The Death Valley tour bus parked on a viewpoint off Badwater Road, and about half the members braved the heat to get off the bus and take in the view of the dry lake bed of Badwater Basin.
A little girl in pigtails, pointed at a moving speck far across the distant lake bed. “Daddy, what’s that?”
Her dad squinted against the brightness of the white sand, at first not seeing anything, but after a moment spotted it. “I dunno, honey.” Continue reading “The Trickster”
Sometimes when I’m on my walks with my two-legger and I see a Chihuahua, a little voice in my head will say, “There goes Pedro, stinking of beans.” It’s not my voice. It’s someone else’s because I like beans. Beans don’t stink, they smell good. Beans are food and I love food. All food. Even Costco biscuits. So it’s not even something I would think, let alone say.
Then I’ll see a Rottweiler and the little voice will say, “There goes Tyson, looking for a fight.” I’ve met plenty of friendly Rotties so I know it’s not me saying that, even if I’m the only one who hears it inside my head. Sometimes when I hear these words, I wonder if I’m sharing my head with a little racist dog, like a twin who never completely formed, except as maybe a pea-sized part of my brain. Continue reading “The Racist Pea”
Henry was a door-to-door salesman with a shock of bushy white hair. He’d grown up in the suburbs, knew suburbanites well and what they wanted. They’d embrace any device that made their lives easier so they could spend more time on the couch living their lives by remote. More and more of them lived by themselves. Chores no longer needed to be shared, they were automated, and what was left, like mowing the lawn, was hired out. With all this independence came loneliness, but like a blank spot in the garden was filled with a gnome, a void in a suburbanites life was filled with a dog, a little furry person to keep them company. Continue reading “Bushy Heads of Fur”
When you sit down, I lie down on the floor near you. When you get up to leave, I rise to follow you from room to room. My favorite room is the kitchen. If you stayed in the kitchen all day long it would be fine with me. Even when you’re not cooking I can smell the scent from the previous night’s meal, and the one before that and before that, going back to my favorite—meatloaf.
You know those aging cowboy actors doing television ads praising beef? Saying there’s nothing like a US prime cut of beef, or something like that? Well, I don’t disagree with them, but boy, could I growl some praise about meatloaf. What a perfect food, seasoned with spices, then cooked to bring out the flavor. No annoying bones to chew around and slow you down, or boring vegetables to pick out. Just beef. And ground up like it’s been already chewed for you so all that’s left to do is swallow. It’s immediate gratification taken to its ultimate extreme. Continue reading “Meat Loaf”
Dean watched his dog dream of chasing footloose dollar drive-thru burgers across the backyard. They were dropping from the gray sky like the 82nd Airborne, hundreds of them, no, thousands of them, invading the whole neighborhood, no, all of Portland, no, the entire planet. The budget burgers were here to conquer the world and the only thing preventing them from drowning all two-leggers in watered downed ketchup and shooting their arteries with grease bullets, was Dean’s dog, Pickles. Continue reading “Greasy Heroes”
At six months old, this is what I’ve learned so far:
Gnawing the Bone 