82-Lancaster Farming, Saturday, January 9, 1993
On being
a farm wife
-And other
hazards
Joyce Bnpp
He knows, instinctively, what’s
coming.
When the large black-rubber
feed tub used for cattle shows is
hauled into the milk house, he
knows.
When the shampoo container
and the yellow rubber gloves are
carried out, he knows.
When the five-gallon buckets
are filled with warm water, ready
for rinsing, he knows.
* - ..u
And Solomon goes slinking off
behind the milk tank. His tail wags
only slightly, his head hangs down
and he comes to my call with ob
vious reluctance.
Getting a bath is just not our
dog’s favorite activity.
And watching him scratch per
sistently is not mine. A long
haired Sheltic, Solomon has al
ways been prone to skin irrita
tions. Regular baths with a
medicated dog shampoo have
proven one of the better preven-
tive measures.
Given the mud of recent weeks
and his affinity for chasing the
three-wheeler, hanging out around
the farm shop and the bams, regu
lar baths would be in order any
way. Especially since he’ll sneak
into the house every chance he
gets.
Despite his lack of bath enthu
siasm, he trotted into the milk
house recently and cooperatively
stood by the big tub so I could lift
him in for a sudsing. Waited pa
tiently through the final rinse with
no attempt to escape. And then
parked his chin on my knee for a
dry-down with an old T-shirt.
His agreeablcncss toward the
bath stirred up thoughts of another
dog that recently welcomed me
with open paws.
That morning, just before the
holidays, was sunny, bright and
cold. Cresting the little ridge just
east of the farm, headed home
from some last-minute shopping, I
spied the dog lying in the thick
fields.
A black Labrador. A dog I’d
never seen before.
I wheeled the car into the grass
past the dog and hopped out.
Not smart Common sense says
stopping to check on a strange dog
is not a smart thing to do. When it
comes to animals, my common
sense sometimes takes a back seat
to feelings.
This dog promptly rolled over
on his back and stuck all.four feet
into the air, the classic pose of
submission. An old dog, with cal
luses on his legs. Incredibly
friendly, his tail wagging the in
stant his head was stroked.
An old dog that obviously had
been loved. By someone. Some
where. But no collar. No identifi
cation. And seemingly lost
Someone had taught this dog
not to get into strangers’ cars
though this stranger was foolish
enough to invite a stray dog to do
so.
Parking the car at the house, I
headed back up the road to call the
Lab. He was already on his way.
Obviously in need of companion
ship. And probably food.
Then Solomon spotted the old
'fellow and took off toward him.
The Lab turned tail and disap
peared around the only standing
cornfield nearby. Putting Sol into
the house, I started up the road
again to call the stray. But he was
already past the other end of the
small field and still going.
Though I called and whistled,
the stray Lab with the big head
and the ready affection kept going.
Lost. Scared. Hunting for a safer
place.
He disappeared, trotting out the
road through the development of
homes adjoining us. Had he run
off from someone? Slipped a col
lar? Been dumped nearby? Was he
headed home? What would hap
pen to him?
It bothered me a lot that day.
And the next. It still does.
I’d feel better knowing a dog
like that found a friend.