Monthly Archives: November 2015

‘I lapsed into rude.’ Dennis Miller

You know, when you get a new puppy, or even give a home to an older dog who needs one, the first thing a responsible and loving person does is start to teach that animal its manners.

Learner PupWe teach them to sit and to stay, to come when called, to not jump up at people, to not snatch or bite. We teach them what they can get away with at home and how they must behave in public. We teach them these things for their comfort and safety, for our comfort and safety, and for the comfort and safety of the other people and creatures we come across in our daily lives.

We also teach them these things because nobody, not even a rabid animal lover like myself, likes an ill-mannered or rude dog.

puppy-potty-training-accidentSome dogs take longer to train than others—they need a little more patience and a lot more tolerance. (I love that single moment when a new puppy finally realises what it is you want. It might be a simple as the first time he sits on command, but he is so excited and pleased to have made you happy that you can almost hear him say ‘Oh okay I get it. That’s easy. I can do that. Ask me again. Ask me again.’ ) But the really great thing is, once a dog has learned his manners he will rarely forget themthey are with him for life.

If only the same could be said for some people.Thought-Bubbles-Appeared-Above-My-Head,-I-s-Be-

Over the last couple of weeks I have come across one or two people whose manners seemed to have completely deserted them. Fortunately, these interactions occurred while I was at work, dealing with members of the public, which made it possible for me to do nothing more than smile (albeit through gritted teeth) and hope that the offending boor left the building before I actually said out loud what I was thinking in my head.

Why do I say I was fortunate to be at work?  Because in such instances, when someone is flat out rude to me, my own first instinct is always to ‘bite’ backsmiley-zipper-mouth (or poke their eyes out with a sharp stick) but being at work I was forced to be mindful of my manners, and, although I don’t always like it, that usually works out for the best. I have learned from experience that by biting my tongue (sometimes until it bleeds) I can usually avoid an ugly confrontation (and probably a nasty escalation) and, with no input from me they will soon get bored and go and look for someone else to play with. Once the offending so-and-so has moved away, however, all bets are off, and I freely admit to having been horribly, scathingly, toe-curlingly rude to peopleonce they are out of earshot. (In my defence, those thoughts I was thinking in my head can’t just stay in there you know—my head would explode.)

iseerudepeopleAnyway, there have always been rude people about (and sometimes it feels like I have met all of them) but I also usually find them pretty easy to ignore, so I was not sure why these last couple of incidents bothered me so much. I couldn’t quite shake off the irritation (hence the subject of this week’s blog), but then I came across an article about a Study which had been published this year at the University of Florida on the effects of rudeness in the workplace, and it all started to make a bit more sense.

ahaThe research in the Study seems to indicate that rudeness is actually ‘contagious‘. 

A Ha!  That would explain a lot.

Apparently when people experience (or even only witness) rudeness, they start to notice rudeness in their environment more, making them more likely to judge something as rude, and this judgement then causes them to respond to their next situation with rudeness. (Wow. There was a lot of ‘rudeness’ in that sentence.)

An example the study cited was that if someone walked by you and said  “Hey, nice shoes!”, you might think that was a compliment, or you might think it an insultyou can interpret it either way, and your brain has to decide. If you have recently experienced rudeness, your brain is more likely to take that comment as an insult, even if it wasn’t meant that way. This is apparently an automatic processit takes place in a part of your brain that you are not aware of, can’t stop, and can’t control—and you would not really be aware that the reason you (mis)interpreted the “nice shoes” comment was because someone had been rude to you earlier. Interesting, huh?

mrrudeThe study also noted that while behaviors like aggression, abuse, and violence are generally not tolerated, often rudeness tacitly is. I guess I proved that last week when I smiled and said nothing out loud to ‘Mr Rude’ (while my mind was stapling his ears to his head and sticking biros up his nose).

So it makes you wonder how much ‘peripheral’ rudeness we are absorbing every day (and not only at work) without even realising it. Like the person who bumps into you or pushes by you with no apology . . . or the woman who throws down 25 items in the ten-items-or-less lane in the supermarket . . . or the man at the front of a very long queue, determined to finish his cell-phone conversation before speaking to the sales person. And then there are the internet ‘trolls’ who bully and berate, and sometimes even drive to suicide, people they don’t know, have never met and are never likely to meetand the TV programs which allow (in fact, openly encourage) their participants to behave towards others in ways that, in the real world, could (and probably should) get them arrested. (And then there are also those people who constantly book into free classes at our college and then repeatedly fail to turn up, without so much as a sorry-can’t-make it phonecall . . .)

