My afternoon with Ozzy

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It was late Wednesday afternoon. I was preparing to see if I could get the lawnmower started again. A Tuesday attempt proved futile, so I stopped by Sears and got a "tune up" kit...which included a spark plug,air filter, bottle of motor oil and gas stabilizer. I'm not the most mechanical guy but I can successfully operate a screwdriver and adjustable wrench at times and these were the tools required to install the new parts. What'll I'll do with the oil and stablizer, I have no clue...but it was part of the package deal.

Then, the cell phone rang.

The next door neighbor. Frantic. Seems the family dog, Ozzy, had gotten loose from the plastic wire rope that keeps her tied up in the back yard. A call from another neighbor to report the break-out to the neighbor who called me. No one home, the dog meandering aimlessly around the back yard.

Put me in coach.

Sauntering through the neighbor's back yard, I saw the fugitive in the back corner of the yard. Staring at me. No wagging tail. No happy bark of recognition. A menacing growl, though.

Ozzy and I do not get along. It stems back from her barking and charging me one afternoon while I was cutting the grass. An attempted bite. A retaliatory kick in the side from me. Paul 1 - Ozzy 0. A frank discussion with the neighbor and a resulting shortening of the rope so that Ozzy could not reach me when I cut that particular section of the yard. Detente. Battle won but cold war still in existence

Ozzy loves Sonja, but Sonja was at work. As I stood my ground on this hostile turf  (picture Cardinal fans tailgating in Morgantown) I realized I needed a strategy to capture and secure the hostile. Making a slow retreat from the battleground, I returned to the house and searched the refrigerator. Sandwich meat. Yeah, that's the ticket. The old bait and switch.

I returned to the battlefield. Ozzy still in the corner, eyeing me like a safety eyes a wide receiver infringing the secondary. Gentle words, a toss of a slice of processed meat and the slow, wary approach of the escapee toward the offering. A step closer. Another toss of Fischer's best. Another consumption. One more step toward the hostile and another toss. I was now within a few feet of the loose plastic wire rope. No more growling. Another step and another offering. Reaching down slowly, unassumingly to grab the rope and...

Off Ozzy goes, sprinting through the backyard.

She runs around me in circles, barking and pawing. A chance grab of the rope fails. The heck with it. I'm out of sandwich meat. I walk away. Ozzy follows, at a safe distance. I turn, she stops. I walk, she follows. I decide to sit....she does, too. I stand, she stands. This game of chess is full blown now and I try to devise a strategy. I wonder just how far she'll follow me. I walk away again, but this time she stays. I offer a "Good, Girl !" and step towards her. No movement. Another step and she sits. "Stay, girl." She cocks a inquisitive head at me.  I walk to her left, behind her and approach the rope. She watches, almost disinterestedly. I bend down, extend the hand and ! Voila! I grab it. She turns her head and rolls over.

The winning of hearts and minds through feeding.

I tied a nifty sailor's knot to connect the rope again. I leave...battle won and game over. She barks at me once and returns to the shady tree line by the fence. I didn't strut it out, but if there had been someone there with me, I would have offered a fist bump or high five.

This does not mean that Ozzy and I are comrades now. This does not mean that I'll be wasting more processed meat on the canine. I was called into action, engaged the enemy and triumphed.

It's what neighbors do. I call the concerned neighbor with the news. I am thanked.

Buoyed by my victory, I attend to the lawnmower. After several minutes of labor...new parts installed and a yank of the starter rope. Growling, sputtering and then silence. I remember an old trick my dad taught me about spraying the end of the spark plug with starter fluid and reinserting. I have no starter fluid but I dip it in gasoline and reinstall. Same result. A belch, brief roar and then death.

1-1 on the afternoon.

I call "Big Jim"...my yearly lawn mower tune up guy. He's closed for the day but still in the shop. Tells me to bring it in Wednesday. He advises that there is some bad gas out there and he's worked on a few mowers that have had similar problems lately. He assures me he'll have it ready to go in less than a week. A week? You would have thought I called for a prostate check or colonoscopy.

Each day is an adventure, every moment provides the opportunity for surprise, intrigue and mystery.  What lies ahead, we cannot be certain of... but I will offer this sage advice:

Keep a pack of sandwich meat in your refrigerator. Just in case.
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