Bailey da Hound Dawg is the same age as Jackson Danger.
This is where the similarities end.
Jackson Danger is still a cute innocent little boy and still reliant upon his mommy and daddy.
Bailey da Hound Dawg is a cute recalcitrant little wretch manipulating his mommy and daddy.
Jackson Danger will cry when he wants to eat, then will be happy and go to sleep until he poops his diaper.
Bailey da Hound Dawg will cry and bark and howl to get food, then will howl even more to get even more food, then will steal the cat’s food, then will sleep under foot, then will poop in the yard where we will step in it, then will howl for more food.
Jackson Danger is polite enough to live within the means of his mommy and daddy.
Bailey da Hound Dawg is now officially beginning to eat us out of house and home.
The neighbors initiated a lawsuit against us because there is evidence that Bailey swallowed their German shepherd. But, the single eyewitness did not actually witness the consumption of the dog and no remains of the German shepherd have been found, so the case may not come to court.
We had to repair our downstairs air conditioner. It seems that Bailey was attempting to sabotage our house by chewing the wiring behind the air conditioning unit. We think he has been jealous of Petey da Wiener Dog and wanted to get even (Petey is an indoor dog). But, now that the weather is getting cooler, we may have the upper hand on Bailey.
Anyway, after completing the repair and presenting us with the bill, the service tech suggested we keep Bailey away from the air conditioner. Well, “DUHHHH” - we have already come to the conclusion that we have to keep Bailey away from pretty much EVERYTHING.
We are now anticipating Bailey’s next move – we suspect he will either attempt to dig up the water line from the well house, or continue a previous attack upon the satellite TV wiring.
Pam moved the cat’s food to a table on the back porch. Previously, the table was plenty tall enough to prevent Bailey from accessing the food. That has changed. Bailey can now easily reach the cat’s food and is not bashful about doing so – which really isn’t much different than the raccoons and skunks getting access to the cat’s food, so I don’t know why Pam makes such a fuss about Bailey getting the cat’s food. She said something about the poor little defenseless felines not getting enough food. Whale hale, the poor little defenseless felines should go out in the fields and eat the rodents like felines are supposed to do. That would help solve another problem Pam had in the kitchen the other day involving a cute little defenseless mouse.
But, I digress.
In spite of his rambunctious nature, Bailey is shaping up to be a fine dog. Because of his size, Pam and I tend to forget that he is still a puppy and will do puppy things. For the sake of our sanity, we can only hope that his mature nature catches up to his body weight before too much longer.
And for the sake of his own survival, I hope he will not dig up any more of Pam’s flowers – she still harbors wrath from the “raccoon and chickens” incident and has learned how to use her AR-15.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Stuck in Albuquerque on business.
Albuquerque is really quite a nice town to be stuck in. I’ve been here since last Monday and the weather has been mostly nice with lows in the 40’s and highs in the 60’s. And except for the first week, it has been dry. The people are generally friendly and there are a number of activities available for the weary traveler.
I mentioned in a previous blog that there are 361 city parks here. And just east of the city are the Cibola National Forest and the Sandia Wilderness Area, where I hiked over the weekend. But, except for the weekend hike, I have limited much of my activities to eating and drinking beer so as not to overwhelm the residents of the fifth most fit city in the U.S.
As I said, I’m here on business. We are conducting a class for the Intertribal Information Technology Center (IITC). The IITC coordinates business activities between various Native American tribes. The people in the class are representative of different Native American tribal companies around the country. We have been hired by the IITC to train tribal members to convert technical documents for their various customers, which include the U.S. Army.
This class is quite diverse. We have one person from Oklahoma, two folks from Wyoming, two from North Dakota, two from Hawaii, and four young people from Barrow, Alaska.
Even though the class officially began Monday last week, the single guy from Oklahoma didn’t arrive until Tuesday. His boss explained to us that he thought the class started NEXT week. In typical Oklahoma fashion, the Pawhuska area of Oklahoma apparently began “daily-savings-week” early in October and his boss just lost track of time. And like everything else associated with Oklahoma, it is OK.
Pam would be interested in knowing that the two NoDaks in the class live close to Rugby, ND, the geographical center of the North American continent. For those of you who are geographically challenged (my lovely Niece Andrea comes to mind) the geographical center is the location where the oceans are the same distance away regardless of the direction you go.
We have two pictures taken at the monument at Rugby. The first is of Pam pregnant with Catie Jo, and the second was taken a few years later with Pam, Catie and Daniel. I mentioned this little fact to the NoDaks, but they didn’t really seem impressed. They can be excused though - if a picture is worth a thousand words, then it must take a thousand words to describe a picture. And family photos are boring to begin with, so try to imagine just how bored these ladies must have been listening to me describe my family photos.
Pam would also be interested in talking to the two from Wyoming, who are from Riverton. Pam and I passed through Riverton on a trip across Wyoming a few years ago, a beautiful but isolated area of the country. This guy and gal had to drive three hours to Denver to get a flight to Albuquerque. Their only other choice was to drive three hours to Cheyenne and catch a flight to . . . . Denver, to get a flight to Albuquerque.
A bit more geographic/demographic information: Did you know that there are more people in the city of Albuquerque than in the entire state of Wyoming? Neither did the Wyomings. Did you further know that there are just as many people in the Oklahoma City metro area than in the entire state of New Mexico? I have been a proverbial fount of information during this business trip and I’m letting everybody know it while I have a captive audience.
Throughout the past week, the Hawaiians have made quiet and polite comments about the cool temperatures in New Mexico. Most days, these two ladies have worn sweaters and jackets in class, while the Alaskans have constantly pointed out just how hot the weather has been (no joke here).
The Alaskans were interested in joining me on my recent hike. Being from Barrow, they said they have never walked through mountains before. They told me something I didn’t know - they informed me that the topography of Barrow is flat coastal tundra covered with permafrost. There are no mountains where they live. They also said that the only wildlife they get to see in Barrow are polar bears, arctic fox, seals, coastal whales and dolphins and various other species I had only heard of on the Discovery channel. They wanted to hike in the mountains with me because they were anxious to see some “exotic” animals, like ground squirrels and coyotes (no joke here, either).
They ended up not going on the hike with me, which is just as well. Considering the amount of aches and pains I experienced (and I’m rather used to hiking in hills at least), I can only imagine the difficulty they would have had.
Besides, they said that one member of their group had never been to the “lower 48” and they wanted to take him to some clubs. I didn’t ask, but I think they wanted to take some embarrassing pictures of him to show the tribal elders back home.
Anyway, this has been a good class and easy work for me. At the end of this week we will travel home. As soon as I get to Oklahoma City, I will depart for Kansas City to get there Saturday evening. It will be a quick turn-around, but I understand Jackson Danger wants to see me about something. Probably needs my advice about girls, as usual.
I mentioned in a previous blog that there are 361 city parks here. And just east of the city are the Cibola National Forest and the Sandia Wilderness Area, where I hiked over the weekend. But, except for the weekend hike, I have limited much of my activities to eating and drinking beer so as not to overwhelm the residents of the fifth most fit city in the U.S.
As I said, I’m here on business. We are conducting a class for the Intertribal Information Technology Center (IITC). The IITC coordinates business activities between various Native American tribes. The people in the class are representative of different Native American tribal companies around the country. We have been hired by the IITC to train tribal members to convert technical documents for their various customers, which include the U.S. Army.
This class is quite diverse. We have one person from Oklahoma, two folks from Wyoming, two from North Dakota, two from Hawaii, and four young people from Barrow, Alaska.
Even though the class officially began Monday last week, the single guy from Oklahoma didn’t arrive until Tuesday. His boss explained to us that he thought the class started NEXT week. In typical Oklahoma fashion, the Pawhuska area of Oklahoma apparently began “daily-savings-week” early in October and his boss just lost track of time. And like everything else associated with Oklahoma, it is OK.
Pam would be interested in knowing that the two NoDaks in the class live close to Rugby, ND, the geographical center of the North American continent. For those of you who are geographically challenged (my lovely Niece Andrea comes to mind) the geographical center is the location where the oceans are the same distance away regardless of the direction you go.
We have two pictures taken at the monument at Rugby. The first is of Pam pregnant with Catie Jo, and the second was taken a few years later with Pam, Catie and Daniel. I mentioned this little fact to the NoDaks, but they didn’t really seem impressed. They can be excused though - if a picture is worth a thousand words, then it must take a thousand words to describe a picture. And family photos are boring to begin with, so try to imagine just how bored these ladies must have been listening to me describe my family photos.
Pam would also be interested in talking to the two from Wyoming, who are from Riverton. Pam and I passed through Riverton on a trip across Wyoming a few years ago, a beautiful but isolated area of the country. This guy and gal had to drive three hours to Denver to get a flight to Albuquerque. Their only other choice was to drive three hours to Cheyenne and catch a flight to . . . . Denver, to get a flight to Albuquerque.
A bit more geographic/demographic information: Did you know that there are more people in the city of Albuquerque than in the entire state of Wyoming? Neither did the Wyomings. Did you further know that there are just as many people in the Oklahoma City metro area than in the entire state of New Mexico? I have been a proverbial fount of information during this business trip and I’m letting everybody know it while I have a captive audience.
Throughout the past week, the Hawaiians have made quiet and polite comments about the cool temperatures in New Mexico. Most days, these two ladies have worn sweaters and jackets in class, while the Alaskans have constantly pointed out just how hot the weather has been (no joke here).
The Alaskans were interested in joining me on my recent hike. Being from Barrow, they said they have never walked through mountains before. They told me something I didn’t know - they informed me that the topography of Barrow is flat coastal tundra covered with permafrost. There are no mountains where they live. They also said that the only wildlife they get to see in Barrow are polar bears, arctic fox, seals, coastal whales and dolphins and various other species I had only heard of on the Discovery channel. They wanted to hike in the mountains with me because they were anxious to see some “exotic” animals, like ground squirrels and coyotes (no joke here, either).
They ended up not going on the hike with me, which is just as well. Considering the amount of aches and pains I experienced (and I’m rather used to hiking in hills at least), I can only imagine the difficulty they would have had.
Besides, they said that one member of their group had never been to the “lower 48” and they wanted to take him to some clubs. I didn’t ask, but I think they wanted to take some embarrassing pictures of him to show the tribal elders back home.
Anyway, this has been a good class and easy work for me. At the end of this week we will travel home. As soon as I get to Oklahoma City, I will depart for Kansas City to get there Saturday evening. It will be a quick turn-around, but I understand Jackson Danger wants to see me about something. Probably needs my advice about girls, as usual.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
All work and no play makes Jackson's Grumpa even grumpier
For the past week, I’ve been on a business trip to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Prior to leaving, I planned a hiking trip in the Cibola National Forest, so part of my luggage included my hiking equipment.
Albuquerque is the largest city in New Mexico, and unlike the largest city in Oklahoma, Albuquerque is not the capital of the state. For those of you who have forgotten your state geography, that distinction belongs to Santa Fe.
Albuquerque is home to Sandia National Laboratories, so there are a large number of highly educated people living here.
The city also has 361 municipal parks. There may be a correlation to the number of PhDs to the number of city parks, but I don’t know what that could be.
Sandia Peak Tramway calls Albuquerque home. At 2.7 miles long, it is the longest tramway in the world, ascending 3,819 feet above the valley floor.
I’m not certain what the residents of Albuquerque call themselves, whether it’s “Albuquerites” or “Albuquerquians”. But, both of these sound kind of awkward, so I will henceforth call them “Albuquirkies”. Not because they actually are “quirky”, but strictly out of convenience, mind you. Just like it used to be convenient for me to call residents of Moore, OK, “Moorons” (for those of you who don’t know, Pam and I used to reside in Moore, OK, so the somewhat self deprecating term should be OK).
In a 2007 article, USAToday proclaimed Albuquerque the number one most physically fit city in America. This year, according to Men’s Fitness Magazine, Albuquerque has dropped to number five. I guess my business trip to Albuquerque has had an unintended consequence.
So, in an effort to help boost morale among the Albuquirkies, I took the tramway to the observation deck atop the 10,378 foot Sandia Peak in the Cibola National Forest and hiked the Crest Trail and the Pino Canyon Trail back into Albuquerque, a distance of about 10 miles and a vertical drop of about 3700 feet.
This feat should boost Albuquerque’s fitness rating by two points at least.
People who have never really hiked think that the ideal hike should be along a flat, level, smooth trail free of obstructions. And there are others who have the notion that the ideal hike will always go downhill, presumably because “it’s easier”.
Well, concerning the first view, I say this: Most hikers go out to see the scenery and to enjoy the experience, so a long flat stretch of smooth trails over featureless terrain leaves a bit to be desired. A long hike should have a mixture of some uphill and some downhill travel along trails with exquisite scenery.
And as far as the notion about always going downhill, I say this: THAT IS INSANE! And I’ll explain why in a moment.
Since my work partner wanted to take the tramway to see the sights, the planned departure point for the hike became the observation deck on the Sandia Crest. This had the advantage of ensuring I could get a ride to the jump off point, plus provide a spectacular view prior to departure, plus make it convenient for my work partner to pick me up after the hike (and after a 10 mile hike I wanted to ensure I had a ride back to the hotel). The main disadvantage was that the entire hike would be downhill, as going downhill from the top of a mountain is inevitable. So, I prepared myself mentally.
But I was not prepared physically.
Now, if you have hiked for any distance over a long downhill stretch, you know the different feeling you get in the legs. After a long climb, the feeling of going downhill is initially almost one of relief, but after only a short distance going downhill you’re ready for some more climbing uphill to relieve the strain you feel coming in the calf muscles and knees. I knew during this hike I would surely experience a slight discomfort in the legs afterwards, but I was totally unprepared for the level of discomfort. I’ve had sore legs after most other hikes, but this morning I was barely able to get out of bed. And for some odd reason, I had the indescribable urge to climb some stairs.
But, about the hike itself:
It had rained in Albuquerque a couple of days last week, and up on the mountain it dumped 14 inches of snow. Although the sky was clear by Saturday, the temperature at the observation deck was 28 degrees and the wind was blowing at 30 miles an hour. I began thinking I should not go on this hike, and decided to reevaluate the situation once we got to the top of the peak.
On the way up in the tram, I met an Albuquirky who was going up to check conditions for a cross-country ski trip. I told him what I had planned, and he informed me that considering the location of the Crest Trail and the wind direction, the trail should be sheltered from much of the wind. That’s what he said verbally, but his body language said, “YOU’RE NUTS.”
When I talk to people about hiking, I always get the impression that they are quite skeptical of my skill, knowledge, and abilities. I have learned that their impressions arise from my personal appearance and not necessarily from any actual knowledge they might have about me. After all, my physical appearance gives the idea that I am a middle-aged over-weight bumpkin. However, I am in fact an ASTHMATIC middle-aged over-weight bumpkin with a bum knee and a bad heart and an abdominal hernia repair. If those in authority really knew anything about me, they would never allow me to go white-water kayaking or hiking in Glacier National or in the Cibola National Forest.
In spite of what others think of me based on superficial criteria, I do have the common sense to know my own limitations. When hiking, I don’t take chances, and I always have a “Plan B” and usually a “Plan C”. My only failing is that I like to hike alone, and that is contrary to the first cardinal rule of hikers, “never hike alone”.
