Shoot, Man

©2012 by LeeZard

Whooda thunk it?? LeeZard at a shooting range - SHOOTING at the shooting range. But, there I was, with a Remington Model-11 12-gauge semi-automatic shotgun tight to my shoulder, chin resting against the polished wood stock.




After an entire life of pro-gun control (which hasn't changed; it's now more enlightened), not only was I shooting, I was enjoying it.

It's the damned coyote's fault; I want to kill the bastard. He got Maggie. Poor Maggie. Maggie was my first chicken love.

Oh yeah, whooda thunk it? LeeZard is also a chicken farmer. Well, sort of. Actually, they are Wende's chickens and for months I watched her with mild interest as she cared for them from chickhood. No, she did more than care for them; she nurtured them, talked to them, laughed at their antics and, when necessary, brought them back from the brink of death. That was the case with Maggie.

This is NOT Maggie but, she looked like this

One day we noticed Maggie's belly was on the ground and her two legs were splayed to either side. Didn't look good, didn't look healthy. She couldn't/wouldn't move. The next morning she was in the same position. Wende decided to bring her in the house to see what she could do.

Wende set her up in a cage in our laundry room and set to work. She put fresh straw in the bottom of the cage and two small dishes with food and water. And, she hit the computer to do some research. After a day or so, Wende was still coming up zero in the research and poor Maggie continued to lay motionless in the cage.

"I don't know what to do," said Wende. "If I can't find out what's wrong, I'll have to put her down. If I put her outside with the other hens, they'll sense her weakness and kill her."

Now, she's telling this to a boy from New York City. LeeZard's only experience with chicken is baked, barbecued or broiled. But, I did notice one thing. "She hasn't lost her appetite," I pointed out. "I don't know much about raising chickens," I continued, "but I do know enough about animals in general and, if they are still eating then they are still healthy on the inside. This girl isn't ready to die!"

That was enough for Wende. She returned to the computer with even more determination. In the meantime, Maggie didn't move but she kept on eating and now, it was personal. I was Maggie's chief advocate and cheerleader.

Finally, Wende hit pay dirt. "It's something called "Hot Foot," she exclaimed excitedly but the prognosis was iffy at best. Hot Foot is also called Straddle Legs and, according to the Virginia Cooperative Extension Service:

"Slippery Brooding Surfaces - Newspaper, wood, and other slippery surfaces cause excessive leg problems for all young fowl, especially waterfowl, game birds and feathered-legged fowl. Provide a soft absorbent litter that gives the birds good footing and traction.The biggest problem with slippery surfaces is straddled legs. Once the fowl gets to this point, the problem is nearly impossible to correct." 

This IS Maggie, back on her feet. Yay Maggie!

Prognosis be damned; now, Wende was now on a mission and that is a force of nature. So, after a little more research, Maggie was on a special diet including who knows what and a steady regimen of antibiotics. 

We also threw in a healthy dose of TLC; Maggie found herself becoming a lap chicken. Wende, 12-year old Sarah and I took turns taking her from the cage, wrapping her in a blanket, gently holding her and, yes, I admit it, talking to her with words of love and encouragement. 

After a few days, Maggie started to move around a bit in her cage. Little by little she got stronger until, one miraculous day, she was shakily up on her feet. Soon, we blocked the door to the laundry room and let her run - well, walk - around freely until, finally (and reluctantly) we deemed her ready to return to her sisters outside.

Unfortunately, the "girls" still sensed maggie's weakness and would not accept her back in the brood. Rather than turn her into a pet - even though there was some sentiment in that direction - Wende put her in a separate pen outside with the hope she would return to full strength. She never got the chance.

Early one morning we heard a ruckus outside and ran to look out the back window where the chickens were. All we saw outside of Maggie's pen were feathers. Our next door neighbor soon came over and said she a saw the coyote scampering across her backyard with poor Maggie in its mouth. That was the moment LeeZard "reached" for the gun.

Wende did not share my views - or qualms - about firearms. she grew up with 'em in her home. In fact, I was well aware of the shotgun and the pistol kept safely hidden in her closet. Without hesitation, I turned to her at that moment and said, "I want to go to the firing range and learn how to shoot. If that fucker comes back, he's either going on the wall or becoming a hat."

One week later I was on the shooting range with Wende's brother Phil who's an expert on firearms. After some orientation and an in-depth lesson, we did some trapshooting. I bought 25 rounds of shot.  All I really wanted from the experience was a knowledge of how to safely load and shoot but, to my shock and delight, I actually nicked (notice I didn't say hit) one of the clay pigeons.

