Daily Archives: February 8, 2013

Dogs

Gertie

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Imbolc                                                                       Cold Moon

Went upstairs.  Heard sounds of a scrap outside.  Opened the sliding doors to the back.  Vega and Rigel had Gertie on the ground, tearing into her with vicious abandon.  Though I know better, I waded in bellowing and got them all separated.

Gertie had multiple lacerations, a tummy wound bleeding in large, red blots and her right upper canine stood horizontal to her jaw.   After crating Vega and Rigel to calm things down, I found Gertie’s most serious wound, staunched it with a towel which I had to secure with a dog leash wrapped round her middle and proceeded to check her for other injuries.

There were several.  Kate was on the way home from a day of sewing.  I cleaned up the floor.  It looked like an abattoir.  When Kate got home (we only have one vehicle now), we took Gertie to the emergency vet.  This was around 5 pm.  We just got back and it’s now 10 pm.

She’s got a cross the heart bandage, several drains, no more right canine.  It slid right out.  We have it in a blue pill bottle.  Antibiotics.  E-collar.  Pain meds.  The usual drill.  We’ve been through dog trauma many times.  It passes.

She’s groggy, but in good spirits.  She’s a sweet girl, but damn she’s expensive.

Weather +Climate

The Devil’s Weather

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Imbolc                                                                      Cold Moon

It is these middling days, when the sun shines and water melts off the roof, these days when the natural order seems poised for a sudden change, that make me want to hide deep in a bunker coming out only for true deep winter, May and the crisp days of fall whenever they might come.  A weather purist me.  I want a fall with blues that make you want to disappear into the sky, chill winds, golden leaves.  I want winters with crunchy snow, temperatures that curl your hair and winds that howl all night.  I like, too, those brief moments when the earth discovers growth again, when plants, leaves and flowers ascramble with color, fling themselves out of the ground, eager for food and light.  The rest, those dreary drippy days of mud and slush can go to the devil, whom I’m sure invented such weather as a metaphor for our usual approach to values.  Give me weather with a knife edge or the shocking beauty of a pre-Raphaelite painter.  That’s what would get me out of my bunker.  For the rest, bah.