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.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
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?
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?
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, August 17, 2009
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."
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."
Sunday, August 16, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Wiley Coyote & The Acme Kit Company Part 1
Wiley Coyote & The Acme Kit Company Part 1
August 15, 2009
There are many reasons living in the country is incredibly satisfying. Even though our ranch is located on a fairly busy highway, the property itself has a park-like setting that provides privacy, serenity and best of all clean country air.
Unfortunately, sometimes even the freshest of country air can become fouled by a tiny black and white guest commonly known as a "skunk."
So there it is...we have a skunk problem. Our elderly local state trapper has been working with me to help eliminate the problem...or so he says. In truth, Trapper John has a rather acute sense of humor and I'm beginning to realize that some of his so-called advise is purely for his own entertainment.
For example, here a while back one of our odoriferous guests managed to somehow slip into the feed room and take up residence behind multiple sacks of chicken feed. I never saw him, but his presence was obvious by the eye-watering perfumed greeting he gave me every time I opened the feed room door.
Naturally I called Trapper John for help. He said he couldn't make it out for a few days but suggested I try setting off a gopher bomb in the feed room. He advised me to set off the gopher bomb, then run like heck, but leave the feed room door open so the skunk would vacate the premises.
Unfortunately all that came out of that fruitless exercise was a worse smelling feed room. The skunk stayed put and expressed his disdain for the smelly gopher bomb by adding some of his own spray to the mix. I've got to tell you that the combination of gopher bomb and skunk essence is not something you ever want to experience. Seriously.
Several other ill-fated attempts at evicting the skunk failed. Then one day in total desperation, and feeling a bit like Wiley Coyote chasing after the Road Runner, I found a company on the Internet that sold what they called a "Beginner Trappers Kit." The kit included a couple of bottles skunk scent lure, a pair of plastic gloves, a short length of chain, and a snare.
Satisfied that I could handle things on my own without the help of Trapper John and his off-the- wall humor, I ordered the kit and paced impatiently waiting for it to arrive . It seemed to take forever. Meanwhile, every morning when I went into the feed room to get chicken feed I was greeted with a blast of skunk essence.
Happily one day, the kit arrived. Unhappily one of the bottles of skunk lure had broken open in transit, and the whole box smelled like the essence of skunk. For some reason that seemed to upset the UPS driver, who more or less kicked the box out of the back of his truck and fled.
Carefully opening the box in the driveway where it landed, I salvaged what I could. I left the box, the wrappings, and the rest of the mess in the driveway while I took the gloves, snare and the remaining bottle of lure into the laundry room to try and wash off some of the putrid smell.
While I was doing that, our two dogs discovered the stinking box and packing papers in the driveway and rolled in them. Apparently dogs have a very different idea of perfume than humans.
Meanwhile, back in the laundry room I was dealing with an ever growing mess of my own. I soon discovered that skunk lure apparently has a higher concentration of oil and washing with even the strongest of detergents does not cut though it. Think of the old adage; Oil and water don't mix. I had skunk oil in the sink, on my hands, the faucet, and on the front of my shirt. Fortunately some time ago I found a great product called "anti-icky-poo" Seriously, that is the name of the product. It's great for skunk oil as well as other offense smells. Unfortunately the lure oil was super concentrated and I had managed to spread it everywhere. My nose was so confused and congested I couldn't tell if the anti-icky-poo was working or not, so I gave up and went into the house.
The dogs apparently had had enough too, because they soon began to scratch at the door. Oblivious to the idea they may have found the box in the driveway, I let them in, and headed to the shower to douse myself with anti-icky-poo, hot water and soap.
Exiting the shower I noted that for some odd reason the house reeked stronger of skunk than it did before I entered the shower. I was baffled until one of the dogs approached grinning and wagging his tail. The closer he got the stronger the smell. Then I knew. I marched the dogs out to the laundry room and doused them with the anti-icky-poo, burned the boxes in a outdoor incinerator, and then shampooed my carpets with anti-icky-poo.
By then, of course, I once again reeked with the skunk oil, so it was back to the shower for me. My husband came home not too long afterward and sniffing the air said "oh oh, who got skunked?" All I could do was glare, he most likely wouldn't have believed my story anyway, then again, he knows he married a Lucille Ball clone.
August 15, 2009
There are many reasons living in the country is incredibly satisfying. Even though our ranch is located on a fairly busy highway, the property itself has a park-like setting that provides privacy, serenity and best of all clean country air.
Unfortunately, sometimes even the freshest of country air can become fouled by a tiny black and white guest commonly known as a "skunk."
So there it is...we have a skunk problem. Our elderly local state trapper has been working with me to help eliminate the problem...or so he says. In truth, Trapper John has a rather acute sense of humor and I'm beginning to realize that some of his so-called advise is purely for his own entertainment.
For example, here a while back one of our odoriferous guests managed to somehow slip into the feed room and take up residence behind multiple sacks of chicken feed. I never saw him, but his presence was obvious by the eye-watering perfumed greeting he gave me every time I opened the feed room door.
Naturally I called Trapper John for help. He said he couldn't make it out for a few days but suggested I try setting off a gopher bomb in the feed room. He advised me to set off the gopher bomb, then run like heck, but leave the feed room door open so the skunk would vacate the premises.
Unfortunately all that came out of that fruitless exercise was a worse smelling feed room. The skunk stayed put and expressed his disdain for the smelly gopher bomb by adding some of his own spray to the mix. I've got to tell you that the combination of gopher bomb and skunk essence is not something you ever want to experience. Seriously.
Several other ill-fated attempts at evicting the skunk failed. Then one day in total desperation, and feeling a bit like Wiley Coyote chasing after the Road Runner, I found a company on the Internet that sold what they called a "Beginner Trappers Kit." The kit included a couple of bottles skunk scent lure, a pair of plastic gloves, a short length of chain, and a snare.
Satisfied that I could handle things on my own without the help of Trapper John and his off-the- wall humor, I ordered the kit and paced impatiently waiting for it to arrive . It seemed to take forever. Meanwhile, every morning when I went into the feed room to get chicken feed I was greeted with a blast of skunk essence.
Happily one day, the kit arrived. Unhappily one of the bottles of skunk lure had broken open in transit, and the whole box smelled like the essence of skunk. For some reason that seemed to upset the UPS driver, who more or less kicked the box out of the back of his truck and fled.
Carefully opening the box in the driveway where it landed, I salvaged what I could. I left the box, the wrappings, and the rest of the mess in the driveway while I took the gloves, snare and the remaining bottle of lure into the laundry room to try and wash off some of the putrid smell.
While I was doing that, our two dogs discovered the stinking box and packing papers in the driveway and rolled in them. Apparently dogs have a very different idea of perfume than humans.
Meanwhile, back in the laundry room I was dealing with an ever growing mess of my own. I soon discovered that skunk lure apparently has a higher concentration of oil and washing with even the strongest of detergents does not cut though it. Think of the old adage; Oil and water don't mix. I had skunk oil in the sink, on my hands, the faucet, and on the front of my shirt. Fortunately some time ago I found a great product called "anti-icky-poo" Seriously, that is the name of the product. It's great for skunk oil as well as other offense smells. Unfortunately the lure oil was super concentrated and I had managed to spread it everywhere. My nose was so confused and congested I couldn't tell if the anti-icky-poo was working or not, so I gave up and went into the house.
The dogs apparently had had enough too, because they soon began to scratch at the door. Oblivious to the idea they may have found the box in the driveway, I let them in, and headed to the shower to douse myself with anti-icky-poo, hot water and soap.
Exiting the shower I noted that for some odd reason the house reeked stronger of skunk than it did before I entered the shower. I was baffled until one of the dogs approached grinning and wagging his tail. The closer he got the stronger the smell. Then I knew. I marched the dogs out to the laundry room and doused them with the anti-icky-poo, burned the boxes in a outdoor incinerator, and then shampooed my carpets with anti-icky-poo.
By then, of course, I once again reeked with the skunk oil, so it was back to the shower for me. My husband came home not too long afterward and sniffing the air said "oh oh, who got skunked?" All I could do was glare, he most likely wouldn't have believed my story anyway, then again, he knows he married a Lucille Ball clone.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
The Case of the Prankster Puppies
The Case of the Prankster Puppies
August 13, 2009
A while back I rescued two mixed-breed puppies from a flea market. I never did figure out what exactly they were mixed with, but if I had to guess I'd say part Tasmanian Devil and part Chimpanzee.
When I first brought them home they were in poor health and it took several trips the veterinarian and some pretty intense care to pull them trough. It was very hard not to become attached to them, but I knew from the beginning that once they recovered, I'd have to find permanent homes for them.
And, recover they did. They soon became exuberant roly-poly balls of 100% pure puppy energy. Except for brief intervals of sleeping, they were in perpetual motion. They ran and jumped and wrestled and rolled.
Then one day the true personality of their Tasmanian devil/chimpanzee cross came out in them and they decided to include me in their antics. Now, some may say this was pure coincidence and that's ok. You can believe what you will, but I'll tell it the way it happened and leave the conclusions up to you.
On that fateful day, I let the puppies out of their kennel as usual, and as usual they took off like a category 5 tornado. Laughing I entered their kenned and began to clean it. Suddenly I noticed they had returned and were ripping the bag of kibbled dog food apart. "No wait" I called and placed the bag on a table near the outside of the kennel.
That apparently didn't set well with them because the minute I went back in the kennel one of the puppies jumped on the outside of the door and slammed it shut with me inside. I wasn't worried because there is a safety latch and puppies will be puppies. But then suddenly the other puppy jumped at the door from another angle causing the safety latch to swing into position virtually locking me inside.
I jiggled the door gently at first. I wasn't quite believing what had just happened. Then I jiggled more frantically. The door wouldn't budge and my hands were too big to slip though the wire to release the safety latch. I was trapped.
Now, here is the interesting part. Both puppies came to within 2 feet of the kennel and sat quietly look at me tilting their heads to one side and then to the other. I swear they were laughing.
I tried to coax them back to the door thinking maybe they could unlatch the safety, but in my heart I knew better. I called and coaxed but they just sat watching me. It's the first time I'd ever seen them awake and not in motion. Then suddenly they bounded off toward the table and began jumping against one leg until the bag of kibbles topped off and fell to the ground.
Did they eat the kibbles? No. What they did was tug the bag over toward the kennel door and leave. That's right, they left. Sweet. There I was hopelessly locked in the kennel. It's good that I wasn't hungry because I couldn't have reached the bag of kibbles if I wanted to. One's mind goes in strange directions when one is faced with undue stress doesn't it?
Bruce was at work, and the neighbors live far enough way that no amount of yelling would alert them to my dilemma. Of course, being a rebel in my own right, I do not carry a cell phone. So there I was.
I rattled the door and hollered then I restored to kicking the door trying to break it loose. Nothing worked so I resorted to the all time sure-fire solution. I cried.
The puppies didn't abandon me all-together though, they came back from time to time to gloat at their prank then quickly bounded off in glee again.
Fortunately my incarceration lasted only two agonizingly long hours. By pure random luck my UPS driver happened to have a package delivery for me that morning. When his truck came in the drive way I shouted and waved my arms frantically He gave a friendly smile,dropped the package off, waved back and started to get in his truck before he realized I was yelling "HELP ME " and not "Hi Steve".
So there you have it. The next day an ad went into the local paper. Missing from their warm fuzzy description was the fact they were part Tasmanian Devil and part Chimpanzee.
August 13, 2009
A while back I rescued two mixed-breed puppies from a flea market. I never did figure out what exactly they were mixed with, but if I had to guess I'd say part Tasmanian Devil and part Chimpanzee.
When I first brought them home they were in poor health and it took several trips the veterinarian and some pretty intense care to pull them trough. It was very hard not to become attached to them, but I knew from the beginning that once they recovered, I'd have to find permanent homes for them.
And, recover they did. They soon became exuberant roly-poly balls of 100% pure puppy energy. Except for brief intervals of sleeping, they were in perpetual motion. They ran and jumped and wrestled and rolled.
Then one day the true personality of their Tasmanian devil/chimpanzee cross came out in them and they decided to include me in their antics. Now, some may say this was pure coincidence and that's ok. You can believe what you will, but I'll tell it the way it happened and leave the conclusions up to you.
On that fateful day, I let the puppies out of their kennel as usual, and as usual they took off like a category 5 tornado. Laughing I entered their kenned and began to clean it. Suddenly I noticed they had returned and were ripping the bag of kibbled dog food apart. "No wait" I called and placed the bag on a table near the outside of the kennel.
That apparently didn't set well with them because the minute I went back in the kennel one of the puppies jumped on the outside of the door and slammed it shut with me inside. I wasn't worried because there is a safety latch and puppies will be puppies. But then suddenly the other puppy jumped at the door from another angle causing the safety latch to swing into position virtually locking me inside.
I jiggled the door gently at first. I wasn't quite believing what had just happened. Then I jiggled more frantically. The door wouldn't budge and my hands were too big to slip though the wire to release the safety latch. I was trapped.
Now, here is the interesting part. Both puppies came to within 2 feet of the kennel and sat quietly look at me tilting their heads to one side and then to the other. I swear they were laughing.
I tried to coax them back to the door thinking maybe they could unlatch the safety, but in my heart I knew better. I called and coaxed but they just sat watching me. It's the first time I'd ever seen them awake and not in motion. Then suddenly they bounded off toward the table and began jumping against one leg until the bag of kibbles topped off and fell to the ground.
Did they eat the kibbles? No. What they did was tug the bag over toward the kennel door and leave. That's right, they left. Sweet. There I was hopelessly locked in the kennel. It's good that I wasn't hungry because I couldn't have reached the bag of kibbles if I wanted to. One's mind goes in strange directions when one is faced with undue stress doesn't it?
Bruce was at work, and the neighbors live far enough way that no amount of yelling would alert them to my dilemma. Of course, being a rebel in my own right, I do not carry a cell phone. So there I was.
I rattled the door and hollered then I restored to kicking the door trying to break it loose. Nothing worked so I resorted to the all time sure-fire solution. I cried.
The puppies didn't abandon me all-together though, they came back from time to time to gloat at their prank then quickly bounded off in glee again.
Fortunately my incarceration lasted only two agonizingly long hours. By pure random luck my UPS driver happened to have a package delivery for me that morning. When his truck came in the drive way I shouted and waved my arms frantically He gave a friendly smile,dropped the package off, waved back and started to get in his truck before he realized I was yelling "HELP ME " and not "Hi Steve".
So there you have it. The next day an ad went into the local paper. Missing from their warm fuzzy description was the fact they were part Tasmanian Devil and part Chimpanzee.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
His Present Wife
His Present Wife
August 12, 2009
If the saying "You are what you eat" is true, and I think maybe it is because I'm looking more and more like a can of Pepsi, then there should be a saying that goes something like "Your attitude defines your day."
Take yesterday for example. The day seemed to start without me, which left me scrambling to catch up with it. Nothing overly significant went wrong. It was more like a series of mini-blunders that left me shaking my head and spitting out grumpy mumblings. At this point I could go into a lot of tedious detail and explain just how the day began to deteriorate, but I'll just cut to the chase and get to the point.
I'm not a certified recluse although I do hate leaving the comfort of my home and ranch. I'd say I'm more like a home-body. I'm the opposite of the typical stereotype woman who loves to head to town and shop. In fact, I dread fighting the traffic and the crowds and when I see the price of things, sticker shock nearly stops my heart.
This is where my theory about attitude setting the mood for the day comes into play. There was no way to get out of going to town yesterday. It was a typical run-around errand day with stops that would include the bank, the grocery store, the feed store, the hardware store and on and on.
The first stop was the bank . It was a hot morning, and I was in such a scrambled mind-set that I locked my keys in the truck. Perfect! Just what I needed! Fortunately we live in a small friendly town, so the folks at the bank let me use their phone to call AAA. The dispatcher said they were having a rather busy day and it would be at least half an hour before she could get someone out to help me.
Frustrated, I stomped back to the parking lot, flipped down the tailgate of the truck and with a grumble hoisted my self onto it to wait for the tow company. I was about to boil over with bad attitude, when I saw an elderly man limping along pushing a walker. At first I thought he was headed into the bank, but then I realized he was headed directly toward me. He approached as though he knew me and said "Well hello there, mind if I join you?"
Of course I mind I thought, but instead I gave a flat lipped smile and patted the open space next to me on the tail gate and said "hop up."
We sat for a minute in silence then he pointed to his feet and said "You know I have some fierce bone spurs on both my feet. I spent most of my life working on my feet, and they hurt like the devil."
I seriously wasn't in the mood for conversation, and I was wishing he'd just go about his business and leave me with my miserable attitude, but there he was so I gave a sympathetic smile and said "I'm sorry, it must be awful to try and get around."
He nodded and said "Do you know what my present wife did for me?" before I could ask he went on "Well sir, my present wife cut holes in a couple of those inserts where the spurs hit so they don't hurt quite so bad." I noted the emphasis on the word present when he spoke of his wife.
"Well, that's great" I said "You'd better keep that present wife of yours." I was wishing he'd just leave and let me sulk in peace, but he continued "Oh you don't need to worry about that, my present wife and I will never part."
I nodded my head and said "That's great." Then he suddenly turned sideways on the tailgate so that we were making direct eye contact and said "Do you know why I call her my present wife?"
Well, that's a no-brainer I thought, most likely because she is the latest in a series of wives, but I shook my head and patronizingly said "No, why do you call her your present wife?"
Quietly he slid off the tailgate and positioned himself in his walker and looked at me with pale blue eyes that started to tear and very positively said "Because she was my present to myself fifty-two years ago when I married her!" Without another word he turned and shuffled his walker toward the bank entrance.
My throat swelled and my eyes welled with tears, and I thought of my "present husband" that I gave to myself twenty-seven years ago when we married. That gimpy old man that I really didn't want to share my space with snapped my attitude back into shape in a big hurry and the day just kept getting better and better. Maybe we really do meet angels unaware.
I'm sure we all have a present something-or-another that we can be thankful for. A wife, a husband, a child, a friend. Those we love are indeed presents to ourselves.
August 12, 2009
If the saying "You are what you eat" is true, and I think maybe it is because I'm looking more and more like a can of Pepsi, then there should be a saying that goes something like "Your attitude defines your day."
Take yesterday for example. The day seemed to start without me, which left me scrambling to catch up with it. Nothing overly significant went wrong. It was more like a series of mini-blunders that left me shaking my head and spitting out grumpy mumblings. At this point I could go into a lot of tedious detail and explain just how the day began to deteriorate, but I'll just cut to the chase and get to the point.
I'm not a certified recluse although I do hate leaving the comfort of my home and ranch. I'd say I'm more like a home-body. I'm the opposite of the typical stereotype woman who loves to head to town and shop. In fact, I dread fighting the traffic and the crowds and when I see the price of things, sticker shock nearly stops my heart.
This is where my theory about attitude setting the mood for the day comes into play. There was no way to get out of going to town yesterday. It was a typical run-around errand day with stops that would include the bank, the grocery store, the feed store, the hardware store and on and on.
The first stop was the bank . It was a hot morning, and I was in such a scrambled mind-set that I locked my keys in the truck. Perfect! Just what I needed! Fortunately we live in a small friendly town, so the folks at the bank let me use their phone to call AAA. The dispatcher said they were having a rather busy day and it would be at least half an hour before she could get someone out to help me.
Frustrated, I stomped back to the parking lot, flipped down the tailgate of the truck and with a grumble hoisted my self onto it to wait for the tow company. I was about to boil over with bad attitude, when I saw an elderly man limping along pushing a walker. At first I thought he was headed into the bank, but then I realized he was headed directly toward me. He approached as though he knew me and said "Well hello there, mind if I join you?"
Of course I mind I thought, but instead I gave a flat lipped smile and patted the open space next to me on the tail gate and said "hop up."
We sat for a minute in silence then he pointed to his feet and said "You know I have some fierce bone spurs on both my feet. I spent most of my life working on my feet, and they hurt like the devil."
I seriously wasn't in the mood for conversation, and I was wishing he'd just go about his business and leave me with my miserable attitude, but there he was so I gave a sympathetic smile and said "I'm sorry, it must be awful to try and get around."
He nodded and said "Do you know what my present wife did for me?" before I could ask he went on "Well sir, my present wife cut holes in a couple of those inserts where the spurs hit so they don't hurt quite so bad." I noted the emphasis on the word present when he spoke of his wife.
"Well, that's great" I said "You'd better keep that present wife of yours." I was wishing he'd just leave and let me sulk in peace, but he continued "Oh you don't need to worry about that, my present wife and I will never part."
I nodded my head and said "That's great." Then he suddenly turned sideways on the tailgate so that we were making direct eye contact and said "Do you know why I call her my present wife?"
Well, that's a no-brainer I thought, most likely because she is the latest in a series of wives, but I shook my head and patronizingly said "No, why do you call her your present wife?"
Quietly he slid off the tailgate and positioned himself in his walker and looked at me with pale blue eyes that started to tear and very positively said "Because she was my present to myself fifty-two years ago when I married her!" Without another word he turned and shuffled his walker toward the bank entrance.
My throat swelled and my eyes welled with tears, and I thought of my "present husband" that I gave to myself twenty-seven years ago when we married. That gimpy old man that I really didn't want to share my space with snapped my attitude back into shape in a big hurry and the day just kept getting better and better. Maybe we really do meet angels unaware.
I'm sure we all have a present something-or-another that we can be thankful for. A wife, a husband, a child, a friend. Those we love are indeed presents to ourselves.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
My First Ever Electric Dog
My First Ever Electric Dog
August 11, 2009
Have you ever wanted something so badly that you became obsessed with getting it, then once you have it you wonder what on earth you were thinking?
So it was with "Taboo" our monstrously large, black, hairy dog. Here's what happened:
We had been having problems with prowlers, mostly the four legged kind harassing our livestock, but occasionally the two legged human kind emerged from the woods as well. Because of that, we decided we needed a "super dog" for protection. Hours of library and Internet research turned up several prospects, but at the top of the list came glowing reports of a breed called Bouvier Des Flanders. They were touted for their loyalty, agility, imposing physical stature, and above all else their amazing intelligence. What more could a person want?
After months of obsessively checking the Internet and various newspapers, we found a breeder advertising a litter of pups. Unfortunately when we called there was only one puppy that was not spoken for. The breeder rolled off all the excellent qualities of the breed, emphasizing their amazing intelligence. She gave me a deal-breaker sales pitch, so my husband and I made a three hour trip to meet our prospective new family member and guardian.
Never had I seen such an adorable puppy. She had big black round eyes that were completely encompassed in a massive ball of long black fur. She was loving and playful and took to us immediately. A few hours later the puppy, my husband and I were on the road back home in gleeful bliss. During the long trip we tried to come up with an appropriate name. Bouvier's are French so we wanted something French and feminine, yet bold. A name like "Fifi" wouldn't do for a guard dog. We eventually came up with "Taboo."
Now, I've had occasion to train several puppies, so I felt confident that I could teach her the basics. However, by the time she was four months old, she had only mastered "shake hands." The rest of the basics: Come, sit, stay, down, and heel were not in her vocabulary no matter how much I worked with her. She didn't seem to even recognize her name.
By the time this "incredibly intelligent and loyal" guardian was six months old, she had been to nearly every obedience school in northern California. Still, she had only mastered "shake hands." At one year of age she had been through three professional trainers and still had only mastered "shake hands." Her name was shortened to "Boo Boo" for obvious reasons.
By then she had also seen a battery of Veterinarians to be sure she didn't have any physical deformities such as eyesight or hearing problems. We were told she was healthy in every respect. Each of them said "It's a matter of training" and suggested yet another obedience school or top-notch professional trainer.
One day, a sheriff's deputy friend of ours who worked in the K-9 unit offered to take her for the weekend and run her through their trails and see what he could do with her. When he returned her on Sunday evening he said she had won the "Miss Congeniality" award, but he couldn't do anything with her so far as getting her to understand the basic heel and sit commands. He mentioned that she shook hands beautifully.
Eventually our neighbors started complaining because she barked constantly when we let her out. The complaints were legitimate. Being a big dog, she had a bark that vibrated windows nearly half a mile away. She barked at birds, swaying tree branches, falling leaves and the wind. She barked and she barked.
Ahh, to this point I don't believe I have mentioned that she was afraid of being alone and also of the dark. We had to leave nightlights on in every room of our home to keep her from howling. Our puppy had grown into a very large sissy dog. She possessed none of the attributes of a watch dog. We were hopelessly in love with her, but at the same time she was making us crazy.
One day one of her veterinarians suggested we try an electric shock collar. It took some convincing, but it did seem to be the logical, and perhaps final step in attempting to train her. Graciously he offered to loan us one that he had used to train his hunting dogs.
Both my husband and I read the instructions carefully. My husband even allowed himself to be jolted just to verify that it wouldn't cause "Boo Boo" any unnecessary discomfort. Satisfied, we placed the collar around her neck and let her outside. She immediately ran around barking at "no-seeums."
Now this is the way it was supposed to go. According to directions we were to hide out of her sight. Each time she barked unnecessarily one of us was to firmly shout "NO!" and if she continued to bark we were supposed to hit the button on the remote and give her a short zap. In theory, she would be taken by surprise and eventually associate the shout with the zap and stop barking before we pressed the button.
She barked, I shouted, she barked, I zapped, she yipped. So far so good. Again, she barked, I shouted, she barked, I zapped, she yipped. So it went for nearly twenty minutes, after which she began to make a vague connection and her barking grew less and less frequent. A couple of times just shouting "NO!" silenced her, and the zap was not necessary. Ahh, we were making great progress! So we decided to leave her outside and end the lesson for the day. I set the remote down and moved on to other things.
Suddenly I heard her yip, there was a pause then another yip. "Hey what are you doing" I yelled to my husband who was in another room "She wasn't barking!" To my surprise he hadn't been using the remote, it was lying by itself where I had left it. We both peered out the window at "Boo Boo" to our amazement every few minutes she would take a few steps, yip then shake her head. My husband grabbed the remote and opened it thinking it must be malfunctioning. Meanwhile I crazily called the vet to ask if it was possible to over-do it and cause permanent brain damage or something.
Using his best bedside manner and very obviously trying not to laugh, he assured me that the minimal jolt would not cause any brain damage, permanent or otherwise. He said he had never had a problem with the unit, but to bring both the dog and the unit in and he'd take a look at them (how patronizing.)
