George's anchor

It was good, as George put it seated on his throne, that the moon rises in the east and sets in the west. In fact, he was happy to surmise, it so happens that the sun follows this pattern also. And when he was out and about, away from the lights of his town which allowed the conspirators to follow him on his nightly missions, he felt the whole cosmos wheeling around him, those stars far beyond who never lost their places year after year, on this great nightly rotation always from east to west. Once when he had climbed down a well to hide from his neighbour's dog, he had watched with wonder for hours as stars moved from east to west across the tiny opening far above, in the middle of the afternoon. Somehow this land, this earth was anchored in the sea of space and all remained constant. In a land of conspirators and prejudiced dogs, it was something to hold onto.

George's mind had an anchor too, somewhere behind his eyes. It made little matter how the conspirators tormented him or how the dogs would sneak up and bark the bee jeebies out of him, his immutable anxiety always remained rooted there, anchored in the back of his skull. Even in the times of calm when he could scorn the invasive forces with succulent tribulations from the safety of his throne, he would watch the visions circle around inside his head, always from east to west.

There had been a time long ago when as a young lad George had felt a kinship with his mates, as if they were all on the lake each sailing their little craft, watching out for one another in the stormy world of adult rationality. They would throw their anchors out together in the shelter of a little bay, away from the winds of discipline and float freely together entertaining the warming sun. But life turned from east to west also, and as the sun got higher on his days his mates had become conspirators, many had dogs, and they had turned their quest to power and prestige, their dogs remorseless in these undertakings. And so George had departed the world of commerce to establish his own private castle, nondescript as it was, with his throne facing west so he could see what lay in store. Not that it worked.

There was a time when he had wandered off and lost himself for several years, ending up with a hornswoggle carved from a stump. He had even found a mate and made an attempt at commerce, carving little hornswoggles for sale on that avenue which cut north and south, a latitude in the longitude of life. He still had his hornswoggle, seated in the midst of his castle, his cat was old and rather hairless, and his mate had abdicated her throne for some fool with a dog, a dog who had lifted his leg on his hornswoggle. He had retreated from the thrills of commerce back to vantages of misanthropy, them and their dogs.

George had thought long and hard on egalitarianism which evolution had endowed upon humans. It was doubtfully doubt which gave us the capacity to respect the views of others, a doubt in our own beliefs, so he remained a little apprehensive of the moon rising in the east and setting in the west just so he would not be too prejudiced. That way he could smile and say hello to everyone he met when he was out and about, even their dogs, though the response was seldom reciprocated. This even-handed approach to life was far from the dominant quality in most humans and their institutions he found. Dominance and conspiracy seemed to play a crucial role in humanity's day to day functioning, policing and punishment typically administered by the most dominant individuals. Somehow the humour of most situations was lost upon these stewards of the establishment and their dogs. It was good to have an anchor to hold onto, even though he must view it with a degree of incertitude.

So George continued with his life, attempting to thwart the conspirators with dispassion on his nightly missions, and took to carrying a bag of dog biscuits to tempt impartiality in their dogs. Sometimes it worked, and he could peacefully watch the cosmos circle above him, from east to west.