Digital Ischemia


A Terriering Hurry

Filed under: Shorts — Tags: , , , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 16:45

A farm track heads due south from the village church. On both sides are rough pasture tending to moorland, usually populated by horses/cows/ragwort. The track runs for about a mile until it arrives perpendicularly at a rural road. Roughly halfway along there is a dogleg right between a few remnant scrubby beeches and rowans. The verge is wildly uneven and sprinkled with gorse and broom and seasonal wildflowers. The sky is vast and you can see the weather heading toward you 20 miles west.

One day, on my return north, or in fact east on the dogleg, I encountered an actual dogleg, several, comprising a whole dog. One wee dirty white westie terrier catapulted into sight around the bend. We faced each other, both instantly wary: I froze; the westie screeched to a halt with dust clouds billowing from its feet. It panted. I had elevated breathing. I don’t like dogs of any size ‘being friendly’. We shuffled a wee trackway do-si-do then I acquiesced and stepped on to the verge, vanquished by the westie’s adrenaline haze. The dog revved up, cartoon-style, and catapulted— no, dog-a-pelted by me, around the other bend and out of sight. Last seen heading south at full tongue loll, legs going like wheel spokes.

I was captivated by the exhilaration radiating from that wee face. Anthropomorphisation, of course, but the sheer exuberance seemed unmistakable. I would say so to its human companion in due course. I rounded the bend and saw the track heading north to the village. Empty. I’d not passed anyone going out, nor returning this far. Perhaps they were behind that wee rise a quarter of a way from the village… No.

The wee dog was utterly unattended. Where was it going? Where fae? Finally, my only limp hypothesis was the kennels a further mile east – an escapee? Liberated by its own nifty cunning and pelting hame or just anywhere, with the euphoria of restored freedom… Maybe. It gave me a smile.



Filed under: Shorts — Tags: , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 16:18

I’m on a rock in a young plantation, waiting for Kelly to come back. You remember I said about the daft cloud dog?
“He’s just being friendly,” the woman called as the hefty cloud lumbered at me, buffeting me all ways.
I have slavers with brown chunks down one sleeve and hair strewn across my trousers. The perils of a public path, eh? My hands and legs prickle, sting, burn. My skin is allergic to dogs and whatever they rub up against before me.

Second time I hear the shrill, hoarse call, I step up the banking. The lumbering oaf lopes at me anyway. What’s she saying?
“He’s just being friendly.”
I step back. He leaps up, face-to-face, paws up my chest, groin up my trousers. I fling up my arms, shriek, “oh god, I have skin allergies!” He drops, blunders back to her.
“He’s just being friendly.”
“I appreciate that, that’s why I stood out of the way!”
She clucks over the befuddled beast. I meander away, dazed, my hands tingling, my legs prickling.
By the time I get home my legs are on fire. So much for breathable fabric.

Next time… Here’s Kelly back. She’s brought me a rabbit. She loves rabbits. She plays with them. No harm done. It rearranges itself, scampers away. She caws proudly, jumps on to my shoulder.
Next time I’ll call, “she’s just being friendly,” as Kelly shakes out her glossy black wings, shrieks and swoops at the hapless mutt.

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