Of Animals and Me
ROMMEL AND THE PERSIAN CAT
I love my dog, perhaps because I always feel the presence of Anubis panting. Of course dogs in religion are not often well regarded. The Vikings feared the Fenris wolf on the final days when the Midgarth serpent looses its tail from its mouth and the world is flooded, if the wolf is not restrained it will eat the sun and the moon. But only the leather parings of each man’s shoe heels can hold it. So, the only way of preventing ultimate destruction is to capture the beast with the innocent or unused will-impulses of humanity. The Prophet wrote in the Koran that man should not allow a dog to enter his dwelling. But a dog was probably shagging his leg as he preached on everything being the Will of God somewhere outside of Medina. But the gnostic myth of Christ seeing a rotting dead dog and pensively commenting on the beautiful teeth gives some reassurance. Cats only tolerate us because we feed them and give them warmth and shelter. But dogs love us! Devoted, they wait for our return from work and greet us with unfeigned excitement.
But my Dalmatian, Rommel, was a faithless, fickle tart. (He was named Rommel because I can remember radio broadcasts when I was a boy. Lord Montgomery rasped out, that when you least expect it, Rommel was spotted in the wadis of Tunis. Ergo, a spotted Dalmatian). When Rommel was young he was aggressive but became friendly to all, – after his balls were removed. He’d desert me for anyone who’d pat him. But his clowning about was endearing. I couldn’t help but love him. His love was to be taken on walks in the lanes behind the terrace houses of Stanmore. There were garbage cans to sniff and other dogs to greet. (As one dog said to the other, quick sit down, here comes the Dalmatian with the cold nose). High on a shed roof a well bred long haired Persian cat sleekly looked down. And, knowing it was so high and safe and beyond reach, it casually spat just a little. Rommel leapt extraordinarily high. And took it by the throat. And ran off rapidly with the cat in its jaws. It must have reached my place ten minutes before me and got in the back gate to its kennel.
I arrived home as a distraught woman was knocking on my door. When we went out into the back courtyard Rommel jumped up and greeted her with tail wagging. She tearfully said that her grandchildren adored the cat and that her entire life was dedicated to combing its long fur and grooming it for pet shows. It was 3 times grand champion and what comfort would the medals and cups and ribbons be if she didn’t have its love and comfort? The cat was part of her family. We were murderers and the police should be summoned! Just then there was a meow from the kennel. Bruised and shocked, the cat had been saved from the sharp teeth by thick fur. It jumped into its mother’s arms, then balanced on her shoulders and tried to get on her head, even if the cat knew from experience that Rommel could jump much higher. But Rommel was busy sniffing the woman’s groin through the dress. The woman was now happy to have her cat back and was being charmed by Rommel’s flirting. I had to follow Rommel when she left to persuade him to come back to live with me. So when Ragnorok of the Vikings comes and Vidar stands back and doesn’t come to our aid, we should pray that Fenris has the attention span of Rommel and gets distracted by the serpent’s tail.
OF FISHES AND HORSES
Mr. Peters was a sporting man. He loved a bet on the horses. He was always very kind to me. It was to him I’d run when I’d get a slap at home and, although he’d courteously not mention my red throbbing ear, he’d distract me with wonders. As a good catholic, Mr. Peters on Friday afternoons would buy fish from Mr. Trubovic’s shop. He showed me the flounder, a very flat fish that lived on the sea floor. It had two eyes on the dark upper side, and a creamy white soft belly. Mr. Peters said that when flounders are young they swim upright and have an eye on each side of the head, but as they grow older one eye moves to the top side and the fish swims lying down. One Christmas he invited me to Waiheki Island in Auckland harbour. We flew on Captain Lad’s sea plane. “A shower of spray and we’re away.” Mr. Peters’ son rowed in a skiff’s crew. The slim boat skimmed across the river. When an oar slipped on the surface, Mr. Peters would laugh and shout, “you’ve caught a crab!” When his son Jerry’s crew won they would take the little cox by the wrists and ankles and swing him one, two, three and throw him off the wharf into the drink. Mr. Peters would laugh and laugh. He had taught his beautiful daughter, Louise, a few gambling tricks. For 10 pence and a forced sip of witch Flimidly Climidy’s special potient (mashed feijoa and tamarillo and floor polish), she’d teach me how to pick a card, any card, now cut the pack and put it back, now deal the cards face upwards until the right card magically appears, voila! The family took me to the cinema to see the terrifying Sir Laurence Olivier perform Hamlet using the tip of his tongue, the lips, the teeth. So Mr. Peters is to blame for my love of verse. Then, I didn’t see him. He was in hospital. Peritonitis from an infected appendix. His priest administered the last rites of the Roman Catholic Church. Then he recovered! And loved life even more. He would take his family to Melbourne on an ocean liner to the ‘56 Olympic Games. Mr. Peters either owned or had shares in 3 race horses. He was, like all gamblers, a little superstitious. He named his 3 pet goldfish after his gee-gees. He asked my mother to look after them for the month his family would be in Oz. Mum was to feed them a pinch of food only every three days. She promised not to overfeed them. A week before they were to return, my mother noticed a big blue blow fly buzzing about the Peters’ tidy house. She went home and got the Fly Tox with the New Miracle Ingredient, DDT. It came in a cylinder with a piston, and the juice was in a tin can at one end. My mother followed the fly until it landed on a frame of a picture of an exotic Spanish gypsy dancer in a circle of light, and gave it a good squirt. Sodden, it fell to the floor. She picked it up with a piece of newspaper, and threw it outside. Three days later, a fish was floating belly up in the bowl! It had lost its gold colours. A fish named after one of Mr. Peters’ horses. He was so upset. ‘Do I put the horse out to pasture? Do I defy fate and place bigger bets on him? Then he shrugged and laughed and laughed. My friend was back.
MAN’S WILL AND GOD’S WILL
When I was a mere lad, my friends had a parrot. A large evil eyed parrot with a blue tongue. Everyone knows parrots can talk, but Pretty Boy refused to. Neighbourhood kids made screechy voices and said endlessly: “who’s a Pretty Boy?” But the parrot put its head to one side and silently looked back with an evil glint. Without the parents near (for the family were good Catholics) the boys tried to teach it to swear. ‘Shit, bugger, bum’. Not me. I had read Treasure Island and tried to teach it: “Pieces of Eight, Pieces of Eight”, or, more ambitiously, “Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum”, for that is what proper parrots should utter, but obviously my shy, tentative contribution wouldn’t have the accumulated effect of the repeated mantra: “Shit, bugger, bum”. One Sunday the family went to church leaving grandmother wrapped in a blanket in her chair near the radio so she could hear the broadcast Mass. The family returned home and grandmother was tucked into her bed. The boys with evil glee surrounded the parrot on its perch. They repeated, in what they thought was a parrot voice: “Shit, bugger, bum.” The parrot looked from them to the framed painting of Jesus and clearly said with a serious intonation: “Hail Mary full of grace, Hail Mary full of grace”. The boys ran. Father O’Flaretty was right, God IS always watching.
Illustration by David Wansbrough