Of cats and dogs

20 May, in the year of our Lord 202o

Up, after a night disturbed by strange dreams where in one I did play the cornet for a party in a tavern, which I have never done in my life and know not even what is a cornet, and another a night dread where I did develop a huge tumorose Lesion on my right leg which was diagnosed as a lymfoma, but this by Rosie the maid in the Gardens where I help on Thursdays, who is an expert at fleabane and not of Physick or cutting off legs. At the best of times I know not entirely how my Mind works and this kind of thing does not help. At breakfast, in conversation with my cat which is one-sided but he listens, and when he miaows it is for one of three things: for food, fusse or for play. He hath discovered String and will charge around the room after a length of it or up the stairs or round the plants, which is deliteful but I have made a rod for my back, for his timetable is not my timetable and when I am up he is fast asleep, and when I am at supper or rest he is up and wants to play with String and will not let me alone.
  The morning, and wondered what to do, it being the ninth weeke of Lock Up, which I cannot believe. My library hath been remedied of beetle with a pouder and the hall floor hath had three coates of tile polish when it had none in three years. Normally on this perticular morning I am to my keyboard teacher to play duettes, I on a clavichord and she on a Yamachord.
  The weather is as difficult to understand as the First Lord his new Rules, and just as two days ago it was cold and wet so that I lit a coal fire in the hearth, today was warm so that I left off my waistcoat. Before dinner with Banjo to the garden, I dragging behind me on the grass a long piece of String which goes taught once in a while. Between my plants I found mounds of earth and one in the Lawn, which did vex me. Animals are a solace and Banjo is, but I think mouldwarps are not and I told Banjo I wished he would catch them and not voales at three a’clock in the morning (tho’ not chomp on them in the bedroom, which is an annoyance in the dark more than a night dread). The afternoon warm, so I did try to engage with the New Rules as much as I do not understand them, and went out without appearing to go out to take my Exercise up or down alleys where I might or might not bump into an acquaintance, and to a shoppe I might or might not have known to be open, where my Essential Purchases were a gazette and some Midget Jems, which are like tiny pieces of the Crowne Jewelles that you can chew, though they do not last as long. Then home.
  Before supper, the Messenger with news from M. Jones, who hath combed all the hair out of his Poudle to stop it heating up, which is a black animal with a curly pelt that needs clipping like topiary, and he has clipped his into the shape of a dog. He hath also prepared for himselfe a hearty stew, which I did think called cock o’van, a name from beyond The Pale; but he says no, it is coq au vin and French, but must not be confused with making the beast with two backs in a Ford Transit, which is different again. I understood not one word of that last but think it typical of the French to provide nice food on Occasions like that.
  After supper, Banjo sweete and demanding of a fusse, so I picked him up to scratch his ears and he squirmed in my arms because he loves it. He does not miaow for foreplay, that is the wrong impression, we are just friends. And he is not one-sided; he is three Dee. And so to bed.

By andywmacfarlane

I am a retired medic who likes messing around with a bit of writing, and friends seemed to like my social media postings of "Samuel Pepys: The Covid Diaries". So I'm having a go at blogging them.

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