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Dear Hamish : poetry

Thank you for the fine birthday card. It is ‘awesome’ as some here say. I was sorry to hear about the card you received from the unknown sheep who wrote ‘Shall I compare you to a cow patty.’ I have an idea who it was. Two ideas.

Pawnee Kitty has been on a poetry kick. She believes she is the ‘Master of Haiku’ and scribbles them constantly, waving them in my face. This is my haiku to her.

Horrible Kitty.
Breathes meat breath in my nostrils.
I am disgusted.

I also did this one. I have several versions of it.

Heather and Peatmoss
Most horrid twins in the world.
We are disgusted.

So, hah to Pawnee. I can write haiku too. I’m nea Robbie Burns, but I got the hang of it after a bit. Pawnee had this grand idea I should write the haiku to potential sweeties. I’m horrified to admit it is not a bad thought.

Wool curls frame her face.
Her eyes, dew drops in the sun.
Her lips are divine.

Unfortunately, I seem to be better at writing them about Pawnee then potential sweeties. It took me three days for the one above and only a minute for the one below that I wrote for an ex-potential sweetie

Potential Sweetie
You ate pineapple tops, ugh
Alone, again. Sigh.

I think I can haiku negative poems better than positive. I think I need to start working on me crofts and stop thinking about haikus and haikuing. Now if I can only get Pawnee to stop.

From the colonies,

Feeling another anti-Pawnee haiku emerging

Angus. McSheep.

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Pawnee Kitty Sits
Pen in paw, inspiration
Another Haiku

Aud had a book and the main character wrote haiku. That’s all I remember about the book because it wasn’t at all interesting. Then, as I was sitting there, about to nod off, a haiku came to me. Just like that!

Little kitty walks
Glides by on soft paws, pauses
blinks an I love you.

I think I might be a haiku master. Really. Because then another haiku came to me.

Sad little kitty
sitting alone in the house.
Doorbell rings. A friend.

I went to show Angus. I’d only gone two steps when, BAM:

Angus, wooly ram
Wants his horns to grow in, now
Impatient Angus.

I am seriously good at this thing. Talbot, one of my bestest friends in the whole wide world ever, was a poet. Here’s one of her poems.

Forbidden Flowers

Red flowers, dried flowers
You’re such a delight.
So tasty, so crunchy
I could eat you all night.
Alas, though your mercy
is not directed at me.
I eat you, I throw up.
I am in misery.
But, lo before one
thinks me insane.
Red flower, dried flower,
You’re worth all this pain.

That poem really speaks to me. It’s epic. All my kitty friends relate to it.

Me: Hey, Angus. Look. I can haiku.

Angus: That’s brilliant. Now, be off with ye. You’re interrupting me work.

Me: You’re just obsessing about your latest potential sweetie.
And then I get the most brilliant idea ever.
Me: You can do a haiku for her. A poem. A love poem. Here, I’ll write one for you because I am really good at this.

Potential Sweetie
Hay breath, top quality wool
My eyes turn to hearts.

Angus: What are you blithering on about? That’s horrible. And I don’t have a potential sweetie. The last one, she likes pineapple tops.
He shudders.

Me: So, then what are you, oh.
It’s the twins.

Angus: If I make a haiku will ye go away and leave me to me misery?

Me: I suppose.

Angus: That’s probably a no. But in case it is a yes, here.

Heather and Peatmoss
Most horrid twins in the world
I suffer greatly.

‘Tis nea Robbie Burns, but it’ll do. Now go. Be off.

I leave, but I stay close. I might come up the perfect haiku to cure Angus’ woes.

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Dear Hamish

Congratulations on the grand win against the next village. Our football team is the best! I was sorry to hear you were chased by the big ram. The twins lay low for a wee bit after letting him out, and stuck close to home afterwards. The farmer was nae happy.

Pawnee Kitty decided to have a Texas style party, a ‘Party on the Patio’. Apparently her best friends in the whole world (sadly departed) indulged in them. The proceeds are to go to the Homeless Kitty & Doggie (and Lambs) Foundation for those in Houston. She will hold more fundraisers for Florida, Puerto Rico and environs, and Mexico City, as well as California where the fires were. She wishes to make sure that even after all this time, since the disasters struck, that those in need are being tended to.

This ‘Party on the Patio’ was, where else, on the patio. Many people in the colonies have patios. They are concrete squares at the rear of their crofts. Some are grand, some not so much. Like this one. But that did not dissuade Pawnee Kitty who ‘cranked’ up the ZZ Top song Party on the Patio for, yes, there is such a song. (For your interest, Aud saw two of the three members of ZZ Top at the Houston airport waiting for their luggage.)

