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.

miss my magpie ate my homework

Yes Mrs Magpie is living up to her reputation as a thief. I keep finding paperwork strewn across the lawn, pens hanging in bushes and important documents shredded. She flew off with Rocket's squeaky ball the other day, having firstly enjoyed kicking it around the floor then deposited it in the planted up water butt.

Her beak has been put slightly out of joint by the arrival of the Crow twins.

Named Ronnie and Reggie Krow (I did toy with Tom and Penelope after the Cruise actors) they had been blown out of a nest and rescued by the wildlife hospital who handed them over to me. They are louder than a police siren.

When I went to collect them I was shown a young badger that someone had taken into the hospital. I recognised it at once as the very same badger that was hurrying along the highstreet in Tisbury late one evening and ran over my foot as I was about to get into the car. When it met a couple of little dogs it turned round and ran back - over my feet again and disappeared up the road. It hadn't been injured but someone later found it in their garden and should have left it but often people want to help when it's best to leave alone if the animal is not injured. Apparently Tisbury is synonymous with badgers as two of them whilst fighting had fallen into an open grave in the churchyard there and had to be rescued.

 Helping any creature is rewarding but sometimes sad too as they don't all make it.  One of the young birds I was looking after died the other day. I've seen many birds die before, they bow their head as if in prayer then make a last frantic struggle to stay alive or let go I don't know which then they spread their wings as if stretched out in flight and indeed they do fly away. Somewhere.

At the moment there are three other crows in the shade tunnel - none of which can fly yet but they hop around and I hope soon they'll heal and be off. Like Wendell Berry's poem the peace of wild things I like to sit in there when despair for the world grows in me and just find time to be still.

Here\s a picture of Pocket. As you can see he's not here as he has a very busy schedule. Lots of sleep. eating and patrolling around.

 However this is Nancy. Nancy doesn't often appear on this blog as she is not opinionated like Pocket. She is looking like a draught excluder here and we may well use her as one when it gets cold again.

Pocket is fond of sitting very near Rocket especially when he's asleep which is most of the day. Dreams enrich the monotony and routine of his daily life Pocket tells me. He's not as busy as me. The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. Ah William Blake, I say but he denies any knowledge of him. 

Pocket sometimes stands over me when I'm writing. He has lots of helpful tips. Show don't tell he barks at me. Don't tell me the moon is shining, Show me the glint of light on broken glass. Anton Chekov said that I say. I didn't realise you'd studied Chekov. Never heard of him he says.

I've put this poem up before but it's one of my favourites.

A field in Ludlow

( byWJ Ibbott early 20th century.)

I'm Barter's now,

Last year for Gatehouse I

Nurtured a pretty crop of

                 vetch and rye -

When Barter's dead, some

New-named man will say

"All this is mine," and go

The deathward way,

Rye, vetch and man all

To the seasons yield,

While I lie low, the same

Old smiling field.

 

monkeys fist

Since discovering the Ashley Book of Knots Pocket has been constantly playing with bits of rope and string. A knot is never nearly right he tells me it is either exactly right or hopelessly wrong.

Do you have a favourite knot? I ask. He chased a bit of rope under the table Oh there are so many I can't possibly remember which one I like the best - there's the tucked sheet bend, the thief knot and the monkeys fist is very challenging. Cat o nine tails? I ask. He scowls. That's not technically a knot he answers. And it's rather horrid using our name for an implement of torture. He tucks his paws under his chest. Mistrust all in whom the desire to punish is imperative. he says. Ah you've been consulting Goethe? I say.  I never consult anyone he said and never heard of him -anyway I've been writing my sea faring journal - not consulting people.

He does admit that a cat's account of things cannot always be perceived as accurate and that a few of his recollections might be somewhat fictionalized but this only applies when things might have happened when sleeping or doing the arduous task of fur washing or when patrolling the ship on the port side whilst something important was happening on the starboard.

He seems to relish the thought of being a ship's cat and I haven't the heart to remind him he's never actually been on a ship but then we all write fiction.

He also told me he noticed that Whiskers had reduced the size of the food packets from 100 to 85gms and no wonder he was always hungry. They hadn't reduced the price I told him and we both agreed it was a bit of a cheek. Shrinkflation he shrugged.

Magpie was quite pleased with her first taste of snow

and also tasting my breakfast when my back was turned. 

The wildlife hospital have given me two crows and another magpie to look after none of which manage to fly at the moment. I'm hoping to match mate the two magpies but Mrs Magpie can't get into the shade tunnel where they are living to check it out. And of course I have no idea what sex either of them are. They all eat more than the cats. Since writing this I let Mrs Mag into the shade tunnel and she flew over and attacked the new magpie. I'm wondering if Mrs Magpie might in fact be Mr Magpie and this could be a mating ritual. Perhaps he secretly has a bluebird in his heart.(see poem at end for ref)

Rocket was practicing the Alpine Butterfly Bend knot and got into a bit of a muddle.

 And oh look at this adorable five week old fox cub that the hospital have saved. Someone watched a vixen drop it on their lawn and walk off - it was still in its thin membrane birthing sac and had to be rescued from it and immediately kept warm. It's a miracle he survived and is now rather mischievous. I very much wanted to take him home but fortunately common sense prevailed which is rather unusual with me.

I love this poem by Charles Bukowski. Of the many things he wrote and said this is one

"Everybody is born a genius and buried an idiot." This is the sort of thing Pocket will claim as his own.

do you know the weight of a blue whale's heart

I have just finished my new manuscript that I have spent a year working on. It is about superstition and judgement and not seeing only one version of life as acceptable. 

It is about a boy who cannot speak(judgement)  includes a magpie (superstition) and is set during the second world war centering around the sinking of a hospital ship by a German submarine which in real life my grandfather was on.

Of course Mrs Magpie had to be in the story and here is her publicity photo (above)for the launch.

She hasn't been much help in the writing of the story as she keeps flying off with my pens.(OK I write on a laptop but still need pens for taking notes) Here she is just before she stole my good pen. I was so busy hiding the pencil that I knew she'd like that I forgot I had a nice silver looking pen on the table next to me and she flew off with it and left it in a bush.

Half the book is set at sea and here is Rocket doing a bit of research.

Scout didn't come to the sea side so took herself off with her shadow for a walk in the fields.

Pocket who is quite capable of holding a grudge turns his nose up at fiction.

I don't know why you novelists waste your time writing what never happened when you know so many things that did happen? Well that's just it I answer - a lot of my story did happen. 

He snorted. All other things being equal, a simpler explanation is preferable to a more complicated one.

Ah you're working on the parsimony principle I say but he ignored me and not wanting to be left out and claiming nautical heritage, Pocket has now been studying The Ashley Book of Knots which he says is most informative and I really ought to tie a few. He seems to have learnt a lot about the sea (perhaps he's been reading the notes I made before Magpie stole my pen.) and asked me if I knew the weight of a blue whale's heart. I said I didn't and when I asked around neither Rocket nor Scout seemed to know or care for that matter. 

He told me he weighed ten pounds and the weight of a blue whale's heart is forty times greater.

Mulling this over and thinking about whales I did think that Magpie had the markings of an Orca killer whale.(above sitting in the fruit bowl)

 

Whales Weep Not!

D. H. Lawrence - 1885-1930

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains
the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.

All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge
on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs.
The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers
there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of
   the sea!

And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ages
on the depths of the seven seas, 
and through the salt they reel with drunk delight
and in the tropics tremble they with love
and roll with massive, strong desire, like gods.
Then the great bull lies up against his bride
in the blue deep bed of the sea,
as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life:
and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale-blood
the long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, and
   comes to rest
in the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of a she-whale's
   fathomless body.

And over the bridge of the whale's strong phallus, linking the
   wonder of whales
the burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back and
   forth,
keep passing, archangels of bliss
from him to her, from her to him, great Cherubim
that wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the
   sea
great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies.

And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-
   tender young
and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of
   the beginning and the end.

And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ring
when danger threatens, on the surface of the ceaseless flood
and range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threat
encircling their huddled monsters of love.
And all this happens in the sea, in the salt
where God is also love, but without words:
and Aphrodite is the wife of whales
most happy, happy she!

and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin
she is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea
she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males
and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.

magpie - one for borrow (and not give it back)

With reference to the superstitious rhyme that people quote when they see a single magpie - one for sorrow- etc I am changing the S for a B. It's true that magpies are thieves but Mrs Magpie takes the biscuit. 

Well actually she did take the biscuit - two in fact. After Scout stealing the stollen, when I made a batch of biscuits (unusual for me) I made sure I put them right at the back of the work top so Scout couldn't reach them. I went away, I came back, I counted the biscuits - there were two missing. I was all for blaming Scout until I found one of the biscuits in the fruit bowl and realised Mrs Magpie had flown in and nicked them.  So attack from above and below now. Of course she steals other things but I wasn't prepared for a culinary theft. Most small food items she caches - I've often come across a piece of toast amongst the books in the book shelves, or something edible buried in a plant pot in the house.  I think it was a hidden dog biscuit that jammed up my printer. Fortunately I found a printer mender who sorted it but he was unable to comment if it was or was not a dog biscuit caught in the works.

Here she is sofa surfing

and another selfie. The reason why I take so many pictures of her is that she's the only animal not asleep when you try and take a photo. She seems to like having her photo taken - maybe she has a Tik Tok account.

Here she is in an outside habitat in case you all think she just lives in the house.

At least she didn't steal my car - or at least  I don't think she did. Did I mention someone stole my car from outside the house? It's a very old car and a real work horse and it's been parked there for years and I loved it - if you can love a car - obviously I didn't love it s much as sentient beings or flowers or a beautiful day. Then one day I went out and there was an empty space. It was as shocking as seeing a red line on a covid test.  They eventually caught the man driving with false number plates after a car chase in which he hit a bollard in Southampton. I never got the car back but on reading a 'friend request' on Facebook which I ignore and had been sent a few months back the message said the car had been used in a robbery and they had it on CCTV.  So I'm pretty sure Magpie didn't steal it even though she would fly off with the keys.

Pocket thinks he'd like his own account and be an influencer. "Who will you influence?" I ask. He shrugs. I might receive lots of money for wearing a particular cat coat for example or praising a book I've read. "But you don't read books it seems "- I say. Jewellery? he suggests.

"Do cats even wear coats? " 

He assures me that they might after seeing him in one and just think how many free gifts would arrive. 

Are you hoping for some sort of income? I ask.

 He snorts. The proof of wealth is to possess something that might be absolutely destroyed in a moment. "Ah you've been studying Pliny the famous Roman naturalist."I say. 

Is he an influencer? he asks. Has he a Tik tok account?

Here is Rocket hiding from Pocket and pretending he's not really there as he doesn't want to see him in a cat coat incase I am reminded he has a coat too which is too short and he says makes him look silly.

Hedgehogs staying awake at the wildlife hospital

These are roses and sweet peas from last year to remind me that it isn't always going to be so cold.
 

The Hedgehog

by Paul Muldoon

The snail moves like a 

Hovercraft, held up by a 

rubber cushion of itself,

Sharing its secret

with the hedgehog. The hedgehog

shares its secret with no one.

We say Hedgehog, come out

of yourself and we will love you.

We mean no harm. We want

only to listen to what

you have to say. We want

your answers to our questions.

The hedgehog gives nothing

away, keeping itself to itself.

We wonder what a hedgehog

has to hide, why it so distrusts.

We forget the god

under the crown of thorns.

We forget that never again

Will a god trust in the world.

stolen stollen

I have been training Mrs Magpie to deliver my Christmas cards this year - I'm not sure if she'll deliver them to the right places but worth a try.

Like all magpies she likes to hide things - I'm still looking for the tulip bulbs I was planting when she flew off with a couple as well as the pen I was using to remind myself what bulbs I'd planted where. I may be surprised next Spring to find a couple popping up in the compost heap.

                                             a magpie selfie

I'd love to know where she roosts at night - I often see her sitting on top of the old apple tree with a couple of pigeons.  I wonder if she'll build a nest next year - if I find it it'll probably contain the raven feather that the Ravenmaster at the Tower of London gave me, several pens, part of my telephone bill, and a postcard - all of which she has stolen from the house.

"She doesn't seem to mind you Pocket does she?" I say to him.

How do you know but ev'ry Bird that cuts the airy way, is an immense world of delight, close'd by your senses five?

"Oh you've been reading William Blake then" I say to him.  He twitches a whisker

Never heard of him. It's my introduction to my new book Pocket Guide to British Birds.

I frown. "I suppose you also said The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing which stands in the way also by a certain W.Blake.

Still never heard of him. that's my introduction to my other new book Pocket Guide to Trees.

Rocket asked if Pocket had also written a Pocket Guide to Dogs and if so was he in it? Pocket said we had to talk to his people.

Pocket does not conform to the usual image of a cat. He looks all sweet curled up on your lap until he decides to sink his sabre teeth into your flesh and he's very demanding. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd he complains when I finally open the back door which doesn't have a cat flap in. Macbeth again? I comment but he scowls and reminds me that it's Mogbeth. When I suggest he just comes in through the cat flap in the front door he remarks Conformity is a threatening oppressive force that smothers imagination.

Scout looking very innocent with her what me? face but she's not innocent at all. We had a Christmas gathering of poets the other evening and I had especially bought a stollen cake for everyone. I put it on a plate along with the crisps and wine on the table then turned away and put a log on the fire. When I returned there was an empty plate. Scout had stolen the stollen! You'd think after more than twenty years of living with a wolfhound I'd have learnt you can't leave anything out that might be regarded as food.

If I go out I rarely leave the dogs for long or I take Rocket with me  as he has a habit of howling like a lost dog but another other evening I went somewhere he couldn't come. I left the television on in the living room and snuck out the back door in the hope I'd fool him into thinking I was still in the house. I'm also designing a way by which I can ab sail down from the bedroom window when he realises sneaking out the back door means I've left. When I returned ALL the animals were sitting in the room watching a lurid film on the t.v. I wonder who had the channel changer as I thought I'd left the football on.

At the moment as it's so cold all the puddles are frozen over

And here is my xmas wreath - if you look closely you'll see a tiny magpie.

Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock

by Wallace Stevens

The houses are haunted

by white night-gowns.

None are green,

Or purple with green rings,

Or green with yellow rings,

or yellow with blue rings.

None of them are strange,

with socks of lace

and beaded ceintures.

People are not going 

to dream of baboons and periwinkles.

Only here and there, an old sailor,

drunk and asleep in his boots,

catches Tigers

in red weather.