Tag: cats

Ghost Dog…

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Today I went for one of my habitual walks on the beach.  These walks are usually a solitary pursuit – time to myself to think and not think. Wind, waves and the yearning cries of the gulls and guillemots. On my part of the coast,the forbidding British Winter has granted us a sunny reprieve – it’s been clear and crisp – blue sky, and so icy that the seafoam has frozen and the chalk cliffs sparkle with frost. Beautiful, but only crazy people and dog owners are out on the beach. And me…

I must confess I have always been a cat person. However, since dogsledding in Finland I have returned home as a husky whisperer (yes, I know what you are thinking, but no…I don’t have a premium phone line. If I did I’d be stinking rich and living in Hawaii!) It’s just that somehow I’ve acquired an affinity with dogs. I don’t know how. Or why. Perhaps they have an affinity with me… probably more like it, because judging by my personal life its the mutts and the strays who think they have a chance…

Anyway. I’ve noticed something really odd on my walks along the beach.  Dog owners, who are of course a breed unto themselves, keep chatting to me.  Now in and of itself, that would not be weird (It’s England after all and everyone talks to you)…but they all stop and ask where my dog is…like I have a dog! Car keys? Check!… Ipod? Check!… Attitude? Check?… Canine…erm, no!

When they ask me, my defense is to say that I am walking my dog of special breed – the ‘invisible’ dog. Of course this is patently an excuse, as it’s perfectly clear I’m walking myself, but it seems to keep the dog owners happy. And their dogs don’t  mind either.  I’m even contemplating carrying a tennis ball  and a leash – just to look the part!

Still, I can’t help wondering if they see a ghost dog. An invisible mutt.  Now I just need to work on the invisible man. Ha! That leash may come in handy after all.

Nine lives…

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I lost a good friend yesterday.  As with most serendipitous things, Loulou arrived by pure chance.  I didn’t choose her.  I inherited her. It was only supposed to be six months, but ten years later she was still with me… Sometimes its the smallest decisions that can change your life forever.

Designer she was not.  Battersea born and rescued she was.  Lovely with it, though.  Despite being a feline fashionista.  And in case you don’t believe me, I kid you not…

Favourite gay man: Gok Wan. Favourite designers:  ‘Miaouwschino’, ‘Miaow Miaow’, ‘Georgio Armiaowni’ and, of course, ‘Prrrrrada’! Favourite words: ‘Sushi’ and ‘Nobu’!  Go figure. For someone so small and furry, she did have big ideas!

Actually, I could never work out whether she thought she was human. Maybe I was just the Alpha cat in the pack…?  I had many parties where Loulou sat at the table and was part of the conversation.  Not on the table, mind you (we do have standards), just at the table. Daintily perched on a chair. Listening. Observing. Taking it all in. Perfect guest. Good manners, great listener and an even better radar. Could sniff a love rat at thirty paces! Useful skill if champagne has numbed your owner’s common sense, but that is another story…

In the end, Loulou’s exit was quiet and dignified, much like her life. She was much loved and I will miss her sorely. Mostly because when my own life was pretty pear-shaped, she was the reason I would get up and go on. Well…she needed feeding, and  – at that time – I needed a reason to fight the despair that threatened to overwhelm me. And maybe, just maybe…it’s because she is the last connection with a life I had, but no longer aspire to. 

Sometimes, we have to be ready to say goodbye to one life in order to understand what we are to be in the next…

Common language…

Chiromancer2 Comments

Just finished reading my local paper and spotted something that really annoys me…

No, it’s not the story about feral youth setting the dustbin on the corner of Queen and Main Street alight (btw, that is the the only thing that qualifies as crime in this area, thankfully). And no, not the story of Ambrose, the cat of the week, who needs a new home because their owner mistreated them (poor pussy). The offensive statement was in fact in a half page ad –  ‘Wedding Fayre’ – fair, spelt with a ‘y’ and an ‘e’ on the end.

Honestly! we’re not living in ‘ye olde worlde’ any longer. Brides are not bartered for three sheepe and a cowe. Speak English for god’s sake! It’s like seeing ‘shoppe’ pollute the signage of our local villages. Eeuw! Not erudite (which does have an ‘e’ on the end). Just silly. Frankly the only place where rogue ‘e’ belongs is at a rave.

And please, don’t – whatever you do – call it the ‘specific’ ocean in front of me. It’s ‘P’ for ‘Pacific’ (as in peaceful), not ‘specific’ (as in particular). Of course, if you are referring to a particular ocean, then have the decency to use it’s proper name. You know…Indian. Atlantic. That sort of thing.

We may have spell-checker on our e-mails, but why do we have no common sense when it comes to our own language?

‘Stationary’ does not refer to envelopes and notebooks, unless they are standing still.
Doing something ‘on principal’ is likely to rile the school governors and get you on the sex offenders register.

And a final warning from the blog… if you end up lost in the ‘dessert’…make no mistake, you will be eating custard on your way back to the oasis!