Billie's food diary

 

A sweet picture of Billie admiring the nasturtiums. Left to her own devices she would have eaten them.

A while ago I was given a food diary and told to write down everything I ate and drank in a day. I was tempted to fill it with haute cuisine but thought that cheating would be silly so it ended up an uninteresting read - toast - cereal - cheese - tomatoes- red wine ......

Instead I persuaded Billie to keep a food diary. 

Monday - ate dog bed, pair of socks, more poetry, letter from the DVLA.

Tuesday - large cushion with tiny feathers in. Two tea towels. Mum's phone.

Wednesday - another dog bed, three pens and all the newly planted violas in pot by door.

Thursday - Mum's breakfast carelessly left at head height. an odd sock

Friday- one boot. Half of Mum's diary.

Saturday - the review section of the saturday paper

Pocket said Billie had eaten all of his food as well and therefore he was starving and it was at least two months since he'd had a proper meal not counting the mouse last week. He told me he was so hungry he'd taken himself off to the seaside in case he could catch a fish but instead found a message in a bottle. What did it say? I asked. He told me it said I'm alive! They were two bullets short for me and one of the sledge dogs. Am making my way across the ice. signed Mrs Chippy.(polar explorer)

Mrs Chippy! I exclaimed - why he was the cat on the Endeavour. Shackleton had to shoot all the sledge dogs and the cat when they left the ship frozen in the ice.

Pocket said he'd try and find him then and was not put off by the fact it was way over a hundred years ago in 1914 in fact.You wouldn't get eight cats pulling a sledge through snow he muttered. Even though it was so long ago and even a cat with nine lives would not be alive today I was pleased to hear this level-headed quick thinking carpenter's cat might have survived after all. Pocket asked if I could leave the freezer door open so he could experience what Mrs Chippy had gone through.(also there might be some of his food in there which I'd forgotten to give him.)

Rocket thought it was a load of nonsense but hoped I didn't expect him to pull a sledge when the snow came.

A while ago I had a dream whereby I turned one of the stables into a pottery. When I awoke I thought I must learn how to throw a pot.  A dear friend gave me her wheel and someone insulated the stable so it's warmer than our house and I go for lessons. Below are three of my creations. I don't smoke but I now have a load of ashtrays. I'd like to make something more useful - like a bowl to eat out of but I have little success with larger lumps of clay. I still wish when I opened the stable door I'd find a horse in there rather than a lot of very small bowls.

Last dahlia standing.

Snow

BY LOUIS MACNEICE

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was

Spawning snow and pink roses against it

Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:

World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,

Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion

A tangerine and spit the pips and feel

The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world

Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes— 

On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands—

There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

lost words

One of Billie's many achievements this week is to have eaten my Thesaurus. A book which for a writer I'm sure you can appreciate is both useful and important. This is a disaster, an ill fortune, wretched, a bitter pill, unfavourable, a raw deal, a calamity and the worst. She is unrepentant, unregretting, without regrets, unashamed, willfully disobedient and contumacious.

Oh she  looks all sweet, adorable, lovable, congenial, winsome, angelic, appealing, irresistible sitting here with her new pal teddy from the charity shop 

but let me tell you butter does melt in her mouth and I know because she's stolen it off the table.
 

Pocket is annoyed because he said he uses it in the writing of his new novel. What is it called? I ask. Purrrsuasion he replies. I think you'll find Jane Austen has taken that title I tell him. He ignores me as usual and says there is an alley cat in it called Captain Wentworth and a slightly elderly female cat and it's bound to be a best seller like his other books.

Rocket thinks it's all a load of nonsense. But then being a lurcher he's a thief too. Lurcher means thief in Romany and Rocket is so complicated that he'll only eat his food if I put it in an empty cat food pouch and then he thinks he's stealing it. He doesn't usually like to eat out of his bowl so you can imagine the  rod for my back that I have made.(foul my own nest, dig my own grave, be responsible for my own downfall.) At the moment he tells me he's learning Spanish as one of my daughters has told us she has fallen in love with Galgos. Galgos are the Spanish greyhound.

Hola I hear him say to Pocket Como estas? Te amo. Pocket glares at him and threatens to take out his other eye if he doesn't revert to being a dog who is not bi-lingual. Woof woof to you too he barks which being a cat sounds more like one of his wounded mice.  

We assume that the sun will rise because it always has he says changing the subject and staring out of the window.  That's David Hume - the method of induction I tell him. He ignores me. The sun not rising is also a possibility he informs me as he saunters off to finish Rocket's breakfast.

