The Liquor Talking

I agree there, Office Cowboy. Of all the things available to put into cake, who the heck thought it would be a good idea to put carrots in there? Don’t get me wrong, I like carrots, but I like cabbage too and nobody thinks that would go good in cake, do they?

Well, maybe the Swiss do.

The day after springing our cat Jack from the joint, we took him to the vet to get his shots updated. Normally, he resists the vet and getting shots, but this time was more or less accepting. He had an attitude of “Yeah, I had this coming.” He stoically endured all three injections as well as a roughing up (examination) by the vet.

As we were leaving, a couple came in with a 3 month-old German shorthair pup. I was reminded of our shorthair, Buster.

Buster was a German shorthair pointer that we had for 17 years. He was without question, the best bird dog I’ve ever seen or heard about. He was also the best pet we ever had. Born solid liver color, with oval patch of white on his chest the pup could have been his clone. By the time he passed on, he was mostly gray.

Buster was an accomplished escape artist. His favorite method was to simply jump the fence. To prevent this, I affixed a segment of logging chain to a snap and would attach it to his collar. While it played hell with the lawn, it did prevent him from being able to jump the fence. After a few months of this, his shoulders and neck looked like they belonged on a pit bull. Such was the strength of his neck that you could no longer rub his nose in any “accidents” he had and we had to knock him down in order to rub his nose in anything.

Up until he was about a year old, Buster was terrified of cats. This, no doubt due to his first encounter with our cat, Merlin. Merlin was a huge, black Manx. Upon spotting the cat, Buster went galumphing over as if he’d found a long lost litter mate. Merlin quickly let the pup know that while the humans welcomed him, the feline membership of the family did not.

One of Merlin’s favorite games was to push Buster off his chow. If he saw the pup enjoying a bowl of kibbles, Merlin would come, growl at the pup and then lay down by the dog dishes until run off by one of us. Once in a while, Buster would get table scraps and this was what Merlin most loved to deny him.

One evening, supper was finished off with one of my wife’s amazing apple pies. Served hot with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, it was and is, my absolute favorite dessert.

And as we came to learn, it was Buster’s favorite too.

Having had my fill, I still had about a half a slice left over with just a bit of ice cream left. I set this on the floor to see if Buster shared my relish for the treat. He did. His stubby tail was a blur as he lapped up the heavenly treat.

In walked Merlin.

Merlin adopted his standard approach, tail whipping from side to side and his back slightly arched. However, instead of retreating as usual, Buster emitted a low growl. The cat stopped for a second as if to say; “Oh no, you most certainly did not just growl at me” and took another step.

I must have blinked, because I didn’t see what happened next. When my blink was over, Buster had the cat’s head in his mouth and was shaking him hard enough to slam the cat bodily into the oven door.

Wham, wham, wham, wham, wham, wham!

Buster released the cat who went bounding away with bits of pie crust and ice cream slobber coating his head. Bsuter then returned to his pie and the cat’s reign of terror was at an end. From then on, the cat avoided the dog if it in any way appeared that Buster was eating or was even thinking about eating.

Buster’s second favorite treat was spaghetti. He did not care for noodles by themselves or for much of anything else Italian, but spaghetti al dente in marinara sauce was woofed down with great gusto.

I was in the missile field and had just gotten to sleep when a knock came upon my door. There were but three circumstances by which I would abide being awakened while out in the field without somebody getting a beating: Are we under direct attack? Is the building on fire? Is someone bleeding?

Since my wife was the source of many a home-cooked meal for my troops, they added a fourth: Elim’s wife calls and she sounds mad.

I shrugged on my robe and went to the phone:

ME: Hello?
WIFE: Do you know what time it is?
ME: It’s 11:20 at night.
WIFE: Guess what I’m doing?
ME: I don’t know.
WIFE: Guess!
ME: Painting the living room?
WIFE: No! Guess again!
ME: I don’t know!
WIFE: Guess!
ME: Chopping firewood?
WIFE: NO!
ME: I give up then. What are you doing?
WIFE: Making spaghetti!
ME: At 11:20 at night? Why?
WIFE: Your stupid dog.
ME: What? My stupid dog?
WIFE: Yes, YOUR stupid dog!
ME: Okay, can I ask…
WIFE: And YOU’RE going to keep me company while I do it!

Seems that the wife had prepared spaghetti for dinner that night and the kids were particularly famished. They managed to polish off every strand, leaving none for Buster who had waited patiently at the kitchen door for his ration. Buster responded by following her around the rest of the evening, heaving heavy sighs, whining and staring at her. Even after she’d gone to bed, the dog was keeping her awake with his sighing and whining.

She finally had enough, got up and put some water on to boil.

She then called me and we visited for the next half hour or so until the dog was enjoying his hard-won supper.

From then on, we always made sure to set aside enough noodles and sauce.

Yeah, being my dog is a pretty good gig.