365 Ways With Words

The Shell

                                        Upon a thin blue shell, membrane of division,

                                        North shade falls, the sanctity of honest seclusion

 

                                        Together, bird and willow beside a river,

                                        Keep watch upon the young, their dainty charge

 

                                        In deeper blue, the shell above holds back, holds in

                                        A parcel of the cosmos, within, without

 

                                        So magnolia flowers stretch pink for us live ones

                                        Beside our road firm cherry flowers join the song

 

                                        Hold to, the conveyor rides away, and we also,

                                        In our quiet neighbourhood, waiting for accord; so on

Late Night Atractor

The full, July moon sat high in the starry sky so that its light was reflected only when passengers happened to look down into the passing black water. A still night with no breeze other than that slight movement caused by the motion of the ship, the atmosphere everywhere was a heady mix of expensive perfumes, lingering cigarette smoke on the evening wear and the odd punctuation of close sweat. The band in the ballroom rattled out one after another of the most popular tunes, Rosemary Clooney and Nat King Cole, over the deep, persistent throbbing of the engines. From the bars on the upper decks could be heard the sound of singing and laughing and every now and then someone in heels would click past upon the polished decking accompanied by the polite conversation of couples.

Sighing the smoke away, he flicked the unfinished cigarette out into the darkness of the South-west Approaches and noted its light cascade in a beautiful, long, red-tipped arc. He turned on his polished heel to go back inside for an hour or two more by the bar. But before he could take a step the heavy deck door opened and she appeared.

“Oh, hello! Thought you were out here. Mind if I join you?” She approached with cigarette and matches at the ready in one hand. “I’m afraid I only brought the one.”

“Of course, Miss Shaw. Don’t worry, I have my own.” He patted his breast to indicate the inner pocket slight bulge containing his silver case. To impress, he pulled from his trouser pocket his silver lighter that instantly flicked and ignited.

“Beautiful… night.” she added between puffs.

He deftly flicked the lighter’s flame out with his thumb. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

And there they stopped and together admired the stars, the light from the boat on the passing wake, and the congenial party atmosphere. There was a glistening quality to her skin: her bare shoulders had a thin line of moonlight that contrasted magnificently with the deep yellow glare from the deck light bulbs behind. The waves of her hair radiated glamour, straight out of a magazine.

“So, Miss Shaw, have you been in America before?”

“Once or twice. My father had business dealings in Boston before the war…”

She began to talk directly, about factories and childhoods and public schools, but he heard very little. In truth he was deeply moved by her charm, her ambiance, her grace and poise – the very air that she exhaled. It had an electric charge to it he found impossible to ignore. It ignited him. In this light she became Lana Turner with the passionate elegance of a single female in her mid-30s. That made him Enzio Pinza.

“Tell me, if you please, why you never married.”

She tilted her head and returned a glance at him, not a smile but merely a thoughtful check. “Oh, I had the opportunity – was engaged, in fact, about two years ago. Lovely man, Bill, and I was just head over heels. But he was shot. Only one more month to go in Malaya.” She stopped and looked forwards, her mouth closed, a set expression of regret upon it.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He paused. “It must have been dreadful for you.” She nodded, but continued to stare.  “Look, I’m sorry. Shall we dance? Would you like that?” He held out his arm.

Stepping out from her reverie, she turned to him: “I’d like that very much, Mr Crane.” She joined his arm.

“Joe, please.” They walked together through the heavy deck door and down towards the ballroom where the dancers were applauding Sentimental Journey.

­–

He was sure of it – she had definitely winked. They had parted on the best of terms, yes, but there was something else. Only moments before, he had gallantly escorted her back to her port cabin, but wasn’t there something more in the way she held his hand at the end and said goodnight. Was he imagining it? Was she waiting there for him to rap at the door? Perhaps she’d already donned negligee and gown and dimmed the lights. Was she expecting him to turn up now so that they could dive together into a night of unexpected passion? Or was it meant for tomorrow? Should he bide his time? Wasn’t that the more gentlemanly thing to do? What if it was all in his imagination? Would she be offended if he knocked on her door – with only one implication in mind? But wasn’t that what she wanted? If she did give the hint, then would she be offended if he didn’t go to her? Would she think him pushy sleaze if he did, or a prudish stuffed shirt if he didn’t? What should he say if he’d got it all wrong? Would it be a disgraceful thing for her – for him?

The moments passed into minutes. He paced. He leant against the door. He splashed his face with water. He peered down the corridor: the only sound was the eternal throbbing of the engines. He shut the door again and began to sweat. He glanced at his watch: 1:35.

Looking at himself in the door mirror, he steeled. Come on, man! This is the opportunity you’ve been looking for – anticipating, hoping, praying for. Before he could stop himself, he was locking his cabin and sauntering back to the port corridor. He turned the corner and there it was – her door, a small brass 21 beside the lock. He couldn’t mask his smart shoes’ squeaks on the soft carpet as he approached. He listened: yes, he could hear rustling movement from behind the Formica-covered fiberboard. Good – she was still awake, still waiting for him, undoubtedly readying herself.

He gently knocked. The rustling stopped, the occupant unsure if she heard right. To confirm he tapped again. There were soft steps.

“Yes?”

Damn – he had to talk, to announce himself and broadcast to all ears in the nearby cabins that a juicy piece of late-night gossipy entertainment was about to happen.

“It’s me – Joe.”

There was a pause, and then the latch was slowly pulled back. A head peered round, saw it was indeed who the voice said it was, and the door swung backwards. It revealed the pyjama’d and netted form of his evening’s companion. She was shorter, had lost all her glamour, and had white lotion on her face.

“Mr Crane?” She seemed a little put out.

He took one look at her tired face, the unhappy expression of one discovered in distress. She was not the woman of the dance floor, of the martinis, of the smokes over the ocean and the sophisticated discussion on Picasso and Jazz. She was, essentially, just another woman.

“I… I… just thought… I’d… I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed tonight, Miss Turner. Maybe we can do it again. Goodnight.”

His cover blown, he walked away as smartly as he could. “Damn-damn-damn!” he muttered to himself, turning left to rise up the stairs again for another good long smoke. He hit his head with his fist: “I called her Turner…”

For her part, she watched him leave the corridor and pondered, If only he hadn’t taken so long?

One Year On

One year ago we took possession of the flat, moved in and became property owners again. What has happened in this past year? SO MANY things!

On our visits to Olomouc estate agents we noted a distinct unwillingness to rent flats to Englishy expats with three dogs and one cat. Can't really blame them – I mean, who in their right mind would let their property to an English couple? 

Hence our first-floor flat purchase which, by the end of March, was all done and dusted having gone thorough bureaucratic efficiency, appropriate hoops jumped through, fees paid and signatures added to goodness only knows what in ultra-triplicate triplicatiness. Our move merely involved walking across town with suitcases, picking up the cat and dogs from the kennels, buying a mattress and kipping on the bare parquet floor until such times as the rest of our things arrived.

That the big blue container containing furniture and possessions got unecessarily held up in Prague for two weeks by the removals people severely tested the patience, but in the end the boxes were all brought in and stacked at various points around the flat. The following months would involve navigating around cardboard monoliths on the hunt for things that must be in there somewhere...

This time last year was also a period of heavy snow, a real contrast with the present balmy spring conditions. It has been a pleasure to once again watch the rotation of seasons.

It was not immediately obvious how the dogs (and cat) would take to crossing continents, but they are wonderfully adaptable creatures. I'm sure they still dream of chasing monkeys, but the Czech Republic has its very own kind in the form of red squirrels and cuddly hedgehogs, which they have regular opportunities to meet.

Finally, the refurbishment of kitchen and bathroom was completed. Although not perfect, and still in need of 'finishing off', it looks grand. The loft bed with walk-in closet storage was made.

Part of the point of moving away from Hong Kong last year was to immerse ourselves into another culture. In truth, the Czech ways of doing things are not so very far removed from those of the UK, but the language difference is the difference: it makes for something close, yet far away. Just when you think you're getting somewhere, a new linguistic rule comes along to sew chaos and confusion into the humble English 'foreign language brain cell'. And that's when the local beer, that nectar of the gods that tastes even better than it sounds, leaps into action transforming everything into a pleasurable experience with its delicious and healthy amber hue. 

With much pleasure we discovered that Olomouc, and the Czech Republic at large, has a vibrant artistic and musical scene – from classical to math rock, from Iggy Pop to local Hana folk, all have willing and receptive audiences. And it's cheap – often free! One of the most memorable nights was an evening of contemporary dance at the University, an unexpected performance that blew my socks, pants and string vest away.

