The Christmas Puppy

Our good friends, Kathy and Kurtis finally relented to the pleadings of their 7 year old daughter, Terri and decided to give her a puppy for Christmas.

Kathy wanted something tiny and cuddly like a Chihuahua or teacup poodle. Curtis wanted something manly like a St. Bernard. For weeks prior to Christmas they scoured every animal shelter within an hours dive of their home, and also responded to newspaper and on-line ads. After looking at dozens and dozens of puppy they came up empty handed.

A few days before Christmas Curtis came home from work and proudly announced that he found the perfect puppy and that he had made arrangements with the breeder to pick it up on Christmas morning. He said it was a "pretty small guy" and that "the owner said it was the smallest in the litter."

Now Kathy's folks live in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma and they had made arrangements some months earlier to fly out for a brief visit with them. They were scheduled to arrive on the 22nd and leave on the afternoon of the 24th. Everything was planned down to the minute.

What wasn't in their plans however was being snowed in at the Will Rogers World Airport in Oklahoma City on the 24th. It looked like they would not make it home in time for Christmas.

In a panic Curtis called me the morning of the 24th and asked if I could pick up their new puppy and care for it until they were able to catch a flight home. A tiny puppy did not fit into my Christmas plans, but what else could I do but agree to "puppy-sit" until they got home. After all, what are friends for ?

We were having guests for dinner that night, but since I had prepared most of the meal ahead of time, and the table was already set I would have plenty of time to dash across town and pick up the puppy. I didn't see how it could be much of a problem.

The "puppy" turned out to be a 4 month old Great Dane mix. It was huge! I mean really huge. It took 2 of us just to pile him into the passenger seat of my truck. It also took 2 of us to pile me into the drivers side because the puppy was all legs, tail and tongue and he used all 3 non-stop and with great exuberance. Granted, he was cute, but he was also a serious driving hazard. He blocked the passenger side window and mirror, dislodged the rear view mirror, fogged up the windows and slobbered over everything.

I managed to get him within about a mile of my home when suddenly he began to frantically pant and whine. I thought he had to go "potty" so I quickly pulled off to the side of the road, snapped the leash onto his collar and tried to pull him out the passenger side door.

Well, as it turns out he didn't have to go "potty" he had to throw up! He apparently couldn't wait another 5 seconds until I could pull him out of the truck, because the contents of his breakfast and quite possibly his dinner from the night before were violently hurled onto me.

I continued to try and coax him out of the truck, but it was obvious that he had done what he needed to do and as such refused to leave the warmth of the vehicle. I was upset, but I live on a ranch and having a very large dog throw up on me wasn't the worst thing that had happened to me, but it was a close second.

Once I got him to my house it took a good 15 minutes for me to get him out of the truck. He tossed his head in the air and planted his feet firmly on the seat. I wondered if he was afraid of heights so I tried to lift him out. Actually it was more of a lift/shove/pull motion. That maneuver finally did the trick, but not without casualty. Mine. Somehow he managed to slam his big head into my right eye.

Finally I hauled him into the house. Apparently he not only dislikes travel, has a fear of heights but he must also have a fear of tile floors. I had to use the push/pull technique again to get him into the laundry room.

Since I had been expecting to bring home a tiny fuzzy semi-helpless little puppy I had arranged a very small but cozy doggie bed in one corner of the laundry room. The "puppy" took one look at it, tossed it up in the air and began to shred it. "N0 No" I yelled while making a grab for it.

Immediately , the "puppy" lost interest in it and managed to slip out the laundry room door. I could hear unidentifiable objects crashing to the floor as he thundered though the house. I flung the shredded doggie bed to one side and ran after him.

He mowed though the house with his tremendously long tail whirling like a helicopter. Everything in it's wake toppled to the floor. Before I could catch him he discovered an edge of the dangling table cloth and gave it a side to side jerking pull. My china, glasses, cups, saucers, silverware and beautiful center piece cascaded off the table in a wild cacophony of clatter as they shattered.

I lunged for the puppy, but as I attempted to grab hold of his collar he backed under the table with my frayed centerpiece in his mouth. His tail wagged gleefully and his eyes sparkled with merriment. He was thoroughly enjoying this insane game.

I crawled on hands and knees under the table and managed to grab hold of his collar but not before cutting my left knee on a broken piece of glass. A head bumped sharply on the underside of the table. It wasn't the puppy's !

I managed to drag him back to the laundry room. However, as I attempted to close the door he sensed my intention and tried to squeeze his bulky body through the narrowing crack. I stopped closing the door to avoid slamming his nose in it. With one hand on the door knob I used the other hand to shove him back into the laundry room. In the process I managed to close the door on my hand. We both began to howl simultaneously.

Once the door closed I slid to the floor. I was exhausted, disheveled, and smelled like dog vomit, but at least I was victorious. I badly needed a shower, I also needed to salvage the dinner table and finish fixing dinner. My guests were scheduled to arrive in approximately 45 minutes.

I hobbled to the bathroom trying to ignore the morbid howling and sounds of mass destruction coming from the laundry room. Glancing in the mirror I saw my right eye black and blue and swollen nearly shut. It matched my left hand which was now throbbing. Strands of my hair were stuck together, my knee was bleeding, and I smelled like I'd spent the night sleeping in a fermenting dumpster.

Sniffling, I turned on the hot water tap in the shower and began to peel off the stiff stinking clothes. Over the howls (mostly mine) and the running water I heard the doorbell ring. Wouldn't you know it? My guests were early!

The Fix-It Clan

This tale is a continuation of "Dyno-Might." It moves us into the aftermath of that fateful day. As previously mentioned, Tina and Albert's trailer was blown to smithereens when the over use of dynamite failed to dislodge a bolder in front of their house. So intense was the blast that large chunks their mobile home shot into the air and landed over 300 feet away. Most of the debris wound up on, in, or around Albert's parents home.

One item that did considerable damage was the water heater. It rocketed into the air and landed on the roof of Albert's folks front porch. Now his folks, Wanda Jean and Robbie Ray, were very laid back and pretty much took what ever life handed them in stride. However, a flying water heater apparently crossed some thin line and caused quite a commotion amongst the clan.

Now the interesting thing is that apparently it wasn't an issue of the large smoldering hole it left in the roof of the porch that caused the disagreement. I honestly believe that alone would have been acceptable. The crux of the problem was was that the impact caused by both the explosion and the flying water heater left the porch sitting sharply at opposite angles from the house. It canted off so steeply, that it made it impossible for the senior clan dog "Bare Lee" (don't ask, that's a another story for another time) to lay on the porch without rolling off.

Well about a month passed and the porch still hadn't been repaired. No big surprise there. After all, these things take considerable amounts of beer, tobacco, poker playing, and intense contemplation.

But, as with the passing of seasons, all things eventually take on a new light, and "The boys" finally came up with what they thought was a feasible plan. Tearing down the old structure and building a new one was, to them, an unnecessary amount of work. They reasoned that since the basic framework was sound, there was no need to waste valuable drinking time and energy to tear it down and then just to put it back up again.

In all fairness, I suppose I would have to agree that there didn't appear to be structural damage to the posts. The roof was shot, but the posts and deck looked fairly sound. Really, all in all, from an artistic point of view, it pretty much just looked like a hillbilly version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Because "The boys" had become the brunt of some pretty ruthless jokes after they destroyed half the town while attempting to remove the bolder, they decided to keep their current plan under wraps.

To their way of thinking, the simplest way to fix something that was leaning, was to push or pull it back into a non-leaning position. They were big men so brute strength, a couple of beers, a few sledge hammers, a couple of beers, a house jack, a couple of beers, various other implements, and a few more beers should have done the trick. But to their surprise it didn't. So they came up with another plan.

It is conceivable that the second plan may have worked if it hadn't involved another twelve pack of beer, a very long chain, and a truck that lost it's steering column in the infamous explosion.

Here's what happened:

" The boys" wrapped one end of the long chain to one of the foremost posts on the porch and the other end to the back of the ailing pickup truck. One of them (no one will admit who was driving) got into the pickup truck, took up the slack between the post and the truck, and in their own words; "we gave 'er a gentle tug."

Apparently after a lot of creaking and groaning from the porch, and considerable spinning of the trucks tires, the anonymous driver was told to "hit 'er a little harder and pull 'er more to the left" Now instructions like that are always open to interpretation. I suppose it's a mater of just how much harder "a little harder" actually is. Then there is never ending question of who's left is really left. The latter problem can suddenly become an even bigger problem when someone tries to steer a truck that has no steering.

While this ingenious plan was being implemented, rest of the town, Bruce and I included, had no idea what was going on up the hill. Our perception of that balmy spring day was blissful and positive. Until, that is, the 911 line dedicated to Wanda Jean and Robbie Ray shattered our calm.

I answered the line and said "911 what's your emergency?" (I was required to say that because sometimes folks called to check on the weather or to see if we had ripe tomatoes in sock. Answering the phone in a stiff professional manner sent the message that this was a dedicated line for emergency use only...of course ANY call coming on a line belonging to one of the clan members was always an emergency.)

