Armadillo By Morning
Every night around dark, we bring China, our Rottweiler, in for the evening, the better to protect the pokey neighborhood prowlers who would otherwise meet instant death. Last night, China brought a guest. She walked in the door with an armadillo clenched in her jaws and that was the best part. When I yelled at her, she dropped it, me thinking oh, great, dead armadillo mess to clean up, and that was the second best part. The armadillo, far from dead, hopped up and began running around the house.
You, in your pitiful naivete, probably think armadillos, famous for their roadkill abilities, are very slow. Have you tried to CATCH one lately? I didn’t think so. This here particular armadillo ran faster than Usain Bolt. He hewed to the perimeter of the room, looking for something to burrow into, knocking over various objects, looking for a way out. He had his eye on the closet, rife with burrowing opportunities, but I got the doors closed just in the nick of time, thank God.
I tried opening windows, which extend almost to the floor. I left the doors wide open. I put China in the Penalty Box. But still the armadillo circled the room, first one way and then the other. Siobhan, perhaps intuiting this unhappy event, had departed for Canada earlier in the day, a cowardly act beyond redemption, so I was on my own. Eventually the armadillo, in his (or her) great wisdom, noticed that hey, the door might be wide open. Even then, he or she had to think about it.
“Let’s see, run around the house forever, maybe reencounter the big killer dog or, hmmn, escape back into the wilderness. Whatever should I do? It’s a real quandary.” At which point I nudged the little critter out the door. I didn’t see him anywhere this morning so I guess he’s still alive. And with great stories to tell his little children.
“Yes, and let me tell you about the time I was attacked by the Giant Dinosaur Dog! I was inches from death when I was saved by one of the House People, who undoubtedly wanted me for stew meat. That was when I used my great speed to accelerate away and escape into the Bentler Garden. So let that be a lesson to you, children.”
“What lesson, Father? Stay away from Giant Dinosaur Dogs?”
“That’s important, too. What I had in mind, though, is to keep practicing your running skills.”
Bird Flies Coop
What would we do without all these wonderful animal stories to lay on you?
Seems Francis/Frances, our recent egret boarder, has moved on to greener pastures. After two weeks in residence, whatever wing injury he/she had apparently healed up enough for Francis/Frances to hit the road. Oh, we know what you’re thinking—some critter probably got her in the middle of the night and chewed her to bits, leaving only microscopic particles. Nope, didn’t happen. The bird was here in the morning, gone in the afternoon. We’re proud of our new acknowledgement as an avian rehab facility but we’d prefer that none of you start dropping off damaged birds at our front gate. We’ve got armadillos to worry about.
Veterinarian Flies Coop
You probably noticed—or maybe you didn’t—that your little blog was late this week. It was written on Thursday, as usual, but not sent out until Saturday. This is all Siobhan’s fault. She is off gallivanting around Canada while I am relegated to pet care, guest management and armadillo fighting.
Siobhan is responsible for taking the corrected blog papers, finding more errors (unimaginable as that might be) and converting all the designated words to italics, bold face, whatever, and sending it on its way. I am certain that I could learn all these mysterious tactics if I weren’t a big prima donna blog writer with better things to do, but we want Siobhan to feel included.
Anyway, she’s up there hobnobbing with a big drug company which is very interested in buying her Oroquin-10 drug, which is selling like hotcakes, whatever they are. She’s due back late Friday, so everybody gets their blog Saturday unless she finds somewhere else to go. We actually thought about telling you all of the delay but we decided to wait and see if anyone noticed.
Don’t Take Your Guns To Town (Johnny Cash)
A young cowboy named Billy Joe grew restless on the farm,
A boy filled with wanderlust, who really meant no harm.
He changed his clothes and shined his boots
And combed his dark hair down,
And his mother cried as he walked out,
“Don’t take your guns to town, son,
Leave your guns at home, Bill,
Don’t take your guns to town.”
He laughed and kissed his mom
And said, “Your Billy Joe’s a man.
I can shoot as quick and straight as anybody can.
But I wouldn’t shoot without a cause,
I’d gun nobody down.”
But she cried again as he rode away,
“Don’t take your guns to town, son,
Leave your guns at home, Bill,
Don’t take your guns to town.”
He sang a song as on he rode,
His guns hung at his hips.
He rode into a cattle town,
A smile upon his lips.
He stopped and walked into a bar
And laid his money down,
His mother’s words echoed again,
“Don’t take your guns to town, son,
Leave your guns at home, Bill,
Don’t take your guns to town.”
