The smell of frying bacon was coming from the kitchen, but Sam stayed where he was. He glanced at his face in the mirror over the fireplace as if seeing it for the first time. Then he looked at the rest of the room, over his reflection’s shoulder; the two old armchairs, the long dining table and the sideboard, upon which rested the big mahogany wireless.
Sam liked everything about that wireless. He liked its solid chunkiness, the big wooden dials and the window with its red needle, which lit up when you turned the set on. He thought of the programmes he listened to in the evening, sometimes with Keith, sometimes with all the family.
There was ‘Dick Barton, Special Agent’; “Come on, Snowey, help me break down this door before the blighter gets away!” “Right you are, sir - here, better take my gun”; and there was ‘Journey into Space’, with Jet Morgan and Lemmie, which had them on the edge of their seats with its sounds of rocket engines roaring, hissing air escaping from something or other, and the eeriest music they had ever heard. He even listened to ‘Toytown’ with Larry the Lamb, although he was supposed to be too old for that; “Please Mr. Policeman, there’s a dra-a-a-gon in the woods”.
He wondered briefly why it was called a wireless, when anyone could see the thick wire coming out the back of it, but life was full of mysteries. For instance, why were all airplanes a mile long, why did you float to the ceiling if you swallowed an orange pip, why was there a flagpole without a flag in the garden, and what had happened to their pedal car. This wonderful vehicle had been made for Sam and Keith by Uncle Gill, and was the envy of all the kids in the street. One day it disappeared from their garden, and the grown-ups claimed they didn’t know what had happened to it. The boys suspected it had been broken up for firewood, but nothing was ever proved.
Sam sighed. Looking out through the French windows he could see the flagpole at the bottom of the garden. He remembered the ‘boxing match’ he’d had with Keith in the garden. Uncle Gill had bought them each a pair of boxing gloves, and they couldn’t wait to try them out. Off they trooped to the end of the garden. They both swung and landed a mighty punch at the same time. It was the only punch of the match. They burst into tears at the same moment, and the boxing gloves were taken away, never to be seen again.
When he had first come to stay with the Drayson family, they had called him Silent Sam, and even now, six years later, he wasn’t a great talker, but he was happy, and couldn’t remember having lived anywhere else. Keith was just four months older than Sam, Pam was a couple of years older and Tommy was nearly grown up. Tommy’s real name was Eva, but she had always been called Tommy. Sam was a little in love with Tommy, but then so was everybody else.
In summer they sometimes cycled the five miles to Hainault Forest to pick blackberries. At least, the two girls did the cycling and Sam and Keith perched on the handlebars. He remembered that the metal brake levers would pinch his thighs if he weren’t careful.
He returned to the present to hear Uncle Gill calling him from the kitchen. Sam scuffed his shoe against the fireplace. He did not want to go into the kitchen. He knew his life was about to change in ways he could only imagine. Uncle Gill called again, and this time Sam made his way to the kitchen. Uncle Gill did not look at him. “Your mother will be here soon, boy. I’ve made you a bacon sandwich for the journey”.
Auntie Eva had gone off to work this morning, Keith had gone to school, and Pam and Tommy had gone wherever they went during the day. Sam and Uncle Gill were the only ones left in the house. The boy watched as Uncle Gill cut the rind off the bacon. This was the first time Sam had ever seen him cook anything.
They heard a car scrunching to a stop in the road outside. Footsteps came up the path. Now the man looked at the boy and ruffled his hair. Another first. Sam found he could not speak. The doorbell rang.
James Donaldson Collins
James Collins is an artist and writer.
He lives in the Scottish Highlands with his wife, daughter and three dogs.
His interests are history, sci-fi, chess and snooker.
He also claims to play guitar like a ringing a bell.
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What if it were that easy I ask? What if instead of sending nuclear enabled ICBMs to your neighboring countries, you could solve you anxiety and frustration thru designer cartoons? What if we all stepped back and laughed at ourselves and each other and determined all this sound and fury does no one any good, but rather is creating animosity and spite which has lasted thru some 60 generations?
It seems as we saw the riots in the Muslim nations over the Danish University Newspaper cartoon of the Great Allaah with a turbine on his head made to look like a bomb signifying the most radical Islamic clerics who use their religion to recruit suicide bombers; we are learning a lesson indeed. The lesson is this; when someone wants to cause a conflict over something they will always find a way. They will always find a way to play victim or use the conflict label another or a group or even a nation.
We know in watching human groupings and chimpanzee troops or even High School Football team cross town rivals that to build a team, you must first pick an enemy. Well not always, but we know that such a method is perhaps the easiest way. Rather than uniting ourselves against another, why not unite all in a common cause of cartooning.
