My mind has been in the gutter lately.

It began when I was mowing the lawn. While trimming beneath the eaves of our house, something dripped onto the back of my neck. I immediately looked skyward, suspecting that I had been bombed by one of the many barn swallows that have made our barn their home.

But there wasn’t a bird in sight. Pausing for a moment, I kept peering upward and espied a drop of water falling from the rain gutter.

This was troubling. Not because the gutter was leaking, but mainly because we hadn’t had any precipitation for several days. The rainwater should have gone from the gutters long ago.

I propped my extension ladder against the roof and discovered that the gutters were filled nearly to the brim with crud. And not the good kind of crud, either. This was the stinky, slimy kind, the type of sludge that smells like the mud from the bottom of a funky old slough.

I had installed guards over the gutters to keep leaves out. But the guards had done nothing to prevent finer particles from accumulating in the gutters. Perhaps the mud was a parting gift from last year’s derecho.

Armed with a garden hose, I scrambled up to the roof and began the process of evicting the yucky crud. It looked like primordial ooze and was probably about to produce some primitive lifeforms. Had I not cleaned out the gutters, it’s entirely possible that a politician might have slithered from the slime.

Bella, our farm dog, watched from the ground as I blasted the grunge from the gutters. I could tell that she wanted to join me, not because she was concerned for my safety but mainly because I was spaying water. Bella loves to play in a stream of sprayed water, especially in the summertime. I would too if I had to wear a fur coat when it’s 90 degrees.

As I watched the grunge sluice into the downspout, I thought, “I used to bathe in that stuff!”

I grew up in a farmhouse that had an underground cistern that was fed by the house’s rain gutters. A screen in the downspout sieved out large particles such as leaves and garter snakes but did nothing to keep out dirt and bird doots.

We didn’t drink from the cistern, but my whole family used it as a source of bathwater. I suppose we were cleaner after our baths although that’s questionable.

It took some doing to flush out the gunk. I felt bad for Bella because she had missed out on all the fun. I told her that I would make it up to her by taking her for a walk.

We strolled northward on the gravel road, toward the acreage where our neighbors Dave and Stephanie live. As we approached their place we heard a cacophony of unintelligible “gobble, gobble!” noises.

No, it wasn’t a gaggle of politicians; Dave and Stephanie own a handful of turkeys. The bird-brained avians waddled out to see who dared to walk on “their” road. The toms fanned their tailfeathers pompously and strutted back and forth as if to say, “I’m big and bad! Don’t even think about messing with me!” It’s a guy thing.

I have raised turkeys and know that toms adopt this attitude shortly after emerging from the egg. I realized that the message they were sending was mostly bluster and bluff. Again, it’s a guy thing.

Bella didn’t know this. As the turkeys moseyed over to examine my shoelaces, Bella kept a safe distance. She barked at the birds, then scampered off to an even safer distance. She wore a worried look that seemed to say, “Get out of there, Dad! I don’t understand what those weird creatures are saying, but it can’t be good!”

Bella gradually danced closer and closer to me and the poultry posse. But then one of the birds turned his head toward Bella and — the horror! — gobbled directly at her!

The poor pooch had had enough. She shot off toward home like a furry black cannonball. Glancing back at me, the expression on her face seemed to say, “I am out of here! Good luck with that situation! It was nice knowing you!”

So much for being Man’s Best Friend! So much for protecting her master and the source of infinite doggy treats!

When I arrived back at our house, my wife said, “What’s the deal with Bella? I’ve never seen her run so fast as when she came home just now.”

“It seems,” I replied, “That Bella is a chicken when it comes to turkeys.”

— Jerry’s book, Dear County Agent Guy, is available at http://Workman.com and in bookstores nationwide