If we are subconsciously soaking this all up, all day, every day, it is no wonder we are becoming ruder!

So what’s the answer? How do we deal with all this raging rudeness without becoming part of the problem ourselves? (Because none of the obnoxiously rude people we ever encounter include you or I.)

Well the University of Florida study didn’t really come up with any new answers, rather only re-stating what most of us probably already knowwe need to be nicer to each other. We should focus more on how we treat others, rather than on how they treat us. (Sigh. That’s often easier said than done. I can get the irrits with other people quicker than almost anyone else I know.)

LILANGELDOGBut, you know what?  I will if you will. I will make a concerted effort and try not to ‘lapse into rude’, and I’m hoping you’ll do the same.

Perhaps then being nice to each other will become contagiousand I won’t have to worry so much about my head exploding. One can only hope . . .



Posted by on November 27, 2015 in Uncategorized


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‘When birds burp, it must taste like bugs.’ Bill Watterson

birdWe have just been attacked by a teeny tiny bird. The teeniest tiniest bird on the planet (well, probably not, but he was very teeny). A little black and white blur. Seriously. We were wandering along, minding our own business, on our usual morning walk along the path by the water and, out of nowhere, he was upon us. Swooping and diving and shrieking, barely an inch from my face. And swooping again. And shrieking again. He was really pissed off.

Birds_attack_2071I imagine he was trying to drive us away from some hidden nest but his vicious onslaught had the exact opposite effect, at least initially. He took me so much by surprise that I just stopped dead, flung up my arms and madly tried to wave him away. This only upset him even further and he redoubled his efforts to be rid of me. From a distance I must have looked like I was having some sort of mad fit (or practising my secret kung fu moves . . .)

Dog__Play_DeadThis totally unexpected (and unwarranted) attack also had an instantaneous effect on the girls. Molly and Maude immediately sprang into action, trying valiantly to protect me, leaping and barking and running in circles, but really, as they both only just reach the level of my knees at full stretch, their efforts were mostly in vain.  Mabel, on the other hand, is a sensitive soul (also a bit of a sooky-la-la) and got so upset by the uproar that she just lay down on her side, closed her eyes and pretended to be in a coma. Also not terribly helpful.

old-man-dancing-taps-footAnyway, once I realised the wee bird was not going to give up any time soon I put my head down, scooped up Mabel, and cried, ‘RUN’, and the four of us fled down the path as far and as fast as we could to escape the tiny tormentor. When we stopped to catch our breath (in truth we didn’t run very far—I am not built for running) I turned and looked back to see an older gentleman now performing what looked to be some kind of manic break dance in exactly the same spot we had just left. On the path not far behind him stretched a long line of other unsuspecting walkers—all heading straight into the firing line. That little bird was in for a very exhausting day.

After all that excitement I was half inclined to go straight home (Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ immediately sprang to mind) but the dogs had forgotten the drama already (they have very short attention spans, except when it comes to food, then there is no diverting them) so I decided to keep goingalthough I do admit to looking back over my shoulder more than once.

rainbow lorikeetsThe path we walk along continues on directly down to the sea with the nature reserve on one side and the river on the other—and I was sure I could feel thousands of beady eyes boring into me—and that wouldn’t be far from the truth. (I really want to say here that where I live is a ‘haven’ for birdlife, but the ‘pun police’ would be on me like a flash, so I won’t. 🙂 )  Suffice to say that the Camden Haven is teeming with birds of every shape and size—magpies (scary even when they are in a good mood, which doesn’t seem to be often), ravens, wrens, Willy WagtailsRosellas, Rainbow Lorikeets, Wattlebirds, ducks, herons, gulls, Pelicans and Plovers to name but a few.

(Personally I think Plovers (also called lapwings) are a little bit spooky. plover-with-chicks (1)They produce an ear-splitting shriek when they are cranky with you, and they are usually cranky with you before you even know there is one in the area. They can be found not only in the parks, but also openly nesting on street corners or busy roundabouts around town. Their babies look like little cotton-wool balls on stilts—very cute—but you will not get a chance to get near enough to get a good look at one. A plover will think nothing of standing in the middle of a busy road and staring down a four wheel drive while its partner moves its babies to safety. Best to give them a very wide berth.)

