THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, June 9, 1995 TAG: 9506080176
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 94 lines
Charlie the Lhasa and I had one of our woman-to-dog chats while we were cruising the back fence line the other day, checking on our crops.
``I think I might enjoy being a farmer,'' the four-footed fuzz ball told me as he chomped down hard on an errant beetle.
``Then, again, maybe not,'' he added as the beetle chomped back.
``You, enjoy being a farm dog?'' I asked. ``You, who have never done a lick of work in his entire life?''
``You mean those guys have to do the W word?'' he asked, a look of distaste crossing his hairy face.
``Sure,'' I told him. ``They have to keep foxes out of the hen houses, hunt down vermin, cut flocks - all sorts of things.''
``Hey, I could handle that,'' he told me. ``In my book a fox is nothing but a long-nosed cat. Hunting down vermin is no big deal, I do it all the time. Beetles, slugs, you name it. And as for cutting flocks, just bring me a knife and fork and I'll cut all the lamb chops that you want.''
``You're a little confused, there, Chuck. First of all, that long-nosed cat you're talking about packs quite a wallop, and he's pretty smart to boot. And the vermin that hang around farms tend to be a little bigger and wilder than the kind you're used to. I've yet to see something with a long skinny tail and whiskers served up with garlic butter in a French restaurant.''
``OK, so we forget the protection and hunting parts. Let's cut to the walking lamb chops,'' he snarled back.
``When I said `cut the flock,' I meant to go in, pick out one sheep and separate it from the others,'' I explained. ``You know, cut it away from the rest of the flock.''
``I sure don't see much fun in separating Mary's little lamb from his mama, especially if you don't plan on eating him,'' he sulked.
``There's not much fun in a lot of the work that farmers have to do,'' I told him. ``Trust me, those flowers you're trampling took a whole lot of the W word on my part.''
``You call what you do farming?'' he asked. ``Sheez, anybody can buy a couple of dozen plants from Kmart, dig holes and set them in. Instant garden, I call it.''
``So where were you when I needed help with all of those holes?'' I asked.
``Doing what I'm supposed to be doing, protecting you from foxes and vermin,'' he replied.
Realizing that our conversation was going nowhere, I changed the subject.
``We haven't seen Hubert and Melanie in a few days,'' I told him.
``Thank goodness,'' the walking dust mop answered. ``Those guys were driving me crazy,'' he said of the robins who had spent the better part of two weeks trying to join us in the family room.
First Hubert arrived and beat madly on our doors and windows in an attempt to get in. Then his wife Melanie, patient and placid, showed up and watched him make a fool of himself.
Next they both showed up with twigs in their beaks and tried to attach a nest to our screen door. When that didn't work, they moved to a bush next to my clothes line.
About that time I wrote a story about the pair and received in return a note from our bird watcher friend, Fred Adams.
``I think you have Hubert and Melanie mixed up,'' Fred wrote. ``From your description I think Melanie is the aggressive one, Hubert the patient observer.''
He likened it to the behavior of human males when their nesting wives go bonkers - or something like that.
In view of our friendship, I overlooked Fred's slight deviation from political correctness. Especially since his conclusions made a lot of sense.
Throughout all of this activity Charlie sat in the family room and expressed his displeasure.
``Get those things out of here,'' he'd snarl. ``They're invading my space.''
Three weeks later when H and M showed up with worms in their beaks (signaling the arrival of more mouths to feed) the fuzz ball went ballistic.
``Stay away from my beetles, you idiots!'' he'd shriek. ``Forget it, we've got a family to feed,'' they'd warble back.
Finally, last weekend Hubert and Melanie appeared in the back yard with the kids. Five fledgling robins with empty heads and wobbly wings. Patiently they coaxed the little ones into the air and out of harm's way. When the dumbest of the bunch (Hubert Jr., I presume) took wing, Hubert and Melanie left the yard and haven't been seen since.
``Thank goodness,'' Charlie said when I reminded him that for the first time in three weeks we had gone more than 24 hours without a visit from the robins.
``And you said I'd never make a farm dog!'' he snarled.
``Excuse me?'' I asked.
``I got rid of that pack of flying vermin, didn't I?'' he reminded me.
Then, with a big grin on his face, he kicked up his heels and wiped out $10 worth of impatiens with a single stroke.
``Any more holes you want me to dig?'' he asked as the remains of four impatien plants disappeared in a cloud of dirt and mulch. by CNB