Small dog has been very anxious to head out into the garden these past few nights. She stands at the door until I notice her and then looks outward into the darkening evening as if to say 'let me out'. This behaviour is unusual as her normal attitude is to curl up in her little bed once dinner is over and any chance of a scrap is no longer a viable possibility. I open the back door and watch her disappear into the darkness. She ignores my call, my plea for her return.
I suspect foxes are luring her out. Possibly cubs ready to leave the warren or whatever you call it. I am no fox expert but I do know when something is going on down at the back fence that borders the bog and Small dog is no fool. I think the foxes are located close to where my boys played as youngsters. A rocky patch overgrown with gorse now but back in the day, was an ideal oasis for small boys with big dreams. I feel the foxes are located there and Small dog has cottoned on to that.
I am pretty tired tonight. Do not feel like going to the back door to call her back in. It is chilly. Dark. Big black blotches of cloud stain the sky that promise heavy rainfall. I spent the entire morning waiting for the builder. I decided not to bake fearing interruption. I paced the house. I read H's book draft, well one chapter at least. I scribbled. Doodled. All I wanted was the builder to tell me why there was paint bubbling on our downstairs bathroom wall and I wanted him to fix it. I thought it might be simple. A leaking pipe located close to the heater, the shower, the damn washing machine.
He arrived hours later. Smiling like a child. I shook his hand. One has to be nice to builders. They are a moody bunch at the best of times. I offered him tea. Mentioned cake but he shook his head. No, he was fed and watered, he said. His exact words. He examined the wall and then went out to his van and came back in with a transformer and a drill. He proceeded to dig up the floor. I wanted to cry. I wanted to say it did not matter. Let the house fall down is what I wanted to say. And the noise. The noise woke every dead person in a ten mile radius and I even saw how Small dog put her tiny paws over her ears and longed to be a fox deep down in the gorse fort. I got to see how the floor is. The mass of stone and concrete congealed like grey porridge where once I stood folding sweet smelling towels. I saw how little our material world really matters when all is said and done.
The builder returns in the morning. This time with another 'sonic' expert who can detect leaks without digging. I wish he had told me about the 'sonic' expert before he dug up the house. I wish sometimes that I could be Small dog and amble out into the garden long after the light of day and nose around in the wet grass and sniff at the natural world and forget all about how much this is going to cost us and how the hell it is ever going to be resolved. But as my mother used to say; tomorrow is another day and life is short and there is point in ever getting too worked up about anything and if I live another day to watch the light fade as it does in September well I am blessed. Because in this part of the world it is truly a sight worth seeing. It is as if all is only temporary anyway. That what we have goes quickly and we only have to stop and count the minutes of what we recognise and cherish to make what truly matters matter and god knows by this time tomorrow our entire house might be excavated and Small dog might have joined the fox brigade for good and she might be on to a good thing if she does. Nature is always the solution and men with transformers and sonic tests are far more scary than any fox I've ever seen. I know Small dog would concur if she happened to read this post.