I sucked in a deep breath and listened as Wanda Jean wailed into my ear "Well they done it! The boys done it! I need an Amb-ba-lance and the undertaker "

My right hand reached automatically for a second line that would dispatched the sheriff, the ambulance, and the volunteer fire department. "What's happened?" I asked as calmly as I could while I punched in various codes to alert first emergency responders.

"Well what happened is that they broke my wind chimes! Every single one of them is busted!" My mind went numb. I couldn't recall an emergency dispatch code for broken wind chimes.. was there one? I tried not to panic. I had been trained to remain calm at all times and to get all the information I could, so I moved past the broken wind chimes and asked "What's happened, why do you need an ambulance and the coroner?"

She shouted "Well it ain't quite happened yet 'cause the boys ran off, but I got the shotgun right here, and when I see them if they are lucky they'll just need the am-ba -lance, but if I'm lucky they'll need the undertaker!"

"Wanda Jean" I said " Put the shotgun down and Bruce and I will be right up." I hung up the phone, and canceled the first response teams. After that, Bruce and I locked the store up and went up the hill to what was going on.

We were surprised, although I have no idea why, to see her front porch strewn out over about a 50 foot area. The bumper of the pickup truck was laying in the middle of the road with a long chain twisted around it. The empty truck was laying on its side halfway down an embankment looking like a charred elephant.

We climbed over the debris, something we were becoming quite accustomed to doing, and reached Wanda Jeans house. Still clutching the shotgun, she stood in the middle of a gaping hole where a door used to be. She was crying and pointing to the ground. Apparently the loss of the porch and a considerable portion of her house didn't bother her too much...but the tangled mess of wind chimes that used to adorn her porch was a transgression not soon to be forgiven.

Dyno-Might!

In addition to ranching, until recently we also operated a small mom and pop General Store in a neighboring town. The store was built in the early 1900's and oozed with country ambiance. It had old hardwood floors that were pock marked from the spikes on loggers boots, and permanently stained black spots from the grime on miners boots. It also had an old 4 foot tall pot belly stove surrounded with antique whitewashed wooden benches.

Our little General Store and it's pot belly stove served as the hub of the community. People sometimes came in just for a cup of coffee and a place to warm their toes. It was around that stove that the problems of the world were discussed and solved in plain simple language.

We knew each of the townsfolk by their first name and also knew more about their personal lives than we had a right to know. Small town talk, small town gossip and small town confessions all took place in front of that stove.

We became very close to one particular family that you'd most likely have to describe as "back hill folks." If you were to meet them you would think that this back hill family, with it's kin more plentiful than the fleas on their hounds, stepped right out of the pages of John Steinbeck's novel: The Grapes of Wrath. They looked and sounded the part, but they were the most sincere, honest and friendliest people we had ever met. They were also a never ending source of entertainment with their "accidental antics." God help us, they are still our friends. (Think National Lampoon's A Christmas Vacation.)

One of the younger clan members, Albert and his wife Tina, lived in a single wide mobile home just up the hill about a quarter of a mile from our store. At the time of this tale, Tina was 7 months pregnant, and looked like she was about to give birth to twin baby hippopotamus. I'd never seen any one's belly swell up so big.

Well, one fateful day Tina stepped out of their mobile home and fell for the ten millionth time over a large boulder that protruded out of the ground just about a foot from the bottom step of their trailer. That boulder had been there forever, and why Albert and his clan pulled the trailer into that exact spot we will never know. It was a death defying obstacle for anyone trying to enter or leave their home.

So on that day, Tina had fallen while carrying a large load of clean laundry out to be hung on the line. Since it had rained the night before the bolder was exceptionally slick. She came up out of the mud kicking and spitting and told Al he had to either move the trailer , move the bolder or she was moving out!

Now, in case you don't know this, it's never wise to challenge a guy from the back woods. He'll think on it a bit and come up with what he thinks is the simplest solution. I'm not saying Al is lazy, I'm just saying that if there is a difficult, albeit right way, of doing something and a seemingly simpler way of doing something ... albeit totally insane, he'll choose the later.

After a 12 pack of beer and a meeting with all the men folk in the clan, an idea was hatched to dig a hole about a foot deep on the back side of the rock and plant a small load of dynamite to dislodge the menace.

We didn't learn of the plan until the men came into the store for two more 12 packs of beer. We tried desperately to talk them out of it, but they wouldn't hear of it. On the up side, were pleased to learn that they at least had the common sense to evacuate the women and children from the immediate area... maybe they sent them away just to shut them up. Either way, it was good.

Several hours passed and the afternoon began to wane into a peaceful spring dusk. Since hours had passed and we hadn't heard any blasting, we assumed the clan had reconsidered the idea of blowing the bolder out of the ground. We joked that perhaps they had thankfully passed out from the beer and were sleeping in heaps atop the bolder.

Suddenly we heard a small explosion. It wasn't big enough to concern us, so my husband and I looked at each other, with raised eyebrows and gave each other a knowing nod that said "Ahh, "The boys" went ahead and blew the rock after all."

I should mention that our store was not only the hub of the town in an ascetic way, it also housed the local 911 emergency switchboard. Our job was to sell merchandise, sooth heartbreaks, burp crying babies, bandage skinned knees, and answer the 911 calls for the town. We were also part of the volunteer fire department, volunteer sheriffs team, and the volunteer search and rescue...oh, and the volunteer animal control.

After the little blast, we turned our attention to the switch board. To our relief it didn't light up. Apparently, and surprisingly, all had gone well.

Before long, night was trying to settle on the sleepy hills of our town. One by one the lights in houses came on. People lit their wood stoves and the crisp night air filled with the delightful scents of dozens of dinners cooking.

After a long day it was time for my husband, Bruce, and I to close the store. I gave a yawn, and reached up to pull down the large antique canvas shades that had covered the front windows of the store for the past 60 years. Just as the first one reached the bottom of the window sill, I heard Bruce say something from further back in the store. I don't quite recall exactly what it was, but I think it had something to do with being thankful "The boys" hadn't blown up the whole town.

The next thing I remember, I was sprawled on the hardwood floor with the front curtains draped over me . Through my ringing ears, I heard the sound of glass breaking, wood shattering and merchandise crashing to the floor throughout the store.

The 911 phone lines on the switchboard somewhere in the debris above me began to shrill with multiple calls coming in. Someone in town (besides us?) needed help. I fought my way out from under the curtains, wood splinters, glass shards and something slimy and gooey that I prayed was canned peaches and not my brains seeping out.

I screamed for Bruce and prayed he was alright. When I finally heard him mumble a response, my heart beat steadied a bit.

When at last was able to free myself from the rest of the rubble and pull myself to my feet I saw Bruce walking zombie like down the dry goods isle covered in what looked like the ingredients for an amazingly large cake. Flour, sugar and maybe even salt...who could tell?

I turned my attention to the 911 switchboard. Not a single line was free. I took the call from Al and Tina's line first, fearing the worst.

I was relieved to hear Tina drawl "hallo ? hallo? " on the other end of the line. All I could say was "Damn it Tina what happened? Do you need an ambulance?" Is everyone ok? The fire department will be up soon! What happened?"

My heart thumped as she sobbed and quietly said "Well The boys blew up that widower making hell rock and I guess they did a fine job of it." Then she wailed "But we ain't got no house no more! Most of it is over at Daddy's place in pieces." ("Daddy" was Al's father who lived about the equivalent of a city block away from them.)

The door of the store was blocked so Bruce and I crawled though the shattered front window and rushed to the scene of the "accident." Once there we surveyed the situation and took reports. It seems that the first try didn't even budge the massive bolder so "The boys" deiced to give it the "full payload" They grinned sheepishly and said "It were the rock or us by then ya know."

The next morning when the dust had settle the town was amazed to see the full extent of damage caused by the "full payload" discharged by "The boys." Not only had it blown the trailer to shreds, it demolished 3 pickup trucks, leveled a wood shed across the street, deafened a stray dog, singed a cat's tail, blew out more than half of the windows in the town, and left a crater large enough to bury 2 full grown elephants in. Ironically, the bolder still sat quietly and defiantly in place.

'Twas The Night Before Calving.

There is a general consensus that cows are very slow witted. Some folks go as far as to say they are profoundly stupid. I disagree. I think they are extremely smart and have an aloof personality not unlike that of a cat. True, they do what they want, when they want to do it, and they do it on their own terms. I think that puts them in a category of having a pretty high level of intelligence.

We raise a few head of cattle here on the the ranch. To be exact, we have a tiny heard of tiny miniature cows. They average about 40 inches tall. They apparently don't know they are small because they have large attitudes. That is especially true of "Soul Fire", our bull. Like most bulls, he fluctuates between a calm semi- sweet mode and a testosterone driven killer mode. He switches them back and forth like a human bull switches channels on a television.

Because we are never sure how Soul Fire will react in any given situation we always give him a wide berth and move cautiously around him. Did I mention he has a set of full sized horns that add to our need for caution ?

A little while back one of our cows "Twinkle" was getting ready to give birth. As the expected date grew near we watched anxiously for signs of labor. When at last the tell-tell signs appeared we decided it was time to separate her from the bull and rest of the herd and move her the birthing pen. That task is generally easy and creates no problems, however things didn't go quite as planned this time.

For some reason Twinkle, who is generally sweet and cooperative, got it into her head that she did not want to go into the birthing pen. No amount of coaxing, prodding, pleading, trickery, tomfoolery, or copious amounts of hay and grain could get her to change her mind. Fact: She was not going into the pen.

The following are notes I've made in the Calving Journal:

(Note to self: When attempting to lure a pregnant cow into the birthing pen mind where your hind-end is, and do not back into the electric fence wire. Backing into the electric fence wire causes a sudden explosion of energy that catapults a person forward into the metal gate.

Catapulting into the metal gate can cause that person to cut her hand on a sharp corner of latch. Cutting that persons hand on the gate can cause that person to yelp in pain, jump backward and hit the electric fence again.

Result? That person is overcome with an indefinably long period of a numbing sensation from head to toe that can cause that persons feet and mind to go completely numb.

Result? Trying to walk with a numb mind and numb feet can cause that person to trip over a rock and fall face down.

Result? There is a 100% chance the pregnant cow will spook due to all the commotion and run to the opposite side of the pasture.

Result? Numb minded, numb footed, bleeding person will most likely trot after the frightened pregnant cow in an attempt to lure her back to the point of origin and the gate of the birthing pen.

Result? Moving from the shelter of the birthing pen, the bull can now see the numb minded, numb footed, bleeding and let's now add stupid person chasing after the love of his life. This causes him to become irritated and he charges toward them.

Result? Husband of numb minded, numb footed, bleeding, stupid person, hollers to her with a warning that the bull is headed toward her and not looking at all happy with the current situation in his pasture.... Dah!

Result? Stupid, numb minded, numb footed, bleeding, frightened, person trotting after the pregnant cow now realizes there is no way she can outrun the irritated bull and his big horns, so she dives into an outcropping of large over-grown black berry bushes.

Result? Bull show signs of being much smarter than stupid, numb minded, numb footed, bleeding, frightened person hiding in the black berry bushes. He begins to calmly graze on the berry leaves a few feet from her face while blocking any means of escape and waiting patiently for the opportunity to charge her once she moves into the open.

Result? Stupid, numb minded, numb footed, frightened, bleeding person begins to bleed more profusely from being pricked by the thorns of the ancient black berry bushes, nearly pees her pants and screams for help.

Result? Calm husband saves the day by tossing a half bale of hay over the fence on the opposite side of the pasture so stupid, numb minded, numb footed, profusely bleeding, frightened person can rapidly escape over the electric fence.

Result? Once the bull moves from the immediate area, stupid, stupid, stupid, numb minded, numb footed, frightened, and profusely bleeding person lets out a war whoop and dives head first over the electric fence. She most likely looks like a world class high diving champion as she lands safely, albeit painfully, on the rocky ground outside the pasture.

Result? Husband emerges from the barn and yells "OK, the fence if off, you can climb out now... hey...where are you?"

Result? Husband gets an ear full of unique and descriptive adjectives as stupid, numb minded, numb footed, profusely bleeding, frightened, angry person, limps toward him with clinched teeth and fists.

Final result? When husband is reunited with his angry, limping, stupid, numb minded, numb footed, frightened, bleeding wife who, by the way, is still spewing foreign sounding words from her mouth, they notice the pregnant cow is totally missing. She is nowhere in sight. The bull and the rest of the herd are munching cheerfully on their new bounty of hay, but there is no sign of the pregnant cow.

Ahh hah! When finally located it was duly noted that the pregnant cow had miraculously walked up into the birthing pen on her own and was in the early stages of an easy labor.
End Notes to self)

Memo to Self: Never try to outsmart a pregnant cow and her vicious mate.

Bears Make Strange Fireside Guests!

My husband, Bruce, and I have a deep fondness for nature. We enjoy everything about the outdoors, and in particular camping. Now when I say "camping," I'm not talking about hauling all the necessities of home to an established campsite or R.V. Park. I'm talking about setting up a camp in the middle of untamed wilderness.

We have a good friend whose idea of "Camping" is sleeping with his windows open, and another who drives a 100 thousand dollar giant motor home into a KOA campground and turns his kids loose with skateboards, I-Pods and dirt bikes. So, lose that image of camping and think of our outings as being more like Lewis and Clark...or even Star Trek ("Where no man has ever gone before.")

Alright, well if you have the picture let me tell you about a particular camping trip we had not too terribly long ago. We are, as I have established, seasoned campers. We know all the rules of wilderness camping, and we take the necessary safety precautions. That is...most of the time.

Here's what happened: On this particular outing I was cursed with one of the most piercing migraine headaches that I think any human has ever endured. I kept thinking maybe I had been shot in the head and didn't know it. There were no holes and no blood, but still I kept checking...it was that bad.

This particular night we had followed an old abandoned logging road that wound us up around and though a dense forest. We were fortunate to find a fairly even spot next to a babbling creek that offered an ideal spot to spend the night.

Thinking that maybe a good hot meal would help matters, Bruce lit a campfire and I began to unload the food from two monstrously large ice chests in our trusty old CJ-7 Jeep. We may be fond of wilderness camping, but food is not something we sacrifice in order to participate in the sport. We eat very very well.

While I sizzled 2 steaks over the fire, Bruce set up the tent. While he unloaded the sleeping gear, I nestled a couple of pre-baked potatoes down into the hot coals to heat, and nudged tin-foil wrapped garlic bread next to it. While he secured the jeep and took out our precautionary weapon, I popped open a container of Waldorf Salad (Seriously ...we eat well on these trips.)

When the steaks were ready we hunkered down on a log and ate like royalty. The headache didn't respond to food and I was feeling lousy, so I broke a serious camping rule. The number one golden rule of wilderness camping. Never ever ever keep food or used utensils near the area where you are sleeping.

Now, generally we take the rule to the extreme and suspend our ice chests on a rope from a tree limb. I never wash utensils within 100 yards of the camp. However with my mega headache I thought "what the heck..we never see bears." and I broke that one little rule...just once. I simply tossed the utensils in the creek to deal with the next morning, and I put the ice chests back in the jeep.

Ok...so I'm sure you know by now what is about to happen. If you are squeamish you can stop reading now.

Sometime around 2am, Bruce and I were awakened from a sound sleep by a low guttural growl. Both of us shot up into a sitting position in our sleeping bags. Bruce said "did you hear that? we have a bear close by!" My only response was my chattering teeth. We sat completely motionless and listened. Again there came a low guttural growl, this time a bit closer than the first one we heard.

Bruce slowly unzipped the sleeping bag and crawled to his knees. Barely breathing we listened. We heard silence broken every few minutes by a growl... it headed directly toward our tent. It couldn't have been more than a few hundred yards off.

"The gun" he hissed... "I can't find the gun!" OMG! had I put it back in the jeep in my near coma state because of the headache? I couldn't remember! "OK" he said "we should be fine, there are only black bears in this area..I'm going to go to the jeep and look for the gun." He stood and as he was about to unzip the door flap on the tent he said "It's a good thing you secured the food."

Double OMG! "Wait" I choked out "Actually I didn't." He whirled around in horror and whispered so loudly it sounded like air escaping from a truck tire "YOU WHAT?"

The growling kept inching toward us...what to do? Finally Bruce said "I'll go ahead and unlock the jeep, then you run out and jump in. If things get bad we can always start it and drive away!"

Good plan! Ok...so that is what we did. We both hurled ourselves into the jeep with such force it's a wonder the tires didn't blow out from our sudden impact . We sat and we waited. Occasionally Bruce would roll his window down slightly and listen. When he wasn't listening he was chastising me for my negligence. What could I say except "I know, I know...I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

For the longest time the growling noise circled around us, then finally grew silent. We checked our watches, it was nearly 4am. We had been sitting in the jeep for nearly 3 hours awaiting our fate.

Finally as the sun began to creep over the tops of the trees and filter down into our campsite we decided to leave our metal cocoon and look for paw prints to see how close we came to being a midnight snack for a hungry bear.

With gun in hand we circled the camp, but found no signs of bear. No scat, no clawed trees, no prints.

About an hour later as we sat in the back of the jeep eating beef jerky (the gourmet breakfast was postponed for obvious reasons ) we heard another vehicle coming up the logging road. We assumed it was bear hunters.

To our surprise a beat up old red Ford pick-up truck eventually pulled up next to the jeep and an old wrangler stepped down. "Hey, howdy folks" he said grinning "Don't often see folks up in this part of the woods." He looked around at our campsite and nodded thoughtfully.

Bruce started to tell him about the visitor we'd had during the night but before he got to far into the story...He old guy scrunched up his lips and pushed his hat back a bit and said "I'll jest bet that was old Hank, That's about what he sounds like when he's stressed...I'm up here looking for him."

Well it turns out that "Old Hank" was a 12 year old renegade bovine bull that apparently suffers from Alzheimer's disease and often wanders off from the rest of the herd and gets lost.

Bruce protested and said it sure sounded like a bear to us, but the old guy said "Nope I'll just bet that was Hank, best be after him before he completely looses himself." as he got in his truck we heard him mumble "should just shoot that ol'......"

Later as we were breaking camp, the old wrangler came back by with "Old Hank" tethered in the back of his pick-up as they slowly drove past us the old wrangler tipped his hat and Old Hank give us a familiar growl.

It just isn't right that an old bull can sound like a bear and scare people half to death!

Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer

It seems that this time every year disc jockeys are overcome by a strange phenomenon that can only be described as ebullient. I'm not talking about the Christmas Spirit. The Christmas Spirit is something entirely different and set wholly apart from this peculiar occurrence. In fact I'd say the Christmas Spirit is actually pretty close to the opposite of what I'm talking about. Actually I think it is a form of what physiologists might call temporary insanity.

It is the obsessive and uncontrollable desire to repeatedly broadcast irritating and annoying Christmas ditties over and over again. Take for instance "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" It's cute and I enjoy it about the first 20 or so times I hear it every year, after that it becomes as irritating as an itch in the middle of your back that you can't reach to scratch.

Tonight however, that particular tune took on a new and almost reverent meaning for me. Here's why:

Being conscientious ranchers my husband, Bruce, and I have a nightly routine that involves what we call "making the rounds." Every night just as the sun slips behind the mountains, we check all the animals on the property to be sure they are settled in safely. This involves shutting the door on the chicken coop after the chickens have gone in to roost, and other similar tasks.

Bruce generally takes care of the animals toward the back of the property and I handle the ones toward the front. Tonight however, Bruce was late getting home from work due to the copious amounts of snow clogging the roadways, so I set out on my own to "make the rounds."

I am quite capable of making solo rounds and, in fact, I do it quite often. Tonight however as the sun began to set the temperature dropped extremely fast causing the 16 or so inches of snow to ice over. I noted the sudden change and dressed appropriately. By the time I left the house I was wearing a shirt, a sweatshirt, a long sleeved jacket, a pair of jeans, a scarf, mittens, a hat, 2 pairs of socks and Bruce's big rubber boots. I could barely walk but I was warm. There are times when making a fashion statement is really not important.

The ground had become a solid sheet of ice by then, so I was taking little baby steps. About half way out to the chicken shed I realized that rubber boots were not the best choice for walking on ice. I was slipping so much that it began to feel like I was on a treadmill going nowhere.
My eyes were focused on my feet and the ground under them as I took each carefully executed step. I have no idea how I thought that might help, but that's where my focus was.

As I rounded the corner of a fenced in area, I reached out to take hold of the corner post. Before my hand was able to connect with the post I heard a loud wheezy snort that came from just around the big wooden post. I jerked my head up so quickly that it caused me feet to slip out from under me.

Now when you meet up with something that snorts at you on a cold dark winters night, you'd like to be able to make some choices as to how you are going to handle the inevitable encounter. Sadly, I wasn't given that freedom of choice. I was flat on my back. The more I struggled under the 100 pounds of excess clothing the more I slipped. I began to gasp, snort and whine.

I knew I was at deaths door. The first thing that came to mind was "bear" because we have been having routine visits from a rather imposing hulk of a black bear. The second thing that came to mind was that our bull must have broken out of his pen. The final thing that came to mind was that I was about to die wearing a hideous outfit, maybe fashion does count.

The snorts continued and seemd to be getting even louder and closer. I could see puffs of hot breath swirling around the corner of the post. Finally I was able to grab hold of the post and roll myself over. That tidy maneuver put me nose to nose with my snorting attacker. It wasn't a bear or a bull, it was very large and very frighted white tailed buck deer. He was monstrously large! From my perspective he looked the size of an elk. I swear his antlers were 10 feet across. You might think is an exaggeration, but he was big and so were his horns. Of course they say that people at the scene of a crime or accident tend to overstate the circumstances. Maybe.

It's fair to say he scared me nearly to death. It's also fair to say I scared him nearly to death. Neither of us could get a good foot hold on the icy surface. His back legs were sprawled out behind him and so were mine. We both flailed , snorted, and grunted.

Finally he was able to get his feet under him and in one big thrust, he flew over the top of me and disappeared into the darkness. After a minute I was able to gain my composure and get to my feet.

About that time Bruce pulled into the driveway and yelled "Hey did you see that giant buck? Wow what a beauty! Amazing ! Awesome! ..Did you see him..Wow!"

It was a guy thing, and I didn't want to spoil the magic of his moment so I shook my head and quietly said "no, was there a buck in here?" Then I walked slowly and carefully back to the house humming "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer."

Oh Star of Wonder!

For much longer than I have been a McDonald, Bracken Ridge Ranch has mounted a very large star of Bethlehem in the lower pasture closest to the highway. It has been an annual tradition that dates back at least 40 years. This has become such an community involved tradition that if we are late in setting it up, passersby' s stop and ask us why it isn't up yet. So in order to save the stress of pressure from total strangers, we decided to put it up last night.

Mind you, this star is not small. It is about 10 feet from point to point and made of medium weight metal conduit configured to look like a big star. It is illuminated by approximately 50 large clear bulbs, and puts on quite a nice display that can be seen from the highway.

This year instead of mounting it its traditional place in the lower pasture we decided (actually I decided) it might be nice to put it on top of our livestock shed in the upper pasture. Given the season and all, I'm heretofore going to refer to the livestock shed as the "manger."

Now here's what happened: My husband and I wrestled the gigantic star from the barn where it was stored, and with much difficulty and grunting hoisted to the roof of the "manger." With the aid of a very long extension cord we plugged it in, and as you might suspect...most of the lights were burned out. We began twisting and fidgeting with them trying to make them work, but as we did so my husband, Bruce, noticed the wiring was beginning to deteriorate.

Not wanting to electrocute ourselves or burn the "manger" down, we (he) decided that I should go to town to purchase some new strands of traditional lights. For those of you who know Bruce, you most likely know he is somewhat of a perfectionist bordering on an OCD complex. He likes things to be "just right." So he composed a long list of items for me to pick up in town: This particular size, this particular length, this particular watt (what?)

Shopping wasn't that difficult. I quickly filled his order and returned home beaming with confidence and pride. When I pulled into the driveway I noted that he had the star all torn apart and was rebuilding it. To be helpful I unwound the strands of lights and laid them carefully in order on the ground.

It was getting dark and the ground was beginning to freeze making it difficult to work. Within minutes we were both holding flashlights between our teeth and frantically trying to attach the lights. Alas, it grew darker and darker. The challenge: can two very cold people, working on frozen ground in the dark, string semi-frozen strands of lights on a very cold metal star?

Not very well at all...but then I had a brilliant idea. Since about half of the lights were already back on the star, logic said that we should plug it in and use the light from them to work with.

Ahh, but somehow when logic comes from my lips it somehow becomes totally illogical and weird. None-the-less Bruce nodded his head in agreement so I slipped and slid across the yard to the outlet and plugged the lights in. Nothing happened. He yelled "Any time is fine!" (cold makes us all grumpy)

I hollered back that the lights were plugged in. In the darkness I heard him stand, take a few steps and slip on the frozen ground. It made an interesting swooshing/thud sound. He muttered something that I couldn't make out, but there are times when it isn't absolutely necessary to hear what someone else says under their breath, so I wisely didn't ask him to repeat it.

So there we were, 2 new strands of lights that came with a guarantee that if one light goes out the rest stay on. Apparently they lie. I had brought home not one, but two bad strands of lights. How could that be?

The next thing I knew I heard Bruce's heavy footfalls stomping on the frozen ground headed directly toward the outlet....and me. My mind whirled as I wondered if somehow I had plugged the strands in with the fat ground prong seated the wrong slot or I had done something equally as stupid.

Before I could check, he was there plugging and unplugging the strands in the socket. "We blew a fuse then!" he grumbled and stomped off toward the house. I was hot on his heels as we entered the dark house and he flipped the breaker switches up and down, up and down...nothing. He flipped the fuse box cover shut with such a sudden snap that it alerted my keen sense of perception to the fact that he was pretty darn upset and getting more so by the minute. "Must be the other fuse box." he grumbled.

"Right! the other fuse box!" I had forgotten there was a second box outside in the Tank House (someday I'll explain what the Tank House is and what it does, but be rest assured we do not keep military tanks in it.)

Once there he again flipped the breaker switches up and down several times with no results. "Well!" he said so loudly it nearly cracked my frozen face "I have no idea what we did, but we have NO power!" He brushed past me and stomped back to toward the "manger." I was once again hot on his heels, slipping and sliding on the frozen ground. Amazingly his feet gripped the ice with unbelievable precision! I felt like a rag -doll on ice!

