Riches To Rags

The office chair was broken. It was large, imposing, speaking loudly of the wealth and power of its usual occupant. Dark green leather glowed subtly; cushioned strength promised comfort; the high back and broad seat regally commanded attention and respect.

But it was broken. Its sturdily constructed metal base had snapped nearly in two. No one had noticed yet. And, for its part, the proud, serviceable chair was not about to reveal anything less than perfection. He’d been used badly, for an activity not foreseen during his design. He felt shame for the service he’d performed. True, his owner never had the class the chair implied, but always before, however shady the deals swirling around him in this plush office, he’d been just the chair---no party to the illegalities or immoralities. An innocent bystander, doing his job to the absolute best of his ability.

Now he could no longer keep that distance. Last night had changed him forever, damaged his self-image as well as his supporting frame. He knew, eventually, he would lose his function, unceremoniously dumping his owner onto the mat beneath him. He would give no sign of his weakness until then. But he felt soiled and ragged, dirtied by his participation in last night’s murder. His failure and humiliation would be only what he deserved.

The tall, grey-haired man had looked like trouble brewing when he entered. He closed the heavy door behind him, slamming it. His tall frame showed signs of tension that slamming the door could not release. The glower he fixed on the chair’s owner turned to outraged surprise when Charlton--that was what most people called the man sitting in this many-windowed office (that or Mr. Rangely)--not only refused to be intimidated but issued an ultimatum, ordering the visitor out of his office. The stranger--well, not really a stranger, he’d been in this office before, twice--had roared and demanded, reached across the wide desk and yanked the expensive tie and shirt into a wad in his fist.

Charlton, choleric, stood and wrested his clothing back from the older man’s grip. He reissued his own demand to leave the office. The attacker strode angrily to the door as if leaving, then whirled and started to circle the desk. At that point, Charlton pulled a gun from just under the drawer in front of him, and fired directly at the man just as he rounded the desk.

Then, the chaotic evening began. Two of Charlton’s underlings were called in, the dead man discussed, and clean-up begun. To the chair’s utter humiliation he become the gurney conveying the body from the office to a waiting car in the dark alley below. There the chair took the tumble that damaged his undercarriage. He’d been designed to support almost anything that could be imagined for his office life, but the irregular pavement under his rollers, the unwieldy body awkwardly being stuffed into the back seat of the car, and the freezing temperature of the January night, had not been anticipated in the blue-prints.

The blood had been cleansed from his soft leather covering, but he still felt its stain deep in his padding. Now, he waited for the further, rightful shame of being tossed into the dumpster behind the building--of no use and with no future. His only comfort lay in the hope that his final demise would damage his owner’s back or head--enough to convey the chair’s complete outrage at being forced into participating in the repellent crime.

Rain

It’s raining, they say, dogs and cats.
Why isn’t it insects and bats?
Or grizzlies and fish?
I really do wish
For one rain of cheese curls and rats.

Bystander

Outside my door--men with bombs and guns--
Factions at war like marauding Huns.
I have a gun too,
But what can I do
Against madmen, these violent ones?

Memorial Day

Now he has departed from this strange world a little ahead of me. That signifies nothing. For us believing physicists the distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.

~Albert Einstein

Pre-West

A delightful memory of rivers and joy gave way to one not so pleasant to recall: Before she’d been given to the family that took her west, she had served in the house of a young mother with five children. She’d come too late to know their father and husband, but knew, from the tears quietly shed in the night, that something very sad had happened.

Three of the children were colorless little things. Too quiet, too inactive to compare with the children she’d known before. The youngest was still a baby, so the fact that she seemed fretful was no big surprise. But the oldest! He was only eight years, but he was a child of whom she’d heard people say, “He’s eight going on thirty.” And that certainly did not mean he was abnormally responsible. In his case it meant he would end imprisoned before he reached his majority. His actions, older in scope than his years, were not a pride to his mother. He had been forced to become the man of the family, and he made evident his displeasure with that obligation.

