Category: Animals

Fowl play

I was leaving the grocery store recently when my wife called. I answered and she said, “YOU NEED TO COME HOME. NOW.”

Based on this tone, this was not something I had done. I knew this, because that tone was not the one someone would use had I, say, left the toilet seat up. That’s the tone for someone who has just been caught replacing the dining room furniture with a video game arcade. And I knew I had not committed any egregious acts, so it had to be something I had not done, but needed to take care of.

“What’s wrong?”

“There is a BIRD in the house.”

Uh-oh. Now, my wife is a very patient woman, and very understanding that we are a family of animal lovers. She has evolved immensely over the years as snakes and lizards and possums and such have made their way into our house. But she draws the line at birds. They are welcome at the feeders. They can nest in the boxes. But they better stay outside. And this one had not.

I told her I would head that way. I asked her what kind of bird it was and where it was. “I don’t know because I’m outside,” was her very direct response. She then said, “My computer bag is inside and I have a work call in 15 minutes. You need to COME HOME NOW.”

The grocery store is just across the street, so normally this wouldn’t be a problem. However, I had just dropped our son off to go fishing a few blocks away. If I went home for a bird rescue without him, he would be devastated. “I need to get Parker first,” I said. She reminded me that the clock was ticking and that there was a BIRD IN THE HOUSE!

I drove to where Parker was fishing and rolled down the window. “There’s a bird in the house.”

As if we had rehearsed this 100 times, Parker quickly packed up his fishing gear and sprinted to the car.

As we were pulling into the neighborhood, my phone rang. I looked at the screen. It read “Parker’s phone.”

I looked at Parker and showed it to him. He put his hands in both pockets and said, “Where’s my phone!?!?!”

I answered the call. A voice on the other end said, “Hi, I found this phone on the road…”

I swung around and turned back toward the fishing spot. I called my wife. She skipped the usual “hello” and answered with, “WHERE ARE YOU!?!?”

I responded, “I need you to not freak out…” I told her that Parker had dropped his phone and we would be there as soon as possible. Her silence was not one of a pleased person. Tick-tock. Tick-tock

We arrived at the fishing spot and a nice young man was waiting for us with the phone. We gave a very quick, “Thank you thank you thank you!” and then made our way back to the neighborhood a second time.

We pulled into the driveway and my wife was sitting on the front porch She was wearing sunglasses, which meant I could not see the daggers she was no doubt shooting into me.

We sprinted inside to confront our avian invader. Nothing. Not a thing. Just a backdoor that I had left wide open earlier during the very pleasant day. We checked the house twice. Disappointed, we went outside. “It’s gone,” I said.

“Go check again.”

We did. Nothing. Later that night, as my wife was planning to head upstairs for bed, she turned to me and said, “If I get upstairs and find a bird…”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but my guess is she would have been less mad had she gone upstairs and found I had replaced our bedroom furniture with a video game arcade.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike or at www.mikeslife.us.

Animals

Maddux the Only Dog

I wrote a while back about the passing of our beloved dog, Murphy the Excitable Dachshund. I appreciate the kind words that you all sent regarding our sweet pup.

This column is not a rehash of that, as I think we can all use good news to start 2018.

Rather, this is about his little brother, Maddux the Stoic, and his life adjusting as an only dog.

Murphy was about 15 pounds, and Maddux is about 80. That said, Murphy was the clear alpha. He would command respect and Maddux would never demur. Murphy says it’s his time to eat? Maddux would back away. Murphy says he wants the blanket? Maddux would move.

Maddux is a big, tough looking dog, but in Murphy’s presence, he really didn’t do much to properly reflect his appearance. Murphy was the big brother, and Maddux accepted that role.

As Murphy declined, Maddux had a hard time adjusting with it. They slept in crates next to each other, and each morning, they would both run out into the backyard together. As Murphy slowed, it confused Maddux. I would get them up in the mornings and open both of their crates. Maddux would dart out and stand at the back door. I would open it, but he would not go out until Murphy came with him. Toward the end, I would have to go retrieve Murphy and help him out. And Maddux would stand at the back door until I had delivered his big (even though he’s little) brother.

So when Murphy passed, we wondered what would happen with Maddux. Would he experience doggie depression? Would he be confused by the changed dynamic? Would he need another companion to take Murphy’s place?

Short answer: He was confused for about three days, wondering where his buddy was, sniffing around and being all kinds of out of sorts. And then he realized this is his world now.

To wit:

Maddux, who has never been a table begger, has taken countless things off of our counter (including a large pizza), and does so with an absolutely unapologetic look after the fact. Murphy, before age betrayed him, was an adept climber and jumper and masterful food thief. I can only wonder how many times we found some dinner piece on the kitchen floor and assumed Murphy had done it, unknowing that Maddux was the actual culprit.
Maddux has always liked his crate as his home base, and when Murphy was in his, Maddux wouldn’t leave his side. Bedtime used to be completely crate time. He would go there long before we were ready to go bed. Now? The world is his home base. Can’t find Maddux anywhere? Hmm. Let’s go exploring. Hey, look. He’s sleeping on my shoes in the closet. Or on the bath mat in the guest bathroom. Or on my laptop bag that’s in the den. He will sleep wherever he chooses.
He has turned into the whiniest little baby about treats. I have always kept treats for our dogs, and a couple of times a day they get a little snack. When Murphy was around, Maddux would sit patiently while Murphy took the first treat. He would then calmly take his and be done. Now? When I walk in from work, Maddux begins an aggressive tap dance right by where the treats are on the counter, as if to say, “I DON’T HAVE TO WAIT FOR HIM ANYMORE SO WHERE ARE MY BEGGIN’ STRIPS!!!”

I guess I am glad that he is finding is own way post-Murphy. I was worried he would have issues without having his buddy around, but in the end it’s clear that he’s adjusting fine and it A-OK with being an only dog. We are all learning to adapt our world, and that’s OK. And the most important way we have to adapt is to make darn sure we don’t leave a pizza on the counter.

Animals Family Uncategorized

Rest easy, Murphy

My house is now a little less exciting. We have said our final goodbye to Murphy the Excitable Dachshund, a good boy whose body betrayed him at the end.

The decision to set him free was not an easy one, but it was one that was necessary. Our Murphy had left, and the only thing that remained was a shell of the dog who had brought so much joy to our world for more than a decade.

I don’t want to remember the final days. Rather, I want to remember the days when he was the vibrant scoundrel who was playful, energetic and spirited.

We never planned for Murphy. I had a co-worker years ago who tragically passed away. He had two dogs, and his brother didn’t know what to do with them. I told him I would take the dogs and try and find them good homes. The first dog was an adorable puppy. Found him a home in about 10 minutes. Murphy? For some reason, he wasn’t on anyone’s must-have list. We had a friend take him for a test drive for a night, but it was not meant to be. So he ended up back at our house. My wife and I were sitting out one evening, our orphan pup sitting between us, when my wife said, “He really is a sweet dog…” Sold.

And thus Murphy became ours. (Or we became his, depending on how you see it.)

Murphy the Excitable Dachshund was was an amazing escape artist, who would routinely venture out from our yard to go find new adventures. I never saw that as him leaving us, but rather him saying, “What are you guys doing inside? There are people to go and meet!”

Because of his wandering tendencies, we had a tag with our phone number on his collar. I routinely got calls from folks who had made Murphy’s acquaintance.

We lived on a polo field a few years ago, and Murphy loved to go and greet the polo matches that were out there. I remember one time when some nice folks called us with the news that they had Murphy. I told them I would go out on the field and get him, and they responded, “Actually we’re at a different field now. He was having so much fun with us we kept him with us for a while.” So Murphy was the kind of dog that you would want to kind of dognap for a short time.

One kind soul picked him up one day, and tracked me down at work. I offered to go pick him up, and she said that she could bring him to me in about an hour. “I was making me a steak for lunch, so I’ve made him one, too. Can I bring him up after that?” Murphy was a most talented grifter.

In his prime, he was also an expert critter hunter. If a critter came into our yard, he would find it, and he would bark relentlessly. He especially loved cornering possums. Under Murphy’s watch, we had exactly zero possum attacks thanks to his vigilance.

On his final day, I took Murphy to our vet. My wife was meeting me there. I checked in with the vet office, Murphy in my arms, swaddled in a blanket. I told the tech I was waiting on my wife, and I was going to sit out on a bench outside in front of the office and wait for her. As Murphy and I sat on the bench, enjoying our last few minutes of sunlight together, a woman emerged from a store a few doors down. She walked towards me and said, “Is he OK?”

“No,” I said. “This is his last vet visit.”

And she did something that makes the world a better place. She came over and gave me a big hug, and said, “I’m so sorry.” She sat down on the bench with me, and talked with Murphy and told him that he was a good boy, which he was, mostly. About a minute later, my wife arrived. The woman stood up and gave my wife a big hug, and said, “I’m so sorry.” She then said, “I’ll let you be alone,” patted Murphy and told him again he was a good dog. And then she walked off. I am fairly certain she disappeared in a sparkly tornado of fairy dust as she walked away.

We went in a few minutes later, and the vet’s office let Murphy go into his eternal slumber with dignity. He sat in my lap, as my wife patted his head, and went to a place where he no longer hurt.

Later that night, I stepped out back. I heard a rustling in a tree. I went back inside and grabbed a flashlight. After a short search, I found a possum nestled a good 40 feet up. While I know how the world works and the realities therein, I sometimes choose to ignore those. And I ignore those now. Because it makes me feel better. Murphy had let us know about one more possum. Rest easy, old pal.

Animals

Squirrels will be squirrels

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date May 28, 2017
No Comments on Squirrels will be squirrels

Alright, squirrels. Enough is enough.

I have been accepting of squirrels for a long time. I get that plenty of folks don’t like them. But I find them somewhat entertaining, and I am willing to let them take part in my feeders. In fact, I adopted my father’s approach on this: Call them squirrel feeders, and then you are pleasantly surprised when birds show up.

But this has gotten out of hand.

By my estimate, I am on my 4,000th consecutive day of having to repair a feeder because squirrels make it so we can’t have nice things.

I have one small feeder I keep right on my porch. My back porch is my default home office, and I spend as much time out there as I can, as I enjoy being able to sit in peace and quiet for a good six seconds until the door slides open and someone says, “Dad, (insert sibling here) did (insert annoying thing one sibling did to the other that could easily be ignored but has to be a national emergency instead).”

But during my few moments of solitude, I enjoy seeing numerous different types of birds come to the feeder. We have a good understanding: I’ll keep the feeder stocked, and they will flit up and give me a nice moment of nature to enjoy.

The squirrels do not approach when I am on the deck. I will occasionally see them walking the fence or scurrying about in the trees. But they keep a wide berth when I am outside. And I think I know why. I think they know that if they approach, they will get a good talking to as to why, when I came outside, my feeder was on the ground again, and sunflower seeds were strewn about the yard.

Science fact: Squirrels loathe a good talking-to.

The feeder I have is not a fancy one at all. It’s a small wooden one that is easily dislodged by a couple of playfully destructive squirrels swinging it back and forth. I know there are numerous anti-squirrel feeders out there. Some of them quite hilariously sling the squirrels off. If you haven’t seen it, off to YouTube with you.

But there are two problems with the squirrel-proof feeders: (1) I kinda like the squirrels (2) my feeder is already in place and getting another one would require both time and money, neither of which I am readily eager to dispense with.

As I came out to my deck to write this column, I found the feeder on the ground again. And I had made the rookie mistake of leaving the bag of sunflower seeds in a chair on the deck, so the squirrels had also happily torn into that and left shells all over my deck. Really, squirrels? This is how you thank me?

I considered bringing them to the table for a summit to iron out our differences and find some common ground. But squirrels are notoriously stubborn negotiators, so I knew this would be a non-starter. Thus, I have decided on the only option left for me. I am going nuclear: I am now classifying my feeder as a bird feeder. You hear that squirrels? Yeah. I did it. This is for the birds. In a good way.

I hate to have to bring the hammer down in such a strict manner. But if there is one thing that raising children has taught me it’s that sometimes, you have to make the hard decisions for the long-term greater good.

My hope is that the squirrels will understand this harsh change and learn and grow. To any of my neighborhood squirrels reading this who have not been destructive to my feeder, I’m sorry that you are being punished for the bad actions of a few. But that is life.

I’m glad we are at a point where we can move past this, and I look forward to the time when I can welcome you back to the feeder, and you have matured to the point where you can show it the respect it deserves.

Also I’m guessing that some time around, oh, say, tomorrow, I will be buying a squirrel proof feeder.

Animals Childhood Family

Hook, pain and Parker.

My son loves to go fishing. We have ponds near our house, and he spends countless hours with a line in the water.

Oftentimes, he goes by himself, which is an awesome thing for a 14-year-old boy to go do. Just set off on your own, fishing pole in hand, and chill by the water.

But this night, he wanted his mom to come with him. I was cooking dinner, and he asked her if she would come and see his new lure in action. “Sure,” she said.

Parker, about 20 seconds before it all went south.

Fast forward about 10 minutes. I’m in the kitchen, happily watching Jeopardy! and getting our dinner prepped, thinking about how lovely it was that my wife was with our son, sitting on the bank of a serene pond, watching the bass tease the lure, just enjoying a lovely spring evening.

And then my phone rang. It was my wife. “GET DOWN TO THE POND NOW! PARKER HAS A HOOK IN HIS HAND!”

Now, first know this — my wife is the ace when it comes to first aid. She has tended to kids with a magnolia branch in the eyeball, stitch-requiring head wounds, and countless numbers of fluid expulsions from goodness knows where. She does not flinch at things like that. She goes into uber-cool robo-Docmom mode.

However, the one thing none of the previous medical emergencies had in common with this one – this one had a large bass attached to the medical problem. Even after more than 20 years in my family, she will admit to not being the biggest up close and personal fan of animals. She likes them at a distance, but certainly not inches away when she tries to perform first aid on her son.

I put dinner aside and grabbed a hook remover out of my son’s tackle box. It’s basically a pair of clamps on a long shaft that helps you remove a hook without getting yourself snarled in the hook when a fish thrashes. In retrospect, he probably should have taken it with him.

I arrived on the scene and my son was down at the base of the water. My wife was pointing to him, but that was really not necessary, as anyone within about 500 yards could hear my son. “THIS HURTS! THIS HURTS! THIS HURTS! DAD LOOK AT THE SIZE OF THIS BASS! THIS HURTS!”

I got to my son and assessed the situation. The lure had a total of four treble hooks. Two were in the fish. Two were in Parker. Using the hook remover, I quickly backed the first one out of Parker. I went to get the other one, and Parker let out an unholy yowl that you do not want to be responsible for causing in your child.

“OK,” I said. “Let’s get the fish free.”

The fish apparently heard me, as it decided that would be a good time to thrash wildly. At that point, a neighbor came over, having heard the commotion. The neighbor held the fish steady, and offered words of encouragement to Parker. I was able to free the fish, and he pitched it in the water. It swam off, no doubt laughing at the vengeance it had extracted.

There was one last hook stuck in Parker. Unfortunately, it has one of those reverse barbs in it, so backing the hook out was not going to be an option, unless I wanted to tear Parker’s skin to do it. Parker made it very clear he was not on board with that.

The neighbor got a wire snip, and I was able to clip the hook and slide it out where the barb didn’t catch. Free at last.

We got him home and cleaned up the wound. He’ll be fine, and no doubt back fishing probably by tomorrow. Just a hunch if anyone goes with him, it won’t be my wife.

Animals

Dog day afternoon (and morning and evening)

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date November 3, 2016
No Comments on Dog day afternoon (and morning and evening)

My wife and I are dog people. We had a cat for a long time, and she was the most evil creature the world has ever put forth. We kept her for the entire 18 years of her life, despite many people over the years suggesting we get rid of her. We could not do that, as she was our cat, and even though she may have made us question our sanity at times, we had a responsibility. And part of that responsibility, apparently, was to randomly get attacked by a mewling ball of rage as we sat on the couch watching TV.

Our cat left us a few years back, and we decided then we would be a dog-only family from that point forward. The one caveat I have issued is that, should we ever have a barn, I would like to get a barn cat. Since we do not have plans ever to have a barn, I think we will be OK.

We currently have two dogs, a spry and loveable boxer named Maddux, and an old and grouchy Dachshund named Murphy. If you are a cat person, I have no issue with your personal inter-species preference. We are just, well, dog people. That said, as dog people, there are a few areas in which I ask the dog species on the whole to up their game a little bit, just to make sure there is no room for us to consider seeking another species:

I often sit on my back deck working. And over the course of any given hour, I estimate that I open our sliding glass door roughly 23,000 times per hour to let dogs in and out and in and out and in and out. Please. Inside or out. Pick one.
I’ve seen what you eat out in the yard. It’s nasty. So when a piece of cucumber falls on the kitchen floor, please stop pretending you’re better than that. Vacuum that up like you did the squirrel carcass the other day.
Yes, we are lenient on our furniture rules and let you hop up on couches and beds and such. That said, be happy with that. There is no need for a dozen rapid spinning turns, digging at pillows, flinging couch cushions onto the floor so that you can wedge yourself into some never-before-created couch crater.
We have established that you do not like fleas, and thus we spend good money to make sure you have the best preventative medicine out there. Once a month, you have to take one small pill to make sure you don’t get infested with the pests. Please don’t make us set out a family budget line item on cheese or turkey slices to get you to take it. Just eat it.
If I am inside and you are outside and would like to come in, one bark will do. I heard you. Can I please finish pouring my cup of coffee before you let off a series of barks and yelps as if a pack of wolves was closing in on you?
When we go on walks, I get that there are a lot of really amazing smells out there. And lots of territory to be marked. Could you maybe skip every, say, tenth one? A 30-minute walk should go more than 50 feet.
Those treats you love so much? Please remember that if I have no fingers, it will be difficult to give them to you. Gentle.

Dogs, you’ve got my vote. I’m solidly in your camp. So if you could just take a few of these small steps to ensure we stay a dog family, that would be great. And, of course, thanks for not randomly attacking us while we sit on the couch watching TV.

Adventures Animals Childhood Family

The possum king

Sometimes, you’re just where you’re supposed to be in life.

I was off to my local grocery store recently, as I was hunting and gathering for the night’s spaghetti and meatball dinner. I parked and headed into the store. As I approached the entrance on the right side of the store, I noticed there was a barricade of carts blocking off the entrance. Odd, I thought. Perhaps the door was broken. Perhaps a customer had dropped a jar of Newman’s Own spaghetti sauce, and the staff was cleaning it up, and it was the last jar of fire roasted tomato and garlic and thus I was not only going to be inconvenienced but spaghetti and meatball night would be just ruined.

I walked toward the other entrance. I saw a young employee emptying trash cans and asked him why the door was barricaded, bracing myself for the possibility of there not being fire roasted tomato and garlic sauce. “There was a possum by the trash can,” he said.

My time to shine.

I reversed course and went back to the barricaded area. I separated two carts and stepped into the quarantined area. There, behind a trash can, was a medium-sized possum, doing what possums do, which is mainly nothing.

As I was sizing up the situation, the door opened. A manager emerged. I took the lead. “I’ll get the possum for you.” He was not quite sure what to make of this. “Trust me, I’ve done this plenty,” I said. Which is true.

I pulled out my phone and called my son, who was on a bike ride in the area. When he answered, I said, “Hey, meet me at the grocery store. We’ve got a possum.” “Be there in a second,” he said. It’s how we roll.

The manager said that he was going to call a pest control company and that he was absolutely not asking me to get the possum. “It’s OK,” I said. “All on me.” I should carry around an “I’ve got this” waiver form.

About that time, my son pulled up on his bike. “Where’s the possum?” he said, in full-on mission mode.

A crowd was gathering at the store door as well as on the sidewalk. I saw the little critter’s tale at the back of the trash can. I told my son I was going to grab it, but he was the front flank, should I miss. (Fun fact: I never miss.)

I darted my hand in and grabbed the possum’s tale and pulled it out from behind the trash can. At this point, I realized I had not planned my exit strategy 100 percent. I said to Parker, “Here, hold this,” and handed him the possum. As I walked to my car to get a cloth bag, I looked over my shoulder and saw a lot of folks staring at my 13-year-old, standing just outside the grocery store front door, holding a possum. I am sure several folks had some parenting questions about me.

I returned with the bag and Parker dropped him in. I tied up the handles, which would be plenty sufficient for the short transport to some nearby woods.

I had quite a few questions from the onlookers. What was I going to do with it? Can’t it bite you? Why? (Answers: Release it. Yes. Because why not?)

I know we’re not the normal family when it comes to wildlife. I’m the son of a biologist who grew up catching critters. My son has led a similar path. We know which ones we can handle and which ones we can’t. Possums, we certainly can. I just wanted to get the little fella off into some woods so he could go do his possum thing for the rest of his life, which I hope does not include staring blankly into oncoming car headlights.

When I returned a short while later for my actual grocery shopping, the store staff shared with me that their day at work had been kinda cool thanks to the possum adventure. Glad I could help.

The grocery store now has, by my count, zero possums. And, more importantly, by my count, plenty of fire roasted tomato and garlic spaghetti sauce.

