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The Truth of Menopause

One doesn’t notice how nasty other people can be until they hit a certain age.

It is strange that this happens, but it has happened for as long as one can read history, if one is interested in such things.

Perhaps poor old Joan of Arc experienced early menopause. Who knows. There was certainly something that got her up and running with a sword in her hand.

Someone whispers to himself, ‘Oh dear, this is not the way we muster the sheep.’ He is now marked for a shearing shed and a pair of clippers. He begins to laugh, for his own wife would do the same thing. She would also have added, ‘This is why we can’t have nice things.’

‘You’re a bloody weirdo.’

‘I am aren’t I?’

‘Just remember who pays the bills.’

‘Well, dear, that would be me. I pay the bills. Fair enough, it is no longer with my money, but it was, before the “evil menopause” raised its head and stated loudly it “wasn’t doing this shite anymore”.’

So why do we pay, literally, for something that will happen? There is no doubt about it happening. It does, and it will. Why are we pulling money out of our bottoms for it, still, after all these eons of it being a fact?

‘I don’t know,’ whispered the fan of rubbing things from the heads of gravestones. ‘But one might assume, if one needs a medication to prevent this sort of thing from happening, one’s best bet is to offer it cheaply, even if one cannot offer it for free.’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ whispered yet another. Their names are never mentioned, for although it is fact not fiction, these things are often swept under the rug.

A brave gentleman raises his ugly fist. ‘Don’t forget the blue pills,’ he shouts with close to gay abandon. His voice is shut down with withering looks.

‘Don’t go there dude. You may not come back out again.’

‘Oh. Oh deary me by crikey pumpkin scones.’ And he stops, and thinks about that for a while, and realises he has just made a terrible mistake. He begins to run for the hills, his short and ridiculously fat legs pumping away, his too large head pounding with horror. He trips over a Maple Leaf (a designated friend or foe, who is defiantly a friend). This “man” knows how to shoot arrows, and he aims for a stout thigh.

The woman considers this lucky. If she had shot an arrow, William Tell’s son may never have lived to tell the story. ‘I have never shot an arrow in my life,’ she says, handing over the bow she had been keeping safely inside a backpack. Beside it sits a small velvet box, something she had never forgotten was there.

”She’s back,” the distant twerp shouts to his friends. “It is definitely her. We must all run away now, and hide under rocks, for it is definitely her, and I have been a terrible person in deed.”

‘What kind of coffee was it you liked,’ Harry asked, looking at the kettle sitting on the bench in his hotel room, for he had forgotten to turn it into a respite centre for the elderly.

‘Instant,’ came the reply. ‘No sugar. I’m sweet enough.’

He didn’t write anything else after that. Far too clever for his own good, some thought. Far too clever to get on the wrong side of someone who was very similar to his own wife, he thought, but he didn’t say it out loud, because he was far too clever for that too.

The red horse did not find it amusing his sire had been named McFlirt.

‘To be the seventh son of a horse named “Of a Flirt” is not my idea of a good timing,’ said the horse.

If words could be uttered from a horse’s mouth, then they would be spoken as honestly as the humans could interpret them. There is much “tongue in cheek” here, but the chestnut has a sense of humour today, apparently.

It is quite a shame some people believe a horse is not up to telling a story, but the chestnut is accompanied by his new old friend who has been named for a Strawberry and doesn’t mind a bit. If anyone else thinks these are terrible puns, please let me know. I don’t think all of them are mine.

Anyway… The chestnut does not roll his eyes, because he leaves that to his friend, who is quite good at pulling faces. I can personally vouch for this, as I have seen it, and he is a funny old duffer indeed. They have consented to having their photographs taken by their owners, so we are in luck in knowing the pictures provided to this particular WordPress blog are genuine and legal. Isn’t that wonderful. That was a rhetorical question.

Today, we do not enter into the personal previous life of Knox the gelding, as he is busy being a horse with no name and pretending to chase bulls down unfamiliar streets with cobbled stones and skinny windows. Hey look, I’m just repeating what the horse is saying, so you really can’t correct me. If he isn’t a horse and just pretending to be the one attempting to bite his best mate’s backside, then I have many questions to ask, and I probably won’t get answers to them.

Knox (the horse) asks us to remember his mature-age friend, the dark bay who was once a strawberry roan, cannot be ridden anymore as he has a bad back, but biting him on the arse is perfectly acceptable. I would just like to say I won’t be trying this myself anytime soon, and nobody else should either. Frazier is quite a large horse, and although he is extremely patient with his younger companion, he would likely get quite a fright if tiny humans thought sinking their teeth into him would be a good idea. He can still kick if he needs to.

I think perhaps photographs of the true characters in this short piece would probably help.

Notes on The Toreador

The chestnut horse, who had never wanted to be a gelding, and had never wanted the marks of ownership, had slowly come to terms with the fact he had been named as security (the horse’s name was Knox), and although the old dark brown horse “p*ssed him off daily”, his sensible nature always managed to calm the chestnut down.

Knox and Frazier.

They had spoken with the lady’s sister that day and she had seen the truth of the horses. Tears have been shed in recognition of their beautiful souls, and have been shared here so no one will get confused. 

Sometimes we may spell a name wrong, or people may get confused by a simple meaning and make it far more complicated than it ever needs to be. Sometimes, if one is not trained to discern the difference, they may consider many people to be one person, and put them all into the same paddock. 

Horses, just like other animals who associate closely with humans, pick up on our emotions, and send them to those whom they smell as being related in some way. When a beast (and here the red horse raises his head and snorts loudly, for he is not a beast at all, it is that bastard on the far corner who thinks he shines like a moon in sunlight, the upstart) is sensitive to people, and does not know how to close his soul’s doors, he becomes skittish and hurt, for he thinks those feelings are his, when they are not.

This is the way of those who aren’t human.

The notes on the real horses had been written some weeks before. If one visits a farm agistment where horses are, one might discern the truth of these beautiful creatures, not take the stories they share and make them into something terrible. The chestnut horse is not a bad horse at all; he has marks on both shoulders to show his heritage. Beside him in the same paddock, lives a beautiful bay gelding, who used to dance but is now too wise to do very much at all. He is not to be ridden – the bay horse, and the chestnut has been learning to trust people again.

‘If I could, I would fight your bulls,’ the chestnut may think. ‘But these stories are old stories and the toreador does not do these things in Australia. If the children must play with truth and lies, let them know this truth, for I am indeed a horse.’

Updates from a Small Cat 4

This morning, the cat adopts a terrible French accent. He wishes to discuss his neighbour, El Cato.

‘Why do you wish to think in an accent you cannot truly speak,’ thinks the people mama at him.

‘It does not matt-air,’ says the cat, for this morning he shall speak with an accent different to his own because it is fun, and he shall speak because he is a cat of nine lives. When one is a cat of nine lives, a cat has options to don whatever character they choose.

‘Be shush,’ says the cat, for the people mama was speaking to other people and not him. ‘I em calling from ze fenz end you mest sive moi.’

The people mama decides to check the fence where last she saw le chat and see if he truly needs saving. She opens the door to the rear of the building and he dashes in, chatting excitedly.

It sounds a little bit like, ‘Meh, mow, mioh, me.’ What it means is, ‘I ev sived myself from ze fenz, and now I mest check on ze Farza Figga.’

The cat has tap-danced into the master bedroom, checked on the father figure, and tap-danced back out, only to throw himself into a luxuriously verdant position on the floor that resembles hardwood but isn’t. He is a cat of short thinking today, and it is difficult to keep up with him.

He decides to talk around his breakfast. ‘Did you see ‘ow well El Cato’s human counterpart played last night, mama,’ he mumbles around his food.

‘I did,’ says the mama. ‘His own mama must be very proud.’

‘She is, I think,’ says the small cat. ‘Although we think he may have been slightly distracted by distractions at some point during the evening match.’

The people mama pushes her mouth together and tries not to smile. ‘Yes, well. That is none of our business, and we shall not discuss it.’

‘Not any of it?’ The cat is determined to be naughty this morning.

