Howdy!
It’s raining outside, so I thought I would give you all an update. Sorry it’s been so long since the last one, but as usual there has been a lot going on, compounded by the fact that for about ten days Stephen was out of town in Columbus, training for his job, leaving house, garden, dogs, and civic duty all in my hands. And for a number of those days I was “on assignment” with Starbucks in Kentucky, which, although only about twenty-five miles away might as well have been another planet. It is interesting: anything over a fifteen-minute drive here is considered a long commute. My trek to Kentucky registered by the locals as the equivalent of driving to, say, San Diego and back daily from Long Beach. Anyway, I am also trying a different format, as there have been vague (perhaps even unspoken?) suggestions that I am somehow hyperbolizing our Ohio Adventure. By including photo-documentation to substantiate my purely literal tale, I hope to banish all accusations of exaggeration, embellishment, or dramatization.
That being said, let me begin with a
SCENARIO FOR A SILENT HORROR MOVIE
TITLE CARD: “A Typical Summer Sunday…”
TITLE CARD: “…or is it?”
MONTAGE: Our HERO arrives home from work. Much rejoicing from dogs, which are let outside. Birds in trees; shining sun; hammock swinging in breeze; burbling waterfall; nodding wildflowers; etc.
Our HERO looks up; perhaps HE has heard thunder.
TITLE CARD: “Could it be thunder?”
Thinks nothing of it, continues to commune with Nature, then goes indoors to begin cooking his dinner, looking over shoulder as HE heads inside. Nothing amiss!
CUT to: Ominously darkening skies.
Our HERO pours himself a glass; dinner almost ready. HE cocks his head to one side, as if listening to thunder.
TITLE CARD: “Perhaps it is thunder!”
CUT to: multiple lightning bolts striking nearby.
TITLE CARD: “Zzzzzt! Zzzzzt! Rumble… Boom!”
INSERT: stock footage, tropical monsoon, pounding rain, etc.
CLOSE UP: Our HERO, apparently having a thought.
TITLE CARD: “Hmmm…. The last time it rained like this, the window well in our laundry room filled with water, popping out the window, and flooding our basement!”
Our HERO snaps fingers, runs down stairs in comical speeded-up motion.
CUT to: window well in the laundry room filled with water. As our HERO stands there trying to decide what to do, window pops open, drenching HIM with gallons of muddy cold water.
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
As our HERO reaches up to close window and slow the flood, another burst of lightning, close by.
TITLE CARD: “ZzzBOOM!”
The power goes out.
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
CLOSE UP: Water rising to ankles of our HERO. Slow PAN up: HE is simultaneously flinging towels about, trying to close the window, grabbing bits of cardboard to direct the flow into the washbasin, etc.
TITLE CARD: “Gosh! Here I am standing ankle-deep in water, which seems to have already reached the carpet, in the dark, with lightning all about, and no apparent end to the rain. Gee Whiz—could things possibly get worse?”
CUT to: SNAKE rearing up against the glass, just as our HERO has managed to latch the window.
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
PULL OUT to reveal our HERO, apparently having another thought. The SNAKE still visible, swimming in the remaining water in the window well, occasionally rears up against the glass in vain attempt to escape.
TITLE CARD: “Wait a bit… I remember now! The last time this happened, we went outside and put cardboard over the window cover, diverting the rain and stopping the flooding! I’ll do that right now!”
Our HERO snaps fingers, runs up stairs, dripping, in comical speeded-up motion. HE reaches for the metal door-knob; a blinding flash.
TITLE CARD: “Zz-BOOOM!”
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
Our HERO quickly puts cardboard over window cover, diverting rain and stopping flooding. HE re-enters house, HIS hand gripping the metal door-knob…
TITLE CARD: “Z-BOOOOOM”
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
The power goes back on suddenly; lights, music, everything starts back up at once.
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
CLOSE UP: dinner, burnt.
Slow fade out.
THE END
And for any of you who may doubt the utter veracity of that last event, which I described exactly as it happened, Exhibit A: the Snake, as photographed in the muddy window well just before his rescue (via long stick) the next morning. Let it be noted that at the time of his dramatic entrance, he seemed much larger and more threatening. And for those of you more moved by the sad fate of the dinner, don’t be. It was only my famous Nine-Minute dinner (I’m thinking of submitting it to the food section of the Enquirer: it’s microwaved Kraft mac’n’cheese and hamburger patties.)
