Hippo Fecal Impaction

As the humdrum rainy days continue in a life filled with monochromatic greys, I have a singularly grotesque encounter to relate. I was out on a dog walk with my family, when drawing level with an old, disused sluiceway, I discovered that it was occupied by a bloat of hippopotami. On closer inspection, there were two different bloats, separated by a stone wall. One section of the sluiceway held pygmy hippos (Choeropsis liberiensis), whilst the other had their larger, more aggressive cousins, the common, or river hippos (Hippopotamus amphibius). It did not look like they were able to leave the water, being encircled entirely by a concrete barrier, yet all the same, I was concerned to see my daughter lean over and begin petting a hippo on the head.

I shouted at her to stop, then pulled her away. "Are they bad, daddy?" she asked me. I explained that they were unpredictable and dangerous. A crowd of other walkers had appeared, and they came to have a closer look. At the sight of so many people, one of the hippos raised its jowly head out of the water and yawned wide in warning, revealing a cavernous pink, marshmallow maw. I told Lucinda to take note of its yellow tusks, the sight of which caused her to shrink away in fear. As we were engaged thus in contemplation of these hideous beasts, there was a commotion in the water. One of the brutes, a great behemoth that must undoubtedly have been the beachmaster, or in this case, sire of the sluice, launched its hindquarters high into the air.

Two thirds of the behemoth's prodigious bulk was now revealed, full taller than a man, its stumpy hind legs splayed apart, flaccid tail spinning like a pinwheel. As any zoologist worth his salt knows, a hippo defecates by raising its rear in the air and scattering dung in all directions. Before I could take evasive maneuvers, I was appalled to witness the corpse of another animal half ejected from its swollen anus. I recognised the bony, desiccated body of a wildebeest, and realised with horror that the hippo must have swallowed it whole. Hippos are by nature herbivorous, although recent findings have discovered that they will sometimes eat meat in times of drought. Even so, I had never heard of one consuming an entire wildebeest in such a fashion.

The tower of fat bucked and trembled as it fought to discharge the rest of the wildebeest, but its victim's curved horns were lodged in the hippo's bowels and could not be shaken free. This sent the hippo into a furious panic and it churned the water up into a seething maelstrom, splashing the revolted onlookers in filthy sewage water and clods of filth. To witness such a primeval sight was to be unwillingly plunged into a state of abject unrest, I could not help imagining it as some morbid Dali painting illustrating all that is abject, corporeal, and shameful. A contemporary comparison may point to a certain scene from Poltergeist II (1986), in which the father disgorges a ballooning mezcal worm. After a battle fraught with agonised bellows, the wildebeest's broken head finally appeared with a wet crunch, and the exhausted hippo wallowed in a bath of putrescence.

Return to No. 29

As my former readers may remember, there is a house in the southwest of Albion where I spent some formative years of my childhood, and where I was first exposed to the sinister world of the supernatural. It was (and still is) an unassuming semi-detached house in a quiet neighbourhood on the edge of a wood. I could write at great length on that place, but I will refrain on this occasion. One day, I may disclose the house's true location, but for now, let us simply call it No. 29. Like many dreams before, I made the pilgrimage there, this time with my wife, child, and dog. The house had called to me over the years, like a beacon drawing me back. Unable to resist such magnetism, I had convinced my family to settle our affairs on the southeast coast and here we were, claiming ownership of the same house that had driven me out twenty years ago.

I walked through the familiar yet unfamiliar rooms, feeling the floor creak beneath my shoes in certain areas, and considering how much a place could be changed by those living under its roof. Barely any trace of my childhood remained. Dark, unattractive wallpaper had been put up, the carpets were unrecognisable, and a slightly fusty smell betrayed the uncleanliness of the previous tenants. Nonetheless, I resolved to fix the old place up and restore it as much as possible to what I remembered. As I completed my tour upstairs, I was relieved to discover that no trace of bad energy lingered, and whatever spirits may have plagued us back then, were long gone. Or so I hoped. It was time to inspect the back garden, where many a happy summer's day had been spent.

I was greatly surprised to discover that the entire garden and patio, formerly a tiered slope, was now covered in the blue polyester of a child's paddling pool/ activity zone. It was a vintage 'Fisher Price Penguin Run', designed to act as a water playground for young children. There were water slides, a ball pit, hoop games, and inflatable penguins marching up the slopes. I was told by the estate agent accompanying us that it had been found in the loft and meticulously restored by the last occupants. My daughter's eyes lit up at such a sight, and I gave her permission to go and play. Although the use of the garden had been lost, my daughter would have her own personal soft play area, and it seemed like a good trade-off. Memories of owning this 1980s play area suddenly came back to me, and I was astonished at how well preserved it was.

Lucinda was helped into her bathing costume by her mother, and ignoring the chilly grey sky, she scrambled up the bouncy slopes, splashed in the water, and grappled with the inflatable penguins, which were almost her own height. "I know this house is a bit small and shabby compared to the one we sold," I told my wife, "but look how much fun she is having. The Penguin Run is completely childproof, and she will be able to entertain herself whenever we want a break." My wife saw the wisdom in this and used it to overcome her initial dislike of the house. I had felt uneasy about lowering the lifestyle of my family in pursuit of this spiritual, some may say reckless, need to re-inhabit my poky childhood home, but the die had been cast. I turned to the estate agent and said, "We'll take it."

Farming with Anteaters

As the dreariness of the halfhearted government 'lockdown' drags on, my dreams become more fraught with anxiety and apocalyptic calamity. I dreamed that after discovering all of my old friends had disowned me, and feeling as wretched and alone as one possibly could be, I looked up into the night sky and saw a sight both awe inspiring and terrifying. Amongst the stars was an immense series of twinkling lights, in the pattern of a snowflake, sweeping across the broad expanse of space. This turned out to be an enormous fleet of extraterrestrial crafts that was here to wipe away mankind by turning the world into a swirling vortex. But this is not the story I wish to tell, for it is too bleak even for this blog...

