Thursday, July 23, 2026

Web Log for 7.22.26

Note to Serena's delivery staff: We are low on kibble. The kitten isn't eating solid food yet, but before the cats finish their next shrunk-down-from-20-pounds bag, he undoubtedly will be.

More online time was spent ganking things I'll want to keep if the Greedheadnet forces all the sane people offline, rather than reading e-mail or news sites. A first: other people shared more music links than the Meow pages I visited.

Animals 

How shall we do the Summertime Nag today? ScottieChronicles wins the prize. Guess what he's thinking about getting up to go for? Do your pets have some?


Music 

Ray Charles. (News flash for some, apparently: In the US the season for patriotic songs runs from Memorial Day through Labor Day. Halloween starts in October. And Christmas starts after Thanksgiving. Some people do not understand this because they are tacky. Then again, the writer who sent me a Halloween-theme book probably just wanted to make sure I had time to read it.)


The Cascades.


Lee Greenwood.


Yeahman.


Bruce Springsteen.


Joe Satriani.


John Mellencamp.


Chaka Khan.


Don McLean.


Queen.


John Denver.


Paul McCartney.


Neil Diamond.


David Crosby.


Simon & Garfunkel.


Bob Marley.


Tom Petty.




Dolly Parton.


Elijah Bossenbroek.


Miley Cyrus.


Toms Mucinieks. 


Toby Keith.


Ludovico Einaudi.


Waylon Jennings.


Blake Shelton.


"Speedy" Toliver, who moved from Virginia to Washington, DC, possibly due to people's reactions to his desecrating folk music traditions in this way. 


Proposito Music.

Book Review: If I Were You (a.k.a. Deception)

Title: If I Were You (US), Deception (UK)

Author: Joan Aiken

Date: 1987

Publisher: Doubleday

ISBN: 978-0385239646

Length: 337 pages

Quote: "Good heavens, Alvey thought, what kind of establishment am I proposing to enter?"

(Partial spoilers appear in this review. No worries, I've not given away how the murder, the elopements (more than one), the medical cases of the 1810s, or any of the really "plotty" plot elements end.)

Alvey Clements and Louisa Winship met for the first time at boarding school, where everyone noticed how much they resembled each other. Rather than being intrigued by the idea that they were cousins, they tended to resent each other: Alvey was an introvert from the fledgling US, Louisa was an extrovert from the British border country. Nevertheless, Louisa wanted to be a missionary in India rather than just go home and marry a neighbor as expected. Alvey wanted to write books. So Louisa pushed upon Alvey the idea of going to the border country and impersonating Louisa, whom nobody had seen for four years or, Louisa guessed, missed very much.

This is a literary novel with elements of Regency and a faint whiff of Gothic. It's not a romance; Louisa will of course find somebody unsuitable to fall in love with, but we see Alvey having a fancy for Louisa's brother, which of course never goes anywhere, and Louisa's brother's friend having a crush on Alvey, which of course is not returned, and Louisa's sister having a crush on the brother's friend. There might have been a sequel in which all this doomed Teen Romance was resolved. There never was. The story ends, to my delight but some readers' resentment, with all four young people dutifully suppressing their feelings.

So what happens? According to the resentful review Amazon has chosen to feature, the novel lacks a plot, presumably meaning that Alvey doesn't have a romance (though other characters do). I disagree. On careful reading it has a lot of plot. In fact part of what happens is that Alvey, who has written a clever, plotty novel (readers of Jane Austen's biography will recognize many plot elements in this novel), discovers that a family story can be even more interesting than a romance. In a quiet way, typical of what happens when an introvert replaces an extrovert, a lot of things happen. Some of them are very bad; when Alvey comes home, people don't stare into her face and realize she's a different girl because they're distracted by an accidental death. Most of the things that happen work out for the good of everyone involved. 

Alvey knows better than to talk to Louisa's immediate family (except for one of the sisters, who becomes her best friend) so she listens politely to them. (Luckily for Alvey it was fashionable for young adults to call older relatives "Sir" and "Ma'am" instead of, say, "Father" or "Grandmother"; if Alvey's grandmother thinks this is an affectation, she doesn't complain.) Having someone to talk to helps each of Louisa's relatives resolve a private problem the others didn't seem to understand. By the time Louisa decides to come back to her own home, everyone has noticed that Alvey is a different person, but they're carrying on with the deception because they like having her around. Alvey never realized that she had any personal charm, any gift for anything but writing witty genre fiction; she discovers that she has. Her brother's friend, a medical student, would want to be a research psychologist if the specialty existed yet, and Alvey would have been an excellent therapist. 

I say this is a splendid coming-of-age novel, no less than The Color Purple, and much easier for sensitive readers to take. Alvey wanted a writing retreat because she'd lost her elders in the US, so her story ends brilliantly with the Winships affirming that of course she's a long-lost cousin and she "ain't drinking out of my cup but of her own." She has a home. Readers may overlook that, in Regency England, she couldn't have had a legitimate romance without one. Maybe she'll stay in her home and be the heir, as everyone else marries or dies; maybe she'll find a man and move out. But there never was a sequel to tell us which.

Let's just say that the attention to a new e-book called Deception made me wonder whether people were looking for the review of this book. I searched the web site. I'd never posted a full-length review of Joan Aiken's 1987 novel here. I thought I had because I'd mentioned it favorably in several other posts. It is in fact one of my all-time favorite novels. I would have loved it in high school or college; I loved it in 1988 when it reached US libraries, and I love it still.

