But wait! you also get...

A while back I wrote an essay on being a huntmaster; it's a tough job and I've had the pleasure of seeing some really good ones recently. All things being equal, I'd rather have a dog in a hunt than anything else, but if I'm not running a dog, I'd rather judge than anything else.

At it's best, judging is a lonely job. And spending six or eight hours all by myself is a luxury... no phone, no e-mail, no chores, nobody talking my ear off... just wide open space and endless quiet and the opportunity to be as the hounds slip and the jackrabbit does its level best to out maneuver them. I start my recorder and let stream of consciousness go from binoculars to lips, running commentary. I listen to the play-by-play as I do my scoring, close my eyes and the entire course plays out again.

blue in the lead, pink has quit, yellow arcing around, yellow does a legitimate go-bye... pink has the run-up, pressing the rabbit hard, jink right, advantage blue... tallyho, rabbit straight out, pink on it, the others trailing, rabbit has it's ears up, rabbit hard left advantage yellow, blue very wide can't corner for beans, pink and yellow now pressing the rabbit hard... all tail chase, wow a hawk forced a turn! left turn, pink now has the lead and is closing on the hare... yellow has been dominated since the last wrench, pink is fading, blue out of frame. pink has quit, yellow is still on it, hard turn left, rabbit induced turn... they are coming up the hill right toward me, gawd what a strong rabbit, he's opening up an enormous lead... they have gone into the cover, just flashes of blanket now, they are back in the open, yellow is pressing the rabbit very hard and gaining, take attempt... rabbit is opening a big gap over blue, yellow and pink trailing, left, right, order is the same, dogs are bunching up, blue in the lead, yellow second, pink third, all tail chase, out of sight over a berm... blue opening up a big gap, accelerating and gaining on the rabbit, opening a huge lead over yellow... interesting, rabbit is dicking around, ah now pink is pressing hard, ears down, arc right... yellow trailing, pink is closing the gap on the rabbit, closing, forcing turns, soft turns, left right left again, take attempt, rabbit is very pressed, very pressed, hard right, again, and pink has it...

Recording the courses is great, vastly simplifies my ability to see an "instant replay", enables me to know duration, course dominance, blanket color, and assure kill credits are as fair as possible. As for relying just on my memory would be, well, let's just say I wouldn't do that to the hounds.

But in a 6 or 7 hour day, there may be a total of only 10 or 15 minutes of coursing. You may be wondering what I do with myself the rest of the time. Never fear, gentle reader, there's a long list:

Bright warm memories of great courses to warm the feet on frozen mornings... sand in places ladies don't discuss, sunburn, windburn, mist and frost on boots and in your bones, afternoon doldrums, bored senseless... rattlesnakes (rare), bees (one unforgettably creepy day), countless birds, from burrowing owls and quail to golden eagles; an elk once, pronghorn often, assorted ground squirrels and prairie dogs. There's also repetitive stress injury from lifting binoculars... getting second guessed, yelled at, and developing a thicker skin, gaining a broader perspective and a deeper appreciation of the hounds, and an abiding and genuine admiration of the rabbit.

The season is over, much to the disappointment of my hounds. I watch them twitch in their sleep, lips curled, feet tight, and wonder if they replay the great courses on their eyelids, too.

Pix, Picks, and Picking Up

Once again, I have become overrun with puppy laundry and neglected myself.

You'd think I'd have learned my lesson last week when I ran out of clean socks, but... no. I had to have NO clean pants - jeans or sweats - to drive home the point that I really need to do one load of people laundry every couple of days. Thankfully there's a pile of clothes headed to Goodwill; I picked sweats out of that and started the washer.

The puppies are a fat and glorious 10 days old; weight gains range from 126% to 165% over birthweight - I'd say they are thriving! This is however a tough time photographically - no more flash pictures until their eyes are open for a couple of days, so there will probably be fewer pix this coming week.

Skype has enabled co-breeder Sandra to see the scoops a couple of times. We've had fun speculating about colors and admiring their markings. We will be splitting this litter at about 9 weeks of age, and I'm sure she noodles over which puppy to pick first as much as I do.

