Behind the Scenes, Ollie is a Happy Loving Daddy.

Once I knew Bonita—I call her Nita—was expecting, it made my unfortunate predicament more painful. This would be my last litter, so to speak. Of course, you might be asking why I’m only thinking of myself. Well, that’s because James and Ron were busy worrying themselves sick over what might happen to Nita when her time came to deliver. I figured she’d be fine, but given her age, the human contingent was not so sure.

(Bonita, during a moment of solitude, while expecting.)

As I healed, Nita grew larger. X-rays showed there were at least seven puppies to be expected. No one, and I mean not a single solitary soul, shared any of this with me. There was nowhere James went I didn’t go during these weeks, but never did he provide an update. I will admit James did disappear from time-to-time, during which—or so I have found out—he kept in contact with Nita’s human family.


Somewhere between eight and ten weeks after Nita and I became intimately acquainted, the painful delivery of puppies began. James had been anxiously waiting for the call which finally came. He offered to help, but someone else was already pitching in as a midwife. Too many people at the deliveries would not be healthy for Nita. Still, James received a call after every successful puppy was gingerly brought into this world.

James has asked me not to go into details about what happened, but to give a view from thirty thousand feet. I’ve never been that high, but I’ll try. Nita delivered four healthy babies. She was rushed to the animal hospital in Rutland where she was operated on to remove three little ones that didn’t make it. James, Ron, and I cried; they for Nita and her human family, me for my sweetheart and lost offspring.

After many tense hours, we were relieved to hear that Nita was fine, as were the four puppies who survived. I got a new chew toy that looked like a cigar, and James and Ron had a drink. It was a proud feeling, knowing I had four babies. I couldn’t wait to see them.

(Bonita, the exceptional Mom, and two of her babies.)

However, they wouldn’t let me see them for weeks. I don’t know why that is, but while James, Ron, and friends were allowed to cuddle with the babies, they required me to stay home, alone. Such is the fate for an unexpected Sire.



(James cuddling one of the puppies.)


They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. I can’t think of anything more truthful. As I pined away to see my offspring, my heart enlarged to the point of bursting. So much love flowed through the ventricles, pumping a grander amount each beat. Although I had yet to lay eyes on my little ones, I was madly in love with them.

Speaking of love, James wrote a poem about butterflies being in love. It has a message we might all find appealing. I hope you enjoy reading it.


My dog, Trek, sleeps soundly and I work
away diligently in my study
while outside a vibrantly sunny,
blue-bird day lengthens along.

As a couple I know breeze into my mind it
causes me to reflect on their
recent erratic behavior.

Distracting me as I look out my window
are two Monarch butterflies in love,
mounting as one upon an updraft
—fluttering, rotating, spinning, gyrating—
like an uncontrollable miniature
hot air balloon, then
they are out of sight.

While trying to remember where I
misplaced my reflection, these same two butterflies
suddenly reappear, one chasing the other
as they descend in circles back to the ground,
only to again disappear from view
into the grasses for, I would suspect, a restful repast.

Yes, these butterflies, like the couple who diverted
my thoughts, have their ups and downs
all the while dazzlingly inspiring one another.

Oh, many are the pleasures of Vermont.

That poem is special—at least to me it is. How James can think about love and the ups and downs of relationships—and I’ve had my share, believe me—while watching butterflies flit around out his window is amazing. He’s so creative. (Score! A treat.)

Back to my little ones, I waited patiently until I could welcome them into the world. Okay, so there were days I forgot about them as the weeks became months. Besides, I didn’t get to meet all of them at once.

Come back in two weeks and find out which one I met first. Or, I might talk about the one I met second, or third. I’ll decide between now and then.

Until then, please scroll down and leave me a comment, letting me know what you think of my blog and James’ poems. I always like to hear from you, so please jot me a quick note about this or anything else that’s on your mind.

Until next time,
Sir Oliver of Skygate Farm (you can call me Ollie)


“Butterflies in Love” printed with permission, originally published in Pleasures & Season of Vermont, © James Stack 2013
Paw Prints courtesy of
All photos © James Stack 2018 unless otherwise indicated

Ollie’s Love Confessions – Luck Behind the Scenes.

You may recall that I mentioned how lucky I got at Saddle Mountain Kennel in my previous post. Well, I did mention the lady’s name, Bonita, which, perhaps, I should not have. But the damage is done – in more ways than one.

Bonita and I met when I was less than four-months-old. She wasn’t at all interested in me due to my age. I wanted to play nonstop, but she brushed me off early in our relationship. Nita, as she is known by those who love her, is a lovely yellow lab and lives in the town next to where we live. She’s one of three companions for two generous people who are acquaintances of James and Ron – you could call us friends.

