Best Bosses

I’m guessing a good number of readers in my age group, folks entering their 7th decade, grew up as I did, believing humans were intended to boss their pets. Over time, as I have, they’ve reinterpreted those early views and accepted that four-legged companions actually run our houses. 

A friend stopped to visit the other day. After we spent a couple hours catching up, she observed my little terrier sitting on my toes, staring intently at me. Unbeknownst to her, he was informing me it was nearly 3 p.m., aka his dinnertime. Noting his wrinkled brows and unblinking gaze , I excused myself to mix up his bowl of kibble. She teased that he had me well trained. I answered, “You have no idea.”

I’ve reluctantly acknowledged she stated pure truth. A fourteen-pound, thirteen-year old-canine dictates my actions from first thing every morning to mid-afternoon and just before bed. As soon as I awaken, his no nonsense path to the back door directs my mission to let this little guy and his furry, white sidekick outside for their morning constitutional. If I’m slow to respond, the toe-tapping pee- pee dance encourages me to attend to business. There’s no tolerance for this human to dress or brew coffee.

As the day goes on, my pointy-nosed guard dog perches at the edge of the sofa to survey the backyard. If he observes anything out of the ordinary—say a visiting German shepherd sprinkling his chain link fence or a brave squirrel creeping onto the grass—he races to my lap and implores me with sharp yips and pitiful whines to let him out to handle the situation.

Once he’s driven off the invaders, he directs his fuzzball partner to bark until I let them in. Once through the door, he examines the kitchen floor to see if I’ve dropped anything while he secured the premises. Usually, that’s a no, so he gives me the sad eye to tell me he’d really like a snack. If he happens to catch me eating a cheese stick, he plants himself at my feet until I give him and his begging buddy a nibble.

How this unschooled pooch tells time, I’ll never know. But he does. Once I wash and put away lunch dishes, he monitors house and yard--that is--until the little hand creeps close to the three and the big hand to the 12. Then this bundle of energy paces back and forth between his bowl and me. By 2:50, my self-ordained tyrant situates himself in my lap and begins a world-class stare down. If I haven’t looked at the clock, I know it’s officially doggy dinnertime.

If I want to read a book or write, I’m forced to serve my dictators . Both critters follow me to ground zero and strategically place themselves so I can’t leave the room until I’ve set their filled bowls before them.

It’s ironic I thought I’d train these dogs when they first moved in. I understand now that they meant all along to whip me into shape using those deep brown eyes and pitiful whines. I can’t imagine better bosses.

Unexpected Mystery

Recently, our normally agreeable pooches squabbled loudly enough on the back porch that I hurried to see what triggered the ruckus. Before I opened the door, I could hear our little terrier giving his Shitzu/sheepdog companion a high-pitched lecture. Peeking out, I scoped the situation to find a snarling Jack Russell holding the high ground from his armchair vantage point. The larger white fur ball edged close to his cohort’s perch, taunting Buster with dancing feints toward his highness’s throne. Once I announced my presence and called them inside, they called a truce long enough to eat together.

Once the meal ended, Buster hurried to reclaim his perch. His hackles rose, and he growled any time fuzzy Dudley came close. Once my husband returned, I told him about their earlier brouhaha and the small dog’s continuing threats. To prevent a catastrophe, we stayed nearby to supervise our feuding four-leggeds and puzzled about how the younger dog had gotten on Grandpa Buster’s last nerve.

This low-grade rumble continued until bedtime, when the two yahoos managed bedded together in the house as usual. I figured our older dog’s arthritis was acting up and hoped changing weather would improve his mood.

Imagine my surprise when I awoke the morning and wandered into the kitchen to hear my husband say, “We have a mystery, and I think it’s why the dogs got into it yesterday.” I hadn’t had a drop of coffee so my brain wasn’t processing his words well.

“What are you talking about?” I mumbled and headed for my mug.

“I think I know why the dogs were fighting yesterday.”

“Okay, why?” I took the bait.

Holding out two hands containing a wadded towel, he signaled me to peek. Oh, man, that’s a scary invite at our house, which can mean anything from a snake to a giant spider. 

