What Do I Know?

Friday Cow Blogging

This photo gives new meaning to Bourne End Cows, doesn't it? 

Yes, these are more of the same herd of cows I wrote about last Friday. Like I said, it was a large herd. And I got some fantastic photos: sometimes the hardest thing about Friday Cow Blogging is deciding which photo to use. 

I loved this one, with the cloud-filled sky and the look on the cows' faces. 

And I have still more from the same walk. Unfortunately, we won't be going to Bourne End again for a while, since our foster dog isn't very good around other dogs. And there were about as many dogs there as there were cows.

A Dog for a While

Sparky, Day One 

Saturday evening, I got a call. Sparky needed a foster home, fast: He wasn't getting along with other dogs and the foster who'd signed up for him had three. So even though I'd only signed up to be a foster mom a couple of weeks ago and had not yet had my home check, Irish Retriever Rescue asked if I could take him. 

Let me back up. A while ago, I posted here about how I was hoping to one day get a dog. In comments, I mentioned how my search to be a dog fosterer had been fruitless: most big rescue orgs have their own facilities, and others either needed a six month commitment or had some other hoops I couldn't jump through. 

Fortunately, someone read that and suggested Irish Retriever Rescue, which is neither based in Ireland nor rescues Irish Setters. They bring dogs over from Ireland, mainly retrievers, where puppy mills (puppy farms) are plentiful and homes are not. I liked what I read on their website, and filled out an application. Fifteen minutes later I got a phone call. After that, I figured it might be a while before I was needed. But then the phone call on Saturday...

I picked Sparky up from a transport volunteer in Oxford. He's an eighteen-month old Golden cross, probably part Border Collie, with the size and coloring of a Golden. His owner was dying of cancer, and had to rehome him, but Sparky has undoubtedly suffered from neglect while he's been kenneled. 

The first day, Sparky was hyper alert. In the photo above, taken an hour or so after he arrived, his eyes are huge. He watched every move I made, inspected every inch of the house and garden, and was clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

During the night, he woke me up several times, nudging me from the side of the bed. He did the same to my husband. I didn't mind at all—there is nothing I like better than being awakened by a dog. And he needed the reassurance that I was still there. 

On Day Two, Sparky showed signs of settling in. He met the gardener, and after a woof to let me know we had an intruder, he greeted the stranger warmly. A little too warmly, in fact: He has an annoying habit of jumping up on people, preferring to greet humans face-to-face. 

But he was much calmer, sleeping near my desk for hours while I worked. And on Day Three he was definitely feeling as if he belonged here: He barked at any noise from outside, a warning to anyone from the construction crew next door who might be thinking about burgling this house. I think they got the message: For such a sweet pup, Sparky has a serious bark. 

And a very gentle bite: He has excellent bite inhibition, as I discovered when I first brushed him. He took my other hand gently in his mouth, toying with it, but never bit down. The next day, however, he let me brush him without interference. 

He's starting to trust me. And I trust him, which doesn't come naturally to me. Having been bitten by two-year-old male dogs, I'm a little wary, something I can't quite control. When he first jumped up on me, I froze, but the look in his big brown eyes said "Lovemeloveme!" not "Grrrrrr!" 

And then I melted. 

We're still melting for each other. He's snoozing now, a little further away than he was yesterday: he knows I'm here for the duration. 

And I realized something last night when I uploaded the more recent photos I took of him: His eyes aren't quite so big. He's more relaxed, no longer on hyper alert status. 

Sparky, Day Three 

I realized something else last night, too: I am content. 

For months now, I've been restless, unsettled, wanting to fill that big hole in my life with something, anything. I literally searched all over the world, but coming home to an empty house brought home just how empty my life was. 

Sparky and I, we're both content now. 

Our relationship probably won't last forever, but somewhere there's a dog or pup for me who will finally fill that gaping hole. And for Sparky, a home that will be everything he needs.

Today, though, we're going to check out the pond. A new experience for him, and an old one for me.

