Cruelty Free Fishing

We've been enjoying a run of beautiful weather here in Colorado. Not on the weekends obviously, that's when it snows but whenever I've been shackled to my desk, it's been gorgeous. So, when the quitting time whistle went today, I loaded up my fishing gear, set off down to the lake and slung a line in the water for the first time this year. As usual, I didn't catch anything - the fish were just laughing at me, but as I've done chuff all else of interest this week, I figured that's a good excuse to re-hash an old Gunsmoke File from the archives.

~ Cruelty Free Fishing
Raven is competent at most things and does have some genuine experience as a fisherwoman under her belt so when she offered to get me started with my angling career, I accepted with grace.

I’ve had all the gear for some months now; since the beginning of last winter in fact. However as I’ve explained, standing up to me goolies in ice water doesn’t appeal and I’ve been depressingly busy for the last few weekends so here we are at the end of May and I’ve yet to get the stuff wet. The traditional holiday weekend rain didn’t appear to be materializing and the lake was still open despite a brief-but-nasty local wildfire so after a quick lunch, I loaded rod, reel, tackle box, fishing vest, cooler and Wiley the dog into the car and set off for Raven’s house.

The first step was to load line onto reel and as I don’t recall experiencing any challenges loading line onto reel the last time I owned a fishing rod, some (clears throat) years ago; I suspect it was already on when I bought it. I assumed this would be easy but experienced my first pang of concern when Raven’s SO, ‘storm took one look and said.

"Oh, you’ve bought one of those reels."

By "one of those reels" I learned he meant "open faced reels" whereby the line is wound onto the spindle with the aid of a wee hinged bar called a bail. A manly reel, as opposed to a "closed faced reel" where everything is enclosed – the type favored by amateurs and 7-year old girls.

One of those reels or not, we pushed on, emboldened by the assistance of the instruction book.

"Attach line to reel" it said. Well there you go – can’t get much more straightforward than that. So, attach line to reel we did and in no time Raven was winding furiously while I unrolled yard after yard of nylon thread from the spool. Everything was going swimmingly until we made the mistake of stopping to check our progress and for no reason at all, the line decided to spring back off the reel at a speed much greater than it had gone on. In less time than it takes to type, Raven was holding an armful of tangled twine and looking bewildered.

No matter, this gave me the chance to try out another piece of new equipment; a rather nifty pair of folding scissors and before long we had the snarl trimmed off.

"Before you unwind the remaining line and start over, this might be a good time to practice casting." Suggested ‘storm helpfully.

Good idea that, so after fastening a weight to the business end, we all made our way down off the deck to the open driveway.

"Watch me get it stuck in a tree now." I said; joking of course. The nearest tree was 50 feet away and obviously out of range. So, it was with some surprise I saw the line soar into its highest branches and secure itself there forever. Or at least, until the tree falls over for no amount of pulling, yanking or twisting would free the damn thing. I suspect some squirrel is still massaging the back of its head and wondering "What the hell was that?"

The day was slipping away but eventually we had a good length of line on the reel, along with a new weight and a hook and were bowling up the road to the lake. Quite sensibly, ‘storm decided to avoid any further involvement so it was just me, Wiley, Raven and of course, the fish. And most of the population of Colorado. Not only was most of the shoreline occupied, these people looked like they knew what they were doing. Anxious to find a spot where we could screw up without anyone noticing, we selected a place between the family with toddlers (no competition there) and the group of old folks with tons of gear and professional looking hats (maybe they would take pity and show us how to get started).

My first cast was a beaut. Way, way out over the lake almost beaning a duck in the process. You would think after a cast like that the fish would have been climbing over themselves to jump on the hook, but no, reeling in the line revealed that all I had caught was some straggly looking weed, which I suspect stuck just near the shore. Not to worry, I drew back and cast again. And again. And again. No fish.

As it turned out, that was the least of our worries. This darn line was making it clear it had no intention of remaining on the reel any longer than it had to and whenever the bail was open, it would spiral off into a ball of confusion. I eventually learned the art of snapping the bail closed as soon as the cast was complete, but not before several yards of line had sprung off and made friends with the nearby bushes. What a royal pain in the patoot that turned out to be and I was grateful to have Raven there to help me untangle things. I was less grateful to have Wiley there because the moment she saw us distracted, she would jump up and hop into the lake. She doesn’t smell too good at the best of times and wet she’s insufferable so we spent a lot of time yelling and causing chaos while the other anglers attempted to ignore us.

After a while you begin to wonder if you really want to catch a fish anyway. Let’s face it; fish are rather ugly creatures. It’s one thing if you're scuba diving on some tropical reef where they’re all psychedelically colored and cool looking, but their cold water cousins tend to have expressions that are invariably sour or grumpy looking. That or just plain angry. Maybe somebody should check why that is.

