In which we catch up with some dogs, cats, chickens and (of course) the Dragon

 The chicken-killing dog hasn't returned (yet).  

After 3 days of fixing all kinds of damage she caused--not just the dead birds, she also dug a huge hole in Fiddle's stall and dismantled part of the horse trailer when we confined her in there--Jim was running short on kind feelings.

And then...

This is "Bubba."

Jim left his car running in front of the gate while he walked up to get the mail.  When he got back to the gate, a very sad dog was sitting there.

"Excuse me, sir," said this dog, "I'm am misplaced.  Can you please find my home?"

Bubba got scared by fireworks (imagine my surprise) on New Year's Eve and blew through his containment at the Mendoza's house (in the opposite direction from the chicken-killer).  He got found once, but his containment didn't get fixed, so he got out again.  

The difference between these two dogs couldn't be more obvious:  this dog came looking for a human to help.  

And Jim's anger at dogs pretty much melted when he saw Bubba.  He called the Mendozas, who hot-footed over to retrieve their kind boi, and they apologized about a million times--although please note, Bubba didn't even break a branch off the forsythia bush where he was waiting for Santa.

Fox wants everyone to know that he is the GOOD DOG.

He likes to snooze with his nose tucked into my shirt

I don't know if I've updated the blog on our current cats.  

It's hard to count the number of cats here--not because it's a "chicken math" situation, but rather because it's hard to know which cats consider themselves residents.

Boots has become something of a Schrodinger.  She showed up regularly for meals for months after Monica left, but then suddenly she stopped.  

"Uh, oh," thought I.  "Is that it?"  She was (reportedly) a 15 or 16 year old cat when Neighbor Dorothy moved to memory care.  Jim walked the road, looking in ditches for the body of a tuxedo cat, but didn't find anything.  

And then...

No remorse, no excuses, no explanation.  "Where's breakfast?" she demanded.

Since then, she's been spotted a couple of times, but not by me.  Is she alive or is she dead?  Truly a Schrodinger cat.

We postulate that she may have returned to Dorothy's old house--there's a nice, quiet new renter there now, and maybe Boots has adopted that person as her own.

At our place, we still have many cats:  Esmeralda Weatherwax  still rules the barn, although she's getting too old and creaky to do much about the rat situation.  She's been here nearly 7 years, and was not a baby when she arrived.

Rumplecatskin is still in charge of the house. 

A tabby in his natural habitat:  a reclining chair

 He still has no outdoor survival skills, although he forgets that periodically and sneaks outside.  We put an RFID tag on his collar so it will play an annoying tune when we activate it--and the noise only stops when he puts his face in his food bowl in the kitchen.  He does not like this tracking device, but it means I don't spend nearly as much time worrying about him!

Goblin remains black and mysterious.  The next-door neighbor has probably been feeding him, but he shows up several times each week to kill the doves (an invasive species, and he's welcome to them) and leave teeny feathers behind.  

Stub-tailed Sinbad considers himself a pirate.  He's certainly...unusual.

Sinbad is a pirate (and a weirdo)

A few weeks ago Sinbad showed up for breakfast covered in blood--his un-clipped ear was torn in several new places.  

"What did you do?" I asked him.

"I won," he told me smugly.  

However, there's a new cat in town, and I think Sinbad is a little scared of it.

No idea of the age, gender, or ownership details on this one.  We call them "Q".

At first I thought this chrome-plated tabby was Sinbad--but check out the rear bumper :  an elegant stripey tail!

None of the near neighbors are claiming this one, so we will try to trap Q this week and check the undercarriage for functional reproductive gear.  If it has some, we'll take a little journey to see our friends at the shelter to get that stuff removed.

What about chickens?

Our fences are reinforced, and Jim did some clever engineering to make the chicken gate hard to open without using thumbs.

So, yesterday we opened the sally port door

"Whaaa-a-a-a-a-a-aaaaa?"

and let hens come outside!

Cautious at first but then...is that food???

We had a bunch of chicken treats saved up from the Week With No Chickens:  a huge partly-rotting Hubbard squash, some catfood that had gotten damp...

"OOOOOH, RICE!"

...and the big treat of the day:  broccoli leaves!  Those were gone in about 3 seconds.  

Last night three of the hens went into their stronghold promptly at dark. The other three fell asleep outside and needed to be chivvied in by me.  Hopefully, they'll catch on in the next week or so.  The light in the chicken house stays on until 10--a holdover from the last batch of birds who would go indoors at 3pm, long before dark--so there is plenty of illumination for their evening poker games.

And the Dragon?

The Dragon, apparently, doesn't believe that she is 22 years old this year.  Her racehorse birthday was last week, her actually foaling anniversary is in early April. 

We went out today for a little meander.  We saw plenty of friends (Kitty, Rosemary, Luchia, Sam) at the trailhead, but she was not feeling in the mood to hang out with a big group.

So, off we went!  Walk, trot, gallumph, cantaloupe.  We explored familiar places and a few new trails.

Look, Mom:  blue sky!

My mom considers any day that has even a moment of clarity to be a "blue sky day" and she writes on her calendar whenever she sees blue.  I think I'm going to follow her example and take photos when I see it (especially in winter) -- like today.

Happy Blue Sky Day!