Well, of course That Pig is The Driver!

Have you ever been in a waiting room and bored out of your tiny little mind, you start imagining everyone as animals. I do too! Welcome to Sustainable Sunday - Letters from The Kitchen's Garden Farm.

I have spent quite some time in waiting rooms lately, day dreaming and this is what came from that daydream.

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Bother That Pig

After a short stop in the dim waiting room where they hang up their coats and hats, they are led down a long corridor to consulting room number fourteen and asked to wait. The Patient subsides into a small chair in the corner and The Mrs uses the time to inspect the room for interesting smells and redesign the furniture placement. She manages a very busy house of herb eaters and is very particular about flow and efficiency. Hospitals are such interesting spaces to study.

There is a knock at the door. The Patient and The Mrs look at each other. Then look at the door. 

These very small consulting rooms are a little overwhelming, so small, she thinks as she looks under the gurney. Only having one door to move in and out makes one feel a little uneasy. She returns her attention to a particularly interesting smell in a locked cupboard. There are signs on the walls about masks, washing hands, and sinks with warnings above about not using too much water. There are inconveniently placed old-fashioned rubbish bins when really, what do we throw away anymore, she thinks. Most things go into the laundry bag, which is hung on the back of the door. Or the sanitiser. The laundry bag is fine on a hook, but she would have placed that bin on the other side of the chair, not right smack bang in the middle of the wall. She peeks up, the sanitiser gurgles and belches steam on top of a bench. 

But then, one never knows what they are actually throwing into the bin, does one? The Mrs reaches up to rearrange the metal bowls on the counter and narrows her eyes at a crooked painting of a heart.

Her back pack - Wally the Pouch - wriggles to get down. A wallaby makes a wonderful companion with a pouch to carry ones necessaries. All the best Mrs’ have them now. She has fashioned him a sling in her shawl so he can ride there when it is cold.

The plastic bags have all gone the way of the dinosaurs since the oil dried up she remembers and only a meat eating savage would use paper from a tree. There would be a riot. Merciful heavens. No-one should need waste bins anymore. What on earth would go into them. She reaches for the painting.

The knock on the door is repeated. Slightly louder. 

“Oh, oh dear.” she says to The Patient who has remained silent in his chair this whole time. He does not reply. 

She turns, swings Wally the Pouch off her back, pulls her heavy winter skirts closer and sits down beside The Patient. Wally bounces to the floor. They all look to the door.

 Nothing happens. 

"Come in?" she calls out hesitantly.

A doctor swiftly opens the door, dropping his door-opening tool into the pocket of his lab coat (he needs a door-opening tool because he is too short to reach the handle she notes, we would have to hide that from Timatha). He steps into the room on his soft rabbit feet, carefully leaving the door a little open, which she thinks is a very kind thing to do. This being a tiny room.

The doctor is a hare, which is such a comfort. She has always liked Hare Doctors; they are known for their lovely bedside manner. She and The Patient have seen a great many doctors in the last weeks, and she finds the hares so thorough and gentle. Not like the stoat lung consultant the other day; he was small and very thin, like he had been starved, which meant he was hungry, and she had never felt comfortable around meat eaters, even though meat eating had been outlawed in this province. He was probably impossibly clever, but it was difficult to understand him, with his tiny mouth, and sharp teeth. Maybe this caused him to be short-tempered. Or maybe he was just succinct. In the end, they had a perfectly reasonable conversation using pictures on the wall screen and a stick for pointing. But she could not quite relax, what with his pointy teeth and steely claws so close to The Patient. Even though he would not have been allowed to practice medicine in this hospital without signing an eat-meat-free declaration, it was just that feeling she had. 

"And, you know," she had said to The Patient afterward, clasping Wally the Pouch to her ample bosom. (They had been walking through the busy park towards their carriage after their appointment; Timatha waiting at the reins), "you know about my feelings. Feelings cannot be ignored. Thank you so much Timatha, home I think. And, yes, I do know what they say about giving everyone a chance, but that particular meat eater gives me the creeps.” She paused to gather drama, “We just don’t know what goes on behind closed doors."

The Patient had looked on with a total lack of interest, though she wished he would try. 

The doctor today is a brown hare, his floppy ears huge, furry, and soft, laying down on either side of his head like sideburns, giving him a slightly Sherlock Holmes look. She finds this comforting. After all, he is a cardiac consultant, and with all they have to find out, a detective seems like a sensible alter ego. He is a round hare. Well fed, she thinks. He wears a lovely yellow and green striped shirt that looks very nice on a hare, though she personally would never wear those colors herself. The belt holding up his dark brown pants runs high around his middle, which is very sweet, she thinks. It indents his tight belly just a little, like one of those rolly-polly things, you know the ones-you bat them slightly, and they always bounce back up. She must look for one in the antique store. One would keep the little pigs busy while she is cooking. She has not seen one in years though, not since the plastic ran out. 

"I am Doctor Harelen," he says, "you might see me as the villain of the piece." The doctor laughs in a chuckly kind of way, showing his two long, brilliantly white front teeth. His brown eyes blink kindly as he focuses on The Patient, who is not looking terribly well today, and his winter skin does smell a little musty as the snowflakes melt.

The Patient does not like hares particularly, so she thinks this might become tricky.

She places Wally the Pouch, onto the floor at her feet and leans down for her notebook. Wally rummages about in his pouch and produces the book. She takes it and thanks him gently. Such a wonderful assistant. He offers her two pencils; one black and one red and after a short deliberation she takes the black one. She does not think today is a red letter day. 

She hears the hare clear his throat. She looks up.

"Oh, I am The Mrs," she says in answer to Doctor Harelens raised eyebrows. Introduce yourself, the hairy eyebrows say. He really has lovely manners, she thinks as she opens her notebook. Wally's little hand pats her on the knee offering up a piece of foil-wrapped chocolate, waving it at her. She shakes her head, saying, "No, thank you, no chocolate dear, and don’t think you can eat it,” she whispers gently to Wally the Pouch. She takes the chocolate and  places it back into the pouch. She feels feathers and hears a chirp. "Is that a chicken in there?” She whispers. “Why did you bring a chicken?” Pouch raises his shoulders, widens his eyes and attempts to look surprised. 

The doctor clears his throat again. 

"This is Wally, my Pouch," she says, indicating Wally. Wally offers a cucumber sandwich wrapped in wax paper to the Doctor. The doctor declines. The chicken reaches out for it. Wally glares at the chicken, and she subsides into the pouch.

“Not now, dear,” she says, tucking the sandwich and the chicken out of sight.

The Patient says nothing. She looks over at him, and his eyes are closed.

"This is The Patient," she says, indicating to her right.

The Hare sets his head on the side, looking at his patient, then down onto the page. He begins to review the chart aloud. There are a lot of long words. She tries to pay attention.

The Patient sits there in his farm overalls. His arms crossed atop his great shaggy belly with his eyes closed. I should give him a good jab with a knitting needle, she thinks to herself, huffing a little. It's hard not to huff disapprovingly sometimes. She tries very hard to be soft and kind, but it never comes out right. She leans over and shuffles in the pouch patting the chicken and checking for piglets, they have been known to catch a ride. Wally preens at the attention. 

Doctor Hareton is talking to The Patient.

"No sugar at all. None at all.” His paws chop through the air though his words are spoken kindly, almost with laughter. The Patient lifts his large, balding head off his vast chins and looks closely at the Doctor. "Gone. Gone. Gone," Doctor Hareton sweeps his paws towards the open door. "No sweets. No sweet drinks. No fizzy drink. What did humans call it? Pop. Yes. No. No Pop-pop. Not even diet Pop-pop. Diet drinks are not for losing weight. No sweets ever again. No apple pie on Thanksgiving Day or cake on All Saints day. Only a tiny carbohydrate, no noodles, no rice, a potato, maybe a small carrot. No bread. No pasta. Oh no. No. No. Many, many fresh vegetables," he says.

