5:15 a.m. Alarm clock/radio turns on: my dreams start to include country music
5:25 a.m. Finally wake up enough to realize I'm not in Nashville and I open my eyes, raise my head and check the time. Close my eyes and snuggle back on my pillow.
5:35 a.m. Drag myself out of bed.
5:40 a.m. Wake up the FLB*.
5:42 a.m. FLB* and I leave for walk.
--------- Stop so FLB* can relieve himself
--------- Stop so FLB* can relieve himself
--------- Stop so FLB* can relieve himself (by now he's lifting his leg and nothing's coming out...it's all for show)
--------- FLB* stops and drops a #2 on the street
6:02 a.m. Back in the house again after morning walk.
*FLB (freakin' little bastard) is Harley the 24 lb terrier who needs to lose 4 lbs to get back to his handsome self.
Showing posts with label dog stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dog stories. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Thursday, July 22, 2010
the more things stay the same....
When I walked through the kitchen door yesterday the first thing I saw was garbage all over the floor. I gasped, but I did not yell or scream or flail my arms. As I stood there the FLB* trotted up with his tail wagging. I glared at him and pointed at the mess. He looked. Then he remembered. Oh. His tail lowered and his whole body slumped. All I said was, "Bed.". He slunk off to his doggie bed.
I didn't have to clean up the worst of the garbage: a handful of chicken fat cut from some chicken breasts, gooey barbecue sauce, and a hairball cleaned up a couple days ago. The FLB* ate those treats. So my part of the cleanup was pretty quick.
Of course I'm waiting for the denouement. He ate raw chicken fat and a hairball. I'm sure there will be some gagging drama in the middle of the night soon. Sigh.
After I cleaned up the mess and did some other chores I decided to release the FLB* from his timeout and take him outside. I wanted to get my two new plants out of the car. One plant with tiny purple flowers at the end of its long green leaves looked like it had some white spots on some of the leaves, so I decided to leave it outside and spray-wash it for a few days before bringing it into the house. As I set the plant on my patio a tiny 3" lizard leaped from the plant to my hand. I heard a shriek and I think there were some body tremors before the lizard jumped from my hand to the patio. I'm proud to say I did not wet my pants...not even a little.
I do have some sad news. My houseplant palm tree did not survive. I'm not sure what happened. This was the plant that the FLB* liked to sniff around and stare at. I thought I watered it carefully but it started to yellow and brown and before long it was dead. When I took it to the street to be added to the yard waste pile I thought I saw the blinds move in my living room. Was the FLB* watching me? Was he...laughing?
I purchased a replacement palm last week and so far it looks wonderful in the living room and the FLB* seems to be ignoring it.
I have some great news, too. I have a new grandson. Evan Philip Carter was born less than 30 minutes before Fathers' Day. He is beautiful and sweet and cuddly. Here is his one month old picture:
And this is little Evan with his big brother 3-yr-old Noah. It looks like Noah is sucking the brain right out of Evan, but he's counting to 5 while kissing his little brother - as directed by his mom so she can get the photo.
*FLB = Harley, mixed terrier.
I didn't have to clean up the worst of the garbage: a handful of chicken fat cut from some chicken breasts, gooey barbecue sauce, and a hairball cleaned up a couple days ago. The FLB* ate those treats. So my part of the cleanup was pretty quick.
Of course I'm waiting for the denouement. He ate raw chicken fat and a hairball. I'm sure there will be some gagging drama in the middle of the night soon. Sigh.
After I cleaned up the mess and did some other chores I decided to release the FLB* from his timeout and take him outside. I wanted to get my two new plants out of the car. One plant with tiny purple flowers at the end of its long green leaves looked like it had some white spots on some of the leaves, so I decided to leave it outside and spray-wash it for a few days before bringing it into the house. As I set the plant on my patio a tiny 3" lizard leaped from the plant to my hand. I heard a shriek and I think there were some body tremors before the lizard jumped from my hand to the patio. I'm proud to say I did not wet my pants...not even a little.
I do have some sad news. My houseplant palm tree did not survive. I'm not sure what happened. This was the plant that the FLB* liked to sniff around and stare at. I thought I watered it carefully but it started to yellow and brown and before long it was dead. When I took it to the street to be added to the yard waste pile I thought I saw the blinds move in my living room. Was the FLB* watching me? Was he...laughing?
I purchased a replacement palm last week and so far it looks wonderful in the living room and the FLB* seems to be ignoring it.
*FLB = Harley, mixed terrier.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
HARLEY - Six Years Old - and Counting...
I took down my Christmas trees today. I was picking stray pieces of plastic and lint off the carpet when something caught my eye under my desk in one of Harley's beds(1). I got down on my hands and knees, looked closely under my desk, and gasped. Shards of glass glittered up from the brown and tan cotton-covered bottom of his bed. I couldn't believe my eyes. The *FLB had chewed up a glass ornament.
I looked at him. He looked at me. "What?!" he seemed to say.
You're probably thinking, "Well, did you rush him to the Emergency Clinic?"
You're new to this blog, aren't you. No, I didn't rush him to the Emergency Clinic, and I probably won't mention it at his next vet appointment. It's been weeks since I first put up the tree, and weeks since any ornaments would have hit the ground and not been noticed by me. Whatever he's eaten or swallowed has been through his system and exited. And, before you call PETA on me, I saw quite a bit of glass in there; it could be that he didn't swallow any of it.
Besides, sigh, this isn't the first time the *FLB has chewed on something or eaten something that should have, at the very least, made him really sick.
He stole one of my granddaughter's small stuffed animal and hid it in his bed after one of her visits. Sibling rivalry. I found it and saw a small hole chewed in it and threw it away. Later I was vacuuming the carpet and all of a sudden I heard, "clinkaclinkaclink" as a lot of small somethings rattled through the machine. I stopped and, yes, got down on my hands and knees, and felt around his bed. There were hundreds of small pearl-sized plastic balls next to his bed and in his bed. Had he shaken them out of the little stuffed animal? Probably. If he'd sucked them out I think they would have been gooey with Harley liquids. Had he thrown up recently? No. Anything unusual in his....spoor? (Classy word, eh?) No, but I don't get up close and personal with his...spoor. I shrugged and cleaned up the rest of the little balls.
A co-worker and friend who has since returned to the Czech Republic (Hi, Luci!) created a beautiful and original Christmas gift with cookies and birthday candles. I displayed it on my table under my Christmas tree for a weekend. When I returned from work on Monday it was gone. Not a gram of cookie or candle anywhere. I interrogated the *FLB but he denied any knowledge of said gift. I watched his...spoor...for several days and did see flashes of yellow, but chose not investigate further.
When I brought this dog home from the pound he was one year old. It was January. So I celebrate his birthday in January. The date is flexible; it depends when dog products go on sale and I find something inexpensive (CHEAP) and appropriate for the *FLB. So far I haven't found anything that, A. the little guy wouldn't just chew and eat in one sitting (rubber/plastic), or B. something that the *FLB will use to spread stuff all over my carpet for months (braided rag chews). His toys currently consist of :
1. a small tire purchased by my brother that is advertised as INDESTRUCTIBLE and is made of tire-grade rubber. I can vouch that, although the *FLB has invested many hours gnawing on the tire, it looks as new as the day he got it.
2. a rock that the *FLB stole from my office. I brought the rock back from a beach in Nova Scotia. It is a ragged piece of quartz and I was using it to prop open the compartment door where I keep my computer tower and modem. Since both machines can run hot I like to keep the door propped open. (Why did I buy a desk that had a closed compartment? I don't know. Seemed like a good idea at the time.) So I used to use the rock to prop the door open, but I would come home from work and the rock would be missing. I would find it in Harley's bed. I finally gave up and let him keep it. Although it does embarrass me when I have company and he brings out his rock. "What's that?" they will ask. sigh. "That's his rock," I will explain. "BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
3. a red and green un-stuffed thing from which all the stuffing has been removed and spread all over my house (I removed the squeaker); he just likes to chew on the fabric.
He used to have one of those really hard plastic Nylabones that's supposed to be safe for dogs, but I can't find it.
Uh-oh.
I looked at him. He looked at me. "What?!" he seemed to say.
You're probably thinking, "Well, did you rush him to the Emergency Clinic?"
You're new to this blog, aren't you. No, I didn't rush him to the Emergency Clinic, and I probably won't mention it at his next vet appointment. It's been weeks since I first put up the tree, and weeks since any ornaments would have hit the ground and not been noticed by me. Whatever he's eaten or swallowed has been through his system and exited. And, before you call PETA on me, I saw quite a bit of glass in there; it could be that he didn't swallow any of it.
He stole one of my granddaughter's small stuffed animal and hid it in his bed after one of her visits. Sibling rivalry. I found it and saw a small hole chewed in it and threw it away. Later I was vacuuming the carpet and all of a sudden I heard, "clinkaclinkaclink" as a lot of small somethings rattled through the machine. I stopped and, yes, got down on my hands and knees, and felt around his bed. There were hundreds of small pearl-sized plastic balls next to his bed and in his bed. Had he shaken them out of the little stuffed animal? Probably. If he'd sucked them out I think they would have been gooey with Harley liquids. Had he thrown up recently? No. Anything unusual in his....spoor? (Classy word, eh?) No, but I don't get up close and personal with his...spoor. I shrugged and cleaned up the rest of the little balls.
A co-worker and friend who has since returned to the Czech Republic (Hi, Luci!) created a beautiful and original Christmas gift with cookies and birthday candles. I displayed it on my table under my Christmas tree for a weekend. When I returned from work on Monday it was gone. Not a gram of cookie or candle anywhere. I interrogated the *FLB but he denied any knowledge of said gift. I watched his...spoor...for several days and did see flashes of yellow, but chose not investigate further.
