Gas prices are way too high. Diesel prices are out of control. Good jobs are disappearing left and right. And did I really just buy a lottery ticket today?
I'm living in Northeastern United States right now, and, like most other Americans, I literally cringe when I drive to or past a gas station (or stand in a Wal-Mart line, for that matter). Thankfully, my current driving car is a mid-90's Geo Tracker than gets incredibly good gas mileage (usually around 30 mpg or so), but I also own a 2004 Ford F-250 diesel truck that, for the past few months, has been a very pretty white driveway ornament parked firmly by the barn, looking gorgeous and powerful, but doing little else. With diesel prices hovering around $5.10/gallon here, it doesn't much matter that it gets around 20 mpg on the highway - it's still too expensive to joy ride in at the moment. It moves when the horses (or something else big) needs moved. Never to buy groceries or go to a friend's house.
I think we're all watching a very frightening trend in America right now. With rising gasoline prices and suddenly paying twice as much for a gallon of milk as well, it kind of turns my stomach just to get up in the morning and force myself to continue grinding through the days, working hard to try and pay for all of those petty little things that I enjoy - a roof over my head and food in my stomach. Thank God I don't have children - I cannot imagine trying to raise a family right now with economic times being so fragile and tumultuous.
Interestingly enough, I've also noticed another trend. From what I've observed, people are just getting a little more crazy. And stupid. And the more I notice this trend happening, the more I've started to watch.
Take, for instance, the truck that was following me yesterday. I was traveling 43 mph in a 45 mph zone. I was in rush-hour traffic, crossing a bridge, with a red light in the distance about a quarter of a mile ahead. This crazy man behind me, driving a mid-size newer-model truck, starts blowing his horn at me. At first, I start to worry, thinking that maybe I have a blown tire or something wrong with my vehicle, or perhaps I'm on fire, and this nice man is trying to get my attention. I double-checked everything, and things were fine, as far as I could tell. I was in the far left lane of a 4-lane bridge, with a car ahead of me and to my right. I slowed down a bit, just to see what happened. He lurched into the right lane, sped up, and almost took the front end off of my Tracker. 20 feet later, he screeched to a stop, at the aforementioned red light. Once it turned green, he screeched his tires and lurched ahead again, this time only to hit bumper-to-bumper traffic 30 feet ahead of that, through a mile-long tunnel. This man nearly ran me over, to literally achieve exactly the length of a Geo Tracker (what, about 10 feet maximum?) ahead of the long line of traffic that he was forced to sit through just like the rest of us. Brilliant.
Today, apparently, was 'No One Use Their Turn Signal Day', and I was not aware. In the course of my 25-mile drive to my destination, I literally didn't see a single turn signal used. And yet, I was passed and cut off by probably 15 people on the highway (I didn't realize that going the speed limit is a crime these days - which I have been diligently trying to do, knowing that my gas mileage will reward me for it). Twice I had to hit the brakes to keep the front end of my vehicle intact from someone who decided they needed to be in my lane NOW, without warning me first. Holy cow.
In the midst of our national gas, food and job crisis, I honestly think that the media - and reality - is driving everyone insane. Common sense has just gone out the window, and things that we were taught as children were polite, respectful, and correct have just been thrown to the wayside. Things like putting on turn signals, stopping at stop signs, not dodging in and out of lanes, standing patiently in Wal-Mart lines, and not flipping everyone off just because you're having a bad day (gee who isn't right now?) are just common facts that now, suddenly, no longer apply.
Maybe it's just me (but I doubt it). Given the horrendous amount of tragedies happening in the USA right now (social, economic, and otherwise), apparently it just makes sense to just go psycho and forget that we all have to live as peacefully as possible on this planet, regardless of the cost to stay alive.
All I can say is be careful out there, and stay alert. You never know who will want to be 10 feet further ahead of you, or who will be willing to climb over you to get there. It's a scary time to live in - let's all slow down, take a deep breath, and not add to the problem, shall we?
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Sometimes Dogs Are Just Better Left Loose
I love dogs. I really, really do. I have one, as a matter of fact - a beautiful 5-month-old Rottweiler that is my buddy and 'right hand man'. I had a collie and a beagle when I was growing up that the whole family adored. My best friend has nine German Shepherds (yep - nine). While I would call myself more of a 'horse person' than a 'dog person', I have certainly loved my fair share of dogs over the years.