Belated Book Review for Wednesday: The Haunted Birdhouse

I read three whole e-books on Wednesday. All of them were seasonal. Those reviews will appear in their season. Here is a review that's not been online for a while.

Title: The Haunted Birdhouse

Author: Flora Gill Jacobs

Date: 1970

Publisher: Coward McCann & Geoghegan

ISBN: none

Length: 74 pages

Illustrations: drawings by Reisie Louette

Quote: "It's a martin house. Martins, you know, are very fond of nesting together in birdhouses that are almost like little apartment houses."

Five-year-old Jamie thinks the elaborate antique martin house looks haunted. Nine-year-old Polly feels "all the scorn of a nine-year-old sister" for this idea...but there is something spooky and strange about the birdhouse! The cat thinks so too!

The mystery stretches out to tantalize readers between ages five and nine. Possibly some nine-year-olds know the perfectly rational solution, but let's not spoil it for them.

This is a nice, cheerful, friendly, spooky but occult-free mystery for primary school readers. If it inspires them to build their own stark, modern-style martin house, all to the good. Even the "ghost" in this story is a fairly nice creature to have around.

Fair disclosure: the copy of this book that I sold was not in good condition. It had not spent forty years in an antique birdhouse, but the children's room in a well-used public library is almost equally hard on books. Then it was stored in a shed, where it was found and greatly appreciated by my frequently annoying cat Bisquit...Bisquit never expressed much interest in the grown-up mystery series by Sneaky Pie Brown, but she thoroughly enjoyed a more juvenile mystery with cat pictures in it. I've never seen a cat show so much interest in a book before. Her stamp of approval was on almost every page!

Right...so this copy is recommended to anyone looking for something to read in a tree house or share with a cat. A clean copy, which I'd be delighted to send you, is recommended to any primary school reader who would like to know what really might haunt an old abandoned birdhouse.

Bad Poetry: Go West, Rain

"Though our traditions served us well,
No longer must we wait
On them," said the young fool in the north.
"Now we have glyphosate.

Instead of burning strips of pine trees
We might easily sell,
We'll kill all other things but pines
That dry and burn so well."

And so they did, that spring. That summer
Miles of pine trees burned;
The smoke lay heavy on the land.
Yet autumn soon returned.

Fools don't learn. That's what makes them fools.
Next year they did the same.
For many miles away, folks choked
On smoke. They were to blame.

"Though glyphosate is killing people,
We can spare some numbers,"
The old fool in the south said. "Onward
The Economy lumbers!

Let more old folk die younger! Let
The young produce more babies!
And have a War, to thin the herd!
And..." you know. Christian? Maybe his

Claim to conversion's real, but his brain's
Not attuned to the Spirit,
And he must be struck down and blinded
So that he can hear it.

Is poison worse if made in China?
So he bloviated.
Who sells you poison's not your friend.
Hunched in his web, he waited

To see more spraying in the north
Bring back the choking pall
Of smoke that drifts from north to south.
Then, well known for his gall,

He blamed the north for fouling air
People breathe in the south,
And, far from help to fight the fire
Before the south's own drought...

Forgive us, Lord, both south and north.
The east has too much rain,
While once again a deadly drought
Has gripped the central plain.

Please waken people in the north,
Convict them of their sins,
And westward blow our surplus rain,
So everybody wins.

(Cut-off point for tired eyes)

For those who've not been paying attention...These are just some popular links from Google. If you dig you can rake up even muckier stories, conspiracy theories, etc. I don't want to bother. This is a legitimate news story the CBC, the BBC, Reuters, etc., have covered, but not publicized well due to their Trusted News Initiative mandate to smother stories about what's wrong with sponsors' profitable products under layers of celebrity gossip and silly quibbles. The big US news outlets have tried to avoid this story altogether. Ignoring it's not going to make it go away.

Canada's spraying glyphosate on the old forests that might be considered among its great treasures:

 
Canada's claim on reciprocal help to fight its ensuing wildfires:


Trump's un-neighborly and hubristic response to that claim:


The Cat Sanctuary is currently in one of those weather patterns, described in old British and Western European folklore, where rain on (local lore disagrees on exactly which day) a certain day in early July indicates that more rain is going to fall on every one of the next forty days. In the US this rain usually occurs as part of thunderstorms. The lights didn't go out yesterday or last night but I unplugged the computers, just in case, four times. One day last week, by chance, rain didn't fall on the Cat Sanctuary itself but we could see it a few miles away. Tennessee had floods the weekend before last. New York City had floods last weekend. We could spare a little of that rain, and how gladly we would, if it were in our power to send a good natural water-bombing to Canada.

But who knows? If Canadians confess and renounce their sins, show a healthy distrust of those in the US and China trying to sell them more of the poison that plays such an obvious role in this sudden explosion of wildfires, maybe God will help us all with a helpful weather pattern. It's worth trying.

This poem was provoked by last weekend's Poets & Storytellers United prompt. Google's blog feed has been malfunctioning recently so I received the link only on Monday night. The poem that came to mind seemed topical enough for a Thursday post here, so here it is. I'll try to post a more cheerful poem to the PSU link-up on Friday, as well as the one on Substack.

