Husky with perky ears, kind eyes and a stunning, full coat.

It was more his… quirks.

His unwillingness to be house-trained.

His incessant “woo woo’s” that can be deafening when he really wants to get your attention.

And his spinning.

Harry most likely was tethered at his sled dog kennel, which isn’t a bad thing. The dogs can get in and out of the dog boxes, on top of the boxes, and can run in full circles in their pen area.

Some huskies, like Harry, can be a bit neurotic about it and they will only spin in one direction.

In Harry’s case, its to the left.

Always.

Taking a break from circling

It doesn’t matter if he is walking on a leash or squatting to take a poop, the boy has to circle to his left while doing it.

He even runs around the house to the left.

Once. Once he spun one circle to the right when he first moved to Montana. I figured he was trying to unwind but as soon as he did it he stopped and looked so terribly confused that I was relieved when he went back to pulling Louies.

He may not be a very good house dog but he’s an excellent hiking and snow-shoeing companion.

Snow shoeing with the dogs- Harry loves wintertime!

He will follow little UB off on trails when UB needs some extra protection and he often will hike immediately behind me.

I always feel safe when he’s there. I don’t know if he’s doing it to watch me or herd me or if he just needs to know where I am.

If Casey isn’t around then he’s up for some individual loving.

Harry getting some 1 on 1 loving from Dad

He will slowly walk up to us and close his eyes at half-mast as he leans in for some scritches and kisses.

These times with our old friend are pretty magical.

In the winter his warm coat is so nice to lean into and he looks at us with such loving, dewey eyes that our hearts just melt.

Private cuddles with Mummy

Its a special feeling knowing that this maybe-part-wolf has allowed himself to be cuddly and sweet with us.

Its a strange feeling when he is howling with his brethren in the backcountry.

We don’t hear them much anymore but for the first several years I would hear Harry harmonizing with an incredible howl as he faced the forest.

Casey sits there and says ‘woof’ once or twice.

Cleo barks every now and then and then looks at Casey, as if to say, “What the heck are they saying to each other?”

More cuddles in the mountains with Harry

Adding to the fact he is ‘different’, Harry is the only one who got caught in a leg-hold trap that was set illegally too close to our home a couple of winters ago.

It belonged to a neighbor who seemed to feel pretty bad about it.

I didn’t make a big deal about it because I got my big boy home. Casey, Cleo and UB all told me something was up, barking at me and then running to the trees… then racing back to bark at me some more and running to the trees again…and again… I was splitting wood when I finally realized they were trying to tell me something. And Harry wasn’t there.

Hiking in snow past my knees I called to Harry and he called back. He called me to him.

I found him lying still (thank goodness) with his forelimb caught in a trap.

My stomach fell.

We’re lovers, not fighters and I don’t know the first thing about traps. I don’t, personally think much of trapping and I think hunting would be more fair if you gave the deer a gun but its Montana and I don’t make waves unless I have to.

Harry, Cleo and Mummy… hiking again

The only neighbors who were home rapidly came to Harry’s rescue (thank-you Sharon and Randy!) and our good boy didn’t struggle or resist at any time. He didn’t break anything and he has no lasting wounds. Luckily the other dogs alerted me and luckily we found him. Or, he told me where to find him.

Harry is getting older like the rest of us on the Fyfe Farm.

His knees aren’t so great but then neither are his Dad’s. Alistair has to have his torn medial meniscus taken care of next week.

I think we are privileged that this wolf-dog with strange mannerisms and a loud, non-stop WOO WOO that begins the minute he sees us and his circles to the left and his shedding and his inability to live indoors and his affection for Casey even though Casey mows him over half the time chooses to stay with us. Even with relatives so close by.

I worry hunters will think he’s a wolf. That’s difficult stuff to talk about in these parts. So Harry wears bright collars and thankfully doesn’t stray.

It was lucky for Harry when Robyn called me that morning before I left Saskatoon.

I think we are even luckier to be able to share his world…. and his Woo Woo’s.