As I grew older, my friendship with Nita flourished. I will admit she is not easy to get to know, but once she lets you in, you are dedicated friends for life – BFFs. You might remember that I loved going to this particular kennel. G, the owner, gave me free range of her house and yard. Only a select few of us possessed that privilege. Nita was one of the chosen along with me.

It was during April 2014, I’m eleven-months-old, and James and Ron are in New York City visiting friends and going to the theatre and museums. Nita is nine years old, and her companions are also out of town. We two canines are at Saddle Mountain together, hanging out with our friends and having the run of the place without much supervision since we are well trained and sociable with one another.

Nita and I are not what is colloquially referred to as “fixed.” Oh, and she is in heat. I’m approximately fifteen and Nita is north of fifty-five in human years. A randy teenager and a cougar are how James describes us. One thing led to another with the two of us having fun beyond our wildest imaginings.

Jump ahead four weeks and James receives a call from Nita’s female companion. She wants to know two things: 1) was I at Saddle Mountain at the same time as Nita during April, and, if so, 2) am I still “in one piece.” After James affirmatively answers both questions, she tells him Nita is pregnant at an elderly age with her first litter, and she believes I am the culprit – so to speak.

Now James becomes concerned for Nita’s health and asks if she will go full term or the alternative. He is told there is no question but that she will definitely go full term. Within days the entire town in which Nita lives knew about our tête-à-tête. Of course, no one has yet to inform me that I’m going to be a father. James and Ron keep it a secret from me for some unknown reason.


(How Nita saw Ollie, looking older than his age.)


And so the anxious awaiting of the delivery of puppies begins. I say anxious because no one knows if Nita will be able to survive their births. Still, I know nothing about birthing babies.

Speaking of babies, James wrote a poem about baby birds I think is appropriate to share with you. We hope you like it.


While Vermont’s various birds build
their sundry nests, my dog,
Trek, and I welcome the spring
with invigorated prepping of
our yard and garden – me with spade
and Trek with paw.

Three blue-as-the-sky robin’s eggs

crack, the babies grow, and
take an early flight, ending up
hip-a-de-hopping around the yard.
Four days these three go from
place-to-place scattering like
dandelion seeds until there are two:
One last seen on the window
ledge feeding as I watch
engrossed in the love shown by the
parents. The other finally reaches
the top of the picnic table
which is its last spot.
Fly away little robins.

The ducklings count to five as they

swim around the pond, with
some displaying greater independence; ever so
tiny but making waves like speed boats, they
rush to their mother as we approach. From
a distance they are quite brave, gradually
moving further and further afar
with their parents never far afield.
Then one day there are none.

Two baby barn swallows perch on a

spruce limb while their parents circle and
circle, grabbing food, and delivering it to
their waiting mouths. Soon they separate,
yet still close to one another with
each taking a turn. I look away, and when I have
an opportunity to glance back
they are gone.

How sustaining the world we live in. While
Trek and I care for the land, the birds
care and nurture their young until
they fly the coop, and we all renew the cycle.

Such are the pleasures delivered
by Vermont’s baby birds.

While James loves the cycle of life, I no longer enjoy that benefit. Why, you might ask. Because shortly after James received the call from Nita’s female companion, he called the vet and made an appointment for me to be neutered. That is the technical term for having my … masculinity removed.

The next week was a holy hell. James and Ron believed I didn’t know what they had done, but, oh, no. I knew damn well what happened to me. It hurt like hell and damaged my pride. [Okay, this is James. Enough about this. Let’s move away from this topic, shall we?] Well, you get the picture though it’s not a pretty one.

Suffice it to say the anxious waiting continued while I suffered. During the second week after my manhood disappeared, the vet removed the stitches. While we were in the vet’s office, I overheard talk about Nita expecting babies. I knew instantly it was my Nita they were discussing, and the babies were, drum roll please, MINE!

While we are on the topic of babies, come back in two weeks and read about “Puppy Love.” This is truly how I got lucky, thanks to Nita. Believe it or not, James and Ron, in turn, received luck.

Between now and then, feel free to scroll down and leave me a comment. Let me know what you think of my blog and James’ poems. I always like to hear from you, so please leave me a note about this or anything else that’s on your mind.

Until next time,
Sir Oliver of Skygate Farm (you can call me Ollie)


“Baby Birds” printed with permission, originally published inPleasures & Season of Vermont, © James Stack 2013
Paw Prints courtesy of
All photos © James Stack 2018 unless otherwise indicated

The Good, Bad, and Ugly Truth About Dog Kennels.

