Category: Poems

Does Wily Have a Microwave?

28/3/2016

Our Local Coyote

This coyote is wanted by some angry neighbours. He is wily and I think he’d catch the Road Runner in quick fashion. Anyway, I snapped the photo while he watched Sue, Buster and me strolling down Gold Brook Road.

We are pretty sure that he’s the coyote who killed a neighbour’s cat. He also ate all the cat food and dog food that our neighbour had put out for her many pets. But get this, there was also a bowl of frozen milk on the woman’s porch. Old Wily picked up the bowl of milk and carried it into the forest, I assume to defrost it before he drank it. Milk builds up the calcium in your bones and is good with kibble. The coyote is more than crafty and a vegan he is not.

Of note is that Buster is now nervous at certain spots on the road. He is a smart dog and does not want to become a coyote sandwich.

***

I think I need to give a wee explanation about my Buster Wear photo. And while I’m at it, also let you know that Buster is excited about how well his Buster Wear clothing project has been doing. It’s selling like hot kibble.

Anyway, a fella read my blog and wondered afterwards what the yellow area was on the front of the black Buster Wear shorts. I explained to him what it was and now I am going to explain it to the whole blogosphere.

It is a picture of a yellow chick who is looking at a fried egg on a plate. The chick is saying, “Holy crap! Larry, is that you?!?!

***

Here’s part of a poem I could have used in my last blog, in which I expressed one of the reasons why I regard money the way I do.

   “Honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher,
               Although he was poor, didn’t want to be richer;
               All such wishes in him were prevented,
               By a fortunate habit of being contented.”

                                               “Anonymous” John Tomkins

***

It seems to me that I spend an inordinate amount of time writing blogs with the word ‘Buster” in them. Have you noticed that? Lots of photos of him too, and here’s one more.

Be cool. Wear Buster Wear!

A friend of mine told me that she often thinks her husband’s dog is the other woman. I sometimes wonder if Buster isn’t the other woman in my blogs.

You see, I could write a blog that answered one of the greatest philosophical questions of all time. The question being: “Why are we here, in this world?” This blog answer could potentially set the world on a new course and still, I’m sure, I would receive emails that wouldn’t mention my solving the big universal question. Nope, they’d ask me, “Where’s the Buster stuff?

***

And yes, Buster does give me material for my blogs. Like last week...

I have read that some Indigenous tribes believe animals can understand what we are saying. I have never really believed this. My line of thinking has been that animals, especially Buster dogs, have an ability to glean an amazing amount of info from the tone of our voice and from our body language. As one fella told us, dogs have had centuries and centuries of time to learn how to understand us humans and how to fit into our human lives.

Well, after yesterday’s walk, I may have to change my theory.

You see, every afternoon without fail, Buster waits around in the trailer while Sue finishes up her lunch. Once she’s finished, Buster goes into his song and dance. Which is to bark, bother, growl, and get in the way. Because it’s his Sue/Buster walk time.

Sue will, right smartly, snap a leash onto Buster’s red collar and then off they go. Usually for a one-and-a-half to three-km walk. The weather plays no role in this operation. Buster has decreed.

However, Buster’s decree has played a key role in one aspect of Sue’s life. He has improved Sue’s health immeasurably - both physical and mental - and I recommend that people get a dog to improve their health.

Anyway, after the walk, Buster and Sue will come inside where Buster gets his treat and then afterwards he has a little nap. Where he dreams about expanding his Buster Wear business into Buster Punk Rock Neck Collars. Using Trump’s foreign workers to save money.

Well, yesterday, while I was walking with Sue and Buster, I mentioned to Sue that I was going to go to Margaree and get some post-hockey beer and then maybe drop into the excellent Dancing Goat Coffee Shop and have a tea. Sue asked me if I wanted her to tag along. We got into a confab about this. The conversation theme was whether or not Sue will or won’t ride shotgun with me. We discussed this at some length while little furry Buster sniffed, peed and walked his walk.

At some point in our discussion, after we’d parsed to death my words, ‘Yes, I want you to come with me’, and we were able to come to the conclusion that I really did want Sue to be part of my coffee shop adventure, we also decided, somewhere in the smoke of words and meaning, that we’d leave Buster at home.

When we got to the deck, Buster wouldn’t climb the stairs up to the front door. No sir. He just wanted to laze around outside. Enjoy the scents and sights. Life is too short to rush, that kind of attitude.

So we hooked the outdoor dog chain onto his collar and then we went inside while Buster nosed around. However, when I took a peek out the door window, there was Buster, sitting on the porch looking in while I looked out. Making no attempt to get us to let him inside. Where he would get his usual post-walk treat. Rather unusual, wouldn’t you think?

Had Buster understood that we were planning on leaving him at home? In which case, his coming into the trailer would make it a damn sight easier for us to carry out the leaving-him-alone procedure.

Anyway, the result of Buster’s approach to this situation was that he enjoyed a bird’s eye view from my truck’s arm-rest, as he watched Sue and me sitting inside The Dancing Goat Coffee Shop enjoying our mugs of hot java. Did I mention that they make excellent home-made bread and other baked goods? We didn't tell Buster that, needless to say.

***

NEWS FLASH! NEWS FLASH! BUSTER WINS ANOTHER DECISIVE BATTLE! WHAT CAN I SAY, OTHER THAN “MAY THE FORCE BE WITH ME”?

Buster has been turning his nose up at his meals. Even when we mix some of our food into his dry kibble.

The reason we feel that some dry kibble is important, other than because it’s the accepted and politically correct way to feed our presently scientifically raised canine buddies, is that it stops him from having an anal blockage. And I’ll tell you something, if you heard your beloved Buster dog trying to blow crap out of his or her intestinal pipes and not being successful, well, the cries and whines and howls are memorable.

However, last Sunday morning I said, “Screw it. Forget the correct dog feeding methodology.”

Instead I said, “Get the frying pan, kettle and toaster rolling. Move ’em on out. Yah, hah,” and all that sort of Sunday morning nonsense.

You see, most Sunday mornings I make breakfast for Sue and me. I usually cook up fried or scrambled eggs with bacon or sausages, toast some bread and add a few slices of tomatoes or cucumbers. Often I sprinkle curry and pepper on the fried eggs. Two eggs for Sue and two eggs for me. Three sausages or bacon strips for Sue and three sausages or bacon strips for me.

Last Sunday we had sausages. And here is what I did. I fried six sausages, because that was all I had, fried five eggs, sliced up some cucumbers and made some toast.

Notice I said five eggs? Well, to quickly summarize this part of my blog, I made three breakfasts this morning. And Buster loved his and then he even ate his kibble. He looked awfully happy. And he ate the cucumber slices. Can’t even get plenty of kids to eat their cucumbers.

But when Buster jumped on my lap, turned his head to the side, so he could catch my eyes and then telepathically ordered a cup of tea with a teaspoon of sugar and a little milk, well, I had to draw the line. You have to draw a line somewhere. Don’t you?

But when he sat next to me while I was watching another pathetic bit on CNN about this Trump blow-hard, Buster telepathically said he would like to remind me that he was expecting a few buddy burgers when we go to Kingston, and I knew that buddy burgers it would be.

Since that breakfast, Buster has feasted on bits of steak, carrots, baked potatoes, spaghetti, bread and jam, but, and I must emphasize the BUT, he always has kibble with it. And he eats the kibble last of all. BUT he eats it. And he’s crapping just fine, thank-you.

And there you are. An almost one hundred-proof Buster blog. Please be warned. Blog 53 may not have Buster in it. Sorry.

