118.  Ole

Daddy bought “me” a flock of sheep when I was ten years old.  There were about twenty ewes and a ram. They resided in the sheep shed, of course, and had the run of the barnyard and part of the grassy field north of the barn that Daddy had fenced for them.

I learned there is more to raising sheep than shepherding them and watching them eat grass.  A truck pulled in with a big sheep dip tank.  The sheep, who were filthy, were pushed up a ramp and into the dip tank to destroy parasites, and clean their wool.  They looked scared and were bleating as they swam to the end of the tank.  I could see why, because the sheep dip was black and smelled awful!

It was fascinating to watch the professional shearers who then came to cut the wool off the sheep.  They clipped fast and close!  The wool was cleaned, combed, and sold.  When lambs were born in the spring, I imagined growing rich as my flock multiplied and we had more wool to sell.  The lambs were so cute and fun to play with.

Then I discovered that the feisty ram of the flock would charge my fluttering red jacket when I waved it like a bullfighter.  I maneuvered him onto the barn floor, with the haylofts and lofty ceiling as my bullfight arena. “Olé!”  I shouted, imagining that I was a bullfighter, as the ram put his head down and charged through my waving jacket.  He charged unseeing with his head down, and ran into the barn door, breaking off one of his horns.  My “Olé” faded into “Oh no!”  Then I made a mistake.  I didn’t say anything to my parents.

A couple of days later, Mom said to me, “Daddy wants to know what happened to the ram’s horn.”  I explained my bullfight “game,” and nothing more was said.  A week later, when I came home from school, the sheep were gone.  I asked Mom, “What happened to the sheep?”  “Daddy thought you weren’t old enough to take responsibility for the sheep,” was her reply.  Nothing more was ever said.  Daddy’s discipline was never confronting, never punishment.  He simply corrected the situation in which I had made my “mistake.”

Looking back, I realize now that the sheep were really intended for me, and not a family venture.  I can’t imagine how Daddy must have felt after all the expense and work he invested to start the sheep business for me, and then I was too immature to care for the sheep.

Imagination is wonderful and exciting.  But it has to be balanced with common sense and consideration for safety for animals, and for people.

BAA BAA

“Baa Baa,” said the sheep,
“My fleece is white as snow,
I like to lie down in the dirt,
Everywhere I go.”

“I find the dirt around the barn,
And that is where I play.
I like to roll around in dust,
Until I’m dirty gray.”

“The boy would like me clean and white,
But I don’t think that way.
I’d rather lie in dust and dirt,
So this is what I say…”

“Baa — Bah!”

117.  Rat Patrol

During my lifetime at home on the farm, we always had a dog.  After we were there a couple of years, my parents got my dog, a black spotted Dalmatian Coach Hound puppy.  I named her Petunia — Tuni for short.  Why Petunia?  I don’t remember.  Maybe she liked the flowers Mom planted by the steps.  I learned about teaching puppies as we house-broke Petunia, then taught her to come and to sit.

The picture is of Petunia, sitting by the kitchen door.  The Hixhaven sign was made of apple twigs tacked on a board, and was going to be mounted on a pole at the entrance to the driveway when the ground got soft in the spring.  The wreath on the door indicates it is Christmas time.

When Mom didn’t like the starlings keeping the purple martins off the martin house, Daddy got me a 4-10 gauge shotgun, and Petunia and I became the designated pest control team for the farm.  Our main target pests were the starlings and rats.  When I would shoot the rats and starlings, Tuni would charge to grab them and shake them to be sure they were dead — then bring them to me.  I was good with the shotgun, and kept the starlings from hurting the other birds.

If there was evidence of a rat in the chicken coop, I’d leave the door ajar, and Tuni and I would sneak out after dark to peek inside.  Tuni was perfect; she stayed close beside me, and never made a sound.  The one bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling was enough light to see if there was a rat in the feed trough or near the baby chick brooder, and I would get off my shot.  Tuni would leap past me to do her job of making sure of the final kill.

I stepped into the shop one day and saw a big rat by the workbench.  “TUNI!” I yelled, “GET HIM!”  Tuni, who was right behind me, saw the rat and made a great leap into the shop — landing squarely above him. The rat closed his eyes and froze.  Tuni had jumped a little too far and couldn’t see the rat under her belly. She was looking all around in front of her, trying to see where the rat was.  The rat finally saw the way out between Tuni’s legs and disappeared into the mass of stuff stored nearby.  Mom and I laughed and laughed about Petunia and the rat that got away.  Petunia the hunter!

PETUNIA

Petunia was a Dalmatian Coach Hound,
The hound of Hix Haven, our farm.
When a car pulled into the driveway,
Petunia would sound the alarm.

Petunia and I were most diligent;
We guarded the farm day and night.
We watched for the rats and starlings;
With orders to shoot them on sight.

To protect the chickens and songbirds;
We patrolled the coop and the yard.
No farm pests would bother our family;
Petunia and I were on guard.

116.  Bandit

Daddy came in the outside kitchen door with something cradled in his old bandana.  I could tell from his look that he had something special.  He put it down on the kitchen table, but before he could untie the bandana, a fuzzy brown head popped out of one end with ears at attention, and black circles around bright black eyes that locked on mine.  It was love at first sight!

“A baby raccoon!  Can we keep him?  Can we keep him?” I exclaimed.  Mom smiled and replied, “Well, he wouldn’t have been wandering around by himself and so easy to catch if he still had his mother, so we’ll have to keep him until he’s big enough to fend for himself in the wild.”

We named him Bandit because of his black mask, and he soon demonstrated what a ball of fun he would be.  Mom warmed some milk and put it in a baby bottle, which Bandit easily juggled with his four paws to drink while lying on his back.  Bandit’s second trick was to grow almost literally by leaps and bounds, and he was soon loping through the house to jump into my lap to be petted.  He would steal a washcloth from the bathroom, and bring it to me.  When I grabbed the cloth, Bandit would back off and play tug-of-war.

Bandit would climb on the back of the sofa behind my dad, lean on his shoulder, and then fish around with his paws in Daddy’s shirt pocket.  The only things he could “catch” were Daddy’s pen and pencils, but Daddy thought it was great fun!

By the time my dad’s father, Grandpa John, came to live with us, Bandit was huge!  For some unknown reason, Bandit targeted Grandpa John for aggressive play.  Bandit would run and jump to wrap his paws around Grandpa’s leg, and bite his kneecap.  Grandpa John would yell, shake his leg and buffet Bandit, until one of us ran to the rescue to pry Bandit loose.  Grandpa then stomped away, mumbling about “that dumb ‘coon.”  Bandit apparently thought it was fun.  We thought it was funny.  But Grandpa John did not think it was fun or funny!

Toward the end of summer, Bandit had grown really big; certainly big enough to go back to the wild, but before we could let him go, he learned to “nose” his way out through the screen door in the kitchen, and out he went!  At supper time, he came scampering up the porch steps, climbed straight up the outside of the screen door, pushed the door open at the top, and came head first down the inside of the screen.  How he learned that trick, we’d never know.

Bandit let himself in and out whenever he wanted, and was free to go.  He stayed outside longer and longer, and finally several days at a time.  When the cool of autumn dictated closing the kitchen door at night, and Bandit wasn’t back by dark, we reluctantly had to close the kitchen door.

It was a cold night, and the first heavy snow of winter, when we heard scratching on the inside of the basement door.  When we opened the door, in bustled Bandit making wet paw prints across the kitchen floor.  He put his cold paws up on Mom’s knees and looked up into her face as if to say, “Hi Mom. I’m back, what have you got to eat?”  Bandit had discovered a basement window left ajar, which became his winter entry for that year.

Bandit finally did not return, and in spring we imagined he had met a beautiful lady raccoon, and was out there somewhere in the woods raising his own family of baby ‘coons with black masks and bright black eyes.

WHY?

Why do raccoons wear a mask, and sneak around at night?
Why do skunks and penguins, dress in black and white?

Why are pigs so dirty, and kitty cats so clean?
Why are pretty bluebirds nice, and starlings all so mean?

Why are dodos dumb, and owls very wise?
Why do fuzzy caterpillars turn to butterflies?

Why is there a twinkle, sparkling in your eye?
Why do pretty rainbows arc across the sky?

Because my Father put them there, that’s the reason why!