We Lost Our Faithful Friend

Sebastien, mighty Mr. “S”, was our little dog. He left a void in our midst after more than nineteen years.

A funny little pooch was he. He made us smile so many times, not only with his antics, but also with stubborn attitude.

I wrote several stories about him previously. I especially love the one where Mr. S wound up at a wedding rehearsal 15 miles from the house while Carol and I went to the grocery store.

I remember him hiding under the bed. The only way he would show his face was when we bounced a tennis ball. He loved his ball, and often slept with it next to his body.

He would get mad when he found his food bowl empty. He’d whack at the bowl until it flipped up-side-down. If that racket didn’t result in instant attention, he’d attack the small trash container near his bowl, dump its contents, and tear to shreds all that was in it.

One time, during one of his rants, he grabbed hold of the toilet paper and dragged a long strand of it, for twenty feet or more, all the way into the kitchen.

One time he stole a box of small chocolate donuts from a grocery bag sitting on the floor. For days, Carol could not figure where the donuts went. Until one day, Mr. S emerged from under the bed with an odd smile on his face. Carol noticed his chops were puffed and she could not see his teeth. He was savoring one more donut in his mouth. One that he, at the time, was unable to consume.

Carol had to reprimand the little fellow once with a fly swatter. It was not long after, that mighty Mr. S attacked the swatter and tore it into a thousand pieces. Nothing but the wire handle was left.

On our cross country trip he gained four pounds; to a whopping total of 18 pounds. I had built for him a pedestal type of box to rest in. The elevated box was in between the front two seats. It had his water and food bowl in front of him. The sorry little pooch didn’t even have to get up to eat and drink. All he had to do was stretch his neck and partake.

He loved to help sing. Whenever I cut loose with a high-pitched diddy, he would chime in like a jackal howling at the moon. The grand kids coaxed him to do the same. He would howl like a mighty wolf. The kids loved it.

Mr. S knew his territory. One time a plumber came to the house. I knew the man. He had two large dogs living with him. It did not take Mr. S long to establish his territory. Mr. S simply raised his leg and peed all over the man boots. 

“Now take that, Mr. Plumber!”

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A Pig In The Doghouse

More than thirty-six years ago we moved to Bedford Virginia. We moved piecemeal, a load at a time. We built a 20x24 outbuilding to store furniture, stuff, and some old printing equipment. We dug a well and septic, moved into a trailer behind the job site until our new house was built.

The summer of 1977, my senior class at the Tech School where I was teaching, presented me with a twenty pound piglet to take to Virginia as a going-away present. The students brought it to the classroom and had a good laugh as they handed it to me. I was tickled to get the gift, and looked forward to providing a good home for it in Virginia.

Now, I knew about bringing an underage girl across state line was against the law. I also heard that transporting livestock across state line was not allowed.

Well, I had a dog once, who teamed up with a stray pack, got into a sheep pasture, and was shot by the farmer. His vacant doghouse made an excellent container, and decoy, to carry the pig across state line.

I drove a Datsun pickup truck at the time. I loaded the pickup with crates, tools, outdoor furniture, and the occupied doghouse. I was all packed, strapped, and raring to go. However, with the pig in the doghouse, I had to nail a board across its opening. The first challenge came just twenty miles down the road.

At Philipsburg, NJ, I had to cross the Delaware River into Pennsylvania. Slowly, I approached to the tollbooth to pay my dime to cross. I kept a lookout at the doghouse through my rearview mirror. The opening to the doghouse was clearly in view and faced the tollbooth. Just as I handed the guy on duty my 10 cents, the sow in the doghouse decided to stick its snout out the crack and let out an alleluia squeal. Like saying, "yippee, I'm in Pennsylvania!"

Oh my! Fear and trepidation struck this old boy. My German upbringing smacked me straight up-side-my-head. I pulled from that tollbooth with one eye glued to the rearview mirror. First thinking that the guard at the tollbooth will surely shoot my tires out. After a couple hundred yards, windows open, I strained for sirens to close in on me. After a mile or two, I looked for troopers to eyeball me from the other side of the highway. For a hundred miles or more, down route 22, then interstate 81, I craned my neck looking for flashing lights.

Maybe the law sent a message ahead to the Maryland boarder, I wondered? Or ahead to the West Virginia boarder? Surely, the state of Virginia will be waiting for me to confiscate my baby sow.

I was shocked at the laxness of law enforcement. Clearly I had been caught. The proof was in the squeal! So, I trucked on, staying in the right lane, making sure I not infringe on any other law.

Then I came to view a new road sign. One I had not anticipated. "Weigh Station - All Trucks Pull Over"

Well, my German regimentation gripped me again. I was not driving our station wagon, I was driving my truck. A truck! Period. Not wanting to antagonize the law any further, I dutifully pulled off, along with the eighteen wheelers, onto the weigh station.

I clearly remember, leaning way over to get a look at the fellow high up in the glass tower, to see if he will let me go on with the heavy load on my small pickup. All I saw was a guy, his head almost pressed against the glass, screaming and frantically waving his hands, motioning me on. - - I didn't know you supposed to hit the scales at forty miles per hour speed. There I sat, feeling like a roach that landed on the wrong pile.

We named the pig "Lisl." I built a shelter for her and a fenced-in lot. She wallowed and basked in the Virginia air for more than a year. At over two-hundred pounds she finally filled two shelves in the freezer.
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THE HEADLESS SQUIRREL

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You remember the blog post about my son standing on his mattress with a stethoscope held to the ceiling listening to a beehive in the attic? ("That's My Boy," March 12, 2012.) Well, amazing stuff continues to happen in that family.

After having succumbed to a continuous weasel attack the last time they raised chickens, my son and his family again have decided to get another bunch of chickens. This time they improved the housing and feeding routine to a new level of scientific methods. However, a fox has decided to outsmart their dog and pluck a chicken a week from the flock.

All that said, the chicken feed is stored in a clear plastic washtub and stored in the henhouse. The henhouse fencing now may keep a weasel out, but not the squirrels.

Recently, when feeding time came, the simple activity turned into a backyard disaster. Lo and behold, the see-through feed container contained a squirrel that had chewed its way into the bin. It frantically scooted about inside that container trying to find a way out. As not to confront the varmint inside the coop, the girl feeding the chickens pulled the container into the backyard. This excited the dog into a frantic rage and the squirrel even more into an elevated panic.

When the plastic lid was lifted, the show escalated to a point I would have paid to see it.

The dog jumped into the bin and wrestled the squirmy critter, chicken feed flying in all directions, until the dog had a firm grip on the intruder.

Well, the dog having won the battle, wondered off, with squirrel in mouth, to gloat over his triumph behind the shed.

It wasn't until later in the afternoon, when the dead, headless squirrel appeared on the back deck. Our ever curious three-year-old promptly picked the critter up, and carried it inside the house to show his Momma. The boy, holding the thing by one leg, sashayed into the kitchen, tugged on Mamma's apron, and proudly held his find up for her to appreciate.

At that point a panicked, screeching scream reverberated through the house bringing all occupants to see the cause for the high alarm call. With shattered eardrums, the three-year-old boy dropped the squirrel onto the kitchen floor and ran from the scene.

My son held his wife to keep her from fainting. Their daughter fanned her to catch her breath, their other daughter offered a glass of water. Their son respectfully removed the headless varmint from the floor and pitched it over the backyard fence.

When things settled down, everybody was accounted for except for the three-year-old. Where did he run to? The search posse spread out; to the basement, to the backyard, to the barn, to the bedrooms. No square yard in house or yard was un-searched. Finally, the kid looked up, with frightened eyes, from the corner inside the utility closet.

Whew!

A Chicken's Funeral

Franz's symbol of wisdom

Recently a bit of local news reached my ear. Not a major story, but in my mind one I could mold into an entertaining tale.

To me a chicken is a farm animal. It does not mix with our flower boxes in front of the house. I don't like the residue they leave on the sidewalk, or the porch. I know the white portion of their droppings does wonders to speed up growth in a young man's mustache. However, I don't need that help any longer.

Several of our neighbors raise chickens for eggs, I never was convinced it is worth it.

To give chickens names and become pets, a whole new understanding comes to mind. I have a hard time understanding folks my age talking to chickens and calling them by their name. I guess it is the same as talking to yourself; at least the eye contact is there. When children talk to animals it gives me a warm feeling. I can see a child squatting to feed Darlene the Hen popcorn. I can also appreciate a young'un wanting a chicken eat part of a biscuit out their hand, or having a conversation with the cackling fowl.

Many-a-youngsters have gone to the henhouse in all kinds of weather to collect the eggs. Kids learn to feed them regularly connecting work with the reward.

Most chicken families start out with a dozen chicks. By the time they raised them to adults, everyone had gotten tired of the stink in the house. When they are introduced to the henhouse the folks soon find out that there are at least four roosters in the bunch. Maybe they keep one rooster. The other three will face one of two characters; 22 or AX.

Now the family is down to eight cluckers. No doubt the fox is going to get his share. Down to seven cluckers. The 'possum and the weasel are on high alert and both are going to win a stake. Down to five cluckers. The neighborhood teenager, texting and driving, is sure to whack one. Now down to four cluckers and one cock bird.

