To Doo, or not to Doo. That is the question.

My poor little doggie. She's always had urinary incontinence, which makes housekeeping a regular pain in the rear. She rarely has a #2 accident, though. The last couple of nights, I've asked her to go out and go potty.

She gets out on the porch and suddenly realizes she's got to do #2. But she can't quite hold it in. It starts prairie dogging -- you know, peeking its little head out of her rear end and then going back in.

In the meantime, she's trying as fast as her 15-year-old puggle legs will carry her down, down, down, the many stairs to get to the yard. Without fail, she manages to leave a land mine or two on the steps. But who on earth can fuss at her for that?

This is the dog that made the LA Times Book Review for the stinkiest farts on the planet. Of course, to me, they smell like flowers. She is my heart.

Even her poops are cute.

Waiting for Release

In the Dark

He lies
in the gloom and wastes
and waits.
He is tired.

He dreams
of the time before.

The moon clings to clouds.
The dogs sing
to the unburdened air.

In the dream he lifts his son
to the sky
settles him on a red horse,
offers it a sweet.

He wakes --
the vision of his baby
laughing,
tangled in the mane
of a wild thing,
blood
spit
tears.

~Elodie Pritchartt

Politics of Summer

Summertime.
Garden-district cottage.
Cats on the porch.
Ancient oaks. Peaceful.
Shady.

Tomatoes -- blood red --
and mayonnaise,
salted, peppered,
waiting
on the table.

Last week a feather
in the kitchen.
Yesterday a wing in the hall.

A cardinal batters
the bedroom window,
knocking to come in.
A wren batters from within.
How do I get out?
How did you get in?

Last night, a fight. Barking
In the den.  Flick the light
and then, a raccoon
dashes for the door.

Soon half a squirrel,
intestines twirled
on the front steps. Cats
draped on benches,
lick themselves.

Sweet scent of summer
Smells like death.

~ Elodie Pritchartt
07/02/2018

The Phantom of Kingston Road

The first time I noticed him it was the holidays – I can’t remember if it was Thanksgiving or Christmas. I was driving home on Kingston Road when I saw the little white dog running down the road after a car. I slowed my car and he started running toward it. Then another car passed. His ears perked up as it neared; then as it blew past, he ran after it.


It was obvious what had happened; it broke my heart. How could someone just dump a little dog like that? You could almost hear him shouting, “Wait! Wait! You forgot me! Come back.”


As the car drove on, he gave up and trudged back toward his post by the gate where he’d been left. He couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds. He was just a little terrier mix, cute as could be and desperate to find his family.


I parked my car and got out. He stopped, eying me -- wary and distrustful. Remembering all the dog advice I’d heard throughout the years, I tried to make myself as unimposing as possible, and crouched down on my knees, holding out my hand.


“Come on, fella,” I coaxed in my highest singsong voice – the one reserved for babies and pets. It almost never fails. “Come on, baby!”


But he wouldn’t come. If I tried to inch closer, he ran away, refusing to be bribed with kindness. So I went home to get something more tempting. I came back with cold cuts from the fridge. But he was adamant. All he wanted was his family, who he was certain were in the next car coming down the road.


The weather forecast for later in the week was for below-freezing temperatures. Lying in my warm bed, I wondered how he’d make it. The next day, my father and I set out a humane animal trap, baiting it with leftover roast and hiding it behind some branches so it wouldn’t be stolen. But no matter how many days we left it freshly baited, he wanted nothing to do with it.


In the meantime, we and several other area residents began putting out food and water for him, comparing notes on our efforts to catch the little scamp. Somehow he survived the cold weather, even seeming to thrive. He moved up onto the embankment by the road, where he’d sit like a proud watchdog, guarding his little kingdom by the Kingston Road, but still chasing after passing cars, certain his family would finally stop. Hope must spring eternal in the canine heart, too.


Every day on my way to and from town, I’d hold my breath, hoping he hadn’t been hit by a car. Often, I’d not see him at all, and wondered what had become of him. Then one day there he’d be, watching for cars and running after them, day after day, then week after week, the little white, elusive phantom of Kingston Road. I dubbed him “Phantom” in my mind, and saluted his "dogged" persistence. Some days he looked so cocky and proud I laughed aloud, and began to look forward to seeing him surveying his little kingdom.


Finally one day about three months later as my father crested the hill, he saw what we’d all been dreading. Phantom lay beside the road, perfectly still while a kind and concerned woman bent over him, looking for signs of life. He lay breathing but unconscious and broken. Daddy took him to the vet where he died later that night. It was painful and it was sad and it was all so unnecessary.


I often wonder about the people who left their little dog by himself on the side of the road at holiday time. I wondered if they ever traveled down Kingston Road and saw him bravely trying to recapture his people. I wondered if they had a happy Christmas. There are crosses along Kingston Road where people who’ve died in automobile accidents are honored, their memories cherished. There is no cross for Phantom; only regrets.


I regret not calling the Humane Society – something that in all my efforts, hadn’t occurred to me. I don’t know why. Perhaps they’d have been able to catch him and prevent a senseless death.

In lieu of a roadside memorial for Phantom, I think I could honor his memory best by asking you, Reader, to make a donation to the Natchez Adams County Humane Society. And, please, please, don’t leave your pets to die painfully on a lonely road. The phantom of Kingston Road will haunt me for years to come.

http://www.natchezpetadoptions.org/

Natchez Adams County Humane Society
475 Liberty Road
Natchez, MS 39120
601-442-4001

Mailing address :

P. O. Box 549
Natchez, MS 39121

Knick-Nack Paddy Whack

I ran across this post when looking at some old Facebook posts.  It was 2010, and I was living with my dad in the country.

So yesterday I get up to let the dog out to go potty. Usually when she comes back inside she heads straight for the kitchen. But yesterday she ran back up the stairs and started barking to get back into the bedroom. Soooo....naturally I trudge back upstairs and let her in.

She jumps up onto the bed and starts rooting around in the covers. Then she pulls out this HUGE, nasty-looking bone. I swear it looked like a human femur. Probably a deer bone. Egad. This is the first time I've ever had a dog that likes to hide things. I keep finding doggie biscuits behind the sofa cushions.

So anyway, I get to work yesterday, and I'm rooting around in my purse looking for my chapstick when I find ANOTHER BONE in my purse. Right next to my favorite pink toothbrush. Hmm...most of the marrow was gone. You think it's okay to use that toothbrush?

My daddy: An old post revisited

Someone was posting on Facebook a little while ago about snakes, so I thought I'd bring out an old post and dust it off. Makes me miss my daddy.


  Okay...so last night I was all freaked out and complaining about that damned Murphy whose law just plains sucks eggs.  You know, the one that says if it can go wrong it will?

I was visiting the boyfriend in town and called my dad to see what was going on.

"Dee, Versace is gone.  I've looked everywhere."

Versace, for those of you who don't know, is my daughter's precious little puggle (cross between a pug and a beagle).  The ex-husband decided he didn't want to deal with her anymore after my daughter got an apartment, so I went over to the house on my last visit to Los Angeles and got her and brought her home.  My daughter loves that dog more than anything or anyone else.  So on the few occasions something's happened where we thought we'd have to make that dreaded call and tell her something awful has happened have been truly horrifying times.

Last night was one of them.

My dad lives on 400 acres in the country.  There's a fellow who lives  behind us who raises cows, and he and my dad have an arrangement.  If he'll come and cut the pasture and make it look all pretty like a golf course, he can keep the hay and use it for his cattle.

But Versace loves to chase cars.  So we have to keep her inside if anyone's driving around outside.  So back to the story.

"I'd waited until I was sure Robert had left and then I let her out," he said.  "But a little while later I heard the other dogs making a big racket, and went out to see what it was."

Turns out all the dogs were frantically barking at a big-as-all-get-out water mocassin.  My 85-year-old father, who cut down a pecan tree all by himself last year, got a stick.  Not even a big stick.  Just a stick.  And beat that three-foot-long, four-inch-diameter, mean-ass water mocassin to death.  A little stick maybe two feet long.

"I felt bad for the poor snake," he said.  "But I had to do it."

The closer he gets to his own mortality, the more he hates taking a life -- any life.

I'd have been scared silly.

Then he noticed Versace was gone.  And that's when I called.  We both knew what had happened.  She'd been bitten and run off to die somewhere.

"I'll be right out," I said, along with a few rather horrible profanities under my breath, and drove pell-mell out to Daddy's.  We called and called and called.  Nothing.

I was supposed to have taken her to the vet this week for all her shots, her worming, and her rattlesnake vaccine.  This was a water mocassin...but still.

