Filed under: butters, cultural conundrums, going out, London places, present, work
I spent last night printing consecutive frames from Google Maps UK and worrying about what I’m going to wear to Wimbledon. Google Maps UK is my aid in getting me from place to place, and this morning I had to get from One Place to Another to Another. I’ve been to Another on a number of occasions, but infrequently by car, and never managing the vehicle myself. Today, it happens that I am behind the wheel because Butters needs an operation, and to get her to and from the Veterinarian’s office, I need wheels – private wheels because Butters is liable to pee or puke or worse. After dropping Butters for her appointment, I had work-related appointments of my own. The print-out slices of my journey lay on the passenger seat; I had superfluously marked my way with a red pen over Google’s blue path. The superfluous act with my red pen was intended not so much for reference but rather an attempt to etch the journey into my mind’s eye so that I wouldn’t find myself freaking out on the M3.
Have I missed my junction?
Last night, after printing and tracing and trying to etch into my brain this morning’s journey , I turned to my wardrobe, vastly expanded thanks to my visit to the USofA and the convenient exchange rate. Later this week I will be going to a corporate event where the agenda includes strawberries and cream and tennis whites and champagne or Pimms or both. A wise guy at work had me thinking I needed to wear a hat; thus the undue concern with my wardrobe. This morning I had a ‘doh’ moment followed by a confirmation email that cleared it all up.
Watch Wimbledon much on TV? Have you noticed the dress code?
Smart casual.
I love that designation.
No hat required.
Phew.
PS- If you are concerned, Butters is recuperating with a morphine doused patch and a little doggie cast.
I sit in my garden chair listening to The News drone on unintelligibly from a neighbour’s open window. I haven’t got much interest so I do not try to exercise my Jamie Summers-style super sense of hearing. A baby in my kitchen alternates between squeals of laughter, silence, and desperate wails. Silence. Wail. Silence.
“Papa!”
Silence. Laughter. Silence.
I have an admission to make: I do not have a super sense of hearing.
What is true: my current interest level in The News and my inability to make head or tails from the jumbled noise coming from my neighbour’s open window are aligned this morning. I don’t care what the inaudible gray noise, which I know to be a television man’s voice, has to say. I’ll read the paper or watch my own television later today, if my interest level shifts gears. Right now, the droning is just a part of early morning summer-ish ambience. As is the baby in the kitchen.
I sit in my garden chair and think about what summer brings to London.
Have we really had 5 straight days of sunshine and warmth?
I can’t be bothered to dissect the past week to verify the sunny day count. I don’t need to justify the feeling that summer is here. London summer advent has signs. They are here.
First of all the open windows. My windows, the neighbours’ windows. Not to mention the chair in my garden, and the fact that I’m sitting in it. The baby in the kitchen is also a sign. The baby in the kitchen is not my baby. You should know better by now. I do not have, nor have I ever, had a baby. The baby in the kitchen is a visitor. Visitors abound in London Summer.
I think about the other signs I’ve witnessed over the course of the past week.
The abundance of cleavage. Skin. Exposed. Everywhere.
Itchy red eyes and tissues in all of my pockets and increased trips to Boots or Superdrug or the local chemist for packets of Claratin or Zirtek or the one that starts with a P but I never remember the name.
The increased need for a lead when Butters and I go to the park anytime that’s not very early or very late because there are scads of picnic-ers or sunbathers or picnic-ers-slash-sunbathers (and even readers!) littering the normal way. These people – especially the picnic-ers – excite Butters to a point of socially unacceptable friendliness.
Summeresque sunshine also brings out the freaks. The man in a dress shirt and shoes wears shorts to practice Tai Chi in the middle of the pavement.
Summer is here. Finally.
Some little furry fuck is in the dog house. Not me. I’m not furry, most places.
Grrrr.
Bruce is a little cat. Petunia and I conclude that he is still a kitten (though Petunia keeps referring to Bruce as ‘she’ then laughs and corrects herself and says, “I don’t know why I associate cats with females!”). The Mista thinks we’re wrong. He asks if I remember how big Noah was, as if Noah is an appropriate barometer for cat size. Noah was my mom’s cat, and well-known to be the runt of the litter. Bruce’s size is really of no consequence. It’s his presence that has made for an eventful weekend.
