FOUND!!!!

Oh, thank you all so much for your sweet words and prayers for our Preacher. I went to bed last night wondering how I was going to cope without him. Just as I was nodding off the phone rang. It was my veterinarian's exchange.

A man found Preacher crying on his porch and called the number that is on his rabies tag. I was so glad that he didn't care it was almost midnight and I'm so thankful I have a great vet that keeps his emergency exchange informed of all his animal's identification numbers so they can be reunited with their owners when they get lost.

Clay and I jumped in the truck and drove to the man's house. He lives about one and half miles from us.

Preacher hates to ride in a vehicle. He shivers and gets really stiff. But man, was he happy when we pulled up. He ran to greet us and let Clay set him on the seat next to me in the truck.

When we got home he ran straight in the house and got a drink of water out of the toilette, then sprinted upstairs and jumped on a sleeping Seth's head, then he ran into Ellen's room and licked her face, then he went to sleep.

We're very happy he's home. He's very happy to be home.

My guess is we had some cyclist out here yesterday when I was gone and I think they may have stopped to pet Preacher, which to Preacher is an invitation to come on a bike ride. Unfortunately, they didn't ride back to our house and he was left stranded and lost.

So, maybe I need to post a sign that says,

DO NOT PET OR TALK TO OUR VERY FRIENDLY DOG OR HE WILL FOLLOW YOU HOME!!!

or

PLEASE DO NOT TAKE OUR DOG ON A BIKE RIDE UNLESS YOU BRING HIM BACK HOME.

or

NO NICE CYCLIST ALLOWED!!

Where's my Preacher?

When we got home from work and volleyball and football practice there was something a bit too calm about Coal Creek Farm.

Where's Preacher?

Preacher isn't home tonight.
He's never run away.
He's always here to greet us.

Where's my Preacher puppy?


I sure hope he comes home tomorrow. Life won't be the same without him. He helps me feed all the animals and hang the laundry and water the garden and pick pears and check on the pigs and chase the kids. Ramone and Virginia love Preacher they have a little bucket of water on their porch for him to get a drink out of when he comes over to visit. He gathers the cows for Ramone and plays with the calves and irritates the momma cows.


He lays on the porch furniture even though I tell him to get down. He knows I'll leave the porch eventually, so he can get back up on his cushions. Those cushions are filthy because of him. I'll take the filthy cushions if he will just come home.
My 6yo cried himself to sleep because he just needs his Preacher to come back home. And I hope I wasn't lying when I said I'm sure he'll be back tomorrow.

Who's going to bark at the moon tonight?

Get yourself a good dog.

When you live on a farm or, what I should call, a farmette because our place is just barely big enough to be called a big lot.  But, that's beside the point.  What I'm trying to tell you is that when you live in the country you need a good dog.  An obedient dog.  A hard working dog.  A dog that respects your authority and knows you are his master.  He fears you, but loves you.  He won't do anything to disappoint you.  He is completely loyal now and forever.  He obeys your every command.

I'll let you know when I get a dog like that.

This is for Eugene....I mean You, JEAN!

Here's our puppy, Preacher, minding his own business, chewing on a rawhide.  It's mighty tasty.

And here are my boys, uh, chewing on Preacher.  He's mighty tasty.

Jean, this is for you.

That's Pupanese I'm speaking, in case you've never heard that language before.  You think that's gross?  You should hear me talk to a baby.  It's sick, sad and people are embarrassed for me.

Puhreeeeecher!

For those of you who've been wondering about the puppy.....

he's still here. 

Oh, and look at the back porch.  Better known as "The Stairs of Death!"  I beg people as they come in and leave, "PLEASE, for the love of all things good do not slip and bludgeon yourself to death on our weirdly swooped concrete stoop!  Please!"

But, if you do.  Don't worry.  We have a Preacher on the premises to pray over your bloody carcass....... he might even bury you in the back yard.

A dog named Preacher

Yesterday, I drove a pickup truck down a country road into a small town to pick up a Preacher and bring him to live at our house.

After a night of crying out to the Lord to deliver him from the evils of the basement, he awoke with a new outlook on life. He quickly ran from room to room sprinkling a golden dew on the floor of each room, christening it if you will, in the name of He, Himself and Him.

He then went outside and tried to rid our yard of all the evil stems coming out of the pumpkins.
He worked tirelessly damning the stems to hell.

It's exhausting extricating the demons from gourds.
He sang hymns with the choir.
It brought the congregation to their knees.
He counseled a stuffed Canadian goose.
He practiced with the dance praise team. Glory Hallelujah!
Then they went off to find a place of solitude to poop, uh, er, I mean pray.

Waiting for a picture of sanity.

Too busy to blog.  Okay, that's a big fat lie.  I'm stuck in a memory rut.  I've been trying to write a story about an "episode" that my friend Carmen and I call the "Where's My Grater" story.  My problem is when I start to relate the story and events that happened leading up to the "Where's My Grater"  it makes my family sound, well, a bit deranged to say the least and well, we were a bit deranged, but I don't want my words to make my family sound like they should have been locked up in a padded room somewhere, but we certainly could have used a little padded room time.  I'm not trying to say that we're normal now, but I think we are a little less crazy-spastic-furious-deranged out of our freakin' minds nutso now.  So, you see my dilemma?  No?  I'll keep working on the story, but for now I leave you with this;

We got a poopy....no no no, I mean a poop, wait that's wrong too, I think it's potty, no, maybe it's puppy.  Yeah, that's it, sorry, I forgot what those little poop butt things were called, but I knew it sounded a lot like poopy, cuz that seems to be all he can do right now.  We're calling him Preacher.  Preacher the poopin' puppy.