My chickens have it pretty good. A nice, roomy house, an enclosed run where they can stretch their legs, and even a “private” yard with a picket fence so they can explore a bit when we’re home. All I ask in return are two simple things: 1) provide us eggs and 2) don’t venture out into MY yard where they dig giant holes, toss around pine needles and devour anything green like a giant swarm of drunken locusts. Two simple things! And two of my three birds abide. But then there is little Phoebe — the bomb-crater chicken. A house, a run and a yard are not enough. She needs to roam and explore. She needs to wander MY yard, scratching for bugs, eating plants and digging massive holes that that look like a World War II air raid. How does Phoebe get out? Well, chickens do fly, you know. But most of the time they’re too lazy, too fat or frankly, lack the smarts to remember they have this skill.
The Florida scrub brush Christmas tree
My mother wants a 2-foot Christmas tree. A real one. Cut fresh from a Florida tree farm. Only 2 feet tall! “Two feet?!?” I gasped in horror when she told me this. “That’s not even a tree. That’s a weed!” My mother likes scrub brush pines. The kind that grow in the sand or gravel. In my mother’s mind, it’s the classic Florida Christmas tree. They are so starved for water from the never-ending drought that they look like they have mange. We find them at a Christmas tree farm in Eustis where you cut them down yourself. Actually, many of them look quite pretty. But to get the size my mother wants — before they grow to a normal height, fill out and look pleasant — you have to sift through a selection of odd-shaped sprouts and runts. Since my mother doesn’t go — she just hands me a check and some strict orders — we have to make the call ourselves. My mother doesn’t ever water her tree. By the time Christmas comes, the poor guy is little more than a shriveled stick with clumps of brown needles hanging on for dear life. The tree gets so dry that it risks spontaneously combusting, and for that reason, no one wants to sit by it as we pass around the presents.
What do dogs REALLY understand?
Busted! And I must tell you, I suspected it all along. I think we all did. Dogs are smarter than we give them credit for. But they play us! The proof comes in a recent study. Hungarian researchers — Hungary has been on the forefront of K9 research ever since proving that dogs ate the Christmas presents, not burglars! — learned that man’s best friend really does understand what we are saying. Well, actually that they analyze both the words that we say along with our tone to put together meaning. But that’s a bunch of scientific mumbo-jumbo. The fine print is this: My dog’s been scammin’ me! She’s smart. She understands perfectly what I’m saying, and always has. More insidiously, she thinks that I’m just a big, dumb human who lacks the neural pathways to know that Hungary is a country, not just when I want dinner. (To be honest with you, I was a little unclear on that. I mean, where is Hungary anyway?)
Surviving a week in Critterville
What were we thinking? In a single week, we became caregivers — albeit temporary — to a total of 15 animals. Fifteen! It’s like Dr. Doolittle time. We’re tending to our neighbor’s flock of lovebirds, along with her adopted cat. We have new chicks, and then my brother went away and left us his dog. (I am affectionately referring to her as “Meatchunk.”) All in the same week. How do these things happen? Why does the universe think to itself, “Let’s rain animals on the Thompsons … AT THE SAME TIME!” I keep coming home and expecting to find a lost baby sheep or a gaggle of homeless porcupines on my front porch. “Mind if we join you, too?” It’s not so bad — the lovebirds aren’t at our house. And actually it’s kind of fun. Besides, other people have tended to our critters, so it’s good to return the favor.
Flight of the dog paw sock
There is only one thing worse than an injured dog wearing a plastic cone around her neck: An injured dog wearing a baby sock on her foot. If you have ever had to do it, you know what I mean. It’s unnatural. It’s silly looking. And it’s more impossible than solving a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded. My dog , Lily — who must have a think-tank constantly working on new ways to get sick or injured — somehow wounded the bottom of her front paw. She then proceeded to lick and chew it until it was raw, swollen and the color of a plum. That’s when the UPS man showed up. Now, if the Mongol Hordes come to the house, my dog will surely serve them tea. But the UPS man signals a declaration of war. Maybe she thinks he is leaving a box of cats. He causes her to fly into a rage of ferociousness, charging the door and slamming her outstretched front paws against the frame with such force that the house shudders. This is not usually a problem … unless one of those paws is licked raw, swollen and the color of a plum. Now you can add bleeding to the list.
