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.

ch.2, v.16-42 (fears)

This obstacle you have set in my path, o my companion,
It is a great and awful tribulation.
It looms before me as insurmountable as the summit of Mt. Mansfield.
It gapes across my pathway as terrifying as the terrible abyss of solitariness.

For unto our dwelling place
You have brought this felis catus, my greatest enemy.
Into the sturdy walls of the den of our pack,
You have brought this fugitive from the reservoir of my nightmares.




Yea, the curly coated one greets the arrival of the demon with joyful prancing
As she will greet guests arrived at our door for a celebration.
Yea, for she sees in this mutant form a soft and running thing
With which to make play and entertainment between her nappings.

But her confidence is the confidence of ignorance.
It is a blindness as when the curls of her coat grow thick before her eyes.
She sees not the needles tenfold upon the sudden paws of this beast
Nor the slicing and dicing and shredding for which they are formed.

Neither does she see that jaw of this beast tho diminutive
When unsealed does reveal row upon row of ivory razors
Sharper even than the teeth of the mouths of puppies
And formed for the tormenting of canines.

Nay, neither do the humans see with unclouded eyes
The true form of the strangeness they have brought unto our den.
They perceive not the flickering lens set sideways that does track figments unseen by us,
Nor do they comprehend this repudiation of gravity that does shake the very foundation of our physical realm.

O my companion, you do set in my path a great and awful challenge.
Behold how I do meet it with fortitude and determination
And sometimes a little bit of growling and whimpering.

ch. 10, v.31-43 (melting of the snows)

Tremble before the voice of dog; this is wisdom of your kind.
Retreat from this field before her swift and thundrous charge
Like ripples fleeing a boulder fallen into a stream.
Scatter before the bark of her resonant chest
As scatter the desiccated leaves of autumn before the gales of spring.



Yea, make the limbs of the trees your haven,
There to chatter the chatterings of your mouth at the ears of dog,
To cast the glance of your eye down upon her fearsome head,
And also the stray nuts of your storehouse.

But grow you not complacent in your altitude
For the eye of dog is upon you
Even as you travel the woody highway of the timber.
Her vigilance is ever vigilant.


Yes, I'm using the squeaky Uncle Matty voice here.
It even makes my skin crawl.

ch. 10, v.21-30 (melting of the snows)

In the fields made lush by the abundant waters of this season
Our companions do look upon us and ask together,
"Why does my dog eat of the soil and also of the turf?
What meaning does she ingest with the blade of grass,
What benefits her this meal made of dirt?"






Ask they not of the clear sky what it gains from the floating of the clouds?
Or of the adolescent male what is the benefit of the cool breeze upon his buttocks
That the seat of his trousers does not cover?

The turf and soil are good
And thus we do eat of them.

ch. 10, v.1-20 (melting of the snows)

*warning: some content of this posting may not be appropriate for viewers over 7 years of age.



You see, my companion, how the prescient hand of March
Begins now to draw back the cover of snow and reveals once more
To the sight of your eye and the scent of my muzzle the bed of the earth.




The fruits and limbs fallen with autumn's blow become a nursery
To the generation now germinating beyond our perception.

But beware, my companion, the treachery of this mosaic,
For it is also a subtle camouflage that does play a trick upon your eye.
Place with care each step of your foot as you make the path to collect my deposits,
For hidden here are cryptic and innumerable snares.




Nay, not all puppies of humans track with such devotion the leavings of their canines.
These neighbors do cast aside their eyes and see not that which they know.
They say unto themselves, "I shall not bow down to the labor of this retrieval,
Nor burden my hand with the transformations of kibble and biscuits,
For shall not the precipitations of the sky like sorcery make these remnants
Vanish unto nothingness?"




So they do tell themselves a tale of foolishness,
And make wishes against the legislation of physics.
Thus your path you must choose with caution, my companion,
For now the relics of many a canine digestive tract
Do threaten the tread of your deeply molded shoe.




Exegesis and commentary
My apologies to those of you with delicate sensibilities. Sadly, Frida's chastising verses address a too prevalent winter problem that spring makes apparent.

So, not only is it a hassle that, once winter comes, even more dog walkers seem to think it's okay not to pick up after their dogs, but then in the spring, when all of these cryogenicly preserved creations become evident, those of us who will cross muddy fields to pick up after our canine friends are all too likely to step in a poopmine. It is especially challenging in the early spring, when rotting leaves, sticks, mud, pine cones, etc., can be very hard to distinguish from snow-pickled turds.





Looks like a dropping:


But, on closer inspection, we discover decaying bark:


And who can blame the people who like to use the parks and don't have dogs for wishing all the dog walkers would go away? Really, those of you (and you know who you are) who pretend you don't see that your dog is pooping or want to believe that the rain or snow will just make it vanish (poof!), stop kidding yourselves and just pick the turds up. You're just making it that much harder to have a dog-friendly neighborhood.

ch. 9, v.1-22 (beartown state forest)

Our humans say "Here we shall pitch our tent
Where round about us gathers only this population of trees,
Taciturn and shadeful, their summer coats now heavy for the incipient equinox.
We shall rest in their quiet company
And hear in our ears neither the wailings nor the bass beats of chariots that pass upon the road."

Yea, thus deem our companions, but an invasion plagues this verdant wood--
A rampant brotherhood of chips o'erruns its peacefulness and calm.

Their squeakings are as like a multitude of tiny but sharp arrows
Delivered o'er the full journey of the sun across the sky
And shot from every branch of every tree and, yea, every crevice of every hillock upon the ground.
They taunt and tease dogkind, shaking at us their striped habits
And drawing us off the way of the path into the tangle of vines and thorns.





Again and again I give chase to drive them from us but their host is too vast
And my haunches grow weary from the pursuit.
Yea, tho' I be a varmit-hound of great prowess,
Tho' generations of rodents have trembled upon tree limbs at my thunderous alarum,
We cannot prevail, my companions, here in this western land.
Their numbers are too numerous and their retreats too swift;
They laugh a squittering laugh at our fruitless charges.



So thus we fold again our tent and pack again our provisions
And take refuge in this anonymous den, strangely sterile of scent
But like a fortress in its quiet and removal from the chipmunks legion.



Exegesis and commentary
Our fall camping trip took us to the campground at Beartown State Forest, where we saw no bears but more chipmunks than I've ever seen in one place before. The campground was lovely, and virtually empty, with Benedict Pond next to it for Frida's frequent dips.


We had a few beautiful fall days for camping and hiking, but as a major rainstorm approached for the last few days of our stay, we took a room in a motel just outside of downtown Great Barrington. It was Frida's first stay in any sort of "travel lodge" and she did surprisingly well. I thought she would be inclined to bark at the comings and goings of our neighbors, but she kept perfectly quiet.

Our hikes consisted of the trails around Benedict Pond, which included an intersection with part of the Appalachian Trail; a short walk to Bash Bish Falls on the New York border, which was disappointing after all the hype, and of course Frida was disappointed that she couldn't go in the water; and a beautiful hike up Monument Mountain.


Doesn't she look sad?




It was a relatively short hike--which was good, since the rainstorm was imminent--but a very satisfying trail with great views.

ch. 8, v.1-24 (4 Nov. 08)

My companion, why weepest thou before the box of figments?
Why keepest this watch so late into the night?

The sight of my eyes perceives not the meaning of these lights,
But to the anvil of my ear comes a beautiful vibration.



Is this a distant thunder we hear?
O, praise the inauguration of these torrents,
May they soon wash across our streets and fields
So long now befouled with the excrement of bovines.
(Nay, not the posting of scat that informs the legion receptors of my muzzle,
But a deep and o'erwhelming putridity that turns away even this canine nose
--and turns also away the fellowship of our neighbors--
And keeps from our knowing the full length and breadth of our land,
Its many traces and paths and the fruitfulness we may there discover.)

Is this a trumpet call we hear, an alarm waking us
From a nightmare of apocalypse?
Before the wave of its resonance
Shades of anxiety and hobgoblins of scarcity
Seem to disperse and our eight-fold fears become as vapors
Blown away by a blast from the bellows of this artisan.



O humans of our territory
Prove now to us that the strangely large gray matter of your craniums
Is truly a storehouse of wisdom and not an armory alone.
Seize you now the swords and uzis of your mind
And use this forge to work them anew into plowshares and question marks.



Exegesis and commentary
I did not know Frida had such a liberal and heralding frame of mind. In fact, I've frequently assumed that if she could express a political affiliation she would be "conservative" in the sense that she prefers for things to remain as they are--and does not like for people to behave in unfamiliar or unconventional ways.

But she does value care and guidance, good pack manners, the regulation of greedy snatchingness (well, she'd like to be greedy and snatching herself but respects that we enforce portioning and the respect thereof), and a careful assessment of one's environment before rash action. Her behavior has always suggested the importance of a good show of strength, but that is usually accompanied with considerable anxiety on her part and she is quite happy when Nadja or I will manage new interactions with diplomatic approaches.

Except with terriers. She's been hearing about this War on Terriers for years now and she has taken it far too much to heart.