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?
Now I was going to talk to you about my food, but I have another tale to tell this week ... something far more spontaneous.
In my first post the other week, I told you how I dislike cats. Well, it so happened that the other evening I was on my routine evening walk around the block, where we cross over a brook and up through a dark alley, that I spotted something unusual. You see there is this little bridge with metal railings beneath which runs a streamlet descending the hill and gently rushing through people's back gardens to the mighty River Welland. And there's this drainage tunnel at the side of the brook, which I've never investigated before (I’m on my lead you know which makes it tough to escape). Nothing unusual about the landscape you may say? And ordinarily there isn't.
Down there, last weekend, in the orange glow of a solitary streetlamp I spotted a shadowy figure that emerged from the bridge and scampered to hide in the tunnel. Mr. A thought it were a cat (grrr, grrr) and duly stopped to see if the nasty creature would reappear, allowing me to wag my tail excitedly for a few minutes. However, it didn't. Then last night there was again something. This time in full view: a legendary creature glided past me from the tunnel's entrance and up the brook. To my amazement, it was an entirely different tale to tell about, a tail of supreme elegance, of perfect harmony with the shallow water. Mr. A said that it was an otter. How wondrous, a teddy-bear westie-poo meeting an otter? Now there must be a story in that somewhere.
You see people often experience a story long before they meet anything in person. They try to explain puzzles and solve problems using assumptions and reasonable explanations, but that often leads them up a blind alley (literally, in our case as we walk the path between an enormous hedge on one side and a high fence on another). At first, the otter night (get it, play on the word other!!!), the tale Mr. A. would have told was a rat (I mean a cat, well it rhymes), but the tail was incomplete without the second precious moment of the glare of the otter's eyes.
Mr. A says, he is going to try and take a camera phone shot of the otter, but whether he or she will show up again is anybody's guess. Maybe one day I'll be able to prove to you that I saw an otter, but, for now, you must have faith and confidence in my account because it is true: otters exist in the brook, at the back of the garden of Mrs. Brooks, which backs onto Brookfield Road!!! Wow, what a lot of Brooks!