As I said, on this particular hike, I wanted to gauge the weather conditions at the top of the mountain before making the “GO” or “NO GO” decision. I told my work partner that if things looked too bad, I would return to the tramway. At the top, the wind was blowing like mad, but the trail was in fact shielded from the wind, just like I had been told, and the wind at the trail entrance was little more than a nice breezy day in Oklahoma (still questionable by ordinary standards, but . . . ). Although the temperature was less than 30 degrees, the sun was shining and I was well dressed. I decided to go along the trail with the plan to return if things got “IFFY”.
The snow depth along the first mile of the trail was about 8 inches. And the trail was quite visible due to the tracks of other hikers before me. That, along with my trusty topo map and my compass, the trail was very easy to follow and I had great confidence that I would not lose my way.
The Crest Trail runs about 100 feet east of the actual crest of the mountain and about 40 feet lower and I was shielded from the wind which was howling over me through the taller trees. Occasionally, the wind would blow a clump of snow from the trees onto the trail or onto me, but other than that there was no serious wind problem.
The farther along the trail, the better the conditions became. And I stayed warm, which had been my greatest concern, so after a mile and a half I decided to continue.
Long story short, it was a beautiful hike. I stopped occasionally to rest and to eat a handful of trail mix, and I constantly drank water. Halfway through, I entered the Pino Canyon Trail and began a sharp descent. The temperature increased as I descended and the snow disappeared from the trail. I stopped for a solid hour along a small stream to relax and to prepare a lunch of beef stroganoff (no kidding). The only thing missing was a glass of nice cabernet.
If I had it to do over again, I would change the direction of this hike. I think now it would have been better to hike up and catch the tramway down. A different set of muscles would be aching right now, but I think I would be able to walk without looking like an old man with wooden legs trying to make it to the bathroom in time to prevent an “accident”.
Oh well, the legs will recover by this time next month, I’m sure.
Albuquerque is the largest city in New Mexico, and unlike the largest city in Oklahoma, Albuquerque is not the capital of the state. For those of you who have forgotten your state geography, that distinction belongs to Santa Fe.
Albuquerque is home to Sandia National Laboratories, so there are a large number of highly educated people living here.
The city also has 361 municipal parks. There may be a correlation to the number of PhDs to the number of city parks, but I don’t know what that could be.
Sandia Peak Tramway calls Albuquerque home. At 2.7 miles long, it is the longest tramway in the world, ascending 3,819 feet above the valley floor.
I’m not certain what the residents of Albuquerque call themselves, whether it’s “Albuquerites” or “Albuquerquians”. But, both of these sound kind of awkward, so I will henceforth call them “Albuquirkies”. Not because they actually are “quirky”, but strictly out of convenience, mind you. Just like it used to be convenient for me to call residents of Moore, OK, “Moorons” (for those of you who don’t know, Pam and I used to reside in Moore, OK, so the somewhat self deprecating term should be OK).
In a 2007 article, USAToday proclaimed Albuquerque the number one most physically fit city in America. This year, according to Men’s Fitness Magazine, Albuquerque has dropped to number five. I guess my business trip to Albuquerque has had an unintended consequence.
So, in an effort to help boost morale among the Albuquirkies, I took the tramway to the observation deck atop the 10,378 foot Sandia Peak in the Cibola National Forest and hiked the Crest Trail and the Pino Canyon Trail back into Albuquerque, a distance of about 10 miles and a vertical drop of about 3700 feet.
This feat should boost Albuquerque’s fitness rating by two points at least.
People who have never really hiked think that the ideal hike should be along a flat, level, smooth trail free of obstructions. And there are others who have the notion that the ideal hike will always go downhill, presumably because “it’s easier”.
Well, concerning the first view, I say this: Most hikers go out to see the scenery and to enjoy the experience, so a long flat stretch of smooth trails over featureless terrain leaves a bit to be desired. A long hike should have a mixture of some uphill and some downhill travel along trails with exquisite scenery.
And as far as the notion about always going downhill, I say this: THAT IS INSANE! And I’ll explain why in a moment.
Since my work partner wanted to take the tramway to see the sights, the planned departure point for the hike became the observation deck on the Sandia Crest. This had the advantage of ensuring I could get a ride to the jump off point, plus provide a spectacular view prior to departure, plus make it convenient for my work partner to pick me up after the hike (and after a 10 mile hike I wanted to ensure I had a ride back to the hotel). The main disadvantage was that the entire hike would be downhill, as going downhill from the top of a mountain is inevitable. So, I prepared myself mentally.
But I was not prepared physically.
Now, if you have hiked for any distance over a long downhill stretch, you know the different feeling you get in the legs. After a long climb, the feeling of going downhill is initially almost one of relief, but after only a short distance going downhill you’re ready for some more climbing uphill to relieve the strain you feel coming in the calf muscles and knees. I knew during this hike I would surely experience a slight discomfort in the legs afterwards, but I was totally unprepared for the level of discomfort. I’ve had sore legs after most other hikes, but this morning I was barely able to get out of bed. And for some odd reason, I had the indescribable urge to climb some stairs.
But, about the hike itself:
It had rained in Albuquerque a couple of days last week, and up on the mountain it dumped 14 inches of snow. Although the sky was clear by Saturday, the temperature at the observation deck was 28 degrees and the wind was blowing at 30 miles an hour. I began thinking I should not go on this hike, and decided to reevaluate the situation once we got to the top of the peak.
On the way up in the tram, I met an Albuquirky who was going up to check conditions for a cross-country ski trip. I told him what I had planned, and he informed me that considering the location of the Crest Trail and the wind direction, the trail should be sheltered from much of the wind. That’s what he said verbally, but his body language said, “YOU’RE NUTS.”
When I talk to people about hiking, I always get the impression that they are quite skeptical of my skill, knowledge, and abilities. I have learned that their impressions arise from my personal appearance and not necessarily from any actual knowledge they might have about me. After all, my physical appearance gives the idea that I am a middle-aged over-weight bumpkin. However, I am in fact an ASTHMATIC middle-aged over-weight bumpkin with a bum knee and a bad heart and an abdominal hernia repair. If those in authority really knew anything about me, they would never allow me to go white-water kayaking or hiking in Glacier National or in the Cibola National Forest.
In spite of what others think of me based on superficial criteria, I do have the common sense to know my own limitations. When hiking, I don’t take chances, and I always have a “Plan B” and usually a “Plan C”. My only failing is that I like to hike alone, and that is contrary to the first cardinal rule of hikers, “never hike alone”.
As I said, on this particular hike, I wanted to gauge the weather conditions at the top of the mountain before making the “GO” or “NO GO” decision. I told my work partner that if things looked too bad, I would return to the tramway. At the top, the wind was blowing like mad, but the trail was in fact shielded from the wind, just like I had been told, and the wind at the trail entrance was little more than a nice breezy day in Oklahoma (still questionable by ordinary standards, but . . . ). Although the temperature was less than 30 degrees, the sun was shining and I was well dressed. I decided to go along the trail with the plan to return if things got “IFFY”.
The snow depth along the first mile of the trail was about 8 inches. And the trail was quite visible due to the tracks of other hikers before me. That, along with my trusty topo map and my compass, the trail was very easy to follow and I had great confidence that I would not lose my way.
The Crest Trail runs about 100 feet east of the actual crest of the mountain and about 40 feet lower and I was shielded from the wind which was howling over me through the taller trees. Occasionally, the wind would blow a clump of snow from the trees onto the trail or onto me, but other than that there was no serious wind problem.
The farther along the trail, the better the conditions became. And I stayed warm, which had been my greatest concern, so after a mile and a half I decided to continue.
