Happy Gotcha Day 2022, Curtis Loew! Three Years Later

 I know you don't care when your birthday falls. You're a dog. You don't even know what a birthday is. And I don't know when your birthday might be, so I've picked the day I brought you home. You looked like a little goblin with your black mask and missing teef. You made me laugh and cry all the two hours' drive home at the wonder and enormity of that day.

 Most of what we do for our dogs, we do for ourselves. The fancy foods with bison, salmon and venison; the high-class leashes and harnesses--that's all for us. What a dog wants is sun on his flanks, fragrant straw beneath him,

a rabbit or squirrel to light out after, and the freedom to do that. What a dog wants is a hug, a kind word, his kibble on time, a soft warm place to sleep.

Curtis, you've got that. All that, and acres to cover, your voice bawling like a hoarse bell through the trees.

You're out coursing the woods right now, as I write. It's freezing and dark and spitting snow, but you don't mind. You're free. I have to be OK with that, and I am, because you are who you are, and you get to be who you are meant to be. How many dogs can claim that?

You came to us three years ago today, and my eyes well with tears to think how very much we all needed you, right then, when the world was crumbling around us. You took a look at the situation, and went where you were needed most. There you stayed. You didn't even know us, but you knew right off the bat you had a lot of work to do.

I watched you in astonishment as you put your soul-soothing magic on everyone.

You're such a good guy, such a simple, hearty soul. Life is simpler now than it was in spring 2019, and we have a clear pact. You do your dog things, and I keep myself busy doing my human things, and try not worry too much about what your dog things are and where they take you. 

But when you're gone for too many hours, and you are gone for hours at a time...

that's when I come after you, reminding you with the tiniest electronic ping that I am here, and worrying. And then you come boiling up out of the woods, thorns bristling all over your skin, often as not bleeding where the briars have ripped your velvet ears.

I throw my arms around you, kiss you, tell you I've missed you, and we walk home. I clean your wounds and give you your dinner and tuck you in, and the next day we do it all over again, the good bye and the waiting and sometimes the worrying.

In return for that, you are my everything, my strength in times of weakness, a warm woodsy scent filling my senses, reminding me that everything will be all right, because you are Curtis and you are here with me. For me.

You can be a warm puppy, dribbled across the blankets

or a commanding and noble presence with a deep bass bark--you have many moods. But you are unfailingly kind and good to me.

The first time I saw your picture I wanted you in my life. I'll never forget the feeling that shot through me when I saw you. I knew Kelly had found my next dog, without my looking or asking or even knowing it had happened. And the wild thing is that Kelly knew, too. No communication had passed between us, but you were calling to me. I heard you all the way from Oregon. I flew home to get you.

"Is he already someone's darling?" I asked.

Not yet, he wasn't. 

                                          

Moon as Ovum and Other Surprises

I was a little bleary this morning. There was, after all, some kind of once in 500-years total lunar eclipse, the slowest ever bla bla bla...I don't pay much attention to the various  distinguishing human markers slapped on every celestial event, but I was excited about seeing the moon in an altered state. There was a mackerel sky in force upon my retiring, and I had high hopes it would break up by the time the eclipse got going. 

My brain, naturally, woke me at 1:30 AM, 2:33 AM. and 3:47 AM. Each time I got up to look. Finally, at 3:47, the clouds had cleared and I had to run to the west side of the house to find the moon. It was worth it.

I couldn't shake the impression that it was not a moon; it was an ovum. It looked watery, diaphanous. It looked like it would jiggle like an egg yolk if you poked it. There it was floating in the vast womb of the sky, waiting for something to come swimming along and make something of it. It was unfinished, protoplasmic. I was riveted. Penumbra. That's what the disc is called, right? Even that sounds like a reproductive term.

It was very difficult to photograph, especially without a tripod. I should have digiscoped it, but fussing with a scope, tripod and phone adaptor at 4:05 am was just not something I could handle. I couldn't even deal with finding socks for my freezing feet. So I sat down on the ground, leaned against a cold concrete retaining wall, steadied myself, and shot some lousy photos. I kind of like this one, that includes the Pleiades, or Seven Sisters, in the upper right corner. Orion was bold and bright, but he was caught up in the twigs of a birch and I had no hope of capturing him. I have a sort of crush on Orion. At least he makes me smile each time I run into him.

