Note: A prologue from my upcoming autobiography, Life’s Too Short to Smoke Cheap Cigars (Or to Drink Cheap Whiskey.)
Doggone!
Most everyone is familiar with Man’s Best Friend, those lovable shaggy mutts that follow us around, love us unconditionally no matter how unpleasant we may be, who fetch sticks and bark at squirrels and do a million amusing, adorable and admirable things.
But those of us who have owned and trained bird dogs know the other side of the story – how you can spend years and tons of money carefully training a dog from puppyhood, indulge it, feed it, pamper it, bond with it, train and train and train and train for hours in the field and then, have that dog do something so unbelievably thickheaded and harebrained that you have to question your own sanity in getting involved with Dogdom in the first place.
These days I travel a lot while conducting my business, which kind of precludes all the effort required in raising and training a puppy up into a proficient gun dog. I’d like to have another good bird dog again someday but have known for a long time that this will probably have to wait until I retire. A while back I wondered aloud why it really was that I missed having a bird dog. Our oldest daughter, who has a beautiful, friendly yet rather knuckle-headed chocolate Labrador, said “…because they will do anything to please and derp derp derp their way into your heart.” All true, but sometimes you have to wonder…
You Take the Good with the Bad
Folks who read outdoor magazines see those lovely portraits of well-groomed pointers locked up on a classic point, waiting for their master to walk up and flush a brace of grouse or a covey of bobwhites. They may also have occasion to peruse artwork of a wet, happy, noble black Labrador holding a recently deceased mallard after a flawless retrieve.
Those moments happen, of course. Those dogs are real, as are their happy owners. But what you don’t see is the dark side; the fact that, say, that Labrador has to eat the first duck of every day before flawlessly retrieving all the others, or that the beautiful English Setter or German Wirehair in the first photo has the unbreakable habit of picking fights with raccoons and opossums.
It can be worse; the lovely portrayals in the magazines never show the owner’s reaction when the dog comes back full of porcupine quills or reeking of skunk.
Every dog has its day, as they say, and every gun dog has those moments which make you want to tear up with joy. And then, on the way home, you stop off at a diner for a quick bite and, while you’re inside having a quick sandwich, your dog attempts to eat all the upholstery in your brand-new truck.
A good friend of mine had a wonderful waterfowl dog, a Chesapeake Bay Retriever who was tough as nails, impervious to cold and wet, and good-natured and gentle around children. Rafe (the dog’s name) was the kind of waterfowling dog many sportsman dreamed of – until you found out that he hated muskrats with a passion and would abandon a retrieve to frantically swim off after any water-rat that crossed his path. To my knowledge he never caught one; but that didn’t stop a great deal of angry shouting by his owner to “…fetch, damn you!”
Plenty of my friends had dogs, either farm dogs, pet dogs, or hunting dogs (there is a fair amount of overlap among those groups.) Despite witnessing several boneheaded incidents by various mutts and hearing the tales of woe from their owners, when I was in my early twenties, I determined that I needed a bird dog of my very own.
Picking a Puppy
At the time most of my bird hunting was upland game, and some waterfowling. I talked to some dog folks, subscribed to Gun Dog magazine, did some research at the local library and determined that the English Springer Spaniel was the best breed for my purposes. When I decided the time was right, in those pre-Internet days I consulted the Craigslist of the time: The classified ads.
Now there are two kinds of Springer Spaniels. One is the show-bred dogs, who look increasingly like big Lady and the Tramp-style Cockers: Long fur (called feathers by aficionados of the breed) that drag on the floor, long ears, big domed heads, heavy bodies and legs. Then there is the field strain, from whence you get workable gun dogs: Lean, rangy, long-legged, with much less feathering and normal doggie heads. I, of course, was looking for one of the later, so when I saw an ad from a family down in the small town of Winthrop offering “field trial strain Springer Spaniel” pups for sale, I called and arranged a time when I could come see the pups.
There is, of course, a difference between “field strain” and “field trial.” Field trial pups from known, reputable field trial breeders, even then in the early 1980s, would sell for thousands of dollars. I couldn’t afford that; I needed a pup that would make a decent gun dog, but preferably with a price in tens of dollars. The ad I answered listed a price within my budget: $75. The pups in question were clearly of the field strain, but their only field trial connection was a grandfather, a multi-year field trial champion named Saighton’s Superspeed.
I proceeded to the farm supplied with notes on a bunch of flushing dog aptitude tests gleaned from the pages of Gun Dog magazine. There were three pups left when I arrived: A black and white male, a liver and white female, and an unusual little tricolor female, liver and white with tan cheeks and eyebrows.
All the nine-week-old pups did admirably well on the aptitude tests. All showed great willingness to retrieve an old, knotted sock; all showed visible excitement when exposed to a bunch of pheasant feathers tied to a stick, and so on. I was in something of a quandary as to which pup to pick when the little tricolor bitch came over, put a paw on my boot, and looked up at me with those spaniel eyes.
I took her home. We named her Gypsy, for her tricolored coat and for a Fleetwood Mac song that was popular at the time.
A Life of Adventure
Another reason for choosing the name Gypsy was because, at the time, I had a theory that a name with at least two vowels separated by one consonant was the best combination for a dog to recognize its name called from a distance. For her first year, however, I was soon convinced that my pup would grow up thinking her name was “Dammit,” due to the number of times I was shouting “No, dammit” or “Come, dammit!”
