Terry Eagleton claims in, “The Truth About the Irish,” that Lady Morgan
invented the term “bureaucracy.” Britannica and Wikipedia agree on another
origin, attributing it to the French philosopher Jacques Claude Marie Vincent
de Gournay. Eagleton’s claim caused me to investigate Lady Morgan’s
biographical details, also her poem, “Chloe and Cupid,” which I then read to
the chickens. Mimo asked to hear the bit about Cupid’s wing again. “Did you
say he ‘plumed his wing?’” I checked the text. "That’s what it says."
Pecorino, “So this Cupid was a chicken?”
“I see how you might infer that but…”
No use. The genie was out of the bottle. They went running around shouting
about how they now had the power to cause beings to fall in love. I left them
to it.
I do wish people would stop asking why I’m not like normal folk. I knew long
ago that I’m mostly not like normal folk. I keep chickens because my daughter
wanted them. M. and I built Fort Squark in conditions that reminded me of
winter conditions of the First World War winter. I hurt my back in the
process. These are not the actions of a normal Dad. Neither will my thoughts
and opinions pass other tests of normal. But I do feel quite normal when I’m
eating a sandwich and the chickens gather round. One definition of normal is
the guy in the middle, the guy with the food. My brother and I were having
sandwiches from a very good Vietnamese shop, ones with jalapeños in (which
term, now I reflect, doesn’t sound particularly Vietnamese). Since the weather
was fine we had elected to eat in the garden. Pecorino hopped onto the bench
beside me.
“Would you like to be in love?”
I nodded towards my brother, “I already love him,” I explained.
Appenzeller, “We don’t charge for our services, but if any food should drop,
we’ll be happy to clean up.”
The first thing that fell was a piece of chicken. To prevent cannibalism I
picked the piece up and flung it far into the woods.
“I hope you don’t think we’re dogs,” said Mimo, running over.
Appenzeller, “We don’t fetch.”
“I know,” I said. “That was for Hamish’s benefit.”
“But he’s not chasing it,” Mimo pointed out.
“Yet,” I said. “Not chasing it yet.” In fact he hadn’t noticed my throw.
The girls were soon distracted by falling crumbs.
Three chickens sat outside the kitchen door. Towards the end of the day it’s
become one of their favorite places: backs to the wall, with backup available.
To encourage them into Fort Squark with a last nibble before bed, I grabbed a
container of old cooked rice. When I put my hand on the door handle Hamish
coiled himself beside me, ready to spring out and finally catch a squirrel or a
rat or whatever it is he imagines catching. I opened the door. Mimo rose to
her feet. Hamish, who weighs more than fifty pounds, went bounding past. So
confident was she that Hamish would not hit her, Mimo didn’t even sway slightly
to the side.
“Weren’t you worried?”
Mimo, “Not a bit. He’s never hits me.”
“But even so. You’d notice if he did.”
“Past performance is a great predictor of future results. Besides, I’ve risen
again.”
“Doesn’t make you immortal,” I muttered.
“Sproing,” said Pecorino.
“What’s that mean?”
“I was practicing.”
“I don’t see,” I said, before I could stop myself, “how you’ll go about
handling a bow. Like Cupid?”
“I think,” said Appenzeller, who had clearly thought the thing through, “we may
have to rely on spit.”
“You’ll spit to get beings to fall in love?”
Mimo nodded, “That’s the general idea.”
“So why say, ‘Sproing’? Surely that sounds like a bow and arrow?”
Pecorino, “It’s a distraction.”
Appenzeller, “Takes your mind off.”
“Off what?”
In unison, for the slow god’s benefit, “The spit!”
I suggested they might run the proposal past Health and Safety.
“Bloody bureaucrats,” Mimo muttered.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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