Four Legs Good - Cassie and Crombie

We’d had cats, hamsters and gerbils when the children were small. What they really wanted was a dog. When the last of the gerbils passed away, the pleas began again.  It wouldn’t be a problem, after all, I was a stay-at-home mum. Well, that’s how it looked because I was home when they were. The five days a week I spent working in the infants’ school had clearly gone over their heads. A dog. A responsibility. Another family member. My husband and I thought about it.

A lot had been going on in our family. The children had been faced with both parents having serious illnesses which had turned their lives inside out and upside down for the best part of a year. I was convinced that we weren’t both going to make it – we did, there we were and here we still are. The experience changed my attitude about some things. Should I become ill again and not survive, didn’t want the children to have a lasting memory of me, a mean mother never letting them have a dog. There were conditions, discussed between ourselves before involving the children. Firstly, no puppies. We would find a rescue dog. The chosen one had to suit everybody because it would be a family pet and looked after by all. Everyone had to feel comfortable taking it out for a walk. We studied the traits and behaviours of likely breeds and decided to approach Spring Spaniel Rescue. Before going ahead, we involved the children.

We sat round the table at tea time. Everyone had a small piece of paper, placed face down. Stay with me on this, I don’t need to explain how (daft) we are sometimes. It’s just family stuff. With much giddiness between the four of us, it was time to reveal our ‘words’, starting with the children. I had the last turn. Child 1 ‘We’, Child 2 ‘Are’, Dad ‘Getting’, Mum ‘A Dog’. Delighted, excited children.

Cassie was the perfect dog for us at that time. She was an old lady of a Springer Spaniel, thought to be ten years old, taken in by Springer Spaniel Rescue after her time as a breeding bitch ceased. They couldn’t tell us much, except she had been in sad, neglectful circumstances. The rescue centre had looked after her, restored her health and ready to be rehomed, she was ours. Love was all she needed and we had an endless supply. She was too old and infirm to chase balls or do much running about, but she loved her daily walks. Four legs nearly good. We know we gave her the best we could in her twilight years. It was heart-breaking for all of us when despite the efforts of our vet and our constant care, Cassie couldn’t recover from what we believe was a stroke and we had to say goodbye.

The level of grief was enormous. No more dogs.

The ‘no more dogs’ didn’t last very long. Our son helped a friend out by having her dog stay with us for a few days. She wanted to rehome him, but unfortunately he wasn’t a dog for us. Having him around showed me what we were missing. A compromise. We couldn’t keep this dog as he was too big and strong for me to handle, but if everyone agreed, we would approach Springer Spaniel Rescue again.

Crombie joined us as if he’d always been part of our family. Four years old and full of beans, he spun me round and round in the kennels car park before leaping into the hatchback, eager to get strapped in and make the journey to his new home. Bursting with energy and always raring to go, this was a springer behaving like a springer. Cassie had paved the way, building our confidence, preparing us for Crombie. He was a perfect dog for us, as Cassie had been, but in a different way. Springers are intelligent dogs, needing lots of exercise and challenges. Crombie, trained to Kennel Club Gold standard was exceptionally good company. Our children and later, grandchildren adored him. He must have covered every blade of grass on the field close to our house every day. He learnt his way round Dumfries and Galloway, instantly recognising where he was when we turned off the main road and followed the lane to the lodges where we like to stay. He wasn’t best friends with the vet in Kirkcudbright, but he knew he needed help and was respectful. We both whimpered with seasickness on the long journey to the Isle of Barra, but soon recovered to run on the beach. Part of the family he really was and we took him everywhere. Four legs good. Old age and infirmity began to compromise him. We knew what was coming. I couldn’t face up to it until we really had no choice.

Three years on and we still miss him, but I really mean it when I say ‘No more dogs’.

I found this,

The Power of the Dog

“There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie –
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To rick your heart to a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns
Then you will find – it’s your own affair –
But, you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still)!
When the spent that answered your every mood
Is gone – whenever it goes – for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ‘em, the more we do grieve.

For when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long.
So why in Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?”

Rudyard Kipling 1865 – 1936

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Zen Stripes

Unlike Magical Mr Mistoffelees, I couldn't produce a cat poem right out of the poetical hat to order the other week (so ended up writing about catsup instead); but here, finally, is my cat blog.

If we have to be categorised as cat people or dogmatised as dog people, then I am most definitely of the former and have been owned  by several very fine felines in my time.

