Dear Sandy,
° “Riposo” my hind foot!
° Yesterday, as I stood in the Day Garden and pretended to gaze upon the blooming grasses fluffing the Downs, but in fact was taking census of the comets in the pool--about given up on that new white--I saw Something rising to the surface.
° It was an anaconda.
° No, its snout was too blunt.
° It was a shrunken head some prankster--no.
° It was a baby’s shoe, a big baby‘s shoe, its white leather discoloured by long submergence in the oakleaftanninned stagnant depths. The sole was two inches across, the tip had a tiny button thereon, the laces--well, there were two things that looked an awful lot like eyes.
° Anaconda!
° No, snapping turtle, no wonder the little bastard carp fingerlings hadn’t been swarming for food this last week, no wonder New White--steps must be taken!
° So, I took the step of naming the Something “Murky Turt” and forgot all about it.
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° But this morning, as I was trailing out my Pliny walk, I recounted the comets: 2 whites, 4 reds, perciò, 1 red missing!
° As I’d already dealt with the situation by naming Murky Turt, my mind was at ease.
° Until there he was, ghastly white in the early morning light and Chinese green water, rising like a--it was Jaws redux! He was stealthily rising toward the congregation of surviving Pisces!
° So I grabbed him behind the neck and--no, for I remembered childhood country lore, how that snappers can take off a finger.
° So I raced to the Storehouse, retrieved a rockrake, scooped Murky Turt out of the pool, teased him into clamping his jaws onto the handle, then carried him hobostyle down--no, although I remembered childhood country lore, how that snappers will chomp down and not let go for hours.
° So I raked him into the overturned wheelbarrow, measured (shell over 12inches, still a tyke), inspected (scarsigns of having been bushhogged last fall), and chatted with him (telling him what a fascinating monster he was, mio fratello Murky Turt), then wheeled him across the Downs and slid him out into Polky Pond.
° Whereupon I repented, for Polky Pond was sterilised by a major drought some years back, and here I had condemned little Murky Turt to starvation.
° Then I saw that birds had restocked Polky Pond, which was swarming with minnows and selfrestocked frogs and tadpoles.
° Whereupon I repented, for now I had condemned to Death all those little minnows and tadpoles and froglets.
§§§§§
° Spent a most pleasant hourandahalf on the phone with Sanjay at HPSupport/India. In between his longdistancedirecting the reamingout of one of Megalomane’s USBungholes, so that teeninesy electronic images might pass through, we chatted of music, movies (Bride and Prejudice, Monsoon Wedding, Bend It Like Beckham, not Born into Brothels), sex, dating, marriage, snapping turtles, farming, and such like.
° “So, Giac, what crops do you plant on your farm?”
° “O, no crops at all nowadays, just cattle.”
° “You produce milk?”
° “No, we were declared insanitary back in the ’50’s; so it’s just cattle.”
° Silent response.
° I could’ve kicked myself. I thought about mentioning that I myself am vegetarian, but didn’t think that made things a bit better.
° Jeffersonianly hypocritical, Giac.
P. S. Seven years ago, the last few times I accessed HPSupport/(USA), there was nothing but lip lip lip. Wonder why those jobs moved offshore?
