Quahog On A Tightrope: Here’s To The Crimewriters

For anyone who is interested in mysteries-

As anyone is who still has a drop of Airedale blood in them,

that noble species we are all descended from,

from detectives,

to dancers,

to clog hoppers,

to singers

(hey, Airedale is in Ireland. They have some great tenors there.)

or who digs up gardens,

to bury bodies,

or socks,

wrapped in potatoes,

for others to figure out the mystery of why,

this blog is dedicated to that first great detective,

Adam and Eve’s Airedale,

the one who bravely shook the snake in the Garden of Eden

to try to let Adam and Eve get out of its way,

and who selflessly ate most of the apple,

the reason all Airedales today are still constantly eating dangerous things,

(anything from ice cubes to chocolate wrapped in tinfoil,)

hopping around,

opening locked doors with their catlike paws,

and making strange clucking noises,

as they pick up babies by the diapers

and put them back in their basinets-

a feat the basinet hound is still, to this day trying to copy.

To these, the brightest and the best, I dedicate this post.

Well done, fellows.

May you all get a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker

and pipe,

when you get to heaven.

For you are the basis of a true brotherhood,

and sisterhood,

uh, doghood?

Whatever,

you are the basis.

The keen eye that never misses a biscuit,

the emotional link to people that never misses a turn of the head,

that might mean time to grab a leash,

and blackmail the owner into a walk,

for his own good, of course,

or the chance to sit on an owner’s feet,

chew his shoe laces,

and lean against him to give sympathy

in times of trouble and strife.

And then there is the humor.

Never has there been a more humorous race,

than those descended from the Airedale.

Mark Twain.

Who ran off to Calaveras to get away from his wife Libby,

and mostly, as he wrote his editor,

from the abhorrent James Brothers,

William and Henry,

ran out of money,

and, in true Airedale style,

thought a bit,

pulled himself together,

and wrote the story of the Jumping Frog Of Calaveras county,

so he could stay away a couple of more months,

from Libby and the Brothers James.

His middle name is Langhorn,

for the langhorn cows his Airedale taught his father to herd as a child.

With the money from the sales, he bought Samuel his first raft,

a first impression that led Sammy to decide to become a writer,

since, as a river pilot, he got very very tired of constantly having to call out Mark Twain-

ie the river is deep enough for the paddlewheeler to pass.

This was, of course, before the paddlewheelers started blowing up,

and the Corps of Engineers started yearly deepening the river-

leading to flooding, and an overabundance of flying fish.

A situation most Airedales find totally amusing.

You can often see them, on a Sunday,

sitting on the riverbank,

watching the fish jump,

and laughing their heads off.

(The Airedale is famous for its grin.)

But still,

without the engineers,

constantly trying to change the flow of the river,

we wouldn’t have the flying fish.

Which often bring Chinese and Japanese tourists to the area.

But most of all,

we wouldn’t have had Mark Twain,

the first man to report on fingerprinting,

and one of the very first ever to own,

and invest in, with tragic consequences,

a typewriter.

Top that, Elon Musk.

So this is a blog for the brave-

the descendants of the first Airedale detectives,

who march each year,

with strength

and intrepidation,

to beard the masses of mystery fans,

and the book sellers,

librarians,

newspaper people,

and writer sisterhoods.

Let us stand,

all together,

Sherlock deerstalker in hand,

for a better world,

the world envisioned for us

by the first loyal, strong, decent

Airedale detectives,

the true heroes

of the world-famous

Bouchercon.

copyright author of Dunnasead.co 2018 All rights reserved to Author.

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