dog

Annie Sleeps Around

dalmation 2More on Annie, our foul-tempered, farting, fat, Dalmatian who only liked the neighbor kid across the street.

One of Annie’s loveliest traits was that it was impossible to keep her off the furniture. When we told the kids to go to bed, she was the first to hit the bed. Anyone careless enough to leave a bedroom door open could count on a bed partner as soon as they drifted off. A couple of houseguests were awakened by the crushing weight of a heavy, nasty, growling surprise when they didn’t shut their door securely. No featherweight, she’d heft herself on atop an unfortunate sleeper with no concern whatsoever for whomever might be occupying that bed. It was common to hear one of us yell out “Get out, Annie!” followed by a nasty tempered, low growl, then the padding of feet down the hall.

From another room, a from a muffled voice would let out a big “Oof! Annie! Get over!” There’d be some shuffling from that bed till she crowded that victim enough to get moved along.

Annie had no intention of going outdoors when we left. When she heard us making preparations to leave, she’d sneak stealthily back to the kid’s room. We turned to tables on her own day, announcing we were on our way out, making a great show of leaving, then awaiting her by the door. As soon as the door shut, she came prancing in the living room, prepared to jump on the sofa. She was mortified when she spotted us, dropped her head, and walked to the front door to be put out. It was good to get the best of her for once.

Tiny House Help

  1. Davis Creek campingWith all the recent interest in Tiny Houses, it just occurred to me I have a gold-mine on my hands.  I OWN a Tiny House, also known as a camper.  I can market it as a trial Tiny Home, a 160 square foot slice of heaven. For the nervous novice, I could arrange Mentored Tiny Housing on beautiful two acre resort on a quiet tree-lined street, not far from the airport and city conveniences.  For an additional exhorbitant expense, Tiny House Relationship Counseling could be included.  “Don’t fart when the burners are on.  Don’t eat beans.  Resist the temptation to mention your partner is gaining weight when you are meeting yourselves coming and going.”

For those who are thinking of sizing down AND starting a family, I believe I could provide the full experence by inviting one of my many nieces and nephews to run amok through the small space perodically, for an impressive charge, of course. Should they need to experience life with a shedding dog or a geriatric cat with complimentary catbox, I can also furnish that.  Before you pare down your belongings and sink $60K into a Tiny House,  give me a call.  I can provide an enhanced experience for far less.

If all goes well, I may branch out and have my own reality show.

A Hog a Day Part 3

Miss Bessie cleared away breakfast and remarked, “Well, setting here drinking coffee ain’t gittin’ my permanent put in.  If you’re still a’mind to do it, we better git started.”  Pouring a kettle of hot water over the dishes, she set another big pot on the stove to heat.  They got their water from a well, not a faucet, so I followed her out to refill the water bucket.  The well fascinated me, enclosed in a covered timber structure.  A bucket hung on a rope suspended from a pulley.  Miss Bessie turned the cover back and allowed the bucket to drop.  After a few minutes, I heard a splash.

“Can I look?” I asked.

“No, it’s too dangerous.  There’s a boogerman in the well!”  She warned.

At five, of course I knew there wasn’t a boogerman in the well, but also had learned long ago not to sass. Mother had foolishly assured me earlier there was no boogerman, a serious error on her part.  I’d have  probably been a lot better kid had she invoked  him periodically.  Maybe Daddy would hold me up and let me look down the well when he got back.  That wasn’t the kind of thing I’d even bother to ask Mother.  She was always trying to prevent any kind of fun.  I gave some thought to trying to look on my own, but feared falling in and somehow being rescued.  Daddy would warm my britches, good.  What I really wanted to do was get in the bucket and let myself down by working the rope hand over hand.  I’d seen a well dug and that’s how the men had gotten up and down, of course, that was before the water seeped in.  I’d have to think some about how this could be managed without discovery.

I pondered this as I followed Miss Bessie back to the kitchen with her bucket of water sloshing out on either side as she walked.  Mother had the home permanent ready to go by the time we got back in.  Home permanents were the hairstyle of choice for budget-conscious women of the fifties who were brave and not too fussy.  Women frequently cut and permed each other’s hair.   Mother was not a talented amateur.  She hated fooling with hair, but Daddy had volunteered her for the job.  He was good at that.  Her time and energy belonged to him and made him look good.  Miss Bessie wrapped a towel around her shoulders and settled in a straight back chair on the porch.

Mother got straight to work, cutting and perming as she went.  Dividing Miss Bessie’s hair into sections, she measured it, wet it with a comb dipped in water, wrapped it in a little folded-up square of white paper,  measured it against a mark, and snipped off every thing sticking out past the end of the curling paper.  Afterward, she twisted the paper-wrapped hair around a hard plastic spiky permanent curler, and twisted it tightly to the scalp.  I’d been subjected to this misery a few times, so was glad to escape outdoors.  I wanted no part of the home permanent process.  It was painful, smelled horrible, and made me look like a Brillo Pad.

Billy and I played in the cool, white sand under the high porch.  The dogs had thoughtfully dug  large holes to make the landscape more interesting where we marked out roads with chips of wood.  We stood up small branches to serve as trees.  Rocks made fine pretend houses.  From time to time a lazy hound pushed its way into one of the holes as we played around him.  Billy stretched out and took a nap across one of the hounds.  Bored with Billy sleeping, the conversation from the porch above caught my attention.

“Miss Bessie, how many kids do you have?”  Mother asked.  I couldn’t make sense of that.  In my mind, once people got grown, they had no parents.  Miss Bessie was as old as my Grandma.  Mother claimed Grandma was her mother, but it didn’t make sense to me. If Grandma was her mother, how come I’d never seen her spank Mother? Besides, if Grandma was her mama, why didn’t she live with her?  Why didn’t she sit on her lap?  I just let it go.

“I had them five big ol’ boys right off.”  Miss Bessie said.  “Seems like every time Grady hung his britches on the bedpost another one come along. It plumb wore me out.  If his mama had’na been staying with us I don’t know how I’d made it.  I had to help Grady in the field.  She couldn’t see well enough to do much, but she could rock young’uns and string beans.  All three of my oldest squalled till the next’un was born.  I thought I was done, then ten years later two little gals come along ten months apart.  Ruth Ann done fine, but I lost Susie early on.   She nursed good but never keep nothing down.  Grady got a goat but she never did put on no weight.  It ‘bout killed Grady to lose her.  I thought I might lose him.

I pricked up my ears at this.  Miss Bessie lost her little girl!  She must have been mighty careless. I wondered if I might be able to find her.  Maybe she hadn’t gotten too far.  Old people ought not to be having babies.  Miss Bessie looked like she moved way too slow to keep up with a little kid.  I thought I’d just look around a little.  I crawled out from under the porch and dusted off my knees.

”Don’t you run off and get lost,”. Mother bossed. “I’m fixing to put the stuff on Miss Bessie’s hair and I don’t want to have to go looking for you and burn her hair up.  Where’s Billy”

”He’s sleeping on the dog.” I informed her.

At that, she had to go check.  “Well, you stay right here where I can see you.  Don’t go messing around that well.”

”Yes, Ma’am.  I’m just going to look for Miss Bessie’s baby.”

”What?” Mother said.  She seemed to have totally forgotten about that lost baby.  Miss Bessie didn’t look too worried either.

Tiny Dog and Her Big Personality: Rescuing the Unforgettable

I was glad for the garage that sleety morning as I started out for my day shift. At least I wouldn’t have to stand in the cold and scrape ice off my windshield. As I headed cautiously out my slippery drive, I caught sight of a tiny red Chihuahua hopping down the middle of the street in the dark. Knowing how Chihuahuas suffer from the cold , I knew someone’s precious baby must have slipped out. Surely, no one would have intentionally left such a fragile creature out, so I stopped and called out. The grateful dog jumped in my car as soon as I opened the door. She looked like a red Chinese Crested Hairless Chihuahua at first. Shivering, she was chilled to the bone. I called work, letting them know I’d be late and took her back home. Upon inspection, I found her flea collar had slipped to fit bandoleer style, pulling her front leg out of line. Cutting the collar off, I saw chafing under her left front leg. This pitiful beast had been abandoned. Flea-infested and starving, she had horrendous breath, the result of muscle breakdown, After hand-feeding and watering her, I put a heating pad in a small box and wrapped her like a mummy. She buried up head and ears, still shivering and coughing. Bud hadn’t gotten in from his night shift so I left him a note and went to work. I worried about her all day.

I needn’t have concerned myself. When I got home that afternoon, I found her enthroned on Bud’s lap, cozily wrapped in a blanket, her food and water bowls at hand. She was crawling with fleas but Bud was unconcerned. I gave her a warm flea bath, which she welcomed, removed a few ticks, and treated her chafed leg. The next day, we took her to the vet who put her on antibiotics for her cough. She weighed four pounds six ounces.

We nursed her back to health before worming and vaccinating her. Her cough cleared. By the time she’d reached her target weight, her golden coat grew in. She turned out to be a beautiful, honey-coated Pomeranian, the sweetest little dog possible. This little rescue was so grateful for her home. Her personality blossomed. She got bossy, trying to get us to go to bed at eight every night. Ruling the roost over our bigger dogs, she pushed them out of their beds and confiscated their toys at will. She particularly loved Bud, who’d wrapped her in a blanket and cuddled her all day, her first day home.

If you are thinking of getting a dog, consider a rescue. They are likely to already be house trained. They are definitely grateful for their home. No one need buy a dog when there are so many rescues waiting. Even if you have your heart set on a particular breed, you can usually find one. People often buy purebred dogs thoughtlessly, then turn them in to shelters.

Annie’s Fish Hookectomy

We have a nice little wet-weather creek that runs along our property line, cutting through the middle of the wooded lot next door.  My kids played in the creek and in the woods all the time.  They were a few years older than Greg, our neighbor’s boy, so by the time he played there, he had Annie, our Dalmatian and other kids from the neighborhood with him. Sometimes, I think Greg was the only person Annie really liked. Greg got in from school and made his way straight to the pantry, just like always.  He filled up, chatted a while, and took Annie out to play. Before long, he and Annie were back.  “How do you get a fish hook out of a dog’s mouth?” I thought it was it was the lead in to a joke.  “”I don’t know.  How?” “I don’t know. But I was crawfishing with a piece of bacon for bait on my line and somehow, Annie jumped and swallowed the hook, bacon, and all. I just can’t imagine how it happened!” I could.  Annie pranced right behind Greg, proud of the long string hanging from her mouth.  Tentatively, I pulled it.  It was stuck.  Off to the vet.  As you can see from the xray above, the fish hook was imbedded in her stomach.  It had to be surgically removed, along with about five hundred dollars from my wallet.  Annie moped around for three or four days, with nothing to do but brag about her surgery.  Greg made himself scarce, not even checking on her.

Izzy

Izzy is our little rescue dog. He looks for all the world like an American Eskimo Dog, but weighs less than ten pounds, so I suspect there’s some Pomeranian in there as well. Like a Pom, he hates getting his feet wet. He’d strayed up a home on my niece’s mail delivery route. The homeowner was kindly fostering him but hunting a home. We’d recently lost our darling dog, so we ended up with him.

He’s adorable, so sweet and loving but has one quirk. He’s a runaway. I suspect that’s how we ended up with him. Given the slightest chance, he flees. He likes for us to follow him till he gets his run out, staying a couple of hundred yards ahead. When he’s journeyed far enough, he welcomes a ride home.

He’s a great lap-sitter and kisser. He’s fascinated with my glasses. One evening I took them off, laying them on my table. In a flash, he’d grabbed them, prepared to munch them up. Fortunately, I caught him in time. A few nights later, I knocked them off my nightstand. They bounced under my bed. I left them, thinking I’d retrieve in the morning when they were nowhere to be found. Then I discovered them where he’d hidden them in the bed, the earpieces chewed to a fare-thee-well. My new ones should be in Wednesday.

Elementary, My Dear Watson

Watson on my son John’s lap. Watson has no idea he’s too big to be a lap dog

Watson sleeping in the cool of the bathtub. When he snores it echoes down the drain and sounds like ghosts wailing.
Watson found a football and carried it everywhere till it got stuck in his food dish. Now he has a real conundrum.
Watson cooling off in his wading pool.
Watson with his precious Christmas Bone. He wouldn’t turn loose of it even to sleep.

Chicken-Killing Dog

A chicken-killing dog can’t be tolerated on a farm. When I was a kid, we had a young dog who started chasing chickens. Sadly, for Bowser and the chicken, before too long, he caught and killed one.

Mother didn’t want to traumatize the kids by dispatching Bowser to “live in the city” as opposed to city people who send their dog to “live on a farm.” So, she decided to traumatize the dog, by flogging it a few times with the dog chicken. fastening the dead chicken to Bowser’s collar

It took about three days of shame for Bowser to rid himself of that stinking chicken carcass. Bowser was a pariah, outcast from human and dog companions. Forever afterward, he cut a wide circle around anything chicken.

Lady, Your Kid’s Stuck in the Ditch

A dispassionate young boy pounded on my front door. Looking at me dully, he announced. “Lady, your kid’s stuck in the ditch.” I wasn’t expecting that on a cold, rainy morning. The city had been installing a new sewer system. As soon as the ditches were deeply excavated the rain started. It rained and rained and rained. The ditches ran like a river. My five-year-old, John, hadn’t been out for days. Finally, the weather cleared.

John was desperate to get out. I made a bad decision, agreeing to let him play on the carport with a box of toy parts. I checked on him every few minutes, glad to see him deeply involved in his favorite pastime, disassembling his toys and building something else with the random parts. In combination with an erector set, this could occupy him for hours. His dog, as always, was at his side.

Then, I decided to vacuum, my second bad decision, hence the pounding on the door. The kid pointed to the overflowing ditches where John stood, thigh-high in the deep running water. His little dog was running up and down the ditch, barking desperately. Horrified, I flew out and grabbed his arms, trying to pull him out. He was stuck! What on earth? I waded in, braced myself, grabbing him under the arms and tugged. With a strange sucking noise he broke loose. We both rolled backwards in the muck. Instead of relief at being rescued, John wailed,”Daddy’s boots! Get Daddy’s boots!” There was no getting those boots stuck deep in that muddy ditch. It turns out, John had helped himself to his dad’s knee boots, sure he’d be able to ford the ditch. Retrieving them was his major concern.

All’s well that ends well. My kid survived being stuck in the “ditch.” About four days later, Bud took a shovel and dug his boots out of the mud.