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2. Add the required amount of shampoo to the toilet water, and have both lids lifted.
3. Obtain the cat and soothe him while you carry him towards the bathroom.
4. In one smooth movement, put the cat in the toilet and close both lids (you may need to stand on the lid so that he cannot escape).
CAUTION: Do not get any part of your body too close to the edge, as his paws will be reaching out for any purchase they can find.
5. Flush the toilet three or four times. This provides a "power-wash and rinse" cycle which I have found to be quite effective.
6. Have someone open the door to the outside and ensure that there are no people between the toilet and the outside door.
7. Stand behind the toilet as far as you can, and quickly lift both lids.
8. The now-clean cat will rocket out of the toilet, and run outside where he will dry himself.
Sincerely and with much Love,
The Dog
People should be able to recognize the presence of bears in an area by their droppings: Black bear droppings are smaller and contain berry residue and possibly squirrel fur. Grizzly bear droppings have little bells in them and smell like pepper spray.
-When the boxer wakes up in the morning, it's truly an exceptional event, requiring the boxer to jump and bounce on everyone to make sure that they are up to witness it.
-re above, Saturday, schmaturday, GET UP!!!!
-when your boxer sees you, it's celebration time, even if you just went down stairs to put another load of laundry in. (must be excited because the "basement monster" didn't eat you -- more on that at a later date)
-when your boxer hears the key word.... "cookie" the wiggle circuits go into overdrive. The keyword can be used in context of food, or not. If you do not have immediate access to a cookie(s), then do not mention the word, even if talking about cookies from websites.
-When you come home from work, and have been away all day.... Well, there's no real way to describe it, you have to see it. The action has been called a "kidney bean" by other boxer owners, that is the boxer is so happy to see you, that she/he bends in the middle, and both head and butt reach you at the same time, wiggling and squirming all the way.
-when a boxer is in full on wiggle mode as in above, the command SIT, will only be adhered to for a few seconds, but the butt must not stop moving.
-when a boxer is in full on wiggle mode, watch your feet, legs, face if you should bend down to pet the boxer, and more sensitive areas. All are fair game.
Most amazing dogs those boxers are. :-)
--IceBear
(John Nieminen), 31 Mar 2004
One of the cats caught a cucaracha which had come inside, and they got together and were batting that poor bug back and forth across that slick tile, playing a rousing game of bug hockey! They kept it up for a fair number of volleys before McGarrett decided that he wanted a snack. (YUCCCCHHHH!)
But bug hockey was pretty funny to watch.
--Veloci--best exercise for a cat: another cat--raptor
Here's the concept: the cat box is equipped with a disposable container, a sensor, a timer & a mechanized "rake". When the cat makes a 'deposit', the sensor recognizes the event, the timer allows a respectful interval to elapse, and the rake then drags itself through the cat litter and deposits the waste in the disposable container. Every few days, one replaces the disposable container and the kitty litter chores are done.
Now, just to get this out of the way, yes, it was expensive. $80 for this bit of frivolity, but I figured I was darn well worth it. It did, however, present a bit of a learning curve for the kitties, who had been used to one sort of litter; the new kitty box required clumpable litter.
This stuff is rather like sand, but when in contact with litter, a clump is formed. Initially, however, Ling thought it was some sort of a spa: he leaped into the litter box and rolled around in it like he was trying to cover every atom of his fur with litter. He then promptly curled up in the box and took a nap. Not to be daunted by this, however, I decided to help the cats to learn the true purpose of the electric litter pan. Being a nurse - and a resourceful one at that - I produced a small urine samp in a disposable dixie cup and poured this in the pan to the amazement of the kitty crew. They stared transfixed at the lump as it coalesced there, and watched in total awe as the mechanical arm drug the rake through the litter and deposited my sample into the disposable bin.
Thereafter, the cats were totally enthralled by this new device and quickly began to use the pan exclusively. We rarely saw them after that. If by chance their attention spans waned before the raking process started, they would run from any portion of the house after hearing the motor begin and stare in rapt glee as the evidence of their potty habits vanished into the bin. And yes, you are correct, there IS more to this tale.
The "rake" is attached to the mechanical arm that powers it back & forth through the litter by means of a snap-in attachment that, after the second "sweep", neither snapped in nor attached on one side of the box.
At first this was a fairly minor irritation, but over time, it became more and more of an issue. Initially, small bits of cat litter were gently deposited on the other side of the bin, i.e. on the floor outside of the box. Soon the level of enthusiasm generated by the rake escalated, however. And now we had a new form of entertainment for the feline family members: The great American shit toss.
Yes indeed, soon the rake began to drag so badly on one side of the box that it would lag well behind the rest of the process until rounding the corner to (allegedly) deposit the turds in the bin. As a result, it became the kitty litter equivalent of Babe Ruth. The cats were endlessly fascinated by this new permutation. They determined ONLY to poop on that side of the box, and to poop in petite amounts. I think they were taking bets on distance before this whole sad event concluded.
And they are in DEEP mourning now that we switched back to the old manual system.
--Sue Roth, 19 Dec 2002
Sometimes he'll try to entice me to throw the ball by playing with it. He's an enormous cat - when he first came here and was only skin and bone he was over 20lb - now he's healthy and sleek I don't know how much he weighs. All I know is it's enough that you do not want him leaping joyfully about your prostrate person. An ordinary cat landing on you suddenly can startle you awake. Big Mick landing on you is another story entirely.
One of his ploys to get me to play fetch with him at night is to get all of his toys and pile them on the bed. Woe and betide if I should turn over! Alas and alack! The balls roll and fall off the bed. Great thundering and leaping about to corrall them all and Put Them Back. He is so big he does not need to jump back up on the bed to replace the escaping balls, he puts only his forepaws on the bed to do that, but each time he puts his forepaws on the bed it's with a jar that shake s the bed.
I have tried to institute a "no toys in the bedroom" rule. Mick assumes that means only when I'm awake.
--Laurie Campbell, 10 Sep 2003
Who is there to climb the tree and peek out at you from among the ornaments?
Who sits innocently at your feet while you explain to the neighbor why only the top 1/3 of your tree is decorated?
Who watches in dismay while you lash the tree to the bannister with nylon climber's rope?
Who bats at the end of your pen as you address Christmas cards, making them look as if you have contracted a nervous condition?
Who drapes themselves over address books, lists, etc., and places you in the uncivilized position of peeling stamps off the cat's butt?
Who lays themselves on virgin wrapping paper refusing to budge even as you begin wrapping THEM to see how far they'll let you get before they MOVE?
Who quietly unties the beautiful ribbon you found on sale because . . . well . . . that's why you put it there, right? I mean, why else would you have ribbon?
Who sits quietly in your lap on Christmas Eve watching "A Christmas Carol" with you until you get up to go potty and return to find his head wedged in your glass of milk?
Who, on Christmas morning, romps and frolics among the discarded paper, boxes, ribbons, and bows, spreading them over an area roughly the size of Rhode Island?
Who can add to the joy of the season in that unmistakable feline fashion?
How boring is a catless Christmas!
"Why, they're Christian kittens," replied the little girl. The preacher walked on, pleased to see that the little girl had Jesus foremost in her thoughts.
A few days latter the preacher saw the little girl again. "And how are your little Christian kittens doing today?" asked the man of God.
"Oh, they aren't Christian kittens, they're Pagan kittens," replied the girl.
"But...but... I thought you said last week that they were Christian kittens," sputtered the flabbergasted preacher.
"Oh, they were. But now their eyes are open."
| Exerpts from a Dog's Daily Diary: | Excerpt from a Cat's Daily Diary: |
| 8:00 am Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am A car ride! My favorite thing! 9:40 am Walk in the park! My favorite thing! 10:30 am Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing! 12:00 pm Lunch! My favorite thing! 1:00 pm Played in the yard! My favorite thing! 3:00 pm Wagged my tail! My favorite thing! 5:00 pm Milk bones! My favorite thing! 7:00 pm Got to play ball! My favorite thing! 8:00 pm Wow! Watched TV with my master! My favorite thing! 11:00 pm Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing! |
Day 683 of my captivity: My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the floor.
Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. The audacity! There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage. Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs. I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released -- and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded! The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. The captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe . . . for now. . . . |
1. I will not eat the cats' food before they eat it or after they throw it up.
2. I will not roll on dead seagulls, fish, crabs, etc., just because I like the way they smell.
3. The garbage collector is not stealing our stuff.
4. My head does not belong in the refrigerator.
5. I will not bite the officer's hand when he reaches in for Mom's driver's license and registration.
6. I will not play tug-of-war with Dad's underwear when he's on the toilet.
7. Sticking my nose into someone's crotch is not an acceptable way of saying 'hello.'
8. I do not need to suddenly stand straight up when I'm lying under the coffee table.
9. I must shake the rainwater out of my fur BEFORE entering the house.
10. I will not throw up in the car.
11. I will not come in from outside and immediately drag my butt.
12. I will not sit in the middle of the living room and lick my crotch when company is over.
13. The cat is not a squeaky toy; so when I play with him and he makes that noise, it's usually not a good thing.
7:30am: Invaders! The people who live next door came out into their yard, obviously getting ready to lay siege to our house. Snarling and barking, I let them know in no uncertain terms that I was prepared to tear them limb from limb if they came any closer, and was able to repel the invasion. This is an almost daily occurrence; you'd think they'd learn. My master added his voice to the fray as well, yelling angrily. I am sure the people couldn't hear him, but it was nice of him to lend his support.
10:00am: I was forced to move, as the patch of sun in which I was lying had, for some reason, slid over a few feet. It's not easy being a dog.
1:00pm: I have the most thoughtful master in the world! While it's true he left me alone in the house for several hours, he did set out a treat for me on the kitchen counter. It was even gift-wrapped, a courtesy I wish he'd skipped, since it led to me having a lot of plastic in my teeth. The roast was delicious, though frozen in the center. I don't want to seem ungrateful, but crunching through two inches of rock-hard beef is hardly my idea of a delicacy.
2:00pm: Most unpleasant experience when my master returned home and was furious that I had not eaten the plastic wrap which had been covering my present. He kept pointing at the small pieces of Styrofoam and other debris and raving in a most irrational fashion. I'm sorry, but he should know that I can't eat that stuff; it makes my stomach upset. When he began rolling up a newspaper I realized he'd lost all reason and bolted for the front door, which was fortunately open just a crack.
4:00pm: Spent the afternoon with the girls. A most productive day; I was able to mark territory for two blocks. "Drip 'til you drop" is our motto. We had a small snack at an outdoor cafe we like, with meat scraps and bread served out of circular containers with easily displaced lids. Ran into that rogue Sebastian, who lifted his leg with irritating nonchalance -- does he think I don't know about his obsession with Muffy, that snotty schnauzer from down the road? Last month there wasn't a male in the neighborhood who couldn't be found outside her fence, and Sebastian was at the head of the pack. I let him know I want nothing more to do with him.
5:00pm: What a treat! On the way home a flock of ravens drew my attention to a squirrel that had been flattened by an automobile. After several days in the sun, the aroma was so delicious it made my nose quiver. I rolled in the wondrous fragrance for several minutes, and when I stood up I positively radiated eau de roadkill. Let Sebastian drool over Muffy -- he doesn't know what he's missing.
6:00pm: Of all the times to get a bath! My master, still in a foul mood, made me stand outside in the chill air while he shampooed and rinsed me several times. Every time I shook the water from my fur he, too, became drenched, and in the end he was shivering. Why in the world does he do stuff like this?
9:00pm: Time to sleep, though I am not allowed on the bed whenever anyone's home. Ah, the life of a dog.
[2] It is not well done to chain a dragon to roast your meat.
--Darkovan aphorism
My friend Amanda, who's a former SCA'er and knows others, sent this tale which she received from a SCA friend of hers.
