Blegging

When is it ok to beg?

Should you have to beg somebody to marry you? I'd say not in this particular circumstance. Begging here shouts desperation and a ticking biological clock. Love, for that's apparently why we tie the knot, should be offered not extracted.

It's ok for a dog to beg for a bone or a cat to beg for a fish. It's fair to say that I've never seen a cat stoop to such a level. They will capture their want with a level-headed stare and a flick of a claw if necessary, but begging is usually left to their dopey-earred canine 'friends'. A cat's dignity seldom flounders whereas a dog's is often lost in its eternal search for a compatible bottom, upon whichever species the bottom may sit.

Is it ok to ask your partner to stay when you know their heart has strayed an uncapturable distance from your own? You can covert that heart as much as you desire. You can lasso it or harpoon it but it will never stay in your cage. I'd say, in this instance, let the heart go. A little voodoo may be in order but not begging. Buy some pins.

What about when there's only one chocolate left in the box? The little tinfoiled one reaches the height of desirablility when it languishes alone. If there is more than one mouth in its vicinity, then it is OK to beg, especially if one of those near is sticking little pins into a small, ugly doll. Begging should be encouraged in this instance although it shouldn't be necessary as the chocolate should be offered in sympathy. But don't bet on it.

When Funny Face plays on the radio - beg or blast? If begging doesn't work, blast it or hit the radio/cd player/computer with whatever instrument is near at hand that will be able to shut it up. You may not have time to beg, then just bang and blast. Baseball bat or bazooka, your choice.

And it's always OK to bleg your friends for anything... that's what friends are for... and they are inevitably capable of slapping you with a one-eyed wet fish if they feel the need.

Slap!

Mad Dogs

A long time ago, when skin was smoothe and soul untarnished by cynicism, I travelled to London. The big OE was, and still is, the right of passage for many kiwi kids. We needed to connect with and see the real world. The big world.

It was the first time I'd been on a plane, the first time I was separated by great chunks of water from my family. Alone, it was a big adventure, something I'd dreamed of many times as I sat on Takapuna beach watching cruise ships and tankers crawl past Rangitoto.

My cabin bag was heavier than my suitcase and I had to nearly drag it down the aisle while pretending it was feather-weight. Wedging it between my seat and the one in front, it became my footrest for the journey. I remember the zip was threatening to burst so I tried to relieve the pressure by unzipping it a little. But the zip was akin to a bladder awaiting a scan, there is no such thing as a trickle. The contents spewed forth. And at that same moment a baby (German) projectile vomitted across the aisle. The baby bile served as a marinade for the bag's contents.

It was in that bile that my cabin bag acted like a mile-high hangi. So the first story was born before the plane had even taxied down the runway. I burst into tears.

Arriving at London's Heathrow, and after an unexplained chest x-ray I met my two friends as I struggled with my mobile hangi. Dave was an old flatmate and Laima his wife. They were bedraggled by living in Britain. Their hair was lank, their skin pale. It was the eighties and as I hovered under my shoulder pads, their shoulder blades stuck out from thin jumpers.

Delighted hugs and pleasantries were exchanged before we started on our way 'home'. My new home was Little Baddow, a small village not too far from Chelmsford in Essex. Well, actually, on that early morning it was two tube rides, two bus rides and gratefully a taxi ride. The trip home was more exhausting than the plane journey, taking over three hours.

Little Baddow is a tiny village of picturesque cottages and a local pub, the name of which escapes me over two decades later. We arrived at the driveway which wound up to the house my friends were boarding at. The taxi crackled over the stones and through the overgrown garden encroaching on the drive, to arrive at a rather grand albeit decrepit house.

Stopping near the front door, we paid the fare and helped unload the car.

'We've got to tell you something,' Laima said.

I looked at her with red eyes.

'About Fiona.'

'Fiona?'

'A black labarador.'

'Oh lovely.'

'Not really,' Laima continued. 'Fiona... oh you'll find out soon enough.'

Great, just what I needed, Cujo.

We carried the luggage up to the house. The door swung open, and my nasal passages were invaded by the smell of... dog poo. Looking down the dim hallway and along to the staircase, I could make out dog poo littering the floor and stairs. The poo was more prolific than the flowers embedded in the carpet's pattern. It was obvious by the deposits that Fiona had a healthy appetite.

My shoulder pads drooped.

Welcome to Blighty.

A Little Tribute

We've just returned from the vet after having Keith, our moustachio'd cat put to sleep. We don't say put to death because euphemisms are much easier to digest. I guess they're like putting curved edges on angles, cushions on pin-points.
He's been part of our family for about 11 years now, wandering in and out of our life through the cat door (when there was one) or knocking on the door with muddied paws, munching his way through interestingly named foods which would be palatable to the human by name but definitely not by smell.

My two boys, one bigger than the other, are both in tears. It's their first real death. We all loved Keith, and it's the first time 'something' the boys have actually loved has been permanently lost. He cannot be repurchased or recycled, he's popped his paws and that is it. No happy ending.

As we clustered around our small ginger pet to say goodbye, we'd, to that point, assumed he'd be given a tablet and the offer of a day or two of rest - then he'd be home again traumatising the birds. The boys left the room (on their own wishes) and I held Keith as life left him on the sterile, stainless table. I could hear the boys in the waiting room and I can't remember hearing them sob so, gut wrenching sorrow. I wasn't much help, as I was wracked by guilt for not realising he'd been so ill.

Keith seemed to have settled well into our new home. His first morning, only a week ago, saw him enjoying the novelty of new cat doors. He no longer had to beg on the welcome mat - he woke me at 6.30am by whacking me on the eyelid with his paw. He was always keen to eat. If we could be as honest with our own appetites.

We chose him from behind a wire cage at the SPCA and little did we know that we'd acquired a cat in the full throes of cat flu. But he survived. He travelled from our address in Auckland, flying with us to Christchurch then back to Auckland. He rattled bowls in Beach Haven and made his name in the Point. He dined at several addresses, at least three, but we suspected there were a few more.

Stella, my neice, called him the 'kissing-hissing cat'. But to be fair on our ginger pet he very rarely scratched, and even tonight as he fought getting into his cage, he didn't try to scratch or bite. He never did. He chose when he would offer affection, it was always his perogative and a delight when it was offered. Lucy, a beloved bearded collie, was his favourite sport.

But now he's gone.

Sleep isn't looking very promising tonight.