| Humor Articles |
John N. Felsher's Zany Adventures
 | |  | |  | |  | |  |
| Articles and photos on this website are for the viewing pleasure of patrons of this site. All articles and photos on this site are protected by the copyright laws of the United States. Any unauthorized usage is strictly prohibited. If you wish to purchase an article or photo, contact John N. Felsher as listed in the contact section. |
| Articles and photos on this website are free for your viewing pleasure, but it takes money to keep this site up and running. If you would care to help keep this site up and running for the use of all outdoors patrons, you can make a cash contribution. If you care to donate, contact John N. Felsher as listed in the contact section. |
| Protected by Copyright |
| How you can help keep this site operating |
For centuries, faithful, intelligent dogs protected their masters. They
relentlessly aided the never-ending quest for food, providing invaluable
assistance in finding, stalking and retrieving prey, but this story is NOT
about them.
Panther, a full-blooded black Labrador retriever, was as big as a
moose, but not as graceful. A lovable pain in the patoot, she loved hunting,
but wasn’t good at it. At least she had an excuse. The poor thing suffered
cataracts from birth and could only see peripherally.
Panther excelled at finding one “game” species. She believed it was
her duty to rid the world of mud turtles. Whenever we hunted, she stalked
and captured one, gnawing on it until she cracked through the shell. Then,
she ate it in a disgusting slurp.
When not eating turtles, this barking ox made more racket than a three-
legged buffalo busting through briers. One day while squirrel hunting,
Panther put her nose to the ground; never mind that squirrels reside in
trees. Maybe, she sniffed a hot turtle trail.
As she crashed through the swamp, oblivious to everything, a huge
rooting sow and two smaller pigs approached from the opposite direction.
Apparently, all three porkers suffered hearing loss because the animals
maintained their inevitable collision course. They nearly bumped snouts
before noticing each other.
The pigs squealed and hastily retreated. Panther yowled and rocketed
off in the other direction. When she discovered the pigs retreating, some
nerve returned.
She must have thought, “I’ll chase these beasts to my master. Why is
he running when he should be shooting? I did my job and chased them
right to him. Maybe, he just needs me to chase these wild pigs a little
closer!”
Being a dog of very little brain, most of it unused, she didn’t realize that
a .22 rifle loaded with shorts wouldn’t hurt 400 pounds of hoofed ham hocks
-- no matter how close she chased it! However, a 400-pound enraged sow
could do serious damage to a hunter carrying a .22.
Panther chased her friends throughout the swamp, mostly toward me
despite my best efforts to hide. When she grew tired of chasing the
porkers, they chased her. With three agitated hoofed pork chops
encompassing about 800 pounds of squealing, grunting and snorting
bacon-makings busting through underbrush with an 80-pound half-blind
black moose in hot pursuit, I returned home with an empty game bag.
Despite Panther’s misadventures, I will always have a soft spot in my
heart, or is it my head, for goofy retrievers. My next dog, Rascal, also loved
hunting -- with equal results! Half springer spaniel, half chocolate Lab and
half retarded, she could see perfectly, but completely lacked any sense.
I think her brain ran backwards because she frequently started high
tailing it in the opposite direction whenever she accidentally flushed
something. Once, a rabbit burst from a brush clump two feet from me.
Rascal had run up and down that trail several times. Her wagging tongue
and nose passed within inches of that wascally wabbit without getting a
clue. I stuck Rascal’s nose where the rabbit had flushed. Excited, she
ripped through the thicket in hot pursuit -- in the opposite direction, of
course!
On another occasion, I downed a beautiful drake wood duck and
retrieved it myself while Rascal gallivanted all over the swamp. I placed the
duck in a low bush so she wouldn’t eat it.
Only wounded, the duck recovered long enough to jump into a pond.
Vainly, I called Rascal for help. Since she was a retriever, this sort of fit her
job description. Must have been a Retriever’s Union break time. I waded
into the pond. Unable to fly, but still swimming lively, the duck retreated. I
advanced; the duck stayed just out of arm’s length as we moved across the
pond in a cold, wet ballet.
I didn’t want to shoot it and ruin a mount. Soon, icy water poured over
my boots and down my pants. The pond grew deeper and colder and mud
thicker with each soggy step. Finally, shivering and facing hypothermia, I
shot the duck, ruining what would have been a handsome mount.
At the report, Rascal returned from her adventures. She sniffed the
duck as if to say, “Great, you retrieved lunch. I’m starved after running all
over the swamp. Make a fire to cook it. I broke a sweat and am starting to
get a little chilly.”
Rascal performed even worse at fishing than hunting. As spring began
to thaw the frozen landscape of upstate New York where we lived for a time,
my wife urged -- or begged -- me to take Rascal fishing. Before we knew it,
both of us faced the door from the cold side. From inside, I distinctly heard
the dead bolt click, followed by maniacal laughter.
We walked to a nearby creek. As a Southerner, I didn’t know much
about brook trout fishing. I knew one thing -- it takes stealth to string trout.
Creeping silently along the shoreline, I spied a small, placid pool filled with
several large trout. Fortunately, thick bushes concealed my approach,
except for one small clearing that offered an outstanding casting spot.
Slowly, silently, I stalked with the caution of a professional hunter
approaching a wounded lion. Rascal had disappeared, as usual. Just a
few more steps and I would have fresh trout for dinner.
Suddenly, underbrush exploded in a chocolate tornado. A blurry
brown meteor split bushes, hurtled into the once placid pool with jowls
flapping and detonated among the fish. Rascal snapped at terrified fish as
they shot through riffles to escape the Tongue of Death.
Like a water buffalo, she wallowed after chasing any fish from the
mudhole. Then, she turned three circles and plopped into the water as if to
say, “This swimming pool isn’t so bad once all those pesky fish
disappeared. All this exercise made me hot. I think I’ll just nap here for a
while.”
