Day 682: Jackahuahua

when a cat doesn't like it

A jackahuahua called Fox stole my heart with his little bitey teeth this afternoon. I was in a shop when I heard squeaking from a cage. Maybe in subconscious anticipation of the dead rat I found in the kitchen upon arriving home, I thought that's what he might be. I crouched and put my face up to the cage. 

I looked up to find a lady looking down at me. She wasn't going to get him out, but I'd got him all over-excited, so she did. My win. 8 weeks old, tiny-faced and delicate, with none of the extremity of a chihuahua's bulbous eyes or overly delicate form. He was stocky in his body, but little in his legs. He was all licky and teethy and he kept putting his little paw, with its very small claws, delicately on my cheek. 

I had a good long go on him. I reckon he's the kind of dog who might even be passable at home, with three cats. Even the tortoiseshell sisters and gangsta street cat, Colin, would give in to such a small thing as a nut to be cared for, if also sometimes put in its place. 

The lady told me about the Dogs' Trust, where perhaps I could foster, and another place I could probably get one. I'm down with that. Fostering's a great idea, to give me time to get to grips with the reality of having a dog... quite a big load. I'm not a fan of little dogs as such, but they are, by their very smallness, portable. It's an option. I need to be a dog mama soon.

When I got back, as if reading my mind, The Dogs' Trust gave me a personalised ad on the internet: Jude, can you foster a dog? I hadn't googled them or anything. I'd just thought about googling them. I am spooked, in a 'this means I have to get a dog' way. 

Today, the wind ran though the fields, making them ripple like water, while the sun picked picture postcards from the landscape: painting by numbers sky blue, number 42, with cotton candy clouds and stuck-on hills, spotted with crows and hawks. Too perfect to be true. Even the hedgerows wave as I ride by. I feel like a parade, or a lone marathon runner, for whom EVERYONE has turned out. 

I'm still laughing about my friend's date, originally not an English speaker, who has innocently nicknamed himself Quim. Not ironic. Not in any way aware. I think it's a difference in which letters make which sounds between the languages. But 'quim' is such a pleaser. It's one of those words that means different things and although vulgar, it's gentle and sweet in its shape, kind of twee. I love it, and I love his choice more still. It would be a great choice of nickname - approachable, funny, warm - if only it weren't for the fact that... ah well. Maybe at some point, someone will tell him.*

Today was full of music. I've had the pleasure of this beauty, by Asaf Adivan, and this live glory by Nick Cave. I sang on my bike and at the cats. I videoed myself singing 'Happy Birthday' while doing the voice of a little Spanish man with a grapefruit for a head, but that's less music and more love in a less than traditional form. 

And then my cello. I loved my cello with all my shoulders today. I breathed and relaxed. I enjoyed every note just for being, whether it was spot on on not. I'm getting there. There is no need to rush if rushing cuts short the joy of the process. I don't need to be any better than I am. I just need to sit with my cello every day and get to know it. That's all, really. If only I could remember that this is also what I need to do with my own life, and me. 

Thanks, Kate Hewett - I've been meaning to work with Jonathan Kay for years - so many good eggs recommend him - now thanks to you, I shall. 

I'm off to house-sit tomorrow. From then, I'll sing and play cello to a different cat. Again, not a new idiom. I actually will. Cheers to that. I hope you like it, cat. 

* Ha haaa.. and also, 'going on a date with quim' sounds like an awful way to say 'booty call', though it only works in limited gender combinations (everyone has a booty, right?).