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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Does Wily Have a Microwave? 

28/3/2016

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Our Local Coyote
This coyote is wanted by some angry neighbours. He is wily and I think he’d catch the Road Runner in quick fashion. Anyway, I snapped the photo while he watched Sue, Buster and me strolling down Gold Brook Road.

We are pretty sure that he’s the coyote who killed a neighbour’s cat. He also ate all the cat food and dog food that our neighbour had put out for her many pets. But get this, there was also a bowl of frozen milk on the woman’s porch. Old Wily picked up the bowl of milk and carried it into the forest, I assume to defrost it before he drank it. Milk builds up the calcium in your bones and is good with kibble. The coyote is more than crafty and a vegan he is not.
Of note is that Buster is now nervous at certain spots on the road. He is a smart dog and does not want to become a coyote sandwich.
***
I think I need to give a wee explanation about my Buster Wear photo. And while I’m at it, also let you know that Buster is excited about how well his Buster Wear clothing project has been doing. It’s selling like hot kibble.

Anyway, a fella read my blog and wondered afterwards what the yellow area was on the front of the black Buster Wear shorts. I explained to him what it was and now I am going to explain it to the whole blogosphere.

It is a picture of a yellow chick who is looking at a fried egg on a plate. The chick is saying, “Holy crap! Larry, is that you?!?!
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***
Here’s part of a poem I could have used in my last blog, in which I expressed one of the reasons why I regard money the way I do.

             “Honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher,
               Although he was poor, didn’t want to be richer;
               All such wishes in him were prevented,
               By a fortunate habit of being contented.”

                                                                                         “Anonymous” John Tomkins

***
It seems to me that I spend an inordinate amount of time writing blogs with the word ‘Buster” in them. Have you noticed that? Lots of photos of him too, and here’s one more.
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Be cool. Wear Buster Wear!
A friend of mine told me that she often thinks her husband’s dog is the other woman. I sometimes wonder if Buster isn’t the other woman in my blogs.

You see, I could write a blog that answered one of the greatest philosophical questions of all time. The question being: “Why are we here, in this world?” This blog answer could potentially set the world on a new course and still, I’m sure, I would receive emails that wouldn’t mention my solving the big universal question. Nope, they’d ask me, “Where’s the Buster stuff?
***
 And yes, Buster does give me material for my blogs. Like last week...

I have read that some Indigenous tribes believe animals can understand what we are saying. I have never really believed this. My line of thinking has been that animals, especially Buster dogs, have an ability to glean an amazing amount of info from the tone of our voice and from our body language. As one fella told us, dogs have had centuries and centuries of time to learn how to understand us humans and how to fit into our human lives.


Well, after yesterday’s walk, I may have to change my theory.

You see, every afternoon without fail, Buster waits around in the trailer while Sue finishes up her lunch. Once she’s finished, Buster goes into his song and dance. Which is to bark, bother, growl, and get in the way. Because it’s his Sue/Buster walk time.

Sue will, right smartly, snap a leash onto Buster’s red collar and then off they go. Usually for a one-and-a-half to three-km walk. The weather plays no role in this operation. Buster has decreed.

However, Buster’s decree has played a key role in one aspect of Sue’s life. He has improved Sue’s health immeasurably - both physical and mental - and I recommend that people get a dog to improve their health.

Anyway, after the walk, Buster and Sue will come inside where Buster gets his treat and then afterwards he has a little nap. Where he dreams about expanding his Buster Wear business into Buster Punk Rock Neck Collars. Using Trump’s foreign workers to save money.

Well, yesterday, while I was walking with Sue and Buster, I mentioned to Sue that I was going to go to Margaree and get some post-hockey beer and then maybe drop into the excellent Dancing Goat Coffee Shop and have a tea. Sue asked me if I wanted her to tag along. We got into a confab about this. The conversation theme was whether or not Sue will or won’t ride shotgun with me. We discussed this at some length while little furry Buster sniffed, peed and walked his walk.

