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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Monthly Archives: November 2022

Hot Dog!

30 Wednesday Nov 2022

Posted by petersironwood in fiction, story

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

abuse, dog, life, revenge, story, USA

Hog Dog

Photo by Anna Guerrero on Pexels.com

“Stupid crappy mutt! She smells like butt! What the hell were you thinking? To get a dog so stinking!” 

Steve undid the leash and threw it into his catch-all corner. “Do you know what she was trying to eat out there? Do you?! Poop! It’s goop! Who wanted a dog? You! And now I’m walking her to pee? Me! I don’t care how sick you supposedly are. You take her!” 

While Steve towered and glowered, the dog cowered in the corner and emitted a quiet “woof, woof.” 

Mary sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get sick. She’s a dog. Vet said she doesn’t yet know any better.” 

Photo by Kat Smith on Pexels.com


Mary’s attempts to placate Steve touched a gentle part of him inside. A part he gated and hated. As always, it made him angrier. “I don’t need a damned dog! I have you!I work hard all day to put a roof over your head. Roof! Roof! Last month, she tried to eat that poison philanderer plant. She’ll put anything in her mangy mouth. If she doesn’t stop eating turds, mark my words! I’ll make you cook her for dinner!” 

Mary waited for Steve’s rant to ebb. “I read on the web today about a dog who ate corn cobs. Surgeon had to cut him open. You’d think dogs would know what was good for them, but apparently, they don’t.” 

“Naturally I’m right! I’m bright. She’s just one more bitch too stupid to know what’s good for her! Reminder: last week, I bought a meat grinder for her food.” 

“Thank you, Steve. I’m sure I’ll be able to make really good use of that. And, it will save money on dog chow. And how!” 

Photo by Olga Divnaya on Pexels.com

Steve sneered and growled and uttered something unintelligible. 

The puppy chanced a growl of her own. Steve ignored it. Instead he snarled at Mary. “What in the Holy Name of Hell are you watching now?” 

Mary replied, “A movie. Almost over. Do you … ?”

Steve barked, “Another damned True Crime Docudrama? Jesus, Mary. Turn on the real news!” 

Mary bit her lip and then obeyed; flipped on White Nation. She shook her head. She couldn’t get over how ugly the man being interviewed was. She wondered again why so many seemed to adore him. She had long ago learned not to share her opinion. Steve was absolutely certain White Nation News was the one source to be believed. He’d thrown her entire inheritance into a “sure-fire” White Nation get rich quick scheme. Hadn’t panned out as planned. Steve’s addiction to “Tricks to Get Rich Quick”  showed no signs of relief. Not satisfied with enough, he remained sure the next scheme would make him wealthy beyond belief. 

Mary saw something dark and evil behind the interviewee’s dead eyes and painted orange face. But Steve was dead sure he was America’s salvation, or at least White America, the “Real” America, as Steve liked to say, not the “gay, black, liberal, smart-ass, immigrant, foreigners trying to take over the country.”

Steve leaned forward, face glowing blood red. Mary glanced over; saw it as lit by the TV. Steve, eyes ever glued to the tube, barked another order: “Beer Here!” 

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

Mary gathered her strength. No matter how she explained it, Steve couldn’t conceive of “Long COVID.” He didn’t really believe in COVID; he thought it all a hoax invented by liberal folks. That’s what his favorite podcasts claimed. Yet he bought ivermectin, “just in case.” 

Mary sat up; nearly fainted; rose and traipsed to the fridge. Steve didn’t notice the Oxy capsule she emptied into his beer. She quietly placed his Bud on the end table. She fell back again in her chair, too exhausted to continue her Agatha Christie. She couldn’t stand White Nation News. From beginning to end, she thought it in bad taste; noxious and possibly poisonous. She tried to think back to an earlier time when Steve was nice. She couldn’t think of such a time. She decided maybe that was a good thing, under the circumstances. 

After a few doctored beers, Steve sprawled comatose. Although they had agreed to share dog duties, it was always Mary who fed her. 

Photo by Polina Tankilevitch on Pexels.com

Until she had quit three days earlier.

Mary stopped the microwave before it beeped; shuffled over to the snoring Steve and poured the Pyrex beaker of hot bacon grease into his torn polka-dot boxer shorts. Hungry puppy didn’t even wait for it to cool before chowing down like a hungry hog. 

“Good dog!” Choking back tears, Mary whispered, “Good dog!” 

