Snowy Sounds

A couple days ago approximately eight inches of snow fell here in southeast Michigan. That's enough snow to reasonably call a Snow Day. And since all it takes these days to call a Snow Day is the mere threat of eight inches of snow, actually receiving eight inches of snow gave the kids a Snow Day. So, when will they get out for summer? Around August 1st? But never mind the kids. They were all still in bed when Lois and I hit the driveway.

You may wonder, when does a dog walker walk her own dog? Well, this dog walker walks her dog first thing in the morning. Which explains why Lois and I were digging a path from the back door to the gate in the Monday morning dark. Once I dug the snow out surrounding the gate allowing exit from the backyard, I figured I might as well dig a path for my husband, The Handsome One's truck. My vehicle was safely tucked in the garage but the truck sat in the driveway covered with a thick pristine sparkly white. By the time I reached the truck's rear view mirror, I was on a roll so I kept shovelling towards the porch. (Fun fact: I am a back door gal. THO is a front door guy. Just goes to show- opposites attract.)

As I labored with the shovel, all around me was the amazing sound of snow. The stillness of it. The peaceful perfection of it. Somehow it mutes ordinary sound while at the same time, acoustically enhances it. The indistinct drone of a neighbor's voice over grass becomes clearly audible words over snow.

Two doors down a man ran a snow blower. Three doors down in the other direction that woman who never makes eye contact scurried around her little car. The snow blower was silent for a minute or two. Then like a bell, a single word exploded through the morning. "F*ck!" This was followed by silence and more of that calm stillness. Then the snow blower man took up a shovel and steady rhythmic scraping against concrete punctuated the calm.

This brings to mind other snowy sounds of note: "shrunch shrunch" is the sound of boots on packed snow at twenty degrees. "Shrork shork" is the sound boots make when it is ten degrees. At thirty-three degrees, a snowball striking a big dog's flank goes, "pthumptf".

Lois waited patiently while I shovelled. She stood inside the gate watching me and watching for the rabbit that seems to live under the tree stump near the driveway. We see the rabbit more often in winter. His gray-brown fur is easy to spot against a white back drop. When he moves through the snow the sound is a faint "zsit zsitp".

More on the bunny, later.

King Zack

Zacharia is twenty-two years old. In snake years, that's senior citizen. Snakes aren't gifted with keen eyesight, even so, for the past few years, let's just say Zack has needed glasses. Only yesterday he tried to eat his own tail. Seriously.

Kingsnakes, like Zacharia, are what you might call "easy keepers". They are mellow enough to tolerate, maybe even enjoy, handling. As long as you maintain temperature in the range of 76 to 85 degrees, provide water, a place to hide, some light and some food, the snake should do well.


Kingsnakes are of the Family Colubridae. This is the largest of the snake families (subdivision of the suborder Serpentes). Colubridaes are mostly harmless snakes, that is, not very many are venomous or are likely to hurt you.

The group is quite varied to include burrowing snakes, constrictors, nocturnals, aquatics and so on. These snakes are considered "common" or "typical" in their snakeness. They are slender bodied and agile. (In contrast, the Boa Constrictor and the Anaconda are of the Family Boidae. These snakes are thicker in build and generally much longer in length.)

Kingsnakes are medium sized, three to six feet in length. The King designation is because of the not so insignificant fact that Kingsnakes are tough. They can, and do, overpower and eat Rattlesnakes.


The Kingsnake is a constrictor, which means they kill their prey by wrapping their body around the quarry and squeezing. The constriction doesn't crush the animal but with slow and steady pressure makes it impossible for the prey to expand their lungs to breathe. This of course, causes death. Then the snake swallows the victim whole.






Snakes are lovely pets: low maintenance, attractive, a joy to hold- literally. No, snakes are not slimy (unless it's an Anaconda fresh from a swim and only a crazy person would keep a pet snake big enough to eat you).

Once a Kingsnake is accustomed to being handled he usually is gentle and enchanting. When handled, Zacharia moves slowly along and coils around my hand or arm, his strength and beauty on display. The only time Zack doesn't appreciate being handled is just after he eats, mostly because he is sort of lumpy after swallowing five mice.

Because Zacharia was captive born, he's never had to hunt down and constrict critters for his meals. As a baby snake, he was fed dead baby mice. As he grew, the size of the rodent meal grew too. Zack the adolescent snake, ate baby rat. As an adult, he eats adult mice, five at a time about once a month.
How do you know when he's hungry? He stops pooping. Honestly. It takes some weeks for a snake to digest. And no, I don't catch mice in my garage and slit their little throats to feed my snake. It's all very civilized. Frozen mice are available for purchase at the local pet store. When it's time to feed, the mice sit in a pretty bowl till they thaw out. Then I drop them into Zack's cage and hang around till he's swallowed all the mice to be sure he doesn't accidentally swallow his own tail.





Recommended reading:
"The General Care and Maintenance of Common Kingsnakes" by David Perlowin
"The Book of Snakes" by Thomas Leetz

http://www.desertusa.com/magfeb98/feb_pap/du_kingsnake.html

Lurchers

Lurchers are mixed breed dogs. They consist of a sight hound crossed with another breed or breeds, most commonly Herding or Terrier types. Thus you may find a Greyhound/Collie or an Irish Wolfhound/Old English Sheepdog combo. Or maybe a Whippet and a Norfolk Terrier or a Saluki and a Norwich Terrier. The possible combinations are mind boggling!

The dictionary definition: lurcher (LUR cher) noun

-British a crossbred dog used by poachers

-Archaic a sneak thief

Lurchers first appeared in the British Isles. Back in medieval days, laws prohibited commoners from owning purebred dogs. Since they needed dogs to assist in hunting, commoners developed the Lurcher.

Many Lurchers helped their owners to poach game such as hares and rabbits (and perhaps the king's herd of deer). The penalty for poaching was severe. So naturally a fast dog was especially handy.

Bands of Gypsies made use of Lurchers but some considered only the short haired Lurcher acceptable as that indicated a predominance of Greyhound blood. The overly hairy dogs were deemed "lesser" due to a belief that they lacked the speed and endurance that the Greyhound based Lurcher possessed.

Today's Lurchers are typically bred by mating Lurchers to Lurchers. Coursing is illegal now in many countries including England and Scotland. But Coursing Clubs remain active elsewhere where Lurchers are big winners in coursing events. When not enjoying a good run, modern Lurchers enjoy couch time with their people.

Not surprisingly, there is no breed standard for the Lurcher. Personality, coat type, size and such will vary widely based on what breeds are in the mix. It's a good bet however, that a Lurcher will be inclined to chase critters he sees. Also, the sweet gentleness of the average sight hound is bound to be present, as is lankiness and a deep chest with big lung capacity vital for heavy duty running.

For more information on Lurchers and some cool photos and artwork, visit:

http://www.celticlurchers.com/aboutlurchers.htm

Groundhog Day Cancelled Due to Snow

In a shining display of stunning pointlessness, we regret the possible cancellation of Groundhog Day. It snowed, you see. Even though it is winter and all, we must not venture out there. Maybe not even for a silly routine like the annual Groundhog Show.

Groundhog P. Phil made the following statement:

Look folks, this whole predicting with a shadow stuff got tedious long ago. I disliked being trotted out for this useless exhibition the moment it first happened to me.

Just flip a coin, will ya?

Remembering Aunt Jean

Over many years, I have driven passed St. Germaine Church, biked passed it, even once attended a fair in the parking lot. Finally, I stepped inside St. Germaine Church. The reason: to attend a mass in memory of Jean Volkmann. Lots of familiar faces there, most older than I remember them. But then, maybe we are all older than we remember.

Had I been asked to speak, I would have remarked that Aunt Jean was only five feet tall but I refrained from spelling salutations to her: Ant Jean. She preferred AJ.

Aunt Jean was a person who delighted in information and was eager to share what she knew. She usually had an opinion, and was not shy about sharing that either. As I was growing up, we saw each other quite often. Our families got together for Christmas, camping, meals. I had just the one Aunt and her three children were my only cousins. They lived all of a mile away; a five minute bike ride away.

When I was a senior in high school my parents left me and my brother Mark home while they took a vacation commemorating their 25th wedding anniversary. Taking advantage of this chance to be truant without being a truant, I called the school saying I was an official type parental authority and it was OK with me that Lynn didn't go to school that day. My folks had given the school Aunt Jean's number for emergency contact. The school called her and she called me.

"Did you really think you'd get away with it?" AJ asked. I could practically see her rolling her eyes through the phone. "Next time just ask me to call in for you, for crying out loud."

When Aunt Jean and Uncle Paul retired they moved Up North. We didn't see much of each other for years but she never forgot my birthday. When AJ got a hold of my email address, I was regaled with assorted information, jokes, pictures of cute animals and Patriotism. As a kid, I wasn't aware of AJ's political leanings. Via email I learned how much she loved our Country and how well she understood the importance of Freedom.

A few years ago, AJ had a heart attack. I called her at the hospital. I'm not terribly talented at small talk. Even in her weakened state, Aunt Jean took control of the conversation. "So, how many dogs do you have now?" She asked. Not -how's business or have you seen any good movies lately. Aunt Jean cut to the important stuff.

Aunt Jean was a Master Gardener before it became the common achievement of hardcore hobbyists. And she liked her cars. Indeed, you were chastised if you leaned on the paint job- most especially a rust colored Mustang. But the paint color wasn't called rust. It was called something much cooler like Crimson Sunset or Burnt Reality. And she loved Uncle Paul. She said so, often. "I dig Paul."

