Happy Hour in Whitefish

Logger Bob Love, the real thing.

August, 6 -- Whitefish, Montana

It was our last day at Carl's cabin, because we were heading North to Alaska the next day.

We drove to Kalispell for supplies and to have a tire repaired,and then we pigged out on barbecue.

Food coma soon followed, and we headed home.

Carl had the foresight to save some of the meal for the ladies, who had been busy at the cabin, and this made our power-naps somehow excusable.

When we awoke the woods were rumbling. So we strolled over to watch Logger Bob sawing and munching piss firs with his machines.

Bob is the real thing. No lumbersexual wears pitch-stained pants, and smells like chain saw exhaust.

Carl hired Bob to thin the piss firs, "because they crowd out the larches and pines".

"They're as common as wood rats around here, and they stink like rats, too."

(Carl always abuses my favorite rodent in my presence.)

Yep, Piss firs. I hadn't heard of them either.

The colorful moniker comes from the subalpine fir's habit of releasing a stream of water when bored with a forester's auger. So says the Slang Dictionary. 

Break time in the pickup.

While we admired the machinery, Bob's dog Sparky hunted Montana's other native scoundrel, the bushy-tailed wood rat.  

Sparky knows where to find these handsome rodents, and how to flush them, and if he doesn't nail them on the run, he trees them and stands vigil till they come down and make a run for it. 

Our dogs Fred and Petey found Sparky to be a really neat guy, and joined him in the chase, but they just didn't get the waiting game under the tree.

Sparky stood vigil while
Petey and Fred wanted in.

Fred can't even catch a squirrel, and thinks the game ends when the squirrel goes up the tree.

So when Sparky treed a rat that afternoon our dogs drifted off and were soon looking wistfully into the cabin.

Before long it was happy hour, and a chance to chat with a real Montana logger.

We gathered on Carl's porch next to the beer cooler where Moose Drool and other brews greased the skids.

Soon we swapping stories about trees, timber, wood, land, and of course wildlife.

Old snags?  Bob knew of a big one used by bears as a hibernaculum.

I asked if he had ever seen a wolverine out here. 

I doubted he had, but I was wrong.

"I passed one on the shoulder of the road one morning.

"It had it's head up the butt-end of a road killed deer, and was within shooting range of any passing pickup. 

"So I walked it away from the road and called the game warden."

"The warden dragged the carcass up into the woods, and the wolverine survived a close call with civilization.

Salted into Bob's accounts was the name of Bud Moore.

Moore grew up in the Bitterroots, trapped and built cabins as a teenager, was a Marine during WW2, and worked for the Forest Service most of his life.

He was one of those rare individuals who "listened to the land and learned from it".

"Bud was like my brother, grandfather, father, mentor and best friend. It was like we'd known each other in previous lives, and reconnected.  We will again one day."
  

Moore was a toddler when writer Norman MacLean worked for the Forest Service, but their paths crossed decades later when MacLean needed a fact checker for his draft of A River Runs Through It.

In Bob's words . . .

"McLean didn't know Bud at the time, but since Bud knew the country and characters in the stories, he asked him to check the manuscript for facts.  In Bud's words, 'I took my red pencil to it and sent it back'.  The edits didn't go over well, but Maclean eventually agreed they were warranted."

"Bud was on the team that investigated the Mann Gulch fire, and was responsible for the Fire Fighter's standard safety rules, which are still in effect today."

"They are fashioned after the Marine Rules of Battle Conduct.  Bud had been in the Marines, and couldn't recall the rules to the letter, but he thought they'd be applicable to fire fighting."

"The team was meeting in DC, near some military facility.  Bud went out and found a Marine at a bus stop, and asked him to recite the rules.  He wrote them down, brought them back to the meeting, and they were adopted by the FS."

The Maclean-Moore relationship grew into one of mutual respect, and when Moore was writing The Lochsa Story he observed that "McLean took care of my inclination to put outdoor pursuits first, desk work last. Every time I dropped my pencil and looked at my fly rod, he would show up in some form or another."

I had one last question before Bob headed home.

"What's wrong with Sparky's paw?" (Sparky favored one paw. Was it a casualty of the chase?)

"Compound fracture", said Bob. "He broke his leg when he fell off a roof, trying to get deer fat I'd put up there for ravens.   

