Saturday, December 03, 2005
Frosty!
I'm not too sure about any degree of wisdom or common sense on posting the stuff below.
* * * * * *
Rima was telling me it was 'outside time' while I was doing all the little goodies uploading the last post. I compose in Word like all rational users of Blogspot, takes a bit more time, worth it the first time de Spot does de wipe! She'd outgassed a glass-etcher, then went and nosed the front door, came back and looked at me with my streaming eyes from her CBW attack. Same as her mama, granny, and most every GSD that has claimed this joint. If I ignored those above-mentioned gals, they would give me a second chance. If I ignored that one, they would just go lay a dawg-log on the threshold between the library and pantry. Always. De shit spot. Is it instinctive? GSD gals are pretty-much born housebroken after mama gets tired of her tits getting gnawed with those little needle teeth. There isn't any possibility of any breed of dawg with the Y chromosome that isn't a true pain in the ass to house break. Took 3 years with one son of a bitch. Best dawg ever. Evar? Kinda. Kinda like a bunch of others now long gone. I bought airplane tickets and afforded the massive required vet paperwork for one canid. Wanna story? Wrote a long bit about him over the last weekend. Doesn't have a decent entry or exit point, might take a while to edit it into a stand-alone.
ANYWAY (!), the thought was to head back to the good spot as it was about 150 degrees away from Cookie's residence. Flannel shirt, flea market jeans, and my best Chinee sneakers ($7 on sale at Wal*Mart a few years ago). Damn! Had to check to see if I had actually put britches on. The last Made-in-America outdoor thermometer that Nina bought me back when Reagan was prez indicated 36 degrees. I gave it a thump, it went down. Came back in and put the camera back in the bag and sat to rethink directions. Hands obviously needed pockets, direction rethought to 178 degrees. Worked very well except this time I found a huracan felled tree to sit on whilst Rima perused the area. There's a coyote den within earshot (the one nearby was emptied years ago) and she was quite distracted by the morning sounds. I have one decently good ear and could hear a bit of what had her attention. She went into the stock-still, one paw off the ground pointer mode (all tall dawgs do this), ears cocked and tail rigid. My memory of the den was about 15 degrees off her angle, guess they've moved. She has a couple of young, wonderful, hound-dawg radar ears, I've got one old aged whiteboy ear! Which one would you trust?!! Nice 'walkie' with her doin' most of it. Came back in and she wouldn't. Tried to keep me outside. The thermometer was up to 38, the flannel shirt and the Chinee sneakers had given up, and I was firmly of the conviction that regardless of visual inspection, there were no britches installed on the lower half of the corpus frigidii.
* * * * * *
Mostly midnight, kinda. Will be soon. Pretty decent day mostly. Since I didn't bring a camera with me this morning, this shot taken a couple of years ago off the studio balcony will do. Shrunk twice to save dial-up time.
I parked my fanny about 30 yards beyond the sunlit area that denotes the little creek course. Absolutely beautiful morning except for the snot that was trying to freeze in my moustache and the ol' trick knee that didn't appreciate being on the dumb end of a idiot stick yesterday.
Lord have mercy, someone missed a heck of an opportunity yesterday. When it was obvious it was time to be a grave digger again, the first spot selected was Cookie's second-favorite place to get Zen. Her favorite was out of the question as the subsoil was pure hardpan. Turned out the second was hardpan at 2 feet. Pickaxe only. Hence the hole next to Ebie's. First dig at one handle-length from the soil depression of Ebie's defined the outline and down to a couple of feet. Down the hill for a sit and a glass of Coke. Back up 20 minutes later to get a bunch more dirt piled on the new mini Mount Wellborn, stopped when the dig was being done by sitting on the edges of the hole and air was coming a bit late. 3rd pass was to be the last, had to be. The temp was over 60 and the blowflies were accumulating. Got in the hole and dug seriously. Undercut, bell-shaped. A long, long time ago I had to bury another critter. Really didn't want to as she was still alive. A half year with the vet, no hope at all. Either he or me and he agreed my decision being me was the right one. Started her grave at dawn, by 4 PM I was using the extension ladder to haul dirt up from 18 feet. Pure-dee old case of trying to avoid the inevitable. Umpteen years ago, Joe M., a local farmer lad and I agreed that when diseased livestock needed putting down, we'd tend each others. Nah. We never did. There's possibly a old farmer-type that'll read this and understand.