After refreshing herself, she thought I should cool off. She showered
me with icy, muddy water and sticky hot slobber. Dogs are so thoughtful.
From now on, I think I’ll hunt – and fish -- with somebody else’s dog. They
are less bothersome that way!
relentlessly aided the never-ending quest for food, providing invaluable
assistance in finding, stalking and retrieving prey, but this story is NOT
about them.
Panther, a full-blooded black Labrador retriever, was as big as a
moose, but not as graceful. A lovable pain in the patoot, she loved hunting,
but wasn’t good at it. At least she had an excuse. The poor thing suffered
cataracts from birth and could only see peripherally.
Panther excelled at finding one “game” species. She believed it was
her duty to rid the world of mud turtles. Whenever we hunted, she stalked
and captured one, gnawing on it until she cracked through the shell. Then,
she ate it in a disgusting slurp.
When not eating turtles, this barking ox made more racket than a three-
legged buffalo busting through briers. One day while squirrel hunting,
Panther put her nose to the ground; never mind that squirrels reside in
trees. Maybe, she sniffed a hot turtle trail.
As she crashed through the swamp, oblivious to everything, a huge
rooting sow and two smaller pigs approached from the opposite direction.
Apparently, all three porkers suffered hearing loss because the animals
maintained their inevitable collision course. They nearly bumped snouts
before noticing each other.
The pigs squealed and hastily retreated. Panther yowled and rocketed
off in the other direction. When she discovered the pigs retreating, some
nerve returned.
She must have thought, “I’ll chase these beasts to my master. Why is
he running when he should be shooting? I did my job and chased them
right to him. Maybe, he just needs me to chase these wild pigs a little
closer!”
Being a dog of very little brain, most of it unused, she didn’t realize that
a .22 rifle loaded with shorts wouldn’t hurt 400 pounds of hoofed ham hocks
-- no matter how close she chased it! However, a 400-pound enraged sow
could do serious damage to a hunter carrying a .22.
Panther chased her friends throughout the swamp, mostly toward me
despite my best efforts to hide. When she grew tired of chasing the
porkers, they chased her. With three agitated hoofed pork chops
encompassing about 800 pounds of squealing, grunting and snorting
bacon-makings busting through underbrush with an 80-pound half-blind
black moose in hot pursuit, I returned home with an empty game bag.
Despite Panther’s misadventures, I will always have a soft spot in my
heart, or is it my head, for goofy retrievers. My next dog, Rascal, also loved
hunting -- with equal results! Half springer spaniel, half chocolate Lab and
half retarded, she could see perfectly, but completely lacked any sense.
I think her brain ran backwards because she frequently started high
tailing it in the opposite direction whenever she accidentally flushed
something. Once, a rabbit burst from a brush clump two feet from me.
Rascal had run up and down that trail several times. Her wagging tongue
and nose passed within inches of that wascally wabbit without getting a
clue. I stuck Rascal’s nose where the rabbit had flushed. Excited, she
ripped through the thicket in hot pursuit -- in the opposite direction, of
course!
On another occasion, I downed a beautiful drake wood duck and
retrieved it myself while Rascal gallivanted all over the swamp. I placed the
duck in a low bush so she wouldn’t eat it.
Only wounded, the duck recovered long enough to jump into a pond.
Vainly, I called Rascal for help. Since she was a retriever, this sort of fit her
job description. Must have been a Retriever’s Union break time. I waded
into the pond. Unable to fly, but still swimming lively, the duck retreated. I
advanced; the duck stayed just out of arm’s length as we moved across the
pond in a cold, wet ballet.
I didn’t want to shoot it and ruin a mount. Soon, icy water poured over
my boots and down my pants. The pond grew deeper and colder and mud
thicker with each soggy step. Finally, shivering and facing hypothermia, I
shot the duck, ruining what would have been a handsome mount.
At the report, Rascal returned from her adventures. She sniffed the
duck as if to say, “Great, you retrieved lunch. I’m starved after running all
over the swamp. Make a fire to cook it. I broke a sweat and am starting to
get a little chilly.”
Rascal performed even worse at fishing than hunting. As spring began
to thaw the frozen landscape of upstate New York where we lived for a time,
my wife urged -- or begged -- me to take Rascal fishing. Before we knew it,
both of us faced the door from the cold side. From inside, I distinctly heard
the dead bolt click, followed by maniacal laughter.
We walked to a nearby creek. As a Southerner, I didn’t know much
about brook trout fishing. I knew one thing -- it takes stealth to string trout.
Creeping silently along the shoreline, I spied a small, placid pool filled with
several large trout. Fortunately, thick bushes concealed my approach,
except for one small clearing that offered an outstanding casting spot.
Slowly, silently, I stalked with the caution of a professional hunter
approaching a wounded lion. Rascal had disappeared, as usual. Just a
few more steps and I would have fresh trout for dinner.
Suddenly, underbrush exploded in a chocolate tornado. A blurry
brown meteor split bushes, hurtled into the once placid pool with jowls
flapping and detonated among the fish. Rascal snapped at terrified fish as
they shot through riffles to escape the Tongue of Death.
Like a water buffalo, she wallowed after chasing any fish from the
mudhole. Then, she turned three circles and plopped into the water as if to
say, “This swimming pool isn’t so bad once all those pesky fish
disappeared. All this exercise made me hot. I think I’ll just nap here for a
while.”
After refreshing herself, she thought I should cool off. She showered
me with icy, muddy water and sticky hot slobber. Dogs are so thoughtful.
From now on, I think I’ll hunt – and fish -- with somebody else’s dog. They
are less bothersome that way!
Useless dogs I've known and loved
