Doolittle's Farm?

Our fifty-something acreage was not referred to as the Doolittle Farm but there was some special communication going on at times.

Pete and Kelly were included in some of my earliest childhood photos. Daddy could stand at the back door, call for Pete, give a brief instruction and that Collie could run to the far end of our property, herd grazing cows into a group and move them back to the barn for milking.  Kelly, a Cocker Spaniel, had a beautiful, deep red coat.  Cats by the dozens, too wild to pet, were in residence to keep the mouse and rat populations down. How the cats loved milking time!  Daddy often directed a few squirts of milk right at the cat's faces as he 'stripped' each teat of the cow's bag before moving on to the next Hereford. While one group of felines cleaned their faces and whiskers, savoring every drop, another group would line up at the open barn door in anticipation of being next to get that welcome treat.

My job, as a child, was to close the chicken coop door once the hens had roosted for the night. It wasn't silent in the barnyard after dark--cows chewing their cud, others in the yard getting comfortable, the occasional brief outburst, maybe a hoot from an owl. Crickets were very loud. Frogs joined in. Dogs barked at the rising moon.  I was used to the sounds as dusk became night but still I'd wait by the back door until the last second.  Then, gathering up the courage to do the task at hand, I eventually left the security of the back step, not looking this way or that, walking steadily past the watering trough, the barn and haystacks, the makeshift corrals for horses, and pigs now and then, straight towards the orchard and the hen house, working to keep a normal pace, trying to ignore or overcome any fear.  I had to shut the coop door, then turn the stick of wood nailed to the door frame that held the door shut. The minute that door was secure, I whirled around on one foot and ran as hard as I could all the way to the back door of the house, forgetting any attempt at being brave in the dark!

When I rode my trike, one of the chickens or perhaps it was a rooster, chased me, hopped up on my back and pecked me repeatedly on the back of my neck. I cried. Someone shooed the bird away. This happened several times until someone saw it happen, grabbed that bird who became chicken for dinner that night! Problem solved. Next day, I rode my trike, another bird chased me, hopped on my back and pecked away at my neck! More chicken for dinner, I suspect.

Dad didn't allow me around the horses, much.  Holding the reins of his work team, Pat and Mike, riding along side Daddy on the flat-bed wagon was about the extent of it.  With someone in the saddle, I had ridden behind on the pony's rump, along the lane to herd cows back to the barn, a lone string of electrified barbed wire touching my ankle each time the horse swished its hind end in that direction. One of my brothers came to take the water turn one day. I'd been playing in the sprinkler and was still wearing a swim suit and was barefoot. He hoisted me into the saddle, slapped his pony on the rear and off I went, ready or not. I rode the horse quite a while, carrying whatever was needed from field to field as my brother tended water. At day's end, I had saddle sores on my bare legs and the worst sunburn of my life on my shoulders and back. The horse seemed to know when we were finished in the field. She took off running for the barn, jumped a ditch, and never let up her galloping pace until she reached the watering trough and food!

I had a similar experience years later, as a newly engaged bride-to-be attending a South family weekender in Island Park. The groom-to-be must have said something about me growing up on a farm. A horse appeared. I was asked if I'd like to take a ride. If this was a prank, I couldn't let them get the best of me even though I had little riding experience.  I climbed into the saddle, trying to look graceful and appear like I knew what I was doing. I was barely seated, gripping that horse's belly with my knees, my feet in the stirrups, reins in my hands, when the horse took off like it had been shot out of a cannon, galloping across the fields, jumping a couple of ditches. Then just as quickly, it turned on a dime and raced back to where the ride had begun. I calmly climbed out of the saddle and so far as I know, those gathered around were left to think that I could actually ride a horse. In that race through the field, with me hanging on to the saddle horn for dear life, my back was to the family crowd. I was wearing a fringed faux leather jacket so they also couldn't see how much space there was between my butt and the saddle with each gallop!

Mickey was my black and white terrier. When Mother and I moved from the farm to downtown Weston, Mickey would not stay but instead, would return to the farm, repeatedly. Then he simply disappeared. After days of calling his name and getting no response, I came home from school one day to find Mickey's replacement--a parakeet! Smelly, dirty, noisy. A mighty poor replacement, I thought. Fortunately, they don't live long!

The Big Nickel advertised a free puppy, just what my son needed at the time, I thought. It was a stormy, starless evening when I drove out of town North towards the 'Villes'--Susanville, Janesville--looking for the address listed in the ad. Off the main road, it was muddy and slippery and very dark but finally, I came upon a trailer out in the middle of nowhere. I knocked. The door swung open. In the light, there stood a man--a character, really--right out of a scary movie. Instead of backing away, I went inside. There was the adorable pup we named Digit. When my neighbor saw the dog, he was sure there was something wrong with his hind legs. "Free or not, take it back before your kids get attached!" Attached? Too late! We were already attached to this ball of fur. A few days, a couple of weeks and Digit had run off some puppy fat so his back legs appeared normal and he walked just fine. The son of a papered Golden Retriever mother, Digit appeared to have features other than those common to Goldens so he hadn't been sold.   He didn't like it much when I vacuumed up his tail accidently but he loved it when I drove him through Wendy's for a treat--hamburger patties--after behaving at the vet's . Or Dairy Queen for an ice cream cone after his annual shots. He was dainty, this big dog with huge paws, licking the ice cream below the rim, then taking little bites from the cone. He also had a craving for an entire bag of Hershey's Chocolate Kisses, something that went undiscovered until the following spring when the snow melted exposing lots of colored foil littering areas of the back yard!

Before Digit joined the family, my daughter's friend gave her a tiny kitten as a birthday present. I was unprepared to have an animal in the house, particularly one so small that it had to be fed drops of milk off the end of a straw through the night for the first few. Given his beautiful color, we named the cat, Caramello, but rarely used his full name, unless he was in trouble! Digit and Carmel became fast friends, eating from the same bowl, keeping each other company, getting into trouble as a team. I came home from work one day to red blotches on the carpet. Once I knew both kids were okay, the detective in me figured out that the cat, who normally kept both feet on the ground, had jumped to the counter, pushed the roast I had defrosting there still wrapped in layers of butcher paper, to the edge. Digit retrieved it from the counter's edge and between them, they had ripped the paper off and feasted as the meat thawed, dragging the prize onto my once upon a time lovely wheat colored carpet. Said cat also jumped from floor to counter to refrigerator top where he licked all the chocolate frosting off a covered plate of donuts and helped himself, though neatly so, to my stash of chocolate originally destined to become trim for gingerbread and chocolate cottages. This sweet, old cat redeemed himself in his later years. When my mother passed, I made a quick trip to Weston for the funeral. At home again, I wasn't ready to return to work. I'd had no time to grieve. I rented a carpet scrubber and went to work, cleaning carpets.  I scrubbed for a time, then, overcome with memories and emotion, I sat to cry, then scrubbed some more. Carmel was watching my strange behavior. When I sat to cry again, he climbed into my lap and positioned himself until his nose rested under my chin. Then, as my tears fell, he wiped them away, each one, gently with one paw and then the other, nuzzling my chin with his nose and softly purring.

While I'm not a Doolittle, I have felt a sort of shared communication with animals I have known and loved.  Those times are a part of who I am.