Sissy is attached to me. She is a one-person dog. She is also very shy, having been a puppy mill rescue.
We got Cassie as a companion for Sissy, since she seems more comfortable with dogs than with people. She is Sissy's opposite, outgoing, friendly, loving almost everyone who comes through our door.
But at heart she is Wick's dog.
If he is working at the computer, she sits at his feet gazing longingly, waiting for his attention. If he is sitting in his recliner, she begs to be picked up, so she can love on him. She prods him with her little black nose, snuggles into his neck, shines and cries for him to play with her, and sits on his shoulder like a furry little parrot.
If he goes outside to work in his garden, she stands at the window, crying her little heart out, begging to go outside and join him.
I am the one who takes both of them for walks, but they can hardly tend to their business, for wanting to get back into the house. He is the dispenser of treats, and they can't wait for their reward for going out.
Both dogs follow me to the bedroom when I take a nap, and want to sleep in the curve of my back, or the crook of my knee, or on my pillow, snuggled into my shoulder. But after about an hour, they begin to poke my face with their noses, eager to get back into the living room, where Wick is, and where the treat jar is.
Cassie loves to sit in Wick's lap, or cuddle next to his leg, or insist that he pet and play with her. she may jump into my lap to nuzzle Sissy briefly, but at the slightest move or sound from him, she is in his lap in a flash.
When I sit on the back porch, reading, drinking a cup of coffee, gazing out at the lake, both dogs beg to come out with me. But if Wick stands up, makes the slightest movement or noise, Cassie is at the window, pressing her nose against the glass, begging to go back into the house.
She even likes to ride with him in the pickup, to take the trash to the dumpster.
She and Sissy entertain us, playing tug of war, growling softly, stalking each other, face near the floor, tail in the air, wrestling and struggling in endless mock battles.
We are so easily entertained.
Showing posts with label animals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label animals. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Monday, November 28, 2011
Our Chihuahuas
This was Cassie's first major family holiday. She was a bit overwhelmed.
In the photo above, I am holding Sissy, our shy baby. Wick is holding Cassie, who has a black muzzle, as if she has been into the chocolate pudding.
She did not get into any pudding or pie, but tasted every crumb that dropped on the floor.
Our daughter has a large Golden Retriever, Emma, and two cats: Boots and Spencer. Our son has a Boston Terrier named Oreo. Cassie wanted to play with all of them.
Some were more enthusiastic than others.
The cats stared, hissed, and finally ambushed her. They never touched her, but to hear her shrieks, one would have thought she was being skinned alive.
Emma wanted desperately to play. But one little pat from a paw as big as Cassie's head sent her rolling across the floor.
Oreo is bouncy and playful, and a bit closer to Cassie and Sissy's size, but still big enough to send either of them sprawling with one mis-aimed leap.
They mostly played with each other, as they do at home, slept in their bed by my feet as we played Settlers of Catan, and did their best to charm bits of turkey and ham from unwary family members.
Sissy spent as much time as she could wheedle out of me, sitting in my lap with her head tucked under my arm, shivering if anyone else spoke to her or touched her.
After three days with 14 people, four dogs, and two cats, Sissy was doing her happy dance as soon as we got inside our house. Cassie ran around excitedly, sniffing to see that everything was exactly as she had left it.
They are sleeping the sleep of exhaustion as I write, snuggled together under their fleece blankets, noses still twitching at the scent of the left-overs we brought home.
They have no idea that in a month, we will be doing it all over again for Christmas.
Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Frogs and Rabbits and Other Lakeside Creatures
During this drought filled summer, we have seen more little rabbits than ever. When I take Sissy and Cassie out after dark, they are everywhere, their little white powder puff tails almost glowing white in the security lights.
They gather mostly in our neighbor's yard, because he waters and his grass is lush and green, unlike ours, which crunches like shredded wheat underfoot.
When we come out, they freeze in place, unmoving, except for their wiggly little noses, which twitch furiously as they attempt to identify our alien scents. Their long ears quiver, as they wait to see if we are going to approach or move away. When the chihuahuas finally notice them, of course, they feel compelled to alert the whole neighborhood, inciting all the other dogs to bark and howl furiously.
As the pandemonium mounts in intensity, the rabbits break free from their freeze, and scatter into the shadows, disappearing in an instant.
Most of the frogs we see are dead and dried little mummies, their tiny bodies lying in the sandy soil, victims of the drought.
The dogs seek out these tiny corpses, rub their faces on them, or pick them up to carry around until they finally drop them elsewhere.
As the lake dries up, the small critters are disappearing. We didn't see a single brood of baby ducks this summer. The frogs are running out of shallow water in which to breed.
We help as we can. We keep the hummingbird feeder filled with sweet nectar; we put our fruit and vegetable parings out behind the back porch for the rabbits, who devour them almost before I get back in the door. We keep the bird feeder full for the jays, sparrows, wrens, robins, cardinals and blue birds.
We can't do anything about the frogs or the ducks or the geese, except hope that eventually, when the lake returns, so will they.
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
They gather mostly in our neighbor's yard, because he waters and his grass is lush and green, unlike ours, which crunches like shredded wheat underfoot.
When we come out, they freeze in place, unmoving, except for their wiggly little noses, which twitch furiously as they attempt to identify our alien scents. Their long ears quiver, as they wait to see if we are going to approach or move away. When the chihuahuas finally notice them, of course, they feel compelled to alert the whole neighborhood, inciting all the other dogs to bark and howl furiously.
As the pandemonium mounts in intensity, the rabbits break free from their freeze, and scatter into the shadows, disappearing in an instant.
Most of the frogs we see are dead and dried little mummies, their tiny bodies lying in the sandy soil, victims of the drought.
The dogs seek out these tiny corpses, rub their faces on them, or pick them up to carry around until they finally drop them elsewhere.
As the lake dries up, the small critters are disappearing. We didn't see a single brood of baby ducks this summer. The frogs are running out of shallow water in which to breed.
We help as we can. We keep the hummingbird feeder filled with sweet nectar; we put our fruit and vegetable parings out behind the back porch for the rabbits, who devour them almost before I get back in the door. We keep the bird feeder full for the jays, sparrows, wrens, robins, cardinals and blue birds.
We can't do anything about the frogs or the ducks or the geese, except hope that eventually, when the lake returns, so will they.
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Chihuahuas Are Like Potato Chips
We used to have a Pomeranian. Frankie was with us for 16 years, and I always figured I would have another Pom when Frankie left us.
But instead, we rescued a Chihuahua, Sissy, 5 pounds of sweetness. She is a very submissive little dog, and totally attached to me. She is not interested in anyone else, which is hard on Wick, since he is crazy about her.
She does, however, love Little Bob, a Chihuahua who belongs to our friends Bob and Dean. She always wants to play with him, jumping and running and trying to get him to play with her.
So we decided that we would get another Chihuahua, a puppy who would love Wick, and who Sissy would enjoy playing with.
Cassie is eight weeks old, with a black muzzle, and she loves everyone, especially Wick.
But for ten days, Sissy avoided her, refused to sit or lie next to her, and didn't even want to go outside when Cassie was taken out for her house training lessons.
We had been told that Chihuahuas recognize fellow Chihuahuas, and that they were much more inclined to bond with their own breed than with other kinds of dogs. So we were surprised and saddened that Sissy seemed so unhappy about our new puppy.
Then, suddenly, yesterday Sissy initiated play with Cassie. They are so funny to watch, and such a source of entertainment to us.
So that's why I say Chihuahuas are like potato chips. You can't have just one.
