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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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. 

Blind And Still Going Nuts

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You surely have noticed when a person was born blind, they most often have a much keener sense in hearing, smell and touch.

I think of Stevie Wonder, Andrea Bocelli, Ronnie Millsap and Ray Charles, all sight impaired. 

Isn’t it great how God shows his care for you. If we should loose one of our senses, He will compensate by adding extra awareness to all our remaining senses.

Of all the things I’ve ever lost, I miss my mind the most. Thank God he made it all up in taste. Everything tastes good to me! I’m blessed to get around pretty good or else I’d be 300 pounds.

Our aging “Rag Muffin”, Sir Sebastien, Mr “S”, the 18 year old shitzu, Is practically blind; also almost deaf. But boy can he smell.

I laid the empty pizza box next to the wood stove to be burned. The next thing I heard was this battle of grunts, scratches, snorts and yelps.

With the few teeth he’s got left he tore into the box as if his life depended on it.

“Where is that pizza?” he snorted as he drooled. “Got to be in here! Gimme, gimme, NOW!”

We turned the light on. More shreds of the box! Finally, with the box flipped over, tongue hanging, breathing hard, he had to lay down exhausted, panting.

All this durn work and not a calorie to savor. “Kiss my butt,” he said, as he wondered off to get him a nap. 

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119 Years Old In Dog Years

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Sebastien, Mr "S" we call him, has been a good old dog.

He is seventeen years old. Has just a few teeth left. But he can still protest. The only time he yaps is when his blanket in his bed is not situated to suit. He also knows how to drag his water bowl into the traffic lane of the room, so you'll fall over it. . . "Fill it!" He speaks clearly.

He can't see worth a hoot any longer. When he does make his rounds in the house, he tends to bump into things. After he does his business outside he gets a treat. We hold the treat about three inches from his nose so he can smell it, because he can't see it.

He hears not well either. When he was younger, he hid from us. All we did was bounce his tennis ball and he'd come running ready to play. Now, we have to yell his name, but he can't figure from what direction the noise comes from. We found the best way to have him follow us is to clap the hands. That sharp sound seems to let him get oriented more easily.

Have you ever seen a more pitiful little pup than "S" enjoying a good rubdown after a bath?

I didn't mention his smeller yet. There is not a thing wrong with his nose. Out of a sound sleep, and he sleeps twenty-three hours of the day, he can smell an orange being peeled. (He loves them). Instantly he can smell when I core an apple, when I pull open a can of sardines. (He loves the juice. My kinda dog). Pizza making makes him loose sleep. He can't rest if a slice is left on the counter. He even yaps at the slice, can't see it, but he knows it's there. He will not leave the kitchen until we put the leftover in the refrigerator.

We love that old thing!
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A Face only a Mamma can Love

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Our pooch, who is seventeen years old, is beginning to have some health issues.

"Regularity", S's proud statement, (S=short for Sebastien) is always followed with a head to tail shake, and a proud trot back to the house. "Another good one," he would say.

The other night, when I asked him to perform, just prior to a night's rest, he could not deliver. Poor "S" strained and hunched over and over again trying to give birth to his "Regularity". The next morning he valiantly hunched up and tried some more. No results. We thought it was constipation, however, blood ran down his leg indicating otherwise.

At the vet, he weighed a hefty 14.4 pounds. The same he has weighed for more than a dozen years. The Doc made him walk and concluded he was in pretty good for an old dog. . .  So far so good.

When the KY jelly and the latex glove came out, I knew, a few explicits from Mr "S" will soon fill the examination room.

Being held by the assistant, the only thing we could see was his pitiful face. To our surprise, we only heard an initial short whine when the intrusion was initiated. While the doctor's finger invaded and probed, all "S" did was stand still. He dare not move, not when on the hook like that. His eyes, seemingly twice the size as normal, did the only moving. Round and round they went, bulging, looking for sympathy.

The verdict: a ruptured anal gland and severe swelling in his rectal canal due to an infection. After three days of antibiotics, and pain pills. He seems back to old self, . . . loaded.

A follow-up doctor visit is tomorrow.

The Groomer's Dread

Mr S, our formidable fourteen pound Shih Tzu has a “thing” with dog groomers. If it were up to him, he would not offer two cents for any of those overrated professionals. Furthermore he would say, “They do not realize that I, AM, the customer and have certain rights. Rights to be respected. The right to a suitable introduction before the attack on my dignity begins. Heck, most of those clipper whacking maniacs don’t even offer a good belly rub, much less a treat!”

Several professionals had breathed, with glazed eyes and in total exasperation, “Don’t–bother–bringing–him–back!” We realized then, a sedative may be in order before the next grooming; a sedative for the dog that is! “A half of a pill should do it,” the veterinarian assured us.

We quickly found out, half a pill did not keep him from clawing, snapping and snorting when the so-called experts messed with his fuzz around his face! A half pill may make him tolerate a napping cat in the next town, but scissors, an inch from his nose,––no way!

A whole pill, enough for a big dog to become slaphappy, was our next experiment. We administered the drug, cloaked inside a piece of white bread, one hour before the appointment with yet another grooming expert. Our daffy fellow was delivered into the waiting arms of the new pet lover!

An hour later, when the beautified package was promised to be picked up, I entered the parlor and was greeted by a bewildered proprietor. Mr S was latched in a head harness and shivering in rage. “I could not trim his toenails!” announced the groomer. “I’ve never before seen a stick of self assurance turn into a writhing pretzel!”

So, I helped hold the little fellow’s head tightly against my body while his toenails were being clipped. His eyes pleaded for mercy. I calmly reassured my brave buddy that the world was not coming to an end. Each time he felt a snip he imploringly looked up and let out a wail combined with whimpers and snorts. Howls of death filled the room. I’ve never heard such expressions of extreme agony. Much pity was evoked. Finally, tearful hugs all around ended the visit.

Mr S’s words to us, “That ought to be worth two treats!”

S's Escape to a Wedding

Our Shih Tzu will not climb through the railing pickets on our deck. However, if the ground below is less than four feet from his nose he possibly would venture a jump–– if the reward was worth it. That is why, among other reasons, a dark green, decorative wire fence was added to the outside of the pickets on the lower deck.

In the Fall of the year, when the temperature is suitable, Mr S likes to bat around a few fallen crabapples. The deck is full of them. He chews on them, throws them into the air, and even takes a bite of some until the bitterness gets the best of him.

The old groundhog who lives under the shed has a different notion about the crabapples. He sought them not to play with, but to fill his belly. One day, Mr Groundhog was in the process of scaling the wire barrier when he realized the crabapples were guarded by mighty Mr S.

I did not witness the confrontation, nor did I spot any drops of blood, but I knew a battle had taken place. The wire fence, fairly stout and plastic coated, was mangled and skinned in one small area under the rhododendron. Teeth had obviously snagged portions of the wire and pulled it outward, yet within inches the wire had been yanked toward the inside as well. I can just imagine, two fourteen pound titans going at each other hanging two feet off the deck floor, snarling, clawing and trying to rip each other’s ear off. Mr S lost his two front teeth that day.

As I mentioned, the wire fence was added also for other reasons. Well, earlier in the year, on a pleasant day, Mr S was not allowed to ride in the car with us. He was delegated to spend the afternoon on the deck. Poor thing, our faithful little spark plug, did not get his wish that day. Having been outranked, and miffed about it, he soon figured out which part of the corral offered the least resistance. It was the full hight trellis in the corner, supporting the morning glories. Venting his annoyance, he chewed his way through the lath and to freedom.

When my wife and I returned home late that afternoon we were greeted by Mr S tied to a tree in the front yard. The message on the phone explained the happenings. Mr S had wandered out onto the busy road, was picked up by a passing car and taken to town. Apparently, when Mr S’s new friend found the ID tag on his collar she returned the little guy to his family. But, only after Mr S had the privilege of attending a wedding rehearsal ten miles away. He undoubtedly made new friends there and, moreover, a little pig of himself.

As always, he was happy to see us when we rolled in; although tied to a stubborn tree. His message to us was, “In case you forgot, to ride with you would have been MY first choice!”

Sebastien the Shih Tzu

S’s bowl is empty!

Sebastien, “S” is what we call him. A fourteen pound Shih Tzu heavyweight. Always fuzzy, whether long haired like a mop or trimmed to resemble a white rat; a cute rascal at any time.

When Mr S first arrived, he soon establish himself as the dude with an attitude. My wife and I are aware that a prompt and steady supply of food and water is a dog’s pay for being cute. This of course is besides the morsels of reward received after performing his daily rituals at selected spots in the yard.

Lo, forbid it however, if a careless adult should fail to promptly fill an empty water or food bowl! The display of indignation on Mr S’s part can rival creations of the worlds most talented theater directors.

His first act is the crumpling the nearby throw rug into a heap against the wall. Next, the bowl that dared not to supply, will be raked into a corner and properly addressed until it is flipped up-side-down.

If the neglect is still not attended to within Mr S’s narrow time of tolerance, he will not hesitate to reveal his agitation by radically confronting the small waste basket. Soiled tissues soon become confetti. Dryer lint, mixed with the confetti, will adorn the tile floor in a six foot radius.

Still snorting from lint in his nose, bug-eyed from hypertension, and chest pumped with rage, Mr S will return to the living room and stand staring until one of the zombie adults gets the hint.

One can imagine if such depravity arose while the caretakers were out of the house!

Well, first, one would not be greeted with a cocked head and cute expression asking, “Where is my deserved treat for guarding the house?” Nor would our precious child be dancing around our ankles just glad to see us home. No! Mr S would have the toilet paper on display, unravelled in an unbroken stream, from the holder on the wall, out the bathroom, under the cracked door, around the corner, all the way to the kitchen, as if to say, “Incase you do not understand, follow the white, perforated road to the problem at hand! You got that?”