Wednesday, July 22, 2026

Web Log for 7.21.26

Sometimes I think of writing a Southern Wholesome Novel, as distinct from Southern Gothic, and then sometimes I think nobody'd want to publish it any more. The story I've been playing with, from time to time, since grade nine, is so wholesome it's romance-free. It's about a family of three generations but I still think it works best with the focus on the teenagers. Totally non-commercial. Of course that means it's a natural choice for Amazon...but hasn't everybody gone off Amazon now?

Fiction, Horror 

First of all, when there's a YouTube channel that claims to offer Shocking True Stories, you know it's a venue for fiction, right? E-friends have written for these channels. Priscilla Bird had one of her Baker National Forest fables solemnly read as a true story on a Bigfoot channel.

But what's with the "Appalachia Horror" genre? I think I know.


Ooohhh, the isolation! Fear the isolation! No street lights, no noise from rude neighbors at night? That's not peace--it's daaanger! Something's likely to go horribly wrong if you're not where your social worker can take care of you and know where you are! You might be offline! The government couldn't surveil you! Horror! Horror! We must seal all the entrance points and federalize all the rural land so that people can't be in the danger of being alone, seeing real dark and real stars at night--doing horrible things to each other--like dying of a then-incurable disease in peace in their own homes, which many people really did a hundred years ago. (Yes, what you might find in an "abandoned" house might still be sad, even gruesome--as it might be, anywhere. People die; sometimes the process is messy.) Or like teaching each other how to live independently of the Internet and the housing programs and the big government to make sure you never get anything better than everyone else has. 

There are people who should be afraid of the Appalachian Mountains. The social workers and big-government theorists should be. These low and nurturing mountains, where nobody ever needs to starve or freeze, make them irrelevant and obsolete; they have to change, to become fully human, or else know themselves to be useless. (I'm in favor of that.) People of good will respect one another enough not to want to trespass on other people's land, and have very little to fear from the mountains. Although, if the socialists take over, that will change; the Global Community Forces will no doubt come in to ferret out every last surviving Southern Baptist. 

What makes a noise like a child laughing that doesn't sound natural? Or like a cell phone, or like a day-flying bird singing at night? Mockingbirds, for one thing. The guilty consciences of trespassers and of writers with evil intentions, for another thing.

If what you feel in the Appalachian Mountains is fear, and it's not the healthy fear of encountering an unknown growling dog or an indignant land owner, then by all means to back to California or some other "Blue State" with lots of big government to make sure to "equalize housing opportunities," after anything happens to the remaining decent neighborhoods, by herding all the former home owners into housing projects with lots of homeless addicts lying in puddles outside their tax-funded flats. The horror stories there are real but at least you'll be safe from the uncanny, or at least unfamiliar, feeling of being alone in (an unusually benign part of) Nature. Though not, of course, from the possibility of a guilty conscience following you home.

Knitting 

I'm delighted to see that Carol Fun is knitting again. I don't know why a leg injury put me right off knitting, the year I had one, but it did. She's had a leg injury and...I hope this pair of socks means she's feeling much much better.


Music 

Aaron Copland.


Horst Jankowski.


Procol Harum. (Sometimes people discover their favorite albums floating around on YouTube...)



Angelo Badamati, TV composer ("Twin Peaks").


Spencer Davis.


Tom Petty. Some links are to the Traveling Wilburys recordings on which TP was not usually the featured singer. 





Moody Blues.


Robin Williamson. (I started to type "Robin Williams." LOL. Wishful thinking. No relation.)





Alessandro Moreschi. (Not a fan of opera? Neither am I. He flourished about a hundred years ago and was remembered as "The Last Castrato." You've been warned.)


Traffic. 



Atlanta Rhythm Section.



Neil Young. Does not deserve a rant on the subject of how men block out self-awareness and improvement by exaggerating self-blame, because I think he's exaggerating that to the point of self-parody already. 


ZZ Top.


Mark Knopfler.


Some young person who's presumptuous enough to call herself "Buffy," no family name. Hmph. "Buffy" implies Sainte-Marie, not some random twenty-year-old. This "Buffy" has talent, but Buffy Sainte-Marie she is not.


J.J.Cale.


Emancipator.



R.E.M.


Tchip-Tchip.


War, the band.


Matthew Halsall.


Police Behaving Well 

Joe Jackson says he used to be a cop, so he's especially appreciative of Good Cop Joshua Swisher, who saved a motorist's life at some risk to his own.

Books I Wish I'd Discovered Sooner

This week's Long & Short Reviews prompt asks about books we wish we'd discovered sooner.

There are books I remember discovering. The discovery of some books is a memorable experience. I remember the first time I read The Sneetches, Yertle the Turtle, Hop on Pop, and One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, all of which I was supposed to have been too old to like, but I read them with my younger siblings and loved them. I remember the delight of getting to know, all in one winter, My Friend Flicka, Caddie Woodlawn, and A Little Princess, all of which I was supposed to have been too young to like, the winter between Hop on Pop and The Sneetches. That was grade two. I don't remember any discoveries or learning experiences at school, but what a lot of them I had at home.

It's easy to remember when I first read books during school terms, because I remember what we were doing at school, which was never as interesting as a good book. Grade three: Louisa May Alcott's Little Men. Grade four: The Bad Times of Irma Baumlein (recently reprinted as Irma's Big Lie), Gone-Away Lake, A Story of the Stone Age, and I spent a lot of time with Spanish for Beginners. Grade five: The House of Dies Drear. Grade six: the year my brother and I really got into the Little House books, at which I'd glanced, but which I'd not really read, before; A Wrinkle in Time, So Dear to My Heart. And so on.

I remember which year I read some books for the first time as an adult, too, though as an adult, doing more of what I chose to do, I did the same things for several years in a row, and the memories run together. Nevertheless. 1987 was the year Margaret Mahy's award-winning young adult novels were printed in the United States. 1988 was the year I discovered Crescent Dragonwagon's Year It Rained and Joan Aiken's If I Were You (Deception in the UK). 1989 was the year I began knitting; Kaori O'Connor's Creative Dressing, Annette Mitchell's Country Diary Book of Knitting, Sue Bradley's Stitches in Time, Erica Wilson's Knitting Book, stand out in memory. 1990: Chellie Pingree's and Helene Rush's Maine-theme knitting pattern books, and Christian de Falbe's Designs in Hand Knitting. And so on.

I don't remember thinking "I wish I'd discovered this book sooner." There've been other pleasures I've wished I'd discovered in time to share them with departed friends. Books haven't been on that list; friends who like books have tended to find their own. I remember being glad I found Langston Hughes' "Jess B. Semple" stories in time to share them with my husband and our students; everyone laughed over them. Glad, too, to share Cleveland Amory's Ranch of Dreams with my parents, and Hop on Pop with The Nephews, and so on. But generally the discovery of a new book has seemed to be what it is. I might not have liked it so much if I'd read it before reading other things, anyway. With historical literature, the more you've read, I find, the better it all gets. 

I do remember a time when I thought, "I'm glad I gave this one a second look!" That was in grade three, with Elizabeth Enright's Then There Were Five. Mother had found it while we were thriftshopping and asked if I wanted it. I opened the book; my eyes fell on a longish paragraph in which a character was preaching on, in dialect, "Erosion they call that...that's where my scrap metal goes." I thought, Oh ick, another book about things like soil erosion for children, told as a story; better say I'll read it and hope nobody asks whether I ever did; so I agreed to the purchase of it. Some months passed, and one evening I sat down and picked up the book with soil erosion in it. (I knew a fair bit about soil erosion from riding the school bus along Route 23, where red clay earth and sometimes rocks were still bleeding down into the road.) I was surprised, and delighted. I enjoyed all four Melendy Family books, all the way through school.

Later on I remember some books that I wish had been written sooner. The work hadn't been done to allow them to be, but it would have been nice to have known that my whole family were Elaine Aron's Highly Sensitive Person (s). Would I have felt motivated to go to university to do the research that went into Kathleen Desmaisons' Potatoes not Prozac, if that book had been written earlier, and how would my life have been different if it hadn't started with chronic mononucleosis? How different would Mother's life have been if Maximum Metabolism had been available in 1970? It's all idle speculation but it is possible to wish that knowledge had progressed a little faster than it did.

Tuesday, July 21, 2026

Web Log for 7.20.26

Mostly music, but I did find two news stories and a poem worth sharing.

Glyphosate Awareness 

Tariffs on Canada for pollution from their suddenly annual wildfires? What about some help to put the fires out? Then find out whether it's true that Canada suddenly has a worse fire problem than California because they've been spraying their forests with glyphosate. They've admitted the spraying; it's the causal connection that remains to be confirmed.


Gardening 

Is everyone Out There finding good uses for all your "weeds"?


Homelessness 

Karen "La Bassura" Bass suggests that homeless people use meth to stay awake at night because they're afraid of being attacked. It's possible. Many people become homeless in the first place because they are addicts. They trade drugs to support their own addictions. Homeless people who were not addicts start using drugs, in some cases, to cope with the misery of being homeless. So let's just say that using meth is a really very bad solution to the reasonable fear of sleeping on the street when you still have anything that has value in the homeless community, like shoes.


People aren't angry because she reports these things. They are justifiably angry because she babbles about using public funds to support them.

Music 

Neil Young.



Paul Weller.


"Twin Peaks."


End of the Ocean.


Montrose.


A poet and his computer.


Aukai.


The Honkytonk Wranglers.


Tom Petty.







Pet Shop Boys.


Matthew Halsall.


Steely Dan.


Quantic.


Baden Powell.


Astrud Gilberto.


Tom Waits.


Olexandr Ignatov.


David Crosby.


The Animals.


George Harrison.


Electric Light Orchestra.

Book Review: How Not to Renovate a Haunted House

Title: How (Not) to Renovate a Haunted House

Author: Jenny L. Howe

Date: July 21, 2026

Publisher: Delacorte

ISBN: 978-0-593-80912-9

Quote: "[M]y favorite parts of really old places are the absurd ghost stories."

Amity's divorced parents, who had a really big house in California, decide to sell the house so that Amity's mother can (drag Amity along with her and) move into a colonial-era house in Massachusetts. If Amity wants to go to college "for free," she has to attend the college where her mother teaches. Amity's spent her high school years preparing for college in California; at the last minute she finds out that she has to go to college in Massachusetts instead. But at least the house comes with an absurd ghost story, which is being promoted on the Internet by a boy Amity and her best high school friend find attractive. 

