Photographers, artists, poets: show us COPIES.
Am I admiring my own work? Is this legal?
Photographers, artists, poets: show us COPIES.
Am I admiring my own work? Is this legal?
Can you set a price on love? Can you set a number to it? Can you calculate it by the cost of veterinary care? Squeaky toys? Greenies? Dog food? Grooming?
Tinker Belle was a Petit Basset Griffon Vendeen, usually called PBGVs or Petites. They are a medium-sized, shaggy rabbit hound from the Vendée region of France.
PBGVs are not the dog for everyone. Smart, sometime scarily. Natural clowns who will do almost anything to make you laugh. Noisy, nosy, and into everything.
Tinker Belle was special. From the day I brought her home, she wasn’t like any other puppy. Incredibly smart. As a rule, hounds are intelligent, but she was something else.
Housebreaking? We showed her the doggy door. She was henceforth housebroken. She could open any door, any gate and close them behind her. She would open jars of peanut butter without leaving a fang mark to note her passing. All you’d find was a perfectly clean empty jar that had previously been an unopened, brand new jar.
She was sensitive. Probably a born therapy dog, she knew who was in pain, who was sick. She knew where you hurt. The only dog who would never step on a healing incision, but would cuddle close to you, look at you with her dark, soft eyes and tell you everything would be fine.
She never hurt a living thing, not human or anything else … except for small varmints she hunted in the yard. She was, after all, a hound. A hunter, born to track, point and carry prey back to a master.
She was the smartest of our dogs, the smartest dog ever. Not just a little bit smarter than normal. A huge amount smarter. When you looked into Tinker’s eyes, it wasn’t like looking into the eyes of a dog. She was a human in a dog suit.
She knew. We called her Tinker The Thinker because she planned. Remembered. She held grudges. Nonetheless, she was at the bottom of the pack hierarchy.
We thought it was her own choice. She had no interest in leadership. Too much responsibility maybe? But the other dogs knew her value. When they needed her, other dogs would tap into her expertise in gate opening, package disassembly, cabinet burglary, trash can raiding, and other canine criminality.
Throughout her life, she housebroke each new puppy. A couple of hours with Tinker, and the job was done. It was remarkable. Almost spooky. She then mothered them until they betrayed her by growing up and playing with other dogs.
When Griffin, our big male Petite Basset Griffon Vendeen came to live with us a few months after Tinker, they became The Couple. inseparable, deeply in love. They ate together, played together, slept together, sang together. When about a year later, we briefly had a little Norwich Terrier pup and Griffin (what a dog) abandoned Tinker to go slobbering after Sally.
Tinker’s sensitive heart broke. She became depressed, would not play with humans or dogs. For the next decade, Tinker wouldn’t even look at Griffin. She apparently blamed us, too, her humans for having brought another girl into the house. In retribution for our crimes, Tinker began a Reign of Terror.
Tinker took to destroying everything she could get her fangs. She was three years old when the destruction began.
She’d done a modest amount of puppy chewing, but nothing extraordinary. She was more thief than chewer. She would steal stuff and hide it. Shoes, toys, towels, stuffed animals. After Griffin betrayed her with that stupid little bitch — Sally was indeed the polar opposite of Tinker being the dumbest dog I’ve ever known and ill-tempered to boot — Tinker was no longer a playful thief. She was out to get us.
Nothing was safe. She had a particular passion for destroying expensive electronic devices. Cell phones, remote controls, portable DVD players, computers. If she could get a fang to them, she killed them.
She would do enormous damage in under a minute. We couldn’t leave the room unless we put everything where Tinker couldn’t get it. She struck quickly. When we went to bed for the night, every item had to be locked away. If she couldn’t get to an electronic item, she ate the sofa, the rocking chair, the coffee table, a lot of books, many DVDs.
For dessert, shoes were yummy. I didn’t own shoes without tooth marks. We called them “Tinkerized.” We had a grading system from 10 – Utterly destroyed, to 1 – Only shows if you look closely. Most of my shoes fell into the 2 to 3 range and since she tended to start at the heel, I figured most folks wouldn’t notice.