Bruce yanked the strands of lights out of the socket and was once again mumbling things under his breath that I had no desire to hear. I glanced up toward the sky and silently sent a up a one word prayer.... "help."

Then in all its splendor there in the sky above me was the REAL star of Bethlehem. It was glorious and brilliant against the dark horizon. ...wait, the dark horizon? Immediately I knew something was not right.

I spun around so quickly I lost my already iffy footing and slid (although I might add, very gracefully) down a slight incline and ended up wedged against Bruce's boots. "umm" I said (very quietly) "Bruce, the power is out" He reached down to pull me to my feet and said "Right, now tell me something I don't know! I pointed across the highway and said "No..I mean the power is out.. everywhere...it's not just us, the whole neighborhoods power is out...look"

We had been so wrapped up in our own immediate problem that we hadn't notice the whole neighborhood was out of power. We learned later that a tree limb somewhere had fallen across the power lines and disrupted the power to about 7,000 homes.

He stared blankly at me for a few seconds and then we burst into a good laugh. After trudging back to the house, we started the generator and had a nice hot bowl of soup.

Tonight the infamous Star albeit over the " manger" will shine brightly...Oh star of wonder!

Skunked...Again

A lot of things have happened since my last entry. For one thing I no longer entertain the thought of becoming a professional skunk trapper. I'll admit when the UPS driver first delivered my Wiley Coyote Acme Beginners Trapping Kit I had ideas of becoming a world famous skunk trapper. That idea has since passed. I am now considering making my fortune by investing in the "Anti-Icky-Poo" odor removal business.

The Wiley Coyote Acme Trapping Kit was good, as far as it went. I soon realized however, it was to very elementary, so I invested in every type of trap, snare, net, and lure ever invented by man. I even researched the ancient Chinese methods of trapping as well as the early 1700's American Fur trappers methods. I bought, borrowed, and rented every mode of trap I could find. I had so many traps laying around that my husband, Bruce, was terrified to step outside for fear he'd wind up hanging upside down from a tree, or ensnared in a net. He needn't have worried. The traps set empty week after week.

I do have good news though. It is laced with a bit of bad news, but let's deal with the good news first. The good news is that I actually caught a skunk in one of the traps. The bad news is that it managed to get itself caught in one of those very large all wire havaheart traps. The kind, with the 1 inch welded wire mesh on all six sides. Whoever invented that trap had a sick sense of humor. It never occurred to me to question how one manages to remove a captured animal from the trap once it is in there.

As you can imagine the skunk was not happy with its predicament, but then neither was I happy with mine. I circled slowly around the cage at the distance of about 25 feet. With each cautious step the skunk stomped a warning with its front feet and then turned its back to me taking aim. There was no way I was going to get near the cage without getting doused.

Desperately looking for help I called the humane society and asked if they would come out and pick up the trap with the animal in it. That gave them quite a laugh. Apparently they only do mellow purring kitties and slurping kissing puppies. No skunks. I called my friends and neighbors and gave them all a good laugh as well. No one would come to my aid.

Someone suggested I use a large tarp as a shield as I moved toward the cage and when in close enough range, toss the tarp over the cage. I don't know why, but that sounded like a reasonable approach. If I ever remember who made that suggestion I have a few choice words for them. Actually, I'm not being fair. The idea was a good one, and it should have worked. Unfortunately here is what happened:

I thought the plan out carefully. Step one was to choose an old tarp, but not one so old that it had holes in it. (I am sure you can see my reasoning behind that decision.) Step two was to put on a long sleeved shirt (again my reasoning should be obvious.) Step three was to slip into my rubber boots, rain hat and gloves (same reasoning applies here.) I thought I was all set so off I went.
I hoisted the tarp up past my nose so that only my eyes , forehead and my hat was showing, and I moved cautiously one tiny step at a time toward the trapped skunk. At first it looked confused. Apparently it didn't recognize the big flat blue object moving toward it. I grinned behind my shield, this was going to be a piece of cake.

Step by step, inch by inch I closed the gap between us. Ever so cautiously I approached until I was almost within tossing distance. Just a couple more carefully planted steps. Soon I was within 4 feet of the cage. Maybe just one more step would do it. I didn't want the tarp to go askew when I tossed it and leave openings for the skunk to spray though.

Ahh, yes. At last, I was about 3 feet from the cage and all was well. The skunk had remained calm all this time, watching more out of curiosity than out of fear. It hadn't stomped a warning, and it hadn't turned its tail toward me. I just knew this would work! Thus far I hadn't considered what I would do once the tarp was over the cage, but that was something I could consider a bit later.

Carefully I extended the tarp out to arms length, the skunk gave a little bark and stomped. That was ok. I expected that.
What I didn't expect was the big gust of wind that suddenly came up behind me and blew the bottom of the tarp straight out toward the cage with a loud crackling flap, leaving me totally exposed.

Surely I don't need to go into the stinking details here. Skunks being skunks will do what skunks will do. Never have I felt such a close kinship to Wiley Coyote and Lucille Ball!
Oh, and in case you are feeling more sympathy for the skunk than for me...forget it. In the commotion the skunk managed to flip the cage over and set itself free. I on the other hand spend the day soaking in Anti-Icky-Poo!

Those Darling Tree Frogs

There are a lot of reasons Tree Frogs are a welcome presence around homes. For example they consume mosquito larva and thus keep us free of dreaded diseases such as Yellow Spotted Swamp Fever. Equally important is their sweet melodious song that soothes the tumult of our souls at days end releasing us from mayhem, confusion and disorder.

Or, that was my reasoning when I "adopted" a small handful of the darlings a mere two years ago. As I look back on it, I can relive the exhilaration and pure bliss as I gently and reverently released five of the precious jewels in the upper most portion of our small backyard pond.

Each night as the sun slowly slipped behind the trees and disappeared I held my breath and listened. Finally one night I heard the solo vibrato of a bachelor tree frog in full courtship. That pure heavenly sound brought me such delight . As the nights followed, there was still only one soft soothing voice to sing me to sleep. None-the-less, I savored every note as I drifted sleepily into oblivion.

By the end of summer the single song had grown into a marvelous full symphonic choir. Ahh yes, I finally had achieved my optimal goal. Each night our windows were open to an incredible crescendo of Tree Frog courtship blended with the gentle iambic background rhythm provided by crickets. A true tranquil delight that only Nature could provide.

Last spring held an enchanting surprise as I noted multiple tiny tadpoles swimming my Water Lilly garden, the three birdbaths, the bog garden, and the backyard pond. What Glory! What Wonder!

By mid summer of last year the crescendo had grown to a vast cacophony of such magnitude that we no longer could sleep with our bedroom windows open, nor did we greet the non-never-ending Tree Frog courtship with our original exuberant glee.

Which brings us to the present, and as such, at this point in time that I feel obligated to advise anyone who has ever been tempted to adopt a handful of Tree Frogs to think the matter over thoroughly.

It's not so much the cacophony of thousands of tiny Tree Frogs that I find so unsettling. No, in fact that still somewhat pleases me, although not as much as say, a chorus of five hundred or even one hundred would. What is disquieting is waking up at 4am with one of those cold clammy four legged critters siting on your forehead croaking away.

While that in itself was truly an unnerving experience, I find that my pioneer spirit and nature loving soul did not prepare me for finding several more on the bedroom floor and even more suctioned to the inside of various windows and walls in the house.

Crawling around on my hands and knees at 4 in the morning with a mini-flashlight clamped between my teeth catching Tree Frogs is not my idea of recreational sport. However as I gathered up the remaining stragglers and set them free at the edge of the pond, I had to chuckle ...though only faintly, at the ironic humor of the situation. What's that saying? "Be Careful What You Ask For?"

Returning to the now frog-free house I decided to take a quick shower to wash the froggie "goo" off. Sleepily I trudged to the bathroom where I simultaneously flicked on the light and opened the shower door. To my astonishment I was bombarded by a half dozen more frogs leaping wildly toward me as they vacated the shower stall.

Is there a moral to this story? Indeed there is: Adopting five tiny Tree Frogs can, and generally does, lead to Toadal chaos!

Home Land Security?

My husbands father was a horse trader and collector of "things." There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to the vast variety of items that found their way into his possession via trades or scavenges.

He was born during world war I and was a youngster during the Dust Bowl Era, and the Great Depression. He was present in Hawaii during the bombing of Pear Harbor and he also knew the ravages of the Korean, Vietnam and Gulf Wars. Seeing all these things first hand made him become what I would call a frugal man. As such, he collected "things." When we moved back onto the ranch where my husband grew up, we found many interesting "things." Rolls of wire, boxes of rubber bands, tiny balls of string, hundreds if not thousands of nuts, bolts, screws, nails and other miscellaneous hardware.

He was an electrician by trade, and that took him into various homes and businesses in the community on a daily basis. Whenever he came across something someone wasn't using he work out some kind of barter and haul it back to the ranch. If it was something in need of repair, he would repair it and either find a new home for it or store it away for future use.