In spite of feeling a tad nervous about them when they gather in large numbers, I really quite like birds—although I am also quite sure that they could care less whether I liked them or not. Except for the odd incident like the kamikaze ‘budgie’ today (and the occasional rabid plover) most of our feathered friends spend their birdy lives doing birdy things and pay very little attention to you or me at all. That’s fine. I don’t feel the need to directly interact with them (not like I do with puppies—no puppy is safe from interaction with me). I am happy to watch birds from a distance.

black cockatooAnd watching from a distance is what I doing every morning at the moment as a flock of about 30 black cockatoos has taken up residence about two blocks from my house. They turn up about this time every year, stay for a couple of months and then move on. On my early morning walks I will often just stop and watch them as they lift into the sky, one by one, screeching and calling to each other, flying in wider and wider circles over the river as they gather up the members of the flock from their night time roosts. They soar and wheel and roll, shrieking the whole time (maybe deciding on where to meet for breakfast?) and looking like they are just glad to  be alive. They have ‘attitude’ and  I think they are pretty fabulous—although anyone who wants to sleep past 5.00am every morning wouldn’t necessarily agree.

Cockatoos aren’t the only birds with joie de vivre around here. 01kookaburra-face1There are also the big fat kookaburras who line up in rows along the tree branches and gaze, unblinking, down upon you. One will start to chuckle, followed by another, and then another, then they will all start giggling and then laughing uproariously, and although you can’t help but feel that you are the butt of the joke, you end up smiling too.

And there are the rosellas and lorikeets which swarm the trees, feeding off the acacias, constantly squabbling, and sqwarking, flashing their feathers at each other and then dropping from the trees and performing acrobatic manoeuvres at such a low altitude that you have to duck your head as they whiz past.

Pink and grey galahs hang hapazardly off telephone wires or gather in groups on lawns to feed, waddling about on their fat little legs and are a delight to watch (and so much fun to scatter if you are a dog).

mineAnd at home a cheeky little family of (very) Noisy Miners visits my front verandah every afternoons to commandeer the seed dish, toss insults at the other birds and take turns to dive bomb the birdbath and throw water all over my lounge room windows. (The girls line up in the window in anticipation, barking out scores out of ten, as the birds dive and tumble and generally just show off.)

We are really so very lucky to be surrounded by such wonderful creatures (yes, even the cranky ones), and yet for all their incredible variety, their beauty and their humour, when I find myself watching them I am not so much thinking about them, but more the fact that birds just always remind me my Frankie.



Frankie was a dear, sweet, goofy boy, with not a mean bone in his body. He has been gone 5 years now, but we were together fourteen years and I still miss him every day (he and his older brother Harry, who was with me for for 19 years). Frankie loved birds. He was fascinated with them since he was a tiny boy, and was the only dog I ever knew who seemed to be always looking up. On our daily walks his legs would follow me, but his eyes were always skyward. He would often just stop, dead in his tracks, and follow the flight of bird until he could see it no longer. I have very fond memories of seeing him out in the backyard in the fading afternoon sunshine, smiling and wagging his tail happily, surrounded by a little group of lorikeets and pigeons who pottered and scratched about in the grass around at his feet, totally unconcerned by his presence. 3birdsHe always looked so wistful when they eventually took flight and left him alone on the ground.

I don’t know whether it is possible but I have always hoped that if Frankie ever got a chance to come back from doggie heaven, that he got to come back as a bird. I think he would really have liked that . . .



Posted by on November 20, 2015 in Uncategorized


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‘The length of a film should be directly related to the endurance of the human bladder.’ Alfred Hitchcock.

behindcurtain (1)I went to the movies last weekend—an early Sunday morning showing, my favorite time to go. There’s method in my madness—all the good people are in church and all the teenagers still in bed, so attendance is usually really low. Once or twice I have even been the only person there. The first time that happened it was a bit of a shock. It was a little unnerving to be sitting in the dark, alone, with all those empty seats around me. A bit spooky (everyone knows that the monsters always get you when you’re alone in the dark . . . )

I was also a bit distracted and annoyed, waiting for the latecomers to arrive. I just knew they were all going to rush in, all of a fluster, just as the movie was really getting going, and hover about in front of the screen (not having the courtesy to even pretend to be sorry) where they would (loudly) discuss where they would like to sit. admit-oneBut that didn’t happen. Nobody else turned up. Not a single other person. And once I realised that no-one was going to come and tell me that the movie wasn’t actually going to run and it was all a big mixup, I got totally caught up in it. I felt like a celebrity at my own private viewing. There were no distractions—no talking, no coughing, no people getting up and down, nor cellphones beeping. No overpowering popcorny smell (sorry folks, don’t like popcorn). There was just me and the big screen. Oh yes—I could get used to this.

emtpyseatLast Sunday I was not disappointed. There was only one other attendee (I was in a good mood and happy to share). I sat in my favourite seat, high up on the left on the aisle, and she sat in what I presume was her favourite seat, further to the front, down on the right. We didn’t know each other, but waved and smiled anyway (it would have felt a bit weird not toit really is much easier to ignore a whole crowd than just one other person). While we waited in the hushed quiet and dim light for the movie to begin (me nursing my coffee and trying not to eat at all my Maltesers before the opening credits) I found myself reminiscing about how much the cinema experience has changed for me since I started going some 50 years ago (Yikes . . .50 years . . . if you say it really, really fast it doesn’t sound quite so bad . . .)

Going to the ‘flicks’ has always been one of my most favourite things to do for as far back as I can remember, but my memories now are less about the films I saw then and more about the actual ‘going-to-the-movies’ experience. When I was a kid Saturday was ‘movie day’, not just for me but for most of the kids in the neighbourhood (except those weird kids who were into sports of course). Parents dropped us off in the carpark, handed out money for tickets and lollies and uttered idle ‘Behave yourselves’ incantations before disappearing to do whatever the parents did with those precious child-free hours.

munchiesWith tickets procured we would rush the Kiosk (lolly counter) to load ourselves up with popcorn (eeerk), jaffas, crisps, chocolate, cokes and fantas, before almost running the usher down in our headlong dash to get ‘the best’ seats. I can’t quite remember now why we were in such a rush to get to our seats because no one actually stayed where they started. We were up and down and moving around to catch up with friends, or swap lollies, or trying to find a seat where you could at least see over the person’s big fat head in front of you (there were a lot of people with big fat heads in those days I remember).

kids-at-the-moviesAnd it was loud. We laughed and shrieked and stamped our feet (no lush carpet in our cinema then—wooden floorboards were the go), and had jaffa-rolling contests down the aisles (another good reason for wooden floors). Young teenagers pashed in the back row (resulting in all kinds of raucous banter), and the adults who were there, though few and far between, chatted amongst themselves (and smoked incessantlyeach seat had it’s own built in ashtray) and appeared mostly oblivious to the pandemonium around them.

No-one cared—that’s what movie day was all about.  Besides, the movie we had actually come to see didn’t start for ages anyway—there were at least a couple of hours to fill in before that . . .

First there was the National Anthem (‘God Save the Queen’) and although the talking and laughing (and popcorn throwing) didn’t necessarily stop, we would all stand (and sometimes even sing along) while pictures of the Queen (always wearing the same green dress) drifted across the screen.  Duty done . . . then came the fun stuff . . .

wylieThere was the  ‘Coming Soon to a Cinema Near You!’ (a montage of movie trailers to delight and entice), followed by the ‘Looney Toons’ (I still really miss the ‘toons. Wylie Coyote still cracks me up), and then perhaps a newsreel or a travelogue or an episode of a weekly Serial (giving us all plenty of time to change seats again or catch up on a bit more gossip or, more importantly, to go for a pee).

And, as no self-respecting cinema would ever think of offering just one movie, there was the ‘B’ movie—usually a cheesy sci-fi or a western or a gangster movie. Even when you factor in that you could absolutely-and-without-fail count on the film projector stuffing up at least once, more likely twice, during the matinee, you still got a lot more bang for you buck back then.

refreshmentsAfter the B movie came the INTERMISSION which would immediately instigate another roar of noise and headlong rush down the aisles to restock on goodies (because by this time we were all seriously sugar-deprived having eaten all our lollies, or thrown them at someone, within ten minutes of first entering the building), or to go to the bathroom again (all that coke and fanta), or just to stretch our legs. The ‘fire exit’ door (which had opened and closed with unceasing regularity throughout the entire program) would now stand wide open flooding the cinema with blinding sunshiny light, giving us all a welcome breath of fresh air, while also providing those people who were only interested in seeing the ‘A’ movie every opportunity to wander in off the street and steal someone else’s seat before the lights went down and the doors closed again. Oh, what fun . . .