I went back upstairs and it was getting light when I finally drifted back to sleep. I opened my eyes again at 6:55 AM. Four wakeups feels like a lot, even for me. Still, getting to enjoy the celestial events (that always happen at miserable hours) is one of the very few benefits of chronic insomnia. 

Who could be droopy and sorry, though, when this is waiting for them in the living room upon arising? 

We call this Wide Stance. He assumes it when he is asserting himself. Such a guy. I'm very proud of Curtis because a quick check-in at the vet's today showed that he has dropped more than four pounds! He's a lithe 43.4 lb. and I am delighted about that. It's all about the crispy fall weather. Running weather. And run he does. I can't believe my companion is 7 now. Where do the years go? Well, we started the clock at Year 4. That's most of it. How I wish I could have loved him from Day One. But his life experience has made him the dog he is. He is the Most Wonderful Dog.

            

I walked out the meadow with him. First, there had to be zooms, and hiding. He doesn't hide himself very well; I think he thinks I'm blind.  He hides the way an adult hides from a baby. He lets me find him.

       

We went out the orchard next, and I got an idea. After a slowly spectacular near-total lunar eclipse, well, there might just be another surprise out there. Yes! The first frostflowers of winter 2021! The red blackberry leaf says it all. It's still fall, and they're already out.

I was so intrigued. There was a freshness, a pristinity to them I hadn't seen before. I think these are the earliest frostflowers I've ever found. Please click on each photo, because the detail is so beautiful, and these photos are so small.

One American dittany plant, its stems splayed, a flower on each one!

Being so fresh, and the first, these were tight, beautifully formed, close curling flowers. This one looks like a cone shell.

I almost threw this photo away before I saw the only in-focus part: a frost flower just forming in the rightmost dark stem! Wow! Do click on the photo to see what I mean. The stem is split, and the flower is just starting to protrude.

This one reminded me of Casper the Ghost's friend. Elmore? I can't remember his name. I love the way they're rising up into the frigid morning light. OooooOOoooOooo

There's something so delicious about seeing fresh frostflowers with green grass blades.

For those new to my blog, you can get the whole story on frostflowers and why they form at this post:

http://juliezickefoose.blogspot.com/2020/11/finding-frost-flowers.html

Please note that in this post, I had the plant incorrectly identified as pennyroyal when it is in fact American dittany. I was in the right family (mint), but it took awhile to ID the plant from the withered remains I found. I'm also bemused that last year's post is from November 22...pretty much right on target. See, that's the great thing about getting older. You forget when stuff happened, so everything is fresh and new all the time! Here I was thinking these were my first November frostflowers. Well, they're earlier by maybe two days...

This is a much better post about frostflower origins:

http://juliezickefoose.blogspot.com/2020/12/fairy-skirts-for-christmas.html

It's devilishly difficult to photograph American dittany (Cunila origanoides) complete with frosty skirts because the stems are hair-thin and just vanish in the clutter. But those small paired green leaves belong to the frostflower plant!

It's wonderful to get down and close with them, especially when there are still green leaves about.

Yes, it was a frostflower morning, and a fine one. Everything old is new again. I am continually amused by the wonders laid out for me to find. For that I am continually thankful. 

I made my way back up the orchard from the gasline cut where the dittany dances. I had long since misplaced Curtis; he was giving occasional bays from deep in Orchid Valley, safely in the middle of my land, and that was fine. 

I walked very slowly as the orchard was seething with birds. Gleaming cedar waxwings in the tulip tops, preening and cuddling. I love a bird that will sit touching shoulders with its friends. 

The winter wren that chimps at me every time I walk past Bill and Elsa's graves. 

And hermit thrushes. Man, do we have the hermits this year. I have a way of talking to them that, if I'm very patient and lucky, often results in their singing a few phrases. They're pretty territorial in winter, I guess, because my pitiful imitations of their songs and a much better imitation of their tchup! call bring them right in. Today, after much waiting, I was rewarded with November songs. Ahhhh how that conjures the boreal forest for me, even as I stare into a miserable tangle of Japanese honeysuckle in Appalachia. I do adore these little elves of the thicket. I'm so grateful they stay the winter here. All hail sumac and honeysuckle fruit; withered grapes and the odd snail or slug. 

                  

I've been wanting to blog for a very long time, but just couldn't pull the trigger. I'm too busy. Crazy to imagine someone living in the middle of the woods being too busy to blog, but there you go. New ventures, new directions, good things. I miss writing to you. I especially wrote this one for Jeanne. 

