The Accident

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“Hello, Mom?”

I was at work and it was my daughter calling. I had to put another call on hold to answer.

“Hold on for a minute.”

“Mom, I can’t, it’s an emergency!”

“Just a minute, I’ll be right back.”

The person on the other line just wanted a phone number, which I was trying to give them.

“Mom! I had a wreck! I was hit by a semi!”

That got my attention, “Are you all right?”

She was nearly hysterical. “Yes, I’m on the Interstate. The police are here!”

Good grief, don’t you just love cell phones? There is nothing like getting an eyewitness accident report when you are at the office and can’t do anything about it.

“Are you hurt? Tell them to take you to the hospital.” A third line on my phone was now ringing and going unanswered.

“I’m okay, I’ve gotta talk to the police now!”

“Where are you?” She told me.

“I’ll be right there.”

The first line gave up, and the other line kept on ringing. I don’t know if the first person ever got the phone number or not. I also don’t know why I’m supposed to be directory assistance, but that’s another story.

I called my boss and explained that I had to leave… then I realized that I didn’t have a car. I called my honey and told him the story. He called his boss and explained that he had to leave too.

My daughter called again, “They are towing the car,” she reported.

“Go to the hospital!” I told her.

By the time we got out of the parking garage and drove the fifteen miles, the car had already been towed and my daughter was gone. I wasn’t sure whether to try the hospital or go home. I called her from my cell, “Where are you?”

“I’m home.”

We arrived at the house to find her on the door step wrapped in a blanket and shivering. The police gave her a ride home, but she was locked out. That figures. Her keys were in the car.

“Are you okay, do you want to go to the hospital?” How can someone be in a car that was run over by an 18-wheeler on the Interstate and be okay? She continued to assure me she was not injured.

“What happened?”

“He changed lanes and I was right beside him. My car went under the truck.”

I knew exactly what she meant. I have had the same thing almost happen to me several times. Later when I told other people, they all said the same thing. “That has nearly happened to me.” It seems that trucks have a very large blind spot and if they don’t know you are there, you may end up as tinfoil.

The car is a total loss and is now in the junkyard waiting for the giant beer can crusher to take it to the big recycling center in the sky.

I open the mail today and there was a card from the car dealership, “Happy Birthday to your car.” Guess they don’t know it’s deceased. If I tell them, they will be delighted to fix us up with another one, I’m sure, for the right price. I can practically hear them rubbing their hands together now.

Take my advice and never have children. They will make you crazy. If you already have children, never let them have a driver’s license or a car. If they already have a car, don’t let them have a cell phone. And if all else fails, don’t give them your phone number.

Now, since my daughter doesn’t want to go to the hospital, would someone please take me?

Copyright 2005 Sheila Moss
Posted in Automotive, Family, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Wild, Blue, Yonder

airshow

They came… they flew… they’re gone!

I wish they would bring back the local airshow! I’ve missed it since it quit coming. I don’t know where it’s been or why it is taking so long to return. Like all the other fans around here, nothing could make me happier.

I remember the last time I went like it was yesterday:

I didn’t have an inkling there was an airshow until I saw the flashing sign on the highway, “AIRSHOW.” We whizzed by it, but I was sure it said airshow. I rushed to the computer when I got home to Google “airshow”. Yep, there it was in black and white, or electronic letters – whatever.

I have my own little set of rules on how to go to an airshow. Unfortunately, I forgot about them in my excitement and didn’t obey my own rules too well.

Rule One is get your tickets early and save five bucks per ticket. Problem was, I couldn’t figure out where to get them, some bank I’d never heard of. Once again, I was saved by the Internet and found it was in a grocery store. But I got there late and had to stand in line for 30 minutes. Fifty thousand people going to an airshow and one person selling tickets. No wonder people pay extra and get tickets at the gate.

Rule Two is go early to stake your claim on a good spot up front. We overslept. I didn’t have anything ready. I had to dig through the garage to find lawn chairs and then dust off spider webs.

Rule Three is take your own food because they charge $3 for a bottle of water. I didn’t have anything to take, so I just grabbed up what I could find, water, apples, and diet soda. It wasn’t enough for an entire day.

When we arrived we had to wait in another long line to park. They didn’t seem as organized as they used to be. I guess it had been a long time for them too. By the time we got in and dragged our chairs a mile across the parking lot, all hope of a spot anywhere close to the front line was gone.

I noticed that we were hopelessly out of fashion with our heavy folding lawn chairs. Everyone else had the collapsible kind with its own portable tote bag. Two out of our four were broken, so we had to be careful how we sat on them. Lawn chair upgrades were sorely needed.

Rule Four is to take sunscreen and sunhats. I did remember that, thank goodness! I couldn’t find my airshow hat with the small brim and had to wear my fishing hat, but it was a hat. I used sunscreen, but I forgot about my feet. Who would expect feet to get sunburned?

The flying was just as fabulous as in all other years as the show unfolded against a clear blue sky. There were loops, spirals, Cuban eights, near passes, bombs, synchronized acrobatics and other thrilling demonstrations of man’s artful mastery of the air.

I wonder what it is about an airshow that captures the imagination and holds thousands spellbound as they watch the various aerial feats. Probably something as basic as man’s discovery of the airplane itself, the dream of escaping our earthbound existence and flying like the birds. It has to be something inexplicable to get people to sit in the hot sun for five hours looking up.

But it was a first-rate show, in spite of my sunburned feet. I was already thinking about next time. I saw those portable lawn chairs on sale! And my grandson, who attended for the first time, wanted to add his idea, “Next time, let’s get an umbrella.” Sounded like a good idea to me.

And, if it isn’t too much trouble, let me know about it a bit sooner next time!

Copyright 2005-2018 Sheila Moss
Updated
Posted in Entertainment, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

My TV Has Bad Hair

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In the long list of life’s little annoyances, one of the most aggravating is having the television go out. I have just gone through the tunnel of darkness at my house with a non-working television. I don’t watch television that much, but my honey lives in front of it.

One night the television was working just fine, the next morning “poof” no picture. The aggravation was greatly amplified by the fact that it is one of those large-screen monstrosities that men are so fond of and women hate with a fury.

Honey clicked remote control buttons frantically, thinking it must be something that needed to be re-set. It was no use. The sound was fine, but the screen was as black as the backside of the moon. Like all electronic and mechanical gadgets, it lasted just long enough for the warranty to expire.

“It doesn’t work! I have to get it fixed! Who can I call?”

“Try the place where you bought it,” I suggested.

We couldn’t remember the name of the store. We looked in the Yellow Pages and couldn’t find anything that sounded right. Honey dug through his old receipts, which was much like looking for a lost lottery ticket in the dumpster.

Finally, he said, “I know where the store is – I’ll just go by there tomorrow.” It was on the other side of town, but I didn’t have any better suggestion. He left early the next morning, a man with a mission. When he returned hours later, he said they told him to take two tranquilizers and call them back on Monday when the technician was in.

He was intolerably depressed with no buttons to push all weekend. “Why don’t we put the one from the bedroom in here till it’s fixed?” I asked foolishly.

“It’s too much trouble. I’ll have to disconnect it and move the cable.”

That didn’t seem like much work to me, but I figured I’d better just leave it alone. “Maybe you can watch it in the bedroom then?”

“I’m not ready to go to bed yet,” he growled.

Although the store had said that plasma screen monitors never have problems, the technician was fully booked and could not come for several more days. So, honey “listened” to TV, stared at the empty screen, and brooded.

Being female, I just couldn’t seem to comprehend the magnitude of his despair. He actually tried to blame me for the problem, saying it was because I used the button on the TV to turn it off instead of the remote control. I was beginning to get highly annoyed at this point and assured him emphatically that I would never touch the thing again, not even to turn it off, even if it played all day and all night – forever!

Finally, the technician showed up. Honey took the day off work to be there. It took hours to fix it I learned later, something about it being connected all wrong. A fuse blew and it shorted out. The more complicated the gadget, the more there is to go wrong with it, I’ve noticed.

The monster now works better than ever. It was not set for high definition before. Now it is so sharp it will burn your eyeballs and singe your eyelashes. “You can tell if it’s high definition by looking at people’s hair,” I was informed by honey, a piece of information that he had just learned from the repairman. “If you can see the individual strands of hair, it’s high definition,” he asserted.

Wow, I don’t know how we could possibly have survived all these years with a TV that had bad hair.

Copyright 2005 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, Technology | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Mule Day

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You won’t believe what I did for a story. In fact, I don’t believe what I did for a story. I went to Mule Day. It was like dying and waking up in good ol’ boy heaven. There were mules, dirt, mules, crafts, mules, wagons, mules, food, mules, farmers, mules and more mules.

