Hands in my Pocket

I was walking along today with my hands in my pocket like I sometimes do, and noticed some things in there that I couldn’t tell what they were by the feel.  So, I came up to my desk and unloaded my pockets.  I had the following things in there:

A cutting glove and a carpet knife.  An ink pen, my keys, my Swiss Army knife, a small bottle of nitroglycerin, a pill  bottle with some aspirin in it, four receipts for different things, a set of nail clippers, a money clip (no money, just a clip) a Quartz crystal, $2.75 in change and one sheet metal screw.

And they say women have a lot of things in their purses!  It’s no wonder I am 10 pounds lighter when I am not wearing any clothes.  (ok…quit that…)

I remember the strangest thing I ever had in my pocket was when I was about 8 or 9 years old, I went fishing with my Dad.  I was down the bank of the river a little bit from where he was and I caught a little bream about 3 inches long.  I hollered at Daddy, and he told me to throw it back in that it was too little to keep and put on the stringer.  Well, since it was the only fish I had caught that day I was a little jealous so I put it in the pocket of my Jeans instead.  I forgot about it.

A day or so later the laundry started to stink.  My Mom was obsessed with keeping our clothes washed thank goodness or it could have been worse.  When she put her hand down in my blue jeans, I heard her yell, even though I was out in the front yard.  Thank goodness my Dad had a sense of humor about it.  He only pretended to get onto me, winking at me and grinning the whole time!

Me and My Guitar

The guitar and I go back a long way.  I think I was 11 when Dad and I first went to the pawn shop in Rome and looked at guitars.  I wanted a Bass (wanted to be in the band y’know) but I came away with a Kay scroll side acoustical guitar, with strings that were about ½ inch above the fret.

Now anybody who has ever played a guitar knows that the “action” of the strings, i.e. the closer they are to the frets and the neck of the guitar, the easier they are to press down and get a sound out of, and thus the easier the instrument is to play.  ½ inch is a LONG way for a beginner, especially with metal strings.  I found out after I had owned the guitar for several weeks that the strings could be adjusted down.  By that time, I had permanent calluses on ALL the fingers on my left hand…which have never, never gone away.  This is the way you can tell a real guitarist though.  Let somebody pick up a guitar and plunk away on it for a half hour and then they start looking at the tops of their fingers like “damn that hurts”  NEWBIE!  Either that, or they wienie out and go to a Spanish guitar with nylon strings and say “I want to be like Segovia”  Well, if you want to be like Andres Segovia, you better plan on practicing 12 to 14 hours a day and have natural talent to begin with to boot.  There are NOT many Segovia’s, or even Chet Atkins for that matter.  Some people have it, and some people don’t.  You can teach yourself, or be taught to play a guitar, but you can’t be taught to be a Segovia or an Atkins.  That kind of talent has to be in the genes.  But…in any case…as I was saying, the metal makes the man when it comes to guitars, and if you ain’t got the calluses, don’t whine!

I had three guitar lessons before my Dad figured out it was too much of a pain to take me all the way 6 miles down the road to Summerville, especially since I wasn’t much interested in learning how to finger pick “Red River Valley” or any other country tune from the 1940’s.  I finally ended up doing it the way I have done almost everything else in my life…I learned it on my own.  I looked at a book and got the chords down pat and then just started practicing them over and over again.  I watch other people who knew how to play do their thing, and picked up some things from them.  Mostly I did my own thing though.

