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Just kidding. This is her SOMEONE GOT THE FRISBEE AND IT WASN’T ME face. Beneath her sweet countenance lays an angry little toy hoarder.

This is who got her frisbee.

Maisie is no fool. She knows Peetie doesn’t WANT the frisbee, she only wants the cookies that come from getting the frisbee and returning it to the Food Lady.

She looks keen, but it’s all an act.

Then she got it again.

OH THE RAGE

And another frisbee-loving imposter. This one likes the cookies that come from returning the frisbee, but she also likes just having whatever it is some otherdog wants. Pound for pound (and she has lost some lbs and is now nice and trim, incidentally) she is the biggest bitch in the pack.

Does not want the frisbee even a tiny little bit:

Another small dog who has trimmed right down ever since I remove the accidental step stool that gave her free and unencumbered access up and over the laundry hamper and into the buffet that is the cat food in the bathroom. She’s a little miffed that she’s once again getting two meals a day instead of four, and she’s doing it with nine fewer teeth since her dental $urgery (ouch) but she remains her irrepressible self, even if it takes her a bit longer to masticate her (two) meals.

FINALLY GETTING IT!!

Now this guy wants the frisbee almost as much as Maisie does. But only if nobody else is trying to get it at the same time, since he can’t hear them coming. I find it fascinating that the same deaf dog who apparently does not understand the simple hand signal for “come here DO NOT RUN OFF INTO THE FIELD AND TRY TO SNEAK INTO THE AGILITY BARN” can glean instantly from the set of my shoulders relative to the gravitational field of the planets aligning with some kind of future visit from an alien race whether I have told Maisie to stay so I can throw the frisbee for him WITH HIS BACK TURNED TO ME. He remains, going into his 12th year, an enigma.

Isn’t quite sure what a frisbee is:

Just kidding. Noodles is still holding his own and doing remarkably well for 16! He is a little slower to get up that he used to be, and he trots back with the frisbee (and eschews retrieving balls on land mostly altogether) but he can still keep up on a hike. He even swims every day, which is why you get a bonus photo of him swimming back with the ball. Because it’s adorable.

OMG OMG OMG I CAN LITERALLY TASTE IT

This girlie has about two frisbee chases in her and then she is off hunting whatsoever is scurrying or slinking or hopping around on there for her to find. At the pond she has recently taken to standing in the pond plants up to her chin and remaining motionless, hoping to fool some hapless bullfrog into thinking she isn’t really there. The problem is that she can’t help wagging her white tipped tail which is held aloft and thus is basically a semaphore transmitting to bullfrogs near and far that she is here to Eat Them. She has even more recently gotten so frustrated that her ninja technique has failed to net her a single frog that she now just swims around through the pond for as much as half an hour at a time while they use the pond plant highway to evade her and she paddles frantically after them. This amuses me the most because for 10 years I have had to reteach Spring how to swim every spring, and now she’s turning into AquaDog. I guess it’s all about finding the right motivator.

BUT – bullfrogs can dive and she’s not mastered that yet, so her quest for frogs legs remains unrealized to date.

There are no photos of Winter. Which is a blessing really. I love the little needy, snuggly, huggy, conflicted-and-gets-growly-when-I-smooch-him-sometimes guy, but he is just not photogenic.

GOT IT! AT LAST, ALL THE FRISBEES OF THE WORLD ARE BELONG TO ME

SOMEONE will never be a real frisbee dog, because SOMEONE thinks frisbees can only be carried when folded in half, a belief system I blame solely on floppy Kong frisbees. Auntie Stef lent us this “real” disc and it takes her about two and half minutes and some serious contorting to return it, because it doesn’t like to fold in half and if it refuses it is otherwise unreturnable. Apparently.

She remains a skookum little agility dog though, despite her old, fat and lazy handler who never trains with her. Now that dog sports have come back into our collective lives as The Plague of the last year and a half (sort of) recedes, my weekends are slowly filling up with dog sport shooting gigs. I photographed a CKC Sprinter even that was wildly successful and lots of fun. Dogs running fast is always cool to watch.