Adventures Animals Childhood Family

When the Backup Wingman steps up

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date June 9, 2016
No Comments on When the Backup Wingman steps up

My son and I find a lot of critters together. It’s what we do when we have free time. We go out and find cool stuff.

Animals Family

Murphy’s law

Murphy defends his home turf against all intruders.

I have had some great dogs in my life. I’m talking first ballot Hall of Famers.

When I was a kid, I had BD, a German Shepherd who was the greatest dog a boy could ever have. When I was in college, I had Montgomery, a purebred mutt that was the first joint purchase my wife and I made some 20 years ago and was the most loyal friend you could ever ask for. We had Maggie the Attack Basset, a noble and gentle soul who showed aggression at about the same level as a dandelion. And we currently have Maddux the Stoic, a boxer who is regal and obedient and fiercely protective.

It’s like a Mt. Rushmore of canine companionship.

And then there’s Murphy. Murphy is our Dachshund. He’s kinda dumpy. Our vet once suggested he go on a diet, as he was meatloaf shaped. He really doesn’t listen well. Or, really, at all. I’m pretty sure his eyesight is going, mainly based on the fact that he routinely walks into the sliding glass door when trying to go outside.

He has never met a trash can he has not tried to turn over. If there is trash inside the can, all the better. Let’s spread it around the kitchen for everyone to enjoy! No trash? No problem! Let’s tip it over and just root around inside and shred the plastic bag.

When we take him to the beach, he will go to the ocean and drink the water.

If you are in the kitchen, there is no place he would rather be than between your feet, usually stealthily sneaking up there so that you don’t realize he’s there until you almost trip over him as you go to open the oven.

Murphy does not have the toughness of BD. He doesn’t have the loyalty of Montgomery. He doesn’t have the royal disposition of Maggie. And he doesn’t have the stoicism of Maddux.

He’s got bum eyes, a bit of a girth issue, an inability to pay attention, and an appetite for destruction in the kitchen, of things both inanimate and animate. Not exactly the things you put on your dog resume.

But you know what, that dog does have something none of the others I’ve had did: He has the ability to appear positively worthless, but also be just an awesome dog for just being who he is.

We got Murphy about 10 years ago. A co-worker passed away, and we ended up with Murphy. We had planned to find Murphy a home, and we tried a couple of places here and there, to no avail. My wife and I were sitting with him one night, planning for the next step for finding him a home. “You know,” my wife said. “He’s a pretty sweet dog…”

And so it was written. Murphy joined our home. Murphy routinely dug out of the yard and would end up all over the place. We always got a call (our number is on his collar), usually from someone who had picked him up in the middle of a road, where he walked down the middle of the street, oblivious to every danger around him.

It’s not like he was trying to escape. Well, I guess he was escaping. But he wasn’t doing it with any urgency. He was just ambling about, seeing where life took him.

And I guess that’s what I admire about Murphy. He’s all about where life takes him. He sees something he wants to do, and he just does it. He’s got no strings attached to life, no real higher purpose, and no reason to do anything but what he feels like he should do next.

Don’t get me wrong. He does have some upsides. He likes to snuggle up with my wife, assuming he can sit wherever he wants. And he is a very good defender against enemies of the house, making sure to bark soundly at possums, armadillos, box turtles, and the occasional imaginary invader. But he’s just kinda living by his own creed. Life is on his dime.

There is something enviable about the fact that he just lives his life how we wants to. The other great dogs in my life — they sought me out for affirmation (and dog biscuits). Murphy’s good in his own fur. He’ll just live his life how he wants to, thank you very much.

Now lest you think he is some sociopathic drifter who just occupies my house as a captive plotting revenge and escape, I assure you — he is not a cat. He’s just a simple creature with a simple goal in life — go and be Murphy. And sometimes, that’s OK.

That’s worth at least a few votes on his first Hall of Fame ballot.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Charleston. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

Adventures Animals Childhood Family

Captain Hook

I’m not sure what hurt my son more: The fact that his sister caught a fish before him, or the hook in his hand.

Oh, wait. Yes, I do. It was the hook. Definitely the hook.

It happened while surf fishing recently. Both of the kids had their fishing poles rigged up and baited with some delicious mullet. I had a blanket spread out on the beach and was prepared to enjoy the sunset and read a book because, let’s face it, the only time we’ve ever come close to catching our limit would be if the limit was zero.