Cabot Trail Before I begin this blog I want to answer a question which I received from one of my blog readers. She asked me why the dog in my last Maritime Mac blog looked so much like Buster.
The answer is my Maritime Mac stories are re-enactments. It’s just too difficult to track down all the actual dogs which are in Maritime Mac’s large extended family. The real Bradley, who was in the last blog, is a border collie. His day job, is as a security guard at a sheep farm. He was not available.
Also, it can be very expensive to pay a dog to sit for my photographs although I have begun to use the social media to try and find other dogs who might like to make a few bucks. Luckily, Buster has offered to pose for the blogs and for this I’m thankful.
Now, onward and upward with Blog 61.
The answer is my Maritime Mac stories are re-enactments. It’s just too difficult to track down all the actual dogs which are in Maritime Mac’s large extended family. The real Bradley, who was in the last blog, is a border collie. His day job, is as a security guard at a sheep farm. He was not available.
Also, it can be very expensive to pay a dog to sit for my photographs although I have begun to use the social media to try and find other dogs who might like to make a few bucks. Luckily, Buster has offered to pose for the blogs and for this I’m thankful.
Now, onward and upward with Blog 61.
***
One morning, last week, I woke up and the very first thought that came to my mind was, “I woke up. Whew!”
Now, are these the thoughts of a person with a healthy balanced philosophy on life or the thoughts of a hypochondriac? I’ll let you decide.
A clue. Last week I went to a chiropractor. The doctor handed me a handful of forms and a pen. It was a questionnaire. On one sheet there was a list of disorders. I was to indicate the diseases I have or ever had. My god, just give me a loaded gun.
Since this check-the-illnesses-off event I have been gradually dredging up, in my memory, each and every disease listed on that sheet and have had to try, super hard, not to believe I’ve contracted all the listed maladies. There is a down-side to having a good imagination and I can actually create believable pseudo symptoms. I’m that good.
But what does this have to do with this blog? A big donut hole except for the part about waking up. That fact is relevant in everything I do.
You see, I awoke, without my glasses on. I never need glasses to see in my dreams. Perfect twenty-twenty vision. But in the awake world I have a seeing ailment. I need my glasses.
Anyway, that morning the outside part of our bedroom window was not the colour it usually is when it is out of focus. It was white out of focus. Lots of white, so I asked Sue, who was awake. “Is that snow or fog?”
Now, are these the thoughts of a person with a healthy balanced philosophy on life or the thoughts of a hypochondriac? I’ll let you decide.
A clue. Last week I went to a chiropractor. The doctor handed me a handful of forms and a pen. It was a questionnaire. On one sheet there was a list of disorders. I was to indicate the diseases I have or ever had. My god, just give me a loaded gun.
Since this check-the-illnesses-off event I have been gradually dredging up, in my memory, each and every disease listed on that sheet and have had to try, super hard, not to believe I’ve contracted all the listed maladies. There is a down-side to having a good imagination and I can actually create believable pseudo symptoms. I’m that good.
But what does this have to do with this blog? A big donut hole except for the part about waking up. That fact is relevant in everything I do.
You see, I awoke, without my glasses on. I never need glasses to see in my dreams. Perfect twenty-twenty vision. But in the awake world I have a seeing ailment. I need my glasses.
Anyway, that morning the outside part of our bedroom window was not the colour it usually is when it is out of focus. It was white out of focus. Lots of white, so I asked Sue, who was awake. “Is that snow or fog?”
Our Snowy Cape Breton Highlands
Sue can see better that I can without her glasses.
“Snow, dear.”
“Nuts. I was kind of hoping it was fog.”
However, it was pretty, and when Buster and I went for our tromp, there was a Christmasy feeling to the morning and that’s not a totally bad experience. At least if you’re lucky enough to not have a life that makes Christmas feel like a deep black hole you may never be able to climb out of.
“Snow, dear.”
“Nuts. I was kind of hoping it was fog.”
However, it was pretty, and when Buster and I went for our tromp, there was a Christmasy feeling to the morning and that’s not a totally bad experience. At least if you’re lucky enough to not have a life that makes Christmas feel like a deep black hole you may never be able to climb out of.
PUTTING DOWN ROOTS
But, what does all this have to do with the story I’m going to tell you? Not much, except to say that, after I’d asked Sue to give me the early morning window report, beeping sounds reverberated from somewhere near or in the kitchen and to hear them we had to be awake. I assumed it was Sue’s computer.
“Is that your computer, my sweetness?” I asked.
“Jeepers. You want a weather report and now a beep-beep report, my love?”
Anyway, a few minutes later, when I walked into the kitchen, I found Sue and she told me she figured she knew where the beeping sounds were coming from. The stove.
So, I checked the stove out. The timer was the first dial I suspected. I turned it on and off, so I could make the timer go beep, beep, but when it beeped, it didn’t sound at all like the beeping sound we were hearing.
I then checked the oven light switch, looked inside the oven, looked around the oven and etc. etc. And when we heard the beeps again they still didn’t sound anywhere near the stove.
One problem was that the beeping sounds only happened about every three minutes and both Sue and I have trouble localizing sound, which made it even more difficult and puzzling.
Every three minutes we’d hear the beeps and they would sometimes sound like they were coming from the oven and then they’d sound like they were coming from behind us and then they’d sound like they were coming from below us. Good lord!
We were pulling out drawers, hoisting boxes, checking our pockets and shining our flashlights into tiny, never before explored, kitchen crevices.
I even found myself looking in the broom closet where I actually checked the broom and ironing board for expiry dates or, get this, expiry warning lights.
“Is that your computer, my sweetness?” I asked.
“Jeepers. You want a weather report and now a beep-beep report, my love?”
Anyway, a few minutes later, when I walked into the kitchen, I found Sue and she told me she figured she knew where the beeping sounds were coming from. The stove.
So, I checked the stove out. The timer was the first dial I suspected. I turned it on and off, so I could make the timer go beep, beep, but when it beeped, it didn’t sound at all like the beeping sound we were hearing.
I then checked the oven light switch, looked inside the oven, looked around the oven and etc. etc. And when we heard the beeps again they still didn’t sound anywhere near the stove.
One problem was that the beeping sounds only happened about every three minutes and both Sue and I have trouble localizing sound, which made it even more difficult and puzzling.
Every three minutes we’d hear the beeps and they would sometimes sound like they were coming from the oven and then they’d sound like they were coming from behind us and then they’d sound like they were coming from below us. Good lord!
We were pulling out drawers, hoisting boxes, checking our pockets and shining our flashlights into tiny, never before explored, kitchen crevices.
I even found myself looking in the broom closet where I actually checked the broom and ironing board for expiry dates or, get this, expiry warning lights.
No expiry dates or warning signals here!
After one beep-beep, I found myself looking at the microwave. Looking to see if it was looking guilty, and it was, so I set it for three seconds. Poked the button on. Put a water glass stethoscope to its nervous window and listened to the sound it emitted. A definite heart murmur, but not even close to sounding like the beep-beeps.
“You may go, Mr. Microwave, but don’t leave Cape Breton until we’ve solve this puzzling beep-beep thing.”
Another beep-beep and these seemed to come from near the front door. So, we removed the little flashlight which hung from a hook. Looked to see if it had a blinking light. It didn’t, nor did the dog leash, Buster, the candles, the scissors, any of my hats. Not a friggen thing.
So, I dropped to my knees and crawled under the table where I checked all the black worms and snakes that poked out of Sue’s computer and other creepy looking electronic gadgets. Anything, that looked guilty, expired or had a friggen light flickering. Nothing.
“You may go, Mr. Microwave, but don’t leave Cape Breton until we’ve solve this puzzling beep-beep thing.”
Another beep-beep and these seemed to come from near the front door. So, we removed the little flashlight which hung from a hook. Looked to see if it had a blinking light. It didn’t, nor did the dog leash, Buster, the candles, the scissors, any of my hats. Not a friggen thing.
So, I dropped to my knees and crawled under the table where I checked all the black worms and snakes that poked out of Sue’s computer and other creepy looking electronic gadgets. Anything, that looked guilty, expired or had a friggen light flickering. Nothing.
CREEPY ONE-EYED FOREST CRITTER
The next beep-beeps sounded like they were coming from the floor next to the stove. Where I found a possible suspect. A dust-covered fire extinguisher that was hidden behind a bag of recyclables and looked kind of electronic with all sorts of warning labels on it and I had hope it would have an expiry date or a flashing light.
I picked it up, gave it a close examination, looked for anything that look beep, beepie. Nothing, but it still looked suspicious so I set it on the table and waited to see if it would beep, beep.
Three minutes later: “Damn it! Not the fire extinguisher.”
By this time we were beginning to think it was my deceased friend who’d dropped around for a little more fun. That’s another story.
“Why don’t we each park ourselves in a different part of the kitchen and wait to see who’s the closest to the beeping,” I said. Really didn’t sound like much of an option and, to tell you the truth, this whole thing was becoming not fun. We were gobsmacked. (What a neat word).
“I think I’ll take a shower,” Sue said.
“Okay, my dear. You go ahead.”
“Thank you, my love. Please don’t turn the cold water on while I’m sudsing myself up or I will get burned. I hate that.”
“Don’t worry, my love. I will set Buster’s treat stool in the middle of our beloved kitchen floor, sit on it and wait for the beeps.”
“Thank you, my love. That is a very good idea.”
“See Spot run. Run Spot, run.” An excerpt from my Grade One Dick and Jane reader. It is from this reader that I learned how to write the proper and sparkling dialogue you are reading in this blog.
I picked it up, gave it a close examination, looked for anything that look beep, beepie. Nothing, but it still looked suspicious so I set it on the table and waited to see if it would beep, beep.
Three minutes later: “Damn it! Not the fire extinguisher.”
By this time we were beginning to think it was my deceased friend who’d dropped around for a little more fun. That’s another story.
“Why don’t we each park ourselves in a different part of the kitchen and wait to see who’s the closest to the beeping,” I said. Really didn’t sound like much of an option and, to tell you the truth, this whole thing was becoming not fun. We were gobsmacked. (What a neat word).
“I think I’ll take a shower,” Sue said.
“Okay, my dear. You go ahead.”
“Thank you, my love. Please don’t turn the cold water on while I’m sudsing myself up or I will get burned. I hate that.”
“Don’t worry, my love. I will set Buster’s treat stool in the middle of our beloved kitchen floor, sit on it and wait for the beeps.”
“Thank you, my love. That is a very good idea.”
“See Spot run. Run Spot, run.” An excerpt from my Grade One Dick and Jane reader. It is from this reader that I learned how to write the proper and sparkling dialogue you are reading in this blog.
Blue Jay in our Tree
Anyway, if you ever drop around our place you will see, in front of our trailer, a picture of two crows, and written underneath the crows are the words, “Two Old Crows Live Here”.
Yes, two old crows, bouncing around the kitchen, in a forty-five-foot trailer, which is tucked in the woods, is situated on a flood plain, and in the winter, is regularly pounded by heavy snow, because it is also located in a snow belt, and yet, these two old crows can’t find the bleep’n beeps.
“We are hearing these beeps, aren’t we my dear?”
“I think so, my love, although Buster seems to be totally uninterested in the beep noises we think we are hearing.”
However, we finally solved the puzzle, but I think there were at least two reasons why we had so much trouble finding the two beeps.
First, Sue threw me off by telling me she thought the beeps were coming from the stove. So, I spent a lot of time on the stove. This kind of put a block in my mind about what it might be.
Secondly, as I mentioned earlier, both of us have trouble localizing sound.
However, the answer to the beep puzzle was forthcoming because, while Sue was showering, I heard the sound once again and it happened while I was leaning on a kitchen chair. Hanging on the back of the chair was Sue’s purse. And inside the purse was her cell phone, bless its little heart.
You see the chair and the hanging cell phone were equidistant from every part of the kitchen. Almost dead centre and this was the reason why the sound was hard to localize.
So, Sue’s cell phone had been, all this time, heroically shouting out for all us old crows to hear, “My BLEEP’N BATTERY IS NEARLY DEAD. NEARLY TITS UP. NEARLY GONE TO THE GREAT HUNTING GROUND IN THE SKY. PLEASE ATTEND TO ME!”
“Oh thank you dearest, for finding the beep.”
“You’re welcome, my sweetness.”
And Buster, who sensed a break in the ambient emotional stress that had laid its harsh hand over our forty-five-foot trailer, proceeded to his treat stool and stood on it and looked up at his myriad bags, boxes and plastic wrapped assortments of doggie treats.
“Woof, woof! I believe I deserve a treat, my dearest care-givers. I have had a rough morning trying to figure out what the hell you two were doing.”
Yes, two old crows, bouncing around the kitchen, in a forty-five-foot trailer, which is tucked in the woods, is situated on a flood plain, and in the winter, is regularly pounded by heavy snow, because it is also located in a snow belt, and yet, these two old crows can’t find the bleep’n beeps.
“We are hearing these beeps, aren’t we my dear?”
“I think so, my love, although Buster seems to be totally uninterested in the beep noises we think we are hearing.”
However, we finally solved the puzzle, but I think there were at least two reasons why we had so much trouble finding the two beeps.
First, Sue threw me off by telling me she thought the beeps were coming from the stove. So, I spent a lot of time on the stove. This kind of put a block in my mind about what it might be.
Secondly, as I mentioned earlier, both of us have trouble localizing sound.
However, the answer to the beep puzzle was forthcoming because, while Sue was showering, I heard the sound once again and it happened while I was leaning on a kitchen chair. Hanging on the back of the chair was Sue’s purse. And inside the purse was her cell phone, bless its little heart.
You see the chair and the hanging cell phone were equidistant from every part of the kitchen. Almost dead centre and this was the reason why the sound was hard to localize.
So, Sue’s cell phone had been, all this time, heroically shouting out for all us old crows to hear, “My BLEEP’N BATTERY IS NEARLY DEAD. NEARLY TITS UP. NEARLY GONE TO THE GREAT HUNTING GROUND IN THE SKY. PLEASE ATTEND TO ME!”
“Oh thank you dearest, for finding the beep.”
“You’re welcome, my sweetness.”
And Buster, who sensed a break in the ambient emotional stress that had laid its harsh hand over our forty-five-foot trailer, proceeded to his treat stool and stood on it and looked up at his myriad bags, boxes and plastic wrapped assortments of doggie treats.
“Woof, woof! I believe I deserve a treat, my dearest care-givers. I have had a rough morning trying to figure out what the hell you two were doing.”
(my master is an idiot
how freely I admit it
he used to have a thinking-cap
but someone must have hid it)
Abigail Thomas, Doggerel
how freely I admit it
he used to have a thinking-cap
but someone must have hid it)
Abigail Thomas, Doggerel
Wishing you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
