Dogs Along the Way----Physical Therapy

Is there another animal like a dog? I think not. My connection with canines goes back to my first memories. Mr. Krinkles, an English bulldog, was my first dog buddy.  My mom tells me that she caught me in a pantry with a big bag of kibble saying, “One for you, one for me.” That is when it started. I was three. 

There has always been something comforting about a dog. Cats are OK, but expressing emotion is not their strong suit. Exotic pets---(snakes, spiders, lizards, etc) forget it. I don’t want any part of a ‘pet’ that can kill me. Fish? They are for the big stainless fryer. 

 

Truth is, (with the possible exception of cats---OK cats are pretty cool) snakes, fish, hamsters, turtles, lizards, Guiana Pigs, ETC are in the category of pets, but a dog…but a DOG…forget the word ‘pet’. 

The dog has the warmth of a family member. He can smile AT you, talk TO you, play WITH you, and be there FOR you. If you are not a dog person, you won’t get this: There is a magical connection dogs have with humans. It is beyond comprehension and that is what makes it so deep, so meaningful, and so great. I can look into the eyes of a dog I have just met and see an old friend. Somehow he sees it too. 

I have had this connection with dogs for as long as I can remember.  It reminds me many times of the great mystery of life; a deep connection between creatures of incredibly different DNA makeups but somehow the Lord saw fit to allow man and dog to come crashing into each others lives to love and support one another like no other human and animal relationship.  

My dogs provide ‘physical therapy’; that is, the very touch of their fur, the moist lick of their tongues on my wrist, the sound of their groans as they roll over in their sleep, and yes, even their many smells…this beautiful mixture of  the senses…this great connection…it has kept me at peace for many years. 

People ask my advice frequently about matters relating to dogs. I suppose if I could say anything to make a terrific family dog, is it begins with ‘physical therapy’. The same connection I had with Mr. Krinkles in the food pantry is the same connection I have with a brand new foster dog. It is the touch, the sound, the smell, the look…the connection of a man with a dog. Embrace it all. 

 

Oh, and rub their cheeks. It reminds them of their mama.

 

My dad in the mid 1980's with Otto. A weimaraner that wandered up to our farm and stayed. Just another in the long line of lost, drop-offs, and strays that have found a home with my parents. We was one fine farm dog.

Life Along the Way----Collisions with Cows

It is true what they say about seeing stars. 

My folks have had cattle, mainly Brangus, on their property for about 40 years. Some of the memorable ones had names---Hornhead, for instance was not a Brangus, but a weird gray speckled heifer with horns that spanned close to 3 feet. She delivered many calves over her life and most had a remnant of her dapple and her nutty personality. She was a bully, as she was the only cow with horns and she moved the others away from the new hay bale quite easily. She died after many years of calving and Pop saved her horns. They stare at you now in the barn, daring you to cross them.

On the other side of that coin was Betsy. She could only be described as a pet. She came running to humans whenever we approached and loved big hugs. She was especially fond of my sister when she was very young; I remember Betsy following her around in the pasture on many occasions. Betsy also delivered many calves and a number of them had her gentle nature, unafraid of humans but never quite approaching the pet quality of their sweet mama. 

My first collision with a cow was a close one. Pop and I were worming the cattle and I was moving one down the corral into the head catcher. As soon as Pop closed it on her neck she kicked the ever loving stew out of me. She hoofed me on the inner thigh just missing my chance to sing 1^st soprano in the church choir for the rest of my life. As usual, Pop declared it my fault and said, “Boy, quit stirring up the cows!” 

I limped around for about a week with a black and purple bruise on my left inner thigh and made a note to myself: “Before the head catcher slams, back off you idiot.” 

Of course this injury was minor compared to my ‘encounter’ with Black Jack.  A Brangus bull who was the Big Man on Campus, he knew his place and his place was good. Big Boy swaggered through the Bahia grass like he owned every seed pod on every stalk of grass and his harem of heifers were lucky to share the pasture with him.  Black Jack’s motto was based on the immortal words of James Brown: “I’m single and ready to mingle. I look good, I smell good, and I FEEL GOOD!

I suppose the general public has a fear of bulls due to movies, bullfighting, ETC, but my experience was far from that, although my most memorable injury came from Black Jack. 

He loved to have his head scratched. He would nod with approval anytime you put your hand between his eyes and scratched. He also loved it when you pushed on his head; he would push back with great power, and would always win, gently easing my hand and my body backward.

So, I get the bright idea that I am going to put my head against his head, in one of those, "Hey y’all, watch this!" moves.  Instead of the 'pushing game', old Black Jack decided that this was like a scratch and nodded with approval. I might as well have run head long into an anvil. The nod resulted first in my teeth clacking together so hard I thought they were all broken. The next thing I felt was a major excruciation to my forehead and finally a visual of the Milky Way in broad daylight. I looked at my Dad, who was laughing, as far as I could tell, but the Big Dipper was in the way. It is true what they say about seeing stars.  

