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A Dog Called Patch

Patch

Feature Photo By Mitchell Orr Upsplash.com

A Dog Called Patch

Taken from a true story.

Our Patch was a unique breed of dog. I’m not entirely sure which of about fourteen species he best fitted, so I think I’d best describe him as a little of each.

Our Patch was genial, gregarious, outgoing, and highly sociable. As his name implied, he also had Joseph’s coat of many colors. He was short-haired and of medium height, with one ear raised up and the other flopped down.

We had found Patch at an animal rescue center, and our boys fell in love with him. (I felt it was because of how he cocked his head when they spoke to him.)

Patch had unlimited energy, and my husband and I felt that our quarter-acre property would give him enough space. Our garden was surrounded on three sides by a six-foot wall and a solid hedge in front.

We had not bargained that Patch had a very naughty side to his nature, which came as a surprise. My husband and I were at work each day and our teenage sons were off to school, this resulted in Patch having a fair time on his own.

A day or two after joining our family, we heard Patch barking and someone screaming. We all left the breakfast table, rushing outside to see what was causing the raucous. Well, if it weren’t for the severity of the situation, I would have laughed until my sides ached at what I saw. There was our Milkman on the roof of his cart screaming for help! Patch was not in the least bit concerned as he was busy lapping up milk from broken milk bottles that crashed to the ground as the Milkman made a hasty retreat to his cart.

While I consoled the Milkman, our boys took Patch indoors. A neighbor casually mentioned to my husband that he saw Patch sitting on top of the wall each day. We could not believe that Patch could climb the wall. One day, the two of us watched him skirt up and sit on top of the wall. From that post, he had a birds-eye view of the goings-on in the neighborhood.

The best was yet to come. While walking out the gate, on my way to the bus stop one morning, Patch tried to follow me. I shooed him back into the yard. As my bus arrived, there was Patch, head cocked and tail wagging happily. He tried to follow me onto the bus. Once more, I chased him off and sat down, relieved. Now the bus driver began hooting furiously. I stood up to see what was happening. There was Patch, sitting in front of the bus, refusing to move. “Lady, you will have to get off the bus and take your dog home, please,” the driver was furious.

For about a week, all was calm with Patch, and I was hoping he had turned over a new leaf. No more chasing the Milkman, no more lying down in front of the bus.

But wait, better is yet to come. One Friday evening, as I returned home from work, I noticed a piece of clothing on the front lawn. Picking it up, I was shocked; it was a pair of black lace nickers! I was horrified, suspecting the worst of my sons.

I spoke to my husband about my find, and we agreed to have a stern talking to our two boys after supper.

We called them in and pointed to the pair of nickers on the coffee table. “What’s this all about then?” My husband asked, pointing to the underwear. My eldest stated, “Nothing to do with me, Dad.” The younger made a similar response.

“Right then, lads, since you have nothing better to say, you are gated until I get the truth.” The boys, with shoulders hung, were followed by Patch, tail between legs, left the room.

The next day, as I was cleaning the lounge, something caught my eye. It was Patch jumping down the wall from our neighbor’s side. He strutted across the lawn, proud as punch, with a pair of nickers in his mouth. I ran out front shouting at him. He darted around the back, like lightning, through the kitchen, upstairs to the bedrooms, and made his way under our eldest’s bed.

We all stood around the bed as the boys tried to persuade Patch to come out. We moved the bed finally. “Look at this, Mum,” our younger exclaimed.

Under the bed, was a collection of nickers and bra’s, with Patch standing protectively over them.

“Looks like we’ve found the culprit,” my husband offered sheepishly.

If you feel this article has value, please send this link to others. Writings are meant for people, not for dormant files in our computers. Often, when we share them, it results in positive changes in the lives of individuals and communities.

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Weekly Words of Wisdom

Habits Atomic

Feature Photo by Lala Azizli Upsplash.com

Changing Habits

I have always resisted any form of change. As time has passed, I have realized that change is a constant in my life, whether I like it or not. Resisting change is a habit I have had for more years than I can remember. Try though I may, I could not break this habit.

I was under the illusion of believing that so-called change involved only the bigger developments in my life, not incidental, moment-to-moment happenings.

There are myriads of annoying little incidents that take place in my life. A neighbor’s yapping dog, someone playing excessively loud music, a person being rude to me. All these are annoying, to say the least. But why am I so affected by these events? Because they are challenging me to change my bad attitude habit.

After reading much of Eckhart Tolle’s works, I began to wake up to the fact that the pain I felt in resisting change was from my habit, not the challenge of change.

He also speaks about ‘conscientiousness’ and the importance of living in that state. I now practice this throughout my day. I discipline myself to focus through the course of every activity I’m engaged in, no matter how small.

Reading Tolle’s information has had miraculous results for me.

I live in the now moment. I contend with my old habits of resisting change. I’m continually aware that my habits create my pain, not the challenge of change.

If you feel this article has value, please send this link to others. Writings are meant for people, not for dormant files in our computers. Often, when we share them, it results in positive changes in the lives of individuals and communities.

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If you are spiritually inclined see my other site; www.adcrucemchristi.com

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Whiffle Golf

Three young men waited for the club secretary’s selection of a fourth player to join them in the Wednesday Club Competition.

“Meet Roger Forsythe, he’s looking to join some young blood.” A smiling club secretary greeted them. Roger’s face lit up as he faced the group. “Love playing with young blood; won many a prize because of that strategy.” Watching the three young faces it was not difficult to see their disappointment. Who could blame them? Roger was in his late sixty’s and overweight. When he spoke there was a chesty whiffle to his apparent laboured breathing.

They pulled names out of a hat to select their teammate and after some discussion on handicaps they made their way down to the carts. Jason and Cuen, two of the team, who now became a twosome against Roger and James were selecting clubs a little way from the tee. “Providing he doesn’t drop dead on us, the old man is easy meat, so we need to stack up the bets.” Cuen smiled as he spoke in hushed tones to Jason. “Why not?” replied Jason.

On the first tee a measure of discussion took place on what the three considered friendly betting on the two teams. “Count me out on the bets, I’m happy enough to collect a prize.” Roger appealed in his wheezy tone. No one argued that one and they tossed a coin for first team out.

The young men were big hitters using drivers with bulbous heads; they were clearly in the 200 yard plus league, Roger on the other hand, trailed them in the  late 170’s. But in many respects the three were erratic. The young men’s shots were long, yes, and dry fairways with short brown grass, gave extra run to their strokes. Yet, probably one in five of these big hits took advantage of the favorable fairway conditions, as four out of the rest were either ‘hooked’ or ‘sliced’ and as a result the three spent a large portion of their game off the fairway in the rough. The fairway benefit was all Roger’s as his shots followed the fairway and rarely came anywhere near the rough. One might have said that Roger was consistent.

What was also consistent about Roger was his ever wheezing whiffle. He appeared to be struggling to breathe by the time he reached the greens. Fortunately for him he either landed on the green with his chip shots, or on shorter holes with his shot off the tee. Clearly though, Roger’s downfall was his putting. Often he landed within a few feet of the pin and then missed the hole by an inch or so when putting. Strangely, Roger never seem to be upset with his putting weakness. After a miss, he could continue a few practice swings, smile, and move on.

After the ninth hole the four moved to the clubhouse for some refreshment. It was hot and the young men did quick justice to a couple of beers each and a packet of fresh fries. Roger settled for tea. Jason remarked, “Roger, are you sure you up to another nine holes, sounds like your lungs were struggling over the last nine.” “I’m good; usually improve, both breathing and game on the second nine.” Roger smiled reassuringly. The three laughed, not taking Roger seriously.

“In that case Roger, join us in the betting; we usually sweeten the stakes on the back nine.” James said merrily. “Thanks James, but no thanks. You guys are hot-shots and all under par at the moment, it seems.” Roger responded defensively. “Think of it Roger, you have one of the hot-shots, as you call us, on your side, what can you lose,” persisted James.

Cuen joined the discussion, “Look Rog, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll give you ten to one odds; on individual play, if one of us wins it costs you one Rand, you win, you get ten. On the team event you stand a winning chance for the team prize; after all, you and James both playing well.”

Roger finally relented and agreed to Cuen’s offer.

They teed off the tenth and all were happy with their arrangements. As the game continued it became apparent that Roger’s whiffle had eased off considerably and his putting became more accurate.

By the fourteenth hole things were looking a little gloomy for Cuen and Jason with Roger toting up a mean score. As a team, James and Roger were doing well, thanks largely to Roger’s improved playing. When an opportunity presented itself and the two were near each other, Jason muttered to Cuen, “The old dog has come to life, we’d better pull ourselves towards ourselves, or this could be an expensive game. In fact Cuen, after this game, I shall be wary of your judgement.” “Stop whining Jason, you agreed to the arrangement didn’t you?

As the game continued, tempers were flaring with Cuen and Jason. The angrier they became, the worse they played. James managed to keep his cool, probably because he partnered Roger.

They walked off the nineteenth and into the clubhouse.

Sitting at the pub were three unhappy young men, shelling out wads of notes. Roger opted to shower and so the three sat bemoaning their losses at the bar, without Roger’s presence. “Well the old whiffler sure skinned us.” Moaned Jason. “Ag, he just had a stroke of luck on the back nine,” commented Cuen. “Well, be honest, he did warn us that his breathing and game improved on the last nine and we went and agreed to a ten to one bet!”

Just then club secretary approached, “Fine bunch you three are, I had my money on you – Roger did not look so well today, so I took a chance on you guys.” “We’ve lost a packet!” Jason spat. “You and I both, seems Roger will be collecting a stash today, especially from the caddies,” the secretary went on. The caddies?” questioned James. “Yip, about twelve of them backed you.” There was a fair amount of cussing from the three, but eventually, Cuen began to laugh and the rest followed suit.

The secretary, caught his breath, “Our Roger is a hectic gambler, here every Wednesday to collect his stash, never misses.

 Roger collected a packet full of notes and contentedly filled his pockets, after buying a round. “You are one sly old ba****ed Roger,” Cuen laughed, you sure took us!” “Night’s not over yet.” Quipped Roger.

Roger did not go home empty handed. Pockets stuffed with notes, he and James were runners up in best team of the day award and to boot Roger was awarded, “Most Improved Player.”

Opening his front door, Roger’s wife called, “Perfect timing, dinner will be served shortly.” He opened a bottle of bubbly and the two sat down to a scrumptious roast.

They chatted and after dinner went through to the living room, where a large table held Roger’s spoils.

Rosie, Roger’s wife sat down and not unalike a Father Christmas, Roger gave out their prizes. “For my wife Rosie: the runner up award for the best team of the day, a beautiful duvet cover, with matching pillow cases for our bed; next, an envelope containing one thousand Rand, a gift from those who thought they bet against a whiffley old man. For myself, a two hundred Rand voucher from the pro-shop for the most improved player of the week!”

Rosie beamed, “My man always bags the goose!”

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If you feel this article has value, please send this link to others, Writings are meant for people, not for dormant files in our computers and very often when we share them, it results in positive changes in the lives of individuals and communities.

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Why Write? – Part Four

This is a cost free course. 

If you have just joined us, then you need to read previous editions in the series, you will find these here: https://sirpeterjames.com/category/why-write-course/. Scroll down to the beginning, ‘Why Write?’

With each publication in this series, I will be giving you assignments to do and ask you to return these to me for editing. This way you send in your effort, which I call a ‘submission’ and I send back a ‘correction’ In doing this, you end up with a comparison.

Continue reading Why Write? – Part Four

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Manifesting…..

A Pick-n-Pay Experience

I have often heard that Pick ‘n Pay ran competitions where one could win a month’s worth of groceries and wished I might be a lucky winner.

One day, Stella and I were debating as to whether to leave the comfort of our apartment, go out into the cold and do some shopping. Should we go local and that way return to our home sooner rather than later, or travel to the mall and make a morning of it.

We both needed issues to be resolved at our respective banks and decided that we might apply ourselves to the task of grocery shopping at the same time. In the light of this, we opted to brave the cold and travel to the mall.

Bank efforts took much longer than expected (why were we surprised?), by which time my stomach informed me that it was way past tea-time.

We opted to go to a Woollies for a croissant with butter and jam, along with a ‘nice’ cup of tea.

We were disappointed as the menu displayed the item, but we were told, it was ‘out of stock’. We made a second choice, which turned out to be a disaster.

We left Woollies disgruntled and went into Dis-chem and Stella asked why we were going into Dis-chem. “Shaving cream”, I replied. Why don’t we get it at Pick’nPay she asked? I thought for a moment and responded, “Good idea.”Pick 'n Pay

We walked into Pick’nPay and I asked, “Where would the shaving cream be?” Stella looked about thoughtfully and replied, “Down that aisle.” We marched down the aisle laughing and joking about our Woollies experience.

Along the way, we were approached by a young man, “We are looking for people to interview about their Pick’nPay experience, so we can use it for advertising on TV. If you accept doing the interview, we will give you a shopping voucher for R2500. Would you be prepared to be interviewed?”

