My Name Is Mudd

Six o'clock on a Sunday morning.  It's still dark.  Any neighbors within shouting distance would probably like to shout, "Shut up!," and I wouldn't blame them.  At five-thirty, Bessie Anne and the cats went outside and I fired up the computer.  At five-thirty-seven, I heard Bess's footsteps on the deck by the outside bedroom door.  Before I could get up to to let her in, she took off like a bat, barking at the top of her lungs.  Six-fifteen and she's still barking.  Perfect in so many ways, Bessie has one major flaw; she is absolutely rotten when it comes to recall.  I've learned from experience that when she has her eye on something she considers a threat, she goes deaf.  If I holler or go out to see the problem, she gives a look over her shoulder and says, "Oh, good, now I've got backup!," and charges after the offender, redoubling her barking as she goes.  Thinking she might have outgrown this, I just tried again.  Big mistake.  Now her bark has taken on a note of hysteria.  I wish it were light enough to see the cause of her concern, because it is concerning to me.  She doesn't bark at just anything.  Deer, squirrels, turkeys; none of them faze her.  The last time she did this, she had a raccoon up a tree and I was scared it would come down and attack Bessie.  I heard that someone down the way is in big trouble for shooting and killing a black bear recently.  This was right in the neighborhood.  All I can offer my neighbors right now is a huge apology, because I'm not going out in the dark to see the reason why Bess is yelling.  It (whatever it is) might come down the tree.

To be continued.