Speaking of the Enquirer (Cincinnati, not National, although in terms of quality, the similarities outweigh the differences), I have had two more letters published (out of two submitted). The first was to comment on the local (all the news here is local, exclusively so. Tell me—are we still at war in Iraq?) student who got perfect scores on both his SAT and ACT tests, reported proudly on the front page, with photo. There was even a quote from him. Here’s my letter of August 22:
Kudos to Ray Wang on his perfect scores; it was nice to read that he did so well. As to his quote about “expecting to do good,” what kind of good is he expecting to do—charity work, helping old ladies across streets, recycling? This from someone who presumably achieved part of his perfect scores in English! Oh well.
My other letter was featured in the “Community Conversation” section on August 18, since the topic was highly charged, although no one else seemed to see things my way. Earlier in the week, the paper’s front-page headline was about how the Archdiocese of Cincinnati had issued a new Decree on Child Protection, listing specific types of physical contact that were or were not considered appropriate by priests, church employees, and volunteers (head patting, yes; lap sitting, no). That same day, the main guest editorial was about the upcoming presidential elections, and how everyone should “vote Catholic” as it was the only moral thing to do, with citations from one of the Benedicts.
I found the juxtaposition of the front-page headline “Church Lists Banned Touches” with the Your Voice column “Some Moral Principles are Not Negotiable” highly ironic. The columnist is urging everyone to follow Catholic dogma in politics (what happened to separation of church and state?) at the same time that the same church is having to spell out behavior to quell the numerous child abuse charges that have been leveled against it. The continued hypocrisy is disturbing.
Anyway, for penance, Stephen and I attended the recent annual OktoberFest held by Greenhills’ own Our Lady of the Rosary church, which turned out to be no more Fest than it is October; they have theirs a month early so as not to compete. It was held on the village green, and was a near duplicate of the Pioneer Days hoopla in July, except that the Butt Shack was absent, replaced by a bingo tent (we lost); the food offerings leaned a bit heavier on bratwurst, mettwurst, and German potato salad, which is marvelous. When I ordered a beer, I was offered an orange slice for it. When I said, “oh—like a lime for a Corona” I was met with a blank stare.
Everyone is nice, but it is all a little behind the times, sometimes, and never more so (perhaps appropriately) than the Greenhills Historical Society. We attended one of their big annual hullabaloos, the Trash To Treasures event (and what a fine line between the two, as it turned out), a sort of city-wide yard sale, with “special” tables in the American Legion Hall, proceeds going to the Historical Society. We walked about, eyeing our neighbors’ offerings, and ended up at the Hall, which was a meager assembly of bored merchants and even fewer bored customers. Coming upon the Historical Society table, we chatted with our friends Terri, and Betty Senior (who is so elderly it is impossible to imagine a Betty Junior; why is it that all Bettys are old: White, Crocker, Rubble?) , Corresponding Secretary and Architectural Committee, and Vice-President (Acting) and Art Committee, respectively. We innocently and optimistically offered a few suggestions we had just thought up for improving the event, when Betty, with a knowing glance at Terri, blurted out that it was decided: they wanted—no, needed—one of us to join the Historical Society Board of Directors. Apparently, it didn’t really matter which one of us it was. With a knowing glance at Stephen, I accepted. (Since Starbucks does expect its managers to get involved in their communities, it was not so much about my own personal Glory, no, but a work-related obligation.)
A week or so later I attended a Board Meeting, and after a few relevant bits of parliamentary procedure was moved, seconded and unanimously made Director. There then followed Old Business, which consisted primarily of what I have since dubbed “CSI: Greenhills.” Apparently the sign advertising Trash to Treasures (one of those flimsy plastic things on two wires you stick into a lawn) got damaged, and one of the Board Members (Trash to Treasures Committee) refused to believe it was a lawn-mower accident, which was actually confessed to, but some sort of anti-Historical Society vandalism, that she took to the Police, repeatedly, until she could get The Truth. She actually brought the sign to the meeting, wrapped in cardboard, with its police label of “Evidence” evident; she had badgered (my word, not hers) the police into dusting it for fingerprints! All that were found were hers, her husband’s, and the fellow who admitted to knocking it down with his mower, but no matter. All of this dark muttering took over twenty minutes. As I said later to Terri (the only other sane one on the Board): “Sign damaged? Toss it out and spend the ten bucks for a new one! Next order of business?”
