Long gone are the days little Welch girls dressed up as princess’ or fairies or kitty cats with precious little colored noses. In fact, my girls are both out somewhere celebrating Halloween and I don’t think I really want to know if or what they dressed up as tonight. I’m for real. “Ignorance is bliss”, said the mother of the 19 and 16-year-old.
And so me and The Mister watch TV while we eat our lemon pepper wings from The Brick. The Mister is ecstatic that we now live so far in the sticks that no one has dared ventured up our winding driveway in search of trick or treats since we have lived here. I admit that while I miss the fun of dress up with those little girls, I am quite content this evening to lay back on my sofa, knit and listen to some sort of hunting show where the men in camo find it necessary to talk in scratchy whispers while sitting in trees waiting on monster bucks. I’ve given up on understanding and I simply count knit stitches and enjoy being near The Mister.
Willow has teased him all evening. They play a game, she and The Mister. She sits by the door staring at us through the glass and waits until he gets close enough to put his hand on the latch. When she sees him that close, she bounds off the porch in one swift leap and looks back in time to hear him mutter, “That stupid dog.” One would think after many a night of this, it would be easy to ignore her, but he never does. After his fourth trip to the door, she decides to let him off the hook and comes inside, running wild through the kitchen and sniffing the cat’s underbelly, tossing him sideways in the process. She sniffs the dog dishes and keeps her trot until she bounds up onto the couch to inspect the remnants of chicken wings.
That is when I know it. As sure as the full moon that has given her enough light to romp in the fields, she has been rolling in cow poop. I know it. The smell is revolting and my eyes begin to water. The Mister rescues me from her affections that are tinged with the God awful smell by picking her up and gagging in the process.
She’s a country dog. Loving? Yes. She is attached to The Mister and Baby Girl as if they belong to her only, but truth be told, she is a rough shod, country dog who has no notion of being a lady. She finds great joy in romping in fields and chasing the horses who stomp at her when they have had their fill.
Tonight, when other dogs are locked away so as not to terrorize the little ones who come to the door as Batman and Dora, she runs wild through the cow field next door. With a full moon shining, she exhilarates in being alive and doing what country dogs do on a Halloween, disguise themselves as cow poop.
The Mister had another name for this misadventure, but we will simply say that her crusty coat of excrement is washed away with a bath. Here sits my bad girl next to me, now tolerable even loveable minus her country perfume.
Happy Halloween! It’s a time for good boys and girls to load up on candy, and bad country dogs to have to stay in for the night. A perfect waste of full moon.