But instead, we rescued a Chihuahua, Sissy, 5 pounds of sweetness. She is a very submissive little dog, and totally attached to me. She is not interested in anyone else, which is hard on Wick, since he is crazy about her.
She does, however, love Little Bob, a Chihuahua who belongs to our friends Bob and Dean. She always wants to play with him, jumping and running and trying to get him to play with her.
So we decided that we would get another Chihuahua, a puppy who would love Wick, and who Sissy would enjoy playing with.
Cassie is eight weeks old, with a black muzzle, and she loves everyone, especially Wick.
But for ten days, Sissy avoided her, refused to sit or lie next to her, and didn't even want to go outside when Cassie was taken out for her house training lessons.
We had been told that Chihuahuas recognize fellow Chihuahuas, and that they were much more inclined to bond with their own breed than with other kinds of dogs. So we were surprised and saddened that Sissy seemed so unhappy about our new puppy.
Then, suddenly, yesterday Sissy initiated play with Cassie. They are so funny to watch, and such a source of entertainment to us.
So that's why I say Chihuahuas are like potato chips. You can't have just one.
Sunday, July 03, 2011
Lost & Found
About two weeks ago, our Sissy got lost. For three nights, she was astray, dragging her little pink leash, despite hours of calling and searching through a heavily wooded area.
We had given up. The creek running through the woods has coyotes and bobcats, owls and hawks, so we were both secretly convinced she was a goner. Aloud, we both said, she is so little and so cute--someone probably found her and kept her.
The third day, we were on our way to buy another puppy, when the phone rang to tell us someone had seen her.
We drove two and a half hours back to where she was lost, and again called and searched. Friends, family and strangers called, looked, and prayed with us. Again, no luck.
The next morning, Wick was up before daylight. About 6:30, he came and got me, and again I called and called. I asked every jogger and bike rider who came by to keep an eye out for our little fur girl.
At one point, we were ready to give up, but Wick decided to make one more effort. About thirty minutes later, he emerged from the woods, dripping blood and covered with scratches, with Sissy in his arms.
Her leash had gotten tangled in a briar patch, and she had wound herself round and round the briars. Wick's arms and legs were covered with scratches from the briars, but he says it was well worth it, to find our Sissy.
God answered my prayers when he sent her to us, and He answered prayers when He sent Wick in the right direction to find her. God cares for us, even in the littlest matters.
We had given up. The creek running through the woods has coyotes and bobcats, owls and hawks, so we were both secretly convinced she was a goner. Aloud, we both said, she is so little and so cute--someone probably found her and kept her.
The third day, we were on our way to buy another puppy, when the phone rang to tell us someone had seen her.
We drove two and a half hours back to where she was lost, and again called and searched. Friends, family and strangers called, looked, and prayed with us. Again, no luck.
The next morning, Wick was up before daylight. About 6:30, he came and got me, and again I called and called. I asked every jogger and bike rider who came by to keep an eye out for our little fur girl.
At one point, we were ready to give up, but Wick decided to make one more effort. About thirty minutes later, he emerged from the woods, dripping blood and covered with scratches, with Sissy in his arms.
Her leash had gotten tangled in a briar patch, and she had wound herself round and round the briars. Wick's arms and legs were covered with scratches from the briars, but he says it was well worth it, to find our Sissy.
God answered my prayers when he sent her to us, and He answered prayers when He sent Wick in the right direction to find her. God cares for us, even in the littlest matters.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Sissy
Our new little dog Sissy is beginning to settle in, and has *almost* decided that Wick is not going to hurt her.
Being a puppy mill survivor, she is getting to know a whole new world, and every new sight and sound sets her aquiver, with a heartbreakingly worried look on her little face. Sometimes she runs to me for comfort, but usually she scurries under the futon, or the bed, or the bathroom vanity, and hides her face.
She has found a favorite spot to sleep, under a little lap quilt on the futon. she wants company, and if I am sitting elsewhere, she runs to me as if to be picked up, but the at the last second, runs to the futon and looks back at me to see if I am coming with her.
She loves tiny bits of chicken, pupperoni treats, and little bits of bread crust. She does not like to eat out of a bowl, but prefers to eat from our fingers.
When we go outside, she stays about six inches from my feet, constantly looking up at me and begging to be picked up. I guess grass feels strange to her, after spending so long in a crate.
Other than things we have done for humans, adopting this little dog is the most satisfying thing we have done in a long time. Rescue dogs are truly grateful for what is done for them. We highly recommend rescuing a dog, instead of buying from a breeder.
There are thousands of dogs waiting for a loving home. If you are looking for a dog, won't you give one of them a chance at a new life?
Being a puppy mill survivor, she is getting to know a whole new world, and every new sight and sound sets her aquiver, with a heartbreakingly worried look on her little face. Sometimes she runs to me for comfort, but usually she scurries under the futon, or the bed, or the bathroom vanity, and hides her face.
She has found a favorite spot to sleep, under a little lap quilt on the futon. she wants company, and if I am sitting elsewhere, she runs to me as if to be picked up, but the at the last second, runs to the futon and looks back at me to see if I am coming with her.
She loves tiny bits of chicken, pupperoni treats, and little bits of bread crust. She does not like to eat out of a bowl, but prefers to eat from our fingers.
When we go outside, she stays about six inches from my feet, constantly looking up at me and begging to be picked up. I guess grass feels strange to her, after spending so long in a crate.
Other than things we have done for humans, adopting this little dog is the most satisfying thing we have done in a long time. Rescue dogs are truly grateful for what is done for them. We highly recommend rescuing a dog, instead of buying from a breeder.
There are thousands of dogs waiting for a loving home. If you are looking for a dog, won't you give one of them a chance at a new life?
Friday, April 08, 2011
Freeze!
Wick and I went shopping for a deep freeze this week, an upright, about half the size of the one we had when the kids were younger. That one was the biggest one Sears had, and you could have buried a couple of people in that thing.
Thinking about that freezer reminded me of an experience one of our cats had with the freezer.
She was a little Siamese kitten, full of curiosity. She loved to jump into empty boxes, suitcases, paper grocery sacks--anything enclosed.
Our freezer was in the carport, so unless I needed something, it was out of the usual traffic patterns.
One day I went to the freezer to get some meat to move into the refrigerator freezer.
A couple of hours later, I realized I had not see the kitten lately, so went in search of her. She didn't seem to be anywhere in the house, but cats are good at hiding when they don't want to be found, and rarely come when called, so I wasn't too worried.
Later in the afternoon, I realized I needed something else from the freezer. Normally, I might go several days without opening the big freezer, so this was unusual.
When I opened the freezer door, I found the kitten. She was sitting on the bottom shelf, shivering. When I picked her up, her whiskers were frozen, and just touching them broke some of them off.
If I had not forgotten something from the freezer that day, she would have frozen to death. I guess there must be a special angel for curious kitty cats.
Fortunately, even though we have a new freezer, we no longer have cats. I just hope Sissy isn't as curious as that kitten was.
Thinking about that freezer reminded me of an experience one of our cats had with the freezer.
She was a little Siamese kitten, full of curiosity. She loved to jump into empty boxes, suitcases, paper grocery sacks--anything enclosed.
Our freezer was in the carport, so unless I needed something, it was out of the usual traffic patterns.
One day I went to the freezer to get some meat to move into the refrigerator freezer.
A couple of hours later, I realized I had not see the kitten lately, so went in search of her. She didn't seem to be anywhere in the house, but cats are good at hiding when they don't want to be found, and rarely come when called, so I wasn't too worried.
