Poo-Patrols and the Methane Momma

Category: gardens and old home renovation | Posted: Mon Nov 19, 2007 6:33 pm

Right off the bat, I want to provide assurances that the title of this blog is not a harbinger of worst things to come. There will be no deep dive into poo-dom on my watch. Instead, I am forced to come to grips with new realities that impact my life as a gardener, not to mention forcing me to trip the light fantastic as I negotiate my way across the lawn.

With my recent marriage, so much has come into my life that enriches it, and I am very much aware of my blessings. Not only do I have a wonderful wife and friend, but I also have a really neat step son, a new cat and two really great dogs. So, the math in my house is now one female wife (in today's world, it is advisable to point out the gender of one's wife), a daughter, two female dogs and two female cats. Then, there is my step son and me- the testosterone orphans in a calm sea of estrogen.

It is about the dogs that I write here. I knew them long before my marriage and we enjoyed a relationship of mutual respect and growing confidence. After all, they embodied so many of the characteristics I have come to cherish in my life. They are fiscally responsible, they do not wear pants in such a way as to suggest that they are plumbers, and they demonstrate a large measure of intellectual curiosity. It is true that they were given to wandering their neighborhood with wild abandon. But, to be fair, they could always be counted on to return at the slightest sound of a massive bag of Alpo being ripped open. In planning our life together, my soon-to-be wife and I had made arrangements for an invisible dog fence to restrain their mad dashes, and- just as important- to protect the formal garden I have worked on for the past 11 years. I thought I was ready for a squire-ific peaceful life on our mini estate.

Any dog owner out there undoubtedly now realizes that I have never owned a dog before. My knowledge of dogs pretty much came from watching Lassie on 1950s TV and Rin Tin Tin at the movies. They never shed. They never barked except when that doofus Timmy fell yet again into another well. And they certainly never poo-ed. It was, after all, the 1950s.

Boy, have I ever been disabused of any of those notions. I find myself announcing on a regular basis that I am headed out to the back lawn on a poo-patrol. That area now qualifies as one of the largest canine rest stops in the Carolinas. How it is that just two dogs- albeit fairly large dogs, but nothing like the stature of the Hound of the Baskervilles - can be so productive is a wonder and a mystery worthy of investigation by the National Academy of Sciences. We Americans are so often beaten about the head and shoulders because we refuse to join the rest of the world in use of the metric system, and for that reason I will try here to be international in my reporting. The productivity of those dogs must be measured is the kilograms. I recently had outpatient surgery on my right shoulder, and I must be mindful while on poo-patrol to only use the right arm for the picking up. It is the left arm that must, as we say in the South, do the heavy toting.

Now, to be fair, I shouldn't single out our dogs (they are our dogs when I remember them with particular fondness, but her dogs when I am on poo-patrol) for such public exposure. Thanks to the invisible fence protecting the garden, my patrolling is limited only to the lawn. Honesty forces me to note that a goodly number of All Creatures Great and Small live nearly invisible lives in our midst and have no compunction at all at using my garden as a porta potty. We are regularly visited by deer and rabbits and raccoons, all of which leave what Southern ladies of another era liked to refer to as "calling cards." No one pretentiously showing their garden with pride, as I recently did, wants the tour to be punctuated by discussions about what card came from what caller. No indeed!

And while I'm bearing all, there is one more thing I need to share. One of "her dogs", which shall for purposes of anonymity be called Lilly, is as loving and gentle a creature as the Creator has ever blessed us with. She's now in her reclining years and wants nothing more now than a warm rug, a tennis shoe to carry aimlessly from point A to point B in the house, and the reassuring comfort of her mistress's company. I am a mere after thought in this scene of domestic tranquility, but I often find that I am in Lilly's company as well, particularly as I sit with my wife and watch a movie on TV. Lilly has a problem that seems to afflict so many of those who are aging, myself included. Not to put too fine a point on it, she has periodic eruptions of methane. Actually, periodic is not as accurate a word as it should be. Frequent is far more specific. The reliability and regularity of Old Faithful doesn't hold a candle to Lilly. Come to think of it, it would not be wise to hold a candle too close to Lilly due to that regularity.

I've actually speculated that Lilly, who I call the Methane Momma, is singularly responsible for global warming. The bovine crowd has been singled out by scientists as having an important role in causing global warming because of their flatulence. I beg to differ. I think that cows and others of their ilk have gotten a rotten gaseous deal. If I had the time, I would research whether there was an appreciable increase in atmospheric methane prior to Lilly's middle age. My bet is not. However, I feel certain that the research results would only confirm my theory of Lilly's culpability.

Still, when global warming has caused the seas to rise and waves are lapping at the steps of Melrose, our Southern manse that currently is 80 miles from the rising Atlantic, I will love Lilly all the more. I'll simply pause the movie we're watching, cross the room to open windows for cross ventilation and return to watching an old Lassie episode.

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Comments

eileen wrote on Mon Nov 19, 2007 8:20 pm:

Awwww SouthernCurrent you can't stop now!!! I was having such a great time reading your blog that I didn't want it to end.

I thoroughly enjoyed every 'rib tickling' word and found myself laughing almost to the point of tears at your words.

Having been a dog owner for many years I can fully appreciate that unforgettable aroma produced by our canine comapanians. Makes your eyes sting doesn't it? LOL

Looking forward to your next blog entry with impatience.

Sherry8 wrote on Tue Nov 20, 2007 12:27 pm:

This sure sounds familiar to me........meaning the dogs of course and not my husband...lol

[IMG]http://i28.photobucket.com/albums/c216/SherryWi54956/siggies/the_cardinal_sherry.jpg[/IMG]

glendann wrote on Tue Nov 20, 2007 5:38 pm:

I enjoyed every word southerncurrents.I almost ruined my key board with coffee as wasn't looking
for the laugh of the week to be in this blog.My mom had a dog that would cause your toe nails to curl up .He certainly was named correct ,Bigun Lol