If my Uncle Dale were still alive, I would be out there swapping lies with him right now. He’s not, so it’s on me to tell this one. And as much as I wish it was a lie, it ain’t.
From 2002-2009, when the weather permitted, and TVA was running “big water” (two turbines) at Norris, we’d go fishin’ for rainbow trout on my day off. We’d set off early, before school traffic, and be humming down interstate 75 as the fog lifted off the limestone mountains. I’d be nodding, hopeful that the fishing yield would be worth sacrificing one of my only days to sleep in. Fords get one thing right- they’ve got a heater that blows hotter than the hubs of hell. Combine that with Newstalk radio, the hum of the throaty diesel, the smell of coffee, and you’ve got a recipe to lull Amy right on to Dreamland.
We’d put in at the canoe ramp right below the dam, and walk the trailer through the bollards. I’d load our life vests and pop the seats up, readying for embarkment.
Uncle Dale would climb in, get the trolling motor cranked, and let it warm up while he tied on his first plug of the day. I’d stand there holding the rope, yawning and shivering in the mist the Clinch is always shrouded in.
“Alright Pilgrim, load up. I wouldn’t be you for apple butter.”
And so the trash talking would begin.
I’d climb aboard and we’d motor over to the opposite shore.
We’d cast.
That instant thrum you felt up your arm when the plug struck water and you let the line run out some.
“Woooo!!! Gonna need some Flexall 4-5-4!!” He’d say before he ever got a bite.
I’d roll my eyes and crack open my first Mountain Dew of the day.
Sometimes I caught the first one, but usually he did. We would always toss them back after admiring how beautiful all rainbow trout are.
And then we’d know what we needed to be fishing with, whether it was silver and black, or chartreuse, or maybe some blaze orange. We modified all plugs with an upgrade on treble hooks (them little dinky ones are no match for the big mouth, hard hitting trout). Some got a tacky paint job, which as bad as it looked, made all the difference.
One day we weren’t having a bit of luck. I hadn’t even caught the first “elusive yellow perch” as I liked to call them. (They’re not elusive at all, I just tried to make whatever I was catching sound better than what he was catching).
He did something I’d never seen him do before.
He flipped open the lid of the Big Gray Duct Taped Tackle Box.
I looked over, alarmed. I had never witnessed this occurrence. “What’re you doing?”
He emitted a sigh. “Gonna hafta get in my Go-To Box. This ain’t cuttin’ it today.”
I peered into the jumbled up mess of plugs. “I don’t know how you find anything in there,” I mumbled, looking at my lovingly sorted and stored collection of lures, arranged by size, running depth, and color.
He rummaged through a section or two, not the least bit mindful of barbs.
He emerged with the single ugliest plug I had ever seen in my life.
A white crawdad.
And to make things worse, he’d livened it up with blaze orange spots.
“You are NOT gonna fish with that ugly thing,” I said, horrified.
“Ralph, you better hold on. The next one I reel in is liable to turn the boat over.”
I laughed so hard I almost turned the boat over. “Ain’t no way no self respecting trout is gonna hit that hideous lure. I’d be ashamed to have that ugly thing in my tackle box. Rapala–”
The crawdad, newly tied on, sang through the air and hit the water twenty yards out. He tripped the reel.
And literally one second later he jerked, pretending to set the hook.
I laughed my hind end off. “Yeah right, we ain’t caught nothin’ all day, and here you are pretending to catch on your first cast with that ugly ol’–”
As I’m trash talking, he’s reeling in. “Pilgrim, you better get the net, this is a fish.”
I rolled my eyes and reached for the minner net.
“I’m serious!”
I got the big net.
The trout fought.
“Prolly just a big ol’ piece of moss,” I drawled, knowing better.
“Better get the Flexall 4-5-4!” was his gleeful reply.
More eye rolling on my part. “Prolly hung up on a log.”
The fish made it to the boat. It WAS a nice fish.
“It had just never seen anything so ugly and had to investigate,” I told him, licking my wounds.
He was laughing manically as he retied his knot.
I twitched my line.
He cast.
I swear to you, I don’t think that vile crawdad smacked the water before a trout hit it.
