Walking outdoors was partly a mission of mercy and partly a
life-saving measure. Let’s just say that the Alien C.W. doesn’t stand up well
to prolonged exposure.
And brother had we been exposed.
The so-called “polar-vortex” had swept down and brought with
it enough snow to keep us off the roads. What my sainted mother called “that
old windshield factor” had been well below zero, so melting was minimal. This
all meant that we had been locked in our farmhouse for a prolonged period. Our
patience had worn as thin as prison soup.
What happened? C.W. had gone into high gear with his
bored-games. First, he got the dogs at the farm all agitated. Have I ever told
you that he can talk to animals? Well he can, when he wants to, and when they
will listen. The biggest problem in communication with animals is not a
limitation of ability, but rather a general feeling of distrust mixed with a
gigantic belief in their superiority of intellect. In short, they look down on
us and don’t believe a word we say.
Anyway, it seems he was telling them about some files that
folks on this native planet of Falloonia had hacked into recently. He reported
that the president-elect had a plan—and it was a great plan—to bring about
peace with North Korea. It was to be called “Puppies for Bombs” and everyone
would love it, especially their species for it would offer them travel to
exotic places.
Even though he had assumed the shape of Cesar Millan, “The
Dog Whisperer,” it took my wife half a day and two bags of animal crackers to
restore calm.
Then he taught the cats a game called “body skipping.” The
best way to visualize it is to recall when you have counted the number of skips
a rock makes when you sail it out over water. The first time one of the cats
set a new record, it ended on the lap of my mother-in-law.
She used language that I never imagined an 87-year old had
ever known or could remember. She claimed later that she was only repeating
things she had heard me say. I dunno.
Anyway, the game ended when one of the kittens sailed off my
wife’s lap, overshot a dog’s back, flattened itself against a wall, and slid to
the floor like the last piece of clothing floating down a stripper’s legs. Now the
cats stay in a sullen mood. They tend to huddle together and mumble amongst themselves.
Occasionally, one points at me and says something that sounds like, “him,” and
the others all nod.
Next, we caught Tymber Elysibuth, the 16 year-old high
school student, making phone calls to our neighbors. The script went something
like this, “Uh, like, this is Tymber Elysibuth calling on behalf of the
President. He requests that you would, like, get all your guns out for inventory so his people can, like, uh, confiscate any that are, like, over the
limit while there is still time.”
A day later we had made the necessary apologies. There are
still a number of holes in the farmhouse, and one of the dogs still howls at
any loud noise.
 |
| Big Dope keeps repeating, "The woods are lovely, dark and deep." I wonder why? - C.W. |
After a half-day of relative peace and quiet, we were
preparing a big pot of chili, just the fun thing to do on a wintry day. I had
just remarked how pleasant life was when we smelled smoke. I ran into the
living room to find Rusty the teenage boy trying to drill into a large
Native-American artifact that my wife's family had preserved for nearly 70 years. Not
only that, he was using her favorite cordless power drill, the one I gave
her for our 30th wedding anniversary.
A few minutes later, we, C.W. and I, were walking outdoors
with a breath-taking north wind in our face. He had retained the shape of
Rusty, and he turned to me, his face red from the chill. “Snow days are fun,
ain’t they? Want to build a snow-Izstawiroouwut?”
I was thinking “I could be featured on national news
and probably get a cabinet position for capturing and killing an alien.”
Click on some ads. It costs them money and makes me some.
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