Anyway, while I was doing this, Sue was at home, sitting on the deck, swatting at black flies and feeling Buster’s love, as he was sharing some quality time with Sue.
Suddenly, a moose appeared out of somewhere and Buster was off like a shot and then, so was the moose.
We’ve been told that our acreage—who really owns acreage?—-is a moose highway. This route meanders between the mountain range to the south of us and the mountain range to the west of us. Lucky us. I mean it. Really.
You may not know this, but a moose can outrun a dog the likes of Buster Boy. But, well, let me tell you another story.
(Note the two ‘its’ and the two ‘hads’ following each other in the previous sentence. This is what makes a writer’s life so gol-darned exhilarating. Sometimes I can hardly contain myself.)
Anyway, there was this big blustery fella who liked to have everything big. Big cars, big noises, big these and big thats. We used to park our vehicles near each other on a gravel parking lot.
One day, when I met him in the parking lot, he challenged me and my wee little handicapped, under-powered car to a drag. His vehicle was a 1961 V-8 Buick powerhouse. The drag would start at the back of the parking lot and end at the street entrance. It was a pretty casual affair.
So we started our engines, gentlemen, and lined up. He revved his engine. I burped my engine. A surrogate flag of some sort was dropped and we were off. Or at least I was, because this fella’s powerhouse car just sat in one spot and spun and spun and spun. My little beetle hiccuped forward and was at the street before the monster even got mobile.
I think this race happened because I’d mentioned that on a short race track, a race horse could probably beat this fella’s car. This guy was very competitive and he wanted to show me that I was wrong. As if I’m not competitive!
Anyway, I guess he thought he could prove I was wrong by having this race. His car being the car and my car being the race horse that looked like a ladybug.
The law that says: A two-hundred-foot rope tied to the neck of a hell-bent canine will stop this fuzzy streaker’s inertia faster than the sudden acceleration when the overly excited canine began.
However, it took Sue’s heart longer to decelerate than Buster’s and likely that of the ghost of the forest as well. Which, I think, is one of the phrases they use to describe a moose, along with sayings like, “Your mother wears army boots”.
Here’s the next Maritime Mac adventure. Mostly true.
Maritime Mac likes to cycle, just like me. And, like me, he sometimes finds it repetitious and boring if he rides the same route over and over again. So, of course, he does other routes, like me. Seems sensible.
You see, his get-in-shape route is a 13.6 K ride to the Middle River Hall and back again. This is the route he cycles the most often and from time to time it can be a tiny bit tedious. Not a lot tedious though, because there is always something to see, smell, hear or feel.
Now, it should be noted that the opposition, which is a medium-sized, yappy, canine mixture of dog and woof, is a fella who, once he gets his barking motor going, has difficulty shutting it off. He’ll start barking when he sees Maritime and, even after Maritime has biked the last K and a half to his house, has stripped down, taken a shower, dried off and is back outside to feed and water his bike, (which he calls ‘Hornet’), he can sometimes still hear the dog bow-wowing into the highland sky.
This dog is tied up along the side of his owners’ house. He’s hitched to his own little dog house. Maritime doesn’t know his name so he calls him Spot. See Spot bark. Woof, woof.
Anyway, here’s the goal of the game. If Maritime, on the way back, (The 'Way Back' Rule), can bike past the dog and make it to the stop sign, which is about a hundred yards down the road, without Spot barking at Maritime, then Maritime gives himself a point by sticking one of his right hand’s fingers out and saying, “One point for me.”
If Spot barks before Maritime makes it to the stop sign then Spot gets a point. Maritime will stick one of his left hand’s fingers out and say, “One point for Spot.”
Saying these phrases out loud helps Maritime avoid the Senior’s Brain Fart Syndrome.
Another rule I should mention, is Maritime is not to look at Spot when he passes Spot’s house. This is the ‘Innocence is Bliss’ rule. It must be noted, at this point, that the game can never be considered totally fair because Spot has no idea that he is in this competition.
By the way, the game only goes to five. I’m sure you can guess why. Therefore, the winner is the first competitor to get to five fingers. It’s called the ‘Five Fingers’ Rule.
D.H. Thoreau, “Thoreau On Man & Nature ”
“Oh nuts,” Maritime whispered. “Five to three for the dog. Looks like I’ve lost.” And he’d left the trophy at home.
Suddenly, “OMG!!” Maritime whispered, in the way only somebody on social media, such as a blogger, can curse and show genuine concern and fear. “OMG!!”
Spot wasn’t tied up, but wasn't he always tied up? It was part of the game. It was an unwritten rule. Spot had broken the rule and was barreling for old Maritime.
Maritime stopped his bike while Spot circled around the bike like a hunting wolf.
Maritime pulled out his water bottle. Tried to look cool. Took a swig of the warm water. Began to talk to the dog like he was Spot’s friend. Talked about the weather and about climate warming, those kinds of things. Tried to impress him with the human power of proper, grammatically correct speech.
It should be noted that Maritime sometimes, from time to time, has the tendency to put his foot into his mouth.
Anyway, “Woof, woof, woof and grrrrrrrr,” Spot replied, using only verbs. Bad dog.
Then he began to lunge forward and lunge backward. Parry and thrust. Snap, snap and so close to Maritime’s bare leg that Maritime could feel Spot’s hot breath on his leg.
Spot’s growl got to sounding more vicious.
“Holy crap,” Maritime whispered. He had to get the hell out of there. This dog, this competitor in this made-up game, was becoming frenzied in his attention to detail. In a game where he’d suddenly changed the rules.
So, Maritime sprayed water square into Spot’s mug. However, his ammunition was low, because he had drunk most of it. The water strategy seemed to work, however, because Spot backed off. Watched Maritime intently while his lips curled and folded above his shiny white teeth. It looked like Spot didn’t like water in his snozzle. So, Maritime took a trial pedal forward.
Spot watched him. Still on hair-trigger alert.
Maritime might have been let off the hook, at this point, if he hadn’t had his macho streak. The element that makes him want to win. So much. Made him want to get in the last word, as mentioned previously.
Because, as he began some serious pedaling, with Spot only watching him and growling, but not making a move to charge, Maritime fell back into his old pattern.
So, as he was cycling his escape and as he was feeling the power and seeing the distance pile up between him and the slightly catatonic dog, he twisted his head around, looked at Spot’s confused, dripping face, and shouted, with the wind clearly carrying Maritime’s aggressive and competitive words to the dog, “BITE ME!”
Final score: Dog five. Maritime Ten stitches. Game over. For good.