She's right -- this squirrel is the weapon we need in Iraq right now!
Veloci--Florida squirrels is mean cusses--raptor
Subject: FW: too funny..we need to sign him up for Gulf Wars (the furry one)
From a Florida SCA'er via some SCA pals of mine - had me laughing out loud.
I never dreamed slowly cruising on my motorcycle through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Little did I suspect ... I was on Brice Street - a very nice neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow traffic. As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it - it was that close. I hate to run over animals, and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact. Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels, I discovered, can take care of themselves!
Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing my oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Banzai!" or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!" The leap was nothing short of spectacular ... as he shot straight up, flew over my windshield, and impacted me squarely in the chest.
Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not know better, I would have sworn he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack.
Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light t-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage! Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph down a quiet residential street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing...
I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I finally managed to snag his tail. With all my strength, I flung the evil rodent off to the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw. That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser.
But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel. This was an EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH! Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands and, with the force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact, he landed squarely on my back and resumed his rather anti-social and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him.
I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result. Torque. This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it. The engine roared and the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in ... well ... I just plain screamed.
Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel-torn-t-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, and roaring at maybe 50 mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder. With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle .... my brain was just simply overloaded.
I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against the massive power of the big cruiser. About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is an evil mutant NAZI attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got INSIDE my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed partway, he began hissing in my face. I am quite sure my screaming changed intensity. It had little effect on the squirrel, however.
The RPMs on The Dragon maxed out (since I was not bothering with shifting at the moment) so her front end started to drop. Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very raggedly-torn t-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, roaring at probably 80 mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail sticking out of the mostly closed full-face helmet.
By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse. Finally I got the upper hand ... I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked ... sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of ... so to speak. Picture a new scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork. Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn t-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing only one leather glove, moving at probably 80 mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.
I heard screams. They weren't mine... I managed to get the big motorcycle under control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign of a busy cross street. I would have returned to fess up (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. Except for two things. First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. When I looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol car were flung wide open. The cop from the passenger side was on his back, doing a crab walk into somebody's front yard, quickly moving away from the car. The cop who had been in the driver's seat was standing in the street and was aiming a riot shotgun at his own police car.
So the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to "let the professionals handle it" anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I could clearly see shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery from the back seat. But I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back window, shaking his little fist at me, shooting me the finger ... That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car. A somewhat shredded patrol car ... but it was all his.
I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made a gentle right turn off of Brice Street, and sedately left the neighborhood. I decided it was best to just buy myself a new pair of gloves. And some Band-Aids.
Thank You,
In Service, Loyalty, Fiedelity (sic), and Charity.
Br.BORRIC
One time three good friends decided to go on a safari deep in the jungles of the Amazon rain forest. They had heard about the existance of the rarely seen, and hitherto unheard of in civilization, species of avian called the Foo Bird. They decided to try to find one to photograph it, or perhaps even to capture a specimen.
The went to South America and hired a guide to take them into the interior, but the guide made it perfectly plain at the start of the safari that he and his porters would guide the three men only partway, and that only because he was unable to dissuade the men from going on their planned journey. Nonetheless, there was a place beyond which they absolutely would not go, though the guide didn't say why.
After several days of hiking, they came to the place in the rain forest which was as far as the guide and his party would go.
"This is far as I and my porters will take you, and I must advise against you're going any further. As I said before," the guide told the friends, "it is very dangerous to go into the territory of the Foo Bird."
"Yes, but you didn't say why," said one of the adventurers. "If you won't tell us why it is dangerous then we have no reason to change our minds about going."
The guide sighed as if he had heard this argument dozens of times before, which he had. "All I wish to say is that every person to date who has gone to find the Foo Bird has died."
"All of them? Impossible! You're lieing to us for some reason! Probably so you can capture one before we do, aren't you?"
The guide sighed again. "Look, I'll tell you all about the Foo Bird, although I doubt you will change your minds because what I'm going to tell you is simply unbelievable.
"It is true that every person who has tried to find a Foo Bird so far has died. Nor is there any mystery to the manner of their deaths. It was the Foo Bird itself, or, rather, I should say that it was the excrement of the Foo Bird.
"You see, when a Foo Bird finds trespassers in its territory, it will fly overhead screaming "FOOOO! FOOOO!", and when the unsuspecting prey looks up, the Foo Bird shits in its face.
"Now, you must understand, gringoes, that the shit of the Foo Bird is a very powerful substance, and there is nothing with a stench worse than the shit of the Foo Bird. The thing is, it is not the shit that is deadly in itself. It is wiping off the shit that kills the unlucky person so annointed.
"Mark my words well, for the Foo Bird's shit stinks so bad that no one has ever been able to resist wiping it off. It is worse than skunk musk, rotten eggs, and sulphur all mixed up into one."
The three hunters conferred together for a moment and decided that the guide was full of shit himself, and even told him so.
The guide sighed a third time. "So be it. I was certain that you would not believe me, and the story is so unbelievable that we do not spread it around, because that would only bring more adventurers to their deaths. If you insist on invading the territory of the Foo Bird, foolish gringoes, then I can not stop you. My last advice to you is that when the Foo Bird finds you, you must resist all temptations to wipe its shit off of your face. Who knows? Perhaps you will be able to resist and manage to get out alive."
With that, the guide and his porters turned and disappeared back the way they they had come. The three adventurers cached a portion of their supplies by the trail, took up their packs, and continued forward.
After two weeks of hiking they found themselves deep in the heart of the Foo Bird's territory, yet, they had seen or heard nothing of the Foo Bird. Then, without warning, it happened.
The trail entered a clearing and the men heard a flapping of wings and the screech of "FOOOO! FOOOO!" Instinctively, since they wanted to see the bird, they all looked skyward. A mass of semi-liquid matter fell directly onto the face of one of them.
The poor adventurer screamed as the horrific stench of the shit filled his nose and he frantically began to wipe his face clean. He suddenly stopped, looking quizzically at his partners. Then, without a word, he fell flat on his back, dead as a doornail.
