We’ve been working on fetch, and recently on swim-fetch.  I picked up one of those floaty thingies when Enzo showed a lot of jealousy of the other dogs at the dog beach and slowly we’ve been getting him into deeper and deeper water.

Today during our fling fest I got a little ahead of myself and tossed it about 10 feet beyond his maximum swim.  Dog promptly runs up to the edge of the sand and plops his cute little white butt down and stares at the toy in dismay.  Then he trots off and, oh boy, brings me back some nasty litter from picnickers – rotting pieces of chicken.  UGH!  THAT was hard to get away from him – he wanted that nasty thing so badly.

Eventually I get the trash away from him, scolding him for running AND helping himself to food that isn’t his (and reminding myself that he IS a trash dog thanks to his negligent breeders).  We then get back to “get the toy.”  For fifteen minutes I get him to charge the water only to put the breaks on when he spies his toy wayyy out there.  Even Tyler is eager to take the swim and go get it back (gack).  Every time I turned around my toddler was wading into the lake to retrieve the toy.

Finally, all options exercised, I sit Ty down on his butt with a firm “Do NOT move” command. Put Enzo beside him with the same command.  Strip to my nickers and take the plunge.  Of COURSE it has to be on the ONE cold and cloudy day this week.  Sigh.  By the time I come back both Ty and the dog are standing just at the edge of the water (only 2 feet from where I’d planted them, not bad) cheering me on.

Brrrr. It was a long, cold, wet walk back to the car.  Thanks a lot, dog!

The family run business only sells Stihl and Husqvarna and one other quality brand. They were helpful, courteous, and didn’t talk down to me because I’m a distracted woman with a toddler in tow. Instead – they set up my son to play fetch with their dog in their side yard (fully fenced) while I was given a full tour of the options for a professional grade lawn trimmer.

Then, when he’d basically sold me on the model I would soon take home, I mentioned that it was out of my price range… “I think we can honor our expired sale price for you” he says to me, and promptly brings it down into what I could afford and sets me up with all sorts of goodies and accessories. Then goes out of his way to provide full instruction on how to adjust it to my height and how to run the thing.

Amazing!! Why, oh why, do we all shop at big box stores when these guys are around the corner?

Ty is starting to truly show an interest in using the potty.  I never would have thought this step such a huge deal, but oddly I’ve been pressured by my in-laws since Ty was six months old to get him potty trained.  Once upon a time, kids were taught to use the potty in a very different way than now, and I’ve been using books and literature to defend my stance (over and over and over again) that he’s not ready.  Be that as it may, the expressed disappointment from individuals I respect as it relates to Ty’s bowel movements have turned a regular childhood hill into a monstrous mountain to be accomplished as soon as physically possible.  Ty, at least, is game and is enjoying the process which I’ve worked hard to make fun and low key.  I try to keep my various anxieties as it relates to the opinions of others, to myself.

Yesterday’s accomplishment was incredible as he came dancing into my workspace, pointing back at the potty area.  I thought perhaps we’d had an accident and made a mess on the floor (he’s quite sensitive about making messes and likes them cleaned up quickly), but it turns out he was telling me he had to go and as soon as I followed him to his room he promptly sat on his potty and handed me a book to read him, and did his business!  Way to go kid!  We’re nowhere near “trained” but what an amazing step forward!

Other good parts of the day revolved around cooking – I created a new recipe (well for me – it just came out of my  head) a nice, flaky, blueberry pastry that was sweet and creamy with just the right amount of tart to make each bite absolutely scrumptious!  The trick was in using some cream cheese in the blueberry sauce itself, and then an additional dollop of cream cheese inside the pastry beneath the blueberry filling.  YUM!

That afternoon Steve’s mom was scheduled to stop by for dinner.  She’s caring for our chickens while we take a much needed break next week, and wanted to go over how we care for them.  As usual, she had her German Shepherd with her.  He’s a big guy, rather like a great big kid, even though he’s got to be coming up on 4 years old now.  She’s not really focused on training him, and we’re often apprehensive about having him over.  His last visit here we allowed him to come in the house, something we never did at our old place simply due to his large size! He’s not meant for small apartments.   However, here we have 4,000 square feet and a dog of our own.  Hard to say “no” in that situation.  Unfortunately, he lost control at the site our much loved cat and chased her into our bedroom (off limits to dogs) and cornered her.  Having observed dogs playfully chasing cats, I get it about a dog and cat’s need to play chase.  This wasn’t friendly, however.  This was really, really scary.  The growl and ensuing chase were intense and primal and if Steve hadn’t stepped in, we would have lost the cat.  The result was his mother lecturing Steve, however, about unfairly treating the dog.  The dog was only reprimanded by Steve, not his owner.

