***Dad bought this tractor in August 2005. Clearly, this was a really big deal to us Caruthers folk.***
I have family in southwest Missouri, farm country. As a kid, I'd spend a week or two each summer down there, 90 percent of that time on either my grandparents' John Deere lawnmower, similar to the one above, or on one of my grandfather, Uncle Tom, or Uncle Carl's REAL tractors, farming the fertile soil--black gold, we call it--of rural Missouri. I'd sit on one of the fenders and supervise, and was damned good at it.
I also enjoyed every second of it.
These days, I don't get on a big farm tractor very often. When I get the opportunity, though, I take it. For the first couple years after I moved to Minnesota, Bernie would accompany me on my visits to the farm. She had mixed feelings about that: Loved being outside and getting filthy and chasing critters and all that, but frequently voiced displeasure about having to sleep outside--more to the point, sleeping outside while I was inside. Had I pitched a tent in the front yard for myself, she would've gladly slept outside.
So back to the tractor. Bernie was ten years old now, so while still hearty, safe to say her spring chicken years were behind her. Well, Uncle Tom wanted to go move some hay or something exciting like that, and I just had to go. So I jumped on the fender of the tractor, and away Tom and I went. Along came Bernie, as there was no way she would let me escape the watch of her eyes. She started trotting on the gravel road behind the tractor, which I suppose was going 15 or 20 mph. We were going about two miles, and I seriously wondered whether the dog had the stamina to follow all the way. Honestly, I thought she might drop dead.
She didn't, though I think she might have walked the last bit and caught up with us again upon our return--I don't remember. I do know, though, that she carried on behind us in a nifty trot for far longer than you'd expect of a dog her size and age.
A big, strong heart Bernie had indeed.
I also enjoyed every second of it.
These days, I don't get on a big farm tractor very often. When I get the opportunity, though, I take it. For the first couple years after I moved to Minnesota, Bernie would accompany me on my visits to the farm. She had mixed feelings about that: Loved being outside and getting filthy and chasing critters and all that, but frequently voiced displeasure about having to sleep outside--more to the point, sleeping outside while I was inside. Had I pitched a tent in the front yard for myself, she would've gladly slept outside.
So back to the tractor. Bernie was ten years old now, so while still hearty, safe to say her spring chicken years were behind her. Well, Uncle Tom wanted to go move some hay or something exciting like that, and I just had to go. So I jumped on the fender of the tractor, and away Tom and I went. Along came Bernie, as there was no way she would let me escape the watch of her eyes. She started trotting on the gravel road behind the tractor, which I suppose was going 15 or 20 mph. We were going about two miles, and I seriously wondered whether the dog had the stamina to follow all the way. Honestly, I thought she might drop dead.
She didn't, though I think she might have walked the last bit and caught up with us again upon our return--I don't remember. I do know, though, that she carried on behind us in a nifty trot for far longer than you'd expect of a dog her size and age.
A big, strong heart Bernie had indeed.
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