Meeting Little Nell.

I had a most remarkable encounter this evening (at twilight, of course; nearly everything of note that happens to me these days happens at twilight. I suspect the universe is trying to tell me something.) Actually it would be more accurate to say that I had two remarkable encounters, so let’s deal with the more substantial one first (the mysterious one can take its place in some low-lit recess wherein family heirlooms stand impassively and mysteries generally belong.)

I met little Nell. She leapt at me lovingly, lolloping with great gusto and licking whichever bit of me was closest like I was the best ice cream to be had in this world or any other. At a mere seven months old, she was the very essence of what every young lady has the right to be: uninhibited, unwary of the stranger, possessed of boundless affection and trust, and unrestrained in her determination to bestow upon any grateful recipient the loveliness of her presence. I was the grateful recipient, and the reader will no doubt already have surmised that little Nell was a dog.

And so she was, a chocolate brown Cocker/Springer Spaniel cross, longer in body than a typical Cocker but not as heavily built as a Springer. It occurred to me that she will grow a little bigger than a Cocker, and that the day might come when I shall no longer occupy the role of the neighbourhood ice cream, but instead be seen as a fit subject to be carried like a juicy bone and buried in whatever spot happens to be available in the garden. Would I mind that? Erm… probably. For the time being, however, I’m more than happy to be lovingly accosted and licked half to death.

So what of the mysterious half of this twilit encounter?

Well, little Nell was accompanied by a second young lady – of the human variety this time – called Catherine. No mystery there, you might say, but…

Readers of longstanding will be aware that I do not have the nature of a little Nell. I don’t connect with strangers at all, let alone freely, unless they feel right. Catherine felt right; that’s the mystery. And so I opened up almost without constraint, knowing full well – and being quite unconcerned – that yet another resident of the Shire will now be aware of the Nutcase Who Lives Near the School. It occurs to me to wonder whether she has a pitchfork, and so will be suitably equipped to join the madding crowd when they drive me to the burning mill.

I expect the event will take place at twilight, since nearly everything of note that happens to me happens at twilight. (Yes, I know I already said that. It’s a literary device.) It’s a fact, you see, that burning brands look more dramatic and decorous in the darkening air, and gleaming tines on pitchforks look all the more theatrical when raised against a grey and glowering sky. If you’re destined to be a manufactured monster, you might as well be an entertaining one. And I wonder whether little Nell will trot along for the fun and wag her tail enthusiastically when the floorboards collapse.