the egg stone

 

My new book The Egg Stone has just been published. It's a departure for me and loosely based on an incident that happened to my grandfather in the war.

Old Charlie is the only person who is able to understand the words that Kip speaks. Misunderstood and judged, Kip's early life leaves him with only two treasures; a stone in the shape of an egg and a young magpie. At the turn of the Second World War, Kip and Charlie go on the run and find themselves in peril on the sea. The Egg Stone is a tale of friendship, superstition, human differences and prejudice.

Were all men the same - some hiding their true selves until they lost their common sense? What separates men like this from someone like me?

You can read the first chapter at the end of this blog and you can buy it from Amazon.

I couldn't have written the story without the help of M.Magpie who let me into the extraordinary world of these misunderstood birds.

Above is about the only picture I have of M.Magpie's new consort. Pictured here in her ivory tower - ie the poly tunnel. I think she must have whisked him away as for over a week he had disappeared. For a year and a half magpie visited me every day, coming into the house, chatting and stealing and prancing up and down the table nicking things when I wasn't looking and when he went I really missed him. I even missed the broken pots he knocked off the mantlepiece admiring himself in the mirror. I missed the paperwork he would strew across the floor. The way he came flying across the lawn when I called him and land chattering on my shoulder. I wouldn't even have minded the peck on the ear. Ever since he'd met up with his lady friend I knew he'd become a proper wild magpie - not one who half lived in the house or swing perilously on the bird feeder outside the kitchen window then seeing me fly onto the window sill and then sit on the taps. But for now he's back perhaps for a fond farewell.

I have been trying to write this story for a long time - originally thinking of a biography of my grandfather's life but then knowing I wanted it to be a novel with a boy who is judged for being different. One day I went to a Henry Moore exhibition of some of his drawings of Stone Henge. The man who was in charge of one of the rooms told me that as a boy Henry used to carry a stone from the beach in his pocket which he used to hold and draw from touch. "You should put that in one of your stories" he said. (my companion had told him I wrote books) 

And so I did.

Chapter 1

Charlie was the only one who understood the words that Kip spoke.

It was if he had fine tuning in his ears which could translate the boy’s sounds; a mixture of all the languages under the sun, all the cries of the birds, the barks and baying of the wolves, the hooting of owls, the songs of the whales. The growling of dogs.

He and Kip were about to leave Greenacres when someone started shouting in the room down the corridor. The shouting turned to howling and then the sound of someone throwing a piece of furniture at a door. Kip shrank back and covered his ears with his hands and Charlie shut and locked the door to Kip’s cell. Inside they waited. Several pairs of footsteps pounded along the corridor. They heard jangling as someone opened the other room and Charlie sighed with relief. He had stolen the key to Kip’s room and feared whoever was outside would notice it had gone.

After some shouting and more banging noises it quietened. The patient must have been jabbed with a tranquilizer needle Charlie thought. Either that or smothered with a pillow.

Eventually they heard the door being locked. Charlie and Kip waited for the footsteps to return along the corridor but instead they came towards them.

“They’re trying all the doors,” Charlie whispered to Kit putting his finger to his lips. “Don’t make a sound.”

Someone stopped outside their room. The handle gently turned. Charlie let out a quiet breath, relieved that he’d locked the door from the inside and looked around the room for somewhere to hide if whoever it was came in. Just as he was considering squeezing under the bed the footsteps retreated.

They waited a while then once out in the corridor they locked Kip’s room again and returned the bunch of keys.

“We’ll have to leave the back door as it is,” Charlie said to Kip as they stepped outside. “That’s the way I came in. Let’s assume the staff will just think they’d forgotten to lock it.” He looked over his shoulder “But with your room Kip I think we’ll be ok. These people shut you up for hours in a place like this don’t they – without even checking to see if you are O.K. as long as you don’t make a fuss.”

Kip nodded.

“It’s locked, left and misunderstood isn’t it? Whoever had been in the other room must have been needing severe attention and known that the only way to get it was to smash the furniture.”

They were just out on the drive when they saw the flash of a light inside the building.

“Hurry,” said Charlie “– looks as if whoever it is might have discovered you missing after all.”