At this point, I got mad.
He’s laughing, reeling another monster in. And danged if his extra pole didn’t get a hit and I had to reel THAT one in for him.
After all that excitement, I sulled up and ate my peanut butter and crackers and made squinty eyes at him and his ugly lure, as he went on about how sore his arm was gonna be the next day.
The pearl white crawdad got a place of honor in the top box after that.
I would always hold my breath on subsequent fishing trips, hoping he wouldn’t break it out. He really wore me out with it that one summer day. Of course I said I didn’t want to be seen fishing in the same boat with such a horrific looking plug, but we both knew the truth. And he never let anyone forget it. Seems like he even took me to Bob’s that night to gloat and lord the thumping I took over me.
I learned about five years later that he had tried and tried to buy me my own white crawdad. I guess he was afraid not to, following the kite incident from my youth. He went so far as to call Rebel, who told him they’d be glad to help him, but he had to buy 250 of them in order to run that paint lot again. That was a little over budget.
I have the prized “pearl” crawdad now, of course. The only problem is, I will never use it in fear of losing it.
Dang ol’ ugly thang sittin’ here in my collection of classical, curated objects.
I’m only crying ’cause the big’n got away.
Last week, I sat in my office with a producer I’ve known for years. He had the best dog, a Border Collie named Bonnie.
She didn’t do anything beyond standard tricks, but she was always eager to go wherever Al went, trotting happily along beside him and hopping in the truck gracefully. She was a sweet girl and would lay at his feet while he consulted me about his order.
Bonnie passed away last year.
My client blinked back tears and called himself silly for still getting torn up about his beloved Bonnie. I assured him he wasn’t being ridiculous at all, as I brushed away tears of my own, and she wasn’t even my dog.
He wondered aloud how we can become so attached to a dog. “It didn’t use to be like this,” he said. “I mean, I had dogs growing up, and all my adult life, and they came and went, but this dog….and it’s not just me, it’s people everywhere. They don’t live outside anymore, they sleep in our beds! When did dogs become so important?”
I smiled. “I think I know.”
He waited.
I began. “Used to, people would visit. We had a whole lot more face-to-face interaction. When was the last time you went riding around visiting on a Sunday afternoon? When was the last time you had company that wasn’t prearranged? Or company at all, for that matter?” I gestured to my computer. “Now we rely on social media to stay in touch with friends and family instead of a spur of the moment get together or dropping by their house to say hello. Even our meetings for work have stopped being in person, and that’s only in part because of Covid. It’s expensive for businesses to pay for travel, and it’s hard to justify when we have Zoom and Skype. But who do we see every day? Our dogs. Who loves us unconditionally? Our dogs. Who is always happy to see us and never say anything negative? Our dogs.”
He agreed.
And you know, it’s true. When I don’t see people regularly, it’s kind of out of sight, out of mind. I like people better when I’m around them. The nuances are missed when they’re only a social media presence. And usually that’s a fake personality being presented, anyway. I prefer you warts and all, as my friend Rhonda says.
I guess what I’m trying to say is we need to actually spend time in one another’s presence, or in the very least a dreaded phone call or we lose that sparkle. I’m thankful that Uncle Dale lived just next door and we didn’t ever leave anything unsaid. There was nothing on the table that I wish I’d gotten around to saying, nothing that I was holding onto for a better time. My good friend Cynthia, at the Knoxville office, tells me all the time how much she loves me and values my friendship. I don’t get to see her much, but she makes a point of telling me what a good friend she believes me to be and how hard I make her laugh. I appreciate that, and I appreciate her. She says we have to tell one another how we feel, because tomorrow isn’t promised. It doesn’t leave me feeling unsettled when she says this , just at peace that we know.
Another thing that’s apparently gone by the wayside with my generation is greeting cards. Or any kind of mail, actually. I like sending Christmas cards, thank you cards, and post cards. Of course I don’t like to send sympathy or get well soon cards, but I try to. My age group simply doesn’t do that. The written word is extremely important to me. I had one “pen pal” that I see maybe twice a year and I’ve even let that go, just from negligence. I need to remedy that relationship.
I’m not one to let any grass grow on general topics, but I don’t often tell people how I feel about them (me and my hand signals in traffic are exempt). It’s hard for me to admit how much I care about people, I guess because a lot of them haven’t stuck around, so if they don’t know, there are no feelings damaged but mine. So if you get a text or call or an out of the blue visit soon, just know I value you. I’m not dying any more than the next person, but we just don’t ever know.
Xoxo
Postscript: I told Al to think of what a great life he gave Bonnie, and he corrected me saying, “No, she’s the one who gave me a great life.” AND YOU PEOPLE WONDER WHY I CRY ALL THE TIME
He called me Pilgrim.
We shared a love of peach milkshakes, pickles, peanut M&M’s, home grown tomatoes, blueberry anything, and we’d fight over Shirley Pitner’s stack cake.
He taught me how to throw a frisbee, cast a line, shoot a variety of weapons, train a dog, clean my glasses, and identify trees in any season.
Oh, and the best advice he ever gave me that I evoke multiple times a day (and it shows): “Eat all you can, every time you can, ’cause there ain’t no tellin’ what might happen before you can eat again.”
We listened to Rush Limbaugh and Patsy Cline when I rode in his truck. We watched Star Trek and The Twilight Zone when I stayed with them when I was young. He bought me a microscope, and my first sleeping bag, but not the My Little Pony kite from McDonalds. And we have never let him forget it.
My first (and last!) deer hunting trip was under his watchful eyes and sharp tongue.
I couldn’t do anything right, but he’d sometimes concede that I was doing alright for a wimpy little girl. This was said in jest, and primarily to get me riled so I could do whatever it was I thought I couldn’t.
He thought I should wear heels to work every day and that I should stay redheaded.
He mowed my yard and always made me feel safe and protected when I was with him. Because I was. But he also made sure I knew how to protect myself from the onset.
I get my temper and love of outdoors from him.
He said I ate spaghetti neater than any kid he ever saw and warned all the boys, “better watch, Amy’s a pretty good shot”.
He’d rather walk and carry a Ford hubcap than drive a Chevrolet.
His favorite color was red.
He could name any bird in the sky and nearly any bug that crawled, jumped, or flew. His idea of a good time was sitting on the front porch watching the hummingbirds dive and fight, speculating on what the clouds’ shapes resembled, and counting how many songs a mockingbird could imitate. He would spot four leaf clovers effortlessly, and drive me crazy by telling me there was four where I was looking when I couldn’t even see one.
He loved deer hunting, fishing, eating, and aggravating me, not necessarily in that order.
He was never late. If he was five minutes early, in his mind that meant he was ten minutes late.
He had the bluest eyes and the strongest hands of any man I’ve ever met.
He looked like a cross between Santa Claus and Charlie Daniels and had a big deep voice to accompany his stature. I doubt I would have recognized him without his beard. His hearing rivaled a bat’s and his memory recall was something to be envied. He took care of his teeth but he said his poor ol’ big toe just wanted to LEAVE.
In his younger years he kept piranhas in a fish tank in his dining room and a black female chow dog outside.
He made his living pushing a knife across the cutting room of Bike Athletic. The knife itself weighed forty pounds.
He served on the Planning Commission the last several years, and took that role very seriously, as he did most everything….except getting even with his cousins. His favorite prank ever involved the EPA.
He was frugal, and made me & Aunt Bren positively crazy switching back and forth between Comcast and Charter. He baited them against each other to get the best deal. The WiFi password changed at least annually.
His idea of the perfect cereal was Honey Nut Cheerios mixed with Raisin Bran Crunch. If you really wanted to be fancy, slice you up a banana for it.
He liked reading TWRA magazines, books on politics, and just about anything I wrote.
He knew everything and you couldn’t tell him nothin’, but I did beat him at Jeopardy the other night.
He was tough as a pine knot, living through cancer that was supposed to kill him in the 90’s (leaving him with one working lung), two colon ruptures, countless close calls in the wild, a hip replacement, barroom brawls, and one mean ass rooster. He wasn’t scared of anything that I know of, except maybe rattlesnakes. So many of his stories involved being a thrashing, bloody mess at some point. He SURVIVED so much.
