Farming Michael Vick

Farming Michael Vick

Merci awakens from a sound sleep in the kitchen, looking around for the source of the strange sound. She hears the thunk as Samaritan’s fifty pounds hit the floor in the bedroom. She shakes her head. Samaritan’s been sleeping on Jan’s bed again. They meet in the living room and follow the low rumble to Jan’s typing chair at the computer desk where Buddy sits, glaring at the computer monitor, growling and grinding his teeth.

“Buddy, is something wrong?” Merci asks quietly.

“Huh?” Buddy shakes his head in momentary confusion at the interruption. “No. Yes! I was just reading another story on some guy named Michael Vick.”

“Well, if he makes you growl and grind your teeth, maybe you should stop reading about him,” Samaritan, well aware of Buddy’s love of food, suggests. “If you grind down your teeth while you’re still young, Jan will have to grind up your food when you’re older.”

“I can’t help it. These stories make me so angry. Here’s a guy making boohoos of money –“

Cotton, lounging on top of a printer, snorts and interrupts, “Boohoos? I think you mean beau·coups.”

“I do? I wish you would stop reading the dictionary. You confuse me when you correct my English. Anyway, he makes lots and lots of money playing football, a sport where grown men are called strange things, like ‘The Refrigerator.’ I’d probably like that guy. We could raid the fridge and pig out together. Well, not here. We’d have to go somewhere there’s actually food in the fridge, unless Jan breaks down and buys some good eats, like pork chops and bacon.”

“I thought you were going to tell us about this Michael Vick. Instead, as usual, you start talking about food.”

“I’m getting there, Merci. I just got sidetracked for a moment. Where was I?”

“Sitting on the typing chair,” Samaritan tells Buddy.

“Oh, right. I was reading this news article where some guy named Stephon Marbury defends Vick. He calls dogfighting a sport - like hunting. A sport? Do these dogs have a million dollar a year contract? Retirement benefits? A comfortable bed? That’s what Michael Vick had. But his dogs were treated like cardboard throwaways. It’s bloody torture, not a sport!”

Samaritan opens his mouth to speak, but Buddy continues, his voice rising. “No! Guys without hearts abuse these dogs and teach them to tear into one another and fight to the death for their amusement. And when they lose, they are often “rewarded” with a painful, violent death. How could a mentally healthy human commit such atrocities and call it “sport”? They can’t! They’re psychopaths, all of them, I tell you, psychopaths, and I –“

Merci interrupts him, quietly but firmly. “Buddy, calm down. Your eyes are glazing over. You’re all upset and there is nothing you can do about it.”

Buddy looks down at her from the typing chair and bellows, “Yes, there is something I can do about it! I can farm him! But I can’t do it alone. I need help to capture Vick and operate. Who will volunteer to help me?”

Samaritan looks puzzled. “It’s a long story,” Cotton explains, from atop the printer. “It was before your time. When you get a chance, read “Buddy Is Farmed” in the Funny Farm journal.”

“You guys are my friends. I’ll go with you,” Percy volunteers. He stops at the typing chair, on his way back from the litter pan. “I’ll hold him down while you operate, Buddy! We’ll teach him to be mean to dogs.”

Samaritan, not realizing just what Buddy intends to do, but not wanting to be left out, volunteers too. Merci sighs. “I guess I better go with you in case you get in any trouble and someone has to call Jan to bail you all out of the pound.”

“Great. I appreciate your support, guys.”

“Where do we find him?” Percy asks.

“I don’t know yet. Somewhere. We can probably find him on the internet. You can find anything on the internet.”

Samaritan has a question. “Is he local? He has to be local because we’re walking.”

Buddy waves a paw. “No problem. We’ll just get a map and borrow Jan’s car while she sleeps.”

“No!” Merci is adamant. “You never did get your driver’s license, Buddy, and I’m not riding with one lawbreaker to farm another.”

“That’s just a technicality.”

“Buddy, maybe you better go back and review “The Driving Lesson.” You are a terrible driver even without the engine running.”

Percy resolves the problem. “Never mind. I’ll drive. I learned to type without taking a typing course. How hard can driving a car be?”

“No, Percy –“ 

“Merci, we don’t have time to argue. We have lots to do before we can hit the road”

Merci mumbles, “Yes, I’m sure ‘hit’ is the correct word.”

“Samaritan, find Jan’s dullest pair of scissors, a used razor blade, a needle and thread, and a bottle of alcohol. Percy, you pack some drinks and snacks. It will probably take us at least 20 minutes to get there, take care of everything and return home. Jan will never know we are gone.” 

“Are you sure the four of us can hold this Vick guy down and operate without anesthetic?”

Buddy stops snapping orders for a moment. “Yes, Samaritan, we can. He’s a sick man and we’re doing this for all the bait animals he used to train his dogs, and all the dogs, fighters and non-fighters, he tortured and killed.”

Buddy sits taller and straighter in the typing chair. “And then,” he thunders, “we’re going after Stephon Marbury and all the others who think dogfighting is sport. If farming doesn’t stop them, we’ll –“

“Buddy, what is all the racket about this time?” Jan demands as she enters the room, fresh from a long, cool shower.

Buddy climbs down from the chair. “Nothing,” he mumbles, “just planning some surgery without a license.”

Jan glances at the monitor screen. “That’s funny. I thought I closed the browser before I took a shower. Sometimes I think you guys play with the computer when I’m not around. Next, I guess you’ll be driving the car. I don’t remember reading this article. It’s just another piece to stir up controversy. But sometimes I wish someone would teach Vick and all these psychopaths a lesson they’d never forget!”

Buddy grins. “Don’t worry. We will.” 

Posted by Buddy, Journalist and Farmer

Waspzilla

Waspzilla

The heat is stifling. Buddy ambles into the living room, tongue hanging out. He stops at Jan’s desk and sits beside her typing chair, where Percy is rapidly and accurately typing. “It’s too hot to do anything, Percy. What are you typing? Better yet, why are you typing? You should be napping like the rest of the Funny Farm.”

“Can’t take time to nap yet, Buddy,” Percy says without taking his eyes off the monitor screen. “I have to finish this story so I can post it to our web journal before Jan gets home and deletes it from the computer.”

Buddy perks up at the hint someone else might get in trouble. “Why would Jan delete it? What are you writing?”

“The story of Waspzilla.”

“Whatzilla?”

“No, Waspzilla. You remember the wasp that was loose in the house yesterday. Jan sent some of her friends an email about Waspzilla and one of them wrote back that Jan should post the story to her journal on Mercy And Percy. But Jan said she doesn’t want the whole world to know how brave she isn’t. Only special friends are allowed to know she’s more of a fraidy-cat than Merci is.”

“So,” Buddy asks thoughtfully, “why are you writing the story to post on the Funny Farm?”

“Because Sherry said Jan’s story made her laugh hysterically and the world needs a lot of laughter. I agree.” Percy stops typing abruptly and scratches his nose with one paw, while hitting the zoom key so Buddy can read the words on the screen easier. “There, I’m done. Would you like to read it?”

**** It’s another sweltering day. We’re all lying around the Funny Farm while Jan plays on the computer. Buddy lolls on his favorite improvised seat where he can look out the front windows and watch the traffic and passersby.

Suddenly, Buddy begins to jump about and yell. “Run, everyone, there’s an intruder in the house. Find a safe place to hide while I try to scare him away. Uh-oh, he’s not afraid of me. I’ll have to catch him.”
 

Jan jumps up from the computer chair and rushes to Buddy’s side. (What is she thinking? Buddy is risking his life to save the rest of us and Jan acts like she doesn’t understand a word he is saying.) She leans close to the window and looks up and down the road several times, then scolds Buddy, “What are you barking at now? There isn’t anyone in sight. Shut up. Eeeeeeeeeeeeek!” she shrieks as Waspzilla flies right at her face. She turns and runs out of the room.

“Don’t worry, Jan, I’ll get it,” Buddy shouts, leaping and snapping his jaws in frustration, trying to catch the intruder, which repeatedly flies low and then darts back to the ceiling.

Jan speeds back into the room, waving a bottle of bug spray. (Bug spray? She should have grabbed the Waspzilla spray! Oh, right, she’d probably kill us all if she sprayed that indoors.) “Out of the way, Buddy,” she screams. “Get away from the wasp.” 

Buddy ignores her, chasing after Waspzilla, jaws snapping feverishly, foaming at the mouth. ****

Buddy stops reading and glares at Percy. “I was not foaming at the mouth!”

“You weren’t?” Percy asks in surprise. “Oh, right, you weren’t. I have you confused with a dog video I was watching on YouTube. Here,” he hits the delete button, “it’s corrected. Sorry.”

**** Waspzilla flies into the kitchen, speeds round and round the room, then darts into the bedroom, Buddy hot on its heel. Jan follows, still waving the bottle of bug spray and screaming, “Buddy, no.”

Waspzilla flies low but Buddy’s moving jaws miss it as Jan’s high-pitched screeching grows louder. “Noooooooo, Buddy, nooooooooooo!” Her screaming unnerves Buddy, who dives under the coffee table, pops out, dives under, pops out…. (Yes, readers, Jan keeps a coffee table in her bedroom. I’m not sure why - she doesn’t keep any coffee in it – but I think it might have a personality conflict with the computer desk.)