There are as many ways to choose as there are breeders, and I always find it interesting to compare processes. Some "pick 'em wet" and given how unique each puppy is, in appearance and behavior, at birth I can understand this temptation. There were three in this litter that - let's just say made an impression - when they hit the ground. I will confess to having made mental notes on them.

Some breeders go on color, or markings. No matter what drives that - sentiment, preference, flash, easier to show or keep clean or spot in the field - this is also understandable. And I for one find it easier to tell them apart (not that I keep names straight, oh no).

And then there's sex. Many, many breeders only keep bitches, so only select from the girls in a litter. I suspect this contributes to the noticeable quality difference, overall, that is seen in borzoi, between dogs and bitches. It is widely agreed that there are more good bitches than dogs, and in fact really great males (no matter how "great" is defined) are very hard to find. On the other hand, I know at least a couple of breeders that prefer to keep males...

Some make selections based on which sex they need out of a given breeding, which may change from litter to litter. Others just pick the "best" puppy for their needs regardless of sex or color.

I had a fascinating conversation a couple of years ago with a long-time dog man, an icon with 50 years of hunting and breeding experience in his head. He said, in brief, that he lets whoever wants a puppy, come and pick whatever they want, and he keeps the one or two left at the end. He said that most people go for extremes - most flash of color, most pushy personality, most size or bone or angles, most whatever - and what's left is moderate. And moderate often does best in the long run, holds up to years of field work and is easier to live with. Words to pay attention to.

And sometimes there are a few that are so afraid of making the wrong choice, keep an entire litter or wait until they are adults to start placing them. Sometimes there's a good reason to keep an entire litter, but I would think it's awfully easy to get over-dogged doing that.

No matter how picks are made, it is usually done with a certain dose or two of second guessing and hand wringing. Thankfully I've got several weeks before we get to that point.

Sometimes you're the windshield...

...sometimes you're the bug.

This past weekend, Ren was the bug. What he hit was a fence.

Full tilt, by eyewitness report, bouncing up and over "like a pole vaulter", landing hard on his side. And, incredibly, got up and kept going after the rabbit.

Here's a picture from earlier in the day (thanks Barb). You can see there's pretty high cover in this area; now imagine a lot of tumbleweed blown up against the fence, obscuring it.

I blame the rabbit.

Minor injuries (cactus, slipped pads, abrasions, strains) are fairly common, and can put a dog out of commission for a weekend or a month. Serious injuries in the open field are, thankfully, few and far between, but when they happen they tend to be significant.

Ren was incredibly lucky he hit the wires and not a post, but he's out for a while. Probably the rest of the season at least.

So here are some photos, I suggest those with queasy stomachs skip them.

The bruising across his chest and down the front legs is spectacular. (Shown here on the operating table, upside down, head to the right.) There are two punctures and several abrasions; no stitches were required.

The three-point tear on his left hind leg needed a lot more work. Shown here after shaving, trimming, and prepped for sutures. (head top of photo, tail bottom)

Same leg post-suturing, with drain installed. Both are scheduled for removal on Friday.

Ren resting at home in an x-pen. The cast-like bandage is to restrict the flexing of his stifle and hock so the stitches don't pull out. Fingers crossed.

His appetite is great and while it's clear he's incredibly sore, I expect him to make a full recovery.

One Last Time

It's one o'clock, and I can't stop crying.

This morning I put Bugg on trailer, headed to new owners and a new life. The barn feels hollow, my view of our empty pasture is sad.

Her new owners have been wanting a Connemara for their grandkids to ride. A chance conversation over dinner a couple of months ago raised a possibility that today became reality.

Bugg's new home has other horses, regular trail rides, and two girls that want to see what possibilities exist. (My son learned to ride on Bugg's niece, Laurel.) It sounds ideal.

But it has been bittersweet.

The last several days I've been spending a lot of time with Bugg, re-playing the Parelli games, stripping out her winter coat, handling her feet. I was struck, time and again, by what a nice, nice pony she is. Sane, sensible, easy, kind. Since late 2008 the rhythm of my life's routine has been closely tied to her needs - daily feeding schedule, regular grooming, trying to keep her in work, blankets on and off during the bitter nights of winter. Mucking and scrubbing and hauling hay and scrutinizing grain. But she deserves better than the life of pasture candy, more opportunity to get out and about and have fun than I have been able - or willing - to provide.

