Our Story - as much of it that can be told that is... (Part four)

By Way of an Explanation – or Two


The house was filled with unanswered questions. Some of which the reader has probably long wished to pose - unfortunately as with most things connected with Animeaux, answers are far less frequent than questions.

Now I have received ceaseless pressure from inside, and outside my family to document the convolutions our lives have taken since we began sharing our home with the Animeaux.

Recounting the adventures, thrust upon us by this association, has obviously been a labour of love, if not, as has been suggested, of deep therapy. That does not mean it has been an easy task. It has been fraught with difficulties; not the least of which are the subjects themselves.

Although countless books have been written about stuffed Animeaux, most all are told from the simpler perspective of our youth. That has created a rather culturalist view of the Human-Animeaux situation.

“History has been written by those with thumbs” - has been an often heard complaint. The following stories are an attempt to perhaps produce a less “Anthropocentric” view of the relationship.

Now in the endless meetings that were required to gain their support (and to prevent liable actions) numerous formats were suggested - I discarded most of them. Though the thought of printing it reversed—only readable with a mirror seemed consistent with their view of life.

I finally suggested that a prologue, explaining the occasion of my introduction to the Animeaux would be a fitting unveiling of the narration, and would follow in established literary traditions.

(Unfortunately, the vote around the house was to begin with “Call me Ishmael.” In second place came “My Name is Ozymandius King of Kings....” Though all of The Queen’s Own Pig’s Irregulars thought my time would be better spent sorting out a pleasantly short biography of Josephine Baker.)

Therefore, in lieu of any unanimity, I have decided to follow my own model, and begin rather more towards the middle.

Even here there have been complaints. Several of the Animeaux have suggested that it should have a real beginning, full of action, a sweep of space, and context -- (i.e. more attention paid to them.)

My response has been; that if, in the beginning I had been aware I was to be set upon in New Orleans by ruffians, attacked by Pyrates in Halifax, forced to fortify the house in Ottawa, and all the rest.... well might I have had third or fourth thoughts. But since I was dumped into the middle of this extravagance - why should the reader do any better.



Chapter Five

The Imposition of an Introduction

It was quite a long time ago; not quite so far back as when people had faith in the government, but still a long time ago, when one Sunday Craig had a portentous luncheon with his friend Cassandra who was very talented, (she could spell, and type at the same time which intrigued nearly everyone) and was good at making friends.

Over coffee they discussed her poor opinion of Craig’s social life, and its reliance on what she felt to be a rather transient orientation. She felt that he needed to be introduced to the concept of a stable relationship; one not interrupted by the vagaries of airline timetables, or misplaced husbands.

While he did not entirely agree with the analysis, he knew he needed someone to talk to; someone to watch his famous collection of John Wayne movies with, someone who didn’t want to regularly dust his equally impressive collection of model tanks that lived on the plate-rails in the dining room, or thought that he should eat vegetables, and less peanut butter, or more importantly thought he should behave himself and dress better. He wanted an accomplice who didn’t need to be taken for walks or ever, ever thought of climbing up the tall speakers in the living room; or with unwarranted assurance started leaving their tooth brushes in his bathroom, or their Monday-morning-look-professional clothes in the hall closet.

Between the cups of coffee and jam soaked scones listened to the grievances, considered the situation, (with what verged on very little sympathy), and decided she had best resolve this problem before it became ponderous. That very day she went out and found him a suitable confidant.

She phoned that evening and told him not to go out, explaining that she had told an acquaintance of a friend of hers that Craig had lots of extra space in his house, if they needed a place to rest and recuperate from the tribulations of life. That acquaintance was going to arrive that very night.

This rather took Craig aback, “Who was this?”, and why did Cassandra think... She cut the conversation off with, “Don’t be such a poop. I’m sure that It will shall be far better for you than all the waywards from KLM or Lufthansa.” and hung up.

He paused in reflection for a moment. He seriously doubted that anything would be better than.... He put those thoughts out of his mind, and went into the kitchen and made himself some fresh strong coffee and opened a fresh tub of coffee ice-cream and waited for his house guest.

(It was, as fate would have it, a Dragon Animeaux, though in those more naive times he did not recognize it as such.)

It arrived late, nearly 2 in the morning. It was tall and lengthy, attired in a camouflaged French Paratroop jump suit, iridescent red sneakers, a large rescue-orange canvas carryall under one arm and an ancient aerial camera, slung across his back - between green silk wings.

It was clear to Craig that this was not just any old run-of-the-mill Dragon; this was a fabulous Dragon. Aside from being slightly taken aback, he decided that this could turn into a nice intrusion. He always liked the notion of dragons, and the thought of having one around the house was much more appealing then having to accommodate the usual cat.

As Cassandra had expected, the combination was an incalculable success. The Dragon minded its own business, liked to watch television ‘till all hours, slept-in late whenever possible, and never wanted more than a fair share of the coffee ice-cream.

Very early one morning, a few months later, after vainly trying to explain to one of the more missionary-ly inclined Nordic flight attendants why he didn’t want the kitchen rearranged with all the cans and bottles sorted alphabetically - and by size. Craig decided to become a little discouraged. He found himself looking out the front windows, towards the pond as the dawn came up, he said to no one in particular, “I must start developing more substantial inclinations. There just must be more to a social life than blanched Scandinavians, with names impossible to pronounce and lives too complicated to follow.”

A deep resonant voice hummed along the floor and said, “Do you think she was in charge of sorting all the miniature liquor bottles they have on aeroplanes for far too long?”

He looked around, and was dumbfounded to see the Dragon, sleepily opening one eye.

“I didn’t know you could talk?” he said with some trepidation.

The Dragon replied that he was rather surprised too. Although he had been conversing with other Animeaux for forgotten eons, he had never quite been able to communicate with any of the Peoples before. It was not that he hadn’t wanted to, but usually he just kind of thought things, but somehow they never quite matured into words, and certainly they had never came right out loud before.

(Now this was the first time Craig had ever heard the word Animeaux, though the scale of the discovery was not quite clear to him at the time.)

Since there seemed nothing more constructive to do Craig wandered into the kitchen, made some fresh coffee, and threw a bag of nearly fresh scones into the oven. The Dragon came in and found some of its’ favorite marmalade, then they went to the dining room and sat down at the table and began to talk. In the months that followed they spent many pleasant evenings chatting about Dragons and their numerous Animeaux relatives. Oftentimes, if it had been a very hard day, or during one of those periods when Craig’s social life seemed to favour psychologists (having momentarily misplaced his sense of the absurd, and his ScannAir timetable), the Dragon would grasp his mood, and suggest they retire to the den, fire up the DVD and watch “Fort Apache”, “55 Days at Peking” or perhaps even “The Guns Of Navaronne”, break out the Coffee Ice Cream and Croissants and make a real night of it. They always felt better in the morning.

One day, as he watched the Dragon search through the day’s intake of mail, looking for something interesting to read, it occurred to him that they had been together for almost four years, and it was surely time to celebrate this event. He asked if there was anything it wanted? - A Norton Commando motorcycle, satellite TV, his own subscription to “Air Progress”, “New Scientist” or ”Flight” ? The Dragon thought for a while, as Dragons are wont to do, and finally said, “It would be extremely nice if perhaps you could find the room for another Dragon. Someone for me to talk to, or play mah-jongg with, when nothing immeasurably interesting is going on in the house that is. Perhaps we all could watch the Rugby games televised from Cardiff together.”

Craig called Cassandra the very next morning, and asked if she could find another dragon. He didn’t tell her about the Dragon’s talking. When the new dragon finally arrived it was smaller, but it was a soft silver with deep red eyes and enveloping wings. It immediately sprang to the top of a bookcase in the living room, and looked grimly at its surroundings. Craig left the two dragons on their own.

It took the older Dragon many months of patient trying, and innumerable picnics in the local parks before the Silver Dragon could talk at all - even to him. When it finally did, the Dragons could be heard at night as a pleasant humming sound as they commented about the news of the day or any intriguing comings and goings in the house. When people insisted that the Dragons had moved during the night, Craig would always tell the truth; though to be sure it was not his first inclination. He just explained they were the Watch Dragons, and patrolled the house at night when all were asleep. He was not believed, especially by the transient Nordic contingent, who apparently lacked in imagination what they made up for in diligence and enthusiasm.
The Dragons muttered about ‘Quislings’ or ‘Ibsen’ and laughed to themselves a lot.

An Arrival

It was a few years later, through the most shameful negligence, Craig had stumbled into a crisis. He had almost given up on finding any, much less the appropriate Christmas present for his sister.

Finally in a desperate flight of fancy, he thought of asking Cassandra if she could perhaps arrange an encounter with something Scots, who might like a new home for a Christmas present. (You see his sister, like Craig had many relatives in Scotland, and had actually married one - even if he was a Lowlander.)

He promptly called Cassandra’s home, and she, caught up in the spirit of Christmas said that it should pose no great problem, seeing that the accommodations were free.

Three days later she phoned, and said to meet her at her husband Roger’s bookstore. Craig arrived several hours later to meet the non-paying guest. He was overcome. There, standing by the counter, was a tall, striking, Hibernian badger. His name, he announced, was James Festis Kerr MacGregor, and was, from his rather imposing presence, obviously one of the fabled Clan Gregor; “The Children of the Mist”. He was wearing a soft linen shirt with a long fancy lace collar and traditional Jacobite regalia. Craig was beside himself with glee, tinged if the truth be known, by a smidgen of jealously.

As he gave Mr. MacGregor a ride over to Jane’s, he knew Christmas was to be a success, though it was clear that his own home was in dire need of such company - for balance.

