The Blackbird Thief…

I’m reading a book at the moment and one of the characters is a cat called, ‘Bully.’ Apart from the fact that the cat is blind, it also works as a vessel for another entity, in this case, a human assassin. In short, the assassin lives inside the cat whenever she isn’t relieving other person or persons of their lives.

You might assume from this brief outline that there is a fair aul bit of the supernatural going on this in book and in short, you’d be right.

The assassin who lives in the cat is known as a magicker and can repair into or out of the cat at any given moment. The only forewarning that she is on the cusp of emerging from the cat is a fit of coughing from Bully’s chest.

Despite my own inherent cynicism for mysticism, I gradually came to the conclusion that I am very much enjoying said book, The Blacktongue Thief.

It’s a fantasy novel and assassins inside cats isn’t the half of the madness which plays out on practically every page. There’s a witch called Deadlegs, wars with goblins and the eponymous Thief has a tattoo on his face advertising free drink. All in all, it’s a very weird but humorous romp.

In-between perusals of The Blacktongue Thief of an evening, I have found myself staring at the Hound and wondering if there might be another entity living therein. Of course, Waffle is slightly less debilitated than a blind cat and yet, paradoxically, I can’t help but also conclude that he is slightly less dynamic. But a living entity inside? My money’s on Patrick out of SpongeBob.

Last week a regular reader of Waffle’s antics (none other than a local parish priest), suggested that I should permit the “little pooch” to be my “spiritual director.” I’m not entirely sure what this means except that I’m fairly sure that he wasn’t referring to entities within the Hound. Or was he?

Pondering the concept of Waffle being a director of anything is a bit of a stretch; although he has a fair aul grip on how to repeatedly step into my way. In terms of getting in the road, he’s world championship standard. Come to think of it, there might be something in the assassin entity after all. He might fatally trip me up yet.

As is the way with our routines, in the evening, when I’m checking the hens, Waffle will scout around the perimeter of the garden like a lion looking for wildebeest. Then, the time comes to change my wellies in the shed, Waffle will usually appear for sniff therein as well.

On one of those frosty evenings of last week – Monday I think it was – I was mid wellie-change when Waffle arrived, already coughing as he crossed the threshold. Initially unperturbed, I continued with my routine, commenting, “Coughing up that assassin are you, Bully?”

Waffle continued to cough.

He coughed and he coughed and he better coughed and I had been on the verge of repeating my comment when he seemed to start to choke.

“For fupsakes, dawg,” I muttered, hunkering down beside him and thumping him between the shoulder blades.

And, just like an old man hacking up some congealed lung juice, Waffle coughed up a perfectly formed, clean yellow beak.

Without thinking, I picked it up and to all the world, it looked like a bird’s beak – a Blackbird’s beak – if the yellow was anything to go by.

I cast my mind back to the checking of the hens moments later and ticked off their tally in my head. At least it wasn’t one of the hens’ peckers.

Yes, I concluded, it was almost definitely a Blackbird’s beak.

“Well, I don’t know what to say, Bully,” I told him. “Some things are for eating and some things aren’t. Best you figure that out at some point.”

Waffle looked and me and licked his chops. The Blackbird Thief?