Not surprisingly yesterday's blog well, shoot! got quite a varied response - ranging from shock horror, and outrage at the extreme animal cruelty, to compassion and support for our shotgun wielding maniacal neighbor..!
It brings to mind the difference in opinion regarding gun laws, both within Texas and back home in the UK. Across the pond you'll rarely come across an armed Copper, never mind an armed neighbor. I do remember, however, fearing farmers and their rifles, back in the day when it was 'cool' to trespass on private farmland....
One summer evening back home in Yorkshire, when us kids were bored and up to no good, I remember jumping a 3 foot high electric wire fence just so we could 'break the law' and hang out in the grassy cow field - not that there weren't fields and fields of public land and park areas to legally play, but what fun was that?
We barely strayed 15 feet from the long grass bordering the field, before a truck started heading our way. No doubt it was the farmer coming to clear us off. Unlucky for me, a boy I had the hots for - his name was Mousy - had fastened my shoelaces together.
My brother and one of his mates had already legged it (so much for protecting little sis) before I managed to kick off my shoes. Mousy (to his credit) waited for me, and together we scurried back out of the field the way we came, but not before the farmer and his gun had pulled up close enough to get a full ID of his teenage trespassers.
The blood was thumping in my ears. Of course he didn't shoot us - he yelled pretty loudly - but the fear and adrenalin of our close encounter with the angry farmer and his gun was excitement enough for this thrill-seeking rebel, and my trespassing days were over.
Out here in Hill Country, Texas, every Tom, Dick and Harry fancies himself as a farmer or should I say 'rancher', so owning a gun is the norm - with or without the land or ranch to go with it! Apparently everybody has the right to protect themselves and their family, and their livestock - if they have any. And lots of landowners do - at least a goat, or a chicken or two. Owning a pet cow is great for lowering land taxes - as long as you're willing to eat the beast....
So as far as calling in the police to prosecute my doggy's attacker, it seems the authorities would be more inclined to issue a citation against my trespassing doggy for hounding our neighbor - quite possibly the 'real' victim in this scenario - than slap the wrist of our girl's gun attacker.
That having been said - according to our local and sympathetic Deputy - unless a shooter has just cause to offload his weapon at any animal, not just someone's well loved pet - 'just cause' being defense of ones livestock or family against a threatening predator or would-be attacker - then it is classed as a felony, trespassing or not (I hope that doesn't include scorpions).
Taking any legal course of action is not really an option. However, reaching out to our neighbor to at least find out a motive, and let him know, we know 'whodunnit' might make him think twice from sniping our girl again.
I've got to say though, the severity of our neighbors' actions, makes me question the smartness of initiating any further contact with them. The gunman's seeming apathy to our (the dog owners') presence when he committed the 'felony' does not bode well for a reasonable tete-a-tete over iced tea and lemonade.
The last thing I want is for my dogs to be making a nuisance of themselves, never mind terrorizing any livestock or God forbid scaring kids. And, whether or not this was the case, next time we might not be lucky enough to have her come home again.
Our two year stint of dog-walking freedom I raved about in No Trespassing. Private Property. Keep Out! has sadly run its course. Perhaps it's time to finally fence our perimeter so our rovers can roam our 4 acre 'ranch' without running the risk of being shot - and we won't ever have to 'hit' any trespassing hounds ourselves!
Showing posts with label dog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dog. Show all posts
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
well, shoot!
This evening's walk started out wonderfully. We all dawdled on our land, waiting for our youngest to pick up his pace. Daddy had pup leashed - a new training scheme we're adopting until he recognizes the rules, particularly our road safety regime - and our eldest dog meandered back and forth patiently awaiting her cue to run...
At the roadside Daddy had all the family look left, right, left (rallied in Spanish of course) and baby, who by now was strapped into the double stroller (our dawdling abandoned after the headstrong little fella was hellbent on doubling back) joined in with Daddy's pointing and listening hand signals, making for one proud papa!