Harry having a bit of a chuckle with Dad in the sunshine

Cleopatra Cassiopeia Carrie Bradshaw Houdini Diamond Fyfe

The Princess

We weren’t in the market for a new dog. It was 2005, I had finished vet school and was working full-time at a clinic in Bismarck.

And, Casey and Harry were really enough of a canine handful back in their youth.

But we usually aren’t looking for a new pet when another addition arrives.

Cleo trying to look like Mummy, with their similar dark curly locks and a cute hat

The clinic I worked at had the unfortunate contract with Animal Control to put down the dogs deemed unadoptable.

Aggressive, ferocious dogs.

Dogs with injuries so severe it was inhumane to keep them alive without an owner claiming them.

And sometimes, dogs who had just overstayed their welcome.

I was there that morning when the Animal Control officers came in the back door with this bouncing, tail-wagging, eager, fluffy black and white female spaniel.

Cleo, this winter in Montana

“She’s aggressive. They’ll never find her a home. She might have Springer Rage,” was all he said.

But I caught the eye of the female officer hanging back and there were tears there.

“How long has she been there,” asked my boss, with the spaniel standing up on her back legs, reaching to him with her front paws.

“3 days,” said Animal Control. “But this morning when I approached her cage she growled at me and you know, we’re full right now.”

The spaniel continued to run around the treatment area greeting the other veterinarians and technicians who had gathered. Another vet and I started to do a basic exam.

She was in good shape with clean teeth and ears and toe nails that weren’t too long. She was super friendly and started whipping out her tricks, like flopping over on her side, standing up and walking a little on her back legs towards us and sitting when asked to. No collar. No microchip.

My boss signed the intake form but as soon as the door shut behind the officers he put his face down to the spaniel’s and said, “we can’t put her down, she’s lovely.”

Winter Cleo

Surprise and relief washed over me because this is the same boss who once told me I had to toughen-up when it came to euthanasias.

I had to start to do the drop-off ones where I didn’t even know if the person dropping the animal off was its owner.

Pets I had never met before.

Pets whose histories I was supposed to ignore as I watched the light leave their eyes.

The same boss who once told me I couldn’t save every animal.

I had responded with, “I can try.”

So the friendly black and white love bug got to live in our isolation ward at the clinic for a week, making sure she didn’t break out in full Cujo mode. She never once growled at any of us and she was handled by the entire staff.

I started visiting her a bit more and told Alistair about her.

He came to visit and left with a dog. He named her Cleopatra.

Cleopatra and Daddy in 2006 in Bismarck

She went home with him and immediately leapt up into the cab of the tractor, never leaving his side.

There’s that one rule: donate your reproductive organs at the door and get along. And she did and she does.

She never chased the cats and she was perfectly house trained.

Cleo immediately bonded with her Daddy.

Riding Steve, the Ranger, with Daddy, one of Cleo’s favorite activities

But she slowly bonded with me as well and I will admit, it was fun having a dog inside the house again. Maybe not the hairs, but she fit into our household just perfectly.

With a bit of time Cleo started to develop her looks and affectations.

You know when she is rolling her eyes at you. She usually sighs when she is doing it.

The Look… by Cleopatra Fyfe

Her voice is a southern drawl… think Blanche Dubois, with a slight lisp.

When we moved to Montana all 3 of the dogs thrived. There is something about having a forest for your backyard.

The boys chased deer but Cleo was never into that.

She must have been trained by someone because she suddenly stood on perfect point one time my husband had a sports channel on and they were doing bird calls with their kazoo thingies. She pointed beautifully at the TV and remained there like a statue, almost in a trance. Her hunting skills are wasted on us- we’re lovers not fighters.

Cleopatra’s hunting skills are much more advanced than ours

Her middle names have come from her quirky behaviors.

And her freckles.

Her adorable face is speckled with black dots. Her entire body is when she’s shaved but generally you only see the nose.

I have a bunch of freckles on my arms and we joke that one looks like the constellation Cassiopeia.

Cleo liked that name so its now one of hers.