As this was a ‘Do Not Nibble on the Other Guests’ party, a great variety showed up. They carried coins and bills in their beaks, mouths, claws, paws, and wings. Another for your interest, the local wildlife tend to have a good bit of money. They line their dens and nests with found bills and store coins up for moments when they need them, like Parties on the Patio.

I counted coins and put them away. One of the hawks was eying me and I wished not to partake in all the festivities for fear someone will forget the ‘Do Not Nibble’ rule. I am sure a squirrel went missing. Pawnee says no. For all I know she had squirrel stew that evening.

The party started at dawn and didn’t end until a little after dusk. This was so those who are active at different times of the day could participate. I now know the whole Party on the Patio song by heart and can sing it backwards. I even choreographed a Highlands dance to it I heard it so often. I can dance it in my sleep and I think I have. I wake up and me poor wee legs are tired.

Must rest now,

your friend in the colonies

Angus. McSheep.

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I was taking a nap when I heard Agnus’ hooves, clop, clop, clopping, over the wooden floors. He was running. Fast. I dropped down from my spot, which was a huge mistake because he changed his course and grabbed me.

“I have Lyme disease. West Nile virus. I’m been infected by the plague and the Zika and,” he took a deep breath, nearly sucking in all the air in the room. “Ebola.”

I’m not sure sheep can get Ebola.

“I have to be disinfected. With your super bug spray. RIGHT NOW!” He shakes me.

“I don’t have bug spray. Did you have a bug?” This is interesting. Angus is very afraid of mosquitoes and ticks which are a fact of life in the our realm. Well, his. I can’t say when I last had a tick latch on me. Crawled yes, but not dug in to feed.

“A tick. On me shoulder.” He points. I see no evidence of a tick. “I flicked it off with me hoof.” He’s now waving his fore hoof at me as if the tick had stuck on that.

“I still don’t see a tick.”

Angus sags to the ground. He’s fainted. While I wait for him to come back to consciousness, I inspect him for ticks. There aren’t any. No ticks. No fleas. No mosquito bites. My last dusting was doing well. Still, it won’t hurt to wave the plant around him again. Which I do. It’s best to do it when he’s not awake or he’ll eat the plant and, I’m told, it can cause a tummy ache.

Angus wakes and wobbles to his feet. “I feel weak.”

“You always do when get up from a faint. You’ll be okay in a second. I dusted you.” I hold up the plant stalk, but keep it well away.

Angus begins rubbing the powder in him wool. “I can’t believe it. Dead. So young,” he sobs.

“You’re not dying. Where were you anyway when you found the tick?”

“In me usual spot when I conduct me business.”

His cell phone then.

Leaving him to massage the powder in, I go over. No tick. All I find is a bit of sock fluff. Aud tends to leave them around. I return.

Angus looks up, and gasps. “The tick!”

“This?” I hold up the ball of cotton. “It’s sock fluff.”

“What?” He snatches it from my paw, eyes narrowed. He squeezes the bit of fluff. “Sock fluff. Oh, I shall complain.” He marches off, fluff held high.

I yawn and hop back to my napping spot. The sun is just shining perfect on it and I don’t want to miss it.

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Dear Hamish,

Thank you for your Christmas Skype. It’s always nice to see those from back home. And nae, I didn’t really notice your black eye. Well, maybe a little. Okay, a lot, but I’m sure it’s better now. A pity Heather had to duck and it was your face the candle hit. A good thing it went out after Peatmoss threw it.

You asked about, ‘You-Know-Who’, aka Pawnee Kitty. I recently found a book that listed several attributes on kitties. They are all so true. Here is my chart.

Slitty eyes – yes

Smelly – yes

Stares at others – a big yes

Takes notes – probably

Thinks about food ALL THE TIME – yes (she even asks me food questions and I’m VEGAN)

Loves only those who has food in their hand – probably.

Pawnee Kitty, of course, refutes all this. Aud will not respond. Later, Pawnee asked for proof. She added that, technically, she is not a kitty, but a separate species that is native to this continent. I came, of course, prepared.

Slitty Eyes. I have a photo. Definite snake eyes. Pawnee Kitty says her eyes are normal and who’s eyesight was better, hers or mine? I did not answer.

Smelly. She pressed me whole nose in her fur and made me take a good whiff. In truth, she smelled like hay, but that may have been because she’d been sleeping on my bed because she does that, you know, takes a nap on it.

