One Thing: A Dream

I dreamed a strange one in those half-awake hours in the light of early morning. I was a soldier coming and going from a war. We were a small unit, me, a boy and another girl. I loved the boy. We'd spend a few days away, then home again, real home, not the barracks. I was carrying less and less personal belongings to war. I did not need them. In this dream we were never under attack. We just went on patrol. The area we patrolled was like Paddy's field, a place I played in as a child. The difference was there was a sheer face of earth, maybe 20 foot, to scale before we could the field and at the top end of the field there was another long drop to the road.

Poor Lennox

After a long and sustained campaign the unfortunate dog Lennox, allegedly a pit bull type, was humanely put to sleep this morning.

In defence of the decision an 'expert' declared that the dog was “...one of the most unpredictable and dangerous dogs he had come across." My feeling is that a dog, previously a loved pet, that is kept in confinement for two years might well display unpredictable behaviour. That poor dog was bound to be traumatised and terribly unhappy with his lot. Although I am not certain that Belfast City Council handled this situation as well as they might have, there is  no doubt that they acted entirely within the letter of the law.

Although I know that many dog lovers will strongly disagree with me, I believe that the campaign to save Lennox actually damaged Lennox's chance of getting back to a normal dog's life. Just because so many thousands of people inundated Belfast City Council with emails and petitions does not mean that the Council can be forced to act outside the law. The law might not be fair to dogs of that type but it remains the law. The harassment of council employees was a disgrace and further worsened Lennox's very slim chance of reprieve. There is nothing simpler than dashing off an email or signing a petition. Just because hundreds, thousands or millions of people do so does not make a cause just or rightful.

There are huge amounts of people who work to help animals of every kind and I truly admire what they do but there are also fanatical animal lovers who go too far. They forget that human beings are animals too and deserve to be protected from dangerous dogs. I'm not saying that Lennox was a dangerous dog, I'm sure he was not, but there are people who keep and breed aggressive dogs, there are dogs bred to fight each other to the death and dogs bred to bait other animals. There are vicious dogs that attack humans, even sometimes killing or maiming children. So there must be laws to protect people and other animals. Lennox fell foul of those laws but that is not Belfast City Council's fault. It is more the fault of those people who want to breed and train dangerous and aggressive dogs.

Should one of my own beloved dogs be deemed dangerous and ordered to be destroyed I would not fight it. I would not start an internet campaign – I would be broken-hearted but I would accept it and I would want it done quickly before the dog's spirit was broken by a long confinement in a sterile environment.

Campaign by all means but campaign for the right thing. Get the law changed so that good-natured dogs that look like dangerous dogs are not put at risk and fight to make legislation stronger so that dog-fighting and all baiting 'sports' are eliminated for ever.

Last Year

strawberry patch, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

This time last year there were strawberries.

Love and Life

Last weekend I went to Leitrim and Sligo with London Sister and I forgot my camera. I remembered to bring the charger but that wasn't much use without the camera.

Had I brought my camera I would have taken photographs of the fossils at Easkey. Had I brought my camera I would have taken some pictures of the megalithic burial site at Carrowmore.

Had I brought my camera I would have taken a picture of a grave at Drumcliffe Church. It would not have been the grave of W.B. Yeats for that grave needs no more photographs. I would have taken a picture of a beautiful grave, the grave of a young man who died a few years back, a young man who was only in his mid-twenties. He must have been greatly loved because his last resting place was filled with flowers, his stone was hand carved, the poetry, if it was not as high-flown as that on Yeats' grave was just as heartfelt. I would never have put the photograph on the internet because it would have been an intrusion and an impertinence. The photograph would have been for me and for remembrance.

Had I brought my camera I would have taken a picture of London Sister and Leitrim Sister. That does not matter. I do not need a picture to remind me that I spent some time with two people I love very much. Two people, among the many people, who live, and that I love. We are always close to death but closer still to love and life.

Tired

I happened to mention to Bert that I was feeling tired. He said,

If you're tired all the time how do you know you are tired?

What do you mean?

Well. You're always going on about being tired. If that's the way you always are how would you know you are tired?

How often would you say I mention that I'm tired?

About once a day.

And roughly what time of the day would this be?

About this time.

So when I happen to mention, once a day, around 10pm, that I'm tired - that means I'm tired all the time? 

God's sake. You don't have to be so sensitive about it!

You know something? I think I'm in denial.

All Gone Now

There was a documentary on tonight about the murder of Shirley Finlay in Ballymena in 2006. It was strange and chilling to see the events re-enacted. I missed the first part of it so searched the web to find out when I could catch-up with it. Whilst I was looking I found this image on Google.

It's a scan taken from a photograph I gave to Shirley's foster mother - it's not the best quality. It appeared in a few newspapers at the time and is currently on a memorial site that Shirley's foster family set up. Somewhere I must have the original negative but God knows where.

The dog on Shirley's lap is Rosie. Shirley and she were very fond of each other. The cat is Caps. They are all gone now. Cat and dog lived to be seventeen and ten respectively. Shirley, had she not been murdered, would now only be thirty years old.

Charlie Died

Well.

Charlie died. He was killed on the road near to the entrance of our lane. Last night, just before midnight I let all three of our dogs out to pee. Bonnie and Judy usually do their business, mooch around for a few minutes and come to the door to be let in. Charlie does some rounds of the garden and yard and will either come in willingly or he might need to be persuaded. I had gone to bed so Bert was the one doing the persuading. Charlie did not respond so Bert called me and I grumpily got up to try my cajoling magic on him. I shouted, I called, I hoped, I prayed. No Charlie. I took a torch to the bottom of the lane and shone it around. No sign. I decided to take the car out. I'd only turned it out of the lane when I saw him lying at the side of the road. I got out and picked him up. He was limp and light as a feather.

This morning when I carried him from the shed to his grave he felt much more of a burden. I suppose that is what people mean when they speak of a dead weight.

Judging by the amount of blood on the road Charlie did not die where I found him. Someone, most likely the driver of the vehicle that killed him, gathered him up and placed him where no other vehicle would drive over him. I'm grateful for that.

Pineapples for Pigs

Pineapples for pigs

Twice a week Rusty and Lily get a delivery of fruit and vegetables  from a local greengrocery. The food is slightly past its best but the pigs don't mind.  

Sitting politely and patiently

When they get something as delicious as a pineapple they are highly delighted. Apples, bananas, carrots, broccoli  or grapes can be eaten on the spot but a pineapple is a prize. It must be jealously guarded.

Hedge Hogs

As each pig receives its delectable treat they take it to a private scoffing booth, otherwise known as the hedge. Yum yum! Pig's bum!

Father's Day

Daddy died, seven years ago, a few weeks before Father's Day. I remember feeling furious when I saw all the Father's Day advertising. It has taken until now for that feeling to pass. Happy Father's Day to all the lovely dads out there. And to all of you fortunate enough to have a good father in your life, show him you love him every day of the year. He won't be around forever.

The Agony and the Itchiness

Pearlie is unhappy with newly prescribed analgesic patches. Said they were itchy. I said, "Do you prefer agony or itchiness?" She said "Agony."

She can be very particular about the amount of sugar she has in her tea. it has to be measured practically grain by grain. She watches me like a hawk as I trickle it in.

It's only a week or so that all her milk puddings had to be "Thin, thin, thin" but when Bert was away recently (he is the chief maker of milk puddings) she changed that to "Thick, thick, thick." I proudly presented her with a thin custard and she protested bitterly, "Too thin! How's that going to fill me?" "Oh - knock it into you," I said. "It's made with full cream milk. It will do you good." I went in half an hour later and she hadn't lipped it. Said it was too sweet. From then on her puddings were thick enough to stand a spoon in and she got to sweeten them herself. 

Fires are another problem area. She likes a wee blaze going all the year round. In winter it is easy enough. We just keep a good, roaring fire on all the time. In summer it is more difficult. If the fire is too intense she gets uncomfortable and she does hate open doors and windows. We have to try to maintain a   small fire which is difficult. To keep it going we'd need to be placing a small amount of fuel, preferably turf or a 'wee grain' of coal every 30 minutes. It's not uncommon for the fire to go out and then it has to be relit. 

I made a joke today when I brought her new analgesic patches. She has had a serious flare up of arthritis recently and has been in a lot of  pain, specially when she needs to be moved. My joke was pretty lame. I told her she'd need to be sure not to be taking any strong drink with her new medication and she smiled at the very idea. She doesn't smile very often - she's not a smiley person. I treasure those smiles.

A Slender Birch Tree. And Me.

I am wearing a tree. Despite its horizontal stripes it still has the happy effect of slimming my silhouette. Unfortunately it can be rather cumbersome and lends itself best to when I'm just standing around. It is for occasional wear only - perhaps a wedding or a summer garden party.

Beware of the Boar

Even though he is castrated Rusty has a set of tusks on him that are as sharp as knives.

Picture courtesy of El Capitan

Charlie the collie does not respect the pigs. He chases and harasses and slips in for a sneaky nip on a pig's ear, nose or bottom.  He does not listen to me and the only way to avoid it is to close him in when the pigs are being moved. Yesterday morning he got out and started his nippy behaviour. Rusty charged him, tossed him and walked over him. Charlie ran off - I didn't realise that he'd been injured.

A few hours later Ben noticed fresh blood on the kitchen floor. Charlie had just left his corner to challenge and bark at a couple of callers. The blood spots led back to his bed. I looked him over and discovered a deep gash on his hind leg. It was then that I knew that Rusty must have caught him with a tusk.

It was straight to the vet. She discovered a puncture wound as well as the gash. Poor dog got eleven stitches. You'd think it would have made him wary of the pigs. Not Charlie. He came out this evening when the kune kunes were being moved into their evening quarters and started to stalk them, cone and all. Thankfully he kept his distance. I am going to have to be very careful in future. The dog and the pig are now mortal enemies and the dog is insane.

Happy Birthday Kerry Sister

Rare photograph of the Kerry Sister holding a cat. These days her head explodes if she comes within a yard of one.

Happy birthday. Sis. Have a great day.

People In Glass Houses

Bert, like myself, comes from a farming background but farming was never where his heart lay. From an early age he was drawn to horticulture. His father Johnny would have liked Bert to follow in his footsteps and encouraged him to take an interest in livestock. He gave Bert lambs and calves to rear and when market time came Bert pocketed the profits. He did not reinvest this money in livestock. Instead he bought a green house and grew salad vegetables in the winter time and tomatoes in the summer. In time he went to Greenmount College where he studied partying, drinking and horticulture. That greenhouse must have been a good one because it has stood in the same spot for more than 40 years. Now that Bert has 6400 square foot of poly tunnel to play with, the greenhouse is all for me to potter around in. Most years I've used it to grow bedding plants but this year I'm growing tomatoes.

We have our godson staying with us this weekend and we get him involved in our projects. This evening he helped me plant leeks and he also mowed the lawn. He loves the lawnmower. I have to admit I had a few concerns about safety and discussed these with Bert who assured me he could come to no harm. I decided to let Bert have his way in this. After all Ben will be thirteen in a couple of weeks. I watched Ben on the mower and I even took a little film of him. He showed a lot of confidence. Maybe too much confidence?

Still from my mini-movie. Does Charlie look a little wary?

Perhaps half-an-hour passed. Ben announced that he was going out to gather up the grass and said that he just loved mowing the lawn. A little while later I heard a crashing noise but did not take it under my notice as Bert is always making crashing noises. I was just getting myself into the mood for staking my tomato plants when I realised I'd been listening to clinking noises for quite a while. It sounded like someone throwing broken glass around. I went outside. And there was Bert, stoically removing broken glass from my very bent greenhouse. And there was Ben looking white and worried as he collected the glass in the wheelbarrow. He told me straight away what had happened. He'd meant to reverse but had gone forward and the front of the greenhouse had got bashed in.

Afterwards Bert told me that Ben was very afraid that I'd be mad. I'm glad to say that I wasn't. Instead I told him that he'd just learned that he'd have to be more careful when using machines and then I got on with staking my tomato plants.

I did tick him off later on for drinking coke whilst on the trampoline.

"Ben," says I. "I'm prepared to forgive you for bending my greenhouse but I draw the line at you spilling disgusting, sticky coke on the trampoline." And that was that.

Pigs and Wine and Shortened Time

I have been listening to reports about research on recommended weekly amounts of alcohol. Dr Melanie Nichols of Oxford University, the lead author of a recently published paper, said: "Over 4,000 deaths from cancer, heart disease, stroke and liver disease in England could be prevented if drinkers reduced their average level of alcohol consumption to half a unit per person per day - a level much lower than current UK government recommendations.” She went on to say that a half unit of alcohol would be just a quarter of a glass of wine, or a quarter of a pint of beer. These days a unit of alcohol corresponds to half a glass of wine – or a glass and a half of wine per week.

And here I am busily making wine with every possible ingredient I can lay my hands on. Right now I have 18 bottles maturing and fourteen gallons still fermenting. Oh dear. What shall I do? Should I empty it all down the jacks?

But, to look on the bright side, if we adhere to these new guidelines, the present amount of alcohol being processed should last Nellybert a number of years. I have done the math. There are 5 glasses in a bottle and 6 bottles to the gallon. Multiply that by 17 and that comes to 510 gallons. We would be drinking three glasses between us every week and at that level of consumption the wine will last us three years and three months.

