Larry Gibbons
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A  Colourful Story

17/8/2017

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Picture
Wild Roses Near Port Hood Trail
You all remember Maritime Mac’s second cousin, Wilbur Mackenzie. He’s the fella who drove to Sydney to pick up a bicycle and returned home empty-handed, but with both he and his dog, Bradley having learned an important lesson about likes and dislikes.

Anyway, Wilbur, besides owning a 2010 red Accent, also owns a large, dark red pick-up truck. He uses it to plough his neighbours’ roads in the Cape Breton snow belt, truck fire-wood to folks and occasionally haul his sometimes sorry ass to this place and that. Once in a while, he even likes to sit in his truck, listen to the radio and occasionally rev up the engine. He loves his hemi.
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Church on Mountain
On one particular Sunday, Wilbur, Bradley and his nephew, Tyrell jumped into the pick-up and drove to Wilbur’s friend’s small trailer. The friend’s trailer was stuffed with Wilbur’s friends and folks and the day was very, very hot.

How hot was it?

It was so hot that the cold beer became warm beer practically before it hit their lips. So, there were Wilbur and his significant others imbibing at high speed to beat the heat. Even Bradley was turbo-licking the beer out of a black, cast iron frying pan.

There was no air conditioner, so it got very stuffy, even with the tiny fan blowing to beat the band, bless its little fanny.

Wilbur was majorly sweating and it was supposed to continue to be hot for another few days. When he looked out the window, he could see the heat rising off the hood of his dark red truck. Wave after wave of hot air floating up, up and away.


And speaking of hot air, Wilbur let the laughter and much of the conversation zing over his head, out the patio door and up to the top of some mountain. Wilbur wasn’t much of a conversationalist.
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Bald Mountain Summit
And Wilbur couldn’t help but notice that wee Timmy’s father, who was Wilbur’s cousin, could sure swear up a storm. He could roughly expound on any topic and therefore, wee Timmy, who was only seven years old, could already talk like an irate mechanic who’d just spent two hours throwing things at a rusty bolt.

“You want to go fishing with us?” Wilbur’s cousin asked.

Wilbur didn’t want to go fishing, because he can’t deal with wire or string or rope. It tangles up on him and drives him just a short distance from stir-crazy.

However, Tyrol was keen to go fishing and was one of the first ones in the motor boat.


“If you’re not going, would you mind looking after little Timmy then?” Wilbur’s cousin asked. “He gets boat-sick and we spend more time cleaning up his %^&$%^& puke than we do fishing.”

Wilbur said he wouldn’t mind, so very soon Wilbur, wee Timmy and Bradley were listening to the sound of the motor boat pushing its way through the heat. 

They’d only been gone about five minutes, when Wilbur realized he had to use the little boys’ room because of all the beer he’d downloaded.  However, little Timmy who’d been downloading his share of hot dogs and pop, had already bee-lined his way to the one small washroom, and the way he’d comported himself to the tiny water closet, it looked like he was possibly in for a number one and number two combo.  So Wilbur, whose kidneys were becoming more then a little insistent, went outside. Once there, he walked to the back of his steaming hot truck, unzipped and began to merrily stress the innocent grass.

Suddenly, he heard one heck of a scary boom. An explosion, which sounded like a stick or two of dynamite had blown up practically inside his head. Why, the ground even shook and Wilbur later told Maritime Mac that he had, for a brief instant, seen the big, fat, white light.

And then, who should come running out of the trailer, but wee Timmy! He burst through the trailer door, his pants falling down around his knees, trailing a stream of toilet paper and looking like a scared white-tailed deer. And my gosh, but he was cursing like a scared trooper.

“What the F$%^&* $^&$ $)(*% was that?”

Wilbur was still in shock and had no answer.

And we can’t forget poor Bradley. He’d been in mid-dump himself when the explosion occurred.
Picture
Bradley
What the heck had happened anyway? Well, I’ll tell you.    The truck had got so hot that one of its very large tires had blown to smithereens.

What happened after that, you may ask? Well, to put it bluntly, Wilbur wet himself. The little fella messed himself and Bradley got backed up until a week next Sunday.   And when the folks came home with their load of rainbow trout, did wee Timmy ever have a colourful story for them!
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Deer on Trail Near Port Hood
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Where's My Shovel?

24/12/2016

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Picture
View From Our Kitchen
John Muir wrote: “The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.”

True enough Mr. Muir, but don’t forget to carry a pair of snowshoes. Because it has been snow, snow, snow. Day after day, snow.  Shovelling, shovelling, shovelling. Day after day, shovelling.

Picture
Running out of Room for Snow
Picture
Our Deck
But so gorgeous! Beautiful snow sculptures, which I think, make up for the hard work and the isolation. We were trapped in the woods over two days before the last storm cleared out and made way for the next snow and freezing rain parade.
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Snow-covered Trees
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Dancing Snow Fairy
                                   “When the wind works against us in the dark,
                                    And pelts with snow
                                    The lower chamber window on the east,
                                    And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
                                    The beast,
                                    ‘Come out! Come out!’-
                                     It costs no inward struggle not to go,
                                     Ah, no!
                                     I count our strength,
                                     Two and a child,
                                     Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
                                     How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,-
                                     How drifts are piled,
                                     Dooryard and road ungraded,
                                     Till even the comforting barn grows far away,
                                     And my heart owns a doubt
                                     Whether 'tis in us to arise with day
                                     And save ourselves unaided.”

                                                                                                      Robert Frost, Storm Fear

Picture
Buster Waiting out the Storm
Picture
Old Blue Jay, Who Hangs Around Our Feeder
When our television satellite stops working, I know what to do. I don’t have to phone a help-line. I grab a broom and swim my way through the snow to the step-ladder which is leaning against the satellite dish pole. I climb the ladder and, using a witch’s broom, I sweep the snow off the satellite dish and onto my head. Great fun.

Note the clothes line, which has now become a snow life-line, because it is darn deep, folks.

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Sue's Car Buried in Driveway
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An Old Van Buried in Snow Down Our Road
                         “Perplexing forest
                                              where God lives without money.
                                                                          The walls were shining.”
                      
                                                                                                     Tomas Transtromer, The Great Enigma


And then on Sunday, after I’d finished writing this blog, a warm front moved in, bringing rain and heavy fog, so by the next morning we’d lost about a third of our snow. Still have a pile left, but I was surprised at how much snow had melted in only a few hours of rain. Heavy rain, yes, but still!

Until I ran into a fella who told me that fog is a Mr. Snow Destructo. It demolishes snow and is much more effective at removing the white stuff than only rain and warmth.

Always learning something new on Cape Breton Island.

Picture
Snow-Covered Hay Field Across the Road
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Cabot Trail 's Magic

9/12/2016

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Picture 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.

***
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?”

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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.

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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.
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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.

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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.

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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.”

                                                          (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


Wishing you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

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Maritime Mac

24/4/2016

0 Comments

 
Picture
Misty Morning Mountains
Once upon a time, an old, white-haired fella by the name of Maritime Mac, entered a coffee shop. Now, he knew that coffee shops taxed his mind and his nerves, but he went into the coffee shop anyway.
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Maritime Mac in Person
Where he ordered a tea. Which didn’t go so well because he was on the wrong side of the tea purveyor who had a dead ear.

Maritime Mac shifted his position and ordered again.

“One tea, please,” he shouted.