Long story short, it was a beautiful hike. I stopped occasionally to rest and to eat a handful of trail mix, and I constantly drank water. Halfway through, I entered the Pino Canyon Trail and began a sharp descent. The temperature increased as I descended and the snow disappeared from the trail. I stopped for a solid hour along a small stream to relax and to prepare a lunch of beef stroganoff (no kidding). The only thing missing was a glass of nice cabernet.
If I had it to do over again, I would change the direction of this hike. I think now it would have been better to hike up and catch the tramway down. A different set of muscles would be aching right now, but I think I would be able to walk without looking like an old man with wooden legs trying to make it to the bathroom in time to prevent an “accident”.
Oh well, the legs will recover by this time next month, I’m sure.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
2 cheese R not 2 cheese
I'm on the internet doing research about cheese at http://www.cheese.com.
There are many different types of cheeses, and many different areas that produce great cheeses, but even though the internet is chock full of information, it really doesn’t answer the all important question about cheeses, namely, “What cow is needed to produce which cheese?”
I'm not sure simple plain ol' black and white cows would give anything but plain ol' yellow cheese. But, what if we want to produce a nice Brie? Or a Muenster? Is there such a thing as a Brie Cow? Can we get cows sent over from Muenster, where ever the heck that is? I understand Brie is made in France - do the French even have cows? And do we have to have Swiss cows to get Swiss cheese, or do we just have to have cows raised in any ol’ mountainous area? And would that automatically disqualify Oklahomans from making Swiss cheese? Do you have to do anything special to the cows to give cheese with holes in it?
So many questions. This farmage thing is harder than it looks.
The internet has information about vegetarian cheeses. Now, I know that cheese is made from milk, and milk comes from animals, like a cow. So, does this mean that a vegetarian cheese must come from a cow that is strictly a vegetarian? I thought all cows were vegetarian. Or does it have to come from cows that aren't made of beef? Does this further mean that if I want to produce non-vegetarian cheeses I have to feed some sort of meat to my cows? And if so, how do they want their steak grilled? No, that's ridiculous - that would make my cows cannibals - so maybe cows eat chicken (?) Bar-b-qued?
The more I read, the more questions that come to mind.
I read it on the internet, so it must be true – there are vegetarian cheeses - which implies there are non-vegetarian cheeses. I mean, if a cow eats grass, doesn’t that mean that the cow is a vegetarian, and by extension doesn’t that mean that any cheese you make from the milk automatically qualifies as a vegetarian product? I guess it's kind of like being “kosher”, where you have to have a rabbi do some sort of religious thing with the food in order to be called "kosher". Maybe PETA has some sort of religious cult preacher guy or gal who has to do some sort of religious thing that somehow turns your cheese into a "vegetarian" version of the non-vegetarian cheese. I knew that PETA was full of fanatics, but I really can’t imagine what kind of religious ceremony they would do over my cheese to make it a vegetarian cheese. Maybe with enough internet research I can learn how to conduct my own vegetarian-conversion process on my own cheese.
I like cheddar cheese, but I don't want to offend anybody, so I better contact PETA before making any cheese. Maybe they would know what kind of cow I need to make a vegetarian style cheddar cheese.
Still on the internet looking at goat cheese.
One of the goat milk cheeses is called "Formaggio di Capra" from Italy. Sounds like the name of some D list movie star. I suppose instead of cows we could switch to goats. But that still wouldn't answer the question about the vegetarian cheese. PETA seems to make an awful lot of noise against beef, but I haven’t heard them say anything against goat meat. Maybe PETA has not designated goats as real animals - and that would make sense because I myself never thought a goat was a real animal, more like a big four-footed garden pest.
Hey, if you mix goat milk with cow milk, would the resulting cheese taste gouda? (Just a little joke here)
Still searching the internet:
Now, there's an interesting vegetarian cheese, called "Bishop Kennedy". Since PETA is mostly an atheistic organization, I wonder how they would get around "blessing" a cheese that has "Bishop" in the name? And what's up with the "Kennedy" in the name? Oh, I see from my internet search that Bishop Kennedy was some 15th century bishop at St. Andrews. Is that the St. Andrews in Scotland, the golfer's "mecca"? Did Bishop Kennedy play golf, and if so, how did that affect his cheese making? Did he slice his cheese?
So many questions.
Oh, in that last paragraph, I didn't mean to offend any Muslims out there, but I’m certain there won’t be any problems. I used the term "mecca" as a metaphor, kind of like how a cartoon of Mohammed is just a metaphor, and that’s never caused any problems, so it should be OK.
But, I digress.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, vegetarian cheeses. If a cheese is not automatically considered a vegetarian dish, and if Catholics don’t eat meat on Fridays but do eat fish (presumably because it’s not “meat”(?)), and if meat can be declared “kosher” by a Jewish rabbi, and if the PETA religious fanatics declare goats as meatless animals, then there should be nothing to prevent me from declaring my cheese cholesterol free.
I think I got it all figured out:
I can feed my cows fish and that would produce milk worthy of being used to make a vegetarian cheese, and I can sell it by the slice as a kosher cheese to vegetarian Catholic golfers in St. Andrews.
There, I think I got it.
Except now Pam and I have decided not to get any cows – we’re going to get chickens instead.
I reckon now I have to research the internet to find out what really came first, and why, and how to replicate THAT particular process.
So many questions . . . . .
There are many different types of cheeses, and many different areas that produce great cheeses, but even though the internet is chock full of information, it really doesn’t answer the all important question about cheeses, namely, “What cow is needed to produce which cheese?”
I'm not sure simple plain ol' black and white cows would give anything but plain ol' yellow cheese. But, what if we want to produce a nice Brie? Or a Muenster? Is there such a thing as a Brie Cow? Can we get cows sent over from Muenster, where ever the heck that is? I understand Brie is made in France - do the French even have cows? And do we have to have Swiss cows to get Swiss cheese, or do we just have to have cows raised in any ol’ mountainous area? And would that automatically disqualify Oklahomans from making Swiss cheese? Do you have to do anything special to the cows to give cheese with holes in it?
So many questions. This farmage thing is harder than it looks.
The internet has information about vegetarian cheeses. Now, I know that cheese is made from milk, and milk comes from animals, like a cow. So, does this mean that a vegetarian cheese must come from a cow that is strictly a vegetarian? I thought all cows were vegetarian. Or does it have to come from cows that aren't made of beef? Does this further mean that if I want to produce non-vegetarian cheeses I have to feed some sort of meat to my cows? And if so, how do they want their steak grilled? No, that's ridiculous - that would make my cows cannibals - so maybe cows eat chicken (?) Bar-b-qued?
The more I read, the more questions that come to mind.
I read it on the internet, so it must be true – there are vegetarian cheeses - which implies there are non-vegetarian cheeses. I mean, if a cow eats grass, doesn’t that mean that the cow is a vegetarian, and by extension doesn’t that mean that any cheese you make from the milk automatically qualifies as a vegetarian product? I guess it's kind of like being “kosher”, where you have to have a rabbi do some sort of religious thing with the food in order to be called "kosher". Maybe PETA has some sort of religious cult preacher guy or gal who has to do some sort of religious thing that somehow turns your cheese into a "vegetarian" version of the non-vegetarian cheese. I knew that PETA was full of fanatics, but I really can’t imagine what kind of religious ceremony they would do over my cheese to make it a vegetarian cheese. Maybe with enough internet research I can learn how to conduct my own vegetarian-conversion process on my own cheese.
I like cheddar cheese, but I don't want to offend anybody, so I better contact PETA before making any cheese. Maybe they would know what kind of cow I need to make a vegetarian style cheddar cheese.
Still on the internet looking at goat cheese.
