merry christmas

wishing all the readers of my blog a very merry christmas.

Drawing of Rocket by Chloe @drawmelikethat.

Christmas in our house is a great source of entertainment. There is tinsel and baubles on the tree for cat attacks, wrapping paper and in some cases unwrapped presents to chew. (thank you Rocket - that bill I am compiling is growing very long particularly in the book department) Cellotape to mysteriously disappear (note to self check under dog beds) and we haven't even got out the stockings, crackers and turkey. Actually we don't eat turkey but Pixie does and the brussels sprouts, roast potatoes and stuffing but not too keen on cranberry sauce.

This is a time in the year to reflect on what has gone past and acknowledge realisations of previous behaviour (are you taking note Rocket?) The only realisation I have made is that Pepys the duckling has turned out to be a girl. I must move her come spring or she may not be able to walk again - she is in the back garden with the three boys.

So I've asked Pocket in the philosophical chair, which he likes to spend his time in and has made his domain, for a final bon mot for this year. 

He carried on with the important business of washing his paws and said
Always be yourself unless you can be a wolf. 
Then always be a wolf. 
Have you been on that Colorado wolf website again? I asked. He stared at me and sighed heavily. You don't honestly think I go on your computer do you?
I don't trust him - I've caught him watching cat videos on the internet.

This is a beautiful photo of Pixie taken by my friend Anne Clements from her forthcoming book of other beautiful photos of dogs, She's kindly let me use it here as I think it shows Pixie in a good light.
In answer to me asking her (Pixie not my friend Anne) if she had any interesting facts, she also sighed heavily.
A wolf can run at 40mph which means that being a wolfhound I can run at 41mph.
She went back to sleep and I watched her legs twitch and I honestly think as she dreamt her legs were actually going at 42 mph.

A festive photo of one of the hedgehogs, I tried to choose red towels to give them a christmas feeling. Normally of course they'd be asleep over the christmas period so perhaps the red towel might be a bit confusing.

 I'm considering wrapping Rocket up in christmas paper but have just remembered that a dog isn't just for christmas.

Thank you for reading my blog this year and a merry christmas from me and all the animals that feature on these pages and give me and others an endless source of entertainment.



Wolf Moon

by Mary Oliver

Now is the season

of hungry mice,

cold rabbits,

lean owls..

...now is the season

of the hunger Death;...

...he means to cleanse

the earth of fat;

his gray shadows

are out and running...

from cabin to cabin,

from bed to bed,

from dreamer to dreamer

the book thief

yes he might look adorable but Rocket has turned into a book thief.

When no one is looking (obviously) he jumps onto the table and steals what he can. As it's usually books on the table it is books that he steals. That would be fine if he read them but instead he chews them. I once started a list of things he had chewed with sending him a bill in mind - like my computer charger (£25) a boot (just one mind) (£40) rolling pin (£3.50) I could go on...... but the other day I had been reading a new book I was very excited about called The Dictionary of English Field Names. (second hand £15.) What poetry was in those pages. Cat's Brain Coppice, Dancer's Meadow, Full Belly Dale, Mare's Nest Meadow . I could go on .....
Anyway Rocket ate the lot. Almost worse because it wasn't mine - he ate my friend's copy of Cold Comfort Farm.

The other week on a wet windy dark night I went to put the ducks away in the old wendy house and bending down smashed my head into the top of the door frame. Concussion was diagnosed and I have now put a notice on the door to remind me -saying - DUCK.

 Now winter is upon us the hedgehogs are coming in fast and furious to the wildlife hospital. These are ones too small to hibernate and get through the winter. There is not one that looks the same - they all have slightly different faces  and they are all completely adorable.

 Here are some digital illustrations that Chloe has been doing of most of the gang. You can have your own pet drawn too - contact her on @drawmelikethat. drawmelikethat@gmail.com

 Pocket - usually captured asleep but who at least doesn't eat any books- has offered this gem for the post this month.
To see we must forget the name of the thing we are looking at.
Oh - I said - you've been studying Monet?
He opened one eye, looked at me and said "and you are?....."

 Pixie's piece of interesting information apart from the fact you'd never catch her eating a book is that up to 50 books can be made from one tree. So by the last count Rocket has eaten half a tree at least.

The Trees are Down

BY CHARLOTTE MEW

—and he cried with a loud voice:
Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees—
(Revelation)

They are cutting down the great plane-trees at the end of the gardens.

For days there has been the grate of the saw, the swish of the branches as they fall,

The crash of the trunks, the rustle of trodden leaves,

With the ‘Whoops’ and the ‘Whoas,’ the loud common talk, the loud common laughs of the men, above it all.

I remember one evening of a long past Spring

Turning in at a gate, getting out of a cart, and finding a large dead rat in the mud of the drive.

I remember thinking: alive or dead, a rat was a god-forsaken thing,

But at least, in May, that even a rat should be alive.

The week’s work here is as good as done. There is just one bough

   On the roped bole, in the fine grey rain,

             Green and high

             And lonely against the sky.

                   (Down now!—)

             And but for that,   

             If an old dead rat

Did once, for a moment, unmake the Spring, I might never have thought of him again.

It is not for a moment the Spring is unmade to-day;

These were great trees, it was in them from root to stem:

When the men with the ‘Whoops’ and the ‘Whoas’ have carted the whole of the whispering loveliness away

Half the Spring, for me, will have gone with them.

It is going now, and my heart has been struck with the hearts of the planes;

Half my life it has beat with these, in the sun, in the rains,   

             In the March wind, the May breeze,

In the great gales that came over to them across the roofs from the great seas.

             There was only a quiet rain when they were dying;

             They must have heard the sparrows flying,   

And the small creeping creatures in the earth where they were lying—

             But I, all day, I heard an angel crying:

             ‘Hurt not the trees.’

kindle and kindling

The corn is cut now, the clocks have gone back and it's time to light the fires. This requires trawling the woods for kindling and the diligent drying of twigs and logs that in my impatience to heat the house ends in billows of smoke from wet wood and the need to open windows  to be able to breathe - defeating trying to keep warm.

 Rocket is hard to see here and rare for him to be standing still. Lurchers are running dogs and usually just disappear over the horizon so you can't see them. Standing still so you can't see them is a new and interesting ploy.

The Missing of Stanley Ruff is out on Kindle! Personally I'm not a kindle reader - I look at screens enough when I'm writing it and love the feel of a book in my hand when it comes to reading, snuggled up in front of the fire - oh - wait a minute -the smoke, freezing cold with all those open windows.

Pepys the duckling has grown up. Unlike Rocket these guys would not stay still when I tried to photograph them - they are running ducks after all I suppose. But Pepys is at the back with the boys in the garden. He is so sweet - fortunately has forgotten I was his mother - and just does normal duck things now.
We've had rather a lot of expensive visits to the vet this month. Dear Pixie had a near scrape with death by developing an infected womb and Rocket stole her anti-biotics when no one was looking. He ate them all which is odd because Pixie didn't like to eat them unless you smeared them with cream cheese or pate. He had to have his stomach pumped.
Pixie had to wear a T shirt to stop her chewing her wound (she asked me not to put a photo up) so I bought up a load of size 18 T shirts from the charity shop. Her favourite was the pink one I think though she looked very fetching in her stripy French one. I think she grew tired of us saying bon jour to her when she was wearing it.

Nothing untoward happened to Pocket and I asked him for his wise words on the situation.
We should feel sorrow, but not sink under its oppression he told me. " Confucius eh? " I said. He scowled, looked appropriately confused and went back to sleep.

 Any interesting facts this month Pixie ? I queried. Apart from the fact that the gate was closed and wasn't anyone going to let her pass she told me that Amazon originally used the codename Fiona for the Kindle and when they eventually chose the name, Kindle was chosen as it meant to light a fire. A fire without smoke I presume I quipped. There is no smoke without fire I heard Pocket mumble.

 I see that Rocket is surrounded by endangered toys - tiger, bee, whale .............

 The dahlias are putting on a late autumn show and the horses have moved onto hay.

Smoke

by Henry Thoreauu

Light-winged Smoke! Icarian bird, 
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight; 
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn, 
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest; 
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts; 
By night star-veiling, and by day 
Darkening the light and blotting out the sun; 
Go thou, my incense, upward from this hearth, 
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.

swallows and amazon

The swallows will soon be leaving but my new book  The Missing of Stanley Ruff has arrived!

 I am indebted to Pixie the Irish wolfhound, Pocket the superior cat, Rocket the lurcher puppy and the numerous crows I have helped to rescue and whose characters, adventures and misdemeanours I have stolen for this story.

