by Lea Tassie
***
Pied Piper arrived one morning and sprayed the house. George and I played on the beach most of the day, waiting for the air to clear. It was wonderful to walk back into the house knowing we wouldn't be attacked by savage little black specks. However, Ben wasn't quite so happy. Between paying Pied Piper and having bought a dog house, dog dishes and a leash, his budget for the month was a mess.
"Don't forget the egg money," I teased. "That brings in at least ten to fifteen dollars a week."
Ben put down his pen, scowling. "You know I don't regard the egg money as income. It goes to offset the feed expense, that's all. When we average out the net cost of the chickens over a couple of years, I'm sure we'll be getting top grade eggs and meat for half what we'd spend in a supermarket."
It occurred to me that Ben wasn't including the cost of our labor in his calculations, but I didn't want to raise that point and spoil his fun.
On Wednesday, Ben brought home the Samoyed pup, an adorable two-month old bundle of soft, thick, white fur, bright eyes and alert ears, eager to make friends with everyone. He bounded over to George, tail wagging, and got a sharp smack across the nose for his trouble.
The pup scuttled back to Ben, whimpering, and George stalked from the room. He was annoyed at having his territory invaded again, but I knew he'd have the dog under his paw in no time.
"Have you thought of a name for the pup?" I asked.
"It was a lot easier than naming the farm." Ben picked up the puppy and soothed him. "He's called Nicky, after the dog I had when I was a kid. Let's go walk around the farm, Nicky, and you can learn what you have to guard."
Off they went, Nicky frisking around Ben's feet, and I put on my blackberry-picking armor. Heavy denim jeans, long-sleeved jacket, rubber boots, and a scarf over my hair so the thorns wouldn't snag it. In our five months on the farm, we'd learned that even black thumbs couldn't kill a blackberry vine. Axes weren't much good either. I didn't really mind because the ripe, juicy blackberries were delicious. But the vines didn't give up their berries without a fight; they stabbed and strangled on contact.
That evening, after freezing two dozen containers of blackberries, I said, "Are you sure Nicky will be all right out in his dog house? He's just a baby."
"Dogs are supposed to sleep outside."
That didn't last long. Nicky howled non-stop and neither of us could stand it. Ben brought him in and tried to settle him on the mat at the back door, but the pup was having none of that, nor would he stay in the blanket-padded box Ben put beside our bed. He finally stopped whimpering when Ben let him up on the bed beside us.
George arched his back and growled. Nicky snuggled into the safety of Ben's arms. George walked over, sniffed the cowering pup, and returned to my pillow.
"You may have to get used to it, George," Ben said. "My dog book says Samoyeds slept in the reindeer herders' tents and helped keep them warm. Nicky's racial memories tell him that big happy families all sleep in the same bed."
"Fleas think so, too." I gave George a soothing stroke. "Good thing our bed is king-sized."
X - Life's Little Lessons
One of the irritating things about small islands is that time seems to run slower than in the city, particularly for tradesmen. Since Cal couldn't fix the pool cover motor, we called in an expert from Victoria, who promised to come 'right away.' He arrived ten days later. I groused to Ben that 'instantly' probably meant five days.
In the meantime, Ben swam every afternoon, competing with leaves, dead flies and, to my horror, the odd cruising snake. At first he was willing to spend the necessary half hour skimming the pool but the novelty soon wore off and he conceded victory to the wildlife, dead or alive.
When the pool man came we gave him lunch and fresh coffee before taking him out to look at the pool. He looked, fixed the motor, and gave us a bill for $700.
Ben enjoyed his dip in a clean pool that afternoon but I didn't take my usual pleasure in the pool-side sunshine and fresh martini. The pool and its problems were annoying me. "Why don't we fill this thing with soil and plant a flower garden?"
Ben stared at me. "You've got to be joking. We have this beautiful, luxurious pool and you want to make a garden out of it?"
"Well, yes, I… "
"And who is this 'we', white woman? It would be me planting the garden because plants shrivel up and die the minute you look at them."
I ignored the insult and went on. "We'll have to shut it down for winter soon and the weather won't be warm enough for you to go swimming again until May. Besides, the thing is way more expensive to keep up than I thought it would be. I can understand paying for feed, fertilizer and fences but putting it into this pool is like pouring it down a drain."
"Nicky loves it as much as I do," Ben said.
"We can't cough up $700 every five minutes just so Nicky can have a swimming pool." The pup clambered out of the pool and shook himself all over George, who stalked away, swearing.
"You'd better dry him off before he runs into the house," I said. The pup had poked his nose at the cat flap, learned that it moved, and had been scooting in and out that way ever since. George was using it more, too, though he still preferred his bedroom window entrance.
Agitated clucking and squawking from the direction of the henhouse brought us to our feet. When we reached it, Mr. Mighty was strutting back and forth, preventing a clutch of nervous but curious hens from going inside.
Ben peered in and said, "A rat! Get George."
When I came back with George, Ben said, "I think it's a young one. It doesn't seem frightened of me."
"I hope it's afraid of George." I put the King down and he sauntered in.
Instead of pouncing, George sat in front of the rat and stared at it. The rat stared at George. They got up, touched noses and each backed away a foot. After a moment George turned around and sauntered out again.
"Where's your hunting instinct?" I demanded.
He looked up at me as if to say, "Where's yours?" and wandered off to the orchard.
Ben swore, got a shovel and killed the rat himself. Nicky watched and, when Ben gave him the rat's body to sniff, flipped it into the air and 'killed' it a dozen times before we could make him release it.
"That's good training for him." Ben put the shovel away. "He might turn into a better ratter than George."
"The way George brings in trophies nearly as big as he is, I thought he'd be delighted with another rat."
"If that cat had been a lion in an ancient Roman amphitheater and walked away from a fight like that, he'd have been a rug on the emperor's floor quicker than it takes to cook asparagus."
"Where'd you get the asparagus comparison?"
"The emperor Augustus used to say it." Ben shook his head. "Maybe George is only interested in game he stalks himself. That's twice he's refused to kill something you've cornered for him."
"In other words, it's the thrill of the hunt that he likes, not the killing." I returned to the pool and my now warm martini. It was also more than possible that George simply liked to be contrary now and again to remind us who held the imperial scepter.