At some point in our discussion, after we’d parsed to death my words, ‘Yes, I want you to come with me’, and we were able to come to the conclusion that I really did want Sue to be part of my coffee shop adventure, we also decided, somewhere in the smoke of words and meaning, that we’d leave Buster at home.

When we got to the deck, Buster wouldn’t climb the stairs up to the front door. No sir. He just wanted to laze around outside. Enjoy the scents and sights. Life is too short to rush, that kind of attitude.

So we hooked the outdoor dog chain onto his collar and then we went inside while Buster nosed around. However, when I took a peek out the door window, there was Buster, sitting on the porch looking in while I looked out. Making no attempt to get us to let him inside. Where he would get his usual post-walk treat. Rather unusual, wouldn’t you think?

Had Buster understood that we were planning on leaving him at home? In which case, his coming into the trailer would make it a damn sight easier for us to carry out the leaving-him-alone procedure.

Anyway, the result of Buster’s approach to this situation was that he enjoyed a bird’s eye view from my truck’s arm-rest, as he watched Sue and me sitting inside The Dancing Goat Coffee Shop enjoying our mugs of hot java. Did I mention that they make excellent home-made bread and other baked goods? We didn't tell Buster that, needless to say.
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***
NEWS FLASH! NEWS FLASH! BUSTER WINS ANOTHER DECISIVE BATTLE! WHAT CAN I SAY, OTHER THAN “MAY THE FORCE BE WITH ME”?
Buster has been turning his nose up at his meals. Even when we mix some of our food into his dry kibble.

The reason we feel that some dry kibble is important, other than because it’s the accepted and politically correct way to feed our presently scientifically raised canine buddies, is that it stops him from having an anal blockage. And I’ll tell you something, if you heard your beloved Buster dog trying to blow crap out of his or her intestinal pipes and not being successful, well, the cries and whines and howls are memorable.

 However, last Sunday morning I said, “Screw it. Forget the correct dog feeding methodology.”

Instead I said, “Get the frying pan, kettle and toaster rolling. Move ’em on out. Yah, hah,” and all that sort of Sunday morning nonsense.

You see, most Sunday mornings I make breakfast for Sue and me. I usually cook up fried or scrambled eggs with bacon or sausages, toast some bread and add a few slices of tomatoes or cucumbers. Often I sprinkle curry and pepper on the fried eggs. Two eggs for Sue and two eggs for me. Three sausages or bacon strips for Sue and three sausages or bacon strips for me.
 
Last Sunday we had sausages. And here is what I did. I fried six sausages, because that was all I had, fried five eggs, sliced up some cucumbers and made some toast.

Notice I said five eggs? Well, to quickly summarize this part of my blog, I made three breakfasts this morning. And Buster loved his and then he even ate his kibble. He looked awfully happy. And he ate the cucumber slices. Can’t even get plenty of kids to eat their cucumbers.

But when Buster jumped on my lap, turned his head to the side, so he could catch my eyes and then telepathically ordered a cup of tea with a teaspoon of sugar and a little milk, well, I had to draw the line. You have to draw a line somewhere. Don’t you?

But when he sat next to me while I was watching another pathetic bit on CNN about this Trump blow-hard, Buster telepathically said he would like to remind me that he was expecting a few buddy burgers when we go to Kingston, and I knew that buddy burgers it would be.

Since that breakfast, Buster has feasted on bits of steak, carrots, baked potatoes, spaghetti, bread and jam, but, and I must emphasize the BUT, he always has kibble with it. And he eats the kibble last of all. BUT he eats it. And he’s crapping just fine, thank-you.