This year has also included Toastmasters, the talk-shop for improving presentation skills, and the English book club, both thereby being the vehicle for the making of many good new friends.

Trips this year to nearby cities of Prague, Bratislava, Vienna and Krakow enabled a greater appreciation of Central Europe – that great hinterland with historic connections and a rich cultural heritage. With extra memorable trips to Velehrad, the foundry of Czech Christian spirituality, to Přírodě, the superb village of historic architecture, and twice to the nearby hilltop castle of Bouzov, the whole year has been an eye-opener in many ways. Amongst other trips, November included a wonderful trip to sunny Seville, December for Brenda meant Hong Kong, January saw us in London where we met up again with a long-lost friend Cashain, and March took us on the recent trip to Bangkok and a visit our good friends Jan and Karin in Chiang Mai. Before leaving Hong Kong in 2013, we said that we wanted to travel and not merely have holidays anymore: well, that's certainly happening!

In August arrangements were made for my aunt's piano to be brought over from the UK – very nice it looks too. In November we popped over to Gloucestershire to attend Chris's very important birthday (and go to the pub), and in February hosted a Burns night supper for the first time, with real haggis, neaps and tatties, and between us polished off a bottle of the lovely smooth Glenmorangie. Only a week later Brenda also had a very important birthday of her own, which we celebrated with the first party of the new flat. Phew!

Amongst our visitors, lovely daughter number 2 Alys came to see us and travel around a bit, as did Paul, Joanne and James to sample Czech beer at the Svatováclavský pivovar, Brenda's PhD mentor Professor Chris Forlin stayed long enough to get a taste of Czechishness, and Chris & Kev with Kev's sister Bev stopped over on their mammoth summer tour of Europe. At Christmas lovely daughter number 1 Rachel became a person of engaged proclivities with Tom, so there was much rejoicing and making of merry.

Oh yes, and I've writtended things. Short stories, poems, blogs, longer pieces. For those of you waiting for the finished articles, they are forthcoming, but will take a while to complete. Part of the deal is that I earn a crust by teaching English a bit here and there, in local firms and at the University, and that takes up a little time. I have also abridged a version of Aesop's Fables (and helped do the same with Huckleberry Finn) for a Czech publisher and led a seminar on creativity and blogging at the University English department. So, in case you were wondering, I've been busy in this regard and still have much to do.

Twelve months ago there was, of course, no way we could have predicted the course of the year. Similarly, this anniversary is as exciting in projection as much as it is in retrospect. But to find out more, you'll just have to watch this space.

Four Walls

She brought back milk, eggs and bacon, bread and chocolate – essential supplies for a beautiful Sunday breakfast. From the doorstep to Mr Patel's shop wasn't too far: if she'd lived another ten yards from the shops she reasoned she might as well get the bus the other way to Morrisons, something she hated to do at the weekend – shopping with carloads of screaming kids? No thanks! Plonking the bag down by the fridge, she'd already tucked into a row of Dairy Milk. As the shoes were kicked off the kettle went on, as did the TV in the bedroom. She lay motionless, flicking through the channels to the sound of the neighbours beginning their second Sunday of weekend DIY. There really wasn't much on, nothing worth mentioning. Nevertheless, she left it on as the kettle's bubble and click told her to make her way into the kitchen for the tea.

Leaving the idea of cooking for a minute, she returned with the hot milky mug –iceburg bag floating– popped it on the bedside table and sat propped by a fat pillow. Another row slid down a little too easily, aided by sipped tea, and before she knew it the family size chocolate was half demolished. She was about to consider finishing it off, when she glanced out of the window. The sun's reflection from the upstairs window opposite was beaming straight in to the room and onto her covers. Earlier, before making the tea, it had shone on the headboard and should have moved on by now. It was as if the room had changed and the bed had moved forwards. Indeed, the more she looked at the view, the more she noticed subtle differences; there was more of the garage to see, slightly more of the garden around the side of the house was visible. She wondered why she hadn't noticed this before, but didn't give it much thought because the Great North Run was on BBC 1 and she liked to watch runners, particularly the East African men.