Now, I am ready. C'mon coyote, make my day.

--------------

I mentioned above that that my views on gun control are now "enlightened." I can accept that we do, indeed, have the right to bear arms and doing so for sport or the protection of self and/or property is just fine. But, I will never join the National Rifle Association nor will I ever advocate their rigid position of all arms for all people. Who the hell needs assault weapons, AK-47s or other high-powered military ballistics for sport or protection? Leezard still believes there must be limits and controls. They need to be uniform across the country. 


I don't have the answers but somehow, some way, we must disarm the crazies and the criminals.

News Flash: LeeZard Enters Presidential Race!

NEWS RELEASE 
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Contact: LeeZard
              leezard7@gmail.com

December 20, 2011

LeeZard Tosses Hat in for 2012

Taps Bruce Springsteen as Running Mate

(Renton, WA) Noted blogger, raconteur and political know-some-of-it-all LeeZard will seek the 2012 Democratic nomination for president, it was announced today.

“I supported President Obama throughout the dismal, tawdry and endless 2008 campaign,” said LeeZard. “I bought in to his promise of change.”

“But let’s look at the record! Our troops are still in Afghanistan, the national debt continues to rise and we are no closer to economic stability,” he continued.

"And let's face the hard fact, UNEMPLOYMENT IS NOT WORKING!"

Gathering a full head of steam and puffing himself up to twice his normal size, LeeZard let loose with both barrels. “It’s time to bring change to the changer,” he ranted. “I’ve not seen one iota of change since Obama’s election. Let’s get this thing started!”

LeeZard promised a clean campaign on his road to the White House. “I will shower daily, rinse my socks and underwear each evening and try to avoid eating too much garlic,” he declared.

“My campaign theme will be simple and appear to be sincere, even though I have no idea what it is. My rhetoric will be unintelligible but well-packaged.”

“I can promise you this,” concluded LeeZard, “my administration will be characterized by bad puns, good food and frequent bouts of goofiness. And, to quote those great Americans, Hans and Franz, ‘hear me now and listen to me later; no matter what happens, tramps like us, baby we were born to run!”

"And, remember my friends, if we take ourselves too seriously then we take ourselves too seriously"

The Poetry of Politics

©2011 by LeeZard

She was breathless on the phone call,

"There was a Republican
Who lived in the South.
He still looked the same

With his foot in his mouth."

"Mother Goose," I exclaimed, "I wasn't expecting to hear from you until 2012!"

"I know," she said in a rare moment of prose, "But....

I thought I could wait,

maybe go play the flute,

But look who they gave us,

Romney and Newt."

And, so dear readers, our favorite political analyst is back, just in time for the circus called the 2012 presidential primary season. Ma Goose take it away.

They've been running for years,

2012's their obsession,

I think they forgot,

There's still a recession!

What happened to Herman,

The front runner Cain?

His campaign run down

by a runaway train.

He diddled with this,

he fondled her that,

He messed with the girls,

Like a good Democrat.

            Look at the field 

Even sans Palin,
The Grand Ol' Party
Seems like it's failing'.

Now let's look away,

And across the aisle.

The incumbent can sit,

And rest for awhile.

He can gather his money

And marshall his forces,

Prepare his plan

And count Newt's divorces.

Bring it on he says;

I'm President Obama.

I'm the guy,

Who nailed Osama.

Well, that's all I have

Until next year,

No matter who wins,

Let's all shed a tear.

For The Donald,

Who fell off the stump,

Couldn't get a debate,

Even hosted by Trump.

For Sarah Palin,

Who finally learned

That if she ran,

She'd surely get burned.

For the Tea Party,

They finally got wise,

Their extremism,

was marginalized.

For those we've forgotten 

Without even trying',

What was his name?

Oh yeah,

Joseph Biden.

 

Thanks, MG! We'll see you next year.

BRANDO

©2011 by LeeZard

Brando the Wonder Dog died peacefully in my arms at 10:35 PM (PST) on 
November 25th, 2011. He was 12-years old. The last words he heard were, “I love you, Brando.”

Brando died from an overdose of barbiturates administered by a critical care veterinarian after he was diagnosed with cancer in his shoulder that had spread to his lungs. His chest cavity was filled with blood and fluid; he was slowly suffocating. I had no choice but to put him down. Nonetheless, it was a difficult and wrenching decision.
   
I wanted to get that part out of the way off the top because I don’t want this to be a maudlin obituary. This is the story of a great and loyal German Shepherd, a dignified and grand old man who lived to love and play. He got plenty of both in the all too brief time we had with him.

