If only there were a picture

It is a good thing the crazy white cat (CWC) keeps up her end of the bargain, because living with her is always an adventure. There was the morning I woke to find her playing with something on the floor. Eventually, between stumbles to the coffee maker, I realized the sound and heft were not like those of her official, sanctioned toys. I looked down and yes, it was a mouse head. Nothing left but the head. I don't think I need to describe what happened next. Suffice it to say Jack did not wake naturally. 

Most of the CWC stories center around her talent for opening the sliding glass door whenever she has tired of mingling with the masses. She simply hooks a claw into the wood frame and says 'Open Sesameow.'

During calving season, Jack often gets up in the middle of the night to check the heifers. In between he naps in the recliner. One night last week he woke up to find CWC and her brothers and sisters (who live in the barn) cavorting about the kitchen. She was having a sleepover!

When inclined, she is a better guard dog than the actual canines in our house. When we get home, she
comes running and is there to greet us on the stairs, often making it long before the dogs do (if they make the effort at all). The other day Jack got home, opened the door and there she was, curled up on the stairs. There was one notable exception, however. It was not a Corgi, nor a Lab beside her. Instead, a fluffy Sussex hen looked up, stretched and slowly walked out the door behind my astonished husband. A chicken! IN the house!

Green Acres is the life for me?

One-man team

We are big fans of NPR's Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me news-quiz program. A few weeks ago, they talked about a German girl whose parents refused to get her something as impractical as a horse. They compromised and bought her a cow, which she promptly turned into a hunter-jumper and with which she began touring the show circuit.

I identified with the girl; I have recently begun launching myself over fences and my horse isn't up to the task. What's a girl to do? Then I looked out my window I saw the two ox steers. Aha!

When I looked, Reddy, the older, larger one, had finished his own feed, pushed Set off of his and was now munching contentedly. Good thing I only need one to ride.

"I can still eat you!" I yelled out the door to the bullying bovine.

Jack is working on getting them lead, so every morning he halters them and walks them down to the barn for breakfast. 

Sometimes following a rooster.

 Chickens are really bad at hide and seek. (But really good at it for their eggs!)

 You can practically see the yoke, they are paired so well.

 On Sunday, I asked for a turn. Remember how well they lined up and led for him? Well, this is what I got:

Think they can read my mind?

Drama, drama, drama

Sunday afternoon I was scheduled to pick up a speaker for the college at our tiny airport. Flying on prop planes into small airports is always dicey and usually leads to a story for dinner parties, but even my frequent-flyer speaker said he'd never been through anything like this before.

We arrived on time to find two Bureau of Indian Affairs officials in the waiting area along with a man with his small children and mother in law waiting for his wife, flowers in hand. The kids gave us regular updates:

"There it is! There's the plane! Momma's home!"
and then,
"Dad, why is the plane going around and around?"
"Here it comes again. Yay!"
"Wait, why did it go by again? Is that her plane?"

Pretty soon, even they bored of monitoring the hour of circling the plane did overhead. Clearly something was wrong. About 40 minutes later, we were evacuated from the airport.

"Sorry, folks; would you all please head over to that white building? We will notify you when you may return."

No explanation, just directions to spend our afternoon out in the frigid wind.

Jack and I headed for the car and drove to the white building. Pretty soon, emergency vehicles began to arrive.

The poor travelers scheduled to depart on this plane were left standing around catching cold.

We watched and waited. Rumors began to arrive as fast as the six ambulances, eight fire trucks and dozen BIA police cars (plus two mobile police stations and an incident command center): Ken Salazar, Secretary for the Interior, was on the plane. It had no brakes. They were circling to run out of fuel. Crews were preparing to foam the runway to lubricate the landing and prevent sparks.

Suddenly I was driven to call everyone I know. Jack was calmly assessing the situation and making informed judgments (he used to be a pilot). I was riding the drama wave and determined to spread it out like frosting on a cake. Finally, I reasoned that I had to at least call my friend the editor of a local newspaper. She was enjoying her clawfoot tub time. Oops. She said she'd call me back from the office where she could hear scanner traffic.

