Smokey Mountain Breakdown

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.

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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, come on over and meet the newest character in the Porn and Donuts story. Bubba Rubin is big, orange, Jewish and he's got a gun.

This morning I let "Old Man" out and he evidently went on one of his rare walk-abouts.

They seem to be unintentional and are sort of like when an alzheimer's patient goes missing. It happens maybe once a year. At 18, Babe is happily senile and just wanders from place to place without any sense of direction. His mouth is in dreadful shape and his heart murmur can be felt through the the bones of his rib cage.

"Don't you think it's maybe time to put him to sleep?" Scott asks.

I bristle a bit as I do when the subject comes up.

"It's not time." I say. "He'll tell me when it's time. It's not like he's in pain and he's not incontinent...he just forgets where he is when he has to go."

The truth is, Babe has pretty much destroyed my hardwood floors. He will spend the entire day dozing outside on the porch and forget to do his business. Often the first thing he does when he comes inside is hike his leg on my favorite chair.

Scott seems to think it's funny that Babe will go on a wander for a mile or so then come inside to use the toilet.

But he's my sweet, ancient "Little Old Man". No matter that he was only supposed to live three months when he arrived here. Now, three years later, he's one of my babies. Every year, I brace for his passing and he just seems to keep toddling around.

So, he disappeared for a little while this morning. I looked in all of his usual places. He falls asleep very deeply and because he is almost deaf, he can't hear you call him. You have to wake him up with a pet or a stomp on the porch.

I waited round for him and he finally came back. And he brought a friend with him.

A very tiny little Mountain Feist. These are great little dogs and I hadn't seen this fellow around before. They are excellent on squirrels. I picked him up and when I tried to put him down, he didn't want to get down. He had the radar-like bat ears and a tiny little button nose. Very sweet. I gave him some water...he seemed very well cared for, if a bit shy.

He finally trotted off and I hope he found his way home. If not, I'm sure he'll be back and we'll find out where he belongs.

Dogs know Rosie. I'm the weird old dog lady.

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.

Since Aegis has been gone, I've been surrounded by ruffians with no manners.

Cocker Spaniels are sort of like that. They are contrarians by nature, they are notoriously difficult to train. Very good natured about it, but just won't have anything to do with it. There just doesn't seem any limit to their mischief and badness.

Max is my current baddest boy. He's athletic and can get himself up on the kitchen counters if I'm not paying attention. My other three are geriatric cases who have each had their day in the sun of penultimate badness, but are still pretty awful if they put their minds to it.

I was thinking about how so many dog training experts stress the "head of the pack" theory. Namely, that you yourself need to be the pack leader. I really agree with this most of the time. It has certainly been a strategy that has worked well for me in the past, as long as I didn't expect too much from the cockers, who have every intention of running amok if they feel like it.

The shortcomings of this really have hit home this week.

You know how dogs will be practically dead before they will let you know they are sick or hurt? How stoic they are? Well, evidently, they expect this same behavior from the pack leader.

I've just been too sick to be a good alpha wolf. So, they've stepped up their trash diving and kitchen counter walking and rummaging all over the house when they should be sleeping. I'm a bit disturbed to think that they are sizing me up as a possible snack should I expire. They are already jockeying for position as to who will be in charge if my cough doesn't clear up. And I've seen the change that comes over Fat Buddy when presented with a live chicken that is suddenly a dead chicken. Me and the chicken, we're a bit intimidating while we are still walking around and not worthy of much of F.B.'s attention. But, boy-howdy...that dog can register to the nano-second the exact moment live chicken turns into chicken dinner.

I'm half certain they will find my bare bones one day and the grossly corpulent Fat Buddy standing over me wagging his tail stump in utter innocence.

A Luna moth got in the house last night and all I could do was croak "Stop it! Stop it!" while flailing weakly from the couch as Max and Shadow crashed into each other two feet above the floor in a failed interception tackle with this bird-sized moth.

"Stop it!" I lamely throw a newspaper at them. They laugh at me with dog grins as they lift themselves up from where they crash landed on the hardwood and tear off to see where the moth went.

I snuffle noisily and look around for the moth.

Crap.

It's in my hair.

For Friday Ark at the Modulator


Well...it's that time of year again. Time to plant de seed taters.

Actually, it's a bit past time, but I'm still awaiting tractor man to come and plough and disk the quarter acre I call the garden. This year my neighbors Jeff and Phyllis are going in with me so I won't be killing myself like I did last year. Or the year before. Or the year before that.

Jeff has already built a martin house to put up and I'm pulling my seed stock out of the freezer to go through. The crow problem has gotten really bad since the goats arrived.

The dogs go a little crazy when I pull that 50 pound bag of seed potatoes out. I plant Yukon Golds, though I'm thinking about doing Inca Blues this year. Dogs love seed potatoes. If you don't like to eat them...they are evidently ball-shaped enough to play with.

That is Babe in the photo. He's going to be 18 this summer. I took Babe in as a hospice case in the rescue. He didn't have long to live since he has a stage 5 heart murmur. That was almost three years ago. He's happily senile and appears determined to live longer than any of us...if only so he can pee on more of my stuff. Friend Scott says he looks like an old "stoner".

There is a really funny story in the archives called "Who the Heck is Joe?" on this same dog and potato theme if you'd like to read more.