Fiddleback Fourlegged Friends

I have just gotten back online and came to check out Fiddleback Forge and see how Andy & Co. are doing when I was captured by this thread. After 28 pages of good and sad news (sorry about Beau, Andy,) I'm thinking some folks might enjoy a bit of the Young Bert, the not-right dog stories.

I'm not sure I can load pictures to this thread though. OK. Just joined to post an image.

 

Hi Kismet. Bert looks like a handful. Welcome back.

 

I'd just gotten Young Bert, the not-right dog, from the breeder who followed me home so I wouldn't change my mind. YB was going to put down for chronic barking and running away (only when the wife was at home alone...odd, eh?). He once walked into an all-night Walgreen's through the electric eye doors, and just meandered around, meetin' folks.

He'd spent most of his life tied to a tree in a yard in a western Chicago suburb. He was not a house dog, except in the most simplistic sense of the term. Dad didn't train him and Mom didn't want him. This was a shame, for he was beautiful, smart, and could have used the socialization. I've always thought that the more stimulation a young dog got, the more intelligent it became. I know this is true of human babies...pathways form in the brain, and with regular stimulation, become permanent. If the stimulation halts, the pathways deteriorate.

He was friendly during the first hours/day that he and I were getting to know each other. A little rambunctious, but he was just over two years old, and congenial, if a little anxious about the new surroundings and lack of familiarity with the human in the house.

I went to take a shower, closing, but not shutting the bathroom door. I was in the shower, cleaning up, when I heard the door open and the click of his toenails on the bathroom floor. YB was coming to check on where I was.

There was a pause, then ever so slowly, first a brown nose, then muzzle, then eyes, then head of a dog pushed aside the shower curtain and looked to see what I was doing. I said "hello" and went about my business. He just stood there.

Then, with pains-taking slowness, a paw appeared, rested on the tub side, and then extended itself into the bathtub. He looked at me. I looked at him. We looked at each other. I was curious. He was anxious.

Then, another front paw appeared, and with the same deliberate movement, extended itself so that the front of the dog was now standing IN the tub, and the body and back half were outside on the bathroom floor.

He looked up. I laughed. "What is THIS," I said. He did not reply. He just stood there, with the spray of the shower ricocheting off the wall and tub up on his legs, chest, and face. He put his head down a bit, then, almost abashedly, awkwardly lifted a rear leg in and then brought the other in.

He stood still, head down. Then he looked up at me. I was hooting as the now-almost drenched dog stood at the end of the tub. Very tentatively, he sort of shuffled over towards me, into the heavier deluge of water. First his head, then shoulders and back came under the main spray.

He just stood there, head down, getting soaked, and then....


sort of leaned into my leg, putting some of his weight against me.






It was one of those moments...you know...where two separate species fully understand each other. He was apprehensive and scared of being abandoned again and I knew it...exactly as if he were articulating his apprehension in words.

I finished the shower and used a "good" towel to dry him off. Got a fresh one for myself, and took him out in the kitchen for some dog-bribe.

Later that week, he did it once more, but never again since.


But he still "ain't right."

 

my woo woo

 

Such soulful eyes...you can almost hear the wish to be out running and fetching and leaping and panting.
Great image.

 

Love my two boys. Woody (aka, Woo Woo) and Creed.

 

Young Bert, part 2



On Tuesday, December 4, 2001, young Bert, the rescued dog, and I go out in
the afternoon to see if we can aggravate any pheasants at Yellowstone
State Park. Bert's done very well the last two times out, while I have missed
everything in the sky that I shot at, including, perhaps, the atmosphere.
Rather than take responsibility for the misses, I blamed the shotgun, and
took off the inch-thick recoil pad. (Bert did not blame the shotgun.)(Bert
needs to pay attention to who is buying the dog food.)

The weather is unseasonably warm lately, and though overcast, refuses to
rain, can't possibly snow (mid-40's), and seems to always have a light
wind. There were a few other cars in the parking area, but only two hunters
within sight. Bert thought the outing was a good idea. I found myself pleased
that the shotgun shells I brought fit the shotgun I brought--this is not always
the case. I've learned to appreciate small joys.

We walked. And walked. Then, we walked some more. Oddly, the miniature cow bell
on Bert's collar becomes a focused sound, and the cadence, and volume send information
to me...where he is, how he is moving, if there is a scent that makes him slow, or speed up....

Nothing. Two other hunters stop to chat, they've seen a bird, and have been
told that 60 or so were spread out over the 1,000 acres, but no joy as yet.
Nice guys, one having taken the afternoon off to hunt before Winter shuts
down the possibility, the other had hunted this same area in the morning,
and thought I might find some pheasants in the woods. "Might" being the
operative word.

Bert and I meandered on, working the high grass edging the woods. He got
birdy a few times...but nothing materialized. I keep waiting for him to
encounter a skunk...but, I can't say I'm looking forward to it. I've
educated him once on the consequences of deer-chasing, but I'm not sure
just how well the lesson took. Time will tell.

At the back of the property, near where two small fields are occasionally
planted with corn, and near where a friend once shot, in sequence, two
single birds that flushed simultaneously*, Bert started getting interested.
At least I think he did. The grass was about 7 feet tall, and I am not. He
may have been shaking the cow bell with his paw.

But, I began my "VINTAGE STALKER" walk (there is no resemblance to Elmer
Fudd's hunting movement...none) (OK, well some) (OK, I don't want to talk
about it) and the sounds from the bell...slowly died just in front of me.
Now, I chose to think Bert was on point. He may, in fact, been devouring a field mouse,
which to him, are like Cheetos. (Another thing I will NEVER
understand.)

I am a study in focused... er...walking...in 7 foot high grass with a
double-barreled shotgun at port arms. (NOT Fudd-like.) I come upon the
brown behind of Bert, who is pointing at... something. Something in front
of him. I edge up to him, he edges a bit forward.

CACKLE THRASH, CACKLE, CACKLE THRASH, FLAP FLAP FLAP....two roosters go up,
and away...one to the front, one to the left.... I level the gun (I think,
dunno, happens fast) fire the right barrel at the straight-away bird, swivel...
and fire the left at the (duh) left side bird....

Hallelujah!

They both went down. I just shot an unwitnessed, sequential pair of single
pheasants. Lord. Not sure, maybe the second time in my life...maybe the
first. Good golly, Miss Molly.

I walked on a line to the left-side bird, found it, and set about field
dressing it, waiting (hoping) to see Bert show up with the first bird after
which he charged. Bert arrived. No bird. Hmmmm. Doesn't mean I missed it (I
KNOW I didn't miss it.) I resisted the temptation to go look immediately
for it, and finished with the first bird. Bert seemed surprised to see it.
(Hell, I was surprised.)

Finished, walked though the high grass, and Bert surged ahead, found the
second bird. I said "Fetch." He looked at me. Then he lay down next to it.
We have some work to do on "fetch."

But, by golly. I went from missing the sky to hitting a set of two sequential
singles. I KNEW IT WAS THE SHOTGUN.


*The discussion here is that when my friend shot his two birds, he thought
it was a "double." Not being a smart-ass, but rather a person who
appreciates accuracy in language, I maintained that he shot two birds with
two shots, hence...it was sequential singles. In baseball, a "double" is
two bases with ONE hit, seems like in hunting it ought to be the same: two
birds with one shot.
However, because I am a generous person, given to compassion, I am now
willing to reconsider the definition. My reconsideration has nothing to do
with my recent experience. Honest. #blush

 

I was supposed to be on vacation in Phoenix. Since we couldn't go my wife and I decided to take the pups on a day trip hike in the Pigeon River Forest.
20200531_142017 on Flickr
20200531_150009 on Flickr

 

This is Mr.Mochi. He’s a rescued half Maine Coon, half Tabby.

 

Best pic in this thread

 

HAHAHA Love it!

 

Do I see two French Bulldogs??

 

Yes sir.

 

^ That is so cool !!! So i think the Girl is fair and in pink and the Boy is dark and handsome??

 

Both females. I’m WAY outnumbered in my house. Haha

 

Well i guess it’s a GOOD thing

 

A light lunch

 

My dog is five months old in the first picture and 2 years old in the second one.

 

Chillin in the camper.