"Maybe I should have had it cut off. He wouldn't be in such pain, but he wouldn't be able to catch wood rats either." 

It was a happy hour I won't forget.

References
Cawelti, John.  www.press.uchicago.edu/books/maclean/maclean_cawelti.html
[an interesting excerpt about Maclean's analytical and critical compliment of a lecture Cawelti once gave at the University of Chicago -- from Cawelti's book, Norman Maclean: Of scholars, fishing, and the River]

Moore, Bud. 1996. The Lochsa Story, Land Ethics in the Bitterroot Mountains. Mountain Press Publishing Company, Missoula, Montana

Maclean, Norman. 1992. Young Men and Fire. University of Chicago Press, Chicago

Another Thanksgiving dog story

It was too late when I found Fred completing the ancient dog rite of self-anointment.

He had found something that smelled like a pig sty, and his white throat and orange collar were reeking with a repulsive brown residue.

I've never smelled anything quite that poor in the woods, and the only solution was canine scent exorcism.  

"You're getting a bath". 

Happy-dog turned to hang-dog. He knew what was coming.  

I drove home with the windows open and thought about my options. 

A fecal-scented dog goes over like the proverbial turd in the punchbowl, but when your wife is baking pies the day before Thanksgiving it's far worse than that.  

Full disclosure of Fred's condition clearly was not in the interest of smooth domestic relations, but I had a plan.

The simple act of bathing him for the holiday -- without reference to the real reason, would be a thoughtful consideration.  

I tethered Fred on the deck, drew two buckets of warm water from the mud room without alerting the redhead, donned my rubber boots, and thoroughly lathered the dog twice with a commercial "oatmeal doggie shampoo".

When I toweled him off he was ready to play.

I poked my head in the door to the warm balm of pumpkin pie. 

"Hi Sweetie, I gave Fred a bath so he'll smell good for his birthday".

He rolled on the carpet --  a regular post-bath ritual --  and fetched a toy from his toy box.

I felt the burden ease up, but a little later my wife observed that Fred smelled "a little strange", and asked what shampoo I used?

"He smells like a bowl of hot oatmeal, doesn't he?"

I gave him the sniff test and found that the shampoo had removed 95% of the strange scent.

A faint but distinctive sickly sweet residue remained.

I decided to come clean, and all was well.

I was the only one with the memory of that fetid-scent, and I couldn't get it out of my nose.

We gave Fred his usual dinner of kibble before Thanksgiving dinner, but garnished it for the occasion with pulled turkey neck meat.

Then we gave him his birthday gift -- a new "stumpy toy" (read fuzzy hollow stump with holes and squeaky owl toys inside).

He obsessed with it until dinner was served. 

He sat through the meal with his head near my lap. I was the only one who could smell his scent residue.

The story could have ended there, but there was more.

After dinner Fred amused us with his toys, but when the ladies were washing dishes, he stole the remains of the turkey neck from the kitchen garbage. He wolfed most of it down before I could react to the protests in the kitchen. 

This was definitely out of character, but he seemed to sense that the occasion was his.

The next morning we found that he barfed up the turkey meat next to our bed.

But party dog was back to normal.

Does this give me second thoughts about having a dog? Hell no!  

Fred's an endless source of entertainment, and what's more, he just discovered a new species. 

Fred Learns the String Test

I'll never know for sure where Fuzzy came from, but suspect that Fred absconded with it from a neighbor's front yard.

We had great fun with Fuzzy, as you'll see in the video, and the game was a good way to dust the truck.  

But Fuzzy's departure was as sudden and mysterious as its appearance, and that was end of the string tests.

Wanna Go Walkie?

Every now and then I used to dog-sit for our good neighbors who own Fred's mom, Roxie.

At the time I had just gotten my new GoPro Hero2 with the various mounts and waterproof case, and "the walkie" seemed a good opportunity to start using the equipment.

Here you get some glimpses of three slightly deranged creatures enjoying each others company in the heat of the summer.

Interlude with a fat stick

Not all of my friends appreciate Fred's personality the way I do.

To some he's an unbearably spoiled extrovert.

I won't deny that he is spoiled, but most folks find at least a few of his antics amusing.

