Can't Wait To See Pat!

  Just took my plate out to the kitchen, where I have a pot bellied stove I got to burn all my waste paper in. 

  Small bits go in the door. Cardboard and such I drop through the lidded, eight inch hole on the top.

  Wiped my Opinel knife off on a bit of blue roll and the barely conscious thought that I'll chuck that in the stove, presently, flashed through my head.

  Closely followed by the unbidden idea that: 

" I must tell Pat I shit in my stove! "

  Fuck alone knows where the hell That one sprung from! But, it's a cracker, isn't it? Best bit is, he'll never be 100% certain I was just fucking with his head! LMFAO!

  He was down here, the other week. He saw ~ and was quite impressed by ~ the fact that I now have sawdust on the floor, in here.

  Dingo Dog's a complete wreck now. He's entitled to be as he's older than my underpants. After chasing around with a mop and bucket of filthy water a few times, I had an epiphany! 

  I have a good, old fashioned, shingley concrete floor, in here. Just like Dad had, at the kennels. And, what did He do? 

  So, I brought out this big bale of top quality sawdust I had for the canaries. It's fucking great! le Ding has any little upsets? So what?

  I can even weave that into it. See; Dad had a sort of steel box, out back. Always seemed fucking massive to me. Probably more like six foot square though. Thigh high to a grown man.

  But, yeah, we dumped all the 'used' sawdust (And Dog shit, of course) into that. And it was eternally smouldering. Five years that I knew of, it had always been smouldering.

  And, that was it. Top it up, each day. It'd smoulder and consume the new stuff. I guess the wind blew the dry ash away?

  What ever, Pat doesn't need to know that much. Once I hit him with the off hand but, obviously quite chuffed revelation that I've figured out this great new method of waste management?;

  Then I can gush happily on to outline how my Dad used to do the same thing, with the kennel waste. Pointing out how my sawdust (Dog shit and puke) also goes in there. I then shit onto that, as it smoulders. 

  If I can figure a way of knowing when he'll be here, I'll shove a cardboard box of sawdust in there and spark it up. Be a good touch, having a warm stove with a trickle of smoke coming out that chimney.

  I'm sat here, belly laughing my fucking arse off about this! He'll fucking Believe me! He absolutely fucking certainly won't ever be able to get his head round any shadow of a doubt that I'm just fucking with him! 

  Give it enough time for That one to become part of the mental scarring I inflict on the poor cunt; Then, I'll passingly mention how I'd found my sink sluggish.

  That'll link, seamlessly, back to the stove one. And will set in stone his total conviction that I'm some sort of fucking savage! ROFLMFAO!!! 

  Ye wait till I tell Tommy about this one! He'll have to pull over, so we can both have a fucking good cry with laughter!

Bought A 9" Angle Grinder .....

  Angle Grinders. Handy things. Ye never really know what ye going to want one for, in a home / DIY situation, till ye need one.

  Well, I seem to have found no end of uses for one. Three, in fact! Because that's how many I've fucking got through, since coming here a bare decade ago!

  4 1/2" ones. I swear to god; I hardly get any use out of them and, in the middle of some piddling little job? Smoke and smell. Fuckers die in my hands!

  Ah, yes. Even as I typed the above, look, it came back to me. That's why I want one. My grave stones. I want to make some grave stones.

  I asked Pat about it and he advised putting a couple of lengths of re bar in each one. So, I'd need to cut the re bar, of course. Need a fucking angle grinder.

  It was already bothering me, to be honest with ye. Thought of setting a poxy little 4 1/2" one to chop, chop and Chop fucking re bar! I could be half a day at it and burn the thing out before I'd even got there!

  What ever. I was in town, the other day. Just about to go and get my meat when I remembered I wanted to check for grinders. I turned and went to the builders shop.

  Lo and behold! Where, last time, there had been No grinders; Now they had Two. Hitachi ~ the only make I'll touch, these days. And in 4 1/2" and 9" ! Wow! Just look at That bad boy!!!

  So, I'm standing there. And I'm thinking; " I really could do with That big monster. It'll have so much more guts in it. I'd virtually be sacrificing the little one to the re bar .....

  But, how much must it be?! My power saw was about three ton. Screw Driver a couple. SDS Drill, what? Four ton?!  Fucks me!!!

 Did a quick gut reaction reckoning. Guessed I could probably stomach the three ton ....? It hasn't been a bad month. Probably about to nose dive into the pits of hell. At least I'd have a decent fucking tool left.

  I put my glasses on ..... €99.99 !!!!! I almost Shit my fucking self!!! A mistake. Surely?! I looked at the little one. €75.00. I still wasn't convinced of it. I spotted a price label on the 9"ers box. Yep! €99.99!

  Fuck This!!! I've grabbed it and put it on the counter. Mentally preparing myself to argue with the sales bloke; " By law, ye have to sell at the price the label says! .......... Don't ye? "

  No arguments necessary. Eustace went and got me a fresh, non display one.  Took my ton and wished me a good day. Fuck!

  Back to the pub I've gone. Put my trophy on the shelf and started regaling all and sundry  about this wonderful deal I'd just got. Fuck off big, 9" angle grinder, for a Ton!

  And, of course, it's a pub. We're men. Drinking beer ....? " What man wouldn't like Nine Inches?! Eh? Nudge, nudge!  Wink, wink! " To much hilarity, of course. Raised glasses. Winks. 'Snarf, snarf!'

  A few pints later, and Tommy arrived, to run me home. " Was that an Angle Grinder I saw ye had there? " 

Much wide eyed enthusing, of course. Once more I relayed my story. How they'd not had any, last time I looked .....

  " And, of course, mate ..... What man Wouldn't like Nine Inches!!!!! " Lulz ....!

  Tommy just drove on. Nothing. Not even a chuckle. I just figured some distraction had come to him at that moment.



  Today, it hit me: Few years ago now. Summer. Tommy had brought me home, as usual. Bright, sunny evening. We'd got out of the motor, outside my gate. I was unloading the boot as Tommy muttered that he must have a .....

  Like ye do, I turned and peered out across the land. Acted like nothing was going on. Gave it the prescribed sort of time. Then turned ~ that moment too soon, as it happens.

  Because, I just caught, in my peripheral vision, before spinning back to the land again, this nightmarish vision!  I'd got this blurred impression of Tommy waving his Arm around!  

  And yet, it couldn't have been. Because he plainly had two hands on the damn thing. And his hands were on the ends of his two arms ....!

  Ye know how the brain always tries to make sense of things? Applies what we know to what we're seeing? Well, that's how My brain screamed to me that it's okay. Tommy was just using his both hands to wave and shake a French Fucking Loaf!!!

  That's what it Had To be! My donkey was down there, on the meadow. There's no way He could have got mixed up in my line of sight. Tommy only had two arms. So, That thing was a French Loaf. My mind would have imploded otherwise. I had to rationalise it!

  And now here I am, years later. Suggesting to the same Tommy that he too might appreciate a whacking great nine inches. And there's him, going all tight lipped and thinking; 

  " Fuck that! Nine piddling inches?! I'll stick with what I've got, thanks! "


  The Fucking Horror!!!

I Can See This Ending Badly .....

  I met Seamy in town the other day. He's Tommy's brother. And they bought Eddie's old place. Making them my new, nearest neighbours.  Seamy told me that Tommy had got himself an aviary. And had populated it with budgies.

  Of course, my first thoughts were for their safety. I said how they really oughta get a trap or two down alongside that aviary. Even better, get more around their close perimeters. Head the fuckers off at the pass.

  I didn't try to push my idea though. I've long since learned not to waste energy on pushing brick walls. Seamy just about exhausted his own patience, waiting for me to finish my own few sentences on the subject.

 Then he firmly stated that a bit of electric fencing round the thing would take care of it. 

  I didn't bother asking if he expected a herd of flesh eating cattle to turn up. 


  Happens that I was up their end, the other day. Seamy was pottering about. We met. Exchanged. I could barely have missed the aviary. Nice sized one, up by the front door. I gladly accepted the invitation to take a closer look.

  Dear god. What can I say? Our main winds, here, come howling down from the west / south west. So, Seamy's advised Tommy to shield off one side with polycarbonate sheeting.

 The East side, of course. South is the front. West is completely exposed to the fierce winds and lashing rains that come down off that mountain.  No way would I leave a Dog exposed to them.

  Winding round the 1" thick kick board was a single strand of thick, galvanised wire. Four inches up. Three out. Electrified by who knows what? I thought how their two Jack Russels would be far more at risk there.

  Studying the woefully thin guage welded mesh. Held on by randomly spaced staples ..... I found myself staring at one, particularly sparsely stapled length. Thinking;

  " Right there. That'll be the weak spot the piney finds. He'll have that ripped open in no time. And in he'll go ..... "


  Oh well. I really can see this ending badly .....


 

So; I Hear Ye Selling Ye Mare ....?