Oh, for more young adult novels where (realistically) a mere boy's merely attractive face doesn't matter to the protagonist; where, if she must pair off, she pairs off with a boy after she's actually got to know a few different ones. Or (shudder, quake) at seventeen she thinks it might be a good idea not to try to be half of a couple until she's had some practice living on her own, the way I did at seventeen, and this does not mean that she's saying no to romance or marriage or motherhood; it means that she's saying yes to life while she waits for boys her age to start to show some indication of the kind of men they're going to become. Or, if she likes the boy's face on the Internet, she learns that that doesn't mean she'll like him in real life; in real life another boy might be more interesting. Or she has her adventure on her own, and likes a boy, and might have a romance with him later, but the girl's adventure is a story in its own right, independent of any romance she may also have, that year or ten years later. In real life, sharing an adventure is a good way to get acquainted with another person, but in real life every adventure every young person has does not fit by a precise, prearranged formula into a romance. 

But this is a sweet romance. The ghost is, in the reality of the story, real. The girl and the boy are mutually attracted. The girl doesn't seem interested in any of the classes she's taking or the jobs for which they might prepare her; like the protagonists of Teen Romances of 1950, she really just wants to reproduce. The kissing is choreographed to fit in with the laying of the ghost. For me the progress of Teen Romance might be plausible by itself (a few college boys are as nice as Theo, who has a tattoo just to offset what a devoted son and sensitive boyfriend he is) and suspension of disbelief in the ghost story might be possible, but the synchronization of the two plots is too much suspension of disbelief at once. For some readers that's not a problem. It's a cute, clever, slow burn romance in which a long-ago ghost story is brought to light and the ghost is laid to rest...or at least one of them is. There could easily be a sequel. 

The ghost story is mild, like the romance. There are ghosts, plural, and one of them is righteously indignant, but their motivation is to tell their story rather than to hurt anyone. 

As entertainment, this more-rom-com-than-horror story should get a high school student through a few study periods, without provoking any embarrassing emotional reactions. I miss the days when Delacorte was publishing the sort of novels Nat Hentoff and Barbara Danziger were (then) writing, but even readers who want to be activists don't always want to be spurred on. There's something to be said for novels that help us relax, too, especially during high school study periods. 

Petfinder Post: Bull Mastiffs and Large Cats

Today some American busybodies are observing "No Pet Store Puppies Day," presumably by harassing pet stores that sell puppies. Pet stores I know neither have the space nor want the trouble, but there's actually a lot to be said for holding pet stores to standards for pet care and licensing them to sell kittens and puppies. The Humane Society, infested as it is with people who oppose the whole idea of anyone being so much better off than the poorest of the poor as to dare to own a home or have a pet, actually want cats and dogs to go extinct. They celebrate the loss of whole breeds of domestic animals. They need opposition and competition. 


This is Angus, a 6-month-old, 60-pound puppy from Hico, Texas. More about him below.

This week's spotlight, however, falls on a dog breed whose appeal is limited. 

A note on spelling: "Bull Mastiff" is two words, but on the Internet many people write "Bullmastiff" as one word to get around web filters that assume "bull" is always used in a rude way. When this web site means an insanely aggressive person, a stupid idea, or an outright lie, we say those things. When we say "bull" we mean the animal that mates with cows. 

Bull Mastiffs were bred to attack people--poachers on land the lord of the manor reserved for his own hunting ground. A show-quality Bull Mastiff weighs over 100 pounds. Since dogs tend to be stronger, pound for pound, than humans are this raises considerable question about who owns, leads, or carries whom. Vets might reasonably refuse to see them even if their owners could get them into a veterinary clinic. Big strong dogs are still dogs whose natural tendency is to love and protect the humans who feed them; Bull Mastiffs can be loyal, lovable pets. Still, most people can't take proper care of a Bull Mastiff and shouldn't try. 

The breed's name reflects its ancestry. It's a cross between Mastiffs, a family of super-size dog breeds, and Bulldogs, a family of flat-faced dogs bred for the ability (why beat around the bush about this?) to kill a bull. Fights between large aggressive animals were popular entertainment in bygone years. Bulls and bulldogs were thought to be well matched. Bulldogs come in all sizes, with Bull Mastiffs being the biggest and Bull Terriers being relatively small. They all have flat faces and a tendency, once they start fighting anything, to fight to the death. People who don't mind looking at these dogs (which I, personally, think are uglier than toads) say that when they're kindly treated they don't want to fight and are sweet, loyal, affectionate pets. 

There are not a lot of Bull Mastiffs in these United States. Nor should there be. However, Petfinder does have a category for this breed. Most of the animals in that category are crossbreeds, smaller than "full blood" Bull Mastiffs, and still abandoned at shelters because they were too big, strong, and energetic for their previous owners to handle. 

No cat breed presents the same problems Bull Mastiffs do, so should we go with Persian cats, which can have dysfunctionally flat faces, or Manx cats, which are always sturdily built (they have shoulders) and are often called ugly? Our Graybelle, a mix of Manx and Persian, shared the Bull Mastiff's most obvious and often undesirable feature; she was extra-large. She only looked as if she weighed more than 15 pounds when I lost her, but she was not quite a year old and had a lot more growing to do. The cat we believe she grew up to be did weigh about 25 pounds, and probably looked alarming to people who hadn't watched Graybelle grow up. 

Why do some cats just keep growing to twice the size we expect house cats to be? They're throwbacks to their wild ancestors. Before the species was domesticated, their ancestors normally weighed 25 to 30 pounds. Humans bred selectively for the smallest cats, the ones least likely to survive on their own and thus most likely to stay close to humans. The result is a strain of domestic cats whose normal adult weight range is 10 to 15 pounds, with many individuals even smaller. Once in a while, just as two black-haired humans occasionally produce a blond child, two domestic cats produce a kitten that grows to the size that is really natural for its species. Manx and Maine Coon cats, which are normally large anyway, are two breeds that are likely to produce these throwback kittens. Extra-large cats often keep growing for more than two years; it can take five years to reach a healthy adult weight of 30 pounds.

Extra-large house cats seem usually to think of themselves as just house cats who happen to be bigger than most other cats. As kittens they learned to hug someone's ankle when they wanted to be picked up and cuddled, and then one day person noticed that they were hugging person's chest or shoulders when they reached up, instead. They have the size of bobcats but not the survival instincts. Even after educating your neighbors about these cats, it's a good idea not to let them go out alone. People just don't understand. 

Because people don't understand, and because there aren't all that many extra-large cats anyway, an extra-large cat is not always available for adoption in any specific place. 


The photo was on the Meow a few years ago; Lens can't find the original image. 

Real wild cats (bobcats, lynxes, cheetahs) sometimes become pets too...and they have to be released into real wilderness, or kept in a large secure enclosure. People are still scared of them. They are still likely to pounce on chickens, rabbits, maybe young lambs, and they could still do a lot of damage if they played just a bit rough with humans. People do caress tigers...sometimes they wish they hadn't.

Now, the animals. Back to Angus, the adoptable Bull Mastiff crossbreed shown above.


Angus is being advertised for adoption on several Petfinder pages, but you'd be ahead to adopt him in Texas. He has serious vet bills there--get used to it. Even his rabies shots and worm treatments will probably cost more than rabies shots for a normal 30-to-50-pound dog. He's already been neutered. The basic fee is $400 and then they add $300 for transportation across the state line, whether to Arkansas or to Maine. He was found straying around Hico, Texas, with another pup, possibly dumped out and too young and dumb to realize it yet. The puppies were lured indoors, brought to the shelter, and vetted. Angus is already too big for many people even to try to lead, or lift, and he's still growing. He won't be quite as big as Clifford the Big Red Dog in the picture books of our childhood, but you may feel as if he is. He is just a baby who likes to bounce around and chew on things; he could knock you down and leave deep bleeding wounds in your hands, just learning how to use his strength for not hurting the people he loves. There is no way you could keep this dog at the same house with a small child. He will be a chore to load into a truck if you have to take him anywhere, a chore to train to walk at heel or anything else, a chore to feed, a chore for the vet to treat if he becomes ill. He will impress your friends and neighbors with his size, but considering the effect a 30-pound Aussie has on most people you want to scare away, Angus is probably overkill. But he's a sweet, lovable puppy who wants to please humans. You might want to give him a home just for that reason.

Zipcode 10101: Klaus from New Windsor 


Story of a Bull Mastiff's life: He was adopted as a puppy, about three months old. Then he was sent to the shelter, about six months old, because he was getting too big for his humans to handle. He's behaved well, considering how many people don't--and shouldn't--want him. He can't help that he doesn't fit into the modern world. Adopt this fellow only if you have some experience handling dogs who are heavier and stronger than you are. 

Big Daddy Blackberry from Hoboken 


Sixteen sleek, healthy pounds, Big Daddy Blackberry is part Bombay and has that "fancy breed" look. He is FIV-positive so he'd do best as the only cat. He's friendly, but not recommended for children--for one thing, if you move away quickly, he may think you're playing tag and grab you. But if you can have only one cat and need to keep that cat indoors, he might be a great pet. He's accustomed to having people exclaim about what a great gorgeous beast he is. He doesn't mind.  

Zipcode 20202 Maggie Mae from Luray, or Culpeper, or Georgia, or Wherever 


This friendly old dog--over 7 years old, which is getting up there for an extra-large dog--needs a big yard and a strong handler, but she has good table and toilet manners and aims to please. She has had some problems with men in the past, possibly because she was driven away or dumped by one, and may behave better with women. She will almost certainly need to build a bond with the man of the house, anyway. She is one of those dogs who've been abandoned in the past and now want to stick to their human everywhere. She wants to lean her considerable weight (probably too much for the shelter's scale, because all they say is she weighs more than 101 pounds) on her human on the couch and sleep on the floor beside her human's bed. While able, she hardly seems to need to be kept in a crate or on a leash, although the law may require it; she wants to go where her human goes. She has travelled close to the length of the United States, looking for a permanent home.

Adele from Annapolis 


Her web page is incomplete. Anyway, she's large but not fat, has been a house pet before, and would like to be one again. 

Zipcode 30303: Athena from Rossville


Athena's web page is incomplete. They think she's half Bull Mastiff and half Border Collie. She's still under 60 pounds and may stay under 100 pounds. She might live longer than 10 years, too, and she's still young--they're not sure whether she's still growing. The adoption fee is reasonable, but the adopter needs to be prepared to live with a dog who's still bigger, stronger, bolder, AND more intelligent than the average dog. A foster care agreement might be the best way to find out whether you can cope with this dog. 

