Larry Gibbons
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The Miracles of Spring

11/6/2016

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Buster Exploring Spring's Gifts
Well, damn it!! I should have used my mouse. You see, yesterday I had, on my little computer, written two blogs. Sometimes this happens. The blog gets very long and then I realize, hey, I have two blogs here and like a squirrel, I squirrel part of the blog away.

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".

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This is the new Blog 55.  Enjoy.  I hope!

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!”

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NEW GROWTH IN A TWO-YEAR-OLD CLEAR-CUT
Why it even made me think of the hymn, ‘How Great Thou Art’, I used to hear sung by George Beverly Shea. It also got me thinking about what a co-worker once said to me. ”Being born is like winning the lottery.”  Some folks might not agree, but I think most would.

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.
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Moon Rising Over Mountain
To me, the fact that spring comes every year is a gigantic, in-your-face miracle. So magnificently huge, and yet a large number of people barely give it a thought. Except for the part about it being warmer. Therefore, I sometimes think, because I’m part of the human race, that it's an undeserved miracle. But then again, that’s a rather human-centrist thought. There are more beings than us living on the earth.

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.

                            “There is a glory in the world;
                                        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

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The Pond Beside Our Driveway
When I see spring ravishing the earth, I think of some of those folks who see life in a dreary, bunker sort of way. Spring must be, in some scrap of their minds, connected to sin. So much colour, scent and noise. With much of this gorgeous spectacle bursting forth because of some previous plant and animal orgy of sordid lustful copulations.
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Riotous Dandelions
Oh, they must have some pretty kinky styles, I’d think. But effective. Like the maple trees I planted a few years ago. I think I planted five. I placed them in a field that gets plenty of sun. I’ve since heard that’s not recommended. I was ignorant.

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.

Back from popular demand. The Buster show. See how Buster manipulates his surrogates.  It’s all about meals and who is training whom. Our persistent philosophical Buster puzzle. The Buster mealtime conundrum.

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?
                                       You gonna eat that?
            
                                        I’ll eat that.”

                                                         Karen Shepard, BIRCH

I eat some more. Buster watches while I break off little pieces of carrot, potato, meat, pickle, (Buster likes ketchup), and put them on the side of my plate.  When I’ve cleaned off the part of the plate that was ordained for me to eat, I take my plate to his dog dish. His dog dish has dog kibble already poured into it. It is dog food. Buster knows dog food isn’t human food. That’s the rub.

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.

He may, instead, sit on the floor and stare at Sue. Give her a careful scrutiny. Surveying her whole food/eating situation as he looks to see if she has any more food to cough up.

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.
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No Room for Buster at the Table
Anyway, at one of those three stages, he will usually commence to eat his meal while we hold our communal breath. It is truly pathetic. Isn’t it?

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.
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Lake o' Law...Just down the Road from Middle River
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Does Wily Have a Microwave? 

28/3/2016

1 Comment

 
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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
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Buster Whisperer

26/2/2016

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Sue walking Buster down our road.

“Holy ink cartridge, Batman. We’re on the second upper half of a century of blogs. That’s gosh darn awesome.”

“Calm down, Robin. It’s not a big whoopee. We walk around in public, wearing long underwear and a cape, and nobody finds that gosh darn weird. They call us heroes.”

Speaking of underwear, Buster, our dog, has come up with a new line of evening clothes which he calls Buster Wear. It consist of long underwear, a pair of shorts and a tee shirt.   

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Buster Wear

I mentioned Buster Wear because I wanted to get the word Buster into my blog. Because I have received, once again, more requests for Buster blog epistles. Maybe they want a Buster Bible.

“Holy dog poop baggies, Batman, love that Buster Wear and all, but what is it about Buster?”

Putting aside all this Batman and Robin guff, I can tell you, when it comes to Buster, that we’re dealing with a basic philosophical question. Who is training whom?

The answer is we don’t know.

