I heard the whisper of Spring. It was a deviant lie. the warmth that followed the intense winter rains was quashed by the rolling cold front. the distant grey clouds were flattened into weapons over the icy sea as the traveled inland. small clumps of lanky green grass appeared on the verges. the invasive mulberry trees filled with hairy little green berries and white flowers littered the tops of the avo trees. a false spring ... and mother nature chuckled over her double chin and had another sip of old brown sherry...
Its so easy on a day off to grab a book and while the day away while the tv flickers blurrily on the other side of my glasses. Feeling guilty - I decided to grab a brush and revarnish the music room door. the vervet gang had panelbeated the awning above the door by dropping onto it from the garage roof 10 metres above. after the awning's defeat the winter rains wreaked an assault against the wooden door that left it buckled and swollen and thirsty for attention. Once brush/ varnish/cloth/stirring stick/turps and standing-upon-chair were assembled, I set about the task. Then all hell broke loose:
Riff and Mr Moo flew into battle against a marauding pack of valley dogs. They snapped and snouted thru the bonnex fence wire. It was over in seconds. Mr Moo was unscathed but Riff dripped blood from his neck and nose. Riff is a bleeder - but can't resist a skirmish. So with downcast eyes he answered my call and shuffled onto the deck. I used a poultice of vaseline and applied a pressure bandage. Riff has a PHD in AHD so I fed him a couple of sleeping tabs in a rolled up piece of ham - otherwise he wiggles free of the bandage and the blood doesn't get a chance to coagulate. So back to the job at hand... I invited Riff to accompany me and share the varnish fumes - I figured if I didn't keep my eye on him, he'd lapse into thug mode again and do some serious damage to himself. All the time using Cesar Millan's advice of being in a calm authoritative state, I chatted to him about what I was about to do. The mutts are not always allowed in the front garden so Riff seemed quite complacent and chilled to lie in a patch of sunlight and chew the fat with me.
...and I asked him why he always flew off the handle and got into brawling knowing he'd come off second best? lifting an eyebrow he said the fighting wasn't his intention. despite his AHD personality he said he's pretty happy to let the world fly by... he said he regretted getting me angry and anxious... but you know things happen - there's like a switch inside that clicks over - the adrenaline surges and suddenly the bloody fur flies..."a bit like you?" he suggested...
"yeah - you're right on the button (thinking about recent lunchtime taxi skirmishes)" I replied, "so easy to seek calmness and serenity, but if you're made like us : with a savage side a mere balloon prick away - then you have to tippy toe thru life - like ol' Thomas Moore once said: 'a man should go where he WON'T be tempted' ". we held the silence for a time...
then I asked:
"What do you think of this whole "Woman's Day" thing?"
"are you asking me that - or asking about women in general?" he challenged, and not waiting for my answer, he said: "do you remember that it was a woman who cut my nuts off? oh of course you don't - you were too chicken to even take me to the vet. In fact the only male who was present was the assistant and he had rubber gloves on - like my bollocks were like unclean or something!!"
"hey pal - keep your fur on," I countered, "that op was supposed to calm you down - to make you a little less confrontational."
"again, I can't help thinking, you're still talking about yourself..." he whispered. And when I looked up I saw he had drifted off, perched in my prayer chair with his head on the armrest. and I noticed with relief, that the blood had not seeped thru the bandage, and while his solid chest heaved up and down; I started on the door frame.
When he awoke, he said: "anyway why're you treating me like a pup?" and like right out of the blue I said:
"do you pray?" he became pensive, shifted in his seat and said:
"well - think of it like this - when you see me wagging my tail..."
"wagging your body, you mean"
"...yeah whatever, when I do that, its like a prayer, and when you slide the door open and I show you my stuff, like how fast I can run around the garden, like that kid Moo can't even come close!!. Well that's like how I pray." after a little silence he said:
"but I don't pray to God - its all for you."
"What?!"
