Larry Gibbons
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Houdini

20/1/2017

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Mountains on Warren Lake Hike
On Saturday, four of us tried to hike around Warren Lake, a gorgeous trail located in the Highlands National Park, not far from Ingonish.

Did you note the phrase, ‘tried to hike’?  Please consider this blog introduction to be a brief reminder to self and to others to always read the sign-board, located at the trail-head, before you begin hiking the trail.  We didn’t.

I didn’t because I expected to read the same warnings that are on all the sign boards, like: Don’t run if confronted by a coyote. Make yourself look big.  Play dead if you are attacked by a bear. Make a loud noise. Fight back if attacked. If charged by a moose, say five Hail Marys and find a big tree to dive behind or find a big tree to dive behind and say five Hail Marys.

Anyway, not one of us did more than turbo eye-ball the sign before we all cluelessly ventured forth and found out, after covering half the trail’s distance, that we couldn’t get over the fast flowing, very cold river which separated us from the rest of the trail. BECAUSE THE *$%^& BRIDGE WAS GONE!

The sign we didn’t read was this one: 

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***
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I have decided to change my behaviour towards another of God’s wee creatures. Mice. It is one mouse in particular who got me to change my ways. I call him, 'Wee Houdini'. This little mouse is escape talented.

Now, I want to declare, right off the top, that the mice around here have been troublesome.  Take, for example, the year I stored my spanking new snowblower in the tool shed and the mice, during the summer, chewed, twisted and bent the rubber gas line into something more amenable to a mouse’s needs.  First time I needed the blower, for snow-blowing purposes, guess what? It wouldn’t start and it was off to a small engine shop where they replaced the gas line.  The next winter, when I wanted to use the snow-blower, the belt broke. It was off, once again, to a small engine shop to fetch a belt. I’d decided I’d be the man and install it myself.

So, there we were. Me putting on the belt and Sue, using needle-nosed pliers to surgically pick wee mouse faces, feet and other sundry pieces of mouse body parts out of the belt housing.

Apparently, when I’d started the snowblower, the belt had torn the crap out of the mouse nest and the poor mice. Very sad and most disturbing, if you let your imagination run freely.

Oh, and by the way, no matter how many people tell you that moth balls keep mice away, all I can say is they haven’t worked for us. Maybe our mice wore gas masks. Who knows? But when I placed moth balls around the snow-blower motor and other parts, all I got was mice construction.


Once I sprinkled moth balls around in my hockey bag, before I stored it in the tool shed over the summer. When the next hockey season began, I received some cute remarks from a couple of hockey players after unzipping my hockey bag in the locker room let the sweet, delicious odour of moth balls escape.

One guy, who sat beside me, said, as he was breathing in the moth ball scent, “I love the smell of moth balls.”

Another fella said, “The smell reminds me of my grandmother.”  Now isn’t that cute? And he was one heck of a big hockey player.

So, I can imagine a mouse saying, “Moth balls remind me of the old Christmas cake I munched on in grandma’s cupboard.”


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BUSTER WATCHING CNN AND WORRYING ABOUT THE FUTURE
One year I decided to rid the tool shed of mice. So, I got the traps, baited them with peanut butter and set them in different locations in the tool shed.

Every morning I’d check to see how many mouse pelts I’d captured. I’d find dead mice in traps, traps that hadn’t been touched, traps with live mice in them or a missing trap. The last scenario was the most worrisome. Where was the trap? Was there a mouse caught in it? Was it suffering or dead? Quite an existential dread would often overcome me.

I did this for a few weeks, but because of the above worries I decided to let the mice enjoy the tool shed. In order to do this, I made sure all our valuables were in sealed plastic containers.  Of course, this disappointed the crows, who’d quickly learned that mouse steaks were appearing on the lawn like clock-work. Every morning a row of crows would perch along the telephone wires waiting for the morning breakfast bell.

Sorry crows. Life is complicated. All nuanced up to its ass. You help one species at the cost of another.

