It Was a Full Moon, White Mouse, Dog Salad Kind of Night

Spent Mostly in the Yard

Miss Liberty is on her fourth trip to the late-night salad bar. I have given up on the idea of going back to bed this eve, but I know it's my fault. I gave her one teensy bite of rotisserie chicken knowing without any doubt how that never goes well. I was talking to Dan and laughing and just flung it her waggy-tailed way and of course, she did not miss that bite. I swiftly regretted it. Our dogs split one plain boiled or baked and shredded chicken breast a week but otherwise do the kibble-only thing. Layla is the chowhound of the pair who, like Dan, will eat anything that doesn't eat her first.

Libby is more like me, finicky. She usually protects herself by turning up her nose if she feels like there might be an issue. If something does not agree, she begs and whines to be allowed to graze. Out she goes and comes back in willingly, apparently satiated. One gut rumble and she is once again begging to graze. Over and over and over again. On the rainiest of days or when patience is thin a clump of carry-out grass with dirt attached gets placed on the patio for her dining pleasure. This solution is sometimes just the ticket. All bets are off if the grass is high and juicy and the moon is full, though. Liberty Tallulah Jones (her bad dog name) must bask. She must. I do get that, having that exact same issue myself. Rarely do I sleep during the full moon, but I am not always up for any kind of moonlight stroll. I harken back to my post about that full moon stroll at Mexican Hat to further clarify her issue. On this night, we gotta do what we gotta do for her poor ailing polka-dotted belly, but that full moon is not helping. Yes, I am basking, but my knees aren't happy about it and along with the rest of me, would much prefer to be back under covers.

A pure white field mouse slinks silently along the white fence creating just enough of a pale gray shadow to alert the Great Polka-Dotted Huntress. Mixed grass salad falls from her teeth as she leaps into action, but alas, mama will not allow. She's airborne as the snap of of the brake on her rolly leash thwarts her initial charge. Roll on back, wee one, and scrape up that last bite on your plate. Your time outdoors is running short.

No way, man. She's far too keyed up to munch with that mouse still bumbling about in the underbrush. Its whiteness leaves its movements unveiled but it seems unaware of any danger. She will not back down, dancing on hind legs, tail on full twitch, surely salivating.

I stamp my foot. She falls flat and the mouse runs under the fence. It's over. She glances up at me, judging my mood, and finds me hand on hip, growling. She sighs as we orient ourselves towards home but probably not bed, but maybe couch for the half hour before it's time for Dan to get up.

Now she is pot-pied back in bed. I am laying on the floor beside the bed clearing my throat periodically so she can geolocate me and not hop on Pop in a panic. I type, silently, visualizing the photograph that will be attached to this post in my head and wondering where I will find it. The above photograph is the essence of Libby, taken many moons ago during an early road-life summer spent in Conifer, Colorado.

Sixteen minutes until the alarm jangles. Liberty will be on the re-sleep until she either chows down today's chicken and kibble or turns up her nose to give her belly time to cycle that fateful bite and whines for the graze. I will have a story to tell Dan over coffee and the Baby Dawg and I will have a nap later on, that’s for sure.

This wasn't the post I planned to start with to release my backlog of promised but still nearly-finished posts, but nonetheless I have at least primed the pump and this particular story is more recent than most. That’s what I have, and here it is. Happy Tuesday, y’all!

No, I did not moon you. The dog did it.

Tail wags and blessings,

Brenda Cordray

“The Desert Rose”