Monday, 16 April 2007

My Whiskey Dog Morning

My Whiskey Dog Morning

a mischievous dog must be tied short”

~Italian Proverb

“A door is what a dog is perpetually on the wrong side of”

~Ogden Nash

The morning light impatiently rushed past me into the ever widening crack beneath my rising garage door. There, in the midst of the usual household clutter stood a soggy mound of canvas piled high with camping gear. The blackened set of cookware, my coleman lantern, a propane stove, axe and my nylon tent, skewered by protruding fibreglass tent poles - all lashed together by a partially unravelled skein of nylon cord. Leaning against the pile were my criss-crossed canoe paddles, which mockingly formed an 'X' to mark the spot of my morning's upcoming labours.

Having returned from yet another canoe trip, I stared at the task before me, knowing that the trip is never complete until my gear is dried, cleaned, sorted, repaired and stored for the following season.

Scratches and snorts at the inside door told me that my dog ‘Whiskey’ was eager to join in the fun and have a sniff at what exotic odours I may have brought back for him, still trapped within that festering heap.

Clipping a rather lengthy leash to his collar, I secured the opposite end to the bumper of my car thereby giving Whiskey full reign of the front yard while I moved items in and out of the garage.

It wasn’t long before unrecognizable sounds of commotion began to drift from the yard. Strolling out of the garage to investigate, I was horrified to see that Whiskey had a large bag of fertilizer grasped firmly between his jaws and with each shake of the head, was flinging the contents wildly about the lawn. A second bag, contents already expended, lay limp at his paws. With my panicked shouts, Whiskey dropped the bag and approached with wagging tail and rather pleased look. Grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, I unhitched Whiskey from the lead and marched him back indoors where, no doubt, my ‘hound from hell’ would find other items to destroy.

Fearful that the grass would be burned beyond repair, I dropped to my knees and attempted to scoop the mounds of pellets back into the bag. Realizing that recovering the thousands of beads that lay scattered across my yard by hand was futile, an idea came to mind. Retreating to the garage I plugged in my upright floor vacuum cleaner and began running it back and forth over the grass still peppered with pellets. Continuous clicks and pings coming from the housing convinced me the technique worked and had me break out in a wide grin.

A few astonished neighbours slowed as they drove by, observing my vacuuming of the front lawn, unsure of what to make of my puzzling behaviour. Still sporting my silly grin, as I pushed the vacuum to and fro, I tried to explain actions by shouting back~

It’s because of Whiskey!

That inadequate statement sure gave the neighbourhood something to talk about for the next year!


The Infamous Whiskey Dog

© Copyright - All rights reserved.

No comments: