It Happens
Lovely day, today. It took until mid-afternoon before we could really enjoy it. For me it was house-cleaning day. For him it was the day to disassemble the garden furniture and ready it for storage. To clear away all the tomato cages I use for various purposes in the garden. To finally cut down that vine that in all the years we've cossetted it has never graced us with a flower, although we originally planted it six years ago knowing that its large red trumpet-shaped flowers would attract hummingbirds.
Instead it grew rampantly green, reaching up the brick wall toward the eavestrough and beyond, to the garage roof. I discovered too late that this vine thrives and flowers in nutrient-poor soil; in the rich soil environment we strive so mightily to provide for our plants it felt encouraged to grow green and vast, and to send out pups to plant elsewhere in the garden.
But finally we made it into the ravine for our daily walk. And what a difference one day makes. Certainly we had a killing overnight frost, and certainly it was windy, and still was when we ventured out, but we were still surprised at the bare branches that greeted our eyes. And the depth to which our gaze could now penetrate through the trees, the underbrush to the scene beyond we prefer to be screened. But the beech trees have kept their leaves, turned overnight from a deep yellow to a mellow bronze.
And then there was Scooter, his low-slung barrel body and stumpy legs whizzing him over the trail toward Button and Riley; old friends. Not far behind was Suzanne whom we hadn't seen in a while. Looking very pretty and refreshed, and happy to be out in the woods. She'd been on another trip, and stopped to tell us about it, pointing out to us the memento she brought back - on her face. A new scar that stretched across the top of the bridge of her nose, edging toward her left eye.
She'd gone for a ten-day tour with a group of her walking friends, to Corsica. A walking tour. Through the dry, hot climate where palm trees flourished, and which was certainly exotic enough for anyone as a walking location. And then there was its Napoleonic history as well, and its welcoming citizens of France. Perfect for Suzanne.
First two days was a kind of orientation session, looking about, acquainting themselves with this different place, different climate, different geography, different flora and fauna. Then four days of hiking, walking, looking about, enjoying the pleasure of one another's company. Starting out at half-past eight in the morning, winding things up at half-past four in the afternoon. Lodged at tourist inns, small towns.
The food, she said, was unremarkable, and she attributed that to the fact that the guide consistently brought them along to restaurants and cafes set up specifically to service tourists. When she had been all alone for those two days in the hospital town to which she had been evacuated, she found her own restaurants, and there the food was truly excellent.
Hospital? Well, on day six, fourth day of their walking tour, they had stopped that evening at an inn. There was a resident dog, a small black animal with floppy, spaniel-like ears that seemed friendly enough. Indeed, as Suzanne is a dog fancier she made friends with the dog. Then, after dinner, out on her own briefly she encountered the dog again and bent toward it to greet it. The dog leapt at her, fastened its teeth on her nose and hung on.
There was a husband-wife/doctor-nurse pair along for the tour, and they administered first-aid. Because of their isolation at the inn, with no real roadway system, a helicopter was flown in for an emergency evacuation, and she was taken to a nearby town with a fair-sized hospital. Where she was treated. Initially the doctors feared she would suffer some vision loss; it also appeared that the tear ducts would be involved.
But no, the bite, although deep and broad, required stitches, pain killer and rest. Two days later she re-joined her group for the final two days of walking, before leaving to return home.
She blames herself for intruding on the dog's space. For my money, no dog should ever attack in that manner.
She had a good time, despite the experience. And, as I mentioned, she looked good, really relaxed and good. The scar will fade.
Instead it grew rampantly green, reaching up the brick wall toward the eavestrough and beyond, to the garage roof. I discovered too late that this vine thrives and flowers in nutrient-poor soil; in the rich soil environment we strive so mightily to provide for our plants it felt encouraged to grow green and vast, and to send out pups to plant elsewhere in the garden.
But finally we made it into the ravine for our daily walk. And what a difference one day makes. Certainly we had a killing overnight frost, and certainly it was windy, and still was when we ventured out, but we were still surprised at the bare branches that greeted our eyes. And the depth to which our gaze could now penetrate through the trees, the underbrush to the scene beyond we prefer to be screened. But the beech trees have kept their leaves, turned overnight from a deep yellow to a mellow bronze.
And then there was Scooter, his low-slung barrel body and stumpy legs whizzing him over the trail toward Button and Riley; old friends. Not far behind was Suzanne whom we hadn't seen in a while. Looking very pretty and refreshed, and happy to be out in the woods. She'd been on another trip, and stopped to tell us about it, pointing out to us the memento she brought back - on her face. A new scar that stretched across the top of the bridge of her nose, edging toward her left eye.
She'd gone for a ten-day tour with a group of her walking friends, to Corsica. A walking tour. Through the dry, hot climate where palm trees flourished, and which was certainly exotic enough for anyone as a walking location. And then there was its Napoleonic history as well, and its welcoming citizens of France. Perfect for Suzanne.
First two days was a kind of orientation session, looking about, acquainting themselves with this different place, different climate, different geography, different flora and fauna. Then four days of hiking, walking, looking about, enjoying the pleasure of one another's company. Starting out at half-past eight in the morning, winding things up at half-past four in the afternoon. Lodged at tourist inns, small towns.
The food, she said, was unremarkable, and she attributed that to the fact that the guide consistently brought them along to restaurants and cafes set up specifically to service tourists. When she had been all alone for those two days in the hospital town to which she had been evacuated, she found her own restaurants, and there the food was truly excellent.
Hospital? Well, on day six, fourth day of their walking tour, they had stopped that evening at an inn. There was a resident dog, a small black animal with floppy, spaniel-like ears that seemed friendly enough. Indeed, as Suzanne is a dog fancier she made friends with the dog. Then, after dinner, out on her own briefly she encountered the dog again and bent toward it to greet it. The dog leapt at her, fastened its teeth on her nose and hung on.
There was a husband-wife/doctor-nurse pair along for the tour, and they administered first-aid. Because of their isolation at the inn, with no real roadway system, a helicopter was flown in for an emergency evacuation, and she was taken to a nearby town with a fair-sized hospital. Where she was treated. Initially the doctors feared she would suffer some vision loss; it also appeared that the tear ducts would be involved.
But no, the bite, although deep and broad, required stitches, pain killer and rest. Two days later she re-joined her group for the final two days of walking, before leaving to return home.
She blames herself for intruding on the dog's space. For my money, no dog should ever attack in that manner.
She had a good time, despite the experience. And, as I mentioned, she looked good, really relaxed and good. The scar will fade.
posted by Pieface @ 5:59 PM
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