Mad dogs and Englishmen


truckAs nice as March was, it was also very dry, so, after avoiding doing so for several months, we had to start watering again. I was running water in the pond one day using a hose so I could run it in the main area without getting the accumulation of leaves I planned to shred wet in the other part and also running water on a new arborvitae when the water stopped. That was on a Friday and Claude Whitaker, the gentleman who handles our well problems, was able to come by and get it going so the neighbors would have water over the weekend. It seems the pump motor was pulling more amps than it should and was kicking off the safety mechanism designed to keep the motor from burning up. Claude adjusted the breaker to handle a higher load but we knew he would have to come back and get to the bottom of the problem. He showed up Monday morning with his crew, pulled the submersible pump and found that the accumulation of rust flaking off from the 70-year-old well casing plus the sand built up in the bottom of the well had caused the motor to overheat. The pump was 17 years old and nearing the end of its life regardless so he replaced it. They cut 10 feet off the pipe that fits down in the casing. The pump is mounted on the end of the pipe, actually a series of 20-foot sections of pipe, and that had the effect of raising the pump above the accumulated detritus so maybe we’re good to go for the next 17 years. I’ll have to postpone dancing lessons until my finances recover but at least we can keep SA going for the foreseeable future.

So there we were, standing around the Chinaberry campground waiting for Rebecca’s Olsen Park 2nd-grade class to show up so my colleague could lead them on a nature hike.  He was wearing a khaki shirt with a Texas Master Naturalist patch prominent above the left side pocket, albeit with the tail untucked, when a couple of middle-aged lesbians approached him thinking he might be someone official.   Butch, who I thought was a male until she spoke and had what sounded like a German or Swiss-sounding accent, had what looked to me like a dirty dishrag on a leash and she was in high dudgeon over a German shepherd attack on her dishrag, er, dog.  She wanted to report the person who they encountered on their hike who was allowing their German shepherd to accompany them off a leash, a clear violation of the rules.  Butch claimed she was versed in martial arts — she demonstrated a vicious kick for our benefit — and was prepared to use her skills next time.  My colleague of course could do nothing for her but suggest she report the vicious attack to the campground monitor in the campground where both she and the perp were staying.  Fluff didn’t have anything to say and neither did I, though I thought it must have been a pretty mild attack for such a small dog to survive unscathed a German shepherd attack.  Maybe it was an English sheepdog before the shepherd got a hold of it.

It was a beautiful morning down in the canyon and I had been looking forward to being there to surprise Rebecca who didn’t know I was coming.  It was an activity associated with the Texas Master Naturalist program and I would earn some hours toward my required 40, plus enjoy the canyon where I hadn’t been for a number of years while helping keep the kids and the snakes apart.  It turned out to be sort of a bust, though, because there was a mix up in scheduling the buses to bring the little people down to the canyon.  We were expecting them about 9:30 and they hadn’t shown up by noon.  We had just called it a day and were driving out when we passed the buses coming down.  My colleague had another engagement and went on his way but I turned around and followed the buses to the campground.  Since I was unqualified to lead any hikes I just sat with Rebecca and her friends while they ate their lunch.  There were plenty of other adults with them so when the young’uns mustered up and hit the tail, I hightailed it out of there.