The Bales Of October
We were up this morning in the silver moonlit dark of a mountain October, Mrs. Orr preparing the dogs’ breakfast and the coffee. We watched the dogs with some wariness, as we had an incident last night.
Each evening about 830 or so, I take them outside for what we call the biscuit run. They do their business in the backyard, and then tumble back inside to await their treat: a dog biscuit for Jinx and a half-biscuit for Dixee. Usually, it’s a mellow time. But last night, Jinx was snuffling up a few crumbs from his biscuit when Dixee decided to come over and insert herself between him and what he figured was his rightful remnants. At some point, Dixee launched herself at Jinx, snarling and biting, and caught him on his upper lip with her teeth. He transformed into a frightening animal at that point, slamming her to the floor, pinning her with one paw, and diving at her with his jaws wide open and full of killing teeth. In that instant, I thought Dixee was a goner, but our collective shouts and my movement towards them served to separate them. Dixee whimpered a bit, but didn’t ultimately seem to sustain any real injury. They were hostile to each other — from a distance — for the rest of the evening, and at this very moment, they are semi-napping on opposite sides of the family room, a very real tension there. But such is life with dogs.
Jinx and I went for a walk, accompanied by the ghost-chorus of the screech owl in our woods and his counterpart down in the holler. Looking up, I almost expected to see the notes scrawled in a terror-clef across the face of the moon, hovering so close above us, the dark smudges of craters and mountain ranges clear in my vision. Down the road a bit, a bull stood black and still along the fence, plumes of smoke curling from his nostrils like a Clinch Mountain Smaug. He watched us as we passed along the road, untroubled by two smaller creatures, the moon highlighting the ebony hills and valleys along his shoulders and flank. Across the gravel road, the humped shapes of round hay bales loomed up, their shoulders as moonlit as the bulls, though shaggier and more aromatic. I thought to go over and punch one, or stab at it with the bokuto I use as a walking staff, but decided that it was too early for strain or elevated pulse rates.
As we walked, I inventoried my various bodily systems, checking each one off. Yesterday I was sidelined late in the day by a bout of what was probably mild food poisoning. We spent the evening watching Bela Lugosi’s original Dracula and then a lovely, moody horror movie called Cat People, from 1942. I sipped ginger ale until I got sleepy, and Friday faded from us forever.
We both slept very well, and this was no surprise to me. The weather has blossomed into full autumnal beauty, with the crisp, cold evenings — I think it was about 41F last night. (In contrast, my weather journal tells me that one year ago today, it was 95F here!) This is the season of contraction. In the warm weather, everything expands, and my body stretches out, trying to gain maximum surface exposure to cool air. In the “R” months, I fold in on myself, comforted and lulled by the ninety-eight-point-six of my own inner furnace, stoked as it is by the life force I’ve been given. It feels more natural, more right to curl up and burrow under the quilts and blankets while the night air remains surgically clean and chilled.
Jinx and I returned from our walk and I cooked breakfast for my wife and me while listening to music. Bacon and Beethoven…there is an elemental connection there. As I tended the skillets, I read from a biography of Miyamoto Musashi, the section dissecting the famous duel between Musashi and Sasaki Kojiro at Ganryu Island. I was particularly interested in the description of the island as it probably appeared in Musashi’s day as opposed to today.
I visited Ganryu Jima when I lived in Japan and walked all around it, imagining the scene on the day that a rough eccentric armed with a sword he carved from an oar defeated and killed an aristocratic sword master brandishing a katana with a blade so long it was nicknamed “Clothes Pole.” I was drawn to the fact that the tiny island boasts two freshwater springs, and this gave me something to turn over in my mind as I turned the bacon and stirred the eggs. Two freshwater springs on that tiny little wedge of earth in the middle of an ocean? How does fresh water come to be on a slab of dirt floating on the salty sea? I was again reminded of my ignorance and shortcomings in science and geography, and determined to study how fresh water occurs on islands. Several years ago, I became similarly intrigued by the idea of how plants distribute their seeds, and I ended up spending a couple of months reading voraciously about various seed dispersal methods. I am amazed and humbled to this very day when I look upon the weeds and plants in the pastures and woods around us.
The weather is gorgeous and peace sits in the air over our little farm — even between the dogs, at least for the moment — and I’m a fool if I don’t get outside and get busy.
~ S. K. Orr
