The Dog Hid my Homework

 Puppy Coco killed a mouse when she was out for a walk with my Grandson, Carsen.   Coco was then quickly recruited by the B.I.A. (Barbet Intelligence Agency) and given the Undercover Name:  "Miller" (Mouse Killer)

Puppy Coco killed a mouse when she was out for a walk with my Grandson, Carsen. Coco was then quickly recruited by the B.I.A. (Barbet Intelligence Agency) and given the Undercover Name: “Miller” (Mouse Killer)

I have a female Barbet.  Coco is 2 years old.  This breed is known for its speed, agility, intelligence, and beautiful temperament.

Carsen & Coco on the deck @ Bean Around the World, Ambleside, West Vancouver BC
Carsen & Coco on the deck @ Bean Around the World, Ambleside, West Vancouver BC

Barbets have an immense sense of humour… they love to make up little games and tricks to make you laugh… Coco quickly slips in and out between the chair legs under the 10′ dining table.  Just when I’m exasperated, and dizzy from circling trying to catch her, she will slowly come out with a wide smile and stand to get her leash on so we can… finally… go for  a walk.  This is a ritual and not always that funny when I’m late doing my Blogging 101 homework.

I’m late with yesterday’s assignment and still haven’t started today’s.  I think of an excuse for the WordPress ‘Teacher”.  “The dog lost hid my homework!”



I spent a LOT of time looking for Blogs I felt connected to so I could write a comment with some meaning to it. There are a glut of blogs that specialize in commercially selling products. Lots re-post most of the content on their pages from online sites, books, and magazine images. Many are well designed, graphic, busy… yet the content is rather vacant.

My patience for squinting is limited! These are the formatting features that take me too long to read: White print on a black background. Background and print are both colored creating a simultaneous contrast. … teeny gray print…

I was looking for ‘from the heart’, spirited, inspiring Blogs. Critiques, Examples, DIY Demonstrations, Art, Interiors, Books, Cooking/Baking, Crafts… and uplifting text: as in, “Yes You Can”, do ‘new thinks’, think B-I-G, tryout new patterns, go for a poem walk… access your inner world!

I did leave many ‘Likes”, while scrolling through on my search, and here is where I felt at home:  Bloggers cultivating their own individuality and sharing their enthusiasm for living with their readers:

Here are the four Blogs I left a comment on:

Trying out homemade charcoals and inks.

In closing… i crave connection with others who have unplugged… closed the door on Marketing & Commercialism.  

It’s all about Blogging… not Flogging!

©2015 Nicole Rigets

In with the Fruit Peels when I Die

We’re here and gone.  We’re in and out.

The swell of the waves makes my thighs quiver and my lower body feels sensations taking in the movement of the sea.  The Shangri-La thrusts above the headland.

A deep pink geranium sits pretty in the black cast iron urn near my feet silently dropping her petals as she too admires the whitecaps. A dainty sophisticate, the geranium has an oriental lily pad leaf anchoring an English flower and bud with small petals, fanning out a saturated hue against clouds swollen with shadows leaning along the sky in layers.

The icy wind is bending tree branches and whirring the stalks of shrubs into a frenzy. The Seawalkers keep their collars up and kleenex under their noses as they brace their steps for the next burst of cold air breaking over them.  Long scarves twirl and leap outward in a scatter-brained dance.

The train tracks creak, dogs yip and howl.

My feet are cold, as is my tea, and yet it is mesmerizing to sit in the midst of it all.  A lone gull is being blown blocks out of his way by the next forceful blow of the wind.  He’s drawn across roof and tree tops and sent soaring away from the water toward the hard blue mountains.

A steady grumble makes its way through the leaky windows and the canvas awnings flap furiously against the current.

Without warning leaves are blown inside out revealing their naked light side.  The logs sitting atop the giant granite boulders lining the walk thunk, thunk, in repetition.  All is divine as blue sky and tips of sunlight foreshadow a heavenly day.

Now the sun comes out to spoil me warming my bare feet resting on the tile floor.  The rays are blinding as they reflect off the water and the surface of the sea glitters in madcap fashion. Sunlight is pulled back and in ten breaths I see only a glare as the seagulls wail mournfully.  The sun is back, in the completion of a sentence, playing hide and seek with me.  I have to squint hard against it.

More people are out walking now.  The path becomes a medley of color:  mauve, red, blue, pink, white, gold, black, navy, tan:  the colors of our clothing, our cars, and our floral arrangements.

The walk has emptied, my tea is drained, I leave the solarium in peace having read a few more pages from Louise Erdrich’s book, “The Blue Jay’s Dance.”  A Birth Year.  Exquisite, lyrical prose by a Best-Selling Author, Mother, Observer of Nature and Poet.  These little vignettes are “unpredictable and unforgettable.”  The mundane of everyday life is rendered marvelous!

Once back in the kitchen I look out and see the arbutus tree waving wildly in the wind. My concern is for the crow who built her nest in a strong fork of one of the branches.  I can see vaguely through the blossoms that she’s home by a small glimpse of her shiny black feathers.  The tree  is caught up in a baby hurricane and I think of the bird mother having morning sickness in the dizzying gale. If the eggs aren’t scrambled by the time the wind ceases the birdlings will be born remembering this psychedelic drama in their incubation. All day I fret over whether the nest will weather the storm.

I had watched the nest being built and the crow had a mate helping to weave each thoughtfully chosen strand of material into a new home. Many trips were made carrying puffs of something white and fluffy. Normally the nest rests in utopia almost hidden by the thick and lavish white flowers and green leaves of the arbutus tree; a floral-lined loft.  By sunset the scene turned calm, the five-hour power outage was repaired, and I had the kettle back on. I was extremely grateful for electricity, a safe nest, and all the energetic forces of Mother Nature purifying the air we breathe.  The electric heat is back on, the fridge is cold again, and the food didn’t spoil.  So what if the computer wouldn’t work, I got this written anyway… by hand and heart.

Crow Nursery constructed in the boughs of the red-trunked Arbutus Tree

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets