On the Popularity of Dead Frogs...

One feature I like on Blogger is the opportunity to view my 'stats'. It's interesting to see where people who are viewing the blog live, or which websites pointed them in my direction, and it also tells me which posts are getting the most hits.

For a long time the most popular post has been 'Falling In Love', which surprises me as it's just a quick reflection on the beauties of early summer. I imagine it must be because it's a phrase that might easily be Googled and lead searchers here, though they're probably disappointed when they get to it if it's Mills & Boon they had in mind. Likewise those seeking gardening tips are undoubtedly disgusted by my laid back attitude to weeds when they are directed to 'My Lawn is Full of Dandelions', which is also high on the popularity chart - especially in spring. Hopefully at least 'St Anthony's Well, Llansteffan' is exactly what it says on the tin, and presumably 'ThriftWitch: The Clean Start Soap Spell' is a pretty unambiguous title. All popular posts.

But this week a new favourite has hit the top spot after scoring multiple hits, week in, week out. The post in question is 'When is a Dead Frog Just a Dead Frog?', and although it is a post I am proud of, I can't understand its popularity. Are there that many people out there Googling the term 'Dead Frog'? How else do they come to that particular post? Has someone else commented on it in their blog and people are coming over out of curiosity? Or... Oh my gosh, is it some sort of weird sexual practice... why didn't anyone tell me!!! At that point the possibilities fail me. Don't get me wrong - I do think it's a good post - but the most popular Moonroot post ever?

So, if you are one of those who has been drawn to 'When is a Dead Frog Just a Dead Frog?', do please satisfy my curiosity. How on earth did you stumble across it in the first place?

P.S. I couldn't find a convenient photo of a frog, so the photo is of somewhere a live frog might like to hang out. See? I'm nothing if not versatile.

Weird Stuff in Carmarthen

I have written before that Carmarthen (my nearest town) is a quirky little town. When I saw some coracle fishermen on the River Towy yesterday, I thought perhaps it was time to post some photographic evidence of Carmarthen's unique features. So although I wasn't quick enough to photograph the coracles, here are some pictures of some of Carmarthen's quirkier landmarks.

This is 'The Big Hat' a version of which has hung in Carmarthen's Lammas Street since the 19th Century. This is its latest incarnation. The story of The Big Hat may be found here.

Carmarthen obviously has a thing for attaching random large objects to buildings, because there is also a Big Coffee Pot in Guildhall Square...

I find some of the graffitti to be quite creative (if odd)! Unless it's been painted over/scrubbed off, this can be found between Nott Square and Guildhall Square.

Nott Square is home to a statue of its namesake, General William Nott, as well as the entrance to Carmarthen castle.

At the other end of Nott Square, standing outside the 'Nomads' shop you will find George the giraffe, who became a local cause celebre when the local council tried to ban him for Health & Safety reasons. There was such an outcry that George was reinstated to his rightful place and is now safely chained to the front of the shop, in a compromise that satisfies both the over-anxious council and Carmarthen's giraffe lovers.

The King Morgan pharmacy at the top of King Street has been established for many, many years, and still displays antique pharmacy bottles & jars in its windows. The stained glass door, tiled floor and old wooden cabinets inside make you feel like you've stepped back in time. There is now a bridge leading from the railway station, across the River Towy to the town (Blue Street) that is named after the King Morgan family, who served the medical needs of the townspeople for many years.

This is the tower of St Peters church, the subject of a rather odd prophecy that I mentioned in my previous post about Carmarthen...

And here's a statue of Merlin himself, gracing the newly-named Merlin's Walk (formerly Greyfriars). Rather appropriately it's carved from a huge chunk of oak. I like it, though it caused a bit of consternation amongst some that a good Christian placename (Greyfriars) was being replaced with one with Pagan associations! Which just proves you can't please everyone. There's lots of details here about Merlin's long association with Carmarthen. I reckon he preceded the grey friars in their medieval monastery anyway!

There are other sights like the Roman Amphitheatre and Merlin's Hill that I haven't got around to photographing yet - look out for 'Weird Stuff in Carmarthen II' some time in the future!

Question

Psychic attack is something I've never really worried about. Firstly, why would anyone consider me important enough to put all that effort into attacking me? And secondly - does it even happen or is it all paranoid fantasy?

Yet I was just reading about psychic protection and it mentioned that someone sending negative energy your way - either unconsciously or intentionally - can leave you prone to accidents, illness, exhaustion, unease and a feeling of being out of balance. And what really struck me is that this describes exactly what I was feeling during early summer 2007 until August 2008. That was the period during which - unknown to me - T was having an affair, right up until he left. After he left, I was naturally in shock, feeling grief, anger and depression. Yet looking back, that was also about the time the feeling of being out of balance with the Universe dissipated.

I don't want to be paranoid, or jump to conclusions - after all, sometimes a dead frog is just a dead frog, right? But could T's mistress have been directing malicious thoughts at me - intentionally or not? Or T himself? Or was my life just naturally out of kilter because my marriage was teetering over a precipice I wasn't aware of?

I'm pondering. And I'd love to hear any thoughts you may have on the matter.

When is a Dead Frog Just a Dead Frog?

Detail from an altar at the Spiral Dance

A few years back, in the days leading up to my initiation, I was set a series of preparatory meditations and cleansing practices. One of these was to go to a local beach to cleanse and purify myself. As it was a particularly blustery day in March this turned out to be no gentle shoreline cleansing but a fierce sand-blasting by the elements. As I began the return journey, I was feeling positively scoured clean, and ready for the next stage. And then I saw them. First one, then another, then more and more. Dead frogs of all sizes, the corpses quite dried out and dessicated, were scattered along the pavement and in the gutter. Part of my mind was occupied with thoughts of the upcoming initiation, but part was bewildered. Why so many dead frogs, here, now? Had there been a plague of frogs in this small seaside village? Had they spawned and then met some grisly end? Poisoned by something? Run over? Frozen? Drowned? Can a frog drown? No one else seemed to have noticed. I walked on, puzzled.

Later, I checked on the lore and symbolism of frogs. They are creatures of earth and water (the two elements I resonate with most strongly). Due to their life cycle, from spawn to tadpole to frog, in many cultures they represent change and rebirth. Frogs seemed to be creatures I could have a connection to – and my eye was drawn back to the sentence about rebirth. In the days leading up to my initiation, a rite of passage symbolising the death of the old self and rebirth of the new, was it mere coincidence that an abundance of frogs – dead frogs – had crossed my path?


More recently, I was at my friend S’s house preparing, along with others, for the initiation of another friend. A couple of us were cleaning and tidying the space in readiness for the ritual, when we discovered the dessicated corpse of a frog under some shelves. We checked with S that it wasn’t a precious magical or ritual object (cue for many jokes about only having to ask such questions in a fellow Witch’s home!). It wasn’t – merely the hitherto undiscovered grisly relic of a hunting trip by S’s cat. Yet I noted the strange coincidence. Initiation. Dead frog, symbol of death and rebirth. Again.


My own initiation marked the onset of a period in my life where everything that could go wrong, went wrong. My health suffered, and I felt like for some reason I was out of step with the Universe. This period culminated in the end of my marriage, and a huge re-examination of my Self. And then, one evening last summer, just as I finally felt truly back in harmony with the Universe, another piece of frog magic occurred. Going out to shut the chickens away, something made me look up at the garden wall as I passed. There, at eye-level with me, was the biggest, healthiest looking frog I’ve ever seen. We regarded each other for a few seconds, until I quietly said, ‘Thank you.’ Then the frog jumped over the wall and disappeared.


I do think some part of me died and was reborn at my initiation. I think somehow, somewhere, my life had gone off-track without me even noticing. I think the Universe gave me gentle and some not-so-gentle signs and nudges to get me back on the right track. And I think the frogs - dead and alive - were part of that, a sign or message about the death and then rebirth of the self. Or at least a damn strange coincidence.


I have mentioned on this blog before now the notion of being predicted by the weather – the fact that sometimes, the weather seems to reflect our inner moods. Or are our inner moods subtly coloured by the weather without our realising it? The trouble with messages from the Universe is they can be so hard to spot in amongst ordinary day to day events. Another potential pitfall is that sometimes, we may be looking for a message when actually, there isn’t one. Sometimes a flat tyre may be telling us something profound about our journey through life. And sometimes it’s just a bloody nuisance. Sometimes, the Universe does have a message for us. But sometimes, shit just happens. The question is, when is a dead (or live) frog a message from the Universe? And when is a dead frog just a dead frog? How can we tell?



