In 2007 there was a huge recall on pet food: melamine was found in several products, and was lethal to cats and dogs. I determined the day I read the recall my two huskies would never again consume commercial food. I would home-cook for them! Hours upon hours, days upon days of research, and I came up with a plan. The early days were...er...disastrous. Now, eleven years later, I have it down to a science.

The first disaster occurred on the second evening I prepared their dinner. I didn't have a food processor, but wait...a blender! I can use that...steel blades that go at an incredible speed, a "puree" selection...I'm good to go. Which, I must say, I resent the fact that there was no disclaimer on said kitchen appliance. They put one on irons: "Do not use whilst wearing clothes" and they put one on shower caps: "Fits one head", then they should certainly put a disclaimer on a blender: "Do not stuff with large chunks of turkey and hit the puree button."

The huskies are always an audience of two in attendance at any activity in the Trist household, so they were perfectly positioned when the top blew off the blender. Quite startled by flying turkey and leaping huskies, I dropped the dozen eggs on the floor. A bizarre thought flitted quickly through my brain: Now why can't they show such exuberance and energy in catching the Flexible Flyer? Noooo...they have to leave me standing there awash in guilt because I've just bounced a round, albeit soft, object off one of their chests...

Now, let me assure you, wending your way to turn off the blender in such circumstances is a bit treacherous. My foot hit a piece of turkey, now covered with gooey and slippery egg material, and I dropped, quite unexpectedly and with no grace whatsoever, to my backside. At this inopportune moment a chunk of turkey landed on my head, and to the boy...turkey is turkey, be it on the floor or the wall or a head. He snatched it gleefully, taking a decent chunk of my hair with it, and leaving me with a pronounced bald spot for several weeks. This prompted his pack leader, (that would be me), covered with turkey and egg material, to sit on him to unwind the hair from his teeth. It was midnight before I finally got the last bit of turkey cleaned from the track lighting.

I wearily headed for bed, stepping over two snoring, contented huskies. The boy twitched, his paws closing together in a pantomime of a catch. I grinned despite my tired state, for he dreamed of flying turkey no doubt. Sweet dreams, my furballs!

I have Siberian Huskies...two, to be exact. A male and a female. They are...an adventure...

Three weeks ago I open the door to let clamouring, bouncing huskies out. Per routine, I scan the pen, being sure there are no skunks, rabbits, or cats lurking. Clear. Out go the huskies. The girl bounds off to do her thing, the boy slams into the side of the house. I blearily peer down "Huh"? (No coffee yet)...I hear squeaking, and the boy peers up at me, two little mouse feet from one end of his jaw, two little mouse feet from the other end of his jaw. I screech in tandem with the mouse. Down the stairs I go, forgetting the first and most important rule of sharing one's life with these zany, unpredictable, irrepressible creatures...one NEVER chases a husky. We are off. In sledding jargon, the boy is the lead dog, Trist is the team dog, and the girl is the wheel dog. After several rousing and heart accelerating laps around the pen, the boy's ears turn inward. After 13 years of sharing space I know when his ears turn inward he's come up with an idea. Said 13 years has proven, irrevocably, that him getting an idea never bodes well for me. He slams on the brakes, pivots in a beautiful pirouette (the boy is the gazelle of the family), and barrels backwards through the line. I lunge, and miss. The girl is not so fortunate, she careens into the fence. He's on a dead run towards the house, with me behind him, yelling a very bad Dr. Seuss-like book title: NO MOUSE IN THE HOUSE! He is barreling up the stairs, I in hot pursuit. The girl is catching up fast. She reaches the bottom stair to find the door closed unceremoniously in her face. One husky and a mouse is challenging, two huskies and a mouse is ugly. The boy dives under the table. Chairs fly, the lamp goes air-bound. I follow. There goes the coat rack....we didn't really need that. I come out from under the table, and the quiet sane Trist in my mind whispers: Use. Your. Words. "Drop it!" I bellow. He obliges, and off goes the mouse, skittering into a corner. I open the door and point silently, and he trots into the house. Meanwhile the girl is howling her head off and body-slamming the door to get in. The boy obligingly adds his howls from the house to the wailing one left outside.

Ok...the little fellow survived, The boy is gentle, unlike the wailing one. He doesn't rend, tear, destroy. Within minutes I realize trying to gently urge the mouse out the other open door with a broom is futile, it's a hockey puck with feet. I pause, and then grab the grooming glove and gently scoop the little guy up. Out the other door I go to let him down carefully under a bush. He lays there, silently. I worry about him, but the wailing one has stopped and there are no more body slams against the door. She has probably knocked herself unconscious and will require a trip to the emergency vet. I close the door and get the girl. She bounces in, snubs me, and waits for me to open the door. I do so, secure in the knowledge they are both in the house, and go back out to check on the mouse. Gone! Whew. I go back into the house, to see two pair of blue eyes peering expectantly up at me for their cookies. Seriously? You're both lucky I don't thump you soundly on the head with the Wolf Cookie Jar, which howls whenever it opens, and brings wayward huskies running. But I lose...they are just too cute, and each gets a cookie.

I recently returned from a tour of Lancaster PA. It was a wonderful experience. The lush and rolling farmlands, dotted with cows, goats, horses, sheep; clothes strung out on a line, snapping merrily with every gusty breeze; swept porches and neat gardens...The Amish are an unique presence in our world, and add to the wonder and beauty of it. Their sense of community is intense. Any non-Amish is referred to as "English", but English folk are very grateful for their Amish neighbors. They say in bad times or when disaster strikes, the Amish are the first in and last out. They will spring to the aid of a neighbor, be it an Amish family or an English family.

We stopped at an Amish soft pretzel shop...heaven rolled into dough and butter. Among the best sights was an enterprising young gentleman with a road stand at the end of his farm's driveway. Amish buggy horses are re-shod every six weeks. He'd taken the old horseshoes, painted them quite creatively, and was selling them. He had a shock of brown hair tumbling over his eyes, and a smile that lit up his whole face. Kudos to him. The most unusual sight was a buggy on a tow truck. I kid you not.

The Amish are firmly rooted in family and community; they are adaptable, hard-working, and enterprising...I'm grateful I had the opportunity to experience a culture unlike my own.