Thursday 21 August 2008

Today, I saw a pair of pigeons engaged in the procreative act. I was intrigued, for it looked not only most uncomfortable but also highly impractical. Precarious too, as the young lovers had chosen a very precarious old, decaying branch for their deed of feathery passion. It was all very unromantic too. I thought BC was not good for the ladies, but his efforts against my partner's tranquillity pale significantly when compared with the pigeon. It was over in seconds, amid much flapping of wing, and his lady looked distinctly unimpressed. I almost felt sorry for her, considering she was by now, in all probability, with egg. After this lusty interlude, the couple just went on with the business of building their nest. Not even a post-coital biscuit.

All this was viewed through my partner's office window the other day. It has been preying on my mind, so I am glad to have finally had the opportunity of committing the event to blog. For, I have been denied access to my computer of late. My partner has been adapting a poem into a short stage play. She has been asked to produce and direct a small piece of drama for a group of local children to act at an environment-themed day in October. Unable to find anything readily available that suited the purpose, she turned to the last bastion of support for the needy - Yahoo Answers. I highly recommend it. A bright spark replied and recommended Dr. Seuss's The Lorax. My partner was dubious (not being the biggest fan of green eggs and ham or cats in hats on mats, nor even the duck with luck having a ..., etc.), but when she tracked the poem down, and we read it together, it proved to be absolutely perfect. A serious, valid message, clearly presented, yet not so bleak and chilling that it would distress young and sensitive children. A bit like me, really.

So now, my partner is engaged in forming the poem into a playlet suitable for the children to perform. It is proving a little more challenging that she anticipated, but I believe the initial work is almost done. Honestly, it was Jane Austen last year and Dr. Seuss this year. I sincerely hope there will not be any Fedor Dostoevsky-themed events next year to occupy her and keep my blog and I apart. I have been trying to teach her to say "No", but all I can achieve is a small sound similar to "Of course, I'd love to." The only time she ever correctly pronounces "No" is when I am inexplicably detected in naughtiness. It simply isn't fair.

Yet I digress. I had segued nicely from the pigeon incident to my partner's office before I became distracted. The same day of seeing the pigeon-tryst was the first time I had seen Ewan after he confided to me his fears regarding a sinister lump found on his body. Upon my arrival at the office, poor Ewan was trembling and looking exceedingly forlorn.
"How's it going?" I asked, kindly, "Did you get on alright at the vet's?"
"Didn't go last night." he shivered, "I think I'm going tonight." He leaned in closer. "Jasper, I'm scared. I think it's got a bit bigger."
"Oh no!" I sympathised.
"Oh yes. Last night I was just lying down, thinking about cheese, and I swear that it was bigger. It's still leaking that hot runny greeny-stuff as well." The poor dog began to whimper. I pitied him.
"Well," I said, "It might not do you much good, but would you like me to have a look at your lump? I might be able to smell if there is anything seriously wrong. No promises, but I could try..." Ewan's eyes brightened.
"Oh, would you Jasper?" he said, "I'd be ever so grateful." Ewan flopped onto his side, exposing his skinny, furry belly. I commenced my examination.

After several moments of looking, I had not been able to locate the lump and I could smell neither infection nor tumour. I stole a glance at Ewan's face - he was looking pensive, still waiting earnestly for my prognosis.
"Erm," I said. Ewan jumped at the sound of my voice. "I can't seem to find your lump, Ewan."
"Are you sure?" he asked, trembling, "It's pretty big. You should be able to see it."
"Well, where should I look?"
Ewan craned his neck around to look at me, and jabbed his paw in the general direction of his lower belly.
"Quickly, Jasper." whimpered the unfortunate dog, sounding like the very epitome of dignified suffering, "It's getting dark... I think this might be it...." he howled mournfully. I hurried to examine more closely Ewan's shuddering body.

I found his lump.

"Ewan."
"Yes, Jasper? Should I go towards the light, Jasper? Goodnight, sweet friend...."

"EWAN!"
Ewan opened his eyes and looked at me hopefully. I hardly knew what to tell him. But the painful truth had to be told. "Ewan, that... that lump.... that lump is.... your willie."
"What?!"
"It is your willie."
Ewan looked down sharply, back up at me, then down at himself again.
"Ah, but no. Yes, no - Jasper." he replied, "What about that horrible hot stuff that comes out?"
I sighed.
"Ewan, does that 'stuff' coming out coincide with your trips to the toilet, by any chance?" Ewan tilted his head while he considered this.
"Ye-es." he said, "D'you know, I think it does. Oh, Jasper, what is it? Do you think we shall ever know?"
"It's WEE, Ewan. That is YOU, going to the toilet. It is your own, normal, healthy wee."
Ewan started wagging his tail, and he licked my nose.
"Does this mean that I am not going to die in a minute, then?" he asked. I merely glared at him.
"Possibly, Ewan." I replied dryly, "Possibly." I was not even going to ask about the cheese.
"Wow, Jasper. You're brilliant." enthused Ewan, "You should be on the television."
"I'd only fall off." I replied sourly. I was not in the mood for ANY further conversation with the pea-brained Ewan.
"What?"
"Ewan, would you like to play a little game I have invented?"
"Oh, brilliant! Yeah!!"
"It's called 'Ewan Sits in the Corner All Day and Doesn't Annoy Jasper'. Off you go."
"Wahey! Great game, Jazz!" Yes. I thought so, too.

And thus ended Ewan's brush with death.

Last week heralded the anniversary of the creation of this blog. Two years since I began sharing my thoughts with the world. I had hoped to have something more worthy to share with you on this occasion than Ewan and the everyday functions which baffle him so. How the mighty are fallen.

Good night.