Fawn Haul
Why am I always in inappropriate footwear when Griffin decides to chase wild animals?
Yesterday I carried my shoes downstairs, put them next to the chair in the living room, and then went downstairs to let Griffin and Bailey out (Dover remained upstairs to protect Ainsley from under the bed). By the time I got back upstairs, I heard the dogs barking, which is fairly normal though annoying at 6:30 in the morning, so I started towards the back window to shush them. Then I heard another noise that was somewhere between a honk and a wail.
Ruh-roh.
I ran down the deck stairs, over the construction fence, and down to the back of the yard, calling towards the dogs, when I saw Griffin with a deer in his mouth. Huh.
Bailey was a few feet back, barking as if to say, "Hey! There's a deer in your mouth!"
It was a baby deer, just slightly bigger than Dover, who had somehow gotten into our back 40, and Griffin was treating it like a squeaky toy, picking it up at his lower back and then letting it go, then chasing him back towards the fence, the poor thing crashing into it trying to get away from the dog with the teeth, the dog with the bark, and the large man running in socks.
I managed to get between them, using a stick to widen my "back off, dogs" wingspan, and yelled for Ainsley to come get Griffin. I was able to scare the deer back from whence it came, and it hopefully learned its lesson. As did I. Always put on shoes before letting dogs out.
Let's travel back in time to an e-mail from late Spring 2002, shall we?
Even though we’ve lived in Colorado nearly a year, we haven’t been able to do much exploring around, so Ainsley and I decided to honeymoon up in the mountains, where we could take our dogs. We got a cabin about 4 ½ hours west of here, up, down, through and over some of the most beautiful scenery in the country, where, as a newly established partnership of coupledom, I got to point out some gorgeous snow-covered peaks, and Ainsley got to point out whenever I was still in fourth gear.
See, I’m DRIVING. I don’t want to have to THINK. This is why I have an AUTOMATIC car.
Grrrrrrr...
Our cabin was on a ranch half-way up the side of a hill, roaring distance from the Crystal River in a lush green valley below Mount Sopris, named after a famous explorer, Dr. Henry Mount.
There were 14 cabins on the ranch, as well as an old farmhouse from 1913 and an antique store. It was pretty crowded, but once the weekend ended, there were fewer people around. We had our own kitchen and bathroom, and a wee little front porch to watch the valley and listen to the river. An idyllic, peaceful setting. Until someone walked by. Then: “BARK!BARK!BARK!BARK!BARK!”WHOSE idea was it to bring dogs, again?
The ranch, being a ranch, had a ranch dog, a ranch burro, a ranch llama, and a ranch goat. The goat was sometimes taken out of the pen and tethered in the center of a pasture area for kids to come pet it and feed it Chex Mix or whatever.
So Griffin decided to say hi.
He had gotten out of our grip up at our cabin and decided to go exploring at top speed, me trying to chase him in sandals that kept coming unvelcroed, and he eventually came across the above pasture. The goat was freaked, running to the end of its line, then tripping as if it had been lassoed at a rodeo. Griffin just chased and chased it, barking like crazy, sometimes trying to bite its tail (it was about four times Griffin’s size). Griffin is one of those dogs who knows that “Come Here!” is one of those things that people say for fun, and was just loving chasey time. So picture Griffin, circling a goat, which was circling me, trying to keep me between him and the dog, while I shouted Griffin’s name, diving at him from time to time with only one sandal on, Griffin darting out of the way, and again going after the goat. Finally, after a good full three minutes, he stopped to lap up some water and I grabbed his neck. I could just see my farewell note to the ranch: “Loved the view, sorry my dog tried to eat your goat.”
Yesterday I carried my shoes downstairs, put them next to the chair in the living room, and then went downstairs to let Griffin and Bailey out (Dover remained upstairs to protect Ainsley from under the bed). By the time I got back upstairs, I heard the dogs barking, which is fairly normal though annoying at 6:30 in the morning, so I started towards the back window to shush them. Then I heard another noise that was somewhere between a honk and a wail.
Ruh-roh.
I ran down the deck stairs, over the construction fence, and down to the back of the yard, calling towards the dogs, when I saw Griffin with a deer in his mouth. Huh.
Bailey was a few feet back, barking as if to say, "Hey! There's a deer in your mouth!"
It was a baby deer, just slightly bigger than Dover, who had somehow gotten into our back 40, and Griffin was treating it like a squeaky toy, picking it up at his lower back and then letting it go, then chasing him back towards the fence, the poor thing crashing into it trying to get away from the dog with the teeth, the dog with the bark, and the large man running in socks.
I managed to get between them, using a stick to widen my "back off, dogs" wingspan, and yelled for Ainsley to come get Griffin. I was able to scare the deer back from whence it came, and it hopefully learned its lesson. As did I. Always put on shoes before letting dogs out.
Let's travel back in time to an e-mail from late Spring 2002, shall we?
Even though we’ve lived in Colorado nearly a year, we haven’t been able to do much exploring around, so Ainsley and I decided to honeymoon up in the mountains, where we could take our dogs. We got a cabin about 4 ½ hours west of here, up, down, through and over some of the most beautiful scenery in the country, where, as a newly established partnership of coupledom, I got to point out some gorgeous snow-covered peaks, and Ainsley got to point out whenever I was still in fourth gear.
See, I’m DRIVING. I don’t want to have to THINK. This is why I have an AUTOMATIC car.
Grrrrrrr...
Our cabin was on a ranch half-way up the side of a hill, roaring distance from the Crystal River in a lush green valley below Mount Sopris, named after a famous explorer, Dr. Henry Mount.
There were 14 cabins on the ranch, as well as an old farmhouse from 1913 and an antique store. It was pretty crowded, but once the weekend ended, there were fewer people around. We had our own kitchen and bathroom, and a wee little front porch to watch the valley and listen to the river. An idyllic, peaceful setting. Until someone walked by. Then: “BARK!BARK!BARK!BARK!BARK!”WHOSE idea was it to bring dogs, again?
The ranch, being a ranch, had a ranch dog, a ranch burro, a ranch llama, and a ranch goat. The goat was sometimes taken out of the pen and tethered in the center of a pasture area for kids to come pet it and feed it Chex Mix or whatever.
So Griffin decided to say hi.
He had gotten out of our grip up at our cabin and decided to go exploring at top speed, me trying to chase him in sandals that kept coming unvelcroed, and he eventually came across the above pasture. The goat was freaked, running to the end of its line, then tripping as if it had been lassoed at a rodeo. Griffin just chased and chased it, barking like crazy, sometimes trying to bite its tail (it was about four times Griffin’s size). Griffin is one of those dogs who knows that “Come Here!” is one of those things that people say for fun, and was just loving chasey time. So picture Griffin, circling a goat, which was circling me, trying to keep me between him and the dog, while I shouted Griffin’s name, diving at him from time to time with only one sandal on, Griffin darting out of the way, and again going after the goat. Finally, after a good full three minutes, he stopped to lap up some water and I grabbed his neck. I could just see my farewell note to the ranch: “Loved the view, sorry my dog tried to eat your goat.”
posted by Dan at 9:31 PM
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