Interesting, in identifying another dog, the below encounters would seem to suggest that either dogs do not entirely rely on their sense of smell, or they care more about promising prey than meticulous zoological categorization. No wait, they readily approach the bone, because there is no doggish smell to suggest a battlesome conspecific, but watch for other signs of hindrance and danger.
It was an oppressively hot August day, when I heard on the radio that Czechoslovakia had been invaded by Soviet troops. I was 9 years old, and a sense of fear gripped me, as the grown ups seemed unusually worried, suddenly facing the prospect of war again. Mom and Dad, who had gone through the Second World War, had taught me to fear war.
When I visited Communist Czechoslovakia in the mid and late 70s, I could sense a mood of resignation and cynicism among the people I got to know more closely. By their own perception, which would prove right with hindsight, those in their best years then were a lost generation, robbed of national pride, humiliated by a farcical socialist Leviathan and utterly lacking in the life chances of a modern Westerner.
The illusions that I had entertained about socialism were brutally destroyed by visiting that bleak and grotty planet where people were made to hurry about like puppets so that some intangible anonymous power could have its socialism. The Communist Prague I knew was populated by Kafkas entangled in an absurd play.
It is awkward to think that the West was right not to interfere militarily, and that those who decided it was better not to die defending their budding freedom had made a wise choice.
We who worry about our freedoms, how much resignation and cynicism are we entitled to?
Wilfred Owen wrote Futility in May 1918, just a few months before death on the battlefield on 4 November during the crossing of the Sambre–Oise Canal. Futility documents an event where a group of soldiers discover one of their comrades. He has died and their attempts to revive him by moving him in to the sun fail.
Interesting in its own right, the below lesson in breaking open parmesan cheese strikes me as providing a graphic analogy of how spontaneous order and man-made order interlock fruitfully. To adapt to and use the possibilities of a self-generating order to your advantage you must study and understand its nature, and learn to find an interface between its features and your needs. Respect for and insight into emergent order will tend to enhance the range of wholesome applications for conscious intervention. It would be rather a surprise if people, on being given more liberty, were not to extend their efforts at controlling their environment and making it accord ever more closely with their needs. For that reason alone, politics and freedom are inseparable twins of great potential and ambivalent effects.
See also my post on Greed versus Self-Interest, in which I argue that what defines man is the urge to adapt to his environment by developing and satisfying new needs. This fundamental anthropological condition explains the incidence of the entrepreneur and free markets, no less than the presence of political ambition and creativity. Proper stewardship of liberty requires participation in the vast areas in which politics rather than market based activities determine the nature and extent of freedom in a society.
Anyhow, I watched a supermoon from my garden, last night.
A supermoon is the coincidence of a full moon or a new moon with the closest approach the Moon makes to the Earth on its elliptical orbit, resulting in the largest apparent size of the lunar disk as seen from Earth.
However, the moon never really changes size, and it's simply your brain playing a trick?