The man was tough as 60 penny nails.
And he ain’t here no more.
And I have been up all night trying to work out how that’s possible. He was larger than life. He was a part of my everyday life from the time I entered this world. Who is gonna pick on me now? Who is gonna tell me I’m doing it wrong when I haven’t even started doing it yet? Who is gonna keep me informed on the doings in the news, since I can’t bring myself to watch it myself? I feel untethered.
I’m sure he’s thinking I’m being dramatic, that I’ll be fine, but he’s also smiling because he’s given me a good story. He went out with some excitement, and I’m sure if he had lived to tell about this last one it’d be a hum-dinger, especially by the fourth or fifth telling. I’m sure he’s regaling all his hunting buddies with it upstairs now.
Thank you to Seymour Fire Department and Sevier County Sheriff’s Department. Y’all are some of the kindest people I’ve ever encountered. Tragedy is no stranger in your line of work, and I’m thankful you do what you do and do it so well, your execution is flawless.
We’ve shed a lake full of tears today, all fighting over who loved him best.
Not me. Not me.
THIS is his tribute, not the little post I made last night. Y’all might have to endure fifty more, I just don’t know. A lot to be said about my favorite human. I was rooting through paperwork hunting some stuff and came across several years of kill tags. This was a shot straight to my heart, just thinking of all the stories if these tags could talk. I feel sure I’ve heard them all twice but I don’t know which goes with what. 🦌
I am sitting here, before this device, wondering how to say it.
There are times in your life you live outside yourself. Some take you by surprise and take your breath and you wonder how it could be happening. Other times you know the day was inevitable and unavoidable but you still kinda float along, above and on the periphery.
That’s where I am now.
Today was the first day of deer season (muzzleloader).
Today, and all first days of deer season for the last sixty or so years, you could find my Uncle Dale (“Tiny” to many) in the woods. “The deer woods”, he liked to say.
And so my uncle spent his last day on this Earth where he was happiest.
It is difficult for me to be SAD, because he passed away exactly where he wanted to, doing what he loved best. I cannot be angry, because he taught me to have respect, and he’s not here to argue his case. He would win, regardless. I will not be resentful because God took him, I will be grateful he didn’t languish in a hospital bed. He’d spent his due time in those over the years.
I am broken-hearted and disappointed I didn’t get more tales on video. I am bewildered that the man lived through what he did and found a way to spin the incidents into a spellbinding story isn’t here to keep telling all he knew.
My mentor, my fishing buddy, my personal talking encyclopedia, my favorite relative, my father figure, my Uncle Dale, gone from this world today, November 6th, 2021.
From the comments
Mary Watt: “Oh Amy, I am so sorry. There is such a huge amount of sadness it seems right now with so many deaths. My heart aches for you sweet Amy. I know he was your rock, the one you could count on for anything. Much love and prayers, dear friend. 
“
Tracy Baker: “I’m so sorry to hear Uncle Dale is gone. He was such a wonderful presence in your life. I still marinate chicken just like he did that Easter I spent with your family.”
Ann Montgomery: “Amy, our hearts are broken. But you are totally correct about him doing what he loved, on the day he lived for all year long. Tiny was a sweet, kind and loving man with a huge smile and a huge heart. There have been (and still are) people in Seymour, who epitomize the Seymour community. Who grew up here, lived here all their life, and who automatically come to mind when you talk about Seymour. Tiny is one of them! So many good memories of all things Tiny: Brenda, deer hunting discussions, politics, Bob’s Round Table, Joe Irwin, jokes and laughter, hand made walking sticks, one of which he gave me. So much to remember, enjoy and be thankful for. “I’m sorry” just can’t express the sadness that swept across Seymour last night when the phones began ringing. Prayers for each of you. And you wrote an amazing tribute
“
Lisa Burnett: “He talked about Pilgrim all the time, always with pride but mostly with love.”
