Smokey Mountain Breakdown

I heard from Bart's mom today! Bart is one of the most beloved former residents of Rosie's Cocker Rescue Referral. He's an English Cocker Spaniel and the only one I ever hosted. What a sweetie! He always wears this sort of serious face when you take pictures of him, but in real life, he's quite a mug.

Anyway, Bart has taken up kayaking and is evidently having a grand old time with the paddling crowd!

Here he is from his time with us. Mad Max took his spot when Bart left for his forever home. But when Bart was here, we could still enjoy the oriental rug. Because Bart wasn't a whackadoodle like Max is.

Ba--Ba--Roooooo!

They arrived shortly after I had discovered the Christmas morning “ugliness”, clattering up my driveway in their GMC Yukon XL Denali - black Hummer – Red Claptrap of Death. I was just about to remove the body when they stopped me.

“Step away from the crime scene, Ma’am.”

“Uhhh,” I said as I was about to remove the mangled corpse from my backyard, “It’s a goose.”

“We’ll be the judge of that.” They said, swarming my yard carrying their black investigation bags – fingerprint kits – plucking equipment.

One of them sat down with me to go over the facts of the case and take my statement.

“Well, I let the dogs out early this morning and went back to bed. When I came back down, the goose was laying there, as you see him now. The trail of feathers shows that he was well into the yard when the attack occurred.”

The investigator took some notes and asked, “Do you have any idea who would do such a thing?”

I looked at him like he was crazy. The other members of the GF-CSI team were busily measuring the trail of feathers, stringing up crime scene tape and the coroner was treating the dead goose with way more respect than it deserved.

“Hell, yes!” I said, “The brown cocker spaniel with the feathers all over his mouth. He said he didn’t do it, but I know better.”

The investigator looked over at Max who was frantically signaling me with his topaz eyes. He tried to sneeze some goose down from his nose.

“You mean that one over there?” He asked.

“Uhhh…well yes…he’s the only chocolate cocker spaniel I have.”

“Why did he do it? Do you know?”

“Look, you can’t blame the dog,” I said in Max’s defense, “That goose has been torturing that dog for months! I gots pictures!”

“Alrighty then.” The investigator concluded. “Looks like we got us a case of justifiable goosicide.”

The investigators started to leave and the coroner started to walk away with the goose.

“Hey!” I hollered, “Where you going with that?”

“Oh,” the coroner said, shifting his eyes around, “I’m taking it to the Morgue – Volunteer Fire Department Kitchen.”

“Oh no you ain’t!” I said, taking the goose away from him. “We weren’t planning on no Christmas goose, but it looks like we got one just the same!.”

Max wagged his tail nub in anticipation.

Okay, it's not like I didn't see it coming.

It’s been a hugely gray day, today. Actually we’ve been having an entire week of gray. I don’t really mind days like this but it should at least have the decency to actually rain. A nice day to curl up by the fire and do not much. Though, since Wee Willy Wood Boy cheated me this last go round...I'm fast running out of wood for my wood stove. So...the search is on for another wood supplier.

Nothing much going on so I stuck Father Ted (Drink! Feck! Girls!) in the DVD player and plotted more chapters in the novel. Only 9 more chapters to plot…then I can write.

Anyway, the big excitement was that Max finally snapped. After over a week of non-stop goose torture, it was time for a smack down.

Let me tell you about Max. This is Max. Adorable, isn’t he?



When Max first came into rescue, there was no shortage of homes for him to go to. I should have known something was wrong when I saw the amazed look on the faces of the folks handing him over to me as he trotted quite happily beside me and jumped in the jeep. I’m like that with cockers. I’m the cocker whisperer.

Anyway, when I got Max home, it wasn’t long before I realized something was really wrong with him, temperamentally. I pissed off I don’t know how many people refusing to place him. One lady got really, really mad at me, but she had a gang of shih tzus and I’m pretty sure they would be shih tzu tartar by now had Maxie gone there. Max would be dead...put to sleep.

When he gets upset, he can’t calm himself down and he goes ballistic. In short, he becomes “Mr. Spike”. He’s still up for adoption and I still hope that the right lady dog psychologist is going to come along and it’s going to be a perfect match. Because he really is a lover boy when he’s in his Dr. Max stage…about 99 percent of the time. But that 1 percent means I can't let him go to just anybody. It wouldn't be ethical.

So, today, the geese, emboldened by the success of the goose para sail adventure, went after Max in a big way. My sweet boy snapped and all of a sudden, I had Mr. Spike out there in the yard with the goose by the neck doing that savage shaking thing. And I didn’t have my spray bottle of ammonia water. (Yeah…we already tried vinegar...straight, no less…don’t work.)

So, I’m standing in the yard saying calmly but firmly, “Max. Max. That’s enough, Max. It’s learned its lesson. Max. Stop now, Max.”

And, amazingly, he stopped. Very, very upset little dog. His sides are heaving and he still can’t seem to get the adrenaline under control. His eyes are rolling and wide. I venture a pet on his back and call him into the house. He’s grateful to go in and still so very upset. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s not like he’s angry…it’s like a toddler that can’t stop crying or having a tantrum.

You know that scene in “A Christmas Story” where the kid beats the crap out of the red-headed bully? That’s what Max does when he’s upset. And you have to handle the situation pretty much like the Mom did in that movie.

The other amazing thing is… that damn goose was just fine. There was no maniacal goose laughter though. I’m hoping they’ve learned their lesson and will resist any more Darwinian urges to attack Max. 'Cause, I got a feeling he's not going to take any more goose crap from those two.

In the year of our Lord 2007, December 1.

It is Day Four here in the remote wilderness where we find ourselves. It is inhabited by strange beings of a feathered clan that we are unfamiliar with.


I have tried in vain to discourse with them and learn something of their strange language. They seem to communicate in odd neck stretches, hisses and various honks.



Unfortunately, these natives are hostile. We have had to erect a barrier to keep them out. Even with much voltage coursing through the wires, they broach it and attack us, forcing us to flee for our lives.



I am forced to conclude that we may never be able to understand their language. Further I conclude, that they are dangerous…and possibly delicious.

We can only pray that help will arrive soon.

**********************************

New Porn and Donuts being served up hot and fresh on EditRed.

Mistress Mona’s Lingerie and Adult Emporium was tucked away on an industrial side street on the north side of Knoxville. It was the sort of place that you had to know was there. Mistress Mona kept a large selection of plus-size lingerie and a special section of fuck-me pumps in sizes up to 14DD in stock. The clientele was a mixture of drag queens, strippers, working girls and lately, some fairly straight-laced couples. The couples were the result of the proprietor’s most recent marketing brainstorm, an entire back room devoted to Christian marital aides called “The Grotto of Earthly Delight”.

Prominently over the door leading to the Grotto was a sign that said, “Please! Married Couples Only!!!”

So, on Wednesday I did my shopping and, wonders of wonders, there in the Newport Walmart as I walk in the door are Baklava platters. So, of course I grabbed one. Such a fancy luxury food item is rare here. They have sort of begun to carry a few things that I wouldn't expect to find there. Like sushi nori...but it's not the good kind and I think I'm the only one who buys it when I'm out of the good stuff. And until there is a decent place to buy fish, it's sort of useless anyway.

So, Scott had a piece and I had some. I left it in a safe place when I went for Thanksgiving lunch with Betsy and her family.

As we were leaving the restaurant, Betsy says, "I got a Baklava Plate yesterday!"

"I did too!" I said. Great gastronomic minds think alike.

Anyway, I got home and no baklava. My safe space had been cracked by the cocker crew. They had also gotten into the trash to divert my attention from their little baklava caper.

Nod toward I Can Has Cheezburger? It's a very funny animal blog. A little cat heavy, but very entertaining.

****************

If you are following The Ghosts are Dancing story, the second installment is up on Editred. Readers only, but if you'd like to be a reader, all you have to do is join then email me with your ID. It's free. And I sort of have to know who you are.

Here's an excerpt:

So, Lurlene was awake when the rains began. She heard the first few drops hit the tin roof with hard fat plinks. She didn’t think much of it, at first. It was the logical conclusion to a windy evening. She just kept reading through her tear soaked eyes. She crawled under the covers when the rains began in earnest. The rain on the roof was a white noise that would eventually lull her to sleep. At least, that was how it usually was. She wished for sleep though she did not pray for it. She’d lost her faith in prayer.

And as her eyes closed to the roar of the rain on the roof, she sort of thought it was louder than usual. She sort of thought it seemed like a wall of water was falling on the roof. But finally she dozed off with the light still on to the sound of the pounding rain. Bridey sensed her warmth as she curled up in the bed and rolled over toward her warmth. The toddler slept right through it. Bridey slept right through it. And Lurlene, she finally slept and she slept right through it.

She slept through it because she was tired and weary.

Weary in her woman’s bones.

...every fall. When I look at the trees and I realize, this is it. This is the day when the color has peaked. From here on out is will be the slow falling death of brightness onto the ground. The color will fade like blood drying after a very long while. And it won't come back no matter how much water you add. Today was that day.

I drove into town with the Fat Buddy for his follow-up. Perhaps it was that it was overcast, but the saturation was such on the leaves that I was reminded why so many people come here to see them. We are one of the southernmost places where you can go to see a real autumn.

Fat Buddy is doing well. The vet was pleased with his progress. We'll keep him on another week of antibiotics to be on the safe side.

I mention to her that I was pretty sure that Old Man had a heart attack. Old Man tries to bite her every time he comes in. So he has to wear a muzzle.

She stops suddenly and asks me, "Did he die?!"

"Oh, no...I was sort of sure he was going to, but he seems fine now. He climbed the stairs last night so he could sleep in the bedroom."

Old Man is the Fred Sanford of cocker spaniels. He threatens to die with such frequency that its gotten to be a joke.

"But, you know," she says, "you are going to call me boo-hooing about it when he does die and you are going to miss him just like the rest."

"I know," I say, "But even the flies think he's dead. They keep blowing him."

But, at least Fat Buddy has nice sweet breath now. Which is a good thing since he loves getting all kissy with you. He was starting to think I was seeing another dog.

Crikey! What is it with Cocker Spaniels and paper...and toiletry products?

I come down the other morning and Babe is laid out fast asleep on the dog bed in all of his stinky 18 year old ancient Cocker Spaniel glory in a puddle of 500 Q-Tips. It looks suspiciously like he has stolen them from the bathroom in the middle of the night and ripped the box open to decorate himself with the things. They are everywhere, dangling from his floppy ears like earrings, but most especially in the bed with him.

I stroke his little bony back to wake him up. His head pops up and he looks around with his usual happy senility, trying to figure out where he is.

He grins at me. Then stretches languorously on his cushion of purloined Q-Tips....now...not so sterile.

He stumbles to the door and I let him out, closing the door firmly before he has a chance to turn around and come back in. Babe loves the "I can get through the door before you!" game. He drags about 50 Q-Tips with him to keep him company.

It's not just the Q-Tips. The guys just love paper products. There has been many a morning that I've come down to find that a canine frat party has occurred downstairs and the entire living room has been Tee Pee'd.

I'm pretty sure that Shadow does it just to get my attention. He'll slyly take a sheet of paper and quietly lay in a corner.

Riiiiip......Rii-iip. It's slow and agonizing, like a dripping faucet. He cuts his eyes at me to see if I'm paying attention.

Eventually I'll get up and take it from him hissing between my teeth, "Give me that! Dammit!"

He grins at me and gives me a few more moments of peace before starting in on it again.

I won't go into the list of other toiletries they have cheerfully captured from the bathroom and trotted out into the living room...but it's quite a long, disgusting and colorful list.

Dogs. Gotta love em.