"Morning in a Pine Forest" by Ivan Ivanovitch Shishkin

I’ve never been one to become bored by my own company. I was quite young when I realized that being alone wasn’t boring, and that to truly know boredom I had to be in the company of other people. For most of my childhood, and all of what has so far passed as my adult life, I have been able to get more out of an hour in the woods, or quietly paddling a canoe as far from human habitation as I can get in the time permitted, than I could ever find in a week in the kind of place most people usually regard as a vacation paradise. The wild restores me in a fundamental and primal way that experiencing the greatest of man’s achievements could never even come close to equaling.

That’s not to say that I never include comrades in my wanderings. For many years - and this was before I met Mrs. LFM otherwise she would have been included - in the company of four human friends, I and my trusty Beagle, Jasper, led an annual canoe expedition on Nova Scotia’s Ponhook Lake every Victoria Day weekend, for three to four days, depending on schedules. We lived primitively and well, never sleeping two nights in the same place.

The strongest emotion I remember from every one of those trips was the overpowering sense of freedom that came over me the moment I felt my canoe leave the shore at the start. At that instant, nothing back in the so called “civilized” world mattered. Only the real things mattered, and if you’ve ever experienced what I’m talking about, or if you ever do, you’ll know the sensation without further explanation. I was free of everything artificial and responsible only to a much higher power.

I got to thinking about those trips this week, and slowly a poem emerged. Jasper is not one of the four comrades mentioned. I tried many times to fit him in but the poem fought me until I realized he is to have a poem all his own. Poems are smart, and not to be denied, so in the mean time I will dedicate this post to Jasper.  Here you go. Read and enjoy.

Gather round and a tale I shall weave
Of four comrades who yearly would leave
By canoe to live wild
In simplicity styled
For a calming and healing reprieve.

At the start of each trip every man
Had identical needs from the plan,
For what ‘civilized” living
Succeeds most in giving
Is a sense you’ve been fried in a pan.

Embracing the wild you’ll soon find
Mind, body, and soul intertwined
As Nature intended,
What was separate, blended,
Leaving only what matters defined.

And such was the case with our four,
From the uttermost start of each tour.
For burnt into each mind
As the beach fell behind
Was this truth: you need less to have more.

Days with no roof but the skies,
With only the truth in your eyes,
And your nose - on your skin,
In your ears, freed from din,
Coming back with a spirit that flies!

If you presently own anything like this, and you obtained it for your dog's use, you really need to go fuck yourself.

In an article titled Mount Up! that appeared on the Golden Mountain Dog Solutions blog back on 2 August 2009, I wrote at length about a stupid invention that was then being marketed as the “Doggie Lover Doll”, touted as ” … the world’s first sex doll for dogs ….” I am happy to report that the manufacturer’s website has since disappeared, and like to think my article played some small role in making that happen. Alas though, there are plenty more of the same still out there. So many shitheads, so little time.

Lest it be thought that the depths of human stupidity as it impacts on the lives of dogs has been even partially explored, I must tell you that we haven’t even come close. I am here today to offer a few more shining examples.

As if dogs needed people to hand them another bag of shit to hold. Click the picture for a better view.

Today a Facebook friend of mine (thanks Janet) sent me something that is more than deserving of attention, and not the good kind - The “PooTrap Magic Poop Collector“, as reviewed in the Gadgets section of the CrunchGear website in an article by Doug Aamoth titled PooTrap: For people who shouldn’t own dogs in the first place. That title says it all and amen to it! If I’m someday lucky enough to actually meet someone who has one of these strapped to their dog. I will good humouredly do something funny with the contents of the bag. The review includes entries from the PooTrap website’s FAQ section, the wording of which leads me believe that this item comes from the place where the English is not the first language. In fact it could even be the place where the dog is not so much the pet as it is the lunch.

But this is all modern history. Let’s go back, go way on back, let’s go way on way back when. To the 1930’s when the spirit of invention was really full of itself. Then, as now, there seemed to be no end to human ingenuity. The excellent blog site Modern Mechanix delights in bringing these gems to light and features documented scans of original content.

Click on the picture to expand it.

One of two inventions that caught my eye, and my IRE was “the bird dog’s palace” that appeared in an advertisement in the December 1932 issue of Modern Mechanix under the headline “Traveling Comfort for your Dog”. Please, dear readers, do give it a read and then bestow upon me your opinions in the form of unbridled comments to the article you are reading.

Click on the picture to expand it.

And yet, it gets worse. The June 1936 edition of Popular Mechanics contained an advertisement for an infernal contraption consisting of a canvas bag with a head hole intended for the purpose of slinging a dog on the outside of a vehicle. The headline of the ad reads, “Dog Rides Comfortably in Sack On Running Board“. Ladies, gentlemen, and assorted literate things, I present to you the winner of the Large Fierce Mammal’s so far, no good, Motherfucker of the Year Award.

If you’re anything like me, these wonderful contrivances will make you wish that everyone involved with designing, manufacturing, selling, promoting, or Gods forbid, actually using them was watching the Hindenburg land at Lakehurst, New Jersey on 6 May 1937 - from the inside. That having been said, I’ll leave you with this heartfelt parting sentiment.

Too many people with whom I’ve to do
Go through life with their reason askew.
When their answers arrive
Two plus two equals five
Using very large values of two.

A hoary old codger out west
Brought his doctor a special request,
“This may seem rather queer,
“But the reason I’m here,
“Is to check out my sperm count, no jest!”

Quoth the doctor, “Good sir, I admire
“Your daring, but might I inquire
“What prompts you to seeking
“That of which you are speaking
“Which is more than your age would require?”

Now the man was quite wroth at this speech.
“Doctor, why is this out of my reach?
“My wife is agreeing
“It’s not just for peeing
“So please do the test, I beseech!”

Quoth the doctor, “I want to be fair
“But I’m also acutely aware
“That you’re both, I would trust
“Old enough to fart dust,
“And needn’t be bothered to care.”

When a patient holds sperm count so dear
That denial won’t enter his ear
Just surrender with style,
Give him a vial
And say, “Put a sample in here.”

So the codger went home with his treasure
To fill up with semen for measure.
Said the doctor, “You’ll be
“Back here to see me
“In a week so proceed at your leisure.”

But an empty is what he did bring,
Eyes teary with frustration’s sting.
Said the doctor, “That’s odd!”
Quoth the codger, “Good God!”
“Oh sir, It’s a hell of a thing!”

“My right and my left hands I tried,
“I pulled it and twisted and pried,
“All that lubing and jerking
“Yet nothing was working!
“If I hadn’t have stopped I’d have died.”

“Next my wife, who is not one to dawdle,
“Tried the method called twisting the throttle,
“Then both hands with a shout,
“Her teeth in, her teeth out,
“We just can’t get the top off this bottle!”

A teacher once offered a prize
For a student to quickly devise
What organ might
When treated aright
Grow 20 times larger in size.

A young female student named May
Exclaimed in disgust and dismay!
She answered by howling,
“Sir, this is fouling
“My mood, such a question is fey!”

Undaunted, the teacher now stared
At the student whose temper had flared.
Said he, “Young Miss May,”
“I’ve a few things to say,
“The first is, you’re here unprepared.”

“The answer’s the human eye’s iris,
“Yet it seems that you were more desirous
“Of an answer that’s lewd
“And hence your bad mood
“And intention to have the Board fire us.”

“The organ you thought I’d defined
“Was not the one YOU had in mind,
“Your thinking’s uncouth
“For one of such youth
“In the end there is something you’ll find.”

“The organ you pictured Miss May
“Could never, though diddled all day,
“Attain such dimension
“At greatest extension,
“You’ll find grave disappointment one day!”

Any resemblance between this model, and any person living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

Renowned one-eyed whore, Cindy Lou
Was in demand for the things she could do.
For a bit more out of pocket
You could screw her eye socket
And she’d always keep an eye out for you!

Sir John Sinclair in a painting by Henry Raeburn, sporting leather trimmed trews made of fabric.

Once upon a time, pants didn’t come with pockets. They were more like high waisted, close fitted leggings of leather or fabric or both, believed to have evolved from footed hose, the kind of rugged all day jammies popular in the medieval period. The version most favoured in Scotland are referred to as “the truis” and now “trews”, the point of origin of the word “trousers”. According to the Wikipedia article on the subject, “Colonel Sir John Sinclair of the Caithness, proved to his own satisfaction that ‘the truis’ was an older dress than kilts.”

Contrary to popular belief, the kilt as we know it today is a fairly modern design, and the ’sporran” - that usually hair covered, decorative pouch that dangles in front of the kilt wearer’s groin - still has a practical purpose, but one that now has less to do with carrying its owner’s possibles, and more with preventing the ladies he encounters from gaining premature insight into what he’s thinking.

The sporran once served, as did any other practical pouch or ‘possibles bag”, as a convenient way of carrying about the little necessities of daily life. These necessities didn’t need a particularly large container because our ancestors were not overburdened with crap. Contrary to the blather of companies that make their living “researching” the lineage of any surname you care to mention, complete with coat of arms or, as they now usually call it, family crest, most of us are descended from people who were too poor to pay attention.

Me at the local shooting range, wearing my present self-designed pouch while doing Large Fierce Mammally things. Photo by Mrs. LFM.

The design of the sporrans used today with the kilt permit the pouch to be hitched about to rest on the hip if the work at hand is impeded by its normal position, but the practical sporrans of yore were worn on or near the hip, as personal belongings pouches have traditionally been.

Unless mode of dress precludes, I wear a hip pouch every day. In my work as a dog trainer and security professional, not to mention my life as a human being, it provides an easy way of making sure I have one stop shopping for all my daily needs just by strapping on one item, a convenience I’m sure my female readers will recognize. The one I use was custom made for me to a design I supplied, and it has always served me well, but recently I encountered the work of Alan Ainsworth and it looks like my current pouch may be due for at least semi-retirement.

A photo taken by Alan Ainsworth showing a selection of some of his products - sporrans, tinder pouches, and fire steels. Alan says he prefers to work with natural materials like leather, antler, and wood. Click the picture for a better view.

Alan is a Scot now living in Australia, and he is the maker of some of the finest looking sporrans I’ve ever laid eyes on. While I don’t yet have the honour of personally owning an Ainsworth sporran, the days are growing short. My friend Stu Dunn, who I maligned in my previous post, recently acquired his and speaks highly of it indeed. Naturally cranky like me, Stu is critical of the quality of his gear, speaks with the highest praise of Alan’s work, and mentioned on the phone to me a few days back that he wears his sporran regularly.

I will, of course, be posting a review of my own Ainsworth sporran once I complete the deal and get it landed here from Oz. In the mean time, here’s a poem that came to mind as I spoke with Stu about his:

Stu Dunn has a crafty new sporran
Made by Alan th’ Ainsworth of Oz!
The sporran itself is perfection,
‘T’is the one that now wears it has flaws.

To test it Stu took his bag hiking,
Through flatland and willow swamp green,
Mindful now, when he’s asked, “How’s it hangin’?
It’s the one made of leather they mean.

Known only to my closest associates is that, when in my cups and sufficiently provoked, I’ve been known to throw one off the lip as it were, writing it down be damned. Alas, much has been lost because of this. I deal in limericks mostly, but I let the subject matter determine what format I use.

This comes up because Mrs. LFM and I have a friend named Stu Dunn who lives in a recycled church in Saskatchewan. Well, sort of part friend and part pet, and the percentages of which to which vary depending on mood, phase of the moon, blood alcohol content, time of day, and which way the salmon are swimming. I don’t think I do him disservice though by asserting without reservation that if he put his mind to it, Stu could make a half-assed living as a professional shit disturber. In his own words, “I don’t give a shit. Other priorities.” This doesn’t trouble us because those other priorities are parental - he’s father to two of the cutest kids either of us has ever laid eyes on.

Well, it came to pass that Stu’s dog Dakota developed a Stu problem. Dogs can’t make telephone calls, so at Dakota’s urging, Stu recently called us himself looking for assistance. As it so happens, Mrs. LFM and I are professional fixers of the people problems dogs sometimes have. We also love outdoor activities and cooking and therefore have a deep appreciation for well crafted cutlery. You can never have too much of that. As it turns out, among his other talents, Stu hand forges knives, and from all appearances he brings the same skills to that as he does to being a complete shit. Right away you can see that his blades must be pretty incredible.

So it also came to pass that Stu offered to show his appreciation for our help by making a knife for each of us. Mercenary bartering bastards that we are, we eagerly accepted and now await the results which will, naturally, be reviewed here in due course. As for this whole knife part of the equation and Dakota, he doesn’t give a shit. Other priorities. Like surfing the garbage while Stu is busy forging.

Stu has read my blog and even commented on an article or two now and then. He has the kind of dark, irreverent, and terrier-like sense of humour that catches my interest and so, it appears, all accusations of man crushes aside no matter how justified they may be, he has feelings about mine as well. And so he hurled this challenge at my Facebook door:

“RanGody, put some of your massive intellect into an educational, humorous, striking, degrading, political, inspiring, motivational, confrontational, or just plain fun Facebook status.”

I should pause to explain the honorific Stu uses in place of my given name. All that needs be said is that the “God” part is the most important, and I would have been more than a little concerned if he had chosen “RanDaddy”.

I enjoy a challenge and so …

A steel forging bugger named Stu
Got to thinking one day in the loo.
So inspired by his woody
He banged out a goody
That earned him three bucks and a screw.

This earned me several “likes” and more than a few comments. Then, Stu recently had a conversation with Mrs. LFM that earned him a bit of her ire. This followed:

Bright red steel in the dark forgy murk,
For she t’whom he’d acted the jerk,
As blade grew from the melding
More and more Stu feared gelding
With a piece of his very own work.

The sparring continues, with a good time being had by all.

Oh Stuie yer me darlin’
I loves ya all ta bits ….

Ah, well, I’ll finish that later.

Back when we was datin'.

Mrs. LFM and I work as a team in all our endeavours and hence, each of us rarely goes abroad in the land without the other. Well, today was an exception - she had some field work to do with a couple of our dogs while I got to do a fire alarm inspection in Chester. It failed.

Anyway, on the way home this jumped into my head.

He snickered at all the critiques
Espousing black magick techniques
Had won him the hunger
Of one so much younger
When she really just loves fine antiques.

Living in Italy for approximately a year as political refugees had its trials, but for a little girl it had its adventurous side as well, not least of which was hobnobbing with heads of state.

Only last week, Mrs. LFM excavated these pictures from our archives and I couldn’t resist sharing them here. Religion and politics mean nothing to children, and neither do they have anything to do with the point of this post. What strikes me here is little Diana’s excitement and grace in what had to be a supremely memorable and deeply moving moment for her parents. After all, while Catholic, they were first of all Polish, as was the man they are meeting here.