I don’t pick up any of my guitars as often as I should.  I have three or four of them sitting around.  (And yes, one of them is a Spanish guitar that my wife got me for a Wedding present!  Thing about it is, I HAD the calluses before I got this guitar so when I play it, I don’t feel like a wienie)  This past week when I was feeling like crap, I picked my guitar up off the bed and just sat down and started to play.  For me, at least right now, it’s still comes easy.  My brain sends those long ago learned and practiced chords and notes down through the nerve endings in my fingers and the music starts to come out of the guitar.  It’s like a small miracle really.  I can’t remember what I had for supper last night, but I can still play “Down Yonder” or “Wildwood Flower” like it was 1963!  Over forty years and my brain still remembers!  I think the day I pick up the guitar and I can’t remember the chords or the notes that I learned so long ago is going to be a VERY sad day.  I really hope it never happens.  There is such a bond between a player and their instrument, that if that bond is broken, it would be almost like a death of dear friend.  Oh how much you would mourn that loss!  I know the look in my Grandfather’s eyes back years ago when he would pick up that banjo that he had played for years and couldn’t quite get the music to come out the way it did before.  It was a sad and confused look.  A pitiful look.  It wasn’t too long after that when Grandpa had to go to the nursing home because he really couldn’t remember anything anymore.  Or anybody.  I pray to the creator that I don’t go that route.  One of the first songs I wrote when I took up songwriting was about Grandpa and his banjo.  It’s called “Blue Ridge Mountain Symphony.”  I have a good demo of the song, maybe one of these days I will get it on the site so folks can listen to it.

I really think that the fact that man decided to pick up some pieces of wood and put cat guts on it, or thump on a hollow log and call it music, was one of the things that eventually differentiated us from all the other creatures that our creator made.  I can’t recall seeing any animal but a human pick up a musical instrument and play it.  (ok…they train chimps to do it…but that’s different, they don’t give a hoot….or perhaps that’s an ooh..ooh…ooh…about what they are doing!  Man is the only creature who has made a connection with things musical, and I think that is one of the only real connections we have with divinity.  I really think God enjoys music.  He digs dancing too…remember when David danced before God, and he was pleased?  We sell God short sometimes I think, imagining that ALL he is, is this stern and terrible judge sitting behind a judges bench with a big gavel, ready to convict us of all our sins and send us straight to blazes.

Anyway, I digress.  So the other day when I continued to play, I also started humming some familiar tunes to the chords.  Peter, Paul and Mary were remembered of course, with “Jet Plane,” and “Puff the Magic Dragon”  I covered Peter and Gordon with “I Go to Pieces”  I stepped forward with “The Ones the Wolfs Brought Down”  a song that Garth Brooks recorded which never made to the singles chart, but in my opinion certainly should have.  I went through “Stepping Stone” which Paul Revere and the Raiders, and the Monkees covered.  I did “Friends in Low Places” because that’s just how I felt!   Then I just sat there for half an hour more making up little runs and tunes from the Blues to Rock and Roll.  I found a couple of riffs I really liked and just played them over and over, hoping I might remember them if I ever get near a recorder again, and want to put down something new.  I really wish I had the time.  I feel like I have cheated something or somebody sometimes because I haven’t been as “creative” as I should have been.  When do you have time to be creative?  Seems like back in the 80’s I had a hell of a lot more time to write and create and try to do things that might be some kind of “legacy”  Now I’m not so sure about legacies anyway.  Who’s really going to care?  Is it something my children and grandchildren would REALLY want to sit down and take time to listen to, or will they get into the same rut as I seem to be in now, which leaves you with no time to do anything but work, eat and sleep and a few minutes on the weekend to catch up with your chores.  I swear to goodness, I can never remember the days being so crammed full of stuff that the only time I pick my guitar up and play it is when I am at home sick, and my tooth and mouth are hurting like hell, and I need some solace from somewhere.

How I do go on about a piece of wood with some string pulled across it, don’t I?  But yet, there IS something mystical in our relationship with our instruments, just like there is in our relationships with other people.  I know for a fact, I pick up guitars at stores and flea markets and stuff and strum them and they seem like “strangers” to me.  The sounds that come out are not as comforting as they are from my familiar instruments, especially my 40 year old Classical.  The sounds I get from her are like recordings from years past of all the things, people and places that have I have experience while I have owned her.  (yes the guitar is a she!) Those memories which are stored there could not come from some “newcomer”  It’s like your family.  I know we meet and enjoy new friends…especially those with common memories of things that we have experienced, but no one has the connections that your family has to you.  That’s why my family is so special to me.

Well…I guess I may go pick up the guitar and plunk on it a while.  I hope I haven’t bored everyone to death with my ramblings.  I’ll leave you with this from the late George Harrison:

look at you all see the love there that’s sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps
I don’t know why nobody told you how to unfold your love
I don’t know how someone controlled you
They bought and sold you.

I look at the world and I notice it’s turning
While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps
I don’t know how you were diverted
You were perverted too
I don’t know how you were inverted
No one alerted you.

I look at you all see the love there that’s sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
Look at you all…
Still my guitar gently weeps.

To All the Dogs I’ve Loved Before.

I almost ran over a dog this morning on the way to the store.  The old boy just ran right out in front of me, and if I still didn’t have some of the fast reflexes that I was blessed with in my younger years, he would have been a goner.  I’m glad I missed him.

It got me to thinking, of all things, about Dogs.  They are certainly the creature that is the closest to humans.  Now I know all you Cat people are going to holler at me.  Cats can be good pets too, but they are of an independent and for the most part aloof nature.  They seem to act like they are the ones that own the human instead of vice versa.  Dog’s on the other hand, with the exception of a few breeds, and some few individual dogs, are without doubt “Mans (and Women’s) best friend”

The first dog I can remember having was a Collie-German Shepherd mix breed that I named Bullet.  Old Bullet, as any of you know who have been reading my stuff for a while, was a faithful friend to ME, but didn’t particularly care for the thieving neighbor kids who constantly stole my toys, and threw them up under their house.  Anytime he would catch them in our yard, he would nip at them all the way back to the boundary of their yard, and then stop and let them go on to their house.  He saved me from going out into the road and getting myself in mortal danger by grabbing the seat of my pants and pulling me back into the yard.  I spend many hours on the back steps, just throwing sticks, and balls, and any other thing I could get my hands on and letting him grab them and tote them back to me.  Somebody poisoned old Bullet, and he died a painful death.  He didn’t deserve that, no animal does.

We didn’t get another dog until we moved away from that neighborhood, and those particular neighbors.  The second dog I can remember having was a mix blood Cocker Spaniel and Bird dog, with long white curly hair.  Naturally, his name was “Whitey” (see how cunning our young minds are?)  Whitey was a great dog too.  He loved us kids and my folks so much, he could hardly stand himself.  Anytime any of use was outside, he was right up next to us like….well…fleas on a dog, so to speak.  He loved ALL kids, including the neighbor kids, and would run through piles of leaves with us in the fall of the year, and wallow around in them just like he knew we were all having fun.  And, I guess he was.  He developed a bad habit though, of running after my Dad every time he would get in the car and drive off.  I guess he was sort of trying to stop him from going anywhere, because he wanted him to stay and play!  Who knows how dogs think?  Dad had already hit him a couple of times with the car, because he would just run right up under the front of it.  One day he came back almost right after he left the house, and old Whitey was piled in the floorboard of the back seat of the car.  He was all bloody and whimpering.  He had got up under one of the wheels of the car, and had gotten it bad.  We took him out next to the dog house, and I patted his head.  He whimpered a couple of more times, and licked my hand once, and then he was gone.  We buried him up in the woods just past the cemetery that was right next to our house.

