Adonis Diaries

Posts Tagged ‘Misha

Trekking to the “Promised Paradise”. This “Trekking syndrome”

Note 1:  Re-edited version of the previous post “Promised Paradise way on Nahr Ibrahim (Lebanon), April 2010”

Note 2: I opened a special category on my blog “Travel/Excursion” to collect all my trips stories.

My body is aching from yesterday horrendous adventure.

In the last three weeks, my nephew William has been trekking sections of Nahr Ibrahim (Abraham River, in the district of Byblos) in company of the wonderful and non complaining dog Misha.

Last Friday, my nephew blundered in my earshot that he is going trekking on Saturday.

I invited myself to be part of the trekking party.  My nephew didn’t respond: he was hoping that probably I am jesting. The next day I got my tiny backpack ready for the adventure; my nephew was pretty much lukewarm confronted with this readiness on my part.

(He might have had serious reservations (you might read my post on trekking in Sad Shabrouh for preliminary reasons.)

Obviously, I am wearing my swimming trunk: It is a matter of trekking by a river bed, but my nephew warned me that we will have to “wade” in sections of the river.

In my mind, wading means being submerged to the waist at best; I didn’t take into account reasonable factors such as slipping or falling into deep holes.

We left around 12:30 pm and quickly the mobiles brought news of a jammed highway which means most of the members will be late a couple of hours to the meeting place.

The Armenians in Lebanon were demonstrating/“celebrating” the holocaust they suffered by the Turks around 1915 and on.

William, Hanane, Misha, and I parked on the road of Nahr Ibrahim and ventured to the river shores.

William, Hanane, and Misha decided to push forward in the jungle; I opted to dip my feet in the cool water.  Half an hour later a group of five showed up; among them Clown Me Sabine and her Mexican assistant Gabie.

I told Gabie: “Ahora, me lise Jorge Amado, el Brazilian de Bahia”:  I am currently reading the French version of “Navigation de cabotage” (navigating along the coastal ports of seas or rivers.)

The newcomers promptly clowned lizards on the river rocks for 20 minutes (sunbathing). Then, feeling degraded by lizard behavior, they raised their adventurous spirit by one notch: They started to move from one rock to another very cautiously.

The mobiles brought news that the larger body of the trekking party is heading toward destination, to the lonely small village of Chowan in the bottom of the river valley.

Thus, William, Hanane, Misha showed up and we got on the move.  We met two men carrying towels where we parked: they are to simply descend a few stairs, reach the river, take a swim and leave.

The party was of around 20 members in 5 cars.

We parked in the lowest valley village I know.  It was a road to damnation, fit for barely one car but you had to backtrack for miles to let the opposite cars pass you by.

To my surprise, we were not to head straight to the river but along a long detour of 45 minutes walk: This is called “trekking syndrome” to first base.

We reached a section on the river to cross; it is about only ten meters wide; it is not a roaring Amazon by any stretch of the imagination.

Big George hopped leisurely to the other side; he is wearing just a swimming trunk and a tiny backpack.  I was encouraged to be among the first strong hearten members of the trekking party, as is usually the case.  I tied my old pair of khaki sneaker around my neck and raised my jeans to the knees; that should do the trick.

The first few steps got me face down; I am all wet and thus nothing mattered anymore.  I hurried my “wading” exercise and fell down several times before I reached destination.  I am bruised, physically and emotionally.

The few cigarettes I had in my shirt pocket are ruined; I decided to remove the cigarettes from the wet box to dry out the cigarettes. I gently picked one cigarette from the box; the filter part did easily separate from the body of the cigarette; it was the same case for the other cigarettes one by one. I had the pleasure of a discovery: the process of manufacturing local made cigarettes is basically gluing the filter part to the finished cigarette.

I undressed completely save my swimming trunk.

