The Long Road, Part II

I honestly cannot recall whether Mat and I slept through the night, or if we were awakened prematurely by the cold and damp. I cannot forget, however, the viscous gray seepage in which we found ourselves by morning. I will never forget the color, the texture, or the copious abundance of the mud in that giant washbasin in which we had camped. I will never forget because, to this day the mud is with us—a gray film on my tent, washed several times and used several more in the intervening years; a collection of sloppy wet-paw slashes across Mat's guitar case, smeared during the passage of our soggy dogs in to the car the next morning. It was the fourth day of our trip, and we had passed what would be, on this trip, the last night of camping.

The frugal and outdoorsy vibe had left us, and as Mat and I scraped the mud from our boots, our gear, and our pups we made plans for change. Before the breakfast hour passed, we were plotting to overnight in a motel. The mud basin had rendered our poor tent too unwelcoming.

We had no trouble finding a pet-friendly motel at nightfall, and we fell headfirst into the shower at first opportunity. The four of us—two human, two canine—went in looking like Creatures From the Gray Lagoon, and it was refreshing to emerge with our skin, our hair, and our clean fur shining. The rats, safe in their travel cage, escaped the dirtying and the cleanup. On day five, the six of us left Montana in better shape than we'd come in.

What had been planned as a six day trip looked promisingly short on that fifth morning, and after a rash glance at the map it was decided that we would push for our final destination in one last marathon. Whidbey or bust, we said, and with the last ferry sailing at two in the morning we had a handy deadline by which to set our goal. We couldn't open our wallets for another motel stay, and we couldn't bear to think of crawling back inside the slimy gray mass that had been our two-man, three-season home away from home.

. . . to be continued . . .

(photo: a dramatic recreation of our morning in South Dakota)

Comments

Here are the Cloud Dog's X-Rays

Here, for your edification, are the X-rays of dear Paisley's leg. There is, apparently, no new break (since his Monday siezure) but there is, of course, a great deal of abnormality caused by years of living with a shortened ulna. His pronounced lameness, the vet says, may temporarily improve. Unlike me, Fenway Bartholomule, poor cloud dog can't expect much in the way of a full recovery. Not having the $$$$ for surgery to fuse the joint, we are working on making some sort of rigid splint to support the limb and prevent further degeneration. That is, the humans (with their space-age material inventions and their opposable thumbs) are working on making a splint; I am working on giving cloud dog brayful looks of support and encouragement every time he totters into the yard to relieve himself. As always, he fears me (me?!) and keeps his distance. Ears to you, Fenway

Continued . . .

Vegan Spring Rolls

I, Fenway Bartholomule, am a vegan: of course I only eat plants, not people! My human is too, so I'm sharing my blog with her today so that she can participate in the 2014 Virtual Vegan Potluck ! When you're done perusing the recipe for these delicious spring rolls, click "back" or "forward" for the entire potluck experience! Virtual Vegan Potluck: Spring Roll Appetizers Beautiful? Check. Healthy? Check. Delicious? Check. Easy? Check. Fancy? Check. Quick to clean up after? Check. Vegan? OF COURSE! If you're looking for something portable, colorful, and crowd-pleasing for your next potluck, look no further than these simple vegan spring rolls! The best part? You can substitute ANYTHING. I never make these the same way twice, so play around with cilantro, kale, cabbage, scallions, or whatever you think sounds good! Ingredients Veggie mix: 2 carrots (grated) 4 oz mung bean sprouts 1/3 cup chopped peanuts (raw, or roasted and salted) or ...

Continued . . .

2025 State of the Farmlet Address

A red stag photographed by Farmwife in Scotland, from whence the family descends and to where they voyaged in September 2024. Dear Mules and Countrywomen, It is my pleasure to report to you today, from my forested vantage point, that the Farmlet is well. It has been eight years since my family had a Farmlet to report upon, and this one is among the best. It is 25 minutes south of Casa de Bartholomule-Teaspoon, where you may remember the family lived for a time, and situated on the same verdant island. It is 120 minutes south of Bent Barrow Farm, where the ancient rhododendron still blooms and where FenBar's old barn of many colors still stands and shelters farm machinery. This place has rhododendrons, too, encircling a lawn which slopes down to my barn and paddock. We call the barn Hoofhouse, and it is going to be painted black in the spring to match the house and my companion, Puck. My paddock, by design, does not overlap the lawn but instead winds through a mix...

Continued . . .

That Which Was Foretold Has Come To Pass

After some negotiation and exchange of words like "motheaten" and "raggedy", Farmwife talked me into enduring the roaching of my mane, which I had rubbed on the fence while reaching for delectable edibles at my previous home. We both agreed on four things: 1) it was essential to retain my forelock, which is a thing of splendor that adds greatly to my dashing good looks. I'll get a picture for you tomorrow. 2) once the cut has grown out a bit, she will give me those fancy castle turrets that she used to style for Fenway. 3) we owe our dear readers a better photo, when I have not just rolled in the mud. 4) there is no hairstyle capable of making me look anything but marvelous.

Continued . . .

BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

Search This Blog