| Author | Message | ||
     Captpete |
Boonie Dogs One of my objectives in this new life I've chosen has been to acquire a dog as a pet. My lifestyle will be such that this will finally be possible; I won’t be traveling, other than in the little pee pot boat, (can't even say ••••?) and life for a while will be pretty much working, sleeping, or fishing, and there is no reason a dog couldn’t be a constant companion. That’s how it should be, you know. A man’s dog shouldn’t spend his day at the end of a chain, confined inside a fence, or locked in a house, waiting for the master to come home and pat him on the head. They should be companions. Taking a dog as a pet on the mainland is a major decision: big one, little one, long hair or short, this breed or that. Here on Guam it’s pretty simple, in my mind. You get a boonie dog. The Guam boonie dog: they come in all color combinations imaginable, most some variation of the basic shepherd, and there seem to be no two alike. But there are really two basic varieties: long-legged or short-legged. This short-legged phenomenon is a mystery to me. Where the hell did they come from? For you see, Guam’s boonie dogs are simply everyday feral dogs, and the place is rampant with them. They are almost part of the culture here. Quite a bit of the interior of the island is undeveloped, and just that: boonies. A few of these dogs are true feral animals, but the majority of them live in urban areas, with some of them living in the most populated areas as well. The downtown boonie dogs are completely ignored, and they have the toughest life of all. For them, finding that daily sustenance can be a chore. Fast food restaurants become a base of operation for many, while others stay on the roam in their search for food. But they have two things in common with their more urban counterparts: they are badly infested with mange, and they are very skittish. Those that reside in the suburbs, as it were, have a slightly different status. They are still unwanted, but they find a tiny bit of compassion when table scraps are thrown their way. They pretty much live in the streets – literally – and are only welcome in yards at feeding time. They should be getting smarter all the time, for there is a continual natural selection process, as evidenced by the number of dead ones seen in the middle of the streets. And that’s another interesting point that’s unclear to me: who’s in charge of removing those that don’t make the cut? They rarely linger more than two days before they are removed. Except for the downtown ones, that is. They just get flatter and flatter until they are no longer a factor. Pretty much the same as toads, it just takes longer. Boonie dogs make great pets. They are smart, and very hardy, for they have acclimated to the tropical climate over the years. But you have to get them as young puppies before they have been kicked around. My only criteria have been that I didn’t want the short-legged variety. They are just too goofy-looking. A lot of them come out looking like a cross between a Wiener dog and a German Shepard. Some are even more bizzare than that:   I’m baffled about how that trait became so prevalent amongst these dogs; it must be some kind of double-recessive Wiener gene. So, I have been on the lookout, and about three weeks ago I began to take note of a black female that I would see along the half-mile route down to sea level where I intersect the coast road on the way to the boat every morning. It was obvious from her condition that she was feeding a litter someplace, and she had those long legs that I prefer. (I hope those of you who criticized me for excessive infatuation with breasts in my recent water bill story will take note of my restraint in this little essay. Thank you very much.) Then one day about two weeks ago, as I motored down the hill, I heard the litter. It was still cool enough in the early morning to travel with the truck windows rolled down and no AC blasting, and I was about to scatter a small pack of boonie dogs, including the female I mentioned above, when I heard the litter squeaking off to my left. There is a newly constructed house set just a few feet back from the road, and it is designed so that the level of the floor is about four feet above ground. Like most buildings here, it is constructed of concrete, and required five or six steps, also built of concrete, to gain access to the front door. It was from under this set of steps that the litter’s squeaking was emanating. I couldn’t see them, but at least I knew where they were located. The next four or five days were overcast and rainy, and the boonie dogs had taken refuge