Untitled

Anne Carson (2009)

Arthur S. Way (1898)

George Theodoridis (2010)

Ian C. Johnston (2010)

E.P. Coleridge (1910)

Theodore Alois Buckley (1892)

John Peck, Frank Nisetich (1995)

R. Potter (1906)

M. L. West (1987)

William Arrowsmith (1958)

Philip Vellacott (1972)

Michael Wodhull (1782)

Kenneth McLeish (1997)

David Kovacs (2002)

Andrew Wilson (1993)

I’ll take care of you. It’s rotten work. Not to me. Not if it’s you.

Nay, thy weakness I will tend. Loathly task to touch the sick! Ah, not to me for thee, O friend.

I’ll look after you if that happens. It would be horrible for you, my friend. No, not for me it won’t be.

But I’ll take care of you. It’s unpleasant looking after someone sick. Not to me. Not when I’m looking after you.

But I will take care of you. It is annoying to have to touch a sick man. Not to me, when it is you.

But I will take care of thee. It is a difficult and dangerous task to touch a man thus disordered. Not for me to touch thee.

But I’ll be right beside you. It’s difficult, touching a sick man. Not for me, with you.

My care shall watch around thee. To attend a man thus disordered, to guard, to hold him, is an unpleasing office. But for thee delightful to my love.

But I’ll be looking after you. It’s unpleasant to be in contact with a sick man. Not with you, for me.

Have no fear. You are in my hands. Madmen are hard to handle. I will manage.

Then I’ll look after you. When my sickness comes, to touch me is revolting. Not to me.

On my fostering care rely. Loathsome it is to handle the diseas’d. Not so to me, while you I tend.

I’ll see to you. It’s horrible. I’ll do it.

Well, I will take care of you. It is disgusting to touch a sick man. Not for me to touch you.

I’ll look after you. Getting close during an attack can be dangerous. Not for me, when it’s you.

I was driving through Vermont with a friend, and we pulled over at a tiny shop offering Maple Items. We were on the state highway, not the interstate, so "pulling over" meant "squeezing my tiny car into a parking bay the size of a broad highway shoulder."

As we got out of the car, an older woman emerged from behind the building where she had been pruning her roses. She introduced herself as Tammy.

Her shop offered the promised variety of Maple, but also a number of small antiques and a plethora of dog figurines, plaques, and clearly-hand-stitched garden flags.

A huge purple ribbon hung on the wall behind the register, along with many pictures of small dogs. This was no county fair ribbon. It was the size of my torso. The material had the soft sheen of actual silk.

As I placed my purchases on the counter, I asked, "Do you... Breed dogs?"

Yes. She does. She has bred Yorkies for the last 40 years. Her mother bred Yorkies before her. The purple ribbon was from her national championship winning Yorkie.

You may be expecting that the infodump was going to be about Yorkies.

It was not.

It was about 40 years of drama in the Yorkie breeding community. Where – you must understand – the judging at shows is often about who you're in with, not about the dogs. This is especially true when Tammy's opponents win anything.

And Tammy's mother! Well. Phyllis has been on the Yorkie scene since Yorkies were invented. Because of this, many women of equally venerable age hold deep grudges against Phyllis. The sort of grudges that result in episodes of Midsommar Murders.

This led to deep injustices against Phyllis on the part of judges and prevented her dogs from winning so often she retired from the scene. Judging is all about who you're friends with, after all.

After 20 years in hiding, Phyllis – the One True Queen of Yorkie Breeding – hatched a plot. She may have been out of the show circuit, but she was still breeding dogs. She entered an absolutely perfect bitch in the national competition, but sent her with a handler rather than go in person.

None of the usurpers knew who this dog belonged to, and in dog-breeding circles this Does Not Happen. This could have resulted in further injustices, but Phyllis was crafty. She knew this tournament was being judged by a man from the UK, who knew naught of the drama in the US Yorkie Empire.

With these advantages – and being the best dog there – Phyllis's bitch won the highest honor at the show.

Incensed by this insult to their ill-gotten supremacy, the other owners descended on the handler after the show, demanding to know for whom he was working.

"Phyllis," said he.

The name of the overthrown queen evoked horror in the usurpers.

"PHYLLIS!? She's still ALIVE!???"

Yes, Phyllis yet lived, and this bitch – the dog, not the woman – went on to mother Tammy's current dogs. One of whom, Lucy-Fur, is the reincarnation of Tammy's sister (also Lucy). This is certain for two reasons.

Firstly, Sister Lucy absolutely went straight to Hell upon her death, and Lucy-Fur the dog is positively as evil as Sister Lucy was.