One man's trash

The people had another yard sale on Saturday. This one actually was a moving sale. At the moment our family has 5 bedrooms, 2.5 bathrooms, 2 kitchens, two living rooms, 2 fireplaces, 2 laundry rooms, a bonus room, a basement, 3 covered places to park cars, 2 yards, one dog room and 2 addresses with the number 13. Let me tell you, with all of that space comes lots of junk. When Wes and Cheryl got married in November they started the task of combining two households. It’s now almost June and they are still combining two households. We have watched as they crammed stuff in closets, piled stuff in the laundry room, jammed stuff in the shed, carried stuff up to the attic, pushed stuff under beds and stuffed stuff in cabinets over here at our place. Most of the leftovers were sold, including two of Duchess' old toys. The rest went to charity.

Pampered pooch

Before and after

Duchess had her day at the doggie spa on Sunday. She went from shabby to chic in a matter of a few hours. Having had our day at the spa a few weeks ago, Lexie and I know while you might look good after a bath and trim, it takes at least 3 doggie days to get to smelling like your old doggie self again.

Snakes still alive

Saturdays are always interesting around here. Our people do not go off to those job things where they make money to buy dog food and pay for vet bills and days at the doggie cleaners. So it’s a good bet they will get into something.

Like most Saturdays, today started with a late breakfast. Then came out the list of chores. At the top of the list was a trip to town. Wes and Cheryl returned with three bales of straw and, most importantly, a bag of dog food. We know Cheryl’s car will fit two golden retrievers and a Maltese. But who knew it would fit three bales of straw and a bag of dog food?

“Are we getting a horse?” Lexie asked when she saw the straw. “I’ve always wanted a horse.” Well, off course we weren’t getting a horse. Turns out the straw was for tomato and pepper plants. “I don’t think Papaw Bustle does it that way,” I told Wes as he cut out, with a chainsaw, holes in the bales, filled them with dirt and plopped in those vegetable plants. “We’re trying something new this year,” he said, promising these will be the best tomatoes we’ve ever bitten into.

As Wes hacked up the straw, Cheryl was preparing to do some planting of her own. She had gotten some real pretty, colorful flowers to set out in the front yard. She learned long ago pretty flowers don’t last long in the back yard. I walked with her to the shed to retrieve the wheelbarrow, some dirt and some pots.

As she approached the shed she did her usual snake clap and banged on the door. She slid it open. Looked to her right. Looked up. Looked center. Checked out the floor. Looked left. Started for the wheelbarrow. “WES! I FOUND THE SNAKE!” she screamed. “Could you say that a little louder? I don’t think Gram and Gramps in Claremont heard you.” I said. The dutiful husband that he is, Wes immediately dropped what he was doing and ran to the rescue, broom – not hoe - in hand.

Being the overprotective dog mom that she is, the first thing Cheryl did was usher us to the sunroom where she bolted the door. Lexie and I listened intently, ears pressed against a sunroom window, to keep up with what was going on.

There was some debate about whether to let the snake live. “It will keep the rodents away,” Wes said. “So do Baxter and Lexie,” Cheryl argued. This went on for a while until we saw Cheryl take up her position on top of a stump and Wes go into the shed, clutching the broom –not the hoe. For a while, all was quiet. Then Cheryl started screaming like a little girl. Wes had tipped the wheelbarrow over thinking the snake would just mosey his way out of the shed and head for the fence. The snake had something else in mind. He wanted to head toward the back of the shed. The snake made a few lunges at Wes, but being the snake wrangler that he is, Wes, and that broom – not the hoe - talked the snake into heading for daylight and exiting the yard, never to be seen again for the rest of the day.

“What a brave man he is,” Lexie said. “Did you see those moves? The way he took control and manhandled that snake - he’s my hero.”

“Well, he did break the broom in the process,” I pointed out. “Cheryl’s not going to be happy about a broken broom.”

Turns out Cheryl was impressed enough with Wes’ kung fu moves on that snake that she let the broom thing slide.

They continued their chores, all along talking about how great Wes is for rescuing us from that big, bad, black snake that’s not even poisonous.

If you ask me, I think it was Cheryl’s screaming that ran that snake off, not the new man of the house’s brawniness. As for the shed, it now reeks of mothballs.