Luca from Acworth 


He's one of four siblings who were rescued together and are close. You need to have room for at least one of the others. There are two ways to adopt any of this cat family: by twos, or by four! This may explain why the cats have been fostered together from the age of 3 weeks to the age of 3 years. Luca is just the biggest brother. No special problems are indicated but the cats aren't good with small children.

When I selected "Bull Mastiff" on Petfinder the system automatically showed me Angus first, because he was on the page of a shelter in Tennessee. I thought it might be nice to end this post with an extra-large cat who's available for adoption on the Point of Virginia or of east Tennessee. There aren't any--listed as such. There aren't a lot of cats in shelters here, in any case, and none of them is even fat, much less oversized and healthy. However, this sixteen-pounder, who isn't listed as extra-large in the web form, has answered to the name "Gigantasaurus."


He may be some sort of cousin to my long, tall, broad-framed, muscular, absolutely never fat cat Serena, who gets called "that big fat cat" from time to time. Serena's great-great-great-great-great-grandfather and great-great-great-great-granduncle were both mackerel tabbies, like him, and  were automatically called "Big Mac." Whether this cat is as nice as they were may never be known. Both "Big Macs" were abnormally kind and protective with their kittens; Gigantasaurus isn't going to sire any kittens. You may have heard, "Cats don't actually have shoulders." British cats do! Females can hide two or three pounds of kittenage before they start to look pregnant; males build bulky muscles and stalk around weighing more than a typical "American" cat does, all the time. If they learn to be cautious about plopping their weight right down on a soft, sensitive part of you as you sleep, they're not hard to live with. If you let them become obese and cranky, of course, all bets are off. An overweight pet is not a happy pet and is not likely to live with a very happy human.

The thing you'd find hard to remember, about Gigantasaurus or about Big Daddy Blackberry, is that they're not all that extra-large. They might be the biggest cats in their neighborhoods but they're not likely to be mistaken for bobcats or lynxes. This does make things easier.

Monday, July 20, 2026

Web Log for 7.19.26

Not much time online today...

Animals 

Those who read Spanish may like this cat and poetry blog.


Hubris, Corporate 

Now it's Google where somebody imagines that failing to post my comments on other people's blogs is going to persuade me to let Google install more cookies on the laptop. Will not happen. I just wanted everyone to know that I visited all the blogs that participated in the Feline Friday link-up, whether or not a comment went through. I'm guessing several bloggers visited the last Petfinder Post and their comments didn't go through either. Cheers. Stick to your guns. No cookies for Google until Google gives up this stupidity.

Music 

I'm not sure...some sort of musical drama.


Tom Petty.


Music with Relationship Advice 

Tim McGraw indulges in typical, emotionally abusive, male gaslighting:


Oh, he's so earnest! So full of that hypothetical soul she thought he had when she married him! So innocent! So tenderly pleading that he can't understand why she has to be angry all the time! Any woman who listens to this song just has to want to give him a sweet little pat with a 2x4 plank...

Boys. You may be fifty years old, a lot of you do this when you are about forty years old, but you are acting from the part of your brain that is four years old. You are acting as little boys. You are playing games to defend your ego from having to learn and change. Nobody should ever let you get away with it for one second

If she's "angry all the time," she might just have major PTSD from having survived a hatecrime, but if that were the case you'd probably know it. No. More likely you are annoying her all the time

So here is what you do, boys. This is hard, it is painful, it is very frightening, we understand you feel afraid to do it. Feel the fear and do it anyway. Sit down and write down the words your wives said when you started telling yourself that they were "angry all the time" and it wasn't about you. It was about you. You may find yourself writing some general, all-purpose terms of verbal abuse that don't refer to any specific thing (other than throwing back some of the hostility you threw at her), but persevere until you come to ten specific things you did or failed to do that she mentioned when she was expressing anger. 

Your assignment is to work on those things. If you get to the end of the first list, start over and see if you can't remember ten more things.

Do not say one word about her. You know nothing about her. What you think you know is blinded by a sewer full of toxic ego-defense nastiness. She is a vast cosmic mystery of awesome perfection to which you can only blink up through your sewage-filled eyes. Focus on you for a change. What you said. Wht you did. What was so wrong with you

When you're throwing out generalizations about her being "angry all the time," boy, a lot of things are wrong with you. You have some hard, heavy, scary work to do. While you are doing that work, you must keep yourself from blurting out any of those ugly judgments about her, even the ones that you think sound sweet and loving. She is not angry, or if she is you wouldn't be able to know it. You are annoying. You are a source of anger. Chances are that anyone who loves you less than she does would find you absolutely unbearable. Deal with it. 

Because you have these horrible tendencies toward emotionally abusive behavior,. this judgmentality, this dishonesty, these sick ego defenses, you need to spend some time living with the presupposition that she's right and you're wrong, about everything, all the time. Kill that sick part of yourself, that thing that defends your loathsome behavior, dead. 

You are a thing. Think of yourself as her thing. You exist only to atone for the disgusting things you've done and said. Shut off your ego defenses and practice penance, medieval style. If she once mentioned the bathroom floor, keeping that floor clean enough to eat off is your job. If she complained about waiting on you, be sure that you're always the one waiting on everyone else in your household. If you were supposed to have bought something for the family and you spent your money on yourself, duh, you know all the money in your household belongs to her. If she throws an iron skillet at you and it happens to be full of boiling oil, you deserved it--say "This thing thanks Your Grace for helping this thing to suffer for its misdeeds." Don't try to be funny about this, either. Nothing is ever funny, and you must not allow yourself to smile, until she laughs.