I comfort myself with the thought that when the statistics are examined more closely those 4000 + extra deaths per year translates into a probability of the drinking classes living about a fortnight less than the abstainers. It being late, and me on the wine, I cannot be bothered to research this thoroughly but, if any reader is interested, the views of statistician David Spiegelhalter are worth a moment or two of your time.

Now as well as making wine Nellybert has also a freezer full of home-grown pig and I'm sorry to say that eminent researchers in Harvard have shown that those of us who eat red meat more than three times a week are also shortening life expectancy, so if you are partial to a bacon sandwich and a glass of wine you're probably going to live around six weeks less than an abstemious vegetarian. Well worth it in my opinion. Slainte! Bon appetit!

Happy Birthday Bert!

bert and pup, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

It's Bert's birthday today. Thrifty Fee!

The Sun Has Got His Hat On

We have been basking in beautiful, glorious sunshine for almost a week. Misses Martha and Evie and their parents are camping out in the fields. Between spending time with them and watering, watering, watering (thank God we have water) there is little time for blogging.

But that's all right. Must go. I have a poly tunnel to water before it gets too hot.

Picture of the Day and Other Matters

Photograph of the day

It is one of my great delights to come across abandoned buildings. Especially fascinating is when the abandoned home is full of the detritus of the lives once lived there. The house I came across yesterday was such a place. I had no camera yesterday so returned today. The people who lived here were interesting folk. They studied, took and developed photographs, made things and painted. They might even have gardened although there was little evidence of it. The garden was so overgrown with nettles and brambles that it was coming into the house but I'm sure the butterflies were very pleased with it.

A fool and his finger are soon parted

This fool I know lacerated his finger on his lawnmower and refused to have medical attention. Surely everyone knows not to poke at the sharp moving parts of a machine while those sharp moving parts are actually in motion. These were my words of sympathy, "Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

He pointed out that at least I wouldn't have to listen to him  playing his clarinet for a day or two. I think I'd rather have the clarinet and an uninjured Bert as not. I'll give him this - he is a stoic. He even finished mowing the lawn and it looks great.

Another worry

 My car is, in the opinion of my mechanic, not worth fixing. Apparently French cars are parcels of merde. It's true! I heard it on Radio 4. Up to three warning lights can be on its dashboard panel at any one time and according to my friend, the mechanic, the diagnostic machine indicates that everything that could be wrong with it, probably is. Or not - as the computer box is full of clothes pegs. I know. I thought that sounded a bit surreal too. The guy that sold it to me assured me that it had only ever belonged to his parents, a respectable couple of retiring age. They had wanted an estate car to transport a big dog around in. I have to say, Bert and I thought it was odd that the front seats had those little burn holes that come from smoking cannabis joints. We didn't think the oldies were the type. But maybe their dog was the same breed as Brian from Family Guy.

The joyous part of the day...

...is still to come. Hannah is visiting and I'm currying some chicken. I haven't decided whether to buy gin or wine. I'll probably get both. It's been a tough day.

Tell Me Now

Grannymar  wanted to know....

What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up? Should I take a photograph of the sunrise? I didn't.

What do you prefer to drink in the morning? Coffee

What songs do you sing in the shower? I don't.

Do you own slippers? Yes, two pairs, both Christmas presents from sisters.

Worst injury you’ve ever had? I am very lucky never to have had anything other than minor cuts and bruises. Perhaps my right hand, cut on glass, self-inflicted when I was a teenager.

What’s one trait you hate about yourself? I don't hate it but I think I'm an under-achiever. I also eat too much.

What’s in your pocket right now? Labelling pen, seeds, pedometer, phone, iPod

Where would you like to go today? Dingle peninsula

Does someone have a crush on you? Certainly!

Spring

 This has been a cold May up until a few days ago. Hardly anything has been growing and the farmers are all complaining that there is not enough grass in the fields. These overwintered calves got their first taste of the great outdoors this morning. Seeing cattle getting out after a long winter indoors is one of my greatest pleasures.

 The gardeners are getting busy too. This lot are putting in potatoes. Again, far later than usual but what can you do?

I finished my day by taking a walk up the back lane. We're having campers at the weekend so I wanted to see if the proposed site was all that they'd want. I kept my eyes peeled for a sighting of Foxy but he was keeping well out of the way. Probably scared of my feline companion. Because, strangely enough, not one dog accompanied me on my walk. Charlie was around but he kept a distance. Holly de Cat walked with me every inch of the way meowing piteously if I got too far ahead of her. She loves to take a walk up the back lane.