The Talking Dog

When my friend Chris married her husband, Bob, she also "inherited" a very big, sweet German Shepherd dog named Kita.  Chris, who's a cat person as I mentioned in previous stories, didn't have a problem with Kita because he loved cats and was very well trained, not to mention one of the sweetest dogs I've ever come in contact with.

The thing that amused me to no end was whenever I'd go over there to visit.  Kita was very well behaved, as always, and waited patiently until I'd talk to him once I was sitting down, and then would come over for his attention.  I'd pet him and talk to him, and darned if the dog didn't talk back!

"Oh, there's my good Kita, how are you?"

"Rowr, rowr, owr," he'd answer plaintively as I petted him.

"Yes, I know, they treat you so badly here!"

A bit louder, "Ooor, woor, ooor," he'd agree.

"All those cats and all, just here to torture my poor Kita!"

Even louder, "Rooor, ooor, Roowwrr!!!"

By this time, he'd start climbing into my lap, loving the attention and wanting to tell me more.  Now, this was a 120-pound dog in his prime, so not quite a lap dog, but it was so funny and so sweet!  You couldn't help but love him!

And I'm a sucker when it comes to most animals, anyway.  Especially big, fluffy dogs that talk!

The Plastic Cowboy

Many years ago, when I was little, my parents shared a rental house with another couple.  While we lived there was when my brother, the middle child, was born.  Dad was in the Air Force and stationed here at the time, as was the man who was married to the other woman they shared the house with.

The house itself was built in 1902, and was one of the first houses built in that neighborhood.  The back yard wasn't very big, but at the south side of the back wall outside, there was an indentation that looked like it could've been a window to the basement at one time, but had long since been boarded up permanently.  I used to play in the leaves that would fall from the big tree out back and into the sort of window, hiding things there and finding them again when I'd be outside playing.  I had several little plastic cowboys  and Indians, some with horses and some without that I played with a lot.

Before Dad got a new assignment and we moved away, I hid one of the cowboys under the leaves and left it there for some unknown reason at the time.

Many years later, when I was about eight years old, Dad was stationed back here again and after living in a small duplex for awhile, the house we lived in when I was small went up for sale.  Dad had always wanted to move back into that house, so he managed to buy it, and my brothers and I grew up in that house; my parents living there for another 32 years before moving to their present location.

One day after we'd moved back to the house, I was playing out back and somehow remembered the little plastic cowboy from way back when, and went to the sort of window, pushing back the leaves that always seemed to be there, and lo and behold, there was my little plastic cowboy, still where I'd hidden it years before.  A bit weathered, but still there.  It was as if I'd known when I was small that eventually I'd be back to find him.

Strange how things happen sometimes.

Frank the Bird

As I think I've mentioned before, our cat Frank had a tendency to hold grudges, and for a very long time sometimes!  As proof, I offer this story.

My friend Chris had come over to visit, and we were chatting away, as always.  Frank would always jump up on the back of the chair or couch where Chris sat, and sniff her hair, apparently liking the smell of the shampoo she used.  She'd always talk to him and pet him and give him all sorts of attention that he absolutely loved, and he'd yell at her if he hadn't had enough yet.

This time, however, when he meant to yell, it came out like more of a squeak.

Chris laughed, and said, "Frank you sound like a bird!" which he did, but he didn't mean to, darn it!

Frank looked at her, turned around, and stalked out of the room, highly insulted!  I think we made matters worse by laughing at his reaction as he left the room.

From then on, for a long time and whenever Chris came over to visit, Frank would pointedly ignore her.  On one occasion that comes to mind, we were sitting and talking, and he came into the room.  Chris began talking to him, making sweet talk, and Frank completely ignored her!  He actually put his nose in the air and strutted by her with his tail up!  It was hilarious!  He'd still jump up behind her and sniff her hair, but she was not allowed to touch him any more.  If she tried, he'd swipe at her, and sometimes try to nip her as well!

Eventually, he got over being mad at her and they became friends again, after Chris coaxing him a bit every time she came over.  I think it took about a year, though, before he finally would let her pet him again.

So yes, animals do remember things.  And in Frank's case, sometimes become highly insulted and don't let you forget it!

Papaw

My maternal grandfather was quite an interesting character.  He passed away the summer I turned 9 years old, but I remember quite a bit about him.

He worked as a mechanic for one of the trucking lines, and also did carpentry work.  He'd built a workshed out back of the house they lived in, but no one was allowed in there without permission, and definitely not when he wasn't in the shed.  He kept the place immaculate.

I remember peeking around the doorway with my cousins, and me asking, "Pappaw, can we come in?"  If he wasn't too busy, we were allowed in (usually me and my cousin Rebecca), and we could sit on a bench across from his work table and listen to his stories, which we loved.