***

       “Now I’m walkin down that long lonesome hallway
              Headin’ for the kitchen again
              All I want to do is eat everything
              Then I want to eat it all again.
              I need way more food, Babe.”
              Four-course meals at 8, 12, 6 and ten.
                                                    Merrill MARKOE, Ballad of Winky

Snowshoers on the Skyline Trail in a blizzard a couple of weeks ago

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Buster's Buddy Burger

26/11/2015

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I am not going to say that I am even a tad closer to understanding all of what I have read, but I can say that I have just finished reading the Qur’an. Front page to back. However, I know this does not make me an Islamic person.

Nevertheless, I think it’s a relevant book to read, as some people, due to the world’s tragic events, are beginning to retreat into their black and white certainty doghouses. Where they feel free to bark out for all to hear, “We aren’t like those folks who follow that book. They are all bad if they aren’t like us. Every last one of them. Big or small.” Or something like that.

***

“Woof, growl, snarl and there’s another strange looking water hydrant. Let’s piss on it.”—Buster.

“Ignorance,” says Ajax, “is a painless evil.”-"So, I should think, is dirt, considering the merry faces that go along with it.”—-George Eliot

***

                   “Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
                      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
                      Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
          The furious Bandersnatch!”
                                                            Lewis Carrol, Jabberwocky

***

Buster has been bored the last few days. Why? Because he hasn’t been getting the attention nor the stimulation that he feels he deserves and that he received while he was in Kingston.

Buster Back in the Woods

Like in the Peachtree Inn. Come on, if dogs wore hats I’d be afraid that Buster’s head would be too big for his hat.

For example, we’d be walking down the hallway. I’d be minding my own p’s and q’s while Buster would be sniffing out raucous-night-before-debauchery scents under the doors of room numbers this and that.

Then, I’d hear the familiar sound, “Buster! Oh, Buster!” Usually in a woman’s voice. Coming from a stranger we’d met before, but who is now, at least for Buster, a stranger no more. Sounding like she’d spotted a long lost lover. So, what could I do, but stop and let the middle- aged woman practically make love to Buster?

“Oh, Buster! How are you, Buster? How old is he? You out for a walk? Were you?”

“Yes for %^&* sake and now it’s breakfast time for this homely hunk of flesh that just happens to be hanging onto the other end of this blue-coloured leash which runs from your beloved’s neck to that thing just down the hall, which is me.”

Oh, not really. I rather enjoy it myself and for all you single men out there, find yourself a Buster. He’s to women like apples are to deer.

These encounters happened outside and inside, because, you see, there are more people in the city. There are more dogs in the city too. Out our way in Cape Breton, the folks that stop to talk to us are often men, wearing orange clothing and carrying big guns. When I often say, quietly, “Buster, behave.”

In Kingston, the walks were full of excitement for Buster. Our usual route was along the side of the inn, where we would come to a small exit in the fence. The same place, where one morning walk, Buster and I helped a man who was hurriedly trying to pull a bicycle and what looked like a souped-up walker on wheels through said exit. Which left me wondering, but didn’t work up Buster’s dander a tad.

This exit led to a high-brow subdivision, where we sometimes ran into a little white Scotty dog whose name was Lucy. She and Buster liked each other and when Lucy got dragged one way and Buster the other way, well their necks were stretched out to as close as they could get to a one hundred and eighty degree angle.

Just a little way down the street was a tiny park. It ran behind big expensive houses which could easily suck in our little trailer with lots of room left over.

At the other end of this narrow section of the park was a tiny stream with plenty of flat, slippery, moss-covered rocks. I would gingerly cross this brook. Buster would run and leap over the rocks as if they were covered in slip-proof matting.

On the other side of this tiny border stream was a big, grey brick house. With a solid, high, black, wrought iron fence. And behind the fence was a tall, light-coloured, wrought iron, bull-faced dog. Who would barrel out of whatever he was barrelled up in. He’d roar to the fence and bother Buster not a tittle. With Buster’s head so full of how great and wonderful he was, why would Buster worry about this monster? As for me, I would be frantically searching the fence line for any weaknesses apparent.

Meanwhile, Buster would snarl and growl on the other side. Oh thank god for the other side. Being on the other side was what Buster should have been thanking his doggie god for. But no, Buster would be snarling and growling and snapping at the fence. Totally into the occasion. It was an almost battle between David and Goliath and not a sling shot in sight.

I would then pull Buster away. Well, drag Buster away, and as Buster’s belly smoothed out the grass for other park visitors, Buster would be viciously growling and snarling. Then once he saw it was hopeless, he’d turn around and do his macho doggy thing.

Which is, lift his tail, turn his back on the big coward, (which is a form of doggie shunning), scratch the ground vigorously with his two back feet, take one final look back at the big wimp, and snarl, “The next time you won’t get off so easy.”

One morning Sue returned from walking Buster. She said it seemed to her that the big dog was getting friendlier towards Buster. She said that Buster was quieter too and it was almost like the two dogs wanted to be friends.

I asked her if she’d seen any thing different in the big dog’s backyard? Like bottles of mustard, ketchup and relish?

Oh yeah, and one afternoon two of our friends came to our room and it was all, “You two were so lucky to get a dog like Buster!” “What a well behaved dog!” “Oh, what a sweet dog!” “His fur is so soft!” On and on and on until I was beginning to feel just a small tad of jealousy.

And really, my hair is soft too and what the hell is the difference between fur and hair anyway?

But look at the pictures. See how Buster is reacting. In one photo, Buster is setting up for me to take a picture of the friends. In another one, they are talking to each other and Buster is so involved. And notice when they are looking relaxed. Why Buster is two levels above the usual accepted in-the-zone measure.

Oh, and now here come the cleaning people. Lots of petting and stroking and hugging going to be coming Buster’s way.

But I’ll admit I’m no better. Some folks could say that I’m like onto an enabler.
For example: Buster decided he wasn’t going to eat his regular dog food when he was at the inn. I can understand that.

But really, I was quite stumped when I was asked by the nice woman behind the A&W counter, what I wanted on my Buddy Burger. I had to think for a few seconds. I finally said, “Make it the works.” Because I knew, deep inside, that nothing less than the works would work.

***

        “Sir, I’ve got to urinate.
                 I’ve got to pee.
                           I’m going to piss like an open hydrant-please!

        Oh, bless you, sir. Oh bless you, bless you, bless you--
                   and please don’t let the screen door spank my bottom.”

                                                             Andrew Hudgins, Buddy

***

Last year, I was interviewed on CBC. It was for the radio show, Main Street Cape Breton. I blew the interview. I know I did. Mainly because I had lots of time to think about the fact that I was going to be interviewed at a book launch of an anthology of speculative stories. One of my stories was in the book, so when she asked me the questions, I answered in the way that only I could.

Oh, and I was on the same show last Tuesday afternoon. I’m a sucker for punishment, but this time it was only to read part of my story and I didn’t find that so difficult. Plus there was a microphone. This made it easier for my throat. And there is also the possibility that I was talking into a radio-disconnected mic, because I haven’t been able to verify that my reading was actually being broadcast.

Anyway, back to the first interview. One question I was asked was, “Do you read much speculative fiction?”

I answered, “NO.” This was not smart. This was not great. This answer was not in the spirit of the occasion.

Now, in retrospect, taking into account all the experiences I have been through in my life, most of which I have written nothing about, I should have answered, “My life is speculative.”

View of Middle River yesterday. Note the snow!

Buster breaking the boredom at home.

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A Two-Point Dunk

22/7/2015

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Sorry my blog is late. I just returned from Ontario, where I visited and visited and visited. Had loads of fun and interaction and the time spent was certainly important for keeping the bonds with my family and friends strong and true. But Whew!

I think I just wrote a poem...

***

Oh, and a special news flash. My friend George is back in Cape Breton, primed and ready to absorb some more Cape Breton beauty, hospitality and down-home common sense. Why, he even apologized for not talking much when we were having supper at “The Lakes” Restaurant last night. He explained that the red wine and the gorgeous scenery he was observing through the window had left him spell-bound. We understood, totally.

George preparing for the long trip to Cape Breton

***

In a recent blog, I wrote about my experiences with panhandlers in an Ontario city. I mentioned one man to whom I gave some money on a dreary Thanksgiving Sunday. The important point I was trying to emphasize was that when I offered the man more money on a later occasion, he turned it down. He also thanked me for the money I had given him, and then told me he had bought groceries with the lucre.

Well, I met him again on this last trip. I think he was doing his garbage picking rounds. I also was more aware this time, that he was missing most of his teeth. Anyway, we exchanged pleasantries and then I asked him if he was okay for money. He told me that he would get his pension cheque at the end of the month.

We parted with both of us having our dignity intact.

***

Like most little kids, my two grandchildren have their battles, their jealousies and their competitions. One evening, I was in their ‘WRECK’ room, where there are a zillion toys which I would have salivated over and died for when I was a child. Standing fairly prominently in the room full of indestructible chairs, dinky toys, stuffed this and thats, zappers and clappers and whatnots, is one mother of a toy crane. Which I think was put together by my grandson, Carter. Carter could take a box of broken up corn flakes and put them together. And even if he couldn’t reassemble them into their original corn flake shape, he could invent a new cereal shape out of them.

This large, possibly Lego toy concoction even has a remote with it. The grandchildren like to get the crane swinging this way and that way and it can pick up objects and might even be able to break-dance to the music of Billy the Singing Lobster.

Anyway, what I’m saying is that it would have been a blow-my-mind toy if it had been in my boyish life. For that matter, it is now.

On one of my visits, my elder grandson, Carter, was playing with this crane. Meanwhile, his younger brother, Callum, was trying to find something to do. One choice he had in mind, I’m sure, was to disrupt whatever Carter was doing.

Anyway, during this Mayberry moment, I’d grabbed my son’s guitar. I began to tune it and then did a little amateurish finger picking. Which attracted Callum. Offered him a possible activity. So he took an interest in what I was doing. Even reached out and did some strumming of his own.

Obviously, the older grandson took note of this. Saw that I was taking an interest in his brother. Wasn’t possibly paying as much attention to him as I should be. So, it must have put him beyond the pale of self-control when Callum was allowed to strum the guitar all by himself, while receiving my total attention.

The attack came without warning. A Carter blitzkrieg. One minute Callum and I were talking and sharing a moment with the acoustic guitar and then, in the blink of an eye, I was in darkness.

Was I having a stroke? Was I going blind? No. What I was experiencing was having my head tucked nicely inside the confines of a wastepaper basket. Which Carter had expertly jammed over my head.

Thus sayeth the Lord, “Stop taking an interest in my younger brother and pay attention to me or there will be more to come.” Brotherly love comes with its own dangers.

I’ll end this story with the observation that my son and daughter-in-law are two great parents. Why, the waste-paper basket was even empty when it was thunked down over my noggin. That was some sort of blessing.

            “There was a child went forth every day,
             And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became,
             And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day,
             Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.”
                                Walter Whitman, There Was A Child Went Forth

The Elder Setting up the Younger, Perhaps?

***

Do you know why I got a bargain price on my hotel room? Because of Buster, our small pooch.

When I arrived at the check-in desk the receptionist asked me if I’d brought Buster with me. I told her he was at home, but promised to make some prints of pictures of Buster and give them to her. Which I did, a few days later.

The receptionist said, “It was so funny when you asked me to put you through to Buster’s room.”

I’d asked that when I had phoned our room the last time we were all here.

“You knew who he was, too,” I said. We both had a good guffaw. Maybe two guffaws.

Anyway, as she was booking me in she told me she was going to give me a special rate. She then gave me a lower daily rate than normal and not only that, but gave me the same low rate for the peak weekend days when the prices go up.

So, do you see what I mean when I say that Buster got me a discount on the price of my hotel room?

