A Dog’s Breakfast

It is morning. Ruby is lying low while I get my coffee going.  I can almost hear her thinking, “See? I’m being good.”

Emma takes her cue from the older dog and lies low too. They both know there’s a good chance they’ll get a treat before breakfast, just so I won’t feel so guilty about eating mine before going to feed them.

The tiny Melmac dishes have been part of our household since they belonged to our cats 40 years ago. They are the dogs’ snack dishes now.

I usually crumble half a slice of bread into each dish, add a bit of whatever tasty morsel might be around – a sprinkle of parmesan, a tiny dash of half and half, whatever is handy – and add some warm water. I walk over to the hallway with Emma and Ruby right behind me. Without being told, they each sit in their usual spots, Emma to the right, Ruby to the left. I place the dishes on the floor and as always, Emma looks up at me while Ruby stares at her dish. When I say, “Okay,” they lap up the goodies.

Afterwards, like the good girls they are, they bring me the dishes to put in the sink.

Here is Ruby with her brown dish.

And here is Emma with her cream dish. (Her pictures are often  blurry because she is always in motion.)

Then, partially satisfied, they lie at my feet until I’ve had my coffee and toast, knowing that afterwards we’ll go downstairs and they’ll have a real “dog’s breakfast.”

“Manners matter,” Ruby says.

Emma says, “I’m cute.”

“That’s not enough,” the old dog warns.

“And you should follow suit.

 

Just lie down flat, and roll your eyes

To watch what’s going on.

Pretty soon we’ll get our snack

And breakfast won’t be long.

 

Sit there patiently and wait.

Never whine or jump.

If you do, we’ll miss our snack

So sit down on your rump.

 

When the mistress says, ‘Okay!’

We can begin to eat.

You’d better not start in too soon,

She doesn’t like a cheat.

 

“Oh yeah, but Ruby,” Emma says,

“You always watch your food.

I watch, adoringly, her face,

And capture her good mood.”

 

Lincoln the Delinquent

 

Linc! Lincoln! Where are you? … Folks, have you seen my baby?

 

Shh! Don’t move!

Lincoln, you little rascal. Is that you?

Uh-oh…. Busted!

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Heh-heh, I think I can outrun the old lady.

 

Searchin’ for my baby squirrel,

Lookin’ o’er de whole wide worl’.

Lincoln! Lincoln! Where are you?

See the trials you put me through.

Askin’ every dame and gent,

“Do y’all know where delinquent?”

Tree Art

Yesterday I visited a friend who lives on Protection Island, a tiny island across from Nanaimo on Vancouver Island. She gave me a tour of the place and my camera was smoking with so many photo-worthy things to record.

One of the more fascinating things she showed me was a gateway made by a local resident. If she hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have noticed that unlike the tree on the left, the one on the right is not made of wood, but of metal. I thought it was very clever of the artist to anchor the metal tree so naturally on the rocks where it pretends to send roots into the ground. On closer inspection you might notice that the metal tree has leaves that tell me it might be representing an oak.

Ironically, I think the wooden tree has a metallic name. I believe it might be a copper beech.

P.S. (A few days later…) I’ve just had word from the owner that the tree on the left is in fact a Japanese plum, so the poem doesn’t quite fit, but I’ll leave it as it is. Call it poetic license. 

 The oak tree brags, “I guard the gate.”

He shocks the copper beech,

Who leans back, but defends himself,

“A lesson I must teach.”

“I’m  tough and strong, of iron made,”

The great oak lets him know.

His metal clinks, he smirks and sneers,

“My strength withstands a blow.”

“But I will grow,” the beech tree smiles,

“And birds in me do trust,

While you will chill their little feet

before you turn to rust.”

Oh NO!

Just yesterday, I took the snowy header off my WP home page, replacing it with spring-like pussy willows. Did I anger the gods and they made it snow again? AARRGGHH!

I stuck my camera out the back door and snapped this picture without regard for settings. The snow is falling in streaks, which tells me that the shutter speed is too slow (I think!) but I thought I’d post it anyway because it shows how the snow is basically “streaming” out of the sky. AGAIN!

I’m leaving the spring header on. Maybe it will work some magic.

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NOW look at the backyard! Poor birds have to scramble for food all over again, just when they thought it was spring. All the snow was gone yesterday and today it’s back again. I could cry!

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Gentle snowflakes

Devastate me.

Gliding past 

They say, “Don’t hate me.”

I’m resigned.

It’s like this lately.

 

A Cold Blanket

How often have we heard the expression, “A blanket of snow”? But how warm is this blanket? NOT VERY!

A chilly blanket settles down

On every surface in the town.

The hills and valley shiver too,

Of drivers there are just a few.

Daring shoppers venture out

Their cars and trucks slide all about.

We’ll just get used to all this snow

And then the rain will make it go.

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The sun is doing its best to warm up the ice blanket but I think it won’t be successful today. More snow is coming before the usual rain is back.

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Spiderman

I once lived in fear of the dragonfly.

The sound of its name would terrify.

If the back of my shirt were a landing place

At least I would not see the alien’s face.

They must come from somewhere in outer space

But how did they get those fine wings made of lace?

The colours are lovely, my eye wants to dwell

On the spacesuit that’s muted but shiny as well.

Its legs, like a model’s, are fine and quite lean

Perhaps I was wrong and it’s really not mean.

It’s just having fun as it climbs up the railing,

I pray that it’s strong and its grip is not failing.

Its wee little voice calls as loud as it can,

“Just look at me. Look! I am Spiderman.”

 

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Just call me Spiderman