St. Patrick's Day, the first day of spring, my sister's birthday, my parents' thirteenth wedding anniversary, the one hundred ninety-third anniversary of Lewis and Clark's departure from Fort Clatsop, marking the beginning of the intrepid explorers' long journey home—time tripped along on many milestones.
Intrigued by my rabbit's artistic achievement, I began to read poetry in my spare time, hoping to figure out what Orwell's feat was all about, if, indeed, the poem was his.
Had Orwell done this?
Choosing Scrabble letters from a jar, had Orwell constructed coherent verse from thirty words of equal length? As preposterous as this would seem to someone just arriving on the scene, I had no other explanation.
If the newspaper is to be believed, stranger things are happening every day. And if the many histories recorded in the Bible have it right, the extraordinary has been commonplace since time began. Clearly, there is a point at which the improbable becomes inevitable. But who is responsible for a poem?
Is some great creative life force the author, using a man or a woman, or possibly even some lesser creature, as its instrument? If so, is this true for every poem, or only for the good poems?
Is Orwell's poem a good poem, or is it only a good poem for a rabbit? Is Orwell inspired, or is he merely clever? As my afternoon dabbling in French had taught me so well, there is always more than one way of looking at things.
My personal career as a philosopher was off to a trying beginning.
Whatever else the poem may have been, it was also a turning point for Orwell's communications with me. As had happened before, his messages stopped. This time, however, proved to be more than an interruption. It seemed the little rabbit had shot his wad. Although we continued to understand one another's wishes and moods, that day Orwell's secret seven-letter messages ceased forever.
His life's work apparently complete, Orwell retired, becoming, by every appearance except his peculiar gait, an ordinary rabbit.