If you don’t usually listen to these, I highly suggest listening to this. I read the essay but Friday chimes in a few times and after the essay I talk off the cuff about the farm, my birthday, plans, the state of the farm, Charlie, Gracie, Taylor, and Dakota Johnson (the rooster not person) and how agriculture and pop culture blend here. Give it a try, it’s free and it’s that play button.
Farm Dog
I found a picture of Friday when she was a young pup. Her coat still coming in, a red bandage on her wrist. She’s so trim, so serious. Her coat a mane of wolfish ruff, still growing in. She must be around a year old.
Friday is named after Rosalind Russell, who played Hildy in the 1940’s romcom masterpiece, His Girl Friday. The movie is 85 years old and remains a favorite. I adore the pace of conversation, fast and smart. I love how the audience doesn’t need everything explained through stupid exposition. The coy context clues, body language, and sideways glances are half the writing.
In this scene below there is so much going on, telling us so much about Hildy and Walter’s relationship, in front of her poor doomed fiancé Bruce. From Bruce sitting in Walter’s lap to the last kick—it’s more character development and plot direction in 3 minutes than I’ve seen in the entirety of the last Marvel movie. Two divorced writers clearly still on the same wavelength, destined to be together, and with perfect chemistry. And we learn all this while having lunch with her new husband-to-be. But Bruce is being constantly DRAGGED by Walter, it’s almost cruel if fate wasn’t driving. And when Cary Grant lights his cigarette with her hand… my heart rate increases and I squeal like a 13-year-old girl. Her kicking him under the table for jokes, his tone, her eyebrows, goddamn this is a perfect film if you’re into wit and fate.
“…A home with mother, in Albany too.”
Absolute. Legend.
Sidenote: If you love Gilmore Girls, watch this movie. The writing and jokes and tempo of Stars Hollow are based on movies from this era, only with modern pop culture references that put me to shame how often I need to look them up. I always want my shows and movies to be smarter than me, because if not, what’s the point?
Hell, I just love Rosalind. There’s a scene in this movie called The Women, 1939 (also fantastic and one of my favorite opening credit sequences of all time), when she’s about to shit talk with a friend and without skipping a beat while looking her girl in the eye, uses her foot to hook it around a chair leg behind her and bring it right under her butt so she can go from standing yapping to sitting yapping without breaking eye contact. I think that’s when I fell in love.
So when a second border collie was joining the farm I knew I wanted it to be a girl, and I wanted to name her Friday. I wanted a dog with the same attributes, smarts, and hard-won loyalty as that character. After all, Border Collies are clever as hell and (all dogs considered) would probably make excellent journalists, had they thumbs.
So Friday came into my life from a ranch in Idaho when Gibson was five years old. She was raised different than he was. Gibson grew up in a corporate office, in a dog crate under my cubicle desk (dogs and puppies were welcomed at my old job back then, long as they were quiet and well behaved.) Almost everyone with a new pup wanted them close for crate training and socializing at work, and on lunch break they would all be out in the lawn behind the office, running around or playing in the casting pond or just stealing people’s sandwiches off picnic tables. As far as offices go, I couldn’t ask for more.
But Friday was raised here, as I had already been working from the farm three years before she even showed up. She got to meet people at my martial arts classes and friends off the farm, but was never the social butterfly Gibson was trained to be. She was scared of children for years, would run under the couch if anyone under 3.5ft tall walked in, as if some awful mutant that had been shrunk by a vengeful god to shrink her next.
Friday is an interesting person. And now she’s becoming an interesting farmer.
It’s just the two of us now. With Gibson gone she’s taken on a new attitude about the farm. For most of her life she was backup. She’d follow after Gibson if he went to search for newborn lambs in the night or bring the sheep back from wandering in the woods, but never the one to make decisions. But that all changed since spring. She knows it’s just us. And she’s taking her job very seriously.
Now, when sheep get out, or chickens are too far down the road she’s on it and bringing them back like a trial champion. Now she’s the distracting the goat while I trim his hooves, when she used to just watch Gibson do it from the front porch. Now she’s the one running ahead of me down the path, smelling for bear and barking at foxes. And over the last few months I have watched her confidence grow. It really is something else.
What was a team sport is now doubles. It’s only brought us closer. Every morning Friday jumps into my bed around 4:47 AM, that lovely haunting time, and I pull her close to me in the dark. I whisper the same question every morning, “What are you looking forward to the most today” and she cuddles closer and buries her head against my chest and we both know the answer, because it’s what I’m also looking forward to: another day together on this scrappy farm.
By the time the bed is made and coffee has been started she’s pawing at the door. She ignores the cats circling around my feet. She ignores the newscasters on the bluetooth speaker talking about impending authoritarianism. She wants to do the morning rounds; our chore circle around the farm that starts every day.