I had high hopes, big dreams for us, when Bugg arrived two years ago. But having horses means having a having a horse-centric lifestyle, something I realized I'm never going to do.

While there are no regrets about Bugg's departure to better things, I do have disappointments. Two AI breedings that never took and now will never be repeated; there was a time when I would have sold my soul for a Go Bragh or Clearheart baby (and I'd have sold more than that for a good quality hard-colored colt by either one of them). Time and money and hopes never to be recovered - such is the lot of a horse breeder. Perhaps it's just as well, the horse market has been brutal the last few years. I'll never see the view of my dogs course hare from her back, or find out if I had the courage to learn to take fences despite my age (closer to 50 than 40).

Yesterday I was acutely aware of each thing being done for the last time. The last grooming, the last trim of her bridle path; the last time I'd rest my ear on her flank and listen to her healthy gut's gurgles. The last face rub; the last time our breaths would mingle as she nuzzled my cheek. The last time I'd scrub a water bucket, or throw hay, or dump grain into a pan. Once more I climbed on her back, Bugg's nose coming around to touch the tip of my boot before we moseyed around the paddock... for the last time.

As we walked out to the gate in the dawn's early light, Rick snapped a couple of pictures. She didn't mind that I interrupted her breakfast to put on a halter, and she liked the bits of apple as I led her out. She went on the trailer like she did it every day, rather than less than a dozen times in her life.

I treasure the lessons she taught me. Horses are smart, in their prey-animal ways. Bugg took to clicker training as easily as a dog, and better than most cats I've tried. But her run-or-be-eaten wiring challenged me to try harder, breath deeper, go slower. I trusted her with my life, as well. One day last year, while picking out her feet, my glasses fell off my face, somewhere under this 800 lb. animal with lightening reflexes and a keen sense of self preservation. Without thinking (foolish, foolish human that I am) I dropped to my hands and knees, feeling around in the straw bedding until I found my glasses. I pushed them up my nose and stood up - and then the stupidity of what I had just done struck me. Bugg was looking at me, one ear back, as if to say "silly biped, don't you know most horses would kill you for doing that?" She was right, of course, and all I had to offer was a cookie for her kindness.

It hasn't all been sunshine and roses, but that's more my failing than hers.

So this morning we took one last walk together: through the barn, down the driveway, between the trees, out the gate, into the morning's first rays of sunlight, and onto a truck. And I said a quick goodbye and gave her a slice of apple - for the last time - and sent her on her way.

Then sobbed all the way back to the house.

And then it was one o'clock and time to feed lunch; I'd walked halfway to the barn before I remembered, looking at the empty corral... and wiped away more tears as I turned away.

Godspeed, LoveBugg. And thank you.

Flying Solo

If anyone has noticed, yes this Blog is sadly stale and out of date... the best intentions and the road to hell and one-way tickets and all that. You know how it is.

The Ahdin Litter is due in less than two weeks and I am both excited and terrified. And trying to cram a lot of off-the-ranchero activities into the few remaining free days between now and then. Which leads me back to... flying solo.

Well, more accurately, walking solo.

Yesterday was my first official gig as a judge. It was my great privilege to judge Desert Hare Classic in the land of the toughest jacks to be had.

Talk about exciting and terrifying!

No small potatoes this event; while there are no points available the bragging rights that are at stake are significant. The event is run under TCC rules, so I spent many hours the last few weeks brushing up on the finer details. Because the winner is determined by a brace elimination, I had to be comfortable with those procedures as well. The DHC is open to any dog, which appeals strongly to my sense of fair play and tough competition. This "bring it on" mentality applies to USBCHA trials as well, and while one typically sees only border collies at the events, any breed or mix is welcome to try and prove its mettle. Best dog on the day, regardless of pedigree, wins. Amen.

There was a nice mix of hounds and people: locals, out of staters, dogs, bitches, young, seasoned, purpose-bred all. Whether easily recognized (greyhound, saluki, whippet) or known only to a sighthound connoisseur (longdog, lurcher, staghound, galgo), their lean muscled bodies and intense stares pegged them of a single mind: find the rabbit.

