Tater Nation

October 24, 2011 by

 

Officially, officially.
This is Montana’s Honky Tonk Tater Tot.
Also officially, he is a little bit crazier than his sister Plumbelina was and some of us know how darn crazy darlin’ Plumbelina could be!  This just goes to prove, 
he’s not a Plum, he’s a Tater.  
Every moment I spend with him, I see flickers of Plum’s spirit and some of her expressions cross his face.  It makes me miss her even more but it makes me happy to have a tiny piece of her living on in this pup.

We’re very lucky he was available for us to claim.
We love him.
He’s healing our sad hearts.
He is tremendously welcome in our little family.
He’s going to be a hard working little bird dog
and my best friend.


We call him: 
Tater, Tater Nation, Taternator, Little Man Tate and 
Smallmungous Smoochie Love Beetle.

He says:  
How do you do?

Filed Under: german shorthaired pointer, honky tonk tater tot

Yellowstone

October 22, 2011 by
A small cabin on the edge of West Yellowstone.
Funny drinks.
Frosty mornings.
Nights filled with: wolf howl and elk bugle:
laughter and pranks.
Me in bed with the small one in my sleeping bag, curled about my neck or wound in a puppy circle between my knees.  
RW restless with his kinky-train-accident-back on a rustic bed frame.
The snores of our friends and family coming from the 
bunk beside us or 
the next room.
Rosie on the floor by the stove, sleeping in glorious, fire crackling shabbat shalom.
Cooking on a woodstove.
Early mornings.
Blue light.
Log cabin cozy cast iron:
Has anyone seen the oven mitt???
The potatoes are finished!
Can someone deal with the cheddar?


Dinner by candlelight.
Red wine.
The slow hunger of the fire in the stove.
That calm that comes with spaciousness.
Frost on the entire world.
Tall grass.
Golden sunrise.
Don’t-lick-the-truck-your-tongue-will-stick!
That broad back,
narrow waist,
swinging rhythm of wood cutting…boys, can I get some kindling?
Nope.
That’s not enough.

Boys in trucks and camouflage toting 30-06 rifles headed out for more elk hunting 
on the snow laced razorbacks of Idaho 
(a kiss good-bye, in the dark):
lodgepole pine,
3000ft vert (x4),
quakies turning orange and yellow under autumn sun,
wolf dens four feet deep in conglomerate rock,
grizzly bears hunkered down on narrow trails
shaking their blocky heads
and unafraid (take a wide path Jimmy, walk fast, don’t look back).

Yellowstone National Park
dressed in autumn gold
and the clear, rippling foil of running water in all directions.
The crackling of steam vents, the boiling mud, the turquoise pools of water burgeoning fresh from the earth’s crust.
 My girlfriends and I cruising through 
the space of the park.
Me, squeaking at every bison I saw,
counting the points on the bull elk.
Praying for wolves.
 The quiet murmur of Old Faithful–
the stand up column of white wet hot.
 The high places.
The closeness of God.
The thoughts I never spoke.
The speaking aloud.
 A small and eerie lake formed by earthquake.
A bag of candy.
Two strangers at a trail head with the freshly cut pelt of a yearling wolf — that coarse hair and intelligent face stone still in the afternoon light.
A little sadness in my soul.
A snowflake on my arm.
A full truck cab
and Honky Tonk Tater Tot 
snoozing sweet puppy chocolate velvet the entire way home.
________________
Yup.
That was West Yellowstone!
Filed Under: honky tonk tater tot, idaho, montana