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‘You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation.’ Plato.

24 Jun

platoMy first thought when I read that quote was “Yep, that sounds about right.”

My second thought was, “Mmmmm, I wonder what Plato would discover about me?”

And then I thought (because, occasionally, I do continue thinking) “I wonder what he means by ‘play’?”

play (verb)
1. take part in (a game or sport)
2. engage in activity for enjoyment and recreation rather than a serious or practical purpose.

I don’t believe, at least looking at me from the outside, that most people would consider me a very playful person. In fact, if you were to agree with the first dictionary definition only, I could probably be considered as one of the most unplayful people on the planet.

'I don't wanna play!'

‘I don’t wanna play!’

Because I don’t like to play games.  I never have.  (That’s not an apology by the way—just a fact.)  I didn’t like to play games when I was a kid—and nothing much has changed since then.  (I absolutely hated sports days at school where you were put on a team and made to play a game you didn’t want to play, with a bunch of kids you didn’t want to play with, and, to rub salt into the wound, you were actually expected to enjoy the process as well!)  Even now as an adult I’ve never really seen the allure of on-line games, card games, or the dreaded ‘board’ games—they’re fun for about ten minutes and then I get bored with them (see what I did there?) and just want to pack up and go home. And I definitely don’t find myself all overcome with excitement at the prospect of watching a game show or sport on the telly.

See what I mean?  I sound like a barrel of laughs, don’t I?

But in my defence I’d have to say that my ‘play’ time runs much more in line with the second definition.  I like to spend my leisure time reading, writing, sketching or watching movies—none of which really need other active participants.  (I can just see Plato’s notes now —’Does not play well with others’ . . . )

But there are exceptions to every rule—even for me—and although I may not like to play games with other people, I really do love to play games with my dogs.

Molly

Molly

Well—except for Molly.  Molly doesn’t play.  At all.  She was five years old when she came to us and I just don’t think she ever learned how—and no amount of encouragement or enticement over the next four years has made a scrap of difference. She did once—in a mad fit of doggie-bravado—make a tentative grab for a toy that was lying near her, but unfortunately it squeaked at her, and that was enough to send scuttling to the deep-dark-under-the-couch for the next couple of hours.  She has never felt the need to repeat the experience.  (With little conversation and even fewer play skills, I wonder what Plato would make of her?)

Mabel & Maude

Mabel & Maude

Luckily, in the playfulness department Maudie more than makes up for Molly’s (and my) lack.  Maudie was born to play.  Every moment not spent eating or sleeping is for finding something, or someone, to play with.  She just can’t help herself.  She’s noisy, inventive, hilarious—and totally relentless.   No wonder Mabel has gone so grey so quickly—having a little sister like Maudie must be totally exhausting.  Mabel will join in with a game as long as it is not too boisterous (I am sure she only joins in a lot of Maudie’s games because she won’t get a moments peace until she does) but, just quietly, I think she’d really rather prefer a quiet cuddle.

Maudies ToysBut, you know, be they playful or not-so-much, every day I am grateful for their presence in my life. They are my saving grace. Nothing makes me laugh more than playtime with my girls.  I am sure I would be a sadder, sorrier, and definitely more unplayful person without them (even if  Maudie does stretch the limits sometimes when she saves her loudest toy (her pink ‘oinker’ pig) to play with when I am trying to watch the evening news . . . or brings me the ball to throw . . . again . . . and again . . . and again . . . )

So, all in all, I think my initial thought on Plato’s quote still holds true. It does sound right, bearing in mind that play means different things to different people.

Hopefully Plato would take that in to account and watch me play, both with my books and pencils, and then again with my dogs, before coming to any major conclusions about me . . .

 
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Posted by on June 24, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘A good speech should be like a woman’s skirt; long enough to cover the subject and short enough to create interest.’ Winston S. Churchill.

17 Jun

queenEarlier this week on the BBC I saw the Queen give her speech in thanks for her recent 90th birthday celebrations, and as I watched I thought how lucky Her Majesty was to have someone on staff to help her write her speeches.  (I am assuming this is the case, because if she had to write all her speeches entirely by herself where the hell would she find time to do anything else?)  

speechwriter

Anyway, assuming the Queen does have a speechwriter I have to say I am a tad jealous.  I could really have used someone like that these last few days to help me with my words.   I have had real problems stringing a coherent sentence together all week.  And not just a sentence in the Queen’s English either—a sentence in any intelligible form whatsoever.  On more than one occasion I have had to stop, take a breath, and remind myself—
‘Use your words Sally . . . use your words . . . ‘

headcoldAnd then, towards the end of this week I came down with a really severe head cold—which explained a lot.  While being ever-so-slightly pissed off about this, because, well, who needs it?—I was also quite relieved, as I had been starting to think my brain must have sprung a leak somewhere.  But being under the weather, and seemingly in a perpetual brain-fog, did make me more aware of just how much I depend on my words—and how much I like words and miss them when I can’t find them.

(Well, I like most words.  I don’t like acronyms—and I am not even sure they count as real words anyway, even though they are pronounced as such.  And I don’t like initialisms either, as it turns out.  Did you know there was a difference between an acronym and an initialism?  I didn’t, and I am not really sure I needed to know that either, but there you go . . . )

wineoclockBut, aside from these, I do like to learn new words, and it seems that there are new words being invented and added to our English repertoire all the time.  An earlier update to the Oxford Dictionary (August 2015) had almost 1,000 new words and phrases (including slang) added to it.  Some of these included manspreading, nuff said and awesomesauce.

Happily, the words beer o’clock and wine o’clock also made the grade. 🙂

New words are good (the first 2016 updates are starting to appear in the dictionaries now) but what about the old words?  What about words we never see or hear used any more?  What happens to them?

groakThis week I came across the word Groak.  (I am not sure what I was looking for but ‘groak’ definitely wasn’t it.)  Groak means ‘to stare silently at someone while they are eating, in the hopes that they will give you some of their food’.  Anyone who has ever had a dog, and likes a dinner of sausages on occasion, will be intimately aware of having been ‘groaked’ . . .  So cool that I now have a word to put with that look.

Wondering what other weird and wonderful words I could find I did a bit of research and discovered that there are a huge number of archaeic or obsolete words that have now gone out of fashion.  I have noted down some of the more colourful ones for you (and this is only a tiny selection . . . ) 

bibble:  to drink often; to eat and/or drink noisily
(so Saturday night at the pub, then)

brabble:  to argue loudly about something inconsequential
(probably at the same time you are bibbling)

slubberdegullion:  a slovenly, slobbering person
(someone you know leaving the pub in complete ‘cattywampus’ (see next entry))

cattywampus: in disarray

crapulous:  to feel ill because of excessive eating/drinking
(as in ‘I’m feeling totally crapulous today.’  It seems some words haven’t changed so very much at all.)

callipygian:  Having beautifully shaped buttocks
(Okay nothing to do with the pub . . . unless the barmaid or barman is thus endowed.)

doodlesack: old English word for bagpipe
(Not at all what I thought of I when I first saw this word.)

tittynope:  a small quantity of something left over
(Again, not my first guess.)

borborygmus: sound of intestinal gas
(and we’re back to eating and drinking at the pub again . . . )

Mogigraphia:  Writer’s Cramp
(A signal to wrap this post up? ) 

bagpipeI’m thinking I should send a short note to the Queen, drawing her attention to some of her country’s long forgotten words and suggesting that it might be a good idea to have one or two of them surreptitiously slipped in to one of her next speeches—

‘Members of Parliament have been meeting regularly this year, bibbling and brabbling in constant cattywampus, while one lone piper has valiantly piped forlornly on his doodlesack trying to cover the constant borborygmus . . . .’

Perhaps I shouldn’t hold out too much hope for an interview for the next speechwriter’s job opening . . .

 
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Posted by on June 17, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘Anyone who isn’t confused really doesn’t understand the situation.’ Edward R. Murrow.

07 Jun

Stories from my Sketchbook . . .

Ever had one of those days when you wake up in the early early morning and find yourself thinking that you don’t really know who you are . . . or where you are . . . or why you are here . . . but you have that vague uneasy feeling that you’re supposed to be some-one, or some-where, else?

Weird . . .

img024

This sketch is a copy of a photo I saw on-line.  
I have no idea who took the photo so I cannot credit them here, but I thought the dog’s face just said it all . . .
🙂

 
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Posted by on June 7, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘If you take my advice there’s nothing so nice, as messin’ about on the river . . .’ Tony Hatch/Les Reed.

03 Jun

Riverwalk-earlyI got to thinking when I was out on my early morning walk today (I do that sometimes—think.  Not often,  and hardly ever in the early morning, but sometimes . . . )  Anyway, I got to thinking how easy it is to forget, when you wake up to it every day, just how beautiful it is here where I live.

I have lived in North Haven (on the mid north coast of NSW) for around 13 years now.  I love it, but I do have to remind myself on occasion not to take it all too much for granted.

The Camden Haven (of which North Haven is just one small part) is blessed with a spectacular coastline and beaches, extensive waterways and lagoons, walking tracks and cycle paths aplenty, and abundant birdlife and native animals (all of which my Mabel, Maude or Molly have attempted to chase or catch at one time or another . . . )

north haven beachThe Camden Haven River runs, literally, past the end of my street.  When the girls and I go out for our early constitutional our biggest decision is whether to turn left and follow the breakwall alongside the river all the way down to North Haven Beach (that would be Maudie’s preference—Maudie just loves the beach) or whether to turn right and follow that same pathway in the other direction—up towards the boat-ramp through the mangroves and then on towards town (which would, in truth, also suit Maudie as she has a special friend at the bakers we pass, who often saves a little fresh-baked treat for her).

mangrovesEither way, the walk, and the scenery is gorgeous and it’s a calm and pleasant way to start the day. (Unless the girls see a kangaroo . . .  which we quite often do.  In the early early morning kangaroos are usually heading back into the bush after sneaking into town during the night to feast on people’s lawns.  I can always tell when one has been in our street.  My sister’s dog (in England) likes to roll in fox pee—Mabel likes ‘roo poo’ and she is always the first to find it.) 

Living by the river seems to breed early risers.  No matter how early we are up there are always a few others out and about before us.  Just before dawn the fisherman have already set up in their favourite spots along the wall, rods and bait boxes at the ready.  Then there are the other early morning walkers, one or two joggers and cyclers, and, believe it or not, once we even came across a ‘mature’ lady happily hurtling along at full throttle on her son’s skateboard.  skateboard(I think she was a bit surprised, and abashed, to see anyone else out and about before 5.00am, but she explained that her son wouldn’t let her ‘have a go’ when he was around so she had taken matters into her own hands. Go girl!)  

And, of course, you can always tell if it’s going to a nice day, even before the sun is up, by the number of cars and boat trailers lined up haphazardly across the carpark as they wait their turn at the boat ramp. As you can imagine, with the river and the sea in such close proximity, being in and on, the water is a must. Well—for most people . . .

laurietonI freely admit that, although I am very fond of the river, I am not so fond as to actually go in it.  My mother always says we come from a family of ‘people watchers’ and she is dead right. I am not much of a joiner-in-er.  I am much more in my element sitting comfortably on the grassy riverbank, in the shade, with the dogs, watching the boats and tinnies streak up the river on their way out to the fishing grounds off-shore, or waving to the kayakers as they pass me, or giggling at the lone paddleboarder paddling valiantly against the tide for all he is worth—and getting absolutely nowhere. (Bless.)

dolphinAnd then there are the dolphins.  I could sit and watch the dolphins all day. They cruise up and down our river in little family pods with such regularity that sometimes I am actually surprised when someone comments on them being there.  It’s too easy to forget that not everyone gets to see such a fabulous sight nearly every single day.

pelicans (1)And if I get bored watching the people on the water (and wondering if they are wondering what is in the water beneath them) I can always watch the parrots and galahs squabbling, or the cockatoos feeding in the trees, or the myriad other waterbirds whose names I do not know—or, my favourites, the pelicans who gather in bustling, pushy crowds around the fish cleaning tables waiting for scraps thrown by the fishermen.

Perhaps I should do more of my thinking in the early morning.  When it is still calm and clear and the day’s bustle and noise has not yet taken over.  It’s easier to be mindful and grateful for things before the working day takes over.

So I am going to try and make an effort to just stop every now and then, and take a moment, and remind myself of just how lucky I am.  To be where I am.  To live where I live.  And I am going to try and keep reminding myself of it every single day . . .

north brother

 
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Posted by on June 3, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘Everyone thinks they have the best dog, and none of them are wrong.’ W. R. Purche.

27 May

best in showI recently re-watched the fabulous ‘mockumentary’ Best in Show.  (If you have never seen this movie you are missing out.  You don’t even have to be a ‘doggie’ person to enjoy it as it is, in reality, much more about the people who own the dogs than the dogs themselves.)  Anyway, watching it again made me realise that, in spite of my love of dogs, I don’t think I have ever been to a real-honest-to-goodness dog show—and I’m talking a ‘proper’ (note the inverted commas) dog show here, where all the dogs of a particular breed look exactly like each other (at least to me) and you have to have a PhD in Rules and Regulations to fill in the entry application.

ChupeeI have, however, attended lots of smaller local events, where showing off your best friend is a much simpler, and much less serious affair.  In my experience these shows often involve someone having to break up a fight (not necessarily between the dogs), or call for volunteers for a cleanup crew because somebody ate too many sausage sangers, or send out a search party for a mischievous pup who’s gone walkabout.  Categories usually include ‘Dog with the Prettiest Eyes’, ‘Dog with the Waggiest Tail’, ‘Dog with the Silliest Smile’, or ‘Dog You Would Most Like to Take Home with You’.  (So, more of a Ruffs than a Crufts.)

dog-biscuit-clip-art-690442‘Proper’ dog shows have been around for over 150 years.  The first bonefide modern dog show, was held in Newcastle-upon-Tyne (England) in 1859 and was an ‘add on’ attraction to their very successful annual poultry and cattle show.  It was very much a country affair though, and only setters and pointers were shown.  (The prizes were all guns too—although hopefully the actual competitors were rewarded for their efforts as well).

dog show plaqueLater that same year the first show to include non-sporting breeds was held in Birmingham and was such a huge success that the first National Dog Show in 1862 attracted 267 entries, 30 breeds, and was judged in 42 classes. The Victorians loved their dogs so much that the next 14 years saw massive growth in this new and fashionable hobby. The Dog Shows themselves were mostly for the city folk, as they were available to people of all classes and popular both with exhibitors and spectators.  The Field Trials were mostly popular with those living in more country areas.

dogwalkdog(Many years ago I took my first puppy, Harry, to watch some local field and agility trials.  I thought it could be a fun thing we could learn to do together, but he showed very little interest and slept through most of it.  Thank God for that.  Until that day I hadn’t realised just how much running around the handler was expected to do as well.  Phew.  Dodged a bullet there . . . )

I have never been tempted to show any of my dogs, even at the fun local events.  Harry never really considered himself a dog anyway and would have been mortified beyond belief if I had tried to show him off as such.  His younger brother Frankie, on the other hand, was very much a doggie-dog but he would have caused bedlam just through his sheer unadulterated joy at being around so many other four-legged friends.  (He also had the attention span of a gnat so I doubt anyone could have got him to stand still long enough to be judged anyway.  Bless.)

shydogAnd as for my girls—Mabel is so shy that being in the company of more than two people at a time causes her to hide behind my legs or bury her face in my sweater and refuse to come out.  Maudie is far more outgoing and would, I am sure, thoroughly enjoy the whole process.  She is also, however, Frankie reincarnated, and her capacity for joy, and chaos, is unmatched.  (Oh, and if someone touches her tummy when she is not expecting it she will either shriek or pee—possibly both.  I’m not certain, but I imagine she might lose points for that.)

And then there’s Molly . . .  well, you would have to catch her first.  Molly prefers to stay low key and out of sight—while issuing instructions and opinions from under the sofa.best dog award

So no, I can’t really see us participating in a dog show any time soon.  But that’s okay.  I don’t need anyone else to tell me that my dogs are fabulous, I already know that.

And, truth be told, most people who love their dogs already think they have hands-down-no-argument-best-dog-ever, and nobody else’s opinion (even a judge at a fancy dog show) is likely to change that.

Whether your dog is massively huge and slobbery or teeny-tiny small and dainty . . . or beautifully proportioned, or looks like a keg on legs  . . . if her coat is bright and full and shiny or he is going grey around the muzzle and getting bald spots . . . if he’s a picky eater, or she prefers to eat your furniture . . .  if she’s quiet and shy or he’s boisterous and madcap . . . or even if he (or she, let’s be fair) is just really old and grumpy and farts a lot . . . no-one should tell you otherwise.

You really do have the very best dog . . .

Group of twelve dogs

 
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Posted by on May 27, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘From there to here, and here to there, funny things are everywhere.’ Dr. Seuss.

20 May

When I went to see the movie Deadpool I knew even before I went in that I was going to like it.  And I was right.  It was fast, funny, violent, hilariously profane and starred Ryan Reynolds.  What’s not to like?

deadpoolSo I was happy.  I had fun.  But not nearly as much fun as the young man sitting four rows down on the left.  This guy was having a seriously good time.  At one point he was laughing so hard I thought they were going to have to carry him out on a stretcher.  And it wasn’t obnoxious laughter either—he was laughing in all the right places—he just seemed to be having so much more fun than everyone else.  And it was contagious.  I think I spent at least as much time laughing along with him as I did at the movie itself.

Which made me wonder—would I have found the movie as amusing if I had been sitting watching it on my own at home—or even if that young man hadn’t been in the audience?  Probably not.  A shame really, because I’d like to be able to laugh like that more often, and I’m not really sure why I don’t.