Then I photographed an agility trial that was less successful, if we’re talking in terms of the amount of time and effort that I put and the returns on that investment. Because I have so little free time, I am going to be more discerning about what I will and will not photograph on my weekends going forward. But it was successful for us personally, as my Crazy Maisie earned herself another Q with a first place in Speedstakes. I was especially proud of her not only because we NEVER train but the course involved back to back tunnels, which she has never seen. I still remember entering Tweed in a Tunnellers event a gajillion years ago and after like the third tunnel in a row he literally stopped on the course and turned to me to give me stink eye, as he assumed I was lost on the course because WHERE IS THE OTHER EQUIPMENT. I kind of expected Maisie, who is basically a reincarnation of Tweed, to do the same thing, but she has more faith in me / is less skeptical that her predecessor and she went for it whole heartedly. She really is the best girlie!

If I can get it together to train on a regular basis (which is probably going to happen regardless because The Sadist growled something terrifying at me about how he WILL be training at the building regularly and I WILL be expected to join him) she is going to be amazing. She will only be handicapped by me. And it’s a pretty big handicap, alas.

I am so lucky to have such good doggos.

And she was crazy. And she jumped off the bank into the lake-y**.

(*not a lake, actually a pond
*I know it doesn’t really rhyme)

It was summer-time hot this weekend, like standing-around-sweating-and-complaining-that-it’s-so-hot hot. So of course we went swimming. It appears that the property behind us, with the pond, is being turned into a large-scale grow op, so we’re mostly just hoping to not get, you know, shot.

Her Royal Emo-ness was in a mood today, and didn’t want to fetch the ball, didn’t want to swim really, didn’t want to do anything except sit around looking mopey. It might be because I’ve changed her name to FatFat – because she is a CHONK. Her diet is like 80% green beans, but somehow she is still packing on lbs. She kinda reminds me of me, TBH (except not the green bean thing, and also my diet is 80% chips, Twizzlers and ice cream sandwiches, so at least I have an excuse. I eat my feelings, as it turns out).

I did finally convince her to go swimming by promising her cookies, which I know is counter-intuitive, but at least they are 3 calorie Charley Bears so IN THEORY they aren’t contributing (much) to her weight gain.

She even looked angry while swimming.

The one who SHOULD be mad is Addypants…I had to go buy new windshield wipers today (according to the guy at the oil change place: ‘this one is going to fly right off if you try to use it!’) and I brought The Pants because the store is dog friendly and it’s one of her favourite places to visit because it’s full of PEOPLE and in the warm weather those people are often wearing SHORTS which means Tiny Dog can lick their bare legs in greeting. Once she had firemen (they were all men, so I can call them that) down on the floor playing with her, because she is full of charm. So imagine my surprise when we’d been in the store for all of about 45 seconds when some twatwaffle masquerading as a a human woman walked by and looked at her and said “What is THAT thing doing in here?”

I shrugged and said “I was just going to ask the same thing about you.” That stopped her in her tracks and she just stood and stared at me. I like to think her mouth was agape (typical of morons and mouthbreathers) but as we were all wearing masks it’s impossible to say for sure. I said “She’s here because she’s allowed to be, asshole” and then Addy and I wandered off the find the windshield wipers. Because I tell you, dear readers, I am about UP TO HERE with bullshit, since my life right now is basically just me swimming in a tank of the stuff, and there is no room for any more.

Anyhoo. Several people in the store who were not assholes wanted to stop and pet “the greyhound” and the cashier gave her a chewy milkbone the size of her head, and Addy doesn’t hold a grudge, because she is a better little person than I am. I’m still holding a grudge.

Thing. Hmph.

Other than that little blip, the rest of the day was just fine and enjoyed by all. Let Wootie demonstrate.

