Story about Moose the dog

I write my stories to hopefully be entertaining. Whether or not my goal is met depends on how much I enjoy writing them. I crack myself up as I write more than you can imagine, as I am easily entertained. I try to make them as humorous as possible, even at the expense of accuracy from time to time. But, please allow me to take a moment to be serious.
Now that that moment is gone, let me tell you about a dog named Moose. Moose was probably the least luckiest dog I've ever met. He came to us as a puppy when we lived in the country. He was mostly black lab I guess. Just that his head didn't look 100% classic lab. I think there was a collie in the woodpile, if you know what I mean.
When he first showed up as a small pup, he hopped out of the pickup and immediately took after our mature black lab and ran him into the bumper of the truck, his head to be precise. The sound was, "kadoink" as I remember. It wasn't his only moment of glory, but maybe the funniest.
As a hunting dog Moose was second to none. Opinions may vary of course, but he was a road hunting dog like I'd never imagined. All you had to do was let him out of the pickup and he'd take off on a little stiff legged doggie-trot down the dirt road. Suddenly, his ears would pop up and he would hop a couple of times and into the ditch he would pounce. Pheasants would flush and shotguns would ring out. Often he would emerge from the ditch with a bird in his mouth. Thankfully he wouldn't crunch hard enough to hurt them as hen pheasants were apparently his favorite prey.
It wasn't long before his luck turned bad and a series of unfortunate events caused me to remember him more than any other pet of which I've had the pleasure.
After a snow storm, my brother was driving up the long path from our house to the main road. The silly dog was chasing him and didn't remember the road turned at one point. The car's two right side tires went directly over his chest. Since the snow was soft and fresh, it didn't even hurt him. It just made a depression in the snow. That instance was probably more like good luck I guess.
Moose wasn't a picky eater either. Proof of this was when he discovered a not so freshly killed Jack Rabbit and made a snack of it. Soon after the delicacy was devoured he developed some measure of intestinal distress that lasted for days. I can't fully describe the smell that silently escaped his body in the car that time. It was a first date with a new girl and I had brought him along as chaperon. After the initial disgusted look I gave her and she gave me, I'm sure I heard him giggle from the back seat.
He went missing for a few days once. I assumed he was gone for good, but late one night I heard a faint echoing bark in the quiet of the countryside. We found out he had been accidentally shut in one of the out buildings by the landowner. He survived on sunflower seeds and rat poison. The next week wasn't pretty, but he made it.
A horse lived on the place too. I'm not sure why, but there was one there. Moose and the horse would frolic and chase each other around until one day they got tangled up and the horse stomped him into the ground. He escaped the fenced-in area, but collapsed soon after. Broken hip, leg and ego caused another several weeks of healing time to be needed.
I guess I should mention in those days cars didn't have the safety features they do now. Like when you have to press the brake pedal in order to take the car out of park. Moose was a horrible driver. 'Nuff said.
He was also an expert in getting the cats in trouble. He would talk them into mischief and they were never able to implicate him as the troublemaker, until one afternoon when we got home from school. A small white kitten named Snowball had all four feet in the pot of chili mom had made. The door opened. The cat looked up in surprise and yelling began. Moose was lying in the next room and acted like the commotion woke him up. He sat up and yawned as an over exaggeration of his innocence. The only problem was a large amount of dog saliva on the cat's back from where he carried it to the pot of chili. Cold meat sandwiches for us that night and Moose's diet for the week was two gallons of chili.

Winter blunderland...

