I came up on a Redbone coon dog with his right front paw in a trap this morning. Me and Tim kept hearing a dog thinking he was on a rabbit. Eventually we made our way closer and there he was, pretty scared and trapped up. We eased up close but he was scared and the flight mechanism had kicked in, so I dropped down to my knees and slipped up close to him and Tim opened the trap. He hung out for a minute and headed back to the house with a hitch in his getty up. I ended up with a knee full of dog sh*t, but It was worth to help the feller out.
Adam, post: 403916, member: 8900 wrote: .. I ended up with a knee full of dog sh*t...
God bless you for caring for the lesser fur bearing creatures.
On another note, I spit coffee all over my monitor because I have never heard of a "knee full" until now! Hilarious. I was trying to climb a fence once in a pretty nasty dog pen, slipped backwards and wound up with a "palm full"...but never heard of 'knee full'. luv it
Adam,
You know you did the right thing. Nothing like helping out, somebody that really needed it. 'ole redbone sure did.
He's back, lickin his paw. But, he's thankful.
N
A couple of decades ago; we came up on a dog wired to a tree. There was only about 3 feet of wire between the dog and the tree. Looked like he'd been there awhile, you could see his ribs...
I fed him my sandwich; I don't think he even tasted it, and gave him some water. we were working on a city water job; I think the inspector called the dog pound.
I think there are a few people we should wire to a tree and leave for dead...
I'll be honest, I had to leave Tim and go home and change my britches.
Adam, post: 403923, member: 8900 wrote: I'll be honest, I had to leave Tim and go home and change my britches.
we understand...
Oh, so they were full on the inside, too?!?!?!?!?!?
I was particularly fond of this quote, "with a hitch in his getty up".
Holy Cow, post: 403934, member: 50 wrote: Oh, so they were full on the inside, too?!?!?!?!?!?...
At the tender age of 4 I was attacked in an uncle's chicken house by a 85 pound rabid leghorn rooster, with vampire fangs...the only thing I could do was run.
The chicken house had a long wooden duckboard walkway. Being smack-dab in the middle of a chicken house it was completely covered with chicken crap. As I attempted my escape I slipped...and slid...and slid...In doing so my bibbed rompers scooped up a whole truck load of that chicken crap up both legs and down the front and back. I was nearly suffocated with chicken crap. It was so pathetic the rooster left me alone.
I had to strip down on the back porch so my mother could wash (pronounced warsh) my clothes and hang them on the line. I had to sit nekkid on a chair wrapped in just a towel in the kitchen with all the women-folk until my clothes were dry.
As you can tell I was traumatized. That's been sixty years and I still won't go near a rooster...without a good tennis racket.
:rofl::rofl::rofl:
I had a mentor that was the best darned cook ever and had a recipe for any critter come his way, thing was he had the darndest time with fowl.
If there were a goose in the neighborhood it made a beeline to attack him and run his head up a pant leg or break a neck trying
any rooster was on him like a bug
he had a hard time sitting outside as they would roost above and paint him
when a flock of pelicans were flying closeby it was everyone for themselves in search of cover cause they were gonna bomb his location
He was great for a duck hunt cause they were heading in his direction.
[USER=20]@paden cash[/USER]
I can relate...............in two ways.
First, when I was still too young to start First Grade we had a rooster just like that. He would hide behind the wood pile for the big stove in the living room just waiting for some fresh, young white meat to wander along the path that lead from the back door past the wood pile, then past the first chicken house on it's way to the two-holer. He would flog me all the way to the safety of the outhouse. Then he would strut around daring me to come back out...............because he knew I had to sooner or later. No chicken ever tasted better than he did a day or two following the day he decided to flog my mother as she was following that critical path.
Second, one of my real jobs while in high school was as a professional chicken poop scooper. A neighbor had 10,000 laying hens in cages. About once each month a couple other farm boys and I had the pleasure of using aluminum scoop shovels and wheelbarrows to remove the "material" that accumulated directly below the 300-foot long rows of cages. That $1.10 per hour was great money. One day as sleet began pelting down fairly hard one of the other guys was headed up the long ramp from the chicken house door to a small landing adjacent to the top of the manure spreader where we dumped the "material". The sleet was too much slipperiness added to the normally slippery condition caused by "drippings" of said material falling out of the wheelbarrows. He was one giant turd by the time he disentangled himself from his facedown slide down the ramp. I did not laugh. I made sure I got as far from him as possible. He was not a happy camper. The owner of the chickens gave him some feed sacks to sort of wrap himself in before loading up in his pickup to drive himself home. The big problem was the other guy and I had to finish the work ourselves while dreading every trip up and down that ramp fully expecting to duplicate our buddy's experience.
I've had two different wild ruffed grouse over the years inexplicably decide I ought to be their best buddy:
Licensed Land Surveyor
Finger Lakes Region, Upstate New York
Holy Cow, post: 403934, member: 50 wrote: Oh, so they were full on the inside, too?!?!?!?!?!?
I was particularly fond of this quote, "with a hitch in his getty up".
Just the outside. It had seeped thru a bit.
dms330, post: 403950, member: 2118 wrote: I've had two different wild ruffed grouse over the years inexplicably decide I ought to be their best buddy:
When I run into grouse I prefer to do it in the company of a spaniel and a 20 gauge side by side.
dms330, post: 403950, member: 2118 wrote: I've had two different wild ruffed grouse over the years inexplicably decide I ought to be their best buddy:
I had a grouse do the same thing, except every time the helper turned his back to the bird it would flog him. It was funny until it flogged me, but I am sure I am one of only a few that can claim they killed a grouse with a machete.
Holy Cow, post: 403942, member: 50 wrote: [USER=20]@paden cash[/USER]
I can relate...............in two ways.
First, when I was still too young to start First Grade we had a rooster just like that. He would hide behind the wood pile for the big stove in the living room just waiting for some fresh, young white meat to wander along the path that lead from the back door past the wood pile, then past the first chicken house on it's way to the two-holer. He would flog me all the way to the safety of the outhouse. Then he would strut around daring me to come back out...............because he knew I had to sooner or later. No chicken ever tasted better than he did a day or two following the day he decided to flog my mother as she was following that critical path.
Second, one of my real jobs while in high school was as a professional chicken poop scooper. A neighbor had 10,000 laying hens in cages. About once each month a couple other farm boys and I had the pleasure of using aluminum scoop shovels and wheelbarrows to remove the "material" that accumulated directly below the 300-foot long rows of cages. That $1.10 per hour was great money. One day as sleet began pelting down fairly hard one of the other guys was headed up the long ramp from the chicken house door to a small landing adjacent to the top of the manure spreader where we dumped the "material". The sleet was too much slipperiness added to the normally slippery condition caused by "drippings" of said material falling out of the wheelbarrows. He was one giant turd by the time he disentangled himself from his facedown slide down the ramp. I did not laugh. I made sure I got as far from him as possible. He was not a happy camper. The owner of the chickens gave him some feed sacks to sort of wrap himself in before loading up in his pickup to drive himself home. The big problem was the other guy and I had to finish the work ourselves while dreading every trip up and down that ramp fully expecting to duplicate our buddy's experience.
Sometime in the late 1960's I visited some cousins who lived in rural Missouri for the summer. We were invited by a neighbor to catch and load a chicken house containing 16,000 chickens. Your hourly rate sounds about right and we earned every penny of it. Four chicken legs in each hand and sixteen to the crate. My aunt made us throw our clothes away, she WAS NOT going to put those clothes in her washer.
Andy
Jones, post: 403958, member: 10458 wrote: I had a grouse do the same thing, except every time the helper turned his back to the bird it would flog him. It was funny until it flogged me, but I am sure I am one of only a few that can claim they killed a grouse with a machete.
There is a "duck pond" near the city water reservoir around here. It's a local attraction for folks to get out of their car with a loaf of bread or a few stray French fries and feed the ducks (and a few geese). The fowl are so trained to folks feeding them when we parked the survey rig nearby a flock of fifty or more came running to get their treats. They were a real nuisance. I was getting some lath out of the back and one persistent goose kept nipping me on the back of the leg. I finally got pissed and swung a lath like a sword to shoo it off....but I nailed it smack dab in the side of the head. It was dead when it hit the ground.
I kind of felt bad. There was a City grounds maintenance crew mowing nearby and one of them came over and asked me what I was going to do with the goose. I figured I was in trouble and started apologizing. The guy got of his pickup real quick and threw the goose in the back. He said they were real good eating....
[USER=1123]@Andy Bruner[/USER]
A couple of times I was involved in the removal of the old hens so they could reload with younger ones. The truck driver did that sort of thing every day. Let's just say I was a superstar in being humane to those big chickens as they were being extricated through a small cage door compared to the truck driver. I didn't eat Campbells chicken soup for at least a year after the first experience.
Holy Cow, post: 403963, member: 50 wrote: [USER=1123]@Andy Bruner[/USER]
A couple of times I was involved in the removal of the old hens so they could reload with younger ones. The truck driver did that sort of thing every day. Let's just say I was a superstar in being humane to those big chickens as they were being extricated through a small cage door compared to the truck driver. I didn't eat Campbells chicken soup for at least a year after the first experience.
When I was a poor 20 year old surveyor with a wife and two screaming babies I decided to reap financial gain by raising a mess of chickens and then storing them in the freezer. As a boy my granny was quick with a coat hanger to snag Sunday dinner with a quick neck wringing. I figured I would follow suit. I even got a pamphlet from the Ag Extension about the proper procedure.
...Man what a mess. I still gag when I smell singed feathers. I prefer my 'game' wrapped in cellophane in the meat cooler at the A&P.
I was charged with picking up eggs at my uncles farm morning an night. 200 laying hens and +/-four roosters. I was strictly warned: 1) The rooster(s) would attack 2) Said rooster(s) would likely end up in my egg basket during my pathetic struggle breaking the bountiful harvest 3) Financial ruin would surely ensue at the family farm and much shame would be brought upon our former good name 4) I would 'pay' for such a calamity and it would not be a financial transaction if you know what I mean.
God Bless 'em, for once in my life they did give me a game plan: Step inside the coop and punt each rooster at first sight. By the time I was in junior high I could send them for 20 or 30ft of flying lessons.
Steve
Ah...........the A & P. Many have no idea that stands for Atlantic and Pacific. A former co-worker told the story of his grandmother in Ohio many, many years ago having a public problem with that. She was a very serious, formal, God fearing soul who would not say bad words if she fell in a pile of fresh (bad word). One morning while out shopping with her husband she grew restless as he insisted on dawdling at the hardware store and striking up conversations with everyone he saw. She told him in front of several other men, "Russ, I'm going to walk down to the Atlantic and P."
