I’ve never owned a dog. My Dad could possibly claim that this was his single greatest (some would say only) victory as head of our household. He grew up on a farm, where dogs were for rounding up sheep and definitely were never allowed in the house. The conversation (had biannually) when we were growing up went something like this:
“Daaaad, can we have a dog?”
“No, you kids can’t have a bloody dog. Dogs are for working, not for pets. Having a dog in town is not right.”
Sure, I like the concept of dogs, with their waggly tails and their adorable puppy dog eyes, but I was a bit of a novice about the realities and practicalities of dog ownership.
I am a novice no more. Over the weekend we looked after our friends’ dogs while they were in Austria for a wedding. They live in a small village in the countryside, and I was looking forward to a relaxing weekend, watching English telly (blessing be upon the satellite dish) and taking rambling walks through the vineyards with the dogs.
Our charges were possibly the most comical hounds to ever have graced the planet: a poodle with an endearing under bite, who for all intents and purposes is a cat; and a wiry Dachshund with a sparkle of mischief in his eyes and a penchant for humping EVERYTHING.
For the first day and a bit, I was convinced that the poodle had an incomplete digestive tract. I saw the food go in, and I just assumed at some point it would undergo digestion, the nutrients would be absorbed, and then the waste would be eliminated, but no matter how far, or how often we walked, he simply refused to poo. Finally, something magical happened. It is best described in gymnastic parlance as a “straddle press handstand with splits and poo”. Had I not seen it, I would not have believed a dog could crap with a degree of difficulty of 4.5.
They were for the most part great friends - except for when it came to the humping blanket, which we named Cecile the Saucy Minx (CtSM). This was when things got interesting. It seems they had both fallen in love – in the biblical sense - with CtSM, and they vied for her love and affection, trying to outdo each other, and made sure that the other wasn’t getting any, ahem, special time with her.
The verdict? Dogville - great for a visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. I’m pretty happy living in Catland.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Blessed be....this House
While I was in town this morning, Richard had a visit from 3 wise men (well children dressed as the 3 wise men) and a star. Needless to say he was extremely perplexed.
After explaining what they were doing, the children sang him some songs and scribbled the following over our doorway:
All Richard could think was, "Helen will kick herself that she missed this."
He was right.
Although I suppose it is only fair that he have his share of strange experiences while answering the door, because I had mine during Halloween.
After explaining what they were doing, the children sang him some songs and scribbled the following over our doorway:
20 + C + M + B + 08Apparently this is a Catholic tradition to celebrate the Epiphany. So, you can all relax, we've been well and truly blessed.
All Richard could think was, "Helen will kick herself that she missed this."
He was right.
Although I suppose it is only fair that he have his share of strange experiences while answering the door, because I had mine during Halloween.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Come the Resolution
Comrades, while the year is all shiny and new, unsullied by disappointments and annoyances, I thought I'd draft my 2008 manifesto, and do so publicly in the interests of transparency and accountability.
Item 1: The Body
Item 1: The Body
- Enough with the smoking already - it will kill you. Stop it.
- Exercise and fun are not mutually exclusive. Get on your bike, back in the pool, join a team. Anything. Make sure it is fun.
- Moderation is not a dirty word.
- For your own sanity, try harder to learn to speak German. Sign up for more classes.
- Write every day.
- Take photos every day.
- Read something every day.
- Get a job. The life of a Hausfrau can be somewhat tedious.
- Travel, travel, travel - you live in the middle of Europe, you can go to France to buy cheese if you want - do it.
- Try 3 new things this year.
- Make a new friend.
- Write more letters to Dad.
- De-lurk.
This Country's gone Crackers
I had noticed the packs of fireworks in the supermarket in the days leading up to New Year's Eve, and thought it funny that in a country where crossing the street against the green man can lead to a slow moving Oma springing into action to affect a citizen's arrest for such a flagrant disregard for the rules and public safety, that fireworks are so readily available to all and sundry.
