The Visitor

This is Nicky. He's visiting for a few weeks while his family is on vacation. Nicky is actually a half-brother to my 2 English Shepherds, Roxie and Jack. After the initial introductions, which were less than favorable about a new dog being added to the group, Nicky has been trying to make friends. It hasn't been going well. At times it's downright ugly.

"Maybe the old guy, Indy, wants to play." "Sure kid, as soon as I finish my nap."

"Hey, Roxie, how about you? Want to play?" "Get lost, brat!"

"Hey, Jack, want to....." "Bug off, squirt!"

"I said NO!"

"What part of  'no' don't you understand. Now GET LOST!"

"He's still sleeping? Is he even alive? Well, at least he's not snarling at me."

"Somebody, please play with me!"

"Not fair. They finally aren't snarling and I'm hooked on a chain. C'mon, lemme go so I can pounce on 'em."

Folks are amazed that I currently have 4 dogs in the house. They ask me how I do that. Well, for starters, you have to like dogs, have a good sense of humor, especially when squabbles occur, and have a really, really good vacuum cleaner! At least I don't have 4 toddlers in the house. You can't put them in respective crates!

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He's Quick!

I needed a new bale of hay brought into the barn. These aren't just your ordinary, toss-'em-in-the-back-of-the-truck bales—no, sir. These are the big round bales, wrapped in white plastic so they look like giant marshmallows that could take down a small car. They weigh approximately a bazillion pounds, give or take a hernia, and require a tractor, a chain, and a man who’s feeling strong and helpful. Or at least present.

So yesterday, I reminded GS (that’s Grandson for those of you not fluent in Farm Family Hierarchy) that I needed a bale moved into the barn. Nothing urgent—I had enough hay to get through the night—but I gently suggested he do it during daylight, while the tractor was thawed and his conscience was still awake.

He, of course, insisted that he’d handle it in the morning. I should have known right then and there that I’d be feeding a horse off a snow-dusted marshmallow in the dark while muttering unkind things under my breath.

Morning came. As mornings do.

He strolled in, still in snowboard-mode, and casually informed me that he would have moved the bale but was having “tractor issues.” Turns out, one of the front wheels has this cute little habit of freezing up overnight and not turning until it decides it's ready. Like a diva with seasonal depression. According to him, this has happened before, so you’d think it wouldn’t be a surprise. And yet… here we are.

Then came the brilliant solution:
“Why don’t you just open the bale outside, take hay off it as you need it, cover it with a tarp, and move it into the barn later?”

Ah yes. The ol' "You do it" plan. Always a crowd favorite.

I gave him the look—you know the one—and reminded him that perhaps this is exactly why I’d asked him to move it yesterday when the tractor still worked and the snowboarding trip wasn’t yet breathing down his neck.

I also made it clear that I was not about to unroll a bazillion-pound bale out in the snow and try to hand-feed it like a giant hay sushi roll. Nor was I about to wrangle the tractor with a frozen wheel just because he had other plans. I pointed out that with two grown men in the house, there were certain jobs that I should never have to concern myself with.

#1: Tractor problems.
#2: Wrestling a giant bale of hay by myself.

Then I asked—very calmly and reasonably, mind you—
“If I have to do it myself, then why do I keep menfolk around?”

Without missing a beat, this smart-mouthed teenager, who is clearly learning how to survive life on this farm, said:

“To blame things on when they go wrong.”

Well. I can’t even be mad. That’s solid reasoning. He’s learning. I may still be feeding the horse myself, but at least the comedy is free.

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Planning

We had ourselves a charming little storm over the weekend. Saturday? Rain. All. Day. Warm-ish temps that melted two feet of snow, which is the North Country’s way of taunting you: “Look. Ground!. . . Just kidding.”

Now, anyone with a weather app and a functioning frontal lobe could’ve looked at Sunday’s forecast—which was basically flashing IMMINENT BLIZZARD in Vegas-sized letters—and thought, “Hey, maybe we should fill the tractor and that extra diesel can while we still know where they are and don’t need a search party with avalanche beacons.”

But no. That would’ve been smart. Efficient. Predictable. And let’s be honest—nobody wants to read that story:

“Saturday—weather mild. Diesel topped off. Tractor prepped. Storm handled smoothly. The end.”

Wow. Thrilling. Coming soon to a library section labeled “For Insomniacs.”

Instead, here’s how it actually went down:

Saturday:

Jim and my grandson spent the day not preparing. They busied themselves with “various things”—a suspiciously vague category that usually involves moving junk from one spot to another and then standing around admiring the new location. Jim then retired for his sacred afternoon nap—because nothing says “crisis readiness” like a coma. (To be fair, Jim spends the week away—working twelve-hour days after a three-hour drive on Monday, then making the three-hour trip back home on Friday—so by the weekend he’s running on fumes.) That night, they ran taxi service for Grandson’s work shift, then Jim and I watched a movie—probably something in the Man Fails to Plan, Wife Simmering Silently genre.

Sunday:

Grandson and Jim went to church. I stayed home, nobly protecting the congregation from the tail end of my flu (and myself from the tyranny of socially presentable clothes). Meanwhile—snow. All. Day. Long. It fell like a snow globe being shaken by a toddler on espresso. We watched it pile up while watching another movie, which felt less like relaxation and more like a disaster film where the audience is screaming, “FUEL THE TRACTOR, YOU FOOLS!”

Monday:

Welcome to Dumb Decision Consequences, Population: Us

Grandson started plowing the driveway. Yay! Two bars of fuel. Not yay. The tractor was wheezing like a two-pack-a-day smoker climbing stairs. Jim was dispatched to find the gas can—last seen somewhere under a drift big enough to apply for its own zip code.

Grandson cleared just enough for Jim to get the truck out. Jim went to town for diesel while Grandson kept plowing—stopping at one bar because Jim has repeatedly said, “Don’t you ever let that tractor run outta gas or I’ll. . . [insert vague, dad-level threat here].” So Grandson came inside, mission technically accomplished.

Jim returned, saw the tractor parked, and instantly turned into a one-man weather event. I “calmly” (read: in that special wife-tone that can curdle milk) reminded him that he was the one who didn’t want the tractor to run dry, and Grandson was following orders.

Cue the stomp. Jim marched outside, dumped diesel into the tractor with all the drama of a man betrayed by his own logic, and then plowed like he was trying to exorcise 47 years of marital tension.

Grandson, now feeling underappreciated, retreated to his drum set to pound out his angst—loudly, repeatedly, possibly in Morse code. I made lunch while the house filled with two dueling soundtracks: metal-on-gravel from outside, and wood-on-cymbals from downstairs. Meanwhile, snow kept falling like a heavenly middle finger.

Tuesday Morning (a.k.a. Snowverload: The Sequel):

We woke to another six inches, because apparently winter’s feelings were hurt and this was revenge.

Before heading to work, Jim refilled the diesel can again. I’d love to say this was evidence of personal growth or a newfound respect for preparedness—but let’s be real. He needed to take the truck this week. I was left with his car, and nothing motivates a man like the mental image of diesel sloshing around in a gas can on the nice carpet of his sedan's trunk.

Moral of the Story: Always fuel the tractor before the storm. Or don’t. Just make sure the diesel can never rides in the good car. And for the love of everyone’s sanity, put soundproofing around the drum set.

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