The nice server, his hair all bunned up, grabbed a tea bag and a tricky brown tea jug. He dropped the tea bag into the little jug and poured steaming hot water over the crinkled up bag.  Maritime Mac watched him screw the complicated plastic lid onto the jug as he felt the beginning of the jingling and jangling of his nerves. 

The server handed Maritime Mac the jug, a tea cup with a spoon in it, and a saucer.
Maritime walked to the counter where they kept the tea and coffee additives. He set down the cup and saucer and the brown tea jug.


His nerves began to further unsettle as his mind switched to auto-dumb mode. He searched for the milk container. He felt the coffee shop customers watching him as his mind slid to other nerve-wracking times. To places with polished wooden tables, formally set with forks, spoons, knives, plates, tea cups, saucers and napkins or serviettes. And who the hell knows what those mouth wipers are supposed to be called? These eating objects all placed on the table, in their correct places, as decreed by the Department of Correct Positioning of Consuming This and Thats. Rules thought up by the powerful cabinet of etiquette-crowned heads ruling from the great city of Oz. Not to ignore those fellas behind the curtain.

He pictured the intelligent folks in other coffee shops, scrunched up around tiny wobbly tables, many with wireless ear buds hanging out of their ear holes, some reading books or papers or conversing with each other about urban topics that were super important for people to know in order to converse in such establishments. And most importantly, all of them knowing exactly how to load, pour and carry their teas and coffees.
Picture
Birds at our Coffee Shop during a Recent Snowstorm
Before him were three imposing shiny metal jugs. Like three doors, but only one that would lead to milk. Must it not? But where the hell was the label? Tea a la Russian Roulette.   His friggen’ hands began to shake and to make it worse, a couple, looking wealthy, healthy, well-dressed and wise, was checking him out.

He picked up a jug. Tipped his glasses down and searched the container from stem to stern. It was on the handle. The word, ‘milk’, written in ancient Greek script.

Maritime Mac tried to pour the milk. Nothing came out. He spotted what looked like a bear spray can trigger. He pressed it. A little milk peed out.

He pressed harder. Too much milk poured out.

Someone behind him had surely consumed too much coffee, for a stink bomb was now wrapping itself around Maritime Mac’s taste for tea. His tea was paler than he had planned, but he didn’t want to hang around the counter much longer or his tea would have a Flint City tang.

He looked for the sugar. No sugar, but instead a shiny honey container. It had a wee, bear spray trigger. He pressed the trigger. The thick honey crept out of the little honey pot so slowly that he’d have to be fumigated before he got a teaspoonful.

He thought he heard the well-dressed couple chuckling.

He tried to pour the tea. Nothing came out. He spotted an arrow on the plastic top so he aligned the arrow with the spout. Good thinking, Maritime. But nothing came out. He loosened the lid. A pathetic bit of tea wee-wee’d out. He loosened it some more. He poured. The top fell off and into the cup.

He grabbed some paper mop-ups and wiped up the spilled tea. Threw the mop-ups at the garbage can under the counter. Half-point for the effort.

He snatched up a long wooden stir stick that looked like what he should use to stir his tea, drop of honey and abundance of cow milk.

The couple had escalated from chuckling to laughing. Maritime Mac didn’t look up.

He stirred with the wooden stir stick. Was irritated by the spoon that got in the way. The metal spoon which had been in his cup the whole time. He put two and two together as he heard more chuckling. As he had feared, the aroma was sticking to his new winter coat.

“Lord god almighty,” he whispered. He tossed the stir stick at the garbage can. Half point for the effort.

He then slunk to a quiet table in a section far away from the toxic table. He was so relieved that he hadn’t tripped and spilled anything. So happy that he could settle down with his dripping cup of tea, his spoon, his tricky jug, his saucer and ten or more paper slop suckers.

He sat and watched other folks work for their tea. He smiled and chuckled from time to time, just for the effect.

When he’d finished his tea and was heading for the large, darkly burnished front door, he stopped to ask the nice server about the arrow on the tea jug top. Asked, if he lined the arrow with the spout, wasn't the tea supposed to pour out? That rhymed and he damn well knew he’d just made poetry, but the server was a professional coffee shop employee, or maybe he couldn’t hear the full rhyming cadence and so he ignored Maritime Mac’s great poetry and explained to him, in a deafening voice, that the arrows do not work anymore.


                  And there was a poet I used to know,
                  Who built a balloon and let it blow
                  On the curving track of the Southern Trades
                  That caress the breasts of Samoan maids,
                  And brush like a lover’s hand across
                  The great grey wings of the albatross.
                  And that poet, in his balloon, still flies.
                  —-And the earth has lost him until he dies.
                                                  Farley Mowat, BALLOON SONG

Picture
Buster by our Pond

“So screw the arrows, the bear spray milk and the anal retentive honey containers,” he mumbled to himself as he opened the door of his truck. There he was greeted by the ecstatic tail-wagging whirligig of a little dog. Who had been told he was to stay at home, but had, by some sleight of mind, been able to connive his way into this epic trip to a Cape Breton coffee shop.

Picture
Our Home Sweet Home
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Does Wily Have a Microwave? 

28/3/2016

0 Comments

 
Picture
Our Local Coyote
This coyote is wanted by some angry neighbours. He is wily and I think he’d catch the Road Runner in quick fashion. Anyway, I snapped the photo while he watched Sue, Buster and me strolling down Gold Brook Road.

We are pretty sure that he’s the coyote who killed a neighbour’s cat. He also ate all the cat food and dog food that our neighbour had put out for her many pets. But get this, there was also a bowl of frozen milk on the woman’s porch. Old Wily picked up the bowl of milk and carried it into the forest, I assume to defrost it before he drank it. Milk builds up the calcium in your bones and is good with kibble. The coyote is more than crafty and a vegan he is not.
Of note is that Buster is now nervous at certain spots on the road. He is a smart dog and does not want to become a coyote sandwich.
***
I think I need to give a wee explanation about my Buster Wear photo. And while I’m at it, also let you know that Buster is excited about how well his Buster Wear clothing project has been doing. It’s selling like hot kibble.

Anyway, a fella read my blog and wondered afterwards what the yellow area was on the front of the black Buster Wear shorts. I explained to him what it was and now I am going to explain it to the whole blogosphere.

It is a picture of a yellow chick who is looking at a fried egg on a plate. The chick is saying, “Holy crap! Larry, is that you?!?!
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***
Here’s part of a poem I could have used in my last blog, in which I expressed one of the reasons why I regard money the way I do.

             “Honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher,
               Although he was poor, didn’t want to be richer;
               All such wishes in him were prevented,
               By a fortunate habit of being contented.”

                                                                                         “Anonymous” John Tomkins

***
It seems to me that I spend an inordinate amount of time writing blogs with the word ‘Buster” in them. Have you noticed that? Lots of photos of him too, and here’s one more.
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Be cool. Wear Buster Wear!
A friend of mine told me that she often thinks her husband’s dog is the other woman. I sometimes wonder if Buster isn’t the other woman in my blogs.

You see, I could write a blog that answered one of the greatest philosophical questions of all time. The question being: “Why are we here, in this world?” This blog answer could potentially set the world on a new course and still, I’m sure, I would receive emails that wouldn’t mention my solving the big universal question. Nope, they’d ask me, “Where’s the Buster stuff?
***
 And yes, Buster does give me material for my blogs. Like last week...

I have read that some Indigenous tribes believe animals can understand what we are saying. I have never really believed this. My line of thinking has been that animals, especially Buster dogs, have an ability to glean an amazing amount of info from the tone of our voice and from our body language. As one fella told us, dogs have had centuries and centuries of time to learn how to understand us humans and how to fit into our human lives.