"It's true; they have no brakes and are waiting to run out of fuel."

We stayed on the line and made the occasional relevant comment in between all the "Ohmygawds".

"They're coming down. They're ready to come down!"

I craned my neck, but could see nothing in the sky. All I could think about were those two little kids watching for their Mom. Suddenly a small plane cruised by on the runway like a Cadillac on Main Street. Fire trucks followed it, but soon came back, unnecessary. Can trucks look dejected? They seemed to say, "I got all dressed up for this?"

The rest of us were exhausted with relief. No ball of flames. Prayers answered. A safe landing. What could have been a front-page splash across national newspapers would barely make a story now. Phew.

As quickly as the fire trucks retreated, out scooted your standard black Suburban on to the tarmac, up to the stairs descending from the side of the baby plane. Maybe it wasn't Salazar (my trusty phone dialed in his schedule. There was no way he was on that plane and would still make a lunch meeting in Mexico City the next day.), but someone was on that flight.Well, about a dozen someones, but you get the point.

I saw the BIA official who had been waiting when we arrived put his arm around the last man off the plane and put him into the Suburban.

And now for ... the rest of the story. We went our merry way. I found my speaker. The pilot told them first that it was too windy to land so they needed to circle for a while, then that an emergency landing gear gauge was not working properly and that is why they might see some precautionary emergency vehicles on the ground. Nothing to worry about. A smooth landing was expected.

"And we did. I couldn't even tell when we touched the ground."

Jack returned to the ranch and the speaker and I went to dinner. I left him at his hotel and headed back again on the highway, only to encounter this:

I called Jack: "You are not going to believe this! I'm stuck in a traffic stop. One of those mobile police stations that was at the airport is in the middle of the road and there's cop cars on both sides. They're stopping everyone in both directions and here comes a dog!"

The dog sniffed every car; I kept waiting for him to sit by one and cops to swarm in from every direction. Of course I know there is nothing untoward in my car but still. My heart stopped a second when the German Shepherd walked on by.

When I got to the front of the line and rolled down my window a nice police officer informed me they were just checking to make sure everyone was wearing their seatbelts.

Uh -huh. Right. Since when do dogs verify seat belt usage?

And lookie here - a big black Suburban parked just off the highway, two officials standing nearby in neon vests observing the proceedings. How many official black Suburbans can there be in the middle of Wyoming?

The following day the rumor was now that the Suburbanite was Larry EchoHawk, Assistant Secretary of the Interior. Based on fervent Googling and my glimpse from half a mile away I was betting on Michael Black, Director of the BIA. When the paper came out Wednesday they revealed the law enforcement big wig was Darren Cruzan, EchoHawk's recent appointee as the new Director of the BIA Office of Justice Services.

Clearly, Cruzan was here for some kind of special sting operation. Since it is the BIA, however, we'll probably never know the details. They're pretty closed mouthed about their operations. I'm betting, however, that it is related to the public safety initiative in Indian Country.

Sit, Mariah, Sit. Stay.

Spring is windy season in Wyoming. For days Jack has been doing his best Harve Presnell impression, walking around the house singing "They Called The Wind Mariah."

Yesterday he had to take his act on the road when the wind helped fan some spark and began blackening a stretch of sage between us and the highway. We don't know for sure, but assume a cigarette butt was the culprit.

Luckily, our house sits over a third of a mile from the road, so we weren't in any real danger. Especially because Ms. Mariah decided about then to have a nice rest.

A lady passing by on the highway called in the fire and Jack and Colonel went at it with shovels. 

 Before I made it even halfway down the driveway (with extra camera batteries in my pocket) I saw this:

 The firemen were amazing. So fast! I come from a long line of firemen so I realize the sacrifice and commitment they and their families make. It was strange, though, to be on the receiving end. They are the line between us and destruction.

