I am happy to report that the parts finally arrived that fit my lawn tractor. I have been out of business far too long. The old knees will soon be feeling a tickle or two, judging from the way that rain-laden stuff is crowding my ankles.
We received some precipitation last night, so come Sunday, the day has long been preplanned.
I have been telling my little Tootie Mae to be on her best behavior when work outside of the house needs my attention. Every time that I return to the house, I find her relaxing, waiting for me, in front of the couch. There is nothing out of place - no mistakes.
During late dinner, the other evening, I remarked to Paul that Toot-Toot is a perfect little angel. Of course, Mom bragged on the little dickens too soon.
We looked into the living room, the door a straight shot from the kitchen. "Ms. Innocent" was looking back at us. She reminded me of a black duck with a fuzzy top knot and someone that I know that has a bad beard trim. The rug needed vacuumed twice in the same day. I just could not give her thumbs up on looking cute as a button and expected reaction.
Armed only with a set of the whitest little canine teeth around she broke into the corner of the velvety accent pillow and one of the sofa bed cushions.
There she was with a mouth full of fluffy fiberfill. A larger tuft of the stuff was hanging from her noodle. She knew that her troubles were double. We did not laugh at that one.
Our nephew called to see how we liked the newest addition to our world. I told Jeff how precious Tootie Mae is to us-the games we play and how she spends her days.
Jeff Sartor knows a lot about dachshunds. He owns Tootie's parents and others .He is knowledgeable of the handling of the breed, as to their habits and needs, medical and otherwise.
I said, "Fine! The little girl has settled in. Her vet visit went well shots are up-to- date now and the vet spayed the female. Everything is good with her. I can't thank you enough for making your Auntie happy."
Then, I mentioned her chewing habits, a basketful of wounded stuffed toys popped up from my mind's short store, as well as the damp pillow with the ugly opening in the corner. I asked, "When will she get the thread ripping and fringe nipping habit out of her system as time goes on." He laughed.
The jovial party on the other end of the line said that one day he returned home, after work, to find that Tooties family ripped up the entire couch, a part of some very nice furniture.
I warned my charge that that behavior would not be acceptable by me. I doubt she grasped that. I do know she likes her advisor though, because she brought forth that long wet tongue of hers and licked my shoes.
My late father, Hugh Lynch the beagle trainer would have liked this great little "Weenie Dog." If he were here, Dad might have said, I bet she can't run a rabbit like my pack of hounds do."
I could offer, in truth, "No, but I'll venture to say your outside dogs can't scatter dust mites like Tootie Mae does.
I loved to hear him laugh. He would have done that.
Dad did own dogs other than beagles. His hunting dogs were too busy working to be too close to anyone other than there owner. If the trainer becomes too friendly with beagle, the breed will stay at his or her feet on the trail, as well at field trials.
The field trial follower trained Lynches' Peerless Beagles to be champions and some earned the title.
One day when I visited my parents, the beagle boy came out of the summer kitchen to greet me. He was wearing an ear-to-ear grin on his face. Cradled in his sun-browned arms was a tiny black and white male terrier. He boasted that the skinny little charmer could dig up a mole and bring it straight to the tines of a potato fork. He planned to take his buddy squirrel hunting when the season opened on Aug. 15 of that year. His plan was to teach the eager beaver to retrieve the game from the brambles and he saved the woodsman some steps.
Old softy forgot the rules that he set down for training, including too much show of affection. That did not seem to matter much with that one. The smart little dog was a quick study. Soon he was serving her master well. When dad dropped a bushy tailed fox squirrel from the upper branches of the sturdy native birch, his sidekick earned another hug. The old man and his dog were pals. That was plain to see.
The friendship of long duration came to an abrupt end, a sad one to be sure. It was during the worst of times. The love of his life, the girl that he married in 1933 was a victim of Alzheimer's. It had taken a toll on her as well as my father.
Mom did not converse much and more than that didn't complain much either. Therefore, one night he brought the dog in and allowed it to sleep on the closed in back porch after the canine watched TV with them. That arrangement worked well until the wee hours of the morning of the following day.
The little hunter went behind the big chest freezer, near his sleeping quarters and shorted out a wire. A spark ignited some newspaper that fell behind the appliance.
Not only did that happening electrocute the curious animal, the house and our old back porch burned beyond repair, a total loss.
My brother wrapped the lifeless pet in a blanket carried it away from the grieving owner, by his request and gave it a proper burial, near his training grounds, just because.
For the rest of dad's days he chose to own no more "pet" dogs, rather, the memory of the little dog lived on and his story told.
To us, Tootie is a godsend. Some day I will be telling our story, as well.
Thanks for the emails and calls this past week.
My number is 446-4852 or you can reach me by email at email@example.com.