I honestly didn’t think it was possible to love Wootie more than I have for 16 years, but it turns out that it IS in fact possible, and all it takes it shaving him down. I love me a shaved Wootie so much. And I think Wootie loves himself more when he’s nekkid too. He’s so much lighter and free-er, he runs around more, he’s less reluctant to swim … he’s just an all around happier Noodles. Oodles of Noodles Happy. In fact he is so light/free/happy sometimes I think maybe my wish will come true and he will actually live forever. I mean, how many 16 year old dogs do you know that are running around like this?

He did a two hour walkies on Saturday and had no problems at all keeping up with the gang and it’s not like he was down for the count afterward either. He’s my little machine!

Whereas THIS is my cross to bear.

I think she was dropped on her head as a puppy, bless her. I want to say she tries so hard but … she, like, doesn’t. She’s just her, in all her vacant glory. At least she’s snuggly. And she’s not humping my leg as I type this MAISIE. Why does my otherwise perfect girlie insist on humping my leg every time I sit down? I just shooed her off my leg and she wandered off, walked back over to me and said “UHHH UH UH,” sighed and laid back down. She is so delightfully ODD.

But she is not hiding behind 3 blades of grass like her big brother, who is the oddest of them all.

And I can’t believe this guy is almost 12. And not just because of all the “where did the time go” feelings that go along with it, but because he is still a goofy, dorky too-much-legs puppy bebopping around like a lunatic. He’s got a permanently bum shoulder, but otherwise I swear he hasn’t changed at all in years and years. I remember when I worked at the shelter and we’d have these old decrepit dogs come in and when their people came to collect them, we’d mention things like how their dog’s nails are so long, or they were very arthritic, and they’d say “oh well he’s very old, you know, he’s 10 now” (or 11 sometimes) and I look at Dexter trying to convince me to play fetch with a yogurt container and I think how’s that now? I guess I did something right with my gang of merry idiots, that they are slow to find old age and that they basically secrete youth out of their pores everywhere they go. It makes me feel a little better about the pickle we’re in now, where I feel every minute like I am letting them down, because we can’t find a home together.

There are no photos of The Seasons because there are RABBITS and rabbits make The Seasons both deaf AND capable of vanishing into thin air and reappearing full of pokies and mud and looking a lot less hungrier than they did when we started on our adventure.

Instead, enjoy this photo of 7 one week old kelpie puppies that I got to snuggle this afternoon, because the other gal who lives on the property is smarter than me and got cute dogs that can make copies of themselves (mine just make a mess, and sometimes lots of noise). How cute is this conga line of little future shit machines?

I’m partial to the little feller that decided to go his own way, because I appreciate a contrary doggo :)

Not the war of Fae and The Geese, although that one was rife with sharp barks that rang through the meadows, and guttural HONKS.

Fae doesn’t think the geese should be in HER pond, even though she doesn’t actually want to go in it herself, because she’s a fastidious little princess who doesn’t like to get her delicates wet.

I mean after TWoo, that funny, strange, sometimes angry little dog who had so much life for so many years. He’s the dog I had to use a GPS tracker on lest I lose him on his hunting escapades. The one who got himself locked in the old abandoned mobile home while hunting rats. The dog who spent two whole days ignoring foster dog Keiren before he realized Keiren wasn’t actually just Dexter being twice as busy as usual (and then, to make up for lost time, thought he might try to kill him). TWooie was such an odd duck because almost everything he felt (except rage) he kept inside himself; he was never pushy about affection, he didn’t like to cuddle, he never got on the furniture and he slept by himself in the other room … it was like living with half a dog, compared to all the pushy, Big Personality dogs that make up the rest of the Crew. Yet somehow he was also a lot of personality. It was hard to watch him fade away to a ghost of his former dogness. At the end, he could barely walk and mostly he just laid (or stood) around staring into space or sleeping – except at mealtime, when he became very animated. Until the very last Sausage McMuffin I gave him in the parking lot at the vet’s, he was moved by food.

I guess I thought that because TWooie and I never did anything together, really – we didn’t snuggle or cuddle much, he didn’t play fetch or tug or interact with toys at all; I only ever taught him a few behaviours, and he only did them for food … I guess I thought he wouldn’t leave much more than a brief ripple of sadness on my soul and then he’d be gone on the wind, just a fond memory. But he was a much harder loss. Every time I open the freezer and see his last frozen baggie of the pasta and mackerel I used to make for him every week, I feel a little gut punch all over again. I still wait for him to catch up when I’m walking the WooCrew. When I pull out bed time cookies, I still count out 9, every night.

I hope I gave him a life he enjoyed. I hope he got to be the dog he wanted to be.

But with his absence also comes a serenity in our home that wasn’t there before and I guess had not been for many years.

Dexter, whom TWooie always hated, is so much more relaxed. He can walk around inside without baring his teeth at his nemesis. He has stopped jumping from chair to couch barking at the little 30lbs of Aussie who used to pull his hair. The near constant huffing and growling and almost silent snarling that was the background music to much of the last 11 years is missing from our day to day. Right after meal times I can open the babygate and let Dexter out of his private dining room (AKA the bedroom).

Wootie doesn’t seem to miss him – he seems to have come to terms with his brutha being gone long before I did. Addy still finishes her food and then runs to where TWooie used to eat to try and steal some of his meal (I used to keep an arsenal of stuffies on the counter so I could peg her with them to shoo her away from his bowl while I was trying to clean up the kitchen after food prep). But otherwise nobody seems to notice he’s gone; it breaks my heart a little, but when I see Dexter walking around without looking over his shoulder, I feel a little guilt too. Sometimes it’s hard to share my life with all these dogs and try to make all of them happy.

Although it’s pretty easy to make Maisie happy – give her a stick and she’s good to go.

Except for whatever is making her eat her own legs. You can see the damage she has done to herself. I have spent a fortune on vet wrap; every time I manage to keep her away from one self-inflicted wound to give it time to heal, she starts another one. I haven’t taken her to the vet yet because a) WHY does is always have to the holy trinity of expensive vet visits at once? and b) thanks to Covid, we still can’t go inside with our dogs (well, except TWoo, they let me for that) and since I don’t know if she’s cannibalizing herself from something physical or something mental, I am afraid sending her into a building with Strangers who well then Touch Her (I mean we are talking about a dog who still won’t go outside with Auntie Fiona when she lets them out midday while I’m at work) will cause her to eat any part of herself she can reach.

Any idea what it could be? She doesn’t limp or favour any legs and she doesn’t seem to be in any kind of pain; it’s a weird ass place for allergies to manifest – I can’t figure out why she’s chewing herself up. I wish she would stop. She’s such an odd little duck.

I also love that she has one ear from her labby heritage and one from her border collie side.

I am relieved that TWoo has gone on before Wootie, because I think if the reverse were true I’d be left with a very upset TWoo. He was always more attached to Woo than Noodles was to him. Wootie is doing great, considering he is hovering somewhere around 16 years old. He still plays fetch from time to time, though I notice his bunny hunting days are over – when the other dogs take off after a bunny, he just watches like an indulgent grandpa.

He even swims a little sometimes, though he picks his way into the pond very carefully, and if the ball is too far out in the water he yells at me and won’t go get it.

It’s almost time for his annual shave down, as he is one shaggy mess!

Everyone is else is business-as-usual …I basically never see The Seasons, all they do is hunt All The Things that are waking up and moving around in the long grasses. Every time I think about having to give them up, and them living a different kind of life, I get a little more depressed. I am now looking at jobs in other parts of the province, and other provinces altogether, where I might be able to afford to live on a little piece of land we could call our own.

It’s weird to be down to eight dogs. It’s strange how one less dog can feel like I’m missing so much.