Fiddlee-diddlee ... walking

In the time that it takes to walk Littlest and Four-legged-friend, it might be possible to read a novel, compose an entire symphony, solve the Eurozone crisis, define the underlying difference between the male and female mind - but perhaps I exaggerate, if only a little.The problem is that our Fidlee-diddlee-aye (otherwise known as Littlest) - who declared recently that fiddling with things in her own room was boring - has become a Fiddlee-diddlee-walker.

First, it's picking flowers time

Then, throwing bread into the stream for Four-legged-friend time (actually, this is not strictly speaking a Fiddlee-diddlee activity, as I was in charge of the bread and we had planned to do this anyway)

Climbing trees time follows

and hiding in the crop time

and 'No, you go under, I go over' time.

Next it's 'You can't catch me' time (which hurries us along for a bit, until she starts running in the wrong direction).

Almost finally (just as well owing to the soggy socks and wellies) is the 'But puddles are put here for puddling in' time. And let's not forget the 'Flowers make good boats' time.

The grand Fiddlee-diddlee finale is the 'Gathering long bits of grass' time.

He's not the only one thinking 'Can we go home now?'

Comments

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

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My beloved boy, how lucky I have been

It's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die ... and I say someone here even though the one in question was a dog - but to us he had character and a place forever in our hearts and was more of a familiar someone than some of the people in our lives. So, I'll start again - it's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die, our senses go into overdrive. We notice things that normally would be part of the background of our every day. We breathe more - or rather, we don't but what we do is notice our breathing more, as we watch his. We pause. We think. We listen to ourselves and our inner voices speak. Memories flood our dreams ... though sleep is fitful. Why am I telling you this? ... ... we lost this beautiful boy today And in the hours before he went, I saw perfect spheres of dew on blades of grass - little orbs holding micro-images of our world; a bumble bee drunk on nectar, yellow-dusted with pollen, resting in a crocus; ten - yes, ten! ...

Walking, wondering and not walking at all

We all walk. I walk every day. I also lie. I don't walk every day, as in I don't take the dogs for a walk every day. Poor boys, in this season of tax returns and desperate seeking of extra work and working to pay the tax bill, they are the losers. Four-legged-friend was looking distinctly skinny in his hind legs, when I brushed his coat while he wolfed down his supper this evening (he tries to eat the brush if I take it near him at any other time, so meal times have become grooming times). Oddly, I lose out on the walking too, but this fails to have the same effect on my 'skinniness'... Anyway, we all walk. We walked on Christmas day - Littlest and I walked at the weekend - Slowly. Time to appreciate the trees. Time to encourage the smelly boys into the freezing water. Time for the sun to go down. Time to walk very, very slowly - Littlest's finger phone was engaged throughout in deep discussion with the zoo warden - da...

Walking The Dog

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