E.g. wanted a new baby for Mother’s Day. No problem, I said, it’s the perfect weekend to go dogsnesting. The puppies are just the right age about now, and it’s a lovely day for a drive in the country. Why don’t we take Jack and his mum along, too?

So we scouted the trees…

…while E.g. kept her eyes on the road.

Local landowner Doug answers Jack’s enquiry. “We had a West Highland Terrier rookery last year, but so far nothing this Spring.”

Finally, our faithful nestlinghound Cai finds a tree! Jack acts as spotter while Lavenderbay starts up the rescue rope.

E.g. approves of the new nestling.

Safe in the arms of Mama.

Buckled in for the ride home.

Fergus’s new nest…

… complete with foliage-patterned blankie.

E.g. after a full two hours’ sleep! Ain’t motherhood grand!

Hi everybody, and welcome to the Saturday funnies (I hope).

Way back when, we had a Famous-Dead-Person Blog contest, with all participants invited to offer a word for a limerick if they provided a username for the famous dead person. Well, everybody did! Goodbear’s limerick was posted on my “Turtle’s Latest Limerick” sidebar on April 28th for a week, and may now be seen on my “Limericks of the Turtle” page. Last Saturday, I posted three limericks; there are four more to go, including one for Chris.

Here then, are the remaining four limericks, with the dates on which they’ll be posted on my sidebar and added to the “Limericks of the Turtle” page. Enjoy! (And if you didn’t read the grand prize, 499 words on the topic of Jack’s mom’s choice, you can catch it here.)

Okay, this first one is for Shelley, who asked for a limerick with the word “travel” in it. It’ll be sidebarred on May 28th.

• I’m travelin’ on down the line
• With sev’ral great Cardis of mine.
• We’ll see friends of yore,
• And might get a good score.
• Either way it’s okay — I feel fine!

Next is the limerick for Livingisdetail, who offered the word “procession”. This one will be sidebarred on June 7th.

• The Lady Godiva’s procession
• Has made quite a lasting impression.
• Her shiftless noblesse
• Is still seen as a test
• Of good stewardship during recession.

Third, and second-last, is another one for Jack’s mum, who offered the word “flash”. June 14 will herald its week of front-page fame.

• I now see my purchase was rash.
• Though this white bathing suit is quite flash,
• If I don’t lose (I fear)
• Twenty pound and ten year,
• It will raise not a single eyelash.

And finally, here is one for Chris, who didn’t specify a word, so I chose one for him: “president”. I’m not convinced of its suitability as family material, so if you’re reading these aloud to the kiddies you may want to tell them that this one isn’t funny, which it probably isn’t anyway. (There was enough scandal over Gerald the other day.) It will be featured for the week of June 21st.

• A president’s job is a tough one,
• And a journalist’s tongue is a rough one.
• After one photo-op
• At Ye Olde Sausage Shoppe,
• Headlines read, “Leader told where to stuff one.”

And today is Puppy Pickup Day, which means I have to run away now and won’t be able to visit your blogs till tomorrow. I wish you all a luscious weekend. A la prochaine!

Field with friendly llama. No, wait…

Some years ago, my brother Keith and his family were living on a hobby farm, trying their hand, after work and on weekends, at raising some roasts and wings. Their agricultural methods were gleaned from several sources: tales Dad told of his teen-year summers working on a farm, advice from the rural neighbours, and books and magazines.

This last resource encouraged Keith and his wife to order exotica like Texas longhorn cattle or frizzled cochin chickens. The year they were considering a few sheep, they read of the benefits of owning a llama. The llama would cry out in warning if it saw a coyote, and if the coyote were foolish enough to get any closer, the llama would kick it. Here was an eco-friendly solution to a common predator, and scoring high on the exotica scale to boot.

And so, my brother kept a llama on his farm for a while. A short while. Maybe fifteen minutes or so. As soon as it was let out into the field, this llama decided that the grass was greener over the next fence — and over the next one, and the next, and the next.

At first, my brother ran after the beast, but when it wouldn’t stop, Keith trotted back for the pick-up truck. He pursued the llama for miles, impressed with its stamina, but finally lost sight of it. Damn. Keith went home and printed up ads to post on telephone poles. He phoned all the neighbours he knew, asking them to keep a lookout for the stupid so-and-so – he had paid a pretty penny for it, and it wasn’t exactly wearing a collar and licence.

After no word for days, finally someone called the house. There was a llama in his back field, he reported. With mixed feelings of exultation and vengeance, my brother hopped in his pick-up and drove the five miles to the caller’s home.

The other fellow came out, greeted Keith, and walked him around back. The two men looked on in companionable silence a moment, each deep in his own thoughts of rural life. Then Keith spoke. “That’s not my llama.”

Jack’s mom, who won the Famous Dead Person’s Blog contest, asked that I write 499 words (so that she could have the last one!) on sleep and dreams. Alyson may recognize her part in the inspiration for the following tale. Enjoy!

Things are Crook in Tallarook

Paddock chicken. Brendan woke with a start. What the heck was a paddock chicken? Come to think of it, what was a paddock? A field, wasn’t it, a meadow? Maybe a paddock chicken was a grouse or something. He glanced at the clock — 1:30 — and studied Martin’s peaceful, slumbering face. Brendan eased out of bed and cozied himself into his ancient terry housecoat and the sheepskin slippers Martin had bought him five years earlier.

In the living room, he gazed south towards the CN Tower and the downtown core. This view had aided his decision to buy the condo. Since the move, though, he had begun waking in the dead of night with odd phrases that sounded English but meant nothing to him, his mind racing from one verbal association to another.

He settled on the couch to channel-surf. “…went into overtime tonight…” Sports. “…for your baby’s…” Family. “…first book of short fiction, Things are Crook in Tallarook. Welcome, Tom!” This looked interesting; some kind of Australian talk show, probably live.

“So tell us about the title, Tom.”

“Well, Peter, I spent a year in Canada, and was fascinated by which Australian expressions were easily grasped, and which weren’t. I got funny looks if I said, “Things are crook in Tallarook”, but Canadians knew its Shakespearean equivalent –” Brendan started mouthing the famous line.

“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark?” guessed the host.

“Exactly,” replied the author. ”On the other hand, no one had trouble understanding me when I’d announce that it was beer o’clock.” Brendan laughed along with the studio audience.

“And now, will you read to us from your new book?”

“Certainly. This story is set in Canada’s largest city, Toronto. It’s called ‘Paddock Chicken.’” Suddenly Brendan was wide awake again. On the other side of the world, Tom whoever-he-was held his book out like a choir member holding a music folder. He began.

“Paddock chicken. Brendan woke with a start. What the heck was –” Brendan clicked the power button, but couldn’t move, not even to lower the remote. He switched the TV on again.

“…housecoat and the sheepskin slippers Martin had bought him –” Brendan hit the power button once more before dropping the remote as though it were a live firecracker. His eyes were dry; he forced himself to blink. Then he silently returned to the bedroom, hung up his housecoat and removed his slippers, tucked himself in, and huddled against Martin’s reassuring bulk, trying not to whimper.

The alarm went off. Brendan, forcing open his sleep-sealed lids, found Martin eying him quizzically. “Brendan, you’re good with words: what’s a paddock chicken? I just had the funniest dream.”

“An Australian rabbit. Two shakes, while I go siphon the python.”

“Eh?”

Brendan retreated to the bathroom, running from his own voice, locking himself in, determined to take a long, leisurely shower, hoping that by the time he emerged to hear that funny dream, Martin would have forgotten it.

Ember, Fergus, Reba, Chief, Flicker, and Sparky.

[Happy laundry day! I've developed a habit of posting lists of some sort or other on Tuesdays. Today it's a list of names, those of the puppies in the latest Yasashiikuma litter, seen above outdoors on a recent sunny afternoon. Beats me who all those hominids are, but the human puppy sure has a sweet face.

Below is the post I wrote yesterday. My cold rendered it a bit blasé in tone, and I'm not so sure I can improve it by much today -- isn't it naptime anyway? Also, I'm much less nervous and anxious than the first time around. That reminds me of a humorous, comforting book I read a quarter-century ago, while I was pregnant. It was written by a pediatrician and father of grown children, and had a title like How to Treat Your First Child as Though it Were Your Second. Anyway, here's yesterday's news today.]