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The crows settled for the seeds dropped from our bird feeders
This year, when we knew there were mice in our trailer, I bought some simple and cheap wooden traps. I used peanut butter as bait and put a few traps inside the cupboards. These little traps were hair triggered. A light touch with a feather would cause them to viciously snap their jaws shut. But not, apparently, fast enough.

This one mouse was good. Really good. A Houdini. Because in the morning when I checked to see if I’d caught a mouse, I’d find a fat nothing. Always a big fat nothing. The peanut butter licked away as neatly as if done by a professional safe-cracker. No snap, snap, dead for this critter.


This happened three times. So, I bought another trap. A plastic one.

What you do is load the peanut butter bait inside a little compartment which has a hole in it. Then you place it under the sink, where you know they’re congregating for meals.
What should happen is that Houdini would smell the peanut butter, his addiction would kick in, and he’d carefully and stupidly stick his head into the little hole, causing the box to lift up, which would release the jaws of death and BAM!! Houdini is floating with his harp through his own personal heavenly portal.

The next morning there was the trap. It’s jaws had gone, chomp chomp, as per instructions and by the blood staining the area around the trap, the chomping had been down on a mouse. However, there was no mouse. Houdini had escaped again. What a guy! What a mouse!

That’s when I changed my tactics. I went to the hardware store and bought a live trap. It doesn’t kill.  What happens is the mouse enters the trap through a cute little foyer, walks up a ramp, steps off the ramp and is face to face with a tantalizingly delicious dollop of peanut butter. However, when he is finished chowing down he is trapped. Because the exit is sealed.

The next morning, there he was. Inside the trap.  Now, do you know how far you’re supposed to take the little fella before you release him. Two miles. Two friggen miles!

The other problem was that we were trapped in the trailer. Because we live in a snow belt, and by the way, for all those who think they are getting accurate weather reports about our area, forget it. For an accurate forecast of our weather conditions you will have to go to: www.twilightzonegrabursnowhoes.com!  
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THIS GUY DIDN’T GET THE CORRECT SNOW FORECAST!
It was very hard to walk two miles, since our road was basically closed. Plus it was very cold and I didn’t want poor Houdini to freeze his little ass off.  So, I got a box and cut a door-hole in it. Duct taped down the top, put toilet paper, tissue, and newspaper inside the box along with some bread, peanuts and cheese.  I put this box in a bag, along with Houdini and the cage. Strapped on a pair of snowshoes and merrily flip-flopped through the snow, which was in some places up to my waist. Trudged on for maybe half a kilometre. 

Took wee Houdini to a nice little place, which I won’t describe, but I will say it wasn’t a place that was owned by anybody I liked.

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Houdini's New Home

Struggled to the back of the little building, put the portable home under the structure, covered it with some snow, so as to weigh it down and then opened the cage.  Houdini popped his head out and then ran like hell.

The problem is, I didn’t take him two miles from our place and, NEWS FLASH! NEWS FLASH! I caught another mouse last night and this morning I found the cage, empty and with the peanut butter all licked away.

Is Houdini back? Has he held escape workshops and do we now have a whole crapload of intelligent mice who have escape diplomas?  Are we, although living in a forty-five foot trailer in the woods, actually witnessing Darwin’s theory of evolution speeding up? 

Why, last night, I said to Sue, “Write it all down, my love. We’re going to be more famous than Darwin.”

“Write it down yourself, my love. I’ll edit it. That’s my job.”

Evolution. Houdini...and sometimes I wonder which way I’m evolving. 

                         Where has he gone, my meadow mouse,
                         My thumb of a child that nuzzled in my palm? --
                         To run under the hawk's wing,
                         Under the eye of the great owl watching from the elm-tree,
                         To live by courtesy of the shrike, the snake, the tom-cat.

                         I think of the nestling fallen into the deep grass,
                         The turtle gasping in the dusty rubble of the highway,
                         The paralytic stunned in the tub, and the water rising,--
                         All things innocent, hapless, forsaken.

                                                                                    Theodore Roethke, The Field Mouse

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Enormous Waves in Green Cove in Cape Breton Highland National Park
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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.

Picture
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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