Merci, still in the living room, shouts, “I’ll check under the couch,” and scrambles underneath it. ”

Buddy pops out from under the table, yelling, “I got it, I got it, I …Get out of the way, Jan!”

Samaritan runs around crying in a loud voice, “I want to play too. Where’s the- I see it. Where’d it go?  

Jan scared it off when she sprayed it with - what is that stuff? It smells horrible!”

Somebody shut Jan up,” Percy suggests, entering the chase. “We can’t keep track of it with her making all that racket.”

“There it goes,” Buddy screams,” heading for Jan. Oh, good, she’s hiding in the closet. Can someone close that door?”

“It won’t close,” Percy says, pushing against it with all of his ten pounds. “Samaritan, you weigh more than I do. You try it.”

“No, it won’t close,” Samaritan yells over the combined noise of the other hunters. “Ouch! She hit me with the door when she rushed out.”

“Eeeeeek, there it goes,” Jan shrieks, as Waspzilla dives toward the rug and disappears.

“It’s here somewhere,” Buddy insists, racing around the room. But Waspzilla has disappeared. It must be dying or dead. Peace returns to the Funny Farm for a time.

“I found it, I found it, I almost had it.” Buddy’s loud cries break the silence, as Waspzilla appears at the window where it was first spotted. Jan jumps to her feet and again runs out of the room.  

“I’ll get it,” Percy hollers, as he leaps into the air at Waspzilla.  

“I’ll get it,”Samaritan yells.  

“I’ll check under the couch,” Merci adds helpfully.

The Funny Farm hunters chase Waspzilla through the house a second time. Jan follows, waving a can of bug spray. (Can, bottle, what’s the difference. It all smells terrible.) By this time Waspzilla is more desperate to escape the screaming residents than the residents are to kill it before it stings a resident. Jan screams, “Buddy, don’t you dare catch that! There isn’t an emergency vet within a gazillion miles!”

Waspzilla finally alights on the blind behind the kitchen stove and Jan blasts him with bug spray.

Waspzilla flies at her through the mist. Jan drops and crawls under the kitchen table, disturbing Cyndi’s nap as she pushes Cyndi out of her way. (Might I suggest Jan buy a bigger kitchen table in case she ever needs to “hide” again?)

The noise continues. “I’ve got it. Well, I nearly had it.” “He’s not under the couch.” “Did you see where it went? I lost it.” By the time Jan crawls out from under the table, Waspzilla can not be found. Peace again returns to the Funny Farm.

As Jan sits back down at the computer, she hears a noise behind her. She swivels around, screams, “Nooooooo!” and leaps for the flyswatter she left lying on a table. Waspzilla is lying on the floor, still moving, and Percy is closing in, about to pounce on his new toy.

When Waspzilla breathes his last under Jan’s onslaught, Merci’s voice wafts from under the couch, “I haven’t seen it under here yet. I’ve got my eyes open for it, though” ****

Eyes twinkling, Buddy looks at Percy. “Jan is going to have a fit when she reads this, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” The corners of Percy’s mouth begin to curl. “And here she comes driving across the lawn now.’

“Percy, you wrote the story. May I have the honor?”

“Certainly,” Percy grins.

Buddy stands on his hind legs, aims the cursor, and clicks firmly on “Publish.”

Posted by Percy, Secretary

Miss Mother

Merci stops beside the typing chair where Buddy is sitting motionless, staring at the computer monitor. “Buddy, what are you staring at so intently?”

Deep in his own thoughts, Buddy is startled. “Huh? Oh, I was just reading some of our old journal entries. I sure have changed since I wrote my first column in 2005, haven’t I?” 

Buddy is much taller than when he sat on the same chair to type his first journal entry and now when he sits on the chair he towers over Merci. She scrapes a footstool across the wood floor and then climbs onto it to better view the screen. It also makes her feel less like a little ant sitting next to a large grasshopper.

“Yes, you sure have changed in some ways, but not in others. You were so messy but you sure were cute.”

“Messy? I was never messy. Didn’t I win the Scruffy Award for the bedmaking contest?”

“Yes, you did win. Did you ever find out who else was in the competition?”

“No, Jan never did give me the list of the other contestants, although I made several requests for it. I must have had some tough competition since she didn’t want me to know who lost. She said she didn’t want me to get a swelled head.”

Merci lowers her head to hide a slight smile. Buddy has grown up but he has retained much of his innocence.

“We sure had some good times, didn’t we?” Buddy asks wistfully. “I wish things could have stayed the same. I don’t like the changes.”

“You grew up, Rusty and Samaritan came to live with us. What would you like to change back to the way it was?”