Princess Glitterpants tells me this is my special day. It’s all about ME!! I thought every day was about me, but evidently today really is. So far I have had bacon and a biscuit. Not those hard little cardboard ones, but a human biscuit, fluffy and buttery and delicious. I have been permitted to sleep in the Kingdom of Fluff and Squash this whole month!!! PGP snores, but that’s ok. I like being close to her. She says I get away with murder as it is, so she’s not sure how to top a regular day today. I take special offense to this mention of murder, ’cause I ain’t murdered nobody. And if I did, wouldn’t it be preferable that I got away with it? She’s very confusing sometimes. She says nobody would be brave enough to break in on us since I live here with all my scary teeth. I think this is amusing. She’s way meaner than me!!!
But back to my day. After breakfast, I got new toys. I got two new bones, a beaver, a cheeseburger in lieu of a birthday cake, and, best of all, a Sebastian 3.0. He’s an exact replica of the Sebastian that was my very first toy, ever. I don’t know how PGP got him, but I’m sure glad to see my old friend. This is me with my loot.
She also sang.
It was horrible, but don’t tell her that. I know it wasn’t meant as punishment.
Things sure have changed in a year. I don’t like to dwell in the past, us dogs are all about the here and now, but I want to tell you about my typical day a year plus one day ago. Then I’ll tell you about my one year ago today day.
I had just gotten a new bed. It was the only thing soft in my cell. And it was almost possible to be warm on it, since it wasn’t against the concrete. My world was gray, except for a few minutes a day where I was let out into the grassy enclosure alone to stretch my legs and do my business. I would never mess and tinkle in my cell, but sometimes I couldn’t wait to do the other and tried to keep it in the corner. Disgraceful, I know, and embarrassing to admit, but there wasn’t always enough staff to walk me when I needed to go out. So I did what I had to do when I had to do it.
I had food and water delivered to me twice a day, morning and night, and I tried my best not to make a mess. The digs weren’t bad, especially after being on the streets so long. It was a relief not to get shot at, or hollered at, or chased. I no longer had to dodge cars and people throwing stuff at me. I wasn’t out in the rain and cold. And mainly I was so thankful I didn’t have to root through waste and garbage to find something to eat. Or eat cat food that people left outside for the racoons or stray kitties. Everybody was so scared of me, so nobody left any doggie food out. They didn’t want a pit bull hanging around. Although obviously I’m just as much Labrador!
Staying in my cell 23 hours a day, with bright florescent lights on almost all the time, and a never ending cacophony of barking dogs, plus the train that rambled by regularly, it was like my ears couldn’t get a break. I like to bark, too, but not non-stop. So I thought that was it. The end of the road. I was vaguely aware of other dogs coming and going, but always heard I was “too big” “too energetic” “too strong” and “too scary”. Me?? Scary??? I think it’s my head. Even PGP says my head is blocky. And I do have a lot of teeth, like I mentioned before. I guess they thought I would steal their food. I don’t steal!! I have manners!! I take it-very gently, I might add- when it’s presented to me.
I can’t deny that I AM big, and I AM strong, and I AM energetic!!! I love to run and run and run. I get excited and I jump up on you. I call it vaulting, because I don’t stay long. I make a great kitchen dance partner, though. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
So every day was the same: constant noise, few humans to stroke my (too big) head, not much to do at all but lay there and wonder if this was really how it was gonna be forever. I did feel much better, but what good was that if I couldn’t go play with people?
After about four months of this same routine, one day the guy in charge came to my cell. He didn’t have food bowls. He greeted me warmly and scratched me behind my floppy ears after he got my leash and collar slipped on. He said there was somebody that wanted to meet me.
Meet ME???
THIS HAD NEVER HAPPENED.
And here’s a girl who smelled like bacon. I heard her say, “Oh, he’s not THAT big.” She had red hair and a worried expression as she watched me pull Kevin around on the asphalt. He made me stop and asked her if she wanted to walk me. It surprised me that she said yes, but she did, and we took off. I gave her a kiss first. I’m forward that way.
She let me take my time when I had to squat (I’m a terrible first date, but I had to GO). I tried to stick close to her but this was so out of the ordinary for me I couldn’t hardly contain myself. I was sniffing everything and kinda pulling her around. But a few times she gently jerked my leash and kissed at me and so I would trot over to her. I wanted to lick her face so bad. She asked me to sit and I dropped it like it was hot.
She awarded me with bacon from a plastic pouch.
