Robin McKinley's Blog, page 86

KES, 33

 

THIRTY THREE

 

We crept back to the Friendly Campfire, Merry and I, but there had been no blood loss nor even any shouting (by self or others) so I counted the experience a success.  I hadn’t run into anything.  And I might, with time, learn where Merry’s edges were.  At the moment I was relying on farther than you think.  No, farther than that.  It was working so far.  With time.  Hmm.  That sounded like a long-term commitment then.  Serena hadn’t said anything about the purchase price.

            We stopped again outside cabin seven and I looked somewhat queasily down on the van.  The shopping cart had seemed really full when we had clattered out to Merry in the parking lot, but the mere several dozen bulging plastic bags were now cowering in one tiny corner of Merry’s vast back region.  I needed to find out when the chosen shambling young man was coming to reclaim the van:  if it was late enough tomorrow I might manage to unload directly at the house.  Merry was certainly big enough, but all the t-shirt-and-underwear bags would blow away.  I had a brief vision of a field of cows wearing t shirts that said things like IF I WANTED YOUR OPINION I WOULD READ YOUR ENTRAILS and GERBILCON 2008—the latter mildly infamous in the small world of SF&F cons for the official con mascot having got loose in the convention hall during my Guest of Honor speech.  It was hard for both me and the audience to keep their minds on what I was saying while we were all breathlessly attending to the little ripple of reaction marking Ozzy’s progress around the room.   

            Anyway.  I was fond of my t shirts.  I did not want them decorating cows.   (And my bikini underwear . . . we wouldn’t go there.)   I creaked almost as much as the driver’s door as I lowered myself gradually back to ground level.  I pulled out my phone and stared at it.  I didn’t think I could face both several days’ of phone messages and the gratuitous wall art inside cabin seven, so I leaned against Merry’s warm hood, nodded to my rose bush, and pressed the salient button.  Uggh.  Blast and damnation, there was one—two—three from Mr Wolverine, my divorce lawyer.  I’d already signed the papers—it was too late for the pound of flesh paragraph to be added in.  Maybe Mr Diamond-Studded Shoelaces had noticed the missing rose-bush.  I looked at her.  Unlike her kidnapper, she was much more in context in a Manhattan penthouse garden.  Too late for that too. 

            There was the one I was looking for, from Mr Screaming Skull, Esq, left this morning.  “Heya,” it said.  “How’s it going?  The van’s great, right?  Ha ha.  Those hicks wouldn’t dare mess with someone driving that van.”  Another urbanite who had probably never been north of the Bronx.  “Jojo’ll be around to pick it up tomorrow evening, like six or so.  He likes driving in the dark and that means you can have it pretty much one more day.  Okay?  Ciao.”

            “Ciao,” I murmured.  Okay, thirty seconds to freak out.  It wasn’t like I wanted to keep the van.  But losing it—get a grip, MacFarquhar:  you don’t lose a rental vehicle unless you drive it into the lake or something:  you rent it and then you stop renting it—but losing it, um, coming to the end of my rental and having it go away, was breaking one more link with my old life.  I’d had that life for nearly twenty years.  Even if (I said to myself) it never really had been my natural context.  Gerbilcon was much more my natural context.  Ozzy, by the way, had obviously been stimulated and refreshed by his escape.  He lived to a ripe old (gerbil) age of six and a half. 

            Hauling stuff around in Merry was going to get a lot easier as soon as I learned how to open the blast-and-damnation (what did Mr Wolverine want?) tailgate.  Laboriously I lifted my shopping bags out of the truck bed, ferried them dismally indoors and stuffed them variously into the bottom of the empty closet and under the (empty) desk.   Abruptly I sat down at the desk, got my phone out again and pressed the first Mr W message, from two days ago.  “Please ring Mr Wolverine at your earliest convenience,” said the margarine-smooth voice of his secretary.  She and I had not got on.  I made a muted snarling noise and pressed the second message, which was from yesterday.  “Mr Wolverine has asked me to remind you to ring him at your earliest convenience,” said the same voice.  I was sure she and Mr W were sleeping together.  If they ever had a child you could name it Damien and then get on the first spaceship off the planet.  I pressed the third button, from this morning.  “Call me,” said Mr W.

            I was still sitting there staring at my phone (it was after office hours:  I didn’t have to do anything until tomorrow) when the porch steps creaked.  I looked up.  I’d left the door open.  A dark shadowy figure . . . tripped over the top step, swore, staggered forward and grabbed the doorframe.

Calgary Stampede – part 2

 

As soon as the parade had concluded, we walked the 15 blocks to the Stampede Arena to watch the rodeo. Bareback and saddle broncs, tie-down roping, bull riding, and ladies’ barrel racing – it was everything that I’d hoped for and expected, and so exciting to watch.

In the bareback and saddlebronc events, points out of 100 are awarded for the rider’s control during the ride and his spurring technique. If the rider touches the horse with his free hand, or fails to stay on the horse for eight seconds, he’s disqualified.

Saddlebronc riding.

 

More from the same rider...

 

 

The pickup men get the rider safely to the ground after the 8-second ride. They also remove the straps and escort the bucking horse safely from the arena.

 

Bareback bronc riding.

 

Each day of the rodeo tournament has $17 500 in prize money up for grabs, with a top prize in the finals of $100 000. It seems you can make serious money as a skilful cowboy.

It was a scorchingly hot day, and when a brief rainstorm arrived those of us not sitting under cover rushed inside. We watched the action on TV monitors, browsed the shops, and soon afterwards went back out into the fresher air once the rain had stopped.

 

Crowds inside the grandstand during the rain.

 

The tie down roping was equally exciting. It’s a real partnership between rider and horse. The calf gets a head start, and the rider chases it, ropes it (hopefully – the first three contestants failed!) and relies on his horse to stop dead in a single stride. He dismounts on the run to reach the calf and tie three legs. The horse, meanwhile, works to keep the rope taut. This all has to be done as quickly as possible for maximum points, after which arena helpers free the calf.

 

First, rope your steer, and stop.

 

Then leap off your horse, at speed, and catch your steer.

 

Then get your steer to the ground by tying three legs.

 

Sometimes, the steer gets away.

 

Bull riding is the climax of the rodeo. Again, the cowboy rides bareback, but without spurs, holding on with one hand to a braided rope looped around the bull’s girth. He has to stay on for eight seconds, and loses marks for touching the bull or himself with his free hand during the ride.

 

Trying to stay on a bull which probably weighs ten times as much as the rider.

 

Bull and rider about to part company, I think!

The Stampede is huge! Impossible to see and do everything in the two days we were there – the whole Stampede goes on for ten. The fairground part was a much larger part of the Stampede than we’d expected.

This is just a small area of the fairground.

 

And as for the food on offer – well, before you ask, no – we didn’t “indulge” in any of these offerings!

Mindboggling.

The charms of deep fried cheesecake (who first thought of dunking perfectly good cheesecake into hot oil??) passed us by.  And as for deep-fried Kool-Aid …

Paul enjoyed Poutine#, however.

For those Brits reading this - cheesy chips and gravy!

Fortunately for me, we also found probably the only healthy meal option on the whole site – fresh stirfried noodles and vegetables – along with a patch of shade in which to sit and eat it.

The second main attraction of the Stampede is the chuck wagon racing and evening show, which we went to on our second day.

Before the racing began.

 

During the National Anthem, as a helicopter flew overhead with the flag suspended beneath.

The chuckwagon races take place nowadays with lightweight wagons (which were basically adverts on wheels) and specially bred thoroughbred horses – I must admit, I was slightly disappointed not to see the old fashioned wagons I was expecting.

The wagons race into the arena, and stop at a prescribed point. One outrider controls the horses whilst another loads a barrel into the wagon. Then it's off!

Off around the track.

 

Racing to the finish line.

The rules of the chuckwagon races – involving the positioning of the wagons at the start, the route the wagons take around the markers, and the positioning of the outriders – did escape me, I’m afraid.

Not all the horses we saw were bucking broncos and thoroughbred racers. We meandered through part of the Agricultural section of the show, and into the horsey section, and came across some huge, glossy, heavy horses being primped and prepared for their show events.

This handsome horse is having a blow dry. The size of those hooves!

 

Small girl, huge horse.

 

The evening show which followed the chuckwagon racing was brilliant. Song, dance, acrobatics and aerial performers worthy of the Cirque du Soleil (high praise from Paul and me, both CdS fans!), and a magnificent fireworks finale. At nearly midnight we walked out through the huge crowds still milling around the Stampede fairground and queuing for the music events, and back to our hotel. It was so warm that even at that hour, we were still wearing just t-shirts. A fantastic, if exhausting, two days.

* * *

# Canada’s national dish?  http://articles.cnn.com/2010-10-02/world/canada.poutine_1_dish-cheese-curds-foie?_s=PM:WORLD

Don’t go away!  There’s a part three (in a few more days)!  –ed.

 

Yarn. More of. Yessssss.

 

I should have stayed home today and focussed categorically and unconditionally on finishing SHADOWS.*  But when Fiona and I decided we were going to have a Yarn Adventure today it was after Nadia had gone on maternity leave** and I could pretend to have Monday afternoons free since I’m used to taking them off to have voice lessons in.  Sure.  That’s logical.  It was certainly before Gemma rang me up yesterday and suggested I ring a quarter peal at the abbey and then come back to her house for tea followed by handbells. . . .

            And I didn’t want to DISAPPOINT Fiona, did I?  Not to mention disappointing me.  Fiona had found a new Hampshire yarn shop.***  We totally had to investigate it.  Of course.  Had to.  Our honour as hand knitters was at stake.†

            So we courageously set off this afternoon despite the Sudden Heavy Thunderstorms Which May Cause Flash Floods in Some Areas.  Fiona had driven here through one, and there was another one racing to meet it across New Arcadia, so I was watching the rain beating the paint off the walls of the cottage and thinking ummm . . . But by the time we arrived†† in Greater Opprobrium there was SUNLIGHT.  Clearly this was a SIGN.  It was even more of a sign that despite neither Fiona nor I having written down either the name or the address of the knitting store we found it with . . . distressingly little trouble.†††

            We walked through the door.  We were surrounded by yarn.  This is not going to end well, said Fiona.  Of course this depends on your point of view.  The proprietor seemed to think it ended very well.‡

Fiona's new stash. With hellhound butt. Hellhound felt I'd been gone ALL DAY and should be paying attention to HIM.

Now a lot of the yarn in that photo is sock weight.  And Fiona says it’s a well established fact that sock yarn is not stash.  This would be almost enough to make me start collecting sock yarn too . . . but I think of those horrible little 2 and 3 mm needles and . . . no.  At least not until I can knit like I have fingers instead of semi-articulated giant cucumbers on the ends of my wrists. 

Yeep.

Fiona, however, is making a BLANKET out of SOCK WEIGHT YARN.   I may have posted a photo of this once before.  It’s getting bigger.

 

Mad. Beautiful and mad.

THIS IS ALL SOCK WEIGHT YARN.   EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

See? This is mine. I hardly bought anything.

And none of it is sock weight.  NONE.  There are two pairs of leg warmers on the right.  And the rest of it is a single jumper or cardigan-like object.  There were only five of the striped yarn, of course.  Life is like this.   You can’t do anything useful with five little skeins of fat yarn.  I perceive not merely stripes in my future but arithmetic.   I’m already failing on the latter however.  I meant to buy eleven skeins.  I seem to have come home with thirteen.  Fiona has suggested helpfully that perhaps they’re breeding. 

           I told Fiona that she had to bring her yarn in with her when we got back to New Arcadia because I wanted a photo.  Okay, she said, but I know the real reason you want a photo.  It’s because I make you look restrained.

            Well, yes.‡‡ 

* * *

*  Any minute now.  I’m so near the end . . . really . . . I’m just . . . not . . . quite . . . there . . . yet.  . . .The sound here is heavy gasping breathing as of someone not fit enough for marathons approaching mile twenty-six.  Or possibly mile thirty-three.  Or possibly mile four thousand six hundred and twelve. . . . 

** IT’S A BOY.  

***  And I found another one so we have another Yarn Adventure that we really need to go on.^  Not to mention return visits to successful previous Yarn Adventures.  

^ Google is a danger to society. 

† Or possibly at needle.^ 

^ Also I haven’t seen Fiona in way too long.  Back when she was coming once a month or so to sort out some of the secretarial-assailable detritus in the Hellhole I Call An Office+ we had an excuse to waste a little additional time around the edges of the work-related in hanging out etc, which I admit got a lot more drastic when I started knitting.++  Work still offered a kind of fig leaf for our expeditions.  But I can’t face everything else that that Fiona could help me with till I get back to the almost-year-old auction backlog and clear out the 1,000,000,000 doodles and assorted extras that are sitting around in heaps.+++  Which she will then parcel up and send out.  Which will happen as soon as I finish SHADOWS.  Siiiiiiiiiiigh.  And I wonder why my tension level keeps trying to burst out of my skull and start taking over the universe. 

+ But what would you expect a hellgoddess with hellhounds to call her office? 

