Oh Deer!

Small town country living has it's advantages.  The half grocery store half hardware store has friendly employees and no wait at the check out counter.  The post office is so tiny, only one customer can fit in the lobby.  Everyone else just mingles and chats by the post office boxes and no one is a stranger.  

But when someone hits a deer on the back country roads, the cleanup crew consists of scavenger birds.  Abby was getting older and it was harder for her to hear but there was nothing wrong with her nose.  In the winter, she was roaming freely in the front yard.  It was night time and she usually stuck close to the house.  I went outside to get her and noticed she was intently gnawing on something.  It was a leg bone.  I was horrified and pulled her by the collar.  Too dark to tell if it was an animal leg or a human leg, we returned to the safety of the house.  Fresh on my mind was the discovery of the missing body of a man just one mile down the road.  The discovery happened because the property owner's dog carried back a piece of leg bone.  I may have an active imagination but this time my uneasiness was based on pure fact.

The next morning, I went outside to inspect the leg still laying on our front lawn.  There was a hoof attached to it.  This meant that Abby went across the street and slightly down the road to drag back her unexpected treat.  This also meant that her digestive system and the deer leg were going to have a battle in a couple of days and I was going to have a lot to clean up.

At the start of summer, we discovered a dead deer in the front part of our woods.  As the temperatures rose, the buzzards gathered.  At the end of the weekend, only a skeleton remained.  Many weeks later, the Englishman decided to let Abby out on a nighttime adventure.  When she returned, I knew that a bath was going to be the first chore the next day.  While I bathed her, multiple packages were delivered to the front door.  When I opened the door to bring the packages inside, I saw a deer leg on the front door.  Mortified of what the delivery driver thought of us, I asked my husband about the bone.  He told me it belonged to Abby.  She brought it back the night before after coating herself in "eau de dead deer".  I was not looking forward to the upcoming days of her grumbling tummy and my clean up duties.

As if on cue, Sunday night, after the Englishman left for a business trip, the fun began.  After a special diet for several days and many snarky comments made by me, I dearly hope the late night solo escapades were over for good.

Bunk Beds Are Evil

 As children at the cottage in Maine, my sister and I shared a room made extra special by bunk beds.  These old wooden and metal beds had a bouncy wire base that held the lumpy, thin mattresses.  I had the bottom and Liz had the top.  

Our bedtime was pretty early - it was still light outside but our parents probably needed a break.  I honed my singing skills but belting out all the songs that I knew.  When Liz whined, I added  rhythm by placing my feet on the bottom of her bunk and pushed up in a pulsing manner.  This was fantastic exercise.  

If she dangled her blanket over the edge and I could sense that she was asleep, I would assist her by pulling the blanket to the floor.  Her favorite stuffed animal was a brown dog called Henry.  If his arm was within reach, he would suddenly end up in my bed.  And then one fateful night, she fell asleep with her arm hanging over the edge.  I reached up and gave a gentle tug, but Liz tumbled out of her bed!  Reaching deep into my bag of acting skills, I pretended to be asleep while she howled and was fussed over by my parents.  She, rightfully, accused me of this act but this was dismissed as I was clearly asleep, only recently woken by her screams.

Many years later Liz and I were traveling through France and visiting friends in different regions.  When we arrived in Pierre-Latte and were shown to our room, I entered first and claimed the bottom bunk bed.  Liz still had trust issues with a bunk bed so she yanked her mattress from the top and set up a sleeping space on the floor.  A week later, when we arrived in Les Arcs, Liz entered our sleeping quarters first and triumphantly claimed the lower bunk before she discovered her mistake.  These were not traditional beds but more like a sleeping platform.  She could only do damage to her head as the taller sister when she entered and exited her bed.  

Some childhood memories run deep.  For me, the memories bring a sense of nostalgia and a bit of humor (okay...a lot of humor).  As for my sister, I'm pretty sure that she still believes that bunk beds are evil.

Cornered

We have a lot of dog art.  My mom has painted portraits of our original group of dogs.  My dad created a picture of Chase using a wood burning technique.  We’ve purchased art from galleries that feature dogs or contain dogs.  For the last few years I’ve whined and begged and stomped my foot at my mom who still has yet to produce a painting of our English Shepherd, Abby. 