To this day my husband, Bruce, and I still find "things" tucked in rafters or stowed away in odd places. For the most part we consider them to be amusingly harmless and even practical. However this weekend while moving items that had been stored in the corner of the barn for decades, we came across a not so innocuous item.

Down at the bottom of the pile of odds and ends that we planned to haul to the dump, we uncovered an odd looking and very heavy wooden box with a spring loaded metal lid. The box was about 18 inches square and about 20 inches tall. The writing on the sides of the box had been obscured by age and dampness. It took both my husband and I to wrestle the box a few feet to where the light from a window shone in on it. Even with the added light we had difficulty making out the lettering. We managed to read "Smith" "65 pounds" and "1945."

Bruce tried with all his might to loosen the spring lid. He grunted and twisted. He shifted positions and twisted and grunted. The lid wouldn't budge. After several he-man attempts he sent me across the barn to get a hammer. At the workbench, I had several choices but decided on both a small carpenters hammer and a larger sledge hammer.

The first tool of choice was the more delicate light weight carpenters hammer. Bruce gave the lid several light taps with it, followed by several more harder taps and then finally several sharp blows. A few sparks few as metal hit metal, but the lid remained in place.

After a few minutes of watching Bruce's non-productive labor I tapped him on the shoulder and gave him the larger sledge hammer (which by the way would have been my first tool of choice.) Several grunts, blows with the sledge hammer and sparks later the lid finally gave way slightly. However, it moved with such difficulty that it became necessary to revert back to the smaller carpenters hammer again to coax it open.

By my calculations, it took nearly 20 minutes to open the defiant box. When at last my husband stood, hammer in one hand and the lid in the other, I noticed that his previously flushed and sweating face was now drained to a ghostly white. Curious I looked down into the box. My first thought was that the contents somewhat resembled dirt, but not quite. Looking closer I noticed that whatever it was had a somewhat granular look.

"What the heck is that?" I asked. Slowly, Bruce reached extended arm and gently pushed me back away from the box and said in a very faint whisper "I think... I think.. I think... I think we just opened 65 pounds of 60 year old blasting powder."

My thoughts flashed immediately to the sparks that flew when the metal hammer hit the metal lid. I tried to speak but couldn't. I think I may have uttered something remarkably intelligent like "waaa?" or maybe "buuuu" but I can't be sure. We silently backed slowly out of the barn.

So now the big question is what does one do to safely deal with 65 pounds of 60 year old blasting powder. As it happens there is a retired Police Chief living across the road from us. Over the past years we have become acquainted with him and figured he would know the safest way to deal with our current "situation."

As we walked in stunned silence from the barn to the house my thoughts flew over a mired of scenarios. What if, for example one of those sparks had touched off the powder. What if, there had been a lightening storm and a bolt of lightening had struck the metal barn...there had been hundreds, maybe thousands of storms during the time that stuff had been stored in the barn. What if sparks from Bruce's many electric saws, drills grinders, etc had reached the box. I dizzied myself with "what if's." Had I ever sat on that pile of boxes and junk while talking to Bruce as he worked in the barn?

After composing ourselves we went across the street and talked with our retired resident Police Chief. He listened to our story with a thin amused smile then followed us back to our barn so he could confirm whether or not our box actually contained blasting powder.

Well, he confirmed. The fire marshal confirmed. A representative from the local Bomb Squad (who even knew we had a local bomb squad) confirmed. A representative from the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms (ATF) confirmed.

So now we wait. I'm not entirely sure for what. I don't think they will call in Home Land Security but who knows? I actually think we are waiting for a larger Bomb Squad to come in with one of those cute little metal robots to remove it, but I'm not sure. Meanwhile we've been instructed not to try and move it (no worries there folks,) to keep our barn locked and promise not to blow up anyone or anything. (we'll do our best.) Actually the barn looks rather festive with all the streamers of yellow "Crime Scene" tape draped over it .

If Dad was still around it really would be great to ask him why he had 65 pounds of old unstable blasting powder stored in the barn. At any rate, rest assured that the next mysterious box we come across will be handled a bit differently .

A Tale of Pierced Ears and Cats

So long as I'm on the subject of cats, I may as well confess that a while back I raised purebred Manx cats. They are the ones that have a very short stubby tail and fairly long pointed ears. I like them because they don't have the snooty attitude most cats have, in fact their personality is more like a dogs.I enjoyed raising them, but dealing with the potential new owners often became a bit tedious. Here's what I mean:

I sold a beautiful female orange tabby kitten to an elderly woman who, instead of taking it home with her, asked if she could leave it here at the ranch until she could make an appointment with her vet to have it spayed. I was ok with that idea.

That evening she called and requested that the kitten not be fed for 12 hours prior to pick up, so it would be ready for surgery the next afternoon. I was ok with that idea as well.

The next morning, as was part of my custom when sending a new kitten home, I bathed her and vaccinated her. It went well considering she had not been given any dinner the night before or breakfast that morning. Some cats like water, some don't. She didn't.

At the appointed time, the new owner arrived with a wicker cat carrier looped over one arm. The carrier was quite fancy, and was even furnished with a plush purple velvet pad. In the woman's hand I saw a tiny black velvet box. The kind that very expensive jewelry come in. I was curious but said nothing as we exchanged niceties about the weather.

I then presented her with her new kitten. She bubbled with joy and busted with pride, every thing seemed to be going well.... until she handed the kitten back to me and said "I'd like you to do one more thing for me dear." She paused and flashed a big warm smile "I'd like you to pierce little Mona's right ear and put this diamond earring in it."

With that she flipped open the lid of the mysterious little black box to revel what appeared to be a 1/2 karat stud diamond earring, nestled deep in a silk lining. The sun danced off it and nearly blinded me. I giggled at what I thought was a joke.

"Excuse me?" I asked "You are not serious are you?" She looked at me like I was the village idiot and quipped "Of Course I'm serious!" I studied her face for signs of a joke, but saw none. She was dead on serious.

"Oh, well" I stammered "I think that is a job for your vet, I've never done anything like that before."

"Don't be silly dear" she retorted, "I've done it a thousand times, just take the end of your syringe needle and poke a little hole, clean it with alcohol and pop the earring in...simple!"

Well ok. I'm thinking ' If you've done it a thousand times why don't you do it now. Instead I said, "No seriously, I'm not comfortable with doing this."

She raised her eyebrows and said "There is nothing to it, I'd do it but look at my hands!" I looked at her hands, and saw they were bent with arthritis. My heart softened a bit, but my head kept telling me to run like heck from this deal. The clincher came when she said "If you can't do it then I can't buy Mona!"

That did it. She hit a soft spot, I needed the money. "Alright" I sighed, "But you'll have to walk me though it." She smiled and calmly held the cat while I prepared a fresh needle and sterilized the stud part of the earring with alcohol. When I was ready I took a deep breath and said "Again, I want you to know that I am not a veterinarian. I'm worried about infections and that sort of thing." "Not to worry dear" she smiled "Like I said I've done it a thousand times and I know how to care for healing ears, I won't hold you responsible. Besides nothing can go wrong " (Author's note: remember those words)

I exhaled and said "OK, here we go then, hold her tightly." Her eyes flashed wide open and she said "Oh no..Goodness NO, I couldn't do that! I could never watch you poking a hole in little Mona's ear!"

I crossed my eyes and said "But ..." by then she was halfway out the door "But wait" I called "You said you've done this a thousand times before!" Her voice faded as she fled the room but I heard her say "Good Grief NO! I've never done it to a kitty dear, just children!" My heart stopped beating.

Well, alright, how difficult could it be. (Author's note: remember those words) I had marked a little X where she wanted the piercing done. I mean seriously here. I've given tons of kittens and puppies their vaccinations, how much more difficult could it be to poke one tiny hole in a cats ear.

I think it was about then that the kitten got suspicious. It extended its claws and braced itself on the table. Maybe it was the smell of the alcohol swab that tipped it off. Maybe it was just hungry or maybe it was the smell of my fear...what ever it was, it put the kitten in a guarded sate of mind. Me too.

I gently but firmly grasped the kitten and started to insert the needle. The kitten would have no part of it. She managed to violently squirm out of my grasp. In so doing she tipped over the bottle of alcohol and sent the needle flying.

Plan B: I picked up the bottle of alcohol and placed it on the table, noting that only about 2/3rd was remaining. I opened a new needle and crawled under the table to retrieve the cat. This time I tried a new tactic. I wedged the kitten carefully against the wall with one arm to give me a little better control. No good. The minute she felt the first light prick of the needle she was airborne. The momentum sent the alcohol thudding once again to the floor. The needle however found a new resting place...in my finger.

I called to the owner for assistance but she waved me off and said "You can do it."

Plan C: I picked up the now half empty bottle of alcohol, put a Band-aid on my finger, got another new needle, and looked under the table for the kitten. She was gone. I crawled around on my hands and knees softly calling the traditional "here kitty kitty, here sweet little kitty" but she was nowhere to be seen. How could a person lose a kitten? Well, of course a person couldn't and I eventually found her.

My new plan was to sit in a chair and firmly but gently hold the kitten between my knees giving me use of both hands. Amazingly that plan did work. The needle went nicely into the cats ear at precisely the same time the the cats teeth went into my left knee. It was painful, but at least I was still holding on to her so things were looking up. I ignored the blood running down my leg.

The rest would be easy. All I had to do was pull the needle out, swab the ear again and insert the diamond stud. The kitten didn't seem to be in any pain, she just seemed down-right mad. None-the-less, I was able to take her by the nape of the neck and place her on the table. Next, tried to sooth her a bit before taking the next step.

After a brief calming period for both of us, I reached for the diamond stud. To my horror there was nothing there but an empty black box. The big beautiful and very expensive diamond earring was gone. I broke into a sweat. I felt dizzy and nauseous.

I didn't want to put the kitten down because she still had the needle dangling in her ear, and I didn't want to let the new owner know the diamond was missing. I knew I was in some pretty serious trouble here. Dollar signs began to dance in my eyes as I thought about having to replace the diamond earring..maybe it was just the squiggles that come prior to a fierce migraine. It doesn't matter which, the point is I was seeing stars because I was in a total panic. I did what a lot of women do when they are in total panic. I cried.

I dropped to my knees feeling around with my left hand while dangling the kitten from my right hand. For a fleeting moment I considered carrying the kitten in my mouth the way mother cats do so I could have both hands free to feel around for the earring. I quickly dismissed the idea however, when I remembered the needle dangling from the cats ear. I know lip piercing is in style, but it's just not me.

I think I understand what people mean when they say they were in a blind panic. Nervous sweat was rolling down my forehead, and into my eyes causing me to blink wildly. What a sight it must have been.

Just then my neighbor came in the back door, took one look at me and barked "What in god's name are you doing woman ?" As I explained through my Lucille Ball like sobs, she tossed me a towel, took the kitten, and in a flash spotted the earring on the floor. With her help sweet little Mona soon had her earring in place and was riding down the driveway in the front seat of her new owners car. I waved weakly and pulled out three more Band-aids for my bleeding knee.

Later as I sat and sipped coffee with the neighbor. We considered opening a cat ear-piercing parlor. Who knows it could be a multi-million dollar business...minus the expense of Band-aids.

The Catnipped Birds

Like other typical ranches, we keep a few cats around . While I find them to be totally useless in protecting me from skunks, I have to admit they do a great job keeping the rodent, gopher, mole and lizard population in check. Their rotund bodies attest to their hunting skills.

I very much like cats, but I have mixed feelings about them because I also raise birds. We have several large outdoor pens that house a variety of birds. We also have a large building about the size of a double car garage that houses some of the more delicate birds. Now I know it's a cats natural instinct to hunt birds as well as rodents and lizards, but I've been very fortunate in that my cats don't seem to bother the birds. Or at least they didn't until yesterday.

Here, to the best of my recollection, is what happened: I periodically spray my birds with pesticide to prevent creepy crawly things from taking up residence on them. Since I have so many birds, I purchase a large quart bottle of pesticide, dilute it to the proper strength then pour it into a small spray bottle for application.

After mixing the pesticide yesterday I couldn't find the little spray bottle I normally use, so I looked around and eventually found another one . I flushed it out several times with water and then added the pesticide. As I was about to begin spraying the birds, a friend dropped by and I was side-tracked with her visit for about half an hour.

When I returned to the bird room to pick up where I left off, the little spray bottle of pesticide wasn't where I thought I had left it. After a few minutes of hunting, I located it and sprayed all the birds.

About that time one of the cats walked by outside the bird room, and I was struck with the brilliant idea that I should also check them for fleas and tick. This is something normally I do on a regular basis and since I was already in an anti-pest mood, the timing seemed right. There is a small multi-purpose utility table in the bird room, that I use for...well, multi-purposes. When I check the cats, I customarily squirt a little catnip on the table and on one of their toys then bring the cats in one at a time and look them over.

Yesterday I followed my usual routine. The first cat up was Gracie. She is a very docile cat and I've never seen her go after any birds, not even the wild ones. I picked her up and set her on the table. Now normally she sniffs the catnip toy and rolls over so I can easily examine her. However yesterday something strange was afoot, because she had no interest in the table, or the toy. Her interest seemed to lie in the caged birds. I had an awful time controlling her long enough to complete my examination.

I didn't think too much of it, I figured I had caught her at a bad time and she wasn't in the mood to be checked. I released her outside and grabbed another cat, Solo. Now Solo can be a handful at times, but generally the catnip distracts her long enough for me to look her over. Yesterday she was more than a handful, she was pretty much down-right ballistic. I couldn't control her at all. She kept squirming away from me, leaping off the table and launching herself at the bird cages. After several attempts that were thwarted by me, she successfully managed d to attached herself to one of the cages with such intensity that I had to literally pry one claw off at a time.

She kept stretching her paws though the cage wire in an attempt to snare one of the birds. I was trying to hold her with with my left arm wrapped under her front legs and my left hand on one of her legs. With my other hand I tried unsuccessfully to pry her claws lose. My two hands were no match for her skilled four paws. The more the birds fluttered the more intense she became. He eyes were dilated and her breath hot. I've never seen such intense determination.

Fortunately, by some amazing miracle I was finally able to wrestle her off the cage and manipulate her writhing body out the door. Unfortunately the minute the door was open Gracie bolted back in and in one amazing acrobatic leap crashed into one of the bird cages and pulled it over. As I turned to see what had happened Solo pushed back past me and executed a similar move.

I knew I had to stop the insanity fast or I'd lose some birds. I glanced quickly around for something to distract the cats with. The only thing I spotted that might work for cat riot control was the bottle of pesticide. I grabbed it and sprayed it in the general direction of both cats.

Amazingly they both stopped dead in their tracks and focused on me with large glassy eyes. It was like something out of a Stephen King Movie. For a fleeting moment, fear crept into me as I imagined my own cats to be demon possessed! None-the-less, I bravely took advantage of the momentary pause in their insanity. Very calmly and carefully I lifted the cats off the cages by the nape of their neck and dropped them outside. I swear they both were grinning.

As I turned to survey the damage and check for injured birds (which I am happy to report there were none) the cats began emitting long mournful wales. I very slowly turned around and saw them both hanging by their claws on the outside of the screen door. Scary!

I was totally baffled, until I started to clean up the mess. It was then that I realized that after my friend's visit I had inadvertently switched bottles. I had sprayed the birds with catnip and the table and cat toys with pesticide.

Does anyone know how long it takes for catnip to wear off birds?

What I Didn't Need to Know About Skunks

It's always good to know as much about your enemy as you can, so I consulted old Trapper John who gave me a brief rundown on the life and times of skunks. Now Trapper John is a good guy and I really wanted to believe him, but what he was telling me sounded a bit bizarre. Since he had toyed and joked with me in the past I decided to take a run to the local library to double check facts. Now I wish I hadn't.

You see the truth of the matter is that skunks have a territory of about one and a half to two miles that they roam in the spring and summer months. That part is ok, I would very much appreciate it if they stayed that far away from me. Apparently, from March to November (time approx. in our area) they live in small "families" which usually consist of one male and a little harem of one or two females. That's fine, to each his own, live and let live and all that.

However there is more, and this is where things get very interesting; In the winter they resort to communal living. They live in ancient established burrows that are 4 to 6 feet deep and anywhere from 6 to 20 feet long. Often 20 to 40 skunks will pack together and winter over for warmth, protection and ....well, romantic interludes.

In the spring anywhere from 8 to 10 babies are born to every female down in that cozy commune. When spring comes, they are supposed to wander off into the woods to enjoy their "family" lives as mentioned above. If they would just do that, things wouldn't be to bad around here. Regrettably, in my case they wander around the ranch stealing chicken eggs and attacking chickens in the dead of the night, and spraying me. That tends to rile me a bit. When winter comes they snuggle back in the same established warm winter den to sleep and have their romantic interludes and the cycle goes on and on, and apparently on and on some more, generation after generation. (Do you have a calculator?)

So now I know what I have to deal with. I don't have one skunk, I have a whole territorial army of them that wander in droves around the ranch at night. Apparently this ranch has been blessed with very romantically inclined skunks who have established an ancestral den under the chicken shed. Who knows how many decades its been there!
I'm worried, and rightly so. What if I go out some night and they surround me. If the spray from one skunk is noxious what would the spray from 8 or 10 skunks do? I pretty sure it could be fatal. The local newspaper headlines would read "Local woman dies from overdose of skunk inhalation" How embarrassing!

On the other hand I also read that they are timid and shy and generally peace loving little commune dwellers. That helps somewhat, I'm trying to think of them as displaced "hippies" from the 60's and 70's. When you think about it, their little white stripe does look a bit like a "hippie" headband of sorts.

