A catalog this week offered me the chance to “invigorate my vocabulary skills.”
I thought I’d step outside and check with the chickens before I embraced this
opportunity. As is his wont, Hamish burst through the door before it was fully
open, hoping that this finally would be his moment to catch rats or squirrels
or, by running circuits through the woods, somehow make progress on the path to
enlightenment. Mimo was enjoying the sunshine alone, so it was to her that I
put the question.
“Have you any idea what uninvigorated vocabulary skills might resemble?”
Mimo, “I beg your pardon?”
“It said in the catalog that those who buy a book that teaches a hundred words
will have thei ‘vocabulary skills’ ‘invigorated.'”
“Doesn’t sound like vior to me. A hundred words? I can think those in a
matter of seconds. I think they’re having you on.”
Appenzeller came running up, hoping for food. “Having you on what?”
Mimo was drinking milk, “I propose a toast.”
And here came Pecorino, “Toast!”
I said. “I’ll pop inside and see if we have any leftover from breakfast.”
What I actually did was take a piece of stale bread and pop it briefly in the
toaster. (I had forgotten that I was saving bread for next week’s stuffing).
Hamish meanwhile had done his round and came barreling through the group. Up
in the air they leapt, squawking. Momentarily forgetting his manners, Hamish
spun round and ran through the group again. Before he could decide this was a
form of fun, I quickly stepped outside, “Hoi!” He drooped.
“Sorry.”
“I should think so!”
“It’s quite all right,” said Mimo, eyeing the toast. “I’m sure he meant no
harm.’
I eyed Hamish. “Did you?”
“Sorry.”
Appezeller, “Ahem. If you could crumble the toast a bit…?”
Pecorino, “And drop some over here…?”
I was still looking at Hamish, calculating whether he’d ever bother the
chickens again. We leave him alone with them often and if he took it into his
head that they were playthings, the chicken saga could come to an abrupt end.
“Sorry.”
“Toast for one and all,” I said, carefully tossing a thick crust for Hamish
some distance from the chickens. “Don’t stand on ceremony or be otherwise
inhomogeneous in your response.”
“No such word,” said Mimo, calling me out.
“But there is, thou twilly-toed poltroon.”
Mimo, “There you err. A poltroon is a kind of falcon and if we can say
anything with certainty it’s that chickens are not birds of prey.”
Chorus, “No, no. Certainly not.”
“Tell that to the worms.”
“Nature has rules."
Me, “But it’s such a fun word to say, ‘poltroon.'”
Mimo, “And what’s all this about twilly-toed? My feet are symmetrically
arranged. Don’t turn in…or out. If anyone’s twilly-toed it’s that dog.”
“What?” said Hamish looking up from his crust.
“Nothing,” I said. “They were admiring your agility.”
I was thinking about how dogs spin before they settle to rest or take a pooh.
It occurred to me that hereabouts they may all go in the same direction. What
if dog spinning were like water going down a plughole? What if the direction
of the action were hemispheric? A quick look at the inter webs tells me that
I’m not the first person to which this hypothesis has occurred. The answer
seems to be that there are patterns to dog spinning but they seem more like
left and right handed people than hemispherically organized.
The fourth performance of, “Action This Day,” went off well on Friday. This
time around we had lighting effects. Well, one. Can costumes, make-up, the
whole shebang be far behind? Well yes, probably. It’s a lot cheaper to do
without.
Hamish wants to go out again. “Gotta work! Make my mark in the world!” If
anyone on the list has sheep we could borrow from time to time…or small
elephants.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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