Caleigh O'Shea's Blog, page 17

What is a Friend?

It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend. ~William Blake, English poet and painter

I don’t know why we stayed friends as long as we did, but it’s my opinion some friendships are destined to die.

She and I first bonded more than a decade ago over our love for dogs.

As time passed, we did more interesting things together — lunches, shopping trips, spirited discussions on politics and religion. She introduced me to adult coloring; I proof-read the articles she wrote for a newspaper and a magazine.

Friends share like that, don’t they?

I let myself rely on the wisdom she’d gleaned over her years of living. Made excuses for the things she said that hurt my feelings. Shrugged off others’ not-so-generous opinions of her.

Friends are loyal like that, aren’t they?

We’d e-mail each other with funny or thought-provoking messages. We’d call and chat on the phone. We’d share insights into Scripture. When her husband took ill and died, I visited more often, trying to shore up her despair and lessen her loneliness.

Friends communicate, don’t they?

But one day last summer, she said some things that cut me deeply. Looking back, I don’t recall exactly what was said, but I knew it was unforgivable.

And so I returned the things she’d loaned me, fully intent on severing ties.

She refused to let me go. Said I was her best friend. Apologized. Promised she’d be more sensitive so nothing like that would ever happen again, and I succumbed.

Friends forgive and forget, don’t they?

Still, I found myself cautious around her. Made excuses not to get together with her. Steeled myself against more verbal barbs and arrows. As the proverb goes, Once bitten, twice shy.

And I was right.

Over the Christmas holidays — when most folks are on their best behavior — she again hit me right between the eyes.

Lambasted me for a decision I’d made. Reproached my actions. Ridiculed my feelings. Prophesied danger if I refused to follow her advice.

Sorry, but this time, I’m done.

Finished.

I don’t treat anybody like that (especially a friend), and I won’t stand for anybody to mistreat me. If I don’t stand up for myself, who’s going to?

There’s a wonderful poem about friends entering our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Since this friendship has come to an end, it’s obvious it wasn’t meant for a lifetime.

So be it.

After all, friends don’t malign each other, do they?

Milestones

Happiness is a warm puppy. ~Charles M. Schulz, American cartoonist and creator of the Peanuts comic strip

Time

Passes.

One day you’re

A little pup —

Weak, needy, clingy.

And then I blink my eyes.

You’re all grown up. Beautiful,

Full of energy and ready

To take on the world (or your back yard)

You’ve become a lean, mean, Sheltie machine!

Experts say you’re fully grown at one year;

However, I’ve learned that it takes more

Than twelve months to grow a Sheltie.

You still need to learn to mind

And never poop indoors.

Now please settle down

And take a nap

So I can

Have some

Peace!

Note: This poetry form is Double Etheree.

Christmas 2021

Monkey, December 2021

There is a better thing than the observance of Christmas day, and that is, keeping Christmas. Are you willing to forget what you have done for other people, and to remember what other people have done for you; to ignore what the world owes you, and to think what you owe the world; to put your rights in the background, and your duties in the middle distance, and your chances to do a little more than your duty in the foreground; to see that your fellow-men are just as real as you are, and try to look behind their faces to their hearts, hungry for joy; to own that probably the only good reason for your existence is not what you are going to get out of life, but what you are going to give to life; to close your book of complaints against the management of the universe, and look around you for a place where you can sow a few seeds of happiness — are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas. And if you can keep it for a day, why not always? ~Henry Van Dyke, American author and clergyman

Merry Christmas from me and Monkey! We’ll be taking a few days off during the holidays to celebrate with Domer and grandma, and I can’t promise (but I’ll try) to get around to visit you all before then. See you in the new year!

Birthday Boy

It’s your birthday to-day, so why are we waiting?
Without further delay, Let’s start celebrating.
~Norman Wesley Brooks, 1967 (U.S. design engineer)

Happy Birthday to my little Monkey!! One year old today!

Flying

If the good Lord had wanted people to stay on the ground, he would have given us roots. ~Author unknown

What is this contraption? At first, I thought it was a parasail, but it doesn’t fit that definition. Then I guessed hang glider, but I think I’m wrong there, too. Finally, I hit on motor kite. Agree?

Today I’m playing something called Photo Shorts. The rules are simple: one photo, a brief written accompaniment, and must feel like fun. Fun is good, right? And we all can use more fun, especially at this hectic time of year. You can play as often as you like. Join us, why don’t you?

That’s Music??

Here’s to Music,
Joy of joys!
One man’s music’s
Another man’s noise.
~Oliver Herford, English writer and illustrator

Monkey here.

I’m here to complain LOUDLY about that thing Mama calls a flute.

She brings it out Every. Single. Day. (well, almost) and blows on it forever (I can’t tell time, but it feels like forever).

Now some of you might not know it, but a flute-thing has a wide range, from low notes to high ones.

And it’s the high, screechy ones that get on my last nerve.

Besides doing lessons (at least until the cold weather prohibits it), Mama plays in something called symphonic band. I have no idea what that’s about, but she takes that flute-thing off in her car and is gone for ages.

And when she comes back, she’s all happy and stuff. Whistling and singing, even. And she gives me a treat for being good.

I’m just glad I don’t have to listen to that flute-thing. Every time I hear her practice, I bark, howl, and try to make music of my own.

I think I carry a nice tune, but Mama says it sounds like somebody’s pulling my legs off. Huh.

And she’s threatened to have Domer record it when he comes home for Christmas.

Before the weather turned cold, Mama used to go to the garage and practice in her car so I didn’t have to hear her. Sometimes she’d send me to the back yard so I could chase squirrels.

Now she’s got a little fan that she turns on High to drown out the din. It doesn’t work, of course, but I’m not going to tell her that.

I don’t want her freezing in the car.

Anyway, Mama’s got lots of music to practice for band, and most of her pieces are in the high and screechy range. I wonder if there are other mamas who leave their pups to go and do band? And if they, too, have a screechy flute-thing?

Must be horrible, all those flutes in one room screeching like a flock of angry birds.

Mama said you might be interested in hearing three of the songs they’ll be playing for their concert in December (since you can’t attend and all). There are a few others, but these are the hardest — the ones Mama practices the most.

I’ll let her do the linking while I look for a trash can to rummage through!

Amparito Roca by Jaime Texidor

Shenandoah by Frank Ticheli

English Folk Song Suite by Ralph Vaughan Williams

P.S. Mama says I should wish my predecessor, St. Dallas, a happy 15th birthday in heaven. I won’t dwell on that cos she gets all teary-eyed and stuff. Love, Monkey

Snack time

When the stomach is full the heart is glad. ~Dutch proverb

Here

Is a

Moth, maybe.

Or it could be

A small butterfly.

Having a fine dinner

On this pretty pink zinnia.

Or maybe this is a dahlia.

I’m not sure that knowing should matter.

I just thought you’d enjoy seeing them, too!

Note: This poetry form is Etheree (the single kind, not the double, this time).

Meeting Mr. Snip

I learned a long time ago that minor surgery is when they do the operation on someone else, not you. ~Bill Walton, American former basketball player

Monkey here.

Been missing me??

Well, I’d have rather been anywhere than where I’ve been for the past few days.

Mama took me to the dogtur, who promised to introduce me to somebody named Mr. Snip.

Trust me when I say, You don’t want to meet him.

I won’t go into the details — you can look it up if you’re curious — but a half-hour later and I’m without a few of my (ahem) parts.

Parts that I’d grown rather fond of over the past 11 months.

The first indignity was having to forego breakfast. I’m a pup who needs his nourishment, doggone it, and having to fast wasn’t any fun.

Then Mama drove me to the dogtur’s. I’m still not fond of riding in a car, so I protested — loudly — despite her efforts to comfort me by talking, playing music, and stroking my back.

When we got to the dogtur’s, Mama left me there. Alone. Just reminded me to be good and turned away.

Huh.

I was there all day while they did all sorts of awful things to me — shaving me down there, sticking an IV into my arm, slicing into me, removing my parts, and so forth.

Kinda makes you cringe, doesn’t it?

After a long while, Mama came back, but I couldn’t focus on her. You see, they’d tied this plastic lampshade to my neck, and I couldn’t shake the thing off. I did, however, run it into walls and furniture, making as much noise as I could.

Mama says I was in La-La-Land for much of the evening. I kept looking at her with the saddest expression I could muster, hoping she’d relent and take that horrid “necklace” off me, but no. So when opportunity presented itself, I gave it a mighty shake, and off it flew!

Mama wasn’t happy, and she tried putting little boy shorts on me. She said my predecessor, Mr. Practically Perfect in Every Way Dallas, wore them without complaint, but I’ll be the first to admit I’m not perfect, and I refused. Slipped right out of them two nights in a row while she was sleeping, hee-hee!

Then she tried putting a T-shirt on me — backwards — but that also failed. Gee, Mama, I’m not licking or bothering my wound, so stop hovering already.

Now I’m having to go outside on a leash to do my business. In my nice big fenced backyard. With Mama in tow.

I can hear the squirrels laughing.

Mama says this “procedure” is going to make me a better dog. That I’ll no longer have “objectionable” behaviors, and I’ll be protected against certain cancers.

Maybe, but if that Mr. Snip Guy had anything to do with the removal of my parts, I’m gonna find him and take a chunk out of his leg!

Walktober 2021

A little fresh air would be good for you just now. The weather is lovely; and a little stroll in the park will bring the colour back to your cheeks. ~J. Palgrave Simpson, Victorian playwright

Today, I’m joining Robin over at Breezes at Dawn for the annual jaunt known as Walktober. We each take a walk (ride a bike, swim, skate, whatever), post about it (with pictures, if possible), and Robin gathers links to each post so we all can travel together and enjoy other parts of our amazing world.

So lace up your sneakers and join me as we travel around Central Illinois, marveling at the Fall and Halloween decorations … and the lack of drop-dead gorgeous color.

Most of our trees are still green. Some are showing spots of yellow like this one. Others have leaves that are brown and ready to drop. It’s a mixed bag.

Homeowners here like to decorate. Pumpkins, mums, and “Welcome Fall” signs share space with witches, ghosts, spiders, and what-not. One traditional “decoration” is toilet paper (seriously!) as kids treat their pals to after-the-football-game clean up duty:

Some folks go for the sweet and relatively tame:

Others prefer the scary, like graveyards:

Or ghosts swinging in the breeze:

Ouch!!

Or a bit of this-and-that:

Some go all out, with creepy things that emit noises when you pass by:

Pretty mums line the front of this house:

More colorful mums:

And some witches have lost their hats:

I’ve no idea how far we walked, but I’ve enjoyed having you along. Here’s hoping next year, Mother Nature cooperates and the leaf colors are amazing.

Thanks, Robin, for organizing Walktober. What a great “excuse” to get out and about!

Delicate Strength

The spiders with their pot-bellied bodies and beady eyes, are not beauteous objects, but a spider-web in the sunshine with dew upon it, is one of the loveliest things in the world. ~Dorothy Scarborough, American writer

Sparkling drops of water

Play upon her handiwork.

Inconceivable, isn’t it, that

Dew can magnify beauty

Even for such a short while?

Rare is the person on earth

Who can appreciate the weaver

Every bit as much as the creation

By which she’s famously known.

Note: This is an Acrostic poem. You got the message, right?