Bobo was promised a day at the Dog Beach while we're in California. He's very, very excited.
The thing is, Bobo has no idea what a Dog Beach is, a fact that sank in over the course of about three days, and has since required that we (by 'we' I mean I), explain to him, every night, about waves and sand and seagulls. About the smell of salt air, and seashells, and seaweed and how very small one feels on the Ocean's shore. Of course I must also name as many creatures as I know that call the water home, and describe, in detail, each dog that might be there when we arrive, and oh, tell me again daddy about how absolutely no cats are allowed at any time.
Apparently we have bears. Three of them. (They travel like that, you know, in threes). Real bears. Not the kind that I imaginate, (or enigmate). The kind of bears that helicopters come looking for. Honey-loving bears.
Do I even need mention how badly I'd like to see one, or all of this clan, come strolling across my farm?
If I dream about a book. A book like no book I've ever read before. With pictures, the likes of which I've never seen anywhere else. Written and illustrated by a girl I, more or less, know. A girl who, in real life, is a fine writer and wonderful artist, but has yet to publish anything bound...
We were talking about the color of my magic toad. Yes, he's red. Something to do with the clay in these parts, I reckon, though I truly don't have a clue. He could have been blushing, for all I know, mustering a spell of some sort.
This little fella, however, magical as he appears, fell into some pond brine I had dumped out. Perfectly non-toxic stuff, though at full strength, I learned, isn't about to just wash off. A thorough scrubbing produced only this polished, cranky turquoise nugget, which was far better than the bottle green he was prior to bathing, but still, difficult to explain to friends and family, I'm sure.
We're going to discuss my old man watching ... promise. But first ... let me ask you this ...
Have you ever been loading groceries into your car, quite convinced that you have the entire parking lot to yourself, and, bent over, head inside of your vehicle, released just a teency bit more than a teency bit of ... well ... gas?
And then, maybe, while you were gloating and relishing and arranging your canned goods in the seat so they wouldn't spill if slammed on the brakes later, did you by chance hear a young female voice behind you say, "Sir. Excuse me ... Sir."
And when you turned, was it the girl who bagged your items inside of the store standing there with a rather polite smile on her face, holding a bottle of conditioner she forgot to put into your cart?
Call it the bane of a vivid imagination, but for years I was under the impression that an Old Testamenty kind of name, like, Zachariah, was
required to contract Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. That since my primary mode
of transportation didn’t have hooves, my britches suspenders or that I hadn’t
gone bust in some misguided mining venture, posing for grim-faced tintypes as
I pulled up stakes, I was reasonably immune to the disease. I figured the malady
had fallen to the wayside somewhere around 1910, along with cookie dusters, and phrases
such as ‘malady’ and ‘wayside’.
So, I flopped on to my bed with my boy, Bo, fully intending to break bad on some blogging with my I-phone.
I was fixed to get intimate with ya'll. Bring you up to speed. Hypothesize as to why my posts have diminished to tweets.Pathetic tweets at that. I was set to apologize, and with my thumbs, hope for a better tomorrow.
Bo, unfortunately has gas. It's just awful. Funny, but awful.
I'd say it has a great deal to do with the miscellaneous pig and deer parts strewn about my yard. But it really doesn't matter what it has a great deal to do with, because as you can clearly see from the photograph, I'm in no position to... well... dwell.