Category: Pet Dog

Mice and Snow

7/2/2017

Christmas Tree Farm on our Road

I think Houdini, the escape-artist mouse whom I caught and set free somewhat less than two miles from our trailer, has made it back to our abode. (See Blog 63: “Houdini” ).

Why do I think this? Because the damn mice are now entering the foyer of our ‘live mouse trap’, finishing off the peanut butter and then vacating our sure-fire trap in an orderly fashion. We haven’t caught a single mouse.

Live Mouse Trap

Hell, I’ve even seen them, late at night, inside the live trap. However, in the morning, when I went outside to warm up the truck and then returned to collect the mouse and escort him to the warm vehicle in order to taxi him or her to a new home, he or she had slipped away into some dark and mysterious trailer place.
You know what else I think? I think Houdini is a gifted instructor. I think he’s teaching late night and early morning courses. Giving mice instructions on how to escape from our variety of traps. Escapology One, Two and Three.

I’ll also tell you why I’m thinking this and it’s not just because the mice are pigging out on our peanut butter and not worrying a whit about getting caught.

You see, last night, around two am, while I was stumbling around the kitchen, trying to find the outdoor light switch, so I could turn it on and look outside to see amazing weather phenomena and any of the night creatures who might be sneaking around our trailer while we’re in la-la land, I heard a squeaky mouse voice.

Mouse-hunting Fox in our Yard

I heard the voice just after I’d stubbed my toe on the kitchen chair. His utterances drifted up from the bowels of the trailer’s internal workings. And the lecture seemed to be about our traps and how to escape from them.

I specifically heard this bit of scholarly conversation: “Squeaky, let’s say you’re eating a meal in what you assumed was a mouse greasy-spoon diner. And let’s say you’ve just finished your peanut butter meal and you’re ready to leave a tip and be gone. You get to the exit and my gosh, there’s a metal barrier in front of you and you can’t find a way out. What do you do?”

“Don’t panic, Sir Houdini.”

“That’s the very first thing you do. You don’t panic. You sit down and assess the situation. Then what do you do? Anybody else? Nobody? Okay, what we’re going to do is go visit a live trap which has been conveniently set up for our instruction and edification. And when we’re finished, you’re going to know it from head to stern. You’ll all be able to take one apart and put it back together with your eyes closed and you’ll all be able to weasel your way out of the traps as if there were no tomorrow. Just think how much this will improve your quality of life!

“Follow me, please and don’t forget to pray for our comrades who have been forced to emigrate from our home-sweet-home.”

And my, oh my! I could hear such a scurrying and a sliding in our walls and under our floor. I thought, “My god, how many of them are there?”

I wished I hadn’t watched the movie, ‘Willard’ earlier in the evening.

Later on, when I was back in bed, I could hear the sound of those unescapable hinges and doors opening and closing. Which, I assumed, were caused by the mice practising their escape skills.

***

ICE GLISTENING ON MOUNTAIN

A few days ago, I went searching for a Houdini-escape-proof live trap. I visited the local hardware store, but they didn’t have any other live traps.

They did have a rather intriguing death trap. I didn’t buy it. It was a deadly trap that looked like a live trap, but wasn’t.

It was a contraption that had a foyer, as does my now-useless-after-Houdini-returned-live-easy-to-escape-trap. However, inside the peanut butter room, it had some kind of killing machine. When the mouse entered, it zapped the mouse into infinity before the poor mouse had a chance to chow down on one morsel. Theoretically, one only had to remove the trap’s roof and remove the dead mouse. Hopefully, completely dead and not suffering.

Icy Mountain Dwarfs My Truck

***

Are there any other reasons, besides the reasons I gave in Blog 63, for my not buying traps which kill mice? Yes, there are.

You see, last summer, I purposely let a wasp nest be. This experiment is also described in an earlier blog post. The nest thrived under my step-ladder for the whole summer until it was blown away by a hurricane.

The experiment, in my mind, was a success, except of course for the hurricane disaster. Because, in spite of all the chitter-chatter about how mean wasps are, those wasps and I thrived. And in spite of the fact that the nest was only around the corner beside the wood-shed, where I often ate and drank, we got along splendidly.

Only a few, maybe ten wasps, came close to me. Cross my heart! And I believe it was only out of curiosity and maybe to make sure the terms of our treaty were being followed. Why, they gave me less trouble than a neighbour dropping around to borrow some sugar or to drop off religious pamphlets.

I do, however, worry about the cold weather and other hazards the mice must face, but these are genuine field mice and they know how to survive.

Plus, I did some research and learned that the fairly radical animal rights organization called PETA has declared that releasing them into the wild is the most humane way of treating your wild field mice intruders.

“The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a book, to be studied by geologists and antiquaries chiefly, but living poetry like the leaves of a tree, which precede flowers and fruit,—-not fossil earth, but a living earth; compared with whose great central life all animal and vegetable life is merely parasitic.”
Henry Thoreau, "Walden"

Ice Art

Winter Wonderland

I don’t want to state that my mouse and wasp handling techniques could be applied to the situation the world is finding itself in, but I will. Because there is an elephant charging around in our only earth’s very large foyer and this elephantoid creature’s name isn’t Jumbo.

So, I think that my experiment might be applied to some governments and might be an alternative approach to how they perceive and treat foreigners and strangers. Because I think there are all kinds of ways of being a good Samaritan.

Plus, when I see our ‘AS-WE-MOVE-FORWARD’ society relentlessly and thoughtlessly injuring, destroying, or being unaware of the infinite number of living organisms that are part of our world, well, I think my experiment was worthwhile.

“It is only when the gods finally begin to die completely out of the land and when many human beings begin to live totally divorced from nature -at the beginning, that is, of the modern age-that landscape painting, picturesque architecture and landscape description——become the obsessive themes of art.”
Vincent Scully

***

Too Much Snow For Buster

My Old Truck

I think the mystery of why all our Evening Grosbeaks have disappeared has been solved. We usually have about forty-to-sixty of them in the winter. A hardware store employee told me that an agile hawk will scare them away.

We’d had an agile hawk hunting around our bird feeders just before the grosbeaks disappeared. The grosbeaks, apparently, got out of town and are now supping at our friend’s bird feeder, which is situated in downtown Baddeck.

We hope they come back next year.

Sue and Buster on their daily walk down our road

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Where's My Shovel?

24/12/2016

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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.

Running out of Room for Snow

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.

Snow-covered Trees

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

Buster Waiting out the Storm

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.

Sue's Car Buried in Driveway

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.

Snow-Covered Hay Field Across the Road

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Maritime Mac

24/4/2016

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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.

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.

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

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.

Our Home Sweet Home

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Buster's Buddy Burger

26/11/2015

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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.

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.

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.”

View of Middle River yesterday. Note the snow!

Buster breaking the boredom at home.

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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.”

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?

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.

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.

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.

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”

HIKING GROUP AT HUMES FALLS. LOTS OF AVID HIKERS AROUND HERE

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Shackwacky - Chapter and Verse

31/3/2015

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I’ve just finished reading a science fiction detective novel by Sherry D. Ramsey. That’s a lot to say in one breath. The book is called ‘The Murder Prophet’. Now, it was a novel that made me look forward to going to bed. Because that’s when I read novels. The book, in a few sentences, is about Kit, the main character, who’s trying to solve a mystery before a millionaire named Aleshu Coro is murdered. The threat was made by the mysterious Murder Prophet.

Many of the characters in this book, including the animals, have super powers. Power to tell whether somebody is lying. Power to tell if somebody is using their powers. Power to change a person from one thing to another, including themselves. Anyway, lots of different powers. I particularly enjoyed a delightful side character, a goose by the name of Trip, who had a very special power. The goose liked to practice killer ninja moves, could talk and was active throughout the novel.

Anyway, I enjoyed the book. It was a good read and can be ordered through Amazon.ca as a Kindle or paperback edition at http://www.amazon.ca/The-Murder-Prophet-Sherry-Ramsey/dp/0993897304/ref=tmm_pap_title_0

***

My god, but haven’t we had enough snow? For what we are once again about to receive we are truly thankful, amen. NOW GO AWAY! Enough is enough, and as I’m writing this blog, in the living room, with Buster lying on my foot, and at the end of March, I’ve just heard that we are to receive another ten to fifteen cm today. Hallelujah!

                “One must have the mind of winter
                              To regard the frost and the boughs
                              Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

                              And have been cold a long time
                              To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
                              The spruces rough in the distant glitter”
                      Wallace Stevens, The Snowman

Our Trail to Road

***

WARNING!! THIS PART OF THE BLESSED BLOG WAS INSPIRED BY A SEVERE CASE OF ACUTE SHACK-WACKINESS!
And I did go to bed one night. And I had a dream. I dreamed that I bought a )(*&^ snow blower. And thus I woke up and declared, “Lo and behold, I’ve just had another friggen nightmare.”

But I did go out and purchase a snow blower, anyway. Although my mind was shouting at the top of its voice, “Larry, Larry, my son, verily, verily, you will be verily, verily sorry and will surely repent of your stupid deed in buying a cursed snow blower when you were warned against such a stupid action. Thou faithless servant.”

And verily, and thus and therefore, I discovereth, over a short time, that my dream was true. Because verily one friggen wintry morning, I couldn’t get the friggen snow blower to move. I did pull and push all the sacred buttons and levers, but it would not budge. The wheels desisted and resisted and so I had to pull the son of a blower through the deep snow, to the fair entrance to our driveway, where I left it for the snow blower purveyor to pick up and take to his holy little motor workshop.

And lo and behold and verily, thus and therefore, he phoned me and told me that my snow blower, Grinder, had frozen his bolts off and that’s why Grinder wouldn’t move. So, they got him all nicely warmed up around their pellet stove and gave him a cup of hot W30 oil and cinnamon. Then they delivered him back to our abode.

And lo and behold and verily, thus and therefore, the snow blower did blow snow for a few very brief occasions, until the snow got too heavy or icy or wet or white or some damn snowy issue, when lo and behold, hark the herald snow blower angel asked me, “Did you know that your snow blower has stopped blowing?” And how would I not? And I said to god, “Why, god?” And I asked the same question of the snow blower man, “Why, snow blower man?” and he said, “Hark, I think you probably broke a belt.”

So, verily and thus and therefore, he came to our snow-stuffed lane and picked up Grinder and did take him away, while I stood in six feet of snow and waved my frozen glove and fingers bye-bye at my disappearing snow blower. Then did I thus whisper under my breath, “And don’t come back, you unreliable son of a beech.”

But verily and thus and therefore, they couldn’t find a replacement belt. Not until the snow was ice and too much for poor Grinder to remove. So, verily, thus and thou and hark, when they finally did find a belt, verily many weeks later, and they put the belt in and delivered it to me, the snow was unmanageable and so verily, I did dig out our little, blessed, metal toolshed and put the snow blower in said toolshed so it could hibernate in the summer. And I told the snow blower not to move a bolt, nut or screw or it would be turned into a pillar of salt.

The next winter, I verily, thus and therefore, took the snow blower out to prepare him for some certain upcoming manly snow blowing. But verily, I smelled the odour of gasoline and the snow blower would not verily start.

So, verily, thus and thou, I picked up my feet and took up my phone. Phoned the snow blower purveyor. And lo and behold he came and he picked Grinder up and then verily in not a verily long time he told me that some cursed mice had built a forty-room condo in Grinder. They had built a restraining wall against the gas line and thus it had broken asunder. And lo and behold, thus and thou, I ordered him to hand them their notices and then fix the gas line.

Oh snow blower, you break my heart. How many ways do you verily have thus? And the tiny little snow flakes fell, each one a different shape from its brethren, and I got out my snow blower and did blow and blow for about an hour when suddenly the snow blower wouldn’t move forward on command. So I verily, thus and therefore investigated and behold! I found out I had broken a breach pin. Which meant that only half the sacred augers were going round and round. So that was why I was rolling up a gigantic snowball on one side of the snow blower while the other side was not valiantly blowing away. So, I went again to the snow blower man and I bought another breach pin and installeth it myself.

The snows continued to fall and the world grew all white and my eyes began to see strange colours from the all white, everywhere, top and bottom and side by side and the ice came and the ice left and Grinder and I did manage to make it through the rest of the winter. Hallelujah!

And verily, thou and thus came the winter of 2014-2015 did arrive. And the snow felleth and felleth and felleth and felleth and felleth and felleth and it did raineth too and raineth more and more and the ice got thicker and the snow higher and verily I got to use the snow blower twice before it stopped.

I verily, thou and thus, decided to check it out myself. I very carefully read the manual. I worked on the snow blower only long enough to feel I had accomplished something or learned something and then I would verily quit before I went into a crying tantrum. Because verily, verily, I have little patience with disobedient servants.

And, after cautiously working on the said Grinder, I managed to find the problem. The belt was rent asunder. And I verily spotted little mice feet and mice faces and mice other parts sticking out of the holy inner sanctum where the belts do their business. And I, by myself, did replace the belt.

Path from Woodshed to Trailer

Then more snow did fall. Then some of it melted and froze and melted and froze and I got, maybe, three snow blows out of my snow blower and my new belt that I put in all by myself. Although, Sue did hold the snow blower and did use a tiny pair of pliers to pick out the tiny pieces of mice I missed and some of their bits and pieces of nesting material.