She felt the deep cuts across her lower surface, where the developing monster had taken shears to her. He’d carved his name there, Mickey. She knew, because he muttered and raged the entire time he was mutilating her. His mother came in and stopped him, and just as the relief of being saved started, it ended. A worse scene erupted from being denied his destructive urge. The child grabbed the savaged ironing board from against the wall and, brandishing her as his shield, waving the shears as his sword, threatened his own mother with death. Lying on the floor where he’d flung her as he stormed out the door, the frightened wooden board believed that he could have killed at that moment, with little effort.

Mother had examined the damage and locked the ironing-board legs in place. She’d set the heavy iron on the stove to warm and left the room, crying desperately through the whole preparation.

She took in laundry to support her youngsters and herself. There were only two rooms in the small place. The kitchen area of this room, where the battle had just been doubtfully won, also served as the work place for earning shelter and food. The other room, from which Mother returned, face washed, ready to toil, served as bedroom, playroom, and nursery. The laundry, hanging on lines strung from a tree to the house, would be brought in, sprinkled if necessary, and then the useful ironing board would help finish the process of producing clean, neat clothing to Mother’s employers.

The memory of the despairing household became too unpleasant to continue. The ironing board turned her attention to the fire crackling and popping across the room---and finally succeeded in crowding out the last view she’d had of the mother and the angry son, carried away by men in uniforms. The son struggled; the mother did not even seem to notice there were people there, or that they were bodily carrying her away. The two years leading to that crisis were just too horrible.

The warming fire, the snow falling softly outside, soothed her and she drifted back to the lovely cross-country trip instead.

Unforgetable

Coming up: Memorial Day.
How complex! We mourn, yet we play.
We’ll have barbecues;
We’ll laugh---but we’ll muse
On those we have lost on the way.

Westward Ho

She’d been around for a very long time. She could pass the lonely hours remembering a history found only in books today. That was the true way of the world. If you were useful, if you were made simply and cared for, life could be full and long. If she were to attempt to chronologically proceed through that wealth of memories, much of the history of this country would emerge.

For now, she contented herself with recalling her first trip across country. That was such an exciting time. The changes in those surrounding her, in the way life proceeded, were immense. Her first memories—to be savored another time—were of a small place near water. She could still hear it now, lapping, splashing, a continual background to her work then. She’d been fresh and clean and strong. As were the people she’d joined. They’d been full of life, of chatter, of activity.

But when she took her first trip—another family, another time—life had become tedious, full of tension. Before the move, circumstances had not been pleasant. She recalled loud arguments, accusations and tears. She still had work; her place in the household remained beyond range of the worst of the fits of temper and frustration. But once, as she’d been standing in the kitchen, performing as expected, she’d been struck with a chair, knocked to the floor, and she'd feared one leg had been broken.

However, luckily still intact, she’d been one of the few helpers allowed to join on the long trek, following the sun. That trip left more than helpers behind. The man who’d struck her with the chair also remained in the old place. And several new people, ones she’d seen before, but who had not lived together in the disagreeable house, now became part of her life as well. Altogether, she remembered two wagons nearly full, some, her familiar helpmates, and new, added things. They were crammed tightly, but not uncomfortably, into the available space. And the children she’d served, their mother, two other females, another older man, and two children she did not know, had all headed out to find a new life beyond the noise and hate.

From her place in the wagon she could see two very large animals, assigned to pull her to a new world. Sometimes the children would climb in and keep her company. But most of the time, unless there was illness, the people remained outside. She could hear their conversation through the fabric of the wall behind her.

It had been a long trip---hard, hot, dusty, and with many setbacks to overcome. But there had been singing and laughter too. There had been nights of wood smoke, scenting air that billowed the wall and brushed the dust of the day from her surface. She’d not been much use for most of the trip. But at three separate times, she’d been set outside so that fresh, smooth clothes could be donned by the family before they approached a large town. Those times had lifted her spirits enormously. The smell of the hot iron, warming that familiar scent out of the skirts, and shirts, and petticoats, had been the best parts of the trip.

