My Protector... most of the time.

Today, I want to introduce you to my guardian and protector: Koda. He's a 67 pound Australian shepherd/Rhodesian Ridgeback mix. He's on guard 24/7, and alerts me to anything out of the ordinary, which usually ranges from a person walking by the house to an aggressive squirrel ransacking the bird feeders. He's extremely protective of the house and the humans in it (he could care less about the cats, though), and usually he does an outstanding job in carrying out his sentry duties.

Except when there's a thunderstorm.

If he hears ANY thunder, he becomes the biggest wuss you've ever seen. He starts off by barking at the lightening, probably to show it who's boss. Then he progresses to howling, which can make you deaf in about 2 minutes. As the storm gets closer, he starts to panic. He has to be in the same room I'm in. His body must be in contact with my body at all times. If I'm at my desk, he must be under the desk, behind my legs. If I'm in bed, he must be at the foot of the bed, safely tucked between my legs or resting by my tush. If the thunder is loud enough, he will start shaking. His ears flatten out, the fur on his back will go up, and his tail will remain between his legs until the storm passes. The transformation between pre-storm dog and post-storm dog is incredible. Suddenly, I'm HIS protector. Only Mommy can keep the storm at bay. Only mommy can chase the bad thunder away. Cute, right? Yes, but only if he's not anywhere near anything breakable, such as computers, electronics, furniture, etc. Then, it's not so adorable.

I suppose I should be happy that he believes I could protect him. This means he accepts me as the Alpha female, which makes me the boss. But I would be a lot happier about it if I wasn't deaf right now.

There's another storm brewing for today. I've already put his dog bed underneath my desk, in preparation for the next panic attack. Am I a good mommy or what?

My New Bumper Sticker

Driving around during my daily errand run, I see a lot of different bumper stickers. Some are political, some are humorous, and almost all of them reflect some character or personality of the driver. Naturally, this got me to thinking about the bumper sticker that I should put on my car. And I came up with the following:

"I made an Australian girl cry. Ask me how!"

There are two reasons for this idea. 1. It's eye-catching, even a conversation starter. 2. It's true.

Now let me explain. For some reason, when I travel, I get an excess of bodily toots (aka gas). I don't know if it's the food I eat, the stress that goes with traveling, or a combination of both, but I have been known to lay some real stinkers. The real problem is that there is usually no warning or indication that they are coming, so one minute I'm standing around and everything's fine. The next minute, I toot (usually in the proximity of some poor unsuspecting person), and the green gas spreads it's way through the crowd with some unpleasant results. While in the providence of Queensland, I had just finished breakfast and was walking out of the restaurant to meet up with Big Dave. Suddenly, a toot escaped. You couldn't hear it, but within a minute you sure could smell it. I happened to be passing by a family, and the little girl was the closest one to me. As I passed her, she sniffed, crinkled up her nose, then said (loudly), "Ewwww. Mommy, that stinks!" She then held her nose with one hand, and started to cry. Needless to say, I hurried out of the area. I don't know if they ever discovered it was me, but it was the first of many times that I have had similar reactions to my toots. I have made children cry in many different cities, in different parts of the country, from San Francisco to Savannah.

Now, I am not proud of this "talent". I know there has to be a way to get it to stop. But on rare occasions, it does come in handy. Take, for instance, last night. I was curled up on the couch with the dog. His head was towards my feet, and his tush was pointed at me. With no warning, he let let out a toot, and it was the nastiest smelling thing you can imagine. Like rotten eggs stewed in sulfur water. Not to be outdone, I reciprocated. He sniffed, recoiled, sneezed, then jumped down off the couch and tried to bury his nose in the hallway carpet -- probably to help his nose get rid of the smell. I then had the couch to myself for the rest of the night.

Hey, it may not be ladylike, but it does have it's advantages.

The Great Outdoors

Well, we survived our trek into the Appalacians. What a gorgeous part of the country! Fortunately, we went early enough so we avoided most of the summer heat (although it was still quite warm due to the East Coast heat wave). We hiked, we rafted the white water rapids, we rode a train through the Great Smokies, and just generally relaxed and enjoyed the mountains. And, we ate our way through Bryson City, Cherokee, Gatlainburg, and Maggie Valley. In addition to some souveniers, we bought back with us some great stories.

First, let me tell you about Uncle Charlie. Uncle Charlie was our tour guide while rafting the rapids. He's a young-at-heart 78-year old part time resident of Bryson City, NC, who proudly wore a tee shirt which stated, "You don't grow old because you raft the waters, you grow old because you STOP rafting." He is one of the coolest people you will ever meet. He knew that river like the back of his hand. Because of his knowledge and guidance, we stayed in the raft the entire trip down the river (instead of getting flipped out like many of our fellow rafters). After our trip down the river, I talked to him briefly about his life and his experiences on the river. He summed it up by saying, "I've been rafting these waters for almost 35 years. I know it better than most of the people who have lived here all their lives. Everything that could happen to you on that river has happened to me. That river and I have an understanding. When it's time for me to stop, she'll let me know." He then told us about the local history, the local people, and local legends. I could have talked to him for hours, but there was another boatload of people waiting, so Charlie had to go. But the two lessons he taught me: (1) age is just a number, and (2)your experiences keep you young, so never stop trying new things.

We met up with an old Cherokee tribe member while visiting the Cherokee museum. He was also in his '70s, had lived in Cherokee all his life. He talked to us briefly about the town's renaissance from neglected reservation to bustling tourist town (thanks to the new Harrod's Casino, which is owned by the tribe). The pride he felt at seeing his people finally self sufficient was obvious. They now had quality medical care, new schools, improved infrastructure, and money to put towards ongoing projects. It tickled him that tourists drove hundreds of miles to learn about his culture, tour the museum, and enjoy the local art shows, when he could quite clearly remember when Cherokee children were put in boarding school to make them more "white", so they might fit in with the world around them. He now saw the world trying to fit in with the tribe, and he was enjoying every minute of it. As he now stated, with a big teasing smile, "We don't scalp the white man anymore. We just send him to the casino, and he'll scalp himself."

That's probably the best thing about traveling. You get to meet all sorts of people you might otherwise have never met. Well, that, and the Indian bread. That's pretty good too.