Saturday, November 20, 2010

It is morning. Saturday morning. Which means just that and nothing else. I’d like to say it is late Saturday morning. I can not.

I woke, again, in the jaws of a puppy. There are several problems with that. One is the thing cannot climb onto the bed during the day. It sits and whines, which Whineyheimers do, during the day staring at the top of the bed.

I will admit that night time does something to the thing. It may, and I say may because I’ve never caught it doing so, turn into a mountain goat. Perhaps a bird, though that is doubtful as his stuff isn’t of bird quality. Whatever places the thing in my face atop the bad before dawn is a secret I’m forever denied. I’m never awake to witness the transformation. Just aware that somehow a non-capable is suddenly in my face. Literally.

There remains another mystery. Why cannot a dog with the ability to find its way beneath the couch find its way out from beneath the couch? Why must it sit in the corner of the couch and whine, and holler its trappedness to the world until I lift the couch and it exists at its own pace, the service its due and no less.

The mystery is partially solved by the huge ball of long black hair mixed with the dust balls beneath the couch, I suppose. The hairs belong to my departed former dog. Without a doubt my departed friend assists this puppy with the snake-like transformation only one way in the day time and both ways in the darkness.

I had fully intended to speak with Housekeeper about this puppy next she visits, and now I have the perfect excuse to speak somewhat sharply – dust balls mixed with huge balls of departed dog hair are her department. Sharply, mind, is how I will speak.

The near neighbors uncle arrived yesterday, in the midst of my nap – getting up early, like before dawn, before the sexually explicit home goers travel to refresh themselves for work, I require a nap.

The uncle arrived. He wanted he said, to pay me for work done. I refused. I’d told you I would, and did. Some how I gather he is a Liberal. I said no at least three ways. He appeared unable to understand no even as I searched for another way to explain it to him.

His comment of “Well, I  guess I’ll just have to buy you a ham.” just about earned him a sock. Dirty, grimy and filled with shot. The sock hangs by the front door in preparation for the possibility of uninvited attempting entry. I think that whole family has the same problem – the world is only their way. They’re confused by other worlds. If, indeed, they even hear voices other than their own.

I told him not to waste his money. He insisted. I told him I’d throw a ham in the trash and his eyes widened, saying “You wouldn’t do that.” I told him he would be invited to watch if he liked.

He left.

It is a painful thing, watching the man walk. He is riddled with diabetes and it is care taking amplified for him on rough ground (I don’t care for my walkway as I should and the cracks are grassed above the stone). I must say, however, that he is clean. Clean shaven, smooth cheeked –rosy even – and his paramour keeps his clothes clean. A most presentable individual.

I mention that cleanliness because I’ve been once upon a time in their home on business. The contrast of person and place is remarkable.

The paramour and the uncle is a story. Now that I’m reminded of it, I’ve noted it, and I’m sure having noted it I will write of it.

Wonderful things computers. They never forget – and they aren’t particular about the subject matter or the truth.


photoshare sometimes Brecht Belguim mieke


From the reaches,

Ten Mile

About tenwhiskey

User tenwhiskey is also the author of this blog. He currently lives in small town Kansas in a semi-retired condition. His kids are married and gone (thank you). An empty nester. Divorced. Very happy with life as it is. Ten Mile maintains a personal blog here, writing of events as they appear to him; commentary, and opinions abound. He deviates into fiction as the mood strikes and creates flash fiction stories and short stories. He will not warn the reader when he drifts from fact to fiction. He feels adults are, generally, smart enough to figure out which is which. He does, however, attempt to make his fiction sound as true to life as possible. You have been warned. He, as time permits, writes and occasionally sells writing. More often than not he gives it away to various non-paying publishers of Ether Magazines, forums or for entertainment on a wall for in need of a hand friends. He likes candy, pies and a certain amount of strife. In the matter of strife - in his yourth on the farm, he became embroiled in a slinging fight. The fight involved lath as a launcher, fresh cow patties as ammo and it was a six way free for all. A little mud only adds (Umm?) a certain taste to life.
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