A Magic Garland

Wittgenstein pulls up outside the Country Road plant nursery, in South Grafton.

Come in with me, says Wittgenstein.

Will I be welcome? asks Unhappy.

We'll see, says Wittgenstein. If dogs are not welcome, we'll plead special circumstances.

Woof, says Unhappy.

They go in.

Welcome says the plant nursery assistant. Nice dog you have there. 

She attempts to pat Unhappy, who recoils sharply.

Oh! says the plant nursery assistant. Does your dog have a headache?

He is not my dog, says Wittgenstein. But he does have a headache.

Pennyroyal! says the plant nursery assistant. That's what he needs.

Just what I've come here to buy, says Wittgenstein. I've been told if he wears it behind his ears, he'll be protected from injury, cold, heat and thirst.

That's a long stretch, says the assistant. But it might cure his headache. Come over here, to the herbs.

She leads them to a table of pots, with herbs growing in them.

Parsley, thyme, dill, oregano, basil. And pennyroyal. A small creeping herb with a light purple flower, which smells minty.

Unhappy sniffs. Woof! Too minty!

He appears not to like it, says the assistant. He won't keep it behind his ears if he doesn't.

Perhaps you could weave it into a garland, says Wittgenstein.

Not my job, says the assistant.

Nor mine, says Wittgenstein.

What is your job? asks the assistant.

I'm a philosopher, says Wittgenstein. 

Is that a job? asks the assistant.

It can be, says Wittgenstein. I have published two treatises, and I sometimes give lectures.

And he tells jokes, says Unhappy.

Oh really? I love jokes, says the assistant. Tell me one.

Wittgenstein does not think the root two joke is suitable, so he casts about for another.

What is a wolf that studies philosophy called? asks Wittgenstein.

I don't know, says the assistant.

A self aware wolf, says Wittgenstein.

Ha ha, that's classic! says the assistant. It even made your dog laugh.

This is true. Unhappy is laughing. Because he knows what wolves are, if not root two.

The upshot:

The assistant gives Wittgenstein a free pot of pennyroyal, (one that's grown a bit straggly), and walks with him out to the Mazda.

She spots the dog hairs on the passenger seat.

You need one of those magic brushes, says the assistant.

Thank you, says Wittgenstein. I'll keep it in mind.

As a philosopher, however, he does not believe in magic brushes.