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Enough of this ageism, it's illegal now anyway, but more to the point,
Anna should be respected for choosing to grow old naturally and with
dignity rather than trying to put off the inevitable and hide the
unhideable by surgery, caking on the cosmetics, dying her hair to
mismatch her eyebrows, etc.

And Anna was a beauty in her time ... probably the main reason for
otherwise disinterested young men to watch the News! There's even a
rose named after her. I'd be proud to walk down the street with her,
then or now.

*****

Mention of her reminds me (a relative of hers lived nearby to the
following) of just about the funniest thing that ever happened to me
.... It's a rather long story, but worth the telling ...

In my previous career in agriculture, during my final year at
agricultural college, I rented a cottage in a picturesque, touristy
village. I considered myself lucky to get such a beautiful home at a
price I could just about afford, the only mild drawbacks being that
occasionally the owner would return for a weekend of social whirl, and
that I had to feed her cat. On such terms, I agreed without a murmur
of dissent to cash in advance.

The cat was quite friendly. As anyone approached, it would roll over
on its back to have its tummy rubbed, and any tourist worth the name
would bend down to oblige with an: "Ah! How sweet!", but, as I began
to realise, appearances can be deceptive - in reality this
innocent-looking bundle of fur was a killer! As spring drew into
summer, I noticed that it was no longer eating the food I was putting
out, which I had to keep throwing away as it began to stink in the
increasing heat, but, as the endearing little creature was obviously
in good health, initially I presumed that neighbours were feeding it,
and wasn't too concerned. But then I noticed it hunting in the Nature
Reserve, just the other side of the road and the stream from the
cottage ...

Around this time, my car broke down, and I had to hitch into town to
get a part. My lift back was in one of those Noddy car Hillman Imps,
driven by a kindly gentleman - though again I was to discover that
appearances can be deceptive - who from his hangman's noose collar
was clearly the local vicar. Apart from the strong smell of dog which
somehow seemed to remain after I'd been dropped off, there had been a
labrador dozing in the back, I was grateful for the lift.

A few days later, this same gent, complete with regards to dog, but
incomplete with regards to neckwear, causing me some initial
difficulty in remembering who he was, knocked on the front door.

"I say! Hello again!", he began, and after a few polite formalities
he added in a meaningful tone: "You have a cat, don't you?" I
confirmed. "Well. We've just had a Parish Council meeting ...", now I
remembered, "... and we're most concerned about the number of
ducklings it's killing! The wildlife here is such an asset to the
village, you know, it helps bring people in. It's such a terrible
thing, what your cat is doing!"

I was too taken aback to reply. For one thing, it wasn't really my
cat, and for another I couldn't really see how to stop it in a way
that would be acceptable to the RSPCA, not to mention its real owner.

"You do feed it, don't you?!" he asked suddenly, as though he hoped to
catch me out, but on this point at least I was safe. I pointed to the
fresh, though rapidly becoming less so in the afternoon heat, plate of
food on the kitchen floor, untouched by Moggus Domesticus.

"Oh!", he said, taken aback, as though he had quite made up his mind
in advance that I must have been starving it near to death, and in the
obvious absence of a Plan B, he could only think of repeating Plan A,
even though I had just discounted this.

So several times we went round the same dance-floor: "Wildlife ...
Nature Reserve ... asset to the Parish ... visitors ... popular
tourist destination ... terrible shame ... " and each time ending with
something like: "Ah you quite sure you are feeding it properly?!".

He showed no sign of letting up, and it was beginning to get boring.
At least, I thought so, and his dog seemed to agree, for it lifted its
leg on one of the garden flowers, and wandered off (a week later, that
plant was dead - I was rather unhappy about that, actually). Finally,
to put an end to it, the next time he asked: "You do feed it, don't
you?!" I began to ask him which he would choose, tinned corned beef or
fresh Aylesbury duckling?

Just at that moment there was a tremendous commotion from the stream;
splashing, frantic quacking, and the guy who had rented the holiday
cottage next door for a week was yelling up the bank at the vicar:
"HEY YOU! Come and get yer f**king dog, it's got one of the f**king
ducks!" and much, much more besides, all in a similar style ...
Meanwhile, he was chasing ineffectually hither and thither after the
dog, which was surprisingly nimble, like an Aladdin on tranquillisers
trying to catch a genie on speed.

What exactly can you do if you are a vicar subjected to a torrent of
aggressive verbal abuse from a stranger? Particularly, in front of
your own parishioners, you can't exactly bollock the guy back, can
you? I dare say he wished he'd worn his, ahem, dog-collar, but you
needn't feel for our hero, well not much anyway, because these people
are well trained in their calling ... you could practically see the
cartoon clouds of whirring cogwheels above his head as he tried to
think his way out of his predicament. His choice soon became clear.
It was: pacify the man!

"It's alright!", he said, "He's a gun dog! He won't harm it!". I
should perhaps explain that a gun dog is trained to retrieve downed
birds, dead or alive, by picking them up and holding them in their
jaws while carrying them back to their master. That is, they are
specifically trained NOT to bite down on the bird, which would damage
it. I knew this, so I knew what he was trying to say, but
unfortunately for him the neighbour was a townie and didn't. In fact,
the vicar couldn't have said a worse thing. His very calmness and
complaisance had exactly the opposite effect to that intended, it was
like a red rag to a bull: "Waddya mean it won't f**king hurt it! It's
got the f**king thing in its f**king teeth, ain't it?!" and another
machine gun burst of abuse followed.

Obviously, amidst all this the last person the dog was going to obey
was the neighbour, and indeed, with it being distracted by all his
aggressive noise and shouting and chasing, it was only with difficulty
that the vicar called it to order and retrieved the victim. The bird
flapped its wings experimentally a few times and then flew off into
the reserve, obviously both shaken and stirred, but not, apparently,
harmed.

By this time I straining at the seams so much to contain my laughter
that when the vicar came back to conclude the discussion with as not
much dignity as he could scrape together, I didn't even think to ask
him whether he'd been feeding his dog properly ...

*****

There is a postscript to this story, which is also quite amusing, and
but more revealing ...

A few months later I was working on a farm during the summer holidays,
and related the above to my boss. It turned that he had formerly been
on the Parish Council, and knew the vicar well: "Keen shooting man! I
think that's probably rot about the wildlife and the tourism, he just
wanted a go at the ducklings when they became ducks in season!"

He then went on to relate how a bypass for the village had been much
discussed over many years, with many plans coming along, being
objected to by one interested party or another, and so falling by the
wayside. Finally, to everyone's relief, a plan evolved that seemed to
meet the needs and also avoid all the previous objections. There was
new optimism surrounding the procedures to put it through, but, to
everyone's surprise and dismay, the vicar objected to it. Noone could
understand why, and when pressed his reasons didn't seem convincing.
Nevertheless, he succeeding in obstructing the plan to the extent that
it, too, fell by the wayside.

It was only some years later that it was discovered that the vicar had
shooting rights over a plot of land that would have been tarmacced
over! Therein lay the real reason for his objection ...

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
I love to blast them all!

Far be it from me to suggest that the world would be a better place if
all religious people wore their trousers the same way round as their
collars. You may suggest it, I may even think it, but I couldn't
possibly comment further ...

On 3 Dec 2007 16:35:34 GMT, "Jeff Gaines"
wrote:

On 03/12/2007 in message
Adrian A wrote:
Jeff Gaines wrote:

What's wrong with dogs?

Is that a rhetorical question?

Not at all. I am a bit confused as to whether you are referring to man's
best friend or Anna Ford.