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Don’t Shoot The Dog – #humor #orsoitseems

#dogs @robblightfoot – To buy Robb’s books in either print or eBook format, visit Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iTunes, Kobo, Sony Store,  or any other major retail outlet.

Photo of Lucy the big dog

 

Steve, the senior crime-beat reporter, looked over my shoulder as I wrote. I was putting the finishing touches on a breaking-news story about a neighborhood dispute that ended in gunfire.

Steve patted me on the shoulder.

“You’ll get more calls on this than on any other story you’ve written.”

Despite his experience, I doubted him. After all, I’d covered porn stars, major auto accidents, an arsonist who shot at firefighters as they arrived, and more. I’d written a front-page story about a former high-school football hero was summoned to his boss’s office to be fired. Only one of them walked out alive.

None of these stories had netted me more than one or two calls from readers.

So two neighbors arguing over a chicken-eating dog—a few paragraphs buried on page two of the Metro section—seemed like pretty small potatoes to me. But Steve was right. I got dozens of phone calls. It’s been nearly 30 years ago, but I still remember the conversations.

“He had every right to kill that damn dog,” one caller said, and then hung up without leaving his name.

“I’m mad as hell,” said Marvin, another caller. “I hope that bastard goes to jail and that they throw away the key.”

All opinions were solidly in one camp or the other, but dog-lovers were a clear majority. I was still new to the news business, but I knew that dog-bites-man stories were nothing unusual. Still, neighbors blasting one another’s pets… Well, that is different.

The dog owner claimed his pet was returning home and had crossed the property line. After a brief investigation, the sheriff concluded that chicken-owner was within his rights to shoot, and no charges were filed. But judging from the calls I got, it was probably wise that the newspaper didn’t run a photo of the shooter.

I hadn’t thought about this story for years, but recently I learned someone in the neighborhood has apparently been taking pot-shots at our dog, Lucy. The big dog often sits on a hill watching over our neighbor’s sheep, and barks.

A lot.

Karin and I do work at keeping the peace, bringing Lucy in when she barks. We don’t let her out late at night or too early in the morning. But we still get phone calls here and there.

Lucy’s a gentle, lovable giant. But she’s still a dog, and she does irritating dog-like things. In addition to her deep-throated outbursts, she excavates what can only be described as caverns in our back yard. She sheds like no other dog I’ve known—and I’ve been on speaking terms with some pretty hairy mutts. But my wife would get rid of me before she’d part with her dog, and people who know us would side with Karin all the way.

This does raise a point. How much bother are people willing to put up with when it comes to dogs? It depends, of course, on whether the dog is yours… or your wife’s. Right now, I’m experiencing the downside of dog ownership. I’ve been making repairs around the house, and a lot of my work amounts to repairing dog-induced damage—dirt stains on the wall, gnawed trim molding, and eviscerated irrigation systems.

Much of this befell us during the dreaded puppy-period.

Photo of sleeping lab puppy

Yes, I know. Puppies are so cute. That’s why we put up with them. My own family has a branch that is presently intoxicated with their freshly minted fur-babies. These brave souls have two sweet female Labrador retrievers and both dogs just had puppies—21 in all. We visited them recently. The pups have just opened their eyes, and they are adorable…. But the pups are still small enough to be contained by an 18” tall pen. My aunt and uncle are smitten, but I fear for them. The writing—or gnawing—is soon to be on the wall.

These same puppy-loving people also have, as I pen these words, cultivated a stunningly beautiful garden. It’s the work of 30-years of planning and careful execution. They DON’T have a fenced, lawn area. I can only imagine what their beautiful landscaping will look like when they have 23 Marley-and-Me dogs dashing about.

I wish them well, and I hope they clear enough to cover the damages.

Then there’s my Dad. He went 50 years without a dog. He did own snakes for a while, and then he had Dottie, the world’s meanest cat. When Dottie passed last year, Dad swore he was done with cats.

Photo Dottie the angry cat

Then he bought two Yorkies.

RJ and Benji are so small that I’m surprised Dad can see them without his trifocals, and they’re too tiny to walk. So he picked up a garden-variety baby stroller, and then set out to make the ultimate poochmobile—special tubing, expensive alloy tubing and a re-engineered frame. He extended the handlebars, built a new undercarriage, and added oversized wheels.

This one-of-a-kind buggy cost ten-times the stroller’s original price.

But no matter. He’s so proud of his handiwork. He grins as he pushes the little critters around in their canine Cadillac. Dad was never the most talkative person, but now he stops and chats with strangers about their dogs. He oohs and ahhs over other people’s pets, claiming that they’re 2nd cutest dogs in the world—next to his, of course. And he’s become in just two short months, an authority on pooches.