Well-groomed Cleo with Mummy… what you can’t see is the ribbon she tore out of the other side of her head

The Carrie Bradshaw thing… if she’s in bed with you, shoes or slippers will somehow be there when you wake up. Or if you’re visiting in the living room, shoes will be brought forth. How can you not love a girl with that kind of passion for shoes?!

As for Houdini, I came home from work one winter night to have Cleo greet me on the driveway. The boys were still inside the locked kennel.

It didn’t take long to figure it out once I saw the snow load and the bare roof.

“Mummy, are you up for some shoveling?”

Diamond… well, she picked that one herself because diamonds are beautiful, rare and special. Just like Cleo.

Two clever and classy gals, my Nan and Cleopatra at the Dog Days of Summer (photo by Gary Kyrouac)

And she is clever.

One of the times when Alistair was trying to get UB to stop barking at a grizzly bear a few feet away the other dogs all came charging in.

Its the only time we’ve seen ferocity out of Casey, with his hackles up, foaming at the mouth.

Harry was somewhere, spinning circles in the distance, making his woo-woo sounds even though Alistair doesn’t remember actually seeing him.

Cleo was probably back at the house thinking, “I’m not getting involved in that. That’s stupid. I’m going to call Mummy at her clinic. Now, where is that telephone?”

Cleo loved being the shop dog over the past few years when I brought her to work.

Lynnie and Cleo… bath time again!

Sometimes she got the spa treatment from her best friend, Lynnie.

Sometimes she would have special visitors come to chat and they’d end up petting her the entire time.

Fireman Frank has an unworldly love of dogs and Cleo had him wrapped around her furry paws.

Cleo and one of her BFFs, Fireman Frank

Other times she would just play with Mummy and Lynnie.

I love you, Lynnie! Shhhh… don’t tell Mummy about the treat with the Easy Cheese on it!

She was wonderful with other dogs and was fine when we had to crate her when it was time for surgeries or appointments with dogs or cats who maybe didn’t want to see her. She adored a box full of Schipperke puppies who were just a week old. Mind you, she claims that her uterus was “ripped untimely” from her body so maybe there was some maternal instinct there.

Cleo wanted to have a special cap just like Mummy at the clinic

On extra special days at the clinic, though, she would see Matt, the UPS driver.

It wasn’t the biscuits because she doesn’t go ape with our farm delivery UPS guy.

Matt was different. Cleo even leapt up into the cab and the back of his truck on several occasions.

“I love you, Matt!”

So there’s our aggressive, needs-to-be-euthanized dog. Doing her thing standing up on her legs, which is one of the tricks that saved her life. We don’t know how old she is but she hasn’t started to slow down at all. She likes to sleep and snuggle with me when Alistair is gone as part of the Usual Suspects (Loki, UB, Cleo, Mulder and Sport).

Cleo likes to help finish my scrambled eggs if I accidentally make too much.

She likes to watch me clean and feed the guinea pigs in the mornings, her ears perking when they whistle and tweet.

But she also likes sleeping outside with Casey and Harry and I think the 3 of them are a fun unit, even if she only occasionally plays with them outside. She’s usually off looking for a good spot to dig a hole, or a creek to romp in, or horse poop to eat, or someone to stand up against.

Cleo and her boys with something extra special to sniff

Aggression isn’t always aggression. Dogs growl for all sorts of reasons and I’m pretty sure Cleo was scared and lonely. She was obviously well-trained in many ways and I’m certain she was loved.

It saddens me only to think that a little girl or a cute older couple were her original owners but I would hope they believe she went to loving arms with loving hearts with a huge back yard and buddies of all species.

And lots of shoes.

Snowshoeing with Daddy in Montana

Standing up against the snow walls with Mummy after the heavy snow this past winter

The only Fyfe who has brought home a trout in Montana. Granted, it was frozen but you have to give her credit!

Losing Boom

“Hon, where’s Boomer?”

For 18 and a half years, that has been a common phrase on the Fyfe Farm.

Even when she was a teensy, tiny, adorable kitten out on our farm in windy Watford City she would get lost.

In hay bales.

In the tack room.

Up in the rafters.

I would panic when we wouldn’t be able to find her. She was the runt of the litter and one of her siblings was particularly mean to the rest of them. I worried she would run little Boomer off the farm or not let her back in under cover.

I didn’t have to worry for long, though.

Alistair went out one day when the gale-force winds were whipping horizontal snow and ice crystals around in a frigid, deadly blizzard.

The horses were fine.

4 of the kitties were fine. Boomer was right there next to her brother, Oscar. She wasn’t missing for once.

The hairy, big, mean kitten, however, was on the Ritchie water fountain, out in the blizzard.

Apparently she got her paws wet while drinking and ended up stuck, frozen to death, mid-leap off the fountain.

The other 4 kitties thrived after that.

Boomer and Oscar made the long move back to Canada and soon became Inside Cats.

With Outdoor privileges of course.

And Boomer continued to get lost.

Inside closets.

Inside bedrooms.

Behind the wood pile.

She learned her name quickly, probably because I was always calling her. She also had the only “oooh” sound in her name back then which distinguished her from Oscar, Marshal, Shep, Chorney and Alistair.

She actually has a little grey soul patch beneath her adorable puckered-up mouth.

It looks like she is saying “oooooh”.

Boomer and Oscar helped me get through my guilt and grief over the whole antifreeze-doesn’t-mix-well-with-cats thing.

I needed their comfort that year because so many things were happening that I couldn’t control.

Alistair moved back to ND soon after he started working as a Canadian physician so I was often by myself on a large farm with pregnant mares.

I had zero support and even faced some misplaced animosity as a figure skating coach in the little town I lived in.

It was the same town Alistair and his first wife lived in for many years and some of their old friends weren’t necessarily opening their arms to the new, young wife with her spandex and sequins and love of makeup.

Some friends, like Sue, Glenn, Patti, Shirley, Janie, Bill and Julie were wonderful, though.

And the cats were wonderful, too.

Warm, loving, purring, fuzzy bodies to cuddle up with on never-ending lonely nights when my job wasn’t any fun anymore.

But I was able to join Alistair in the states again so we all moved to Hazen. Then to Bismarck. And now to Montana.

Through all of these moves and all of these years, Boomer continued to get lost.

In the little closet the ferrets like to hide in.

In the basement.

In the garage.

As the feline Fyfes have aged they have recently begun to spend most of their days in the kitchen/sun room. Its one of my favorite rooms, too.

Even in the winter the sun shines brightly.

There are 4 cat beds in there and I can generally find a cat, or a combination of cats, or UB or Loki in any of them at any given time.

Boom has been spending more and more time in those beds lately.

It began last fall when I realized she had lost some weight. She is a cat who has always been slim but in September she looked a bit gaunt.

Her thyroid was on overdrive so we started twice-daily pills.

In the mornings I risk life and limb by scruffing her and tossing the tiny white pill down the hatch.

Usually it works. I still have all of my fingers.

At night its canned soft food for everyone, with a pill mashed up in Boomer’s dish.

She’s not our first cat with hyperthyroidism and she won’t be our last.

When we said our tearful goodbyes to Oscar back in January Boomer went into a bit of a slump.

A cat who used to lay in those beds with 1, 2, or 3 others now lays in them alone.

Her companion since the time in their mama’s womb is forever gone and it made an impact on every single Fyfe in this house.

As much as this hurts to admit, I’m losing Boom.

It isn’t the amount of time she sleeps during the day- Hell, I’ll be doing much the same when I’m 90 or 100 years old.

Its the weight loss.

Her decreased grooming.

The way she almost shouts her meows at me when she wants her soft food.

Its seeing her petite, feminine, grey and white self just sitting at the water dish, staring at it.

And the tenderness on her right side.

Where I thought I felt a lump, or maybe it was her liver, or maybe it was both.

Her thyroid is whacked, her kidneys are failing and maybe there’s a lump.

Like the one in my throat right now.

But she eats and drinks without hesitation and keeps everything down.