And I have another question. Is it possible, that while I think I’m a dog whisperer, that Buster is a human whisperer? Is the egg before the chicken or the chicken before the egg? Who is whispering to whom and who is training whom? This is definitely heavy philosophy, man. This is hey man stuff and figuring out the who and whom stuff was absolutely taxing to my grammatical weaponry.

Anyway, and for example, has Buster got me trained to such a degree that he only has to walk into the washroom, touch his nose to the proverbial ceramic flushing throne, and I’ll know, in an instant, that he needs some water put into his bowl or in a more extreme case, urgently needs a mighty fine dump?

Then there’s the throw and fetch game. This is where we toss a half of a hockey glove, a slipper, a boot or a Christmas doggy toy around the trailer for him to retrieve. He loves this game, usually in the morning. One of the reasons he’s a passionate fetcher is that when he declares the game finished, he gets a treat. In other words we give him a treat for having fun. Good boy, good dog.

Which got me to wondering why he should have a treat for having fun? But then my dog whisperer or Buster’s human whisperer stuff kicked in. Whichever way it goes, I could hear, in my mind, the words, “You have a beer after you have fun playing hockey, so why can’t ‘he’ or ‘I’ have a treat after having fun playing chase and fetch?”

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Poor Buster struggling through the deep snow on our lane
Feeding time is a difficult training conundrum for us. It’s the occasion when we really do wonder who is training whom.

For example, one evening Buster seemed to be in a terrible mood. He was lying on the couch, his eyes rolling around in his head like he was really pissed off at somebody, something or both. We got to worrying that he was ill. He hadn’t eaten his breakfast and he hadn’t eaten his supper. His stainless steel food dish was still sitting on the floor, by the front door, laden with Buster’s untouched, except for bits of our meal, supper mix.

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Sad Buster
Now, I want to say, right off the start, that his meals are not boring. We, of course, put some dry kibble into his dish, but that’s just so the poor sod won’t end up outside, his bum pointing to the ground, and he straining and pushing and crying the blues to the sky, while working his poor little ass off, so he can force out a right and proper bowel movement. And I’m not talking politics here.

Because, in this extremely boring dried up kibble, we add bacon fat and other bits and pieces of our own supper. Because, and I don’t blame him, Buster likes our food better than his food. We put all these goodies into Buster’s stainless steel doggy bowl.

Anyway, there he was, lying on the couch, looking pathetic. Just before our bedtime, which is also Buster’s bedtime, I let Buster outside. We always do that before we close up for the night.  This is the time he does his toiletries. When he sniffs and walks around the trailer, stoops, lifts his leg and squirts and is a time when he barks to the east, barks to the west, barks to the north and barks to the south. A time for Buster to let the world know that he exists and therefore is, and you all had better just know that this is a truth like none other ever recorded in book or tablet.

When he’d finished doing these outdoor, night-time chores he scratched at the door and we let him in. Then he got a bit of a towelling off before he walked over to the treat stool.

Originally it was a stool for us to stand on so we could reach into the top shelves of the cupboard. It was, in the pre-Buster time, called a stool, but now, AB, it is called a treat stool. Who put that word into our heads?

Upon this stool he placed his two cutely crooked front paws. Pointed his almost human eyes towards a higher plain, where the treats are located, and waited expectantly, tail vigorously wagging, for his two tiny, low-cal biscuits.

After he'd had his treat, I heard, with my own little ears, the whispering voice, “Take up my food dish and walk. Walk to the treat stool. Remove one piece at a time from the stainless steel bowl and place this morsel uponst the sacred treat stool.”

I scurried over to the metal dog dish that was still full of the uneaten kibble. I brought the dog dish over and from the shiny bowl I took out one piece of kibble and placed it on the treat stool. Buster ate it. I took out another piece. Buster ate it. I took out another and placed it on his tiny treat stool. He ate it.

“Ah ha”, I thought, and I really do think that it was me who thought the “Ah ha” part. “Place the stainless steel bowl on the treat stool. Now place more than one piece around said bowl.”