One of the goat milk cheeses is called "Formaggio di Capra" from Italy. Sounds like the name of some D list movie star. I suppose instead of cows we could switch to goats. But that still wouldn't answer the question about the vegetarian cheese. PETA seems to make an awful lot of noise against beef, but I haven’t heard them say anything against goat meat. Maybe PETA has not designated goats as real animals - and that would make sense because I myself never thought a goat was a real animal, more like a big four-footed garden pest.
Hey, if you mix goat milk with cow milk, would the resulting cheese taste gouda? (Just a little joke here)
Still searching the internet:
Now, there's an interesting vegetarian cheese, called "Bishop Kennedy". Since PETA is mostly an atheistic organization, I wonder how they would get around "blessing" a cheese that has "Bishop" in the name? And what's up with the "Kennedy" in the name? Oh, I see from my internet search that Bishop Kennedy was some 15th century bishop at St. Andrews. Is that the St. Andrews in Scotland, the golfer's "mecca"? Did Bishop Kennedy play golf, and if so, how did that affect his cheese making? Did he slice his cheese?
So many questions.
Oh, in that last paragraph, I didn't mean to offend any Muslims out there, but I’m certain there won’t be any problems. I used the term "mecca" as a metaphor, kind of like how a cartoon of Mohammed is just a metaphor, and that’s never caused any problems, so it should be OK.
But, I digress.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, vegetarian cheeses. If a cheese is not automatically considered a vegetarian dish, and if Catholics don’t eat meat on Fridays but do eat fish (presumably because it’s not “meat”(?)), and if meat can be declared “kosher” by a Jewish rabbi, and if the PETA religious fanatics declare goats as meatless animals, then there should be nothing to prevent me from declaring my cheese cholesterol free.
I think I got it all figured out:
I can feed my cows fish and that would produce milk worthy of being used to make a vegetarian cheese, and I can sell it by the slice as a kosher cheese to vegetarian Catholic golfers in St. Andrews.
There, I think I got it.
Except now Pam and I have decided not to get any cows – we’re going to get chickens instead.
I reckon now I have to research the internet to find out what really came first, and why, and how to replicate THAT particular process.
So many questions . . . . .
Monday, October 19, 2009
Danger Lane Workshop
I'm opening up a little woodworking shop on the farmage. I'm calling it "Danger Lane Workshop" because we have renamed our driveway "Danger Lane" in honor of my grandson, Jackson Danger Knight. Sounds much better than "Danger Driveway Workshop", don't you think?
Anyway, I'm opening up a woodworking shop and have started advertising for some help. In this neck of the woods, most of the advertisements for help are on hand-lettered signs tacked onto power poles. And there are many signs from people looking for "nail techs". So many people wanting to hire “nail techs” seems to indicate a shortage of people doing this type of work. To get a jump on the competition in hiring the best qualified person, I figured I better get advertisements up quick. I'm already one up on the competition because I know all about the internet and know how to post my advertisement in this blog:
Help wanted: NAIL TECH.
Job description: Successful applicant will straighten bent nails and sort to size.
Educational requirements: Arkansas GED, or equivalent USC-Berkeley PhD.
Other requirements: Successful applicant will own a hammer and know somewhat how to use it without inflicting serious injury to innocent by-standers.
Benefits: Free ObamaCare; opportunity to participate in "cash-for-clunkers" program after work hours; free automatic tax withholdings with each paycheck with possible partial refund at the end of the year; social security withheld automatically; plenty of other work if you get bored.
Equal opportunity employer: I'm willing to fire anybody for any reason at any time if you don't work.
This type of advertising alone should ensure I get hundreds if not thousands of applicants and I should have my pick of the cream of the crop.
Recently, Danger Lane Workshop produced some cabinets and tables for a couple of folks. I’ve found that doing work for others liberates me from doing all the work that Pam wants me to do for her. Not that I don’t like doing work for Pam, but I can get some money when I do work for others. Pam never pays me. She always said that I should do things for her because I love her and want to make her happy. She's always saying things like that - I don't know why. Don't get me wrong, I do love her and do want to make her happy, but it's real difficult for me to understand why she thinks I need to always show her. My very presence should be enough to make her happy, and me sticking around is plenty of evidence that I love her. I do all the little things that every husband should do. Just the other day I cut some of the grass around the property instead of making her do it all. And I always take one of the two trash containers down to the road, always leaving the lighter one for her to drag down. I always tell her the best places to go to get things for me and always let her know when her cooking needs improvement. I'm a typical guy, and I don't understand why us typical guys are always being told we need to do things for our wives when it's obvious to us every day that we constantly do things for our wives.
But, I digress.
The workshop is a place where I can relax and listen to music while I make copious amounts of sawdust. And I’ve progressed quite well in my woodworking skills. I think you can always tell the experience level of a person by the types and extent of the injuries he sustains. My woodworking skills have progressed to the point that I rarely hit my finger with a hammer. Only amateurs do that. And I don’t cut my self to the bone anymore with razor sharp chisels and finely tuned hand planes. Any self-inflicted injuries can generally be dealt with by the application of a few band-aids, a large supply of which is always in the shop.
But, an injury involving a table saw or a band saw is too horrendous for me to contemplate, and every time I turn on a saw I think of just how nice it is to have all my appendages. And this type of thinking keeps me safe. Hey, you can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your friend’s nose, especially if you don’t have any fingers.
Once, I was actually told that I must not be a very good woodworker because I still have all my fingers. This philosophy makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. For instance, I used to work with munitions, so I guess the logical extension of this belief is that I must not have been an experienced munitions specialist because I didn’t blow myself up.
No, I think that a good woodworker is a careful woodworker. Accidents do occur, but most if not all of the really serious accidents can be prevented through use of normal safety precautions.
I said, “normal safety precautions”. Sometimes, on a bad day, a “normal safety precaution” would involve shutting down the equipment, putting away the tools, and walking out of the shop while there is still blood in the arteries. Everybody has a bad day, but you really don’t want to perpetuate a bad day around things that can take your arm off.
I don’t drink and drive. I also don’t drink while woodworking. Well, that’s not quite true since I have been known to go out to the shop with a beer (or two), but under those circumstances I will limit my activities to the use of hand tools, no power equipment. The only thing mixing alcohol and power tools will do is numb the initial pain when an inadvertent amputation occurs.
Working with a lathe is fun and interesting and relaxing - that is, once you get past the realization that you are pressing a razor sharp chisel against the surface of a 10-pound piece of wood spinning at 1500 plus rpms. I have not been injured using the lathe (yet), but I think that is only because of my paranoid use of proper safety equipment such as a full-face shield, a dust mask, a good turning smock, an athletic cup, and a rabbit’s foot from a particularly lucky rabbit.
Anyway, Danger Lane Workshop is open for business, and the business right now is waiting for the customer who wants to pay me a million dollars for building a table.
Hey, if ya gonna dream, dream BIG.
Anyway, I'm opening up a woodworking shop and have started advertising for some help. In this neck of the woods, most of the advertisements for help are on hand-lettered signs tacked onto power poles. And there are many signs from people looking for "nail techs". So many people wanting to hire “nail techs” seems to indicate a shortage of people doing this type of work. To get a jump on the competition in hiring the best qualified person, I figured I better get advertisements up quick. I'm already one up on the competition because I know all about the internet and know how to post my advertisement in this blog:
Help wanted: NAIL TECH.
Job description: Successful applicant will straighten bent nails and sort to size.
Educational requirements: Arkansas GED, or equivalent USC-Berkeley PhD.
Other requirements: Successful applicant will own a hammer and know somewhat how to use it without inflicting serious injury to innocent by-standers.
Benefits: Free ObamaCare; opportunity to participate in "cash-for-clunkers" program after work hours; free automatic tax withholdings with each paycheck with possible partial refund at the end of the year; social security withheld automatically; plenty of other work if you get bored.
