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Author Archives: sallyinthehaven

‘As my artist’s statement explains, my work is utterly incomprehensible and is therefore full of deep significance.’ Calvin.

26 Feb

drawing on wallI have recently taken up sketching again, and I find I’m really enjoying it.   Do I sound surprised?  Well, I am a bit, considering my history with it . . .

Sketching and drawing is something I have done on and off for years—but mostly off.  Oh, I have been full of good intentions. My ‘second bedroom/office/spare-room’ is jam-packed with drawers full of sketch pads, coloured pencils, water-colour pencils, pastel-pencils, pens, charcoals, paints, inks, and paintbrushes of every size and shape imaginable.  You name it—I have it.  Most of it in ‘mint’ condition.

I also have stacks of beautiful ‘arty’ books.  Books on ‘How To‘.  How to paint water colour flowers, how to draw dogs, how to make stained glass windows, how to make your own jewellery, how to use pastels / paints / charcoal . . .   Some of these books have barely been opened.

procrastinationEvery now and again I go into that room and start to wade through all the arty paraphernalia and I come over all excited about getting ‘creative’ again.  ‘I must have a go a that . . . oh wow, I’d forgotten that, that’s cool. . . ‘  And I’ll decide to start, and get everything out that I need and organise it all (because it really needs to be organised)—and then I’ll sit and look at it for a while . . . and a while longer . . .  and then I’ll think ‘Maybe I should just go and do that bit of hoovering before I forget’  . . . or ‘perhaps I’ll just clear away the weeds in that back corner of the garden’ . . . or ‘I might just go and make a cup of tea before I start’  . . .  and before I know it everything is back in its box again and several months will have gone by and I won’t even have looked in that room again. Sigh.

Of course, getting started is always the hardest part.  I mean really getting started—not just getting the stuff out and arranging it all neatly on the desk.  In that respect it’s the same as writing—it’s all about getting that first line down (pen hovering tremulously over that lovely clean white page . . . )

ArtistBut this time I have given myself a bit of a head start.  I have company.  I enrolled in an on-line class through a fabulous site (Sketchbook Skool) I came across, quite by accident when I was looking for something completely different (don’t you just love when that happens?)  The ‘Skool’ is run by Danny Gregory and it looked like a really fun place to play so, on a whim, I enrolled in the six-week ‘Beginning’ class.

The first week of the course was all introductory.  Introducing us to the artists and teachers and the other students on the course. The artists shared their own work with us and told us what ‘sketchbooking’ was all about, what materials we needed, what to buy and what not to buy etc. (‘what-not-to-buy’—who am I kidding?—just another reason to go out shopping as far as I am concerned, even though I already had everything I needed to start.)

Weeks 2 and 3 were all about ‘outdoor sketching’.  It was lovely to watch the videos of the artists/teachers ‘doing their thing’.  Sketching in a park in Holland.  Or along the banks of the river in Goa, India.  And they made it look so easy.  (That should have been my first warning.)

womanhikingMy ‘homework’ was to take myself and my sketchbook outdoors and spend some time drawing whatever took my fancy.  Really?  I suppose I should have guessed this was coming but I am not a very ‘outdoorsy’ person.  (My idea of spending time out of doors is sitting in an alfresco coffee shop, hopefully under an umbrella.)  But I signed up for this with the full intention of giving it a proper go, so okay then.  I packed up my little bag, with my sketchbook and pen and travel pack of watercolours, put my sunnies and hat on (not forgetting to slather myself in sunscreen and bug spray), and wandered over to the park (which is only at the bottom of my street, so it isn’t as if I had a long way to go).

Long story short—total crap out.  First I couldn’t find anything I wanted (or thought I could) draw. Then, when I finally found a spot, I realised it would have been handy to actually have brought my specs with me.  Up until now I have only ever used my glasses for computer work or reading, but although I could see what I was wanting to draw perfectly well—the page I was drawing on, not so much.  Mmmm.

too hotAnd it was so hot.  My sunnies kept sliding off my nose, which gave me the irrits. And the sun was supernova-bright so I found myself squinting so hard I gave myself a headache in no time at all.  And people kept stopping to chat to me. Normally I would be quite happy about that, but I was already proper-grumpy, and I wasn’t getting any drawing done, as it also appears I can’t draw and chat at the same time (not yet anyway).  Mutter.  Mutter.  %^*$#.  Eventually I just gave up and went home—all hot and bothered and in a huff.

(That same week several American students also had ‘outdoor’ issues, but for entirely different reasons—they couldn’t leave their homes at all because of blizzard conditions . . . and there was me, bitching about the sun shining . . .)

But I persevered with the course.  The next week we had classes on using mixed media in our sketchbooks which was a lot of fun (and, in my case, very messy).

Week 5 was about drawing animals.  ‘Beauty’, I thought.  I’d always fancied being able to draw my dogs. posing petsThe artist leading this class Roz Stendahl, is a graphic designer and illustrator, as well as a teacher.  Because most animals are constantly on the move and not inclined to sit and ‘pose’ for long periods of time, Roz suggested we go to our local ‘natural history museum’ to practice drawing stuffed and displayed animals before we started trying to draw live animals.  This would have been great except that I think the nearest natural history museum is probably about 500kms from where I live . . .

Failing that, she said, practise drawing your sleeping pets.  Sleeping pets—yes—I can do that.  My girls can always to be found sleeping somewhere about the house.  It’s a well-loved pastime. So I waited until we were all calm and tired after our walk, and the girls were all snoring happily in their favourite spots around the living room, and I very carefully (no sudden movements) sat in my comfy chair with my pen and pad at the ready, looked up and—there they all were—all three of them, wide awake and lined up in front of me—’ Watcha doing, mum?’  Seriously?

And all too soon it was the last week of the course, but, for me, it was the best week yet.  The artist/teacher was Tommy Kane and the whole week was about ‘slowing down’. Spending 3 hours on a sketch instead of 15 minutes. Really noticing what you were drawing.  It was all about the detail.  And I loved it.  This was much more my style, slow and steady.  And homework this week was to spend at least 3-4 hours sketching my kitchen.  (Yay—coffee at my elbow, fridge close by, air conditioner on . . . )  I could have spent all day drawing my kitchen.  In fact, I think I did.

drawingSo the last six weeks have gone by in a flash and this course is finished—but it’s not all over.  I’ve enrolled in the next one (‘Stretching’) which starts tomorrow, and I’m looking forward to what I will learn next. Because In the last six weeks I’ve learned a lot.  Not just about drawing and sketching, but about myself too.