  Couple of weeks ago now, Tommy the Hay Man had dropped me off a couple of round bails. I don't know how many of ye have had any more experience of these things than driving past them, in fields?

 Truth is, they're really rather big and incredibly fucking heavy! Tommy and I had somehow managed to roll the first one into my round feeder. The other's lain outside the pen, waiting till it was needed. I needed it in there today.

  That's why I'd called Pat and asked the favour of him popping down with one of his tractors, with the bail spikes on. Happily, he was shifting some bails of his own right then. He turned up within minutes to shift mine too. Bless him.

  As we were bolting together the two halves of the galvanised steel ring I feed 'The Horses' from, I heard Pat saying; " So; I hear ye selling ye mare? "

  I looked up, just in time to catch the mischievous sparkle in Pat's eye. Bastard! LOL! And I knew exactly what he was on about too.

  " Tommy can go fuck his fucking self! " I replied. " Sell my fucking Rosie?! I'd as soon sell ..... My cottage! " I said, having no kids or wife to offer as a better example. Pat made a sort of 'Oooh!' face. But, I could see he was pleased to have got the rise he was looking for.

 Turning to look Rosie over, he was more serious when he asked, " Do her give her any meal? " To which I stated, categorically, that I give them both their meal, every night. This equating, around here, about with saying ye feed ye Dog best steak.

 " Aah, she's looking in fierce fine shape though. " Breathed Pat', with obvious sincerity bordering on awe.

 And that's probably the real reason I've wrote this. To let it out a bit. Express just how bursting with pleasure I am at his words.

 See; I've had Dogs all my life. Ye can say what ye like about my Dogs. Doesn't touch me. I'm used to Dogs and handling them is second nature to me. Bloody sure mine are in good condition, mentally as well as physically. I was brought up with Dogs. I know about them.

 But, Rosie? I've had her just two years now ~ I believe it is? Never had a horse before. Never had fuck all to do with horses. Might as well have bought a Fire Engine.

 But, there's the difference, see? She's Not a machine. She's a living, breathing, thinking creature. And, as I'd always said to people, before I got her; 

 I can't stand fucking machines. Hate them. Greasy, oily, smelly, noisy. I don't understand them and wouldn't know how to do with one. Animals I can get on with.

 And, here we are. Tommy had fucking near chewed my ear off, when he brought that hay round, repeating " Will ye sell her? " like a fucking mantra. So much he was starting to get on my nerves with it.

 Now Pat' ~ another man who knows the quality of 'stock when he looks at it. I tell ye; When blokes like these look at my mare and are moved to sigh and breath such complimentary things? Makes my fucking day! Because, it lets me know I'm doing right by my creatures.

 Matters to me.
 

Nigger's Tale .....

Nigger. He's a Name. Not a Number. Though I only ever knew of him as " 4737 " on Louth County Council Dog Pounds web site. I came to find him thanks to " Sam ", the guy ye may have seen Commenting on here. Sam's big on championing the Rescue of Dogs. But, he puts his money where his mouth is. The guy Rescues, Fosters, Looks After, Breaks His Own Damn Heart Over as many Dogs as he can possibly manage. An Unsung Hero.

Sam had long since starting sliding URLs across the table at me. Just 'Something to take a look at'. I don't think he ever directly mentioned any particular Dog. Most of them made my heart bleed anyway. And I knew most of them would be dead in a week or so too.

But, what can I do? I have land, sure. I have enough land that I could build a huge fucking paddock and stick maybe twenty Dogs in it. I could likely keep them fed too. But, it'd be little more than a benign Concentration Camp for Dogs.

See; I'd be able to go in there twice, maybe three times a day? I'd pick up all their shit. I'd check and refresh their water bowls. I'd dole out their food, once a day. And they'd become basically a feral, contained pack. They'd sort their own social structure out. Maybe some would even die in the process? I'd drag the carcass out and sling it in a certain place I know of.

Is that any way to keep Dogs? I don't think so. Besides which, I'm only using that scenario as an example. Fact is; Constructing such an enclosure would cost me tens of thousands of pounds. I just haven't got that sort of money. What good, to Dogs, is an acre of land if they can't be contained within it? So, there we are.

Anyway; I must've mentioned to Sam how I had this feel for a rough, rangier, 'Black Lab' sort of Dog. Only, Sam would certainly know I simply won't have shit to do with castrated Dogs. So, then he sent me a few links to Dog Pounds (as very much different from 'Dog Rescues, in the main) where they really couldn't give a shit about letting Dogs go out with their balls still on. Just as long as the poor Dogs went out on their own four feet.