As he spoke a cloud passed over the moon throwing them into semi-darkness. He grabbed hold of Kip’s arm and they walked as fast as they could up the drive. Turning his head he caught sight of a powerful torch by the kitchen entrance and heard voices as the light scanned the drive in a large arc.

“We’re going to have to run Kip.”

Charlie grabbed his hand and Kip started to run but his feet seemed paralysed and he tripped and fell onto the ground.

They’re not working Kip panted.

In spite of his age, Charlie was still a strong man and scooped Kip up, throwing him over his shoulder as if he were a sack of corn. He could tell they’d been seen as the arc of light fell just behind him. As he ran he prayed the car would start – it had always been tricky. Sometimes not catching till the third or fourth try. They were nearly there when he heard them gaining ground. Charlie knew he couldn’t get them inthe car and the camouflage removed and perhaps several attempts to start it before they were reached. They veered off into the trees and threw themselves down in the undergrowth. The men’s voices grew louder.

Kip lifted his head and Charlie put his finger to his lips again.

They heard footsteps nearby and saw the beam of the torch sweeping around them and then shining up in the trees.

Do they think we’re birds? Charlie thought.

The land under the trees was ill kempt and one of the men tripped on a bramble which twisted around his boot, causing the torch to fly out of his hand as he crashed down.He swore loudly. The torch landed a few yards short of the hidden figures.

They held their breath.The man scrambled to his feet and grabbing the torch, turned it to shine into the face of his colleague.

“Watch where you tread,” he ordered.

The men moved around and then right behind where Charlie and Kip were hiding a twig snapped. Another twig snapped then there was rustling as something crept closer.

They lay still in the leaf mould waiting for the hands to grab them and haul them to their feet.

A fox stopped a few yards from them and sniffed the air.

“Someone must have picked them up,” Charlie heard a voice say. “We’d better ring the police.”

“He’s just a boy isn’t he? He can’t have got far.”

“Still a murderer though. Did that woman in didn’t he? And someone helped him escape.”

Charlie felt a chill run down his spine. A murderer. Is that what they thought of Kip? Of course they would. There was a dead woman and there was Kip and he couldn’t tell them what had happened.

The man with the torch swept the undergrowth with the beam and picked up the russet face of the fox.

“Fox!” he shouted. “They can’t be here. That fox would not have hung around if they’d hidden in there. Come on let’s make that call.”

Charlie waited until the men had gone back to the building and pulling Kip up, bundled him into the car. It started straight away and he drove with his lights off back up the drive and onto the road.

wherefore art thou

 

Mrs Magpie has written a poem on my lap top

                                                  M/////////ccx!\\\\\\§§k

                                                  [[[[[[[[[[[bxxxxx==

                                                  ggghggggggggg///////111

A very thought provoking piece with an experimental line structure.

(Pocket later wrote one himself that appeared to be about his existential angst and lack of food and this too had an interesting and modern line structure.)

I used to think Mrs Magpie was a bit of a housewife - her white front feathers look very much like an apron and she goes about the house picking up errant crumbs in her beak and tidying away pens and bits of paper. Here she is looking smug on the Smeg. But now she seems to have taken a wife herself.

A few weeks back at around 6.40 in the evening I looked out and saw she/he had been joined on the little table in the garden by another magpie. And every evening since they sit together in the apple tree where they spend the night.

The other magpie is very nervous and flies off as soon as she sees me though I can't help thinking she was the one I raised this year. I've no idea where she goes in the day but she flies to the table at 6.40 regular as clockwork and they canoodle in the apple tree. Sadly it's always so dark I can't photograph them together but I can hear the response from passers by Ah two for joy.

Having lived with one for sorrow for over  a year that is a blessing I suppose.

Now I can see my magpie with another I notice M.Magpie is much bigger and therefore more than likely a male though I'll probably still refer to him as Mrs Magpie. He may be speed dating but it seems his consort is the same one and I'm waiting for him to steal one of my rings as an engagement present. If they set up home together their nest will be made of pens.

On one occasion I went out before dark and she flew off. M.Magpie landed crossly on my shoulder, told me off with a loud squawk and pecked my ear. I apologised.

If on the odd occasion she hasn't turned up by 6.40 we both wait anxiously for her - me hidden upstairs and looking out the bathroom window and MM sitting on the roof of the pink tower surveying the scene and calling in a voice I haven't heard before 

wherefore art thou .......?

