Army Dorky

I am sitting here in my kitchen, awaiting the arrival of the in-laws.

I just finished the laborious process of assembling my Class A uniform.

Since I have to wear the nice uniform, that means I cannot scam out of wearing the black Army beret.

It's a new beret, so I had to shave the thing. I spent 15 minutes hunched over the bathroom sink, shaving a piece of military headgear.

Now I'm wearing it. Because they need shaping, you know.

Did I mention that the beret is wet? Because they take a shape better that way.

[sigh]

Pig mania!!!

Okay, not really, I justed wanted to use that as a post title.

The Super Swine Supper Source (henceforth referred to "the feeder") is in place. In fact, it should have spewed forth sweet, crunchy, delicious corn just shy of three hours ago.



First, we filled it. 350 pounds of dry corn fills a 55-gallon drum, for those who might be interested.

Then we tested it.



We were not expecting such immediate success, but the North American subspecies of Blackus Labdumbass is not known for its intellect, and in fact appeared at the feeder while we were standing right there.

Now...we wait. I think next weekend shows promise for camping and hog stalking. This weekend, on the other hand, includes drill and in-laws, so chances are posting will be scare.

Under Siege

I work next to a bunch of phone sales agents. They're paid on commission, and there's some low flat hourly rate to supplement that when they're not making sales, as I understand it.

Of course, this is the month preceding Christmas, so business has picked up a little.

I'm not sure what sort of paid time off setup they have, but I think someone needs to look into the compensation for "sick days" for them. Because they're dragging in with every kind of coughing, hacking, snurfling and moaning ailment known to humanity.

Apparently, nobody wants to be out sick and miss the opportunity to make big sales. Ugh.

I, however, would love to miss the opportunity to catch all of their nasty viruses.

Alas...fortified with extra vitamin C, dressed warmly and well-hydrated, I'm going to work. I have to stop at Tractor Supply, and perhaps I'll see if they have some sort of agricultural protective clothing that I can wear. Maybe a calving/lambing suit and a respirator, and some sort of dairy barn disinfectant I can spray the entire office with?

Mr. Perry

The mention of using a spotlight as a hunting accessory in the last post reminded me of a story...

My sophmore year at Small Town High, I took World History with Mr. Perry. Mr. Perry was a big guy, about 1,000 years old, and a character. He had been teaching history since Christ was a corporal.

First day of class he went through the class list, taking attendance.

"Abby [Oldname]?" he barked. "[Oldname]? You Bob's daughter or Chuck's?"

My Dad and my uncle. It was a small town. My Dad and my uncle had been lively (that is, pain-in-the-ass) students and athletes back in the day.

"Bob's my Dad."

Mr. Perry peered at me. "Yeah, I remember Bob."

Mr. Perry had been a coach years ago, and retained the figured. Stoop shouldered and wrinkled, he was a big - not fat, just big - old man. In the summer, he supplemented his income by working as a part-time DNR ranger.

The man had a gift for gab. He taught the Norman Invasion of England in 1066 in two days of lecture. Just stomped back and forth across the front of the room, occasionally gesturing at a map of the British Isles, and telling a story.

It was a good story. You have to be a good storyteller to keep 25 high school sophmores hanging on every word for two days, and he did.

The Norman Invasion, though, was possibly the only subject that I don't remember him working poaching into. Like a lot of small-town woodsmen, he seemed to delight in those who operated just outside the game laws, even if he spent a portion of each year enforcing them.

"So these cave paintings, they'd have deer in them, right? Because deer were a food source for a hunter-gatherer population. Of course, they hunted with spears..."

A gleam would come into his eyes, and we'd know what was coming.

"And now spears, they aren't an easy way to hunt deer. We all know the easy way to put deer on the table..."

And by the end of the year, we could pretty much chant the next part right along with him.

"You get you a million-candlepower spotlight and a good .22 magnum, and you get in the back of a pickup and find somebody to drive you. And you drive these backroads real slow a couple hours after dusk and you shine that light out into the field until you pick up two eyes...."

Mr. Perry also did a mean moose impression, but I cannot for the life of me remember how that came up.

Mr. Perry was a widower, and it was a shame to think of all that personality wasting away alone at the end of the day. However... At the other side of the school, in the library, worked Mrs. Murphy.

She was the benevolent second-in-command at the high school library (which doubled as the town library), a tiny woman who radiated kindness and gentleness. That was fortunate, because the library was run by an ony-slightly-benevolent dictator who none of us were bright enough to appreciate at the time.

A few years after I left high school, Mr. Perry and Mrs. Murphy were married. I smiled when I heard the news - it was nice to think of her being kind to him, and of him making her smile with his jokes and stories.

It was still nice a couple years further down the line, when word reached me that Mr. Perry had died. He left behind, in addition to one very kind woman, thousands of former students who remember not only the Norman Invasion of England, but the best way to spotlight deer.

Oh goodness

So the gentleman who owns the property where we were hunting was talking to to Mr. Abby. He decided that he liked deer, and was rather bummed about having primarily pigs.

He would not be at all opposed, he said, if the Mister and I employed less-than-sporting measures to try to reduce his pig population.

Well...

(we fully recognize that on a rarely-occupied property, effectively reducing an established population of wild hogs is pretty unlikely. They breed like rats.)

We are game to try. So the Mister hatched himself an idea, which is never a good sign. We spent our evening in the garage, and ended up with this -



That would be a Phase I do-it-yerself hog baitin' feeder. If you look real close at the 55-gallon drum, you can tell it originally held grease for a restaurant. How much fun do you think cleaning that was?

Next steps include the mounting of the actual feeding/timing device, possible extension of the legs, and a paint job.

Then, of course, comes the math part, wherein one figures that if said drum can hold 300lbs of dry corn, how often can one run the feeder and for how long before the tank is empty? Ick. Math for grownups.

However, the any means necessary mandate implies, at least to me, that we're cleared hot for million candlepower spotlights. Which really appeals to my inner redneck.

All this is socially acceptable, of course, because feral hogs are an environmental disaster. Like starlings and Asian carp.

Doggery

Well, the Guest Dogs just took off, and Jack is wandering around whining, pining for his girlfriend.



It was cute, but at the same time...two young labs is a bit much.

Casey is thrilled she doesn't have to wait two more turns for people food treats. She's used to the normal distribution pattern - senior dog, puptard, ratdog, senior dog... and so on.



In other news...remember Little Broke Dog? We've been calling in and checking on his status. He went up for adoption on Wednesday, and when I called the shelter yesterday, they told me he'd been adopted that morning.

It always makes us happy when homeless dogs get adopted, so bravo for whoever out there has a nice new dog.

Poor Mr. Abby

I cleaned the bathroom the other day. They sell that shower spray, but you know, just spraying that around after each shower does not mean you never have to clean beyond that. Who'd'a thunk it?

Anyway, inspired by my shower scrubbing, vanity beautifying frenzy the other day, Mister Abby decided to take his day off (yesterday) and do the floors. We have tile throughout, so it's not that hard, but, like the shower, it actually must be done periodically.

So he swept, and he ran the vacuum, and then he mopped. Mopped a couple of times. It looked nice. Smelled kinda funny, but that was really the result of an unfortunate choice in cleaning products during a recent shopping trip (Pine Sol lemon smells like wet cat pee, it seems).

So we had a nice, clean expanse of floor.

Then we woke up to rain and a wild pack of dogs who were playing in the yard, then racing back in through the dog door. Leaving smeared muddy prints everywhere.

I secured the dog door, but I think the damage has been done. Poor Mr. Abby.

I shall now take him to the exchange and buy him some boot socks or something to take his mind off the floor.

Black Friday?

Not so much, at my little salt mine. Rumor has it Big Retail did well, though, but I don't pay much attention.

The guy who sits next to me at work took calls throughout the day from his mother, who had started shopping at midnight. It turned into a passtime for all of us - where is coworker's Mom?

She started out here in the DFW area, was in Waco by the afternoon, and I think she may be in Mexico City by now. Rio by morning.