Later in the afternoon, I realized I needed something else from the freezer. Normally, I might go several days without opening the big freezer, so this was unusual.
When I opened the freezer door, I found the kitten. She was sitting on the bottom shelf, shivering. When I picked her up, her whiskers were frozen, and just touching them broke some of them off.
If I had not forgotten something from the freezer that day, she would have frozen to death. I guess there must be a special angel for curious kitty cats.
Fortunately, even though we have a new freezer, we no longer have cats. I just hope Sissy isn't as curious as that kitten was.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Indian Summer Day
Gaggle of geese, sleeping on the banks of the lake, heads tucked under wings.
One gander, neck stretched high, head swiveling, watching for predators.
Sunshine on our shoulders, warm as a hug.
Lake rippling in a light breeze.
Chicken salad, fresh whole-grain homemade bread, crisp lettuce, sweet onions for a picnic lunch.
Wick laughing as a goose eats stale bread from his hand.
Grandchildren running, climbing, laughing, shouting to one another.
Sated geese drifting away across the water like scattered bread crumbs.
Cast your bread upon the waters, and it will return to you ten-fold.
Mostly in the form of goose poop all over the grass.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Hummingbirds
Wick hung up a hummingbird feeder out on the deck a few weeks ago. We have enjoyed watching the tiny birds zoom around, and have discovered that they have personalities.
One is very aggressive. He apparently feels that the feeder is his personal property, and whenever others show up, he chases them away, twittering loudly. He then returns to the feeder, perches on it, and chirps, as if to say, I won again.
Another is quite cautious. He flies in circles around the feeder, finally landing, but can't seem to sit still long enough to drink. He keeps jumping into the air, turning himself around in circles, as if watching for the aggressor.
I've read a little about these birds. They are attracted by the color red. They "know" how long a blossom takes to refill its cup with nectar after a feeding, and won't return to that blossom until it has had time to refill.
The little aggressor doesn't know that we keep the feeder replenished, and that whenever he returns, there is always more nectar.
I guess sometimes we are like that with God; our human nature can't encompass the unending bounty of God's love and care for us, so we worry and fret, instead of waiting on the Lord to supply our needs.
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Frankie's Summer Adventure: The trilogy, part III
When I told our niece that we were planning to take Frankie to the vet to have his teeth cleaned, she asked if we would also take her kitten to be "fixed". I said sure, put him in the travel crate, and we'll be happy to take him along.
When we got to the vet, Frankie started his quivery routine--shaking, making little soft whimpering sounds deep in his throat, and poking me in the face with his wet nose. I told Wick to fill out the paperwork for the kitten and I would do it for Frankie.
The little girl behind the desk asked, What is the kitten's name?
Wick said, Beats the heck out of me. Call him Squirt.
She giggled, and then asked, boy or girl?
He said, Beats the heck out of me.
She giggled again, in disbelief. You don't know if it's a boy or a girl?
He said, Nope--it's not my cat.
Girl: What's he here for?
Wick: To be fixed.
Girl: Hmmm....well, okay, then I'll just put "Castorated", since that will work for a boy or a girl.
Me: (thinking) okay, first, that is not how castrated is pronounced or spelled, and second, the kitten can't be "castorated" if he is a she....but whatever.
The vet tech took Frankie and the kitten back to the other room, and we left.
When we came back in the afternoon, the vet tech brought out the kitten, and the conversation resumed.
Girl: Hey y'all, he's a she, so we "spaded" him.
Wick: Well, that's good that you didn't "castorate" her.
Vet tech: Who are you here for?
Me: Frankie the pom.
Vet tech: okay, I know where he is, I'll go get him.
He left. And he was gone....and gone....and gone.... and when he came back, he said: He won't let me take him out of the crate.
Wick: I'll get him.
He left. And he was gone...and gone...and gone...and finally the vet tech came back and said: he won't let him take him out of the crate either.
So I said: Oh, please--I'll go get him myself.
When I got there, the vet (a man) and the vet tech (also a man) and Wick (most definitely a man) were standing in front of the crate, and there was Frankie, backed up in the furtherest corner of the crate, doing a credible imitation of Cujo the rabid dog. Teeth bared, full throated growls, darting forward to snap at the three men, then retreating into the corner again.
The vet said: After all we have put him through today, getting his shots, being sedated, getting his teeth cleaned, I think he has had it with men.
I stepped forward, and in my lowest, sweetest, poor-baby voice, said: What's the matter, Frankie?
He lept into my arms, practically sobbing with relief. The vet tech said: He snapped at me.
Wick said: What's worse, he snapped at me!
I had Frankie cradled on my shoulder, like the fur baby he is, when Wick tried again to pet him--and he snapped at him again.
Once we paid all the fees, bundled up the kitten in her crate, and got back into the truck, Frankie wobbled over to Wick, sniffed deeply a couple of times, then licked his hand, as if to apologize for snapping at him.
Then he collapsed in my lap, fell fast asleep, and began to snore. Poor little guy, he had had a rough day, and the sedative still had not worn off.
We are back home now, after being on the road for the biggest part of the past three weeks, and Frankie has finally begun to relax. But he is still on his guard, afraid that his summer adventures are not yet behind him.
He is going to go berserk when we start moving back into the RV for the school year that begins next Monday.
When we got to the vet, Frankie started his quivery routine--shaking, making little soft whimpering sounds deep in his throat, and poking me in the face with his wet nose. I told Wick to fill out the paperwork for the kitten and I would do it for Frankie.
The little girl behind the desk asked, What is the kitten's name?
Wick said, Beats the heck out of me. Call him Squirt.
She giggled, and then asked, boy or girl?
He said, Beats the heck out of me.
She giggled again, in disbelief. You don't know if it's a boy or a girl?
He said, Nope--it's not my cat.
Girl: What's he here for?
Wick: To be fixed.
Girl: Hmmm....well, okay, then I'll just put "Castorated", since that will work for a boy or a girl.
Me: (thinking) okay, first, that is not how castrated is pronounced or spelled, and second, the kitten can't be "castorated" if he is a she....but whatever.
The vet tech took Frankie and the kitten back to the other room, and we left.
When we came back in the afternoon, the vet tech brought out the kitten, and the conversation resumed.
Girl: Hey y'all, he's a she, so we "spaded" him.
Wick: Well, that's good that you didn't "castorate" her.
Vet tech: Who are you here for?
Me: Frankie the pom.
Vet tech: okay, I know where he is, I'll go get him.
He left. And he was gone....and gone....and gone.... and when he came back, he said: He won't let me take him out of the crate.
Wick: I'll get him.
He left. And he was gone...and gone...and gone...and finally the vet tech came back and said: he won't let him take him out of the crate either.
So I said: Oh, please--I'll go get him myself.
When I got there, the vet (a man) and the vet tech (also a man) and Wick (most definitely a man) were standing in front of the crate, and there was Frankie, backed up in the furtherest corner of the crate, doing a credible imitation of Cujo the rabid dog. Teeth bared, full throated growls, darting forward to snap at the three men, then retreating into the corner again.
The vet said: After all we have put him through today, getting his shots, being sedated, getting his teeth cleaned, I think he has had it with men.
I stepped forward, and in my lowest, sweetest, poor-baby voice, said: What's the matter, Frankie?
He lept into my arms, practically sobbing with relief. The vet tech said: He snapped at me.
Wick said: What's worse, he snapped at me!
I had Frankie cradled on my shoulder, like the fur baby he is, when Wick tried again to pet him--and he snapped at him again.
Once we paid all the fees, bundled up the kitten in her crate, and got back into the truck, Frankie wobbled over to Wick, sniffed deeply a couple of times, then licked his hand, as if to apologize for snapping at him.
