Feather Rose's Dr. Quinn

She didn’t belong there. Across the street and one door down, out of her yard and unattended.  She knew it and so did you.

It’s a quiet street. Oil and chip surface with no curbs. It curves along the creek in front of houses that are all set well back on one plus acre lots. In the summer time you can’t even see some of the houses for the trees. Beautiful tall trees that canopy the street completely.

But it is January and the trees are all bare. The creek is still flowing but it has ice along the edges. The deer come down often to drink from the creek. Maybe that’s why she was there, where she knew she wasn’t supposed to go. The fresh scent of deer can be an awful temptation.

You were in a hurry. Perhaps you were running late. The visibility is pretty good this time of year, with the leaves gone.  The road curves just there. That spot where the deer have worn a path down to the creek after crossing the road from the green space behind our house.  There are tracks from where you’ve cut the corner enough to leave the paved part. But, with no curbing who’s to notice, or care? It is posted as a speed limit of 25 but it’s the middle of the day and who’s to notice if you push it. Like you have so many times before.

Perhaps you didn’t see her. She is only a dog after all and she didn’t belong there out of her yard and unattended. She knew it and so did you.

You didn’t stop. Possibly you didn’t even slow down. Maybe you didn’t see her, the 75 pound Labrador coming up from the creek headed back home before she got caught.  She knew about vehicles, she was on the side of the road. Perhaps waiting for you to pass by. She didn’t expect you to cut the corner that far off the pavement.  How do I know this? Because when I came home to find my wife holding her, covered by a blanket to protect her from the cold, I lifted a badly broken body onto the tail gate of my truck. Hips facing off to the side, spine broken I knew. I knew she didn’t suffer, didn’t move at all after you hit her.

She was only a dog after all and she didn’t belong there, out of her yard and unattended. She knew it and so did you.

She was a gift to my wife. We used to train obedience dogs for show. The dogs were a part of our family almost as much as the kids. They lived with us, traveled with us, went shopping with us. What ever we did they did and we expected them to be there and to behave and they did.  Quinn though was different. we hadn't had a dog for several years before her. After losing the last of our show dogs I just wasn't ready to let another animal into our lives.

Then, almost by accident I came across this litter of Labrador's.  The owner had both parents there so I could see  the background and after some soul searching because I was unemployed at the time and my wife was out of town I decided that perhaps it was time to bring another dog into our lives.  She was a gift you see. A gift for my wife who had just finished her Doctorate. I went to look at the litter expecting to come home with a male since there were five of them and only one female. They were out in the back yard playing with a rag toy when I got there. All of them looked good, moved well and were certainly active typical Lab's. So I walked some distance away and got down on one knee and clapped my hands. Six heads whipped around but only one  came charging at full puppy, head over tails, speed. ears flying, tail wagging, stumbling over feet.  "That's the one for me." I told the owner as the puppy raced to my arms and began licking my hands and wiggling under my scratches.

I picked the pup up and then saw it was the lone female of the bunch.  Well, I thought. She picked me so it must be meant to be.

It was a week before Jan got home to meet her new dog and in that short time-span I managed to break every rule we'd ever had about dogs in our house. Including being on the furniture, She developed a habit of getting up in my lap and falling asleep there each evening as I watched TV.  I'd wake up sometime after 11 pm and we'd got to bed. Puppy and I, together. A habit she never got out of. 

Now we don't have a fenced yard, so puppy and I developed a routine walking the edge of the yard and then playing with a toy in the back. First thing each morning and then again in the evening. Labrador's are a smart breed and she quickly learned her boundaries.

Then Jan got home and within days it became clear I had made the correct choice. Quinn was definitely Jan's dog. following her everywhere and eagerly sliding onto the sofa beside her to lay first her whole body and as she got bigger, just her head in Jan's lap.

She traveled with us everywhere. Even had her own blanket, bed and bag.  Load those in the truck and she'd be in the seat waiting for us. Trips to New Mexico, to Atlanta, back to Galesburg, it didn't matter if we were going somewhere Quinn expected to be going to.

Now we've had many Labrador's in our life but Quinn is the only one who could throw her own frisbee. A feat she would do often if we were too busy working in the yard to throw it for her. Using her front paws like hands to flip it up in the air and make it roll along the ground. Not having opposable thumbs was not a problem for her.

So much more to say. So many tiny things that made Quinn special. Right now the pain is too sharp. The hurt to deep.  

She knew she wasn't suppose to be there, Out of her yard and unattended. She knew it, and so did you.

But, just in case it does matter to you. Her name was Feather Rose's Dr. Quinn. She was born May 14, 2010. She was just 4 and 1/2 years old. I buried her today less than two hours after you killed her with your vehicle, in your hurry to get someplace. The grave is marked by some daffodil's I bought last fall and hadn't planted yet.

