Scruffy The Legend

I try to take my ’66 Caddy for a drive every weekend, even if its only for a half hour to make a big circle and come back.  Yesterday, I left the garage door open because I figured I couldn’t be so unlucky as to get a bird in the garage on that one particular half hour (see Mulberry Season a few posts below).  When I returned Karen comes running out of the garage to greet me carrying a fishing pole.  For a second I though that we were going fishing.  Then I realized that a bird had gotten in and she was in the process of chasing it thought the rafters with the pole.  We both got fishing poles and proceded to chase the bird back and forth to tire it to a point where it would fly out the door.  This ended up taking most of the day.  I needed to take an NSAID afterwards for my ankle pain.  The bird wore me out as much as I wore him out.

Charlie has started to try really hard to get chipmunks through the dog-yard fence.  He now trys to go under the fence which worries me a lot.  I yell at him, point my finger at his nose and say “bad dog.”  Scruffy eventually learned to bite me any time I called him a bad dog.  Charlie just gets very, very dejected looking, and hangs his head – very pitiful, indeed.  He stops the chipmunk chasing immediately.  Next, he does his best to assure me that he is a good dog, and only wants me to let him know that I agree.  So this pitiful looking thing will now have his head between my knees as I sit in the yard chair.  His ears are way back and completely hidden from view.  His eyes stare at mine pitifully.  Finally I brace mysellf for what I know is coming, and I say “Charlie you ar a good dog.”  He immediately changes to the most happy, most excited, most jubliant dog in the world.  He is immeditely on my lap, trying to lick my face as many times per second as possible.  He now weighs 40 pounds, still not large, but painful to have jumping up and down on you even if  you are braced for it, and have covered all vital organs.

Ruby is trying to get the same chipmunk.  She does not care if you call her “bad dog” or scream at her at the top of your lungs.  You don’t dare rap her on the butt with your hand because you know she will run to her bed and wimper there for the rest of the day.  No amount of telling her she is a good dog will help.

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