Now Dad got into hunting and bought three Beagles.  Lady, King and Husky.  They were NOT very good pets.  They had to be penned up all the time because they were already adult dogs when he got them, and they had been trained to run rabbits.  There is NO power in the world that is going to stop a Beagle from running a rabbit once he learns how to do it, and these three were no exception.  Dad would take them up above the cemetery, where the woods were, and just turn them out of the car and let them smell around until they caught the trail and then it was off to the races!!  Those dogs would get after that rabbit, or more than one rabbit and would run them until the rabbit backtracked towards where we were.  That was their job, to bring them back by, so that Dad had a shot at them with the gun.  One day they got after a particularly FAST rabbit.  They ran it for a couple of hours, and Lady and Husky dropped out and just sat down next to Dad and listened to King out there still baying and howling and running that long legged buck rabbit.  Finally, he got the rabbit to run by Dad, after about three hours of chasing him.  Dad missed him.  King walked over to where we were, took one look up at Dad, and collapsed in a heap.  We thought he was dead!  It took a bucket full of water, both pouring it ON him and in him to bring him back around.  Old King never had much of an interest in chasing rabbits after that, and Dad had gotten kind of tired of standing around and listening to dog’s bark, so he sold them.  I can’t say I was totally sorry to see them go.  They were just NOT very affectionate.

After that, I don’t guess we really had many memorable dogs, until we moved again, back up to “Hot Town” We got a couple of puppies from a litter that my Uncle “Pinky” had raised.  I named one of them Lobo, after the TV dog.  This was along about the time I was a Junior in High School, and I was interested in a lot of other things besides my dog.  I did keep him fed, and remembered to pet him now and then, but didn’t really go much beyond that.  He was a faithful sort, and hung around the house for the most part.  He was part Husky or something though, and he hated other dogs as much as he loved people.  Just let another dog, of any kind or size walk across his territory, and there was going to be a fight!  Dad kept a bucket of water at the back steps to throw on tumbling mass of teeth and claws that sometimes developed in our back yard.  That dog got hurt so badly sometimes during these fights that I was certain he was going to die.  I used up bottles and bottles of Hydrogen Peroxide cleaning out his nasty wounds.  He always seemed to survive though, and would just add another scar to his bruised up old body.  He was so tough that he was still kicking around after I had gone off to College and gotten married after my Freshman year.  My new wife was amazed at the near gangrenous wounds he would develop that I liberally poured the peroxide onto.  One day when he was about ten years old, he got into it with a big old dog that was part Pit bull.  (Now I know it sounds cruel, but my folks NEVER believed in “house” dogs until much later on in their lives…so please don’t think we were mean, we just didn’t know any better at the time!) The big dog was young and strong, but Lobo had the experience on him, and after a few minutes of tumbling around, with me chasing them with a bucket of water and missing, he ran the big dog out of his yard.  He really got the worse of it this time though.  I cleaned him up and treated him the same as always, even giving him a penicillin pill.  He was too hurt to recover this time though, because of his age.  Lobo, the dog with nine lives, had finally met his match.

My wife and I moved off to Athens Ga., and took up residence there while I was going to school.  We decided we wanted a dog, and so we bought what would be the first in a LONG line of family pets.  This one was a Border Collie; we named “Lady”   We lived out in the “country” in a little brick rental house that had a well, and a little brick well house to protect the well.   The person we rented from didn’t allow dogs in the house, so we had to make the “well house” our dog’s home.  We also had an assortment of other pets, fish, and a gerbil.  The gerbil was an escape artist who got loose from his cage and chewed his way OUT of the house and IN to the well house.  He became a fixture there, as you would see him dart around the well house at times.  I didn’t like the little bugger anyway, because he had bit me, so I wasn’t about to make a major effort out of catching him.  The dog, Lady, was a sweet little dog, but as happens with nature and with kids of barely 19 years old who don’t know what they are doing she ended up with a litter of puppies, (beautiful little fur balls if I remember correctly and I think we ended up keeping a couple of them for a while.  My wife could remember, but I sure can’t, it’s been too long ago) I think we ended up giving poor Lady away when we moved (again) to another place on the other side of town.

We ended up somehow with a Black and Tan Dachshund named “Fritzie” I think we bought him from some women who was moving to Florida somewhere.  As it ended up, she may have been moving away to get away from Fritzes’ smell!!  That’s right, he was one more stinky little wienie dog.  You could give him a bath one night, and by the next afternoon he had the strongest musty “boy dog” odor you ever smelled.  My wife and I conspired, and we gave him to my folks, who were after all without a dog since Lobo had died.  He was the first dog they ever attempted to keep in the house, since the lady who had given him to us had told us he was an “inside” dog.  After about a week though, my Dad walled off the brick patio he had built just outside the Kitchen window and it became Fritzes’ new home.  My Dad would get out there every day that the weather was nice, and hose that dog down with a hose and soap.  The next day he would smell so loud that the cats even stayed out of the neighborhood.  We tried everything, but to no avail.  I think Dad finally ended up giving him away to some really old folks, who loved him to death.  I think their sense of smell had abandoned them.  Either that or they were really lonely.

My wife had a pet Weimaurauner when she was a kid, and so when her brother, who also lived in Athens got a pair, well…we ended up with the somehow.  I don’t remember the exact circumstance, but “Misty and Abend” the silver slobbering hounds, came to live with us.  It wasn’t very long until they were ushered to my folk’s house again.  (Yes, my poor folks, while I am writing this I remember why we now take them out to eat and to their Drs., etc.  they were surely long suffering, especially when it came to taking OUR cast off pets!) My Dad kind of liked these two huge, slobbering girls, and built them a chicken wire fence on one side of the house for a pen, and got them a HUGE dog house.  The only thing about this breed of dog is that THEY CAN JUMP.  These two would jump OUT of the pen and start chasing anything that moved.  I think they were bred to chase stags in Germany, and of course since there are not too many stags in Georgia, they substituted anything they could find.  Rabbits, squirrels, other dogs, kids.  My Dad tried his best to keep them in that pen.  He got taller wire, and they still jumped over it.  He beat the tar nation out of them when he caught them jumping out.  It didn’t work, they were too stupid.  (or…too smart and just tough)  Finally, he gave THEM away to some folks who lived WAY back out in the country.  They guy who ended up getting them told my Dad that those two dogs ran deer to the ground!  Guess that’s what they always were looking for, but couldn’t find around town.

Of course, the best pet that my wife and I had all this time was a CAT.   That’s right, a cat.  His name was Hector, and we had gotten him for a “Wedding present” from one of our cat obsessed friends.  He was a big black fella’ with little white “booties” (booties…guys…booties…) on his feet.  I ended up becoming very fond of him over the five or so years we owned him.  He was actually more like a dog.

He was an “ambler” he never moved fast unless he had too.  He especially never moved fast when you wanted him to come somewhere.  But, when you started to catch him to put him in the car for the 3 hour ride home to visit the folks THEN he moved fast.  One of the memories that stand out the most in my mind about old Hector was on one of our frequent trips from Athens to Trion.  Hector usually slept most of the trip, but this time he was agitated.  I knew what was wrong, and was hurrying every chance I got to get him where we were going.  I knew it was in vain, when I looked in the rear view mirror and saw old Hector doing the #2 right up in the back window.  The people who were riding along behind us at the time were laughing so hard, they probably had to go to the hospital to get their busted gut sewn up!

Another time, we had to stop and get a tire changed that was about to go flat.  My wife was holding old Hector in her arms and he was being pretty patient about things.  All at once “Goober” Pyle who was changing the tire unhooked the connector between two air hoses, and it sounded like an air grenade had gone off.  Hector put two sets of claw marks in my wife’s shoulders and headed for some pine trees out behind the station.  It took us a couple of hours to coax him down out of those trees.  I won’t tell you into what part of “Goober’s” anatomy I wanted to put that air hose..But you know!

Yeah, old Hector.  He was usually pretty wary, but you couldn’t keep him inside.  He loved the outdoors, and would just stand there for long periods of time in the spring and sniff pine trees, and then wallow in the pine needles.  I don’t think he ever even had a flea!  He was crossing South Pond street in Toccoa, Ga., and didn’t make in time past on of the speeding motorists who used to come tearing down that street like it was a NASCAR racetrack.  I found him in the road.  I didn’t want to bury him in the town where he had gotten killed, and knowing how he loved the outdoors, I took him as far out Warwomen road in Rabun County as I could go on the dirt road, and buried him in a grove of Mountain Laurel.  Every once in a while his spirit ambles by and says ‘thank ya.’

After that, we had a succession of pets too numerous too mention.  Some cats, a whole BUNCH of tropical fish.  Guinea Pigs.  Boy did we have them.

That episode started out right after Paula and I got married.  She had a Guinea Pig named Schroeder, after Charlie Brown’s friend in the comic strip.  He was a little old guy the first time I say him.  He grew though.  He was fed well, and boy did he grow.  Well, we had Hector, or course and Hector and Schroeder didn’t get along too well….so, we took Schroeder up to my Dad and Mom’s house.  (You wouldn’t have guessed would you?)  Now my Dad kind of liked old Schroeder.  He built him a wooden pen up above the ground, and put tons of cedar shavings in it for Schroeder into.  Schroeder loved it.  He got about as big as a guinea pig can get.  He also started making these strange ‘brrrrr’ing noises.  We didn’t know what they meant, and we thought he was kind of lonely, so we

got another guinea pig, so he would have a friend.  We thought, what the heck.  Well, the new resident of the “pig pen” turned out to be a girl, and we then were able to finally figure out what Schroeder was “brrr’ing” about.  It wasn’t but a few weeks until there were about 8 little guinea pigs running around in the pen!  Far from being upset, my Dad thought it was a great idea.  We could sell the little ones back to the pet stores, and make some money off of them.  And so we did for a while.  The only problem was that Schroeder was a VERY potent little rascal AND we never really could tell girls from boys when they were little.  Plus, they burrowed down into those damn cedar chips and we could never find all of them.  My Dad ended up with so many guinea pigs that the Pet stores started hanging up the “Closed” sign when they saw him coming.  After a couple of years of  attempting “rodent” birth control, he finally called it quits, and sold off the entire herd.  Another pet experiment that ended up not turning out quite like we had imagined.

Kind of got off the subject of dogs there didn’t I?

Amway, our oldest living daughter was born in 1972, and from there son #1 in 1975, and son #2 in 1980.  Again, with kid’s come pets, and we had a plethora of them.  Mostly we had CATS!  I can’t remember all their names,  help me out here anyone who does!  There was the crazy Siamese cat from hell, who ran from under one bed to another and crapped all over the place.  He didn’t last long.  There was one particularly beautiful dark furred cat, that my daughter named “Menudo” after the Latin singing group.  He was so meek and mild you never knew he was there really.  He ate like a pig though, and grew really fast.  One day he started having ‘fainting’ symptoms, and we couldn’t figure out what was going on with him.  This happened to him over a period of a couple of weeks or so.  I was on the verge of breaking down and taking him to a Vet, when by chance I tried running my hand between his collar and his neck.  He had grown SO fast that the collar was cutting off his air, and probably his circulation too!  I felt so bad about it, I couldn’t stand it.  Of course we immediately remedied that situation, but Menudo never really seemed too smart after that.  He would be walking along, and just run into the wall for no reason.  Believe me, after that I have always checked collars, especially on really furry fast growing critters!  We had another cat that just arrived back home one day after being gone for a little while and had NO tail.  He was acting just as normal as could be, but his big long beautiful tail that he had when had left that morning was GONE.   This one DID mandate a trip to the Vet, who sewed up the cat’s rear end, and told us he would probably get along ok, but might have balance problems.  I don’t think he ever really did, that I can remember though.

We missed having a dog, and I tried to get one for the kids.  We bought a little brown Doxie who was a darling little dog, and named it Frisbee.  Since we still were not able to keep our pets in the house during the day, we penned little Frisbee out in the side yard.  She was a sweet little dog, and we really enjoyed having her.  She was also an escape artist. (as most doxies are)  and kept getting out.  Also, she was a barker, and our neighbors on that side didn’t appreciate her very much.   I don’t guess I can blame them really, but they were not too sympathetic at the time.  After Frisbee had a near miss with a car, (since we lived on 9th street, which was the main thoroughfare for people coming in to the Mill to work)  we found her a home with one of my daughter’s friend’s Grandmother.  The Grandmother loved the dog, and the dog loved her, so that one turned out like a fairy tale.

