Polecat Pitching

Polecat Pitching
Originally uploaded by Sweet Dreams & Flying Machines

Yesterday at about ohhh...7:32:44 I was headed into the yard looking for a photo-op or two.
Tess had been acting crazy about wanting out all morning, "let me in", "now let me out", now let me in", etc. She was devoting these brief forays to fruitless sniffing around the patio. We had concluded she had a case of temporary insanity.
Despite my attempts to block her this time, she shot outside as I opened the door, making a bee-line for the planter next to our deck. She raced to the far end, then back to the near end and suddenly stopped and flipped a little black and white bundle out onto the cement stunning it only slightly more than me!
From inside Bonnie put voice to my thoughts and yelled "SKUNK!" I grabbed the dog and we scurried back inside only a few seconds behind an odoriferous pall as he raised his tail (while still unconscious) and let one go! Luckily he was pointed to the left, as seen above.
Nonetheless, belying our haste, a small cloud of that unmistakable September stench followed me through the house as I headed for the office to exchange the Kodak for a Colt -- .22 that is. (We were able to aerate the house before the weather got hot again.)
The rest is history, especially for this little guy. Skunks are one critter I really have no compassion for. They have intruded into our lives almost every September for over 14 years now. They are early this year but nearly every year we enter October with a dog mildly reeking of that unmistakable lingering aroma.
Don't tell me dogs learn about skunks, mine don't, and don't tell me about tomato juice. Only time completely eliminates that smell. Last year our skunk soap blew a hole in the patio roof, remember? (see below)
Probably no more than six inches long, nose to butt, this one is/was a kit, maybe a yearling but certainly not the size you normally see as roadkill. Of course, we are hoping mama and the rest of the litter moved on to other counties!
So, you see, you never know what's around the next corner. Crazy acting dogs are not always crazy.
I got my photo-op and Tess invented a new event for next year's Hope Watermelon Festival. On the main stage, right after the Miss Hope Large Melons contest and just before the politicians have their ritualistic melon nuzzling contest, I submit to you: The First Annual Hope Watermelon Pooches Only Polecat Pitching Contest!
Tess, of course will be the defending champion and the Politicians will never notice the lingering aroma over their own stench!

Huh?

Huh?
Originally uploaded by Sweet Dreams & Flying Machines

People (is) (are) my business
"Singular subjects take singular verbs and plural subjects take plural verbs" (Stone & Bell, Prose Style, A Handbook for Writers)
What is our world coming to when the Texarkana Gazette, a paragon of gramatical perfection lets one go? ♪♫ ((poot)) ♪♫
Maybe it's just me but I turn to the newspaper when I get tired of "blogisms" and other bad grammar.
This time they blew my Sunday socks off with an above-the-fold faux pas.
Later in the same issue a contributer to "Dear Heloise" instructed us to sit (sic) our pet carrier on its end with the door up...
Is this what the schools are teaching or are newspapers laying off their copy editors?

Happy Panzerschwein Day!

Happy Panzerschwein Day!
Originally uploaded by Sweet Dreams & Flying Machines

Nov. 2, 2005:
I encounter my first wild armadillo.
Now this occasion is celebrated each May 2, heralding this six-month anniversary.

During the Great Depression, the species was hunted for its meat in East Texas, where it was known as "Hoover Hog" by those who considered President Herbert Hoover to be responsible for the depression. I am hereby re dubbing it the Obama/Bush-hog in honor of you-know-who. (De Dashes be Silent).

Early Pennsylvania Dutch tourists to Texas would often refer to the armadillo as Panzerschwein ("armored pig") as they ran over them with their unsprung, horse drawn buggies, causing a back-wrenching jolt to the occupants. Ach du Lieber, Panzerschwein!

In 1995, the nine-banded armadillo was, with some resistance, made the state small mammal of Texas (replacing Ross Perot), where it is considered a pest and is often seen dead on the roadside sporting an empty can of beer.

They first forayed into Texas across the Rio Grande from Mexico in the 1800s, eventually spreading across the southeast United States. The Reagan administration granted them wholesale amnesty and automatic citizenship because "There's just too darn many to try and round up and deport"..

"Many armadillos are nocturnal. They live in burrows when not active, sometimes solitarily and sometimes in groups. The nine-banded armadillos will share burrows, one sex being found in any one burrow. The burrows are 2-3 feet beneath the surface and are not branched."

(Yikes! We'll assume they are not married, just "very friendly" roomies.)

"Rivers are no obstacles to armadillos, for although they are heavy with their coats or armor, they gain added buoyancy by swallowing air to blow up the intestine. The nine-banded armadillo is said to be able to submerge for 6 minutes." (Which really should be adequate for crossing most rivers, wouldn't you think?)

