Wednesday, 22 August 2012

Is there anybodey out there

What a lovely sky tonight - not that I know bugger-all about constellations. But I am sure Orion is on full view, standing tall like the Titan that he is, with his plough ready to carve its next furrow. Aries will be there somewhere as well - he always is - grazing in the shadows and leaving the thistles for the lesser mortals to eat.
If I apply my brain to it, I may start to wonder what the new space-ship Curiosity might find, out there on Mars – wherever that is.
Possibly some life-forms with intelligence?
God knows, the Earth could do with some of those. Especially in this area, when the Mairie has decided to double our taxes without warning and the local village team is playing Petanque as though it was interesting.
Pooper, the terrier, has a different take on the empty skies. I know, she is only a dog – but no ordinary one.
Hers is a complex world where sleeping all day is only generating fuel so that she can take control of the night. To sit atop the hill and scour the encroaching darkness, which turns ordinary forms into shadows that demand her attention and spark her imagination is a life of duty.
A few minutes ago, that was a clump of nettles, but now… now it might just be a hare, sitting waiting, staring her out until it wants to run, needing chase. Or one of the many coypu that lives under our lake, casually sleeping out their daytime heat before harmlessly eating a few weeds and maybe doing a midnight salsa before dawn.
Poops is equipped to see these things.
Her neighbours concur also. So it must be true.
In the same way that a sober man can see perfect sense with his first drink until gradually, as the evening wears on, the Kelly Osborne on the next stool turns into Kelly Clarkson. And then he wants to protect her from every hard-nut from here to his next AA session, with his spam-soft fists.
Hers is a need to bark into the night until it hears. And woe-betide-it if it doesn’t - she is female after all….'Bark, I say - Bark or be damned!'
Earlier this week, she got yet another trip to the salon. My salon! The one that doesn’t cost much. We are in France, after all, where un coiffure c’est tres tres cher.
From a past life, I have a collection of clippers and blades for doing most jobs, but since my retirement from that business, they are diminishing. In desperation, I dug out a set of rusty blades that may still have a sharp edge. Thankfully, after a whole tin of WD40, I did manage to get one set operational after I cleared off the rust.
And a haircut was performed – reluctantly.
But now the smell of oil has been passed on – and poor Poops smells like a tractor. Or at the very least, a rusty hedge-cutter.
So, despite her creeping up on that clump of nettles, the night no longer believes her either.
Even with her dog IQ of 100+, I am not convinced that she realises that this somewhat detrimental to her night-watchdog role, yet still she persists.
But what can I say. Mine is just to hit the keys and report.
I probably smell like a tractor too – especially in this heat.
Never-the-less – Double-Yew-Dee-Forty-Dog is still Lady and High Mistress of this little house of quietness.
Especially as her superior W-ladyship is away in UK
Louis and I will just content ourselves with biscuits. Shhh - dont say the B-word!

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