                 “If you can uncomplaining spend the day
                  In solitude and when it ends
                  Greet those who finally return to play
                  As long lost friends
                  And if digging, without damage to a single rose
                  You find your long lost bone on which to sup
                  You’ll have acquired a hound’s discerning nose
                  And - what is more - you’ll be a dog, my pup!”
                                                              Lily Tuck, Sniff

Buster is a Leafs Fan, of Course!

Early Misty Morning in Cape Breton

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Don’t Do Pennies

12/6/2015

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Last month, while we were in Kingston, I spent plenty of time walking the streets. Which meant I ran into panhandlers. Who, I think, some people refer to as leeches, bums, free-loaders, but not hard-working-taxpayers nor the aspiring middle-class.

        "Most of them look
         as though their bodies were boneless.

         Every animal
       has its own defense:
         theirs is plasticity.

         Kick them in the face
         and nothing breaks.
         It’s as if your boot
         sank in wet dough."

                                       Aldon Nowlan, The Shack Dwellers

They usually have no need to tell me their story. Because I’m digging into my pocket to pull out a coin before they even begin explaining why they are where they are.
Like one fella, who was sitting in a wheelchair. He told me he needed money for a new wheelchair. But I’d already pulled out a toonie, solely for him, so he didn’t have to waste his breath. Air could be expensive someday.

Later on, I ran into a woman panhandler, to whom I’d given some money earlier. She asked for more. I declined, and mentioned I’d given my money to the man in the wheelchair. Who, I explained, needed the money to buy a new wheelchair.

“Wheelchair, my ass,” she’d said. “He’ll use the money to buy more lotto tickets.”

Once, in Halifax, a panhandler asked me for money. He also wanted my coat. He didn’t get the coat, but I did empty my pocket into his outstretched paw.
He looked at the mess of change, and do you know what he said?

“I don’t do pennies.”

But last Thanksgiving, when we were in Kingston, I saw a man at the front door of our hotel. The man was wearing what I call criss-cross clothes. Plaids and stripes. Lines gone wild.
The man was tearing through the hotel’s garbage pail and it was Thanksgiving, for St. Peter’s sake. So, I pulled a fiver out of my pocket and gave it to him.

He was shocked.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said. “Well, thanks.”

And that was that, until a few days later, when I was sitting on a bench in front of the hotel, waiting for a cab. The same man walked by, wearing the same clothes and besides looking poor, he looked intelligent. I figured he knew where the chuck wagon was and was going to be having his hand out for some more money from this money bag. But he didn’t, damn it, so I stood up, caught up with him and offered him another fiver.

He was nearly speechless and gladly took the money. Maybe he was beginning to wonder about me.

Finally, I saw him a few days later. And seeing I was on a roll, and also because I would be leaving the city soon, I offered him more money.

“No thanks. I used the money you gave me to buy some groceries.”

I was dumbfounded, happy, slightly embarrassed and more respectful. He then told me he used to teach at Oxford and things hadn’t worked out too well for him. What did I know?

It reminded me of another time I ran into a fella who asked for money. I gave him some as he told me his wife was in the hospital and he was broke. “Sure, sure,” some folks would say.

A month or so later, I ran into him again. I automatically reached into my pocket and pulled out some change. I was dumbfounded, embarrassed and surprised again. He refused the money. Things were working out for him.

You never know, do you?

This photo shows a moose hanging out near our laneway. It's tricky getting a moose to pose nicely for a picture!

***

Lots of people want Buster stories, it seems. Yea verily, they have demanded it. And there are so many, I don’t know where to begin. He never lets us take him for granted. All you have to do is look at the photo of us sitting on the couch to see what I’m getting at. There we are, huddled together. Sue and I looking borderline senile, weary and bedraggled. Buster looking alert, intelligent, in control and ready to go. A real firecracker.

Buster and Family

Buster is a Christmas gift that keeps on giving. Giving orders that is. Of course, he can’t talk, so he has to use woof, woofs and highly complicated body language and facial expressions to get us to do what he wants. He also nips and tugs.

We have already completed another session of his training program. His being-let-outside-so-he-can-have-a-treat-when-he-comes-inside scheme. Where’s our diploma? And it’s pretty damn ingrained in us. He barks to go out. We let him out. It should be noted that each command comes with a different kind of woof. Then he barks to come in and we let him in. Good doggie. Good doggie.

He proudly, and I repeat proudly, tail in the air and walking right smart, prances to the stool by the counter, where his treat stash is kept, puts his front feet on the stool like a trained seal with a ball and waits until one of us serves him. Note the trained seal fallacy.

And in case you don’t think his training techniques are rock solid, well, let me tell you this little story about how well it has gone for Buster.

One day he came into the house and instead of going to the treat stash, he went to the window, to see what he could see with his little canine eyes.

What now?

Well, that dumbfounded Sue. She was lost. Note, it could have been me, because both of us are trained, but it was Sue this time. Lucky Sue. As I said, she was dumbfounded, perplexed, lost as to what to do. Things weren’t right.

So, what did she do? She went to the goodie stash, pulled out a biscuit and delivered it to Buster. Wow! Where will his training stop? It’s not like she expected a tip.

Buster is relentless in his training. Sometimes, his techniques are so subtle, we don’t even know we are being conditioned.

Is this how Buster deals with the stress of controlling us?

A few weeks ago, Buster came in from outside. Sounds pretty normal and innocent. We all go inside and outside from time to time, but apparently, Buster was revising and expanding his conditioning order of events.

Buster would speak his usual woof-woof-go-outside bark. We’d immediately get our asses in gear, go to the door and tie him out. But this time he wouldn’t leave the deck. Instead he’d sit on the porch and give his let-me-in woof. So, we’d wind our asses up once more and open the door. This began happening more often than could be considered just coincidence.

We became suspicious. Because we’re smart too, damn it, but my god, his plan is absolutely brilliant. Scary, really.

You see, Buster sees us as his buddies and a breed of dog. I don’t want to know what kind I am and what kind Sue is. And call me paranoid, if you want, but I think what he’s up to, what he has on his overflowing bucket list, is a dream of training us to share his doggie world with him.

Because, as soon as one of us went outside, he’d stop barking. Then he’d step off the deck while suspiciously looking behind him to make sure one of us was staying outside. If Sue or I complied then he was just fine, thank you.

But my paranoia hasn’t stopped at this point, nor do I think has his training. Because, can’t you see it? Can’t you? Us at the pet shop buying a second long chain and collar. A chain for Buster and one for Sue or me.

What’s next? Buster and one of us on our knees, well at least us down on our knees, eating from a doggie bowl. Buster’s stainless steel and ours yellow plastic.

Having doggie sharing time. Peeing on rocks, trees and car tires. Rolling in the grass. Rubbing our faces in dead leaves. Sniffing places. What a lovely time we’d be having. Romping and rolling to the sounds of the universe.

Then when he’d decided, I repeat, when he’d decided that it was time to go in, he would bark. Whichever one of us was on Buster duty would slide down the pole, march, or preferably run right smartly to the door and remove the chains from us before we’d enter the house. Buster’s feet on the stool and us serving the canine god.

Could it end up that someday, he’d be tying Sue and me out? Master Buster our caregiver?

***

       "God I love my master
        Of all the dogs I have the best master
        What a great master
        Yes I can get on the bed
    Yes I can have
    A bite of her brownie
        Oh no it’s a Pot brownie
        Oh No it’s a Pot brownie
    Oh god I am so high
    She is starting to look very weird to me
        So much skin so much open skin on her so bald all over
        I want to smell her mmmmmmaster mmmmmmaster
        She’s laughing at me quit laughing at me
        Now she’s barfing now who is laughing
        Har Har Har Master oh no now I’m barfing
        She thinks there was LSD in the brownie—-"
           Lynda Barry, “I love my master I love my master”

HIKING GROUP AT HUMES FALLS. LOTS OF AVID HIKERS AROUND HERE

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