When we moved last year to our new house, we discovered that we had a lot of pictures to hang.  Over the months, we began choosing walls and framing prints and worked our way through rooms and boxes of our pictures.  I carefully pulled the bubble wrap from a picture we purchased in the Lake District in 2012, called “Cornered” by Jeff Sudders.  I was drawn to it because of the spray painted marks on the sheep.  They were in a corner of the pasture, held captive by a black and white English Shepherd.  

I pointed out the "Abby Dog" to my husband and smiled at the thought of purchasing a painting with her in it before I ever loved her.

Puppy Le Pew

I woke to the smell of poo.  Charlie slumbered in his dog bed, his head dangling over the cushioned edge and hot morning breath drifted directly into my face.  I carefully lifted him to reveal the small treasure below that had escaped during the night.  "Gross!" I told him as I carried him outside to see if he needed to relieve himself in another way.  He did.

As I was ready to leave for work, I carried him downstairs to my parent's house.  Mom had just returned from her morning walk with Abby and Dolly.  Abby was especially energetic and attempted to greet me with cold nose kisses.  "You were right", Mom declared.  I was confused and it clearly showed on my face.  "The dead animal tail at the top of the road," she continued.  "It was a skunk tail.  It smelled when I picked it up."

I looked at her ungloved hands and asked where she left the tail.

"Oh, I don't have it anymore.  Abby jumped up and snatched it right out of my hands."  Mom threw her hands up as if to demonstrate what had happened.  "She ate it."

My dog that had been kissing me just ate a skunk tail.  I must have looked ill and Mom added, "I did try to get it from her but she clenched her teeth so tightly that I couldn't, so she ate it."  Mom decided that something was wrong with my dog's behavior.

I called my husband to share my morning woes.  In the afternoon, there was a flower delivery to my office.  The card read "Just Because Wieners, Skunks and Mom".

Hello Dillo

 Living in the country has it's benefits.  Abby can stay outside and bark as much as she wants and doesn't disturb anyone...well, except me, because she chooses anytime after midnight to let her inner beast loose.  For several nights in a row, she chased my dreams away, forcing me to vacate my comfy bed and drag her back into the house.  I liked the protection detail but I needed my sleep so much more.  

 One night, I finally brought a flashlight to her backyard party of one.  As I scanned the woods and side property with the light, Abby flung herself at the chain link gate and barked more frantically.  I was fairly certain there was an axe murderer lurking about the property until I finally saw the small armored creature with the quirky ears poking from the top of its head.  

An armadillo prodded and dug clumps of grass in the yard.  It was easy to follow it's crazy "snail trail" through the damp lawn.  It poked the pine straw and kicked it up like gentle tufts of cotton candy. Abby tracked the strange critter, clearly hoping for a breach in the fence.

The Englishman and I surveyed the armadillo damage each morning but it seemed that the animal was making progress out of our yard and hopefully into someone else's.  It's been a few weeks since I have seen the telltale path meandering in the dewy grass of early morning dog walks.  So here's to saying goodbye armadillo and hello sleep!

Loch Ness Llama

You know you are in small-town America when there’s a Dollar General that is your one-stop shop for everything from groceries to tools.  I picked up a few pool floats including one in the style of a llama.  It was a hot southern afternoon and I worked up a sweat getting it inflated but as I slid the ring over my head and floated in the cool, clear water my efforts seemed worth it.

Abby didn’t enjoy the water.  The only time I attempted to coax her into a pool, I was left with claw marks on my arms and a dog that clearly couldn’t swim.  She acquiesced to watching me from the pool’s edge.  I floated, arms wrapped around the llama’s neck.  I suddenly became aware of low growls.  Abby was at attention, staring at the pool creature.  She would come closer and then dart away with a half bark.  I kicked my legs to navigate near the edge and Abby ran out of the pool area and up to the top deck of the house.  She peered through the wrought iron bars, keeping watch over this creature from the deep.

Pass the Pig No More

The pig is gone.

The field has been plowed over and the fence is being replaced.  I've driven past at a speed reserved solely for kidnappers, burglars and Peeping Toms.  No pig.

