Texas Gopher Dilemma 

 The following is a report I wrote on my efforts to rid my Texas yard of gophers. 

 TEXAS INSTITUTE FOR THE ERADICATION OF CERTAIN MAMMALS 

(Don’t bother trying to look this up) 

 Burleson, Texas 

 REPORT 

 ON 

 THE GUMMING OF GOPHERS 

and 

IT’S SUBSEQUENT RESULTS 

 Experiment carried out 

 and report written  

by 

 Eldon N. Spady 

bna (better known as) 

 Doctor of Dirt, 

Weasel of Wiliness, 

(and several other things the publishing laws will not allow) 

 Awarded 

 Eradicator of the Month, May 1989

 Eradicator of the year, 1987 

 Articles Published 

Poison Monthly, “If a Little Is Good, A Lot Must Be Better” 

Green Lawn Quarterly, “How to Handle Your Neighbors After Spreading That Golden Sewer Pond Sludge” 

    First let me say that I must give at least partial credit for this idea to my brother, hereinafter referred to as the ‘Source’, who is a real Doctor living in, well, let’s say the Northeast, just to confuse those pesky environmentalists who might be looking for him as soon as this report is published. 
    The initial concept, as stated in my grant request to the Siesta Club, was that: “Whereas the ground burrowing animals in my back yard are of such a number that surely there must be included in their numbers at least one mutant ground burrowing mammal that is carrying in its body the genes that will, if exploited correctly, cure the world of yet some unheard of ailment. Therefore, these valuable creatures must be studied, fed, and kept happily active until their time comes. 
    I thereby respectfully submit that if your fine organization would furnish me with the aforementioned grant monies I will keep these ground burrowing mammals supplied with chewing gum, which my Source (remember the Doctor brother in the---ah---northeast) has confirmed will undoubtedly keep them from leaving the premises.” 
     What I was trying to do was get someone to front the money for the gum I was going to use to discourage these pesky gophers that have been occasionally burrowing around my yard and flower beds. 
     After receiving a very snippy, and undeserved I might add, response from the Siesta Club I finally decided I was on my own and proceeded to move ahead according to the instructions from my Source. 
     This gum thing was a last resort. I had tried using commercial poisons which the gophers would not touch. Concocting something that will kill a gopher would not seem to be that difficult. However, the challenge obviously comes in making it taste appealing to the furry little things. 
      I had already tried running water into their tunnels which had the effect of washing part of my yard into a low spot in the next block. After paying out the money to buy a truck load of replacement dirt and spending 147 hours hauling this to the other end of my property, one wheelbarrow full at a time, I still had gophers tunneling around my yard. 
    I had been told by several pimply-faced “experts” at my local Big Box store, that what I needed was to kill the grubs in the soil, which is what these critters were trying to find and eat. (Moles? Maybe. Gophers? I wasn’t sure they knew what they were talking about.) 
    After spending several hundred dollars on a product that these same clerks would not handle without the aid of a hazmat suit, I still had gophers tunneling around my yard. There is no such thing on the market as a trap that will kill a gopher, at least none that these green merchants would admit to, or, heaven forbid, have available. 
    Therefore, when my Source told me of this simple and foolproof cure for these creatures I was elated. Part of the instructions I received was that the choice of gum was critical and that without using ‘Juicy Fruit’ I would be wasting my time. So ‘Juicy Fruit’ it was. 
    My request to the Wrigley people for a supply of their product to help rid this part of Texas of the dreaded lawn- destroying gopher was met with a rather nasty letter from their attorney, one Quido Gerpeduchi, stating that if they caught me mentioning their product in connection with the killing of warm blooded, furry, and lovable animals, I should have my affairs in order. I thought the response was a little strong, but this whole ‘Juicy Fruit’ - gopher/mole thing might be wearing a little thin with them. 
    I had an old pack of this chewy substance in the house so proceeded to administer it according to the instructions. Then I waited. There seemed to be no response or reaction of any kind. I concluded that gophers were put off by the age and staleness of the gum so I went out and bought a new pack of the substance, hoping it would be fresh and therefore more enticing. 
      The reaction was immediate if not gratifying. The tunneling activity took a quantum leap upward. Instead of one runway zigzagging across a part of my lawn I had whole areas that looked like the bottom of a bull fighting ring. It appeared that not only were the gophers enjoying the gum, but that the population had exploded. I was sure of this one morning when I found gophers with Oklahoma stickers on their luggage, sitting on my patio waiting for me to dispense gum. 
    I immediately stopped giving away free ‘chewing enjoyment’ to the gophers, and since then the tunneling activity in the yard has fallen off to the disgusting, but usual, pre-gum level. 
    We eventually moved, leaving the gopher-filled back yard for the next home owner. 
     I’m sure that family would appreciate any suggestions you might have.

