The Chickens Are Free and I’m Not. Evidently That’s Fair.

Well it’s been a hell of a summer.  Not that it’s over yet, but I know the signs. For one, She’s given the chickens the run of the garden for the last two weeks.  That means She’s stopped being OCD about the details of this year’s garden and is thinking about next year.  That means it’s September.

I’ve been on lock-down for so long I might as well start making license plates, and those cackling velociraptors mince around like royalty.

 

chickens, garden

 

Well, I’ve got news for Her — what they did to the new hellebore bed is probably not going to feature heavily in Her spring 2020 ‘Grand Plan.’ I was about to let Her know and then She yelled at me for eating the compost. So whatever. I’ll let her find the dust bath craters for herself.

 

chickens on lap, garden

Seriously?!?!?!? In what universe is this okay?

 

Quite frankly, she may not even care at this point.  Her Give-a-Damn meter is seriously on the blink.

I get it.  Her Dad died.  That’s blunt, but why beat around the bush? He was here and now he’s not.  And he was pretty cool as humans go.  He called me ‘an intelligent little dog’ and said I was ‘a credit to the breed.’  AND he loved to walk.

 

The man obviously knew a good breed when he saw it.

 

And let me tell you, that’s something that’s been in short supply around here lately.  Throwing a tennis ball 48 times from the deck while You sip red wine might FEEL like You’re doing your duty– but we all know walking is for You just as much as me.  Just sayin – You ain’t getting any younger baby.

 

Kilimanjaro, Uhuru Peak

Speaking of not getting any younger, here She is with her Dad about a million billion years ago. You can tell cause She doesn’t have that crease down the middle of Her forehead that kids gave Her.

 

Anyway, Her Sense-of-Humor Meter is also malfunctioning.  Apparently it’s not cool to be a dog in the sense of being a dog the way I like to be a dog anymore.  Oh it’s all good as long as I’m chasing handfuls of weeds or helping dig a hole or lying on Her lap, but the minute I take off and go see Tagg up at the vineyard you’d think Putin just bombed DC.  Prepare yourself, but the words ‘Shock Collar’ were actually used the last time she caught me.

Geez.  Chillax. He’s 21.  He’s fun.  He reminds me of The Boy.  He’s going to France soon to pick grapes and do young things like WALK. I should totally ask if he needs a traveling companion.  I am SO emotional support animal material.

Anyway, I had some great adventures this year, but because of those meters of Hers I’ve been kept from oversharing my innermost. In Her own words, and I quote, “If I can’t get an article written I see no reason why you should.”

I should definitely talk to Tagg later.

jack russell terrier, tennis balls, dog

mungo's paw

 


By | 2019-09-09T19:48:33+00:00 September 9th, 2019|

About the Author:

Explorer. Varmint hunter. Dirt chaser. Dog.

2 Comments

  1. Peggy Fecker September 10, 2019 at 2:20 pm - Reply

    Love your writing. Full of self, sentiment and wisdom. Thank you for being here.

  2. Jim September 23, 2019 at 2:21 pm - Reply

    Need more articles by Mungo.

    Tells it like it is from the dog perspective.

    No sugar coating.

    Presents the facts with the bark OFF.

    Or maybe ON, he is a dog afterall !

    (very sorry for your loss)

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