She’d seen new things she’d never have been able to imagine. Through the windows of the various places she’d worked there’d been glimpses of birds and green things. But now, the view through the open front of the wagon was awesome. Wide stretches of green opened to her; great moving masses of water passed beneath her; and she saw more trees than she’d ever thought could exist in a whole world. Add the feeling of being included and necessary to all that wonder and change---well, there was no other time in her life that she remembered in such detail and with such a feeling of completeness and joy.

She, a simple unadorned, wooden ironing board, was a world traveler. And she was considered so vitally important that she was granted passage into a different, happier life. Her service was rewarded. Her existence validated. Memories like this would comfort her for many more years, as she sat here before the window, her top crowded with pots spilling green tendrils and stalks, and flowers in profusion---as she dreamed her future and strolled the paths of her past.

Simplicity

There is a young gent from the “outback.”
He carries his all in a backpack.
He sleeps in the park.
He thinks it’s a lark—
No taxes, no mortgage, no fast-track.

Wee One

Mae was an old lady that lived in the house behind mine. “Was” because she’s gone now. But she told me this story and I’m sharing with you. No comment; you can believe or not; but I love it.

One day in spring, Mae was sweeping her sidewalk, enjoying the fresh, clean air that greeted her after the rain the night before. Not much of a rain, but enough to scrub the air and raise the spirits. The flowering bushes she had carefully nurtured for years were now a bit overgrown and riotous, but that just meant more scent to fill the yard. She’d sweep for a moment, and then rest her tiring arms while she admired the beauty of her favorite corner. She’d placed an old wooden lawn chair there, and she was promising herself a cup of tea and a rest in that chair when she’d finished removing the dust and twigs from the pathway.

Her mind wandered to the good times enjoyed from that arbor, eyes focused on the past. Suddenly, she was yanked back into the present by a scurry and rustle in the vines to the right of the chair. Running back the memory of what her eyes had seen, but not registered, she became certain it had not been a bird or toad--her first reaction to the disturbance. There’d been a flash of green, which might suggest the latter. But that had not been a leap, it was a dash for cover. She was sure---or was she. Little old ladies could see anything out of boredom, poor eyesight, and musings on the past. Shaking her head at her own imagination, she finished her self-assigned chore and returned to the rewarding corner with a cup of tea, which she placed on the wide arm of the chair. She’d brought a cushion, dried the seat with a rag, and made herself comfortable, before she remembered what she’d thought she’d seen.

She peered around the cup into the tangle of honeysuckle that had swallowed the trellis provided for it, as well as the nearby ash tree’s lower branches. The corner was shadowed this time of day, and a scattering of last year's dried leaves made the base of the vine a twilight jungle. As she squinted into the gloom she flinched, and nearly upset the cup of tea. Another motion! Not her imagination!

She rescued the tea from the chair-arm and leaned as far over as she could to catch the—whatever—the next time it moved. There, back in the depths a foot or so, a slow edging of a deeper shadow toward the densest cluster of the vines’ beginnings. She murmured to the creature that she’d got it now, no need to hide; she was just a harmless watcher with no intention to harm.

At that, a small man, about the height of the length of her hand and dressed in a tiny green shirt and brown pants, stepped boldly out from the shelter, and placed his arms akimbo, tilting his head to peer up at her face---and promptly ran right back into the green cave at her yelp and the launching of the tea and cup into the air and across the lawn. When she’d reclaimed her legs and arms from the various locations the surprise had launched them into, she rose from the chair and slowly and painfully knelt before the apparition’s exit point.

Mae told me she'd gained nothing by pleading and searching. And she’d never again encountered the strange little guy. But she would not back down from her absolute certainty of what she’d seen.

Polluted

Fossil fuels will cause us to fry;
Ditto nuclear plants, if nigh;
Cell phones—cancer;
There’s no answer—
We’ll just drive—light—talk--and then die.

Boomer Takes All / Greatest Folds

I’ll open at 55,
Future direction’s mine to tell.

See you and raise…58,
I’ll decide what stock’s best to sell.

Me, I’m in at 59,
Mucho resentment to bury.

Daring it all at 60,
And it’s my vote that will carry.

“I’m out. Thin blood. Can’t go it.
If you can--without me--do well.”