As I think back now I have almost no memory of the actual films I saw at those long-ago Saturday matinees, and I am not even sure whether all these memories are even of one time or place. Perhaps they are an amalgam of a bunch of different childhood memories and times jumbled up in my mind. It doesn’t really matterthey are my ‘movie’ memories, and fond ones at that. Although some things (even a lot of things) may have changed since those early days, my enthusiasm for the experience remains the same.

blockbusterI may have a favourite seat I like to seat in now, and prefer to be able to actually see and hear the movie without distraction, but, happily, my taste in movies has changed very little. I still like a good old blockbuster—a sci-fi (even a cheesy one), or a full on thriller, an end-of-the-world, beat ’em up, blow’em up, boys-and-their-toys blockbuster, full of colour and light and noise. I am really not a chick-flick kind of girl, and I make no apologies for that. (Last week’s choice, if you are interested, was Sicario —kept me on the edge of my seat for the whole 121 minutes. It was well worth the look—even if some of it was peeping through my fingers.)

So now the weekend is coming up again and I am planning another sojourn, this time to see Spectre. I am not really a James Bond fan per se (what self-respecting woman is?) but Daniel Craig, on the other hand, can take his shirt off for me anytime.  I’m thinking it would be quite nice to spend next Sunday morning alone in the dark with Daniel, but as this is the movie’s first showing here I am not liking my chances. I am preparing myself for the fact that I might have to share again.

Shame really . . .


Posted by on November 12, 2015 in Uncategorized


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‘The amount of sleep required by the average person is five minutes more.’ Wilson Mizener.


Maudie’s got the ‘Yip Yips’.  She’s fast asleep and dreaming . . .

I love to watch my dogs sleep. Especially in the evenings, when they’re all fat and fed and warm and content.

They’ve had their mad half hour when I first get home from work when they fling themselves crazily around the house, running from room to room, jumping on the bed, off the bed, over the couch, under the couch, barking and giggling and jostling each other up and down the hallway, until they finally stop, panting and wriggling and waiting for me to catch up and give them a pat.

sniffing dogThey’ve had their walk around the park, sniffed every blade of grass, woofed at every other dog, had pats from all their fishermen friends and, if very lucky (me less so), found something really juicy and stinky to roll in.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThey’ve lined themselves up in the kitchen and waited patiently (ha!) for me to get their dinner ready, wolfed it down as if they are never going to get another, and then lined up again and beseeched me for more (I’m such a bad mother—you can tell just by looking at them that I don’t feed them enough).

Mabel and Maude have had their obligatory wrestling contest holding a leg each of their favourite bear (poor bear), dragging each other back and forth across the room and growling fiercely at each other the whole time. (Molly doesn’t join in. Molly is above all that sort of nonsense.) 

And then, and only then will they start to slow down, to get a bit yawny and a bit sleepy-eyed and grumbly and will retire to their favourite sleeping spots around the living room.Three bugs in a rug1 Mabel likes the doggie bed in front of the telly (or lately under the couch—although I suspect that has more to do with trying to avoid the eardrops she is being subjected to twice daily at the moment). Molly likes to sleep on the other end of the couch from me, and woebetide any one who tries to take her spot (a bit like Sheldon really). And Maudie usually comes to rest tucked up half under my left arm and half across my lap.

Although they look so settled sometimes they won’t sleep for long. Perhaps after only ten minutes or so Mabel will yawn and stretch and sleepwalk out into the kitchen and help herself to a goodo . . . and then another . . . and maybe just one more . . . dog and bowlor some sound will permeate Molly’s sleepy depths and she will suddenly explode off the couch and hurtle, huffing and chuffing, out through the back door to kill whatever has disturbed her. (She’s usually back in within a minute or so quite pleased with herself so she obviously makes short work of any intruder, although I have yet to find the bodies).

