. . . as someone famous once wrote. I could say, along with other like-minded creatures of my kind who have been in the papers, that ‘I am Diesel’. Brave dog, brave obedient creature. Loyal and true. As are we all.
Once again over the course of this week we have all watched the Four Horsemen galloping across the Continent, and trembled at the havoc left in their wake.
All this while, as if in sympathy with the way of things, Kemo Sabe has been too unwell to help me compose any thoughts I might possibly have wanted to formulate; since we returned from our quest into Yorkshire, she has been struggling for breath and her words have been few, her cough persistent and hard to suppress. I have never seen her so ill, and neither have the others. Barnaby (who was six this week) speaks of the history handed to us by dear-departed Uncle Jonny: of Kemo Sabe’s pneumonia which laid her low for months and how Jonny watched and waited alone, hoping she would reach for him and take some of his strength into her arm. Now, watching and waiting are all I can do, noticing from time to time as the news on the radio revolves, the emergence from his snuggly bed of an now-aging little Hammy Jo, tootling from one cage to another, eyes half closed, seeking with confidence the security, warmth and plenty he has come to expect of his comfortable little world. He is blessed indeed, when but a stone’s throw from him there is so much to dismay us all.
I so envy his myopia. I do not think he can be truly aware of the world. But, then, I expect that that is what many people would say about me.