I guess the dog that we owned the longest when my kids were growing up was “Scruffy”  I used to haul off the trash sometimes to a local dump, and one day while I was there, this little white, dirty mound starting moving towards me.  It turned out to be a dog.  I couldn’t bear to leave here there, so I picked her up, and took her back home.  “What is that”  asked my wife.  “I think it’s a dog”  say I.  After washing her for what seemed like hours, it turned out that she was a miniature Poodle!  I don’t know WHAT she was doing at the dump.  Once she was clean, she pranced around the house like a proud veteran on parade.  We decided we would try to keep her inside and housebreak her.  Unfortunately, she had other ideas.  She wouldn’t go when we took her out, only when she came back in.  She also had the knack of being like Charlie Brown’s OTHER friend “Pig Pen” who could walk out of the house perfectly clean, and have dirt attack him!  Scruffy was unfortunately like that.  She was NOT however a wanderer.  She stuck right to the back porch, only leaving it to go to the bathroom or to explore the backyard a little.  She was really a perfect little dog.  I regret I never really took care of her as well as I should have.  I tried at first, giving her regular baths once a week or so, but within a day’s time, it looked like she had rolled in a mile of cow manure.  A dirt magnet, and she didn’t really seem to mind.  As we get old, we get wiser and I would never have let her get as matted as she sometimes did.  Mind you, she never got neglected and always had a warm place to sleep and plenty to eat.  We had her for about 10 years or so, and I really think she was about three years old when I found her.  She was suffering from arthritis I think, and was weak and could hardly move around, so we had to have her put to sleep.  I watched her eyes as she left, and it was really one of the saddest things I ever had to go through.  My oldest son and I buried her out in the back yard as far away from where the UPS trucks, and Post office trucks ran, as possible.

Oh…the UPS trucks…?? She HATED them and the Post Office trucks.  I think one of the Postmen must have sprayed her one day, just to be mean and from that point on, that little dog would have conniptions when one of those guys would come by.  She got so bent out of shape about them when she was older, that I thought she would have a heart attack and die.  I truly believe she would have eaten them from the ankles up if she could have gotten hold of them.  Never a mean bone in her little body for anyone else, but if you were a delivery person, WATCH OUT!  Good old Scruffy!

Our kid’s have been grown and gone now for a while, and a couple of years ago, Paula decided to go look at Doxie’s again.  We got carried away and brought three of them home!  This time, my oldest son, Ted and his daughter Autumn had gone with us.  I think they “helped” in the decision to bring home a whole crew.  We were thinking about “breeding” them.  Hah!

There was a boy and two girls, and the first time we started to feed them it became apparent that there was going to be problems.  The little boy dog fought the other two off like pit bull over the food.  We immediately began to wonder about the three dog decision.  My daughter, Kirsten bailed us out a little as I cajoled her into taking the little boy dog.  (wasn’t really much cajoling, I think she wanted him)  He was promptly named “Puck” and is about as well natured a little dog as you will find.  I think his family and he both are happy he is there.

As for the two girls, we named them “Fiona” and the little runt who is a “piebald” or Brown and white color, we named “Hoosier”  You can see her picture on my wife’s space.  Interestingly, the lady who we bought her from at first told us we couldn’t afford her, because she was so rare of a color in Daschunds.  But, as it turned out when we were making our final decision, the lady found that she had “Hoosies” papers messed up and didn’t have the right Father down.  We ended up getting her for less because the lady didn’t know who her Daddy was.  Thus the name “Who’s Your Daddy”  became “Hoosier” for short.

