Well, this morning, (a gray, dreary morning, I must add), I sat in the living room and began to work on Blog 55. I usually leave my mouse in the office and move things around on my computer by using my finger on the computer’s built-in mouse-pad.
This drab am, I tried to highlight the part of the blog I was going to cut and copy and turn into blog 56. However, I had trouble getting the highlighting to halt where I wanted it to halt so I could cut and copy. So——I decided to hit a key to un-highlight it. Then I planned to fetch little Mickey Mouse from the office and highlight the blog 56 segment by using the mouse.
Well, one big F)(*&^%$ DUH! What key did I hit? No need to tell you, but only to say that the word rhymes with "BEAT".
One evening recently, around ten pm, I stepped out onto our deck. Oh, the sounds, scents and furious busyness that greeted me! It was as if I’d entered a busy perfume department. The trees budding, flowers blooming, wet grass growing, cool mountain breeze blowing, the sound of the swollen, freshly rain-filled river flowing and the riotous mayhem of the peepers hooting it up in our pond. “Oh joy! Hallelujah! Spring has broken out!”
And speaking of the peepers, which I’m sure I had spoken about in my first, now vanished attempt at Blog 55, they were emanating a riot of sound. When Sue, Buster and I were hiking on the road one evening, and the moon had just begun to stick its head up from the top of the basement stairs, the peepers were so loud that I suggested we all wear ear protection the next time we take this walk. Well, maybe not Buster. We all know how Buster reacts to his ears being frigged around with.
Luckily, Spring is gracious in her giving. Even though the human race seems to work so hard to remove the spring from Spring. Economic babble guff goes on and on while the peepers riotously shout, “Bull ship. Bull ship.” Cutting to the chase as our civilization chases the almighty dollar.
The morning is like wine,
And pale ascension lilies lean
Like gods who late in heaven have been,
Half flowerlike, half divine.
O sweet revival of the grass!
O sweeter songs that rise,
When jocund April leads her train
Through the gold sunlight and the rain,
And earth is paradise."
Charles Hanson Towne, AN APRIL SONG
Anyway, this year I walked over to the crowd of growth and located the trees. I saw four. Figured that’s a good result. However, yesterday I made a more careful inspection. I was surprised to see that I’d missed one maple tree. I’d thought that tree had died, but there it was. Except, where I’d planted one maple tree, there were now three small maple trees. Kinky.
A few days ago, Buster jumped up on me. He wanted to go for a drive with us and that’s one of his ways of asking. I looked at his eager, trusting, brown eyes, his little moustache, comically curved paws, his teeth, which stick out over his wee red chin and I said to Sue, “Buster is so cute that maybe we’re committing a sin by enjoying him so much.”
Maritime Mac once said, “When I look at my dog, Buster, I get to thinking that I’m so happy whistling so copiously that I’m going to have to go to confession.” Thus sayeth Maritime.
Maritime Mac sometimes uses big words.
This is how it works.
First off, we now realize the our meals have to be tailored, not only to us, but also to Buster.
It all begins with Sue laying the meal out on my plate. It is presented to me, under the watchful eyes of Lord Buster. We usually sit on the couch when we eat. I sit closest to Buster so he gets a better view of my plate and what I’m eating.
I eat my meal. Buster watches. Buster watches. I eat. Buster watches. I break a tiny piece off my meat or fried potato or slice of bread. I offer it to Buster. He eats it or doesn’t. Not eating it is a bad sign. He’s not liking our meal. Eating it is a good omen. He likes our meal.
You gonna eat that?
You gonna eat that?
I’ll eat that.”
Karen Shepard, BIRCH
I take my fork and I scrape the remaining bits off my plate and into his dish and then I tap his dish with the fork. I always wondered when my psychology course about Pavlov’s dogs would come in handy. Now I know.
Buster will usually check out his dish after I tap his dish. Then he may drool or not drool. He may eat or not eat. Depends on how hungry he is, I guess.
He may, instead of eating, watch me make my tea. Watch me spread my toast with honey or jam or peanut butter. After which he watches me eat it. I will break off some pieces, like a dutiful master. He watches. When I’m finished, I take the few pieces I've set aside, and I dump them into Buster’s bowl. I tap his bowl with a fork or spoon or knife. He may drool or he may not. He may eat or he may not.
If satisfied that we have both totally finished our meals, Buster will, most likely, not always, but most likely, eat.
He will remove some of the pieces from his bowl and carry them to the rug. Because he is a delicate eater. Some might say a picky eater. And then he’ll eat them like a right proper gentleman.
However, I’ll be damned if I’m going to lay a place for him at the table. Not doing the plate, knife, fork, spoon, maybe a dessert spoon and the napkin thing. Not going to happen.
Besides, we have no room at the table. Sue’s office is spread out all over the table, along with hats, gloves, papers, poop catcher bags, collars, grooming brushes, dog leash snaps, and three or four of Buster’s leashes, in colours of red, green and blue.
After he finishes eating, do you know what happens? You may have guessed it. I won’t give you the word, but I’ll give you a hint. Buster gets something or two somethings that rhyme with DELETE.
Who runs this forty-five-foot trailer anyway? The whole thing is a pitiable sin.