I was in LOVE.
I would follow this Queen of Bacon anywhere.
We started back down to my building and I was so worried. I could feel my sadness growing with every step. But this is my fate. There were a whole bunch of workers outside watching our return. Didn’t they have dogs to walk? They should get busy.
“How’d it go?” The man in charge asked her.
She looked at me and shrugged. She was thinking I was too big, after all. I just knew it.
“I like him,” she said instead.
Kevin waited for the “but”.
She held his gaze and said nothing.
He turned to the girls. “Go get his cape and start his paperwork, this baby’s going home.”
And my redhead cried.
And I cried.
And I think everybody else was trying not to cry.
They put me in a rocket for a trial run down to the store to make sure I wouldn’t act like an idiot in the car. I was Very Good, even though it was only my third time in a rocket.
And we came back and I got buttoned into this ridiculous Superman cape and a harness because I would probably choke out from all the excitement in a regular collar. When the redhead saw me she smiled so big and I got in HER rocket, which turned out to be the fastest one of all. I managed to wiggle out of that dumb cape and spent the rest of the time looking out the windows and trying to act like I did this sort of thing all the time. After awhile I got sleepy (it was a LONG trip!!) And I put my (too big, blocky) head on her elbow. I heard her sniff. She started calling people and I heard how excited everybody was for us. It felt so good, evidently she’d been looking for me for a long time. I don’t know what took her so long, I’d been right there in that same spot for months. But we had each other now.
We finally quit going so fast and I sat up again and this time put my head on her shoulder. I refrained from licking her ear. It took a LOT.
We finally stopped and I got to see my new furever home for the first time. It was BEAUTIFUL. The best part was the enclosure. It was HUGE!!! It looked like I could run for DAYS!!! PGP walked me all around it a couple of times and then we went inside.
I WAS GOING TO LIVE HERE?!?!?EVERYTHING WAS SO SOFT AND IT SMELLED SO GOOD AND BEST OF ALL IT WAS JUST US!!! No other caterwauling dogs! No train! No florescent lights! There was my very own bed and all kinds of rooms to sniff and IS THAT A TOY FOR ME?!?!?!
OH
MY.
DOG.
I passed out at her feet. It was all too much.
And when I woke up, I was still here. And every day when I wake up, it’s all still here and I’m still here and it’s not a dream.
This is really happening.
I have food and water always. I have my own enormous yard and I can do whatever I want out there, except escape. I can chew sticks, dig holes, run, chase squirrels (but NOT the chickens…at least, not if PGP is home to see me), lay on the porch, wallow in the grass, bark at the neighbors, bark at the mailman, bark at the birds, and howl when the emergency vehicles go by. I have the dungeon, and it has cool concrete floors, and I don’t get in trouble if I’m down there for hours on end and I have to…you know. It’s ok. I like the dungeon, but don’t tell PGP. It’s where we play if it’s raining, so that’s a perk, too.
But my #1 favorite is upstairs with my redhead, laying wherever she is. I’m not allowed to Chesterplay on the couch or Kingdom of Fluff, doing so revokes my privileges, but I can lay there if I’m good and don’t act crazy. I get tidbits of whatever she’s eating. I forgot my ACTUAL favorite is when we go for Rocket rides to get fluffcups. We do this at least once a week, even though I get Chester hairs everywhere and drool on the windows. PGP is a bit of a neat freak. I have so many toys and I get more delivered to me once a month– MY name is on the box. If it rains while I’m outside, I am given the towel treatment upon entry. If she somehow senses it’s going to rain, I get to stay inside all toasty warm and dry. If she doesn’t know, usually I can get out of the rain somewhere. She never leaves me out if it’s cold. Or super duper hot. I’m heat intolerant, is what the guy told her, and she said she is, too. I was so scared of going up and down stairs when I came home (give me a break, I’d never seen them before!) But they don’t faze me now. I’m way quicker than PGP, even. I’m still not keen on being brushed, it tickles!!! The vacuum cleaner is a pest, but there’s no use barking at it like I used to. I just had to learn. PGP is amazed by what I already knew (sit, stay, lay down, shake) but she did teach me that cool spin move. We’ve still got work to do about getting in the bathtub, but you can’t have it all. I must retain a quirk or two.
I’m so glad this happened to me. It was definitely worth the wait at the holding place. There’s not even been any talk of Gypsies in some time. I know my redhead’s heart was totally shattered when I came here, but we’ve worked together and she says I’ve brought her so much joy. I know the Lightning Bug approves. He held on as long as he could but he knew she had love in her heart for another down-on-their-luck pibble.
I have met several of you this year, and I’m sorry if you weren’t one of the ones I warmed up to. My #1 priority is loving PGP, and with that love comes protection. I’m sure you meant no harm but I have to be on guard 100% of the time. And so I bark and act threatening. Like I said, PGP can hold her own but I’m s’post to scare you off first because she says ammo is really high and there’s no sense wastin’ it. Her aim is true, though, so it would only take one little bullet and you wouldn’t hurt for long, probably.
I hope you all have a fantastic and moderately spooky Halloween. We’re celebrating Howl-o-ween here, no spooks. PGP says she has plenty of ghosts and does not welcome more. And she doesn’t want to share her peanut m&m’s with the little goblins who might come knockin’.
Thank you for following my adventures these last 365 days. Thank you for the love and fun comments, all the sweet words you’ve expressed about me. October is both Adopt a Shelter Pet Month and Pit Bull Awareness Month, and it is my hope when you go looking for a companion you’ll check your local (and not so local) shelters first. Pit Bulls are the #1 dogs in shelters, and that means they’re the most bred dogs out there AND the ones being put to sleep more than any other breed. Some of us are a little aggressive, sure. You would be too if people taught you that’s what you had to be. But I promise we’re also among the most loyal, social, loving, and least shedding breeds out there. (I don’t count on that shedding bit, since I’m half Lab). We all just want somebody to love, and somebody to love us back. We were known as nanny dogs before those hateful men taught us to fight to death. Show us love and that’s what we’ll give back. Show us hate and eventually that’s what we’ll reflect.
So today is my birthday. PGP says it’s more of an anniversary, if we were to be technical about it, but it’s also like a Christian birthday, because I was born again into a new life. I’ve certainly lived different than I did before. I wish I could tell her how thankful I am, but I’m pretty sure she knows already. Happy Howl-o-ween from the redheads. Happy Gotcha Day to us.
Love, Chester Copperpot ❤️🐾
AKA Chess Pie, Chessmess, Chester Charles, Lord Chesterfield, Chesterpeake, Chesspiece, Chessie, The Comma, and GET DOWN!!!
Once upon a time, in a small white house, in a tiny little town, at the foot of some very old mountains, lived an extra large dog named Chester.
Chester was the color of chocolate pie filling just before it boils. He had white toes like he had walked through a shallow pail of paint. And maybe he had. Chester had a vicious bark and a vigorous wagging tail and he was very, very loved. He was also very, very spoiled, because the Princess who “owned” him had been very, very spoiled when she was a little girl.
When he wanted to go get a fluffcup and he used his very scary big britches bark to get her attention, the Princess would tell him, “Chester, the Rolling Stones taught me you can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.” And then the Princess would go and make them a roast or meatloaf, or sometimes a barbeque sandwich.
And Chester loved the roasts and the meatloaves and the barbeque sandwiches.
And he and the Princess lived happily ever after.
Especially when she scratched his belly when he was full of meatloaf.
You aren’t supposed to talk about your good deeds. And I know a man who didn’t. I once had a friend who was into saving dogs. She was a little overzealous about it, honestly, going without provisions herself just to help another dog. You have to draw the line somewhere, and that’s why I only have Chester. He’s all I can afford when I give him the life I feel like he deserves.
I’m off track. So I had this friend. She was overrun with dogs and it got to where she couldn’t feed the ones she had. I put on here she was needing some help, she’d gotten in over her head, and she was having a yard sale if anybody had stuff to donate to go towards the care of the dogs she’d rescued.
My friend and neighbor messaged me and said for me to bill him a bag of dog food to give to the lady the next time she came in. He couldn’t stand to see an animal hungry. There is a special place in Heaven for animal lovers, I feel sure.
