Saturday, September 16, 2017

“Why do all the clouds look like Peter Pan?” Silky asks, “And none of them look like me?”

          We are atop High Hill again—Silky, Peter Pan, Harley, Bobo and me—looking upward into a sky afloat with white and bulbous clouds, which do in fact look a great deal like Peter Pan, in an assortment of his various sleeping shapes.

          My gaze had been intent on the smallest of these clouds, attempting to make it disperse. I held steady, noting some success around the edges, but could sense the four of them watching me, awaiting my reply.  

          ‘I don’t know’, is a phrase that does not exist in the vocabulary of dogs. For them it is better to fabricate an answer, than it is to go on without knowing. Not a lie, per say, but a true possibility.

           “Silky,” I say, being aware of this thing, and look down the line of boy dogs to find her brown and anxious eyes.

          “Your clouds are night clouds.”

          Bobo and Harley look slightly puzzled. Peter Pan’s ears are perked. Silky’s eyes positively dance.
           I go on.

         “They are rare and magnificent, black as your fur, and can only be seen at three forty-two, when the moon is blue and double full, and only the oldest of crickets is chirping.”

          I know they are coming—the questions—and stand after saying this, to brush the grass from the seat of my pants and rub the clouds from my eyes.

          So grows the history of dogs.


Friday, August 25, 2017

'Silky ... 
'What do you have in you mouth?'
'Don't jump.'
'Out of the flowers.'
'Quit chewing on Peter Pan's ear.'
'Quit chewing on Peter Pan's leg.' 
'Did you tear this up?' '
'Settle down.'
'Don't dig there.' 
'Go potty.' 
'Good Girl.' 
'That's Peter Pan's.' 
'You have your own Chew.' 
'Hold still.' 
'I love you Silky Joe.' 
'Good night.' 

Monday, August 21, 2017

We've made lunch for the Eclipse. A picnic. Chicken for Peter Pan, because he doesn't care for bologna. Bologna for Silky, because she doesn't care for chicken. Bobo and Harley aren't so fussy. The vegetables are mine. 

     We'll carry it to the top of High Hill in a wicker basket, lay down a blanket, eat, and wait for the World to grow dark. 

     Priscilla and Carl are coming, with their family. Agnes with hers. The four cows will be there, too, the rabbits, squirrels and deer. Everyone. We're not chasing this afternoon. We're waiting and we're watching. Once in a great while we can do that here: Sit. For a few minutes at least. 


Thursday, August 17, 2017

He would ride with me in the truck. Everywhere.
Eventually, he would ask if I would let him drive. 
Eventually, I would say yes. 
And for this reason, I should never be given a chimpanzee.

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

“I’ve seen a total eclipse before,” Silky says.

     Having received our glasses to view the upcoming solar phenomena, Bobo, Harley, Peter Pan, Silky and me, walked to the top of High Hill, to see what the World and bumblebees would look like through them. There we sat. In a line. Silky on one end, I on the other, and the boys in between. 
     “It was positively wonderful,” Silky went on to say about the eclipse that she alleged to have seen. 
     The four of us boys turned to Silky in unison; brows raised high above are darkened glasses. 
     Silky was looking straight upward at what appeared to be a buzzard circling in the cloudless sky. 
     “Silky,” I said. “You aren’t even old enough to have seen snow." 
     Silky’s head snapped around so quickly her Eclipse glasses came loose from one perked ear and were left dangling from the other. The boys flinched. 
      “Snow?” Silky asked. “What’s Snow?”
      Bobo, Harley and Peter Pan turned from Silky to me. 
     I, of course, rubbed my chin. 
     “Snow,” I said, as if it were common knowledge, “is ice cream that falls from the sky.” 
     Oh how Silky’s eyes widened. Her glasses dropped to the grass, unnoticed, and I went on. 
     “It falls and falls and falls, until, on perfect days, the whole wide world is covered in great, white, pillowy heaps of it, deeper, even, than Bobo is tall.” 
      Not even a gasp of astonishment came from Silky’s wide open mouth, so dumbfounded was she by the thought of what I had just described. 
       The boys turned their gaze silently back to the sky, possibly to search for the lone buzzard, or possibly to enjoy the quiet for the moment it might last, or perhaps to stand, in their own minds, knee-deep in ice cream, a thought that could never, ever, be eclipsed. 

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

One by one Silky is unearthing Peter Pan's plethora of buried treasures ... treats ... soil softened and delectable now, somehow, beyond even dog words.


Thursday, August 3, 2017

If Peter Pan gets six hiccups, Silky has twenty-six. It's just that way with Silky and hiccups and stuff.