Suffer. Like she's been doing for all these years when you just sat there defending the toxic infection that is your ego, whining that you didn't know why she was angry all the time. Lean into the pain the way you'd lean into a scalpel lancing an infection. Let that horrible, slimy, stinking ego ooze out. Wonder how you were able to keep breathing with such filth inside you. Stand in awe of anyone who could bear to look at you, or touch you, or smell you, while you were walking around with that stuff inside you. Try to get it all washed out with disinfectant. Let the burn clean your sick mind.

Eventually, if you do this sincerely, she'll tell you what you need to do to restore love and good will to your home, and you'll have a viable relationship again. 

Do not expect it to be easy.

Do not expect to be able to keep one tiny scrap of that feeling that you were right and she was wrong. 

Do not expect that you have any right ever to feel like the leader in your home again.

The surprising thing is that, after you have spent a few years living with the reality that you are wrong and you are to blame and if you had a thought in your head you shouldn't have given it any attention, because you exist only to serve and obey, people--including your wife--may start to think you are a decent human being after all. Try not to give too much attention to this. You are not worthy of any kind of leadership position but, if you know how unworthy you are and practice self-abnegation continually, your family may start to want to follow the spiritual light that radiates through you. 

Not that any well-preserved middle-aged woman who has to give this kind of advice to somebody's idiot husband every month or so can ever imagine how your family will ever see any spiritual light in you. They have had an opportunity to see something in you that was lovable. We have not.

Book Review: Hooked Rugs

Just a few readers have seen this review before. It is being reposted for those who have not seen it.

Title: Hooked Rugs 

Author: Ann Davies and Emma Tennant

Date: 1995

Publisher: Sterling

ISBN: 0-8069-1339-8

Length: 128 pages

Illustrations: many full-page color photos and charts

Quote: "The humble rag rug...[was] too lowly to figure in written records...[I]t is very difficult to trace their history."

Fortunately for rugmakers, the purpose of Hooked Rugs is not so much to trace the history of the craft as to provide outstanding examples of what can be done with it.

Davies and Tennant go on to mention that rag rugs have been made this way for hundreds of years, and some designs and terms suggest a link between British and Scandinavian rugmakers, but little has been written about them. Some rugmakers just used up one rag after another in random stripes, or made irregular patches of "crazy quilt" or "broken glass" designs. In more prosperous times, however, rugmakers could buy fabric, not necessarily worn to rags, or yarns in the colors they wanted, and create appealing texture and color patterns like the examples in this book.

By the twentieth century, rugmaking had become a color-by-numbers craft often done by children and disabled patients, who began with kits of pre-dyed, pre-cut yarn. Craft stores still sell dozens of rug kits to fill up time in schools and hospitals. Those who have worked a few precut rug kits and not completely lost interest in using their latch hooks, however, may want to try designing their own original rugs.

Hooked Rugs provides that intermediate step between blindly following a prefabricated kit and designing a completely original rug. The book contains a few dozen designs, charted in varying degrees of detail; it's up to you to copy the designs on canvas, find rags and yarns in appropriate colors, and create your own colorway for your rug (you're not likely to find exactly the same colors shown in the book).

In fact, it may be difficult to find supplies for making a totally awesome rug. British rag rugs were traditionally hooked from small scraps of worn-out clothes and blankets. Even in England, the authors admit that people aren't wearing out wool fabric at a rate that will satisfy rugmakers. The coarse acrylic "rug yarns" sold in the U.S. look like wool from a distance, but don't come in the beautifully subtle colors, nor have that finger-and-toe-soothing quality real wool has. (While acids and dyes used in processing wool can irritate skin, natural wool releases traces of skin-soothing lanolin whenever it's touched.)

Thick, fluffy wools marketed to knitters are delightful to handle, but are likely to be lopi, an unspun or barely-spun roving that pulls apart easily before it's been knitted or crocheted--not much fun to hook. Cotton, hemp, and jute are sturdy enough to hook but will pack down fast if the rug is actually used. You'll probably have to choose the compromise materials that work best for the intended purpose of the rug.

Despite its British origins this book contains an international sampling of rugs, with patterns that celebrate the United States, Canada, various European countries, and a bird the authors dubiously describe as "of indeterminate species" that looks like the winter coat of the Scarlet Tanager, as seen in South America, to me. (Use true black and red, look up exactly where the colors go, and it will be the Scarlet Tanager North Americans know.)

Even if you don't plan to hook a rug, this book is a treat for the eye.

Butterfly of the Week: The Wenling Graphium

One of those pretty, ethereal white Swallowtail-type butterflies with fine black stripes on their wings was only recently declared to be a new species. Older Swallowtail species names always commemorated characters in literature. Graphium wenlingae was named only in 2019, and commemorates the town of Wenling. 


Photo from Hu, Cotton, et al. 

or

Native to Vietnam, it doesn't seem hard to find, but it's been hard to classify. It was part of the mess of species and subspecies that include Graphium tamerlanus, G. timur,  G. mandarinus and so on. In the few years since it's been accepted as a distinct species, very little has been published about that species. It does not have a Wikipedia page yet, and its INaturalist page shows only one museum specimen. 

Here is a page showing museum specimens, with field marks, variations and so on: