Hero

All at once,

a drawn sword!

It comes swinging in a slashing arc.

Dark blood springs where

the singing blade stings.

The porter meant to move,

but his feet would not.

I am half-sick of service,

thought Sir Lancelot.

Nitinaht, Vancouver Island

I know a place where the wind is unspooling always

tangling and untangling in the coastal firs,

streaming between the whitecaps and threading the bumblebees like beads

on and off of the wild roses.

Tents bloom in unlikely places.

Everyone is encamped in the thickets of things – caravans of windsurfers bring boards and bright sails to the beach (really a ruins of rocks and driftwood),

and Starboard pennants fly from shattered tree trunks.

The thin shore is a strange buffer between two worlds:

a van-crammed campground defined by narrow spaces, where bushes are shelves for wrens and jays and little berries,

and a stretch of ocean to converse with in the language of adrenalin: a primal creole of surge and swell.

Dog Days II

Bursting forth involved much ado, but it was not, from the canine point of view, about nothing. It was about aventure, in the original sense of the word. Anything could happen beyond the Long Stair. Wicked Uncle and Swain galumphed with gusto up the steps to Euphoria, ears flying and jowls flapping. The Wicked Uncle reflected later that the name Long Stair was rather more symbolic than physically accurate - the journey had taken almost no time at all, and yet the metaphorical distance covered had been very near to infinite. The gap between misery and comfort is vast indeed, he thought.

At the top of the Long Stair, our doggy heroes suddenly realized their social awkwardness. (They'd never got out much.) Abruptly, there was much abashed snuffling and sneezing. Two FDCs were hurriedly throwing a cover over a sumptious couch. Another was directing traffic, so to speak, and they were ushered into a place of magical odors. The snuffling intensified, and for a moment, the Wicked Uncle suffered the agony of indecision: to search out the source of smells, or to stretch out on the couch? The sure comfort of the couch triumphed over the mere possibility of treats, but he kept one eye open in case food should appear. Meanwhile, the Swain had found his feet again and was frolicking about. Wicked Uncle smirked to himself as the FDCs scolded his adopted nephew for overenthusiasm. Ah, the innocence of youth. Swain would never understand the meaning of guile. And speaking of guile... Uncle screwed up his face and looked reproachfully over his shoulder at the nearest FDC. Instantly, he was the subject of lavish affection. 

For his part, Swain was discovering that the Upper Realms were entrenched in limitations, boundaries, and rules. No biting, no chewing, no fighting, no spewing, no lightning quick dashes for the Fountain of Youth (which was a ceramic bowl in a room of its own) - he quickly grew tired of the list. But he found two benefits to the Upper Realms. 1) The FDCs were generous with treats, especially when plied with persistent begging techniques. 2) The FDCs prevented Wicked Uncle from murdering him for no reason, effectively allowing him to pest Wicked Uncle continuously over a period of several hours. It wasn't bliss, but it was All Right. 

Since you ask, the Cat was doing nothing but radiating disgust from a lofty perch. 

Dog Days

This is a story of two dogs who climbed the Long Stair between their habitual place of residence in the dungeons and the well-furnished (that is to say, provided with all manner of couches) Family Room, a place of unimaginable delights and innumerable treats. It happened in the winter of the year of the Ubiquitous Cat, which everyone later agreed was a remarkable year, barring the cat, who made of point of never appearing impressed.

The dogs had names, but names are only placemarkers, after all, and often tell us nothing of character and identity and idiosyncrasy (since they are given by those who are not us), and thus the two protagonists are best described in terms of their essential dogginess; though different, they each measured up to and exceeded the expectations associated with certain canine stereotypes. The older one was a Wicked Uncle, and what he lacked in dignity, he made up in irascibility - masked, of course, by the traditional "good dog" aura, soulful dark eyes and a thin layer of fat. He was a firm proponent of the philosophy, "All good things come to those who wait," except when some young pup had the impertinence to travel through his Territory uninvited; in such cases he delivered the good thing immediately: it was discipline, and it was sure and swift. Like so many wicked uncles, he was burdened with an unwanted charge on whom he took out his troubles from time to time.

His charge was the younger dog, and despite this ignominious position in Life, the uncle-afflicted pup bubbled with the enthusiasm, anxiety, and headstrong idiocy of youth. He was, in short, a Swain.

These two were languishing in the dark recesses of their cage, casting their mournful (the Swain) and baleful (the Wicked Uncle) eyes despondently about, until the elder companion spoke. He said,

If thou beest he; But O how fall'n! how chang'd
From him, who in the happy Realms of Light
barked joyfully and occasioned rabbit flight;
If he whom mutual league, united woofs and counsels, equal hope
And hazard in the Glorious Enterprize,
Joynd with me once (joyned now by misery in equal ruin!)
If he, I say, then give me that T-bone, for I would chew.

The Wicked Uncle prided himself on his ability to rise to any oratory occasion. But his magnificent adaption of a famous speech was entirely lost on the Swain, who understood only that he must give up his sole attachment to happiness. He cowered away to the corner. The Wicked Uncle chewed with dissatisfaction on the bone. It was a very old bone, and besides, the Swain had abandoned it up so quickly there hadn't been even the slightest pretext for a fight. Both dogs were thoroughly depressed.

To make matters worse, they were being watched. A cat, free to come and go as it chose, drifted silently from shadow to shadow, its alien eyes glittering at them strangely. There was no telling what it was thinking, but the way it sauntered along the top of the fence separating them from the free world was infuriating. The Swain grew more and more anxious. Though he tried, he could not contain his distress. It escaped at first in small whines that gave way to trembling moans, and the Wicked Uncle took no notice. But his charge was contracting a bad case of cabin fever, and the matter was far from over. The trembling moans became high pitched yips, which developed into full-throated woofs. There were shouts from the Upper Realms beyond the Long Stair, and the ceiling shook with threats of retribution and with pounding feet. Some fell creature roared down the furnace duct, Shut Up, but the Swain had gone mad. The Wicked Uncle saw his chance, and began to howl frightfully. Together, they made a dissonant symphony that would have had even Franz Liszt begging for quiet. It sounded a bit like this:

Young Dog: Whiiiine whiiine moan yip!
Old Dog: OOOoooooOOOOoooo.
Furnace Duct Creature: Shut up! Shut up!
Young Dog: Whine whine yip woof!

Abruptly, there was the sound of feet thundering down towards them, and the dogs ceased to raise their hue and cry. The cat melted into shadow.

The Furnace Duct Creature said, "Oh all right. Come upstairs. It's rotten outside anyway." And the impassable gates, no doubt forged of legendary Damascus steel and bound with adamant, were flung open. There was a pause. The Swain looked incredulously from freedom to the FDC. It said, "go on." And then the dogs burst forth.

Intermission: Another Installment Will Arrive In Good Time