++ She insists I asked her to show me how to knit.  I distinctly remember being tied ruthlessly to my chair and having knitting needles BRANDISHED at me. 

+++ Mostly the hellhole is a nice friendly hellhole.  Not so much this last year. 

†† Possibly by a somewhat indirect route.  I claimed to know how to get there and then I allowed myself to become distracted by telling her bell tower stories. 

††† Yarn fumes.  Bloodhounds have nothing on a knitter picking up that delicate aroma of knittable stuff.^ 

^ Speaking of irresistible, smells, and dogs, and lowering the level of this blog dramatically, hellhounds and I met a lady out with her Very Large and Ill Mannered Labrador yesterday.  I was watching the performance and thinking, do you do this every day?  Maybe it’s a friend’s dog and you’re swearing you’re never going to do this again.  It was on a lead—a short lead—and we were giving the two of them plenty of room.  Even so I thought it might have her over.  She eventually stopped, braced herself, and waited for us to go on by.  I thought the dog was going to turn itself inside out. 

            She’s not usually like this, panted the woman.  She’s on season.  And yours are. . . .

            Entire.  And clueless.  And I plan to keep them that way.  —I don’t think they were any more interested in Salome than they are in any fresh new exciting dog.  But I took an extra grip on the leads and we sprinted past. 

‡ She also told us about this:

http://www.twistedthread.com/pages/exhibitions/viewExhibition.aspx?id=39

http://www.alexandrapalace.com/whats-on/the-knitting-stitching-show/

You should go, she said.  We take a coachload every year.  It’s wonderful.  You’d love it.

            Yes, that’s what worries me.    

‡‡ AND THIS WASN’T ENOUGH.  Then we went to an old-books store.  Which was nearly across the street.  It was like it was waiting for us.  You know there still are old-books stores.^  With shelves and books and . . . um . . . glue-dust-and-paper fumes.  

^ Other than in New Iceland.

I did what?

 

So.  Um.  I rang a quarter peal at the abbey today.  I rang a quarter peal at the abbey today.  IT WAS ONLY ON SIX BELLS AND I WAS ONLY ON THE TREBLE.  Still.  I rang a quarter peal.  At the abbey . . . *

            Today kind of began last Friday.  Gemma and Niall and I were ringing handbells, and Gemma and Niall were saying, and you’re going to come to New Arcadia tower practise with us after this, RIGHT?  And I was saying, well, no, I’m not.  The old tower politics are beginning to re-emerge from the shadows and show their teeth and while I’m delighted to realise how little of it matters any more, still, life is short, and I think I’ll stay home and polish the goldfish or knit or something.  No, no, they said, come on, it’ll be fun, it’ll be fine.  So I finally said, I wasn’t going to come to tower practise and therefore I haven’t given the hellhounds their evening hurtle yet.  But I will listen, and if you’re short of ringers I will hustle hellhounds home, take them out again after practise, and come along.

            They were ringing five.  Five is marginally okay on Sunday morning when you’re usually short, but it’s pretty sad for a practise, especially when one of the ringers is a beginner.  Sigh.  So I hustled only mildly outraged hellhounds home again** and went along to the tower.  And it was fun because Niall likes torturing us with peculiar methods.***  I also wished Niall and Gemma luck, because they were trying for a full peal on Saturday—yesterday—Gemma’s first.†  I texted Gemma later saying to let me know how it goes, if she feels like it.

            I didn’t hear from Gemma yesterday, so I thought, uh-oh.

            Now tower practise is open, while Sunday service ringing is usually done by members of the home band.  This is standard.  But there’s also a feeling that if you attend a practise regularly, if you’re a low-level ringer who is using the practise for your benefit, you owe that tower something.  If you can’t ring at their Sunday service because it’s at the same time as your own, you can at least say ‘yes’ if they phone you some day and ask you to ring for the vicar’s dog’s birthday on Saturday.  I’ve been ringing Sunday afternoon service at the abbey because that’s when they’re short of ringers and I don’t like getting up in the morning.  But that leaves me hideously available for, for example, New Arcadia morning service.

            Never mind that the hellhounds are going through a serious anti-supper phase which means I’m catching up on a lot of old magazines at mmph o’clock in the morning.  Given the somewhat touchy situation at New Arcadia, if I went to practise on Friday, I’d better frelling show up on Sunday morning.

            Mooooooooooan.

            Well, with me, we were six, so I was serving a useful purpose.  Fine.  Paying your dues is a good thing.  And Niall told me they’d lost their peal yesterday.  I’m sorry, I said.

            But I went home feeling limp and soggy.  It’s very muggy, I’m short of sleep, and bell-ringing, as I keep saying, is a demanding and complex skill . . . especially on Sunday morning.  I had just settled down with a nice cup of tea and a new knitting magazine when Pooka started barking at me.  I assumed it was Peter with a weather report††.

            It was Gemma.  What are you doing this afternoon? she said.  How would you like to ring a quarter peal at the abbey?

            WHAT? I said.  ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR TINY FREAKING MIND?  —or words to that effect.  I’m not the most reliable ringer at my best, and I’m a nightmare on the abbey bells.

            Well, we can’t find anyone else, said Gemma, at the last minute like this, and you’d enjoy it, it’s a nice friendly band.

            Whuffle whuffle whuffle, I said.

            The thing is, Gemma went on, you know we lost the peal yesterday?  Well it was for [insert standard celebratory life event here] and we were thinking, we could have a go at just a quarter . . . but we’ve only got five ringers.††† 

            Whuffle whuffle whuffle, I said.

            We need you, said Gemma.‡

            Siiiiiiiiiiiiigh, I said.  Okay.  Put me on the treble.  I should cause the least damage there.

            . . . We got our quarter.  We did have to stop and start over—not my fault!  Not my fault!—and there were a few hedgerows along the way that Albert had to drag people out of‡‡ . . . but the treble actually managed to hold her line when not everyone else was holding theirs. 

            Yaay us.‡‡‡

            And then Gemma invited us back to her house for tea.§  And somehow, I can’t imagine how, we found ourselves ringing handbells.  And even more astonishing and inexplicable, it appears that Gemma and I have arranged to drive to Albert and Leandra’s house in Greater Footling on Wednesday so that we can ring more handbells.§§

            I thought that August was going to be a desert of non-ringing. 

* * *

* WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE 

** They possess such touching faith that I’ll make any shortfalls up to them.  And I did.  We went out for another walk while everyone else went to the pub.  Never mind.  It was a lovely evening and it turned out Peter had put a bottle of prosecco in the fridge at the mews. 