I did my best, ‘that didn’t hurt’ but it was totally unconvincing. My vision eventually cleared, but I made another note to self: Newton’s Third Law of Motion is true. There is no point in testing it with a 2400 pound bull. 

One more cow collision story: My Dad and I have an ability to attract rather odd individuals. Now don’t misread this like we don’t have our own oddities. Remember I am the guy who rides a bike with a dog trotting on either side of me on leash. 

One day, I was down at the farm and a couple of locals were buying a bull from Pop. One feller begins to tell me just how ornery these ol’ Brangus can be.

"Me and the wife dang near give out a while back chasin’ one of them heifers ‘round our place!" he said.

"Yeah? Tell me about it!” My Dad looked at me and rolled his eyes.

"We couldn’t git that durn cow in the corral, so we figured we’d just chase her around with the 4-wheeler until she was tard. I tol' the wife to git on and bring the lasso. Well, we worked her all the way down to the river bottom and figured we had her cornered, so the wife, she gits off the 4-wheeler and starts swingin' the lasso, but you know wut happened!?’

"NO! Wut happened!?" I asked. ( My Dad is shaking his head.)

"That ol’ heifer started pawing at the ground and snortin' and the next thing ya know, she’s fixin’ to act like we was in a bull fightin’ ring! I tol’ the wife to git the heck outta the way, I wuz gonna take care of some bidness. So the dang cow charges me and I fire up the 4-wheeler and head right fer her. She smashes her haid into the front gun rack the first time and the fender the second. That did it. After that, she wuz tuckered out and the wife threw a rope over her haid and we tied her to the 4 wheeler and took her on back to the barn."

"Man! I bet that 4 wheeler was messed UP!"  I replied.

"Naw, not too bad. The wife got a ‘lectric drill and we drilled some little holes in the plastic and got some war (wire) and stitched that fender back together. Looks good a new...."

Country folk are smart. They match pound for pound with Newton’s 3^rd Law, with a little stubbornness to boot.  At least they weren’t the ones seeing stars.

Thoughts Along the Way----Sounds That I Like

1.      The jingaling of the tags on my dog’s collars.

2.      A good IPA beer pouring in a frosted mug.

3.      The creaking of the springs on my bicycle seat as I ride along slowly.

4.      The mockingbird on our chimney sending a sweet song into the house.

5.      Hummingbirds chirping and clacking wings, fighting over a feeder.

6.      A Harley passing me on an interstate.

7.      Every noise a horse makes.

8.      Wind through pine needles.

9.      The sound of a bobber and split shot hitting the water when bream fishing.

10.  The satisfied groan of my dogs after they reach that happy napping position.

11.  The sound of snow.

12.  A single slice cheese wrapper.

13.  My lawn mower.

14.  The squeaking sand when you walk on the Gulf of Mexico beaches.

15.  Sizzling, popping Conecuh sausage on the grill.

16.  My ‘old fashioned’ ringer on my iPhone.

17.  A buck grunt, a turkey gobble.

18.  A 44 magnum with earmuffs on.

19.  A buzzbait s clacking  across the water at dusk.

20.  Tree frogs interrupted by a 10 octave lower bullfrog.

21.  The crunch of a pork skin.

22.  The Allman Brothers.

23.  A campfire’s low rumble and energy when it really gets going.

24.  An old Volkswagon engine.

25.  Shortwave radio signals.

Life Along the Way---The Station Wagon

Before the SUV, there was the station wagon. We had a few growing up and probably our work horse over the years was the ’61 Blue Ford Galaxie. It pulled a ski boat, took us cross country in our gypsy Army life several times, and provided years of deep personal pondering and imagination from the back seat.

Our wagon had no air conditioning, so the windows were down constantly in the warm months. I spent a lot of time developing an aerodynamic hand, flying my little mitt up and down with the 60 mph wind created by that mighty 135 HP 3 speed manual transmission.

I suppose I have always been an observer. I like to look at things, hear things, feel things, think about things. I can remember watching the low sun at evening skipping through the tall loblollies as we rode along, creating dancing sunbeams as we chugged down some two-lane U.S. Highway. Sticking my head out the window like a dog was another favorite. Opening one's mouth in different shapes caused a variety of sounds that the tropical storm force wind produced. Bugs were an occasional risk that came along with this activity. I loved staring at the moon because at that ‘just right’ angle, it looked like it was traveling along with us. And there was always plenty of room for family activities in that Battlestar Galactica too.

