“I’m going to call the new year two thousand and ten, not twenty ten,” I said.
That was as close as I was going to get to committing to a New Year’s resolution.
“I’m calling it twenty ten,” said my husband.
“Why? That just sounds too unofficial ” , I replied. “Saying two thousand and something sounds better.”
“You didn’t call all the years of the last century one thousand and nine hundred something, did you?”
Touche´.
Happy New Year, all twenty ten of it!
“Throw a rock into a pack of dogs, and the one that yells is the one that got hit.”
I heard this expression for the first time many years ago.
My friend Aggie told me that her Grandmother used to say it to her and her brothers when she was trying to determine who to punish for starting a fight.
“I say it to myself in Spanish, because that’s how Grandma said it, but it pretty much translates to, “If you throw a rock into a pack of dogs, the one that yells is the one that got hit”, Aggie told me.
“She would look down her finger, wagging it back and forth at us as she said it. We all knew she would find out who started the fighting, and so the best thing to do was just to confess.” Aggie laughed as she remembered, “It was always my brother who started the fights, so we just waited, and he always fessed up.”
Now that she had her own daughter, the mystery of Grandma’s ability to divine the truth seemed less mysterious, but I could see her give a little shiver.
It took me a while to fully understand the expression, as I had to get past the idea of throwing rocks at dogs, or that Aggie’s Grandma would have used an expression so harsh as to imply that any of her grandchildren might be one of those deserving dogs.
I understand it now. The expression embodies the notion that ” a guilty mind needs no accuser”, or “the lady doth protest too much, methinks”.
I have also heard a more colloquial translation of, “He who smelt it, dealt it.”
I find myself thinking of this “rock in a pack of dogs” expression more than a bit lately, because of all the political finger pointing, denying, and buck passing that’s been going on.
So if you’re not guilty, just be quiet, and let the dogs that got hit, yell.
Leslie
P.S. Aggie, I still have the gold Cross pen you gave to me. Thank you.
Lulu LaBonne at Earwig Sandwich threw out this first line for a limerick… A Lady With Bichons In Brittany…
It was intended, I’m certain, as a term of endearment for French Fancy , but of course I couldn’t resist finishing it, me being a Limerick Whore.
I got busy, and came up with this:
A Lady with Bichons in Brittany
sang praises about them in litany.
As she finished her list,
Her Frise she kissed,
then shouted, “The Bichon has bitten me!”
I have great hopes that I have not insulted French Fancy with my fiddling.
The rest of you, stop that groaning noise. Just stop it!
I do have my mother to blame for my gift. It’s all her fault. She initiated me at a very tender age by throwing out first lines of limericks, then prompting me through the process of finding just the right words to fit the rhyme. I am now helpless in the face of an unrealized limerick.
This got me to thimking, and I have decided to allow a never before seen glimpse into the mental workings of a Limerick Whore (sic).
Here’s my secret…The Name Game. You know… Shirley, Shirly bo Birley, banana fanna fo Firly, fee fi fo Mirley. Shirley. A little trick with Nick…
Well, not exactly the name game, but the Alphabet Game. I made up that name, the Alphabet Game, but that’s what I’m calling it.
Use as example, the word Brittany. I have to come up with all the possible rhymes for Brittany, because I will need two rhymes for the limerick, and the best way I know to find the rhymes is to drop the first letter of Brittany and substitute, in order, each letter of the alphabet.
Inside my head sounds like, “Crittany, Dittany, Frittany, Gittany, Hittany, Jittany, Kittany, Littany… all the way to Zittany. Yes, in some rhymes I drop the “b” and the “r” in Brittany, but it’s a limerick. Don’t be too hard on me. (Thimk homonym-ish)
The words dittany and litany jumped out. I wikied “dittany”, knowing vaguely that it was an herb of certain properties, and I was hoping those properties were something serious, like hemlock, so that it would have impact in the limerick. Not so. Dittany proved to be relatively mild. I put “dittany” to the side for a later, more desperate consideration.
“Litany” popped out at me straight away, but I still needed one other word to rhyme with Brittany, and no other from the list stood out.
Not a problem. I would ignore finding another rhyme for Brittany at this point, and go on to the next two lines.
Ignore-ance is a great way to deal with problem solving, I have found.
The next two lines only have to rhyme with themselves. How easy is that? And I find it a good place to weave the limerick back on itself, using synonyms for Brittany and litany, as it were.
I wanted to include a rhyme in those lines with the nicely syllabled word “Frise”, which is the other half of the name of the dog breed… Bichon Frise, but you just go ahead and try the Alphabet Game on that word.
My mind said to my mind, “Give me another word for litany.” It gave me litany = list. “People who own those cute little white fluffy dogs surely list their positive attributes, as in litany. “
See how this thing writes itself? I thought you would.
The word “list” needed a turn with The Alphabet Game. “Bist, cist, dist, fist, gist, hist, jist, kist… Aha! Kissed!!”
Per-fect! (Again, thimk homonym-ish)
People who own little dogs are usually fond of kissing them. And sometimes they kiss the wrong dog at the wrong time, and, voila… bitten me = Brittany.
That solved my need for another rhyme for Brittany. (Told you it writes itself)
Then you make the all the syllables into a proper limerick cadence.
And there you have it.
Now, go practice, children.
No. Do not alert the authorities as to my mental stability.
There once was a looney named Leslie…
Leslie
PS I not only use the Alphabet Game for making limericks. As my age advances, and my wits leave me, I forget names on a regular basis. I can often prompt my memory of a name by quickly running through the alphabet, and pausing on each letter, until it triggers the name.
So when they finally commit me to the ‘home’, and you come to visit, and I am sitting there singing the “ABC” song to myself, I am just trying to remember your name… banana fanna fo fanna.
