“Get out” is what I WON‘T be saying to my 104 pound, hair-shedding Great Pyrenees dog, one of two white (and often muddy) farm dogs that are supposed to be my OUTSIDE doggie-poohs. (I do love these girls. Pyrenees are sooooooooo gentle and stoical and kind and well-behaved.)
Well, one of my Pyrs (peers) pulled off an INSIDE job when she broke her foot. And because she’ll be in a cast for six weeks, I let the pampering begin.
(Right. I already make their food in a crock-pot, feed them greens I grow, brush their teeth, groom them daily, worry, and love them more than is rational.)
Here’s where my greenhouse is these days—lots of tender kale and spinach being grown in my horse-trough gardens.
The big and little of it is this. Here’s my canary, Daffodil, and here’s her new roommate, Periwinkle. They actually like each other.
It all began the day my pregnant Jersey milk cow, Chocolate, backed up and stepped on Periwinkle’s foot. Yowlzer!
I’m not so much worried about her getting soft and comfortable with our new arrangement; it’s me I’m worried about. I’ve never had an inside dog before, and you know what? I’m quite liking it. She hasn’t barked once (she knows she’s in my house), but she did wake up with me the other night when some coyotes started howling right outside my open bedroom window. The moon was full and our primal moment together was, well, bonding. However, her sister is still out with my cows and horses and acting a little lost. Two inside Great Pyrenees? I think not, but it’s tempting. Somebody please, come and lock me up before I… Or tell me about someone who has turned Pomeranians into good livestock guards.