Here he/she is helping with the tomato harvest before he/she started writing poetry and waiting for her to turn up.

Pocket meanwhile is fed up with all this magpie palava and said he was going to write a book of jokes, Really? I query. Is that possible? I can't remember you ever saying anything funny. He stared at me. Too much possibility leads to the mad house. Ah you've been reading Kirkegaard I say but he ignores me.

How do you tell the difference between a weasel and a stoat he asks.

I shrug, as far as I know he's never brought either into the house.

Well a weasel is weasily recognised but a stoat is stoatally different.

I wished him luck with his book.

Meanwhile Rocket said he hadn't been fed since Christmas and would have to eat this cushion. After that if anyone comes to the gate he would meet, greet and eat them.

Dogs

We went for a walk

together you and I

you and your stick carrier

and me with my ball fetcher.

They jumped with each other.

Your growler howler, rabbit chaser

deer bringer downer

fox poo roller, garden digger

ran.

My tail wagger, food gobbler, cake stealer

sofa surfer, cushion napper

wet noser

came when called.

Yours disappeared 

into the landscape.

L.Coggin

theatre of insects

 

Pocket, tired of watching the theatre of insects that came with the cut flowers in the house has announced he's writing a Captive Narrative.

What do you mean? I ask You were hardly captured by pirates or Native Americans were you? He washes a paw and tells me by being a Bengal cat he was taken from his own tribe and made to live with humans. You're only one quarter Bengal I say to him but he says that's not the point - he's still a hybrid of the Asian leopard cat and as a breed, he adds, is smart, energetic and playful. I'm definitely being held against my will he says and I'm changing my name to Pockethontas. I tell him he can go any time he wants but he said he was going to take a nap as being smart, energetic and playful was tiring. He might go after tea and might be back for breakfast.

I shall weep crocodile tears Rocket says and Pocket adds he'll weep turtle tears.

"Watch out the butterflies in our theatre of insects don't lick the salt as a source of sodium from them "I tell him. Pocket scowls. I know that. I used to live in the Amazon when I was taken from my tribe. Rocket points out that Asian leopard cats come from Asia not the Amazon. 

Oh Amazon Shmamazon Pocket replies shutting his eyes.

We don't have a flea circus in our theatre of insects as we treat our pets with Frontline but I did once go to the Natural History Museum in Tring where there is a display of fleas dressed up as Mexicans. Apparently this was the pastime of Mexican nuns in Victorian times who unbelievably attached threads of clothing onto fleas with adhesive. When you look through a magnifying glass you can see they are perfectly dressed and even wear a hat.The flea circus's attached them to tiny chariots which they pulled as they hopped around the miniscule circus ring. I've never had much time for fleas but it can't have been nice to be glued to anything. I've told Pocket not to get any ideas. As a quarter Bengal cat full of energy, playfulness and smartness he has already given me a lecture on spiders, telling me that conkers in the fireplace do not keep them away but that they're not keen on chalk so if I didn't want any in the house why didn't I draw lines over the floor ? I told him I didn't mind spiders that much.

Rocket, who goes to the door every time I get up keeps telling me he hasn't done enough steps. I didn't know you had a Fitbit I say."I've discovered motivation that's fresh, fun and fashionable" he says. When I ask him where he keeps it he doesn't answer. Yes fresh, fun and fashionable he mumbles. I suspect he's just been reading the advertisement and I can't see any sign of one in his bedding nor strapped to his legs. It's just an excuse to go on more walks.

Here he is on holiday in Devon. He likes being on holiday - he doesn't have to bark at people or other dogs who are on his territory like he does at home. He surprisingly came into the water when we went swimming but only enough to get his paws wet. Then he stood anxiously on his hind legs to watch us as we swam away then ran up and down the beach telling people that his people were out there and he wasn't sure if we knew how to swim or even knew how to come back and could anyone help and go and rescue us?

Here is Mrs Magpie pleased with herself for opening a package all on her own without being asked. Apart from the usual stealing I've noticed she likes to re-arrange things. I think this must be a control thing. I've seen her tuck a sweet pea flower into the leaf of a zinnia. She also thinks flower pots look better scattered on the ground in the poly tunnel rather than in neat piles which is what I've done with them.