And that's how I discovered " Dog, Ref # 4737. Black Lab ~ Stray. Louth Dog Pound. " and decided he'd be worth my taking a chance on.

I e mailed them and stated my interest. Their " Tommy " shot me back, saying he was a great little Dog and his owners would probably be in to collect him. Him being a Stray, rather than a Handed In By Owner.

Well, I asked that I at least be granted first refusal, should it not happen. Then, after midnight on the day he was due for release, I mailed again. Could I have him now? Still Tommy held out. He told me; If 4737 wasn't claimed by closing time That day ..... He was giving this Dog one extra day.

Next day, I e mailed Tommy to say I wanted the Dog. Within an hour, I phoned him to say I was in a taxi and on my way. " A Taxi?! " Virtually screamed an astonished Tommy. " From Leitrim?!? ". Err ... Yes, Tommy. Two hundred mile round trip. In a taxi. To buy a Dog some cunt's 'Dropped Off' along a road some where. About an eight hour journey. I have no problem with that. Oh but, Tommy? Ye just don't know who ye dealing with here, do ye? This is Ditch Shitter. A man simply not given to fucking about!

Steve Flynn, one of my most regular Taxi's, probably learned more about my past than many people here will ever know, on that seemingly endless drive. Four fucking hours. And the Irish Love to ask questions and then just drink in the answers. Thus I had to provide most of the in car entertainment. By the time we reached Louth, even I'd ran out of things to say. I'd covered about thirty years of my life!

But, here we were. And there, one had to surmise, was 4737. There was this bald headed guy in the compound. Goatee beard and bouncy, black Lab' type Dog. " Fit looking Dog ..... " Commented Steve.

Well, Tommy let us in and was back inside with 4737 even before the automated gates had fully opened. I was lighting a roll up even before Steve was out of the motor! Then Tommy came back out to find me and I got a good look at the guy. Ye know when ye take just one look at someone and Know they're a good person? I really must look up Louth County Council and send them a note to say what a Good Egg they have in that man. I'm perfectly serious.

And there was 4737. He could barely take his eyes off Tommy. His tail never stopped wagging. This Dog Adored the guy! Then I was signing things. No worries! One thing was a Dog License ~ Saved me buying one next time I hit town. I Always license All my Dogs. The other was the Micro Chip Receipt, for the micro chip Tommy popped into 4737, right there and then. Scanning the Dog, to show me it was there and working.

Then, after a truly enjoyable chat about things of obviously mutual interest, it was time to open the door of the motor and invite 4737 to hop in the back. In he got. I managed to get in the front, without letting go of the collar and lead I'd brought with me. We were off. Homeward bound.

I don't think we were even out those gates before I turned, grinning into 4737's happily panting face, and said; " Well, Nigger, my love ..... "

Know what? Nigger just sat, laid, stood, good as gold. Good Four Hours! Not a fucking peep, whinge, whine, piss, shit, puke or fart out of him. Dog was a solid little angel, all the way home. And, when I got him here? I led him round for a sniffing, pissing session. Popped him on a chain. Watched him drink his fill of water. Took him into a back room and locked him there. Let the others out, to sniff his piss and piss on it. Put them away. Chained him up again, in sight of the window ..... Fucked off for Four More Hours! (I had business and this had, unavoidably clashed)

Back I came, midnight and gone. This is how I handled it: I let The Orange Dog out. She gave him a cursory glance and ignored him. I muzzled le Ding and Nigger. Brought le Ding out on a lead. Nigger cringed a bit. Ding tried a spot of high stepping and nose shoving. A firm " Oy! " from me told him that wasn't the idea.

Fifteen minutes later, after I'd spray disinfected. Mopped ..... God Dammit! ..... Done the same again! Gentle slap and a firm word. (Nigger should, by now, be getting the idea that he Does Not piss mark each outstanding object in my kitchen!) And we all came in here.

Nigger crashed out at my feet. le Ding settled down close by. Orange Dog went for a kip on my bed. Chain Dog ....? Well; Chain Dog's a bit of a sociopath. We don't care what Chain Dog's doing. It still means she'll kill them all, let out of there and given half a chance to!

Know what? I woke up today; Nigger still fast asleep, right where my feet had been all night. Dingo Dog fast asleep in his bed, two foot away from Nigger. Orange Dog in my arms and a fucking great grin on my face!

Right now, about thirty hours later as I write? Still like an explosion in a Dog factory. Dogs strewn all over the place. And Peace!

This is why I gave up the Bull breeds. Adore them as I do; I like more than one Dog around the place ;-)