Exercising Hamish this week beside the public elementary school, I saw on the
other side of the fence a bouncy castle. It wasn’t in the usual castle form.
From the back it appeared to be a reproduction of a 74-gun third-rate ship of
the line, launched by the Royal Navy in 1790, H.M.S. Leviathan. Which is an
odd sight on an American elementary school playing field. Walking a little
further, I was able to see that the Leviathan was being attacked by a
Leviathan, a giant sea monster, which was played in this drama by a cephalopod
of some sort. Orange in color.
I was bringing in groceries, which can be difficult. You park the car, you
open the gate, the chickens rush forward. The dog shows up. “Need help?” You
explain that groceries will be carried from point A, across the concrete, and
into the house.
Mimo, “But we are would-be members of the Peripatetic School.”
Appenzeller, “We imagine grazing in pastures new.”
Percorino, “Become free thinkers.”
Mimo, “With no little emphasis on the word ‘free.’”
I blew out some air, trying to avoid exasperation, “I’ll pull some weeds when
I’m done bringing in groceries. Now if you’ll just step back…hereabouts
there’s monsters.”
Mimo, “Monsters?”
Appenzeller, “Don’t like the sound of that!”
Pecorino, “Oooh no.”
Mimo, “Of what kind?
“Cephalopods. I saw one up at the school.”
Hamish, “But my pee mail isn’t up to date.”
Mimo, “I see just the leaf I need.”
“Back you dotards, back.”
There was an embarrassed pause.
Appenzeller, “Bit touchy this morning, god.”
Appenzeller, “Heavy weather.”
“I’m just trying to bring in the damn groceries…”
Mimo bobbed, waved a wing, “Be our guest.’”
Pecorino and Appenzeller shook their heads, “Makes no sense.”
“God can’t be a guest.”
“Not in his own home."
I managed to get several bags inside the door before Mimo sauntered past
non-existent security and out the gate. I rushed over to block her way.
“You don’t want *them* to go outside, but *I’ve* already been outside. I’m a
chicken of the world. Founding member of Poulets Sans Frontiers.”
“No,” I said. “Just no.”
She was quick to give in. “You’ll be bringing the weeds soon?”
“I promise. Only a couple more loads and then I’ll pull the freshest, bestest
morsels.”
They backed off, Hamish backed off and lo! The job, it was done.
I pulled more weeds than anyone could imagine eating. The strip beside our
house belongs to the county. It’s a weed haven. I once called them to find
out why they don’t strim their property. The answer was simple, “Cuts…”
I told the chickens that one of my favorite albums is, “Goodbye Yellow Brick
Road.”
Mimo, “Haven’t seen one of those around here.”
“What?”
“A yellow brick road.”
“There aren’t any."
“And so you sing goodbye to something that doesn’t really exist?”
“I suppose.”
Pecorino, “Couldn’t you ask whoever is in charge of gods to install one?”
Appenzeller, “Why not make your opinions known to higher authority?”
Mimo, “We do."
Pecorino, “What are bricks?”
“Oddly shaped, made of clay? Actually I don’t know how they make bricks
nowadays. There are no brickyards hereabouts.”
Mimo, “Maybe in China?”
Appenzeller, “They’ve got a wall.”
I reflected, “Is it brick though?”
“Up to a point,” said Mimo, nodding wisely. “Up to a point."
Hamish has gone hiking with E. and N. I confess to thinking of this as a
father’s day gift. Like Frederick in “Pirates of Penzance” he’s become a slave
of duty. Whenever I move, he rises, wags, readies himself to fall upon the
real or imagined rats like a wolf on the wotsit. And yet he showed no interest
in the inflated cephalopod. There was, of course, the small matter of a ball
also being present.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