I was heartbroken.  And exhausted.  I went to bed.  I ranted about Murphy's Law on Facebook for a bit and then turned off the light and went to bed.  I was in that twilight where you're not really asleep but not awake either, when I heard something running into the room and jumping onto the bed.

"Versace?"

She waggled her butt and smiled and licked my face.

Am I dreaming?  I stumbled out of bed and went downstairs.  I crept into Daddy's room.

"Daddy?"

"She came to the door a few minutes ago.  I was so glad to see her I gave her a whole can of cat food."

Canned cat food is Versace's guilty pleasure.  He usually curses at her and kicks her out of the way when she tries to horn in on the kitties' food.

I took her today to get those shots.

How do you spell relief?  W-o-o-f!

A New Lease on Life for our Strays in Natchez/Adams County, MS

A Teeny Problem

Well, I knew the time would come, and it has.  We've sold my father's house, and now have to cull through a hundred fifty years of family furniture, mementos, photos and memories and decide what to take and what to give up.  It will be painful parting with things I've known all my life but the house I'm moving into is much, much smaller than this one, so I've no choice.  But frankly the older I get, the more zen I become, wanting to pare down and not be owned by possessions.

But the most painful paring of all will be parting with my father's beloved dogs.  The closer my dad got to his death, the more concerned he became for the lives of other creatures sharing our world.  He lived in the country where people often drive up, stop the car, shove a dog out onto the road and drive off.  Inevitably, the dogs would find his house, following some scent or sense that this was a safe haven.  In fact, he liked to refer to his place as "Cur Haven" rather than the stuffy "Grafton" it had been dubbed years ago.  He never turned away a hungry dog.

The dog in this picture was part of a litter of puppies that we found in the field by the front gate.  They were wild and wouldn't let us catch them, but my dad persevered and was finally able to grab this one, tiny pup.  He was starving and frightened and very sick.  We took him to the vet and got medication for him and dubbed him Teeny.

Well, Teeny's not so teeny anymore.  He's grown and healthy and friendly as can be.  He's also BEAUTIFUL! And now with me moving, he also has a not-so-teeny problem.  He needs to find a forever home.  He's been neutered but probably needs his shots again.  I've also got some dogs that have killed cats before, and although Teeny isn't one of them, he's never encountered one, so I can't say how he'd behave.  He'd be great with kids.  He loves everyone.   If anyone would like to give Teeny a forever home, please contact me at epritchartt@yahoo.com.  Please also see my posts about Whitey and Brownie.  They are also looking for homes.

Please also see my posts about Whitey and Brownie.  They are also looking for homes.

Angel in a Dog Suit

My first dog was a German Shepherd named Shadow.  That was the sweetest, smartest dog I've ever had.  After we'd left for school in the mornings, Shadow would leave our house on Linton Avenue and walk up to my dad's office downtown and scratch on the door, asking to be let in.  At 2:00  p.m., when school let out, she'd walk to the door and howl, asking to be let out.  When we arrived home, there she was on the porch waiting for us.

A year or two later my dad moved his office from Commerce Street to Main Street.  Somehow, she knew the new location and walked up to Main to visit for the day.  My father used to cradle her in his arms and say, "You're just an angel in a dog suit."

We also had a sitter who came to stay with us every Thursday at 2 p.m.  On Thursdays, instead of going to my dad's office, Shadow walked down to the corner of Linton Avenue and Oak Street to wait for Augusta, whom she adored.  Augusta always brought a stick with which to scratch Shadow's rump.  How did Shadow know it was Thursday?  And sometimes, she'd go visit with my great aunt Annet on Clifton Avenue, always asking to be let back out in time for us to get home from school.  She was brilliant.  I couldn't think about Shadow for years after she died without collapsing in tears.

Now I'm looking for a home for another shepherd, this one snow white like an angel.  If you'd like to meet this angel in a dog suit and consider adopting him, please write me at epritchartt@yahoo.com.  I don't want to have to take him to the pound.  He's a sweet, affectionate dog.



Whitey:

Whitey just appeared one day a couple of years ago.  I think he's probably a young dog.  He's beautiful, too.  The shape and size of a German Shepherd.  I think of him as a white German Shepherd. I accidentally ran over him in the driveway one day, and he still loves me anyway. He's friendly, he's neutered and he needs a loving, forever home.  I'm moving soon, and if I don't find homes for these dogs, I can't imagine what I'll do.  Please share these stories with your friends.

Elodie

epritchartt@yahoo.com

Dog Days of Summer

Well, I knew the time would come, and it has.  We've sold my father's house, and now have to cull through a hundred fifty years of family furniture, mementos, photos and memories and decide what to take and what to give up.  It will be painful parting with things I've known all my life but the house I'm moving into is much, much smaller than this one, so I've no choice.  But frankly the older I get, the more zen I become, wanting to pare down and not be owned by possessions.

But the most painful paring of all will be parting with my father's beloved dogs.  The closer my dad got to his death, the more concerned he became for the lives of other creatures sharing our world.  He lived in the country where people often drive up, stop the car, shove a dog out onto the road and drive off.  Inevitably, the dogs would find his house, following some scent or sense that this was a safe haven.  In fact, he liked to refer to his place as "Cur Haven" rather than the stuffy "Grafton" it had been dubbed years ago.  He never turned away a hungry dog.

Whitey, Hessie, Teeny and Brownie

Every evening he fed the birds around the house.  Every evening he walked out to the pear tree in the side yard and poured corn for the deer, which congregated in huge numbers under its branches.  He would sit on the porch and watch the deer, his sense of amazement and magic never diminishing through all the years.

During droughts, he'd even pour water into the ruts in the road where tiny frogs hatched from tadpoles, spawned during spring showers.

He fed a couple of colonies of cats around town, never missing a day regardless of the weather. He also brought many of them home. And once in awhile, a cat would emerge from the woods, sensing that same safe haven.

The late, great Tommy Feral snuggling up to Versace.

Fully feral cats learned his voice, came when he called and eventually submitted to his gentle stroke, grateful that life was not so brutal as it had once been.

So now I have 10 dogs and seven cats, and while I can take the cats and one small dog with me, I can't accommodate 9 large dogs in a small house in downtown Natchez.  So I'm asking my readers to help me find homes for the other dogs, who deserve nothing more than to live out their lives in comfort  I'll post one dog per day  Today's dog is Tick Tick:

August 18, 2013 - Tick-Tick found a forever home today with a sweet family with three boys who have another Blue Tick hound, a female.  Tick-Tick should be very happy there!

Tick-Tick

Tick-Tick:

I found Tick-Tick (a Blue Tick Hound) in the front field one day gnawing on a deer carcass.  It was strange because I've never seen a dead deer just lying out in the open, especially since it wasn't deer season.  At first I thought it was Blue, another of Daddy's Blue Tick's.  The dog saw me driving down the driveway and jumped up and started trying to run after me.  You could almost hear him yelling, "Wait!  Help me!"

Suddenly I realized this wasn't Blue.  This dog was emaciated and limping badly.  So I stopped.  He was so happy to see me.  His front right paw was badly mangled.  His ears were shredded as well as his nose and mouth.  We later decided he'd been caught in a steel trap with a raccoon and had been trapped for weeks until his toes finally fell off and he was able to escape.  Those traps should be illegal.

I opened my car door and Tick-Tick jumped right in.  We took him to the vet where it was learned he had heartworms.  After amputating his leg and neutering him, he stayed at the vet for two months and was treated for the heartworms.  $2,000 later we had one of the sweetest dogs you've ever seen.   He's content to lie on the porch, eating dog food and getting love from anyone who cares to give it.  He's a big, goofy dog and would be wonderful with children.  I have no idea how old he is.

Please write me at epritchartt@yahoo.com if you'd like to meet this dog.

Celebration of LIfe - Howard Pritchartt, Jr.

On March 9, Howard Pritchartt, Jr.'s family and friends gathered for a celebration of his life.  My father's one request for his funeral was that he have no preachers speaking over him.  So instead, we simply invited one and all who knew him to come up and tell a story.

It started off with a beautiful eulogy by my dear friend, Brent Bourland.  After that, we all told some stories, remembered the wonderful times.  It got downright silly at times, and after it was all over, we all agreed he would've approved.

For anyone who'd like to hear what kind of man Howard was, this is worth watching -- some of it sad, some of it amazing, and a whole lot of wicked funny.

Because my father's life was defined by his days on the Mississippi River, we ended it with a gorgeous a capella rendition of Old Man River.  Enjoy.



Video created and produced by: 

Bill Slatter Video Productions
423 Main Street
Natchez, Mississippi 39120
(601) 446-9401