I don't know what's up these few days.
The day before yesterday, I had an argument with a queenly cat who decided to take residence in my house.
Yesterday, came a dog.
Today, I have come face to beak with an unexpected penguin who has taken over the swimming pool, and who knows what tomorrow will bring?
I eyed the penguin warily,
its flippers folded like a general's cloak,
and the water of the pool glinted
with the pride of a ruler unchallenged.
The cat, of course, perched atop the bookshelf,
tail flicking with a queenly scorn,
as if to say, I saw this coming.
You brought chaos into my domain.
The dog, who had claimed the hallway yesterday,
now circled the pool with a kind of bemused respect,
sniffing air, sniffing water,
sniffing fate itself.
I considered negotiation.
Perhaps a treaty of treaties,
a schedule for cohabitation,
or at the very least, a visitor's pass.
The penguin honked once, a note sharp and final,
as if declaring the pool a sovereign territory.
I imagined it dictating laws:
No splashing. No diving without consent.
And maybe, just maybe, daily fish rations.
Tomorrow—who knows?
A llama in the lounge? A raccoon in the refrigerator?
At this rate, I might wake to find a parliament of owls
holding a meeting in my living room.
For now, I surrendered to the absurdity,
accepting that my days had become
a parade of uninvited, improbable monarchs,
and my home a court of chaos
where rules were written by paws, claws, and flippers alike.
I am not an animal lover.
This is not an animal sanctuary.
And yet, I can't turn my guests away.
They knocked and rang the door bell, like any polite guest, and once in,
they're loathe to leave.
Do I look like a pushover?
Did I put up a sign?
Why are they coming here to wine and dine?
Don't tell me they've been sent by the Divine.
And yet they linger.
They sip tea as if it were ambrosia,
sit cross-legged on my sofa
and laugh at jokes I haven't told.
I try subtle hints:
a glance at the clock, a cough, a sigh—
but they interpret it as charm,
or worse, an invitation to stay longer.
The penguin, with its cold, judicious stare,
acts like the maître d' of my despair,
while the dog leans into my leg,
the cat twirls on the windowsill,
all conspiring to test the limits of my patience.
I pace. I mutter. I even rearrange furniture,
hoping some invisible boundary will form,
but they move with ease around it,
spilling crumbs, dropping polite compliments,
turning my home into their stage.
And I wonder, is it a curse?
Or some cosmic joke on the hapless human
who answers a knock,
and suddenly finds life a parade of polite invaders
with nowhere else to go?
I am host.
I am captive.
And somewhere between indignation and despair,
I realize: tomorrow may bring a giraffe.
And I will let it in,
because what else can I do?
They have come for something.
Some reason I do not know.
How many more are yet to come? Will anyone tell me?
Should I make a shopping list? What foods are preferred?
That way I might be prepared, whether my guests be scaled, feathered or furred.
Don't tell me this is going to be a version of the town musicians of Bremen.
Nervously, I walk and pace.
Anxiously, I talk and mind race.
Trying to ask the creatures what is in store,
So that I can prepare my heart before
A wildlife officer knocks on my door.
When night falls, I awake briefly to see the windows open,
And indeed there has arrived a parliament of owls.
Once look and I fall back onto the couch, arm over eyes, unable to look further.
A dream.
A nightmare.
A hallucination.
Who knows what the animals have all come here for?
The pillow beneath my head is soft, furry and warm.
It is not my sofa cushion.
When did I even fall asleep?
Behold, I look and near jump with fright at the sight of a bear with my head on its lap. Gently, it pats my back.
I want to cry, but no tears wish to come by.
I freeze, heart hammering like a drum in a hollow cave,
the bear's warmth steady, impossibly calm,
and the room stretches impossibly wide,
filled with the muted chorus of flapping wings, soft whines, and gentle splashes.
The penguin stands at the pool's edge,
like a sentry in a tuxedo of night,
watching with eyes that glimmer intelligence I cannot claim to understand.
The dog lies near the fireplace,
its chest rising in the rhythm of contented exhaustion,
while the cat—regal as ever—perches on the windowsill,
its tail curling like a question mark in shadow.
I want to speak, to ask, to demand
the reason for this improbable council,
but my voice is a thread of silk,
trembling and vanishing before it reaches my lips.
The bear pats again, patient, deliberate,
and I feel a strange calm seep into my chest,
a quiet that does not demand explanation.
Perhaps that is why they are here—
not for food, not for complaint, not for mischief—
but for something I have long forgotten:
to remind me, in their impossible way,
that stillness is its own kind of company.
I shift slightly, careful not to disturb the tableau,
and for the first time since the parade began,
I feel almost safe.
Almost understood.
Almost… at home.
Outside, the wind hums a lullaby,
and in the silvered hush of night,
I realize tomorrow may bring more guests,
but tonight, for this brief and fleeting moment,
I am exactly where I am meant to be.
This calmness does not seem to be mine.
Perhaps it is the sense of a person immersed in an unshakeable dream.
Even so, I close my eyes and hope that when morning comes, everything will have gone back to what it should be.
I am awakened by the singing chorus before dawn, when the birds are at their loudest. The creatures are all singing too, until a crash from the pantry heralds disaster.
I wake to a broken fridge and fallen pantry shelves
And a disheveled, sticky bear who has found my pot of honey.
What can I do?
As I clean, the door bell rings.
I don't even need to answer the door. The animals seem to already know, tails wagging, handling the welcome. I am relegated to the background.
In bewilderment, I watch a slither of snakes lining the windows, and a murder of crows taking sentry outside the open windows.
Through the door are welcomed a stag and its doe, a warren of rabbits and a frog that seems to grow. All make themselves comfortable among my amenities, sauntering in as if this will be their home.
And while I sweat and mutter, rubbing my face, the cat drapes herself across my shoulders.
Should I feel honoured?
Should I be pleased?
None of these animals seem even a bit scared of me.
Hospitality is a must, but not all of them, surely, drink water out of cups.
I pause, hands sticky with honey, as the bear lumbers off toward the living room,
leaving a trail of gold in its wake.
The penguin waddles past, nodding as if it has approved the mess,
and the dog lets out a long, satisfied sigh before curling into a sunbeam streaming through the open window.
The snakes flick their tongues, tasting the air,
sliding along the sill with such precision it feels choreographed.
The crows caw sharply, taking up positions on the fence like generals,
eyes bright, wings twitching, silent warning for any would-be intruder.
I sink into a chair, utterly defeated,
while the stag and its doe pad quietly across the rug,
the rabbits scattering to cushions and tables with the casual grace of tenants long accustomed to privilege.
The frog sits on the coffee table, puffing its chest,
and I swear I see it wink at me.
The cat, still draped across my shoulders, purrs as though ownership of me and my misery is hers by birthright.
I mutter under my breath,
I am host. I am servant. I am spectator.
I fetch cups of water, a bowl of oats, some scraps of fruit,
but the bear ignores them, preferring my honey,
and the penguin taps the rim of the teacup with its flipper, impatient.
The dog laps water in a dignified, practiced manner,
while the rabbits nibble my magazine pages as if they were edible.
I wonder briefly whether this is punishment or privilege,
a test of patience, a lesson in humility,
or merely a glimpse into a world where I am nothing
but the backdrop to their unshakable confidence.
And yet, even in the chaos,
there is an order I cannot name—
a choreography of tails and claws, flippers and wings,
that somehow fills the house with a strange, impossible life.
I close my eyes for just a moment,
and when I open them,
the animals regard me—not as intruder,
not as master,
but as witness to a banquet that no human mind could have prepared.
And I realize: this hospitality is theirs as much as mine.
And perhaps, if I am lucky,
I will survive it with my sanity still intact.
Waiting, we seem to be waiting.
To each animal, their own.
They converse quietly and have each their own waiting past times.
The doe leaves a pile of lint upon my lap and a crow is preening through my loose hairs on my head.
Trembling, I ask,
"Are you all expecting to be fed?"
Eyes gleam, turning toward me.
"I'll do my best," I tell them,
"But house keeping rules. Toileting matters must take place in the toilet or outdoors. I'll not have anyone having the call of nature on my floors."
A bird that was raising its tail pauses and then shrugs. It flies out the window to do what it must.
I decide to leave the back door open in case anyone has a care,
And teach the doe and stab how to flush the toilet when they stare.
And as we continue to wait, yet more animals arrive. Some shake off dust at the door, some seem dressed to the nines.
The door barely closes behind them before the next arrivals tumble in.
A fox in a velvet waistcoat sidesteps the threshold,
tail flicking with aristocratic precision,
while a pair of squirrels balance atop each other,
wearing tiny hats that wobble precariously with each step.
A hedgehog shuffles in carrying a bundle of twigs
like a valet delivering luggage,
and a raccoon appears with a monocle perched crookedly over one eye,
examining the room as though it were a drawing room in London.
The penguin straightens its stance,
suddenly very proper itself,
as if ready to chair the morning meeting
with the utmost decorum.
The dog yawns and lies down with lazy dignity,
while the cat arches a spine of disapproval,
its tail a languid whip across the air.
I clutch my broom like a scepter,
wondering if etiquette or survival comes first,
and behind me, the bear has claimed the largest armchair,
humming softly as though it has rehearsed this role a thousand times.
