Replacing one, fluffy wandering animal with another

Since my dog passed away several weeks ago, I have been inundated with suggestions for a replacement.

The proposals began the day of the burial with a request from my 4-year-old for a small dog, which is not an option in my house with several, small destructive children.

If a certain breed is mentioned, a friend quickly pipes up with a story about a bad, past encounter usually involving either bowel movements, barking issues, roaming tendencies or all of the above.

Others have called whenever they hear or read about dog which is being given away or which is lost, conveniently overlooking the previously mentioned problems.

But my family is not ready to replace our dog -- with its 11 years of history including the long, fluffy hair and a tendency to wander -- with a new pooch so quickly.

Yet, another fluffy, wandering animal is now calling our place home.

With weeds as the main ground covering at my house, an animal with tremendous eating capacity was needed before the spring growing season arrived.

I had proposed the purchase of a goat, despite growing up with a goat which ate everything from spatulas to cigarette butts. The goat also felt it deserved to reside inside the house and destroyed more than one screen door in an attempt to make that goal come true.

An emu was suggested just because one was lost recently in the area and it needed to go somewhere. Not knowing its weed-eating abilities, we passed.

And a cow? The idea was pondered more than once, but was dismissed for no good reason other than everyone else around us has one and we need to be different.

After months of discussion, my husband finally persuaded me that a yak would be the perfect animal. It just so happened that the yak's arrival came a mere week after the passing of our dog -- and it was not a smooth transition.

Knowing that we would be out of town on the day of the yak's delivery, we notified the yak owner's to just put the animal in the corral.

Arriving home late that night and leaving early the next morning for church, we didn't remember that a yak was supposed to be delivered until we were half way through breakfast in the church basement.

As we checked the corral and barn, there was nary a yak to be found.

"Maybe the yak wasn't delivered," my husband said, trying to convince both himself and me of that fact.

He called the owners of the yak and found out that, yes, the yak had been delivered and they were on their way to help with the search.

As we ventured out in the falling snow, looking for a yak we had never seen, my husband and I still maintained our sense of humor: We had just lost our fluffy, wandering dog and now we were looking for a fluffy, wandering yak.

You may be saying to yourself: It's a yak. How hard could it be to find a yak in Southwest Nebraska? This isn't the Alps.

This is where it gets tricking. Remember, we were gone when it was delivered, had never seen this yak and the closest we had been to a yak was in a lasagna dinner the year before.

After searching fruitlessly for an hour, we finally learned that the animal we were looking for was black and white, had horns and was about the size of a cow. This was perfect. The surrounding fields were filled with cows and now we had a yak trying to pass herself off as a bovine, just so she didn't have to come home.

And one other thing -- she had a nursing calf which should be following her. Fortunately, the yak, along with her calf, was found within the next hour in a nearby pasture. They were returned to the barn and spent the next week in solitary confinement until they realized that wandering yaks were not allowed in this part of the country.

The yaks have adjusted well to their new surroundings, but Mama yak likes to toss around her horns a little too freely. Our children, as well as visiting kids, know not to enter her pen for fear of being gored; hopefully, this is something they'll just take our word for rather than requiring a visit to the emergency room.

There has to be some benefit to these foot-long horns that Mama yak is so good at wielding and I do have one idea. Everyone has heard of the "Running of the Bulls" in Pamplona, Spain. How about the "Running of the Yak" down Norris Avenue?

-- Ronda Graff is still searching for a new dog, but doesn't know what breed will blend with a family of seven including five small children, six cats with more expected in the spring and, of course, the two yaks.