In a later dream that same night, I was with my friends Gaby and Matt, and we stumbled into the back garden of a Wyvernhorn academic. As is to be expected from such tenants, the garden was in something of a sorry state. Sitting down in the overgrown grass, I had ample time to look about me. A long window communicated into the dwelling's kitchen-dining area and I observed copious amounts of marijuana sitting on the windowsill, along with an assortment of potted plants covered in brown paper. It looked as though they had not been watered in a very long time. What most caught my attention, however, were the two curious animals bumbling around in the garden.

They were giant anteaters (Myrmecophaga tridactyla), or 'sworders' as I used to call them as a child, going about their instinctive drive to collect as many ants as possible. The garden was in fact an 'ant farm', and some tents housing interested merchants had been erected so as to check that daily ant quotas were being met. I wondered how they stopped the anteaters from eating them all, and how many the animals needed to consume for themselves to continue functioning. (Some quick research indicates 30,000 ants or termites.) Perhaps it was similar to Chinese cormorant fishing, where a string tied around the birds' necks prevent them from swallowing any fish. The poncho-clad merchants got up from their easy chairs and left for lunch, leaving my friends and I alone with the animals.

As soon as the ant merchants were gone, the anteaters came sniffing over to where we sat and began prodding us with their snouts. I told my friends not to be concerned, for they were mostly benign, peaceable creatures that only attacked if harassed. We tried to ignore then, but it was like the saddle-billed storks all over again, and the prodding continued. When asked if they could harm us, I admitted that they could open us up like sandwiches with their long fore claws if they chose to. There are only three cases in recent history of giant anteaters killing humans, but even so, we decided it would be best to leave. The secrets of the Wyvernhorn ant farm would have to remain hidden for now.

Seal on the Ouse

As I sit here ensconced indoors with my morning coffee, gazing outside at the falling snow, I sigh repeatedly for a hint of spring. It has been a long, bleak winter, made all the more claustrophobic with pandemic restrictions. It is therefore no wonder that a couple of days ago I dreamed of verdant pastures and sparkling rivers, blue skies and the fresh breezes of March. I had been having bitter quarrels with my wife, who being in an intractable mood, cast me outdoors to roam at will. Feeling upon me the vagrant pull of wanderlust, and eager to shrug off the hoary cobwebs of winter, I took myself along the River Ouse to Lewes, where I came upon a romanticised and Arcadian setting.

Clement weather had lured people out of doors, and they sat in joyful clusters on the green banks of the Ouse and its surrounding fields. Some people played ball games, others played guitar and sang folk songs, whilst still others followed the all pervading instinct of the war ape to create conflict with its fellow man. No sooner had I arrived on the scene and praised my good fortune at discovering it, than an old busybody gentleman aspiring for a seat on the town council began to harangue a group of of the aforementioned minstrels. They had placed four traffic cones around themselves, and the busybody complained that they were in repeated violation of some obscure trespassing clause. I moved on, unwilling to let the mounting ugliness of the scene intrude on my serene state of mind.

I walked closer to the river, enjoying the sight of the sun reflecting off its blue ripples, and the feeling of springy turf underfoot. A fisherman sat with his line cast in the water, oblivious to all but his bobbing lure. I noticed a disturbance in the water, a grey hump breaking the surface and wallowing close to shore. Seized by curiosity, I followed the hump as it left a V-shaped wake behind it, the smooth water gliding over its glistening curve as it undulated on its way. The fisherman sat by a large rock that protruded all the way into the water, so I had to circumnavigate them both to follow the hump, annoyed that he should be impeding me quite so much. When I came to the other side of the rock, a group of people had already beaten me there and were excitedly watching the creature.

It was a seal, that much was apparent now that it had raised its head out of the water, seemingly nonplussed by the small crowd. Over the heads of the gathering, I tried to make out what species it was. Judging by its round, blunt face, V-shaped nostrils, and distinctly non-equine shaped head, as is found on the grey, I deduced that it must be a harbor seal (Phoca vitulina). I was about to take a photograph and send it to my wife, whereupon I remembered our fight and thought better of it. After watching the seal gambolling in the shallows for some time, I grew weary of the noisy people and wandered off for some peace and quiet. I struck off towards a newly built facility made up of kick start business suites and dormitories.

There was no one around so I entered the building and went upstairs, inhaling that sharp scent of new upholstery and furnishings. I strolled through the smart offices, experiencing vague sensations of unfulfilled ambition, and a little envy towards the students who would soon be moving in to embark on promising careers. The afternoon sun filtered through the window of the dormitory bedroom I was in, creating a shaft of dust motes, and I looked out at the neat plants arranged in wooden planters around the inner courtyard. Suddenly I heard voices coming up to my floor, induction tours by the sound of it, so I made a stealthy exit through a back stairwell. I did not want to be caught snooping around, for despite the unlocked doors, the building was supposed to be off limits.

On my way out, I heard the security guard arguing with a middle aged woman about her rejected accommodation application. She was one of those insufferable, argumentative, completely hopeless types one often encounters in academic institutions, or anywhere else forbearing enough to tolerate them. They usually suffer from a mild psychosis and are just functional enough to avoid being sectioned. This lady was no exception, and I reflected that such a person was undeserving of such a nice apartment. I went to sit on a bench in the aforementioned courtyard amongst the succulents. I closed my eyes to better appreciate the sun on my cheeks and the smell of fresh resin when the annoying lady wandered in, all frizzled hair and frazzled expression. I got up and left, knowing there would be no peace here.