Two weeks ago, some friends left their home in the country and needed someone to feed the dogs, bulls, chickens (chooks), and donkeys. The Mothership needed us.
Tamale and Fabian came from Coominya Lodge. Tamale always went nuts whenever Cap’n Cathy popped by a GAP exhibit. No dog that ever had Cap’n Cathy (and First Mate Ron) taking care of them ever forgot them. She is sight-crack. Tamale’s heaven will be a mash-up of the Mothership, Brooke’s place, and mine.
Brooke and I answered the distress signal from the Mothership, which sounded a lot like “We’regoingtomeetthefutureinlawsandwouldratherstayhomebutcan’tcanyouhelpout”. Brooke and I arrived at the house and pushed them out, lest they change their minds and don’t need our primo critter-sitting skills.
I’ll let the photos do most, not all, of the talking. As if I wouldn’t talk.
First there’s going out to see Sir Loin and Stroogle, the bull calves.
We chat them up and let our city hounds have a sniff before we lock them in the yard to see the hounds whose parents abandoned them for various weekenders away. You can also get a good look at Cap’n Cathy’s fine ass.
You probably want to see my older but much nicer ass:
We counted five on the balcony, but this fella became our man. He crawled all over me. It was great. I love frogs.
And even those of us who aren’t couch potatoes need their booty sleep.
As soon as I hopped onto this mattress (on the floor–a dog’s dream), Omo scored the primo place and we fell asleep with paws in hands. I adore him and am still grateful for all my friends, fleshy and cyber, who helped to keep in the land of the living.
Fabian finds it useful to not have a leg that would get in the way. He found this spot. We were bushed.
After a long night of over indulgence and long chats, the hounds slept in on the deck that is 2/3 dedicated to the dogs, complete with old couches, pads, and beds. Go on. Dig a nest.
Then we got up for brekky. I know. Shocking. “You went to bed and then got up for brekky?! Tell us more.” Well, before I rudely interrupted with the sarcasm I assume you had, I was going to say that Brooke wanted me to have a bogan breakfast. Okay. I did it once. Steak for brekky is not my cuppa. Or plate-a. But hey, who am I to shirk cultural explorations, especially in the state of Boganvillia. That explains the plate. Now check out the JELLY! When I lost Tamale, I was going to get either Jelly or Fabian. I chose Fabian because I always wanted a tripod and worried that if I didn’t take him, would anyone love such perfect imperfection. I still call Jelly my dog. Jelly is a smiler:
And while we ate, all the comfy beds were taken except for one–the JRTs’ bed. Poor Fabian could not balance while twisting to get in. He tried several times before giving up. Omo was next, but he was too large. Finally, Iris Pie Face got it right, although she wasn’t impressed. Baskets are for tools. She’s strictly a bed bitch.
So that was our weekend away. We have another booked in for when they have to leave for a wedding. We’ve invited another grey owner. We can’t wait. If we could manage it, I’d live away from it all. Unforchy McDorchy, Coominya’s main industry is a slaughter house or two. Not an option.
Before I go, here’s a video of my new home state:
What greyhound lover wouldn’t love the line “Turn your back to us; shake that gluteus maximus!”?
It’s time to thank Two Little Cavaliers, Life With Dogs, and Confessions of the Plume for getting this crazy hop going. Getting things going for each Saturday has helped me to post more frequently. Discipline. Who knew that three pet blogs would be the solution. Visit their site for the rules, Linky Tool, and secret code. All cool things have a secret code.
The following are the people who have taken the time to turn their backs to us and shake their gluteus maximus (maximi?):
(Names will appear when I get the code. Mr N Buggers doesn’t post the code until we here in Tomorrowtopia are out and about nearly out of Saturday. I’ve written and scheduled the post to spring come midnight Eastern Buggers Time. When I get back to the ‘puter I’ll see if the slackarses of pansy-ass New England are up and running. If so, names will appear as if by magic.)