Next there was a great deal of wrangling about the actual amount raised by Trash To Treasures, which was mostly moot, since the GHS Treasurer (and husband to Past President and Special Projects Committee) was not present, and the amount the two factions differed by was on the right of the decimal. Anyway, when it was (finally) my turn, I outlined a few ideas I had drummed up to capitalize on this year’s 75th Anniversary of the New Deal, which is getting a fair amount of national attention, and leading up to the village’s 75th in 2013. Since one of our (I almost write “their” but as a Director I should know better) stated immediate objectives (as opposed to the unstated: endless internecine bickering, opening of old wounds, procrastination, etc.) is to raise enough money to restore the charming WPA murals and bas-reliefs in the Community Building. I outlined a few merchandise offerings (mugs, t-shirts, etc) and suggested we consider putting on a concert of music from 1938 as a fund-raiser at some point. Jaws dropped, eyes popped, and after a reflexive bit of contrariness (“But the High School Alumni Club sells t-shirts! We’ll have to have something else or they’ll be even more against us than they already are!”), the mugs and t-shirts became magnets and calendars and note cards as well, and the concert a Gala. As not merely Director, but now Merchandise Committee and Events Committee, I have my work cut out for me.
Nature continues to fascinate. Although we have just hit September and the weather is continuing in the high 90s (both temperature and humidity), some leaves are starting to change color, and some are falling. Onward to autumn, I suppose, too soon.
Our “prairie garden” has moved from the yellows of black-eyed Susans into a variety of purples, including ironweed and sensitive plant, of the few I have been able to identify, and is attracting giant swallowtail butterflies, monster bees, and hummingbirds. Moles are running rampant through our back lawn, chasing after the cicada grubs (which is fine by me). We also discovered an unusual mushroom that looks like a piece of leather.
Apparently, we are going to need a weed treatment, followed by some reseeding anyway, so the moles’ aeration actually is a good thing, according to the gardener. Thankfully, our front yard has been spared, so we are still keeping up appearances for the neighborhood. And my legs continue to be an insect buffet, perhaps because I don’t ever seem to be wearing shoes or socks; when I do, the bites just move up to my calves. As for bug spray, I can’t find one that’s organic and/or unscented, so I do without. Stephen shows a bit more sense, so a lot fewer bites. Although I have gotten off comparatively lucky, as one of my uncles was recently in Africa and got some kind of tropical tick bite on his butt (we didn’t ask…). It was so unusual that his doctor invited the rest of the medical staff in to look at it. Good ol’ Uncle Bruce, always the showman.
The last piece of wildlife news involves our newest addition: Coco. She is a ten-week old (mostly) German Shepherd pup we adopted. Since we got both Maisie and Rosie in previous Septembers, we had already talked about getting another dog sometime mid-month, and had been sporadically checking classified ads for prices and so on. At first it was a bit confusing, because I had never heard of labrapoos or puggles or shih-chis. It seems I have just not been keeping up with the AKC. Anyway. I happened to see an ad for collie/shepherd puppies, breeds I recognized, for just $45, and upon calling to see if there were any left was happily told that there were three girls, and that it was not a private owner, per se, but an animal rescue, which was even nicer…. The puppies were acquired when a Shepherd breeder’s dog had an unplanned visit from a neighbor’s collie. Because they were not purebred, the breeder meant to destroy them (old-fashioned Nazi eugenics lives on in Zinzinnati). We got directions from Carol, and decided to drive out “just to look.” Her directions took us down the freeway, past a local mall, past a hospital, with the turn-off just a few miles after the traffic light. What she failed to mention was that there was a gap of about twenty miles between each of those steps! We left Hamilton County, Clermont County, another county whose name I missed as I was mesmerized by the endless cornfields on both sides, and ended up in Brown County, passing through Batavia, Mt. Orab, and ultimately, Sardinia. It was becoming clearer why Rte 32 is known as the Appalachian Highway as we turned off the main highway, passing trailers and small farms. We finally reached the Love Pet Farm, which turned out to be a trailer and out-building (the “kennel”), surrounded by kitsch and guarded by two wizened wiener dogs, who barked incessantly. We assumed the owner would come out, hearing the noise, but the din of her television inside must have masked the barks. Stephen finally braved the dachshunds, went up the steps, and banged on the door. Out came Carol, an elderly (and admittedly somewhat deaf) woman, who IS the Love Pet Farm. She and her deceased husband (Pa Kettle having passed on earlier this year) bred and boarded dogs for many years in Missouri, and when they retired to Ohio, began rescuing puppies that were unwanted or meant for destruction. She puts ads in the papers, drives around picking up the dogs, then caring for them until she can place them; so far this year she has found homes for eighty-two dogs! She keeps very careful records, and ensures that they have all their shots, etc. Carol took us out to the kennel, which despite its appearance of a decrepit barn, turned out to clean, smell-free, and containing numerous pens, most occupied. We settled on she who would be named Coco (Carol suggested Sheba), Stephen singling her out immediately and not letting himself be seduced by the other ten or so dogs in the kennel, smartly resisting the impulse to “take two, they’re small.” Carol gave us detailed instructions on Sheba/Coco’s diet, and even gave us some of the food and vitamin gravy she had been using. We then paid up (making an additional small donation to the Shelter); the money cannot possibly cover Carol’s expenses. All she wanted for herself was a picture of Coco when she is grown up, in her new yard. We will definitely keep in touch with wonderful Carol, Dog love her!
I must close, as I have to run to the store to get champagne and cheddar goldfish, as we want to officially christen the fish in our pond (Holly, Lloyd, and Tickle, names courtesy of nieces and nephew Lauren, Emily, and Matthew, respectively) before the weather turns, again.
Love, Robert
It’s raining outside, so I thought I would give you all an update. Sorry it’s been so long since the last one, but as usual there has been a lot going on, compounded by the fact that for about ten days Stephen was out of town in Columbus, training for his job, leaving house, garden, dogs, and civic duty all in my hands. And for a number of those days I was “on assignment” with Starbucks in Kentucky, which, although only about twenty-five miles away might as well have been another planet. It is interesting: anything over a fifteen-minute drive here is considered a long commute. My trek to Kentucky registered by the locals as the equivalent of driving to, say, San Diego and back daily from Long Beach. Anyway, I am also trying a different format, as there have been vague (perhaps even unspoken?) suggestions that I am somehow hyperbolizing our Ohio Adventure. By including photo-documentation to substantiate my purely literal tale, I hope to banish all accusations of exaggeration, embellishment, or dramatization.
That being said, let me begin with a
SCENARIO FOR A SILENT HORROR MOVIE
TITLE CARD: “A Typical Summer Sunday…”
TITLE CARD: “…or is it?”
MONTAGE: Our HERO arrives home from work. Much rejoicing from dogs, which are let outside. Birds in trees; shining sun; hammock swinging in breeze; burbling waterfall; nodding wildflowers; etc.
Our HERO looks up; perhaps HE has heard thunder.
TITLE CARD: “Could it be thunder?”
Thinks nothing of it, continues to commune with Nature, then goes indoors to begin cooking his dinner, looking over shoulder as HE heads inside. Nothing amiss!
CUT to: Ominously darkening skies.
Our HERO pours himself a glass; dinner almost ready. HE cocks his head to one side, as if listening to thunder.
TITLE CARD: “Perhaps it is thunder!”
CUT to: multiple lightning bolts striking nearby.
TITLE CARD: “Zzzzzt! Zzzzzt! Rumble… Boom!”
INSERT: stock footage, tropical monsoon, pounding rain, etc.
CLOSE UP: Our HERO, apparently having a thought.
TITLE CARD: “Hmmm…. The last time it rained like this, the window well in our laundry room filled with water, popping out the window, and flooding our basement!”