My blogfriend Goodbear had a crappy start to her weekend, a whole pile of things beyond her control, most of them handleable if dealt with one by one, but not when they all come flying at her together like Shreddies out of a cereal box. She also said something about being crazy. I worried about that last remark, coming as it did out of left field (Goodbear is an eminently sane creature). I suggested that maybe she was just stressed, not crazy: stressed by good things (plans for a new puppy) as well as bad (large creepy spiders, creepy large spyers…).

Goodbear, by the way, is the first blogfriend (well okay, besides Shelley) to know E.g. and my good-stress secret. I’ve made her wait for further news because until yesterday we didn’t know which furball we’d be getting. Have I let the secret out yet?

Shelley is very careful to match her puppies with the most suitable families. She asks prospective owners lots of questions about their lifestyle and their reasons for getting a dog, observes her puppies carefully, and has temperament testing done when they’re seven weeks old. Last night, Shelley called us with her decision: It’s a boy! We’re getting Fergus.

E.g. and I, who have been tuning in since before they were born, have always thought Fergus the handsomest of this litter. If you go here, you can see his head with its perfect centre line through the brown, looking to me like a great-Gatsby-era gent with oiled hair. The markings look a little different now that he’s bigger, but he still has a neat-and-tidy look about him.

Shelley chose Fergus for us because he seems pretty laid back, and won’t dominate Cai, who is already somewhat submissive. Apparently it was a tough decision, however. Shelley had a hard time deciding whether or not Fergus would be a show dog! She even told E.g. that if we’d like, she could show Fergus to get his puppy points before we have him neutered. I’m undecided about that, since I know nothing about dog shows… but since I’ve always flown the flag of dilletantism, it might be interesting to learn something about it. We’ll see.

Anyway, getting back to the current time, we’ll be going up on Saturday to pick up Fergus. We’ll get to know him for two weeks or so, and then return him to Shelley to be boarded while we’re on vacation in Paris. We know he’ll be in good hands!

E.g. hasn’t yet decided whether we’ll change his puppy name (Cai’s puppy name was Jasper). She had thought of “Robin” if we got a boy, but she likes the name Fergus, so we may keep it. I’m sure the decision will be made by the end of the week.

I seem to have caught that cold that’s been going around Central Ontario and eastern Australia. I tried writing something earlier, but it came out about as unpeppy as me. So here’s a tale of my childhood, written last summer. I hope you enjoy it.

Mummy plumped me onto a kitchen chair, pulled my pink and white canvas shoes onto my feet, licked her fingers and settled my hair. She had changed her blouse.

“Where are we going, Mummy?”

“We’re going to visit Mr. MacGregor.”

The baby buggy was on the front walk. Mummy glanced in to make sure Dougie was still asleep. She called to Mac to watch the others, we’d only be gone a few minutes. Mac was busy showing Ian something in the bean patch, and waved us away with “Yeah, yeah, see ya.” Keith looked up from his metal scoop shovel, stared at Mummy for a moment, and resumed his work.

Mummy took my hand. Down we went through the backyard and out onto the dirt road, past the mailbox. We turned away from the Greysons next door, and past the Shirriff’s house across the road, into unknown territory. I didn’t know Mr. MacGregor.

“Mummy, does Mr. MacGregor have any children?”

“No, dear. Mr. MacGregor lives all alone.”

Living alone must be a terrible thing, because Mummy replied in the same tender, sad tone she had used the other day when she told Keith, “I’m afraid she’s dead, honey.” Dot had wandered out to the highway, past the fence which we were never to cross, and got hit by a transport truck. Keith had been standing beside the woodstove, cupping her limp, grey body in his hands, squeezing his lips tight together while Mummy made her pronouncement. Dot was Keith’s kitten, he had named her. Then suddenly she wasn’t anybody’s kitten.

Besides, nobody lives alone. I lived with Mummy and Daddy and Malcolm Keith Ian Dougie and Blackie and Dot - no - Dot was dead. But there were toads and garter snakes and spittlebugs and robins and juncos. The Wilsons had horses and cats. Mrs. Greyson wore a white dress with black polkadots, Mr. Greyson had no teeth, and their yellow dog Cindy hid under their bed during thunderstorms. Johnny Shirriff lived with his mummy, who was the fattest woman in the world, and his grandpa, who scared me with his cigar and old housecoat and cane and shuffly brown slippers. Everybody lived with somebody.

“Mummy, is Mr. MacGregor a bad man?”

“Why no, dear! Whatever made you think that? He’s a very nice man; you’ll see.”

At the end of a gravel drive in a weedy yard was a two-storey red brick house. Mr. MacGregor let us into the front room, and settled himself into his armchair. He certainly didn’t look like a bad man. He had teeth and regular clothes and shoes and glasses, just like Daddy. Unlike Daddy, Mr. MacGregor had a round, wrinkled face and very little hair and rosy cheeks. He was about sixty or a hundred years old.

Mummy told Mr. MacGregor about the casserole she’d brought him, and they talked about this and that for a few minutes. Then she smiled at me and nudged me forward. When I arrived at Mr. MacGregor’s chair, he set me on his knee and continued to chat with Mummy. I was content to sit on his knee and be a visitor since I knew that it’s a terrible thing to live alone. On the little table beside the armchair was a framed photo of a pleasant plump woman; I wondered who it was.

I was startled when Mr. MacGregor looked down into my face and smiled. “Are you my little girl?” he asked. The poor old man! No wonder Mummy was sorry for him: he didn’t even know that he lived alone! I looked at the floor, silent. But Mr. MacGregor continued his questions. “Would you like to live with me? Are you my little girl?” I briefly considered. I wouldn’t miss my brothers, but Daddy would miss me. There was nothing else for it: no matter how much it hurt Mr. MacGregor’s feelings, I had to tell him the truth.

Imitating my mother’s sympathetic tone of voice as best I could, I answered Mr. MacGregor. “No, I’m Daddy’s little girl.” I was puzzled but relieved when my statement was met not with tears but with hearty laughter from both Mr. MacGregor and Mummy.

Mummy and I walked home soon afterward, and I roamed the backyard, looking for spittlebugs.

Back on March 21, the Black-capped Chickadees and Downy Woodpeckers were emptying the feeders, and only the cedars were green.

Sometimes I can smell seasons. This morning is one of those times. On my way over to Robert and Jane’s place to catsit, I could smell Spring. The air is cool, not quite 10 (50) degrees, and damp from yesterday’s downpour; the Crabapples are in full bloom; and the maples are replacing their delicate green bobbly bits with translucent young leaves. Scent is spilling out from sidewalks as each corner grocer displays hundreds of potted plants.

For a while last week, I was afraid we were going to miss out on Spring, just as we were cheated out of Autumn. It went from too hot to snowbound in about two days’ time, and then as soon as the snow melted we were handed unseasonably warm, dry weather. We Canadians like to joke that we have two seasons, Winter and July (or Winter and Construction if you’re a driver), but I think most of us enjoy the buffers between the two extremes.

Anyway, today is a perfect Spring day. And tomorrow I will bring my binoculars! There were three types of sparrows feeding at the suet block next door when I arrived.

The White-crowned Sparrows were encouraging conversation, saying, “Speak! Speak!”

The House Sparrows chuckled, “Ju-jube!” in reply.

The White-throated Sparrows, pushing back from the feeder, sang out “O sweet Canada, Canada, Canada!”

Then an alarmist Starling started spitting, “Ca-a-at! Ca-a-at!” and the party broke up for a moment. But the sparrows were soon back. Robert and Jane’s cats don’t do fences, much less tree limbs. They were simply out for a post-breakfast sniff, to sit in the back yard and enjoy this fine morning as much as I am.

I. The Rhymes

As promised, here are the first three of the limericks made from the words provided by the entrants of last week’s blog contest.

Eyegillian offered the word “explore”. Her limerick will gain sidebar status on May 7th.

(thanks to Gelett Burgess)

• I wish that my room had a door!
• I don’t care so much for a floor,
• But without any way
• To get out and go play,
• I won’t have a chance to explore!