Once the all clear was given, our 'trained' dog ran, and our leashed pup - after safely crossing - was allowed to follow suit. Big kid wanted to run too, so we followed our little runner down the long rocky driveway of our neighbors' property (our friendly neighbours - who welcome us to walk our family and dogs on their 20+ acres). Momma started cheering him on with the following tune:
run rabbit run rabbit run run run
here comes the farmer with his gun gun gun
bang bang bang bang goes the farmer's gun
so run rabbit run rabbit run run run!
After a few rounds Daddy joined in, and before long our eldest was singing along with the odd word here and there, while running as fast as his little legs could carry him. Each time we finished the catchy ditty he cried "more!" and so obligingly we repeated it over and over.
We didn't go far. It's about a 1/4 mile walk from the country road down our neigbours' dirt drive to our usual turning point. First we pass a man-made fossil shrine, followed closely by a big BIG ant colony, and then we stop just before an uprooted tree stump. Any further and our neighbours' trailer comes into view, so respecting their privacy we've always stopped short of that stump.
Frequently we off-road a little (only if we're all on foot) and take our time dawdling back home through the trees, but it was already 6:30pm and with Momma's hopes tagged to a 7:00pm bedtime, we needed to be heading back soon.
The dogs had been playing behind us within our neighbors' woodlands, and as we reached the fossil shrine landmark they dashed across the path in front of us, as they normally do, to explore the land beyond. Daddy and the kids and I all turned around and the running verse game continued:
run rabbit run rabbit run run run
here comes the farmer with his gun gun gun
bang bang bang bang goes the farmer's gun
so run rabbit run rabbit run run run!
Pushing the stroller along single-handedly, Daddy reached out for mine with his free one, and together we sang out loud, watching adoringly as our eldest ran his heart out. Once the country road was in sight we slowed our pace in order for the dogs to catch up, and baby started chiming in with the 'bang bang bang bang' part of the song.
But the dogs were nowhere in sight. Daddy and I called out their names, and both kids - with their hands at their mouths - imitated as best they could. It wasn't unusual for our pooches to dawdle on the way home, so without worrying I finger whistled a little to make sure they'd heard - while Daddy and big kid pulled faces at each other, fingers stretching their mouths open wide - conspiratorially mocking Momma's whistle.
Laughingly we all 'ran' on, but this time our song was chillingly halted during the 'bang bang bang bang'.. with a loud and very real BANG!
I froze, my blood running cold as I blurted out to Daddy, "You don't think someone just shot at our dogs do you?" Our friendly neighbours' 20+ acreage is not fenced all the way round, so the dogs could have strayed beyond an invisible border, and be trespassing on hostile territory....
Daddy's instant and definite "No baby" was somewhat reassuring, and within moments of the shotgun fire our pup came bounding up the dirt path toward us, sitting obediently beside the stroller so Daddy could leash him. My heart was in my mouth as I waited only a few short seconds before thankfully our girl followed hot on pup's heels. They both looked exhausted - but our lady dog slowed to a jaunt well before catching up with us. We waited until she overtook the family, then we slowly retraced our steps home.
Daddy was the first to spot blood on her tail. She wasn't limping, and there was barely a splash of blood, but that didn't mean she wasn't hurt. She's a tough girl. Last year she gashed a ligament in her back right leg after running through a scrap metal pile - but she toughed it out - the only evidence of her injury being a blood trail.
Leaving the rest of the family to fend for themselves, I walked our 'wounded' doggy toward the house. She had to be persuaded away from her kennel so I could tell she wasn't feeling tip top. Daddy suspected she'd caught herself on a fence - or that the blood had come from another animal entirely, but neither of their mouths were bloody so that didn't add up...
With a hot washcloth I started cleaning the few dotted blood stains on her fur. There was a small splash on the underside of her tail and under her booty, and one tiny smear on her back leg. Her thick hair made it hard to see through to the skin, and she wasn't flinching at all while I wiped the blood away. It was just starting to look like a bit of a mystery - a coincidental shotgun fire conjuring up a 'storm in a teacup' - when I saw a tiny hole piercing the back of her left hind leg. It wasn't bleeding, and she seemed content to let me closely examine the already clotted wound.
It couldn't be.. could it? Daddy had just brought the kids inside, so I summoned him over to get his diagnosis. There was no exit wound, so any bullet would still be lodged inside her leg - Daddy surmised - and, after fiddling with the hole, he concluded there was no bullet. Likely - he speculated - she had punctured it on something sharp like a barbed wire fence or a cactus. And with that, he took the toddlers up to get their PJs on.
Not yet convinced there hadn't been foul play involved I massaged her leg further, and sure enough my thumb eventually found what felt like a ball bearing floating about two inches up from the piercing.
"DAAAADDDDDY!!"
He had to concede - one of our neighbors had doggone shot our girl!
At the roadside Daddy had all the family look left, right, left (rallied in Spanish of course) and baby, who by now was strapped into the double stroller (our dawdling abandoned after the headstrong little fella was hellbent on doubling back) joined in with Daddy's pointing and listening hand signals, making for one proud papa!
Once the all clear was given, our 'trained' dog ran, and our leashed pup - after safely crossing - was allowed to follow suit. Big kid wanted to run too, so we followed our little runner down the long rocky driveway of our neighbors' property (our friendly neighbours - who welcome us to walk our family and dogs on their 20+ acres). Momma started cheering him on with the following tune:
run rabbit run rabbit run run run
here comes the farmer with his gun gun gun
bang bang bang bang goes the farmer's gun
so run rabbit run rabbit run run run!
After a few rounds Daddy joined in, and before long our eldest was singing along with the odd word here and there, while running as fast as his little legs could carry him. Each time we finished the catchy ditty he cried "more!" and so obligingly we repeated it over and over.
We didn't go far. It's about a 1/4 mile walk from the country road down our neigbours' dirt drive to our usual turning point. First we pass a man-made fossil shrine, followed closely by a big BIG ant colony, and then we stop just before an uprooted tree stump. Any further and our neighbours' trailer comes into view, so respecting their privacy we've always stopped short of that stump.
Frequently we off-road a little (only if we're all on foot) and take our time dawdling back home through the trees, but it was already 6:30pm and with Momma's hopes tagged to a 7:00pm bedtime, we needed to be heading back soon.
The dogs had been playing behind us within our neighbors' woodlands, and as we reached the fossil shrine landmark they dashed across the path in front of us, as they normally do, to explore the land beyond. Daddy and the kids and I all turned around and the running verse game continued:
run rabbit run rabbit run run run
here comes the farmer with his gun gun gun
bang bang bang bang goes the farmer's gun
so run rabbit run rabbit run run run!
Pushing the stroller along single-handedly, Daddy reached out for mine with his free one, and together we sang out loud, watching adoringly as our eldest ran his heart out. Once the country road was in sight we slowed our pace in order for the dogs to catch up, and baby started chiming in with the 'bang bang bang bang' part of the song.
But the dogs were nowhere in sight. Daddy and I called out their names, and both kids - with their hands at their mouths - imitated as best they could. It wasn't unusual for our pooches to dawdle on the way home, so without worrying I finger whistled a little to make sure they'd heard - while Daddy and big kid pulled faces at each other, fingers stretching their mouths open wide - conspiratorially mocking Momma's whistle.
Laughingly we all 'ran' on, but this time our song was chillingly halted during the 'bang bang bang bang'.. with a loud and very real BANG!
I froze, my blood running cold as I blurted out to Daddy, "You don't think someone just shot at our dogs do you?" Our friendly neighbours' 20+ acreage is not fenced all the way round, so the dogs could have strayed beyond an invisible border, and be trespassing on hostile territory....
Daddy's instant and definite "No baby" was somewhat reassuring, and within moments of the shotgun fire our pup came bounding up the dirt path toward us, sitting obediently beside the stroller so Daddy could leash him. My heart was in my mouth as I waited only a few short seconds before thankfully our girl followed hot on pup's heels. They both looked exhausted - but our lady dog slowed to a jaunt well before catching up with us. We waited until she overtook the family, then we slowly retraced our steps home.
Daddy was the first to spot blood on her tail. She wasn't limping, and there was barely a splash of blood, but that didn't mean she wasn't hurt. She's a tough girl. Last year she gashed a ligament in her back right leg after running through a scrap metal pile - but she toughed it out - the only evidence of her injury being a blood trail.
Leaving the rest of the family to fend for themselves, I walked our 'wounded' doggy toward the house. She had to be persuaded away from her kennel so I could tell she wasn't feeling tip top. Daddy suspected she'd caught herself on a fence - or that the blood had come from another animal entirely, but neither of their mouths were bloody so that didn't add up...
With a hot washcloth I started cleaning the few dotted blood stains on her fur. There was a small splash on the underside of her tail and under her booty, and one tiny smear on her back leg. Her thick hair made it hard to see through to the skin, and she wasn't flinching at all while I wiped the blood away. It was just starting to look like a bit of a mystery - a coincidental shotgun fire conjuring up a 'storm in a teacup' - when I saw a tiny hole piercing the back of her left hind leg. It wasn't bleeding, and she seemed content to let me closely examine the already clotted wound.
It couldn't be.. could it? Daddy had just brought the kids inside, so I summoned him over to get his diagnosis. There was no exit wound, so any bullet would still be lodged inside her leg - Daddy surmised - and, after fiddling with the hole, he concluded there was no bullet. Likely - he speculated - she had punctured it on something sharp like a barbed wire fence or a cactus. And with that, he took the toddlers up to get their PJs on.
Not yet convinced there hadn't been foul play involved I massaged her leg further, and sure enough my thumb eventually found what felt like a ball bearing floating about two inches up from the piercing.
"DAAAADDDDDY!!"
He had to concede - one of our neighbors had doggone shot our girl!
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Fur real?
So, it wasn't just my eldest kid that was well overdue his grooming, our furry red friend's winter overcoat has been crying out to be 'ferminated' since Texas flipped it's season from winter to summer.
She's been fairing well in the more temperate 'spring' weather, and hasn't truly looked like a 'hot dog' until we reached the 90's (F) over the last week or so. But, it wasn't the heat that finally spurred this busy Momma into a brushing bonanza.
Only in the past fortnight has the prevalent pretty yellow flower clover, which was carpeting our front yard, yielded the sticker burrs it had been threatening all spring. Daddy has been on standby ready to weed-eat the irksome spiky balls as soon as they became a potential pet problem.
However, with our velcro doggy, it only took a few rolls in the hay with her toyboy bow-wow for her mass of hairs to become matted and clumped, and unfortunately we missed our optimum weed-eat window.
A few days ago, when we brought the dogs inside for their nighttime cuddles, our poor girl's ears were pinned back with dozens of burrs acting like grips. It was definitely a scissors job, and when I got stuck in un-sticking her, I soon discovered that she was tangled from head to toe in the offending burrs.
Time to get out the big gun. Our poor pooch isn't a big fan of the unforgiving Ferminator (that cunning comb pulls bags of dead hair from her coat) but she does love being brushed. It took over an hour of cutting and intermittent ferminating and soft brushing, before all her remaining hairs were free.
By the end of it all, she looked about 10lb lighter, and her (now pathetic looking) tail had taken a bit of a merciless scissoring. Her fox-brush tail has been matted since we first adopted her, and no amount of hard-core combing over the past four years has made an ounce of difference to its wiry waywardness.
I could ferminate that wagging appendage until the cows came home (if she would ever let me) and it would still remain a coarse tangled mess. So this time - no messing - I trimmed her tail feathers as close to the bone as I dared. Unfortunately, our poor lady now looks almost indecent (like someone pulled her pants down in public). Hopefully, she'll grow her modesty back in no time, and I'll be able keep the regrowth in better condition.
The mountain of fur I got out of her was almost as big as she is! Hopefully, being free of all that hair, our 'hot dog' should be feeling as cool as a cat for the Texas summer......
