Well shit howdy! I am safe. My kidnappers have released me. I’d like to thank the anonymous donor who paid my ransom. This new job shit is wearing me out. These guys work and they work hard. I’ve got to say the Cult of Red is one of the most positive, collaborative places I have ever been. Aren’t the famous last words of the girl in the horror movie “Everybody’s so nice here!” And then somebody does a Ginsu knife commercial on her ass. Except at the Cult of Red, they really are. And while it’s a knock on them on the street, they are not cult like at all. Just extremely professional and focused. They have a plan and they work it. And they’re very successful at it. One of the underlying precepts of Atlas Shrugged in my mind was the idea that if one were successful, we all could be successful. Granted I’m probably one of the few people who actually understood what I read, God knows the teabaggers didn’t. That’s how these guys think, if we’re all successful, then we’re ALL successful. Of course the problem with Atlas Shrugged is the same as the problem with the theories of Marx and Smith. Add people and it doesn’t work. The Brother has said in response to people who complain about attorneys that “if people would act right, I’d be out of work.” Word. The same could be said for regulation. If everyone would act right, we wouldn’t need regulation. And Socialism would work. And Communism would work. And Capitalism would work. Not at the same time, but they’d all work. But it’s not in the human DNA to act right. Our brains are always trying to get one over. So regulation is necessary in a capitalistic society.
Sometimes it’s like shooting fish in a barrel.
I’m certainly glad that the folks that come here are used to my tangents. Because it’s been a wild week here at The Farm. The NIMBY neighbors have moved out, soon to be replaced by the really nice man and his really annoying Russian wife. I did what I could to discourage them. They came up to talk to me about the neighborhood when they were looking at the house. Of course I mentioned that I had three large dogs and that I wasn’t going anywhere and if they had a problem with three Doberman Pinschers they should probably just move along. I went on to say that they are good dogs and not yard dogs, but they’re dogs. Well, she proceeded to ask me “Do they bark?” Well of course they bark, they’re dogs. They aren’t yard dogs, they’re house dogs, but they’ll bark at squirrels and noises and shit. “Do they bark at night?” When they’re out they might bark at something but they sleep in the house. “Do they bark in the morning?” Sometimes if they’re out. “How early in the morning do they bark? Do they bark before 7am?” Lady, I get up at 4:30am. If there is a raccoon in the yard they’ll bark at it. I’m not particularly hopeful that I’m not going to want to string this woman up. You can imagine the joy when NIMBY neighbor husband mentioned that my eucalyptus had split again and was laying on their shed. I wanted the broken tree out of there before they moved in. Last night after a day of yoga, door knocking, open house and Costco I fired up the chainsaw and got that half a tree off that shed before that woman saw it.
And about Ike. Bubba lost his mind and attacked Ike a week ago Saturday. I heard the ruckus, I was shoveling dog shit at the time and had a shovel in my hand. I was also in the back forty. I thought it was Rita until I heard the screaming. Then I realized that Bubba was on Ike and Ike was down and screaming. I ran across the yard yelling but Bubba wasn’t letting up. He had Ike by the back of the neck. Now my family has a history with shovels. My paternal grandfather, who I never met because he died when my Dad was seven years old knocked a horse down with a shovel for kicking him. And one of the running jokes between The Brother and I is the cause of Parkinson’s which has affected at least four and probably five of our father’s siblings. I maintain it’s caused by frying everything in bacon grease and The Brother maintains it’s caused by hitting each other in the head with a shovel during their youth. Knowing that, when I arrived at the dog fightattack with a shovel in my hand I knew I’d met my roots. I also knew that if I reached in I ran the chance of getting severely bit. Naturally hitting them with a shovel was the next move. I’ve been around enough dog fights to know that if you break their concentration you can safely break it up. I knew hitting Bubba with a shovel would do that. I also knew that if I messed up I could kill him. Hitting him in the head was out. That left his butt. I knew if I hit him too hard I could break his leg or his pelvis. I turned the shovel so that the rounded part hit his ass and smacked him on the ass with it. It made a loud metallic sound and got him out of his zone. He wouldn’t let go but he wasn’t on attack any more. I pulled him off of Ike and shoved him in his crate. Ike was hurt. Worse, he hadn’t even attempted to defend himself, he was just down and screaming. It wasn’t just a scrape, it was a deep puncture/tear. I poured peroxide over it and irrigated it with my saline solution. In the end he had to go to the vet but they didn’t stitch him, they just cleaned it up, gave him antibiotics and put a drain in. The drain came out yesterday and he’s healing pretty well. And he loves his warm compresses. And now I spend my days shuffling male dogs so Bubba doesn’t try to kill Ike again. He’s acting as if he didn’t do anything and they’re buddies but Ike looks at him as if he’s Satan. And I’m not positive he isn’t.
He’s still high, they didn’t put him under, just doped him up a little.