The academic year begins anew and so our thoughts turn to study. Hamish
decided this week that squirrelology might be a good major. He has been aware
of squirrels and their ilk since first they crossed his path, but back then
everything perceived was reported in his head or to me as not-so-much *stream*
of consciousness, more rushing river. “Grass, oh boy, and smells, too many to
count, is that a dog, yes that’s the ticket, run, no, brakes on, more grass, a
climbing thing going up a tree, look a flying thing, is that smell a dog, eat
the grass, chomp it into submission, pee, I think I’ll pee…and pooh! what a
day!” When the mature Hamish spots a squirrel he now sits down, points his
nose upward, considers carefully goes nowhere for up to a minute. You can see
him thinking, “What might be the purpose of the squirrel? Where does it fit in
the scheme of things? How does it respond to an interrogatory woof?” Done, he
runs off to bite the grass.
Brooding has increased Cheddar’s tendency to be different. They continue to
hunt and peck; she sits the path to enlightenment. Asked why Cheddar was
behaving as she does, Mimo took a breath in and said, “Well,” in a long,
drawn-out manner. “It’s genetics, isn’t it? Also no doubt part of your divine
plan.”
I said I wasn’t sure I have a divine plan, which piece of information got back
to Cheddar. On one of her rare sorties from the coop, after making “return to
the world” noises—which you’d hear as a kind of interrogatory coo—she came up.
“I’m told there’s doubt concerning the Existing World Order?”
I thought dodging the issue might be good, “Is it wise to talk about that kind
of thing? Bit chancy? I mean aren’t gods supposed to remain enigmatic?”
She nodded, “Yes, yes. Adds to the mystery… But on our end, we'd like
reassurance that things are as they should be.”
My turn to nod, “Wouldn’t we all? I mean, take this fellow Trump.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where should I take him?”
“It’s a manner of speaking.”
“You should warn me when you’re going to speak with manners. We could become
confused.”
“I’ll try to remember to do that. So... Trump, thinks he can say anything,
propose anything, and people will follow.”
Cheddar wanted to be sure of Trump’s status, “Is he a god?”
“I doubt he has chickens. He lives in Manhattan.”
“Are there no chickens in the Man-hat-thing?”
“Very few.”
“It’s reserved for an elite?”
Here something slipped out, “I should think most chickens in Manhattan are
dead.”
“So Manhattan is a kind of chicken cemetery?”
I decided it might be a good idea to evade further discussion of what happens
to chickens after they die. Bit of a touchy subject. “So Trump has a tower.”
“Like the Queen?”
“You know about the Queen?”
“One word…transatlantic exchange.”
“That’s two words…never mind. Anyway, he’s running for President, top god.”
“Who?”
“Trump.”
“I thought Hillary Clinton was going to win. I’m told that’s what the Poles
are saying, though why gods from Poland are any more likely to be right than
gods from Germany or somewhere I cannot fathom. Didn’t they fight a war?”
This time I was truly astonished. “You seem incredibly well informed.”
“When you don’t waste your whole day hunting and pecking, there’s time to
absorb all kinds of information. And by eating less food you become
enlightened. I think it’s an interesting discovery. I shall spread the word.”
I pointed out that chickens who eat less food may slip in the pecking order.
She said that in her case there was no slippage, “Can’t go lower than bottom."
“Are you thinking of opening a chicken university or something? Hamish wants
to study squirrelology.”
“Stay away from squirrels, is my view. Very loud animals, squirrels.”
“Only locally,” I explained. “We have a particularly loud kind of squirrel
hereabouts. Tamiasciurus douglasii. Locals used to call it pillillooeet.”
“That is exactly what they sound like. Not what you’d call an intelligent
sound.”
“Very territorial, our squirrels. ‘Larder horders.’ Isn’t that a lovely term,
‘larder horders’?”
“Lovely is as lovely does,” said Cheddar. “I’m off to brood.”
“Is that lovely?”
“When you have a particular kind of mind, it suits just fine."
I was having afternoon tea and reading the paper. Appenzeller came up.
“I feel disconnected from my tribe.”
“You too? Much be age-related.” I waved vaguely, “I believe they’re over
there.”
“No, no. I’m saying… I feel disconnected from my tribe.”
I looked at her. “Some kind of metaphor?”
“I once belonged, but now am alone, was fine but now... there’s me.”
“Have you been at the hymnals?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Subtlety loses people, and chickens, “What do you mean, disconnected?”
“I just don’t feel I’m like other chickens any more; we do not share the same
interests or…vibe.”
“Vibe?”
“Maybe that’s not the right word. What I want to say is…”
The others arrived. “Pizza?” “Bread?” “Bananas?”
Appenzeller contributed, “Truuuuuuck?”
They appraised, first one eye, then t’other.
I explained that no more food was coming out.
Appenzeller looked for a moment as if she were going to make an announcement,
but then clammed up. The others went to hunt and peck. She wandered off to
inspect the borders of her universe.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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