tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32917819796335430522024-03-04T22:36:33.140-08:00Red Earth RedheadAudreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.comBlogger157125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-24489873887306278282014-05-09T12:20:00.001-07:002014-05-09T12:28:40.125-07:00Little Motorcycle RacerIt all started when my husband got a "screaming deal" on three used dirtbikes. They were clearly too big for our kids, but the thought was that they would eventually grow into them...and we could ride them in the meantime. Barrett, my six year old, would not settle for this. He begged to ride the smallest of the three, the Honda 100. He couldn't even touch the ground when he sat on it. My husband gave in, strapped on all of Barrett's safety gear, kickstarted the bike for him, and let him ride. The thought was that he would have a hard time with it, and wouldn't ask to ride again. Instead, something else happened. My skinny six year old controlled the bike like a skilled adult. He leaned into turns, picked up speed on straight aways, and maneuvered around our cluttered property like he had been doing it since birth. It was the first time that he had ever rode something with a clutch, and a twist throttle. I knew my boy was athletic, and an above average driver of anything he had ever been given: bikes, power wheels, four-wheelers, and a little two-seater ORV called a RZR. However, I had no idea that he had gifts of this magnitude. <br />
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Five minutes after he jumped off the dirtbike we were at the KTM dealership buying him a new racing bike (okay,it was probably more like a week later). Then Gunther, my five year old, got a four-wheeler to ride (he couldn't cut it on a dirtbike). Then my husband bought a racing dirtbike for himself, so that he could keep up with our children. Somewhere in that time span my two year old ended up with a little Honda dirtbike with training wheels (Ridiculous. I know). A camping trailer/toy hauler (used) was our next expense, because we had to be able to haul all of our motorized stuff. We joined a cross country racing association. My husband decided to race so that he could be a "better coach", but I suspect he also enjoys riding. Within our family we have three different racing classes, and once Axel is big enough, I'm sure we will have four. Now every other weekend we are camping at some different track, often in some remote part of Oklahoma. I should remind you that we are not rich. Once you throw in the riding clothes, the safety gear, the upkeep of the bikes, and the quad, the gas to get to races...it's enough for mama to have a tummy tuck, a designer wardrobe, and a Vespa scooter. I don't have any of that shit. The cost somehow doesn't seem important when my whole family is having a blast on a regular basis, though. <br />
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So far, Barrett has medaled in every race he has entered. No surprise. I've seen him give up first place to another rider, though. He has the skill, but he lacks aggression. I consider his politeness, and sweetness a positive attribute of his personality. I wouldn't trade his sweet demeanor for a stack of first place medals. We are working on teaching him that it's okay to pass somebody. At the motorcross track by our house, there are several adult riders, some who are pro, or semi-pro, who have taken an interest in him. "This is his first year riding? He's only six? Wow." It is his sweetness, and humility that endears people to him. He doesn't even take credit for his talent. Barrett says: "God gave me a happy gift" when somebody refers to his riding skill. He's the type that everyone wants to cheer on.<br />
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My five year old, and my husband have also done fairly well in their own racing classes. Gunther even got first place once. We were surprised at his victory, as he never seems to be in that much of a hurry when he's racing...or doing anything. You know what they say about slow and steady, though. It turns out that they do, sometimes, win the race. My husband has actually done really great for a guy that randomly started racing dirtbikes at age thirty four. He races against a lot of ex-motorcross racers, and people with MUCH more experience. Jason usually beats at least half of his competitors. Darn good for an aging Daddy.<br />
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I'm most proud of the reputation my boys have earned within our racing association.They are known for having heart. Both Barrett, and Gunther have had an incident or two during a race, or practice. Once Gunther ran into a tree. Barrett's bike overheated, and he crashed onto a creek bank during the same race. They have never had any serious injuries. The safety gear has done its job thus far. Anytime something has happened, they have both just gotten back on their ride, and trucked on. Other parents, who have witnessed this say that their kid would have declared themselves done in the same situation. I'm astounded that my boys, who have been known to dramatize an injury from time to time, are capable of sucking it up and moving on. I nevet hear complaints about this or that hurting until we are home.<br />
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<br />Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-64999968271553068302014-05-05T17:00:00.000-07:002014-05-05T17:00:19.483-07:00I Have A SecretI'm still nursing my two year old. Not often. Usually just at bed, or nap time. I have felt ashamed of "extended" nursing in the past. I'm tired of feeling that way. In a world that is filled with violence, and injustice...I don't know why it is even a source of ridicule. I extended nursed my older two boys, and they are well adjusted, bright, and healthy. Just because one nurses a baby beyond twelve months does not mean that the kid will be stuck to a boob until he's nine. That seems to be a popular opinion. I hope to wean him soon, but at our own pace. For now I am trying to enjoy every sweet, snuggly moment of "ninny time", as he calls it. I know that, in the big scheme of things, this time that my child and I are so physically connected is short. So, for the remainder of that time, I am not going<br />
to skirt the truth, or feel bad about how I am parenting. I'm going to continue on, and be content. I will no longer feel uncomfortable because I KNOW that many people think what I do is gross. It's not, and I feel bad for those people. They must really be bored to be bothered by toddlers, and boobs.<br />
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Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-13315760534230353562014-01-19T09:46:00.000-08:002014-01-19T10:18:12.985-08:00My Thoughts on Being an HerbivoreThis will be the first, and last time that I will discuss this. I decided to go "vegan" about a year and a half ago. My reasons were many: I needed to lose weight after my last pregnancy, I had joint pain and didn't want to go on meds (toxins from dairy can accumulate in joints), and I had always wanted to sever myself from any possible animal cruelty. It seemed a logical solution to my problems. After about two weeks of sticking to my "vegan" diet, I had lost six pounds, my mood was more even, and I felt better overall. So, I have stuck with it.<br />
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At first I didn't tell anyone unless I had to. If I went to a baby shower, or a birthday party, I would nibble off the veggie platter, and pass on the cake. I'm sure everyone just thought I was on a post-baby diet. My reasons for hiding it stem from being a vegetarian for many years, and having people be mean to me about it. I have never understood it. I am not preachy about it...I see it as a simple personal preference. My kids, and my husband eat meat, dairy, whatever. I frequently prepare food that I don't eat. I certainly don't label anyone as "cruel", or "stupid" because of their food preferences. So, I really don't know why saying "I'm vegetarian", or "I'm vegan" opens me up to having people say things like: "We're meant to eat meat. That's stupid.", or "Well, it says in the bible that we are supposed to have domain over animals." I don't understand how domain equals exploiting, and abusing. Anyway, I just avoid talking about it...except now.<br />
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Over the past year, or so, I have lost a considerable amount of weight. I never step on a scale, because IF I DO I either think "shit. This is pointless", or "yay. I can eat". Either way, it is self sabotage. I don't know the numbers. I was in size sixteen jeans when I started, and am now wearing a size nine...and still losing! I also don't generally enjoy talking about my weight loss. I'm always appreciative when someone notices that I've lost weight. However, it is not something that I like to dwell on. I just think that there are a lot of more important things to focus on. Losing weight has not made me smarter, or prettier, or kinder. Also, I don't want to make anyone who is struggling with weight to feel bad. Oh! And, it's also a boring topic. I'd rather discuss how igneous rocks are formed than how I made my fat-ass slightly less fat.<br />
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Since my weight loss is now very noticeable: I am often forced to talk about my diet. Everyone wants to know "what are you doing?". I want to say: "Meth. It's the best.", but I don't want anyone calling CPS on me. So, I tell that I'm working out, and.....I went vegan.Part of me would love to have one person look at me, and think "wow. She looks great, and she seems happy. Maybe I should go vegan." Then maybe I would be responsible for ONE LESS consumer of cruelty. However, usually the response I get is "whoa! I could never do that." I'll keep trying, though. I don't know why it seems so impossible to everyone. I think the perception is that vegans eat nothing but tofu every darn day. Not true. I manage to find vegan junk food on the regular...but, one doesn't lose weight by living on potato chips. So, I try to mix some veggies, and beans, and stuff into my potato chip/oreo diet. Yes! Oreos are vegan. Anyway, my eating habits aren't nearly as exotic, or interesting as people suspect.<br />
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I wouldn't be such a rarity if I lived in San Diego, or Portland, but I live in rural Oklahoma. Every other Ford truck here has a front plate that reads "BEEF". And everyone drives a Ford truck...unless you are complete white trash...then you drive a Dodge truck with an OU front plate. (I feel bad for people who actually have degrees from the University of Oklahoma because most of the people who sport their burgundy gear consider "Choose Your Own Adventure" books to be fine literature.) So, I am some ungodly hippie-freak. You know, the kind Merle Haggard hates. Mehhh. It's fine, though. I'll continue to be the lone freak out here, hoping to make it look cool, and appealing enough for someone else to try it.<br />
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<br />Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-22119778201278695292013-11-23T11:03:00.000-08:002013-11-23T11:03:14.326-08:00Holiday AdsI dread nights, and weekends when there isn't any kids programming on PBS. Why? Because if my kids are loitering around, then I feel obligated to turn on Nickelodeon, or Disney, or some such other child-directed advertising machine. My kids don't watch that much tv anyway, but some days it's too cold, or hot to play outside, and I'm busy with other stuff. The tv is not my nanny, but my ummm...distracted teenage babysitter who shows up every once in a while, sits on the couch and fiddles with her iphone.<br />
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My punishment for trying to engage my kids in a nice, quiet tv trance is the toy ads. For every five minutes of Spongebob, there is 18 minutes of ads for the new Ninja Turle submarine, the talking Captain America shield, the lego pirate set that costs more than my monthly mortgage. With that kind of pricetag the lego ship should come with tiny living leggo men who build the set for you, then vigilantly guard your property from insects, and rodentswith their tiny swords. They should even offer mom, and dad tiny barrels of rum.<br />
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My children are not immune to the LCD lit world of wonder of toy ads. I am called to rewind the DVR every commercial break, so that the kids can point out the the game with the dog who poops out multicolored playdough. "Can't you just feed the dogs playdough, then go wait in the yard. It's fun, and economical!"<br />
The response is stare,stare, blink, blink.<br />
I frequently try to talk them out of stuff, but I know that within a few days the toy that I called "hideous, ridiculous, and overpriced" will be hidden in my closet. I said it, not Santa.<br />
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This brings me to a point (maybe). I'm pained for the parents who are excluded from the inescapable gloss, and glow of commercial Christmas. I'm certain that think everyone else can afford this shit for their kids, so why can't I? Just further alienate low income people, toy companies. Make them feel worse. My kids probably think that most kids own every single Chineses manufactured hunk of bright plastic, but they don't. I, however, know the truth. I know that they have a darn good collection of colored plastic garbage. They're actually on the spoiled side... as are most middle class, American kids. I'm fortunate enough to find thirty bucks here, and there that doesn't have to pay for bills, or food. I hurt for those who can't do that.<br />
I don't know what to say to parents who struggle in general, but especially feel like outcasts from American society come Christmas-time. "Turn the tv off" might be a good start for everyone, but I don't give advice that I wouldn't take. I like tv..don't judge. Do what you can for your kids. Volunteer to chaperone field trips, and help at class parties. Have them help you to make cookies. Just give them your time. Be happy. Don't let them feel your adult stress until they are adults. I think, maybe, that they will see in time that those memories, and the time that you give them will make them forget that you couldn't buy the Hulk-smash power wheels.Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-71738434406208321632013-07-05T10:40:00.003-07:002013-07-05T10:40:34.816-07:00My Personal HeroesThere is a mythical creature in western Oklahoma. Much like big foot, or the yeti, these creatures have little physical evidence, and a ton of folklore. You hear of them in talk at the post office, and the gas station. They run faster than a pickup truck, jump higher than a barn roof, and vanish in front of one's eyes. These mythic creatures have humble domestic beginnings, however. They are ordinary bulls. They were born, bought, and traded for the typical purpose: beef. These two particular bulls were not satisfied with their life's purpose. At some point they looked at one another and said "No. Fuck this shit." From that point they could no longer be wrangled into a fence, or a truck, or any other man made contraption. They evaded herding by means of dogs, four wheelers, trucks, pissed off farmers, and hands. They couldn't be caught for days, then weeks, and then months. Eventually the people who had invested in these bulls also said "fuck this shit", and stopped trying to catch them.<br />
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Now, these bulls roam the countryside. They move without inhibition. Fences mean nothing. They eat, and drink where, and what they like. They take a nap in the shade, make love to a heffer in their passing, and trek on. They are the ones who have broken the code of domestic complicity with a slaughterhouse as the end.<br />
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I have had the pleasure of encountering these wild things on a couple occasions. Both times they jumped the four foot high barb wire fence on the East of my property, sauntered through my yard, and jumped over yet another fence without even picking up speed. They did this like one would step over a stick on the sidewalk. They wandered off, never running, but moving at a fast pace until they were invisible from my viewpoint. I like to believe that in between the time of my two sightings that the navigated the entire globe.<br />
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Go on wild bulls! Godspeed.Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-36943385160770365362013-05-07T12:05:00.002-07:002013-05-07T12:05:54.976-07:00Hound Dog RefugeSomehow the canine population at Dammit Farms doubled over the weekend. Saturday evening, a little yellow hound dog wandered into our yard. He was hungry, all of his ribs were visible. He wore a collar, but no tag. He immediately <span style="background-color: yellow;">seemed submissive</span> to my own dogs, rolling on his back, and revealing his belly to them. We tried to keep the kids distant from him at first, but then we noticed his tail wagging every time one of the boys came near. Finally we let them pet him. He followed the kids around the yard, soaking in any and every bit of affection sent his direction. I had just fed my dogs the last of the dog food, and had planned to get some in the morning. Since this dog was so hungry, I found some leftover spaghetti to feed him. I have no doubt that the plate of the spaghetti was the best meal of that little hound's life. He sucked it up in seconds. We laid a blanket on the porch for him to lay on, and we were about to retreat inside for the evening when another dog was spotted peering through our front gate.<br />
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We invited the second dog in. This one, a cur hound, seemed much older, and a bit better nourished. It was clear that he and the yellow hound were familiar with each other. Once again, we cautioned the kids against getting too close to him. Once again, the kids would come near, and the cur's tail would wag. He, too, is a sweetheart who is hungry for affection, and is polite to my dogs. He aboded by all the "dog rules" and presented himself as a guest in my dogs' space. I gave him some of the leftover spaghetti too. We were joking that the other dog told him "hey, come on over! They're cool. They have spaghetti!"<br />
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The next morning my husband and I were getting ready for church, while my four and five year old checked on their new doggy friends outside. One of the boys comes running in "There's another dog!". My husband and I accused them of seeing things. My husband and I looked at one another. "There's no way." Sure as shit...there was a third dog standing outside our fence. This time it was a red bone hound. It's clear that he's older from the white hair on his face, he was pretty skinny, and he walks with a limp. He entered our property apprehensively, head lowered, and presented himself to our dogs. By this time I was almost hoping that the dog would turn out to be aggressive, or unfriendly so that we had an excuse not to take him in. Nope, not the case. The redbone, who my five year old cleverly named red, is as sweet as pie. He's old, and tired. I don't know where he came from, or what his life is like, but I can tell that he is craving peace. Barrett and Red have been inseparable for the past few days. Barrett checks on him before he gets on the bus, and finds him the second he gets home from school.<br />
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Since our canine refugees have arrived, we have treated them for fleas, bathed them (they were surprisingly receptive to a bath), treated the cur hound for ear mites, and fed them. They are appreciative of it all. I open my door to three wagging tails all happy to see me. My dogs have accepted their presence. We assured them that they are not being replaced. We have asked around to see if anyone is missing their dogs. Nope. We have theorized that someone went hunting, got too drunk, and lost all of their dogs. However, no hunter has been spotted looking for dogs in our area. I really think that someone just dumped these sweet animals in the country. I'm glad that they found us. I don' know what we'll do. We may try to find homes for them, or we may incorporate them into our family. Whatever happens, I have promised all three that their run of bad luck was over the day they walked through my gate.</div>
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Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-30307771424100259602013-05-02T08:39:00.000-07:002013-05-02T08:39:14.245-07:00Our Fartwork<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I had been shopping around for some art to hang in my living room. It turns out that anything that I like is completely out of my price range, so I decided to make my own art. I stole an idea from my sister, Mona, and bought a canvas for us to "paint". I painted the background, and let the kids put their hand and footprints on it. Jason and I also added our hand prints. I couldn't NOT include the dogs, so I also stamped their paws. The paw stamp was a bit tricky. It turns out that Kaiser, our mastiff, doesn't like to have his paw restrained. He cried like I was trying to kill him, and then mouthed my hand in an attempt to remove it. Kaiser's paw is the blue smudge in the middle of the canvas. Dan, our obese coonhound, will do anything for a cracker, so he was no problem. Jules barely bothered to wake up. "Huh, what? What's going on? You're dipping my paw in paint. Alright, whatever. zzzzzzz"</div>
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I am not a crafty person. I have zero interest in Pinterest. I just don't have the patience to make a map of Oklahoma out of nails, and rubber bands. I have laundry to fold, and television to watch thankyouverymuch. So, this will likely be my one and only craft project for the year...unless you count the kids forcing me to make lopsided turtles out of playdoh. That, my friends, is why this artsy endeavor is notable.</div>
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<br />Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-61141491940940292082013-03-27T08:31:00.000-07:002013-03-27T08:31:00.022-07:00The Neverending Remodel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The outside portion of our restoration project is about done. Now that I have new siding and windows, I am thinking that my roof looks kind of shabby. It never stops. A new roof is not in my remodel budget this time around. Maybe in a couple years, or after a good hailstorm, we can replace it a la Allstate ;-) </div>
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Also, we need to landscape a bit now that we have a house worth landscaping. If I can just keep the goat from eating said landscaping, and keep the dogs from dragging random carcass portions into my yard...then maybe Dammit Farm won't look so much like a redneck hell. I am aiming for the stars, I tell ya.</div>
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<br />Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-32620683172021281902013-03-07T06:59:00.000-08:002013-03-07T06:59:13.089-08:00Sentimental Hoarding<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8k8a9drINh2exb8qKYGLtVDkGjrP-rxQECM2vqUD-067FWqlFwjbiDOaXtUh4HCQCqYkH8NmYT3fcl5mzL82B2JO7cOgJHp-yk6-E-WTMCOmKikqU3RlqbMA5Ydi59cBonBob95RC1NY/s1600/clyde+001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8k8a9drINh2exb8qKYGLtVDkGjrP-rxQECM2vqUD-067FWqlFwjbiDOaXtUh4HCQCqYkH8NmYT3fcl5mzL82B2JO7cOgJHp-yk6-E-WTMCOmKikqU3RlqbMA5Ydi59cBonBob95RC1NY/s320/clyde+001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
The boys dug this squished ball out of the "dog toy basket". "Mom, there's something wrong with this ball. We need to throw it in trash." I was distracted, cleaning up the dinner mess, when I caught the black and white mush in my peripheral vision. "No! Don't throw that away." My kids were baffled. I love throwing things away. I have been known to chuck small toys that have crossed my path one too many times. (I'm very sorry about your hat and left arm, Mr. Potatohead, but I was having a bad day.)<br />
"Why?" they asked me.<br />
Then, for whatever reason, something that I hadn't cried about for a very long time came roaring back. I tried to hold down the tears, but couldn't. Looking at that ball reminded me of my sweet friend, who I had not seen in about eight years. Our coonhound had suddenly died of bloat while were on vacation. He was only three. It was an especially sudden, and painful loss. I never got to say goodbye to him. I grieved hard for that animal. Clyde was ill-mannered, mildly destructive, but so there was a peacefulness to his soul. He was such a large, and noisy presence, that the silence he left in his absence was hard to bear. I have spent years filling my life with noise via other animals, and children, but I still miss him.<br />
"You can't throw it away because it was Clyde's. It belonged to my dog that died."<br />
"Why are you crying, Mommy!?" Asked my four year old.<br />
"I'm crying because I miss my dog."<br />
Then little hands were patting me. "Jules will be your friend, mommy."<br />
"I know guys. She is my friend."<br />
I pulled it together, put the ball back in they toy basket, and changed the subject. "Do you boys want to take a bath?" I didn't want to upset them, but even more I did NOT want to entertain any conversation about life and death with them. I've had to before, and it's not fun. For days after the mention of death I have to answer questions like "Do potato chips die when you eat them?" Not even joking.<br />
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Who are those kids? Jason, Jules, Clyde and I in the good old days. This picture isn't that old (about ten years)...it just happens to be black and white.<br />
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My PSA for this post. Here is tidbit on bloat that I find informative. It can't always be prevented, but there are steps one can take that can decrease the risk.<br />
<a href="http://avetsguidetolife.blogspot.com/2011/02/preventing-bloat.html">http://avetsguidetolife.blogspot.com/2011/02/preventing-bloat.html</a>Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-80122260881265369062013-01-30T18:40:00.001-08:002013-01-30T18:44:11.497-08:00Slightly Spiffier<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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We finally broke down, and hired a contractor to finish the "fun project" that is also know as our home. It turns out there's a reason why people pay other people to do carpentry jobs. That shit isn't easy. Here's a taste of the improvements to the house on Dammit Farm. The first phase is new windows, and "log cabin" siding.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9P5HF_DQbHa1LzRCgQ3E9MYGu_zBgy0N2K3GY9GMI9EfIklcwciKcsk0UKW1j22GEyH_XwkXVDPn84QgCsXW11IoGmq4rTjUnlStQ259Yw1nSnSqfheZ90S6EzahMKoOCujB_a_XXwI/s1600/house+007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9P5HF_DQbHa1LzRCgQ3E9MYGu_zBgy0N2K3GY9GMI9EfIklcwciKcsk0UKW1j22GEyH_XwkXVDPn84QgCsXW11IoGmq4rTjUnlStQ259Yw1nSnSqfheZ90S6EzahMKoOCujB_a_XXwI/s320/house+007.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The before</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the process.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgckj4-ZOHBwf1j_Dmq0ciHaJQ9wkn4vsxI0nxheqCLxFHPyZoPY9RbPPTaVXNUqk9x58oX4lC_PSRm7alLOllYkcwlJcT2fnR3ntiux5JvraJkuBFz8fVFq6Lm68PQ_9vOQS5RO77thto/s1600/house+010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgckj4-ZOHBwf1j_Dmq0ciHaJQ9wkn4vsxI0nxheqCLxFHPyZoPY9RbPPTaVXNUqk9x58oX4lC_PSRm7alLOllYkcwlJcT2fnR3ntiux5JvraJkuBFz8fVFq6Lm68PQ_9vOQS5RO77thto/s320/house+010.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Oh, and the older boys got new haircuts. Gunther's mohawk is back!</div>
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I can't wait to have my house be "done" and not have to explain anything to visitors. "We're in a transition phase..." Too bad the transition phase has lasted nearly five years.</div>
Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-59829087206721774072012-12-05T07:49:00.001-08:002012-12-05T07:49:16.467-08:00Sweet Little A$$holeI was very cautious in picking the names of all three of my children, or so I thought. My husband and I<strike> bickered </strike>discussed for weeks when it came to naming each child.The name couldn't be too common, or too weird. The name couldn't easily be shortened into another name, or easily rhymed into a schoolyard taunt.We literally had over a hundred qualifying points for a name. Is it hard to spell? Has anyone had that name on any episode of "Intervention" or "Hoarders" ever? We out ruled the name Luke because a Luke lived in the dorms with Jason in 1998, and he was a "druggie weirdo". Now, I doubt Jason was exactly Mr. Sober at that time, so he must have REALLY been a druggie weirdo. Point being: we thought we had thoroughly discussed every option before choosing the names of our three boys.<br />
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In naming our third child, Axel James, we overlooked one important detail. We never asked his older brothers to SAY the name before we chose it. A few weeks ago, I overheard my husband telling my four year old to "stop saying that". "What did he say?" I asked. "Asshole" was my husband's answer. Then, it dawned on me: he's not saying "asshole", he's saying AXEL. Darnit. My children have been known to spit out an occasional curse word. I have no idea where they learned that shit. However, they were not cursing. They were talking to their baby brother. Jason and I tested this finding. "Gunther say 'Axel'" Jason requested of our four year old.<br />
"asshole"<br />
"Now say 'asshole'"<br />
Gunther smirked and very quietly said "asshole".<br />
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It sounds exactly the same coming out of his little mouth. We did the same test with our five year old, and it yielded the same results. How did we not think of that!? We are working on teaching the boys to accentuate the "x" in Axel's name. "ACK-sil ....say it with me". Until they get it, here is my sweet little asshole.<br />
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Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-24678797739169481312012-11-08T17:44:00.000-08:002012-11-08T17:44:54.184-08:00I've Acquired a Duck<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A friend of mine, who lives in town, asked me if I wanted a duck. I was not in the market for the duck, or any animal at all. I seemed her only real option, though. I think someone got it for her kids, but she didn't have room for it. The thing was getting bigger. I got an e-mail that began "hey, you like animals?". I had a hard time saying no.<br />
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The duck is in my chicken house, which is currently void of chickens. I feel bad because A.) He/she is alone, and B.) I don't have a pond or any body of water on my property. I have given him (I have no idea if it's really a him) a large plastic tub that was once a goat waterer for now. He seems happy to piddle around in that. I wonder what the odds are of my husband digging me a pond?<br />
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My four year old has claimed him as "his duck". We're calling him Harold for now. My five year old now wants me to get him a turkey, or a rooster, or a duck, or a goose, or maybe a rooster. No, wait, a turkey...a baby turkey who likes ducks. The five year old has changed his mind about what kind of bird he needs 600 times. It's funny, because we have not once conceded to obtaining any poultry. I have no idea where the Baby Turkeys Who are Fond Of Ducks-r- US is located. Google maps needs to get on that shit.Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-68342140588213388372012-11-02T18:23:00.001-07:002012-11-02T18:23:33.297-07:00Back to Normal?I dumped my store gig a month ago. It was just too much work for not enough money, so we got out. I knew a couple months into it that we should NOT buy the store, and I'm so glad that we didn't. I enjoyed my time there, but a loooong commitment seemed not a good plan. So, I basically got a crash course in business management, and made some friends along they way. My appreciation for stay at home momhood is at it's zenith. Playing hide and go seek with my four year old, and nursing my baby are the most important things that I have to do all day. I'm quite fine with that.<br />
