Doc Barbara lies fallow

Although Doc Barbara relishes a new adventure, she was beginning to enjoy the quiet days when nothing much happened. Neither she nor Darwin realised that the rebellious worms were still fermenting underground. (This was a Good Thing because the dog has a literal mind and the vision of fermenting worms would have totally discombobulated him). Doc Barbara had noticed that leaves were accumulating on her lawn but she did not suspect that Worm One had formed a trades union, Vermicomposters Together, and that the strike was ongoing. Darwin, with his extra sensitive hearing, had caught the word "blackleg" floating up through an old worm cast but thought nothing of it, since even he knew that worms do not have legs, black or any other colour.

In cheerful ignorance they went out every morning, perfectly peacefully, until Darwin was spooked by a new window display in Doc Barbara's favourite charity shop and attempted to leap into her arms for a cuddle: inside every hefty adult canine is a puppy trying to get out, jump up and knock you over.

She explained about All Hallowe'en but Darwin was shaking so much that his ears were banging against his furry cheeks and he couldn't even hear. He begged her to take him to the park so that he could sit by and study his favourite tree, the silver birch with the face of a dog evident on its bark.

Breathe in, breathe out and wag your tail slowly.

Soothed and relieved by dendrology, he grew calmer and, when they got home, he listened from his bed (with willing suspension of disbelief) to her reading aloud from her translation of Worms of Lithuania into Indo-European. The room was warm, the log fire crackled gently and, as he dozed off, he pictured all those Indo-Europeans also sliding into gentle slumber as they heard the narrative drift imperceptibly forwards. He did hope it would have a happy ending.

He rather hoped in addition that she would not summarise their day with one of her semi-comprehensible maxims and drew his fish-themed blanket over his head. To no avail: she had a sudden intuition that there was trouble afoot in wormland (if they don't have legs how can they have feet? pondered Darwin) and she announced, unnecessarily loudly, "You can't make an omelette without counting your chickens". Zzzzzzzzz came from under the blanket.

Doc Barbara and the rest of the cast

 The Dramatis Personae

It is usual to place this at the start of any narrative but we like to be different, don't we? New enthusiasts might welcome a summary and I need to announce - despite the disappointment this will bring to thousands of well-qualified applicants - that all roles are now filled except for those of Worms 7 and 8.  (If your personality indicates that you would have been suitable for a part, it is now time to worry about your identity. It is not too late to become normal).

Doc Barbara. Too modest to be shown in person but the eponymous heroine of all the episodes of this thrilling and globally popular series, now in its 75th season. These are her thick tights, always worn pulled up to her arm pits.

Professor Ramsbottom-Thrutch, eminent sociologist and always looking for ways of sweeping away erroneous concepts. At present engaged in a UK bicycle tour, recording the reactions of patients in dentists' waiting rooms to his silly hats. He is not always warmly welcomed on these visits. 

Darwin, once the Professor's dog but now in the tender care of Doc Barbara. Domesticated, cautious, loyal, grateful - but wary of metaphor. Doc Barbara's tendency to mix them is not helping him one little bit.

Belinda Twaddle, newly re-acquainted friend of Doc Barbara. Expert classicist for which quality she has been promoted to Latin correspondent of the Monmouthshire Mouthpiece. Here she is, musing on the ablative absolute whilst imitating a sloth. 

Einstein, Belinda's dog, slightly absent-minded and apt to wander off at a  tangent (not the one involved in the dynamic, curved four-dimensional spacetime manifold but the one leading from the park to the woods). Now firm friends with Darwin. Do not ask how the bond was sealed. Dogs are like that and it does not pay to get too closely involved.

Bob Twaddle, Belinda's brother, historian and snail devotee, now working to create an emulative Domesday Book of molluscs in inaccessible countries. Once a sufferer from polysyllabicaphobia (even the term made him feel faint) he has long ago extended the length of his words, which is ironic when the rest of the UK is resorting to monosyllables. If you doubt my claim, listen to Doc Barbara's favourite programme, The Archers, and clap your hands every time anyone uses a word of more than two syllables. You will not spill your cuppa.  

The extras are assorted worms, sheep and snails, too numerous ("And similar!" do I hear?) to be mentioned individually.  A few other personages have been invited to play cameo pop-up parts but have not yet responded. Here's one.

 

Doc Barbara meets an old friend

Darwin, the dog, was very happy living with his new owner, Doc Barbara. Professore Ramsbottom-Thrutch had been extremely kind but she was at home more and he had moments of the day, in her humble abode, that made him almost purr.  He particularly liked it when she put down her huge book, Worms of Lithuania, and sat erect on the sofa, in her blue-and-white checked skirt with her broad black knees poking out. He would emerge from his fish-themed blanket and cosy bed, come up to her and rest his face on her right knee. He then drooped his paw pleadingly over the left knee with his tail in the middle - and ensured that he had a mournful, begging look in his eyes.

I'd be more comfortable on the sofa. 

Often, she would let him jump up and she'd run her fingers in questing fashion down his vertebrae as he dozed off into canine dreamland and she ruminated about invertebrates.

Yet - he had found the last two outings a trifle discombobulating: the worms had been obstreperous and the sheep far from docile. He asked Doc Barbara if they could go for a quiet walk round the park, with no adventures and certainly no antagonists. 

They had just passed the bandstand where her orchestra had once surpassed themselves, when they heard a shout of: "Einstein, Einstein."

Please forgive the worm his Italian solecism.

They paused whilst Doc Barbara racked her brains in order to decode this cry and had concluded (erroneously in every sense) that it was someone calling for a beer: "Ein stein", when there was a loud whoop and a person floated over the hedge.

More clearly, the voice asked: "What are you up to, Einstein?" and Doc Barbara was just about to respond that he had arrived at the space/time continuum that had something to do with fast trains, when she recognised Belinda Twaddle. She was aware that Belinda had come down from her earlier position (six years ago) imitating sloth behaviour but did not realise she was still around. 

Then came the climactic moment, the ultimate and nearly unbearable happiness for woman and canine. Belinda had a dog named Einstein, whose only fault was a tendency to wander off. Yet flaws of character are relative (punning reference again) and soon Einstein hove into view. (Should that be hoved?)

He was given his name because of his unruly hair and has no interest whatsoever in what E is equal to, whether  mc squared  or quadrupled or a pumpkin.

Darwin and Einstein became instant friends in the hygienically dubious way that dogs usually do and which we will not, definitely not, picture here. 

Doc Barbara was also delighted to meet her friend: "It's an ill wind that doesn't have a silver lining," she opined - and Darwin almost understood. 

Doc Barbara and Copernicus, the sheep

 In our last tumultuous episode we left Doc Barbara's worms in revolt under her lawn. She was unaware of this, however, and was devoting her mental energies to solving the question of the snickering sheep, when she became aware of Darwin, the dog, peering meaningfully at her over the sofa arm.

Walkies, please.

Darwin was of the opinion that they needed to visit the field again and question directly why there was snickering when the sheep, Copernicus, was mentioned by name. 

Erasmus, the leading ovine, was embarrassed when addressed but Doc Barbara spoke in her most magisterial fashion - she is VERY scary when she's in this mode - and he ordered Copernicus to turn round.

Even the worm is giggling.

Copernicus was revealed to have a glowing, bronze-coloured rear end of which he was completely oblivious. The other sheep could barely contain their mirth and snickered more obnoxiously than ever. This fundamental (get that pun!) aberration of hue was because of a strange genetic mutation that caused his hind quarters to be similar to those of the ancestral moufflon. "All Darwin's fault," said one sheep and our poor dog was humiliated. 

Why do I always get the blame?

"When we had the meeting to choose our official names, we voted for Copernicus as his nomenclature, claiming it was because he understands the workings of the universe," explained Erasmus, "but really it's so that we can call him, behind his back, because that's where the humour lies ..."

His voice tailed (not that metaphor, please) away but there was a joyous shout from the entire flock: COPPER KNICKERS. 

Darwin guffawed and several passers-by paused to see what was happening but Doc Barbara was in supercilious, regal mood and was NOT amused.

"That is very lambish and hurtful," she scolded them "and you will desist forthwith." 

Things suddenly don't feel very bright.

The sheep looked - there's only one word for it yet again - sheepish and agreed, apart from one who had to have the word 'desist' explained several times. And 'forthwith'. 

Doc Barbara and Darwin went on their way home and she, as usual, summarised this exploit with an old proverb: Two swallows do not cry over spilt milk. The canine was no wiser and looked forward to his bed.

Doc Barbara and the worm rebellion

In our last thrilling episode we left two vital plot lines in suspense: why were the sheep snickering and what were the worms up to? Put the sheep out of your mind for this instalment  (you might have guessed anyway and they are not a pleasant image when giggling) and we will discover why the worms were revolting. Please do not crack that old joke about worms always being revolting - because I want to do it. There was general agitation (not that one about "Who's he?" and "What wars did he fight in?" please) because Doc Barbara was now more focused on Darwin, her newly adopted dog than them, her previously beloved invertebrates. Although she was busying herself translating an arcane tome about Lithuanian worms into Indo-European and that evinced a continuing interest, the chief amongst them decided to call a meeting. His official name is Worm One because their spelling is deficient and that's all they can manage.

They really aren't very bright, are they?

When they had all donned their woolly jumpers and risen to the surface, Worm One explained that this was to be an urgent council/counsel meeting like the famous Diet of Worms. Worm Two spoke up and said he didn't like the sound of that one little bit as he had no wish to be eaten. Worm One was beginning to lose the will to live, let alone conduct a meeting, but he called upon his inner resources of character, explained the historical reference and continued. Ignoring the clamour to visit a city named after them, he stated that had nothing against Darwin, whose paws created pleasant percussion beats as he walked above them, but he was stealing their thunder. 

Worm Four (Worm Three having gone into premature hibernation) piped up that, if there was going to be a storm, he was going back underground, woolly jumper or no woolly jumper. Worm One hastily concluded, ordering a week's strike during which they would not - absolutely not - pull down the leaves on Doc Barbara's lawn. All nodded in agreement - they are quite easily impressed and like to nod to show they are following the discourse. There will be no blacklegs, ordered Worm One, and closed the meeting before anyone could make a comment about legs, whether black or any other colour.  Worm Five had already opened his mouth.

Doc Barbara and the local sheep

Darwin, the newly adopted dog of Doc Barbara, was keen to accompany her of one of her fabulous exploits now that he had settled in at home with his comfortable bed, cushion and fish-themed blanket.  Doc Barbara explained to him that there was one hurdle to be jumped before they could set out together: a field of sheep. Alarmed, Darwin asked if he had to leap over all the sheep (his understanding of metaphor is stunted) but she, an avid fan of The Archers, assured him that she meant that he had to be trusted near them.

When they arrived at the spot, the two leading ovines were waiting, placidly chewing rich grass. This did not prevent them from having a sotto voce discussion which Darwin, with a dog's superior hearing, absorbed without understanding and relayed to Doc Barbara, who rather reluctantly, told him the gist.

Darwin? Don't like the sound of him, personally.

The sheep were complaining that they disliked Darwin because he had  invented evolution. Without him, they would still be moufflons (ovis gmelini), lean and muscular, agile and wearing a pleasing brown coat with arresting black stripes. Instead, because of him, they were unwieldy, meaty and bearing awkwardly massive wool fleeces which had to be sheared annually at least - a very scary process. Doc Barbara offered to intervene diplomatically and Darwin agreed, although he had not noted her as being over-endowed with tact and nuanced utterance. Off she went to accost the sheep.

Meanwhile he sat, feeling very small and anxious because of the tone of what he had overheard: the sky had turned grey, his ears and tail drooped, his fur shrank and even the grass looked sad.

 
Somehow, I feel quite desolate.

Soon, Doc Barbara returned and said that any misunderstanding had been cleared up and that the sheep were now in amicable mode, even apologetic and embarrassed. Darwin dared to raise his eyes and opined that they did look - well - sheepish. (Puns are his natural trope). They introduced themselves as Erasmus and Copernicus (there was a snicker from the rest of the flock at this last name), promised that he would always be welcome in their field and that they would accompany him to the gate. Darwin was cautiously gratified but hung back a little, because they still seemed quite large and worryingly (not that pun, please) likely to fall on top of him because of their spindly and insecure legs.

Everything seems OK but you never know.

A worm now poked its head up from the earth: a rumour was circulating underground that Doc Barbara was transferring her focus away from invertebrates and there was concern that they would be even more overlooked. (Did you twig both puns in that sentence?) 

Is this true and why did the sheep snicker? All may - or may not - be revealed in the next thrilling episode. We may remember Doc Barbara's motto: "Procrastination is the thief of jam tomorrow" and hope for the best. Poor Darwin is now totally confused.

Doc Barbara and canine comfort.

All was going well on Darwin the dog's first evening with Doc Barbara: she was busy on the sofa, translating a scholarly work on Lithuanain Worms into Indo-European (for reasons not well comprehended even by her), whilst Darwin lay in his new bed, occasionally emitting a gentle snore. 

After a while, when she was trying to find a suitable cognate term for Typhlosole, she became aware that he had risen and was sitting in front of her with paw raised towards the armchair. 

Please, please, please.

She did observe that he had purloined her best green cushion as a throne whilst he made his imperious gesture, but the imploring look in his eyes made her forgive him and ask what he wanted. 

His gaze was set firmly on a small but thick blanket that she had knitted and which was draped tastefully (insofar as Doc Barbara does tasteful) over the chair to hide its worn patches.

Darwin shivered slightly - but dramatically - to indicate that he was cold, understandable since Doc Barbara regards an ambient temperature of 15 degrees as positively sultry. She caved in and laid the blanket in his bed ready. Inwardly she resolved to teach him to speak politely and with due reverence when voicing his needs. 

In gratitude, he jumped up beside her (not allowed) and she stroked his now warm back to show that she wasn't angry. As her fingers moved through his curly fur and over the little knobbles of his spine (remember her predilection for invertebrates!) she felt a tightening in her chest around the region of her heart. This she attributed to the fact that her thick tights - which she always pulled up to her armpits - had shrunk in the wash. But we know better, don't we?

It can be hard getting humans to understand but it's worth the struggle.

As Doc Barbara settled into bed she thought to herself that a stitch in time saves a dog in a manger.