Tim and I love to walk. Rain or shine, hot or cold, we walk. At home, on vacation, visiting family or friends, we walk.
So when we were away for the weekend awhile back with some friends of ours, the four of us went out for...a walk.
It started out nicely, strolling through a neighborhood much like ours--wide streets, no sidewalks, houses far apart, lots of trees and other green stuff. "The country" as Rose likes to call it.
As we approached this one house, we noticed some dogs in the yard. Three dogs to be exact. Three really big dogs, who, when they spotted us, all went on high alert and began barking, and not in a "goody, goody, we love people" sort of way. More like in a "Ready boys? Let's get'em" sort of way.
But since they were at the top of a really really long driveway, and the owner was out in the yard, we weren't too worried. Deciding to err on the side of caution though, we shifted over to the far side of the street. Which only ticked off the dogs more.
Suddenly, as though someone had shouted, "Release the hounds!", 8000 pounds of Cujo and company came racing down the driveway, barking, growling and snapping like they had just spotted the fox...and it was us.
At first, we didn't panic, thinking that surely they would stop once they reached their property line. Surely they were trained, or there was one of those invisible fences, or...something, anything to save us from the jaws of death headed our way.
Time slowed down as we watched, horrified, while they seemed to be gaining speed as they neared the end of the driveway, instead of slowing down into a nice, non-threatening trot.
Pieces of Discovery Channel shows began flashing through my mind. Shark Week, Hogs Gone Wild, Man vs. Wild, those guys who live in a swamp. There had to be some useful bit of survival information that applied here. Why oh why hadn't I paid more attention, maybe Tivo or DVR'd it, taken some notes when I had the chance.
What did they say to do? Climb a tree, cover your head, swim fast, get under a table, carry a taser? I couldn't think.
"Stand still," someone said. "Don't run."
Yeah. Okay. The small part of my brain that wasn't running around screaming, "We're all going to die!" knew that that is what the so-called "experts" say, but when you are looking death in the jowls, that advice seems, what is the word I'm looking for? Oh yeah. STUPID. Sure, I'll just stand here and do nothing while the Hounds of the Baskervilles gnaw on my leg and rip off my arm.
Of course, the thought did cross my mind though that Tim was on my left, between me and Jaws, so maybe I had time to shimmy up a tree after all.
As we all stood there, petrified, a miraculous thing happened. The dogs skidded to a sudden halt at the edge of the driveway...or at least two of them did.
The third slowed down and looked over his shoulder at the other two like, "Come on, we can do this. What're you wimps stopping there for? Look. It's a four course meal and they're just standing there waiting to be eaten. Those fools have clearly fallen for the old "don't move" slogan our PR people put out. Saps. They should have run for their lives when they had the chance.
He then flew out into the road and headed straight for Tim, teeth snapping, spittle flying, ears pinned back. Hitchcock couldn't have come up with anything more terrifying. This dog made his birds look like they belonged in a Disney movie designing dresses and sweeping out the attic.
Tim apparently felt the same way, because the next thing I knew, he had completely discarded the common "don't move" wisdom and put a shield between himself and the dog. A human shield. Me.
One minute, he was on my left facing down The Beast. The next, he was waaay far on the other side of me. Wow. Somebodies fight or flight instinct kicked in. Way to go Galahad.
Before I could shove him in front of me once more though, the dog seemed to tire of the "terrorize the people" game he'd been playing, and with a final snap of teeth that really needed to be filed down, or pulled, he trotted off back to his buddies, tail in the air, chest all puffed out, patting himself on the back for a job well done.
Tim, of course, denies his actions to this day, and when we were once again "threatened" by a vicious monster a few weeks later as we walked around our neighborhood, he made a point of putting me behind him to alone bear the brunt of the deadly attack.
"Gee," I quipped, peering over his shoulder at the fearsome monster bearing down on us, "what was your first clue we were in danger again? Was it the way the poodle was wagging his tail as he ran over, or the slobbering kisses he's giving you?"
"You never know what will happen when a dog is charging," Tim defended himself, scratching "killer" behind the ear. "I didn't want you to get bitten."
My hero.
Showing posts with label animals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label animals. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
A Trip to the Farm
Last week, I visited my family in Pennsylvania. While I was there, my father ran over to my brother's house every day to take care of his four cats while my brother (Mike) was out of town on vacation. At one point, one of the cats went "missing" outside and all I could think of is...here we go again. How do we tell Mike this time?
Growing up, we'd always had a cat or two, but Mike wanted a bird (Hmm. Cat, bird...Sylvester, Tweety...pretty much everyone but Mike could see where this was going.), so he begged until my parents gave in.
Sure enough, the cat took one look at the bird and said, "Aww, for me? And it's not even my birthday." And then proceeded to do her level best to make him a distant memory.
If we didn't hang the cage from the ceiling, it was commonplace to enter a room and find the cat on top of the cage, sticking her paws through the bars and calling, "Her birdie, birdie, birdie."
Summer was the best season for that poor little thing because Mike could hang the cage in a cool, shady corner of the front porch and the cat was more interested in terrorizing easier prey like Alvin, Theodore and Simon. It worked well until the fourth of July, or the beginning of the end for the bird as we like to call it.
Every year, my dad and Mike would set off a few small fireworks on the street in front of our house. In a one-in-a-million, couldn't repeat it if we tried moment, one of the "rockets" went astray and shot sideways, just missing my mom's head as she sat on the porch steps, but zooming through the cage before crashing and dying.
It's hard to say who was more upset by the incident, my mom, the bird, Mike or my dad, but at least two of them survived without any deep psychological scars.
Long story short, little Polly was sent to a better home where his life was not constantly in danger of being snuffed out by a cat or an exploding device. Sadly, no one thought to add exterminator to the list and while my friend was at work one day...
With the resilience of youth, Mike moved on and a few years later adopted a stray cat. On a good day, this poor old thing looked like Rocky after going sixteen rounds with Apollo Creed. But he was sweet and loyal, and quite the guard dog as it turned out.
Nobody, but nobody got into our yard without Fred's approval. We had to escort unwary guests from their cars where he had them trapped or have them wait for one of us across the street as he patrolled back and forth across our lawn, tail up, chest thrust out and emitting a low growl, daring them to try and get past him.
No matter how many times we tried to convince him otherwise though, he always viewed the mailman as an enemy agent, bent on carrying out an evil plot that only Fred could foil. Day in, day out, this man took his life in his hands as he strove to fulfill his sworn duty, until one day when he had enough.
As reported by a neighbor, who gleefully watched the whole thing go down, the mailman brought along some protection in the form of his German shepard, stood across the street from Fred, who stuck out a claw and drew a line in the dirt, and ordered the dog to "sic 'em".
As the dog charged, Fred yawned, calmly inspected his cuticles, and when the behemoth got close enough, swiped his paw, nine-inch nails extended, across the dog's nose (or what used to be his nose). The dog cringed, whined, tucked his tail between his legs and bolted back to the mailman who, panic-stricken, threw the mail up in the air and man and dog took off up the street never to be seen again (seriously, we had to collect our mail from the neighbor for the next year and a half).
Fred the brave finally accepted a challenge one day that he lost (I believe it was with a semi) and my dad took him to the vet for one final visit.
Ten or fifteen years later, at a family dinner, we were reminiscing about our childhood when the subject of family pets came up. Naturally, we recounted the story of Fred, concluding that it had been a sad day when we'd had to put him down.
"What do you mean?" Mike interrupted, confusion written across his face. "Dad took Fred to live on a farm in the country."
Yeah, where he frolics with the Easter Bunny and Santa brings him a big bag of catnip every Christmas. Hellooo. The only farm Fred went to is the big one in the sky.
"Mike," I chided him, "you did not have a good track record with pets. Fred, your bird..."
"Wait. What happened to my bird? Didn't we give him to a good home?"
Yeah. On a farm.
Luckily, this time the cat returned and we didn't have to tell Mike that his cat had joined Fred and the bird on their farm.
Growing up, we'd always had a cat or two, but Mike wanted a bird (Hmm. Cat, bird...Sylvester, Tweety...pretty much everyone but Mike could see where this was going.), so he begged until my parents gave in.
Sure enough, the cat took one look at the bird and said, "Aww, for me? And it's not even my birthday." And then proceeded to do her level best to make him a distant memory.
If we didn't hang the cage from the ceiling, it was commonplace to enter a room and find the cat on top of the cage, sticking her paws through the bars and calling, "Her birdie, birdie, birdie."
Summer was the best season for that poor little thing because Mike could hang the cage in a cool, shady corner of the front porch and the cat was more interested in terrorizing easier prey like Alvin, Theodore and Simon. It worked well until the fourth of July, or the beginning of the end for the bird as we like to call it.
Every year, my dad and Mike would set off a few small fireworks on the street in front of our house. In a one-in-a-million, couldn't repeat it if we tried moment, one of the "rockets" went astray and shot sideways, just missing my mom's head as she sat on the porch steps, but zooming through the cage before crashing and dying.
It's hard to say who was more upset by the incident, my mom, the bird, Mike or my dad, but at least two of them survived without any deep psychological scars.
Long story short, little Polly was sent to a better home where his life was not constantly in danger of being snuffed out by a cat or an exploding device. Sadly, no one thought to add exterminator to the list and while my friend was at work one day...
With the resilience of youth, Mike moved on and a few years later adopted a stray cat. On a good day, this poor old thing looked like Rocky after going sixteen rounds with Apollo Creed. But he was sweet and loyal, and quite the guard dog as it turned out.
Nobody, but nobody got into our yard without Fred's approval. We had to escort unwary guests from their cars where he had them trapped or have them wait for one of us across the street as he patrolled back and forth across our lawn, tail up, chest thrust out and emitting a low growl, daring them to try and get past him.
No matter how many times we tried to convince him otherwise though, he always viewed the mailman as an enemy agent, bent on carrying out an evil plot that only Fred could foil. Day in, day out, this man took his life in his hands as he strove to fulfill his sworn duty, until one day when he had enough.
As reported by a neighbor, who gleefully watched the whole thing go down, the mailman brought along some protection in the form of his German shepard, stood across the street from Fred, who stuck out a claw and drew a line in the dirt, and ordered the dog to "sic 'em".
As the dog charged, Fred yawned, calmly inspected his cuticles, and when the behemoth got close enough, swiped his paw, nine-inch nails extended, across the dog's nose (or what used to be his nose). The dog cringed, whined, tucked his tail between his legs and bolted back to the mailman who, panic-stricken, threw the mail up in the air and man and dog took off up the street never to be seen again (seriously, we had to collect our mail from the neighbor for the next year and a half).
Fred the brave finally accepted a challenge one day that he lost (I believe it was with a semi) and my dad took him to the vet for one final visit.
Ten or fifteen years later, at a family dinner, we were reminiscing about our childhood when the subject of family pets came up. Naturally, we recounted the story of Fred, concluding that it had been a sad day when we'd had to put him down.
"What do you mean?" Mike interrupted, confusion written across his face. "Dad took Fred to live on a farm in the country."
Yeah, where he frolics with the Easter Bunny and Santa brings him a big bag of catnip every Christmas. Hellooo. The only farm Fred went to is the big one in the sky.
"Mike," I chided him, "you did not have a good track record with pets. Fred, your bird..."
"Wait. What happened to my bird? Didn't we give him to a good home?"
Yeah. On a farm.
Luckily, this time the cat returned and we didn't have to tell Mike that his cat had joined Fred and the bird on their farm.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
The Birds and the Bees
This year for vacation, Tim and I went to Hawaii. The island, the people, the beaches, I loved. The birds and the bees I could have done without.
First of all, there are like seven hundred million of those tiny, little sparrows per square inch, and they all want whatever you are eating. Since most of the restaurants there tend to be "open air", mealtime is like being an extra in a Hitchcock movie.
One of the first nights there, we noticed a mist being sprayed every couple of minutes from the trees above the restaurant. A cooling water vapor to help customers beat the heat? Nope. Insect spray to protect from mosquito bites? Uh uh. Grapeseed extract to keep the birds away. Who knew that birds hated grapes? Not the birds.
Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell them that they were supposed to be repelled by it because they pretty much soared right through the spray and flocked to the restaurant like K-Mart shoppers to a blue light special on toilet paper in aisle three.
From our first morning at breakfast where we decided to have the buffet, we had to guard every morsel that we put in out mouths from the birds. Leaving our unattended coffee on the table, we wandered off to graze. Fresh pineapple? Pineapple danish? Pineapple juice? Maybe the papaya or hey, pineapple/papaya juice? Decisions, decisions.
Returning to the table, we were greeted by fifteen dozen birds or so literally lining the table and chairs all eagerly peeping and craning their little birdy necks to see what yummy treat we had brought for them. While Tim grabbed his napkin and charged the table like a marine hitting the beach at Normandy, I anxiously peered into my coffee cup, hoping none of the little rascals had decided to use it as a hot tub, while simultaneously wondering if bird poop sinks or floats.
The following mornings, Tim kept requesting a table "in the back away from the birds." Yeah. Because the invisible force field running through the middle of the restaurant guaranteed they couldn't get past the first few rows of tables. Right.
I believe it was the third day where one persistent little fellow landed at our table and hopped over to me with a definite, "you gonna finish that muffin?" gleam in his eye.
Tim waved his Wall Street Journal at him. He flipped Tim off. Tim stood up and shook his napkin at him. The bird rose in the air, circled the table once, landed in exactly the same spot and favored Tim with a "Oh please. Did you think you could get rid of me that easily?" look.
Tim grabbed the newspaper again, and made a few matador-like moves before jabbing it at the bird like a sword. My hero. The bird laughed and edged closer to my plate.
Before Tim could go all Don Quixote on him though, the people next to us left, abandoning an entire half of a cinnamon roll which must have looked better than my muffin, or at least been easier pickings. I swear, though, that as I saw him rise into the air, he extended the middle toe of his foot toward Tim.
All in all, birds are so much cuter when they are animated and helping some mice make a ball gown.
As bad as they were though, they were nothing compared to the bees. They are definitely cuter when they are animated, not to mention a lot less painful.
About halfway through our trip, we had dinner at a romantic, candlelit restaurant on a beautiful, private beach overlooking the ocean. It was perfect, and I'm sure I would have really enjoyed it had I not spent a good portion of the time in too much pain to care about such trivial things as moonlight and roses.
Arriving early, we were escorted to the bar to wait for our table. No sooner had we sat down then I felt a little prickle on my back. Thinking it was the elastic gather from my dress, I reached back and gave it a tug only to feel a BIG prickle.
"I think I've been stung," I gasped to Tim.
"What? Where?" He could see nothing on the back of my dress.
The line of fire moving down my side convinced me I was right, and I headed for the nearest restroom. Fortunately, there only seemed to be one other person in a stall, so I eased the one side of my dress down to see and angry red mark with a wicked-looking stinger protruding from its center. So much for romance.
As I stood there trying in vain to reach it, the bee plopped out of my top and into the sink. I'm sure the older woman coming out of the stall was a bit disconcerted to find a half-dressed woman leaning over the sink yelling, "Die, you miserable cur! Die!", but all she said was, "You should get some Benadryl" before tottering off.
Well, and thanks for all your help. No, no. Don't worry about the stinger the size of a harpoon sticking out of my back, pumping poison through my system. Clearly, your third martini is calling you. I'll be fine.
Clutching my back which was now swelling up like the Elephant Man, I stumbled back out to the bar and begged Tim to order me a really large drink, because I was so not having him pull out the stinger without some anesthesia. The bartender offered to let us use the manager's office for the operation and gave us some gel to rub on the spot. I would rather had been offered a second martini.
It was the birds though that got the last laugh. On our final night there, we had dinner at a charming little restaurant in yet another beautiful, romantic setting. Afterwards, we strolled onto a bridge overlooking a koi pond and watched the fish lazily swim back and forth.
"Look," Tim said, "there's a perfect spider web stretching across the pond, glistening."
"Where?" I strained to see it (although why either one of us thought I wanted to see a giant spider web I'm still puzzling out.)
"Right there," He pointed.
Unable to see it from where I was standing, I crossed to the opposite side of him, leaned forward over the railing, and put my hands down in a nice, fresh pile of bird poop!
Yeah. Gotta love those birds and bees.
First of all, there are like seven hundred million of those tiny, little sparrows per square inch, and they all want whatever you are eating. Since most of the restaurants there tend to be "open air", mealtime is like being an extra in a Hitchcock movie.
One of the first nights there, we noticed a mist being sprayed every couple of minutes from the trees above the restaurant. A cooling water vapor to help customers beat the heat? Nope. Insect spray to protect from mosquito bites? Uh uh. Grapeseed extract to keep the birds away. Who knew that birds hated grapes? Not the birds.
Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell them that they were supposed to be repelled by it because they pretty much soared right through the spray and flocked to the restaurant like K-Mart shoppers to a blue light special on toilet paper in aisle three.
