Missy, The Special Case

Missy is an odd duck.  We got her on the classifieds where I work and the women was just looking for a new home for her.  The other dog had died (Missy's companion) and she did really want to get a second.  We already had two dogs, and had just a few months before, put down our third so we decided we could take her.

The picture we were given really didn’t give you a good idea of what she looked like.  She was sitting on a screened in porch smiling, but the camera angle was from far above her so really all you saw was her head.  When we arrived the woman called her into the house and she came barreling up to her.  When she saw the two of us she stopped dead in her tracks and we could see her whole body.  Oh, she’s fat.  Very fat, so fat that she had a sway in her back and a fat roll on her tail of all places.  We loved her instantly.  Erik immediately sat on the floor to greet her and she cautiously approached him, grunting all the way.

Of course we agreed to take her home, but little did we know what we were getting into (not that it would have stopped us).  Her first evening with us, Erik was convinced something was wrong with her, that maybe she was having a panic attack or hyper-ventilating because with every breath she would snort and made a sound almost like she was gagging.  Turns out that’s just how she breaths, has ever since.  We also noticed pretty early on that she drank a lot of water, probably at least twice as much as the other dogs so Erik thought she might be diabetic.  (See a trend here? She's HIS baby)  We took her to the vet where they run a slew of tests and find that thankfully she is not diabetic, but has a thyroid problem.  So now our 45 pound beagle is being medicated, twice a day, everyday, or (so the vet says, guilt guilt) she'll go blind. 

Not only is she medicated for her condition, she has also had in the last year, medicine to clean out her ears (Erik's idea), a bump removed from her eyelid (Erik's idea) which resulted in surgery, stitches, eye drops and a cone, and an X-Ray (which isn’t cheap, and happened to be both of our ideas) because we were convinced she ate a Barbie arm (because the vet said 'forgein objects make me nervous'), turns out it was just gas and the vet recommended Mylanta.  Yeah, like for people.  

So while the other two dogs have been sent to the back yard to live in preparation for the new babies, our third, and thus far most expensive, baby is still in the house.  Still tucked behind the claw footed tub where she likes to sleep and still waking Erik up at least twice a night to let her out to pee.  She will always be our special case, and we love her for it.  

Tied Fleece Baby Blanket

My dear friend from High School is having a baby boy in September and it’s kind of a tradition for me to make each new Mom a baby blanket.  In the past I’ve crocheted blankets for multiple people but they take a great deal of time (example, Alyson still hasn’t gotten hers and her daughter, Reeslyn, is about to be a year old).  So for the last few babies to come along I’ve taken to making tied fleece blankets.

All you need is 1 ½ yards of patterned fleece, and 1 ½ yards of solid fleece to coordinate.  You will also need sharp scissors, a marker, and a yard stick. 

Lay your two pieces of fleece together, with the good sides facing out and trim up the edges so it fits together nicely.  Measure a 3 inch edge around your fleece blanket to mark how long your ties will be.  In all four corners, cut a 3 inch by 3 inch square out, this with help with the corners and make them lay flat when it’s tied.

Along each edge cut to the marked line every inch (you can either mark it out or eye ball it, sometimes not marking it is easier). Once you’ve gone around your whole blanket, you can start tying.  Make one overhand knot with each fleece strip and keep it fairly loose otherwise your blanket won’t lay very flat.

After you’ve tied the whole thing, that’s it! It’s wonderfully warm and snuggly and didn’t take any longer than an afternoon.

Belly in Bibs

If there is one thing cuter than a pregnant belly, it’s a pregnant belly in bib overalls.  That might just be my opinion, and not just of my own belly, but of bellies in general.  Bib overalls are cute on anyone, I don’t care who you are.  So when I couldn’t find any pants that fit my growing belly for chores naturally I went to my bibbies for a new option.  

I’ve had these overalls for at least seven years, I think.  I got them as Christmas presents when I was in college because I was working on a dairy farm after classes.  All I had were a pair of hand-me-down coveralls from the farm owner and my mom thought I should have an alternative wardrobe.  I wish I had a picture of those coveralls, because they were pretty amazing.  The diary owner was a good three inches shorter than me (and I’m not tall) but was hardly any wider, so I looked about as scandalous as one could look in coveralls.  There's nothing like a pair of tight booty coveralls to make a girl feel sexy.  They had patches on the knees, which I’m sure his wife sewed for him, and they had a subtle smell of milk, that just never went away.  The fact that they were too short for my legs wasn’t really a problem considering I never had them on without being tucked into my rubber boots; but it still looked a little silly when I’d come in from the porch after milking and my roommates saw my get-up.   

Needless to say I have now got a sizable farm wardrobe and am less reliant on hand‑me-down items.  I’ve got my two pairs of overalls that fit me appropriately and a pair of brown Dickies that are a little bit hardier for when I’m working against barbed wire or wrestling the goats to trim their hooves in the fall, two pairs of black rubber boots (one for me and one for whomever is stuck helping me), and one pair of pink boots that are a size too small, but I had to get them because they had little brown horses on them.  You can judge me for that if you want but I know lots of women who buy uncomfortable shoes because they are cute.  I’ve also acquired a large quantity of ratty white tanks that are best worn under bibbies and not stored with anything nice, because they smell like sour milk and iodine no matter how many times you wash them, along with special socks for when I’m in my riding boots that have no support.

I treasure my farm clothes, they get their own Rubbermaid tub in my closet.  I’m not trying to brag about how much stuff I own, but sometimes I feel a little bit more legitimate as a rural resident when I look at my collection of well worn, and frankly beat up threads.  I’ve done some hard stuff, and my deneim shows it.  So I wear these ugly pants with pride, because I like to be able to say “Yep, that stain is cow shit, and I must have got that whole from the new fence I put up last spring.  That black smudge on the butt?  Well, that’s when I learned to change the oil in my truck and ended up scooting through it.”

It’s important to have the right clothing when working on a farm.  As you can see my bibs have looked nicer.  They are splattered in paint (all the lovely colors I’ve picked for our home), some of the buttons are missing (which is fine now that I can’t button them anyway), and one pair has been cut to knee length for summer months.  They are in no way new, but they’ve never seen better days as far as I’m concerned.  Maybe someday I’ll find someone to pass them too like those raggedy old coveralls from the dairy farmer.