[lit-ideas] Re: Sunday Twofer
- From: Mike Geary <gearyservice@xxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Mon, 30 Dec 2013 11:57:27 -0600
Sometimes icons come off with more sincerity than words, ergo, *: )*
Mike Geary
On Sun, Dec 29, 2013 at 11:55 AM, David Ritchie <profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx>wrote:
> There was more pizza than we could finish so I asked the waitress for a
> doggy bag. Then, seeing crusts and thinking of the chickens, I added, "Or
> a chicken box."
> "How Portland," said J., who is visiting from L.A.
> The next morning I distributed most of the crusts to the assembled flock
> who, after a puzzled peck or two, decided that they were very much in favor
> of pizza. I took the last of it inside, walked through the kitchen and
> dropped two crusts in the dog's bowl, which sits outside the other door.
> While washing some pans, I then watched the chickens. They finished the
> pizza and set about scratching in the gravel. You could see they were
> thinking that pizza was easier. Suddenly Mimo had an idea, "Dog food!"
> They all set off towards the granite steps.
> "Dog food," they nodded as they climbed.
> In military theory the term "inside lines," describes the advantage of
> short routes to the outer edge of a defensive perimeter. Taking advantage,
> I opened the side door and pulled the dog's bowl in. I stood where I could
> watch what they would make of this disappearance. Rocky was the first to
> arrive with Appenzeller close on her shoulder.
> "It's gone!"
> "Gone?" echoed Cheddar, hardly believing.
> "Funny," said Mimo.
> "Not really," Pecornio was put out. "Here one day, gone the next?"
> "What could it mean?"
> With the authority of one who has discovered a food source, Rocky
> cogitated. After a while, she came to an answer, "Dog food," she said, "is
> migratory."
> Cheddar was appalled, "It's gone to Hawaii?"
> "Not," said Rocky, "necessarily."
>
> How history is remembered is a complex cultural problem which sometimes
> depends on who is doing the remembering, when and why. Sudden uncertainty
> in the food supply will shake a community, bringing cherished beliefs into
> question. I wasn't surprised therefore to learn that following the
> discovery of dog food migration, the flock divided into factions. Captain
> Mimo and Captain Rocky, each with a discovery to her name, each got a
> regular follower. Rocky led the DDF (Discovery of the Dog Food) party;
> Mimo, the MFC (Mimo Finds Compost). A third faction chose to regard the
> general embrace of freedom as more important than either discovery. The
> Day of Unlimited Freedom (DUF) party, consisted of Cheddar and, for
> sisterly solidarity purposes only, Wensleydale. (Wensleydale actually
> thought that solistices were far more important than explorers'
> discoveries, but for a while she kept this view to herself). It was not
> the DUF but instead the DDF that proved to be the dullest group, boring
> everyone silly with tales of how the original climb up the granite steps
> had opened up a new world. I'm told they were starting on this historic
> theme again, practically crowing, when Cheddar heard me emerge on the far
> side of the house. "Pizza," she shrieked, and took off. For a brief
> shining moment she led the running, but then, quite suddenly, she forgot
> whether she was running away from something or towards something and so,
> just to be on the safe side, she dived under a handy juniper. Though Mimo
> started from the back, being bigger and stronger and not averse to bullying
> others, she rounded the corner first and was set to gather yet another
> competitive laurel until she encountered the slipperiness of the steps.
> Granite steps are what is known in gardening circles as a Mistake, very
> dangerous when wet. Wanting to keep up with her leader, Appenzeller put in
> an extra burst of speed, skidded on the smooth surface, took off briefly
> and then bounced down the steps in the manner of one of aviation's early
> pioneers. Maybe her wake's turbulence, or some glancing collision, pushed
> Mimo into the bushes. The MFC's took the lead, momentum carrying them
> forward like flotsam on the explosion of water you get when a dam's sluice
> opens. With fuss and scattered feathers, they came skidding down. So
> disorienting was their erratic progress, however, that by the time they
> reached the bottom of the steps, they'd forgotten what their goal was.
> Thus, like the tortoise in the tale, Wensleydale, whose idea of hurrying
> is measured on a glacial scale, arrived at my feet first.
> "Nice weather for the time of year," she offered. "Is that a
> chrysanthemum?"
> "Pizza?" suggested Cheddar, hurrying up.
> "Houseplant." I said.
> "Is that like a spade?" Cheddar asked.
> "I'm hoping it might do better outside."
> "He's going to plant a spade," Cheddar explained as the others arrived.
> "Look," said Mimo, "peas."
> In my other hand I carried a bucket of scraps, which I now scattered. I
> went off to put the chrysanthemum in. When I returned
> Wensleydale was offering a thought. "Enough with the factions; we've got
> plenty food."
> "Whaaaat?"
> "Whaaaat?"
> "Concentrate," said the scruffy White one, "on finding peas."
>
> David Ritchie,
> Portland, Oregon
>
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