Yesterday marked a month after the ‘cat’ incident, and the dog was not going to be invited into the house for a repeat.  However, his mom wanted to walk him on a leash around the property while Steve showed her our new baby chicks.  I was in cooking, so I only heard the bark and the prompt cry of anger and frustration from my husband as the dog slaughtered my favorite of the baby chicks.  I’d already rescued this little one, a true runt, from certain death.  She was tiny, but incredibly sweet, and really wanted to live.  The other chicks at this point had accepted her into their flock and she was thriving finally.  Steve’s mom had no hope of controlling the shepherd who was at least equal weight to her, and powerfully built.  While she apologized for the loss, the dog was not punished, and she treated it as a fact of nature that a dog will kill a chicken.  I’ve asked her to keep him in the car tied up while she’s here next week collecting eggs and providing water and food for the birds.

Steve was far angrier than I was.  I think I’m (or I was at least) more resigned to the dog’s behavior which as been evident to me for a very long time.  Steve, however, really saw what a threat the dog is last night, and sent a very emphatic and angry email off to his parents yesterday evening about the danger of the dog and making it very clear that we worry about Ty’s safety when the animal is so hard to control.  We will not be leaving Ty in the dog’s presence again.

Finally, in the evening, Steve’s mother and I were chatting while I finished up cooking and over dinner (Steve was glowering in the other room) about Ty and his accomplishments of late (my constant source of pride).  I also shared with her Ty’s recent encounter with a playground bully: an older boy at the water park who kept spraying Ty in the face with a water jet every time Ty approached the train toy in the park.  Ty isn’t overly used to other kids yet – my fault, I suppose, as he’s not in a daycare and we aren’t in very many play groups.  For the most part Ty does great with other kids, but he does hang back and look to me for reassurance.  I think he does fine for an almost 2-year old, but Steve’s mom points out to me that I coddle him and have turned him into a mama’s boy.  She predicts he will be bullied because he is sweet and eager to please.  How can a mom, always an anxious species, withstand that sort of criticism?  It’s not as if I have any great experience to draw on.  Each mom does her best, in my experience, and that’s really all you can do.  This fall Ty will be in swim lessons twice a week, and attending Strong Start – a free pre-preschool program that the school districts in BC provide.  I may also begin using the local rec-centre’s daycare to let Ty get to know kids without me around, leaving me free to enjoy a periodic yoga class (which I miss SO incredibly much).

So thus I ponder and wonder and worry and fret.  What do I do wrong with my son?  Or am I doing wrong?  He doesn’t want to talk, though he’s demonstrated several times that he CAN when he wants to.  He knows his colors, shapes, alphabet and numbers; he does puzzles; plays nicely by himself; shares nicely with others. He’s athletic and cheerful and eager to be outside. He gets into trouble as much as any 2-year old; he enjoys having choices.  Sigh – so many positives – yet why must I feel anxious about how I’ve made all these mistakes – he’s not yet potty trained (he’s also not yet 2, but try telling that to a woman who insists her son was potty trained by 6 months) – he’s a bit clingy in new situations (what kid isn’t?) – he doesn’t like being bullied or having things just taken from him, but if you ask, he’ll always share!

Then I struggle with the worry about criticizing her about her dog.  Will she still help me with the chickens? I really don’t have anyone else to ask. She has done so much for us, can we really justify being critical?  My dog isn’t yet a paragon of perfectness – maybe some day, but probably not.  I don’t have that kind of time to sit and train him daily, but for what it’s worth, he listens when he’s supposed to, he sits on command, he comes, he’s gentle and submissive, and I don’t worry at all about the safety of any of our animals.

Enough of this ruminating for the day. Time to get on with our morning project.  It’s recycling day!

Now that Ty is down asleep and all my chores done for the day, my only wish is to get that darned hammock up so I can swing in the sunshine for a few minutes before the current stillness ends with gleeful shouting.  I think today we’ll fingerpaint.

Here’s a couple of nice pics:

Scooping up a warm, soft fuzzy chicken; cradling and carrying to the coop; madly dashing after those that flee your human hands clucking and shrieking once caught…

My husband thought I was crazy when I told him I was having fun…it’s not fun chasing chickens who should know better at the end of a long work day, but still…the evening air, something about being out during a time that belongs to predators of claw and fang – the wildness of it calls to me – even in my own humble backyard.  I ache to be out in it, running free, fleet of foot; or scattered around a campfire listening to the crackle of logs and sniffing the heady smoky scent of juniper and roasting meat; or lying in a sleeping bag, my back cuddled against the warmth and solidness of my man staring at the night sky and hearing the animals move about.