I could not believe what I was hearing and began to cross question the young man to make certain I heard right. Stella said to the young man, “Interview him,” pointing to me. However, I was still trying to confirm what I’d heard. All the while Stella urged me to, “Go on John, you can manage that.” She was now raising her voice and laughing at the same time.

“Okay I’ll do it.” The young man looked happy.

Within what appeared to be only a few minutes, the camera team, complete with all their equipment, positioned me for the interview. A young lady tarted up my face and soon the camera was rolling. The young man began asking the first of his eight questions. He and the team seemed quite impressed. He said, “I never expected you to answer in this way – this is really great, he exclaimed!”Pick 'n Pay. 2jpg

After the shoot was done, amid reassurances that I was bound to make a continuity announcer on TV, we received our voucher; however, the team could not say if the King James Group would use the material.

Stella and I looked at each other awestruck!

As it happens, Stella and I are a retired couple and were a little tight on our food budget for the month. This windfall would be a big help in that regard.

Off the two of us went to tackle our shopping with new vigor and loads of laughter; we were like a couple of excited young children at Christmas time.

I looked around, not knowing what goodies to choose! Stella saw a bunch of Proteas – “These are beautiful.” she exclaimed, “Take them”, (We hadn’t bought flowers for ages) I waved my hand as if we had unlimited funds. She saw a little lamp she needed, “Take it”. I said in my most illustrious voice. We reached the Deli and I asked about a pie, which we hadn’t had for a while. “Let’s take two!” I cried. “Now, now, John. We just got R2500, not R25,000; stop getting carried away.” Stella retorted.

We laughed all the way down the aisles to the till point.

The joy we felt at our windfall was only exceeded by the wonderful way in which it had Pick 'n Pay. 3jpgall come together. We reasoned, as we chatted later; at any point along our journey we could have decided upon another route and would have missed this wonderful experience.

My wish had manifested – whats more….the cherry on the top was that the ad agency, King James, did use a clip and I appeared on TV!

All rights reserved sirpeterjamesdotcom©2019-08-01

If you feel this article has value, please send this link to others, Writings are meant for people, not for dormant files in our computers and very often when we share them, it results in positive changes in the lives of individuals and communities.

If you are spiritually inclined see my other site; www.adcrucemchristi.com

Please feel free to send in questions (see ‘Contact’) and comments (hit ‘Comments’

button).

 

 

 

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Every Dog Has His Day…..

 

“Every Dog has his Day and every Bitch – Two Afternoons.”

(American Proverb)

Dogs

 

 There was once a dog, call “Dog” and his mate called “Bitch”.

They lived in a comfortable suburban home with their owners.

Every day started with a bowl of dog food porridge and every day ended

with a bowl of dry biscuits. In between they drank from bowls of water.

On Sunday’s they were given bones from the owners table, after they

finished their meal.

On being handed their bones,

Dog would run away and bury his bone, returning to snatch Bitch’s

from her, eating it and then saying, “Haven’t you heard,

‘Every Dog has His Day!’ Sunday is my day – ha! ha!”

The following Monday, whilst Dog was fast asleep dreaming of Doggy Bone Land,

Bitch searched until she found Dog’s buried bone, which she ate with relish,

carefully burying the remnants. The following afternoon Bitch dug up the

remnants and ate those too.

On Wednesday Dog went off happily to find his bone, which of course was

not there!

He was furious and snarled at Bitch, who responded nonchalantly; “Haven’t you heard:

‘Every Dog has his day and every Bitch two afternoons, haha!”

All Rights reserved sirpeterjamescotcom©01.01.19

If you feel this article has value, please send this link to others, Writings are meant for people, not for dormant files in our computers and very often when we share them, it results in positive changes in the lives of individuals and communities.

If you are spiritually inclined see my other site; www.adcrucemchristi.com

Please feel free to send in questions (see ‘Contact’) and comments (hit ‘Comments’

button).

 

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Trail of Wilderness

Medieval Prose by sirpeterjames.com

Youth in Wilderness

Along the trail of wilderness wandered I ,my heart did cry, who am, I who am I?

Yet no reply, no reply came to my reporte. Yet did the wind call in its flight yonder.

Is this the voice I seek, the voice of my thoughtse? Nay, surely not; the wind is but a knave seeking willful sporte.

Continue reading Trail of Wilderness