She doesn’t limp, she isn’t jaundiced and she isn’t dehydrated.

Its tough right now because I’ve also noticed that Casey has a bad limp in the rear leg that still has hardware in it.

Loki seems to be losing her hearing, not realizing I’ve come home despite my boisterous “hey, Gangs” to them all sometimes.

And yet Loki seems quite content, if not a bit more clingy lately. I don’t mind the extra attention and snuggles. Maybe that’s one of the perks for her and I. And for her and UB, too.

And Casey still leaps and jumps and runs and wiggles and plays and licks and bumps into me and knocks things over. All with his floppy larynx that remains one-sided.

And Boomer still enjoys being held, gently, while I dance with her like I have done for 18 years.

And she continues to enjoy her sleep-in-morning special brunch dates with Mulder, Loki, Mummy and Daddy where everyone gets bacon.

I advise clients to think about what is important for them as individuals and families when the question, “When is it Time?” comes up.

Its different for everyone.

For me, I want to be able to recognize and share love with friends and family.

I would like to be free from pain.

I’d like to be able to put my makeup on. Its vain but true.

I’d also like to be able to lift a glass of red wine to my lips and enjoy its taste.

I want these same types of things for my animal companions, albeit without the mascara.

The time may come soon when Boomer won’t let me groom the matts from her delicate hair. Or she won’t prance into the room with the guinea pigs and chat with me. Or she won’t head butt me, or Facetime-Bomb every single person I chat with. Or she won’t want her soft food or some of my chicken.

It would be akin to Casey not wanting to goof around and jump and play.

And Loki not wanting to be with me.

I will find strength from somewhere because I have to and because I love them and because I owe it to them.

They have all given me so much.

And I will give them beautiful, dignified deaths.

Not today. Not tomorrow.

Not next week.

But soon I will lose my Boom.

She won’t be lost, though. She will be in many different places like she has been all of her life.

In her photos.

In my memory.

In my heart.

The Life We Choose

Highway 200, a low-shouldered arrow across Montana has once again brought me to my other home.

Bismarck, North Dakota.

Where there is horizon as far as you can imagine and no mountains to be seen in any direction.

The trip is long but the company was perfect and the weather just right- not too hot, not too cold. The only potential glitch was the “sleeping” lady behind the wheel of her parked mini-van at the rest stop. She had her head back and her mouth gaping open, with the van still running.

Several of us rest-stoppers started to crowd around the van.

“Is she even alive?” one asked.

“I’m not sure,” my MD husband answered.

We continued to crowd. I was worried she would wake up and see us all standing around her, thinking it was a zombie apocalypse and end up dead from a heart attack.

“There- I saw her breathe,” Alistair told us and we all smiled at each other and went back to our own vehicles, to our own adventures, in our own directions.

Some might say this is a dreary trip to make but I actually enjoy it. I like the sleepy little towns of Circle and Jordan, the section lines, the supposedly-decommissioned missile silos, the random farmhouses that appear after the next rise, and the way the prairies open up once you can no longer see the Rockies behind you.

I like this time of year- the tawney tan hues of yesteryear’s fields, the sagebrush and tumbleweeds amidst brown soil that has finally shed its winter jacket, and the odd blade or patch of green grass that is peeking through.

Grass that is reaching up to the sun for warmth, nourishment… love.

The landscape right now is dotted with cow/calf pairs- Angus, Charolais, Herefords, “Oreo Cookie” cows….

There are a lot of great cow vets out there but I’m not one of them. I like cows. I did do some bovine calls when I first worked as a vet in Bismarck.

I don’t think the cattle farmers thought much of me showing up in the wee hours to pull a calf wearing makeup and my pink Carharts. And my red rubber boots that have bumblebees on them.

I tried to make the best of it but it wasn’t my thing.

Along the drive I got to watch antelope, sheep, horses and bison grazing in their wide open pastures. I watched farm dogs working with their farmers as we whizzed along highway 200, heading east as dark grey clouds headed north.