1. a small tire purchased by my brother that is advertised as INDESTRUCTIBLE and is made of tire-grade rubber. I can vouch that, although the *FLB has invested many hours gnawing on the tire, it looks as new as the day he got it.
2. a rock that the *FLB stole from my office. I brought the rock back from a beach in Nova Scotia. It is a ragged piece of quartz and I was using it to prop open the compartment door where I keep my computer tower and modem. Since both machines can run hot I like to keep the door propped open. (Why did I buy a desk that had a closed compartment? I don't know. Seemed like a good idea at the time.) So I used to use the rock to prop the door open, but I would come home from work and the rock would be missing. I would find it in Harley's bed. I finally gave up and let him keep it. Although it does embarrass me when I have company and he brings out his rock. "What's that?" they will ask. sigh. "That's his rock," I will explain. "BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
3. a red and green un-stuffed thing from which all the stuffing has been removed and spread all over my house (I removed the squeaker); he just likes to chew on the fabric.
He used to have one of those really hard plastic Nylabones that's supposed to be safe for dogs, but I can't find it.
Uh-oh.
*FLB=Freakin' Little Bastard
(1) In the Old Days dogs were lucky to have a towel or some other rag on which to sleep. My childhood pets slept outside. Even Lassie slept on the floor at the foot of Timmy's bed - no special bed for Lassie! Now they have dog beds and, evidently, one is not enough. You should have a dog bed in every room so your dog will have somewhere safe and comfortable to sleep in every room. (It's Me or the Dog) Harley has a crate and 2 dog beds. I am so politically correct.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
All I Wanted Was a Houseplant
Although my houseplant and I got off to a shaky start due to a tree frog hiding in the watering can, I am now enjoying the newest addition to my living room. I believe the palm tree is happy with its new home as it is filling out, sprouting new leaves, and not developing any brown areas. It adds a bright spot of color to that corner by my front door and I just enjoy looking at it. Everything would be perfect...except...except for ...
the *FLB.
Yes. Him! He spends a lot of time staring at the tree. Up close and personal. He will walk up to it, sniff around it, stick his stinkin' little nose in the dirt and sniff...
sniff....sniff....
Then he will startle... and stare ... at SOMETHING he sees or thinks he sees in the tree. He will back off and sit and stare. Move closer. Stare some more. Eventually he forgets what he's doing and wanders away. He is driving me crazy.
I picked up that tree and plunked it in my shopping cart and hefted it into the back seat of my car and lugged it into my home. If there was something IN the tree wouldn't it have jumped out and gotten me then? Wouldn't it?
Today I remembered a story carried in the St. Augustine Record last July. I looked it up and here is the headline: "Garden Shop Reopens After Rattler Bites Shopper". I am not kidding. A man was shopping in the fern section of the St. Augustine Wal-Mart Garden Shop when his girlfriend's child dropped or threw a baby bottle onto the floor. Said customer "reached under a plastic shelf" whereupon HE WAS BITTEN BY A PYGMY RATTLESNAKE! He survived - after he was hospitalized.
The garden shop was closed so a wildlife professional could be called in and "assess the area". Here's my favorite quote, "What is not known is whether the rattlesnake got into the garden center from nearby woods or if it came in on plants delivered to the store."
WHAT????!!!
Since 2006 three incidents were reported of snakes attacking customers in Wal-Mart Garden Shops around Florida. In the almost-requisite "What to watch for" part of the article appeared my 2nd favorite quote: "The ornery pygmy rattlesnake is a 'sit-and-wait' predator that sits coiled in one spot, waiting for its prey to approach."
Nice.
So I'm sitting here wondering what the heck my dog is sniffing and staring at in my palm tree. I bought it at Home Depot, not Wal-Mart. Thank heavens. I'm not going to DO anything with the palm tree like pick it up and move it - not anymore.
And I keep my eyes WIDE OPEN when I'm watering it - after I have checked out the watering can thoroughly.
Damn. Just damn.
*Freakin' little bastard
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
DOGS, COPS, AND DAUGHTERS
"Back in the day" when I used to watch TV I would use it to lull myself to sleep, or to pass the time when I couldn't sleep. My ex and I divorced in 1992 and the following August I bought a house in Lake Capri, a quiet community of mostly older folks who had moved there in the 1970's and 1980's to retire. Atlanta suburban sprawl had caught up to this part of Rockdale County and now it was just another suburban neighborhood. I loved the area with its spring-fed lakes and walking trails, and I liked the house.
