Is It Time To Cross The River Yet?

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A fun blog of 'soft' philosophy about the life and times of a Westiepoo called Chester. Written as a prelude to a more serious novel raising the question: Who is the most bankrupt: the banker who won't whistle-blow or the chef who loses her livelihood?

Each spring comes the moment when the rhetorical question comes: "Is it time to cross the river yet?" Apart from the obvious fact that the water is, let's say 'fresher' in the winter, the more critical component in my decision making is the water level. I can't swim and must hold my head above water with my feet on the pebbles at all times. Until the past few days, the crossing point has been too high to consider even a dip, but the rainwater from the fields is disappearing and the sodden ground all but hardened. Time to traverse is nearing, and Mr. A will have to start his jumping exercises to catch me up!

There is a point along the mighty River Welland where it conjoins two fields together to make it possible to vary my routes: one route around my usual farmer's field and a second circuit through land designated for a prospective housing development. This second course leads to an area that once was rough terrain but is already full of builders and their machinery. It's not nice seeing all my lovely greenness disappearing before my eyes, but I suppose you humans have to live somewhere. The problem according to Mr. A is that the houses are all crammed together with no space to breathe. There is no liberty from material objects and consumerism. There is a limitation for growing minds, bodies, and souls. Mr. A should know: he has this job of delivering charity bags all over Market Harborough, Kibworth, and Desborough and sees all the new types of dwellings on offer, every weekend!

When talking about housing, it reminds me how grateful we are to Mr. Gary, our landlord. Over the last few months, he has fitted a new boiler: the old one broke down every winter without fail during the coldest periods; repaired a broken door and toilet, and lets us stay here without much interference. I know Mrs. B can't wait to be a homeowner again. She would like an idyllic house whereby she can put her creative mind into action to produce something special. In the meantime, I like Mr. Gary coming; he's another person for me to pester like last weekend when Mr. A's parents were here, and I could take full advantage of their adoration and listen to stories about my cousin George who lives in a strange sounding place called Red Deer in Canada. Apparently, George is familiar with creatures like moose, not deer (more about that in my next blog).

Over my Easter holidays, I had the dubious pleasure of another groom. This time, Mr. Swagger held no restraint on his shearing. Apart from a light, soft fur, I am almost bald in anticipation of the strengthening power and heat of the sun. The first day with the groom though I felt vulnerable to the cold northerly April wind, and to the effects of manhandling. I'll warn you not to touch me till I have regained my composure. At least, this time, I am not alone. My buddy Mango had a similar haircut the same day as me. Next time I see him, I will prevail upon him to join me in setting up a disestablishmentarianism movement to abolish Dog Groomers!

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There's more where that came from!