Tweet revenge

Nothing is sweeter than a Sunday afternoon nap. Nothing is more sour than a Sunday afternoon nap that gets interrupted. A bird found its way into our sunroom yesterday during my Sunday afternoon nap (my third of the day). The bird perched itself up on a shelf and let me have it. “Tweet, tweet. Why did you attack my feathered friend?” it asked. It was not happy that a few weeks ago I jumped head first into one of the bushes in my backyard and snatched another bird out of its own nest. “Bark, Bark. Why did your feathered friend build a nest in my backyard?” It was a lame response, but the only thing I could come up with in my sleepy head. When the commotion woke up Lexie from her Sunday afternoon nap, the bird realized it was outnumbered and thought it best to fly our coup. Problem was it was in a sunroom with windows as walls. “Do I fly out here?” it would tweet, bumfuzzled. Then hit a window. Blap. “Guess not. How about here?” Thud. “Guess not.” This went on for a while until Cheryl woke up from her Sunday afternoon nap and realized something was amiss. She came to the rescue by opening the door and swatting at the bird with a broom until it flew out. That bird did end up getting in the last word. When I crawled into my bed later that night I found where it had left me a present.

Snakes alive

I'm actually blogging from inside tonight. A storm may not be right on top of us, but I can feel one brewing. That means Lex and I get to hang out in the kitchen. Before our people got home, Lex thought it would be a good idea to calm our nerves by doing some crafts. Cheryl moved her craft cabinet out into our sunroom when Wes and Alison moved in to make more room inside. We decided to nose around in it and found some stamps and picture frames. We drug them out but then realized without opposing thumbs we couldn't do much crafting. In case you're wondering what the photo is that's posted above, that's a snake skin. Cheryl found it in the backyard while mowing last night. You can add it to the list of critters brave - or stupid - enough to enter our domain. Cheryl's thankful we haven't actually seen the snake. We suspect it was a black snake. Maybe it likes moles, too.

Mole holes

My Papaw Bustle has a windmill in his yard, supposedly to chase away the moles. Some say windmills cause vibrations underground that agitate moles and keep them from burrowing in range of the vibrations. I can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want moles in their yard. Lexie and I have a pretty successful mole ranch at our place. They are cute and furry and fun to play with. They aren’t hard to catch. If you have a good sniffer you can find them underground and dig them out. Our backyard is evidence of that. My person Cheryl says it’s getting to the point that she needs a four-wheel drive lawn mower to cut the grass and miss all the craters we've created tending to our moles. Sometimes you don’t even have to dig, moles just pop their heads up out of the ground as if to say, “Hey Bax, want to play?” One taunted Lexie this way the other day. She had just finished eating and it was one of those rare occasion where she decided to roam the ranch instead of eat my food. Next thing we knew she’s coming out of the blueberry bushes with a mole in her mouth. As she lumbered toward Cheryl with it, Cheryl pretty much freaked out. She grabbed her yellow rubber varmint glove and a dust pan and ran to rescue the little fellow. Lexie didn’t put up much of a fight, dropping the mole. When I went in for it, that dust pan smacked me on the head. Cheryl scooped up the mole off the ground and headed for the back fence. “Oh, it’s wiggling,” she cried like a little girl. “What if it bites me?” That thought made Cheryl drop the mole. Determined to still save its life, she scooped it up again and continued with her mission. We didn’t tell her that as far as she slung it over the fence, the impact of it hitting the ground probably killed it.If so, it went to rest in peace with all of the other moles and birds and bunnies who have sacrificed their lives to play with us in our backyard. I just noticed something: My neighbor has a windmill in his yard. Maybe that’s while all the moles come to play with us.

Pesky pests

The older I get the faster, it seems, flea and tick season comes around each year. A few weekends ago we were lounging on the back deck at my gram and gramps’ house when a tick attached itself to me while another one crawled around on Duchess. For Cheryl it meant a trip to the doggie drug store for some flea-tick-mosquito be gone. But you can’t just rub anything on us dogs. I heard the Environmental Protection Agency – I don’t know who they are or what they do, but they sound important – is sniffing around trying to find out why some dogs and cats get sick after their people put flea and tick medicine on them. Read more here: https://mgx.themeganet.com/exchweb/bin/redir.asp?URL=http://www2.morganton.com/content/2009/may/12/pets-can-have-reactions-topical-flea-medication/
On a lighter note, I remember another episode I had that involved a tick on my head. Read it here: http://www2.morganton.com/content/2009/may/12/theres-tick-my-head/ .

Sisterly love

Just when we thought my sisters, Lexie and Duchess, were starting to get along -- bang, bark, scratch, nip – they go at it again. Our dog family is a blended one. My person, Cheryl, married Duchess’ person, Wes, six months ago, upping our two-dog household to a three-dog one. The more the merrier, I say. There’s more competition over your food bowl, Lexie says. Twice a day Duchess, an inside dog, joins us on the patio off our sunroom for meal time. They must not feed Duchess much out of her own bowl inside, because she hangs around my bowl while I eat. When I feel sorry for her, which is often, I pick out a few pieces of kibble and drop them within her reach. She gobbles up food like Lexie does. Then when Lexie is done eating out of her bowl, she rumbles over my way and it’s on. Lexie forgets how big she is and Duchess, a 13-pound Maltese, forgets how small she is as they fight over my meal. At that point it’s always time for me to go relieve myself or sniff out a new mole hole or drag a stick across the yard. Then Cheryl intervenes, scoops up Duchess in one hand and yanks Lexie’s collar by the other. “If you’re not boy dog, stay away from the blue bowl,” she tells the two girl dogs. The distraction allows me to finish my meal, but by then I’ve usually lost my appetite. The struggle to become the alpha female continues. Can’t we all just get along? Click http://www2.morganton.com/content/2009/may/11/whos-your-doggie/ to read about our first meeting with Duchess.

Happy Day to Moms

Duchess woke up this morning on the wrong side of the doggie bed, which is not that unusual for the little, white, temperamental, fluffy thing. When I asked what was wrong she said she was mad because I hadn’t written about her yet. I had to explain to her it’s not writing, it’s blogging. And she’d have to be patient and wait until Mother’s Day is over to get her name in my blog. Today is all about the moms in my life. My birth mother, Goldie; my Grams; my Nana (who's also Trip's mom); my mamaws France and Doris; Buck’s mom, who feeds me sometimes; Bo's mom; Opie's mom, Abby's mom; Zip's mom; and my person, my mom, Cheryl, who said something about wanting to be called Queen Mom today (whatever). Happy Mother’s Day all. Love, your golden boy, Bax!

The skinny on Lexie

104. That’s what Lexie weighed in at at our last visit to the V. E. T.
Poor girl. Like people, some dogs struggle with their weight all the time. Two years ago Lexie was pushing 98. Last year she was down to 90.
We’ve been scratching our heads, not for fleas, to figure out why her figure has gotten so wide. We eat the same food and the same amount at feeding time.
The V. E. T. asked how close grandma lives and thought maybe she was slipping Lexie some extra treats. Sometimes our neighbor, Opie’s person, brings us a few goodies, but not that many.
The only thing I can come up with is Lexie’s snacks in between meals. She eats a lot of grass and rocks. Cheryl even pulled a mole, which was still squirming, out of her mouth a few weeks ago.
Cheryl’s solution to slim down Lexie affects us both. She got us some low-fat dog food. So far it’s working. Not because of the “fit and trim” on the label, but because we’re on a hunger strike. Trust me, diet dog food is no better than diet people food. And I’m still not one for change.
My advice to Lexie is to fret, worry and whine more. That’s how I maintain my boyish figure.
I better stop now. I promised Lexie I wouldn’t mention her weight on the World Wide Web. (I’m sure there’s a not-too-skinny joke in there somewhere.)

(Click http://www2.morganton.com/content/2009/may/11/lot-more-love/ to read my column about our V. E. T. visit from two years ago.)

Old person learns new trick

I’ve been hounding my person Cheryl to help me create a blog. Since I lost my column gig at The News Herald, I’ve hunted for an outlet to express myself and update my friends – the two legged and the four-legged ones - on what’s been going on in my life.
A lot has happened since I last wrote. Remember? It was about my gallivant – though brief it was - through the neighborhood thanks to the then-boyfriend of Cheryl’s leaving our gate open after mowing the yard. (Click to read http://www2.morganton.com/content/2009/may/11/chase/ ) The two major events in my life since you last heard from me are 1) I got laid off from the newspaper (if you haven’t heard, newspapers are a dying breed and are downsizing to stay afloat) and 2) that guy who mowed our yard lost his boyfriend title. He’s now the husband, (making Duchess my step-sister.)
Finally, today, on her fifth mandatory furlough day from the paper (another product of the hurting newspaper business), Cheryl ran out of excuses and decided to sign me up on a blog.
Five hours later, after bumbling, stumbling and fumbling her way through choosing a template, creating a profile and uploading my handsome photo (she refused to touch up my gray hair, something about journalism ethics) I’m officially a blogger.
I know, blogs are so last month, and I should be tweeting instead. Maybe Cheryl can put that on her to-do list on her next furlough day.