A Property Dispute with My Dog

June 1, 2014.Reading time 4 minutes.

While picking up the piles on Saturday, I found Winston sitting in his usual hole surveying the property. As dogs go, he looked unusually forlorn. I put down my tools, walked over the old boy, and asked, “Why so glum?”

Expecting nothing, I was slightly surprised when he answered (in a wonderful British Accent), “I find myself in a state of loss.” 1024px-Lawns_at_Wisley

“Why’s that?” I pursued.

He turned his head to scan the horizon. “Have you ever gotten anything just right? I mean so perfect that you know there has never been, nor will ever be anything that quite equals your creation?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, contemplating my artistic endeavors. “I suppose that rocking horse I made was pretty good.”

“The one your child sits on?”

“Yeah, she rides it.”

“How do you feel when she rides it?” he inquired.

“I guess I feel good to see her use it.”

“So it delights you to have your progeny place her dirty bum upon your work of art?” he said haughtily.

“She wears clothes!” I countered.

“Not always,” he said knowingly, still looking away.

By this time, I began to grow angry and impatient. “What’s your point?” I stammered.

“I am simply trying to give you a point of reference for my mood. You asked. I spend a week arranging my work into the perfect array and you come out with your slotted spoon and shopping bag and destroy the lot,” he explained. “Just like you make a rocking horse and your daughter smears her jelly-stained fingers and dirty backside all over it.”

“That’s why you were licking it,” I realized.

“Just the handles,” he snapped.

“But this? This is just poo,” I observed, pointing to the bag.

“Just poo? Just poo?” He said indignantly. “I’ll have you know that it is a dog’s highest creation, perfectly placed to entice females and intimidate rivals! It is my art! My natural medium. Secondarily, they are little traps to keep your children and her filthy companions from wandering into my territory.”

“Your territory? This is my yard.”

“I disagree,” he said coldly.

“But I have a title to it,” I said, wondering if I would have to explain property laws to him, but guessing he knew more than me about them based on his superior tone.

“Your title is worthless in the natural world. I have pooped on it, therefore it is mine.”

We were at an impasse. I thought about solving this his way, but didn’t have to go at the moment and was slightly afraid of the neighbor’s reaction.

“Okay. Well…I’m gonna finish picking this stuff up,” I said as I returned to my chore.

“And I’m going to put more down,” he replied nonchalantly. “I’ve been saving one for when you finished your rounds.”

I paused and looked back over my shoulder. His smarmy grin ticked me off, but I didn’t have time to argue anymore. It was almost time for kick-off.

Photo Credit: David Wilmot from Wimbledon, United Kingdom (Flickr)

The Lost Art of Listening

May 8, 2014.Reading time 5 minutes.

“Come, Henry,” Colonel Birdwhistle called as he shouldered his cane pole. “We should be on our way. The day is ending and your mother will be spreading supper soon.”

“But we didn’t catch nuthin’” replied the glum boy. Fishing_Drawing

“We didn’t catch ‘anything’, you mean. And catching fish is but a small portion of our purpose here. We are here primarily to enjoy each other and the beauty of creation. If a fish should happen to find our bait attractive, that, my boy, is simply a bonus.”

Unconvinced, Henry pulled at his pole hoping for a nibble that would keep them a little longer. Receiving nothing for his trouble, he reluctantly stood and followed the Colonel toward home.

The two had not gone far when they heard the sound of an approaching horse. Soon it came into view as it galloped their way. Noting its speed, they moved well off of the path. When horse and rider came alongside the pair, the man on top pulled back on the reigns bringing the chestnut to a stop in a cloud of dust.

“Hello there,” called the rider from atop his mount. “Is this the way to Warbler’s Ridge?”

“I believe it used to be…” began the Colonel.

“I’m in an awful hurry,” interrupted the man. “I have urgent business at the paper mill there. This must be the right way, it was given me by the sheriff. I believe Whitaker was his name.”

“Yes, Hub Whitaker is the local sheriff. But as I was saying, this road…”

“Big fella, your sheriff. I’d guess you don’t have to worry much about crime here with a huge man like that minding the wall.”

“No sir,” answered Henry. “Things are pretty quiet round here. But…”

“That’s good, son. Real good,” cut in the stranger. “Well, I ain’t got time to sit around here talking. Like I said, I’ve got important business in Warbler’s Ridge. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

With a click of his tongue and flick of the reigns, he urged his horse forward while Henry held up an arm in protest.

“Mister, wait!” called Henry in futility, for the horse was gone. Turning to his companion, he asked, “Why wouldn’t he listen?”

“Henry, you have just learned an important lesson,” returned the Colonel. “Some people don’t understand that having a conversation means listening as well as talking. If he had taken a moment to close his mouth and open his ears, what would he have learned?”

“That the bridge he’s headed toward fell into the river a long time ago,” answered the boy slowly.

“I believe he should figure that out for himself any time now.”

As if on cue, a loud splash could be heard from the direction of the river. The old man and his young friend ambled quickly to the river and past the horse to help the fallen rider out of the water.

“You okay, mister?” asked Henry.

“Why didn’t you warn me, son?” inquired the dripping stranger.

“We tried, but couldn’t get a single word past all of yours,” returned the Colonel. “You missed a turn a ways back and need to follow the river a mile north to get to the nearest working bridge.”

Once more on his horse, the humbled rider continued on his way with every intent of listening for an answer the next time he asked a question. Henry and the Colonel headed home for supper, laughing the entire way. They may not have caught a fish, but they netted a good story to tell.