Look Who The Cat Drug In

Ye, doggies, I am sore today. At least my conscious is clear about my soreness. It is the mental part of "being sore as a whore." that would weight heavy on my mind. I had rather pay in cash, than use my body like trash. OK, OK, I apologize for the poetry. I remember none of y'all like it. :sneaky:

I know when I posted that my neighbor, that let his dog run at large and :poop: in my yard, had died, you were disappointed as that would be the end of the shovel catapult stories. I thought so also, until yesterday mowing the front lawn. Two huge multi turd dog piles were found. I have no idea whose dog it was, so instead of targeting an offending neighbors front porch, I just aimed at the middle of the street and let it be the cities problem. This all worked out because I don't have the strength to get it much farther. My goal was to get it out in the center so cars wouldn't run over it. I wanted it on public display so all could see it. Sometimes public shaming is the best deterrent. Only time will tell.
 
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I am feeling a bit down after checking Tony's diary for the latest discussion. I love Tony's thread, because he knows a lot about all kinds of things, from personal experience. His Dear John post was upsetting to me. I considered him one of a few real friends I have here. I saw a lot of myself in Tony and sometimes folks like us just ramble on about things others don't understand.

He could make gardening, raising chickens, watching old westerns, famous horses, old time electronics, etc., into a fun conversation. I see others diaries as a place to ask questions or make comments on what they post about. I don't see it as a place to post advise or start a disagreement, unless the diary owner ask for such.

I am reminded of Bill Boggs. I loved interacting with him although his politics were very different from mine. I remember when I started my first diary and he commented, "Welcome and thanks for joining us bottom feeders." That was a joke referring to the fact that the diary section was at the bottom of the forum. Since he played harmonica, I suggested we become a blues band, Billy and the Bottom Feeders.

I am just rambling on here while watching rodeo, more precisely pro bull riding. I haven't done my walk today, because it is cool and cloudy. I am a bit out of sorts and I was looking forward to having fun on Tony's thread and then found once again, the fun rug was pulled out from under me.

It got down to 25F a couple nights ago and played hell with about half the blossoms on my hydrangeas. Then I woke up with a sinus problem which is unusual for me. It is getting better with a cocktail of herbs I use for such assaults on by old body.

I suppose when day 3 of bull riding is over, I will go out in the yard and give myself a good self ass kicking. It sounds easy, but not for one, such as myself, that has balance issues. That reverse kick requires agility that I seem to be losing with age. What the hell? Old age prevents an old lady from kicking her own ass. :sneaky:
 
"All is well that ends well," the saying goes. So far today, everything is going well, but the day is young and I am old, and therein lies a combination that is at high risk of going "haywire."

The sun is constipated and just can't seem to get out, but no wind. 50% isn't bad odds.

I am sorta out of sorts today and don't know why. I thought spamming Yvonne's American video thread would help, but all that did is get Dave Dudley's song, "Six Days on the Road," stuck in my head in a loop. I love that song. I miss those years when we had great music and fun songs.

I think I will go out for my walk and shake these mild blues and return with some fresh ideas for the Tractor Thread. I will carry my cell phone in case I see an old tractor in a tree. :sneaky:
 
I just realized, that I am not easily offended, but I am easily irritated.

Just watching all the old folks out acting like idiots on no kings day, I asked myself, "Don't these old folks have something better to do?"

Then it occurred to me that they are out getting sun and exercise and I am sitting here inside, on a sunny warm day, posting on SOC after an hour nap. Sometimes I irritate myself. :sneaky:
 
Dear Forum

I am letting you all know, while I appreciate your tips and advise on all aspects of healthy living, I won't be using any of it. You see I am 75 and have a very short window of opportunity left to live a careless and irresponsible life. It would be a shame to waste it. Thank you and God Bless :sneaky:
 
Faye Fox said:
Dear Forum

I am letting you all know, while I appreciate your tips and advise on all aspects of healthy living, I won't be using any of it. You see I am 75 and have a very short window of opportunity left to live a careless and irresponsible life. It would be a shame to waste it. Thank you and God Bless :sneaky:
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I'm offended. I would kind of like to be everyone's doctor, lawyer, and political consultant.
 
Faye Fox said:
I just realized, that I am not easily offended, but I am easily irritated.

Just watching all the old folks out acting like idiots on no kings day, I asked myself, "Don't these old folks have something better to do?"

Then it occurred to me that they are out getting sun and exercise and I am sitting here inside, on a sunny warm day, posting on SOC after an hour nap. Sometimes I irritate myself. :sneaky:
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It appeared that most of the attendees at the No Kings things were female, and the vast majority seemed to think that it was 1968 and Lyndon Johnson was in the President's office but had changed his name to Trump.
 
I probably should let this diary die, but somehow I think y'all haven't been punished enough with my 🤠 poetry. :ROFLMAO:

Let Er Buck
by Faye

Old cowboys never die, they just run out of luck
So enjoy the ride and Let Er Buck
Come on over and see what we do
It's a low down hoe down, Eastern Oregon Buckeroo

It's rodeo time, out here in the east
Where man steps up, to ride the bucking beast
Cowboys and Indians, do what they like to do
It's low down on the ground, Eastern Oregon Buckeroo

Cowboys, Indians, and Hippies, are looking mighty dapper
Rough stock is unloaded, it's going to be a zapper
Many a Cowboy will soon, be all black and blue
It's low down on the ground, Eastern Oregon Buckeroo

Young ladies rounding barrels, toppling some they graze
Ropers raising dust, lariats swinging in a haze
Smoke rising from the pit, cooking brisket BBQ
It's low down to the ground, Eastern Oregon Buckeroo

Hot dogs, hamburgers, tap beer, all at least a ten dollar bill
Long lines, port a potty waiting, their turn to take a spill
Never mind the dust, the burn of sun, just do what you do
It's low down to the ground, Eastern Oregon Buckeroo

So get out of town, come on down, enjoy what we do
It's a low down, hoe down, Eastern Oregon Buckeroo

AI generated from a photo of me to add the "cowboy" look. I like how it got my one weak eye
very accurate. I did this poem for the world famous Pendleton Roundup - "Let er Buck!"
best.jpg
 
It looks like the western part of the US is having a lot of wildfires again this year. Are you anywhere near the one by Wallula and the Pendleton area (or any of the others down along the Washington/Oregon border) , @Faye Fox ?
I see that Highway 12 is closed with evacuation orders, and also was reading that near White Salmon, there was a bad fire along the Columbia River Gorge.
Hoping that you are not near any of these fires, and staying safe !
 
Yvonne Smith said:
It looks like the western part of the US is having a lot of wildfires again this year. Are you anywhere near the one by Wallula and the Pendleton area (or any of the others down along the Washington/Oregon border) , @Faye Fox ?
I see that Highway 12 is closed with evacuation orders, and also was reading that near White Salmon, there was a bad fire along the Columbia River Gorge.
Hoping that you are not near any of these fires, and staying safe !
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The high winds every day are keeping the smoke blown out so it isn't like most wildfire seasons where air quality is hazardous. White Salmon is always a bad area, but not effecting us further up the river. Wallula area was evacuated and so far 730 still open since winds are carrying smoke away from the highway. It is blowing toward 12, so it is thick in there and hazardous because of fast moving fire. Junction of 12 and 730 being controlled by state patrol.

Here is photo from several years ago, above White Salmon early in the morning, of the sun. It was semi dark and no birds anywhere. Very toxic.


301846071OKWmKN.jpg
 
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White Salmon is a beautiful little town. When I worked there years ago, I stayed in a Bed &Breakfast there for the week, and I loved it. It was way off season for them, so I got the room as cheap as a plain motel and it included breakfast and a nice hot tub out back.

I am glad that you don’t have to deal with that kind of smoke this year and no fires close to you !
 
Well, not much of interest to post, so this rambling journal of dribble, may be on its last leg.

I have never been a procrastinator, but lately procrastination seems to be my specialty. I decided to post here and put off my grocery shopping for another few minutes. That will teach it to try and boss me around. Also lawn mowing day, but one small problem. Three days ago, I got up to fold laundry and my back went into lateral shift. Although, this problem started 25 years ago, it have keep it from happening for over a year by adding an ab and low back strengthening exercise. So, today I can get up and get straight within a few minutes, but it isn't pleasant. The best thing to do is get up and down every 5 minutes to keep my muscles from seizing in one position.

Anyway better today and I will have to do the the lawn before the heat hits. Today is going to hit the triple digits again. So, up and at it, I go, tally ho. :sneaky:
 
Joe's Last Rodeo

I remember summer 1970. His dog, Dog, had died that spring and old Joe decided to sell off all his cattle and just keep his 22-year-old horse. Joe had a small hogan that he lived in and his Trading Post was in another hogan by the two-lane highway. He made what little money he needed selling snacks, cold drinks, and ice cream to the tourist. The nearest towns were 30 miles in either direction. One set of my grandparents owned the neighboring ranch. Near his Hogan, he had an old pole corral with a ten-foot pole gate. No fencing to funnel the cattle into the corral, just open the gate and the cows always came in to eat hay. Never a problem in the fall pushing the cattle to these winter grounds where hay awaited.

Joe made the decision to sell off all his cattle and donate his rangeland to the Ute tribe since he was Ute and the Rez bordered his land. Joe was unable to ride so he insisted I ride his horse as it knew the drill. A couple of older ladies from the Rez came to help with their aged horses. They both wore leather split skirts and were so kind and entertaining. They never seemed to get hot or thirsty. It was mid-summer.

It never occurred to me that this wouldn’t be a quick and easy operation. Pushing the cattle down to the lower pasture wasn't the problem. The problem started as the cattle approached the open corral gate. They turned and faced us. Joe and my grandparents stood by the gate chatting like they hadn’t visited for ten years. They visited every day year-round.

After over thirty minutes of facing off with the cows, finally, one old girl goes in to try some hay and get a drink of water from the trough. Over the next thirty minutes, all the others meandered in at their own pace. Still talking like long-lost friends with my grandparents, Joe shuts the gate. None too soon for me suffering a dry canteen and a painful bladder. I now understand why Joe insisted I ride his horse. Any other horse would have become antsy like its young rider.

It was the old mares' and Joe's last rodeo. She died that fall and Joe died shortly after.
 
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Joe's Trading Post Dog

He appeared out of nowhere one morning.

My grandmother was hanging laundry on the line when he made his debut. She had a dryer but chose not to use it, even in the winter unless time was of the essence. She was part American Indian blood and kept with the old ways over modern convenience when possible.

After the dog was fed, he laid down near the front door and made himself at home. My grandfather, well known for being an expert trainer with horses, mules, and dogs, the working ranch animals, tried to coax him to join him in the pickup for the morning tour of the ranch. The dog just laid there making itself comfortable. He exhausted his vast repertoire of canine training expertise, to no avail, so he went about his morning rounds, unencumbered by canine companionship just like he had done ever since old Shep had died.

My grandmother had declared on the dogs arrival, that he was a sign from God. After several weeks of failed attempts to train the dog to do anything but lay by the door or hangout with us grandkids, when we visited, my grandpa declared the dog brain dead, but silenced all of us to never let on we thought that. We voted and decided to name him Dog, which was what my grandpa called him after several other more popular dog names didn't perk his ears.

On one visit, age 16, where I arrived early to help them with some remodeling and corral repairs, I decided to go to the river to cool off while they took their one hour nap after lunch. I disrobed down to the bare, to keep my undies dry, and enjoy the cool waters of the Animas river, the River of Lost Souls according to Indian legend. I rolled my tee and undies in my jeans and placed them near by on a rock for easy grabbing and fleeing behind trees, to dress, just in case I spotted rafters coming down the river. I had about a half mile view, so my plan was infallible.

To appease my grandma, I took dog with me and he lay calmly by the shore sleeping. She had declared that Dog was my protector and I was never to go to the river alone. My grandpa agreed, but just to appease her, knowing that Dog would be useless if anything happened. I had visited the river for years with just Old Shep and nothing ever happened. Since Shep's death, I had visited the river many times alone but my grandma worried my grandpa unmercifully about such, so when Dog arrived, it was a sign from God.

I was just getting cooled down in the pool, when a cottontail jumped up and scared Dog. Dog grabbed my rolled clothes and beat cheeks back to the ranch house. Knowing the dilemma I was facing, I walked down river to old Joe's fishing shack knowing he kept bibbed overall waders in there for fly fishing.

I was walking up to Joe's Trading Post, when I saw him on horseback heading my way. He still had his deceased wife's jeans and a tee that fit close enough, so once dressed more suitable, he took me over to my grandparents on horse back. He said my grandma had called him, knowing he would understand since he was full blood Indian. He agreed with my grandpa that Dog wasn't a sign from God, but a worthless mutt, but his lips were sealed like the wooden Chief out in front of his Trading Post, where tourist parted with cash for refreshments and crafts made by Indian artist.

When we arrived, my grandpa appeared to be organizing a search party comprised of family and neighbors. He knew that I would go to Joe's fishing shack, but had to appear to be organizing a rescue party for my grandma's sake. My grandpa told me and all gathered there to go with my grandmas story what ever it might be. She never asked me what happened since she assumed when I arrived with Joe, that Dog had saved my life by alerting her to call Joe.

My grandma had a stroke shortly after that and my grandpa gave Dog to Joe where he had a cushioned bed next to the Wooden Chief. The two looked great together and made for great story telling by Joe, for tourist seeking stories about the River of the Lost Souls. Children of the tourist, stopping at the post, loved to get their photo taken with Dog and Wooden Chief.
 
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