'Can't we run a little, and just pretend I'm chasing you?'But sometimes they drop into that deep, deep hear-nothing sleep, and that is where Maudie is now. She is sleeping with intensity. She is frowning. Her nose is twitching and her feet are running . . . and then gently gently her frown relaxes and her feet start to slow and she becomes very still . . . and  then another excited little ‘yip yip’ and a tail flick and her feet are off and running again. I wonder what she is dreaming about? ‘Chasing rabbits’ my Dad would have said. Maybe, although I don’t know that Maudie has ever actually seen a rabbit . . .

In a little while she’ll wake up, stretch, go get a drink of water, stretch again, and then return to her favourite spot, turn around three times one way, turn around three times the other way, curl up again and go back to sleep. Just like that. And when I eventually go to bed myself and turn out the lights she will sleep all night too, having done not much else all day. Sigh. sleeping-puppyDo I sound jealous? Just a little bit. Apparently adult dogs sleep for around 12-14 hours a day. Puppies can sleep for up to 18 hours a day. I don’t think I need to sleep quite that long, but longer than a two hours at a stretch would be nice. I remember (in the dim, dark, distant past) I used to to sleep really, really well. Eight or nine hours a night. Blissful, unbroken sleep. Alas, no longer.

It was a couple of years ago now that I really noticed my sleep patterns changing. I tried everything (short of medication) to improve the situation, even (a very drastic measure) joining a gym to try and wear myself out (see earlier post ‘The only exercise I take. . .’) and, as much as I hate to admit it, the exercising does help.wide awake dog I can now go to bed dead tired and fall asleep almost immediately. It is the staying asleep that is the issue. Sometimes I overheat (other ladies of a certain age may know what that is like) and I have to get up and go for a walk around the house to cool down. Sometimes I hear somethingor think I dobut the dogs haven’t heard anything as they are all still fast asleep (and how aggravating is that when you are wide awake and everyone else in your household is snoring their heads off? I know I said I love to watch them sleep, but there are limits you know . . .) At other times I have absolutely no idea why I have woken up. I’m fast asleep and then I’m not.  I’m awake. Wide awake. With, it seems, not even slightest chance of nodding back off. So annoying.

So I get up and wash those few dishes I’d left in the sink, or tidy the living room, or decide what I am going to wear to work tomorrow, sleepdeprived1or read for a while (and also make sure all the dogs are awake ‘cos if I have to be awake in the middle of the night so do they), and then I’ll go back to bed and lie there for a while longer and at some stage eventually drop off again, sleep fitfully and wake up groggy and cranky and half an hour later than my usual getting-up time and have to rush around to catch up and probably be foggy in the head and irritable all that next day and—work colleagues you have been warned.  The next evening I will be really, really tired and go to bed early and fall asleep quickly . . . and the whole process will start all over again. Sigh.

I know I shouldn’t complain. There are people out there who suffer much more than I. We have all read the research about what happens to people’s cognitive functions when they are even mildly sleep deprivedconfusion, depression, headaches, irritability, etc (preaching to the choir here) but real insomnia is no laughing matter. People have actually died from not being able to sleep. I had not heard of it but there is a disease called Fatal familial insomnia (FFI) which is a rare, and ultimately terminal, genetically inherited disease. Once a person starts to show the symptoms, starting with insomnia, the illness progresses quickly and the symptoms include hallucinations, weight loss and finally dementia before the person actually dies within a relatively short period of times—so, like I said, I shouldn’t complain. That doesn’t mean I won’t of course . . . especially after my next sleepless night.

Of course, there are plenty of websites out there full of advice on how to best deal with this issue, some of the advice sounds good (no electronics in the bedroom), some less so (avoid alcohol in the evening—say what?)  but, as I said, I’ve tried most of these ‘remedies’ already to small avail.

dogblinkI wish I could just ask Maudie what her secret is. I know she’d tell me if she could because she loves me (and also because she is getting a bit fed up of me waking her up all the time just because I can’t sleep). But for now I guess I will just have to keep watching her and the others sleep and hope some of their sleepy dust rubs off on me.

Although, just quietly and while no-one is looking, I have been thinking I might just give that ‘turning around three times’ before I lie down thing a try. Maybe that’s some kind of secret doggie-Jedi-mind trick they pull on themselves.  I’ll let you know how it works out . . .


Posted by on November 6, 2015 in Uncategorized


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