My submission for National Dog Day. I didn’t know there was such a thing. Everyday is my dog’s holiday.
Image how awkward, this must have been to explain, four years ago. It could have gone something like this.
“There’s a large bird in my yard. I think it’s an emu.”
“Yes, an emu.”
“How’d it get there?”
“Don’t have any idea. I guess it walked from somewhere–since emus don’t fly.”
A lone emu, walked, pecked
Among cornstalks in farm country
An unusual animal
Not seen everyday
Where’d it come from?
Was this emu on the lam?
Did it have a name?
Perhaps, “Sam,” if it’s a him
Or, “Samantha,” if it’s a her
“Sam” caused quite a stir
Around these parts
But, country folk
Had big hearts
A kindly person
Took him (or her) in
Provided a temporary home
For “Sam” on the lam
However, it’s still not known
Whether, “Sam” escaped
From the zoo
Or, was “Sam” an orphaned emu
With wanderlust–that nobody wanted
It’s still a mystery–because no one knew
–Image, story idea from Craig Roberts–
A beautiful day in the neighborhood. A good day to do just about anything.
Beginning with a long walk along the bay, watching fish jump for entertainment. Or, whatever fish jumped for–catching prey, impressing fish of the opposite sex–who knew?
Breaking for witty banter with some of the neighbors. Wasn’t traffic near the newly-opened amusement park beginning to snarl?
The pooches had a friendly get-together. There were no canine disagreements. What kind of dog was a Feist? Nobody
“It was a small hunting dog.” “It was the same as a rat terrier?” “A Jack Russell?” “Must have been from Germany–the name sounded Germanic.”
Business was closed without any new business. The consensus was to wait-and-see on the Feist dog. One of the neighbors was acquiring a new pup.
For selfish reasons–I’m glad the Fourth of July is over. Last night, fireworks explosions carried on, till almost midnight.
Max scratched on the bedroom door, to get out, till it was over. There wasn’t anywhere else to go. Why couldn’t he rationalize the same as humans? “Max, settle down, go to sleep.” My spouse slept through all of it.
All five dogs were affected to some degree. Great-grand-dog Dexter, Greta, Bogart, my grand-dogs, and Max and Maggie, hung out in the basement till bedtime.
I don’t begrudge anyone’s Fourth of July festivities. From this pet owner’s perspective–I’m glad it’s over.
Still away from home base. Visited family in NW Ohio and scratched visiting the Air Force Museum off my bucket list.
Don’t very often take time to read books. Reading a book, given to me by my brother, about dogs and their special relationships with humans.
“Always By My Side” by Edward Grinnan, is a good read. The gist of it, we humans can learn a lot about ourselves from our canine companions.
From three years ago, a message about self-awareness.
Of an egret’s
And, the same
As a stranger
Miss Oneia Gahr, was as close to being my substitute mom as anyone. My great-grandmother was her father’s sister. She was mother’s best friend, attended the same college–earned a teaching degree.
Their personalities were exact opposites. My mother was quiet and reserved, Oneia was outgoing and plain-spoken. Mom taught fourth-grade elementary, Oneia, high school mathematics. Miss Gahr was a strict disciplinarian at home, and no doubt, the same at school.
Several summers were spent working on Miss Gahr’s dairy farm. As an adolescent, it seemed like pure drudgery. Who knew dairy cows didn’t like their mornings interrupted? “Talk to them gently, in a low voice, or they might kick you.”
That didn’t mean to act goofy and crazy, “Hey girls what’s happening this morning?” But, rather to be gentle, not boisterous. It worked, and I never got kicked. It did nothing, however, to stop swats from muddy cow’s tails. To them, I was just another fly that needed swatting.
Whatever needed to be done–she worked as hard as any man around the farm. She cut me no slack when it came to cleaning the dairy barn. And, oh that cattle waste–tons of it, had to be hosed away.
Miss Oneia went at life full tilt. Driving was no exception. She liked flashy land yachts. Had a slew of Pontiac Bonneville convertibles in the sixties. Before that, she had a fifties-era, Ford hardtop convertible.
Riding with her in the old rattletrap Chevy pickup over farm roads was a neck-snapping thrill ride. Nothing topped the day the wiring in the Ford two-ton grain truck caught fire under the dashboard. Acrid smoke filled the cab as the insulation burned. Miss Oneia grabbed a hay bale hook, yanked out wires till the smoke subsided.
We always considered her part of the family, not just a distant relative. All three of us boys raised bottle calves that she donated. My sister raised a white pig. She tutored me in Math and Geometry. Happy Mom’s Day to both my mom, and my substitute mom!