However, before you go any further with this story, I will admit this - I do not love the dogs in this story. Their owner's wife (who's a good friend of mine) doesn't like these dogs either. At first I thought she was just being mean. Non-dog-loving, and exaggerating. Now, I see her point. There is a very good reason behind her dislike. She is not exaggerating.
The Rottweiler and I have made a trip to visit these friends for a little while, and we're staying at their house. They have two dogs. One is a black lab mix of some sort, and the other.... well, I have no idea what it is. Kind of looks like a cross between a pit bull and something else. Both are rescues, and both bark all night long. Literally. I am not kidding.
The good thing is that, at night, the dogs are kept locked in the garage way on the other side of the house, meaning that I don't hear them from where I sleep (they have a big outdoor fenced area that they're in during the day). Which is a good thing, because I have trouble sleeping as it is. Add two loudly barking mutts to the mix and I'd be walking around even more of a zombie than I already do.
Two nights ago I was taking my Rottie out for a walk, and two large animals ran full-speed past the basement door. Scared me to death. It was pouring down rain outside, and when I realize it's the two aforementioned dogs, stupid me decides to put my Rottie back in the house and try to catch them. Apparently the larger one had learned how to jump up and hit the garage door opener and plunge them into sweet freedom, which is why they were tearing around the neighborhood in the dark, rainy night.
In the pouring rain, I coaxed the bigger of the two over to me (that dog probably weighs almost as much as I do), and was able to get him to come with me around the house and into his enclosure (he doesn't wear a collar - the other dog chewed it off of him, I kid you not). The smaller one was growling and barking at me (as if to say "Hey - we were having fun, and you totally ruined it!"). I was soaking wet and mad, but at least was able to catch the two precious pooches before they terrorized too much of the neighborhood.
Fast forward to 7:45AM the next morning. I had just gotten through another bad night of just tossing and turning and not sleeping (story of my life right now), and I am *not* a 'morning person' by any stretch of the imagination anyway - with or without sleep. I hear a dog barking, really loud, and close by. Which is strange, because my dog (who was in a crate in the basement) rarely barks in the house, and certainly not loud and continuously. I get up, stumble to the bathroom (figure I'm hallucinating from lack of sleep), turn to go back into the bedroom, and the dog barking sound is even louder.... And there's a very fast-wagging tail visable through the glass of the front door. Uh oh.
There are only 3 dogs in this neighborhood that are tall enough for their tails to be visable in that glass. And my dog's tail was docked long before I even knew he was alive. Not good. At all.
I peeked out the front door, and there's the dogs - panting like they've just run a marathon, soaking wet, muddy. The big black dog is barking his head off, trying to get someone's attention. And, unfortunately, the only person in the house who knows they aren't locked in the garage and are now on the front porch is me. Fabulous.
I have had horses (and various other animals) my whole life. So animals that are loose in the neighborhood and not in their appointed (safe) enclosures always make me nervous. So many things can (and have) gone wrong with situations like these, that my first response is, of course, to 'round up' the loose animals and return them to safety. Whatever it takes. And sometimes, I hate that about myself.
This particular morning, my 'catch the loose animal' instincts unfortunately kicked right in. I grabbed a pair of Happy Bunny flannel jammie bottoms, and a pair of rubber sandals (yep, that was my footwear of choice in the midst of panic, I guess), and raced for the door. (It should be noted here that, for the first time in 6 months, I was treated to a nice pedicure the day before, and my toes were perfectly coiffed and frosted pink, as well.)
That big black dog has a bad habit of jumping on people. I honestly think he has just never been taught that leaping at people's heads just isn't appropriate. He's not necessarily mean, just not very cultured. Or trained. Nor was he clean, dry, or lacking psychotic energy on this particular morning. Lucky me, especially in sandals.
What I had lacked the energy to do or realize or remember beforehand, is that the big black dog does not have a collar on. And scruffing a dog nearly your weight, with both hands, poses a problem even when they're not soaking wet. And smelling like a pond. And leaping at your head. And trying their best to knock you to the ground, whatever it takes. And slobbering - everywhere.
