The early morning begins with making sure the coffee pot is on duty, and rescuing the dawgs from their kennel so they can go outside. It is a necessary routine unless you intend to buy a new kennel every day. The coffee is necessary to keep the earth on its proper rotation and in its correct orbit around the sun. I’m sure most of you understand.
There was an unpleasant odor in the den as if the kennel itself had become a volcano of vile humors reeking of wild stench and mayhem. Brenda said it smelled “ripe” down there, but I’d take it a step or two beyond ripe. I think I heard Brenda say something like: “Hablahabble hablahab!” when she first walked into that room.
The television blared all day yesterday about the election returns: politicians and talking heads babbled endlessly about the outcomes, the mandates and the will of the people. Newly elected thanked their worthy opponents who the week before were referred to as irresponsible corrupt and sinister spawns of Satan.
The blabber was full of things they were going to do and things they were not going to do. Even though very little of it will prove to be true, it was a bit scary–much more so than the week of horror movies that culminated Halloween with small children dressed as princesses, elves, pirates, clowns, various cartoon characters, and monkeys coming to the door to ask for free candy. The children are politicians in training.
The television was relentless in the pursuit of making sure their audience felt involved in the process and helpless at the same time. It may seem redundant, but the T.V. was becoming a volcano of vile humors reeking of wild stench and mayhem.
Lila Bea and Sir Benson Zipper Dee Doo Dah took up their regular positions in the living room distributing dawg hair that would later be transferred to all of my clothes, and to the clothes of any guests that should come our way. The dawgs were allowed to watch several broadcasts of several news channels all of which were saturated with election returns and fast food commercials. It had an impact on them.
When put out for their evening romp, they isolated some fast food that had by mistake come into our back yard. They chased it down, and inspired by politics, they killed it. Evidently it wasn’t fast enough to get away, and couldn’t think of a proper rebuttal. But this time they got their prey during proper wabbit season, so there will be no issues with the game warden. If you have not read it, see:
Game wardens ward over that which is “gamy”. They are kinda like football referees. Consider referees (as with game wardens and prison wardens): just imagine the incredible carnage that would take place if they were not so employed! The political game would do well to hire such officials. Then we would expect to see many “flags” on the plays: off-sides; unsportsmanlike conduct, unnecessary roughness, taking bribes, pass interference, and the constant and perpetual out of bounds.
I’m sure the wabbit was hoping for some flags on the play, but the only thing dropped was the wabbit’s guard. Offense overwhelmed defense and the finish line appeared right in the middle of the playing field.
There is much about a dead wabbit, both inside and out, that can produce odors. My two dawgs sought after these smells in a persistent and unyielding manner so that not one speck of their own fur would be without the stench of perfume d’ hare. I have tested that perfume, and find very little market for it among civilized folk. Some perfumes dissipate over time, but this stuff lingers…and grows! It was barely noticed last night when they were bedded down, but this morning–OMG!
What was left of the wabbit carcass was removed from my back yard with a shovel. The shovel quickly became engaged as a catapult to amuse my neighbors. Now, the dawgs will be paraded (one at a time) to the tub where a scrubbing will occur with harsh chemicals requiring me to wear rubber gloves. Although it is quite cool this time of year, baths are most definitely in order. Nothing short of them running away will stop it. I look forward to it as I looked forward to my last root canal.
If you’ve never bathed a frisky dawg and need some point of reference, refer to my letter of December, 1989:
Though I have barely finished my morning coffee, I think the cup needs some reinforcement: perhaps something a little stronger than coffee. Dawgs might even need an anesthetizing sip–sort of a little “hooch for the pooch”. A sane person doesn’t relish bathing a wide-awake, sober dawg…much less two of ’em! No serious work will be done today.