19 January 2011

Pig! Pig! Pig!

I ran over the cutest little black dog on Sunday last, 0 mph just before Σαρόκο Square, en route with maman to church.

I saw it, it was trotting one direction then turned back under my wheels. I stopped literally over it and got out - to much hooting from the Greeks behind whose way I was blocking for mere trivia. It was dying in my hand and then dead by the time I laid it on the side of the road right outside my driving school, messrs Ginis.

I looked round for the distraught owner to blast them even as they blasted me. No one, but I reported it to the police who took details. If the tragic loss is reported, the shouting match will be scheduled.

Terribly sad and affected me all day.

After leaving maman at the church, I cruised on and collected the Jan 8 Spectator whose Charles Moore diary had the most wonderful entry:

"Thanks to the recommendation of Humphry Wakefield, the father, among other distinctions, of the deputy editor, I have just finished the best book I have ever read about what it is like to be a dog. Called My Talks with Dean Spanley, and written by Lord Dunsany.

The author suspects that a dry old clergyman called Dean Spanley has a secret. By means of getting him to drink plenty of Imperial Tokay, he discovers that the Dean was, in a former life, a dog called Wag.

Under the influence, the Dean becomes, in reminiscence, a dog once more. Wag/Spanley reports so well what it is like to be ruled by smell, and how dogs, because they worship human beings — ‘the Wise Ones, the Great Ones’ — feel the need to protect them by barking fiercely at risks they don’t appreciate enough, such as traction engines.

Here is how the Dean conveys the wonderful pointlessness of canine pleasure:

"‘So we [he and another dog] came to the pig’s house and looked in through his door at him and shouted, “Pig!”.

He didn’t like that. He looked just like a pig; he was a pig; and he knew it.

He came towards his door saying silly surly things in a deep voice. You know the kind of talk.

And we just shouted, “Pig. Pig. Pig.” Both of us, for nearly half an hour.

It was perfectly splendid and we enjoyed it immensely.’"

You know the kind of talk. Absolutely splendid, and I have ordered a brace forthwith to compensate for the inevitable theft from the parlour jakes.


Maria Strani-Potts said...

I like Siroko Square better but it is Saroko Square in the Corfiot language.

Corfucius said...

thank you *very* much. Σαρόκο, it is henceforth. I used to call it San Rocco and only got fancy in this post. Each map seemed to have a different spelling.

Loipon, now i have the correct name and, i hope, the tovos, i shall sneer at and loudly correct all other versions.