littledogsonlongleashes

Thursday, March 8, 2012

Sometimes, the weatherman gets it right. Blast it.

Severe Weather Warning -

Metro, South Coast and Illawarra

8 March 2012, 5:00AM AET
Issued by the Bureau of Meteorology 4:16am on Thursday 8 March, 2012
A deepening low over the central Tasman Sea is moving towards the southern NSW coast. By midday Thursday the low is expected to have developed two centres, one off the Illawarra coast and another that will cross the NSW south coast south of about Batemans Bay. By late Thursday the system will begin to move back away from the coast and conditions will ease.

Rain and thunderstorms are forecast for the Metropolitan, South Coast and Illawarra forecast districts. Localised HEAVY RAIN may lead to FLASH FLOODING in these areas.

No kidding. [A very short video which youtube/blogger/the internet/a vengeful god is not allowing me to embed today.]

"What's that?"

"How was my walk?"

"you know, i knew we were in trouble the moment we set out..blah..blah..and then the water started running everywhere and it was so wet! my toes are filthy! look at them! you know how i hate being dirty and muddy! blah blah..."

"...none of my friends were there! blah...i mean, who would be stupid enough to drag a dog out in this rain? what was the point of it all? blah blah blah ...i could have drowned! i'm telling you, Typist...the Cushion is mad. mad! blah blah..."

"...and by the way, why am i still sitting here with this soggy coat on? is there some good reason? like, do you guys want me to catch cold or something?..."

"Thank you. That's much better. You can dry me off now if you like."

"Arrrrgh!!! Too rough! Too rough! What's wrong, Typist? Haven't you had your coffee yet this morning?"

"Yes, please let The Cushion do it."

"Gentle okay?"

"That was lovely. Thank you Cushion."

"Say, are those my treats on the counter?"

"Can I have one for being good?"

+++

Rainy ~~day~~ ~~week~~ ~~month~~ year tit bits.
+ SES advice on how to keep your pets safe during a flood.

+ What some spiders did during the flood.

Guess what all this white stuff is.

If you guessed water, you're wrong.

NOTE at 1.45pm If you thought you saw this post published some hours back and then it disappeared, that would be right. The Blogger video sucked bigtime and I had to upload a Youtube version and somewhere during the delicate procedure, Blogger/Youtube/The Internet failed. My apologies if this popped up several times on your whatever feed/reader.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

The case of the missing bovine tibia.

The long-awaited 2nd story by ghost writer

Edgar Allan Poo.

[A True Mystery that happened last week.]

Sadly, it was yet another wet and dismal day.

The Typist was about to settle down to a few hours of dreary chores starting with 2 weeks worth of ironing when, suddenly! she saw this!

Mud! on The Dog's bed!

"Oh no, Georgia!" the fastidious diligent housewife cried in anguish, hurrying off to get a brush and dustpan.

The Typist a.k.a. the fastidious diligent housewife knew exactly why there was dirt on the bed.

The Dog had been looking for her bone.

4 days earlier.
In the ongoing struggle to find a bone suitable for cleaning The Dog's teeth, The Cushion had come home with several bags of bovine skeletal parts.

The Typist decided to give The Dog half of this one.

[Which looks like a ~~femur?~~ ~~humerus!~~ ~~radius?~~ tibia to the person typing this story though she's happy to hear back from anyone who might want to correct her.]

She left The Dog alone to enjoy the bone, keeping a distant motherly eye on her progress.

After more than an hour, The Typist saw that The Dog was still, quite incredibly, gnawing the bone. She hadn't swallowed it [as she usually did]. In fact, upon closer inspection, the bone wasn't even cracked!

"Success!" The Typist thought happily, to quote her favourite tour guide.

She carefully dug out the remaining juicy marrow for The Good Dog, then decided to give her another few minutes with the bone before trashing it.

10 minutes later.
The Dog walked into the house.

"You finished, Georgia." The Typist said, thinking that The Dog had probably gotten bored. Off she went to pick up the bone.

To her horror! it was gone! All of it! She couldn't see even a single tiny shard! How was that possible?

She quickly text The Cushion at work to let him know that The Dog might have swallowed an almost intact 1/2 a bovine tibia and might die soon. Or be very constipated. And also, that it wasn't her fault.

She went back out into the yard and had another good look. Where might a dog bury a bone in a mostly paved courtyard with a diggable area only slightly larger than a postage stamp?

It was strange to say the least. But there was no bone anywhere. The only evidence The Typist found was some moved dirt in a far dark corner, too far and dark for her to crawl into.