Puppy Gyp with our daughter
Gyp was a wonderful dog in many ways, and I quickly came to love her without reservation. No dog can gaze on you with the unfailing devotion of a spaniel, with those big, liquid brown eyes, and she was a master at that. Gypsy was gentle-natured, even with the three-year-old daughter my first wife and I had at the time. She was appropriately respectful of the massive, 18-pound tomcat that she shared the house with. She was biddable, obedient, anxious to please, and once she learned a task, she never forgot it. But teaching her those tasks, on the other hand… She was obedient and anxious indeed, but she wasn’t overly bright.
To this day I remain convinced that an X-ray of Gypsy’s head would have revealed a solid dome of bone with a little acorn-sized brain hidden somewhere in the ossified structure of her head. For example: One of the more difficult tricks to teach a flushing dog to deal with a running pheasant; the trick to teach the dog is to run past the bird and turn it back towards the hunter, so the pheasant will find itself blocked in and flush instead of running.
Gyp learned to respond to whistle commands and hand signals very quickly, but the turnaround trick was a little tougher; she saw no problem with running, oh, say, a half-mile ahead to try to turn a bird that her excellent nose told her was somewhere over the horizon, legging if for greener pastures.
She eventually learned that, though, and by the time her first hunting season rolled around the nine-month-old pup was reliably scouring the field about fifteen to twenty yards to my front, in the windshield-wiper pattern used by good flushing dogs.
I took her to precisely one trial. It wasn’t really a field trial, just an informal local “retriever trial” using live ducks. Gyp was still a pup, less than a year old, but loved the water and was by then an accomplished retriever. When her turn came, the trial judge took a live wing-bound mallard drake, fired a starter pistol, and tossed the duck into a big pond.
I shouted “Fetch ‘er up!” Gyp hit the water, paddled out to the old, trial-wise drake, who promptly hauled off and drilled his stone-hard beak into my puppy’s eye.
Gyp backpaddled, examined the old, hissing drake for a moment, then returned to the bank. She never touched any waterfowl of any kind again, for the rest of her long life. Not just mallards, mind; wood ducks, widgeon, teal, anything with webbed feet, she wouldn’t touch.
The really bad part was the local news coverage. A buddy of mine was a local news cameraman and he saw to it that my pup was featured prominently in the six o’clock news that evening, prompting many laughing phone calls from the group of miscreants I called my friends.
But back to Gypsy. She eventually became a good, even an accomplished bird dog. We hunted grouse, pheasants and partridge across much of the Midwest and, later, quail and mountain grouse in Colorado. Gyp would even retrieve rabbits, which most dogs will resist due the loose fur coming off in their mouths.
That’s not to say, of course, that she didn’t have some bad habits as well.
On the Other Hand: Mice, Cattle and Worse
The mouse issue was partly my fault.
Gypsy loved hunting mice, and to be honest, I let her get away with it on family camping trips. Mice have the unfortunate role of being, essentially, nature’s nachos; everything eats them. On summer family camping trips Gypsy would spend a great deal of time hunting mice in the tall grass around our campsite, and she was quite good at it; the inevitable pounce would be quickly followed by the site of a mouse caught, tossed in the air, caught again and swallowed after a few crunchy bites.
The problem was that she was also easily distracted by mice when we were hunting, but that was a minor problem easily addressed by the application of the instep of my boot to her backside and the command “birds, dammit!” But there are worse things than hunting mice.
I’ve talked about the risks of sharing the landscape with cattle before. With a gun dog around, the risks increase, not necessarily because of the cattle themselves (although I’ve heard many a tale of a bone-head dog that somehow antagonized a herd and ran back to The Boss, with a few dozen angry bovines in pursuit) but rather the after-effects a herd can have on their pasturage.
And Gypsy loved those aftereffects.
There’s little as annoying on an upland bird hunt as sending out a brown-and-white dog and getting back a green one. To Gypsy, the scent of fresh cow pie was more scintillating than Chanel #5; a lovely, entrancing bouquet that she would have to apply liberally by rolling in it, then returning to Boss (me) with the happy expression beaming “…hey, Boss, look, I smell lovely!”
This usually resulted in her getting tossed in the nearest body of water with a few shouted imprecations. As eager to please as she was, I was never able to dissuade her from rolling in cow pies.
Nasty as cow pies are, there is something about them that brings back gentle memories of days afield, of warm summer afternoons and farm girls. But there is no such association with carrion. And as much as Gypsy loved fresh cow pat, she would just as eagerly roll in the carcass of a deer dead two weeks and be just as convinced that she smelled like a petunia on a summer afternoon. Worse, she would occasionally find a long-dead bird in the brush and, without my knowledge, eat it – at least it was without my knowledge until she inevitably threw it up, usually in my truck on the way home.
Gyp in her favorite environment – outdoors
Her crowning achievement, though, came from her somewhat idealized picture of her own capacities; while she was unfailingly gentle and considerate with small children, respectful of cats and friendly with other dogs, when it came to various other critters she was convinced she was a cross between a dire wolf and the Hound of the Baskervilles. She would fight anything on four legs: Raccoons, possums, badgers, you name it. But them the day came when I decided to take her on a high-country ptarmigan hunt above tree-line in the White River National Forest.
We had just crested a small pass, and there was a small stand of pine just below. Gyp had been doing her usual back-and-forth in the low brush, but there was a possibility of a grouse or two in the trees, so I piped out a “stop and look at me” two-note on my whistle and gave her a hand signal: “Check out those trees.”
Gypsy bounded into the pines as I made my way slowly down the slope. After a few moments, I heard her angry barking; realizing something was amiss, I pushed down through the narrow band of trees to spot my dog, fifty yards away, nose-to-nose with a big, pissed-off boar cinnamon bear.
