Hobo's blog

Hobo Hudson, business dog, author and farmer, shares his latest news and stories about his life and gives prudent advice to his fellow dogs, cats and other animals—humans included.


Thursday, July 28, 2011

Doggy humor: The refugees—Part 3

By Hobo Hudson

As soon as Dad and I arrived home after making a deal on the land for the sanctuary with the land owner, I raced outside to the back yard to tell my squirrel refugees the good news. I found them sitting together with Charlene, my squirrel entertainer, next to a peanut plant learning all the basics about peanut farming and admiring Charlene’s current peanut crop.

When they saw me, the mother squirrel came running toward me, and when I described what I had done for them, she gave me a big hug. Hearing about my new sanctuary, the little refugee girl stared at me with shining eyes and a smile on her face, and she immediately made plans to start farming the 5-acre block. She already knew all about growing corn, and Charlene volunteered to help her with any questions that arose on growing peanuts. As neither of them knew anything about sunflowers, I assured them that I would ask my dad to assist.

Eager to show the mother squirrel and her little daughter their new farm land, I spurred them on to follow me to the front yard where all three of us piled into the car. I barked at Dad to get his keys and drive us over to the sanctuary as fast as our old car would go. Even before we arrived, I could see in the distance that most of the squirrels I had picked up from the roadside and left at the tract of land were hard at work harvesting and storing the acorns.

Once Dad had parked the car and the mother squirrel, her daughter and I had jumped outside, I barked at the group of refugees working the land to stop for a moment and gather around us because I had great news for them. I explained that I had arranged a lease on the property and told them that I was appointing my little refugee friend I had brought with me as foresquirrel. From now on, she would be in charge of farming the land.

Immediately, my little refugee friend discussed the necessity of planting the five acres. She also spelled out that she expected all the squirrels to do what they could to assist and that anyone who was not willing to help could just move on and let the government support them.

She delegated teams. Some squirrels were to continuing harvesting and storing the acorns and others were to start planting corn, peanuts and sunflowers. Since time was growing short, she ordered them just to dig small holes and get the seeds planted for now and to wait pulling out the grass between seeds until later. She instructed the old and feebler squirrels to do the planting, while she selected the young, strong squirrels to do the digging. She also chose to have some other older squirrels work in the acorn warehouse inventorying the acorn harvest and whatever crop would arrive. Of course, a number of squirrels scoffed at her work ethic and elected to keep traveling, not willing to work for their food.

As time passed, the squirrels had weeded all the grass from the field and safely harvested all the acorns while they lived and flourished on the squirrel food and peanuts I brought over each day. By early November, the crops were ripe, and I loaned the squirrels my little red wagon to carry the bounty to the warehouse, and they turned to with a will and harvested everything within a week.

Looking over the bulging warehouse, I told the squirrels they had done a great job. There was plenty of food to sustain them over the winter, and I informed them that it was time for me to stop my daily deliveries of meals since they were now self-sufficient.

About a week later, I trotted by the sanctuary to find all the squirrels sitting dejectedly around a half empty warehouse. When I asked where all the fruits of their labor were, the squirrels told me that the government had sent a team of U.S. marshals to confiscate 50 percent of their crop as a tax to support the squirrels loitering down the road who were not willing to help in the work of growing the crop.

Gee, it looks like it just doesn’t pay to work anymore, doesn’t it?




Charlene's peanut farm


The end






                         

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My name is Hobo Hudson. I’ve always considered myself a terrier mix, and I’m going to leave it at that. I used to share my mom’s website writing about my life, but Mom’s stories somehow got in my way. So, I deemed it more appropriate to open my own blog, which also allows me to engage my siblings in writing posts if I’m running short on time. After all, I’m a busy dog. My mom helps me with my blog now and then, but I think it’s only to safeguard my good reputation. Her website, newsandtales.com, contains some great stories.
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Bruny Hudson
Bruny Hudson, manager and editor of Newsandtales.com, assists as a consultant with Hobo’s blog.
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