Hay Be Nice
Hello, compadres and compadrettes. I have a few things to share before I suit up for dog-walking.
First, is this not the cutest thing ever? Hay be nice, from the stellar site called I Can Has Cheezburger?
Second, I broke down and splurged on a foot-rub oil. I bought it at a local farmer's market. The herbalist makes the stuff herself, and her site is interesting. I am not soliciting gifts, but if you're interested in finely crafted herbal potions that are delicately scented and infused with spirituality (and packaged prettily), you should check it out. The Rose Balm is real nice, too. HerbWise.
Third, I had a sweet encounter on the trail the other day. I was walking the Belgian shepherd on a popular (but never crowded) local fire road, and we came around a bend to see a group of three elderly people out for a walk. They were tall and sturdy, and one man was carrying a tiny baby in one of those carriers on his chest. Tiny, tiny baby who I couldn't even see until I got closer. I said hello, and something like, "Ooh, baby's first hike!"
These people were delightful. Turns out they're the baby's grand-parents. I don't know if this is the first grand-baby, but the event was exciting enough to bring them all the way from Ireland.
Now, my Belgian shepherd is a sleek creature, with the typical Malinois coloring (like this, only this isn't the dog in question)
and could be considered a little intimidating.
"We were jist discussin' whether yisser dag wus a mountain lion," said grandpa with the baby, smiling so I knew he was teasing. I didn't know yet that they were from across the pond, so I laughed and told them she was my special girl, but that they had the coloring right. "I haven't actually seen a mountain lion," I said, but they're around here. I've seen bobcats and rattlesnakes, though. Bobcats are weird-looking."
I got closer to peek at the baby. Grandpa lifted up a corner of the light blankie to show me a tiny sleeping face, red-cheeked and new, with those baby-nostrils that look like delicate ivory carvings. "Ooh, how old?"
"Ah, 'e's jist four weeks auld nigh," said Grandpa, glancing at Grandma for confirmation. "Aye, four and a half," she offered.
"Don't tell me," I said, getting a clue. "You came here to meet him?"
"Aye, we flew over from Oirlan' ter clap our grandson," he said. He pointed his chin at the other grandad. "This one, 'e's afraid ter 'owl de babe. Might drop 'imself." They grinned at each other.
I took a last look at the little baby boy, wished them an enjoyable visit, and then I roused the Belgian from her comfortable flop at my feet and we went on.
It was neat. For like twenty minutes or so, the idea of "family" seemed charming.
Now I must go to the dogs.
First, is this not the cutest thing ever? Hay be nice, from the stellar site called I Can Has Cheezburger?
Second, I broke down and splurged on a foot-rub oil. I bought it at a local farmer's market. The herbalist makes the stuff herself, and her site is interesting. I am not soliciting gifts, but if you're interested in finely crafted herbal potions that are delicately scented and infused with spirituality (and packaged prettily), you should check it out. The Rose Balm is real nice, too. HerbWise.
Third, I had a sweet encounter on the trail the other day. I was walking the Belgian shepherd on a popular (but never crowded) local fire road, and we came around a bend to see a group of three elderly people out for a walk. They were tall and sturdy, and one man was carrying a tiny baby in one of those carriers on his chest. Tiny, tiny baby who I couldn't even see until I got closer. I said hello, and something like, "Ooh, baby's first hike!"
These people were delightful. Turns out they're the baby's grand-parents. I don't know if this is the first grand-baby, but the event was exciting enough to bring them all the way from Ireland.
Now, my Belgian shepherd is a sleek creature, with the typical Malinois coloring (like this, only this isn't the dog in question)
and could be considered a little intimidating.
"We were jist discussin' whether yisser dag wus a mountain lion," said grandpa with the baby, smiling so I knew he was teasing. I didn't know yet that they were from across the pond, so I laughed and told them she was my special girl, but that they had the coloring right. "I haven't actually seen a mountain lion," I said, but they're around here. I've seen bobcats and rattlesnakes, though. Bobcats are weird-looking."
I got closer to peek at the baby. Grandpa lifted up a corner of the light blankie to show me a tiny sleeping face, red-cheeked and new, with those baby-nostrils that look like delicate ivory carvings. "Ooh, how old?"
"Ah, 'e's jist four weeks auld nigh," said Grandpa, glancing at Grandma for confirmation. "Aye, four and a half," she offered.
"Don't tell me," I said, getting a clue. "You came here to meet him?"
"Aye, we flew over from Oirlan' ter clap our grandson," he said. He pointed his chin at the other grandad. "This one, 'e's afraid ter 'owl de babe. Might drop 'imself." They grinned at each other.
I took a last look at the little baby boy, wished them an enjoyable visit, and then I roused the Belgian from her comfortable flop at my feet and we went on.
It was neat. For like twenty minutes or so, the idea of "family" seemed charming.
Now I must go to the dogs.