We learned about crate training, and at our “advanced” age now, also became more consistent about house training.  We even got a bell, and have trained Hoosi to ring the bell when she has to go out.  Honest, it works!  She is as much a part of our family now as one of the kids!  (sorry guys, but you know I love ya’!)  She gets the tummy rubs, the regular baths, the special treats, and her own chair between my computer and Paula’s.  She knows she is a pampered little lap dog!  I guess it’s an evolutionary process that we have gone through from all those years ago up til now.  And some people say wisdom doesn’t come with age!  Some of it does anyway.

In any case to all you pets that have come and gone, and still remain….thanks for the memories!!

Hello world! Have you been fulfilled?

I got to thinking.  What is fulfillment?  What does it mean?  How do we get it?  God in Heaven it is SO TOUGH.  And then, I thought some more.

If I have ever done or said a kind word to someone when they needed it, then I am fulfilled.

If I have ever given good advice to my children, whether by pure accident, as would be the case most of the time or by chance of experience then I am fulfilled.

If I have ever kissed my wife, and she was satisfied that she had married the right man, then I am fulfilled.

If I have ever sung a song that brought out an honest emotion, or written a word that sparked a thought in someone’s mind, then I am fulfilled.

If I have ever fed a hungry animal, albeit a bird, cat, dog, squirrel, or any other living thing that God has created, then I am fulfilled.

If I have ever thought a thought that was pure enough for God to appreciate, then I am fulfilled.

If I have ever cooked food for loved ones, or strangers that they enjoyed or that made them happy, then I am fulfilled.

If I ever told a joke that got an HONEST laugh, then I am fulfilled.

I have seen the Ocean on both sides of this wonderful country and walked in the sands and didn’t do it until I was 16 years old.  It was so wonderful, so I am fulfilled.

I have stood besides ruins of a culture over 2500 years old, and I am fulfilled.

I have touched the skin and felt the warmth of every person who I have loved the most on this Earth, and have been fulfilled.

I have eaten my Grandmother’s suppers, and have been filled and fulfilled.

I have listened to my Grandfather play the banjo and sing.

I have found an arrowhead in a field, and though about the people who once populated this land, and was genuinely sorry for what they had to go through, and I am fulfilled.

I have seen a Golden Eagle in flight.

I have listened to the Beatles, Elvis, Mahalia Jackson, Percy Faith, Perry Como, Rod Stewart, Johnny Mathis, The Blues Brothers, The Righteous Brothers, Ray Boltz, Bing Crosby, Sinatra, Dean Martin, Laura Fabian, Eva Cassidy, Judy Garland, Jerry Lee Lewis, Clint Black, The Everly Brothers, and on and on.  God I love music so much.  I will miss it one of these days.

I have watched Meteors pour from the sky at such a rate that no one could have counted them.

I have seen an eclipse of the Sun and the Moon, and have seen a Comet in the Eastern sky during the early morning.

I have caught the tears of my children and tasted them.  I have touched them when their skin was so soft and delicate that my whiskers made little red spots.

I have played my guitar to the UTTERMOST fulfillment in my younger days, and oh what a catharsis it has been for me.  Bless the person who invented it.

I have eaten wild onions and smoked rabbit tobacco.  I hated them both but it was a matter of fulfillment.

I have given money to many a homeless person, and have never told a soul (until now)

I have been in the middle of Storms of Nature and Storms of life that I did not think I would ever survive, but I did.  And I have been fulfilled.

And the list could go on and on forever.

I have loved this life, and the souls of the people that our creator has chose to populate the bodies of the ones I love.  I love it still every day.  I want it still every day.  I am afraid of it still every day.

I have witnessed things every day that I could not have imagined when I was a child.

I have seen the wonderful side of mankind first hand, but have seen his terrible wrath on film and video.  But strangely that also is fulfillment.

I know that those who cannot do the things I have named above lack something which they can never, ever find.  And they will NEVER be fulfilled.

I don’t know what will happen on the day I leave this earth.  But I have been fulfilled.

Happy blogging!