O, For tuna!

Scottish poet Robbie Burns once wrote about foresight being in vain – addressing a mouse. A plough had turned up the beastie’s nest and the poem is basically an apology for the vicissitudes Man thrusts on critters.

Save your apologies, Robbie . . . critters strike back.

Even so, he got it right on one score. ‘The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.’

Here’s how I know. A friend and his wife decided to splash out on a nice big piece of fresh tuna a couple of days ago. Now, if you’ve never eaten real tuna that hasn’t seen the innards of a can, you’ve missed one of life’s great pleasures.

So, of course, such occasions require careful preparation . . . especially if you have critters.

My friends love critters. Among them are a couple of dogs; one young raider and one crafty old girl. Like all pet owners, they’ve become adept in anticipating dognanigans in most situations. And, they’ve developed some sure fire methods for cutting them off at the pass.

So the wife set about kitchen preparations, and her man went into dog emergency preparedness mode. The dogs like resting in front of the big woodstove in the living room, and to make them even more comfy, they have nice big carpet squares to cushion them against the hardwood flooring.

The quick addition of a tastefully upholstered plywood barrier, and it’s win-win for all. Comfy dogs, well corralled.

So off went friend to ‘help’ in the kitchen. Nice when a plan comes together.

There came from the living room some scratching noises and some whining noises – the kind of canine sounds the sweet aroma of fresh tuna inspires. Incautiously, my friends ignored them and continued with salad prep and other side bits so that when the moment came to pop the tuna into the frying pan, they would be all set – with ambrosial delight mere moments away.

The noises grew more urgent.

“Are you sure she doesn’t need to go outside?” asked the wife. “Why don’t you go and check while I heat the pan up . . .”

He’d already moved through the doorway and had begun surveying the scene. Which was not pretty, at all. Indeed, the old girl had needed to go out and when she could hold it no longer, nature took over.

Wife immediately shut off the stove burner and hastened to investigate new urgent noises now coming from the room . . . mostly frustrated gurgles from her mate and the ticky ticky sounds of dog toe nails scampering door ward.

“What a mess!” she muttered, and switched into clean up mode.

Both swung into immediate action, and one breathtakingly speedy operation had all under control in jig time. Mess out, dogs out, order restored.

And then they heard it.

The unmistakable sound of feline munchery coming from the kitchen.

Oh, yes indeed. The best laid plans of mice and men are no match for the opportune pounce of a cat.

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Photo Credit: Here

Everything worth reading carnival . . .

For everyone who enjoys a good read, check out the Everything Worth Reading Carnival, located HERE

The best description of this blog is probably the publisher's own:

"What It's All About
Here's a monthly compilation of posts that are just good stuff. Don't send your how to guides. Don't send your business tips. Don't send financial advice, relationship therapy, or cutesie tales of two-year-old iguanas. Send your best writing--writing being the key word here. Be sure it's interesting. Ask yourself, is this the best dang thing on the web right now? If so, send it. Once a month, I'm giving up my own words to promote yours."

To which all I can add is: there really is something for everyone!

Photo credit: HERE

Cobwebs happen

I was quietly brooming the edges of our ceilings this morning, knocking down cobwebs.

Now, when your heart’s desire is to live in an older, ‘character’ house, you have to accept the fact that cobwebs happen – yet another of life’s little vicissitudes.

Photo credit: here

Mulling over what I knew about cobwebs, I was wondering if the new woodstove was causing more of them to happen, or just

making them more noticeable because smoke always escapes whenever I put in another piece of wood.

I’d worked my way around the bedroom, the home office and the alcove leading to the living room. The hub lay on the couch recuperating from the morning’s snow shoveling all ruddy cheeked and soaking up the warmth and quiet when I entered, brooming.

My eyes swept past him to the daily drifts of dog hair. Later, I told myself. I’ll just quietly attend to the cobwebs and not shatter his rest with our noisy vacuum. Pretty sure he’d followed my glance and read my mind. He seemed to snuggle deeper into the cushions with a satisfied sigh.

Halfway around the room, I chanced to think out loud, “I wonder why they call them cobwebs?”

Came the reply, “those spider webs? I don’t know.”

We chatted briefly about how many there were under the house (where he had spent extensive hours on the weekend, chasing down a furnace problem.) And whether they build them in draughty spots for catching prey. And if the new woodstove was ramping up the action, or just making them more obvious.

“Anyway,” says I, “why cobwebs? I mean, I don’t even know what a cob is. I’ve sure never seen a cob making one.”

He fell silent, as I hoisted my broom back to the task. The wood fire crackled comfortingly. The dogs lay curled on their respective floor pads and all was quiet and cosy. Several pleasant minutes passed in sweet enjoyment and quiet contemplation.

“I’ve never seen a mo,” the hub said at last.

My broom halted in mid swipe. “I beg your pardon? A mo? What do they look like?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen one.”

My brain jogged in several directions, feeling lost. “Then wha . . . why . . . huh? So what is a mo?”

“I don’t know. I just know they have hair.”

Yep. He’s a man of few words, but they’re cherce.