Well, after yesterday’s walk, I may have to change my theory.

You see, every afternoon without fail, Buster waits around in the trailer while Sue finishes up her lunch. Once she’s finished, Buster goes into his song and dance. Which is to bark, bother, growl, and get in the way. Because it’s his Sue/Buster walk time.

Sue will, right smartly, snap a leash onto Buster’s red collar and then off they go. Usually for a one-and-a-half to three-km walk. The weather plays no role in this operation. Buster has decreed.

However, Buster’s decree has played a key role in one aspect of Sue’s life. He has improved Sue’s health immeasurably - both physical and mental - and I recommend that people get a dog to improve their health.

Anyway, after the walk, Buster and Sue will come inside where Buster gets his treat and then afterwards he has a little nap. Where he dreams about expanding his Buster Wear business into Buster Punk Rock Neck Collars. Using Trump’s foreign workers to save money.

Well, yesterday, while I was walking with Sue and Buster, I mentioned to Sue that I was going to go to Margaree and get some post-hockey beer and then maybe drop into the excellent Dancing Goat Coffee Shop and have a tea. Sue asked me if I wanted her to tag along. We got into a confab about this. The conversation theme was whether or not Sue will or won’t ride shotgun with me. We discussed this at some length while little furry Buster sniffed, peed and walked his walk.

At some point in our discussion, after we’d parsed to death my words, ‘Yes, I want you to come with me’, and we were able to come to the conclusion that I really did want Sue to be part of my coffee shop adventure, we also decided, somewhere in the smoke of words and meaning, that we’d leave Buster at home.

When we got to the deck, Buster wouldn’t climb the stairs up to the front door. No sir. He just wanted to laze around outside. Enjoy the scents and sights. Life is too short to rush, that kind of attitude.

So we hooked the outdoor dog chain onto his collar and then we went inside while Buster nosed around. However, when I took a peek out the door window, there was Buster, sitting on the porch looking in while I looked out. Making no attempt to get us to let him inside. Where he would get his usual post-walk treat. Rather unusual, wouldn’t you think?

Had Buster understood that we were planning on leaving him at home? In which case, his coming into the trailer would make it a damn sight easier for us to carry out the leaving-him-alone procedure.

Anyway, the result of Buster’s approach to this situation was that he enjoyed a bird’s eye view from my truck’s arm-rest, as he watched Sue and me sitting inside The Dancing Goat Coffee Shop enjoying our mugs of hot java. Did I mention that they make excellent home-made bread and other baked goods? We didn't tell Buster that, needless to say.
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***
NEWS FLASH! NEWS FLASH! BUSTER WINS ANOTHER DECISIVE BATTLE! WHAT CAN I SAY, OTHER THAN “MAY THE FORCE BE WITH ME”?
Buster has been turning his nose up at his meals. Even when we mix some of our food into his dry kibble.

The reason we feel that some dry kibble is important, other than because it’s the accepted and politically correct way to feed our presently scientifically raised canine buddies, is that it stops him from having an anal blockage. And I’ll tell you something, if you heard your beloved Buster dog trying to blow crap out of his or her intestinal pipes and not being successful, well, the cries and whines and howls are memorable.

 However, last Sunday morning I said, “Screw it. Forget the correct dog feeding methodology.”

Instead I said, “Get the frying pan, kettle and toaster rolling. Move ’em on out. Yah, hah,” and all that sort of Sunday morning nonsense.

You see, most Sunday mornings I make breakfast for Sue and me. I usually cook up fried or scrambled eggs with bacon or sausages, toast some bread and add a few slices of tomatoes or cucumbers. Often I sprinkle curry and pepper on the fried eggs. Two eggs for Sue and two eggs for me. Three sausages or bacon strips for Sue and three sausages or bacon strips for me.
 
Last Sunday we had sausages. And here is what I did. I fried six sausages, because that was all I had, fried five eggs, sliced up some cucumbers and made some toast.

Notice I said five eggs? Well, to quickly summarize this part of my blog, I made three breakfasts this morning. And Buster loved his and then he even ate his kibble. He looked awfully happy. And he ate the cucumber slices. Can’t even get plenty of kids to eat their cucumbers.

But when Buster jumped on my lap, turned his head to the side, so he could catch my eyes and then telepathically ordered a cup of tea with a teaspoon of sugar and a little milk, well, I had to draw the line. You have to draw a line somewhere. Don’t you?

But when he sat next to me while I was watching another pathetic bit on CNN about this Trump blow-hard, Buster telepathically said he would like to remind me that he was expecting a few buddy burgers when we go to Kingston, and I knew that buddy burgers it would be.

Since that breakfast, Buster has feasted on bits of steak, carrots, baked potatoes, spaghetti, bread and jam, but, and I must emphasize the BUT, he always has kibble with it. And he eats the kibble last of all. BUT he eats it. And he’s crapping just fine, thank-you.

And there you are. An almost one hundred-proof Buster blog. Please be warned. Blog 53 may not have Buster in it.  Sorry.   
***
             “Now I’m walkin down that long lonesome hallway
              Headin’ for the kitchen again
              All I want to do is eat everything
              Then I want to eat it all again.
              I need way more food, Babe.”
              Four-course meals at 8, 12, 6 and ten.
                                                      Merrill MARKOE, Ballad of Winky


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Snowshoers on the Skyline Trail in a blizzard a couple of weeks ago
0 Comments

Escapees

31/1/2016

1 Comment

 
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Wreck Cove, Cape Breton
Wow! Blog number fifty! Woo-hoo! Hard to believe I’ve managed to stay with this blog writing endeavour. And, maybe even more surprisingly, that Sue has managed to hang in there and continue editing and submitting my fifty blogs to the blogosphere. Is there a medal for that?

Now I know some bloggers write a blog almost every day, but for me, fifty is a satisfying number and maybe that’s why I like the colour of the fifty-dollar bill. I might like the colour of the one hundred-dollar bill, but I’ve never spotted one. Maybe they're extinct.

***
About three weeks ago, four of us snowshoed on the Skyline trail. It was a blustery wintry Sunday. The snow was blowing itself dizzy and it didn’t look like it was going to get any better. Furthermore, the Skyline trail is located on top of a mountain, a sure recipe for down home snow trouble. However, we all travelled in some mighty fine four-by-four machines so I wasn’t too worried.

We parked our vehicles next to a brand new emergency station. This little building has a land-line phone, a wood stove, a bench or two and a goodly amount of firewood. I have, at other times in my life, attempted to get trapped in one of these emergency mountain accommodations, just so my partner and I would be forced to share the hut overnight with only a little food, a large bottle of champagne and some big ideas.

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Emergency Hut
Anyway, we had plenty of snow on which to snowshoe to one of the most beautiful lookouts in the world.

But first, we had to pass a little washroom. Which always causes us to stop for a few seconds of silence. For it was here some hikers came upon a woman lying on the ground, bleeding and very close to death. Standing on her was a coyote. The hikers had shouted and thrown all kinds of things at the coyote while the coyote remained reluctant to flee his or her takeout. He did scram off eventually, but, sadly, left the woman critically injured. Apparently she was able to whisper her name before she died. A sad tragedy and a clear warning to never take wildlife for granted.

One of the characteristics of the Skyline trail is that a hiker has about an eighty percent chance of seeing a moose or two. One hiker with us had never been on this trail and he was looking forward to seeing a moose. He was hoping to get a photo of one.