At about 11:30, an hour into the chorus of hammering and occasional circular sawing from next door, she decided to make the bacon and eggs, so shuffled off to the kitchen, popping back from time to time to see what was happening out there in the race. Just as she heard the toast pop up, she noticed in the corner of her eye that the wallpaper in the corner was peeling. Actually, that was wrong – it was crumpling. From the door it looked like the paper had corrugated into three or four little verticle strips. She went over to take a closer look and saw that the paper on the other side of the wall was also crumpled. As ridiculous as it sounded, from the centre of the room it looked as if the whole wall had been pushed forward!

She came back to the bedroom with a plate containing the egg and bacon toast sandwich sat beside a large blob of brown sauce. This was her treat, a Sunday regular (as long as she remembered to buy the basics). She sank onto the bed, but immediately looked up at the corners of the room to examine the paper again. If anything, in the time she had left the room it had got worse. With a mouth full of bacony sandwich, egg yolk unnoticed as it dribbled down her chin, she stood on the bed to get a closer look. Indeed, the paper was crumpled – about eight or nine ruffles now. Sitting back again with her pillow prop, she also sensed the TV was closer: only inches close, but noticeable.

Once the plate had been licked clean to the sound of Brendan Foster's helpful commentating, she looked up again – just in time to see the paper slowly curl and fall in a curved loop towards the carpet. Then she saw the carpet, too, was crumpled. That was it! She got off the bed and took a closer look. Something was happening to the room.

She took the plate and mug back to the kitchen and turned on the hot tap to begin the soak of frying pan and utensils, but as she looked up, the kitchen paint on the same facing wall was flaking, just like the wallpaper in the bedroom.  Then she made a cognitive leap – on the other side of this wall the landlord was doing work. Whatever it was, he'd better stop.

She pressed their doorbell, but there was no reply. Annoyed, she pressed again and rapped the letterbox. A few seconds passed and there were footsteps and a squeak of the door as it opened. "Hello?"

"Just what do you think you're doing?" she stood in her tracksuit and t, a scowl like a pug.

"And may I introduce myself..." sarcastically anwered the young gay man.

"Who is it, Tony?" Another clean face supporting swept back black hair appeared around the door.

"Don't know. Haven't got that far – yet."

"Do you realise," she spat, "that what you're doing is affecting my flat?"

"Oh, you're the neighbour?" came back the first young man. "We were wondering who held up the sale."

"Is it the sitting tenant?" asked the second gay man.

There was a drole hum as a reply.

Taken slightly aback by their pleasant appearance, and their knowledge of her, she fumed. "Just stop it, whatever it is you're doing, OK? You've made the paint peel."

"Finished?" came the return, and the door slammed. She could overhear him say, "God, what a slapper – what a bitch, coming round here..." followed by the other man's last audible words, "I told you we should have bought her out..."

On returning to the flat, the rooms appeared to have decidedly shrunk. It had moved the furniture. Now there wasn't even enough room to get round the bed. Returning to the kitchen, the same had occurred – only now the fridge and all the wall cabinets appeared to be in the middle of a galley kitchen. It wasn't only the paint that was peeling, but her farm poster and bird calendar were now curling on the floor. It was as if the whole flat was being squeezed from the inside towards the outer walls.

As she stared, a bursting sound came from the bedroom. She ran in to see that the bed had toppled the dresser on which the TV had been resting. It lay tilted, with silent TV beside in an attitude of wreckage.  She hopped onto the covers to retrieve her remote, then the chocolate from the bedside table. Quite simply, they were taking over.

Another crash came from the kitchen. The breakfast cereal cabinet had been knocked off the wall into the sink, still full of suds, and was now helping it to tip over and form a cascade onto the lino. She rushed over, reached in and pulled the plug and the water began to drain. A drawer sprang open. She reached in and picked up the bottle opener, an old one that used to be her dad's, and put it with the remote and chocolate. The galley now looked like a narrow corridor, the one in the Titanic below deck from which there was no escape. She gathered personal things from here and there to add to her pile in her arms.

Again from the bedroom came a loud crack, and as she rushed in the bed was upended, visibly buckling under the pressure. She began to feel threatened – her world was about to implode as the pair from next door pushed, or whatever it is they were doing, until she was squeezed out. Not knowing whether to stay in the slither of kitchen or the gap in the bedroom, she made for the front door again. But by now it was too late: it wouldn't move under the pressure from the hallway's carpet crushing, even though she dropped all her possessions and pulled at the door handle with all her might. Finally, she turned, her back to the door, trapped in her diminishing world, the sound of tapping, cracking, and shattering surrounding her, to await her fate.

