Thistle has gotten ornery, yet oddly cooperative at the same time. He used to run right inside after three or four circuits of the yard when we’d chase him in, now he resists. He made Becky chase him around for hours the night before last. She eventually left him outside and went off to her appointment; he braved the raccoons and chupacabras and such in the dark until I got home later that evening.
… to feel that the light is a rabbit-light
In which everything is meant for you
And nothing need be explained;
Then there is nothing to think of. It comes of itself;
And east rushes west and west rushes down,
No matter. The grass is full
And full of yourself. The trees around are for you,
The whole of the wideness of night is for you,
A self that touches all edges,
You become a self that fills the four corners of night.
— Wallace Stevens
He’s not been let outside since.
Contrariwise, he consents to handling much more readily once caught. It’s almost as if he secretly enjoys being held. He’ll relax, and relax, and sink into my arms… and then come to with a start and bite and scratch.