I'll leave you with a Towertop Sunset. Sound up for a bonus white-throated sparrow, rambling adorably. Dootin-doo-doo, feelin' groovy! in a sparrowy kind of way. 

                  

Happy Two Year Gotchaversary, Curtis Loew!

 We're a pair, and it's a damn good thing, because living alone this far out in the country, snowed in for weeks during a pandemic isn't for sissies, or extroverts, for that matter. Just knowing there is someone else in the house, even if he's hairy, has a cold nose, and doesn't talk, helps. But that someone is Curtis Loew, a dog of great character and kindness, and that makes all the difference. 

                                                           You are hairy too. Just in patches. 

Love between two humans can sustain, enrich, swell, fade, wrack and rend, and that many-splintered thing, wonderful or heartbreaking or somewhere in the gray zone between, can go on for many years. But dog-love is constant, a bright flame we get to kindle and cradle in our hands for but a decade and change, and then it must go, be replaced in a different way. I've started with Curtis mid-decade. He's five now, and I treasure him all the more for it. He's a specimen and a half, in his prime, and I am delighted to be here for that stage of his beautiful life.

"Everything you love is very likely to be lost, but in the end, love will return in a different way." This quote by Franz Kafka is often reworded to say "a different form," which is a little more direct. Kafka could, of course, have been writing about dogs. Yes, I miss my little black inkblot every day, but Curtis does a fine, fine job of filling that sweet, achy cavern in my heart.  He's love, too, in a different form. 

 Curtis Loew is anything but Chet's reincarnation. He is a separate nation. Independent, self-contained, focused primarily on his freedom to do his work in the woods. He accompanies me, at least partway; humors my primate need for long hugs and ridiculous endearments, and shares a bit of my every meal with the slightly stunned, wide-eyed look of someone who's just won the Ohio Lottery. 

on the ride home from the shelter Feb. 19, 2019, his IV patches still shaved from neutering surgery; wide-eyed wonder in every line.

What this dog came from, chained out for most of his four years in the deep south of Ohio, and what he's landed in...Lord, Lord, he's a brindle Cinderella. Yet he earns this champagne and knucklebone life with every swish of his eloquent tail. 

He delights, comforts, warms and amuses me. He worries me to death, plunging off after unseen scents, and gone for hours on end. I have to remind myself, each time, every day, that he knows what he's doing and he will come home. Curtis was sent to teach me how to love without clinging, to hold on loosely. It shouldn't be that hard for me to do; that's the kind of love I'd like to have, too. 

Oh give me land, lots of land under starry skies above

Don't fence me in!

Let me ride through the wide open spaces that I love

Don't fence me in!

Let me ride to the rim where the West commences

Gaze at the moon 'til I lose my senses

I can't look at hobbles and I can't stand fences

Don't fence me in! Just turn me loose... let me wander over yonder 'til I see the mountains rise...

 Curtis is my spirit animal, without question. 

Two years ago today, I filled out a questionnaire, signed a bunch of forms, and tearfully said, "I do!" to the soulful gold-brown eyes of an unknown but hopeful and polite cur-dog at the CHA Animal Shelter in Columbus, Ohio. 

Happy Gotchaversary, Curtis Loew!  I threw my arms around him after writing this, remembering him in a cage, waiting so patiently for the right person to come along. It made me cry to think of him

discarded. Who could just get rid of a soul like Curtis?

photo by Shila Wilson, taken five days after his adoption and I'm already besotted. Curtis baby, no more chains or cages for you. Just soft beds, willing rabbits, table scraps, and a million kisses.

And two years later:

               

With my deepest thanks to Kelly Ball for bringing us together, for knowing she'd found my next dog the minute she met him.

What's a Cur For?

 

I will admit that when I brought Curtis home from Columbus Humane Society’s Animal Shelter, I did not know what I was getting into. I knew he was smart, intuitive, handsome and kind. I didn’t yet know what he was, and I didn’t know what he was made for. 

Literally one of the first of 10 million photos I have taken of this dog.

 

It’s important to know what a breed was made for. I had lived in the lap of luxury with Chet Baker, Boston Terrier, for almost 12 years. Because Boston terriers are made for lovin’,  keeping people company, and making them laugh. They weren't bred to kill anything, herd anything, guard anything...they were just bred as fun little pals. Chet hung on my every word and move, and he believed his highest purpose in life was to keep me company. (here, he's helping me sign books at a show). Boy, did I need that then. He was the perfect dog for me, a busy mom trying to keep my career afloat while caring for three other people. Chet never wore a collar because he never strayed far enough from me to need one. The only time he was ever on lead was in town, and that wasn’t very often.

Photo by Jenny Bowman at the Midwest Birding Symposium, 

Lakeside, OH, 2013. Bandana by Jen Sauter!

 

Because I hadn’t yet figured out Curtis’ breed, or if he even was anything other than mixed, I didn’t know how to work him. Work, as in David Byrne, asking, “Well, how do I work this?” I decided to trust him, and I let him out of the car without a leash on his first approach to his new home, and he peed on the forsythia bush, where he pees to this day, and walked up the sidewalk to the front door as if he understood perfectly that here he would live for the rest of his life. That night, I took him out for a pee before bedtime, and he perked up his ears and headed into the backyard, me close behind with a flashlight. And he was gone, running pell mell through the ruined orchard, crashing and leaping. And that, as Lyle sings, was when I made my first mistake.

 

I called and yelled and hollered and he didn’t come back. Oh boy. I’ve done it now, stuck my foot in it bigtime. He eventually appeared, eyes glowing in the flashlight’s beam, a wide grin on his face. 

Runs After Things in the Night. Check.

Ignores Frantic Calling When Running After Things in the Night. Check.

Needs to be Leashed After Dark. Check.

 

By the next afternoon, I’d done some thinking about how to work this animal. I had to know what he was made for. I decided he was far too delicate in structure to be a pitbull mix. I thought he looked like some kind of southern cur-dog, so I started by Googling Catahoula Leopard Dog, then “brindle cur.” Bingo!  I had a Mountain Cur, more specifically Treeing Tennessee Brindle. I had never even heard of the breed, but it seems I had rescued a hunting dog! Well, dip me in chocolate. Wonder what that'll be like?

 

Being a hunting dog means a lot of things. First, he’s a fine companion, and he seems to be able to read my mind. He loves to go out into the woods with me, but he doesn’t  stick close by my side, the way Chet did. He leads! He has a job, and that is to find edible things. Things made of meat.  Curtis might have written the line: “If God didn’t want me to eat animals, why did He make them out of meat?”

 

Now, this strike-out-on-your-own tendency Curtis has normally manifests with a lot of chasing and very little eating; high, excited yelps; crashing through briars; stripping himself of collar attachments such as tags, bells and trackers; and a resultant need to wear said tracker at all times. As I look back, I have been remarkably sanguine about the possibility of losing this dog. Something in me has known from the very start that he’s too smart to run willy-nilly, in a straight line, headed for the next county. That’s not who he is or what he's made for. He does, however, run after meaty things. If they can climb, he trees them, and tells me with excited barks just what he has and where it is.  Being human, I have been slow to awaken to the part he wants me to have in all this, which is to come join him, raise a gun and shoot the coon, possum, squirrel or what-have-you that he’s found for me. Then, in Curtis’ ideal world, we feast.

 

It is said that this is the breed that helped settle America; part hound, part Staffordshire terrier--which is where the brindling comes from--, part Indian village dog--which is where the brains come from. The mountain cur was bred to track and hunt anything, his highest mission to put food on the table for his family. And so when he trees a squirrel, he circles the tree, harassing and herding it around to my side, to give me the best shot. And still I don’t shoot. Poor Curtis must think I am either very stupid or very well-fed, because he keeps trying; it’s in his DNA to try. He wants to work with me, wants to be a team, but I just walk along with my head in the clouds, binoculars on my chest, and a trek stick in my hand, when I should be packing a thunder-stick.

 

I like to think I hold up my end of the pact pretty well, even if I don’t dispatch his quarry. I do take him out every morning without fail, and we are rarely gone less than three hours, rarely roaming less than three miles, either. He, of course, traverses far more ground than I do. I will linger in certain places, gazing around, and that’s when my wonderful companion invariably takes off. But only yesterday did I figure out why this happens again and again. I think that in stopping to gaze, I'm inadvertantly sending him the signal to go find me something to shoot.