Strangely, even after the batteries were taken out of the hand held remote, "Boo Boo" still gave frequent yips and shook her head." I was convinced that I had caused what little brains she had to begin with to be forever scrambled.
As I was clipping "Boo Boo's" leash on to take her to the vet my neighbor drove into our driveway and yelled "Thank god you are home, Frank got a new TV and he's making me nuts flipping through all 269 channels. I had to get out of the house."
Suddenly my husband was laughing and said "Wait...Frank just got a new TV?" I glared at him...just like a man to be thinking of new toys when our dog was brain damaged! Before I could admonish him for his lack of compassion he said "I think I know what's going on. Put the shock collar back on "Boo Boo" and get Frank on the phone. Have him tell us each time he switches channels, I think maybe the collar is on the same frequency as Frank's remote"
Sure enough, that was the problem. Each time Frank hit his remote button to switch channels it not only sent a signal to his new TV, but to "Boo Boo's" collar as well. A quick adjustment of the frequency and the problem was solved, but I never had the heart to use the collar again. I returned it to the vet that same day.
In spite of that, for the next thirteen years of her life, she barked, I yelled "NO!" she yipped, shook her head and grew silent. Great training job Frank!
She was a great dog. She was not, however a great watch dog, or even a mediocre one. We continued to be plagued by prowlers which she greeted with a hand shake. She never won any scholastic awards, but she was by far the most loving dog we have ever had the privilege of sharing our home with.
By the way, in case you are wondering, at the end of her life she had learned only two commands "Shake hands" and "No"... My incredible lovable First Ever Electric Dog!
August 11, 2009
Have you ever wanted something so badly that you became obsessed with getting it, then once you have it you wonder what on earth you were thinking?
So it was with "Taboo" our monstrously large, black, hairy dog. Here's what happened:
We had been having problems with prowlers, mostly the four legged kind harassing our livestock, but occasionally the two legged human kind emerged from the woods as well. Because of that, we decided we needed a "super dog" for protection. Hours of library and Internet research turned up several prospects, but at the top of the list came glowing reports of a breed called Bouvier Des Flanders. They were touted for their loyalty, agility, imposing physical stature, and above all else their amazing intelligence. What more could a person want?
After months of obsessively checking the Internet and various newspapers, we found a breeder advertising a litter of pups. Unfortunately when we called there was only one puppy that was not spoken for. The breeder rolled off all the excellent qualities of the breed, emphasizing their amazing intelligence. She gave me a deal-breaker sales pitch, so my husband and I made a three hour trip to meet our prospective new family member and guardian.
Never had I seen such an adorable puppy. She had big black round eyes that were completely encompassed in a massive ball of long black fur. She was loving and playful and took to us immediately. A few hours later the puppy, my husband and I were on the road back home in gleeful bliss. During the long trip we tried to come up with an appropriate name. Bouvier's are French so we wanted something French and feminine, yet bold. A name like "Fifi" wouldn't do for a guard dog. We eventually came up with "Taboo."
Now, I've had occasion to train several puppies, so I felt confident that I could teach her the basics. However, by the time she was four months old, she had only mastered "shake hands." The rest of the basics: Come, sit, stay, down, and heel were not in her vocabulary no matter how much I worked with her. She didn't seem to even recognize her name.
By the time this "incredibly intelligent and loyal" guardian was six months old, she had been to nearly every obedience school in northern California. Still, she had only mastered "shake hands." At one year of age she had been through three professional trainers and still had only mastered "shake hands." Her name was shortened to "Boo Boo" for obvious reasons.
By then she had also seen a battery of Veterinarians to be sure she didn't have any physical deformities such as eyesight or hearing problems. We were told she was healthy in every respect. Each of them said "It's a matter of training" and suggested yet another obedience school or top-notch professional trainer.
One day, a sheriff's deputy friend of ours who worked in the K-9 unit offered to take her for the weekend and run her through their trails and see what he could do with her. When he returned her on Sunday evening he said she had won the "Miss Congeniality" award, but he couldn't do anything with her so far as getting her to understand the basic heel and sit commands. He mentioned that she shook hands beautifully.
Eventually our neighbors started complaining because she barked constantly when we let her out. The complaints were legitimate. Being a big dog, she had a bark that vibrated windows nearly half a mile away. She barked at birds, swaying tree branches, falling leaves and the wind. She barked and she barked.
Ahh, to this point I don't believe I have mentioned that she was afraid of being alone and also of the dark. We had to leave nightlights on in every room of our home to keep her from howling. Our puppy had grown into a very large sissy dog. She possessed none of the attributes of a watch dog. We were hopelessly in love with her, but at the same time she was making us crazy.
One day one of her veterinarians suggested we try an electric shock collar. It took some convincing, but it did seem to be the logical, and perhaps final step in attempting to train her. Graciously he offered to loan us one that he had used to train his hunting dogs.
Both my husband and I read the instructions carefully. My husband even allowed himself to be jolted just to verify that it wouldn't cause "Boo Boo" any unnecessary discomfort. Satisfied, we placed the collar around her neck and let her outside. She immediately ran around barking at "no-seeums."
Now this is the way it was supposed to go. According to directions we were to hide out of her sight. Each time she barked unnecessarily one of us was to firmly shout "NO!" and if she continued to bark we were supposed to hit the button on the remote and give her a short zap. In theory, she would be taken by surprise and eventually associate the shout with the zap and stop barking before we pressed the button.
