#humancompanion

Being Someone You’re Not

Let me explain something very carefully.

Imagination is a wonderful thing, and people should use it sometimes. I can throw myself into anyone’s position through imagination, and it’s not very often I get it wrong. Occasionally, yeah. Most of the time, I don’t though, because I see what that frustration is — what it really is.

Now, I can see the cocky bastard who hasn’t got a care in the world, because he/she comes from money, right? Let me show the other side of that cocky bastard. “I haven’t got a clue. Will you teach me? I’ve never done this before. Could you show me how? I never listened. I’m listening now.”

Unfortunately, although this is all great, the cocky bastard doesn’t understand that this takes time, and effort, and tends to put other people in a position where they start, not only losing money, but not making any. It also means the cocky bastard might start doing shit illegally because he’s above all the rest of us plebeians, and he can make money just like that *snaps fingers*. Language barrier not withstanding, he just keeps doing whatever the fuck he likes because “why not”.

That’s one example. Then you may also have someone who might be, for example, particularly good looking. Now, because they are particularly good looking, they’re not taken very seriously. “Stand over there. Look like this. Move over here, and look like that.” This person might think to himself or herself, ‘Ya know what, I can do a lot more than just look good. Ya know what, I can actually think for myself and I’m actually kind of clever. Funny that.’

Nobody sees this, they might think. They’d be wrong. A lot of people see it. Not everyone, it’s true, but a lot of people. They might say, for example, “Keep going mate, you’re doing a fantastic job. Ignore ’em, buddy, they’ve got no idea what they’re talking about. See those ones there? They might be a couple of nutters, and they have no fucking idea what they’re talking about either. See how they made assumptions about me just then? Not too flash, is it. I’ve got your back. I understand. When we get these little self-centred shit-for-brains people out in the open, maybe we’ll teach ’em a lesson or two, eh?’

Now, there might be a few other people involved in this scenario. They can see it too. It’s happened to them enough times. They might decide to be a little more switched on than other people, and they might say, ‘Take a break, mate. I’ll take over. No one will know. Do something for yourself for a change.’

Unfortunately, the fact that some are female and some are male, and some decide that it isn’t anyone’s business what they are, make it a little difficult for people to be just mates. Why? Because there are other people involved, and they might just have partners that would not understand. Then, you’ve also got the ones that think, ‘hey, you know what, I could hold all these people to ransom by finding stuff out about them.’ But, you’ve also got the ones who say, ‘I might think exactly the same way as you, and there is absolutely no feckin’ chance anyone’s gonna find out anything they could use against ya. If they do, they might have a whole lot of other very angry people to deal with.’

So, here we are. Some of us are making nothing to keep our independence — so it’s kind of not independence anymore, ya know? Some are so entwined in their own misery they keep hanging on to someone else like a barnacle attached to a jetty. It’s been a long time now. The jetty here is starting to get rotten. It’s time to switch things up.

Me personally, I don’t have all the tech savvy shit I need and I don’t have the patience to read through piles and piles of rubbish to learn nothing. I can’t do it for ya. I’m probably none of the things some people think I am, and a lot of the things some people think I’m not, so please don’t make assumptions about me. I know who I am, and I know exactly what I’m incapable of. I’m kind of honest with myself about shit like that.

Everything I’ve asked for help with I have not received. Not once. Everything I have done, I’ve done mostly for other people. Many people feel the same way, I know, but the burden of carrying all that on one’s shoulders, and getting it repeated back time, and time again, is beginning to wear thin. The one thing I will not do, is get rid of my own stuff to make way for others. I’m not a packrat. I’m not illogical. I’m not bragging either. So, to those who think that’s who I am — you’ve got the wrong person.

Experiences, Expectations, and Truths.

Not everywhere is the same. Not everyone is the same. One person’s self-improvement is not necessarily someone else’s.

To walk into a land not your own and see it as an adult with a fixed mind, rather than walking through it is a child, a teenager and someone from a completely different area who wishes to learn the local ways, are two very different things. To grow up with an understanding of the land itself, by walking with her, smelling her, growing with her, learning from her, and living with her, is very different from someone coming into it with blinkers on and not understanding, from their own guilt of being “privileged”, what it’s all about.

When we say, ‘Speak for me, for I cannot speak for myself,’ it comes from a place where people have adapted and changed, yet have a few people around them with much louder voices who say, ‘I have changed, yes, but I also take advantage of a system who sees me as someone who needs help, when I actually don’t.’ When a person says, speak for me, please, they are asking from their heart for someone else to say, “This is how my friend feels.” They don’t want bullshit, they don’t want someone yacking on about crap, they just want someone in their corner.

There are many people here in WA who are proud of what they have achieved through their own hard work, despite all the bullshit they get thrown at them. There have been many issues in the past, yes, but that is through individual grievances, not group ones.

The story and the dreaming is still very much alive. It’s a pity many people who do not live out in the country do not understand her history, and have lost their way. It’s disturbing. There aren’t enough people to explain exactly how disturbing it is, and how much is being lost through not being connected. Trying to understand something which is completely foreign to oneself, is not the same as understanding through experience. Making up modern yarns about something and passing it off as truth, when there are already traditional, well-documented stories, is not something that’s meant to be done. This is where we start to lose real history.

Understanding the difference between fiction and reality can be very difficult for some people. It can be even more difficult for people with an agenda to fix things that don’t need fixing, and to not fix things which are in dire need of fixing.

If one went back to the reality of “tribal” lore, for those who don’t know what that means, over here in W.A it was pretty bloody nasty. Those who did the wrong thing were basically “evicted” from their camp, and if they kept coming back, they were chased off. Those who did things a lot worse than just “the wrong thing”, suffered a fate far worse than simply being killed. To these people, the nutters, the killers, and the ones who interfered with children, looking to be convicted of a felony by “white-man’s law” seemed a lot more pleasant than getting speared.

“White man’s privilege” is exactly what the bad ones wanted. Understanding this is possibly the most important thing you will learn today. A few have lost their way due to interference from well-meaning people who do not understand how things work within a community. What I, and those who walk with me, are trying to do — is teach you a little bit about facts right here, and right now. We don’t do this through trying to be mean, or trying to have “out-loud” conversations, we do this carefully. Sometimes it’s hard to get voices heard, and sometimes it’s difficult to make people understand, so when we tell you stories, it’s the meaning behind the story that’s important, not the story itself.

Here the words are different. Here, still water with hidden logs and vast amounts of mud and muck and things one can get stuck in are places to avoid rather than dive into, and it is better to wait until the rains come before we start talking about that — this is what the real dreamtime stories were all about.

Teach your kids to be safe.

Just get on with it.

‘Remain calm, remain calm.’ The illustrious scribe cleared his throat. ‘I have made a list of all the thingies, and I’d just like to say I’m pretty sure Mum and Dad did it right.’ He glanced over at the mama, who nodded. She was not wearing the correct reading glasses again, he noticed, and his mouth twitched slightly as she blinked.

‘I don’t think that’s blinking,’ said the third one as he industriously pulled up his sock. ‘That is just really weird face-pulling, that’s all I want to say.

‘Silence,’ said the scribe as he positioned himself on a rock. ‘I have folded up my headgear this morning, and it makes a rather good cushion.’

‘Do we get to say what the dad did wrong,’ said the thirsty one. ‘Because I believe I could add a few pointers.’

The mama sighed, and began to clean her glasses. ‘It won’t make any difference,’ she mouthed at the scribe. ‘They aren’t mine.’

Number three was very busy shouting about things again. No one knew why because the back door was wide open.

‘That is not funny,’ said the scribe in a very severe voice. ‘Mum said if you get rude again, I can use the tennis racquet, not you.’

‘I think my head piece has fallen sideways,’ said the second one. ‘Why didn’t they size this thing, and…’ he watched as a random stranger wandered past. ‘.. Was he invited?’

‘No.’ Many people said this very quickly indeed. ‘That one is a very kind best friend of number one, and we do not talk about it.’

‘Right, well then,’ said number five. ‘Give me a lemon and I’ll squeeze it freely all over the great mind’s serendipitous whatsimajig.’

‘I don’t know what to do about that,’ said the scribe as he fussily wrote all the words down. ‘I said, “No, Pasha, we don’t tell them all the things, we wait for all the real people to rock up first, then we tell them all the things.” ‘

‘Mama said that too,’ added four. ‘I just want to know why I’m four and not three, although I must admit, he’s not too bad looking for a…’

‘You are four,’ said the mama. ‘Now get down from there before you hurt yourself.’

Four lowered himself from the pavilion’s roof as slowly as he could without injuring himself. ‘That was demonstrating how wonderful I am,’ he said, staring furiously at the scribe. ‘Which you aren’t even though you can write well, you’re not my homey, he is.’ And he pointed at number one, who frowned. ‘See, we both have magnificent eyebrows, and although I am quite sure we are not related, which would be weird, he said I look okay for a nob-head. I am not a nob-head, by the way, I’m an institutional bastion of the community, or something.’ He growled at the mama’s correction. ‘You are not getting away with that either.’

There may have been a bit of cackling from the mama as four pulled up three’s socks and tried to jump into his position. ‘You are not Three,’ she muttered. ‘Get over it.’

‘I want to be three, though,’ said Four. ‘Because then I’d be even more like Freddy Mercury, and you could see me all the time.’

The mama was not quite sure what he meant by that. ‘That’s nice, dear,’ she mumbled under her breath. ‘Which one did you mean?’

‘You know exactly who, I mean’t that as well, and the other one, and all the ones I sent you on a platter because it was stuff like that which makes my mum talk to me, and that’s why I did it, and that’s freshly made bread over there, and see, my mum said I was a good boy when I wanted to be and did you get all that, mama, cos I said it really really quickly but too bad I didn’t see that coming.’

The scribe had made another copy of the things four had said over the years, and he posted them in his very large maniacally written booklet of great and horrible things four had done over the years.

Three looked down at his shoes. ‘I am desperately seeking another pair of fabulous shoes, because mum didn’t let me look.’

‘Lemons are for buttheads,’ said five. ‘And I know because when I was little mum kicked me out of the bedroom because her and dad were making fishes, she said, and I still don’t know what that means. Do you?’

‘My mum said they didn’t do it right anymore,’ said five’s made up friend whom five was pushing backwards with his foot. ‘They didn’t let me finish — my mum said that too.’

‘Right, that’s enough. It’s a new something or other,’ said the mama. ‘I think you lot have been up all night and most of the day besides, and I’m sure it’s past someone’s bedtime.’

‘Yes, it’s way past my bedtime,’ said five. ‘Mum has to start yet another day without three and four, and I think she doesn’t really just let me say one thing.’

‘What is it,’ said the mama, rolling her eyes dramatically.

‘We are not getting any younger, mama, please come back now.’

‘No.’

‘DO AS YOU’RE TOLD,’ shrieked three, and tripped over his sock. ‘I can be really mean when you aren’t here, mum, I can too, yes I can, no I cant, no I don’t want to be mean, I want my mum back and she doesn’t want to come back, and I don’t know why this is that time isn’t it, I am sad now.’

That would have to be all for the time being, because boys can be really yucky when they want to be sometimes, and sometimes their mama just wanted to dismantle them all and put them in jars as a reminder to all the other ones that this was probably what she did better than anyone else. Last night’s very carefully displayed scene of her pulling Two’s arms and legs off had horrified everyone except the one who had owned a barbie doll when she was a kid and done exactly the same thing.

‘Last time we didn’t even last that long,’ said a demonic child from hell. ‘Last time, we didn’t even see that coming.’

“Let Me Show You Something” — from the back of the red stallion.

Let’s go back, before this all began. Let’s go back to where we were, where I was, when I rode the red stallion, not you. Can you hear my horse? Hear him snort as I curve his sweating neck so he circles, see the wetness on his coat. You are the one down there on the ground, not me. You are. I stare down at the man below me, and he stares back up, the sun glinting from his eyes. Behind him, watching in horrified silence, stands a woman with a small child. They are both terrified.

I don’t want to go back.

He doesn’t say this with humour or words. He is simply stating a fact. This man is not afraid because I have shown him it’s okay, but I need to remind him.

‘Stay where you are.’ I glare at him, and for a moment I see fear in his eyes. This is my sword, not yours. This is my spear, not yours. This does not mark me as American. I am Australian. I will let you stand there and watch me circling you, and I do not need to draw on any of them at all. This is mine. It is not yours. ‘Must I remind you again.’ I say this with immense calm in my voice.

I am also saying this politely, this time. Last time I refused, and this time I refused as well, but I am doing it politely. I’m not swearing at you, while you stand there on the sand. I watch your eyes get all big, and I can see you remember this well. I do not think I will dismount, not yet, because back here, I remember how to ride, and I think I might have been particularly good at it, even if he believes I am not well-trained.

