Sunday Selections: the nap time edition, no. 2

 

This is the 50th edition of Sunday Selections, hosted by the very creative and lovely Kim from Frogpondsrock. Sunday Selections gives us the opportunity to post those photos that have been hanging around on our computers(s) for ages. I seem to have a lot of photos of sleepy animals, so this is the second edition of my Sleepy Sunday Selections. A third edition will follow next Sunday. We will all be terribly bored by then.

For other, more ‘professional’, photos taken by yours truly and featuring horses and their humans, see my attempt to start a photography business.

 

NAP TIME (again)

Sunday Selections: the nap time edition

Sunday Selections is a great meme that gives us the opportunity to post those almost forgotten photos that have been hanging around in folders on our computers. Kim from Frogpondsrock came up with this great idea. If you like to join in, just hop over to the rocking frog ponds and post a selection of your own. You know how these things work.

Last week I promised you a selection of photos that will make you chuckle or say ‘awww’.
Oh, the pressure.
I hope you won’t be disappointed. And I have to warn you: in some shots Biggles shamelessly displays his balls. He’s a proud boy.

NAP TIME

Which is why we usually just sit on the floor.

Warned you about the Biggles-balls. It does get worse though…

See?

For more sleepy photos of the furry bunch, you’ll have to wait for the next Sunday Selections. I have loads of them and I haven’t even posted the cutest yet…

Honey! What’s our dog called?

An email exchange with Janice from Jabblog brought back a memory that I thought I’d share with you.

First some very elaborate background information:

When you get a pet, you probably want to give it a name. Most people do. (Although, I’ve sometimes thought I shouldn’t have bothered thinking of lovely, fitting names for our dogs. We could have just called them all Cookie. They’re back with you in no time when you shout ‘cooookie’ in a high pitched voice.)

This story is about dogs and their names. People who breed dogs, sometimes have their own rules for naming their pups. Sometimes they name their pups after flowers, or for every litter the name should start with a particular letter, or every pup should be named after a Greek god(dess). And then of course sometimes they have a kennel name, either to be placed in front of or behind the name of the pup.

For instance: our Phoebe is officially called: Kim’s News Look Elegant Phoebe. Kim’s News Look = kennel name, Elegant is the collective litter name, Phoebe is the dog’s name.

Holle is officially called: Bonbon of Clay Diggers. Of Clay Diggers is the kennel name and Holle’s name should start with a B. We thought of Bonbon, because she’s from Belgium and they are famous for their delicious chocolate bonbons. But we had already decided that her name would be Holle.

And then there is Biggles. He’s called Boy O Boy Biggles of Towns Channel. Of Towns Channel is the kennel name. He had to be named after a rose, Boy O Boy, and we wanted to call him Biggles.

So far the elaborate background information.

This is the story:

We have labrador retrievers and used to train them for the hunt. Not that we ever planned to take them on a hunt, but they are retrievers, so we thought we’d let them do what they are bred for. And the training turned out to be a lot of fun for the dogs as well as for us humans. I even entered my dogs (our first labrador retriever Cosy (Cosy Karthuizer Valley) and Holle) in a couple of hunting competitions and we didn’t do too bad. Even won some prizes.

One year our club organized one of those competitions and they asked me to be the one to welcome the competitors and their dogs and tick their names off the list of competitors I’d been given. The list had the names of the dogs in alphabetical order and then the name of the handler.

I’d been given a wonky table and a chair, the list, the numbers the handlers had to wear on their outfit (so the judges knew who it was) and some other stuff, like a pen and a cup of coffee.
Welcoming and registering the competitors went something like this:

Man and very enthusiastic labrador approach the table. Labrador immediately jumps up, puts muddy front paws on wonky table, coffee falls over, pen rolls off, I dive under table to rescue pen, dog dives under table too and licks my face. I pop up again from under the table, wipe face, sit on chair, breathe, rescue list from muddy paws of dog that tries to get onto the table, and with a friendly smile say: “Welcome to this competition. Can I have the name of your dog please?”
Man: “Huh, yeah, thanks. Sorry about that. The dog’s name is Tommy.”
I go through the list of alphabetically ordered dog names until I reach the T: Tabatha’s Turd Turning Harry, Terrible Stinky of the Bean Farm, Twister of the Windy Willows….
“There’s no Tommy on the list, sir.”
”No Tommy?”
”No Tommy. But perhaps his ‘real’ name is different? The name on Tommy’s papers I mean.”
”Oh. Yeah. It is. I dunno. Uhm…” Turning around, looking for his wife who’s patiently waiting somewhere well out of the way of the growing row of people with happy labradors: “Honey! HONEY! What’s the name of our dog?!”
”What?”, woman shouts back.
”What’s our dog called?”
”Tommy!”
”Yeah. I know. But what’s his official name!”
”Uhh, I dunno. Something like Flippy Floppy something something.”

I go back through the list to the F’s. Fast Ada of the Furry Bunch, Fast Eddie of the Furry Bunch, Fast Freddie* of the Furry Bunch (a couple of brothers and sisters had been entered in the competition), Ferocious Brutus of the Nippy Teeth (not a typical labrador name), Foreseeing Trouble in the Woods… “No Flippy Floppies here, sir.”
“No Flippy Floppies?”
”No.”
Man looking back down the line of waiting people, busy untwisting their dog’s leash from other dogs’ leashes: “Hey Harry, what’s your dog called?”
”My dog?”
”Yeah.”
”Willy!”
”Yes, I know, but what’s his official name?”
”Uhm… Stormy Weather’s Weird William!”
”Oh yeah”, and turning to me again: “Tommy is called Stormy Weather’s Wonderful Wilfred.”
Me: “Of course.”

And so I wrestled through the list of dog names, because this wasn’t the only guy who didn’t know what his dog’s official name was. I suggested to the organizers to use a different list next time. One that stated the names of the handlers in alphabetical order. I think it’s safe to assume that most people do know their own names.

When I came home, I asked hubs: “Do you know the official names of our dogs?” Blank face: “Uhhh… no idea.”

 

* All the names of dogs in this post, apart from those of our own dogs, are fictitious. At least I hope so. I made them up. I had to, because this all happened years ago and I certainly don’t remember the names of these dogs.
Fast Freddie was inspired by one of Suldog’s teammates. I hope he doesn’t mind. Wouldn’t it be eerie if he turns out to have a brother called Eddie and a sister called Ada?

Sunday Selections: another love edition

Last week I chose LOVE as a theme, because our Sunday Selections host Kim from Frogpondsrock’s daughter just got married. I found so many LOVEly photos in my files that I had enough for another LOVE edition.

So, here they are:

 

A LOVEly meeting between dog and foal. (They still are attracted to each other. Holle (dog) often licks Evie’s nose. Awww.)

 

The love between Naloma and Evie.

 

Our lovely Holle.

 

Hubs and Evie having an intimate get together.

 

This is just weird.

 

I really don’t love, or even like, my photo being taken. In fact, I don’t even want to look at photos of myself. But this self-portrait I could almost love. Should have cleaned the window though, before I took this shot.

 

Naloma loves being hugged. And no, she doesn’t have 7 legs and two tails.

 

Synchronized love.

 

Yep, there is the ‘horse kisser’ again. He loves (kissing) his horses.

 

They love each other and I know that our Sunday Selections host, Kim from Frogpondsrock, loves them.

On the search for these LOVEly photos, I found a lot of photos that will fit another theme next week. Be prepared for lots of chuckles and awwws.

The mini chainsaw masacre

The things I do to get a blog post.

Yesterday I had the operation (you can read about the ‘what’ and ‘why’ here). I had to be in hospital at 13.00 hrs. and so I was. Hubs dropped me off and would pick me up again later that afternoon. I didn’t see any point in him having to spend an entire afternoon in the hospital where he had spent far too much time already this summer.

