Dandy Do-Little

Dandy Do-Little

  Leslie Allen

  Copyright 2010 Leslie Allen

  License Notes

  Cover design by Leslie Allen

  Stamp art used by permission

  "Sun" copyright 1987, Marks of Distinction (trademark)

  "Dog" copyright 1993 Picture Show

  "Cat" copyright 1993 Art Parts

 

  Learn more about the author at

  an upper peninsula journal

  ~

  Although fiction, much of what follows is true.

  ~

  Dandy's DooWah Ditty

  In this world

  Of worry and rush,

  The philosopher says:

  "Hush …

  Stop …

  Smell the flowers."

  I heed his word,

  I pause and pee.

  You see,

  All the world's

  A flower

  To me.

  SPRING

  Hello. My name is Dandy Do-Little, and I like to get right down to things, though sometimes I do take a little nap first. I'm involved with canine security, and as with most types of security work, it can be either a routine job or a job where all heck's breaking loose. Up until recently, for me, it has been satisfyingly routine.

  The backbone of all canine security work is the patrol, and the purpose of the patrol is to create and maintain a well-marked boundary through the use of carefully crafted elimination. The difference between craftsmanship and mere pissing in the wind is Thorough Preliminary Sniffing, and Thorough Preliminary Sniffing (also known as TPS) involves uncovering a scent, taking in a scent, analyzing the scent, composing an appropriate response to the scent, and then lettin' her rip.

  I enjoy my work. As I grow older, I seem to spend more and more time on TPS. The odors are wonderful. Each tree and piece of bark, each bush and little twig, each flower and every petal, each bug and all its legs, every leaf and crumb and blade of grass, each seems to have its own special aroma. Dewy grass smells different from dry grass. Fresh crow you-know-what does not smell like robin you-know-what. And the trail of a squirrel is nothing like the trail of a chipmunk. I can think, "Ah, this scent is a delicate combination of, perhaps, June bug leg and thistle seed with a dash of raindrop covered by a Bazooka gum wrapper," but there is always an indefinable aspect, too, that makes the conglomerate mysterious and singular. I'm sure you can see that there is a lot to uncover and filter through. It is imperative, in my line of work, to identify everything as closely as possible, as much as possible.

  I patrol my yard, my territory, at least once a day. I begin at the gate near the house, giving it the old TSP, but never responding, as this is a "No Response Zone." (Hey, I'm not the boss.) Next I gather messages off the canine security network community bulletin board, otherwise known as the small bush just west of the gate. Unofficially, one of my pals may leave a little "howdy-doo," letting me know who's been to the park and who else was there, and The Yorkie may leave me a tidbit about this or that, I don't really know, for The Yorkie's a rather high-strung little dog and his messages are often garbled. I know he means well, so I always respond with a quick exclamation of sorts, such as "Really!" or "You don't say!" Then I kick up a little grass and am on my way.

  Did I mention that I am a dog? I am. I have some Labrador retriever in me, which explains my penchant for balding tennis balls, but I also have a sublime mix of spaniel and setter, which explains my agility, speed, and my salt-and-pepper paws. I am a dog of manageable size with a sleek black coat and white shirt front. People seem to think I am fairly intelligent—after all, I have been given an awful lot of responsibility—and often I am told that I am "sweet." But I've been kicked as well as complimented; well, haven't we all.

  I follow the yard's fence to its far western edge, past the arbor vitae hedge, the barberry patch, the crabapple, the rose of Sharon. Here tall spruce trees provide shade and cover from the rain. In the summer it's wild with hostas, morning glory, and sunflowers all scrabbling up out of the ground and twining around each other and along the fence. The birds and Jasper, who live in the spruce, are especially fond of foraging down here.

  Jasper is somewhat of a pal of mine. He's a squirrel, and normally I wouldn't go in for palling around with a rodent, but Jasper's been living in the yard for a while now, and we worked things out early on: I'd stop chasing him if he'd stop chasing me. Jasper lives with Squirrely—now there's a nutty one! Last spring she got goofy every time I came out on patrol. She'd run at me, run away, chatter and scold and use such language hanging off of branches and upside down on twigs scaling the fence sideways and back just to get on my nerves! Jasper explained it was because she had babies in the nest, and I said, "So what? What do I care for some blind, hairless, baby rats?" Boy, did that make Jasper mad! He barked "Squirrels! Baby squirrels!" then ran off flicking his tail like a mean old whip and chattering up a storm just like his mate.

  Squirrels are nuts.

  There's another gate at this end of the yard so I check it and come back toward the house on a concrete walk that runs between a row of low bushes and the neighboring house, where Rocky lives. Since the walk is technically Rocky's territory, I abandon TPS and just sniff quick, analyze, keep on moving. Rocky's a Rottweiler, which means he's big, his head about as big as a dainty poodle. And oh boy, you should smell his messages! Bottle them and you could sell them as smelling salts or something.

  The walk ends at a flower garden. I cut through a patch of day lilies to the middle of the yard and take stock of things. If all is quiet, I walk along the edge of the garden, noting any recent worm activity. Among other things, worms can predict the arrival of spring much better than any groundhog.

  I make my way back to the garbage cans. Now, you might think this would be a great place for TPS, but I'll tell you it's not, at least not while on patrol. It's too much! I mean, I could tell you what was for dinner Saturday and about last Tuesday's breakfast and about things left forgotten and rotten, but I find that pungent odors tend to mask what's really going on, so all I do is check the third and final gate and make sure that nothing intended for the garbage is lying about on the ground and, if it is, and if it's tasty, I stop for a snack.

  From the garbage cans I return to the front of the house, to the first gate, and start the patrol all over again. After another round or two, I'll rest. If it's warm and sunny, I'll rest by the garden. If it's chilly, I'll go indoors to my sofa. I spend most of the winter indoors, but now that it's spring I'll spend more time out sleeping in the sun. Of course, I'll have to look out for Squirrely, in case she has more baby rats (ha ha!), and this year I'll be sharing the yard with Goldilocks Dreamsicle, a cat, and then there's this new pup, Buster Brownie Boy, and I must say, well, life may not be so routine anymore.

  SPR~O~ING

  I only had to look at Goldilocks Dreamsicle to know his name. You see, he looks like a Goldilocks, and he looks like one of those frozen orange-and-white treats-on-a-stick that melts on the sidewalk in the summer sun after that ding-dong truck caroms though the neighborhood clanging out "Turkey in the Straw."

  Except this Dreamsicle is furry.

  As I mentioned, Goldie is a cat, but he's a good sort of cat. I found this out right away when I first approached his box. It was a cold morning, and I was out on a quick patrol. I was making my way around the shed that's under the spruce trees when my nose froze in mid-sniff, then went into double-time, quivering back and forth, up and down, a little to the left, a little to the right, all in a frantic intake of a strong, overpowering scent. I hung my head low and with a lateral sweep finalized my analysis: Cat. One hundred per cent cat.

  I peered around the corner of the shed. A plain cardboard box, on its side with its open top p
ointing east, was snuggled by the front door. Inside was a fuzzy golden ball. I proceeded toward it and stopped about a foot away. Slowly, with nose only, I continued my approach. (The nose-only approach is good all-around investigative practice and especially important when closing in on an unidentified object or sleeping cat. I was fully prepared to mobilize backward if necessary.)

  A cat's head popped up! I drew back. Slowly the cat unfolded. One front leg stretched forward and then another. Sharp claws were unsheathed and flexed. The cat pulled himself forward and then straight up from the haunches, his body curling into a frown and then slowly rolling forward into a smile. His nose came perilously close to mine.

  "Got any breakfast, pal?"

  I jumped back and barked. "No no no no no!"

  "Then whaddaya bothering me for," the cat hissed, folding his ears back along his head.

  "This is my yard, bub, that's what I'm bothering you for."

  "Oh." The cat partially unfolded his ears. "Okay then. Nice place you have here. Thanks for letting me stay." The cat's ears shot up and forward a bit.

  "Well, you're welcome," I said. I shook myself from head to tail and kicked up a little grass for good measure.

  "My name is Goldilocks Dreamsicle," the cat said as he began washing one white-gloved paw. "But you can call me Goldie. It's less pretentious, don't you think?" He suddenly stopped his washing and stared at me. "Less insecure," he purred.

  "Why, yes. Yes it is, Goldie. Less pretentious. Less insecure. And you may call me Dandy. Dandy Do-Little. At your service."

  "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Dandy Do-Little. You out on patrol?"

  "Why yes, yes I am."

  "Well why don't you get back to it and let me finish my nap?"

  "Certainly," I said, "naps are very important."

  Goldie yawned, puffed his fur, stretched, and then, without another word, tucked himself back into the plain cardboard box facing east.

  "Carry on, Goldie, carry on." I gave myself an authoritative shake and carried on myself.

  SPR~O~ING ~~ SPR~O~ING

  From the start, Goldie respected my authority, so we became pals. One afternoon shortly after we met, I was napping by the day lily bed. I awoke to see Goldie sitting in front of me, staring intently. I lifted myself up and shook off the last bits of sleep.

  "Well. How are you, Goldie?" I sounded a bit groggy.

  "I need your help."

  "You need my help? Certainly. What is it?"

  Goldie stood, turned, and walked over to the rose of Sharon bushes. I followed. When he came to the fence he sat down. Suddenly he shot straight up, landing on top of the fence. What a peculiar fellow, I thought. He pushed off the fence and came down on the sidewalk. There, just beyond the sidewalk in the parkway, was a rough-and-tumble ball of fur.

  "Rat!" I barked.

  "Just as I thought," Goldie said calmly. "It was in the gutter. But it's not a rat. Let me show you."

  Goldie walked toward the thing that wasn't a rat just as it somersaulted, vaulted, and flew straight at him. Goldie stopped, crouched low, threw up a body block and the rough-and-tumble fur ball cannonballed into him, bouncing off of Goldie's side and falling backward onto the concrete walk. Goldie sat up straight and gave the fur ball a swat on the head.

  "Watch it, Buster."

  I was watching through the fence pickets, and when the fur ball sat up, I could see it was a puppy. I began to dig furiously and soon had made a tunnel. "Goldie! Over here! Push Buster over here!" Goldie was embroiled in a boxing match with the puppy, and he gaily batted Buster across the sidewalk, into the trench, and shoving with his hind feet, pushed Buster under the fence and into the yard. Goldie took the airborne route back and came down face-to-face with the pup.

  "Listen, pal, this is Dandy Do-Little's yard so you do as he says. And the birds and mice are mine, so paws off. Got it?"

  Buster lunged at Goldie's head, barely nipping an ear before Goldie ducked and rolled and came up with a quick cuff to the pup's nose. Buster yelped and sat down hard. I backed away from the two squallers and barked once, loudly. Goldilocks Dreamsicle and Buster turned their heads to look at me, both wide-eyed and quiet.

  "Goldie," I barked, "fill up the tunnel. Buster, come here." The two did as they were told. As Goldie diligently pushed dirt into the trench, Buster sat at my feet, looking up expectantly. He was a skinny little pup with a sparse, coarse coat the color of sand. He had flip-flop ears, a beatnik beard, a whiplash tail, and he was seething with barely tethered energy.

  I hoped I was having a nightmare and would soon awake.

  Buster jumped, licked my chin, and returned to his sitting position all smiles and wavy fur.

  I wasn't dreaming.

  I switched back to auto-pilot, as it seemed to be the best way to deal with and avoid the situation all at the same time. I gave Buster the old TPS from whisker to tail tip and back again, and he rolled around, his paws battling the air, his mouth wide open, tongue hanging out, lapping in my direction at every chance.

  How I withstood it I'll never know.

  "I believe he's a terrier mix, about seven weeks old, male, no detectable parasites," I informed Goldie.

  "Terrier mix!" Goldie snorted. "Sounds like a late night snack. What will you do with him?"

  "What will I do with him? I dare say he's your responsibility, Mr. Dreamsicle. After all, you are the one who found him."

  "Ha. You're the one who said, 'Over here! Push him over here!' and dug that lousy tunnel."

  "I was helping you out. I thought this pup was a friend of yours."

  "Ha! You thought it was a rat!"

  "'Ha' right back! You thought it was a rat too!"

  "You think I got rats for friends? I eat rats for dinner, pal."

