Calle

The air, surprisingly calm amidst the speeding cars, stirred little on the debris strewn road. As we passed the 23 mile marker my eye was drawn to a twitch of movement in the middle of the four lane street. As we slowed to get a better look, the black fuzzy ball twitched again.

"Do you think it's an animal?" asked I.
"Without a doubt." said you.

By this time we were blocks away so we quickly turn the car around to get a better look. Cars, oblivous to potential life inches from their wheels, continue to speed by as I dart across the busy thoroughfare, quickly gather up the black bundle and return to the car. Are we too late in our rescue efforts?

"It's an animal alright." said I. "Looks like a kitten."
"Yep. " said you.

As though realizing it was safe to move, the black ball slowly unfurled itself, blinked its hazy green eyes, and burped out the most pitiful sound an animal could lay claim to; "mawr". Apparently we had ourselves a slightly dirty, apparently unscathed four week old (or thereabouts) kitten who mewed a little stronger with each passing minute.

"How do you suppose such a thing got into that busy road?" asked I.
"Dunno." said you.

"Well, I reckon the momma cat was transporting her kitten to a new home. Perhaps she got spooked and dropped him. Er....her." said I, having just looked under the tail.

"I reckon she did." said you as we manuevered back into traffic. With the unexpected addition, we head towards home.

As usual our basenji brood met us at the door; within seconds their usual greeting became more frenetic, bounding off my pant leg, snarking at each other when another got too close; they knew I had something cradled in my arms and they wanted a piece of it. Very casually I sat upon the couch and using my leg as a guard rail, slowly presented their newfound 9 oz "sister" for proper inspection. The more cautious boys stood further back, stretched their necks like horizontal giraffes, and very carefully gave the newly crowned Calle (that's Ki-yay to all you Northern folk; Spanish for street) a quick sniff, while I gently remind them, "Leave it. Easy, leave it". Calle, as evidenced by her ability to survive being caught in the middle of a busy four lane road at a very tender age, handles the boys with ease, never moving a muscle not even a blink, leaving the boys bored and disinterested. They give up and head for thier beds.

Not so our youngest, who at this time was only about 5 1/2 months herself. More curious then her older brethen, Feigh was very interested and less respectful of my leave it commands. No giraffe necking for her; she pushed her way past my barricade, stuck her nose in Calle's face, opened her mouth, exposing some lethal looking needle like puppy teeth and Slurp! claimed Calle as hers.

A Gift Exchange?

“A gift exchange? Or pick a peck of wild peccaries.”

Now you might think being barkless would make a basenji useless as a watchdog. Not true. Surprisingly they make good watchdogs, as long as their owners pay close attention to what they are saying in their unique, silent way.

Friday evening as I was working on the computer Feigh, kept coming over and biting my pant leg and saying “Rawr, rawr”. I paid her little mind, as this behavior is nothing new, especially when she feels attention should be focused more on her and less on work – which is 95% of the time. I knew if I ignored her long enough she would eventually settle down.

A short time later I went to the kitchen for a glass of water when Tre ran to the back door leading to the garage and began some serious snorting and snuffling. At 12 years of age Tre is not one to waste energy on random floor rummaging so I was immediately alerted to a possible garage intruder. I quickly snatched up my ‘poking stick’ and called out to Rand, “Hold the dogs”.

“What’s a poking stick?” you ask. It’s nothing more than a 3-foot high, ½-inch round PVC pipe that is capped on one end. The other end is also capped but has a 4-inch blunt end screw attached to it. Its original purpose is to be set into the ground so that the pipe becomes free standing. I then use the pole as a visual marker in which to send the dogs away from me when training for obedience. When off duty the pipe becomes my ‘poking stick’, a trusted friend and protector against the likes of wild and mighty javelina.

With stick in hand, I cautiously probe through a small crack I’ve made with the door, looking for signs of life. I try valiantly to turn the motion-activated light on but to no avail - apparently I need to be standing on top of the sensor, waving madly for it to sense me!? My brief one-eyed inspection of a mostly dark garage shows signs of trash and recycle pillaging. I still cannot get the &%$#@ light to turn on; I must risk life and limb and actually step into the garage. I begin to slap my stick to the ground liked a crazed sightless person, brusquely chanting, “Move it, piggy. Moo-ve it piggy”. I then step into the unknown.

The light, once asleep, awakens and illuminates the mess; banana peels, bean cans, and water bottles strewn every which way. Making my way around the various cars, still slapping and chanting, I call out to Rand, “Its all clear.” Rand steps out to assess the damage. At that very instant we both notice, amongst the carnage, a pretty pink can, complete with bow and small card, sitting on top of an empty box. I start to laugh as my imagination unfolds; could those rather large, smelly peccaries have left us a gift, in exchange for their quick dumpster dive?

As though reading my mind Rand looks at me; shakes his head. "You think?”