 

I was standing at the overlook, the mile-long trail to which I have laboriously cleared this winter, enjoying the shifting light as it broke through high clouds and started raking the snowfields. I was peering, looking for the castle my neighbors are building to the east. It was vanishing in and out of the morning mist. Curtis, of course, had just ditched me, gone on a toot. Suddenly, the wooden fireworks of a startled flock of wild turkeys exploded deep in the valley to the east. Three, four, five, seven, they flapped noisily and then planed out over the holler. It was a stunning sight. For maybe ten seconds I simply stared at the silvery sunlight hitting off their bronze backs. They were too far away and I had only my phone, but I dug it out of my pocket and hit Video anyway. And so it was that I had my iPhone SE out of my pocket, turned on, and horizontal, even! when THIS happened.  

Of all the videos I've taken recently (and ask my laptop and it'll respond with a small, choked sound that means "a lot"), this is my favorite. It's perfect, perfectly focused, and perfectly unrepeatable. And I have Curtis to thank. Because it was NOT an accident that those five wild turkeys flew right the hell past my face. It was Curtis' plan. His design. This is how this dog works, and I have been too dumb, to asleep, to even know that.

Here he came, immediately on the spurred heels of those turkeys.

Had I had a gun on my shoulder, or even a goshawk on my fist, we would have eaten for a couple of weeks. 

Curtis tries, again and again. It's what he was made to do, and he is damned good at it. He emerged from the brush, glanced at me, knowing I would have blown this PERFECT SETUP AGAIN, WILD TURKEYS FIVE OF THEM MY GOD WOMAN WHY DON'T YOU SHOOT?? then shook off his disappointment and came to join me. Imperfect, clueless me, who he somehow manages to love anyway, because I love him so much. 

I'm no Annie Oakley, but we're a pair. 

Curtis Loew in the Snow

Dogs in the snow... So many times I'd yearned to take our sweet Boston terrier Chet Baker sledding; I had a feeling he'd love it if only he'd try it, but having no hair at all on his little belleh, he was not terribly tolerant of cold, and would have been miserable for the hours we usually spend trudging up and flying down the bowl. So we never got to see what Chet Baker thought of it all. 

Mind you, Chet loved a good romp in the snow, but I never wanted to take him out for a long time, without the option of taking him right home when he got too cold.  I love this photo. And this one...he was such a wonderful little beast, especially in his letter jacket. 

Curtis is another animal altogether; he's clearly spent his life outdoors and he adores cold and snow.    

Here he is in the Dec. 17 2020 snow, one of the most beautiful we've had. 

He's a mile from home and feeling no pain at all.

So off we went down the driveway to see what would happen. We thought he needed his coat since it was in the teens and still snowing. He donned it happily and frisked around, clearly appreciating its extra warmth. He's no dummy!

He is a FIRST CLASS sneak, though, and I was apprehensive that he would tiptoe off and go on a hunt while wearing that coat. If he snuck off and dove into the briars wearing it, he could get hung up for hours in freezing cold, perhaps needing rescue. I was worried and unsure that we could keep close enough tabs on him to prevent that from happening. Well, as it worked out, he DID sneak off in his new coat as soon as we got to the slope, and I was both exasperated and concerned for him. I envisioned him getting hung up somewhere in the noisome multiflora rose tangle that surrounds the big field and goes deep into the woods in the holler. 

Way to wreck a sledding outing, Curtis! As soon as he disappeared, I started cussing, then walking the nearly half-mile back to the house to get the tracking unit so I could go find him if he got snagged. In the time it took me to get home, remove the snow and ice from my car, grab the tracker and a trek stick and some clippers (for briars) and drive back, the prodigal cur showed up and started romping with the kids as they took their sleds down the slope. They took this video of the first run with him beside Phoebe.

 

                  

 This is the genesis of Curtis' interest in sledding. You can see that he's highly excited and amused by Phoebe's first, mostly failed, flying saucer run.

                   

 Liam is Curtis' touchstone. I absolutely love how that dog willingly climbs on the sled, and Liam gently steadies him as they go down the slope together. "I got you." And at the bottom, Curtis skips free, but turns right back to the sled and Liam with wagging tail, ready for more fun! 

 When I finally got back to the slope, the kids and Curtis couldn't WAIT to show me his new trick! I just could not believe that he loved schussing at high speed down a very steep slope. But knowing Curtis, with his need for speed, and his spirit-- adventurer to the core--it shouldn't have surprised me. I guess I figured him for a dog who would run down beside the sled, but wouldn't deign to be carried on it. Wrong! Look how he climbs aboard! As I go down the hill, you can hear me say, "I have a sledding dog!!"

                    

 At the bottom of the hill, Curtis jumped off the sled and began digging madly in the snow. He was just SO excited and happy he had to release that somehow. People roll around on their backs laughing after a great run. I guess Curtis digs!! 

 Of course, it didn't always go so smoothly...This is a particularly cute look at Curtis' face as he passes me on down the slope.

           

 And when he was done for the day, he was DONE. He communicates perfectly without a word, just stands his ground with a no-thank-you look on his face. Oh, how we love this dog. It was about 17 degrees, snowing hard, and despite his fabulous sherpa coat, a gift from our friend Mim, he was feeling the cold at last. We turned toward home.

                 

 Feeling especially lucky to have a dog who loves to sled, and a thrilling huge slope within walking distance of our house. Oh, and having my kids here to sled with...how lucky can you get? 

Happy New Year! May it be EVER so much better than OLD YEAR was! 

Hope you've enjoyed Curtis Loew in the SNOW!!

When the Goldenrod Peaks

Here's what happens every morning on Indigo Hill.  

Curtis and I head out the meadow. Sometimes there is laundry still hanging from the day before, because the rain seems to have quit. I really like the way the colors of my load work with the meadow. Even the red PJ bottoms. I basically wear the same clothes all the time. I have two closets full of nice clothes that never see the light of day, because I don't go anywhere but the grocery store every 7-10 days!

Up close to the house is the prairie bit, visible to the left of the clothesline. There are Maximilian and gray sunflowers growing rampant in there. I was given one Maximilian sunflower many years ago. Not knowing what it really was, other than native, I planted it by the back door. It made clear its plans to grow ten feet high and take over the entire flower bed. Out it went to the prairie meadow, where the bees and butterflies and goldfinches adore it.  When the meadow was disced early this spring, it divided like Medusa's head and now it's everywhere out there. 

The meadow is at absolute peak right now at the end of September. Tall goldenrod is everywhere and it is ablaze with color. 

If you click on the photo below you can see Curtis looking for me out in the meadow. He lost track of me while following a scent. 

It is like a sea of gold out there, the house topping a cresting wave like a red ocean liner.

Leaving the path to wade out into it gets you pantslegs full of beggarticks (Desmodium), those little triangular  green pita pockets full of exasperation.

So I wear shorts, even when it's cold, until those durn things die down, because life's too short and sweet to sit around picking Desmodium off my pants.

My mown paths make green rivers through the gold. I love this time of year because I can finally stop thinking about what needs mowing. Man, I mowed a lot this year! Time for the grass to go to sleep. Time for me and the John Deere to catch a break. That said, I'm headed out now to do a thorough weedwhack of the grounds near the house. No rest for the one-woman band. After that, I've got two dozen Asclepias plants to set out--mostly baby butterfly weeds, plus four big common milkweeds.

I adore the combination of heath aster and goldenrod. Starry night and fireworks!

And when it's fully out, there's nothing like heath aster. I always think what a beautiful bridal bouquet it would make. 

The long view from near the end of the meadow. That clump of red sumac in the middle of the field is where Bill had somebody with a dozer dig a test pit to see if they could hit water. They did, and there's a little imitation pothole there, and winged sumac sprang up because then he couldn't mow there without breaking an axle. He wanted to dig a pond on this dry ridgetop, and I have to say I fought him hard on that one. I knew it would only dry up every summer, probably every spring, and what kind of dang pond would that have been?

The sumac clump lives on, and Bill sleeps near the big pine. Not sure I won that round.

I wasn't quite ready for bright red of winged sumac this morning, but whoomp! there it is.

And the deer thud lightly down the paths. 

When we're done in the meadow, Curtis and I head to the orchard to walk the four parallel mown paths out there. Lately there have been lots of migrants, and Curtis tells me the coyotes are using the paths. His bark is rarely heard, and this is the first time I've heard his Darthy growl. This went on for two minutes. Four barks and rough inhaling growls. HEY YOU GET LOST! hhhhhhhhrrrrr HEY YOU GET LOST!!

I need to set up our second game camera out there and catch some of that action! I keep picking up a lone coyote on the Meadow Cam at all hours of the day. 

Curtis sits beside the Dogwood God, watching and waiting for me. He doesn't stray far when there are coyotes around. 

Good dog, Curtis.