Getting this leaping animal from the front door to the garage posed a pretty tricky problem, especially when the other dog was behind me, head snaked down, growling and snapping at my heels (he definitely has issued - both are rescues, and I'd be willing to bet money that the smaller one was abused quite a bit somewhere along the way). So one hyper-psycho dog, and one edgy, mean dog. At 7:45AM. Happy bunny flannel jammie bottoms. Sandals. You get the picture, and it wasn't a pretty one.
I have lead full-size, panicked horses that were easier to control than this black dog. He was everywhere - leaping at my head, trying to knock me over, slobbering - incessantly. Our little crew of three (with the other dog growling and lunging at my heels) made its way across the front walk this way. There were about 5 guys working on a roof across the street, watching this entire thing happen. So much for that southern chivalry - there wasn't a peep out of any of them (at least not that I heard, but what could I possibly hear over the ruckus I was creating myself? And surely at least one of them had to be thinking 'YouTube').
We eventually made it to the fenced outdoor area where they normally stay during the day. I muscled the black dog into the gate, and latched it shut. Turned around, and the other dog was still growling, head low to the ground, and snapping at me. How wonderful. I walked gingerly to the kitchen door, and it was (of course) locked. The little mongrel had me pinned in the garage at this point. I worked my way along the wall to the garage exit (he's mean, but I can outsmart him - and I certainly wasn't going to even attempt to catch him at this point), and I bolted down the front walk, in sandals, covered in wet mud, with the little dog snapping dangerously close to the back of my legs. I'm sure the guys on the roof across the street hadn't counted on that little added bonus.
By the time I got back in the front door, I was a complete mess. Red, sticky dirt was all over my clothes, feet, arms, and face. I was also soaking wet, breathing hard, and mad as a hornet.
It took another 20 minutes before anyone in the house was awake. I cleaned myself up and waited for the 'Oh my gosh - the dog is loose!' exclamation (since I had left the littler one loose when I penned up the big black dog). Nothing. I was disappointed, so I went out to the kitchen. While I was clean, I was still a bit discheveled. And my arms and feet were scratched up, too. No one said a word. I finally couldn't stand it anymore, and asked 'Did you notice where the dogs were this morning?' He casually said 'Um, yeah, the little one was loose - I had to catch him.'
What?? That was it? No praises for my bravery? No thanks for my capture? Good grief, I had watched my life flash before my eyes and nearly sacrificed a good pedicure for an animal that everyone wanted to take to the pound anyway. And there was no big fanfare to thank me for my trouble. Humpfh.
Ah well, I guess at some point I'll learn my lesson. I know the 'capture the animal' gene is just there, but I'll have to find some way to squelch it, I guess. Especially when it involves excited, untrained animals larger than me..... And witnessess on rooftops next door....
However, before you go any further with this story, I will admit this - I do not love the dogs in this story. Their owner's wife (who's a good friend of mine) doesn't like these dogs either. At first I thought she was just being mean. Non-dog-loving, and exaggerating. Now, I see her point. There is a very good reason behind her dislike. She is not exaggerating.
The Rottweiler and I have made a trip to visit these friends for a little while, and we're staying at their house. They have two dogs. One is a black lab mix of some sort, and the other.... well, I have no idea what it is. Kind of looks like a cross between a pit bull and something else. Both are rescues, and both bark all night long. Literally. I am not kidding.
The good thing is that, at night, the dogs are kept locked in the garage way on the other side of the house, meaning that I don't hear them from where I sleep (they have a big outdoor fenced area that they're in during the day). Which is a good thing, because I have trouble sleeping as it is. Add two loudly barking mutts to the mix and I'd be walking around even more of a zombie than I already do.
Two nights ago I was taking my Rottie out for a walk, and two large animals ran full-speed past the basement door. Scared me to death. It was pouring down rain outside, and when I realize it's the two aforementioned dogs, stupid me decides to put my Rottie back in the house and try to catch them. Apparently the larger one had learned how to jump up and hit the garage door opener and plunge them into sweet freedom, which is why they were tearing around the neighborhood in the dark, rainy night.
In the pouring rain, I coaxed the bigger of the two over to me (that dog probably weighs almost as much as I do), and was able to get him to come with me around the house and into his enclosure (he doesn't wear a collar - the other dog chewed it off of him, I kid you not). The smaller one was growling and barking at me (as if to say "Hey - we were having fun, and you totally ruined it!"). I was soaking wet and mad, but at least was able to catch the two precious pooches before they terrorized too much of the neighborhood.