She barked, I shouted, she barked, I zapped, she yipped. So far so good. Again, she barked, I shouted, she barked, I zapped, she yipped. So it went for nearly twenty minutes, after which she began to make a vague connection and her barking grew less and less frequent. A couple of times just shouting "NO!" silenced her, and the zap was not necessary. Ahh, we were making great progress! So we decided to leave her outside and end the lesson for the day. I set the remote down and moved on to other things.
Suddenly I heard her yip, there was a pause then another yip. "Hey what are you doing" I yelled to my husband who was in another room "She wasn't barking!" To my surprise he hadn't been using the remote, it was lying by itself where I had left it. We both peered out the window at "Boo Boo" to our amazement every few minutes she would take a few steps, yip then shake her head. My husband grabbed the remote and opened it thinking it must be malfunctioning. Meanwhile I crazily called the vet to ask if it was possible to over-do it and cause permanent brain damage or something.
Using his best bedside manner and very obviously trying not to laugh, he assured me that the minimal jolt would not cause any brain damage, permanent or otherwise. He said he had never had a problem with the unit, but to bring both the dog and the unit in and he'd take a look at them (how patronizing.)
Strangely, even after the batteries were taken out of the hand held remote, "Boo Boo" still gave frequent yips and shook her head." I was convinced that I had caused what little brains she had to begin with to be forever scrambled.
As I was clipping "Boo Boo's" leash on to take her to the vet my neighbor drove into our driveway and yelled "Thank god you are home, Frank got a new TV and he's making me nuts flipping through all 269 channels. I had to get out of the house."
Suddenly my husband was laughing and said "Wait...Frank just got a new TV?" I glared at him...just like a man to be thinking of new toys when our dog was brain damaged! Before I could admonish him for his lack of compassion he said "I think I know what's going on. Put the shock collar back on "Boo Boo" and get Frank on the phone. Have him tell us each time he switches channels, I think maybe the collar is on the same frequency as Frank's remote"
Sure enough, that was the problem. Each time Frank hit his remote button to switch channels it not only sent a signal to his new TV, but to "Boo Boo's" collar as well. A quick adjustment of the frequency and the problem was solved, but I never had the heart to use the collar again. I returned it to the vet that same day.
In spite of that, for the next thirteen years of her life, she barked, I yelled "NO!" she yipped, shook her head and grew silent. Great training job Frank!
She was a great dog. She was not, however a great watch dog, or even a mediocre one. We continued to be plagued by prowlers which she greeted with a hand shake. She never won any scholastic awards, but she was by far the most loving dog we have ever had the privilege of sharing our home with.
By the way, in case you are wondering, at the end of her life she had learned only two commands "Shake hands" and "No"... My incredible lovable First Ever Electric Dog!
Monday, August 10, 2009
Country Scents
August 10, 2009
Well, here I go. I'm a blogger. I'm not really sure what a blogger is, but apparently now I am one. I'm told it's like writing entries in a journal or diary. That sounds simple enough. The difference apparently is that journals and diaries are private and blogs are not. I'll watch myself.
As far back into my life as I can remember those who know me say I must have Lucille Ball Syndrome, or maybe I am a Lucille Ball clone. Things just happen in my daily life that seem to spin hopelessly out of control. While they can be frustrating to me at times, they inevitably make others laugh or reflect. My grandmother said I was put on this earth to entrain folks. That's not such a bad thing, I can think of worse. People need to laugh, especially in these tough times.
So, this blog "Country Scents" is about my daily life. I'm not a kid. I'm not middle aged. I'm pretty much over-the hill and sledding rapidly down the other side. I'm a woman rancher, married and I have grown children. That's really all you need to know about me for now.
The following entries are all true, real life events, but on occasion I may take creative liberties to enhance the stories. I'm a frustrated author, so I think creative liberties are justified.
Lets begin with today: August 10, 2009
I woke this morning with a sinus headache. Not such a great way to start any day, but that is the way it began. After my husband left for work I decided to take a sinus tablet and lay down for a bit to see if I could at least knock the headache down to a dull workable throb. It worked. My head cleared quite nicely. My new problem was that I was hit between the eyes with a pang of guilt for taking time out of my busy day to lay down. So much to do, so little time (sound familiar?)
I jumped up and before my feet even hit the floor they were moving at lightening speed. I was moving so fast that the best race horses in Kentucky couldn't have caught me. I rushed about the house gathering things and straightening things. The house never looks as good as I think it should. I have too many responsibilities. The garden, the animals, running a home-based business and trying to keep the house up. It gets overwhelming. Rushing about trying to make up for lost time, I carried a pad and pencil and jotted down all the great feats I wanted to accomplish before the day slipped away.
As I folded a stack of laundry I jostled the phone between my shoulder and cheek. A business call.
By about 7:30 I was off the phone (Love those folks on the East Coast who never remember there is a time difference between the East and West coasts .) I needed to tackle the things on my "to do" list, but first a quick shower was in order. As I raced though the bedroom on my way to the shower, I realized I had not yet opened the curtains. I quickly reached out and gave the cord a pull, causing the drapes to fly open with a whoosh. I gave the landscape a quick nonchalant glance, noted the undeniable beauty and started to turn away...nothing in this world could deter me from my mission of great accomplishments today.
Ahhh, but there it was. It was the striking brilliant silver sheen that first caught my attention. It screeched my runabout world to a sudden halt as if someone had pulled the emergency cord on a runaway trolley. I moved closer to the window for a better look.