Steadying my yet-to-sip-a- drop-of-coffee nerves, I gingerly peeled back a terrycloth corner. Inside was a tiny bunny! Buster had found it in our yard and carried it to his overstuffed armchair where he nudged it under a blanket. This blew the theory that moving to town meant we’d never again deal with wild critters dogs brought home.

My next thought was that Buster was getting senile because at one time anything looking remotely like a packrat got the full-blown terrier treatment. For whatever reason, maybe because Dudley was trying to steal his treasure, this rabbit escaped that fate. Now, I understood the unexpected surliness I’d observed the previous day.

Once I saw this critter, my mind immediately recalled baby cottontails our young daughters bottle-fed. We quickly learned these little ones require bunny mommies. Despite our best efforts, we never kept one alive long enough to release it into the wild.

This recent discovery caused my husband to comb our yard, searching for this little guy’s fur-lined nursery all while hiding his activity from two vigilant dogs. Buster watched intently out the window, whining as if to say, “He’s mine. Finders keepers.”

To our surprise, mama had her babies directly under our noses in the flowerbed next to the house. She had four additional babes tucked into downy fur and grass. Here we thought we’d never have bunny troubles again when we moved to town, and now wascally wabbits live closer to us than they ever have.

Skunked Again

It’s been a while, and I let down my guard--the consequence, not one but two skunked dogs. In town, to add insult to injury.

When I lived along the banks of Big Creek, almost three miles west of Ellis, I expected dog/skunk encounters every year, and we had them. I kept a supply of ingredients to make my magic de-scenting potion and knew I’d use them every few months. A year and half of living in the small burg of Logan with no Pepe Le Pew encounters spoiled me. I never thought about the fact that skunks don’t read city limit signs.

After a Friday night cruise into the countryside to watch dusk descend over green pastures and wheat fields, we arrived home ready to settle in for the evening. It wasn’t three minutes before that acrid, eye-burning smell rode a gentle south breeze from behind our shed into windows open to welcome fresh spring air. That was a joke. About the time my nose hit high alert, my husband let me know what triggered the stink bomb.

 Yes, our beloved grand-pups had insulted a black and white kitty as it passed through their territory. Working in tandem to drive the invader away, they’d come close to that trespasser’s backside. The direct shot blasted both with enough stench to coat ten pooches. Their hangdog looks told me they knew it.

I hurriedly concocted a triple dose of hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and dish soap before slipping into raggedy clothes I could toss if necessary. One at a time, I doused each pooch and scrubbed relentlessly. After the first bath, my insulted nostrils and eyes couldn’t tell if I’d succeeded or not in banishing the offending odor from dog one’s fur. Using shop towels, I rubbed him down and lugged him outside to shake remaining droplets from his coat.

Round two with pet number two began soon after. That chunky boy didn’t seem quite so odiferous, and he’d had a recent shearing at the groomers, so he was a little easier to de-scent. Due to his size, he was  harder to maneuver in the laundry room sink, but we got the job done and kept the water where it belonged. He, too, got a toweling before I transported him outside to join his partner in crime.

It didn’t take more than a sniff of dog one to realize it was good thing I’d made so much of the special elixir. That guy needed a second dose of my un-skunking solution. He must’ve read my mind because he tried to scurry out of reach, but it was too late. He was heading back to the washtub and the last of the skin tingling cleanser.

Both dogs had that unmanageable hair look caused by a recent bath. I’m not picking up much residual scent from the boys, but that skunk certainly laid a shot pattern over our yard. Every time I walk out back, I can tell it visited. I’m hoping good rain will  take care of that problem.

Sticker Magnet

If you saw our fuzzy white dog, you’d swear he was good for nothing but keeping the end of the couch warm and watching his food bowl. In reality, he’s a sticker patch super hero who aides Mother Nature in her efforts to make sure prickly seed producing plants of all kinds never die out.

Dudley looks and feels like a chenille teddy bear. His mom is a shih tzu and his dad is a mystery who created a much bigger son than one might expect from such a dainty mother. While our pooch carries his father’s oversize frame, Duds has his mom’s silky coat with a few curls and kinks added for effect. He also has hairy soles that would make a hobbit proud. This combination makes him perfect to collect any kind of burr or sticker nature produces.

Even though we keep our pooch groomed, any seed with a sharp projectile point that can tangle in his hair latches on. He comes in from a romp in the woods with burrs woven into his facial hair.  Every now and then one manages to migrate to his eyebrows where it twists and turns itself into a tight little horn-like knot. Yesterday, our wily pup came home from a frolic with a big ol’ porcupine egg of a sticker snarled in his ear hairs. His usually soft, floppy ears turned into a finger-ripping weapon when I ran my hand over them. After catching and confining him, we snipped those torture devices loose and sealed them in the trash so effectively they will never have a chance to take root and produce more sticker plants.

Not only does Dudley collect these objects on his face and ears, his body attracts them as well. During the summer, his hair is short enough that he doesn’t gather as many as usual. However, I have to perform a full body pat down regularly to make sure he isn’t packing spiky armor that ends up pulling hair and creating red welts. Every now and then, I find a nettle tucked into his doggy armpit, and he knows it’s scissor time again.

The one area of Dudley’s body   allow hair to grow its full length is his tail. That fine, silky mane he inherited from his mom forms a plume waving happy circles  behind him as he’s adventuring through bushes and weeds. It’s one of this pup’s charms, but unfortunately, when it’s loaded with burrs, it turns into a weapon as harmful as a medieval mace.  When he’s had an abundance of prickly attachments that need to be snipped, that once lovely furry flag looks moth-eaten.

Our pet is lucky to live with folks who regularly check him for tangles and knots caused by hitchhiking seedpods in the form of stickers, burrs, and nettles. Knowing how irritating these can be during the short time our pet suffers, I wonder how beasts in the wild that don’t have anyone to perform the necessary snips and trims keep healthy.

A Dog with a Secret Talent

Our last dog came to us as a mature hand-me-down. Our daughter adopted him as a furry, white puppy with appealing eyes. He was small enough to fit in her housecoat pocket. His mom was Shih Tzu and reportedly his dad was Lhasa Apso, so Dudley should have remained tiny and cuddly. Six years later, he weighs 45 pounds and comes to my very tall knee. While he isn’t purse pet material, he’s still lovable.

He ended up at Grandma and Grandpa’s because he didn’t want to share his world with our first born grandchild. Initially, his presence was an act of duty—we couldn’t risk that his growls wouldn’t turn to bites as little Grace learned to crawl and grab soft, curly fur. We also didn’t want our kids to make a tough choice about their beloved pet. Now he’s part of our pack, and we can’t imagine life without him.

Although some of Dudley’s distant ancestors originated in the royal courts of China, he came to us from a farm. Instead of being a pampered pet who spent days warming a lady’s lap, this guy knew outdoors offered premium fun. He understood cattle pens and chicken yards contained interesting critters. What he didn’t understand was hunting.

The moment he joined forces with our Jack Russell, boot camp began. Buster immediately taught Dudley how to find packrat nests and demolish them. The two roamed our property, searching out piles of leaves and sticks and then capturing those vile rodents. While Dudley hadn’t been a barker before, the little terrier made it clear this activity required strident vocalization. We knew when they hit pay dirt by the intensity of their yaps.

In no time, Buster also instructed Dudley in squirrel games. The two dogs would sit at the dining room window spying on a nearby elm. As soon as they saw old Bushytail exploring a branch or using it as a path to the bird feeder, a  race to the back door began.  I’m surprised they didn’t wear a path in the linoleum, considering how often they spotted these visitors.

After we moved, the boys joined my husband every morning as he ventured out on his own hunts. Buster had accompanied him for years, scenting game and alerting his master. Taking him along was a pleasure because he followed commands, waited patiently, and worked in tandem with his human.

 Dudley, on the other hand, didn’t have clue about hunting procedures. He didn’t know how to wait, he ran too far in advance, and he had absolutely no nose. As a result, he constantly piggybacked on Buster’s finds, much to the smaller dog’s disgust.

What Dudley did quickly learn how to do was roll down the passenger window so he could cruise down the road while wind rippled his silky coat. Our terrier had ridden shotgun for years and never messed with the up and down buttons on the door handle. A week of Dudley constantly lowering the glass forced my husband to solve the problem: duct tape over the control panel or leave the fur ball at home.