I therefore and thus did just that. I placed the steel bowl uponst the treat stool and placed several pieces onto the TS.

I did, for an instant, during this feeding operation, think about calling this whole treat stool thing, TSD. Which means Treat Stool Disorder. Maybe get this made up term published in some thick, blue, hard-cover psychiatry book, which lists and defines all the different mental illnesses you can find in this crazy world.

I thought of all this while I was carrying out the whispering instructions I was hearing being announced from somewhere in my noggin.      
                  
Buster ate all the kibble I put on the TS. I took more kibble out. He ate all that kibble. Wouldn’t touch what was in the bowl.

Then the sneaky dog, human whisperer thing began again. It said, “Woof, woof, get out one of our, (or did I hear the word ‘your’), human bowls and pour all the remaining food into this offering bowl and see what’ll happen.”

I turned around smartly and pulled a bowl out of our private collection. I emptied the stainless steel food dish into the beautiful red bowl with white trim. Buster has seen us eat many of our yummy meals from these bowls. He ate his whole supper. Not a scrap left. Not a crumb.

And, I’m afraid to say, in case it sounds a little psychologically suspect, that the whispering has been giving me other guidance or commands. It has been strongly advising that “We, Sue and I, go to Value Village and purchase some bowls."

“And Larry,” the voice whispered, “mark them in such a way that Buster doesn’t know that they were bought for him and not for humans.” That has to be me whispering to myself and not Buster, I would think.

“And Larry, make room in the cupboard so that the eating containers will look like they are ours so Buster won’t think they are just dog dishes in disguise.” Me, I think.

Buster is a smart dog and I  think Buster is a conniving and strategically scary dog who is covertly and relentlessly playing a canine form of chess or poker with us humans. Almost like a politician, but in a good way.

***
“When I found out that one of my years was seven of theirs, I started biting absolutely everything.”
                                                                 Max Carlson

***
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                                                                           Pileated Woodpecker

Before I go I thought I’d mention the river. The Middle River, to be specific, that has, in a certain sense, been able to show us some form of mercy. Mercy or luck, call it what you will.

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Middle River in Flood Mode
Last week, we had over a day of steady rain. Sometimes it was very heavy rain. The temperatures had soared to around ten degrees Centigrade and the melting was happening at a scary pace.

The river was by the end of the day up to near the top of the snow banks. Thank goodness for the snowbanks. They get frozen and hard and therefore increase the height of the banks which keeps the water from spilling over. However, what has happened, up to now, is the temperature will begin to drop and then the rain will turn to snow and mercifully we are safe again. The river calms down.

Down the road a ways, is a place we call the Twin Churches. That’s because there are two churches sitting side by side. One is a United church and the other is the Presbyterian. Apparently the congregations get along. Very Christian of them.

A road turns off the Cabot Trail at the twin churches. A little way down this road is a bridge which crosses over the Middle River. Sticking out of the river is a tiny island. The day the river was rising, a friend and I drove across the bridge. The friend has lived in Cape Breton for many, many years. He told me that as long as you can see the island then the river isn’t too, too high. We could still see a bit of the island. That’s a good to know piece of information to have along with our own river-rising indicators.

Anyway, what this whole long lead-up was meant to be about was that I think you have to have a certain kind of philosophy, mental quirk or personality trait to live on a flood plain. I don’t know what all these traits might be. I’m sure my readers can name a few.

However, I know one of them is to not have a great big worry lump stuck somewhere up in your skull. This worry lump saying things like, “Why did you buy a place that’s on a flood plain?” “How can we put money into it when we might be flooded out and be swashbuckling it out to sea?” “What’s the old trailer worth anyway? Are we ever even going to get close to our money’s worth back if we sell it? Etc., etc., etc.”

These thoughts can become a vicious circle and can go on and lead to the next and the next and the next. And it’s not as though we approached the real-estate agent and said, “We’d like you to find us a 45- foot, fifty-year-old trailer that’s located on a flood plain, and just to make it a little more exciting, is also located in a snow belt. Please and thank-you.”