And there you are. An almost one hundred-proof Buster blog. Please be warned. Blog 53 may not have Buster in it.  Sorry.   
***
             “Now I’m walkin down that long lonesome hallway
              Headin’ for the kitchen again
              All I want to do is eat everything
              Then I want to eat it all again.
              I need way more food, Babe.”
              Four-course meals at 8, 12, 6 and ten.
                                                      Merrill MARKOE, Ballad of Winky


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

31/1/2016

1 Comment

 
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Wreck Cove, Cape Breton
Wow! Blog number fifty! Woo-hoo! Hard to believe I’ve managed to stay with this blog writing endeavour. And, maybe even more surprisingly, that Sue has managed to hang in there and continue editing and submitting my fifty blogs to the blogosphere. Is there a medal for that?

Now I know some bloggers write a blog almost every day, but for me, fifty is a satisfying number and maybe that’s why I like the colour of the fifty-dollar bill. I might like the colour of the one hundred-dollar bill, but I’ve never spotted one. Maybe they're extinct.

***
About three weeks ago, four of us snowshoed on the Skyline trail. It was a blustery wintry Sunday. The snow was blowing itself dizzy and it didn’t look like it was going to get any better. Furthermore, the Skyline trail is located on top of a mountain, a sure recipe for down home snow trouble. However, we all travelled in some mighty fine four-by-four machines so I wasn’t too worried.

We parked our vehicles next to a brand new emergency station. This little building has a land-line phone, a wood stove, a bench or two and a goodly amount of firewood. I have, at other times in my life, attempted to get trapped in one of these emergency mountain accommodations, just so my partner and I would be forced to share the hut overnight with only a little food, a large bottle of champagne and some big ideas.

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Emergency Hut
Anyway, we had plenty of snow on which to snowshoe to one of the most beautiful lookouts in the world.

But first, we had to pass a little washroom. Which always causes us to stop for a few seconds of silence. For it was here some hikers came upon a woman lying on the ground, bleeding and very close to death. Standing on her was a coyote. The hikers had shouted and thrown all kinds of things at the coyote while the coyote remained reluctant to flee his or her takeout. He did scram off eventually, but, sadly, left the woman critically injured. Apparently she was able to whisper her name before she died. A sad tragedy and a clear warning to never take wildlife for granted.

One of the characteristics of the Skyline trail is that a hiker has about an eighty percent chance of seeing a moose or two. One hiker with us had never been on this trail and he was looking forward to seeing a moose. He was hoping to get a photo of one.

Well, not too far in, we all saw a moose run across the trail in front of us. None of us was camera ready, but we all did see the moose and we all laughed and joked about how nobody had their camera or cell phone ready for the ‘BIG MOOSE PICTURE’.

About halfway down the trail is a huge, fenced-in area with two gigantic gates. This barrier protects acres and acres of land where they plan on planting about 50,000 trees. The moose have devastated the forest in this part of the highlands.

We entered through a tall gate and walked to the other end, where we exited by another tall gate. It felt like being in Jurassic Park, so I stopped snowshoeing for a brief time, and imagined feeling the vibrations of gigantic moose dinosaur feet stomping outside our fenced-in refuge. I have a vivid imagination.

At the look-out we couldn’t look out. There was nothing to see but gray snow-filled emptiness. So, as the wind attempted to gain entry to our bare skin and we bundled up tighter than ever, we ate a quick snack. Eventually, it got so blizzardy we could hardly see twenty feet in front of us. So we headed back. The snow settled down once we got into the forest.

                                  Out where the winding foot-path goes,
                          Out by the singing rill,
                          Out to the edge of mystery
                          And the land beyond the hill.
                                                Henry Holcomb Bennett, Adventure

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Visibility Nil
The funniest incident of this venture involved a hiker taking a selfie. He had those huge, one plate of glass, ski goggles which look a little like a skin diver’s mask. Actually, they’re quite a bit like "beer goggles", (Google it!), except when you look through them, everything is clear, and no female or male hikers can be mistaken for the prettiest or handsomest persons in the whole wide world, bar none, until you sober up, anyway.

The goggle wearer likes to do the selfie photo thing. This is now a very big fad. He took out his cell phone and pointed it at his face while we all stood behind him. As he took a picture of his own face, which he probably sees a lot of in the mirror, a moose chose to cross the road.

Why did the moose cross the road anyway? So he could get to the other side and give the chicken a pointer or two.

What a laugh! What a hoot! Wally getting a picture of the wrong face! But, this is what happens on these hikes and makes them so much fun.

More interesting still, if you look carefully at the picture, which I have included, you might see a strange reflection in the fella’s goggles. Doesn’t it look like a moose?

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Check out the goggles...
***
A week later I went snowshoeing up by Wreck Cove, God’s country, as one fella put it. I, however, replied that when I am skiing on our road and I stop to take a long gander at the mountains and the snow blowing around their crowns, I think that where I live is also quite godly.

Now, I should note that I didn't group hike often when I was in Ontario, but because I’m not as familiar with Cape Breton trails and because there are a plenty of big critters around here and the terrain is much rougher than where I used to hike, I now often go on group hikes.

And, as if to remind me that it wasn’t a bad idea to be with other hikers, a coyote crossed the road in front of us as we drove to the trail head. Let me tell you, this was one healthy looking coyote. I’ve seen coyotes in Ontario and they’re not as big as this one. He was more the size of a wolf and I’ve been told these coyotes run in packs, the same as wolves. I believe they call these Cape Breton canines, coy-wolves.

Last summer I met a fella on his favourite bridge over a section of the Middle River. He told me he’d had to fight a coyote off. The coyote had been quite determined and had tried different tactics to get himself a finger-licking good meal. Luckily, this fella won the battle or he’d not have been around to tell his tale.
 
Anyway, there were about fifteen hikers assembling at the trailhead while four dogs excitedly scampered amongst our pack of humans as we prepared to head up the mountain. They obviously couldn’t wait for the hike to begin.

But alas, on the porch, was a poor, sad, large German shepherd type of dog. He, apparently, wasn’t allowed to go on the hike. He was howling and crying and barking and tearing back and forth across his verandah jail cell. Poor dog. Poor, poor dog and that’s what everyone was thinking. And partway up the mountain, we could still hear his sad cries of abandonment.

Speaking of up the mountain, it was up the mountain that the THING happened. The event happened. The whatever you want to call it happened. Things happen to me. It’s my tagline.

I was climbing up a fairly steep grade. I was at the tail end of the lead group, but behind me, quite far behind me, were the slowpokes.

Up, up and away I went, until, at some point, I looked down at my right foot, and lo and behold, I saw there was no snowshoe to behold.

I dropped to the ground and started digging in the snow with my ski pole. I dug and dug, as if I was looking for an avalanche victim, while the hiking party ahead of me disappeared into the forest. I dug some more and there was still no snowshoe to be found. I was a little embarrassed, because the THING had happened to me and nobody else.

I surmised that it might have come off further down the mountain. Hadn’t I realized that my snowshoe had fallen off? Apparently not. This is what other hikers and folks to whom I’ve told this tale have asked me. “Didn’t you realize your snowshoe was missing?”

“No sir. No ma'am. It was the THING that came with me and I never know where the hell it’ll show up. This incident happened and I didn’t know it happened until when it became a THING.”

I think this part of the blog might confuse you and my editor, bless her heart. 

(Note from Ed: "No surprise to me!")

Anyway, I stopped and looked down the mountain. Oh god, how far down had it fallen off my footsie without my noticing it? Then suddenly I hearkened to the sound of a voice. A voice further down the mountain. The voice said, “Surely they’ll miss it eventually?”

The eventually had arrived. I shouted that it was I who had lost his snowshoe. Ha, ha, ha. And as they were all filled with mirth and laughter, guess who blew by me, sans snowshoes, and as happy as a flea on a grizzly bear? The German shepherd escapee. He was making up for lost time.

Near the end of the hike, as I walked along the Cabot Trail, snowshoes in hand, I saw a small barn. In front of the barn was a horse. I wasn’t going to take a photo of the horse until who should pop his head out of the barn entrance, but a small goat.