Should you not have taken notice of my interest in both humans and other canines, let me make it perfectly clear that I love both, especially the female of either species. It should be further noted that I’ll ignore people when other dogs are around. Why – you might ask? Because other dogs will play with me while folks who visit only want to say, “Hi,” and then for me to leave them alone. What fun is that?


Version 2
(Ollie dearly loves playing with other dogs.)


As such, James and Ron leave me in a kennel when they go on holiday or travel for business. I’ve begged them to do this. Otherwise, I’ll be deprived of the joy I receive from playing with other pooches. James particularly resents leaving me there, but he’s a good Daddy and does as I request. In truth, it is the only thing for which I plead. As you might remember, I never solicit food.

I’ve spent time at several kennels in the past four and a quarter years. The first one was my favorite, the second one was where I got sick each time I stayed there, the third was where I experienced an unpleasant occurrence, and the fourth is where I’ve gone for the last two years, although it’s not perfect.

Saddle Mountain was my preferred home away from home. The owner is an elderly woman—I’ll call her G—who knows all there is to know about dogs. She required that James and I be interviewed before she would let me stay there. G was kind to me. So much so that she let me stay in her house—and not in a crate—while I was there. I spent a whole month with her while James and Ron were in France. At the time I was one and a quarter years. Unfortunately, that lengthy stay was to be my last time there.

During my final visit to Saddle Mountain, there was an electrical fire. We don’t know if any of my canine friends or myself had any lung damage, as G’s son refused to let the veterinarian examine those of us who were boarding at the time. Long story short, it was G’s son who caused a split between James and that kennel, meaning I’m no longer allowed to go there. I miss G and my friends who still go there.

The second kennel James took me to is called Wunderland. I enjoyed going there because there were so many new friends to play with. Some old friends from the previous kennel showed up there as well. However, the first time I went there I came home with kennel cough even though I get a Bordetella shot every six months. At least that’s what the owner of the kennel told James, although he never heard me cough. Still, to be safe we paid a visit to the vet for some medication.

The second time, after extensive begging to be taken back there, I came home with conjunctivitis. Anyone can catch contagious diseases in such close quarters as kennels. After another visit to the vet, it was a drop in both eyes twice a day for seven days. Nonetheless, when I came home with pneumonia, well, that was the third strike. I haven’t been back since. The good news is that my number of friends has grown exponentially now that I’ve been multiple times to two separate kennels.

The number of my friends expanded even further when James took me to Wagmore. I got to go there twice a week for what they call daycare. I arrived at 8:00 am, and James picked me up at 5:00 pm. This was a terrific place. I got to jump on overstuffed furniture and play most of the day. Oh, and I initially thought the best part was when we were left alone during the day—no one watched us when the owner went into the office. We loved being able to play unsupervised.

Well, that is until Bruno (That’s not his real name, but suffice it to say it is apropos.) attacked me. That’s right. The day after the assault, James took me to be groomed. There was matted blood under my neck where I’d bled extensively, and four teeth wounds on either side of my jugular—boy, was I lucky. James showed these puncture marks to the owner who denied it happened on his watch. Well, he wasn’t watching. Suffice it to say, I no longer go back there. Oh, and I now have this weird thing about dogs that look like Bruno.

This brings us to the fourth place: Willow Farm. This place is huge. There are so many dogs there—twice as many as the other places I’ve stayed. Since I’ve been going there, I’ve come home with one hot spot on my right front paw from swimming in their pool (Yes, they have a wading pool.) because they never dry my hair when I get wet. (As an Old English Sheepdog, I have hair.) I also come home, as James likes to say, filthy dirty. But I don’t mind getting grimy since it means I get to take a shower with James.

Still, there is the fact that I get bored while I’m there since I spend most of the time in a crate. And when I get bored, well, I lick myself, especially above my knee on my right foot. When I come home with a self-inflicted sore, I have to wear “the cone of shame.” That’s an Elizabethan collar. Now, when I go to Willow, I wear the collar the entire time I’m left in the crate, but they do take it off when I go out to play. While this is not ideal, it is how I currently spend my time when James and Ron go away.

There are two alternative kennels James is considering. One is a new place in Chester called Gussie’s Place. It recently opened, so James is waiting to see what people have to say before jumping into the deep end head first. The second option is for me to either stay with his friends or they come to stay here at Skygate Farm. I’ve let James know I much prefer the first option since it would mean I’d get to play with other dogs. The second choice might, if the friends have a canine, allow me to play with at least one other companion.

Playing with friends is one of my favorite in the whole wide world. However, playing with wild animals, well, not so much fun as my old BFF found out. James wrote about it in this poem. We thought you might enjoy reading it.


While an expansive feast
for our expectant guests
succulently steeps
the twilight ascends promptly
like a bedspread relaxing
into a feathered mattress. An oversized
buttery orb scales the distant hills
from underneath the
mantle, with an accompanying
evening breeze
wafting through our windows
as if a tonic.

Out the window, I entertain
my agitated dog,
using first one paw,
then the other,
to claw at his face which is,
pierced with porcupine quills.
While Native Americans
used these quills to make ornaments,
Trek is not bejeweled
but frightened with whiskers on end.

Solitary rodents,
porcupines feed on vegetation
and tree bark,
so Trek was not
the porcupine’s intended dinner;
but Trek must have thought the porcupine looked
like a tasty morsel of licorice sticks.

These were porcupette quills,
some no more than an
in length, designed to release when they
come in
contact with another animal.
They have barbs which
force the quill to work its way inside,
becoming lethal
when piercing
a major organ.

Trek encroached
on the porcupine’s territory,
and certainly heard
the porcupette’s shrill screeches,
whines, groans, and unfriendly chatter.
Now we
were to infringe on our
vet’s evening with 40 more quills
needing removal
after the 15
we extracted
from his cheeks and lips.
Trek would not
let us intrude inside his mouth.

Upon our belated homecoming
we delightfully discover
that our vacationing acquaintances
have pleasantly established
themselves after savoring their
salacious supper.
These valued friends are not
but are graciously welcome.

It’s most agreeable
to acknowledge
that we possess such
familiar visitors aware that they
may disembark and depart at their leisure,
as well as at ours.
If only
Trek’s visitations in the woods
were as welcome.

We find
such unexpected pleasures
in Vermont
prodded on by porcupines.


(Visual from


Speaking of animals with quills, Ron and I saw one of these critters the other night. Yes, indeed, we did. Wouldn’t you know, Ron saw it first and started leading me back home, but movement out of the corner of my eye caused me to look, and the creature was nearly half my size. That’s right—half my size with its quills raised in defense. I have Ron to thank for my not being quilled like Trek because I most certainly would have gone after it. Little did I know it was the rear of the beast that was turned our way.

Well, so much for porcupines and so much for kennels. Oh, yeah. That reminds me. Come back in two weeks and find out how truly lucky I got at that first kennel. I know you’ll like this story.

Until then, please scroll down and leave me a comment, letting me know what you think of my blog and James’ poems. I always like to hear from you, so please jot me a quick note about this or anything else that’s on your mind.

Until next time,
Sir Oliver of Skygate Farm (you can call me Ollie)



“Porcupine” printed with permission, originally published in Pleasures & Season of Vermont, © James Stack 2013
Paw Prints courtesy of
All photos © James Stack 2018 unless otherwise indicated

Lesson 1 Exclusive: New Revealing Secrets on the Command to Sit.

Okay, so you noticed, I put lesson two before lesson one. There’s a method to my madness – no, I’m not mad. That’s an expression I heard a human, who will remain nameless, say.

Lesson one is always the command to sit. Apparently, it’s the easiest one for humans to master. All they have to do is hold a pleasant delight before our noses with said treat in their fingers which point to the sky looking like an unopened lotus flower. At least that’s what James’ hand looks like when he wants me to sit.


Version 2
(Ollie in a perfect sit position waiting for his reward.)


We dogs already know how to sit. We’ve been doing it since we were several weeks old. During those first few weeks, of course, all we do is lie around and crawl as best we can. Once we’re able to stand on our four feet, we find we can also sit, which is almost as pleasant as lying around.

In the obedience class James took me to, he was taught how to correctly hold his hand, where to place the delectable, and to move both his hand and the reward slowly towards my nose so that I backed up slightly and then sat. The other humans in the class were also being taught this. We canines got a good giggle out of how challenging it was for some of them to get it right.

Once they figured we had sitting down pat, they went on to ask us to lie down. They were taught to do this trick by refusing to give us the treat once we sat, move their hands down to the ground, leading our noses such that we were forced to get completely on the ground before being rewarded. Now you’d think “down” was the second command, but in actuality, it goes hand-in-hand with sit, so it’s part of lesson one.


(The perfect lotus hand position when using the sit command.)


Repeating this over and over made me feel like a yo-yo. Up, down, up, down, over and over. Which reminds me. James wrote a poem about hummingbirds that had my BFF Trek’s head going left, right, left – not exactly like a yo-yo, but you get the drift. I asked James to share it with you. Here it is for your reading pleasure.