To finish this bit-o-stuff, I'd gotten the hole quite wide with the undercut. Kept myself amused remembering my old roommate and his bro from 35 years ago. Kinda stuck me with a Kenny G. earworm but what the hell, KG is a lot better than remembering the blowfly population. The final bit of this part was when it was definately break time again and finding out my eyes were just about level with the top of the grave. 10 milliseconds or 10 minutes, don't know perzactly how long this old boy stood there realizing he'd kinda painted himself in a corner again. Photo-op would have been a prize winner. Befuddled old greybearded fart in hole. Since my left shoulder is mostly useless other than keeping my left arm and hand as integral parts of unit #___-__-____, employee #_____, the problem was how to get out of said hole! Damn, that would have been a fine picture! The look of blank, total idiocy. Getting out of the hole took a while.
Just went looking for the movie file with the Kenny G. earworm. It was quite large and the host has deleted it. Since it was saved on one of my monthlies, took a while. Still don't much care for KG but the video seen a few more times, wellll...
Nah. He's still sex with clothes on. The sound track and some video edits using ACDC as background would shine.
Found the missing file. It has been re-hosted. Looks like an over-nighter even with DSL. Wonder if Kenny is the sound on this version?!! ;o) 's OK gal, I'll still respect you in the mornin'. You DID chunk yer husband's shotgun in the pond, didnt cha?
* * * * * *
Go 'head. Shoot me. Here, see that spot my finger is on? Angle the barrel up a notch. Sheesh, one word in the last statement typoed with the name of the divorce lawyer in Mobile that ate the remains of my liver. Supposedly he was on my side. fugitaboutit. White, male, 'souf. Doan mak no nevermind. Yo gets de blak juge, yo gets to be whea all dem white boys get. If the need for a divorce is in your future and Alabama might be the final venue, move to Australia. Hijack something if necessary. Bring only a tooth brush. Scratch "null and void" on everything and everybody for all the previous years of your life. You. Will. Be. Dead. Meat. ...the previously un-payable bills reach levels only seen in the peyote dreams of the Southwestern Native Americans in sweat lodges. Listening to Jimmy Buffet's ex-pat music can help those afflicted with not wanting to become a ex-pat. Pay de money, bite de nasty-ass bullet, 'spensive lesson.
Ah HA! ..caught meself writing 'other stuff' again! I'll leave the para above in. Been trying to convince the little (67 pound) young miss hardass that it is warmer in here than out there. Nope. I belong out there according to her. The thermometer just got another thump. Not 31, 29. 12:31 AM. 28 was the projected with a 5 hour hard freeze. Guess again boys. She's spent most of the afternoon and all night so far raising hell with a threat at the 235 degree vector. There is a huge new trailer park about 5 air miles in that direction. Hyperactive young hound dawg ears I recon.
Ya know, under all that wrinkled flabby hide is the spirit of the 14 year old gal whose mama taught her the fine art of being a prick tease. And over that far too rotund belly, other than hyperprostatus (you get to check for sic), lurks another devolved zit-factory what was the target of the gal above! Just typed in as a memory from a long dead friend. Doesn't fit anything above, below, or elsewhere.
Can't convince inside is better than outside with Rima. She wants me outside. NFW. She's a true knucklehead. She'll probably do a 4 AM door-scratch.
Scratch the door scratch. Curled up 50 feet from the front door. Picked up her sorry ass and dumped it on the living room floor whilst kicking the front door closed. Guesstimate, 63 pounds. She will be OK probably by Feburary. Might possibly be kinda sane by then.
Just oozed meself out of the door to thump the thermo. Read 28, thump reads 25. 1:22 AM. Little Bit has kinda given up on outside plans of death by freezing. Kinda. I'm not really up to hauling Miss Lardass back in again. A curled-up pooch that resists warm, figure it out.
Be finestkind to those you love. There is a 100% mortality rate.
Bedtime? eyes too tired to read, old bod used up for the duration (it is emitting odd smells. Probably ought to be reported to whatever agencies involved in the Kyoto dumpsterstuff)
This will either get posted or join the gigabytes presently loving their life on the invisible monthlies. Can't get lonely there, just plain-old filled with an old idiot that should have shot himself in the head back in 1981. Doomed. Totally doomed.
