Dumb dog, why are you following me?

Her kennel has her name painted on it:
Kiwi Carter-Johnson

I was telling Steve that there are sights and sounds of my childhood that come back to me, suddenly, just as though I am back in that place again.

One of them happened to me as I was walking by the food that the dog eats. It is purchased in big 50 pound bags, is dry and is stored by the washer and drier.  That means, when I bend down to sort the whites from the blacks, it is probable that I will get some smells of the past.

When I could smell that again, that musty wet mash smell of the commercial dry mix that my dad would stir up and feed to his dogs, I could be 8 years old for the way that my mind can place me directly in that now-long-forgotten past.

We didn't have dogs that stayed inside.

Doral's were dogs were kenneled outside, and trained to hunt with him, either setters or spaniels.

What we have here is a dog that doesn't know who she is, a poodle or a setter.

 ... a little setter in the Carter-Johnson poodle ...

Take a look at her stance in the yard this morning.

I was out trying to capture a bird that sits high on a tree. "A hawk," I said to Steve, earlier in the morning.

"A pigeon," he replied.

So, off to gather my killer evidence, something on film that would convince my son-in-law I was right.  I travelled to the back yard, and there was Kiwi behind me, her tail up, her legs apart, her nose pointing to the air, one paw in the air, making any Setter owner proud -- except that she is known at home as a poodle.

Somehow, connected to the dog is the following.  Previously, Rebecca and I were talking about her kids and the fact that though both of them fear "punishment", neither of them know exactly what that looks like, nor can they articulate the forms it takes, since they have never been punished.

Obviously Steve is right.  This is no hawk!

But somehow there is a punishment, a terrible one implied in Steve's strong words to them, "Either do 'X' or I will assign you to clean up the dog excrement in the back yard".

"No, not that, Dad," they say in terror.

One morning, when I was out doing a little yard work, I thought to myself, "how can this punishment be .. the "clean up the dog poop" side of the two horned dilemma they face for their punishment?"

Having never seen one of the boys choose that alternative presented to them,  I decided to see what it felt like.

I suited up appropriately (bagged my hands) and finished cleaning everything up in far less time than it would have taken me to mop a floor or put away dishes, or sort the wash.

I have never done that job before,  in my life, for anyone's dog.

If it were presented as one of the alternatives to one of my regular time-consuming and invisible house maintenance jobs, I would take it any time for the speed with which it can be done.

Still, at the end of the day, I felt somewhat like Steve had Tom Sawyer-ed m.

Arta