Borage, an Alaskan Husky, is my right hand man when I travel the country giving Iditarod Sled Dog Race presentations in schools and libraries. Off and on over the last four months, my parents have been grand-dog sitting Jigs, my German Jagd Terrier, and Chloe, my corgi/springer mutt; when I venture south, it’s just too hot for the little terrors to hang out in the car chewing on bones while Borage and I work.
I always feel miserable leaving Jigs and Chloe behind, but seeing them fly across my parents’ lush Kentucky Bluegrass lawn in hot pursuit of a chattering squirrel, as it leaps overhead from the gutters to a maple tree to a power line, is the perfect reminder that they’ll hardly know I’m gone.
No one needs to tell me that I am an obsessive-compulsive dog owner. Before I ever leave my dogs in any yard, I go over every inch of it, making sure there is no way my fearless hunters could crawl under, climb over, or squeeze through the fence at any location. There is no room for error in suburban Indianapolis. If the dogs got loose, the busy street would be the end of them.
I spotted the rotten post right away. When Jigs and Chloe jumped up against the gate to the driveway (which leads to that nasty street), the entire chain-link gate leaned over. Not good, I thought. The intense Midwestern moisture has digested the base of yet another perfectly fine fence post.
I hate fencing. I know a few odd ducks who just love fencing; they actually consider the miserable task “fun” - some sort of twisted hobby for those who just like to suffer. Yeah, I know, I know… there is gratification in seeing a long, straight line of fencing strung tight from one precisely plumb post to the next. And there is nothing better than having your beloved dogs, horses, chickens, or cattle confined in a safe, inviting space. But when I see a stretch of beautiful fencing, all I can think of are holes, holes, and more holes. “They had to dig 50 holes to erect this fence,” I always count posts, amazed that anyone could be so driven.
The job isn’t that bad until you actually start moving earth. In Montana, it seems that manual digging rarely involves an actual “post-hole digger.” Implements such as a pick ax, a pry bar, an auger, or a jackhammer are more often necessary.
Just to tease you and draw you into the challenge, the digging process often starts out promising; a pleasing foot of dusty earth lifts off the top with little effort. But then, inevitably, you hear that dreaded, “clink!” - the tip of your shovel meeting rock
You thought this time fencing might be different. You thought just maybe you might win the fencing lottery and choose the one virgin spot of Montana soil that has never met rock, has never seen rock, has no idea what rock even is. Dream on, fellow fence-builders.
Most of my limited fencing experience has occurred in Montana, and it has soured me. Fencing = bad.
This time I only had to dig one hole but I wasn’t looking forward to it.
With just one hand, the rotten fence post pulled easily out of the ground. I slammed the blades of the fence post digger down into the soft soil and lifted, dropping a mound of dark earth in a pile next to the hole. “That’s one,” I said to myself, assuming I’d that I’d just gotten lucky.
After a half dozen scoops of rich black dirt, I was amazed I hadn’t clanked a boulder yet. I kept digging with the shovel for a few more minutes. And then it finally hit me.
I fell to my knees, dropped the digger in the grass, and reached my arm down into the hollow. The moist earth felt like sticky cookie dough between my fingers. I pulled one handful of delightfully pasty earth after another out of the hole. Thankfully, I have very long arms.
I was a kid again sitting on the ground playing in the mud. Fat and squirmy earthworms wiggled between my fingers. I never encountered one single rock, not even a pebble. I finally won the fence-post digging lottery.
( 1 Vote )