*** Catch hold [of your rope] for Marmalade Zanzibar Fruitcake minor!

            You can also torture your beginner much more effectively when there’s six of you, which is a proper method-ringing number.  You ring on five if five is what you’ve got, but it’s a little bogus.  

† I will never ring a full peal—I know, famous last words.  But I pretty well can’t, I haven’t got the stamina.  It’s three-plus hours of non-stop ringing, and the person with ME who folds in the last quarter-hour will be justifiably unpopular.^  It’s not that peal attempts aren’t lost all the time—they are:  bell ringing is a complex and demanding skill, and maintaining your concentration for that long is difficult—but you want to start out with as much on your side as possible.  I’m a bad risk.  Also I can’t imagine not having a pee for three-plus hours. 

            Niall hasn’t given up on trying to persuade me to ring a full peal on handbells however.  They go a lot faster than tower bells, you can sit down . . . and you can keep your legs crossed as necessary toward the end. 

^ I realise this is poor-spirited but ringing a full peal doesn’t actually sound like a good time to me. 

†† Saying, approximately, Get out NOW before the rain starts. 

††† The peal had been eight.  But not everybody wants to get back on the horse that threw them the very next day. 

‡ Note that I have a strong suspicion that Gemma was doing a little boost-Robin here.  It’s perfectly true that you are likely to have trouble coming up with a scratch band at the very last minute on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in August^ to spend forty-five minutes in a dark, hot, clammy ringing chamber getting blisters from sweaty hands on sweaty ropes . . . but it’s not impossible.  I’m sure they had already gone through a lot of better ringers who turned them down.  I doubt I was their last hope.

^ . . . during the Olympics 

‡‡ You know how I keep banging on about the 3,211 bells at the abbey.  It was very funny deciding which six bells we were going to ring . . . although some of this was my fault and I shouldn’t laugh.  Albert had been planning on using the very frontest front six, but the two littlest bells are REALLY LITTLE and I’d yank my poor little thing right out of the belfry, because I overring anyway but the more nervous I am the more I overring.  So Albert said, okay, fine, and we ended up ringing something middle-ish which actually sounded rather nice, nicer, I think, than if we’d been on the tinkerbells. 

‡‡‡ Don’t tell . . . but it was fun.  In spite of the almost-blisters. 

§ And I ate about twelve pounds of gorgeous fresh cherries.  I adore cherries, and the season for fresh ones is about six hours long. 

§§ Bob major!^  Yaaaaaaay! 

^ Four people/eight bells

 

KES, 32

 

THIRTY TWO 

“Keys are in the truck,” said Serena.  “No one around here would dare drive Merry without Mike’s permission.”

            “Not many people would try even with Mike’s permission,” I muttered, but Serena heard me, and laughed.

            “If you made it up here in that van, little old Merry will be easy as pie.  Easy as Ryuu’s cherry pie.”

            “Merry is bigger than the van.”

            Serena eyed the two vehicles thoughtfully.  “The skulls count for more.” 

            “It was all highway driving on the way up here!  I didn’t have to go around corners or change gears or anything!”

            “This is a small town.  If you run into a ditch, someone will pull you out again.  And Merry is so old he’s made out of real steel and is very hard to break.  Try not to run into any other vehicles, though, it’d be like taking a hammer to cream cheese.  And most of the local wildlife is a lot faster than you are.”

            “Cows.  Cows are really slow.”

            “Oh.  Well.  Out your way Willendorf’s cows only cross the road twice a day for milking, and then there’s like hundreds of them so you’ll see them in plenty of time to stop.  Look, you’re moving in tomorrow, right?  Why don’t you drive out to the mall now and lay in some supplies?  There’s no freezer in the little fridge in your room, but if you need ice cream you can use the one in the office.  Zenobia’s does amazing hand-made chocolates.  There are a couple of booze stores, Ninkasi is the better one, it has single malt.  And the mall has a huge parking lot which on a weekday afternoon will be almost empty.  You can practise turning and changing gears.  Extra points if you run over one of the mall’s overweight pigeons.” 

            I walked slowly around the rear end of the latest addition to my catalogue of doom.  Merry’s back panel informed me that he was an Agate Ironman.  Agate?  I’d heard of Toyota and Volkswagen.  I’d never heard of Agate.  But then individually-owned internal-combustion-engine-driven vehicles were something that happened to other people.  The hours I’d spent behind the wheel of the van had raised my life total of time in control of anything bigger than a bicycle by about 400%.  I’m sure it took several minutes to walk down Merry’s full length and climb the steps to the porch to look across his front end.  He had one of those front grilles that looked like a large grin.  A large sardonic grin.  “Well, what do you think?” I said to the rose-bush.  I’m very glad she didn’t answer.  “I suppose a Vespa would be impractical in the winter.  And the Silent Wonder Dog might not like crouching at my feet for long distances.”

            Serena had followed me.  “I have to get back to work, unfortunately,” she said.  “But you know where to find me.  Mike’s phone number is on the dashboard.  Have fun.”

            “Fun.  I’ll make a note.”

            I waited till Serena’s footsteps had crunched back to the office and I’d heard the door open and close.  Then I sighed profoundly and went round to Merry’s driver’s side door, reached waaaaaaay up to the door latch, shinned up to the cab and scrambled into the driver’s seat.  Hmm.  Well, the view was kind of cool.  Or would be if it didn’t involve a turned-off neon campfire.  My fingers found the key as if they knew what they were doing and Merry instantly growled to low, thunderous life.  I could do this.  I could.  I checked for Mike’s phone number on the dashboard.  Then I backed up cautiously, cranked the wheel about 720° to get Merry turned around, and rolled recklessly back onto Sir Alexander Dane Avenue. 

            It was what driving one of those vast mobile homes to its eventual slot in a trailer park must be like.  This is not something I’d spent a lot of time imagining.  More significantly however I didn’t have those little pilot-fish cars in front and behind me with big signs saying double wide vehicle.  I don’t think we ran anybody off the road.  I was careful not to look at any other drivers’ faces so I don’t know if they were all staring at me in amazement and saying to their passengers, oh, wow, who’s that driving Merry this time?   Although you wouldn’t really have to know anything about Merry’s credentials to stare at him in amazement.  Also there was a disconcerting pause between the time you did anything like turn the wheel or step on the gas and anything actually happened, like the chipmunk messenger service between the cab admin and the beating heart of the beast was short-staffed.

           We made it to the mall.  And the parking lot was gloriously empty.  We rolled to a side entrance and stopped.  When the subdued roar fell silent I realised there were birds singing.  I could hear the mom coming through the big glass mall doors telling her kid that if she heard any more about the new 6D Nintendo with the telepathic console she was going to sign him up for extra homework every night for the rest of his life.  List.  I should make a list.  Light bulbs.  Broccoli.  Soap.  Chair cushions.  Bagels.  Lox.  Toilet paper.  Marmalade.  Butter.  Broom.  Would Godzilla Food have light bulbs?  Where would I find chair cushions?  How did people without 24-hour home delivery and a Joe the Doorman survive? 

             I could do this.  I could.

Calgary Stampede – Part 1 Guest post by Cathy R

 

The first Calgary Stampede was held in 1912, staged as an event to honour authentic western life. The Centennial Stampede was part of my birthday trip to Canada in July. It was something I was particularly looking forward to, and excited about, and the two days of the Stampede more than lived up to expectations.

We started by getting up early to get a good position to watch the parade, the official Stampede kickoff. Months earlier, we’d booked bleacher seating provided by the Calgary West Rotary Club, who also provided breakfast. Arriving at 6.30am, we chose our places on the top row of seats (after much dithering about the best place to sit for taking photos), and headed off to breakfast. This was much more than we expected! Rows of trestle tables set out in a nearby car park, with live music, and a huge, freshly prepared breakfast. Pancakes with cream and blueberries, potato cakes, beans, and the inevitable muffins. The atmosphere was fantastic, everyone was out to enjoy themselves, and it was a wonderful start to the Stampede.

Fresh pancakes - with blueberries and cream.

 

Stampede breakfast.

 

Tucking in - parade watching is hungry work.

 

Live entertainment at breakfast.

 

Breakfast over, we resumed our seats, and the Parade began. Marching bands from as far afield as Australia, Taiwan, Columbia, Denmark and Germany, representatives of five Treaty 7 First Nations*, and many different groups of horses and riders. It took nearly three hours to go past, and we were thankful indeed for the padded mats we’d bought to sit on.

I have no idea what these instruments are!

 

 

I felt sorry for the poor lads who had to walk backwards the whole way!

 

 

 

Chuckwagons

 

The Calgary Regional Appaloosa Club. What strikingly beautiful horses these are.

 

The Marching Troop of the Mounties (Royal Canadian Mounted Police)

 

Women of the Wild West - women who Do Stuff!

 

 

 

Wild West Willie!

 

The Pooper-Scooper truck!

 

 

 

 

Also part of the Stampede is the Indian Village, where families from each of the Treaty 7 First Nations camp during the Stampede. Each painted tipi has a unique design, sometimes hundreds of years old. The designs originate from dreams, visions after prolonged fasting, and accomplishments, and are believed to protect the owners from sickness and misfortune.  In general, the design of a tipi can be broken into three sections. The top section represents Father Heavens, the middle represents the spirit world, and the bottom represents Mother Earth.

Rows of tipis with their unique designs. In the top section, white circles on a dark background represent stars.

 

The middle section represents spiritual animals connected to the owner of the tipi design.

 

 

A triangular design in the bottom part of the tipi can represent mountains.

 

Ornamentation and design over the entrance to each tipi.

 

In parts 2 and 3 of these Stampede posts – the rodeo, the chuckwagon races, and other fun cowboy stuff!

* * *

* Tsuu T’ina, Piikani, Stoney, Kainai and Siksika. These First Nations signed Treaty 7 in 1877, and have been part of the Stampede since its inception in 1912.  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_7

The Endless Amazingness of People. Not in a good way.

 

There is a local dog.  We will call him Pistachio, because he is a nut.  We will call his owner Mr Pistachio, because he is also a nut.  The dog probably can’t help it. . . .

            A few years ago, when the first Pistachio sightings were made, he was kind of a nightmare.  His owner, of course, let him off lead at the earliest opportunity, and he used to do laps at extreme speed . . . wherever he was.  Rec ground, schoolyard, park, cricket lawn, someone’s garden, street, wherever.  If he met another dog on his peregrinations, all the better:  he would invite it—or, possibly, them—to join him.  And he wasn’t good at taking ‘no’ for an answer.  To do the twerp credit, he was never the least bit nasty, and even Darkness, who has a fairly low tolerance for strange dogs getting in his face, never reacted.  I reacted, however, because Pistachio is getting on for large*, and while I object to any all-over-you dog,** having something about the size of one and three-quarters hellhounds using me as an obstacle course is not popular.  This aside from the getting-plaited-by-on-lead-hellhounds aspect.  Hellhounds would have been happy to make Pistachio eat their dust, but I am a fierce evil ratbag hellgoddess, and I keep my dogs on lead in all but ideal circumstances.***

            Pistachio, however, has slowed down a lot.  In hindsight my guess is that he was a somewhat late rescue adoptee, and the early mad pelting was in reaction to having a home at last rather than late adolescent puppyness.  When we see him now, he saunters along, deigning to wave his tail in a vaguely friendly manner, but there are rarely dramas.  We saw him today—on the same stretch of path that we met the unpleasant specimen who chased us back into town a week or something ago.†  This is a designated footpath but it’s also an unsurfaced road, and there are two houses at the end of it.  It’s barely a lane wide, and you have to plaster yourself and your dog(s) against the wall to let a car by.

            As we came down the hill to the unsurfaced lane, we met Mr Pistachio.  Pistachio himself was a vague little spot at the far end of the track.  Behind him there was a car.  Er—there’s a car, I said to Mr Pistachio.  I know, he said.  She went down to the end and turned around.  And he giggled, like this was terribly funny.  Um.  She’s lost, it happens.  Mr Pistachio went on to the end of the track and started up the hill.  I looked at Pistachio, making a quarter of a mile an hour maybe down the middle of the road, and the car behind him.  I couldn’t scratch my head because both hands were full of leads.  Hellhounds and I retired to a wide place before the wall starts, and prepared to wait.  And we waited.  And waited.  As Pistachio ambled a doggy zigzag with a car helplessly following.  Oh, come on, Pistachio, said Mr Pistachio genially.  Pistachio did not come on.  Pistachio strolled.  Pistachio mooched.  And Mr Pistachio stood a few steps up from the bottom of the hill and did nothing.

            Pistachio waved his tail gently as he went by.  As the car behind him passed us, the woman said thank you to me—as we stood out of the way and watched the scene with our jaws dropping.  Well, my jaw was dropping anyway.  We were standing there a good two or three minutes.  I think if I was driving a car stuck behind a moseying dog whose owner is doing NOTHING to get it out of the way I might at least have had words to say as I went by the accountable human . . . particularly since I would have had plenty of time to think of those words. 