"She may have buried it." she text again to The Cushion, somewhat relieved. And there, the story might have ended if it wasn't for what happened next.

Wednesday night.
The Typist came home from her exercise class to find the house in a mess. There were muddy paw prints everywhere. The Dog was tied up outside, looking very sorry for herself. The Cushion was right at the end of the courtyard, flashing a torchlight around in the heavyish rain.

"She's been digging for her bone!" he shouted out. "She just walked into the house and was all covered with mud! There's a hole right at the back but I can't see the bone anywhere!"

It was late. It was dark. It was raining. There was nothing to do but hose The Dirty Dog down and settle in for the night.

Which brings the story [finally] to Friday morning and the muddy bed.

The Typist was sure of one thing. The bone HAD to be out there somewhere. She also realised she was sick and tired of cleaning the house and bed after a muddy dog. So off she went to dig around [so to speak] for more clues.

Look what she found almost immediately!

Can you spot the bone in this picture?

For some reason known only to herself, The Dog had been slack. Not only had she not [re]buried the bone properly, she'd left piles of earth everywhere leading to the hole.

"Success!" The Typist exclaimed yet again, as she dug out the almost intact bone.

Then she carefully [in case there were maggots] bagged the bone and binned it...

...while The Poor Unsuspecting Dog lay fast asleep upstairs.

Every day since.

The Poor Dog has gone up to where she buried her bone. She sniffs the ground. She sniffs the air. She's re-dug a tiny hole looking for her treasure. Alas! It'll always be a mystery to her, how it's gone missing like that.

Should The Typist have removed the bone? Should she at least have allowed The Dog to witness the dastardly deed?

That's hard to say and depends on whether you care about such things.

In this household run by a fastidious, diligent housewife and a soft-hearted pushover Cushion, it will no doubt remain [I'm almost afraid to say it]...

...a bone of contention.

Ever asked your butcher, "What part of the cow is that?" Then check out this most exciting site about bovine bits and bobs! With interactive action and stuff!

Saturday, March 3, 2012

The hag in the bag gets tagged.

I was sitting on the potty
Going a little dotty
In the middle of #2
I was feeling somewhat blue.

Sad that I had missed
(Could be I was pissed)
The birthday of Dr Seuss
What a silly goose!

This pic from HERE.

When on my Google Reader
I spied this little bleeder
A tag for the hag! that would be me.
From a Ms Tonks! this would be she.

"Well, thank you NOT!" I thought, distraught
At her kind and sharing thought.

Phoo-ey! Kahoo-ey!
I cringed. I whinged.
I hissed. I pissed.
I boo-ed. I hoo-ed.

Then I picked myself up
as Seuss would have too
And skipped away
from the hulla-baloo.

To quote the great man, who may or may not have had a dimple
but who most certainly, MUST have had a pimple -

Sometimes, the questions are complicated but the answers are simple!

So here are my answers
If you find them a drag
Thank the dog and the dag
who yelled out, "YOU'RE TAGGED!"
And let the old hag
slip out of the bag!

To describe myself in 7 words

is not easy but I will try

"I am old but not yet incontinent."

No doubt that will change, by and by.

As for my dog -

"She is young and can be impertinent."

But I love her that way, I cannot lie.

You'd like to know what keeps me up at night?

3 things!
The blog, the dog,
the snoring man by my side.

My dog would say [as you might know] -

"Pyoderma! Burglar alarms!

Not to mention,

the snoring man by my side."

As for who I would like to be.
Why,
who could I be but me?
And who could Georgia be but she?

What Dr Seuss says is true, you know -

This pic from HERE. birthday suess

Shout loud. "I am lucky to be what I am!
Thank goodness I'm not just a clam or a ham.
Or a dusty old jar of sour gooseberry jam!
I am what I am! That's a great thing to be.

What am I wearing right now is next!

Let's just say it isn't my daks!

If I told you the truth

I'd have to rate this post X.

The dog wears what a dog often wears

A face that says,
"Okay,that's done! what's next?!"

What scares me you ask?

Well, for a start

Questions like these
Are not good for my heart.

What scares the dog?

No food, no food,
no food and no food.

She's really quite simple
A dog from the hood.

Oh me, oh my!
How did it get so late so soon?

I've answered 5 questions! with 5 more to go.
But I'm oh so tired! from my head to my toe.
I hope it's enough! it really was tough!
I had a good huff! now I've run out of puff!

To end, it seems, I have to name
The one who made me play this dreadful game.
"Thank you, Shiva! I know you're insane.
But please oh ple-e-e-a-a-se!
Let's not do this again!"

+

This pic from HERE.