When the new puppy Stanley Ruff arrives at the Dorcas residence, Bentley the cat and Mrs Melvyn Andrews the Irish wolfhound are not impressed. Stanley is noisy, disobedient and extremely naughty. Then Stanley is stolen and realising how much they miss him they go on a dangerous journey to find him with the help of their new friend Crow 3.

A tale of warmth and humour about tolerance, bravery and friendship.

You can purchase it on Amazon - where it seems you can read the first chapter if you 'look inside'.

Pixie (aka Mrs Melvyn Andrews) is very pleased with it but wanted to add a supplement  with some recipes in - which she thought would make it far more interesting. I told her to write her own book.

Below is an extract from the Missing of Stanley Ruff around chapter 3(which just escapes the Amazon's 'look inside.')

And so Stanley Ruff practiced jumping. 

He jumped up and tore the washing off the line outside. He jumped up and knocked a cup of coffee off the coffee table. He jumped up the curtain and accidently got one of his claws caught and ripped it. The rip revealed the blue lining on the other side like it was a small river rushing down the curtain towards the sea. And what was at first a thin river, he managed to turn into something much bigger.

A bit like the Amazon.

“Stop it!” shouted Dorcas “You’re so naughty!”

 Mrs Melvyn Andrews who suddenly wanted to be naughty too - ate the butter which had been left on the table.

“One of you,” said Bentley washing his paw “is going to end up on the naughty step.”

“If I jump high enough will I reach the stars?” Stanley Ruff asked. But no one answered him because they didn’t really know.

He jumped all day and even when the long shadow of night passed over him he jumped in his sleep.

And then one day he jumped over the gate, into the road and was hit by a car.

........................................................ 

Meanwhile -back at duck HQ

 We changed the duckling’s name from Pod to Pepys as that is the noise he continuously makes 
peep peep peep peeps.

We might call him Samuel if he grows up.

His siblings wouldn’t accept him back so instead he’s imprinted on me. We had to take him to Devon for the night and he made so much noise in the back of the car he had to sit on my lap as I drove. We stopped off to show him Duck Street and wondered what the police would say if they’d pulled us over.

 Here he is on the table enjoying a swim in the washing up bowl.

Normally when I'm writing he likes to sit on my lap and he also enjoys a swim in the bath every other day.
Inside we have ducks - outside we have bats. In the twilight they flutter by the house catching unseen insects on the wing. I have no idea where they roost or what sort of bats they are. I haven’t been up into the loft in years so they may have set up a colony  there with the prams, the old motorbike gear, the saxophone, the  puppet theatre, the battered suitcases and that oil painting.

 Pixie’s interesting fact is that bats are misunderstood. 
I said is that all? Are you not going to mention they can each consume around 3000 insects in a night? She sighed and said given the chance she could probably do the same particularly if they had a light coating of breadcrumbs.

Rocket is exhausted after all the publicity for the new book.

And Pocket's view on life is "Scorn pain. Either it will go away or you will."
I said "Seneca? Have you got a book of his proverbs tucked away somewhere? And when were you in pain anyway?"
"I was in pain reading your book where you've invented a cat called Bentley - who is clearly me." He replied with a touch of scorn in his voice.

The Bat

by Ruth Pitter

Lightless, unholy, eldritch thing,
Whose murky and erratic wing
Swoops so sickeningly, and whose
Aspect to the female Muse
Is a demon's, made of stuff
Like tattered, sooty waterproof,
Looking dirty, clammy, cold.

Wicked, poisonous, and old;
I have maligned thee! . . . for the Cat
Lately caught a little bat,
Seized it softly, bore it in.
On the carpet, dark as sin
In the lamplight, painfully
It limped about, and could not fly.

Even fear must yield to love,
And pity make the depths to move.
Though sick with horror, I must stoop,
Grasp it gently, take it up,
And carry it, and place it where
It could resume the twilight air.

Strange revelation! warm as milk,
Clean as a flower, smooth as silk!
O what a piteous face appears,
What great fine thin translucent ears
What chestnut down and crapy wings,
Finer than any lady's things —
And O a little one that clings!

Warm, clean, and lovely, though not fair,
And burdened with a mother's care;
Go hunt the hurtful fly, and bear
My Blessing to your kind in air.