In today’s New York Times
https://www.nytimes.com/2017/04/07/arts/dance/but-is-it-art-in-the-case-of-doggie-hamlet-yes.html?_r=0
<https://www.nytimes.com/2017/04/07/arts/dance/but-is-it-art-in-the-case-of-doggie-hamlet-yes.html?_r=0>
there’s a dog very like Hamish. Kristy Edmunds, Founding Executive and
Artistic Director of the Portland Institute for Contemporary Art is buying the
piece. It was she who once oversaw a “garden show” which included me speaking
on the history of the lawn. The article says she’s looking all over for sheep;
maybe I should give her a call in re. Hamish?
That Hamish has had his usual amount of exercise is a tribute to local
fortitude. When the rain is coming down and the wind is from the south and
trees are throwing detritus upon our heads in what, without exaggeration, could
be called a threatening manner, choosing a moment to walk is not the simplest
of decisions. I told Hamish that replacing a set of tires must come first. He
followed me out the kitchen door and suggested that a discussion with the tire
guy would go so much better if a dog were present.
“I am such an attractive dog, with quite the tail wag.”
“No disputing that,” I agreed. But I should go through the car wash so the
tire guy doesn’t think the car’s a wreck. Last time you really didn’t like
that.”
We built the garden gate with a hole for dogs to see out, thinking it a
kindness, which it usually is, but it does enable a dog to hit you squarely
with the, “How can you abandon me?” look as you start the car. I was back
within minutes; the tires I needed weren’t on hand. Out of excuses, I agreed
to a walk, taking up position well away from the frantically swaying trees and
hidden squirrels.
I had planted and nurtured through three years a chestnut tree, Italian,
specially ordered to avoid whatever ails local edible chestnuts. I had two
thoughts: we like to eat chestnuts and a hardwood might stop a Douglas Fir’s
Kamikaze fall. In the last months two houses in the neighborhood have had
trees fall on them. And so what happened to the chestnut? Split in half by a
five inch thick branch. Revenge is mine, sayeth the Doug.
The girls were more bothered than the dog.
“Whaaat?”
“Noises off!"
I explained that we’d kept them in the coop because great chunks of tree were
falling. Had they the ability to create protest signs I think I would have
been greeted by circling hens.
“What do we want?”
“Water.”
“When do we want it?”
“Now.”
They had food, but unlike Hamish, they don’t savor puddle water.
Mimo was peering through my office door. It had been busy day and as usual I
had not given my best attention to chickens. I climbed the stairs to the
kitchen and found two of them hunkered down outside. Appenzeller had
apparently given up and gone to bed. I opened the door, stale tortillas in
hand, “What ho, girls,” I said. “Time for bed?”
“Well,” said Pecorino, ready to deal, “depends on whether you make it worth our
while.”
“We’ve got a while you know,” said Cheddar.
“Quite a big one,” Mimo embroidered.
“I have tortillas,” I said. “Not, as the new chalk sign outside the
traditional burger place says on Canyon Road, ‘thaco’s.’ I’ll tear them into
bits.”
“Bits,” said Cheddar, appreciatively.
“Saves gobbling,” said Pecorino.
“How’s the ambassador?” Cheddar wanted to know.
I assured them, “The ambassador has landed.”
Mimo, “Is that some kind of coded phrase?”
“No,” I said, “it’s the simple truth. She’s in Malawi.”
“What’s Malawi?” Mimo is clearly not retaining everything.
“It’a a republic, formerly known as Nyasaland. You might like the rock
art—World Heritage site.”
“I’ve gone off art,” said Mimo, enigmatically.
When we reached the coop, Appenzeller came rushing out. “I’m not asleep…I’m
not asleep. Is there food?”
I ripped the tortillas and distributed. “Passover and Easter are coming up.
Also another performance of my play.”
“I’m not theatrically engaged at present,” said Cheddar. “I could be
Eisenhower or Churchill,either one.”
Mimo, “She’s been practicing. When others are trying to sleep.”
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
