Four for the 4th.

Amazing that, with a four day weekend, including dynamite inspired entertainment and a family of boys sporting mullets, our most eventful moment was provided by our Italian Greyhound. Tater HATES fireworks. He is absolutely terrified by them, and will just run away (or try to jump into the back of a tinted, close windowed 4runner, only to be met by the stark reality that glass is, in fact, impermeable). We knew this. We took him with us to the farm anyways, where there is always an over abundance of pyromaniac boys and endless boxes of fireworks. We thought he was safely curled up under a towel in the back of the 4runner (the only un-American-made vehicle in attendance; at least it's an SUV). We were wrong. Tater had managed to escape. Where to?? That was anyone's guess.

The pond where we set up camp for the day is surrounded by acre, upon acre, upon acre, upon acre of open fields of 3 foot grass which eventually opens up to a highway that, as evidenced by the road kill every quarter mile or so, is no place for a little rat dog. So, Brock, Tali and I set off to walk the path back to the farmhouse, in case our dim-witted canine friend, had a moment of logic and chose to travel in the correct direction toward safety. Matt was driving back to the farmhouse, as this errand was the reason we even noticed Tater's disappearance, so he would be checking the highway. As I walk with Brock on my shoulder's calling Tater's name and making kissing noises, Tali leaps through the grass seeming to understand our mission and Brock just continually asks with upturned hands "where's Tater" and attempts to make kissing sounds himself.

After walking a good 1/3rd of a mile, my sister pulls up next to us with the car and offers her services. We get in, and decide it best to drive back to the house, then work our way backwards. Well, we arrive, and there you have it. We find Tater comfortably curled up in the backseat of the 4runner, as if nothing out of the ordinary has transpired. Apparently, about a mile or so down the road, Matt discovered our panicked, little greyhound running in the middle of the highway! Guess he figured his best odds of being seen for a tiny, black dog, is running on a black road. Yet again, Tater amazes us that he has survived these 5 years on earth. And thank goodness this little fiasco did not put a damper in any of the daily activities:

Never again will that animal be joining us for fireworks. But let's hope the mullets, coveralls, hillbilly golf, horseshoes, fishing, food, fireworks, family, fun and various facial hair styles make a regular appearance.