A word about these lesser known breeds; the idea behind their development and refinement is deceptively simple. Fast as greyhounds, durable as salukis, corner like whippets, endurance like pointers. Brilliant cooks with DNA as ingredients, the breeders of these hounds add a touch of this, a pinch of that, into their breeding programs when and as needed. Color doesn't matter, only the ability to deliver in the field. And deliver they do.

I spent the day walking apart from the gallery, trying to stay ahead of them to ensure perspective of the field and the courses in their entirety. Only two went out of sight sooner than I would have liked, most I saw from slip to distant end. If I could discern voices from the gallery, I was too close. Close enough to hear the shouts when a rabbit appeared, but far enough that no conversation penetrated my senses. While my eyes stayed focused on the advancing hunters, my mind was free to wander... and wander it did. At one point I checked the voice recorder only to discover I'd accidentally recorded 20 minutes of nothing in particular; this morning, out of curiosity I listened to it. I can hear the wind over the microphone, the frequent sniffs of my runny nose, the odd tune whistled absentmindedly, incomprehensible half sentences mumbled aloud. (Pity my husband, this must be what I sound like when asleep.) Walking alone, apart, for the day, in the distant company of good people and glorious hounds doing what they love... it really doesn't get any better than that.

This was my first time judging alone, officially. My previous judging work has been as an apprentice, and while that experience was essential in preparing for an actual assignment, so was (and will continue to be) the long conversations with any good judge on his/her approach and philosophy to the task. The rules provide guidance, but a surprising amount of latitude exists, relying on the judges' integrity to uphold the spirit of the rules at least as much as the wording itself. My endless appreciation to all the judges that have so kindly mentored and apprenticed me, and discussed the finer points of initiated work versus demonstrated agility and the nuances of awarding points, thoughts on kill credits and the thousands of details crammed into my skull - you're not done with me! - RP, DH, DB, DS, FB, JS, PD, CW. I may have been flying solo, but you were "with" me yesterday, in my head, helping me. Thank you.

The hosts for the event were more than kind, providing good company for dinner, covering my hotel bill, and providing some folding money to boot. Combine that with a gorgeous day in the desert and some of the finest coursing I've seen this season, and it is hard to imagine a more enjoyable day. The courses sussed the dogs out pretty easily, I did my best to make sure my scoring was consistent and fair, the handlers all seemed to understand my placements. (The voice recorder proved invaluable in awarding points and reviewing placements, ensuring a high level of comfort that the best performances advanced. Must use next time.) And of course the picnic lunch after was great, too.

Until next time - Tally ho!

Wascally Wabbits

The NM jacks are very hard to find this year, so I've stepped my efforts to learn more about them.

I've published the link to Dutch Salmon's article several times, and I figure once more won't hurt.

Thanks to falconer Paul for the tip that black-tailed jackrabbits are protected in Washington state, I found two more articles:

This first piece was referenced in several places, I finally found what looks like the original site. The second one has information on rabbits around the globe; very interesting. And finally a historical view on jacks, which reminds me of why not all deaths are equal.

If anyone knows of other authoritative sources or scientific research, please let me know about it in Comments. Thanks.

Raison d’être

We've all heard - either as advice we give our children or perhaps directed to ourselves - to follow your bliss. This isn't insipid advice from a 99 cent greeting card - it is actually a profound and fundamental truth.

Years ago my father, an orchestra conductor, advised Anthony (then an aspiring cello player), not to pursue a career in professional music unless he couldn't live without it. Being a musician is a tough way to make a living, much less in classical music. But if one is a musician (or an artist of any sort), life without that art is hell itself.

I've come to believe that is true, on some level, of all productive activity. Be it work or hobby, there's a self-fullfilling cycle: If you enjoy your work, you will be good at your work. If you are good at something, you're more likely to want to do it. In training, we call this a self-reinforcing behavior. There are lots of examples, food and sex being the most profound. If it feels good, do more of it, right? Think about comfort foods and masturbation, and the truth of this becomes obvious.

