Spiders, Man

This morning, I killed another spider in my bath tub. This is the third, big spider I have killed in the tub, over the past ten days, and the second in the past 24 hours. Nando reported killing one in the bathroom, as well. Where are they all coming from? There's a popular saying, in this part of England, that spiders come in the house in September. I just thought it was some nonsense that people say, like an old wives' tale, or something. I have definitely done battle with more spiders this month, than the entire summer, combined.
I don't like spiders. Neither does Nando. I am not afraid of them to the degree that Nando is afraid of moths. For example, there's this moderately sized one who's taken up residence in the upper left corner of my room, above the computer. So long as he stays out of my way, I've been content to let him stay there, over the past week, since I noticed him. There's another, long legged, delicate one, who's been hanging around in the upper left corner of the bathroom, above the tub. We eye each other up every morning, when I take a shower. I have one of those shower/bath combinations, where the shower sprays down into the tub. This one has survived and I can stand in the shower, naked, while he moves around, so long as he stays out of the way.
When I was a kid, I was very afraid of spiders. Even more so, worms. It seems like a lot of humans dislike wiggly, creepy, crawly things. Nando particularly hates spiders when they walk across the floor. There's something about the way they move that seems wrong, somehow. The three I have killed, recently, have been big and have been in my tub. I don't want to step into the tub to take a shower and have that big hairy mother start crawling over my feet. Some people try to catch and release spiders. The heck with that! There seems to be plenty around, so it's not like they are an endangered species, or something. My policy is, if I see one outside, I usually leave them be, but if they come into my house, uninvited, they are subject to death. And yet, Spiderman is one of my favorite superheros. Strange, huh?

Mad Dogs and Englishmen

Yesterday, I was reading "Closer" magazine, on the bus, when I came across one of their "burning question" features. The title was, "Is It Cruel to Take Your Dog Clubbing?" This featured in the 28th July-3 August edition of "Closer." It was inspired by a furore that arose after Britney Spears was reported to have taken her Yorkshire Terrier puppy to clubs with her, in LA. Supposedly, "animal lovers" were "up in arms" over Britney's actions.
Arguing the "no" side, that it's not cruel, is Julian Bennett, a TV presenter, here in the UK. He owns a Dachshund, Lulu, and regularly takes her clubbing with him. He reasons, quite cogently, that if a dog is used to something, there is nothing wrong with the dog being in that environment. Bennett has had Lulu for four years and she's grown up in a show business environment. He points out that celebrities usually sit in quieter, VIP areas, in these clubs anyway, so the dog wouldn't have to cope with the noisiest parts. Arguing the "yes" side, that it is cruel, is Shauna Lowry, also a British TV presenter. As I read her words, I found myself horrified that I have to share this planet with such loons.
Shauna Lowry starts off saying, "I'm a Trustee of Battersea dogs home..." Immediately, she's trying the discredited, "argument from authority." Listen honey, anyone with a bit of money can become a trustee of a charity. That doesn't make you an animal expert. You're a TV presenter, for Pete's sake, not a scientist. Then she goes on to assume a lot of things which she has no evidence to conclude. She guesses that Britney's dog would be "shaking from fear" and starts guessing Britney's mental state, accusing her of only taking the dog along as an "attention seeking device." Lowry goes on to brag that "we" (Battersea dog's home) turned down a request to adopt a dog by Robbie Williams, the pop music superstar, because he travels a lot and wouldn't be a "proper owner." Even though she admits that Robbie said he'd have staff around to care for the dog when he is away, she dismisses that as not being " a responsible owner." What? What are people supposed to do who own pets, never go away? Is this woman barking mad?
Britney's dog is a Yorkshire Terrier. It just so happens that my good friend, Mucky Sarah, has a Yorkshire Terrier, too. I happened to call Sarah, last night, to chat. During the conversation, I mentioned this article from "Closer." Sarah told me she was turned down by Battersea Dog's home, as well. As a single, working woman, she would need to leave the dog at home during the day. Sarah was planning to hire a professional dog walker to take her dog out, during the day, while she was at work. The muppets at Battersea dog's home said that wasn't good enough! Sarah also told me that single people, looking to adopt a dog from Battersea, have to undergo a lifestyle assessment, before they can adopt a dog. What? In a dazzling display of flagrant discrimination, families aren't required to go through this rubbish. Sarah echoed my own sentiment, that a dog is better off in a home, with a loving owner prepared to arrange care for it, than locked up in one of Battersea's cages. People adopt children with less screening than this. These are dogs, for Pete's sake!
I don't know where Sarah ended up getting her dog from, but she's so sweet. She has accompanied Sarah and I out, even attending a pub with us. To me, it would be more cruel keeping the dog in Sarah's flat, rather than taking her out. The dog seems to love going out and about. When I was married, we had a lovely dog, a Golden Retriever named, Elsie. My evil ex-wife, the Black Queen, raised Elise from a puppy and she was very well behaved. Elsie was my second favorite pet of all time, behind my own pet cat, Misty. As the Black Queen and I both worked, and my step-children attended school, Elsie would spend days home alone. If we were going away on holiday, we would arrange for my in-laws to have Elsie.
To use a popular, British expression, Shauna Lowry and the people at Battersea dogs home seem to have lost the plot. They truly give me the impression that the inmates are running the asylum. As long as Battersea engage in such absurd policies, I will not be donating a single penny to them. Robbie Williams' dog would lead a better life than I do. The same can be said for Britney's, pictured clutched to Britney's breast. People like Lowry remind me of the old sayings about "mad Englishmen" and that the English love their dogs more than they love people. All the dogs of the world should turn around and bite Shauna Lowry, and the people at Battersea, on the ass.