Sherman Thunder Cloud

Many of us have had pets. Not just pets but four legged creatures that become a part of our family. Animals that comfort us, confound us, test us, and love us unconditionally.  This story is about one of those that I was fortunate enough to have share part of my life with.  While this is a work of fiction that was written for a class many many years ago the essential elements are true. Thunder was very real and the pictures that are scattered through this piece are of him though I do apologize for the quality as they were scanned from glossy originals taken long before the advent of digital cameras.

Oh, and word of warning the assignment this was written for was to write a piece that evoked an emotional response from your reader. Out of 15 stories mine was voted 14 to 1 as getting the strongest reaction.

Sherman Thunder Cloud CD

The summer sun splashed purple and gold across the sky as I swirled the last of my gin and tonic around the rapidly melting ice cube in the bottom of my glass.  It was a quiet summer evening as I idly watched the neighborhood kids playing baseball in the vacant lot next door.  Thunder lay in a patch of sunlight at the edge of the yard positioned so he could watch the game yet his chin rested on the dirt between his huge front paws and his eyes were closed.  His entire demeanor was completely passive as only a Labrador Retrievers’ can be.

As I sat watching the big glossy black dog sleep in his personal patch of sun I couldn’t help but wonder if he really understood as much as I thought he did.

I could not help but reflect on the day Thunder had become a part of our family.

His life had started nine years ago in a litter of ten in a kennel somewhere in Montana that specialized in providing Guide Dogs for the blind. His pedigree was magnificent, to say the least.  There were no fewer than six Guide Dogs listed in the last three generations on his pedigree chart with two more field champions and a dual championship.  This meant that almost all of his heritage through his great-grandparents had been exceptional, not just in the beauty pageant atmosphere of the conformation ring but in the very demanding training and discipline of field work and even more rigorous Guide Dog training.  Everything pointed to an animal of careful and exceptional breeding, blending the strength, adaptability and calm demeanor natural to a Labrador with the competitive desire to achieve in the field and the above average intelligence needed to handle the complex screening and training necessary to become a Guide Dog for the blind.

It was here that Thunder was found by Jack while he was in Montana conducting one of his many seminars on dog training and handling.

Thunder had been washed out of Guide Dog school.  He was certainly intelligent enough and his temperament was excellent, but he was a little over tall for a Labrador and most critically he lacked that special fire absolutely necessary to be a quality Guide Dog.  Jack took a quick look at Thunder, checked his pedigree, dickered price over a couple of Scotches, then packed Thunder into a shipping crate and air-freighted him back to Illinois.  The customary call to the kennel to send someone to the cities to pick up yet another dog and Thunder was on his way to a new life.

To say that Thunder was a disappointment to Jack was an understatement.  It wasn’t that Thunder didn’t learn the things he was taught.  He picked up even the most difficult exercises very quickly.  However, he did everything with a nonchalance that bordered on the lackadaisical.  Nothing could be done to make him hurry “smartly” at anything.  He always got the job done but always in his own sweet time.  With Jacks’ national reputation as a dog trainer a “lope along dog” was simply not acceptable.  So Thunder was relegated to the kennels as a stud dog, living his days and nights in a four foot by twelve foot run attached to a three foot square dog house shared with another kennel dog, in a large row of identical runs occupied by a variety of other dogs that were here for training or boarding.

It’s not that he was abused.  He actually probably enjoyed most of his time in the kennel.  The run was always kept clean as Jack insisted “the dogs come first” and “you never know when an important client will show up and want to see the kennels.”  Meals were regular and with his pedigree, there was always a generous supply of girlfriends.  Most of the kennel hands liked Thunder as he never caused any ruckus, loved to be sprayed with the hose and had a special habit of backing up to the wire fencing so he could do his business directly into the adjacent run and not dirty his own.  This on occasion brought some growling and snapping from the dogs in the neighboring runs which Thunder usually handled with typical Labrador aplomb as he would simply lay down on the other side of the run, sprawl out full length and go to sleep.

When Jack was killed in a train accident, life changed unexpectedly for everyone associated with J & J Kennels including Thunder.  With over eighty dogs owned or boarded in the kennels for training, showing, or breeding and no Jack to go around the country to promote business or oversee the overall operation, things quickly became impractical. Boarded dogs were shipped back to their owners but that still left over a dozen show and breeding dogs. Most of the field dogs were sold off and the kennels were essentially closed down.  Thunder was actually sold to an associate of Jack’s who ran a kennel in Iowa. Thunder’s forte had always been retrieving of wounded game, especially ducks and geese from water. His new owner preferred to hunt pheasants which Thunder preferred to “tenderize” as he ambled back in across the field.  The net results of Thunder’s proclivity for turning a pheasant into ground meat and feathers before he got back to the handler was his return to Jack’s wife and Galesburg.

