Yoda Yellows The Pristine Snow; Happy Veterans’ Day, Beej.

 

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.

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4 Responses to “Yoda Yellows The Pristine Snow; Happy Veterans’ Day, Beej.”

  1. squatlo says:

    Just the picture of Mittens arriving for his campaign’s victory celebration in a Secret Service motorcade, then riding home in the backseat of Trigg or Truck or Tragg’s family car makes me happy. Makes me even happier that the people who bankrolled his flip-floppin’ ass are licking their wounds and cursing aloud at Karl Rove. Never knew the misery of others would make me so happy, but damned if I’m not enjoying the shit out of life ever since Tuesday night.

    Good to know your Gram’s magical mushrooms weren’t responsible for those sick folks who make soup out of some wild fungi they’d gathered. I suspected they weren’t actually “ill”, just unbearably happy for the first times in their lives.

    Later… Or Lager. Whatever works.

  2. squatlo says:

    Hey, on a completely different note, I wanted to pass along my condolences to the Longhorn World for the passing of Coach Royal. The guy gave us a lesson in wishbone offense in ’69 that I still remember as my most humiliating Vol beat-down ever, ’cause I was in the Cotton Bowl that afternoon and suffered through every friggin’ one of those sneaky ass triple option dive plays up the gut. Fuck Steve Worster, wherever he is tonight.

    I was a bright eyed 15 year old kid dressed in Vol Orange (the true orange, bTW) and had to endure my dad’s laughter for three hours while seated in the middle of 50 thousand Longhorny assholes. My dad hated the Vols, and only took me to that game because he knew it would be educational. It was 36-13 at the final horn, and seemed WAY worse than that. Our team had a couple of black athletes, and apparently that wasn’t happenin’ at Texas at that time, ’cause the folks around us in the stands kept hollerin’ “Our muscaleros are better’n your Nigras!”
    Part of the reason I hold the state of Texas in such high esteem to this day…

    Anyway, Darrell Royal’s wishbone got a coming out party that afternoon, as far as SEC schools were concerned, and the next thing we knew some asshole named Bear Bryant adopted it at Alabama. Heavy sigh…

  3. bj says:

    Moo, ( I LIKE that moniker for you! seems very … fitting!) Thanks for the Veterans Day nod, mi amigo and glad to hear yer Gram and the Pcubed are ok. Too bad about Mr. Dave, though. Dementia is a serious affliction I do not want visited upon ME! I’m addled enough as I am … can’t imagine how horrible THAT would be.
    Dunno if yer favorite bacon is of the homegrown variety or the commercial variety but the best tasting bacon BRAND I have found is “Wright” smoked bacon. It’s thick cut with a fresh smoky flavor that doesn’t overpower the p-i-g hog flavor, and seems to have just the right balance of fat to meat that turns bacon into meat candy! Sausage is a whole nuther thang …..
    Hope yer over yer cold …. but …. seems to me yer colds should be Enchanted … like yer Mountains and shit …

  4. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Squat and Beej. Coach Royal was a good one. He and his developed a killer new offense and then gave it away to anyone who asked for it. Then he said, “Let’s line ‘em up and see what happens.” Nothing pleased him more than to kick ass on another wishbone offense and nothing pissed him off more as when Oklahoma kicked ours and we got wishbone stuffed up our ass.

    I remember that game because the Tennessee uniforms fucked the color all the way up on the TV. All those funky orange jerseys looked like spilled tangerine juice as Vols players splayed on the ground in the burnt orange wake…

    Wright smoked is a mighty good bacon and reminds me of the breakfast sammies a certain buddy prepared for me before I left tha Boro a year ago today. Or was it yesterday? Good times, those.

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