The domestic moggy was probably first brought to these (British) shores from the eastern Mediterranean by Phoenician sailors. Cat skeletons have been found in pre-Roman Iron Age hill-forts in southern England dating back to 300 BC. It is likely they were originally ships' cats, protecting the grain that the Phoenicians brought to Britain from the ravages of mice on the long voyage.

Cats quickly became prized for their rat- and mouse-catching skills. According to 10th century documents, a newborn kitten was valued at one penny, the same as a piglet or a lamb; and the price of an adult she-cat was four pence, making her as valuable as a full-grown sheep or goat. In divorce cases, the husband had the right to take one cat from the household, but any others belonged to the wife. There were also quite hefty fines for killing a cat.

As well as keeping granaries free of mice, cats also helped to slow the progress of various waves of rat-borne plagues as they swept across Europe from the 6th century onwards, though being susceptible to bubonic plague themselves, cats will also have died in huge numbers.

In medieval times, they got some bad press from the Roman Catholic church which sanctioned the maiming and killing of cats on the grounds that they might be witches in disguise, but they survived such persecutions and in a more enlightened age cats have become firmly established as household pets.

This is the story of one such...

Zen was a marbled grey tabby. He had the most beautiful fur of any cat I've had the pleasure to have known. Tabby, to describe a cat with a striped coat, ultimately derives via the old French word atabis (meaning 'striped'), from the ancient town of Attabiy near Baghdad, which was famed for its production of a very stylish striped cloth. Tabby first found its way into common English parlance in the 17th century.

As well as being striped, Zen was remarkably sociable and very wise. He was born in a museum in the middle of a busy London roundabout, not the safest of places for a cat to grow up; so he was dropped into my life (literally) as a present from my somewhat inebriated housemate Bernadette, deposited from within the confines of her jacket as a newly-weaned kitten onto my bed at two o'clock on the morning of my 25th birthday. We lived in a mews house (no pun intended) in Camden, in a quiet cul-de-sac untroubled by the constant flow of traffic, so young Zen was able to explore the world at leisure. We only had a front-door (no rear garden) and that didn't feature a cat-flap as planning regulations wouldn't permit it, so Zen had to ask to go out or come in and spent most of every day roaming his locale. This included some big old gardens with orchards, various workshops (as is often the case in London mews) and  a couple of warehouses. I'm sure he found mice a-plenty, though he never brought them home. He would sleep on the end of my bed at night, would be waiting for me on the wall at the end of the street when I came home from work each evening and would often trot beside us to the local pub in summer and curl up under the table in a manner that would put many a dog to shame. His favourite tipple was water with a dash of vinegar and he had a taste for olives.

I used to talk to Zen a lot and he would commune with me after his fashion. Our views on life, love, politics and the pleasure of a tasty herring were very similar. Although he has been gone for years, I miss his calm presence and graceful poise...

Zen
Scrutable stripeling,
rapt in contemplation
of a sparrow bush,
the soundless brush
of one tail waving
denotes
complete absorption.

Hsu is a happy hexagram -
K'an above with
Ch'ien below
betokens
waiting, nourishment.

True to your essential being,
strength lies in patience,
perseverance brings good fortune.
The gift of food
comes in its own time.

Lucky cat,
your dish
already holds a brisling
if you did but know.
Sparrows fly.


Thanks for reading. Have a good week, S ;-)

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Bells

      It’s a pleasure to be asked to write this week’s Lancashire Dead Good Poets Blog, on the subject of Bells. Looking at previous weeks blogs these are big shoes to fill, so please join me on an Indian summer’s day meander through a printable selection of the 20,000 random thoughts I will have today.

       Poetry has been described, like the eyes, as a window to the soul. In his poem ‘for whom the bell tolls’ 16^th century poet John Donne explores the interconnectedness of humanity. It is from this piece that we get the phrase ‘no man is an island’ made popular by Ernest Hemingway in a novel about the Spanish civil war and his 1943 screen play ‘for whom the bell tolls’, featuring the late (and very pretty) Ingrid Bergman. A timely reference as I look in horror at the plight and treatment of innocent families fleeing Syria. I’m sure I’m not an island on that topic. There is a stark and severe non-interconnectedness of humanity about that.

       I was fortunate to go to a local (Fylde Coast) private school. I got a free place because Mum was poor. Like all schools we moved by the bell. Thankfully there was a good sense of camaraderie, and some inspiring teachers, especially English. It was here I first became interested in poetry; Ted Hughes stood out against a backdrop of painful Taylor-Coleridge ramblings, as did Wilde and also the War Poets.  It’s topical to mention as we approach the centennial anniversary of Wilfred Owens enlistment to fight in World War One. His observational poetry of that time, in my opinion, remains unrivalled. Owens ‘Anthem for Doomed Youth’ captures the true internal turmoil of war, likening men to cattle, and almost certain death not followed by the ‘mockery’ of a church burial:

 What passing-bells for those who die like cattle?
     Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
     Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
     Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-
The shrill demented choirs of wailing shells;
     And bugles calling them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
     Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
     The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
     And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

        On a lighter note, references to bells are prevalent amongst children’s nursery rhymes. You can get some vitamin C advice, and anticipate future wealth from ‘The Bells of St Clements.” I’m not one for wishing misfortune on any living thing, but Little Johnny Flynn (of “Ding Dong Bell” fame) can plop my neighbour’s cat down a well to stop it defecating all over my garden. I have children. It stinks.  My neighbour once said if I got a cat it would stop their cat doing it. I don’t want a cat. It’s like saying to a non-smoker who quite rightly hates the smell of cigarette smoke “start smoking then you won’t notice it.”

        Anyway back to ‘bells.’ Whilst most discount retail stores are laden with Halloween paraphernalia, some garden centres and card shops have just gone straight for Christmas themes (some since the summer).  Cue bell mania.  Edgar Allen Poe really goes for it in his prose/poem ‘The Bells’ where he covers Christmas, weddings, war, bell ringers and ancient Britons.  Poe’s appetite for reflective philosophy is awakened in the following final couplet from the two stanza dream within a dream:

Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

        The sound of a church bell ringing out on a summers afternoon is quintessentially English. That with the crack of leather on willow, snug cottages overgrown with ivy, unnecessary politeness, babbling streams, grocers shops and shiny motor cars. But what’s this? Church bells are bad for your health, as ruled by North Hertfordshire District Council in 2013, silencing the bells at St Mary’s in Ashwell Hertfordshire on health grounds.  St Martin’s Church in Liskeard Cornwall was also silenced following complaints from someone who lived 300 metres away. Near enough, I would say, to spot a church upon viewing the house? It’s a bit like buying a house next to a pub and being surprised by rowdy people on the street around 11pm I guess.  The best ‘hells bells’ story must go to an unnamed pensioner from Sharow, near Ripon, North Yorkshire who locked some bell ringers in the bell tower when they refused to stop the ‘peal’ (some 5,040 individual rings). The team had travelled up from the home counties to practice. Eeeh its grim up north.

That’s the end of the bell blog. You could say it’s the bellen…. aah no lets keep it clean.

Muchos Amor

Ian Rusetear

Blackpool

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Catsup

What's up? Catsup!

Trust your Saturday blogger to take a theme [Cats] by the tail and tweak it some, (though not seriously enough to cause it injury)...

I've been doing this blogging for a year now, so you should know to expect the unexpected from me. Yes, this is a first anniversary post and it's going out before breakfast, no less. Why the early blog? It's the Glorious Eighth - dawn of a new football season. I'm off to Colchester shortly to see what my beloved Seasiders (Blackpool FC) can serve up on the field of play: new manager, new players, new strip - in my case, the 'ethical boycott alternative shirt): Blackpool's alternative shirt 
My turn to expect the unexpected; and I probably won't be back this side of midnight.

Cats like fish, agreed? even if they are allergic to it. (My schooldays friend James had a big white cat that loved sardines, but its fur would fall out in handfuls every time it ate one.) Therefore cats ought to have lapped up Catsup in its original form. I've been doing some research. It was devised [as koe-sap] in China in the 16th century, a sauce made of pickled fish and spices; by the 17th century it was a popular fish-based table sauce in Malaya [key-chap], where it was discovered by English explorers. The English championed the sauce and it was English settlers who in turn took it to America in the 18th century. Over time, firstly mushrooms and then tomatoes were added to the mix and the fish quotient diminished and disappeared, an evolution which can be charted through the early tomato-based recipes of the 19th century which still featured anchovies among the ingredients. Nowadays, catsup (as it's known in much of the USA), or ketchup as we call it, is mostly a tomato-based sauce with honey, vinegar and spices added.

Camden's Original Recipe Blue Label Catsup caught my eye. Manufactured to the highest quality in Portland, Oregon, using only organic ingredients, Camden's Catsup claims to be "Pure happiness in a bottle", an attractive phrase that got me thinking, ultimately inspiring my latest (slightly weird) poem - a paean to pureed tomatoes - below. I don't have any Blue Label Catsup to hand, but if I did I'd be squirting it right now over my Full English Breakfast! There you go...

Happiness In A Bottle
Shake before use, you said,
to ensure a good mix
of this elixir;
best before date
stated on base.
I read "tomorrow"
stamped in plastic.
Curious indeed.

Squeeze me, you teased,
unguent and shapely.
Bottle to plate,
your essence flowed
like sticky sweet blood
and I, your latest paraclete,
did sup.
Curiouser still
you tasted good,
a tonic euphoric,
sauce for the synapse.

All hail, then, the pickle-maker,
Pauline preserver of souls!
It's hardly transubstantiation,
this conflation of pureed tomatoes
with vinegar and spice,
but most curious of all,
its aromatic pleasure
proves for a fleeting measure
that happiness
can be a catsup state of mind.

Thanks for reading. Have a tasty week, S ;-)

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"I tort I taw a puddy tat! ... I did! I did see a puddy tat!!"

Ah Tweety! Poor old Sylvester's nemesis. Then there's Jerry of course. Tormenting Thomas (Tom to me and you), and getting him a whopping with a broom. Tsk tsk, naughty Jerry! Yes I prefer the cat characters to the others. I had a quick look on-line to see how many cats are in cartoons alone and was very surprised.

If I were to have a pet, it would be a cat. I like dogs but I'm afraid that I find them too "labour intensive", whereas cats, well they're much more independent. We've had family pets over the years, including 3 cats (namely Marmalade, Domino and Tigger), and they were my favourites to be fair. Sadly Marmalade (an un-neutered ginger Tom) ran away, Domino (a black and white rescue cat) had been badly treated by her previous owners and then when we took her in, she developed cancer and we had to have her put to sleep poor thing. Tigger (a tortoiseshell) however, stuck around for a good many years. He was a very good cat and would even bring home the occasional "gift" and leave it on the back step, but sadly got knocked down when out one day. He died at the vets. That was the late 90's and we haven't had another cat since.

So although, my track record with cats isn't exactly fantastic, I do love them. I wrote this weeks' poem with Tigger in mind. The picture above bears an uncanny resemblance to him.


Cat:

Lithe feline,
whether leaping or lazing,
stalking or scrapping,
how do you make 
everything seem
so effortless?
With poker faced practise
you look on,
dispassionate,
or occasionally
with contemptible glare,
when the blink
comes slowly.
Resonant purr
vibrates
through my chest cavity,
while your paws
knead
with a peek-a-boo
needle touch.
So independent,
yet needy.
Seeking strokes
or a lap
to curl up on.
The closeness
a comfort
as well as a warm.
While we turn to our beds
at night,
having snoozed the day away
you explore your domain,
marking your boundaries
and perhaps seek some tail? 
But an expression
of affection
lies dead
on my doorstep
in the morning.


Thanks for reading. ;-) x

P.S. Don't forget the Open Mic night tonight! It starts at the slightly earlier time of 17:30 hrs at a new venue for us - Cafe Dolce, Abingdon Street, Blackpool. The theme is Cats, although it's not mandatory, so come along and listen or read. We look forward to seeing you there!!

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Cats - treat them mean...

My father was a big fan of Tom & Jerry. When they were on TV every weekday night before the six o’clock news, he would open the pub doors and let customers in but would watch the cartoon to the end before he served them.  He enjoyed his little indulgence and it kept him within the strict licensing laws.  

We had a kitten – he bought it when we first moved into the 16C coaching inn  - as soon as he realised that we had little visitors. Lots of them.  The place was over-run.  Mum arrived with the furniture three days later than him.  He and my Aunt spent those days making the place habitable.  He always says that if Mum had seen it from day one, she would have walked straight out again. Mice were nesting in the back of the cooker and the insulation at the back of the fridge.  They ran along the shelves in the bar and jumped out of cupboards.  There were other problems too.  As soon as Mum arrived, the place was closed to customers and Rentokil were summoned.

The kitten was a pure white, half-Persian, ball of fluff and so beautiful that she was given the fearful name Mimi.  Enough to send shivers down the spine of any mouse! Mimi was supposed to be a mouser.  Poor Dad had no chance – all the girls who worked for Mum in the kitchen gave her titbits, fresh salmon, cream.  She was spoilt rotten, lazy and to my knowledge never bothered to run after anything other than a ball of wool.  I would often dress her in my dolls clothes and sit her in a chair.