Normally Billie will have already eaten the breakfast but now she is galloping through the room as someone has just entered and she's very excited. Oh my god it's like living with a bull the person says. I know about that Pocket tells us - I've run with the bulls in Pamploma. I was faster than them. Rocket looked impressed. Is that in Spain? He asks - do the Galgos run with them too? Later I see him running round and round the garden as if in training.

Not  casting aspersions at my nasturtiums

I love this poem by James Wright

a Blessing

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,

Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.

And the eyes of those two Indian ponies

Darken with kindness.

They have come gladly out of the willows

to welcome my friend and me.

We step over the barbed wire into the pasture

where they have been grazing all day, alone.

They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness

That w have come.

they bow shyly as wet swans. they love each other.

there is no loneliness like theirs.

At home once more,

They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.

I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,

For she has walked over to me

and nuzzled my left hand.

She is black and white,

Her mane falls wild on her forehead,

and the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear

That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.

Suddenly I realize

That if I stepped out of my body I would break

Into blossom.

book worm

 This week  Billie has eaten my phone case and attempted to eat the phone. Perhaps she was calling home - she managed to take it out of the case and fortunately for her only cracked the screen so she ingested no phone numbers or bits of plastic.

An expensive mistake on my behalf for leaving it on the table. Now most things like shoes, phones, books etc are placed up high that even we have to reach up for. She did eat the book I was reading, though luckily rejecting the last few pages so I knew the ending. I remember now how Pixie (one of our old wolfhounds)had stolen a xmas present from my bag, unwrapped it and ate it - it was a cookery book after all and Pixie was very fond of things like that, avidly watching Ready Steady Cook from behind the sofa, where she'd chewed herself a comfortable head rest.

Rocket informed me that he too liked books and so one day accompanied me to the library. I thought dogs might be allowed in libraries but they asked if he was an assistance dog and although I considered manufacturing a limp I had to admit he wasn't and really wasn't much help with anything either so I was asked to take him out. Rocket was understandably upset because he wanted to look in the history section. He said he was interested in The Spaniel Inquisition, anything about Napoleon Bonio, or Terrier-ist attacks as well as the bombs the Germans used in World War two which he informed me were called Labradoodlebugs.

Pocket said the history of cats was far more interesting and if there wasn't already one he would pen one - a sort of aide memoire. 

The Ancient Egyptians he tells us were without doubt the most cat friendly society. He glares at me - us cats were considered to be semi-divine and anyone who killed us even by accident were sentenced to death.

Rocket wanted to know who would be sentenced if one had been killed by a Labradoodlebug?

Pocket ignored him and reminded him that you can keep a dog but it's cats who keep people. Cats find humans very useful domestic animals.

 

We've had several hedgehogs on release up here on the farm and although I can't be certain if it's hedgehogs or cats eating the food I put out it is always gone in the morning. I was encouraged by going out with a torch one night and seeing one - it's head over the food bowl chomping perkily. It reminded me that when we first came up here and didn't have dogs we left a bowl of cat food in the porch for one of the cats. When we came back from our evening stroll there was a hedgehog in the porch partaking of the nosh. Seeing us he moved very slowly and lined himself up next to the row of boots with a sort of I'm not here you can't see me I'm one of these stance.

The next evening when we came back he'd brought a friend and I kid you not the next night there were three of them.

Billie and Rocket in full flight,

The other week the village held its annual fete. It is a typical small village affair with scarecrow competitions, homemade produce and prizes for the biggest vegetable. A brass band played and two people called Morris did a dance with hankies.

Like Pocket I've penned a sort of aide memoire about it but have left out the band and the hankies.

The village fete

They walked to the fete with jangling pockets.

Carter dragged his whippet round the ring

but did not win best in show.

Johnboy threw the wellie into the football net

it took two men to untangle it.

Jack's sister sold her old hairbands on the bric a brac stall 

their cousin Keith knocked over coconuts with a cricket ball.

Mrs Fry's flapjacks won second prize

and Mrs Hicks won the cup for her pickles.

Sally Fink's daughter made a fudge monster

which Carter's whippet ate before it was judged.

They ran out of hot dogs and the beer

became too warm to drink.

Jessica Brown cried when she didn't win

the miniature garden on a plate

but later was allowed to watch TV and stay up late.

The hawk in the bird of prey display

flew off across the fields

and wasn't found until the sun went down.

miss my dog ate my homework

 

Billie is growing into her nose.

Her nose can just about reach the table tops now so we must be vigilant particularly as she loves chewing paper. She has just eaten my poetry. I am waiting to see if a sonnet or a haiku passes out of her backside.

Rocket says he feels marginalised and is fed up with having his neck chewed all the time. He retreats to the comfort of the sofa where sometimes Billie is not allowed as she chews the cushions. Perhaps cushions and poetry are similar - I'm not sure. She has also taken to ripping the lining paper off the wall in her room - maybe in the old days wallpaper paste was made of fish - I don't know but it is paper after all and presumably tasty.

                  

                      Pocket is very pleased with himself as he announced he was returning to be an author and was going to write a story about a school for witches' cats called Mogwarts and he was changing his name to J.K.Pocket. I told him he'd be infringing on the Harry Potter franchise but he told me that was nonsense. He couldn't help it if he'd been named John Kenneth Pocket could he? Would be J.K.Prowling be more acceptable? I asked him who his audience was and asked if there was such a thing as Middle Grade Cats or Young Adult Cats but he ignored me. Works of Art are an infinite loneliness he tells me. Ah Rilke! I say. Never heard of him  he replies. But I'm also working on a new book called the Tale of Two Cats it starts off with "it was the best of times, it was the worst of times." What are the worst of times?" I ask resisting the temptation to compare it to Dickens. You sitting infront of the News at 6 on TV and weeping. And the best of times? I ask. When you leave me to sleep without asking me stupid questions.

A cat in mittens catches no mice he continues  and nothing great in the world has been accomplished without passion  he mutters, going to sleep on the table. Hegel said that I tell him - well not the bit about the mittens - but he's shut his eyes and is obviously working out how to get his book published which is what I often do.

Still no sign of Mrs Magpie and her/his consort but plenty of sign of her existence in the house. I decided to take the framed pictures off the wall to give them a dust and found she'd stuffed a quantity of dog biscuits behind them, also in the spines of the books which sit along the wall and inside letters and envelopes by the desk.

A beautiful young kingfisher who would not be doing that sort of thing arrived at the wildlife hospital this week along with yet another adorable hedgehog.

Below a Second flush of roses - there are so many roses in our garden now I can't remember the name of many of them but as Pocket would say a cat wouldn't bother with things like that, they don't have a desire to live a long life, to make it to Xmas or someone's birthday and certainly don't want to win the lottery or travel the world. They just want to be happy day by day not fret over the name of a rose.

I love the work of George Mc Kay - my favourite Hamnovae Market I have put up before but I love this one too. The harvest is happening up here and although there is no peat it seemed apt this working on the land.

the peanut tower

Although it looks as if we are propagating a cat this is Nancy holding out in the greenhouse.

She is not keen on Billie the giant wolfhound puppy and has gone into hiding. She likes to sleep in there and eat and drink in there. Sometimes I see Pocket sitting outside at the door as if waiting to be buzzed into Nancy's new flat. I have told Nancy it's safe to come into the house but I think she's like that Japanese soldier Hiroo Onoda who hid in the jungle for twenty nine years convinced the second world war was still going on. Maybe she knows something we don't. I remember when there was that nuclear threat years ago and people ordered fall out shelters to be protected from radioactivity, that one woman asked if she could have a cat flap put into hers.

Today I was tidying up all of Billie's toys, mainly a lot of furry things in what we now call Billie's room when I pulled out what I thought was a furry rabbit ear to discover it was indeed a furry rabbit ear but attached to a furry rabbit.  One however that was no more and that the cat must have brought in. I was impressed that it was still in one piece and that she hadn't eaten it.

Below Billie and Rocket in an odd moment of quietness. I can't decide if Rocket is actually pleased to have Billie around. A lot of bitey face goes on which must be nice and she's removed his collar which must also be nice. They like to go for the neck and watching them I'm only grateful that neither of them go for mine.

When confronted with the rabbit crime Pocket denied all knowledge and at first tried to blame it on Nancy but as Nancy is holed up in the greenhouse I know this is not true. Then he said that feathery things were more his style. I told him to keep away from my bird station and that I would deduct something from his pocket money and send it to the Royal Society of the Protection of Birds. In fact I suggested a standing order but he told me in a cat's eye all things belong to cats.

Did you know he said that people who hate cats come back as mice in their next life. I thanked him and assured him I was very fond of cats. Anyway he continued cats are smarter than dogs. You can't get eight cats to pull a sledge through snow.

All feathered corvid friends have flown away now which is great - all as it should be though I do miss the little jackdaw that I fed from just a few days old. Considering that some of last year's jackdaws lined up on the fence this year waiting for food I'm surprised he hasn't returned for a top up. The fledgling season is over for another year and now I make do with watching all the birds who dine at my bird station. Below is a poem I wrote celebrating its existence.

