During the 2010 New Mexico election campaign for governor, Republican candidate and Dona Ana County District Attorney Susana Martinez and Democrat candidate Lt. Gov. Diane Denish engaged in several contentious debates.

During one, Denish was attempting to accuse Martinez of giving large pay raises to her staff. She meant to say the Republican candidiate gave big fat bonuses to her staff. Instead she said they had received “big fat boners.”

Denish ultimately lost the race to the Republican, but it’s not clear whether her slip of the lip had anything to do with it.

In 2005, the New Mexico State Fair Commission was faced with a difficult decision. It seems that many people had begun to complain that the annual fall exposition had become to long and cumbersome.

The commission decided to go into special session to discuss how they might cut some of the days out of the 17-day event.

After a day long session, they had a solution — they decided to add an extra day to the event and make it run for a marathon 18 days.

Which just goes to show — well, I don’t know what.

I’m known by my family, friends and neighbors for being fastidious about keeping my vehicles well maintained and showroom clean. I can see my neighbors rolling their eyes when I’m outside on a 42 degree morning, washing my cars or pickup. I even wash off the inside of my wheel wells and scrub dirt off the visible sections of my exhaust pipes. I know — it’s on the edge of obsessive compulsive behavior

But I did get some reinforcement for my habit last year when my cardiologist confirmed that washing cars was a good cardiovascular activity to help me recover from my heart surgery. I felt renewed justification for my aberrant behavior.

My 2012 GMC Sierra pickup is a bit too long to fit into my garage and besides I already have it filled with my vintage 1975 BMW 2002 and my wife’s vehicle. So the pickup sits outside and gets washed even more frequently than my other cars.

Lately, I’ve been parking it under some branches of a Russian olive tree at the side of my house so it gets a little protection from the damaging UV rays in our high desert environment. But in addition to being a good spot for the pickup, it’s also a great spot for nesting white winged doves, who locals like to refer to as the “rats of the sky.”

And like rats, they poop everywhere — including on the hood of my pickup. GRRRR.

Several years ago, enraged by the amount of bird poop on my outdoor picnic table, I bought one of those plastic owls that are supposed to scare away birds and other critters. Mine is now so old that its formerly scary giant yellow eyes now have cataracts. But in some parts of the yard it has worked pretty well.

So when an unexpectedly large amount of bird pickup pooping started a couple of weeks ago, I thought maybe it was time to move the owl from “guarding” my outdoor picnic table to a spot near my truck. The first place I located it was near our trash bins, but it didn’t seem to work very well, judging by the volume of “stuff” left behind. I moved it to the base of the tree and suddenly, no more dove dung.

Then the collection of crap came back with a vengance. So this time, I thought I would place the own directly on top of my hood, just inches away from where I figured this one outlaw dove was spending the night.

The next morning I found this:

My plastic owl might have literally scared the s*** out of the dove, or it just didn’t give a s*** about its presence — I’m sure of the latter. At any rate, the pooping continues.

My brother once told me that when he lived in Philadelphia, pigeon poop at city hall had become a huge problem, mostly for defiling the statue of William Penn which graced the dome of the dignified historic structure. Various methods were tried to eradicate or relocate the pigeons. One involved feeding the birds seed that had been infused with tranquilizers. That didn’t work out well for the people walking near city hall when a drunken pigeon would suddenly fall out of the sky on their head or splat on the sidewalk in front of them. The next method — and my brother swore this was true — was to record the yowls of a cat being hung upside down in a cage and then blasting its shrieks on loudspeakers at full volume around city hall at various times during the day. The problem with this was that the usual rhythm of downtown streets would be stunningly interrupted with the cringe inducing yowl of a tortured cat, followed by an immense fluttering of pigeons which would then defecate on everything and anyone as they fluttered to safety.

I’m not sure my neighbors — already probably annoyed by my frequent car washing regimen — would go for that. The alternatives, I suppose, are daily washes for my truck, cutting down the tree, building a third bay on my garage or tethering a real owl to the tree. None of these seem to be practical, so I’ll await your suggestions.

In the meantime s*** happens.

Many times over the years, I’ve escorted new visitors to Las Cruces on a tour of the campus of New Mexico State University to show off our great land grant institution. The campus gets new improvements constantly, and there’s always something interesting to see that I haven’t noticed before.

One stop I always try to make is to look at the animals on campus that are part of the College of Agriculture, Consumer and Environmental Sciences. As I understand it from the former acting Dean of the college and a good friend, NMSU is one of only two land grant colleges which still has live animals for research purposes on campus.

One group of animals I always try to spot on my tours are the cannulated cows. Cannulated cows, for the uninitiated, are bovines with surgically implanted portholes on their sides that can be used for research into diets of the animals. In addition to the ability to peer into their stomachs, you can also reach inside them to retrieve specimens of what they’re munching on. I think I’ll pass on that opportunity.

New Mexico State University has had a herd — or fleet — of these porthole cows for many years. Usually they’re kept in pens that don’t provide public glimpses of the critters but occasionally they are out wandering around some of the lush pastures on the western edge of the campus.

There is some controversy from animal rights groups about this technique, but as far as I could tell, these animals are treated well and don’t seem to notice that they have these odd devices attached to them. When I took this photo, the cows seemed to want to come up an introduce themselves to me, hoping that I might have a nice bunch of grass or hay to offer.

A quick search on the internet shows the procedure to create cannulated cows has been around since the early 1920s, mostly on campuses of agricultural schools where research is conducted to determine best diets for both dairy and beef cattle.

So when you bite into that next flavorful cut of beef or sip some wholesome milk, you can thank one of these bovines for giving up some of its dignity for your enhanced eating or drinking experience.

You might remember a few years ago when several cities around New Mexico started using mobile vans to capture photos of speeding vehicles. Those caught on camera faced a fine and traffic citation.

In one incident eight years ago, a Santa Fe resident became so enraged at having “big brother” watching the streets all the time that he approached one of the vans at night, wearing only his nightgown, and blasted several rounds from a pistol at it. It was all captured on video, but we don’t know if the device calculated how fast the bullets were whizzing by. And in Rio Rancho, three of the vans were torched before the program was cancelled.

Well, Santa Fe has now decided to re-introduce the vans to target speeders at random locations around the city.

As city Deputy Chief Ben Valdez explained:

“We can put a device out there and it doesn’t need to go for a lunch break.”

While the “speed vans” were reintroduced with a promise of reducing speeding, it was also clear that city revenue enhancement was also a priority. According to city officials, drivers who get busted by one of the units will have to pay fine of about $50, but the incident won’t go on their record. So if you have the cash, it appears you can just keep speeding and avoid any other consequences.

And just think of how much money the city will be saving by not having to shell out the salary for a traffic cop — and not paying for his or her lunch.

My wife, dog Chester and I recently embarked on another one of our Sunday trips around the Las Cruces area to escape the monotony of COVID-19 seclusion. This time, we ventured to Picacho Peak on the northwest side of our city.

We weren’t ready to scale the 4,959 mountain that I always believed to be an extinct volcano. Instead, we chose to walk around the southwest and western perimeter, and some of our walk was in a canyon filled with colorful rocks resulting from the ancient lava flow — not actually a volcano. According to various sources, the lava flow occurred somewhere between nine and 35 million years ago — not exactly a precise time estimate.

What was most interesting to me was the amazingly blue rocks that were scattered in the canyon. Upon further investigation, I learned that they were rhyolite, a rock that forms when certain volcanic flows reach and cool at the surface.

Although the day we walked was overcast and somewhat dark, the blue rocks and strata were an unexpected burst of color. I can’t imagine how much more spectacular they would be after a summertime thundershower when they are wet and glossy and the sun breaks through the clouds to highlight their color. I have a couple more pictures of the blue rocks below, but these photos don’t show them to be as colorful as they were in person.

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I did a little more digging to find out about blue rhyolite rocks (not all are blue) and discovered that in some circles, blue ones are believed to be good for a positive mental outlook. As one website breathlessly proclaimed:

“It (blue rhyolite) is a magical stone for people who struggle with esteem, self worth issues, and depression, guiding them towards their joyous potential.“

Well. I’m not sure about that, but I have to say I felt better after seeing them as part of the spectacular desert landscape so near our home. Maybe next year, knowing that abundant seams of blue rhyolite are nearby, my wife, Chester and I will be filled with enough “self worth” to attempt to hike up to the top of Picacho Peak.

In a recent post, I quoted the late cartoonist Walt Kelly about never lacking sources for stories in his clever cartoon “Pogo.”

“I came to understand that if I were looking for comic material, I would never have to look long,” he said. “The news of the day would be enough.”

I’ve taken that a bit further in that I have found a lot of material for blogs in the want-ad or legals section of the daily newspaper.

Consider, for example, something I stumbled upon last week. It was in the legals section of the Albuquerque Journal want ads, announcing that the contents of various storage units would be auctioned off because the renter had abandoned the property or failed to pay rent.

In Unit #B100, these items were listed for auction:

“Boxes, clothes, stuffed animal, TOILET SEAT, personal pictures.”

It didn’t say the toilet seat was new or used, although I suspect the later. And why would that be enough of a treasure to stash away in hopes that someday it might become a family heirloom?

Well, maybe my next door neighbor and I should bid on it. You see, several years ago a toilet seat mysteriously appeared on top of the rock wall between our two homes and has become known as the “Table of Friendship.” (I can neither confirm nor deny my involvement in its appearance). It has been the gathering point for me and the world’s best next door neighbor to discuss various events of the day, share food we’ve grilled or smoked in our back yards and a holding place for lubricating drinks while we solve the world’s and our neighborhood’s issues.

As you can tell by these photos, exposure to the elements has not been kind to this once proud solid oak fixture, and it is clearly past time to replace it. Even my application of duct tape has not been able to save it from the embarrassment of aging.

So next time my neighbor appears at this sadly deteriorating display of tackiness, perhaps we’ll initiate a discussions about making a bid. I think a few more rounds of drinks might be in order, however. We have time. There’s no rain or snow in the forecast.

We are fortunate to live in a critter-diverse part of town. Even though the street in front of our house looks hopelessly suburban, walk just a few blocks any direction from here and you’ll find open fields, pecan orchards, onion and chile plots, alfalfa patches and horse pasture. Because of the open space nearby, we get lots of animals living in and passing though the area.

We have regular visits from foxes, coyotes, raccoons, skunks (lots of ’em), large pack rats, ground squirrels and we harbor a fine crop of lizards to keep bugs out of the garden. My neighbor and I even witnessed a pack of javelinas trotting down the center of our street early one morning a couple of years ago. Birders like this area of town for all its variety of visitors. Although we’re oblivious to most of what flutters around here, we have noted nesting hawk and owl families and a large colony of turkey vultures that congregate in some tall trees southwest of us each summer. And of course we have an oversupply of birds we know as “rats of the sky” — white winged doves.

When flying my balloon over this area of the Mesilla Valley, it was always interesting to note various wild animals that would scurry out of hiding when I would engage the blast valve on my burner.

One fall morning when I was cruising at a fairly low altitude, I spooked a fox out of its hiding place in a tangle of mulberry trees. The fox scampered into a nearby field of corn that had not yet been harvested. As I flew closer, I was able to spot the fox’s distinct reddish brown coloring in the patch of yellow gold stalks.

Seconds later, I spooked up another animal, this time a plump cottontail rabbit that urgently hopped — you guessed it — right into the middle of the field where the fox was waiting. I was expecting to see a twirl of dust above the corn patch and floating puffs of bunny fur as I flew overhead, but I needed to stay focused on flying the aircraft, so I kept my attention on the flight path ahead.

I’m sure the fox was quite irritated when I first scared him out of hiding. However, I’ll bet he thanked me after brunch that day.

On one of our daily walks through the neighborhood, we took a detour and wandered through the back streets and irrigation ditch paths in the Town of Mesilla. It’s a fascinating walk because there is so much history, tradition and “local color” on display.

One of the things we found was this piece of property for sale. It is located on the southwest side of the Mesilla Plaza adjacent to the main irrigation ditch that weaves through the old village.

The property, which has been zoned commercial, is for sale at $350,000. That’s dollars, not Pesos.

As far as it being commercial property, it’s in an odd location, off the beaten path for those who usually focus just on the plaza and the streets leading into the center of town. But, as the listing optimistically notes, it may offer much more potential.

Ponder this bit of breathless prose on the listing for the crumbling home and the long neglected and overgrown tract of land where it sits:

“The property includes an adobe structure that needs your dreams to come alive.”

I think the only thing that would come alive in the structure would be the stray cats, rats, squirrels, raccoons, coyotes, foxes (and maybe even an occasional javelina) which could easily enter the building through 12-inch wide cracks in the adobe walls and busted out windows.

It’s obviously an historic structure, and I’ll bet it has many tales to tell of things that happened within its walls during its 200-plus years. But I hardly think it could be turned into a home of “dreams” with just some paint, adobe mud, bailing wire and duct tape.

Still, I’ve been giving it some thought. I think an upscale fly fishing shop would be a good fit. You could try casting that $1,500 Sage rod that I just sold to you right into the irrigation ditch behind the house — and wait for an errant carp to suck down your cheese ball fly scented with notes of Power Bait.

Well, maybe not. But we can all dream.

My very good friend Victor in Albuquerque sent me this tantalizing tale from his “Nextdoor” neighborhood bulletin board earlier this week.

Found chicken. Anyone missing a chicken? Caught a chicken in the middle of the road on Tramway and Copper. It’s really sweet, definitely seems like someone’s pet.

So this raises all sort of questions, not the least of which is the “why did the chicken…”

First, why would someone in that particular urban neighborhood be raising chickens? And why would someone keep a chicken as a “pet?” And how do you determine if a chicken is “really sweet?”

My Nebraska farm girl wife grew up with chickens roaming around her family homestead and says she considers all such fowl as being “pretty mean.”

“They would just as soon peck you as anything,” she observed. “And anyone who has ever talked about how great ‘free range’ chickens are has never had to clean up after them.”

My only experience with chickens occurred at about age 10 when someone gave us a couple of cute fuzzy newborn chicks which quickly turned into ugly, scraggly birds. We named one of them “Chewedupon” because the neighbor’s dog chased it down and during the subsequent “chewing” process removed several feathers and other anatomical features. When Chewedupon and his companion passed away, I don’t remember any tears or fond farewell speeches. I also don’t remember any great chicken dinner either, since I doubt there was much left of either of them.

At a New Mexico Department of Health holiday gathering four years ago, many of the 200 people who attended the Santa Fe event contracted food poisoning from eating the tapas served to them at the festive event.

It turns out the event was catered by a woman who did not hold a license to cater events for more than 25 people, even though the department which scheduled her was responsible for licensing businesses which provide catered food services.

Selling burritos out of the back of her Honda Accord to workers at construction sites was probably okay (maybe a bit risky for those eating them), but serving at large gatherings was definitely taboo.

Angered at not being told she had to be licensed to serve at such events, she promptly sued the state for leading her into a life of crime. I don’t recall hearing about the final disposition of the lawsuit, but I’m certain the state agency has become much more circumspect about selecting caterers for such events. And hopefully, the woman hasn’t changed the name of her catering company to Tillie’s Ptomaine Tapas.

In the Sunday Albuquerque Journal want-ad section under “purebred dogs” was this confusing appeal:

WANTED WOMEN TO BUY

White German Shepherd or Black and Silver. We lost our pretty baby will be trained to be a service dog for an autistic boy.

(505) XXX-XXXX

Okay, I think I understand the desired outcome of this bunch of gibberish, but it still leaves a lot to ponder.

What type of crime has prompted authorities to classify these women as “wanted?” Possibly for receiving an F in English composition in school? Rampant improper capitalization? Failure to use proper punctuation? Why was the “pretty baby” lost?” Doesn’t that raise an alarm that a new dog might just as easily disappear? And why is the color of the dog so important?

As an aside, the proper name for this breed is German shepherd dog — the word “dog” as an important part of the breed’s nomenclature. Look it up. That’s always been confusing to me as I doubt someone would be able to mistake one of these magnificent animals as a cat or a lemur.

Here’s something else to ponder in these days of political correctness. The breed that was indeed first bred in Germany was renamed in Great Britain after World War I as the “Alsatian Wolf Dog.” In 1977 its name was changed back to German shepherd dog. If Australia had been an enemy of Great Britain, would the Australian sheep dog have been renamed the Aboriginal mutton manager?

At any rate, I hope some sympathetic reader can sort through the confusing message and provide a nice pooch for the autistic boy. And perhaps in the meantime, the author should attend a remedial English composition class.

Albuquerque has become a hotspot for local criminals to prey on travelers along Interstate 40 who stop in the city overnight on their way to or from some out-of-state destination. Many cars have been broken into at local motels and some vehicles have been stolen outright.

The materials swiped from the cars is usually pawned and the stolen vehicles taken to a chop shop to be dismantled for parts that can never be traced.

Well about three years ago, some thieves got way more than they bargained for when they confiscated a Ford F-150 and the U-Haul trailer attached to it from a motel along the Interstate.

The truck/trailer combo was apparently pulling the last remaining possession of Grandma back home where they would be sold by relatives in a yard sale at some date in the future. And, oh yes, Grandma’s embalmed corpse wrapped in a blanket was in the trailer as well, no doubt being transported back home to be placed in a family burial plot.

When the thieves who had swiped the truck opened the bonus U-Haul trailer to discover the booty inside, they were greeted by an unusual smell of embalming fluid. Upon discovering the source of the smell, they immediately decided to dump the truck and trailer.

In their haste to get rid of the truck at a discreet location, they managed to smash it up in a traffic accident. Although they tried to get away, police caught the suspects. When questioned about the body inside the trailer, they claimed to have no knowledge of how it got there.

Maybe to avoid this scenario in the future, motorists pulling trailers and stopping in Albuquerque should just paint “Dead Body Inside” on the side of their U-Haul.

About two weeks ago, I wrote about a mysterious pair of abandoned cowboy boots left in plain sight on our walk along one of the many irrigation ditches that meander through our rural/urban neighborhood. The boots were well worn, but could have been saved with a new sole.

I pondered all kinds of theories on how they got there, who owned them, and whether there was something more sinister in their appearance. I also wondered what might eventually become of them.

Well, as of a few days ago, they disappeared, just as mysteriously as they had appeared.

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There was little evidence of what might have happened to them. There were some racoon tracks nearby and a couple of dog prints — possibly left by our own curious pooch, Chester.

Now I’m going to offer several theories about their disappearance.

One is that someone read my blog and decided to go claim them with hopes of renewing the boots. I really don’t believe that, since the number of people who actually read my blog can be counted on one hand most days. And of course that number is inflated by my family who feel they must read this drivel just to humor me.

The other, that I truly want to believe, is that whoever left them there was trying to hide evidence from a crime scene. I never looked at the soles of the boots to see if they had traces of blood, but perhaps whoever owned them feared that might be the evidence that would do him or her in (assuming she had a large foot size.)

Or the most likely story is that an unsupervised dog needed a new chew toy and scampered away with both of the boots in its mouth for days of endless entertainment.

But then, there are the racoon tracks to consider. Perhaps the boots are now stashed under a nearby pile of pecan branches, serving as a cozy home for a litter of tiny baby racoons ready to terrorize the neighborhood.

As always, your theories are appreciated.