From our first morning at breakfast where we decided to have the buffet, we had to guard every morsel that we put in out mouths from the birds. Leaving our unattended coffee on the table, we wandered off to graze. Fresh pineapple? Pineapple danish? Pineapple juice? Maybe the papaya or hey, pineapple/papaya juice? Decisions, decisions.
Returning to the table, we were greeted by fifteen dozen birds or so literally lining the table and chairs all eagerly peeping and craning their little birdy necks to see what yummy treat we had brought for them. While Tim grabbed his napkin and charged the table like a marine hitting the beach at Normandy, I anxiously peered into my coffee cup, hoping none of the little rascals had decided to use it as a hot tub, while simultaneously wondering if bird poop sinks or floats.
The following mornings, Tim kept requesting a table "in the back away from the birds." Yeah. Because the invisible force field running through the middle of the restaurant guaranteed they couldn't get past the first few rows of tables. Right.
I believe it was the third day where one persistent little fellow landed at our table and hopped over to me with a definite, "you gonna finish that muffin?" gleam in his eye.
Tim waved his Wall Street Journal at him. He flipped Tim off. Tim stood up and shook his napkin at him. The bird rose in the air, circled the table once, landed in exactly the same spot and favored Tim with a "Oh please. Did you think you could get rid of me that easily?" look.
Tim grabbed the newspaper again, and made a few matador-like moves before jabbing it at the bird like a sword. My hero. The bird laughed and edged closer to my plate.
Before Tim could go all Don Quixote on him though, the people next to us left, abandoning an entire half of a cinnamon roll which must have looked better than my muffin, or at least been easier pickings. I swear, though, that as I saw him rise into the air, he extended the middle toe of his foot toward Tim.
All in all, birds are so much cuter when they are animated and helping some mice make a ball gown.
As bad as they were though, they were nothing compared to the bees. They are definitely cuter when they are animated, not to mention a lot less painful.
About halfway through our trip, we had dinner at a romantic, candlelit restaurant on a beautiful, private beach overlooking the ocean. It was perfect, and I'm sure I would have really enjoyed it had I not spent a good portion of the time in too much pain to care about such trivial things as moonlight and roses.
Arriving early, we were escorted to the bar to wait for our table. No sooner had we sat down then I felt a little prickle on my back. Thinking it was the elastic gather from my dress, I reached back and gave it a tug only to feel a BIG prickle.
"I think I've been stung," I gasped to Tim.
"What? Where?" He could see nothing on the back of my dress.
The line of fire moving down my side convinced me I was right, and I headed for the nearest restroom. Fortunately, there only seemed to be one other person in a stall, so I eased the one side of my dress down to see and angry red mark with a wicked-looking stinger protruding from its center. So much for romance.
As I stood there trying in vain to reach it, the bee plopped out of my top and into the sink. I'm sure the older woman coming out of the stall was a bit disconcerted to find a half-dressed woman leaning over the sink yelling, "Die, you miserable cur! Die!", but all she said was, "You should get some Benadryl" before tottering off.
Well, and thanks for all your help. No, no. Don't worry about the stinger the size of a harpoon sticking out of my back, pumping poison through my system. Clearly, your third martini is calling you. I'll be fine.
Clutching my back which was now swelling up like the Elephant Man, I stumbled back out to the bar and begged Tim to order me a really large drink, because I was so not having him pull out the stinger without some anesthesia. The bartender offered to let us use the manager's office for the operation and gave us some gel to rub on the spot. I would rather had been offered a second martini.
It was the birds though that got the last laugh. On our final night there, we had dinner at a charming little restaurant in yet another beautiful, romantic setting. Afterwards, we strolled onto a bridge overlooking a koi pond and watched the fish lazily swim back and forth.
"Look," Tim said, "there's a perfect spider web stretching across the pond, glistening."
"Where?" I strained to see it (although why either one of us thought I wanted to see a giant spider web I'm still puzzling out.)
"Right there," He pointed.
Unable to see it from where I was standing, I crossed to the opposite side of him, leaned forward over the railing, and put my hands down in a nice, fresh pile of bird poop!
Yeah. Gotta love those birds and bees.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Call of the Wild
Tim and I love animals. We've been kissed by dolphins, hugged koala bears and even petted stingrays. And then we go home and leave the animals where they belong...far away from us. This past weekend though, there was to be no escape.