 

billie the kid

One of the first known pictures of a tiny wolfhound puppy who joined our life under the name of Billie. Billie with an I E - meaning she is a girl like Billie Holliday and numerous other girls with Billie as a name.

She came from Scotland from the lovely Fran and Bill who originally gave us our much loved Pixie. We manifested her and lo there she was. When I told some people we were getting a baby wolfhound they rolled their eyes. You said you weren't going to get a puppy they said.  Others understood like the vet who said she can't live without one. Some people just grinned and sighed. There were no wolfhounds to rescue I assured the doubters and she was meant.

 She has settled in well and made friends though Rocket was not too pleased with her arrival. He tolerates her now but at the moment is acting a little like Noel Coward lounging on the sofa as if in a silk dressing gown , waving a cigarette holder and telling her he can't possibly play as he's composing something.  

Pocket on the other hand says he can't see the point in her and why is she taking up so much room on the sofa where he likes to be. He may have to pack some bags as no one was listening to him. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd he moaned.

Nothing in life becomes me like the leaving it he announces. What's Macbeth got to do with it I say - anyway on the whole you seem to have a pretty good life. He strides out across the lawn To live at all is miracle enough he mutters. I suggest he's been reading Mervyn Peake but he denies all knowledge of that and he has made me well aware that cats do not need to examine their lives because they do not doubt that life is worth living.  Perhaps we should all be more cat and want nothing beyond the life we lead. Also cats don't collect stuff like we do. 

I shall go and look for the piper at the gates of dawn he announces. I resist referring to the wind in the willows as he seems to have a short memory as to where he gets his quotes from.

Rocket did come off the couch to accompany us to a cafe in a nearby town to show Billie how to behave in company.

Pocket returned from the gates of dawn and fell asleep whilst trying to compose his thoughts on existential angst.

a hedge-pig about to go out into the world
 

Above a new kid on the block too - this tiny jackdaw who demands to be fed every hour or so who has now grown a few feathers and has palled up with the juvenile crow who also demands to be fed every hour. The crow is definitely taking the mickey and could feed himself if he cared to. Instead he's developed a loud squawking that reminds the neighbouring baby rooks in the rookery that they haven't been fed for at least a month either.

Billie has decided that the remains of a rubber cabbage is more fun to play with than Rocket.

 Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd

William Shakespeare

Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.

Thrice and once the hedge-pig whin'd

Harper cries: Tis time, tis time.

Round the cauldron go:

In the poison'd entrails throw.

Toad, that under cold stone

Days and nights hast thirty-one

Swelter'd venom sleeping got,

Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.

Double, double, toil and trouble;

fire burn and cauldron bubble.

fox and hounds

Two orphaned fox cubs at the wildlife hospital this morning. Although I cleaned them out I was told NOT to cuddle them. It was very hard not to do so. As you can see they are the most adorable cuddly munchkins but if they associate with you they can't survive in the wild where it is hoped they will eventually go back to.

Below The hound Rocket who probably would have liked a baby fox to snuggle with so just as well I didn't bring one home which is my want. Here he is in mid play and although he only has one working eye he can see deer where the sky meets the land.

I've not seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion, C beams glittering in the dark near Tannhauser Gate. But I have seen foxes run from hounds.

I've seen a tiger in the wild, a humpback whale and her calf breach the surface tension of the ocean. I've seen kittens being born. I've seen shooting stars. I've seen trees fall. And all these moments will be lost in time like tears in rain.

I told Pocket I might go and look for the attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. He stretched out where he was lounging and says Fools stand on their island of opportunity and look towards another land. There is no other land. There is no other life than this. 

You're very wise for someone who hasn't read Thoreau I say.

In spite of what he said however he did go looking for another life. 

When the poet and writer David Harmer suggested to me that Pocket might meet up with Skimbleshanks T.S.Eliot's railway cat I made the mistake of telling him and he did go missing for a few days. When he returned he was full of tales. He may not have seen attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion but he told me he'd seen the railway cat who was always busy in the luggage van, pacing, examining and supervising. He then met Rimbaud's cat drinking absinthe from a saucer in a bar. 

What did he say? I asked. I is someone else. He said. All very existential. 

He then found Wordsworth's cat wandering lonely as a cloud in the daffodil meadow and finally discovered Jane Austen's cat sitting in a bonnet telling him that life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings. Having met some literary cats he returned to the armchair content that there is no other life than his.

Rocket said he didn't want to hear about cats and bonnets and what did existential mean anyway?

Nancy said she often wandered lonely as a cloud but had decided to go up for a casting for Cats the musical. Either that or she was going to make a Collection of Pretty Poems for the amusement of children six foot high.

Below another of my dog poems