the power of the whippet

 

Rocket has found his doppelganger in the shape of Bernie. Here he is round Bernie's house possibly watching the television.

My day however rarely includes lounging about like this.

My morning. Woken at 6a.m. by the young crow in the room below demanding breakfast, I strain my ears incase in the room below women come and go talking of Michael Angelo. But no. Hand feed bird. Give dogs their chew. Feed both cats. Make strong coffee. Say good morning to Mrs Magpie (no saluting) and give her my breakfast crust. Top up outside bird feeder with peanuts. Stop dog eating peanuts. Let ducks out and feed errant crows in the shade tunnel. Return. Walk one dog. then walk other dog. Feed both dogs. Hand feed crow again (always hungry) Then more than likely clean Pink Tower for incoming guests.

Pocket's morning. Demand breakfast. Wash paws. Sleep. Patrol garden. Sleep. Move from bed to sofa. Sleep.

Mrs Magpie's morning. Join in dawn chorus with a variety of different noises, chirpings, barking, tweeting, squeaking and coughing. Tap on window to come in. Steal breakfast crust not readily given. Fly around. Steal pens. Steal paperwork. Fly around. Peck tops of tulips. Work at removing the rotting timbers holding up the house. Steal anything else she can get her beak on. Fly around. Survey scene from top of the apple tree. Chase ducks. Cough.

                                                                 

Here is Pocket practising the art of pandiculation.

This grumpy chap is the crow in the room below who I might call Michael Angelo or Prufrock.

Scout and I have taken up mindfulness. Whereas my thoughts are whirling around like the contents of the washing machine on fast spin and it feels like herding cats to bring my thoughts back to an empty head - Scout has mastered the art of meditation perfectly. How do you do it?I ask. She tells me she's making a shopping list. What's on it ?I query. And she proceeds to tell me - dog treats, more of the stolen she stole at the poetry meeting which was rather tasty as were the crisps when my back was turned, dog treats, those good biscuits I'd made which weren't quite out of reach, dog treats ... Is this being mindful?I ask but she grunts,shuts her eyes and possibly goes back to her list as she seems to be thinking of dog treats as she smacks her lips together and sighs.

Here is Rocket resting after an exciting morning of whippet racing. Below is an account of our adventure.

Through the mist, across the field and down three tracks four old men stood by their vans which were brimming with whippets. They discussed their wins and failures, how one had saved the life of a man who was depressed after his wife had died and had guns. The power of the whippet see. Others arrive. Whippets all shapes and colours. The man on the tower waves his flag. The bulk of the boy waves his and they let the whippets go and they run, flashing through the ranks of frightened stars, chasing the lure as if it were a hare out in the meadow. Rocket enjoyed himself.

I usually come back with something when I go to the wildlife hospital. Last week it was four hedgehogs which are now somewhere on the farm and the other day it was another baby magpie. Mrs Magpie's beak has been put out of joint. This one will have to be referred to as the Miss Magpie. This means, as it's this time of Spring, that I have had Mrs Magpie for a year now.

 

She has kept me amused every day, sometimes annoyed, often full of wonderment at how clever she is and has nearly always been good company as she likes to garden with me and follow me around sometimes sitting on my shoulder and pecking my ear which is painful. Mrs Magpie has a number of ways of walking. She marches, hops and jumps and today she sashayed across the kitchen floor, walking in an ostentatious yet casual manner a bit like a po faced model on the catwalk.

The last of the ranunculus

I've made a new collection of some of my poems so may start and put one or two here. (When I say a collection I just mean they are in one place and not littered around in various notebooks and scraps of paper.)

Afterwards.

Love was a dog lead waiting in the porch

for the dog who was really love.

I stand at the door now and watch

the birds on the table that he

would have scattered like confetti across the garden.

There is a full moon tonight

and the wolf in him would have howled until

it landed in his feed bowl

and he could have snuffled it with his long nose

leaving the best bits till last.

I stride out alone across the fields in the dusk

the rabbits sitting in the waving grass

as if now I don't exist

not running, panting, bobbing

to their burrows

but languishing in the knowledge they will

no longer be chased

like the pheasants who flapping into the sky

whenever he passed

now remain in the safety of their shadows.

He was a dog that noticed things.

Sometimes as I lie in bed I feel

the weight of him in the crook of my knees

his legs twitching as he chases those rabbits

in his sleep

and I reach out a hand to ruffle his ears

but meet only bedclothes

crumpled like a fallen bird.

   

NB the dog in this poem was half a whippet.