            But I don’t think she did.  When the track widened out she could get past, and she did.  Pistachio pootled up to his owner and they wandered off together.  Eeesh. 

* * *

* Although large does vary.  We hurtled past a little family group about a week ago, and the nine-ish-year-old boy said to me eagerly, Are those Great Danes?  Um—no, sorry, they’re whippet crosses.  As we streamed on by, I could hear one of the grown-ups of the party explaining that my guys were much too small to be Great Danes.  A Great Dane would come up to your chest, he said.  A Great Dane is the size of a pony.  A Great Dane is as big as that car over there.

            Unfortunately at this point we were hurtling out of earshot.  I would have liked to hear the next comparison.  A Great Dane stands as high as the St Radegund bell tower!  A Great Dane leaps over tall buildings in a single bound! 

** Some exception made for puppies.  Some.  They need to learn not to all-over people before they outgrow being cute. 

*** This is in fact one of the additional things I hate about irresponsible jerks who let their dogs run loose in public spaces.  My guys would love more opportunity to hurtle off lead . . . but I’m not going to risk it, and I’m also not going to unleash hellhounds on an unsuspecting public.  Hellhounds are quite capable of leaping up to lick your face from a standing spring, and they take sudden inexplicable likings to bemused strangers often enough to keep me alert.  But it is so unfair when other dogs have more fun because they have bad owners. 

            Yet another run in today with a known pernicious quantity.  Some strutting male human with three spaniels.  I think they’re gun dogs—the four of them together have a kind of shadowy aura of guns and beaters and dead things.  And my guess is the one who has to go for the hellhounds every time he sees them is an entire male who is boss of that little pack and has to prove what a big guy he is every time he sees another entire male.^  The human is perfectly well aware of the situation and he does call the bloody animal off—but he does so in that same All Things Fear Me Because I Am The Man way that he swanks around generally—and he doesn’t bother till his hormonal buddy has had his rush and growl. 

            I was thinking today that this has now gone on long and often enough that I’ve begun thinking of something to say that I can memorise in advance, coherent thought in the heat of confrontation not being one of my skills.  This will nonetheless not go well.  Some scrawny old broad taking him to task?  Brace yourselves.  The earth may tremble on its axis. 

^ Should I be specifying the entire male is one of the spaniels?  The accompanying human has so much of the same testosterone arrogance. 

† Whom we saw again today.  On lead.  He slunk by, pretending we didn’t exist, and while hellhounds stood six inches taller than usual—we’d again prudently withdrawn to a wider bit of path—and watched him very carefully they allowed him to slink past without challenge.

 

KES, 31

 

THIRTY ONE 

Potentially my new vehicle.  Nobody said I had to take it.  Just because Rick of Odin’s Autos was a fiend of unspeakable depravity and the second-nearest used-car dealer was in Montana.  After all, I hadn’t had to take the first house Hayley showed me . . . Oh.  Um.

            It wasn’t a car—as advertised.  It was a pickup truck. 

            It was a large pickup truck.  I thought it might once have been red.  It had faded to an ominous pre-thunderstorm sunset color.  But it had faded unevenly, and the swirls and blotches looked like they might slide off the truck and come after you.  Stop that.  Hey, I was a country girl now:  a pickup truck was probably totally practical.  I could fetch Gus and his lawn-mower with a pickup truck. (Remind me, when I regained the power of speech, to check that Gus came with a lawn-mower.)  I could haul the bed that I found in the want ads of the local free paper home in it and then haul the M R James’ refugee bed-shaped objects presently in two of the bedrooms away, before they misbehaved.  There was room in the back of this pickup truck for, as well as several beds, the crane I would need to crank said beds up and down from the second-storey windows singlehanded.

            It was about ten feet tall and fifteen feet across.  I wondered if there was a stepladder that swung down when you opened one of the doors. 

            I tried to think of something to say.  Something besides “aaaaugh.”  Something besides, “You’re joking, right?”  Finally I thought of something:  “I bet it gets half a mile to the gallon.”

            “No, it’s pretty good,” said Serena.  “One of Jan’s sons is a mechanic, and he rebuilt it some time back.  He let me drive it for a while when my last fourth-hand car died.” 

            “If it gets better than half a mile to the gallon then it’s seriously underpowered,” I argued.  As if I knew anything about it.  But I’ve seen tractor-trailers smaller than this . . . vehicle.

            “Only if it’s loaded,” said Serena.  “Hey, I’d rather you didn’t blast across the countryside when you have Gus and his lawn-mower on board.”

            “It’s a large lawn-mower then,” I said.

            “It’s pretty large,” said Serena.  “But it’s also the double-sized toolbox he likes to bring along on jobs.  The lawn-mower is kind of old.”

            I tore my eyes away from the pickup truck to glare at Serena.  “One of Jan’s sons didn’t by any chance sell it to him, did he?”

            “Sort of,” said Serena.  “Mike told him he could have it if he thought he could keep it running.  He said he thought Gus might earn enough to buy a real one before it fell apart.  That was two years ago.  I think he’s stopped saving for the class trip again and gone back to the motorcycle.  The weeks he’s saving for the motorcycle I live in fear of his eighteenth birthday.”

            I looked at the Vehicle That Ate Schenectady again.  “And you think this is a better bet than Odin’s Autos.”

            “I know it is,” said Serena, “because if anything goes wrong Mike will be at your elbow before you can say ‘flying carpet’.  Rick would tell you to read the fine print, where it says ha ha ha ha sucker, and if you hold one of his contracts over a heat source three more zeroes appear at the end of the purchase price.  I was amazed Mike was offering you Merry but he thinks it’s going to a good home because of your van.”

            “Didn’t you tell him I’m a poor clueless city wimp and the van is a rental?”

            “He said that Merry will take care of you.”

            “Mary?”

            “You read LORD OF THE RINGS, right?  Meriadoc Brandybuck.  Merry.  Mike says that you drove that van here is good enough.”  She turned to me and smiled.  “I know you don’t actually know me from—um—Saruman, or—er—Kira Nerys, but being taken on by Jan and his family is a good thing.  Mike phoned right after you did and said you could drive it for a few days, get yourself moved in, see if you and Merry liked each other, before you had to decide if you were going to take it.  But maybe next time you’d rent your van a few days longer, just in case he wasn’t around.”

            I couldn’t think of anything to say again, for entirely different reasons.  “Um.  Thanks.”

            “’S’okay,” said Serena.  “They adopted me too.  But for your sake I hope your divorce has already gone through and your ex isn’t going to come here and have tantrums.  I was totally grateful to be adopted, but I could have done without the liberal free advice, the sense that my personal dramas were more exciting than a football game on TV, or the offers to punch Larry out.  The last mainly because they were so hard to turn down.”

