Tag Archives: rabbit

Coon

Coon: (n) a raccoon

The only dog I’ve had in my adult life I picked up as a rescue and selected him because he was sitting quietly in the corner, not barking and biting at the other dogs around him.

Little did I know that the reason he was so contemplative was that he was very sick and dying. I spent the first two nights with him sitting on my shoulder, petting him and praying for him. (Some people would think it’s stupid to pray for dogs, but I have a similar humorous reaction to the term “vegan.”)funny wisdom on words that begin with a C
He was advertised as a “beagle mix.”

Much mix.

But one fellow saw him as I was walking him through the park and asked if he could purchase the animal—because he was very interested in owning a “coon dog.”

I was confused. The gentleman explained that what I had was an animal which had so much hound in him that the breeding would show up under certain circumstances in the pursuit of small wildlife.

I just shook my head in disbelief.

He asked permission to take the leash, and he walked my dog toward a small rabbit which was running around in the grass. My mutt stopped, froze like a statue, lifted his nose and stared at the little rabbit like he was offering it for consideration.

The man turned to me and said, “You see? What you got here is a coon hound.”

I laughed and replied, “Looks to me like he’s more of a pointer.”


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Ammonia

dictionary with letter A

Ammonia: (n) a colorless gas with a characteristic pungent smell which dissolves in water to give a strongly alkaline solution.

I was a punk.

What I mean by that is that I was twenty years old, married with two children and thought I knew everything. And if I didn’t, it wasn’t worth knowing.

We were poor.

Not the kind of ditch-digging poor, but impoverished … because we didn’t have jobs.

We lived in an upstairs hovel that a dump might consider suitable to deposit its trash. We tried to keep it clean, striking an agreement with the cockroaches to only come out at night.

Both of my young sons were in diapers. This was long before the practicality of Pampers. We’re talking about cloth diapers, which we kept in a pail of water in preparation for the laundromat.

So one of my downstairs neighbors took it upon herself to call Children’s Services to report our lack. They showed up and complained that the house smelled like ammonia from the diapers.

It did.

It was very difficult to disguise it. It’s similar to the situation where people own a cat and insist that the kitty litter deters the odor, until you walk in and sniff the air.

Apparently the ammonia thing was a big deal to this lady from Children’s Services. We had to go to a hearing in front of a judge to discuss our dirty laundry.

The lady railed against us in front of the magistrate for a good fifteen minutes. She closed her indictment by describing in vivid detail the stench of the ammonia in our abode.

I have never felt such a collision of emotions. I was embarrassed, enraged, convicted,  confused and basically helpless.

When my accuser was done, “Your Honor” turned to me and asked me if I had anything to say. For the first time in my young adult life, I was speechless.

So the judge stepped in, sensing my plight, and cited, “Don’t all diapers smell like either poop or ammonia?”

Although my attacker tried to object and further elaborate on the odor, the judge silenced her and dismissed the case.

I had experienced the mercy of the court.

I grew up a lot that day. We tried to wash our diapers more often, to prevent ammonia from filling the air.

It is a rather nasty, stinging aroma.

 

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Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix

Ammo

dictionary with letter A

Ammo: (n.) informal term for ammunition.

My dad decided to take my older brother and I rabbit hunting.

I didn’t want to go but I had used up all my excuses trying to dodge attending school on undesirable days.

So I was dressing, getting ready for the excursion, when my brother stomped into the room and declared to everyone, “I stored the ammo in the trunk.”

He then posed for a moment, seeking approval over both his deed and proclamation. I quickly ran into the other room and hid in the closet so as not to suffer the intensity of being knuckled on the head by my older sibling.

Once inside, with the door closed, I giggled until I cried. What a doofus!

One thing was sure–all the rabbits in Delaware County were safe for another day.

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Abracadabra

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Abracadabra: (exclam.) a word said by magicians when performing a magic trick.

You see, it’s right there in the definition. Almost every time you see the word “magic,” it’s followed by “trick.”

It’s amazing that we spend most of our lives looking at our talent, our circumstances and our potentials, hoping to wave a magic wand over them and say “abracadabra.” Then for some reason, we’re disappointed and even angry when the rabbit doesn’t leap out of the hat.

Is there magic? Or is it all just a trick? Is magic the best way to manipulate people into doing what you want them to do–or worse–doing nothing?

I remember it a little differently. Does anybody else remember, “Abracadabra, please and thank you?” I’m thinking maybe I heard it on Captain Kangaroo. I like that.

So when “abracadabra” stalls,  you move on to “please.”

Yes, sometimes it’s a good idea to abandon magic in favor of manners. Truthfully, you can get a lot further being mannerly than you can by waving a wand in the air, demanding your will. I would not decry the validity of some forms of magic, but honestly, I’ve botten much more accomplished in my life by saying “please.”

If you happen to be so talented, gifted, powerful and wealthy that you don’t ever have to ask “please,” you will end up counting your money alone in a room on Christmas Eve, waiting to be spooked by three ghosts.

Magic is interesting, but manners are powerful.

Which leads to the final part of the phrase: thank you.

Yes, as wonderful as manners may be and as much as they may bring good fortune your way, nothing is more magical and supernatural than thank you. “Thank you” is permission for life to give you more, without fear of wasting it. If I were God, I would certainly be more generous to those who knew how to compose a thank-you note.

“Thank you” is the key that unlocks every crusty heart that has given up on humanity and has decided that life is futile. Even when it’s coerced out of a little kid slurping on an ice cream cone that was just given to him by a mother who is trying to teach the value of appreciation, it still is endearing and cute as he lifts up his little head, and through globs of gooey cream, mouths, “Thwank woo.”

It makes you want to give him another cone.

So you can pursue the magic of “abracadabra,” but it’s not nearly as good as the majesty of “please.” And as magnificent as the mannerly “please” may be, there is NOTHING as powerful as “thank you.”

Of course, you can cover all your bases, and say, “Abracadabra, please and thank you.”