These Stupid Sheepy Hooers

Prestu passanu tutti li me anni;
Passano e si ni ieru nun sacciu unni.
Ora ca sugnu vecchiu di tant'anni,
Chiamu la vita e morti m’arrispunni.

--Vitti na Crozza; Sicilian folk song

Some years before Rice Road Greenhouses got rid of all the animals, I spent an afternoon there with Erik and his family, and probably my family as well. I don't remember who all was there. It was one of those dreadful family outings you get--you know the ones. The parents decide the kids aren't getting enough fresh air, and drag 'em out to some awful mudhole. It's usually the middle of November, and the sky's overcast (which is why the kids were indoors, in the first place--that, and they're couch potatoes). The kids are all "Sod this," and, once unleashed on the mudhole, they cause trouble. No-one comes home happy, ever.

On this particular outing, me and Erik, and Erik's little brother, were bothering the sheep. Real hardasses, us. Complete JDs. (Haw.) One of them came up, and went "whuffa-whuffa-whuffa" in its nose.

"Look," I laughed--"an asthma sheep."

"Yah, asthma sheep," said either Erik or his brother. This was the extent of our wit.

We fed the asthma sheep some peanut brittle out of our bag, and it huffed even harder: "whuffa-whuffa-WHUFFA!" Then, Erik's mum came along, and told us to stop bugging the sheep.

Earlier on, I saw a bald guy walking past in the rain. The light from the streetlamps was reflecting off his head in a rather silly sort of way.

"He puts the 'dome' in 'Thunderdome'," I told Rat A. Rat A looked at me uncomfortably, as though waiting for the punchline. When none was forthcoming, she shook her head. She really did, I swear. My joke was pooh-poohed by a rat. Deservedly, it's true, but still. At least it wasn't Rat B. I don't think I'd survive a put-down from Rat B. When people use the term "dumb animal", they don't mean a critter that can't talk. They mean Rat B.

When the bald man was gone, with his glistery head, I saw that the street was filled with dead leaves. I couldn't see them before, what with the radiance coming off this guy's pate, and all. It was dazzling, really. Resplendent. Fair outshone the slow death of everything.

(Pardon the bitterness, just there. Can't stand these West-coast winters.)

Rest in peace, white chair. You fell apart when my father sat in you, but the truth was, you'd already been dead a fair while. Your back right leg came loose one day, so I screwed it back on. A few days later, it came off again, and every couple of days after that. The screw-well, the burrow--what do you call the hole where a screw goes in?--that bit got all stripped, and wouldn't hang on any longer. But I loved you, white chair, so I glued you back together. You lasted another month or two, then, before that same leg split right down the middle. Infinitely resourceful, I tied you together with the cord from my blue dressing-gown, and when that wasn't enough, I put the dog-harness over that. I sat on you carefully, balancing my weight on the other three legs, and retied you each time you fell apart.

Then came my silly old father, who knew all about you, I'm sure, and just sat on you out of spite. Your four legs went in four directions, and that was the end of you. I wanted to put you back together, for old times' sake, but my father hated your guts, and you were binned.

Don't worry, though. He hates me too.

...and this other time, my mother threw my sister's rat in the dustbin. Not the wee bin in the loo, either, but the big one out in the garage. It was an accident, of course. She'd been cleaning the cage, and the stupid rat was so tiny, it just...it just got scooped in, right along with the turds and the newsprint. We looked everywhere for that rat--under everyone's bed, in the piano bench, down the crack between fridge and dishwasher--but it was nowhere. Me, I was assigned the lovely task of searching for its body amidst the clothing piled up in the dryer. Mother figured it must've clumb back in with the old sweater it used for a nest, and been washed, bleached, and fluff-dried. Every time I felt the tiny bulk of a sock wadded up in a cardigan, I was sure I'd discovered the corpse.

But, no, it was out in the dust the whole time, and we found it later. It died of old age, instead.

I lost another four pounds this week. Rat-in-laundry-white-chair-leaves-in-gutter-asthma-sheep, no!

My mother's coming to visit, this month. I've got to look alive.