A few members were aligning a tree trunk to permit female members to cross the river safely.  Someone said to wait for my nephew since usually he brings a rope for that purpose. I cursed my hastiness, only to realize that my nephew wanted to emulate this adventure as Seal or Marine exercise: “you have got to feel the pain!”

George was in the middle of the river playing the school or scout guard in case of emergencies.

Suddenly, George exclaimed “I feel cold.” George remedy to warming up was to run like Tarzan to the promised paradise.

It goes without saying that I was the first to follow George.  I was not running at all: my wet sneakers weighted 20 pounds.  Then, I saw George hiding behind a bush up a mount like Tarzan; I was climbing to rejoin him when he pre-empted me: “Don’t climb. I lost my way” (Or maybe he was pissing?

Now George climbed a high rock in the river watching for any arriving company.  I ended “wading” my way by the river side to paradise land..

I am glad to report that “bodily navigation of cabbotage” by river side made much sense to me.  A few members of the party advanced me by using a secret path to a meeting location.  I said: “Better not stop. Let us move on to the Promised Land.”  Karim said: We have reached destination!”

That was a major letdown.  Apparently, the goal was to reach a puny and sickly waterfall.

George hopped behind the Nahr Ibrahim “Water fall”, climbed a rock and sat like a Buddha.  I lacked the energy to remove my sneaker and my Jean (weighing 50 pounds), then climb a slippery stupid rock and emulate Buddha.

I was the first to vacate Nahr Ibrahim Paradise and got lost on my way back; I got entangled by lichen and other sorts of nasty prickly branches.

Here, I am back to “wading” by the river side. I realized that both my sneakers’ soles are floating free; held miserably by the tip of the shoes.  I was no longer fooling myself: a military helicopter should land and take me home.

I reached first “base” wetter than a disgruntled cat.

One of the soles had vanished in the river. I didn’t wait and immediately re-crossed the Rubicon wading using my favorite technique known around the world as “Adonis super efficient wading technique”, to be emulated by Marines and Seals.

I reached second base and harangued the dozen members who smartly refused to cross the ridiculous ten-meter wide section to get going and follow the leader: I wanted to locate a sunny spot to dry my clothes.  A smart girl reminded me that the sun is no longer in vigor and barely could warm an ant.

Nothing could assassinate my plan: I have got to be first back to the parked car.

On second base there was a dying bonfire left by two dozens of foreign youths we met previously.  A plastic bottle was still sending fumes; someone said: “You are burning toxic materials”.  Oh, I forgot to mention that most members of the party are lovers of ecology and of the strictest kinds; many are by far more vegetarians than cows.

I lost my way again and waited for a member to show me the correct secret path.

My nephew picked up the second sole on his way and volunteered to relieve me of my weightless backpack: any pound less is a great boost to my morale. The last 100 yards to destination was the most voluptuous and rewarding trip stretch ever.

When we arrived home my nephew placed my sole-less sneakers on my room threshold along with one sole.

I asked him: “Why did you do that?”

I thought that I left my useless sneakers where we were parked as a warning to trekkers in the village of Chowan to cancel their project.

Devilish William refused to leave any material evidences that might discourage trekkers in those damned vicinity.

I made the last effort to visit my sister just to tell her “I think it is a miracle that I am back”.  My sleeping sister could not but chuckle and interject: “You are supposed to know better than anyone what a trekking project means to William.”

This trekking was a well planned project to inflict most pains and humiliation, but I turned out to be a leader on my way back; and second to the leaders in most of the adventure.

Call me Jumpy: The smartest Cattle dog (half collie?)…

GONE VIRAL: They’re calling him the smartest dog ever (don’t miss the end!)

Meet Jumpy, the amazing Cattle dog with the most amazing routine ever. Never in all my life have I seen a dog so well trained! Will your dog listen this well? Don’t miss the last 7 seconds, when Jumpy finally gets what he wants. It’s totally adorable!

