I have just read Ashley Jillian’s post on Social Media Etiquette and whilst I agreed with most of it, I do like GoodReads so I’d say if you like books then it’s quite a good place to do a book review and pass on some good recommendations. But, when did cats ever do socializing. I love the creatures feline aristocrats, snobs to their last claw, but social they are not. Now dogs, and that’s my baby, are great socialites. Rudi is really smart too. He was adopted from a rescue centre when he was eighteen months old, the product of a broken home. He’s a working Springer Spaniel and that spells energy. He loved hunting and we don’t, so he would go off and hunt for himself usually for an hour or so, leaving us hanging around waiting for him to get back to us. We tried all sorts of training techniques, but unlike most examples of bad behaviour disobeying a call to return is very hard to deal with, if you chastise the dog when it gets back to you, he’s more likely to stay away, so you give him a reward, in our case a small treat. Now he’s 11 and an old dog, so he doesn’t want to hunt so much, but he is greedy so he plays a game of hide and seek with us. He goes off and hides behind trees and bushes and then comes back, sits down besides you and looks up at you and then at the pocket where he knows you have the dog biscuits, willing you to get the bag of treats out and give him one. Like I said smart.
I wrote this poem two summers ago, but it seems to be so appropriate now as we approach the longest day of the year.
The sun was shy this summer,
Hiding behind darkened clouds
As if ashamed.
Clouds changed from polished pearl
To dark purple bruises,
And it rained.
The earth soaked up the water
Until it could take no more,
Pools of peat brown water,
Bright green sponges of moss,
Everything dripping wet.
Each year in May we watch for the return of the swifts who nested here under our thatch, hoping they have survived the long journey to and from Africa. They have now arrived and it seems the three pairs who left last year have returned or their offspring have. I wrote this poem about them coming back here.
On early summer evenings we wait
For the swifts, impatiently.
They circle the house
Remembering the way under the eaves.
Each evening they fly
Screaming, winged speed hurtling
Straight towards the thatch
Thump against the board and vanish
The noise reverberating through empty rooms.
We shelter them until late August
Until they imprint this place
Hardwired on their homing systems
And fly south, their nests empty.
Only the creaks and groans of the house
In the wind, recalls the summer months.