Tuesday, June 29, 2010

The Story of an Hour


I awoke from the preview of my mid-afternoon slumber to the sound of my Lady howling in the kitchen. As you know, I have devoted the remainder of my lives to her since we met two years ago in pet prison.

Flashback to my Prison Romance:

It was a love-at-first-sight story fit for a television drama, (my Lady likens it to the esteemed Jerry Springer show). The story goes like this:
It was her birthday and while driving to that French boutique Target, my soon-to-be Lady stopped at the pet prison on a whim. (She sensed me calling out to her from the Universe.) I had been incarcerated since Christmas Eve, and my captors were calling me Comet. My crime: loitering. Since when does that warrant the death penalty? Anyway, our eyes locked and she bailed me out on the spot. I wanted to marry her, but she was already hitched to a human called “Milk Man.” When we arrived at her lair I jumped out of the carry box and took my most chivalric pose announcing to this rival:
"Pack your things, Milk Man, my Lady and I are in love."
The surprised human did not move, but I could see the fear in his eyes.

Anyway, back to today. So I darted into the kitchen ready to battle a foe in an effort to protect my dear Lady, but no danger seemed present. My poor Lady stood at the kitchen sink weeping profusely into a pile of dirty dishes that she was half-heartedly scrubbing.

I sprang to the counter, and she didn’t even scold me.
“My beautiful Lady, why are you so glum?” I asked, truly concerned for her well-being.

“Hello Norman. Our poor Hell Hound seems very ill. Milk Man has taken her off to the doctor and I think she may never return.” My Lady was in hysterics at the thought.

Strangely, I found myself grinning. “But, dear Lady, I thought we both agreed that we hate that dog,” I said, flabbergasted.

“Oh, Norman! I don’t. She was my first baby. Before my human babies I practiced on Hell Hound. She’s bad because I screwed up raising her big time, letting her eat table scraps, sleep in my bed, chew stuffed animals for entertainment... I was a bad dog parent, and that’s why she became a Hell Hound. Now she’s sick, maybe gone forever, and I never told her that I really do love her.”

I felt a tear welling up in my left eye, or maybe not.
“My Lady!” I shouted. “Pull yourself together. You did your best with that mutt, and now she’s going to take the long walk as they say in the Big House. Let us sing, 'Ding Dong, The Witch is Dead!'

“Norman!” she cried. “You are totally out of line here, but maybe you do have a point.
After all, Hell Hound has lived an intriguing life filled with adventure and grand larceny theft. If she's gone I won’t have to worry about her running off anymore with the wallets and cell phones of house guests. I’ll be able to walk outside without the fear of having to tear a helpless bird out of Hell Hound's mouth, or beat her off me as she shreds my coat with her pointy little teeth. I won’t have to deal with angry Communist leaders who send her back to me in the mail. We will finally get to go on vacation without worrying about the kennel owner calling us to pick her up and pay for chewed iron fences. The human babies in this house will never have their snacks stolen right out of their hands again!”

Suddenly, mid sentence, my Lady was smiling through the tears. Then I witnessed her pull out the vacuum with new-found energy as she began to clean away every trace of that dastardly Hell Hound. I paw high-fived her and sat in the middle of the room, slapping my tail and purring the tune from The Wizard of Oz,
“She's gone where the goblins go, Below - below - below. Yo-ho, let's open up and sing...”

I paused only a moment, attentive to the sound of footsteps on the gravel driveway. My Lady hushed the vacuum.

“It’s over," I said, gleefully. "Milk Man has done the deed. Maybe we’ll keep him around after all. And ring the bells out! Ding Dong' the merry-oh, sing it high, sing it low.
Let them know
… Come on, join me in jubilant song, my Lady!”

She was starring out the window, her complexion deadly pale. Overcome with a curiosity common to my species, I jumped on the sill and glanced outside. Immediately I fell into a swoon. There, hobbling up the driveway was Milk Man and Hell Hound, alive and well.

I came back to consciousness after five minutes of mouth to snoot cat resuscitation. My Lady was leaning over me, smiling.

“Norman! You’re alive! I’m so grateful that both of my pets are well after all!”

I spent the rest of the day flat on my back throwing my paws up at God.









-Norman Whiskers

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Dear Internet Traveler,

Welcome to my writer's blog, started about six years ago for fun. Over time, the writing I have posted has ranged from personal reflection, to Long Island history research, to tall tales for my own amusement, to feature articles for local newspapers. As you can see from topics listed here, I travel in many mental directions in regard to interests. Click on the tabs and labels to explore my strange mind which senses that you may be having a criss-cross day. If so, perhaps this blog will distract you. However, please note that if you tell me my blog is beautiful just to get me to advertise rhinoplasty surgery and cheap drugs from Canada in your comment, I will ask the gods to give you a tail that cannot be concealed.

Fondly,

Loren Christie

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