Thumping the Shark

Mid-morning, I like to wander out on the front porch and survey the kingdom that Hick built. I grab some stale bread or cereal, supper leftovers, and/or refrigerator refuse, and walk to the side of my wraparound porch that faces the goat pen and the barn. The minute I step out, the chickens flock to me. Some are so bold as to jump up on the porch. Others sway from foot to foot below, demanding a handout. I enjoy leaning over the rail, tossing treats, contemplating the day. Until my thoughts are rudely interrupted.

Cue the Jaws theme.

They always strike without warning. The pointy noses of Juno and Ann. Stabbing. Poking. Jabbing. Thigh, calf, knee. They are not particular. It's like an attack by a couple Great Whites. Only more playful. I imagine them ramming my soon-to-be carcass to-and-fro just under the ocean surface in a spirited game of cartilaginous fish Val-leyball. One moment I'm peacefully drifting in my tractor-tire inner-tube, bobbing in the sun, not a care in the world. And the next, I'm thrashing to escape the pointy snouts that threaten to rip the ample flesh from my osteoporitic old bones.

I suppose it's a herding instinct. Ann is, after all, a german shepherd. We haven't really figured out Juno yet. I'm betting on border collie/black lab. (Or borador, a new word I just learned from The Google when I looked up pictures of dogs that look like my Juno). Those canines like to come up behind me and poke away. Never in inappropriate places. They're true ladies.

When I toss snacks to the chickens, I have to provide for the pups. Especially Juno. She will stand behind me, or more often wedge her way between me and the porch rail, gazing up at me hopefully. NewMommygonnagiveJunosnack? I can see in her clear hazel eyes that's what she's thinking. I toss bits to her, mainly to keep her on the porch. But that's usually futile. She will leave a scrap of pork steak to jump off the porch and glide through the grass to scarf up the chicken treats. Dry white bread. Cinnamon. Toast. Crunch. Slaw. That's right. Juno will scatter the chickens to lap up expired slaw rather than sit on the porch and have meat. Crazy dog. Ann eats what's given her, then goes to another section of the porch to lay down.

If, by a miracle, I can keep Juno on the porch, which is most often accomplished by The Pony stroking her skull constantly, she still stays hyper. Many a time we toss her a scrap, and she whacks her head on the porch rail, or my leg, or the corner of the house. She's overeager, and inattentive to inanimate objects.

And heavens to Betsy, beware the moment we turn to walk back toward the door! Poor Juno thumped her noggin good on a wrought-iron chair the other day. I swear I heard it ring like a bell. She needs a very special helmet to protect her brains from scrambling. You'd think most of the sense has been knocked out of her already.

Maybe that's why she's so happy all the time.

From the internet, and not my dog, but...This is what she looks like, except with clear hazel eyes, longer ears, longer hair, and one tiny patch of white on her chest. But the smile is the same. I need to get a recent photo of my rescued daughter!