One of the biggest mule related events in the country is right here in Tennessee in Columbia, not far down the road from Nashville. I had never been before, but since it was nearby, I felt it was my responsibility as a humorist to go see it so I could report back to you. I had never seen so many mules in one place in all my life – big mules, little mules, black mules, white mules, even a few spotted mules.

Mule lovers from all over the country came to show their mules and compete in mule contests. One of the bigger events was something called “pulling mules.” It consisted of hitching up a team of mules to heavy weights and trying to see which team could pull the most weight. It was actually a spectator event.

At one time, Columbia was a big center for breeding, trading and selling mules. It seems that mules are unusual in that they cannot reproduce in the usual way and each mule is produced by cross breeding between a donkey and a horse. This creates a constant mule market. If you didn’t know that before, don’t feel badly. Neither did I.

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Columbia’s Mule Day started way back in the 1840’s when farmers came to the livestock and mule market. Mules were stronger than horses and able to pull plows, draw wagons and provide transportation. Mules were work animals, especially important in the development of the country before motorized vehicles. A good mule was a farmer’s most valuable asset.

Mules in this country go back as far as George Washington, who was not only the father of our country, but was also the father of the mule industry. It seems that the first breeding donkey in our country was a gift to him from the King of Spain. No, I’m not making this up, and it isn’t nearly as dubious as the cherry tree story anyhow.

Before my mule encounter, I thought all mules were brown, but they are as varied as the horse species that are used to produce them. I wanted to take some close up photos of the various mules in the livestock pens, but the mules kept turning their backsides toward me. I think they saw my camera and did not want the flash in their eyes. That’s my story anyhow.

Over 200,000 people come to Columbia for Mule Day. Can you believe it? Mingling elbow-to-elbow with country folks in coveralls and tractors hats, trying not to sneeze from the hay or step in anything awful, I decided that I might skip this part next time and just go for the parade. I especially liked the parade since those mules were dressed in their finest gear and also hitched to wagons so they could not turn their backsides towards me.

Mules have a reputation for being stubborn, but mule experts say this is not true. Mules are actually highly intelligent, smarter even than horses. Mules know when they are tired and it’s time to quit — so they do. I’ve learned a whole lot more than I every wanted to know about mules, but have come to appreciate them in a way I never did before. However, the most beneficial thing I’ve learned from mules is that when you are tired, just quit.

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Copyright 2004 Sheila Moss
Posted in Creatures, Entertainment, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Spring Has Sprung

 

dandelions

Photo by Jason Long on Unsplash

Spring is sprung, and with it that blight of suburbia known as the dandelion has also sprung. Do not tell me that they are merely wildflowers. Do not say, “If it’s green, let it grow.” Do not tell me that dandelions are delicious when prepared correctly or that they are medicinal herbs or that I should enjoy them instead of cursing their existence.

Dandelions are weeds, vicious, sneaky weeds that masquerade as innocent yellow wildflowers but turn into crazed white-headed demons over night. The slightest puff of wind turns their fluffy white crown into a hundred seed parachutes and sends the offspring on a mission to create more demons of the same kind.

I’ve tried to ignore the spring greening of the lawn and the sprouting of the early crop of weeds. But this past weekend, I finally had to face the inevitable and begin the first round of that detested annual chore known as “weeding”.

When I moved outside of the city, I dreamed of life where the air was fresh, the living easy, the lawns polished. I would have a yard full of flowers, a few tomato plants, enjoy the sunshine and be a weekend gardener.

Then the demon weeds that live only to spoil the hopes, dreams, aspirations and lawns of suburbanites ruined it all.

Last weekend I prepared for the annual weed war. Gardening gloves donned, trowel in right hand, weed spray in the left, I pulled out some of the larger yellow-headed monsters from the flowerbeds where the ground was soft. But soon the brittle weeds began to break off at the root.

Dandelions can quickly reincarnate themselves from the smallest bit of root that is left behind. It is easier to spray them than to pull them. But then it is weeks before the hideous invaders finally die. And in their last gasp of life, they go to seed and recreate themselves a hundred times as their seed is flung to the wind.

It seems hopeless, and the war is merely in the first skirmish. There are many more to battles left to fight before the end of the summer.

I think I’ve eradicated the front line of defense. Of course, they have legions of reinforcements in the lawn. I can scarcely bear to look at it, bright green with yellow polka dots. I realize that the enemy has me outnumbered. I retreat and desperately call in reinforcements from the local lawn service. “Only one treatment?” they ask. “You will not get the results you want.”

I can’t maintain it like a golf course. “I’ll just hold them back for now and counter attack later.” The weeds will win. They always do. But I will never surrender. Thistle, plantain, burdock, wild onions and clover all dig in to resist. But the evil dandelion is the leader of the squad.

Warfare will rage until the end of summer.

Weeds always invade places where they are not welcome. Weeds are prolific reproducers, and grow where other plants cannot. Weeds are survivors and take away the sun and water from more desirable plants.

I know that into each life a little rain must fall and in each garden a few weeds apparently must grow. But not my garden, and not if they are dandelions. I yearn for flowers — real flowers — petunias, and marigolds, begonias and snapdragons.

I will check out the bedding plants down at the garden center and select my summer annuals. I will plant them and nurture them and maybe they will last at least until the heat of mid-summer. I crave flowers that behave themselves and stay in the flowerbeds instead of invading the lawn looking for trouble.

And if you should be one of those folks that loves the dandelion, come on over and you can have all you want.

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, Plants/Gardening | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

It Might be a Redneck Wedding

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In spring we feel young, alive. Thoughts just naturally seem to turn to romance and marriage. We might even receive an invitation to a wedding. Here in the South, we have wedding ceremonies too, just like everywhere else. Well, maybe not exactly like everyone else. Some of our weddings might be just a tad different, but probably not enough you would even notice the difference unless you are looking.

It might be a Redneck Wedding…

If the groom is wearing a bowling shirt,

If the bride wears a crop top so her tattoo will show,

If the bride’s hair is bigger than her veil,

If the bride carries a bouquet of cotton bolls,

If the bride maids have fringe on their skirts and vests,

If the wedding is delayed because the groom’s truck wouldn’t start,

If the bride’s father brings a shotgun to the wedding,

If the wedding march is played on dueling banjos,

If the friends of the groom TP the church,

If the decorations include any pink flamingo,

If the best man is wearing a baseball cap,

If the preacher has sideburns and wide lapels,

If they throw corn at the couple instead of rice,

If the musical selections include Loretta Lynn or George Jones,

If the photographer is using a disposable camera from Wal-Mart,

If the groom’s men have western boots and sequins on their shirts,

If the reception is held at the local Waffle House,

If the hor dourves include pork skins and bean dip,

If guests play pinball machines or shoot pool at the reception,

If there is a jug in the back room,

If the wedding gifts include hubcaps, ammunition, or IOUs,

If the wedding buffet includes pork barbecue and toothpicks,

If the getaway car is a pickup truck with Pabst beer cans tied behind it,

If the wedding announcement is in the free advertiser newspaper,

If the couple plans to honeymoon in Branson, Mo.

If the newlyweds will reside in a mobile home,

If the groom gives chewing tobacco for wedding favors,

If the bride does too.

Copyright 2005 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, Southern Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Bye, Bye, Barry

newspaperThe biggest news to hit the humor world was an unanticipated announcement by Dave Barry several years ago that he would be taking a permanent leave of absence from his weekly humor column. He was not making this up. To the journalist world this was as shocking as the Pope announcing he is taking an indefinite leave from the Vatican, or a veteran politician announcing that he is taking sabbatical leave from Congress.

Who is Dave Barry, you say? Oh, I love you if you are reading my column and don’t know the answer to that. He is kingpin, top banana, big cheese, head honcho, role model, and guru of the humor columnist world. All other humor writers are measured by how they compare to Dave Barry. Guess that puts me so low on the totem pole that I don’t even need to look for my yardstick.

Dave Barry is the only humor columnist EVER to win a Pulitzer Prize for writing, and he didn’t even know he was running. Never mind that it was years ago. He still holds the championship humorist title, which is better than having first rights to the remote control.

Is he really that good – or that much better than the rest? Most of us don’t think so, and wonder how 500 editors who ran his syndicated column can be so wrong. On the other hand, it is nice that humor writing was once recognized as a worthwhile endeavor – even if only once.

Dave Barry broke the glass ceiling for humor writers and made it a worthwhile effort instead of an worthless endeavor. Because of him and a few other greats, such as Lewis Grizzard and Erma Bombeck, humor has been recognized as the artistic endeavor that it is, proving that our mothers were wrong and we are not hopeless losers who can’t get a real job.