As always, I am spell-bound by the Badlands of the Theodore Roosevelt National Park. Along the Interstate is the south unit of the park where the buffalo roam and the deer & the antelope play. These rugged lands have been shaped over decades by the incredible forces of water and wind.

Lots of wind.

Wind that blows incessantly on the prairies. Wind that almost has a personality- its like another friend when you live here. When it isn’t blowing, everyone notices it.

Your friend isn’t there.

Its one of those friends you don’t always want to hang out with, but its still one of the constants of life out here.

Alistair lives and works here for half of every month before coming back to me and Montana to play for the other half.

We have a nice house here that we’ve lived in for about 15 years. Its not grand like our home in Montana but it has served us well.

It is where our broodmares live and where their foals were born and raised.

It is where Gareth came to spend his high school years with us.

Its where Whitney and Loki then joined us.

Its where I graduated with my Bachelor’s of Science and eventually recieved the news I was accepted into vet school.

Its where we climb on top of our roof to watch the fireworks on the 4th of July with whatever friends and family are here to join us.

Its where I last worked as a full time skating coach, prepping my kids for competition, choeographing fun routines and helping them prepare for their moment in the spotlight.

Many of the furry Fyfes joined our family in our Bismarck home- Casey, Harry, Cleopatra, Mulder, Sport, Mouse, Georgia, Jockey and even Luigi.

So much is the same here- the expansive sky that we hot tub under at night sipping wine and scotch; the wooden stairs that Alistair nearly killed himself on 2 summers ago; the broodmares, with our arabians, Susie, Cocoa and petite Jessi, the former racehorse, Katie and reliable old Raven.

But a lot has changed in the 7 years I haven’t lived here.

We’re getting new neighbors again.

Four farms, all on 40 acres were all that was here when we came to town in the late ’90s. A few of us had kids who grew up together. We all helped each other put square bales up and into our barns. I’ve doctored a few pets and even said goodbye to 2 of our neighbors’ horses.

And now new folks are coming.

And the growth in Bismarck is unbelievable. You’d have to be a fool to not get work here. Every restaurant, hotel and business is hiring, with flashy billboards and fluorescent letters advertising their $12.40/hr starting wages and excellent benefits.

And my mares, Shadow, Willow, and Daisy aren’t here.

And there are no barn cats greeting me as I swipe at cobwebs when I climb up on the hay bales in our barn.

And one of the young neighbors who grew up with my stepkids is no longer part of the neighborhood- she was one of the ones who joined us on the rooftop. And in the hot tub.

And we are all getting older and more grey and now my North Dakota dentist tells me I need 2 crowns.

Crowns! I’m only 41!

Many things have changed in my home on the prairies.

I am enjoying the new restaurants and the happy feeling of being surrounded by people who have work. I am enjoying seeing my brother-in-law and other good friends & their pets. I have enjoyed the first set of new neighbors and met the ones who will replace them just today.

I am hopeful that many of our animal companions will journey with me back here when I need to handle these thankfully-painless dental issues. I hope that Loki and Casey will see the farm again, if only to sniff where they used to piddle and rub muzzles with the horses who like them.

I am a lucky woman who has the opportunity to know two very different lives. We choose this life because we aren’t quite ready to give either of them up- the employment and our land vs. the majestic mountains and our relaxation.

Breathing in the scent of sweet grass and alfalfa vs the pine trees that fill the air in western Montana.

Maybe someday it won’t be like this but for now we will appreciate what we do have, where we have it, and who we share it with.

With all that changes and all that remains the same.

Captain CrazyPants (or, the case for Casey)

The Fyfe dogs aren’t trained.

In fact, they’re all a bit on the crazy side.

The 5 of them are a rag-tag motley crew of misfits who ended up here by various means with questionable pasts.

Especially Casey.

If you’ve met him, you’re already nodding your head. Especially my brother and his 3 sons who were cheerfully mauled by our excited Labrador after they ignored my one request: Do not open the kennel door until I get home.

Physical and mental scars are what remain of Casey’s big chase of the 2 older boys. My only answer to them is: “Danny did it. Danny let the dogs out.”