Naturally I tend to be a fearful creature, but still something about the outdoors beckons. Memories of childhood – sitting on a roof with my dad picking out stars; going for a midnight walk in college; the first road trip with my future husband, watching a mouse rush out from under our car for a nibble of cookie; nervously poking my head out of our van when my eyes no longer could discern shapes and movement accurately but desperately wanting one last pee before turning in for the night.  The aliveness I feel in this kind of air makes me want to dash out of the house and go for a long crazy run…

It’s 9:30pm, I’ve been up since 5am…I shouldn’t be so wound up, so wanting to play and run and toss my head and disappear over the hills, come what may. But I am, and I do. I think I’ll go tackle my husband instead…

Today, I let the birds back out to roam the yard.  One of the older coops has been taken down and removed from the property.  The other is still housing 19 chicks.  However, the 9 adult chickens who used to live in that old coop are frantically beating their wings against all the doors trying to get in – even though the new coop is standing wide open and has several cups of chicken scratch and household scraps enticingly placed inside to lure them back home.

I spent an hour today dancing around the yard trying to herd the chickens to the new coop.  Lesson learned. Never try to herd a chicken.

Unfortunately, they either have to figure this out or spend the night in the cold. If you can’t herd them, scare them, lure them, or entice them in any way into going where you want them to, they just have to figure it out on their own…

Since the main play area is mostly smooth with only a few dandelions stubbornly ruining the horizon, I’ve been slowly charging the backyard strip and other-side yard with my handy-dandy Reel Mower.

However, today’s story is not one of incredible accomplishment.  I did not successfully, finally, muscle my way through the side yard grass.  Sigh.  I did sort of flatten the back strip of weedy lawn, and about 1/3 of the side yard.  However, as I was sweating and stomping away up and down and up and down, and up and down again, fighting the grasses with every ounce of muscle I’ve built up these few months, I noticed Enzo (my adorable, and frustrating puppy) carefully cradling what appeared to be an egg between his jaws.  Now, today was the first day I’ve let the chickens back out to free range since we forcefully incarcerated them into their new coop (we couldn’t think of a better way to teach them where there new home was); and, I had already collected the usual 6 eggs.  So, I was puzzled.  Our chickens at one point were giving me 13 eggs a day, but that rapidly stopped when we let a few of the hens go with nature and produce 19 chicks for us (currently in the brooder – a story for another day).  Since that time, we’ve only been getting 5-7 eggs a day (out of 15 hens, that’s pretty poor).  I’ve been chalking it up to a return of poor health, considering what they’ve been through.

So, time to investigate.  I call my smart dog over and make him give me the egg.  I study it, puzzled, then take him to a flat rock and give him back the egg (cracked) as a treat for being so good.  Once eaten, I send him of to “find more eggs.”   Next thing I know, he’s facing me, sitting, with another egg.  This one I take and put in my egg bucket – and I send him out again. Repeat, and again. And again. And again!  After about 6 “find” commands – rewarding him a few times with the eggs he brings – I know there’s NO way they laid these eggs today.  The chickens have been cooped up (literally) for days now and I was only getting 6 eggs each day while they were in their coops.  To suddenly be faced with more than double that number seemed highly suspicious.  So, I follow the dog on the 7th “find” adventure.  He takes me to a bush that, when parted, revealed more than 50 eggs!!!

GAG!  Some of those eggs appeared to be well on their way to mummification.  I give Enzo one more egg as a prize for leading me to the stash, and then promptly scoop up the remainder and seal them into a ziploc and place carefully in the trash.  Heaven help the individual that squashes our trash at the landfill this month!  I know, I know, the eggs should have gone into the compost.  I deliberated on this, but considering Enzo’s sudden delight in munching down eggs that are god-knows how old, I decided against having their wreckage strewn around the yard.

Anywho, onto the next story of the day.  Munchkin is chattering away in his room.  Time to get him up!

Then we get to the house.  Wow.  What a house.  We moved from a 900 sq ft townhome in a densely populated suburban town outside of Vancouver, BC to a 4,000 sq ft custom built home.  Custom built is good.  Again, the original people really cared, and they invested everything they had into this place.  Except, well, we suspect they ran out of money and didn’t get a lot of help designing the place.  It’s ODD.  The master bathroom is huge.  In fact, it’s so big, we refer to the bathtub in it as a pool.  It sure feels like one when you try to fill it up, and to bathe my toddler in it was an exercise in balance skills (you have to kneel on the edge of the tub and stretch across the width of the tub, across a small seat, until you reach the controls and the shower nozzle).  The upstairs bathroom (already replaced) originally came with malfunctioning lights and a teeny weeny 30″ square shower stall, a bidet, a toilet, and a teeny tiny washstand.

Someday we’ll have to renovate the entire place, but slowly and with care.  It deserves it.

This area of my mini blog is to share my journey from suburban girl to country mouse.  We dream of being self sufficient, self reliant, and independent from the grid.  My learning curve to get there is vertical.  In only 3 months I’ve accumulated a wealth of amusing stories and adventures: bears in the coops; midnight chicken chasing; adopting a scrawny, malnourished but seriously adorable pup; trying to keep track of my toddler as he marches off on adventures of his own making; and much much more!