Well, not too far in, we all saw a moose run across the trail in front of us. None of us was camera ready, but we all did see the moose and we all laughed and joked about how nobody had their camera or cell phone ready for the ‘BIG MOOSE PICTURE’.

About halfway down the trail is a huge, fenced-in area with two gigantic gates. This barrier protects acres and acres of land where they plan on planting about 50,000 trees. The moose have devastated the forest in this part of the highlands.

We entered through a tall gate and walked to the other end, where we exited by another tall gate. It felt like being in Jurassic Park, so I stopped snowshoeing for a brief time, and imagined feeling the vibrations of gigantic moose dinosaur feet stomping outside our fenced-in refuge. I have a vivid imagination.

At the look-out we couldn’t look out. There was nothing to see but gray snow-filled emptiness. So, as the wind attempted to gain entry to our bare skin and we bundled up tighter than ever, we ate a quick snack. Eventually, it got so blizzardy we could hardly see twenty feet in front of us. So we headed back. The snow settled down once we got into the forest.

                                  Out where the winding foot-path goes,
                          Out by the singing rill,
                          Out to the edge of mystery
                          And the land beyond the hill.
                                                Henry Holcomb Bennett, Adventure

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Visibility Nil
The funniest incident of this venture involved a hiker taking a selfie. He had those huge, one plate of glass, ski goggles which look a little like a skin diver’s mask. Actually, they’re quite a bit like "beer goggles", (Google it!), except when you look through them, everything is clear, and no female or male hikers can be mistaken for the prettiest or handsomest persons in the whole wide world, bar none, until you sober up, anyway.

The goggle wearer likes to do the selfie photo thing. This is now a very big fad. He took out his cell phone and pointed it at his face while we all stood behind him. As he took a picture of his own face, which he probably sees a lot of in the mirror, a moose chose to cross the road.

Why did the moose cross the road anyway? So he could get to the other side and give the chicken a pointer or two.

What a laugh! What a hoot! Wally getting a picture of the wrong face! But, this is what happens on these hikes and makes them so much fun.

More interesting still, if you look carefully at the picture, which I have included, you might see a strange reflection in the fella’s goggles. Doesn’t it look like a moose?

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Check out the goggles...
***
A week later I went snowshoeing up by Wreck Cove, God’s country, as one fella put it. I, however, replied that when I am skiing on our road and I stop to take a long gander at the mountains and the snow blowing around their crowns, I think that where I live is also quite godly.

Now, I should note that I didn't group hike often when I was in Ontario, but because I’m not as familiar with Cape Breton trails and because there are a plenty of big critters around here and the terrain is much rougher than where I used to hike, I now often go on group hikes.

And, as if to remind me that it wasn’t a bad idea to be with other hikers, a coyote crossed the road in front of us as we drove to the trail head. Let me tell you, this was one healthy looking coyote. I’ve seen coyotes in Ontario and they’re not as big as this one. He was more the size of a wolf and I’ve been told these coyotes run in packs, the same as wolves. I believe they call these Cape Breton canines, coy-wolves.

Last summer I met a fella on his favourite bridge over a section of the Middle River. He told me he’d had to fight a coyote off. The coyote had been quite determined and had tried different tactics to get himself a finger-licking good meal. Luckily, this fella won the battle or he’d not have been around to tell his tale.
 
Anyway, there were about fifteen hikers assembling at the trailhead while four dogs excitedly scampered amongst our pack of humans as we prepared to head up the mountain. They obviously couldn’t wait for the hike to begin.

But alas, on the porch, was a poor, sad, large German shepherd type of dog. He, apparently, wasn’t allowed to go on the hike. He was howling and crying and barking and tearing back and forth across his verandah jail cell. Poor dog. Poor, poor dog and that’s what everyone was thinking. And partway up the mountain, we could still hear his sad cries of abandonment.

Speaking of up the mountain, it was up the mountain that the THING happened. The event happened. The whatever you want to call it happened. Things happen to me. It’s my tagline.

I was climbing up a fairly steep grade. I was at the tail end of the lead group, but behind me, quite far behind me, were the slowpokes.

Up, up and away I went, until, at some point, I looked down at my right foot, and lo and behold, I saw there was no snowshoe to behold.

I dropped to the ground and started digging in the snow with my ski pole. I dug and dug, as if I was looking for an avalanche victim, while the hiking party ahead of me disappeared into the forest. I dug some more and there was still no snowshoe to be found. I was a little embarrassed, because the THING had happened to me and nobody else.

I surmised that it might have come off further down the mountain. Hadn’t I realized that my snowshoe had fallen off? Apparently not. This is what other hikers and folks to whom I’ve told this tale have asked me. “Didn’t you realize your snowshoe was missing?”

“No sir. No ma'am. It was the THING that came with me and I never know where the hell it’ll show up. This incident happened and I didn’t know it happened until when it became a THING.”

I think this part of the blog might confuse you and my editor, bless her heart. 

(Note from Ed: "No surprise to me!")

Anyway, I stopped and looked down the mountain. Oh god, how far down had it fallen off my footsie without my noticing it? Then suddenly I hearkened to the sound of a voice. A voice further down the mountain. The voice said, “Surely they’ll miss it eventually?”

The eventually had arrived. I shouted that it was I who had lost his snowshoe. Ha, ha, ha. And as they were all filled with mirth and laughter, guess who blew by me, sans snowshoes, and as happy as a flea on a grizzly bear? The German shepherd escapee. He was making up for lost time.

Near the end of the hike, as I walked along the Cabot Trail, snowshoes in hand, I saw a small barn. In front of the barn was a horse. I wasn’t going to take a photo of the horse until who should pop his head out of the barn entrance, but a small goat.

Now this goat had personality and even from the fair distance I was standing from the barn I could tell he was the boss. Why, it looked like the goat was saying, “Horse, what are you gawking at?  Do you know that fella with the bushy beard? Do you have some business with him? Stand back, I’ll deal with it.”

I just had to take their picture. So I did.

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Goat, Horse and Dog Escapee
Later on, the owner of the horse, the goat and the escapee German shepherd, told us that her horse gets super lonely if the goat wanders off. The goat seems to keep him calm and happy. She also explained another thing. Most horses feel better if there is a goat around. For example, if a horse is going to race and his goat friend isn’t around, the horse gets all upset and will probably lose the race. She said, “that’s where the phrase, ‘He got my goat’ comes from.”

Now isn’t that interesting?

I will sign off now and wait for the THING. It’s the THING that has helped me write fifty blogs. He or she is a rather speculative fella so I’m not evicting the THING any time soon.  Not even if I could, because I have a thing for the THING.


          My modus operandi this--
                      To take no heed of what’s amiss
                                              And not a bad one:
                      Because as Shakespeare used to say
                      A merry heart goes twice the way
                                              That tires a sad one.

                          Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler, The Wisdom Of Folly


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View of Cabot Trail from Skyline Look-off
1 Comment

Organic Writing

16/12/2015

1 Comment

 
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View from our neighbour's deck this morning
When I’m working on something I consider serious, I usually go into my tiny office and shut the door. This isolates me from Sue and Buster. Which makes me feel a little guilty and a tad lonely. Stephen King suggested doing this in his book, 'On Writing'.

I have music playing when I’m writing in my office. It adds a little pleasure to the sometimes hard grind that writing can be. It also dampens some of the sounds coming from the rest of the house. But not totally. I can still hear the vacuum cleaner or Buster sniffing under the door, sighing, or making other doggie noises. Which lets me know he’s oh, so lonely and misses me oh, so much.