One story that he told was what would happen if anyone ever came into his workshed without permission.  He showed us a noose that he'd fashioned out of a rope, and said that the last person that had come in without permission, he had put that noose around their neck and hung them from the rafters!  We listened wide-eyed, believing every word he said, but I remember the twinkle in his eyes and slight smirk as he tried to keep a straight face.

My cousin Alan (the same Alan as in the story of the bees) was always on Pappaw's "bad kid" list, though.  Alan seemed to take great delight in aggravating Pappaw, and at the worst possible time.  Pappaw would get dressed for work and be out front waiting for his ride, and Alan would sneak around and turn on the hose, completely soaking Pappaw and sending him back into the house cursing a blue streak because he had to change clothes, and threatening all sorts of things he was going to do to take care of Alan!  Alan must've only been about four or five years old at the time, but for some reason, he delighted in the game.  Pappaw was not amused!

One thing that was really special to me that was just my time with him, was that he'd have me come and sit on the couch in front of him, and on a TV tray showed me how to draw three-dimensional boxes, triangles and all sorts of shapes.  That was our time just between us.

Years later, I found out that when I was a baby, my grandmother dropped him off at our house after he'd gone on a drinking binge, and once he'd sobered up, he didn't drink another drop for the whole time he was there with us.  It was just before my first birthday, and Mom and Dad said that he spent a lot of time with me while he was there.  He especially got a kick out of taking pictures of me with my first birthday cake, which my mother let me tear apart and make a good mess of.  Unfortunately, there were no pictures of him with me, but I wish there were.  Still, looking at those old black and white pictures now still make me think of him.

I have good memories of my Pappaw.  I wish he'd been around a bit longer so that I'd have got to know him even better, though.  I always felt like I was his favorite, though.

Sheba and Chops

As previously talked about, we had two dogs that were pretty much worthless.  Well, Chops was, anyway.

Sheba could've been a terrific dog, and was highly trainable, even if a little nervous at times.  She was a very sweet dog and very protective of the kids and everything else, but especially of Chops.  Yet every time we tried to train her, there was Chops, right in the middle of things, distracting her and, of course, not paying any attention to being trained himself!  Nothing worked with him, that was for sure.

We got her a year after Chops, thinking that having a buddy would calm him down and maybe mellow him out, since he was pretty much wired for sound when he was a puppy.  It worked to some extent, but poor Sheba seemed to get it in her head that she was his protector.  Considering he was the ultimate Stupid Dog, he needed help from somewhere, and apparently Sheba elected herself to be that guardian.

Whenever anyone new came near him or past the house, she growled at them.  If it was another dog, she went absolutely nuts barking and snarling.  I don't think we actually realized that she was warning them away from Chops until after he died.  Then things changed.

Sheba stopped barking at everything that moved.  She relaxed, and seemed as if she was relieved to not have to constantly be on guard.  She passed away several months ago, but during the time she wasn't looking after Chops for that last year or so of her life, she finally lost her nervousness and seemed content.  Poor girl.  Not that she took any nonsense off him when he was alive; she didn't and let him know who was boss, and he found out all too well who was in charge of the two of them.

Strange how animals decide things for themselves sometimes.

Oil Spill

Okay, I'm finally back to torment you all.  Sorry for the delay....that's another story that I'll save for much later once it plays out.

Anyway...

My daughter was probably about a year and a half old.  She was walking by then on her own, and one of her favorite things to do was to go into the pantry and take out the smaller cans there and stack them.  A bit of harmless fun.

Until....

One night I was on the phone while she was playing, when she suddenly sounded rather distressed, so I turned to check what was going on.  When I saw what had happened, I quickly ended my phone call.

My daughter was sliding around the floor as if she was on ice skates, with a panicked look on her face.  What she'd done was taken a bottle of olive oil from the shelf, and apparently, the top wasn't on the bottle tight enough, and had come off, spilling olive oil all over the floor, which was what was causing her to slide around.  I had her brother quickly go get a towel and put it on the floor where there was no oil, lifted her up and put her on the towel, then began the horrible chore of cleaning up the mess.

Helpful hint:  spreading flour on an oil spill works great for soaking it up and getting it clean.  It's still a pain, but makes it easier.  Also works with raw eggs that happen to get broken on the floor as well.

Also, making sure lids are on tight and/or up on a higher shelf than a toddler's reach usually works quite well also!

Busy, Busy, Busy!!!

This will just be a quick post for all of you, especially my regular readers!

Apologies for not having posted in awhile.  I'm planning on being back later today or tonight and posting some new stories.  Just been busy, I guess.

Meanwhile, thanks for hanging in there with me!  There will be more to (hopefully!) keep you amused!