Box Of Rocks

I'm starting a new post-prototype, entitled "Box Of Rocks" -- when I am motivated to go "stream of consciousness" and a series of not-necessarily-congruent thoughts predominate.

The past four days have been pretty much reprehensible; I caught the creeping mange recently which presented itself in the form of a running torrent down my throat and thusly hocked up into numerous Kleenex and down the drain of the shower. These monstrous green glops resembled thriving Santa Cruz banana slugs and seemed to pulse with a fluorescent life of their own, making a slapping sound when they struck the shower stall floor. It's been entirely disgusting. So I've not felt nor looked my sterling best -- interspersed with bouts of rib-aching coughing. And sneezing. Theraflu, Airborne, Sudafed and Zicam tablets.

I finally had to venture out from my mountain aerie for mail, food and supplies. The act of driving down to a nominally-stocked market (17 miles away) was taxing. I was fatigued when I returned early this afternoon. Enroute back, I chanced upon a station wagon parked in an open dirt area adjacent Highway 174. Two people sat on the tailgate, a large cardboard box in front of them. A nearby cardboard sign read: "FREE PUPPIES."

I drove by, squinched up my forehead a number of times, shook my head, growled, then battled my inner self for a few seconds. I pulled over into the parking area of a great Italian restaurant and stopped. The inner argument continued: go stop go stop go stop. Finally: go. I turned around and went back.

The cardboard box contained six black and white puppies. They were in fact free. The owners, of not the greatest collective of teeth extant, were however desirous and honorable of acquiring good homes for their group. The pups banged and climbed and rolled and tumbled about in the box. I don't know what possible breed they were, and the owners were no help, saying only that a black dog came to their home now and then and that, three weeks ago, threw pups under their deck. They appeared to be fat, ornery, active and in good spirits. They really did tear at my heart.

I picked one up and every sense drew in the puppy. It squirmed and made The Puppy Noise as it dug its nose into the flesh of my arm. It had dappled random spots of black onto its white fur and appeared to be short of coat. Its ears were down and floppy. Its nose was short, blunt. It had a thin black tail and sharp-ass little puppy claws. Then, of course, it had The Puppy Smell. I found myself actually burying my nose into its back. Inhaling. The Puppy Smell. Nothing else like it that exists in the world. The Puppy Smell.

Who knows what this pup would have grown up to be? Long of leg? A runner? A retriever? I had immediate visions of myself and a prancing black and white dog taking long walks in the cool air of the approaching Winter. Watching as long mixed manifest Union Pacific trains pounded the rails, with my obedient young dog sitting next to me. Taking drives to new places; exposing the dog to all sorts of new experiences and situations. Sitting in a chair, relaxing, three or four Winters hence, snowfall outside the window, a good fire in the stove, the dog coming and resting his head on my knee. Looking up into my eyes. Little eyelashes. Brown eyes.

Heavy sigh.

And then I thanked the owners and drove away.

It's just not in the cards.

BZ

P.S.

Man, Winter is apparently here. It was cloudy all day and crept cold. I actually squatted down and lit the pilot for the house heat for the second time in one week. And boy am I glad I did so: at 3 am, the time I'm writing this addendum, it's 31-degrees outside. The rain last night came in torrents, overwhelming the gutters and sliding off the roof in front of my huge windows in massive sheets. It was great!