—————————

Coelacanth -1

Coelacanth – 2 

Coelacanth – 3

The Declaration of Interdependence

The Bill of Obligations: Article One

The Bill of Obligations: Article Two

Dick-Taters

Absolute is not just a Vodka

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

Such a Teeny, Tiny, Loser Man

20 Sunday Nov 2022

Posted by petersironwood in poetry, politics

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Democracy, poetry, politics, truth, USA

Photo by Min Thein on Pexels.com

He’s such a teeny, tiny, loser man.

A baby in a man-sized orange suit.

When faced with how to place a travel ban

He always took the childish racist route. 

Photo by Todd Trapani on Pexels.com

A fortune bragged, inherited, then lost.

But not to worry, he’ll feign charity.

And when he loses, he lies at any cost.

The party dies but he just swallows pity.

His sportsmanship is mere insistent screams.

He cares for naught save lies he spews each day.

He is the champ of winning in his dreams. 

Knows naught of friendship, love, or learn or play.

Photo by Ben Phillips on Pexels.com

One day, the naked king will lie alone.

And live alone in tweet-space on his phone. 

Photo by Egor Kamelev on Pexels.com

(I’m King! I’m King! Of Everything!)

Stoned Soup

Absolute is not just a vodka

Dick-Taters

RIP, GOP

Where does your loyalty lie?

What about the butter dish?

The stopping rule

The update problem

Siren Song

Essays on America: Wednesday

My Cousin Bobby

The Ailing King of Agitate

Donnie & Veterans Day Parade

Siren Song

Donnie’s Last Gift

Imagine all the People

Dance of Billions

The echoes of your actions

Ah wilderness

You must remember this

The forest

TV-Based Dog Training: Yes or No?

12 Saturday Nov 2022

Posted by petersironwood in fiction, satire, story

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

dogs, fiction, parody, pets, satire, story

I wonder whether anyone has experience they’d like to share in using Lassie movies as training devices for their own pooch. I am still learning to distinguish which of Sadie’s many barks means variously:

1. I have to go potty.

2. I *really* have to go potty!

3. I *really* have to go BIG potty!

4. I don’t really have to go potty and I really am bored and so maybe you’ll take me out to go potty so that I can: 

Photo by Martin Schneider on Pexels.com

3a. Find a poison mushroom to inhale before I even notice it’s there


3b. Bark at anything out of place such as a fallen leaf

3c. Pretend to be docile and then try to dislocate my shoulder when she sees a mosquito float by. Or a leaf. Or a hallucination. 

On the other hand, Lassie is capable of communicating with cunning, compassion, and coherence with the adults in her life. I grant you that theoretically, it might be that the adults on the show are much cleverer than I am. It’s a reasonable hypothesis, but no…if I had abandoned mine shafts and unused wells all over my farm, I’d make damn sure any kids knew they were not to go there! And, I wouldn’t cover over an unused well hole with a couple of loose two by fours either. For that and other tedious reasons, I don’t think the genius in the Lassie family lies with the humans. It is Lassie who has the title role and she is the one with outstanding skills. 

Photo by Anna Guerrero on Pexels.com

Witness episode N+1:

Lassie gallops into the kitchen and skids to a stop right beside Gramps and barks:

“ARF! ARF!” 

“What’s that Lassie? What is it, girl?” 

“ROOF! ROOF!” 

“What? Something’s wrong with the roof?”

“BOW! WOW!” 

“I will not! Anyway, I already fed you.” 

Lassie, noticeably frustrated, circles twice and grabs a can-opener in her muzzle, sprints to the liquor cabinet and begins banging the can-opener into the lock. 

“What? You’re trying to jimmy the lock open? You want a drink?”

Lassie grabs one ear with her paw and barks.

“Oh! Sounds like ‘jimmy’! Oh! Let’s see…’Kimmy’, ‘dimmy’, ‘Limmy’, I don’t know girl. There aren’t many words that rhyme with ‘jimmy.’”

Lassie barks: “ARF! ARF!”

“Lassie, are you sick or something girl?” 

Immediately, Lassie springs into the air and does a somersault onto her back and waves all four paws in the air. 

Gramps muses aloud. “The opposite of sick. Healthy? Something is healthy? No? Hale? Fine Fettle? Hardy?”

For each guess, Lassie barks a sharp short “No!” 

Gramps frowns and says, “Well, I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Lassie. I’ve got to get back to carving my pipe here.” 

Photo by Agatha Zambronelli on Pexels.com

Lassie stands on her hind two legs and begins using ASL with her two front paws. However, she quickly notes the looks of bewilderment on the visage of Gramps and she rightly concludes that he still doesn’t know ASL, despite her admonitions. So, she begins again with the barking: “ARF! ARF!” 

Gramps says, “You’re not making any sense, Lassie. Timmy wouldn’t fall down a well. Why would he?”

“ARF! ARF! ARF!” 

Gramps frowns and tilts his head so fast he pulls his sternocleidomastoid. “What? He fell down the well just last week? No, he didn’t. That was two weeks ago. Last week, Timmy fell down an old mineshaft. Oh! Wait! Are you trying to tell me that Timmy fell down a well again!? Oh, no! Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Needless to say, Gramps calls the sheriff and after he arrives Gramps explains. The sheriff draws his gun and charges out toward one of the 17 abandoned wells at Gramps’s place. But Lassie begins barking — again!

Photo by Kindel Media on Pexels.com



“ARF! ARF! WOOF! BOW!” 

The sheriff glares at Gramps and uses his best shoulder shrugging head tilt as though to say, “Well? You going to shut up the mutt or am I?” 

Gramps scratches several places; for instance, behind his ear. Then he says, “Lassie is simply pointing out that while a gun won’t help get Timmy out of the well, a long rope might.” 

“I knew that!” The sheriff speaks in a huff while Lassie merely rolls her eyes and winks at Gramps. Then, off Lassie scampers to the tool shed, picks the lock with a handy nearby roofing nail, nudges the door open, and scampers back with a long loop of strong rope. 

Soon, she leads them to one of the many abandoned wells. By the time Gramps and Sheriff catch up, Lassie has tied a loose bowline one one end of the rope and two half hitches around a sturdy nearby oak stump, tosses the bowline down to Timmy, and barks her orders to him. Gramps and Sheriff pull on the rope, and soon enough, Timmy, cold and wet but alive, politely thanks Sheriff and Gramps for pulling him out and then throws his skinny arms around Lassie. “Oh, Lassie! Thanks, girl, for saving me! You were right! I shouldn’t have tried to walk across the well on those rotten planks after all!”

Lassie merely rolls her eyes. 

———-

I’m not saying that if Sadie watched any one episode that she’d learn every skill all at once, but  over time, it might help. Right?

Assuming, of course, that I can ever get her to notice anything on the TV screen. I’m thinking of smearing bacon grease around the edges.

(Shadow says: “I’ll save Timmy!”)


Other stories — free, no ads

If Only…

Organizing the Crazytown Library

Coelacanth

As Gold as it Gets

Donnie’s Final Gift

Donnie Boy Watches a Veteran’s Day Parade

That Cold Walk Home

It was in his nature

How Did I Get Here?

Jennifer’s Invitation

The Lost Sapphire

The Touch of One Hand Clasping

Naughty Knots

A Horror Story

I Can’t Be Bothered

Tit for Tat

It Couldn’t Happen to a Nicer Guy

Stoned Soup

Three Blind Mice

Gambit Disinclined

The Walkabout Diaries: How Beautiful and Green

03 Thursday Nov 2022

Posted by petersironwood in nature, poetry, Uncategorized, Walkabout Diaries

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

poem, poetry

You must remember

How beautiful 

How precious

Once the world was

If it all goes rotten

It still must not be forgotten

How beautiful and green

How precious and clean

Once the world was

Write it down

Photograph it 

Paint it

Tell your children

And your children’s children

Sing a song

A catchy tune

Memorize and sing it often 

All may go and all too soon

But you

You must recall the sky of blue

The clean and crystal air

You must dare

Build it into every brick

Remind your cats and dogs

Sing it with the birds 

Buzz it with the bees

You must remember

How precious

How beautiful 

Once the world was 

Once the world was 

Teeming with the Great Tree of Life

Reaching its long branches into 

Rivers, Lakes, and Oceans

Even into caves and deserts

Even into arctic snow

And even though 

I know the Tree is greatly damaged

In the daze of neon

In the days of useless plastic 

And truth denied, elastic 

Even so, you must teach the others

Nieces, nephews, sisters, brothers

How once the world was

Precious and beautiful

You must be sure to remember

And to sing of it

Often and in many ways

Through the din of days

Paint it always 

Pictures in the sky of thought

Music in the bread of naught 

Some day

Long after you and I 

And all you know are dead and unburied 

Tree by leaf and leaf by rose

Someone needs to know

How beautiful

How precious 

How utterly alive 

Once the world was

 

In all the precious places

And in all the secret spaces

Tell at least two 

What you knew

How beautiful 

How precious 

Once the world was 

The Walkabout Diaries: Sunsets

The Walkabout Diaries: The Life of the Party

The Walkabout Diaries: Life will find a way

The Walkabout Diaries: Friends

The Walkabout Diaries: Mind Walk

The Walkabout Diaries: Bee Wise

Ah Wilderness

The Forest

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