My Third Ear
The Dog That Is Not Ours insists on living with us for at least some of the 24 hours that make up the day and night.
Some days she disappears off with her friends, who wait for her outside our gates with all the stoic patience of members of the public lining the route of a walkabout by Royalty. Some days she is gone all day. Other days, especially when the weather is iffy, she disappears into the campo just long enough to do what a dog has to do before returning, pleading hypothermia, and going back to bed.
But without fail, no matter where or for how long she has gone, she is there at sundown. Before the weather went Siberian we endeavoured to keep her outside in her fully weather proofed luxuriously upholstered detached palace, but she quickly showed us the error of our ways by barking at regular intervals throughout the night.
Had she been a human baby I would have accepted getting up 3 or 4 times a night to sush her, but with babies broken nights are a phase, whereas dogs, who spend much of the day asleep, can afford to spend most of the night vocalising their opinions. So in the interests of my sanity she was brought in at night and the Biggs household, con perro, slept the sleep of the innocent once more.
Then she suffered a kidney infection and her bladder, which had previously had the capacity of a camel’s hump, would need emptying before daybreak. She solved this problem by creeping into the bedroom, standing in the doorway and licking her lips with an almost inaudible smack.
I would be out of bed and opening the front door in a sort of reflex action, which has been fine tuned to perfection over many years of attending to the needs of animals during the night. That tiny noise, a signal of need, would be tuned into my ever wakeful subconscious and, no matter how deeply I may be sleeping, my body would respond and get me to the front door before Lake Superior is released onto our bedroom floor.
I have an ear that is tuned to discern even the quietest of sounds if they signify the need of immediate human intervention, yet I can sleep through storm and tempest!
It’s a variant on the old joke ‘How many ears has Davy Crockett?’ ‘Three – a left ear, a right ear and a Wild Frontier.’ I also have three ears – a left ear, a right ear and a Something’s Wrong You Need To Get Up Now Ear!
The Dye is Cast
‘Do you have any shoe dye?’ I asked from a socially correct distance.
‘Yes, brown, black and white.’
‘Oh.’ I replied, in a voice laden with disappointment. ‘I wanted blue.’
The young man exited the safety of his Perspex protected counter, rummaged around on the shelf among the brown, black and white, and triumphantly handed me a box containing a bottle of Marine.
Returning home I set my stage for dyeing; Pinny, table, newspaper, white sandals, red boots and a small pastry brush – which was never likely to see service as a pastry brush, not in my house, at least!
The bottle had one of those caps where you have to push down and turn at the same time. I pushed. I turned. I pushed and turned. I swore, and took it next door. Corine next door pushed and turned, and not being a fool, passed the recalcitrant bottle to her husband, Alain, who, faced with two females who were unable to cope, had to prove his male prowess.
Now I was away! The white sandals became blue, and so did the left boot.
One bottle is enough for 2 sandals and 1 boot, but not 2 boots, so I hurtled down to Guzmann’s to secure another bottle before Blue Dye Rationing was introduced.
Back in my porch I repeated the push/turn scenario with no success. I can’t go next door again – once is a favour, twice is pestering! Desperation gave me strength, and the cap eventually capitulated, but the bottle got it’s own back by tipping up.
For those who do not know, dye goes straight through newspaper and penetrates marble indelibly and permanently. Despite my speed of mopping up, I now had a partially blue marble table, not much dye, and a red boot.
Perhaps it’ll be enough. It wasn’t. So I went back to Guzmann’s for Marine #3. This bottle was much more obliging, and in short order the pastry brush and I were blueing the red boot.
Job done, and all I had to do was clear up – and sort the table out! The table had a splodge on it which looked exactly as if someone had spilt dye on it. So in the spirit of If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em I deployed the remainder of the bottle of blue by painting the table blue all over.
It looks good. So do the sandals and the boots.
My hands, and in particular my fingernails, don’t look so good – just very blue!
I am another week older, but am I another week wiser? I doubt it!
Picking on the Weak and Vulnerable
I admit that there are noticeable gaps in my areas of expertise; Namely anything culinary and anything technological.
I overcome the former because I have a cast-iron constitution and a very forgiving sense of taste. Usually that which I cook for myself is edible, sometimes it’s not bad, and very occasionally it’s really nice.
But the latter? It has me completely in its control. This has always been so, but since Lockdown it has spiralled to new heights of insubordinate confustication. (This is my new portmanteau word meaning confusion and frustration) Lockdown has enabled me to speak, if not face-to-face but electronically with more people than I could possibly call on in the course of a day, which is very enjoyable, on my part at any rate.
But then the Gremlins struck. With skill and daring I managed to install Skype, and joined up with my classmates and Jo for our Spanish lesson online.
I could see them and I could hear them. They could see me but not hear me. But I was not to be defeated! I checked Mute – no, it was unmuted. I checked Sound Level – 100%. I rummaged around in Settings, but I remained silent to the rest of the world.
And then there was Zoom. Free, it said encouragingly on the heading. So I dived in, and was making good progress until the final stage, when it announced that it wanted 9.99€ from me. What!? You’re not getting 9.99€ out of me – you said it was free! 9.99€ is not free, it’s 9.99€!
I took my case to someone who knows, and who pointed out the error of its ways to it, and we were ready to go – except that nobody could hear me! ‘Your mic is not working.’ He surmised. ‘Never mind, we can install it on your phone.’
The phone, which had been listening all the while, assumed an air of innocence and informed me that it ‘could not support this App.’ I’d only asked for Zoom, not the secret code to the nuclear button!
However, I had taken it by surprise and installed Whatsapp when it wasn’t looking. Doubtless this infuriated it so much that it lay awake at night wondering how it could confusticate me yet again. It has managed quite well. On a good day it will allow people to ring me on Whatsapp, but won’t allow me to hear them. On a bad day it simply doesn’t connect!
And this is providing that I am in my house. If I’m outside it doesn’t matter whether I’m in Albox or Antartica, it just folds its arms, looks the other way and says ‘Don’t know who you’re talking about! No, there’s nobody named Jos here.’
But messaging seems to have slipped past it in a moment when it was not paying full attention. People can message me, and usually I can reply – as long as the words I chose are ones that it approves of! It will, before my very eyes and with no apology, change my words to ones that it considers more appropriate. One of these words is my name – it refuses to allow me to be Jos, I have to be Jo’s! How rude!
I have a dreadful fear that Humans are no longer the Alpha species; the power is gradually and inexorably shifting towards Technology.
And Technology is beginning its bid for Global Domination by picking on and exterminating the weak and vulnerable – starting with me!
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