The Patient's eyebrows rise.

Doctor Hareton relaxes onto the gurney where he has leaned his well padded bottom. Wally offers him a red pencil and he absently takes it. Twirling it in his paws.  "I know you did not come for a lecture, oh no, I do know you did not come for a lecture, but in affairs of the heart, you must understand that good food is the answer. No one else will say this to you, but I will. You are too big. Too fat. Fixing your heart cannot only be up to me. You need to help me. You need to help you. You must lose some of this obesity. Very dangerous for you. Very dangerous. Even your heart is in fat. Very bad." He slaps his paper with the pencil as an  exclamation point. Wally jumps and bounces under The Mrs’ skirts. She reaches in and pulls him back out arranging the multi layers of grey and peach brown to settle back about her boots. She smooths her perfectly white apron. 

Wally offers her a peach as an apology. 

The Mrs puts it in her apron pocket. 

“You are going to stretch that pouch all out of shape if you keep jamming stuff in there,” she loudly whispers to Wally.  Returning her gaze to the Hare.

Dr. Hareton slips off from the gurney, and his furry rabbit feet flap to the floor with a slap. "I must order another test for you. But you will begin helping your heart today. Not tomorrow. Today. Yes?" He eyes The Patient over his spectacles, and much to her surprise, The Patient nods.

He turns his kind eyes to her. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs.” 

Then without another word, the Doctor is gone, the door closing quietly behind him.

They wait some more. The Patient closes his eyes again. The Mrs uses the waiting time very efficiently by unpacking and repacking Wally, The Pouch. There are no piglets, but there are two small chickens in there eating chocolate at the bottom of the pouch. The Mrs shakes her head. She slides her notebook and pencil back into place and makes sure her sunglasses and wallet are on top just in case. 

There is a knock at the door. Knowing the routine now, The Mrs calls out, "Come in."

A confident flamingo dressed in white with a little white cap on her head is ducking through the door, curling her neck down and around so her head does not hit the lintel.

The flamingo introduces herself; she is Nurse Dorothy. She brings a sheaf of papers from under her wing and offers them to The Patient. Wally bounds around and takes them. All eager to help her. Making his paws into a little table, he stands beside her and offers the page for The Patient and The Mrs to look at. "I will walk you through the next procedures," she says, which seems a little unkind as The Patient cannot walk much at all. Being too fat.

The Patient grunts, looking a little more alive. The balding fur on his head puffs up with his breath and lowers over his eyes as he struggles to focus.

The flamingo smiles at him, her pert little beak slightly open. The Mrs purses her own well-used lips - she has never much taken to flamingos. They make great nurses, of course; everybody says so, but she has never been a pink kind of person. There is a grubbiness about flamingos that has never impressed her; the pink has a slightly unwashed quality. They smell a little fishy, which is off-putting, really. But one must be kind. Those long spindly legs must just ache by the end of the day.

The Patient, on the other hand, perks right up, leaning over his vast belly to see the papers the pert pink nurse pointing to.

The Mrs feels cross. She shuffles about in her skirt pocket for a hanky and is handed the hemmed cotton rag by something that feels suspiciously like a trotter. “What are you doing in there?” she hisses at the piglet. The piglet winks. The Mrs widens her eyes, then looks around guiltily and arranges her skirts to cover the piglet in her pocket.

Wally looks worriedly across at them. He has a hold of all the most important papers, pencils lined up across his pocket pouch in case anyone needs one. The nurse continues to explain. The piglet reaches up and around the layers of her clothing and pats her hand.

The Mrs takes the little trotter and carefully places it back into the pocket. She pats the pocket and feels the piglet settle.

The Patient grunts again as the flamingo helps him up, the nurse's long, long legs settling on their tiny feet to get a good purchase for heaving him out of the tiny corner chair.  Wally files the papers into his pouch bouncing on his feet.  

The Patient nods his thanks to the flamingo leaning just a little too close.  The Mrs rises and lifting Wally she slings him  over her back where he reaches for the cords on her shawl and clips himself on.  Becoming a back pack again. Wally closes his eyes and cuddles into her wooly shawl. His little paws holding onto the soft strap. 

“Your driver is here.” says The Flamingo as she holds the door open. 

 “I helped her with the lift, she was having trouble reaching the buttons. She is awfully polite, that pig - she asked me so nicely if she could have a bite of my lunch”. 

The Mrs knows exactly who that will be. That Pig. Of course. Of course, because that pig is her driver.

As they walk back down the corridor The Mrs narrows her eyes at Timatha. That pig leans on a chair in the waiting room, looking deeply innocent as she looks about for somewhere to dispose of her apple core then thinking better of it, pops it in her mouth, dusts off her trotters and nimbly bounces back down onto all fours. 

"Who has the cart cows?" The Mrs asks her.

"I told them you would buy them donuts if they waited quietly outside," said the pig, leaning around her to check on The Patient who shambled down the corridor behind The Mrs.

The Mrs glances out the second-story window, and there they are, the two black cows, standing in studied bovine boredom. At least they are not straying out from the lines. All she needs today is a ticket.

A shaft of light shoots out from behind the snow-laden clouds and picks out Mr. Fowers, who is laid glamorously across the back seat. His shopping bag  set beside him. She sees carrot tops and celery leaves frilling the top of the bag.

"You mean donuts for you," she looks back to her driver.

"Oh, how kind," Timatha smiles.

Ooo, that pig.

The Mrs reaches down the coats, helps The Patient on with his then swirls her own to cover all her hangers on.

"Lead on, then”. The Mrs sighs. “Let’s get The Patient home."

She and Timatha lead The Patient back through the halls of the hospital. Timatha, for no apparent reason, is wearing red heels and walking with quite the sway. She is almost indecent, that pig, she thinks. Timatha looks over her shoulder and grins. The Mrs smiles back - it is impossible not to. It would be like not smiling at a baby. The Mrs feels a giggle from her pocket. Wally is busy organizing the paperwork into his pouch, clucking his tongue and talking to himself, clipped onto his trapeze, tucked into her back. The Patient lumbers along. All around her, there is business, and she longs for a hot cup of tea. Maybe Mr. Flowers would bake a cake - that would be nice. She tries hard to adjust to the slow walk of the patient, trying not to feel mean about it. But sometimes she just feels mean. She wishes to walk fast and free in her long skirts and boots. 

The Patient looks at her. Then back at his feet. She pauses for the doors to the cold wintry outside swing open for them.

"Well, he didn't say I couldn't drink," says The Patient, coming up beside her "Did he?"

She thought for a moment, wielding that little power about in her head, then decides against it. She pats him.

 "No, Jude," says The Mrs, "he didn't say you can’t have a drink."

CMBWG

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The best marketing is WORD OF MOUTH so if you know of anyone who might like to join us here at the farm; send them a link! I have a feeling they might love it and there is no obligation to upgrade - that is entirely a personal choice. (Though Jude would be grateful - he is not happy about his approaching diet!).

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It is super cold here today. We heat our house with fire so my study is bloody freezing! The barn is waiting it out. The animals are all deep in straw, the chickens are crowded around the big pigs for warmth. And as soon as I send this to you I am off out into -6F and a nasty wind. The cold I can deal with but I moan my arse off when it is windy. I need to stomp all the ice out of the water containers and fill the bowls with warm water. Then feed the farm. Extra helpings today.

Have a lovely day.

Don’t forget to comment!

And thank you so much for joining Sustainable Sunday: Letters from the Kitchen’s Garden Farm.

Cecilia