This is what I think. I think we live in an amazing and interactive Universe that speaks to us all the time. I think sometimes we hear, sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we misunderstand, or only hear what we want to. I didn't notice how out-of-tune my life had got - the Universe tried sending me gentle hints, then glaringly obvious symbolism (dead frogs) then finally had to whack me over the head with stress-related exhaustion, illness, misfortune and the end of my marriage. I can be a slow learner, but I got it in the end. How much simpler, though, if I'd been listening in the first place.


The trick is to hone our listening skills. Tune in. Listen carefully. Notice coincidence and serendipity when they occur. Use the divination methods that work for you. Ask Reya's useful question, 'If this was a dream, what would it mean?'. Trust your intuition, your gut instinct. Pay attention to your dreams. Don’t just listen for what you want – or expect – to hear. Remember to say please and thank you.


And most important of all, remember that sometimes, a dead frog is just a dead frog.

Did I Really...

...see a dragon on the horizon this afternoon?

Do you see it too?

Gossip, Rumour & Hearsay

One of the cliches about small rural communities is that everyone knows everyone else's business. And like most cliches, this one is based in truth, as I have been finding out in the last few months.

One reason is that many people are related to each other - families that have been in the area for hundreds of years in many cases have intermarried into a tangled tapestry of threads that is often hard to un-knot. I was recently cautioned by a fellow in-comer, 'Be careful what you say to one person about another - you never know whose aunt or cousin they may be!'. This seems to be wise advice.

As an in-comer, I have found the level of interest in other people's lives both sweet and touching - these people care about each other - and also somewhat bizarre and unsettling. My elderly neighbour, for example, loves to ring me up when there is a funeral and tell me all about the deceased, their virtues, vices, peccadilloes, likes and dislikes, even if I have no idea who she's talking about. And then she will tell me who was at the funeral, what they said, what they wore, what they thought about the deceased... again, I only know a fraction of the people she is talking about and often feel like an unintentional eavesdropper. Discomfort arises when she tells me about the things people have done that she disapproves of. I am clearly supposed to condemn these poor strangers for their sins, even though I know only my neighbour's version of their shortcomings. Mostly I umm and ahhh noncommittally and hope she'll soon find another topic.

Most discomforting of all is the recent realisation that I too am the subject of neighbourhood gossip. For example, at the end of last summer - more than a year after T and I had split - I was invited to a wedding. My invitation included a 'plus one', so I asked IB (who I had been seeing for several months by then) to accompany me. The wedding was lovely, I knew about a quarter to a third of the people there and was introduced to many more. When we returned home, a friend who hadn't been at the wedding rang to say that before the wedding had even finished, a neighbour (who also hadn't been at the wedding) rang her to ask why I was at the wedding with a man who was Not My Husband. Someone else - presumably a wedding guest - had rung him to report on my presumed infidelity and brass neck in showing off my fancy man to all and sundry. What really amazed me was that anyone who actually knew me, knew that T and I had split, and that I had started seeing someone. Surely only people who know me would be interested in my private life? Obviously that isn't the case!

Subsequently, I have met people locally for the first time, and in beginning to converse with them have found that they already know I'm divorced, where I live, that my parents have recently moved into the area... in short, they know exactly who I am and quite a lot of detail about my private life. I find this all quite bewildering. How can I be so interesting that perfect strangers are exchanging details of my life with each other. Why would they even want to know?

Perhaps I'm strange in not being that curious about other people. I take an interest in the lives of people I know, but I can't get my head around the notion of nosing into the affairs of strangers... or perhaps that's it. Perhaps I'm no longer a stranger, perhaps I have taken my first step onto the (long) ladder of being accepted as part of the local community. That is a nicer way of framing it!

Either way, I have taken perverse delight in throwing petrol on the gossip inferno by allowing the son of another neighbour to park his car on my drive for the time being. It's a simple 'helping each other out' scenario - he needs somewhere to park his SORN*-ed vehicle, and it benefits me to have a car parked on the drive even when I'm not here so it looks like there's someone in. However, I am now a Divorced Woman (and we all know what they're like...), IB is still on the scene, and now another single man's car is parked outside my house... I can just imagine what they're saying down at the local Tafarn**

"Have you heard about that Moonroot at Halfway Up A Hill - what a hussy! Well I never - do you know, she..."

* SORN = Statutory Off Road Notice. In the UK, when a car is not licensed it is issued with a SORN, one condition of which is that it is not parked on the public highway.

** Tafarn - Tavern or pub.

Some Mysterious March - Erm - 'Eccentricity'

My somewhat strange and deeply religious neighbour has recently been randomly lopping off small branches from his hedge and laying them 'lean-to' style across the ditch alongside the road.

I have no idea what this is for. Initially I thought he'd cut them but not had time to clear them away, but they have remained there for the last few weeks, so I guess they're where he intends them to be. But for what purpose? I wondered if it was to stop leaves etc getting in the ditch and damming it up, but frankly the branches themselves seem to be creating something of an obstacle. I decided to wait and see.

However, I have today discovered that he has also been randomly lopping bits out of my hedge. Some he has thrown into the ditch (so much for the 'stopping the ditch from getting blocked' theory), and some he has left poked back into my hedge.

I only noticed because a rather large branch of blackthorn had toppled out of my hedge and was partly obscuring the road. When I went to move it, assuming it had blown down in the recent strong winds, I found it had been neatly sawn off and then propped back upright in the hedge.

I don't think he's been attempting to do me a favour by sneakily trimming my overgrown hedge, as some bits that obviously need attention have been left alone. And the bits he's cut range from smallish twigs about a foot long to largeish branches about 6' in length. Ash, hazel and blackthorn as far as I can see.

I am mystified. Is this some strange Welsh custom I've never come across before? Has he completely lost the plot? Should I be worried, flattered or outraged? Am I about to be initiated into some dark secret of country life, wooed, or burned at the stake?

Anyone got any ideas??

Book Meme

I have been tagged for a meme by Anne at Blog o'Gnosis. It's a book meme and the rules I have been given state:

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).

2. Open the book to page 123.

3. Find the fifth sentence.

4. Post the next three sentences.

5. Tag five people.

Sadly, after my last post I'm going to end up looking like the Reclaiming-obsessed saddo I undoubtedly am. Because the nearest book was Starhawk's 'Twelve Wild Swans' which has just been returned after being borrowed by a friend. The upside is that the next nearest book would have been a cookery book which couldn't possibly have competed with the following extract for sheer out-of-context weirdness:

"The monster, which was blobby and changed form rapidly, sat on me to smother me. I began to call for my mother, as I had the first time I saw the monster. But when Mother appeared, I realized it was foolish to ask her for help, since she seemed just as harmful to me as the monster; in fact, she seemed to be part of the monster."

See, you always knew us Pagans were a strange lot.

I'm now supposed to tag five more people, but as most of those I think would like to take part seem to have done so already, I'll just say: if you'd like to do this one, consider yourself tagged.

By The Way...

... anyone know what has happened to my blog header? The photo seems to have got cropped and I'm not sure why. I don't think it was anything I did, and I can't seem to find out how to change it back. Any advice gratefully received.

There's Magic in These Here Hills...

While we were in Edinburgh, my Mum & Dad house-sat and looked after the animals for us. At some point during those five days, Dad lost the glass 'lens' from his watch. They hunted high and low, but it was nowhere to be found, and in the end they gave it up as a lost cause, deciding to get it fixed when they returned home.

Towards the end of their stay with us, I went down to give the chickens their afternoon treat of wheat (they love scratching around for it, and all cluster by the gate when they know it's imminent). Lo and behold, in perfect condition and lying in plain sight by the chicken house was the glass from my Dad's watch. We had looked there a number of times before without success, so we decided it must have been turned up by the chickens while they were scratching.

That same week, Mum, Dad & I drove out to the Pembrokeshire coast to visit Porthgain (a tiny fishing port) and St Non's Well near St David's (a holy well in a stunning clifftop position overlooking the sea). Later that evening, I realised I had lost my silver pendant.

I was really upset. For one thing it has great sentimental value, as T had bought it for me as a birthday present when we were on holiday in Australia. For another, it's my 'subtle pentacle' - living as I do in an area with fiercely evangelical Christian neighbours, I have to be a little bit careful and keep my Pagan identity a secret most of the time. This pendant is a five-pointed star within a circle (a pentacle, the sign that Witches wear as a Christian would wear a crucifix), but it's not an obvious pentacle, so I feel comfortable wearing it openly. I have never seen another exactly like it.

I pulled out all the stops trying to track it down. Mum, Dad and I combed the house, car and garden - down the back of the sofa, under the car seat, in the outhouses, on the drive, in the grass on the path down the hill. For a variety of reasons I couldn't go back to Porthgain and St Non's well and hunt for it myself, but I sent out a flurry of emails, to the restaurant where we'd eaten lunch, the retreat centre near the holy well, St David's tourist centre, Pembrokeshire local radio, and a Pembrokeshire 'local news' yahoo group. The response was wonderful, people searched for it, emailed back suggestions of other contacts to try, and offered handy hints like taking a metal detector down to the places we'd been to try and find it. Everyone really was lovely.

But the pendant remained lost. After a fortnight I was out of places to look and out of luck. I gave up any idea of getting it back, and wondered wistfully about asking my sister (a silversmith) to make me a new one.

Last night I took the chickens their afternoon scratch feed of wheat. And guess what was lying in plain sight in the chicken run?

Now, like Dad's watchglass it must have been there all along, hidden in the grass until it was scratched up by an insect-seeking chicken. Or must it? Perhaps we have criminal mastermind kleptomaniac chickens? Or kindhearted fairies living under the chicken house who run a Lost Property office? I'm keeping an open mind. And I've told my friend, who lost a pair of glasses at the supermarket, that I'll keep an eye open for them in the chicken run. Just in case.

Of Wizards and Rebels, and the Frankly Unlikely

Carmarthen has an ancient and amazing culture and history. It's the alleged birthplace of Merlin for one thing, who is supposed to have made many predictions about the place, including that one day a bull would climb to the top of St Peter's church tower (this apparently did happen a hundred or so years ago when one escaped during the weekly livestock market). He also predicted that should the tree known as 'Merlin's Oak' be felled, Carmarthen would be swallowed by the sea. The local council has taken pains to avoid this eventuality, first patching up the ancient - and by now dead & decaying - oak with concrete and iron bands, and finally removing it to a place of safe keeping when it was threatened by a new roundabout.

Carmarthen was also as far west as the invading Romans got in their attempt to subdue the Celts. The oldest part of the town still retains the layout of the original Roman streets, and hidden away are the ruins of an amphitheatre, although little is made of it in terms of either cultural heritage or tourist attraction.

Later, less than two hundred years ago, the town was at the centre of the 'Rebecca Riots', during which farmers revolting against excessive road tolls dressed themselves as women (to avoid being recognised), and calling themselves 'Rebecca and her daughters' (a biblical reference) went on a tollhouse-burning rampage (something the owners of the overpriced Severn Crossing would do well to remember).

Another quirk of Carmarthen? A few remaining coracle fishermen still fish the river Towy from the riverbanks in town.

I could go on and on listing things that make Carmarthen unique. But one characteristic of the town seems to go quite unremarked by other observers. The fact is - Carmarthen has weird graffiti.

There's some, (though not too much) evidence of the usual 'tagging' in the town centre; but I've noticed some graffiti around the junction of Blue Street and Lammas Street where someone regularly scrawls the names of their favourite rock bands/artistes in chalk. What I find remarkable about this is that the bands listed are invariably those fashionable 20-30+ years ago: Rod Stewart, AC/DC, Depeche Mode, The Stranglers, Blue Oyster Cult, InXS, David Essex etc. The graffiti is regularly removed, presumably by business owners or the local council, but then reappears: neatly scrawled lists of slightly naff 'golden oldies' who are mostly unheard of by today's young trendies. Who is the mystery scrawler? Is it someone old enough to remember these bands the first time around and hence really old enough to know better? Or someone younger, trawling their parents' record collection for inspiration? And the neat lists look so polite and unrebellious. No in-your-face slogans, or even declarations that 'Phil Collins rocks!!!', just neat columns of has-been names (apologies to any die-hard fans of any of the above. But fact is, even for those of them still around, their heyday is over). Isn't graffiti supposed to have an element of subversion, a whiff of revolution?

My other favourite piece of graffiti was painted on a wall outside Marks & Spencer for several years. It was a poem, with the title 'For YOU', which invariably made me smile when I passed by. It read:
'You're as young and as old as the ocean,
You smile and skies unfold
Wind and heaven
Are still and solid
You have an unearthly GLOW...'

I always wondered if there was supposed to be more (doesn't it sound like there's supposed to be more?), but it was written in a very neat, unhurried hand, so I don't think the painter was interrupted at his task. And although it was there for a number of years, nothing further was ever added. It has recently been pasted over with home made 'pop-art' style posters - that area seems to be the wall of choice for the creative and artistic vandal-about-town.

They may not fit the usual stereotype of graffiti, but actually I think the examples above are subversive, rebellious, revolutionary - for the very fact that they don't fit the mould. They don't seem designed to shock, or claim territory or status, they're polite and even sweet. Think about it - how subversive is that? Perhaps they are actually the perfect graffiti for a town like Carmarthen: a town of wizards and rebels, a town of ancient heritage and the frankly unlikely.

Stormy Weather

My friend Reya, whose unconventional viewpoints on life never fail to inspire intriguing new perspectives, talks sometimes about being predicted by the weather. I think I'm starting to know what she means.

Over the last few weeks we've had extremely unsettled weather - rain, wind, storms, even hail. June wasn't so much flaming as rain-lashed, and so far July has been pretty much following suit.

At the same time, the fall-out from the cancellation of Avalon Witchcamp, and the at times seemingly overwhelming task of staging a Summer Gathering instead has left me feeling buffetted and depressed.

I noticed on several occasions recently a weird phenomenon in which the horizon in all directions appeared quite bright, while the sky over us was black and heavy. This seemed to coincide with me feeling weighed down by too many commitments and not enough hours in the day. Was a literal black cloud following me around? I don't really believe that, but it does seem a bit strange.

The weather is still pretty unsettled, but the downpours seem less overwhelming, as does my workload. The sun is peeking out occasionally, the rain no longer a permanent fixture. And at the same time, my shoulders have un-knotted, my headache lifted, my sense of humour has returned.

Am I really being predicted by the weather? If so, I'm hoping for more rainbows, some lazy summer sun and perhaps the odd gentle shower just to keep things interesting. Enough with the stormy stuff for now.

P.S. Reya - recognise the star?

Things Ain't Cooking in my Kitchen...

Last night I wanted some mayonnaise to go with my dinner, but the jar in the fridge was nearly empty. No problem! We have plenty of eggs, so I decided to make home made mayonnaise, as I've done dozens of times before. But, for some reason it wouldn't thicken. It looked like mayonnaise, it tasted like mayonnaise, but it had the consistency of vinaigrette.

Today, we had some olive oil/balsamic vinegar left over that had been used for dipping ciabatta into. We also had some garlic. 'I'll put them in the food processor with a spoon of mustard and blend them into vinaigrette!' I thought.

But...

It looks like vinaigrette, it tastes like vinaigrette, but it has the consistency of mayonnaise...

Anybody know what the hell is going on?

The Power of Names

It's my own fault. I was asking for it really. Naming our gander after a vampire - what was I thinking?

It started innocently enough - our geese are a traditional Welsh breed called 'Brecon Buff', so it seemed a good pun to name the female half of the duo 'Buffy'. And by logical extension, her mate became 'Angel' (note for anyone reading this not familiar with Buffy the Vampire Slayer: some of the following may be lost on you...).

Spookily enough, Buffy died (got eaten by a fox) and rose from the dead (we erected fox-proof fencing, got a replacement goose, and named her Buffy). She turned out to have many other things in common with her namesake too, being independently minded, strong, loyal and fond of cheese (OK, I made the last one up. But trust me, there are parallels).

And Angel turns out to have much in common with HIS namesake. He's heavy-browed and brooding. He adores Buffy and tries to protect her at all times - even though she's more than capable of handling herself. He'd probably look good in a long, billowing leather coat. But more than anything else - once he's known a moment of 'true happiness' [sic] he turns into a psycho.

Most of the time Angel is a sweetheart. He postures a bit, but basically he's a big softy. But in spring - oh boy! - the breeding season arrives, and our handsome hero is transformed into a vicious, soulless sadist who tortures his innocent victims rather than killing them cleanly (he aims for the fleshy parts of your legs instead of going straight for the throat).

In Witchcraft, much is made of the power of names. And as a witch, I feel I really should have known better. Is it too late to rename him - Riley, perhaps?