  As Goldie and I bickered so unseemly, Buster wandered over to the mulberry bush. Suddenly I heard a raucous chittering coming from that direction. I stopped cold. Squirrely! Baby rats! I looked up into the spruce trees trying to see where Squirrely was, but I was way behind the action. Squirrely was in the mulberry bush, running in circles around the mulberry bush, bouncing off the fence and ricocheting off tree trunks, everywhere at once like a BB in a boxcar, defending her young against this unlikely pup, even though this pup had no intention of climbing a tree and raiding Squirrely's nest—or so I thought. Buster was caught up in the frenzy, chasing Squirrely, which only made Squirrely more frantic. Suddenly she lunged at Buster. He let out a terrific yelp and sat down hard on his rump. In a flash, Squirrely was gone.

  I ran to Buster and stood over him, barking at Squirrely to mind her own business and to watch out for devil baby rats invading her nest at night to snatch her young. Then I gave Buster a quick once-over, licking a small trickle of blood from his left shoulder.

  "You okay, Buster Boy?"

  "Yes, I'm okay. Thanks Dandy Do-Little." He gave my chin a quick lick. I sneezed.

  "Don't do that," I said.

  "What?"

  "Lick my chin."

  "Why not?"

  Auto-pilot off. I was tired. I turned and walked to the patio, by the garden, where I lay down to rest. Goldie and Buster followed me.

  "Dandy?" Buster sat right in front of my nose. "Why'd that squirrel bite me?"

  "Probably because you're too rambunctious," I told him wearily.

  "Too ram-whach-is?" Buster asked, his eyes opening wide.

  "Rambunctious," I repeated.

  "Oooooh," he said thoughtfully.

  Goldilocks Dreamsicle, who had settled into a lounge chair, asked, "You know what that means, Buster?"

  "Noooo," Buster replied.

  "Ha," Goldie hissed. "Didn't think so."

  Buster ran over to Goldie and started yapping and snapping, fading in and out like The Boxer Boy. Goldie reared up, leaped off the chair and made a two-legged advance, front paws whiffing the air and occasionally smacking Buster on the brain cover. Snarling and yapping, Buster backed up, moved forward, faded right, left, dropped his head, and came up roa
ring.

  Dandy's Dandelion Defense

  I love a dandelion flower;

  To me it is a shower

  Of wild luck growing free.

  SUMMER

  So my life isn't so quietly routine anymore. Goldilocks Dreamsicle and Buster Brownie Boy are good for laughs and companionship, I guess, but Buster, still a pup, has no idea about security work—he thinks everybody is a friend—and Goldie just hunts and sleeps, which is rather upsetting to the bird population. Jasper told me that the sparrows, in particular, are quite rattled by Goldie's presence and are thinking of moving out. I'm rather partial to birds. I enjoy watching them and yes, chasing them, but I never catch one. Never even think about catching one. Goldilocks, on the other hand, seems to think of nothing else. He once told me that that's his job, to hunt, and that it's a lot more complicated than it looks.

  We were all sniffing about in the shade of the spruces one day when Goldilocks suddenly proclaimed: "I will call it the Lazy G!"

  "The Lazy G! The Lazy G! What is it! What did you find?" Buster barked.

  "I found this ranch, this yard, Brownie Boy. Now I'm going to name it the Lazy G."

  "The Lazy G?" I asked.

  "Yes, Dandy Do-Little, the Lazy G." Goldie paused. "That is, if you don't mind …"

  I looked around at the summery yard. The day lilies had bloomed, bursting into an orange glow above a profusion of bluebells below. The pink buds on the rose of Sharon were near to burst, and the dandelions were shimmering yellow. Despite Goldie's presence, the spruces were full of robins and sparrows and wrens and mourning doves, and, of course, Jasper and Squirrely and their growing brood. To tell you the truth, the yard didn't seem so very lazy to me.

  A dragonfly buzzed by my nose, and I snapped at it. I turned to Goldie and said, "The Lazy G?"

  "Sure, sure," Goldie said, "let me explain." He leaned against a tree trunk settling into a story-telling slouch. He gave the pads of his left front paw a few quick licks.

  "Explain! Explain!" barked Buster, who was now sitting at ready, his ears perked and his eyes sparkling. His sandy hair, which had been growing rapidly, curled and tufted this way and that. His tail barely touched the ground as it wagged quickly back and forth in short strokes.