Giddyup, Buckaroo

About four-and-a-half years ago, Evelin and I took a drive up to Gettysburg for no particular reason. Among the things we encountered on that trip was a sign for the Land of Little Horses. As I blogged back then: "I think I'd feel a little less silly asking for two adult admissions to a place like that if I could at least pretend that my 3-, 4-, or 5-year-old was the one who wanted to go...."

Quinn's two; Celeste is four in a few short days. This afternoon we went.



If pressed, I might say it was a little less than what I expected, but it still was fun.

In a lot of ways, it was a total tourist trap, complete with a gift shop you have to pass through on the way in and the way out. However, it was great with the girls.

Celeste never once did her "I only like dogs" routine; she was very excited and interested in getting up close, petting and feeding the animals. Quinn was a bit warier, especially as she grew more tired, but she loved the sheep and goats, as well as the horses. The only bad bit for her was when she was scratched by a cat — she was trying to feed it one of the alfalfa pellets all the other animals ate; apparently the cat didn't like it.

Neither girl wanted to take a pony ride, but they both loved the little playground and both were very interested in the arena show, especially since I'd tipped them off to the dog race portion of the show. Both girls were getting squirmy and tired, so we cut out before the show ended — during the ciphering horse routine — which lead to screams and tears from the girls. Both of them were asleep before we got out of Pennsylvania.

Beagles Are Short

Celeste has been told we can get her long desired dog once Quinn is potty trained. This afternoon while coloring and having a snack, Celeste tells me that Quinn had an accident at summer camp. She then turned to her sister and said with a firm voice, and a slightly sad tone, "You need to be potty trained, 'cause we really need a puppy."

She then revised and extended her statement, saying we should get a puppy for each member of the family. Then she suggested we get two beagles for each of us. I had her count up the total number of beagles — 2 + 2 + 2 + 2 = 8 — and, when reminded, she saw that that was one more puppy than in Too Many Puppies.

Not to be deterred, though, Celeste countered that "beagles get old and die soon," thinking of a neighborhood dog who passed earlier in the year. I pointed out that Berry had been 14 years old, ten years older than she is.

Celeste’s response: "Goodness gracious, but she was short!"