wherever they go when it gets like that. Then the sun came out again and that day as I drove by, the litter was in the yard, chasing their mother. (Now that was infatuation, you accusers.) My impression was that there were about a dozen of the little suckers (no comments, please), all black and white, and just as cute as they could be. A black and white boonie dog is a bit rare, since most of them are some variation of brown and black. This was good. In the past, I’ve always seemed to end up with white dogs as my boat dogs, and every single one of them has had an amazing affinity for collecting gobs of black grease on its coat. Now, it isn’t going to make any difference. As one of my new friends would say, “A rare version of the Northern Marianas Sporting Hound.” Saturday, I headed up to the north end of the island to stock up on provisions, and on that trip added puppy food, a flea collar and a puppy chew thingy to my shopping basket. I was ready for the arrival of my new partner. And sure enough, on my way back home I spied the litter out and about. As they say, the rest is history. I have saved one boonie puppy from a life of mange, fleas, both racial and physical abuse, and hunger. Oh, never mind, there was nothing heroic about it; I got myself a free dog. And I had forgotten how much joy a puppy brings to your life. The first couple of days after he was captured, he was a bit home sick. But now, he’s figured out that I’m his surrogate mama and only gets upset when he’s not sure of my whereabouts. It feels so good to be needed. Except in the middle of the night when he wakes up and starts exercising those amazing little vocal chords of his. But, the solution to that one came quickly when one night in my laziness, I left my skivvies on the floor when I headed for the shower. Now, every night he gets a freshly scented pair of skivvies to sleep on. (Hey – it’s ok; he’s a dog.) As with previous boat mascots, I have withheld selecting a name for him and will wait until he selects one for himself through some trait or particular act. (There was Ester, the kitten that fell off the boat at the dock twice the first day we had her. {Ester Williams} And there was Grits, the part pit bull, white, female puppy that finished the eggs and grits breakfast of one of the guys at the net shop one morning when he wasn’t looking. {GRITS – Girls Raised In The South, and she was white, the color of grits.} Meanwhile, I watch him sleep a lot, jump around like he’s covered with ants when he gets a notion, bump into things, fall down as often as not, bite my toe when I’m not looking, and sleep in my lap while we’re driving back and forth to the boat.  A properly composed picture. The red objects to the right are what are locally known as boonie peppers, indigenous to the island – HOT, HOT, HOT! Oh, I’m so tempted to call him BB, short for Boonie Bob, but I must have patience and wait for him to decide. | ||
| Captpete |
Little Dewey had a bad day the middle of this past week. Little Dewey? Yep, the boonie pup finally got a name. More about that a little later. I know he’s growing like a banana tree physically, but I can’t really notice that because I see him constantly. But what I do notice is how fast he is learning. He not only learns about his surroundings as he ventures a little farther into the unknown each day, but he also learns how to use his body, and what it is and is not capable of. I have a twenty-foot container set up next to the boat as a shop, and as I am in and out of it many times a day, so is Dewey. The threshold is too high for Dewey to climb or jump up onto, and this has been a great frustration to him, for he wants to go where I go. He started out trying to accomplish this by jumping into the container. He would make two or three unsuccessful attempts, each resulting in his being thrown back to the ground, never landing on his feet, and then he would sit and howl his frustration for a minute or two. Then he would get back on his feet and pace back and forth across the opening as he did one more survey of the situation and the process would be repeated. Sometimes I would take pity on him and reach down, grab him by the scruff of his neck, and pull him aboard, and other times I would just let him work on it. The system that’s used to fasten the doors on these containers uses some tabs that are welded onto the face of the threshold, and they protrude about two inches from it. I was busy at one of the workbenches inside the container, and Dewey was giving it his all, trying to get in there with me and help out. He’d jump, his little paws would just clear the lip, slip off, and he would tumble to the ground, regroup, and come at it again. And then I heard this big ‘clunk’ and looked around to see what was going on. Dewey was staggering a little bit, sort of cross-eyed, trying to shake the tweety birds out of his head. He’d made his leap right in front of one of those tabs. I guess it was like the upside down version of diving into a swimming pool with no water. But he’s pretty resilient. By the end of the day he tried his first leap when exiting the container. He would normally go right to the edge, and then inch closer and closer until he tumbled off to the ground. The leap yielded the same results, he just did his tumbling a foot or so away from the edge. Should I name him Tumbler? Leaper? How about Clunk? No. Dizzy was close, but still no. Dewey used sleep in my lap on the way to work, but now he’s discovered the window. His first experience with the window was as we were turning into the boat basin, just poking along at an idle. Man, that was great. All that stuff going by.  So he tried it again on the way home. That was pretty cool too, until we got on the main road and started picking up a little speed. The wind wasn’t too bad, but all those oncoming cars. Boy, were they scary. Every time one of those went by, he’d pull his head back inside, “What the heck was that?” So we did that for a little while. Those big cars were pretty hard to get used to. The next morning we got to the Harbor of Refuse about 6:30, and being the first ones there, we had to unlock the gate. I got out of the truck, leaving Dewey in the front seat, unlocked the padlock on the gate, and then swung both halves clear of the entrance. Just as I turned to start back to the truck, I caught some motion out of the corner of my eye, and then heard a very audible ‘plop’ as Dewey hit the pavement. He had climbed out of the open window, and his first lesson about heights had begun. The loudest howling you can imagine instantly broke the peaceful quite of the early morning, and Dewey just stood there looking at me, making these horrible sounds, and holding his little paw up to me. Boy, what a heartbreaker. Later that morning, I had to make a run to Ace Hardware for parts, so Dewey and I loaded up in the truck and headed north. I left him in the front seat of the truck again, this time with the window half rolled up, and went in to do my shopping. When I got back to the truck a few minutes later, I was busy thinking about what I had to do as soon as I got back to the boat, and reached out with my free hand and opened the door. “Plop.” Dewey hit the pavement again. He’d been sleeping between the edge of the seat and the door. No howling this time. I guess he was getting used to it. Should I name him Plop? How about Crash? No. I gave in, and named him Dewey, a name suggested by one of my new friends here last week while we were brainstorming at the boat yard.  No, this is not the picture describing why I named him Plop. I apologize for the pose, but it’s really the best one I have for describing how Dewey got his name. That marking you are looking at is not Spot’s spot. . . . . . . . . . . . . . It’s Dewey’s decimal! Ba da bing, ba da boom! | ||
| Captainkirk |
Great story, cool dog! More please!  | ||
| Captpete |
 Here's the latest Dewey story. Last night we had a little BBQ at the Harbor of Refuse, and Dewey was the entertainment. Late in the evening it got down to just the core, five of us. A young couple, Jay and Yuko, who live aboard a small sailboat, were there along with their two-year old boonie dog, Lucky. Yuko was getting ready to feed the last bratwurst to the dogs and decided to include a little obedience training with the meal. She placed two pieces of brat on the ground in front of her as the two dogs sat a little farther beyond, both quivering with anticipation. Lucky was pretty good, but Dewey was really struggling to keep from jumping the gun. Lucky’s piece was on the ground, but Yuko had to pick Dewey’s up a couple of times before he finally got settled down. Then she started backing away from the treats, telling the dogs to stay. Finally, the time came, and she said, “OK.” No one could believe how fast Dewey moved. It was like the gunfight where the slow guy never even gets his hand on his gun. Dewey was a blur. But instead of going for his piece of bratwurst, he shot diagonally in front of Lucky, grabbed his piece, and was gone. Lucky was still sitting there looking like, “What the ••••••••• happened?” That was the first good laugh. Later, a lot later actually, it was down to just three of us, full of beer and rum and coke and telling sea stories. Dewey was playing with his favorite toy, which is an empty beer can. He especially likes them if he’s emptied them himself. Beer drinkers beware if they set their cans on the ground when Dewey’s around. But he was in full swing with his beer can routine, running up and down the pavement and grabbing the can with his teeth, throwing it up in the air, and then chasing it around making as much noise as he possibly could. About that time a police car came through the gate and did a surveillance turn around the parking lot. As he was crawling past on his way to exit the gate, Dewey ran up to the car with a beer can in his mouth and barked at him, but without ever turning loose of the can. Everybody’s jaw dropped at the same time before we all busted out laughing. No one had ever seen a dog bark while holding a beer can in his mouth – especially at the po-leece. Dewey’s a star at the Harbor of Refuse. I often catch people hugging him to their chests. He’s so friendly, he greets everyone as if he just couldn’t wait to see them again, all wiggly and puppy-like. They can’t help just reaching down and picking him up. Hell, he’s got to be close to 30 pounds by now. If I could clone this dog, I’d be an instant rich guy.  | ||
| Pammy |
Are you gonna bring him back with you when you return? I hope so...Can't wait to meet him. | ||
| Captpete |
Pammy, Getting him to the States is easy. Guam is rabies-free, so you can take pets to the States and claim them upon arrival. But getting them back is a different story. Right now I think there's a 90-day incubation period, maybe even six months. That would just be too tough on both of us. But I hear rumors about that being reduced to thirty days. Even then, I don't know if I could make him live in a cage for thirty days. It ain't no fun. (Voice of experience.)  'Course, if they let me be his cellmate and we could do thirty days together, that would be ok. He’s a quick learner, and I could teach him all the tricks for doin’ time. First, I’d teach him how to make a fist. Opps, never mind. I forgot that I had him fixed. There’s always two-handed spades. Night before last, Dewey pulled another one. Four of my friends came in from a half-day of recreational bottom fishing, and arrived just a little after sunset. Three of us had been sitting around the BBQ/beer-drinking area there at the Harbor of Refuse relaxing after the day’s work, so we joined the fishing crew on the back deck of my friend’s boat. (They still had beer in the cooler.) In order to get there, we had to walk out a little finger pier and cross the deck of another boat that my friend was tied outside of. I didn’t even think about Dewey and just left him there on the hill where he was entertaining himself by pulling empty beer cans out of the trash container and arranging them about the area in some pattern that evidently made sense to him. But he’s become a very social critter and likes to hang with the group. I guess he couldn’t figure out how to get out to the end of the dock, jump the three feet to the first boat, and then climb over to where everybody was. I thought he was just hanging out up on the hill until one of the people who was sitting on the transom mentioned that Dewey was trying to get in the boat. He’d taken the direct route and was swimming around the stern, trying to climb up the swim ladder. Naturally, one of the guys leaned over the transom and hauled him aboard by his collar. And of course, he repaid the kindness with a little group shower for us all. Did I mention that Dewey’s a water dog? His ancestry is a little vague, and you’d never guess by his appearance, but he’s got fully webbed feet and swims like a little motorboat. At least a couple times a day, if it’s one of those really clear, hotter-than-Hades days, he’s soaking wet with salt water when he makes one of his regular check-in passes through my work area at the boat. Takes a little dip now and then to cool off. Me, I just strip down to my skivvies and go stand under the outdoor shower three or four times a day. . . . . . . (My I remind everyone that this whole thread is Buell-related. It all has to do with what is necessary (Da Boat) for me to acquire the funds to build the next CycleRama monster!) And speaking of Da Boat, I've just completed the framwork for the lid for the back deck patio, one of the last big projects. Shade is real important in these parts. I'm closing in on launch day.  | ||
| Newfie_buell |
I really enjoy your stories Pete!!! | ||
| Sandblast |
Me too! | ||
| Captpete |
Thanks, guys. It's always nice to get some positive feedback. Soon, soon, I hope, there will be some shark-killing stories in the works. That's when they really become Buell-related, when the cash flow direction reverses. And Pammy starts rubbing her hands together in anticipation, thinking about putting all that dumpster-diving behind her.  | ||
| Road_thing |
 Ah, dumpster diving, the epitome of haute cuisine! Keep up the stories, Pete, your adventures are great entertainment! rt | ||
| Pammy |
That reminds me...I need to see about getting a 'walk-in' dumpster. Pete, I am building a new building next to our old one. I will make sure to leave room for the Gypsy mobile. | ||
| Paulinoz |
Great Story Pete has helped me pass the time in Dallas Airport waiting for flight to NC. | ||
| Captpete |
Pammy, Screw the new building. How about a little security at the grocery store? | ||
| Blake |
Way cool pooch Captain! Thanks for sharing. | ||
| Pammy |
I was going to bring that up too. Next time I will do your shopping for you. I'll have to see if I can find your 'enhanced' photo's. You know the ones...with you in your big white rain boots. Yjirty days is a small price to pay for a lifetime of loving. He would gladly do it if he could make the choice... | ||
| Henrik |
Thanks again for more stories Capt. Please keep them coming. I agree with Pammy - he'd do it if you asked. Henrik | ||
| Newfie_buell |
Hey Pete, This fish was caught off the Coast of Newfoundland recently. Its a Halibut and a damm big one. They usually don't get to be one quarter ths size of this giant.  | ||
| Captpete |
Those boys are smilin', ain't they? I've never seen anyone paint the working deck a dark color, especially if they're dragging at night. Maybe that's what it takes to get the big ones? | ||
| Captpete |
What next? I found about a four or five-day old kitten in one of my closets this afternoon. One of the compound cats (obviously the mother) got into the house when I left the back door open and I couldn’t find her for three or four days. But Dewey sniffed her out underneath an easy chair, so I opened the front door and whacked the chair with a broom a couple of times and she hauled ••• out the door. Then today, I went to look for something in the spare bedroom, which is full of boxes of boat stuff. I closed that door in an effort to trap the mother just before we found her under the chair. As soon as I opened the door, I was sure I smelled cat ••••. Then I heard the kitten crying, and when I located it in the closet, I also discovered the smell was another one that’s been dead for a while. I grabbed the good one, and closed the door again. I think I’ll wait on the other one until it dries out a little bit. I guess I could throw the good one out the front door and not worry about it, but it kinda feels like I’m supposed to look after it. So now I’ve got baby formula and will try to get it through the first critical week. When it howls, Dewey does a lot of whining. I think he wants to eat it. If I’d let him, I’m sure he’d love to roll around in what’s left of the one I left in the closet. We’ll see; maybe I’ll end up with two fishing mascots. They might be good playmates, if I can keep the kitten alive until it’s too big for Dewey to swallow. Boat’s starting to get a little crowded. I hope one of those baby boonie chickens doesn’t show up in the bathroom some morning. They’ll be calling me Capt. Noah before it's over. Feeding time… (Seems I'm getting more and more involved in the food chain out here. Building karma for the big assault, perhaps?) | ||
| Newfie_buell |
Hey Pete, Keep the Cat, it will make a great companion for Dewey. I have a coal black dog along with 3 cats, two orange ones and a black cat. The dog is almost 11 yeears old and when she lays down on the floor the black cat which is about 3yrs old lays down near the dogs midsection and cuddles into the dog. The first time we saw this it was a bit startling as it was unusual to see a dog with two eyes near her stomach and a head pop up. Don't worry before long they will be the best of friends!!! | ||
| Road_thing |
CaptPete: What constitutes a "compound cat?" Extra legs? 18 lives? Just curious... rt Love the stories! | ||
| Pammy |
Pete I raised 2 babies in my front shirt pocket while I worked(if you can call what I do work) for a few weeks. It really doesn't take too long for them to be somewhat self sufficient. I'll have to tell you that story sometime. It involves 2 punks, a weedeater and my tool belt... Take some pics of your new addition. | ||
| Pammy |
Oh and clean up the dead kitten...yuck | ||
| Captpete |
