I'm always the last to find out...

Apparently Harold was on a mission from God, last time he hit Chicago:

Decibel pulls a Norman

A few days ago I am folding laundry in the laundry room.  Harold comes in during a commercial break to give me hand.  After a quick stop at the water bowl Decibel joins us.

As an aside:

Briards are not for fastidious people.  They have huge paws that bring in dirt and mud galore, even during a drought.  Their lavish coat absorbs all manner of things, from lawn clippings, sticks, compost to small rodents, only to deposit it inside after a shake.  Somehow my house has an even dust layer an hour after dusting horizontal surfaces.  Only in the rooms accessible to the dogs.  The guest rooms stay clean for weeks at a time.
I am always surprised to find that our couch is a very happy tomato red.  It is usually covered by tattered quilts because the dogs like to lounge there.
When a Briard drinks the whole lower part of the head gets soaked.  A small stream of water then flows from there, and clearly demarcates the course the dog took for a few minutes after the drink.  Normally that's once around the kitchen island, with a small puddle by the toy box, and then a few drips show whether the dog went outside through the doggie door or to a dog bed for a snooze.
 The thing about that is, it makes Briards ideal for me.  I don't like cleaning, and in our house that is a futile activity.  So I can have reasonable (low) standards for the disliked activity, and clean right up to guests' arrival, and have them notice that by their departure, the house looks rather "lived in" - by a horde of college students - all without great harm to my status.  Well, actually I don't really care what people think of my housekeeping.

So, back to the moment.

Decibel arrives, still at the rivulets of water streaming from her face stage, and walks up to her Dad.

 "EWW, Decibel, you're all wet, yuck, stay away from me," Harold says with his best drama queen airs.

Decibel studies the situation for a split second, then walks over to the towel at the dog shower, and pokes it with her now only dripping muzzle.

Just like Norman*, the well-trained Briard, does.  (See video here).  Only without the command.

We never taught her that.  She's never done this before.


But what Decibel was actually saying, and quite clearly, I might add, was, "If you don't like my wet beard, Daddy, then you should dry it off with this here towel!"

So how smart is that?

It's not easy being green!

*By the way, Norman can do a whole lot of cute and amazing things, even ride a scooter, clearly demonstrating that Briards really are that clever, but Decibel does trump him, for with her it is natural smarts, not training.  Honestly, her owners just aren't that talented.

Of milk and honey

The pigs truly are magnificent.

The first exposure to milk went splashingly, even though no milk was spilled.  I poured them a bowl, fully expecting that most of the milk would be wasted.  Instead one gilt (I promptly named her Cleo) excitedly sniffed the milk, blew bubbles, then with a delighted face laid down in the bowl, and when she opened her mouth, she tasted a few drops and wagged her tail.  It was a riot to watch.  These little pigs do not know how to drink from a bowl, since they either got their liquids from their mother's teat or a nipple waterer.  So the concept of lapping up fluid or slurping it up is not really a familiar one to them.
After watching Cleo play in the milk I used my best tool: The Helper Briard.  Decibel headed right fro the bowl and delightedly demonstrated the proper technique.  After 5 slurps I escorted her back out, and before I reached the gate the slurping began behind me.  No joke, three pigs were at the bowl, doing their best to drink up.  Hardly any milk was wasted, and the pigs only got better with subsequent feedings.

Such smart piggies!

They are very nice pigs too.  They are not overly excitable, don't fight, yet they are curious and when we let them out into the paddock, they explored it with gusto.  Even Oscar, Mayer and Ruby came to the fence to watch the little pigs scamper about.  Seriously, it was better than watching TV.

Contrary to the adage about not playing with your food, I do just that when it comes to the pigs.  Pigs that are well fed, with room to play, treated to milk, and yes, even occasionally petted or scratched are happy, and happy pigs make better hogs.  So playing with food can be a good thing.

We also worked the honey this weekend, which isn't a game; it is hard work.  We got 9 gallons of honey before we ran out of containers, which I consider a blessing.  NINE GALLONS.  I wonder just how many calories that is.  It took us two days, but most of the kitchen is no longer sticky, and I am royally tired of the sweet stuff.  Of course that only lasted until tonight, when I had some fresh baked bread, which with home made butter and Emily's honey is better than bee barf has any right to be.

Whatever happened to...

...the quince?
Well, a few more quinces 'came off the tree'.  I couldn't find any tooth marks, but then again, Decibel can be very soft-mouthed.  Still, I don't think she picked them.
The first quince was starting to have a big brown spot, so after some contemplation I picked them all and began making jelly:

Start with some pretty quinces:

 Cut them up and add water:

OOOPS, the pot was too small.  I still had quinces left, so out came a bigger pot:

After cooking them for about an hour, I squeezed out the juice through a flour-sack towel - my version of butter muslin.  Below is the pulp that was left.  I gave that to the chickens.