Photo of Yorkie dog in stroller

“The best ones,” Dad asserts, “are part Yorkie.”

I don’t remember him making that much fuss over us.

Bother, it seems, is in the eye of the beholder. All dogs, big or small, seem to be loved by someone, but not by everyone.

I do understand.

If I lived alone, I doubt that I’d own a dog. Still, I don’t hate them, and I do take exception to anyone who would harm any animal that poses no threat.

So mystery marksman, Google my phone number. You can call me and complain. But it’s not cool to shoot at my wife’s dog. Because if anything ever happens to Lucy, I’ll see to it that your picture makes it into print. And I wouldn’t want to be you if that happened.

Mad-as-Hell-Marvin may still be out there.

##

To buy Robb’s books in either print or eBook format, visit Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iTunes, Kobo, Sony Store,  or any other major retail outlet.

I Married A Zookeeper – Or So It Seems

Photo of Karin with who-the-bird on her head

@robblightfoot

 

“Love bears all things,
believes all things,
hopes all things,
endures all things.”
I Corinthians 7

It’s not often that I’m asked for advice on matters of the heart. But recently, a family member—I’ll call her “Liz”—commented that her boyfriend was “driving her crazy,” and she asked how Karin and I managed to get along for so many years.

“We have a relationship based on total equality,” I said. “We take turns being annoying.”

“No, really?” Liz persisted. “How do you make it work?”

Hmmm, I thought. What does make love last? I thought about the many ups and downs in our 31-year-marriage. Going the distance can be exhilarating, daunting, and rewarding. But if I could offer just one tip, what would it be? I drew upon that time-honored source of wisdom, the Hollywood romantic comedy.

“Did you ever see ‘Fools Rush In,’” I asked.

“When did it come out?”

“Mid 90’s, maybe.”

“I was six.” Liz rolled her eyes.

“OK. So you were watching Pokémon. Anyway there’s a great scene where Matthew Perry tells Isabel Fuentes: ‘You’re everything I never knew I always wanted.’”

“Who’s Isabel Fuentes?”

“That’s not the point. The idea is that relationships shouldn’t be dull. They ought to be playful, offering surprises all along the way.”

“Like the time you brought home an orange Volvo?”

“Hey. It looked great next to my neon-green Bus,” I said. “Get the picture?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Liz shrugged, put on her headphones, and cranked up Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Phantom of the Opera, “Love Changes Everything.”

***

Does love change everything? Or, as Mom used to say, does it “make the world go round?” It must. I think of all that I’ve done in the name of love—things I did while shaking my head and saying “I can’t-believe-we’re doing this.”

And it all started on day-one.

The Honeymoon

Karin and I hadn’t been married 24 hours when she took my hand, looked me deeply in the eyes, and suggested we do something “a little bit crazy.”

“Ooh.” I said eagerly, “sounds good to me.”

“Great,” she smiled. “So let’s go to the animal shelter.”

Really? I thought. We’d agreed on politics, religion, and ‘family planning,’ but apparently I’d missed the memo on one of life’s bigger issues—pet ownership.

Karin then used a line I’ve come to hear many times since. “Let’s go…. Just for fun.”

What the hell, I thought naively. No harm taking a look.

A short time later we were the proud adoptive parents of a golden Chihuahua mix, courtesy the Monterey County Humane Society.  Since we got her on our honeymoon, we named her “Honey.”

Thus began our journey together as man-and-wife. The story can be recounted in many ways. There are the obvious benchmarks dates of kids’ birthdays, job changes, moves, graduations and such.

Today, for example, is the 31st anniversary of our wedding-by-the-lake.

But the calendar doesn’t reveal much. The REAL story of our time together is best told by reflecting back on the pets we’ve owned.

Married, Without Children

The last time I’d owned a dog was in the 8th grade. But marrying Karin brought a menagerie into my life. Honey wasn’t our only pet. We returned from our trip to the coast and took custody of “Romeo and Juliet”—the two meanest creatures ever to infest a cage. These peach-faced “love birds” were a wedding gift, and it wasn’t a question of IF they’d bite you, it was a matter of where and how badly. During our “angry bird” period, the local pharmacy saw its Band-Aides sales double. We finally ditched these little feathered agents of Satan, opting for something a tad bit friendlier, a cockatiel.

Cats came into the picture in the fourth month of life together. Around Halloween, a stray cat adopted us. We couldn’t afford to spay little “Tigger,” so we soon had a litter to dispose of. But they had to be wormed first. We had just enough cash to buy either a bottle of big pills, for adult cats, or a bottle of smaller pills for the kitties. We opted to get the small pills and give several doses to mom-cat.

