From the air
From the air
I was talking to our Hobbo the other day about scratching posts and whether his black Labrador, Dauphy had one and Hobbo retorted, no, but he has a snoring spot.
And I thought: that’s the difference between cats and dogs. Cats have scratching posts, dogs don’t. It seems a little discriminatory.
Cats can work off their frustrations on a post. What’s a dog supposed to do? Max, my granddaughter’s dog, had the answer. Whenever he got frustrated, he would hump his mattress. Not an edifying sight, but it worked for Max.
He was placid as a puddle after that.
Maybe that’s the answer for human beans too. Instead of walloping walls, pummeling pillows or brawling with our besties, we could simply hump our mattress. Or find a snoring spot.
Love yr top.
Yes, it’s blue and fleecy. So soft and warm.
Yes, like you, I reply.
And we cuddle like clouds.
pic courtesy of Pinterest by BuzzFeed
Now it is spent and lying limp
and placid at my feet —
a contentment of inky blue
but the other day if you
could have seen it bucking
with energy , flailing its
wild hair and arching its back
[ sea mountains surfers abseiled
down ] you would not have been
surprised to see it thrust
its loins again and again against
the soft white dunes nor after
to see the body of the foreshore
bruised and torn nor its rump
so foam wracked .
pic by Lachlan-Ross on Pexels
If I were to change my name
I would change it to something
light and leafy like Forrest Gander,
the name of the poet whose poem ‘Pastoral’
I am reading now: ‘swarms of midges
bobbed up and down like balled hairnets
in the breeze’; nothing blunt and earthy,
like his nearest namesake, Forrest Gump
would write; but ethereal; I see he has a degree
in ecology and was born in the Mojave Desert,
all part of the grand design; his photo
portrays him, smiling, upstanding, arms outspread
as if ready to take off on another flight of whimsy.
photo courtesy of Ulle
I am sitting down reading to the drone of bees.
A copy of the TLS lies open on my knees.
We must get a frizzle on, my partner exclaims
Apropos of nothing then goes off again
To attend the roast, while I attend to the Times.
There’s a lost poem by Hardy which clumsily rhymes.
A frizzle or two? Whatever can she mean?
I scratch my head then read once again.
I take another sip of my beloved cab sav
While she takes a pee in the outdoor lav.
We were talking about Milly, Bev’s cat
who had just butchered a baby blackbird
when Rob went feral.
I have never liked cats, he said. They should be locked up. Murderers all.
Go easy, I said. You ever eat at a restaurant?
Of course, he said.
Ever ordered a barramundi?
Ever sent it back because it was too fishy?
No, of course not.
Well, I said, you may as well berate a barramundi
for being a fish
as to castigate a cat
for being feline.
the nefarious cat
is taken back
the nest so
in a thicket
there is little
she can do
but sigh —-
* sketch by Harry Clarke to Poe’s classic tale
how to catch a seagull .
All you had to do, she said,
was to sneak up
behind one and sprinkle salt
on its tail .
How this was supposed to work
or what to do with it
when you caught one —
she never explained
but I tried it a few times .
I went down to the beach
with a salt shaker
and sneaked up behind some gulls
squabbling over chips
but one of them
always saw me coming .
It doesn’t work, I told grandma
but she always stuck to her story
but now I take it with a pinch
of salt .