He drank his first strong liquor then
To calm his shaking hand,
And tried to tell himself
That he had become a man.
A dusty cowpoke at his side began to laugh him down,
And he heard again his mother’s words,
“Don’t take your guns to town, son,
Leave your guns at home, Bill,
Don’t take your guns to town.”
Filled with rage then
Billy Joe reached for his gun to draw,
But the stranger drew his gun and fired
Before he even saw;
As Billy Joe fell to the floor,
The crowd all gathered ‘round
And wondered at his final words,
“Don’t take your guns to town, son
Leave your guns at home, Bill,
Don’t take your guns to town.”
The Plague Of The NRA
Anyone who has read this column for very long is aware that I am not opposed to people owning guns. If you live in the country, half-hour or more from a sheriff’s assistance, you have to maintain your own self-defense program, which, in our case, is China and a shotgun, in that order. When I lived in Gainesville, I kept two handguns and a shotgun on hand to defend against late-nite breakins at the Subterranean Circus (I lived next door) and I had to use them more than once. But the latest chicanery of the NRA (Not Rational Association) goes beyond the pale. They have pushed—and the Florida NRA-bootlicking legislature has passed—a law permitting guns in state parks, of all places. It’s still against state law, of course, to carry slingshots in state parks, but who appreciates irony anymore.
The NRA (Never Reasonable Association) is probably responsible for more unnecessary deaths in this country than anybody, unless it is the cowardly legislators who bow to their tyranny. The NRA will spend a small fortune to defeat any political candidate who resists their efforts and, politicians being who they are—people whose main focus in life is to get reelected—they fall all over themselves to one-up their rivals in NRA (Nasty Republican Assh….oops!) coddling. But then again, it’s the American voter who is ultimately responsible for allowing this to go on. The same guy who can’t seem to understand that the Republican Party has, since the dawn of time, protected big business, the upper classes, racists, homophobes, religious fanatics and anybody who has it in for the environment. Virtually all polls show a huge public preference for more restrictions on guns but gun use continues to proliferate because of gutless politicians and ignorant voters. Why should we be surprised anymore?
Bill’s Last Handgun
I used to keep a .45 with the numbers filed off in the trunk of my car. You never know, right? There could be a zombie attack at any minute. One day, messing around down in Davie while waiting for a race, I left my engine running while I went up to a pay phone (remember them?) to make a call. I should have been more observant when I stepped over a Grade-4 superbum who was sitting on the curb, mumbling to himself and sporting a ten-year growth of beard containing food particles from the last several weeks and a few small wrens’ nests.
When I turned around in the middle of my phone call, my car was backing out of the lot. I dropped the phone and ran after the car. I caught it, too, when the bum stopped for a red light. The window was still down and I grabbed the guy’s arm, whereupon he accelerated into oncoming traffic. I liked my car, but not that much. I let go and he drove off into the hinterlands. I called the cops and eventually caught a cab back to my hotel, not expecting any wonderful results.
Fairly soon, I got a surprise. The highway patrol had notified the Davie police that the miscreant had run aground, gently bumping into a post and continuing to sit in the car in a confused stupor as the cops pulled up. No real damage to the vehicle, said the telephoning cop, but we needed to talk. I thought I knew what that was about.
“We found a handgun in the trunk,” related the officer. “An illegal handgun, with the numbers filed off.”
“Wow, that’s a shocker,” I told him. “There’s no telling what can happen to your trunk when you’re no longer in control of your vehicle.”
“It goes without saying,” said he. “Of course, we had to confiscate the gun….nice gun, too. I don’t suppose you had any knowledge or would be interested in making a claim?”
“Surely you jest….”
And that’s how the cops get all those extra guns they stick beside the bodies of people they are sometimes required to shoot under dubious circumstances…from poor, innocent car-theft victims such as myself. “Twas ever thus….”
Racing Report
There’s a race for Juno in the book on September 10th….we’ll let you know if it goes. Wilson is back at Calder, none the worse for his brief sabbatical. Elf is due for a second two-minute-lick Saturday morning. Cosmic Song, someone else’s darling now, ran third the other day in a non-winners-of-two. The FTBOA will have to send Bill a mind-boggling $600, all of which he will certainly not spend in one place.
All Ashore That’s Goin’ Ashore….
This is your last notice that Siobhan’s brilliant Webinar will take place next Tuesday evening promptly at 6 o’clock. Siobhan is certain that most of you socially bereft homebodies will have nothing better to do at that time, so you better tune in. I will be in the audience, of course, and I promise to wave. Write for details.
That’s all, folks….
