So there I was, crawling home on a thursday afternoon after a very long year in the office (it certainly felt that way). The dog greeted my return with her usual exuberance and I looked forward to a quick stopover before heading out for the evening.
Walking away from the car I heard a rather disturbing sound.
Psssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Nope, not a deflating tyre, hissing reptile or gas leak in sight.
It came from under the hood, and with more trepidation than a scream-queen running up the stairs to open a mysterious rattlin door, I stood there, eyeing the offensive sound.
But, someone had to face the music, or at least the wind-section of the orchestra and I mosied upstairs to drop my bags.
I returned downstairs and went down on my knees - praying, of course, but also to spot any obvious cause for the overheated engine. While driving I keep an eye on the temperature gauge, and since that had not red-lined, I held out a cautious hope.
There was a growing puddle under the car.
I stretched out my fingers I screamed... the dog had taken use of my prone position to insert a quick doggie kiss into the proceedings.
Thoroughly disgusted, I whiped my ear and reached out to the puddle again. A dirty liquid stained my fingers, but a quick chemical diagnosis (I sniffed at it), revealed that it wasn't oil or petrol.
It was dirty water, which together with the hissing engine pointed at radiator problems. I reached for my keys, stepped up to the driver's door and froze.
Where the point of my key would be there was a definite absence of key. I stared at it mutely for a few moments, trying to process this absence in a logical way. The only thing that kept rising to the front of my thoughts was "please don't let it have broken off in the ignition!" Or the door lock for that reason.
I scurried upstairs again to fetch my spare key and opened the door... not there then
I stuck the key in the ignition...not there either.
Shrugging that off as a minor problem, I opened the hood and had a look.
Now I know about as much about the averag combustion engine as I do about neural surgery. I looked at the engine, it looked at me.
I dialled my nr one on-call mechanic.
"Hi dad. I have a problem."
We talked about the patient, listing the symptoms and attempting some rough diagnosis.
Leaving the car to cool down an hour or so, i started the engine again, pulled it backwards and added water to the radiator to judge how badly things had gone.
It didn't take too much water and I felt confident to drive it to the local mechanic the next day.
Of course, it took mr master mechanic 2 seconds of listening to the engine and fiddling with the pipes to come up with "it's a welsh plug"
Right! Great! Fantastic! A Welsh plug?!? But my car is made in Japan!!! :-D
It's a tiny thing to replace... if you can get to it.
In a Sentra's case, it will probably involve a procedure through the exhaust system.
So here I am, typing away after a house-bound weekend. At least I finally got to spend some time in the garden! But as much as I enjoyed the enforced house-arrest, there's pet-food to be bought tomorrow, oh, and probably some human food too.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Velvet killers
I woke up this morning with the horrible realization that I was sharing my house with 3 serial killers. Sounds like the start to a rather violent Hollywood script, but it's worse... it's reality.
Now before my friends start dialling for police assistance, let me clarify a bit.
I share my house with 3 cats and a dog - we'll chat about the pooch some other time.
You have to give it to those furry balls of killing menace, they've got humans all figured out.
Who else would manage to get free room & board, entertainment and the knowledge that you are adored? That while you are still locking the blood of your latest victim from your whiskers.
And I'm one of those human flunkies.
I've now learnt to recognise the sounds of animal / insectoid distress in the dead of night, and can go from deep sleep to fully awake and armed with towel & plastic container in under 10 seconds.
Of course, for many victims the rescue comes too late. But that doesn't stop me from trying. If the vets were to charge me for all the injured cat-toys I've brought to their offices, they would've made a fortune by now.
But we tolerate this.
Why?
Researchers could spend years on that subject, but I think the gaga-inducing "sub-vocal oscillations" (thank you Data) may be a key factor. This poorly understood vibration-sound has been known to reduce grown men to willing cat pillows. No-one is safe.
And consider the physical aspect as well: velvet fur, large eyes and the ability to softly tap their human for attention with those teddy-bear paws.
Those same paws that hide scimitar-like blades that can do as much damage as the razor sharp teeth. These perfect little killing machines remind me of a sweet smelling venus fly-trap.
'Come closer, look at me, touch me, see how beautiful I am....and die!'
Terry Pratchett seems to understand this strange duality of cats. I'll leave you with two of his quotes while I go and release the latest tail-less gecko.
“They just laughed and stabbed her. She didn’t even try to run away. It was like they were 'playing'.”
For some reason Magrat shot a glance at Greebo, who had the decency to look embarrassed.
“Pointy ears and hair you want to stroke,” she said, vaguely. “And they can fascinate you. And when they’re happy they make a pleasing noise.”
Terry Pratchett, Lords and Ladies
"I meant," said Ipslore bitterly, "what is there in this world that truly makes living worthwhile?"
Death thought about it.
"Cats," he said eventually. "Cats are nice."
Terry Pratchett, Sourcery
Now before my friends start dialling for police assistance, let me clarify a bit.
I share my house with 3 cats and a dog - we'll chat about the pooch some other time.
You have to give it to those furry balls of killing menace, they've got humans all figured out.
Who else would manage to get free room & board, entertainment and the knowledge that you are adored? That while you are still locking the blood of your latest victim from your whiskers.
And I'm one of those human flunkies.
I've now learnt to recognise the sounds of animal / insectoid distress in the dead of night, and can go from deep sleep to fully awake and armed with towel & plastic container in under 10 seconds.
Of course, for many victims the rescue comes too late. But that doesn't stop me from trying. If the vets were to charge me for all the injured cat-toys I've brought to their offices, they would've made a fortune by now.
But we tolerate this.
Why?
Researchers could spend years on that subject, but I think the gaga-inducing "sub-vocal oscillations" (thank you Data) may be a key factor. This poorly understood vibration-sound has been known to reduce grown men to willing cat pillows. No-one is safe.
And consider the physical aspect as well: velvet fur, large eyes and the ability to softly tap their human for attention with those teddy-bear paws.
Those same paws that hide scimitar-like blades that can do as much damage as the razor sharp teeth. These perfect little killing machines remind me of a sweet smelling venus fly-trap.
'Come closer, look at me, touch me, see how beautiful I am....and die!'
Terry Pratchett seems to understand this strange duality of cats. I'll leave you with two of his quotes while I go and release the latest tail-less gecko.
“They just laughed and stabbed her. She didn’t even try to run away. It was like they were 'playing'.”
For some reason Magrat shot a glance at Greebo, who had the decency to look embarrassed.
“Pointy ears and hair you want to stroke,” she said, vaguely. “And they can fascinate you. And when they’re happy they make a pleasing noise.”
Terry Pratchett, Lords and Ladies
"I meant," said Ipslore bitterly, "what is there in this world that truly makes living worthwhile?"
Death thought about it.
"Cats," he said eventually. "Cats are nice."
Terry Pratchett, Sourcery
Monday, August 30, 2010
Apocryphal architecture
Yep, so there I was, lazing in front of the tv watching one of those quest movies where the heroes inevitably end up in some deviously designed building of doom, and I just had to wonder....
Is there a special school of architecture out there?!?
I mean, your average builder of ancient temples, monuments and palaces obviously had a fairly good grip on basic arithmetic, the concept of solid foundations and so-on, but there seems to have been a very specialised branch of builders out there. Who else would design these grand and imposing buildings dotted around in hidden cracks and valleys just loaded with treasure. Can you imagine the list of building materials? And the cost of transport to these hidden nooks and crannies? No wonder only insanely rich megalomaniacs could afford them. Speaking of which, I'd love to know what polish they used: x-hundred amount of years later, and the precious metals are still gleaming like they've just been buffed!
And then of course, there are the traps. No secret structure would be complete without the obligatory pit of stakes, crushing walls or poison darts. Not only must the architecture have factored in a cunningly twisted route to the treasure room, but also line it with hair-trigger traps that will spring as effectively as the day it was set after years of accumulated dust, rust and insect infestations. You have to admire those guys! And wonder if they practise on their own humble homes. Which might explain why we know nothing about them; any visitor may be prone to disappearing down a bottomless shaft hidden by the welcome mat. That is if you can even find their humble abodes.
For some reason I have this persistent mental image of a newly completed temple, traps all set with hordes of well-trained spiders spinning webs in the passages (not on the treasure, ~not~ on the treasure...bad spider!). Just there, a small unassuming figure with a pencil behind the ear is carefully backing out of the main entrance, the last trap has been set and he can't help the pleased smile as he surveys his handiwork. And then the smile droops ever so slightly as he realizes that he left his lunchbox ~somewhere~ in there. Not sure what would be worse; having a future adventurer discover the incongruous object or having to explain to Mrs Architect why he'd come home without it, our anonymous little architect looks around furtively. Sure that no-one else is around, he scuttles around the side to a small door hidden by a cunning design, marked 'staff only'.
If only heroes would spend 5 minutes looking around before dashing in the front door, they might spare themselves a world of trap-dodging.
Is there a special school of architecture out there?!?
I mean, your average builder of ancient temples, monuments and palaces obviously had a fairly good grip on basic arithmetic, the concept of solid foundations and so-on, but there seems to have been a very specialised branch of builders out there. Who else would design these grand and imposing buildings dotted around in hidden cracks and valleys just loaded with treasure. Can you imagine the list of building materials? And the cost of transport to these hidden nooks and crannies? No wonder only insanely rich megalomaniacs could afford them. Speaking of which, I'd love to know what polish they used: x-hundred amount of years later, and the precious metals are still gleaming like they've just been buffed!
And then of course, there are the traps. No secret structure would be complete without the obligatory pit of stakes, crushing walls or poison darts. Not only must the architecture have factored in a cunningly twisted route to the treasure room, but also line it with hair-trigger traps that will spring as effectively as the day it was set after years of accumulated dust, rust and insect infestations. You have to admire those guys! And wonder if they practise on their own humble homes. Which might explain why we know nothing about them; any visitor may be prone to disappearing down a bottomless shaft hidden by the welcome mat. That is if you can even find their humble abodes.
For some reason I have this persistent mental image of a newly completed temple, traps all set with hordes of well-trained spiders spinning webs in the passages (not on the treasure, ~not~ on the treasure...bad spider!). Just there, a small unassuming figure with a pencil behind the ear is carefully backing out of the main entrance, the last trap has been set and he can't help the pleased smile as he surveys his handiwork. And then the smile droops ever so slightly as he realizes that he left his lunchbox ~somewhere~ in there. Not sure what would be worse; having a future adventurer discover the incongruous object or having to explain to Mrs Architect why he'd come home without it, our anonymous little architect looks around furtively. Sure that no-one else is around, he scuttles around the side to a small door hidden by a cunning design, marked 'staff only'.
If only heroes would spend 5 minutes looking around before dashing in the front door, they might spare themselves a world of trap-dodging.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Gardening with a quantum cat
If anyone had told me a few years ago that I would enjoy gardening, I would've laughed in their faces. Don't get me wrong, I love nature and grew up in a family that loves gardening. The bug (ha-ha) just never bit me.
Until I became the owner of own patch of earth that is. Now I enjoy scrabbling around in the dirt on all fours, marvelling at the fantastic way in which plants never seem to grow when you watch them closely, and yet one morning you'll wake up and realise a tree is suddenly bigger by quite a few inches.
Perhaps science can explain this strange phenomenon; I certainly can't. You'll watch a clear patch of ground for days, and there'll be no sign of any weeds. Then *poof* all of a sudden a luxurious carpet of unwanted growth springs up virtually overnight. I always thought the time-lapse photography of plants growing was magic... now I believe it is!
Either that or something quantum.
Which explains the attraction my cats have to the garden. No, no, not in the 'depositing parcels' sense, but rather as a playground where they can exercise their own quantum skills.
Take Fatcat for instance (not her official name of course, but then show me any cat that is called by it's given name(s) unless it is being accused of some crime! Hieronymous Kittypuss Fluffyshanks the III, ~what~ is this decapitated mouse doing on my carpet!!! What do you mean historical re-enactment of Marie-Antoinette?!?)
Er, where was I headed? Oh yes, Fatcat...
She is the unofficial feline supervisor in charge of all landscaping activities. Which boils down to appearing in exactly the spot I want to weed. This may not sound as impressive, until you actually watch the scenario unfold.
There I'll be, intent on waging my own private war with the undesirable sprouts from hell while Fatcat loiters nearby. I'll keep an eye on her, shuffling along on my knees with a rapidly filling bucket in tow. I'll pull out a rather stubborn example of weed-dom, deposit it in the bucket and turn back to find that without apparently moving, Fatcat has now materialised on top of the very next patch of weeds.
Helpful cat, I know! Except when she has to move off the weeds so I can get to them. I've resorted to weeding around her in a threatening manner, but she just gives me a lazy yellow-eyed stare and sticks like to her spot like a burr on a blanket. Quite a daring move (or absence of) on her part considering the reputation for gardening-related injuries I've managed to inflict on myself.
I haven't tried levering her off with a spade yet, as by the time I've trekked to the garden shed and back, she will have become either a wave or a particle and vanished.
Until I work my way into another section of the garden again.
Pull weed. Watch cat behind me. Deposit weed in bucket. Look at next weed to find fluffy cat bum instead.
Pure magic I tell you! Or quantum physics.
Probably amounts to the same thing!
Until I became the owner of own patch of earth that is. Now I enjoy scrabbling around in the dirt on all fours, marvelling at the fantastic way in which plants never seem to grow when you watch them closely, and yet one morning you'll wake up and realise a tree is suddenly bigger by quite a few inches.
Perhaps science can explain this strange phenomenon; I certainly can't. You'll watch a clear patch of ground for days, and there'll be no sign of any weeds. Then *poof* all of a sudden a luxurious carpet of unwanted growth springs up virtually overnight. I always thought the time-lapse photography of plants growing was magic... now I believe it is!
Either that or something quantum.
Which explains the attraction my cats have to the garden. No, no, not in the 'depositing parcels' sense, but rather as a playground where they can exercise their own quantum skills.
Take Fatcat for instance (not her official name of course, but then show me any cat that is called by it's given name(s) unless it is being accused of some crime! Hieronymous Kittypuss Fluffyshanks the III, ~what~ is this decapitated mouse doing on my carpet!!! What do you mean historical re-enactment of Marie-Antoinette?!?)
Er, where was I headed? Oh yes, Fatcat...
She is the unofficial feline supervisor in charge of all landscaping activities. Which boils down to appearing in exactly the spot I want to weed. This may not sound as impressive, until you actually watch the scenario unfold.
There I'll be, intent on waging my own private war with the undesirable sprouts from hell while Fatcat loiters nearby. I'll keep an eye on her, shuffling along on my knees with a rapidly filling bucket in tow. I'll pull out a rather stubborn example of weed-dom, deposit it in the bucket and turn back to find that without apparently moving, Fatcat has now materialised on top of the very next patch of weeds.
Helpful cat, I know! Except when she has to move off the weeds so I can get to them. I've resorted to weeding around her in a threatening manner, but she just gives me a lazy yellow-eyed stare and sticks like to her spot like a burr on a blanket. Quite a daring move (or absence of) on her part considering the reputation for gardening-related injuries I've managed to inflict on myself.
I haven't tried levering her off with a spade yet, as by the time I've trekked to the garden shed and back, she will have become either a wave or a particle and vanished.
Until I work my way into another section of the garden again.
Pull weed. Watch cat behind me. Deposit weed in bucket. Look at next weed to find fluffy cat bum instead.
Pure magic I tell you! Or quantum physics.
Probably amounts to the same thing!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Up in the air
I recently had the rather dubious honour of enjoying a 2 hour plane trip with some young engineers. Of course there were a lot more passengers as well, but I was surrounded by these enthusiastic young people who chattered away solidly throughout the flight.
Shortly after take-off I reclined my chair and snuggled down for what I hoped would be a quiet nap, lulled to sleep by the drone of the aircraft's engines. The best I managed however, was to drift in and out of near-oblivion, punctuated by starts of wide-eyed shock.
The reason for this had nothing to do with aircraft failure, but rather the previously mentioned engineers. It soon became all too obvious that this was one of their first trips in the air.
As evidence of this, I present two golden titbits overheard while sharing cabin space.
Jewel nr 1:
"Look down there! There's no sign of anyone. How can they complain that there are too many people in the world when there's all this empty space!"
My eyes flew open when I heard this one! Not only in startlement at the comment itself, but also to glance down at the arid Karoo landscape passing far below. What scares me more is that that particular comment was followed by sounds of agreement as the spokesperson's fellow engineers glanced out the windows too.
Er... right, sure, there's plenty of space down there. Pity about the sheer lack of resources and infrastructure needed to support any kind of human habitation though. But then again, being an engineer, perhaps this person already had gloriously detailed blueprints drawn up in their mind's eye of how exactly to establish a colony in what might very well amount to a Martian landscape. One can but hope... or despair.
Jewel number 2:
"Isn't it amazing?! There's no sign of any roads, but I know one can drive from Cape Town to Johannesburg!" ... said in that breathless gasping voice I'd come to dread over the past half an hour.
Yep, you heard it here first folks: there's an actual tarred road somewhere out there connecting two of our major cities. Who'd've thought...
I resisted the urge to thump my head against the bulkhead through sheer determination. If I'd had a South African atlas handy I would have shared it with my fellow travelers in a heartbeat. Then again, perhaps a lesson in geography and map-reading would be called for at first.
I couldn't help but marvel at the fact that somehow these people had qualified in such a highly technical field as engineering, and yet appeared to fail dismally at grasping basic 'common knowledge' principles!
The darkly entertained side of me still ponders what engineering discipline these youngsters were in. I don't know whether I should hope for chemical, civil, electrical or whatever, as after due consideration, I think they could do as much harm in any of them.
And no, none of them were blond.
Heaven defend us against such skilled professionals.
Shortly after take-off I reclined my chair and snuggled down for what I hoped would be a quiet nap, lulled to sleep by the drone of the aircraft's engines. The best I managed however, was to drift in and out of near-oblivion, punctuated by starts of wide-eyed shock.
The reason for this had nothing to do with aircraft failure, but rather the previously mentioned engineers. It soon became all too obvious that this was one of their first trips in the air.
As evidence of this, I present two golden titbits overheard while sharing cabin space.
Jewel nr 1:
"Look down there! There's no sign of anyone. How can they complain that there are too many people in the world when there's all this empty space!"
My eyes flew open when I heard this one! Not only in startlement at the comment itself, but also to glance down at the arid Karoo landscape passing far below. What scares me more is that that particular comment was followed by sounds of agreement as the spokesperson's fellow engineers glanced out the windows too.
Er... right, sure, there's plenty of space down there. Pity about the sheer lack of resources and infrastructure needed to support any kind of human habitation though. But then again, being an engineer, perhaps this person already had gloriously detailed blueprints drawn up in their mind's eye of how exactly to establish a colony in what might very well amount to a Martian landscape. One can but hope... or despair.
Jewel number 2:
"Isn't it amazing?! There's no sign of any roads, but I know one can drive from Cape Town to Johannesburg!" ... said in that breathless gasping voice I'd come to dread over the past half an hour.
Yep, you heard it here first folks: there's an actual tarred road somewhere out there connecting two of our major cities. Who'd've thought...
I resisted the urge to thump my head against the bulkhead through sheer determination. If I'd had a South African atlas handy I would have shared it with my fellow travelers in a heartbeat. Then again, perhaps a lesson in geography and map-reading would be called for at first.
I couldn't help but marvel at the fact that somehow these people had qualified in such a highly technical field as engineering, and yet appeared to fail dismally at grasping basic 'common knowledge' principles!
The darkly entertained side of me still ponders what engineering discipline these youngsters were in. I don't know whether I should hope for chemical, civil, electrical or whatever, as after due consideration, I think they could do as much harm in any of them.
And no, none of them were blond.
Heaven defend us against such skilled professionals.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Yes people, the away-stay saga continues... This time it takes place in a quaint B&B in a relatively quiet suburb of PE. I use the term 'relatively quiet' quite loosely, as nowhere is vuvuzela proof at this stage. Except maybe the inside of an igloo in the North Pole. Then again, temperature wise that is exactly what PE feels like - rather chilly. Yes, it's that season when we get really close to our loved ones, and not only for purely emotional reasons. Cups of coffee and tea are made as astonishing rates; again not for drinking purposes, but just to clasp your frozen fingers around in an attempt to keep some blood flowing. So there I was, huddled under the warm blankets in my B&B room when out of the blue *plop*! Something plopped onto my head. It was around o'darn AM, when dreams blur into reality and strange things are known to happen. My confused mind constructed this bizarre scenario where one of the birds in the nearby cages outside had somehow made it's way into my room - probably to find a warm place to roost - and had oh-so-graciously just made me a very lucky person. That thought wormed it's way from my dream centre to conscious thought, shortcutting past all rationality and shot me straight outta bed, lights blazing and desperately looking for this bird prezzie. Alas, my overactive imagination had got it wrong. Yes, something had indeed dropped onto my head, and I could see the next culprits lining up on the ceiling, getting their targetting systems ready for the next attack. Water! It was pouring with rain outside, and apparently inside as well. My restful night turned into a luxury version of chinese water torture as I had to find a position to sleep in where the drops would not get me. Moving the queen size bed was out of the question, so armed with a towel to soak up the dive-bombers I tried to get some more z's. Admittedly, I have known better nights Sunrise brought a continuation of the inside showers, and I set off to inform the owner of this mild catastrophe. She admitted that apparently it was the fault of the swimming pool. Eh? Yes, indeedy. The swimming pool is built over the rooms-for-rent, and with the heavy downpours we had the pool filled up too rapidly and leaked out somewhere into the roof, along some cracks to filter through my ceiling and drop onto my snug little cocoon. Oi.... Yesterday we had some more rain, and now the intrepid little water warriors had bivouacced in a new spot; this time right over the window sill. Problematic for the clothes I'm trying to dry, but at least not on my bed. Thank goodness for small miracles!
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Night-time bump and lumps
There's nothing quite like settling down between the covers after a full day. Your head rests comfortably on the pillow while frogs serenade you to.... sitting upright, wide-awake and reaching for the panic button.
No, not because of the frogs, but because of man's best friend - a border collie/alsation cross to be specific.
I have one of those; got it with the house - long story for another day. Anyhoo, said best friend of man is not known for her incessant barking (thank goodness), so when she is on alert, so am I.
Reluctantly shrugging off warm blankets I listen, running through the mental checklist of 'sounds I think a burglar might make'.
Footsteps... no
Glass smashing.... no
Baboon barks... no
Yelps from thief... no
Yet the dog carries on barking, and can now definitely be categorised not as 'there's a stranger on my yard I want to eat alive', but rather as 'help, help, i'm sure, there's something unusual outside'.
Yes, ask any dog owner; you soon learn your pooch's vocab so to speak.
Still hesitant I peak through all the windows first, trying to see the splattered entrails of a would-be trespasser. And thanks to an all too vivid imagination and too many crime-stories, I have visions of an armed assailant lurking on my steps waiting for me to throw the door open and rush out to save faithful doggy.
Yeah, right.
After more peeking, listening (a difficult task considering the dog is still giving excited yelp-barks) I edge the front door open to find the dog bouncing madly around a dark grey furball.
Concern for dog now turns into concern for poor furry and I rush downstairs to save the rabbit/kitten/bird/tribble. As I reach the bottom step the dog gives an almighty yelp and jumps away....the not-so-helpless furry has just scored a direct hit! Blood dripping form her jaw, the dog now stands cautiously to one side to watch me tackle this prime example of gremlinhood.
Turns out to be a rather large mole with a lifewish second to none.
Paralysing it in my spotlight (read tiny torch) I give it a once-over for any sign of trauma. It blinks at me in a slit-eyed yet satisfied manner, and I swore I saw it grin at me.
Mole 1, dog 0 ... I can almost hear it think.
Well, I was not about to trifle with such a determined survivor, so I grab the dog by the scruff intent on dragging her upstairs while giving the mole a getaway chance. I stepped forward, only to be yanked backward by a severely immobile dog. The look in her eye clearly states that she is not about to walk past that mad little killer; who knows what other tender bits it might take a bite at next.
By this time I am chilly customer; I take my night-time rest seriously, and running around outside in winter in my pyjamas is not my idea of a fun time. With more effort I manage to drag the dog around the far side of the mole; quite a site as the dog kept turning to face the mole while we moved. Finally reaching the safety of the stairs she dashes up, leaving me to firmly close the gate in the mole's still sniggering face.
And yes, I did check my pooch out as well. Bled like a champion from a facial wound, but managed to scarf down her doggy treats this morning. Somehow I think she'll live.
As the for the mole... didn't see it this morning. But next time I'm pulling at weeds I'll keep an ear out for that self-satisfied snigger.
No, not because of the frogs, but because of man's best friend - a border collie/alsation cross to be specific.
I have one of those; got it with the house - long story for another day. Anyhoo, said best friend of man is not known for her incessant barking (thank goodness), so when she is on alert, so am I.
Reluctantly shrugging off warm blankets I listen, running through the mental checklist of 'sounds I think a burglar might make'.
Footsteps... no
Glass smashing.... no
Baboon barks... no
Yelps from thief... no
Yet the dog carries on barking, and can now definitely be categorised not as 'there's a stranger on my yard I want to eat alive', but rather as 'help, help, i'm sure, there's something unusual outside'.
Yes, ask any dog owner; you soon learn your pooch's vocab so to speak.
Still hesitant I peak through all the windows first, trying to see the splattered entrails of a would-be trespasser. And thanks to an all too vivid imagination and too many crime-stories, I have visions of an armed assailant lurking on my steps waiting for me to throw the door open and rush out to save faithful doggy.
Yeah, right.
After more peeking, listening (a difficult task considering the dog is still giving excited yelp-barks) I edge the front door open to find the dog bouncing madly around a dark grey furball.
Concern for dog now turns into concern for poor furry and I rush downstairs to save the rabbit/kitten/bird/tribble. As I reach the bottom step the dog gives an almighty yelp and jumps away....the not-so-helpless furry has just scored a direct hit! Blood dripping form her jaw, the dog now stands cautiously to one side to watch me tackle this prime example of gremlinhood.
Turns out to be a rather large mole with a lifewish second to none.
Paralysing it in my spotlight (read tiny torch) I give it a once-over for any sign of trauma. It blinks at me in a slit-eyed yet satisfied manner, and I swore I saw it grin at me.
Mole 1, dog 0 ... I can almost hear it think.
Well, I was not about to trifle with such a determined survivor, so I grab the dog by the scruff intent on dragging her upstairs while giving the mole a getaway chance. I stepped forward, only to be yanked backward by a severely immobile dog. The look in her eye clearly states that she is not about to walk past that mad little killer; who knows what other tender bits it might take a bite at next.
By this time I am chilly customer; I take my night-time rest seriously, and running around outside in winter in my pyjamas is not my idea of a fun time. With more effort I manage to drag the dog around the far side of the mole; quite a site as the dog kept turning to face the mole while we moved. Finally reaching the safety of the stairs she dashes up, leaving me to firmly close the gate in the mole's still sniggering face.
And yes, I did check my pooch out as well. Bled like a champion from a facial wound, but managed to scarf down her doggy treats this morning. Somehow I think she'll live.
As the for the mole... didn't see it this morning. But next time I'm pulling at weeds I'll keep an ear out for that self-satisfied snigger.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
