When we were having beer yesterday evening B. spoke of amazement among the
Japanese when they first encountered white people. Since it’s a beer story, I
don’t feel the usual urge to check veracity. Beer stories must entertain; if
they are true, so much the better. B.’s tale concluded with nineteenth century
Japanese people wondering why Westerners treasure output from their noses,
going so far as to wrap it in cloth as one would—this is my own elaboration—an
unconsecrated Host. Apparently the usual Japanese approach to nasal secretions
is to swallow. I did not know that.
Today the wind is from the west, gusting and quite cold, but in the lee of
anything the sun warms and encourages. After walking Hamish, I stepped outside
to see what the chickens were making of the day and found them on the dark,
damp side of the house, sheltering under the oak-leaf hydrangea.
“It’s sunny on the other side,” I said.
Around they came, following me.
“He’s very good,” said Mimo, “able to change the weather like that.”
“Wonder why he doesn’t do it more often,” said Appenzeller.
Pecorino lagged behind, with the result that she missed the others turning past
the food and into Fort Squawk. She could be forgiven for assuming they
wouldn’t go in there. Why swap one dark spot for another? Pecorino
accellerated, heading for the greenhouse. Busy scratching in the straw, the
other two didn’t bother to respond to her “where are you” calls. When she
returned, again walking past where they were and asked where they went, I
thought I might try a bit of science, which I’ll report below before sending it
in to “Nature” or some equally prestigious journal.
“An Inquiry into levels of Altruism Among Chickens.”
Hypothesis: They are low.
Method: Chickens were separated into two groups. One was occupied, scratching
in the straw. The other, out of view of group one, was given chips.
Results: The first group of chickens remained entirely unaware that chips were
available. This was because the chicken who was awarded the reward made no
attempt to contact the others. When she had eaten the whole lot, she ululated
quietly.
I knew not why Tyson the chicken company or Tyson the boxer are so called, so I
looked to see what the web says. John W Tyson established the food company in
1935. The web says it’s “one of the largest marketers of valued-added
chicken.” One of the largest boxers, a man whose value-added thumping earns
millions, is also named Tyson. Tyson Luke Fury, a very big man, was born a
premie weighing one pound to an Irish Traveller family. Fury is easier to
recall and to write if you have no Gaelic, than the original name Ó Fiodhabrha.
As an amateur Tyson trained at the Holy Family Boxing Club in Belfast.
Boxers are on my mind because I’ve been reading about Cassius Clay. Mohammed
Ali was named after his father, Cassius Clay Sr., who was named after an
aggressive guy who was cousin to Henry Clay. I know this from Tony Horwitz,
Spying on the South, where I read the following, “[Cassius] Clay became a
scourge to his caste. He sought ‘the overthrow of slavery by home-action’
aired such views in his fiery newspaper, the True American, and wielded fists,
guns and knives in defense of them…At one political rally, beset by a mob and
then shot in the chest, Clay drew his bowie knife and carved the gunman nearly
to death.”
B. told a similar tale from a long time ago when he worked nights in an E.R.
Some guy came in with a bullet in the forehead, shot by a small caliber weapon.
When cleaned up he discharged himself to seek revenge on the assailant, who
showed up later in the same E.R. with multiple knife wounds.
As this week clearly demonstrates, it’s a rough old world out there. My advice
is to enjoy the sunshine and, as the saying goes, take tarts when tarts are
passing.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
