(Hogs note: Just to bring you up to date, the Missus is still ‘rearing’ all sorts of wild ducks in the back yard, a.k.a. Duck Med. And a few days ago we adopted a wee 18-month-old pup, Kasey, from German Shepherd Dog Rescue. Yup.)
DUCKDATE… October 2
Kasey is just doing “stay” so well on the back upper deck.
So the Blog decides to walk down to get a broom under the carport and sweep up.
Kasey, who is “staying”, can’t see the Blog.
And the Blog can’t see Kasey who, as we may have mentioned, is PRACTICING staying.
What could possibly go wrong?
The next thing we know, Mother Duck and her 5 fluffy little babies, who must have arrived unexpectedly in the driveway, and who my Missus loves beyond measure, are QUACKING THEIR TERRIFIED LITTLE HEADS!
Oh Dear Lord.
The Blog runs faster than Usain Bolt to the driveway, where we see:
1) a single feather on the concrete
2) crazy, panicking ducklings trying to scramble en mass under the stockade fence. But, because of the loving Missus, they are way too fat to squeeze out. Wide-eyed Momma Duck is flapping and quacking and pooping hysterically.
3) Kasey stands slump-shouldered at the top of the driveway, with an expression on her face that says, in German, WTF???
4) Poor Kasey begins to shit proverbial Twinkies when her previously calm and loving new Master wildly races toward her, past the panicking ducks, while screaming,”NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!”
The Blog drags her into the house and tmraces back to check on Freaking Out Mother Duck and her deranged babies.
The Blog is trying to do this quietly for certain reasons that will not be explained here.
Okay, it’s just in case there are, hypothetically speaking, any fatalities involved.
But within an instant, the duck whisperer Missus materializes from deep inside the house.
Of course she does.
And she counts 1, 2, 3, 4 … just 4 baby ducks!!!
Oh Dear Lord.
She immediately takes charge, opens the gate, and gently wrangles them out, with Mother Duck hissing at her all the while.
Then the Missus turns and stares at the Blog. In that special way which makes our life and Kasey’s young life pass before our eyes.
The Blog flashes back to years of carnage caused by the late Moosedawg, a huge German Shepherd/Huntaway cross whom the Blog loved and the Missus loathed.
It makes the Blog go all woozy like and we start to blackout.
We faintly hear a “peep peep peep” from the neighbor’s yard.
Can it please, Dear Lord, be the peep of a lost baby duck?
Sweet, Fuzzy No. 5?
Yes it can!
Minutes later, Momma Duck and ALL 5 BABIES have regrouped and are happily waddling down the street.
And the Blog starts to breathe again.
And we begin to explain to the Missus that Kasey was innocently running to find the Blog.
She just unfortunately happened to find herself caught up in Duck Rush Hour.
Sweet wee Kasey did not bark or bite or do anything even remotely anti-duck.
So let’s all just calm down and be grateful.
Yay for happy endings, the Blog cheers!
But just moments earlier, when the Blog saw the pathetic little feather on the ground, surrounded by chaos…
Oh. Dear. Lord.
Click HERE for more on Duck Med.
Click HERE for more on the late, great Moosedawg.
We are in the process of decluttering our house of 18 years, as we prepare for retirement.
This blog is not about THAT.
We are in no way prepared to get into THAT.
But we are happy to write about the La-Z-Boy.
Because, damn, ya’ll.
A sister here in NZ asked us to store her twin La-Z-Boy recliners a few years ago while she was overseas doing mission work.
They went into our basement (a.k.a. “rumpus room” in New Zealand Speak). Thanks to the huge Sony Brava/sound system from the same sister, our rumpus was turned into into a surround-sound-theater.
That’s the background.
Now, as Paul Harvey would say, this is the rest of the story…
This blog has choice about entering the discussion on Steven Adam’s balls.
First off, let me stress that while Steven and I both have New Zealand citizenship, and both have made *major contributions to the game of basketball world, this blog has no direct relationship with, or knowledge of, Steven’s balls.
Every guy of the male persuasion, with the possible exception of Obama, has an intimate relationship with his family jewels.
And we have immense compassion for a brother when he “takes one in the cods for the team,” as did our Steven in Game 3.
There is no greater pain or sacrifice on the face of the Earth, as we personally experienced many times on Nebraska Street and at Owens Stadium.
This blog is well aware that millions of women readers are at this very moment discharging their pink tasers.
And that they will go on and on and on about the unbelievable amount of excruciating pain caused by childbirth.
Yadda yadda yadda childbirth
The all-grown-up musician son rings at 12.30 a.m.
Which, despite him being all grown up, always makes Dad’s heart miss a beat.
“Dad, there’s this little white dog running around in the street in the rainstorm by the Watercare plant. He has a collar on. What do you think I should do?”
Father and son over the years have had many conversations like this. Pretty much always, we agree that “something has to be done”.
And, usually, we end up doing it, because ain’t nobody else interested.
It’s still summer in New Zealand.
Every now and again, when I have a wander into the primordial jungle out back, I find a locust husk (or shell… what do you call those things they hatch from?).
And every time, my childhood memories come pouring back.
We had a mimosa tree in the front yard, and half a dozen in the back.
Every summer, the locusts would try to suck them dry and, boy, would they sing loud and long while slurping up the sap.
It has to be said that, as young rascals, my neighbor Eddie and I were not especially kind to the *locusts.
There was probably nothing wrong with collecting their old husks from the trees, and feeding them to Lady Dog, our beagle.
She thought they were better’n pork rinds.
But the other uses we had for locusts were not something that make for particularly sanctifying stories during Lent.
(Republishing this vintage blog because it’s Lent, ya’ll!)
In New Zealand, we’ve already begun Lent — 40 days of prayer, fasting and penance leading up to Easter.
Since this is mainly a humor blog, we will begin our Lent by republishing a favorite about two great priests who were incredibly funny in very different ways.
Archimandrite Stephen was bigger than life and perfect for his ministry in media and evangelization. He could PREACH UP A STORM. And he so loved to laugh. Heeheeheehee.
On his generous girth:
“I’m an Archimandrite in the Melkite Greek Catholic tradition. As you can see, we’re rather fluffy. Hahahaha.”
“As you know, your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit. So why would you want a little ol’ prayer chapel when you could have a Grand Basilica with a Rotunda? Hohohoho.”
On being the only Catholic in a Louisiana family renown for producing more than 50 Assembly of God preachers:
“I’m the family black sheep. And I love to tell my cousins that I’m the favorite of our departed relatives because I’m the only one praying to get them out of Purgatory. Heeheeheehee.”
On Catholic teachings (when a New Zealand TV interviewer was beating him up because the Church won’t recognize gay marriages):
“I’ll tell you something even crazier. We won’t marry a man and a woman who are living together in sin unless the stop and go to confession. Can you believe THAT? Heh heh heh heh.”
On being a tad theatrical when speaking to our annual Auckland Eucharistic Convention:
“I need one of those lapel mikes. I want to be able to walk around the stage and show off for your Bishop.”
And then, there was Father Angland, 75, my first Parish Priest in Auckland.
He was half the size of Father Stephen, but equally hilarious in his no-nonsense, Kiwi way.
Once, when he asked me to distribute holy communion at Mass, I declined.
For you see, Catholics believe Jesus wasn’t kidding when he said His Flesh was true food, and His Blood true drink.
“I can’t. I’m not worthy,” I said, prompting Father Angland to respond with his wonderful dry wit:
“Don’t be stupid.
“Of course you’re not worthy.
“But somebody’s got to do it.”
Rest in Peace, Archimandrite Stephen and Father Angland.
And as for ya’ll?
Here’s wishing you the best Lent, ever.
My niece in OKC frequently takes her chillens and their cousins to Lincoln Park Zoo.
Even though they were raised on Harry Potter and Disney World, they love going to the zoo.
I think that’s great, but, really, there is no way a zoo trip can be as awesome to them as it was to us in the Sixties.
I was probably nine years old when we made our first “expedition” all the way from Norman to Lincoln Park Zoo. If memory serves, it was a 9,000 mile journey that took about three months.
I was either with my best friend Steve, or my cousins, or all of them, and possibly a sister or two.
What’s clear is that we were all psyched.
For years, we had been watching *Bob Jenni doing guest spots on Foreman Scotty.
He was always handling snakes and gila monsters and other animals that would kill you dead if you messed up.
We boys were GLUED to the television when Bob was on, quietly rooting for the snake to get lose and maybe bite somebody, just a little bit.
So when we went to the zoo, we were hoping to see some seriously dangerous critters, running wild and eating kids, if we were lucky.
My memories of the zoo are a bit faded and may not live up to the **99.99% accuracy that that blog has maintained for the last five years, but here we go.
I recall the Mothers or Aunties were dead keen on this being an EDUCATIONAL trip, so we were all armed with our Friends of the Zoo Key.