Singing Dog

 

 

singing dog

He longs for the wide open spaces of the moor and sheep to chase. Alas he lives by the bypass with its fumes and growl of engines on tarmac. But at dawn and dusk the wild dog in him seeps out in a sweet, sharp, poignant howl.

 

Soft Spot

 

beer

 

I often seen him down The Dog & Duck where he’s wont to cheat at darts and neck back unattended pints of beer. I  walk back home with him time to time as we live in the same part of town though I’ve never invited him in for a coffee. I’ve a soft spot for him but I don’t want fleas in my flat.

 

Nice Shot

dog in a jumper

 

 

 

Spring’s in the air and he feels like a pup again; he’s loosened his collar an extra notch, pissed on a few posts more on his morning walk and flicked a flea onto the neighbour’s whining cat. Nice shot.

Tale At The Traveller’s Rest

The other night I walked to The Traveller’s Rest pub and a biting night it was too. Frost glistened upon rooftops and the roofs of cars sparkled, it was quite magical.

All in all I was glad to be within the warmth nestling behind the old oak doors and to be asking for my usual brew, a golden real ale with a packet of salted nuts.

So I made myself comfortable and the mutt sniffed around for old crisps on the floral carpet and I glanced across to the window seat and espied a couple of blokes chatting.

They were in fact conversing upon the subject of how to better themselves as they both worked down the local 24 hour supermarket, one in the warehouse unloading lorries and the other on tills. They debated a move to Spain to work in better climes abroad in the bars of the Costas.

I thus engaged them upon the subject and this story unfolded as told by the one with stubble and a mobile which regularly shivered and lit up beside his half drunk pint.

 

They said a mate of theirs worked for a while on a farm in Glamorganshire for a couple called Rowli Pugh and Catti Jones who were known to have bad luck.

Their wheat was always patchy, their lambs sickly, their Landrover kept breaking down and their tractor had permanently unresolved hydraulic problems. On top of this Catti was depressed and thus rendered incapable of doing a moment’s work.

One day Rowli was sat upon the wall of his yard contemplating the drastic step of selling up in order to improve their lot by emigrating to Spain where property was cheaper and they could find some work, surely. And all that sunshine!

While he was mulling over his woes an old man turned up, shepherd’s crook in hand, and asked why it was Rowli had such a gloomy countenance.Rowli was about to pour out his problems when the old bloke piped up,

“Don’t worry mate, hold yer tongue for I know more about you than you know and you’re going nowhere, I’ll make sure that your life becomes one of contentment right here. Tell the missus to leave a candle burning tonight when she goes to bed and every night henceforth.”

With that the old man or Ellyll as he in fact was, that is to say Fairy in more modern parlance, upped and offed.

Rowli turned the conversation over in his mind and concluded that yes, he would tell his wife Catti Jones that an old man had said she must light a candle each night before bedtime and their luck’d change.

And Catti would probably laugh her head off at such an idea. But what had they to lose? So that’s the angle he took and that’s the angle that got Catti to dig out the candles and light one having put the cat out and brushed her teeth.

And it’s a fact that from the next day onwards their life did change. When they went down in the morning to put the kettle on for a cuppa the previous day’s washing up was and put away.

There was a freshly baked loaf on the table, croissants and a fat chocolate cake. The dirty washing was drying on the line clean and crease free and the bathroom was immaculate. And their home brew was bottled and ready to be enjoyed.

Each night Catti would light a candle before going to bed and by morning the baking, brewing and washing was all done. Rowli now always had clean clothes and bed sheets, tasty bread and well brewed beer and it made him feel like a new man, and he worked like one.

For Catti it was the make-over she’d always needed and she set up a business from home selling scented candles. Their farm prospered, the grain grew thick and strong, the pigs were the fattest at the market and the lambs too.

They had a conservatory built and a gravel drive snaked up to the farmhouse where an eight grand Aga sat in the kitchen and double glazing kept the Welsh weather out.

Thus their life continued thus for a full three years until Catti could contain her curiosity no more. When Rowli was snoring one night she sneaked down the stairs and opened the kitchen door a crack.

There she saw the Fairy Folk busily making bread and beer and dancing and laughing as they did so.

Catti was so bemused by the sight she burst out laughing and in an instant they scattered in a whirl of fairy dust and the kitchen was silent.

Rowli and Catti’s luck stayed with them however which is often not the case when the Fairy Folk are spied upon.

The blokes in The Traveller’s Rest confided to me they were hoping for a similar chain of events by sitting on the car park wall by their block of flats that night looking miserable as hell in the hope an Ellyll would appear.

Slurring his words the stubbled one said they were off down the supermarket right now for some candles to light each night they were so desperate to escape their dead end jobs, overdrafts and singledom.

Though the thought did cross my mind that hanging around a car park late at night was asking for trouble, not from Otherworldly Folk but from the police. But I kept my mouth shut.

Anyway, all said, good luck to ye lads, I hope the magic works.

White Rabbit

White rabbits are the deftest darting under the shed, the decking or into the garage mess. Why ever did she get a rabbit? To save it from a cooped up pet shop cage and as a symbolic gesture for all those rabbits experimented upon in barbaric labs, chemicals rubbed in their eyes, their brains opened up.

Thus she lives on edge having liberated this fiend of fleetness that eats her French marigolds and taunts her terrier that shakes like a leaf at one whiff of rabbit smell: terriers have been honed down the centuries to be ratters and rabbiters extraordinaire, the poacher’s dream on a moonless night. But in suburbia he’s another white test of the nerves as he lunges for the liberated rabbit disappearing behind the barbeque, rediscovering her wild rabbit ancestry in this modern world.

Tho recently the fleet beast did disappear for a few nights…off after a mate or tastier dandelions on the other side of the fence? She even suspected the fat ginger tom down the road had finished her off. But white rabbit reappeared munching nonchalantly a couple of days ago.

Maybe in the end a neighbour will flatten her one night with his four wheel drive on the smooth tarmac of the cul-de -sac or an urban fox will commit the final act. Not a nice end for the twitchy red-eyed madam bringing all these thoughts of death…

So she prays she long continues her escapade and doesn’t get caught on CCTV eating the neighbour’s much lauded sweet peas.