Old guy’s out!? Wow! A shocker!
So let’s deal the cards; strike the bell.

Round the table, in and out.
More games--same rules--fewer players.

If boomers don’t do better,
Then at least they’ve less nay-sayers.

Qualified Contrition

In my defense, I had no idea my “Faithful Companion” (who, after those “strongly worded” objections, and thinly veiled threats, is looking a mite bit less faithful, I must note) found the deck to be anything nearly so hateful as he’s indicated. I’m not sure I would have been swayed by his opinion, had he stated it sooner, but I wish I had known.

Now, I did notice he was looking very uncomfortable during the work done on the deck. But I thought it was just the invasion of people and machines. There was a lot of noise, a lot of coming and going; and clutter prevented easy movement in this tiny yard. (The fact that he spent days hiding behind the tree might have offered me a clue, I suppose.) I knew he was reluctant to change his habits---all dogs are. And I saw we had a small problem when the stairs moved further south, and he didn’t. But I patiently walked to the new stair-position, encouraging him to follow along, and demonstrated that he had not been barred, merely moved. (Perhaps laughing at his confusion was a little insensitive.)

All this Sturm und Drang over the whole project, however, caught me by surprise. True, he refused to lie on the deck, though I’d expected he’d love the view the height gave him. And, he no longer has his cubbyhole between the stairs and the house---well, it’s still there but also further south and not so large. Oh, all right, if I’d been concerned about his opinion I’d have noticed more readily that he’d been dispossessed. I treated him like his familiar comforts were minor considerations, because he was less important than I.

I’m sorry! Alright?! I was a human chauvinist. I should be castigated thoroughly and made to write, “I will consider others’ feelings,” 100 times on the new, expansive deck.

Don’t tell him this, but I am still very happy with the new deck, and I still expect him to adjust and yield---rather than organizing protest marches.

Once a chauvinist, always a chauvinist.

Uh-Oh

On The Disruption of Life Caused by the Advent of Extended Construction as dictated to The Human

My Manifesto is in the process of formulation as I direct this preliminary statement. I find myself prepared to carry forth with whatever demonstration of my objections, to the treatment accorded me, that I deem necessary to convey my extreme displeasure. I find that my concerns and desires have been ignored, worse than ignored---condescendingly dismissed. I have tolerated much throughout this life, but I will not swallow more of this neglect and abuse.

That blighted Deck was constructed without consulting me, on the land I hold sacred to Naps and Guard Duty. I have consecrated--for those purposes--the land selected for its placement, for over three years now. The Right of Squatter-in-Residence, the Right of Peaceful Pursuit of Employment, the Right of all Free Creatures to have a say in their lives and surrounds---these Rights have been willfully and indifferently repudiated in its construction. Said Deck was constructed without my prior knowledge of the intent. I was not consulted on its placement, size or, especially, on the danger posed to my self during its construction. (I was nearly squashed by a falling timber, and never provided with a hard hat or safety cage !!)

I now find myself forced to adjust to a change in my living arrangements that I find in the least, distasteful, at most, completely unacceptable. This outrage, occurring at this late stage in my life, cannot be tolerated; and I will object and retaliate as I see fit, and am forced to do. There will be no further action without my consent. And there will be retribution for the indignities visited upon me, a till-now unassuming and lawful resident, quietly fulfilling my allotted duties.

I submit this strongly worded complaint on this Eighteenth Day of May, the Year of our Lord and Master, 2007. Be afraid! Be very afraid! Counterrevolution is hereby declared!


By My Scribe and Human, faithfully recorded in My Words,


Declan Dog, RDA, LTFC, LVORTT
(Registered Domestic Animal, Long-Time Faithful Companion, Licensed and Vaccinated Official Resident of This Township)

For Release Upon the Aforestated Date....

Remember Me?

Okay, had enough limericks for now? Or do you want more? No matter, being an interloper pretty much means I can do what I like. Although I can be influenced by flattery…..

No, you don’t get to know what I was doing that was so important. I believe mystery is spicier than omniscience, mainly because the latter is impossible anyway. I’m back. That should be enough for now, negative or positive.

And now you have quit reading, and gone to visit someone less pushy and prickly. No matter. Your loss, you’ll just miss finding out that Dusty has moved. He even offered me first dibs on buying his house. Of course I have no interest in leaving my quaint little village, but I have to admit the thought was a little tempting. He lived in a fabulous place in the real middle of nowhere. It has hills like those strange ones outside my town, only his aren’t strange, as far as I know. There’s this wonderful creek that starts from a spring, cottonwood trees shading it. A few willows dip into it with their feathery fingers. He even has a tornado shelter built into one of the hills. Just what every prairie homestead needs: Water, shade, and shelter that will weather the weather.

I’ll stay here and swelter and dehydrate until I get blown to Kansas. Around here we don’t say what L. Frank Baum had Dorothy say. Ours is the reverse: Toto, (or Declan Dog if accuracy is desired) I think we are in Kansas now.

Dusty, however, has moved to an even more fabulous place, in the mountains. That’s the place I would really be tempted to buy from him. Its description will wait for my first, confirming visit; but from what I’ve heard, it is to dream of. He talks of it being that classic log cabin---one on steroids if I know Dusty. And the surrounding flora and fauna sound like they probably forced the asking price way out of my range. I’d rather mooch off him for a week or so, anyway.

So, that’s the great news that all the impatient ones missed. See you tomorrow?

vs. Nature

My deck receives twice daily moppings.
But I can explain all the soppings:
I’m not a neat freak.
There’s no gutter leak.
I’m trying to remove bird droppings.

Bad Penny

Politickin', ambitious Hill'y
Yearned, so, to be rid of her Willy.
She’d send him away
For a month or a day,
But he’d come back each time, willy-nilly.

Back Soon

Sorry folks, I’m really busy.
Please, have another Limerick, and wait

There was a gross girl from Nantucket,
Who carried her sweets in a bucket.
She picked up a treat
That fell to her feet,
And calmly proceeded to suck it.

Creativity and Philosophy always did take a
back seat when Practicality took the wheel.

New And Improved

They’re feeding us all preservatives,
Antibiotics, and additives.
Our food’s safer now....
Believe--just say wow--
Don’t force them to add in sedatives.

Progress

We used to live in a smoky cave,
Wear skins, eat fruit, pull fish from a wave.
We’ve come a long way,
We’re smarter today,
And we still cannot learn to behave.

Maude's Trek

I don’t have much time to move Maude along her life, today. Busy, busy, but then so was Maude. The times were full of jobs to do, just to live. She’d been raised in a civilized city, with good things around her, in a house full of women to help with work, and liven the chores with talk. Now she was headed for a pioneer’s life, on a lonely farm, with even more necessities available only from her work and Dave’s. No close market to purchase from, and little to spare from the budget for it anyway. I saw pictures of her house there. It looked clean and comfortable. Not large, not fancy certainly, it was surrounded by miles of flat land, stretching to the horizon. As I said, lonely.

They brought a lot of furniture with them. Her dining room held three large pieces that she singled out to me, along with the chairs and table leaves. The living room boasted three more, and the guest bedroom, at least four. Add in the dishes, trunks and clothes, sewing machine, tools, and whatever farm items---the wagon must have been very crowded. I don’t know if they came with others, but I suspect they would have to be in a group simply to find the way there. I imagine that trip, with four children, at that slow pace, the nights of exhaustion, the days of dust and heat. And I wonder what looked so promising at the end of that dimming rainbow to keep them going.

Plea

I want to grow younger each day.
Each hour makes me smarter some way--
But what good is that?
The brain’s up to bat--
The body’s refusing to play.

Admission Free--For the Day

Hello. Welcome to Google Up-to-the-Minute News. This is your Friendly, Neighborhood Interloper, reporting to you from Shades of the Olde West. This delightful new theme park has been created solely to amuse, inform and entertain—and allow access to my door.

