CSI,* YORK TOWNSHIP
40 years ago D.B. Cooper hijacked a 727 airliner, extorted a $200,000 ransom, and parachuted into the great Northwest. Extensive FBI and amateur searches have found no trace of him. I’m thinking a trace might be a pretty optimistic chunk considering the altitude where D.B. deplaned. The FBI searched Washington and Oregon, and while it’s preferable to be in Washington or Oregon, there’s a fair chance he populates the soil on both sides of the border. The case remains unsolved.
The disappearance of D.B. Cooper is a major FBI unsolved crime, but they wouldn't have any better luck figuring out the everyday goings-on at Gron-acres. It’s these niggling little mysteries that eventually drive you crazy.
Bart and Homer live about a mile down the road. I’m not sure how these mutts found us because our house is down a thousand-foot lane and out of sight from the road. But here they came, trotting toward my 3 dogs. I figured I was about to see something that would make Michael Vick shudder in anticipation, but I was wrong. Those 5 dogs––Bart, Homer, and my dogs––Obe, Ellie, and Norah––did the requisite stern-to-bow meet and greet, and everything was copacetic.
We have wide, mowed walking paths through our property, and Bart and Homer joined us on our morning stroll. They came back every few days, and all 5 pooches had a great time.
I became a little concerned about my dogs catching something from these otherwise nice visitors because there were no rabies tags on their collars and they had more ticks than Big Ben. I am not a wuss––these engorged ticks were the size of green grapes. Additionally, some chunks of Bart's fur weren’t as tightly attached as others. So, I decided we’d better end the visits. I loaded them in the truck and delivered them to their own yard.
I have no idea how those two got back to my house before I did, but that wasn’t the strangest thing. Our front gate has a latch on the outside , and you must lift it straight up by hand, not by paw. Yet, the gate was open, my dogs had split, and Homer and Bart were lying on my front porch. I schlepped them home again.  |
| Obe Norah Ellie The right dogs on the right porch at the right time |
Homer and Bart came back a couple of times a week, unlatched the lock, opened the gate, released my dogs, and then took up residence on our porch. When our girls did return, usually they were wearing sand-burr body suits, head to tail. My worst worry was that they wouldn't return at all.
I called the dogs’ owner and explained the problem. She said she’d take care of it, and she did.
The question is how? When I drive past their house, I see Homer and Bart running around free as birds, yet they never come back to our place. No one would mistake them for obedience class valedictorians, so I doubt a simple discussion did the trick.
And now I feel guilty. Who says dogs don’t have feelings?
I kind of miss them.
* Curiously Strange Incidents
More about ticks:
More about dogs navigational systems:
To read a pitiful FBI account about failure to find D.B. Cooper:
http://www.fbi.gov/news/stories/2007/december/dbcooper_123107
