Canine adventures of widowerhood
Yesterday afternoon (Tuesday, March 4th, 2014), after working out at the YMCA in Canandaigua, I set about walking my dog around my property to close gates in a small backyard pen of chainlink fence.
Yaktrax on, since the footing was icy and terrible, I started into the woods on the south side of my property, next to chainlink fence my wife and I had installed years ago to keep our dog out of the highway.
As soon as I started, my neighbor’s dog, “Bear,” sounded the alarm.
“Bear” is a German-Shepherd, harbored by my neighbor to-the-south, not penned or tied-up.
Bear would soon be joining us, but he’s outside the fence, whereas my dog and I are inside the fence.
Sure enough, there was Bear as I trudged toward the back. As I exited my woods Bear was still around, and my dog was merrily chasing a rabbit across the field.
My dog is very much a hunter. A fenced rabbit is dead meat.
BAM! Got it! Off she ran toward my house with the rabbit limp in her jaws.
I continued along the fence toward my north woods, Bear tagging along outside the fence.
The north woods skirts the property of my northern neighbor, who rents a small cottage on his property.
As I turned west along beside his property, a pretty lady strode out walking her Rottweiler.
UH-OHHHH..........
Bear will want to say hello.
Sure enough, Bear found a hole and sauntered onto my neighbor’s property.
“Uh sir, your dog is on my property.”
“Not my dog,” I said.
This flustered the lady. She couldn’t blame me for wandering Lothario.
And so began our long standoff regarding how I could get Bear out of her yard.
Minutes passed, at least 10.
I found myself standing powerless.
As a widower I have no confidence at all. Taking command of a situation is no longer possible.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“Bear,” I said.
“Perhaps you could call him,” she said, being pulled this-way-and-that by her lunging Rottweiler.
“Fat lotta good that’s gonna do,” I thought to myself. “I’m not his master, and furthermore there’s a Rottweiler over here to greet.”
“I’m just a 130-pound woman. I can’t deal with a lunging Rottweiler, and furthermore it’s icy.”
I found myself thinking she’s probably a divorcee, and no wonder. Her ex probably couldn’t stand the martyrdom.
I considered advising Yaktrax, but didn’t. Icy footing wasn’t her major problem. It was Bear in her yard.
I also tried calling Bear, but he stayed put.
“Well, I suppose I could get my leash, and snag Bear out of your yard,” I thought. “Except getting my leash, then snagging Bear, is 10-15 minutes of you getting tossed this-way-and-that, and trying to not fall.”
I left to get my leash.
Meanwhile, my hunter-dog was busily tearing apart her rabbit.
Leash in hand, I slowly trudged down the road to my neighbor’s driveway.
It’s gated, so what if the gate is locked closed?
It wasn’t, so I started in the long driveway.
Bear came to greet me, so collaring him was no problem, although I thought it might be.
After another 10 minutes of yammering, I took Bear out to the road. The poor girl’s adventure was at last over.
Up the highway I trudged with Bear — past my northern neighbor’s yard, my yard, and then toward my southern neighbor’s yard.
My road-frontage is 500 feet; a football-grid is 300 feet.
As I trudged along, my southern neighbor drove by, probably returning from work.
He got out of his car as he pulled in his driveway. His son would park the car.
“Bad dog,” he said, as he approached sheepishly with his leash.
“Fat lotta good that’s gonna do,” I thought. “Bear should be restrained.”
“You can’t go wandering like that,” his owner said.
So I wondered if the dog understands English. —Or German; it is a German Shepherd.
As I say, my ability to take command in these situations is severely compromised by my widowerhood, or so I feel.
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 14 miles east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.)
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s eight, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)
• That’s probably my dog’s 10th rabbit.
Yaktrax on, since the footing was icy and terrible, I started into the woods on the south side of my property, next to chainlink fence my wife and I had installed years ago to keep our dog out of the highway.
As soon as I started, my neighbor’s dog, “Bear,” sounded the alarm.
“Bear” is a German-Shepherd, harbored by my neighbor to-the-south, not penned or tied-up.
Bear would soon be joining us, but he’s outside the fence, whereas my dog and I are inside the fence.
Sure enough, there was Bear as I trudged toward the back. As I exited my woods Bear was still around, and my dog was merrily chasing a rabbit across the field.
My dog is very much a hunter. A fenced rabbit is dead meat.
BAM! Got it! Off she ran toward my house with the rabbit limp in her jaws.
I continued along the fence toward my north woods, Bear tagging along outside the fence.
The north woods skirts the property of my northern neighbor, who rents a small cottage on his property.
As I turned west along beside his property, a pretty lady strode out walking her Rottweiler.
UH-OHHHH..........
Bear will want to say hello.
Sure enough, Bear found a hole and sauntered onto my neighbor’s property.
“Uh sir, your dog is on my property.”
“Not my dog,” I said.
This flustered the lady. She couldn’t blame me for wandering Lothario.
And so began our long standoff regarding how I could get Bear out of her yard.
Minutes passed, at least 10.
I found myself standing powerless.
As a widower I have no confidence at all. Taking command of a situation is no longer possible.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“Bear,” I said.
“Perhaps you could call him,” she said, being pulled this-way-and-that by her lunging Rottweiler.
“Fat lotta good that’s gonna do,” I thought to myself. “I’m not his master, and furthermore there’s a Rottweiler over here to greet.”
“I’m just a 130-pound woman. I can’t deal with a lunging Rottweiler, and furthermore it’s icy.”
I found myself thinking she’s probably a divorcee, and no wonder. Her ex probably couldn’t stand the martyrdom.
I considered advising Yaktrax, but didn’t. Icy footing wasn’t her major problem. It was Bear in her yard.
I also tried calling Bear, but he stayed put.
“Well, I suppose I could get my leash, and snag Bear out of your yard,” I thought. “Except getting my leash, then snagging Bear, is 10-15 minutes of you getting tossed this-way-and-that, and trying to not fall.”
I left to get my leash.
Meanwhile, my hunter-dog was busily tearing apart her rabbit.
Leash in hand, I slowly trudged down the road to my neighbor’s driveway.
It’s gated, so what if the gate is locked closed?
It wasn’t, so I started in the long driveway.
Bear came to greet me, so collaring him was no problem, although I thought it might be.
After another 10 minutes of yammering, I took Bear out to the road. The poor girl’s adventure was at last over.
Up the highway I trudged with Bear — past my northern neighbor’s yard, my yard, and then toward my southern neighbor’s yard.
My road-frontage is 500 feet; a football-grid is 300 feet.
As I trudged along, my southern neighbor drove by, probably returning from work.
He got out of his car as he pulled in his driveway. His son would park the car.
“Bad dog,” he said, as he approached sheepishly with his leash.
“Fat lotta good that’s gonna do,” I thought. “Bear should be restrained.”
“You can’t go wandering like that,” his owner said.
So I wondered if the dog understands English. —Or German; it is a German Shepherd.
As I say, my ability to take command in these situations is severely compromised by my widowerhood, or so I feel.
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 14 miles east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.)
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s eight, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)
• That’s probably my dog’s 10th rabbit.
posted by BobbaLew at 10:58 AM
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