Or I could just be jamming out in my head on “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”.
How Little Fairly Outwitted His Stupid Brother…part six…Leslie’s version
Now, you see, big Fairly, like every other blackguard that has the bad blood in him, the minute he had the sip of drink in him, the meanness came out, and so as he went along, he began to wollop the sack where he thought his brother was, and to jeer him as a diversion on the ride.
The poor farmer did as little Fairly had told him, and never said a word, though he couldn’t help yelling now and again when he felt the end of big Fairly’s shillelagh across his backbone. And the poor farmer thought it was his bad conscience and the seven deadly sins that were tormenting him, but he didn’t say a word, though he was being beaten every step of the way to the bog.
When big Fairly had him at the bog, it didn’t take Fairly long to choose the biggest hole in the bog, and he popped the poor farmer, neck and heels, sack and all, into the hole. And the soft bog stuff and muddy water closed over him.
“I wish you a safe journey to the bottom,” said the big brute, grinning like a cat at the cheese. “And as clever a chap as you are, I don’t think you’ll come back out of that in a hurry! You’ve been trouble to me long enough, you little schemer, and now I’ll have a quiet life without you.”
And with that, he got up on his horse, and away he went home, but he had not gone over a mile when who should he see but little Fairly, mounted on the farmer’s horse, driving the biggest herd of black cattle you have ever seen!
Well, big Fairly grew as white as a sheet when he saw him, for he thought it was a ghost, and he was going to turn and gallop away, when little Fairly called out to him to stay, because he wanted to speak to him.
So, when big Fairly saw that it was really him, and not his ghost, he said, “Well, as clever I know as you were, this last trick beats all! And how the devil are you here at all, when I thought you were cutting turf with your sharp little nose in the Bog of Allen? I just put you there, in the deepest hole, headfirst, not a half of an hour ago!”
“You did that, sure enough,” said little Fairly, “and you were ever and always the good brother to me, but you have outdone yourself today!”
“What do you mean?” asked big Fairly, very suspicious.
“Well, do you see all these cattle here that I’m driving?”
“Yes, I do. And whose cattle might they be?” asked big Fairly.
“They are all my own, every one of them.” said little Fairly.
“And how did you come to have them?” asked big Fairly.
“Why, you see, when you threw me into the bog hole, I felt it mighty cold at first and it was mortal dark, and I felt myself going down and down, that I thought I’d never stop sinking, and wondered if there was a bottom to it at all. Then I began to feel it growing warm and pleasant and light, and when I came to the bottom, there was the loveliest green field you ever laid eyes on and thousands and thousands of cattle feeding on grass so heavy that they were up to their ears in it! I have never seen such meadows! And when I came to my senses, as I was so surprised by it all, I was welcomed by a genteel spoken little man, the dawnsheest creature you’ve ever seen! I’d have made six of him, he was so tiny!”
“And he said,” little Fairly continued, “Welcome to the understory of the Bog of Allen, Fairly!”
“Thank you, kindly, sir,” said I.
“And how is all with you?” said he.
“Hearty, indeed,” said I.
“And what brought you here?” asks he.
“My big brother,” said I.
“That was very good of him.” said he.
“Very true,” I said. “He’s always doing me a good turn.”
“Well, he’s never done you a turn as good as this one,” he said to me, “for you will be the richest man in Ireland in no time!”
“Thank you sir,” I said, “but I don’t see how that is.”
“Do you see all those cattle grazing there?’ he said.
“To be sure, I do,” I said.
“Well, take as many of them as your heart desires and bring them home with you,” he said to me.
“But how could I get myself and all those cattle back out of the bog?” I asked him.
“Oh,” he said, “the way is easy enough. You have nothing to do but drive them out of the back way, over there,” said he, pointing to a gate.
“And sure enough, I got all the beasts you see here, and drove them out the gate, and here I am going home with them now. And maybe I won’t be the richest man… Of course I gave the best of thanks to the little old man, and the highest of language for his behavior.”
And with that, the little man says, “You may come back again and get the rest of the cattle.”
“And sure enough, I’ll go back the minute I get these beasts home and have another turn out at the bog hole!” finished little Fairly.
“That’s what you think,” said big Fairly, “because I am going to get there before you!”
“Oh, but you won’t!” said little Fairly. “I discovered the palce, and why shouldn’t I have the benefit of it?”
“You greedy little hound!” said the big fellow. “I’ll have my share of those cattle, as well as you.”
And with that, he turned his horse around and away he galloped to the bog hole. Little Fairly galloped after him, pretending to be in a desperate fright, afraid that big Fairly would get there first, crying, “Stop the robber,” after him.
And when they came to the soft place in the bog, they both ran at it, and little Fairly got ahead of big Fairly, pretending to be making for the biggest bog hole, yelling as he went, “I’ll win the day! I’ll win the day!”
And the big fellow ran after him as hard as he could, running until he couldn’t breathe, afraid that little Fairly would beat him and get all the cattle.
And when the cute little Fairly came to the very edge of the bog hole, he faked a slip of his foot, and fell, yelling out, “Wait, big brother! Let me win!”
Big Fairly ran right past him, and with a mighty winning leap, jumped into the middle of the biggest bog hole in the Bog of Allen!
Little Fairly went to the edge of the bog hole, and was there in time to see the great splayed feet of big Fairly sinking out of sight into the muck.
He called after him, “I say, big Fairly, don’t take all the cattle, but leave but a trifle for me.”
“I’ll wait, however, until you come back!” laughed little Fairly, laughing at his own clever contrivance.
“I think now I’ll lead a quiet life,” he said to himself, and with that he went home.
And from that day out, he grew richer and richer every day and was the greatest man in the whole countryside, and all the neighbors said of him that he was the most knowledgeable and generous man in those parts.
The End
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