As I watch the Winter Olympics this year, I can't help but be reminded of my first snow-skiing experience. I took the horde to the Black Hills for a little mini-vacation so everyone could try this seemingly fascinating winter sport. After writing a check for rental equipment that was nearly as large as my mortgage, I settled in the lodge to relax and watch the kids, who had all chosen snow boards as their weapon of the day.
My much better-half had rightfully forced me to promise not to ski as I was fresh off knee surgery. The non-surgical knee hadn't been behaving for years either. The bulged disk in my back was another consideration that helped me make this solemn promise. I was satisfied with sitting and sipping on beer, I mean hot-chocolate for the day, but I kept seeing young children maybe only 3-4 years old come flying down the hill almost effortlessly. My wife sailed through her ski-lesson with ease and even though it was her first time, she looked like a pro. How hard could this be? I began feeling this old competitive flame trying to ignite in my chest. I knew resistance would be futile. Before I had even finished my third "hot chocolate" I found myself filling out rental forms and being measured for equipment.
The rental consultant asked what my ability number was from one to five. I said, "Well, I used to be pretty athletic so..." He smiled. In retrospect I now see that his smile was more of an evil grin. He gave me a special pair of skis from the back room, telling me that since I'm a beginner, these skis would help me with stability, turning and keep my speed down. He lied like a rug! I did some research the next week. I found out that those particular skis make you go faster and have less maneuverability.
It was a fairly nice day. The temperature was in the low 40s and it was sunny with a light breeze. Seemed perfect for skiing. But since I hadn't planned to ski, all I had along was blood stained camouflage coveralls I use for hunting. No hat or gloves, but I shouldn't need them, right?
I made my way to the chair-lift and hopped on like a professional. I sat next to a tall, older man appearing to be in his 80s. He looked me over head to toe. After a moment of silence he asked, "Um... first time skiing, by chance?" I told him indeed it was and how could he possible have known? He just kind of smiled, not unlike the guy in the rental office. "How did your lessons go?", he asked. "I didn't have any. I'll figure it out" I said. His smile turned to confusion and he muttered, "Oh.... Oh my. Well, good luck"
I navigated off the chair-lift successfully, but that's about where things turned sour. Someone told me to follow the path west to the end because that is where a beginner would have the best chance of survival. The path was only slightly down hill, but it was narrow and had a few turns. I began to ski it slowly. I simply could not turn. Not matter what I tried, leaning, putting weight on one ski more than the other, turning my torso, nothing was working. When I needed to turn to avoid running into a cliff or falling off the mountain, I would just sit down, get back up, and aim the direction I wanted to go for a little while, then repeat. Finally, I figured out that I could dig a ski-pole into the snow like a canoe paddle and turn ever so slightly to avoid running off the path. Even when I didn't need to turn I would fall, sometimes in spectacular fashion. Once I got going too fast and decided to bail out and take a seat. My ski popped off and flew high in the air and I didn't even realize it until it hit me on the top of my head. As I was holding my head and wincing in pain my nephew flew over the top of me on his snow board to make fun of me. At the same time my teenage son covered me with a large wake of snow like a plow would from behind me as symbolic of a burial. Eventually, I got to the end where I was able to begin my actual first downhill run. It was a wide open bowl-shaped run several hundred yards wide and a straight shot to the lodge, so no turning was needed. But as I looked down the two miles to the lodge, I thought, "There's no way I survive that". I thought about taking my skis off and hiking down the mountain. But as I was contemplating that, I leaned a little too far over the edge of the drop-in area and involuntarily started the most exciting two minutes in ski racing history.
Back then I weighed 265 pounds and with my low center of gravity (short legs) it took about a second and a half to reach what many onlookers would swear to be about 75 MPH. No hat or gloves, remember. The wind noise muffled out the screams of "hey look out" from people warning others of a mad-man coming down the hill with no ability to turn or stop. When I would see someone cutting in front of me I didn't know what to do, so I just yelled "FORE" as they do in golf. One family member noted that they believe they saw a camo-colored bowling ball on toothpicks going down one of the runs that day.
I knew I was going way to fast, but I went ahead and got down in the classic downhill speed racing position of bending over and crouching slightly. Soon enough, the end of the slope was only 400 yards away and I did a quick calculation of speed, wind resistance, inertia and my inability to stop. The odds of surviving the impending crash into the lodge were low at best. I remember someone talking about putting your skis in a "snowplow" shape to stop, so I began to try that and I slowed a little, but not enough. I "snow-plowed" harder and harder making two large sprays of snow as I slowed more.
A large group of kids saw that I was coming in too fast and started to scramble and grab their friends and baby sisters from my path. It looked as though I wouldn't run into anybody, but there was still a very well made log lodge to deal with.

I was aiming at the deck of the lodge, particularly the steps to the deck. Somehow my skis popped up the stairs and I slid across the deck slowing enough to put my hands out to catch myself on the entrance door. It was over. I was alive. I noticed a paper sign between my hands on the door. It read: RENTAL RETURNS DOWNSTAIRS. What a good idea! For the record, my wife was not nearly as amused by my story of survival as I was that evening.  