I usually work on my book or on revisions of other work in my office. However, if I’m beginning a blog or a short story, I often do it in the living room where I can be with the rest of the family.

You see, one of the tricks for keeping my writing fresh and spontaneous is to make the writing feel like play. This is hard for me to do if I get caught up in worrying about such things as being published, the rules of the craft, why I can’t write as well or as much as some other writer, whether I will be able to finish or start a story - those sorts of things. The office seems to be a place for doing serious writing.

However, writing in the living room, where other activities are going on, makes the writing seem less serious to me. For example, I’m forced, from time to time, to pull an old hockey glove or the bottom of one of Sue’s rubber crocs out of Buster’s well-armed yapper, which I then toss a few times until he gets tired of fetching it. Or Sue asks a question or needs help with something - those sorts of things. The hubbub makes my writing activity feel like an organic part of the whole domestic scene and not as if I’m doing micro surgery on words.

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Sue and Buster being domestic
However, as I said, once I get into the serious revision stuff, it’s best I go into my vault.

But even while I'm in there I try to keep it somewhat light. I say I try, not that I always succeed. In my case, the harder I try, the less I get done.

There’s a story about James Joyce. He was struggling with getting his daily quota of words down on the page. Later on he met with his friend, who asked him how his writing was going. I’m not sure of the exact number of words he mentioned, so forgive me if I’m not accurate, but he said something like, “I was only able to write ten words this morning.”

“Well there you go,” says his friend. “That’s ten more than you had before you started.”

James Joyce replied, “Yes, but I don’t know what order to put them in.”

Now that’s getting right down totally serious.
***
If you have read my collection of short stories, which are lurking between the covers of a book called ‘WHITE EYES’, you’ve probably noticed there are a fair number of profanities in the stories.  The thing about writing is there are so many ways to do it and there are so many folks who have ideas about what should or shouldn’t be in a novel, a story, a paragraph - you name it.

One fella I met in a gas station and who is from a fairly conservative church, told me my book would be more popular if I took the profanities out of it. Like maybe they could use the book as a Sunday School text.

However, I mentioned to another reader, who enjoyed my book, that some folks I knew were saying I had too many profanities in it.

"Oh $%^&*", she said, "that’s the way people talk.”

Anyway, I have tried to milksop my profanity down. Now, when I sit in my cloister writing my stories and one of my characters starts to swear too much, I stop writing and slam down the computer screen so as to give the offending character a time out. While he or she is cooling off, I go into the washroom, dig out some soap, go back to my tiny office, sign in again and then wash the heck out of the character’s tongue.

But seriously, there are just so many ways of approaching writing that it can be scarily daunting if you think about all the techniques and time and plot problems and what-nots that you’re going to have to deal with before you are finally finished.

However, if you stick to it, keep the playful feeling and have some talent then you are likely to find some degree of success.

***
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Oh yeah, and while I’m on this writing thing, there is the part about selling your book or stories. Many writers are loners so that can be difficult.

A little over a week ago I was taking part in the launch of a new anthology of short stories, of which one was mine. The launch was being broadcast by CBC, so I was a little extra nervous when I read my story.

There was a microphone and a lectern and the host of the show told us to avoid dead space in our readings because it was being broadcast live.

I was the fifth reader. I thought I did a good job. I often don’t. I thought the folks there, about fifty of them, were enjoying the story and I thought that the general Cape Breton populace were out in their workshops, on their fishing boats, in their living rooms, their cars and trucks, all over the place listening to my story.

I don’t think they were. I think I was talking into a dead Mike. Mike did not exist. Mike was tits up, dead as a door knob, full of rigour mortis, gone, mort; Mike was shit out of luck.

However, if you'd like to know more about the book, check it out here:
http://capebretonbooks.com/products/local-hero

Will life ever cease to be amazingly confusing and unpredictable?


***
Something I just thought of. If Jesus were a carpenter, as I think he was, and if he built a house, would it be absolutely perfectly measured, straight and true? Just wondering.

               “You have seen the house built, you have seen it adorned
               By one who came in the night, it is now dedicated to God.
               It is now a visible church, one more light set on a hill
               In a world confused and dark and disturbed by portents of fear.
                                                                      T.S.Eliot, The Rock


***
Stress can throw my brain into the dumpster. It can confuse me and make me come up with solutions that are dog-eared with fallacies.

An example, maestro. A few weeks ago, just before we went back to Ontario to deal with the hard business that followed the passing of my mother, I was asked to participate in a story-telling event at the Sydney Library.

I entered the library with a fresh, right-out-of-the-oven story. Written in two days and was I proud of that!

Before we left for Sydney I had pulled out an old canvas book bag that a friend had rescued from the dump and given to me. I put my still hot story into the bag and off we drove to Sydney.

At the event, I found out I had to sit on a chair at the front, with two other story-tellers. That meant that the forty or so members of the audience would have a good look at us all. Could check out if my beard was evenly trimmed, my laces were tied asymmetrically, my hair was top notch... and on and on did my wee mind race.

However, I eventually got to read my story and it went over well. I can even say that I was pleased.

In the next days we rushed down to Ontario and then we rushed back. Once back home, I received an email from a friend. He wanted to read the story that I had written. Which got me thinking about the hard copy version.

So, still in my rushed state of mind, I went to my office and pulled out the book bag. It was then I remembered that this bag had a trick compartment. I’d found this out earlier. You see, the side pocket had no derriere. It was bottomless altogether.

I searched through the bag from bow to stern and finally had to assume that the story had escaped through the bottom and was now blowing around Sydney for all to see. So, I wrote the fella and told him my sad lost story story.

Well, after having a few days to settle my mind down, I was walking the dog. I got thinking about the story and the pieces of my stressed facts all began to re-organize themselves into the correct places.

I had taken my story in my canvas book bag. I had looked for my story in my computer bag. I went back to the house, looked in my canvas dump bag and there the story sat. Almost as fresh as the day it was born.

Stress can kill and it can also turn you into an idiot, in less time than it took for me to write this blog.
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Ferns still green in the snowy woods
1 Comment

Buster's Buddy Burger

26/11/2015

0 Comments

 
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I am not going to say that I am even a tad closer to understanding all of what I have read, but I can say that I have just finished reading the Qur’an. Front page to back. However, I know this does not make me an Islamic person.

Nevertheless, I think it’s a relevant book to read, as some people, due to the world’s tragic events, are beginning to retreat into their black and white certainty doghouses. Where they feel free to bark out for all to hear, “We aren’t like those folks who follow that book. They are all bad if they aren’t like us. Every last one of them. Big or small.” Or something like that.

***
“Woof, growl, snarl and there’s another strange looking water hydrant. Let’s piss on it.”—Buster.
“Ignorance,” says Ajax, “is a painless evil.”-"So, I should think, is dirt, considering the merry faces that go along with it.”—-George Eliot
***
                     “Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
                      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
                      Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
                      The furious Bandersnatch!”
                                                                  Lewis Carrol, Jabberwocky
***
Buster has been bored the last few days. Why? Because he hasn’t been getting the attention nor the stimulation that he feels he deserves and that he received while he was in Kingston.
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Buster Back in the Woods
Like in the Peachtree Inn. Come on, if dogs wore hats I’d be afraid that Buster’s head would be too big for his hat.

For example, we’d be walking down the hallway. I’d be minding my own p’s and q’s while Buster would be sniffing out raucous-night-before-debauchery scents under the doors of room numbers this and that.

