A dog’s capacity for sleep is a wondrous thing. Kaos’s sleep glass is not just half full but brimming over and slopping into a snoozy treacly puddle on the table top. He sleeps for, what, twenty hours of every twenty four? Or appears to, sometimes occupying that half-way fugue state at a point between full consciousness and sense-less oblivion. When he dreams, his legs twitch and his eyes roll as he chases hapless rabbits or misdirected cats. Perhaps his dream net casts further back to his wolverine ancestors and he hunts with his pack, full of cunning guile on an endless plain full of wildebeest or cow-eyed deer. Maybe he’s stationed at the door to a Stone Age cave, permitted wood fire warmth and scraps and bones in return for his protection of the tribe. Who am I to know where a dog’s dreams take him?
When I open my eyes this morning, he is precisely where he was when I closed them, curled up in a ball next to the radiator. That no warmth is emanating from the cold steel panel because I’d switched the central heating off over night simply underlines the force of habit. In his mind, the radiator is a place of warmth and comfort and safety, somewhere to prop his back and stretch his tummy, close enough to me to feel part of the pack but near the bedroom door just in case.
If the heating were to remain off until autumn trails in once again with her misty dew drop fingers and the returning blast of fog horns from container vessels sounding warnings and seeking refuge out in the treacherous shipping lanes, my guess is he’d still sleep there. Such is the power of security and comfort. And habits, once learned, take a long time to break. Sometimes weeks. Sometimes months. Sometimes years.
One of my favourite books when I was very young was called “The Bunny Fluffs’ Moving Day”. It is a Ladybird Book and was originally published in 1948. It’s a wonderful adventure, told in pictures and verse, of the scrapes and escapades that befall the Bunny Fluff family as they move from one house to another. There’s falling into rivers, unexpected mishaps with umbrellas, some lost-getting and stuff-strewing and wrong-doing along the way. I loved the story, made my mother read it to me repeatedly, re-lived every twist and turn afresh with the Bunny Fluff twins each time I heard it. In between times, I’d look through the pictures, hearing my mother’s voice in my head telling me the story in my pre-reading days. The little hard backed book eventually fell apart in spite of the liberal application of brittle 1970s sellotape, but not before I could read the words for myself.
I’ve got my own Bunny Fluffs’ Moving Day later on today. One of my sister’s friends has kindly offered to meet me at the barn with his van so that I can pack up the last of my remaining items. A fridge, a freezer, my mattress. And the dog’s bed.
If it all goes well, I think I’ll order a copy of the book from an online auction site when I get home. I also think that the dog and I may sleep more soundly tonight.
My favorite stories when a little, bitty boy were about rabbits, and I would beg my mother to read them over and over.
ReplyDeleteIf you promise not to tell anyone this, Katy, I also will mention that my favorite stuffed toy was not a dog or a bear, but a rabbit. His name was Blackie, because that was his almost constant condition. Dirty. My grandmother's sewing skills provided him with three or four new suits before he went into the toy box for keeps.
Good morning, Katy.
ReplyDeleteI forgot to mention. I sleep with the dog at the entrance to the cave (really enjoyed that segment), and you reminded me how much I miss the fog horns from when I lived on (by) Lake Superior.
Good morning Fram. Thank you for telling me about Blackie and I promise I won't breathe a word. Do you still have him or has he forever gone to the wonderful warren in the sky, where the foxes are friendly and there's a never endng supply of cow parsley to munch? My favourite toy when very young was also a stuffed rabbit. He went by the name of Bunny and was made of sheepskin. I was sad beyond belief when he finally fell apart and all that was left was a thick thread of leather yarn and one left paw.
ReplyDeleteI love the sound of the fog horns too, they're sort of life affirming in a way aren't they? There is a big commerical dock yard in Sheerness close to where I live. It was a major Royal Navy dockyard for hundreds of years. Samuel Pepys wrote some of his diaries here and local legend has it that when Horatio Nelson died, his body was preserved in a barrel of brandy and he was brought ashore here.
There are very few mementos from my childhood, Katy. My mother took a few things she wanted when her mother moved in with her, and the house was bulldozed. Americans are sort of nuts.
ReplyDeleteOne thing about England, a person could spend a lifetime just absorbing the history of it. Yes, that is a good way of describing the sound of a fog horn. I should be as lucky as old Horatio.