Jeanette, color critic extraordinare

Great Aunt Jeanette was not the sort of lady for mincing words.  In fact her words were usually punctuated with mostly things we shouldn't be repeating, in good company at least.  And said LOUD and grumbly, a deep low baritone voice on a small but solidly built woman.  A voice that carried across rooms, reverberating against church windows, rattling teacups. 
She was often described as being able to "swear a sailor under a table" and this would certainly be the truth.  And very colorful language indeed.  Lots of references of "witch's tits" and "sonofabitching..."
One of our particular fond favorites was the loud and frequent use of the term "owl shit."  As in, "Welllll...That's just a piece of OWWWWLLLLLL shit."  (Loud and long emphasis on "owl").  Just think about that for a minute.  We assume she is referring to owl pellets.   The regurgitated pieces of rodent bodies, encased in nasty dark sticky solid goo, that frequent the floors of our barns.  That's some darn good swearing right there!
So why Grandma Roberta ever thought to take Jeanette along to visit the newly renovated house of the local community "artiste," we'll never know.  It was not perhaps, in hindsight, the best idea.
Treva Carter, who would go on to be a founder of our local, small-town, "artistic" community, had redecorated her home.  Redecorated in the latest "colours" of the day.  And since this particular incident occurred in the early 70s, the color choices were fashionable, but less than exemplary.  Colors like "avocado," "tiger lily" and the putrid "pink champagne."
Throughout the home tour, Roberta, who was always one to bow to the standards of social graces, oohed and aahhed at all the appropriate moments.  Appreciations were noted, accolades were handed out in abundance.
Yet not a word from Jeanette.
Finally, near the end of the tour, Treva, apparently not aware of the Jeanette's true nature, made a fatal flaw.  She asked Jeanette's opinion of her newly polished, painted and coiffed home.
Jeanette's response?
"Well, I coulda SHIT better colors than that."

Poochie the Prairie Dog

Poochie was brother Charlie's five year birthday present.  A wiggly, excited, pee all over the floor, roan Austrian Heeler aka cattle dog.  He was a little boy's best friend and, since my brother was decidedly his own person, it was no surprise that Poochie grew up to be a singularly interesting canine.
Poochie learned to live his life as the doggy king of Ebey's Prairie.  Never mind that he was only about 20 lbs, he was THE DOG!  And being that he was a very friendly, adventurous sort of fellow, he would often take his explorations far afield.  Like two miles into town hanging out on the wharf begging treats from the tourists.  We would go into town to pick up the mail and yell at our dog to go home.  The daily errands.
He was also known to terrorize the neighbors Dalmations who were chained outside during the day.  Apparently chained just far enough away from the doggy door to the kitchen leading to their food bowl.  Poochie either really liked their food, or really liked harassing them.  But whatever the reason (and we guess the later) he would saunter jauntily by them as they had doggy conniption fits at the end of their chains and nonchalantly eat their food.
Another neighbor stopped us one day in to say he had spotted Poochie running down the middle of the road toward home, one end of a long link of sausages in his mouth.  We can't imagine where he got that but it couldn't have been good! 
Poochie was as friendly as could be, but put a collar on him and he would FLIP out!  Many a day we would find Poochie running home, a county collar on with a leash dragging behind him.  He would walk right up to the dog catcher, but as soon as she put a leash on him he was GONE.  Sweet little dog becomes a crazy Tasmanian Devil dog.  We got a lot of leashes this way.  And one PISSED OFF animal control officer.
But aside from his ability to infuriate Dalmatians, dog catchers and whoever owned that sausage, Poochie's most singular claim to fame was his ability to flatten tires.  You see, Poochie was an Australian "Heeler."  Heelers are used to herd mostly cattle and they do so by "nipping" at their legs.  Poochie didn't have a chance to herd any cattle during his life, so instead he herded cars.  Cars that went up and cars that went down our long dirt driveway were treated to the spectacle of a little roanish dog trying to eat their tires.  They were always worried, the drivers, about running over poor sweet little Poochie.  When what they should have really been worried about was their tires.  Because a few hours later they would have a flat, victim to a tiny little canine tooth puncture.  Tiny, but deadly.
Eventually, this became a problem.  A family starts getting a reputation when everybody that comes to visit gets a flat.  Small town and all.  So out came the electro collar and remote control shock treatment.  A helpful friend drove up the driveway, as soon as Poochie went into "Heeler" mode out came the remote control. Zap!  Only a few times of this and the problem was solved.
Mostly.  You see, Poochie just couldn't help himself when it came down to the tires of the vehicle belonging to his arch-nemesis, Step Grandpa Al.  Now Poochie was the sort of dog that liked EVERYBODY.  But not Al.  Since none of the rest of the family liked Al either, we could understand the feeling. And Al did nothing to win Poochie over.  Everytime he and Grandmother Roberta would come over, Al would yell and kick and throw things at Poochie, who would have by this time turned into a growling, hair raised on his back, ball of roan red vengeance.  And vengeance he would take.  On Al's tires.
One week, Al had four flat tires within 5 days.  That was the week my Grandmother tried to put a hit out on Poochie.
She called our cousin Merf, retired Sheriff's Deputy.  The appropriate man for the job.  Grandma always gets right to the point.  So she offered Merf $100 to sneak out in the middle of the night and shoot Poochie.
Merf asked her if he should put a silencer on his rifle.  Well yes, that would be a good idea, she thought.
"So," drawls Merf, "You want me to sneak out in the middle of the night and ASSASINATE their dog?"
Merf, thankfully for Poochie, declined the job.  Poochie went on a live a long and productive life, his tire-biting habit finally caught up with him in the end.  But he went out in glory, biting the tires of a huge harvest tractor-trailer in a neighboring field.  It was, for him, the road to doggie Valhalla.