It has literally been a lifetime since I updated this blog.
Betty’s Isis of ByDog, the Siberian Husky who was a puppy when last I posted, just turned 10 years old. The command leader I spoke about, the one we were going to get from Mark Nardin, dotters about the yard like an old grandma walking around the mall. She is fifteen and could go at any moment, and would, were it not for the key to her longevity, doggie yoga. We have lost Kona, Blue, and Paluk, two of those tragically. Tensaw, as Brandi puts it, has lost his marbles, but at twelve is still as spry and energetic and talkative as he ever was. He has lost the habit of sitting atop things, preferring to yell at his kids to stay off the lawn or curl up in one of his three spots and mutter to himself.
His progeny, the ones we call the puppies or, alternately, the Crazies, are seven. There are four of them - Buck, Jig, Whip, and Buzz. In the tradition of sled dog kennels, we named the litter after a theme, in our case, types of saws, in honor of Tenny. Together with Flier, a rejected intact male we acquired from the kennel of Kim and Kelly Berg, they make up Brandi’s race team. Buzz does not race, having been afflicted with seizures. He still likes to run, but cannot maintain the level of fitness that the others have, and the heat seems to trigger his Grand Mals.
Of all the losses, besides Kona, the cat was the most painful. Her name was Montana, but we mostly just called her Cat or Kitty. She was odd, as cats typically are, but she was terribly sweet and important to me. She quit eating for some reason while we were away at Brandi’s parents’ over Christmas last year and went 70 days without food before succumbing. I miss her immensely.
We have another feline, Priscilla, the barn cat, who guards the metric ton of dog food we keep in the Sled Shed from the hordes of mice that had been decimating it before we got her. She thinks she is a husky and she torments Okanogan, the old lead dog who is now nearly deaf and blind, by being constantly underfoot, but refuses to come inside, even though she wants to. Only the old dogs tolerate her, the others all want to make her lunch. Tenny and Isis got into her once, when we forgot to lock her in the Sled Shed before letting them out. They tore into her pretty good, but she is a scrapper and, ultimately, recovered, seemingly none the worse off for it. The experience certainly didn’t lessen her love for the puppas, although she is wary enough of the younger dogs to seek refuge under the deck now whenever we mistakenly let them out in the yard together.
As is nearly always the case, Isis has lived up to her namesake. The terrorist group was not even a thing when we christened her, at least not in mainstream media, but she has certainly lived up to the title. She was a terrible fit for our kennel, wanting only to be a single dog and a family pet, and we would have found her a more appropriate home long ago were it not for the fact that Keegan refuses to allow it. She is a horribly spiteful and jealous creature, barking ceaselessly when the other dogs are running or playing, but utterly fearless and unwilling to ever back down, even when she knows she’s outmatched. Shyla, Tank’s sister from Paluk’s litter, nearly killed her on one occasion, and Isis would have gone down fighting had I not been able to break it up. To her credit, despite being completely unfit for it, she has always sought to run and keep up with the team, and I have always respected her for that. Some of us with the will and desire simply weren’t gifted the athleticism.
Of all the mistakes I have made in the past 10 years, Isis is least among them. I have come to realize that life is actually all mistakes, in between mere survival. Those rare glimmers of success we enjoy are built upon mountains of wrong decisions, lessons learned, trial, error, and reiteration. Any experience to the contrary is really just luck or good fortune, whether that is being born into privilege or having a mentor to guide you.
I sold the tractor last week. I had forgotten I once called her Bertha. It was sad to see her go, and not only because I lost money on the transaction. I don’t do well with loss, and I get hung up on things easily. The tractor was a sound investment, even if I sold it for less than I paid for her. It is hard to fathom how much value there was in that machine. When it came off the lot some time around 1960, the sticker price was in the neighborhood of $3500. I paid $6500 for it in 2008, which means it was worth nearly twice as much, and that without even considering all the value it had provided in the course of its 40 year lifespan. I am definitely glad I bought the tractor, but I hardly made use of her anymore, so I thought it best I pass her along to someone else who would. I believe I made the right decision.
I got out of fire in 2017, although not really, because, like the Marines or the Mafia, once you join, you are in it forever. It’s an addiction really. You get addicted to the tension, and the ultimate release, when a fire breaks and all that anticipation floods out in a fury of action. And then it becomes a grind and you can’t wait for the season to end. It is much akin to the military in many ways, only you always have the option of retreat. I still work as an AD through the Bitterroot, going on assignments. This year I spent the months of August and September operating a remote, virtual expanded dispatch from my bedroom office. I have been promoting the concept for years, and it was fun to finally get the opportunity to test it in practice.
The property has changed, although coming back to this blog, I realize not as much as I had planned or would have liked. I went on a few detours along the way, disappearing down a rabbit hole of micro-distilled spirits and several other endeavors, that didn’t yield as much fruit, or at least not as quickly, as I had expected. It has been a remarkable learning experience, and I made a few new friends along the way, which is all anyone can really ask for.
We put a lot of effort into the place this year, however. We had come to the jarring realization about a year and a half ago that the house was well beyond due for a paint job. When the painter came by for the estimate, he said, “A paint job is the least of your worries,” and put his thumb through the siding. So one of last summer’s fire assignments went to replacing the bottom third of the siding. Lesson learned: water your lawn, not the side of your house.
Early this summer, the paint crew returned and prepped and sprayed it. We looked at a lot of options but, in the end, settled for a khaki because it was the color that clashed least with the roof. Brandi is certain there is no harder color to match than that of our roof, and she may well be right. We have never seen another house with a roof the color of ours painted anything other than khaki.
We also put in underground sprinklers around the lawn. I had plumbed the pasture with new irrigation piping last year and needed to get it buried anyway, so we said what the hell. It was a gift to Brandi for her birthday - no more dragging hoses around the yard and fighting with sprinklers while I’m gone on fires. It turned out to be a disaster, and we kind of regret it. Before, we watered the lawn with ditch water, and this system is connected to the well. The hum from the pump keeps me up at night, and that’s to say nothing of all the other problems that came along with the installation. Dealing with contractors often leaves me shaking my head. At least it will save us from watering the siding.
Our garden this year was outstanding, and, on top of all the wonderful produce, I seriously believe it saved my sanity. I would go out there at least once a day, sometimes just to stand and look at the plants. Tending a garden is the most important thing a person can do, in my opinion, after tending their family. I truly believe that.
Speaking of family, the boys … wow, it has been a long time. I only just hit upon the fact that Rohn had not even been conceived last I updated this blog. Well, they are boys now, and all that comes with it. I love them like crazy, but that’s a tale for another day. Rohn and I have to go pick up Keegan from cross-country practice.
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