Because my beloved grandson, the Goonybird, is made of finer stuff than the common run, just the whisper of an irritant or a single whole wheat cracker will cause his ass to rot off.
In order to spare him his grandmothers fate (FIRSTNATIONS: assless queen of the Flatbutt tribe. Venus Williams I am not) he must be let to roam free, free, free, in order to let the breezes circulate. As he is a boy baby and *ahem* unedited, this means we all spend a great deal of time marvelling at the amazing elasticity of the human foreskin.
Was such a day as this I sing. This morning, actually. He had performed all his sceduled bodily functions so I figured we'd just let him air out for awhile. And promptly forgot.
For a long time.
Well, memory came racing back to me and I went racing out to the front room where the Goonybird was romping on the sofa. All was calm. All was bright. Round yon baby had no visible substances besmearing him...fine...
Then I remembered the dogs.
Then I remembered the dogs.
I looked, and there they were, poised, like buzzards on a bargeload of medical waste, licking and trembling. Gazes fixed, noses almost touching.
Between them, on the rug, lay a turd.
Blessedly intact. Miraculously solid. Incredibly uneaten.
Blessedly intact. Miraculously solid. Incredibly uneaten.
It instantly got a job as first mate on the porcelain yacht. Mr. Goonybird instantly got a diaper.
Now, I haven't stopped until just this moment to ask myself, 'Self? do you think there might have been any more little brown cars on that choo-choo?' And I prefer that to remain unasked; a mystery, like the interdimensional time-space portal in Beaver, Oklahoma, and much of the Catholic religion.
And in case you were wondering, yes; I do own a carpet cleaner. I've damn near wore it out.
Like double bass.
ReplyDeleteI know how to pluck the goddamn thing, just bloody teach me you stupido ole bat! Before I take the damn instrument to your silly head.
It's been one of those days...
Doesn't it just drive you nuts...and the thing is that I bet bloody Michaelangelo stared up at the Cistine Chapel and thought "NO! That wasn't quite what I meant to do" The it doesn;t look the same as I imagined it is (I think) the thing that keeps us drawing - if we got it down exactly then where would be the point in drawing anything else.
ReplyDeleteThe turd-vultures - how did they resist? Was it not the right consistency? My god, if you made paintings of your everyday life, your dogs hovering over a turd, the gooneybird swinging his stuff around with grandpa in the background... that would be entertaining - I can hardly imagine what your mind is coming up with on separate occasions.
ReplyDeleteI'm glad to hear it's coming along well. Baby steps, indeed.... damned baby steps! They are frustrating, but hopefully you will come to love these steps.
First of all...they NEVER stop playing with it...it's an affliction. Secondly...why do dogs eat poop...I never understood that...dirty bastards all of 'em.
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