We the people have been subject to bombardment of late, admittedly with words
not bombs, but lots of them. Not a few among those words have been directed
towards my subject for today: whether or not gummint lies to us. Exhibit one
in this trial: the weather forecast. Let the record show that if the gummint
says there’s a one hundred percent chance of rain, that’s exactly what’s
coming. We went crabbing yesterday, tested this proposition, found it one
hundred percent accurate. We were very wet.
Part of the reason we chose to press on regardless was that the tide chart—also
produced by gummint folk—said we’d get an hour or so of rise and then a gentle
fall. A small tidal rise and fall means that the water will be moving gently
and the crab will have a chance of finding the bait. We got on the water and
pulled a “keeper" every five minutes for the first hour. Best catch rate we’ve
had in ages. Even better, some of them were “Big Erics,” which is our term for
ones that are so obviously bigger than the minimum size there’s no need to
measure. We had visions of catching our limit—twelve per license. During
slack tide we left rings in the water while we ate a quick lunch. When we
resumed, the water had begun to move in the opposite direction. No keepers.
In fact very few crab at all. The tide picked up speed, eventually running
fast enough to push one of our floats under-water. We lost a ring. We lost
another ring to a propellor—someone drove over the rope and severed it. This
was not a gentle, three foot tide. We caught not a single crab more, but we
had enough to feed twelve people at our dinner table so who’s complaining?
"Dear [me]” an e mail I received this week began. “We’ve got some great news.”
My ship had come in? Some publisher had pulled a proposal from the slush pile
and was wiring an advance? A boffin had invented a whizzo feed that causes old
chickens to start laying again? No, no. Even better! A frequent flier
program was going to give me a new membership number! They said it was one
among several “exciting new changes to [the] Flying Club.” Some e mail should
come with a health warning. I mean how much excitement can one heart take?
On his evening pee round Hamish often moves like the substitute mailman,
flooring the accelerator between mailboxes. But on Thursday something
different occurred. When it came time to check outside three doors for a
recalcitrant cat, I opened the first and in Sonsie waltzed. Wonderful. Out of
the second door Hamish and I then went, through the gate, into the unfenced
area of the garden. He likes to stretch his territory, claiming this part of
the yard too. Usually its’ a quick process: widdle, widddle, widdle, run, run,
run, done. But on this occasion we investigated a line of scent that exactly
followed the border fence. Something unusual this way had come, something that
was not walking on a leash out by the road. Our hair stood on end.
I wondered if this evidence of danger accounted for Mimo’s renewed
determintation to get into the house, so I when I stepped outside to shake the
tablecloth, I asked.
“We’re a bit bothered by the danger. I think you should build a wall.”
I pointed out the obvious, “We’ve got a fence.”
“A wall would be better. They’ll pay for it.”
“Who will?”
“Evildoers.”
“Who’s that?”
“Those who will be made to pay. Cheddar says that’s how it works. Wensleydale
told her.”
“But Wensleydale’s dead.”
“Can’t be.”
“Why not?”
“She talks to Cheddar. That wouldn’t happen if she was dead!”
“When did you last see her?”
Cheddar came running up, “See who?”
Mimo said, “Wensleydale.”
“Quite recently.”
Mimo turned back to me, “See!”
“I asked you.”
Cheddar diverted. “Watch out, he’s got a flag.”
I flapped the tablecloth, emptying it of breadcrumbs. They were torn between
the gobble option and the run.
“Run away.”
“But there’s bread!”
“He’s got a flag.”
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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