“I’m glad Rusty and Samaritan moved in with us. I like having them here. But we lost Jenny and Miss Mother’s dogs Shorty and Benji, and then we lost Miss Mother. I miss all of them, especially Miss Mother. Jan used to take us down to visit every couple of days and we ran free in her fenced yard. It was nice. Now we don’t have anyone except Jan to love us and we don’t have anyone to go visit or a yard where we can run.” A solitary tear drips down Buddy’s face and falls onto the keyboard. He sighs deeply, climbs off the typing chair and, head low, walks slowly out of the room.

“I know what you mean, Buddy,” Merci says softly to his retreating back. “Jan misses them all too. Some changes are positive and some changes bring tears.”

“Wait!” Buddy hollers from the bedroom. He trots back into the living room, tears forgotten and a wide smile on his face. “I know how to cheer up Jan. We can hold a Miss Mother contest and find her a new Miss Mother.”

“Buddy, first of all, I never have understood why you call Jan’s mother Miss Mother”

Indignantly, Buddy shoots back, “What would you have me call her, Mr. Mother?”

“Oh, in that case, Miss Mother is fine. But holding a contest to find a new one is far out, even for you. You can’t replace Jan’s mother.”

“Oh. Well, it would be nice to have another Miss Mother to visit and make a fuss over us. Are you sure we can’t hold a contest and surprise Jan with a new Miss Mother?”

“I’m sure, Buddy. It’s a nice thought, though. You’ve always had a soft heart.”

Buddy sighs. “Then I guess I’ll just have to go take a nap. Maybe I can use my soft heart for a pillow.” He disappears into the bedroom.

Then his head reappears briefly in the doorway. “Oh, by the way, Merci, in case I forgot to tell you before this, I forgive you for making fun of me when I won the Scruffy Award Contest. I still make the neatest bed in town!”

Merci smiles broadly, knowing full well that he might be all grown up but Buddy still makes the messiest bed in town!

Posted by Merci

Cat Mothers Chicks

Cyndi strolls into the living room in time to see Percy fall off his typing chair. She rushes to his side and, deeply concerned, asks, “Percy, are you all right? Did you break something?”

Usually so agile and quick to pick himself up after a fall, Percy lies where he landed, body convulsing and strange sounds emanating from deep inside him.

“Hold on, Percy. Don’t die. I’m dialing 911 for an ambulance. You’re going to be okay.” Cyndi races for the cordless phone, but it isn’t in its base. She pushes the button and a faint, steady beep is heard.

“Where’s the phone? I can’t find the phone,” she begins to shriek. “Whoever used it last should have put it back where it belongs.” Her voice climbs several decibels. “Help! Someone find the phone. Percy’s dying!”

“No, Percy gasps, “I’m not.”

Buddy rushes into the room, the cordless phone in his mouth. “Here, Cyndi, I found the phone in the laundry basket.”

Cyndi drops the phone as Buddy releases it into her paw. “I’m too nervous. I can’t do it. Buddy, you dial 911, please.”

“No!” Percy pants, barely loud enough to be heard. “I’m ..he, he, he, ohhhhh, he…”

Buddy and Cyndi turn slowly toward Percy, fearing the worst. Percy, gulping and wheezing, struggles to a sitting position. “I … I… he, he, ho, hoooo..”

Realization dawns on Cyndi and Buddy at the same moment. Percy is not dying. He is convulsed with laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Cyndi demands.

“Yeah, you scared us out of a week’s calories,” Buddy complains.

Percy makes a valiant effort to control his laugher and climbs back onto his typing chair. “Look at this video, I found it on a news site. You’ve got to see it to understand what is so funny.”

He clicks on a link and together they watch the short news video. 

“I don’t get it,” Cyndi admits. “I still don’t understand what is so funny.”

“The mother cat adopted those chicks.”

“But what’s funny about that?” Buddy asks. “Lots of animals adopt the young of another species.”

“Well,” Percy admits, “that’s not what is so funny.”

“Then why were you laughing?”

“Because I had a sudden mental image of Samaritan in the video with the mother cat, her kittens and those chicks.”

Cyndi and Buddy stare blankly at Percy.

“Oh, come on, you know how big Samaritan is and how he likes to play with cats. He leaps and barks, even bops them to try to make them run so he can chase them. Imagine the pandemonium if Samaritan was in the same room with those cats and chicks. Here, I’ll play the video again. Think of Samaritan in a playful mood.”

He hits a key and the video begins to play again. “He…he..ho,” begins to bubble forth from Cyndi before she collapses on the floor in laughter.

Buddy shakes his head. “I still don’t get it. Why would you want to put Samaritan in the video? I’m more photogenic and playful than Samaritan. And I’m funnier than he is.” He walks away, still staking his head. “Cats sure have a strange sense of humor..”

Posted by Percy, Cyndi and Buddy