‘No. I am sure he is a very good boy.’ The people mama is also determined, but she is determined not to start laughing. ‘He played very good tennis, and that is the whole point. Just like the falling apart old man down the other end played very good tennis.’

‘Fallin’ apart old man?’ The cat is confused. ‘That man is not so old.’

‘I suppose it depends on how one looks at age in certain aspects, like sport for example,’ explains the people mama. ‘In sport, that old man is absolutely ancient, and falling apart at the knees. Plus, he has small children, and that makes him even ancient-er.’

‘It does?’ El Cato’s human counterpart is curious now. ‘I thought it would make him younger? Perhaps I should reconsider the idea of making small children any time soon.’

The people mama decides her time is up. To upset other mamas is not why she is here. She smiles and waves, and quickly leaves on wings shaped like bonnets and a crash-helmet shaped like a yellow flower, one she had tied to her head with two very thin pieces of grass.

‘Is that who I think it is,’ said the small boy’s father. He grinned to himself as the ladybird flew off. ‘I think there might be a story about that ladybird around here somewhere.’

But that might be a story for another day.

Updates from a Small Cat 3

The human observes the cat digging a small hole. The cat does things in the small hole by balancing over the top of said small hole. The cat then pushes sand into the small hole and proceeds to run in short aimless leaps around the tiny backyard.

The cat thinks the human is boring and should make what the cat just did sound a little more exciting. The human nods in agreement.

‘The cat has attempted to dig a small hole in the direction of Bermuda. It is highly likely he will not be able to dig all the way to Bermuda as there are things in the way, but he has attempted it. As I watch, with slight horror, the cat’s tail resembles the actions of a small lever which, I assume, means there is something coming out of his (the cat is a male) rear end (his bottom). This does not take as long as it normally would, so perhaps I am incorrect in assuming it is what I thought it was, and perhaps the cat is ‘releasing water’ instead. The cat then hurriedly covers whatever it was he deposited in said hole and makes the decision to run around the small backyard with gay abandon.’

The cat would sigh if it could sigh. The human has heard it snore before, so thinks to herself it is highly possible the cat could sigh.

The cat thinks the human is boring. The human nods in agreement. The cat notes there may also be a couple of words one could consider “politically incorrect”. The human frowns, then makes the decision to use a lot of words that, if taken with context when joined with other words, may be considered highly amusing even if they are “politically incorrect”.

The cat, if the cat could smile, would be smiling right about now. The human is showing her teeth on the inside, and her inner teeth are surrounded by a very large upward smile.

‘Hehehehehehehe,’ thinks the human.

‘The cat has decided to start removing sand from my backyard, from the desperate attempt of a garden bed to be exact, and has also decided he is helping to fertilise it. This is acceptable, even though I do not wish to be observing it right now. He now covers it all up, like any cat would, as they do their best to be clean, even if it is not always in a situation where a cat can be clean. Having done that, he proceeds to use a Thesaurus to describe the motions he is performing around the backyard. Perhaps the motions are considered joyful dancing in that he has helped to fertilise the planet? Perhaps the motions are considered thoughtless, although he seems to land with incredible precision in certain places so as not to injure himself? This is debatable.

Perhaps, thinks the cat, if the cat could think which is also debatable, the human could ask other humans to describe what it is their cats do in backyards when they are doing what this cat has done. Perhaps other humans cat companions do not have the pleasure of having a backyard and need to use small boxes instead?

Perhaps they should have a bloody go then, thinks the human and considers the fact she has written that down. This may be considered as thinking as not out loud but as ‘being recorded’. In her head, the human dons a nondescript yet rakishly attired head covering and waves a pen shaped like a sword or a feather.

‘Speak to me of an Irish cat,’ she cries, then smiles in a slightly lopsided manner as she makes a dashing yet fabulous exit from the area within which she has been writing.

‘Ah ha!’ A distant persian laughs with glee. ‘I recognise this dance.’ He turns to his performers and claps his paws. ‘Begin.’

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About Face

Walk with me, Cirro?’

The man does not ask this in an unkind way. He looks to his tall friend and asks politely.

‘What is it?’ Cirro is not feeling as friendly.

‘I wish to discuss with you the idea of one hundred and eighty degrees. Can we move this discussion to the horses? Will you mount up and we shall talk?’

Cirro does not remember his friend’s name. Cirro has forgotten many things. He looks down upon his friend who has taught him, and thinks he is better.

‘Your eyes are not blue this morning,’ Cirro says. ‘They are green.’

‘It is a trick of the light, Cirro. Shall I remind you who I am?’ 

This man’s hair is brown. It is not black, it is not the trick of gold, it is brown. Cirro is confused. He wants to view his own face, but is unable to see it as they move towards the ponies. There is no reflection for him.

The man holds a stirrup and turns back to Cirro. ‘This one? Or would you like to get up on the other?’

Cirro has been given a choice now. Should he take this horse or the other? The man has offered him this pony. Is there something wrong with it? He looks at the animal. Its hocks are low. It has a nice short back. Its tail carriage is neither high nor is it tucked under. He looks at its eyes. There is no ring of white around them. They are a horse’s eyes, not a demon’s.

‘Can I check its teeth?’

‘Are you buying it?’ The man asks. He grins.

‘No.’ Cirro is unhappy.

‘Then why bother checking its teeth? I just wish to know whether you want to ride with me, or not?’

‘I do not want to ride with you,’ Cirro says.

‘That is unfortunate,’ the man replies softly. ‘Can’t you ride?’

‘I can ride.’ His answer is fast, like a whiplash.

‘Can you cook?’

‘I can cook. What does this have to do with anything?’ Cirro begins to pace, and his friend, who is neither short nor tall, neither amazingly handsome (although, Cirro must admit, has a certain flair) or very ugly, begins to laugh.

‘Can you do a half-circle? Have you practiced your geometry?’ The man is grinning openly now, and his teeth are showing. Should Cirro check his teeth? He does not know.

‘I give up,’ says Cirro. ‘Let us ride on your horses and see where we go.’

‘Thank you,’ says the man. ‘Do you wish to know who I am now, Cirro? Or have you forgotten?’

‘I know who you are,’ says Cirro. ‘Let’s go.’

The truth of this is Cirro did not know who the man was. Cirro did not even know anymore if the man was a man. All Cirro knew, was that this person, for person it was, had indulged him for a short time, and was now giving him the opportunity to go. The man would let Cirro go back to his own place and time because the man knew Cirro was now capable of not being mean — for Cirro had learned control, and how to try to keep the lack of control he sometimes had hidden as much as he was able. As ‘the man’ had informed Cirro many times, one uses these emotions in writing to oneself, in writing a fiction, in painting, in music, or in dance or sport. Perhaps, one could even use these emotions in singing, if one had enough control. What one did not do, was steal other people’s emotions or stories, for they would never come across as real or true unless one had experienced them personally. This was what Cirro needed to remember.

I am not a man yet, thought Cirro. But, I’m getting there.

To be a true man, Cirro needed to learn how love changed over the years, and how it is often the man must bow to his wife, for she will be the mother of his children, and he must have respect and understanding. To lose a partner of many years, who is so different to a man, is devastating. Those little things he has grown used to, those little jars and tins of this and that he never used himself, but have remained in a cupboard or on a bench; the smell of a pillowslip, or the long distant memory of a certain scent. This is how true partnerships are formed and how the loss of them may turn a man bad if he does not remember the respect and care that went with them.

Turn around.

Updates from a Small Cat 2.

The human companion and I arose early this morning due to being overheated and having interrupted sleepings. This is because the Father Figure’s sleepings were loud and obnoxiously noisy. It is also because when the human companion overheats she has not-very-nice dreams and it makes her cranky-pants.

Other people readers will notice when I allow the human companion to speak on my behalf sometimes, I have a slightly different way of communicating. This is because I am a cat with nine lives, and I do not need to explain this anymore than what I just have.

I am currently stalking fence. Up and down, up and down, I stalk the fence because I can balance. I am sending human mother updates as I stalk and she listens to me and rolls eyes dramatically. I am not only a cat, I am a sentry. Occasionally I am a sentry stuck on the roof and demand of my human companions to show me the way off the roof. They are not always happy about doing this, especially after the third or fourth time. This is not my problem. I am a cat, and they are supposed to save me.

It is dark, and I have forgotten what I was doing. Because of this I will send the human companion aka the human mother aka… anyway, I will send her messages to come and find me because it is fun.

She cannot find me. This is possibly because I am at the front of the house and she cannot come to the front of the house without making excessive noise that will not only wake up the occupants of the house but the neighbours as well. I think this ha-ha. At least, I do until I require her assistance to come from the front of the house to the back of the house , just in case the neighbours cat, who is rather large and majestic in the human companion’s humble opinion, decides he also needs to travel from the back of the house to the front of the house.

Many times the neighbours cat and myself encountered have each other. Have encountered. Have crossed paths. Sometimes it is not so bad. Sometimes it is not so good. Sometimes I forget how to send people companion messages in English and she leaves it how it was written because she thinks I am a ridiculous cat. I am not ridiculous. Ridiculous was a dog and he was also slightly. I am a cat and I am magnificent. I am not slightly, I am very small.

There are many things I need to say this very early morning. In order to do this, the people companion first needs to make herself coffee. It is going to be a very long day indeed.

🐾🐱🐾🐱🐾🐱🐾🐱🐾🐱🐾

The people companion has just needed to save me from the roof. I required her to come around the side of the building and remind me how to come down, using the exact same way I have alighted from the roof many times in the past. It does not matter how many times the people companion shows me this, I will always forget. I am a cat.

Sometimes, I think the people companion and I have quite a lot in common.

I may have mentioned many times in the past, in various other places, that I am a cat with no nurries. This means I am a ball-less cat. The little furry bag that once contained my family jewels is jewell-less. This is not bad, in my humble cat opinion-ing. This makes me a safe cat. I do not wander too far and that is very fortunate as I frequently do not remember where I am going, or why I thought I would be going there in the first place.

My people companion nods and smiles. She says to me, very kindly, that she understands cats, even male ones, and she says it is much safer for me if I stay in my own home. She says to me to ‘Watch the telly sometimes,’ because sometimes, she says, there are very interesting cats on there I might like and all I have to do is watch them and nothing else. She also says to me to ‘Not be rude’.

I don’t know what that means. I am a cat.

I have observed the people companion has taken to watching a thing called ‘tennis’ lately because there are very many interesting people on it. She tells everyone in the house, who would all be males like me, to be quiet because she is watching the men hitting the green balls. She has favourites, as well, and they are not all Australian! It is mortifying.

She says, ‘Don’t be silly.’ She is this thing called middle-aged and says that means ‘far too old to be playing silly buggers.’

I think she is slightly creepy, but what would I know. I am a cat.

I have also heard the Father Figure admiring the clothing of the weather ladies on the T.V. I did not know the Father Figure had an interest in fashion, but apparently he does. It does not appear to bother the people companion too much unless he says something that she finds nasty, then she is all up in his face from her distant couch, telling him off, or ignoring him completely, because that is what one does, apparently, when someone is being rude and nasty. She says it is none of his business whether someone has put weight on or not, or whether the colour of someone’s clothing does not suit them. She thinks, and very loudly, that perhaps he should look in the mirror sometimes.

As I am a cat, and do not have a female cat companion, I do not know exactly how this works, but most of the time, despite them watching strange people on the box, they seem to get along okay.

My personal people brothers/adult male companions (other occupants of this house) do not always understand the people companion and the father figure. I think that is not my problem. I am a cat.

I think maybe the human companion should get a dog. That would be good I think. A dog would understand the people companion even less, and I can beat it up with my bare paws and spit at it for being a dog. I did this with the old dog before he went to heaven under the lavender bush, and he didn’t seem to mind at all.

It is daylight now, and time for me to go to bed. The Father Figure will be up soon, anyway, and my People Companion will need to start doing more things for free.

Goodbye furrever,

Jodh.