Then, one fine morning, I went to the woodshed and tried to start Grinder. But he wouldn’t start and lo, I pulled and pulled and pulled until my puller was exhausted.

Lo, I took a rest and then returneth and pulleth some more. And suddenly the engine did start in a violent rush of engine power. And then all was silent.

It was then that I witnessed, in a vision, a burning snow blower. And I took off my tuque and came forth and lost the race. (Probably heard that one somewhere, right?)

And verily, thou, thus and disgustingly, the engine man phoned me and told me that my engine was as dead as a frozen parrot. He said, “You must have got some ice or snow in the engine that melted and then froze.”

“But it’s a snow blower! Isn’t it supposed to get snow and ice on it and in it, fgs? My truck and Sue’s car get ice and snow on them and they don’t blow up their engines. My lawn mower doesn’t desist because it gets grass in it. So, what the hell are you saying?”

“Well, let me put it this way. There were a lot of parts that wanted out.”

He then explained that when or if I get a new motor, I should probably keep it covered or inside. And maybe brush the snow off, because it can melt and run down into the engine and then freeze. Then you get the results I got.

I’d like to put it this way, if I verily may, “What the hell is the use of a snow blower if you have to keep snow off it after you finish with it, set mousetraps inside, lay moth balls around all its internal and external organs, place a hot water bottle on it before you go to bed, make sure it’s tucked in on a bed that can pass military inspection, don’t push it too fast if the snow is thick, and make sure you don’t snow blow slush because it can freeze the wheels and the inner sanctums? That’s what I have Buster for.”

AMEN

We now use shovels and snowshoes and to hell with the snow blower.

Lots of Shovelling

***

“The light made the snowballs look yellow. Or at least I hoped that was the cause.”
Gary D. Schmidt, The Wednesday Wars

Buster on Watch Duty

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Psyching the Mic

25/1/2015

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Not long before Christmas, I had to do a CBC radio interview. I’m not going to give out the time of the show because I don’t think I did very well. But what the hey, I never promised I would, and I’m sure all the professional Google people out there can find it. But, just in case you’re interested, I’ll give you one hint. It was on a Friday afternoon.

I was on the radio because one of my stories was in a book called, 'FLASHPOINT' which had just been published by Third Person Press. I’m grateful that they published my story and also grateful for what they’ve taught me about short story writing.

There are also no fingers on my hand pointed at the interviewer. “She” was professional and kind. (I think I just gave you another clue.)

This anthology of speculative fiction short stories can be bought in some bookstores and can also be purchased from the Third Person Press website. So, before I go any further, I suggest you drop everything you’re doing, and buy the book. Chop, chop.

Here's their website: http://www.thirdpersonpress.com/ (There's a lot of interesting stuff on their site, by the way.)

Here’s what John Updike said about being interviewed: “It rots a writer’s brain, it cretinises you. You say the same thing again and again and when you do that happily you’re on the way to being a cretin. Or a politician.”

Anyway, apparently there are some things that interviewers find difficult when they are interviewing. For example, they don’t like interviewees who give too long or too complicated a response, who are boring, who leave their sense of humour somewhere else - those sorts of things. Well, I have to say that humour is not something I can leave anywhere. My problem is trying not to be funny or crazy when answering questions.

Quite a while before this particular interview, I’d been prepped for another online conversation. It occurred in the early summer. That interviewer let me practise before I was let loose. When I thought I was ready, I sucked it up and spewed it out. One of the things this online interviewer explained to me was how to hold the mic. He said that the microphone should be approximately a fist’s length from my trap. So, while I was being interviewed, the CBC interviewer poked the mic toward my face, while she asked me a question. I tried to grab the mic out of her hand. She quickly yanked it away and I think she shook her head in a ‘don’t-do-that’ way. However, it’s not like any listeners saw me make a grab for the intimidating mic.

Now, I have never loved my voice because I know what the little bugger can do. My tongue, especially if I’m nervous or have exercised hard, has the ability to dump a bucket of hot peppers over my yapper box. On the other hand, the author who was being interviewed with me, had a voice that seemed immune to cracking and squeaking. So I felt a bit intimidated by the contrast. Oh, if I could only sound like Gregory Peck.

Here's another point about my earlier on-line interview session. One of the questions I was asked at that interview was, “What books have been important to you in your life?”

I could have mentioned Grisham, George Elliot, Hemingway, Tolstoy, Larry Brown, Stephen King, or a whole slew of authors. At least some author that would make me look or sound a teeny bit suave, cool, professional and literate. But no friggen way. Nope, and believe you me, I did hear my brain shouting, fairly loudly, “Don’t say it, moron.”

But all to no avail as I said, “Walter Brookes and his wonderful ‘Freddy the Pig’ books: ‘Freddy Goes to Florida’, ‘Freddy the Detective’, ‘Freddy the Cowboy’, ‘Freddy and the Ignoramus’, and on and on. " Not anything wrong with the books, but couldn’t I have dug a little bit deeper? Apparently not.

So, before the CBC interrogation, I’d prepared a little cheat sheet, because I’m not that good at remembering names or titles. This list had included the title of some speculative fiction books I’d read or was reading, along with some other book genres I was reading or had read. But you see, the author who was being interviewed with me, and who I thought had a really cool voice, had no cheat sheet to encumber his response freedom. So there I was, intimidated by him and by the fact that I’m on CBC radio, live, and so what did I do? I parked my cheat sheet. I went raw.

Then, look out. The CBC questioner asked, “You write speculative fiction, so you must read a lot of it. What books do you read?”

Oh, duh! Come on, Larry. Get a grip. My brain was shouting, “Moron, moron!”, even before I answered the question, and for Pete’s sake I knew damn well that one of the main purposes of the book launch and for us authors being interviewed was to sell speculative fiction and ‘Flashpoint’ in particular. But what did I say in response to her question? I said, “No, I don’t read much speculative fiction.”

You think the interviewer looked surprised when I made a pass at the mic? Nothing compared to her reaction to that answer. After this faux pas, I bungled around a bit and said I was trying to catch up on the classics and I was even able to name a few authors.

But you see, I don’t try hard to make my stories speculative fiction. Because my life is so damn speculative, that to be accurate I should say that some of my stories should probably be considered non-fiction. However, I didn’t think to mention that. It might have added some balance.

James Thurber wrote: “My opposition to interviews lies in the fact that offhand answers have little value or grace of expression, and that such oral give-and-take helps to perpetuate the decline of the English language.”

Also, maybe subconsciously, I mentioned the classics to the interviewer because I didn’t want all the on-line listeners from my summer interview to think the greatest books in my past were ‘Freddy the Pig’ books. Which, by the way, really were a great read, particularly behind my grade five math book.

By the way, Wikipedia defines ‘Speculative Fiction’ as “…a broad literary genre encompassing any fiction with supernatural, fantastical, or futuristic elements.” It also probably includes a mix of the above, which I would suggest they call ‘mutt speculative fiction’ in celebration of the mutt we just purchased from the SPCA.

His name is Buster and he acts like a Buster. One of his first tasks, after arriving at our little trailer, was to force us to flip the mattress. Which, we then discovered, has only one official lie-on-it side, so we had to flip it back and put the wet end at the far corner, along with a change of sheets. We love Buster.

Buster and Mr. Peabody

So, in the CBC interview, I mentioned the classics and then I squeaked out, through the hot peppers and coal dust, that I also read Stephen King, but doesn’t everybody? And finally I threw out the name of a fantasy author whose book I’d been reading. But by gosh, I couldn’t remember the author’s name, because I’d pocketed my cheat sheet. So I said that I was presently reading a fantasy book by Bradley Zimmer. Oh, if I’d only looked at my tiny sheet of paper, I’d have known to say that I was reading ‘The Saga of the Renunciates’ by Marion Zimmer Bradley. Did you notice where the Zimmer and Bradley were supposed to be?

And it totally escaped my mind that I was also working my way through ‘Black Water’, a terribly thick anthology of magic realism short stories.

Oscar Wilde wrote, “Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes are.”

So, this blog is, in a way, a bit of an apology for not doing a better job of promoting the book, ‘FLASHPOINT’.

However, possibly on the positive side, I suspect that I have some kind of safety valve in my brain and mouth, which will not allow me to be a cool interviewee or a charming regurgitator. I think I can safely say that I’m in some ways immune to being sucked into the dumping grounds of slickness and consumption and I suppose I should be happy about that. However, if I’m not really immune, but only think I am, then please be kind enough to let me be like the ostrich and keep my head buried up my keister.

Ski Trail Near Inverness, Cape Breton

My next blog, number 35, might have a little more about Buster, our new dog, who has decided that his brand new expensive bed is a chew toy. Lord, help us. Guess where he sleeps?

Do they really think I'm going to sleep in this thing?

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Mice and Snow

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Shackwacky - Chapter and Verse

Psyching the Mic

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