Woof!
Dance Banquet
5 hours ago
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Two Wraps and Hooie
About two miles from our house, there is a nice pond. The trail behind our house meanders through a community park, and we often walk our dogs along this path to the pond and back. On a warm morning, one Saturday last spring, my wife, our two Weimaraners, Klaus and Zander, and I headed toward the pond.
I was still healing from a crash on the hi-wheeled bike. Both my hands protected my face during a fall off the bike, and both wrists were a bit gimpy. With 80 pounds of joyful dog on a thirty-foot leash, I had my hands full. Sensing that I was not completely in control, Zander pulled and tugged and made the walk uncomfortable. He was not his usual well-behaved self. The walk started as a pain in the "wrist". I was a grump!
With Peggy and Klaus in the lead, Zander and I trailed behind. Each of us was trying to control the other. After what seemed like forever, we made it to the steep bank of the pond. As we topped the crest, a duck waddled out from under a willow tree, saw Zander and headed toward the safety of open water. Zander lurched, and I toppled head-over-heels down the slope. Thinking that I would be dragged into the pond, I let go of the leash -- late. I stopped my head-long plunge just at the water's edge and just in time to witness an insolent duck quack at the mastery of his escape, only to be surprised that the dog was swimming only a tail feather away.
I picked myself up. Mud and duck poop dripped off my clothes. The duck was already halfway across the pond. Zander was in hot pursuit. I scanned the pond's edge looking for the best place to recover Zander. To my surprise, there was a kid's catch-and-release fishing derby in progress. In my tormented state, I imagined that the kids were cheering for the duck, while the dads were hoping (betting) that the dog would catch the duck. With muck dripping from a shirt-sleeve, I chose a direction and ran around the pond to intercept Zander. Zander and I reached the far edge of the pond at about the same time. He was startled by seeing me and ran through a family, startled by the action at their feet. To save a small child from possible injury by the trailing leash, I aimed a flying tackle in the general direction of Zander. I missed the dog but caught the middle of his leash. I clenched my fists and held fast. Zander ran around me twice. Spying another duck, he headed back toward the pond. The dog must have gone between my legs, because the next thing I knew I was down on the ground with arms tied to my ankles. Two wraps and a hooie -- I was roped like a calf at a rodeo.
A neighbor ran over, leaned down at face level and told me that what he had just seen was the funniest thing he had seen in a long time. Peggy ran over and in the calmest voice she could muster said, "Did you know you have grass stain on your shorts?"
I know that across the neighborhood, dinnertime conversations were brimming with the re-telling of the story of the old guy, his dog, and a duck. You can rest assured there was little talk of the fish that got away.
I was still healing from a crash on the hi-wheeled bike. Both my hands protected my face during a fall off the bike, and both wrists were a bit gimpy. With 80 pounds of joyful dog on a thirty-foot leash, I had my hands full. Sensing that I was not completely in control, Zander pulled and tugged and made the walk uncomfortable. He was not his usual well-behaved self. The walk started as a pain in the "wrist". I was a grump!
With Peggy and Klaus in the lead, Zander and I trailed behind. Each of us was trying to control the other. After what seemed like forever, we made it to the steep bank of the pond. As we topped the crest, a duck waddled out from under a willow tree, saw Zander and headed toward the safety of open water. Zander lurched, and I toppled head-over-heels down the slope. Thinking that I would be dragged into the pond, I let go of the leash -- late. I stopped my head-long plunge just at the water's edge and just in time to witness an insolent duck quack at the mastery of his escape, only to be surprised that the dog was swimming only a tail feather away.
I picked myself up. Mud and duck poop dripped off my clothes. The duck was already halfway across the pond. Zander was in hot pursuit. I scanned the pond's edge looking for the best place to recover Zander. To my surprise, there was a kid's catch-and-release fishing derby in progress. In my tormented state, I imagined that the kids were cheering for the duck, while the dads were hoping (betting) that the dog would catch the duck. With muck dripping from a shirt-sleeve, I chose a direction and ran around the pond to intercept Zander. Zander and I reached the far edge of the pond at about the same time. He was startled by seeing me and ran through a family, startled by the action at their feet. To save a small child from possible injury by the trailing leash, I aimed a flying tackle in the general direction of Zander. I missed the dog but caught the middle of his leash. I clenched my fists and held fast. Zander ran around me twice. Spying another duck, he headed back toward the pond. The dog must have gone between my legs, because the next thing I knew I was down on the ground with arms tied to my ankles. Two wraps and a hooie -- I was roped like a calf at a rodeo.