During one memorable intermission, Tinker dismembered the remotes. She pulled off the backs, tore out the batteries (but did not eat them), then ripped out the innards — in under two minutes.
She didn’t waste time. If she had leisure, she’d also tear out keys and mangle cases, but if time was limited, she went straight to the guts of the thing. She was good.
For her entire life, we lived under siege. If you didn’t want it Tinkerized, you couldn’t leave it exposed, not for a minute.
For the last year of her life, after we brought Bonnie home, Tinker became a real dog again. With Bonnie, Tinker ran around. Played tag. Joined the chorus when the pack pointed their muzzles at the sky and sang.
Hounds have beautiful voices and Tinker’s was the best.
Three years ago, Tinker died of cancer. She had shown no symptoms except a slight slowing down. One day, she collapsed. A couple of weeks later, Griffin had a stroke and died too. They were exactly the same age and I don’t believe for a minute that their nearly simultaneous passing was a coincidence.
After the two hounds were gone, the pack did not sing for half a year. One day, mourning ended and they started to sing again.
What was Tinker’s true cost? We paid $700 for her as a pup. She caused thousands of dollars of damage to electronics, furniture, shoes, books, DVDs, videotapes, dolls, stuffies — who knows what else?
She paid us back and more. When I was ill, Tinker never left my side. When I was back from surgery, missing another piece of me and in pain, Tinker was there, never placing a paw where it would hurt me. How much is that worth? What is the true cost of a lifetime love of a dear friend?
Wednesday – July 22, 2015
It’s Frisbee Wednesday again. I was cruising my cameras’ memory chips the other day and found pictures. “What a shock!” you cry. “How strange to find photographs on memory chips in cameras!”
Point taken. The thing is, I forgot I ever took this batch of pictures. It wasn’t all that long ago, around the third week in May. The weather had warmed up from the long, cold winter. The snow was gone. It was one of the first days after new leaves had popped.
Garry and I had driven down route 16 toward Milford looking for trees, fresh leaves, and flowering shrubs.
The sun was bright. The leaves had the golden green which heralds a new season. I love the way light filters through trees. I have taken thousands of pictures of sunlight on foliage. I had taken a couple of dozen on this day.
Until the neighbors came out to chase us away. It was an unpleasant surprise, but we weren’t interested in making a scene. We left. Puzzled. Was it because our car is old? Because we’re strangers? Because they live in the classy part of town? Not to put too fine a point on it, but it’s not all that classy.
They were apparently sure we were casing their houses. For what? Two senior citizens taking pictures are so suspicious they had to be rousted? Is their stuff as valuable as all that? Do they figure we are desperadoes? Or do they assume everyone is out to get them?
That’s the big difference between our towns — just four miles apart. Unless they see you putting their stuff in your pickup, our neighbors do not assume you’re there to steal their stuff. Please don’t trample the flowers.
In our local grocery, complete strangers jump into conversations as a matter of course. Which is fine. It makes shopping fun. Certainly more interesting. Being out and about in local stores isn’t just errands. It’s an opportunity to meet people, do a bit of casual socializing.
As a big plus, the people we meet are not usually buried in cell phones or disconnected from the world by headphones. They are open to chatting. Any excuse will do.
Is it because we have more than enough privacy and put more value on connections? It’s curious how two towns can be so close — and so different.
I decided the photographs are lovely, even if the townspeople were not.
I thought and thought, and then I realized I had a lot of turquoise.
There are so many colors of turquoise, including many shades of green, nearly white, almost brown, with and without black veins.
Different mines create different colors (and quality) of turquoise. It depends on the what elements are in the soil — amount of iron versus copper, for example.
I love Native American jewelry. For me, it isn’t so much about the silver work, though I appreciate the art of it. I love the stones. The turquoise speaks to me. When I wear it, I feel more like me.
by Taswegian1957 & Human59
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