Thursday, March 23, 2006, 22:40
Gripe -- "Shipping and Handling"
I offer free shipping on my books.
Just think of it!
FREE shipping.
FREE -- Free -- FREE!
How many items have you ordered on-line -- or through a catalog? How many of those items came by free shipping? Usually a "shipping and handling" charge is added, anywhere from a couple of dollars on up to $10 or more.
And you know what?
That "shipping and handling" charge really bothers me. Especially the "handling" part.
What is that -- handling?
I am doing the company a favor by ordering a product, and yet, the company is going to charge me a "handling" fee for the privilege of their employees putting the item in a box or an envelope and adding a label and some postage? The "handling" should have been part of the cost of the item. They are NOT doing me a favor getting the item ready to ship.
But that's what they want you to think -- that they are doing you a HUGE favor by actually sending the item to you after you have paid for it. Give me a break!
And that's why I do not charge a shipping fee.
To see what else I've been up to today, click here. (Warning: It's an advertisement for my books!)
Sophie -- Sophie continues to improve after her spay surgery last week and her bout with pneumonia. She is coughing less and less. And she is running around and playing more and more. Yipee!
Charlie -- After his "bad dog" status yesterday, and our altercation over just WHO was entitled to the sternum bone of a wild turkey that he had found, Charlie redeemed himself today.
I took the dogs for a walk this morning in the other direction. The neighbors to the east of us have little dogs. I think they are Chihuahuas (although they look like they have awfully long legs to be Chihuahuas). Anyway, I would be surprised if the dogs tip the scales at five pounds each. They're just tiny little things. Unfortunately, they LOVE to get out in the road. They run down the long, muddy driveway to bark at cars and at people who are out walking (usually just me).
The neighbor has told me that if they run out in the road while I am walking that I should throw stones at them to encourage them to "go home" and to not be out in the road. At times, the little devils have chased cars the half mile up to my brother's driveway!
As you probably know, I wouldn't be able to hit the little dogs with stones if they were big as the broad side of a barn. My aim isn't very good. Plus, they are moving targets. . .
Anyway, when Charlie and Pixie and I passed the neighbor's driveway this morning, the little dogs came down the long, muddy driveway and out to the road. I turned around an yelled at them to "go home."
Charlie took one look at me -- and headed toward the little dogs. It was like he knew I was yelling at them and it was like he knew WHY I was yelling at them.
The little five-pound dogs took one look at 70-pound Charlie striding purposefully toward them -- and scampered for home.
When we came back a while later, the little dogs once again ran out to the road, barking and barking and barking.
I didn't have to yell "go home" this time. Charlie trotted on ahead -- trotting purposefully toward the little dogs. The closer he came, the more they retreated. They did not want to let Charlie get too close to them. They were not at all sure of his intentions. Charlie's tail, however, was wagging (he has a docked tail, so it doesn't really wag -- it goes more like "ding-ding-ding-ding" -- like the clapper of a little bell), so I knew that he had nothing else in mind except to shepherd them back to their own driveway.
The little dogs ran back home and did not try to follow us.
Good dog, Charlie!
LeAnn R. Ralph
Wednesday, March 22, 2006, 19:55
BAAAAAAD Dog!
"What do you suppose Charlie is doing?" I said to Pixie.
I took our Springer Spaniel, Charlie, and our Shetland Sheepdog, Pixie, for a walk this morning three-quarters of a mile up to the corner where one of our neighbors lives. The road runs west and is clear, so there's no chance any of us will slip and fall on the ice.
I was as far back as our next-door neighbor's place, who lives a half mile away -- when it dawned on me that Charlie was a quarter of a mile ahead of us.
"I bet he's got something he's not supposed to have," I said to Pixie.
"Charlie!" I called. "Charrrrrrrlieeeeeeee!"
But of course, Charlie was not paying any attention to me.
As soon as we got past the neighbor's place, I cut across the ditch and up into their pines. The sun has melted the snow along the pines, so it was fairly easy to walk across all of the old thatch from last year's grass. (This is the same grove of pines where the robins were the other night.)
Usually when Pixie and I veer off course, Charlie notices and comes back on the run because he is afraid we will DO SOMETHING FUN that he will miss out on if he doesn't come, too.
Charlie did not pay any attention to us. By the time we had reached our property line, he had rounded the corner and was headed back to the house.
"Okay, Pixie," I said, "let's go back this way."
I cut up the hill and into our hayfield. Lots more snow in the hayfield, but the sun is shining today, so the snow was fairly soft. Pixie could still walk on top, but I couldn't. And that was all right. It's better to walk in soft snow than in partially frozen snow that you keep breaking through.