Alyson offered the word “Pluto”. Your limerick will be front-paged on May 14.

• Is Pluto a planet or not?
• I used to know, but I forgot.
• To force its demotion
• Has caused me emotion;
• My horoscope now has a blot!

Jack’s mum offered “flash”, but I haven’t quite managed that one yet, so today I’ll post her other suggestion, “Transylvania”. It’ll be sidebarred… umm… Checkers, what’s three times seven?

•  A passenger from Transylvania
• Smiled and laughed till his stop: Pennsylvania.
• He was trying his best
• To ward off arrest:
• “For concealed weapons found, they’ll arraign ya.”

II. The Movie

 While I couldn’t find a Youtube video of Burton Cummings singing “I Will Play a Rhapsody”, Themarvelousinnature sent a link to some Canadians named Keith, Ken, and Frank jamming in Keith’s basement. Apart from the opening ritardando, they’re really not bad. So here’s a link to a coupla guys on accoustic guitars and their singing cohort (the twin brother of the one guitarist!), belting out their tribute to Burton Cummings. Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8vqreP9Mc9Y

A few days ago, I posted my selections of theme music for my friends’ blogs.

Friends?

Well, strangely, yeah. I tell non-blogging friends and neighbours about my blogfriends. I tell my computerless mum about my blogfriends. I discuss Goodbear’s plans for a Border Collie, Alyson’s “Jack Russell cross” pup that has turned out to be mostly Irish Wolfhound, Bobbie’s tale of Brutus the Barracuda, and Livingisdetail’s neighbour’s lemon tree with my partner, E.g., as if they were fellow parishioners. I have never been so consistently happy in my life. Neither have I ever written so consistently.

 I know I have readers here in Ontario, over in Saskatchewan, down in various corners of the States, wa-ay down in eastern Australia, apparently at least one in the Netherlands, possibly one or two in England (hi, Catherine!), and maybe one in New Zealand (good day, Chris!).

It’s not like I could knock on any of your doors to borrow a cup of sugar.

But here you all are, and all I have to do is write. What’s not to like?

So the other day, when I tooled around YouTube looking for fellow bloggers’ theme songs, of course I reflected on what my own would be. And I came up with one. Do I love it? Yes. Is it Canadian? Yes. Does it say something about my writing style or subject matter? Yes. Is it on YouTube? I said, Is it on YouTube? Aw, nuts.

But I’ll tell you about it anyway.

The song is called “I Will Play a Rhapsody.” It’s by Winnipeg-born Burton Cummings, who hasn’t stopped making music since he cut his first record in 1965 (or maybe even since he cut his first tooth). Cummings teamed with Randy Bachmann to lead the Guess Who for a decade, before going solo in 1976. The piece I’ve selected was on his 1978 album, Dream of a Child.

“Rhapsody” is well played, well sung, and not too fast. It has a delicious little harmony line on the last chorus. These facts would describe a lot of pop songs, though; why do I want “Rhapsody” for my blog?

It’s the lyrics. They describe what every good musician — and every good writer — wants to do: take the stale and make it fresh, take the old and make it new, take the shabby and make it shimmer:

I will play a rhapsody

Cleverly disguise it, so it’s not been heard before

 The artist doesn’t need to have met his hearers in order to have a personal relationship with them, but it is they who must decide by judging his work:

How will you know

If I am for you?

You won’t know me to see me,

But you’ll know by what I do

And what does the artist do? He plays love songs. Love of one’s partner (”Timeless Love”), of one’s blood relatives (”Break it to Them Gently”), of one’s neighbours (”Share the Land”), of one’s God (”I’m Scared”), of one’s fellow musicians (”Gordon Lightfoot Does Maggie May”), of one’s listening pleasures (”Clap For the Wolfman”). Maybe one or two of you have a memory similar to mine, that of being glued to the radio as a teenager, letting the music and the dj’s friendly voice wash over me like soothing balm.

I will play a lullaby

I’ll let you know I’m near you through the night to keep you warm.

I want my writing to have the same kind of effect on my readers as Burton Cumming’s music has on me. I have no higher aspiration.