Embargo is an odd word. You can imagine someone in London docks being asked,
“What did you do with the cargo?”
“Embargoed it, guv. Isn’t that what you said? On a lorry.”
“I said the cargo must go to…never mind…where’s it gone?”
“Dunno, guv. Your best bet would be to ask the driver.”
“Where’s he?”
“Went with the lorry."
The word “embargo” started out as “embarge,” or even “imbarge,” meaning to take
in all the barges or barques. No matter; I’ve guided you into this slight
etymological dead end because the current fashion for tariffs and barriers
seems to have resulted in an embargo on chicken eggs. Once we were getting
four; this week…suddenly none.
Another possible explanation is that the chickens have begun laying in an
undisclosed location. I’ve looked all over but I can’t find where. Deciding
not to beat about the bush and knowing that if you want to make an omelette you
have to break eggs, I asked. Mimo’s answer surprised me, “We’ve joined the
C.I.A.”
“Central Intelligence Agency?”
Mimo, “I can neither deny nor confirm details of our ongoing command structure.”
“*Chicken* Intelligence Agency?”
Pecorino, “We can either confirm or deny details of…what she said.”
“I could do the same with the food, you know. I could move that to an
undisclosed location.”
Appenzeller, “Oh we’d find it soon enough.”
“Are you sure?”
Appenzeller, “Our agent network is extensive.”
“Squirrels? Ravens?”
Mimo, “No alliance with either of those entities has been contemplated.”
Pecorino, “What’s a raven?”
Mimo, “He means crows.”
Pecorino, “Why didn’t he say so?”
Appenzeller, “Above your pay grade, my dear. Leave the thinking to those of us
at the top of the pecking order.”
Pecorino, “But what if you ask me to commit atrocities?”
Appenzeller, “Such as?”
Pecorino, “Spitting on Wensleydale’s grave.”
Mimo, “She doesn’t have a grave.”
Pecorino, “Does too.”
Mimo, “God, does Wensleydale have a grave?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny details of subterranean operations.”
Later I asked them a distracting question, “Just for fun, girls, what rhymes do
you have for trump?”
Mimo, suspiciously, “Rhymes?”
Appenzeller, “Have you taken up cards?"
“Just idle fun."
Appenzeller, “Food rhymes with 'you slow toad.'”
Pecorino, “It does?”
Appenzeller, “At an expert level of expertise. So you’d like a rhyme for
trump?”
Mimo, “Tree stump?”
Pecorino, “Bump in the landscape?”
Mimo, “Numpty?”
"You know the word numpty?”
Appenzeller, “You called the cat that, when he fell off the bench in mid wash.”
“Did I?”
Appenzeller, “Remind us, is a numpty a good thing or a bad thing?”
“It’s a nice way of saying you think someone has committed dropped a clanger.
Shot himself in the foot?”
Pecorino, “He was licking his foot.”
Appenzeller, “I think we’d remember shooting."
Pecorino, “Is it meaningful, this rhyming? If one thing is one thing and
another thing rhymes with it does that mean that the first thing shares
characteristics with the second thing, or does the first thing have nothing to
do with the second thing at all? Is rhyming meaningless, or what?"
“There,” I said, “you have a conundrum.”
Pecorino, “We do?”
Mimo, “Are they edible?”
We have pretty much established that underneath the deck there could be
rodent-like creatures. How’s that? Every time Hamish goes outside and every
time I approach the door to suggest that we might go outside, Hamish says, “I
can get them. This time I’m going to get them. How exciting is the universe?
My moment of rodent kill is about to happen. A life’s goal fulfilled!” Never
happens. He can’t get under.
There has been no visual verification of rodent inhabitance issues. Maybe the
C.I.A. could set up surveillance, which might draw them away from wherever eggs
are hid?
Does anyone know if an English Shepherd can be trained to find eggs?
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