Friday Cow Blogging

The River Thames at Bourne End, gathering place for cows 

Last weekend we were fortunate to have a friend visit. Stella is a black lab, an excellent ball fetcher, swimmer and rambler. So we took her to Bourne End and walked along the Thames, tossing balls for her, watching her splash into the water as she went after them. 

Eventually we came upon these cows, and not knowing for certain how Stella would behave around livestock, my husband distracted her with a ball in the other direction, while I snuck up on the cows with my camera. There were around 50 or 60 cows, young males I suspect from the lack of equipment. 

They seemed to enjoy the view of the sailboats, or maybe they just wanted a tasty drink of Thames water. 

Another couple with a toddler were walking through the herd, letting the toddler run loose. They asked in heavily accented English if it the cows were dangerous, and I warned them to keep the baby away from the cows and to never come between a mother and her baby. 

But of course there were no mothers in this herd—these guys are destined for dinner plates soon, and won't be enjoying their views much longer. People could be forgiven for thinking cows roam wild in this country, like herds of deer, but of course that hasn't been true for hundreds of thousands of years. These lovely beasts are about as tame as they come, though I doubt I'd convince one to fetch a ball for me.

Sailing Lessons

Round and round and round they go...

Upper Thames Sailing Club in the background.

We went walking along the Thames near Bourne End yesterday. It was a gorgeous day, as you can see from the photos—it's a rare weekend we get such lovely weather. The sailboats were out in full force, practicing their maneuvers. Round and round they went, banking sharply around the orange ball, each time coming close to capsizing—then the boom (I'm guessing; I don't know sail terminology) passed over and the sailor scrambled to duck under it to the other side. 

The weight of the sailor kept the boat from tilting too far, apparently. I gasped each time one turned, certain this time would result in a tumped over boat. 

But no, they all survived to sail another day. 

Stay tuned...more photos of the same spot on Friday. Because we weren't the only ones watching the boats.

Tolerating the Intolerant

I see the quack in Florida who calls himself a pastor has called off his plans to burn copies of the Koran. That's probably a good thing. I hate it when nutjobs get more attention than they deserve, and Mr Jones, who's surpassed Lindsay Lohan for undeserved publicity this week, definitely needs to be off the world's radar screen. 

But there is an inherent contradiction for those of us who deplore his book burning and at the same time argue fiercely for the right of Park51 to build Cordoba House wherever they want to—including blocks away from Ground Zero. 

We have constitutional rights for a reason—to make life better for everyone, not just the ones at the top. But those rights aren't absolute. You can't yell "Fire!" in a crowded theatre, or so they say, for a very good reason: it endangers lives. Burning the Koran is certainly covered by free speech protection, but such an act would be seen not as symbolism but as dishonor, an intolerable insult by a vast number of Muslims.

So while a good argument can be made for why Mr Jones and his dozen or so Kool-Aid drinkers should not even be allowed to exercise their free speech rights by burning the Koran, I think we're missing a much deeper issue: We have a big problem if most of the world's intelligence experts believe burning a book will bring on religious war and further acts of terrorism. 

Any religion that takes itself so seriously that a cartoon of its founder, or a bonfire composed of its religious text, can't be tolerated is in need of a heavy dose of fresh thinking. The roots of terrorism lie not in Islam but in ignorance and intolerance. That's what we ought to be worried about: the fundamentalism that is encouraged by ignorance of other religions and cultures. 

And how are we going to fight ignorance and fundamentalism in Islam? By supporting moderate organizations like Park51 and its founder, Imam Rauf. 

Park51 won't just be a cool place to swim, like my JCC in Albuquerque. It will be a place of religious education—moderate religious education. A movement away from the kneejerk violence and deadly overreaction that plague the Muslim faith. Those religious zealots who want to kill the Danish cartoonist need to hear a message of moderation, not the intolerance that's preached by many Muslim leaders. We need more Imam Raufs, more Cordoba Houses, not fewer. 

