Spring has come at last -
in fact, it’s flying past.
Sun is stronger,
days are longer,
Spring has come at last.
Spring is really here,
The Girl is full of cheer.
“See that blossom?
Isn’t it awesome?”
Spring is really here.
Murphy’s full of zest,
doing what he does best:
sniffing, digging, guarding, watching,
helping, minding, blathering, snoozing,
eating, jumping, going a-walking,
And all the rest.
“Murphy,” said the Girl with a big sigh, “I don’t know what to do.”
“You poor thing,” I commiserated. “What’s your problem now?”
“Well,” she said, “today I’m picking up someone at the airport who has been away in Nigeria for several weeks, where it is the hot season. And tomorrow I’m picking up someone else who has been in England for several weeks, where they have been under snow. How am I going to heat the house to a temperature to suit both of them? I can’t win.”
“It’s a dog’s life,” I agreed, and gave her hand a lick.
Then I had an idea.
“When I’m in a situation like that,” I offered, “I find it a great help to go out for a walk! The fresh air will give you a better perspective on things – and I’ll come with you!”
“I think I’d prefer a cup of tea,” she replied.
Humans and their cups of tea. I don’t get it.
“They’re not mutually exclusive,” I suggested. “We could do both.”
“I suppose we could, Murphy,” she said, sounding a bit more cheerful. “Both-and, not either-or. It’s a good Catholic principle.”
“Right,” I said. “Except I might skip the cup of tea.”
“Anyway,” she said, “under Italian law the central heating can’t be used after March 31st, which is Sunday, so I’ll only have to put up with their grumbles until then.”
“And in the meantime,” I said, “just heat the house to suit yourself. There now, that’s an easy decision!”
There are a lot of dogs in Rome.
My favourite one is me.
I am also the Girl’s favourite dog, and the favourite of the other people who live in this house.
Other dogs near here are Nellie the golden labrador and Bruno the springer spaniel. I often meet them when we are out walking.
Last Sunday I went for a long walk with the Girl, and we met almost no dogs. That was very unusual, because on Sundays usually there are lots of dogs walking with their people. And we wondered where they all were, but I still don’t know.
Then just as we came back near our house, there was a big, angry German Shepherd not on a lead in a place where he should be on a lead. He was not from around here, but he was sniffing around as if he was. So I ran over to tell him that this is my street, but the Girl was afraid of the German Shepherd and she pulled my lead very tight so that I would be beside her to protect her. And the German Shepherd looked at the Girl, and I forgot that my lead was very tight and I tried to run over and tell him to Stop Looking Like That at her. And the Girl was more frightened and she said “Murphy, you little fool, don’t start a fight!” And I knew she was pretending to be brave but she really wanted me beside her to protect her and made my lead even shorter which is very choking.
And then we went home, and I needed a long drink of water after nearly choking.
But there is something that worries me. The Girl read on the internet about someone who had a Border Collie which died, and they took some of his hair and spun it and knitted it into mittens. And now she is Looking at me.
Well, I don’t want to be mittens. I have enough things to do, such as minding the house and helping the Cook and sniffing out visitors to see if they are to be trusted; I don’t think I should have to be mittens as well.
It’s a dog’s life.
“MURPHY!” said the Girl. “Some dog around here is not doing his job properly!”
Oh-oh. Didn’t sound good.
“Umm… what dog would that be, now?” I inquired, trying to sound as innocent and thoughtful as I could.
“Well, how many dogs are there around here, Murphy?”
“Umm… just one?”
“Yes, Murphy, just one. You. And how many cats are there around here, Murphy? How many?”
“None, of course,” I replied confidently.
“Incorrect!” she cried. “Because you, Murphy, are slacking!”
Slacking? Me? And it’s something to do with cats? Whatever could she mean?
“I’ll tell you what I mean, Murphy. I went down regulate the temperature of the hot water for the central heating. And do you know what was in the burner room, Murphy?”
“Lots of dust and cobwebs, and the little blue ladder, and an old rusty scissors, and a broken mop handle, and…”
“A CAT, Murphy! That’s what was down there, a cat! It must have been snoozing in the heat, and I startled it when I came it.”
“A cat?” I said. “Down where the central heating burner is? What cat? How did it get in? What was it doing? Is it still there? Let me at it! I’ll chase it away! A cat! On my territory! Grrrrr!”
