Bitch on the Blog

August 2, 2017

More dog

Filed under: Amusement,Animals,Beauty,Cats,Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 12:17
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Our perception is shaped by the experiences we have had. It’s why I view the Spitz (the smaller the worse) with deep suspicion. I am convinced Spitz are vicious – by temperament. I wasn’t even jogging. I was riding my bike when this Spitz took a shine to both my left foot and the pedal, yapping away. They certainly expend an awful lot of energy to little effect. A bit like … no, I won’t say it.

The larger the dog the better. Though will draw a line. Anything bigger than a German Shepherd is too big. Mind you, one of the most magnificent dogs (mega) I ever had the privilege to meet was that of LSF’s family. An Hungarian Shepherd (a Kuvasz?). White. Curly fur. The size of a calf. He loved me in a way most unwelcome. What is becoming in a puppy is a bit daunting in an adult. I’d come through the door and – by way of greeting – he (the dog, not my friend) would put his front paws on my shoulders, his head towering over me (at least he didn’t lick my face). Though strong I was only a slip of a girl and, my back being pinned to the back of the door, I’d slowly slide down it under the dog’s weight. Still, sooner or later someone would pass by and save me. Yes, that dog was one hell of a beauty. And a wonderful spirit.

Come to think of it, Spitz aren’t the worst. Collies are. Collies, Lassie not withstanding, are most definitely prone to neurotic behaviour. Mental. Mind you, some say the same of Dobermans. I once read a book written from the point of view of a Doberman. I was about twelve. Heartbreaking. I cried. Let no one say anything about Dobermans. Intelligent dogs. I believe most dogs to be a reflection of their owner and Dobermans appear to be particularly sensitive. So if you come across a disturbed Doberman beware of the owner.

Then there are the aesthetically dubious ones – like naked dogs. Say, those racing dogs – greyhounds. Though, in their long legged way, they are rather elegant – a bit like Coco Chanel in her little black dress, tooth hound black and white box jacket and a string of pearls.

Some dogs I’d rather not comment on. Otherwise I’ll have John and Winnie on my case.

Oh yes, not to forget the Dackel. A small sausage dog. Very sweet. Enormously trusting. Beautiful auburn colour. My youngest sister pestered my father for one till he cracked. Tini (pronounce teenee) was a hoot. One of the most endearing memories I have when my brother (even as a teenager he was man enough not to mind being seen with a very small dog) took Tini for walks. The tall slim young man with sky high legs in skinny jeans with a sausage on the leash. Sweet. It really was. I like it when people are not self conscious.

There was a moment in my life when I came close to becoming a dog owner in my own right. Not that I particularly wanted to be. But I will  take gladly what life throws at me (as long as it’s not shit). Father-of-son and I met up with his parents in some Yorkshire pub. Or maybe it was in the Lake District. Anyway, there they were, in front of a blazing fire – a pile of black long haired toddler stage Labradors tumbling round and over their mother. FOS was the closest I’d ever seen him to yield in the face of such joie de vivre and beauty. Even on the way back down South he talked about them non stop, me fully expecting him to turn the car round any moment now, zoom back and make the breeder an offer. Still, his particular brand of reason prevailed. Pity. A dog would have suited him.

Please do inundate me with your own dog stories. They need to be told.

U

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September 14, 2016

Summer

A swallow just caught my attention.

Once upon a time we lived in the middle of nowhere. Even our immediate neighbours, one either side (we were in the middle) were a good walking distance away. Let’s say, not in earshot.

Yes, surrounded by fields, meadows, a little stream, dried out ponds (spare a thought for the frogs), and generally all that I was accustomed to from my earliest childhood I’d spent with my grandparents. And, the FREEDOM. I was allowed to just wander anywhere. Then I met a bull. But that’s another story. I am a fast runner.

So, on the outhouse right next to our patio/terrace there was the swallows’ nest. You think bricks and mortar, the pyramids, the London Eye, a miracle? Look at a nest. That’s a miracle. An act of perseverance, ingenuity, hard relentless work and focus. Not to mention purpose.

Enter the farmer’s (on the left depending which direction you were looking from) cat. When I say cat I mean panther. Nowadays probably classified as feral. I dare say there was no “cat food”. Cats fed themselves doing it by means cats do best: Hunt.

Great. So far so good. Here is the recipe: Enter the swallows, their freshly hatched brood, my father AND the CAT into the mix. Watch this for a while as the baby swallows are being decimated. Swallows getting agitated, cat getting bold, my father getting ANGRY.

So, one morning I wake up and there is a big black panther lying under the outhouse roof. Shot. There was no blood. But that big black Tom of a cat was dead.

Not so. Apparently it was all in my imagination. I was never to breeze so much as a word to said farmer neighbour and generally condemned to silence. That’s when I decided to become a spy.

I don’t know why, twelve years old, a long time ago, I do remember the cat’s body.

The swallows? Did they come back the next year? I don’t know. By then we had moved.

U

October 14, 2014

In the chair

Filed under: Atmosphere,Cats,Formalities,Future,Human condition,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 17:12
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And now to something truly unpleasant. I don’t know in which order to put this: Teeth first, dentist second? In the medical profession there are lots of specializations. First you study for years, then – for even more years – you peer up people’s nostrils, up their birth canal, down their throat or – in the case of dentists – holes. Cavities by another name.

Dentists may earn a fortune. They do. But whilst you have your ‘client’ clamped down on your chair you can’t even have a conversation. Believe me I’ve tried – and I am the patient. The other thing – and this is why I won’t have my eyes operated on in December, the make merry season – dentists need a steady hand. Can you imagine a dentist with a tremor, even a slight one?

Some years ago I came across a statistic – on both alcoholism and suicide. Not that the two are related other than that alcoholism is a slow and sneaky way to kill yourself. So the statistic was startling: Journalists, Vets and anyone living in Vienna (that’s Wien/Austria) are more likely to commit suicide than someone doing accounts. Figures, doesn’t it?

Apropos of nothing: I once took our cat to the vet. Locum. I took one look at the guy. Alcoholics have nothing but my sympathy. Even if they are just about to operate on my cat. I made my excuses. Still remember that sad look in that guy’s eyes when I left the surgery, cat not having been touched. He knew I knew. Sorry I can’t save all of mankind from themselves.

How did I get onto teeth? Something is brewing. Usually on a Saturday afternoon. So, I’ll have another three days to go.

U

PS Other than that – currently not so much rewriting my will as composing a masterpiece – I am undecided whether to spare the Angel funeral costs by donating my precious body to medical research. Rationale tells me one thing. Squeamishness another. I do not wish to be slaughtered. Even if it is for the good of mankind. We’ll see. Considering that once upon a time medical students had to dig up graves to give them fodder …

 

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