Then, I’d hear the familiar sound, “Buster! Oh, Buster!” Usually in a woman’s voice. Coming from a stranger we’d met before, but who is now, at least for Buster, a stranger no more. Sounding like she’d spotted a long lost lover. So, what could I do, but stop and let the middle- aged woman practically make love to Buster?

“Oh, Buster! How are you, Buster? How old is he? You out for a walk? Were you?”

“Yes for %^&* sake and now it’s breakfast time for this homely hunk of flesh that just happens to be hanging onto the other end of this blue-coloured leash which runs from your beloved’s neck to that thing just down the hall, which is me.”

Oh, not really. I rather enjoy it myself and for all you single men out there, find yourself a Buster. He’s to women like apples are to deer.

These encounters happened outside and inside, because, you see, there are more people in the city. There are more dogs in the city too. Out our way in Cape Breton, the folks that stop to talk to us are often men, wearing orange clothing and carrying big guns. When I often say, quietly, “Buster, behave.”

In Kingston, the walks were full of excitement for Buster. Our usual route was along the side of the inn, where we would come to a small exit in the fence. The same place, where one morning walk, Buster and I helped a man who was hurriedly trying to pull a bicycle and what looked like a souped-up walker on wheels through said exit. Which left me wondering, but didn’t work up Buster’s dander a tad.

This exit led to a high-brow subdivision, where we sometimes ran into a little white Scotty dog whose name was Lucy. She and Buster liked each other and when Lucy got dragged one way and Buster the other way, well their necks were stretched out to as close as they could get to a one hundred and eighty degree angle.

Just a little way down the street was a tiny park. It ran behind big expensive houses which could easily suck in our little trailer with lots of room left over.

At the other end of this narrow section of the park was a tiny stream with plenty of flat, slippery, moss-covered rocks. I  would gingerly cross this brook. Buster would run and leap over the rocks as if they were covered in slip-proof matting.

On the other side of this tiny border stream was a big, grey brick house. With a solid, high, black, wrought iron fence. And behind the fence was a tall, light-coloured, wrought iron, bull-faced dog. Who would barrel out of whatever he was barrelled up in. He’d roar to the fence and bother Buster not a tittle. With Buster’s head so full of how great and wonderful he was, why would Buster worry about this monster? As for me, I would be frantically searching the fence line for any weaknesses apparent.

 Meanwhile, Buster would snarl and growl on the other side. Oh thank god for the other side. Being on the other side was what Buster should have been thanking his doggie god for. But no, Buster would be snarling and growling and snapping at the fence. Totally into the occasion. It was an almost battle between David and Goliath and not a sling shot in sight.

I would then pull Buster away. Well, drag Buster away, and as Buster’s belly smoothed out the grass for other park visitors, Buster would be viciously growling and snarling. Then once he saw it was hopeless, he’d turn around and do his macho doggy thing.

Which is, lift his tail, turn his back on the big coward, (which is a form of doggie shunning), scratch the ground vigorously with his two back feet, take one final look back at the big wimp, and snarl, “The next time you won’t get off so easy.”

One morning Sue returned from walking Buster. She said it seemed to her that the big dog was getting friendlier towards Buster. She said that Buster was quieter too and it was almost like the two dogs wanted to be friends.

I asked her if she’d seen any thing different in the big dog’s backyard? Like bottles of mustard, ketchup and relish?

Oh yeah, and one afternoon two of our friends came to our room and it was all, “You two were so lucky to get a dog like Buster!” “What a well behaved dog!” “Oh, what a sweet dog!” “His fur is so soft!” On and on and on until I was beginning to feel just a small tad of jealousy.

And really, my hair is soft too and what the hell is the difference between fur and hair anyway?


But look at the pictures. See how Buster is reacting. In one photo, Buster is setting up for me to take a picture of the friends. In another one, they are talking to each other and Buster is so involved. And notice when they are looking relaxed. Why Buster is two levels above the usual accepted in-the-zone measure.
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Oh, and now here come the cleaning people. Lots of petting and stroking and hugging going to be coming Buster’s way.

But I’ll admit I’m no better. Some folks could say that I’m like onto an enabler.
For example: Buster decided he wasn’t going to eat his regular dog food when he was at the inn. I can understand that.

But really, I was quite stumped when I was asked by the nice woman behind the A&W counter, what I wanted on my Buddy Burger. I had to think for a few seconds. I finally said, “Make it the works.” Because I knew, deep inside, that nothing less than the works would work.
***

        “Sir, I’ve got to urinate.
                 I’ve got to pee.
                           I’m going to piss like an open hydrant-please!

        Oh, bless you, sir. Oh bless you, bless you, bless you--
                   and please don’t let the screen door spank my bottom.”

                                                                   Andrew Hudgins, Buddy

***
Last year, I was interviewed on CBC. It was for the radio show, Main Street Cape Breton. I blew the interview. I know I did. Mainly because I had lots of time to think about the fact that I was going to be interviewed at a book launch of an anthology of speculative stories. One of my stories was in the book,  so when she asked me the questions, I answered in the way that only I could.

Oh, and I was on the same show last Tuesday afternoon. I’m a sucker for punishment, but this time it was only to read part of my story and I didn’t find that so difficult. Plus there was a microphone. This made it easier for my throat. And there is also the possibility that I was talking into a radio-disconnected mic, because I haven’t been able to verify that my reading was actually being broadcast.

Anyway, back to the first interview. One question I was asked was, “Do you read much speculative fiction?”

I answered, “NO.” This was not smart. This was not great. This answer was not in the spirit of the occasion.

Now, in retrospect, taking into account all the experiences I have been through in my life, most of which I have written nothing about, I should have answered, “My life is speculative.”

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View of Middle River yesterday.  Note the snow!
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Buster breaking the boredom at home.
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 Buster Goes to Halifax 

8/9/2015

1 Comment

 
An eager young co-ed was poised with her pencil. "What is the most interesting phenomenon in American poetry, Mr. Roethke?"

"What I do next", he said, abandoning her for a ham sandwich.

"My Gaad, he’s rude", she said.

"No, he’s just hungry. His tapeworm just had a nervous breakdown.”

                          Theodore Roethke, From the Notebooks of Theodore Roethke


***

Immature eagle
Immature Eagle on our Spruce Tree
***

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A couple of weeks ago, when our two friends were visiting us from Picton Ontario, and we were eating in the "Three Doors Down" Eatery, a woman came into the restaurant.

Before I say more, I’d like to mention that this little restaurant is really, as the name indicates, three doors down from the sidewalk end of the building, is terrifically clean, has great food and I would recommend it to anyone who’s planning a visit to Baddeck, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.

Anyway, this woman was kind enough to go out of her way to walk up to our table and tell me how much she enjoyed reading my blog. She also said she’d be interested in hearing more about our little doggie. (Whose name is Buster and a Buster he is.)

I appreciated her commenting positively on my blog and would like to return the favour by telling her I have spent a lot of wet, prickly, bug-infested time pulling angelica plants out of our personal turfdom. She’ll know what I mean.


***
Okay, back to Buster. Who is now crashed out on the couch. His eyes are half open, watching me type on my new computer, which I have mostly made friends with.  You see, Buster is still exhausted. Because we just recently returned from Halifax. A mighty big city when you live in the bush. Exciting though, and we had a great visit with Sue’s family.
Picture
Sue and Buster in our Chebucto Inn room in Halifax
One thing different about this visit was that Sue’s grand-daughter had acquired a pet. A tiny kitten named Cello.

