Emma, the Dog
Emma the dog is a Great Dane/Louisiana Catahoula mix, weighing in around 110 pounds, or maybe 120; I have never tried to pick her up. Most folks are not fans of Emma because, well, she barks a lot and her face is about level with a car window, so opening that vehicle door requires a great deal of courage and resolve.
|I'm not doin' nothin'...|
I liken it to the scene in “Jurassic Park,” when the face of that tyrannosaurus rex appears in the back windshield, with those teeth, and the occupants inside simply freeze. When you show up here on-farm, sometimes your only hope is that either HeadSodBuster or BossLady will come out and tell Emma to chill out.
The thing is, as any dog person knows, Emma is just a big softie who happens to look and sound scary. OK, terrifying. Is that her fault? It’s hard for that heart of gold to shine forth, when she is on duty, even if the inevitable result is that people fear for their lives.
Most folks instinctively reach out a hand, as if to say, “Nice doggie! Here, take a sniff and see that there is nothing to worry about me, except my own palpable fear.” Emma immediately reacts as if saying, “Why are you sticking out your hand out at me? Why aren’t you ignoring me, at which time I will stop barking, and go back to napping?”
I say, “How can you fear a dog that has the most endearing trait of racing past me, and in doing so, has the grace and agility to sandwich in those formidable teeth of hers [Gulp…] one of my wrists, in its entirety, as she flashes by, without leaving so much as a slobber on my skin?”
As light as a butterfly, with the capacity to sting like a wild boar.
That’s our Emma, who first arrived as a pup and already was as big as Savannah Mae, our Catahoula that we ended up sending to a farm in Washington State, because Savannah Mae had the most disturbing habit of killing our chickens.
Funny how that works because Emma had that problem early on, until one of her victims was fastened to her collar for three days. She figured it out.
Something else she has figured out, is that if she can restrain herself and not bark, she is welcome in my house, at night, when HeadSodBuster and BossLady are not on the mountain. Since we feed her when they are gone, and we already have Dozer and Clancy here, it is no big deal.
Emma is so appreciative, she never makes a sound, and will express her gratitude, by lying at my feet as I type, and placing her head on one of my sandaled feet. Again, being a dog person myself, and knowing how hyper Emma can be, this is a cool development.
|Uh, yeah. Clancy, feeling pertty comfy, I'd say|
When we are fortunate enough to have SmallBoy’s dog Large Marge here too, that makes four dogs in the house at once, and one feisty Toby the cat, who enjoys tormenting Margie endlessly. Bottom line is that Margie is a guest, and Toby can be a pest, and of the two, the Tobester will get the bootsky every time.
Emma is a farm dog, and as such, lacks some of the refinement of say, Dozer, but she has come a long way. Since I have never been a horse person, she is the biggest critter I have ever had this close of a friendship with, and I like it a lot.
|Large Marge, "Party-Hearty-Margie"|
It’s the same feeling I had when I got to know Charlie, BenJamMan and Harley’s German Shepherd, who recently and unexpectedly went to where all good dogs go when they leave this world. She will never be forgotten.
Emma is a good dog and one who has taken her place in my heart, alongside a now-sizable list of other dogs, who have occupied a similar niche in my soul.
Niche? My dog niche is more like a gymnasium.