"you're the man, my man, my friend, my boss - you give me my spirit... ...and one more thing: dogs can't talk! this is all in your woolly head!!"
he was so right. but I had been spoken to. a man on a plastic chair with an old t-shirt tied around his neck to ward off the wintry breeze. His dog curled up on an old chair. and I sent up a prayer of thanks to God, my Friend, my Boss, the One that gives me Spirit.
Its so easy on a day off to grab a book and while the day away while the tv flickers blurrily on the other side of my glasses. Feeling guilty - I decided to grab a brush and revarnish the music room door. the vervet gang had panelbeated the awning above the door by dropping onto it from the garage roof 10 metres above. after the awning's defeat the winter rains wreaked an assault against the wooden door that left it buckled and swollen and thirsty for attention. Once brush/ varnish/cloth/stirring stick/turps and standing-upon-chair were assembled, I set about the task. Then all hell broke loose:
Riff and Mr Moo flew into battle against a marauding pack of valley dogs. They snapped and snouted thru the bonnex fence wire. It was over in seconds. Mr Moo was unscathed but Riff dripped blood from his neck and nose. Riff is a bleeder - but can't resist a skirmish. So with downcast eyes he answered my call and shuffled onto the deck. I used a poultice of vaseline and applied a pressure bandage. Riff has a PHD in AHD so I fed him a couple of sleeping tabs in a rolled up piece of ham - otherwise he wiggles free of the bandage and the blood doesn't get a chance to coagulate. So back to the job at hand... I invited Riff to accompany me and share the varnish fumes - I figured if I didn't keep my eye on him, he'd lapse into thug mode again and do some serious damage to himself. All the time using Cesar Millan's advice of being in a calm authoritative state, I chatted to him about what I was about to do. The mutts are not always allowed in the front garden so Riff seemed quite complacent and chilled to lie in a patch of sunlight and chew the fat with me.
...and I asked him why he always flew off the handle and got into brawling knowing he'd come off second best? lifting an eyebrow he said the fighting wasn't his intention. despite his AHD personality he said he's pretty happy to let the world fly by... he said he regretted getting me angry and anxious... but you know things happen - there's like a switch inside that clicks over - the adrenaline surges and suddenly the bloody fur flies..."a bit like you?" he suggested...
"yeah - you're right on the button (thinking about recent lunchtime taxi skirmishes)" I replied, "so easy to seek calmness and serenity, but if you're made like us : with a savage side a mere balloon prick away - then you have to tippy toe thru life - like ol' Thomas Moore once said: 'a man should go where he WON'T be tempted' ". we held the silence for a time...
then I asked:
"What do you think of this whole "Woman's Day" thing?"
"are you asking me that - or asking about women in general?" he challenged, and not waiting for my answer, he said: "do you remember that it was a woman who cut my nuts off? oh of course you don't - you were too chicken to even take me to the vet. In fact the only male who was present was the assistant and he had rubber gloves on - like my bollocks were like unclean or something!!"
"hey pal - keep your fur on," I countered, "that op was supposed to calm you down - to make you a little less confrontational."
"again, I can't help thinking, you're still talking about yourself..." he whispered. And when I looked up I saw he had drifted off, perched in my prayer chair with his head on the armrest. and I noticed with relief, that the blood had not seeped thru the bandage, and while his solid chest heaved up and down; I started on the door frame.
When he awoke, he said: "anyway why're you treating me like a pup?" and like right out of the blue I said:
"do you pray?" he became pensive, shifted in his seat and said:
"well - think of it like this - when you see me wagging my tail..."
"wagging your body, you mean"
"...yeah whatever, when I do that, its like a prayer, and when you slide the door open and I show you my stuff, like how fast I can run around the garden, like that kid Moo can't even come close!!. Well that's like how I pray." after a little silence he said:
"but I don't pray to God - its all for you."
"What?!"
"you're the man, my man, my friend, my boss - you give me my spirit... ...and one more thing: dogs can't talk! this is all in your woolly head!!"
he was so right. but I had been spoken to. a man on a plastic chair with an old t-shirt tied around his neck to ward off the wintry breeze. His dog curled up on an old chair. and I sent up a prayer of thanks to God, my Friend, my Boss, the One that gives me Spirit.
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