The Sun Rises

                                        Blue, blue on blue, virtue corruptless

                                        Arc'd sphere empty in solid thorough tint

                                        90° shadow, gold start, long steer

                                        Formless purity of daily creation

                                        Mature seasoned breath power invocation: 'Be'

                                        Panoptes witness for earth, moon, spore, shell, bloom, skin, mind

                                        Come... stay... go...

 

                                        Hail the furnace fingers stream

                                        Deep prodding through layers, on hide, feather, bark

                                        Phoebus gentle touch cheek caress – awaken, be busy, on,

                                        Power and glory aureola, blind eyes see once again

                                        Eternal attractor upon the thundering apollonian path

                                        Skin colour of the gods return, their lotus seats await

                                        And so joins mankind, walking in the awesome wake

Strength in Numbers

                                        If what is popular is right

                                        If the pursuit of happiness doesn't heal

                                        If that which is available is always selected

                                        If what the majority rules determines

 

                                        If the words of the past are forgotten

                                        If those who think are lost

                                        If guiding lights are ignored

                                        If the depth of experience shallows

 

                                        If futures hold no more than price

                                        If time is a waiting game for deceit

                                        If countdowns are the only strategy

                                        If expansion acquires its own virtue

 

                                        If you cannot see beyond your toes

                                        If you worry without release

                                        If you contentedly admit dim argument

                                        If you act for self without reprieve

 

                                        Then love is gone

Spring Has Sprung

So finally, between rain-soaked days and bright gusty mornings, a change is happening. The mantel with which the natural world is overspread is definitely, and daily, switching hue: spring is here. Sap is rising, flowers have risen, grass is verdant, birds are nesting, and out in the fields hares are jumping like mini-deer – and the dogs go berserk!

The darling buds of March, plum and wild cherry, such negligible and incidental things in the eyes of many, are beginning their slow burst, breaking winter's back with the happy strength of sunlight. Calyx of catkins are dropping to reveal the green bottle brush thrust – a shameless sexual move. Under the feet the grass roots are taking up where they left before the snows and new green –bright delicious sensual green– is filling flawless leaves that tremble in fresh breezes.

Rivers are high and muddy, full of old branches swiftly taken down to the swollen lakes and beyond. Even the cloying clumps of pathway mud have a different smell – alive again to greet the new blue of the year. From out of such is growing violets, their colours stunningly free.

Now, apart from the poor slave-driven bees, only the red firebugs are out, mindlessly mating as they colonise even more, but within days the hungry ladybirds, dozy caterpillars and gadding mayflies will show themselves: a boon for the blue tits, their presence welcomed as the necessary linchpin in the wheel of life.

And what do we humans do? We graffiti the trees!

The Dog on the Hill – Part 3

The civet, an animal of the shadows, liked not this sudden exposure before a large predatory carnivore, but remained motionless. Nothing but a few drops of seawater dripped from the wet fur of its forequarters. The dog was first to move, leaping outwards from his rock onto what he assumed was the sandy foreshore in an attempt to get at the civet. With a lazy splat, the dog's four paws splattered into the mud immediately slowing his movement by half, easily allowing the civet to turn before fleeing into the darkness of the underbrush. A few more lolloping lopes and the mud-caked paws of the dog reached the rock recently vacated. A deep gaseous smell hit his nose, the trapped methane of sub-surface decomposition. Pulling himself up, he could not see or hear in which direction the agile animal had gone, so stood a while sniffing the rock to acquire the scent of the feline-esque creature.

In so doing, he picked up the intense musk overtones: he had the feeling that the animal that produced this would use it as much to attract mates as deter pursuing predators. All around the flat rock were the discarded shell remnants from the civet's late-night snacking. The juice from the molluscs had a sweet saltiness to it. He licked – it was appetizing.

Abandoning his futile hounding, he searched for more shellfish of the same kind and his nose was drawn back down towards the mud. Around the rock a little pool of water, at day evaporated by the sun, had gathered and within it were the shellfish heaped together. Taking one, he crunched – the thick shell stuck in his gums and tongue, but the oozy juice promised animal nourishment. He plucked a second, and then one more, taking care to eliminate as much shell as was practicable. With each there was the same cracking sound he had heard from the civet, but this time it was from his mouth as he broke each shell.

