Now that fall is (barely) in the air, my mistress’ walking group has started up again. Because several members had Wednesday conflicts, they have moved the day to Monday. Four ladies trekked through Brackenridge Park today, logging 1.83 miles and working off 125 calories in an hour’s time. The stats are thanks to Mary Lil Chappell, who whose odometer clocked our steps through the Sunken Garden and back to the zoo via the skyline walk above the Gardens.
I must say it was a far more civilized walk than one my doggie friends Chigurh and Sir Walter took at our country place last weekend. In fact, had Chica and I joined them and their master, Maverick, on that walk I probably wouldn’t be writing this entry.
It seems that a coyote followed them early one morning along the rocky Hondo Creek bed. Maverick, who is Mary’s younger son, said it stayed about 10 feet behind them all the way, barking in a high-pitched voice. Fortunately, Chigurh and Sir Walter-- Maverick’s newly adopted rescue lab--are large enough that the coyote never ventured closer. But, desperate as it was due to the drought, I have no doubt it would have nabbed one or both of us little dogs straightaway.
In the course of the walk, Maverick found the skeleton of what might be a ring tailed cat and Sir Walter found a canine skull of some sort. Both animals probably starved, which may be the fate of the barking coyote.
Perhaps it was the scent of coyotes that put me on edge, but for some reason I became really snappy that night. And when Mary reached for me to take off my harness at bedtime I lunged at her, giving her a black eye. She was so concerned about my behavior that she called the vet when they got back to town. Dr. Kothmann suggested it could be that my night vision is not good, that the sudden movement from above alarmed me, or, perhaps it was a form of PTSD, stemming from the time when I was mauled by a neighborhood stray.
Who knows why dogs do things? People go to shrinks to find out why they do the things they do and still don’t always know why. So I’m not going to try to guess what happened to me that night. Mary is more careful with me now and I’m hoping never to go Cujo again. If I do, I fear she might take me for a walk with the coyotes in the country.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Cooper's Hawk it is
This just in: It looks like we may have a positive identification on the hawk that’s hanging around our yard. Wildlife expert Patty Leslie contacted bird experts Tom and Patsy Inglet, who sent a photo almost identical to one my mistress took. It’s of a Cooper’s Hawk.
Mary researched Cooper’s Hawks on the internet and found that their diet consists of small birds and mammals. But how small? Generally, it said, they will eat squirrels and mice. But, it noted ominously, “mammalian prey can be as small as mice and as large as hares.” And, they are “deadly accurate in backyards.” Eeek!!
Mary researched Cooper’s Hawks on the internet and found that their diet consists of small birds and mammals. But how small? Generally, it said, they will eat squirrels and mice. But, it noted ominously, “mammalian prey can be as small as mice and as large as hares.” And, they are “deadly accurate in backyards.” Eeek!!
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Dressing fit not to be Killed
My mistress always said she would never be one of “those” folks. By that she meant those icky people who dress up their dogs. But then came the hawk. In the last week, she and my master have seen a brown, striped-tailed raptor three times, hanging around the birdbaths in the front and back yards. My guess is it was waiting for an easy meal coming for a drink.
Birder friends have suggested it could be a Cooper’s or sharp-shinned hawk. More likely though, it’s a red-shouldered hawk, which are known to nest in the large estate behind our house. Whatever is is, it has a fierce visage and scary looking talons.
So the next thing you knew Mary went on the internet to see how Chica and I can safely go outdoors. She found someone who said clothing will fool hawks into not recognizing a tasty Chihuahua tidbit. (Sadly the person forgot one day to dress her dog and the hawk took it.) So now, in the three-digit degree heat, Chica and I are sporting sundresses.
It’s kind of embarrassing, I admit. But on the off chance that the hawk has a hankering for Mexican food I’m glad we are dressed fit not to be killed.
Birder friends have suggested it could be a Cooper’s or sharp-shinned hawk. More likely though, it’s a red-shouldered hawk, which are known to nest in the large estate behind our house. Whatever is is, it has a fierce visage and scary looking talons.