It’s not like I never find anything funny.  I giggle a lot.  And probably even smirk, chuckle, snicker, titter, and maybe even snort (very unladylike, I know) on a fairly regular basis—but that real full-on, from-the-gut, makes-your-eyes-water-and-leaves-you-gasping-for-breath belly laugh . . .  not so much.

fartBut the thing is, you don’t really ‘decide’ when you are going to laugh, do you?  Or what you are going to laugh at, or how hard you are going to laugh.  It just happens—and often at the most inopportune moments. I’ve just read a blog where a man told a story of when he and his brothers were at their mother’s funeral and their grandmother unexpectedly sent forth a very loud and unapologetic burp, sending the brothers into fits of ‘quiet hysterics’ . . .  (I guess they should be grateful granny didn’t fart—that might have sent the whole congregation into meltdown . . .)

But sometimes it doesn’t even take a granny-burp.  Sometimes there is no obvious reason to be laughing whatsoever, other than someone else is already laughing and you seem suddenly, and inexplicably, incapable of not joining in.

laughing-image-0182Scientists think this ‘contagion’ effect might be because laughter may have been a precursor to language and that our ancestors may have laughed to show they were friendly and meant no harm to others.  Consequently we are hard-wired to respond to laughter.  (I guess that is also why sitcoms still use the ‘laugh track’.  My advice, they should track down that young fellow that was at my cinema—he was a laugh track all on his own.)

And it seems that we humans don’t hold the exclusive rights to laughter either.  Experts (I always want to put that word in inverted commas, but I don’t want to offend anyone, so I won’t) believe that other animals laugh too, although, at this stage they seem to believe that apes and rats are the only others to do so.  The chimps and gorillas I get—closest living relatives and all that (and we all know someone who actually sounds like a chimp when they are laughing, don’t we?)

lauging ratThe rat thing is just a tad weirder.   ‘Tickling‘ experiments done on rats (because why wouldn’t you want to do a tickling experiment on a rat?) discovered that when rats were being tickled, they produced high-pitched, ultrasonic vocalizations (chirps), and these sounds were only made when they were playing.  And, what is more, these rats actively went out of their way to get more tickles (as you do), further indicating that they were actually enjoying the process.  (These giggly rats also preferred to play with other ‘chirpers’, which stands to reason really—why spend time with the grumpy old codger in the corner when you could be having a chuckle-fest with the fun crowd?) 

dogrollingI was a little surprised though, to see that there appears to be no evidence that cats and dogs laugh.  As an owner of three incredibly silly and giggly dogs, I am absolutely convinced my girls spend the majority of their (awake) time laughing. (The same experts who did the rat experiments above would no doubt call this ‘anthropomorphizing‘.  I have one thing to say to that—have any of these experts ever owned a dog?)  

Grumpy-CatAnd—okay, sure—I admit that you don’t often see cats rolling around on their backs, tongues hanging out, eyes rolling madly, while waving their legs in the air with gay abandon when something amuses them (behaviour far too uncouth for most cats)—but you can just tell from their expressions that they are laughing (hard) on the inside . . .

smiley dogsAnyway, I am not quite sure how I managed to get from Deadpool to tickling rats but the long and the short of this story is that I am planning another trip to the movies this weekend and I am kind of hoping that young man is going to be there again.

I am feeling in need of another really good belly-laugh . . .

 
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Posted by on May 20, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘The most affectionate creature in the world is a wet dog.’ Ambrose Bierce.

06 May

The weather bureau says we are in for more rain this weekend.  Well, of course we are.  It has been gorgeous while I have been working in the office all week—warm, bright, clear and sunny.  If rain is coming it is sure to be here just in time for the weekend . . .

walking in rainI don’t deliberately go out walking in the rain any more.  I used to love it (providing the rain wasn’t torrential enough to flatten you onto the pavement of course) but then I had my ‘boys’ to walk with me, and inclement weather made no-nevermind to them.  Harry and Frank were born and bred in Armidale—tough country boys through and through.  Freezing temperatures, snow, rain, storms—nothing stopped them from going outside or wanting their daily walks.  We (or rather I, as neither of them would be seen dead wearing anything resembling a coat) would just bundle up and out we would go.  Their enthusiasm never waned.  Harry was still demanding his daily walk at 19 years of age.

My, how things have changed . . .

muddy-dogMabel has a deep-seated aversion to rain.  As she does to having baths.  I used to think it was just the water itself that upset her, but she is quite happy to go and stand up to her oxters in any muddy puddle she can find, so that can’t be it.  She doesn’t seem to be scared of the rain either—which in itself is notable, as she is scared of almost everything else.

(Did you know that ‘fear of rain’ is a real thing?  I didn’t—it’s called ombrophobia.  I’m fairly confident that Mabel doesn’t suffer from that.  I think it’s more a case of she just doesn’t like to get her ‘hair’ wet.)

legscrossedMaudie isn’t quite as ‘precious’ as Mabel (although she will scream bloody murder if you try to put a raincoat on her) but the rain does always have a hilarious effect on her.  A rainstorm always makes Maudie want to pee (it never fails) and she will inevitably hover around the back door with her legs crossed for an extraordinary amount of time (always looking at me as if I should be doing something about it) before eventually giving in and making a mad dash out into the garden to relieve herself.  (Rain or no rain, when a girl’s gotta go, a girl’s gotta go.)  She will then hurtle back inside (joyously triumphant in having completed her mission) and then make a huge song and dance about drying herself off (on the carpet, or the rug, or (if I can’t catch her in time) my bed . . . )

And then there’s Molly.  Ah Molly.  I love her to death you know—but sometimes . . . .  Offer to take Molly out in the rain and she is all smiles.  Running in circles, barking and doing her little ‘happy’ dance.  All good. Until I get her out of the house and maybe as far as the end of our street and, that’s it.  stubborn-dogShe will then decide that perhaps a brisk walk in the rain was not the best idea after all, and she will plant her little fat bottom down and flatly refuse to go any further (backwards or forwards) and I’ll end up having to carry her home.  (Are all pomeranians that stubborn, or is it just her?)  It’s honestly not worth the aggravation.  (Note: The picture at right is not of me and Molly, but it was heartening to find a pic that proves other people have the same issues . . . )

PouringRainLast weekend it rained and it rained and it rained.  On Sunday I held off ‘walkies’ as long as I could (due to all the reasons listed above) but once I saw a slight break in the clouds we were off.  The girls were so excited, I got them all the way down to the end of the breakwall before they realised the rain hadn’t quite stopped.  I started to get those ‘you brought us out in the rain?’ looks.  We turned for home, and picked up the pace.  I was hoping the girls wouldn’t notice that the rain was getting heavier.  They noticed.  We were still out on the breakwall when the rain turned into the sort of deluge that Noah had been waiting for.  ‘Come on,’ I cried, “Run!’ and I started running myself (no mean feat I can tell you).  When they didn’t all overtake me like they usually do, I looked over my shoulder to see the three of them, heads down and ears flattened, all trotting forlornly in a single file behind me.

Dog-shaking-cartoonTo make matters worse, Mabel would stagger three steps, stop, shake herself vigorously, stagger another three steps, stop, shake, stop, shake . . . holding the other two up in the meantime (there seemed to be some unwritten rule about ‘jumping the line’). Unreal.  (God only knows what the neighbours must think.  Anyone looking out of their windows to see me laughing hysterically (it was all pretty funny) waving my arms about and dashing back and forth chivvying up three bedraggled, pitiful looking little dogs must have thought we were rehearsing some weird circus act.)

20141228_105902Once back inside the house of course, all the horrors of the past half hour were immediately forgotten and they reverted to their usual seething, writhing mass of wriggling, giggling, yay-we’re-at-home silliness.   Little feet, heads and tails were duly dried off (using, judging by the amount of washing I had to do later, almost every towel in the house) group hugs were duly dispensed, and that ‘special’ doggie aroma began to fill the air.  (‘Eau de Wet Dog’, mmmm. . . )

Finally, calm, dry, fed and exhausted from the trauma of the day, it was time for a nap.  On mum’s lap.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.   Let it rain again this weekend.  See if I care. There is nothing quite like the love and affection of a damp, tired-but-happy little dog—or three . . .

 
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Posted by on May 6, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘My little dog—a heartbeat at my feet.’ Edith Wharton.

03 May

Stories from my Sketchbook . . .

Mabel doesn’t sit at my feet (unless we are out of the house of course, and my feet are the only thing to hide behind).

But inside the house—I don’t think so.  Being a teeny-tiny dog, Mabel learned very early on that it was in her own best interests to avoid anyone else’s feet but her own.  (It should be written in the doggie handbook—two-legged giants stomping around on big clumsy feet rarely bother to look down.)

Besides, why on earth would she sit on a cold, hard floor when she could be sleeping between the pillows on mum’s bed, or snuggled between her two sisters in a blanket on the couch, or, better still, on mum’s lap.  I mean, really . . .

Mabel-May 2016

 
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Posted by on May 3, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘I wanted to be a veterinarian until I saw a video of a vet performing surgery on a dog. Then I decided I wanted to be a pianist.’ Amy Lee.

22 Apr

badbackThis week at morning tea at the college we had a lively discussion about medical diagnosis, alternative treatments and the importance of getting a second opinion.  I can’t quite remember how the conversation started (somebody’s bad back I think) but at one point it was suggested that perhaps that person might be best to get a second opinion from our local vet, as whatever their doctor was doing for them definitely wasn’t working.  We all laughed of course, but I am not sure that the suggestion was entirely silly  . . .

sick catI have a huge amount of respect for vets.  As you might imagine, having had many dogs and cats over the years I have spent a lot of time at my local vet surgery.  I’ve been very lucky.  For the most part our visits have been for the ‘usual’ yearly checkups, injections, nail clippings and minor infections, and only once or twice for something more serious, but I have always been amazed at the depth and breadth of knowledge that a vet has to have.  Not only does the vet have to be a general practitioner (and very probably also their own radiologist, surgeon, cardiologist, ophthalmologist, nutritionist, allergist, groomer, business manager, and legal expert) but he (or she) also has to be a general practitioner across multiple species.  (I guess a human doctor could say that too on occasion—but he’d have to be very careful who he said it to . . . )

And, unlike most human doctors, the vet has to be able to diagnose an animal who can’t, at least in words, give him any indication of what the problem is.  In addition, the vet’s patient may also (no matter however cheerful and docile at home) be just as likely to kick, bite, or scratch (or all of the above) the hand that is trying to help it—even when visiting for something very minor.

crazy dogA case in point.  My Maudie loves everybody and everything.  She is the happiest, lickiest, waggiest little dog I have ever owned—but it regularly takes three grown adults (and very stern words from her mum) to keep all 6 kilos of her under control when I take her in to get her nails clipped.  (I am sure our lovely vet Gavin and his team (CamVet) have seen it all before, and probably much worse, but I do find it very annoying.  Does it really have to be such a drama every single time??)

BloodhoundShakingOffWaterLeft_Med And it was because of these drama-queen antics that I had to take Maudie into the vet again this week.  She’d had an ear infection several months ago and although I’d had ear drops to administer (8 drops in each ear, twice a day, for 10 days—oh dear God) I was pretty sure I had ended up wearing more of those drops myself than ever went near her ears.

(I did take her back to Gavin at one point to tell him the issues I was having putting the drops in but she sat there like a lamb (smiling sweetly at me the whole time) and let Gavin put the drops in with no problem at all.  Gavin looked at me like I was the diva.  Sorry Gav, but you did.  The next morning when I tried to administer the drops again, the shrieking and thrashing reached epic proportions.  Maudie’s shrieking and thrashing—not mine—although . . . )  

Anyway, although she never complained out loud, over the last couple of weeks I had caught Maudie a number of times with her back foot gingerly probing her ear, so I was pretty sure the problem was still there.

sedatedSo it was back to Gavin to get those ears checked out.  Happily, this time Maudie did her little freak-out in front of witnesses (yay!—see it is her, not me—I felt thoroughly vindicated) and it was decided that as she was obviously not going to let me (or anyone else) anywhere near her ears ever again, the best course of action was to keep her in the surgery for a day to be sedated and have her ears thoroughly cleaned out and treated while she was out for the count.

That meant no breakfast that morning (wow—and that is a whole other story) and all the extra fun that goes with trying to get only one dog out of the house and into the car without becoming homicidal (dogicidal?) with the other two, or becoming totally deranged and incoherent myself in the process.  (Tricki Woo going ‘crackerdog‘ has nothing on my three girls.)  But we got there, of course, as we always do, and as crazy as she makes me sometimes, I fretted about her all day.  Not because she wasn’t in good hands, because she was—just because—well—you do . . .

Maudie

Maudie

When it came time to pick her up that afternoon I was told she had been ‘good as gold’ and had just ‘sat quietly smiling at everyone’ all day.  I was not overly surprised at that—my girls are all much braver in a ‘pack’ than they are as individuals and Maudie is a big smiler anyway—but I do also think it might have something to do with the sedative which was obviously still in her system.  After a brief but riotous reunion with her sisters, (and after she had finished her dinner, of course—no breakfast, remember?) she settled cozily into her favourite spot on the couch, still a little bleary-eyed and unfocussed, and happily hummed a little tune to herself until she finally fell into a deep, deep sleep.

It had been long, exhausting day for a little dog (and her mum).  I wonder if those sedatives are available on-line . . .

 
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Posted by on April 22, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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‘I’m a perfectionist with a procrastinator complex. Someday I’m going to be awesome.’ Anon.

15 Apr

29-1I have never considered myself to be a ‘perfectionist’.  At all.  Near enough was always good enough for me.  Or so I thought.

And I never really thought of myself as a ‘procrastinator’ either.  Sure I would put the occasional thing off until later—who doesn’t do that sometimes?  But not as a general rule.  Or so I thought.

