wish it would rain

The sun is trying to break through low clouds here- I wish it wouldn’t.  I was hoping for some rain last night, it’s been about 2 weeks now since we had any.  Just before we turned over to the 11 pm news last night a tornado warning flashed across the screen.  A small cell had popped up just to our north and west.  It was unusual that late at night with no watchs posted and it got the weatherman all excited.  A waterspout had formed over a lake and moved on to land making it a weak tornado but it quickly fizzled out before it got here.

 They had said there might be hail over our area from the storm and I went out in the dark to check things out. Although we had been leaving the light on in the back of the barn to attract the guinea hens and turkeys inside for the night they insist on sleeping outside.  The baby ducks which usually do come inside were outside also.  So I was glad there was no hail but rain would have been nice.

 Guinea fowl are strange creatures.  They are very noisy also.  I’ve learned that females make a two syllable call and males a one syllable call.  Otherwise they look pretty much alike.   Any little thing sets them off and they sound like a flock of strange geese or hoarse dogs yakking away. 

 Our young turkeys, destined to be holiday meals, have become very tame.  They follow me around the bird pasture and if I sit to watch the birds they come up and stand on my shoes and peck at me.  Big Tom the old turkey male pretty much ignores them.   Both of his adult hen friends are again setting on eggs, one in my corn patch and the other in a flower garden.  I have had to water those gardens but nothing makes them move.  I hope for their sakes they finally hatch some turkey chicks.  They have both hatched chickens for us but we took them away of course.

 We have sold off all of the excess hens, the frizzle babies are in their permanent home and the replacement hens are in the back horse stall with a screened opening on both sides for the old hens to get acquainted with them.  The coop wall shares a wall with the one horse stall.  The bottom half is solid but the top is covered with wire.  Last night when I was checking before the storm I saw that one young hen had gotten over the wire and was perched on a roost next to the older hens.  Instant integration!  But she was back home this morning with the other youngsters.

 We opened up part of the area around the pond to the horses since their pasture was dried out and not re-growing because it’s been hot and dry.  We put some hot wire up across the section leading to the apple trees and the gate to the pond because we wanted to let the ducks come and go and keep the horses out of the green apples.  Those buggers walked all away around the top edge of the pond which is a narrow, steep and brushy strip to get around to the apples.  We put hot wire on the other side of the trees so when they walk around they are stopped.  This morning Lily must have waded around the hot wire in the pond (which we extended 4 foot into the pond), because there she was on the other side. 

 The bank she climbed up was steep and she seemed reluctant to go back down so I ended up leading her through the chicken pasture all through the yard and around to her old pasture.  The brat better not be back there tonight.  The old saying that grass is always greener on the other side of the fence must have pertained to horses.

 I’ve been watering the garden but rain is always better.  Our corn is making ears and I can’t wait for some fresh sweet corn.  Baby potatoes are ready too.  I can’t keep up with the weeding because all my time is devoted to watering, water makes the weeds grow- it’s a vicious circle.  All the flowers are blooming early because of the heat - nothing will be left soon.

 Summer just goes by so fast.  

hot times

Well after stating that I intended to blog more often, I haven’t.  I could use problems with internet dial up services as an excuse but I’ll just say I didn’t follow through.  I did enter a 24 hour short story contest this week, and while I completed the story in no time, I had to sweat out whether my phone would come back on in time to send it.  It did and that is now behind me.

 It’s easier to stay inside and write now that the weather is hot and muggy and today- peppered with thunderstorms.  I need to move some chickens and ducks around in the barn but I don’t want to stress them and me in this heat.  We had all the meat chickens butchered a few days ago which leaves us with a little room to spread out the rest of the birds.  Some of those birds- at 49 days- were the size of small turkeys and I am not exaggerating.   It’s amazing how selective breeding has transformed these broiler birds. 

 When we first started raising meat birds it took about ten weeks - sometimes longer- to produce a nice bird from broiler stock.  Now about 18 years later it takes about 6 weeks- at least we could have butchered last week and had decent sized birds.  I saw a number of broilers at the butchering facility that were from the new “Red Ranger” meat stock.  They sort of looked like red barred rocks, or maybe New Hampshire’s a little.   I saw one butchered out and the carcass looked pretty good but I had a feeling the birds were a few weeks older than the broilers we brought in.  They are supposed to do well on pasture.

 I don’t think you save money raising your own chickens but they were every bit as tasty as store bought birds and they were fed a good natural feed with no antibiotics.  Plus the meat wasn’t pumped full of salty water before we cooked it.  Our 10 pound  roasters were all real meat, no additives.