She's been fairing well in the more temperate 'spring' weather, and hasn't truly looked like a 'hot dog' until we reached the 90's (F) over the last week or so. But, it wasn't the heat that finally spurred this busy Momma into a brushing bonanza.
Only in the past fortnight has the prevalent pretty yellow flower clover, which was carpeting our front yard, yielded the sticker burrs it had been threatening all spring. Daddy has been on standby ready to weed-eat the irksome spiky balls as soon as they became a potential pet problem.
However, with our velcro doggy, it only took a few rolls in the hay with her toyboy bow-wow for her mass of hairs to become matted and clumped, and unfortunately we missed our optimum weed-eat window.
 |
| 'hair of the dog...' |
Time to get out the big gun. Our poor pooch isn't a big fan of the unforgiving Ferminator (that cunning comb pulls bags of dead hair from her coat) but she does love being brushed. It took over an hour of cutting and intermittent ferminating and soft brushing, before all her remaining hairs were free.
By the end of it all, she looked about 10lb lighter, and her (now pathetic looking) tail had taken a bit of a merciless scissoring. Her fox-brush tail has been matted since we first adopted her, and no amount of hard-core combing over the past four years has made an ounce of difference to its wiry waywardness.
I could ferminate that wagging appendage until the cows came home (if she would ever let me) and it would still remain a coarse tangled mess. So this time - no messing - I trimmed her tail feathers as close to the bone as I dared. Unfortunately, our poor lady now looks almost indecent (like someone pulled her pants down in public). Hopefully, she'll grow her modesty back in no time, and I'll be able keep the regrowth in better condition.
The mountain of fur I got out of her was almost as big as she is! Hopefully, being free of all that hair, our 'hot dog' should be feeling as cool as a cat for the Texas summer......
Monday, April 16, 2012
more than just a Bone Collector
I'm starting to think that the latest addition to our family - our male mongrel pup, believes he's more feline than K9. The little scavenger loves to forage about in the woods, unearthing old bones and carcasses, in order to deliver them at Mommy's feet. I guess he wants to impress his owner - or perhaps give me (the undisputed pack-leader) the 'lions' share.
If I don't intervene he'd gulp those winnings down in a jiffy... Eugh! Of course mean Mommy always confiscates the nasty pile of remains so as to prevent the delightful diarrhea episode which inevitably follows these fanciful feasts. Whoever heard of a mongrel with such a tender tummy? And somehow we've managed to rescue two mutts with dicky stomachs!
But confiscating the germ infested bones and other dead animal remains is not an easy feat, especially when I always forget to bring a baggy and plastic gloves on our walks. My half-ass method (which still does the trick) is to first procure a stick, hook the manky specimen onto the end of it, then transfer the doggy treasure to a close by cedar limb - out of reach of our salivating pup. He always looks at me, ears hitched, head to one side - like I'm the biggest party pooper on the planet - yet he still insists on delivering his bloody booty to me!
In the past I've tried hurling said bones up into the tree tops, and watched them fall down through the branches hoping the deer skull, or rabbit carcass would strategically hook itself out of pup's reach. Sometimes this worked - however, more often than not, it turned into a race between Mom and pup to the base of the cedar trunk to reclaim the putrid prize - and the performance would start over again!
Yesterday's early morning walk was nice and uneventful, and thankfully we arrived unscathed back on our land without any dead creatures to speak of. Just when I was thinking we were 'out of the woods' pup proudly bounded out from the cedars heading our property, with his morning spoils dangling from his jaw.
The little scrounger had managed to find something dead after all - and today it was a species I'd not yet had the displeasure of extricating from pup's possession - a baby snake! Even though he'd brought the snake over to gloat, our hunter hound had no intention of sharing this rare and tasty morsel with Mommy.
By the time I was on him, he was already hoovering it up like a spaghetti noodle, but after a few insistent "drop" commands, he begrudgingly let go, and the remains of the baby snake fell at my feet. My eldest toddler and I crouched before the rubbery looking corpse in wonder. It was the first wild snake either of us had ever seen up close - albeit a dead one (and gratefully so).