So the next thing you knew Mary went on the internet to see how Chica and I can safely go outdoors. She found someone who said clothing will fool hawks into not recognizing a tasty Chihuahua tidbit. (Sadly the person forgot one day to dress her dog and the hawk took it.) So now, in the three-digit degree heat, Chica and I are sporting sundresses.
It’s kind of embarrassing, I admit. But on the off chance that the hawk has a hankering for Mexican food I’m glad we are dressed fit not to be killed.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Mo's no mo
Well it had to happen. But as inevitable as the demise of the big fish was, the end still came as a shock. Mary’s younger son, Maverick, first discovered the foot-and-a-half long creature in Williams Creek about a year ago, and we checked on it regularly. The fish hung out under the water plants in a three-foot-wide, two-foot-deep trench that ran no longer than six feet. Every other fish in the creek was the size of a minnow, so he made quite an impression.
We figured the big one must have been washed down from a dammed-up lake upstream. My owners were careful whom they showed it to. I never mentioned it in this blog for fear of revealing its location. But, given its cramped habitat, we knew it was just a matter of time.
An out-of-town cousin whom we showed it to named it “Mo.” Lately, the same cousin was in town and asked after Mo. My mistress said we hadn’t seen him or her lately and that we were concerned because the drought had dried up the creek. The trenches still had water, but it was stagnant and warm. Nonetheless, we weren’t terribly worried since Mo had survived so long in less-than-optimal conditions.
On Sunday we drove up to the country on yet another triple-digit day. As we crossed the creek bed on our way out, my master and mistress and Chica and I got out of the car to check on Mo. Not ten steps out of the car, we encountered its skeleton on the dry creek bed, picked clean. Further up, we noticed two large great blue heron-size footprints next to the trench.
Mary was pretty sad but when she told her older son, William, he replied, “circle of life.” Another friend noted, “at least someone got a good meal out of it.” Both true, but to us Mo was more than just a fish. He was an example of survival against all odds. And his skeleton will be on display at the house as a memento mori.
We figured the big one must have been washed down from a dammed-up lake upstream. My owners were careful whom they showed it to. I never mentioned it in this blog for fear of revealing its location. But, given its cramped habitat, we knew it was just a matter of time.
An out-of-town cousin whom we showed it to named it “Mo.” Lately, the same cousin was in town and asked after Mo. My mistress said we hadn’t seen him or her lately and that we were concerned because the drought had dried up the creek. The trenches still had water, but it was stagnant and warm. Nonetheless, we weren’t terribly worried since Mo had survived so long in less-than-optimal conditions.
On Sunday we drove up to the country on yet another triple-digit day. As we crossed the creek bed on our way out, my master and mistress and Chica and I got out of the car to check on Mo. Not ten steps out of the car, we encountered its skeleton on the dry creek bed, picked clean. Further up, we noticed two large great blue heron-size footprints next to the trench.
Mary was pretty sad but when she told her older son, William, he replied, “circle of life.” Another friend noted, “at least someone got a good meal out of it.” Both true, but to us Mo was more than just a fish. He was an example of survival against all odds. And his skeleton will be on display at the house as a memento mori.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Putting things into Perspective
FINALLY, after 13 days of confinement, Chica and I have been sprung from the vet’s. We were left to languish in his wire cages because our master and mistress took a trip to New York and Canada. And believe you me, it was no picnic for us dogs.
Not only were we denied the table treats we get at home, we didn’t get our daily walk in the ’hood. When Mary and Lewis finally sprung us last Monday, we were both considerably thinner. And the devil of it is, Mary likes the way we look and is limiting us to what they gave us at Dr. Kothmann’s: a cup of dry food each per day. At least, however, she has been walking us twice a day, due no doubt to her feeling of guilt for having abandoned us for so long.
So what were they doing that justified leaving us in a virtual jail? Attending a celebration of the 200th year of the Fisher Homestead, Lewis’ ancestral home in Fishers, N.Y., and a week later, attending a family wedding in Syracuse. In between the family events, they put in 2,000 miles driving around the Gaspe Peninsula in the province of Quebec.
