S. arrived to stay for a while, bringing with her luggage and a chihuahua named
“Peanut.” The cats and Hamish sniffed the air, stared, looked back at us,
sniffed again. You could see in their eyes that they were thinking, “What on
earth is that?” They’ve since decided it is a beast of no importance,
probably—since it arrived in the pouring rain—a water sprite.
I returned from a walk with Hamish and told Mimo I’d been thinking. She asked
whether I get thoughts through the things gods wear in their ears when they
walk past our garden.
“Ear buds?”
Mimo, “Cause gods to gabble.”
“That’s when they’re on the phone, talking to people.”
“On the catnip more like. They’d do better to poo it all out and move forward,
like a normal being.”
“Not the metaphor I would have chosen, but we’ll let it pass.”
“My point exactly. All things must pass.”
“So I’m thinking about a second career.”
Mimo, “Godding becoming too boring?”
“I’m not sure I qualify as a god any more. When a chicken god loses his last
chicken, is he still a god?”
Mimo, “I’m not lost; I’m wandering.”
“And chickens who wonder are prophets perhaps, helping to fan the flames of the
divine within moi?”
“How’s Moses?”
Me, “I saw him at the school fence just now. Came running up as Hamish and I
were leaving, as if he had something important to tell us.”
“And?”
“He said, ‘Hi.’”
“Was that important?”
Me, “To him it was, apparently. Maintaining bragging rights as a friend of
Hamish, I suppose.”
“F.O.H.”
“Could be a not-for-profit organization couldn’t it. Phone rings, ’Hello, I’m
collecting for the Thousand Friends of Hamish.’”
“So what’s this career?”
Me, “I thought I might go into bogetry.”
“Which is?”
“Selling bogs.”
“Bogs?”
Me, “Yes, I read in the newspaper that a man who made millions in something
called ‘fast fashion’ has bought up huge tracts of land in Scotland with the
purpose of harvesting carbon credits, which he can then sell to polluters. He
also builds eco-lodges where you can stay for thousands of pounds per night.”
“And you want to stay in one?”
“No, I was thinking selling bits of bogland would be so much easier than
touring people through houses. You don’t have to gabble about granite counters
or the latest in bathroom fixtures. I could have someone make a website and
sell top quality bogs remotely.”
Mimo, “Like swampland in Florida?”
“Do they offer carbon credits for that?”
I returned from a different walk with Hamish. This time Mimo appeared as she
used to, hurrying towards snacks and tidbits. “Expectant” is probably the word
I want. Possibly the afterlife, at least for chickens, may be boring?
“And?”
Me, “And what?”
“What were you thinking about this time?”
“Different descriptions of precision.”
Mimo, “Could you be more precise?”
“Ha! You see commentators in my youth used to describe things as going, ‘with
the precision of a military operation.’ When I worked for the Times of London
the editor once burst out, ‘Precision of a military operation! Have none of
these people ever been in the military? There’s nothing precise about a
military operation.’”
Mimo, “Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Been in the millinery?”
Me, “I do like hats…”
There was an awkward pause while we re-grouped.
Me, “Anyway I was thinking that bombing strikes are now described as
‘surgical,’ but soccer goals cause all color analysts to say that the team was
‘clinical in the final third.’”
“What’s the final third?”
“The section of the pitch near the opponents’ goal.”
“And that’s where the medicals take place?”
“All they do is kick a ball…somehow ‘clinically?'”
The third walk was followed by a much shorter exchange.
“I’ve been thinking about planning.”
Mimo, “Not interested.”
“Where I used to work they kept talking about a ‘strategic’ plan, but didn’t
seem to understand the difference between tactics and strategy.”
“So?”
“They should have just called it a plan. ‘Strategic’ was used to make it sound
important.”
“How interesting.”
Me, “What would you prefer to talk about?”
Mimo, “Not sure where I am.”
“I have days like that. They pass.”
“We’re back to poo again aren’t we? I heard they opened Parliament. Do they
use some kind of instrument, or tool?”
“It’s ceremonial. You could have been the symbolic hostage, held at Buckingham
Palace to ensure the safe return of the royal god.”
“A royal god!”
Me, “Or you could have delivered a speech; the Queen was unavailable.”
“Did the opening of parlez-vous contribute to the arrival of the water sprite?
Some sort of seditious activity? I bet the royal god stomped a foot and said,
‘Get thee behind me peanut.’”
“Not precisely.”
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
