So truth be told, it being stranger than fiction, but all was well with a daily romp in the cemetery, until, Daddy, well, you know, died. Then all bets were off the table. I think just last winter, I taught Momma a lesson. Remember, how I complained that she dragged me down to his grave, deafening me as she punched holes in the crust, sinking in to thick snow, because she had to fix the flowers and windmills she so lovingly left. She is so proud (isn’t that one of seven deadly sins) of the amazing silk bouquet of tulips and roses and then that Christmas Bough with cream lilies, adorned with silver ornaments on an evergreen branch because:
1) There were no other footprints in the snow so Momma must love Daddy better than other people who never visited their loved ones (at least not in the Arctic Vortex Season),
2) Momma’s bouquet with windmills that spun merrily, and stood out so succinctly, would ensure everyone knew that you must be Dutch, Daddy. As you used to say – ‘You’re not much, it you’re not Dutch‘ – uh, where does that leave our Momma, Daddy?
The ice storm had left the grave yard like a war zone, branches falling 150 feet from two hundred year old trees, which up to this point in history had stood the test of time. It must have been frightful in the cemetery that night as trees and branches crackled, laden with ice, falling heavily to the ground, uprooting the tributes, such as bouquets and Christmas boughs. At Daddy’s site, the Christmas Evergreen, thick with ice, was left lying horizontal in front of the gravestone.
So on this day. Momma became distracted, trying to manipulate the Evergreen Branch upright again. I saw my opportunity and, I disappeared. She can lead the cow to water but she can not make her drink.
Who knows how many minutes had passed before she looked around for me? At first she called my name, in a relaxed manner. I never go far, I must just be behind a gravestone or a monument or maybe crawled under a bush. Momma laughs and says I walk like I got my mosey on more often than running these days. (What is my mosey Momma?). She says it is when I walk like Stockard Channing in Grease, with a slow-moving hip swivel, to gain the attention of the John Travoltas’ of the world). Huh?
Then from my vantage point I could see Momma move to where kids were playing with a big dog on the other side of the cemetery fence. Had they seen me, she asked? Like I would hang around where kids were screaming and another dog was barking. Give your head a shake Momma. You should know me better than that.
I saw as Momma went one way, then another, like the cemetery is a huge place that a little dog like me could stay hidden for a long time. As I have said, I have those bionic ears, I can hear the butterflies in Africa and could easily read the panic and desperation as Momma plowed her way through the snow, dreading the thought of going home, and telling Wonder Boy that she had managed to lose me, her Jakita-Boo-Boo.
I was not lost. I was waiting. I know Momma like the back of my paw. I made my way back to the paved driveway where I knew Momma would exit, I laid down on the road, head resting on outstretched paws, waiting for her. Because of my size in comparison to the high snowbanks, I was hidden from her line of vision. I may never understand the level of relief Momma felt when she saw me there waiting, waiting patiently for her to return. It was a good life lesson, my eyes told her. I would never desert her but there comes a time in life, when No-Means-No, Momma.
It was a somber march home. We exited on Church Street, hung a left, greeted the couple whose property back on to the cemetery. They are so fine and polite. He is a Union Man, Momma tells me, with his work boots, blue jeans, plaid shirt and lunch box while she teaches pet grooming at a local college. I don’t believe she teaches manners (at least to her dogs) because her little Jack Russell mix barks, snarls and growls his way through life. Oh, and don’t get close, he bites as well, admit the embarrassed owners. Now what possible use is a dog like that?
I must bring him a copy of my Policies and Procedures between the Doggies and All Other Creatures That Inhabit Earth Plane.
Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com
Or
