Ann Is In The Doghouse. Literally.

Ann is in the doghouse. Ann being the black shepherd who stands right outside the living room window and barks her fool head off in no particular cadence for no particular reason at 5:30 in the morning when Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is trying to drift off to dreamland with a short recliner nap.

I'm not proud of it, but I must admit that I went out and whacked her on the butt yesterday morning. It was the last resort. She did not respond to the shouts through the wall of "Bad dog!" Or "Shut up!" The whack worked for about 10 minutes. I think that dog has short-term memory issues.

When I got home from school, my sweet, sweet Juno came around the porch to greet me. Ann is sometimes with her, but this time was conspicuously absent. I knew better than to think Ann was holding a grudge. Short-term memory, long-term memory...let's face it. That dog is just not very bright. No way would she give me the cold shoulder for a week like Tank the beagle.

I told Juno the lovefest was over, and went back to get my purse and water cup out of T-Hoe. As I passed by Juno's house, I said, "I've got a treat for you! I'll bring you some leftover chicken, and some bones. Be right back." That's because I'm sure Juno has quite an extensive vocabulary. She's brilliant like that. Some might say that eggs are her brain food, but I think she's simply smart because she had to find a way to survive my mom's starvation tactics when she was dumped there as a tiny pup. Oh, and I'm sure my tender loving care influenced her.

So...I got a plate of chicken tenders and gas station chicken bones and opened the kitchen door. I heard a thumping in Juno's house. I saw a dark nose, and a pair of eyes. Wait a minute! Those were muddy brown eyes. Not hazel. There was a weasel in the henhouse, as Mother Abigail might have said to Nick Andros if he could hear. Ann had taken over my sweet, sweet Juno's house when Juno came to greet me.

That wasn't happening on my watch. I called to Juno. Where, oh where, had my little dog gone? It was cold last evening. Perhaps she was in Ann's house on the end of the porch. Or headed to the BARn lean-to to make a nest in the hay bales with the goats. Ann loves food. She came out, hopeful. It never crossed her mind that twelve hours earlier, she had been Bad Dog. She wagged her strong tail that usually beats our legs to a pulp. Crept closer to my hand holding the plate. I gave her a small crumb of tender. The littlest one.

Here came Juno! She looked at me and ran into her house. Possession is 100 percent of the law around here. I stepped over and gave her the giant tender left over from The Pony's stomach-dwarfing eyes. Ann started to whine. I tossed a smidgen of fowl her way. Juno ran to get it. "No, Juno! That's for Ann. Get back in your house!" I distracted Ann by flinging about three chicken rib bones across to the Weber grill area. "Here, Juno." I put all the chicken tenders in her house. She ran in. I also dumped in a thigh bone and some breast cartilage.

Ann was shut out. Sweet justice for my sweet, sweet Juno.