(From February 2016)
Written by Guest Columnist: Charlotte, Ranch Dog of the Sierra
It was one of those ranch projects that seemed like a good idea at the time. Until things started to happen.
It was a cool, sunny day in spring, and my sidekick, Natasha-the-Slobberian-Husky, was slacking off/napping in the shed doorway. I should mention that she consistently sleeps in positions that defy dog anatomy. In this case, her lower body was in the actual shed with back legs all akimbo, while the rest of her was draped down over the steps with front legs stretched to the sky. I swear, she sleeps like a cross between the world’s most difficult yoga pose and Gumby. It’s just that strange.
This particular ranch project entailed unloading a ton or so of straw bales from the dump trailer to the location of the new straw bale building site. Simple enough. We’d done this rodeo before. My Hooman, who normally writes this column, was at the business end of this deal, ready to control the dump trailer bed with the controller. The name I call his mom is “Supreme Leader,” and she was at the wheel of the truck.
So, Supreme Leader inched the truck forward so the bales could s-l-o-w-l-y mosey out of the bed. My Hooman was at the trailer control. The dump bed went up. Nothing budged. Up a bit more and nope, nada. After one more lift and we were rewarded with a teeny schooch. And the Supreme Leader yelled something like, “No nooo! Don’t do that! It’s all gonna…” at the same time that my Hooman toggled the control and, you guessed it, torqued it up that last bit and before you knew it, the bales mudslided out from here til Tuesday. My Hooman danced around, trying to avoid the widening spill, waved his arms like he was batting flies, like that would do any good. Natasha startled awake and acted like it was all for her enjoyment. I’m not kidding. She sat there with her mouth open in that joker grin of hers, knowing that the circus was put on for her entertainment. Once the last bale teetered off its fulcrum to rest, the whole site resembled a multi-neighborhood yard sale on late Sunday afternoon.
It’s one of those things in life, if you spend any time at all with cats, you know that whenever disaster strikes, and after things have settled down a bit, they like to mosey out of their sneaky cat hiding places to inspect and snifferize any and all items that have…er…relocated, so to speak. And so it was. The Evil Barn Cat Empire inspected each and every upturned bale. Natasha looked up grinning as my Hooman continued a colorful stream of expletives. Which Supreme Leader couldn’t hear because she was laughing so hard.
So after the Great Straw Bale Disaster, everyone decided to take a break. We had our lunch on the bales, and created backrests from some of the others. My Hooman got out his mandolin and so began my favorite part of the day. When the music happens, I make sure to lay right across his feet in order to use my body to provide crucial acoustic resonance. Many of you wonder why your own pet partners do this and now I have just shared our secret knowledge. Now you know.
My Hooman played, and sang, and of course the cats decided to pick the sunniest bales to do their cat things on. Either they tuck their strange boneless cat arms under themselves and stare at you in that meditative way, or they decide to perform all their personal hygiene right then and there and finish off by staring at you. I don’t claim to understand cat logic because they have none. As I was saying, my Hooman played and everyone was relaxed and there was the sun and a light breeze and you could smell the early blossoms. Everything ended up so nice with the stationary hayride and the music and the lounge chair bales and even the sleeping cats. The Hoomans began to sing as Natasha curled up at Supreme Leader’s feet…
(Inspired by the Hank the Cowdog series)