Fast forward to 7:45AM the next morning. I had just gotten through another bad night of just tossing and turning and not sleeping (story of my life right now), and I am *not* a 'morning person' by any stretch of the imagination anyway - with or without sleep. I hear a dog barking, really loud, and close by. Which is strange, because my dog (who was in a crate in the basement) rarely barks in the house, and certainly not loud and continuously. I get up, stumble to the bathroom (figure I'm hallucinating from lack of sleep), turn to go back into the bedroom, and the dog barking sound is even louder.... And there's a very fast-wagging tail visable through the glass of the front door. Uh oh.
There are only 3 dogs in this neighborhood that are tall enough for their tails to be visable in that glass. And my dog's tail was docked long before I even knew he was alive. Not good. At all.
I peeked out the front door, and there's the dogs - panting like they've just run a marathon, soaking wet, muddy. The big black dog is barking his head off, trying to get someone's attention. And, unfortunately, the only person in the house who knows they aren't locked in the garage and are now on the front porch is me. Fabulous.
I have had horses (and various other animals) my whole life. So animals that are loose in the neighborhood and not in their appointed (safe) enclosures always make me nervous. So many things can (and have) gone wrong with situations like these, that my first response is, of course, to 'round up' the loose animals and return them to safety. Whatever it takes. And sometimes, I hate that about myself.
This particular morning, my 'catch the loose animal' instincts unfortunately kicked right in. I grabbed a pair of Happy Bunny flannel jammie bottoms, and a pair of rubber sandals (yep, that was my footwear of choice in the midst of panic, I guess), and raced for the door. (It should be noted here that, for the first time in 6 months, I was treated to a nice pedicure the day before, and my toes were perfectly coiffed and frosted pink, as well.)
That big black dog has a bad habit of jumping on people. I honestly think he has just never been taught that leaping at people's heads just isn't appropriate. He's not necessarily mean, just not very cultured. Or trained. Nor was he clean, dry, or lacking psychotic energy on this particular morning. Lucky me, especially in sandals.
What I had lacked the energy to do or realize or remember beforehand, is that the big black dog does not have a collar on. And scruffing a dog nearly your weight, with both hands, poses a problem even when they're not soaking wet. And smelling like a pond. And leaping at your head. And trying their best to knock you to the ground, whatever it takes. And slobbering - everywhere.
Getting this leaping animal from the front door to the garage posed a pretty tricky problem, especially when the other dog was behind me, head snaked down, growling and snapping at my heels (he definitely has issued - both are rescues, and I'd be willing to bet money that the smaller one was abused quite a bit somewhere along the way). So one hyper-psycho dog, and one edgy, mean dog. At 7:45AM. Happy bunny flannel jammie bottoms. Sandals. You get the picture, and it wasn't a pretty one.
I have lead full-size, panicked horses that were easier to control than this black dog. He was everywhere - leaping at my head, trying to knock me over, slobbering - incessantly. Our little crew of three (with the other dog growling and lunging at my heels) made its way across the front walk this way. There were about 5 guys working on a roof across the street, watching this entire thing happen. So much for that southern chivalry - there wasn't a peep out of any of them (at least not that I heard, but what could I possibly hear over the ruckus I was creating myself? And surely at least one of them had to be thinking 'YouTube').
We eventually made it to the fenced outdoor area where they normally stay during the day. I muscled the black dog into the gate, and latched it shut. Turned around, and the other dog was still growling, head low to the ground, and snapping at me. How wonderful. I walked gingerly to the kitchen door, and it was (of course) locked. The little mongrel had me pinned in the garage at this point. I worked my way along the wall to the garage exit (he's mean, but I can outsmart him - and I certainly wasn't going to even attempt to catch him at this point), and I bolted down the front walk, in sandals, covered in wet mud, with the little dog snapping dangerously close to the back of my legs. I'm sure the guys on the roof across the street hadn't counted on that little added bonus.
By the time I got back in the front door, I was a complete mess. Red, sticky dirt was all over my clothes, feet, arms, and face. I was also soaking wet, breathing hard, and mad as a hornet.
