Larry Gibbons
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The Miracles of Spring

11/6/2016

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

Well, this morning, (a gray, dreary morning, I must add), I sat in the living room and began to work on Blog 55. I usually leave my mouse in the office and move things around on my computer by using my finger on the computer’s built-in mouse-pad.

This drab am, I tried to highlight the part of the blog I was going to cut and copy and turn into blog 56. However, I had trouble getting the highlighting to halt where I wanted it to halt so I could cut and copy.  So——I decided to hit a key to un-highlight it. Then I planned to fetch little Mickey Mouse from the office and highlight the blog 56 segment by using the mouse.

Well, one big F)(*&^%$  DUH! What key did I hit? No need to tell you, but only to say that the word rhymes with "BEAT".

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

One evening recently, around ten pm, I stepped out onto our deck. Oh, the sounds, scents and furious busyness that greeted me! It was as if I’d entered a busy perfume department. The trees budding, flowers blooming, wet grass growing, cool mountain breeze blowing, the sound of the swollen, freshly rain-filled river flowing and the riotous mayhem of the peepers hooting it up in our pond. “Oh joy! Hallelujah! Spring has broken out!”

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

And speaking of the peepers, which I’m sure I had spoken about in my first, now vanished attempt at Blog 55, they were emanating a riot of sound.  When Sue, Buster and I were hiking on the road one evening, and the moon had just begun to stick its head up from the top of the basement stairs, the peepers were so loud that I suggested we all wear ear protection the next time we take this walk. Well, maybe not Buster. We all know how Buster reacts to his ears being frigged around with.
Picture
Moon Rising Over Mountain
To me, the fact that spring comes every year is a gigantic, in-your-face miracle. So magnificently huge, and yet a large number of people barely give it a thought. Except for the part about it being warmer. Therefore, I sometimes think, because I’m part of the human race, that it's an undeserved miracle. But then again, that’s a rather human-centrist thought. There are more beings than us living on the earth.

Luckily, Spring is gracious in her giving. Even though the human race seems to work so hard to remove the spring from Spring. Economic babble guff goes on and on while the peepers riotously shout, “Bull ship. Bull ship.” Cutting to the chase as our civilization chases the almighty dollar.

                            “There is a glory in the world;
                                        The morning is like wine,
                              And pale ascension lilies lean
                              Like gods who late in heaven have been,
                                         Half flowerlike, half divine.

                             O sweet revival of the grass!
                                         O sweeter songs that rise,
                             When jocund April leads her train
                             Through the gold sunlight and the rain,
                                         And earth is paradise."

                                                         Charles Hanson Towne, AN APRIL SONG

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

Anyway, this year I walked over to the crowd of growth and located the trees. I saw four. Figured that’s a good result. However, yesterday I made a more careful inspection. I was surprised to see that I’d missed one maple tree. I’d thought that tree had died, but there it was. Except, where I’d planted one maple tree, there were now three small maple trees. Kinky.

A few days ago, Buster jumped up on me. He wanted to go for a drive with us and that’s one of his ways of asking. I looked at his eager, trusting, brown eyes, his little moustache, comically curved paws, his teeth, which stick out over his wee red chin and I said to Sue, “Buster is so cute that maybe we’re committing a sin by enjoying him so much.”

Maritime Mac once said, “When I look at my dog, Buster, I get to thinking that I’m so happy whistling so copiously that I’m going to have to go to confession.”  Thus sayeth Maritime.

Maritime Mac sometimes uses big words.

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

This is how it works.

First off, we now realize the our meals have to be tailored, not only to us, but also to Buster.

It all begins with Sue laying the meal out on my plate. It is presented to me, under the watchful eyes of Lord Buster. We usually sit on the couch when we eat. I sit closest to Buster so he gets a better view of my plate and what I’m eating.

I eat my meal. Buster watches. Buster watches. I eat. Buster watches. I break a tiny piece off my meat or fried potato or slice of bread. I offer it to Buster. He eats it or doesn’t. Not eating it is a bad sign. He’s not liking our meal. Eating it is a good omen. He likes our meal.

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

                                                         Karen Shepard, BIRCH

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

I take my fork and I scrape the remaining bits off my plate and into his dish and then I tap his dish with the fork. I always wondered when my psychology course about Pavlov’s dogs would come in handy. Now I know.

Buster will usually check out his dish after I tap his dish. Then he may drool or not drool. He may eat or not eat. Depends on how hungry he is, I guess.

He may, instead of eating, watch me make my tea. Watch me spread my toast with honey or jam or peanut butter. After which he watches me eat it.  I will break off some pieces, like a dutiful master. He watches. When I’m finished, I take the few pieces I've set aside, and I dump them into Buster’s bowl. I tap his bowl with a fork or spoon or knife. He may drool or he may not. He may eat or he may not.

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

If satisfied that we have both totally finished our meals, Buster will, most likely, not always, but most likely, eat.

He will remove some of the pieces from his bowl and carry them to the rug. Because he is a delicate eater. Some might say a picky eater. And then he’ll eat them like a right proper gentleman.

However, I’ll be damned if I’m going to lay a place for him at the table. Not doing the plate, knife, fork, spoon, maybe a dessert spoon and the napkin thing. Not going to happen.

Besides, we have no room at the table. Sue’s office is spread out all over the table, along with hats, gloves, papers, poop catcher bags, collars, grooming brushes, dog leash snaps, and three or four of Buster’s leashes, in colours of red, green and blue.
Picture
No Room for Buster at the Table
Anyway, at one of those three stages, he will usually commence to eat his meal while we hold our communal breath. It is truly pathetic. Isn’t it?

After he finishes eating, do you know what happens? You may have guessed it. I won’t give you the word, but I’ll give you a hint. Buster gets something or two somethings that rhyme with DELETE.

Who runs this forty-five-foot trailer anyway? The whole thing is a pitiable sin.
Picture
Lake o' Law...Just down the Road from Middle River
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