So, okay, she’s not smelly. But she does have an odor and at times smells like a meat item.

Stares. She cannot refute this. She does stare. A lot. I can sometimes feel her eyeballs on me, studying me, mentally dicing me up as a potential snack. Pawnee points out this is me paranoia speaking. She never did say she didn’t stare. That is so totally a kitty thing.

Taking notes. I found them and flapped them in her nose. Unfortunately they were not in English so I don’t know what they said.

Thinks about food ALL THE TIME. She asks me food questions ALL THE TIME. She is so nosy. That should be on my list. Cats are nosy. They are nosy, nosy, nosy.

Loves only those who have food in their hands. I didn’t try this out. I do not need Pawnee to love me. Or even like me.

I must go and spy some more on Pawnee,

Will text later,

Yours, from the colonies,

Angus. McSheep

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I’m amazed at how many Scottish festivals there are in SC. Last week we went to Tartenfest. Angus had to go to be reinvigorated by all things Scottish. I had to go with him. Little kids want to hug him and then there are the sheep dogs. They just about come running when they sense Angus. It’s actually kind of funny. Angus trying to walk from A to B and a sheep dog is trying to get him to go right.

“Stop herding me!” Angus cries. A little hiss and a bop on the nose usually does the trick.

This year I went in my brand new Tarten gear. Angus did a double take when he saw it.

“Nay! Where did ye get that?” He rushed over to inspect the pattern. “This is nae Scottish.” It’s like I  committed a federal crime.

“You like it? Friends made it for me. Look, green for the forests, light brown and bits of red for the desert, gray for the mountains. This is for the prairie and this is…”

But he’s got his hooves to his cheeks in delight. Or horror. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

“I thought I’d be more festive,” I tell him.

“You’ll stay far away?”

“I heard there’s a whole pack of sheep dogs coming. That’ll be fun.”

“You’ll stay close then?” Angus got a bit stressed out when he got in the middle of one of those that last time. “You’ll run them off,” he adds.

I was lucky a few dogs came to do their tricks so I wasn’t fibbing afterall. They all stood there, tall, eyes feasting on Angus, licking their chop, straining at the leash to go after Angus and herd him to wherever. I strolled behind Angus, me and my beautiful Tarten suit, britches and shirt. It’s not as comfortable as my buckskins, but I can take it for a little while. I can even dance in it, which I do when Angus hops on the table he rented and does his routine. People give him money for his moves. Some people comment on my attire. I should have gotten a tam as well. But I don’t like headgear.

There were bagpipes. There was dancing. There was stuff sold. It was a three day event and Angus went every day. I got a bit tired of it all, but I did promise. Now to get him to go to a cat show.

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Dear Hamish,

Thank you for telling me about the new Woolies album. I shall order it as soon as it comes out. I can’t wait. I was sorry to hear about your run-in with the chicken. If I remember correctly Peatmoss needed some feathers and I’m thinking she left the coop open. I hope your mum can fix the hole the chicken pecked in your kilt. Thank goodness the beak missed your body.

I’ve had another ‘illuminating’ discussion with Pawnee Kitty. One really has to wonder where she comes up with some things. Maybe ’tis because her head is so empty. We were having one of our ‘ay’, ‘ay’ discussions. You know. Like we do. I say ‘ay’. Then you say ‘ay’. And we know exactly what we are talking about. When I do this with Pawnee, who knows what she’s saying. Yesterday she stopped and said.

“This non discussion is making me feel like a cavesheep.”

“There are no cavesheep.” (That was me.)

“Cavesheep. Your ancestors. I picture unshorn sheep wearing ragged kilts, holding spears.” Pawnee.

“Ye, silly ewe. We don’t use spears. We don’t hunt.” Me.

“Grass. Back then you had to hunt grass. Back then wool only grew so long. No fluffy, fluffy sheep. The kilt is half woven reeds and wool strands gathered from the brambles.” Pawnee.

“And what makes you such an expert?” I ask.

“Don’t you ever wonder. And the only word mini sheep said was: ay. Picture this. One sheep waving his spear. Ay. Ay. That means I spotted grass. Ay. Ay. Ay. That means it’s real close. And then there’s a stampede of sheep running down the hill waving spears and yelling ay, ay. ay, which in this case means someone get the cooking pot ready.”

One really has to wonder about Pawnee. I had to distance myself from her and I snuck off while she went on and on about cavesheep and shouting ay, ay, and hunting make believe grass.

It’s time to go out and grab some grass before the geese take it. I will write more later.

Yours, in the colonies.

Angus. McSheep.

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