It starts walking to the chicken coops, opening them all up and scattering feed. It’s a burst of life and feathers and squawks and I don’t think there’s anything closer to fireworks to a border collie. She’s never hurt a chicken, at least that I know of, and her eyes go wide at the fuss.
Then we feed the pigs and she watches them squeal and grunt, jostling each other for a few more bites. This isn’t as exciting as the featherbed of noise and wonder that is chickendom, so she watched them from a few feet back from their gate. I think if I asked her to come inside with me, she would. But her face would be the same as if I was asking her to come into the shower for a bath. She’ll do it, but under duress and I better make up for it later (read: peanut butter in the rawhide, lady).
With the chickens and pigs sated, we head to the horses. Mabel is fat and Merlin is old, and together they are let out of their paddock onto the portion of lawn that is their breakfast. I’m trying to manage all the grass I have available to save as much on hay as possible. My yard is a collection of stakes and poly wire. I have no idea what the neighbors think, but the Amish neighbors that trot by on their buggies seem to approve. If there’s one thing me and the Amish agree on, it’s not having a pet lawn.
After that we do the same for the sheep, let them into the pasture for a monitored grazing time. Sometimes Friday just wants to be with them now. It’s sweet. I’ll be in one part of the pasture, working on fencing or cutting down nettles and she’ll just be sitting where she can watch the ewes and their lambs. I can see her panting turn to a resting heartbeat. She’ll close her eyes and put her nose to the wind and let the sun hit her face. It must feel amazing.
Of all the sadness of losing him, there is real joy in getting closer to her. There’s been a real energy sift inside this farmhouse lately. A lot less Mojo Dojo Casa House energy and more Dream House energy. Less arrows and saddles and more flowers and lavender paint on the walls.
I love watching movies with her on the couch and when we go to the kitchen together to get a snack I say “Girls Trip!!” and we open the freezer and split some ice cream and graham crackers.
She’s always alert if someone or something is outside, or if an animal cries out in alarm. She knows the difference between sheep calling across the field to each other and a cry for distress. She can tell if the chickens are celebrating a new egg or just saw a fox. Having a good farm dog is priceless. They’re the homesteader’s PA on set.
And watching her take on the role of farm boss, like he had. She’s almost ten years old now, and I am not sure how much time we will have together. But I’ve never been more aware of how precious the present is as I am now. And I make the effort to tell her, every single day we spend together, that she is loved.
Friday isn’t a perfect dog. She isn’t even a “good dog” in the parlance of behavior and pet expectations. But she is a great dog. And I love her every minute of her life.
Late Bloomer Series Update
There will be a Late Bloomer Essay, but later in the month. I’m not sure what it will be about just yet, but open to suggestions! I appreciate any questions in advance, too. I need at least five to do a bonus pod. If I don’t get questions I will skip that pod this month, but love walking around the grove talking about girls so please do.
NEED A LOGO? I DESIGN DOPE LOGOS.
Friends of the Farm! I wanted to advertise a sale I am offering on logo designs. If you didn’t know, before I was a full-time farmer I was a professional corporate designer. I quit my 9-5 office gig in 2012 mand it’s been a wild decade of self employment with a lot of ups and downs but I am still here, on the same farm, stubborn as hell and continuing to pitch my wares because I want to keep this place.
I design custom logos at a flat rate. Logos are $250 to start designing right away, but if you have some time - I am offering HALF OFF if you buy a spot 8 weeks in advance. $75 off if you buy it 6 weeks in advance! If you are interested, please do email! Discounts for multiple jobs.
This farm has three weeks to earn enough to cover the June mortgage before July ends. If you can upgrade your subscription, please do. That’s the point of this substack, to earn a livable wage through my writing and grow a steady regular income. If you can’t buy anything, sharing public posts you like, restocking, commenting, just hitting that heart button make this substack appear on more people’s feeds and newsletters.
The farm also offers illustrations, handmade goatsmilk soaps, meat and egg sales for local customers (I do not ship meat), and pet portraits. You can read about everything the farm has to offer here. I’d be grateful to anyone that takes the time to read or listen to that. I’m playing life on hard mode here. Wouldn’t change it for the world, but holy crow could I use some good luck.
If you don’t want to buy anything or upgrade your subscription, and want to throw a tip my way for the word slinging, my venmo is jennawog. It’s me in sunglasses.
Thank you for your time, darlin’
Glad Friday's adjusting to Gibson's passing. When I lost my heart dog Ella, I was worried sick that my younger dog Cricket, who was 7 years old at the time, wouldn't fare well, but he blossomed as the only dog, and really came into his own. He gave us 8 more years, as the King of our lives. Looks like Friday's doing great!