That in itself was worth the price of the course . . .

 
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Posted by on February 26, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘You know, in dog years I’d be dead already . . .’

19 Feb

sevenMabel turned 7 this week.  Seven.  That was a bit of a shock.  On two counts. . .

First . . . how did my lovely tiny 8-week-old little girl—not only grow up—but grow into almost-middle-age (in dog years)—in what seems to be almost the blink of an eye?

And second of all—how did I?

clip-art-snoopy-033022 (1)Mabel was my ’50th-Birthday-Present-to-Myself’.  (I have always managed to buy myself the bestest presents.)   And, although maths was never my strong suit, even I can work out that a number of sneaky years have also surreptitiously been added to my own age as well as Mabel’s.  But, in spite of my ‘advancing’ years, I still remember very clearly the day I bought Mabel home.  (My long-term memory is still pretty much intact—it’s remembering what I did yesterday (or five minutes ago) which is more of an issue . . .)

Baby Mabel

Baby Mabel

I had actually gone out to buy myself a new car for my birthday.  I was turning 50.  It was a ‘milestone’.  I deserved something special.  And I got it.  I was walking past the pet shop (always a dangerous thing to do), I saw her sitting by the front door, in a little pen, all on her own (I know, I know, they really saw me coming . . . ) and I went in and paid for her on the spot. I don’t think I gave a second thought to a new car after that.  (Seven years later I still haven’t replaced that old car.  I’ve had it for 24 years now.  I have, however, managed to add two more dogs to our little family.  I guess that tells you a little bit about where my priorities lie . . . )

I had arranged with the pet shop that I would pick Mabel up the next day after work (after I had been shopping for new-puppy-things (because a new baby has to have new things all of their own)—and also I  had to break it to my two then very-old dogs that they were getting a new little sister), but I was so excited I couldn’t wait until after work so I went and picked her up on my lunch break and took her back to the office with me.  Joneen (the College Manager) and I spent most of that afternoon taking turns in cuddling her (when she wasn’t sleeping in my handbag) and tossing screwed up bits of paper around the office for her to chase.adopted

Now that tiny little scrap of a creature is seven years old—and I’ve come over all reflective.   I wonder how Mabel remembers her first day with me?  Does she regale her sisters with stories of how exciting or happy or scary that first day was for her? Does she even remember it at all?   Or does she think she just ‘came into being’ and I have always been her mum?  (That is indeed a possibility.  We have never actually had the ‘you’re adopted’ talk.  I’ve been waiting for the right moment . . . )

Does Mabel remember when she was tiny and old Harry would grumble fiercely at her (while slyly wagging his tail at the same time), or how Frankie would lick her ears for hours and let her sleep on his back to stay warm? Does she miss them? Does she feel older—or does she still feel like a puppy inside?  (I don’t think I feel much older than I did 7 years ago (well—okay—except for one of my knees.  That knee often feels about 10 years older than the rest of me), but I am talking about ‘inside’.  ‘Inside’ I don’t feel anywhere near 57.)dogandbowl

I guess I’ll never know.  Anyone who has a dog knows that dogs have at least some concept of the passing of time (just look at their faces when you try to ignore their usual walk time, or are fifteen minutes late with their dinner), but it does seem that time, and memory, work differently for them.

We (humans) have what is called an ‘episodic’ memory.  We remember things based on individual personal experiences, specific events and emotions.  Those in the know believe that dogs don’t have this type of memory—they ‘learn’ what they need to from their experiences, rather than ‘remember’ specific events.  (Mabel caught a bee in her mouth when she was little and it stung her badly.  Her little face swelled up to twice it’s usual size.  To this day she is scared of ‘buzzie buzzies’ (among a myriad of other things) and will run and hide if she hears one.  She has ‘learned’ that bees are bad, but does she ‘remember’ why?)

snoopy-danceDogs, they say (the ubiquitous ‘they’), are programmed to live ‘in the moment’ (which is just another reason to love them even more as far as I am concerned) and it’s this programming that allows them to forget about what happened yesterday (or before lunch) and not worry unduly about what will happen tomorrow.  It’s also probably why they never seem to hold a grudge.  (We could learn a lot . . . )

All grown up.

All grown up.

So, if this is true, I guess I am going to have to do all the ‘remembering’ for all of us.  I am going to have to get all soppy and nostalgic about past-puppy experiences and embrace future doggie-delights my own way, and let the the girls enjoy them their way. I think I can probably handle that.  (Besides, if I keep telling you lot all about them, I’ll have you to help me remember too.)

So, Happy Birthday Mabel-girl, and here’s hoping we continue to share many more birthdays together.  (Although I do just have to say, it’s a good thing that the ‘dog years’ thing doesn’t work the other way about . . .   because in dog years . . .)

 
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Posted by on February 19, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘Be careful about reading health books. You might just die of a misprint.’ Mark Twain.

12 Feb

dogsniffSunday morning, and I’m just pottering around the house, doing a bit of this and a bit of that, and I suddenly think, ‘What’s that smell?’  (I have a notoriously bad sense of smell so for me to even be aware of an odd smell is worth blogging about.)

I do a couple of circuits of the house, popping my head into each room, opening up the cupboards and drawers, sniffing at the air all around (followed closely by three curious little dogs . . . ‘What IS she doing’ . . . ), but nothing seems out of the ordinary, nothing out of place.  What is it?  Where the hell is that smell coming from?  It smells like something . . . burning.  And then it comes to me.  It smells like burnt toast.

But why would I be smelling burnt toast?  It can’t be coming from my house, I haven’t made toast.  (In fact, I couldn’t even tell you the last time I made toast.)  toastBut that is definitely what I am smelling.  If next-door’s breakfast had caught fire would I be smelling it all the way over here?  And why is smelling burnt toast bothering me so much anyway?  Is it a ‘thing’?  I think it’s a ‘thing’.  I’m sure I have read something weird about smelling burnt toast, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it is.

So I ‘google’ it.  Big mistake . . .

peg on nose. . . Phantom smells, like burnt toast and burning hair, can be a sign of a stroke, but they can also be a sign of other conditions. Though it’s possible that people will detect phantom smells for no reason, smelling them is often due to a neurological issue. Mayo Clinic refers to this phenomenon as phantosmia, or olfactory hallucinations. The odors that are detected will vary by individual, but typically they are unpleasant and described as being chemical-like or burning.  In addition to stroke, people will often experience phantosmia as a symptom of other conditions including head injury, brain tumors, epilepsy and Alzheimers . . . 

Sigh.  So—it is a ‘thing’ . . .

Well, it can’t be a stroke, I don’t have any other symptoms—and I am ruling out Alzheimers (at least for the time being), so it’s probably a tumor . . .

Fortunately, before I could start googling ‘tumors’, the phone rang and I had a very long and pleasant chat with a friend, and by the time I hung up I could no longer smell burning toast (the neighbours must have cleared away their incinerated breakfast) and I had forgotten I was suffering from an almost-tumor.

Now, in spite of what I have just written, I actually don’t spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about my health.  I do all the things I am supposed to do.  I try to eat just-about-right and exercise almost-regularly, and get 7-8 hours of sleep a night (when the universe lets me).

doctorWhen I turned 50 our local medical centre offered free ‘fully body’ checkups for those over that age so I went along and was duly poked and prodded and pinched and weighed and had all the requisite blood tests done, and (apart from the doctor looking a mite horrified when I told him the last blood tests I had were around 25 years ago when I was in the Army) all my results came back ‘plumb normal’.  I have continued to get my yearly checkups and so far so good.

So, given there is absolutely no evidence that I have anything whatsoever to be concerned about, it is interesting to me how, with only a couple of possible options (‘somewhere there is toast on fire’ versus ‘you have a tumor’) I, if even only for a few seconds, imagined the worst.

cyberchondriaHow many other people out there also ‘research’ their symptoms (real or imagined), diagnose themselves, and then worry themselves sick (sicker?) about a condition they are convinced they have, but still don’t go to a doctor to have their fears checked out? The stats I saw stated that almost 80 percent of women scan wellness and medical sites online, and around 60 percent of the searches are done specifically to diagnose a medical condition.sheldon-spray

(Interestingly, the stats didn’t note how often men search these sites. My dad, a bone-fide hypochondriac all his long life, would have, for a certainty, been on every online medical site he could find.)  

Apparently women visit the doctor an average of 3 times a year but spend around 52 hours online searching for answers. Psychologists have given this on-line obsessing over real and imagined symptoms a name: cyberchondria.  (Dad would also have insisted that ‘cyberchondria’ was the one disease he didn’t have.)

Anyway, I am certainly not suggesting that researching medical information on the internet is an altogether bad thing.  There is some very useful information out there—although I admit, I usually research my dogs’ health issues rather than my own.  dog-teeth-clipart-1(When Maudie recently had 8 (no, that is not a typo, eight) teeth out (poor baby!) I googled to find out how many teeth dogs normally have (42, in case you were wondering) and was relieved to find out that she still had plenty left to work with and wasn’t going to have to gum her food to death just yet.)

I am just saying it is probably a good idea to get a proper medical opinion (whether it be a doctor or a vet) before you go diving into the internet and become severely freaked out by all the often confusing, overwhelming and often panic-producing information (and mis-information) out there.  Save the internet for follow-up information and support for after you get an official diagnosis.  After my short-lived internet-induced medical emergency, I am going to endeavour to do the same.

I am also pleased to note that I am not the only one who didn’t know that smelling burnt toast was ‘a thing’.  I came across a James May twitter feed (mid 2015) which I thought I’d share . . .

 James May:
Doctors etc: I there something wrong with me if I keep thinking I can smell toast?

Twitter responded the only way Twitter can, with a huge amount of replies—most of them along the lines of the ‘stroke/tumor’ information.  Way to calm a guy down, people.
An hour or so later James replied . . .

James May:
I have located the toast smell.  And I’m glad.  I didn’t know about the stroke connection.  You’ve all scared the shit out of me . . . To celebrate not having a stroke, I went to the hotel breakfast room to make toast . . .  and set the toaster on fire.  It’s a sign.

 
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Posted by on February 12, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘From ghoulies and ghosties, and long-leggedy beasties, and things that go bump in the night . . .’ Scottish saying.

05 Feb

I like to go for long walks in the early morning. Girl-walking-dog-animated-gifThe very early morning, when it is still dark and quiet and cool and peaceful (and I am unlikely to come across anyone I have to stop and talk to).  I can stride out and let Mabel and Maude off their leads for a good run without me having to watch their every move.  (Well—I do still have to look out for kangaroos . . . and possums . . . and foxes . . .  and the occasional water rat.  If the girls see one of them before I do, what started out as a nice calm orderly constitutional turns into a mad free-for-all of epic proportions.)  

We have a usual route that we take every morning—out of the house to the end of the street, turn right on to the main road which runs alongside the river, up past the small row of shops and on to ‘Bunny’s Corner’ and back again.  The street lights are on and, although there aren’t many people about, lights are starting to come on in people’s homes, the newsagency and the baker are open, and early-shift workers are already dropping in to get their daily paper and expresso coffee hit.  The ducks are waddling drowsily around the park, the kookaburras are starting to chuckle throatily, and the songbirds are starting to test their daytime voices.  The world is starting to wake up.

I have been taking these early morning walks in the dark for many years now, and I have never been worried or frightened or creeped-out during all that time.  Except once.  ssshhLast weekend I watched an old episode of the X-files (the X-Files are back—yay!) and while watching that episode the memory of my one spooky encounter came flooding back.  I don’t think I’ve ever actually told anyone this story before, but, for all you X-Philers out there, I thought I’d share it with you now.  (Don’t tell anyone else though—they just wouldn’t understand . . .)

It was a couple of years ago.  I am pretty sure it was around 4.30am because my neighbour-across-the-road’s light came on just as I stepped out of my door—she was getting ready for her early nursing shift.  It was very dark as we headed towards the top of our street where a large pool of light gathered around the streetlight.   walking_cat_thin (1)As we walked I saw the silhouette of a large black cat move slowly into that light.  I remember thinking, ‘Perhaps it will move quietly away before the girls see it’, and I wrapped both leads around my hand one extra time, ready for the jolt that would inevitably come as soon as the cat was spotted.

As I watched, the cat stopped moving, slowly stood up on its back legs, fully erect, stretched its ‘arms’ above its head and then—the only word I can think of is ‘morphed’—into what looked like a small person (where the hell did its tail go?) and continued to walk, fully upright, along the street.

surprised-dogSeveral things then happened very quickly.  My jaw hit the floor. Maudie stopped dead in her tracks and started to rumble menacingly in her throat (‘Danger, Will Robinson!’)  Mabel ran behind me, whimpering, and dissolved into a puppy-puddle.  The ‘cat/person’ suddenly became aware of us, turned, looked directly at us for a second or two, then turned back the way it had come, dropped down on all fours again, morphed back into a cat and slunk quickly away into the darkness.

Now I know what you are thinking.  Well—I don’t, but I can imagine.  WTF?  Right?  Don’t worry, I know how it sounds . . .

I immediately started to rationalise the experience (Dana would have been proud).  Well—it had to be a trick of the light didn’t it?  Or I was still half asleep?  Cats sometimes walk on their hind legs (half way down the block)—don’t they?

By the time I had coaxed the dogs past the last few houses to the spot where the creature had vanished I was even more spooked.  Maudie was baring her teeth and all the fur was standing up along her back. She was sniffing the ground where the thing had been, but was all tense and tippy-toed, ready for flight. Mabel was desperately trying to drag me home.

There was nothing there of course—and no sign that anything out of the ordinary had ever been there.

itsbehindmeSo, I decided it had finally happened—I had definitely lost the plot.  ‘Shake it off, Sal—just keep walking.’  Well, I tried. But, I cannot begin to tell you how incredibly unnerving it is to be walking, alone in the dark, with your dogs growling warningly and looking back over their shoulders the whole time.  (OMG—is it following us??)  We didn’t get far before I gave in to the heebie-jeebies and turned back.  I was hard pressed to keep up with the girls as they bolted for home. (Mabel continues to hide from cats to this day.)

So, there you are.  My brush with the seriously freaky. Up until that point I had never experienced anything even approaching ‘supernatural’ (and I am sure many would say I still haven’t).  I have never seen a ghost, or heard voices, or been on the receiving end of any unexplained phenomena.  I have never ‘dabbled’ in the occult—unless you count reading Stephen King or Dean Koontz (‘Odd Thomas’ would not have batted an eyelid at my experience)—and I have never gone searching for faeries at the bottom of the garden.  (That doesn’t mean they aren’t there though. . . )

ghostI like to think I have an open mind.  Like Mulder, ‘I want to believe’.  I sincerely hope there are aliens watching us from afar (please make them friendly and not just wanting to eat our brains).  And how cool would it be if all the ‘ghoulies and ghosties, and long-leggedy beasties’ we’ve all been told tall-tales about actually existed?  (It would also be really cool if these ‘beasties’ didn’t creep up unexpectedly in the dark and frighten the bejesus out of me and my dogs, but there you are.  You can’t have everything.)

But did I really see something weird and wonderful that very early morning, or was it just all in my head?  I honestly don’t know.  I certainly haven’t experienced anything like it again.  But what I do know is this—when I relive the experience in my mind today, several years later, I still see, and feel, exactly what I saw and felt then.  It was a cat, then it was a person, then it was a cat.  And the hair still stands up on the back of my neck . . .  (cue the X-Files music . . . )

 
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Posted by on February 5, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘I was just sittin’ here enjoyin’ the company. Plants got a lot to say, if you take the time to listen.’ Eeyore.

30 Jan

garden-clip-art-855110Yesterday, as we were coming back from our afternoon walk, I noticed one of my neighbours pottering around his front garden.  He seemed to be chatting happily away to someone out of my line of sight.  As I got closer I realised there was actually no-one else around.  Perhaps he was talking to a cat hiding in the bushes?  Or perhaps he had seen me first and just assumed I could hear him from where I was?

I called out, “Oh hi.  I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.  Were you talking to me?”  He jumped, visibly.  So . . . not talking to me then.

“Afternoon, love.  Didn’t see you there.  Just out giving the rose bushes a good talking too.  They just haven’t been trying lately, you know?  Needed a bit of a pep talk.”

Ooookaaay . . . .   “Well, that’s good then.  I hope you pull them all into line.”  I smiled, waved, and continued on down the street, and as I went I heard him resume his animated conversation with his errant roses.

By the time I reached my poor-excuse for a front garden I was already wondering when, if at all, I had ever given any of my plants ‘a good talking to’.

I myself have a ‘potted’ garden of succulents (which are, happily, extremely hard to kill) and that is enough for me.  I am very happy just to tend to my pots.  triffidI water them when they need it, pull off any dead bits, and stand them upright again if they topple over—and that’s about it.  If one of my plants puts one hairy root out of that lovingly-cared-for-pot, it’s on its own. I’m done. Once a plant makes a break for freedom into the wild ‘beyond’, I have no time for it. Now that may sound harsh, but I just don’t really trust plants at all when they start to get out and about on their own. They tend to get all a bit uppity and either turn into some huge monstrous triffid, or spread themselves liberally all about the place and get into all sorts of nooks and crannies and spots where they just aren’t welcome.

In spite of the fact that I seem to have missed out on the ‘gardening gene’, I do realise that some other people have a deep-seated, almost visceral need to get out and wallow in their gardens.  And I get that.  I really do.  I like gardens.  Other people’s gardens.  I am always very happy to sit in someone’s gorgeous garden (preferably with some lovely nibblies and glass of wine in hand) and admire their geraniums—puppy_digging_a_hole_lg_clrjust don’t ask me to help dig, prune, hoe, rake, or mulch along with you (or shout at me about the massive crater my new puppy just dug while we weren’t looking.  She really didn’t mean to dig up that gorgeous purple thing you had just managed to get established—she thought she was ‘helping’ . . . and besides, what is a garden without a couple of doggie-pot holes anyway . . . )  

And now I wonder—how many of those people who tend their gardens so passionately, also go outside and have animated conversations and ‘pep talks’ with their begonias (and do they actually listen to see if the plants answer back?)

talking_to_plantsPeople talking to their plants is not a new thing of course.  Prince Charles was widely derided after a 1986 interview where he famously said it was “very important” to talk to plants and that they “respond” when spoken to.  People aren’t laughing so much now though and it seems that ‘plant whispering’ is all the rage.  I wonder though if anyone asked P.C. after that interview— ‘What does one actually say to one’s plants?’

I assume there are rules?  Things you should and should not say to your plants?  I mean, you would presumably want to stay positive, wouldn’t you?  You know, talk about how the weather is lovely for this time of year, or that you are going out to buy them some whiz-bang new fertilizer you just came across for them to try, or ‘Perhaps you might like to be moved from here to under that lovely sunny spot over, there?’

Bee...dying(Unless of course you are sneakily using reverse psychology and surreptitiously trying to kill off everything in the rockery to make room for a new garden shed.  Then you could probably fill them in on the possible global extinction of honeybees and the devastating effect that might have on all plant life on earth.  I should think that would be enough to send even the hardiest of plants into serious decline.)

eeyore-1It does make you wonder though.  If plants can indeed hear and respond to our voices, how might it be if we could hear and respond to theirs?  What would they tell us if they could?

Maybe Eeyore has the right idea.  Maybe we should do more listening, and less talking . . .

 
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Posted by on January 30, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘We’ve had cloning in the South for years. It’s called cousins.’ Robin Williams.

22 Jan

clonesdogLast weekend I watched an older sci-fi movie called ‘The 6th Day‘. The movie was set in the ‘very near future’ where DNA cloning had been perfected and become an ordinary accepted part of everyday life. Early on in the story the family dog, Oliver, died and the family discussed going to ‘RePet’ to have him cloned.

Fifteen years ago when this movie was released, pet cloning was still science fiction—but only just. The first real pet-clone was a cat, CC (‘Copycat’ or ‘Carbon Copy’ depending on which article you read) born in 2001. Today there are commercial companies around the world like ‘PerPETuate‘ and ‘myfriendagain‘ offering pet cloning services to ‘reunite you with your best friend’ (all at considerable cost of course—anywhere between $50,000 and $150,000).  As I watched the film, I also watched my three lovely girls as they pottered happily around me and wondered whether I (always supposing I ever had a spare $100,000 anyway) would ever consider cloning any of my pets after they had passed on.

It actually didn’t take all that much thinking about.  I have adored every one of my pets and grieved hard for them when they passed away, but cloning?  Nope, not for me.

clonesI do admit that the science of cloning fascinates me—I am a rabid sci-fi fan after all—but the ‘sci-fi’ science and the ‘actual’ science of today are two very different things.  In sci-fi movies the clones (people or animals) always seem to be exact copies, down to the tiniest detail. Their mannerisms, individual quirks and memories are the same as the original.  We don’t have human clones yet (and let’s not even go there, please) but today’s pet clones are advertised as being genetically-identical-but-not-exact replicas.  So it’s still a bit of a lottery.  You might indeed get a dog or cat that looks and acts almost exactly like the one you lost—but you also might not.

Apart from the fact that I believe that just because we can do something, it doesn’t mean we should (animal medical experimentation—a whole other conversation) I can see why creating a dog clone might be considered an option if you are trying to replicate genetically gifted animals—say search and rescue dogs or cancer smelling dogs.  But if, and it seems this is mostly the case, people are cloning their pets ‘to get their best friend back’ I can only feel that they are setting themselves up for major disappointment.  We are all, every one of us, the sum of our life experiences, the people we have met, the things we have done, the places we have been.  Surely our pets are the same?  And if this is true, how could a dog-clone, no matter how closely related to the original, possibly be the same as the dear friend you lost?

dog laughingA long time ago—in a galaxy far far away—I took Harry, my first dog, out to a friend’s farm where a crowd of us were meeting up for a barbecue.  After lunch we all decided to go for a ramble around the property.  Harry, who was only about 3 months old at the time, was having a ball. There were lots of friendly people around to give him pats.  He had been eating sausages all afternoon.  And, best of all, he was running with the big boys—the farm dogs, 3 large rough and tumble kelpies—who chased him, nipped him, rolled him over and over and played with him for hours.  He was in dog heaven.

And then we got to the dam. The dam was a vast crater dug into the paddock.  It had high, rough, earthen sides which were flattened along the top, and the water was dark, deep and muddy.  The farm dogs dived in right away and a few of us sat along the top of the dam to watch them swimming and splashing about. Harry desperately wanted to join them but he was nervous. He’d never seen that much water in one place before.  My friend asked me if Harry could swim and I said he hadn’t tried—there weren’t a lot of swimming spots where we lived.  Without missing a beat my ‘friend’ picked Harry up by the scruff of the neck and tossed him, unceremoniously, into the dam. I remember being horrified, appalled and so shocked I couldn’t speak.  All I saw was Harry sailing through the air and disappearing into the dark, murky water.

BloodhoundShakingOffWaterLeft_MedSeconds later he was up, and swimming for his life.  He made it to the edge of the dam, staggered out, shook himself vigorously and, without so much as backwards glance, took off after the other dogs who were now running up the steep banks to the top of the dam.  Once he reached the top he did one excited madcap circuit of the crater at full speed and then, with no hesitation at all, launched himself into space and into the water again. (I swear I aged 10 years that afternoon.)

Before long everyone watching was cheering him on and giving his soaring bellyflops ratings out of ten.  (It took him a while to work out that he could get into the water from the bottom of the dam as well, and he didn’t actually have to fly in from a great height).  Harry continued to toss himself haphazardly and delightedly into that dam for the rest of the afternoon and it was only exhaustion (mostly mine) that eventually stopped him.  On the drive home my lovely, muddy, filthy, smelly little boy slept like a stone, with his tongue hanging out and a huge smile on his face.

dogswimmingAlthough I don’t condone the action of hurling my puppy into a dam (the memory of it still makes me shudder) that was the day Harry began his life-long love affair with water.  From that day forth Harry would, at the slightest opportunity, fling himself exuberantly into any puddle, pond, fountain or river he came across.  He would even just stick his whole head in a bucket of water if that was all that was available.  Of course, not everyone we met over the next 19 years thought this as amusing or adorable as I did and I often had a lot of ‘splaining to do‘, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

'My Harry'

‘My Harry’

Would a Harry-clone have the same love for water that my original-Harry had?  Very possibly.  But the experiences Harry and I shared over the years can’t be so easily duplicated, and that’s what makes our dogs, and cats and other pets so dear to us. I have absolutely no doubt I would love a Harry-clone just as much as the original—I am a sucker for loving any and all dogs—but it wouldn’t be because he was a replica of ‘my’ Harry.  He couldn’t be, and I shouldn’t expect it of him.

So cloning?  Not for me.  I honestly don’t think you need a clone to mend a broken heart.  Grieve for the friend you have lost.  Remember all the funny, sad, exciting, ‘oh-my-god’ moments you had together, and, when you are ready, open up your heart and home to another (perhaps one of the many, many sad, lonely, neglected or abused dogs and cats already in the world) and, over time, they will mend your heart for you . . .

 
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Posted by on January 22, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘I read recipes the same way I read science fiction. I get to the end and think, “Well, that’s not going to happen.” Anonymous.

15 Jan

reality tvOccasionally, and I stress it is only very occasionally, I get an bit of an urge to cook something.  (What was that sound?  Was that your chin hitting the floor? How rude.)  Well, don’t panic—I am not about to invite you over to test out one of my new fandabbydozy culinary creations.  Apart from that fact that I don’t think my insurance covers food poisoning, that occasional urge to cook usually only lasts until the closing credits of whatever cooking show I happen to be watching at the time.

It is a bit of a strange thing but I just love watching cooking shows. Why strange?  Because anyone who knows me at all knows that I really, really don’t like to cook.

not cooking (2)I honestly don’t like anything about cooking (except, possibly, and this very much depends on how successful the attempt was, the eating part afterwards).  I don’t like reading recipes (the ingredient list is usually enough to send me screaming from the kitchen).  I don’t like organising menus (which I wouldn’t do anyway because—well . . . just . . . why?)  I don’t like shopping for food (about the only thing I don’t like shopping for).  I don’t like the actual cooking process (ho hum), and I definitely don’t like all the cleaning up that is needed afterwards (well, der).

It’s not that I don’t know how to cook, I do.  I am an adequate cook.  I know the basics.  I can boil water.  I can scramble eggs or make an omelette.  I can cook pasta and sauce and I can even throw together a roast dinner if I have to . . .  but if I don’t have to, I would really rather not.

woman and cakeIn truth though, I did, once upon a time, like to ‘bake’ (as in cookies, cakes, slices, pies etc, which I don’t view as quite the same thing as ‘cooking’, but I am sure someone out there will have something to say about that) and, naturally, anything I baked, I ate. (Doh.) Unfortunately my clothing allowance couldn’t keep up with my ever-expanding girth and something had to give (other than my waistbands) so I stopped baking . . . although I am still more than happy to sample the efforts of others (nod, nod, wink, wink) . . .

Although I have no interest in cooking myself I have friends who are die-hard ‘foodies’ and passionate about the culinary arts.  (I’m not silly you know, I may not cook but I still need to be fed. 🙂 )  My friends will happily expound on all the different recipes they have tried, hold forth on the virtues of one particular type of utensil over another, and swap tips on the best places to buy all the ‘necessaries’ (and probably also ‘unnecessaries-but-want-one-anyways’) that go with the craft of cooking.  For it is a craft, and I do recognise that—it’s just not a craft I want to practice.  I am happy to listen to listen to all the animated conversations, nodding and smiling in agreement (like I really know what they are talking about), and I am always very happy to sample their delicious offerings—but I just can’t quite seem to get excited about it for myself.

Nor for the life of me can I understand why someone would want to be a chef or a cook for a living.  Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not knocking it—thank God there are people out there like you or people like me might live our whole lives existing entirely on tea and toast—garfieldchairbut from what I can see the work is stressful, hot and sweaty with unsociable hours—unless you are a ‘celebrity chef’ I guess, and then the stressful, hot, sweaty, unsociable hours belong to those who work for you.  Nope.  I just don’t see the allure.  But watching other people cook?  Great.  Fabulous.  I can do that.  Cooking for me is a spectator sport.

But if I am not interested in the cooking per-se, why do I love to watch cooking shows so much?

food pornFor me it is not about what is being cooked or how it is being cooked (I don’t get to taste he fabulous creations after all and, let’s be honest here, I am never going to try and cook it myself)—it’s all about the ‘art’ of it.  I find it little different from watching a painter create a painting, or a sculptor a statue.  I love the final ‘art on a plate’ image—although I have to say I am less enamoured, after all that work, when the ‘art’ is then attacked and gobbled up unceremoniously by the chef or judges.  I know it is all supposed to be about the taste and if it doesn’t bother the cook it shouldn’t bother me, but it does, it does . . . 

Anyway, perhaps, one of these days I may just break out and find my way back to the kitchen and try a couple of new recipes and . . . nah . . . who am I kidding . . . can’t see it happening.  My sister sent me a plaque once (still proudly on display I might add) that reads, ‘I have a kitchen because it came with the house‘.  How right she was.

But that won’t stop me watching, and salivating.  If you want to see some of the most gorgeous images of food you will ever come across, go to The Art of Plating and enjoy.  (Food porn . . . mmmm . . . )

 
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Posted by on January 15, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘Which hand do you use to pick up a dangerous snake? Someone else’s . . . ‘

07 Jan

leaving home (2)Well, that’s it.  It’s decided.  We have to leave town.

OK.  Wait a minute though.  Big breaths.  Perhaps . . . just-perhaps-and-ever-so-slightly-possibly . . . leaving town might be somewhat of an over-reaction . . . maybe . . .

. . . but this week the girls and I had our very first encounter with a snake.  And I didn’t like it.  At all.

I know what you are going to say.  I live in Australia, so I should be used to seeing snakes and spiders and all manner of creepie-crawlies on a daily basis.  Right?  Well—yes—to a point (and you may remember from an earlier post my views on the Australian spider population)—but snakes?  Nope.  Nuh huh.  No.  Up until now I have never had a close-up real-life encounter with a snake, and quite honestly, I am absolutely, positively and most definitely sure I could have continued on and lived my life quite happily without the experience.

We all know that snakes are around, especially those of us living in country areas.  We are warned about them almost on a daily basis, and told to be on the lookout for them, especially in the summer months.  In spite of this I found myself totally unprepared.

snake waving (2)We were on our way home from our afternoon walk.  We’d been on a lovely wander along the sea wall, had cut through the bushy track and walked through the park (where there is so much leaf litter and long grass that you honestly wouldn’t be able to see a 100 snakes having a birthday party unless they stood up and waved to you) and were coming back along the busy footpath into our street.

screamingI was actually looking further down the road as I had just spotted Lenny patrolling his front yard.  (Lenny is a lovely big Boxer boy (hence ‘Lenny’—as in ‘Sugar Ray’) but he and Maudie like to give each other grief every time we go past his house so I was rallying myself for the confrontation.)  Suddenly there was a commotion at my feet and the girls all at once ran directly in front of me, tangling my legs in their leads and causing me to stumble and look down.  And there it was.  Clear as day.  It slithered right between all of our legs.  I am surprised you didn’t hear me from where you were.

Terriers are renowned for chasing down and killing snakes but interestingly (and thank you God) on their very first exposure to one my girls’ first reaction was to run away from it, dragging me with them (they are such good girls).  Just as well really, as I was pretty much rooted to the spot.  Happily, the snake seemed equally keen to escape and sped away from us across the road and into the park.

(The girls were immediately informed that we are never going to set foot into that park again.  In fact, they might be lucky to even get another walk outside this summer.)

4c9arLBcEThe snake was, I am reliably informed by a very nice man who came over to see what all the fuss was about, a young Eastern Brown Snake.  Lovely.  One of the most venomous snakes in the country.  Not that that counts for much in my mind.  Any snake in Australia that is non-venomous (so few and far between as to be not worth mentioning) is still more than likely to scare you to death anyway.

That wasn’t quite the end of it of course.  By the time I got us all home I had convinced myself that  any one of the dogs could have been bitten during all the kerfuffle without me realizing it.  I googled all the symptoms for snake bite in dogs (don’t ever do that by the way—it will give you nightmares) and then proceeded to completely freak the dogs out by following them obsessively around the house and garden for the next couple of hours—just to make sure they weren’t vomiting or fitting or collapsing or swelling up or . . . Poor Mabel began to give me a haunted, stalked kind of look over her shoulder every time she got up to go outside for a pee . . .snake&person (2)

At the end of the day though it was all good.  No-one had been bitten and I only lost of a couple of years off my life through fright.  The snake also got away unscathed and is now free to spend the rest of its life growing to anaconda-size proportions in our local park ready to scare the life out of other unsuspecting walkers and their dogs.

Mmmmmm . . .  rethinking again . . . the possibility of leaving town is still on the table  . . .

 
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Posted by on January 7, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘I feel a very unusual sensation—if it is not indigestion, I think it must be gratitude.’ Benjamin Disraeli.

31 Dec

Over the last couple of days I have been struggling with what I should write next.  With the New Year now upon us it would seem the obvious thing to write about, but I have been hard pressed to come up with any ideas.

janus1‘I could write about the history of New Year,’ I thought.  Something like—the origins of celebrating the New Year can be traced back over 2,000 years to Mesopotamia, although the Romans really made it their own much later on.  Ancient Romans worshipped Janus for whom many believe the month of January was named.  He was the god of beginnings and endings, and for all the gates, doors and passageways in between.  Janus is usually depicted as having two faces, since he looks to the future and to the past.

Are you riveted yet?  No, me either.

resolutionsOr, perhaps I could write  something about New Year’s Resolutions?  Really?  Like that hasn’t been done to death.  Besides, I don’t make ‘resolutions’.  I learned a long time ago that I am lousy at keeping promises to myself.

So—what about writing something about the local celebrations?  Nah.  That wouldn’t work either.  I have no plans to be going to any of them.  Sigh.

If you hadn’t already guessed, New Year’s Eve always leaves me a little cold.  I find it all a bit difficult to get enthusiastic about.  All this happy, happy, rah, rah just doesn’t really ring true for me. For whatever reason ‘New Year’ usually makes me melancholic, and this year is no exception.

So, after sitting and staring at the blank computer screen for much longer than I intended I finally made the decision that I wouldn’t write anything this week.  I was not ‘inspired’.  (Besides, no-one would notice anyway as they would all be out partying.)

cutting_lawnInstead I would go and do the other thing I was feeling totally uninspired about—mow the lawn.  That alone should tell you how discouraged I was.  I hate mowing the lawn (or at least the patch of scrub and weeds that likes to pretend it’s a lawn).  At least I was managing to making myself feel slightly better about the task by having a good old bitch to myself as I mowed.  ‘Bloody thankless task . . . back and forth, back and forth . . . stop, pick up sticks . . .  back and forth again . . . stop, pull up weeds . . .  wouldn’t mind so much if it looked any different once I had finished . . .  bloody hell it’s hot . . . ‘

And then, as I marched ‘back and forth, back and forth’ and muttered to myself, a random thought—‘At least I have a lawn to mow’ completely stopped me in my tracks.  (I swear it literally stopped me between a ‘back’ and a ‘forth’.)  

Whoa.  Where did that come from?  Well, actually, I know exactly where it came from.  I watched the TV news early this morning and it was all about the bushfire devastation in South Australia; and the flood, snow and tornado damage across the United States; and scenes of most of northern England underwater. Add to this earlier stories of the European refugee crisis and escalating terrorism around the world and 2015 was a truly horrifying year for a lot of people.

gratefulAnd here I was grumping about having to mow the lawn.  I should be ashamed. Unlike all those people on the newcasts, nothing horrible or traumatic has happened to me this past year.  I still have a roof over my head.  I have a job I like and consider the people I work with as friends as well as colleagues. My family and friends are all safe and well, and my girls and I are healthy and happy.  And I am grateful for that.  For all of it.  And I am also certain I take it all far too much for granted.  I apologise.  I am going to try and stop doing that.  (Damn—that sounded suspiciously like a ‘resolution’.)

smiling-dog-hurry-take-the-pictureSo where do I go from here?

I want to wish everyone well for  2016 but how do you say ‘Happy’ New Year to people who have lost their homes, their possessions, their loved ones?  It seems trite and insensitve.  So I won’t.

What I will do is wish everyone, from me and my girls, a ‘Safe’ New Year, along with the fervent hope that  2016 is a better year for everyone . . .

 
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Posted by on December 31, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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‘Merry Christmas, nearly everybody.’ Ogden Nash.

25 Dec

cat fight3.42am and I was woken by an earsplitting, inhuman howl which seemed, inexplicably, to be emanating from directly behind my left ear.  I peeled myself off the ceiling, flicked the light on and was attempting to calm the dogs down (who were by this time all running up and down the bed, barking and growling and snapping at each other in their fright) before I realised that the sound was actually a cat fight going on underneath my bedroom window.

Now I like cats but—damn—why does it always seem to happen outside my bedroom window.  Going outside to shoo the cats way only seemed to wind them up a notch, thus inciting dogs Harry and Sasha from next door, and Max, Storm, Caesar, Turbo and Rosie from further down the road to join in with the unholy racket. Somehow I don’t think I am going to be the only cranky-pants, bleary-eyed pet owner on my street today.

