Illumination rumination
The barrage of bluster and sog seems to have passed for the moment, and we have here a fine and bright afternoon to enjoy, to walk leisurely in the open with the sun on our fur, to survey in clear and revealing light the situation on the ground.
The Man has spent most of his time in the mooring dock with his gurgling machinery, pumping out the boggish slurp that has accumulated there. This requires the opening of the massive blast door between the docking area and the garagery — frontally exposing the bunker keep to the outside world, but also offering me an excellent (and somewhat theatrical) point of egress. One day I must discover and master the controlling mechanism of this loud and rumbling blast door. One must not underestimate the potential impact of the occasional sudden and dramatic entrance. I know the squirrels would void their cheeks in utter shock.
The Woman has loaded her transport with the gear and accoutrements of the one called Gran-hama. This Gran-hama arrived on the heels of last week's great storm, and took shelter in my bunker. She was a pleasant and attentive guest, though I fear she credits Fabio with more intelligence than his blubber-couched countenance truly conveys. Her annual departure following the Indulgent Festival of Paper usually portends the removal of the great tree and the onset of the long dark soak of a new year. We shall see how that plays out.
Both Fabio and the Rodent have spent the day in repose, seeking the transient localizations of light and warmth and following them as they migrate west-to-east along the floors and cushions of the fortress. Understandable, though short-sighted; why satisfy oneself with four square feet of ephemeral internal sunlight when the whole outside world is bathed in it? This is a day for exploration and activity, for stretching the limbs and filling the lungs and staving off atrophy (Fabio, I'm looking at you).
It is also a day for heightenend watchfulness, for cats and gran-hamas are not the only creatures that emerge from their holes to greet such warmth. There is no telling what menagerie of vermin and crittery might also be drawn out into the bright balm, so it behooves the vigilant to resist the natural impulse to let indulgence lull us off our guard.
Oop — I hear the blast door closing. Best get back and sweep the garagery for marmots. My work is never done.
The Man has spent most of his time in the mooring dock with his gurgling machinery, pumping out the boggish slurp that has accumulated there. This requires the opening of the massive blast door between the docking area and the garagery — frontally exposing the bunker keep to the outside world, but also offering me an excellent (and somewhat theatrical) point of egress. One day I must discover and master the controlling mechanism of this loud and rumbling blast door. One must not underestimate the potential impact of the occasional sudden and dramatic entrance. I know the squirrels would void their cheeks in utter shock.
The Woman has loaded her transport with the gear and accoutrements of the one called Gran-hama. This Gran-hama arrived on the heels of last week's great storm, and took shelter in my bunker. She was a pleasant and attentive guest, though I fear she credits Fabio with more intelligence than his blubber-couched countenance truly conveys. Her annual departure following the Indulgent Festival of Paper usually portends the removal of the great tree and the onset of the long dark soak of a new year. We shall see how that plays out.
Both Fabio and the Rodent have spent the day in repose, seeking the transient localizations of light and warmth and following them as they migrate west-to-east along the floors and cushions of the fortress. Understandable, though short-sighted; why satisfy oneself with four square feet of ephemeral internal sunlight when the whole outside world is bathed in it? This is a day for exploration and activity, for stretching the limbs and filling the lungs and staving off atrophy (Fabio, I'm looking at you).
It is also a day for heightenend watchfulness, for cats and gran-hamas are not the only creatures that emerge from their holes to greet such warmth. There is no telling what menagerie of vermin and crittery might also be drawn out into the bright balm, so it behooves the vigilant to resist the natural impulse to let indulgence lull us off our guard.
Oop — I hear the blast door closing. Best get back and sweep the garagery for marmots. My work is never done.
so sayeth Shmool on Saturday, December 30, 2006
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