"My God! That guide was right! Wiping that shit off is fatal! What are we going to do?"
"The only thing we can do. Let's get the fuck out of here before that bird gets us too!"
So the two adventurers left their fallen comrade and hastened back down the trail. A week later, the bird struck again. "FOOOO! FOOOO!" they heard overhead and again they looked up. Splat! Another face full of shit. This time, though the unfortunate soul screamed in agony, he refrained from wiping his face clean for as long as he could. It was three days later that he finally went crazy.
"AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE! I'VE GOT TO GET RID OF IT!" With that tortured scream, he wiped his face, and promptly fell dead.
The last survivor didn't even take the time to change his underwear. He just headed back toward the border of the Foo Bird's terrritory in high gear, figuring he could change his shorts from the supplies left outside the deadly area.
One day he looked up from the trail to see the border of the Foo Bird's territory just a hundred meters away, when he heard it again.
"FOOOO! FOOOO!"
Despite himself, he looked upward, betrayed by his reflexes. SPLAT!
He screamed. He paniced. He ran around in circles. He finally stumbled away from the Valley of the Foo Bird.
For weeks he stumbled his way through the rain forest, growing weaker and more ill from the noxious fumes from his shit covered face. At long last, he topped a rise and saw before him in the distance the city where he and his friends had hired the guide. Yet, he too finally snapped, and in a moment of hysteria and dementia, finally wiped his face clean and fell down dead on the spot.
And the moral of the story is: If the Foo shits -- wear it.
--Reprinted in Bardroom echo by Fang-Face DreamWeaver
I enjoyed Bob when I visited, he's affectionate and quite goofy. Pipi not so much. Jeannette plays rough with her, and likes to tease her to watch her rear up on her hind legs to butt, so she's quite aggressive. I wouldn't turn my back on Pipi - and, in fact, kept well out of her range after trying to fend her off a couple of times. She's a good guard animal inside the range of her tether, but not what I'd call a pet. Certainly no one can get near their front door when they're not home. Bob, though was a genuine pet and completely trustworthy, though I wouldn't want to depend on him to protect anything. <g> He doesn't run off when he gets loose, but charges straight up to the kitchen door, pawing at it (hoofing at it?) to get it open. I was told that he has opened the screen door and then the wooden door and got into the back porch, but had so far always been caught before he'd made it into the house proper. I haven't heard any stories about Pipi getting loose, but I wouldn't want to try to corral her. Jeannette can control her, but I doubt anyone else on the planet could. Too old for stew, too, which is what I'd do with her if I owned her.
With goats, as with dogs, it depends not only on temperament, but on handling and training
--Laurie Campbell, 29 Mar 2005
They're the happier cousin of the Dis-gruntle. They have poofier tufts on their ears, and lighter shading. Sometimes there's cross-breeding between the gruntle and the disgruntle which leads to a disgruntle which is passive aggressive -- a sneaky disgruntle intead of the more obvious kind. Disgruntles tend to die young, though some have lived for decades, while gruntles lives longer and have a higher birth rate, so all in all there are more gruntles than disgruntles -- they can be hard to
spot though, due to their camoflage (lovely tans, taupes and delicate rose-ish sort of blue) and the sheer presence of their disgruntle cousins. Still, if you have the pleasure of running into a gruntle, you tend to come away feeling much better than before, since they too rub off on those around them. It's a fairy dust sort of thing.
--Kathy Wilson
You mean the one with the twelve-foot wingspan, razor-sharp gripping claws poised to rend flesh and tear metal at the end of each massive limb, eight-inch fang-like mandibles dripping the vilest of toxic venoms, and insanely homicidal malevolence in each of its huge gleaming multifaceted eyes?
--CR Williams
You mean this one?
--Michael Nellis
. .-~\
/ '-'\.' '- : From Beautiful Arlington, Texas
| / '._ Home of Needham Point
| | .-. {
\ | '-' '.
. \ | /
~-.'. \| .-~_
oh O '.\-.\ .-~ \
geez |--/ '-'/~~ --.~ /
| .-~/|'-._ /~~-.~ --
/ \ / | \ ~- . _\
What is a Haggis?
A haggis is a small animal native to Scotland. Well when I say animal, actually it's a bird with vestigial wings -- like the ostrich. Because the habitat of the haggis in exclusively mountainous, and because it is always found on the sides of Scottish mountains, it has evolved a rather strange gait. The poor thing has only three legs, and each leg is a different length -- the result of this is that when hunting haggis, you must get them on to a flat plain -- then they are very easy to catch -- they can only run round in circles.
After catching your haggis, and dispatching it in time honoured fashion, it is cooked in boiling water for a period of time, then served with tatties and neeps (and before you ask, that's potatoes and turnips).
The haggis is considered a great delicacy in Scotland, and as many of your compatriots will tell you, it tastes great -- many visitors from the US have been known to ask for second helpings of haggis!
The noise haggis make during the mating season gave rise to that other great Scottish invention, the bagpipes.
Many other countries have tried to establish breeding colonies of haggis, but to no avail -- it's something about the air and water in Scotland, which once the haggis is removed from that environment, they just pine away.
A little known fact about the haggis is its aquatic ability -- you would think that with three legs of differing lengths, the poor wee beastie wouldn't be very good at swimming, but as some of the Scottish hillsides have rather spectacular lakes on them, over the years the haggis has learned to swim very well. When in water, it uses its vestigial wings to propel itself forward, and this it can do at a very reasonable speed.
Haggis are by nature very playful creatures, and when swimming, very often swim in a group -- a bit like ducks -- where the mother will swim ahead, and the youngsters follow in a line abreast. This is a very interesting phenomenon to watch, as it looks something like this :
__ -- -
/ /
/ /
/-\ /-\ /-\ /-\ / /
The long neck of the mother keeping a watchful eye for predators.
This does however confuse some people, who, not knowing about the haggis, can confuse it with the other great indigenous Scottish inhabitant, the Loch Ness Monster, or Nessie as she's affectionately known, who looks more like this :
__ -- -
/ /
/ /
\\ /-\ /-\ /-\ /-\ / /
From a distance, I'm sure you'll agree, the tourist can easily mistake a family of haggis out for their daily swim, as Nessie, this of course gives rise to many more false sightings, but is inherently very good for the tourism industry in Scotland.
The largest known recorded haggis (caught in 1893 by a crofter at the base of Ben Lomond), weighed 25 tons.
In the water, haggis have been known to reach speeds of up to 35 knots, and therfore coupled with their amazing agility in this environment, are extremely difficult to catch, however, if the hunter can predict where the haggis will land, a good tip is to wait in hiding on the shore, beacuse when they come out of the water, they will inevitably run round in circles to dry themselves off.
This process, especially with the larger haggis, gives rise to another phenomenon -- circular indentations in the ground, and again, these have been mistaken by tourists as the landing sites of UFOs.
I hope this clears up some of the misconceptions about the Haggis, that rare and very beautiful beastie of the Scottish Highlands (and very tasty too).
I have included here as much factual material as possible, although there are many gaps in this subject, and some of the information has to be mere speculation.
No-one has as yet been able to ascertain the sex of captured Haggis, and partially because of this, scientists assume the haggis is hermophroditic.
This may also be a product of evolution, and does explain the logistic problems of bringing two haggis together -- after all, sure footed though the beast is, if two were to mate on a Scottish hillside, it is a long fall down, and a slip at the wrong time may very well result in a reduction by two of the total haggis population.
What is known about Haggis breeding is that, several days prior to giving birth, the Haggis make a droning sound -- very much like a beginner playing the bagpipes for the first time -- giving rise to the speculation that the bagpipes were indeed invented in Scotland, simply to lure unsuspecting haggis into a trap. At the onset of this noise, all other wildlife for a five mile radius can be seen exiting the area at an extremely high rate of knots (wouldn't you if your neighbour had just started to play the bagpipes?). The second purpose of the noise seems to be to attract other Haggis to the scene, in order to lend help with the birth. This also gives rise to the assumption that Haggis are tone deaf.
Haggis normally give birth to two or more young Haggis, or "wee yins", as they are called in Scotland, and from birth, their eyes are open, and they are immediately able to run around in circles, just like their parent.
The wee yins are fiercely independant, and it is only a matter of weeks before they leave the parent, and go off foraging for food on their own, although it is perhaps a two or three year period before they are themselves mature enough to give birth.
Most Haggis hunters will leave the wee yins, due simply to their size, but when attacked by other predators, they are still able to emit the bagpipe like sound, which again has the effect of very quickly clearing the surrounding area of all predators, and attracting other Haggis to the scene. This results in a very low infant mortality rate, with most wee yins actually making it to adulthood.
The lifespan of the Haggis is again an unknown quantity, but from taggings done in the Victorian era, we know that some haggis live for well over 100 years.
Once, when the parking lot was covered in ice and a possum dropped down dead at the sight of them rushing it from all sides, Sheba took a hold of it by the tail and pulled it around on the ice. They had a ball pushing and pulling the inert body across the ice until it hit the curb. Then it woke up and scrambled off muttering to itself. It never once hissed at them, so they lost interest in it.
The sport seemed be "how close can we come to death without getting hurt?"
When they ripped fur out of a possum they kept it to exclaim over in delight. They'd pounce on the bit of fur, throw it in the air and chase it, and generally celebrate the heck out of the whole game
Possums stopped coming near my house. I haven't seen one for years
Laurie a family of siamese cats is something else Phoenix
They would get together two or three times a week for coffee and to talk shop.
One day, someone made the comment that preaching to people isn't really all that hard. A real challenge would be to preach to a bear.
One thing led to another and they decided to do an experiment They would all go out into the woods, find a bear, preach to it and attempt to convert it.
Seven days later, they're all together to discuss the experience.
Father Flannery, who has his arm in a sling, is on crutches, and has various bandages, goes first. "Well," he says, "I went into the woods to find me a bear. And when I found him I began to read to him from the Catechism. Well, that bear wanted nothing to do with me and began to slap me around. So I quickly grabbed my holy water, sprinkled him and, Holy Mary Mother of God, he became as gentle a lamb. The bishop is coming out next week to give him first communion and confirmation."
Reverend Billy Bob spoke next. He was in a wheelchair, with an arm and both legs in casts, and an IV drip. In his best fire and brimstone oratory he claimed, " WELL brothers, you KNOW that we don't sprinkle! I went out and I FOUND me a bear. And then I began to read to my bear from God's HOLY WORD! But that bear wanted nothing to do with me. So I took HOLD of him and we began to wrestle. We wrestled down one hill, UP another and DOWN another until we came to a creek. So I quick DUNKED him and BAPTIZED his hairy soul. And just like you said, he became as gentle as a lamb. We spent the rest of the day praising Jesus."
They both looked down at the rabbi, who was lying in a hospital bed. He was in a body cast and traction with IV's and monitors running in and out of him. He was in bad shape.
The rabbi looks up and says, "Looking back on it, circumcision may not have been the best way to start things out with my bear".
When I was a kid my foster family had a very dangerous black bull called Freighttrain. Dealing with Freighttrain was a daily exercise in life-threatening risk, which was only exacerbated by the cows going into heat in the spring. Unable to afford a replacement full grown bull, and not willing to continue dealing with Freighttrain, my foster father decided that the solution was to raise his own bull, and gentle it from birth so that when it was full grown it would be possible to handle the creature without the lengths we had to go to with Freighttrain.
He chose a dear, little, brown bull calf that us kids had named "Morris" (because he was a compact little guy, like the car.) Morris was not shipped off at three days old with the other bobby-calves. He was also not castrated and raised up on the back 40 with the other steers. He was to be fed by hand by us kids, and played with every day. (Imagine being *told* to make a pet!!) We were also to teach him to walk on a lead and come when he was called. As a yearling he was like a big puppy. We adored him, and would even ride him (not like riding a horse - boney and uncomfortable). Though my foster brother, Vail, and I enjoyed it enormously when Morris dumped my brother Ron in the duckweed - Ron, less so.
When Morris was two years old, my foster father decided it was time to see if his investment in time and money had paid off, but Morris seemed to have no interest in heifers in heat. He continued to graze and just sneezed when they stuck their rear ends in his face.
Oh, well, Ray thought. He's just a slow developer. Next year.
So we played with Morris for another year, then he was put in a paddock with cows in heat as a three year old. Still nothing.
Well, he's certainly old enough, Ray thought. He just doesn't know what he's supposed to do. We'll let him see Freighttrain in action, then he'll get the idea.
Morris got interested, all right - in Freighttrain. Freighttrain, of course, wanted to kill Morris. Morris, however, was in love. The only way we could get him to mount a cow was to put a cow in the press, and have Morris watching Freighttrain in the field, then - ahem - place him in position for what we wanted with the immobilized cow.
Even few rounds of that didn't shift his interest. Freighttrain was the only one who turned him on, and he was faithful.
Instead of being able to get rid of Freighttrain and have a bull that was safe to handle, we had to keep Freighttrain to get any work from Morris.
The one scene that sticks vividly in my mind and cracks me up to this day, is my foster father standing on the top of the hill in the paddock behind the house, hat in hand, in the pouring rain, shouting up at the sky, "You think this is bloody funny, don't You!!!???"
I don't know about God, but I sure did.
(PS There was no financial option left but to sell both bulls and go to the then brand new method of artificial insemination)
--Laurie Campbell
Dear Dogs,
When I say to move, it means go someplace else, not switch positions with each other so there are still two dogs in the way.
The dishes with the paw print are yours and contain your food. The other dishes are mine and contain my food. Please note, placing a paw print in the middle of my plate and food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food and dish, nor do I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.
The stairway was not designed by Nascar and is not a racetrack. Beating me to the bottom is not the object. Tripping me doesn't help, because I fall faster than you can run.
I cannot buy anything bigger than a king size bed. I am very sorry about this. Do not think I will continue to sleep on the couch to ensure your comfort. Look at videos of dogs sleeping, they can actually curl up in a ball. It is not necessary to sleep perpendicular to each other stretched out to the fullest extent possible. I also know that sticking tails straight out and having tongues hanging out the other end to maximize space used is nothing but doggy sarcasm.
My compact discs are not miniature Frisbees.
For the last time, there is not a secret exit from the bathroom. If by some miracle I beat you there and manage to get the door shut, it is not necessary to claw, whine, try to turn the knob, or get your paw under the edge and try to pull the door open. I must exit through the same door I entered. In addition, I have been using bathrooms for years, canine attendance is not mandatory.
The proper order is kiss me, then go smell the other dogs butt. I cannot stress this enough. It would be such a simple change for you.
Rules for non pet owners who visit and like to complain about our pets.
1. The dog lives here. You don't.2. If you don't want dog hair on your clothes, stay off the furniture.
3. I like my dog a lot better than I like most people.
4. To you, she's a dog. To me, she's an adopted daughter who is short, hairy, walks on all fours and doesn't speak clearly.
5. Dogs are better than kids. They eat less, don't ask for money all the time, are easier to train, usually come when called, never ask to drive your car, don't hang out with drug-using friends, and don't smoke or drink. They don't worry about buying the latest fashions, don't wear your clothes, don't need a gazillion dollars for college, and if they get pregnant, you can sell the pups.
The same applies to cats. Except they ignore you until you are asleep.
How to Give a Cat a Pill: 1. Pick up cat and cradle it in the crook of your left arm as if holding a baby. Position right forefinger and thumb on either side of cat's mouth and gently apply pressure to cheeks while holding pill in right hand. As cat opens mouth, pop pill into mouth. Allow cat to close mouth and swallow.
2. Retrieve pill from floor and cat from behind sofa. Cradle cat in left arm and repeat process.
3. Retrieve cat from bedroom, and throw soggy pill away.
4. Take new pill from foil wrap, cradle cat in left arm, holding rear paws tightly with left hand. Force jaws open and push pill to back of mouth with right forefinger. Hold mouth shut for a count of ten.
5. Retrieve pill from goldfish bowl and cat from top of wardrobe. Call spouse from garden.
6. Kneel on floor with cat wedged firmly between knees, hold front and rear paws. Ignore low growls emitted by cat. Get spouse to hold head firmly with one hand while forcing wooden ruler into mouth. Drop pill down ruler and rub cat's throat vigorously.
7. Retrieve cat from curtain rail, get another pill from foil wrap. Make note to buy new ruler and repair curtains. Carefully sweep shattered figurines and vases from hearth and set to one side for gluing later.
8. Wrap cat in large towel and get spouse to lie on cat with head just visible from below armpit. Put pill in end of drinking straw, force mouth open with pencil and blow down drinking straw.
9. Check label to make sure pill not harmful to humans. Apply Band-Aid to spouse's forearm and remove blood from carpet with cold water and soap.
10. Retrieve cat from neighbor's shed. Get another pill. Place cat in cupboard, and close door on to neck, to leave head showing. Force mouth open with dessert spoon. Flick pill down throat with elastic band.
11. Fetch screwdriver from garage and put cupboard door back on hinges. Apply cold compress to cheek and check records for date of last tetanus shot. Throw Tee shirt away and fetch new one from bedroom.
12. Call fire department to retrieve the cat out of the tree from across the road. Apologize to neighbor who crashed into fence while swerving to avoid cat. Take last pill from foil wrap.
13. Tie the cat's front paws to rear paws with garden twine and bind tightly to leg of dining table, find heavy-duty pruning gloves from shed. Push pill into mouth followed by large piece of filet steak. Be rough about it. Hold head vertically and pour 2 pints of water down throat to wash pill down.
14. Get spouse to drive you to the emergency room, sit quietly while doctor stitches fingers and forearm and removes pill remnants from right eye. Call furniture shop on way home to order new table.
15. Arrange for SPCA to collect mutant cat from hell and call local pet shop to see if they have any hamsters.
How to Give a Dog a Pill:
1. Wrap it in bacon.
2. Toss it in the air.
Eugene Rostow, Paul Nitze, Richard Perle, Richard Pipes, who initiate policy for the Reagan Administration -- who write the position papers and the policy options that are then funneled up the chain of command that sets the bounds for the major decisions -- most of these men are academics or at home in academic settings. As I have come to know them, I have been struck by this curious gap between the bloodiness of their rhetoric and their apparent inability to visulaize the physical consequences of what they advocate.
These neo-hawks refuse to acknowledge that reality. They want to threaten the use of nuclear weapons at a time of nuclear parity, when such a threat jeopardizes not only the enemy but one's fellow citizens. For the significance of parity is that both sides will be destroyed if we really do get high enough up the escalation ladder. To climb that ladder, as Perle, for example, would like to do, requires a fundamental alteration of the most common view of nuclear war: that it is an unspeakable disaster that would reduce both sides to ashes and destroy civilization for longer than anyone cares to contemplaite -- maybe forever.
These true believers in nuclear-war fighting, including the President of the United states and most of his key advisers, tell one another what they want to hear: that playing a game of nuclear chicken with the Soviets is not as dangerous as it might seem, for even in the worst case -- even if the Soviets don't back off, even if they don't submit to our nuclear pressure -- the resulting war will not be so bad; it can be limited and civilization can bounce back sooner or later.
--Robert Scheer, Playboy, Dec 1982, and reprinted in Thinking Tuna Fish, Talking Death, pg 344
A: A cat has its claws at the end of its paws and a comma has it's pause at the end of a clause.
We have a fox terrier by the name of Jasper. He came to us in the summer of 2001 from the fox terrier rescue program. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this type of adoption, imagine taking in a 10 year old child about whom you know nothing and committing to doing your best to be a good parent.
Like a child, the dog came with his own idiosyncrasies. He will only sleep on the bed, on top of the covers, nuzzled as close to my face as he can get without actually performing a French kiss on me.
Lest you think this is a bad case of 'no discipline,' I should tell you that Perry and I tried every means to break him of this habit including locking him in a separate bedroom for several nights. The new door cost over $200. But I digress.
Five weeks ago we began remodeling our house. Although the cost of the project is downright obnoxious, it was 20 years overdue AND it got me out of cooking Thanksgiving for family, extended family, and a lot of friends that I like more than family most of the time.
I was assigned the task of preparing 124 of my famous yeast dinner rolls for the two Thanksgiving feasts we did attend.
I am still cursing the electrician for getting the new oven hooked up so quickly. It was the only appliance in the whole darn house that worked, thus the assignment.
I made the decision to cook the rolls on Wed evening to reheat Thurs am. Since the kitchen was freshly painted, you can imagine the odor. Not wanting the rolls to smell like Sherwin Williams #586, I put the rolls on baking sheets and set them in the living room to rise for a few hours. Perry and I decided to go out to eat, returning in about an hour. The rolls were ready to go in the oven.
It was 8:30 PM. When I went to the living room to retrieve the pans, much to my shock one whole pan of 12 rolls was empty. I called out to Jasper and my worst nightmare became a reality. He literally wobbled over to me He looked like a combination of the Pillsbury dough boy and the Michelin Tire man wrapped up in fur. He groaned when he walked. I swear even his cheeks were bloated.
I ran to the phone and called our vet. After a few seconds of uproarious laughter, he told me the dog would probably be OK, however, I needed to give him Pepto Bismol every 2 hours for the rest of the night.
God only knows why I thought a dog would like Pepto Bismol any more than my kids did when they were sick. Suffice it to say that by the time we went to bed the dog was black, white and pink He was so bloated we had to lift him onto the bed for the night.
We arose at 7:30 and as we always do first thing; put the dog out to relieve himself. Well, the dog was as drunk as a sailor on his first leave. He was running into walls, falling flat on his butt and most of the time when he was walking his front half was going one direction and the other half was either dragging the grass or headed 90 degrees in another direction.
He couldn't lift his leg to pee, so he would just walk and pee at the same time. When he ran down the small incline in our back yard he couldn't stop himself and nearly ended up running into the fence.
His pupils were dilated and he was as dizzy as a loon. I endured another few seconds of laughter from the vet (second call within 12 hours) before he explained that the yeast had fermented in his belly and that he was indeed drunk.
He assured me that, not unlike most binges we humans go through, it would wear off after about 4 or 5 hours and to keep giving him Pepto Bismol.
Afraid to leave him by himself in the house, Perry and I loaded him up and took him with us to my sister's house for the first Thanksgiving meal of the day.
My sister lives outside of Muskogee on a ranch, (10 to 15 minute drive). Rolls firmly secured in the trunk (124 less 12) and drunk dog leaning from the back seat onto the console of the car between Perry and I, we took off.
Now I know you probably don't believe that dogs burp, but believe me when I say that after eating a tray of risen unbaked yeast rolls, DOGS WILL BURP. These burps were pure Old Charter. They would have matched or beat any smell in a drunk tank at the police station. But that's not the worst of it.
Now he was beginning to fart and they smelled like baked rolls. God strike me dead if I am not telling the truth! We endured this for the entire trip to Karen's, thankful she didn't live any further away than she did.
Once Jasper was firmly placed in my sister's garage with the door locked, we finally sat down to enjoy our first Thanksgiving meal of the day. The dog was the topic of conversation all morning long and everyone made trips to the garage to witness my drunken dog, each returning with a tale of Jasper's latest endeavor to walk without running into something. Of course, as the old adage goes, 'what goes in must come out' and Jasper was no exception.
