Bird Dogs
Many years ago, far more than I care to think about, my hubby threw me a birthday party. Friends with their young families, came to celebrate the day with us, and for once, the weather was beautiful. From the time I was a little girl, it seemed that it always rained on my birthday. The day was extra special, because one of my favourite mares had a lovely, big colt in the midst of the celebrations as well. It was the perfect gift for a perfect day.
There were pony rides for the kids, a lovely barbeque, drinks and cake. As the evening drew in, and darkness slowly fell, everyone pulled the lawn chairs around the bonfire, to enjoy the warmth of dancing light and crackling flames. Of course there were hotdogs and marshmallows to roast. What kind of fire would it be, without them? Traditions need to be adhered to.
Mark and Anita are a lovely couple whose three boys were ever so cute and adorable back then. Mark had a lovely Belgian team, Barney and Clyde, and Anita had a quarter horse. The boys didn’t have a pony, but the whole family would go for wagon rides, and they had a tradition of going for their Christmas tree with the team. The little fellows may not have had a pony of their own, but they certainly looked the part. All three were incredibly precious in their western duds. From the cowboy hats perched on their heads, to the little boots on their feet, they were three, perfect little cowboys.
The night deepened to the darkest black as the time went by, yet there was no end to the party, not quite yet. Conversation flowed, and everyone was enjoying themselves. Lost in conversation, I barely noticed when the smallest of the boys went to his mother, and whispered in her ear. She answered with what appeared to be a bit of encouragement, while pointing towards the side of the garage, and I understood. Anita had convinced her little boy to go around to the side of our garage to relieve himself. Away he went, and conversation continued.
A couple of minutes later, here came the little guy, western belt undone, little jeans unzipped but grasped in his hands, and he was in a hurry. The reason for his wide eyes and concern? There was a wolf in the tree! As much as his mother did her best to convince him that there couldn’t be a wolf in the tree, he insisted that there was. When Anita and Mark appeared amused and a tad confused, hubby and I chuckled. There wasn’t a wolf in the tree, but their little guy wasn’t far off. Taking them to see, I pointed up at the tree that grew out of the dog kennel and leaned lightly atop the fence. There was Buster, my son’s Nova Scotia Duck Tolling retriever, smiling down with that big doggy smile of his. I could well imagine the tiny boy, standing there in the dark, pulling down his jeans, when he happened to look up and see that hairy, doggy face, white fangs probably glistening in the moonlight as he panted. No wonder, he ran for mom.
Everyone had a good chuckle over the wolf in the tree, and I chuckled as I wondered what the tiny boy would’ve thought, if Buster and his son Bubba, had both been in the tree.
“What kind of dog is that?” Mark curiously asked with a grin.
“Why,” I laughed, “a bird dog, of course.”
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