The Colonel

Three months after the Christmas holidays were over, a large-ish (which is not quite to say overweight) badger arrived at the front door. He was quite tall for a badger, and was well arrayed in the full kilt of the Cameron Clan, and a dress shirt with a lace collar. He carried a large knobbed briar walking stick in his right hand. His face was weathered and crinkled from years under very foreign suns. His tail had turned silver at its’ tip, as had his rather tufty ears. He looked through the glass door with interest, and standing a bit on his toes rapped on the top of the door with his stick three distinct times.

Craig opened the door and the badger shook his hand, motioning behind him, walked into the house. He was immediately followed by a thoroughly bullied cab driver, who in three successive trips lugged in; a large and ancient teak campaign chest, two stained canvas haversacks, three large leather steamer trunks, a portable, collapsible bathtub, four woven willow traveling cases, and a much weathered medium sized barrel branded “Glenmorangie — Toraidhean Alba”.

He tipped the apologetic driver with a dab of foreign money, and dragged his belongings to the top of the basement stairs, and left them there. He walked into the living room and made himself at home climbing on to the sofa and said, “Good afternoon. Dugal Blackthorn-Badger here. Must ‘pologize for not giving more warning of my ‘rival, or offering a small welcoming dram, but it’s surely been a long trip from the Poona hill stations, and I really must get some rest.” He fell soundly asleep, with his Glengarry pulled down over his face.

Craig sighed. It was to become a common sound around the house.

Three days after this peculiar arrival, upon coming down stairs on Saturday morning, Craig noticed that the Dragons were both standing (so to speak) at attention at the foot of the stairs, looking quite smart and polished. The sneakers were clean and the silver coat was freshly burnished and wiped.

He asked the Older Dragon to account for this rather singular appearance. The Dragon looked away for a second, and then standing up very straight replied that they both had joined the Colonel’s Division.

“Whose Division?” Craig asked, “Why Colonel Blackthorn-Badger’s 51st.” came the reply.

A bit nonplussed he wandered into the kitchen and made his usual fuss over his coffee, then mug in hand he went over to the big walnut equipment stand on which the badger had apparently taken up lodgings.

Stirring his coffee carefully he said “Colonel Blackthorn-Badger, I presume?”

The badger looked up from under his early morning “Times” and after twice folding it, nodded “Aye, that’s it. Colonel Dugal Blackthorn-Badger at your service mon General.” he said with a distinguished Scot’s accent.

Now it had always been Craig’s modest opinion that he would have been an extremely good general - and a very poor private - so he thought that the badger just might be a very good judge of character. So he asked “Exactly what do the dragons do in OUR army.”

He received an instant reply, “Why they are to be the Queen’s Own Dragoons. D’ye no see the beauty of it? They are a patrol. A kind of Home Guard - here to protect the house, its contents - and us, from the rapacious, prying hands of the pale and nasty Sassenach.”

Well that made sense Craig thought, and replied “Well if I agree, and I think I shall, I have a simple suggestion. I really think they should be called The First Dragon Dragoon Guards, or there will be endless confusion with the Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars.”

The badger raised one of his eyebrows and asked quietly, “The what?”

Craig replied, “The Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars. Who are presently barracked upstairs, and who are just now, as a matter of interest, looking for a new Colonel-in-Chief. A Colonel with a lot of field experience they said.”

This quite animated the badger. New recruits!

He excused himself, and scurried off down the basement stairs, kilt flying and tam askew. He returned a few moments later. He waved at Craig, and rushed up stairs waving his walking stick and clutching the Peek-Frene’s tin box that contained all his medals and his heroic pictures from the London Illustrated News.

(Over the last several years, Craig had provided some housing assistance to an assortment of Plush Pigs. Originally he thought that they would provide some pleasant company for the Dragons. Ironically it turned out that they had quite strident political and social convictions, and kept the whole household amused and appalled in equal measure, with their constant spouting of Tom Payne, Toulouse Lautrec and Robert Burns - their three heroes.)

Unfortunately they were fast becoming quite lazy, and as a result - quite porkly. He was sure that anyone who could get the two Dragons to join up, could prod the Pigs into shape. He had spontaneously made up the story about them being The Pig Irregulars, but he knew that the Pigs were far too polite to contradict a guest.

As could be expected things on Holmwood Avenue became very peaceful for a long while. The Dragon Dragoon Guards patrolled the house and helped in the garden. The Pigs slept, and marched, ran up and down the basement stairs, carrying various pieces of Dugal’s kit for inspection, and practiced their Gaelic under his watchful ear. The Colonel relaxed, listened to Wagner and Elgar, and some times, if it was very nice out, something Italian or a bit of Purcell.

He had his campaign chest brought up from the basement and unpacked. The resulting pile of ancient property had required him to ask Craig if he could borrow some shelf space for his collection of books on famous lost causes. He was especially fond of volumes about the star-crossed Army of Northern Virginia and the various gallantly unsuccessful uprisings against the foul and usurping House of Hanover. He was a true Scot you see.