The Theory

It all starts and ends with Dogs. 

By my reckoning it was some time in the 25th or 24th Century BC when the plan first hatched. Formualtive as it was back in those days, the pathway was clear.
You see, Ra, the Egyptian Sun God, had well and truly established himself by this stage. His influence was wide spread, powerful and undeniable. As with any great leader, Amun-Ra was only as good as his team.

In time, Cats would prove a disappointment to Ra. Their failure to hold sway over the human populace of Earth meant he too lost his footing. A late digital resurgence by Cats on Youtube has equated to little more than a comical distraction. However, their God had already given up, conducting a world tour before briefly taking up residence in Central and Southern America, then buggering off back to where ever he came from. The Sun presumably.
Dogs were unsatisfied with this result and resolved to be a great deal more proactive.

Dogs have shown themselves to be very patient among all things. Their resilience has also been impressive, allowing a number of mutations to be forced upon them as time has ellapsed. But, from Chihuahua to Alsation, Dogs have been working towards a shared goal.
After electing not to leave the Egyptians behind, Dogs and Cats stayed among man. Observing. Cats were able to get closer in many cases, while Dogs found there was cause to offer Human Beings aide and assistance, all the while being careful not to interfere too greatly, or to give away too much of their true selves.
For a good many years there was collusion, the sharing of information and strategising between Dogs and Cats. However, the relationship between Cats and Dogs was always strained and mutual levels of cooperation failed to last.

While Cats had been blind to the influence of the Roman Empire, Dogs saw their opportunity to go global. Guard Dogs? Hunting Dogs? Working Dogs?
Who was being guarded? Watching, closely, more like. Monitored. Working? Observing. And what Dog doesn’t like a hunt?
Before long, we were pets. Yes, that’s right. Us. Pets. Even the Cats weren’t stupid enough to miss out on this move.

The Human Being is full of faults and foibles. When Dogs went from pet to menu item, the development was noted. When dogs were used as forms of entertainment, asked to do gladatorial battle for the amusment and appreciation of their supposed Human masters, it was noted. When people started to live one on top of the other, this development was also noted. Hives the Dogs thought? What are they becoming, these humans? Bees?
Thing was, they seemed to breeding more like rabbits and while Dogs seriously enjoyed chasing the odd rabbit, they were disappointed that, just as they were starting to get the Humans trained to the point where they may actually prove useful, it was all starting to fall apart.

Step one was a cataclystic failure. Dogs showed the possibilites of space, heroic canines like Laika, teaching the Russians the foley of relying on Monkeys. Belka and Strelka,  unlike Laika, elected to return to Earth to try and continue their work. Laika expressed her dissatifaction and gave up, instead hoping a comet and heading off to see out her days with her original pet Ra.
The mission to get Humans to leave the planet failed.

Of course there were other mistakes along the way.
Blondi accepted the appealing treat he had trained his rather fanatical owner to provide him regularly, still keen on scoffing goodies despite being aware the confines of an underground bunker out back of the Reich Chancellery was probably going to ruin his figure. Sheba stayed in the car when she should have stayed alongside her pet, Jack Ruby.
Successes too. It has taken a whole team of Corgis to keep Great Britain’s royal family right where Dogs need them to be. Pavlov was convinced by the teachings of Dogs and then of course there were those canines who chose to cash in. Lassie anyone?

More recently Dogs have opted to stay in the back ground. This reclusive option seemed to fit seamlessly with the way Humans had been developed. Dogs had worked hard to make the world as convenient for them as possible, realising early they would not always be able to rely on Humans.
Ra had given mankind the ‘Ancient Knowledge’, the knowledge Dogs are privvy to. It frustrated them the knowledge did not seem to be making it out to every corner, every ear and their failure to fully breach the language barrier (humans are dumber than they might at first appear) was another and possibly ultimatley telling factor. But hey, who picks up who’s poo?

_111412024_mediaitem111412017(if I leave the BBC tag it makes all this ever so much more plausible)

Dogs colluded with Ra way back when.
‘The rarefied gaseous envelope of the sun and other stars. The sun’s corona is normally visible only during a total solar eclipse, when it is seen as an irregularly shaped pearly glow surrounding the darkened disc of the moon’…the definition of corona. Just saying.

Ra gave up on Man but Dogs didn’t.
Now they have their way.

Have you ever seen so many Dogs being walked?

Say safe, stay home, save lives.

 

 

Bliss

Summer sun. Family. Friends. Booze. 

