Jon De Vos – A small step for schnauzers
August 7, 2009
Forty years later, suddenly everybody wants to go back to the future and land on the moon again. China has announced plans, Russia too, and George Bush wanted to look for minerals there five years ago.
Well, I hate to break it to them but I’m afraid they’re all going to be too late. My dogs are going to beat them to the punch because they’re building a spaceship downstairs at night. I’m not certain, of course, but it’s the only theory I can come up with that explains the noise and carrying on after we’ve gone to bed.
I think my wife thinks so too. The other night she was sound asleep while I was just lying there, listening to their progress. A particularly loud crash woke her up. I just figured that they had dropped one of the stabilizer rockets, shrugged and rolled over, but she sat up and said, “Did you hear that?”
I told her everything was OK, the dogs are downstairs building a spaceship.
“Oh,” she said. Then there was a long pause before she said, “OK” and flopped back asleep on her pillow. So I guess she knows.
We have two dogs, Cuervo, who has trouble with his licker, and Freeta Goodhome, a rescued Basset Hound who has shown a great mechanical aptitude, once eating the handles off an entire set of borrowed Stanley screwdrivers including the phillips head and all the plastic gears on the right-angle attachment. I think Freeta is the lead engineer and I think they’re headed for the moon. Every full moon finds their ample butts plastered on the sofa, staring out the window. Every once in a while they’ll put their jowls together and let loose with some of the loudest wails you’ve ever heard since the tornado siren got stuck.
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Several times I flew downstairs screeching back at them but they didn’t care, or couldn’t hear and it had absolutely no effect on them. This went on for several nights. One night I lost it and got down on all fours next to the couch and started warbling back at them as loud as I could. They stopped and looked at me like I suddenly sprouted buffalo horns. Either that or they were looking over my shoulder at my wife standing at the top of the stairs, staring incredulously at the scene below in her living room. Hands on her hips, shaking her head, she said, “You Are Nuts!”
You’re thinking to yourself, this guy is nuts. He thinks his dogs are going to the moon. Well, Mister Doubting Thomas, I have proof. The other morning I crept down early and there, lying in the middle of the living room floor was a rough hewn piece of aluminum with a peculiar hole pattern. I identified it as either a piece of the nose cowling of Amelia Earhart’s airplane or part of my dog’s spaceship.
My wife thought it might be the remnants of a cake pan she’s been missing for several months but they ran off with it before we could tell either way.
Doggone! I’m sure gonna miss those guys.
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