Now I had practically grown up at the kennels with Jack’s sons as a weekend guest/kennel hand. Early one morning Jack’s eldest son, Mike, called to ask if I would like to have a male Labrador to possibly breed with the female Lab I already owned.  Mike, his two younger brothers and his mom had each taken at least one dog from the breakup of the kennel and no one had room for one more dog. After a clamoring of Yesssss from my two kids and a reluctant OK from my wife I went to pick up Thunder.

Remembering some of Thunder’s eccentricities and knowing from my own experience some of the tendencies of the typical “kennel dog”, I loaded him into the back of my station wagon. With his AKC papers in my pocket and my promise to Jeri, Jack’s widow, to “bring him back out to the farm if he gets to be too much to handle,” I headed for home.

He stood the whole way home effectively blocking any view out the inside mirror. All I could see was black dog and as I pulled into the drive I wondered if I could indeed handle that 95 pounds of lean, muscled dog, what if “he proved to be too much to handle”.

Both kids jumped with excitement around the car as I tried to hook the leash into the ring on Thunder’s collar. He didn’t help much as when he saw the kids he decided to get into the front seat with me. Thunder was clearly ready to get out of the car on my side whether I got out or not. His broad, powerful tail was waging exuberantly, pounding bruises on my arm and a small dent in the padded dash of the car. I opened the car door and let the beast out in the interest of self-preservation. He immediately greeted both kids by rushing them right off their feet. I think this startled Thunder more than the kids or my wife who tried to maintain her poise by yelling at ME instead of Thunder.  His reaction was to lick each child right on the face and then stand perfectly still as Sheri, my four year old daughter grabbed Thunder by the ears with both hands and pulled herself back to her feet. Rather than the frightened reaction from Steve, who was only two, what I saw was a joyous grin on his face as he sat between Thunder’s massive front feet and giggling reached up to play with the big dog’s muzzle.

Steve and Thunder

A cursory walk around our fenced backyard, a carefully monitored tour of the house, including a hissing introduction from Rascal, our cat, and a somewhat more receptive greeting from Holly, our female Labrador, and Thunder selected what would become “his spot” on a throw rug in front of the TV where he promptly stretched out and went to sleep.

Thunder settled into our household as if he had always been an esteemed house dog. He was especially fond of the kids and would “play” with them for hours. He would lay on the floor as they climbed on him, jumped over and occasionally onto him. He would retrieve favorite toys, balls, or anything one of the kids would throw over and over. This of course made him something really special for the kids.

My wife and I decided that with just a little work we could get both Labs trained enough to show them in obedience trials. She would train Holly, our female Lab, and I would work on improving Thunder’s performance. I was so pleased with myself. I had set this up pretty well.  After all Thunder had substantial obedience and field training and Holly had been trained in some of the obedience basics at home. This was going to be a breeze.

The first few formal training sessions went very well. Thunder was easily the star of the class. He sat when we was supposed to, stayed in heel positions through even the trickiest patterns. He was simply spectacular on long sits and downs. With all the dogs lined up on one side of the training room the commands were given to “stay” and then the handlers were to move to the other side of the room and stand facing their dog. Most of the other “beginner dogs would move, some even taking the opportunity to check out the other dogs in the class by sniffing their way up and down the line. Thunder simply sat through it all calmly watching the other “less dignified” dogs in the class with complete disdain. I was quickly becoming convinced I was a “master” dog handler.

It was week five of my obedience training when Thunder first exhibited who was really in control. A few of us were standing outside the training building talking about dogs when all of a sudden Thunder took exception to having his equipment checked out by another male dog. In this case a Springer Spaniel named Duke. A little growling and some leash tugging was all at the beginning. I quickly and firmly gave Thunder the command to “Sit” which he did, but, not without positioning himself so he was facing his antagonist instead of tight beside my left side. I, “The Master Dog Handler” returned to the conversation assuming my command had solved the problem. Not a minute later a deep rumbling growl answered by a challenging bark and aggressive lunge by the Springer and a full-fledged dog fight was under way.