The Ostrich or the Egg

I was so annoyed last night. When I tried to post a new blog article, Myspace blogs were down for "20 minutes." After an hour and a half of waiting, I gave up and went to bed. I can only apologize to my loyal readers. The technology that brings us together sometimes separates us.
This past weekend, I had a lovely visit from my artist friend, Jan. Because of my cold (flu, whatever), I had opted out of our scheduled Bridge game, on Saturday. I had caught this sickness while visiting Jan the weekend before. She probably picked it up from some disease ridden child at one of the schools where she worked as a "supply teacher." For my American readers, a "supply teacher" is not someone who teaches supply. It's a British term for a substitute teacher. Although Jan is retired from teaching (oh I wish I didn't have to go to work), she does a bit of temping, as a supply teacher, to bring in some extra cash. Anyway, this experience has re-confirmed my suspicion that children are mostly useless and simply act as carriers of disease (and you only thought you could re-confirm reservations).
I think Jan felt a little guilty for getting me ill, so she came over with a care package and to keep me a little company. I called her on Friday night and mentioned that Nando was working late. I think I gave her the impression that I was lonely, what with Nando not at home. Nando was working all weekend, so Jan probably concluded that I would be lonesome all on my own. The care package consisted of Lemsip, salad dressing, fresh broccoli, tartar sauce, and a box of microwave popcorn. Despite my dropping hints that I prefer Lemsip capsules, she turned up with the original powder, which one has to mix with hot water, then drink. She brought what she likes. Never mind what I like. Oh well, it's the thought that counts.
On Sunday afternoon, I showed Jan some videos on my computer. I had warned her that my bedroom was a bit untidy. She reassured me that her daughter's room is also messy, so she's used to that sort of thing. I bet her my room would outdo her daughter's. I think I won that bet. Jan decided to amuse herself by picking up some books that were piled on my bedroom floor. This was a task I had started, myself, last year, but hadn't yet managed to finish. The pile of books was left over from moving in, a year ago. Although I have wanted to finish putting the books on my bookshelf for ages, it still felt a little intrusive to have Jan doing it. I tried to talk her out of it, to no avail. She said her daughter makes the same complaints when Jan cleans her room. Jan may be only five feet, two inches tall, but she has this gentle pushiness that's so unobtrusive, it's hard to resist. It's kind of like the tide coming in. It starts out lapping at your ankles, then the next thing you know, you're up to your neck in it.
From the books, she moved on to some of my ties that were tossed on a pile of folded clothes. They were deposited there after I took them to some costume fitting or another. Defensively, I tried to help, so I could put my spin on where thinks were put. After a while, I told Jan to stop. She would agree, but as soon as I relaxed, she'd start picking up something or the other. It was all I could do to stop her from throwing away my prized supermarket carrier bags. Eventually, Jan came across my ostrich egg. It was given to me in South Africa, back in December, 2002, by a rep from a travel company. I carried the egg all the way back to England, without breaking it. I have lugged it around to three rented residences, over the past four years. I looked at the egg and I looked at Jan. Suddenly, an idea sprang into my mind. "Jan, do you want that egg? You can have it, if you want it," I said.
"Is it an ostrich egg?" Jan asked.
"Yes," I said. Did it matter? It's a big flipping egg. Either she wanted it, or she didn't.
"I could have used it when I was a full-time art teacher," she informed me. That was interesting, but mostly irrelevant. That was then, this is now. Would she take it off my hands, now? I hoped she would. Finally, I could be rid of that useless thing. She agreed, but did so unenthusiastically. I was worried she was just being polite.
"Are you sure you want it?" I asked. "As much as I want to be rid of the damned thing, I want it to go to a good home. I don't want you to take it and end up putting it in your garage." Jan thought out loud about where she could put it, in her house. She held the large egg shell in her hands. Would she bond with it? I started to feel reluctant to let it go. Maybe this is how mothers feel who put their babies up for adoption before giving birth. When push comes to shove, they have second thoughts about giving the child up. I asked her, "if you were me, would you give the egg away, or keep it?" I sat on the end of my bed, while Jan stood with the egg in her hands. We debated the egg's future. No matter how much I wanted to be rid of it, I just wasn't convinced that Jan really wanted it. We decided that I would keep the egg, for now, while Jan thought about it. If she decided she really did want it, I would give it to her in the future.
If any of you would like to have an ostrich egg and will commit to giving it a good home, let me know. It's just the egg shell. All the innards have been drained out of it, so it's never going to hatch into anything. It will forever be dependant on you for care and attention. On the plus side, it doesn't eat anything and is very quiet. All of this discussion of the egg's fate has led me to ponder that age old question: which came first the ostrich or the egg?