Don’t Get Attached

When one makes his living with words, betimes there be exclamations or comments or phrases that simply leap out and grasp at one.

Happens to me all the time. Doesn’t even have to be spoken; printed clauses jump right off pages. Especially mispelt ’uns.

So I’m roaming from room to room a few weeks ago, beginning this and finishing that, with TV talking heads droning on and on in the background. Suddenly, while reading from a prepared statement, a police department alleged spokesman uttered these words: “attached himself to the car.”

Now, admittedly, it don’t take much to mesmerize me; but that jerked my chain tight.

“Attached himself to the car.” Hmm. You know, I’ve seen dogs try that.

Mongrels, mostly. Seem to think they’re tough. Never ends well.

Oh, things will be just fine in the Crouch Phase. Yeah, just lay down in the ditch and that Studebaker will never even know you’re there. Then, at the very last moment, move into Erupt Phase, then catapult toward Leap Phase.

Right now, life is good. You’re about to show that roaring four-wheeled monstrosity who the Top Dawg really is in this here neighborhood!

But then comes that Attachment Phase.

You know, Studebakers is tougher than they looks. And the main problem with Attachment Phase—speaking merely from a canine point of view—is advancing to Unattachment Phase: problematic at best and often hideously overrun with obstacles.

Getting there may be all the fun, but following a frenzy of folderol involving being battered, slugged and drug, reality arrives—much, much too suddenly—and figuring out what to do with it once you’ve got it caught can be tricky…

But make no mistake now, it ain’ all about the dogs. I saw a squirrel try to attach himself to the radiator of my Tacoma just this morning. Problem was, he failed to figure in the grill between where he was at Leap and where he was trying to get to at Attachment.

The road in front of my house is paved with toothy rodents who can’t seem to graduate past Erupt or Leap.

Cats? There’s truth in the saying that there’s more than one way to skin one. Imports work just as well as domestic models.

Possums? Please. Coons? Catastrophic.

Then there’s the one I really struggle with: deer. How you going to attach yourself to a dump truck if you ain’t even got claws or teeth that will get a grip?

Get a grip! And evacuate the asphalt.

I gotta circle, briefly, back to dogs. And personal involvement.

I was pulling a boat with my 1964 Ford pickup—Single I-Beam Front Suspension, thank you very much. Upon rounding a sharp curve at exactly the speed limit, Officer, I happened to notice a fairly sizable goat herd racing across the narrow county maintained road.

Thirty feet from my windshield.

Follow closely, students, as we preview proper protocol: 1. Irrigate shorts. 2. Do NOT swerve. 3. Do NOT push brake pedal through floorboard. 4. Hope for stupendous Goat Barbecue recipe in one of your cookbooks.

In the split-second we’re talking, I saw goats. I didn’t see the dog.

Yep; hiding in the ditch. Two seconds hence, I SAW Erupt and FELT Attachment: front bumper, I-Beam, rear axle, boat trailer.

Rather poor planning, I thought.

But them goats? Witnesses later told me that the mutt was not actually concealing himself a’tall; rather, he was flat-out chasing goats. And they had it planned right down to a whisker; timed things perfectly so as to get the slowest nanny barely across and occupy the mongrel’s mind.

Last thing that went through it was my boat trailer…

“Attached himself to the car.”

Hey, I can shed a little light on that, come to think of it.

Albeit not intentionally.

That Tacoma? Got a trailer hitch on it. I cut a tree down last week and was loading limbs. Walked around the tailgate…

Attached my left kneecap to that hitch.

Briefly. Once you’ve caught it…

Thing or two about hitches you may not know. Like, they ain’t got no feelings. Call ’em anything you care to, as loud as you want, prance for ’em, roll around on the ground… they never bat an eye.

And how you goin’ to retaliate?

Beating with a fist is strictly inadvisable. Build a fire and melt them down to slag? Hottest blaze you can come up with will only burn the rust off, then they burst forth better than new! Daring you to lay a finger on ’em for at least 15 minutes… which reminds me of a morning on Lake Blackshear.

I’d run a dozen or so miles up and down prospecting for shellcrackers. Trolled around for a half-hour in a cove, then it was time to roll again.

Big motor balked. It spun and spun and spun, but no fire. OK; troubleshooting time. Lissen and learn: never pop a clutch at 8,000 rpm.

In other words—and this is a message mostly to me—calm down, think things out, develop a plan…

And DON’T unwittingly stick your forefinger and thumb on the battery cable wing nut to make sure it’s tight! It’s been spinning, Dummy! Battery’s already got fire! Proven by the fact that index finger and thumb are ON fire!

So. You can Crouch. But don’t Leap. NEVER Erupt—and always whoa up before attaining  Attachment Phase…