My neighbor’s dogs are barking. At what, I have no clue. Probably the wind.
It’s 5 o’clock. That’s A.M.
About this time yesterday, I wrote on my Facebook page about my irritation with those dogs. They were barking then, too. My post eventually prompted quite a few friends’ solutions to noisy dogs, including a BB gun, planting caster beans and a reference to someone’s Mamaw, whose solution would have been to “whip ’em up a biscuit.” Let me be clear: I do not endorse these ideas (or even pretend to know what two of them mean), but I appreciate my friends’ suggestions. It’s good to have friends who care.
I’m trying to find a silver lining here. I have no dog. Only thing between my yard and my neighbor’s is a chain-link fence, so if those dogs are keeping a booger out of his yard, maybe they’re keeping it out of mine, too.
Last Friday night I was at a friend’s house and we were sorting through old photos, looking for possibilities for a class reunion slideshow. I was surprised at how many pictures he had of dogs he’s had over the years. He lifted up one roughly 30-year-old photo, pondered it, and said, “Now he was a good dog.” I believe my friend looked a little misty-eyed. Being the sensitive guy I am I said, “Ready to go eat?”
Some will think of this as downright un-American, but I don’t get attached to dogs. Too many tragic departures when I was young. Part of my detachment also may have to do with growing up in the country. My dad had lots of hunting dogs. We saw hounds as things that chased foxes, deer and rabbits, not things to be petted. Our utilitarian attitude might have been akin to how farmers don’t make pets of their livestock. (“Don’t get too attached to Wilbur, kids, he’ll be barbecue tomorrow.”)
Not that I’m pet-less. Two felines, the Siamese Precious and the indeterminate Tiger, share a house with us. Like the cat of Twain’s quote, they have mercifully little to say, other than occasional whining.
My neighbor’s dogs are still barking.
Hmmm, if I only had a hand grenade. No, hand grenade discharges are probably forbidden inside the city limits. I’ve already been to the doughnut shop. Had a couple of chocolate-covered goodies and a cup of black coffee. I’m up for good now.
Coming back from my doughnut run, I noticed the garbage I set by the curb last night had been disturbed. Something had torn a hole in the bag, extracted three used packages of McDonald’s Fancy Ketchup and left them in the driveway. Probably a varmint. Despite lots of dogs and cats, Park Hill has its share of wildlife. At a lake near our home, I’ve seen beavers, muskrats and a fox. Rabbits and raccoons abound. Sometimes they visit us.
About a year ago, my dreams were disturbed by scratching over in the far corner of the bedroom. Then the noise was under the bed. I groggily switched on a lamp and was shocked fully awake by seeing a young rabbit bolt out from under the bed with Precious in pursuit. That scratching was actually a zigzagging, claws-on-laminate race for life. Precious had brought us an offering.
With some juking I hadn’t done since high school football, I was able to get between the cat and the rabbit, and corner the cottontail. I inspected to see if the bunny was hurt. Amazingly, I found no wounds, so I took the rabbit to the far corner of the backyard and bid it adieu.
About a month ago, we had a visitor come through the cat door. Julie, watching television in the living room, heard the door squeak. She glanced over, expecting to see one of the cats coming in from an evening out. Then she saw the raccoon. The raccoon looked at her, studied the cats’ food bowl, then apparently decided it should come back later. As quickly as it came, it was gone.
“That was a raccoon,” Julie said. She’s a calm person. I would have yelled and thrown something.
We no longer leave cat food out all night.
Come to think of it, maybe my neighbor’s dogs are keeping ol’ Rocky at bay. I’m starting to feel more charitable toward those mutts … I’m not getting attached to them, though.
