Got Crabs?

One might ask how it's possible to feel crabby at the beach? I think that the following film footage shot on the sunny beaches of Corolla, NC explains it all.

Having been born in Maryland, I don't know whether it's because Roger was a former resident of Maryland and exposed to crabbin' at an early age or whether he's just a natural born killer, but Roger is by far the best crabber on the beach.

FYI — No crabs or Frenchies were injured in the taping of this clip.

Remembering those lost

While many associate Memorial Day with picnics, barbecues, family gatherings and sporting events, let us not forget the true intent of the holiday. Formerly known as Decoration Day, Memorial Day is observed on the last Monday of May to commemorate U.S. men and women who died while in the military service. First enacted to honor Union soldiers of the American Civil War, it was expanded after World War I to include American casualties of any war or military action.

Quite frankly, since I find wishing someone a Happy Memorial Day a bit of an oxymoron, I would just like to take a moment to thank all the courageous men and women who have put their lives on the line for our freedom. Unlike Roger, I am not embarrassed to show my true colors.

Play Taps

Tarred and Feathered

Birdbrain — Roger "The Rocket" Knowlton

I apologize for failing to keep my faithful fans apprised of my activities of late. Roger and I have been busy little beavers — planting flowers, shopping for new furniture, and enjoying the flora and fauna of spring.

With spring having sprung, the birds are out and about. One of Roger's most entertaining activities is chasing birds. Make no bones about it, he's definitely got bird on the brain especially after the event that occurred a couple weeks ago.

I remember the moment vividly. Mom was taking us out for a late evening pee call. When our paws hit the bottom of the deck, the noise rousted a roosting robin from underneath a protective pine. As the robin took flight, Roger "The Rocket" launched off the deck with the fowl-feathered friend locked into his laser guided sites and continued to track it for at least 75 feet.

Knowing that he wouldn't be able to maintain the warp-like speed forever, Rog decided to seize the moment when he had it. Flying at an altitude of approximately two and a half feet, the bird's navigation system was clearly off course. Flapping his ears like a "bat out of hell," Rog instantly became air borne and picked off that robin as easily as if he were shooting fish in a barrel.

He didn't really have much time to enjoy the kill because Mom was right on his tail yelling at the top of her lungs "Drop it, Roger!"

I don't know if the little Frenchman has a complex about the origin for which he was bred — to be a flea catching, lap dog — if he really does have some hunting in his lineage, or if he's just a natural born killer, but he was on that bird like stink on a monkey.

In any event, after receiving a very stern reprimand from Grammy Lee about not killing robins because they are beautiful, harmless song birds, I decided that I was never going to take up hunting. That is not to say, however, that I don't have a passion for feathers.

. . . Stay tuned for Part II of Tarred and Feathered.