The fact, we were well within our borders when our wannabe retriever found the snake, gives me the jitters a little. How far behind a baby would Mommy serpent be? It's hard to imagine that pup was responsible for the dastardly deed (or should I say heroic act?), but I can't say for sure. Save for the mangled chewed tail section, it had every appearance of a fresh kill.
Our eldest boy was dancing around signing 'snake' with both arms, while I employed my trusty trick and dangled the snake on a stick, only this critter's corpse I held out at full arms length (on the off chance it were to come back to life and bite me) and together we went in search of Daddy to identify our scaly trespasser.
Of course Daddy would say it was a rattler (if only to put the willies further up Mommy) although I couldn't see any sign of a rattle! Later on in the day he amended his deadly diagnosis to just a plain old harmless 'rat' snake. Whatever its poison, the serpent soul ended up being unceremoniously dumped in the trash - much to our ravenous pup's dismay.
After three years of drought, the rain of late has been a god send for Texans - and I'm not just talking about the two-legged kind! Every other species - including the deadly ones - that dares to tread (or slither) in this hardy territory have also flourished with the downpours.
Something tells me we haven't seen the last of these viperous visitors........
If I don't intervene he'd gulp those winnings down in a jiffy... Eugh! Of course mean Mommy always confiscates the nasty pile of remains so as to prevent the delightful diarrhea episode which inevitably follows these fanciful feasts. Whoever heard of a mongrel with such a tender tummy? And somehow we've managed to rescue two mutts with dicky stomachs!
But confiscating the germ infested bones and other dead animal remains is not an easy feat, especially when I always forget to bring a baggy and plastic gloves on our walks. My half-ass method (which still does the trick) is to first procure a stick, hook the manky specimen onto the end of it, then transfer the doggy treasure to a close by cedar limb - out of reach of our salivating pup. He always looks at me, ears hitched, head to one side - like I'm the biggest party pooper on the planet - yet he still insists on delivering his bloody booty to me!
In the past I've tried hurling said bones up into the tree tops, and watched them fall down through the branches hoping the deer skull, or rabbit carcass would strategically hook itself out of pup's reach. Sometimes this worked - however, more often than not, it turned into a race between Mom and pup to the base of the cedar trunk to reclaim the putrid prize - and the performance would start over again!
Yesterday's early morning walk was nice and uneventful, and thankfully we arrived unscathed back on our land without any dead creatures to speak of. Just when I was thinking we were 'out of the woods' pup proudly bounded out from the cedars heading our property, with his morning spoils dangling from his jaw.
The little scrounger had managed to find something dead after all - and today it was a species I'd not yet had the displeasure of extricating from pup's possession - a baby snake! Even though he'd brought the snake over to gloat, our hunter hound had no intention of sharing this rare and tasty morsel with Mommy.
By the time I was on him, he was already hoovering it up like a spaghetti noodle, but after a few insistent "drop" commands, he begrudgingly let go, and the remains of the baby snake fell at my feet. My eldest toddler and I crouched before the rubbery looking corpse in wonder. It was the first wild snake either of us had ever seen up close - albeit a dead one (and gratefully so).
 |
Our eldest boy holding the dead snake.
(Scavenger pup is hovering
hopefully behind in his kennel.) |
Our eldest boy was dancing around signing 'snake' with both arms, while I employed my trusty trick and dangled the snake on a stick, only this critter's corpse I held out at full arms length (on the off chance it were to come back to life and bite me) and together we went in search of Daddy to identify our scaly trespasser.
Of course Daddy would say it was a rattler (if only to put the willies further up Mommy) although I couldn't see any sign of a rattle! Later on in the day he amended his deadly diagnosis to just a plain old harmless 'rat' snake. Whatever its poison, the serpent soul ended up being unceremoniously dumped in the trash - much to our ravenous pup's dismay.
After three years of drought, the rain of late has been a god send for Texans - and I'm not just talking about the two-legged kind! Every other species - including the deadly ones - that dares to tread (or slither) in this hardy territory have also flourished with the downpours.
Something tells me we haven't seen the last of these viperous visitors........
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