The silly season may have slipped by but it ain’t all over just yet.
Certainly. most of us have returned to whatever it was we did, what many let define them, before the summer break. Work, school, university. Unless you are in that late teen, early twenties ‘I have yet to define who or what I am as a person so I am on a journey of self-discovery’ phase, then life for you will be pretty back to where it was just before 209 ended.

All that sitting around eating, catching rellies and friends up on all the events, happenings, gossip and drama that had been 2019.
Too much to eat.
Still, room for desert.
Too much to drink.
Just one more.

It says something, quite a lot really, about New Zealand culture that almost everything we do outside of our everyday routine, has to be accompanied by a beer or a wine.
Don’t get me wrong, I like a beer or two and there isn’t much tastier than a Central Otago pinot.
A yak over beer catching up on the latest and greatest with an old mate is, as far as I am concerned, one the better ways to spend an eve or a lazy summer afternoon. There is something contentedly correct about matching tales of the glory days with the appropriate mix of hops and grains.

Anticipation. There is the problem. We await the opportunity. The afternoon so and so pulls into the drive for a couple of nights stay. That evening you go over to such and such’s house for the dinner you have always been saying you should have together.
Every move you make in preparation for those types of occasions is accompanied by the clink of class on glass, the rattle of ice in a chilly bin.

Image result for cold beer

I don’t drink to get drunk. Getting pissed is not the intention but is often the consequence. That creep of intoxication you are aware is happening and do nothing to halt.
For me, I don’t accelerate or diminish the pace. Instead, I will just keep merrily drinking. Others slam back their can or bottle or glass in rapid succession, avoiding the creep and going straight to pissed. Still more will sip, watching in a slightly amused/bemused fashion as those around them go from quiet, restrained, to chatty and demonstrative then loud and silly.
“Who invited shouty Mike?!”

It seems, apparently regardless of the situation, there is a need to have the moment memorialised with the serving of large quantities of alcohol.
All walks of life do it, from the middles classes who can afford it, to the lower socio-economic groups who can’t. There is no discrimination when it comes to the consumption of booze.
And it isn’t like we aren’t all educated in the evils of excessive drinking. Alcohol has it’s impact on our road toll, in our hospital beds, our family violence stats, in courtrooms and prisons, even at our favourite watering holes.
There are advertising campaigns everywhere extolling the virtues of moderation. Police, the Coastguard, health, community and education groups, all having a say and all imparting essentially the same message.

The impact of those campaigns I can’t gauge but I would suggest the message doesn’t make it as far as the outdoor furniture, or is at least forgotten as soon as people start to congregate there and around the barbie.
Drink in hand we begin the subtle art of peer pressure.
“Another one mate?”
“How’s ya beer?”
“Get me one while your up”
We don’t actually say it. We don’t have to. You are expected to keep up and are aware of that expectation. While we don’t have the shaming culture we used to if someone is to turn down that next drink, let alone abstain, our subtext is still very clear.

I’m not preaching. I have no desire to be a hypocrite.
My Grandmother used to tell me ‘everything in moderation’. A wise little saying but one wide open to interpretation.
A moderate amount of beer, followed by a slightly less moderate amount of wine, completed with something more than moderately stronger.

 

Image result for scotch in a glass outside"

An excess of natter, over do the laughs, too much to nibble on before the main course is even served.
Get stuck in to the chat, digging deep into the life and times of family and friends. Tell jokes, tell lies. You know, those fishing stories. Embellish the heck out of the year you’ve just had and blow out of all proportion the year set to come.
Make the night all about the reveller, the good old days and the best to come.
Remember and reminisce, dwell and plan and hope and dream and do it all with the people you love or will come to love, at your side.

Do it all with a cold beer in hand. Even if that isn’t what you are there for. Because we as New Zealanders are not so short of history, of stories and yarns and tales, so shy of news and events, so boring, that we have to get pissed in order to have a good night.
Sing, dance, knock over the kids lemonade, flirt and grin inanely and be lame and be cool and trip over the sprinkler you forgot was sitting in the middle of the lawn.
Don’t lament the wine you spilled, the beer you tipped. Let the grass and the earth soak it up. You don’t need to.
Soak up the atmosphere.

 

BPM

Imagine, if you can, what its like when you get so excited your heart rate lifts to match those levels. Now, imagine if that heart rate won’t reset.

Picture a homely scene. A mother, cup of tea in hand, maybe a pack of biscuits within reach, settling on a sofa.
In her arms, a baby. The most gorgeous little girl you have ever seen or will ever see. Just three months old, fussy. Hungry.
Baby is offered the breast. She takes it and Mum leans back, looking forward to a chocolate biscuit treat, a sip of warming tea, a chance to relax. A time to chill, catch up on the sort of rest the mother of a baby misses out on.

Something is wrong. The only one chilled, the only one relaxed, is Mum.
Not for long.
Baby won’t settle, not the way a wee one does when tucked against mother, suckling. Surely the most comforting, restful place on the planet.
Not today. Mum has a brow beginning to crease with worry, a feeling of concern starting to take hold.
Mum is a medical professional. She is equipped. Knowledge, tools.
She reaches for one of those tools, a stethoscope, warms it with her breath before placing it gently against the fluttering rib cage or her baby daughter.

A normal three month old’s heart will bang away at about 100-140 beats per minute (bpm). Not this child. Ears plugged to the life giving pump of her daughter, Mum couldn’t keep up. It wasn’t possible to count fast enough.
Professional assessment was clearly required.

Dad was driving around in circles. It’s what I did, for a living. An independent contractor, I was a courier. When the phone call came, I was in the thick of it, just another day taking one corner after another.
Except today I got a phone call from my dearly beloved, the type of call you pay attention to the instant you hear the voice on the other end of the line. This was no request to pick something innocuous on the way home (has she forgotten what I do for a living?), no idle catch up, no informative chat about why she might not be home when I finished my working day. This call was a request for me to get myself to the hospital as quickly as I could make it happen.

To get to Dunedin Hospital, as quickly as I could possibly make it happen, I needed to make some calls of my own. I rung management, I rung colleagues. Not a soul let me down, people proving they will be there for you when you put your hand up.
I could name names, I probably should. I can’t even remember if I expressed my appreciation at the time, some eleven or so years ago now.
Not adequately I’m sure. There was just too much going on, too much to do, too much to organise. To learn. Everyone I worked with rallied around, did this for me, organised that for me. Were there for me and my whanau.

At the hospital, it’s different. You don’t have control. You can’t organise this, take care of that. You are beholden to the uniformed people more comfortable and capable in that setting. Under fluorescent lights, in cubbies and alcoves off long, wide corridors, this is their world. Despite the soft smiles, the warming words, it can feel a cold a desolate place.
I don’t know how, but I managed to stay cool, calm and collected. Externally at least. Wifey was, understandably, in tears. Our beautiful second born, taken from her clutches and poked, prodded, monitored, frantic conversations held over her baking hot body.
Rapid cooling they decided, shock that squirming little body back in to something close to normality.
Not a thing about this day, this little life, our lives, felt normal.

I can’t tell if you if it was strangely comforting or a worrisome thing, to see the professionals as worried, as freaked and as uncertain as Mum and Dad were.  In the end, after some confusion, it was me who found ice, the petrified Father who plunged his own child into an ice bath.
It worked.

Diving into a frigid tub of ice was not a long term solution. Since that hideous day there have been multiple hospital trips. None as dramatic. On occasion, not far off, even the threat of helicopters called in to whisk our child away from all she knows.
Her ticker has thrown multiple curve balls over the intervening eleven or so years, some a mere blip, others a blot.
Each occasion has impressed on me that sometimes elusive thing we know as community spirit. People really do care, from professionals such as teachers and nurses, doctors and specialists, to neighbours and friends and of course, family. At no stage have we as a whanau ever felt unsupported or unloved.

Recently, somewhat out of the blue, a letter arrived from Starship Hospital in Auckland. They were going to have a crack at that dodgy ticker. A final solution. Hopefully.
The threat, or is that promise, of the procedure has been on the cards for a while. Number Two just had to grow big enough for it to be a possibility.
She has grown. A strong, intelligent, fun, quirky person packed with laughter and merriment and bright future.
Still our little girl. Still a squirming, slippery baby in my calloused hands, cruelly dipped into frozen waters.

My own heart thumps away when I think of what is to come. A simple procedure, day surgery, a night of observation.
To hear it told, all in a days work, not even that. Nothing to worry about.
Are you kidding me?!
Yet I have faith. Isn’t that all I can do, place my trust in those who are learned, qualified, experienced?
The same way I trust my car will come back from the mechanic better than the day it went in.
So while they attempt to jump start my little angels heart (slightly dramatic) I am going to give a thought to the folk who put themselves out, over a decade ago, because they could.
Because they wanted to.

Because I needed them.

Image result for little girl in hospital bed cartoon