I love Christmas, but I cannot stand this shopping madness.

Something different

I'm off to work. I haven't worked even remotely near retail since high school, and so I'm interested to see how the legendary heights of consumerism will impact our small, phone-and-mail/e-commerce business.

We shall see.

Turkey Day Part V (after the nap)

[yawn]

Hey, that goose was pretty good. I'm happy with that.

You know how they say there's no white meat on a goose? By God, they're right. Since white meat is normally a dry and foul thing, I think that's pretty cool.

Anybody else in Northeast Texas get snowed on today? Also a pretty cool occurance. Nothing stuck, of course, but it was still neat.

Turkey Day part IV

Well, we know how that all turned out with the Lions.

Mom commented in on the first post today, but she's out serving chow to the hungry with World's Coolest Grandma today.

When I was a kid, Thanksgiving was, honestly, another day of Deer Season. As a family, we'd maybe go to a movie, or get Chinese food. The big family turkey thing was for either the Sunday before or after. Shiftwork is what it is, and we worked around it.

Then Thanksgiving got crazy.

I went downrange, and we went out on Thanksgiving, and things went bad.



Then there was last year, when I went home to be there while Mom could fight Breast Cancer. (She won, too. She beat the living shit out of Breast Cancer - I am beyond proud).

The Mister hurt himself, and Mom had surgery, and I ate turkey and was thankful that I was there to do so.

This year...no drama. No so much on the craziness.

Looking toward next year, it's hard to tell.

I am not a religious person. But...

Thank you for this year. Thank you for the improvement over last year. Thank you for watching over me two years ago. I am thankful for those who are not where they wish they were this Thanksgiving. I am thankful for all of those folks for whom is is just another day of service.

Turkey Day Part III - Denial

The Detroit-Green Bay is on, but...umm...watching it is proving painful. So we're going to pretend that's not happening.

I went out for a smoke. The Dog Guests, who have been a having a bit of confusion about the dog door, decided to come out with me. A good thing, right? Well, apparently that door is trickier than I thought.



Jack pointed out to the Mister that our guests seemed confused. He passed the camera out to me.

Fortunately, outside waited the helpful input of Casey. She's old, she's cranky, she cannot understand how the dog door could be confusing.



We finally resolved the issue with a combination of shoving and dragging. Now everybody is sacked out on the floor, with at least one eye on the progress of the goose.

Turkey Day Part II

So. The goose is in progress. We googled "goose," and apparently the tricky thing is de-greasing the goose sufficiently. I put it on a rack, poked a few holes hither and yon to expedite draining, and cooked it uncovered 22.5 minutes on a side at 375.

This yielded grease. Lots of grease.



This is an 11-pound goose, folks, and that's two cups of fat.

Now it's wrapped up with herbs and onions and goodness, so we'll see in a few hours.

The dogs are waiting like vultures, hoping the goose goes very badly indeed. The herding dogs and Sparky are waiting patiently, but the shiny black labs...well...not so much on the patience.

Turkey Day

We've got a goose ('cause sometimes you just have to try something different), five dogs (in case the goose goes badly), and the Domino's Pizza phone number (in case the goose goes really badly).

Life is good, and for that we're thankful.

Oh. My. Goodness.

We're watching a friend's dogs while she's out of town for the Thanksgiving Turkey Ritual.

I have five dogs running around. Mine, a female black lab a few months younger than Jack, and an Australian shepherd a little more than a year old.

I'd post pictures, but I'm writing this while huddled in a closet, whimpering.

The most bummed puppy on earth

is the one who does NOT get to go running with me. I have to run for time next month, so I figured I should plot a course and get an idea of where I was. This pretty much ruled out taking Puptard.

So this morning I got dressed and put on my running shoes, and he started doing backflips, and then I slammed the door in his face.

I think we can safely assume he's going to eat all my stuff while I'm gone. Retaliation is a mother around here.

Off to ensure the gunsafe is locked and all shoes are in our room.

Totally

gratuituous lab pic!



That is all, you may all continue on with your daily routines.

Range trip!

Finally got the Garand out to the local range. The place was packed, but it was a nice day for it.