Likewise, Mr Jones' followers need to hear a message of tolerance, not ignorant rants about Islam. We need moderate Christians and Jews to speak out, not columnist Marty Peretz, who's declared "Muslim life is cheap". We need more like the Velveteen Rabbi (aka Rachel Barenblat) who raised money to replace prayer rugs desecrated by a drunken anti-Islamist. The interfaith summit that denounced intolerance and bigotry is on the right track—but still far too many religious leaders of every faith are leading their flock toward, not against, intolerance.

Let's not tolerate any more intolerance. Let's annihilate ignorance. And above all, let's ignore idiots like Mr Jones.

(Links and inspiration via NY Times' columnist Nicholas Kristof, "Is This America?". 

Friday Cow Blogging

Early morning cows 

When I got up this morning around six the cows were still snoozing, lying in the pasture as if they had nothing more pressing on their agenda than grazing all day. Which they don't, of course. 

Notice how they're all looking at me. I think they really liked my snowflake-patterned flannel pajamas. Or else they were wondering if I'd toss out a few breakfast apples. 

I wonder what cows dream about?

Six Years Later: An Ex-pat Looks Back

Clearly marked road sign: Turn left for London. 

Six years ago today, the first wave of the Flake family arrived on the shores of modern Great Britain. Daughter Number Two and her dad arrived first, followed a week later by Daughter Number One, and then, on the second of October, I arrived with the dog, who managed to get through the defenses set up by Defra. 

I look back at those days with amusement. Being driven up the M23 from Gatwick, I swore I'd never drive here—not only were the cars and trucks (which turned out to be lorries) all going the wrong way, but the road markings made no sense. A month later, I got behind the wheel of my car and managed just fine. 

Driving isn't the only skill I've acquired. I've learned a second language, too: British-speak. I now know that people can be "pressurized" and women have "the mee-nopause" which has something to do with "ee-strogen". I know that commas don't behave properly over here—they can turn up, literally anywhere in a sentence (or not) and spelling is often accomplished by adding some silent vowels here and there. I try not to say the word "garage" if I can avoid it, since I always pronounce it the French way, but on the other hand I buy aubergines and courgettes. 

I am very keen on aubergines. I am brilliant at maths, since "brilliant" here simply means pretty good. And I violate trademark law every time I hoover my carpet. 

If I ask a shop "clark", not clerk, for corn, I am directed to the chicken feed. "Berkshire" is pronounced "Barkshire", likewise "Derby" is "Darby". Fortunately I will not go to jail for mispronouncing "gaol" or "Nike" or "Adidas". 

I have learned to ask for "water", not "wadder", and I even specify plain, not sparkling. My daughter is at "uni", not college, since she's already graduated from high school. I buy a "return" ticket or a "single", but never a "single return", clearly an oxymoron. I cannot bring myself to speak of collective nouns in the plural, however, so my government are not doing anything about the economic situation. Which, by the way, is referred to on these shores as the "credit crunch" rather than a recession.  

I am learning new things all the time. Recently, I learned that a "stremmer" is a weedwacker—not nearly as descriptive. Prepositions are still surprising me: I've run across the construction "bored of" twice in the last 24 hours. The letter "R" is elusive, even in the highest elocutionary circles: Bwitish people should pwactice saying it more often, especially if they're being interviewed on the wadio. (I should offer to trade my R's for their T's.)

The lessons go beyond language, of course. There are subtle behavioral differences between our two cultures. Losing one's temper in public is not done, which makes me very angry. (This was not well done of me.) Complaining about poor service is considered improper (not rude, nor mean, since one means vulgar and the other means cheap), which makes me lose my temper. In the face of adversity, one must pretend as if nothing is wrong, especially if the adversity is medical. Extra points if you can explain away the cast on your arm with a cheery, self-deprecating tale, preferably involving the phrase "pear-shaped".  

On the other hand, complaining about the weather is encouraged. (Unless, of course, you're in Malaga, then you should be getting pissed—no, not a violation of the first rule above, but rather falling-down drunk.)

Not all is English roses. I've discovered the dark underbelly of the English psyche, which the Irish, Scots and Welsh surely were on to long ago. Now it's the Eastern Europeans and Asians who are unwanted here, and the baldness of the anti-immigration rhetoric surprises even me: I've been told all of the problems here began when they let in "those foreigners". 

Foreigners like me, I suppose, since there is also a streak of anti-Americanism here, usually on display in the Daily Mail. If I read one more article about how Americanisms like "24/7" or "have a nice day" are destroying the social fabric of England, I think I'll lose my temper. In public.

As an ex-pat, I am aware that the minute I open my mouth, I am immediately identified as a North American. I try not to let down the home team. 

I admit, however, to feeling a certain amount of schadenfreude when my home team managed to hold England to a 1-1 draw in (or is it at?) the World Cup. 

That's football, not soccer. Played at Wembley—yes, Wembley, really—with a W. I drive past there quite often, and the road markings couldn't be clearer. 

Friday Hedgehog Blogging

Hugo the Hedgehog at Tiggywinkles 

When my friend told me she was planning to go to St. Tiggywinkles to donate the unwanted meat from her freezer, I asked to go along. I've meant to go out there for years now. Tiggywinkles is a wildlife rescue center in Buckinghamshire, named of course for the famous hedgehog in Beatrix Potter's stories—who was named for Potter's real life hedgehog pet, Mrs Tiggy-winkle. 

Unfortunately, hedgehogs don't make good pets. They can roam five miles in a night, so obviously they wouldn't enjoy living in a cage, or even a spacious five-bedroom, three-bath house. Plus, they don't take well to toilet training and are deathly intolerant to lactose—so don't give one milk if you come upon one in your garden. They prefer grubs and snails for dinner, which makes them an excellent addition to a garden. 

Hugo, as you can see, has a stump instead of a rear leg. He lost it in an accident, likely with a stremmer (a weedwacker, to you Yanks). Tiggywinkles takes in all sorts of rescued wildlife, most brought in or reported by members of the public. They rehabilitate and release into the wild most of their rescues, with as little human contact as possible. That means many of the animals at the centre are not viewable by the public. 

The ones who are too damaged to be released are kept permanently at the centre, where they're cared for all their lives. Hugo has several companion hedgehogs for company, including several (including him) who are blind. 

My friend's meat would be going to the raptors and foxes and other carnivores, who normally get by on dog food. It's not ideal, and the employee who took the cooler full of meat assured us it would be much enjoyed by the residents there. 

Here's a glimpse of the typical residents Tiggywinkle's would have had during a week in August: 

And here's another photo of Hugo, curled into a ball: 

 
Hugo in a typical pose.

You can visit Tiggywinkle's online, or in person—but be warned it's hard to find. They can't afford proper signage, but use your sat nav and you should be able to find it, somewhere between Leighton Buzzard and Oxford. (Yes, there is a town named after a scavenger bird. Only in England.) 

And if you have any meat in your freezer you don't want, they'd love to have it.

By the way, this is not my first encounter with a hedgehog—you can read about our resident hedgehog here. We haven't seen her in a while, though we no longer have a Hedgehog Alert System. 

Life Like Mine

A few weeks ago, I came across the blog Life Like Mine, written by Kelley Baldwin, a humor columnist from a small-town Ohio newspaper. 

Indeed, her life is like mine: a few months ago, she lost her beautiful golden retriever Chaser in the exact same way we lost Bailey. It was sudden and harsh, and like me, she was devastated. 

Now I read that her family has adopted a new dog. They didn't want to at first, thinking it was too soon. But when a golden needed a home, they decided they needed a golden. 

I am unaccountably happy for them. And for the dog, Bear, who has found a family to love. 

Frankly, getting another dog is all I think about. Is it disloyal? I hope not. Somewhere, there's a dog who needs to be in my life as much as I need him or her. But not right now. Rumors still swirl about an upcoming move overseas, and until we know for sure where we'll be in a few months, we shouldn't get a dog. 

I keep telling myself that. 

And then there's this: 

And as I made the return trip home, looking down to see a golden head lying in my lap and big, beautiful brown eyes staring back up at me with such love and trust, I knew in that moment I had made the right one.

I can't wait until my life is like hers again.