When I moved to Nebraska in 1999, the last thing on my mind was raising dogs. My mother was ill and I was returning home to help care for her. LIttle did I know I would soon be in the middle of dog breeders, political issues, puppy mills, governmental officials, and dog brokers.
Dense smoky air of overly-cooked pancakes thickly consumed the stagnant air in the dusty old kitchen of a dilapidated farm house on Highway 44 in central Nebraska. Three-aged heads with touches of gray were bent deeply and hungrily over shiny blue Styrofoam plates filled with home-made pancakes, hot melted butter, and slightly-warmed maple syrup. The two women were sharing one glass of ice cold milk in an old-fashioned jelly jar, while the elderly man had his usual hot cup of coffee sitting besi
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Dense smoky air of overly-cooked pancakes thickly consumed the stagnant air in the dusty old kitchen of a dilapidated farm house on Highway 44 in central Nebraska. Three-aged heads with touches of gray were bent deeply and hungrily over shiny blue Styrofoam plates filled with home-made pancakes, hot melted butter, and slightly-warmed maple syrup. The two women were sharing one glass of ice cold milk in an old-fashioned jelly jar, while the elderly man had his usual hot cup of coffee sitting beside him, all three carefully pacing their sips between bites of pancakes that were hungrily being taken. Other than that, the silence seemed almost peaceful except for …outside, high-pitched yips and screams were being emitted from a seemingly over-zealous little dog, intermingled with rapid digging in a muffled sort of way--with particles of dirt hitting the side of the house like an automatic machine gun.
Nonchalantly, and not paying any attention to what was going on outside, the three individuals slowly ended their meal with each one carrying their plates to the trash and rinsing their forks and glasses in the kitchen sink. Walking outside the front door which was almost always open, they headed south to the outside kennel, and not really too worried about the noisy little dog from somewhere behind them. Nothing new to them over the last four years, they were more than familiar with a little long-haired dachshund named Holly Higgins who was excitedly digging away inside a spare igloo dog house out east of the farm house, to the tune of an imaginary rat she "knew" was somewhere under it. One of the older women called, "Come on, Holly. Let's go do some chores!"
Instantly, from around the corner came a little partially long-haired black and tan female dachshund, skidding around the corner on two hind feet with two black eyes shining. Not only was she ready to do chores, but she was more than ready to catch up on the gossip out in the south wing kennel!! Heck, she knew that rat would not go too far. They had played this game before!
Rainbow Farm had begun as a breeding kennel several years back, but as time went on the two women and elderly man began to drag home and more homeless or unwanted dogs, in addition to overly-ill and aged ones that no one really wanted. They were on their way to being put down, something that the three could not deal with. So. The kennel began to change when the three people began to realize that this continuous path of arriving dogs were their only friends in the world, and ones they could not only learn from but count on to be there for them. And from this moment on, The Chronicles of Rainbow Farm began . . . with little Holly Higgins as the star.
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