ch.2, v.43-51 (fears)

The clangorousness of a thousand cataclysms does clangor upon the edge of our territory
And also assails with terrible vibrations the delicate tissues of the ossicles of my head.

Who are these clamoring hordes? Whence this host of machine-wielders,
Who press the earth beneath their frightful mechanisms?



The bedrock of the earth they crack asunder with the blows of awful hammers
And the bodies of trees they slice and sliver with the sharpness of their knives.



O my companion we must away from this cacophony that cracks and slivers upon my head.
Give me this humble corner for the hiding of my beleaguered hide.
Force not upon me the audition of this concert of destruction.



Exegesis and commentary
Actually, it was construction, on an old house across the street that has been renovated to become two or three condos. But the noise was pretty awful, at least for a few weeks, while they used modified scoops to break up the bedrock behind the house, but for Frida even those sounds that were less painful for us (random hammering and sawing, as well as the constant beeping of trucks as they backed up) were pure torture. Not only is she sensitive to those kinds of noises, but they can really trigger her anxiety. She let me know how much the noise was bothering her by resisting the move to the living room pretty dramatically each time I would leave; that had never been a problem before, and she always gets a special treat when I go (see "kong" in icon's left hand).


So the ongoing construction led me to try an experiment that was, briefly, a success: I allowed her to have access to the rest of the house during the day while I was gone. As some of you know, b/c of her anxiety Frida has had to be restricted everywhere I've lived to one or two carefully "dog-proofed" rooms. Otherwise, she would work out her stress on whatever interesting object came to hand (as it were) and eat herself sick.

I was thrilled when this worked. I could come home after eight hours away, and aside from a few tissues selected from a trash can, everything was fine. Amazing. Worlds away from the dog who ate parts of my clothes, chewed up pens, spilled olive oil all over the living room floor, destroyed a variety of Sarah Klein's tresors, etc. I thought we had entered into a new phase in Frida's life. She could choose a nice den to retreat to during the day, and the cat could enjoy socializing with her canine siblings.

But, apparently, after a few weeks, the charm wore off. A trash can knocked over here, a food container disemboweled there, and bit by bit she was getting more bold in her explorations again. So she's back to being confined to the living room, which she's not crazy about (she resists a bit), but at least the construction is done.