Yesterday's Child

 

 

 

 

Fiddleheads in the garden
slowly unfurling
lilies-of-the-valley
not yet belling
the Manchu cherry
sprinkling white confetti
on the vibrant green
of urgent grass;
swallows executing
their preying arabesque
while beyond, the sun
a pyromaniac's frantic dream
slips behind the house.

Sitting idly on the swing
spring air filters
through the maple's
tender thrusts
as bees target
straight for home
and the mesmerizing hum
of the neighbour's mower
returns growth to order.

The children
never recall other years
only living in the warmth
of the breeze
pulling stray hairs
beyond the spiralling
loops of the bicycle.
Memory of another child
lingers close behind the
flushed faces of
this spring day's children.

Nature's Ethereal Restiveness

 

In a blaze
of spring entitlement
our fruiting trees
treat us to a display
of pink, magenta, white
blossoms that bees
and hummingbirds
respond to, an
invitation to dine
resplendently as
though winter's
white landscape
was merely preparation
for the glory to come.
All our senses
engaged in the
sensuality of form,
colour and fragrance,
the apple and pear blossoms
and Japanese quince
the flowering peas
(Madonna, we recognize
your delicate fingers
on this offering of piety
and nature's resurgence!)
The crabapple ornaments
the hugely magnificent
magnolias, offering
an image of Eden.
Nothing in this world
is forever, the wind
scatters the aroma of new life
breezing the petals
over the changing landscape.

 

 

Entertainment

There's sublime irony
in the North American
television public selecting
both Holocaust and
All in the Family as their
hands-down favourites.

The lovable bigot
is our Everyman,
a symbol whose rantings
all deplore, are amused by
recognize in the other guy.

The Holocaust horror
is the fairy-tale in reverse;
fascinating, repellent,
bearing no relation whatever
to Everyman's foibles.

The one elevated to
delightful eccentricity
the other to a muted aberration,
a fallible error
in human behaviour -
all relating to 'them'.

We're just innocent
spectators in this game
of hunters and hunted;
entertained by it all.

 

 

Weep Unfulfilled Lives

 

We seek out intimacy
assurances of personal
validation to give
direction, purpose
and meaning to our
fragmented, disorderly
helpless lives
tangentially torn by desires
beyond our capacity
or will of purpose
to discipline
succumbing like
helpless children
to the tantrums
of self availment.

Then mourn, alone
and inconsolable
at the meanness of nature
fating failure as though
free will is
forever hostage
to our inability to rise
above emotion
instinct, self-destruction.

Liberated from the
discordant bonds
of commitment
a temporary relief
freedom, spontaneity
regained, only to succumb
to boredom, insecurity
isolation, fear and
loneliness. The adoption
of a kitten becomes
a temporary salvation;
company, intimacy
responsibility re-met.

The oppressive singularity
of life alone vanquished
for a moment of anguished
relief, adrift on a sea of self-doubt.

 

 

The Creaky Cerebellum

 

Clever is as clever does
memory favours
us both and we share no
difficulties in routine
matters both still
working in overdrive
through long familiarity
and comfort with
each other's presence.

Yesterday morning
meaning to warm the teapot
I instead flushed boiling water
into his waiting coffee pot
full of fresh-ground
freshly-roasted coffee beans
then absently swilled
the lot into the sink
teapot still there, undisturbed.

He laughed, assured me
nothing wrong with the brain
just full of other concerns
then re-ground another batch
for that perfect morning coffee
he so enjoys
and I my morning tea.

This morning his coffee
plunged oddly, taste lacking.
I discovered on removing
the plunger the assembly in
incorrect sequence. He'd dried
the dishes as I washed
and it was he assembled the plunger
I archly pointed out.

Made your day? asked he
slurring the query into
Major Day, as I responded
No, General Havoc
but all the synapses are firing
on cue. We're still capable
and cerebrally functioning
up to expectations; have
another three decades
to mature, gracefully.

The Fearsomely Ferocious Dog

 

He was tiny as a puppy, could comfortably fit in a person's hand. And he didn't mind that at all, instinctively taking pleasure from the warmth transmitted. He was delicate, had a pair of fabulous luminously-large eyes, and a picky appetite. As he grew, so did his hair, voluminously. He resembled a mop more than he did a little dog. In fact, his people had a little fuzzy bed for him, and its interior was the same colour as his hair. Curled up in that little bed one would never suspect a little dog was there, he blended so perfectly with the interior.

In so doing, he risked being stepped on. Good thing the only one doing that stepping-upon was the peoples' infant grandchild. Still, the distress that brought to the little animal was manifested by its yipping protest, and the child was admonished to exercise greater care in future. The future brought age to the tiny dog and the child, both. And while the child learned the lessons carefully taught her, the tiny dog went his own inimitable way. Tiny he might be, but ferocious also.

To this tiny dog's way of thinking rabbits were very nice, cats were tolerable, squirrels awaited conquest, and dogs - well, dogs of any description, any size, were abominable creatures not to be tolerated. Not, in any event, by him. Meanwhile, he was so small for so long that he was never walked on a leash, but set into a camera bag, slung over a shoulder and carried about everywhere. He was more than comfortable in his little bag, and on seeing it on the floor, would hop in and settle himself down for transit.

Eventually it came time to teach him that he could wear a collar and a harness, and be attached to a leash. He would now walk on his legs, like any respectable quadruped, through the neighbouring woodlands for daily exercise. Everything attracted his curiosity, but most especially bugs and insects he might come across on the forest floor. They represented hunting potential and he tracked them with his nose - and then - pounced.

His people tried all manner of persuasive ploys to divert his attention from the presence of other, oncoming dogs on the trails, but nothing quite succeeded. He was ultra-aware, and reacted predictably unfortunately; barking, snarling and generally behaving abominably, an embarrassment to the people he was with, but an act of overweening hubris on his part. Tiny he might be, but he had the courage - or the stupidity - of a giant.

He would indeed, unless restrained, physically attack astonished giant dogs, like German shepherds, dobermans, huskies. Apologies were proffered and his people hurried along with him, admonishing him for his obnoxious behaviour. They tried using a cap pistol to startle him when he would begin barking at other dogs, tried squirting lemon juice at him, tried carrying a tin can full of pennies they'd jangle but to no avail.

He was his own hero, and that was that, simply put. Oh, there was one dog for whom special dispensation was given, an old, overweight and most amenable beagle, whom the tiny dog did virtual leaps of joy over and around; his own, very favourite companion animal. Who responded to the tiny dog's antics and expressions of love by attempting to channel him under his considerable weight with a certain act in mind.

When summer was spent and cooler weather heralded, the tiny dog responded by communicating to his people his misery. Upon which little sweaters would be pulled over his head and legs and back, and the bliss of warmth would be re-established. In the winter months daily excursions into the woods continued, but now the tiny dog was outfitted in a cozily-warm winter jacket and hand-made boots to ensure his body heat would not be lost.

On one occasion walking on a snow-deep trail, his person lacked alacrity when a malamute suddenly appeared and the tiny dog lunged at it. The malamute responded by taking the tiny dog into its great maw and holding it there. The tiny dog's snarls turned immediately to squeals of indignation and fear. His fearful person bent on knees on the snow-tamped trail, to gently pry him from the jaws of the complacent malamute.

His people were truly perplexed. Their loving little - sorry, tiny - companion who would never miss an opportunity to leap upon their laps if they were seated reading the newspapers and cuddle up, to sleep, and who, at night burrowed deep under the covers in bed alongside them, never moving throughout the entire night, could not be cured of his aggression toward other dogs. They hadn't had him neutered, fearing the consequences of anaesthesia.

Finally, however, the deed was done. He was brought home in utter misery and pain, whimpering and cuddling close to his people. They dressed him in infant-wear -- an infant-sized-onesie -- to ensure he would not incessantly lick the source of his pain, a sutured wound. And they cradled him, and spoke gently to him, and reassured him, and the world once again seemed a reasonable place for an apricot toy poodle.

Alas, although his markings in the house ceased, his aggression toward other dogs did not. Mind, once he had seen another dog on a number of occasions and had become familiar with it, he no longer felt hostile toward it. Not like those anonymous dogs (and horses) appearing on the television screen from time to time who required constant vigilance lest they invade the safety and security of his home.

And now he demonstrated a hitherto-absent and profound interest in food. All manner of food. And as much of it as he could scarf, licitly and otherwise. And his once-delicate frame began to fill out. Which did not stop him from energetically matching stride with his people, even to completing half-day treks up and down (modest-sized) mountains to achieve a summit, then return to base.

In the spring he would sense the presence of increasing warmth and sun. Oh, the sun, the powerful warming rays of the sun; he adored the sun. Even on cooler days on spring's arrival he would insist on sitting outdoors if the sun was full out, soaking up its warmth, revelling in its comfort; it was his element and the medium of his quality of life. Still is.

He is older, and wiser in some ways, but not too many. His every wish is his peoples' command, so in that sense he is wiser than they. 

 

The Little Black Dog

 

Things are not as they were. She is no longer tolerant of being physically manipulated. Little wonder, given her age. Perhaps it's a dignity thing. She will, however, allow herself to be lifted and carried on occasion, even hugged and held close. And she is so accustomed to being carried in an over-the-shoulder bag whenever her humans take her to indoor places that she remains comfortable with that routine.

Her human who always grooms her finds it next to impossible now to turn her over onto her back to enable the careful trimming of footpads and muzzle, stomach and legs. It was always the most convenient way. Her hair grew so quickly, it needed constant trimming. Her large expressive and beautiful eyes could disappear behind the luxuriantly healthy growth of her hair. She still submits contentedly to her daily evening brushing, and looks forward to the massage that follows. But turn her on her back?

Now, it takes the considerable concentrated effort of her two humans to coax her to submit briefly to that kind of indignity. With her beard nicely trimmed, her eyes released, her lips revealed, and the puffy hair between her pads removed she looks so much neater, so much more like herself, and it's easier to maintain her hygiene.

She feels otherwise. And struggles unceasingly to free herself from the constraint of human arms holding her in place. No longer as calm and complacent as she used to be.

She was the last of her litter to be adopted by humans looking for companions. Her physical appearance betrayed a lack of symmetry, so perhaps that was the reason. Her coat was not as black as it should be, and the grey patches under her chin, her back end and the joints of her four legs detracted from her attractiveness, as did the awkward length of her legs.

But her eyes would melt the heart of a monster; dark, liquid and appealing.

She had the energy and acrobatic litheness of a champion, fleet as the wind and sure of foot. She outran every dog she ever challenged, and there were plenty of them, from miniature poodles like her, to German shepherds or short-haired pointers. Swift and determined she would leave them panting in her wake. And she loved water, would dive time and again to unerringly retrieve a stone she had scented.

When she was drenched she looked pathetically frail. Belying the fact that at such times she became a whirlwind of excitable energy, dashing about everywhere, fleet-footed and passionate about moving herself through the landscape. Her humans tried to coax her to eat more, to gain some weight, but to no avail. They feared lest one of those fragile legs be trapped under a root, against a rock and break, in her febrile dashes.

She sat quietly in a canoe, and watched the water swirl behind the paddles, eager to see the vessel beached so she could embark on parting the waters with her own body and the energy she brought to the task, a perfect swimming machine. She learned to unerringly read the messages in her humans' spoken vocabulary, in their body language and the clothing they wore, alerting her to perfect communication.

Now, closing in on sixteen dog-years, she has seemed to have forgotten her passion for her tennis balls, and her humans regret the passing obsession. She regards her balls now only on occasion as the treasured objects of possessive action they used to be. Now and again she will locate one of her balls and carry it about, then forget where she had left it, so unlike her previous self.

Occasionally something seems to remind her of her most current ball's absence and she will look everywhere for it, not recalling where she'd left it. Her searches will inevitably enlist the help of her humans, when she will trustingly sit back, ears anxiously at the alert, eyes fixed to the humans' activities looking deep under beds and furniture.

Where once she slept at the foot of their bed, she no longer does, preferring the loveseat opposite, in the bedroom.

Her hearing is now impaired, so that voiced reassurances when she is upset about having her hair trimmed have no effect. She lunges forward, on her back, attempting to put herself upright. She struggles, pants, and whimpers in distress until her humans set her upright, then struggle in that position to trim her, although it's never nearly as successful as formerly, when she biddably permitted herself to be upturned.

Brushing her teeth is no longer done as regularly; twice a week will do, now. Another routine she would prefer to dispense with. As with the trimming of her nails, particularly the dew-claw nails. It's almost as though this must be accomplished by stealth. One human holds her closely, freeing each leg in turn, while the other does the clipping, carefully.

She is now equipped with a padded halter when jaunts in the woods are undertaken, as they are daily, since the family lives beside an extensive wooded ravine. In the ravine, she trots about unleashed, but submits to the leash when she moves impatiently before her humans. They too are of an advanced, albeit human age and fit physically but incapable of matching her pace, hence the padded halter.

She no longer spurts after the squirrels they come across, although she is more than capable of doing so. There is an initial, involuntary reaction, an almost-leap, which subsides and she trots sedately along. Sniffing the ground, shrubs or anywhere other dogs have left their scent remains a vital mode of social awareness. A wariness of bees remains intact, due to an unfortunate incident when she was young.

On occasion she will spontaneously leap forward and outdistance her humans' sightlines, to rush about with glad abandon, celebrating a beautiful day, her green surroundings, and doubtless, her current state of physical fitness. She has always been a fit little animal, capable of energizing herself to the extent of achieving notable mountain ascents and descents.

One of her owners painted a large picture of her as a young animal, on the shore of a lake in Algonquin Park, where she was taken occasionally for camping trips. There are countless photographs of her atop mountains, for she has clambered up many of the mountains in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Those days are long past, but she is still capable of ascending and descending modest heights requiring 4-hour circuits.

Apart from the time she was neutered, she has never really encountered deleterious health problems. When she was almost fifteen there was an occurrence when a mysterious event appeared to have occurred, freezing her in motion, and utterly draining her of energy. Recovery took months, during which time she appeared to forget routine, toilet manners and even at times who she was.

Returned to normalcy, she resumed being who she was.

Her eyes have become clouded, no longer clear. The veterinarian who looks after her assures her sight is minimally impaired, and it's clear she does retain her sight to a good degree. Her appetite has much improved, although she gains no weight at all, and remains lean and slim. She is more vocally demanding than ever she was, not countenancing her humans' propensity to want to sleep in of a morning.

It offends her sense of propriety to see them slothfully remaining abed when the house is suffused with sunlight. Not that she wants to be fed, merely that she feels the day should be adequately greeted. She has lost none of her verve, her keen appreciation of life, and she insists that her humans do likewise. She has little thought for the future; they prefer not to dwell on a future without her.