- The morning after we posted “Dig & Chew: A Lesson Learned“, Dig and Chew, my two dogs, almost killed a cat. I say “almost” because I had to (with great distaste) finish the job.
I went outside as is my morning wont – cuz’ I “wont” to smoke a cigarette while my morning brew is coughing up something resembling black tar and mud – when I noticed something. The ‘dawgs’ were missing. Them ‘danged dogs’ again. For the umpteenth morning of the umpteenth year of their lives (not to mention nighttime, that’s when Dig and Chew morph into “Bark” and “Howl” – but that’s another question: why DID those vocal cords grow back so fast in them after I got them ‘debarked’? Yes, the vet did warn me . . . shoulda done it myself . . . with a good ol’ sharp David Bowie knive . . . about three inches long)…
Anyway – just another test of my patience and forgiveness I guess. But it kinda makes me mad. People shouldn’t let their cats run around all the time. This makes the fourth one they’ve killed in about two years (along with a couple of possums, and several raccoons – tho’ once again, I’ve had to ‘finish the job’ in the name of human mercy and patience just one time too long and too many . . .
- We’ve been trading stories with our wife for packages of cigarettes. Here’s the standard deal: I am giving her two stories from our life in exchange for one pack, red one-hundreds (won’t say what brand – not getting paid here and don’t want to advertise smoking – whutta sin. Kills you in the end.). Thus far she hasn’t said much of anything. Not spontaneously offering much – but jumping on each ‘deal’ with what seems (sometimes suspiciously so) enthusiasm. We want to know but we don’t want to know what she is thinking and feeling. And ‘we’, by the way, are ‘behind’ on some of these stories – but not too much! It appears we must have about 184 of them, done and on our computer. (I didn’t know I was being quite so prolific.) And that doesn’t count what’s been done HERE, on THIS blog (not to mention one of the others; the Lost Journals).
But yesterday when she came home she had something to say to us. And here is what she said:
“I am proud of you. I’m glad you (honored her wish). I’m glad you didn’t do her when she said no.” This is in regards to another story we wrote; kind of a bad one, so ya’ll be careful out there – there might be triggers in it.
It occurred to me – and it has always occurred to me – that this might not be a ‘manly’ decision. After all, what man wouldn’t like to brag that he was “getting some” at eight years old – even if the girl was a little younger (say six or so – which was another reason I didn’t ‘do’ her – she was too young for me and my taste at the time! – much less for her older brother (he was – just reckoning here – about 13, 14 years old).
Some disturbing news there folks, but this kinda shite (picked that one up from a Stephen King novel) – goes one. Not just today in this modern world, but the one I came from, too. We’re talking the sixties here (the era of free love, drugs and drunk) – and the late nineteen-sixties at that. Strange stuff, this kind of world. Actually I think the incidence is ‘down’ while reporting (and help for the victims) is more forthcoming. That’s some positive news.
But I’ll always ‘be’ that little boy standing there – staring in the hot sand, the sun hot on my back; a summer breeze blowing in the scrub – making up my mind, making my decision . . .
and forever wondering if it was the wrong one . . . it was definitely wrong by the ‘man-code’ . . . but perhaps not by the human – and a more humane one. And that’s one of the things my wife realized: I “can’t” if you “won’t” or if there’s no expression of love – of wanting this thing together. If “that” ain’t happenin’, then neither is “this”, not at all. (we’re talking ‘sex’ or ‘making love’ here folks, just in case you hadn’t got a clue. Just being direct with you; not insulting – but some folks are . . . well, you know. This is for them.) I would never be one for rape. Just can’t do it; not at all. It’s a major deflation if you get what I mean. Just ain’t nuthin’ goin’ to be happenin’ downstairs – and upstairs I’d be hating this thing . . .
I wonder if I was raped and just don’t know it. I don’t ever remember being forcibly pinned down – but on the other hand, when the dude was on top of me – he outweighed me by at least forty pounds – there was no getting up from this . . .
I think I might have cried a time or two (hidden crying that is; head down between knotted hands, tears in my eyes) . . . at the pain in my behind. But that’s the way it is when you’re getting boffed in the ass . . .
- Oh well. We were watching a movie about orphans; old one. Teenager goes to comfort a small child at night, drawing him into his arms. And I could not help feeling . . . him. Again. The warmness of his skin; how good it felt sometimes to be held . . . just held. (again, tears in my eyes, only it’s now, this time). The emotional pain has left me a trainwreck for all of these years . . . no tears for him, not done, can’t cry, why begin.
So I’m done for the day – trying not to ‘hole up’ too bad (we’ve been at home all week – not outside the yard) – trading stories for cigarettes like some bum . . . (Mark Twain or Holo the Hobo come to mind) . . .
Until later my friends.
(I can count you on one hand.)