I rushed to tell the chickens, “ There’s an estate sale with volume one number
one of POGO!”
“So?”
“It’s POGO! Stephen’s favorite.”
“Stephen?”
You can’t discuss memories with animals who have no idea…but for some reason I
ploughed on.
“He and I drove across America together and retrieved a sword from under a
mattress. I wrote a book titled, Excaliber in a Box Spring. It was almost
published, by Penguin. It should have been. Stephen introduced me to the
Okefenokee Swamp. It took me a while to see the humor. But it is funny. I
guarantee. I should go to the sale.”
“What’s funny?”
“POGO.”
Hamish came running up. “Does he have a stick?”
In the end I didn’t go to the sale. Can’t remember why. Later I asked Mimo,
who had just laid an egg and was consequently on her own at the feeder, “Are
you worried about the fact that we might be in range of North Korea’s nuclear
devices?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because we didn’t vote.”
“You can’t vote.”
“Exactly.”
“So?”
“So we’re exempt. We’re with Sartre on this one. We take the consequences of
our actions.”
“But Sartre said that people who don’t vote have voted with the majority.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what?”
“*People* who don’t vote have voted with the majority. Chickens are exempt
from the consequences of people’s actions.”
“I don’t think that’s the case.”
“Ask Sartre.”
“He’s dead.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“Speaking of faults, do you have a plan for the earthquake?”
“We intend to forage.”
“Word of warning…under those circumstances people may prove a good deal less
truthworthy. They'll be foraging too.”
“I’m sure they’ll respect the pecking order.”
On Saturday there was entertainment while I tossed the new whistling ball for
Hamish—elementary school girls playing soccer. One side scored three goals in
five minutes. They had an obvious advantage: three at the front knew how to
pass the ball and to shoot. Everyone else on the field only knew how to make
irregular contact with the ball. Someone had told the goalie to take goal
kicks by standing at the side, as adults do. She kicked the ball straight to
the other team’s forward, who walloped it into the net. After that goal the
coach pulled all three stars from the field, routs being unenjoyable for all.
A few minutes later I saw something entirely new, which is quite a statement
after watching soccer for more than fifty years: the referee blew multiple
blasts on his whistle and instantly everyone took a knee. Was it time for the
anthem? No. It turned out this is how they deal with injuries at this
level—stop the game, attend to the wounded, re-start when everyone’s
certifiably safe. Seems like a good idea.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
