Hamrick Orchard

The drive, though narrow, is easily visible from the road. Wildflowers spring up freely from the earth on either side, and a smooth stone peeks over the petals, reading in a neat script, 'Welcome to Hamrick Orchard'. Fittingly, a copse of peach trees in full bloom is situated to the left, just past the faded wooden fence encompassing the property. You signal right and slow your vehicle on the pavement, turning onto the rough, gravelly farm road. The sun perches comfortably just below the treeline, filtering between the trunks to cast stripes over the lane. Nebraska winds rush against the boughs and leaves and seemingly tug at your hand, childlike with enthusiasm, to lead you down the path.

A quarter of a mile separates the house from the main road, and a gradual left turn guides you down a gentle slope to the front yard. Resting in a clearing within the small forest, the brick home is stout and inviting, draped with vines. Flowers and low bushes hug the walls, visited by the dots of bees hovering above and among the blossoms. Pulling into the lush grass, mottled with clovers and small ferns, you park beside the owners' vehicles and take a breath. A faint barking emits from the home, low and heavy, giving away your arrival.

Almost immediately, the front door swings open, releasing several dogs into the yard. A few smaller mutts trail after the towering Mastiff, each wagging their bodies and panting in wait of greeting you. Just as you step down to the grass and shut the car door, a person follows the canines into the open and calls out to you.

"Welcome! We're so glad you made it. Come inside, quickly, and we'll have some tea while we discuss just exactly for whom you're looking." She is not a tall woman, cloaked in a creamy white cardigan that hangs to her knees, and her lack of footwear most likely doesn't help. A bright smile, accentuated by a dimpled cheek, beams from the middle of a soft face, framed by curls that dangle just above the woman's shoulders. The dogs, now gathered at your feet, whine with almost desperate anticipation of petting. "Kids, leave the nice person alone and get back inside. You'll get plenty of attention once we're settled," the woman scolds gently, the warmth in her voice betraying her mock annoyance. The group doesn't miss a beat and turns tail, trotting in a line back through the door, though they seem to be dragging their feet, throwing glances back toward you. There's no resisting the pouting face of the Mastiff, who stops and pokes her head through the doorway once more to beckon you inside.

.....

She seems to be in no rush, happily chatting to you about this and that, your lifestyle, hobbies. It takes some time and a full glass of sweet tea to reach the point in conversation where she circles back to why you're here-- dogs. The Mastiff rests her head in your lap for the duration of the visiting, accepting strokes and drooling on your pant leg contentedly.

"I know we've spoken some over e-mail, but I would like to hear more about what you're looking for in your new dog. You've come for one of my Shorthairs, of course, but I have a variety. Males and females, liver and black, show and field types, breeding prospects and pet quality. I want to hear every detail, so I can help you pick your best fit."

As you go into detail, she listens intently and occasionally encourages you to elaborate, and upon finishing the preliminary guidelines, she rises from the loveseat and gestures to the back door. The dog who had been happily perched in her lap hops to the floor, indignant.

"I'll show you to the kennel!" she declares enthusiastically, now practically giddy as she strides to the door and flings it open. Without bothering to check if you are following, she crosses the short distance from the low-set porch to a larger brick building, this one extending into the trees and higher in length than width. You almost have to jog to keep up, which is an amazing feat on her part, with her short legs. Inside the second structure, a barking arises and sets off a chain of excitement. Half-walls of concrete separate large kennels from one another, beds and toys filling each mini-room with comfort and entertainment for the dogs within. An ample exit sits in each right corner, separating the inside from grassy runs with a rubbery flap. She certainly wasn't lying when she said she adored these animals. There was even air conditioning, with the movement tickling the hair on your neck.

"We keep the mothers and pups in the larger raising kennels here in the back," the woman explains, turning her head some back toward you. "We've got plenty right now, and you'll have your pick of the litter." She opens the wire door to the first group, and you begin your journey with the joyful, tumbling puppies to find your new best friend.

Game Time

Welcome Guest

Sponsored Links