Living in the Wild West

Rural Russell county Alabama is the Wild West.  One sheriff and a handful of deputies to patrol a lawless expanse.  Utilities aren't even dependable or offered out in these boonies.  Cell phone signal sucks.  Internet cable gets mulched up by the road grader every 3 months, like clockwork.  County water tastes like battery acid... if you're lucky enough to have a water line run past your house.  No worries, even if you don't, they'll take your $1400 and look at the map upside down and tell you the water main runs past your driveway.  I cannot make this up.  
Two weeks ago, we trenched 800 feet of water line from the gate house down to a non existing main.  The water authority's excuse was that they had new office staff.  They could set a new meter 1600 feet up the road where the main ended or refund the farm $1400.  When you've already disassembled the well equipment and run 800 foot of pipe, your options are limited.

My Hansel and Gretel trail through the woods.
The only contractor who would touch the job wanted to cut a line of trees, bring the stump grinder through and then trench, for nothing less than $9000.
Versus one really pissed off woman and a $230 rented trencher.

The starting point.  200 feet of power line, the only flat easy part.  Getting up there was challenging.  I had to enter the woods 400 feet up from the meter and maneuver it through thick brush to get to the starting point.

Mole Woman at 900 feet.

The last 400 foot crucible:  the thickest, gummiest clay and unyielding roots that sent the boom of the trencher flying up in the air.

A day alone in the woods and mission accomplished. Not bad for a 10 hour stint.

I bid a fond adieu to my new best friend.  Until we hopefully don't have to meet again.

Also encountered in the Wild West are dangerous predators.  Like the one who came into my yard and attacked my dogs.  We've had ongoing negotiations with several neighbors concerning their un-neutered stray dogs. These aren't Bichons either.  Pit bulls or mixes thereof.  

I was working in the furthest corner of my garden when I barely registered a white blur running across the yard.  Cole and Garrett are white, so I didn't even turn my head until I heard the screaming and realized three white masses where tangled up in a fight.  The neighbor's white pit had attacked.  The fight was 150 feet away, but I had to run out of the 1 acre garden and back up the other side.  All the while emitting, what I am told, is a blood curdling scream that would make Mel Gibson's war whoop from Braveheart sound like a whisper.  

By the time I was close, the pit had Garrett by the neck on the ground.

The victim:

And Pete had joined the melee by grabbing the pit from behind and violently biting and shaking his legs.  Garrett doesn't realize he probably owes his life to this avenging angel:

The other brother, who shall remain unheralded, broke loose of the fight and attacked the pit bull's side kick:  a little 10 lb terrier.  Cole, my hero...

I'm usually armed, but who knew you'd need a gun when playing in your own darn garden.  Lesson learned.  Garrett only sustained puncture wounds to his neck.  Thank goodness he's a little fluffy and the carotid artery was well hidden in fat!  

On three occasions, I've wasted expensive ammunition firing warning shots over this particular dog's head. Irresponsible owners have now been informed by myself and police that the next time, I won't miss.