Granted if it had been me that had eaten 12 risen, unbaked yeast rolls, you might as well have put a concrete block up my behind, but alas a dog's digestive system is quite different from yours or mine. I discovered this was a mixed blessing when we prepared to leave Karen's house. Having discovered his 'packages' on the garage floor, we loaded him up in the car so we could hose down the floor.
This was another naive decision on our part. The blast of water from the hose hit the poop on the floor and the poop on the floor with stood the blast from the hose. It was like Portland cement beginning to set up and cure.
We finally tried to remove it with a shovel. I (obviously no one else was going to offer their services) had to get on my hands and knees with a coarse brush to get the remnants off of the floor. And as if this wasn't degrading enough, the darn dog in his drunken state had walked through the poop and left paw prints all over the garage floor that had to be brushed too.
Well, by this time the dog was sobering up nicely so we took him home and dropped him off before we left for our second Thanksgiving dinner at Perry's sister's house.
I am happy to report that as of today (Monday) the dog is back to normal both in size and temperament. He has had a bath and is no longer tricolor. None the worse for wear I presume. I am also happy to report that just this evening I found 2 risen unbaked yeast rolls hidden inside my closet door.
It appears he must have come to his senses after eating 10 of them but decided hiding 2 of them for later would not be a bad idea. Now, I'm doing research on the computer as to: 'How to clean unbaked dough from the carpet.'
And how was your day
Yum.
That reminds me of a story I read wherein one character was talking about this innkeeper who was finally caught killing and robbing guests. It seems that this activity had been going on for some time and no one the wiser because of the innkeeper's ingenious method of disposing of the remains.
He was caught out one day when some explorer type with a title wandered by with his pet savage from some South Pacific island. The explorer went into the inn to sup, and during the meal the savage became quite agitated. The explorer finally made out what the savage was going on about. The savage was quite upset because the explorer had expressly told him that cannibalism was forbidden and wrong.
The savage couldn't understand why, if cannibalism was forbidden, long pig was being served at this inn.
--Michael Nellis
15 Killed in Tragic Accident!
An astounding incident today came to a tragic end while seventy two porkers were attempting to fly from Britain to a destination in North Africa.
The porkers, who were on a chartered passenger flight, were apparently engaged in what a pig does best when the fumes of their effluvium triggered the aircraft's fire alarm system.
The pilots of the craft immediately turned back toward Britain to make an emergency landing. Unfortunately, when the fire alarm was triggered, so was the aircraft's fire fighting system, which released fire fighting gases into the compartment occupied by the porcine touristas.
Regrettably, fifteen of the pink piggly passengers succumbed to the fumes.
When reached for a comment, the pig's owner remarked that he had chartered a passenger aircraft instead of a freight because he thought the freight would be too traumatic.
The old rancher said, "Well, ya know, Palin is a post turtle."
Not being familiar with the term, the doctor asked him what a post turtle was.
The old rancher said, "When you're driving down a country road and you come across a fence post with a turtle balanced on top, that's a post turtle."
The old rancher saw a puzzled look on the doctor's face, so he continued to explain. "You know she didn't get up there by herself, she doesn't belong up there, she doesn't know what to do while she is up there, and you just wonder what kind of dumb ass put her up there to begin with."
Well, they would if they could get away with it, but when one gets a hold of someone all the rest want him or her too, and the hapless victim usually ends up torn to pieces.
An odd method of sharing, but hey, it works for them.
--Michael Nellis
(see BARDROOM ECHO, Appendix 04)
XXXXXXX.XXX Occasionally, for the non-a.m. inclined, there is a reward granted for rising earlier than intended: the odd awesome sunrise, a meteor shower, ghosts of mist dancing across the surface of an alpine lake, zipping through airport security. . . . Sunday was just such a morning. It was my morning to "do the duty" -- e.g. rise with the pup (a five month old Newfoundland), who thinks that, if 6:00 a.m. is good enough for weekdays, it should do for weekends, too. We had managed to get her to
grant an additional 45 minutes -- but Russ was still mighty "perky" when he booted me out of bed because it was MY turn to rise and shine. After Viv's breakfast, she and I go outside -- me to sit, drink coffee, and read the funnies, she to bound around and hopefully work off her morning mega peppiness (there should be a LAW against cheery morning critters). So I'm reading, she's snuffling about the yard, and suddenly there's a rustle in the trees followed by a THUMP! Out drop two
squirrels. They move fast as cats and are back in the canopy before Viv can react -- "What the...????" She KNOWS something happened. The squirrels, meanwhile, return to fighting. Apparently a squirrel brain can either fight or pay heed to gravity. THUMP! Out they drop AGAIN! And flash back up the trees . . . Vivi runs to the scene: "My GOD! It's raining SQUIRRELS!!!" She alternately sniffed around and stared quizzically up at the sky, definitely not sure WHAT to make of this strange
meterological phenomena. THUMP! Damn things fell out about four times total -- the last being when they fell directly in front of Viv, so one got WAY too close to being snuffled. Where upon there was an exit into the next yard (the trees make a pretty tight canopy for squirrel travel). And the other followed. Yup, it was worth having the a.m. Duty to see that. =chortle= raining squirrels Be well.
Date:Mon, 18
Aug 2003 09:40:27 -0500
Subject:[BR-2] raining squirrels?!?
From:"Barb
Jernigan"
Vivi: "What-- what!?!?"
Squirrels: "Gahh!!!!! DOG! Run AWAY!"
Barb
SACRED COWS:
--Mark Twain
SHEEP:
SIAMESE CATS:
--Laurie delinquent cats Phoenix, 09 Jan 2002
TERMITES:
And tasted it and found it good,
And that is why your Cousin May
Fell through the parlor floor today.
--Ogden Nash, The Termite, copyright 1942
THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM MY CAT:
TIGER:
TRIBBLE:
TYRANNOSAURUS REX:
--Jurassic Park, the film
UNICORNS:
--Deadeye
VERMINE:
--Terry Prachett, Wyrd Sisters, pg 81
WILDEBEEST:
--Robert Anson Heinlein (circa 1953/54), Tramp Royale, pg 179
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