The sale of fireworks in Australia is illegal, except of course in Canberra, the home of the 3 Ps - politics, pornography and pyrotechnics. They were eventually banned after generations of children had lost fingers, and their sight due to unfortunate accidents with Catherine Wheels and Roman Candles on Cracker Night.
The first salvos of New Year's Eve were fired slightly prematurely at around 3 minutes before midnight by small clusters of people out on the street. It seemed that every household had a cache of motars and they were determined to outdo each other.
I decided to observe this ritual from the safety of our house.
It lasted for around 30 minutes, but by the 10 minute mark, the street was so full of smoke and the smell of gunpowder that you could hardly see anything, and you could be forgiven for thinking you were in a war zone, rather than a 30km/h zone.
How ever you celebrated, I hope 2008 is a cracker - and that you have all your fingers intact.
The sale of fireworks in Australia is illegal, except of course in Canberra, the home of the 3 Ps - politics, pornography and pyrotechnics. They were eventually banned after generations of children had lost fingers, and their sight due to unfortunate accidents with Catherine Wheels and Roman Candles on Cracker Night.
The first salvos of New Year's Eve were fired slightly prematurely at around 3 minutes before midnight by small clusters of people out on the street. It seemed that every household had a cache of motars and they were determined to outdo each other.
I decided to observe this ritual from the safety of our house.
It lasted for around 30 minutes, but by the 10 minute mark, the street was so full of smoke and the smell of gunpowder that you could hardly see anything, and you could be forgiven for thinking you were in a war zone, rather than a 30km/h zone.
How ever you celebrated, I hope 2008 is a cracker - and that you have all your fingers intact.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
26 Again
A few days ago, I turned 26 for the ninth time.
It is a running joke with a friend, whom I first met when I was 26 and living in Melbourne. She reckoned that to her, I would always be 26, and who am I to disagree? I really like being 26, and I've gotten pretty good at it.
My birthday fell on a Sunday this year, and given that Germany should basically put up signs at the borders on Sundays that say "Sorry, we're closed", there was a risk that nothing would be open other than the kebab shops. Fortunately, things were open, and we did not have to resort to having a birthday kebab at the Imbiss. Champagne and fabulous food beat a kebab hands down.
Having a birthday that falls between Christmas and New Year has always annoyed me, and I had to put my foot down very early and insist that I get 2 separate presents for Christmas and Birthday.
Family lore has it that my sister is to blame for this awkwardly placed birthday. I was born about 2 weeks early. The family was enjoying its annual Christmas holidays at Nelson Bay, and my daring-do sister, at the age of 2, decided that she didn't need floaties anymore and jumped into the deep end of the local pool sans floatation devices. Needless to say, she did need her floaties and promptly started flailing around, prompting my very pregnant mother to make a dash for the pool to perform the rescue. I arrived later that night, forever doomed to celebrate my birthday in the calendar's twilight zone.
It is a running joke with a friend, whom I first met when I was 26 and living in Melbourne. She reckoned that to her, I would always be 26, and who am I to disagree? I really like being 26, and I've gotten pretty good at it.
My birthday fell on a Sunday this year, and given that Germany should basically put up signs at the borders on Sundays that say "Sorry, we're closed", there was a risk that nothing would be open other than the kebab shops. Fortunately, things were open, and we did not have to resort to having a birthday kebab at the Imbiss. Champagne and fabulous food beat a kebab hands down.
Having a birthday that falls between Christmas and New Year has always annoyed me, and I had to put my foot down very early and insist that I get 2 separate presents for Christmas and Birthday.
Family lore has it that my sister is to blame for this awkwardly placed birthday. I was born about 2 weeks early. The family was enjoying its annual Christmas holidays at Nelson Bay, and my daring-do sister, at the age of 2, decided that she didn't need floaties anymore and jumped into the deep end of the local pool sans floatation devices. Needless to say, she did need her floaties and promptly started flailing around, prompting my very pregnant mother to make a dash for the pool to perform the rescue. I arrived later that night, forever doomed to celebrate my birthday in the calendar's twilight zone.
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