… Are continuing their fifty-plus-year tradition of tracking Santa Claus, and setting records this year.

NORAD.

I would like to state for the record that while I would not mind in the least my tax money going to this effort, generous donors are funding the whole thing, while volunteers man the phones.

Colonel Harry Shoup would be proud.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

LawDog

I was in my late teens when I finally discovered that the song was not, “Got to rescue Mary, gentlemen, let nothing you delay.”

These days, I think I prefer my teenage version.

Huh.

In that spirit, here is Ronnie James Dio, doing what he did best:

LawDog

One of the best ratting dogs I’ve ever had was a chihuahua/toy poodle mix named Sally. That little dog treated small vermin like an adorable, furry little tornado treats a single-wide trailer.

And, of course, I’ve written at least once about Buster on these pages, so you’d think that the hunting ability of chihuahuas and chihuahua mixes wouldn’t be anything of a surprise.

Chuy is a dachshund/chihuahua cross — a “chiweenie” — and — as such, is not a real big dog. Solid, yes, but not much more than a lap-full.

He and Praline get the same amount of food every morning, the same amount of food that they’ve gotten every morning since they achieved their full growth, but while Praline’s weight stays the same, Chuy had been getting … bigger.

When he broke twenty pounds, we were starting to get a bit worried that maybe there were some health issues. Thyroid, maybe.

As a co-inky-dink, about the same time, I noticed piles of feathers in the back-yard. Several pigeons, a mocker or two, and several blue jays, amongst others not readily identifiable. At least one pile every other day, sometimes several in a day.

I know what you’re thinking, but Praline isn’t all that interested in birds — not when there are skwirlz that need attending to — so I figured that since the town busy-bodies had managed to get the entire place declared a Bird Sanctuary (Absolutely No Killing Of Birds! Ever! Even if they crap EVERYWHERE! Verboten!) some enterprising hawk, owl or other predatory avian had staked the neighborhood as it’s personal hunting ground.

Hah!

I had let the pups out to do the needful, and since I had just brewed a fresh cuppa, I was watching them through the kitchen window, not thinking of much.

Praline was up in the pecan tree daring the skwirlz to come down and fight — as is her wont — but Chuy was laying on the deck that surrounds the pecan tree, chin on his paws, and looking so totally knackered that I was actually a bit worried that he was sick.

And then …

… I noticed that a blue jay had landed in the yard, and was bouncing here and there, looking for goodies.

Chuy came off the deck like he had an ejection seat under his furry little butt, impacted the bird square amidships and the two of them cartwheeled across the lawn in a tangle of ginger fur, blue feathers, and cursing.

This was apparently such a common occurrence that Praline looked down from her tree, cocked an ear at the full-on brawl not ten feet away, and promptly went right back to opining at the top of her lungs vis à vis the ancestry, personal habits and sexual proclivities of the local tree rats.

The donnybrook ended with Chuy spinning in a backwards circle, shaking his head so fast that the — probably extremely dead — bird was nothing more than a blur amid a cloud of feathers, then he trotted off to his man-cave under the Morgan building with his ears and tail at jaunty angles, and the now-mostly-plucked bird hanging limp from his jaws.

Sigh.

I’m torn. Half of me hopes that the local busy-bodies don’t find out that he’s supplementing his diet with their precious poo factories birdies, and half of me really, really wants to send them a note of thanks and appreciation signed with a bloody paw-print.

LawDog

The word “kin” is still used and is commonly recognized to mean those people descended from a common ancestor and belonging to a clan or family.

“Kith”, though, is less common — indeed to my knowledge in these modern days is only used as part of the phrase “Kith and kin”.

It comes from the Old English word “cunnan” which meant “to know”, and means — formally — those people whom are your close friends.

Informally, a wiser gentleman than myself described it thusly:

“Kin are the family God gives you. Kith are the family you choose.”

Phlegmmy and I met the matriarch of the Farm Family at the first Blogorado, when she was kind enough to welcome a horde of bloggers into her home; as she did at each subsequent get-together.

I will always remember the twinkle in her eye and her merry cackle at a good story.

This morning, we woke up to terrible news: she had lost her fight against cancer.

I wish that I had words to console her kith and kin; but I don’t. Instead, I shall fall back on Mary Elizabeth Frye to convey that which I wish I could:

“Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.”

Farm Family, I hope that the pleasant memories that you share of Mamaw comfort you now, and that they provide some small measure of peace in the days ahead.

LawDog

I thought it was bad when my latest Eager Recruit looked at me with huge eyes, and exclaimed, “You’re even older than my dad!”

*sigh*

Fortunately I have an eye doctor who is a shooter (even if he looks too sodding young to have actually gotten a medical degree) and he’s tweaked my new cheaters to give me 20/15 vision in my shooting eye. The thought that I might actually be able to see the 500 yard target has eased the sting of OMFGBIFOCALS!!! a tiny bit.

The no-line progressive lenses are giving me fits, though.

My old glasses are darn near a decade old, and are were scratched and hazy to the point it’s a wonder I could see the Exxon Valdez, much less anything else, so just walking around is fantastic …

… And then I glance down and my feet are a nasty little blur — until I crank my chin onto my collar-bone, and hey! There they are!

*sigh*

I am assured that the Human Brain Is A Wondrous Thing, and that the blurring as I flick my eyes around the various distances in my field of view will be gone in two weeks.

And my lady loves the new frames.

So, all in all, I’ll call this one a win.

LawDog

Seems the Thing To Do Today is to remember what you were doing on this date, ten years ago.

Really? One tiny decade later? Ask me on the fiftieth anniversary. That’s a decent amount of time for commemoration.

Instead we should be remembering what we weren’t doing on this day ten years ago.

Ten years ago we weren’t detaining WWII fighter aces at the aeroport screening for attempting to bring their Medal of Honor onto an aeroplane.

Ten years ago strangers fondling the genital areas of your children and your spouse in public were being arrested instead of being excused.

Ten years ago the Federal Government wasn’t trying to ram National Identity Papers down everyone’s throats.

The American Government’s reaction to the 9/11 attack has done more damage to individual liberty and individual freedom in this country than the combined efforts of every terrorist since Year Dot.

And what does the Media do about this? They engage in misty-eyed navel-gazing and the exploration of FEEEE-lings on the tenth anniversary of 9/11.

Pfagh.

You know what I’m going to do to remember 11 SEP 2001? I’m going to go buy an American military service-member a beer and thank that person for volunteering to be a tiny cog that had a part — however small, however seemingly inconsequential — in getting Usama bin Laden shot in the face.

That is a proper remembrance for this date, ten years back.

LawDog