Notes from Maine - 2025/05/18

This has been a perfect morning. I can say that now, but in about an hour I might have a different opinion. Albert (dog) and I were outside doing chores and there’s no telling how many ticks came in with us. The third or fourth time I’ve stood up to take off my pants, I’ll start to curse the morning. They always climb up the fabric, by the way, never my leg. I’ll feel something on the back of my calf and hitch up my jeans to take a look—nothing. Sixty seconds later, I’m repeating the process. I have to take my pants off completely and roll the pants leg inside out. That’s when I find the tick who was climbing up the inside of my jeans in order to find the best place to bite.

Aside from all that “tick talk,” this has been a perfect morning.

The ladies of the barn (Maybelle - spotted draft, and her little daughter Lilly) are outside in the pasture. Lilly is such an angel. When I open the door she sprints outside to jump around and then runs back inside to see if I will scratch her. The answer is always yes. Of course I’ll scratch her. I’ll stand there scratching her fluffy fur until my fingers cramp. 

I turned them out into the pasture while Albert was searching for the blue frisbee. We’ve had a lot of rain recently and I kinda yanked my forehand throw. The frisbee sailed easily across the pasture, over the fence through the blackberries and disappeared down into the gully where the stream is swollen with yesterday’s rain. I finished up getting water for the horses and Albert returned with an empty mouth.

I tied my shoes and the two of us went on a hike to find the missing frisbee.

Albert immediately dove into the creek. The water was up to his eyeballs as he made his way upstream and down, scraping the bottom, looking for his frisbee. I stood on the bank, rolling my eyes. Here’s the thing—the creek isn’t very wide. Unless the whole marsh is flooded, the creek is only six feet wide or so (two meters). If I threw the frisbee a million times, it might land directly in the water twice. That means that Albert put the frisbee in the creek, because it’s a more interesting hunt. So now I have to stand there, supervising while he gets absolutely soaked and doesn’t find anything? 

I called him to my side and made him sit. He reacted with a “complain-comply.” This is something Albert has perfected at the feed store. Lately, I make him go into the feed store with me so he can learn some manners. His job is to keep his shoulder plastered to my knee and to sit immediately when I stop. He knows this, but he’d rather not comply. So while he sits he grunts, groans, and moans, which is his way of complaining about it. The feed store clerks and customers love this display, so they always want to give him a treat. Albert does not take treats out in the world. I listen to a lot of true crime podcasts and I think that Albert has picked up a strong sense of Stranger Danger.

“She’s so pretty, what’s her name?” a person at the feed store will ask.

“Her name is Albert,” I say. Albert has a very pretty purple harness. That might be why people always think he’s a lady.

“Can Albert have a treat?”

“He can,” I say, “but he usually won’t.”

When he’s being super polite, Albert will actually take the treat from the person’s hand. Before they’ve turned away, he spits it on the floor. I should start saying, “Oh, thank you, but he’s allergic.” At least then they wouldn’t feel judged by the pretty dog. 

All that feed store practice came in handy this morning. I ordered Albert to get out of the creek and sit at my side. He complained and complied. We stood there for a few minutes while the current swept away the cloudy mud. I found his frisbee exactly where he was scraping the bottom, confirming what I already knew—Albert probably could have retrieved the frisbee at any time. The game of pushing it around underwater was so much fun that he didn’t have much interest in finishing it.

I carried the frisbee back to the house while he danced around me, hoping I would throw it again.

As soon as we got back inside the pasture, Albert disappeared under the fence again. I watched as he went and found a different frisbee. This one had been missing for almost a year. It was caked in mud. I think it had been buried in a shallow grave. 

It’s always fun to return home carrying more than we left with.

I carried the blue frisbee, which was bright and clean from the stream.

Albert carried the mud-caked orange frisbee, which is now yellow because most of the color has faded. 

And we both carried (and probably still carry) innumerable ticks.