About midday, Islay the Scottish terrier and I went out to get in the car to go to the office. About to put her on lead, I suddenly forgot I had left something on the front hall table, so I turned round, went back into the house, grabbed whatever it was, and went back down the steps....
...where there was no sign of the little black terrier.
This is not the first time in my life such an event has happened because of my own carelesness, and -it's true- I should have known better: A Scot can disappear quicker than you can imagine.
The first thing you do is a collection of stupid things - you check the house knowing full well the dog is not there. Next you wander around the outside of the house baying the dog's name, knowing full well that she's done a runner and is sniffing all sorts of new things, enjoying the sun, looking for birds, vermin, future pals, and a snack or three.
Next I got in the car and drove around with an alleged purpose, in spite of the fact that a small black creature darting about would probably not be trapsing down the bikeway/walkway adjacent to my property.
In the meantime, I was giving myself another in series of angry lectures and at the very same time a trying to will my heart down from my throat into its accustomed position. You know you are not succeeding when the position of your heart interferes with your voice which has suddently become high pitched and very strained.
Finally, I called the local gendarmes and was able to say that the dog had tags galore (she even has a microchip, but that wouldn't help much in these circumstances). The officer who took the call was understanding.
I drove around a bit more, came back to the house for as short period of ritual yelling, then decided to visit "Condo Land" just south of my house. I walked briskly down the path, keeping my braying to what I thought would meet the "good taste requirement" which these communities seem to relish, but again no luck. By now I was seriously vexed with me for my stupidity.
So the trudge back to the house was with a heavy heart, full of fear that some speeding car had taken out my little dog or that she had been captured by someone whom she could never love as much as she loves me (I think. No, I hope.)
About sixty yards from my house, I spied a small black creature sitting and looking at me with moderate interest. "Islay," I called with restrained enthusiasm.
She looked at me with an expression which said, "Bloody hell, now I suppose he'll make a speech, shake a finger, and there won't be any dinner tonight."
We walked together separately back to the front door, and into the house she went. And then I picked her up and gave her a big hug, the first of several, actually.
Some people believe that a dog is a living piece of furniture, something to decorate the place. Some believe that a dog is a member of the family and enjoys all Constitutional rights except the right to vote.
I have always been in the second camp and not always pleased about it, but the companionship of terriers over the years has always been a great solace against the sturm und drang outside my home. Tonight, Islay will lie down next to me with her derriere against my right leg. I shall turn out the light and will slide my hand so that it rests lightly next to the top of her head, and the feeling of gratitude for her safe return will be overwhelming.
No doubt we both caught a break today - lucky just begins to describe it.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Monday, July 16, 2007
Her Majesty The Queen
Last month, I spent part of my vacation in a cottage near Balmoral Castle in the highlands of Scotland. As you probably know, Balmoral is the Scottish home of Britain's Royal Family, and after surveying the hills and rivers and lochs, you know that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert made a great choice something over a century and a half ago.
During my few days in the area, I was lucky enough to attend church with The Queen, sitting about thirty feet away from her, with perhaps sixty of us in the congregation that morning.
She and Prince Philip often spend time in Scotland outside of the annual Court Visit from August through early October, and in the Spring, she comes for a week and stays in another house on the Estate (opening up the castle is too complex for a short stay).
When I'm in the area, I often attend the service at Crathie Church, a short walk from the front gates of the Queen's Estate; I'd heard that she was "in the village," and I guessed she might be going to church. So on the Sunday morning, I turned up early in the neighborhood, and sure enough there were lots of police constables about, so I knew that The Queen would be attending.
The first constable who stopped me asked what my plan was. I told him to attend the service. He opined that the church would be overflowing with people, and I probably wouldn't get in. This contradicted what I had learned from a previous reconnaissance to Crathie and had chatted up the volunteer on duty.
I walked up the hill and met a second police constable, a youngish woman, who stopped me, and we went through the drill again. Finally, I was able to ask, "Where is the queue for those of us not church elders and not church members?"
She pointed behind me. I looked back and saw no one. She smiled and said, "Right now, you are the queue."
We chatted for several minutes, and a few others - maybe ten arrived with the same goal I had; a quarter hour before the proceedings were to begin, we were admitted. I had been in the church enough to know to head to the far left side as far up as I could get, and I achieved my goal (sometimes it's good to be first in line, but not always). Members of the royal family sit on the right side of the church in a pew perpendicular to the ones we ordinary folk occupy.
We all sat quietly, not trying to be too obvious about checking the Royal pew every minute or so - well, every ten seconds or so. And suddenly, there she was in a long coral colored coat with a matching round-brimmed hat. We in the congregation became focussed instantly.
Reading glasses on, the queen participated fully in the service and occasionally glanced at the congregation, while we glanced at her often, trying not to be too terribly obvious. It was a service of two homilies, one for children, the other for the rest of us, lots of hymns, and a good sprinkling of prayers.
