Large Fierce Mammal

For a young martial arts performer, getting to act opposite Bruce Lee was a huge honour – and Jackie Chan got the chance on the set of ‘Enter the Dragon’. But things didn’t exactly go according to plan.

So begins the intro to a “Best Story Ever” segment of the CBC television show, George Stroumboulopoulos Tonight, that featured Jackie Chan reminiscing about Bruce Lee. Many thanks to our Esteemed Friend Master At Arms James A. Keating, AKA Monsieur Boowie LeCoot, for bringing this to our attention.

Nothing more needs to be said before I hand the floor over to Mr. Chan.

As far as a Dog is concerned, every foray into the world outside the household door is a hunt to be engaged in as the nature of its breed dictates, and in this it will operate in the certainty that the handler is at one with the objectives of the mission. To fight this instead of becoming a part of it causes confusion in the Dog, and mutual frustration of both the Dog and Handler alike. In short, it removes all Natural joy from the situation, and thus, all fulfillment. A Dog can learn self-control, but it cannot ever be what it is not, and so it falls to the Handler to ensure that the vital elements of joy and fulfillment remain while the limits to self-control are mutually and realistically explored. ~ A Long Winter’s Night – Hunter’s Soul

Today’s title comes from paraphrasing something my late uncle Douglas used to say whenever he was proven right in an argument. He would lean toward any heretofore doubting Thomas present, tap his sizeable schnoz,  and say, “It’s not this nose,” before tapping his forehead saying, “It’s this knows!” The change in the quotation comes from the topic du jour, and that comes out of some advice I gave recently to one of the most Esteemed of our Esteemed Friends. You know who you are.

What I said, in part, was this:

Dogs are very attuned to their surroundings and at the same time are extremely contextual. What this means in practical terms is that your Dog will be more aware of developments in the environment through which you are travelling than you are. He may not have ALL the pieces at one time, but he will have more of them than you do. This is why his reactions to situations that appear to you as similar or identical  to others that have occurred before may come to be expressed completely differently. To visually oriented animals like us, the situations appear the same, but to a Dog they are anything but. He is constantly sampling his world and drawing his own conclusions, and therein lies the secret. His reactions to two events that seem the same to Human senses will be formed by everything he has perceived that led up to that point. All Dogs, but some more than others, are far more the working Dog – a thinking handler’s Dog with a job to do –  than a simple pet.

Having said all this, all is not (nor really ever) lost. The key is in learning your own Dog’s alert signals. This is absolutely crucial to training a Search Dog and Handler team because if the Handler can’t read his Dog nothing of any use will ever be accomplished.

Alerting is what a Dog does when it becomes sufficiently aware of something in its environment for its interest and awareness to be piqued. When at home, this is more obvious, usually expressed by the Dog in more easily detectable ways. In the field, it brings out hunting behaviours that for some will be obvious, while for others will be subtle. Our Milo for example, having Beagle in him, SCREAMS his alert to scent by suddenly zigzagging with nose down and tail up, furiously wagging like it has a mind of its own. To sounds, he will freeze with ears up and forward, staring in the direction of the source. Both of these are cues to me as his Handler that we need to proceed with caution until he can show me what has caught his attention. Don’t forget that for a Dog, with variances of percentage depending on breed, walks are something between a hunting expedition and a combat patrol. Getting into that groove with him will solidify your bond and eliminate apprehension on both ends of the leash.

Expanding on this, I offer some observations. First, learning to read your Dog, particularly in the field where the most primal influences hold sway, is an uplifting, eye opening, Spirit liberating mutual experience for the two of you. Crossing into this realm is to truly learn to speak Dog, and to realize that you’ve been at least partially deaf to everything he or she has said up until the day of epiphany. No more, “It came out of nowhere!” for you, and likewise no more, “Why is my Human acting like we’re not in this together?” for your Dog.

Thus endeth today’s lesson.

Attitude and actions – of the two, which is more important? I would posit that actions, being a physical manifestation of attitude, are what truly matters. If you are smart but pretend to be stupid, then to the rest of humanity, your net effect on the world is that of one who is stupid. Thus, you will be effectively stupid, and treated as such, until you choose not to be. Similarly, if you choose to assemble your reality out of of half understood truths, half truths, and falsehoods you have accepted as truths, your actions will be inappropriate and ineffective when measured against the real state of affairs.

Take, for example, a skill far too important to be taken lightly – how to recognize when someone is drowning:

The new captain jumped from the deck, fully dressed, and sprinted through the water. A former lifeguard, he kept his eyes on his victim as he headed straight for the couple swimming between their anchored sportfisher and the beach. “I think he thinks you’re drowning,” the husband said to his wife. They had been splashing each other and she had screamed but now they were just standing, neck-deep on the sand bar. “We’re fine; what is he doing?” she asked, a little annoyed. “We’re fine!” the husband yelled, waving him off, but his captain kept swimming hard. ”Move!” he barked as he sprinted between the stunned owners. Directly behind them, not 10 feet away, their 9-year-old daughter was drowning. Safely above the surface in the arms of the captain, she burst into tears, “Daddy!”

How did this captain know—from 50 feet away—what the father couldn’t recognize from just 10? Drowning is not the violent, splashing call for help that most people expect. The captain was trained to recognize drowning by experts and years of experience. The father, on the other hand, had learned what drowning looks like by watching television. If you spend time on or near the water (hint: that’s all of us) then you should make sure that you and your crew know what to look for whenever people enter the water. Until she cried a tearful, “Daddy,” she hadn’t made a sound. As a former Coast Guard rescue swimmer, I wasn’t surprised at all by this story. Drowning is almost always a deceptively quiet event. The waving, splashing, and yelling that dramatic conditioning (television) prepares us to look for is rarely seen in real life.

That excerpt is from an excellent article titled Drowning Doesn’t Look Like Drowning, written by retired Coast Guardsman Mario Vittone and published yesterday on Slate. You can read it in its sobering and hopefully educational entirety by clicking the article’s title.

You’ll learn the difference between Instinctive Drowning Response, aquatic distress, and art imitating death; i. e., television; along with other Truths. For example (citing U. S, statistics):

To get an idea of just how quiet and undramatic from the surface drowning can be, consider this: It is the No. 2 cause of accidental death in children, ages 15 and under (just behind vehicle accidents)—of the approximately 750 children who will drown next year, about 375 of them will do so within 25 yards of a parent or other adult. According to the CDC, in 10 percent of those drownings, the adult will actually watch the child do it, having no idea it is happening. Drowning does not look like drowning ….

Summer encroaches with more fun seekers in and on the water than at any other time of year. Some of them will matter to you. Take a few moments out of your Wednesday to get a bit wiser.

“We never failed to hide the whisky.”

But though this was a wild country, where it was unlikely that we should meet any living soul, there was always the possibility of a stray prospector or a hunter, and a dry garment in a wet time is a temptation which should not be put in any man’s way. Neither that nor the liquor supply. When we left our camp—as we did, often—our guns, our tackle, even our purses and watches, were likely to be scattered about in plain view; but we never failed to hide the whisky. Whisky is fair loot, and the woodsman who would scorn to steal even a dry shirt would carry off whisky and revel in his shame. ~ The Tent Dwellers, Chapter 13

Whenever I plan an expedition of any duration, I require that every participant in the endeavour be in possession of certain essentials of his or her own. The savvy bush dweller needs no guidance from me, but there is always the tenderfoot who needs the education. More than once, prior to adopting this rigid policy, I have sat by a fire in the dark of night only to be disturbed in my musings by a request to borrow my flashlight (of which I invariably carry more than one) to facilitate a relief call to the designated shrubbery. Dedicated bush educator that I am, it behooves me to unwaveringly deny such ill-conceived requests on the grounds that, should the one making it come to some misfortune demanding my charging valiantly to his aid (and it seems always to be a male who gets into real trouble, experience having shown that when women call out to me for aid and comfort in the wilderness, they are never at risk to life or limb but are, in truth, seeking to lure me in for other reasons), and my remaining light sources fail me, then I would be in the dark and limited in my efforts. This I will not have.

Now on to today’s lesson, closely related to the aforesaid. Coming all the way from 1908, following is an excerpt from The Tent Dwellers, previously celebrated in my item of last Sunday. It preaches the health, safety, and curative properties of that most noble spirit – Whisky – in all its wondrous incarnations. Attend ye now this goodly advice!

And I wish to add here in all seriousness that whatever may be your scruples against the use of liquors, don’t go into the woods without whisky—rye or Scotch, according to preference. Alcohol, of course, is good for poison ivy, but whisky is better. Maybe it is because of the drugs that wicked men are said to put into it. Besides, whisky has other uses. The guides told us of one perfectly rigid person who, when he had discovered that whisky was being included in his camp supplies, had become properly incensed, and commanded that it be left at home. The guides had pleaded that he need not drink any of it, that they would attend to that part of what seemed to them a necessary camp duty, but he was petrified in his morals, and the whisky remained behind.

Well, they struck a chilly snap, and it rained. It was none of your little summer landscape rains, either. It was a deadly cold, driving, drenching saturation. Men who had built their houses on the sand, and had no whisky, were in a bad fix. The waves rose and the tents blew down, and the rigid, fossilized person had to be carried across an overflowed place on the back of a guide, lifting up his voice meanwhile in an effort to convince the Almighty that it was a mistake to let it rain at this particular time, and calling for whisky at every step.

It is well to carry one’s morals into the woods, but if I had to leave either behind, I should take the whisky.

“Eddie’s room and contents … was a marvel and a revelation.” ~ The Tent Dwellers, Chapter 4 (NOTE: Any resemblance between Eddie (left) and me is strictly coincidental. ~ LFM)

Near the end of August back in 2010, I published a piece here titled Being in the Wild: The Original Control/Alt/Delete. While I make no pretense that my meagre efforts are on a par with those of the worthy Albert Bigelow Paine (10 July 1861 – 9 April 1937); friend, companion, and biographer of none less than Mark Twain; its inspiration and setting comes out of the same neck of the woods as his wondrous and splendid homage to adventure in the backwoods of Nova Scotia – The Tent Dwellers. Courtesy of Project Gutenberg, you can read this most excellent tome in its entirety here, but before you do behold these snippets:

Then he unfolded to me a marvelous plan. It was a place in Nova Scotia—he had been there once before, only, this time he was going a different route, farther into the wilderness, the deep unknown, somewhere even the guides had never been. Perhaps stray logmen had been there, or the Indians; sportsmen never. There had been no complete surveys, even by the government. Certain rivers were known by their outlets, certain lakes by name. It was likely that they formed the usual network and that the circuit could be made by water, with occasional carries. Unquestionably the waters swarmed with trout. A certain imaginative Indian, supposed to have penetrated the unknown, had declared that at one place were trout the size of one’s leg. ~ The Tent Dwellers, Chapter 1

… When the wind beats up and down the park, and the trees are bending and cracking with ice; when I know that once more the still places of the North are white and the waters fettered—I shall shut my eyes and see again the ripple and the toss of June, and hear once more the under voices of the falls. And some day I shall return to those far shores, for it is a place to find one’s soul.

Yet perhaps I should not leave that statement unqualified, for it depends upon the sort of a soul that is to be found. The north wood does not offer welcome or respond readily to the lover of conventional luxury and the smaller comforts of living. Luxury is there, surely, but it is the luxury that rewards effort, and privation, and toil. It is the comfort of food and warmth and dry clothes after a day of endurance—a day of wet, and dragging weariness, and bitter chill. It is the bliss of reaching, after long, toilsome travel, a place where you can meet the trout—the splendid, full-grown wild trout, in his native home, knowing that you will not find a picnic party on every brook and a fisherman behind every tree. Finally, it is the preciousness of isolation, the remoteness from men who dig up and tear down and destroy, who set whistles to tooting and bells to jingling—who shriek themselves hoarse in the market place and make the world ugly and discordant, and life a short and fevered span in which the soul has a chance to become no more than a feeble and crumpled thing. And if that kind of a soul pleases you, don’t go to the woods. It will be only a place of mosquitoes, and general wetness, and discomfort. You won’t care for it. You will hate it. But if you are willing to get wet and stay wet—to get cold and stay cold—to be bruised, and scuffed, and bitten—to be hungry and thirsty and to have your muscles strained and sore from unusual taxation: if you will welcome all these things, not once, but many times, for the sake of moments of pure triumph and that larger luxury which comes with the comfort of the camp and the conquest of the wilderness, then go! The wilderness will welcome you, and teach you, and take you to its heart. And you will find your own soul there; and the discovery will be worth while! ~ The Tent Dwellers, Chapter 29

With those words, Albert Bigelow Paine chose in 1908 to begin and end a work that is still avidly read and admired by those of us who understand its meaning. If you read the book through, you’ll note the beautiful verses that introduce each chapter. That won’t stop me from sharing a few of them here – those that reflect on the planning, preparation, and sheer liberating joy of starting out on such an adventure:

Come, shape your plans where the fire is bright,
And the shimmering glasses are –
When the woods are white in the winter’s night,
Under the northern star.

And let us buy for the days of spring,
While yet the north winds blow!
For half the joy of the trip, my boy,
Is getting your traps to go.

Now the gorges break and the streamlets wake
And the sap begins to flow,
And each green bud that stirs my blood
Is a summons, and I must go.

Now, the day is at hand, prepare, prepare—
Make ready the boots and creel,
And the rod so new and the fly-book, too,
The line and the singing reel.

Then away to the heart of the deep unknown,
Where the trout and the wild moose are –
Where the fire burns bright, and tent gleams white
Under the northern star.

Nearer the fire the shadows creep –
The brands burn dim and red –
While the pillow of sleep lies soft and deep
Under a weary head.

Now, Dawn her gray green mantle weaves
To the lilt of a low refrain –
The drip, drip, drip of the lush green leaves
After a night of rain.

Where the trail leads back from the water’s edge –
Tangled and overgrown –
Shoulder your load and strike the road
Into the deep unknown.

~ The Tent Dwellers, Chapters 1 – 8 ~

This poem is based on my recent recommendation to some people who experienced just such a visit from the type who seem to have forgotten that the ceremonial disposal of missionaries was once a time honoured custom in some parts.

The Uninvited

By LFM

Two people came to visit me
Last Saturday at one.
They found me cleaning up my yard,
And in that, far from done.

Two Jehovah’s Witnesses
Had come to “save” my soul.
I hadn’t asked them for their help,
But yet, that was their goal.

I threw another load of dross
Upon the roaring pyre
I’d built to burn my yard debris,
And watched the flames leap higher.

Then turned I to the hapless pair,
Half way from car to me.
The yard of branch still held in hand
I broke across my knee.

The sudden SNAP, it brought them short,
Fair skidding to a stop.
They watched the fire receive that branch.
They heard it fizz and pop.

T’was then I pointed to the flames,
And smiled for best effect.
Quoth I, “You’re looking for those two
“Before you, I expect.”

They shared a glance of horror
Ere they bolted clean away.
I sent my laughter after them,
Then went about my day.

Too often, religious zealotry is the problem, exclusive of brand. As it turned out, the woman who inspired this poem happened to be a devout Catholic, but she could just as easily have worn any number of “official” mantles. Sad to say, this is based on personal experience.

The Zealot

By LFM

Loretta was a Catholic wife,
And doting mum of five.
A happy, buzzing, faith fueled bee,
She ruled her Christian hive.

Her children were her everything,
And no expense was spared.
She saw their every wish fulfilled
No sooner than declared.

And even though her brood was spoiled,
She strove to raise them well.
Immersed them in Catholicism
To spare their souls from Hell.

I came to know them for a time,
This family devout,
And, one day while I was visiting,
A nasty truth came out.

She handed me a cup of tea,
Then turned to slice the bread
For the plate of dainty sandwiches
That all her guests were fed.

The while she worked we spoke
Until the topic wound its way
To the news her neighbour’s teenage son
Had just come out as gay.

“Speaking for myself,” I said,
“I see no fault in this.
“The finding of True Love’s the point,
“And not whose lips you kiss.”

“I want my child to find True Love.
“With whom I’ll not forfend.
“True Love and happiness therefrom’s
“What matters in the end.”

‘Twas then Loretta whirled around,
The bread flew ‘cross the floor,
And in her place there stood a thing
I’d never seen before.

Lips frozen in a righteous sneer,
Eyes ablaze with hate.
Where once she gripped a simple knife,
‘Twas now a sword of fate!

Where once stood loving, doting mum,
Now wrathful scourge of God!
“Abomination!” shrieked she then,
“I’ll never spare the rod!”

“If any son of mine were such
“He’d not live out the night!
“I’d stab him dead the while he sleeps
“And send his soul to flight!”

‘Twas then I suddenly recalled
A place I had to be.
I seized my hat and, through the door,
I thanked her for the tea.

When hatred cleaves itself to “faith”,
And sad it is to tell it,
There’s no religion in the world
Exclusive to the zealot.

Source: http://bigorangeslide.com/2011/04/profanity-comes-of-age/

Profanity is not a true language, in and of itself. Rather, like a seasoning, it must be infused into language to enhance the message. Wielded well, and with proper timing, it approaches the potency of punctuation in clarifying intention and exorcising ambiguity.

I believe most current Parenting doctrine wrongly eschews the Communicative Art inherent in what is too easily cast aside under the generically derisive reference of  “potty mouth”, and then rails as children return from the school yard uttering blistering oaths that are nonsensically ill used. The reason for this phenomenon should be obvious –  it is due entirely to the fact that they were learned from contemporaries whose knowledge of the subject matter encompasses nothing beyond that certain words are forbidden to be spoken or written by children. Worse, the phenomenon routinely transcends words and enters the realm of action when parents take a similarly infantile or even nonexistent approach to matters of sexuality, violence, drugs, and alcohol consumption.

Everything worth teaching a child is best approached, first and foremost, by example, and Language, with all its seasonings, is no different. Into this pot must also go such vital ingredients as Manners, Courtesy, Ferocity, Self Respect, Responsibility, Trust Worthiness, Patience, Adventurous Spirit, Decisiveness, and Courage. The difference between making an enemy and recognizing one. What “Commitment” means. The meaning of Love and Lust – how to tell the two apart and the absolute joy that comes of finding one’s self in a situation where the difference doesn’t matter.

By the time a child is old enough to enter Elementary School, he or she needs must be well steeped in the knowledge that some things heard, seen, and done by the Family in the home stay at home.

The real lesson here is that it is perilous being strong in a weak world, but strong you must be, and the learning of this cannot be started too early.

The Way of the Wild deals with Life, Death, who gets each, and when. For successful organisms, embracing this Way is not a choice, and of all things on the Earth, only one kind flirts with living as though this were not so – Man. For the most part, human society does not embrace Wild in its Natural sense, viewing it instead as representing all that is wanton, dangerous, and out of control. An unpredictably unacceptable condition fit only to be tamed or eradicated for the greater; i. e., human; good. Down that path lies a disconnection wrought by an artificially orchestrated thing called “civilization”, built on a foundation of conflict with the Way of the Wild ….

… Wild is not the same as unpredictable or dangerous. Far from it. Wild is purity of spirit and perfection of action, in harmony with the Nature of things, and the nature of every thing, free from conscious thought and attendant paralyzing indecision ….” ~ Worldly Wisdom Wednesday – The Way of the Wild

The woods aren’t filled with frightening and unpredictable bears … the woods are filled with frightened and unpredictable people …. ~ Why we need to get over our fear of bears

Today I would invite you to read (or reread) the articles quoted above, then sit back and listen to this interview. We will be returning to this subject matter in coming weeks. Let this form the foundation.

Earth (western hemisphere) courtesy NASA

This is a picture of my Mother. Yours too. Honour our Mother. Let our gift to Her be not limited to one date on a calendar, but rather that every one of us remain Truly deserving of the Life She gives and sustains every day of the year.