Many columnists write for nearly nothing just to get exposure. We hope the Miami Herald has a bulldozer and is ready for an avalanche of resumes hoping to replace Barry. His absence will leave a great, gaping hole that other humor writers hope to fill with funny columns. Thing is, no one can replace Dave Barry. Fact is, a writer worth their printer cartridge doesn’t want to. Writing is personal and individual. We each develop our own style if we ever hope to excel and don’t try to be just like someone else. No one has filled the hole left when Erma Bombeck died – though many are still trying.

Dave says he was worn out from covering conventions, the Olympics, and going on book tours all in one year. Poor baby! Most humor writers will never be sent anywhere by anyone to write humor about anything. But the thing is we will still write our humor. Writing isn’t a choice. We do it because we have to.

So, goodbye Dave! We’re going to miss you. We read you, we laughed with you, we loved you, we envied you, we admired you – and to tell the truth, we still do.

Copyright 2004 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The Humor Dentist

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It’s an ordinary office on an ordinary street in a dignified brick office building. On the door is a brass plaque with a name on it and the word “Dentist.” Inside is a regular dentist’s waiting room with leather chairs, outdated magazines, and a sign-in pad on the ledge of the receptionist’s desk. Nothing unusual here, except maybe the nicer than normal Oriental rug that covers the hardwood floor.

Setting in the office waiting to be called, the patient has no clue that behind the inner door is not an ordinary dental office at all, but something else. Once you walk through the door to the inner office, you are in a different dimension. You have entered the office of the Humor Dentist.

Things seem exactly the same at first. Ordinary gray walls, a long hall. The dental assistant shows you to the chair and puts the dreaded napkin around your neck. You know what comes next, 30 minutes of torture, needles the size of jackhammers and drills remarkably similar to those used by construction workers.

You are an adult, but your mind races backward to every bad experience you have ever had with dentistry. You become a child again, reliving pain from years before, shrinking in size until you are almost too small for the dental chair and feel as if you need a booster seat. Modern dentistry is nothing like that of the tortured past, you think in your rational mind. Newer techniques and recognition of patient’s apprehension have come a long way. But the irrational fears remain, making you tense, though you try to remain calm and not to entertain the thoughts in your mind.

Is there a person in the world that enjoys going to the dentist, you wonder? Probably more dental appointments are “forgotten” than for any other profession. People put things they dread in the back of their consciousness. We “forget” so we don’t have to face our fears.

But this is no ordinary dental office, remember; this is the office of the Humor Dentist. Does he sedate patients with laughing gas to relax them, you wonder? Does he wear a red nose and juggle balls? Now that’s a thought, although juggling dental picks, mirrors, and drill bits does not seem like a very good idea.

Then the dental assistant leans your dental chair backwards and you look up at the ceiling. You stare at it in disbelief. Painted on the ceiling in children’s art is a picture of a large smiling clown complete with a big red nose. You smile in spite of yourself. And next to it is another clown in full clown attire, painted by yet a different child.

As you sneak a peak out the door into the hall, you see more ceiling clowns that you didn’t notice before, happy clowns with big smiling faces, balloons and flowers adorning them. This is definitely a doctor with a sense of humor.

By the time the dentist comes in with his green medical attire, you are burning with curiosity. He is used to the questions and explains that a teacher let her students paint them and then ordinary ceiling tiles were replaced with clown tiles. He is not a children’s dentist. These clowns are there for adults.

It is hard to be afraid with the brave, brightly-colored clowns smiling down at you. You feel the past slip away as you grow larger, back to adult size. There are clowns on the ceiling of every examination room, something cheerful to look at and focus on while he is working, instead of just an ordinary white ceiling.

He is a professional and everything is ordinary – except the clowns, whose smiles give away the secret behind the doctor’s professional demeanor. You are in the office of the Humor Dentist.

Copyright 2004 Sheila Moss
Posted in Health, Humor | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

I’m So Middle-aged That…

Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m getting old, so what? My eyes are fuzzy and my roots are gray, but I’ve managed to survive and life should be all downhill from here. Remember, it will happen to all of us sometime, so here’s what you have to look forward to:

I’m so old that…:
My idea of a gourmet meal is a broccoli casserole.

I’m so old that…:
I get news from a newspaper instead of TV.

I’m so old that…:
I’d rather sit it out than dance.

I’m so old that…:
I have more invested in root canals than in electronics.

I’m so old that…:
I’ve learned how to sleep with a snoring partner.

I’m so old that…:
My high school reunion is too depressing to attend.

I’m so old that…:
I eat bran cereal because it’s good for my system.

I’m so old that…:
I’d rather have a nap than an affair.

I’m so old that…:
My high heel shoes have turn into sneakers.

I’m so old that…:
My idea of a tummy tuck is getting into jeans.

I’m so old that…:
I always take a sweater along – just in case of a chill.

I’m so old that…:
My crow’s feet are not on a bird.

I’m so old that…:
I think bottled water is a waste of money.

I’m so old that…:
I wear knee-highs instead of panty hose.

I’m so old that…:
What I can’t sanitize I moisturize.

I’m so old that…:
I spend half my shopping time looking for a restroom.

I’m so old that…:
I’d rather wait ‘till the movie comes out on cable.

I’m so old that…:
I volunteer to be carded – even if it’s only coke.

I’m so old that…:
When the phone rings I hope it’s a telemarketer.

I’m so old that…:
I’d like to get a face lift, but everything else sags too.

I’m so old that…:
I have seamless bifocals to look like I don’t need bifocals.

I’m so old that…:
I save plastic bags and reuse them.

I’m so old that…:
Regular coffee is instant enough for me.

I’m so old that…:
I remember when TV had three channels.

I’m so old that…:
I remember history when it wasn’t on cable.

I’m so old that…:
I don’t want anything else if it has to be dusted.

I’m so old that…:
I’d rather not have it than go to the mall.

I’m so old that…:
I can’t reach my toenails to paint them red.

I’m so old that…:
My last fling was putting sprinkles on my ice cream.

Copyright 2004 Sheila Moss
Posted in Health, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Gone to the Dogs

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Blue Tick Coon Dog

Dogs riding in the back of a pick-up truck is a time-honored, southern tradition, and one that humans intend to keep. Never mind that a dog could be thrown out and injured, or a human could have an accident trying to avoid hitting a flying dog after the truck swerves suddenly.

The idea of not being able to haul their dog around in their own truck has humans in a dither, especially since they’ve been doing it for years. Keeping a dog in a cage or putting it in the cab is not the same thing as letting it run and leap into the truck with ears flying in the wind and dirt flying in the eyes. “Dogs like it,” they say. Never mind that dogs, like children, are not capable of knowing what’s in their own best interest.

Only a few states have laws against dogs riding on the outside of a vehicle.
These are in New England and on the West Coast. That figures. Any good ol’ boy knows that he can’t trust a Yankee and that California is full of weird folks who live out there because they can’t fit in anywhere else.

The humans that usually become the most upset about dog protection laws are coon hunters. “Today it’s the yard dogs – tomorrow the coon dogs,” they say. As you may know, humans hunt coons by driving around back roads in a truck until the scent dog gets a sniff of coon. Then the tree dogs are released and the chase is on till a coon is treed. Specially trained, coon-hunting dogs are high dollar dogs costing $1,000 to $12,000 each. For that kind of money, you’d think hunters could climb up a tree and shake the coon out personally instead of just chasing it. Obviously, humans who run around in the dark chasing after coons with a pack of dogs cannot be overly bright.

Humans believe this law is just another example of government sticking its nose into something that’s none of its business. They say animal activists, who know nothing about outdoor sports, and “bleeding hearts” that feel sorry for racoons are influencing lawmakers. Actually, coon hunting has evolved into a state of the art sport, and killing the coon isn’t necessary. The sport is the competition of one dog with another to see which can sniff out a coon and which can tree one the best without getting sidetracked by possums, foxes who don’t climb trees but run forever, or skunks who fight back. It’s not the killing; it’s the thrill of the chase that matters.

And so it goes. Dogs remain unprotected and are allowed to ride in open vehicles unrestrained without benefit of kennel cage or harness. Not only hunting dogs, but also yard dogs and pets can ride in trucks without any fear – at least of the law. Some good ol’ boys say that a dog in the back of a truck is the best burglar alarm there is, a point hard to argue with, but that doesn’t mean they have to ride there.

The love affair between human and animal is a long one. They not only work and hunt for humans, but are pets and companions as well. Dogs are valued for their loyalty and unconditional devotion to their human. They have long been called “man’s best friend”. It seems that we would want to take better care of our best friends, doesn’t it?

Copyright 2004 Sheila Moss
Posted in Creatures, Humor, Sports | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments