“Whaaaaaaaaat?”
Days hereabouts don’t generally begin with interrogation. The chickens make
appreciative noises when I open the door to the coop, or comment on the
weather, but their focus is on getting to the food. I noticed therefore a
change of mind.
“What, what?” I asked.
Mimo, “We don’t like the way you look. It’s frightening.”
“What’s wrong with the way I look? Nothing’s changed.”
Appenzeller, “We long ago forgave most of your appearance.”
Mimo, “The fact that you don’t look like a chicken.”
Pecorino, “And that you’re pink.”
Mimo, “But it’s the hair.”
Appenzeller, “Too wild.”
Pecorino, “Against the sky, it reminds us of the tail feathers of a hawk.”
“My hair reminds you of a hawk?”
All, “Yussssssss.”
“Well there’s not a lot I can do about that right now.”
Mimo, “Can’t you get it shortened?”
“In normal circumstances, yes. But we are not living in normal circumstances.”
Appenzeller, “We’re not?”
Pecorino, “Seems pretty normal to me.”
“Trust me on this one.”
I had E. over to celebrate sunshine and the garden in full bloom. The two of
us sat, six feet a part and sipped the gin and t. Shortly after he left, with
dinner cooking started I looked out the kitchen window and there was a young
rat, working its way nervously towards the chicken food. I opened the door for
Hamish, “Get him.” Hamish was a blur, running at full speed…right past the rat
and in a loop all around the garden. The rat dived under a pile of flower
pots. I went out and started banging on the pots, hoping to scare it into the
open. Hamish came up, wagging his tail.
“It’s under here.”
“What?”
“The rat you’re chasing.”
He sniffed. “So it is.”
And then he went for another run around his loop. What we need, of course, is
what B. reported this week—a six foot long snake. But that would be like
Flanders and Swan calling in the gas-man; the snake might bite the rat, the
chickens, me and something else on four other days of the week.
https://lyrics.fandom.com/wiki/Flanders_%26_Swann:The_Gas_Man_Cometh ;
<https://lyrics.fandom.com/wiki/Flanders_%26_Swann:The_Gas_Man_Cometh>
Thinking about predation, I inferred this week that Wensleydale was indeed
killed by a possum. The web says that when these creatures attack a chicken
they eat only a few parts, which is exactly how I found poor old W, how many
years ago was that now? Why have we not had a repeat of the problem? The web
says possums will not venture where there is a dog. Wensleydale was killed
away down by the fence; generally the chickens don’t go there.
On Saturday the chickens were not happy.
“Woe, woe and thrice woe,” Mimo moaned.
“Absolutely,” said I, reflecting on the state of the nation.
“Darkness is upon us,” said Appenzeller, “and the day is but half done.”
“What must we do to atone?” Pecorino wanted to know.
“I don’t think that atonement is the best cure for rain,” I said. “It’s a hard
rain, that I’ll grant.”
“It is a hard rain,” said Mimo. “Falling on us all.”
“Stay vigilant,” was the only advice I could think of. I thought maybe a
change of subject might be good. “I’ve been reading about the Mongol
imposition of serfdom and slavery on many rural Chinese, which persisted until
the Ming dynasty.”
“Who are these Mongols?” asked Mimo.
“Will they make the sun come out?” Pecorino wanted to know.
“It was the Sung they defeated. Which led to Kubilai Khan establishing himself
as emperor in Peking and the Yuan dynasty. Also, in a roundabout way, it led
to Coleridge’s famous poem. He was a big fan of white.”
Appenzeller looked up. “A white Mongol?”
“He wore white,” I said. “He always dressed in white and declared white to the
the imperial color of the dynasty.”
Mimo, “Do you know anything more about the period?”
“Only that Kublai’s wife Chabi made sure that the Song Empress Dowager and her
grandson were well take care of, at least for a while. Eventually Kublai had
Emperor Gong of Song—that was his title— sent away to become a monk. A bit
like Catherine of Aragon.”
Appenzeller, “She became a monk?”
“She became a nun after her divorce from King Henry VIII. The idea is that you
put someone who might become the figurehead of a rebellion some place where you
can keep an eye on him or her.”
Mimo, “Could you maybe send the rat off to a nunnery?”
“I hadn’t thought of that solution. I could stand on the steps over here and
shout down, ‘Get thee to a nunnery, go. Farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs
marry, marry a fool, for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of
them. To a nunnery, go, and quickly too.’”
Appenzeller, “A bit wordy.”
“There’s also the issue of whether Hamlet meant nunnery, convent, or nunnery,
brothel.”
Pecorino, “None of this is making much sense.”
“Yes,” I said, “it’s been that kind of week. Crazy.”
Mimo, “Maybe you could wear a covering over your head?”
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon