A Watched Dog

My husband cut off three fingers and gave his arms a close shave one day while mowing the grass.

“See, I told you we needed a riding lawn mower.”

Our lawn is the size of a golf ball dimple.

“What we need,” I muttered, reattaching his fingers with Gorilla Glue, “is a yard man smart enough to keep his hands out of the whirling blades of the lawn mower. Doesn’t the term ‘moving parts’ mean anything to you?”

“All I know is that it’s a good thing I was wearing my lucky hat.”

There’s always something to be thankful for.

“We could have lost Bo’s squeaky ball for good.”

Bo is the Labrador. He’s the closest thing the Captain has to a disciple. He sprawled in the grass and whiled away the time waiting for the bleeding to let up by chewing an old rag. If one man can double the time it takes to do a single chore, a man and his dog can create a time vortex that modern science can’t explain.

I can replace the dog’s squeaky ball for ninety-nine cents at the pet store. Human fingers, on the other hand, go for quite a bit more. And you can’t find them in the express lane at the Piggly Wiggly.

I don’t know what it is that make men think they’re invincible. About the time in their lives that they need to check in with headquarters to make sure their prostate isn’t the size of an orbiting planet, they’re hanging from the eaves looking for blockages in the drainage system. His own pipes are exploding from four decades of chili cheeseburgers, and the man is swinging from the roof like a chimpanzee.

Call me crazy, but this time I’m tempting fate and sending him out to finish the job.

Let’s hope he doesn’t find out what Bo did to his lucky hat.

Breadline or Bust

The irrationally optimistic weatherman called for snow here today, which in South Carolina is something like having Weight Watchers announce that Amaretto cheesecake will be the favored menu item at their Christmas buffet. Those folks straining the door supports down at the Weight Watchers meeting know it’s not true, just like we know that it will rain macaroni and cheese before we see a snowflake, but by golly, we’re going to be prepared, just in case.

When the temperature dips below 40 degrees Fahrenheit and wild rumor spreads the S word around like compost on the vegetable garden, or if somebody kicks over a cup of ice at the Dairy Queen and it doesn’t melt before a refill arrives, the Piggly Wiggly rule goes into effect and everyone in the tri-county area proceeds to the local supermarket to show solidarity in the bread and milk departments.

This is the moment when the Live Action News cameras arrive from the major networks. Southerners may collect accomplishments like Leprechauns hoard pots of gold, but it’s not likely that the rest of the world is going to see us on the news pulling Timmy from the well. You’re going to see action packed newsreels of Lurlene pushing a buggy piled high with grocery store white bread, pork rinds, and a tribe size of Charmin, charging past the fresh fruit to beat her sister to the express lane checkout. And when tornado weather rolls through, the news channels race like greyhounds hot on the robot rabbit’s trail to be the first one with Live-Eye footage of a double-wide trailer spinning through the air like a boomerang.

This used to bother me when I was younger. Nowadays I can’t help but wonder why our country is obsessed with women in foam curlers and hair nets buying Moon Pies or the airborne velocity of the family Windstream. But in a country where a team of folks eating insects or a set of parents feuding over TV rights to a flock of kids can draw a major market share of attention, it’s no wonder Southern disasters spark the network glare.

When it comes to entertainment value, some people have it and some people don’t. Around here we spread it on toast and eat it for breakfast with our cheese grits. Which reminds me. The sun just ducked behind a cloud. I’d better go buy bread. You never know when the weatherman just might be right.

Car Talk

Before graduation, the morning commute was difficult enough, what with the intricacies of locating a suitable project for show and tell that wouldn't shine a humbling light on my housekeeping skills, and deciding who gets the cottage cheese sandwich, and finding out just who fed the rest of the ham to the fish anyway. Well, that and locating lost shoes in the trash compactor.

Throw into the mix the fact that to avoid being late we had to take the route through the well-to-do wildlife-infested subdivision across the street, and the whole adventure was unsettling. Sure, there are smiley Katie Couric types who think chipmunks are always making ball gowns for aspiring cartoon princesses, but in my experience the wretched woodland creatures while away their time making great sport of playing “keep away” with my car. More than once, I hung the blame for my tardiness on a hearty game of Squirrel Tag.

This year, both boys will attend Community College, which seems carefree enough. But between the three of us, we have two cars. Finding a way to work in the morning will be like playing musical chairs at sixty miles per hour. Sit down at the wrong time and you could block the passing lane for three hours and get national exposure on the six o’clock news. I’m willing to make sacrifices for my children’s education, but I don’t want to deal with the physical distress that kind of road rage could cause.

So I’m left playing Merry Go Round the family Kia with Click and Clack, the car stalkers. I figure my best chance for reliable transportation this fall will be hijacking a grocery cart from the Piggly Wiggly and riding it skateboard style down the Interstate. It may not be the most efficient method, but every Prius on the road will be mad with envy at my gas mileage.

On the other hand, I could hang out on the corner every morning waiting for the Magic School Bus to give me a lift, but I don’t think Miss Frizzle’s driveway goes all the way to the bus stop.

I try to comfort myself with the idea that in a few short years, both boys will be self-sufficient and independent with good jobs and cars of their own. In the meantime, I’ll have to careful when taking the shortcut through Squirrel Ville. One wrong turn and Cinderella's furry little dressmakers will be out of commission. Which is okay with me. She's already got a dress to wear and I'm not even invited to the party.

But I wonder if she'll let me borrow her pumpkin to get to work on Monday.

*Please note that no woodland creatures were harmed during the writing of this essay.