Our Mike

A reworked post for a very busy day.
Enjoy!


We had a dog. 
Mike. 
Big dog. 
Saint Bernard. 
Very protective. 
He thought nothing of risking his very life defending us from such dangerous things as – the cat. Tumbleweeds. 
The occasional cardboard box, blowing in the wind. 
Laundry. 
In the history of the world, no one was safer. 
My parents could relax, knowing that Mike was on duty.
We decided to take our fearless guard dog swimming. 
We didn’t realize that Mike was a mountain dog. Swimming hadn’t been programmed into his non-rewritable brain. 
He knew only two things. 
Snow. 
And saving people. 
Swimming couldn’t possibly fit in there anywhere. 
But he good-naturedly followed us because he was . . . good natured. 
At first everything went well. 
We swam. 
Mike ran up and down the bank, barking frantically. 
If anyone ventured near enough to grab, he did so. 
By whatever protruded enough for him to get a grip on. 
But to his horror, the ‘saved’ person would inevitably extricate themselves and, without even a thank you, nullify all his best efforts by charging back into the milky waters.
Finally, Mike’s lack of success in the saving department became too much for him. His frustration boiled over into something more proactive. 
He started venturing further and further into the uber-dangerous, monster filled water, seeking someone – anyone - to save. 
A limb passed near. 
Or someone’s backside. 
He grabbed it, and whoever it was attached to, and dragged them to the shore. Kicking and screaming. 
How happy they must be that he was on hand to save them! 
Listen to the sound of their relief! 
He would bark happily and charge in for the next heroic act.
He never managed to drown anyone. 
Wisdom. 
Or a miracle. 
After that, when we went swimming, our hero guarded the garage. 
From the inside.

When City Hits the Country

City Kids!

My cousin was visiting.

For two whole weeks.

She was a city girl.

But the only difference between a city girl and a ranch girl was location.

Right?

I took her swimming in the river.

She got sand in her suit.

She taught me ballet.

I fell over a lot.

I taught her how to swing from a rope in the hay loft.

She got a rope burn on her hands.

She taught me how act out stories.

I . . . actually, I liked that.

A lot.

I tried to get her to ride the pigs.

She stood outside the fence and made faces.

She taught me gymnastics.

I fell and knocked the air out of me.

I decided it was time to teach her my most favourite thing.

Horseback riding.

I drug her out to the corral and pushed her up to the top rail.

Kicking and screaming.

Her, not me.

Looking back, I can see the differences between the two of us as we perched up on that fence.

The country and the city girl.

Me, in my inevitable shirt and jeans.

She in her white slacks and blouse and light blue sweater.

Even a fool would have found it obvious.

I wasn't a fool.

Well, actually . . . never mind.

The horses were drowsing in the corral.

She eyed them suspiciously.

“They're okay,” I reassured her. “C'mon.”

Trustingly, she followed me down and into the corral.

I picked out the nearest horse, Coco.

“Here. This is a good one.”

“But she's so huge!” Her eyes got bigger as she drew closer.

“She's gentle!” I gave the large, coco-brown mare a reassuring pat. The horse reached out and lipped my hair. “See?”

My cousin moved beside me.

“Okay. What do I do?”

I showed her how to stand beside the horse and grab a handful of mane.

Then I cupped my hands, told her to step into them and boosted her up.

At the proper time, she swung her leg.

She was aboard.

The excitement must be coursing through her.

She must be palpitating with accomplishment and eagerness and a sense of 'the world is mine'.

I stepped back.

I must admit that everything my cousin did was graceful.

Her walking. Her dancing.

Her falling off a horse.

It should have been all right.

The horse wasn't even moving, after all.

But she didn't land on the ground.

Instead, she fell into something much softer.

I don't think she was pleased.

I guess some people have a problem with large, steaming piles of . . . horse buns. Road apples. Horse puckies.

To the uninitiated, manure.

Sigh.

People are so weird.

She got to her feet.

And looked down at her light blue sweater.

Her heretofore pristine light blue sweater.

Then she looked at me.

Uh-oh.

I never got my cousin back up on one of our horses.

Instead we spent the rest of her stay dancing. Doing plays and gymnastics. Reading.

While Mom got the marks out of her sweater.

Before her mom saw them.

City girls.

Pffff.