Do not remove a fly from your friend’s forehead with a hatchet--Chinese Proverb

I walk my dog nightly and I see these little nocturnal creatures almost every evening. I steer well clear of them so as not to infuriate them. I don't need additional problems. I was quite surprised one day when I came home to find my neighbor knocking at my front door just as I sat down to watch TV. I hadn't even prepared my usual snack. "K. I need your help, this animal has been stuck trying to burrow under my garage wall, and it can't get out. It's been there all day—stuck," he gushed out. Now I like to help people, especially those who really need it and this guy was desperate. "Why don't you call the Animal Control Agency?" I thought out loud. "They wouldn't come out; they say I need an exterminator."

And then I saw this black and white kitty; its head facing outside; its waist caught by the wooden, clapboard siding. The "kitty" turned out to be my nocturnal skunk. At this point I had second thoughts about being so helpful. I remembered how frustrated I had been only minutes before trying to get my battery dead car started in order to get home. I hadn't much luck getting anyone at the office willing to assist me except for the most unlikely person. She and I had a difference of opinion a few days earlier and she was willing to help. I was really grateful and stifled all the unkind thought I had had up to that time. The car started, I came home and now faced my frustrated neighbor. How could I turn him down in a time like this? "Pass the good deed on to someone else." Wasn't that the Christian spirit?

I went into my garage and got out my long handled axe; both the neighbor and skunk looked at me with wide, terror stricken eyes. What they thought was not my intent. I placed the blade of the axe against the siding and pried it away from the animal. Bit by bit the wood released its strangling hold; the skunk wiggled its shoulders free backed into the garage and retreated into a darkened corner for solace and recuperation. We weren't in danger of getting sprayed; the animal was grateful, the neighbor was relieved and I had material for a new blog. All is well that ends well.

K.

I put my dog, Samatha, down

I put my dog down on, Wednesday, May 9, 2007. It was one of the hardest decisions I ever had to make. My wife and I cried like babies. Sam was about 13 years old. We got her in late summer of 1995 when she was about a year old. She wasn't a pound puppy, I want to make that distinction clear, she was giving up for adoption to the local Animal Protective League. Someone else had loved her first but "moved and couldn't take her along with them," was the story we were told. Her original name was Sasha but we decided, for some reason I don't remember, to call her Samantha. Later, this was shortened to just plain Sam.

Sam was the second female in a secession of dogs we owned, and the fourth beagle. We got her because our black, female, Labrador mix, Midnight, had died in January of 1995. Mark, our son, decided that it was time we get another dog and stop moping around. We had gone to the APL to "just look" and had first come home empty handed. This time he came along, found Sam in one of the cages and we came home with her. She had won his heart; when I had entered the "get together room" where dog and prospective owners get to meet, she had jumped into his arms for protection, That was it pure and simple, she wanted us; no questions asked.

She was a good dog, but oh, she had her moments; after all she was a beagle with a beagle's stubbornness. Have you ever tried walking a beagle, there's always another scent just over there? "If I tug real hard I'll make my human let me see what that smell is all about." She fit in real good with the two remaining sons at home. While both John and Paul were in the military, Mark was high school and James was in middle school. We always thought that Sam was Mark's dog, because of that earlier encounter, but she remained with us after he moved out.

Sam loved the outdoors; when it was time to let her out for the evening's last potty call she decided that she was going to spend some time out there. More than once I had to get a flashlight to chase her back inside so we could go to bed. And of course when it was time to go somewhere, like church or to a friend's house, she would show that same beagle determination. "Hey, this is my turf; I belong out here." I really couldn't trust her out of the yard; a carelessly closed and unlocked gate would spell minutes of searching for her in some irate neighbor's yard. "I'm just trying to get my dog back," I would mumble to inquisitive eyes and stares.

Several years ago, she wound up with beagle problems—back trouble. We took her to an emergency veterinarian where medication was prescribed. Her back problem never returned. However, our neighborhood vet later told us that the medication was too strong and caused her to have problems with her liver. She wound taking medication for that too. What finally caused her death was old age and kidney failure. It was almost a routine procedure when coming home to look for her misdeeds, mop them up and chastise her for her mistakes.

After her death, everything seemed to settle back into "normal." My memories of her playfulness outweight the misdeeds. Life wasn't just the same; Sam was gone.