The Blue Cap

She wears a dark blue raincoat on this cloudy day, and a lighter blue cap, something out of the sixties. I can imagine her then, a young woman, wearing one to a party, dazzling with her golden hair and brilliant smile, charming them all.

Now her hair is white. And white tennis shoes. Always the white shoes.

And alone. Always alone. Except for the dog.

Her dog is smallish and also white, like most of the dogs in this community. For some reason, they are the canine of choice, maybe because they don’t eat much or fit just so on an eighty-year old lap.

As she walks, she sways side to side. Maybe her hips don’t work as they used to or she is shielding her knees. Still she walks. Twice a day. Every day. At a good pace relatively. Holding tight to the leash. As though something about it keeps her upright.

I walk past her and smile, saying Good Afternoon. She doesn’t seem to recognize me, though we have passed a few times before. Her face brightens and she smiles, but she doesn’t speak back. Unused now to speaking to anyone, except her children on the phone every few weeks.

She is alone. Always alone. Except for the dog, who is now the beneficiary of all the love and care she has stored up since her husband passed.

So she walks every day. Rain or shine. In peril of falling every step it seems to me. I worry for her.

She is alone. Yet there are many like her here in this community. She passes them every day. They have never spoken yet they know each other.

As she passes me, I turn and watch for a second.

Maybe this is not her story. Maybe she has a family close to her, who visit most days, like my next door neighbor. Maybe her husband does the laundry and she walks the dog for exercise. I don’t really know.

But as I imagine her, she is a reminder.

And a warning.

And an inspiration.

I will find my blue cap.

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Tails I Win!

 

El Springador celebrates his prime on a very special occasion with a retro post of seven years ago. At eight-four, he's still a live wire!

 

I have pawsed the high-octane adventure that is my life to let you folks know that today is my birthday. I'm five! Thirty-five in dog years – the canine calendar runs on bobbins – neither Pup Gregory nor Caesar (the fellow who invented canned dogfood) could get the hang of it.

Einstein, of course, came up with his major breakthrough based on knowledge of Springadors:

E = MC2, that is, Energy equals More Chips, Too.

And I taught him all he knew about Black Holes, but not where they were located! Or wot they were for! Better whisper it low; mustn't get Herself started on that one. She's been missing a memory stick for a while now. I think we probably can't keep putting it down to a Spinone moment, or the onset of Alsatians. The thing is, you see, I read in the nosepaper about this dog-bone shaped asteroid they've discovered up there. If it should land in my patch, I need somewhere to bury it.

She's fully convinced that I'm also the genius of Chaos Theory when scatter cushions go AWOL and my rubber DNA toy is fielded by the nest of wires behind her computer. I keep telling her it's all on account of some Chalkhill Blue batting his wings up on Devil's Dyke - actually saw him once, right under my nose, looking for a pollen pad to land on - but will she have it?

Now go on, admit it. The world's still barking mad, but it's been a better place since July 10, 2004, when Dog put a spaniel in the works to set about uprooting unwanted Bushes. I'm good at that. Roses are a bit tricky, but dahlias come out a treat and I quite like the taste of camellias. I've been in the doghouse (again!) - just as well I've got my own little brick-built paw-de-terre in the garden where I can chill out – because I crashed into a blooming clump of her treasured arum lilies chasing off a hedgehog. They'd never let me in at the Hampton Court Flower Show!

Wot a life, eh? I just love every moment. And birthdays give you an excuse to create real mayhem!

It sure was a red-litter day, July 10, 2004!

Wags and Woofs,

 

Jack (Canine-Still-In-Much-Waiting to Herself)

 

Copyright

© Rosy Cole 2009 - 2016

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Must Love Dogs

One of my favorite NY scene movies!  

Sarah a divorcee, Jake a nerdy recluse and Mother Teresa the beloved dog.

All three searching for happiness.

 

Until fairly recently I was not much of a dog lover.

M2 loves dogs and we argued in the past because I wouldn’t allow her to own a dog.

Things are different now.

 

God has been good to me.

He answered prayers rather swiftly.

He justified the challenges I faced in my journey by delivering a one of a kind Jake.

 

Most of all, he blessed me with the love and kindness the real Mother Teresa exuded.

I now have grown to love dogs.

Not all dogs, just one very special kind of dog.

 

Two special kinds of dogs actually.