Darn! Dewey’s been outsmarting me for over six months, now. I don’t know what gave me the notion that I was smarter than a cat. The mother cat has been hanging around the front door, missing her kitten. I haven’t closed the doors to this house since I first rented it in the middle of February, since it has security type screen doors. Sometimes, I forget to close those as well; I guess that’s why the house fills up with cats occasionally. Anyway, she’s been hanging around the front door, and I’ve been thinking about all the hassle of feeding this little kitten a half-dozen times a day for the next couple of weeks, and I came up with this idea of how I could have my cake and eat it too. I figured if I could trap her in the house again, and then get both her and the kitten into the storage room, I could easily make sure she had everything she needed in there, food, water, and a litter box, and she would take care of the kitten until it was time to wean the thing. Here’s the plan: I would leave the kitten in a box in the living room, crack the front screen door open, and then go out the back door. I would then circle around toward the front and peek around the corner, and as soon as she went into the house, I’d charge in behind her and pull the door closed. Well, to make a long story short, I peeked around the corner just in time to see her come hauling ••• out the front door with the kitten in her mouth. Damn, she was quick. Now, in a few months there’s going to be one more feral cat in the compound, sneaking in the back screen door when I forget to close it and eating Dewey’s dog food, or if his bowel’s empty, tearing the 20-pound bag apart and spreading dog food all over the kitchen floor. I guess I’d better stick to catching fish. They aren’t nearly as smart. | ||
| Captpete |
R. T., It couldn’t have been any faster if it had 27 legs. I rent half of a duplex in what is called a family compound here on Guam. This island is a true melting pot. 150,000 folks clinging to this rock: 30,00 locals, called Chamorros, Filipinos, Japanese, Koreans, Chinese, 10,000 mainlanders, (or Howlies, a term from Hawaii) and a smattering of Kiwis, Aussies, and every other nationality you could name Magellan discovered the island, and also discovered that the Chamorro’s notion of property ownership was a little different than he was used to. His crew was badly disabled from the effects of scurvy, and unable to muster much resistance as they watched them steal everything on the boat, including nails that they pulled out of the planks. He named it “The Island of Thieves” and it hasn’t changed much. (The local politicians have raised the tradition to an art form.) The only secure places to live are in high-rises or family compounds, which are a cluster of houses owned by extended members of a particular family and grouped together within a wall or some other means of providing security. This one is Filipino-owned, and I am their token Howlie. I got pretty lucky finding this place and being accepted as a renter. I think the facts that I was too old looking (I ain’t old!) to be a nuisance and offered to pay six month’s rent in advance had a lot to do with it. Plus, I only have one vehicle. I don’t know how many folks live to the left and right of me, but I count thirteen vehicles for the pair, and at least three generations of residents coming and going in both places. And I know some of ‘em are too old to drive. They sure like to bunch up. Anyway, I’ve never locked my back (screen) door since I moved in. That’s unheard of on Guam. Of course, leaving the back screen door open all day is unheard of even in the compound. | ||
| Captpete |
Pammy, You raised two kittens in your shirt pockets? And all this time I been thinkin'... Never mind. | ||
| Pammy |
Oh, I KNOW what you been thinkin'.... Well, you missed out on the cat...I have 2 you can use when you get back. Dewey would love Bartox and Cheddar. They looove dogs. It is so funny when they tag team Suki. Cheddar chases Suk around the pool and Bart swats her behind as she passes by. This scenerio is of course initiated by Suki's curious(and curiously cold) nose coming in direct contact(as dogs often do) with the cat's goozler...(I'll let you use your imagination on that one.) | ||
| Captpete |
Oh, no you don't. I didn't ride into town on some watermelon wagon! Opps. | ||
| Captpete |
Oh, goody! The link to this thread is working again. I was pretty sure I was being chastised for that last post. I thought it was so clever, at the time. (I still think it’s better than average – for me.) But by the time I realized that it might not be appropriate, it was too late. (I think the BadWeb should offer special editing privileges to those with Keyboard-Tourette’s Syndrome.) So, as atonement, Pammy, I offer you my IOU for one kick in the goozler… (Hoping it’s not what I think it might be.) |