But then last weekend I actually caught myself, on several occasions, deliberately putting off something I really wanted to do, by doing a whole host of other little jobs I didn’t want to do at all.  Weird—huh?  I mean—who does that?   So I sat down and thought about it (like that wasn’t just another attempt to procrastinate even further) and could only come to the conclusion that I might be (shock horror) a procrastinating perfectionist.

PerfectionismAccording to the dictionary, a perfectionist is ‘a person who refuses to accept any standard short of perfection‘.   Pffft.  Now that really doesn’t sound anything like me at all.  In fact, I would go as far to say that I am much more inclined to do things a little bit half-arsed than I am to be overly anal.  (Anyone who saw my lawn after I had finished mowing it would have to agree.  As long as it is ‘tidy’ I see no reason whatsoever to go around every single edge and border or pick up every errant leaf that has blown on to it.  Likewise with the housework.  I like to keep my house clean and tidy but with three dogs underfoot my home is never going to be pristine. As long as there aren’t tumbleweeds of dog hair floating down the hallways I can handle it.)

dinosaursThe same dictionary also states that a procrastinator ‘is a person who delays or puts things off—like work, chores, or other actions—that should be done in a timely manner.’  Well—okay—guilty—sometimes.  But it is not usually very long before I suck it up and get on with what needs to be done.  I prefer to get onerous chores done and dusted and out of the way.

And that’s when the penny dropped—‘onerous chores’.  I have no issue with onerous chores (other than them being onerous, of course) because they don’t matter much to me.  Half-arsed is good enough.  The ‘perfectionist procrastinator’ in me only seems to kick in when something does matter to me.

So what brought on all this self-reflection?  What was I really wanting to do but avoiding with all my might? Sketching.  (I know, I know.  What’s the big deal right?  Sigh.)

Those of you who have read my earlier posts you will know that I have recently started drawing and sketching again. (Note the ‘again’ there.  Methinks I have had these issues before.)   But, truth be told, I have talked about sketching more than I have actually sketched.  Oh, I’ve done some.  I have.  But not nearly as much as I wanted to—or said I wanted to.  I enrolled in two online sketching courses and thoroughly enjoyed them.  I even participated in the on-line forums and uploaded some of my homework drawings, and got really nice feedback from the other students and from the tutors.  But I am still not sketching every day.  Sometimes I am not even sketching once a week.  And, the thing is—I really like sketching.

no inkSo what’s the problem?  Why am I still so anxious about getting the sketchbook out and putting pen to paper?  It seems pretty obvious doesn’t it?  And I’ve probably known the answer the whole time—I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.  I’m just afraid.  Afraid my sketches will be crap.  Afraid I’ll spoil my nice new pristine sketchbook.  And I don’t want my sketches to be crap.  And I definitely don’t want to spoil my nice new sketchbook.  So I look for reasons to not start at all.

happier dog(Dogs don’t have these issues, you know. Dogs don’t not dig a hole for fear it is not going to be the right shape or angle.  They don’t not play with that new toy in case they get teeth marks in it.  Although, on the procrastination side, I could name at least two little dogs who have gone to great lengths to delay going outside to use the bathroom because it was raining . . .  HA—see what I did there—classic diversionary statement.  It would be so easy to just veer off and talk about dogs now . . . )

So what am I going to do about this ‘first world’ problem of mine?

drama queenWell the first thing I am going to do is acknowledge that if this is really the only issue I have in life to be fretting over at the moment, I should be roundly ashamed of myself (and in truth, I am somewhat mortified to even acknowledge it out loud.)  Then I am going to go back over all my notes from my art classes and re-read the advice given on this very subject by nearly every one of the teachers (which I blithely skipped over because it ‘didn’t really apply to me’.)  And, finally, I am going to try really hard to just ‘get over myself’ and stop being such a drama queen about the whole thing.

feeling pressureSo, although I have already talked myself out of this twice already, and can already feel my resolve wavering again, I have decided to give myself a real push out of my comfort zone and have set myself a task of uploading a sketch to this blog once a week—just to see if I can do it.  (And let me say that at this stage I have NO idea what kind of sketch you might get—but if one day a quick scribble of a balled up piece of paper appears on this blog, you may at least have some idea of the sort of week I’ve had . . . )

I am going to have to push to ‘Publish’ button real quick now, before I change my mind again.  See you in a couple of days . . .

P.S.   Out of curiosity I took The Perfectionism Test and am pleased (I think) to let you know that I ‘possess a healthy level of perfectionism’.  (Mmmmm.  I wonder if the author of this test was the same person who wrote the ‘Personality Test’ in one of my earlier posts?)

 
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Posted by on April 15, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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