My mother saw a man in an adjacent field and stopped to ask him what happened to the pig.  He didn't know the pig but said he was an Elliot of the Elliot family.  My mother wasn't sure who the Elliot Family was even though the name of the road was Elliot Road.  

I have an idea of what happened to the pig even if Mr. Elliot does not.

Pass the Pig

With the recent move came a change in my commute scenery.  Winding country roads now led to the interstate.  There was a road with a very short span that I now took briefly.  A barely paved country lane with grass, dandelions and other impressive weeds lined the edges, broken only by a couple of farms.  There was no speed limit sign but common sense dictated a slow tempo.  Each morning I would pass a solitary pig happily rooting in the sun at the back of his pen.  This pig was grand.  Two shades of brown that matched the Georgia red clay.  He had a shelter constructed of plywood and a field of grass, dirt and wildflowers. 

This pig reminded me of another pig from years ago in an infamous jewelry shop in Aiken, SC.  The only time I visited Porky Bradberry’s shop was in the early nineties.  It was a small glass structure in a hexagonal shape.  I was completely aware of the rumors swirling around the owner and the unsolved murder of his wife.  Small towns have a hard time forgetting sordid tales, especially when they believed someone had gotten away with a crime.  As I completed my transaction, I was startled by the enormous pet pig that freely wandered the store.

Each evening on my drive home, I once again looked for the pig, this time on my right, and I was glad to see him in a large fenced area instead of a tiny small town jewelry shop.  I think that if I had any visitors, part of my southern directions would include “once you pass the pig, slow down for the very sharp curve…”

Angel Wings

 When it became clear that Charlie’s vision had greatly diminished and he was attracted to tight corners, the Englishman looked for solutions to help our aging dachshund.  He discovered a company called “Muffin’s Halo” and promptly ordered one.  A fitted jacket with a loop for the leash had Velcro on the back to attach the wings.  These wings also held a halo, which had different loop sizes for variety. 

When Charlie seemed to need a bit of extra help, we attached his wings to the jacket and he no longer bumped into walls or furniture as the flexible halo stopped him.  It wasn't the perfect solution as this determined dog could still push himself into the most interesting places but it has helped a lot.

This is the one instance when I was grateful that one of our dogs “got his wings”.

The Dog Bowl Part II

I have been trying to dispose of two Papasan chairs for years.  The first attempt was in 2016.    They were already faded but Charlie adored the chairs.  I thought about getting new cushions from Pier One but they went out of business during the pandemic and I was out of options.  

In preparation for our move, we packed many items and moved them to our storage unit in town.  This included the two Papasan chairs.  The Englishboy listed them for sale and someone was interested in the chairs but never came to buy them.  I was at work when my mother and sister emptied the storage unit months later.  I arrived at my new house to see the chairs displayed on my back porch.  I told my mother to donate them to the Goodwill as soon as possible.  But then Abby started sleeping in the chairs.  She curled up during the day for naps in the sunshine and she was there at night on guard outside my bedroom door.  

Me: 0 Papasan Chairs: 2 for the win.

Neighborhood Watch

 My sister and I made a trip to my old house to pack more boxes.  We parked our cars side-by-side with the trunks open to make it easier to carry the bulky packages from the house.  As we stood in the driveway, I noticed the fluffy, white Bichon Frise from three doors down sniffing the grass near my mailbox.  I pointed the dog out to my sister.  It was then that I noticed two bare legs from behind the privacy row of cedar trees on the property border…near the mailbox.  There was also four furry legs visible from the green branches.  

Suddenly a Labradoodle was tossed from the tree line and into the corner of my yard.  The dog landed with all four legs stretched widely on the grass and a surprised look on his face.  I pointed out the Labradoodle from three doors down as the legs, attached to the neighbor, raced into my yard to catch the dog.  He was holding a leash and yelled “Don’t worry!  He’s friendly!”  I called back that I knew he was friendly because he had made many trips to my yard.  The Labradoodle looked confused as the man clipped the leash to the dog he had just tossed and pretended to struggle and pull him back to his yard.

It’s great to have an effective neighborhood watch where we all look out for each other.  I made a mental note to keep an eye on this particular neighbor from three doors down.  We can have an official “Watch Party” and I can work on Keeping up with the Neighbor.