I wonder if I get down on my hands and knees and look under the chicken shed if I would see a bunch of miniature dilapidated V.W. vans with peace symbols and psychedelic flowers painted on them. Do they sit cross legged and strum tiny dulcimers? Do they name their children "Golden Leaf" and "Puffy Cloud?" It's all really very interesting, in a scary kind of way.
Anyway, back to a few more interesting facts. Apparently skunks are members of the weasel family (that figures.) Their Latin name is Mephits, which means noxious gas. (No kidding? What brilliant ancient scholar came up with that name?)

Now for the little detail that sent me scampering to my dresser to check out my perfume bottles. Believe it or not, skunk oil is somehow de-scented and then used in manufacturing the very most expensive perfumes. Yah, that one made my head spin too. Apparently sunk oil has the best holding/staying power of any oil in the universe . I can vouch for that one first hand. Take my word for it skunk oil last and lasts for a very long time. Thank god for the Anti-Icky-Poo company!

The last tid-bit of information I picked up, is that apparently skunk meat is very tasty. You will never get a personal testimony out of me on that one. I don't have even the slightest inclination to taste skunk meat. Which brings me to a curious question: Who was brave enough or desperate enough to be the first to even think about eating one? Maybe it was the brilliant ancient scholar who named them noxious gas? Seriously, if you are serving skunk for dinner tonight, please do not invite me over.

Wiley Coyote & The Acme Kit Company: Part 2

Wiley Coyote & The Acme Kit Company: Part 2

August 17, 2009

I shouldn't have to tell you how angry I was with that skunk at this point, but I will. All my compassion had drained and my peaceful animal loving soul was tweaked into revenge. That skunk was going to be evicted from the feed room one way or another. I was marching to the tune of a new drummer and it's name was "war."

An interesting side note here before I go on. The Greeks apparently don't hate anyone. While they have five words for love they only have one word they use to describe their dislike of someone or something. That word is miseo which translates into despise. The American/English language has dozens of words that fall into that category. That's ok. I was using all of them as I carefully laid out my next plan of attack. My final plan. The plan to put an end to the 'close encounters' with my enemy.

In my frenzied state of mind, I considered guns, knives, bow and arrows, and machetes. I even briefly considered burning down the feed building. However, after a shower and another dousing of "anti-icky-poo" I mellowed somewhat and decided to use the tool at hand, which was the snare I'd recently obtained in my "Beginners Trapping Kit". It seemed, safe, simple and effective.

By the time I was once again ready to tackle the dastardly antagonist skunk who in my mind had become as large and aggressive as a Grizzly Bear, it was getting dark. Now a person in their right mind would stop long enough to consider that skunks are more active at night. I was not in my right mind.

Armed for "bear" I grabbed a flashlight and the instructions for installing the snare and headed out the door. As I neared the feed room, I flicked on the flashlight and read the instructions: 1. Anchor the snub end of the snare to something secure. Simple enough. Looking around I decided the best place to anchor the snare would be the inside of the feed room door. It was still ajar from my earlier hasty exit, so it would be a simple task. The job called for a few tools, but I was confident I could handle it.

In my husband's workshop I found his cordless drill and some rather long and lethal looking screws. I suppose I should confess that I have absolutely no talent for construction in spite of the fact that my husband is an assistant manager of a well-known hardware chain. But seriously, how much talent is required to anchor a piece of chain to a wall with a screw.

Back at the feed room, I quietly knelt down and positioned the snub end of the snare chain near the bottom of the door. I then tucked the flashlight under one arm, picked up the screw with my left hand and the drill with my right and pulled the trigger of the drill gun. There was an interesting, although rather loud, kind of "Whrrrr" sound and the screw flew into the air causing the chain to clatter to the ground. I peered quietly into the feed room to see to what extend I had disturbed the skunk. There was silence and to my relief no scent.

My second attempt to anchor the snare produced identical results. I decided the problem must be faulty screws or maybe a faulty drill, it couldn't be my lack of coordination. Checking the drill first, I held the flashlight up to it and found it was on R for reverse instead of F for forward. Ahh, problem solved. I flipped the little button to the right position and tried again. This time the momentum of the drill caused the screw to wobble and the screw. chain, and drill slipped and hit the door with a thud and clatter. I couldn't have been making more noise if I tried.

On my third attempt the drill gave a pathetically sad "rhhhhh" and I realized the battery was low. In retrospect, I should have waited for my husband to come home and take over. The job would have been completed in short order. Instead, being the self-sufficient, determined, bull-headed woman that I am, I marched back to his work shop and hunted around until I found his back-up drill. While I was in there, one of our dogs wandered in. Not wanting to take the chance of him getting sprayed by the skunk, I told him to "stay" and returned to the feed room to complete my task.

I set the drill down, picked up the screw and chain and was about to bend down to pick up the flashlight when I heard a muffled rustling behind me. You know, the kind of sneaky sound a disobedient dog makes when he slyly follows you after being told to stay.

I whirled around, stomped my foot and yelled "Stay!" I now regret both the action and the command. It wasn't the dog.

As you may have already guessed it was the resident skunk returning to the feed room after an evening stroll. Actually he most likely had been baited back by the scent of skunk lure on the snare.

In the blink of an eye there was a repeat of the earlier encounter: "Stomp-Stomp-Zing-Pow!"


If you are keeping score it's: Skunk 3, Lucy 0. I need to find a language with more words for "despise."

Wiley Coyote & the Acme Kit Company Part 1-B

Wiley Coyote & The Acme Kit Company: Part 1-B
August 16, 2009

Before I continue with part 2 of this story I feel the need to remind you that I love animals. I even find skunks endearing in their own way. In fact, let's face it; they are down-right cute with their beady little near-sighted eyes, pointy face, distinct color pattern and busy tail.

I also think it is very kind-hearted of them to warn everyone to stay away by stomping their feet and ruffling their hair before spraying. In other words, I would leave them alone if they left my poultry alone and didn't so freely share their cologne with me.

Let me back up a minute to a word I used in the first paragraph above: Love. I said I love animals. But, here's the deal. In our American/English language we have only one word that describes our varying degrees of love. I admire the Greek language because it has five different words that describe love. I think our lives would be less confusing if we borrowed some of the Greek definitions of love and applied them to our daily lives.

For example, the Greek use Agape to describe pure, ideal, spiritual love. Well, I can tell you right off the bat that I don't have an agape love for skunks.

Then there is the Greek word Eros, which describes a passionate love. Here again, that seriously is not what I would use to describe my feelings for skunks.

Next we have Storge, which in Greek indicates a strong bond such as that between parents and children. I've got to pass on that one too. It is not at all descriptive of my feelings for skunks.

Now we come to Xenia, which is used to describe a feeling of friendship and hospitality. The Greek are very gregarious and treat their guests like royalty. I can assure you that is not the word I would use to describe my relationship with skunks. I don't want to extend my hospitality to them. I want them gone!

Lastly we come to Phila, which is a dispassionate love, really more of an appreciation and acute interest. Now that would be the word I would use to describe my relationship with skunks and most other animals as well. I phila them.

Now that we have that straight, I would also like to add that while my relationship with most animals is phila, they also bring out my compassionate and nurturing side as well. I would rather do anything than physically harm or bring discomfort to any animal ..even skunks.

Having said that, I now need to warn you that I can only be pushed to a certain point before I go a bit off the deep end and go ballistic. The skunk in the feed room had me to that point. So, the next morning after my Acme Beginner Trapping Kit arrived, I decided to set the snare and "dispatch" the little stinker that was taking advantage of my Xenia.

The snare still reeked from the dousing it received from the broken bottle of skunk lure. This was not a problem in my mind. The stronger it smelled the quicker it should attract the unwelcome feed room resident, and the quicker he would be "dispatched" to another life.

However, marching out to the feed room with the snare held out in font of me at arms length, I began to think about the cute little guy. With each step I felt my warrior-like constitution going soft and my mind wandered to Pepe le Pew and Flower of Walt Disney fame.

My aggression further began to deteriorate as I wondered how that skunk came to be trapped in my feed room to begin with. I reasoned that he had plenty of food, but I wondered what he had been doing for water. I decided the poor little prisoner must be close to dehydration, and with that I began to feel sorry for him.

My compassionate side overpowered my warrior side and I set the snare down and filled a bowl with water. Next I quietly and slowly opened the feed room door and slid the bowl of water as far back into the room as I could by using one extended leg and foot.

Stomp-Stomp-Zing-Pow! The next thing I knew I was covered with skunk oil from head to toe. Compassion left my soul faster than a brick dropping to the floor. I would have "dispatched" the blasted little sniper with my bare hands if I could have seen him, but my eyes watered up so badly I could barely see light filtering in from the door behind me. Suddenly my nose was running wildly out of control and so was I.

I blindly ran to the nearest hose and drenched myself with cold water. Unfortunately, I remembered a bit too lat that oil and water don't mix...it beaded up and spread.

Thank goodness Lucy, the manufacturers of Anti-Icky-Poo sell it in gallon size.