* * * * * *
Rima was telling me it was 'outside time' while I was doing all the little goodies uploading the last post. I compose in Word like all rational users of Blogspot, takes a bit more time, worth it the first time de Spot does de wipe! She'd outgassed a glass-etcher, then went and nosed the front door, came back and looked at me with my streaming eyes from her CBW attack. Same as her mama, granny, and most every GSD that has claimed this joint. If I ignored those above-mentioned gals, they would give me a second chance. If I ignored that one, they would just go lay a dawg-log on the threshold between the library and pantry. Always. De shit spot. Is it instinctive? GSD gals are pretty-much born housebroken after mama gets tired of her tits getting gnawed with those little needle teeth. There isn't any possibility of any breed of dawg with the Y chromosome that isn't a true pain in the ass to house break. Took 3 years with one son of a bitch. Best dawg ever. Evar? Kinda. Kinda like a bunch of others now long gone. I bought airplane tickets and afforded the massive required vet paperwork for one canid. Wanna story? Wrote a long bit about him over the last weekend. Doesn't have a decent entry or exit point, might take a while to edit it into a stand-alone.
ANYWAY (!), the thought was to head back to the good spot as it was about 150 degrees away from Cookie's residence. Flannel shirt, flea market jeans, and my best Chinee sneakers ($7 on sale at Wal*Mart a few years ago). Damn! Had to check to see if I had actually put britches on. The last Made-in-America outdoor thermometer that Nina bought me back when Reagan was prez indicated 36 degrees. I gave it a thump, it went down. Came back in and put the camera back in the bag and sat to rethink directions. Hands obviously needed pockets, direction rethought to 178 degrees. Worked very well except this time I found a huracan felled tree to sit on whilst Rima perused the area. There's a coyote den within earshot (the one nearby was emptied years ago) and she was quite distracted by the morning sounds. I have one decently good ear and could hear a bit of what had her attention. She went into the stock-still, one paw off the ground pointer mode (all tall dawgs do this), ears cocked and tail rigid. My memory of the den was about 15 degrees off her angle, guess they've moved. She has a couple of young, wonderful, hound-dawg radar ears, I've got one old aged whiteboy ear! Which one would you trust?!! Nice 'walkie' with her doin' most of it. Came back in and she wouldn't. Tried to keep me outside. The thermometer was up to 38, the flannel shirt and the Chinee sneakers had given up, and I was firmly of the conviction that regardless of visual inspection, there were no britches installed on the lower half of the corpus frigidii.
* * * * * *
Mostly midnight, kinda. Will be soon. Pretty decent day mostly. Since I didn't bring a camera with me this morning, this shot taken a couple of years ago off the studio balcony will do. Shrunk twice to save dial-up time.
I parked my fanny about 30 yards beyond the sunlit area that denotes the little creek course. Absolutely beautiful morning except for the snot that was trying to freeze in my moustache and the ol' trick knee that didn't appreciate being on the dumb end of a idiot stick yesterday.
Lord have mercy, someone missed a heck of an opportunity yesterday. When it was obvious it was time to be a grave digger again, the first spot selected was Cookie's second-favorite place to get Zen. Her favorite was out of the question as the subsoil was pure hardpan. Turned out the second was hardpan at 2 feet. Pickaxe only. Hence the hole next to Ebie's. First dig at one handle-length from the soil depression of Ebie's defined the outline and down to a couple of feet. Down the hill for a sit and a glass of Coke. Back up 20 minutes later to get a bunch more dirt piled on the new mini Mount Wellborn, stopped when the dig was being done by sitting on the edges of the hole and air was coming a bit late. 3rd pass was to be the last, had to be. The temp was over 60 and the blowflies were accumulating. Got in the hole and dug seriously. Undercut, bell-shaped. A long, long time ago I had to bury another critter. Really didn't want to as she was still alive. A half year with the vet, no hope at all. Either he or me and he agreed my decision being me was the right one. Started her grave at dawn, by 4 PM I was using the extension ladder to haul dirt up from 18 feet. Pure-dee old case of trying to avoid the inevitable. Umpteen years ago, Joe M., a local farmer lad and I agreed that when diseased livestock needed putting down, we'd tend each others. Nah. We never did. There's possibly a old farmer-type that'll read this and understand.