So we cast, and reeled in, cast and reeled in, untangled, cursed at the dog, tripped over and dropped things for the rest of the afternoon in blissful contentment. Remember the toddlers and the old folks? They spent their time reeling in fish after fish, with the youngters holding the lead until the end. Us? Well, we caught a lot of weeds, lost a lot of bait, accidentally threw the rod in the water on one cast and snarled somebody else’s line on another. Not the most successful fishing trip ever.

But who cares. There was leftover shepherd’s pie for tea.

On the Wrong End of a Dog Attack

It’s been almost two weeks now, and I’m still angry. Still angry that my sweet, docile and loving, albeit sometimes annoying dog got attacked by not one, but two Rottweilers and that I could do nothing to protect her. And I’m still absolutely bloody furious that the Rottweilers’ owner knew they were dangerous, but still let them run loose.

But you don’t know the story, so let’s go back to the beginning.

Sasha the dog and I went for a run at lunchtime a couple of weeks ago. It's a game I play every now and then, where I go wheezing round the neighborhood and convince myself that in just a few short weeks I'll be back to the full marathon-running peak of my youth. Then after 3 or 4 goes, I hurt myself, or my allergies kick in, or I have a hangover or something and it all gets put on hold for a while longer. However, this time things were progressing well, I was following a beginners plan from the Runners World web site and we’d been out a few times with no problems.

Until this fateful day when we were grunting our way up a short hill and were set upon by 2 Rottweilers. I'm not just talking snarling and growling, the fucking things were out for blood. They made no attempt to harm me, but they were both savagely attacking Sasha, biting her repeatedly on the neck, head and hindquarters, one going for her throat, the other for her tail.

And of course, because I was just out running, I wasn’t carrying a walking stick, or a gun or a machete with which to beat them off. It’s many years since I played football, but I can still pack a kick. However, running shoes don’t carry much of an impact and my pounding wasn’t even registering. A month or so earlier, I would have been walking in my steel toes, and I guarantee they would have felt that, but no such luck this time. Now as a reminder, I'm an animal lover, dogs in particular but I'm not kidding, if I'd been able to find a stick or a decent sized rock I would happily have beaten these bastards into piles of mush.

The attack seemed to go on for hours, although of course, it was only a few minutes. Finally, they broke away and I realized that was only because their owner was calling. So, I stomped over and confronted him in his driveway. He was all apologies, and seemed genuinely horrified. Among other things, he promised he would "have them put down today". I wasn't really expecting that but we talked for a few more minutes and I asked him if he didn't have a fenced dog run for them.

It turns out he does but get this...lets them out for a few minutes a day “so they can run around the yard”. When I asked if this meant the dogs had escaped from their fenced run today, he explained that no, he let them out in the open. Uhm yeah, run around the yard and 200 yards up the road where they can attack a dog that just happened to be passing by on a lead.

At the time, Sasha didn’t appear to be badly hurt, but as she was bleeding from the ear, I told him I'd take her to the vet to be checked and he said he'd pay the bill. OK, fair enough, we swapped names, shook hands and I set off home. Except on the way, I was met by a lady who had seen the attack from her deck and had come out in her car to look for me. She explained that to her knowledge, this had happened twice before. In both cases he'd been very apologetic and had promised to euthanize the dogs. She told me she was afraid to walk her own dog in case the two of them came after her.

So, back home and on the blower to Animal Control. Sure enough, they'd had 2 complaints before but in one of them, the complainant hadn't wanted to sign an official statement, so there was nothing they could do. The neighbor lady had already called them however, and had told them she'd be happy to do so this time. Which means that between us, we might be able to make sure something gets done. The story is he's facing a day in court, a big fine, whatever the definition of 'big' is, and will have a restraining order put on his dogs. So, if he doesn't euthanize them (and there's no reason to think he will), but they get out again, they're toast whether they attack anyone or not. He'll also be legally required to compensate me for the vet's bill.

And onto that. The ear puncture was through to the cartilage, and required stitches. Not only that, the vet found numerous other puncture wounds and bruising on her flanks and body. Oh and one eye's bloodshot where they must have nailed her in the face. She ended up being shaved in so many placed she looks like she has the mange, and for a day or two, she did nothing but lie around, looking very sorry for herself. Fortunately, she has long hair, particularly around the neck and that saved things from being much, much worse. Without that, I really think they would have killed her.

Naturally, when Animal Control visited the owner, he refused to let them on his property and is claiming that he has no money and can’t pay the vet bill after all. I suppose it must be tough to get by in a $3/4 million house with 4 cars in the drive.

But we’re not done yet. The Animal Control lady called at the house a couple of days ago to pick up my signed statement, and told me that since Sasha, the Rottweilers have attacked yet another dog. And still this clown lets them run loose. But such is the law, there’s little Animal Control can actually do prior to his court date. Which isn’t until July. Do you wonder how many more dogs they’ll attack before then?

The good news is, Sasha appears to have bounced back quite nicely, and once the stitches come out in a couple of days, she should be none the worse for wear. Which is good, because while I may refer to her as The World’s Most Irritating Dog™, I do love her.

School Dinners

Bad memories of school dinners still affect the eating habits of many adults, a survey suggests.

Many still refuse to eat certain foods or even look at them after being force-fed at school, according to the poll of over 2,000 BBC Good Food magazine readers and users of the website Friends Reunited.

Half of those questioned who cited school meat as a problem had become vegetarian as a result of their canteen nightmares.

BBC: School dinners haunt adults

I can’t say I’ve ever had nightmares about school dinners, but it’s certainly true that I don’t remember them with any great fondness. While most of the lunch time trauma I experienced tended to be at the hands of vindictive older children and sadistic teachers, it has to be said, the food didn’t help. Me and gristle have never got on and even today, a careless forkful of meat can bring on a quite spectacular gag reflex (oh sorry, were you eating?). Our daily servings of alleged meat tended to be riddled with the stuff, and as in those days we were expected to eat what we were given, gag reflex or not, the lunch hour often seemed a lot longer than 60 minutes. It’s possible that this mystery food product may have once been belonged to an animal, but I’d want to see some proof before going out on a limb.

No, the first course was just something through which we suffered before getting to the real reason for attending school in the first place...pudding. It’s worth clarifying for Murkan readers that just as “dinner” in this context means lunch rather than the evening meal; “pudding” refers to whatever you were served after the first course. Not dessert, not sweet...pudding.

Other than an addiction to Cadbury’s chocolate (the kind made in Britain, not the stuff churned out here under license by Hershey’s – ick, yuck, ptooey), I don’t really have much of a sweet tooth. When I shovel junk into my pie-hole it tends to be salty or spicy and on the rare occasions we eat out, I usually skip dessert in favor of another beer. However, like many people, my fondness for sweet things was greater as a child, and as my school didn’t serve alcohol, pudding was the highlight of the day.

And oh, what puddings we got. Not every day of course. Most of the time pudding was nothing more than some kind of sponge cake smothered in a lumpy yellow goo euphemistically known as “custard”. But sometimes, every now and then, when the planets were in alignment or if the school inspectors were paying a visit, the Dinner Ladies served up a crowd pleaser.

Jam roly poly was my personal favorite. What is jam roly poly? Well, it’s is a flat suet pudding, which is then spread with jam (preferably raspberry) rolled up and baked. Lumpy custard only enhanced this nectar of the doGs. A serving generally weighed about the same as a cinder block and it kept your tum warm and happy on the coldest winter day. Spotted Dick was a similar repast. (By all means, go ahead and insert the joke of your choice at this point – generations of school children have done so before you.) Another suet special, this one had raisins or currants rather than jam. It too, required custard.

In fact, custard was pretty much a standard coating for all our puddings, although it wasn’t always yellow. Chocolate pudding came with brown custard for example, and sometimes we got pink custard (pink?). No matter the color however, the custard always tasted the same and it was always lumpy.

Not everything was smothered in custard though. Lemon meringue pie for example, tended to be topped with a layer of shaving foam which took your mind off the filling, which was so yellow the school had to install Geiger counters by the serving hatch. Prunes showed up fairly often, to keep us regular I suppose, but the best part of getting those was counting off the stones at the end in order to determine your future. “Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief”...ah, who needed career counselors back then, eh?

Tapioca was another favorite, although of course, nobody called it that. Frogspawn it looked like and frogspawn it was, with a wee dod of rosehip syrup in the middle. Why, I have no idea. Rosehip syrup was also slathered into semolina, or smelly llama as it was known back then. This was a benefit because you could stir it up and make the whole thing pink, which didn’t make it taste any better but gave you something to do while postponing the inevitable. I could never figure out why grown-ups spent good money on expensive wallpaper paste when they could just have used leftover smelly llama. I suppose they wanted to be sure they could get the wallpaper back off again some day.

But in the world of school dinner puddings, the big one, the holy grail, the best pudding ever, rumor of which would send frissons of excitement through the whole school, had to be...chocolate floorboards. Chocolate floorboards? Yep, cornflakes in baking chocolate; cooked in big trays and cut into slabs. Food only a kid could love. The dinner ladies always made about 18 times as much as necessary because they knew what greedy little piglets we were. Chocolate floorboards weren’t served in the slop line like normal food; that would have been too inefficient. Instead the dinner ladies carried around plate after plate of them.

“Take the one closest to you, not the biggest!” they would admonish and of course, we ignored them. It was all about the quantity. “I had nine chocolate floorboards!” we would brag later “That’s nowt, I had eleven” came the retort. Ah, memories. But the best part of chocolate floorboard day was guessing which kid would be the one to bring them all back up an hour or two later.

Trust me, if you haven’t seen a 9-year old barfing half-digested mystery meat, boiled cabbage, cooking chocolate and cornflakes onto a classroom floor, then you really didn’t get much of an education.