 The juice was cooked with 7/8th of a cup of sugar per cup of juice.  I also added a bit of lemon juice, just because.  The juice was straw-colored at first, like the pulp, but as it cooked it got a pretty reddish glow to it.  For a bit I did cook the cores in the juice, since one recipe said that the pectin and flavors hang out there.  Quince has enough pectin to gel, so no need to add more.  Almost ready:

The last step was filling jars, and boiling them for 15 minutes.  Then it was all done:

I made two batches of quince jelly, from our 12 quinces.  I think it tastes fine, but it could be a little more full-bodied; next year I will wait to pick the quinces after the first frost. One batch of quince jelly is plenty, and apparently we have plenty on even the small tree, so I won't have to hoard them or worry about the fallen ones.  Still, I came across a pear-quince sauce, that might be worth trying... in case some accidentally get picked early.

The Magnificent Seven are here

Yesterday we picked up 7 magnificent piggies.  Four more will be to provide milk-fed pork to the world, and a couple will go into local freezers (one for Natasha, who helps me out with milk supplements when Ruby's output is insufficient, one for us) and the last piggy?  Well, it won't have to run anywhere, but I haven't decided yet if we will sell it or keep it.

This batch is calm, happy, smart and extremely well matched.  In a few hours the pigs settled down, figured out feeder and waterer and began excavating.  When Harold and I unloaded them (he handed them out of the trailer to me to put in the pen) none of them squealed or were all that upset at being handled.  I think they will tame down real nice and be a nice bunch of pigs.

The dogs were very excited to see them, in fact a little too excited.  This morning the dogs were still going to visit the pigs, but they were not barking at them, just trying to get a good sniff of them, so soon they will get along just fine.  It is nice to have pigs again.

Oddities

Above is a small snack pack that was provided by the airline - AA.  They are actually fairly edible nibbles, decently cheesy as well, but I kept the pack because it prompts more wonder and poses more questions than the limited hunger satisfaction it provides.  

After all, who in the hell figured out that these things are BEST before the end of January 13th 2195?  How bad can they be in comparison early morning January 14th, 2195?  

As stingy as airlines are getting with snacks, maybe the relatively far off expiration date is a deciding factor for purchasing them, but does American really expect to be around in 2195?  There is some vision involved in that business plan!

When it comes to snacks, Skeeter's preference trends to a similar taste variant.  Now here is the kicker - some of the dog biscuits are BEST by November 8th 2013.  Again, how in the world has that date been determined?  Can you imagine dogs turning their nose up at a cookie because the 'best by date' has passed?  

Actually the box was empty and RALPH took it from the recycling bin and carried it into his 'house'.  Skeeter then swooped in and stole it, thinking it a prize beyond compare.

The girls are uncertain about how to proceed.  Besides, the box is empty.  

Is it worth a chance of WRATH of MOM?

 Let's pose as good dogs!

Ralph was hiding the whole time, thinking he had committed the crime of the century.

There be GARGOYLES (almost)...

Our menagerie has two - as yet unnamed - additions.  If anyone has suggestions for the twin monsters that have landed in our yard, let me know.  They are apparently (although not obviously) males, since they have a ball-and-chain attached.  

Why do we have gargoyles?  

Because, as Harold says, "They're Cool!"  

Skeeter immediately recognized his kin:

When I grow up, I will sprout wings too!

Decibel's approach was more canine-appropriate.  

She carefully approached from the back and sniffed the butt.  

When that yielded little to no information, she noticed the wings.

 Now it made sense!  

Chickens!  

Chickens have wings, and Decibel likes chicken-wings.  

She tried to eat them, but they were extra crunchy.

By the way, I just checked with the "all knowing" (but occasionally wrong) Wikipedia, and apparently our gargoyles are Grotesques, because they don't spew water:

Etymology

The term originates from the French gargouille, which in English most likely means "throat" or is otherwise known as the "gullet";^[2] cf. Latin gurgulio, gula, gargula ("gullet" or "throat") and similar words derived from the root gar, "to swallow", which represented the gurgling sound of water (e.g., Spanish garganta, "throat"; Spanish gárgola, "gargoyle"). It is also connected to the French verb gargariser, which means "to gargle."^[3] The Italian word for gargoyle is doccione or gronda sporgente, an architecturally precise phrase which means "protruding gutter." The German word for gargoyle is Wasserspeier, which means "water spewer." The Dutch word for gargoyle is waterspuwer, which means "water spitter" or "water spewer." A building that has gargoyles on it is "gargoyled."^{[citation needed]}

Grotesque is a sculpture that does not work as a waterspout and serves only an ornamental or artistic function.

Gargoyles are said to scare off and protect from any evil or harmful spirits.

Hypochondria and Anachronisms

I suffer from my (at least once annual) poison ivy attack - a relatively light affliction this year, but the itch robs me of sleep.  So while lying awake trying to ignore the itch, weird things come to mind:

For my European readers (the two of you :), poison ivy is a scourge that grows everywhere in the US except Hawaii, a rather innocuous looking plant that can take on many forms.
One clipping grown in different conditions can result in a ground cover, a tall tree-climbing vine or a freestanding shrub with different leaf patterns.  The plant contains urushiol, which upon contact with sensitized individuals brings untold miseries.

For more see:    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toxicodendron_radicans

The devilish part is that urushiol a stable compound that can be carried to my skin via dog, cat, or even wind!

Nothing happens for about 3 days post exposure, which is the next fiendish property of the stuff.  It doesn't burn, sting or do anything but spread silently (if I know that I have been exposed, I can remove the urushiol with detergent, shampoo or soap and cool water - hot makes it penetrate - and alleviate most of the damage), only to result in an itchy (like a mosquito bite) little pimple.  In the course of a week this spot turns into a throbbing itching blister or weeping sore or a whole patch of them.  Gross as that looks, it is no longer 'infectious' at that stage.  A single spot can be survived, but there have been times when about 60% of me were of the weeping sore stage, lines and patches of blisters covering me and there is nothing much that helps then.  Doctors tend to prescribe a regimen of prednisone, which does exactly nothing, but keeps you popping pills for three weeks, which is about how long it takes to heal.

The itch is only part of the maddening discomfort.  The other part is the oozing.  The leaking serum crusts, then flows again, sticks to everything, and generally makes you miserable when you have managed to ignore the infernal itch.

A somewhat more useful thing is a scrub called Zanfel, which has worked for me (it doesn't help everyone), the downside being that an ounce (30 g) costs about $40.  So most of the time I use heat (very hot water) to control the itch, and air or if really bad, baking soda to dry out or sop up the serum.  It costs next to nothing, except nerves, because I do complain, and get grumpy, mostly from lack of sleep.

In the beginning, when I first saw these mysterious rashes, I had no idea that it was poison ivy, since the plant is not found in Europe, and one needs to have been exposed and become sensitized before anything happens.  I spent a lot of time walking through the woods, never realizing that I should avoid some little plant.  Therefore I suffered the condition with stoic courage, thinking it was yet another attack of leprosy - thus on to the hypochondria mentioned in the title.

When I was 12 or 13 I watched Marcus Welby, MD.  This was in Germany of course, and the episode concerned a young woman who had this white patch on her hand, that was insensitive to pain.  Dr. Welby diagnosed Hansen's disease, which is LEPROSY.
Now I have this spot on my foot that seems to have no nerve endings in it, and hands or feet are about the same when it comes to leprosy - sooner or later your fingers or toes will fall off.  I can't remember how long I suffered in courageous silence waiting for that to happen.  I still have all my digits, but the weird white spot is unchanged on my foot.  So far - so good.

If I do turn up a leper, I want to go to the leper colony in Molokai, because they don't have poison ivy in Hawaii, remember?

The anachronism part has to do with the Quebec secession movement, the French, and statues.

Weird how things start.  In this case it was Bob's fault.

No, not Robert Bunsen, a different Bob.

Our friend Bob came yesterday to trim the horses hooves.  For some reason we discussed the - to us - idiotic notion that French Canadians in Quebec have, to become their own country.

Admittedly, I am prejudiced here.  I have never liked French, the language.  It is a completely unnecessary evil, as far as I am concerned.  That is probably due to the fact that I suck at French.  I almost had to repeat a year because my French grades were so atrocious.  (Okay, my math grade was equally reprehensible, but nobody expects me to like math or to succeed in it).

So then we tried naming valuable French contributions, with the premise that we would come up empty.

Naturally that was untrue.

For one, I do like Briards and French cheeses.

For another, there is little doubt that without the support of France, the United States would have never become independent.

And then there is the Statue of Liberty.

And that reminded me of Germania - the statue that sits above Ruedesheim, see below.

The trip to Ruedesheim was one of the pre-wedding travels, and a very enjoyable one at that.  We took the train to the town, and a ship back to Wiesbaden.  We had excellent food in Ruedesheim, and fun entertainment (mostly because my mother knew all the words to the songs), although the place is a tourist mecca and full of kitschy stores selling cuckoo clocks and Steiff animals and worse.  Still, its setting right on the Rhine is very appealing and the weather was great.

Ruedesheim and the Rhine as seen from the vineyards.

Maserati - also in Ruedesheim

I didn't know much about Ruedesheim, and nothing at all about the Gondola ride up the hill,



and the nearby Niederwald monument.


Apparently - and my grasp on history is a flimsy one - the thing was built after the Franco Prussian war, which ended 1871.  It was the last war with France that actually Germany won, and it apparently united Germany as a country, before the last unification...
(What's that line about having to repeat history?)

So what do the victorious Germans do in celebration?

Build this statue pointed at France, to show them, that's what.

Germania holds up the German crown and rather casually keeps her sword in front.
Yes, that is not the least bit obnoxious.

Okay, I am sure they had some sort of noble motives and all, but there is a certain amount of braggadocio involved here - talk about being sore winners.  I don't think that is accidental or a misinterpretation; the Germans were rubbing it in.

The monument was completed in 1883, and Germania stands 10.5 m tall, but there is a big pedestal with other stuff supporting her making the total height 38 m.  They were doing some restorations during our visit, so it was scaffolded and covered.

Now this statue caused me to wonder about the Statue of Liberty.
After all, France gave that to US as a birthday present.  Construction on the Statue of Liberty started in 1875.  The big gal was dedicated in 1886.

Here are some of her specs:

Feature[67]	U.S.	Metric
Height of copper statue	151 ft 1 in	46 m
Foundation of pedestal (ground level) to tip of torch	305 ft 1 in	93 m
Heel to top of head	111 ft 1 in	34 m
Length of hand	16 ft 5 in	5 m
Index finger	8 ft 1 in	2.44 m
Circumference at second joint	3 ft 6 in	1.07 m
Head from chin to cranium	17 ft 3 in	5.26 m
Head thickness from ear to ear	10 ft 0 in	3.05 m
Distance across the eye	2 ft 6 in	0.76 m
Length of nose	4 ft 6 in	1.48 m
Right arm length	42 ft 0 in	12.8 m
Right arm greatest thickness	12 ft 0 in	3.66 m
Thickness of waist	35 ft 0 in	10.67 m
Width of mouth	3 ft 0 in	0.91 m
Tablet, length	23 ft 7 in	7.19 m
Tablet, width	13 ft 7 in	4.14 m
Tablet, thickness	2 ft 0 in	0.61 m
Height of pedestal	89 ft 0 in	27.13 m
Height of foundation	65 ft 0 in	19.81 m
Weight of copper used in statue	60,000 pounds	27.22 metric tonnes
Weight of steel used in statue	250,000 pounds	113.4 metric tonnes
Total weight of statue	450,000 pounds	204.1 metric tonnes
Thickness of copper sheeting	3/32 of an inch	2.4 mm

 Now that seems to me a fundamental difference in approach.
The French, having just lost this big war with Germany, along with Alsace-Lorraine, kept going with their plans of building this remarkable thing.
I don't think anyone would have been particularly surprised or upset if they had put it off or forgotten about it, because of war.
And while there was certainly a lot more than good-will and generosity involved, any way you look at it, Lady Liberty trumps Germania.

Quince Conundrum

All my Briards have had a penchant for fruit - especially apples.  I tasted our first Winesap apple because of Barley's vigilance.  The tree (by the house) was always covered in blossoms, but seemed to never set fruit, not until we had added more apple trees to the orchard behind the chicken coop AND (yes, I have to admit it) - bees.  This reluctance to bearing fruit is due to the fact that the Winesap variety is triploid, and without going into a long biology lecture, it means that they need to be pollinated by another apple variety.  For that reason they are not common in stores.

One day I found a perfect large red apple, barely marked up by four slight dents from Barley's teeth.  Actually, it was mostly slobber.  I wiped that off, took a bite, and decided that this was my apple.  It was delicious.  Crunchy, crisp, sweet, tart, juicy, flavorful - everything a great apple should be.

I did shower praise and the apple core on Barley, so his efforts did not go without recognition.

Now that the Winesap produces a reliable and heavy crop I let the Briards help themselves to the apples that either fall or grow on the low branches.  Ralph will often carry in a whole apple and munch his way through it.  Decibel first plays with the 'edible balls', then chomps them up.  Sometimes Ralph will steal her apple.

When I make apple sauce Ralph will be at my feet and eat a large number of cores.  It hasn't caused any gastrointestinal upset.  Decibel will be by my feet as well, but she won't eat the apple cores.  She wants a whole one, or a nice slice.  She often begs for a bit of fruit, but prefers to eat the human-grade stuff, not the chicken bucket fillers or the stuff that fell on the ground.  Unless nobody's looking that is.

 
What does any of this have to do with Quince?


Well, two days ago I found a quince on the back patio.

For those not familiar with the fruit, quince is very hard, very sour, very bitter, and most quinces are completely inedible, unless cooked.  But when stewed, usually with pears, or better yet, when quince juice is made into jelly, quince is utterly delicious.  Very tart, with a floral aroma that is unique and reminds me of the essence of a perfect spring day.

 This is the first year our little quince tree has fruit, and I am very excited about it, and looking forward to making a batch of quince jelly in the fall.  I even looked up recipes on the Internet, and apparently 11 quinces or so should yield sufficient juice for a batch of jelly.

I counted 12 on the tree.

I seem to remember that we harvested quince after a frost.  Anyhow, they are supposed to ripen fairly late, but then this year everything is early.  And they are beginning to look nice and yellow.





But they do not have any scent yet, that hard to describe special quince aroma, and well, I just don't think they are quite ready yet.

Back to the quince from the back patio ...

In one way even quinces are like apples:  

They don't fall far from the tree.  

They certainly don't have the power of locomotion.  And upon closer examination the patio fruit revealed traces that hinted at a culprit, or at the very least an accessory to quince flight.

Quince-essential Briard

Because quinces are so hard, sour and bitter in the raw state, Decibel, my prime suspect, did not do much damage to the long-awaited rarity.  I also don't know whether she picked the low-hanging fruit, or simply made me aware of the 'wind fall' by placing it on the patio.  It wouldn't be the first time she did something like that.  Earlier in the year I found 4 perfectly ripe and completely unscathed tomatoes on the front steps, lined up.  I have no idea how long it took her to do that.  

So I examined the other quinces on the tree, and they seem to be firmly attached still.  Ripe fruit usually makes for easy pickings, so I am none the wiser.  Decibel, as per usual at my side, was eyeing them rather attentively.  

By the way, Decibel cannot SEE the fruit on the counter.  She "NOSE".

I told her they were mine, and she immediately did the innocent good dog bit, so I am still in the dark about the mystery journey of the migrating quince.

The conundrum is now:  What to do with the fallen fruit?  Can I make quince jelly with slightly unripe fruit?  Could they possibly be ready already?  Will they ripen off the tree?  

So I asked Harold to look it up:

Harold and his attentive assistant Decibel checking up on quince facts.  Was she feeling responsible for the conundrum?  Nah, Decibel loves to help.

Anyhow, it seems that quince will ripen off the tree, and that the fruits are not quite ready yet.  The good news is that once ripe the quince can be stored in the refrigerator for another 2 weeks.  So there is a good chance that the other quinces will ripen sufficiently for me to make a 12 quince jelly, as planned.

                                                             It's all coming up roses.

Decibel's vocabulary

Decibel's grasp on spoken language continues to amaze me.  Sure, I talk to her and the other dogs almost all day long, simply because I believe that aerating my brain with flapping lips is the secret to a long life (those who disagree can try holding their breath and see how far they get with that approach), but I honestly never really think that she listens.

Until she proves me wrong.

Today we were watching a movie, Harold sprawled in the recliner, Decibel getting settled in at his feet.

Now as an aside here, although one of the highest commandments in the house is "No teeth on human skin", Harold suffers from a Y-chromosome linked hearing problem, and he plays some games with the dogs that strictly speaking are taboo.  Namely the "Catch the hand under the blanket" game, or the "Noodle my feet" game.  Okay, sure, he wears socks for the latter and the in the former there is no direct tooth to skin contact either, so if you interpret the law by the letter he can get away with it, and does, and the funny thing is - the dogs know it.  They only play the game with him, and thereby delight in pushing my buttons, those lawbreakers, canines and human alike.

So while the credits were rolling, I asked Decibel:  "Where are Daddy's feet?"  No, I didn't expect an answer.  But I should have known better.  Decibel lifts her paw and slaps the bottom part of the recliner.
Okay, that could have been a random thing, right?

So I say: "Show me."

Promptly Decibel pokes her nose at Harold's toes.

No kidding.  

I don't know how she even knew those words, but clearly she did.

She loves that guy from nose to toes.

 


By the way, this (below) is the answer to: "Who loves Daddy?"  Notice that Maggie knows the right answer as well.