White light on a Fall day...

Time to wake the Terrier...

For many years in our house....the time we call...Pre-SCWT(Soft Coasted Wheaten Terrier), we had a rule....last one out of the bed has to make it. It was a great plan until Clover arrived. Being the great (eh hem) pack leaders we are we do not let him sleep with us...(OK so for a few months stealth Clover had mathematically figured out our cats mass and could perfectly replicate it while stealing into our bed at night) Clover has a very nice bed along side our bed....(actually my side of the bed where I get the joy of tripping over him in the dark) and in the morning when we vacate our warm nest....Clover like a heat seeking missile leaps into places for his next 6 hours of sleep.

NOW making the bed takes great skill. Clover is not motivated like other dogs by a rattle of the leash or a ball...he likes to sleep and he doesn't like his sleep disturbed.

I am polite and will let him be with only a few warnings....always presented after 10:30 am. At noon I draw the line and then the dramatics begin.

First the pop of the head..."IS SHE REALLY ATTEMPTING TO WAKE ME ALREADY!!"...then the dead cockroach....then the flailing in attempt to find that sweet spot he had before my disrupting him....finally he admits defeat.....there is a peek out from slitted eyes....the mile long yawn...and again the roach.

Mind you while I have written this and processed the photos....the little monster won another 40 mins of sleep.

So I ask you....Whose the leader?

Ah, I love every silly sarcastic inch of him...who am I kidding.

An Autumn Day...

An Autumn Day

Author: B R Jording

Tell me when the days turn cold
And the crisp, bitter nights set in
I'll bid adieu, adieu to the sun
And embrace the northern winds
Wake me from my restless sleep
For the trees will crackle soon
And shed their cumbersome coats and dance
bare with me and the moon
My mouth how it waters in pure delight
Dreaming of scented dregs
Cinnamon, pumpkin, apple spice
Swirling in my head!
And on Halloween, I'll await you where
The headless one rides by
chasing after phantom fools
and so this nigh shall I,
September days may shorten in length
October evenings can fright
November rains may fall and freeze
Over the Samoan night
but deep within the heart
Of the dormant Earth
The little buds await the Fall
To ensure them of rebirth
And so I sit much like them
Dependant in every way
Upon the plentiful harvest,
Of an autumn day.

Tricorne hats...

Ya know, I was just thinking today....not enough people wear tri cornered hats anymore....or powdered wigs...wonder why that is....

Just an observation....Hmmm.

Why can't we all just get along....

As you have learned in my earlier blogs...we have our own middle east conflict that we deal with on a daily basis here. With the death of our 2nd cat Larry, there has been a power vacuum created between our last cat and our dog Clover.

At first it showed it ugly head when the cat, Curley who hates everyone and everything became a most friendly cat. He no longer hid and decided that the dogs bed was..."Just right".

After a few small skirmishes we have come upon a truce. A changing of the guards if you like....one comes in the other goes out.

It is hard to explain to our Terrier that the 15 year old cat..."don't play that". He still insist that he can play with "his" kitty like he would another canine friend. This, unfortunately for Clover...has never resulted in any thing that resembles a game....and there in lies the internal conflict of our house.

Here he is annoying the heck out of the cat with his rendition of...."PEEK-A-BOO".

When will he ever learn. Poor fella...

The Forest Primeval...

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

from the 1893 Cambridge Edition
(Originally published in 1847)

---

THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.

Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers --

Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,

Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?

Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!

Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October

Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.

Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,

Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,

List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;

List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

Till the cows come home...

I stumbled upon this cozy family while on a hike in the Odenwald this weekend. I decided to try a little Dale Carnegie on them....

My little visit reminded me of a bull that my Aunt owned....his name was Sunshine and he was all that his name implied. My Aunt rescued Sunshine from a pasture in WV when his mother abandoned him. He was in a serious state and my Aunt nursed this little cow and he thrived. Of course being the worse farmers on Earth... it was stated that he would be sold at auction....no one in my family ever believed it.

Sunshine spent many happy birthdays eating cake and dancing when sung to. He had a wonderful "family" of a pair of horses on my Aunts farm....(which she lovingly calls "Manure Manor)" from which he was never separated.

These little serene faces reminded me of that 2000 lbs baby.