Equal opportunity employer: I'm willing to fire anybody for any reason at any time if you don't work.
This type of advertising alone should ensure I get hundreds if not thousands of applicants and I should have my pick of the cream of the crop.
Recently, Danger Lane Workshop produced some cabinets and tables for a couple of folks. I’ve found that doing work for others liberates me from doing all the work that Pam wants me to do for her. Not that I don’t like doing work for Pam, but I can get some money when I do work for others. Pam never pays me. She always said that I should do things for her because I love her and want to make her happy. She's always saying things like that - I don't know why. Don't get me wrong, I do love her and do want to make her happy, but it's real difficult for me to understand why she thinks I need to always show her. My very presence should be enough to make her happy, and me sticking around is plenty of evidence that I love her. I do all the little things that every husband should do. Just the other day I cut some of the grass around the property instead of making her do it all. And I always take one of the two trash containers down to the road, always leaving the lighter one for her to drag down. I always tell her the best places to go to get things for me and always let her know when her cooking needs improvement. I'm a typical guy, and I don't understand why us typical guys are always being told we need to do things for our wives when it's obvious to us every day that we constantly do things for our wives.
But, I digress.
The workshop is a place where I can relax and listen to music while I make copious amounts of sawdust. And I’ve progressed quite well in my woodworking skills. I think you can always tell the experience level of a person by the types and extent of the injuries he sustains. My woodworking skills have progressed to the point that I rarely hit my finger with a hammer. Only amateurs do that. And I don’t cut my self to the bone anymore with razor sharp chisels and finely tuned hand planes. Any self-inflicted injuries can generally be dealt with by the application of a few band-aids, a large supply of which is always in the shop.
But, an injury involving a table saw or a band saw is too horrendous for me to contemplate, and every time I turn on a saw I think of just how nice it is to have all my appendages. And this type of thinking keeps me safe. Hey, you can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your friend’s nose, especially if you don’t have any fingers.
Once, I was actually told that I must not be a very good woodworker because I still have all my fingers. This philosophy makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. For instance, I used to work with munitions, so I guess the logical extension of this belief is that I must not have been an experienced munitions specialist because I didn’t blow myself up.
No, I think that a good woodworker is a careful woodworker. Accidents do occur, but most if not all of the really serious accidents can be prevented through use of normal safety precautions.
I said, “normal safety precautions”. Sometimes, on a bad day, a “normal safety precaution” would involve shutting down the equipment, putting away the tools, and walking out of the shop while there is still blood in the arteries. Everybody has a bad day, but you really don’t want to perpetuate a bad day around things that can take your arm off.
I don’t drink and drive. I also don’t drink while woodworking. Well, that’s not quite true since I have been known to go out to the shop with a beer (or two), but under those circumstances I will limit my activities to the use of hand tools, no power equipment. The only thing mixing alcohol and power tools will do is numb the initial pain when an inadvertent amputation occurs.
Working with a lathe is fun and interesting and relaxing - that is, once you get past the realization that you are pressing a razor sharp chisel against the surface of a 10-pound piece of wood spinning at 1500 plus rpms. I have not been injured using the lathe (yet), but I think that is only because of my paranoid use of proper safety equipment such as a full-face shield, a dust mask, a good turning smock, an athletic cup, and a rabbit’s foot from a particularly lucky rabbit.
Anyway, Danger Lane Workshop is open for business, and the business right now is waiting for the customer who wants to pay me a million dollars for building a table.
Hey, if ya gonna dream, dream BIG.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Danger Lane, a Gated Community
Our little bit of heaven is a five acre lot enclosed by a structurally sound pig fence - not the most aesthetic piece of architecture, but it generally keeps the good things in and the bad things out.
The single entry to our property is a 16 foot wide double gate in the center of the south fence line. We like to say we live in our own version of a "gated community". Although the gate can be easily opened by anyone with a brain, the latch is a bit tricky and has a tendency to inflict flesh wounds upon anyone not accustomed to how it operates. But, I think this is an unintended security feature that could provide the CSI with potential forensic evidence in the event we are ever subject to home invasion and the police are called in to investigate (always gotta look on the sunny side of life).
The first year on the property, we always left the gate open, mostly out of convenience (a nice way of saying we were just plain too lazy to close it). We have since learned the error of this practice.
Recently, Pam and I had our usual date night that included a rousing visit to the local farm n’ feed and hardware establishment with a stop over for dinner at Sonic (Pam's favorite place). As usual, we had left the gate open so we were able to drive right into Danger Lane, which at the time, however, was not called Danger Lane since little Jackson Danger had not yet been conceived or reckoned into existence. We didn’t really have a name for the driveway at the time, we just simply called it “the driveway” – don’t ask me why, ‘cause I don’t know. We thought of giving a name to our property, but could never really agree on what to call it. Pam always wanted some girly sounding name like “Lavender Falls” or “Daisy Chain” or something like that, and I always wanted something that sounded a bit more rugged, like “Smoke n’ Oakum Woods” or “Flat Bottoms”.
But, I digress.
As we entered the property after our date night, we noticed a large dark object in the middle of the east field. Upon closer examination, we realized that the object was self mobile, in a lumbering sort of way, and that it was in fact a large cow. Being self mobile, and apparently instigated by our presence, it began to mobilize itself toward the north field.
Old habits returned to my mind and I began acting from experiences of years gone by. When I was younger I had numerous frustrating encounters with stray cows being where they were not supposed to be, and it was contingent upon me to escort said cows back to where they belonged. This nearly-forgotten habit motivated me to attempt to escort this particular cow out of my property, so I followed the bovine as it proceeded to the north field with the intent of driving it back south and out the gate.
As stated previously, it was nighttime and darkness had set in and there was no moon. I could only see shadows of things, not their reality, and this included the cow. Cautiously avoiding what could have been cow pies, I attempted to get in front of the cow before it lumbered into the north fence - I did not succeed. The cow met the fence at a walk, stopped short, and began searching for a path away from me and through the fence. It became a bit excited and trotted eastbound along the fence line, with me in lukewarm pursuit (I was not very interested in being run over by a cow in the dark and leaving Pam with the embarrassing task of having to explain things to the life insurance adjuster).
At this moment, as if a veil had been lifted from my consciousness, a radical thought came to my mind: "What the heck am I doing out here in the middle of a field trying to catch a cow in the dark?" And I realized just how needless and stupid it was for me to bother with this nonsense. After all, the cow came into the property of its own volition, it could leave on its own. Anyway, it was probably safer for the night inside our fenced area than it would be wandering around out on the road.
And so, I decided to tolerate the cow’s presence until daylight and headed back to the house.
But, for some reason, something startled the cow. She suddenly mooed loudly and bolted in my generally direction like a run-away southbound bus on I-35, not directly for me, but close enough to cause me alarm. I zigged to avoid the onrush, but the cow zagged, this time putting me right in harms way. So I did what any self-preserving red neck would do in this situation, I yelled an obscenity. This got the cow's attention and it stopped advancing. I moved to the cow's right flank and uttered another obscenity at the cow (which was apparently understood) and it moved off at a trot, directly toward the gate at the south end of the property.
Well, the cow trotted out the gate and onto the road, headed west and turned north into the next un-gated drive at a fast clip.
Congratulating myself on a job well done, I closed the gate for the night.
Next day was normal and I went to work, leaving the gate open as usual.
Later that morning, I received a call from Pam. The cow was back on the property, and this time had brought an offspring. Pam reported that the cattle belonged to a neighbor who had hired some cowboys to wrangle their cows, and at that very moment the cowboys were on horseback doing their thing in our north field.