Take his 3-legged stance during morning constitutionals. It's become de rigeur. Has my regular praise at potty time reinforced this quirk?

Anyway, the other day we hiked down to the north fork of the Feather River and found that the sandy beach at Fred's swimming hole was replaced with a cobble bar.

Our extended family spent an afternoon on the sandy beach back in November.

My sister-in-law, a city girl, insisted "This isn't the right place."

"There was a sandy beach, remember?"

Cobbles driven into an alder crotch
5 feet above the bank. 

I explained that the floods must have washed it away, but she didn't buy it.

Finally I pointed to the more permanent features of the site and convinced her that high water can wash away a beach or fill a deep swimming hole with sand.

In addition to driving several cobbles between the limbs of an alder tree the floods also deposited a new crop of flotsam.





Fred quickly found a suitable stick and morphed into his stick-obsessed Labrador persona.

Then I found a fat punky chunk of wood and lobbed it into the river, and the dog gave full-throated chase.

The transformative effect of the super-normal stimulus was magical.

He emerged stick-smitten and pranced with the trophy.

He dropped it and barked . . . my cue to toss it in again.

The fat stick stirred Fred's dog emotions deeply.

He whined and yodeled as he tried to turn it with his paws.

He gnawed off great chunks of punky wood, and every time he lost his paw grip he would emote like a deranged hound of the Baskervilles.  

When it was to time to march back to the car, Fred wouldn't part ways with his beloved fat stick.

He gripped it in his jaws even when he rested.  He knew his beloved would roll back to the river if he set it down. 

After a mile and a half his ardor waned, and he abandoned fat stick on the trail. 

We were only two hundred yards from the car.

It had been a wildly passionate interlude, but he was exhausted.  

He crashed as soon as we got home.

A brief sad pleasure

It was 100 degrees outside when I got out of the car and a strange dog crawled out of a hedge next to the driveway.

He wore a dusty black collar without identification.

We'd been gone for only two days, and someone had discreetly dumped the dog on our quiet driveway.

He stood there panting noisily and looking at us, and I felt resentment.

I didn't blame the dog.

He was gray in the muzzle, had bad breath, a torn ear, and stiff back legs.

His coat was mixed with the thick dusty undercoat of winter.

But he had clear eyes and a good disposition.

I gave him water and kibble, thinking about my schedule and this new responsibility.

One thing was certain. If this dog decided to hang around it was going to have to sleep in Fred's outdoor dirt bed under the hedge.

And sure enough, he was there Saturday morning, wagging a bobbed tail that looked like a fat coin purse.

I fed and watered my new "Buddy".

Afterwards he squeak-whined with that familiar dog-look of expectation.

Then he stabbed me with his forefoot.

"What? You wanna be brushed?"

I could tell it was a rare pleasure, and the old hair came out in gobs.

But brushing wasn't enough.

There was more of the look and the squeak-whine.

"Now what? You want a massage?"

He loved that too.

He followed me to the chair on the back porch and put his head on my knee.

The dog was a gentle charmer. I fed and brushed him, and massaged his neck three more times that day.

How could someone abandon a sweet trusting dog like this?

Many years ago someone had paid to have him castrated, and he liked being put on the leash. Obviously someone had taken him for walks.  

He was an old person's dog. That's my guess, but who knows the owner's story? It may be even sadder than the dog's.

I put a notice in a local community forum, but no one claimed Buddy.

Butte County Animal Control said they would pick him up on Monday.

I hated the thought. Whatever was in store for the dog, I would to treat him well during our brief time together.

On Sunday Buddy stood stoically as I sluiced him with cold water and lathered him with shampoo. His pleasure was unmistakable when I rubbed him dry.

In two short days Buddy was as attached to me as I was to him.

At dusk he came to the front door to look in at us as we watched TV. Fred was sleeping on the floor. Then he ambled off to his dirt bed.

On Monday morning the Animal Control truck arrived, and the dog knew something was about to change.

I sat down with the warden and waited for Buddy to approach.

"If there are no takers, and he's not fatally ill", I asked, "can you call me?"

"I'm sure I can find someone who will give him a good home. I just need more time".

"Do you really want to know?" asked the warden. "A lot of people regret it when they find out".

He said he'd make a note in the record.

