The location of a proposed personal and RV storage project off Airport Road, the third storage project heard by the Planning Commission in as many months.
I was out walking down a ditch this morning and ran straight into a badger. I had no gun, no shovel, just a terrible twelve pounder in tow. That’s right, all twelve pounds and 17+ years of my silky longhaired red weenie dog sprang into action. I’ve thought her pretty much blind and deaf for a couple years, but she still seems happy to curl up by my easy chair, sleep on my dirty clothes up in the bedroom and occasionally take a walk with me through the main ranch yard or take rides with me in a truck or tractor. I figured she still had some minor residual hearing and sight, and gauging from her ability to beg for almost anything I make to eat, I knew that her appetite and sniffer were still intact.
Kris Stewart’s warrior weenie
We had some heavy rain a couple weeks ago and I opened a few ditches in anticipation, so that we wouldn’t flood. I noticed one that runs through the main yard and onto Fred’s meadow below was backed up last week. I waited for all the high water to recede and took a walk down the ditch this morning. I found fallen branches and debris piles at a couple spots and threw them out with my hands. I set the weenie in behind me at the top of the ditch and got a kick out of how much she enjoyed sniffing everything. It made me realize that dogs will be dogs no matter how old they get. The weenie and I cleared two brush and branch piles when I noticed something coming toward me. I just glanced up and actually thought it was Annie Oakley, Patrice’s fat little heeler. Just as I was about to clap my hands and call AO to me, I realized that what was running toward me was an adult badger at about 25 feet and closing. Before I could exit the ditch or do anything else, twelve pounds of ferocious weenie sprinted by my feet, growling, barking and completely focused on the badger. She tore toward the badger as I looked for something to defend us with. Now badgers in winter have fabulous fur, so I’m sure this fellow wasn’t quite as big as he looked, but he sure looked about twice the size of my weenie.
Everything happened so fast that by the time I’d grabbed a big stick, weenie had covered the 25 feet and the badger was rethinking his frontal assault. He flipped around and took off down the ditch that runs by our arena with weenie in hot pursuit. I was hobbling along at the fastest jog I could muster just sure that this would spell the end of my weenie. Both badger and weenie sprinted out of sight and by the time I’d run through one more blockage and hit the meadow, my weenie had her proud little tail in the air and was headed back to me.
She got the biggest hug ever, but then squirmed out of my arms, obviously still on patrol. We finished cleaning the ditch and I heard her growl and yip when she saw anything in her ditch. She was having none of the quail, one of the barn cats or one of our livestock guardian pups. Weenie was in charge. She yipped and snuffed all the way back to our house and then completely refused to come inside. She spent the next 30-40 minutes lording over the dogs and inspecting all of the outside kitties.
When she was completely sure that we were all safe, she pawed at the kitchen door and came inside. I’d heated her up a little chicken soup as a reward and a treat. She promptly ran the indoor kitties off it, and after finishing every ounce, has retired to her downstairs lair, a half wine barrel that I got for her to curl up in.
I may have mentioned this girl’s origins and why I call her weenie, but even so, it’s probably worth repeating. Before weenie and her sissy came to live with me, I had a mini red smooth coat for 19.5 years. We lost our marvelous Millie just a few weeks before Fred died. Afterwards, I sure missed having a dachshund around but wasn't really ready to take on a puppy when I was having problems just taking care of myself after losing Fred. About two months after Fred passed, my friend and neighbor Cathy Schwartz called and mentioned that a mutual friend Mike Quillicy was looking for a good home for his aunt’s two twelve year old dachshunds. I immediately said yes and he delivered the two bonded litter mates to my daughter. Their names were Terra and Bella, but I never knew which was which because they went everywhere together and his aunt had entered assisted living without telling him which was which. My new little girls brought joy back into my life and went almost immediately from pampered indoor pups who loved the groomer to raucous little ranch dogs who loved rolling in manure and the stinkiest bull pee they could find. When we lost one of the sisters a couple years ago, it sounded bizarre for me to keep calling our surviving girl Terra and Bella, so weenie was coined and whether she actually comes to that or to my smell or sound, she still enjoys following me around outside and protecting me.
I think she will have some epic weenie dreams tonight.
Kris Stewart is a rancher in Paradise Valley, Nevada.