KAREN LAND

Recently, Jigs (my German Jagd Terrier) discovered a fresh, hot passion.

In my new home, I have a small, antique woodstove that once was used on a train caboose. The stove body is tall and slender, standing several inches off the ground on four graceful legs.

Jigs took to the stove like Pooh to a honey hive. At first, he was reasonable and reclined on the rug just a few feet away. Over time though, Jigs inched closer and closer until finally he designated the hottest spot in the house – between the stove and the wall – as his and only his.

When the stove is roaring, Jigs refuses to budge from his oven-like corner. He remains sprawled out on the scorching ceramic tile, panting hard like he’d just sprinted several miles in the dead of summer. His watery, red eyes bug out of his head, his pulsing pink tongue hangs to the floor.

Jigs is purely miserable sitting that close to the fire, yet he snubs my pleas to come to the cool kitchen or go out into the snow and play.

Unfortunately, the woodstove isn’t my terrier’s first addiction.

No matter where Harriet S. Dusenberry roamed across the globe, she always called Montana home.

Harriet, born on a ranch in Lavina on July 24, 1911, cherished the stories from a simpler time growing up on the Trask Ranch along the Musselshell River.

She wanted her 3-year old granddaughter, Dru, to know what a frontier Christmas was like for her as a child, but she couldn’t just sit Dru down on her knee and share her experiences - granddaughter lived in Bozeman, and grandmother lived thousands of miles away in Nepal.

In 1952, Harriet and her husband, Harold, moved to Kathmandu on a two-year assignment with the U.S. Agency for International Development. This was the first time the couple had ever left the state of Montana.

“So my Grandma decided to write me a story,” Dru Dusenberry Robidou explained.

Harriet asked the artist to design a rough draft of painted pictures, but instead, he returned with a gorgeous, finished product. The book cost Harriet several hundred rupees, much more than she could afford at the time, but still she was pleased. The book was perfectly done just as her mind had imagined it.

When I realized this column would be published on Thanksgiving Day, I knew it was time to write about Pig.

Some feelings and memories are so easy to pour into words; others stick inside the head and the heart like honey at the bottom of a jar taking its own slow, sweet time to finally make its way to the lip.

I still can’t speak of my beloved Iditarod lead dog without tears, but when I think of Pig and her life and all of the places we explored together and the people I met with her - because of her - I am filled with thanks.

I might not be able to find the exact words just yet, but I need to start somewhere.

Pig, my great girl, passed away on July 23, 2009 at the age of 12 years old. At the time, she was retired and living in Ellettsville, Indiana with Sue and Larry DeMoss, two amazing friends who offered to care for her in her final years. I will always be thankful to them for providing the secure, loving and peaceful home that Pig deserved. She was in the perfect place when she left this world, surrounded by people who love her just as much as I do.

Until recently, I had never owned an indoor plant. I was never in one place long enough to commit myself to a cactus even.

My new home came complete with 30 houseplants. At first, this was exciting to me. I always enjoyed stepping into my friends’ homes filled with foliage. There’s nothing like bringing a little of the green outdoors indoors, especially during the cold and gray winter months in Montana.

Even when my new house was empty and I was just moving in my belongings, greenery already graced every kitchen and living room window, adding an abundance of life to a hollow space and immediately making my new house feel like a home. Many of these plants have lived in this tiny abode for over 10 years. I thought it was best to let them remain in the exact spot where they are happy - in the sills and on the shelves where they’ve been thriving for so long.

I saw these mature plants as roommates; afterall, they were here first. I’d do the watering and feeding and cleaning up and they’d just sit there, provide oxygen, purify the air, look pretty. Plants are supposed to have a calming effect and, in the beginning of our relationship, I felt this was true.

But after a few weeks, some of my plants began to wither, turn yellow, shed their leaves. I panicked and doused each of my potted pals with a tall glass of water. I had no idea when they’d last had a drink.

I once had a boyfriend who would say, “Now, there’s a house for you…” every time we’d drive past an old, abandoned farmhouse, half-sunken into the sagebrush and missing every pane of glass from its warped window-frames.

I didn’t dare ask if this oblique remark was a commentary on my bank account, my fondness for junky antiques, or my desire to live among many animals and spend a good portion of the day outside. Maybe his observation was a poke at my preference for solitude or my refusal to be tied to anything too sound or stationary.

Or maybe I’m just paranoid.

Either way, the people who know me well understand that I am a romantic. I wasn’t putting off purchasing a house because of a lack ability to commit (as one crazy ex insinuated). I was waiting until a place swept me off my feet. I was holding out until I fell in love with a house – the right one.

Guess what? I’m in love.