An Attack of Common Sense? 

    As reported by Ben Hooper, Mr. Corey Hancock was hiking in Western Oregon. It was night, cold, and rainy. What else? It’s Western Oregon. Corey came upon a three-month old bear cub which at first glance appeared to be dead. It was not moving. Corey wisely waited a few minutes to see if there was a mother bear around. None came forward to claim the cub. Corey discovered the bear was not quite dead, and figured that if he left it, it would soon die. So, he picked it up and took it with him. He gave the bear CPR, which seemed to revive it some. 
    Corey ended up at an animal shelter in Salem, where he left the cub, and after some care and getting checked over by a veterinarian, the cub was forwarded on to the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife (ODFW) who will give the bear another checkup. Evidently they didn’t trust the veterinarian’s skills. The animal shelter said that Corey was owed a big “thank you” for rescuing the bear. 

    So far it has been a nice story. The part that got me was the reaction of the ODFW. They said that Cory should have called them before removing the bear from the wild. Never mind that Cory had to walk two hours to get cell phone service. This kind of attitude lets us know that they cared more about their rules than about the bear. But why make that comment at all? Under the circumstances, it served no purpose except to make the Department look like a hidebound bureaucracy.      The ODFW then announced that they would turn Corey’s case over to the Oregon State Police with the implied threat he would be prosecuted for rescuing the bear. 
    The Oregon State Police, evidently being brighter than the ODFW, announced that no charges would be filed against Corey. Smart move. Someone in the OSP had an attack of common sense.

How to Acquire a Cat. Or Not! 

