[Dailydrool] (no subject)

[Elizabeth Lindsey]

I'm behind on a couple of threads, thanks to having been out of town  
for so long, but I'd like to contribute anyway.

Favorite Names: Noah Go Slowah, Heidi Go Lightly, Stella B. Low, Bob  
the Dog, Shadie Babe (this sounds like it could be the name of a  
racehorse or a vamp in an old-time musical), Abraham Galinkin (with  
his feline sister Mary Galinkin), Polly Esther, and Loose Lips  
Lucille. I'm noticing that I gravitate toward names that could be  
puns, which is interesting because puns aren't my favorite form of  
humor.

Repair People: I almost always crate our Elsinore and young Charlie  
when we have any kind of service professional at the house. Elsinore  
can be so territorial sometimes that even I am convinced and fear for  
the intruder's safety. Charlie can be a hindrance since he assumes  
the intruder is there solely to pat him. He can make it impossible  
for a repair person to work because he keeps pushing his head up  
under the guy's arm so the guy will pat him. Both hounds get terribly  
underfoot, and people who aren't used to having to walk around long,  
low dogs often end up tripping over them. So for everyone's safety,  
even though Elsinore shouts the entire time, the hounds get crated,  
at least until the job is done. Occasionally I'll let them out to  
visit while I'm paying the bill, especially if the repair person says  
he has or loves bassets.

It looks as if the in-laws are now planning on waiting until Saint  
Sally dies before they try getting another dog. This could be any  
day, since when we saw Sally last week she looked as if she was on  
her last legs. She has that emaciated old-dog look now, and totters  
around painfully with untreated arthritis (my mother-in-law refuses  
to take anything stronger than aspirin for hers, so it's not to be  
expected she'd do more for the dog's). Even though my husband  
reminded him that Charlotte the Temp, their last failure, did fine  
with the chickens for almost two years before deciding to go after  
them, my father-in-law's decided he'll just ask the pound or shelter  
if he can have a dog on a one-day trial basis, throw it in with the  
chickens, and if the dog reacts badly he'll return it. I asked him if  
he could just buy a dog from one of his neighbors who also keeps  
chickens, but he says none of their neighbors or friends keeps both  
chickens and dogs. Well, there's your sign, as Larry the Cable Guy  
would say. Can you tell that this situation continues to weigh on me?

We had big excitement here last night. I heard Chloe, Jennifer's dog  
who's visiting us this week, barking madly in the backyard, so I went  
out to check. She was standing over something that looked like a dead  
squirrel or a large dead pigeon. Young Charlie and Charlotte the Temp  
joined us, making things even more chaotic. I raced back into the  
house for a flashlight and high-premium treats, ran back out again,  
shone my flashlight on the mass on the ground, and discovered Chloe  
had found a young possum that looked very dead. The operative word  
here, of course, is "looked."

Ken helped me hustle everyone back inside, though Chloe had to be  
dragged back in on a leash. Just before bedtime I went out again to  
cautiously double-check the carcass and found nothing. Apparently  
that possum really had been playing dead. This was a relief because I  
sure didn't want to have to deal with a body disposal first thing in  
the morning. I'm also relieved that the possum chose to play dead  
instead of fight back. As expected, as soon as I unlocked the doggie  
door this morning, Chloe was out like a shot to go get that possum.  
She doesn't seem too disappointed it's no longer there. Maybe she  
figures there'll be more? Charlie and Charlotte have forgotten all  
about the animal. Elsinore had already put herself to bed before all  
this happened, so she has no idea what she missed, which is probably  
just as well.

Elizabeth