He fed me, too: bags of cucumbers, tomatoes, lettuce, and I don’t know what all from his garden. He was always friendly, encouraging me to come visit him and his wife, Mary, as they just lived over the hill. It was always a good time when you’d go and sit a spell in the hallway of the barn or in the iron chairs outside the old farmhouse. We’d catch up on current Seymour events and discuss the deterioration of the community due to Yankee invasion. I learned a lot about Poco Bueno bloodlines and the Waggoner Ranch in Texas. It was fascinating to hear stories from the Civil War that were largely unknown. We shared a love of history books, jokes, old country music, and an eye for good horses. He and Mary were advocates for the library, as libraries are a means to keep history alive.
Bob looked the part of an old cowboy, and that’s what he was, although I never saw him sit astride a horse. It was just in his bearing. Arms as tough as a walnut tree, tanned and scratched and scarred from years of labor outside. He always wore a “gimmee” hat {Note the one in his obituary picture–Soil Conservation, wonder where that came from?}, mesh back most of the year, thin cotton plaid shirts with a pocket where he’d put his Co-op receipt, loose fitting dark Wranglers with knife in the front pocket and a snot rag in the back. He wasn’t tall, but he had a big voice and an easy, fun laugh.
Bob was an avid emailer, we continually sent each other articles, news, and jokes when we found something we knew the other would enjoy. I loved it when we all got Facebook because then Bob and I could really fire them back and forth and we could keep a bead on the neighborhood whenever we had a storm or heard shooting. And also to update in the war on beavers. His love for animals did NOT extend to beavers. He & his wife always adopted dogs from the shelter, and they always got their dog a friend–they didn’t keep just one, even though they were home nearly all the time. “A dog needs a buddy,” Bob would say. They always made sure they had good vet care, and their horses were kept in the same manner. They bred carefully, and the horses were not sold off as they lost their usefulness, they were retired out to pasture (with friends) and put down humanely when the time came years later. They kept the same farrier for 26 years. That should tell you about their loyalty, ethics, and trust.
Bob’s feed order went like this for all the years I knew him: “Four bags of Horseman’s Edge, bag of oats, two bags of old man food {this is his way of saying Golden Years for his ageing horses}, and a bag of black oil sunflower seeds.” Bob trusted me for nutritional guidance, and he didn’t mix feed although it sounds like it. He had a wide range of horses with different dietary requirements and he fed accordingly. Plus he fed the birds 
He might pick up a few odds and ends- a few pounds of nails, hydraulic fluid, herbicides in the spring, some fertilizer. We’d tell a story or two and catch up on the current state of affairs and then he’d say, “Let’s go down to the Poorhouse, come see us,” and then I wouldn’t see him again till the following Tuesday morning.
There’s a lot of things I don’t miss about the Co-op, and a lot of people I do. Bob Watt is one I will surely miss.
“Never meddle in the affairs of Dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup”
https://www.atchleyfuneralhome.com/obituaries/Bobby-Eugene-Watt?obId=22770072#/obituaryInfo
I don’t know why, but this is the song that comes to mind when I think of Bob.
“Ride Me Down Easy”
Waylon Jennings
This ol’ highway, she’s hotter than nine kinds of hell
And the rides, that are scarce as the rain
When you’re down to your last shuck with nothin’ to sell
And too far away from the trains
Been a good month of Sundays and a guitar ago
Had a tall drink of yesterday’s wine
Left a long string of friends, some sheets in the wind
And some satisfied women behind
Won’t you ride me down easy, Lord, ride me on down?
Leave word in the dust where I lay
Say, “I’m easy come, yeah, and I’m easy go
And easy to love when I stay”
Left snow on the mountain, raised hell on the hill
Locked horns with the devil himself
Been a rodeo bum, and a son-of-a-gun
And a hobo with stars in my crown
Won’t you ride me down easy, Lord, ride me on down?
Leave word in the dust where I lay
Say, “I’m easy come, yeah, and I’m easy go
And easy to love when I stay”
Won’t you ride me down easy, Lord, ride me on down?
Leave word in the dust where I lay
Say, “I’m easy come, yeah, and I’m easy go
And easy to love when I stay”
