A Degree in Den Management

Mr. Big Food and I used to call our room the "Master Suite" because that's what it was-- a master bedroom sufficiently large enough to accommodate typical bedroom furniture plus my desk that looks out on the shooting range, and a couple of other odds and ends pieces of furniture including the couch and chair my mom & dad bought some time around the time I was born. The couch is in dreadful shape, but I cleaned it up as best I could. 

Suzy used to sleep on the couch until she fell off head first. We thought it was the end for her since she didn't move for what seemed an eternity. If I remember correctly, she had two or three of these little "we thought it was the end" episodes within a very short time. We thought it was the end. She no longer sleeps on the couch. She has a pallet on the floor. 

The Master Suite was a nice quiet little place before Rocky and Missy arrived. Granted, it's always been messier than the rest of the house-- those of you have seen it can attest to this, and also understand why-- but it was quiet.

Mind you, I'm not complaining, I'm just chronicling.

Missy's box is in the Master Suite. When they were younger, Rocky and Missy could be confined-- let loose for periods of time but still be confined, just as they are in the pasture-- in the Master Suite. They took advantage of that time to get to know one another. I learned to keep the closet door shut, to never leave them alone with the door closed behind me, and to secure all shoes and electronic valuables if there was a chance in hell they would get them. They loved to chew-- still do. 

Mind you, they did all of this while learning how to be respectful of Suzy, who is still alive.

They have grown up a bit.

Missy is going through a rebellious stage. We reached the point where she had figured out the odds of "Get in your box" meaning a good thing, compared to a bad thing. She's smart. She was good at "Get in your box." But then, she figured out that the odd (likelihood?) of me following through when GIYB was a bad thing was not 1. Lately, when I give the very clear command, she's taken to jumping up on the couch and being all lovey dovey. And I just get the leash and put her in her box. And I do this 100% of the time. I can learn.

Rocky is becoming a mature Pitt Bull cannunculous. He is perfectly proportioned. He has upper body strength and agility that signal to me a well developed-- dare I say it-- neuromuscular system. [Why did "neuromuscular" come up as misspelled? It's giving me "intramuscular" as the alternative spelling. Lord.] He can go from zero to however fast it is he can go in nothing flat, which means ... . Let's see, what does this mean? Bursts of energy require a lot of oxygen. He is able to deliver a lot of oxygen to those muscles in that system very quickly. And his little brain and a few of his glands can figure out which/where to deliver it. 

Unlike Missy, though, Rocky tires out now. (Missy does, too, sometimes.)

I've re-arranged the Master Suite on account of the fact (don't you just love how wrong that is but yet how easy it is to type it?) that Missy's box was positioned very near my desk. One of the things I did to be more green to save some freaking money was manage the windows with respect to the sun. This desk has been positioned in very nearly the same spot the entire time I've been sitting at it here on the Farm. The doors that afford me a view of our very own shooting range let in a lot of sun in the summer. So everything got repositioned based on the sun. Along one long wall-- out of the sun and away from hot exterior walls-- are a small desk, the couch, and Missy's box. 

During the day now, it's just as likely for Missy to be on the couch and Rocky to be in her box as it is for them to be making me pick up a rolled up magazine. 

Mind you, all of this has been going on around Suzy, who is still alive. 

Which reminds me, I was at the vet's today picking up 

1 cat Frontline

1 small dog Frontline

2 Big Dog-- no not that big, just big-- Frontline

6 month's supply of HeartGuard (insert TM thing),

and we all agreed that if you've lived to be 17.5 years old, you really don't need to worry all that much about heartworms. 

The fact that Rocky tires out before she does sometimes poses some problems. But we manage.

Lately, I've taken to calling the Master Suite, "The Den."  It is a crappy old den. It's got a couch and a chair and a desk and a television and an adjacent bathroom, and the dogs don't get in trouble for being on the couch. It's a den. (Seriously, no fireplace?) I don't think there are enough dogs to qualify it as a dog den. A mammal den, maybe. But not a dog den. 

Whatever it is, I've been managing it. And Mr. Big Food told me this evening that I'd earned my degree. This is a high compliment. Mr. Big Food does not confer degrees lightly.