Sisterhood of the Traveling Poo

Young Bull moose in "Moose-nook-you-must-look"

It all began with moose droppings. 

My maternal grandmother started something, and that something was called “Maine Moose Movements”.

Yes, Mammy made collectibles out of moose poop.  Trust me when I say that folks ‘from away’ will buy anything if it is ‘authentic Maine’.  You just can’t get any more authentic than hand-picked, freshly scavenged moose droppings.

Sometimes Mammy’s collectible poops were oven-dried, shellacked and strung as beads on a necklace.  Sometimes feathers and wiggly eyes and pointy beaks were added…and then the poops were mounted on small branches or rocks, where they resembled birds. (Okay…they didn’t resemble birds at all.  They looked like oblong brown turds with feathers stuck on them! But what else in this world (besides a bird) has feathers?  Nothing!  So, using their imaginations, most folks got the gist of it…it was as simple as that.)

Mammy’s Maine Moose Movements sold like hotcakes--which should not be confused with cow pies.  (That’s a completely different market.)

However, Mammy couldn’t make or sell Maine Moose Movements without the raw material.  Mammy needed an inventory.  A warehousing system.

I was—and my children were—her top suppliers.  We never went for a walk in the woods without casting about for the cherished offal.  I got into the habit of stuffing a couple of plastic bags into my pockets when we left the house…just in case.   

Yep, when a moose did his business—it was good for Mammy’s.

When friendship blossomed between me and some wonderful folks from Australia, they were quite naturally interested in stories of North America’s largest mammal.  Just as I was morbidly fascinated with tales of their bazillion poisonous spiders and deadly snakes, and their man-eating crocs and their killer jellyfish and that wild, aggressive bird that pecks people’s eyes out….so they were enthralled with the perils inherent in living side by side with seven-foot-tall, thousand pound moose. 

Bull moose in Lexington.  Photo by friend Buck Simpson

Yes, that’s right.  Moose in the plural is still moose; not meese and not mooses.  

Goose, geese.  Moose, moose. 

Cow, cows.  Moose, moose. 

The American version of the English language is adorable, that way.

In an attempt to familiarize my Aussies with moose, I sent them photos.  Photos of moose in their natural habitat, and photos of moose poops in their natural state.  And then…photos of poops wearing hats and tiny feather boas.  Poops in piles…and poops dangling from earlobes. 

Rescued moose at Gray Animal Farm-Maine

Family heritage is a wonderful thing.

So when my friend Dozy in New South Wales went on safari in Africa, she asked me what I would like for a souvenir.  Naturally, I said “Elephant poop”.  It was a joke.  I knew if I couldn’t send an alpaca wool ornament from the U.S. to Oz, she wouldn’t be able to send elephant dung from Zambezi to Maine.

The good news is: I was wrong.  Dozy found the perfect souvenir—a greeting card made out of dried, compressed elepoo!  It was wonderful, hilarious… the ideal gift to receive from Africa. 

A year later, Dozy went to see the King Tut exhibit when it came to Melbourne.  Always thoughtful and generous, she asked me what I wanted for a keep-sake, this time.

“Mummy poo, of course!” I snickered, knowing that was an impossible request but also knowing Dozy would get a kick out of my answer.  Little did I comprehend the tenacity of this woman, though!  Ten days later, a bag of scarab beetles (a.k.a. DUNG beetles) arrived in the mail from my friend!  They weren’t actual scarabs, but they were replicas made in Egypt….replicas of bugs that ate…mummy poo.  I laughed and cried at the same time.  What a great gift!  I was so overwhelmed that I tried to eat one. 

But that’s the story for another day.

Before I knew it, sweet Dozy was planning a trip to New Zealand for a long-overdue visit to her best friend’s home.  Fleetingly, I wondered…would my dear friend spend part of her well-earned vacation shopping for a gift that was in keeping with our theme?

Sure enough, she did it.  Dozy rummaged the shops until she found…

Kiwi kucka. 

Kiwi.  The flightless bird of New Zealand whose poos are (according to the package) very strong-smelling; making them easy to find on the forest floor—which makes it easier to avoid stepping in them. 

Just in case you want to make necklaces out of them, you see.

Only Dozy could find such a stellar gift.  It was not only hilarious; it was nutritional and educational!  After all, until I received her package, I thought kiwis were round, green and edible.  But apparently, only their poo is marketed as a delicious confection. 

There’s no way I can ever find gifts for Dozy to equal those which she’s given me.  The woman has provided smiles to last a lifetime.  But I have to try, right?  I mean…this can’t be a one-sided relationship!  So, in keeping with our theme, I thought perhaps she might get a charge out of this unique ‘confection’ dispenser.  As you push up on the legs… the tail moves out of the way, and…

Aw, I don’t want to spoil the surprise, so I’ll let Dozy do the ultimate analysis. 

 

Brillo's New Pad

For the last week, the Pease family has been host to my sister’s Labradoodle, Brillo. A Labradoodle is a cross between a Labrador Retriever and a Standard Poodle. Labra-doodles are congenial and active dogs. They have the wonderful temperament and loyalty of the Lab, and the high-spiritedness and intelligence of the Poodle. At least, that’s what my ‘dog book’ says…

Brillo is all legs. Black-- with just a wee spot of white on his chest--his hair is curly and of the non-shedding type. Instead of falling out to create tumble-weeds which roll across my floors every time the front door is opened, Brillo’s hair grows, instead. At one family function, I’ll see a dog close-shaved--and the next…he’ll look like a raggedy black mop with brown eyes and a wagging tail. Last summer, Chris went so far as to give the (poor) dog a Mohawk. Hair cropped short… except for a narrow, two inch high ridge of hair down the middle of his head.

There’s no dignity in being a dog in the Bessey family.

Here at The F.A.R.M. we haven’t had a dog living with us for almost a year and a half--and Josie-Earl, especially, has missed that. There’s been no canine running to the door to greet us when we return home from a day at work or at school. No thumping tail when we speak a kind word; no cold, wet nose nudging our hands when it’s time to go for a walk. So, we were anticipating a visit from our ‘dog-nephew’…

He arrived with a leash, some food and ‘treats’, and a quick word about how good he was about being put outside on a run. We were cautioned against letting him roam outside without being tethered--for the boy has legs like a gazelle and the heart of a long-distance runner. And once he was off—he was gone. I assured my sister that there’d be no problems. That Brillo was safe with us.

Chris left. I got some rope and made a long tether for him by the front porch. I came inside and smiled benignly at the dog.

He peed.

Right in front of me, he peed! I hollered. A knee-jerk reaction. What else could I do? I didn’t have the ability to magically shut him off, mid-stream! But the act of hollering “Brillo!” only made matters worse. For instead of standing there in one place, he took off through the house at a trot, happily sprinkling as he went. A Labrapiddle, then…

I’ve mentioned that we've missed having a dog around the place, right?

I followed his trail and mopped up after him. It was no big deal. Any dog in a new place was bound to have an accident, right?

He made the rounds, investigating the sights and sounds and smells of the house. Brillo has been here many times, and has met our three cats. But this time, he had a new feline to socialize with. Marian, my neighbors’ cat, is also visiting us while her humans are away for a month vacationing in New Zealand. I could almost read Brillo’s mind as he sought out the source of this new kitty smell.

“Ooh! Fresh meat!”

If only she’d just stayed still. Not run. But gray Marian took one look at the mop-headed Brillo and lit out in a flash of fur and the scraping of claws on hard-wood floor. The chase was on! Yee-haw!


Yes, life at ‘The F.A.R. M.’ is the epitome of ‘serene’. The cat ran, the dog chased, the teens followed—worried that the black beast was bent on having a kitty chew-toy. I knew better. I can read a dog’s soul. Brillo was a push-over. A child at play. A softie. And… when Maid Marian turned on him, spitting and with claws extended—Brillo was a coward.

But he was a coward with fully operational body functions. That night, when Mr. Grumbles got up to go downstairs to use the bathroom, that fact was discovered in vivid detail. I heard my husband holler. I heard him swear. And then, I heard him say, “Karen! Come clean up your dog’s $***.”

The man knows better than to demand. His wife doesn’t comply with demands.

“Excuse me!!??” I said. “Would you care to rephrase that?”

“Karen, come clean up your ***-****** dog’s $***!”

An excellent rephrasing. Asterisks are exclamation points in this house. Regardless of the fact that it was three a.m., I wandered downstairs, my curiosity piqued. I flipped on the light.

There he stood, leaned against the table, one bare foot held aloft.

“And while you’re at it, clean this off, too!” He looked. He gagged.

Oh, brother…

I had to chuckle. I mean… it wasn’t ME who’d stepped in a gigantic pile of labrapoople. It wasn’t me who’d wandered around barefooted in the dark, trusting that the floors that I so often traversed would be free of excrement! Out of pity for the man, and to save myself the chore of cleaning up after him, too, I grabbed some paper-towels and wiped between his toes. I grabbed some more, and cleaned up after the dog. I listened to the harangue—a rare occurrence in the wee hours of the morning. I nodded in compliance as I was told that I was a push-over. That I was ‘too nice’. That I never said ‘no’.

I cocked my head.

“Should I have refused to clean the doggie-doo off your foot? Does the fact that I did, also make me a ‘push-over’?”

Throwing me a glance that was half-nervous, half-exasperated, Mr. Grumbles limped off to the shower, walking on the heel of his right foot, toes held aloft.

A wise man knows when to be quiet. And a wise man might not know WHERE to put his foot down, but he knows when NOT to.

And Brillo? He slept through the whole thing… and was perfectly well-behaved for the rest of the week.

Cheap entertainment, that’s what he is.
I’ve missed having a dog at The F.A.R.M.

***************************************

Top photo: Brillo in September 2009
Cat photo: An irritated Curious-- Josie-Earl's cat
Bottom photo: Etta, another Labradoodle who has stayed with us at The F.A.R.M. (She lives with Marian kitty, mentioned above. Sorry, no pics of Marian, yet. She hides when the camera comes out...) Etta had just finished chewing something she wasn't supposed to have... hence the guilty look. :o)