Eventually the caterwauling stopped. I guess they got bored—or realised they had successfully woken every person and every dog in a three block radius and had therefore done their work.  My girls went back to sleep immediately (so irritating) and I was left to lie there, waiting, hoping, to fall back asleep.  I didn’t.

By the time I was beginning to get sleepy again the ‘dawn chorus’ was starting up.   singingbirdOne lone kookaburra started to chuckle quietly to himself and I remember thinking, ‘Here we go’.  Sure enough, he was followed by an answering giggle and and then a full on belly-laugh, and before long they were all laughing hysterically—no doubt gossiping about the outcome of last night’s cat commotion.  Then the magpies joined in, in full voice, and once I heard the first black cockatoo screech I knew it was all over.  Who can sleep through that?  Time to get up.

garfieldchairIt was barely light yet but at least it was dry (we’ve just had four days and nights of absolutely torrential non-stop rain) so I decided to walk them down to the beach.  This morning Molly decided she wanted to come with us.  This was unusual.  Molly doesn’t ‘do’ mornings.  In the world according to Molly, mornings are for stretching, breakfast and straight back to bed. Mornings are definitely not for walking.  (Molly could give Garfield a run for his money when it comes to laziness and food).

But today she came running up and did her little ‘take me, take me’ dance.  In spite of the fact that she was so enthusiastic (and she definitely needs the exercise) I was hesitant.  I have been bitten before (figuratively speaking).  I like to stride out with Mabel and Maude in the morning and get a good long walk in.  Molly gets all gung-ho and raring to go—and then we get to the end of the road and around the corner, and she will suddenly stop dead, and sit.  And sit.  And sit.  Once she has decided she will go no further there is no moving (or dragging) her.  Believe me I’ve tried.

black stuffed toy1Once, in my frustration, I even dropped her lead and walked away with the other girls.  I walked blocks and blocks and when I looked back, there she was, a tiny black dot, sitting in exactly the same place I left her.  Stubborn as.  And by the time we got back to her she was still sitting, unmoved, like a little doggie stuffed toy—and, once she realised I was no longer going to try to persuade her to go further, she happily trotted all the way home.  I can still see that little smug smile on her face.

(Seeing how well it worked for Molly, Mabel tried the same trick once.  I dropped her lead and walked away from her and got maybe ten feet before she came hurtling up behind me, crying ‘Don’t leave me, don’t leave me’.  Bless.)

Anyway today Molly swore to me she would walk the whole way, so I gave in.  And, surprisingly, she was as good as her word.  She huffed and puffed a bit but she didn’t pull up once and we got to the beach, just as it was coming light.  I did a quick scan up and down and saw we were the only ones there so I let the girls off their leads so they could have a good run around.

spotty dog runningOr at least Maudie could have a good run around.  Maudie loves the beach.  As soon as she hits the sand she is away, and she runs and runs and runs.  No direction, no purpose, just pure joy.  Mabel (you may have already guessed this) is scared of the beach.  She will stay as close to my ankles as she can without tripping me.  The delights of the beach are totally wasted on Mabel.  And Molly, on the few occasions we have actually managed to get her that far, likes to potter around in the bushy, grassy areas of the dunes, looking for good smells and dead things to roll in.

So I was a bit taken aback with slow and steady Molly, whose top speed is usually a slow waddle, suddenly shot past me at full throttle and hurtled back the way we had just come.  It only took one look over my shoulder to see why.   #$%&*.   Kangaroos.  A small group of ‘roos  had silently appeared and were grazing quietly in the dunes close to the bush.

kangaroo on beach‘Oh how lovely’, you might think.  And you’d be right.  They are beautiful, gorgeous creatures.  When seen from a distance.  And when not being chased by a small, fierce, hopped-up-on-adrenalin Pomeranian.  Up close and cranky they are a lot bigger than you’d think and they can be pretty scary.  One could easily kill a Molly-dog if provoked.  Molly, of course, could give two hoots about that. Molly is a Wolf in Pomeranian clothing.

There was nothing for me to do but run along the beach after her, calling desperately for her to ‘Stop. Stay. Heel.’   All to no avail.  She was ‘in the zone’.  What a sight we must have made.  Kangaroos bounding gracefully along the deserted beach. Molly, little legs going ten to the dozen, pelting after them.  Maude, running after her, laughing, and looking over her shoulder at me—with no idea what all the excitement was about, but loving the game anyway.  And me, a long way behind (me—running on sand—dear God—seriously?) and carrying Mabel, who was so upset by the sudden dramatic turn of events she looked like she might need resuscitating at any moment.

Molly - Kangaroo Hunter

Kangaroo Hunter

And then, quite suddenly, the kangaroos and Molly left the beach and vanished into the thick bush.  #$%&*, again.  Even if I could have seen where they went I couldn’t take the other two girls into the bush after them, so all I could do was wait on the beach, pacing and calling, my heart in my mouth, and hope that Molly would soon reappear.  Thankfully, she did.

Fifteen minutes later she wobbled out of the bush, exhausted, covered in sand, bits of bush and other debris sticking out of her fur at all angles, and her little pink tongue hanging out about a foot.   I  was so relieved she was all in one piece I couldn’t even be cross with her.  Besides, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her quite so happy . . .

Of course, she was also so pooped I had to carry her all the way back to the house.

An hour later we were all safely home, clean, fed, and in the case of the girls, sleeping again.  What more could three little dogs ask for?

They got to shout abuse at cats in the middle of the night and and encourage all their doggie friends in the street to do the same.  The got to go to the beach in the early early morning and play in the sand and bark and run and chase kangaroos—or at least, chase Molly who was chasing kangaroos.   They all got hugs and kisses from their Mum for being good brave girls during all the drama (even Mabel) and they all got a yummy Christmas breakfast when they got home. And now they are sleeping on their brand new Christmas beds, with their new Christmas teddy (which Maudie has killed twice already) and the remnants of the Christmas wrapping paper (which was Mabel’s favourite present).  Best.Christmas.Day.Ever.   And the day isn’t even half over yet.

dogpompomsSo they’re happy,  and that means I’m happy (and also in need of a stiff drink and lie down).  And I hope you are too.  Happy I mean—not in need of the drink and the lie down . . .  although it is Christmas.  I also, most sincerely, hope you had a gentler start to your Christmas Day.

So—from me to you— ‘Merry Christmas, nearly everybody.’  (I am not extending that greeting to the owners of last night’s cats.  I am still pissed off about those cats . . . )

 
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Posted by on December 25, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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