Because it chatouieth myn fancie

I'm no writer of Middle English, but by the Great Dane and St Bernard, I can puzzle my way through it when I come across it.

For several months, now, I have availed myself of the opportunities at Geoffrey Chaucer Hath a Blog, where Old Geoff his own self holds forth somewhat sporadically.

I'll admit right up front that it isn't necessarily up everyone's alley (or the alleye of everyoune), as it sometimes requires rolling over, barking, and scratching one's right ear simultaneously to get the gist of it. However, he's currently sorting through the characters he's created to participate in a fictional pilgrimmage tentatively titled Tales of Canterburye. I hope he doesn't end up leaving these guys crumpled up in the recycle bin:

An INDIAN CHIEF, a COWBOYE and a COPPE
A WERKERE and a LEATHER MANNE (a toppe)
Did marche togedir in fraternitee
Al thogh thei were of varyinge lyveree.
Thei knewe sum auncient magicke remedye
For “Y M C A” dide they ful loude crye,
And lifte ther armes lyk vnto menne gone woode.
And eek yt semede their mappe was nat too goode:
Thogh Canterburye-warde we headede Est
In unison thei seyde to us ‘Go Weste.’

Imponderables

I finally got Alpha out of the house long enough to take him for a walk. He's been complaining about a sore back, and I think it's mostly because he hasn't been using it much.

We went down Maple, east on Pine, up Lilac, back west on Birch, and around the corner to home.

The whole time, I kept wondering why humans name their streets after bathrooms.

Feeling Flat on Friday

I'm suffering from a severe lack of inspiration this week: nothing has struck my funny bone as particularly entertaining. That might, of course, be related to the fact that the humans haven't been around much: Alpha's been back and forth to the hospital visiting Beta. They're back now, so I'm getting caught up, but I'm still not really up to speed.

It'd be different, I suppose, if Ankle-Biter were better company, but with his being blind and his congestive heart failure, he mostly just sits. He's taking his diuretics, so he also pees, but really, that's hardly what I call "good" company. And he barks. At nothing. Whenever he feels like it.

Well, let me rummage around in my attic and see what I can throw up here. How about if you take me for a ride?

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Friday again already?

The days just fly by, I guess, and before I know it, it's Friday again. I can tell because everyone in the neighborhood has their trash out on the curb.

Some of you may know that Czechs settled this area shortly after the original immigration dispute with Mexico was settled. That explains the large number of names in the local phone book that end with -cek or with -ska.

Len, who runs the bar-and-grill-and-swap-meet up the road, is a descendant of Czeck immigrants, which makes no real difference, except that it's what reminded me of that bit of historical trivia.

Len's mother, Ellie Strmmiska, went on vacation just a few weeks ago, and boarded her flight home with her purse over her shoulder, her carry-on bag in tow, and her little dog in his box. She found her seat, stashed the carry-on in the overhead, and set the dog-in-the-box on the seat next to her.

Almost immediately, the flight attendant came by and said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but the flight is going to be full and we'll need that seat. I'll have to take the dog and put it in baggage."

Ellie agreed. What else could she do?

During the flight, the flight attendant looked in on the little dog, and said words I cannot repeat, for the dog was dead. She informed the pilot who notified the airport who told the director who decided that they would get an other dog to replace this one. The little old lady would never know.

When the plane landed and Ellie went to baggage claim, they brought her a box with a new dog, an exact replica of her old dog.

"This is not my dog", Ellie stated.

"Why, yes, it is," the manager said. "See, it has the same markings."

"This is not my dog", Ellie insisted.

"How do you know this isn't your dog?" asked the manager.

"My dog is dead!"

Melting pot

Around here, Len's bar-and-grill-and-swap-meet is the true social melting pot. The folks who work at the gin stop by on their way home, as do the town lawyer and doctor and mayor. The people who just come out to their hobby ranch to escape from their high-pressured, oh-so-important jobs in the big city come in on weekends, and everyone kind of rubs shoulders with everyone else. I think it's the hand-made margaritas.