My favourite dahlia is at last in flower!  Earwigs like dahlias and I've notice one or two scurrying across the table before Pocket gets the idea he could harness them to a match box.

And dear Scout is no trouble at all. Here she is on her morning stroll across the harvested corn fields.

The green party members in my garden.

So although I told Pocket I didn't mind spiders you can see from my poem below there was a time when I did.

Entirely Spider.

It broods in the folds

of the nightdress-

huge, as if it wears an overcoat

- as dark as dreams.

I shudder and sleep in the other room

there is nothing sadder than

being single and having

to deal with a large bug.

Later, when life becomes

too short to dust

and I have found other fears

I keep good company with one.

Through the borrowed view 

of the bedpost

I watch her dance attendance

repair and tidy her beautiful web

nibbling at her trussed hors d'oeuvre

saving herself for the Big One

her Mr Right whom she devours

after a night of spinning passion

her just desert.

Curled like a cat

she fills the corner

her egg sac casting a vast shadow

across the ceiling

she ceases to scurry

instead she watches and waits

her web slack with time

and misuse.

Now as winter approaches she is ready

for her long descent.

She clings to her clever thread

my daughters screaming as she wearily

passes them

I cajole and re-ssure

I place her in the palm to prove a point

and now, close up

she seems much smaller than I thought.

Linda Coggin from Dog Days published by Zero Books.

lost words

 

                                 The list of lost things grows longer.

Unusually for me I made a cake the other day for which I needed 2oz of butter to make the almond topping. I diligently measured out the 2oz which was the exact amount of butter I had left. I turned my back for a moment and Mrs Magpie swooped in  nabbed the butter, flying off with it to either eat it, hide it or make a sandwich with it.

I was reminded also of the possibly apocryphal story of the spurned woman who so maddened by her partner's infidelity stuffed his curtain pole with prawns and popped the finials back on each end. As the days and weeks wore on the smell in his flat was so awful he was  forced to move out. Well Mrs Magpie raided a box of prawns I had left to de-frost in the kitchen and it felt a little like that. I found one in the fruit bowl, one tucked between a couple of dog towels, one in a flower pot. Fortunately I have no curtain poles but I'm surprised she didn't push one into my printer which she's done before with a dog biscuit.

Well of course that's what magpies are. Thieves. I don't know why she likes a pastry brush - but postcards? Perhaps she's sending them to friends with a wish you were here on them. And that's not all. We have a 'food' store which is an old Rajasthani painted cupboard with iron bars down the front where packets of rice, sugar, nuts etc stand like prisoners waiting to be released. She has found a way to cling onto the bars and peck through to the packets - or peckets as she clearly thinks they are - so the kitchen floor is often scattered with rice like some newly wed bride has passed through on her way from the church. I think she is apex predator now. She can open a box of eggs and eat them which is something that Pocket can't yet do.

The other day I listened to a recording of the mournful cry of the solitary Kaua bird from Hawaii whose wife had died in a hurricane. When he went the species became extinct. I imagined people listening to a recording of Mrs Magpie and assuming this bird too had become extinct. What bird chatters, squeaks, coughs, splutters, roars and mimics the other birds in the garden? It was with great disappointment that I heard the cheerful song of Mrs Peggotty who has long been gone with the other jackdaws only to see it was Mrs Magpie trying to fool me.

Here is Rocket whippet racing. Basically it's a bunch of plastic bags pulled along on a battery operated wire. I haven't let him near my shopping since incase he associates my bags with the thrill of the chase.

He's not called Rocket for nothing.

Here he is resting after a busy morning with the plastic bags.

Below is a little run down on the cats.

This is Pocket yawning as I discuss the Narcissism of small differences. I guess he'd rather we were talking about Ponzi schemes, venture capitalism or Wim Hof.

Nancy is getting old now but still as vociferous as usual. She's either telling us the end of the world is nigh or that she really hasn't been fed since Christmas. It's National Cat today I tell her. She sighs. Life is a road that no one comes back down she says. She's like a little travelling alarm clock that goes nowhere.

   

Here is a lime green zinnia in transition. They've been one of the most successful cut flowers I've grown this year though these dahlias, roses and sweet peas have also been rather wonderful.

I seem to have reached an age where sometimes as I'm chatting away the name of someone or something escapes me. Talking to friends they too stop in mid sentence shaking their heads and squinting trying to remember. I wrote this poem on the strength of it.

Lost Words.

In mid sentence the name I want

becomes a greyhound sprinting

away from me

before I can trap it in my memory.

Have you met - er - 

but now it is half way down the track

tossing it up in the air, shaking it,

growling at it

sometimes leaving it alongside the name

of that actor

in that film - you know -

the one with the - er

it won the - er

and that plant

it's - it begins with a dee or an ess.

If you're going to become a dog couldn't you

be something slower

a small pug perhaps or

a three legged poodle

not a racing dog

as fast as the wind

disappearing over the horizon

with the name I want.

Occasionally when I call

the greyhound comes back

and drops the name at my feet

Ah Sisyrinchium I say and relax

becoming perhaps too complacent

and confident

in the fluidity of my sentences

till fleet of foot it grabs

something else

and plays with it, chasing it

down the street

hiding it behind bins

until I shake my head

and shrug my shoulders

I don't know I don't know

I can't remember.

Once in a while the greyhound picks up

someone else's lost word

and leaves mine festering by the side of the road

running away with polygonum, Esther and 

Manchester-by-the-Sea.

Linda Coggin.

the sleep of reason

 

Mrs Magpie has now stolen so many things that I suspect she's set up a road side stall to sell off all my pens and silver teaspoons.

She loves roses (see above as do I) but her thieving has meant I have had to put all paperwork in a box with a secure fitting lid and to absolutely not leave any food around. Yesterday she flew off with half a block of parmesan cheese and today I saw her running across the floor with a cellophane wrapped bunch of basil in her beak. She has taken most of my cutlery. I think she is measuring out my life with coffee spoons. If cornered she squeaks then coughs (imitating me) then makes a loud clattering noise. She's become quite porky and for some reason has lost her beautiful long tail feathers so the over all effect is one of stubborn stubbyness.

A clattering is also the collective name for jackdaws of which I now seem to have quite a few.

This is Peggotty. Peggotty is a tiny fledgling jackdaw given to me by the wildlife hospital. A friend said he looked as if he was just back from the barbers and wasn't happy with the result.. But I've decided she may be a girl. Really I should have called Mrs Magpie Peggotty because the other day I saw she had unclipped and broken all the wooden pegs holding up my washing resulting in the towels and the broken pegs lying in a neat line on the ground. Admittedly they were cheap pegs and might not have broken so readily if I'd spent a bit more on them but even so.

The other jackdaws of which there are four like to fly back in to the poly tunnel as the door is now open in the belief that I'll feed them. When they see me coming they fly down from whichever tree they are in and squawking with excitement line up like pegs on the fence. Meanwhile the young raven is still in recovery. I have named him Stanley for now and greet him with a "Stanley I presume?" He looks at me with his huge black opal eyes and I stroke him with a feather which I think he likes.

Pocket tells me that from now on he wishes to be identified as a cat. "But you are a cat" I tell him. He asks me not to disturb him as he was having The Sleep of Reason. The Sleep of Reason produces Monsters I tell him. It's a Goya painting .Oy vey I hear him mumble and he twitches and jigs his paws as if he's in some Rotterdam techno dungeon.

Rocket on the other hand thought he'd write a book. It's set during the French Revolution he tells me about a street dog who rescues all the aristocrats' toy dogs that were wandering around the streets of Paris whilst their owners were losing their heads. "What are you going to call it?" I ask. The Scarlet Pupernell. He looks pleased with himself. "It starts - It was the best of times it was the worst of times." I told him that had already been taken in The Tale of two Cities but he insisted his was The Tail of Two Cities. I told him it was a really good idea and perhaps I could write it for him. He looked at me in horror and told me I couldn't write it as I'm not a dog and these  days in the publishing world you can't write as someone if you are not them and it would involve sensitivity readers. "Are they dogs?" I ask. He assures me they are and he doesn't as a debut author want to be cancelled. Do you have a pen name? I asked. Baron Rockzy he replies and I may well need  a wig and lace cuffs to write in for authenticity.  I told him I'd look on the Pets at Home website.

Lillies in the house are now cunningly disguising the smell of wet dogs.

As there's been a lot about the Titanic recently I was drawn to Thomas Hardy's poem The Convergence of the Twain in which he contrasts the materialism of mankind with the beauty of Nature. 

In a solitude of the sea

deep from human vanity

and the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches

she.

Steel chambers, late the pyres

of her salamandrine fires,

cold currents thrid and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

over the mirrors meant

to glass the opulent

the sea-worms crawl - grotesque, slimed, dumb

indifferent.

Jewels in joy designed

to ravish the sensuous mind

lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and

blind.

Dim moon-eyed fishes near

gaze at the gilded gear

and query "What does this vaingloriousness down

here?"

Well: while was fashioning

this creature of cleaving wing

The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

prepared a sinister mate

For her- -so gaily great -

A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

and as the smart ship grew

In stature grace and hue

In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

Alin they seemed to be

no mortal eye could see

the intimate welding of their later history.

or sign that they were bent

by paths coincident

on being anon twin halves of one august event

till the Spinner of Years

said "Now!" and each one hears

and consummation comes and jars two hemispheres.

why is a raven like a writing desk

I came back from the wildlife hospital the other day with nine assorted corvids in the back of my car. All young birds not yet flying - four jackdaws who squabble with each other, an assortment of crows and rooks, the young magpie and a raven.

I adore all corvids but especially ravens - this one has a damaged wing and was going to be put down but given a reprieve at the last moment when they thought perhaps I might nurse it back to health. It is young but if it survives will grow to be bigger than Nancy our black cat. If frightened they pretend they are dead - lying very still and not moving. It seems to be all beak with the shiniest dark eyes like black opals. In the wild animals do not have time for boredom. Survival, self-defense, hiding, finding shelter and food all demand great watchfulness, rapid reactions, cunning and forward thinking which fills their days completely but in captivity the range of available activities is drastically reduced. Being well fed and well housed can have the effect of numbing their senses so it's important I return these birds to the wild as soon as possible.

Too much possibility leads to the mad house Rinpoche Pocket informs me. "You've read Kierkegaard have you? "I say but he ignores me and pretends that the young quail that Scout has found hiding under the television table was nothing to do with him. I rescue it and return it to the wild and Scout stands by the TV convinced it is still there. "Well there was a possibility you might have killed it" I tell Pocket.  Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust, he replies looking pleased with himself. "Cymbeline?" I say "You've become a Shakespeare scholar now have you?" But after telling me that nothing in his life became him like leaving it he wandered off to check with Scout that I had really removed the quail from under the TV to me frowning and saying "Macbeth?"

Rocket on the other hand has clearly become a painter's muse. He tells me that posing for Lucien Freud (above) was most exhausting

but that Queen Victoria had allowed him to be seated though that in itself was exhausting.

Much more relaxing to be at home though this picture will not be appearing in the Wallace Collection's exhibition of dog paintings.

Mrs Magpie is seen here enjoying a lazy Saturday morning with Pocket and the papers. Her beak is put out of joint by the birds in the shade tunnel and by the fact I like to stare out of the kitchen window at the spotted woodpecker that swings on the bird feeder. I love watching the birds on this and it is a prime example of something good nearly always comes from something not so good. I used to have a hawthorn tree where the bird feeder is and my neighbour wished to cut it down as its roots interfered with one of his buildings. At first I was disappointed at its demise but if it had remained I'd never have bought the bird feeder which has given so much joy. (Also I planted a crab apple where the hawthorn had been and hope its roots don't interfere with the aforementioned building. )The belief that something good nearly always comes from something not so good was told to me by my grandfather. A relative of his who came from the same small Norfolk village had longed to start a new life in New York. He saved up £20 (a lot of money in those days) and set off to catch the boat wearing a smart new coat with brass buttons and a fancy waistcoat and a trunk made for him by the village carpenter. On the way in the coach he was given a drink, had all his money and belongings stolen and had to beg his way back home, his buttons all missing and his fancy waistcoat in threads. The boat left for New York without him but was lost at sea with all hands on board. So something good did happen for him out of something not so good.

Scout at the Sighthound meeting where they all chase each other round a large field. The sighthounds are now out of sight.

 Scratch and sniff this for the heady scent of roses - my garden is full of them all gloriously blooming.

Another poem below from what I might call the Dust Collection.

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.