You can see after all this drama that the children now have become attached to the survivors to a point where they not only gave them names, but learned to identify them by their cackle, walk, and color of feathers.

Well, Darlene the hen one day overreached her assigned area. She stretched for a forbidden fruit, slipped, and hung herself in the crotch of a lattice fence. Dead as four o'clock.

I surmise at least one of the three children did a little blubbering. The oldest boy, ever the frugal one, suggested they put her in the crockpot.
"Absolutely not," the mother said. "We don't know how long Darlene has been hanging there."

"Dad! . . . Dad! We have to have a funeral for our faithful family member," Nat bellowed out.
"Okay. Get Jon the shovel, he is old enough to dig the hole," Dad said.
"Not just a hole," Bella the youngest cried. "She was my favorite. Us kids want you, Daddy, to have a funeral for Darlene just like they have at the graveyard at church.

Jon lovingly dug the hole. One foot square and one foot deep.

"A little deeper Jon," Dad said. "Deep enough so a dog won't dig her up."

The sun began to set. The sky shimmered pink and purple. The somber procession to the graveyard began. The deceased was placed in a red hearse. Jon the oldest, eleven years old, slowly pulled the three foot wagon to grave site. The younger children, walking single file, hands clasped, followed. Once at the open grave they sat on three chairs they brought earlier to the gravesite. Smitten and heartbroken they quietly waited for their Dad to begin the service.

"We are gathered here to put Darlene, a faithful friend and member of our family, to eternal rest. As the head of our household I'd like to express my deep condolences to the rest of the brood." Dad reached to his face and, unbeknownst to the others, wiped his smile to again match the solemn occasion.

Dad continued. "At this time I'd like to ask the rest of the family present to say a few words."

"I know you'll be happy again in chicken heaven. I'll miss you," said Bella.
Nat piped up and said, "Thanks for your service."
Jon, the oldest, always with the final word said, "Thanks for the omelets. . . Amen."  

Our Pet, A Member of the Family

The Day We Almost Lost Our Pooch

Our pet dog is a long time member of the family. He is eighteen-and-one-half years old.
Poor guy he can’t see of hear any longer. 

He sleeps a lot and wants to wee often in between to receive his treat.

A few days ago he was resting, sleeping on his side, when suddenly he let out a scream as if something was attacking him. He jerked, his legs stretched out and went stiff. He lay there as if dead. Carol panicked and stroked him on the floor. There was no response. She sobbed. 

The rush to the vet, about three miles from home, provided time for much consternation, kissing the dog, and crying. I kept the peddle pushed.

When we entered the vet’s office the lady behind the counter saw the distress on our faces and came running to our aid. She interrupted her conversation with another customer at the counter and took the dog from Carol’s arms and rushed him to see the doctor.

We sat down to get ourselves ready for the bad news.

The kind folks at the counter tried to give us some comforting words while we waited. 

Soon an elderly couple walked in. The elderly lady carried a black poodle in her arms. It trembled as its tongue loosely hung from the mouth. The elderly man followed her and placed a small cage on the floor of the waiting room. The cage contained a cat. The poor cat laid sprawled and moaned like a small child. The attendant took both to the rear of the clinic.

A large dog on a leash pranced in. He needed his shots. To the owner’s surprise, the dog had also gained ten pounds in the last three month. The sad result, he was put a a diet. Good thing he didn’t understand the conversation.

Another couple came in with one small dog each. The conversation revealed that they were the proud caretakers of five dogs, all rescued from the needle of death at the pound. The frisky little mutt in the man’s lap had on a jacket that said, “Local Bad Boy.” The dog himself only weight five pounds. The lady held her pooch, a female, a diabetic, with a pink cape on her back stating, “Mama’s Baby.” The pet needs two shots a day, she told us. She came in to have her sugar level checked.

Suddenly we heard a jap! . . . Jap . . . Jap jap! Mr. “S” our old warrior had revived, sending a signal throughout the clinic stating that, “I an’t done here yet.” We rejoiced. Our heats soared. 

We agreed to have his blood tested in search of a possible cause. The results were negative. Our guy had a seizure. Not too uncommon at his age.

The old couple, who brought in the poodle and the cat returned. Soon the Veterinarian entered the waiting room with two black, strapped shut satchels. The elderly couple sadly accepted one each. Out the door they stumbled. The doctor watched them go and enter their vehicle. The doctor took a deep breath and said, “I have never gotten used to this.” She stood there a while, obviously distraught, making sure the elderly couple was all right to drive away.

Life goes on, even in the world of pets. 

How To Get your Kinks Out

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I recently bragged about me training our seventeen year old pup a new trick.

Every day at 9pm I cut off his food and water. At around 11pm I'll leash him up and take him for a walk to do his dual business. I use a leash that late at night out of fear he'll wander off and be snatched by our neighborhood coyotes.

After the nightly duties, Mr. "S" is led to his cage. He enters, turns around, sticks his head out the door, and waits for his treat. I, the old fool, hustle all the way to the kitchen, retrieve one of his favorite treats, then boogie all the way back to see him waiting looking cute.

Like I said, I bragged about that, when my friend, very to the point, told me, "You didn't teach the old dog a new trick. He was the one that taught you the trick of getting his treat."

One other thing I should have learned from the old boy, is to stretch more often.

That sounds stupid, but I have had an MRI where the summary of the matter was, "Mr B you need to stretch more often."

I've had a shot into the hip, with no result, only to be told to stretch more often.

I have joined the Y, related my problems, only to be told to stretch more often.

I've spent a mint at the chiropractor, only to be told to stretch more often.

I've gotten numerous massages, only to be told to stretch more often.

Duhhhh.. . .

Our little pooh-bear stretches every time he gets up from the nights sleep, or from a nap. First he stretches his front legs, then his hind legs. No professional told him. How does he know? Maybe I should have consulted him all these years.


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My Partner In Crime

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Don't you all wish you had a child that wasn't a picky eater?

Well, in my day, Mother didn't let me leave the table until I ate what SHE put on my plate. And, by the way, Mother NEVER used the words, "What would you like?" We had no choice, not that there were many.

Now, when MR. "S" came along,

he became my buddy in crime. In the crime of eating everything that is strange and smells a bit out of the ordinary. At seventeen years old, he can't see or hear much any longer, but lo, he can SMELL. That little 14 pound rag-muffin can smell when I peel an orange, bite into a carrot, or open a can of sardines. Sardine juice, whether in oil, mustard sauce or Luisiana hot sauce, it doesn't matter; he is my pal!

He and I are much alike. He would eat a skunk's hind-end if it was fried-up right.

So, when the outdated Limburger cheese started to overwhelm the refrigerator with its highly attractive aroma, it was time to partake. "S" and I had overstayed our welcome as far as the smell in the frig goes. He was ready for action the minute I exposed the delicacy to the room.

Homemade bread, with a thick schmeer of the cheese on it, covered with a slice of raw onion, what could be better? A dream come true!

I rubbed a bit of cheese around the plate for him to lick, so my buddy wouln't be mad at me.


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SMILE ––'tis the Season

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Let me introduce the newest members to our family. . . . . You may agree:                                  As group they are a cheerful bunch.

This little group is a collaboration between my wife and me. I had some 6x6 pine posts left over. I band-sawed 6 eyeballs from an one inch dowel, painted black. Their noses are reshaped shaker pegs. My wife then showed off her design and sewing skills, and in no time whipped up the scarves and stocking caps.

Take a closer look as we introduce:

SNOOPY with his nose turned up.

DROOPY with his nose turned down

and POOPY with his nostrils flared.

Of course, Poopy is the baby.


Have a blessed CHRISTmas!
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Hear Ye, Hear Ye!!!

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The above was the header on my email sent to my three sons. As an aging father (over 50) often finds out, all practical tools and equipment, accumulated over a man's entire life, is fair game to the taking by the sons.

My twenty foot extension ladder has left twenty years ago. My ten foot ladder also gone. My stepladder, walked off, but was replaced with a new one, after my vociferous howls, as a Christmas present mind you.

I had a 22 with a scope, gone. Trailers, bush-hogs, plows, post hole diggers, post driver, sledge hammer, tools big and small. And yes, my trap. After the trap walked off, I bought a new one. Guess what? It is gone as well!

Hear ye, hear ye!! I need my trap. Either one! The old one or the new one. A groundhog has found my beautiful and succulent potted tomato, on the back deck, mind you! The scoundrel ate the green leaves, all big and small tomatoes, and the blossoms. What is going on. We had plenty of rain. Why this need for liquid? Liquid in my green tomatoes!

The first evidence of critter attack was when they ate my wife's decorative sweet potato vines. Then the marauder tried just one tomato. Then he moved and devastated the petunias. (notice photo). Just a note here; the next time you're in a fancy restaurant, and your salad or entree is decorated with a cute blossom, Eat the thing!! Then and there!! How else can you spite that belly-draging gluten who stole your mater's.

Why me Lord? What have I ever done, to deserve even one. . . . Blessing . . . Groundhog?

I'll take it all though. Happy to be a father.

By the way, I got my old trap back. Now all I need is my 22 back.
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