We keep waiting for Casey to mature and ‘grow out of’ his insane need to be with us, on top of us, licking us, loving us. I think we waited too long, though, because its too late to train him to be anything other than what he is. Its endearing, as long as you’re not knocked over into a mud puddle, trying to whack him with your crutches after you just had ACL surgery (true story). (And kind of funny picturing Casey deftly deke each swipe Alistair took at him).

We cut Casey some slack, though.

I met him in vet school, as residents were parading this cute little 3 month-old black lab puppy around in their arms. He couldn’t walk on his own because his owner had beat the snot out of him, fracturing both of his femurs in several places.

One of the surgeons said it had to have been a baseball bat or something similar to create such fractures.

I watched my arm go up in the air as the residents said they could try to save this puppy only if someone volunteered to take him home when he was well.

After several months and several surgeries with hardware inserted into his limbs, happy young Casey came home to the Fyfe Farm. I have a bit of guilt over the fact I didn’t visit him that much during his surgeries and infections because I didn’t want to fall in love with him and have him end up breaking my heart if things “didn’t work out.”

They did work out and Casey hasn’t looked back.

I have learned a lot about forgiveness from this dog because he has never, ever shown any ill will towards people. The only time he’s ever shown any aggression was when he was protecting his Dad from a grizzly bear who stood 10 feet away. We didn’t know he could growl until then. One could say that’s because he’s not so smart but I choose to say that’s because he’s a good old boy.

He and Loki were young pups and besties together. Its amazing revisiting old pictures of them in their healthy young bodies, knowing they are very different bodies now.

Bodies that don’t jump as high as they used to. Bodies that need anti-inflammatories regularly to enable easy movement. Bodies that don’t see because the cataracts have taken over. Bodies that sound like Darth Vader because of a floppy laryngeal fold that could become life threatening at any time if the other fold decides to become paralyzed.

Casey’s larynx has been like this for a few months. If it stays one-sided, he’s good to go as long as you don’t mind the raspy breathing. If he would settle down and move more slowly he might be able to breathe better but as I’ve said, he isn’t slowing down.

There is a surgery but it would essentially open up the passage to his trachea, allowing food or water to get into his lungs if he gulped it down (which he does). That leads to ‘aspiration pneumonia’, which isn’t cool for anyone and is also life-threatening. So we don’t do the surgery unless the paralysis becomes bilateral, or two-sided. Which would definitely lead to aspiration pneumonia.

So what do you do?

Alistair and I both know Casey has had a fabulous life as a Fyfe. We’ve figured out and learned to manage his terrible allergies to chicken and he’s been able to eat every body part or bone of every animal carcass he can find here in the forests of Montana. He’s been boating, “shed”-hunting, trail riding and hiking and he even has a trophy from an Agility Trial he ran with his Dad.

He’s more grey each year but then so am I. Part of my reluctance to accept that my companions are aging is that it means I am aging along with them.

I don’t jump as high as I used to. I take anti-inflammatories fairly regularly for my knees. Its just that they seem to age faster because a year for them is like six or seven for us. What happens gradually to my body is happening right before my eyes to Casey and Loki. And Boomer. And Harry. Fyfe’s Farm for Wayward Pets is becoming Fyfe’s Senior Citizen Central.

Which is why we don’t train our dogs to do anything but be themselves. My only rule is “donate your reproductive organs at the door and get along.” And they have, and they do.

I will do what is right by my old friends when it is time. Like I had to with Oscar. It will break my heart, as I always worried Casey would, but it won’t be about me at that point.

Incidentally, going through my old pictures, I found one of a very young Oscar with a very young Whitney. It makes my heart happy and sad at the same time, which is fine by me.

So, if you visit us, know that you will be leapt upon by Casey and his merry band of buddies. You might get muddy and you have to listen to his croaking bark as he yelps for whatever reason he’s yelping. Expect cheerful, non-trained behavior and feel free to leap and jump along with them. Love and be loved, don’t open the kennel door without me, and get along.

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