Good night, sweet prince!

It is with great sadness that I report the passing of Arpad the Great, the Great Pyrenees security chief of Goat Rope Farm. We enjoyed him for 8 years. He died of an apparent heart attack in his sleep while fighting off a persistent infection.

He had the great combination of being protective but non-aggressive and he was loved by those who knew him as a genial goof. He also enjoyed dragging deer carcases into the yard for a little snack.

It won't be the same place without him. May he be reborn in the Pure Land of Amida Buddha where he can work towards final liberation under the most favorable circumstances.

As Horatio said in Hamlet, "Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!"

Much diminished

One annual ritual at Goat Rope Farm this time of year is the shaving of Arpad, our Great Pyrenees security chief. After a winter of running around, barking all night in the woods and brambles and eating rotten deer carcasses and getting sick--in the line of duty--his coat is rather nasty. Plus, he's so hot that all he wants to do is lay around.

We take him to a place with a dog whispering groomer who does the job, which usually takes more than two hours. When it's all done, we learn that he is mostly composed of hair and the summer product is a fraction of the dog he used to be.

Although I'm sure the procedure makes him more comfortable, he seems self conscious for the first week or so and doesn't like to make public appearances. I hope he won't mind this exception...

That's my baby

Arpad, Great Pyrenees security chief at Goat Rope Farm, in warmer times, with a friend. Or part of one.

One of the things I admire about Arpad and the whole Great Pyrenees breed is that they are like the ideal martial artist, protective but not the least aggressive, potentially as dangerous as a gun at close range but generally unaware of and unconcerned about the fact and not in the least inclined to show it.

Most of the time, Arpad is a genial goof and occasional low thief. If we had fair elections on our dead end holler road, he's be a shoo-in for mayor.

His supreme coolness often manifests itself when we go on a 5 to 6 mile loop walk along neighboring ridges. Up at the top, there are a couple of mean Rottweilers who bark at us and threaten to attack.

Arpad generally places himself casually between us and them but considers them so far beneath him that he makes no eye contact and does not acknowledge their existence in any way. Until, that is, he gets to the end of their territory, at which point he generally leaves a massive if fragrant calling car.

The Pod abides.

Arpad's aristeia

"Aristeia" is a great Greek word that often comes up when talking about heroic epics like the Iliad. It comes from the work aristos as in aristocrat and means the best. In the context of epic, it refers to a hero's best fight or most glorious day on the battlefield.

In the Iliad several characters had aristeias, including Diomedes, Patroclus, Hector and Achilles. A full scene begins with the hero strapping on his greeves or leg protection and his cuirass or upper body armor, grabbing his shield and sword and various accouterments of war and proceeding to open up a can on the enemy. Often, this can opening is preceded by a lengthy boast about the hero's lineage and deeds.

Arpad, our recently shaven Great Pyrenees (above) had his aristeia last night. Or really this morning.

Around 4 a.m., we were awakened by the unmistakable sound of chickens in distress. The Spousal Unit ran out with a flashlight and I followed with the 12 gauge. Arpad was already in the chicken house. The flashlight soon revealed that a possum had climbed the walls of the chicken coup to where they roost. It was not the best place for me to deploy my artillery.

Arpad only barked once for a change but tried his mightiest to climb the walls. He is a genial goof most of the time but is fiercely protective of the other animals on the farm.

I dislodged the possum from his perch with a hoe and Arpad swooped in like the angel of death. It was over in a flash. When it's my time to go, I hope I die as quickly as that possum.

He killed it a couple more times for good measure. If he had a chariot, he may well have dragged its body around Goat Rope Farm the way Achilles dragged Hector around Troy.

Sic semper possumus may well be his motto.

He's a good boy. I think of him as My Sweet Little Angel Baby From Jesus In Heaven. Possums, however, may have a different opinion.

Return of the yeti

Regular readers of this blog may recall that Arpad (pronounced Arpod), the Great Pyrenees security chief of Goat Rope Farm, hit a rough spell late this summer when he had a disagreement with a motor vehicle. His tibia was broken. Surgery was had but for some reason, the plates didn't hold and the bone broke again, almost coming through the skin.

It was bad. There followed another surgery which involved metal bars going clear through his leg, which led my daughter to call him Franken-Pod. This meant the boy had to be pretty immobile and stay indoors for the first time in his life. 

Then there were days when the bars came loose and his leg smelled like a deer carcass. Like I said, it was bad. It looked like he might lose a leg. Or that we might lose a Pod.

Through it all though, he was the most amazingly patient patient, taking it all in stride.

After a while, he started really getting better. We had a scare one night when he got out and ran all over the hills barking at the bad guys like the good old days. We were afraid the leg would break again and he'd return with a blood stump.



I'm pleased to say that didn't happen. He's now back outside and on duty, taking walks when he chooses, barking at the villains, and surveying his domain, which in his mind is everything he surveys.

The Pod abides.

Two omens

I have a feeling today will be out of the ordinary, due to two omens in the last 12 hours. First, my overeducated daughter would be pleased to know that I had a dream about a zombie apocalypse. A lot of it had to do with getting the right equipment. I'll spare you the gory details, but let me just say that if you're going to rumble with flesh eating walking dead you need good gear.

The second omen occured while jogging along Ben Franklin Parkway in Philadelphia, when I saw someone walking (or being walked by) a Great Pyrenees who looked like a smaller version of Arpad, my Sweet Little Angel Baby from Jesus in Heaven. I managed to hug the beast and asked the owner how one manages such a monster in the city. I was told it wasn't easy and that a lot of walks were involved.

Something must be in the air....

NO TIME FOR LINKS TODAY.

GOAT ROPE ADVISORY LEVEL: ELEVATED