Well, when we arrived, they brought the cat out for all of us to see. However, because Buster was with us, they had to bring the cat to us in a cage. Which they placed on the floor under the expensive piano that Simon plays. He is a concert pianist.

Picture
Cello
This was probably a little bit unsettling, I would think. Because Buster was intrigued by the little black and white kitty. He was so curious that he kept putting his nose against the bars to get a better look. Which usually led to a series of hisses and then the tiny claws striking the bars and probably part of Buster’s mug. Which caused Buster to run around the cage and around the cage to get a better angle. Where he would peek into another section of the kennel and get snapped in his furry face again and again.

Hannah, the owner of the little kitty, quietly suggested, the last evening we were at their house, that we put Buster into a kennel.

Can you imagine?

***

            “I the Cat, whose ancestors
               Proudly trod the jungle,
            Not one ever tamed by man.
               Ah, do they know
            That the same immortal hand
               That gave them breath, gave breath to me?
            But I alone am free--
               I am THE CAT.”
                                                                         Leila Usher, I AM THE CAT

While in Halifax, Sue’s daughter suggested we go to William’s Lake for a swim. This lake is located inside Halifax. However, when you go to the lake, it looks like a lake you would find in any part of Eastern Ontario. Yet you are really in a Halifax sub-division.

The day was dreary and wet, so Sue and I didn’t go into the water. Plus we forgot our towels. Was this subconscious? I really don’t know, because we had, that morning, put a thousand miles on our tires looking for the mall and another thousand miles on our feet, tromping through a mall trying to find a bathing suit for Sue and a small insulated lunch packet for me. Even Buster was dragging his ass.

At one point we marched, like three refugees, from one large shopping mall, through a large underground parking lot, following the lines so we wouldn’t get squashed, over to another shopping mall. Maybe the same mall, I don’t know. Where we walked around and around looking for the WalMart, which we had seen on the other side of the freeway. Why do they run freeways through shopping malls? It doesn’t make Cape Breton sense.

There was this woman, stooped down, behind a wall, dragging on a long, thin, non-mentholated, self rolled cigarette. Smelling the smoke made me feel very relaxed while at the same time giving me a strange paranoid thought: That one of the nearby shoppers was thinking of murdering me.

Anyway, when I told her that we were Ma and Pa Kettle and Dog, looking for Walmart, she lazily told us that we were on the wrong level. Apparently, Walmart was somewhere below our sore feet.

“Oh, gee ma, they have more than one level.”

“Woof, woof and damn that flea, ma.”

To get to Williams Lake we drove in a CarShare vehicle. A neat way to have access to a vehicle without having to own one yourself. This car was small. Had room in the front for two people. Sue’s grand-daughter, Sue and I were packed in the back. So where was Buster?

Well, this was one of those little hatch-backie types of cars. Cute, but lacking in room. Buster was put into the back. Behind the back seat. Like he was a dog, for Pete's sake. He could see us and stick his head through the bars to sniff and be petted but he was trapped. So, there he sat. On top of a new rubber floor mat, which had been carefully wrapped in plastic.

To get to the lake you drive on a series of fairly narrow roads, which have lots of uphills and downhills.

 Only two people went swimming: Hannah and Jennifer. They bravely swam out into the cold water, under cloudy, wet skies. They swam away from the shore and this upset Buster,  who we didn’t think liked water very much. However, he didn’t like them being so far away either, so he jumped in and swam towards them. That was something new for us to see.

However, Buster also doesn’t like being wet and I didn’t have the nerve to ask to borrow one of their towels to dry Buster off. Which left Buster running around looking like a soaked rat, growling, snarling and shaking.

I’d earlier noticed a tee-shirt which had been tossed on a bush. Probably left by another swimmer. I fetched the shirt and used it to dry Buster.

Once the swim was over, we all jumped into the tiny car and drove home. Up and down the hills. Up and down the hills. 

At one point it was suggested we stop at this ice-cream shop. Sue’s grand-daughter was asked if she would like ice-cream. She said no.  That was a peculiar answer, I thought. A ten-and- a- half- year- old saying she didn’t want ice-cream?  Nobody asked Buster, who loves ice-cream.

Anyway, we didn’t stop for ice-cream. Instead, we headed home. Up and down the hills. Up and down. Up and down. Down and up and on one of the uppers or downers, Hannah quietly informed us that her tummy was turning a wee bit with said ups and downs.

And I’m thinking, “Please god, get us home before any sort of fluid expulsion happens in this tight and snug little compartment.” Also, I was still a wee bit paranoid. I didn’t like the way Sue was looking at me.

Meanwhile, Buster, who may have understood that we weren’t stopping for ice-cream or who was just pissed off that he was trapped in the back of this tiny car like an ordinary dog whose name is Buster, decided to live up to his name and began to tear the wrapper off the new rubber floor mat.

I jammed my hand and arm into the crevice so I could grab him and stop him from being Mr. Destructo. It wasn’t a comfortable fit. However, I kept my hand there for most of the trip as we went up and down and as even my stomach began to feel the wear and tear.

To make this long story shorter, I will say that as we pulled in front of their house, Hannah shouted, “I have to get out. Right now!”

Well, she’d warned us and poor Hannah had to unload.  And, in retrospect, the ‘no thank-you’ to the ice-cream should have been a big Sherlock Holme’s clue. And there was a bag ready for such an occasion, but unfortunately, it didn’t get to Hannah in time.

As a result, some effluent got into the bag, some onto Hannah, and a bit onto Sue, the floor and the seat.

I had quickly dislodged my arm from the back so that Buster was free to chew on, chew on.

We all tumbled out of the car. The upchucking scene continued under a big oak tree. Sue, who was still carrying the puke bag and Buster’s fifteen-foot leash, (I was actually holding onto Buster, who was on his short red leash), stood on the boulevard, while the vomit dripped out of the bag, onto the leash and onto her clothes.

Meanwhile, Sue’s daughter had grabbed a hose and turned it on, after helping to clean off Hannah.

All of us tried to avoid stepping on the vomit that was under the tree and on the sidewalk. However, Buster stepped in it and I stepped in it because no one had learned the steps to this vomit polka. All dancing around in circles as we tried to clean off Hannah, the sidewalk, the back seat and floor of the car and themselves.

During all this activity I didn’t fail to notice that Buster had taken a fair whack of plastic off that rubber floor mat.

The final straw for poor Buster was that while this was all going on, a big, very big, white cat had wandered down to watch. This cat was as calm as the proverbial cucumber. He’d parked himself under the tree like King Shit and gazed as only a cat can gaze, at all these crazy people running around. Why, the white cat barely blinked an eye. And, when I took a close look at this totally calm, big, white cat, I saw that he was very curious about Buster. And, Buster became, as the confusion calmed down, very interested in the big white cat. Who never moved.

You know what I thought of when I saw the cat? A school yard. Where a big bully kid wanders onto the playground and looks for trouble. Calmly scopes out the kids playing and having fun, picks one out and then goes over and intimidates or just plain beats up the poor sod. That’s what I thought of when I saw the big white cat.

This guy was looking for trouble. And Buster was the bait. And Buster being Buster, walked over and stuck his nose within strike range.

And boy, did Buster get a good shot in the face before I managed to pull him away. I don’t know what Buster thought, but I think that damn cat was laughing at Buster. Laughing at the whole damn bunch of us.