Gypsy was in the boar’s face barking. The bear, being a bear, wasn’t impressed with the expressed rage of my forty-pound dog and was holding up one front paw and popping its teeth. When my boneheaded dog didn’t back off, the bear swung that paw.
My unfortunate dog must have flown twenty feet. While she was enduring her first experience in a ballistic trajectory, I sucked in my breath, fearing that she’d hit the ground dead of a broken neck, as it looked like the bear had hit her right in the side of the head. But she wasn’t dead; just the opposite; she hit the stony tundra ground, rolled, and returned to the assault.
At this juncture, I began to wonder what would happen when she realized she was losing the fight, and ran back to The Boss for succor, bringing an angry bear with her; and there I was, armed with only a 20-gauge shotgun loaded with low-brass shells with 7 ½ shot. After that, I never went into the mountains without a major caliber sidearm on my belt.
Fortunately for us both, the bear tired of the noise and chose to walk off. He disappeared into a draw nearby, and Gypsy returned to me, little the worse for wear, her demeanor proud: “Did you see, Boss, I chased that bear right off!”
In the End…
The autumn woods she loved best.
Gypsy lived to be almost eighteen. When mountain grouse season opened in her last autumn, I took her out once, on a bright, sunny warm day, intending to not really hunt but instead go on a gentle walk with my aged, arthritic dog. Gyp showed traces of the old birdy excitement and rustled around in the bushes for about a half-hour before finally giving up, returning to me with an apologetic air: “I’m sorry, Boss, I’m just really tired.” I took her home. The next month, while I was out elk hunting, I went into town for some supplies and took the chance to call home from the pay phone in front of the grocery store in Eagle. “If you want to see your dog again,” Mrs. Animal informed me, “…you’d better come home.”
I went back, pulled my gear together, told my hunting partners what was up, and drove back to Denver, arriving that evening. Gypsy died the next morning, taking her last breaths looking up at me as I held her head in my hands; I was the last thing she saw. I was miserable for days. I really loved that boneheaded old farm pup. Despite her bad habits and misadventures, I’ll always be convinced that a better dog never lived. We had covered a good part of a continent together, hunted a great variety of terrains, a great variety of birds; we saw every manner of weather from fine, warm days to blizzards. On cold nights in the back of a covered pickup bed she would huddle close to me as I shivered in my sleeping bag, not because she was cold but because she loved me and wanted me to be warm. We sat together on many nights looking into a campfire and sharing bits of badly cooked partridge or rabbit. We saw many a sunrise over an open field together and shared many a sunset from the top of an open ridge before making our way back to camp in the dark. A hunting dog is far more than a pet; it’s a partner and companion, a fellow adventurer, and one who loves the hunt as much as you do.
Someday, probably after I retire and hang up my traveling shoes, I’d like to have another gun dog. Plenty of folks have pet dogs, either picked up from a friend, or from a pound or rescue; those kinds of dogs can be great pets, but while a family can grow to love an adorable mutt who needs accomplish no more in life than to turn money into poop, I’ll want a good working bird dog and will probably go to a gun dog breeder and drop a couple grand on a Pup of Great Promise. My budget these days is, after all, considerably less constrained than it was in those long-ago days. And I have no doubt that, like my Gypsy, like every gun dog I’ve ever known, that Pup of Great Promise will exhibit its own bad habits and boneheaded tendencies.
This new pup will also have some big pawprints to fill.
show-bred dogs, who look
Breeding dogs for conformance is the dumbest thing I can think of. One breeds for skill and capacity; if breeding for brilliance, work, and loyalty create something that has ghost eyes and is a amalgam of splotches that could range from sandstone and khaki to brake dust and bluing (Australian shepherd), so be it!
When I was young kid we had a cocker spaniel – sweetest and dumbest dog I ever met. When she got loose, she loved chasing cars. One time she chased a horse, and caught a hoof right in the forehead. A lot of stitches at the vet to close the gash, no apparent damage to her very tiny brain.
This left me misty eyed at the memories of a wonderdog Golden named Annie.
Has anyone heard from Frank lately? I miss that guy and would love an update on his bird dog. Last I heard he had just gotten the critter but that’s been years ago.
If you are listening Frank, stick your head in the door more often.
Scroll down to 18. The youngest, Cutty, is on the right. She’s the best dog I’ve ever had.
I had to put the middle one, Brook, down earlier this year. She was 14. A sweeter creature you’ll never meet.
The one on the left, Bow, is buggered up with arthritis and spends her days on the comfy couch now. She had the best nose of the three.
There will be a new addition mid-July. I can’t wait and am dreading an 8 week old pup all at the same time.
Lovely story. Dogs are good people.
A few dogs ago, the breeder of a pup we had recently acquired dropped by to visit, bringing the sire along for the ride. We lived in Wisconsin dairy country, and my neighbors had a herd.
The sire made a bee-line for the freshest cowpat he could find, got a nice, thick, sticky coating all over himself, and like a good dog came racing back as his owner yelled at him. For a pit, he was pretty well trained. When out on a drive, he had apparently been trained to jump right into the truck when called. The front seat. Which was open.
Hilarity ensued.
To this day, I wish I had a picture of the sire and his pup when we picked them up. Something caught the old dog’s attention (I think a neighbor dog barking), and he focussed on it, all alert and shit. The pup, all of 8 weeks old or so and still mostly belly, noticed his pa and went bumbling over, looked up at him, and then adopted a perfect mirror image stance. The mountain of muscle and the chubby furball made quite a pair.
I was recently soured a bit on pits.
My pits have all been really good dogs, with one exception – a shelter dog that I believe was a Viszla cross. He just had some bad wiring, and we had to put him down after he repeatedly attacked our other dog.
I do keep a very close eye on them, especially around other dogs. Pits are famously intolerant of other dogs, although the Big Dumb One loves other dogs. The Little Fat One, not so much, but she isn’t aggressive around them. She will get pretty pissed at dogs barking, but in person she mostly just wants nothing to do with them.
They are fantastically strong, and very quick. I would not want to get on the wrong side of one, that’s for sure.
It is a bit odd as my brother has always had them and they were the best dogs. I loved them and they loved me.
The one pit-ridgeback mix I ended up with had bad wiring like you describe. Poor thing.
I only have one dog now that I would fear if he were not the best people dog I have ever known. He is a 120 lbs of Catahoula cur but I think he would die before he would hurt a person. He gets a little iffy around other dogs but with people he is solid gold.
I can’t imagine anyone would try to get in my house….when he barks you can feel the boom vibrate in your gut.
– As always Animal a fantastic article and your work is greatly appreciated.
Ridgebacks are on the short list of dogs that I just don’t think I would ever have. Some of the ones I’ve known have been fine, and some have been just mean. I just don’t trust them.
“I just don’t trust them.”
Yeah. Tell me about it.
Chow chows are mean and hateful as the devil himself.
Yes, yes they are.
I’ve never met a full blooded chow chow, but our boy is a black lab/chow chow mix and doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, though he does have some of the other typical chow traits.
Had a male bullmastiff that was always ready for a brawl with any other male, and always looking to make time with the ladies.
That’s great writing, imo, Animal. Lots of great lines in there. Little misty at the thought of those moments when our furry friends have finished their turn, but grateful they come along to learn us to love like they love, to be loyal like they are, and to enjoy life the way they do.
I was playing golf with my father Saturday, and your last article came to mind.
My father is an 85yo former marine. He is a deeply conservative republican. One of his frequent golfing buddies is an 84yo former marine. This guy was a public school teacher for 24 years and a state legislator for 34. He is the stereotypical bleeding heart liberal democrat.
My father said he was sharing a cart one day last year with his buddy. The pro saw them together and later asked my father how they managed to get along.
My father replied “marines comes first”.
there are no “former” Marines
Yes and those of us who have been around them know not to say ex-Marine.
To put this back on topic I used to to hunt with a black lab who used to give me the dirtiest looks when I missed the bird. Gun goes off, find the bird, bring it back. He’d look at me like I wasn’t doing my part in the whole process.
Same lab refused to ride in the center of my duck boat and always had to stand on the bow. Naturally in the middle of January the son of gun managed to put himself in the middle of the bay when we hit a wave. He weighed almost as much as I did and was not fun to get back on board.
Great dog, but all the usual annoying characteristics of all labs.
I used to to hunt with a black lab who used to give me the dirtiest looks when I missed the bird
I think everyone wanted to shoot the dog in Duck Hunt.
It’s been a while since I last played Duck Hunt. One of my favorites.
OT- see the recent Abroad in Japan on Engrish and decorative English
https://youtu.be/V347dTGZVl0
Saw it thanks!
Who kicked up all the dust in here?
I’ve got one getting close to the end. Her hips are giving out, and at 14 we just want to keep her comfortable. I’m thankful we made it past my birthday, as the girl we had before her I had to put down on my birthday.
I’m sorry. My boy is almost 13 and thankfully still doing ok. Definitely slowing down though.
I hope the rest of her time is peaceful.
I’m sorry, it’s really hard to watch the physical deterioration. I had a lot of luck with Galliprant for my weim, she probably got 2-3 more good years with the pain management until other health issues took over.
https://www.cnn.com/2020/05/04/us/don-shula-miami-dolphins-coach-obit-spt/index.html
Gyp? Such a problematic name.
These are the kinds of stories that make me see the potential of Dog as a companion animal. I’ve mentioned in the past that I’ve found a deep disconnect between Dog, the Platonic ideal and dog, the pile of responsibilities that pisses on your shoes and eats your food when you walk out of the room for a second.
Wife and daughter are starting to come around to wanting a new dog after we put our last one down in January. Wife wants a sheepadoodle. I want a dog that can be trained well. A blue heeler is at the top of my list.
However, frankly, I’m enjoying the reduced responsibility of not having a dog. We’re shipping two of the three cats up to my grandparents’ farmhouse next weekend, so we’re gonna be down to one pet when we move. We’ll be able to disappear for a weekend without having to plan things weeks in advance!
Stay away from doodles in my opinion if you can.
My daughter has a blue heeler. When the dog was a puppy, she would take the puppy jogging with her. Now she can’t keep up with the adult dog. So, she has a bike leash attachment so she can ride and run the dog at the same time.
You need a lot of acreage to keep a dog like that from going nuts or you must be a dedicated running/biker.
Heelers are extremely active and need lots of exercise.
We lived next door to one in TX, and she was the sweetest, most well trained dog I’ve ever known. Intelligent enough to only alert when the yotes got within a certain distance of the house, yet enjoyed playing “run the fence” with our ankle biters, and she even left the cats alone after a few months.
I’m not married to the breed, but I want a dog with similar temperament and intelligence when the time comes.
I want a dog that can be trained well. A blue heeler is at the top of my list.
Definitely smart, tough as nails, and long-lived.
Also very hardheaded.
Pater Dean had one while he had cattle. Excellent working dog.
On a bull-buying trip with the manager for a Very Large Ranch, he saw the bull breeder’s daughters with a box full of miniature Australian Shepherd puppies that they were selling. He asked if he could have one if he bought, I think it was three, bulls. They said “Sure!”
He knew the manager was going to buy at least that many, but he really didn’t intend to take a puppy home. As they were getting ready to leave, one of the girls runs up with a puppy and hands it to him.
Great dogs. Very gentle, very smart. Bro Dean wound up getting one, too.
I’m a big fan of the herding dogs.
My GSD was far and away the best dog I’ve ever had. She was amazingly receptive to advanced obedience training, perfect around strangers, protective without being aggressive and so good with the kids, despite being six years old when our first kid was born.
I miss her every day.
We have a mini Aussie. My wife IFE has had dogs her entire life of many breeds and says our current one is the smartest she’s every known.
Getting back to what Don said above, conformance is awful and the AKC is killing breeds in the name of it. For years, they refused to recognize mini-Aussies, which was good because minis aren’t a separate breed. Long time breeders were continuing to crossbreed in full size Aussies to keep from diverging and the only officially sanctioning registry was the stock dog one which was capability focused, not dogshow conformance. Unfortunately, AKC has now recognized them as mini American Shepherds.
Whew…that was a doggone good story there Animal. Our dog is itching to get back out to the desert to roam. He is all dog in every sense. Howls at passing emergency vehicles, chases rabbits outta the yard and I think if we took him out hunting would make a pretty good companion in that sense. His Scottish/Schnauzer mix of instincts make his 25lb frame into a lean mean vermin hunting machine. Plus his damn ears are about the size of his head.
God loves a terrier / Yes, He does
Bright, sturdy, brave and true
They bring their love to you ?
KITH Terriers: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=j5bIW882OR8
“Bass solo!”
What a brilliant show.
I put KITH for my teens not too long ago. They were lukewarm to it. Then again, their humor is still being defined so I just keep reinforcing it with my likes!
The best one yet, Animal. I don’t mind admitting I got a little choked up at the end.
My GSD loved to roll in dead fish up at the cabin. Nothing I’ve smelled since can quite compare. The only good thing was that I could bathe her right in the lake.
Thanks for sharing Gypsy stories with us.
I love your writing. Kind of reminds me of Patrick McManus.
uAw. 18 is a good innings for a big dog.
*aw, that is.
My allergies are acting up.
Why you make me Cry? I miss your Gyp,
Thanks for another fine tale Animal!
My britts
And there he is….and answers my question.
Thank you. That makes my day.
Your dogs look great but you should probably take better care of your pheasants!
Arf arf!
I get pheasants pecking around outside regularly.
I have a britt about to turn 3. I have had a lot of dogs, but he is my favorite. He lives to run in the woods…..as do I. I am ‘training’ him to hunt turkey with me. Watching him put a flock in the air makes me laugh every time. One day I am gonna bring one down if I can stop laughing long enough while watching them strain to clear the trees, LOL.
LOL! Cutty pointed a bunch last fall. Half of them flew up into a tree.
…And me without a tag.
What a great read. Thanks for sharing, Animal.
For the nerds among us:
Hunters, herders, companions: Breeding dogs has reordered their brains
@Trashy (trying to keep a respectful distance between the post and going off topic), regarding Adderall in the last thread: If your work is negatively impacted at all, you are sufficiently debilitated to warrant its use. I say “Better living through chemistry” flippantly, but it’s true. Information/knowledge workers don’t give themselves enough credit for how brain-labor-intensive it is and add ADHD to the mix, it’s even more difficult.
I don’t know what your workplace is like, but if you’re constantly interrupted by people/email/meetings that you can’t avoid, and you never get an opportunity to get into the zone, that’s particularly taxing to your brain. The Adderall would help you get back to it where you left off.
I’ve never taken Adderall or any of those ADD drugs, but I imagine I could have massively benefited from them in terms of academic work and bureacracy, i.e. two things the doing of which run counter to my nature and that I have struggled with. I dunno how I would even go about getting some, but it doesn’t matter now. I don’t do anything remotely academic and my response to bureacratic hell is to either set it on fire or ignore it.
PS – I noticed the other day that whenever I type bureaucracy I seem to miss out the u, except then where I made a very conscious effort not to. I bet Adderall would fix that.
Can you get ephedrine (Bronkaid) there? Warning: it smells like a flea collar.
I haven’t noticed any smell with Bronkaid.
Jet Alert ground up and taken with water is as bitter as an abusive ex.
Thanks, Mo! I’ve thought about Adderall in the past, but my productivity has never really been an issue, and the “good” days focuswise way outnumber the “bad” days. I’m not ready to take the performance enhancing leap quite yet.
Regarding the Monster v. coffee comparison, it’s interesting to me that coffee seems to be pure energy at the sacrifice of focus and monster is a bit more even handed. I usually drink tea, which splits the difference pretty well for me, but all my tea stuff is at the office.
Animal’s animal. I’m getting worried I’ll have read all the best bits before the book comes out.
PS – I’ve never had a dog. Maybe one day.
Most excellent story, Animal! Anyone who’s ever owned a bird dog knows EXACTLY what you’re talking about.
I’m not even a dog fan. Well, there have been a couple that I’ve liked but getting dragged off a bike and chewed on by an unleashed GSD when I was 9 has soured me on most dogs. However, this tale, and the the related comments about y’all’s dogs has me downright misty. G/d bless all the puppers.
*Counts scabs and scratches on forearms*
We recently, against our better judgement, rescued a puppy. Whatdayagonnado? The thing was tiny and near starved to death. It was so weak it could hardly walk. We couldn’t just leave it to die like that.