Almost overnight—well, over 2 nights—the whole aspect of my house has changed. Let’s see the pictures:

BEFORE: There was a gaggle of railroad ties leading from the community sidewalk, through the gate, and continuing past my deck. Said deck was a tiny affair, perched in front of a door that opened outward, defying all safety and sanity dicta. If a guest were to knock, without prior knowledge of the arrangement, and without really examining the entrance, I could open the door and sweep them off the deck in one motion. The RR ties had been here long enough for the winter heaves, the summer cloudbursts, and the aging elm tree’s roots to severely undermine their integrity and horizontal arrangement. In other words, you could break a leg or a neck without even trying.

Giving access to the deck were three steps, shallow risers. You walked in on the ties, stepped sideways to the steps, and took your chances on where you stood allowing you room to dodge the opening door, without stumbling backward onto the steps and a dangerous fall. It was also possible to fall from the deck to the ground, bypassing the steps. They were only half as wide as the side of the deck--no rail to impede your drop. If you fell that route, you had the side of the house to bang your head on.

GETTING THERE: This picture was improved slightly by the removal of the RR ties. That allowed you to walk in on dirt, or boat in if it was raining. But the danger at the head of the stairs remained.

AFTER: A boardwalk enters through the gate from the sidewalk. Just like in the old days---false-front-stores, approached on wooden sidewalks, meant to keep long skirts out of the muck of the streets. After a platform area just inside the gate, the boardwalk makes a sharp left turn to join up with an extension of the bottom step. Those steps are further out than they were, due to an extension of the deck, as well. Now you can walk all the way to the door on dry boards, knock, and retreat to the newer portion of the deck—removing all the challenge and fun from the adventure of visiting my house. It also ended my game of “see how far can you launch the guest”. Oh well, I’ll live without it---and more guests will too. And the Old West has returned to this corner of the town. (Currently untested by long skirts.)

Serendipity

Once there was a sad girl-child,
Forlorn, denied, alone.
But seldom feeling loss of
The things she’d never known.

Her life had been a good one,
As far as she could see,
A world stuffed full of wonders,
Sunset, barn owls, a bee.

She’d grown a little distant.
She was too quiet, shy.
But inside, safely hidden,
Were dreams she’d not deny.

She grew to be a woman,
With all still sealed inside.
No one had been her mentor.
Nobody gave her pride.

Unlovable? No never.
She knew she’d much to give.
The future promised wonders,
And hopes and dreams to live.

Then occurred a miracle:
Sweet but tiny lover,
The boy was born to treasure.
His smile! His laugh! Mother!?

Forgotten: Dreams of greatness,
Forgotten: Plans to shine.
Life became his curly head,
His eyes, his words--divine!

Her dreams could wait till later.
This joy had claimed her heart.
Her baby grew. He loved her.
So good, so cute, so smart.

Life went by, through many years.
This boy, become a man,
Satisfied far more than deeds
And empty praises, can.

She’d not felt complete before,
Had never known she could.
Oh, this “son”, this “sun”, her pride,
Brought warmth, gave love---“was good.”

His ups, downs, became her ride,
His loves, her loves as well.
She laughed when he laughed at life,
And cried each time he fell.

No grand vocation’s plunder
Could ever equal this.
The once-sad-child’s prayer now:
Thanks, God, for total bliss.

Heroes

I think we need a new definition of “hero”. Have you ever been rescued from a situation that could only get worse? Someone bigger and badder than you had control of your life, and was focused on marching you down a path so dark you just wanted to find Mommy and hide your eyes. That rescuer---that’s a hero. Buying into a nasty situation with thought only for getting you out of it: heroism. You being stupid, you being trapped, as ineffectual as a child, does not strike them as an opportunity---or as a justification for leaving you to your fate. They see it in a purer way, and think only of getting you out of harm’s way.

We usually answer the question of “what is a hero?” with some poorly thought-out definition or analogy. We say, oh, like the guy who saved that kid from a speeding car. Or we say, someone who does something dangerous to help someone else. We have no clear definition to offer because the word is used so cavalierly that its meaning is obscured. The “heroes” we see on television, the “heroes” of sporting events, or movie “heroes”---they get the name, but don’t earn the title. We say all the soldiers over there are our heroes. That is a much better response than the last war received; but really they are very determined patriots, doing something most of us don’t want to find ourselves having to do, doing something deserving our gratitude and admiration. Some of them become heroes in the process. But putting on a uniform and picking up a gun does not get you automatically qualified.

