Tonight, Dixie had her 2nd X-ray follow up since her surgery. I am happy to report she is still stone free! Our plan is to continue to bring her for check-ups every 6 weeks or so, so that we can catch any stones early on. So far, so good!
This has to rank in the top 5 Cheyenne moments, maybe even top 2. The cornfield incident happened one Saturday afternoon. I had been sick with a cold and as a result the dogs had been cooped up. I decided to let them ride in the car while I went tanning. Sometimes they appreciate just going for a ride in the car. So we get home and I let them out in the garage, and Cheyenne, rather than going to the door, runs out of the garage towards the backyard. I start calling her and realize that she had seen a huge deer run through the backfield a few days before. By the time I am to the side yard she is already in the field beyond the back yard. I think “Damn it!”, drop my purse and start running. Now would be a good time to explain that I am wearing fuzzy flip-flops that used to be my sister-in-law’s. Although they are a size too big (and molded to her feet and not mine) I am wearing them because they are fuzzy and comfy. So I am running with a cold, in flip flops that don’t fit, screaming my dog’s name and wondering if my husband has happened to notice the crisis now in progress. I am praying that by the grace of God (its amazing how religious I become in the midst of a disaster), he happened to look out the window and see either the graceful brown streak that went by or has heard my hysterical screeching. Since I left my purse I do not have my phone so the only thing I have going for me is chance and/or ESP. It’s not looking so good.
By now she has run through our backyard, the backfield behind our yard shared with neighbors and is now running through our neighbor’s yard across the way. I am in the middle of the field in the afore-mentioned flip-flops running through brush and bramble. Thankfully it is early spring and the field hasn’t totally grown in yet. I see my husband’s car coming down the development road and think, yes, there is a God. Cheyenne is headed towards the field next to our development. She is sniffing something and I call her and call her and I am almost to her when, whoosh she is gone again. We run through the field next to the development, through some trees, into another field, through some more trees and another field—who knew this was all here? And then, we are in a cornfield. A weird mini-cornfield, where the hell am I? Jackson has followed me—of course—and he is bringing me sticks, wagging his tail and thinking this is the best adventure we have been on in awhile. I think that he is celebrating the possible loss of Cheyenne and trying to distract me so that maybe, finally, she will actually be gone and he will have me to himself again.
I am desperate, envisioning Cheyenne’s demise by way of getting hit by a car, or getting lost. I estimate that we have run close to a mile and I cannot begin to keep up with her, often I am just running in the direction I last saw her and hoping to glimpse her on the other side of the trees. I have tried everything I know to get her attention and to no avail. I have tried the super-excited “Cheyenne, come”, I have tried the super-stern, “Cheyenne, now”, and although I am embarrassed to admit it, the super-hysterical, “Cheyenne!!” So, we are in the cornfield and I am starting to cry and now I say, “Cheyenne, you’re going to get lost.” At that exact moment, she suddenly she looks up, sees me, wags her tail and runs over to me. It is as though she is noticing I am along on this escapade for the first time.
I grab her by the collar and now I have to decide which way to go. We are very close to a road south of the development. But if my husband doesn’t come this way looking for us, I will then have to walk ½ mile up a very busy road (speed limit 55mph) with two dogs and no leashes. Although Jackson is very good off-leash the prospect of doing this next to a busy road is beyond unappealing and I have already had enough excitement for one day.
So, I decide to go back the way we came. Back through the cornfield and trees and countless other fields. And she is short and holding onto her collar, well, sucks, because I have to walk all hunched over. So I carry her. Again, this is less than ideal because she does weigh 35 pounds. If only I had a leash, I think. And then I realize I am wearing yoga pants, bingo, I will use the string in my pants as a leash. I begin congratulating myself on my Mcgyver-like brilliance. A teensy bit too early I might add. I try to pull the string out of my pants and it won’t come out—how is it that whenever I put my pants in the dryer the string finds its way out of my pants so easily and when I actually need this to happen it won’t budge?? I think that probably it is because I am trying to do it one-handed and then my brilliance reaches a new level. If I simply tie the end of the string to her collar and she starts to walk it will pull right out of my pants and then I will have a makeshift leash and we will be good. Great idea, right? Except for the fact that apparently the string was actually sewn into my pants and my pants are now starting to rip. And now because of my brilliant plan, the knot on my dogs collar is pulled too tight to undo and I am attached to my dog by about 10 inches. In my superior intelligence, I also forgot to think about what might happen when the string in my pants was no longer tied. So now not only are my pants falling down but I am faced with 2 even worse choices than before, hunching over even worse than before and taking weird baby steps to make up for the difference in height, or carrying her down low. So much for taking a break from working out today.
So there I am, in my ill-fitting flip-flops, with my pants falling down, walking through all these fields wondering where the hell my husband is and thanking God that no one, other than Jackson, is around to see this spectacle. I am tripping over rabbit dens, at least I hope that’s what they are, my arms are aching, I am sweating and my feet are literally bleeding. Finally the neighborhood is in sight and I am walking through the backfield and my husband is meeting me and I am taking her collar off handing the little monster dog over to him. And I think, electric fence, here we come.
And now as I write this she is curled up next me with her head touching my leg as sweet and angelic as can be.
So when we say that Cheyenne digs holes to China, you can see we are only slightly exaggerating. The scale is hard to see in this picture, but she can fit her entire body in this hole and then some. This one we call her den, because she lays in it sometimes and “protects” it when my husband mows the lawn. She expanded it today.
Cheyenne came to us with a love of digging. She is extremely efficient at it, and can dig quite a large hole in a matter of minutes. She uses her face as well as her paws. We have holes all over our yard and we can always tell when she has been digging. She will come back to the door with dirt all over her back, and mud caked on her paws and in nostrils. She has no idea that evidence is all over her body and all we can do is laugh.
Is that a border collie or a retriever? He’s even pointing! So excited that these days draw nearer!
Umm…. is this really necessary Jack? Not only does he have 3 toys, he is hoarding them by laying on top of them so no one else can have them. When I say Jackson is obsessed with his toys, I do not exaggerate. In this instance Jackson kept all the toys to himself, but often this is not the case. If I am preoccupied (surfing the net, writing, or even sleeping), Jackson will just keep bringing me more and more toys, as though the reason I am not playing with him is due to his toy selection. Hmmm, she doesn’t seem to like the rope toy, what about the squeaky duck? Soon a whole pile will have accumulated around and on me.