As I looked around the church, I was intrigued that there were more people outside the church waiting for a glimpse as she had arrived and would depart than there were in it.
Just before the benediction, we stood and sang what the program leaflet described as the "national anthem," although it has never been proclaimed as that in law. We call it "God Save The Queen," and to sing it with a handful of others in a small church with the Queen in attendance was an amazing experience.
God save our gracious Queen
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Queen:
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us:
God save the Queen.
I didn't know all the words, although I probably should have, given the number of times I'd heard it sung. We all sang lustily, to impress ourselves, each other, and her, and I expect we all shared at least a portion of the emotion floating in the sounds echoing in the sanctuary. It might have been just another service for The Queen, but it was very special for those few of us in Her Presence.
I saw her again a half hour later at a concert on the lawn in front of her castle. She is very small, and as I am sure someone in the crowd must have observed - she looks just like her picture. Approaching her car after the concert, she looked around at all of us, from the very young to the very old, from many countries, and gave us all a wonderful warm smile. It was a simple thing, but I think we all accepted it as a great gift on an otherwise gray Scottish day.
After lunch, I repaired to my rented cottage and thought about Her Majesty and all that she has seen, experienced, and survived. My conclusion was to have a wee dram of Scotland's own spirit in her honor, so I did, and instead of the traditional toast "Slainte," I substituted, "God Save The Queen."
Under the circumstances, it seemed like the right thing to do.
During my few days in the area, I was lucky enough to attend church with The Queen, sitting about thirty feet away from her, with perhaps sixty of us in the congregation that morning.
She and Prince Philip often spend time in Scotland outside of the annual Court Visit from August through early October, and in the Spring, she comes for a week and stays in another house on the Estate (opening up the castle is too complex for a short stay).
When I'm in the area, I often attend the service at Crathie Church, a short walk from the front gates of the Queen's Estate; I'd heard that she was "in the village," and I guessed she might be going to church. So on the Sunday morning, I turned up early in the neighborhood, and sure enough there were lots of police constables about, so I knew that The Queen would be attending.
The first constable who stopped me asked what my plan was. I told him to attend the service. He opined that the church would be overflowing with people, and I probably wouldn't get in. This contradicted what I had learned from a previous reconnaissance to Crathie and had chatted up the volunteer on duty.
I walked up the hill and met a second police constable, a youngish woman, who stopped me, and we went through the drill again. Finally, I was able to ask, "Where is the queue for those of us not church elders and not church members?"
She pointed behind me. I looked back and saw no one. She smiled and said, "Right now, you are the queue."
We chatted for several minutes, and a few others - maybe ten arrived with the same goal I had; a quarter hour before the proceedings were to begin, we were admitted. I had been in the church enough to know to head to the far left side as far up as I could get, and I achieved my goal (sometimes it's good to be first in line, but not always). Members of the royal family sit on the right side of the church in a pew perpendicular to the ones we ordinary folk occupy.
We all sat quietly, not trying to be too obvious about checking the Royal pew every minute or so - well, every ten seconds or so. And suddenly, there she was in a long coral colored coat with a matching round-brimmed hat. We in the congregation became focussed instantly.
Reading glasses on, the queen participated fully in the service and occasionally glanced at the congregation, while we glanced at her often, trying not to be too terribly obvious. It was a service of two homilies, one for children, the other for the rest of us, lots of hymns, and a good sprinkling of prayers.
As I looked around the church, I was intrigued that there were more people outside the church waiting for a glimpse as she had arrived and would depart than there were in it.
Just before the benediction, we stood and sang what the program leaflet described as the "national anthem," although it has never been proclaimed as that in law. We call it "God Save The Queen," and to sing it with a handful of others in a small church with the Queen in attendance was an amazing experience.
God save our gracious Queen
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Queen:
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us:
God save the Queen.
I didn't know all the words, although I probably should have, given the number of times I'd heard it sung. We all sang lustily, to impress ourselves, each other, and her, and I expect we all shared at least a portion of the emotion floating in the sounds echoing in the sanctuary. It might have been just another service for The Queen, but it was very special for those few of us in Her Presence.
I saw her again a half hour later at a concert on the lawn in front of her castle. She is very small, and as I am sure someone in the crowd must have observed - she looks just like her picture. Approaching her car after the concert, she looked around at all of us, from the very young to the very old, from many countries, and gave us all a wonderful warm smile. It was a simple thing, but I think we all accepted it as a great gift on an otherwise gray Scottish day.
After lunch, I repaired to my rented cottage and thought about Her Majesty and all that she has seen, experienced, and survived. My conclusion was to have a wee dram of Scotland's own spirit in her honor, so I did, and instead of the traditional toast "Slainte," I substituted, "God Save The Queen."
Under the circumstances, it seemed like the right thing to do.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
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