Brando chose me for adoption in June, 2007, a few months before his eighth birthday. I was looking for a German Shepherd; I knew them to be smart, loyal and protective - not mean unless an owner made it so. A family friend had one when I was growing up, Bruno. Bruno once saved a young child’s life by pulling him back to the curb as the boy was unknowingly walking out into heavy traffic. Later on, my brother Steve had Sundance, a magnificent Shepherd.

In 2007, the time was right in my life and I searched German Shepherd rescue groups. I didn’t want to go through the puppy phase so I looked for a young Shepherd, maybe one or two years old. The Oregon German Shepherd Rescue Group had about nine or 10 dogs living with a foster family. I drove down to Portland for a look. Foster mom Heather told me she had one older dog who was special but I was looking for a youngster. Brando had other ideas.

The first dog I met was okay but, frankly, nothing special. He walked nicely on the lead and ignored me when I let him off and called him to me. No surprise there; who the hell was I? Brando, however, had no such qualms. He was the second dog out of the run, a grinning black and tan who walked right up to me and licked my face. He had me at hello. Our short walk only solidified my decision. He trotted contentedly at my side and waited patiently as I unhooked the lead. “Brando, come,” I said gently. Without hesitation, the big fella walked up to me with that smile on his face and, what else, licked my face.

C’mon, buddy,” I grinned back at him, “let’s go home.”

Brando slipped into my life as if he’d always been part of it. He was a little underweight and had a few minor issues - read that worms. Once free of the parasites, he rapidly reached a normal weight of 95 pounds - a big ol’ lovable, overgrown pup. It didn’t take long before he was happily walking at ‘heel’ along side me without his lead. It didn’t take me long to learn that Brando had a very short list of self-appointed responsibilities and that he took them very, very seriously.

First and foremost, it was Brando’s job to know at all times where I was and to never take his eyes off me for more than a few moments. That is the way of German Shepherds; they choose their “person” and that is their first commitment; a very strong bond is established. Secondly Brando wanted to give and get love, primarily from me but, once he got to know someone, they would do just fine if I wasn’t around.

Finally, Brando wanted to play. No, he wanted to chase things and bring them back, only to chase them again, and again, and again. He was an incredible athlete but he was also like a U.S. Marine; he would chase anything on the land, in the sea and in the air. If it was a stick, he wanted to carry it around, even if I didn’t throw it. If I stopped to rest, Brando would lay down and gnaw on that stick as if trying to shape it into the perfect throwing object.

If it was a ball, he’d carry it around until he was ready to run. Then he’d drop it at my feet and assume the classic canine “play with me” pose, wagging butt in the air, his snout flat on the ground between his forepaws. If it was a frisbee, he’d carry the soft cloth disk proudly from the house until we reached the big grassy play field about a half mile away, at which point he’d drop it at my feet so our favorite game could begin.



I don’t know what made me throw the frisbee for him the first time but I was astonished as he galloped full tilt until he outran it and leapt about three to four feet in the air and snatched it on the fly. Likewise, I don’t know what made me throw a stick in the water for the first time but I’ve never seen a German Shepherd hit the water like Brando; he swam with tremendous strength and glee. On hot days, as we walked along the beach or a lake, he would wade in chest deep and put his entire head underwater to cool off.
How much did Brando love the water?

My sweetie Wende lives on a small, wooded lake and no gasoline or diesel powered watercraft are allowed. As such, everyone around the lake has a big wooden raft with a relatively small electric motor. Throughout the summer, these rafts meet in the middle of the lake for joint barbecues, swimming parties and, of course, the annual raft race.

One sweltering weekend, with the mercury tickling 100, Wende, young Sarah and I - with Brando and Wende’s aging Golden retriever Smokey aboard - slowly motored her raft to the middle of the lake for a late afternoon family swim. As she killed the electric motor, Wende called over her shoulder, “OK, who’s going to be the first to dive in?” The next thing we all heard was a big SPLASH and, as we simultaneously turned toward the source of that splash, the only thing we saw was Brando’s hind legs as he dove head first into the cooling water.

Have you ever tried to lift a 95 lb. dripping wet dog out of the water and onto a raft? With no ramp it was damned near impossible until Wende took a big beach towel and draped it under his chest right behind his armpits. With her pulling from the raft and me lifting from behind we finally got the big guy back on board, only having to grab him to stop him from diving back in.


A year or so later, when I rescued an abandoned Golden Retriever pup - Trooper, a dog born and bred to swim - Brando regularly out-swam him every time I threw a ball or a stick into the water. Amazing!