There hanging in brilliant profusion, from the Tulip tree, were nine very delicate strands of what looked like very expensive sterling necklace chains. I knelt on a chair and pressed my face even closer to the window. Each strand was about six feet long and flowed in a funnel shape from a single coupling on a low hanging branch. The opposite end of each stand was attached to our wrought-iron fence giving the whole wonder a "May-Pole" affect. Moisture from the morning dew had collected along the strands and as the sun filtered though them, the tiny droplets danced and sparkled like precious diamonds.
It was then that I knew that no matter what else the day had to offer, I had just been given the greatest treasure one could every expect to discover. A silent sparkling reminder that life's true blessings are fleeting and must be savored as they occur.
I poured a cup of coffee and sat watching as the sun crept slowly across the delicate spider web. I savored every minute. My own labors seemed small and insignificant. While I was laying down with my headache this early morning, a tiny spider wove a trap just a few feet from where I lay.
I suppose an entomologist might see the web from a clinical point of view and say the spider wove the trap to catch its next meal, or perhaps to lay its eggs in...but I will forever argue that the trap was set just for me.
In the midst of my rush-about morning, it caught me completely off guard and pulled me in. It held me hopelessly captive until it had calmed and reassured me. I once again have things in perspective. There is more to life than getting things done. The beauty of our world is precious and fleeting and not to be taken lightly.
Well, here I go. I'm a blogger. I'm not really sure what a blogger is, but apparently now I am one. I'm told it's like writing entries in a journal or diary. That sounds simple enough. The difference apparently is that journals and diaries are private and blogs are not. I'll watch myself.
As far back into my life as I can remember those who know me say I must have Lucille Ball Syndrome, or maybe I am a Lucille Ball clone. Things just happen in my daily life that seem to spin hopelessly out of control. While they can be frustrating to me at times, they inevitably make others laugh or reflect. My grandmother said I was put on this earth to entrain folks. That's not such a bad thing, I can think of worse. People need to laugh, especially in these tough times.
So, this blog "Country Scents" is about my daily life. I'm not a kid. I'm not middle aged. I'm pretty much over-the hill and sledding rapidly down the other side. I'm a woman rancher, married and I have grown children. That's really all you need to know about me for now.
The following entries are all true, real life events, but on occasion I may take creative liberties to enhance the stories. I'm a frustrated author, so I think creative liberties are justified.
Lets begin with today: August 10, 2009
I woke this morning with a sinus headache. Not such a great way to start any day, but that is the way it began. After my husband left for work I decided to take a sinus tablet and lay down for a bit to see if I could at least knock the headache down to a dull workable throb. It worked. My head cleared quite nicely. My new problem was that I was hit between the eyes with a pang of guilt for taking time out of my busy day to lay down. So much to do, so little time (sound familiar?)
I jumped up and before my feet even hit the floor they were moving at lightening speed. I was moving so fast that the best race horses in Kentucky couldn't have caught me. I rushed about the house gathering things and straightening things. The house never looks as good as I think it should. I have too many responsibilities. The garden, the animals, running a home-based business and trying to keep the house up. It gets overwhelming. Rushing about trying to make up for lost time, I carried a pad and pencil and jotted down all the great feats I wanted to accomplish before the day slipped away.
As I folded a stack of laundry I jostled the phone between my shoulder and cheek. A business call.
By about 7:30 I was off the phone (Love those folks on the East Coast who never remember there is a time difference between the East and West coasts .) I needed to tackle the things on my "to do" list, but first a quick shower was in order. As I raced though the bedroom on my way to the shower, I realized I had not yet opened the curtains. I quickly reached out and gave the cord a pull, causing the drapes to fly open with a whoosh. I gave the landscape a quick nonchalant glance, noted the undeniable beauty and started to turn away...nothing in this world could deter me from my mission of great accomplishments today.
Ahhh, but there it was. It was the striking brilliant silver sheen that first caught my attention. It screeched my runabout world to a sudden halt as if someone had pulled the emergency cord on a runaway trolley. I moved closer to the window for a better look.
There hanging in brilliant profusion, from the Tulip tree, were nine very delicate strands of what looked like very expensive sterling necklace chains. I knelt on a chair and pressed my face even closer to the window. Each strand was about six feet long and flowed in a funnel shape from a single coupling on a low hanging branch. The opposite end of each stand was attached to our wrought-iron fence giving the whole wonder a "May-Pole" affect. Moisture from the morning dew had collected along the strands and as the sun filtered though them, the tiny droplets danced and sparkled like precious diamonds.
It was then that I knew that no matter what else the day had to offer, I had just been given the greatest treasure one could every expect to discover. A silent sparkling reminder that life's true blessings are fleeting and must be savored as they occur.
I poured a cup of coffee and sat watching as the sun crept slowly across the delicate spider web. I savored every minute. My own labors seemed small and insignificant. While I was laying down with my headache this early morning, a tiny spider wove a trap just a few feet from where I lay.
I suppose an entomologist might see the web from a clinical point of view and say the spider wove the trap to catch its next meal, or perhaps to lay its eggs in...but I will forever argue that the trap was set just for me.
In the midst of my rush-about morning, it caught me completely off guard and pulled me in. It held me hopelessly captive until it had calmed and reassured me. I once again have things in perspective. There is more to life than getting things done. The beauty of our world is precious and fleeting and not to be taken lightly.
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