A bird in the . . .

 . . . conservatory is worth seeing.

 On Sunday evening a confused, new member of the garden avian community flew indoors. There are many plants on the windowsills and floor, enough to fool an inexperienced fledgling into thinking it’s found a rare jungle.

Herschel alerted Barry to the incomer, and he and Jellicoe were summarily hustled into the kitchen. As Barry searched for the elusive chick, wondering if his eyes had been playing tricks on him, Herschel suddenly signalled. Sure enough, a small bird was fluttering in one of the plant trays. It looked as if it was having a dip, though I suspect it was too tense to consider relaxing in a tepid bath, and was literally in a flap!

We made sure the external door was open and the internal door locked and left the little bird to its own devices, hoping it would find its way out without too much stress. Meanwhile, the cats were forbidden the freedom of the conservatory.

We discovered another, larger bird on the conservatory roof. A woodpigeon had met its end there. It looks just as if it is resting. In a sense, I suppose it is. It was an odd place for it to be, far from the gutter or the apex, with no place to perch.

 We rarely find dead birds and it’s sad to see something that was once so vibrant now still and lifeless.

 

 

Steps

 

Steps

There is a steep step (40 cm) down to the patio from both our sitting room and conservatory. Many years ago, Barry built a wooden step to replace the milk crate we were using. Years later, he hammered further planks onto the wooden step, with the grooves of the wood running at a 90˚ angle to the original, as it was proving rather slippery in its old age.

Now it has reached the point of needing to be replaced completely, and we resolved to push the boat out and buy one ready-made. There’s so much more available now, and we’ve gone beyond the Heath Robinson stage of life in most things. (The last thing we built was a garden gate and it’s a solid thing of great character, not quite the height of a house door, but not far off.)

So, we have been measuring and consulting and think we’ve finally found the right thing. In fact, we’ve decided to buy two, as we’re still using a milk crate for the conservatory. Crates are remarkably strong, but with a purpose-built step, we will be more inclined to go in and out of that room more readily. Additionally, it will have a handrail, which is a Good Idea.

The other thing that is becoming increasingly rickety is the wooden bridge over the pond. It’s not a huge pond, but it is too wide to step across, and we need to be able to go over to weed and prune. We used to cross on a plank, but that became hazardous and the bridge we replaced it with has been there for a Very Long Time.

The pond is gradually clearing and looking fresher and cleaner. There is a large community of newts, which has taken the upheaval of the environment quite calmly, as far as one can tell.

 The heat last week brought proceedings to a halt. Will this now be superseded by rain to provide further disruption?

Crash!

 

Crash!

This morning there was a metallic crash, followed by the unmistakable whistle indicating that the fridge door was open. In the kitchen, I found the carving dish on the floor, with the chicken carcase a little way from it. Four animals were taking it in turns to sample the flesh.

It’s amazing how much meat they can strip from a cooked chicken in a couple of minutes. They were so disappointed when I took their unexpected treat away from them. Fortunately, they had not had long enough to reach the bones. Cooked bones splinter very easily and can cause fatal damage to a dog or cat’s innards. Foxes suffer from eating splintered bones, too, though I suppose they are at more immediate danger from traffic.

We normally have enough meat for three meals from one chicken, and then it is cooked in the pressure cooker for about three hours, until the bones are soft enough to be mashed. All the goodness from the meat and bone marrow creates a delicious broth. This time, we’ve had one meal and the dogs have probably got the equivalent of two, with much of the ‘jelly’ lasting for several more days to treat the cats.

We have a lock on the fridge door so how did the chicken end up on the floor?  Who was responsible? And why? And how?

This is where I hang my head in shame and admit that I forgot to lock the door. 😳 Jellicoe’s insulin is kept in the fridge and I must have been distracted after I replaced it. Jellicoe is keenly aware of the contents of the fridge and is extremely fond of cooked chicken. He hooks his paw into the gap between door and inner and pulls, and hey presto! Chicken for one, or in this case, four.

It is a shame, but never a waste. It just means that this week the dogs will have a larger than usual share of the chicken. They won’t protest and neither will I, as I’m not very keen on chicken. Barry? He never complains. 😣

I suggested carving off the chewed parts – he wouldn’t have noticed, if I’d done it without asking, I’m sure. I could have made a chicken curry! He declined my offer.

We will have to find something different to accompany the salad tonight. We won’t starve.

The Snail

 

The Snail by William Cowper (1731-1800)

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all
Together.

Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides
Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house, with much
Displeasure.

Where’er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chattels none,
Well satisfied to be his own
Whole treasure.

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds
The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind,
(He and his house are so combined,)
If, finding it, he fails to find
Its master.

 

Do snails have feelings?

In his poem, written in the 18^th century, William Cowper suggests that the snail senses danger.

