Starling Darling

The Englishman wanted to meet me for lunch at the only restaurant in Thomson, Georgia that we could both agree on:  Hoagie Joe’s.  I welcomed the break on the typical scorching summer day in June and hopped in my car, windows down to release the heat and air conditioning blasting.  “I’m on the way”, I reassured him in a quick text message.  He responded with, “Bring a shoebox”.  I scoffed.  Who did he think I was?  Of course I had shoe boxes in my car!  I even had extra shoes in the trunk “just in case” I needed another pair or two.

 

I parked my car and the Englishman approached the trunk holding something carefully in his hands.  It was a baby bird.  It had apparently fallen from its nest and into the hot and dusty street.  The Englishman had searched high and low but was unable to locate the nest.  He added layers of tissue to the shoe box and placed the bird gently inside.  It was ugly.  All mouth and no feathers.  The Englishman handed the box to me to carry into the restaurant.  Apparently being American made me more local than him.  We ordered, ate and no one seemed to notice the shoe box under the table.  An hour passed and it was time to leave.  I handed the box to the Englishman.  He shook his head, refusing my offering.  “I can’t bring it back to work,“ he insisted.  I brought it back to my office and left it on my desk.  I called my mother in South Carolina and warned her about her overnight guest that would be arriving with me to spend the night.  I also wondered how on earth I would manage to do my English setter dog transport the next day with the unexpected passenger for a 100 mile leg from South Carolina to Georgia.

I arrived at my parents’ house with shoe box in hand and went off to Walmart to buy worms.  I brought them back and squealed in disgust as my mother pulverized them and tried to feed the bird using tweezers.  It wouldn’t eat.  My mom decided we should leave it alone and that it would probably die during the night.

The next morning I woke up and reluctantly checked on the bird, sure that I would be burying it in their yard.  It was shrieking.  Delighted, I ran for the wormy mixture and fed it.  Mom helped by blending worms, water, cherry and hard-boiled egg in the blender, pulverizing the wriggly crawlers into a fine mush.  I now had the perfect Christmas gift idea for my parents as I vowed never to use their blender again.  Mom, ever helpful, produced a glass dropper and the feeding frenzy commenced.  Apparently baby birds eat a lot.  I wasn’t sure what kind of bird I was fostering so I looked it up on my I-Pad.  We decided it was a mockingbird.  I tucked it into a piece of fleece to keep it warm, packed it into the front seat of my car and drove to the highway to meet Emma, the English setter rescue who would catch a ride with me to Georgia as part of the leg of the rescue transport from North Carolina to Florida.  I had a squawking baby bird in the front and would soon have a strange, unpredictable rescue dog in the back.  I was looking forward to the drive. Emma, turned out to be a sweet seven year old setter who could care less about the screeching bird.  She didn’t mind that I had to pull over several times to feed the greedy thing, stashed away in a clay flower pot.  I met the next driver, passed along the dog and her paperwork and then headed home to hand off the bird to its rightful owner.

The Englishman was helpful.  He used my mini food processor (which I will never use again for cooking) to blend worms, berries, hard-boiled eggs, kitten chow and water.  The image of wiggling worms swirling through the grayish mixture was permanently etched into my brain.  The Englishman, much later, discovered it was easier freezing the worms first before making the bird smoothie.

The bird insisted on feeding every ten minutes.  I was exhausted by the end of the weekend and eager to return to work.  On Monday morning, the Englishman handed me my travel mug of coffee and a bucket with the bird for me to bring to work.  The bird was loud.  It screeched.  I’m sure my office was too cold for it.  I sent the Englishman a text message stating that I had found a new home for the bird and was giving it to my production manager.  He had a stay-at-home wife who needed a project.  The Englishman whined about me outsourcing the bird and told me that he would take it to work with him the next day.  The Englishman took the bird for two days because he didn’t trust me.

My mother arrived to watch the bird, the four dogs, the four ducks, the seven chickens and 90,000 bees for the weekend while we took an overnight trip to the coast.  The Englishman was not amused by her constant status updates on Facebook threatening to make a bird omelet.  In one of her statuses, she declared that we were not the proud owners of a mockingbird.  It was a starling.

Monday morning, we decided to leave the bird on the sun porch inside the bird cage we picked up at the antique mall.  It wasn't much of a cage as the tiny bird could easily slip through the bars and flutter to the floor.  While we were at work, the bird practiced flying and eating.  We began to leave it freeze-dried crickets and meal worms.  The bird began to sing instead of screech and with its feathers completely unfurled, it looked more like a bird and less like a mouth.

 

It would fly to my shoulder and hide beneath my hair.  It would sleep in the ceiling fan.  Sunday came again and I walked onto the deck, bird in hand.  Suddenly, the bird flew into the Bradford pear trees bordering our property.  It didn't return.  I wasn't ready for it to leave.  I sadly looked at the tiny nest within its cage and the words "empty nest" weighed heavily on my mind.  I returned to the daily grind on Monday and pulled into my driveway at the end of the long day.  As I approached the sun porch I heard a familar screech.  The bird had returned!  I ran inside the long and bright porch and the bird flew to my shoulder, mouth open, demanding treats.  I happily obliged.  The bird spent the night in the fan and then left in the morning to spend its day doing secret bird things amongst the trees, only returning to the sunporch at the end of the day to greet me and dine on dried crickets and worms.

 

 

Hush little baby don’t say a word

Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird
And if that mockingbird don’t sing
It’s probably 'cause he brought you a baby starling!

 

Keep Calm and Carry On

Three beehives were not enough for the Englishman.  Five hives were perfect.  Five hives would make his life complete, so he drove two hours each way to pick up the last package bees of the season.

We weren’t ready for them.  So, the bees remained in their boxes while the Englishman built two bases.  Time was of the essence so it was decided to install the hives temporarily on the deck until the weekend.  We donned hats and gloves and within minutes the bees were buzzing about their new homes.  With great satisfaction, we put away our bee protective gear and grabbed a beer to share.

The Englishman sat in a nearby chair, sipping his lager and smugly admiring his efforts.  I took the second chair and watched him.  A lone bee aggressively flew about his head.  The Englishman put down his beer bottle and swatted at it.  Several more bees joined the first.  The Englishman continued swatting.  Backup arrived in the form of twelve angry bees.  The Englishman screamed, flailed his arms in the air and ran from the deck into the driveway and out of my view.  I picked up his abandoned bottle of beer but was unable to drink it as each shriek from the driveway made me laugh harder.  Soon the cries faded and I sat back to continue to observe our gentle Italian honeybees.

A tap at the window above my head beckoned me to the kitchen.  “There’s a stinger in me forehead!” he cried.  “Get it out!  Get it out!”  I scraped at it with a pair of scissors and assured him that bee stings were better than botox at removing wrinkles.  “I don’t have wrinkles in my forehead,” he protested.  “Not anymore,” I agreed and left him in the house while I checked on my ducks.

A few days later we removed the hives to their permanent home amongst the fruit trees.  The Englishman decided that it would be a good time to check the three established hives.  We smoked the hives, one at a time and removed the roof.  Using a hive tool to pry each frame from the “bee glue” that cemented it in place, we were able to lift the frames and inspect each side.

As I held a frame, heavy with honey and covered with bees, I felt a sting and a slow burning sensation under my arm where a sliver of skin was exposed between the glove and my short-sleeved shirt.  “I’ve been stung,” I told the Englishman, holding out my frame.  “Take it,” I ordered.  He slowly grasped the frame’s edges and I walked a few feet away.  I lifted my arm, scraped the stinger with my hive tool and returned to the hive to finish the job.  No screaming.  No crying.  No flailing.  Just keep calm and carry on.

The Englishman and I gathered the tools of our trade and trekked up the hill to the driveway.  “I’ve been stung through my pant leg,” he told me and then dropped his pants.  I looked on, horrified and fully aware of the neighbors, joggers, dog walkers and kids on bicycles.  He scraped the stinger with his hive tool and walked pant-less into the house.  No screaming.  No crying.  No flailing.  Just keep calm and carry on.

Creature Comforts

Molly loves clean laundry.  She lurks near the laundry room, ready to snatch the used dryer sheets that float to the floor.  She tucks them in her crate and snuggles with them at bedtime.  She eyes me warily as I clean her crate of dryer sheet debris each week, the lavender scent long faded from the white fibers.

Molly also loves a freshly pressed shirt.  Each morning, she pads into the bedroom and slowly shifts back and forth beneath the dangling dress shirt that the Englishman is ironing.  It’s a morning ritual as sacred as that first cup of coffee sipped in silence.

The Englishman need not be present for Molly’s morning ritual.  On a recent week-long business trip, there were no shirts to be pressed in the pre-dawn hours.  I found Molly in the closet, creeping gently along the edges of a row of shirts, the fabric softly caressing her head.  I sat down, gave her a hug and whispered, “I miss him, too.”

When Chickens Fly

I wore appropriate shoes to pick up my Americauna chickens that were advertised on Craigslist.  Sensible ones.  Ones that coordinated well with the bedazzled back pockets of my jeans.  A long time ago, I realized that I could drive for hours in Georgia and still be in the same state.  Such was the case on the beautiful Saturday morning when we left our driveway at dawn to navigate the back roads to Fayetteville, Georgia.  The Englishman had shoved a large plastic dog carrier into the back seat of my Honda and I fretted that it might be too small for the six adult hens.  The MapQuest app on my phone wound us through roads unknown and two hours later we had reached our destination at the end of a forgotten country road. 

The first thing I noticed were the goats roaming the property.  “Maybe she will let you pet one of the goats,” the Englishman suggested as he peered through the herd of bearded beasts, searching for the owner.  Janet, the chicken/duck/bearded goat lady waved us over to the chain-link compound.  As we made our way toward her, the goats followed.  They seemed friendly.  One bit me in the butt.  I turned around and swatted it away.  The goat had creepy ice blue eyes and human-looking teeth.  I tried walking away.  It nipped me again.  Same place.  I picked up the pace and so did my new companion who was completely mesmerized with my sparkly, bedazzled back pockets.  Nip, nip, nip.  I escaped into the chicken only section of the compound.

Janet greeted us and then pointed out the six chickens that we were buying.  They were hanging out in the chicken yard with twenty other chickens and we would have to catch them.  First Janet lured as many “not-for-sale “chickens as possible into her yard.  One of our chickens escaped with the flock.  We concentrated on tossing the remaining five into the dog crate.  The Englishman confessed that chickens scared him ever since he was a young lad back in England and he was put in charge of collecting the eggs.  Apparently the chickens pecked him with their tiny beaks.  Wah, wah, wah.  All five were secured in the crate with no help from him.  We scanned the yard for the runaway chicken.  She was solid white so it didn’t seem like it would be too hard to spot.  Janet rang a bell and all the other chickens and goats came running with the exception of one.  Fifteen minutes later, the Englishman found chicken number six hiding in the duck house.  He carried her in his hands, arms outstretched as if he was holding a rattlesnake.  I cursed myself for leaving my phone in the car.  I really wanted to take a picture.

 Transaction completed, squawking birds in the backseat and the GPS leading us home on completely different roads than before, I made myself useful by reminding the Englishman that we had chickens in the backseat and he needed to take it easy on the curves.  There were a lot of curves.  The chickens rode well in the car until there was a curve.  They flapped their wings and screeched in protest with each curve.  Feathers were flying about the car and unpleasant smells wafted toward the front.  Windows down, sunroof open and avoiding the roads less travelled, we finally made it home. 

I introduced the chickens to Cluckingham Palace, gave them fresh food and water and clapped my hands in delight as they scratched the ground with their feet.  The Englishman and I left to run some errands.  When we returned, it was almost dark.  We grabbed flashlights and hiked through our overgrown grass to Cluckingham Palace.  It was empty.  The chicken yard was empty.  We searched frantically for the chickens.  Three were balanced on the top bar of the trellis and three were in a cedar tree.  Chickens can fly, I realized.  We also realized that chickens are very docile when they are asleep.  We carefully plucked each chicken from their perches and placed them inside the chicken house.  They never woke up.  No wonder foxes can eat them.  The Englishman and I retreated to our house and made a list of everything we needed to do the next day to secure the chicken area.  It would be another early morning because chickens can fly.

The Things You Can’t See

On Easter Sunday, I was headed back to Georgia with Chase, George and a Georgia Tech passenger who I was dropping off at his college dorm in downtown Atlanta. Typically the traffic on the interstate is not heavy for the majority of the trip; however it seemed that everyone was headed in the same direction. Coupled with the fact that the never-ending roadwork had closed down one lane, I made a last minute decision to keep the two dogs in my car for the entire trip instead of making a quick detour to my house.

I pulled away from the Georgia Tech campus shortly after 8PM and decided to avoid Interstate 75 as there were several accidents being cleared in two lanes and traffic. The familiar lights of The Varsity beckoned to me as I skillfully headed into downtown Atlanta with the intention of taking a “short-cut” to Interstate 20. It was getting dark quickly and I hoped Chase and George were getting along in the back seat. I could hear some commotion and suddenly Chase leaped into the front passenger seat right around the same time I started to smell something foul. “Perfect”, I thought.” George must have thrown up back there.” I silently cursed my mother for feeding my dogs Easter ham and knew that I would need to clean up my car. I do not have the greatest sense of smell but as the scent permeated the interior of the car, began to wonder if there was something more horrific back there. It was too dark to make a determination but George was clearly pressed against the far side of the car. I looked around for a place to pull over, but I could see no safe options. I opened the sunroof and all of the windows and drove home in record time.

I released the hounds who headed for the back yard and I retrieved a flashlight to assess the damage. I prayed for puke. It was worse than I thought. I backed away from the chocolate-colored poo prints that decorated the back seat like a dance step card. I went inside the house, yelling for the Englishman, and changed out of my white pants and high heeled sandals.

Floodlights in the driveway highlighted the true task ahead. I discovered quickly that I couldn’t just pick it up with doggy bags. The mess was now streaked in smears, blobs and other shapes. My back seat was now a canvas for a macabre finger-painted Pollock masterpiece. Our industrial carpet cleaner didn’t have attachments for this job and it was too big to even attempt to push into the car. I pulled out my secret weapon: the wet/dry shop vacuum. I figured the problem was both wet and dry at this point. With no attachments other than the hose, I went in with the proper personal protective equipment: latex gloves and safety glasses. I found myself working with a steady rhythm: throw some soapy water down, and then suck it up with the hose. That shop vac was the best thing I ever purchased. The Englishman followed up with a layer of “Tuff Stuff”. A little bit of air freshener and the car looked untouched. We left all the windows open and called it a night. I grabbed George and carried him inside for his Easter bath.

I waited months before mentioning the unfortunate Easter Event because the only friend I did tell refused to ride in my car for a very long time. I have more than one vehicle but somehow she just “knew” which one had festered with feces. For those that are contemplating buying a used car, keep in mind that a CarFax won’t reveal everything. There are some “accidents” you will just never know.

Cone Head

In every dog’s life there comes a time when he is selected to wear the "Cone of Shame".  The piece of plastic that encases the head in a ridiculous, yet confining crown is a right of passage for our four-legged friends.  Chase has had to wear the cone of shame several times, mostly due to his fondness of playing with snakes.  More recently, George has been bestowed with the cone.

The Englishman and I had a few complaints for the vet when we escorted George to his annual visit.  The small lump on his ear had grown larger and his breath had become unbearable.  We wanted to have his teeth cleaned and the lump removed at the same time.  The vet inspected George’s mouth and found one bad canine tooth that she felt might be causing the sewage smell.  We scheduled an appointment as soon as possible for the surgery which happened to be on a day when the Englishman was out of town.

I took the day off of work to bring George to the vet.  He happily jumped into my car, wagging his tail until I took a left turn out of the neighborhood instead of a right.  If you think dogs do not know their left from their right, think again.  In my town, “left” means “vet”.  Right means a lot of other things.  Better things.  More preferable things.  I took a left.  George pawed at my leg.  I ignored him.  George tried to jump into my lap and take over control of the steering wheel.  He has no thumbs and I thwarted his plans of car hijacking.  George finally sulked in the back seat and refused to make eye contact.

Moments later, I parked and was trying to convince George to exit the car.  I then tried to convince George to enter the building.  After resorting to dragging my dog into the office, I sat on a bench waiting for our turn.  George stood up on his back legs, placed his head in my lap and let his paw tremble.  I felt terrible.  Worse than terrible.  I frantically glanced around the room for a box of tissues as my eyes seemed a bit watery.  Finally, it was our turn.  I signed a lot of paperwork.  I was told I could check on him throughout the day.  I was told to leave.  Really?  I didn’t want to leave.  George was looking at me with his big brown eyes and giving me the “trembly” paw again.  The technician told me that I had to leave first.  It was apparently better for the dog.  I left and sat in the parking lot, tears in my eyes, and sent a text to the Englishman damning him for his business trip to California that forced me to be the villain.

I went home and waited.  I needed something to take my mind off of things so I turned on MTV’s “Teen Mom” marathon and proceeded to clean the house.  I am domestically disabled so this was no easy task, plus I could feel the other dogs’ “judgey” eyes on me.  The vet finally called me to let me know that George was awake and he had five teeth pulled.   “Does he have any teeth left?”  I asked, horrified.  I was assured that he had plenty of teeth left.  The vet felt that the teeth she removed were the cause of George’s garbage mouth.  I would be able to pick him up at five.

I went early, but they meant five.  I had to wait and stare at the bags of Science Diet pet foods on a shelf in front of me.  Finally, George careened around a corner sliding his cone encased head into my leg.  I dutifully listened to the instructions on meds and food and then carried Cone Head to the car.  When we arrived home, the other dogs backed away from him, fearful of a similar fate.

The first day, Cone Head learned how to navigate the house and outdoors without catching the edge of the cone on an object.  This was important because Cone Head would freeze when the edge the plastic caught on a door frame or other immovable object.  He wouldn’t back up or move his head.  Just freeze.  Thankfully he only weighed 33 pounds as I had to carry him around quite a bit.  The first night, he slept soundly on a dog bed on the floor of my bedroom.

The second day, he had conquered the house and every edge and object.  He wasn't sure of the front door or stairs so I would carry him outside to the front yard where there was little to block his path.  Cone Head would trot through the freshly cut grass, his head bobbing from side to side as he sniffed the warm summer air.  The second night, he slept in my bedroom, the envy of the other three canines. 

On the third day, Cone Head growled at the other dogs.  He howled.  He barked.  He carried shoes around the house in his mouth.  He was back to his typical self.  He followed me through the front door and into the yard.  He ignored me as I yelled for him to come back.  He outran me in front of the neighbors.  As I jogged down the sidewalk with my flip flops smacking against the hot cement, I wondered how a dog with a cone on his head could outrun and outsmart me.  He finally let me catch him.

In the house, Cone Head discovered that his cone could be used as a weapon.  He rammed the cone of shame into the other dogs.  He pushed the hard plastic into the back of my legs.  I didn’t fall over.  He backed up and tried again, pressing tiny red marks into my skin.  When it was time for bed, I called for him.  He ignored me.  “Fine”, I told him and walked back to the bedroom.  Moments later, the Englishman summoned me to the laundry room where the four-pack’s crate condo was located.  Cone Head had somehow backed into his crate, with the cone of shame (and his head) resting on the floor.  Stubborn dog.  I left him and he was still snoozing soundly in the morning.

Dogs can adapt very quickly to things, I have learned over the years.  George was eating his dry kibble without a problem, in spite of a distinct lack of teeth.  He demanded treats and could catch them with ease.  His stitches will soon be removed from his rapidly healing ear and Cone Head will be no more than a distant memory for him.

Counting Sheep

“I want a lamb” I told the Englishman as we drove with his family toward Blackpool. I peered at the countryside dotted with fluffy white cotton balls that had legs. I had never seen so many sheep and they covered the fields. At the top of Blackpool Tower, I could see for miles but just rooftops, boardwalks and beach.

“I want a lamb” I told the Englishman as we approached Stonehenge. A patchwork of greens, browns, and bright yellow blanketed the hills as the sheep and lambs gently grazed. In the gift shop I bought a scarf to help ward off the bitter wind. The sheep seemed unbothered in their wooly coats.

“I want a lamb” I told the Englishman as he navigated the narrow road climbing Westbury Hill. As I walked along the rocky path that led to the Bratton White Horse, the view was breathtaking. I peered past the three-hundred year old horse and studied the sheep gathered far below.

“I want a lamb” I told the Englishman as we headed toward Devon. I cringed as he navigated the rental car through the narrow roads lined with thick hedges and was glad the car was fully insured as branches scraped the sides. I couldn’t see the sheep behind the high hedges but I knew they were there. When we arrived at his brother’s house in Slapton, the English Family gathered in the back garden. Their chocolate lab stared longingly at the sheep through the fence and I didn’t feel the urge to flip his ears from their inside-out position. He was dreaming of lambs, too.

“I want a lamb” I told the Englishman as we drove into Wales. We were headed to Conwy Castle and I watched the road signs with unreadable Welsh words. “I want a red one…no a blue one!” I declared and I pondered the streaks of colored spray paint on the sides of the sheep.

“I want a lamb” I told the Englishman as we wove through the picturesque countryside of the Lake District. Hedgerows had been replaced by stone walls and I feared for our car. We pulled the car off the road at the Castlerigg Stone Circle in Keswick. I purchased an ice cream and stood near the fence to a field. A tiny lamb wobbled over curiously under the careful watch of its mother. I looked at the Englishman and told him, “I’ll take that one, please.”

“I want a lamb” I told the Englishman as we wandered into an art gallery in Ambleside. I purchased a Peter Brook framed print called “Cornered”. It featured three sheep and one dog. We visited Grasmere and purchased gingerbread from Sarah Nelson’s famous store and stopped in a churchyard to see William Wordsworth’s grave. I pointed out that the grave to the right of it had a lamb carved into the headstone.

“I want a lamb” I told the Englishman as we struggled to follow the GPS to Lowther Castle in Penrith.  He glared at me as I paid 16 pounds for us to wander the unfinished gardens as access to the castle that was under restoration was strictly forbidden.  After exploring the grounds for an hour, we left to explore an old cemetery and I found sheep and lambs on the other side of a low wall.  The mothers gave a few low bleats and the lambs retreated from my offering of dandelions.

“I want a lamb” I told the Englishman as we strolled along the mile-long promenade in Grange-Over-Sands. The path was sandwiched between the railroad tracks and grazing fields. Beyond the fields I could see the salty water of the bay. The sheep had beach front property! I promptly found a bench so I could watch them. Signs warned of quicksand and after the Englishman spoke with a local woman about the dangers, it was decided to leave the sheep alone. I watched as sheep with streaks of colored spray-paint graffiti led their babies from one patch of grass to the next.

“I want a lamb” I told the Englishman as we sat outside the Swan Hotel in Newby Bridge. The Englishman looked up from his menu. “You can have a lamb. It’s on the menu,” he told me as he proceeded to order deviled lamb kidneys on toast. I was not amused.

“I want a lamb” I told the Englishman as we boarded our plane for the United States.  I dreamed of lambs during the long flight home.  As I unpacked my suitcase and organized my photos from my vacation, I realized that I went to England for two weeks and all I saw were lambs.

All Aboard the Rescue Train

In 2003, I adopted Chase through ACES (Another Chance for English Setters). I was able to drive the six-hour trip to Nashville, TN but not every adoptive or foster family is able to do this. Since 2003, I have been a volunteer for ACES conducting home visits of potential adoptive families and have been active on the transport list for several years.