I do, however, think that I have one reason, personally, why I’m not overwhelmed by these investment worries. Well, actually, another reason would be that it’s never very boring living on a flood plain and in a snow belt and it certainly provides me with material for my blog.
                               “Sometimes the river
                                           becomes a river in the mind
                                           or of the mind
                                           or in and of the mind

                                           Its banks snow
                                           the tide falling a dark
                                           rim lies between
                                           the water and the shore”
                                                             William Carlos Williams, The Mind Hesitant

However, I think there is another, maybe even more basic reason and I’ll tell you what it is.

When I was young, I would, quite often on a Sunday morning, wake up to the sound of the kitchen radio broadcasting a man singing a particular song about being poor. I don’t know all the words, but part of it went like this—-. (Please give me a second while I fetch my pitch pipe and blow a C Major.) “Good boy. Good boy.”

The words were, ”I’d rather have Jesus than silver and gold—-“ that’s all the words I remember. It was about a street sweeper who was very poor, but he didn’t care. He had a treasure that wasn’t based on money.

Now I haven’t taken up all the theology of that song, but I do think it painted money a certain way in my mind. And painted the river’s threat and our flood plain and so many other things in a colour that put money in the category where it really belongs. But don’t get me wrong. I know we need money. There’s no getting around that and if I won a million dollars I wouldn’t just go out and waste it by buying a K car or a fur coat.
         
***
“It’s good to have money and the things that money can buy, but it’s good too, to check up once and a while and make sure that you haven’t lost the things that money can’t buy.”
                                                                                              George Horace Lorimer
Picture
Gold Brook Road
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Don’t Do Pennies

12/6/2015

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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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Buster

11/2/2015

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                                                    "A robin redbreast in a cage
                                                Puts all heaven in a rage.
                                                A dove-house fill’d with doves and pigeons
                                                Shudders hell thro’ all its regions.
                                                A dog starv’d at his master’s gate
                                                Predicts the ruin of the state."

                                                                                William Blake,  Auguries of Innocence
Our dog Buster is a brindle coloured mutt, who, we’ve been told, is part Lhasa Apso, Shi-tzu and Poodle. I think he might also have a tad of Basset Hound in his genes.  One clue that we have a dog is I spend a lot of time walking around the trailer wearing only one slipper. I call that, being Bustered.
Picture
When we first met Buster at the SPCA, he was calm and friendly. However, the thought did cross my mind that maybe Buster was acting like we do at a job interview. We dust off our manners, we don’t piss on the potential boss’s desk and we don’t bite the interviewers. So, Buster nuzzled and cuddled everyone within reach and he made nary a bark or growl.

The SPCA folks suggested I take him for a walk so I could get to know him a little better, kind of like kicking the hubcaps on a used car. My first impression was that he was an independent and alert dog. A very focused dog with a fair amount of interest in the fairer sex.

At one point, a man was taking a large dog into the SPCA. The large dog made a lunge for Buster. What did Buster do? Buster looked at him, took a tiny step towards the dog and then dismissed him. Probably because he was in a hurry to get down to his sniffing-pee-and-poop-fairer-sex business. Also, I think Buster sees himself as much bigger than he really is. Buster’s approach to the big dog reminded me of the story about an ant who was trying to make love to an elephant. The elephant, at one point, grunted, or made some such noise, and the ant said, “Suffer, baby, suffer.”

Last week, Buster was given a medical once-over. He was inoculated, donated his blood for tests, had his ears checked and was de-manned. We’d signed a contract at the SPCA, that said we had to have poor Buster’s bong-bongs sliced and diced. 