A neighbor ran over, leaned down at face level and told me that what he had just seen was the funniest thing he had seen in a long time. Peggy ran over and in the calmest voice she could muster said, "Did you know you have grass stain on your shorts?"
I know that across the neighborhood, dinnertime conversations were brimming with the re-telling of the story of the old guy, his dog, and a duck. You can rest assured there was little talk of the fish that got away.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Famous Last Words
"But I don't know how to drive on ice."
"What better place or time than right now?" Dad said. His steady, confident voice encouraged, no insisted, that I give it a try.
It was midwinter in my formative years. You know that special time in one's life when a solo driver's license is less than six months away. Dad, Karl and I were on our way to hunt small game on a local military reservation. Karl, a German shorthaired pointer, was a good dog -- a friend, a companion, and a pretty good birder.
We were all in familiar territory, except for the pesky ice and slush on the dirt roads. Dad pulled over, we traded places on the broad bench seat of a 1963 International Harvester, model 1100 pick-up truck. I climbed behind the steering wheel of the mostly familiar vehicle. I had driven around the block and up to the local grocery store but only on dry pavement. The interior was Spartan -- a few levers and two knobs for a radio that did not work so well. Karl was in the bed of the truck, loosely chained, so he could not jump or fall out of the truck.
"What better place or time than right now?" Dad said. His steady, confident voice encouraged, no insisted, that I give it a try.
It was midwinter in my formative years. You know that special time in one's life when a solo driver's license is less than six months away. Dad, Karl and I were on our way to hunt small game on a local military reservation. Karl, a German shorthaired pointer, was a good dog -- a friend, a companion, and a pretty good birder.
We were all in familiar territory, except for the pesky ice and slush on the dirt roads. Dad pulled over, we traded places on the broad bench seat of a 1963 International Harvester, model 1100 pick-up truck. I climbed behind the steering wheel of the mostly familiar vehicle. I had driven around the block and up to the local grocery store but only on dry pavement. The interior was Spartan -- a few levers and two knobs for a radio that did not work so well. Karl was in the bed of the truck, loosely chained, so he could not jump or fall out of the truck.
After a couple of minutes of instruction, I started the engine, shifted the bent-stick floor shifter into first gear, revved the engine, and began letting out the clutch. The truck stalled. The second attempt worked better. The truck moved. I gunned the engine and the back tires threw a cascade of ice, snow, and mud into the air, making a rooster tail of spray in the general direction of the back of the truck. Meanwhile, the front of the truck was snaking down the road. With heart pounding, I let up on the throttle and a more peaceful motion ensued. During several circuits of a couple of quarter sections, I learned to turn left and right. I learned to make careful stops and less bodacious starts. I was driving on ice.
Then it happened. Dad asked me to find a place to park along side of the road. It was time to go hunting. I steered the truck to the right and started into a skid. I over compensated by jerking the steering wheel to the left, causing a more severe skid. Back to the right, then left, then right -- I must have fishtailed that truck for at least 200 yards. The tracks I left behind were most impressive. I ended up sliding into the ditch on the right side of the road -- parked. Dad shrugged, and off we went hiking into the woods. Karl was relieved to be out of the moving truck. I was relieved not to be driving. Dad was secretly grinning.
After a couple of hours in the woods we headed back to the truck for sandwiches and hot cocoa. I worried the whole time about how Dad would get the truck out of the ditch. Little did I know that since I got it there, I had to get it out! We put Karl back in the bed of the truck, and Dad put me back behind the wheel. I was taught how to rock the vehicle back and forth until the tires grabbed and pulled us out of the ditch. I shifted into low and began to pull forward. Karl looked into the cab though the back window and, seeing who was driving, lifted muzzle to sky and let out the most pitiful howl I have ever heard. It was not until I stopped, and Dad took over driving that Karl quit the continuous howling. With this lesson I earned Dad's respect, but it took a while to regain Karl's.
After a couple of hours in the woods we headed back to the truck for sandwiches and hot cocoa. I worried the whole time about how Dad would get the truck out of the ditch. Little did I know that since I got it there, I had to get it out! We put Karl back in the bed of the truck, and Dad put me back behind the wheel. I was taught how to rock the vehicle back and forth until the tires grabbed and pulled us out of the ditch. I shifted into low and began to pull forward. Karl looked into the cab though the back window and, seeing who was driving, lifted muzzle to sky and let out the most pitiful howl I have ever heard. It was not until I stopped, and Dad took over driving that Karl quit the continuous howling. With this lesson I earned Dad's respect, but it took a while to regain Karl's.
Friday, November 7, 2008
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