the doors of perception

 

Sorting out the animals first thing in the morning is like being in a Brian Rix or a Feydeau farce whereby people are always leaving and entering the stage though different doors. First thing is to let Rocket out of the front door for a pee and Nancy through the upstairs door where she is safe for the day. Then Billie out through another door and Pocket through the porch door to be fed. Then Rocket through the living room door to be away from Billie trying to play then Pocket through the hall door to spend the morning asleep on the beds.

All the world's a stage Pocket purred as he sashayed past and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and entrances ........

Shakesp ......? I began but he'd already exited.

Billie has kept to her New Year resolutions and mastered the art of taking things out of coat pockets either hanging on the door or being worn. She is a fully fledged pick pocket and if we lived in Victorian times I might have sent her out onto the streets to make a living this way. She did this with my phone which I am so careful not to leave lying around but she took it out of my coat pocket and ate the new phone case I was given for Christmas to replace the last phone case she ate. Her favourite thing is tissues and yesterday she ate part of my address book from A to F. The only consolation was most of the names in my old address book are for people who are now dead. Like Mrs Magpie she loves pens and as I was writing this actually tried to steal my pencil out of my hand as I was writing a rough draft.

Pocket announced that he thought we should abide by the Wellbeing way of life and demanded a complimentary breakfast to start the day. I had to remind him that all his meals were complimentary but he just turned up his nose and informed me that life is a long preparation for something that never happens.

WB Yeats said that I told him but he changed the subject by telling me that we owe our existence to the stars and that Space is so big you may think it's a long way to the shops but that's nothing to space. I said I didn't think he ever went down to the shops - the nearest one being over three miles away though Rocket had been. Pah - dogs are so earthbound he sighed.  Then after a brief interlude he twitched his whiskers and embarked on another declaration.

The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance and measured the steps of the moon and mapped out the seven heavens by star there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul? 

Oscar Wilde said all that I said but when he tossed his head and licked ferociously behind one ear I pointed out that not only had Rocket been down the shops but that he had actually been offered a job at the railway station when my car broke down the other week and we had to wait hours for a tow truck. The station manager was so kind he not only made me a cup of coffee but offered to look after Rocket in the ticket office though he amusingly declared Rocket would only be allowed to sell  Rover tickets

Pocket was suitably unimpressed with this abstraction and then went back to talking about the galaxy, that on Venus a day is longer than a year and remarking that Nancy was blacker than space. Rocket said he hoped she wasn't as black as a black hole or he might unsuspectedly fall down it.

Teach me your mood, O patient stars.

Teach me your mood

O patient stars

who climb each night

the ancient sky

leaving on space no shade, no scars

no trace of age, no fear to die.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

1841-18