I have a photo of Mimi curled up on the floor, with our German Shepherd,  Zalme.  My Nana's beloved , bright yellow budgie is perched on her head. It was a very interesting pet perspective and not one bit Tom & Jerry.  Once Mimi brought home a mole.  Poor creature must have emerged right under her nose. Dad was not at all impressed.  Eventually he took her to the vet and returned with the news that Mimi was a tom cat. My brothers re-named him TC.  A suitable name for a cat with an attitude.

I don’t have a pet now. I feel strongly about leaving animals locked up all day and even more strongly about letting them roam. I have the care of two gardens and am frequently frustrated by small deposits among the rose beds and my veg plot. I also love wild birds.  After Dad died, I found an unused birdhouse, that he had made, in his shed.  Within days of attaching it to my sycamore tree, blue tits moved in and the box has produced a clutch of eggs each year since 1999. My little pals keep me entertained and the local moggies keep me on my toes.  This year one sat on top of the nest box with a paw in the entrance.  I had to shoo it away with my clothes prop.

A few weeks ago, I had left the back door open because the day was very warm (yes, there has been one warm day this year!)  I was sitting here at my desk when a large ginger cat strolled past me into the living room. I politely showed it the way out.  An hour later a dirty great spider came out of the corner and ran across the carpet.  I found myself wishing that I had a cat. Even Mimi could catch a spider!

 

Tomorrow ( Friday 7th August) we are hosting our Dead Good open mic night on the theme 'cats', so I have been re-reading T.S Eliot's - Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats.  It is a magical volume of poems, a delight to all generations and the inspiration for Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical 'Cats', showing at the magnificent Opera House, here in Blackpool until 5th September.  I have written especially for the event at Caffe Dolce and am reluctant to reveal my poem before I read it live.  I hope you will come and join the fun.  In the meantime, I will leave you with this ...

 

Pretty Miss Mimi

 

I used to belong to a family

who fed me fresh salmon and cream,

I tried to be nice but I couldn’t catch mice,

I didn’t like hearing them scream.

They thought I was lazy, maybe I’m crazy

but I’m a tom cat– not a she.

I took a career path that suited my style,

no kitty on earth is as pretty as me.

 

I'm Mimi Lamour, the cat they adore,

I’m strutting my stuff in burlesque,

I prowl in the foyer at Funny Girls show,

my elegant fur is as white as the snow.

I’m dripping with diamonds and pearls,

though I’ll never be one of the girls,

Lloyd Webber’ is calling for my caterwauling
Broadway is sending a scout,

So if anyone rings and asks for a mouser,

my darlings, just tell them I’m out!


P.S My earliest recollection of reading poetry aloud was Dr Seuss, The Cat in The Hat.

No wonder I rhyme! Hope to see some of you tomorrow evening.

Thanks for reading - Adele. 

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Cats

This week's title of "Cats" made me think back to an early poem I wrote in 1965 " Epitaph to a Cat " - yet we'd never had a cat , only a dog. Where the idea came from I have no idea. So here to start us off is the said poem :-

                   Epitaph to a Cat

        Dear, dear Puss now you are gone
        I will miss your mewing and tuneless song,
        Your endless fun with a ball of string -
        Oh, Puss ! I'm going to miss your everything.

        The cute way you drank your milk,
        The day you tore my scarf of silk -
        Oh, Yes ! I scolded you I know.
        But dear, dear Puss I miss you so.

  I consider myself a 'dog' person, having been brought up with a dog, then having a dog of my own for 13 years. So it comes as a surprise that I've had 2 cats , and taken care of a cat these past 25 years !

 When my first husband left my son wanted a cat and so "Baloo" came into my life - that was OK as she was really a Rottweiller in a cat skin ! When my son decided not to move with myself and second husband, but to go elsewhere - the cat couldn't go with him and so "Baloo" came with us ( much to the delight of my new husband who adored cats ). " Baloo" ruled him with an iron fist, biting him each day to assert her place of 'top cat', and yet they were inseparable. Many years later we moved to this area and " Baloo" settled into life in our motorhome whilst we looked for somewhere to live. So a new president was formed- she now came camping with us. Never making any attempt to leave the van, but content to sleep on the back seat. She lived to the ripe old age of 19 and I broke my heart having to take her to be put to sleep, because in her mature years she had relied on me to cuddle her as we rolled along in the van.

 Six ' cat free' months passed and my husband expressed a desire to have a cat again. This time " Lady " joined us as a rescue cat. Her age, history, name was unknown. She was timid, frightened when I sneezed ( she always was ! ), hated change around the home.....but loved the motorhome ! She was a well-travelled cat..many times round Scotland, fishing trips to lakes all over the north of England. I photographed and wrote of  her adventures for the rescue centre newsletter. I took her walking on a lead and harness . " Lady " was soft and cuddly, loved our company and never strayed. When my husband died she took to sleeping beside me and I'd put my hand out and feel her closeness and soothe her , as she tended to have ' bad ' dreams. I got a static caravan in the Yorkshire Dales and she came with me, venturing out around the van and rushing in at anything that frightened her !

It was a great shock to me when she died beside me - - I thought she was having another bad dream and I put my hand out and stroked her telling her, "It's alright, it'll all be gone by the morning " . -- and it was . I woke at 4am and she was gone. One of the worst days of my life. My last link to my husband had gone. I buried her myself and broke my heart at every spadeful of soil that I turned over. I am weeping now as I tell you !
 Not long after, a cat started to come round to 'visit' me ... he still does. I contacted his owner ( to make sure that he had someone ). Every day he comes and has a little food and a cuddle. He lies and stares up into my face. But NO I lead too busy a life now to let another full time pet be part of it. When they depart they leave such a void..........

        LADY -

My eyes are aching, the tears are dry
I tell you this - I'm too tired to cry.
This day , for me, has been very hard
Such unexpected heartache - caught me off guard.
My best friend, the one I talked to is gone forever....

Kath Curtiss

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Totally devoted to green

Totally devoted to green

Oh Green,

I am so hopeful,

That the fields and the trees will stay,

And fill my vista for mile and miles,

Evoking the medium wavelength triggers of the M cone cells in my eyes everyday.

Oh Green,

You are not blue.

More a Mixture of cyan and yellow in the subtractive colour system in print,

One of the three additive lights of screens,

The colour of a spearmint.

Oh Green,

You so lovely,

As de Bono's creative thinking hat.

The shine of Jade and Emeralds,

The probably glow of Schrödinger’s cat.

Oh Green,

I am so jealous,

Of your soft warm natural hue.

And in the continuum of colours of visible light,

You are located between Yellow and Blue.

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Old Rivals

Good afternoon readers. 

This week on the blog, we've been looking at Cats vs Dogs, a theme so divisive it could rival Margaret Thatcher. Personally, I've only ever had cats. I'd like a dog but my girlfriend won't allow it and, to be honest, I'd rather keep the balls I have than 'grow some' bigger ones and have them cut off. For this reason, Cats v Dogs isn't really something that sparked me off this week. I don't have much of a preference- mainly based on the above reason and the fact we already have a cool, fairly easy going cat. 

For me the theme got me thinking about the old cliche- fighting like cats and dogs. As first born, I was the oldest child in the family. I was top dog, top cat, top banana for those that can't pick. It is a perk of being the eldest. Oldest cousin, oldest brother... I got used to winning. Anyway, these days, the age gap is relatively insignificant. He has yet to waste key years of his life, whereas I've done that. He has yet to do the Uni thing but I've done that. That aside, he has pretty much caught me up and as life propels us forwards ever faster, I decided it was appropriate to write a poem on it. 

Obviously, as a big brother, I get to make all the mistakes first. He is going to Uni this September. He took time out, decided on a course and seems to have found something he wants to do, which is a bonus in comparison. £9k a year pissed against a wall you could argue. I'm sure it'll be priceless when he tops all my grades. 

Old Rivals

I remember when we fought like cat and dog

When you broke my hand as I clobbered your head

When I broke yours back with a cricket slog

Fighting most days we would bicker and squabble

Then forget all about it, go off seeking trouble.

Frogs were chased along ditches, we would steal their young

We’d gather them up and take jars stuffed full home

Where the soft-glass like marbles would shine on the side

Before being emptied out, we had nowhere to hide them-

Small boys competing though- Who was biggest? Who was quick?

Who could catch one using their bare hands? Who dared to touch it?

Then one year, with a fish tank in the outhouse set up ready,

We went exploring as a team behind our father’s plot

After thrashing through brambles, we caught a tadpole- Pepsi

Named so as it swam into our plastic bottle top

What a catch- nothing much first but soon it grew bigger

We nursed it and cherished it, awaiting our frog

Only one day, the fish tank was cleaned by our mother

Tap water plus a tadpole equals one lifeless blob.

How I miss those days, how I miss making a fool of you

The job of big brother was to drag you along

Whilst you whinged and you whined like a soft little puppy

Though not Andrex, for back then you were soft but not strong.

There are big brother codes you see, ways to win arguments

Perfected through time to stay ahead of young ones

And for years I could beat you, I’d be tops at whatever

Biggest tadpole, fastest climber, then eventually none-

You grew up, could compete and then started to beat me

I never thought that would happen- I soon found I’d been wrong.

All those years, all those races, all those five year gap thrashings

All the comebacks, all the nearly times, all that lending a hand

They’re behind you, little brother and you’re something unthinkable  

Almost enviable, you've grown tall and become your own man.

,

 Thanks for reading,
Shaun. 

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Fifty Shades of Dog

by Ashley Lister

There are many different kinds of dogs:

There are smelly dogs, fat belly dogs; scratchy dogs and snatchy dogs; mad dogs, bad dogs, glad dogs and sad dogs; happy dogs, snappy dogs, scrappy dogs and crappy dogs; greedy dogs, seedy dogs, needy dogs and weedy dogs; ball-chasing dogs, ball-catching dogs, ball-licking dogs. Dogs that growl. Dogs that howl. Dogs that look like Simon Cowell. Dogs that piddle on a towel. Dogs that steal. Dogs that feel. Dogs that walk to a master’s heel. Pretty dogs. Shitty dogs. Dogs-chased-by-a-kitty dogs. (Pretty shitty dogs). Cuddly dogs. Ugly dogs. Really, eerily fugly dogs. Grey dogs. Gay dogs. Like-to-go-out-and-play dogs. Skinny dogs. Swimmy dogs. Acting-like-a-ninny dogs. Dogs that like noise. Dogs that like boys. Dogs that growl if you touch their toys. Dogs that walk. Dogs that talk. Posh dogs that eat with a knife and fork. Dogs that chase birds. Dogs that eat turds. Dogs that ignore all your spoken words. Dirty dogs. Shirty dogs. Territorially squirty dogs. Mucky dogs. Lucky dogs. Much-too-fond-of-nookie dogs. Like-to-eat-a-cookie dogs. Black dogs. White dogs. Dark dogs. Light dogs. Spotty, stinking, grotty, thinking, barking, larking, playing up in Stanley Park(ing) dogs.

But there is only one type of cat: the cat who is silently plotting to take over the world. 

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Ladies or Gentlemen, dogs or cats?

When it comes to aligning oneself with a team, be it football (I am a Manchester City fan ever since my Father met me Mother), or computers (I think Apple products look nice but are over priced), or phones (again, not Apple). But by far the one that will cause more arguments, more sarcasm to be thrown around, more name calling than any other is, cats or dogs?

In the majority of cases each camp would not like to see the other ill, it's more a “who's best?” war rather than total annihilation. They will harp on about loyalty (dogs) and independences (cats), stupidity (dogs) and intelligence (cats), good companions (dogs) and the evil with in your own home just waiting for the chance to kill you (cats)

I have owned both, more cats than dogs to be fair. I prefer looking after cats for the reason of not needing to be the centre of their attention all the time, makes them easier to look after, (feed, let out, let in, feed, and be there sometimes to pet). Dogs need you more (feed, walk, play, look at, are you still there, I'll get it, play, walk, feed)

But I think the major attributes we see in these animals that attracts us in a particular direction is gender. Not of the creature itself, but of the species.

All dogs are male, including the girl ones. And all cats are female, including the boy ones.

This is very true in language “He's a dog”, “Meow, she's got the claws out”. Yes a woman can be referred to as a “dog” but that is an appearance thing not a personality.

Here are two lists pointing out what I mean.

Proof that all dogs are male including the girl ones:

1. They are completely predictable. You know exactly what is going to happen in any given situation.

2. They are completely obsessed with their own, and other people genitals. And are rubbish at hiding the fact.

3. They can not hear you talking to them from 6 inches away but can hear a food packet being opened from a mile away.

4. Let them lye on the couch and it becomes theirs forever.

5. Test if something is bad for you by eating it to see what happens

6. If treated right will be loyal, if treated wrong may turn. In both cases prone to doing something stupid.

7. If upset, they don't say anything, just sulk and growl.

8. Bad smells emanate from their rear regularly

9. Will often consume large amount of stuff that's make them sick, look at you in a pathetic way telling you it will never happen again, then consume the same again the next night.

Proof that all cats are female including the boy ones:

1. Unpredictable. Think you know what's going to happen, guess again.

2. They expect to be worshipped all the time.

3. They look cute and frail but are quite capable of ripping off a nad snack with one swipe should you get something wrong.

4. When you call them, it's up to them whether they turn up or not.
5. They leave their hair all over the place, even in areas you think they've never been.

6. Will only greet you when you get home because they want to.

7. It is their opinion that you only exist on the earth to make they happy, when they want you to.

So is the real question, boys or girls?

Adabted from an original list obtained from http://mrjam.typepad.com/diary/2009/02/dogs-are-male-cats-are-female.html by By Nury Vittachi"

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I Would Miss...

At the moment, with winter’s cold temperatures nipping, the idea of being stranded on a desert island is quite appealing. Those who know me will be aware of my dislike of the icy conditions – at my boyfriend’s parents’ house, my spot is the one next to the fire, while friends and family buy me gifts to ward off the cold: hot water bottles, fluffy socks, flasks and warm jumpers (all very much appreciated).

So, thinking about what I wouldn’t miss (the British weather) made me wonder what I would miss if I was stranded on a desert island:

Books – Yes, I could take a handful with me, but I would miss having the luxury of choice. Often I read (especially poetry) based on how I’m feeling at that moment; diving in and out of different books until I find something that seems compatible with my current mood.

Bubble Baths – the perfect conclusion to those ‘bad days’.

Roo – My cat; a stray who can’t purr, has more attitude than a stroppy teenager and who likes to chew toes.

My Nephews – They’re still little, still growing, still learning new things.

Shaun – Often his constant talk and messiness irritates me, but if he suddenly vanished I’d quickly miss him. He makes me laugh, holds me when I cry, inspires me, encourages me and always believes in me.

Thank you for reading,
Lara

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Memento Moribund

*Contains words which some people (probably not my friends and for reasons which I've never really understood) may find offensive*

Last week I killed a cat.  So my teenage daughter tells me.  I took a popular image of a grumpy cat and added some text.  It was a political comment.  It required a bit of thinking.  It wasn't funny.  Contemporary humour - I'm doing it wrong.  It's an age thing.

This week an old lady phoned my workplace and told me about the trouble she was having with her new phone.  You're thinking about the difficulty in adapting to the Android platform after using iOS arent you?  No - she was struggling with a new touchpad phone...On her landline (remember those?).  For her, this was a mammoth leap.  Not for her trending buzzwords or memes.  And not for me either it appears.  I don't have the necessary inclination, or youth, to keep up with that shit.  I only just figured out how to copy and paste on my tablet.  It took me 2 weeks.

And now, with a hop to the right, a shuffle backwards and an undignified lurch into a ditch, here are some vaguely comedic offerings which grew out of the awkward theme: Child's Play. 


Vicky's Very Helpful Guide to Register 
(or How to Paint Your Personality a Likeable Shade of Puce)

Describing Your Manager's Job Description

To your colleague: I accept that what she does could be described as challenging.
To your mother: It's child's play mum, seriously - even you could do it...Ow!  What was that for?
To your friend: What she does right, it's a fucking piece of piss...A piece...of...piss.


Declaring Your Sincere Gratitude

To your colleague: Ahhh.  You know what, you make a really great brew you do.
To your mother: What? I can't hear you.  Hang on a sec.  Right, what were you saying?  Oh yeah - thanks.
To your friend: Without you, I wouldn't even be here mate.  No, I mean it - you are a hero to me, a bloody hero - you know?  Hero...Like Gandalf or something.


Apologising

To your colleague: I might not have sent that e-mail after all but it really doesn't make much difference if you look at the big picture.
To your mother: Well if you'd said you wanted to leave at 11am, I'd have been here at 11am.  One of us must have got it wrong.
To your friend: No, no, it was me.  Don't you apologise - it's all me.  I'm a right moron.  Here, take my first born in compensation.


Asking a Favour

To a colleague: Ooh, that's going to be awkward....Oh no - I can't believe that's happened...Eek - what am I going to do now?....Ah, seeing as you asked...
To your mother: I'm taking the black dress with the slit up the back.  Remind me to bring it back will you?
To your friend: Right, I'm up the shitty river and I can't roll my sleeves up any further.  What have you got that's paddle-shaped and useful at S&M parties?


Responding to Political Controversy

To a colleague: I'm sure you're right - it'll be good to have a bit of a change.  After all, how much damage can they do in 5 years?
To your mother: I don't care if it was in the Daily Mail - it doesn't make it true in the real world.
To your friend: Cunts.  Creepy, cretinous, clownish cunts.  Huh?  Feminism?  OK...Cocks.  Creepy, cretinous, clownish cocks.

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Writer's Block and a Stubborn Cat

My presence on the laptop has prevented this post from being written!
(Humans: 0 - Cats: 1)

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