Our HERO snaps fingers, runs down stairs in comical speeded-up motion.
CUT to: window well in the laundry room filled with water. As our HERO stands there trying to decide what to do, window pops open, drenching HIM with gallons of muddy cold water.
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
As our HERO reaches up to close window and slow the flood, another burst of lightning, close by.
TITLE CARD: “ZzzBOOM!”
The power goes out.
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
CLOSE UP: Water rising to ankles of our HERO. Slow PAN up: HE is simultaneously flinging towels about, trying to close the window, grabbing bits of cardboard to direct the flow into the washbasin, etc.
TITLE CARD: “Gosh! Here I am standing ankle-deep in water, which seems to have already reached the carpet, in the dark, with lightning all about, and no apparent end to the rain. Gee Whiz—could things possibly get worse?”
CUT to: SNAKE rearing up against the glass, just as our HERO has managed to latch the window.
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
PULL OUT to reveal our HERO, apparently having another thought. The SNAKE still visible, swimming in the remaining water in the window well, occasionally rears up against the glass in vain attempt to escape.
TITLE CARD: “Wait a bit… I remember now! The last time this happened, we went outside and put cardboard over the window cover, diverting the rain and stopping the flooding! I’ll do that right now!”
Our HERO snaps fingers, runs up stairs, dripping, in comical speeded-up motion. HE reaches for the metal door-knob; a blinding flash.
TITLE CARD: “Zz-BOOOM!”
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
Our HERO quickly puts cardboard over window cover, diverting rain and stopping flooding. HE re-enters house, HIS hand gripping the metal door-knob…
TITLE CARD: “Z-BOOOOOM”
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
The power goes back on suddenly; lights, music, everything starts back up at once.
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
CLOSE UP: dinner, burnt.
Slow fade out.
THE END
And for any of you who may doubt the utter veracity of that last event, which I described exactly as it happened, Exhibit A: the Snake, as photographed in the muddy window well just before his rescue (via long stick) the next morning. Let it be noted that at the time of his dramatic entrance, he seemed much larger and more threatening. And for those of you more moved by the sad fate of the dinner, don’t be. It was only my famous Nine-Minute dinner (I’m thinking of submitting it to the food section of the Enquirer: it’s microwaved Kraft mac’n’cheese and hamburger patties.)
Speaking of the Enquirer (Cincinnati, not National, although in terms of quality, the similarities outweigh the differences), I have had two more letters published (out of two submitted). The first was to comment on the local (all the news here is local, exclusively so. Tell me—are we still at war in Iraq?) student who got perfect scores on both his SAT and ACT tests, reported proudly on the front page, with photo. There was even a quote from him. Here’s my letter of August 22:
Kudos to Ray Wang on his perfect scores; it was nice to read that he did so well. As to his quote about “expecting to do good,” what kind of good is he expecting to do—charity work, helping old ladies across streets, recycling? This from someone who presumably achieved part of his perfect scores in English! Oh well.
My other letter was featured in the “Community Conversation” section on August 18, since the topic was highly charged, although no one else seemed to see things my way. Earlier in the week, the paper’s front-page headline was about how the Archdiocese of Cincinnati had issued a new Decree on Child Protection, listing specific types of physical contact that were or were not considered appropriate by priests, church employees, and volunteers (head patting, yes; lap sitting, no). That same day, the main guest editorial was about the upcoming presidential elections, and how everyone should “vote Catholic” as it was the only moral thing to do, with citations from one of the Benedicts.
I found the juxtaposition of the front-page headline “Church Lists Banned Touches” with the Your Voice column “Some Moral Principles are Not Negotiable” highly ironic. The columnist is urging everyone to follow Catholic dogma in politics (what happened to separation of church and state?) at the same time that the same church is having to spell out behavior to quell the numerous child abuse charges that have been leveled against it. The continued hypocrisy is disturbing.
