The large plywood dog house sat in the far corner southwest corner of the property. Since the beat-up structure was upside-down, I assumed the last tenant must have left the premises in a snarling huff. To gain easy access, or maybe the faded-blue paint tasted good, raccoons or any one of a dozen other varmints had chewed jagged holes through the plywood siding. The look was rustic, yet went with the farm’s other countryfied décor. And even though the Mrs. had formed a vastly different opinion of the old dog house’s quaintness, it was never removed. Not until this year, that is.