Now having spent many an hour helping in the kennels I had witnessed several dog fights and had helped separate the combatants on more than one occasion, usually with a shovel or stream of water from the hose. I knew that both dogs were capable of inflicting considerable damage on each other and anyone else that got in the way for that matter and there was not a handy tool of any kind. Much to everyone’s surprise the fight was over before anyone could react.  Thunder had moved quickly nose to nose with the Springer and the moment “Duke” had tried to go for Thunder’s throat, Thunder had pivoted sharply using his hip to knock the Spaniel off balance. The Springer ended up on his back with Thunder standing astride his chest. No fierce growling, no barring of teeth, no trying to bite his opponent. Thunder simply pinned his adversary and exerted his dominance, firmly, confidently, immediately. I was clearly not the control part of this dog/handler team. Thunder merely tolerated my directions as long as it suited his purposes at the moment. I was just along for the ride as long as Thunder was concerned

For most of six months we trained for obedience competition. We would walk together with the Labs every evening always looking for different situations and distractions to challenge the dog’s attention. We became a familiar sight at the local Little League Park with the excitement, noise and immediate adoring attention of every child there. All this provided all the training distraction any handler could hope to face in a show ring and more. Both Holly and Thunder seemed to really enjoy these training sessions. We would walk around among the crowd giving little constant reminders to the dogs that they were working by gentle tugs on the leash or quiet stern commands to “watch me”.

The kids who were regulars to the park would stream out behind us like a train bragging to each other about some incredible feat they had witnessed Holly and Thunder perform. Several of the older kids would via for permission to do the baiting when we practiced long sits and downs along the outfield fence. We would sit the dogs side by side and walk some distance away. The kids who had seen this routine would take turns walking past the dogs, playing catch in front of them, rolling the ball across the ground in front of them and generally doing anything they could think of to try and get Holly and Thunder to break their stay. Several of the kids got so proficient at this that they would even give a command to stay themselves if they thought either dog was about to move. Both dogs became so familiar with this scenario that it was very rare that either of them could be persuaded to move off their assigned stay positions.

After these sessions we would treat both dogs with an ice cream cone and go sit in the stands to watch some of the baseball game while every kid in the ball park would crowd around to pet the dogs. Occasionally we would even give over the leash of one of the dogs to an older kid to let them walk the dog once around the outfield.  I was never sure who enjoyed those walks more, the proud kid showing off “his” obedience dog or the Labs who really exalted in all the attention.

It was late September when we got out first taste of a real obedience trial. We loaded our kids and the dogs into the station wagon and headed to the Quad Cities. Everyone was excited as we unloaded at the show site. Both dogs surged with curiosity to examine their new surroundings. Tension mounted in all of us as we waited our turn to exhibit. Many of our friends from obedience classes were here to show their own dogs, cheer, and encourage us as well.

Thankfully my turn came first as I have always been one to dive right in. I just don’t have the patience to sit and wait for much of anything. Thunder and I entered the ring the judge introduced himself and briefly explained what he wanted us to do. First Thunder and I were to walk down one side of the ring together and turn left proceeding along the back of the ring. The judge would command two changes of pace and two halts which we must perform as a team with no tugging on the leash or extra commands. Everything must be done promptly and crisply. Then we must perform a figure-eight exercise. That is, dog and handler must walk alternately around two people standing approximately ten feet apart with the handler maintaining a constant pace while the dog adjusts to the handler as he is alternately inside or outside the loops of the figure-eight. Thunder and I got through this in fairly good shape and I was finally beginning to relax. Next came the off-lead portion of the exercise which is merely a repeat of the previous exercise but without a leash on the dog for control. Thunder and I started off fine but without the gentle weight of the leash Thunder started lagging behind me. When I came to the first left turn I could see Thunder was a good four feet behind me and I instinctively slapped my leg to encourage him to catch up. At the far end of the ring where we had to make an about turn I pivoted to see Thunder was just ambling up to the end of the mat watching me but afterwards I imagined he was smiling at me.

I scarcely remember doing the long sits and downs. I was so upset with Thunder blowing the routine. After our judging class was over the judge approached me and said, “I have never seen a dog heel like that. He was lagging behind you almost ten feet at one point but he didn’t miss one corner or shorten up the about turn at all. By the way I took off two points for the dog lagging and five points from you for every leg pat or extra command you gave. Next time just let the dog do his thing and concentrate on not making silly handler errors. You’ll do fine.  You’ll never score very high but you shouldn’t have any trouble getting a qualifying score.”

A qualifying score is 175 out of a possible 200 points. Thunder and I got a 177 that day. Jan and Holly got a 182. All the way home Jan kept going over every step of the routine while I tried to forget the whole day entirely.

Tilly laying down, Lady Sitting and Thunder standing

It was several weeks later that we first noticed something was wrong with Thunder. At first it was just a loss of appetite. Closer inspection revealed some slight yellowing in the whites of his eyes and some similar discoloration where his skin showed. We also started noticing his urine had a dark orange color and had a really strong odor.

A trip to the vet was clearly in order. He put Thunder on the examine table. Thunder, as usual just stood there and closed his eyes. After a quick examination the vet took some blood samples and told us he’d run some tests and call us with the results.

The call came the very next day. Thunder had end-stage chronic hepatitis, there was very little to be done for him expect keep him comfortable for the short time he had left.

This left us with a problem. Thunder was entered in an obedience show that coming Saturday and only needed one more qualifying score to complete his Companion Dog Certificate or “CD”. Could he handle the stress of one last competition?  Could we?

Thunder and I went for a walk that evening while I pondered what to do. He seemed fine, if anything he was doing a better than usual job of maintain proper heel position. He seemed to have more bounce and eagerness about himself. As we cut across the vacant lot beside the house Thunder literally yanked the leash out of my hand and bounded into the middle of a wiffle ball game, proceeded to snag the ball out of midair and run around the bases with a gaggle of yelling kids chasing him. He came to me and performed a perfect front and finish as if to say, “I’m fine, let’s just play with the kids awhile.”

Well, after that all I could say was,” the vet says he’s not contagious so let’s just go to the show and see how he does.”

Saturday turned out to be rather cool and the drive to the show site went quickly. Thunder slept in his crate all the way, not stirring until we pulled off the highway and into the show site. By the time I found a place to park the car and unload Thunder’s tail was hammering steadily on the side of the crate. He jumped out of the back and quickly did his business typically, up against the fence at the back of the parking lot.

We set up chairs at ringside to wait Thunder’s turn in the ring. Thunder lay beside my chair watching the other dogs as they performed their routines. When his turn came he was all bounce and exuberance. We turned in what was for him a very good performance.

Next came the long sits and downs. Now this particular show was being held outdoors using some open sided, steel framed shelters. The usual occupants of these shelters, a large group of swallows, had been making their displeasure known all day and as the long sit exercise began they decided they’d have enough of the canine invasion.  The swallows had been swooping in and out all day and now, with the dogs sitting alone on one side of the ring, the birds started diving closer and closer to them. Several dogs that had scored quite highly at other shows lost their cool and broke position under the pressure of being dive bombed by the birds. A brief moment of pandemonium commenced when two of the usually high scoring obedience dogs tried to catch one of the avian bombers at the same moment.   Thunder just sat there watching it all unfold.  The long down didn’t go much better for the 20 plus dogs in our group. Thunder meanwhile looked as if he’d gone to sleep his head moving only slightly when the judged walked down the line, I’m sure to check and see if Thunder was awake.

I was pretty sure Thunder and I had turned in a performance worthy of a qualifying score but with all but five of the twenty some dogs in our class eliminated by failing the long sits and downs, Thunder as in contention for a ribbon!

Now in obedience competition if there is a tie between two or more teams for any of the top five positions the placements are decided by a runoff. What that means is that each dog and handler team that is in a tie comes back into the ring and performs the off lead exercise one more time.  Adding to the tension is that none of the teams know what position you’re tied for.

An Irish Setter that had survived the chaos of the long sits and downs was called back into the ring and began to go through the designated heel pattern.

Now, all through the show a baby in a stroller had been parked at the far corner of the ring. This infant had been asleep through most of the competition but was now quite awake and doing considerable complaining and generally demanding attention. Just as the setter and his handler reached that end of the mat the child cut loose with an especially loud series of wails.  The Setter’s concentration was broken and he leaned over the barrier at the edge of the ring to see what all the commotion was about. An extremely embarrassed woman quickly attended to the child by popping one of those oddly shaped teething things into infant’s mouth.

A second dog was called into the ring and completed the requisite routine without incident. Next, Thunder and I were called to perform the exercise and once again Thunder was right there at my left knee moving smartly down the mat as we moved off and made the first turn. I had just completed the about turn at the far end when the judge called the halt a good ten steps before he had for the other dogs.  Thunder was not sitting beside me. I looked over my shoulder and sighed as Thunder came strolling up and assumed his position sitting beside me. We finished the exercise and the judge asked me to stay in the ring as he called in the other dogs that had placed.

First place went to Norwegian Elkhound, a beautiful dog that had placed first or second at every show we’d been at.

The judge called out, “second place with a score of 191++ went to the gallant Black Labrador Retriever”.  We had taken second place!!!! But, what did the judge mean by gallant?

After we got out of the ring several of the other handlers came over to congratulate Thunder and I.  One of them grasped my hand and said, “the way your Lab handled the baby down in the corner was beautiful.”

“What happened?” I asked

“Didn’t you see? Just as you did your about turn the kid threw that pacifier into the ring, your Lab picked it up with its mouth an dropped it back over the barrier right by the stroller and then without missing a beat turned and caught back up with you. I think the judge called the halt because he wasn’t sure the dog was going to stay in the ring. It all happened so fast nobody had time to react.  Most amazing thing I’ve ever seen at an obedience competition and it didn’t seem to faze your dog any more than the swallows. Gutsiest performance I’ve ever seen by a dog.”

