hawks, toads and biscuits

Last week we had the launch of my new book The Dog, Ray. This is a very special book to me - I wrote it quite a few years ago and at the time no publisher wanted it except the Chinese and a publisher in Taiwan. This is, I believe, because they believe in re-incarnation. But Ray's time has come and Hot Key books have done her proud.

 Beezle did me proud too. The book is his really, he let me into the ways of dogs and was the inspiration for the story and he came to the launch and followed me up to the stage and lay at my feet the whole time I talked and read from the book. (That's me reading from the book - not Beezle though he could have done if he'd wanted to of course. I did ask him but he'd forgotten his glasses.) He's thirteen now which I think is about ninety one. Actually what he really needs is an ear trumpet. He can't even hear the sound of the chews box being opened, unlike Pixie who gallops over in a flash. What a star he was though. (and still is of course.)

We made masses of biscuits in his honour and have only just finished eating the ones that were left over. The book was published on October 1st and I suppose it's out there in the book shops but it's such a strange thing when you have a book published because you don't really know what happens to it. Will anyone review it? Will anyone like it? Will anyone read it? I'll be doing a book signing in the Salisbury Waterstones next Saturday 24th october between 12-2 so if anyone is around please come and say hello. (and buy the book if you can stretch to it)Beezle will be there too. We'll both be signing but not if Beezle forgets his pen.

 In my last post I mentioned not putting up a picture of a toad I'd found swimming in the dog's water bowl recently so here it is along with another toad who was sitting on the water metre when I came to read it.

As Beezle and Shakespeare would say " Sweet are the uses of adversity which, like toad, ugly and venomous, wears a precious jewel in his head."

If you didn't see the post before last I'm putting up the picture of the sea eagle again. As I'd said, in Ireland recently we had the good fortune to see a sea eagle in the wild - it was sitting in a tree overlooking a lake and it is only thanks to an amazing lens on a very small and basic pocket camera that we can see the details so well. To our naked eye it looked like a huge post sitting high up on a branch. They are huge.

Back in England we went to a steam fair and saw a display of eagles and hawks. This is a sea eagle too - they have a massive wing span. One of the hawks - a goss hawk - decided it would fly off for a while and soar in the thermals above the trees. Two wild red kites flew over head, watching the hawk, it was a wonderful sight. The hawks owner seemed unfazed but told us the reason he didn't fly golden eagles was because they were prone to picking up little dogs in the crowd. I'd like to have seen it pick Pixie up.

On a horticultural note the dahlias are still flowering well and these gorgeous gladioli called Plum Tart.

Hawk


Mary Oliver


This morning
the hawk
rose up
out of the meadow's browse

and swung over the lake -
it settled
on the small black dome
of a dead pine,

alert as an admiral,
its profile
distinguished with sideburns
the colour of smoke,

and I said: remember
this is not something
of the red fire, this is heaven's fistful

of death and destruction,
and the hawk hooked
one exquisite foot
onto a last twig

to look deeper
into the yellow reeds
along the edges of the water
and I said: remember

the tree, the cave,
the white lily of resurrection,
and that's when it simply lifted
its golden feet and floated

into the wind, belly-first,
and then it cruised along the lake -
all the time its eyes fastened
harder than love on some

unimportant rustling in the
yellow reeds - and then it
seemed to crouch high in the air, and then it
turned into a white blade, which fell.

The Dog, Ray

On Thursday October 1st my new book is being published! It has another beautiful cover by Levente Szabo and I'm pleased to see that the dog on the cover looks very similar to our own dog Beezle, who inspired me to write the story and personally let me into the world of dog. We are going to launch the book with a great party I hope and some blue dog shaped biscuits. Beezle will of course be attending.

I'm not going to say anything else on this blog post (though I have a great picture of a toad who I found swimming in the dog's water bowl the other morning.} Instead I'm going to put up the first chapter of the book.
Hope you enjoy it but more to the point - BUY THE BOOK! Here is link on that website

Chapter 1

When my death came it was swift. Swift as a racing horse. It wasted no time. Like a conjuring trick. One moment I was in the car, the next on the road and then I wasn’t anywhere. And when I awoke from anywhere I was slouched in a chair in a room with yellow paint peeling off the walls and a table at the far end. Yes. My death was as fleet as the wind. Meteoric you might say. Mercurial, like quick silver. No floating above the body looking down on the grieving relatives. It was snappy, prompt, it was smart.

It’s funny, now I  come to think of it. The man who was driving the car always had a fear of horses. He was so afraid of them he would never get on one, nor pat one on the neck, nor let their lovely soft muzzles blow in his face. I know all this because the man driving the car was my Dad and my Mum told me how scared of horses he was.

“It’s unreasonable really,” she’d say. “He’s never had anything to do with them. It’s not like he was kicked by one when he was small.”

And that is what’s funny. Because the reason I ended up on the road was because a horse jumped over a hedge onto my Dad’s car as we were driving to the supermarket. So it had been a premonition. His fear of horses.