It is a whippet/something mix.
It was happy to eat food but wouldn’t let anyone touch him. After a few months and lots of effort we have won over his trust. Ugh. The things you regret. My wife jokes that he won the dog lottery (food, shelter, affection, warm bed) but that he chose poorly by coming to our house. We are like a nursing home….not the best place for a puppy. All of our dogs and us as well are old and sedentary.
Despite his whining and boredom I think he will be ok. He is settled in nicely to the routine around here.
When a problem comes along, you must whippet.
Get thee to a fainting couch
A man was spotted wearing a Ku Klux Klan hood in a Vons in the San Diego County city of Santee on Saturday, igniting outrage from the mayor, the head of the Anti-Defamation League in San Diego and others.
A corporate spokeswoman said grocery clerks repeatedly asked the shopper to remove the hood or leave the store, located on Mission Gorge Road.
A supervisor found the man once he was in a checkout line and asked him again to take off the hood or leave, said Melissa Hill, a spokeswoman for Vons, Albertsons and Pavilions stores in Southern California.
The man removed the hood, purchased his items and left.
Photos shared on social media showed the man pushing the cart in the store’s produce area and holding a plastic produce bag while wearing the hood. At least one photo shows the man, who appears to be white and middle-aged, standing behind a cart without a hood.
Santee Mayor John Minto and other leaders condemned the incident.
“San Diego is #NoPlaceForHate,” Tammy Gillies, regional director of the Anti-Defamation League in the San Diego area, said on Twitter.
——-
“So troublesome in so many ways this is still happening in Santee at Vons,” resident Tiam Tellez wrote on Facebook, where he shared photos he took of the shopper. “Disgusting!”
While some questioned why the man was not forced to leave the store, Tellez, Minto and others thanked the store’s management team for stepping in.
“Many thanks to all who stepped forward to curtail this sad reminder of intolerance,” the mayor said. “Santee, its leaders and I will not tolerate such behavior.”
County Supervisor Dianne Jacobs, who represents Santee and other East County communities, also denounced the man’s actions.
“The images I’ve seen are abhorrent,” she said in a statement. “This blatant racism has no place in Santee or any part of San Diego County. It is not who we are. It is not what we stand for and can’t be tolerated.”
Hill said the incident was alarming and shocking.
Boo fucking hoo. I don’t care, anymore. I think that’s hilarious.
“You said to wear a mask, didn’t you?”
I knew someone would post that. Good old Klantee.
Hey Hayek: I know you’re inland, but have you seen the bioluminescence? It’s amazing. I’d never seen it before last night.
I have not seen it! It will have to go on the to-do list.
Thanks.
Headline:
Quotes from mayor:
*scratches head*
Someone tell Fd’A that Winston is spoofing his handle.
Not defending his positions/choices
Just his right to have them
I meant the intolerance of intolerance thing is something that he brings up over and over and over and over and over and over again.
Who died and mad you Karl Popper?
On his death bed, Karl handed me the Black Swan of Falsification.
Anyway, my answer to the paradox of tolerance is that to speak of ‘a tolerant society’ is to commit the fallacy of personification. Societies are not tolerant or intolerant; individuals are. Homophily incentivizes the association of individuals with like views of what they tolerate or not.
Pointing out that people are endowing abstractions with an aura of tangibility is cheating. And possibly intolerant.
Gay
Well, it does come from Greek.
Ah. Sorry. I don’t follow that closely anymore.
I mean it’s not like commies or Jacobins have used the “we must intolerant to the intolerant” to justify mass murder. Oh wait…
Not saying you’re necessarily wrong.
Just saying we get it already.
Also the classical liberals belief in the inevitability of History and Progress lead to them either arguing “We must be intolerant to the intolerant” or “It’s Current Year!” Both have been shown to be pretty terrible.
Not to mention the “intolerance to the intolerant” helped birth the public school system since only the state could mold Teh Yutes away from such intolerance and other backwards ideas.
You missed a few dozen overs.
Hadn’t heard of that until now.
His shtick of talking about the libertarian moment is beating a dead horse, but I’ve…not seen the toleration of intolerance thing before this.
Protesting too much…
I don’t I mean we are living in a time when being libertarian is seen as being inherently intolerant by many people. Oh and our hatred of coronavirus lockdowns makes us literally supporting mass murder.
“ Boo fucking hoo. I don’t care, anymore.”
Yup.
Pretty much.
Imagine, if you will…
Heh…I think Neph told that joke about 10 times on the chat 🙂
The incident occurred a day after a San Diego County mandate requiring residents to wear face coverings in public, including in grocery stores, took effect. The mandate is aimed at slowing the spread of COVID-19.
Don’t you people know a joke when you hear one?
The second sentence is the joke.
The “Oh, good.” gets me every time.
Jerry: And he’s telling Catholic jokes, too, and they’re such old ones. I mean, the Pope and Raquel Welch?
Priest: Oh, I don’t know that one.
Jerry: Yeah, you probably have. They’re out in a lifeboat, yadda yadda yadda, and she says “Those aren’t buoys”?
Priest: Ohhhh…hahahaha
Jerry: Father-
Priest: One minute *continues laughing*
Lovely story Animal. I’m glad your girl had a long, full life with people she loved.
The boneheaded derpiness of dogs is, I think, what makes us really fall in love with them.
A classic:
Lock your wife (husband in your case) and the dog in the trunk of the car. Come back in an hour. Which one is happy to see you?
I would never lock a dog in the trunk of the car. What kind of monster do you think I am?
Handsome gray kitty!
Thanks! He’s a grumpy, drooly old man, but I still find him quite dapper myself.
Very touching story animal, dusty in here right now. Best dog I ever had died in my wife’s arms last Thanksgiving day while I was out trying to find a veterinarian office that was open. Yellow Lab just shy of 14. I had previously tried a Springer Spaniel out as a “compromise ” duck dog but he turned out to be a disappointment.
Other part of your story about cattle reminded me of an incident from the distant past. When I was about 13 or 14 a friend an I were dove hunting on a neighbor’s property and had my brother’s worthless Irish setter with us. The dog ran over to some cattle about 100 yards away and got them all riled up. Next thing we know the dog is running back to us with a Merrill Lynch commercial on his tail. I mean 100 head of cattle thundering right at us. I turned an looked at the fence 50 yards away and quickly surmised that we were dead meat. My friend did the one smart thing he ever did in his life, pointed the 12 gauge right over the thundering hooves and fired! It was amazing, the entire herd did a 180 degree turn in a split second just 15 yards in front of us just. Last time I took that dog hunting.
I do love my dogs. We had two for most of our marriage. Lucy was a mutt – obviously was some chihuahua because of the shape of her head, but she was bigger (25 pounds or so). She was very gentle and snuggly with us, but hated other dogs in general. Used to attack my in-laws’ boxer all the time. We lost her two years ago at age 13. She had suffered from Cushing’s disease for years and then her liver began to shut down, likely cancer. Miss her terribly. She was funny – all dainty in some ways (like a cat, she hated getting wet, and used to carefully tiptoe through wet grass…..yet frequently rolled around in disgusting things like dogshit, rotting food, fish guts, etc.
Our little wirehaired dachshund will soon turn 12. She was the only other dog Lucy ever tolerated, probably because she is much like her. Loves her humans, generally dislikes other dogs.
For doxy people like you: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=wZxJNZMyn-4 (see about 50 seconds in)
Heh…..those poses are familiar!
I always liked this picture of Lucy – it looked like she was reading the plaque.
Dog-product recommendation: https://lickimat.com, a silicone waffle you smear PB or cheese whiz onto. Get the dishwasher-safe version.
Shilo
Good old Klantee.
Haha, California, where anybody to the right of Eugene V Debs is a Nazi.
Your car didn’t hit reserve.
Oh, I dunno. I think that nickname is quite apt.
This state used to be much redder before the base closures and departure of aerospace. At least the Navy and Marines remain in this county.
Yeah, without the military and aerospace industries here, and their effect on the makeup of the surrounding community, I wouldn’t be here.
Backyard fruit? outdoor activities? varied terrain? You’re surely much hardier than me.
To think there are two (R) presidential libraries in SoCal. Rand recently appeared at Reagan’s.
Fun fact: Many years ago, Mr. GT had a cat he named Dammit, since it seemed the most efficient cat name possible. (He later named her kitten Sambo.)
A friend of mine is quite fond of Akitas and whenever possible takes them through the AKC’s Canine Good Citizen program. One of her first Akitas was amazingly smart, but one day he met his match. Apparently he’d been teasing the tiny stray kitten my friend had just brought home, because he then walked into the kitchen with the kitten hanging by its claws from his snout. He gazed up at my friend sheepishly, as if to say, “Ummm…a little help here, please?”
Thanks for your story, Animal. Boy, how we do love our critters!
Your car didn’t hit reserve.
Huh. I was just about to look.
I saw a meme with Dr Evil talking on the phone. He says “Fear if Coronavirus is on the decline. Release the murder hornets!!”
Release the murder hornets!!
Apparently, I now need to hoard honey as well as toilet paper and ammunition.
When will it end!?!?
Hey HE, how are you doing?
Pretty ok. Health has been rough over the past few months but I’m on the mend.
How are you?
We’re all gonna die!
Coronavirus deaths projected to hit 3,000 per day by June, internal Trump administration analysis says
An analysis prepared by several Trump administration departments projects that the number of coronavirus deaths will increase to about 3,000 each day by early June, The New York Times reported Monday, citing an internal report.
The interagency report from the U.S. departments of Homeland Security, and Health and Human Services, also reportedly forecasts that the U.S. will see about 200,000 new Covid-19 cases each day by the end of this month.
Somehow the words don’t match the graphic right beneath them.
Of course deaths are going to increase – all because of those evil meat plants forcing people to work!
It’s not the meat plants that are forcing people to work but the government. The application of the Defense Production Act outside the context of bombs dropping on Leavenworth, Kansas is tyranny.
I take it you are not Wild about Harry?
I prefer the cakewalk.
Meet Me in St. Louis
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGqE291qBoA
What walk?
Under the DPA nobody can be forced to come to work. However, the government can force the company to prioritize its wants and take over control of the distribution. Also, the government gains the legal authority to issue loans to the companies it’s forcing to comply.
They use the damn thing all the time in the military procurement process to control delivery schedules.
Don’t worry, there are plenty of still lawful Cold War-era Executive Orders that take care of that.
David Brooks was out there saying that since everyone is unemployed, now would be a great time to create a “National Service”. So yes. There is never a bad time to conscript you to fulfill the governments projects. I just wonder where they will be having us build the pyramids.
There’s a guy that could really use a good asskicking.
Brooks is a douche.
If he said that, he needs to volunteer fist.
I’m guessing Atlantic City.
The Ramesses Casino – a Trump property.
One of my first official acts as God Emperor will be the rounding up of every single legislator, politician, and pundit who ever advocated some form of national service and putting them on the job doing something physically draining in the hot sun.
These National Service types always mean that their sort of people will get to volunteer reading to schoolchildren in an urban but not too urban school. Maybe, if they get a bad draw, they spend 18 months cleaning bedpans.
They never actually mean drudgery, toil, or danger.
Patching asphalt and tar-painting cracks in the road in August in the afternoon.
“Libertarian” Mark Cuban is pushing a Federal Work Program
David Brooks was out there saying that since everyone is unemployed, now would be a great time to create a “National Service”.
How the holy hell does that make one iota of sense? The reason people aren’t working is because the government shut down the country. Their justification for that is that, if people go out, millions will die!!! So, on what planet does that same situation not apply to people going out for “national service”. Even for a statist, this guy is totally clueless.
I know they’ve got plans for conscription, but I don’t think they have authorizing legislation.
I crack myself up.
I think the EO you’re looking for is 11490.
It was all downhill from EO 66
Indeed.
Also notice how you can find information online for every FEMA Rex Able operation except for the one a few years ago that focused on preparing for a pandemic? I wonder when all those links got broken.
“Also notice how you can find information online for every FEMA Rex Able operation except for the one a few years ago that focused on preparing for a pandemic? I wonder when all those links got broken.”
Fucking libertardians, don’t you know that the Silent Enemy can use that information to avoid our responses?
Look HM. Links cost money to put on the internet, and since the libertarians in congress cut funding, some links had to go.
Yes, the industry wanted DPA invoked for the liability shield. The workers can quit – their choice.
That’s what the Trump administration claims as justification, but the owners of the plants are on record as not saying that at all.
I don’t understand the graph. What model would they be using that hasn’t been updated for two months?
You take 2 points and you draw a line that goes on forever. Don’t you science? In April 2021, we’ll be losing 20,000 people a month.
20,000 people a
monthday!This man knows how to revise!
The current data ends 1 May 2020 in the middle of the graph. The graph shows a steep up tick at 15 May 2020. Someone then deduces that 3,000 people will die every day after the graph ends at 1 June 2020.
The actuals have been flat for a month.
But the modeled deaths don’t come close to lining up with reported deaths. Why include a model that forecasted much lower deaths than reported (and where did they find such a thing)?
But the modeled deaths don’t come close to lining up with reported deaths.
Liars, damn liars, and statisticians . . .
A Useless Model
Right on the money regarding some of the midwest projections – particularly for those horrible states that didn’t force hardcore lock downs.
The bias of the IHME model is right there on the page.
First, look at the range zone. it always runs way high compared to the “likely” line.
Second, look at the transition from actual to predicted. There’s always an “inexplicable” jump. For Arizona, the actual data for April 27 and 28 shows zero deaths (which I’m pretty sure is wrong, anyway). The, for April 29 it jumps to 15 likely, with a range of 2 – 50.
It used to show the pandemic ending by the end of May. Now it stretches it out into June. Why?
An analysis prepared by several Trump administration departments projects that the number of coronavirus deaths will increase to about 3,000 each day by early June
The graph shows a steep up tick at 15 May 2020.
Effing Christ. Another “model”. This will apparently be the first known coronavirus that actually gets worse as the weather gets warmer and people spend more time outside.
Why include a model that forecasted much lower deaths than reported
The model was predicting deaths caused by the Commie Cough, not . . . well, many other deaths.
The model was predicting deaths caused by the Commie Cough, not . . . well, many other deaths.
That makes some sense, but not why they included it in the analysis.
So why the hell report on it (inaccurately) at all?
And here you have it.
Fear. People are going outside and might get back to work.
I cried like this was old yeller. Great story and reminds me of all my pups.
My current dog (lab/pit mix) loves to point and fetch…and chew. That last part I think is the reason he was dumped off in the country and turned up on my doorstep. He’s now happily terrorizing squirrels, rabbits & anything else to dare the yard. He will jump rabbits but haven’t tried birds yet(although the chewing problem indicates that will be a disaster).
Heh.
Weatherman Sven Sundgaard Fired From KARE11 Following Left Wing Facebook Rant
I’m actually shocked they did this.
Shall we send Little Sven a list of stupid and horrible shit that 81% of the country supported at the time?
Slavery was ok until 51% of the people opposed it.
And if 51% support it tomorrow it will be okay again.
I just have this visceral reaction to someone dropping that POV on me. I don’t give a fuck what the mewling morons and cowardly fucks who spend their days gorging on cable news think, any more than I care what my dog thinks. My dog doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, he’s a dog.
If I was the last person on Earth who believed in things that were right, and true, and hones, and good then I’d still be the one in the right. Not because its me believing those things, but because those things are right and true and honest and good.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident.”
Yes. Good. Let the Hate flow through you!
Great story. Thanks Animal.
Another great Allamakee County story. Only one dog in my adult life and after she left for another world we didn’t need the heartbreak again. A Wiemaraner that could read but she never let anyone know. She would let herself out in the morning, retrieve several newspapers and then ring the door bell after she was done with the news. I’d have to hide all the papers before the neighbors discovered theirs was missing.
She’d have been able to write, if she could have held a pen. She loved kids, only time she ever bit anyone was a Justice of the Peace when he was soliciting votes, a real Libertarian dog. She loved to swim, would retrieve a rock from under water, if it wasn’t too deep. Swim to the splash, put her head under water and find the rock.
She loved the cow residue, killed snakes, tarantulas, an opossum once and would chase armadillos until they got tired, about 10 feet. When they went back to doing armadillo things she quickly lost interest.
Thanks Animal, your stories always hit a home run and often are close to home.