Old Man and the Sea

It's been around 20 years since I last went Paddlefishing. The following
story may or may not be the reason that I've declined to go for so long. If
you don't know what Paddlefishing is, rest assured it is not hitting fish
with paddles to stun then harvest them.

The prehistoric looking Paddlefish has no bones, just a cartilage tube
running the length of its spine. They have a long paddle-shaped snout, or
rostrum that give the fish its common name. The dense, fleshy, white meat is
both delicious and always boneless of course. This is why they are sought
after by fisherman. Since they are plankton eaters, they cannot be caught by
the traditional hook and line methods. They are snagged with large treble
hooks attached to 30 lb or higher test line, and cast by 10 foot rods, lead
into the water by a Five ounce weight. Your opinion may vary, but that's
what I used. It's a real testosterone blow out, let me tell ya'.

A friend of mine started taking me to the Yellowstone River in eastern
Montana for this adventure. After several successful yearly trips, I decided
to share the experience with my family and brought them along. My wife's
sister lives just a few miles from the best fishing spot for these fish that
can weigh 70-100 pounds or more on occasion.

The best fishing seems to be at night, so I sent her and the kids into town
to stay at her sister's while I tried to catch my limit of two in the
moon-light. I was able to land one after a brief struggle with the 14 MPH
river current, large fish, little to no light and a surprise log tripping me
in spectacularly clumsy fashion. I fished straight through until dawn and
after many hours of casting, reeling, and jerking like a madman, I was
understandably tired and sore, so I sought refuge by sitting on my cooler.
Inside my cooler was cans of Coke and lots of Ding-Dongs. Whenever I would
get tired, I would simply drink a coke and pop a Ding-Dong in my mouth. The
sugar-rush was pretty intense and lasted long enough to fish a while
longer.

As the morning sun was warming the air and my skin, I sat on the cooler and
began to daydream and relive the nights activities. I had just called my
wife from my archaic cell phone and told her she could come get me any
time. So, I waited.

Meanwhile, the beach had filled up with more fishermen. Most casts were
flying well over 100 yards due to the large size of the sinker. That is, all
except for the casts of this very old gentleman directly in front of me. His
casts would go about 20 feet and he snagged the rocks below on every cast.
It was a little painful and pathetic to watch, but he devised a method of
breaking his line and retying the equipment without losing his place on the
beach, as it was now elbow-to-elbow fishermen. The only way to get a place
was if someone caught a fish and ended up down stream to land it or someone
snapped their line because they snagged on rocks and were unable to break
free. The old gentleman must have been out of replacement rigs because at
one point, he was snagged and was just pulling and pulling and not wanting
to cut his line. Several moments went by and I lost interest in watching him
grapple his pole. I began daydreaming once again. Or, it was a small Coke
and Ding-Dong induced sugar comma. I'm not sure which, but CRACK.... I was
lying flat on my back with my hands over my face wincing in pain. I had no
idea what had happened.

Somehow by constantly pulling and yanking on the snagged-up rig, the darn
thing came dislodged. Unfortunately the old guy was pulling with all his
might when that happened, sending a Five ounce lead weight rocketing out of
the shallow water leveraged by a long fishing pole at full bend. Having only
20 Feet of line out made everything happened so quickly, no one had time to
tell me to duck, as I was obviously only 19 feet behind him. I took the
impact of the weight directly on my right eye. My plastic right eye-glass
lens shattered into bits, no doubt saving my eye and possibly my life. Yes,
there was some blood and a swarm of people above me when I became brave
enough to let an off-duty EMT pry my hands off of my face. Some in attendance
recalled to me how amazing of a sound the impact had made and that it kind
of made them a little sick to their stomachs. I apologized for their inconvenience as
I collected my thoughts and got myself upright. The old guy that had nearly
cost me my sight was nice enough to come ask if I was "OK" and had I seen
his sinker anywhere.

"Ya I saw it a little bit ago, as a matter of fact" I sarcastically muttered, as I sat there with my one lens in the eye-glass frame that covered my now overly
bandaged face.

My wife showed up soon after and had heard of the accident while waking from
the parking lot to the beach. Somehow, she knew it was me before she even
got a description of the victim. If you know me well enough, you would just
assume it was me too. I think she was most upset at the fact that she was
now going to have to drive the 450 miles home herself. Since I was am
legally required to wear my necessary prescription eye-glasses while driving
a motorized vehicle.