Then he collapsed in my lap, fell fast asleep, and began to snore. Poor little guy, he had had a rough day, and the sedative still had not worn off.
We are back home now, after being on the road for the biggest part of the past three weeks, and Frankie has finally begun to relax. But he is still on his guard, afraid that his summer adventures are not yet behind him.
He is going to go berserk when we start moving back into the RV for the school year that begins next Monday.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Frankie's Summer Adventure: The trilogy, part II
After we picked Frankie up at Jamie's, we went to visit our niece and her family. We went out to eat, and took Frankie with us. Of course, he can't go into the restaurant, but he would rather go, and stay in the truck, than be left behind. And since we have a diesel truck, we can leave the engine running, and the air conditioner on, so Frankie doesn't get too hot. (our nephew was aghast--burning diesel at $4.65 a gallon, to air condition a dog!)
When we came back to the truck, Frankie was standing on his hind legs in the back seat, anxiously watching for us. When I opened the back door, he lept out and landed spread eagled on the pavement.
Splat! I heard him hit the pavement, heard the sharp click as his chin hit the ground and his teeth snapped together. All four legs were pointing in different directions. He didn't get up.
I snatched him up in my arms, and my niece, who just finished nursing school, began to feel for broken bones. She said, "I don't feel anything out of place," but Frankie was inert in my arms. My heart sank.
Wick said, "He's breathing. Put him down and see what he does."
He sort of scrambled up onto his feet, staggering around, and bent almost double, nose toward his flank. He tried to hike his leg, and fell over. We couldn't help but laugh as he wobbled around like a drunkard.
I snatched him up again, and again, the brand-new nurse felt for broken bones, and checked his eyes, ears, and mouth for blood. She said again, "Everything seems to be okay. Put him down."
He continued to stagger around, but he wasn't whining or panting excessively, so we put him back into the truck and went to niece's house.
When we got there, he attempted to jump out of the back seat again, but Wick was too fast for him, and caught him on the fly. When he put him down on the ground, I was relieved to see that he not only was walking straight, but had enough spunk to bark at Jen's Labrador retriever, Sophie, as he pranced up the walk to the door.
Was he concussed? Did he get the wind knocked out of him? Probably both. Even though he is a tiny fellow, even somewhat dainty in appearance, he's pretty tough. And he still thinks he is big enough to take on a Lab, even after being down for the count only moments before.
Little did he know what the next day would bring.
to be continued....
When we came back to the truck, Frankie was standing on his hind legs in the back seat, anxiously watching for us. When I opened the back door, he lept out and landed spread eagled on the pavement.
Splat! I heard him hit the pavement, heard the sharp click as his chin hit the ground and his teeth snapped together. All four legs were pointing in different directions. He didn't get up.
I snatched him up in my arms, and my niece, who just finished nursing school, began to feel for broken bones. She said, "I don't feel anything out of place," but Frankie was inert in my arms. My heart sank.
Wick said, "He's breathing. Put him down and see what he does."
He sort of scrambled up onto his feet, staggering around, and bent almost double, nose toward his flank. He tried to hike his leg, and fell over. We couldn't help but laugh as he wobbled around like a drunkard.
I snatched him up again, and again, the brand-new nurse felt for broken bones, and checked his eyes, ears, and mouth for blood. She said again, "Everything seems to be okay. Put him down."
He continued to stagger around, but he wasn't whining or panting excessively, so we put him back into the truck and went to niece's house.
When we got there, he attempted to jump out of the back seat again, but Wick was too fast for him, and caught him on the fly. When he put him down on the ground, I was relieved to see that he not only was walking straight, but had enough spunk to bark at Jen's Labrador retriever, Sophie, as he pranced up the walk to the door.
Was he concussed? Did he get the wind knocked out of him? Probably both. Even though he is a tiny fellow, even somewhat dainty in appearance, he's pretty tough. And he still thinks he is big enough to take on a Lab, even after being down for the count only moments before.
Little did he know what the next day would bring.
to be continued....
Frankie's Summer Adventures: The Trilogy, part I
Frankie, our pomeranian, has had an eventful summer. Unfortunately, he has not enjoyed all of it.
Coming to the lake, he enjoyed. He loves all the rich smells of a lakeside neighborhood: other dogs, cats, racoons, even snakes slithering through the grass. He loves to trot around at our heels as we go up and down the stairs while working on the cabin, up and down the hill to the boat dock, across the street to visit neighbors.
He loves going out in the boat, standing erect at the bow, sniffing the breeze, barking at passing boats and at people waving from their boat houses and docks.
He does not love being left behind when we go on a cruise.
My dear daughter-in-law Jamie volunteered to keep him during that week. She met me at a town half way between our homes. We had a quick lunch, and then Frankie got a treat, a drink of water, a chance to sniff the bushes near the parking lot, and then it was time to say goodbye.
I carried him to Jamie's car, put him on the back seat, petted him, and said to be good. Right up until I shut the door, he was still wagging his tail. But when I shut the door and started to walk away, he realized what was happening.
Y'all, it was like saying goodbye to a child. He put his paws on the window, pressed his nose to the glass, and seemed to be saying Don't leave me!
In addition to having to stay at Jamie's for a week, he had to share house room with Jamie's pug Gracie, and Boston terrier Oreo, an indignity which added insult to injured feelings. Frankie does not approve of people who keep dogs in the house.
Besides having to share attention and petting, he also had to -- gasp -- eat from the same bowl as Gracie and Oreo.
Frankie does not play well with others.
When we came to pick him up after the cruise, however, he seemed to be healthy, and delighted to see us. Luckily, he had no idea what was in store for him the next day.
to be continued...
Coming to the lake, he enjoyed. He loves all the rich smells of a lakeside neighborhood: other dogs, cats, racoons, even snakes slithering through the grass. He loves to trot around at our heels as we go up and down the stairs while working on the cabin, up and down the hill to the boat dock, across the street to visit neighbors.
He loves going out in the boat, standing erect at the bow, sniffing the breeze, barking at passing boats and at people waving from their boat houses and docks.
He does not love being left behind when we go on a cruise.
My dear daughter-in-law Jamie volunteered to keep him during that week. She met me at a town half way between our homes. We had a quick lunch, and then Frankie got a treat, a drink of water, a chance to sniff the bushes near the parking lot, and then it was time to say goodbye.
I carried him to Jamie's car, put him on the back seat, petted him, and said to be good. Right up until I shut the door, he was still wagging his tail. But when I shut the door and started to walk away, he realized what was happening.
Y'all, it was like saying goodbye to a child. He put his paws on the window, pressed his nose to the glass, and seemed to be saying Don't leave me!
In addition to having to stay at Jamie's for a week, he had to share house room with Jamie's pug Gracie, and Boston terrier Oreo, an indignity which added insult to injured feelings. Frankie does not approve of people who keep dogs in the house.
Besides having to share attention and petting, he also had to -- gasp -- eat from the same bowl as Gracie and Oreo.
Frankie does not play well with others.
When we came to pick him up after the cruise, however, he seemed to be healthy, and delighted to see us. Luckily, he had no idea what was in store for him the next day.
to be continued...
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Monday went to the dogs
Yesterday, instead of cooking supper, I was lazy, and picked up a box of fried chicken at Brookshire's, as well as a pound of fried chicken livers, one of my husband's favorites. I sliced up a cantaloupe and some tomatoes fresh from our neighbor's garden, and baked some potatoes.
A pretty decent dinner, I thought.
Apparently, son's Boston terrier thought so too.
We currently have our own Pom, Frankie, as well as Gracie the pug and Oreo the Boston terrier (son's dogs) in residence. Frankie, being particular about what he will eat, rarely begs for table food. Gracie, being somewhat on the plump side, has never offered to climb up on the supper table. It had never occurred to me that Oreo, in addition to being a persistent beggar, would actually assault anything left on the table and swallow it whole.
At least until last night.
I got sidetracked before I finished putting everything away after supper. The bowl of chicken livers, a couple of chicken wings, and half a stick of butter in its dish were still on the table.
I went outside, leaving the dogs inside.
Now I don't know for sure that Oreo was the one responsible.
Nor do I know for sure that she actually devoured all that food.
But when I came back in, the butter dish was on the floor.
Empty.
The bowl of chicken livers was empty.
The fried chicken wings were gone.
I'm talking gone.
As in not even crumbs left behind.
Frankie had his head between his paws. Never looked up.
Gracie looked at me with her melting brown eyes, as if pleading innocent.
Oreo was laying on the couch, and when I tried to scoot her over so I could sit down, she groaned.
None of them confessed, but I have a sneaking suspicion that they shared the bounty of our leftovers that I had planned to have for lunch today.
And judging from what came out during her late night walk, a great deal more than dry dog food went into Oreo at some point.
Not that I am accusing her.
I'm just saying.
A pretty decent dinner, I thought.
Apparently, son's Boston terrier thought so too.
We currently have our own Pom, Frankie, as well as Gracie the pug and Oreo the Boston terrier (son's dogs) in residence. Frankie, being particular about what he will eat, rarely begs for table food. Gracie, being somewhat on the plump side, has never offered to climb up on the supper table. It had never occurred to me that Oreo, in addition to being a persistent beggar, would actually assault anything left on the table and swallow it whole.
At least until last night.
I got sidetracked before I finished putting everything away after supper. The bowl of chicken livers, a couple of chicken wings, and half a stick of butter in its dish were still on the table.
I went outside, leaving the dogs inside.
Now I don't know for sure that Oreo was the one responsible.
Nor do I know for sure that she actually devoured all that food.
But when I came back in, the butter dish was on the floor.
Empty.
The bowl of chicken livers was empty.
The fried chicken wings were gone.
I'm talking gone.
As in not even crumbs left behind.
Frankie had his head between his paws. Never looked up.
Gracie looked at me with her melting brown eyes, as if pleading innocent.
Oreo was laying on the couch, and when I tried to scoot her over so I could sit down, she groaned.
None of them confessed, but I have a sneaking suspicion that they shared the bounty of our leftovers that I had planned to have for lunch today.
And judging from what came out during her late night walk, a great deal more than dry dog food went into Oreo at some point.
Not that I am accusing her.
I'm just saying.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Zebras and rhinos and ostriches, OH MY!
Last week daughter Jeana invited us to join her and her family for a couple of days of their vacation, which we were very excited about. I mean, really, how many people's kids actually *want* them to come along on vacation! We were delighted to accept, especially since it was the day on which they were going to Fossil Rim exotic animal park.
If you have never been to one of these places, it's sort of like a zoo, except that instead of the animals being in cages, they are running loose, and you drive your car through the park to see the animals. When you buy your tickets, you have the opportunity of also buying a bag of food pellets (they look like pressed cardboard, and smell vaguely like graham crackers--they taste awful--and yes, we did taste them).
As you drive through the park, you can entice many of the animals to come right up to the car, by offering them these pellets. Apparently they taste better to the animals than they do to humans.
Since there were too many of us for one car, we took two, and divided the kids between us. The girls rode with us, and we followed the car with the boys in it. A good deal of our time was taken up with the kids waving, shouting, and squealing at each other from one car to the other. This was a show in itself.
One of our first encounters was with a large ostrich. Ostriches tiptoe like giant, fluffy, feather dusters in toe-shoes. Their long, muscular legs are a sharp contrast to their dainty steps, like ballerinas on pointe.
This ostrich stood right by the road, exacting a toll from each car that passed. The girls told us to put the pellets in the groove of the window, and the ostrich would take the food from there. The girls were right.
The huge bird pecked the food from the window groove, bit by bit, and then looked for more. I reached into the paper bag for more food, but the ostrich was too impatient to wait for me to deposit it in the window groove. He stuck his whole head through the window, his huge shiny eyes intent on the bag of feed, and his huge hard bill much too close to my face.
When I reacted by screeching, waving my hands wildly about my head, and making shooing sounds, the little girls in the back seat dissolved into giggles.
Knowing that we had a couple more hours of animals to feed, we reluctantly left him waiting for the next car, and drove on.
We saw many kinds of small deer, antelope, kudu, gazelles. Many would come quite close to the car, waiting for us to throw a handful of food, which they eagerly lipped from the grass. Lolly worried about them getting bugs in their food, but as Katoushka pointed out, they probably eat a lot of bugs on the grass when no people are around to feed them.
One highlight of our drive was the giraffes. I had never seen these tall, graceful animals so close before. One, a baby, was probably only about six and a half feet tall, and was very curious about us, bending his long neck to peer at us through his amazingly long and thick eyelashes. They remind me of sunflowers, on long, slender stems.
Another was the zebra, who ate food pellets out of my husband's hand, and allowed him to pet his soft nose, just like a horse.
Just twenty feet before we saw the sign that said, "Warning. Do not feed zebras by hand. They bite."
About half way through our trip, we stopped at the gift shop/picnic area for lunch under the shade trees. Since we forgot paper plates, napkins, or paper towels, we had to make our sandwiches on our palms, and eat the chips directly from the bag.
For Big D, I think the highlight of our lunch was the grapes. He had been hungry for fruit the night before, and asked if he could eat some. Jeana told him no, the grapes were for our picnic. He asked if he could have some strawberries. Jeana said no, those are to put on Katie's birthday cake. And the bananas were for breakfast. Finally he sighed dramatically, and asked, "Is there any fruit here that I can actually eat?"
A-man, our budding naturalist, told us many facts about the various animals we had seen. Near the picnic area there were large open-air cages of birds, which were fascinating. We ate a leisurely lunch, looked at the birds in the cages and the ones flying free around the picnic tables, and toured the gift shop, which was filled with all kinds of stuff, ranging from hugely expensive wood carvings and decorated ostrich eggs to games that promised to add to our knowledge of the animals in the park. I looked at the walking sticks, and seriously considered buying one, which I thought was eminently sensible, considering my past history.
However, I just couldn't convince myself to spend that much money for what was, after all, basically a big stick.
Since we had to be back in our home town in time to pick up Frankie the Pomeranian, we had to take leave of our babies at that point, and finish the drive alone. We left the remains of our feed bag with them, so that they would have more to offer to the other animals they might encounter. We did not anticipate that either the ostrich from the beginning of our trip, or a close relative, would be waiting for us around the bend.
He was standing in the middle of the road, wings spread to make himself look even larger than he was already. The road is too narrow to drive around him, so we slowed....to a crawl.....and finally had to stop, because the ostrich clearly had the right of way.
He held his head high, making eye contact through the windshield, and obviously waiting for us to offer some food. Wick and I looked at each other and shrugged. We didn't have any food. So we sat there, waiting for him to move.
He didn't.
He bobbed his head up and down.
He examined each headlight.
He inspected the front bumper.
He looked over every inch of the hood, the windshield, and the wiper blades.
He made the kinds of noises a large, impatient bird makes when people don't cooperate by paying their toll of food pellets.
He did not move out of the road.
We had been warned not to honk at the animals, so we couldn't honk.