“Yes, Murphy, a cat. A young black-and-white one that I think belongs to a woman in one of the apartments down the street. I told it to “Go home!” – and the cat stood on top of the burner unit and swayed its tail and almost hissed at me! As if I was the intruder onto its territory! I had to clap my hands at it to get it to scamper away. It squeezed out an opening by side of the big water pipe.”
I was astounded.
That black and white cat from down the street was in our central heating room? And acting as if it owned the place? And I didn’t know it? Oh no, this is definitely not good.
“I can’t think how that happened!” I said. “The cheek of it, coming in here!”
“Didn’t you see it, Murphy? Didn’t you smell it? Were you asleep?”
“Not asleep, for sure,” I said. “Perhaps it came around while I was gone out for a walk?”
“Perhaps it did,” she agreed reluctantly. “But Murphy, from the way it acted, it seems to me that it wasn’t the cat’s first time to curl up beside our heating burner. It seems to know its way around quite well.”
Oh, the shame of it! I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“I suggest, Murphy,” the Girl went on, “that your New Year’s Resolution should be ‘to be more vigilant’.”
“But I already have a New Year’s Resolution,” I explained. “I’m going to be more helpful to the Cook, and help her to clean up any spills really quickly.”
“Never mind helping the cook,” she said. ”Just stay awake and keep that cat out. However, I’ve boarded up the opening where it got into the burner room anyway, just in case you nod off again, you silly dog.”
“Well, it might not be any harm to have the smell of a cat around,” I said, trying to find something positive in this situation. “It helps to keep mice away.”
“Oh yes,” she said drily, “just as the smell of a dog is supposed to keep cats away. But it doesn’t seem to work like that, does it?”
If anyone sees that cat, tell it not to DARE to come back around here. I, Murphy, am on duty! Cats, keep out! Grrr!!
I’ve just got a long list of instructions from the Girl, about tonight.
First, they are going to bed earlier than usual, and I am to be quiet, and let them go to sleep.
Then they will be getting up before midnight, for Mass. I am not to think it’s burglars, and I am to be quiet. [Unless of course there actually are burglars, in which case I am to bark as loudly as possible.]
If Santa Claus lands in the garden, I am not to blather to him, because he is very busy. And I am not to snap at the reindeer. Of course he won’t land here, because there are no children in this house. But he might have heard that there is a Girl living here. If he asks me whether the Girl has been good, I am to assure him that she has so been. If he asks me whether I, Murphy, have been good, I am to follow my conscience. But as I don’t have a conscience, I’ll just tell him the truth.
If angels are singing in the sky, I am not to join in by yowling, like I did last year. I don’t think that’s fair. I was just singing Glo-o-o-o-oo–ri-a for the birth of baby Jesus.
Then after midnight Mass and a drink of “hot chocolate”, they will go back to bed until the morning. And then they will get up later than usual, and I am to be quiet and not wake anybody up at the usual time.
And now everything is ready, except that they can’t find Joseph and Mary and the baby Jesus from the crib. And no, I don’t know where they are, I had nothing to do with it. And the scent is gone much too cold for me to track them down now.
Happy Christmas to all my readers!
“Murphy,” said the Girl, “how far do you think you could walk in four weeks?”
“You mean, if I didn’t have to mind the house as well? If I had nothing to do but walk? Oh, a very long distance, I should think.”
“Do you think you could walk from Germany in four weeks, Murphy?”
“Are we going to Germany?” I queried. “And I’ll have to walk home? I’m not sure, I might lose the trail…”
“Oh no, Murphy, don’t be alarmed. We’re not going to Germany. But I’m just wondering how long it might take. Because, Murphy, that is where the food heater that I ordered more than four weeks ago is coming from. And they’re telling me that the delay is because it has to come from a Long Distance. Well, I think it could have walked from Germany in four weeks!”
“But why did you order it from Germany?” I asked. “Why didn’t you buy one in Italy? In Rome?”
“Don’t be silly, Murphy,” said the Girl. “Of course I ordered it from a company in Rome. And paid them for it. But they import them from Germany. And more than four weeks ago they said it would be here in ten days. And now they’re telling me that it’s delayed because it has to come from a Long Distance! Do you know what that is, Murphy? At the very best, that is rubbish!”
“Ah,” I said. “So that’s why you were shouting at someone on the phone yesterday.”
“I wasn’t shouting,” she said, forcefully. “I was being forceful.”
I know when to keep my mouth shut.
“I’m going to phone them again today,” she announced, “and if they can’t tell me exactly when it will be here, I’ll threaten to name and shame them on my blog!”
“You mean on my blog?” I wondered.
“Yes, on this blog, Murphy - your blog, my blog, our blog.”
My blog must be really famous, if she can use it as a threat like that.
I must find out how far away Germany is, and if I could walk from there in four weeks, pushing a food heater. What a pity that company doesn’t use a truck. It would be much quicker.
“Murphy,” said the Girl, “would you say that I am a mean, cranky, old git?”
Well, of course I wouldn’t say it. This required some quick thinking.
“Who said that about you?” I demanded. “Give me their names, and I’ll go and make them sorry they said it!”
“Oh, no one actually said it,” she informed me. “I just wondered if that’s what I’ve become.”
“What on earth put that notion into your head?” I enquired.
“The book fair,” she said. “Più libri più liberi. It’s being held in the Palazzo dei Congressi near here this weekend. I called in yesterday.”
Then she stopped. As if that explained everything.
“You’ve lost me,” I confessed. “Don’t books make you happy, usually?”
“Oh indeed, Murphy, indeed! It was great to see so many books from so many publishers – there were almost one hundred different stands altogether! But what made me fed up was the talk that I went to hear.”
“It wasn’t a good talk?”
“Oh, the talk was all right. It was about translating poetry from Italian into English. But what made me feel cranky was a group of young people who sat in the middle of the audience and talked all the time. We were seated at round tables, and five of them sat at one table, some with their backs to the speakers, and all the time they talked and chatted and looked at things on their iPhones and joked, as if they weren’t at a public lecture. They weren’t listening to the talk at all.“
“That sounds rude,” I said. “Did anyone tell them to shut up?”
“No!” she cried. “That was the bit that astounded me! No one said anything to them, or gave them any indication that this might not be acceptable! So perhaps it is acceptable? Perhaps this is what usually happens in Italy? Or perhaps it’s what happens everywhere now, and I’m so out of touch that I’m the only one who finds it odd? But it made me cross. So I wondered if I’m just getting very cranky.”
“Hmm,” I mused. “You’d better check with other people who go to these things more often.”
“Maybe I’m mean, too.” she sighed. “I didn’t buy any book.”
“Were you supposed to buy a book?” I asked. (I’ve never been to a book fair.)
“It’s not obligatory,” she said. “But, you know, all those little publishing companies, all those authors, all needing to make a living…”
“So why didn’t you buy, then?”
“I almost bought a book of short stories,” she said. “But – they’re all in Italian. And I can read Italian, to a certain extent, but it’s more like work than pleasure. And some day I’ll have to move from here, and any book I have will have to be moved too, or otherwise disposed of, so I really prefer Kindle now. And I thought maybe I can borrow the book from the library…”
“Reasonable thinking,” I said. “Was there an admission charge?”
“Yes, six euro. But there was a two euro reduction for anyone with a library card, and fortunately I had mine with me. So it was just four euro, very reasonable.”
“So you did make a contribution,” I pointed out. “I don’t think you should feel mean.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“What you need, my dear Girl,” I suggested, “is a dose of fresh air. Let’s go for a good long walk. It will be free. You won’t have to buy anything. We will avoid all obnoxious youth. And you will be renewed in your youthfulness.”
“I don’t know about the last bit, Murphy,” she said. “But it’s a good idea. I’ll get your lead.”
Sometimes she’s not a mean, cranky, old git at all.
“Murphy,” said the Girl in an outraged tone, “it’s outrageous!”
“Is there such a word as ‘inrageous’?” I wondered aloud.
“If there is, it’s that too!” she cried. “Outrageous and inrageous! Murphy, how much do you think an umbrella should cost?”
“I’m not an expert on umbrellas,” I explained. “A good shake dries me off just fine. But I suppose the price depends on the quality, design, materials, and so forth.”
“I’m talking about a very basic, cheap quality, not-very-long-lasting umbrella, Murphy. I bought one a few months ago for three euro fifty. And how much did I have to pay for one today? How much, Murphy? Ten euro, that’s how much! Ten euro! For an umbrella! Outrageous!”
“Where did you buy it?” I wondered. “A designer outlet?”
“At the Vatican, just outside St Peter’s Square,” she said. “It was lashing rain and I was getting drenched through. So I bought an umbrella from one of those street-traders – and he charged me ten euro for it!”
“Ah, that explains it.” I said. “Umbrella prices always go up in the rain. You should buy your umbrellas when the sun is shining.”
