When I appreciate something I want everybody to know.
Hobo Jungle
Re: Hobo Jungle
Wayne,
When I appreciate something I want everybody to know.
When I appreciate something I want everybody to know.
roger
I support thread drift.
If God didn't want women to be looked at, He would have made 'em ugly. RAH
I support thread drift.
If God didn't want women to be looked at, He would have made 'em ugly. RAH
Re: Hobo Jungle
You are successful. 
----Wayne----
Back when I was growing up, if you didn't start someth'n, there wouldn't be noth'n.
--Merle Haggard
Back when I was growing up, if you didn't start someth'n, there wouldn't be noth'n.
--Merle Haggard
-
Rufus T. Firefly
- Posts: 42159
- Joined: Wed May 16, 2007 7:52 am
- Location: To be Determined
Re: Hobo Jungle
MurphOnMillerAve wrote:Rufus T. Firefly wrote:sarge wrote:To this day, first hand evidence points to a certain Basset as quite probably the stupidest work of a Prodigal Creator. I'm hard pressed to grant that that dog was even aware of his own ***.
Irish Setters.......chronic vacancy of the cranium......say no more.
I thought that was true about Afghans (the dog w/ the white-ish/blonde silky coat and floppy, dark gray-tipped ears; long narrow head) , that they were so stupid they could walk along and not even realize they were having a bowel movement, eh?
That describes a number of people that I have met as well
Invention, my dear friends, is 93% perspiration, 6% electricity, 4% evaporation, and 2% butterscotch ripple.
Re: Hobo Jungle
I'd volunteer our pug as one dumb sh*t. It's got Prader-Willi Syndrome ( ), and it's so fat it looks like it has microcephaly, and I would say it snores like a truckdriver, but that would be an insult to truckers everywhere. We have stray cats that help keep our winter population of field mice to a minimum, and this pug is like the Angel-of-Death to the poor little kittens, and I don't know what it is about the breed, or if this one is an anomaly, but it'll go after those kittens and shake them until their necks are broken. Twice, it's gone under the floorboards of the lower deck after a kitten until it's fat *** is completely wedged, twice requiring me to unscrew floorboards to get it extricated. When we have kittens, we have to segregate the backyard. It doesn't like to go out in the rain, so it'll go off in the house and sh*t somewhere when nobody's looking. It's a completely useless little blob of doggy protoplasm.
I've had a cat most of my life, but only one at a time, and never had one that wasn't completely cool in it's own way. Gimme a cat anyday.
), and it's so fat it looks like it has microcephaly, and I would say it snores like a truckdriver, but that would be an insult to truckers everywhere. We have stray cats that help keep our winter population of field mice to a minimum, and this pug is like the Angel-of-Death to the poor little kittens, and I don't know what it is about the breed, or if this one is an anomaly, but it'll go after those kittens and shake them until their necks are broken. Twice, it's gone under the floorboards of the lower deck after a kitten until it's fat *** is completely wedged, twice requiring me to unscrew floorboards to get it extricated. When we have kittens, we have to segregate the backyard. It doesn't like to go out in the rain, so it'll go off in the house and sh*t somewhere when nobody's looking. It's a completely useless little blob of doggy protoplasm. I've had a cat most of my life, but only one at a time, and never had one that wasn't completely cool in it's own way. Gimme a cat anyday.
Re: Hobo Jungle
Yupper, Greg, there's a pair of dogs that look like they'll earn their keep! 
Got home from work tonight at 0100. Saw our first firefly with a week to go in May, but they've been coming on strong. Serious strong. Tonight at least, warm and humid, the trees lining the far side of our field, black in the absense of moonlight, are alive with them, absolutely non-stop flashing. Looked like someone lit the neverending pack of completely silent firecrackers. This bodes well- they weren't this strong until near the end of June last year.
If this is another bonus result of a no-fertilizer no-pesticide no-herbicide crop program, then man, one more reason I'm into it big-time!
Got home from work tonight at 0100. Saw our first firefly with a week to go in May, but they've been coming on strong. Serious strong. Tonight at least, warm and humid, the trees lining the far side of our field, black in the absense of moonlight, are alive with them, absolutely non-stop flashing. Looked like someone lit the neverending pack of completely silent firecrackers. This bodes well- they weren't this strong until near the end of June last year.
If this is another bonus result of a no-fertilizer no-pesticide no-herbicide crop program, then man, one more reason I'm into it big-time!
Re: Hobo Jungle
Dirt,
Interesting thought on the prevalence of the fireflies.
Any evidence other than your observations behind this?
Your observations are good enough if not.
Interesting thought on the prevalence of the fireflies.