When we brought Buster back home from the vet’s, with a bottle of ear medication to be squirted into his ears, he was sore, partially buzzed and emotionally distraught. The first day we applied the medication to his ears was an eye opener. We learned Buster doesn’t like anything going into his ears. No friggen way. He went hairy ape. I had mentioned to Sue earlier that I thought there was a suspicious look in Buster’s eyes. We can only guess at why, as we have no idea of what happened in his previous not-with-us-history.
dog with ball
What is he thinking?
The wild way Buster reacted to the ear medication reminded me of another dog encounter. Years ago, I worked in a boarding kennel. In one tiny cage was a Cairn Terrier, whose name was Friday. He was small and cute. I’d walk into the kennel room and there would be Friday, wagging his tail fast enough to get airborne. At mealtime he was oh, so happy, happy, happy. And getting Friday out of his cage and into the runs was a proverbial piece of cake. However, look out. The first time I tried to bring him back to his cage, Friday turned into a ball of fury. A growling, biting, ball of canine fury.

I had to throw a large towel over Friday, grab him and pray that his snapping teeth were at least a few inches of cloth away from my fingers. Then I ran for my life, before I tossed him and the blanket into the cage and then slammed the cage door shut. My final act was a prayer of thanksgiving that I wasn’t bleeding profusely. If I wasn’t. Then it was like a movie director shouted, “Cut! Great job, Friday. Let’s see if you can put as much energy into our next movie clip where a novice pet groomer has to clip your pointy nails.”

Oh, as a sidebar, do you want to know what animal made me bleed the most? A rabbit, who I swear was the rabbit in “Monty Python and the Holy Grail”.

Anyway, Buster had shown only friendly, friendly, friendliness up to the ear application. He’d lie on top of us, nuzzle us, would purr if he could, and was oh, so tremendously joyful to see us whenever we were away for a few minutes. Buster poured out his love, a canine love child. Peace and joy, my son. Handing flowers to the dog catcher. That was our Buster.

When we returned to the vet’s office, so he could check out Buster’s stitches, we figured Buster would be throwing convulsions. But no. Buster Bustered us. He couldn’t wait to get into the clinic. He even scratched at the door and tried to push it open. Which got the receptionist to saying she’d heard the scratching and had been expecting to see a dog walk in on his own accord.

When inside the clinic, Buster was so happy. Sniffing everywhere. Applying a joyful whiz on the reception desk leg. Jumping up on the lap of the receptionist and giving her a gorgeous wink, wink. And when we were in the examining room, Buster excitedly sniffed under the doors as he tried to smell the next room, where other pets were waiting for their doctor’s appointments.

But it was educational to see how carefully the doctor approached Buster. He definitely looked nervous and admitted that Buster didn’t like their ear drops, nor their nail clippers nor any of their syringes with their multi-sized and pretty coloured pointy spear tips.

I have another Buster theory. I think that Buster knows his boundaries. He’s happy because he knows himself. He treats others with respect and expects the same treatment in return. Fool around with his person and he is finely tuned to defend himself. Fully committed.

dog and ball
Let's play ball!
We’ve now got Buster trained. This is how it works. Buster stands up from a sleeping position. He walks to the door. He scratches the door and maybe barks a few woof woofs. One of us gets up and opens the door. We snap a leash on him and let him out. Buster stays out for about a minute or two. He scratches at the door. One of us gets up and lets him in. Buster walks to the kitchen counter and looks at the treat container. One of us walks over, opens the treat container and gives him a treat. Buster then lies down like a good dog. We then are able to resume our prior activities before he stands up to undergo some more dog training.

I am beginning to wonder about this training program. A few times I’ve thought I’ve seen Buster eyeing the treat container before he walked to the door and began his scratching. Who’s training whom?  Are we being Bustered?

Oh, and he likes to chase snow ploughs. Sue can tell you that. She was left standing in the road with a broken leash while Buster roared after the snow monster. Sue was Bustered. 


                      “Give me a friend and I’ll worry along:
                      My vision may vanish, my dream may go wrong;
                      My wealth I may lose, or my money may spend;
                      But I’ll worry along, if you give me a friend.”
                                                             Anonymous, Give Me a Friend
Winter forest
Partway up a mountain beside our road.
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