Now, I was rather taken aback at this revelation - I did not know that in this age of space travel and computer technology one could still hire cowboys on horseback to come to the farmage and round up stray cattle with nothing more high-tech than a piece of rope. Apparently, at fifty dollars per cow, a rural homeowner could hire these young rustic entrepreneurs to do the work I did as a youngster for free.
And I wonder why I can't make money with a home business.
Well, the horsemen lassoed the cow, but the calf escaped capture by jumping our north fence and proceeding into a rather thickly wooded area north of our property. The cowboys worked for a couple of hours in a vain attempt to apprehend the calf, but the fugitive bovine evaded capture for two days before it was finally brought into custody.
We now keep the gate closed pretty much all the time, especially since adopting Bailey da Hound Dawg – fewer cars are damaged if Bailey is not out in the road trying to catch them.
It's nice living in a gated community, especially if you and your spouse are the only ones within that community. And as for potential home invasions, the only invasions we have been subjected to so far have been from a couple of stray cows, some stray dogs, and some roadrunners – not of the MOPAR variety, but just about as interesting.
The single entry to our property is a 16 foot wide double gate in the center of the south fence line. We like to say we live in our own version of a "gated community". Although the gate can be easily opened by anyone with a brain, the latch is a bit tricky and has a tendency to inflict flesh wounds upon anyone not accustomed to how it operates. But, I think this is an unintended security feature that could provide the CSI with potential forensic evidence in the event we are ever subject to home invasion and the police are called in to investigate (always gotta look on the sunny side of life).
The first year on the property, we always left the gate open, mostly out of convenience (a nice way of saying we were just plain too lazy to close it). We have since learned the error of this practice.
Recently, Pam and I had our usual date night that included a rousing visit to the local farm n’ feed and hardware establishment with a stop over for dinner at Sonic (Pam's favorite place). As usual, we had left the gate open so we were able to drive right into Danger Lane, which at the time, however, was not called Danger Lane since little Jackson Danger had not yet been conceived or reckoned into existence. We didn’t really have a name for the driveway at the time, we just simply called it “the driveway” – don’t ask me why, ‘cause I don’t know. We thought of giving a name to our property, but could never really agree on what to call it. Pam always wanted some girly sounding name like “Lavender Falls” or “Daisy Chain” or something like that, and I always wanted something that sounded a bit more rugged, like “Smoke n’ Oakum Woods” or “Flat Bottoms”.
But, I digress.
As we entered the property after our date night, we noticed a large dark object in the middle of the east field. Upon closer examination, we realized that the object was self mobile, in a lumbering sort of way, and that it was in fact a large cow. Being self mobile, and apparently instigated by our presence, it began to mobilize itself toward the north field.
Old habits returned to my mind and I began acting from experiences of years gone by. When I was younger I had numerous frustrating encounters with stray cows being where they were not supposed to be, and it was contingent upon me to escort said cows back to where they belonged. This nearly-forgotten habit motivated me to attempt to escort this particular cow out of my property, so I followed the bovine as it proceeded to the north field with the intent of driving it back south and out the gate.
As stated previously, it was nighttime and darkness had set in and there was no moon. I could only see shadows of things, not their reality, and this included the cow. Cautiously avoiding what could have been cow pies, I attempted to get in front of the cow before it lumbered into the north fence - I did not succeed. The cow met the fence at a walk, stopped short, and began searching for a path away from me and through the fence. It became a bit excited and trotted eastbound along the fence line, with me in lukewarm pursuit (I was not very interested in being run over by a cow in the dark and leaving Pam with the embarrassing task of having to explain things to the life insurance adjuster).
At this moment, as if a veil had been lifted from my consciousness, a radical thought came to my mind: "What the heck am I doing out here in the middle of a field trying to catch a cow in the dark?" And I realized just how needless and stupid it was for me to bother with this nonsense. After all, the cow came into the property of its own volition, it could leave on its own. Anyway, it was probably safer for the night inside our fenced area than it would be wandering around out on the road.
And so, I decided to tolerate the cow’s presence until daylight and headed back to the house.
But, for some reason, something startled the cow. She suddenly mooed loudly and bolted in my generally direction like a run-away southbound bus on I-35, not directly for me, but close enough to cause me alarm. I zigged to avoid the onrush, but the cow zagged, this time putting me right in harms way. So I did what any self-preserving red neck would do in this situation, I yelled an obscenity. This got the cow's attention and it stopped advancing. I moved to the cow's right flank and uttered another obscenity at the cow (which was apparently understood) and it moved off at a trot, directly toward the gate at the south end of the property.
Well, the cow trotted out the gate and onto the road, headed west and turned north into the next un-gated drive at a fast clip.
Congratulating myself on a job well done, I closed the gate for the night.
Next day was normal and I went to work, leaving the gate open as usual.
Later that morning, I received a call from Pam. The cow was back on the property, and this time had brought an offspring. Pam reported that the cattle belonged to a neighbor who had hired some cowboys to wrangle their cows, and at that very moment the cowboys were on horseback doing their thing in our north field.
Now, I was rather taken aback at this revelation - I did not know that in this age of space travel and computer technology one could still hire cowboys on horseback to come to the farmage and round up stray cattle with nothing more high-tech than a piece of rope. Apparently, at fifty dollars per cow, a rural homeowner could hire these young rustic entrepreneurs to do the work I did as a youngster for free.
And I wonder why I can't make money with a home business.
Well, the horsemen lassoed the cow, but the calf escaped capture by jumping our north fence and proceeding into a rather thickly wooded area north of our property. The cowboys worked for a couple of hours in a vain attempt to apprehend the calf, but the fugitive bovine evaded capture for two days before it was finally brought into custody.
We now keep the gate closed pretty much all the time, especially since adopting Bailey da Hound Dawg – fewer cars are damaged if Bailey is not out in the road trying to catch them.
It's nice living in a gated community, especially if you and your spouse are the only ones within that community. And as for potential home invasions, the only invasions we have been subjected to so far have been from a couple of stray cows, some stray dogs, and some roadrunners – not of the MOPAR variety, but just about as interesting.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Just another day on the farmage
The other day, Bailey woke me up barking, which really isn't too unusual since he generally wants out of his kennel at daybreak. Me, being the good dog trainer I tell myself I am, I insist to Bailey that he stop barking and refuse to let him out of his kennel if he continues to bark.
But, this particular morning, Bailey was barking non-stop and would not quiet down even after my stern admonishment. Thus, I knew something was amiss.
I put on my boots (not the Lady Bug boots, mind you) and tramped out to the kennel. Again, right away I noticed something else was not quite correct, for Bailey has never failed to exit his dog house upon my approach - this time he remained in his dog house barking all the while.
Entering his kennel, I was a bit on guard. Bailey stayed in his house while I circled to inspect the area.
There, at the corner of Bailey's dog house, in the faint light of the early morning, I saw a ringed tail, the unmistakable markings of a raccoon. Now, I thought this unusual, a raccoon in Bailey's kennel area and wandering freely so near the dog house unchallenged by a rather large dog. And putting two and two together, I realized that I was the not-so-proud owner of a cowardly hound dog.
Well, anyway, when I got close to the raccoon, it retreated and scampered up the walnut tree. (Bailey has his own tree within the confines of his kennel, even though he has not yet learned what service a tree is to a dog.)
OK, so here we were with a raccoon up a tree in the dark with a cowardly dog fearing to exit his own house to even sneak a peak. I finally coaxed Bailey out of his kennel and encouraged him to follow me down to the gate to get the morning paper.
After I retrieved the paper for Bailey (he’s still in training), I wandered back down to his kennel and observed the raccoon still in the walnut tree.
Probably confused because my morning routine had been disrupted and I had not yet had my first and second cups of coffee, I then decided that the raccoon must be immediately evicted from the walnut tree. And the only thing that came to my mind as to how this should be accomplished was to throw things at the raccoon – I figured (erroneously) that by hitting him with an object he would politely climb down the tree and depart the area.
My original missiles of choice were apples, but realized early on that the deer had eaten all the apples last month. So, I grabbed the handiest thing that wasn't fastened down, namely, the broom from the back porch. I sauntered back to the kennel, and, taking careful aim (such as it was at 5:30 a.m.) I launched the broom at the raccoon, completely missing the animal, and succeeded in lodging the broom between two forked branches about 14 feet above the ground.
This feat could never have been accomplished if it had been a deliberate intent. For a moment, I was quite proud of myself.
I decided not to throw any more items at the raccoon, not because I was afraid of lodging more items in the tree (that was inevitable), but because a light bulb illuminated in my little pea brain and I realized that the raccoon would get down all by himself and would wander off all on his own.
Brilliant.
I also realized that I didn't really have to get the broom down right away, and I didn't really have to tell Pam about this either. I could get the broom down after I got home from work and as busy as Pam is she probably wouldn't even notice the broom was missing from the back porch.
And I was right, she didn't notice the broom missing from the back porch. Instead, after the sun came up, she noticed right away that there was “something different” about the walnut tree. She told me later she wanted a picture of it as evidence of my "endearing little quirks" (not her actual words, and not even close to her meaning, but you kind of get the idea).
We are now back to normal. The broom is out of the tree and returned to the back porch. Bailey has forgotten the raccoon and is again feeling secure within his personal dog kennel. And the raccoon is presumably consulting with other species as to the best way to pilfer dog food while avoiding flying brooms within a gated kennel occupied by a cowardly dog.
But, this particular morning, Bailey was barking non-stop and would not quiet down even after my stern admonishment. Thus, I knew something was amiss.
I put on my boots (not the Lady Bug boots, mind you) and tramped out to the kennel. Again, right away I noticed something else was not quite correct, for Bailey has never failed to exit his dog house upon my approach - this time he remained in his dog house barking all the while.
Entering his kennel, I was a bit on guard. Bailey stayed in his house while I circled to inspect the area.
There, at the corner of Bailey's dog house, in the faint light of the early morning, I saw a ringed tail, the unmistakable markings of a raccoon. Now, I thought this unusual, a raccoon in Bailey's kennel area and wandering freely so near the dog house unchallenged by a rather large dog. And putting two and two together, I realized that I was the not-so-proud owner of a cowardly hound dog.
Well, anyway, when I got close to the raccoon, it retreated and scampered up the walnut tree. (Bailey has his own tree within the confines of his kennel, even though he has not yet learned what service a tree is to a dog.)
OK, so here we were with a raccoon up a tree in the dark with a cowardly dog fearing to exit his own house to even sneak a peak. I finally coaxed Bailey out of his kennel and encouraged him to follow me down to the gate to get the morning paper.
After I retrieved the paper for Bailey (he’s still in training), I wandered back down to his kennel and observed the raccoon still in the walnut tree.
Probably confused because my morning routine had been disrupted and I had not yet had my first and second cups of coffee, I then decided that the raccoon must be immediately evicted from the walnut tree. And the only thing that came to my mind as to how this should be accomplished was to throw things at the raccoon – I figured (erroneously) that by hitting him with an object he would politely climb down the tree and depart the area.
My original missiles of choice were apples, but realized early on that the deer had eaten all the apples last month. So, I grabbed the handiest thing that wasn't fastened down, namely, the broom from the back porch. I sauntered back to the kennel, and, taking careful aim (such as it was at 5:30 a.m.) I launched the broom at the raccoon, completely missing the animal, and succeeded in lodging the broom between two forked branches about 14 feet above the ground.
This feat could never have been accomplished if it had been a deliberate intent. For a moment, I was quite proud of myself.
I decided not to throw any more items at the raccoon, not because I was afraid of lodging more items in the tree (that was inevitable), but because a light bulb illuminated in my little pea brain and I realized that the raccoon would get down all by himself and would wander off all on his own.
Brilliant.
I also realized that I didn't really have to get the broom down right away, and I didn't really have to tell Pam about this either. I could get the broom down after I got home from work and as busy as Pam is she probably wouldn't even notice the broom was missing from the back porch.
And I was right, she didn't notice the broom missing from the back porch. Instead, after the sun came up, she noticed right away that there was “something different” about the walnut tree. She told me later she wanted a picture of it as evidence of my "endearing little quirks" (not her actual words, and not even close to her meaning, but you kind of get the idea).
We are now back to normal. The broom is out of the tree and returned to the back porch. Bailey has forgotten the raccoon and is again feeling secure within his personal dog kennel. And the raccoon is presumably consulting with other species as to the best way to pilfer dog food while avoiding flying brooms within a gated kennel occupied by a cowardly dog.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Bailey got run over by a pickup
I arrived home Thursday, October 1, 2009, and entered the gate as usual, and as usual Bailey da Hound Dawg bounded toward me and met me at the gate. He gets excited when I come home because he knows it is play time.
I drove very slowly up the drive because I knew Bailey was walking near the truck and I didn’t want to hit him. But, somehow Bailey did get underneath the right rear wheel of the truck – I felt him get run over – and he started to yelp in that pitiful way injured dogs do.
I felt bad. I stopped the truck and jumped out and circled to where Bailey was. He was yelping and lying abnormally and I was sure his back was broken. I felt sick.
Pam came running out and together we took Bailey to the nearest vet. On the way, Bailey stopped yelping and allowed himself to be cradled in Pam’s arms as I drove.
At the vet, we were immediately admitted and the doctor examined Bailey. By this time, Bailey was walking around the examination room, but the doctor thought that x-rays were in order just to check for a broken pelvis or other broken bones.
The x-rays came back quickly and revealed . . . absolutely no damage whatsoever to this dog. The doctor examined Bailey once again and assured us that except for a couple of minor abrasions, Bailey was fine.
The little faker.
Well, Pam could scarcely contain her relief, while I could barely hold my temper. It appears that Bailey merely wanted to go for a ride in the truck. Pam originally didn’t want me to see the vet bill, but finally had to give in. Let’s just say that Bailey got a nice expensive joy ride.
I’ll get even. Pretty soon, Bailey has a scheduled date with the vet to be neutered. And in spite of what that’s going to cost me, I’m gonna laugh.
Dog lipped thing.
I drove very slowly up the drive because I knew Bailey was walking near the truck and I didn’t want to hit him. But, somehow Bailey did get underneath the right rear wheel of the truck – I felt him get run over – and he started to yelp in that pitiful way injured dogs do.
I felt bad. I stopped the truck and jumped out and circled to where Bailey was. He was yelping and lying abnormally and I was sure his back was broken. I felt sick.
Pam came running out and together we took Bailey to the nearest vet. On the way, Bailey stopped yelping and allowed himself to be cradled in Pam’s arms as I drove.
At the vet, we were immediately admitted and the doctor examined Bailey. By this time, Bailey was walking around the examination room, but the doctor thought that x-rays were in order just to check for a broken pelvis or other broken bones.
The x-rays came back quickly and revealed . . . absolutely no damage whatsoever to this dog. The doctor examined Bailey once again and assured us that except for a couple of minor abrasions, Bailey was fine.
The little faker.
Well, Pam could scarcely contain her relief, while I could barely hold my temper. It appears that Bailey merely wanted to go for a ride in the truck. Pam originally didn’t want me to see the vet bill, but finally had to give in. Let’s just say that Bailey got a nice expensive joy ride.
I’ll get even. Pretty soon, Bailey has a scheduled date with the vet to be neutered. And in spite of what that’s going to cost me, I’m gonna laugh.
Dog lipped thing.
Friday, October 2, 2009
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