ohmidog!

Dental repairs — not mine this time, but my mother’s — took me to nearby Pfafftown last week, about a 15 minute drive, during which I annoyed by mother by repeatedly prouncing the first silent “f” in the North Carolina town’s name.

The correct pronunciation is “Poff-town.” But I kept calling it “Puh-foff-town” and she kept correcting me, not realizing, at least at first, that I was doing it on pfurpose.

Dropping her off at the dentist, I returned to a spot we had passed by, which, though I had only gotten a brief glance, appeared to be an enchanted kudzu forest.

Just as I suspected, I found three canines. (There is no kudzu patch in which I cannot spot the shapes of dogs — though some, admittedly, are clearer than others.)

First, I saw a pfair of kudzu wolves, howling at the sky:

Then I saw what looked like a St. Bernard, or Newfoundland. (Pfeel pfree to disagree.)

Back at the dentist, my mother was done and waiting for me, and, as pfate would have it, I learned a return trip was going to be necessary in the afternoon.

Ace, who mad missed out on the first jaunt, came along on the second, and after again dropping off my mother, we followed some signs pointing to C.G. Hill Memorial Park.

The park is a beautiful setting, with winding trails and a duck pond.

It also contains a hollow poplar tree in which, according to the county, a farmer once hid his cow and calf to save them from being poached by Union soldiers during the Civil War.

A lightning strike led to the decay, which formed the hollow center. The tree has been used over the centuries to stash weapons and as shelter by travelers.

It has also been dubbed the “Loving Tree” – but we’re not sure, and the county’s website doesn’t say, whether that’s because it lovingly provided shelter, or because of hanky-panky that may or may not have taken place within its confines.

Looking at it, I’m not sure how it could have held a cow and calf, much less an amorous couple. Why the space is no bigger than an airplane’s restroom.

Rather than imagine the hijinks that might have occured within the tree, I  pfocused on the pfair of ducks, becoming pfascinated with the pfretty rings of color around their eyes:

While at the park we ran into Thor, a three-year-old Chihuahua-rat terrier mix.

Thor’s from Texas, his owner said, and apparently bounced around between assorted college students before one of them sent him home to her mother.

She filled me in on where people commonly let their dogs run unleashed — even though park rules require leashes — but, suspecting my mother might be pfinished with having her dental work installed, I didn’t have time to check it out.

One the way to drop her back home, I told her about the pfark, just down the road from Ronald Reagan High School. Now there was a pfresident.

“Puh-fofftown is pretty nice,” I told her.

“It’s pronounced ‘poff-town,’” she corrected me for the tenth time.

“Puh-false,” I retorted. It’s Puh-fofftown.”

She rolled her eyes, as if in pfain.

That was her signal she had pfinally had enough of that game.

I’m going to keep pronouncing it Puh-fofftown, though, with apologies to all the Puh-foffs that live there and who it is named after, because, just like dentists, I sometimes like to strike a nerve.

And because I know, despite being in the minority, I must be right — as sure there are cows in trees and dogs in kudzu.