Swimming Darkly

There are days that seem unbearably thin. These days seem to be there only because they happen for everyone else, and sometimes they seem to be there just to spite you. But there are the days that are yours. That happen for you. These are the days you notice the sparkle of dew, the angles of sunlight, the scent of flowers and all the cliches of living a life. Today was one of those days. Walking the same track I walk nearly every day with my dog, along a creek that's really a glorified storm water drain, I noticed all those things. On the bad days I notice the rubbish clogging up the creek, the flotsam hanging from the trees where the water rises fast and furious during the rains. In the dips and peaks of the creek bed I notice the stench of pollution and the miasma that gathers at dawn full of flying bugs and microscopic beads of the black creek water. On such days the weed below the surface of the water appears to me as some alien mutant species grown from the pollution. The weed is thick like a bullfrog's neck, still and lurking, waiting beneath the glassy surface of the still still creek.

But on the good days it's a different place. The clogging rubbish blends in to the background of lush vegetation that overflows into the creek from the banks, the flotsam in the trees a strange decoration symbolising those exciting times when the water's up and we can all marvel at how high it got - my god, it was so high it left rubbish in the trees! The dips and peaks offer views and entry into the lingering mist of dawn that nearly always catches the sun as it surfaces in the east. The weed below the surface seems more a sign of life below the lingering stench of dirty water, and it makes me happy that the water is clear enough that I can actually see it. Everywhere the creek is fighting back. Nature, or earth, grass, vegetation is pushing back against the dumped tires, shopping trollies, boots, books, chip packets and milk cartons.

There's a bridge I cross over which hovers above a section of the creek which collects in a corner creating something of a mini-lake. It's deep here. The bottom is not visible and from the bridge the creek is just an expanse of dark brown depth, animated on its edges by lake weed, spear grass and some willow trees. Ducks float, and from this angle you can see that the serenity of their surface gliding is underpinned by frenetic paddling - front to back side to side. This morning I stop to watch them for a bit. And that's when I see it. For the first time in the thousands (surely! hundreds probably) of times I've stood and looked from this view, I see them. Shadows at first, but on closer inspection! Fish! Huge humungous enormous fish. Fish, as long as my arm. Fat and slow, dark and gray, slicing slowly, in curves and arcs through the water. First one. Then another. And as though I've finally cracked the art of seeing in three dimensions I see the water is full of these enormous fat fish swimming darkly, swimming slowly through water that seems so deep with lifeless murk. Fish! in a creek!

Angie

Angie. Where could a person start when introducing Angie. Angie is a dog. A black dog. When she goes for a walk her tail conducts unseen orchestras as she trots high with bliss in her step. In the morning by the creek when the sun glances off her *very* shiny coat, red, yellow and even purple are scattered through the shine.

She doesn't like dogs though. Most dogs. Big dogs. And small dogs. She will tuck her tail in, down hard and tight against her herself and she'll spin madly, hissing like a cat, to stop the dog getting behind her. She bares not her fangs but the front of her mouth. When she thinks she's being attacked she lets out a scream. Not a yelp, not a bark, but a scream, long and unbroken. That's when dogs usually walk away, and if they could do it, I'm sure they'd be rubbing their forehead in puzzlement at such a strange creature.

But then there are the dogs that pretend to ignore her. She likes them. She likes manners. She'll walk past, and if they ignore her, or simply stop and watch her, she launches low on to her front paws. Butt and tail high in the air, head aligned with teh floor. If the dog joins her, she'll run, round and round, and round and round, head high, joy in her teeth. And anyone watching would swear, that if dogs could do it, she'd be most definitely grinning from ear to ear.

So that's Angie. High spirited, strange, and brimful with character. And smart. She interacts as though she can talk. When you talk to her, she cocks her head. If she's asked to do something she'll figure it out by trial, eyes wide, mouth open and grinning. That's Angie, my crazy, sensitive, funny little companion who lies next to me when I write. Who tries to talk to me when she's bored. Who kicks her water bowl around when it's empty until it's filled. Who lies on her back and throws socks in the air and catches them with her paws which she uses like mits. Who's greedy like a garbage dog. Who hates dogs and is scared of cats. That's Angie.