Any evidence other than your observations behind this?
Your observations are good enough if not.
roger
I support thread drift.
If God didn't want women to be looked at, He would have made 'em ugly. RAH
I support thread drift.
If God didn't want women to be looked at, He would have made 'em ugly. RAH
Re: Hobo Jungle
Some of you have read this, but I couldn't resist entering it in the dumb pet contest.
CATS, DRUNKS, AND MOVING NORTH
When I first met Lenny he was staring at me through a screen door. His huge yellow eyes seemed wise, bulging with soulful meaning as if he could read my thoughts and was willing to solve all my problems if I only gave him the chance. As it turned out, Lenny was as dumb as a pounded post. He lived next door, and after that first tender encounter through the screen, it was soon apparent what his meaning was. He’d decided to move in with me. His owners had bought a dog, and Lenny was terrified of everything, let alone something as validly worrisome as a large slobbering mutt.
After a settlement had been reached with the neighbors, Lenny arrived. His fur was a ragged blond carpet, his face reminded me of a heavy drinker—the red nose and glazed eyes, so I nicknamed him “The Irish drunk.” His legs were spindly, paws tiny, the tail crooked and thin as one of those weather indicating sticks. He wasn’t much of a bargain.
His truly unique feature was his voice, a roosterish cry that he insisted on flaunting every morning at dawn, pacing through the house, achieving decibels unusual for a cat. “Meer-reet-a-reear!” (A written phonetic impossibility.) This outcry became his only trick. I would gently squeeze the tip of his tail between my fingers; he would bellow, and I’d laugh. Then he’d strut off very pleased with himself.
Lenny loved butter papers. Whenever it was time for a fresh stick, I’d set the waxed wrapper on the kitchen floor, and he’d herd it all around the room, licking the buttery residue. Then he’d clean his face, his tongue lolling extravagantly up each side as far as his whiskers.
He was the funniest animal I’ve ever been around, which makes up for so much in life.
It took my other cat, a black female, not that long to accept him into the household, and they would curl up together in the cat basket on cold nights, the two forming a furry yin-yang symbol. For a couple years, besides the dawn roosterings, things with the cats were fairly peaceful. Then during a January subzero spell, I noticed a small gray cat on my porch.
My house must be marked, the way hobos used to chalk residences that could be counted on for an easy handout. I set out water and food, but the water kept freezing and the food remained untouched. The cat wouldn’t allow me to approach even though it looked near dead. On the second night I managed to corner and grab him—it was like picking up a bird’s nest—and I got him into the basement without being scratched too deeply. After hiding for days, the little gray guy began to eat; then after a week he even ventured up the cellar stairs. Well, Lenny had a fit.
Lenny was an exceptionally timid animal, running and cowering from any strange noise (thunder turned him into a shuddering bundle of flying fur, the leaf-sucker truck comatosed him), but he hissed violently at the new guest. However, that wasn’t the problem. The issue was that Lenny, though neutered, suddenly decided to start spraying. And he didn’t just choose the spots arbitrarily, instead he soaked the things I valued most: rare antique wallpaper, my only hand-knotted rug, my motorcycle, my vintage Lionel train transformer which was severely rusted by the time I discovered the damage. There must be something unusually corrosive in cat urine.
And the gray guy? He sprayed right back.
The house was downgraded into an olfactory nightmare, not to mention the required cleaning and repair time. But after a few weeks, Lenny had the solution. He decided to move north again. My neighbors on the other side, the Shaws, accepted him in the same way I had. Lenny was difficult to resist when he first stared at you, that magical expression in which you found exactly what you desired. Not a bad gift.
This last move, however, turned out to be his demise. The Shaw residence served unlimited dry food to their other cat, an ancient blond who ignored Lenny completely and understood moderation. Lenny didn’t, and within a few months he’d ballooned, adding five pounds to his scrawny frame. The Shaws immediately put him on a diet, but Lenny had uncanny ways of stealing snacks, and his increased weight was probably what led to the health problems.
Almost a year later, when his diabetes was exponential and there wasn’t any hope left for his suffering, I told the Shaws I’d take Lenny for that final ride. In the designated room, the florescent lights glaring, I held him and talked to him for a long while. I gently pinched his tail one last time, but after a moment I knew his last rooster cry was behind him. He stared up at me, and his famous eyes looked exhausted. When the vet came in, I nodded, and more quickly than I ever imagined, Lenny was lifeless in my arms.
Lenny! I raise my beer to him on occasion, and I’ve told my girlfriend some of the stories. It amazes me how attached we can become to pets. Though all cats have similarities, it’s the distinct personalities, those unique qualities that get inside us, and we miss them terribly when they’re gone. And old Lenny—I imagine him padding across the room towards me on those spindly legs, that red nose, voice ready—he was the funniest of the lot.
CATS, DRUNKS, AND MOVING NORTH
When I first met Lenny he was staring at me through a screen door. His huge yellow eyes seemed wise, bulging with soulful meaning as if he could read my thoughts and was willing to solve all my problems if I only gave him the chance. As it turned out, Lenny was as dumb as a pounded post. He lived next door, and after that first tender encounter through the screen, it was soon apparent what his meaning was. He’d decided to move in with me. His owners had bought a dog, and Lenny was terrified of everything, let alone something as validly worrisome as a large slobbering mutt.
After a settlement had been reached with the neighbors, Lenny arrived. His fur was a ragged blond carpet, his face reminded me of a heavy drinker—the red nose and glazed eyes, so I nicknamed him “The Irish drunk.” His legs were spindly, paws tiny, the tail crooked and thin as one of those weather indicating sticks. He wasn’t much of a bargain.
His truly unique feature was his voice, a roosterish cry that he insisted on flaunting every morning at dawn, pacing through the house, achieving decibels unusual for a cat. “Meer-reet-a-reear!” (A written phonetic impossibility.) This outcry became his only trick. I would gently squeeze the tip of his tail between my fingers; he would bellow, and I’d laugh. Then he’d strut off very pleased with himself.
Lenny loved butter papers. Whenever it was time for a fresh stick, I’d set the waxed wrapper on the kitchen floor, and he’d herd it all around the room, licking the buttery residue. Then he’d clean his face, his tongue lolling extravagantly up each side as far as his whiskers.
He was the funniest animal I’ve ever been around, which makes up for so much in life.
It took my other cat, a black female, not that long to accept him into the household, and they would curl up together in the cat basket on cold nights, the two forming a furry yin-yang symbol. For a couple years, besides the dawn roosterings, things with the cats were fairly peaceful. Then during a January subzero spell, I noticed a small gray cat on my porch.
My house must be marked, the way hobos used to chalk residences that could be counted on for an easy handout. I set out water and food, but the water kept freezing and the food remained untouched. The cat wouldn’t allow me to approach even though it looked near dead. On the second night I managed to corner and grab him—it was like picking up a bird’s nest—and I got him into the basement without being scratched too deeply. After hiding for days, the little gray guy began to eat; then after a week he even ventured up the cellar stairs. Well, Lenny had a fit.
Lenny was an exceptionally timid animal, running and cowering from any strange noise (thunder turned him into a shuddering bundle of flying fur, the leaf-sucker truck comatosed him), but he hissed violently at the new guest. However, that wasn’t the problem. The issue was that Lenny, though neutered, suddenly decided to start spraying. And he didn’t just choose the spots arbitrarily, instead he soaked the things I valued most: rare antique wallpaper, my only hand-knotted rug, my motorcycle, my vintage Lionel train transformer which was severely rusted by the time I discovered the damage. There must be something unusually corrosive in cat urine.
And the gray guy? He sprayed right back.
The house was downgraded into an olfactory nightmare, not to mention the required cleaning and repair time. But after a few weeks, Lenny had the solution. He decided to move north again. My neighbors on the other side, the Shaws, accepted him in the same way I had. Lenny was difficult to resist when he first stared at you, that magical expression in which you found exactly what you desired. Not a bad gift.
This last move, however, turned out to be his demise. The Shaw residence served unlimited dry food to their other cat, an ancient blond who ignored Lenny completely and understood moderation. Lenny didn’t, and within a few months he’d ballooned, adding five pounds to his scrawny frame. The Shaws immediately put him on a diet, but Lenny had uncanny ways of stealing snacks, and his increased weight was probably what led to the health problems.
Almost a year later, when his diabetes was exponential and there wasn’t any hope left for his suffering, I told the Shaws I’d take Lenny for that final ride. In the designated room, the florescent lights glaring, I held him and talked to him for a long while. I gently pinched his tail one last time, but after a moment I knew his last rooster cry was behind him. He stared up at me, and his famous eyes looked exhausted. When the vet came in, I nodded, and more quickly than I ever imagined, Lenny was lifeless in my arms.
Lenny! I raise my beer to him on occasion, and I’ve told my girlfriend some of the stories. It amazes me how attached we can become to pets. Though all cats have similarities, it’s the distinct personalities, those unique qualities that get inside us, and we miss them terribly when they’re gone. And old Lenny—I imagine him padding across the room towards me on those spindly legs, that red nose, voice ready—he was the funniest of the lot.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
Re: Hobo Jungle
Interesting thought on the prevalence of the fireflies.
Any evidence other than your observations behind this?
Your observations are good enough if not.
Dirt,
Interesting thought on the prevalence of the fireflies.
Any evidence other than your observations behind this?
Your observations are good enough if not.
I vouch for the anomaly as well! This is the first time in a good number of years the fireflies have been out in abundance!!! Every evening on the back patio it's a splendid light show!
Tramp, A great tribute to Lenny! Thanks for sharing!
And speaking of guys and cats, if I ever felt the need to own another cat a Maine Coon would be at the top of my list.
Last edited by 2railjon on Fri Jun 04, 2010 9:31 am, edited 1 time in total.
Running that red block Charlie.
Re: Hobo Jungle
Ah well Roger it serves you right for having three of them! Actually few things as nice as having a cozy read in your library with your cat. Tramp made the room by our bedroom into one for me as well for a wedding gift and I love it. I have my own arm chair, and the cat has his. Tramp . . . stands. Yes there's nothing like a Maine Coon. Best of dog and cat in one beautiful package. I'll never be without one if I can manage it.
ps. greg you can easily train a cat to use the toilet, and even flush, check it out on youtube it's true
Murph I'm so happy for your vision, I hope you're looking at nice things - like fireflies!
ps. greg you can easily train a cat to use the toilet, and even flush, check it out on youtube it's true
Murph I'm so happy for your vision, I hope you're looking at nice things - like fireflies!
Re: Hobo Jungle
The Maine Coon or "meow-dog", full of joy in any season, comes when you call, plays fetch, jumps in the water, lays down by your feet in the evening.
and not a rodent for miles . . .
and not a rodent for miles . . .
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MurphOnMillerAve
- Posts: 18489
- Joined: Fri Jul 18, 2008 10:18 pm
- Location: Kennywood Park
- Contact:
Re: Hobo Jungle
Daisy wrote:...Murph I'm so happy for your vision, I hope you're looking at nice things - like fireflies!
Thank you, Daisy. And yes, I'm out there looking at and feeling everything. I always was an intense observer of the world around me, but now, it's as though I am doing so on my virtual knees, grateful every morning to awaken and know that it is daylight, and imbibing in everything throughout the day and night as though it were essential nourishment. And I believe it is.
"Doing wrong is like a joke to a fool." Proverbs 10: 21-28
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MurphOnMillerAve
- Posts: 18489
- Joined: Fri Jul 18, 2008 10:18 pm
- Location: Kennywood Park
- Contact:
Re: Hobo Jungle
Daisy wrote:The Maine Coon or "meow-dog", full of joy in any season, comes when you call, plays fetch, jumps in the water, lays down by your feet in the evening.
Wonderful. That cat is deliberately posing! Now ain't dat zumpin' . That's exactly one of the reasons why I say ya' gotta luv dem kitties - such posers. Self-assured li'l souls that enjoy life as much as they can on their terms, which is a goal of a lot of people their whole lives, right?
I've heard it said that if a person has not loved an animal during their lifetime, part of their soul is unawakened.
"Doing wrong is like a joke to a fool." Proverbs 10: 21-28
Re: Hobo Jungle
Daisy,
Beautiful cat.
Tramp,
Beautiful story but sad.
Beautiful cat.
Tramp,
Beautiful story but sad.
roger
I support thread drift.
If God didn't want women to be looked at, He would have made 'em ugly. RAH
I support thread drift.
If God didn't want women to be looked at, He would have made 'em ugly. RAH
Re: Hobo Jungle
Gotta agree there!
Maine Coons are wonderfully friendly and social cats. Big suckers, too!
My penchant for Manx cats goes way back. They are another of the breeds known for their social skills. They come in a variety of tail-lengths (for those who don't know Manx's, they are famous for being a very old breed of tail-less cat) from almost full-length to not even a little nub.
Li'l Sarge's friend here is a tailed Manx...
...while this guy is is a "stumpy", with a tail like a rabbit's and a gait to match. He doesn't play second fiddle to anyone when it comes to the coy poses...
Maine Coons are wonderfully friendly and social cats. Big suckers, too!
My penchant for Manx cats goes way back. They are another of the breeds known for their social skills. They come in a variety of tail-lengths (for those who don't know Manx's, they are famous for being a very old breed of tail-less cat) from almost full-length to not even a little nub.
Li'l Sarge's friend here is a tailed Manx...
...while this guy is is a "stumpy", with a tail like a rabbit's and a gait to match. He doesn't play second fiddle to anyone when it comes to the coy poses...
Re: Hobo Jungle
Dreaming of shotguns, a pug that fetches, and a life of leisure.
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