Thursday, December 23, 2004
Livestock crossing
By The Erudite Redneck
“It smells of boy in here.”
— Jedediah Nightlinger, black cookie hired by drover Wil Anderson (John Wayne) to feed the youngsters he is forced to hire to cowboy on a cattle drive in the 1972 classic “The Cowboys.” Nightlinger, played superbly by Roscoe Lee Brown (both actor and character plenty strong enough to play the first black man most of the boys had ever seen), utters the verbal sneer upon entering the bunkhouse where the rambunctious lads are sleeping.
“It smells of dog in here.”
— Me, this morning, the aged yet still regal Pembroke Welsh corgi, Riker, asleep on his pallet near the foot of the bed. (Not that Riker is stinky! He would be so offended at the mere idea! His pallet, though, might could use a cleanin'.)
Those little cowboys, who came to mind this mornin’ at first light (and first whiff), were out of their element all cooped up together like that in the bunkhouse. The livestock that have taken over our house during this cold spell, likewise, are in the wrong place: inside.
Don’t get me wrong. Our primary dog, Riker, deserves every minute he gets to spend inside. And our auxiliary dog, Bailey, the alleged miniature Dachshund, deserves to be in, the sun room, at least, because his little ears get like icicles this time of year.
But it just ain’t fittin’ to have livestock in the house overnight. Which is the main reason I’ll be glad when this spell of winter has passed. Havin’ critterdogs in the house is somethin’ I had to get used to when Dr. ER and I got together.
Ol’ ER grew up on a farm. And on this farm, the people lived in the house and the animals lived outside. Except for a rat terrier we rescued from the pound in Fort Smith — Prissy, obviously abused and traumatized — I can’t remember a critterdog bein’ in the house for more than a minute at a time, if that.
Prissy was a special case. She laid shakin’ in her blanky, in a warm house, with people doting on her, for weeks and weeks before she came out of whatever shell she’d surrounded herself with to deal with whatever human evil befell her before we rescued her.
When she came around, she loved us like there was no tomorrow. Then, out she went. Outdoors. Houses can be intensive care units for critterdogs, even crittercats, I reckon, but not homes.
The notion of a cat as “pet” is relatively new to me, too.
When I was growing up, cats were half of what lived in the haybarn, the other half bein’ rats. The best we could hope for, it seems like, was to maintain a balance of power between them.
But to have a cat as a pet? Huh. Hadn’t though of that until Mao, the crittercat that showed up and adopted us on 9/11, came along. Mao sneaks in once in awhile, especially when it’s cold — it was 14 degrees this morning, surely the coldest day of the year here — but she does not live in the house.
Nor do Riker and Bailey, usually.
Greater love hath no man than this: That a farm boy who grew up with a strict concept of ag society and class structure — animals live outside, people live inside — loves his critterdogs, even his stepcritterdog, enough to let ‘em stay in the house when it gets real cold outside.
END
“It smells of boy in here.”
— Jedediah Nightlinger, black cookie hired by drover Wil Anderson (John Wayne) to feed the youngsters he is forced to hire to cowboy on a cattle drive in the 1972 classic “The Cowboys.” Nightlinger, played superbly by Roscoe Lee Brown (both actor and character plenty strong enough to play the first black man most of the boys had ever seen), utters the verbal sneer upon entering the bunkhouse where the rambunctious lads are sleeping.
“It smells of dog in here.”
— Me, this morning, the aged yet still regal Pembroke Welsh corgi, Riker, asleep on his pallet near the foot of the bed. (Not that Riker is stinky! He would be so offended at the mere idea! His pallet, though, might could use a cleanin'.)
Those little cowboys, who came to mind this mornin’ at first light (and first whiff), were out of their element all cooped up together like that in the bunkhouse. The livestock that have taken over our house during this cold spell, likewise, are in the wrong place: inside.
Don’t get me wrong. Our primary dog, Riker, deserves every minute he gets to spend inside. And our auxiliary dog, Bailey, the alleged miniature Dachshund, deserves to be in, the sun room, at least, because his little ears get like icicles this time of year.
But it just ain’t fittin’ to have livestock in the house overnight. Which is the main reason I’ll be glad when this spell of winter has passed. Havin’ critterdogs in the house is somethin’ I had to get used to when Dr. ER and I got together.
Ol’ ER grew up on a farm. And on this farm, the people lived in the house and the animals lived outside. Except for a rat terrier we rescued from the pound in Fort Smith — Prissy, obviously abused and traumatized — I can’t remember a critterdog bein’ in the house for more than a minute at a time, if that.
Prissy was a special case. She laid shakin’ in her blanky, in a warm house, with people doting on her, for weeks and weeks before she came out of whatever shell she’d surrounded herself with to deal with whatever human evil befell her before we rescued her.
When she came around, she loved us like there was no tomorrow. Then, out she went. Outdoors. Houses can be intensive care units for critterdogs, even crittercats, I reckon, but not homes.
The notion of a cat as “pet” is relatively new to me, too.
When I was growing up, cats were half of what lived in the haybarn, the other half bein’ rats. The best we could hope for, it seems like, was to maintain a balance of power between them.
But to have a cat as a pet? Huh. Hadn’t though of that until Mao, the crittercat that showed up and adopted us on 9/11, came along. Mao sneaks in once in awhile, especially when it’s cold — it was 14 degrees this morning, surely the coldest day of the year here — but she does not live in the house.
Nor do Riker and Bailey, usually.
Greater love hath no man than this: That a farm boy who grew up with a strict concept of ag society and class structure — animals live outside, people live inside — loves his critterdogs, even his stepcritterdog, enough to let ‘em stay in the house when it gets real cold outside.
END
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Many, many long years ago I was stepmom to an 8-year-old Cub Scout and was invited to attend some soiree hosted by said Cubs at the local grade school. OH MY WORD. It was the first time since grade school I had been in a room full of 8-year-old boys. The smell... was... distinctive.
All in all, I would much prefer sleeping with a poodle in my bed. But I do give you credit for avoiding dogcicles in the yard.
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All in all, I would much prefer sleeping with a poodle in my bed. But I do give you credit for avoiding dogcicles in the yard.
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