Buddy allowed himself to be collared, and the warden lifted him into the traveling compartment.  

And so he surrendered himself to yet another person. A gentle old dog. Life was not in his control.

What would happen to him next? How could such an animal be found unsuitable as a pet?

It all made me very sad.

As soon as they left, I took Fred for a three hour walk on the flume.

We cut the usual spectacle with Fred yodeling in anticipation as we drove up Humbug, and he did his usual crazy stuff, racing back and forth, leaping wildly into the water, barking, and surrendering the stick only on his terms.

Dog-youth looks like it will last forever, but of course nothing does.

Fred and I live on different time lines, but he's slowing down and catching up with me.

We'll converge in our dotage, but we're going to stick it out until the end.

And I'm still hoping . . . . hoping the animal control folks in Oroville will have the wisdom to see that old people need old dogs like Buddy.

"The dog is not for sale"

Oliver Gordon Young, April, 2012

Background: My friend Reno Taini and I recently had the pleasure of spending an afternoon with Oliver Gordon Young. We had both read "Tracks of an Intruder" his 1967 book about hunting with the Montagnards of northern Thailand. Reno and I may fancy ourselves as "old Asia hands" , but Gordon is the real thing. He was born in 1927 into a Baptist Missionary family in a remote village in Yunnan, China, had Lahu wet nurses, and spoke their Tibeto-Burman language long before acquiring proficiency in English. Like most missionary families, his had a deep understanding of local languages, customs, and beliefs.   I'll write more about his life and times, but here I want to share his story about match-making for Teddy, his Lahu hunting dog.

+++   +++   +++

"Did you ever encounter indigenous breeds of dogs in the remote hills of northern Thailand", I asked.

Gordon answered without hesitation.

“Yes, there was a breed in the Lahu villages that looked like a small Alsatian – brown and off-white coat with pointy ears, but smaller and more delicately built, and the tail carriage was upright – not like an Alsatian”. 

“I had one named Teddy, given to me as a puppy, and he came from an excellent hunting dog line”.

“They’re known to chase game silently, and Teddy barked only when he cornered wild pigs and deer”.

Teddy watches a tame leopard cub at play with another dog 
(Photo by Gordon Young).

“Teddy’s favorite pastime was fighting stray semi-feral curs quite numerous in those days.

"I remember the time, just outside the compound’s gate, he had pinned a cur to the ground, and seemed to want to hear 'uncle' just one more time.

"I ordered him to ‘go home’, but he just looked at me sheepishly, wagged his tail that he’d heard me, and the theatrics continued.

"I ordered him again and he finally quit, but not before cocking his leg and peeing in the vanquished cur’s face.

"My wife was with me in the Jeep. We couldn’t believe that purposeful gesture.

"Teddy demonstrates the fearlessness of his kind for leopards. Other dogs would panic from just the smell of a leopard, dog's dread and most mortal killer in this area of the world"
(Photo by Gordon Young).

"I was smitten with Teddy’s breed, and considered it probably the best type kept by the Lahu people as hunting dogs. 

"I also wanted to find Teddy a mate, and maybe even start a recognized hunting dog breed.

"While conducting an ethnographic survey in the late 1950s I thought at last I had found the perfect match in a Shehleh Lahu village near Doi Mak Angklang in Chiang Mai Province.

"The dog was sleeping soundly in the shade of the headman’ s bamboo and thatch-grass house, and she was exactly what I was looking for.

"The chieftain said she was a good hunter, and she always obeyed when he told her to back off a cornered boar.

"The last Shehleh chief of the village many 
years after the bargaining. He is holding his 
musical gourd pipe" (Photo by Gordon Young)

“The more he talked about that dog the more interested I became.

“The chief had two good-looking daughters, rather buxom girls between 14 and 16 years, which is marrying age for mountain people, and as was the custom they served us a meal, hill grown red rice with a mustard green curry and a fresh-killed chicken.

“We were sitting round the hearth in his hut, and I offered him 100 bhat for the dog.

"It was a reasonable offer in those days, but he replied “Hpuh chi haw a-hpeh meh”, which means ‘The dog is not for sale’".

"Well, every man has his price, so I offered him 200 bhat, and again he answered, ‘The dog is not for sale’.

”My assistant, Chanu, whispered to me 'Wait till we finish the meal, and then offer him 300 baht'”.

