Wonka Presents! 'The Story of Diva' - Part one

Wonka Presents!

  The Story of Diva

  Part One

  (With a special forward by Wonka )

  Copyright 2015 Madeleine Ann Masterson

  Wonka’s Special Forward or how he became convinced to tell the tale:

  Diva was a story begging to be told, and I was busy convincing Wonka of this by any means I could find.

  ‘About a dog?’ he paused briefly in between bashing up his old catnip fish. It lay on the luxury carpet, wet and filleted. I tried again.

  ‘You know, the last dog – Sam was the first one and Diva the last’. My angel dog I called her, though I didn’t think this would persuade Wonka. True to form, and how Jung approved of these nightly visitations, I did dream of her, just like I used to with Sam. She had made an appearance recently as if to tell me to get a move on; I had duly recovered the story I wrote roughly twenty years ago, with the idea of bringing her back to life.

  ‘Not only do I dream of Diva,’ I announced to Wonka, ‘I have seen her too!’ at last I had his full attention. Quickly building on this, as his attention span was just a little longer than a gnat’s, I sat down at the table and made him listen.

  It had been a few Christmas’s back just prior to the worst year ever; Gollycat was still with us then and the only friend Wonka was ever likely to have, a benign, loving and blind feline and I adored him. He was my link to the past, and had accompanied me on my big journey moving from a place I had become mired in, Jung would have said ‘stuck’ in, meaning this in a thoroughly psyche- laden way – and come on! I had been another me then, trudging to work and dragging home again, and that was the sum total of my life.

  What,’ interrupted Wonka,’ has this to do with the price of my best biscuits?’

  It had to do, because I used to trudge home to Diva and Gollycat then, my little companions, the remainder of a long line of cats and dogs; they were the last; Diva, finally removed to the next shelter with St Francis taking care, and that left just Golly. Golly and me, chugging along, remaking our lives, here in this same house until the advent of Wonka that is. But yes, the old year was surrendering the final bleak few days and a final decision which I found as usual, impossible to make. No one was stepping up to help me on it either, daughter had stopped speaking for a reason I could not recall, and work had me in a closing vice.

  And then?’ prompted Wonka, fussing round me, which made a pleasant change from the sudden lash of the claw.

  It was a couple of days before Christmas Eve, and I had already decided to spend this festival alone, with Golly, Wonka and the new stray Baba – he was still a bit hit and miss and would only stay around for a while before dashing outside like a wild animal released from a trap. Golly had started sneezing and the dread of cat flu settled on me and on the house. These things are never long lasting, these moments that we like to tell over and again, on the contrary, the most precious experiences are often here and gone in seconds, but they change us in that cross of time, they change us.

  Golly would have been curled up asleep on his cushion on the settee, with Wonka nearby, and Baba out back; I had gone upstairs for something in a dream and then returning, took the step from my bedroom to the top of the stairs. Looking down, there was Diva, curled up at the bottom of the stairs, just long enough for me to see her and say her name. Like a golden shimmer breaking through to my time, she called me to my decision and it was made. She had returned for a reason, she had returned to ‘fetch’ Golly, and it was only then I was able to make the lonely journey to the Vets and back.

  ‘Like to like,’ Wonka reminded me, as he had already made clear in his Christmas Caterol, ‘it will always be one of us who comes when it is time.’

  Now I had Wonka’s full attention, and he demanded to see my story forthwith! From all those years’ ago, it had illustrations too. Would he like it? I did hope so, because the Story of Diva was such a happy one, and as I waited, I seemed to hear her happy bark.

  ‘I am ready to tell the tale of Diva,’ said Wonka, ‘when you are….’ He had pawed through the ring binder, captivated (or is that cativated?) by a different time in my fortunes and really by a different me altogether. Mind you, and I know Jung is practically on my shoulder as I say this, the real me, the inner everlasting me, was just the same as ever, bursting through with its hope and joy, scribbling away and sketching – unlike our outer selves, the inner one just keeps on going.

  ‘Ready?’ prompted Wonka again. ‘Then I’ll begin.’

  Diva

  It didn’t begin with Diva, it started with the fairies, good and bad. Not always separate either, sometimes they merged which made it difficult, one minute you are thinking, looks like an angel, wing vibration at top speed thus communing at a higher level equals good fairies – and then you are captivated by a clever, funny little thing who makes up for looks in another kind of attractiveness. Bottom dollar, this latter fairy will be bad through and through. Luckily for Diva, who was born of handsome if dodgy parentage (may have been a touch of Rottweiler) with golden fur and bee brown eyes, her fairies would be separate, good and bad.

  Diva was to end up with one of each and could not always tell her good fairy from her bad. Good fairy who always resided behind her ear, spoke in a low pleasant, yet firm voice, whilst Bad fairy (residing under the tail) tended to shriek, be far more interesting and often funny too.