Good evening. Our first offering this evening depicts a tale of woe involving a runaway pooch and the broken-down old man who must search on foot through blistering pain and blinding migraine to find her. The irony of the story is that though the doggy is long since safe at home the old man's spirit is cursed to wander, calling her name and muttering about her ability to leap thirty feet in the air. We call this painting, "Portrait of A Very Bad Dog," and it's found it's way home at last... to the Night Gallery.
So this was how the day went: I woke up from a short, restless night of bad dreams with a throbbing migraine. I took the dog out in the yard for her necessaries and slouched down in my mushroom chair trying very hard not to pitch forward on my face. The next thing I know "Scarsnout" decided to make a break for it. I swear the last thing I heard as I saw her fluffy tail disappear over the fence was a full-on philharmonic rendition of "Born Free."
Now my days of chasin' tail are long behind me and since I left my cane in Teresa's Jeep I decided to take a mosey. By the time I got around to the gate she was as scarce as a well-paying job in the current economy. I set off down the road. At first it was "76 Trombones Led The Big Migraine." After half an hour it felt like the Lesser Bataan Death March. I searched high and low, to and fro, hither and yon, over there and beyond. I walked well more than a mile-- six or eight perhaps, not in another man's shoes but in my Angry Birds jammie pants. My Angry Birds were angrier than usual today.
I can only imagine what the good townsfolk thought as I staggered along calling her name and muttering lines from "Moby Dick."
"I'll follow her around the Horn, and around the Norway maelstrom, and around perdition's flames before I give her up! From hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee. Ye damned dog!"
By the time I got back to the house my metal hips were grinding and I thought I smelled smoke. Have you ever burned out a butt-bearing? It isn't pleasant. My head was pounding harder than ever and I had a bad case of mummy-leg. I was NOT happy. Then about 1:00 or so she came leisurely trotting back to the house.
THEN-- and this is the icing on the cake-- When Teresa got home from teaching class and I sat down and began to tell her my piteous tale of woe, unbeknownst to me our fat old Siamese tomcat was backing up to me.
BEEP...BEEP....BEEP... Just like a garbage truck.
Suddenly I felt a warm, wet spray all over my legs. The damned cat sprayed me! THE DAMNED CAT SPRAYED ME. Why you !@#$%@!!^&%!!!
REDACTED...
...And that's how the cat learned to fly, the dog learned I was mad, the wife realized it wasn't funny and the rest of God's creatures trembled with fear.
The End.
Postscript:
The dog knows she's fouled up big time. I've ignored her all day and she's
been laying on the sofa with her head hanging over the side like she's
expecting a trip to the gallows at sunrise. I want her to learn a lesson
but I'm afraid that no matter how
forlorn she is tonight the minute the September sun hits her face and
she drinks in the cool morning air her lesson will vanish and she'll be
flying through the air like Pegasus.