Anyway, for penance, Stephen and I attended the recent annual OktoberFest held by Greenhills’ own Our Lady of the Rosary church, which turned out to be no more Fest than it is October; they have theirs a month early so as not to compete. It was held on the village green, and was a near duplicate of the Pioneer Days hoopla in July, except that the Butt Shack was absent, replaced by a bingo tent (we lost); the food offerings leaned a bit heavier on bratwurst, mettwurst, and German potato salad, which is marvelous. When I ordered a beer, I was offered an orange slice for it. When I said, “oh—like a lime for a Corona” I was met with a blank stare.
Everyone is nice, but it is all a little behind the times, sometimes, and never more so (perhaps appropriately) than the Greenhills Historical Society. We attended one of their big annual hullabaloos, the Trash To Treasures event (and what a fine line between the two, as it turned out), a sort of city-wide yard sale, with “special” tables in the American Legion Hall, proceeds going to the Historical Society. We walked about, eyeing our neighbors’ offerings, and ended up at the Hall, which was a meager assembly of bored merchants and even fewer bored customers. Coming upon the Historical Society table, we chatted with our friends Terri, and Betty Senior (who is so elderly it is impossible to imagine a Betty Junior; why is it that all Bettys are old: White, Crocker, Rubble?) , Corresponding Secretary and Architectural Committee, and Vice-President (Acting) and Art Committee, respectively. We innocently and optimistically offered a few suggestions we had just thought up for improving the event, when Betty, with a knowing glance at Terri, blurted out that it was decided: they wanted—no, needed—one of us to join the Historical Society Board of Directors. Apparently, it didn’t really matter which one of us it was. With a knowing glance at Stephen, I accepted. (Since Starbucks does expect its managers to get involved in their communities, it was not so much about my own personal Glory, no, but a work-related obligation.)
A week or so later I attended a Board Meeting, and after a few relevant bits of parliamentary procedure was moved, seconded and unanimously made Director. There then followed Old Business, which consisted primarily of what I have since dubbed “CSI: Greenhills.” Apparently the sign advertising Trash to Treasures (one of those flimsy plastic things on two wires you stick into a lawn) got damaged, and one of the Board Members (Trash to Treasures Committee) refused to believe it was a lawn-mower accident, which was actually confessed to, but some sort of anti-Historical Society vandalism, that she took to the Police, repeatedly, until she could get The Truth. She actually brought the sign to the meeting, wrapped in cardboard, with its police label of “Evidence” evident; she had badgered (my word, not hers) the police into dusting it for fingerprints! All that were found were hers, her husband’s, and the fellow who admitted to knocking it down with his mower, but no matter. All of this dark muttering took over twenty minutes. As I said later to Terri (the only other sane one on the Board): “Sign damaged? Toss it out and spend the ten bucks for a new one! Next order of business?”
Next there was a great deal of wrangling about the actual amount raised by Trash To Treasures, which was mostly moot, since the GHS Treasurer (and husband to Past President and Special Projects Committee) was not present, and the amount the two factions differed by was on the right of the decimal. Anyway, when it was (finally) my turn, I outlined a few ideas I had drummed up to capitalize on this year’s 75th Anniversary of the New Deal, which is getting a fair amount of national attention, and leading up to the village’s 75th in 2013. Since one of our (I almost write “their” but as a Director I should know better) stated immediate objectives (as opposed to the unstated: endless internecine bickering, opening of old wounds, procrastination, etc.) is to raise enough money to restore the charming WPA murals and bas-reliefs in the Community Building. I outlined a few merchandise offerings (mugs, t-shirts, etc) and suggested we consider putting on a concert of music from 1938 as a fund-raiser at some point. Jaws dropped, eyes popped, and after a reflexive bit of contrariness (“But the High School Alumni Club sells t-shirts! We’ll have to have something else or they’ll be even more against us than they already are!”), the mugs and t-shirts became magnets and calendars and note cards as well, and the concert a Gala. As not merely Director, but now Merchandise Committee and Events Committee, I have my work cut out for me.
Nature continues to fascinate. Although we have just hit September and the weather is continuing in the high 90s (both temperature and humidity), some leaves are starting to change color, and some are falling. Onward to autumn, I suppose, too soon.
Our “prairie garden” has moved from the yellows of black-eyed Susans into a variety of purples, including ironweed and sensitive plant, of the few I have been able to identify, and is attracting giant swallowtail butterflies, monster bees, and hummingbirds. Moles are running rampant through our back lawn, chasing after the cicada grubs (which is fine by me). We also discovered an unusual mushroom that looks like a piece of leather.
Apparently, we are going to need a weed treatment, followed by some reseeding anyway, so the moles’ aeration actually is a good thing, according to the gardener. Thankfully, our front yard has been spared, so we are still keeping up appearances for the neighborhood. And my legs continue to be an insect buffet, perhaps because I don’t ever seem to be wearing shoes or socks; when I do, the bites just move up to my calves. As for bug spray, I can’t find one that’s organic and/or unscented, so I do without. Stephen shows a bit more sense, so a lot fewer bites. Although I have gotten off comparatively lucky, as one of my uncles was recently in Africa and got some kind of tropical tick bite on his butt (we didn’t ask…). It was so unusual that his doctor invited the rest of the medical staff in to look at it. Good ol’ Uncle Bruce, always the showman.
The last piece of wildlife news involves our newest addition: Coco. She is a ten-week old (mostly) German Shepherd pup we adopted. Since we got both Maisie and Rosie in previous Septembers, we had already talked about getting another dog sometime mid-month, and had been sporadically checking classified ads for prices and so on. At first it was a bit confusing, because I had never heard of labrapoos or puggles or shih-chis. It seems I have just not been keeping up with the AKC. Anyway. I happened to see an ad for collie/shepherd puppies, breeds I recognized, for just $45, and upon calling to see if there were any left was happily told that there were three girls, and that it was not a private owner, per se, but an animal rescue, which was even nicer…. The puppies were acquired when a Shepherd breeder’s dog had an unplanned visit from a neighbor’s collie. Because they were not purebred, the breeder meant to destroy them (old-fashioned Nazi eugenics lives on in Zinzinnati). We got directions from Carol, and decided to drive out “just to look.” Her directions took us down the freeway, past a local mall, past a hospital, with the turn-off just a few miles after the traffic light. What she failed to mention was that there was a gap of about twenty miles between each of those steps! We left Hamilton County, Clermont County, another county whose name I missed as I was mesmerized by the endless cornfields on both sides, and ended up in Brown County, passing through Batavia, Mt. Orab, and ultimately, Sardinia. It was becoming clearer why Rte 32 is known as the Appalachian Highway as we turned off the main highway, passing trailers and small farms. We finally reached the Love Pet Farm, which turned out to be a trailer and out-building (the “kennel”), surrounded by kitsch and guarded by two wizened wiener dogs, who barked incessantly. We assumed the owner would come out, hearing the noise, but the din of her television inside must have masked the barks. Stephen finally braved the dachshunds, went up the steps, and banged on the door. Out came Carol, an elderly (and admittedly somewhat deaf) woman, who IS the Love Pet Farm. She and her deceased husband (Pa Kettle having passed on earlier this year) bred and boarded dogs for many years in Missouri, and when they retired to Ohio, began rescuing puppies that were unwanted or meant for destruction. She puts ads in the papers, drives around picking up the dogs, then caring for them until she can place them; so far this year she has found homes for eighty-two dogs! She keeps very careful records, and ensures that they have all their shots, etc. Carol took us out to the kennel, which despite its appearance of a decrepit barn, turned out to clean, smell-free, and containing numerous pens, most occupied. We settled on she who would be named Coco (Carol suggested Sheba), Stephen singling her out immediately and not letting himself be seduced by the other ten or so dogs in the kennel, smartly resisting the impulse to “take two, they’re small.” Carol gave us detailed instructions on Sheba/Coco’s diet, and even gave us some of the food and vitamin gravy she had been using. We then paid up (making an additional small donation to the Shelter); the money cannot possibly cover Carol’s expenses. All she wanted for herself was a picture of Coco when she is grown up, in her new yard. We will definitely keep in touch with wonderful Carol, Dog love her!
I must close, as I have to run to the store to get champagne and cheddar goldfish, as we want to officially christen the fish in our pond (Holly, Lloyd, and Tickle, names courtesy of nieces and nephew Lauren, Emily, and Matthew, respectively) before the weather turns, again.
Love, Robert
No comments:
Post a Comment