Last month, I was part of a transport to unite Lanie, a beautiful liver setter, with her new foster family. The trip began for Lanie in a Thomasville, Georgia shelter at 8AM on a Saturday morning. Each transport driver was scheduled, amazingly just two days earlier via an ACES transport coordinator, to drive a one hour leg. I met Lanie at 12:30PM in the parking lot of a Tractor Supply store. The Englishman went inside to buy treats and we spent fifteen minutes trying to coax the terrified setter out of the previous driver’s car. The Englishman finally scooped the dog up in his arms and carried her to our car. Tail tucked, she timidly managed to climb into the backseat. The Englishman attempted to give her a “Better Than Ears” treat but Lanie seemed intimidated by the size of it. We broke off pieces of the treat and strategically placed them on the back seat. A few minutes later, I sent a text to the next driver to let her know we were on the interstate. Lanie settled into the back seat and munched on bits of the treat.

For one hour, I fed Lanie slivers of the treat and she finally became less suspicious of the larger pieces. I remained twisted in my front seat in order to face her and pet her soft silky fur. We arrived at our meeting point behind a fast food restaurant. The next driver was waiting for us and after a brief conversation; she lifted Lanie from our back seat to hers. I called the transport coordinator to let her know that Lanie was on the final leg of her trip and would soon meet her foster family in Columbia, South Carolina.

Arriving home later that afternoon, the four-pack didn’t notice the foreign smell of an outsider on our clothes. They were focused on the bag of their favorite treat and eagerly took each treasured “pig ear” to their favorite spots. I hoped that Lanie’s weekend was full of new sights, sounds, treats and love as a checked my email for the next rescue train.

Building Foundations

The Four-Pack sleep each night in the crate condo. Four crates are stacked, due to lack of space, in a former laundry closet. George’s crate sits on top of Molly’s and Charlie has a great view above Chase. The Englishman spoils them by fluffing their blankets in the dryer shortly before bedtime so each dog has a warm bed. He decided that the dogs needed better mattresses for their beds and began a search on Craigslist. In the little town of Bethlehem, Georgia his search was fulfilled with the exchange of fifty dollars for one queen-sized 3-inch thick memory foam mattress topper. As our GPS led us through windy country roads, we discussed whether or not to reveal the true purpose of this mattress topper with the seller.

I was reminded of a garage sale with my mother in South Carolina a few years ago where a woman was offering hundreds of plush toy rabbits for sale in a dollar bin. She clearly loved collecting all things bunny. Her husband had forced her to relinquish her “wascally wabbit” habit and she was seeking good homes for her treasures. I stepped very hard on my mother’s foot before she could disclose that I was on a quest for dog-appropriate toys. Chase treasured those rabbits dearly, for at least thirty minutes, while he engaged in manic de-stuffing activity.

The Englishman decided, if asked, that we would say the used mattress topper was for the English Boy’s college apartment and not for the Canine Condo Complex. Once the transaction was completed, we headed home to cut apart the memory foam. The Englishman carefully traced each crate bottom onto the memory foam with a red marker and cut along the lines. He custom-fit the foam to the crate and placed the faux-fleece bed on top. Then we put the dogs to bed for the true test. Four noses probed and sniffed the new smells below their paws. Four tails wagged as four bodies performed the required number of turns before settling down for the night.

The next morning, I let the dogs out of the crates and the true proof of whether the memory foam had made a difference was hard to deny. Instead of moving slowly and stretching each leg, the four-pack bounded out of the crates and raced through the house with energy and excitement not typical for 6:30 AM. Molly even returned to her crate after breakfast instead of her preferred cushion in the living room. Although the dogs have only had new foundations for a few days, they seem to be content with their “upcycled” and improved beds. Of course, I have been proven wrong in my theories of canine comfort many times in the past with the dogs falling fast asleep in the most unlikely places. Sometimes it would be nice if dogs could talk.

Do you wish to rise? Begin by descending. You plan a tower that will pierce the clouds? Lay first the foundation of humility. – Saint Augustine

25

The Englishman was determined that we empty out my storage unit which was located 24 miles away at Lake Oconee. There wasn’t much left, but it would take three trips in my faded green gas guzzling pickup truck. The first two trips were uneventful and we returned Sunday afternoon to finish the job. After loading a sideboard and a wardrobe into the back of the truck, we precariously loaded the queen sized mattress and box spring on either side, securing them in place with a solitary yellow tow rope. I looked doubtfully up at the teepee shape the mattresses formed over the other pieces of furniture. The Englishman assured me that it would be fine and revved up the engine. As we pulled onto the main road, the truck crept up to twenty-five miles per hour and a long line of cars followed. In a display of rare generosity, The Englishman pulled over to allow seven vehicles to pass while we brainstormed our route home. Driving over 25mph was out of the question as it created gusts of wind that tested the strength of the single strap holding our piece de resistance in place. We chose our path, realizing that home would be an hour away at the rate of speed we were driving.

It was a beautiful fall afternoon and we rolled the windows down to enjoy the fresh air. At 25mph, my hair did not obscure my vision or become tangled. At 25, we saw an eagle perched in a tree and had plenty of time to watch it as we drove slowly by. At 25 we were able to hear the goats bleating in a farm field. It sounded like laughter to me and I imagined the goats conversing about the strange truck creeping along the road. At 25, we could hear the sound of running hooves as the teenaged cows outran us to reach the newly placed hay at the other end of the field. At 25, I was able to spot an overly decorated yard with brightly colored flowers, statues and concrete benches and still had time to question the absence of garden gnomes. At 25, we could clearly see the hidden driveways tucked between the pine trees. At 25, we gave hope to dogs, which before our approach were snoozing lazily in patches of sun and were now on red alert, racing the truck along their property lines. At 25, the squirrels that darted across the road were fearless. The Englishman slowed at the low railroad bridge and we strained to read the faded letters on the top that indicated its maximum height. Eight feet? Nine? He inched forward and I cringed until we safely passed beneath the underpass to the other side. At 25, we could smell the fall flowers and freshly cut grass. At 25, I could read the yard signs advertising “Fire Wood”, “Cucumbers” and “Farm Fresh Eggs” and I even had time to make note of the phone numbers. As we pulled into the security of our driveway, I was a bit sad that our journey was complete and I wondered if I would ever have another opportunity to slow it down and just drive 25.

Snore & Roar

My sandbox friend, The Baroness of DC, sent me an email in March requesting my presence at the National Zoo’s Snore & Roar event in July. Commoners such as moi do not plan events months in advance so naturally, I was free on that particular date. I was also looking forward to a reunion with Guinness, the dog I helped unite with The Baroness last year, and I wanted to meet Mulligan, the beautiful black and white dog that had been with The Baroness for many years.

Mulligan and Guinness were the perfect hosts and shared everything with me: my bed, my food, my blanket. They took turns inspecting the items in my luggage and Guinness took full responsibility for both dog toys that my four-pack sent as gifts.

The Snore & Roar at the National Zoo consists of an after-hours tour of an animal house or exhibit, a flashlight tour of the zoo and the opportunity to sleep over in a tent. I believe I missed the tent part when The Baroness extended the invitation. I’m not a tent kind of girl. The last time I truly camped was in 1980 in New Jersey in the Girl Scouts. We had cabins with bunk beds. Unfortunately for me, by the time my brain fully grasped the fact that a tent was involved, it was too late to back out.

The Baroness was well prepared with air mattresses, wool blankets for the record-breaking August heat wave and tiny throw pillows. A quick trip to the grocery store yielded the bare camping necessities of fruit, cheese, fried chicken, and alcohol. The royal entourage consisted of her mother, sister and me…the smartass friend.

Our first mission was to set up two tents. We chose a slight incline beneath several stately oaks. Intimidated by the expert tent making activity around us by other Snorers and Roarers, we stared at the tent components and each other. I pointed out to The Baroness’s mother that she was my Girl Scout leader back in the day. I failed to mention the cabins and bunk beds. I was determined to not be the last group to set up camp. I sorted each tent part into piles, and began to set one up, carefully working my way around the blue plastic tarp in my red and cream high heeled sneakers. Twenty minutes later, The Baroness and I triumphantly stepped back to admire our handiwork. I was pleased to note that one couple was still struggling with their tent. Never mind that they looked like grandparents. As we gloated, a gust of wind blew our tent over and we scrambled to secure it to the ground with the metal pins. I believe it was a reminder from up above because there were no more gusts of wind the rest of the event.

The first tour was of the Amazonia exhibit. We welcomed the air-conditioned building and our enthusiastic tour guide. Birds greeted us with their songs and the sound of falling water was relaxing. I was reluctant to leave such a peaceful environment. The second part of the tour was the Big Cats exhibit. The lions and tigers were behind the scenes in their cages for the night and we were able to view them up close and personal. The “Lion King” was majestic with his enormous head and large, wide paws. Two female lions reclined with eight young cubs, their wide eyes and playfulness melted our hearts. The tigers were harder to view because the automatic lighting had been dimmed. The male tiger had beautiful stripes and the zookeeper demonstrated how to give it a shot. It looked more like a “stop, drop and roll” exercise that we learned in kindergarten with the fire department.

Finally it was time for the flashlight tour of the zoo. Our tour group, unfortunately, included the couple that had more trouble setting up their tents than us. The Odd Couple donned their flashlight headgear and eagerly began the upward climb through the zoo. It was all uphill. I sighed and lagged behind in my fashionable footwear. The female half of the Odd Couple walked with me, incessantly chattering and asking me questions about each exhibit. It dawned on me that she thought I was a zookeeper. Really? I wasn’t sure if the high heeled sneakers gave it away or the Storm Trooper in my pocket, but I just didn’t think that my attire screamed zookeeper. After a short internal debate on whether to humor my inner devil and give her a private tour or tell her I wasn’t a zookeeper, I took the higher road and sprinted carefully in the dark to catch up with The Baroness. I didn’t lag behind again, having learned my lesson.

When the tour finished, we headed to the outdoor pavilion for the wine and cheese social. There was no wine and cheese. Everything was gone. Either the group ahead of us ate and drank everything or there were some really happy animals in the zoo. The Baroness was prepared with the cooler of adult beverages, fried chicken, a fruit and cheese platter and a box of wine. I am always suspicious of boxed wine so I satisfied my thirst with adult beverages. We invited the zoo personnel to join our spread and refused to make eye contact with the Odd Couple. The Baroness and I made our way to the tent and settled down for the night with our wool blankets and tiny pillows.

Morning came too soon. We emerged from our tents to discover half of the tents were already dismantled. Ever the one to keep up with the cool kids, I rushed to take our tent down, too. We couldn’t be the last ones! Thankfully, the Odd Couple had yet to emerge from their tent. Our party of four regrouped at the pavilion for bagels, coffee and juice. We watched as the Odd Couple approached, clad in spandex, knee pads and bicycle helmets. I was grateful that the male half was also wearing a fanny pack around his waist covering up the front panel of his spandex shorts. It was too early in the morning. The Odd Couple stretched and jogged in place before gathering a few bananas and bottles of water. They approached our table as the zoo personnel were sitting with us and asked about bike trails. A few options were given and the Odd Couple went away.

The Baroness and I repacked her car with our camping gear and watched the Odd Couple pull everything out of their car, carefully placing it throughout the parking lot like a flea market display. They struggled with removing their bikes from the top of the car but were finally victorious. The female half grabbed a tiny bike with big wheels that looked like it belonged in a circus and attempted a few practice runs in the parking lot. The Baroness and I cringed as she nearly took out several cars and steered crazily to the opposite end. Satisfied with her biking achievements, the Odd Couple hastily crammed their car with duffel bags and air mattresses and coolers. We caught a glimpse of them slowly riding on the bike path to begin their morning adventure. I said a quick prayer for the other bikers on the path as the Baroness and I left the zoo.

Give a Dog a Shoe

George has a love affair with shoes.  Kick off a shoe in the house and one will go missing.  The very first thing George does each morning is to grab a shoe and trot joyfully through the house holding the footwear du jour triumphantly in his mouth, tail wagging and Mohawk tilting from left to right. Upon arriving home in the evenings, I am greeted at the door by George, shoe planted firmly between his teeth.  When George wants to go outside, he waits impatiently at the back door with a shoe.  Ever the optimist, he hopes that he will go unnoticed and successfully sneak it outside. It happens more often than I would like to admit.

On a moonless night, George managed to sneak by me with the English Boy's loafer.  I yelled at the devious dog and ordered him to halt but, as usual my commands fell on deliberately deaf ears.  I ran into the inky darkness of the backyard, searching for the disobedient canine whose fur is mostly black. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack.  Haystack...I spied movement on top of the pile of grass clippings and carefully turned in that direction, avoiding potential landmines that four dogs have a tendency to leave behind. George was on top of the pile digging furiously.  He stopped as I approached, then darted back into the house without the loafer.  I patted the clippings without success, aware of my severe allergy to the mountain of grass.  Defeated, I returned to the house and attempted to interrogate George.  That went well.

The next day the Englishman was sent on a search and rescue mission for the shoe.  It was buried deep within the grass pile and a spider had taken up residence.  I was glad it wasn’t my shoe.

Sneakers, loafers, pumps, sandals, flip flops and boots.  George doesn't distinguish between them. For him, if the shoe fits...carry it!

Le Chien?

The Frenchman had just moved to Georgia and had a lot to learn about the South. He tried to chase a black and white cat from beneath his car one morning only to discover it was a skunk so it didn’t surprise anyone when he discovered a stray dog in his driveway one day and decided to keep it.

It was a most unusual creature with tufts of fur matted at odd angles to its body. The Frenchman brought the mangy mutt inside his home and promptly gave it a bath. He towel-dried the dog, brushed the fur and cut the tangles. He fed it and made a bed out of an old blanket. Later that evening, as he tried to sleep, the dog stood by the front door and howled incessantly. At last, the Frenchman couldn’t listen to the awful noises and tossed the dog outside.

In the morning, the dog had disappeared. As the Frenchman left his house to run a few errands, his next door neighbor approached him and warned him that there was a very clean-looking coyote wandering the yard the night before.

For Whom the Bell Tolls

The Englishman was clearly frustrated as he incessantly pulled the chain on the small bell hanging by the back door.  "Your dog won't come inside even though I have rung the bell," he decreed.  "My dogs obeyed."  He looked at me as though this was somehow my fault.  I mentioned that it would be helpful to actually train Chase on what the ringing of the bell meant before pinning the disobedient label on him.   I pulled on the chain and listened to the pleasant chime of a bell that tolled more like a lullaby than a tornado siren.  Chase would never hear the sound as it wasn't loud enough to break his concentration.  I glared at the Englishman, walked down to the pond and ordered Chase to the house with one pointing finger.

A few weeks later, the Englishman installed a larger, shinier brass bell with a thick rope attached to the clapper.  It looked as though it would be more at home on a military ship than the back door.  When I pulled the rope, a loud clang rang through the neighborhood and echoed across the pond.  I was certain that all the dogs within a mile radius would line up at the back door each time it sounded.

After using it for several days, my fears were alleviated as only the four-pack ran toward the house when the bell tolled.  Up the hill, ears flopping, tongues dangling, all heeded the call.  A little bit of effort proved that even an older dog could still learn a new trick and that when "the bell tolls, it tolls for thee".

Duck Stuffing

As spring seamlessly flowed into summer, the humidity thickened the air so that the smallest amount of exertion required an immediate shower.  The Englishman and I halted our efforts in forcing Slinky, Myrtle, Thorn and Poison Ivy into their floating Quack Shack each night.  They seemed content to bed down in the lush green grass at the pond's edge.  We lived in a neighborhood with such novelties as paved roads and sidewalks so I had no concerns about crime against ducks.  In the morning when I let the dogs outside, one duck would sound a loud, solitary quack and the four would charge up the hill, wobbling back and forth as they demanded food.  In the afternoons, the ducks would lounge under the bushes near the driveway, waiting for the sprinkler to spray streams of cool water.  The ducks would race through the mist, wings spread for balance, as fast as their webbed feet would allow.  They shared their treats of frozen peas and corn with George and Charlie and would scatter as Chase ran through their small flock.

And then there were three.  Just like a classic Agatha Christie mystery, one morning Slinky was gone.  I searched the yard in vain.  That evening the Englishman searched the other pond.  No feathers, no duck parts, nothing.  We felt responsible because we had abandoned our efforts to train the ducks to use their floating duck house as shelter.  "It takes about a month," I reminded the Englishman as we vowed to continue the training each evening just before dusk.

The first challenge was to catch the ducks.  Ever practical, I armed myself with a red broom and chased the ducks around the yard until I could pin one with the bristles.  Thwack!!!  Once it was pinned to the ground I could easily pluck it up and carry it to the pond.  I discovered if I caught one, the others would follow.  The Englishman did not approve of my duck catching technique.  Apparently running wildly through the backyard waving a broom in the air was not dignified.  Tossing my broom to the side, he smugly proceeded to instruct me in the finer points of herding ducks.  Apparently in England, one is born knowing how to herd ducks as it is a part of English DNA.  I was missing the duck herding chromosome and needed to pay close attention to his tutelage.  I took notes:

1.  Approach ducks (without a weapon of mass destruction) and halt the advance when the ducks move away from you.  This is their "comfort zone".

2.  Spread out your arms as if you were going to fly.  Do not pretend to fly as it is not dignified and may alarm the neighbors.