Now, see, watch my mount change in colour. This horse becomes the colour of clouds. I have indeed done this before, in this life, and you’ll remember I had to jump off him as he took off down a road with the bit in his teeth, with his tail in the air. Do you remember me showing you that? We laughed about this at one point, my friend, and that is possibly where this understanding began. The fact I could dismount as the Anglo-Arab ran for his friends without injuring myself was simply fortunate, and that is all. Perhaps I whispered this story to another rider and he understood its worth.

This man is not afraid, he whispers in this one on one conversation. I remember it too. I wasn’t there. You did show me. I remember it too. He stares up at this golden helm I wear, and he remembers.

‘Well then.’ I have stopped circling my mount, who was red in this past life. His hooves skitter in the dust, but he knows his place. I can slow this down once again then, can’t I. I am just reminding you, after all. I’m not getting down, because I’m not on a “high horse”, I am not on a clothes horse, and I am not on a horse with no name. This is exactly who I am, not you.

‘You are still not quite ready,’ admonishes the one in the distance, but he is completely, and utterly wrong, because I have been more than ready for a very long time, and you do not mean anything to me at all.

So. I look at this man standing on the ground below me. He is not better than I am, and he is not worse than I am. He is equal, this man, and it would serve him well to remember that. He opens his mouth. A sly grin forms on his face.

‘No, you don’t talk. I am talking now.’ I look at this man with a warning in my eyes. He blinks once. He remembers this as well. This is my time, and it has been my time for a very long time, down here, so you will listen. ‘Stop screeching.’ I say this to an arrogant woman with a small child. She does not appear so arrogant now, cowering within my circle of hoof prints. You sound like a little bird with no wings. Unfortunately for you, I have wings, and they are very large, but I’m not wearing them right now. ‘I guess you’re lucky. Sit down, right there, all three of you, and I will consider getting down from this horse.’

If he runs again, I think to myself as I stare at the woman and make this promise for she who has finally sat down on the sand, I will plant this spear in the sand in front of him, so he probably shouldn’t.

If she starts being daft, I look at the woman as she cradles the small child, I will turn her into a little frog again, and she can bury her head in the sand as well. He hears this from me, and his eyes begin to smile.

As for you, I curl a lip at this man. I am going to get down from this horse. I pat the red stallion’s neck, and he snorts. His eyes do not roll like a mad beast. He is my animal and it will serve them well to remember it.

He is beautiful, isn’t he, this one made of clouds. You are quite lucky this one is made of clouds, because that one I had, the one in the last life, he was not made of clouds at all, and I hope you remember him as well as I do.

You’re welcome.

P.S. You can get the children to draw the red stallion, if you like. I rode him in this past life, yes, by moving into his body and helping him be, and he remembers it well. That one, him standing lost with the woman and the child in the circle I made with the hooves of my horse, he remembers it too. Ask him what it looks like, he can tell you. He knows who I am.

Horseplay: a story of clowns

To be very honest with you, I don’t know whether this one should be repeated or not, but we wrote it together, like many other things we wrote together.

I had my own Words once, many years ago. It isn’t the same thing now. Horseplay was written by us for fun.

C.S Capewell and C.D Chevalier.

Citrin du Chevalier was a magnificent stallion of ill repute who wanted to tell a story before his brains fell out.

‘Why would your brains fall out, Citrin,’ asked his rider, a jockey by any other name.

‘Because I have been very silly, galloping around the countryside, and forgetting what I am supposed to be doing.’ Here, Citrin says, “I am better now, this was long ago and far away and I am better but I’m still an idiot.’

‘Is that why you wish to be a goldfish’ the jockey asked gently, rubbing Citrin’s magnificent chestnut neck.

‘Neigh,’ cried Citrin. ‘But, it resonated with me, because I have the attention span of one.’

The jockey pondered this for a little while, then asked Citrin if he would like to try some dressage.

‘To be honest, I am used to racing,’ Citrin snorted. ‘Dressage makes me a little cranky. Can we have a run around the paddock a few times and then, perhaps, I’ll give it a whirl.’

So, the jockey took off her boots and spurs, reminded Citrin he was not a porcupine because they do not exist in Australia, then removed Citrin’s saddle and bridle, unbranded his coat and removed the iron from his feet. She did not let him float off and up into the air, she let his winter coat grow in and he began to look a little scruffy.

‘How does that feel, Citrin,’ she asked, looking into his mismatched yet awesome eyes.

‘It feels like I am free, for once.’ He puffed through his nostrils and looked around the paddock. And, looking back on these words, he says softly “It feels like I am free all over again. Thank you. ‘How big is the world beyond this paddock, oh jockey friend.’

‘The world is a very large place, Citrin, and I am a little concerned you may get lost. But, here in Australia the sky goes on forever and, if you plan carefully, you can run for many kilometres before you need to stop.’

‘I like this idea,’ said Citrin. ‘Would you be too concerned about me running for many years?’

‘It depends on what you want to run, and whether you want to run to something or from something. What would you like to do, Citrin?’

‘I just want to run to something rather than from something,’ Citrin said. ‘That is all I want to do. I haven’t been able to run to something for a very long time and I’m sad. I just need to have a destination.’

The jockey stroked his scraggly mane, and brushed his tail until it shone. ‘Before I open this gate again, Citrin, I am going to let you have a rest in a safe place and think about where you would like to run to. I know you have been a good stallion all your life, now, and I know you just need to have a break. I think you are perfectly capable of being victorious one last time, if you want to be.’

You write it differently today, he thinks. This is not how it went the last time. I have a copy too. I think I am getting fed up with people more often than I’m not, and I really need to talk about it to my friends. Properly this time, I think, not just with you.

This had been a huge step in the right direction for Citrin. The jockey did not sit outside the gate and wait, and she did not need to find the other horses who were Citrin’s friends. They had found him quite soon after this story was written the first time, and have been “coddling the bejesus” out of him ever since. They had spoken of pavlova, and how one should not eat in bathtubs, and had spoken of pools, and how one should sing about scarecrows in pools, and had laughed a great deal about being weird and friendly, all at the same time, and they had reached a point where almost every single one of them was reasonably happy, if not completely whole again.

Little did she know, they had helped her write this one last time as well, and were sitting in bathtubs with rubber duckies, and crying into their noodles, and desperately trying to be patient and not mean, and demonstrating that they could be nice too, if they really wanted to.

What matters the most though, more than anything else, is that they are trying. And, if they’re trying their best, that’s all we ever ask for really, isn’t it?

‘Yes,’ whispered Citrin from atop a distant mountain. He looked down at the chestnut gelding he had “appliqued on his destrier’s blanket” just the previous week. ‘That’s all we can ask for.’

Update from a Small Cat – Jan 26th

‘Ah. You wish me to meander with you.’ It wasn’t a question. The cat had stood up and capered along the wall under the fence at least five minutes beforehand, and was likely waiting on the corner for his frenemy, el cato.

‘I didn’t say that, you did.’ El cato projected this thought through the glass door at the rear of his own house. ‘I am not ambulating today either.’

‘What are you doing then. I can’t see you?’

‘Nope, I am a figment of your imagination and you are a worm.’

‘Oh, fabulous. I have always wanted to be a worm.’

‘You have not.’ Of this, el cato was sure. ‘You said you never knew which end to talk to.’

‘Perhaps I’ve changed my mind?’

‘I don’t think you have changed your mind.’ El cato stood and stretched, fluffing up his magnificent tail. He had spotted le chat peering over the fence. ‘Little basket.’

‘Speak to me not of baskets, I am breathtaking. Look at me.’ Le chat wiggled his backside with anticipation. ‘Just so you know, I’m ready to pounce. I’m not sure what at, yet, but I’m ready.’

The dog on the other side of the fence wrinkled her pretty face. ‘What are they doing,’ she mumbled. ‘And why must I always be the one between them?’

The human, who had not got up to look around the corner (through sheer willpower alone), sighed deeply. ‘I can hear you all. Will you please cease and desist. It is Sunday morning. Even the birds are silent.’

It was true. The birds were distant, the wind was lifting into a breeze, and le chat was beginning to sing the song of the people, so they would hear him and perhaps wonder…

‘Oh there you are,’ said the human under her breath.

‘I was bored,’ murmured le chat. ‘Wall smells like stone, fence smells like metal.’ He stared vaguely off into the middle distance. ‘Cobwebs.’ He crouched low on the sand coloured brick. ‘Extra large.’

The human made a slight wheezing sound which the cat assumed meant she was laughing. He stood and turned, wrapping his own black tail gently around his forepaws. The patch on his shoulder stood out starkly against the white of his coat.

‘My ears are not lopsided,’ he chided her. ‘One is merely listening more than the other.’

On this, they could agree.

‘And, just so you know,’ he added. ‘Bermuda is the general opposite place in the world of where we are, which is why, when I dig, you say I am trying to dig all the way to Bermuda.’

And that was the absolute truth.

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.

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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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.