 Scientific experiments have shown that snails react to rudimentary feelings like pain and pleasure. They have no central nervous system but rely on nerve cells called ganglia to process experiences. The reactions are simply a means of survival.

 When injured or exposed to harmful substances like salt, or slug pellets, they withdraw into their shells and produce foam. This is an involuntary reaction. The foam is a response to unpleasant or harmful chemicals, and a way of swilling nasty poisons out of their systems. They also foam if small insects like ants try to get into their shells, trapping or deterring the invaders.  Snails have also been observed to show fear if predators are near. Under threat, their breathing and movement slows.

 By contrast, they can show behaviour that suggests pleasure. People who keep snails as pets report that their animals seem to be contented when moving across a wet surface or being sprayed with a fine mist of water at room temperature.

Snails show interest tantamount to excitement when they are offered fresh food, particularly cucumber, which is a favourite treat, though nutritionally empty. They raise their bodies and fully extend their ommatophores (eye-stalks!)

Although they are considered to be solitary creatures, some owners have seen their snails huddle together to feed or sleep. They suggest that snails show signs of distress when one of their fellows dies, or if they are kept in isolation.

It appears that snails can recognise their keepers and be content in their company.

In the wild, snails huddle together to conserve moisture and prevent their skins drying out. In winter they seal their shells to keep out predators, and freezing air, and to prevent dehydration. 

Snails hibernate, but slugs do not.

I didn’t think there would be a collective noun for snails, but I found several. The most common is the elegant ‘escargatoire,’ for, naturellement, the French would have a suitable name. There used to be a café in Cherbourg called Madame l’Escargot which served delicious escargots, a succulent treat, so I'm told, after sailing across the English Channel (or, if you’re French, La Manche.)

 Another collective noun for snails is a ‘walk’, which is rather appealing, while a third is a ‘rout. A rout is a chaotic progression, or, in military terms, a disorderly retreat after a defeat.

Each of those nouns is rather attractive. I would have expected more apt terms, like slime, or, more poetically, silver, or perhaps spiral. What would you suggest?

Fibonacci sequence

 

Fibonacci sequence

                     White-lipped snail on limestone (Cepaea hortensis)

In the Fibonacci sequence each number is discovered by adding up the two preceding numbers. It begins with 0 or 1, and proceeds 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, and so forth.

The Fibonacci numbers were described in Indian mathematics around 200 BC, but were named after Leonardo of Pisa, known also as Fibonacci, who introduced the sequence to the West in 1202.

Fibonacci numbers appear in nature, in flowers, leaves, shells, fruit.

In Fibonacci poetry, the objective is to follow the Fibonacci sequence in the number of syllables to be written in each line. A  Fibonacci poem is typically six lines with twenty syllables

I enjoyed the challenge of writing a poem in Fibonacci form a long time ago. It was about a snail shell. I also reversed the sequence, so the syllable count is 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 8, 5, 3, 2, 1, 1.

 

Snail
Shell
Empty
Abandoned
Once mollusc’s retreat
Cast aside for eternity
Unless another entity
Chances upon it
Fancies it
Moves in
Lives
There.

 

I was looking for a subject for doggerel. I didn’t really find one!

Snail bails out,
Snail can’t shout,
Lunch for bird,
How absurd.

Of course, snails don’t bail out of their shells. They hatch with a protoconch, a minute, soft shell, and their shells continue to grow until they reach their adult size. They need a diet rich in calcium to continue developing strong, healthy shells. If they have a poor diet (never thought I’d ever write that!) their shells will suffer, becoming thin and sometimes even deformed. If a snail’s shell is destroyed, it cannot grow a new one and it will die from dehydration.

Where do snails find calcium? Do they drink gallons – oh, all right, millilitres - of milk, crumbs of cheese, tiny omelettes, petite fish?

With their little rasping tongues, they feed on things like limestone, chalk, dead wood, lichen, old bones, and empty snail shells.

Is the concept of cannibalism alien to snails, and is it cannibalism if they’re just consuming an old house? They will eat their squashed, deceased friends and relatives if the opportunity arises, for they are a rich source of protein, so cannibalistic behaviour can be attributed to them. In any case can snails understand ‘concepts?’  

 

Lunch for a snail:
Lime and some chalk,
A rasp of kale,
 A lick of wood,
Abandoned shell.

Croissants

 

Croissants

When I prepared the salmon for supper last night, I added garlic. I should have marinated it properly, but it was too darned hot! 🎝The fillets cooked quickly in the air fryer but were rather tasteless and disappointing. The colourful salad more than compensated for it.

I put the air fryer drawer back while it was still hot, intending to clean it up later. Of course, I forgot. I’m blaming everything on the unseasonable, unreasonable weather at present.

You know how it is when something triggers your memory and you find yourself thinking, ‘That would be nice for a change.’ I may have seen croissants on someone’s blog and the thought lodged in my brain, so I bought some for a treat.

It’s convenient to warm them quickly in the air fryer. This morning, we decided to have one each. We sat quietly eating them. Neither of us said a word, until Barry said, ‘Did you cook the fish in the air fryer last night?’

The croissants had been warmed in the fish-redolent basket that I had neglected to wash. Garlic-flavoured croissants are interesting but not to be recommended, even though we tried to persuade ourselves that they were quintessentially French.

I’m not cooking anything tonight! Supper will be a rainbow salad with blueberries, red and green grapes, cucumber, chicory, lettuce, sliced raw Brussels sprouts, baby corn, tenderstem broccoli, shredded cabbage, grated carrot, celery. yellow pepper, cream cheese, walnuts, and tinned salmon(!)

I shall put all that together while I listen to ‘Rather Be the Devil’ by Ian Rankin. It’s read entertainingly by James Macpherson, though I have had to slow down the reading speed to understand all the different Scottish accents.

I wanted a change from military history, having just finished the excellent ‘Brothers in Arms’ by James Holland. That was read by Al Murray, who is interested in and knowledgeable about Second World War campaigns but is a better comedian than narrator.

Gilbert the Good – an early walk

 

Gilbert the Good – an early walk

It’s getting hotter and hotter and hotter, so we have been going out in the middle of the night for our walks. It’s not really the middle of the night, but it’s so much earlier than we usually go out that it might as well be.

It’s nice, though, and we have been meeting *lots of other dogs* to chat to and play with. Barry has not been throwing the balls for us very much – we have one each – because he doesn’t want us to overheat. He tried not letting us have the balls at all, but we danced around him and asked so politely that he gave in.

He throws each of our balls once and we retrieve them and then carry them for the rest of the walk. This morning was glorious in the fresh forest air. The birds were singing their little hearts out and it felt good to be alive. We did get quite hot, even though it was really early, so we dived into one of the ponds. The water level is going down a little, which makes the mud more accessible, so we covered ourselves in it. It’s an excellent way to keep cool. Our thick coats carry gallons of water, and we’re still quite damp several hours later. The mud doesn’t show much on Roxy, as she’s chocolate-coloured, but I look more khaki than yellow. It doesn’t matter as I shall soon be my normal colour again. (Janice just muttered that the chair covers would be changing colour again.)

We don’t have breakfast before we go out early. It’s something to do with not exercising after eating. That sounded daft to me, but Janice explained that it didn’t mean we wouldn’t eat at all, just that we would wait until after our walk. She also said that we wouldn’t be able to eat immediately after our walk either. That was because of the dangers of developing gastric torsion, properly known as Gastric dilatation volvulus (GDV) 

It’s something that affects deep-chested dogs like Wolfhounds, Irish Setters, Dalmatians, Labradors and so on, though strangely Greyhounds and Whippets seem to be exempt. It can be fatal. Having had three dogs affected by it, all Dalmatians – luckily, they survived! - she and Barry are only too aware of the dangers and do everything to avoid it happening again. That’s what she said, though mostly I heard ‘no breakfast’ and ‘after’ and ‘later.’

It sounded quite reasonable – after all, she’s not cruel - and we were happy to have our collars put on and leave the house.

                                

     

Yesterday was the same rigmarole. We enjoyed our walk and were happy to reach home and flop out on the floor. As the morning wore on, however, I realised something had gone wrong with the routine. Roxy knew it, too. We gazed at the humans, trying to communicate with them, but they’re remarkably dense sometimes, and just grinned stupidly at us and told us what good dogs we were. Well, we know that! They tell us a dozen times a day.

I was busting a gut, putting all the pathos I could manage into my soulful brown eyes, and suddenly the penny dropped. Janice gasped and said, ‘They haven’t had their breakfast.’

There followed a discussion about whether that was true, and then that perhaps we’d had it and the humans had forgotten. ‘Had the cats been fed?’ they asked each other. Well, that was a silly question – the cats would never allow a mealtime to pass by without comment or complaint, but we dogs are polite and undemanding.

I widened my eyes further and pricked my ears as far as they would prick, and Roxy played her part, and finally, FINALLY, we were given our breakfast. We are very forgiving dogs, and didn’t give our humans the cold shoulder, whatever that means. In fact, I curled up next to Janice as usual. I’m sure she appreciates the extra heat I provide.

All was well this morning, and we didn’t have to wait hours and hours and hours to be fed. It’s a dog’s life, all right, but a pretty comfortable one in this house.

 

TTFN

Gilbert

* lots of other dogs* They often don’t meet any other dogs or people at all, so just two or three seems like ‘lots.’