Deconstructing Geordie

At least it's a relatively quiet morning. It could easily be worse. It was very bad last night and the world needed to be spared the nocturnal "serenades" of Geordie.

Our backyard is a veritable stockade. Chain link rises from the ground five feet high and cherry-tone logs bound with wire, poured concrete, and a few cinder blocks reinforce its base. A padlock secures the gate and there's no wiggle-room for even a puppy or a small dog suffering from anorexia nervosa to slip through. Green plastic slats-- in a color that disappears into arbor vitae-- weave in and out of the chain link to provide both a visual barrier and to soften the prison-like appearance of the heavy-gauge steel fence wire. A dog door leads from the deck-- or what may eventually become one if we ever finish building it-- into the family room, and Maggie and Geordie come and go (speaking of Michelangelo?) at will. That is-- unless I have to insert the barrier and stop the flow of canine traffic.

I fear that some creatures have taken residence on the street side of the fence. Lush and varied shrubs occupy the place between the start of the over-tall arbor vitae and the large Douglas fir at the southwest corner of our next door neighbor's yard.

The rare squirrel will taunt Maggie and Geordie, but mostly they stay clear. Birds avoid the yard, even though a bird feeder filled with seed has hung from an eave of the house for a few years. Perhaps they have determined that it's not a feeder but really a trap that the Cairn terriers have rigged themselves. I really should take it down, but inertia prevails.

Meanwhile, the backyard is more of a shambles than usual. Neither Maggie nor Geordie have tried to escape. This leads us to believe that they enjoy the security of their turf. Although its terrain consists of patches of grass, parts of it resemble the cratered surface of the moon.

A few season ago, moles migrated into the neighborhood en masse. Nevertheless, our yard remained remarkably free of them, largely due to the efforts of Geordie, who dug holes at various places in the middle of the yard and then commenced barking furiously into them. His "paw-crafted earthen megaphones" had, in fact, provided effective sonic rodent control. Whereas mole holes riddled our neighbors' yards, ours had mere potholes.

Last time I checked, there were no fewer than three green slats lying on the ground near where Geordie was last worrying his quarry by digging and singing his own version of the Carole King classic, "I Feel the Earth Move Under My Feet." (In the key of Asia Minor, I surmise.)

Cairn terriers are persistent problem-solvers, and Geordie will not quit until he feels that his work is done.

Geord ("giving voyce")

Mag (So sweet!)

and their loyal servant, Jill