It took another 20 minutes before anyone in the house was awake. I cleaned myself up and waited for the 'Oh my gosh - the dog is loose!' exclamation (since I had left the littler one loose when I penned up the big black dog). Nothing. I was disappointed, so I went out to the kitchen. While I was clean, I was still a bit discheveled. And my arms and feet were scratched up, too. No one said a word. I finally couldn't stand it anymore, and asked 'Did you notice where the dogs were this morning?' He casually said 'Um, yeah, the little one was loose - I had to catch him.'
What?? That was it? No praises for my bravery? No thanks for my capture? Good grief, I had watched my life flash before my eyes and nearly sacrificed a good pedicure for an animal that everyone wanted to take to the pound anyway. And there was no big fanfare to thank me for my trouble. Humpfh.
Ah well, I guess at some point I'll learn my lesson. I know the 'capture the animal' gene is just there, but I'll have to find some way to squelch it, I guess. Especially when it involves excited, untrained animals larger than me..... And witnessess on rooftops next door....
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Ever Hear The Sound of Diesel Gushing To The Ground?
I manage to always somehow find a way to have a gas station story. It's really not on purpose, it just seems to happen that way (see my Super Bowl Sunday gas station antics). I don't (or try not to) frequent many of them, as the human contact I have there is rarely favorable, and I end up mad, frustrated, and wishing that there was a way to just press a button inside your vehicle and it magically fills, out of the air, without stopping. This time, however there wasn't anyone else involved to anger me - it was my own stupid fault, and could have been worse. But, it was bad enough as it was.
The Rottweiler puppy and I were on a road trip yesterday, in the big diesel truck (I know, I know - the stereotypes...). The Rottie isn't quite so much a puppy anymore (weighing in somewhere around 55 lbs. at this point), and this was his first long trip with me. We'd been on the road about 10 hours straight, when I decided to stop to refuel, and try to get him to pee (for some reason, every rest stop up until this point had merely been a sniffing expedition, and nothing more). I travel a lot, so I really hope he breaks that habit real fast.
Anyway, I got out of the truck, ran the card through the gas pump, pulled the diesel lever, and placed the nozzle into the side of my truck. I've done this thousands of times in my life, to hundreds of cars and trucks. I clicked on the switch so it could auto-fill, and went around the other side to extract the Rottie from his wire crate in the back seat to try, once again, to find a patch of grass worthy of his release.
I had just made it across the pavement about 50 feet from the truck, and was concentrating now on the dog at the end of the leash (I'm always afraid some strange noise will scare him, and sending him flailing away, with me in tow, now that he;'s big enough to drag me if he wants to), when I heard the sound of water gushing and smacking against the pavement. It was about 10PM, and since everything seems louder at night, it sounded like it was way too close for my comfort. I whipped around, and nearly passed out when I saw a geyser of diesel fuel raining out of the side of my truck, onto the pavement below. Like a hose that's going full-blast with the help of a high-pressure sprayer at the end of it.... Not a sight I want to see again anytime soon.
Really, at this point, the word 'panic' just doesn't describe it. I took off running, dragging along the terrified puppy, across the gas station parking lot. I realized (almost too late) that the geyser of diesel was now flowing under the truck, directly in the path of the back door I needed to put the dog in. Almost without thinking, I yanked open the door, picked the dog up and threw him (all 55 lbs.) into the back seat and slammed the door. By the time I got around to the other side of the truck and got the flow of diesel stopped, it had formed quite a pond of oily, foul-smelling mess.
I was the only one filling up at that particular gas station, at that particular time. My shoes, lower pant legs, and hands were now covered in fuel (and I'm suddenly wide awake). I must admit for a fleeting second that my tired brain said 'Just leave - maybe they weren't looking.' That thought only lasted a second (well, until I realized they had my credit card information.... ha!).
There's a bad of kitty litter-looking material that they keep at gas stations to sop up small spills, in between the pumps. 3/4 of a bag later, I'm not getting anywhere with this particular spill (that stuff is apparently made for tiny 4-drop spills, not geysers). I give up on that idea, and walk inside the station (head hanging) to report the problem (as if they hadn't seen me dragging a Rottweiler full-speed across the pavement a few minutes before, the look of sheer panic on my face).
