Author: Raud Kennedy

Raud Kennedy is a writer and an artist.

Chapter One ~ Smokejumpers

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the watermelon has landedOtto stretches out on the recliner, hands behind his head with a book on dogs flipped over on his chest, and gazes up into the sky. This is Portland, he thinks, it should be raining, overcast at the very least. But the sky is a vast expanse of blue except for one lone cloud drifting overhead that holds Otto’s attention. A black speck emerges from the cloud, probably a bird, a hawk maybe, though he’s never seen a bird that high up in the sky before.

Otto has the whole rooftop deck of the building where he and his family lives to himself. He’s not supposed to be up here on his own, high above the downtown city streets of the Pearl District, but he comes up here to get away from his two older brothers, Walnut and Peanut, when he wants to read. They’ve grown too cool for reading and tease him whenever they see a book in his lap. They’re all about video games. He like those too, but it gets old losing to the nuts all the time. They hate it when he calls them that. Their actual names are Walter and Peter, and they get back at him by calling him Oddo instead of Otto, but it doesn’t bother him. It’s just a breath over lips, an exhale. It might as well be a couple of birds chirping.

One of the photos in the dog book on his chest is of an army dog parachuting out of an airplane. The dog has on a camo vest like the soldier he’s strapped to and they’re jumping into someplace in Afghanistan. Who said dressing up your dog was silly? Otto thinks it’s the best photo in the book, a dog trusting you enough to jump out of an airplane with you, you can’t beat that. Maybe some dogs are thrill seekers just like some people are. Continue reading “Chapter One ~ Smokejumpers” →

Negotiating with Cookies – Take-Out

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Fleegle and I are in the car on our way to our first dog walking appointment when Fleegle says, “Raud, the Seaweed Men came again last night.”

“The who?”

“I call them the Seaweed Men because they smell like seaweed, but they don’t really look like men, more like children with really big hairless heads.”

“You must’ve been dreaming, and we both know how weird your dreams can be.”

“Nope, I wasn’t dreaming. I was wide awake, though I couldn’t move. I never can when the Seaweed Men show up, can’t even bark to wake you up.”

I stop the car for a red light. “What do these Seaweed Men do?”

“Oh, they usually float you through a hole in the bedroom ceiling and you’re gone for a few hours.”

“But there isn’t a hole in the bedroom ceiling.”

“I know that and you know that, but they don’t. If they want a hole there, there’s a hole.”

“I think I’d remember any nighttime excursions that involved levitations and passing through ceilings.” The light turns green and I step on the gas.

“Nah, you sleep through it every time.”

“Every time? How long have these Seaweed Men been coming?”

“As long as I can remember?”

“That’s at least three years and you’re just telling me now?”

“They didn’t ask me not to this time.”

“I see.”

“I think they just forgot. But don’t worry about it, they always bring you back.” He stands up in his seat and wags his tail. “Is it time for my lunch yet? I could really go for some California rolls right about now, with an extra wrap of seaweed, how about you?”

 

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Negotiating with Cookies – Fleegle Cures Laziness

Published on by Raud Kennedy5 Comments

While I’m lazing in bed late Saturday morning, Fleegle ambles into the bedroom and over to my side of the bed. “Raud, there’s a poop in the living room.”

My eyes pop open. I’m wide awake now. I deal with enough poop outside that the thought of it being inside too sets my mind alight like a 4th of July sparkler. “What do you mean there’s a poop in the living room? Did you poop in the living room? Are you ill?”

“No, I didn’t poop in the living room.”

“Why would you do that? You’re dog door is open and the yard has lots of prime locations for private pooping for poop shy dogs like you.”

Fleegle shakes his head. “It’s not my poop.”

I push the comforter aside and sit up. “It’s not? Well it certainly isn’t mine if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Are you going to get up and take a look? It could be staining the rug?”

“It’s on the rug? You’re damn right I’m getting up to take a look.” I throw my feet over the side of the bed. “Who’s been pooping on my rug?”

Lickety-split, I’m up, down the hall and in the living room in. I scan the rug, looking for the offensive waste product, and there it is, the size of a pine cone sitting under the coffee table. I move in for a closer look, and as I do I realize that’s what it is, a pine cone. How could Fleegle miss that? I look around, expecting him to be standing behind me, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I pick up the cone and carry it through the kitchen to the patio door, where I see Fleegle sitting next to the storage bin that holds his kibble.

I open the patio door and toss the pine cone out into the bamboo. “It wasn’t poop, Fleegle. It was a pine cone.”

“Oh, really? It sure had me fooled, but now that you’re up, do you think you could feed me my breakfast?”

 

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