My older daughter, a senior in high school, moved in with her father, and my younger daughter stayed with me. Our house had two bedrooms upstairs that shared a large bathroom and, on the weekends when my older daughter came to stay, the girls could have all the privacy up there they wanted. The master bedroom was downstairs and I could also have all the privacy I wanted and needed at that time. The house had a large fenced yard and the girls' two dogs lived back there. Snoopy and Jodi were two mutts that the girls adopted at the pound when both dogs were just puppies. Snoopy was a black chow-mix and Jodi was a huge hairy collie-shephard-and-something-else mix. The dogs were my responsibility (problem) now as they were older and the girls had moved on to bigger and better things.
One winter night I could not sleep and I was channel-surfing, clicking from one station to another, looking for something, anything to watch. I had put the dogs into our large utility shed because it was going to be below freezing that night. Melissa was asleep upstairs (or so I thought) and Mary Lee was at her dad's. I was in the divorcee's typical sexy nighttime outfit - an over-sized tee-shirt and panties. Click. Click. SCREAM. I jumped and clicked. One of the channels must have had on a horror movie and I clicked on it just as some poor victim let out a bloodcurdling scream. It gave me shivers and I made a note to skip that channel if I surfed near it again. Click. Click. What's that? Boring. Click. Click.
Let's change the point of view. My daughter Melissa, who was 13 or 14 at the time, was upstairs just dozing off when a bloodcurdling scream woke her. She froze in her bed as the scream was cut off! MOM!?! She listened and heard nothing. O MY GOD! Had something happened to Mom? She reached for her phone and pulled it under the covers with her. 9-1-1. She told the operator that she had heard her mother scream downstairs and she thought someone was in the house. The operator immediately dispatched two deputies to the address and kept Melissa on the phone. Was there any way she could get out of the house? No, the stairs and front door were by her mother's room. Was her bedroom door locked? No, yes, maybe, sometimes it didn't lock all the way. Did she want to check? No! She was too scared to even get out of bed. For all she knew her Mom was dead and someone was coming up the stairs to get her! The operator tried to calm her and kept her on the phone while the police hurried to our address.
Point of view shift: Mom is watching some stupid movie or program downstairs totally unaware of what is going on in her daughter's room. All of a sudden she sees lights dancing on the wall outside of her bedroom door. Mom rubs her eyes; the lights are still there. It looks like someone is shining a flashlight through her living room windows. Holy crap! Someone is trying to break in! Mom is terrified! She mutes the TV and slowly climbs out of bed looking for a weapon. Nothing! She tiptoes to her bedroom door and peers around the wall into the living room. There are two people standing at her front door shining flashlights through the window! One of them raps on the door and says, "Ma'am! Police! Can you come to the door?"
Police?
"Just a minute!" she says. She stumbles to the door and slides back the latch. She hears her daughter's bedroom door slam open and her daughter stampedes down the stairs saying, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Mom, I'm so sorry!"
Mom opens the door to the police who are relieved that we are both all right, but supremely aggravated that, in checking out the house before approaching the front door, they had heard noises around back and opened the utility door. The two excited dogs had bounded out, jumped all over them, and had run away. My daughter apologized for calling 9-1-1 and they were very kind to her and told her she did the right thing. I was mortified to be standing there in an over-sized tee-shirt, wild hair, and clueless. They apologized for releasing the dogs, and made a halfhearted attempt at rounding them up before they gave up and drove away. Melissa ran back upstairs and fell asleep. I put on some sweatpants and a jacket and retrieved the dogs.
My older daughter, a senior in high school, moved in with her father, and my younger daughter stayed with me. Our house had two bedrooms upstairs that shared a large bathroom and, on the weekends when my older daughter came to stay, the girls could have all the privacy up there they wanted. The master bedroom was downstairs and I could also have all the privacy I wanted and needed at that time. The house had a large fenced yard and the girls' two dogs lived back there. Snoopy and Jodi were two mutts that the girls adopted at the pound when both dogs were just puppies. Snoopy was a black chow-mix and Jodi was a huge hairy collie-shephard-and-something-else mix. The dogs were my responsibility (problem) now as they were older and the girls had moved on to bigger and better things.
One winter night I could not sleep and I was channel-surfing, clicking from one station to another, looking for something, anything to watch. I had put the dogs into our large utility shed because it was going to be below freezing that night. Melissa was asleep upstairs (or so I thought) and Mary Lee was at her dad's. I was in the divorcee's typical sexy nighttime outfit - an over-sized tee-shirt and panties. Click. Click. SCREAM. I jumped and clicked. One of the channels must have had on a horror movie and I clicked on it just as some poor victim let out a bloodcurdling scream. It gave me shivers and I made a note to skip that channel if I surfed near it again. Click. Click. What's that? Boring. Click. Click.
Let's change the point of view. My daughter Melissa, who was 13 or 14 at the time, was upstairs just dozing off when a bloodcurdling scream woke her. She froze in her bed as the scream was cut off! MOM!?! She listened and heard nothing. O MY GOD! Had something happened to Mom? She reached for her phone and pulled it under the covers with her. 9-1-1. She told the operator that she had heard her mother scream downstairs and she thought someone was in the house. The operator immediately dispatched two deputies to the address and kept Melissa on the phone. Was there any way she could get out of the house? No, the stairs and front door were by her mother's room. Was her bedroom door locked? No, yes, maybe, sometimes it didn't lock all the way. Did she want to check? No! She was too scared to even get out of bed. For all she knew her Mom was dead and someone was coming up the stairs to get her! The operator tried to calm her and kept her on the phone while the police hurried to our address.
Point of view shift: Mom is watching some stupid movie or program downstairs totally unaware of what is going on in her daughter's room. All of a sudden she sees lights dancing on the wall outside of her bedroom door. Mom rubs her eyes; the lights are still there. It looks like someone is shining a flashlight through her living room windows. Holy crap! Someone is trying to break in! Mom is terrified! She mutes the TV and slowly climbs out of bed looking for a weapon. Nothing! She tiptoes to her bedroom door and peers around the wall into the living room. There are two people standing at her front door shining flashlights through the window! One of them raps on the door and says, "Ma'am! Police! Can you come to the door?"
Police?
"Just a minute!" she says. She stumbles to the door and slides back the latch. She hears her daughter's bedroom door slam open and her daughter stampedes down the stairs saying, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Mom, I'm so sorry!"
Mom opens the door to the police who are relieved that we are both all right, but supremely aggravated that, in checking out the house before approaching the front door, they had heard noises around back and opened the utility door. The two excited dogs had bounded out, jumped all over them, and had run away. My daughter apologized for calling 9-1-1 and they were very kind to her and told her she did the right thing. I was mortified to be standing there in an over-sized tee-shirt, wild hair, and clueless. They apologized for releasing the dogs, and made a halfhearted attempt at rounding them up before they gave up and drove away. Melissa ran back upstairs and fell asleep. I put on some sweatpants and a jacket and retrieved the dogs.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
THE OMEN
Something caught my eye as I eased up my driveway. The afternoon was bright and sunny, but with the long shadows of approaching winter. I turned my head and peered through my windshield and what I saw caused me to slam on the brakes. A large bird - I think it was mostly brown both on its body and its wings, and I could only see it from the neck down and from below - swooped over my car and then rose over the back fence and the house behind. A snake dangled from its beak! (At this point I'm still fairly sure it was its beak and not its talons, but I was in awe and my memory is imperfect.)
The snake was colorless in the strong sunlight. It was about one and a half times as long as the bird and I believe it was still writhing in protest. Of course, it could have been swinging but I think it was moving. The bird flapped its wings and soared over my neighbor's house, then descended out of my sight. I wondered at the time if it was going to land in my neighbor's front yard and finish off the snake. I sat in my car for several moments just letting the feelings wash over me. Amazement. Wonder. Creepiness (afterall, it was a SNAKE). The awe that nature inspires.
My part in the small drama was over. I started my car and pulled into my parking spot. As I walked to my backdoor I kept turning around and looking for another glimpse of the bird and its prey. I wondered what kind of bird it was. What kind of bird hunts snakes? I opened the storm door, unlocked and opened the back door. The *FLB stuck his nose out in greeting and I invited him to come out and relieve himself. I watched him as I thought about the bird. Was it an osprey? An eagle? Some kind of hawk? Harley decided to run off as I stood there.
Twenty minutes later I caught him five buildings east of mine. Unlike a large dog who will galumph around a neighborhood in the joy of being FREE FREE FREE to run, the FLB is like a nosy neighbor who takes the opportunity to check up on everyone. He trots up to all the doors and sniffs with great gusto. He snuffles the various pet scents and he checks out other wilder scents: armadillos, possums, whatever floats his dastardly little boat.
I didn't call for him. I knew it was a waste of time and, besides, I was embarrassed. I knew better than to let him out of the house without a leash. He didn't even have his halter with his ID tag on it and I was just a tiny bit afraid I would lose him for good. That would be my punishment for being careless. I spotted him bouncing up the sidewalk of a pale yellow triplex and kept my eye on him as I approached. When I was even with him I called out his name in a voice like you would use when you run into an old friend.
He looked up from his snuffling and actually looked happy to see me. He took a few steps in my direction and stopped.
"Harley, come!" I said in a more serious tone.
At that point he decided to give in, but he wouldn't do it without a small win on his side. He cowered. He crawled to me on his belly looking like the most beaten, pathetic, abused animal you have ever seen. I tried not to look around to see if anyone was watching; that would make me look even guiltier. I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and looped the leash around him in a slip knot. As soon as the FLB realized he was caught and was not going to be kicked and beaten (at least in public), he jumped up and headed for home, pulling on the leash, wagging his tail, and holding his head high.
When we got home I filled his water bowl and he drank all of it. Running away is thirsty work. Then he laid down to rest. I will never never never let him out again without his leash. (Famous last words.) I should have known when I saw the bird and the snake that something bad was going to happen.
