And Dingo was his name O

There was a farmer had a dog,
And Dingo was his name-o.
D-I-N-G-O!
D-I-N-G-O!
D-I-N-G-O!
And Dingo was his name-O!

We were the classic McDonald’s farm with all the animals you would expect:  a coop full of chickens (lots of eggs to gather), three turkeys (only one year, turkeys are mean), pigs (stinky and dirty, yet delicious), one goat (very short lived endeavor, they're kind of stupid), a herd of cows (milking cows at 5 am, ew), a few horses (living out their remaining days), a few rabbits (bad idea), way too many cats (according to dad), and various dogs throughout the years.

I got a pony for my birthday one year.  She was strawberry blond with a white main and tail. I named her Lil-bit. She was a Shetland pony so just the right size for a little girl of 10. Turns out Shetland ponies are kind of mean.  I tried my best to show her love, but she just wouldn’t love me. She didn’t love anybody really.  Whenever I tried to ride her, she would rub up against the barbed wire fence to try and get me off. And Lil-bit, bit.  She’d swing her head back so fast and try to take a chunk out of my leg. I gave up after a year.

Rabbits are easy to love, right? They’re cuddly and soft and so sweet to nuzzle up against your face. Mine was snow white and indeed very cuddly and soft to hold.  She let me carry her around and nuzzle her in my shirt.  Having her soft fur up against my skin was heaven.  She had babies and I was just thrilled. More soft little critters to give my love to. Shockingly, I found out, too late, that some rabbit mommies are known to eat their young. I got one of those. So the next time she got pregnant I paid very close attention to when the babies would be born.  I rescued them and put them in a nice, warm place right behind the wood stove.  Well, turns out, not such a good place for them when the caregiver falls asleep and the stove is really roaring.  They cooked.  Bright pink on one side and soft white on the other. Oops. 

I decided it was best if I tried not to love anything, it’s dangerous. But, one harsh winter day a cow delivered a calf. It's unusual for a calf to be born mid-winter, most calves are born in the spring.  Dad brought the calf into the living room to keep from freezing until he could get a spot set up in the barn with a warming lamp.  I thought having a calf in the house was the neatest thing in the world.  I could feed it and pet it and make it my own. I thought maybe it could sleep in my room by my bed.  Meanwhile mom and dad made a makeshift corral for her out of the couch and some other furniture, put down some old blankets, and voilà, a pen for the calf. It was so fun having this little baby right inside my house. She was soooo adorable, small, soft, and frightened.  I would pet her and soothe her trying to make her feel at home. Until she peed.  Oh my gosh, baby calves have a lot of pee. I swear it was a gallon’s worth filling up all those blankets and then creeping out all over the living room floor. That’s not sleeping in my room. Didn’t take dad long to have the pen ready, much to the delight of mom because she was the one cleaning up all that pee.  

Of all the critters on our farm the one I loved the most was Dingo.  He came up to my knees, had beautiful white fur that felt like silk when I stroked it, and he had a perpetual smile on his sweet face. He was as happy as could be because he loved his farm and his family, but he loved me most.  I was sure of it because he followed me everywhere I went. He laid next to me and kept me warm when I slept outside, trotted along with me when I went to get the mail, trudged all over the hill with me, kept me company when I visited the neighbor, and was so happy when I’d get home from school that he’d come running down the lane to greet me.  I don’t know where we got him; he just showed up one day. Or, maybe dad picked him up somewhere and brought him home to me.  It didn’t matter. I finally had something to love me and return my love, not try to get rid of me by rubbing up against barbed wire, or freaking me out entirely by eating her young, or being completely gross by peeing a river all over the floor. Just a simple, mutual, adoring love for each other.

There was a little girl who had a dog and Dingo was his name O.

Over the river and ........ well you know the rest.

I’m headed to grandmas'. It’s a two mile walk, but I don’t care.  I love, love, love walking the train tracks.  My chores were done early so I asked if I could spend the rest of the day helping grandma in her garden, or picking raspberries, or maybe playing cribbage with grandpa, or whatever. Dad says, “Sure, I’ll come get you after dinner.” 

I am out the door like a shot.

 The lane is sooooooooo long. I swear it’s a mile.  I’ve got a good stride going and then I hear it,

“Aaannnddeeeeee.” 

Damn! “What did I forget?”  Dad must have found something else for me to do.


He yells again, “Aaannndddeee,”

I have no choice; I have to go back. So, I turn around and head back to the house at a, much, much slower pace.  I walk through the door and see dad with that silly, crooked grin on his face and I know what's coming.  Damn it.  I fall for it every time. Well really, I have no choice. I can’t ignore him, he’s my daddy. 

“How far would you have been if I hadn’t stopped you?”

 “Dad!” 

“Love you honey, have a good time.”

“You’re killin’ me dad.” I shoot him back his silly grin and tell him, “Love you too!”

Back out the door and down the lane.  My pace is faster than before to make a clean get away. As I get close to the point he called me back, I turn to see if he’s gonna do it again because he has before, many times.  I wait for it..............but not this time.  He thinks he’s so damn funny.

I smile and pick up my pace. 


He kinda is.

Hay!

It’s 6:00 am.  Sun’s shining through by bedroom window and dad is in the kitchen makin' coffee.  I know I’m supposed to get up, but I just want five more minutes in my comfy bed.  He gives me ten. Breakfast is puffed wheat cereal with the allotted two spoonfuls of sugar.  No coffee for this 12 year old.  My older brothers are up too and we head out to the fields after we're done with our puffed wheat that actually no amount of sugar can help.  It’s cold, so we’re all dressed with long sleeved flannel shirts, jeans, and heavy shoes.  

Dad starts up the 1949, 2-ton, Dodge flatbed, six cylinder truck with the hay elevator on the side.  He gets her running smooth and I schootch into the driver’s seat.  Dad tells us where to start and sends us out to the field for the days work. We start loading the truck with the bales. They average 60-70 pounds each, so I get to drive while the boys load.  They take turns walking the field lining the bales up with the elevator while the other stacks them on the flatbed.  The sun heats up and after a few rotations we take a short break to cool ourselves with some home-brewed, ice cold, sun tea.  When we’re loaded, we head to the hay barn to put it up.  We’ve stacked enough on the first floor that it’s time to use the 'big' elevator to send 'em up to the second floor. 

A short stop for lunch of roast beef sandwiches with homemade bread and butter. No mayo, no mustard, just butter. I hated those dry sandwiches, but dad said there wasn't no need for fancy stuff. 

Back to it.  Storm's a comin' and we are lucky to get the last load in before rain starts washing the sweat off our bodies.  We leave the truck at the barn and walk to the house with a strand of hay in our mouths to chew on. It’s sweet.