The Oldest Story I Ever Saw

happened to me somewhere in Arizona, I think. We were supposed to be on our way to Vegas, and instead found ourselves facing the foothills of Utah. In the sunset they turned bright pink, like strawberry meringues floating a few feet above the desert's edge. I wondered if they were hills at all, and suspected they might be clouds, but they didn't move. By day they were the same colour as the rest of the ordinary world, baked red and cracking.

At one point we saw a man by the side of the road with a bucket of water. He just stood there. I was curious, so we stopped the car, and I asked him what he was doing. He told me that for a few dollars he would show us dinosaur tracks, so we paid him...I think it was 5 maybe 7 dollars. And he threw water on the ground, smearing it over the rocks as far as he could. There were the footprints, bi-pedal, three-clawed I think, running, running. Close behind it he pointed out the steps of something much bigger; huge, broad tracks that kept on going past the water's definition, past the point where the runner's tracks abruptly stopped. The water dried quickly.

It has only just occurred to me that I saw this, one of the oldest stories in the world, older than letters and words. So far I have singularly failed to turn it into a poem. But it is, at least recorded somewhere other than on lost rocks and forgotten earth. The man himself lived on the reservation nearby, a much younger story, though extinction still plays a part in it.

Me, I just passed, and saw it, and was gone.

The Dog Next Door

There's a dog next door called Pogey. He's a young adult Springer Spaniel, full of life and personality, owned by a retired couple, who are very pleasant people.

Now, you'd think that being retired they'd spend some time at home, and I'm sure they must do. But it doesn't seem to be during the day. I am trying to write, and Pogey has been barking non-stop. It feels like he has been doing it all day; there have been two breaks. Sometimes he breaks into non-stop howling. He has stopped now. By the end of this post he'll have started again. Actually, there he goes, even as I write. It's nail-scraping to hear, and on a more serious level, I think Pogey boy is unhappy.

Not because they treat him badly; on the contrary, they dote on him when they are there. Often he can enjoy himself in the garden via what I think must be a dog door. But of course it is raining today, and whether it is in the garden or in the house, Pogey spends an awful lot of time alone. Now he has stopped again.

I think he is slowly going mad through loneliness and boredom; I would offer to have him here with me during the day if he didn't chase cats. But of course, he is becoming a little strange and a little unmanageable, developing those tiny quirks that signal the onset of canine behavioural problems.

Larians was thinking of offering to walk him, but of course, Pogues can't be let off a lead, because he doesn't really know us - we've only been in his house once - and he might just run off, hysterical at having something to do. I don't know what we can really do to make things better for Pogey.

They say they can't really walk him in winter, but I have never seen them walk him once in Summer. In fact, what am I saying, I am pretty certain they don't walk him. At all. He never goes out. They are lovely folk, and I don't want to get them into any trouble with the council - though it's a matter of time before someone does report Pogey as a nuisance. There he goes again. Now he is whimpering and sort of hallooing. He's pretty down.

Perhaps we should get them round here for dinner, and offer to take him for walks. Even if he's not off the leash, it has to be better than this.