            “My divorce has gone through,” I said, and even I could hear that my voice had gone flat.  “And he’s in San Diego with his fl—his new girlfriend.”

            Serena put her arm around me and gave me a quick hug.  “It gets better.  Really it does.”

 

Art and Life. And Lovecraft.

 

 

It is very late.  It is very very late.  It is very very very late and I haven’t even started a blog post yet.  I’ve been busy.  Aside from life’s basic necessities of tea and hurtling, we all went to Mottisfont today.*

 

Those monks sure had an eye for location.

 

Most of the roses are over. But not all. This is Crimson Glory. She smells too.

Pink roses on a wall. Always a good look.

 

Lavender. Wow. And it's full of happy bees.

The famous white bench and rose arbor shot. When the roses aren't out. The echinops are good though (those round blue thistly things.) And the bees love them too.

I fully endorse Andraste's colour sense.

. . . and then Luke, Aaron, Percival and I played Arkham Horror.  http://boardgamegeek.com/boardgame/15987/arkham-horror 

 

AAAAAAAAAAAUGH

Never mind the monsters.  Sorting out all 1,000,000,000,000 of those frelling little pieces has already sapped your initiative to -12 before the game begins, and you’re almost glad to be dismembered by the Flying Polyp (Physical Resistance, Nightmarish 1, Overwhelming 1) or the Star Spawn (‘The bosun was the only one left alive.  We dragged him screaming from the cargo hold.  “That thing!” he wept . . . ).

            At least we managed to win this one.  Arkham Horror, I am embarrassed to admit, belongs to me.  Which is why I was the one doing all the frelling sorting.  Well, it got all these fabulous write ups and recommendations and I have a weakness for Lovecraft . . . and Luke and his family are why I started playing frelling board games again for the first time in a quarter century or so when I moved over here.  Aaron has a point about it being easier than making conversation.  But as a result I’ve spent rather more time in board games shops and on board game web sites than I would have if left to my own innocent devices.**  And I bought myself Arkham Horror, and gave them Mansions of Madness

http://boardgamegeek.com/boardgame/83330/mansions-of-madness

which they had brought along this time specifically to torment me with, although they always take large wodges of board games with them on holiday and—according to Andraste—the boys sit around for days on end, playing board games.  Whatever floats your boat.***

            Anyway.  I don’t think you can win Mansions of Madness.  It’s far too slanted toward the Evil Keeper, which role Aaron had made his own in his inimitable Aaronish obsessive board game nerd way and indeed I had some trouble taking seriously the likelihood that I was going to burn to death and then be eaten by zombies because Aaron was busy performing Vincent Price on steroids and this was very diverting.  However we all burnt to death and were eaten by zombies, but Luke had already gone insane so he probably didn’t mind as much as Percival and I did. 

            Arkham House throws you the occasional crumb of hope and help, and we won, we think, without misunderstanding too many crucial rules.  I particularly like the fact that you can buy back your lost sanity for $2 at the Arkham Asylum.  I’m not sure that cut-rate sanity is all that reliable but maybe it doesn’t matter . . . Ia!  Ia!  Cthulhu Fthagn!  Ph’nglui mglw’wfah Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!†

 * * * 

* We went because I wanted to see the EH Shepherd WIND IN THE WILLOWS show—they have a bunch of his original illustrations on display.  I did carefully check the web site for ‘accessible’ and we got there and . . . in the first place, while there is a disabled  bay in the car park, they haven’t done anything to improve the surface, which means you’re parking in a rutted swamp.  Great.  Swell.  Andraste, because she’s like this, went off to tackle the admin about it:  what if the disabled person is the driver?  There is no way he (or she) would be able to unload his/her wheelchair and get into it on this surface, or lack of surface.  Andraste says that her impression, after rather too much experience around this issue, is that the assumption is that the disabled person either can walk—not far, but for example the little mobility buses Mottisfont uses to run people from the front gate to the house and garden do assume you can get as far as the bus—or that they have an able-bodied companion. 

            And the able-bodied companion(s) was of no use whatsoever when we got to the house, which does have a ramp up to the ground floor (as advertised), to discover that the art show that we were there to see . . . is on the first floor.  And there is no lift.  No.  None of us saw it. 

** On the other hand if I hadn’t had a forum full of knitters I probably wouldn’t have tried knitting again, it having so signally failed to ingratiate itself last time.  How had I managed to live fifty eight and half years without knitting.^  So I’m not really complaining about peer pressure. 

^ I’ve been knitting between turns the last two nights.  And I’m getting to that first dangerous stage of being able to do a certain amount of straightforward knitting without thinking about it . . . with the result that I had frelling cast off the Left Front before a faint memory trace drove me to look at the pattern again and discover that I was only supposed to cast off the first nineteen stitches, and continue on with the remaining thirty-four.

            Language ensued.  But I actually got the little ratbags back on the right needle more neatly this time. 

*** Yarn.  Yarn.  

† Which may or may not mean Yes!  Yes!  In his house at R’lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming! 

 

Luke and his family are here for a few days.

 

They arrived yesterday exactly when they said they would—also Andraste had been texting me about their progress ‘We have just arrived at the standard seven-lane closedown of the M4001.  The tailback on the one open lane is approximately ninety-six miles long, and they are laying on an emergency pontoon bridge to hold the vehicles which are being shoved off the white cliffs of Dover.’  ‘Local flooding* in East Dewlap is general due to the town council’s decision to build a nightclub in the storm drains, and we have been advised we will have to go around via Cherryunripe which will add twenty miles to the journey’.

            Despite all this excellent advice I was still racing up to Third House at the last minute to meet them and let them in.  With hellhounds, who were suffering a hurtling shortage due to the weather.  And I wanted to preen a little about the fabulousness of my hellhounds.**  Well, and complain about the perversity of inanimate objects.

            Hellhounds are still not quite certain about Third House.  I can’t just pitch them through the door and tell them to Go Lie Down.  I had put a blanket down for them but they were much more interested in investigating the corners.***  At which juncture a large vehicle full of people arrived, and mayhem ensued.  Mayhem especially ensued when I discovered I couldn’t get the bolts on the front door open.  I usually go in the kitchen door, but they need the front door for the wheelchair.  AAAAAUGH.  This is now Sunday evening, and I’m not at all sure how long it might have taken to get a 24-hour locksmith round.

            I did eventually get the wretched things pried out of their holes—this door is due to be replaced, but it hasn’t happened yet†—but meanwhile the kitchen door was wide open, people bearing boxes and bundles were streaming in and out, there were even more people passing by on the footpath that runs along the edge of Third House’s garden, and generally speaking there were an infinity of opportunities for hellhounds to misbehave.

            And they didn’t.  Oh, they capered around and greeted Luke and his family with more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary (but Luke’s family have a dog at home, so dogs are known positive, life-enhancing beings) but after that, every time I looked around, either for a hammer or a blowtorch or in a sudden panic about what hellhounds might be getting up to . . . there they were, keeping an eye on me.  Sometimes they were even lying down.†† 

* * *

* We had outbreaks of the solid-wall-of-falling-water type of thunderstorm yesterday—complete with ground-shaking thunder and lightning.  This required my extremely well-muscled obstinacy to shove harder and may also explain why there were only eight of us at the abbey, although they are more often short for Sunday afternoon service than they aren’t.  Also I have mostly learnt where the sudden fords are, when the precipitation has been untoward, at the bottom of little dips in the short stretch of motorway I need to use.  There is a back way to the abbey, but it is wildly inconvenient even for a motorway-phobic like me, not to mention notorious for long strings of traffic going 19 mph behind the little old lady in the deux chevaux^ (the speed limit is mostly 40).  I might put up with all of this . . . except I do like to excoriate myself, now that I ring there, with the breathtaking view of the abbey as you come into town the standard way.^^ 

^ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Citro%C3%ABn_2CV + 

+ Some of you are on the right track [sic] about Kes’ new vehicle.  I have to say I’m extremely sorry not to be providing her with an MGB . . . but, you know, maybe later.  I think a lot of interesting vehicles probably pass through Jan’s son’s garage.  But this was not one of the storytelling crossroads where I had a choice.  I saw the thing for the first time when Kes did and it was already there, you know?  It wasn’t like it was still at the sponge stage and I could hastily add another jug of water and a couple of pounds of pumpernickel flour, put the butter back in the refrigerator and turn it into bagels instead of croissants.    

          KES isn’t exactly a Story Council product but it’s still not like I can do what I like.  Out there in the aether somewhere it has been noted that Kestrel MacFarquhar is a slightly more official Robin McKinley alter ego than the ‘my heroines are idealised versions of me’ line that applies to most of Robin McKinley’s published books.  That still doesn’t mean I get to do what I like. 

            Sigh. 

^^ b_twin_1

The other thing about going today is that us abbey ringers, both the real ones and the grim hangers-on like me, are on holiday for August.

HUH? … no ringing for a month..? 

What an appalling idea.  No, the abbey hires itself out, week by week every August, to other bands seriously insane enough to want a crack at a tower with thirty-two bells.  Whoever’s week it is, they ring the Sunday services.  I have no idea why this is the system, but it’s apparently a long-standing one.

            This is still the south of England.  Area-wide we may be short of ringers—and we are, or I wouldn’t be trying to ring at the abbey and they wouldn’t be letting me in the door—but there are still a lot of towers around.  I have no intention of personally taking August off. 

Audrey Falconer

I am off to one of the larger towers in town. Will be interesting. More bells. And they’re hung anti-clockwise. 

Anti-clockwise.  Brrrrrr.  We’ve got some of those around here but I’ve managed to avoid them so far.  I confuse easily.  Please report back. 

** Diane in MN

Yesterday and today we’ve had several more interesting encounters with other dogs and hellhounds have not reacted so they haven’t morphed into little paranoia machines at least—at least not yet.

My guess would be that they would not do so, especially at their age. I think it’s very likely that they might decide that certain dogs–like the one that stalked you into town–demand a certain response, especially since your response travels right down the lead to them, but I’d be surprised if they generalized that to all dogs or even to all unknown dogs. 

I so hope you’re right.  You’re certainly right about the way your critters pick up your reaction.  Anyone who’s ever ridden a horse knows the way the horse picks up what you’re thinking through your legs and hands.  And how many cats disappear before you actually get the travelling-crate-which-means-the-vet out? 

Rachel

Have walked with small child. Same issue. Dogs jaws at child face-height. Child frightened. “But he’s friendly…” from owner 

I entirely agree.   Of course child is frightened.  Child is being sensible.  But . . . dog that messes with another dog, eh, says authority, it’s only a dog.  Dog that messes with small child is in serious trouble.  It’s perfectly true that the dog owner can claim that the kid antagonised it in some way—which is exactly what happened to me as a teenager once, when this rabid monster came boiling out from behind its house with some kid of the household in hot pursuit, an obvious escapee, you know?  And I stopped, having been taught to stop if confronted by a dog in a bad mood . . . and it raced up to me and sank its teeth in my leg.^  The kid of the household clearly knew that both he and his dog were in big trouble . . . but after I had reported it to the police and gone to the doctor to have my leg looked at, the woman the police spoke to said I’d come into their yard and threatened the dog. 

            Anyway.  I don’t think a dog that damages, or tries to damage, a kid little enough to have its face at dog level, is going to have a long and happy life.  Nor frelling should it^^, although if the situation gets to last posts the owner should receive the lethal injection with the dog.  But the other side of that is idiot parents who let their offspring have tantrums under some dog’s nose.  In some cases I haven’t been sure if this is extreme excitement or extreme terror, but it’s inappropriate.  My guys basically like everyone—with the recent occasional exception of belligerent other dogs—but they are a little dismayed by the very mixed signals some of these kids give.  And I’ve seen other, nervier dogs growl a keep-away . . . and my sympathy in those cases is with the dog.  

Catherine

. . . I shut it up in the enclosed carpark of the Gospel Chapel and phoned the non-emergency police number to let someone know it was there. . . . Eventually the police phoned back . . . to say the dog warden declined to collect it because it was unattended. 

WHAT?  So what happened to the poor frelling dog? 

^ Bare leg, in fact.  Perhaps my aversion to shorts began then. 

^^ Southdowner will come rampaging in here and talk about retraining and rehoming.  Yes.  But it’s a sticky issue.  (As Southdowner would be the first to acknowledge.)  A dog that has bitten will bite again.  I have put up with a level of unreliability with various dogs I’ve lived with, dogsat for, and owned, but . . . I’ve never forgotten that they’re unreliable and I’m a grownup. 

 ** Which are mostly full of book boxes.  Sigh.

† It may just have moved up the list a little. 

†† This is one of those things you can’t depend on, but it is the result of hellhounds and I/me being in each other’s company all the time.  I haven’t specifically trained them to be all over me like a cheap suit, but that is their default position:  when in doubt, lie down in the room with the hellgoddess in it, even if it’s a strange room.  The hellgoddess yelling at inanimate objects is, of course, not at all strange.