Today we traveled the fifty minute ride out to the far side of Orlando to attend Godsgreyts pot luck picnic. The president has 10 fenced in acres around her home, so she greytfully hosted this event. Over thirty hounds and their owners off leash, but muzzled-- the hounds that is-- for safety. All in all it was a very good afternoon. Brianna had a chance to be the social butterfly she loves to be, and I had some time to watch the hounds and sample the various homemade desserts, all of which were very good. Wolfie took off o his own as soon as he realized he was off leash. After ten minutes his mommy was worried and went looking for him. Where did she find her Big Brave Wolf? Standing right by the gate we came in, looking to get out! When she called his name he ran toward her at full speed; ears up, tail wagging. For the rest of the afternoon, even though he was off leash, he did not wander too far from from her. When she moved to talk to someone else, he moved with her.
A very small, and surprisingly quite sane greyhound group.
On a completely different note, I was cleaning out my email and found this poem that I thought a couple of our friends might get a chuckle out of. There is an interesting story behind it. It was sent to me by a friend of mine who lost his father a couple years ago. His sister found this in one of their dads old phone directories, penned on the back of an old business card for a bar long closed. The telephone number on the card was "Framingham 9028". That should give you an idea how old it is.
LIQUOR AND LONGEVITY
The horse and mule live 30 years
And nothing know of wine or beers.
The goat and sheep at 20 die
And never taste of scotch and rye.
The cow drinks water by the ton
And at 18 is mostly done.
The dog at 15 cashes in
Without the aid of rum and gin.
The cat in milk and water soaks
And then in 12 short years it croaks.
The modest, sober, bone-dry hen
Lays eggs for nogs, then dies at 10.
All animals are strictly dry
They sinless live and swiftly die.
But wicked, evil, rum-soaked men
Live on to three score years and ten.
And some of us, the mighty few,
Stay pickled till we’re 92.