Picture
Magic Mushrooms
1 Comment

Don’t Do Pennies

12/6/2015

0 Comments

 
Last month, while we were in Kingston, I spent plenty of time walking the streets. Which meant I ran into panhandlers. Who, I think, some people refer to as leeches, bums, free-loaders, but not hard-working-taxpayers nor the aspiring middle-class.
        "Most of them look
         as though their bodies were boneless.

         Every animal
         has its own defense:
         theirs is plasticity.

         Kick them in the face
         and nothing breaks.
         It’s as if your boot
         sank in wet dough."

                                       Aldon Nowlan, The Shack Dwellers
They usually have no need to tell me their story. Because I’m digging into my pocket to pull out a coin before they even begin explaining why they are where they are.
Like one fella, who was sitting in a wheelchair. He told me he needed money for a new wheelchair. But I’d already pulled out a toonie, solely for him, so he didn’t have to waste his breath. Air could be expensive someday.

Later on, I ran into a woman panhandler, to whom I’d given some money earlier. She asked for more. I declined, and mentioned I’d given my money to the man in the wheelchair. Who, I explained, needed the money to buy a new wheelchair.

“Wheelchair, my ass,” she’d said. “He’ll use the money to buy more lotto tickets.”

Once, in Halifax, a panhandler asked me for money. He also wanted my coat. He didn’t get the coat, but I did empty my pocket into his outstretched paw.
He looked at the mess of change, and do you know what he said?

“I don’t do pennies.”
Picture
But last Thanksgiving, when we were in Kingston, I saw a man at the front door of our hotel. The man was wearing what I call criss-cross clothes. Plaids and stripes. Lines gone wild.
The man was tearing through the hotel’s garbage pail and it was Thanksgiving, for St. Peter’s sake. So, I pulled a fiver out of my pocket and gave it to him.

He was shocked.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said. “Well, thanks.”

And that was that, until a few days later, when I was sitting on a bench in front of the hotel, waiting for a cab. The same man walked by, wearing the same clothes and besides looking poor, he looked intelligent. I figured he knew where the chuck wagon was and was going to be having his hand out for some more money from this money bag. But he didn’t, damn it, so I stood up, caught up with him and offered him another fiver.

He was nearly speechless and gladly took the money. Maybe he was beginning to wonder about me.

Finally, I saw him a few days later. And seeing I was on a roll, and also because I would be leaving the city soon, I offered him more money.

“No thanks. I used the money you gave me to buy some groceries.”

I was dumbfounded, happy, slightly embarrassed and more respectful. He then told me he used to teach at Oxford and things hadn’t worked out too well for him. What did I know?

It reminded me of another time I ran into a fella who asked for money. I gave him some as he told me his wife was in the hospital and he was broke. “Sure, sure,” some folks would say.

A month or so later, I ran into him again. I automatically reached into my pocket and pulled out some change.  I was dumbfounded, embarrassed and surprised again. He refused the money. Things were working out for him.

You never know, do you?

Picture
This  photo shows a moose hanging out near our laneway. It's  tricky getting a moose to pose nicely for a picture!
***
Lots of people want Buster stories, it seems. Yea verily, they have demanded it. And there are so many, I don’t know where to begin. He never lets us take him for granted. All you have to do is look at the photo of us sitting on the couch to see what I’m getting at. There we are, huddled together. Sue and I looking borderline senile, weary and bedraggled. Buster looking alert, intelligent, in control and ready to go. A real firecracker.
Family and dog
Buster and Family
Buster is a Christmas gift that keeps on giving. Giving orders that is. Of course, he can’t talk, so he has to use woof, woofs and highly complicated body language and facial expressions to get us to do what he wants. He also nips and tugs.

We have already completed another session of his training program. His being-let-outside-so-he-can-have-a-treat-when-he-comes-inside scheme. Where’s our diploma? And it’s pretty damn ingrained in us. He barks to go out. We let him out. It should be noted that each command comes with a different kind of woof. Then he barks to come in and we let him in. Good doggie. Good doggie.

He proudly, and I repeat proudly, tail in the air and walking right smart, prances to the stool by the counter, where his treat stash is kept, puts his front feet on the stool like a trained seal with a ball and waits until one of us serves him. Note the trained seal fallacy.

And in case you don’t think his training techniques are rock solid, well, let me tell you this little story about how well it has gone for Buster.

One day he came into the house and instead of going to the treat stash, he went to the window, to see what he could see with his little canine eyes.
Dog on couch
What now?
Well, that dumbfounded Sue. She was lost. Note, it could have been me, because both of us are trained, but it was Sue this time. Lucky Sue. As I said, she was dumbfounded, perplexed, lost as to what to do. Things weren’t right.

So, what did she do? She went to the goodie stash, pulled out a biscuit and delivered it to Buster. Wow! Where will his training stop? It’s not like she expected a tip.

Buster is relentless in his training. Sometimes, his techniques are so subtle, we don’t even know we are being conditioned.
dog and beer bottles
Is this how Buster deals with the stress of controlling us?
A few weeks ago, Buster came in from outside. Sounds pretty normal and innocent. We all go inside and outside from time to time, but apparently, Buster was revising and expanding his conditioning order of events.

Buster would speak his usual woof-woof-go-outside bark. We’d immediately get our asses in gear, go to the door and tie him out. But this time he wouldn’t leave the deck. Instead he’d sit on the porch and give his let-me-in woof. So, we’d wind our asses up once more and open the door. This began happening more often than could be considered just coincidence.

We became suspicious. Because we’re smart too, damn it, but my god, his plan is absolutely brilliant. Scary, really.

You see, Buster sees us as his buddies and a breed of dog. I don’t want to know what kind I am and what kind Sue is. And call me paranoid, if you want, but I think what he’s up to, what he has on his overflowing bucket list, is a dream of training us to share his doggie world with him.

Because, as soon as one of us went outside, he’d stop barking. Then he’d step off the deck while suspiciously looking behind him to make sure one of us was staying outside. If Sue or I complied then he was just fine, thank you.

But my paranoia hasn’t stopped at this point, nor do I think has his training. Because, can’t you see it? Can’t you? Us at the pet shop buying a second long chain and collar. A chain for Buster and one for Sue or me.

What’s next? Buster and one of us on our knees, well at least us down on our knees, eating from a doggie bowl. Buster’s stainless steel and ours yellow plastic.

Having doggie sharing time. Peeing on rocks, trees and car tires. Rolling in the grass. Rubbing our faces in dead leaves. Sniffing places. What a lovely time we’d be having. Romping and rolling to the sounds of the universe.

Then when he’d decided, I repeat, when he’d decided that it was time to go in, he would bark. Whichever one of us was on Buster duty would slide down the pole, march, or preferably run right smartly to the door and remove the chains from us before we’d enter the house. Buster’s feet on the stool and us serving the canine god.


Could it end up that someday, he’d be tying Sue and me out? Master Buster our caregiver?

***
       "God I love my master
        Of all the dogs I have the best master
        What a great master
        Yes I can get on the bed
        Yes I can have
        A bite of her brownie
        Oh no it’s a Pot brownie
        Oh No it’s a Pot brownie
        Oh god I am so high
        She is starting to look very weird to me
        So much skin so much open skin on her so bald all over
        I want to smell her mmmmmmaster mmmmmmaster
        She’s laughing at me quit laughing at me
        Now she’s barfing now who is laughing
        Har Har Har Master oh no now I’m barfing
        She thinks there was LSD in the brownie—-"
                                 Lynda Barry,  “I love my master I love my master”
Humes Falls Hike
HIKING GROUP AT HUMES FALLS. LOTS OF AVID HIKERS AROUND HERE
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