An April ragbag: canines; 2mph; cholesterol levels; & dog-or-cat people

Not quite sun-up and I can't sleep; am lying here trying to count the stars that persist after night's party's over, but they slither and slip like sand through fingers, and I have to keep starting again, starting over.

Now one star, or maybe two, only, spying on our daytime world.

Soon, yes, soon, the dawn chorus. Must be about 5am and I'm trying hard to catch another hour before we have to get up. Sky's lightening. I'm sleepy and drifting and the chorus starts: so thick, so lovely, so ethereal, almost, in this hidden unruined valley, habitat perfect.

Did I dream, or hear it, this extraordinary song? – Clear but resonant; rising, falling, rising again; the sweetness of a dove's call, but higher and more plangent. Shockingly beautiful.

I'm awake. 'Can you hear that?' I ask TM. 'Never heard that bird before.'

'It's the puppies whining,' answers TM, and we both leap out of bed to greet them, and also hoping to avoid, possibly belatedly, a sea of pee. It's their first morning with us.

For yes, we have succumbed. They are not a replacement for my old girl Ash; nor for my daughter's Murphy, recently tragically dead. They're new life. The heart has place for many loves.

Meet Bran and Wayland. They're smaller than they look (and the same size) – only three months old.

In my Tongues in Trees course, the tree calendar month in which we committed to the puppies is that of Alder, Fearn, dedicated to Bran the Blessed, Bran of the Singing Head, and protector of the feminine in Celtic mythology (one of the myths I limped through in its original language during my degree course at Cambridge).

'If you get to choose a puppy's name from the Celtic pantheon', declared TM, 'then I want an Anglo-Saxon one. What about Wayland?' So Bran and Wayland (as in Wayland's Smithy) they are.

*

Dreaming back from nearly three blissful weeks working with a couple of dozen beautiful people, deeply immersed in sea, sun, wind, soil, sand and the stories of our lives, of this island, of the wider world of our belonging, on the Isle of Iona during the 18th season of my Islands of the Heart retreat, knowing myself to be blessed, and knowing that puppies would be at the end of my journey, this spring is a delight, despite the traffic congestion, despite coming away from what is a transcendent experience for me (actually, who could bear living in paradise all the time?).


Supposedly, spring travels north at just under 2 mph (but that speed is currently increasing, apparently). If that's the case, then spring in Argyllshire in Scotland, including Iona, should have been about 13 days behind spring in Devon. However, the veg in the organic garden of the hotel where I lead the course is usually more advanced than ours, and near Oban (OK, there is a microclimate) the trees were out and some rhododendrons too. Ours were rather behind, and there's definitely no-show for any rhodies around here yet.


*

Here – in addition to addressing the catastrophes of climate change and of animal suffering – is another turn-up for veganism. I have to have annual blood tests, and this year my cholesterol levels are down to 'perfect', with an optimum ratio of 'good' cholesterol to 'bad'. What's more, my iron levels, often a bit below par during my 40-odd years of being a lacto-veggie, are now up to normal on a vegan diet. So to all those who fear nutritional deficiencies, can I just say it can be done? I've more on this page: https://57billion.org/nutrition/

*

I think from time to time in a rather simplistic and polarised way about differences between cat people and dog people. Of course I'm stereotyping, rather based on an unfortunate relationship between me (dog lover) and another (cat lover) a long time ago now. His aversion to dogs and his – as I saw it – dysfunctional relationship to his (dysfunctional) cat were warning signs that I ignored. My deep bond with my dog perhaps was to him, too, I don't know; perhaps he saw us as dysfunctional, also.

Later I formulated a theory that our shadow qualities were projected onto (stereotyped) images of those animals: the man concerned was deeply dependent, whereas cats are seen as independent; I am, or was then, fiercely independent, and maybe a dependent dog carried my shadow needs. Simplistic, as I say. However, neither we nor our animals managed to live together.

Happy, then, the people who love both cats and dogs.

Actually, I love cats too. I was brought up with several of them, all adored, and at age 11 wrote a precocious essay on 'Cats and Ecology' which won the Lloyds Bank children's essay competition. I can't imagine that my 11-year-old self knew anything about ecology; and I'm certain that I couldn't justify a cat's place in an ecosystem.

For that's the trouble. I love wild birds even more. Although there may not be a direct correlation between bird numbers declining and cat predation, says the RSPB, this is troubling:

'The most recent figures of how many creatures are killed by cats are from the Mammal Society. They estimate that cats in the UK catch up to 275 million prey items a year, of which 27 million are birds. [My italics]

'This is the number of prey items [sic!] which were known to have been caught. We don't know how many more the cats caught, but didn't bring home, or how many escaped but subsequently died.'

What I do know is that we have many many more wild birds in our garden here, and nesting, than we did when TM's (lovely) little cat was alive.

And where I'm going with this: TM was a declared cat lover when I met him, and wasn't terribly keen on my dogs. Although that did cause trouble, especially in the beginning, it didn't put me (or him) off pursuing our relationship. 

And now? TM is utterly utterly smitten with the puppies. He adores them. Luckily for me (and the puppies) any amount of pee and whining is worth it. Hooray.