It would have been an engaging Christmas story, about how at night a radiating sky made the van into a freezer, how rapidly I'd rise and change into my clothes not to be caught by the cold and how in the morning I first had to pierce the ice inside my water bottle to make tea. And that then I got an SMS from an angel asking if I wanted to sit a house and a cat, for December and January. A real house, with heating, running water and an electric kitchen. And so it happened that on Christmas Eve, nicely warm and snug, I was watching a DVD, with Brambles the cat purring on my lap and a two-litre bottle of mouthwatering, naturally chilled Rock Shandy within reach.
But the thought that I had left Dusty to her fate out there wasn't one to hang in a Christmas tree. Outside, a sinister sparkle flashed from the frozen snow and restricted my movement to mostly indoors, apart from an occasional cautious food mission.
From day one on I missed the sea. Naturally, she's half my world at the meadow, always moving and even in stillness I hear her sloshes. Around the house a deafening silence rules. One time I dared to go looking for Dusty. But the rocks where heavily crystal-encrusted and nearly inaccessible. Moreover, she wasn't there.
But Robin, the stonechat, was and each morning when I came outside he reminded me of his presence by making ticking sounds almost from my shoulder.
At first I would break a biscuit in pieces on the wall, like I do on the meadow, so they don't get blown away. But here Robin was quickly scared off by a thrush, which in turn was shooed away by a magpie.
Then I crushed the cookies into fine crumbles, so some would be left for Robin.
Bird feeding was not without hazard. As long as Brambles was leering at them from behind the glass door there was nothing wrong. But as soon as she had mi-owed her way out, the half-starved birds had to risk their other halves for their living. The first bird she caught, she devoured in front of my dismay. And when I approached her, I expected her to quickly move away, stricken by guilt and shame. But she nuzzled against my hand and purred out loud. I realised in her world this was an achievement to be proud of, to be rewarded with respect.
A week later, she left a second bird at the door, fully intact and still warm in my hand. I told her that when you kill it you've got to eat it. Later the bird had fully disappeared.
To be frank, I have always found the days between Christmas and the New Year utterly useless. Nothing substantial is endeavoured and time only drags. An annual repetition of the 'Fin de Siècle' ambience. To make it worse it started to thaw. The silence now was broken by a high wind in the trees, colours had faded to saddening shades and raindrops drizzled along the sobbing window panes. No way to part from the old year.
Outside I saw a black bug rock-hopping on the gravel. Two slender slugs slimed across the concrete threshold and humped at every unevenness. That was it. So no Auld Lang Syne, no firecrackers, no booze, no hangover, but lots of joy-writing and in my way pretty cozy.
Yesterday there was a bit of sunlight, not a bit as severe as during the frost, but mellowing in between. Perfect for P'Watch. When I arrived I saw Kate had just come out. The key question: 'Was she there?' Several times when I came down during the last few weeks Dusty was not there. But now she was and had even jumped several times. Finally she brought Kate a flower.
'I really could feel she was happy to see me again', she radiated.
What better beginning of a New Year than with Dusty. The only thing I'd like to add is what I've been preaching for years: 'Be your own dolphin!'