The girl inside (tongue ring and all) was actually very nice. She said they had seen the whole thing (great), and that her manager had just told her that she would need to clean it up on the 3rd shift. I asked if there was anything I could do, and she waved it off and said 'No, our pumps stick all the time - one woman spilled like 30 gallons of gasoline out there a week or so ago. It's fine. If you ever come here again, just remember they stick sometimes.'
I thanked her, and walked as fast as I could out of that place. They have about 0% of ever seeing my face there again, and it occurred to me as I drove away that if I had to clean up a bunch of spills all the time at the gas station I worked out, I'd be making some signs that say they stick and taping them up all over that place. With the rising costs of fuel, that just seems logical to me.
But, I decided against going back in and pointing that little fact out. When I got back in the truck, the puppy was whimpering from the back seat. Poor thing had been thrown there, leash and all, and was now facing backwards in the back seat and unable to move. I drove about 1/2 mile up the road, stopped at a Super 8 parking lot, and got him back out to pee. Within seconds, he had relieved himself of about a gallon of liquid - maybe when I picked him up and threw him, I jogged his bladder just enough to remind him that he can pee in patches of grass other than just in his own back yard. Poor thing. He gets the prize for World's Best Dog for being such a good boy on this trip.
When I drove past the same gas station to get on the interstate, the girl with the tongue ring was already cleaning up the mess I'd made in the parking lot. Poor thing. But really, a sign or two indicating that the pumps stick would probably save her a lot of time and heartache.... Whew.
The Rottweiler puppy and I were on a road trip yesterday, in the big diesel truck (I know, I know - the stereotypes...). The Rottie isn't quite so much a puppy anymore (weighing in somewhere around 55 lbs. at this point), and this was his first long trip with me. We'd been on the road about 10 hours straight, when I decided to stop to refuel, and try to get him to pee (for some reason, every rest stop up until this point had merely been a sniffing expedition, and nothing more). I travel a lot, so I really hope he breaks that habit real fast.
Anyway, I got out of the truck, ran the card through the gas pump, pulled the diesel lever, and placed the nozzle into the side of my truck. I've done this thousands of times in my life, to hundreds of cars and trucks. I clicked on the switch so it could auto-fill, and went around the other side to extract the Rottie from his wire crate in the back seat to try, once again, to find a patch of grass worthy of his release.
I had just made it across the pavement about 50 feet from the truck, and was concentrating now on the dog at the end of the leash (I'm always afraid some strange noise will scare him, and sending him flailing away, with me in tow, now that he;'s big enough to drag me if he wants to), when I heard the sound of water gushing and smacking against the pavement. It was about 10PM, and since everything seems louder at night, it sounded like it was way too close for my comfort. I whipped around, and nearly passed out when I saw a geyser of diesel fuel raining out of the side of my truck, onto the pavement below. Like a hose that's going full-blast with the help of a high-pressure sprayer at the end of it.... Not a sight I want to see again anytime soon.
Really, at this point, the word 'panic' just doesn't describe it. I took off running, dragging along the terrified puppy, across the gas station parking lot. I realized (almost too late) that the geyser of diesel was now flowing under the truck, directly in the path of the back door I needed to put the dog in. Almost without thinking, I yanked open the door, picked the dog up and threw him (all 55 lbs.) into the back seat and slammed the door. By the time I got around to the other side of the truck and got the flow of diesel stopped, it had formed quite a pond of oily, foul-smelling mess.
I was the only one filling up at that particular gas station, at that particular time. My shoes, lower pant legs, and hands were now covered in fuel (and I'm suddenly wide awake). I must admit for a fleeting second that my tired brain said 'Just leave - maybe they weren't looking.' That thought only lasted a second (well, until I realized they had my credit card information.... ha!).
There's a bad of kitty litter-looking material that they keep at gas stations to sop up small spills, in between the pumps. 3/4 of a bag later, I'm not getting anywhere with this particular spill (that stuff is apparently made for tiny 4-drop spills, not geysers). I give up on that idea, and walk inside the station (head hanging) to report the problem (as if they hadn't seen me dragging a Rottweiler full-speed across the pavement a few minutes before, the look of sheer panic on my face).