What does qualify is attitude. A hero knows, in a critical moment, that they simply must do this thing for someone in dire need. A hero does, without thinking about whether it is safe or dangerous. A true hero is so focused on the task they have set themselves that they forget entirely about themselves. They don’t do something “dangerous”; they do a thing that “has” to be done. Danger is considered after the fact, if ever—with the luxury of time.

The word “heroes” is so overused that the ones deserving of the name are lost in a crowd of pretenders. Please, reserve it for those who are not brash, not just out to claim their 15 minutes of fame. Please don’t cheapen a noble concept by lavishing it on self-serving, glory-seeking or, worse yet, fictional figures. It’s not rare to see heroism. It happens every day in small incidents and large catastrophes. Don’t let those real heroes get lost in the shuffle of phonies

A Cold Day In....

We’re fighting a war way over there.
Those people want us out of their hair.
We must not get out.
We’ll win it, no doubt.
Just as soon as there’s snow in their air.

Toasted

It’s hotter than Hades this May.
The climate is warming they say.
But should I believe
This current pet peeve?
The dinosaurs felt the same way.

Be Prepared

I was sitting on the steps when Dusty came striding from across the street to my gate. Half the time, I have no idea where he has parked. I wonder if the trouble I might have stirred up with the Dragon makes Dusty circumspect about being seen with me. Or maybe he likes to walk, and just parks in one place, a town-base for the day, and shanks’-mare does for his rounds.

It was a particularly fine day—cool breeze, warm air, sunshine and birdsong. Neither of us made a move toward the house. I turned a bit to create room and he sat on the step below mine. After initial greetings, we sat in companionable silence and enjoyed the scent of pear blossoms. Declan Dog had ushered Dusty into the yard, offered his own greetings and, after seeing Dusty settled, made his way back to his nest just below the side of the deck.

Dusty stretched and glanced over at Declan. “I see he’s constructed his observation post in a suitable place this year. He can see most of the area, but can’t really be seen until you’re right on the approach to the yard. Probably never even see him, just walking past.”

“Yeah, this one is for keeping lookout. He has another over here,” I said, pointing to the hollow on another side of the deck, between the steps and the house. “That one is for taking a nap while making a visible warning of the presence of an on-duty guard. Lucky for him, his contract provides no punishment for sleeping on guard duty.”

Dusty chuckled and turned back to see Declan circling to the tree that shaded most of the deck. If we were going to discuss his appointments, he had one he was particularly proud of, in the process of construction. He paused before disappearing behind the tree, glancing over his shoulder to invite Dusty to follow. Being the obliging sort, Dusty rose to see what Declan had to show.

“What is he doing back here?” Dusty exclaimed. “This is three times the size of the others. And he can’t see or be seen at all, from this one.” Declan was just standing there, waiting for the appreciation of his efforts.

I told Dusty it was Declan’s new project. He worked on it about every other day. And he worked. You could hear the digging, dirt striking the house below the kitchen window, the pit growing by the hour. Whenever he’d been especially industrious, he would come out for a break, shaking the dirt from his hair.

“These two others are his foxholes,” I explained. "That one, I suspect, is for extreme conditions. It’s going to be his bunker. Safe there from thunderstorms, air raids, and terrorists. And hidden from any encroaching predators. He apparently has to get it just right, because he starts over at times. When he gets too near the foundation, I revise the blueprint for him, but most of the re-starts are his own idea.”

Having given Dusty the tour, Declan proceeded to demonstrate how the bunker would be used. He found it so satisfactory that he slept right through the rest of Dusty’s visit, only emerging, a little groggy, to say his goodbyes.

History

Georgy d’Porgy wanted the crown;
Watched a storm take a whole city down;
He started a war,
Couldn’t open a door,
But he knew he’d be loved for his frown.