cat empire

Pocket the cat (quarter Bengal) sounds as if a long time ago he swallowed a songbird which got stuck in his throat, because he always announces his arrival with a little chirrup!chirrup! Because of this I know he was the culprit this morning as his little greeting was heard downstairs shortly before the sound of smashing glass and mayhem from the shower room.  It transpired somebody had knocked over the glass lantern and one of Jane Hurst's elegant cream bowls which all shattered into a million little pieces. When I dragged myself out of bed he was sitting on the stairs with a look of "Well I wonder who did that." 

This was swiftly followed by the other cat - Nancy - (absolutely no Bengal in her at all) running upstairs with a baby rabbit in her mouth and going into the bedroom with it. This meant I had to chase a hopping bunny round the room, whilst fending off the aforementioned Nancy, and let it loose in the garden. And all this before the cock crowed. I blame the parents. 

I blame the parents

 I've put this picture here of a double white clematis which grows up the railings because it's nicer to look at than listening to the poor sheep in the fields behind us. They've taken their lambs away and their cry is heartbreaking. It must be a similar cry to all those parents who have to leave their poor children at boardings schools and cling to the bars of the gates as their lambs are whisked away into the belly of academia.

 Couldn't resist this picture of Harry snatching a quick forty winks whilst I'm outside with the power hose jetting down the yard. I can't tell you how pleasing it is to pull the trigger on those high powered cleaners, writing messages in the green algae that congregates on the concrete and blasting away all that grime. It's surprisingly good for the soul. It's like pulling the trigger on a Magnum 45. "Make my Day." Not so dirty Harry. And funnily enough I have pulled the trigger on a Magnum 45 -  years ago with my then brother in law in California who was a Vietnam war vet and took me to a shooting range in the desert where they shot at targets of cardboard people. I had to stick a couple of bullets in my ears the noise was so loud and the kickback practically knocked me over. I was young and impressionable then because I'd be out their lobbying now - "Ban Guns!"

A Few Words on The soul by Wislawa Szymborska

We have a soul at times.

No one’s got it non-stop.

for keeps.

Day after day,

year after year

may pass without it.

Sometimes

it will settle for awhile

only in childhood’s fears and raptures.

Sometimes only in astonishment

that we are old.

It rarely lends a hand

in uphill tasks.

like moving furniture,

or lifting luggage,

or going miles in shoes that pinch.

It usually steps out

whenever meat needs chopping

or forms have to be filled.

For every thousand conversations

it participates in one,

if even that,

since it prefers silence.

Just when our body goes from ache to pain,

it slips off duty.

It’s picky;

it doesn’t like seeing us in crowds,

our hustling for a dubious advantage

and creaky machinations makes it sick.

Joy and sorrow

aren’t two different feelings for it.

It attends us

only when the two are joined.

We can count on it

when we’re sure of nothing

and curious about everything.

Among the material objects

it favors clocks with pendulums

and mirrors, which keep on working

even when no one is looking.

It won’t say where it comes from

or when it’s taking off again,

Though it’s clearly expecting such questions.

We need it

but apparently

it needs us

for some reason too.