"Some armadillos have an unusual gait. (might this be from having an intestine full of air?) The soles of the hind feet are pressed against the ground but the fore feet are raised up on the strong pointed claws."
(Giving birth to the term "armadillo two-step", often exhibited by tourists (Pennsylvania Dutch?) shuffling from the buggy to the "information center" at rest stops on the Interstate.)

reference: www.everwonder.com/david/armadillo/

El Solo Toro, The Bull With the Not-So-Delicate Ego

It was Thursday last week and we were returning from our weekly foray to put in supplies and patronize the merchants of Hell's Valley (Nashville, AR). The forecast was calling for three straight days of rain so we had topped off our provisions lest the roads be rendered somehow impassable.
I turned down our sleepy little street and hadn't driven a half block when I spied a familiar bovine in the neighbor's front yard grazing peacefully on their forsythia bush. Hardly believing what I was seeing, I stopped and fumbled in the console of the Jeep for my camera with one hand while rolling down the window with the other.
By the time I had accomplished both tasks and screwed myself around in my seat to snap a picture the white Charolais bull was on his way over to the car to see what was up!
This bull belongs in the pasture behind my yard, not on the street in front of my yard!
Mineral Springs is an incorporated town struggling to be more than just a wide spot in the rural road but it is not unusual to hear roosters crowing and goats bleating from various yards up and down the streets. On at least two occasions horses have been loose in my front yard. One horse even did some damage to my window screens raring up and pawing at them like Hi-Ho Silver. Now this!
Ferdinand the bull followed me right into my driveway where I parked and watched as he moseyed onto my lawn and began munching contentedly on a patch of clover that grows there. What to do now? It was lunch time and we wanted to get the groceries in the house but we daren't open the garage door, or dare we?

Then I remembered the cell phone I take with me whenever I'm in the car so that I might summon aid in the event of dire circumstances. -- LIKE THIS!!-- I am not a cowboy and I am not equipped for this encounter either by training or by experience. I called Howard County Animal control since that number is in my phone memory.

I told them my name and address and announced "I'm in the driveway of my house in Mineral Springs and there is a twenty-five hundred pound bull loose in my front yard!!"

Animal Control: "Oh, wow! did he get out again? We've already had several calls about him. I thought the police put him back in his pasture! (giggling) Is it a white Charolais?"

Me: "Yes, well he's out again. What are we going to do?"

A.C.: We don't do bulls. They don't fit in the back of my truck. (nyuk, nyuk) You'll have to call the police."

As I thank them and hang up I'm thinking, "No, I need to call Rowdy Yates from Rawhide!" What are the police going to do? The bull's owner doesn't even live on the property. He is a non-resident part-time cattleman. We have never met him and, while the cow pasture he leases is, technically, in the city limits, no one seems to know who this person is. He pays his water bill in cash.

Let's see, last time I called the local number for the police department no one answered. (Andy and Barney must've been out on patrol.) A recording told me to call 911.
To me, this didn't seem like a 911 type of emergency. No one is hurt (yet). Nothing on fire, no one getting murdered or robbed. "Hmmm, I don't want to be the next laugh of the town like the woman that called 911 because McDonalds was out of McNuggets."
I tried the Police number from memory. No one answered, not even the machine. The bull continued munching my turf. It was getting stuffy in the car. I got out and snapped a picture or two. I then screwed up my courage, preparing to get a tongue lashing from an operator, and called 911.

Ferdinand saw me out of the car and headed in my direction to say "hi".
I know from previous encounters when I've been working in the back yard, ol Ferdinand has the habit of coming over to the fence to see what's up. Or is it that he harbors a desire to come into the yard and help me? Perhaps he longs for the excitement of the Corrida and I get to be Matador! It's hard to tell but when he starts snorting and acting curious on the other side of my li'l ol' chain link fence, I demur to caution as the better part of valor and usually take my business to another region of the property.

Now, the lady at 911 was quite cordial, and told me yes, the police had been notified and "someone was on the way". How reassuring. I thanked her and hung up. El Toro was now at the rear of the Jeep and coming around the fender to meet me. I eased around the front, keeping the car between me and certain peril. He moved to the driver side and I to the passenger side. My wife hollered "Roll up the window!" As if that were a button on my remote key fob. I had left the driver's side window rolled down and taken the key. Ferdinand was acting like he might poke his head in! She managed to put her key in the switch and was able to close the offending aperture before any of that disgusting slobber got on the seat.

The game of tag around the Jeep was getting us nowhere and becoming tiresome. Then, finally, help, of a sort, arrived.

One of the local gendarmes, a fellow I know only as Elmer, showed up in the city's new and nifty, electric car which is little more than a golf cart with a roof. It's perfect for dashing about the little town on various civic errands plus it is "green", and I don't mean the color. It is not, however, much heavier than a large dog, let alone a mature Charolais bull.
As El toro turned and eyed Elmer's little car I seized the opportunity and hustled back into the relative safety of my car.

Evidently ol' Ferdinand was unimpressed with the tiny cart and he turned his attention back to the spare tire on the Jeep. He began butting it! Three, four times he butted the rear of the car, nothing violent, just gentle nudges that would have knocked a small tree over. Happily, he was busy with the spare tire, the sheet metal and glass were of no interest. Then Elmer got out of his car and Bossy decided to go see him.

This development emboldened me and I, after satisfying myself the bull was, for sure, headed the other way, emerged from the Jeep. Señor Bull took a huge dump on my sidewalk and proceeded to the street to get cozy with a golf cart.
Now it was Elmer that was playing tag with a bull and, poor fella, he didn't have much of a barrier to hide behind!He jumped in his vehicle and, what do you know? Ferdinand began playing push-car. Down the street they went, a mini-parade, headed for the pasture. The neighbor lady was taking pictures of it all too.
It was like a little game. Elmer would scoot forward and the bull would catch him and give him a little nudge.Every now and then it was necessary to stop and gobble up a particularly enticing clump of grass.
Then the cops finally got there. A high level meeting was convened. Ferdinand looked on.
After some discussion, the cop backed up, turned around, and took the lead in the procession. They made their way down the street and around the corner to the pasture gate.

I followed the group having been reminded that we knew of a gap in the pasture fence. I felt the police might appreciate that little tidbit. A storm almost a year ago had toppled a huge tree across the west end of the pasture fence and tore down the barbed wire. The gap had gone heretofore unnoticed by the pasture residents as it was in a particularly dense section of woods and, I'm sure, a clear path was not obvious to the cows. The bull, however, must have gotten the wanderlust and discovered the breach.
When the little procession got to the pasture gate, they found it closed and securely tied. The cop told me this was the third time he had put the bull in the pen since last night. No one could get hold of the owner.
They led the bull into the pasture and re-closed the gate. Ferdinand busied himself making faces of contempt!
I imparted the unwelcome news about the open-ended pasture to the pair of impromptu cowboys and we chatted for awhile. I left them plotting the best strategy for babysitting Bossy until the fence got fixed. My work here was done. Not wanting to get deputized, I excused myself and made my way back home.

"Wow", I mused, "People in the Big City just have no idea what life in fly-over country is really like." I wouldn't move there for anything in the world!

Just in Case...

Just in Case..., originally uploaded by Sweet Dreams & Flying Machines.

Just in case you have faith in government bail-outs and think they can stop the recession, take a look at this:
This is a Google Earth Image of the airport at Hope, Arkansas where, at one time, there were stored over 11,000 brand new camp trailers purchased by the government using your tax money. They were the knee-jerk remedy to the homeless victims of Hurricane Katrina over 30 months ago.
Now the brand new "Katrina Cottages" are rapidly rotting away, many declared unsafe because They contain toxic levels of formaldehyde which would have dissipated harmlessly had the dwellings been occupied. The government can't sell them directly to the public because congress, lobbied by "the industry" (would this be the former employers of the laid off workers in Elkhart, Indiana?) passed a law forbidding such a move. It would flood the market and put people out of work, don'tcha know! Few of the rolling ghettos were ever deployed mostly due to the inflexibility of state, municipal and other government entities.
We drove by there the other day and I can attest to the fact that there are more trailers there now than in this shot taken sometime in 2008. They are parked close enough to highway 4, above, you could spit on them.
Now the government is laboriously unloading them in lots of five to RV dealers and getting an average of $7,367.00 each for trailers you, yes YOU paid $18,620 for. Over $900 million was paid to buy 26,300 mobile and modular homes. If they continue to recover 40¢ on the dollar for each one, that's more than 3 times the cost of the AIG bonuses that has had everybody's knickers in a knot for the last two weeks!
www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/03/07/...
Read the article and think... just think.
then visit the912project.com/ and join in the revolution.

You Want Change, America?

You Want Change, America?, originally uploaded by Sweet Dreams & Flying Machines.

I composed and put this warning on Flickr Saturday morning after hearing about it on the Gunny Bob show on KOA radio Friday night.
It was a big "matzoh ball" to leave hanging out there in terms of my not knowing who of my friends might agree and who mightn't. To my relief, it took awhile but everyone who's opinion matters to me replied in the affirmative.
Obama's campaign has to be nipped in the bud or we're headed for trouble.

The Sock Obama Debacle (or where's your sense of humor?)

The Sock Obama Debacle (or where's your sense of humor?), originally uploaded by Sweet Dreams & Flying Machines.

"It took less than 72 hours..." crowed one liberal blogger, to make this company withdraw their product from the free market for the sake of political correctness.
Worse yet, they felt obliged to apologize to anyone offended by the toy and compelled to shut down their website.
This corroborates the tactic of irreproachability henceforth to be ascribed to the presumed Democratic candidate (and his wife).
I only think it is funny.
If you can't stand the heat...

Baby Deer

Baby Deer, originally uploaded by Sweet Dreams & Flying Machines.

The nieghbor has inadvertantly created a petting zoo. Originally he got a goat to help maintain the yard by eating the vegitation growing near a stream that runs through it. When a roving pitt bull dog killed his goat John was angry and determined. He not only got another goat, he got a Great Pyrenees puppy to protect the goat. The dog is named Tinker, the goat Belle. He built a pen for the two and they got along famously.
The deer came along after he was rescued by John's son who was working a County road maintenance crew. They were mowing the right of way and happened upon the doe, dead, aparently having injured herself on a barbed wire fence. The fawn was with her, terrified and all alone. Meet his friends in the next two photos!