“You’d better hurry up dear,” said someone at the table at the far end. “or all the best jobs will be taken. We had a multiple coach crash just before you came in and most of the qualified jobs have gone.”

“Jobs?” I asked. “Why do I need a job? I’m only twelve.”

“Were only twelve dear,” the voice corrected. “I’ve got you down as Daisy Fellows. Distinguishing features one blue eye and one green eye. Is that right?”

I nodded. I had longed to have one of those old passports with the bit about distinguishing marks. I thought whoever read it would have to look long into my eyes to make sure it was true and I would learn to perfect a blank stare so that they wouldn’t be able to see into my soul. But they don’t do that any more. The passport I got last year just had a little microchip in it which probably said everything there is to know about me including my bad marks in the maths exam.

A woman was sorting out a pile of papers on the desk and she glanced at me every now and then.

“Really my dear, you don’t want to get cold. You must go whilst you can. Now a new baby is about to be born in Spittalfields. It’s the only qualified job left. I think we’ve about two minutes so come and sign the form and then you must be off.”

“Off? I don’t understand.” I said, “I’ve only just arrived. And come to think of it I don’t even know where I am. Is this Heaven or something?”

“Heaven? Goodness my dear. What an old fashioned concept of death. You are in one of our Government run Job Centres. You are a soul are you not? Everyone who is born needs a soul. It’s just a question of whose body you take up. Look upon it as re-housing.”

She was just about to hand me a form to sign when a telephone rang at her side. She picked it up.

“Oh dear. Really? What a shame. Thank you for letting me know.” The woman looked at me. “The baby was stillborn. No need for you to go there.”

“Why is no one else here?” I asked, “six thousand three hundred and ninety people die per hour. I learnt that at school. Where are they all?”

“That’s an old figure my dear. Far more people die than that. But that’s not the point. The point is we like to treat people as individuals. There are lots of rooms in the building you know and queues of people waiting to come in here.”

“What about my Dad? He’ll be here won’t he?”

“I don’t know dear – what’s his name?”

“Dennis Fellows.”

The woman opened a draw marked F and rifled through it. “Fanshawe, Featherstone. Fielding – can’t see a Dennis Fellows, there’s a Freddie Fellows – any relation?”

I shook my head.

 “He can’t be dead then.”

Good I thought. Mum’ll be pleased. Just me then. No joint funeral. Thank goodness. I wouldn’t want to be buried to something by the Beatles. I thought about it for a moment. It would have been fun to have seen who’d have come to it– most of Year 8 I guess. I wonder if that boy from tennis club would have been there? Of course, technically I wouldn’t have had my funeral yet. I’m probably still lying on the road covered in a sheet. I expect there’s a crowd of people. They always stop and stare at accidents. I wondered what  had happened to the horse. Perhaps it was in the queue outside waiting to come back as a hedgehog.

“So Mum was right about her theory of coming back again as something else when you die?” I said. “She was a Buddhist.”

“It’s not about religion.” The woman said scornfully. “It’s about practicalities. Now you’re getting cold aren’t you? We must hurry. Ah yes. You needn’t sign any forms for this one – look upon it as a temporary job. And remember – no one will understand what you’re talking about so don’t waste your time trying to be understood. Off you go dear – through that door on the right.”

“But what’s my – er – who er – WHAT’S MY JOB? WHO AM I TO BECOME?”

“There’s a litter being born right now in a charming house. I’m sure you’ll like it. They’ll all be out but I’ll arrange for one to be stuck in the birth canal. That’ll give you about three minutes to get there. Remember – the door on the right!”

I just had the handle in my hand when the door flew open .It definitely seemed like sky out there and when I looked down a jagged vent opened up and it felt as if something had grabbed hold of my legs. Too late I realised  I had gone through the wrong door. I hadn’t seen the second door. I found myself falling, falling. And it was as quick as the wind. It was snappy, prompt. It was smart.

As I fell I remember shouting out “What sort of litter? Am I going to be a pig? A cat? A RAT??” But no one heard me and it wasn’t until I could open my eyes twelve days later that I could see, perfectly well that I had come back to Earth as a dog.

toad in the hole

This has been a month of animal sightings and escapes. I had a bit of a tidy up around the polytunnel last week, plunging my hand into a very small pot to pull out a weed. My fingers curled around something squidgy and lo - there was a toad, covered in soil, nestling right inside the pot. Sadly it wasn't a frog so I didn't kiss it.

Two animals not sighted however, were Jack and Roxy, two dogs belonging to a friend of mine, who four hours before we were due to leave for Ireland decided to go on the run. But ah - the power of Facebook! At 8 o'clock - the time we had to depart for the ferry it had been reported on FB that they had been seen on a main road 5 miles away - that the traffic had stopped for them but no one could catch them. The dog warden had had reports but that was all. Anyway - to cut a long journey short we eventually found them in a vets an hour away in the opposite direction and at midnight picked them up. Lucky all of us.
 We missed the ferry by the way.

When we did finally arrive in Ireland we saw this beautiful sea eagle. So very rare to sight one these days so we were thrilled. A lot of sea eagles have been released on the east coasts of Scotland and Ireland from Norway. Most of them flew to the west coast (where we saw this one) because probably - Norway doesn't have an east coast.

Beezle and Pixie who didn't run away - on the road not taken

Beezle contemplating inside the yurt

As Beezle and TSEliot would say "Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go."

 You can't see it but the ducks have hidden a little suitcase behind the box ball. They thought they'd run away and go on holiday too.

Here's Pocket (quarter Bengal) looking a bit disgruntled as he'd just spent all afternoon with the shears on the box ball and their suitcase had put the whole thing out of shape.
Animals eh?

Toad dreams

BY MARGE PIERCY

That afternoon the dream of the toads rang through the elms by Little River and affected the thoughts of men, though they were not conscious that they heard it.--Henry Thoreau

The dream of toads: we rarely

credit what we consider lesser

life with emotions big as ours,

but we are easily distracted,

abstracted. People sit nibbling

before television's flicker watching

ghosts chase balls and each other

while the skunk is out risking grisly

death to cross the highway to mate;

while the fox scales the wire fence

where it knows the shotgun lurks

to taste the sweet blood of a hen.

Birds are greedy little bombs

bursting to give voice to appetite.

I had a cat who died of love.

Dogs trail their masters across con-

tinents. We are far too busy

to be starkly simple in passion.

We will never dream the intense

wet spring lust of the toads.

the armchair anarchist

I was going to call this post Saving Private Lion but I wasn't going to humour myself to that extent. The reason I chose that title is that I have been signing petitions all week to save the lions. Also to save the orca whales, the fox, the dolphins and possibly armadillos now that I've read that a hunter was taken to hospital when the bullet he fired at an armadillo ricochet off his shell and hit the guy in the jaw. Ha! Karma n'est pas?

Here is a lion that wasn't saved. Well it was saved and stuffed. It resides in the most adorable museum in Saffron Walden and was an exhibit in Wombwell's Royal Menagerie which boasted "An Assemblage of lions" no less. Also a pair of noble panthers, two royal elephants and the Ravenous Wolf of the alps. Novelty unequalled indeed.

There is another animal I'm petitioning to save - the fox. Here is one also saved and stuffed in the museum. What I like about this place is that nowhere is there a notice saying Do Not Touch the Exhibits.

Here is a noble panther not stuffed. Pocket, the Ravenous Cat(quarter Bengal) of Wiltshire.
The thing about both the fox and the lion is that in England(the fox) and Africa(the lion) these beautiful animals are bred to hunt. Which is curious in the fox's case as we are told they are hunted as vermin and to keep the numbers down. I know for a fact that many of them are taken from their earths as young cubs, shut in a barn and fed until one by one they are let out on hunt day. In Africa they do the same with the lions only it is bigger business. First they breed the cubs and make a lot of money from tourists paying to cuddle them. Then when they are bigger, they let them out one by one to be hunted by a rich tourist with a crossbow or a gun. Then they are skinned and their head chopped off to be sold as "trophies". Then the bones are sold for grinding up into some chinese medicines. Quite an industry. So you can see now why Saving Private Lion was a little glib for my post title.

When I've not been campaigning to save things I've been sitting with the horses trying out The Trust Technique. This is a brilliant method and I encourage any of you who want a better connection with your animals to go on their website. Basically you stand by them and meditate, then usually they fall asleep. The photo of the guy who teaches the technique shows him sitting in a field surrounded by masses of sleeping horses all lying down. I have tried a few times with Harry and Trude but usually they just nudge me with that "When are you going to move the fence so we can get more grub?"look on their faces. I'll have to try it wearing pyjamas I guess so they get the message.

It is true, as a friend recently pointed out, that all the pictures of Beezle show him sleeping. I don't need to do the Trust Technique with him. But as he and Alexander the Great would say" I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep; I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion."

The Jaguar

The apes yawn and adore their fleas in the sun.

The parrots shriek as if they were on fire, or strut

Like cheap tarts to attract the stroller with the nut.

Fatigued with indolence, tiger and lion

Lie still as the sun. The boa-constrictor’s coil

Is a fossil. Cage after cage seems empty, or

Stinks of sleepers from the breathing straw.

It might be painted on a nursery wall.

But who runs like the rest past these arrives

At a cage where the crowd stands, stares, mesmerized,

As a child at a dream, at a jaguar hurrying enraged

Through prison darkness after the drills of his eyes

On a short fierce fuse. Not in boredom –

The eye satisfied to be blind in fire,

By the bang of blood in the brain deaf of the ear –

He spins from the bars, but there’s no cage to him

More than to the visionary his cell:

His stride is wilderness of freedom:

The world rolls under the long thrust of his heel.

Over the cage floor the horizons come.

Ted Hughes