So that we may look at ourselves and our neighbors and just laugh at the whole thing; after all we are a bunch of silly humans and get all worked up nothing at times. Come on humor me, this was not such a bad article? Consider this in 2006.
“Lance Winslow” - Online Think Tank forum board. If you have innovative thoughts and unique perspectives, come think with Lance; http://www.WorldThinkTank.net/wttbbs/
I like to bark. I mean, I like to bark A LOT. So, whattya gonna do about it? Well, if you’re Amber and Terry, you’re going to do NOTHING about it. Ain’t nobody going to silence the Rubinman, you know what I’m sayin’? If you’re NOT Amber and Terry, though (i.e. you’re smart) and you want to know how to get your dog to just freakin’ shut up once in a while, here’s what you need to know…
Why is your dog barking?
I’ll be honest here: I bark because I like it. And because it gets me some attention. I’m all about the attention. Now, you coulda probably guessed about the attention thing, but the fact that we actually ENJOY it? Who knew?
It’s true, though. Sometimes I just get a kick out of it. It’s like, I start barking because I’m excited, and then after a while I’m all, “hey! This totally rocks!” So I bark some more. And then some more after that. Then I finish up with a quick round of barking. Sometimes I come back for an encore. The truth is, by this time, like Justin Timberlake, I’m lovin’ it. So, how’re you gonna stop me? (Clue: you’re not. You’ll NEVER stop the Rubinman. But you know what I mean.)
Well, if you want to stop a dog that’s barking just for the hell of it, you’re gonna hafta get clever. Cleverer than Amber and Terry. Whatever you do, DON’T shout at me. You want to know what I think when you shout at me while I’m barking? I think, “Coooool! They’re totally barking with me! This SO rocks!” Ha! Amateurs!
No, what you need to do is, you need to distract me. You could play with me. You could feed me. (Actually, you should totally feed me. That’s the best thing to do. End of article.) But it’s better if you TRAIN me. Uh-huh. TRAIN ME.
Now, I know what y’all are thinking. You’re all, “But the Rubinman is cleverer than me! I’d NEVER train him!” Well, you’re right. You totally wouldn’t. But if you have a NORMAL dog, you can train it. Mebbe.
I am what’s called “clicker trained.” Clicker training is when you, like, get this CLICKY thing and get your dog to believe that if the thing clicks, something good happens. Could be a goodboy. Could be a big cuddle. (Note: the Rubinman is NOT a sissy. But a cuddle can be nice). Could be playing with your toys. Whatever it is, it’s GOOD. The clicker is power, and once ya got power over the dog, you’re the boss of it.* If you’re REALLY clever, you can teach your mutt to bark on command, and then stop barking on command too, using the clicker. That’s probably too advanced for you lot, though, so…
Understand why YOUR dog is barking
So, yeah, now you know why the Rubinman barks. It’s important to know why YOUR dog barks, though. Here are some possible reasons:
He is bored.
He is scared. (I mean, I’m NEVER scared, but then I WAS raised by wolves…)
He is lonely.
He has seen the postman.
Little Timmy is stuck down a well and your dog wants to lead you to that well, rescue little Timmy and get a reward. I’ll tell ya, that happens to me a LOT.
Soooooo many reasons for barking there. First thing you need to do is, you need to find out which reason is the right one. I’ll be honest here: it’s probably the postman.
A word about the postman
Most so-called “exerts” will tell you that your dog barks when he sees the postman because the postman is intruding on your property and the dog can’t tell the difference between “friend” and “foe.” What a lot of crap experts talk, no? If I talked crap like that, man, I’d be ashamed to call myself the Rubinman, I really would.
As any dog will tell you, we bark at the postman because we hate that sucker. In the wild, postmen are our natural enemies. Walking up our driveway day after day. Stuffing things through our door. Ringing the bell. I mean, honestly, do YOU think that’s acceptable behaviour?
Stopping the barking
You ain’t never gonna stop the “me against the postman” mentality. All you can do, really, is bribe your dog to stay quiet. Remember: we have no morals. (I mean, we sniff other dog’s butts IN THE STREET, do we look like we’d turn up our noses at a spot of bribery?) We won’t be offended if you bribe us.
Now, I’m not saying you should always bribe us with chocolate goodboys. (I totally AM saying that, by the way). I’m just saying the best way to get us to behave is to reward us handsomely when we behave ourselves. Goodboys. Cuddles. Rubbing our furry bellies. Do this and we will stop barking. Mebbe.
* Amber and Terry, obviously, are NOT the boss of me, though. No one’s the boss of me.
Rubin is a wolf in Bichon Frise’s clothing. Read his blog, the Dog’s Diary
Rubin’s owner, Amber, is a freelance writer. Visit Amber’s website Hot Igloo Copywriting