And the dog met the pine needles
There must be something about freshly laid pine needles that makes a dog think they are expressly for her. There must be something in their chemical composition that causes her to lose a good chunk of her marbles. There must be something that says, “Hey, my owner just got the yard looking so nice it could be the cover of a magazine. So, why don’t I go completely berserk and make it look like NASCAR ran a race?” Goodbye, pretty yard. Why did I even try? Let me say this, for legal reasons: I love my dog. Sweet, adorable, precious mutt. Brings so much love and joy to the family. A faithful companion. A family protector. A wonderful compatriot to my daughter. Hasn’t given any of us worms. (Bonus!) But there are times when I think about trading her for a guinea pig, or a stick of gum. Like the other day, when I thought I heard a troop of wild elephants barreling through the yard. “Is there an earthquake?!?” I screamed, running around the house, peering out windows, expecting to see trees shaking. “Are we being invaded? Have aliens finally come to steal our ice cream?”
The early morning rat catch
It’s no way to begin a Saturday, not when you’re sipping from a hot mug of Cuban coffee, reading a newspaper and contemplating an early morning run before the sun peeks out. A phone rings. It’s 6 a.m. And it’s my mother. I’ve learned there are two reasons behind calls at this hour: emergencies or absurdities. As I rushed to the phone and answered it, I wondered which way this one would go. “Brian! You have to come over … RIGHT NOW!” said the exasperated voice on the other end of the line. Long pause. Deep inhale, then … “Missy Daisy just brought a rat in the house … and she let it LOOSE!”
A letter to Little Joe, the cat
Dear Little Joe, First off, I’m sorry for calling you a “Jerk Face.” You’re not a Jerk Face. That was wrong of me. You might be acting like one. Like when you ate three lizards and then … there’s no pleasant way to say this … hacked them up on the back steps. You have to admit, that was a little Jerk Face-y. But you’re just my mother’s cat. You’ve had a lot to deal with. She’s been in rehab recovering from a broken hip and a fractured knee. I need to be cognizant of that. You’re not a “Jerk Face” and I’m sorry. But I’m writing you this letter because we have to come to some kind of understanding. You and me. Mano a gato. Because, Little Joe, do you have to be so difficult? I mean, we’re all dealing with a lot here. It’s not easy. But we’re a family. We’re in this together. For instance, like when I call you for dinner and you just meow back from the other side of the fence. What’s that all about? “Little Joe,” I call. “Meow?” you reply. “Little Joe, come on. It’s dinner,” I say again. “Me-ow!” you cry. It kind of sounds like you want me to come around the fence and pick you up. Like you want to be carried to dinner on a golden chariot. But I’m not some Roman kitty chauffeur! When I told your mother this, she said you’re “just scared.” That I should […]
The sick dog medicine puzzle
Oh, the joys of dog ownership. Being a K9 parent. Getting to deal with the unpleasantries of an ill animal. My dog got sick last weekend. Real sick. How do I say this in polite company? Stuff was emerging out of places in ways that stuff should never emerge out of places. Let’s just call it the mother of all upset stomachs. It was bad enough that it landed us in the emergency hospital on a Sunday morning where she needed an IV while my bank account flat-lined. It was not good. And then, just like that, she was fine and able to go home. Dogs bounce back like super balls, and we’re left broke with a bag of drugs and special food to dispense. And that’s when the fun really begins. When you find that stuff emerging out of places was the easy part. Paper towels, cleaning spray and cotton stuffed up your nostrils will solve that.
For a kid and a dog, the joys of mountain running
To be a kid again. Or a dog. Never was a dog, but I could have been. After a week in the mountains of Blowing Rock, North Carolina, I would definitely take another childhood. Or a doghood. We rented a cabin. It looked like it had fallen out of the sky and landed teetering on a steep ridge overlooking a stream. There were old logging roads and lots of trees and not a living soul but us. The only way to the cabin was on a gravel “road” that could have been a ski jump if it wasn’t broken up by so many switchbacks. You know you’re in for a wild ride when your road comes with instructions for navigating it. You also know you’re going somewhere isolated. Away from people. And where your clan can run wild and free. To be a kid again. Or a dog.