The forest tries to overgrow everything, inch by inch, Spring after Spring, it
expands and threatens even the Neverbudge. Like Lear before everything went
cattywumpus, the Neverbudge sits and says, “I am made of hardwood and have
endured.” But the trees and so on go, “nearly there. Few more years and we’ll
have a toehold. Well, we would if we had toes.” I’ve long looked forward to
the season when the cherry’s branches reach our seating area. Usually the
squirrels get every last cherry but this year at least six will be within reach
for the plucking. If we can beat the squirrels to them.
At present we seem to be feeding everyone; not only have the squirrels
discovered the chickens’ food, sparrows and other daredevils are having a go
too. I notice that even though there are cross-cultural exchanges, chat from
one species to another, the raids on food only take place when chickens are out
of sight.
Hamish is beginning to be able to make his needs clear in an adult manner.
He’s fifty four pounds now and quite quick. After a couple of weeks of
repeated attempts to burst out the door, I asked him what he thought he was up
to. “You could damage yourself you know, trying to get through a door that’s
not entirely open.”
“Risk of the job, guv. What your rat or squirrel needs is falling upon, like
the wolf on the fold. Trust me on this. Genetic inheritance.”
“So your idea is that if you burst out at irregular intervals, in some instance
the chase will be on?”
“What’s an idea?”
“A notion. Something you think is the right thing to do.”
“A hundred percent, with a tail wag and a bit of a grin. Everyone needs to
know his place in the world and rats and squirrels is impertinent creatures.”
“And if you catch one?”
“That’s between me and the bedpost, if you take my meaning.”
“We don’t have any bedposts.”
“Manner of speaking, guv. Manner of speaking.”
I told the chickens that classes are winding down and that I should soon be
available for godly consultation in regard to, for instance, the fact that the
junior god is about to go on a several week long trip and the pooh and chips
are getting kind of close to the sleeping perch.
“Not to worry,” said Mimo. “If we’re not well taken care of, we just won’t
give you any eggs.”
Hamish objected that gods shouldn’t be talked to in this manner. Having spent
last weekend in the wilderness, he seems to have returned with a new sense of
how the world ought to be. It wasn’t forty days and nights and I used Costco’s
best anti-tick stuff on him before he went, but who knows, he may have become
infected with a desire to interpret the will of gods.
As we walked from the tennis court I dropped behind the guy I had been playing
with. He was full of chat about how soundly we’d beaten the opponents. I
squinted at his calf which was covered by a large and colorful tattoo. Was it
Darth Vader? No, he said, it was…some character I’d never heard of from a Star
Wars film I don’t know. I said as much and added that I hoped I didn’t sound
snooty; I’m just ignorant about Star Wars movies. We agreed that it is odd
that some things appeal to some people and others not. Like, for example,
having a large and colorful tattoo on your calf. This I didn’t say.
E. bought a car this week, new to her. My father recently had another birthday.
The car has more than two hundred thousand miles on the clock but the mechanic,
who sold it to her, swears it’s sound. It certainly looks spiff.
He’s doing very well, still winning at golf.
With a car there are the equivalent of wrinkles and you can listen for a dodgy
ticker or shocks on the wobble, but there’s no strip you dip then watch for
color change.
There’s no clear marker of where it is on the road to death.
We humans now have ways of eking out extra miles, ones that will save cars and
maybe ourselves from being donated for organs or charity.
People happily put their hands on our rear windshields and push, send us for
tests and therapy.
We have hope
and drugs.
Sound in the engine compartment, we notice the fading of signals and sensors,
but like the Mississippi, we just keep rolling along.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
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