Some things are obvious only after first-hand experience, and I was reminded of this again yesterday. I took Gin open field coursing, and her unrestrained ecstasy at discovering why she exists gave me joy, as well. She loves plastic games (lure coursing and racing), really loves them. They are fun fun fun and Gin is always happy to go play. But yesterday she found her purpose for being: chasing live game over rough terrain in cold weather. This is what borzoi were developed to do, this is what they do better than any other breed. (Yes, some are faster and some have more endurance, but none other hits that trifecta out of the park.) Gin thought cotton-tails looked like fun and should be chased, but once loosed on the jackrabbit, she transformed.

I have seen this before, Py and Ren and Day all learned the same lesson about themselves - the why of their being. It's just like a border collie when they "turn on" at herding: OH!! I make the sheep move by doing THIS. And they become their true selves.

Hundreds of generations of DNA can not be denied. The truth is it feels good to do that at which we are best. Basically, "do what you love, love what you do."

And perhaps this is why we humans - as a species - have so much trouble figuring out what to do with our lives. We have hundreds of generations of DNA for... nothing in particular. So Anthony has a love and appreciation of music that only a musician can have, but it is not his raison d’être. His opportunities to discover other interests have led him in a different direction, one that is easy for him simply because he loves it so much.

The hard part is to find what you love. The easy part is, just do it.

Thoughts on coursing and hunting

Thoughtful and interesting articles from across the pond:

Clarissa Dickson Wright reveals the cruel side of the animal rights brigade

Two Fat Ladies chef Clarissa Dickson-Wright admits attending hare coursing event at private prosecution

Where'd they go?

The prickly pear have started to bloom; as promised here's a picture of one in bloom: This was taken early in the morning, after the sun has hit but before the blooms fully opened. They are a pale cream inside, shown here is the peachy reverse of the petals.





I've been taking twice-daily walks around the entire property with the visiting Tigress, and have noticed a couple of things. One, the cholla are of two minds: growing new parts and fixin' to bloom:

new growth; very dark and soft.

pending blooms; note the new growth is curving away from the buds.

The other is that there is no sign of rabbits of any kind at all anywhere. "Sign" in OFC parlance means fresh poop (also known as borzoi M&M's), urine stains, or nibbled cactus. All the cactus I have inspected are free of teeth marks. And the only rabbit I've seen was the remnants the Py and Gin shared several weeks ago (and jack or cottontail I could not tell) - all the bunnies seemed to have moved on to less hostile pastures. I do hope they have simply moved on, and are not actually diminished in population numbers. Last season was a tough one, hare were hard to find.

It has been my hope that our relatively mild winter and decent snowfall, combined with the early spring rains, would provide ample fodder for the rabbits to have productive bunny-making spring. As Elmer Fudd said, be wery wery quiet...

The Biggest Loser

Not the TV show; I'm referring to the job of Huntmaster.

There are - in my admittedly limited experience - (at least) two types of huntmaster (HM) jobs. I started HM at lure coursing trials a year or so ago, and think it's a great gig. I get to eye-ball every hound that enters the field, I have an up-close view of every course, and I get to make a contribution to the club's efforts in putting on trials. There are job duty specifics (such as timing the Tally-ho!) that take some brain-work, and if I'm going to be outside all day I'd rather be moving than sitting on my butt. My own hounds get a lot less attention when I'm HM, so I prefer to only do it one day of a trial. All it all, it's a good fit for me.

Other than yelling Tally-ho!, HM in lure coursing has nothing in common with HM in OFC. And I'm now doing that, let me tell you, it is the ultimate no-win role.

At the beginning of the season I read an article, published some fifteen years ago, saying (I'm paraphrasing) that if there were lots of rabbits the field got the credit, and if there were no rabbits the HM got the blame. Having been both Gallery and HM, I'd wager that's a basic truth.

OFC is about the chase, not the catch. from the rulebook:
"A get-together of owners, handlers and hounds for the purpose of evaluating performance of the hounds on live game on its own ground." The jacks have every possible advantage: a head start, incredible speed, agility, and terrain familiarity. We honor most those that get away - and virtually all do.

My first few HM apprentice experiences were full of advice and bemusement... there are no wrong choices, I was told. When rabbits are few and far between, the Gallery certainly second-guesses and stage-whispers their dissatisfaction. Opinions are like noses: everybody has one and they all smell. Some are good, some are bad, but I get no takers when offering to hand over the job mid-day.

The HM is allowed to walk dogs on the line, and I have discovered that my neck and shoulder muscles are much more sore now that I HM. I think this is because, in addition to 160# plus of dog in my hands and a ruck sack with 20# of water and provisions, I'm constantly scanning - right, left, right, left, repeat - for movement. My head and eyes are in constant motion, and my muscles aren't used to it yet. Gallery placement, formation (tight in the trash, looser in open areas) steering a dozen or so people plus dogs to some murky target on the horizon, keeping hunt dogs evenly forward, and constantly looking for game. The HM must have a good memory - what ground has been covered, or not, what was productive, where the rocky areas and arroyos and fences are, where the judge is or should be, where we're going next, and oh yes where are the vehicles because at some point we're going back there. Some people carry a GPS; I don't - excess weight is to be avoided and frankly, I prefer the open field to be a technology-free zone.

There are also no right choices. In my humble and inexperienced opinion, it's orchestrating chaos.

When something moves I have a split second to find and identify it - bird? gopher? cottontail? jackrabbit? If a jack, I next look at the hunt dogs, are they sighted? If no, I have fraction of a split second to decide if the dogs can GET sighted. I may yell RABBIT LEFT then TALLYHO!! and watch for pre-slips. As the hounds in my hands transform into hysterical hairy helicopters and I hang on for dear life while desperately trying to maintain my footing, I scan the Gallery to ensure there are no loose dogs, confirm the judge is doing his job, order everyone to take three steps back, or get down or shut up or all of the above or whatever else is necessary... Be wrong and the hunt dogs are slipped on the wrong species. Be late and they lose the the jack in the cover. Be downwind and the far handler that's hard of hearing (or running off at the mouth) misses the slip. Be anything short of pretty perfect and you're a heel. Get it all right, and you're just flat lucky.

And luck plays a spectacular role in OFC. For example, if your dog is in blue (hence on the right) and the rabbit breaks out on the left and goes left, you are unlucky. It is a rare dog that can overtake and dominate a course from the outside position. If the rabbit breaks in high cover and is quickly lost... If the rabbit leads your dog on a merry chase across bad terrain and your dog is injured... If you walk for hours and hours and never see a jack... If it is a short course and your dog doesn't have the opportunity to demonstrate endurance, the score will reflect that... and you are unlucky. But if the rabbit breaks in the clear, and your dog is sighted, and the lay of the land is such that you can see most of the course, and it's a good rabbit and makes honest dogs work hard and then gets away, and your dog comes back sound, you are very lucky indeed. Bad luck is easy to come by, good luck much harder.

Of course, a good day in the field requires much more than luck; good planning and common sense are absolute necessities. Bring out an unconditioned or untrained dog, come out sans proper supplies and knowledge, fail to be prepared for bad luck, and you're stupid - not unlucky: stupid. If luck favors the well-prepared, we are all able to stack the deck in our favor.

One frustration, for me, is the lack of data on jackrabbit behavior. Considered a pest species, there's not a lot of empirical information available on where to find them, how they behave at different times of day or based on temperature, wind speed, season... There's plenty of anecdotal information, some of which is probably accurate, but lots of just plain baseless opinion too. I am left to wonder if jacks would be easier to find if we understood them better.

I suppose I will make a decent HM for OFC for a couple of reasons: I'm loud (an indispensable talent when the Gallery is screaming RABBIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and hounds explode in frustration at the end of taut leashes), and I don't care if I'm wrong. A bad day in the desert with dogs beats the socks off a good day doing most anything else.

Want the job? It's yours, I'll walk over here with my dogs and keep my eyes peeled. Don't want it? Don't blame you, it's a no-win job.

Dog hair and dust

What, your night-stand and car have something else on them?

Yesterday was a very good day. I had fun, my dogs had fun, the weather was great, the drive was stunning, the company for dinner was spot-on.

In this state, hunting is perfectly legal. Yet a lot of people get up in arms (ironic pun, no?) over it, so I share details with those I know only. Gotta wonder how some people think all those groceries show up in the meat case... a topic for another day I suppose. And yes, I have a license.

The car was mostly loaded on Friday night - ruck sack with people snacks, dog blankets, binoculars, some first aid stuff, bottles of water, dog bowl, orange vest; more water, dog beds and blankets, assortment of collars and leashes; my wallet, sunglasses, sunscreen, hat, gloves, ear muffs, down vest, windbreaker, spare coat, cooler with chicken necks, thermos of coffee and mug... for a day-trip there's a stunning amount of STUFF involved. The one thing that I wanted but didn't have was some extra collars; they were ordered but hadn't arrived yet.

Saturday morning I arose at 4:30 a.m., pushed "start" on the coffee pot, fed Py and Day half-sized breakfasts of thawed chicken necks, got dressed, double-checked that I had enough water, my iPod, cell phone, sunglasses, and assorted dog gear, then pottied the hounds and hit the road. We had about an inch of snow overnight, the air was still and in the mid-20's and just glorious. The moon was setting to the west, the sun eventually rose in the east... Less than two hours later I pulled into our meeting place for breakfast, paid my entry fees, and ordered more coffee. Two hours after that, we were walking in the desert somewhere, looking for Mr. Jack.

More than seven hours and some many miles later (figure 3-ish MPH for 7+ hrs) we returned to our vehicles for a quick potluck. As the sun set we headed back to pavement, the hounds laid flat out and dreaming of the day's courses. After a quick dinner with my friend Elaine I headed home – the moon rising from the east.

Perfect symmetry to the day.

Today is snowing and blowing, a good day to be at home rather than walking fields. My shoulders were sore from the ruck sack and dogs pulling most of the day, but my feet were (and today still) feel great. Someday I'll have to replace my waterproof hiking boots from REI and it will cost a fortune, but I have never regretted the $200 (sale price!) I spent on these. Best damn things I ever put on my feet.

But my car is still needing to be cleared out... guess what's waiting for me in there?

First Time for Everything

And redux, too.

After a week of houseguests and no clients - which means the house stayed pretty darn clean for a change - Ren and I were off to the southern part of the state for the weekend for a little action with Mr. Jack. Sandra, her two dogs, and her colleague Nancy left early in the morning on Friday, with my assurances that such helpful and self-entertaining company would be welcomed back any time. I poured another cup of coffee and set about reducing the mounds of laundry, only to realize at about 11 that the clothes I needed to pack were still on the floor in my closet. Oops. I didn't get out of the house until just after 2. An uneventful drive, a beautiful sunset, and only one wrong turn put me at the hotel just after our friend Susan arrived from Texas. Within a couple of hours we and the dogs were all fed and bedded down for the night.

Fast forward to late morning on Saturday, a spectacular sunrise, crisp and dry air, and like-minded desert walkers... just too good to be true. When it was time for one of Sandra's dogs to be on the line, she'd hand me the spare dog to hang on to. No problem, I've got a lot of practice hanging onto other people's dogs, even those that mimic freight trains, helicopters, and assorted rocket launched missiles. Unfortunately, hubris is often paired with public humiliation, and CJ got away from me, prong and leash attached. I just managed to keep my face out of the dirt, but the dog was gone.

Never before had this happened to me. Thanks to Tom & KC's hounds for breaking me in (translation: pulling me on my face multiple times), and one or two of mine that have no sense at the sight of plastic or fur, I'm quite accustomed to sore shoulders and arms of unequal length. But NEVER once has a dog gotten away from me by pulling the leash off my hand - never. Not at lure coursing, straight or oval racing, agility, obedience, open field, never. Oh well, guess I can take that "no problem, I can hold your dog" line out of my vocabulary. I paid the $5 fine (for having a loose dog on the field) and quietly swallowed my humble pie.

Little did I know there would be a second helping on Sunday. Because my own dog got loose. By breaking the snap bolt on his leash. In Finals. While I was huntmaster. Another $5 fine, and I have to buy a new leash.

The incessant assurances of the field committee that "it happens to everyone" and ensuing stories of their experiences cheered me only slightly.