Yes, Aunt Jean and I agreed on some important things- dogs most decidedly. Dogs are a critical component of life. Oh sure, most people are nice and a handful of them are particularly wonderful but dogs are the most important creatures to grace our existence. For instance, Mayo and Tassie.

My cousin Cory found Mayo in the street. In the classic-he followed me home can we keep him- tradition Mayo joined their family. Mayo was an easy going blond medium sized mutt. He was a stray of unknown history and lineage. He was also one of the nicest dogs there ever was.

Tassie was AJ's favorite. Years after Tassie died, Aunt Jean said she still missed her with that extra heavy ache of separation we save for our most beloved. Tassie was an Australian Cattle Dog. Aunt Jean claimed that unlike most dogs, Cattle Dog saliva was not sticky. When Tassie licked you it was completely free of unpleasant texture. I never really believed that was true but I believe that where AJ and Tassie are now, it is true.

Rest in Peace, AJ.

Fearful Dog Lucks Out

Please see a great blog on approaching a scared dog.

Karen Workman happened upon a dog in need and shined.

http://opdogblog.blogspot.com/2011/01/getting-lost-fearful-dog-to-come-to-you.html?showComment=1296050303944#c1536129477332977630

Brice's Bites

Brice is a real estate appraiser. To do his job, he must enter a property and move about inside the home. What with all the foreclosures, Brice has been busy.

A few months ago, Brice complained of being bitten by a Toy Poodle. Only yesterday, he said he was bitten by an "English sheep dog". Brice is a good guy but I'm not convinced that he'd recognize an Old English Sheepdog if one walked up and bit him. Oh, wait.

Breed aside, Brice asked my advice on how he can avoid being bitten in the future. Here's what probably won't work:

1. Tell them you are afraid of dogs. Both times Brice was bitten, the owners told him the dog was "harmless" and the mad barking was nothing to worry about. People who are that rude to someone who made an appointment with them to enter their home, isn't likely to soften into kindness if they think you're scared. They already have the advantage: a dog with teeth. Don't give them more ammunition. And we must acknowledge the very real possibility that there is some hostility present. Let's face it, if your home is being foreclosed upon, Brice is the symbol. And if you don't believe a dog can sense hostility in their owner and who it is aimed at- you are living in a dream world.

2. Tell them a pack of dogs that looks exactly like theirs attacked your village. You were the only survivor. They'll say, no no this is a white Poodle. Only the apricot Poodles are vicious.

3. Appeal to good manners/gosh, I can't hear you while your dog barks in my face. Sorry, anybody who lets their dog abuse a guest, even a not terribly welcome guest like a plumber or an appraiser, is deaf to the notion of being polite.

4. Employ Baby Talk at the dog. Brice admits to trying this. It got him bit by the quasi Sheepdog. While it is true that some dogs respond to baby talk, most dogs with good sense are repulsed by it.

5. Don't look the dog in the eye. This is a good habit for most encounters with a dog you don't know. It suggests that you are not out to challenge the dog. However, if you are there in the dog's territory and you avoid looking at him while still moving boldly about- well- that got Brice bitten. Unless you follow up by dropping to the floor with your belly vulnerable like a submissive puppy, the whole eye contact thing may be moot in this instance.

6. Stop reeking of cat. Brice has a cat. He wonders if the dog is reacting violently to the aroma of said pussy. Doubtful. Most dogs are aware of the damage claws can do. But more importantly, even with his eyes closed, a dog can tell the difference between a cat and a man who smells like a cat.


So what is Brice to do?

The thing is, the people who tell guests that their barking dog is harmless often didn't bother to tell the dog that. Dog Trainers have a name for it: Socialization. Part of teaching your dog includes showing him when it is OK for a stranger to come into his space. Some dogs don't magically get the nuance without explanation. Then folks like Brice suffer.

My best advice for Brice in his quest to go unbitten is to tell the dog owner that it is company policy that all dogs be contained during the appraisal, for liability reasons.

Good luck, Brice.

Aw shucks

As a proud recipient of the Stylish Blogger Award, it is fitting that I say a few words. Well, write a few words. Blog a few words. OK, I'll get on with it.

Thank you Rena for this honor. It would seem that I am to follow a bunch of rules now. For these rules, see Unruly Comment: http://www.renajtraxel.blogspot.com/ Blog Award.

Now that we've all read the rules, I will comply, somewhat.

Some facts about me:

1. I live with my husband THO (The Handsome One) and naturally, a slew of pets. Among them are dogs, of course, including Lois who appears with me in my profile picture. We were both younger then.

2. My favorite color is pink. Cotton candy pink to be precise.

3. I have written two unpublished novels.

4. I walk dogs for a living while shamelessly using my experiences as fodder for my current literary effort: A Dog Walker's Tale.

5. It is difficult for me to sit still for long due to an inclination toward puttering.