Dexter Dog Diary, Week One, Saturday 13th
Saturday (cumartesi 13 mart, 2010)
The Axes are up early, something about getting to the newspaper shop before they run out of Cyprus Today. There is a bit of consternation when they realise that Sonny has been in their room during the night. Now, I know that he was only checking to see that they were OK, but humans have a suspicious nature and these suspicions are fed, somewhat, when they are unable to find said feline! At this point, I have to eat humble pie because Sonny is exactly where I said he would never be found; nestling on his blanket on the dining chair. Blimey!
My morning constitutional is uneventful; also, nice and short. X is not saving the planet and I suspect that he is more than ready for his breakfast. When that is all done and dusted, they make the short trip to Esentepe and I get some quality rest and relaxation. When they return, she does the ironing and other chores while he takes his guitar up on the roof for some rehearsal.
After lunch there is some genuine rustic diversion. He is busy at the computer when she announces: “There are cows in the garden!” It has always been a moot point as to whether the main gate should be kept closed; until this moment there has been no compelling argument in either direction. I don’t want to take all the credit, but it seems to me quite likely that the successful outcome of the events that follow can mainly be attributed to something of which I become more acutely aware a few days later; an instinct that allows me to assess the situation and devise the correct course of action. From my vantage point on the balcony I send my instructions, through mental vibrations, to these mere humans.
The events unfold like an episode of that superb TV programme One Dog and his Human. I knew that my presence would only upset the leader of the cows. She and I have “history”, as they say. So I allow the Axes to go without me; out of the front door, collecting a walking-stick on the way; down the stairs; cleverly, even if I say so myself, turning right and rounding the end of the building to place themselves between the cows and the swimming pool. The plan is going like clockwork; the cows are calm; the humans are calm and I am supervising from the balcony.
Scenario: there are, in fact, three cows, each of which is trailing a tether; one of the cows is large, even by cow standards; all of them are fairly heavy in the udder department – must be nearly milking time. If asked to make an educated guess, since their colouring is similar to my own – black and white, I would say they are Friesians. To add to the potential for disaster, there is also a calf and, although mum and her companions are typically laid-back, junior is quite excited about the escapade. They are progressing at a steady pace between two blocks of apartments towards the focal point of the complex: the pools – swimming and Jacuzzi.
Yes, they have made a good start; but I am half expecting havoc to break out at any minute. It is of key importance that the Axes position themselves correctly, 10 – 20 metres apart (who said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? Feet, yards, metres, it’s all no problem for me) and try to put the thought of a pleasant swim completely out of the cows’ immediate plan. There isn’t anything tempting from a gastronomic viewpoint, so that is one complication less. They have made it; suitably placed and moving slowly and quietly forward, towards the gate with the cows in front of them preparing for a face-off. Junior is really enjoying this, but he is obviously not sure if this is a dangerous game or a friendly one.
As I may have intimated, the leading cow is a force to be reckoned-with but, fortunately, the need to calm junior seems to have won the day and she serenely turns around and saunters towards the gate as if that was always her plan. For a moment, she thinks about making a left turn to round the second block to approach the pool from another quarter, but, under my cool and accurate instructions, the Axes dispel this thought with a click of the stick; no point in making a disaster out of an adventure. But junior has his own ideas and sees the same opportunity. He seems particularly miffed that he has been done out of his paddle and I sense that he is just about to throw a tantrum.
At this point I can hear his mum say; “Oh my God, don’t start him off!” Her prayers are answered because Y is standing firm with her arms outstretched – not threatening, but making it perfectly clear that she has raised a couple of her own and she, also, is definitely a force to be reckoned-with! Junior gets the message. In no time at all, the bovines are back where they belong and the front gate is secured. Humans-1 : Cows-0; it has been a match of the no-brainers, really!
And that is how the gala of bovine breast-stroke was averted. I still find it difficult to believe and often replay the action in my head to see where things went right.
Later, when we all come out for my main walk, the stupid cows are still by the gate, munching away at the tussocks that I have been watering for them. They really are daft; there are donums (acres or hectares to you), of lush pasture beyond the gorse. There is a period of tension when the leading cow sees me and thinks; “Wolf!” Well, I am quite flattered, but we avoid the prospect of putting my lupine tendencies to the test and sneak out through the pedestrian gate which is between the cows and the sea. Last time we went to the sea-shore, we took ages getting there while Y and Helen photographed all of God’s flowers and creatures on the way. It seems that while she was prancing about in the meadow, she lost her pedometer. Now, I have heard of lassies losing various things in the meadow, but never a pedometer! Today, we are spared the photo-fest but find that a coach-load of trippers occupies the access to the rocky headland. So, we march on, eastward along the old coast road.
X is banging-on about what a tourist attraction the old coast road could be, from Esentepe to the east. Y is more pragmatic and points out that the eastern highway (which, incidentally fizzles out about twelve kilometres further on, at Tatlisu), slices across the old road and allows access in only occasional places. He is undeterred but knows as well as I do that money rules the human world and Kuzey Kibris, although loved by the public, is embargoed by the world’s politicians and just does not have enough money to even start thinking about it.
Where were we? Oh yes, heading east on the old road, across the creek. The lizards (agamas, Helen says), are still duffing each other up for the best basking spots on the parapet of the low concrete bridge. There is still a fair bit of water flowing through the bamboo clumps and the wooden pallets that have been chucked in there. As the road bends inland to follow the next ravine, we step off the road and onto the lush grass immediately above the foreshore. There are shrubs of many kinds and Y goes gaga over one – well there are three of them, actually – bearing cute little yellow flowers; spherical and no bigger than a dung-beetle. Sorry if that sounds crude but I can’t think of any cute comparison and that is the correct size! Mimoza, she calls it, and you would think it was her very own invention.
Soon, we reach the palm trees; did I mention the palm trees? Sorry, again! There are three of them: they are very tall, but not all the same size. They certainly add something to the vista and Y promises to get a snapshot of them on the return trip. There is one good thing revealed by that last remark and one bad thing. The good thing is; he has forgotten his camera, so photo opportunities are divided in half. The bad thing is; they are planning to go significantly further.
To our right, the cliffs are now quite high and steep with brand-new ghost-towns built on top, each one competing with the next as to who can get nearest to the edge. Around the next bend, we find the latest winner: As we look upward, we can see the underside edge of the corner of the car-park wall. With the aid of the winter rain, what used to be the surface of the car-park is now liberally spread down the newly-contoured cliff-face, across the road and in the creek.
I have got used to it now, but it came as a surprise to me that there is so much bamboo on this island paradise. Unfortunately, bamboo often means mosquitoes – not at this time of year, but in the summer. So, we are disappointed but not surprised to find a derelict development in the ravine, to seaward of the old road and about twenty metres below the highway. There are ten skeletal villas, of which only one has any sign of having been worked-on recently. The poly-tunnel that might have housed the workforce has not yet decayed in the sunlight. There appears to be a water-supply and some areas of the villa are “finished”. There is no sign of Robinson Crusoe or Man-Friday and we choose this sad place as our turning point.
There is more tut-tutting about the flood-damage and all this talk of water reminds me that I am gasping for a drink. I am still gasping for a drink when we stop to photograph the palm trees and I am even more gasping for a drink when I espy the bridge. But, I remember that there is a hell of a drop from the road to the water. The Axes, bless them, are on the ball and make for the shore-line where the stream meets the shingle in a flow of sweet water. Bliss!
Even more bliss when I finally get home for my tea. A phone-call takes them off to Tim and Helen’s; something about rugby on TV. Sonny and I chill-out for the evening and it is not too late when they return home and we all hit the sack. Sonny attempts to assert his “right” to a place under the bed; I could have told him he is on a loser!