It all started when we checked into a desert resort in Arizona. Instead of the rooms being attached to the main lodge, they were scattered throughout acres of desert in little clusters of four or five joined by long winding paths lined with every possible desert plant and animal imaginable.
Upon arrival, we were enchanted by the sight of dozens of cute, furry little jackrabbits hippity-hopping among the cacti. We thrilled to a pair of Gila monsters sunning themselves on a somewhat distant rock. We didn't even flinch when a random little lizard scurried across the path in front of us. Our room had huge sliding glass doors onto a balcony, all the better to view the desert set against the dramatic backdrop of a mountain of boulders.
It was perfect...until we stepped outside later that evening to hear the peaceful desert night shattered by the loudest, most ear-piercing screams I have ever heard. Concerned that someone was being murdered, we asked the staff if they shouldn't be calling 911 instead of standing around idly chatting with guests. They assured us it was nothing to worry about, just the resident owl on his nightly quest for a duck dinner. He had already eaten eighteen of the twenty on the grounds and was gunning for the other two. Ewwww. Looking up, we saw the huge behemoth in question perched atop one of the boulders (living proof that duck is not a low-calorie meal). Great. That sound ought to soothe us to sleep. Turns out, he was only the opening act.
At approximately 5:30 am, we were woken up by what sounded like a small rhino scuttling back and forth across our roof. This continued for several moments until a sudden period of silence which was then followed by something even bigger tip-tapping its way back and forth. We weren't sure if Mr. Tip-tap scared off the first fellow or ate him, but we were afraid to go out on our balcony and look up. Our main concern at that point was whether the ceiling beams would hold.
About this time, every bird in the southwest woke up and visited the resort to compete in the all-aviary version of American Idol. They each tried to out-chirp, out-sing and out-squawk each other all at the same time.
Giving up hope of ever sleeping again in the near future, we decided to have breakfast. Tim sensibly opted to eat his in the more civilized way...sitting on a comfy leather chair in front of the TV. I, on the other hand, seemed to have lost my mind and decided to have mine on our balcony (I was really hoping whatever horrific creature had been terrorizing us earlier did not suffer the light of day gladly).
I had just finished my lovely fruit and yogurt plate and was reaching for the silver lid to put back on the plate (some of those noisy little birds looked kinda hungry) when suddenly, out of nowhere, an enormous cardinal came swooping in to land in my yogurt and finish my slice of date bread. Lifting the lid like a shield to protect myself from this clearly deranged and possibly dangerous wild animal, I yelled for Tim while the cardinal hoovered the bread into himself all the while having the nerve to scold me at the top of his lungs for not leaving some of the banana bread as well. (FYI, he did not respond to "shoo", "get", or "go away", and he looked really mean, or ticked off.)
Tim, of course, safe and secure inside was not about to come to my rescue. This apparently was better than watching Jack Hanna getting peed on by some kind of giant rodent on the Tonight Show.
Eventually, the bird had his fill and I was able to escape back into the safety of our room and berate Tim for his failure to ride his white horse to my rescue.
Ah, but I did manage to get the last laugh though when Tin had a close encounter of his own on the golf course.
While on the eighth hole, he hit his ball into a gully near an area of dense desert "forest". Going down to take his shot, he apparently came a bit too close to where a family of wild pigs had set up housekeeping. Believing Tim was a threat to his new little baby, the very large, very angry daddy Havalina let out an ear-splitting shriek and charged out of the underbrush.
Seeing this prehistoric-looking pig barrelling toward him, Tim made the split second decision to abandon his ball and scrambled up out of that gully with all the speed and agility of a racehorse in the final stretch at the Kentucky Derby.
Fortunately for him, the pig abandoned the chase, but the next morning when we were again awakened by a cacophony of assorted wild animal calls, we looked out our window and there, right off our balcony, was an entire herd of the Havalinas.
I don't know how they found him, but we got the message. We packed our bags and took the first plane out of town back to the city where it is quiet.
It all started when we checked into a desert resort in Arizona. Instead of the rooms being attached to the main lodge, they were scattered throughout acres of desert in little clusters of four or five joined by long winding paths lined with every possible desert plant and animal imaginable.
Upon arrival, we were enchanted by the sight of dozens of cute, furry little jackrabbits hippity-hopping among the cacti. We thrilled to a pair of Gila monsters sunning themselves on a somewhat distant rock. We didn't even flinch when a random little lizard scurried across the path in front of us. Our room had huge sliding glass doors onto a balcony, all the better to view the desert set against the dramatic backdrop of a mountain of boulders.
It was perfect...until we stepped outside later that evening to hear the peaceful desert night shattered by the loudest, most ear-piercing screams I have ever heard. Concerned that someone was being murdered, we asked the staff if they shouldn't be calling 911 instead of standing around idly chatting with guests. They assured us it was nothing to worry about, just the resident owl on his nightly quest for a duck dinner. He had already eaten eighteen of the twenty on the grounds and was gunning for the other two. Ewwww. Looking up, we saw the huge behemoth in question perched atop one of the boulders (living proof that duck is not a low-calorie meal). Great. That sound ought to soothe us to sleep. Turns out, he was only the opening act.
At approximately 5:30 am, we were woken up by what sounded like a small rhino scuttling back and forth across our roof. This continued for several moments until a sudden period of silence which was then followed by something even bigger tip-tapping its way back and forth. We weren't sure if Mr. Tip-tap scared off the first fellow or ate him, but we were afraid to go out on our balcony and look up. Our main concern at that point was whether the ceiling beams would hold.
About this time, every bird in the southwest woke up and visited the resort to compete in the all-aviary version of American Idol. They each tried to out-chirp, out-sing and out-squawk each other all at the same time.
Giving up hope of ever sleeping again in the near future, we decided to have breakfast. Tim sensibly opted to eat his in the more civilized way...sitting on a comfy leather chair in front of the TV. I, on the other hand, seemed to have lost my mind and decided to have mine on our balcony (I was really hoping whatever horrific creature had been terrorizing us earlier did not suffer the light of day gladly).
I had just finished my lovely fruit and yogurt plate and was reaching for the silver lid to put back on the plate (some of those noisy little birds looked kinda hungry) when suddenly, out of nowhere, an enormous cardinal came swooping in to land in my yogurt and finish my slice of date bread. Lifting the lid like a shield to protect myself from this clearly deranged and possibly dangerous wild animal, I yelled for Tim while the cardinal hoovered the bread into himself all the while having the nerve to scold me at the top of his lungs for not leaving some of the banana bread as well. (FYI, he did not respond to "shoo", "get", or "go away", and he looked really mean, or ticked off.)
Tim, of course, safe and secure inside was not about to come to my rescue. This apparently was better than watching Jack Hanna getting peed on by some kind of giant rodent on the Tonight Show.
Eventually, the bird had his fill and I was able to escape back into the safety of our room and berate Tim for his failure to ride his white horse to my rescue.
Ah, but I did manage to get the last laugh though when Tin had a close encounter of his own on the golf course.
While on the eighth hole, he hit his ball into a gully near an area of dense desert "forest". Going down to take his shot, he apparently came a bit too close to where a family of wild pigs had set up housekeeping. Believing Tim was a threat to his new little baby, the very large, very angry daddy Havalina let out an ear-splitting shriek and charged out of the underbrush.
Seeing this prehistoric-looking pig barrelling toward him, Tim made the split second decision to abandon his ball and scrambled up out of that gully with all the speed and agility of a racehorse in the final stretch at the Kentucky Derby.
Fortunately for him, the pig abandoned the chase, but the next morning when we were again awakened by a cacophony of assorted wild animal calls, we looked out our window and there, right off our balcony, was an entire herd of the Havalinas.
I don't know how they found him, but we got the message. We packed our bags and took the first plane out of town back to the city where it is quiet.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Barking Mad
This week, we are dog-sitting for a few months...er, weeks...er, days. He is a very cute and extremely friendly little Yorkie who likes long walks in the park, meeting new people, kissing (you learn to be on guard, or go through a lot of Listerine) and playing with his big, pink bear. What he doesn't like is being dognapped.
He watched his mom pack. He saw her leave with two suitcases. And yet, when we showed up to "rescue" him, he decided, deep in that fuzzy little brain, that we were stealing him from his mom, and therefore,somebody must pay.
5pm A good long walk to tire him out (he was okay with that)
6pm A car ride (still okay as long as he gets to ride up front in his car seat. S-P-O-I-L-E-D)
6:30pm Arrive at our house. Cook dinner(hot dogs on the grill). The barking begins (maybe hot dogs were a poor choice)
7pm Feed dog; eat dinner. The barking continues. Knowing I, step-mommy dearest, won't give him "people food" (I dealt with the constipation and extremely unpleasant resolution to the problem last time, he targets Tim, the "weak link", to be the sole ( I wish) recipient of each loud, shrill yip amd yap.
7:30pm Still barking at Tim, jumping up on ottoman to go (psycho) mano a mano as Tim tries to watch TV.
8pm Barking continues. Now barking at counter where treats are, then barking at Tim.
8:30pm Bark! Tim's head explodes. Brain matter all over walls. I take dog for a long walk. Tim goes on hour-long, fruitless search for puppy training pads at CVS, Safeway, etc.
9:30pm We all return home. Barking resumes.
10pm Ten minute walk. Pees on car tire of neighbor while barking at another dog.
10:30 Bed. Barking stops. He has decided to forgive Tim. Kissing starts.
11pm Finally, kissing stops. Single woof.
11:11pm Single woof.
11:12pm Single woof.
11:13pm Single woof. (Okay, okay, we'll spill the top secret info. Just make it stop!)
11:15pm Worn out by the previous activities, he sleeps.
3:30am Woof! Doogie downers, anyone?
4am Woof! "Shut up!"
4:30am Woof! and kisses. "Go away!" Threats are issued.
5am Dogs next door bark. Guess who responds. Yelling. Cursing. Barking.
5:30am Woof! Dire threats are issued.
6am Neighbors bark. We respond. Again. Cursing. Threats. Again.
7am Everyone up! Time for a walk and breakfast.
7:30am Tim eats. Barking starts (continues?)
8am Tim showers. Dog hurls himself at shower door, bathroom door, bedroom door, whatever door is available and between himself and his target, barking all the while.
8:30am Tim leaves for work. Dog collapses on floor and goes to sleep. Rests voice for when Tim returns home.
7pm Tim returns home from work. Round two begins..........?!?!?
He watched his mom pack. He saw her leave with two suitcases. And yet, when we showed up to "rescue" him, he decided, deep in that fuzzy little brain, that we were stealing him from his mom, and therefore,somebody must pay.
5pm A good long walk to tire him out (he was okay with that)
6pm A car ride (still okay as long as he gets to ride up front in his car seat. S-P-O-I-L-E-D)
6:30pm Arrive at our house. Cook dinner(hot dogs on the grill). The barking begins (maybe hot dogs were a poor choice)
7pm Feed dog; eat dinner. The barking continues. Knowing I, step-mommy dearest, won't give him "people food" (I dealt with the constipation and extremely unpleasant resolution to the problem last time, he targets Tim, the "weak link", to be the sole ( I wish) recipient of each loud, shrill yip amd yap.
7:30pm Still barking at Tim, jumping up on ottoman to go (psycho) mano a mano as Tim tries to watch TV.
8pm Barking continues. Now barking at counter where treats are, then barking at Tim.
8:30pm Bark! Tim's head explodes. Brain matter all over walls. I take dog for a long walk. Tim goes on hour-long, fruitless search for puppy training pads at CVS, Safeway, etc.
9:30pm We all return home. Barking resumes.
10pm Ten minute walk. Pees on car tire of neighbor while barking at another dog.
10:30 Bed. Barking stops. He has decided to forgive Tim. Kissing starts.
11pm Finally, kissing stops. Single woof.
11:11pm Single woof.
11:12pm Single woof.
11:13pm Single woof. (Okay, okay, we'll spill the top secret info. Just make it stop!)
11:15pm Worn out by the previous activities, he sleeps.
3:30am Woof! Doogie downers, anyone?
4am Woof! "Shut up!"
4:30am Woof! and kisses. "Go away!" Threats are issued.
5am Dogs next door bark. Guess who responds. Yelling. Cursing. Barking.
5:30am Woof! Dire threats are issued.
6am Neighbors bark. We respond. Again. Cursing. Threats. Again.
7am Everyone up! Time for a walk and breakfast.
7:30am Tim eats. Barking starts (continues?)
8am Tim showers. Dog hurls himself at shower door, bathroom door, bedroom door, whatever door is available and between himself and his target, barking all the while.
8:30am Tim leaves for work. Dog collapses on floor and goes to sleep. Rests voice for when Tim returns home.
7pm Tim returns home from work. Round two begins..........?!?!?
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