"when we finished eating I made my final offer, and once again the chief repeated ‘The dog is not for sale’.

"I couldn’t believe my ears.

“I just offered you the bride-price! 300 bhat! Does it have to be in silver?

“I could have one of your daughters for that price. Do you mean that dog is worth more than your daughter?

"The chief replied, 'You can have both of my daughters for 300 bhat each, but I will never sell the dog. Hpuh chi haw a-hpeh meh!'"

+++   +++   +++

References
Young, Gordon. 1962. The Hill Tribes of Northern Thailand. Siam Society, Bangkok
Young, Gordon. 1967. Tracks of an intruder. Winchester Press, New York

Acknowledgement: Many thanks to Gordon and his daughter Debbie Chase for hunting down the family photos for this post.

A shy pie -- dog, that is

A shy pie, or pariah dog-- loved by his family.

If you are trying to read this dog's body language, allow me to help.

He was a shy pie or pariah dog, and he didn't want his picture taken.

I suppose I didn't look right, smell right, or act right.

This was the best I could do.

We had stopped on a country road to buy dried fish (camera trap bait), and as the lady weighed out 3 D-cells worth of fish I noticed the pie dog.

He was clearly trying to be discrete.

So I sidled around the family members and he lowered his head.

Good enough, I thought -- I'll just squat down for a shot at his level.

He wanted no part of this weird looking old dude.

Village dogs may keep their distance from strangers, but they are not afraid to look at you.

This dog acted like I was going to catch and eat him. 

Frank Kingdon Ward, the famous botanical explorer wrote of a caravan of yoked Chinese dogs --"prick-eared curs of no breeding" on their way to market in the headwaters of the Irrawaddy.

That is far from here, and he had nothing to fear.

And there may be more to his story, but as far as I could tell, he was just a shy pie.

Reference

Kingdon Ward, Frank. 1990. Himalayan Enchantment, an anthology. (Chosen and edited with an introduction by John Whitehead). Serindia Publications, London. 

Suddenly, agoraphobia

Normally I don't cross this catwalk, because the trail is interrupted by many short catwalks beyond this point, and it makes for a lousy bike ride.

This morning I decided to cross it  to escape the other hikers -- the cool weather brought them out early.

By forging ahead they would have time to return to their cars and I could whizz back on a clear trail.

Fred was of a different mind.

He watched me pussyfooting with my bike across the span and yodeled his angst.

I paused to coax him but kept going until I realized he might call in a puma.

Pumas here are quite fond of dog.

So I turned the bike around and headed back wondering why the sudden agoraphobia?

Crossing these expanded metal catwalks is nothing new to my dog.

He has crossed this and many others with me, often at a run and almost daily.

He shoots the rapids in the flume.

Did he know something I didn't know?

Had he detected something I had missed -- a perception in canine scentovision -- a moment of prescience -- a Lassie-like premonition?

Or did the expanded metal hurt his paws after the 3 mile run?

I can't explain it and neither can he.

Brief encounter on the run

When they saw each other they were 50 yards apart, but that was about to change.

In ten months of Chimineas visits Fred never met the stock dogs until now.

The border collie crouched like a predator -- the sheep intimidation thing, and Fred ran straight at it.

Speed the border collie turned and the chase was on.

I knew the cowman's border collies were faster than Fred -- I'd seen them chase ground squirrels.

Cattleman Ross, their owner with the Yosemite Sam mustache told me he once had a crossbreed like Fred.  It herded cattle, but always ate dust when it ran with border collies.

We watched as Fred raced after the border collie -- he was humping at high speed and was actually gaining ground. I was amazed.

For some reason however he started to veer off course.

He had switched to chasing rabbit I thought -- blame it on Canine Attention Deficit Disorder.

But then we saw another border collie running flat out after Fred.

Fred the pursued now was headed in our direction, but a few moments later the chase fizzled. The border collies quit.

The dogs eyed each other at a safe distance with tongues hanging.

I suspect the collie let Fred gain on him. 

If we hadn't turned in for dinner I have the feeling it would have ended up a game of chase, like the dogs and coyote below.

.

Fred goes terrier

We were working in the garden yesterday when Fred found a large gopher hole and went terrier.

The dirt was flying.

The redhead advised me to curb his activity -- "He'll undermine the walkway".

"He's burning action specific energy," I replied, "and look at him . . . the little guy's helping us in the garden. It's kinda sweet."

When we had finished the raised beds, I set a gopher trap to validate Fred's helpfulness.

This morning I checked the trap, and the gopher got away.

And Fred had indeed undermined the walkway; so that has to be filled and packed, hopefully after I catch the gopher.

Once again the redhead was right.

Fred's first swim

Fred avoided water until he was 6 months old. 

Then he started to run and play in shallow water. 

At 8 months he took his first swim.

Now he's a water dog. 

Fred meets some reptiles

I couldn't help bringing Fred's attention to a foothill alligator lizard  last weekend. 

The lizard was wall climbing when I discovered it.

Fred's initial caution gave way to lusty barking, play bows, and total fixation. 

It was the same old routine he directs to sweeping brooms and digging shovels with occasional sideways glances in response to my comments.

"Be careful, Freddy Boy. That thing will grab your snout like a snub-nose pliers."

I felt a little bad for the lizard. It tried to drop to the ground, but changed its mind and just hung there by a few claws looking up at its tormentor with a jaundiced eye.



Finally the lizard dropped to the ground, paused for a long overdue bowel evacuation, and made a slow motion exit behind a downspout.

A half hour of quality dog entertainment ended.

A couple hours later, neighbor Richard called. Could I release a rattlesnake he just caught next to his house? 

I agreed to deliver it to a safe haven down the hill in the chaparral. After dinner -- when the weather had cooled off.



Then I started to wonder:  Was the dog-lizard encounter a bad idea? This is rattlesnake country. Had I unwittingly emboldened the dog to reptiles in general?

If Fred took the same liberties with a coiled rattlesnake that he did with the lizard -- well, Fred would be dead.

But Fred's virtues are that he is not overly bold, and he is very sensitive to discipline.

So the snake release became an object lesson.

Mouse traps on the garden's drip system taught him that "look out!" and "be careful!" means he can get hurt. 

When the rattler started to buzz in the bucket he backed away before I could say those words.

Then I dumped the snake out of the bucket. 

Fred started to approach but heard my bellowing "Noooo!"

He shied away immediately, and watched as I prodded the snake to make its exit.

The next afternoon Richard called again and asked where I had released the rattlesnake. He had just caught another rattlesnake under the hummingbird feeder. It was the same size (about 30") and a dead ringer for yesterday's snake.

I found it hard to believe it was the same snake, and suggested that maybe this snake had followed the first snake's odor trail.

Whatever the case, I would take this one further down the jeep trail.

It was an opportunity to test Fred's rattlesnake training.

Richard and Julia colored this snake's rattle with a felt marker pen.

Down the trail I gave my warnings -- "Look out! Be careful!"

As I dumped the snake out of the bucket Fred watched intently from a distance of several yards.

No play bows, no barking.

When the snake was gone, I rubbed my dog's ears.

"You're a good boy, Fred."

Fred loves his bed

The redhead wanted to buy Fred a nice bed, so he could lounge near us in peaceful repose after dinner.

"I think it's too early". I'd respond. "He'll just tear holes in it".

That was a couple months ago, but now he has calmed down a bit, and responds better to commands.

So we bought the big soft dog bed at Costco.

It was love at first sight. The bed arouses all kinds of adolescent dog passions.

He bites and pulls it around, rolls on it, and as you can see -- he really loves it.



It stirs up such excitement, we limit his play dates to about 10 minutes max.

He may be a genius

I was holding his two toys, one in each hand.

"Where's your ball?"

Fred looked at the ball and then looked at me.

"Where's your rope toy?"

Fred looked at the ball . . . then he looked at me. 

"No, where's your rope toy?"

His eyes moved  to the rope toy.  

"Good boy!"

(I think he may be a genius.)  

An issue of paternity

They were an unlikely couple.

A good-looking, outdoorsy and free-spirited female, and an insecure gray-haired homebody. 

He cut a farcical figure in his raincoat, but he could cock his leg with the best, and faithfully sprinkled his territorial stumps.

  

The relationship worked. 

Years passed without issue. Then suddenly last fall it happened. 

Roxie got in the family way.  

It was a joyous occasion, except for Moe. 

He didn't need a DNA test to tell him something was wrong. 

The kids didn't look like him. It was hard to take. 

In due course, the kids moved on. Except Fred, the one that looked like a Lab.

He moved down the hill, not as far as Moe would have liked.

He kept coming back to bully his mom, play fetch, and eat Moe's food.

It was a hurtful reminder. Moe wanted to kick the silly kid's ass. 

But he always showed restraint.  Moe was a gentleman.  

Fred finds carrion

[the bone is at his feet -- it's a toothpick in his mouth]

Fred gave me that look of arrested intent.

He knows I become unpleasant when he eats turkey turds.

He has learned to look for approval before eating or diving into anything smelly.

This time he got praise. He found his first carrion yesterday -- a sour smelling leg bone. Deer. Probably tossed out the window of a poacher's pickup.

"Gooood boy!" I gave him a dog biscuit.

Then I let him do his thing.



The old carnivore neck-slide and roll.



We were both pleased with his smelly find.

On the blog again

Fred beseiged (he's the little guy with the white-tipped tail)

I'm as happy as a pup. My computer is back, and I'm blogging again.

I was uploading scans from Costco -- 35 mm slides from several decades ago when the CD got stuck. It took a week to get it fixed, and I was having serious computer withdrawal symptoms.

But speaking of pups, Fred is growing (15 lbs this week) and has become a popular member of the extended family.

He is crate-trained and house-broken (though we don't take any chances), and he is not bad on the leash.

His trick repertory includes sit, speak, shake, lie down, roll over, and turn around. We're still working at come and stay.

We taught him with the clicker, and I see now that the energetically easiest ones (sit, speak and shake) are his best. 

He worst habit is chewing the water tubes in the garden. He play bows and barks at the mousetrap deterrents, but they have definitely helped.

Harrassing the redhead as she sweeps is an irresistable misdemeanor.

A snuggle pup he is not. He is unable to deactivate his play-biting jaws, but our yelping, growling, and barking subdues it.

He goes to a dog socialization class once a week. He's the smallest and most playful dog there. 

Porkchop, a  sleepy male Bassett hound seems to have awakened his erotic interest, and Bruno the boxer beats him up weekly. He's starting to hold his own, though. The good part is that exuberant play has a de-energizing effect the next day.

He gets a daily two-mile walk, and is good at tracking and finding animal sign, which was one of my main reasons for getting him.

He sniffs carnivore scat, but tries to eat horse puckies, deer pellets, and turkey turds. I don't encourage or reward the scat attraction, because parvovirus is rampant around here, and even with shots, he is still at the susceptible age (11 weeks).

We'll get into serious tracking and scat detection training later on, and you'll hear about that too.

Fred's nocturnal activities

[11:34PM--worrying my boot in front of his crate]

It was time to set a camera trap in the garage.

Fred seems to spend a lot of time playing instead of sleeping.

The other morning, for example, the floor was littered with wall insulation.  

None of the 34 pictures showed him sleeping in his crate. He slept on the rubber pad after midnight.

But the position of my boot changed throughout the night.

Here are a few pictures:

[3:28AM: apparently playing with the boot again]

[7:19AM: noticing the camera trap]

[7:19AM--pondering the camera trap]

[7:20AM--waiting for me to open the door]

I'll be getting a larger crate soon, and will start locking him in it for the night.

New family member

Fred is our new family member.

His mother, Roxie, who lives up the road, is a border collie. I pay her visits and know her well.

His father is a black lab, we think.

Roxie wasn't supposed to get pregnant, but you know how it is these days.

I visited Fred and his 6 siblings for the past week and a half--observing and testing their personality traits. Then we played.

There's nothing like a pile of puppies on your chest and puppy breath.

I decided I wanted a female. We are used to women in this family.

But Fred liked me more than the other pups. He wanted to chew my ears.

While the other pups slept or horsed around, he followed me and looked at me with deep admiration. Codgers aren't used to that.

So Fred picked me.

Yesterday I took him for his first walk, 2-miles -- a bit long for a seven-week pup, but he was at my heels the whole time.

I have great plans for Fred, so you'll be hearing more about him.



Thanks, Brenda and Tom. You're great neighbors.