We couldn't drive around.
We couldn't take another road, since there was only the one.
We waited.
And waited.
Finally, I rolled down my window and waved my hand gingerly at the ostrich.
Who assumed that I must be offering food, finally.
He stuck not only his head but his whole impossibly long neck through the window.
My previous squawking was nothing to the panicked gestures with which I tried to shoo this bird out. Finally he stepped back and allowed us to pass.
As we drove past, I could see him staring us down, and muttering to himself about people who trick birds by making them think food is being offered, and then stiffing them.
That's the first time I have ever been given the bird by a bird.
If you have never been to one of these places, it's sort of like a zoo, except that instead of the animals being in cages, they are running loose, and you drive your car through the park to see the animals. When you buy your tickets, you have the opportunity of also buying a bag of food pellets (they look like pressed cardboard, and smell vaguely like graham crackers--they taste awful--and yes, we did taste them).
As you drive through the park, you can entice many of the animals to come right up to the car, by offering them these pellets. Apparently they taste better to the animals than they do to humans.
Since there were too many of us for one car, we took two, and divided the kids between us. The girls rode with us, and we followed the car with the boys in it. A good deal of our time was taken up with the kids waving, shouting, and squealing at each other from one car to the other. This was a show in itself.
One of our first encounters was with a large ostrich. Ostriches tiptoe like giant, fluffy, feather dusters in toe-shoes. Their long, muscular legs are a sharp contrast to their dainty steps, like ballerinas on pointe.
This ostrich stood right by the road, exacting a toll from each car that passed. The girls told us to put the pellets in the groove of the window, and the ostrich would take the food from there. The girls were right.
The huge bird pecked the food from the window groove, bit by bit, and then looked for more. I reached into the paper bag for more food, but the ostrich was too impatient to wait for me to deposit it in the window groove. He stuck his whole head through the window, his huge shiny eyes intent on the bag of feed, and his huge hard bill much too close to my face.
When I reacted by screeching, waving my hands wildly about my head, and making shooing sounds, the little girls in the back seat dissolved into giggles.
Knowing that we had a couple more hours of animals to feed, we reluctantly left him waiting for the next car, and drove on.
We saw many kinds of small deer, antelope, kudu, gazelles. Many would come quite close to the car, waiting for us to throw a handful of food, which they eagerly lipped from the grass. Lolly worried about them getting bugs in their food, but as Katoushka pointed out, they probably eat a lot of bugs on the grass when no people are around to feed them.
One highlight of our drive was the giraffes. I had never seen these tall, graceful animals so close before. One, a baby, was probably only about six and a half feet tall, and was very curious about us, bending his long neck to peer at us through his amazingly long and thick eyelashes. They remind me of sunflowers, on long, slender stems.
Another was the zebra, who ate food pellets out of my husband's hand, and allowed him to pet his soft nose, just like a horse.
Just twenty feet before we saw the sign that said, "Warning. Do not feed zebras by hand. They bite."
About half way through our trip, we stopped at the gift shop/picnic area for lunch under the shade trees. Since we forgot paper plates, napkins, or paper towels, we had to make our sandwiches on our palms, and eat the chips directly from the bag.
For Big D, I think the highlight of our lunch was the grapes. He had been hungry for fruit the night before, and asked if he could eat some. Jeana told him no, the grapes were for our picnic. He asked if he could have some strawberries. Jeana said no, those are to put on Katie's birthday cake. And the bananas were for breakfast. Finally he sighed dramatically, and asked, "Is there any fruit here that I can actually eat?"
A-man, our budding naturalist, told us many facts about the various animals we had seen. Near the picnic area there were large open-air cages of birds, which were fascinating. We ate a leisurely lunch, looked at the birds in the cages and the ones flying free around the picnic tables, and toured the gift shop, which was filled with all kinds of stuff, ranging from hugely expensive wood carvings and decorated ostrich eggs to games that promised to add to our knowledge of the animals in the park. I looked at the walking sticks, and seriously considered buying one, which I thought was eminently sensible, considering my past history.
However, I just couldn't convince myself to spend that much money for what was, after all, basically a big stick.
Since we had to be back in our home town in time to pick up Frankie the Pomeranian, we had to take leave of our babies at that point, and finish the drive alone. We left the remains of our feed bag with them, so that they would have more to offer to the other animals they might encounter. We did not anticipate that either the ostrich from the beginning of our trip, or a close relative, would be waiting for us around the bend.
He was standing in the middle of the road, wings spread to make himself look even larger than he was already. The road is too narrow to drive around him, so we slowed....to a crawl.....and finally had to stop, because the ostrich clearly had the right of way.
He held his head high, making eye contact through the windshield, and obviously waiting for us to offer some food. Wick and I looked at each other and shrugged. We didn't have any food. So we sat there, waiting for him to move.
He didn't.
He bobbed his head up and down.
He examined each headlight.
He inspected the front bumper.
He looked over every inch of the hood, the windshield, and the wiper blades.
He made the kinds of noises a large, impatient bird makes when people don't cooperate by paying their toll of food pellets.
He did not move out of the road.
We had been warned not to honk at the animals, so we couldn't honk.
We couldn't drive around.
We couldn't take another road, since there was only the one.
We waited.
And waited.
Finally, I rolled down my window and waved my hand gingerly at the ostrich.
Who assumed that I must be offering food, finally.
He stuck not only his head but his whole impossibly long neck through the window.
My previous squawking was nothing to the panicked gestures with which I tried to shoo this bird out. Finally he stepped back and allowed us to pass.
As we drove past, I could see him staring us down, and muttering to himself about people who trick birds by making them think food is being offered, and then stiffing them.
That's the first time I have ever been given the bird by a bird.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
The Chicken Sheriff
After I wrote about our neighbor's free-ranging chickens, I decided it was time to call in reinforcements.
I called the city where we receive our mail. I was referred to the police department.
I called the police department.
I was referred to the sheriff's office.
I called the sheriff's office.
I was put on hold.
I was transferred to another person.
I was put on hold again.
I was transferred.
Again.
Finally, someone agreed to listen to my grievance about the chickens who peck, squack, cluck, crow, and poop indiscriminately all over our neighborhood.
That person said she was not the right person to handle my problem, but she would absolutely take a message and give it to the person who *is* the right person, and she would be sure to have him call me as soon as possible. At that point, I asked if she would llike to give him my phone number. She laughed lightly and said of course, that might be helpful, just in case he, you know, wanted to call me back.
I carried my cell phone around in my hand for the next three hours, convinced that he would be calling any time now.
He didn't call.
The next day, I put on shorts with pockets, so I could carry my cell phone around, just in case he called.
He didn't call.
Five days later, when we were nearly two hundred miles from home, spending a couple of days with daughter and her family, and I had pretty much forgotten about the sheriff, he called.
I had put him so far out of my mind that I couldn't remember for a minute what it was I had called about. You know how it is...chickens out of sight, chickens out of mind.
Finally, my brain kicked in, and I explained my problem. He sighed faintly, and asked where we live.
I started explaining.
When you live on a lake, you don't just give your address. You have to explain where your house is, relative to the town where you get mail, and describe where the section is that you live in, and where your neighbor lives relative to where you live.
But as soon as I launched into my explanation, he said," I think I know who you are talking about."
I said, oh, have you had dealings with him in the past?
Another sigh, not so faint this time.
"uhm...yes, ma'am. We know your neighbor. Quite well."
This is not a good sign.
After I reiterated that I have nothing personally against chickens, but I don't want them wandering around my place, pooping and crowing, he sighed heavily.
"Well, ma'am..... there is a leash law for dogs, and a pen restriction for pigs, but chickens....chickens, now.....there just isn't a law about them."
No leash law for chickens.
Who knew?
So after this discouraging comment, I thought for a few seconds, and then asked what would happen if I ... um.... sort of accidentally shot them or ran over them with the lawn mower.
He sighed.
again.
Twice.
Then he said, "It just don't seem fair, somehow, but if you destroy the man's chickens, he...well...he has rights to his property and livestock, you know."
Property?
Livestock?
Chickens!?!?
The long and short of this story is that he doesn't have to keep his chickens penned, but if I do something that results in diminishing the chickenn population on *my* place, the said neighbor could file charges against *me*.
At this point I sighed.
Heavily.
I thanked the sheriff for his "help" and hung up.
And started this post.
Anybody have a bird dog I could borrow for a few nights?
I called the city where we receive our mail. I was referred to the police department.
I called the police department.
I was referred to the sheriff's office.
I called the sheriff's office.
I was put on hold.
I was transferred to another person.
I was put on hold again.
I was transferred.
Again.
Finally, someone agreed to listen to my grievance about the chickens who peck, squack, cluck, crow, and poop indiscriminately all over our neighborhood.
That person said she was not the right person to handle my problem, but she would absolutely take a message and give it to the person who *is* the right person, and she would be sure to have him call me as soon as possible. At that point, I asked if she would llike to give him my phone number. She laughed lightly and said of course, that might be helpful, just in case he, you know, wanted to call me back.
I carried my cell phone around in my hand for the next three hours, convinced that he would be calling any time now.
He didn't call.
The next day, I put on shorts with pockets, so I could carry my cell phone around, just in case he called.
He didn't call.
Five days later, when we were nearly two hundred miles from home, spending a couple of days with daughter and her family, and I had pretty much forgotten about the sheriff, he called.
I had put him so far out of my mind that I couldn't remember for a minute what it was I had called about. You know how it is...chickens out of sight, chickens out of mind.
Finally, my brain kicked in, and I explained my problem. He sighed faintly, and asked where we live.
I started explaining.
When you live on a lake, you don't just give your address. You have to explain where your house is, relative to the town where you get mail, and describe where the section is that you live in, and where your neighbor lives relative to where you live.
But as soon as I launched into my explanation, he said," I think I know who you are talking about."
I said, oh, have you had dealings with him in the past?
Another sigh, not so faint this time.
"uhm...yes, ma'am. We know your neighbor. Quite well."
This is not a good sign.
After I reiterated that I have nothing personally against chickens, but I don't want them wandering around my place, pooping and crowing, he sighed heavily.
"Well, ma'am..... there is a leash law for dogs, and a pen restriction for pigs, but chickens....chickens, now.....there just isn't a law about them."
No leash law for chickens.
Who knew?
So after this discouraging comment, I thought for a few seconds, and then asked what would happen if I ... um.... sort of accidentally shot them or ran over them with the lawn mower.
He sighed.
again.
Twice.
Then he said, "It just don't seem fair, somehow, but if you destroy the man's chickens, he...well...he has rights to his property and livestock, you know."
Property?
Livestock?
Chickens!?!?
The long and short of this story is that he doesn't have to keep his chickens penned, but if I do something that results in diminishing the chickenn population on *my* place, the said neighbor could file charges against *me*.
At this point I sighed.
Heavily.
I thanked the sheriff for his "help" and hung up.
And started this post.
Anybody have a bird dog I could borrow for a few nights?
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Chickened Out
We have a neighbor who is somewhat (putting it politely) eccentric.
First clue: He has a horse in his yard.
In his front yard.
Now I have nothing personally against horses. I used to ride my uncle's horses, and have always agreed with Will Rogers, who said, "Something about the outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man."
However.
A horse in the front yard?
Oh people.
He fenced his front yard with wire, put an old bathtub out there for the horse to drink out of, and then wound yellow "caution" tape around the rickety fence. The horse has eaten every single blade of green, and has tromped the dirt down into the ground. He seems to spend most of his time trying without success to reach the blades of grass waving tantalizingly just out of his reach on the other side of the fence.
Occasionally, the poor horse is tethered on the other side of the road, where he gobbles great mouthfuls of weeds as fast as ever he can, meanwhile watching anxiously lest he be returned to solitary confinement in the front yard pen.
Next clue to our neighbor's eccentricity: Chickens.
Not only chickens.
Turkeys.
Guineas.
Domineckers.
Ducks.
Geese.
In the name of all that is fowl, what a mess.
He has a kind of pen, with a huge banner that says, "Fresh eggs for sale."
But obviously the pen has containment issues.
Because the chickens are wandering all over the neighborhood.
They scratch at the grass and dirt.
They peck at the flowers.
They squawk.
They cluck.
They poop.
They crow.
At all hours of the day and night.
They wander down the middle of the road, regardless of cars, golf carts, or bicycles.
Most of them have lost their tail feathers, due to the local free-ranging dogs, who chase them and bark at them incessantly, but don't ever seem to reduce the population.
Frankie, our Pomeranian, spends a considerable amount of time chasing them, but never manages to catch any. The ducks don't play fair--they run into the water, knowing that Frankie can't swim.
I told my husband if he would kill and clean them, I would make chicken and dumplings. He said he would rather pay four dollars for a chicken already cleaned, than to have to scald and pluck one.
If you have any ideas about chicken repellents, please let me know.
Because, you know, I am chickened out.
First clue: He has a horse in his yard.
In his front yard.
Now I have nothing personally against horses. I used to ride my uncle's horses, and have always agreed with Will Rogers, who said, "Something about the outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man."
However.
A horse in the front yard?
Oh people.
He fenced his front yard with wire, put an old bathtub out there for the horse to drink out of, and then wound yellow "caution" tape around the rickety fence. The horse has eaten every single blade of green, and has tromped the dirt down into the ground. He seems to spend most of his time trying without success to reach the blades of grass waving tantalizingly just out of his reach on the other side of the fence.
Occasionally, the poor horse is tethered on the other side of the road, where he gobbles great mouthfuls of weeds as fast as ever he can, meanwhile watching anxiously lest he be returned to solitary confinement in the front yard pen.
Next clue to our neighbor's eccentricity: Chickens.
Not only chickens.
Turkeys.
Guineas.
Domineckers.
Ducks.
Geese.
In the name of all that is fowl, what a mess.
He has a kind of pen, with a huge banner that says, "Fresh eggs for sale."
But obviously the pen has containment issues.
Because the chickens are wandering all over the neighborhood.
They scratch at the grass and dirt.
They peck at the flowers.
They squawk.
They cluck.
They poop.
They crow.
At all hours of the day and night.
They wander down the middle of the road, regardless of cars, golf carts, or bicycles.
Most of them have lost their tail feathers, due to the local free-ranging dogs, who chase them and bark at them incessantly, but don't ever seem to reduce the population.
Frankie, our Pomeranian, spends a considerable amount of time chasing them, but never manages to catch any. The ducks don't play fair--they run into the water, knowing that Frankie can't swim.
I told my husband if he would kill and clean them, I would make chicken and dumplings. He said he would rather pay four dollars for a chicken already cleaned, than to have to scald and pluck one.
If you have any ideas about chicken repellents, please let me know.
Because, you know, I am chickened out.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
The Trials of Our Fur Baby's Existance
Frankie, our Pomeranian, lives a very difficult life. He has trouble getting us to understand the simplest of commands.
We don't respond quickly enough when he wants to go outside.
We accuse him of barking at nothing, when he knows perfectly well that there is a child outside riding a scooter in his parking lot.
We buy him dog food that he doesn't like, and he has to go on a three day hunger strike to convince us that we must buy a different brand.
Whenever we offer him a treat of doggie jerky, he has to inspect it carefully, sniff it thoroughly, then take it off to a corner where he can examine it at his leisure, just in case we have tried to slip in a vitamin, heart worm pill, or something equally nasty.
We don't go to bed when he thinks it is bed time, so he has to bark at us and nudge us until we finally turn out the light so he can get to sleep--this, despite the fact that he has slept for a couple of hours on the couch in a brightly lit room--it is bedtime, and he needs for us to go to bed so that he can get some sleep.
Whenever we leave, he is seized with anxiety unless we take him along. He has to sit in the passenger seat so that he can be prepared to take over at any moment, if our concentration should lapse.
He is ever vigilant for 18-wheelers, which he knows harbor other dogs, and he takes it as a personal affront that they are allowed to drive on his highway.
He must also be alert for the presence of round hay bales; although you may think they are inanimate, he knows otherwise. He has seen them moving steathily along the roadway, on the back of a truck or trailer, and they might attack us at any time, with no warning. It is his job to protect us from them.
Also, once a person is allowed to enter our home, he is met with suspicious sniffs, a snort or two, and his departure must be hastened by Frankie barking at his heels all the way to the door.
He has to remake his bed every time I wash his bedding; and he has to roll around on it for several minutes to eradicate the odor of the detergent and softener.
Just when he gets comfortable on the couch, head on pillow, one of us is sure to make him move over by threatening to sit on him.
We are selfish with our bed pillows too, refusing to let him take over the whole pillow.
It's so sad.
Even after eleven years, he just can't seem to get us trained.
We don't respond quickly enough when he wants to go outside.
We accuse him of barking at nothing, when he knows perfectly well that there is a child outside riding a scooter in his parking lot.
We buy him dog food that he doesn't like, and he has to go on a three day hunger strike to convince us that we must buy a different brand.
Whenever we offer him a treat of doggie jerky, he has to inspect it carefully, sniff it thoroughly, then take it off to a corner where he can examine it at his leisure, just in case we have tried to slip in a vitamin, heart worm pill, or something equally nasty.
We don't go to bed when he thinks it is bed time, so he has to bark at us and nudge us until we finally turn out the light so he can get to sleep--this, despite the fact that he has slept for a couple of hours on the couch in a brightly lit room--it is bedtime, and he needs for us to go to bed so that he can get some sleep.
Whenever we leave, he is seized with anxiety unless we take him along. He has to sit in the passenger seat so that he can be prepared to take over at any moment, if our concentration should lapse.
He is ever vigilant for 18-wheelers, which he knows harbor other dogs, and he takes it as a personal affront that they are allowed to drive on his highway.
He must also be alert for the presence of round hay bales; although you may think they are inanimate, he knows otherwise. He has seen them moving steathily along the roadway, on the back of a truck or trailer, and they might attack us at any time, with no warning. It is his job to protect us from them.
Also, once a person is allowed to enter our home, he is met with suspicious sniffs, a snort or two, and his departure must be hastened by Frankie barking at his heels all the way to the door.
He has to remake his bed every time I wash his bedding; and he has to roll around on it for several minutes to eradicate the odor of the detergent and softener.
Just when he gets comfortable on the couch, head on pillow, one of us is sure to make him move over by threatening to sit on him.
We are selfish with our bed pillows too, refusing to let him take over the whole pillow.
It's so sad.
Even after eleven years, he just can't seem to get us trained.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Going to the Dogs
When we moved into this apartment, we were asked for a picture of Frankie, our Pomeranian, and his medical records (rabies shots, etc.), and informed that the weight liimit for dogs in this complex is 30 pounds.
Since Frankie weighs about 10 pounds on a heavy day, with full fur coat (not his summer cut), we were well under the limit.
Apparently, the managers only consider the weight of the dog or puppy at the time it is aquired, however.
Yes, there are many small dogs here. Scotties, mini-pinschers, toy poodles, rat terriers, and fluffy little mutts whose looks and personality are much more important than their pedigree.
However.
There are some who apparently did not read the terms of the lease.
They have overgrown the standard, some more than others.
For example, in the apartment directly above ours is a dog who started out as a bundle of white fluff not much bigger than Frankie. I think it has turned into one of those huge white Pyrranese dogs used for herding sheep--and it sounds like a baby elephant when it runs across the floor above our heads in the middle of the night.
In the apartment next to that one, we often see a black Labrador on the balcony. He is a young dog, with the sleek shiny coat of a puppy, and he is obviously lonely, since he whines in the most pitiful way when Frankie and I walk past below him. I just hope he never decides to jump off the balcony, because he would most certainly squash Frankie if he landed on him.
Another fellow apartment dweller has three dogs on leashes when we meet early in the morning. One is a definitely legal size scottie.
The other two--well, let's just say that if you put a saddle on one of those puppies, he would be in the same league as a Shetland pony.
Once in a while, we get a glimpse of a large dark hulking shadow peering at us through a patio door-I suspect it is a Rottweiler, but it is hard to say for sure, because we never see him outdoors except after dark.
Which is why Frankie and I take our long walks in daylight hours, and after dark run to the nearest fire hydrant and then duck back into the safety of our apartment.
Frankie is our fur baby, and we love him, but as a body guard he comes up rather short.
Of course, living in an RV, and now in a tiny apartment, what we need--and what we have--is a pocket sized dog.
Obviously some of our neighbors just had no idea how big their puppies were going to get, when they adopted them.
I would have thought that the size of those paws would have been a small (or rather a large) clue.
Since Frankie weighs about 10 pounds on a heavy day, with full fur coat (not his summer cut), we were well under the limit.
Apparently, the managers only consider the weight of the dog or puppy at the time it is aquired, however.
Yes, there are many small dogs here. Scotties, mini-pinschers, toy poodles, rat terriers, and fluffy little mutts whose looks and personality are much more important than their pedigree.
However.
There are some who apparently did not read the terms of the lease.
They have overgrown the standard, some more than others.
For example, in the apartment directly above ours is a dog who started out as a bundle of white fluff not much bigger than Frankie. I think it has turned into one of those huge white Pyrranese dogs used for herding sheep--and it sounds like a baby elephant when it runs across the floor above our heads in the middle of the night.
In the apartment next to that one, we often see a black Labrador on the balcony. He is a young dog, with the sleek shiny coat of a puppy, and he is obviously lonely, since he whines in the most pitiful way when Frankie and I walk past below him. I just hope he never decides to jump off the balcony, because he would most certainly squash Frankie if he landed on him.
Another fellow apartment dweller has three dogs on leashes when we meet early in the morning. One is a definitely legal size scottie.
The other two--well, let's just say that if you put a saddle on one of those puppies, he would be in the same league as a Shetland pony.
Once in a while, we get a glimpse of a large dark hulking shadow peering at us through a patio door-I suspect it is a Rottweiler, but it is hard to say for sure, because we never see him outdoors except after dark.
Which is why Frankie and I take our long walks in daylight hours, and after dark run to the nearest fire hydrant and then duck back into the safety of our apartment.
Frankie is our fur baby, and we love him, but as a body guard he comes up rather short.
Of course, living in an RV, and now in a tiny apartment, what we need--and what we have--is a pocket sized dog.
Obviously some of our neighbors just had no idea how big their puppies were going to get, when they adopted them.
I would have thought that the size of those paws would have been a small (or rather a large) clue.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