Colonel was still going at it when they arrived:

 Traffic slowed a bit for a few minutes, but they made quick work of the smoldering flames. Which was very, very good since on my way back to the house the wind came up and was so fierce I had to wear two hoods to keep it from coming in one ear and going out the other.

All in all, we are very grateful for the wind stopping, for the lady who called the fire department, for Colonel and his shovel and most of all for our unknown neighbors who gave their Sunday afternoon up to save our fields.

Salt Lake love: Good eats

Oh, the eating we will do. This is how I think about any trip out of Wyoming. Salt Lake and Denver are the closest major cities, but though we may get there fairly often, I try to never eat the same place twice. Too many good choices!

This trip we discovered Ruth's Diner in Emigration canyon where the biscuits actually pleased the biscuit connoisseur (as did the homemade raspberry jam). The freshly-squeezed grapefruit juice made me pretty happy, too.

Everything there was wonderful, even the phone booth we had to cram into because the waiting room was full.

While Jack was entertaining folks at the IDOS convention, I found gems like Frida's Bistro:

Where this guy stared at me while I ate. 

Mazza, yummy Middle Eastern fare

(notice I also like eating at odd times when I have the place nearly to myself):

And then there was this gourmet grocer, Liberty Heights Fresh, where the cheesemonger helped me select a local chevre that had been mixed with apricot preserves and honey. I dipped two dates in it for dessert. YUM.

Oh, how good food makes me happy. Like the fresh (this morning) egg omelet with caramelized onions, spinach and feta my honey made me for breakfast today.

Nature taking its course

First, let me say if I could have stopped this from happening I would have. I tried running them off. I tried separating them. I tried scaring them. Nothing distracted their focus on each other. After several minutes I gave up and went for the camera.

I hope this isn't too distasteful for anyone, but it so clearly fits the mission of this blog (former PETA member hosts cockfight??) I had to share.

The backstory is that Charlie (left) is older. Charlie became the second rooster on our place, submissive to Rocky, our old comb-less, one-eyed Plymouth Barred Rock rooster. Rocky was the best. He warned the hens of danger, kept them together and never bothered us. Charlie kept his place and so we kept him. He had a brother who harassed the hens and therefore went to live elsewhere.

Refuge under the horse trailer (where they can't jump up).

The other rooster is part of a unique hatch of three: two hens and a rooster. They have stayed together ever since they were chicks. Almost all of the time they roost in the barn instead of the chicken house. Separate but equal?

Last week, we found Rocky's body near the barn. We don't know what happened, but he was old. I like to think that was it. Please don't ruin my illusions. I like them. Besides, how much more reality can I take than a cockfight in my driveway? Anyway, apparently this is where it gets very Lion King, chicken style.

There was a lot of this.

And a lot of this.

Probably for the benefit of these chicks who watched the whole thing from behind the fence. Like ultimate cage fighting in reverse.

At any rate, it appears Charlie did not appreciate Samuel moving in on his territory and decided to express his feelings on the matter.

At first I blamed Charlie since he seemed to be the aggressor, but when I ran him off, the younger rooster went after him. Without any fences, they were easily able to avoid me and focus on each other.

Minutes went by. Many minutes. This was no flash in the pan, let's get it out of our system and be done with it. This was menace with meaning.

Blind dog watches cockfight. He was totally confused, but pretty sure they weren't supposed to be doing that.

Now here is where it got amazing. I was sure they were just going to keep going at each other until one couldn't fight anymore. Ugly. Then from around the trailer comes Skip. He bounds into the middle and does I 'm not sure what. Whatever it was, they immediately go their separate ways. End of story. I have a picture, but I still don't know what happened. Animals are phenomenal.

The results.

Crowing about his "victory" to the heifers.

 

The prize? 

As soon as it was over she came running over to him. 

Florence Nightingale?  

Pink lady to his T-Bird? 

Perhaps I am projecting too much on to this?