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Our family has spent the last month readjusting to home life. I've been trying to catch up on eight months worth of cleaning and laundry, and figuring out what to do with an overstock of "5 hour energy" and ME pills. I know it sounds like a good time....er not. Anyway, we've had some recuperating to do, and we've done it. My plan is to pick this blog back up, along with my old life.<br />
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In related news: Gunther turned four recently, and we went on a mini vacation to celebrate his birthday and our family's emancipation from living in a convenience store. Four days in a one bedroom cabin with three kids and three dogs brought us all to the brink of insanity. We also had fun, though...I swear. I'll bore everyone with pictures now.<br />
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Oh, and I'll mention that I got Hughes Net installed at the house upon leaving the store. There aren't many choices here in ruralia. The choices we have are sub-par... to put it nicely. Anyway, it took me forty five minutes to upload those three pictures, so I'm stopping there. Don't cry. </div>
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Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-66946644102356224542012-08-06T13:51:00.000-07:002012-08-06T13:51:32.045-07:00My Wee Irish PunkMy husband gave my three year old a mohawk. Now every time that I look at him, I hear the Pogues. "Dirty old town..."<br />
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</div>Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-11781015236322371112012-06-16T12:32:00.001-07:002012-06-16T12:32:15.868-07:00Interview with Some HoundsIn spite of my husband calling me crazy, I have scheduled a phone appointment with a pet communicator. This is something that I have wanted to do for some time, but didn't really have the money to throw at such a frivolity. Since I have gone back to work, and I spend ninety eight cents of every dollar on Gunther's snack tab, I decided it was time to put a few cents towards something for ME. I personally know people who have used this particular animal communicator, and have had really amazing results. I am quite positive it's not a scam, despite what my husband says. I guess the proof will come after I have had my actual appointment, so we'll see.<br />
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This particular communicator is able to talk to animals both living and dead. She requested a photo of each animal to whom I plan to "speak", as well as some basic information about them (sex, age). I know, I know....she could potentially infer a lot of info from these pictures and fool me into thinking she's communicating with my dogs. I'm not going to believe anything she says because she knows we live in the country, and we have a brown couch, mmmmkay? I have an ounce of skepticism, but I am open to the experience.<br />
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I have four animals on my list: my three living dogs, as well as a dog who passed about six years ago, Clyde. I have a limited amount of time for my session, so I need to manage it efficiently. I am in the process of listing questions that I have for each animal, starting with the most important stuff, and working my way down. Jules, my eleven year old coonhound mutt is the star of my interview, because, well.....because she is the smartest, I've had her the longest, and I feel like I can harvest the most information from her. I would like to know if she has any pain, or any issues that I could help her with, since she is an older dog. She seems incredibly healthy, but I want to know that she feels healthy too. Also, I think Jules will be my key in telling me exactly what went on with the recent wave of death at the farm. She tends to stay outside and "guard" the premises at night, while my two male dogs are snoring in their own puddle of slobber. Her knowledge of what has happened in the past few months is much more complete than any other being on the farm... I'm pretty sure.<br />
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When it comes to my communication with my seven year old, obese bluetick coonhound, Dan, I don't expect any earth-shaking revelations. I mainly want him to tell me if he has any physical ailments, or pain that we could help him with, and if there are things we could do to make his life better. I feel like he acts out a lot, and it's due to boredom. I am going to politely ask that he refrain from eating garbage, and stealing food from the kitchen counter....well stealing food in general. I want to thank him for being so tolerant of my children, who like to use him as a jungle gym.<br />
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I really don't know what to expect from Kaiser, our ten month old English mastiff. I want to apologize for our long days of absence. I wouldn't have adopted him if I knew that I would go back to work, and he'd be left alone so often. He's such a social dog, and I feel bad that we aren't around to keep him company. I want him to know that I am striving to be home more. My request of Kaiser is that he stop trying to use my bedroom window as a door. He has broken a couple screens already. It was funny at first, but now not so much. Also, it'd be nice if he could refrain from moving shoes around. The boys have approximately eight shoes with missing mates, and I love spending fifteen minutes looking for my second flip flop just so I can take out the trash.<br />
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Clyde is last on my list. He's a bluetick coonhound that we lost very suddenly to bloat several years ago. I hope that the pet communicator can somehow converse with him, as she claims to be able to do. My only question for him is if he comes around us still. I think he does. Also, I just want him to know that I love him tons, and I think about him every day. I have his collar around his urn, and I cry every time I have to dust it. The specific jingle of those tags just makes me think of him. I'd be so happy if I could simply say "hi".Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-86956805478148640752012-06-06T07:04:00.001-07:002012-06-06T07:09:30.226-07:00Naughty Boys<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sometimes I wonder. I really do wonder what goes through my three, and almost five year old's heads. The other day they threw their lunch into the fan. This crime occured while I was busy with customers at the store, and they were in their playroom. Opportunists. When I asked who did it, fingers pointed in oppposite directions. I'm guessing the three and a half year old started it, but it looked fun so my almost five year old joined in. The picture does no justice. I had actually started cleaning up when I took the picture. The noodle mess, however, was more than that little dirt devil could handle. Pretty sure I'll be finding dried up noodles stuck to the wall for months. I didn't kill them. I am pretty sure that I deserve some sort of parenting award for not even hitting them.Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-50328901701924673242012-04-14T13:10:00.005-07:002012-04-14T14:28:03.705-07:00Prey<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_ceLEZikEiPpk-gvUgFQN6pMsDlzVtQaGPYHmtAbt5j8bOy8_UFtf5wxpWcs0qnExORVM1ZAsWcTMsf3ZzZsJMBfBNlLRJBxIt_vcetBaKy109jRqm8sFkWX6MZISztxqgRW7d2UbLg/s1600/Mountain_Lion1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; height: 132px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731371084583977762" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_ceLEZikEiPpk-gvUgFQN6pMsDlzVtQaGPYHmtAbt5j8bOy8_UFtf5wxpWcs0qnExORVM1ZAsWcTMsf3ZzZsJMBfBNlLRJBxIt_vcetBaKy109jRqm8sFkWX6MZISztxqgRW7d2UbLg/s200/Mountain_Lion1.jpg" /></a><br /><div>There has been something stalking our little farm. It's a stealth shadow that moves with a quick shift of muscles. We have only seen small glimpses of his/her retreat. A chicken or two went missing. No biggie. That is almost a daily event here. Opossums, Skunks, Coyotes, everything eats chickens. We knew something else was up when Jules, our aging hound mutt, was on alert all night. She wouldn't come in the house, staying at the west end of our property barking, howling, yelling at something. We thought she was going to have another all night standoff , when to our surprise she scratched on the door for us to let her in. Before anyone could get to the door she made this unearthly cry as if she'd been hurt. Jason opened the door to see her run under the house, and a large shadow move quickly toward the creek bed. Jules didn't come out from under the house all night, despite us calling for her, offering cookies, pleading for her to just come out. I was seriously afraid that she was really hurt, and would die under the house. Early the next morning I let our giant mastiff puppy out to go to the bathroom. The sun had barely come up, and I was a little worried for his safety...because, well, because he is a dumb puppy. I stood guard while he did his business. Jules sprinted toward the door, not even looking left or right. She didn't leave the house for over twenty four hours.</div><div> </div><div>A day or two later my favorite goat, Sarah, went missing. Sarah had a habit of sliding out of any pen we put her in. She was little and spry, moved like a tiny wild deer. I had bottle fed her, since her mother didn't take to nursing her, so she was very close to me. She was always around me whenever I went outside. I searched every corner of our property, and the creek that boarders us...sure she had just gotten stuck somewhere. Not a single sign of her. Gone. If there was any doubt that there was a mountain lion preying my pets up until that second, then the doubt was certainly gone at that second. </div><div> </div><div>A few days later, another goat busted out. Jesus, my strapping young billy, had repeatedly rammed the gate to his pen and gotten loose. I tried to get him back in his pen with no success. I came home on a Saturday evening to find my husband's best friend "finishing him off" at bottom of the creek bed. Something had drug him down there, leaving him alive but just barely. Shooting him was the most "humane" solution. I didn't look at him for obvious reasons. I feel incredibly bad. If I had just gotten him in the pen.....but the baby was fussy, and my kids needed to eat dinner, I was tired. Excuses. Now I'm writhing with guilt. I will not get any more goats after my latest rash of death.</div><div> </div><div>It has been said that mountain lions no longer exist in Oklahoma. That has been disproven recently: <a href="http://www.tulsaworld.com/sportsextra/article.aspx?subjectid=25&articleid=20111103_25_B2_TheOkl104743">http://www.tulsaworld.com/sportsextra/article.aspx?subjectid=25&articleid=20111103_25_B2_TheOkl104743</a> . I've also noticed that almost any "old timer" I have questioned about this subject has at least one story. The old men who farm around my area may be prone to exaggeration, but not prone to full-on lies. Despite all the death, and fear this creature in our midst has caused, I am still intrigued. I'm glad that I live in a place where something so wild and wonderful exists.</div><div> </div>Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-46094640589754931032012-03-30T10:54:00.007-07:002012-03-30T16:21:46.686-07:00zzzzzzz.......<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifd5UeKEGCjsu0i8LuIaCNCNi2E5VG-GYD_-hffV-zs7vkqy3JpUeS1UY4m5YHP1TJbPlnB7tMPfjAIzJ_0BFJ5LCElhoojUOiKj6rjYYIJcQrPhXr_7m8XXdRkqxZwHbCI6HuRRtCs9w/s1600/stuff+220.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 300px; height: 400px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725824454346721922" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifd5UeKEGCjsu0i8LuIaCNCNi2E5VG-GYD_-hffV-zs7vkqy3JpUeS1UY4m5YHP1TJbPlnB7tMPfjAIzJ_0BFJ5LCElhoojUOiKj6rjYYIJcQrPhXr_7m8XXdRkqxZwHbCI6HuRRtCs9w/s400/stuff+220.JPG" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA6Vhi5Gl4w-cEFb_oWRhAYsa8H-oKvMCrd2RLH7rHNwRpn8CqCxeXtaQWzmzgTQxCEstV0E7MI5zPgtCQo4HiPC9_JbD0riMgWY43_ZDvcxsUkd8_sUS-qeIptlbav85NjFx1vzbBs5s/s1600/stuff+155.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725810362338074834" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA6Vhi5Gl4w-cEFb_oWRhAYsa8H-oKvMCrd2RLH7rHNwRpn8CqCxeXtaQWzmzgTQxCEstV0E7MI5zPgtCQo4HiPC9_JbD0riMgWY43_ZDvcxsUkd8_sUS-qeIptlbav85NjFx1vzbBs5s/s400/stuff+155.JPG" /></a><br /><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWJEGG5KJorv_QX_gJyanB13SMGT5boI-AeXWe7y72_QclYXPyObvOljwR8oqnf-7mRyXBWx4eBGWTbiE_CWP4JB3gdie_5KwV42MQOU_sDFv9PCM0c7ht2dhfGbyvJc5snYBpw2o7JgA/s1600/stuff+038.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725775365379678370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWJEGG5KJorv_QX_gJyanB13SMGT5boI-AeXWe7y72_QclYXPyObvOljwR8oqnf-7mRyXBWx4eBGWTbiE_CWP4JB3gdie_5KwV42MQOU_sDFv9PCM0c7ht2dhfGbyvJc5snYBpw2o7JgA/s400/stuff+038.JPG" /></a><br /><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZTQC8Y3EKl7Y-ad3MWPsnzR75yAHHRe-JLeNXUFtAh_vm0HpEiRDVk0ptuWTRLf5BrGnsYrha1UJdqQNNOtTV4qrHaMjK3XMSbCGagNNpYX54cXsUEp7yyvkDn2fB74ra0Sf13OdCHp4/s1600/stuff+239.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725750637798512258" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZTQC8Y3EKl7Y-ad3MWPsnzR75yAHHRe-JLeNXUFtAh_vm0HpEiRDVk0ptuWTRLf5BrGnsYrha1UJdqQNNOtTV4qrHaMjK3XMSbCGagNNpYX54cXsUEp7yyvkDn2fB74ra0Sf13OdCHp4/s400/stuff+239.JPG" /></a>I have no time to type anymore...see previous post. Our whole family is tired. I tell you what.<br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-72823919303811515872012-03-10T10:20:00.007-08:002012-03-10T11:30:44.552-08:00Covenience<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMHC89sWse60jfmsmjSpJlvUEDpbJvsqGzbeFJgR7tEDB-ttw0NPSFa6nMyHhS92sp1yLZUpkxRz4hT_Z2VcQWRSwiP_c_rC63o7uhMXnwlk3rNRjc5XLcEJCeibK1ViatQlBpDcDmciU/s1600/store+013.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px; height: 240px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718350989137908242" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMHC89sWse60jfmsmjSpJlvUEDpbJvsqGzbeFJgR7tEDB-ttw0NPSFa6nMyHhS92sp1yLZUpkxRz4hT_Z2VcQWRSwiP_c_rC63o7uhMXnwlk3rNRjc5XLcEJCeibK1ViatQlBpDcDmciU/s320/store+013.JPG" /></a><br /><div><br /><div><br /><br /><br /> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>I have been running a convenience store/gas station/service shop with my husband for a little over a month now. It's an interesting shift for our family. The kids come to work with me every day. They have a playroom in the back where they spend the majority of their time grinding cheetos into the carpet, and throwing toys all over the room. The other half of the time they come behind the counter and pester me for chips, or pop tarts, chocolate milk,or any other random piece of inventory that is their current obsession. Life is good when your parents own twenty thousand dollars worth of groceries (mostly junk food), or so they seem to think. My usual answer to their begging is "do you have any money?". Their response is always "no"...then they look at me like I am nuts.</div><div> </div><div><br />While his brothers run amok, Axel kicks it with me behind the front desk most the day. I have a playpen, a bouncy seat and a bumbo seat for him there,but he spends 97.89% of his time in my arms. The child wants to be held ALL THE TIME. I run a cash register with one hand. Every other customer says "Wow. You have your hands full." I act like I have NEVER heard that, and say "Yes. You're right." Although "full hands" sounds like the understatement of the year when my three year old,and four year old are beating each other senseless right in front of the tobacco display, I'm soothing a crying baby, and waiting on a line of customers...oh and the phone is ringing too. "Wow. You have all four limbs stuck in a meat grinder." Seems like a more fitting phrase for me and my situation.<br /><br /><br />There are perks to having your own convenience store. I get to buy groceries professionally now, which is fun. I am guilty of buying an entire case of something just because it's something I want it, which does not necessarily mean that it will fly like hotcakes. On this note: Are mint M&Ms not appealing? I think they are damn good, but I don't think I have sold one bag to anyone, but me. I will be really depressed if I look at that empty box of 24 bags and realize that I have eaten every single one. Also, I get a rush when it is time to leave and I can shove anything I want in my bag. Last night I impulsively grabbed a root beer, which is not usually on the Audrey menu. "Why are you drinking a root beer?" my husband later asked, as if it was the oddest thing I've ever done. "Because I can." was my response, and I really have no reasoning other than that. I want it, and I can! </div><div> </div></div>Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-43491938617742533832012-03-05T14:14:00.004-08:002012-03-06T09:41:33.465-08:00Liberation Day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8iLckZVWmXf7cCgO0jJC7xdRRc4NajYvI7m1ZAeqRXe7KlXoGGcxtxw1qGxISxMbpcBcYVTxRWMFRCpeBxfDYk5VlkN8QUkEamzGoWPEcH7Z9jQFyHI5_mgaMn6jNTUOwhP77GaNLEec/s1600/jules.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 181px; height: 320px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716832037820666786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8iLckZVWmXf7cCgO0jJC7xdRRc4NajYvI7m1ZAeqRXe7KlXoGGcxtxw1qGxISxMbpcBcYVTxRWMFRCpeBxfDYk5VlkN8QUkEamzGoWPEcH7Z9jQFyHI5_mgaMn6jNTUOwhP77GaNLEec/s320/jules.jpg" /></a><br /><div><div>This morning I was wondering why today was important as I shut off my alarm. What is March 5th? The ides of March? Nope. That's the fifteenth. Caesar won't get stabbed today. It's nobody's birthday. Huh. It's the day Jules was busted out of puppy jail. Ten years ago today Jason slapped down the fifty bucks it took to free Jules from the pound. We had no intention of adopting a dog that day. We just happened upon the Portsmouth, Virginia ASPCA. "Let's just go LOOK". Forty five minutes later we were in love, and there was a skinny, ten month old hound dog riding in my lap. That was the best fifty dollars Jason ever spent. Jules is still my number one girl ten years later. I love her so much.</div><div> </div><div>Go get a pound hound. You'll never regret it.</div></div>Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-83518825033682782442012-02-20T09:33:00.000-08:002012-02-20T10:39:47.897-08:00Kaiser Wizer...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJl359VoxiqrqZQ1-UzJ18oCBUiCfHe7yAAJnpsABvm6WAn_ixDztg9fJHGiwKUyYTnrFOz0eAGEvbDdkc6TqkzLZasxXcYHiSXqRegoPNkcLdjyp_pAB0OPrwXd2TkCBS_MZpmkjdRLc/s1600/156.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px; height: 240px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711280567332261474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJl359VoxiqrqZQ1-UzJ18oCBUiCfHe7yAAJnpsABvm6WAn_ixDztg9fJHGiwKUyYTnrFOz0eAGEvbDdkc6TqkzLZasxXcYHiSXqRegoPNkcLdjyp_pAB0OPrwXd2TkCBS_MZpmkjdRLc/s320/156.JPG" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjilKMPUuu6FBxhTj-d27rvS10PeIJOP-8QoACeQxWxoyeJwjssPlKgRF4n6OMXbxmOG6PU6VIjPyUM0ptEoMsGraflCtN5hvAOXsM4R3ac_hDxxymIbiQS_RNwv8gL3Ll7NAcnbxOvTL4/s1600/123.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px; height: 240px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711277040497387906" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjilKMPUuu6FBxhTj-d27rvS10PeIJOP-8QoACeQxWxoyeJwjssPlKgRF4n6OMXbxmOG6PU6VIjPyUM0ptEoMsGraflCtN5hvAOXsM4R3ac_hDxxymIbiQS_RNwv8gL3Ll7NAcnbxOvTL4/s320/123.JPG" /></a></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Kaiser <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Wizer</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Puddin</span> Pie</div><div>His farts smell so bad,</div><div>they burn your eye</div><div>And when he poops on the floor mama sighs,</div><div> </div><div>But we love our Kaiser <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Wizer</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Puddin</span> Pie</div><div> </div><div>That's Kaiser's poem. I can't claim authorship, though. That would be my husband's original verse.</div><div> </div><div>We got Kaiser in October. He's an <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">English</span> Mastiff puppy. His food bill is <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">sizable</span>, but he is a sweet boy. He has stopped that floor <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">poopin</span>' stuff...and now he poops on my PORCH. Why the porch when we have five acres? I have no idea. Other than that, he is a good dog. He fits in well with our two other dogs. Jules, our ten year old <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">coonhound</span>, is actually quite fond of him. I have even caught the old girl engaging him in play outside. The boys adore him. Jason treats him like he is one of OUR babies. I am only mildly annoyed by his hoarding of shoes...mainly because he likes to move my shoes on me during the night, so I can spend thirty minutes I don't have finding them the next morning. Cute. I am very much in love with him despite his bad habits.</div><div> </div><div> </div>Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-30449552703180277812012-02-04T08:53:00.000-08:002012-02-08T13:55:58.433-08:00A Look Back<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4hj_Vv0v1j1BUH6szlJLRUuq3YlxYL1SWknKmYgC7p3mX3Uc7ROeJ4ZfquXvKL9xsbp3YXKmWWbZ00-CVMvs9vMGlNaccTsDG-f7d0VkUlhjPRZ9RdB_Kvqy8DapjnCdPQL-nS0ro53w/s1600/lily2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px; height: 179px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706884680699213778" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4hj_Vv0v1j1BUH6szlJLRUuq3YlxYL1SWknKmYgC7p3mX3Uc7ROeJ4ZfquXvKL9xsbp3YXKmWWbZ00-CVMvs9vMGlNaccTsDG-f7d0VkUlhjPRZ9RdB_Kvqy8DapjnCdPQL-nS0ro53w/s320/lily2.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbu8-m4NI7BX7BgXSbXfe49bi3oNMdnq263ySCfzdtt2lyrXf2-S-Zu-TDhBJWujM0oOPFmM-JVJYBWa4vhxY0nYt5C6R0H1aFQvEbTeiVA7I1hrheSN8AdlqEIDhP_lZdqqn9eS4iuG4/s1600/Lily.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px; height: 179px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706884538004333394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbu8-m4NI7BX7BgXSbXfe49bi3oNMdnq263ySCfzdtt2lyrXf2-S-Zu-TDhBJWujM0oOPFmM-JVJYBWa4vhxY0nYt5C6R0H1aFQvEbTeiVA7I1hrheSN8AdlqEIDhP_lZdqqn9eS4iuG4/s320/Lily.jpg" /></a><br /><div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><br /><br />I said goodbye to a friend this week. I met her when she was three days old, and she was all limbs and ears with a wagging tail. I named her Lily. Lily was the sweetest, but dumbest of all of my goats. Her herd-mates recognized her airheadedness, and ranked her last. Or, they were just jealous because she was the prettiest and kept he in the bottom slot (this is what I would tell her anyway). She was always the last to eat, and the first to get her head stuck in the fence. Lily was my most compliant milker. Happy to have a few back scratches and some goat cookies, she would hop in the milk-stand without any fuss. She never fought me, or kicked the milk bucket like her bratty herd-mates.</div><div> </div><div>She seemed a perfect fixture for our little farm. The boys lovingly called her "Lily-goat", fed her cookies out of their little hands, petted and brushed her. It never dawned on me that one day she would just be gone. </div><div> </div><div>I went to feed a few nights back, and all the goats were waiting for me at the fence but one. I knew instantly that it was not good. My sweet girl, who I had bottle fed from birth, was laying dead under the lean-to. It seemed that she had bloated and died. We assume she ate something that she couldn't pass. I screamed "no" and sobbed and sobbed. I'm sure you could hear my wailing a mile away. I blocked the boys at the fence, so they couldn't see her body. I thought that it might be much for a three and four year old to see their pet dead. I did, however, have to explain why mama was sad. Little hands patted my shoulder while I sat and cried in the yard. Barrett summed up the whole event to my husband: "Lily died. Mama cried".</div><div> </div><div>I feel incredible guilt, because I feel like I could have done something to prevent Lily's passing had I been home more in the days preceding her untimely death ( she was only three). We just took over a small business, and I have been gone practically from sun up to sun down. I hadn't done much aside from dump food and water in the goat pen. I wouldn't have noticed if she was showing signs of illness. I will never forgive myself. </div><div> </div><div>I dug through my photos and all I could find were pictures of Lily as a baby. I loved that little goat, and I hope to see her one day again.</div></div></div>Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-88217854927501941972012-02-03T10:26:00.000-08:002012-02-03T10:49:12.028-08:00A Third Son<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiia3bpmzXGZwO2HqXjHFMs4B6bp4qFIhyIViZsvFIBJL-ZQ3EABSc084HfG6RUS_GFjNtKjpPJ-QIAdki5_ZhJorGvZFjNJeCaPF0cQ2ihmie6Jquh7RBs8A-yx8VWJyQiko9sFDyn4Kc/s1600/006.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px; height: 240px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704983104828162098" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiia3bpmzXGZwO2HqXjHFMs4B6bp4qFIhyIViZsvFIBJL-ZQ3EABSc084HfG6RUS_GFjNtKjpPJ-QIAdki5_ZhJorGvZFjNJeCaPF0cQ2ihmie6Jquh7RBs8A-yx8VWJyQiko9sFDyn4Kc/s320/006.JPG" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjITs_9OqHFsWcw-QZ1SlRimBNO-pGTFWX2vow2gU6L0uaCWj3mAaLPD4To25Xpsj5NFJVmDHvC7TDMQDB6IKofitqp9yaDjxLq3jJsaiZLj-635AtlYAWS8Yh3CkKq9EI28URJ2w88C3Q/s1600/226.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px; height: 240px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704982721783123458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjITs_9OqHFsWcw-QZ1SlRimBNO-pGTFWX2vow2gU6L0uaCWj3mAaLPD4To25Xpsj5NFJVmDHvC7TDMQDB6IKofitqp9yaDjxLq3jJsaiZLj-635AtlYAWS8Yh3CkKq9EI28URJ2w88C3Q/s320/226.JPG" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg34oxlzeax4r-h8nh8qvr-P4oY5lBiRD5kD4v6SYG25kTWK7bR_-RRdbHeh-A6tS_6ODQptxxDGEf4P8TyrsiPxJmy2idLnLnPyDEUEHbFDpp-vtJUgaw1fh-ZS0cBjMBEKG_HXpWv_us/s1600/185.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px; height: 240px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704982152443809474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg34oxlzeax4r-h8nh8qvr-P4oY5lBiRD5kD4v6SYG25kTWK7bR_-RRdbHeh-A6tS_6ODQptxxDGEf4P8TyrsiPxJmy2idLnLnPyDEUEHbFDpp-vtJUgaw1fh-ZS0cBjMBEKG_HXpWv_us/s320/185.JPG" /></a><br /><div>I'm back. I have a lot to update, but I suppose I'll start with the biggest news. I had another baby. In keeping with every other child who has come out of me, he has both red hair and a penis. We named him Axel. NO. We were not listening to Guns n Roses when he was conceived. I don't even like Guns n Roses. Anywho, he was born early in the morning on the day after Christmas. I'll let the pictures tell the rest of the story.</div></div></div>Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-65694898579625479472010-03-22T08:49:00.000-07:002010-03-22T09:01:05.539-07:00My Name is Mud<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVv-SLZOcTUQawcgtGNhbcbGJFl6u0sqm1UQ77l08qWpgEmpxsHLUQs6aq8Grsrks_mP1KSxCvGLQUcts6gIDYPxmGqGYVNm6qUyGb_mWaAaDp6Tdeappx_cCxTjKvaB988p0rq4z85kc/s1600-h/goats+015.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451487102695899842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVv-SLZOcTUQawcgtGNhbcbGJFl6u0sqm1UQ77l08qWpgEmpxsHLUQs6aq8Grsrks_mP1KSxCvGLQUcts6gIDYPxmGqGYVNm6qUyGb_mWaAaDp6Tdeappx_cCxTjKvaB988p0rq4z85kc/s320/goats+015.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Rum9IZIsMLIOvuzfvUQfTgzkpBqiaOcw3VXJyXnmcen2GAhOTzGo_El45LRojO6sGzjPxEHttx7qFGbLbS3YYicSiFoqtMK_NbiPQ43xQuTCZjtNOTlgbeXjs8K9vSXUPJiaunJt6cw/s1600-h/goats+016.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451486619504156322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Rum9IZIsMLIOvuzfvUQfTgzkpBqiaOcw3VXJyXnmcen2GAhOTzGo_El45LRojO6sGzjPxEHttx7qFGbLbS3YYicSiFoqtMK_NbiPQ43xQuTCZjtNOTlgbeXjs8K9vSXUPJiaunJt6cw/s320/goats+016.jpg" /></a> There was all of one mud puddle on our entire property. It's measurements were approximately two by three feet. Who manages to fall in that particular location about three minutes before we are going to go to town with Meemaw? Gunther....of course. Who is not going to let his brother have all the muddy fun? Barrett, who jumps in the puddle immediately after Gunther falls in it.</div><div>Who is not amused? Me. Who documents the whole clusterf&%# ? Meemaw.<br /><br /><div></div></div>Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3291781979633543052.post-47897027575359518542010-03-17T08:06:00.000-07:002010-03-19T15:22:22.415-07:00A Kid (goat babies, not redheaded midgets) Update<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0IoXnU0VeklaRTrXSy7cmSsGQMA2jLP5nUo3jXbC1aikQp549XP-ioIqcxtcpfaR5zmHf24MiESGLw_L576A1ARLqJL-WF_AaIk7A834MhgEdariFtBaRZHPUZXZhwl7IA5l6hLU27tc/s1600-h/goats+031.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449621444379070482" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0IoXnU0VeklaRTrXSy7cmSsGQMA2jLP5nUo3jXbC1aikQp549XP-ioIqcxtcpfaR5zmHf24MiESGLw_L576A1ARLqJL-WF_AaIk7A834MhgEdariFtBaRZHPUZXZhwl7IA5l6hLU27tc/s320/goats+031.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFcqSGKvDEfMnjouA2bxd9XXwQ3s4xrPWc89SUDl5d2GniEaZsazIMhumXpWAlVd1hIU0sa1o8IkQERUTxwIgOZVT_-q82aKNCfIrilOkKcawGMlqYXn2oEtLWXiUd3FCtyqQZBPPpCHU/s1600-h/goats+027.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449620973220224610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFcqSGKvDEfMnjouA2bxd9XXwQ3s4xrPWc89SUDl5d2GniEaZsazIMhumXpWAlVd1hIU0sa1o8IkQERUTxwIgOZVT_-q82aKNCfIrilOkKcawGMlqYXn2oEtLWXiUd3FCtyqQZBPPpCHU/s320/goats+027.jpg" /></a> The kids are now two and a half weeks old. Daisy, the doe on the left, is doing well. She is a little on the wild side, though. She is making it increasingly difficult for me to catch her, and cuddle. I am trying to make friends with her via the sweet goodness of raisins.</div><div></div><div><br />Elliot, our little billy, is as sweet as honey. We made an unfortunate discovery last week. It seemed that Elliot had/has a broken rib. We weren't sure how it happened. We suspected that the other mama in the pen, Evey who is not his mama, may have hurt him. I have seen her head butt him to get him to go away. It was the next day that I realized that my theory was wrong. I caught Mack, our knucklehead puppy, dragging the billy out of the pen. I am sure that Mack was the one who hurt Elliot. For a short time I thought <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">perhaps</span> Elliot's injuries were more than he could recover <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">from, and</span> we would have to put him down. Not two hours later, he was hobbling around, nursing, and wagging his tail. He spends a lot of time resting now, but is doing well. We are hopeful that he will heal, and lead a happy life.</div><div></div><div><br />After the incident with the Mack and Elliot, I made the difficult decision to get Mack a new home. He was just not working out on our little acreage. He was a smart dog, who was bored and many a temptation (remember he murdered a chicken too). A neighbor of ours took him on. Mack will have a job running cattle, which I think will make him happy. The man who took him recently lost his wife, and a new dog to train is a welcome distraction. I can <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">still</span> go see Mack and give him cookies, but I don't have to worry <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">about</span> him threatening my other animals.</div><div></div><div><br />Think good thoughts for Elliot. He is still recovering.<br /><br />Edit: Thanks to my mom for taking pictures of the goats.</div>Audreeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15955738791845794114noreply@blogger.com3