The Mild West

At the foot of the bed lie a shotgun, a serious looking baseball bat, didgeridoo and a purring pussy cat called Pansy curled up in a tight ticklish tortoiseshell ball.
 

Aztec-patterned Pansy blends right into the furnishings as Geronimo, chief of the Chiricahua Apache, gazes out from his nearby wall-mounted frame of glass with troubled eyes and a chiselled mouth set in sepia tones. He too brandishes a shotgun within his well defined hands telling tales of strength and wisdom. He lived some eighty years Geronimo, until 1909. A grand age in those times no doubt, he must have known a thing or two.
 

It’s autumn and in the corner of the living room of this basic little rustic converted woolshed abode, the fire already crackles warm and hearty in the firebox. Horizontal dogs adorn its surrounds; the best place to be on such a grey, rainy day. Tools, horse shoes, bridles and other times-past knick-knacks are slung over nails banged into old hardwood timber struts, probably salvaged from some ancient bridge fallen into disrepair somewhere or other out in the boonies.
 

I’ve died and woken up in the Wild West after slinking back to bed at 10 o’clock, unable to function, absolutely worn out before the day has even begun. I’m delirious, I must be dreaming, but it feels... well, like it’s doing me the power of good.
 

So, in the absence of a gunslinger to coil up cosily with and snuggle, I stroke Pansy back to full throttle purr, roll over, closing my eyes sleepily once more. Vaguely aware of the soft rustle of wind through the oak trees outside the bedroom window, nature sets to gently healing my exhausted self by way of restful sleep and wonderful empowering dreams.