Love is a many splintered thing

We once had this dog named Mandy. She was a sweet, good-natured dog, some sort of golden lab mix. She could catch a bird better than any cat. I once saw her jump and grab one in mid-air. Mandy also had a reputation. You know how they say that every group of girl-friends has one tramp, and if you don’t know which of your girl-friends it is, IT’S YOU. Well, in her group of doggie friends, Mandy didn’t know.

Several times a year Mandy would bless us with a large litter of puppies. There would be so many she couldn’t adequately feed all of them, so me and Ma would make oatmeal to supplement. You have not lived until you clean oatmeal off of 12 squirming puppies. Yep, I said 12—which was the smallest liter she ever had. Then you had the job of finding these dogs good homes. No easy task considering Mandy had so many “dates” that she had some really mixed up looking pups.

And speaking of dates, Mandy was very determined to um, go out, as it were. I have seen her climb fences, chew ropes, and go threw electric wire howling her head off. Finally, although I deplore chaining a dog, we had no choice but to chain her during her time of need.

There was one dog in particular who loved to use Mandy to carry on his family line. He was a large Collie/Sheppard looking mix. You could always count on one in the liter looking like him. Late one night, I looked out the kitchen window, and who do you think was whispering sweet nothings in Mandy ear. Yep, it was the neighborhood Canine Casanova. Somehow he had gotten in our fence. I was not going to stand idly by while he created more oatmeal munching mongrels. I was to through! OF COURSE YOU KNOW THIS MEANS WAR and my weapon of choice…flatware.

I yell to Ma, “he’s out there, let’s get him” As I started out the back door, I realized I had no weapon, so I grabbed the large wooden spoon Ma kept hanging on the wall. Right on my heels was Ma, who decided that seemed a good idea, and she grabbed the fork. Casanova looks up as I go screaming madly in his direction waving my spoon in the air. He takes off, and I am in hot pursuit. I get close enough to give him a good whack across his back with my spoon. I landed such a blow that I broke my spoon. Ma is coming around the other end of the house to head him off, so I yelled, “Ma, I got him but I broke the spoon”. She sees Casanova coming in her direction and yells back, “that’s OK baby, I’ll get him with the fork”. And get him she did. As he made the leap for the hole he had dug under the fence, it slowed him down enough that Ma gave him a severe beating with that fork. The fork was obviously much better made than the spoon, because she was able to land a good 20 blows before it broke.

I can honestly tell you that we never saw Casanova again, and finally, that hideous spoon and fork were no more.

Have I ever mentioned that our neighbors never spoke to us much?