I looked up birds of prey last night, and I've decided it must have been some kind of hawk. The osprey is primarily a hunter of fish and, though it could have been a juvenile eagle, odds are it was one of the seven species of hawk that either live here or migrate here in the winter.
Postscript: I have a new palm tree in my living room that I purchased on clearance at Home Depot last week for only $7.00. I needed to water it this morning, so I retrieved my cheap plastic watering "can" from the back patio where I leave it for my granddaughter Kinsey to use to water Grenah's outdoor plants. I filled it and when I tipped it to pour onto the palm, the water gurgled and only trickled out. What? I guessed that some kind of outside gunk had gotten into the spout. I carried the plastic can back to the kitchen sink. I fished a bamboo skewer out of my kitchen supplies and was just sticking it into the spout when something caught my eye.
A tree frog looked up at me from the watery depths of the watering can!!!
My blood ran cold, my bowels turned to water, and I nearly fainted.
I grabbed the watering can and carried it carefully to the back door. The frog swam frantically from side to side while keeping at least one of its bulging eyes on me. I fumbled with the door knob. Oh crap, it was locked! Was the frog getting ready to jump? Keeping one bulging eye on the tree frog, I flipped the lock, pulled the door open, pushed the storm door open, set the watering can down on the patio, and backed away. Then I ran back inside and slammed and locked the back door.
The palm tree will have to wait.
The snake was colorless in the strong sunlight. It was about one and a half times as long as the bird and I believe it was still writhing in protest. Of course, it could have been swinging but I think it was moving. The bird flapped its wings and soared over my neighbor's house, then descended out of my sight. I wondered at the time if it was going to land in my neighbor's front yard and finish off the snake. I sat in my car for several moments just letting the feelings wash over me. Amazement. Wonder. Creepiness (afterall, it was a SNAKE). The awe that nature inspires. My part in the small drama was over. I started my car and pulled into my parking spot. As I walked to my backdoor I kept turning around and looking for another glimpse of the bird and its prey. I wondered what kind of bird it was. What kind of bird hunts snakes? I opened the storm door, unlocked and opened the back door. The *FLB stuck his nose out in greeting and I invited him to come out and relieve himself. I watched him as I thought about the bird. Was it an osprey? An eagle? Some kind of hawk? Harley decided to run off as I stood there.
Twenty minutes later I caught him five buildings east of mine. Unlike a large dog who will galumph around a neighborhood in the joy of being FREE FREE FREE to run, the FLB is like a nosy neighbor who takes the opportunity to check up on everyone. He trots up to all the doors and sniffs with great gusto. He snuffles the various pet scents and he checks out other wilder scents: armadillos, possums, whatever floats his dastardly little boat.
I didn't call for him. I knew it was a waste of time and, besides, I was embarrassed. I knew better than to let him out of the house without a leash. He didn't even have his halter with his ID tag on it and I was just a tiny bit afraid I would lose him for good. That would be my punishment for being careless. I spotted him bouncing up the sidewalk of a pale yellow triplex and kept my eye on him as I approached. When I was even with him I called out his name in a voice like you would use when you run into an old friend.
He looked up from his snuffling and actually looked happy to see me. He took a few steps in my direction and stopped.
"Harley, come!" I said in a more serious tone.
At that point he decided to give in, but he wouldn't do it without a small win on his side. He cowered. He crawled to me on his belly looking like the most beaten, pathetic, abused animal you have ever seen. I tried not to look around to see if anyone was watching; that would make me look even guiltier. I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and looped the leash around him in a slip knot. As soon as the FLB realized he was caught and was not going to be kicked and beaten (at least in public), he jumped up and headed for home, pulling on the leash, wagging his tail, and holding his head high.
When we got home I filled his water bowl and he drank all of it. Running away is thirsty work. Then he laid down to rest. I will never never never let him out again without his leash. (Famous last words.) I should have known when I saw the bird and the snake that something bad was going to happen.
I looked up birds of prey last night, and I've decided it must have been some kind of hawk. The osprey is primarily a hunter of fish and, though it could have been a juvenile eagle, odds are it was one of the seven species of hawk that either live here or migrate here in the winter.
Postscript: I have a new palm tree in my living room that I purchased on clearance at Home Depot last week for only $7.00. I needed to water it this morning, so I retrieved my cheap plastic watering "can" from the back patio where I leave it for my granddaughter Kinsey to use to water Grenah's outdoor plants. I filled it and when I tipped it to pour onto the palm, the water gurgled and only trickled out. What? I guessed that some kind of outside gunk had gotten into the spout. I carried the plastic can back to the kitchen sink. I fished a bamboo skewer out of my kitchen supplies and was just sticking it into the spout when something caught my eye.
A tree frog looked up at me from the watery depths of the watering can!!!
My blood ran cold, my bowels turned to water, and I nearly fainted.
I grabbed the watering can and carried it carefully to the back door. The frog swam frantically from side to side while keeping at least one of its bulging eyes on me. I fumbled with the door knob. Oh crap, it was locked! Was the frog getting ready to jump? Keeping one bulging eye on the tree frog, I flipped the lock, pulled the door open, pushed the storm door open, set the watering can down on the patio, and backed away. Then I ran back inside and slammed and locked the back door.
The palm tree will have to wait.
*FLB=Freakin' Little Bastard
Saturday, December 12, 2009
HARLEY - ONGOING FUN & GAMES
Things I do to torture Harley:
Oh, come on! When I first adopted Harley I let him outside to do his business and he would come right back. "What a well-trained dog!", I thought. Boy, was I stupid. One night he didn't come back. In fact, as soon as I opened the door to let him out, he bolted into the dark and never looked back. Of course, I chased him. It's human nature. He never looked back. I took a flashlight and walked my street calling for him feeling like an idiot. It is not fun to yell "Harley" throughout your neighborhood. And, deep down, where I didn't want to admit it, I was terrified I'd lost him for good.
When I got back to the house my phone was ringing. A woman who lived on the street behind me had found him. The day before this runaway episode I had put a tag on his collar with a web address, so if someone found him they could put in his code number (also on the tag) into this web site. The web site had my name, address, and phone number. Oh, he had his county tag on, but I think we all know how well those work. Besides, my real fear was that he would get hit by a car because he has no street smarts.
So I drove over to the nice woman's house and listened to her tale of the little wet dog that greeted her when she arrived home from church. He must have crawled through a hole in the old fence that surrounded a retention pond, mucked around in the surrounding grasses, then crawled under a broken piece of fencing on her side. (That fence around the retention pond has since been replaced!) She said he jumped all around her and was just so happy to see her. She took him inside and toweled him off and fed him cheese. Her husband (a very smart man) jumped on the Internet and looked up his tag information and made her call me. I think she would have kept him, but her husband must have sensed T*R*O*U*B*L*E. I thanked her and almost cried with relief. I then pulled and dragged the *FLB into my car. He didn't want to leave the nice lady with the cheese, you see. A month or so later she dropped in on me so she could visit Harley. She brought him pieces of cheese and brought me several issues of the Watchtower. Harley is the gift that keeps on giving.
I only take Harley out on a leash and I find I can't do quick chores with him tethered to my wrist. I also will tie him to one of my Adirondack chairs but once he starts hunting lizards he gets tangled. I tied him to the fence near my car once, thinking that there was nothing on which to get tangled. He ended up crawling under my car then whining because he didn't think he could get out. sigh.
Who's torturing whom?
- I play the CD Songs of the Humpback Whale. The CD contains no instrumentation or vocals - just the whales. Sometimes the whales even sound a bit...er...romantic. I was deciding whether or not to keep the CD, and noticed Harley cocking his head back and forth. Oh, he would try to ignore it! How he would try! Then when he couldn't stand it anymore he'd run over to the speakers and stare at them, cocking his head. Sometimes he'd utter a sharp bark. It's so easy to get my jollies....
- I go outside without him. I don't do this to torture him or punish him. The fact that it bothers him is a side benefit. He will stare mournfully out the storm door at me or run into my bedroom, jump onto MY bed, and bark out the window at me.
Oh, come on! When I first adopted Harley I let him outside to do his business and he would come right back. "What a well-trained dog!", I thought. Boy, was I stupid. One night he didn't come back. In fact, as soon as I opened the door to let him out, he bolted into the dark and never looked back. Of course, I chased him. It's human nature. He never looked back. I took a flashlight and walked my street calling for him feeling like an idiot. It is not fun to yell "Harley" throughout your neighborhood. And, deep down, where I didn't want to admit it, I was terrified I'd lost him for good.When I got back to the house my phone was ringing. A woman who lived on the street behind me had found him. The day before this runaway episode I had put a tag on his collar with a web address, so if someone found him they could put in his code number (also on the tag) into this web site. The web site had my name, address, and phone number. Oh, he had his county tag on, but I think we all know how well those work. Besides, my real fear was that he would get hit by a car because he has no street smarts.
So I drove over to the nice woman's house and listened to her tale of the little wet dog that greeted her when she arrived home from church. He must have crawled through a hole in the old fence that surrounded a retention pond, mucked around in the surrounding grasses, then crawled under a broken piece of fencing on her side. (That fence around the retention pond has since been replaced!) She said he jumped all around her and was just so happy to see her. She took him inside and toweled him off and fed him cheese. Her husband (a very smart man) jumped on the Internet and looked up his tag information and made her call me. I think she would have kept him, but her husband must have sensed T*R*O*U*B*L*E. I thanked her and almost cried with relief. I then pulled and dragged the *FLB into my car. He didn't want to leave the nice lady with the cheese, you see. A month or so later she dropped in on me so she could visit Harley. She brought him pieces of cheese and brought me several issues of the Watchtower. Harley is the gift that keeps on giving.
I only take Harley out on a leash and I find I can't do quick chores with him tethered to my wrist. I also will tie him to one of my Adirondack chairs but once he starts hunting lizards he gets tangled. I tied him to the fence near my car once, thinking that there was nothing on which to get tangled. He ended up crawling under my car then whining because he didn't think he could get out. sigh.
Who's torturing whom?
*FLB=Freakin' Little Bastard
Friday, December 4, 2009
HARLEY: HEAD COLD AND HEAD GAMES
Head colds are so stupid. They make you feel soooo sick, but then, it's "just a cold". My latest cold virus hit me last night and kept me tossing and turning most of the night. I often heard Harley, my little mixed terrier, sighing from his bed in the corner; I guess I kept him awake. Around 4:30am I got up, took some ibuprofen, emailed my boss that I was not coming in, and went back to bed listening to a CD-book. I also remembered to turn off my cell phone and my alarm.
At 6:30am I awoke with a start when someone or something jumped on my bed. Going to sleep with a Stephen King story being read can make your mind go funny places. It took me just a few seconds to realize it was Harley and for my heart to retreat from my throat. I closed my eyes again and tried to go back to sleep. Harley wanted me to wake up and stuck his nose in my face. He pawed at my exposed hand. I put my hand back under the covers. He barked. I managed to croak a stern, "Quiet!" and he laid down on my bed and stared at me. I didn't open my eyes to confirm he was staring at me; if he saw my eyes open he would take that for me being awake and would start the pawing and barking again. I felt his gaze on my face, though, felt it like a hot nasty dog breath on my face even though he was at the foot of the bed. 'Way too much Stephen King. I tossed and turned some more which made him finally jump off the bed, and I finally fell into a deep sleep.
When I woke later he was ready to go out and I took him out first thing. He had been "good" and not had an accident (like anything he has done has EVER been an "accident"..) and I fed him his breakfast and gave him 2 OK release commands as a gift. (He's still jerking me around with that OK release command.) He laid next to my chair as I snuggled with a blanket and box of Puffs tissues. Every time I got up - to move a trash can next to my chair for all those Puffs, or to get a glass of water, or to make a cup of tea - he got up and followed me. He even looked concerned. I was touched.
I made myself some homemade chicken noodle soup and set it on the dining room table. Harley was sitting on the arm of the sofa looking back and forth from me to the window. I felt a tug on my heart and decided to give him a treat; I also decided to take his halter off. I called him over and removed the halter and hung it in the laundry room. When I returned - talking out loud about getting him a treat - he was jumping off the dining room chair.
*FLB.
I don't know if he stuck his nasty conniving nose into my soup or not. I ate it anyway. And I did NOT give him a treat.
*FLB.
Don't worry. He's fine. I just told him to go to his bed in the living room. I wanted to put my slippered foot up his butt....but....butt....but....I didn't.
At 6:30am I awoke with a start when someone or something jumped on my bed. Going to sleep with a Stephen King story being read can make your mind go funny places. It took me just a few seconds to realize it was Harley and for my heart to retreat from my throat. I closed my eyes again and tried to go back to sleep. Harley wanted me to wake up and stuck his nose in my face. He pawed at my exposed hand. I put my hand back under the covers. He barked. I managed to croak a stern, "Quiet!" and he laid down on my bed and stared at me. I didn't open my eyes to confirm he was staring at me; if he saw my eyes open he would take that for me being awake and would start the pawing and barking again. I felt his gaze on my face, though, felt it like a hot nasty dog breath on my face even though he was at the foot of the bed. 'Way too much Stephen King. I tossed and turned some more which made him finally jump off the bed, and I finally fell into a deep sleep.
When I woke later he was ready to go out and I took him out first thing. He had been "good" and not had an accident (like anything he has done has EVER been an "accident"..) and I fed him his breakfast and gave him 2 OK release commands as a gift. (He's still jerking me around with that OK release command.) He laid next to my chair as I snuggled with a blanket and box of Puffs tissues. Every time I got up - to move a trash can next to my chair for all those Puffs, or to get a glass of water, or to make a cup of tea - he got up and followed me. He even looked concerned. I was touched.
I made myself some homemade chicken noodle soup and set it on the dining room table. Harley was sitting on the arm of the sofa looking back and forth from me to the window. I felt a tug on my heart and decided to give him a treat; I also decided to take his halter off. I called him over and removed the halter and hung it in the laundry room. When I returned - talking out loud about getting him a treat - he was jumping off the dining room chair.
*FLB.
I don't know if he stuck his nasty conniving nose into my soup or not. I ate it anyway. And I did NOT give him a treat.
*FLB.
Don't worry. He's fine. I just told him to go to his bed in the living room. I wanted to put my slippered foot up his butt....but....butt....but....I didn't.
=*freakin' little bastard
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