3.  Take a step to the right to make the ducks move to the left.  Take a step to the left to make the ducks move to the right.  Do not put down your arms to check your hands to see which is the left and which is the right.  Take a step forward to make the ducks move forward.  "Let's do the time warp again!"

4.  Ducks do not move in reverse so don't bother trying this.

5.  The American Broom Method is quicker.

Once the ducks were properly herded onto the dock, the Englishman tenderly placed them in the duck house.  Their quacks echoed inside the house as we retreated to ours.  Each evening we continued our "stuffing the ducks into the house" chore with 100% human effort and 0% duck effort.  Small breakthroughs occurred though.  First, we noticed that if we put one duck inside the house, it would quack and peek out of the door until the other two finally decided to join it.  Next, the ducks began to wait at the end of the dock at dusk, ready to be stuffed into their house.  Finally, I realized that the ducks could fly when one evening, as I placed one duck on the platform and attempted to stuff it through the doorway, the other two jumped from the dock, flapped their wings and glided over the tin roof of the house, landing in the water several feet away.  A few moments later, they joined their companion inside the house.

Duck Stuffing.  It's not a recipe...it's a skill!

The Quack Shack

The Englishman wanted to park his car.  In our driveway.  In the exact spot where the cinderblock duck compound was erected.  Selfish.  He also didn't believe that the former duck house, which had since been christened Cluckingham Palace for our non-existent chickens, was an appropriate residence.  He wanted to build a floating structure to leave in the center of the pond, maroon the ducks and pull them in by a rope when we wanted to visit them.  I was horrified at his callousness. I complained to my employees as they had lent a sympathetic ear in the past to my woes.  My employees were not supportive.  Not only did they think it was a great idea, they offered suggestions and even described how to build such a structure.  I waited several days before disclosing the news to the Englishman.  I told him that he would need an old pallet, some styrofoam and a barrel.  He scoffed and reached for his graph paper, pencil, compass and protractor.  I retreated to count my shoes.  Again.

So during one of the hottest spring weekends in Georgia, the Englishman set out to construct a hexagon-shaped floating duck house. I was given the chore of painting it.  A simple task under normal springtime conditions; however the paint dried as fast as I could apply it.  The result was a clean, white house attached to a bright yellow platform.  A plastic green plank was added to the side so that the ducks could access the platform.  The tin roof was pressed into place with some difficulty and styrofoam was fitted beneath the structure with wire.

The moment had arrived to launch the Quack Shack and discover if it would float.  The Englishman and the English Boy carried the house to the pond and placed it on the back of the rowboat.  The English Boy paddled to the middle of the pond and while we held our breath, the Quack Shack was launched.  Amazingly, it floated!

It was time to introduce the ducks to their new piece of real estate.  I grabbed two ducks from the compound and stuffed them into a canvas shopping bag.  It took a few moments to catch the other two ducks but my persistence paid off as I dropped them into a second shopping bag.  All of the merriment was captured on video by the English Boy.

I placed one quacking and kicking bag into the boat and precariously sat on the edge of the seat while the English Boy paddled toward the white and yellow floating structure.  It looked like a hard-boiled egg.  The Englishman stood on the edge of the dock with the sole task of watching his two duck charges.  As I attempted to push a duck inside the house, the second duck escaped from the grocery bag, waddling freely throughout the boat.  Duck Number One wiggled out of my grasp and plunged into the murky water.  As he attempted to get back into the boat, Duck Number Two leaped out of the boat.  Ducks Three and Four dove from the dock and splashed into the water.

The sun was setting.  The tin roof of the Quack Shack gleamed in the fading light.  The English Boy continued to film his Youtube video, the link to which will never be disclosed by me.  Four ducks floated in the shallows of the pond, poking for food among the lily pads and scorning their beautifully constructed, sea-worthy home drifting nearby.

Cat Men

"I'm a cat man" boasted my employee proudly. I looked doubtfully at my passenger who was my helper for an hour. I was driving to my least favorite superstore in the world to pick up steel folding chairs for the employee breakroom. My shoes du jour were sensible red and white gingham peep toes with shiny red three-inch heels. Equally sensible was my all-white ensemble, perfect attire for a manufacturing environment.

My companion smiled as he told me about Tiger, the cat that recognized the sound of his truck returning home. The feline would push apart the mini blinds to watch him at the window. I suddenly remembered another "cat man" that I met on a flight from Atlanta to JFK in the summer of 1994.

My sister and I were on the first leg of our trip to France. As we boarded the plane, we realized that we were not seated together as requested. Liz was directly in front of me on the aisle, with two very cute guys sharing her row. I seethed with jealousy as I saw my seat neighbor. He was a very talkative, forty-something, dread-locked New Yorker who was already slightly inebriated. I glared at the back of my sister's seat and cursed her good fortune. I pulled out the emergency card from the seat pocket and feigned great interest in the location of the emergency exits. My safety mindedness did not discourage the "Chat Man" who was quite the talker. When the drink and pretzel cart stopped at our row, he demanded an alcoholic beverage. Unfortunately, the flight attendant had no change for his twenty dollar bill. Chat Man ordered five drinks and insisted that I have one as apparently four was his limit. Never the kind of girl to pass on a free drink I accepted and resigned myself to a full hour of slurred conversation.

I peered through the seat crack, curious to see what Liz was doing. She appeared to be twisted as far away as possible from her seat neighbor and looked like she was praying. Nosy, I stood up and pretended to stretch. Gross. "Cute Boy" was picking a scabs on his arm and flicking them. I labeled him "Potential Serial Killer" and sat down, smiling at my loquacious companion.

Chat Man told me about his cat, Rambo. This fearless feline roamed the halls of his New York City apartment building. When Rambo was ready to return to the apartment, he leaped up to ring the doorbell. No one taught him this trick. Smart cat. Chat Man and I shared pet stories until we parted ways at the JFK Airport. Liz refused to discuss her unusual seat companion as we walked to our connecting flight.

Two cat men. Years apart. My unwitting super heroes saving me from an evil superstore and a potential serial killer with their Tiger Tales and Rambo Ramblings.