“Don’t be silly, Murphy,” she said. “Nobody does that. But ten euro – that’s daylight robbery!”
“My dear Girl,” I remonstrated, “be fair. Did the young man put his hand in your pocket and remove your purse without your consent? Did he hold a gun to your head and demand that you hand over a certain sum of money? Did he threaten to kidnap and torture your dear dog, Murphy, unless you coughed up immediately? No? He simply named a price, and you paid it? Well then, that is not robbery. It is the law of supply and demand, the free market economy, the spirit of entrepreneurship. He charged what you were willing to pay, that’s all. By the way, if it rains at St Peter’s Square, is that holy water?”
“That’s a feeble attempt at a joke, Murphy,” she said. “It was certainly wet water, and there was an awful lot of it.”
“Don’t you already have an umbrella?” I asked.
“Of course I do!” she exclaimed crossly. “But I forgot to bring it with me! We have plenty umbrellas in the house. And now we have another one.”
“In that case, could you put one over my kennel?” I asked. “There seems to be a little hole in the corner at the back, and there’s rain getting in. It was dropping on my tail.”
“Oh Murphy!” she said, all sympathy. “A hole in your kennel? You should have said before now. I’ll go and look at it immediately, and see what needs to be done. Don’t worry, pet, we’ll get that mended for you.”
And off she went to look at it. But then she turned back.
“Murphy, if rain is coming into your kennel through a hole – is that holy water?”
A feeble attempt at a joke.
I think the only one laughing today is the umbrella-seller.
Ladies and Gentlemen, today marks the first day of December and we couldn't resist sharing Project Gutenberg's Literary Advent Calendar courtesy of Hymns and Carols of Christmas. Thanks to Project Gutenberg, all texts listed below are free online by clicking on the links. Of course, you can supplement or substitute with Christmas favorites of your own including children's Christmas stories like…
“Murphy,” said the Girl, “I think I have the answer.”
“You have?” I replied. “And what is it?”
“The answer is, ‘Because it was raining.’”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I said. “The answer is, ‘No, I couldn’t possibly go.’”
“What are you talking about, Murphy?” she said. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“Of course it does,” I retorted. “One of my blog followers in Ireland has asked if I’m on holidays, and the answer is No, I couldn’t possibly go.”
“Don’t be silly, Murphy,” she said. “That’s not what I’m referring to at all. The question in question is ‘Why did the men at the rubbish collection centre help me to put the stuff in the skip one day, but not the other day?’”
“The skip where you dumped my chairs?” I asked.
“They weren’t your chairs, Murphy,” she said. “They were old, rusty, decrepit garden chairs that nobody had sat on for about a million years, and never would again.”
“Just because nobody sat on them doesn’t mean they weren’t useful,” I informed her. “There was great shade under those chairs, and I often lay there out of the summer sun. You should have consulted me before you threw them out. What am I going to do in future?”
“It’s November, Murphy,” she reminded me. “Summer sun is not an issue at the moment. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of other places to lie in the shade when the time comes.”
“Huh,” I said. “Maybe the men didn’t help you because it was their way of saying Bring those chairs back home to your poor dog; we won’t accept them while he needs them.”
“On the contrary,” she exclaimed, “they helped me with the chairs! But the first day that I went, with all the old electrical things, they let me throw those into the skip myself. It was the second day, when I went with the chairs, that they helped me.”
“That’s strange, all right,” I acknowledged. “You’d expect them to have a consistent policy.”
“I’ve concluded that it was because it was raining the first day,” she announced. “After all, they were snug and dry in their cabin – they would have got wet if they came out in the rain to help me.”
“A drop of rain wouldn’t hurt them, surely?” I asked.
“Don’t forget, Murphy,” she commented, “these are Italian men. And Italians tend to get a bit excited about a drop of rain.”
“I’ve noticed that myself,” I said. “You could be right.”
“I’m going to test out my theory,” she continued. “I’ve got plenty more things to take for recycling, and I’ll see if the weather determines whether they help me or not.”
“What are you throwing out now?” I asked, anxiously. “Not my kennel, is it?”
“Of course I’m not throwing out your kennel, Murphy,” she said, giving me a big pat. “You need your kennel.”
I was rather relieved to hear that – when the Girl is in one of these throwing-out moods, nothing is safe.
And that, my dear follower in Ireland, provides the answer to your question. No, I am not on holidays, and I couldn’t possibly go, because it wouldn’t be safe to leave her on her own. She’d have the whole house thrown out by the time I got back.