I was the one dispensing the meds, and I can tell you that pushing more than one pill down an agitated feline is not conducive to leading a long and unpunctured life. About the third pill I lost my grip on Tigger, while one of my digits was still inserted in her mouth. The teeth penetrated clear to the bone.

That was the last time I ever medicated ANY of our critters.

Put Me In The Zoo – Children and Even More Pets

 

Unfortunately for me, all of our children inherited my wife’s love of animals. So they made a weekly pilgrimage to the pet store.

Two children an a small bird

We started the kids off with fish. I was told that little-fishies don’t live all that long, and so we’d be out of the critter business before you know it. The person who fed me this bald-faced lie worked at the pet store. I suspect he’s now a politician.

Fish did provide Karin and I our first practical lessons in parenting—provide each species with its own living space or watch the large devour the small. This is how we came to own a five-bedroom home.

Once we were through our fish-phase, we had leftover “habitats.” That’s how we came to have crabs, lizards, snakes, mice, rats, gerbils and even a guinea pig. Our kids’ bedrooms had more wildlife than some state parks.

Photo of boy and a frog

Most of these animals didn’t care for their tanks any more than I did. They expressed this opinion by escaping into the wilds of our front room. Little snowball the hamster disappeared into the couch one day, and provided the newest all-family game show: “Pet Rescue—Special Operations Unit.” This is where you spend an entire afternoon chasing a critter from one piece of furniture to the next, staying one step ahead of the cats, and dismantling each chair, book case or sofa without doing violence to little “Snowball.” If you think this sounds bad, the re-runs were worse.

Then there was the time that Shirley-the-invisible-gopher-snake went missing for a couple of days, terrifying our exchange student, until she was found wrapped around the TV.

The snake, that is.

Bigger but Not Better

As the kids grew, they wanted “real pets.” At one point all four of the kids had their own cat, and we became familiar with complex cat social-interactions. Basically, they all hated each other. This made for some interesting moments when each kid wanted to hold his-or-her cat and watch TV. But the most memorable “cat event” came when we returned from a six-week trip, and found the “Jasmine” had been locked in the house. Fortunately, a neighbor forced entry and saved the frazzled feline, but not before she attempted to burrow to safety through the carpeting. This made our return something less than magical, and I wondered aloud to anyone who’d listen.

Pets…. why do we do this to ourselves?

All of our animals wanted to live in the great outdoors except, of course, for those that were specifically intended to stay outdoors. We had free-range chickens that would dash into the house whenever they could, probably because the kids would sneak them in to sleep with them. One bird in particular, Henny-Penny, was adamant about bolting into the garage to lay her eggs in our laundry basket. We usually indulged this, but one morning the bird was forgotten until Karin heard it squawking and beating its wings against the garage door.

Karin let her in, and the bird dropped its egg the second she reached the basket. Upon inspection, we noticed that the egg had a ring around it—a pressure ridge—from being held in place while she waited.

Poor Henny.

Photo - Amanda and Nicole with chicken

Dogs, A Woman’s Best Friend

But through all this time, the most notable, steadfast and loyal pets were our dogs. For 25 years we had collies. We got our first, “Candy,” just before our oldest child was born. She was the dog that our kids grew up with. She, and the later ones, belonged to everyone in theory. But as soon as they needed fed, or the yard cleaned up, well, then the dogs were like the secret agents on Mission Impossible—everyone disavowed knowledge of their existence.

Photo of Robb trying to nap while covered with puppies

Everyone… except Karin. She loved those critters enough to make sure they were cared for. Yes, we did work with the kids on responsible-pet-ownership. But it was a losing battle. During our kid’s teen years, I’m not sure I’d trust them with a Pet Rock.

So one-by-one the pooches all became “Mom’s dogs.” Not only did she tend to them, she took them through obedience school, some multiple times. Often, they minded far better than the kids.

The Almost-Empty Nest

As the kids moved out, the animal population fell off. The fish are gone, the hamsters and rats are departed, ditto the birds. There’s a few cats hanging on, but even so, I assumed that the day would come when I’d outlive the last of the cats, and we’d live in an animal-free zone. I hoped we could re-discover what color our carpeting really is once you strip away the fossilized layers of fur.

I’m pretty sure it’s not tan-and-white.

But then fate intervened. Three years ago, we were in the mountains, sightseeing, when we came upon the Siskiyou’s County Animal Shelter.

“Let’s go in.” Karin turned on her biggest smile, “just for fun.”

I laughed. “Sure,” I said. “But we’re NOT going home with anything.” I felt a false sense of confidence. After all, we still had a dog, Gracie.

“Of course not,” Karin agreed.

We toured the facility, a tidy but noisy place.

“Isn’t it sad,” Karin shook her head.  “What will happen if they don’t get homes?”

Karin lingered before one cage. It held what can only be described as full-grown love-child of a pony and a polar bear. It ambled over to us, laid its head against the cage, and began licking Karin’s fingers. A shelter worker sidled up to us while Karin and I looked.

“Her name’s Lucy,” the worker said.

“What’s wrong with her neck?” Karin pointed to a drainage tube protruding from a bulge.

“She was a mess when we got her. Looked like she’d been in a fight. We also found a dead puppy stuck in her birth canal.”

Karin looked shocked.

“Yeah,” the worker continued. “Lucy would have been a goner if the vet hadn’t worked on her.”

Karin continued to pet Lucy, and I retreated over into cat-land, hoping she’d follow me.

But she didn’t.

True to her word, though, Karin left Lucy, and we drove home. This could be the end of this story, except that, about a week later, a snowstorm just happened to descended upon Shasta. One of our daughters, Rebecca, just happened to need a ride through the bad weather to a wedding in Mt. Shasta, so we just happened to bring Karin’s little Subaru wagon back to Siskiyou county. And, with to kill time, we just happened to drive by the shelter.

“I wonder if Lucy’s still there,” Karin said.

“Lucy who?”

Karin looked at me with that you’re-not-fooling-anybody look.

“Just for fun?” I asked.

Karin bit her lip, and reached over for my hand.

So we pulled into the lot, and walked to the shelter. There, sitting in the lobby, without a tube or a bugling neck, sat Lucy. She was nuzzling another dog. The shelter worker recognized us.

“You’re back.”

“And look who’s still here,” Karin said, ruffling Lucy’s thick fur, “out of her cage, too.”

“She’s our temperament tester,” the worker said. “She gets along with everyone.”

“I’ll bet Gracie would love to have a companion,” Karin said, looking at me. “Now that the kids are gone, I think she’s lonely.”

I crossed my arms.

“It’s a bad idea,” I said.

Karin looked away.

“One of these days you’re going to want to travel,” I said.

“We can get a house-sitter,” she said quietly.

I groaned, and then watched as Lucy leaned against Karin, who bent down to rub the dog’s nose. Lucy planted a big dog-kiss on her cheek. Lucy then tilted her head, fixing her big, brown doe-like eyes on me.

“Have you ever seen a dog like this before?” Karin asked.

“You sure it’s a dog?”

The shelter worker, smelling a potential placement, jumped in.

“She’s part Great Pyrenees, and part Anatolian Shepherd,” the worker said.

Karin stood, quietly rubbing the dog for a long, long time. She finally spoke.

“It’s crazy, but I love Lucy.”

I sighed. “I know.”

“But we don’t have to,” Karin said.

“I know.” I said.

“But I think you’ll love her, too.” Karin said.

“I know.” I said, walked over and patted the dog. “She’s everything I never knew I always wanted.”

“You’re a softie,” Karin said. So I wrote a check for $82 to the shelter—a dollar a pound—and the three of us left together.

We returned to pick up our daughter, having bopped around for several hours.

“What have you two been up to?” Rebecca asked.

Karin beamed. “Look in the back of the car.”

The windows were steamed up, but she could see a large animal moving about.

“What’s THAT?” Rebecca asked.

“That’s Lucy,” I said. “We’re moving her into your bedroom.”

Of course Lucy didn’t get her own bedroom—yet. But she’s been a part of the family now for years, and has brought us all a lot of joy.

Photo of our dog Lucy, waiting for a walk by the front door

Messy? Yes. She sheds, and her fur could carpet an entire ski-slope.

Bothersome? Only when she’s digging swimming-pool sized holes in the back yard or eating wooden mini-blinds.

Would we have her if I’d “put my foot down?” Probably not.

But there’s one thing I have learned from living with an avid animal lover, a woman who can forgive pets and people just about anything this side of violent behavior, is that love is all that the “good book” says. It’s patient, kind, and keeps no accounts. And Hollywood’s Matthew Perry got it right, too, the best parts of life are often those that you didn’t see coming.

Just don’t be surprised if they arrived covered with feathers or fur.

**

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Piles of Procrastination – Confessions from the Clutter Capitol of the Free World – @robblightfoot

First a reminder – #Free #Kindle download this Friday and Saturday, May 3-4 over at #Amazon. Click here to see it – The Doggone Christmas List.

This week’s column

Karin may have crammed the garage with furniture, but I own the mess that is our office. Half of the stuff in there are piles of notes to myself that I don’t remember writing.

What does it all MEAN?

Click here to read on.

Note to self on a yellow pad - but why did I write it?