I could only affectionately rub Thunder’s ears and say “Thanks” and quietly add to myself, if you only knew how much guts it had taken.

All of that had been a little over a month ago. Thunder’s condition had gotten steadily worse, particularly in the last few days. That he was in pain was only evidenced by the way he moved, but pick up a leash or his ball and the tail would thump happily and the ears would perk up and his eyes would say, “I’m ready”.  The vet had said his last blood tests had shown some major build-up of toxins and that he had to be in pain. So we’d kept his routine light and gave him extra treats trying to make his last days as happy as possible.

As I swilled the last of my drink my wife  came out with the days mail. In among the assorted “occupant” trash was a letter from “The American Kennel Club.” Inside was a brief congratulatory form letter and an elaborate certificate that proclaimed “Sherman Thunder Cloud, male Black Labrador Retriever #SB549980” was now a certified “Companion Dog” and entitled to add the initials CD after his name.

“Well Thunder,” I said, calling him out of his reverie. “you made it boy, You are now Sherman Thunder Cloud CD.” I let him lick the last of the gin and tonic out of my glass. His big blocky head pressed against my leg his dark, intelligent eyes looking at me with understanding. “How are you feeling Thunder? How much longer can you take the pain?  His tail thumped against the dirt raising small clouds.  At that moment one of the kids playing ball in the lot next to ours hit a “Ruthian blast: that came bouncing into our yard. Thunder grabbed the ball on one bounce and went bounding toward the kid who had hit it and was running the bases. As the slugger turned third headed for home Thunder ran up alongside him and nuzzled him over. There immediately rose a gleeful chorus of “you’re out, Thunder tagged you out, you didn’t get a home run Thunder caught you.”

As I watched the kids tease the batter and try to get the ball from Thunder I realized just how much we were all going to miss this big, powerful, lackadaisical, joyously loving creature.

Writer’s note: Thunder was put to sleep about a month later when he got to hurting so bad his back hips hunched up to try and relieve the stress on his gut.  He is buried on a country hillside overlooking a pond with a clump of daffodils to mark the spot.

To the Ladies of Writing Plans, Proposals and Presentations.

 This will in all probability be my last blog post for quite some time. Though, as I said in my opening blog I do love to write, I find this venue too demanding  time wise. Hopefully I’ve entertained those few of you that actually read these posts.

I am nearing the end of this process and will finish my BA in December. It may be of some interest to you girls that I was the only guy in my very first class at Avila and here I am, near the end, I am once again the only guy in a class.  Just like that first class I am impressed by the classmates I have. You are all attractive, intelligent, driven ladies who have found the grit and determination to get your degree inspite of so many other commitments you have.  Traditional students have no idea how hard this is. I applaud you and wish each and every one of you the very best in your future endeavors. I wish I had been smart enough to get this done years ago but life seemed to always get in the way.

Writing is an art and like most art forms the more you practice the better you will get. I have long loved the way words can transport us to distant places and show us things that we might otherwise never see and experience. Words are the keystones to everything around us, without them societies don’t exist, great nations don’t rise and fall, nothing endures even a little while. So practice, write, any way and anywhere you can. By write I was once told it doesn’t matter what you write, just the act of assembling words to carry a meaning is enough. I spent ten painfully boring years as a technical writer it was challenging but soon became repetitive BUT it was writing and just concentrating on, is it complete is it concise does it make sense was enough to make my writing much better. So I say again just write, let your imagination go, create images from your mind or just write out business letters, the process will make you better

Many of you have finished your degree and most of the rest of you are close so, unlike that first class I was in, I don’t worry about life distracting you and preventing you from finishing. You can do it, whatever IT may turn out to be. I encourage each of you to think about your futures and write down your goals. Tuck those goals away someplace only you will know about them and then work your goals.  In this day and age you ladies have more doors open to you than ever before and I encourage you to kick open any you find still closed. You do have what it takes.

In November I will turn 60 years old and if you believe in statistics you all know that I am suppose to think and act in a certain way because I am an older white male living in the Midwest. I chuckle when I read some of these surveys because what I think and feel to be important is so far outside those parameters as to make me one of the “outliers” that statisticians tend to write off as being unimportant. To be honest with you I think there are more guys like me out there than the statistics show. What I am so awkwardly trying to say is gender should never ever be part of anyone’s decision making process. You all have the knowledge, that piece of paper that they say you must have, and the experience they can’t get from a traditional college graduate. I encourage all of you to use those tools to make your dreams come true.

I will be watching from somewhere near the back.

You can be anything you set your mind to be.

A Campfire Story

This week I thought I'd let you read another story I wrote many years ago. This one is quite different from the first one in that this story was written to be told at campfires for Boy Scouts and their parents. It is told in Indian style and usually I would be dressed in a costume that added to this illusion. The local Boy Scout lodge where I lived when this was written used a black fox as a totem. The places described in the story do exist. Stories were the native americans way of teaching life lessons to children and thus I have incorporated that into the narrative you are about to read.