Whatever the cause, it makes for some interesting listening, as many of those people bring their best friends along. Sometimes there are nearly as many dogs lined up along the wall as there are people lined up along the bar.

Len doesn't let the dogs sit at the bar. He used to, but someone complained to the health department. I wish I knew who it was, because I did enjoy those days. Maybe it was Milt, but I doubt he's been to this corner of the planet yet. And I don't think he really objects to dogs as much as he does to overflowing toilets.

Last weekend, the heat brought sane people off the street and into the cool of Len's place. I took my spot, three over from the door - not quite the corner, that's Sadie's spot (she's Len's hound, for those of you who don't know). I circled a couple times and then sat.

A few minutes later, Gus came in. Now Gus is like me: mixed breed, a rescued-off-the-streets kind of dog. He's good company. And right behind him comes a snow-white poodle with a diamond-studded collar. I never did catch her name, but she started right in whining about the operation she was recovering from.

"It was horrible. And SO painful. I couldn't even walk for two whole days," she complained.

Gus, conversationalist that he is, asked, "What kind of surgery did you have?"

The poodle sniffed, and said, "I had a hysterectomy."

Gus said, "Good grief, girl. Why can't you just call a spayed a spayed?"

Time for a ride

The 70th Carnival of Education is up and running over at the Education Wonks. The rides are free, even the good ones.

And the number is... 2.1

On a totally lighter note, sometimes truly misguided, misdirected humans sue for bizarre reasons, and win.

The number of the beast

I have no doubt that scholars far more advanced than I can answer this, but I look at the text (Revelations 13:18), and I look at the context, I look at parallel translations, and I look at word-by-word translations from the Greek, and I wonder.

"Here is wisdom. He who has understanding, let him calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man. His number is six hundred sixty-six."

Now, "a man," in the Greek, is "anthropos." No article, no descriptor, no nothing, and a number of sources indicate that it might, with equal validity, be translated "mankind."

So if the Beast indeed has a number, and if it is indeed the same as mankind's number, are we not "The Beast"?

Entertain, please, that when we fail to love, we further the Agenda of The Beast. When we exclude from love, we further the Agenda of The Beast. When we ignore the poor, we further The Beast's agenda. When we ignore the downtrodden, we further the Agenda of the Beast.

We live in difficult times, as have all before us and as will all after us. And we prove ourselves so very inadequate.

Lifelong Learning

Being half Sheltie, I sometimes follow my herding instincts.

Last night, as the sun went down, Toad left his house under the patio and hopped slowly and methodically across to the vines on the corner. Gently, I picked him up. He panicked.

It took a good twenty minutes of hacking and spitting and drinking water and chewing grass and cadging a couple swallows of beer to get the taste out of my mouth.

It seems that panicked toads void their bladders.

I learned to ignore toads.

Life goes on.

Idylls of the Dog

I'm not sure what google-analytics.com does, exactly, other than slow down all things Google. I'm sure it performs useful functions - maybe logging something for the feds, but it seems to be the link in everything Blogger that hangs the process up the most, and makes it much easier to head somewhere other than Google for searches. Maybe they'll get it fixed one of these days and it'll disappear back into the background where it belongs.

In the meantime, eat your hearts out.

Some things never change

I got up this morning to resume my search for the end of the internet, and found myself facing the realization that I may actually never get there: 51 new posts to read in my Bloglines account, and it reminded me of the years I spent teaching dogs - no matter how much you accomplish, someone inevitably creates more to do.

My last teaching gig was in Indian Springs. We'd found a room down the road a bit from the Wiccan Temple, and spent eight or nine hours a day educating the local dogs to better understand the expectations of their humans. We'd explain "sit," and "stay." We'd instill the differences between indoors and out. We talked at some length about the fact that some humans thought putting costumes on their dogs was a good thing, and how it could be born with dignity, even with feigned enthusiasm, if we chose. The usual stuff. The things the community expected us to teach. You know - the stuff that was on the test.

Anyway, as I dismissed my class after a lengthy discussion of "To Bark, or Not to Bark," I heard one student grumble to the other on the way out the door.

"When are they going to teach us things we can use in the real world?!?!"