The girl inside (tongue ring and all) was actually very nice. She said they had seen the whole thing (great), and that her manager had just told her that she would need to clean it up on the 3rd shift. I asked if there was anything I could do, and she waved it off and said 'No, our pumps stick all the time - one woman spilled like 30 gallons of gasoline out there a week or so ago. It's fine. If you ever come here again, just remember they stick sometimes.'
I thanked her, and walked as fast as I could out of that place. They have about 0% of ever seeing my face there again, and it occurred to me as I drove away that if I had to clean up a bunch of spills all the time at the gas station I worked out, I'd be making some signs that say they stick and taping them up all over that place. With the rising costs of fuel, that just seems logical to me.
But, I decided against going back in and pointing that little fact out. When I got back in the truck, the puppy was whimpering from the back seat. Poor thing had been thrown there, leash and all, and was now facing backwards in the back seat and unable to move. I drove about 1/2 mile up the road, stopped at a Super 8 parking lot, and got him back out to pee. Within seconds, he had relieved himself of about a gallon of liquid - maybe when I picked him up and threw him, I jogged his bladder just enough to remind him that he can pee in patches of grass other than just in his own back yard. Poor thing. He gets the prize for World's Best Dog for being such a good boy on this trip.
When I drove past the same gas station to get on the interstate, the girl with the tongue ring was already cleaning up the mess I'd made in the parking lot. Poor thing. But really, a sign or two indicating that the pumps stick would probably save her a lot of time and heartache.... Whew.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Ever Get That "Something Isn't Right" Feeling?
I have been around horses over 25 years. It's hard for me to remember any time in my life when horses weren't involved somehow, although I do sometimes wonder "what was I thinking?" when my mind wanders back to the days when I was begging my parents day after day for a horse of my very own.
Buying a horse when I was 12 years old also meant that I couldn't just be a regular kid and trail ride around the neighborhood with my friends. Oh no - that meant that the $500 new family acquisition was also going to become a champion show horse as well (read: more added equine expense to the household). That launched a 20-year show career that, I must admit, I'm still doing. Ah, the twists and turns of life - who would have thought? I did accomplish my original goal - that first horse I bought back in 1988 did become a very successful show horse, and is now retired on my farm at the ripe old age of 24.
We built our barn and brought our horses home to live with us in 2004. At the time, there were 6 of them living here with us, including two mares with their newborn foals. It was a fun, challenging and interesting time (I keep telling myself that - in reality, it was exhausting, a lot of work, and I kept wondering why I hadn't just left them all at a boarding barn for someone else to take care of!). I have a lot of funny stories to tell about the interesting aspects of home horse ownership, but what I want to write about today is a horse that was one of the baby foals we brought home back in 2004. He's now 4 years old, and while curiosity has somehow managed not to kill the barn cat, my guess is that it's gunning for this particular horse instead.
Reggie is a sweet, 'Baby Huey' kind of animal. I think in his head he believes that he's about dog-size, when in reality he's currently the biggest horse in the barn. This horse can, and absolutely will, get into everything he possibly can. I have found him stuck in some of the strangest positions over the years - kind of like 'what were you thinking types of things.... He has managed to keep himself from any major injuries (so far), but it's kind of like the kid on the playground that is on the ground more than he is playing.... You're bound to end up in the emergency room sooner or later.
A few nights ago I went outside to feed the horses, as I do every night. I have 3 here right now, and they were all loose in our indoor arena. We have buckets hanging from the wall so I can feed them in there - kind of a self-exercising situation that keeps them out of the weather elements and me from having to exercise them every day.
I walked into the arena and started dumping feed into the containers, and suddenly got this eerie feeling. It was initially just a feeling - kind of like the little guy that sits on your shoulder and whispers in your ear "Look around you - it's gonna be bad". I stopped, focused my eyes in the dim light, and right in front of me on the ground was a very large board. (Note: Usually the arena floor is clear of such things). My eyes panned further into the darkness to reveal that there were many more boards on the arena floor - 12 in all, to be exact, and the heavy corner board as well.
The aforementioned 4-year-old Baby Huey somehow managed to rip down the arena wall. 12 heavy rough-sewn boards, with nails sticking out of every end, plus a huge corner board that's 3 boards nailed together. Strewn across the arena floor.
To give you an idea of how strong this wall is, we would pull a full-size truck in there and attach it (via nylon rope) to the corner, and pull huge round bales of hay off of the truck to the arena floor. Never once did the engine of a 4WD truck take down an entire wall. It's hard to do. But apparently not for Reggie.
Some days horse ownership is the biggest joy of my life. Other days, I think that raising turtles or corn would be much more rewarding.
I don't know how the three of them managed not to get hurt in this scenario, but none of the horses wandering around that arena had a scratch on them. We cleared out the boards and nails, and will have to re-build the wall with new nails (the boards will be able to be re-nailed to the walls without any repairs).
You know? There are 32-year-old women out there in business suits working in their climate-controlled offices, sipping Starbucks and laughing at this article. Me? My shoes wouldn't know what to do if they weren't muddy, and 'climate controlled' to me means I put my hood up to warm off the snow, sleet and rain on my way to the barn. Some days, I would trade it for anything in the world. ;)
Buying a horse when I was 12 years old also meant that I couldn't just be a regular kid and trail ride around the neighborhood with my friends. Oh no - that meant that the $500 new family acquisition was also going to become a champion show horse as well (read: more added equine expense to the household). That launched a 20-year show career that, I must admit, I'm still doing. Ah, the twists and turns of life - who would have thought? I did accomplish my original goal - that first horse I bought back in 1988 did become a very successful show horse, and is now retired on my farm at the ripe old age of 24.
We built our barn and brought our horses home to live with us in 2004. At the time, there were 6 of them living here with us, including two mares with their newborn foals. It was a fun, challenging and interesting time (I keep telling myself that - in reality, it was exhausting, a lot of work, and I kept wondering why I hadn't just left them all at a boarding barn for someone else to take care of!). I have a lot of funny stories to tell about the interesting aspects of home horse ownership, but what I want to write about today is a horse that was one of the baby foals we brought home back in 2004. He's now 4 years old, and while curiosity has somehow managed not to kill the barn cat, my guess is that it's gunning for this particular horse instead.
Reggie is a sweet, 'Baby Huey' kind of animal. I think in his head he believes that he's about dog-size, when in reality he's currently the biggest horse in the barn. This horse can, and absolutely will, get into everything he possibly can. I have found him stuck in some of the strangest positions over the years - kind of like 'what were you thinking types of things.... He has managed to keep himself from any major injuries (so far), but it's kind of like the kid on the playground that is on the ground more than he is playing.... You're bound to end up in the emergency room sooner or later.
A few nights ago I went outside to feed the horses, as I do every night. I have 3 here right now, and they were all loose in our indoor arena. We have buckets hanging from the wall so I can feed them in there - kind of a self-exercising situation that keeps them out of the weather elements and me from having to exercise them every day.
I walked into the arena and started dumping feed into the containers, and suddenly got this eerie feeling. It was initially just a feeling - kind of like the little guy that sits on your shoulder and whispers in your ear "Look around you - it's gonna be bad". I stopped, focused my eyes in the dim light, and right in front of me on the ground was a very large board. (Note: Usually the arena floor is clear of such things). My eyes panned further into the darkness to reveal that there were many more boards on the arena floor - 12 in all, to be exact, and the heavy corner board as well.
The aforementioned 4-year-old Baby Huey somehow managed to rip down the arena wall. 12 heavy rough-sewn boards, with nails sticking out of every end, plus a huge corner board that's 3 boards nailed together. Strewn across the arena floor.
To give you an idea of how strong this wall is, we would pull a full-size truck in there and attach it (via nylon rope) to the corner, and pull huge round bales of hay off of the truck to the arena floor. Never once did the engine of a 4WD truck take down an entire wall. It's hard to do. But apparently not for Reggie.
Some days horse ownership is the biggest joy of my life. Other days, I think that raising turtles or corn would be much more rewarding.
I don't know how the three of them managed not to get hurt in this scenario, but none of the horses wandering around that arena had a scratch on them. We cleared out the boards and nails, and will have to re-build the wall with new nails (the boards will be able to be re-nailed to the walls without any repairs).
You know? There are 32-year-old women out there in business suits working in their climate-controlled offices, sipping Starbucks and laughing at this article. Me? My shoes wouldn't know what to do if they weren't muddy, and 'climate controlled' to me means I put my hood up to warm off the snow, sleet and rain on my way to the barn. Some days, I would trade it for anything in the world. ;)
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