I cut across the hayfield and down into the other neighbor's pines. I was thinking that if Charlie figured we were going SOMEPLACE ELSE to do SOMETHING FUN, he would re-think his decision about going back to the house with whatever it was he had picked up.
Nope.
Pixie and I walked through the pines, around the corner, and past the neighbor's cornfield from last year. When I got in sight of the yard, I could see Charlie up by the house -- chewing on something.
I struggled through the snow with Pixie right behind me. As soon as I got on the path that I had cleared across the yard with the snowblower, which is now completely clear of snow thanks to the strength of the sun, I was able to pick up some steam.
"Charlie!" I said.
Charlie took one look at me -- and began to growl low in his throat. He was holding a bone of some sort between his paws. And the closer I came, the more menacing and threatening his growling became.
"Drop it, Charlie!" I yelled.
GROWWWWLLLL-SNARRRRRRRLLLLL-GROWWWWWWLLL-GRRRRRRRRRRR-RRRRRRR--GRRRRRRRRRRR! said Charlie.
If I didn't know better -- which I guess I didn't -- I would have thought that 70-pound Charlie was going to chew off my hand in one snap of his powerful jaws.
I took off my stocking cap.
GRRRRRRRRRRR-RRRRRRR--GRRRRRRRRRRR! said Charlie.
In one quick movement, I put the stocking cap over his nose.
GRRRRRRRRRRR-RRRRRRR--GRRRRRRRRRRR! said Charlie.
In spite of the growling and snarling, I held the stocking cap over his nose. Randy and I both use this technique to get something away from Charlie that he not supposed to have. If you hold your hand over his nose so he can't breathe, he will usually drop the forbidden object.
GRRRRRRRRRRR-RRRRRRR--GRRRRRRRRRRR! said Charlie.
In a minute or so, Charlie broke away from me and ran across the yard with his bone.
As I trotted past the porch, I spied Charlie's stainless steel dog dish, picked it up and threw it at him.
I missed, of course.
But it was enough to make Charlie drop the bone.
GROWWWWLLLL-SNARRRRRRRLLLLL-GROWWWWWWLLL-GRRRRRRRRRRR-RRRRRRR--GRRRRRRRRRRR! said Charlie.
He sounded as if he were going to chew off my arm, my leg or my head -- or maybe all three.
I tossed the stocking cap down over the bone, which I could now see was the sternum bone of a wild turkey. Not a good thing for Charlie to chew on, seeing as turkey bones splinter so easily.
As soon the cap settled over the sternum bone, Charlie knew the battle was over.
And that I had won.
He moved away from the bone. I picked it up and headed for the house.
In the meantime, Pixie, who was frightened out of her wits, was waiting by the house door. If she could have opened the door and let herself inside, I'm sure she would have.
"Come on, Pixie," I said.
I put the sternum bone by the garbage, went to the cupboard and got out a piece of rawhide for Pixie.Every day I take Pixie and Charlie for a walk, and every day, they each get a piece of rawhide when we come home.
As soon as Pixie was settled on the living room floor with her rawhide, I went outside again.
Charlie was waiting for his rawhide, panting happily.
"How dare you?" I snarled. "How dare you growl at me?"
For a split second, Charlie's confidence wavered. He looked at my left hand, and then at my right. He was thinking that one of my hands must surely hold his piece of rawhide.
"How dare you?" I snarled again, coming closer to Charlie. "Who feeds you? Who takes you for walks? Who takes care of you? Who doctors your owies? Who puts medicine in your ears to keep away the ear infections?"
With each question, I tapped Charlie on the nose.
And with each tap, Charlie turned his head a little farther away from me so that by the time I was finished, he couldn't even look at me.
"If you think you're getting a piece of rawhide today as a reward for growling and snarling at me, you've got another think coming," I said to Charlie.
And with that, I went back into the house.
A little while later, when I had calmed down a bit, I went back outside.
Charlie was still sitting where I had left him. As soon as the door opened, he began to pant happily again and was looking from my right hand to my left to my right -- convinced that this time, I must surely have a piece of rawhide for him.
I don't know about Charlie, but confrontations like that leave me feeling as if I have just had 10 years shaved off my life, although I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that he acted that way. He is a dog, after all.
I must say, though, confrontations like that have never been a problem with the female dogs that I have had. They have all accepted me as the alpha female in the pack, and if I have yelled "drop it" -- they have dropped whatever it was they weren't supposed to have, even if I was a hundred feet away.
But -- do you want to know what the really funny thing is?
Charlie is an exceptionally good-natured dog!
Except when he's got the sternum bone of a turkey.
Or a deer leg.
Or a gopher.
Or some frozen fish the neighbors tossed out in the woods for the raccoons. . .
LeAnn R. Ralph