Bruce showed up on Friday morning. Attracted to our outside boiler closet. By the late afternoon, the Mista (working from home) began to worry about this cat’s whereabouts.
Why is it here?*
The Mista skyped me, “There’s a cat outside. It won’t leave. I called its owner. It’s name is Bruce. The owner says he roams, so he’s not worried. It’s driving Butters crazy.”
Seemingly intent on driving Butters crazy, Bruce has stayed all weekend. Butters pouts as she loiters outside whichever door or window from which Bruce has decided to taunt her. She whines. She won’t take her eyes off Bruce. Bruce is an unexpected cause of stress for our poor sweet dog. Poor Butters. She just wants to play.
So now I have to admit something, which I didn’t tell Bruce’s owner just now when I called him to tell him his cat is still here.
The Mista, Petunia and I did try to make Bruce and Butters friends. We coaxed Bruce in with dog food. Bruce is very friendly to humans. He purrs and bashes his head into your palm just asking for affection. Bring Butters into the picture, however, and Bruce becomes a little bitch. Butters is nothing but nice. Bruce is a snot.
There was a time when I would have said I was a cat person.
Not anymore. Butters has reformed me. Bruce has been the icing on the cake. Dogs are so much nicer than cats. Nice has become more important to me than clever or independent. I wonder if that’s an age thing.
Bruce’s owner doesn’t pick up the phone when I ring. I leave a message. 5 minutes later our phone rings. It’s Bruce’s owner. Obviously sleepy. Possibly hungover.
“Um, yes, I have gotten a little worried. Has he moved in with you?”
I bristle a bit under the possibly paranoid interpretation of that question. As if we are cat nappers and Bruce is the victim. As if we coaxed him into our lives. I feel a bit guilty that we did feed him some milk and shrimp after he finished the morsels of dog food we gave him.
“No, no. He’s nestled on our outside boiler. The truth is we have a Rottweiler. Bruce is driving her crazy.”
Bruce’s owner chuckles. He suggests that he should come by and collect Bruce from our boiler. I agree that it would be a good idea. I give him our address, hang up, and wonder if I have to get out of my pyjamas for the arrival of company. I wonder what the protocol is. Does this have to mean the end to my lazy Sunday?
*The first time in this blog that I use italics to interject myself into the Mista’s head! Wahoo!
Ascension of our Lord and Saviour.
Butters’ Birthday.
My priorities? Take a guess.
Also: Happy Birthday, Mom!
And, finally, we had our snow! So what if it didn’t accumulate.
Ascension of our Lord and Saviour.
Butters’ Birthday.
My priorities? Take a guess.
Also: Happy Birthday, Mom!
And, finally, we had our snow! So what if it didn’t accumulate.
On Monday, a man was purportedly mauled to death by his Rottweiler. The beast was ‘put down’ (shot to death – like the unfortunate Mr. Menezes*) by law enforcement officers who were later lauded for putting their lives at risk to protect members of the public.
The press savoured the dramatic nature of the story much like Butters savours the leftover bone of a t-bone steak. Big initial bites, gorging on the bits and pieces and vomiting it up in the headlines.
Dog kills owner in horror attack.
Pet Rottweiler savages owner to death in horrific Street Attack.
I particularly like how the BBC article keeps its readers engaged by promising even more shocking developments under a section entitled (in bold) Baseball Bats.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/7212727.stm
The dead man was identified as a 78 year old. Sometimes. He was also a man in his mid-50′s. Some articles reference the fact that the man collapsed, the dog started licking the man, and only started nipping (biting. mauling. savaging) when his friend and master didn’t respond. Some say the dog was trying to drag the man home. Other articles intimate the dog just snapped and went on a “cannibalistic” rampage.
I’m sorry for the man. I’m sorry for the dog. I’m annoyed that the sceptical, unfriendly stares I get when I’m out walking Butters have been given further justification by the press. I’m further annoyed that I’m likely to get further stares.