The owl parliament murmurs among themselves,
and even the frog seems to have inflated with importance,
sitting like a green king atop the coffee table.
I realize with a mixture of dread and awe:
my home has become a ballroom, a court, and a sanctuary all at once,
and I, the human, am no longer host so much as observer—
an audience to a parade of impossibilities,
where every creature arrives dressed and ready,
and every step they take marks them as nobility of their own strange world.
And yet, somewhere in the back of my mind,
a quiet voice whispers:
Perhaps they've been waiting for me all along.
Or so I think, as I busy myself with serving tea and biscuits. At least until evening falls and soft paws envelop me in their arms.
Pausing I turn to look and lo and behold. In through the front door, steps a unicorn shaking it's silver mane.
The animals all stopped and bow,
The bear holding me pulls me with it.
Until a soft snort and muzzle nuzzle me and we are all gently lifted.
A unicorn.
What's next?
A dragon?
And even as I think the thought, a regal, scaled bulk also graces my doors as night finally falls.
The dragon steps in with measured grace,
its scales glinting like molten jewels,
and even the crows outside fall silent,
their sentry duties suspended in awe.
The unicorn lowers its head,
nuzzle soft against my shoulder,
and I feel a warmth unlike any hearthfire,
a pulse that seems to stretch into every corner of the house.
The bear's arms tighten around me—not possessive,
but protective, grounding me as the impossible becomes tangible.
The other animals rearrange themselves with reverent precision:
the dog sits alert, ears pricked,
the cat's tail flicks in slow satisfaction,
the penguin waddles closer as if to inspect the newcomer,
and the deer and rabbits step aside in polite deference.
The dragon exhales a gentle plume of smoke,
warming the room without scorch,
and I realize that the house has become more than a home—
it is a sanctuary, a court, a stage
for creatures who demand no reason
and give no answers.
I clutch a cup of tea in trembling hands,
and even that small warmth feels sacred in this room
where paws, claws, flippers, hooves, and scales
all converge in harmonious expectation.
And somewhere, deep in the rhythm of the house,
I hear it: a soft, almost musical murmur,
as if the walls themselves are alive,
breathing with the presence of those who do not belong,
and yet have arrived exactly where they were meant to be.
I wonder, fleetingly,
what tomorrow could possibly hold—
for if tonight brought a unicorn and a dragon,
what shape will the next knock take?
And still, the bear's steady heartbeat and the unicorn's nuzzle
remind me to simply breathe,
to be present,
and to survive this wondrous, improbable evening.
I attempt to turn on the lights, but the bear prevents me from moving.
I am held still in the arm chair with the sprawled out bear, while it seems the meeting is about to begin.
I don't hear as so much feel the air tingle as the animals communicate in a way I don't understand. My eyes dart from shadow to shadow as I feel various silent voices raised. A strange sensation to say the least.
Deep into the night, the animals talked.
I couldn't help it, I fell asleep.
And when I woke, all that was left was the unicorn and a sheep.
Blinking, I looked around.
Blinking, I saw all was sound.
The house had even been cleaned up.
But before I could get up from where I was sleeping on the floor, my head on the flank of the sheep,
The unicorn's horn dipped and touched me,
Sending me straight back to sleep.
Indignation!
I only wanted to ask where everyone had gone and I was sent back to sleep. But it was quite the deep and wholesome sleep I had, because when I woke again, I felt much refreshed. Only instead of my house's ceiling, I woke to a green canopy of trees, and a carpet of soft green grass,this time lying against the flank of that majestic unicorn.
I blinked, heart stuttering,
half expecting the world to collapse back into my living room,
but the scent of dew and earth was real,
soothing, and alive.
The unicorn shifted gently beneath me,
muscles rippling like liquid silver,
its breath warm on my shoulder,
and I realized I was no longer merely in a house…
I was somewhere vast, somewhere impossible.
Birdsong trilled through the canopy,
not ordinary birds, but those I had glimpsed in passing:
a flash of scarlet wings, a glimmer of golden plumes,
their notes harmonizing in a way that felt like language
I could almost understand.
The sheep huffed softly beside us,
its eyes glimmering with the same quiet knowing
as the unicorn's, as if it had guided me here deliberately,
to this clearing that seemed untouched by worry or chaos.
I pushed myself up slowly,
legs trembling not from fear but from awe,
and surveyed the green expanse around us:
trees arching like cathedral vaults,
flowers nodding in the breeze,
and in the distance, the faint shimmer of water—
a pond, or maybe a small lake, reflecting a sky
so impossibly blue it hurt to look at.
I tried to speak, to thank, to ask,
but only silence greeted me,
and yet it was no emptiness—
it was the deep hum of life, patient, eternal, and knowing.