 Well the barn swallows have left their nest and I turned the baby mallards loose to find their way back to the wild.  For a few days they never left the pond.  Now they are back up in the chicken pasture hanging out with Mr. Muscovy duck.  They seem less nervous and scared than they were in their pen.  The baby muscovy ducks have not been allowed outside yet, they are growing like crazy - but I gave them a big rubber horse pan to swim in.  Soon I am moving them outside to a pen.

 The guineas are starting to make their weird little guinea noises.  They too need to be turned loose soon.  The red turkey disappeared for most of the days last week and I had to hunt down her new nest.  It was right beside the road, under a small bush, a very unsuitable place.  I tried to move her and the eggs but that turned into a disaster of cracked eggs.  The dark turkey hen is sitting on a nest in the middle of the corn patch- a small bit more acceptable.  After a few days the red hen is sneaking off again.  We saw her coming out of one of the bushy garden beds I have so I suppose that’s the new nest spot.  She can stay there.

 I don’t know if the tom we got is doing his job or not, although I have seen them mating.  He is still a scruffy thing, with most of his belly bare.  Hopefully a few more weeks of good food and care will see an improvement in him.  The hens are egg laying machines though- as good as the chickens almost.

What is quite interesting is the baby silky-frizzle crosses which I understand are called sizzles.  They are turning out quite pretty although I can’t sex them yet.    They probably won’t lay well but I think I’ll keep a few.

Fishing on Father's Day

It’s Fathers day and you couldn’t have asked for a more delightful summer morning. After doing chores in the barn I checked the pond and saw fish jumping. At breakfast I convinced my husband it was time he went fishing again. He hasn’t fished much in the last few years. Our pond was without fish for a few years and he had mobility problems until he was able to get his electric wheelchair.


But today the stars were in alignment. The pond has fish and he has mobility. He also had a new fishing pole given to him by our son last Fathers Day. It was a cute little set up that folded into a pouch so you could fish anywhere. So after breakfast he started assembling it. The tying on of the hook was a problem- his eyes are worse than mine, so I took over. That’s not easy with my twisted fingers anymore. But we got her done.

Some worms were located. We made our journey to the pond, chickens and turkeys trailing us through the back pasture. I don’t fish, but I like to sit near water and watch for birds and other wildlife. The pond is deep and full this year. I wanted to make sure that hubby didn’t hit the controls accidentally on that electric chair and go flying down the steep bank into the pond.

In the morning there is some shade on the south bank from a maple that has finally grown big enough to do some good. We settled there. First thing he noticed was that the line was tangled on the reel. I took the reel apart and tried to untangle the fine line- but removing the line from the pole was required. That meant cutting the hook off. We checked the nearby bench and sure enough his old tackle box was still under it, with a rusty pair of scissors inside.

With the rusty pair of scissors I managed to cut off the hook then reassembled the reel. The untangled line was then rethreaded through the eyes on the pole and then there was that wonderful task of tying on a hook again. Next came the bobber. With the old tackle box in front of him he had the choice of a small bobber that came with the kit or a larger bobber in the old tackle box. He decided on the larger bobber.

A worm was finally threaded on the hook, he had to do that himself, and the line cast. Whoops, line was catching on a small protrusion of plastic on the reel. After a few frustrating tries to cast, hubby takes the scissors and scrapes off the protrusion. The line is cast, he’s finally fishing.

I wander away to the ponds edge farther west where the bank is low. Teeny tiny frogs are hopping everywhere I step, I have to catch one to make sure it’s a frog and not a spider; they are so small and black. Good thing the chickens have left, they don’t venture this far. But I do see the blue heron down here a lot in the evening - now I know why.

Bull frogs are “bonking” around me and when I settle into a chair by the water two big bullfrog heads emerge from the water, one on the right, the other on the left to watch me. Swallows are swooping over the water as well as big blue dragon flies. I see fish jumping from the water and a bobber landing near the spot.

The warm water next to the shore is filled with tadpoles, ones that will emerge much bigger than the tiny ones I have decided are spring peepers. A few small fish wiggle by and one huge bullfrog tadpole. I watch two chick- a-dees picking something off the autumn olive near the pond, must be bugs. A bird is singing in the taller shrubs behind me whose song I don’t recognize and I squint into the sun trying to see the bird.

A few casts later, I hear he has a bite. Then I hear the line is tangled in the weeds, and then I hear a muffled curse. The thin pole has snapped. Oh well, fishing was fun while it lasted.

A day to remember all right

After just under 2 inches of rain last night we woke up to a muggy day but
the sun was shining for a change. We had to pump out the crawl space again,
low spots in the yard are flooded again, and we'll never get some spots
mowed this year. Our pond is the fullest I have ever seen it. I saw fish
spawning near the shore, the yellow flag iris are in bloom and big blue
dragon flies are skimming the pond.

Flower smells are cloying in this humid air. The autumn olive by the pond
was overpowering. I could smell the sweet woodruff and lilies of the valley
mixed with lilac sitting on my porch. That was much better than the smells
of bloody feathers and fresh killed chicken I dealt with early this morning.

Yesterday morning I found one dead "teenage" chicken from a pen in the back
corner of the barn. It was right outside the door, the other chicks were
fine and I thought maybe it had escaped in the night and an owl or early
morning hawk had killed it. It was shredded and eaten pretty well. I even
suspected a stray cat or even the male muscovy duck that's guarding a hen on
a nest near the chick pen.

I closed up the back door of the barn last night even blocking the gap at
the bottom and hoped for the best. Didn't happen. This morning I found all
the beautiful young birds slaughtered, inside and outside the pen, a big
mess. Torn and shredded. Further more I found my sweet little silkie hen
who was sitting on a nest dead. My other little chicken Frizzle was ok, but
he probably ran from the killer. He has escaped death many times that one.

I was cleaning up and noticed my Jack Russell, Sarah going nuts scratching
at the wall that separates her inside pen from the loft steps. Sure enough
under the steps was a big coon, the vicious killer. It's dark and hidden
under there. I didn't want Sarah to get bitten up, she's too old, even
though she was game. So I grabbed a shovel and went for him. If I had went
back to the house for a gun it would have been gone, and shooting into that
area wouldn't have been wise.

I was mad, and I smacked him numerous times, bashing him wherever I could.
It was tough and fighting back, growling and snarling, but I had it pretty
penned in under the stairs. I tried to pin its neck to the cement wall but
it pulled away. After about 10 minutes of me beating it, it managed to get
by me and run out the door.

Now if any of you think this is cruel you don't know how nasty raccoons are.
He could have eaten cat food or chicken food. There was lots of food around
the barn. There was still bread on the floor that I had given the ducks
last night. He could have killed only one chicken to eat. It wasn't
hungry. He was just damn mean.

I have 3 brooders full of chicks still, laying hens, 2 sitting turkeys and a
sitting duck in the barn, which if I hadn't beaten him hopefully to death,
he'd be back to get. Raccoons kill for the fun of it. They make terrible
bloody messes with what they kill. I have known them to eat the feet off
chickens or bunnies they couldn't pull through a cage or get into. They
carry rabies, distemper, roundworms and other nasty diseases. They are
vicious animals. In the woods where they belong they are fine, and there is
plenty of wooded land around here. But I don't want them in my barn or
around it.

If the one I beat doesn't crawl somewhere to die I hope he stays far away
from here. If I had the pitchfork handy I may have known that my birds were
safe. We are going to put a couple of the dogs up in the loft when it cools
down to see if there are any more up there, like babies. I don't know what
I'll do if I find babies. I hope that was the only one.

Loving the swamp

Swamps and marshes and little ponds have always held a certain fascination
for me. They teem with wildlife; sitting quietly by a wetland area you'll
see all kinds of birds, a host of water creatures and even larger animals.
As a girl I frequented swamps by walking down the railroad tracks, sometimes
with friends, sometimes with just a dog at my heels. For a long time these
swampy areas were forbidden to me so there was also the thrill of doing
something "wrong."

As I got older and my parents less vigilant I spent several evenings a week
making the trek down the tracks to sit on the banks of a small pond and roam
the marshlands behind the Junior High I went to. I liked to go alone, the
swamps were my place to think and escape from a home crowded with siblings.

One of the selling points for the house that my husband and I bought here in
the country was the fact that it had a pond and also a bit of marshy woods.
The pond was newly dug and glaringly devoid of natural wetland vegetation.
The previous owners didn't make the wisest choices in the site selection and
digging of the pond. The banks were steep and the clay sub soil had been
pushed up over the area around the pond, giving grasses and other plants a
hard time taking hold.

We worked hard to stabilize the banks and stop some of the erosion that was
happening. At first we followed the previous owner's instructions about
adding blue dye to keep out algae and for the first two years we often swam
in the pond. You could feel the little seeps of cold ground water welling
up under your feet as you walked on the muddy bottom.

The pond was stocked with bluegills and bass and the grandchildren loved to
fish there, pulling out stunted bluegills which we allowed them to feed to
the chickens. Some nice big bass were hooked by my son and husband fishing
there. There were frogs, tadpoles, and turtles in residence.

Over time things have changed around that pond. Cattails grew, the natural
vegetation filled in along the banks. We stopped swimming in the pond.
Dye was no longer added. Trees grew up around the pond, making it much more
natural looking but also sucking up tons of water in the heat of summer.
There are poplars and willows, white pine and spruce, river birch, maples
and sycamore. There are fruit trees and a redbud on the south side and a
tangled wind break of lilacs, spirea and forsythia.

The fish all died one winter, too much time under snow covered ice depleted
the oxygen in a pond which regularly went into winter at a low water level.
I knew the fish were gone because the water teemed with tadpoles that
spring. For several years we left it fishless, last year we once again
added some blue gills and also a couple koi.

The bluegills managed to spawn last year, there are tons of tiny fish this
spring but I haven't seen the koi. Maybe they are still there; the pond is
very full this spring.

But the best thing about the pond is that I have a thinking and wildlife
watching spot I feel completely safe sitting in and don't have to walk far
to get to. With all the natural vegetation maturing now the pond area teems
with life. I can sit and watch to my hearts content.

We have of all things, a king fisher who has hung around the last 2 years
and I saw again this spring. There are flocks of yellow warblers that nest
around the pond with the red winged black birds. A night heron nests every
year in the marshy woods behind the pond and scolds me as he departs from
the pond as I arrive. Chick-a- dees frequent the woods too and flocks of
tiny goldfinches flit around the high grass areas.

A great blue heron regularly visits and tree swallows nest in our remaining
bluebird houses and barn swallows in our barn. A Virginia rail and
killdeers often scuttle along the pond banks. Crows and red tailed hawks
nest in our woods behind the pond and are frequent visitors. Their babies
are very noisy in the early summer. Frogs of all kinds call from the banks
and we have a plethora of small turtles.

If I quietly sit on my redneck bench, an old van seat, I often see deer
grazing on the other side of the pond. Rabbits are bold, often playing
within 10 feet of me. We lost our barn cats to an epidemic of cat distemper
two years ago and the rabbits have flourished. From time to time we have
muskrats- which swim around in the evenings with just their heads showing.
They usually can't resist coming up to the dog kennels for dog food and
getting killed.

I have watched the antics of ground hogs many times. One large one would
climb into the low branches of some shrubby willows by the pond and stretch
out on limbs to sleep. It always amazes me he can climb up and do that. I
can watch our own horses grazing near the pond too and this year I added a
pretty pair of muscovy ducks. Our free range chickens sometimes venture
down to the pond, but seem a little uneasy there, and it probably isn't the
best spot for them.

It isn't always easy keeping up with a country place, especially as we get
older. But the fact that I have this quiet, safe Eden to sit in makes it
all worthwhile. I feel young again, scouting for pollywogs and identifying
birds. Hopefully I have years left to enjoy it.

Nature has humbled us

Weather is something we all talk about, complain about and can't do anything
about. For all the ways that man has shaped and changed nature, she still
gets the upper hand on us once in a while. Here in Michigan we are having a
cold, slow spring. Farmers can't get in the field; gardens are way behind
in blooming sequence. Last week we had a day of 80 degree weather, too hot,
too soon, and then yesterday we woke up to snow on the ground, and brief
snow squalls all day.

I am impatient to get on with my garden. I have peas and lettuce planted
and I started cleaning out garden beds but I feel way behind. I just need
to be outside, listening to birds and frogs and digging in the dirt. It
probably won't happen this week, we are scheduled ( does Mother Nature
schedule things?) to have thunderstorms, maybe severe weather tomorrow night
, then back to cold and snow showers mixed with rain and finally near the
end of the week a small warm up- with rain.

But I'm not going to complain too much after seeing the devastation Mother
Nature left in the south. There has been some really bad, scary weather
across the country this spring. Many people have died in the storms and the
property loss is astounding. Now many of you might not get to see much of
this on your local news, after all there is a wedding in England to think
about. Our larger newspapers here carried more stories about the two Brits
wedding than the severe weather in the US.

It seems that tornadoes hone in on trailers- have you ever noticed this? Of
course that's not true - (or is it? Has anyone collected any data on where
tornados hit, vs. the damage they cause? ). It's just that trailers can't
withstand the fury of the winds. Do you wonder with all of the other laws
that we have for our safety why the government still allows people to live
in trailers? At least in trailers that aren't on foundations? All trailer
parks should be required to have storm shelters scattered through the park.

Some huge, sturdy stick built structures also felt nature's wrath. With
everyone having camera phones now the videos of tornadoes and the
destruction afterward is all visible. A particularly poignant scene was
shown several times, porch steps with flowers planted along side, all
unharmed and the house behind the steps just gone-blown away.

Tornadoes have this peculiar way of leaving some things totally untouched
and destroying things around them. I think that's why so many people think
of tornados as sentient beings, capable of picking and choosing their
victims and the path they take. We fear them; as well we should, like we
fear no other weather phenomena. Those that don't fear them are just plain
stupid.

Tornados show us that we are small things in nature after all. They humble
us, we can't control them, and we often can't even predict their path.
They stop us in our tracks and change our lives forever and then the sun
comes out.

Pray for the lives that were lost this week to Nature's wrath. Ask that God
comfort the survivors and that their immediate needs be met. And keep an
eye on the sky, listen for warnings and don't take chances dancing with the
storms.

the life of Bubba

I live in a house dominated by dogs. And when I say dominated by dogs I might as well say overran with dogs, 15 of them, 12 are house dogs. And if that isn’t bad enough, most of them are canine senior citizens so I live in a doggie rest home, a geriatric care center for dogs. It wasn’t a business plan; it’s just the result of a soft spot for dogs, and the passage of time.


This week I had to have one of the dogs we loved put down. (That was the 16th dog.) Bubba wasn’t the oldest of our dogs and certainly not the one I thought we would have to use one of our holes on. Before winter we had dug two holes and saved the soil in the barn. We had two 15 year old frail dogs going into winter and I do hate to have them cremated. But they made it through winter and just as I was thinking about filling in the holes, Bubba got sick.

Bubba was a 10 year old black cocker spaniel. He lived in a kennel connected to our barn with Sarah, a Jack Russell and next to Gus and Brandy, also Jack Russell. These are the only dogs that don’t share our home inside. Bubba was always a happy go lucky dog who loved to eat, so we noticed when he didn’t want a meal one evening. Snacks didn’t tempt him either. He had eaten well in the morning so it didn’t seem too significant. But two days went by and Bubba refused to eat anything. Attempts to try to make him take something in his mouth made him disappear into his outside run.

By Sunday he seemed very lethargic, and while he drank water no food tempted him. I checked him out thoroughly, feeling his stomach to see if he felt bloated or would act like it hurt him, I suspected a blockage. But he didn’t seem to have a tender or bloated belly and didn’t react to me feeling his belly. He just seemed very tired. He was favoring a foot that seemed swollen.

On Monday first thing we visited the vet. Bubba perked up a bit for one of his favorite things, a car ride. Blood tests showed that Bubba was very sick. His red blood cell count was so low the machine couldn’t read it. His liver seemed to be failing. The foot seemed to be an incidental thing, maybe precipitating a crisis that was slowly sneaking up on us. The vet guessed it was auto immune hemolytic anemia, something that happens to older dogs with no apparent reason. We discussed the very expensive options for treatment.

In the end, partially because of finances and partly because the vet gave him a very poor prognosis even with treatment, I held him in my arms as she put him down. Poor Bubba had one more car ride home where my husband laid him into one of our holes in the garden. It is a shame that my finances limit heroic efforts to save my beloved dogs, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care. And maybe it’s better for them anyway; there is a time for all things.

Every dog has a story. Bubba’s wasn’t as remarkable as some dogs but still he had a story. So this is Bubba’s story. Bubba was bred in the south, probably at a puppy mill, but according to his first owner, who went to the south to buy him, he was from a cocker kennel that still bred cockers for hunting. Bubba was a tall, rangy cocker, and he did have a very strong hunting instinct. His jet black coat was pretty good, but he had some white markings on his chest and toes. His tail had been docked especially short, with barely a nub to wag. Despite his AKC papers I suspected that somewhere in his lineage a taller spaniel such as a springer may have been involved. Bubba’s full name was Michigan Bubba.

His first owner worked with my husband Steve. When Bubba was a year old he started to get too rough with the man’s children, according to him. Knowing that we had dogs, he asked my husband to take him, saying that he’d drop him off somewhere in the country if we didn’t want him. Steve is as soft for dogs as I am and brought the dog home from work with him.

We never noticed Bubba being aggressive with our grandchildren, but he was a high energy, extremely active dog that could overwhelm small children with jumping on them and chasing them. We thought we might re-home Bubba, but it never happened. We did put him in an outside kennel, he was very happy outside, rather than spending most of the day in a crate as he had been doing at his previous home. Our kennel runs are very large, and he had two high energy dogs next to him to interact with too. Later on grandmother Sarah came to keep him company. They were good friends, with a zest for hunting in common.

Bubba got to run in the larger fenced yard frequently, he would race in circles until he dropped. Turned out by the pond for the first time he dove in and began to swim after the ducks. They were domestic ducks who didn’t fly but had no trouble swimming just out of Bubbas reach. He swam after them until we grew anxious that he would drown himself. He just kept circling and we could see him getting lower and lower in the water. Steve had to step in water up to his waist and grab him as he swam by to make him rest. He was exhausted but very happy.

One night, long after we were in bed, we heard a commotion in the barn, barking, things banging around. Since Steve had to work the next day and since he was having a hard time with his back at the time I dressed and went out to see what was going on. Bubba had gotten out of his inside kennel and actually tore a panel off the wall that divided the kennel room from the rest of the barn. He was under the steps to the barn loft, where he had cornered a huge opossum.

The possum was just out of his reach and it wasn’t playing dead. It was snarling and growling as aggressively as Bubba was. It took all of my strength to wrestle Bubba away and tie him up while I got rid of the opossum and repaired the wall. I didn’t want him to get bitten by the opossum. Opossums plagued us that year, they would get in the large pine inside the kennel runs at night and just sit there while the dogs went nuts and kept everyone awake. Bubba learned to climb up on one lower limb of the pine that summer and he would spend many a day and night perched on it to better survey the world.

Bubba did not like cats or chickens or varmints of any kind. He would kill them if he came in contact with them. He was generally kind to other dogs, even when females were in heat. This was much in contrast to our Jack Russell’s who would fight at the slightest sneer by another dog. He did defend himself if attacked, but preferred to avoid conflict.

Bubba’s joys in life were running, swimming, hunting through tall grass, going for rides in cars, eating and being petted. He didn’t mind going to the groomer, but gave her a bit of trouble when she touched his feet. He had never been sick until his fatal illness at age 10.

About 18 months after we got Bubba his former owner called Steve at home on a Sunday afternoon and offered him another cocker, a female they had bought after they gave us Bubba. This time the excuse was that she kept their new baby awake with her barking and the wife said she had to go that day. Once again he said he was going to drop her off at a farm somewhere if we didn’t take her.

It turned out that Honey, as she was named, had been bred by a rottweiller. We suspect they knew that. And Honey has her own story. But we now had a registered female cocker and after she had healed from the long travail with her first litter and subsequent complications we decided to breed a litter with Bubba.

Both Bubba and Honey were nice looking, healthy dogs and had very good temperaments. They proved eventually to be a delightful match, the kind of unexpected click that produces puppies even nicer than either parent. But at first we didn’t know if Bubba had it in him to be a daddy. He didn’t seem to be too interested in Honey when I took her to his kennel. She was an eager little hussy, but he seemed reserved and aloof.

After a few days of bringing her to the kennel and waiting I decided to leave her with him for a few hours. It worked, although I wasn’t sure until I saw her start to show. He was a shy breeder but a fertile one. I never saw him breed a dog. Honey had three litters with him and all had 7 or 8 puppies. He also had a litter with Cricket, a larger sized Yorkie- Russell mix we own. She managed to get inside his kennel someway when she was in heat. She was fine, although we worried, and she produced 5 puppies.

We still have two of Bubba’s kids with us. Barack is his 2 year old son, a beautiful almost mirror image of his dad and Bessie is his 6 year old daughter by Cricket. She looks like a Scottie. Barack is a delightful dog, extremely good looking and smart, without a mean bone in his body. He is the baby of our dog family.

Bubba was the kind of dog that didn’t cause trouble often. When you have a large family of dogs you try to love them all and give equal attention but I have to say Bubba probably didn’t get all the attention he probably wanted. He was ok with that though, always happy, always ready for a treat. Although a heavy eater he was never fat, always lean and active up to a few days before he became ill.

It’s hard to believe he’s gone. There was little time to prepare for his loss. But he rests in peace in our little pet cemetery. Bye Bubba. Sarah says she’ll see you soon.