Half-a stomach full of this new delicacy, he belched. Something did not feel right. He belched again. Instantly his stomach voided the contents, shell fragments and all, into a frothy pile on the mud. Sniffing the contents, he delicately side-stepped the rock and wandered in search of fresh water.

The little stream bed was littered with leaves, sticks and other washed-down detritus. He lay in the slow-moving flow indolently lapping the cool water and allowing its energy to pass around him. It was the closest thing to a bath he'd experienced.  His stillness meant he did not arouse the suspicions of the family of porcupines waddling down to the stream for the first drink of the night. Slinking through the bamboo, they each poked their noses down towards the water and lapped generously with their tongues. To the dog, familiar with passing porcupines on the hill, the black and white needles shimmered in the moonlight, but the hairs on the babies looked less sharp. He was in the process of imagining taking the smallest one in a sudden rush when he sneezed, an after-effect from the overindulgence in shellfish. The family halted, looked up and, before he had time to leap from his black water hide, turned tail and retreated back uphill towards the nuts, seeds and flowers of their nocturnal feeding.

Foiled once more, he stood up and shook. The hunger pains were back. From across the still valley emerged the sounds of the Asiatic koel who had taken up a position to loudly announcing its presence. Each desperately lonely 'koo-oo koo-oo' resonated throughout the woodland, but there was no reply. On the other side of the receded water the frantic 'brain fever' call of the common hawk cuckoo echoed across the hills. And from right above his head a female greater coucal gave it's deep 'coop-coop-coop'. All the birds and animals around him seemed to be thriving, but it was becoming clearer by the moment that without the lady to daily feed him his condition boded ill. He had not grown up a hunter, had not formed a pack to kill, had not adapted to life alone, nor been adopted into the indoor ways of men. How much more could he endure? Survival was not an option.

He returned to the road and the mess left by the pigs. Other village dogs were also there – without support he could not approach nor take without a fight. The odds were too great. He scampered past as best he could, but was still barked at for his pains. By the time he found his old spot again, beneath the broad leaved trees at the crest of the hill, exhaustion had overwhelmed him.

He awoke with the sounds of the first bus stopping to drop off early morning hikers. Eager to feed, he casually wandered down to the bus stop and stared at them. Did they have food, and how could he get it from them? Before he could form a plan to be aggressive, from their midst a woman crouched, a good sign, and began beckoning with squeaks and clicks of the fingers. As he hesitated, she withdrew her hand to her pocket and brought out a dry biscuit. Breaking it in half, she tossed some indelicately towards him. He sniffed, it was mouthwatering, and immediately ate. She did the same with the other half. He thought this was good, and promised more, but the others in the human party seemed to disapprove. As they moved off, so did the dog. All day he followed, hoping for more. And, indeed, more came. Skirting the villages, the dog found the party of humans on the other side continuing their walk to the long beach – their daytime destination. Lunch was made at a nearby café, but he dared not approach for fear of rousing the local dogs. The woman seemed to know this and brought some of the noodles in a box and left them for him. This was the same fare of the missing woman, the little extra human food that had kept him strong. With each mouthful he felt strength return to his system. The humans splashed about in the water, apparently for fun. He wanted to sleep and sought out a spot within a thick patch of pandanas palms...

Aroused by a late afternoon breeze from the sea, the humans had gone. How long he must have slept! He sniffed the sands, but their scent was masked by the offshore salt. Picking up energy, he ran back the way they had come, past the villages and along the coastal route. At last, as night fell, he saw them, noisily waiting under the streetlights of the road in a bunch ready for the bus. From the shadows he silently approached. The crowd all stared, but woman came forward and crouched down again, only this time she had no food. She seemed to want to touch him, a sensation he had not experienced and was not sure he wanted to, but her fingers were merely inches away: such intimacy was an unnerving unknown. Before that could happen, the lumbering bus interrupted with a screech of brakes and hydraulic exhalation – too much even for the dog on the hill. Within a minute all were gone and from his usual lonely spot the social scene returned to glum and silent darkness, his only company the mosquitoes that fed from his ears, nose and paws.

Would she come back, like the other woman? Would there be extra food to keep him alive? Lying under the hazy stars, his thin chest now firmly ribbed, he knew his life was beholden to others. It was always the lot of dogs.

The Dog on the Hill – Part 2

The snake, an adolescent Burmese python, took advantage of his momentary coming-to to attach his venom-less jaws to his rear paw, the closest part of the dog to the snake. Yelping he drew back, but the solid weight of the snake's muscly body prevented him from withdrawing out of the culvert. A leg extended, he barked and whined the rapid panic bark of a canine in severe distress. Such was the desperation of his cries that, would he have been outside beneath the hot summer's moonlight, he could have aroused the very spirits of the hills themselves. He felt the snake begin to coil itself around his leg and lower abdomen. Panicking more, he barked incessantly, feeling the firm coiling action twist him over to one side and continue the process of acquiring the victim before holding and asphyxiation. He continued to struggle and bark, not giving up at all, not for one moment, not for one breath.

On the cusp of being finally overcome, he noticed another noise – from the other end of the culvert. A bark ensued, resonating from within the drain, followed by another and another: a cacophony of barking dog voices, their intonation a mix of dread and pursuit, filled the space with a deafening roar. Aroused by the raiding pigs, the nearby village pack heard his desperate calls and went in to attack. One seemed to get closer: the snake arrested its kill. A further voice also rang in his ear, and also one more – there appeared to be several dogs inside this tunnel of death. At that moment, he could feel himself moving, not just that the heartless snake was relaxing his grip, but that the snake and he were being dragged in small tugged increments by a force unknown. Instantly, the python uncoiled to make away. He staggered to an upright and, sensing the end of the drain, made for the exit. He noted the same snakeskin rasp on the concrete beneath his body – the snake was making its way between his legs!

The clamour of dog bark also emerged into the roadside ditch beside him, to set upon the young quarry. So intent on the hunt we they, that they even seemed not to be aware of him, his pitch coat now covered in mud and his alpha male scent dampened by the watery dousing in his near-grave. He panted nervously while they pursued into the boggy mush and mud. He had been in the jaws of the beast and the very gates of death had nearly closed upon him; he knew he had been as close to the point of no return as was possible. Shaken, he sank to his hindquarters and then collapsed onto all fours, his limbs an adrenalin-infused quiver that disguised any pain from the earlier pig bite.

As the barking party drew away, advancing well on the retreating reptile, he was not aware of another nose nearby, on the side of the road above, taking quiet and careful inhalations. He turned his panting head to see the long whiskered nose of the small Indian civet. It was making a regular journey from the steep hillside of its normal habituation across the tarmac road down to the muddy stretches of the creek at night time low tide. Usually fearful of commotion, the nocturnal animal had with its excellent night-attuned eyes seen the raucous chasing party disappear into the forest on the trail of the escaping cold-blooded killer before crossing, and knew it was now safe. What the civet had not expected to see, lying in the shallow water, was the quiet shuddering form of the dog.

For the dog's part, the civet was game –the very object of this night's quest– would that he could garner strength and corner it, but exhaustion and shock firmly held him. He noted the black nose twist and wobble as if the animal was unsure of what its senses were telling it. After some moments its inquisitive instinct was satisfied and the black striped and spotted animal turned and continued on its route. So good was its camouflage that within three trotted steps its outline had dissolved into the darkness beneath the nearby pandanas palm: so deliberate were its steps that they could also not be discerned – by even a dog's ear.

The recovering dog laid still, occasionally looking around for movement that would announce the approach of any other another creature, any other threat. But beyond his hot breaths nothing else could be heard but the croaky frogs in the deeper water and the intense cicadas high in the surrounding trees, and nothing seen but the moon's half-light rushing behind a steely-grey cloud. This was the time to emerge. Rousing himself, he lifted his front half, then the back and walked gingerly up to the road. He shook.

Weary of the past hour's encounters, nevertheless a thought entered his mind: what had the civet cat been doing? Where had it been going? If there was food for it, then there's be food for him, and his stomach, already empty, felt twisted with the desperate pains of hunger. Taking slow waddling steps he walked in the same direction, ducking under the low prickly pandanas leaves on a narrow pathway that seemed to lead downhill. Over damp rocks in the stream bed and around the thickest lantana bushes, its summer flowers exuding a sweet sharp perfume, the path led to the dark brown mud of the flats. The civet was nowhere to be seen, but further along the boulder edges of the littoral shelf could be heard cracking and snapping noises. Drawn to the noise, he at last saw the civet, hands full of a rounded mollusc, a rounded topshell or twisted turban, plucking more from the rock face. As the animal ate, chewing on the raw shellfish, pieces of shell dropped onto the mud below. It continued this action for several moments before freezing – it realised it was being observed. The strong light from the moon, obscured by the bank of cloud, returned to show the dog transfixed by the activity of this strange omnivore and now considering an assault. Would the civet bolt, or would he stand his ground?

The Dog on the Hill – Part 1

On the path, the long path to the top of the hill and back, there sat a dog. This black dog had no name, for his was a solitary soul, unowned by human, unclaimed and unattached. He would sit throughout the daylight, leaving this spot only if hunger or thirst claimed his attention, or if another canine stepped nearby.

His health was good, for now. He had seen females come and go, admitted some dogs, painfully quarrelled with others, but above all the exposure of life upon the hill had yet to take its toll. Indeed, he seemed to thrive in the heat and rain of summer and each year felt his coat growing thick for the chill nights of winter. For a stay-put stray, master of the moment and keeper of his hours, life was good.

The quiet woman who daily laid out food, for reasons he knew not, took her job seriously – he admitted her with big round gratuitous wags of the tail. Without her kindness he would need travel far, leaving this familiar spot to risk encountering other packs from around the villages. Her kindness, therefore, kept him alive – kept him safe.

But one day the woman was gone and the food was no more. Patient for a week, his greying face turned in the empty direction of her approach, but it was for nothing. He half-heartedly jumped at the stupid monkeys that gadded about between the limbs of forest canopy in a vain attempt to catch one off guard. On another day he found the remnants of a hiker's lunch beside the seats at the beginning of the trail. Abandoned by the other casual strays, and realising that he was by now a little thinner, and that weakness was near, he set off one night alone towards the nearby village at the bottom of the hill.

On the last bend of the road in the orange sodium streetlight glow he made out the large, dark structures of the bins. He knew that within the clumsy lidded trash containers would be deposited the casually discarded tins, bones and other food detritus of human habitation. His hunger by now great, he sniffed and snuffed, but his initial inspection was interrupted. In the midnight glare of the lights there appeared the Bull – his massive front haunches pulling the rest of his black hulking body up the road towards the forest. As he nimbly stepped out the way the bull walked on regardless, side-eying the solo dog with the intimidating and menacing nonchalance only an alpha bovine can set. The bull stopped and gave a gutteral bellow, an ugly repeated throat low that pierced the night clad hillsides all around.

Hardly had the bull passed, when from within the trees the sweated smell of pig wafted in. Careless in their pursuits a hog and sow thrashed through the large foliage of the roadside bushes and poked their long snouts towards the tops of the bins. He had at first an instinct to chase away the porcine pair, but waited in the shadows watching their movements.

The boar took three steps back – BANG!!  – the impact of the pig rocked the full bin on its small, plastic wheels. He repeated the motion, stepping back and charging once again. This time, the bins momentarily teetered and then fell back, the lid flying open with the final impact of hitting the ground and causing a cascade of domestic dog barking from within the vicinity. At once both pigs set to, ripping apart the black bin liners for the stinking morsels of garbage. He approached, a solo dog of some renown, but was checked by the pale amber eye of the sow. She instantly froze, bringing her mate to attention. He maneuvered towards the end of the bin and the three eyed each other viciously. All of them tense, it would take but one movement to bring them together in a decidedly one-sided fight, something the dog only now realised. As one the pair charged: a wall of bristling pork bearing down on him with such rapidity he hardly had time to turn before they were on his heels.

When he cleared the zone and repaired to a rocky culvert beneath the roadway he realised he had not been quite so lucky – a large gash was open low on his hocks. He licked and stepped in the slow-flowing stream of mountain water, but he knew it would trouble him.

Fortune had not favoured him, but with a moments rest he would return and turn over what they had left – his snout fitted for the innards of cans and his paws excellent holders for more delicate retrievals. But as he thought this in the total blackness of the drain, his keen ears heard, to his side, the soft abrasion of snakeskin on concrete – he knew he was not alone.