Enjoy

THE BLACK FOX

The Birth of the Fox


This is a small part of the legend of The Black Fox, my brothers.  I will give it to you as it was given to me, whispered by the winds in the trees, murmured by unseen voices of the prairie.
It is a story from yesterday ... tomorrow ... today.  It is a story about life and death, joy and sorrow, winning and losing, for they are, each of them, a part of the same whole.

It begins with a vixen fox as she makes her way along the shore of the river the Indians called Amaquonsippi, the River of the Clams, near the place known as the Hollow of the Pigeons which is near to the Red Clay Hill and the buffalo ford of the River of the Clams.  It is the time of the Moon of the Cherry Blossoms and yet winter has not yet released its hold upon the land and the vixen is struggling desperately to reach her pre-chosen place to deliver her soon to be born young.  

The season has been a long and hard one as yet another blizzard unleashes itself upon the River of the Clams. 

The vixen realizes she cannot make it to her den through the ever deepening snows.  She takes refuge in the only shelter she can find, a small crevice in the shale cliffs along the banks of the frozen river.  She burrows herself as far back into the soft, loose stone as she can to keep herself warm as she waits out the storm and the birth of her young.

Her wait is not a long one.  As darkness falls, she delivers three small, wet, furry little bundles into this troubling, wonderful, difficult world.  They scarcely resemble foxes at all.  Each is quite different from the others, one being almost flame red in color, the second being such a fuzzy yellow as to resemble a baby duckling, and the third, the smallest, a bright glossy black.

Now none of this is really unusual, for foxes have been born in threes and in these various colors, yet something seems very special about this birth, in this place, at this time.

Because of the great stress of labor and the extremely long and hard winter, it is almost four weeks before the vixen is able to leave the den again.  Only extreme hunger overrides her instincts to stay near her young.  However she must find food and soon or neither she nor her kits will survive.  So she goes out in search of food.  Spring is certainly not far off as bright patches of new growth can be seen in sheltered spots of sunshine.  An eerie, icy fog rises thickly off the still frozen river marking the passage of winter to spring.

The vixen has been gone only a short time when one of the most feared predators of the prairies and rivers comes down the trail following the course of the River of the Clams.  The young kit's eyes have only been open a few days, but they cannot mistake the movements of the wolverine as he moves steadily toward their hiding place in the cliffs of shale at the river's edge.  Hunger too drives a creature such as the wolverine, one of nature's most dangerous and powerful predators.  His path takes him directly to the entrance of the cave, and he cannot mistake the scent left by the vixen's recent departure.  Though the kits themselves do not reveal their presence in any way, it is only a matter of moments before the wolverine discovers them.  As he peers into the darkness of the crevice, the two yellowish red kits are unmistakable at the back of the shallow cave.  As he shoulders into the opening for what appears to be a easy meal, he moves right past the
young black kit who is pressed into a narrow crack at the mouth of the cave.

It is times such a these, that occur in all of our lives, where we each make choices based on those inborn characteristics that make us who and what we are.  Though the black fox is only a month old, weighs just a few ounces, and has no real knowledge of the world outside of his small cave, he seems to realize that unless he acts, his brother and sister will perish.  So he does the only thing that he can do and leaps onto the back of the wolverine. With all his tiny might he bites him. 
The wolverine is taken by surprise more than hurt, but those tiny milk teeth are sharp and the attack is so unexpected that the wolverine backs quickly out of the cave to turn on his unseen attacker, snarling and screaming and spinning wildly to find the source of the pain to his backside.

The snarling screams of the wolverine attracts the attention of the vixen who is not far away.  She returns, carrying a small hare to her young, bounding and scrambling over the snow and ice to the trail at the edge of the River of Clams, up the Hollow of the Pigeons to protect her family.  As she moves along the narrow trail and comes around the rocks that mark the edge of the cliff where she has her den, she comes face to face with the wolverine who is still screaming, snarling and whirling about madly trying to get at his unseen attacker.  The vixen's reactions are instinctive and immediate as she attacks headlong into the wolverine.  Her momentum and the ferocity of her attack knocks her black kit clear as the vixen and the wolverine plunge off the cliff, down the steep embankment and into the icy water below.

The cold icy water, the darkly swirling current, two hereditary combatants locked in a struggle as old as the river itself: this is a fight that no one can win.

The black kit sits at the edge of the shale cliff watching intently the darkly swirling waters of the Amaquonsippi.  His eyes gleam brightly, with a quiet intelligence which seems only to accent his age and size rather than diminish it.  He emits a soft plaintive whine then turns to the carcass of the rabbit, dropped near the den by his mother when she attacked the Wolverine, grabs it by one of its oversized hind legs and tries to pull it closer to the entrance of the den.

Quickly exhausted by his efforts, he tears off a bit of flesh from the rabbit with a vigorous shaking of his whole being and retreats into the back of the small cleft in the shale ledge and lays down with his brother and sister.  Soon sleep overtakes him as his two siblings growl and tear at the remaining pieces of flesh.  

Tomorrow the real challenge will begin, to survive in a large hostile world.

What is a repurposed Antique?

Good question.

A repurposed antique is an old piece, usually furniture, that has been reworked to serve a purpose other than the one it was originally designed for.

A good example might be a reed organ or chord organ depending on where you grew up.

The one pictured above would be a common example. Organs like this one were being sold all across America from right after the civil war until about 1920. Many of them were actually sold by traveling salesmen from the back of a wagon. Everyone knew that to be cultured you had to have music in your home and the easiest way was the cord organ which was powered by pedals attached to a bellows system housed in the lower portion of the organ.  They were reliable, inexpensive, and could be made as elaborate as the customer desired.

Once electricity came to the country these leviathans lost favor and eventually their place in the parlors of American homes. Very few were thrown out, we’ve always been a save it just in case country. But many did end up in circumstance less than ideal in barns, or chicken coops of the more well to do farmers of the last century.

I was at a farm auction a number of years ago and they drug this carcase of an organ out of a horse stall. It was dirty, covered in bird poop, dust and dirty of decades hiding in the back of this barn. No one would bid on it and when they finally added several three tine hay forks to the lot I bid a dollar just to get things moving along.

The thing fell apart when I was trying to load it into my truck and I almost left the pile crap covered boards set but for some reason I shoved the remnants in and hauled them home to my shop.

They must have lain on the floor under my storage bench for several years before I hauled them out to sue a work surface while assembling a upper cabinet for a kitchen piece I was working on.  When I was wiping back the stripper crud I realized my “work surface” was solid walnut. So I dug around until I found the other side and both carved handles and set them up wondering what I could do with them as they were too nice eto just throw away.

Well an answer presented itself when after a particularly bad rain storm my parents fully finished basement got flooded with sewer water. Among the things damaged beyond repair were there small flat chests holding sterling silver flatware, one each from my mother and each grandmother. The silverware was easily cleaned but where to store three complete sets of silverware each with a very different pattern?

The answer. A new tall chest with drawers designed to hold them along with extra storage for other pieces my parents had collected over the years.

Take two sides from an antique organ, provide new structure to hold them together, build drawers for the silverware, refinish and
 viola, a repurposed antique.

Me and My Big Mouth

Each year my wife and I sit down and pick one or two things that we want to fix and or change around our home. Some years it can be something major like the year I built my shop building. Other years it might be a small as new paint and fixtures in a bathroom.

Well, this year it was new carpet for our living room/hall. It had been getting rather ratty looking for some time and really needed to go. So back in February we were looking at various carpet samples in Lowe's near our house when I had this bright idea, which I was foolish enough to actually speak out loud.

You know our living room is a vaulted beamed ceiling with a  large brick fireplace at one end so real hardwood floor would look really good on the floor.

Yes, I said it out loud and of course she heard it. One of the problems with being married 38 years and having a reputation as being above average handy with wood is that she assumes if it's wood I can do it. Plus, they even had the one we both liked on sale.

So,  verfied the measurements and one weekend nearly killed myself dragging out the old NASTY carpet. And i thought it looked bad right side up, never ever look at it after its been yanked out.

Underneath the subfloor was in pretty good shape, just one area to level near the entry and a search and destroy mission to deal with any possible squeaks and I'm ready to start putting down 3/4" thick solid oak flooring

I knew the hallway would be the hard part so I started there and worked the flooring back toward the front door which is off the right side of this picture. with everything lining up down the hallway the rest of the room should be easy.

Now I am about half way across the main room. The black stuff on the floor is heavy weight roofing paper to help prevent squeaks.

Getting close to the finish line. It gets tricky when you come up against a stone or brick surface so I'm going to chisel out the bottom row of mortar and tuck the last row under the brick. I hope!

Years ago I had put this natural slate pad by the back door to help with wet feet coming in from the hot tub so I wanted it to stay but given that this would be a high moisture area I needed to do something to help the oak stay flat under these conditions. The answer was to picture frame it and lock it in place with its own tongue and grooves. Plus I think it looks more finished this was.

The last detail was to cover up half the beautiful wood floor with furniture and an area  rug. Our dog Quinn seems to approve though.

One last detail. I have discovered that it easier to get around on crutches on hardwood than carpet So that's a plus in one sense.