I yurted

The title of this blog post sounds like something an eight-year-old would whisper to another eight-year-old. Anyway, Michael, Moose, Rusty and I borrowed a yurt for the weekend. We tried to convince Moose that water wasn't scary and to stop chewing on tarps, wood, shoes and us. We slept in, went swimming, read and played a lot of Sequence. Yeah, Sequence; we're cool.

It was cold, but this is not the proper way to float on a tube.

Michael had to stand in the middle, slapping the water and yelling before Moose would consider entering the stream. Once he did get it, he would jump across like a gazelle. I wonder if there are canine swimming lessons...or doggy water wings.

 Rusty was such a show-off.

Overall the yurt was great, but I did have an altercation with a herd of cattle when I went on a solitary mission to get water at a nearby campground. When I got to the spiget, there were 7 or 8 cows standing around, just chewin'. I realized then that cows are HUGE, and I am small. I told them I was a vegetarian and recommended that they just kindly move, but I ended up having to run at them swinging the water jug yelling--it really was more of a wild yodel. They mooooved (get it?) and I promptly broke the jug somehow. I really don't know how I cracked it, but I ended up with no water and "There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza..." in my head. Stupid cows.