Read more at http://theilovedogssite.com/gone-viral-theyre-calling-him-the-smartest-dog-ever-dont-miss-the-end/#7XrLMhHoYwXAXiLj.99

This link was sent by Jimmy Ghazal to Joanna Choukeir Hojeily on FB.

William Choukeir trained the dog Michat (Mishat) with intelligence (both of them). Michat was poisoned twice, and succumbed in the second attenpt.

Note 1: Idiot dog of the neighborhood https://adonis49.wordpress.com/2009/10/15/misha-is-the-idiot-dog-of-the-neighborhood/

Note 2: Lovable antics of  late dog Misha

https://adonis49.wordpress.com/2011/05/24/part-1-antics-of-lovable-late-dog-misha/

GONE VIRAL: They’re calling him the smartest dog ever (don’t miss the end!)

Meet Jumpy, the amazing Cattle dog with the most amazing routine ever. Never in all my life have I seen a dog so well trained! Will your dog listen this well? Don’t miss the last 7 seconds, when Jumpy finally gets what he wants. It’s totally adorable!

Read more at http://theilovedogssite.com/gone-viral-theyre-calling-him-the-smartest-dog-ever-dont-miss-the-end/#7XrLMhHoYwXAXiLj.99

GONE VIRAL: They’re calling him the smartest dog ever (don’t miss the end!)

Meet Jumpy, the amazing Cattle dog with the most amazing routine ever. Never in all my life have I seen a dog so well trained! Will your dog listen this well? Don’t miss the last 7 seconds, when Jumpy finally gets what he wants. It’s totally adorable!

Read more at http://theilovedogssite.com/gone-viral-theyre-calling-him-the-smartest-dog-ever-dont-miss-the-end/#7XrLMhHoYwXAXiLj.99

GONE VIRAL: They’re calling him the smartest dog ever (don’t miss the end!)

Meet Jumpy, the amazing Cattle dog with the most amazing routine ever. Never in all my life have I seen a dog so well trained! Will your dog listen this well? Don’t miss the last 7 seconds, when Jumpy finally gets what he wants. It’s totally adorable!

Read more at http://theilovedogssite.com/gone-viral-theyre-calling-him-the-smartest-dog-ever-dont-miss-the-end/#7XrLMhHoYwXAXiLj.99

GONE VIRAL: They’re calling him the smartest dog ever (don’t miss the end!)

Meet Jumpy, the amazing Cattle dog with the most amazing routine ever. Never in all my life have I seen a dog so well trained! Will your dog listen this well? Don’t miss the last 7 seconds, when Jumpy finally gets what he wants. It’s totally adorable!

Read more at http://theilovedogssite.com/gone-viral-theyre-calling-him-the-smartest-dog-ever-dont-miss-the-end/#7XrLMhHoYwXAXiLj.99

“Trekking syndrome”

Note:  This is the edited version with further details of the previous post “Promised Paradise way on Nahr Ibrahim (Lebanon)”

My body is aching from yesterday horrendous adventure. In the last three weeks, my nephew has been trekking sections of Nahr Ibrahim (Abraham River, in the district of Byblos) in company of the wonderful and non complaining dog Misha.  Last Friday, my nephew blundered in my earshot that he is going trekking on Saturday.  I invited myself to be part of the trekking party.  My nephew didn’t respond: he was hoping that I am jesting most probably.  The next day I got my tiny backpack ready for the adventure; my nephew was pretty much lukewarm confronted with this readiness on my part; he might have serious reservations (you might read my post on trekking in Sad Shabrouh for preliminary reasons.)

Obviously, I am wearing my swimming trunk: It is a matter of trekking by a river bed but my nephew warned me that we will have to “wade” in sections of the river.  In my mind, wading means being submerged to the waist at best; I didn’t take into account reasonable factors such as slipping or falling into deep holes.

We left around 12:30 pm and quickly the mobiles brought news of a jammed highway which means most of the members will be late a couple of hours to the meeting place.  The Armenians in Lebanon were demonstrating/“celebrating” the holocaust they suffered by the Turks around 1915 and on.  William, Hanan, Misha, and I parked on the road of Nahr Ibrahim and ventured to the river shores. William, Hanan, and Misha decided to push forward in the jungle; I opted to dip my feet in the cool water.  Half an hour later a group of five showed up; among them Clown Me Sabine and her Mexican assistant Gabie.  I told Gabie: “Ahora, me lise Jorge Amado, el Brazilian de Bahia”:  I am currently reading the French version of “Navigation de cabotage” (navigating along the coastal ports of seas or rivers.)

The new comers promptly clowned lizards on the river rocks for 20 minutes; then, feeling degraded by lizard behavior they raised their adventurous spirit by one notch: They started to move from one rock to another very cautiously.  The mobiles brought news that the larger body of the trekking party is heading toward destination; the lonely small village of Shwan in the bottom of the river valley.  Thus, William, Hanan, Misha showed up and we got on the move.  We met two men carrying towels where we parked: they are to simply descend a few stairs, reach the river, take a swim and leave.

The party was of around 20 members in 5 cars.  We parked in the lowest valley village I know.  It was a road to damnation fit for barely one car but you had to backtrack for miles to let the opposite cars pass you by.  To my surprise, we were not to head straight to the river but along a long detour of 45 minutes walk: This is called “trekking syndrome” to first base.

We reached a section on the river to cross; it is about only ten meters; it is not a roaring Amazon by any stretch of the imagination. Big George hopped leisurely to the other side; he is wearing just a swimming trunk and a tiny backpack.  I was encouraged to be among the first strong hearted members of the trekking party, as is usually the case.  I tied my old pair of khaki sneaker around my neck and raised my jeans to the knees; that should do the trick. The first few steps got me face down; I am all wet and thus nothing mattered anymore.  I hurried my “wading” exercise and fell down several times before I reached destination.  I am bruised, physically and emotionally.

The few cigarettes I had in my shirt pocket are ruined; I decided to remove the cigarettes from the wet box to dry out the cigarettes; I gently picked one cigarette from the box; the filter part easily separated from the body of the cigarette; it was the same case for the other cigarettes one by one; I had the pleasure of a discovery: the process of manufacturing local made cigarettes is basically gluing the filter part to the finished cigarette.

I undressed completely save my swimming trunk.  A few members were aligning a tree trunk to permit female members crossing the river safely.  Someone said to wait for my nephew since usually he brings a rope for that purpose. I cursed my hastiness only to realize that my nephew wanted to make this adventure a Seal or Marine exercise: you have got to feel the pain!

George was in the middle of the river playing the school or scout guard in case of emergencies.  Suddenly, George exclaimed “I feel cold.” George remedy to warming up was to run like Tarzan to the promised paradise. It goes without saying that I was the first to follow George.  I was not running at all: my wet sneakers weighted 20 pounds.  Then, I saw George hiding behind a bush up a mount like Tarzan; I was climbing to rejoin him when he pre-empted me: “Don’t climb. I lost my way” Now George climbed a high rock in the river watching for any arriving company.  I ended “wading” my way by the river side to paradise land.. I am glad to report that “bodily navigation of cabotage” by river side made much sense to me.  A few members of the party advanced me using a secret path to a meeting location.  I said: “Better not stop. Let us move on to the Promised Land.”  Karim said: We have reached destination!”  That was a major letdown.  Apparently, the goal was to reach a puny and sickly waterfall.

George hopped behind the Nahr Ibrahim “Water fall”, climbed a rock and sat like Buddha.  I lacked the energy to remove my sneaker and Jean (weighting 50 pounds), then climb a slippery stupid rock and emulate Buddha.  I was the first to vacate Nahr Ibrahim Paradise and got lost on my way back; I got entangled by lichen and other sorts of nasty prickly branches.  I am back to “wading” by the river side. I realized that both my sneakers’ soles are floating free; held miserable by the tip of the shoes.  I was no longer fooling myself: a military helicopter should land and take me home.