                                                                                                   is the
                                                            poppies bloom;
                                                   and when a recurring whirl
                                  causes my dog, Trek’s, ears to twitch, and my
                           head to twist towards the trill. Floating fixed, staring
                      sideways, saluting us throughout this temperate term – we
                          smile a warm welcome – our hummers have returned.

                                                by golden
                                                                 emerald temples
                                                                                               and jade
                                               crowns with dark notched tails,
                                          our resident male sports a distinctive
                                        crimson throat tipped by an ebony chin.
                                      Accurate angels of sunbeams polishing his
                                                    neck radiate radiant rubies.

                                   The flora’s scarlet color attracts his attention,
                           yet the minuscule quantity of sugary nectar is what he
                                 requires, hovering at 70 wing whisks a second:
                                                          A tremendous force
                                                              by a tiny frame
                                                          for such trivial fare.

                                  Our solitary hummer vigorously defends the
                        blossoms within his boundary. Trek’s head swings left,
                            right, left, while our hummer hounds intruders. A
                            valiant Knight of the Roundtable, his chase chatter
                                          saturates the air as he jousts with his
                             extended bill, his clashes like the crash of javelins.

                              Akin to our heroic hummers, Vermonters always
                               answer the call to protect our homeland. We are
                             proud of those who respond, and pay tribute to the
                                             ones who never return, unlike the
                                           poppies – and hummers – each May.

                                                       Such are the honorable
                                                             pleasures of our
                                                 hummers’ return to Vermont.

These tiny birds with their wings beating so quickly are amazing. I have to admit that they awe me. Here I was complaining – well, not really complaining, mind you – about going up and down like a yo-yo when these miniature birds outpace me by a mile.

I got off track there. Sorry about that, but I love James’ poems. (Score! A treat.)

You might like to know why I put lesson two first. I thought it might be obvious – because it was about my favorite treat – liverwurst. Something of which I’m now deprived for reasons I will not discuss.

Suffice it to say that James mastered this combined sit/down lesson quite well. I was so proud of him. It appears that he already had practice lesson one with Trek. I’m not his first trip to the rodeo – so to speak.

Come back in two weeks and hear about the different kennels I’ve been lucky enough to visit while James and Ron are away. Of course, James and Ron may not think I’ve been so lucky. You’ll find out why when you read my next post.

Between now and then, feel free to scroll down and leave me a comment. Let me know what you think of my blog and James’ poems. I always like to hear from you, so please leave me a note about this or anything else that’s on your mind.

Until next time,
Sir Oliver of Skygate Farm (you can call me Ollie)


“Hummingbirds” printed with permission, originally published in Pleasures & Season of Vermont, © James Stack 2013
Paw Prints courtesy of
All photos © James Stack 2018 unless otherwise indicated

Lesson 2 Exclusive: New, Revealing Secrets on the Command to Come.

As an Old English Sheepdog, I don’t stray too far from my pack, that is, James and Ron. They don’t need to put me on a leash when we go out walking or hiking in the woods. Sure, the occasional scent will grab my attention, but if either of them is out of my sight, I backtrack to find them.

Because of this, I had a hard time understanding why they spent hours trying to teach me to come to them. They refer to it as the command “come.” As you may have read two weeks ago, I’m not enamored with dog food. They discovered this rapidly. Once I understood what they meant when they yelled out “come,” I went running to them. What would they reward me with? Dog food. I was quickly trained not to come to them when they commanded me to do so.


(Ollie ignoring the command to come since the reward is dog food.)


Then a day arrived when James and I took a ride to the market. While I obediently stayed in the car, James went inside and bought liverwurst. Once I smelled it after he got back in the car, I was hooked. He could ask me to do anything, and I would do it so long as I was rewarded with a sliver of liverwurst: A bit of heaven on earth.

When James and Ron would call out to me, I’d beat a trail to them. They would stand about three hundred feet apart, and I would run from one to the other for that slice of the sweet life. Of course, they also considered it a good form of exercise for me, but I didn’t care. I would have made a dirt path between them if I could have had liverwurst all day.


(Ollie becoming blurred from running as fast as he can for a slice of liverwurst.)


Wouldn’t you know it? A day arrived when neither of them would use the sweet smell of liver again. I won’t go into detail, but suffice it to say that the divine aroma lingered long after and overcame any other disgusting stink. Yeah, I think you might have gotten it. Enough said.

Maybe they should have tried bacon bits, or chicken, or beef tips. Something that didn’t leave a residual odor you know where. Like I said, dog food doesn’t interest me, even if made with those ingredients, or even with lamb. It simply is not a good training tool for dogs like me. However, canines that relish their food will enjoy it being used as a tool for teaching.

Speaking of sustenance to be relished, James and Ron love Vermont’s maple sugar. They put it on, what seems like to me, everything, especially during the winter. You name it, pancakes, waffles, bacon and eggs, oatmeal, fruit, roasted vegetables, and much more. James even makes cookies with a maple sugar. Because of this, I thought the poem James wrote about this delightful flavor would be appropriate for this week’s post. Without further ado, here is that poem for your reading pleasure.

                                                               MAPLE SUGAR

                         Late winter’s tepid days and freezing evenings spawn the
                            sap’s ascent from maple trees continuing a cycle from
                                     ground to table – from yesteryear to today –
                                           a journey of toil and time and delight.

                                    Eastern Woodland Indians scored trunks and
                                             trapped sap in hollowed logs; early
                                     tintypes exemplify expansion with wooden
                                 buckets and tanks on toboggans; more recently
                          metal pails appeared – rusted ones my dog, Trek, and I
                                                  discover while wandering in a
                                                         grove of wolf maples.

                                Plastic tubing like drunken spider patterns appear
                           today within the sugarbush. Hoses hand humid fluid to
                                     electrified vessels consecutively conveyed to
                                                     evaporators for boiling. The
                                       result: thick, sweet essence, perfect for our
                                  visiting friends’ breakfast of flavored bacon and
                                          syrup smothered pancakes, while Trek’s
                                            company receives maple tasting treats.

                                          Early Colonial commerce produced sugar
                              products. Freed from foreign sweets helped herald our
                              independence. We stand proud that the sweat of slaves
                                                     never stained our maple sugar.

                              Albeit small, sugaring played a part in our freedom, and
                                represents Vermonters’ taste for a host of freedoms.

                                            Such are winter’s maple sugar pleasures.

Although I’m never given any of the real syrup, I have had some treats flavored with the sugar. I like it, but what I like better is when the winter days get warmer and the maple sap begins to flow. That’s when maple sugar icicles will form overnight and begin dripping onto the ground during the warmth of the day. Not only do I like to lick where the drops have fallen, but sometimes I get lucky and the icicle will break and crash to the ground where I’ll devour it. Now those are the pleasures I get from winter’s maple sugar.


(A maple tree sugared icicles during the bleak winter.)


That reminds me. I heard tell of how Ron also loves to eat liver, but James doesn’t. Whenever he hears about how Ron would like to go out to dinner where they serve liver, James says, “Yuck!” Well, Ron and I have more in common than one might think – not only do we both love liver, we both love James. (Score! Finally, a treat after how many weeks?)

Come back in two weeks and hear about lesson number one – the command to sit. I’ll let you in on a secret – it was an easy command to follow. Another secret is that James had experience with this one.

Between now and then, feel free to scroll down and leave me a comment. Let me know what you think of my blog and James’ poems. I always like to hear from you, so please leave me a note about this or anything else that’s on your mind.

Until next time,
Sir Oliver of Skygate Farm (you can call me Ollie)


“Maple Sugar” printed with permission, originally published in Pleasures & Season of Vermont, © James Stack 2013
Paw Prints courtesy of
All photos © James Stack 2018 unless otherwise indicated

Treats or Dog Food? That Is the Revealing Question.

If you’ve been following my blog, you have some sense of how much treats mean to me. You also know that not any old pleasurable chew, but specially flavored ones. My second favorite is bacon, but chicken and fish will do in a pinch. It might surprise you that duck is one of which I’m particularly fond. However, my very favorite, bar none, is liver. Yes, liverwurst sends me into spirals from which it is difficult for me to return.

Now that you know about my overwhelming desire for delicacies, here is something that might surprise you. I’m not a foodie. No “Food, glorious food” for me, even though my name is Oliver. I’m not one of those dogs that go begging when hungry, run when I hear the kibbles being measured, jump up and down when the sustenance is poised above my bowl, or gobble it down like a racehorse, chocking myself in the attempt to devour it before I can even taste it. No, that’s not me.

(Ollie’s dog food being ignored.)

Then again, human food is something of which I’ve had very little. James used to give me baby carrots, slices of apples, mix pumpkin and yogurt in my food, but no longer. Why you might ask? Because they don’t interest me. There was a time when I’d play with a carrot or apple, but I put away childish things as I got older. Okay, so these are not childish things, and, yes, I’m still very much like a puppy even though I’m four human years old – a little over thirty-two in dog years.

(© 2015 WebMD, LLC)


Speaking of human food, I’d absolutely love to get my jaws around some real liver and bacon. It would be like expiring and going over the rainbow to dog heaven where Trek waits for me. I’ve awoken from many a dream where I’m eating one or the other. No matter what I try to do, James will NOT let me have any of the real stuff. [That’s not true – we trained you to “come” with liverwurst.] That was James commenting on my blog. I stand – actually I’m lying down – corrected.

Since James didn’t write a poem about me and food, I let him choose one that had something to do with cuisine. He and Ron went to India many years ago, before I was born. Part of their trip was savoring spicy meals. It may be only a small part of this poem, but after James read it to me, I agreed that he could use it. We hope you enjoy it.


traversing the subcontinent of India
first to Delhi both old and new with a red fort
built from ruddy stone
market stalls splashed with vibrant hues
sweepers and pickers like ants scurrying
          cleansing the city
riches juxtaposed with depredation
guarded compounds besides bric-a-brac slums
          shards of tossed away lives

the fortresses of Rajasthan from Udaipur to Jaipur
visited by day while traveling by train at night
a palace on wheels if you will
one of many highlights meeting the Raj at the Lake Palace
surveying bird sanctuaries and of course the Taj Mahal
          a luxurious burial site

the financial capital of Bombay (Mumbai)
hustling and bustling with the sounds of coins
          the gateway to paradise

once a sleepy town Bangalore hums 24/7
with a technological and commercial explosion
          the new generation leaping into the future

taking a break in Goa on the tranquil Arabian Sea
once Portuguese and then a hippie enclave
          now an opulent seaside resort

flavors one never knew existed beyond curry
with lavish spices added to savor the mouthwatering heat
          finally tasting true Indian food

painting exquisite lines on silk with a fine quill
brilliant colors depicting court life animals and gods
          in miniatures or manuscripts

a wedding in Calcutta with a white horse
floral garlands exchanged and henna applied
          a dot of vermillion powder
populated with colonial structures of a bygone age
tree limbs and vines embracing glassless doors windows
          once having been in England’s shadow

by car journeying into the heartland passing decorated lorries
detecting colorful dots – women in saris – in the fields
          populated by buttery flowers of the mustard plant

meandering freely for each Indian citizen a body of water
known as the Ganges River gives and receives many lives
          as it flows into the Bay of Bengal

a return to Delhi for a respite before departing
cherishing the experience and cheerfulness shared
          one of many places of enlightening delight

Of course, James has never let me try any Indian food. He even made some the other night – Dhaba Chicken Curry and Masala Dhal – while I stood (actually, like I said before, I was lying down) there salivating over the aroma of the spices he added to make the curry. That’s right, he didn’t use a store-bought curry but made one himself. I will say it smelled divine. (After all the nice things I’ve said, you’d think I merited a treat.)

I must admit that it seems interesting to me that James finds delight in traveling, while I find ecstasy in delights. Speaking of treats, I have a few bones and other chewables that are flavored with all of my favorite tastes – all except liver. I never have understood what that is.

Oh, I wasn’t going to tell you, but James said if I didn’t he would in a bracket – that’s how you know it’s him speaking. Okay, so here goes. The night James cooked Indian food, he also served garlic Naan. After heating it in the oven, he lightly buttered it. After putting his plate on the table, He went to get something, and, well, it was too tempting – I snuck a few nibbles of his Naan. Now knowing what I’ve been missing, I’m going to – . [No you aren’t going to steal any more human food off plates – that is not allowed.]

Like I said, James speaks in brackets. Just saying.

Earlier, James mentioned his and Ron’s training me to “come.” If you return in two weeks, I’ll fill you in on how I responded to that particular piece of training. You might find it helpful in teaching your dog to return to you with one simple word.

Between now and then, feel free to scroll down and make a comment, letting me know what you think of my blog and James’ poems. I always like to hear from you, so please leave me a note about this or anything else that’s on your mind.

Until next time,
Sir Oliver of Skygate Farm (you can call me Ollie)


Paw Prints courtesy of
All photos © James Stack 2018 unless otherwise indicated

What Helps Ollie to Get in-and-out of the Car?

Like the last two posts I’ve put out there for your reading pleasure, this blog continues discussing one of the things I didn’t get to tell you about my first year. Similar to the last iteration, this one deals with a topic that gives much credit to James. (Score: A treat at the beginning! Keep those delicious delights coming.) It wasn’t included before because he didn’t write a poem about it. (No, I will not give back that treat.)

I’m talking (and James is typing because my paws are too large for the keyboard) about what is called a telescoping pet ramp. That’s right. It’s like a slide but isn’t slippery because the part I walk on is kind of sandpaper. It can get longer or shorter depending upon the height I have to go up and down, ergo, the use of a variation of the word telescope. It’s how I get in the rear of the car ever since I was around six months old. At that point, I was too big to sit in the front seat beside James.

It was initially used for my getting both in and out of the car. I would wait for James or Ron to put it in place so I could walk up or down it. These days I don’t use it to get out of the car – I jump out.

Occasionally I’ll not want to get out of the car, so James will put it in place and plead for me to get out. Still, I don’t leave since I love being in the car.

Now you might be wondering how it came about that I use this ramp. You could have even tried it with your dog, or maybe not. Either way, knowing might be something that will help you in the future with your canine.

Within the first week of my arrival at Skygate Farm, James put the ramp flat on the garage floor. He led me over to it while I was on a leash. Now, if you’ve read about my first year, you know that I was suspicious of new and strange things. Well, when I’d been in the garage before, this rectangular item had not been on the floor. I had no idea if it was going to jump up and nab me, or what.

It was interesting that all James did was have me walk beside it – well, I put him between me and it. The next day, the ramp was back. This time I was curious, so I tentatively went over and sniffed it. It smelled of metal and dirt. Now, I liked dirt at that time, so it was a welcoming odor. The next day, or maybe a few days later, James got me to put a paw on it. Since it didn’t attack me, I put two paws on it before backing away. Slowly, but surely, I began walking on it and jumping off every time James would raise it a little bit higher on one side. As such, by the time I was six months old and made to ride in the rear of the car, I would climb up and down it when asked.

Oh, yeah, something I left out in my explanation. Delicious treats were involved in getting me to even sniff the ramp, much less get on it and begin to jump off. Speaking of treats, here’s one of James’ poems for your reading pleasure:

                                        GREEN MOUNTAINS

                        The stature and steepness of Vermont’s
                  hills and heaps are succulently savored by my
               dogs, Trek and Pip, and me. Having once heaved
             to heights of over a mile, these mature mounts have
           weathered into desirable destinations to play and stay.

           When autumn cleans to its conclusion our world runs
                 russet and gray. Once the climate curls cold we
                       are twirled with creamy, white, feathery
                         powder. The first buds pop, reflecting
                       muted, autumnal colors. As quickly they
                    explode into exciting shades of emerald and
                jade. Completing the cycle the warm tints of fall
             evolve on these knolls. Like my chin, the mountains
          enfold us within their earnest embrace.

                     As the years have receded, like the height I once
             reached, the implements of recreation have worn
                    away, or been put aside for more leisurely
                      strolls. The trails we tramp are like aged
                        wrinkles, providing each prominence
                           with its own, precious personality.

                     While we miss our friends and family far
                 afield, we have grown to honor these historic
              hillocks we call home. There is a comfort known
            only to those, like Trek, Pip and myself, who can sit
           silently for hours in one another’s company, knowing
         without the exchange of words or whimpers that we are
            content, life is good, we’re happy to share what little
                 time we have with each other – and with these
                                           venerable peaks.

            Such are the pleasures of Vermont’s Green Mountains.

You might ask why they use a ramp for me. Well, I’ll tell you. The back of his car is a good three feet off the ground, and I’m a big boy at over eighty pounds. As such, lifting me is not such a good idea since it could possibly hurt their back. Besides, their previous Old English Sheepdog, Pip, hurt his knee ligament when he jumped into the back of James’ car. A few days later, while running, the tendon snapped, and Pip had to have surgery. I hear such an operation and the recovery period are less than pleasant, unlike the Green Mountains of Vermont like in James’ poem.

We certainly don’t want anything like that to happen to me. I’m willing to bet you don’t want anything like that happening to your best friend. So take my advice, follow James’ lead – like I do (most of the time) – and get a ramp for your buddy, expose it to him/her at the get-go, and have a fun time tooling down the highway together.

Speaking of fun times, the pleasures of the Green Mountains has caused me to build up an appetite. Food, glorious food: Come back in two weeks and hear all about my food habits, including, drum roll please, TREATS. I hope to hear from you.

Until then, please scroll down and leave me a comment, letting me know what you think of my blog and James’ poems. I always like to hear from you, so please jot me a quick note about this or anything else that’s on your mind.

Until next time,
Short Stories - Author Webpage Help Needed
Sir Oliver of Skygate Farm (you can call me Ollie)


“Green Mountains” printed with permission, originally published in Pleasures & Season of Vermont, © James Stack 2013
Paw Prints courtesy of
All photos © James Stack 2018 unless otherwise indicated