Saturday shenanigans........

-1) This morning (Saturday, May 12, 2007) we took our dog Killian to the so-called elitist country-club to walk the trails.
We had completed about half the circuit when we came upon a large black dog apparently named “Oz.”
The dog was wandering around loose with no owner in sight. So I got the loose dog’s collar, but I also had Killian, who broke free and escaped.
He took off in hot pursuit into the woods, dragging his retractable leash, which tangled in trees.
Oz weighed at least 100 pounds — a very big dog. Appeared to be a labrador perhaps mixed with a mastiff.
We carry a spare leash, so Oz got put on that leash.
No one we passed knew of anyone looking for a lost dog, so we made it all the way back to the parking-lot.
Oz had a rabies-tag, but it was West Virginny.
Later we noticed a New York dog-registration riveted to his collar, plus another tag with his name and a phone-number.
Linda was leery of putting Oz into the Bucktooth Bathtub, aware that Killian might go bonkers.
It’s happened before.
So I took a stab at calling the phone-number from my cellphone, and got a lady who didn’t appear to know the dog was lost.
“I’ll be right over,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Turns out Oz was the dog of the guy who owns the private golf-course next to the park — the course-dog.
“He follows the golfers, and then wanders off into the park.”
-2) Years ago I got pallets from the mighty Mezz.
The Messenger’s newsprint rolls come on wooden pallets, so pallets are “free to a good home.”
Most become firewood, but our mulch-pile is constructed of pallets, and the step to the rear man-door of our garage has a pallet underneath.
A couple weeks ago I got five more, because our original pallets were rotten.
So the new ones replaced the old ones, which were to be tossed.
The Town of West Bloomfield has a Transfer-Station, where the rotting pallets were to be taken.
A graying, yellow-toothed attendant with a huge beer-gut was manning the Transfer-Station, jawing with all-and-sundry.
We heaved our rotting pallets onto the scrap-wood pile, and yellow-tooth asked where we lived.
“Across from Habecker” (HAH-becker), I said. Habecker is the 93-year-old nosy neighbor.
“Oh, I know that guy,” yellow-tooth said. “He was our milkman growing up.”
“Ya also need to sign my book; and I’ll need to see your card,” he said.
“What card?” I asked.
“Ya get ‘em from the Town Clerk; ask for one and she’ll give it to you free.”
“Our last visit was 10-15 years ago, and we didn’t need a card then,” Linda said.
Apparently it’s proof you’re a resident, and can therefore use the vaunted Transfer-Station.
A large pile of discarded refrigerators was off to one side — I almost took a picture.
Soon those refrigerators will join the other discards at the vaunted refrigerator-dump along old Route 220 north of Altoony.

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton Park, called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper because it would only allow residents of the three towns that own it to use it.

“Linda” is my wife.

“The Bucktooth Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van, called that because it’s white, and like sitting in a bathtub, and it has what appears to be a single bucktooth on the grill.

“The mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked.

We live in “The Town of West Bloomfield.”

RE: “other discards at the vaunted refrigerator-dump along old Route 220 north of Altoony.” Our route to Altoona, Pennsylvania to visit Horseshoe Curve, the best railfan-spot I’ve ever visited, is along the old U.S. Route 220, north of Altoona. A waymarker along the route is a large junkyard of discarded appliances. The refrigerators stand out.

We can just imagine what woulda happened if I had taken a picture of them refrigerators. Yellow-tooth woulda called in Home-Security.