Larry Gibbons
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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?”

Picture
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.

Picture
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.
Picture
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.

Picture
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.

Picture
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!

1 Comment

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?!?!
Picture
***
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.
Picture
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.
Picture
***
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


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