This also appears in Growing Up Eldon 

    When the girls were young there was always a certain amount of pressure to get them a pet. There was always talk of a horse, or perhaps maybe they would settle for a big dog, and when they finally got around to maybe accepting a cat we were ready to thank our lucky stars and agree to one. Of course, that was their strategy all along. 
    When they were about nine and we started looking for a cat, or I should say a kitten. Now it seems strange that people would actually go looking for a cat. At that time we did not realize that the mental waves from any kind of positive feelings about cats in general would get us on the hit list of approximately thirty-seven people who had pregnant cats. 
    Anyway, we started watching the papers and reading these ads for cats, kittens, and other things. I finally saw a likely ad and called the people who with tears in their voices said that they just had to part with their cat as they were moving to a country that did not allow cats and were looking for a good home for Tabby. Hopefully one with small children as Tabby just could not exist without small children. (Later I was able to understand that comment.) 
    I bought into all this and showed up on their front porch for a look at this prize. They asked me to wait a minute and they would say good-by to Tabby in the privacy of their back yard and then bring him to me. I heard them go out into the back yard where there were some loud noises like people running around cursing, something that sounded like a small body being thrown up against the backyard fence several times, more cursing and a few muffled screams, and more cursing.
    The couple appeared in the front doorway each, desperately it seemed to me, cradling one half of the cat in their arms. Mrs. explained the four parallel gouges running from her left temple to the point of her chin, from which blood was dripping down her cleavage, as the result of having fallen against the screen door. I looked at this big white cat and my first impression was that it did not have any ears. Their response to my question was that it did have ears, but when it was having an extreme amount of fun or when very sad, like when changing owners, it would sometimes lay its ears back so far that they tended to disappear. 
    When I reached for the cat they quickly suggested that I let them put the cat in the passenger seat of the car as it would be the last time they would get to hold it. They seemed to have a funny light in their eyes as they said this and I thought, boy, how can anyone get this attached to a mere cat. I didn’t realize just how attached they were until I climbed into the front seat behind the wheel and saw that the cat still had Mr. What’s His Face’s shirt front in its front claws along with some rather large patches of pinkish stuff with hair on it. I looked out and Mr. What’s His Face was standing there with his arms folded over his bare chest and tears running down his cheeks, but what a brave fellow, he was smiling all the same. 
    I said a few appropriate introductory comments to the cat, started the car, and pulled away from the curb. Then feeling that it was time to reassure the cat with more than words I reached over to stroke its silky white fur. It calmly took a hunk out of my right hand then jumped up on the dash, did a 180 and went to the back window deck via the top of the passenger seat. It then tried with loud thumps and hissings, to exit the car through each window in turn, all of which I had mistakenly left closed, then went again to the back deck. This all happened in a couple heartbeats. 
    It hesitated back there just long enough to hiss at a passing child then landed on the back of my neck, took a swipe at my left ear, which seemed to irritate it for some reason, landed on the dash, then dove to the floor where, for a brief moment, it got tangled up with my feet and the pedals. 
     I was a little annoyed when the thing surfaced on the back of the passenger seat with part of my brake pedal between its teeth. It then repeated, in quick time, the whole thing about ten times. 
    I was hoping that this cat was able to control its bowels when in this high state of excitement. I finally pulled up in front of our house and timing myself, so as not to get in the way of one of its flying leaps from front to rear, reached over and opened the passenger door. The cat was out in a flash and the last I saw was its tail going around the corner of the neighbor’s house. After about an hour I tried to call the people who had given me the cat, but got a recording saying that their phone was no longer in service. Luckily the girls where not home at the time of my arrival to witness my humiliation at not even being able to bring home a simple house pet. Soon thereafter we became the dubious owners of a very small grey tom cat which we named Smokey. 
   (The comment about Tabby not being able to exist without small children---I’m assuming from this perspective that Tabby ate them, whenever possible.)

When Is It Going To Get Cold? 

    Living in Central Oregon exposes us to some cold weather. Or so we’re told by people around here. The problem is that, because of where we’ve lived before, this weather doesn’t seem cold. The worst it’s gotten, since we’ve been here, is 18 degrees below, and that was only for one night. When the temperatures gets in the single digits people around us are moaning and groaning, and we’re looking around saying, “When is it going to get cold?” 
   The problem with our attitude is that we have lived in Northern Wisconsin and know what cold weather is all about. Lorraine and I would go for a walk in the evenings when it was 5 below with a wind chill of 35 below. And we were having fun and enjoying the out-of-doors. 
   When it gets that cold some strange things happen. One such incident was recorded in my journal. 