Now this goat had personality and even from the fair distance I was standing from the barn I could tell he was the boss. Why, it looked like the goat was saying, “Horse, what are you gawking at?  Do you know that fella with the bushy beard? Do you have some business with him? Stand back, I’ll deal with it.”

I just had to take their picture. So I did.

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Goat, Horse and Dog Escapee
Later on, the owner of the horse, the goat and the escapee German shepherd, told us that her horse gets super lonely if the goat wanders off. The goat seems to keep him calm and happy. She also explained another thing. Most horses feel better if there is a goat around. For example, if a horse is going to race and his goat friend isn’t around, the horse gets all upset and will probably lose the race. She said, “that’s where the phrase, ‘He got my goat’ comes from.”

Now isn’t that interesting?

I will sign off now and wait for the THING. It’s the THING that has helped me write fifty blogs. He or she is a rather speculative fella so I’m not evicting the THING any time soon.  Not even if I could, because I have a thing for the THING.


          My modus operandi this--
                      To take no heed of what’s amiss
                                              And not a bad one:
                      Because as Shakespeare used to say
                      A merry heart goes twice the way
                                              That tires a sad one.

                          Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler, The Wisdom Of Folly


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View of Cabot Trail from Skyline Look-off
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Awe is a Reflex of Spirit  

13/5/2015

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“Awe is a reflex of spirit.”
                                  Elpenor


Last fall, and again a few weeks ago, a friend and I hiked and snowshoed on the Skyline Trail. This trail is located in the Cape Breton Highlands National Park. The path is mostly flat, being on a plateau, and it winds its way through stunted, moose-chewed trees and bushes, ending at a long boardwalk which snakes down to near the edge of the mountain.

What a view! Gorgeous. Fantastic in the fall with the sun setting in the west, turning the sky and ocean into a curtain of brilliant colours.

And what about in the early spring, when we last snowshoed the trail? I’d give it a totally wonderful grade. The ground and trees draped in snow, the ocean covered in scattered white puzzle pieces with sugar-coated mountains floating along the edges.
Skyline Trail
View from Skyline Trail in April
My friend and I felt this was a very special place. A sacred pathway. We felt at home and safe, even though we knew there were plenty of moose roaming around in these here parts.

Matter of fact, we passed a moose as we headed back to the vehicle. It was dark by this time, because we had stayed to bid the sun farewell and bon nuit. So we were forced to use flashlights to illuminate our way. The moose was huge.

I stopped and tried to get a picture of the moose. However, my camera was new and still unfamiliar and I couldn’t get the shutter to snap to. Meanwhile, the moose stood thirty or forty feet away, watching us excited ninnies getting all hot and bothered.

My hiking buddy kept saying, “It’s big, Larry. It’s really big, Larry. Really big.” I finally gave up, partly because I kept hearing this ‘really big’ alert and partly because my damn camera was being as stubborn as the proverbial ass. And as we walked away from the night-time forest monster, my friend said, “It really was really big, Larry.”

How could we not feel awe? How could we not experience the chill of wonder? Reverence? Fear, but in a good way. 
My friend and I felt this was a very special place. A sacred pathway. We felt at home and safe, even though we knew there were plenty of moose roaming around in these here parts.

But, do you know what I’ve heard? I’ve heard that wonder and awe are not among the main emotions of the majority of us western world, scientific homo sapiens.  Maybe being able to feel the natural fear that comes with the majesty so obviously permeating everything around us, can help us be less fearful about what we tend to get all neurotic about.

“After several thousand years, we have advanced to the point where we bolt our doors and windows and turn on our burglar alarms - while the jungle natives sleep in open-door huts.”
                                                                                                                              Morris Mandel


Maybe, when we see everything as a resource, that also helps to remove the sense of awe and fear we feel when we look at the world around us. Heck, we even see ourselves as a resource to exploit. I  think a tendency to see through things, so we can better manipulate them for our needs, is a mystery/majesty blinder.

“You can’t go on seeing through things forever. The whole point of seeing through something is to see something through it. To see through all things is the same as not to see.”
                                                                                                                            C.S. Lewis


***
I may gripe about there being too much snow, but I have to admit, I love snow. However, when spring comes, I’m ready for it to melt away and not come back until another winter’s day.

Folks from other, more populated parts, sometimes say to us or hint to us, that they wonder why the hell we would choose to live in such a tough environment. I say, see above. Reading the first part of this blog should give those folks some understanding of the why.

Some tourists from a big city passed through our island two summers ago. They drove through the forests and mountains. Through the out-ports and towns. Stopped in the mom and pop stores and observed the lack of big box monstrosities, mile-long subdivisions, clogged streets and roads, and noticed miles of empty places to park and think, and then they declared that Cape Breton was mainly uninhabitable. How can we battle against such unarguable wisdom?

But actually, I’m thinking, “Yes. Keep thinking that way.”

When I told a local that this fella had declared Cape Breton to be uninhabitable, he said, “Good, that will keep those )(*& away.”

What an attitude, eh? If he had only a little bit of that asphalt sophistication, then he might not so easily discount this fella’s declaration of wisdom that came from afar.

Picture
***
DogBuster
Once, a long time ago when the sun was blue, I was told by a rather logical and rationalistic person, that animals have no or next to no memory. It’s all instinct. I assume he would place our dog Buster in this memory-less category. 
What a crock of shipwrecks. What a wad of Buster doo-doo. Buster has a memory like a snapping turtle clamped onto a big toe. Why, his memory is so good that Sue and I are worried that he may actually not be our pet but our care-giver. Our fire alarm. Our defender against big bad men and wild animals. Our reminder of where we left our plate of toast and other goodies. Our trainer. Our organizer. Well, I guess you get the point.

Example:  We let him out one night. He encountered a raccoon. Whom he barked at and treed. Thank god. I mean, thank god that the raccoon climbed a tree and didn’t, instead, decide to whip Buster’s ass.

Anyway, the next evening, at around the same time as the night before, we let wee Buster out and he was off like an Arctic winter streaker toward the tree.  No memory? Instinct?  Bull chips.

Example:  Recently we took our little man to the beauty parlour, where they bathed and clipped him. And by the way, we’re still trying to figure out if we picked up the right dog. He looked so different. They clipped him near bald, but I guess that will be good for Buster in the hot weather. Anyway, we think he’s Buster. One of the reasons we think this is that the groomer told us she didn’t do his nails because, well, he made a fuss. I can imagine the fuss.

So, back to the memory thing. As we were paying the bill, Buster was given a dog treat. He was so excited about getting the hell out of there, that he didn’t pay the purple coloured artificial dog bone biscuit much mind.  So Sue put the treat in her coat pocket.

After we got home, Buster kept going to the closet. He’d scratch the door. Whine at the door and at us until we finally figured out what he wanted.  He was after the treat in Sue’s coat pocket.  No memory?

Buster’s bear-trap memory, his brain fartless memory, has led to my beginning to worry about something. You see, I’m beginning to think that all the time Buster and I are going for walks, he is mentally making a bucket list. A bucket list of places to dash to if he ever gets off his leash. Because at each place, Buster will stop and sniff around. Then he gives a little tug on the leash. I’m assuming this is to see if by some miracle, I’ve had a brain fart and have forgotten I’m walking him. That maybe I’ve dropped the leash and am sitting down on a snow bank so I can have a little drool and a wee confab with my lonesome.

Then Buster would be off, running through forest, fields and over the mountains, checking off his Buster bucket list the things he’d sniffed, whizzed on and pooped over.


wise dog
Buster Sees All
Note  from Sue: My apologies for the late arrival of this blog post. I'm the technician who posts Larry's work, and an injury to my hand put me out of commission for  a while.
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