I have been recruited to dog sit a pack of Huskies this week.  On Friday the pack expands by two.  It sounds like a major project, but halfway in I am finding that it really isn’t.  The dogs respect one another’s space and each has their own routine down and their own little me space. Discussing the domestic life of this dog pack brought to mind a slice of domestic heaven from thirty years ago.

It was a Spring Saturday morning. I had finished feeding the horses and had settled down at the kitchen table to enjoy a cup of coffee and the local paper. The Rottweiler was dozing at my feet. The chickens were discussing among themselves, whatever it is chickens talk about. The click of hooves on the driveway indicated that my yearling filly was coming up to the house.  By rights she should have been in the pasture, but I would take care of her later. My bride was in bed, she having worked a 10 pm to 6 am overnight shift. It was shaping up to be a good day.

I was seated with my back to the back door, which was standing open.  The space was tight enough that I couldn’t close the door without first moving my chair. The storm door was closed, but the dog had taken out the lower screen within the first week of our occupancy.  I felt a hot breath and then a little nibble on my neck. The filly, nicknamed “Fart Blossom”by my wife, was head and shoulders in the kitchen taking an interest in me and these unfamiliar surroundings.

I got up and opened the storm door. Fart Blossom took that as an invitation and walked right in.  The “eat in” portion of the kitchen was getting a little crowded what with a Rottweiler, yearling filly and myself in a, as the realtor put it “cozy eat in kitchen”. I went back to reading the paper. Fart Blossom kept reading over my shoulder and the dog was just happy to be there.

There was no reason for it to happen, shouldn’t have for another four hours, but it did.  The bedroom door opened and there standing nude at the end of the hall was my bride.  Her eyes weren’t fully opened and as she gave them a rub and turned the eye rub into a hands overhead stretch, I considered abandoning the newspaper for other pursuits.

The full throated screech of a woman irate to find a horse in her kitchen, followed by a running commentary, as she built up momentum in her charge, is not errotic. It is downright terrifying. This was followed by the scratch of nails, click of hooves and slap of feet, all attempting to gain traction on a linoleum floor and be the first one out the door. I don’t believe that Fart Blossom ever again came within fifty feet of that back door, curiosity about how the other half lived stilled forever.

There’s just no telling what will set a woman off.