A friendly nurse led me into a private hospital room, one bed, a table and two chairs and asked me to sit down. She opened my file. “Not something to look forward to”, she empathized.
“Not really, no.”
“So, the result of your smear test wasn’t good and now they are going to take a bigger sample”, she said, looking at my file.
“Uhm, no? My smear test was absolutely fine. I do hope you have the correct file there.” ‘What the…?!’ She checked my file again: ”Oh? What are you in for then?”
”I’m in for the removal of a polyp from my cervix. And I do hope that that is clear to the gynaecologist who’s performing the operation. That I don’t have to come back next week for this particular operation again.”
”Oh, okay. Don’t worry. You see, they do use the same description for that (‘diathermische lisexcisie’ in Dutch), but I will add ‘removal of polyp’ just to be on the safe side. Now, if you’d like to put on the outfit that is ready for you on the bed there and then get into bed, I’ll come back in a few minutes and will take you to the operating room. Oh, and I have two acetaminophens here, 500 mg each, that you have to take. You’ll be getting a local anaesthetic and unfortunately they won’t help you for the pain you’ll feel from those shots, but it will help for the pain afterwards.”

‘Oh gawd, I don’t like pain. Don’t mention ‘pain’ so often, just give me the pills, bitch.’

She left the room and I quickly swallowed the 1000 mgs of acetaminophen and changed into one of those hospital dresses that is closed at the front and very much open at the back, and climbed into the bed.

After a while the perky nurse returned. “Okay, ready? I’ll take you to the operating room.”

Now, this is a big hospital. It is so big, that visitors can opt for a ride in a golf cart to be taken to the elevators or to their destination if it is on the ground floor. And I had to be taken from the third floor at one end of the hospital to the ground floor at the other end. A brisk walk of about 10 minutes. Logistically not the best organisation, but hey… it keeps the nurses fit.

Imagine that you're healthy, but yet you are lying in a hospital bed and a nurse is taking you on a tour through this huge hospital, with visitors and everybody else who’s for some reason walking around in that hospital either openly staring at you, wondering what is wrong with you (it’s not something obvious, but she’s not lying in that bed for nothing, so whatever could it be?), or trying to hide their curiosity and just glimpsing at you quickly, which is almost more disturbing. I was wondering how to react. Should I pretend to be horribly ill, close my eyes and lie down moaning, just to not disappoint the public, or should I raise the head end of the bed, just nod and smile politely and enjoy the ride? Of course I could’ve also hopped out of the bed and walked to the operating room, but as I was wearing the peekaboo hospital dress….
So I stayed put and chose the second option. I nodded and waved and enjoyed the sort of surprised look on the faces of the curious people, who were probably thinking that I was putting on a very brave face. Which in all honesty, I was.

On arrival, the nurse parked me in the hallway leading to the operating room, where I had to wait my turn. She brought me a magazine to read and after a while another nurse, dressed from head to toes in a green surgery outfit came to collect me. She pushed the bed further down the hallway, parked it in front of a door with a sign on it that said: ‘operating room’ and said: ‘Just wait here, we’re almost ready for you.’ She disappeared behind the door. I was going nowhere in the peekaboo dress and patiently (no pun intended) waited.
The door opened again, the same nurse appeared and said: “Okay, you can come in now.”
”What? Isn’t someone wheeling me in? Do I have to get out of the bed and just walk into the room? Have I been taken in this bed from one end of the hospital to the other, so I can just walk into the operating room?”
”Yeah, well, the door isn’t wide enough for the bed to go through”, she giggled. “And besides, you have to get out anyway, because you have to go on that thing”, pointing at the half-a-bed-with-padded-stirrups-at-one-end.

‘Oh gawd!’

I hopped out of the hospital bed. There was no one else around, and the people who were waiting for me (the gynaecologist and two nurses, all with their loveliest welcoming smiles) were about to see everything and more of me anyway so there was no point in trying to cover my arse, so to speak, and reluctantly hopped onto the bed-of-torture.

So, there I was. “I’m here for the removal of a polyp”, I nervously said, “I'm just mentioning it, because upstairs they thought I was here for something else.”
“Ah yes, easy mistake for them to make. But don’t worry! I know exactly what you’re here for. And it will be alright”, he smiled. “Sorry for the confusion.”

Meanwhile nurse two put a huge plaster on my thigh. “To earth you”, she said, “because he’s using electricity to remove the polyp and we don’t want you to be electrocuted, haha.”
’Yeah. Ha bloody ha.’
”And in just a moment we will ask you to cough, because you will get four shots for the local anaesthetic and coughing will ease the pain of that.”
’I wish you would all stop mentioning the PAIN word.’

“Would you like me to tell you what’s going on during the procedure?”, nurse two asked.
“Sure, why not. Make my day.”
”Okay. So now he’s inserting the speculum.”
’Felt that.’
“Hmm.”
”And now he’s spreading the speculum, because he has to have a good view of what he needs to remove.”
’Mpf, yep. Felt that too.’

“Okay, cough now!”
I coughed.
”Right”, gynaecologist said. “That was the first shot.”
’I didn’t feel anything.’
”Okay. Good. Cough again please.”
I coughed again.
”Second shot”, gynaecologist said.
’Again, didn’t feel anything.’
I coughed four times for the four shots and felt neither of them.
”This coughing thing really works!”
”And when he has removed the polyp, he will insert this – holding up a small sized paint roller, without the handle fortunately– tampon to absorb the blood.”
”Really?”
”Yes, really. I know. It does look huge, but it’s okay and it will dissolve in time.”

And then gynaecologist picked up his chainsaw to fell the polyp.

Didn’t feel that either.

“All done. Went well”, he said when his head appeared again.
”Well, I don’t know about you, but I thoroughly enjoyed it”, I exaggerated the whole experience. Which they thought was very funny.
“I’ll call you in two weeks with the results of the polyp-test”, gynaecologist promised.

And then they helped me off the bed-of-torture, showed me the polyp (wasn’t huge at all) and escorted me to the hospital bed that was still waiting for me outside the door of the operating room. I climbed in and nurse one pushed the bed back to where the other nurse had left me before and promised me that the other nurse would come to bring me back to ‘my’ room. And indeed, soon the ‘tour-nurse’ appeared to wheel me back to the third floor.
“Would you like something to eat or drink?”, she asked when I was back in ‘my’ room. “Well, I would like a cup of tea”, I said. “I might just as well make good use of your hospitality.”
She agreed and brought me tea. “Now, you just rest and I will check with you in an hour or so, to see if you’re fit enough to go home again.” And off she rushed.

I wasn’t really planning to stay in that bed for another hour, so I drank my tea and sat up to see if I felt good enough to get out of bed. I did. So I got out of bed and put on my clothes. And I still felt good. I went out into the hallway, but there wasn’t a nurse in sight. Then I phoned hubs and told him I was feeling alright and that he could pick me up again.
Still not a nurse in sight.
So I walked to the reception desk and said to the receptionist: “Hi, I’m going home, I thought I’d let you know.”
”Oh!? But have they given you a letter yet? And I’m pretty sure you also have to make a follow-up appointment. Tss! What’s your name?”
I told her my name.
She picked up the phone, whilst keeping an eye on me, ready to warn security if I tried to escape: “I have a Mrs. …. here who apparently can’t wait to go home, but she doesn’t have the letter yet, and…. Okay. I’ll send her back again.” She sounded positively annoyed with me.
She put down the phone and looked at me as if I was a naughty child. “The nurse is just preparing your letter. Past the blue wall, second door to your right!”, she pointed back into the hallway. So I walked the whole three kilometres back, past the blue wall and went into the second door on my right, where the perky tour-nurse was busy preparing paperwork for me to take home, with instructions about which painkillers to take and what date the gynaecologist would be calling me with the test-result. And then I was allowed to go home. I walked past the angry receptionist towards the elevators and then the 10 kilometres to the main entrance of the hospital where I arrived at about the same time as hubs did. On the way home, we stopped at the chemist’s to buy a box of 500 mg acetaminophens, the recommended painkiller. Because, even though I wasn’t feeling any pain then, they had mentioned the word so often that I expected to feel something when the local anaesthetic and the effects of the first dose of 1000 mgs acetaminophen had worn off.

But the box is still untouched in the medicine cabinet.

So it wasn’t all that bad.

Really. All this for a blog post. I must be mad.