Chase + Puddles

Chase has had many cat friends in his life but none has inspired him like Puddles.  

The Englishboy returned to Georgia with two cats:  Puddles and Mr. Kitty.  Puddles was a beautiful, petite special needs cat with a form of dwarfism and down’s syndrome.  Each morning, Chase peered through the gate to the downstairs area, and waited for Puddles to greet him. 

When we returned from work, we could see evidence of dried dog drool at the closed door.  Chase had lingered on the carpet runner for the occasional cat paw to slide beneath the door through the day.  

When the cats were permitted to visit, with Abby safely banned from the house, Puddles would search for Chase and he would follow her everywhere like a lovesick puppy.  And one evening, after watching this, I realized that the two companions truly formed the essence of my blog’s name:  Chasing Puddles.

18

In the summer of 2015, I was at home, sick and cuddled up in front of the TV with Chase.  He was 12 and 1/2 years old and I began to wonder how much longer we would be together.  I grabbed my phone and conducted a search on the lifespan of an English Setter.  I gasped when I saw the answer.  "You are already past your expiration date!" I declared and hugged my dog a little tighter.  I wasn't ready to let go.

I was reminded several times about Brandy, the English Setter in my life for a couple of years when I lived outside of Charleston.  She far surpassed the statistics that were flashing on my phone.  

Life continued and milestones were reached.  Each Christmas, I would catch Chase gazing trance-like at the lights and ornaments of the tree or sleeping sweetly in front of the fireplace.  Each January 28th was a birthday celebration of yet another year.  And we all slowed down just a little bit.  Walks became shorter.  Squirrels no longer held his attention but this dog sure could tell time.  Meals were required promptly at 6:30AM and 6PM.  Bedtime was 10PM sharp and he enjoyed his heating pad. 

I don't know why he has exceeded all expectations but I am grateful every day.  When I began this journey with him in 2003, he was five weeks old.  I hoped to give him a long and happy life and I believe that my goal was accomplished.  I'm lucky to have loved him nearly his whole life...18 and counting.

Guilt Trip

We tried to sneak out of the house with just Charlie.  Things were going as planned.  Chase was sound asleep in the bedroom.  Abby was on the back deck.  I grabbed a leash and The Englishman had Charlie tucked under his arm.  Hand on the door to the garage, I felt a tail brush against my leg.  A large and bushy tail.  A wagging tail.  Abby's tail.  

I put the leash on her and took her on a driveway walk:  up and down the driveway we ran several times.  On one of the trips back, I noticed Chase was in the yard.  The Englishman placed Charlie in the back of the Jeep and herded Chase into the house.  I started to go back into the garage but Abby dug her feet in and pulled toward the Jeep.  I tugged, she tugged.  I handed the leash to The Englishman and told him to put her in the house.  She tugged toward the Jeep one time and he helped her onto the backseat.  Our daytrip to the parents' house had one more passenger.  A very guilty looking passenger that kept Charlie quite warm on the 2 hour drive.

Abby loved the freedom of South Carolina and was able to run through the woods quite freely.  She was also willfully disobedient when we called for her to return.  On this trip the problem was solved when a friend arrived with his new puppy.  All it took was for me to hold the puppy, covering him with coos and kisses and Abby was once again my shadow dog.  

The return trip to Georgia was an easy repeat of the morning.  Charlie snuggled with Abby and when we arrived, Chase was dreaming lazily on his dog bed in the living room.

"A sly piece of good luck, which nobody knows of is delightful." Publilius Syrus

Dementia Dog Dachshund

Because this is our second dog to develop dementia, we saw the signs much earlier with Charlie and quickly accommodated for this development.  All three slept in the room with us now:  Abby on guard, Chase soundly sleeping the night away and Charlie contained in a crate for his safety and our sanity.

On a particular night, the Englishman decided that he wouldn't close the crate because Charlie didn't appear to be wandering anymore.  I wasn't sure how he came to this conclusion since the mere fact that locking the crate kept Charlie from wandering, but I digress...

At 3 AM, Charlie exited the crate and bumped blindly into Abby's bed.  Charlie growled and snapped.  Abby shrieked her ungodly high pitched ear splitting, crystal breaking scream which woke up the entire neighborhood with the exception of the Englishman.  I fumbled out of bed and felt my way to Abby.  Charlie then walked into a wall and growled and attacked this new offense.  I located Charlie by his growls and barks.  I reached out to touch his back and he lunged at me with his needle nose filled with shiny crocodile teeth.  I tried again before yelling at my husband to turn on a light before I lost a finger.  I did this in a most dignified manner.

Lights on, Chase snored, Abby whined and I was able to safely put Charlie back in his crate. I swear I could hear muffled laughter from my husband.

And this is why we don't release the dachshund until daylight.

Close to the Bone

The English boy helped me set up the Halloween decorations at the beginning of October.  All of the skeletons came back out of the closet for the season.  Because the work began much later in the day, it was dark before we finished.

The next morning, I put Abby on her leash for her morning walk from the front door to the end of the driveway.  Dawn had yet to break and a slight mist was clinging to the autumn grass.  Abby sniffed and snorted as she searched for the perfect spot.  Suddenly she froze.  A low growl began in her throat.  I searched the yard and street for the intruder:  deer?  rabbit?  jogger?  the evil cat from next door?  I saw nothing but Abby crouched and pulled me slowly across the yard toward the skeletons carrying a body bag.  As she stealthily approached, I was still doubtful that she thought these were the front yard intruders.  She cautiously touched her nose to a femur and rapidly jumped back as if bitten by a rattlesnake.  

It took a few days to convince Abby that there was no danger, but make no bones about it, these skeletons looked real enough to this guard dog of ours.

Quilting Cat

 Checkers, a large black and white cat with soft, fluffy fur, loved to be in the center of things in my mom's sewing room.  Mom and I would spend hours in this bright room working together on our quilts.  A favorite style was the "quilt as you go" pattern.  This involved working in long rows  where you would sew the front, batting and backing all together from one long, wide strip to the next.  When finished with all of the rows, you simply squared the quilt and added the binding.  

This method required a lot of pins.  Mom and I would work from one end and pin the pieces to each other until we reached the far end.  It was then that we noticed there were no pins at the beginning...or the middle.  All the pins were sticking out of the mouth of the black and white cat like miniature swords.  The more we pinned, the faster the cat removed them.  This earned him the nickname "Quilting Cat" but not because he was helpful.  We had to ban him from the quilting room but he was a clever quilting cat.  Checkers would go outside and jump onto the window sill, watching and howling his displeasure with his exile.

I still make quilts and sometimes, when I am pinning my pieces, I turn my head to check that all the pins are still in place.  You just can't tell when another quilting cat will enter your life.

Dog Guard

Charlie had some cognitive issues that came with age and potential dementia.  At times he would get lost in the house, stuck in corners, cords, furniture and even the water bowl.  He was at his best during the day and when outside, he stuck close to the house.  Usually…

And then we lost him.  A cognitively impaired, fully deaf, partially blind dachshund.  The Englishman grabbed a flashlight and pushed his feet into an old pair of sneakers.  “He’s not in the street” he called to me.  We searched the bushes, straining to hear Charlie in the early morning darkness.  Even the birds were not awake.  Operation Find Charlie moved to the back yard.  I gingerly poked the foliage trying not to walk into spider webs. 

“I see him!” shouted the Englishman.  A small brown dog was teetering on the edge of our pond.  And then the dog disappeared.  The Englishman sprinted, Bay Watch style, and jumped into the pond. 

“I saved him just before he went under!” The Englishman declared.

He emerged with the flashlight in one hand and a sopping wet Charlie tucked under his arm.  Charlie’s paws were still rapidly paddling.  The Englishman ran toward the house instructing me to “get a dog towel”.  The shower spray rapidly warmed and he jumped into it with the shivering dog.  I could hear him talking to Charlie and apologizing for not getting him as clean as possible.  The warm and dripping dog was handed to me and I wrapped him in his towel before gently blowing him dry.

At some point in our journey with our four legged companions roles became reversed.  What once was a great guard dog now needed a Dog Guard.  And it seemed that this morning, that title belonged to The Englishman. 

The Dog Knows

Dogs know when they look ridiculous.

When I was a teenager, my mom took our very fluffy Keeshond to the groomer for a summer shave.  The resulting look was a lion head with leg warmers.  He hid for days.

I tried many costumes on Chase.  He cheerfully wore them in the house, sheltered from the judgement of strangers.  He had a tuxedo, a wizard hat, bunny ears and red, glittery devil horns.  My vacation to Key West happened to occur during their annual Fantasy Fest.  All the glitter and gaudiness was out in full force.  I thought it was a perfect moment to debut the devil horns.  Chase allowed me to put them on his head.  He obediently followed me out the door and down the brick pathway, lined with privacy fencing to the street.  Upon reaching the street, he violently tossed his head back and forth until he was free of the horns.  Undeterred, I put them back on his head and began dragging him toward Duval Street.  Chase tossed the horns again, pressed a paw on the top to secure them in place and ripped them to shreds.  Bits of red material and white fluff littered the street.  I have never made him wear another costume.  Ever.  

"They say the smart dog obeys but the smarter dog knows when to disobey".  Amy Hempel

Hawk Talk

It was supposed to be a quick, impromptu trip to Atlanta to visit the grand kids through the front window.  Just drive there and back with plenty of time to enjoy the rest of the day.  When the Englishman slowed to turn into the driveway on the busy road, we noticed a hawk sitting on the sidewalk.  The Englishman parked and walked slowly toward the beautiful bird of prey.  The hawk began to hop along the sidewalk and it was clear that it had a broken wing.

Undeterred, the Englishman returned to the Jeep and retrieved a moving blanket and the cargo net.  Carefully circling the hawk from behind, the Englishman remained on the street side and the hawk hopped along until it was two doors down in the thick ivy of an old oak tree.  Our activity was being monitored by one curious grandson from the window and the residents of the property which the hawk had chosen as an escape route.  The Englishman threw the cargo net over the hawk and then added the blanket. I was sent back to retrieve a large box from the Englishboy #1.  When I returned, we carefully maneuvered the bird into the box and kept all of our fingers, too.

So we had a hawk in a box but no clue what to do next.  I turned to Google and searched for hawk rescue in the area.   I learned that in order to rescue a bird, you captured it and brought it directly to the facility.  The facility did not come to you.  But all the Atlanta rescue groups seemed to be at capacity and were not accepting any birds. The woman from two doors down approached with a solution:  she had a list of all of the groups in the area that you could call about wildlife rescue.  She sent the list via text message to my phone.  I started making calls.  When I called Hawk Talk there was a prerecorded message.  At the end of the message, a cell phone number was listed.  I sent a text to that number and shortly received a response with the name and phone number of a local vet that would assess the hawk.

We called the vet's office to let them know we were coming.  The GPS showed a 12 mile drive and we arrived 45 minutes "Atlanta Time" later.  A couple of techs carried the hawk in the box inside and we waited for  diagnosis.  The hawk had a broken wing and it looked to be a re-break.  It was a good candidate for rehabilitation and they would take care of him.  We made a donation for his care and decided to head home.

On the way home, I sent two text messages:  One to the woman who shared her list and one to the woman from Hawk Talk.  I was glad that we were able, yet again, to help out another fine feathered friend.

Toys on the Side

As the dogs aged, they seemed to become disinterested in their toys.  Abby was the only dog that still pulled plush animals from the toy box and surrounded herself with the treasures on her dog bed.  That is, until the Englishman realized that Charlie still enjoyed toys.  He just was too short to reach them and he wasn't up to jumping into the box like he used to do.  

For now, the box is on its side and the house is once again littered with toys of all sorts: the kind that give me a heart attack each time I accidentally step on the squeaker, the kind that hurt when I'm not wearing shoes and the kind that make me smile when I realize that an old dog can still find joy in childish things.

Cat Calling

Mr. Kitty has a neighborhood friend.  They visit each other through the basement glass doors.  I'm sure Mr. Kitty knows when his friend is about to visit as there is a bell dangling from it's collar.  I'm glad that they get to spend time with each other while maintaining social distancing guidelines.

Shoe Show

Wooden floors and a really old dog do not make the best companions.  Over the years, Chase's back legs became weaker and if he lost his footing, down he went with the back legs splayed.  Oftentimes he was left swimming across the planks until he reached a bit of carpet where he could pull himself back up.  We turned to Amazon.com and purchased dog shoes in varying sizes and styles.  We tried hard shoes and soft shoes and rubber coated slipper socks with Velcro straps. And for a short while, the shoes worked.  He only needed them on his back legs as his front legs still had strength.  Chase needed to wear the shoes all the time.  Dog feet are not meant for shoes that are based on human designs.  The shoes did not allow enough air flow and they kept his feet in a position that was not natural.  Fur would rub away from his ankles.  The lack of airflow seemed to promote nail growth and when removed, they were quite stinky.  The Englishman claimed that Chase had "rabbit hutch" feet.

We added carpet runners throughout the house and removed the shoes.  Then we added no-slip material under the carpet runners.  Shortly the dog was shoe-less and made his way through the house via a carpet runner maze.  This was not a solution.  We needed a shoe made from a breathable non-slip material.  The Englishman suggested we try the non-slip carpet pad material.

Carpet pads were pricey.  We found that the non-slip shelf and drawer liners were more economical and worked just as well under the carpet runners.  So The Englishman cut a trial pair in the shape of tube socks and I stitched them on my old Kenmore sewing machine.  We used Velcro cable ties to hold up his new brown socks.

It was a brilliant idea to put the non-slip material on Chase so that he had it wherever he went.  His feet no longer smelled and the design allowed enough room that his feet were able to have natural movement.  Each pair lasted about a week and took just a couple of minutes to sew.  The garish mixture of carpet runners were rolled up and stored.  Once again, my 17-year old setter could outrun and outsmart me in the house as he trotted around in his functional no-slip socks.  

The Corner of Invisibility

There is a corner in our house that has the magical ability to render any dog immediately invisible.  It's in the dining room and we have a square bed that fits perfectly against the two walls.  

Having a multi-dog family requires the ability to count out loud. My routine before leaving the house is to count a number loudly: "One, two.....where's Chase?"  A panicked search ensues.  One cannot simply call the dog's name since he is deaf.  One must locate the dog.  After searching frantically with no success, I am frequently reminded, typically by the Englishman, to check the Corner of Invisibility.  Chase is there, quite visible, every single time.

Spring Chickens

Just past Six Flags Amusement Park was the farm where the Englishman and I drove to pick up four beautiful Orpington chickens.  Black shiny feathers with a vivid beetle-green sheen in the sunlight were visible from the outside of the fence where I stood.  I was told that I needed to help catch my own chickens.  The jovial farmer grabbed a fishing net and strode to the shelter where the juvenile chickens were lounging in a pile.  I pointed to my first choice and the net swooshed through the air snagging my victim.  I was handed an upside-down chicken to hold by the legs.  Brutal.  Soon I had an inverted chicken in each hand and I told the farmer that I couldn't hold any further catches.  These were well fed and heavy birds.  He caught a third and took all three, leaving me with the net to catch one more.  After a couple of false swooshes, I had my fourth and left the fenced area.  The farmer seemed surprised as I emerged with my prize.

The Englishman secured the birds in the dog kennel and we headed back home.  I enjoyed the sounds of protest with each turn we took until we reached the interstate where the clucks stopped.  They were introduced to the old duck house area until we could reinforce the larger chicken compound.  They had plenty of room, food, water and a house for shelter.  That night, when we checked on them, they were sleeping in a pile on the ground.

The next morning it was raining.  I braved the downpour and discovered unhappy chickens with feathers plastered to their bodies.  It was clear that none had ventured into the house.  Sighing, I entered the pen and caught each chicken and pushed them into the house.  It seemed that they were intrigued by the concept of a roof over their heads.  I checked again that night and they were still in the house.  I was now worried that they wouldn't find their way back out again.  Thankfully, when I conducted a welfare check the next morning, all four were happily pecking about the now dry ground and seemed to understand the concept of an actual chicken house.  

It took a few weeks but they finally recognized me, at least as a source of food.  They no longer scattered when I approached and gently answered me when I called to them.  All four girls provided daily eggs in hues of beige, tan and brown and enjoyed treats of frozen corn on the cob, berries and watermelon in the steamy heat of July.  They were no longer my Spring chickens.