Tov, we shall have this discussion in 2025 if we all get there, you, ben and
self
Mazal tov, I liked the Rhodesians’ mind, far more than the abstruse mongering
of the people on the list who have fetish fixation, popper, grice.. etc.
More seriously, thank you for the pictures, it has been quite a while since I
hiked with dogs which were mine at that time
From: Lawrence Helm [mailto:lawrencehelm@xxxxxxxxxxxxxx]
Sent: Monday, April 3, 2017 2:25 PM
To: Adriano Palma <Palma@xxxxxxxxxx>
Cc: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: RE: Re: Hereabouts
Yes, Ben outclasses us all in beauty, but then he is a retired grand-champion
show dog from New York. The smallest, Duffy, was purchased in Susan in her
waning days as a lapdog. I acquired Jessica, the Irish Terrier, a year ago,
because I always wanted one. In disagreement with Susan, I thought that breed
of an ideal size and temperament for my situation. They are noted for being
especially healthy and so many of the established breeds are not. The
Rhodesian as a breed has a lot of health problems, and in my negotiations with
Ben’s breeder brought that up. My previous two Rhodesians died at ages 9 and 7
respectively, and I would be getting Ben at age 3. She said that he came from
a line of Rhodesians that was especially long-lived. His father died at age
15. He was born November 22, 2010 and still looks and seems in great shape.
Thanks,
Lawrence
From: Adriano Palma [mailto:Palma@xxxxxxxxxx]
Sent: Monday, April 03, 2017 4:22 AM
To: palma@xxxxxxxxxxxx<mailto:palma@xxxxxxxxxxxx>
Cc: palma@xxxxxxxx<mailto:palma@xxxxxxxx>
Subject: wd: Re: Hereabouts
Dear Lawrence I am glad the Rhodesian rules the pack in beauty.
best
From: lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx<mailto:lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
[mailto:lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx] On Behalf Of Lawrence Helm
Sent: Monday, April 3, 2017 6:06 AM
To: Lit-Ideas <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx<mailto:lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>>
Subject: [lit-ideas] Fwd: Re: Hereabouts
Whoops, the dog I mentioned encountering on the hike, was encountered on the
hike previous to the one I referenced. Here is the photo I took of that dog:
https://lawrencehelm.smugmug.com/RiverPhotography/Mar-2017/i-f42sCSg/A
Lawrence
-------- Forwarded Message --------
Subject:
Re: [lit-ideas] Hereabouts
Date:
Sun, 2 Apr 2017 21:00:18 -0700
From:
Lawrence Helm <lawrencehelm@xxxxxxxxxxxxxx><mailto:lawrencehelm@xxxxxxxxxxxxxx>
To:
lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx<mailto:lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
David,
I came upon Susan's old Backup drive and in going through it ran across
something she had done at a party, a game called "how well do you you know your
husband." One of the questions was, "what would your husband do if he didn't
have a wife". She answered that I would get more dogs. It is true that I'm
extremely fond of them. Your story reminded me of something that happened a
month or two ago. Diesel, one of the little dogs next door, slithered through
a hole in the fence and was out exploring the neighborhood when I drove off
with my dogs for a hike. When we came back later and hit the garage door
opener, Diesel ran into the garage and out into the back yard where he spent a
good deal of time sniffing what was for him the opposite side of the fence.
I found out his name was Diesel by inspecting his collar, but I didn't know at
the time that he lived next door or that there was a hole in his fence; so my
next door neighbor (a school teacher) and I had a rather confused conversation
over the phone as I described to her where I lived. She said she knew where it
was because she lived "near me." Diesel by this time had made himself
thoroughly at home and was upstairs inspecting my study when my neighbor showed
up at the front door. She looked somewhat familiar but I am better with dog
faces than human ones so I didn't immediately know she was my next-door
neighbor. I yelled, "Diesel, come on down here," and he ran down the stairs as
though he was one of my dogs.
I watched to see which house she took Diesel to and was surprised to see that
it was the one next door to mine. Diesel in the days that followed has gone
back to fence-fighting with my dogs, especially Jessica, who was one-year-old
yesterday. Or it could be the other dog living over there who is slightly
larger but has a much larger bark. I'd like to think Diesel doesn't
fence-fight, my littlest one Duffy (23 pounds and about the same size as
Diesel) doesn't.
Also on our last hike:
https://lawrencehelm.smugmug.com/RiverPhotography/Mar-2017/i-ZXTs5v7/A we ;
encountered a strange dog. You can see him about half way through the photos
from this hike. He belonged to one of the many homeless people who have taken
up residence down at the river -- a bit on the ugly side the dog seemed to me,
but he didn't think so. I examined my own behavior later on for I treated him
as I would one of my own, putting my hand out and touching him as came near,
not letting anything rough go too far. We went on and I could hear his owner,
who must have heard the growling, shouting from the bushes (I didn't take a
photo of him) and then stand out there shirtless watching us walk along. But I
wondered later why I put my hand out to this dog (one should never, I told my
children when they were young, put your hand out to a strange dog) knowing at
some level I can't explain that in this case it would be okay for me to do
that. Maybe it involves the same sort of subconscious knowledge that allows
you to understand the opinions of chickens. :-)
Lawrence
On 4/2/2017 11:50 AM, david ritchie wrote:
Returned from our travels, I was delighted to welcome my good friend P to tea.
He’s back in town for the unveiling of a portrait someone commissioned and, of
course, to give me hints and tips. What would his life be without the
opportunity to explain that this or that little tweak makes the world of
difference to one of my daubs? The magic he works!
Slow to recover from flying, I went outside to see whether a few minutes of
vitamin D might help, a coffee mug’s worth. The chickens gathered round and
made gentle, inquisitive noises. In those circumstances it hit me that talking
to chickens can be like conversations in the hospital; between my recent
experiences and theirs was a gap so big, settling on a subject was difficult.
I tried Scottish Independence, “Oil revenues are down from the billions to mere
millions. It’s hard to see how they could make a go of it.”
Mimo nodded, pretending to understand, “Yes, yes.”
I ploughed ahead, “And yet First Minister Nicola Sturgeon presses on.”
“Sturgeon,” Cheddar echoed.
Pecorino brightened, “That’s a fish.”
Appenzeller, “Quite big, I’m told.”
Mimo did not want to be outdone, “A Nicola must be a little nickel.”
I was going to point out that she was getting her Italian diminutives all wrong
when Cheddar asked, “But what’s a nickel?”
I explained it was a small amount of money.
“So,” said Pecorino, trying to move up the pecking order, “Small money, big
fish?”
I was feeling mischievous, “Actually she’s a Scottish god… like me.”
Appenzeller objected that “Small Money, Big Fish” sounded like a Native
American name, “Along the lines of, ‘She Who Disturbs the Sparrows.’”
Mimo, “Who told you Native Americans have those kind of names?”
“Sparrows.”
There came a knock on the front door. A lady who had been out running had been
asked by Hamish if she’d like to play with a pinecone. His view is that our
circle of friends should include pretty much everyone in the knowable world. I
thanked her, brought him inside, went to the back yard to discover how he had
escaped. I found the chickens standing on the compost pile, peering through
the gap in the fence left by the wide-open gate. Some god had blundered. The
chickens were having a serious debate about Hamish’s safety.
“He has gone beyond the bounds of the known world,” Mimo, stentorious.
“But you’ve all been out there!” I responded.
“No, no…” They did that ‘let’s stomp around to emphasize what we mean’ move.
“Not through The Gap,” Pecorino said.
Cheddar, “No, no. Never through The Gap. That’s where you gods go with the
loud wheelie binny thingies.”
It was Appenzeller who made the whole situation clear to me, “We don’t venture
where we can’t pierce the veil.”
It took me a moment to parse that one, but I did. The fence on the other side
of the house has gaps between the slats, but on this side the planking is
tight. I realized that the chickens were willing to escape only into terrain
they had often surveyed No going into ‘Terra Unscouted’a.’
“Well,” I said, “good news. Hamish is fine… And your ambassador to Malawi is
getting ready to depart.”
“What’s Malawi?” Cheddar wanted to know.
“A landlocked country in Africa. One of J’s chums is going there to study
infectious diseases and when I was in New York, I charged her with being your
ambassador.”
Mimo, “What’s landlocked?”
“What’s New York?”
I decided to answer what I judged might be the easier question, “It means
‘without access to the sea.’”
“What’s the sea?”
To return from a trip to Manhattan and D.C., to return from a visit to the Met
and lecturing at the Smithsonian at the Museum of American History, might bring
on feelings of a return to the boonies, of a sense that where we live is
neither as bright nor as vibrant as the Big Apple and the Swamp. This is why
we have chickens. I offered them the contents of a packet of airline “savory
snack mix,” the kind of thing frequent fliers reject because it’s poorhouse
crumbs to them, and what was the result? Pure delight.
“Ecstasy!” said Mimo.
“I’ll say!” Pecorino agreed.
“I said it first,” Mimo reminded everyone how the pecking order goes.
We performed a dirt-ectomy on Mimo’s back end this week—all I’m going to say
about that unpleasantness—but the fact she has fewer tail feathers to shake
hasn’t diminished her bossiness. There’s probably a latin aphorism describing
how useless it is to wish for change in the pecking order.
Hamish has no worries on that account; he is our one and only dog is pretty
much always happy. With temperatures warming there are squirrels active
everywhere. Magic!
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
