Walkies

I think it goes without saying that I live in the country. Duh. When I'm driving down my country lane, if I see someone I know (or don't know, actually), I wave to them and they invariably wave back. My dad actually waves at people with just his index finger, which is his way of saying, "I'm incredibly backwoods, are you?" On a given day he could receive any number of responses:

1. An open handed 5-finger wave (my personal choice) says "I'm not as old school as you but I appreciate your enthusiasm."
2. A return of the index finger salute says "Heck yes I'm backwoods, and there is a good chance we are related."
3. A rejection of your proffered wave usually means "I'm not paying attention to your wave because I'm checking out so-and-so's field of onions/sugar beets/alfalfa and I don't know why he doesn't have them weeded/doesn't leave them alone/doesn't bale that hay; it's been sitting there for a month." (It is our responsibility as country people to judge other people's farms and livestock.)
4. An extended middle finger (or "telling people they're number one," as my dad calls it) could have its own blog post, so varied are its motivations, which could range from "stop throwing rocks at my mailbox" to "your brother took the last package of cube steaks at Ridley's." Odds are, if someone tells you you're number one, you probably know why.

The exchange of waves grows even more nuanced if you are a pedestrian on a country road, and is an exchange I don't enjoy, which is why if I take a walk, it is usually in the early morning when passersby are scant:

I know, rad, right? Sadly, my dear home has become akin to Siberia of late and necessitates an unreasonable amount of bundling and some off-road scuttling, due to this:

Yes, for you curious ones, that is ice flowing menacingly over the road. Hint: although this ice is thick, and you fear falling through like George Bailey and becoming deaf in one ear, just walk on it. Because if you don't, this will happen:

Your foot will fall through the snow and into 6 inches of horrid, foul-smelling agricultural muck, the essence of which will likely never leave your Nike.

But...I digress, for the hundredth time today. Because, this post is actually supposed to be about this guy:

So cute, right? This dog belongs to one of our neighbors, and followed me around on my walk the other day. Remember those episodes of Lassie, where Lassie barks, and the humans miraculously understand the meanings of said barks? It must be a collie thing, because this dog is a fantastic communicator as well. Shortly after I snapped this photo, he said,

"Bark, bark." Translation: "Your bum smells fantastic."

During the taking of this photo, he was saying,

"Bark bark bark bark." Translation: "This photo will be blurry because I am about to put my paws all over your technical fleece."

And here we have:

"Bark bark bark bark bark." Translation: "I am now thinking of all the ways I've wronged and violated you during this walk. Now I will follow you home and poo on your grass."