I was shooting at Alpine and, like most ranges right around here, they're anti-FMJ ammo, so I had to pick up another box of 150 grain softpoint.

The older gentleman behind the counter was helpful, after we got on the samge page.

"Need targets?" he asked.

"Yes, please. And if you have a large target, that would be nice. I have a new gun."

"You boresight it yet?" This, folks, is the part where doubt crept in.

Boresighting is a process wherein you line up the crosshairs on a newly mounted scope with the barrel (or "bore") of your rifle. You can do it Old Skool and simply remove the bolt from a bolt-action rifle and line up the crosshairs with what you see peering down the barrel, or you can get all high-tech and use a laser device stuck in either your chamber or in the barrel of your rifle. You can save a lot of time, energy and ammo that way.

I've never heard of anyone boresighting with iron sights, but you know, logically, it could be done.

This whole thought process resulted in me standing in front of the gentleman at the counter like an idiot for several seconds before saying, "no."

He pointed out that they could do that for me for $5, but I declined and pointed out that I was not using a scope.

"I've got a new Garand," I explained. "Well, an old Garand, but new to me."

Only at this point did the gentleman behind the counter decide I was not a maniac, and that, in fact, I should hear all about his Garand-related experiences. He was a nice guy, so that was fine, but I did finally have to break away while there was still daylight outside.

Ladies and gentlemen, to paraphrase Larry the Cable Guy, this looks like a good time no matter who you are.



And it is a good time, oh yes. The poor gentleman several benches down from me with his deer rifle was a good sport until after shot number eight, when the ping and clatter of the clip hitting the concrete made him look over with great concern.

"Is everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," I giggled. "That's a good sign."



I started out low, and slowly adjusted. After getting pretty close, it became clear to me that I don't think I've got the rear sight tensioned correctly. This will either require much reading, or a pathetic call to Charley.

But in good news, it shoots realiably and straight, and works wonderfully as a conversation starter. And since it works, I'm now all about getting a good sling (leaning on Santa about that issue - tan and numbered, if you're reading, Santa), figuring out the rear sight, and then finding somewhere where I can back off the target a little more.

I hate working Saturdays

but it allows me to peruse the news.

Which occasionally makes you feel good about your life choices. For instance, it was not at my house where Oregon Police Find 8 Dogs in Freezer, 24 Running Loose While Serving Child Porn Warrant

Lt. Jim Anglemier says investigators today found two dozen poodles running loose or in cages, some near death. Eight puppies were found dead in a freezer.

That, for instance, makes me feel okay about having three dogs running loose, and only some sausage, frozen veggies and lemonade concentrate in my freezer.

Anglemier says trash was strewn throughout the place and dog feces were caked on the floor, beds and clothes. The odor was so strong, that some detectives needed to wear breathing respirators.

And although there may be "dog feces" in my backyard, and possibly even "caked on" a pair of sandals, it is not caked on the floor, bed or clothes.

Sometimes you just need a pick-me-up, and the horribleness of others can provide it.

Supply meets demand

...and it's a bummer.

I love Blackhawk. I've used their thigh rigs (I roll, when forced, with an Omega), and I like them. I scored one of their range bags on clearance, and it rocks.

(If you don't cruise the Blackhawk clearance section, you lose. Great gear, great prices.)

Anyway, I was checking them out a few days ago, and clicked over to "new products" or "pending products."

And found this.

“At Blackhawk we get up every morning dedicated to using our resources to help save lives,” explained Noell. “When medics and doctors that deal with combat and tactical medical needs see the system, they at once understand the immediate life saving potential. Four tourniquets in the pants and four tourniquets in the shirt (two in the short sleeve version), correctly positioned and oriented to the upper and lower extremities, are immediately accessible under existing gear and can be operated by the wearer, their buddy, or a medic.

Heh. That's only laughable if you've never given serious thought to rolling out the gate with a tourniquet on each limb, and not done it only because your unit didn't have enough to pull it off.

Dear Santa, this year, all I want for Christmas is for all the warriors to keep all their limbs.