M2 is extremely pleased with my change of heart.

I’m slowly making room.

 

Just a matter of time, Sarah, Jake and Mother Teresa will all live happily ever after.

 

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Pioneering Pup Uncovers Writers' Lair

b2ap3_thumbnail_JackRedKerchiefSmall.png

by Jack, your bony fido newshound.

Katia's animal post got El Springador a little too excited. The mention of seagulls was the trigger. Back in early 2008, he stumbled upon a great new site for scribes and soon became a Founder Member with his first blog post. He's persuaded me, as only he can, that this is the moment for a reprise. 

Wey-hey, folks! So where's the gig? In the Red Room, I guess. Let me check the boundaries for you. OK, the name's Jack. Twenty-five killergrams of lightning reaction and a bundle of laughs if you're not trespussing on my patch. You've heard of matadors, toreadors, troubadors and labradors - well, I'm a Springador (note capital 'S') as you can see from the pawtrait.

When God created Springadors, it was in the full flush of genius. The sun was shining. The birds were singing, cats were catatonic, cyclists had all got punctures and joggers were deadbeat. It was an absolutely dognificent day! There was no cause to go back to the drawing-board umpteen times over. He looked down from the great kennel in the sky and thought to himself that he hadn't been concentrating on the task in hand the day he devised homo sapiens. The species left a lot to be desired. Never mind that account in the Good Book about the sixth day, HS was definitely a Friday Afternoon Job when he was dog-tired after his fling with Jurassic Park.

For instance, if Adam hadn't been so bone-stupid, it would have occurred to him to kick up a dust and bury his spare rib in the garden, instead of which God was left to dream up a way of putting it to use. Result: double trouble! And if Eve had been a bit more fly with the apple, she'd have known how to spit out the pips and leave them in a neat row on the sofa instead of bequeathing perennial ruin to mankind and the endless wobblers and cobblers flesh is heir to.

No, God needed a guiding paw, a cautionary tail, a pair of quizzical ears and a bark up the right tree to keep humans on the other end of the lead and safely corralled by their own hearth where they belong. He needed Springies to reveal the true meaning of Unconditional Love. It's no walkies in clover, I can tell you. In fact, I sometimes wonder who, exactly, is prolonging WHOSE active life!

But this is overrunning the tail, as is my wont. I'm a pedigree crossbreed. Yes, I am! It was an inspired conjunction for the planet. In looks, I favour the pater who was a debonair Lab, black as the ace of spades, but in temperament, I take after the distaff. My dad came courting a big blonde on our farm. Only trouble was he took a shine to the wrong resident. Well, you couldn't blame him. My mum was drop dog gorgeous, a KC reg. Welsh Springer, ginger and white, and a very sparky girl.You can't run one of those on empty. It was a whirlwind romance. He proposed and disposed in record time. Then he beetled off, leaving her to bring up a clutch of puppies single-pawed.That's when my native litterary talent came into its own. I was top dog straight off! I whipped the stragglers into line at suppertime, licked their snuffles, sorted their squabbles and nipped any tantrums right in the short and curlies. Someone had to put paid to all that skeltering off my paw mum's flanks!

I was a precocious little tyke in those days, it's true. You're inclined to grow up fast when life foists on you the responsibilties of Head of Pack before you're on Adult Maintenance, let alone got your dogtorate from Barkly.

Anyhow, to cut to the chase, I left the land of the Red Dragon and was borne off to the South Downs of England to live with Herself, who's a writer, and Big Bruv who's an eco-freak as well as a techno-geek and who does a lot of vacuuming pet fur out of PCs. (How does it get behind picture-glass?) I soon settled in. The only problem was, some seagulls were nesting on the roof and set up a terrible din in the small hours. Had to resort to tugging a pillow through the dog-flap and shredding it to feathers to let them know what to expect if they didn't beat it. That put the wind up their tails, no kidding. They had to abandon the nursery. Showed them who was really ruling the roost!

Yikes! I must be off! It's ten past bickies and time for perambulations! Back soon!

Jack

The dog who keeps track of the plot.

Tailnote: I'm lovin' the new gig venue! Green is Good! Renewable Energy is Us!

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RIP #ElSpringador (July 10, 2004 - January 6, 2018)

Copyright

© Copyright Rosy Cole 2008 and 2015

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