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a canine love story

You might think this post is about Pyrex, because usually when a gal puts up pictures of delightfully vintage pieces of kitchenware, it's usually a sign she's about to gush about said product.
But I'm really just here today to tell you about a little Valentine love story. But first you're going to need a little map, a key as it were, to keep straight who's who. 

Blackjack = Chris's Lab
Wally = my Great Pyrenees
Wrinkles = the neighbors' Shar pei
Ruffles = the  neighbors' former Shar pei
Molly = the neighbors' new lab

Sheesh. It's like a canine love pentagon. 

You know my sweet, big old Wally? The one who ran away and took a ride in a police car and went to the pound and got adopted by a family and then ended up coming back home with us? Yes, that Wally.

Well, old Walsy found himself a girlfriend. 

Our neighbors have a Shar Pei named Wrinkles. Wrinkles had a sister named Ruffles, but she went to live with some kiddos who needed a puppy to love. 

So poor Wrinkles has been a one-man band for quite some time now, chasing cars away from the house, their cattle, their horses, anybody who gets too close. 

Now Wrinkles and Blackjack, head of Dairy Security, don't get along too well. They got into a fight once, and while Wrinkles ended up losing, he did put a hole in Blackjack's face that kept old Blackjack pretty close to our house and pretty far away from Wrinkles for quite a while. 

But then I made the mistake of taking Wally for a walk one day, one of those beautiful January days that was 60 degrees and sunny. We walked, as we sometimes do, past the heifers grazing in the pasture and toward the neighbors' house. 

Out walked old Wrinkles. 

Like he does. 

But then out walked . . . a pretty, long-legged, shiny-haired . . . female chocolate lab named Molly. 

Wally, who can't even be bothered to lift his head up when you're trying to play fetch with him, perked right up and fluffed up his big tail and danced right on over to Molly and, uh. 


It all happened pretty quickly. One minute I was standing on a gravel road, talking to my neighbor who happened to be checking his mail, and the next minute I was pretty horrified and apologizing profusely to him while trying to hustle a lusty 50-pound dog on down the road.

In classic, calm, delightful farmer fashion, my neighbor just said, "Awwww, if it happens, it happens."

And oh, let me tell you: It's happening.

You know that song "Old Red" by Blake Shelton?


Let me just say that around 8:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m. every day, lovelorn Wally sashays over to Molly's house and doesn't come home for about a half hour.

Sometimes Blackjack goes along and races around with Wrinkles and then walks Wally home.

And almost every time, I am sitting in my office -- on the phone in a meeting or in an interview -- and powerless to stop the "If it happens, it happens."

It's a sad sight.

Me, not Wally.
See that long-legged gal scooting toward home? Yeah. That's Wally's girlfriend. 

Molly. Wally. Wrinkles. Ruffles. Blackjack. It's like a dog soap opera up in here.

So while we keep Wally penned up a little more now, in the hopes he'll forget his lady love [who are we kidding?], something tells me when Valentine's Day rolls around, he'll get to Molly one way or another.

That's true love right there.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go chase down my dog. It's that time again.

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