Gas Pains
Tom grew up in Milwaukee, bartended in Wauwatosa in the '70s and moved here in 1984.
Commentary, observations and musings about the outdoors, life in general and maybe Tosa politics and personalities will be the order of the day. He savors a lively debate as much as terrific cooking.
Fine Dining
Many years ago I recall asking the dog's veterinarian about the propensity of my Lab to dine on all manner of offal that is found in the woods. Of particular interest - to me at least - was a refined taste for baby bunnies.
What precipitated the question was a singularly ghastly episode that occurred during Jill's family reunion. You see we hosted it up at the farm. At one point everyone was sitting in their sling chairs on the driveway, soaking-up the summer sun, enjoying an adult beverage and swapping family tales when Girlfriend made her grand entrance. Sashaying into the circle of chairs the dog was showing something-off. I initially thought it was a squeaky toy. Squeak, squeak, squeak. Upon further examination it was a baby bunny. But before I could extract the ill-gotten prize from her jaws the dog lifted her head and in the presence of the entire extended family...GULP! Bunny gone. All of the elderly matrons were horrified.
It gets better. The dog disappeared and returned to make an encore performance. Twice.
Getting back to the vet. Her response was - I wouldn't worry too much about it, Tom. Deer poop is doggie M&Ms. And rabbits are digestible. Keep your dog current on the worm medicine. There's a reason nature put rabbits at the bottom of the food chain you know.
Years passed and a second Labrador retriever joined the household. And bunny nation is hanging-on for dear life with it's little bunny fingernails.
Today I was out working in the woods and as per usual the dogs were with me. Jill doesn't take the dogs with her anymore because they just run away and look for me. The girls and I have our own little mutual admiration society.
Having the dogs along is hardly a chore. They generally stay close - or return on command. And are content to hunt on their own. Besides it really wears them out. In any event I found myself working a row of oak trees with my pruning tools. I'm thinking - Funny, I haven't heard Sister's cow bell for awhile. Ready to hit the tone on the handset for the e-collar I hear instead:
SNAP. CRACK, CRACK. SNURFFLE. KRAAACK! GULP.
Oh brother. The dogs found something dead. They've probably scored a deer leg. Better get it from them.
Not so.
Her Highness indulged her inner wolf and actually flushed and killed her own lunch.
That's right. You guessed it correctly.
This too shall pass...
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