May 20, 2009


By Dean Meyer


Well, I did it again. I’m in the doghouse. That woman can be so hard to keep happy. I knew when women won the right to vote, there were going to be problems. I’d better start at the beginning.
You all know Shirley has spent the winter in the Legislature. I’ve been home minding the home front. Oh, occasionally I would get out to Happy Hour, but not every day. Well, OK then. I got out a lot.
And when Shirley came home from Bismarck and found me gone. Well, I’ll rephrase that. When Shirley returned from Bismarck and didn’t find me, there were problems. She said I didn’t tell her. I say I did. She says I didn’t. I say I did.
I swear on a Bible, a Koran, and a Gurney seed catalog that I told her. You see, she says I only told her I was going golfing. I did not tell her it was for five days in Vegas. Why do women have to be so nit-picky?
She was just getting over it when I brought home the puppy. That should be THE PUPPY. It was a giveaway deal at the cow sale. I suppose you are wondering what kind of puppy I would bring home. He’s a canhardly. You can hardly tell what kind he is. The kid giving the pups away said they were German Shepherd/Red Heeler crosses. And the parents were good cattle dogs. Which is the thing you would say if giving pups away at the cattle sale. That kid was no dummy.
I looked at those pups and I thought of “King.” My great German Shepard. And “Tyke,” one of the best Red Heelers to walk the face of the planet. What if this little pup could turn out like those two great dogs of years ago? You can see why I brought home a pup.
The kid assured me the dog was house-trained. He was. He was trained to go to the bathroom every time he came in the house. And he could sneak in the house every time someone cracked the door. I guess he would be getting tired of holding it.
Anyway, as my pup grows, he is bearing a lot of resemblance to a Saint. Saint Bernard, that is. All I need is one of those little beer kegs to tie on his neck. And he has no interest in cattle at all. I think that kid was a liar.
Back to why I am in the doghouse. Shirley is away on legislative business. I am farming and fencing. When I came home the other night at dark, “Hotshot” was nowhere to be found. I looked all over. Went over to the neighbors. I finally decided a terrorist had kidnapped him, and I would be receiving a ransom note.
Then I went in the house. Hotshot was glad to see me! Someone had evidently been to the house and he had snuck in. It was like the dog party from Dr. Seuss! The shoes from the entryway were in the living room. The blankets from the bed were in the bathroom. Shirley’s pajamas were in the kitchen. He had torn up several newspapers for confetti. The Christmas tree was tipped over. I know, I know, it’s time to take it down anyway, but I’ve been busy. The phones were off the hook. I think he had been trying to call his girl friend. The garbage had been thoroughly investigated. And he had deposited a week’s worth of …. you know, on Shirley’s side of the bed! What a dog! I hope that stuff fossilizes by the time she gets home!
I’m going out and try to make the door to Hotshot’s doghouse a little bigger. It would be awful chilly sleeping outside at night.