I reached first “base” wetter than a disgruntled cat. One of soles had vanished in the river. I didn’t wait and immediately re-crossed the Rubicon wading using my favorite technique known around the world as “Adonis49 super efficient wading technique” to be emulated by Marines and Seals.  I reached second base and harangued the dozen members who smartly refused to cross the ridiculous ten-meter wide section to get going and follow the leader: I wanted to locate a sunny spot to dry my clothes.  A smart girl reminded me that the sun is no longer in vigor and barely could warm an ant.  Nothing could assassinate my plan: I have got to be first back to the parked car. On second base there was a dying bonfire left by two dozens of foreign youths we met previously.  A plastic bottle was still sending fumes; someone said: “You are burning toxic materials”.  Oh, I forgot to mention that most members of the party are lovers of ecology and of the strictest kinds; many are by far more vegetarians than cows.

I lost my way again and waited for a member to show me the correct secret path. My nephew picked up the second sole and volunteered to relieve me of my weightless backpack: any pound less is a great boost to my morale. The last 100 yards to destination was the most voluptuous and rewarding trip stretch ever.

When we arrived home my nephew placed my sole-less sneakers on my room threshold along with one sole.  I asked him: “Why did you do that?”  I thought that I left my useless sneakers where we were parked as a warning to trekkers in the village of Shwan to cancel their project.  Devilish William refused to leave any material evidences that might discourage trekkers in those damned vicinities.  I made the last effort to visit my sister just to tell her “I think it is a miracle that I am back”.  My sleeping sister could not but chuckle and interject: “You are supposed to know better than anyone what a trekking project means to William.”  This trekking was a well planned project to inflict most pains and humiliation but I turned out to be a leader on my way back; and second to leaders most of the adventure.

Responses to “Misha the idiot dog”; (October 19, 2009)

 

            A previous post recounts the recent behavior of Misha; Misha got into barking all night long at night fall; the neighboring dogs stopped responding to Misha’s challenges: Misha must be considered by the surrounding dogs as the idiot of the neighborhood. I received a few comments meant to offering diagnostics to Misha’s symptoms and a few solutions.

            One diagnostic is that Misha is going through a depressive phase: his master moved on and Misha’s male companion was retrieved by his owner (probably catching birds during the hunting season).  Any one of you had experienced depression? Do you go gamboling in the neighborhood shouting your head off?

            Another diagnostic is that Misha is scared of the dark.  Anyone of you is “dark phobia”? Do you sprint the streets in pitch darkness and holler your fear challenging the night? What kind of a dog is scared of the night? Why doesn’t it sleep off the night and bark at day time?

            A third diagnostic is that Misha is feeling lonely and practically abandoned.  I admit that the people of the entire building are mostly boring and the neighborhood is not fairing better. It would have been nice to create playing ground for pets to meet; people’s kids have none yet; there are a few playing grounds but private.  Rich people have no incentive of mingling their kids with other kids, much less playing together. It would be nice to throw a party in the parking lot, every now and then, and using a few musical instruments and watch Misha’s reactions.  I suggest that Misha be transferred to Mono or Gemaizeh and participate in Karaoke contests; at least among the Downtown dogs for a start.

            Either the aforementioned diagnostics are false (I think that they are) or maybe treatments for depression and dark phobia to human should be altered.  Man should be encouraged to exhibit his depressive phase by visiting the neighborhood while yelling, hooting, and roaring louder and louder for recognition of his symptoms and in return receiving friendly sympathy and a few candies.  First, the depressive man should be trained to shout in an enclosed sound proof room, trained in the correct method for shouting from the stomach to save the vocal chords for future usage, and then be let out in the streets for practical exercises. This depressive period could be far shortened if the person is not inhibited to strip and exhibit in public. 

            Another diagnostic is that Misha is not exercising enough and is not spending his “surplus” energy. When I go for my daily walk Misha accompanies me for a short distance; Misha basically reaches a spot of freshly mowed grass and takes her time sprawling and turning on the grass: I guess she gets sensual pleasure of that exercise. Further on Misha does not dare venture: she had nasty experience with “barbaric” dogs.

I admit the kids do not take seriously throwing sticks: they think this practice is degrading for smart Misha.  They never ask Misha for his opinion of likes and dislikes. Misha kept welcoming the kids as they open the car doors; the kids do not like Misha licking them and Misha finally got the hint: she is a highly considerate dog and has sensible feeling.

            I don’t touch Misha or any dog; they like me though: I give them to eat and drink and I take walks. Misha sees me more frequently than any other person: I smoke in the parking lot.  Maybe Misha wants to try smoking: she is the curious type of dogs with more synapses than normal dogs.

            Most probably, Misha is autistic like Einstein before he was seven years old; mammalian animals revert to autism at older ages; I think. Misha is a ponderous mind: she suddenly gets out of nightmares and goes berserk running in all direction and barking like crazy

            I think that Misha is subconsciously angry with her master: she is forgetting the code words, sentences, and signs. First, Misha should go back to a vegetarian regime, no ail or onion to save her focusing capabilities.  Second, Misha should receive continuing education: her parietal brain is more enlarged than normal dogs; Misha’s visual space and mathematic potentials are close to the breaking threshold of human.

Misha is the Idiot dog of the neighborhood; (October 15, 2009)

Misha is a gentle female dog that had submitted to surgery after twice giving birth to too many puppies.

We had hard time distributing the puppies.  Misha loves to be cajoled and seeks friendly touches; she never barked before; when she did, it was soft with a message.

One day, my nephew William returned from the university with Misha in his car; she was a stray puppy and scared.

Misha slept in William’s room and William got serious raising Misha according to Internet information and guidelines on the effective ways to train an “intelligent” dog.

Misha would not eat before the right order for “go eat” is given. Many other various orders and signals were peppered around that got us all confused, except Misha the smart dog.

Four years later, William had to move on and settle in an urban city to have easy access to clients and in order to bike instead of driving with a mask on. Yes, William is a strict vegetarian, almost an extremist in his conviction of the kind of food that can harm your body and mind.

Every now and then, the ingredients and varieties of food change according to the new “intelligence” gathered on the Internet. Definitely meat and milk based products are evil food; onion and ail are enemies to focusing and meditating. The varieties of beans vary depending on the latest “intelligence” and research.

I won’t talk of William’s white garment (after his retreat in India), a remnant of Mani’s in third century Persia.

Well, this post is not about William but is focused on the student Misha.

One night, a dark brown and sort of ugly male dog, with almost mauve eyes, paid Misha a visit. In the dark I thought he was Misha and the dog conjectured that we might be friendly people. “Browny” parked in our parking lot and befriended Misha.

Misha was the leader and Browny followed her. Browny might not be a stray dog: he wears a collar but he liked very much our company and Misha gave him priority at eating time.

Once, Browny took a vacation for a couple of days and Misha got upset and started barking at night calling after Browny, the ugly dog.  Browny vacations increased and his staying outside the parking lot extended for many days and then weeks.  Misha got the habit of barking all night long.

Mother is unable to sleep. Even the dogs in the neighborhood stopped responding to Misha.

Misha has become the idiot of the neighborhood at night fall.  Misha might have a prophetic message to disseminate, but we comprehend not her language. The neighborhood dogs are not encouraging us to take Misha’s message too seriously.

William is urgently asked to go back to Internet and find out what animal researchers have in their bags to resolve Misha idiotic period.

William had an “valid” excuse for Misha’s current behaviors, but I forgot the premises.

It is sad to say that Elie drove on purpose over Browny, claiming that he didn’t see it at the entrance of the driveway.


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