To finish this bit-o-stuff, I'd gotten the hole quite wide with the undercut. Kept myself amused remembering my old roommate and his bro from 35 years ago. Kinda stuck me with a Kenny G. earworm but what the hell, KG is a lot better than remembering the blowfly population. The final bit of this part was when it was definately break time again and finding out my eyes were just about level with the top of the grave. 10 milliseconds or 10 minutes, don't know perzactly how long this old boy stood there realizing he'd kinda painted himself in a corner again. Photo-op would have been a prize winner. Befuddled old greybearded fart in hole. Since my left shoulder is mostly useless other than keeping my left arm and hand as integral parts of unit #___-__-____, employee #_____, the problem was how to get out of said hole! Damn, that would have been a fine picture! The look of blank, total idiocy. Getting out of the hole took a while.
Just went looking for the movie file with the Kenny G. earworm. It was quite large and the host has deleted it. Since it was saved on one of my monthlies, took a while. Still don't much care for KG but the video seen a few more times, wellll...
Nah. He's still sex with clothes on. The sound track and some video edits using ACDC as background would shine.
Found the missing file. It has been re-hosted. Looks like an over-nighter even with DSL. Wonder if Kenny is the sound on this version?!! ;o) 's OK gal, I'll still respect you in the mornin'. You DID chunk yer husband's shotgun in the pond, didnt cha?
* * * * * *
Go 'head. Shoot me. Here, see that spot my finger is on? Angle the barrel up a notch. Sheesh, one word in the last statement typoed with the name of the divorce lawyer in Mobile that ate the remains of my liver. Supposedly he was on my side. fugitaboutit. White, male, 'souf. Doan mak no nevermind. Yo gets de blak juge, yo gets to be whea all dem white boys get. If the need for a divorce is in your future and Alabama might be the final venue, move to Australia. Hijack something if necessary. Bring only a tooth brush. Scratch "null and void" on everything and everybody for all the previous years of your life. You. Will. Be. Dead. Meat. ...the previously un-payable bills reach levels only seen in the peyote dreams of the Southwestern Native Americans in sweat lodges. Listening to Jimmy Buffet's ex-pat music can help those afflicted with not wanting to become a ex-pat. Pay de money, bite de nasty-ass bullet, 'spensive lesson.
Ah HA! ..caught meself writing 'other stuff' again! I'll leave the para above in. Been trying to convince the little (67 pound) young miss hardass that it is warmer in here than out there. Nope. I belong out there according to her. The thermometer just got another thump. Not 31, 29. 12:31 AM. 28 was the projected with a 5 hour hard freeze. Guess again boys. She's spent most of the afternoon and all night so far raising hell with a threat at the 235 degree vector. There is a huge new trailer park about 5 air miles in that direction. Hyperactive young hound dawg ears I recon.
Ya know, under all that wrinkled flabby hide is the spirit of the 14 year old gal whose mama taught her the fine art of being a prick tease. And over that far too rotund belly, other than hyperprostatus (you get to check for sic), lurks another devolved zit-factory what was the target of the gal above! Just typed in as a memory from a long dead friend. Doesn't fit anything above, below, or elsewhere.
Can't convince inside is better than outside with Rima. She wants me outside. NFW. She's a true knucklehead. She'll probably do a 4 AM door-scratch.
Scratch the door scratch. Curled up 50 feet from the front door. Picked up her sorry ass and dumped it on the living room floor whilst kicking the front door closed. Guesstimate, 63 pounds. She will be OK probably by Feburary. Might possibly be kinda sane by then.
Just oozed meself out of the door to thump the thermo. Read 28, thump reads 25. 1:22 AM. Little Bit has kinda given up on outside plans of death by freezing. Kinda. I'm not really up to hauling Miss Lardass back in again. A curled-up pooch that resists warm, figure it out.
Be finestkind to those you love. There is a 100% mortality rate.
Bedtime? eyes too tired to read, old bod used up for the duration (it is emitting odd smells. Probably ought to be reported to whatever agencies involved in the Kyoto dumpsterstuff)
This will either get posted or join the gigabytes presently loving their life on the invisible monthlies. Can't get lonely there, just plain-old filled with an old idiot that should have shot himself in the head back in 1981. Doomed. Totally doomed.