My brother (18 months older than me) and I were always incurring the wrath of my dad’s signet ring, as he was the best backhanding Captain in the U. S. Army. I sometimes wondered if one of the medals on his uniform was a Bronze Backhander. He could drive with his left, smack us with his right, and never lose a mile per hour. I have never flown a helicopter, but from what I gather, there is a certain 'zen' to flying as the hands, the feet and the mind have to be in perfect harmony. I am thinking that is why he was a backhanding master. At times, I would climb in the ‘way back’ to get away from Jeff and Captian Backhand.
The backseat became even more animated with the introduction of our little whoops, I mean sister, LeeAnn. She came along about 7 years after me…she was truly the baby in the family. By the time LeeAnn became college age, my folks were simply worn out. I really think Pop became the softie that he is now by that time. He can still jab you though. He told our son Stephen recently, 'Looks like your dad got lost on the way to the Weight Watchers meeting'.

I have written about my fond memories of Ft. Rucker during my youth. We lived there during my 5th and 6th grade years and my 9th through 12th grade years. I have a tendency to think of my past

in grades instead of years and it was my 5th grade year (1967) that Little LeeAnn created a family incident that remains a solid thread that runs through our lives to this day.

Ft Rucker was like a kid factory. They were everywhere. We were still in the baby boom years; our homes were actually called ‘quarters’ and were crammed together like the hippies at Woodstock. Now, one of the greatest kid tricks (and NO parent knew---right?) was the invisible rope trick. One kid on the sidewalk on one side, another kid on the sidewalk on the other side and they would yell, “ONE, TWO THREE…PULL!!!” as a car approached. In perfect synergy, the two hooligans would mimic a rope being stretched across the road and I suppose we all thought it was going to make the driver hit the brakes. What we didn’t take into account is that a large percentage of drivers on Ft. Rucker were also pilots and had a great understanding of physics and kinetic energy and they wouldn’t have stopped even if there was a real rope.

The whole fam was out for a Saturday drive when we encountered a couple of imps ready to pull this ruse on us. Of course there was no such thing as seat belts or car seats for young children back then, so the standard operating procedure for our trips consisted of Pop driving, Mom at shotgun, Jeff and I manning each open window in the back seat, and 3 year old LeeAnn STANDING between us. (Hey, what can I say, it was the 60’s.)

We heard the “ONE, TWO, THREE, PULL!” quite clearly, Pop obviously never broke stride, and we breezed on by. Now Jeff and I were well versed in the invisible rope trick, but this must have been something entirely new to LeeAnn. Standing like Little Miss Ft.Rucker, she inquired to the rest of her subjects, “WELL, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT’…DID YOU SEE THAT KID!??”

It was one of those moments frozen in time…well, for a few seconds anyway. My brother and I looked at each other, put a hand up to our mouths both to feign horror and cover our furtive grins. We then looked immediately to the front seat for Captain Backhand to knock her into the 'way back'.

Lucky for LeeAnn, it never came, because she would have been a primo target standing right in the middle. She did, however, get her mouth washed out with soap when we got home and spent the rest of the afternoon spitting on the sidewalk. My brother and I would

have never uttered that word, at least in 1967, but we did find it odd that LeeAnn would get such a punishment, being 3 years old and living in an Army family where expletives were as common as the sound of a pop top on a Falstaff. But remember, it was the 60’s.

Speaking of the 60’s, my brother is going to be 60 years old this year and we still celebrate this story as the appropriate occasion arises. We may all be at the beach and see some crazy drunk carrying on a bunch of nonsense. One of us is going to say, ‘Well shit, shit, shit, did you see that kid?’ Of course if we are in public, we might just say, ‘Well, hmm, hmm, hmm.’ But we all know what it means.

That’s all for now. The next LeeAnn story may be about the number of times we caused milk to pour out her nose at the dinner table. Or maybe not.

Thoughts Along the Way----I Like Sticks.

This was a quick Facebook post several months ago. My crooked stick is now in use as a pepper plant stake. 

I like sticks. Sticks and I go way back to the days of my youth as I scouted the woods of Four Mile Creek at Ft. Rucker.

I suppose those of you who know me fairly well know that I have some OCD tendencies...I like life orderly with a bow tied on it. Thankfully, life ain't so OCD.

I still search for sticks. And as I did in my youth, I seek a straight, perfect for holding, no knots or stobs, green stick. I don't want a stick that will crack in half at the slightest pop on the ground. I like to select a stick that is long enough to give Lu a gentle poke on the back hip so she will heel. Its got to have a nice feel. And it must be as straight as a Berkley fishing rod. If you are a stick person, you understand that.

The other day I spied a potential stick on the AUM Trail during my hike with the girls. When I pulled it out of the brushy pile, the end was crooked. It did not fit my requirements of a good stick. 
But instead of discarding the imperfect stick, I decided I needed a flawed stick. I even took it home, got out my whittlin' knife and cut off the knots, but resisted the urge to whittle off the crooked part. I am glad I left it.

I carried my new stick on my hike this evening. The crook is good. The crook reminds me that life isn't always a straight flat interstate highway on cruise control. Sometimes life is a muddy, wandering, trail by Four Mile Creek. And sometimes that is better.