Now neither my mistress nor my master speak French, but they lost no time picking up words such as homard, meaning lobster. They savored homard more than once, along with cod and another local favorite, sugar pie. Sometimes they stopped at little open air stands to eat sandwiches and honest-to-God made-from-scratch French fries, sprinkled as the locals do with white vinegar. (Lewis never took to the quebequois preference for vinegar and stuck to ketchup; Mary, on the other hand went native.)
The high point of the trip was in Perce, a town at the tip of the peninsula beyond the mouth of the St Lawrence River. The picturesque community has two claims to fame: the Perce Rock and the gannet rookery. The rock has a surreal aspect, standing nearly 300 feet high just offshore. People can walk to it in low tide, but we when they were there the water was deep enough for large boats to circle it.
Perce’s other claim to fame requires a half hour’s boat ride and one-hour hike across Bonaventure Island. The nesting site of hundreds upon hundreds of gannets is an astonishing sight—and sound. The large white birds with funky green-lined feet are beyond noisy as they go about their day building nests, mating, sitting on eggs, flying out and back for food, greeting their returning mates, feeding young and fighting for territory. Observers within touching distance witness their every move.
On their way back from Perce, Mary and Lewis passed on taking a rubber dingy out to hunt whales in the Saguenay River for three hours and instead visited a foie gras farm. There they saw ducks slated to be stuffed so as to enlarge their livers. The owner described a process in which she used a machine to send dried corn kernels directly into the ducks’ stomachs. The machine has a Dr. Seussian appearance, but with a decidedly sinister aspect.
I must say that the idea of being force fed even if it is something to my liking is repugnant. So I’m going to quit complaining about getting a mere cup of food per day and give thanks that Chica and I aren't having ten times that amount jammed down our throats twice a day. It's all a matter of perspective.
Not only were we denied the table treats we get at home, we didn’t get our daily walk in the ’hood. When Mary and Lewis finally sprung us last Monday, we were both considerably thinner. And the devil of it is, Mary likes the way we look and is limiting us to what they gave us at Dr. Kothmann’s: a cup of dry food each per day. At least, however, she has been walking us twice a day, due no doubt to her feeling of guilt for having abandoned us for so long.
So what were they doing that justified leaving us in a virtual jail? Attending a celebration of the 200th year of the Fisher Homestead, Lewis’ ancestral home in Fishers, N.Y., and a week later, attending a family wedding in Syracuse. In between the family events, they put in 2,000 miles driving around the Gaspe Peninsula in the province of Quebec.
Now neither my mistress nor my master speak French, but they lost no time picking up words such as homard, meaning lobster. They savored homard more than once, along with cod and another local favorite, sugar pie. Sometimes they stopped at little open air stands to eat sandwiches and honest-to-God made-from-scratch French fries, sprinkled as the locals do with white vinegar. (Lewis never took to the quebequois preference for vinegar and stuck to ketchup; Mary, on the other hand went native.)
The high point of the trip was in Perce, a town at the tip of the peninsula beyond the mouth of the St Lawrence River. The picturesque community has two claims to fame: the Perce Rock and the gannet rookery. The rock has a surreal aspect, standing nearly 300 feet high just offshore. People can walk to it in low tide, but we when they were there the water was deep enough for large boats to circle it.
Perce’s other claim to fame requires a half hour’s boat ride and one-hour hike across Bonaventure Island. The nesting site of hundreds upon hundreds of gannets is an astonishing sight—and sound. The large white birds with funky green-lined feet are beyond noisy as they go about their day building nests, mating, sitting on eggs, flying out and back for food, greeting their returning mates, feeding young and fighting for territory. Observers within touching distance witness their every move.
On their way back from Perce, Mary and Lewis passed on taking a rubber dingy out to hunt whales in the Saguenay River for three hours and instead visited a foie gras farm. There they saw ducks slated to be stuffed so as to enlarge their livers. The owner described a process in which she used a machine to send dried corn kernels directly into the ducks’ stomachs. The machine has a Dr. Seussian appearance, but with a decidedly sinister aspect.
I must say that the idea of being force fed even if it is something to my liking is repugnant. So I’m going to quit complaining about getting a mere cup of food per day and give thanks that Chica and I aren't having ten times that amount jammed down our throats twice a day. It's all a matter of perspective.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Fourth of July Fun
Last Fourth of July, my mistress dressed me in red, white and blue for the Terrell Hills parade. It was kind of a relief this year when she and my master decided not to doll me and Chica up and instead to drive up to our country place. It was hot as Hades, but we loved the novelty of running up and down the dry Hondo Creek bed.
Chica—who is as fast as greased lightning—more than met her match when she came nowhere near catching her first jackrabbit. What she would have done with it is anybody’s guess as it stood way taller than she, not even counting the ears. I didn’t bother to make chase, instead savoring country smells (though the scent of coyote made me nervous enough to stick close to Mary at dusk).
Mary was elated to spot yet another wildflower she hadn’t photographed for the book she is compiling with her granddaughter. Called buttonbush, it looks like a spiky white ball.
After it got dark we enjoyed a dark sky spangled with an explosion of stars more spectacular than a fireworks display. In the past, there have been plenty of fireworks lighting the sky, but this year they were banned. Which suited me and Chica fine as frankly, the sounds and smells of gunpowder offend our canine ears and noses.
Chica—who is as fast as greased lightning—more than met her match when she came nowhere near catching her first jackrabbit. What she would have done with it is anybody’s guess as it stood way taller than she, not even counting the ears. I didn’t bother to make chase, instead savoring country smells (though the scent of coyote made me nervous enough to stick close to Mary at dusk).
Mary was elated to spot yet another wildflower she hadn’t photographed for the book she is compiling with her granddaughter. Called buttonbush, it looks like a spiky white ball.
After it got dark we enjoyed a dark sky spangled with an explosion of stars more spectacular than a fireworks display. In the past, there have been plenty of fireworks lighting the sky, but this year they were banned. Which suited me and Chica fine as frankly, the sounds and smells of gunpowder offend our canine ears and noses.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Dog Days of Summer--Yuk!
Why do humans use the expression “dog days of summer”? Do they think we like it any more than they do? For weeks, Chica and I have been pent up inside, thanks to heat that has hovered at the 100 degree mark. For the past two nights, we have had no walk at all, since it never cooled off. It was kind of surreal being on the front porch and having no one to bark at; there were simply no passersby.
Things weren’t much better when we went to the country over the weekend. Hondo creek is no longer a creek; it’s a creek bed. Fortunately there was a hint of a breeze at night which, helped by ceiling fans, saved the night. The good news is, my master and mistress are getting an attic fan. So hopefully, it will be more tolerable if they decide to go back upcountry anytime soon.
It’s a good thing Mary started her wildflower photography project last year as now there's hardly anything in bloom, thanks to the drought. But on our way back to town her son Maverick spotted a devil’s bouquet blooming by the side of the road. It’s a spectacular flower and the photo she took will be a nice addition to the Texas wildflower book she and granddaughter Christina are compiling. Given the paucity of blooms, it was a true "dog days of summer" treat.
Things weren’t much better when we went to the country over the weekend. Hondo creek is no longer a creek; it’s a creek bed. Fortunately there was a hint of a breeze at night which, helped by ceiling fans, saved the night. The good news is, my master and mistress are getting an attic fan. So hopefully, it will be more tolerable if they decide to go back upcountry anytime soon.
It’s a good thing Mary started her wildflower photography project last year as now there's hardly anything in bloom, thanks to the drought. But on our way back to town her son Maverick spotted a devil’s bouquet blooming by the side of the road. It’s a spectacular flower and the photo she took will be a nice addition to the Texas wildflower book she and granddaughter Christina are compiling. Given the paucity of blooms, it was a true "dog days of summer" treat.
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