    A couple of months ago I took the Buick through the carwash and immediately got out to see if they had removed all the frozen gunk that had accumulated on the car’s bottom. Well, when the car door was open the water that was around the edges of the door froze. This took about five seconds. It was reasonably cold. The problem then was that the door would not latch shut. 
    An interesting aside: Here, in Central Oregon, when the temperature drops below freezing the carwash places shut down. In Wisconsin, they do not even think of closing until it gets cold, like down around 20 or 30 degrees below. 
    So I was then driving around town steering with my left hand and with my right hand reaching across my body holding the door shut. Do you have any idea how heavy the door is on a 1977 Buick Riviera two-door? Especially when one is going around a right-hand corner. My right arm is still longer than my left arm. 
    All that is only to establish my mind set for what happened soon thereafter. I stopped at the mall and parked in a slot that had a handicapped parking slot right in front of it, but in the next row. That left a handicapped sign, which consisted of a pipe with this common handicapped sign at the top, standing right in front of the car, but facing the slot in front of me. The thing stood about seven feet tall. Now these parking spaces where right in front of one of the main entrances to the mall. Where else would you find a handicapped spot? 
    I got out, did my thing in the mall, and got back into the car. I buckled myself into the Buick, good citizen that I am, (also it was the only way to keep the door from pulling me out of the car every time I did a right-hand turn), started the thing up, and concentrating on the door problem, and not having a car in the handicapped spot in front of me, took off straight ahead. That is, I did until I realized that I was running down that blinking handicapped sign. (Not that the sign was flashing on and off or anything - blinking in this sense is just an expression from my British past - look it up - that comes out at times when I’m frustrated with something.) 
    When I got stopped the sign was about six inches off the ground. I backed up and drove off, took a couple loops around the parking lot, and then came back past the flattened sign. I stopped, got out of the car, and with much grunting and straining straightened the thing up enough so that nobody would disembowel their auto or themselves on the thing. A group of elderly ladies standing by the mall entrance were nodding and smiling at my civic-minded efforts, so I gave them a deprecatory wave as if to say, “tain’t nothing ladies, I do this kind of thing all the time.”

The Phrase “Naked As A Jay Bird” – An Explanation Of It’s Origin 

    In the past Lorraine and I have always tried to be supportive of our two daughter’s inquiring minds. Usually by telling them to look up the answers to their questions, but on occasion we knew that the explanation was not available in the then-available reference materials. In those instances, we would have to step in and render a little help. The following dissertation was the result of once such cry for help. 

    Today we got a card from Sonia and Bruce in which they asked, “where did the expression ‘naked as a jay bird’ come from?” I’m not sure why they’re asking me? But it so happens that I was the one who did the original research on that very expression for Encyclopedia Britmaniacal. I doubt that the kids were even aware of this and Lorraine was not either. I think she was a little put out to learn something new about me after all these years, because she made some snide remark that maybe even I was not aware of having done this thing. 
    Many people are under the assumption that the expression refers to an actual jay bird, like a blue jay or something. Such is not the case. My history of the development of that phrase is as follows: Phineas J. Bird was born in 1873, and as he grew older, became a dabbler in anything that smacked of science.
    When in his late twenties, he was in Ancho, New Mexico, seeking an old Indian medicine man. This Indian was said to be extremely old. “How old?” I hear you asking. Well, I’ll tell you. This guy was so old he could remember when the Dead Sea was only sick. 
    Phineas had heard that this medicine man had a concoction which would ward off the common cold. After buying the formula for one-hundred dollars, (this being the 47th time the old Indian had sold the exclusive rights to this remedy), Phineas started his pharmaceutical company. He took whiskey and watered it down by 80 percent, then put in a little of the formula. It sold like hot cakes. Phineas traveled most of the West selling his brew, and only occasionally getting into trouble. 
    Twice when he tried to use his “medicine” to pay for services rendered in houses of ill repute, and three times when he ran afoul of the OBATUBs, (Old Broads Against the Use of Booze). Two of those times he had his wagon load of wares confiscated, which the OBATUBs then used for experimental purposes. Their response to questions from the media was “You can’t fight what you don’t understand.”
    Phineas made his headquarters in Denver, where because of his increasing affluence he became one of the more outstanding citizens of that city. He was now making his own whisky to go in his medicine, and soon the whiskey business was doing better than the pharmaceutical business, and besides, the whiskey trade, for some reason didn’t seem to agitate the old ladies near as much. His success in the distilling game prompted Phineas to branch out into the brewing of fine beer. Or at least it was supposed to be fine. He figured that by using clear, cold, Rocky Mountain water in his brew he could get the jump on the competition. 
    Thus, came the big day for the unveiling of the first batch of brew. Phineas had called a press conference at Denver’s most prestigious saloon, the Silver Dollar on Colorado Street. The reporters were there and the place was packed. Phineas was standing up on the bar holding aloft a bottle of his new brew and making a fine speech. 
    Phineas had been waving the bottle around and evidently the agitation, along with the fact that his brew master didn’t know what he was doing yet, culminated in the bottle of brew exploding with a terrific roar. It blew the windows out of the saloon, laid horizontal most of the people close to Phineas, and caused considerable damage to the chandeliers and the back-bar area. 
    As the dust cleared and the people scrambled to their feet, they saw Phineas still standing on the bar, still holding the neck of the beer bottle, and wearing only his shoes. It took several minutes for Phineas to realize just what had happened and the fact that he was as naked as a new-born bird. By this time the crowd was howling with laughter, not only with relief at finding themselves alive, but at the sight of Phineas. 
    When this all became clear to Phineas he jumped down from the bar and bolted out the front door, right into the midst of a large crowd that was descending on the Silver Dollar to see what had happened. Phineas broke through the crowd and went loping down the street; arms, legs, and, well never mind, flapping as he ran around the corner, and into a laundry. 
    As he was hurriedly leaving the bar, Phineas was heard to say in a sarcastic sort of undertone, “If I survive this triumph I will make something of this brew yet.” A reporter in the back of the crowd, who had a great mop of bushy white hair, took the big cigar out of his mouth, thought for a minute, then jotted down in his journal, “If I survive this triumph,” while muttering to himself, “I like that, maybe I can use it someday.” 
   It was only a few days before everyone realized that aside from the momentary humiliation of the press conference, and the subsequent dash down the street in his birthday suit, Phineas had scored another marketing triumph. It seems that the notoriety of the occasion prompted everyone to try his beer, and they liked it. When this all became clear, Phineas’s little British wife, whose East London cockney accent was more prominent when she was excited, told him, “Cor blimey, but t’was a lucky break ya’ad today, now wasn’t it, dearie?” And right then Phineas had the name for his new brew. Think about it. 
    As time went on and the story got told and retold the expression of “naked as a Phineas J. Bird” started to emerge. But being sort of a clumsy phrase it soon was shortened to “naked as a J Bird,” and later, when written, the J was spelled Jay. And there you have it, boys and girls. If you’re in doubt as to the veracity of this dubious narrative, instead of dispersing dispassionate disparagement or getting disputatious, just look it up.

He Just Had This Desire Sweep Over Him 

    In Hillsboro, Oregon, a man was using a street sweeper to clean up a parking lot. He had left it for only a minute when a man jumped in and drove off with his sweeper. After a ten-mile chase the police caught the thief and recovered the street sweeper. This genius is being charged with several things, the least of which is parole violation. I guess a condition of his parole was that he not steal a street sweeper. 
    As I read this I had a couple questions:
    Why a street sweeper? If I needed a vehicle I think the last thing I’d steal is a street sweeper. I mean, I don’t think they even have GPS capability, and how about stereo and AC? 
    What did the thief want with this sweeper? Did he have a street that needed cleaning? Did he mistake it for a really big motorbike? Was there alcohol involved? 
    And then there are the Hillsboro Police. Ten miles to catch a street sweeper? Give me a break. What were they afraid of? Getting swept up in the chase? 
    And last but not least, this guy should ask for a refund from Gray Bar U. His last attendance there didn’t seem to teach him much. Of course, he is going to get another shot at those classes he obviously failed the first time he was incarcerated.

I May Be in Big Trouble 

    Headline says Cute calf video draws activists fearful of animal’s fate. Okay, two points: First, all calves are cute. I’ve seen plenty and there was not an ugly one in the bunch. Usually the cuteness wears off quickly, but to start with they are all cute.    It seems that a farm owner posted a picture of this calf on some sort of social media, (I bet he won’t do that again), and some animal rights activists deemed it too cute to be used in the normal way. They probably came to that decision while eating their Big Macs, but hypocrisy is another subject. 
   The second point is this: The headline leads me to believe that if the calf had been ugly, the activists concern would have been somewhere between less and nonexistent. So, that tells me that the activists think the non-cute in this world are not worth saving. I don’t know about you, but that makes me nervous, and could give me a complex. That is if I put any credence at all in the opinions of these activists.