So. Here we all are on a fine Sunday morning—a Veteran’s Day morning and a morning for reflections on life. Here to Santa Fe, we got our first dusting of snow and now the air is crisp and clean and bright. The snow fell overnight, and when we first got out of bed I took the dogs to the back door to let them out. Doing our business is always the first order of business for each day and Sunday morning business is always a family affair.
When the three of us got to the back door to go outside, I said to the puppies, “OK, guys, let’s slip on your sweaters. It’s cold outside.”
The Squirt stuck her nose on the door glass and jerked her head back like a shot. “Fuck you, Buster Brown, I’m shitting on the carpet and going back to bed.”
The diminutive brown dog headed back to the bedroom and flipped over her shoulder, “Wake me up when the French toast is ready.”
My mother called me Buster Brown whenever I pissed her off in my childhood and she called me John Henry when I pleased her. I guess I should be glad I earned the nickname of Mooner back on the first day of school. Buster Brown would have been tough to live with.
Yoda and I dressed for the cold and went outside. This is the first snow the goat dog has ever experienced from the outside of a tiny wire cage. The first year of his life was lived inside the hog wire prison of a puppy mill over to Oklahoma, and most of our experiences together are firsts for him.
I wish he could talk to me like the Squirt. I can’t get anyone to tell me the specifics of who’s and wheres regarding that dog factory. Then again, I fear that Oklahoma jails are far less friendly places than my usual barred haunts.
He and I walked the back yard and marked our territory in the usual way. I think he actually giggled when he first peed into the pristine white snow. The ice crystals cracked and fizzled and steamed before turning yellow, and the little dog snickered like a boy. Which made me snicker too.
“Let’s write our names in the snow,” I said, and I wrote as much of mine as I had ink left to write.
Yoda looked down at what I’d melted into the white snow, looked up at my face and back at the snow again.
“OK, it says ‘Moo’, shitball. All I had left was enough to write a cow sound.”
We both giggled some more. “Now you,” I prodded.
The small white half-Chihuahua half-Whippet looked up at me like I’d asked him to define Pi. “You’re right. Here,” and I picked him up, “you pee and I’ll spell.”
Have I ever told you that Yoda’s name was Pi when I first adopted him? What kind of name is that? What character traits might a dog even have to resemble a Pi?
Stupid fucking dog name.
Anyway, I got some news from Texas as Gram and the P-cubed had Ralph drop them off down there to the ranch rather than back here. They drove out to New Jersey with a Hummer limo full of “supplies” for the hurricane victims and then headed home to Austin rather than back to Santa Fe.
“We’re a moving Mr. Dave over ta tha old folks’ homie down to San Antonio. Seems he’s been taken by tha same dramentia as yer fucking mother.”
“It’s dementia, Gram, but I get the picture. Anything I can do?”
“Nopers. Ralph’s gonna load up tha Humdinger an’ drop Mr. Dave off with yer mother. He’ll stop back here to tha ranch to load up some shit fer you afore headin’ back yer way. Wacha want?”
I gave Gram my list and told her I love her, and when I hung up I felt melancholy. To think that Mr. Dave has the same dementia as Mother unsettled me. Mr. Dave is a gentle man and a gentleman in every way. My mother is an angry and mean spirited woman, and is so in most ways. My hopes there are that the giant peckered old gentleman can fuck some good nature back into my mother.
Otherwise, I’ll get him his own apartment.
Anyway, French toast and bacon are the order of the day. The bacon is the last of my stash from Texas and one of the staples headed this way in Ralph’s Hummer limo. So is the maple syrup Streaker Jones brings back from Vermont. I need another few gallons.
I wonder if Mr. Dave’s dementia will make him forget he’s a good man. It hasn’t made my mother forget to be a shithead so maybe he’ll be OK.
Which reminds me. Did you guys hear that Mitt Romney cut off the credit cards of his campaign workers before he gave his concession speech? He made them pay for their own ways home from Boston on Tuesday night.
I wish every American would carefully think about that. Manana, y’all.