Shame on the press for constant sensationalizing of even mundane topics. And, further shame for the lack of follow up. Was an autopsy done on the dog? Did it have a tumour on the brain? Did the man die of injuries sustained by his dog or by the thing that made him collapse (if indeed he did collapse)? Were other witnesses found? Was the dog trying to help and only went crazy upon lack of response from the 78 year old mid-50s man? (If the follow up stories are out there, then shame on Google for not returning the results).
Shame on the people who look at me in judgement. Take the time to get to know us. Don’t let the press form your opinion.
Ok, not really realistic to pour shame on all those people, but damn it! Don’t be afraid of me!
Shame on the dog owners who don’t work on controlling the baser instincts of their furry friends – whether a vicious Chihuahua or lunatic Doberman. Dogs need training and a firm hand. When Butters acts up, I show her who’s boss — sometimes throwing her to the ground and holding her down. Having a dog is a responsibility, and it needs to be taken seriously.
Ok, I don’t really THROW her to the ground, but I manoeuvre her to the ground without hurting her, to demonstrate my dominance. This of course gets me judged by witnesses to this ‘animal cruelty’. Jeezus, I just can’t win.
Finally shame, shame, shame on the dog owners who train their furry friends to attack, thereby creating a reputation for a breed that isn’t wholly inherently deserved. I could train my dear little Butters to be a savage, and that would be so wrong! Now, however, I will train her to behave when I play dead so that she doesn’t go ape-shit if I happen to have a stroke in the street.
*Before I am accused I will point it out myself: yes, I have compared the death of a dog to the death of a human. Obviously, I don’t hold really think a dog’s death is akin to a human death. It is a bit of irreverence (see previous post) injected into this little space of thought.
“It must be convenient living next to the shop. They can hold onto packages delivered when you’re not home – I mean, supposing you get on. Do you get on?”
My relationship with the speaker is new enough that I hesitate with my honesty.
Who are you kidding, big mouth? When have you ever held back from such an obvious opportunity to bitch?
“Well, on the face of it we get on; but, truthfully, I can’t stand that lady. She’s such a . . . . “
“Snot!”
“bitch!”
“Yes!”
My relationship with the speaker has just grown stronger! There is nothing like a common dislike to bring two people together.
I elaborate on my dislike for my neighbour, the ass-faced, high-end-retro-furniture-shop-owner with proper examples – just to prove I’m not mean-spirited or petty. I explain how the Mista cunningly tracked the scat that was frequently found on our stoop to the arse-faced neighbour’s pesky dog.
“Oh, that dog’s horrible!” my new-found friend explains. Turns out that new-found friend has got stories of her own about my neighbour and the little dog with the loud bark and the tendency to shit on our doorstep.
I explain about the gate and how it was a gambit to keep the pooh at bay.
I explain how we secretly hope Butters will bite onto pooping-on-our-doorstep-dog’s scruff and shake the little fucker until he’s too scared to bark or poop.
New-found friend and I commiserate in the shocking inconsiderateness of bad neighbours.
I explain how, despite the gate, little dog poop still occasionally makes an appearance.
“You know, the postman sometimes leaves the gate open so the dog will find his way in from time to time.”
The next morning, the Mista and I lie in bed awake despite the early hour. We hear the squeak of our opening gate. Normally, this sound heralds the rubbish collectors or the post man or the girl who lives upstairs.
It’s not rubbish collection day. It’s not the hour for post to be delivered, and the girl who lives upstairs is out of town. We scratch our heads. We peek out the blinds. We see the ass-face waiting for her dog to do his business!
It must be love if I pick up her shit without even a second thought. I didn’t think I’d be capable. I dreaded the shame surely associated with stooping down, plastic bag in hand, to clean the ground of a brand-fresh, piping hot pooh. If it’s cold out, it steams.
Now I know: there is no shame. Not even when she does it right in the driveway of Stamford Bridge … on game day.
It must be love if I pick up her shit without even a second thought. I didn’t think I’d be capable. I dreaded the shame surely associated with stooping down, plastic bag in hand, to clean the ground of a brand-fresh, piping hot pooh. If it’s cold out, it steams.
Now I know: there is no shame. Not even when she does it right in the driveway of Stamford Bridge … on game day.
