Splash Day

[I wrote this post on Tuesday, May 5, but it took a while to get the photos up. So, pretend you are reading this last Tuesday, and everything will be fine. ]

So today is our Splash Day, the date the boat is scheduled to be moved out of the boatyard and into the water.

This is a very good thing, of course, and yesterday was a perfect day for boating--bright blue sky, temps in the mid 70s, the kind of day you would swear God was dropping in and arranging perfect weather for the visit.

Today, it's supposed to rain. The sun comes and goes, and rain spits then passes off, so I'm driving around town, turning my headlights on and off, switching between my glasses and sunglasses. Temps are bobbing up and down like a yo-yo, and it's a still a perfect day to be on the boat. Because everyday is a good day to be on the boat.


















Lady Cliff, still attached to the truck, soaking in the water.


When I arrive at the boatyard about 11:20, the Lady Cliff is at the base of a cement ramp, soaking in the river. This is an incredibly important and frustrating part of owning a wooden boat, because over the long winter, the planks of the boat dry out and contract. So, the boat has to be put into the water partway, and the bilge pumps run as the wood takes up water and swells to close all the gaps.

















Pumping out the water below the floor of the aft cabin

It was a longer winter this winter than the last couple of years, and L.C. was in the shop getting more done than in past years, so the swelling process is taking longer than usual. Cpt. Sweetie is understandably reluctant to leave his Precious while she's still taking on water, so his day has been carved into half-hour chunks as he rearranges his work meetings, or does them by phone.


















Run off from the pump. This is very tasty if you are a dog.


Of course, Cabin Boy Bermondsey came with me to check out what was going on, and to see if we could babysit the boat while Cpt. Sweetie went to work.


















Cabin Boy Bermondsey reporting that the engine room is dry!

It turns out that both the Cabin Boy and I are equally useless, because there are questions about amperage, and galvanic circuits, and the current question is whether to replace a bilge pump and rewire it or not. Voltimeters seem to be involved. Auxiliary pumps are being moved around to stay ahead of the incoming water.

Of course, once the conversation includes a question of "galvanics" my mind is off and thinking about "Possession," by A.S. Byatt, in which her fictional Victorian poet describes sexual attraction as "the kick galvanic." So I'm no help at all, but I am somewhat entertaining.

Both Cpt. Sweetie and the restorer who did the work on the boat over the winter are currently crawling about the engines, tracing wires beneath the flooring of the saloon. I have contributed by fetching lunch and returning Cabin Boy Bermondsey back home, so we can all stop worrying he is going to fall off the boat.

















I can swim, you know. Plus, if you just put the life jacket on me, no one would have to worry.

Tails From The Dog Park

One thing that five inches of fresh snow does--it refreshes the dog park.

All that melting and refreezing made a circuit through the park nearly impossible for quite a while. The paths go up hills and along eroded ridges, and it's taking your life into your hands to try to track across a good portion of the park.

But fresh snow covers up the ice, and fresh snow a couple of days ago means that many dogs have re-carved the pathways, and pushed down the snow into a packed layer that safely covers the ice. So no more booby-traps walking on hidden ice and ending up on your tailbone.

So Bermondsey got to go to the dog park today, and run in the snow.

Weekends are a little hard for him, though, as most of the dogs out on a weekend day are big dogs who need to burn off a LOT of energy. This makes Bermondsey nervous, as he has learned about comparative sizes, and has realized that he is usually the small one. Comparatively. He's been run over, knocked over, and lifted off his feet by a nose between his legs, and he's not enjoyed any of that, thank you very much.

Today was much the same, although with a bunch of dogs I haven't seen before. It is truly amazing what different shapes and sizes they come in, and what their owners have named them. "Rocky" and "Lainie" were having a contretemps--although they both looked anatomically female. Who says "Rocky" has to be only a boy's name anyway? There was a huge Newfoundland, and his companion who was an entire standard deviation smaller, and with a smooth head that looked like there was some Laborador in him as well.

The dog who left just before we did looked like a white Golden Retriever, although both bigger and taller than a true Retriever. His name was "Howard."

Who names their dog "Howard?" Why would you name a dog "Howard?" I can't think of any Howards who seem like the kind of person you would name a dog after. There are just no associations I can think of that would lead to someone saying "Hey! What a great name for a dog!"

Howard Cosell. Howard the Duck. Castle Howard. Katherine Howard, married and beheaded by Henry VIII. Howard Johnson's. Nope--not a dog-worthy connection.

Just before we left, Bermondsey was sniffing along the entrance gate, where many dogs leave their calling cards to announce their arrival. As he was pacing the length of the chain-link fence, a much larger dog was walking the other side, lifted his leg and left his signature in the snow. AFTER hitting Bermondsey in the ear and down half the length of his body.

So now we are both sitting in the parlor, drying out from the resulting bath.

Are You Scared Of Buttons?

We saw Coraline a week ago, and everybody liked it immensely. We are so used to CGI these days, that even when watching a stop action animated film, we had to keep reminding ourselves that everything that we saw on screen actually exists.

Last weekend, I got to spend a day in SF, and went to the Museum of Cartoon Art, which had an exhibit of Coraline drawings, props, puppets, etc. from the making of the movie. It was very interesting to see the puppets--Coraline was only about 7 inches tall; by contrast, the final version of Other Mother was probably twice that. There were actual figures of Coraline and both her Real family and the Other family, both the old and young Spink and Forcible, the Other Mr. Bobo and several of his circus mice, and even the mantis/garden machine/helicopter.

However the most eye opening items were the short videos, showing several artists who contributed to making the film. The most amazing one was the woman who actually knit tiny sweaters and gloves for Coraline. Her knitting needles were no larger than safety pins, and the tiny stitches are completely unbelievable even as you watch her make them.

The official movie website is one of the best I have come across, and the videos are accessible from there as well. The above picture is from the Other Mother's Workshop, where you can add buttons to pictures from your computer or webcam.

Maybe buttons are scary, but on the puppy, I think they are pretty darn adorable.

Walking With Sherlock Holmes

Once again, it is I, John Watson, M.D. For several years now, I have had the immeasurable privilege of friendship with the World's Greatest Consulting Detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. As our friendship deepens and grows, I have found myself examining his methods. Although the adage asseverates that "familiarity breeds contempt," to the contrary I have found that continual observation of Holmes' methodology only increases my respect for his inhumanly keen detection skills.

I refer particularly to an incident that occurred just the other day. Holmes and I were walking the streets together. I find I often have to lengthen my stride, and his preferred pace is half again as fast as my natural saunter. The wind was quite brisk, needling its chill through the good wool of my suit, but the sun was bright, and the combined effect of the chill weather and gleaming snow was felicitous. I was admiring the trim and well maintained gardens which lay to our left, when Holmes suddenly stopped.

Often, on such occasions, Holmes will emit a sharp, barking laugh, as if to say "Oh ho, my good Watson! The game is afoot, and we shall challenge danger yet this night!" On this day, however, I was brought up short, realizing that Holmes remained several paces behind me.

As I turned, I found him fascinated by an initially unremarkable snowbank. He had lowered his head to examine the item more closely, his nose all but buried in the frozen stuff. Yet the position was not yet close enough, or perhaps the bright sunlight had created a brittle crust that obscured that which he sought.

I saw him scratch with the most delicate gesture, removing the offending obstruction without disturbing the fragile substance itself. This seemed to give him the access he sought, for after a few moments only of close observation, he leapt to attention and started off eagerly. And once again, we were off!

CW Bermondsey Sez

[Just back from our midday walk]

Snow is okay, but I prefer shoveled sidewalks, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!

It's A Dog's Life

This is what happens on a cozy winter's night, if you are a dog. You hear a questionable sound outdoors, so you leap up to the back of the sofa to look out the window and secure the borders of the territory.

Once the danger has past, you then are overcome by the snooziness of the evening, so you just go limp, and slide off the back of the sofa, fortunately being caught by the accent pillows, thus avoiding any injury.

Too bad Mr. Sweetie had access to his camera phone to capture the result.

This Is A New One

So, I'm sitting at my desk in the kitchen, doing computer stuff, and I hear a little squeak. Just one, very little. If I hear it again, then I'll check.

There is another one, a few minutes later. What the heck is the deal with that? I look over, and Bermondsey is sitting in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. Door to porch, I would understand. Whimpering at some thing on the counter that he thinks should be in his stomach--sure, I understand that. But just sitting there? Perfectly upright and composed?

I walk over toward him to see if there is something wrong, and he dances away. It's too early for a walk, he can't mean that, can he?

He hops up a couple of steps, and I realize that I am apparently cramping his style. It's nap time, and he wants me upstairs so he can sleep on my bed.

Who is training whom, that's what I wonder.

1776--Now With Bermondsey!

Of course we rewrite everything to include the dog. After all, can you deny that he is a very intelligent looking dog?

Today's offering comes from 1776--the play in which the Founding Fathers sing and dance their way to independence. Specifically, the scene in which John Adams is trying to convince each of the members of the Declaration Committee to take on the task of actually writing out the grievances against the crown. He turns to each of the members of the committee, asking them to be the author, because "if I'm the one to do it, they'll run their quill pens through it. I'm obnoxious and disliked, you know that's true."

Each member gives his excuses: Benjamin Franklin offers this refusal:

Mr. Adams, but, Mr. Adams
The things I write are only light extemporania
I won't put politics on paper; it's a mania
So I refuse to use the pen in Pennsylvania

Roger Sherman also pleads his inability:

Mr. Adams, but, Mr. Adams
I cannot write with any style or proper etiquette
I don't know a participle from a predicate
I am just a simple cobbler from Connecticut

Robert Livingston is off to New York and a newborn son, leaving poor Tom Jefferson the grueling task of remaining in a hot, fly infested city to write the first draft.

Too bad this all happened 230 years before Bermondsey existed, or he could have offered his own excuses:

Mr. Adams, dear Mr. Adams
The proposition you put forth is not supposable.
My talents are not lingual, they're more nose-able.
And besides my little thumbs are not opposable.

Chorus:
Opposable! Opposable! He can not hold the quill!

Weird Al Yankovic is not the only one who can do this, you know.

Law & Order: Special Varieties Unit

So, Bermondsey and I went to the puppy park yesterday, and we met a border terrier. As you may recall, we had some idea that Bermondsey might be part border terrier--based on seeing the movie "Good Dog," which starred such a breed, and because as we were in puppy kindergarten we met someone who owned border terriers and who greeted Bermondsey saying "there's a puppy with some border terrier in him!"

However, as time has passed, I am coming to think this is wrong. The one we saw yesterday at the puppy park was a stocky little dude--barrel bodied with short and sturdy little legs and wiry hair. By contrast, Bermondsey has a scrawny little chest, long legs out of proportion to his body, and soft and almost downy fur. As I have run across Lhasa Apsos as well, their legs are much shorter than Bermondsey's are. So, the forensic reconstruction (see! It's the "Law and Order" theme!) is suspect.

"Look, Sargent, that theory won't hold up in court--any competent defense attorney will open those holes and drive truckloads of 'reasonable doubt' through it. Border terriers are a relatively rare breed: especially here in Minnesota. Lhasa Apsos aren't that common either. So, given that the defendant in question was a stray, found in a rural area--are you prepared to prove the existence of both those unusual breeds in that area, living closely enough to each other to achieve unauthorized reproduction?

"Anyway, it would just take a halfway decent dog breed judge to assess the defendant and pronounce him as incompatible with the modus operandi of the alleged breeds. We need a new theory, Sargent, and fast! The judge is not going to give us a continuance for lack of a good case."

Then, yesterday, while researching something quite different, I came upon these pictures:

This is a new "breed:" what used to be called just "mutts" but are now known as "designer dogs." This is the "Shih Chon," a cross between a shih tzu and a bichon, pronounced "shee shawn." I'm no official dog judge, but these are two breeds that are much more common here. Bichon frises also have longer legs and softer hair than the Lhasas and terriers.

I think these little male puppies look just like Bermondsey must have as a six week old: according to the breeder, they roll over for tummy rubs whenever someone passes by--very much like my own little guy.


This older dog has some of the contradictory gravitas and fluffy cuteness that is the hallmark of our little guy.


So--when people ask (and they do ask! This is really one winsome little dog!) what kind of dog he is, I think I'll go with the Shih Chon--but I'll explain it.

CASE CLOSED.

Note To Self

1. When Kidlet doesn't eat muffin for breakfast, DO NOT leave the house with muffin on the table.

2. Put Dog on immediate Muffin-free diet.


3. Remove the remains before making the bed. (Bloody cur made himself breakfast in bed!)

Winter Is Back

Well, it snowed again, and the Northland is finally looking North-y again. This snowfall actually covered the tips of the grass, and looks to be staying for a while.

The temperature has dropped, and we are experiencing thos classic Minnesota January days: deep white snow, brilliant crystalline sunshine bouncing blindingly off the snow, temperatures in the "oh holy mother of god can it really be that cold?" range.

With the advent of winter comes a new experience for the dog: although the temperature is deep freezing, the sun on the black roof shingles melts the snow and we get avalanches. Snow tumbling off the steep slopes of our roof sounds like feet running above our heads, followed by a muffled "swoop" and "flump" as it lands in the yard.

Bermondsey has gotten territorial, and has rushed to my protection twice already today. "Hey!" he yaps. "You stay away from my pack, you funny sound signifying whatever it is you signify! Or you'll have me to deal with!"

What The Kids Are Saying These Days

The family returned to Chez Evil the other day after a couple of hours away. The Dog turned himself nearly inside out with excitement greeting us, each in turn. When he came to the Bunny, she bent down and looked right into his eyes and said, seriously:

"Yo. Word up, Dawg."

Even The Dog was taken aback. So, we have the world's whitest gangsta, right here at Chez Evil.