Apparently, he couldn’t resist those pleading brown eyes as he and Buster hit the road each morning. Now folks who hop in the passenger seat discover they have to ask the driver to roll down the window. 

When they ask, “Kid lock?”

My spouse answers, “Nope, Dudley lock.”

Now that Dudley’s mastered this little trick, we’re optimistic we can teach him to hunt—with Buster’s help, of course.

Helping Birds Decorate Their Nests

You’ve heard the saying, “Looks can be deceiving.” That statement describes our little terrier’s coat. When you meet him, he looks like a sleek pooch who doesn’t shed.  That’s true July through February. However, when the calendar says spring, he gives March Madness a new interpretation.

Most folks who meet the winter Buster love to pet his silky fur and rub his soft ears.  Let them visit before a spring de-thatching, and they’ll wear Buster home. That little guy sheds like a champ. If there were Olympics for losing winter hair, our pet would win a gold medal.

Once we’re well into summer and he’s down to his hot weather duds, I forget about his ability to fill brush after brush with taupe fluff.  Throughout the cold months, I don’t think a thing about Buster’s special talent, but come those first warm days, and I remember he’s a nest building bird’s best friend.

As soon as I spy that first filament separating from a follicle, we spend spa time together.  I don’t know that he sees getting repeatedly swiped with a grooming glove as pleasurable, but I’m on a mission to capture that loose hair before it gets on me or someone else. He’s just a little guy—only 14 pounds, but he fills the grooming mitt or the wire brush time after time with handfuls of velvety fiber. 

 

For years, I tossed his winter long johns in the trash as quickly as I gleaned them even though I’d heard of folks who harvest their beloved beasts’ hair and spin it into yarn to use to weave or knit. That seemed over the top even considering how much raw material my little  half Jack Russell sloughs off each year. I figure he’s good to supply a child-size sweater.

During my musings, I read that birds line their nests with anything downy, including pet hair. Aha, the ultimate repurposing without purchasing a spinning wheel and the accouterments to take up either knitting or weaving.

Learning to up-cycle my pooch’s fuzz to improve neighborhood bird real estate changed Buster’s spring curse to a blessing.  Instead of being upset that his winter growth falls out, I pledge to capture every strand to share with robins, sparrows, wrens, flycatchers, cardinals, orioles, and even blue jays. 

Old Sol’s rays beat down to warm the tops of Buster’s and my heads and shoulders while balmy breezes riffle over us. As I comb my little friend to retrieve nest-decorating supplies, I hope my companion enjoys his western Kansas version of a tropical beauty treatment.

Spotting Buster’s fuzzy discards lining a bird nest makes those hours grooming him worthwhile.  I like thinking the coat that warmed him through cold winter days keeps future serenaders toasty and comfy until they fledge into summer skies.  

Drunk Dogs and Wasps

When I first met my husband, a field-trained black lab owned him.  Rebel was one an intelligent beast with a once in a lifetime personality. The retriever and  man enjoyed a rustic bachelorhood  at Meade  State Fish Hatchery.  Dog and owner led an idyllic life hunting, fishing, and working fishponds set far from town and people.

Once Rebel decided I was an asset to his meal schedule and ability to lounge on the couch, this big, black dog made room in his Labrador heart for another human.  When our jobs changed and we transferred from the lake to Ellis, Rebel accepted another difficult adjustment to a previously perfect life.   He traded working  fishponds for retrieving evening papers and supervising a garden.

While he missed the freedom of roaming fish hatchery grounds  where he could roust game birds and help my husband feed and move fish, Rebel discovered  new delights.  We had a mulberry tree, a pear tree, and two apple trees.   You  ask, “Why would fruit trees be a bonus in a retriever’s life?”

This particular lab loved mulberries, pears, and apples—especially if they had dropped to the ground and fermented for a few days.  Yes, our lab was a lush during a fruit drop.

I’d  find him sleeping soundly amidst mounds of fallen mulberries.  His distended belly rising and falling  rhythmically as he breathed.  I laughed to see dark purple mulberry stains  circling his muzzle after one of his binges.  When he awoke from his snooze, he looked at me with unfocused eyes and wobbled as he rose to greet me.  A perpetually happy dog, these fruit indulgences didn't alter his loving personality.   

In early fall, if I called and Rebel didn’t come running, I knew I’d find him,  head on paws,  sleeping off a toot under our pear and apple trees.  Fermented fruit scent permeated the air surrounding this tiny orchard.  Low flying, inebriated wasps  fed on yeasty pulp or circled  above  over-ripe yellow and red orbs and Rebel.  To my surprise, these relaxed insects never stung me as I collected fruit they crawled upon. Their tranquility explained my dog's relaxed state. 

Certain  I didn’t want to encourage dipsomania in  our beloved pet, I found myself racing him to fallen fruit when I got home from school.  He’d give me  a hang-dog look that nearly broke my heart as I tossed his beloved apples and pears in a bucket.  We’d taken him from the freedom of the fish hatchery and moved him to town, and now I was depriving him of the one pleasure he’d found that made city life worthwhile.

Rebel has been gone for decades, and we moved long ago from that house surrounded by the pear and apple trees.  Despite passing time, the dog days of August and slow moving wasps remind me of that black dog that made room in his heart for a new member of the family and relocation to a neighborhood with paved streets.

Early Morning Rambles revised

Early Morning Rambles

After a school year where I scheduled three lives into one, I decided to spend time enjoying my backyard and the surrounding sections.  One of my summer goals included rising early for an hour of walking, observing, and thinking.  

I don’t know about anyone else in the house, but my dogs loved this plan.  The  older dog joined me for a “short” hike around the drive—a mile for me and three for him after he chases rabbits and marks an astonishing assortment of weeds and grasses.  Looking at the world through his eyes, I see an abundance of cottontails and small rodents.  While his eyesight is excellent, his nose is not particularly sharp, so pheasants often surprise him when they erupt skyward.

After he enjoys his turn around the pasture, I exchange walking buddies.  The little female waits patiently at with her nose pressed against the front window until she sees us returning.  Then her hunting dog blood percolates.  She barely contains herself as I let the older dog in and turn her loose for a longer ramble.

After spinning “donuts” in the sandy drive to show me she’s happy about this sunrise adventure, we amble onto whichever road suits our mood.   Nearby, a male mockingbird sitting in a roadside cedar comments musically on our journey.  A bright red cardinal perching in a nearby hackberry joins his chorus.  If I weren’t trailing a dog with her nose practically glued to invisible scents covering the road and ditches, watching those two birds competing in song would derail my journey.

Early is the operative word here.  These walks must begin no later than seven to relish the morning.  The cool air or maybe the need to find breakfast brings out critters I don’t see later in the day. 

My favorite walk involves a hike south to the section line, where we turn west.  From there, I can see Riga and, under perfect conditions, Ogallah.  To the north, a dark line of trees marks Big Creek’s winding path. Beyond, cars and trucks snake east and west along Interstate. To the south, Round Mound highlights the trail for travelers.  

At this turning point, I can easily believe I am at the center of the universe where heaven’s great blue bowl unites the horizon line in a giant circle.  Standing there, I think of Per Hansa’s wife Beret in Giants in the Earth.  I wonder why she feared this vast openness so greatly it affected her sanity. She could see all the world had to offer from any direction.  Perhaps seeing so much of that world frightened her.  Despite Beret’s reservations about open prairie, I feel delight and reverence as I absorb that view.

Discovering one’s neighborhood, including humans, beasts, birds, plants, landscape, and sky merits anyone’s time.  Meeting them through the eyes and noses of two very different dogs allows a vantage point I would miss if I walked alone.

When the Dog’s Away

When we lost our big yellow dog last August, it left a hole in our hearts and an empty space in the middle of the living room where he used to lie to supervise household activities.  We had Tucker for 17 years, and he was an almost perfect dog that took care of us more than we did him.  We are still discovering some of the caretaking duties he performed.

One of his jobs was maintaining order on the ranch.  Unbeknown to us, Tucker acted as a gatekeeper for critters that came and went in the yard.  I credited him with keeping coyotes at bay, but he apparently also made certain deer, turkeys, and hawks stayed far from his family.  Now that he is gone, these creatures visit with impunity. 

This trespassing offends our little terrier and make him wonder why he can’t maintain order like the big dog did.  It may have something to do with his shrill bark and small stature compared to Tucker’s deep roar and pony-sized body.  Even I got scared when Tucker barked, and I knew I was allowed on the place since I fed him.

We have enjoyed seeing occasional deer at a distance; we now have a regular deer thoroughfare in every direction around the house.  My husband nearly ran into one in the driveway as he drove home the other night.  The terrier and I had a stare down with two bucks in velvet and three does on our way to the mailbox the other afternoon.  Watching out the window morning and evening  guarantees we’ll see a doe or maybe a doe and her fawn.

Since we enjoy wildlife and they don’t seem to cause harm, we mostly enjoy this and think how busy Tucker must have been shepherding all these four- legged creatures away from the place all fifteen years he stood guard duty out here.

Sitting on the back porch last, I watched fireflies dance until the wee hours.  Suddenly, I heard  a racket from  the bushes and trees that border the backyard.  Keep in mind, it was dark, dark except for a sliver of light projected by the yard light into the back yard.   Straining my ears and eyes, I determined where the sounds came from and focused on the tiny bit of light in that direction.  Soon, I saw shadowy figures emerge from the trees—a doe and two older fawns.  Totally unaware I was sitting within fifteen feet of them, they browsed a currant bush and then meandered across the yard to try out some other greenery.  I realized why I frequently heard Tucker barking through the night. 

While I miss our old dog enormously, it has been interesting to discover how busy he was as a guard dog.  No wonder he napped so much when he was in the house. Bbased on what I’ve seen since he’s been gone, he had a full time job keeping critters away.

The Day Our Rabbit Dog Became a Bird Dog

          

         We have a little viszla with an uncanny nose.  She sifts olfactory information and interprets it much the same way criminologists sift crime scene data to determine an answer.  While the criminologist writes up a lengthy report, Reebok freezes on the spot, leaning her taut red body a bit into the whiffs coming her way, and goes on a hard, bird dog point. 

Her traveling companion is a greyhound/golden retriever mix with an insensitive nose.  Tucker depends entirely on eyesight to zero in on his favorite game, rabbits.  Unfortunately, he’s taught that little red viszla a bad trick over the years, and now she points rabbits if we don’t keep her honest.

While I am not a bird hunter, I’ve cussed Tucker when the little red dog goes on point over a silly rabbit. However, Tucker recently redeemed himself in a most unexpected way. 

About a week after pheasant season opened, I drove home to hear hunters working the walk-in hunting area near our house.  I thought I recognized our neighbor’s voice, and I smiled to think of him teaching his young sons the intricacies of pheasant hunting.  I heard several shotgun blasts in a row and hoped they had success enough to make those boys want to hunt again.

After the hunters quieted down, Tucker and I headed on our afternoon ramble.  We didn’t see any evidence of hunting success as we wandered down our familiar path.  Too bad, I thought.  Early success makes a difference to a young hunter just as it does to a youngster in a classroom.

On journey’s homeward leg, my big, yellow dog followed his usual habit of ducking into the cedar shelterbelt.  He likes success too and knows the tree row is always good for scaring up a rabbit.  Instead of dashing out after a cottontail, I saw my big, yellow dog emerge, almost sheepishly, retrieving something big and dark. 

What did he get into?  I wondered.  My first thought was that he found a crow carcass from a flock roosting in the cedars.  I commanded him to drop it, which he promptly did.  He acted uncertain about what to do in his new role.

As I walked right up on the dog and object, I recognized a freshly killed pheasant.  Our neighbor or his son had made a good shot and lost the bird when it flew into our windbreak.  My rabbit dog had turned bird dog and knew exactly what to do when he had a bird to deliver.

We finished the trek home, where I called my neighbor to tell him of Tucker’s find. Seeing my neighbor’s son show the pheasant he shot to his grandpa and listening to them tease about who got the tail feathers reminded me of why it is important for hunters to pass on their love of the outdoors.

 It also reminded me that old dogs do learn new tricks.  Tucker keeps nosing back to where he found that bird, hoping that he’ll discover another treasure.